you would have figured it out by now. That’s Derek’s specialty. Goodnight, Catherine.”
He turned away before she could say another word. At the other end of the long hallway she heard his bedroom door snap shut. With a heavy heart, she closed her own.
Chapter Seven
GIVEN his growing attraction to her, Stephen found living with Catherine a test of his will-power. Still, he rather enjoyed discovering her quirky habits and surprising interests. She was a good cook, better than he’d imagined a woman who grew up in a household where there was a hired professional to prepare the meals would be. He’d bet his last buck her mother didn’t know how to boil water and had not encouraged Catherine’s interest in the culinary arts.
And while she cooked she liked to sing. He found it amazing that a woman who looked like Catherine could be so tone deaf. He was surprised his Lab didn’t start howling whenever she tried to hit a high note. Of course, the dog wasn’t willing to bite that hand that fed him. And Catherine did a whole lot more than feed Degas. She’d barely been in the house a week when Stephen discovered his fickle hound camped outside her door. Now Degas was sharing her bed.
Lucky dog.
Stephen and Catherine had found some surprising common ground: old movies. He had long been a fan of black and white flicks. The genre didn’t matter, although he was partial to Alfred Hitchcock and anything that starred Humphrey Bogart. They had that in common, except for her it was Cary Grant. She could recite entire scenes from An Affair to Remember. For him, it was Rear Window and The Maltese Falcon.
A few times a week they would spend a couple of hours in one another’s company, suitably chaperoned by the work of some legendary Hollywood filmmaker. Then they would walk up the stairs together as the house grew dark and quiet around them, offer one another a stilted goodnight and turn their separate ways. Long afterward he’d lie awake on the cool sheets of his big bed, wondering if the same need that hummed through his blood was depriving her of sleep as well.
Most weekends they spent following their own pursuits. This weekend, however, they were expected at a tribute dinner Saturday night that the fire department was putting on to raise funds for the families of three firefighters who had died battling a warehouse blaze earlier in the year. The invitation had come to the house, addressed to the both of them, marking the first time they were invited to an event as Mr. and Mrs. Stephen Danbury. Stephen didn’t really want to go. The gossip and speculation about their marriage had yet to quiet down. But he was just old-fashioned enough to believe that where his wife went he went, despite the particulars of their marriage.
Catherine plucked the square of ivory vellum off her bureau and tucked it into the small beaded clutch that was the same shade of emerald as the full-length gown she wore. The gown was new, a flirty Versace that left one shoulder bare and required her to skimp on dinner to wear it to its best possible advantage.
She was checking her reflection in the mirror a second time when Stephen tapped on her door.
“Catherine, we’re already fashionably late,” he called.
Even so, she reapplied her lipstick and fussed with her hair, which she’d left loose again, before opening the door, and was satisfied to see him suck in a breath.
“You do Versace proud,” Stephen said. He took her by the hand, forcing her to turn a full three-hundred-and-sixty degrees.
“Thank you. And Armani looks good on you.” She adjusted his bow tie, which was perfectly knotted, and used their close proximity as an excuse to brush non-existent lint from the lapels of his tuxedo jacket. “Have I ever told you that you wear clothes well?”
She was flirting, but she couldn’t resist. He looked so handsome, so…interested.
“I can’t say that you have.” He leaned in, bringing with him the crisp scents of soap and aftershave. “Let’s make this an early night.”
She held her breath and tried not think about the double entendre when she replied, “Oh, is there something you want to do?”
Dark eyes seemed to smolder.
“As a matter of fact, there is.”
The evening dragged, perhaps because the enigmatic answer Stephen had given before they left the house lingered in her mind, tantalizing her with its possible interpretations. It didn’t help that as they ate, danced, or shared small talk with acquaintances she would look up to find him studying her in that intense way of his. She was in the middle of a conversation with the Mayor, pitching hard for more funds for youth activities, when he joined her.
“Ah, Stephen, I was just enjoying a conversation with your lovely wife,” the Mayor said, offering a hand.
The two men shook, and it was obvious this was not a first meeting.
“Has she muscled some more money out of you yet?” he asked. There was pride in his voice, warmth in his smile, and heat in the hand he rested on the small of her back.
“The city’s budget being what it is, not quite. But she’s very persuasive.”
“She is that. I’m afraid I’m going to have to steal her away now. We have another engagement.”
She glanced at him in surprise and resisted the urge to ask what that engagement was.
“Of course. I understand. Newlyweds have all sorts of engagements,” the Mayor remarked with a wink.
Stephen hustled Catherine out the door in record time, tipping the valet extra to bring his car around in a hurry. The teen took Stephen at his word, squealing the tires of his Jaguar as he maneuvered the sleek automobile over from the parking lot.
A lot of men would have gone into coronary arrest, right after committing brutal, cold-blooded murder. Stephen surprised her by merely shaking his head and saying in a dry tone, “That’s what I get for telling a kid to step on it when he’s got the keys to my Jag.”
Then he squealed the tires himself as the sleek sports coupé shot away from the curb and into night traffic. She figured out right away that they weren’t going home, but he remained tight-lipped beside her, saying only, “You’ll see,” when she asked him their destination.
Then she saw the marquee and knew. Charade with Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn was playing at an old theater that showed only vintage films, including the accompanying trailers and newsreels.
“We’re going to the movies?” she asked needlessly, as he swerved to the curb and into a lucky parking space half a block from the theater. He hopped out, came around to her side of the car and all but yanked her to her feet.
“Yeah. Can you run in those heels?”
He didn’t wait for her answer, but grabbed her by the hand and started off at a trot.
“Movie starts in less than a minute and I want to get popcorn.” He sounded almost like a kid when he added, “They use real butter here. You like butter, right?”
Again, he didn’t wait for her answer, but she didn’t mind. She’d never seen Stephen like this, rushing as if his life depended on seeing a movie he’d probably already watched a dozen times. In fact, she didn’t doubt he owned a copy of it, either on video or DVD. Perhaps
