make assumptions. You made them yourself.”
“And you let them. Why?”
She shrugged.
“Last year, Project Christmas was falling short of its goal for the first time in fifteen years. It hadn’t done that poorly since the last recession. I poured on the charm, made a few phone calls to some people who can be incredibly generous when they want to be or when they’re talked into it. I’m good at talking people into doing things.”
“Some might call that manipulation.”
She nodded in agreement. “Maybe I do manipulate people, but not for my own gain. Surely that distinction counts for something?”
“What drives you?”
“I like to make a difference.” It was her standard answer, but he didn’t look convinced.
“It’s more than that. You could make a difference by heading a beautification committee or simply writing a check.”
His assessment was uncomfortably close to her parents’ way of being community-minded. She thought of that lonely, frightened little girl who had reached out for help and received only money in the form of a scholarship in return.
“It’s not enough.”
Again he asked, “What drives you, Catherine?”
She’d never spoken to anyone about “the incident,” as her parents referred to it. At first she had been too shocked and sad. Then had come the guilt, and so she had remained silent. But for some reason it seemed safe, easy to talk about the unspeakable with Stephen.
Her voice low, halting at first, she began. “I had a friend once, a little girl named Jenny. She came from the Projects, but attended my private school thanks to a scholarship my parents had set up. She was bright, vibrant, thankful for every crumb she received when everyone else I knew just expected everything they got and even then complained.”
“What happened to her?”
“I knew she had a hard home life, even though I’d never been allowed to her home. My parents forbade it. But we hung out at school and I saw the bruises. No twelve-year-old is as clumsy as Jenny claimed to be.”
“What did you do about it?”
“I told my parents I thought something was wrong. Jenny seemed to become more and more withdrawn at school. Her grades started to suffer.”
“What did they say?”
“They told me it wasn’t my concern. A couple of weeks later Jenny was dead. She’d been beaten to death by her mother’s boyfriend.” Once again, Catherine felt the stab of pain and accompanying guilt. “So, you see, writing a check isn’t enough, Stephen.”
“You can’t blame yourself. You were a child. What could you have done?”
“More,” she said simply.
He frowned. “How can you stand it?”
“What?”
“Having people think you’re this cool, shallow woman when you are anything but?”
“I don’t care what other people think of me. I know who I am.”
He came forward and knelt in front of the bench on which she sat. Taking her face between his hands, he said, “I know who you are, too, Catherine.”
“You do?”
“Yes, you’re my wife.”
This kiss was gentle, but persuasive. She had no choice but to give in to its seductive charm. And it really was no hardship to admit defeat. She took what he offered and then surprised them both by demanding more. Urgent now, the kiss had desire pounding through her veins. Every time she told herself the excitement of his touch would dim, he surprised new emotions from her, uncovering a reservoir of need she hadn’t known existed. Was it just about physical attraction? She knew it wasn’t for her, and surely Stephen had just as good as admitted that his feelings ran much deeper than what basic hormonal urges would manufacture?
A gamble. That was what this had been since the beginning. Even before their wedding in Las Vegas she’d taken a chance, bet on fate. Well, roll the dice.
“Make love to me, Stephen.”
He stopped his exploration of her neck. Dark eyes regarded her intently.
“That night in the car you said—”
She placed her hand over his mouth. “What I said that night isn’t important. Today is a new day, and I want my husband to make love to me.”
He stood and reached for her hand, pulling her to her feet with a gentle tug. He whispered something in Spanish, beautiful, incomprehensible words that caused her breath to hitch, her heart to ache. I will remember this moment always, Catherine thought. The moment when she first tumbled headlong into love.
He led her below deck, to the larger of the two staterooms, which was still small enough to be considered cozy. He didn’t say a word as he began to undress her.
“You have nice hands.”
She kissed the palm of one and then the other.
And Stephen was undone. Even if he could have ignored the passion stirring in her gaze, there was no mistaking the raw desire that had turned her demure voice into the smoky whisper of a siren.
“Catherine.” He closed his eyes and said her name as reverently as he would a prayer.
Seemingly of their own volition, the hands she claimed to admire traveled down her torso and then back up, pulling the bulky sweater she wore with them. He pulled it over her head and then sucked in a breath at the pale perfection of her skin, which was in striking contrast to the lacy navy bra. Then, heaven help him, Stephen couldn’t stop his fingers from inching aside the lace. He heard her echo the groan that tore from his own chest before she leaned forward and fused her mouth to his. This kiss, like the one they had shared in the car that night, was wild with need. His body responded instantly.
Stephen prided himself on his finesse as a lover, but just now he felt as desperate and out-of-control as a teenager. He didn’t tease and tempt her with lingering caresses and sensuous nibbles. He wanted, so he took. His mouth plundered and devoured while his eager fingers grasped and clutched and tugged away the last barriers of her clothing.
Below him on the bed, Catherine gave a sexy little moan, her own hands making fast work of ridding him of the clothing he wore.
When he was naked, and straining over her, she ran her delicate hands up his chest and then fisted them in his hair, pulling him down for another hot kiss.
“Now.” She breathed the word into his mouth. “Please, now.”
“Say my name,” he commanded, using every ounce of self-control to pull back just far enough so he could look at her. “I want to hear you say my name.”
He
