anyway. You bet on Allan, did you?” she asked, then glanced at Nick. “Who was your call?”
“Ted.”
“You should have told me. They both asked me out today.”
“That would be cheating,” Luke informed her, not amused that she was amused.
“Oh. Excuse me. I didn’t realize there were rules.” The doorbell rang and she disengaged from Nick. “That’s Allan. Get the lead out, Van Buren.”
She handed him the dumb fishbowl and went to the door.
CHAPTER SIX
NICK HAD GIVEN him a two-by-four. To beat back the guys who were going to swarm over Cat. No kidding. At the rate things were going Luke was going to need it. He didn’t like the ratio of men to woman: three to one. In Cat’s favor.
He liked women, and considered flirting one of life’s greatest pleasures. But it was one of his unwritten laws that he never strung them along. Luke made no secret of his opinion of marriage or any long-term commitment.
The second Cat had left on the arm of good old Allan, Luke called a woman he hadn’t seen in months. Suzette was an attractive, petite brunette. Intelligent and witty, she made no bones about being available and she liked his rules just fine.
Half the twenty or so people spread throughout the house were working. The others had taken the grill across the street to the beach for an impromptu barbecue. Luke had posted a work schedule, and despite the moaning and groaning from his press-ganged crew, work was actually being accomplished.
Cat and Allan were painting the guest bedroom. They’d been in there for hours with the door closed. Of course, Luke thought, digging in one of the coolers for a liter bottle of soda, there was no furniture in there yet. But how long could it possibly take two people to paint a small room?
“Trying to use telekinesis to open the door?” Nick strolled into the kitchen and caught him glowering down the hall. Nick levered himself up onto the counter. “I thought you came in here for sodas.”
“On my way.” Luke held up the bottle and a short tower of paper cups. “Ladies getting twitchy?”
“Suzette and Kirsten wonder why everyone else is slaving serflike while you wander from room to room bossing us around.”
“Meticulous planning.” Luke shot another look toward the closed door down the hallway. “Bad idea leaving the two women unsupervised, Stratton. Who knows what devious plot they’ll hatch while we’re not paying attention? Back to work.”
Nick slid off the plywood-topped counter. “Has Catherine said anything about leaving since we got here?”
“Nope.”
“She and Allan look good together. What’ya think?”
It had been Luke’s ridiculous reaction to Cat dragging Allan along that had induced him to invite five million people here in the first place. The house was overrun with bodies. Feeling incredibly beleaguered, he had to be in seven places at once to oversee what everyone was doing. “I think Allan’s been in there with her long enough to paint the Sistine Chapel.”
“Yeah? Go in there and supervise, then.”
Luke swore. “Here, take these in to the ladies, I’ll be right back.” He handed Nick the soda and cups, then stalked out of the kitchen and down the hall.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Catherine glanced over her shoulder as the bedroom door flew open. Luke. She groaned dramatically and rolled her eyes, making Allan smile.
“He’s back! Quick, look busy before he gives us another project.”
“Har-dee-har-har.” In one glance, Luke assessed the freshly painted walls and half-painted trim. “Looks good. Nice job,” he told Allan, then said to Catherine, “Can we talk a minute?”
She put her paintbrush down on the edge of the paint pan, then flexed her fingers as she rose. “Anything, as long as I can rest my poor abused arm.”
Naturally, Luke was immaculately dressed, while she was covered from head to toe in cream-colored paint. Pounding music, the buzz of a Skil saw and manic hammering assaulted them from every direction as they walked through the house.
“What’s up?” she yelled, following him out onto the front porch. Luke made a walking motion with his fingers and led her down the steps and across the scraggly front yard, then crossed the narrow street to the beach. The noise from the house dimmed, overshadowed by the whisper of waves curling up the beach. The gorgeous day was made absolutely perfect because she was with Luke.
Catherine removed her sandals and inhaled the salty air deep into her lungs. “Glorious. Beats paint fumes.”
Several cheap laborers off to the right pretended to hide behind the sea grasses when they saw Luke coming down to the water. “Isn’t lunch over?” he yelled.
“We haven’t even lit the barbecue, Captain Bligh!”
Several of the men called out rude comments, which Luke volleyed back with laughing ease. People naturally gravitated to him. It was one of the things Catherine loved about him—that easy, relaxed warmth he exuded without even trying. He was such an extrovert, so charismatic that he made people happy to be near him. People always seemed to want to do their best when Luke was around.
Together they walked down the beach in the opposite direction of the rowdy lunch crew.
“You’re lucky to have such great friends.”
“Yeah. A good bunch. You fit in nicely. All the guys think you’re hot. The women like you, too.”
Catherine felt a warm glow. In the years she’d been taking care of their dad, she’d lost contact with many of her friends. She’d almost feared she might have lost some of her social skills. More than the words, the approval she heard in Luke’s voice put a lump in her throat. She was glad she’d put off leaving for another day. She’d have one more Luke memory.
“Where are we going?” She skipped to keep up with his long strides. “Not, mind you, that I object to a break from slaving over a dripping paintbrush for a while.”
“Let’s sit over there in the shade.” Luke pointed at a small sandy dune shaded by a wisp of a tree and tall sea grass. He leaned against the frail, gnarled tree trunk and stared out at the flat blue horizon for a few seconds without saying anything. Catherine’s stomach clenched.
She concealed the frisson of unease that coursed through her, the sensation familiar and annoying. Old history. She usually managed to control it, but it still blindsided her every now and then. She’d felt it when her mother had left her with Peter Van Buren. She’d felt it every time Luke had tormented her as a child, insisting she was no relative of his. She’d felt it most profoundly the night of her seventeenth birthday, when Luke had rejected her amateurish advances. And she’d last felt it when the man she considered her father had died, eight months ago.
She didn’t need a psychiatrist to tell her she had a fear of abandonment. Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself, no one is abandoning anyone. Luke was everything he’d
