Separate Beds

  He swooped down, smiling boldly, and grasped Catherine firmly around her ribs, then picked her cleanly up off the floor until she hung suspended like a marionette. Indeed, she had no more choice than a marionette whose strings are controlled by the puppeteer. She could only submit to Clay's lips while the gardenias were wrapped so far around his neck that her nose was buried in them. She closed her eyes, spinning like a leaf in a whirlwind, intoxicated by the overpowering fragrance of the waxy flowers, by the awful sense that this was real, pretending momentarily that it was. The instant he touched her lips, Catherine felt the almost automatic reach of Clay's tongue toward her own, then her own surprised tongue arching in hesitation, not quite knowing what to do with itself. Then Clay's withdrawing politely again. She was faintly aware that the crowd had burst into applause but allowed herself to become mesmerized by the sensation that the world was twirling crazily. With her eyes closed and her arms around her husband's neck she endured an endless kiss while he slowly turned them both in a circle. But the kiss had grown long—difficult to find a place for a tongue in the midst of such a kiss if it does not take its natural course—until at its end, his tongue again touched hers, then, elusive as quicksilver, was gone.

  But the crowd saw nothing more than a groom turning his bride in a slow circle in the middle of a candlelit room, kissing, rejoicing in the accepted fashion. They knew nothing of the elusive tongue-dance which accompanied the embrace.

  Catherine came out from behind her gardenias with scarlet cheeks, which added to everyone's delight except her own. But then she was grateful to Clay for the convincing ploy, for when she turned from his arms it was to find a string of familiar faces with sparkling eyes that had just witnessed the entire scenario with awe-struck rapture. For the first time Catherine didn't need to act. Her elation was genuine as she flew to greet Marie, then Francie, and Grover and Vicky too!

  Having them there made it nearly perfect. Catherine was touched by the sight of the usually unkempt Grover with her hair all shining and curled like Catherine had never seen it before. And Vicky, who had miraculously managed to let her nails grow beyond the tips of her finger and had polished them the most horrendous shade of blood-red. And Francie, smelling of Charlie perfume. Marie, tiny and petite in spite of how close she was to her due date. Marie, the sprite, the matchmaker, who had first taught Catherine to accept the contact of a caring hand. How many times had they touched hands since?

  Clay arrived at Catherine's side again, encircling her waist loosely, then pulling her against his hip with a smiling expression she knew was for the girls.

  “Isn't she something?” Francie demanded. And obligingly Clay tightened his grip, spread his hand upon Catherine's ribs and dropped a loving kiss on the corner of her eye.

  “Yes, she's something, my bride.” Catherine refused to look up at Clay. His fingers rode perilously close to her breast.

  “What do you think of our dress?” Marie asked.

  Again he moved the hand, caressing the velvet appreciatively, answering, “Gorgeous,” then continuing to play their game by asking, “Who's going to wear it next?”

  “Well, that depends on which one of us can snag a guy like you. Hey, why don'tcha let go of her and let us have our turns?”

  Deftly Marie divided Clay from his bride while he gave Catherine the required Help!-what-can-I-do look, then threw his all into a tremendous kiss for the tiny Marie. Now it was Clay's turn to be passed around like a sweet. Catherine could only look on, smiling in spite of herself. He kissed them all, giving them a taste of what they wished was theirs. He returned to his bride only when they'd tasted their fill, some of them for a little too long, some with too-rapt expressions as their kiss ended.

  But for his understanding, Catherine was again grateful to Clay.

  They moved through the crowd again, Catherine at last realizing it was far, far larger than Angela had hinted it would be. Not only the girls from Horizons, but business associates, family friends and numerous relatives had been impetuously added to the invitation list. Angela's “intimate little affair” had blossomed into a full-blown social event of the season.

  Chapter 18

  She and Clay were ensconced in the study to sign the marriage certificate under the gaze of the minister. They gave away no more than shaky fingers, then the photographer was there, popping his bulbs at their hands posed upon the document, then upon Catherine's bouquet, then herding them back into the living room to pose in the bay window with the other members of the wedding party. Throughout all this Catherine succeeded in being spontaneous and gay, as brides are expected to be. Bright repartee fell from her lips and from Clay's while they touched again and again until it became automatic, this reaching for each other's waists. And somehow Catherine found herself beginning to enjoy it.

  Upon the dining room table a fountain of champagne cascaded. Clay and Catherine were buffeted there to catch their glasses full and sip around each other's love-knotted arms while the cameras again recorded the moment for posterity. The gentlemen guests posed around Catherine's gartered leg. She caught Clay's eye—was it twinkling?—above the glass of champagne he sipped. Next she posed on the stairway, where she tossed her bouquet over the banister. It was caught by a young girl Catherine didn't recognize.

  Small tables appeared, set up with smooth efficiency by a host of hired waiters. Angela managed to oversee the dinner arrangements with silent skill while giving the impression that she'd never left her guests' sides nor swayed her attentions away from them.

  Angela's know-how brought off a masterpiece of coordination. By the time Catherine was seated beside Clay at the head table, her admiration for his mother had grown immensely. It took more than money, Catherine realized, to achieve what Angela had here tonight.

  The guests were served elegant plates of chicken breast stuffed with Minnesota's rare and delectable wild rice, garnished by crisp broccoli and spiced peach halves. The plates were as delightful to look at as they were to dip into. But what was most appreciated was the almost slick transition from reception rooms to dining hall. The entire festivity was proving to be a stunning success. Gratified, Catherine leaned around Clay to tell Angela so. But she only waved a nonchalant hand and assured Catherine the joy had been hers, she'd have felt cheated to do less and every minute had been worth it. Then she squeezed Catherine's hand.

  It was in the middle of the meal that Catherine remembered the key. “Clay, I got your gift. Inella brought it upstairs before the ceremony, but I don't know what it's for.”

  “Guess.”

  She was afraid to. The whole evening was already overwhelming.

  “The town house?” she ventured, but there was too much noise. Clay leaned down, his ear directly in front of her lips.

  “What?”

  “The town house, I said.”

  He straightened, smiled teasingly and only shook his head. She saw his lips move, but there was such a tinkling clangor going on that she couldn't hear him either. Now she lowered her ear to his lips, but while she was thus posed, straining to hear his reply, she became aware that all voices in the room had stopped and only the demanding sound of spoons striking wineglasses filled the air.

  Startled, she looked up to find every eye waiting. Then she realized Clay's hand rested on the back of her neck. It slid away and he smilingly began getting to his feet. Realization dawned, but still she hesitated, linen napkin forgotten in one hand, fork in the other, unprepared for yet another assault on her senses.

  Clay stepped behind her chair, leaned near her ear. “Apparently they're not going to let us off with a couple of quick kisses that half of them didn't see.”

  Quick kiss, she thought, was that last what he calls a quick kiss?

  It was an old custom, one on which Catherine hadn't reckoned. The first kiss had been part of the ceremony. The second had taken her by surprise. But this one—this one was something altogether different. This was the one where plenty of schmaltz was expected.

  Fro
m behind her came the innocent invitation, “Mrs. Forrester?” But Catherine suspected that could she see his face she'd find one eyebrow cocked up saucily, along with the corners of his mouth. She had no choice, so she gave the expected nervous laugh and got to her feet. There was no evading the issue this time as Clay gave her a regular Valentino job. Oh, he laid it on with aplomb! He pinned both of her arms at her sides, bent his head sideways and her slightly backward until she thought they'd both land on the floor. Her hands spread wide, finding nothing to hold onto but the taut fabric across his back. And while his tongue plundered the inside of her mouth in no uncertain terms, everyone in the room whistled and hooted and tapped their glasses all the more noisily until Catherine thought she would die of agony or ecstasy or a combination of the two. She died of neither. Instead, she found some welcome reserve of humor. He released her, straightened, and laughed into her eyes for the benefit of their guests, holding her loosely now about the waist with his hips resting against her own.

  “Ah, Valentino, I'm sure,” she said with a smile.

  “They love it,” he rejoined above the burst of applause. If anyone cared to read lips, Catherine was sure it would appear that Clay had said, “I love it.” He held her a moment longer in that relaxed and familiar slackness. From the far reaches of the room it appeared they were the typically starstruck nuptial pair. He even rocked her sideways once, then plunged forward again to whisper in her ear, “Sorry.”

  Catherine's stomach felt at that moment like she'd eaten too much of Inella's salmon again. But before she could dwell on it, the photographer was there, demanding that they pose, feeding each other from filled forks. It was disconcerting, watching Clay's mouth open to receive food, holding the pose like a statuette, watching the glistening tip of his tongue which had only a moment ago unabashedly invaded her own.

  The meal progressed, but Catherine couldn't eat another bite. Clay poured more champagne into her glass and she dove into it like a sailor from a burning ship. It made her head light and fuzzy and she warned herself to be careful. It was confusing stuff.

  But before the bubbles cleared from her eyes, the glasses were ringing out again and Clay was standing up, taking her by the upper arm. This time it was easier, better, the wine having gone to her head somewhat, and her inhibitions sagged shamelessly while Clay gave her a kiss the likes of which turned her spine to aspic.

  What the heck, the bride thought, give them what they want and forget it. And so she threw a little more of her heart into it—to say nothing of her tongue, which found a readily receptive mate within Clay's mouth. She even emoted a little, plopping her hand on top of her head as if holding it on, quite tickled by her own ingenuity.

  The kiss ended. Clay laughed into her eyes. “Good job, Mrs. Forrester.”

  “Not bad yourself, Mr. Forrester.” But she was all too aware of the way his hips again nudged her own through the velvet gown and the way her slightly bubbled tummy intruded upon the spot where his crisp tuxedo jacket hung open. “But I think you'd better stop filling my glass.”

  “Now why would I want to do a thing like that?” He smirked cutely, raising an eyebrow suggestively. His hands skimmed lightly downward to rest upon her hips. She wondered if it were her imagination or had he pressed himself momentarily closer? But then she decided it was her imagination. After all, he was performing—just as she was—for the benefit of all the tinkling glass-tappers out there.

  The cake was wheeled in on a glass cart. It was a towering creation of fluted columns and doves with ribbons threaded through their confectionary beaks, and it raised a chorus of aah's that gratified Angela. Clay's and Catherine's hands were trained upon the knife handle with its voluminous white satin bow. Flashbulbs exploded, the knife sliced through the cake, and the bride was instructed to feed her groom, this time from her fingertips. But he not only took the cake, he lipped the frosting from her knuckle while, above it, his gray eyes crinkled at the corners. Naughty sensations tingled their way down to Catherine's toes and her eyes swerved swiftly aside.

  “Mmm . . . sweet stuff,” he said this time.

  “Bad for your teeth,” she smiled up at him, “. . . and rumored to cause hyperactivity.”

  He reared back and laughed wholeheartedly and once again they sat down.

  “Let's have one of the groom feeding the bride,” the photographer suggested, zooming in on his quarry.

  “How many more must we take?” Catherine asked, flustered now, but not entirely disliking the game.

  “I'll be neat,” Clay promised in an aside. But that same devilish crinkle tugged at the corners of his mouth and eyes. He lifted a morsel of cake and she took it, tasted sugar, swallowed, then found him still standing there with an index finger frosted and waiting.

  With a smile as sweet as any confection she said, “This is getting bawdy.” But all she could do was suck the end of his finger, finding it slightly salty too.

  “Our guests find it amusing.”

  “You, Mr. Forrester, are unforgivably salty.” But at that moment she caught Elizabeth Forrester's bright, knowing gaze snapping down the table at them, and she wondered what the old girl suspected.

  The moment turned serious when Claiborne rose to give Catherine his official welcome. He came around the table and gave her a hug and a kiss and his approval for all to see. She sensed sobriety returning to Clay as he leaned an elbow on the table's edge and absently brushed an index finger across his lip, watching. Then he rose and shook hands with his father. Applause followed as Clay sat back down. The whole thing had been appallingly earnest on Claiborne's part, and as their eyes met, both Catherine and Clay realized it.

  “On second thought, you'd better pour me another glass,” she said, “and smile. Your grandmother Forrester is watching every move we make.”

  “Then this is for her, and for Mother and Father,” Clay said, and reached a finger to tip her chin up and placed the lightest kiss upon her lips. Then he reached for the champagne bottle. But his smile and gay mood did not return.

  The meal ended and dancing began. Catherine met more of Clay's relatives and spent the appropriate amount of time with each. Then she found time to move off by herself and seek out her mother, and Uncle Frank and Aunt Ella. The evening was moving inexorably toward its close, and with each passing minute Catherine's apprehension grew.

  Standing with Bobbi in the living room, Catherine caught sight of Clay out in the foyer. He stood with a remarkably beautiful girl whose auburn hair trailed down to the middle of her back. She cradled a champagne glass as if she were born with it in her hand. She smiled up at Clay, gyrated her head as if to toss her hair back. But it fell alluringly across her cheek. Then the girl circled Clay's neck with the arm bearing the stem glass, raising her lips to his and kissing him differently than any of the starry-eyed girls from Horizons had. Catherine observed the somber look upon Clay's face as he spoke to the girl, dropping his eyes to the floor, then raising them to her face again with a look of apology etching his every feature. Catherine would have been lying to herself had she not admitted that the touch he gave the girl's upper arm was a caress. He spoke into her eyes, rubbed that arm, then gave it a lingering squeeze before he bent to drop an unhurried kiss upon the crest of one flawless, high-boned cheek.

  Quickly Catherine turned her back. But the picture rankled until something pinched at her throat and made it hard to swallow the champagne she lifted to her lips.

  “Who is that girl out there with Clay?”

  Bobbi glanced toward the foyer and her smile immediately faded.

  “It's her, isn't it?” Catherine questioned. “It's Jill Magnusson.”

  Bobbi turned her back on the couple too quickly. “Yes, it is. So what?”

  “Nothing.”

  But try as she might, Catherine could not resist looking their way again to find Clay now relaxed, one hand in his trouser pocket while Jill threaded her arm through his and rested her breast leisurely against his biceps. She was the kind of girl who
could get by with a touch like that. Her sophistication made it look chic instead of shabby. An older man had joined them now and Jill Magnusson laughed, leaned sideways without relinquishing her claim on Clay and gave the older man a swift kiss on the side of his mouth.

  “And who's he?” Catherine asked, carefully keeping the ice from her tone.

  “That's Jill's father.”

  There was a sick and empty feeling settling in the pit of Catherine's stomach. She wished she hadn't witnessed Jill leaning casually against Clay in the presence of her own father, nor her obvious lack of unease at kissing Clay with an arm looped around his neck. But Catherine was in for a further surprise, for even as she looked on, Elizabeth Forrester approached the group and it was immediately apparent that Jill Magnusson was as comfortable with the old eagle as she was with the champagne glass and Catherine's new husband. The unapproachable old woman didn't daunt Jill one bit. The brunette actually linked her remaining arm through Elizabeth's, laughing gracefully at whatever Clay's grandmother said. Then—unbelievably—the old eagle laughed too.

  And Catherine finally turned away.

  At that moment Clay's eyes drifted up, found Bobbi observing the quartet, and immediately he withdrew his hand from his pocket, excused himself and crossed toward her and Catherine.

  “Jill and her parents were just leaving,” he explained. It became apparent as soon as the words left his mouth that explanations should not have been necessary. They had not been for the other guests who'd already departed.

  “Somehow it seems that Catherine was not introduced to the Magnussons.”

  “Oh . . . I'm sorry, Catherine. I should have seen to it.” He glanced uncertainly from Catherine to the front door. But it was opening. Angela and Mrs. Magnusson were touching cheeks fondly while the two men shook hands, and Jill gave a long, last look across the expanse that separated her from Clay. Then they were gone.