Shadows in the Limelight Page 11

  ‘Cat,’ Kent broke the silence that had descended over the table, ‘isn’t there some way you can get out of this contract with Moss? There’s usually a loophole in these things.’

  Catherine set down her cup abruptly. ‘You don’t know Rick Moss, and I do. The only loopholes are on his side, I can tell you that much. He owns Cat Devlin and has complete control over her professional life.’

  ‘What about buying him out! How long does the contract run for?’ asked Kent.

  ‘It was a seven-year contract and I signed it shortly before Casey died, so it has two years to run. As for buying Rick out, he’d never agree,’ she said with certainty, ‘if for no other reason than because I walked out on him and he didn’t like it.’

  Before either man could reply to this, the loudspeaker announced that they were nearing the terminal and that it was time to return to their car. Catherine gathered up her belongings and stood up. She looked down at the two men, then said, ‘I’m sorry. I do want to help, but I can’t in that way. I ... I just don’t want to go back to singing again.’ Would he understand?

  Kent stood up and slipped his arm around her waist. ‘I understand, Cat, but at least, can I have a look at this contract?’ Catherine shrugged, then nodded. He would be wasting his time, but she doubted if he would believe her if she told him so. And he had said he understood. Perhaps he wouldn’t be as upset as she had originally thought when he saw for himself how unbreakable her contract was.

  Catherine jerked awake. She was breathing heavily, her heart beating double time. The bedroom was in darkness, save for the illumination from the digital clock-radio on the bedside table. Turning on her side, she looked at the time: 3.37 a.m.—she was drenched in perspiration, her nylon nightgown clinging to her, her hair damp.

  Sitting up, she turned on the lamp. What had she been dreaming? Something about Casey ... she tried to concentrate, but memory darted away like a trout, leaving only shreds of emotion. Pushing aside the blankets. Catherine got out of the bed, her actions resigned. She would not sleep again tonight, she never could after a nightmare.

  In the bathroom, she turned on the taps to fill the tub and steam filled the room. Stripping off the damp gown, she stepped into the bath and leaned back, her eyes closing.

  Automatically, the image of Kent came to mind. In the month since Christmas, their relationship had stabilised. The arguments that had marred it before Christmas had ceased. If anything, Kent treated her almost lovingly, even though, as yet, she had fulfilled none of her promises to work for him. When they had returned to Vancouver, Catherine had had to spend the next week working at her store. The week between Christmas and New Year was one of the busiest of the year and she was forced to spend every one of her waking hours dealing with the influx of orders for flower arrangements for holiday parties.

  No sooner had New Year arrived, bringing with it a welcome respite from the demands of her business, than Catherine had been stricken by the ‘flu. Though she hadn’t been dangerously ill, she had been forced to spend the first ten days of the year in bed, followed by another week off work.

  While Kent had naturally been disappointed, he had been kindness itself during her illness, visiting her as often as his busy schedule would permit and showering her with little gifts. Even when, as she had expected, he had been unable to find a way out of her contract with Rick Moss he hadn’t reproached her, assuring her that even without her being able to sing she could still make a valuable contribution to his campaign. She had been wrong to doubt him. And in her weakened state she had cried a little at that. But still she couldn’t bring herself to tell him the truth about her life and Casey’s death. Finally, Kent never mentioned James Latimer, apparently unconcerned that she had caused a quarrel between him and his father.

  So why did she feel so uneasy about him? Partly, she knew that her weakened physical condition had gone a long way towards dampening her enthusiasm for helping Kent with his campaign. The by-election had yet to be called, so he wasn’t exactly campaigning, and as the days passed, Catherine’s dread of her emergence into the public eye grew. The anonymity of being a simple florist looked decidedly attractive as she recalled the goldfish life she had led as Cat Devlin.

  More than anything, though, she admitted that the source of her unhappiness was simply that Kent was so very happy. He radiated happiness whenever she saw him, his eyes lit with pleasure, his smile never long in coming. And, as he rode his upward spiral of happiness, her own spirits plunged. He had what he wanted—Cat Devlin on his team—and where did that leave Catherine Delaney?

  She had been such an idiot to fall in love with him! She wanted him to love her back, not her name, not the ghost of who she once was. She wanted him to love the flesh-and-blood reality of Catherine Delaney, not the resurrected singer Cat Devlin.

  Teardrops splashed into the cooling bathwater and Catherine eased herself out of the tub and wrapped a towel around her. What did it matter that he preferred the singer to the florist? Despite his teasing offer after Christmas, it seemed unlikely that either of them would have a place in his life once he was in Ottawa— and she had promised to help him get there.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CATHERINE arrived home late from the shop. Miss Hamilton had phoned her on Kent’s behalf earlier that day to ask if she was well enough to attend a dinner party with him that evening. Catherine had assured her that she was and had proceeded immediately to forget the engagement as she tried to untangle her accounting system for the bookkeeper she had finally hired. She only recalled it as she was leaving the shop and even though she hurried home, she knew she probably wouldn’t be ready to leave by the time Kent called for her.

  Letting herself into her apartment, she went straight to her bathroom, quickly swallowing a couple of aspirins before stripping off her clothes and stepping into the shower. Kent was due to pick her up in less than fifteen minutes. She was always careful to be ready when he arrived, but tonight that seemed impossible.

  With the warm water of the shower coursing over her, Catherine thought longingly of bed. God, she was tired! She had a splitting headache and the very last thing in the world she wanted to do was go out tonight. She was stepping out of the shower when the doorbell rang. Damn him, she thought testily, why couldn’t he ever be late? She quickly slipped on her robe, tying the belt as she crossed the living-room to answer the door. Throwing it open, she snapped at him before he could even greet her, ‘Don’t say it—I know I’m late!’

  His eyes swept over her robe, a faintly puzzled look in them as he heard the sharpness in her tone. ‘Well, I didn’t think you were going dressed like that,’ he teased, giving her a smile he hoped would coax her into a better mood.

  Instead, she cinched the belt of her robe tighter in an irritated movement as she stepped aside so he could enter the apartment. Her tone was grudging as she asked if he would like a drink while she finished dressing.

  Turning to her, he nodded, inspecting her face curiously. She quickly averted it, going into the kitchen to find the bottle of Scotch she kept for visitors. She finally found it behind a box of cornflakes, and was taking down a glass when Kent came to lounge casually in the doorway. ‘Ice?’ Catherine asked shortly, and he shook his head frowning.

  Her hand was shaking as she poured the Scotch into the glass. He came up behind her and gently took the bottle from her. Placing a hand on her shoulder, he turned her to face him, his eyes narrowing at the exhaustion written in her face. ‘You look terrible. Why did you tell Miss Hamilton you could come tonight when obviously you still haven’t recovered from your bout of ‘flu?’

  ‘I am recovered. I’ve been back at work for a week,’ she protested, stung by his unflattering comments on her appearance. She pulled out of his hold and pushed her hair back from her face. ‘I haven’t had a chance to put my make-up on yet and I have a slight headache, that’s all. I’ve taken some aspirin. I’ll be ready in a few minutes.’

  ‘Perhaps we should cancel tonight,’ he offered
, eyeing her frankly. ‘You look like you could do with an early night. Everyone will understand that you don’t feel up to it.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ Catherine assured him, suddenly determined that she would. She had to start helping him some time and she didn’t want to delay any longer. If she did, she might lose her courage altogether. Leaving him with his drink in the living-room, she went to her bedroom and shut the door. Shedding her robe, she tossed it on the end of the bed. She took a canister of talc from the dressing table and dusted her skin with the scent of Chanel No. 5 before sliding into her nylon briefs and bra. She had just pulled on her slip when a sensation of vertigo hit her. Frantically she reached out at the dressing table to steady herself, her hand knocking over a bottle of lotion with a crash.

  Her bedroom door burst open behind her and Kent rushed in. ‘What happened? Did you fall?’ Catherine shook her head numbly. The walls had stopped spinning about her, but she still felt odd, almost disembodied. Kent crossed the room to reach her side and took her hands in his. ‘I just knocked over a bottle,’ she managed to answer him. ‘I’m all right.’ She was unaware that her pallor and chilled hands gave the lie to her statement.

  ‘You’d better lie down for a while.’ His arm curled round her waist to lead her to the bed. Then, as her legs started to give way, he lifted her and carried her to the bed. Gently laying her on the coverlet, he sat beside her, brushing her hair back from her forehead with his hand. ‘You don’t seem to have a temperature,’ he said softly, his blue gaze searching her face. ‘When was the last time you ate?’

  Her eyes shifted away from his. Had she eaten lunch today? She realised she had no idea, though she probably hadn’t. No wonder she was dizzy; she had only had toast and coffee for breakfast.

  She looked back at Kent. His face had taken on a harsher tone, his mouth set in an angry line. ‘Have you eaten anything today? Dammit, Cat, why can’t you take better care of yourself? You shouldn’t have been back at work yet.’ His finger touched her collarbone, then followed the clearly visible ladder of bones to the top of her slip. ‘Look how thin you are! The last thing you need is to start skipping meals, especially as you’ve just got over being ill,’ he said angrily. His hand rested on her midriff, his fingers stroking her ribs through the thin silk.

  His touch was sending crazy impulses through her and she shifted uneasily. Yet she wanted him to touch her, wanted him to hold her, comfort her. She knew the instant he noticed the rapid flutter of her pulse and a slow flush crept up her face. His eyes found hers, questioning. She tried to brazen it out, pretend she wasn’t affected by him, pretend she didn’t know he knew it. But she couldn’t hold his eyes and finally lowered her lashes to veil her own. ‘I’ll be fine. I was just dizzy for a moment.’ She still felt dizzy, weak as though her bones had turned to rubber—but it had nothing whatsoever to do with a lack of food or her recent illness.

  ‘Cat?’ Kent’s knuckles stroked her cheek. ‘Cat, look at me.’ She drew a shuddering breath, ignoring his order. His other hand slipped up from her waist and covered her breast, cupping her tender flesh, his thumb teasing the hardened nipple through the fine material of her lingerie. She was totally unprepared for the jolt of electricity that shot through her and her eyes flew to his face. He wanted her too—it was written as clearly as a banner headline; in his eyes, in the set of his mouth, in the slight flush that stained his cheekbones.

  His face was coming closer to hers and she turned her head. ‘No, Kent,’ she whispered. His lips touched her jaw, his tongue traced the slender curve of her neck. Then his mouth continued its downward exploration, her limbs felt heavy as erotic lethargy washed over her. They wouldn’t obey her commands. She lifted her arm to push him away and instead her fingers curled in the dark, silken strands of his hair.

  He lifted his head from her breast and his eyes burned into hers. ‘Cat, this has been inevitable for us since the first time I kissed you,’ he whispered roughly. His mouth claimed hers, searing his brand on her, firing her blood. His lips moved over hers in silent demand, forcing open her own so he could explore the softness of her mouth, his tongue sliding over the smooth ivory of her teeth, tasting her inner lip.

  Desire washed through her and she struggled against it like an inexperienced swimmer caught in an undertow. His hands glided over her form, sliding under her slip to stroke her thigh. She couldn’t think, could only feel. Nothing seemed real save the exquisite pressure of his lips on hers, the silken touch to his hands. Her hands slipped inside his dinner jacket, kneading the firm muscles of his back beneath his silk shirt.

  A soft moan escaped from her as he pulled away, getting off the bed. His eyes held hers for a moment. ‘You want me, Cat—and God knows I want you.’ With passion-dazed eyes she watched him remove his jacket, hands trembling slightly as he pulled off his tie. He smiled down at her, his blue eyes dark and hot with primitive wanting. His shirt quickly followed the tie to the floor, exposing a broad muscular chest covered by a mat of dark curling hair. His stomach was flat and lean, without a sign of excess flesh.

  As though bewitched, Catherine studied the body standing over her, caught in a trance of passion that paralysed her. Kent’s hand went to his belt, his long, slender fingers deftly unbuckling it. As he pulled it through the loops, the reality of what was happening struck her. In one motion, she rolled across the bed to the far side, grabbing up the robe and pulling it on.

  ‘No, Kent, we can’t,’ she whispered, scared of what this final commitment would do to her. She held the front of the robe shut with her arms. ‘I don’t want this to happen.’

  For a moment he looked bewildered, then suddenly his face softened. ‘Why?’ he asked gently. He took a step towards her and she found she was rooted to the spot. ‘I don’t think you know what you want, Cat,’ he said, his eyes holding hers. ‘It’s been building for weeks between us, don’t pretend it hasn’t. Tonight we’re going to do something about it. We’re not children, Cat.’ He covered the distance between them in one stride, pulling her to him, his lips crushing hers with unrestrained ardour. He pressed her against his chest, forcing his length against her. She tried to struggle away from him, fighting herself as much as him. But he was right, so right. There was no way she could pretend to herself or to him that this wasn’t what she wanted. She needed him.

  He stepped forward, pinning her against the wall, all the while his mouth demanding of hers, forcing it open so he could plunder the sweetness within. Her robe opened, and she could feel the heat from his bare chest through her flimsy underwear. His heart beat hard against her and every nerve in her body responded to him, burning away the last vestiges of restraint.

  In a rough movement, he snapped the narrow shoulder straps of her slip and pushed it down. Easing his hold slightly, Kent slipped his fingers between them and found the front fastening of her bra, disposing of it. His chest was hard and muscled against the softness of her bared breasts as he drew her back to him. ‘See how you want me, Cat,’ he whispered roughly, his palm stroking her hardened nipple.

  Her fingers dug into his waist. Wild desire beat through her and she didn’t resist when he lifted her off her feet and laid her across the bed. His movements were slow and seductive as he slipped the remnants of her clothing off her. ‘My God, Cat, you’re beautiful!’ He lay down beside her, exploring her body with his eyes, his hands, his lips. She arched towards him, all resistance destroyed under the spell of the emotion that held her.

  The remainder of his clothes followed hers to the floor, and she made no protest. She ached for the feel of his flesh against hers, the end to the agony of wanting. He parted her thighs to receive him and rolled on top of her. Her hands stroked the hard, muscled shoulders above her and she pulled his mouth down on hers.

  The kiss was broken by her bewildered cry of pain. She tried to twist away from him, fear and pain stifling her desire. ‘No, stop it!’ she sobbed, struggling against him.

  ‘What the hell...?’ Kent froze, staring down at her. T
ears were streaming down her cheeks as she looked up at him with accusing eyes. ‘Cat,’ he groaned, ‘it’s too late to stop now.’ His mouth covered hers in a warm passionate kiss. She sensed his restraint as his fingers brushed away her tears. He was incredibly gentle as he moved slowly against her and, as the pain eased, the tension drained from her. Gradually the fires that had been so brutally extinguished flared to life, filling her with pulsing warmth until once again she forgot everything but the exquisite sensation he awoke in her.

  Afterwards, he lay on his back to stare up at the ceiling. Catherine turned on her side to study him, her brain still fogged by languid passion. Tentatively, she reached out a hand to touch him, almost afraid to believe he was real. The last few minutes seemed like a dream, a dream from which she didn’t want to awake.

  He flinched away at her touch, and quickly leapt from the bed. His back to her, he pulled on his trousers and shirt, not turning to face her until he was dressed. ‘You should have told me, Cat,’ he said bleakly. ‘Put some clothes on and come out into the living-room. We’d better talk.’ With that directive, he left the room.

  Kent was waiting for her by the window when she went into the living-room. He had a glass of whisky in one hand and took a large swallow from it before indicating that she should sit down. Trying to gauge his expression, Catherine nervously seated herself in one of the armchairs.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ His voice was clipped and expressionless, but she sensed that he was holding himself under control only with a great deal of effort. Numbly, Catherine shook her head, refusing to look at him. She felt terribly cold even though the apartment was warm, and huddled deeper into her robe.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were a virgin?’ he asked in a cold, controlled voice. A feeling of resentment was starting to build in her. What right had he to be angry with her? He made virginity sound like a social disease, and she glared back at him mutely. ‘My God,’ he swore, ‘you’re what? Twenty-five, twenty-six ... I never even suspected.’ He raked one hand through his hair, an expression of self-disgust marring his handsome features.