Forever in Love Page 2

  Besides… Catherine straightened. She wasn’t a fossil, not yet. Her skin showed wrinkles only in the strongest of magnifying mirrors, and she kept herself fit with tennis, yoga and Pilates. Her closet was full of the latest designer and custom-tailored clothes.

  Everything would be okay. She would get a new phone with a number that nobody—especially her mother!—knew. Then she would go to Salazar’s small town and relax. Make a fresh start. It would do wonders for her mental health and self-esteem.

  The GPS in her car said Cooter’s Bluff was only another sixty minutes or so. She dragged herself back into the driver’s seat, got out her compact and repaired her make-up. A few artful finger-drags through her hair put it back into place.

  An hour. She could pull herself together for that long.

  Chapter Two

  This couldn’t possibly be Salazar’s place.

  Catherine stepped out of her car and stared for some time at the house she was going to stay in. Where were the turrets? The huge orange grove? The frothing water fountains surrounded by topiary animals? Salazar liked to live big, and this wasn’t what she’d imagined he’d own, even in a small town.

  The house itself didn’t look too bad. It was a decent-sized three-level unit. The azure blue of the roof was charming, as were the pale blue exterior walls and a meticulous garden that reminded her of her former mother-in-law Stella Lloyd’s. There was a wide lawn that blended seamlessly into the neighbors’ yards, and a porch that took up a third of the house’s frontage and stuck out like a tongue.

  A modest white Ford sedan was parked in the driveway. Did it belong to one of the neighbors? Catherine looked around. Plenty of places to park on the street, so it must be the housekeeper Salazar had mentioned. What kind of staff would he keep in Cooter’s Bluff? His main home in Los Angeles had a butler and an army of highly trained maids.

  Catherine debated for a moment, keys in hand, then rang the doorbell. If someone was inside—even a housekeeper—it would have been bad manners just to barge in.

  The door opened, revealing a woman short enough to look Catherine in the eye. Her well-wrinkled skin was as thin as her cropped and graying hair. Catherine caught herself before she arched an eyebrow at the clothes—worn blue jeans and a poorly fitting red sweater with a giant eagle emblazoned on the chest. And white tennis shoes? This couldn’t possibly be Salazar’s home.

  For a split-second, Catherine found herself transported into one of many possible futures—she could very easily end up like the woman in front of her if she didn’t find a suitable husband soon.

  “Hey there.” The woman smiled, revealing a crooked incisor. “You must be Catherine.”

  Catherine smiled back graciously. “Yes. And you are…?”

  “Irene.” She moved to the side, letting Catherine in. “I’m the housekeeper. Property management company called and told me you’d be coming either today or tomorrow.”

  “The company? Not the owner?”

  “Far as I know, the management company is the owner,” Irene said. “Which is a little strange for these parts, but… I changed the sheets, put some beer in the fridge, that sort of thing.”

  Apparently Salazar was keeping his ownership of the place quiet. Was this where he’d stashed that Georgia Love woman so he could have his trysts whenever he was in town?

  Catherine took a quick inventory of the living and dining rooms. Hardwood floors, Scandinavian furniture and a few abstract paintings on the walls said the interior had definitely been decorated to reflect Salazar’s tastes. The paintings made her wince a bit. Salazar was an excellent judge of many things, but with art he made the common mistake of confusing “original” with “good.” At least they’d come with nice frames.

  “So. Anything I can help you with?” Irene asked.

  “Yes. My luggage.”

  The older woman tagging along, Catherine went outside again and popped her trunk for the bag she’d brought from Houston. Sadly the Aston Martin had such a teeny space. Otherwise she would’ve packed more.

  “Land sakes. Don’t think I’ve ever seen a car like this.” Irene took the suitcase, grunting slightly. “Heavier than it looks.”

  “It’s tightly packed,” Catherine said.

  “I’ll say. Well, I got it. You go on ahead.” Irene jerked her chin at the house.

  Though she felt a bit dubious, Catherine did as Irene asked. The woman pulled the wheeled luggage all the way into the house. “You want it upstairs?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind. Which room’s mine?”

  “The master bedroom, of course.” Irene started marching up the stairs with the suitcase, Catherine following closely behind. For such a tiny woman, the housekeeper was surprisingly strong. “The house has three bedrooms and three baths upstairs and two powder rooms on the first level and basement. Kitchen and basement both have fully stocked bars. You got phones in every room, and you can use anything you want in the house.”

  Irene opened white double doors at the end of the hall and showed Catherine inside. “Towels are in the bathroom, but you got more in the mini-closet right outside the door there”—she gestured at the hall—“and you can find extra shampoo and soap and that sort of thing under the sink.”

  “Thank you,” Catherine said. The place was more like a hotel than a rental. This was definitely where Salazar had played domestic fantasy with that Georgia Love woman.

  “The property manager was pretty specific. You’re supposed to get anything you want.”

  “Well. That’s nice.”

  “So?”

  “…so?”

  “Need anything else?”

  “Oh. No.” Catherine smiled her most charming smile. “You know, you’ve done so much already. Why don’t you take the rest of the day off?”

  Irene frowned. “You sure?”

  “Absolutely. But before you go, could you tell me where I can find a good restaurant or two around the town?”

  “Could whip you up something before I leave. My steak burritos are to die for.”

  “No need to trouble yourself. I just want to get something quick, meet some people and enjoy the hospitality of the town. It’s quite beautiful.”

  Irene beamed. “Well, then.”

  “And if you could also tell me where to find a drug store and supermarket, that’d be fantastic.”

  * * *

  Catherine sighed as she perused the contents of the refrigerator. It was a total disaster. Meat. Cheese. Beer. Fruit juice and cocktail mixes. Butter and fatty sauces and dips. A few carrots. Aside from the carrots, there was nothing she could eat.

  It’s a good thing I asked for directions to a supermarket. She checked her watch—already a quarter to six. Maybe she should just hit The Line. Why delay the inevitable?

  Salazar wanted her to check Blaine out. So check him out she would…just as soon as she freshened up her makeup.

  * * *

  Blaine was frowning as he came down the stairs from his third-floor apartment to the first floor where his bar and restaurant were located. He would’ve been down sooner, but Salazar’s damn lawyer had called again.

  Fifty million, Mr. Davis. Can you ignore that?

  Like any amount of money could make up for the way Ceinlys Pryce had humiliated his mother. She wanted to be a bitch to him, fine. But not to his mother. And Salazar hadn’t done a thing about it. A man who couldn’t bother to stand up for the mother of his child didn’t deserve to be a father.

  If he hadn’t had a business to run, Blaine might have shot the shit with the lawyer just to run up her billable hours. She sounded expensive. He hoped she charged at least a hundred bucks a call.

  It was still early, so only a few seats were occupied. But later, the place would be packed. A playoff game was on tonight, and the bar had four giant flat-screen TVs—one for each wall. His best friend and bar manager Rick Shelton lifted his chin at the sight of him, and Blaine nodded in return. Gel spiked Rick’s sandy hair, and gold studs in his ears sparkled
as he moved around behind the bar. A black turtleneck and a pair of old jeans completed his work ensemble.

  “Studs?” Blaine said. “Didn’t you say they were lame?”

  Rick cocked an eye at one of the waitresses. “Janey thinks they’re hot.”

  Blaine made a whip-snapping sound, and Rick flipped him the bird. He chuckled, then frowned at the sight of Irene at the counter, nursing a beer. “Hey, Irene, what’re you doing here? Didn’t you have to get the Blue House ready for somebody?”

  “I’m done,” she said in that gravelly voice of hers. She still puffed cigarettes, just not as much as she used to. Not even losing a chain-smoking husband to lung cancer had made her quit.

  “What? You get fired?”

  “Nothin’ like that. The new tenant said I could go early. She’s a real looker, yes she is. If I was just a little bit younger…” A wistful sigh escaped her thin lips. “I remember how I looked when I was that age. Woulda given her a run for her money.”

  Blaine smiled. Irene said that about every woman under the age of forty. “Did you offer to make her one of your killer steak burritos?” She made them for anybody who stayed at the Blue House as a “welcome to town” dinner.

  “Offered, but she said no. Wanted to eat out and meet the folks around here.”

  Huh. That was interesting. Rick came over and set a plate with a cheeseburger and fries on the counter in front of Irene. “Maybe she’d like to try our specialty.”

  “I dunno.” Irene finished her beer and signaled for another. “Honestly, she don’t look like the bacon-cheeseburger type. A little too skinny.” She started nibbling on the butter and garlic fries. “A woman’s gotta keep some meat on her.”

  “Amen to that,” Rick said and went away with her empty glass.

  “Poor girl is all bones. At least her car’s nice.” Irene’s gaze grew speculative. “So what you up to, Blaine? Word is you’re getting an awful lot of fancy letters from people in California.”

  Aw jeez. Not even the mail was secret in Cooter’s Bluff. “It’s junk mail,” Blaine said. “Somehow they got my name.”

  “What do they want you to buy?”

  It’s not exactly like that—they want to buy me. “Nothin’ I’m interested in.”

  Irene shook her head. “That danged junk mail. Such a waste of paper.”

  “Hopefully a waste of their money, too.”

  The door to his bar opened, and a woman walked in. Blaine glanced in that direction and did an honest-to-god double-take. Conversation around the place petered out as people started to notice her.

  Curly hair fell over her shoulders like a dark waterfall, framing whiskey-colored eyes and lips that he found it hard to look away from. A black leather coat was belted at the waist, revealing an hourglass body that belonged on a pinup poster girl. She was so flawless in appearance, the symmetry of her features so perfect, that she almost didn’t look real. It was like god had taken the most beautiful woman in the world and then made her a little better.

  It had to be Irene’s new tenant. Blaine knew every good-looking woman within fifty miles, and he had never seen this one before. He had the most absurd desire to touch her, even as his brain warned him it would be a terrible idea. A woman this beautiful was always bad news. An exterior that nice usually hid something nasty underneath.

  Janey walked up to her. “Would you like a table, ma’am?”

  An instant of frown crossed the stranger’s face. “A seat at the counter’s fine. Thank you.”

  “That’s her,” Irene said, swallowing a bite of her burger. “Catherine.”

  Blaine rolled the name on his tongue. It was as regal as the woman.

  “Hey, Catherine,” Irene called out, waving.

  Catherine’s eyes zeroed in on her, then moved to Blaine. The impact of her gaze hit him like a boxer’s punch.

  She made her way across the bar, seemingly oblivious to the stares she was getting, and took the stool next to Irene. “I thought you’d go home.”

  “Would have, normally, but I figured I’d treat myself. This here is Blaine. He owns the place.”

  Catherine tilted her head and gave him a soft smile that revealed teeth as perfect as the rest of her. “Catherine. A pleasure.”

  Her voice reminded Blaine of finely aged bourbon. “The pleasure’s mine. Welcome.”

  “I’d like to see a menu if you don’t mind,” she said.

  He handed her one. “Where are you from? California?” Something about her accent made him think of the golden state.

  She regarded him over the menu for a moment. “No. I was born in Savannah.”

  Chapter Three

  Had she somehow given herself away? Despite Olivia’s disapproval, Catherine had gone to junior high and high school in California because of her father’s business interests on the west coast. Catherine had wanted to see Blaine without him knowing where she was from or—more importantly—who’d sent her. And California was a connection to Salazar.

  She studied Blaine under her eyelashes. She’d thought maybe Salazar’s picture had been overly kind—the Pryce men tended to be photogenic. But it didn’t look like that was the case with Blaine. His features lacked the refinement Salazar’s other children had, but there was something arresting about the casual, confident way he moved and talked. And his lips… He had the most beautiful mouth she’d ever seen on a man. It was the kind meant to sing ballads, recite sonnets and steal a woman’s breath away with a kiss.

  He glanced at her, and she hurriedly returned to the menu, cheeks a little hot. Smooth, Catherine. Very smooth.

  She sighed. The menu had too many pages, and it’d take forever to read. “Do you have a recommendation?” she asked.

  “Bacon-cheeseburger. With garlic and butter fries,” Irene said, holding up a fry that glistened with grease before popping it into her mouth.

  From the looks of what was left on Irene’s plate there were at least a thousand calories in the order. “Other than that.” No way Catherine was touching that stuff. The waitress—Janey—had called her “ma’am,” reminding Catherine of her mother’s comment about how she was now a fossil. But it hadn’t just been the “ma’am.” It was Janey’s youth. The girl couldn’t be more than twenty-two. There was an exuberance in her face, which was as round as a dinner plate.

  “Pan-fried trout’s pretty good.”

  Catherine pursed her mouth. “Any salads?”

  Irene guffawed. “Oh hon. You don’t come to The Line to get salad.”

  “Why?” Catherine asked. “Are they that bad?”

  Irene made a show of glancing around conspiratorially. “Don’t know if you’ve noticed,” she said in a low voice, “but this here’s a bar.”

  “And a restaurant.” Catherine pointed at the restaurant section of the place.

  “Don’t they have any good food where you’re from?”

  Apparently Irene wasn’t going to be much help. Catherine turned to Blaine. “Can you do a grilled chicken salad, no cheese or croutons, dressing on the side?”

  “What kind of dressing?” he asked.

  “What do you recommend?”

  He gave her an assessing look. “House vinaigrette? Low on calories, high on taste.”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  Catherine felt Irene shake her head. Maybe the older woman could afford to eat cheeseburgers and fries every day, but not Catherine. Her body required a careful diet and strict regimen of exercise. She didn’t fit into the clothes she fit into and look the way she looked by eating a bunch of junk food, no matter how tasty. Beauty was the only really worthwhile thing about her, and she wouldn’t dare do anything to lose it.

  Irene finished her food and went off to gossip with some newcomers. Catherine sat and watched Blaine work behind the bar. Neatly rolled-up sleeves revealed strong forearms dusted with dark hair. He had big hands, the fingers long and thick. She followed the intriguing patterns his veins made under his exposed skin and felt something warm curling in her bel
ly. Good lord, all she had to do to get turned on was watch a guy’s hands flex. But then it’d been a long time. Blaine didn’t shy away from washing the dishware and tidying up. A vivid contrast to her former “husband” Jacob, who would’ve had somebody else take care of the tasks that he deemed beneath him.

  Maybe it was the difference in their upbringings. Jacob had been born into material comfort, while Blaine hadn’t. The bar and restaurant seemed to be doing well enough, but its interior—the wood counters, railings and fixtures—was old and shopworn. And his clothes, while neat enough, certainly didn’t say “rich”. They were plain cotton, stuff you could buy at any big box store. He probably didn’t own a single thing made in Europe.

  That could change in an instant if Blaine accepted Salazar’s money. He was offering more than Blaine would make from this bar and restaurant in a lifetime, and all Blaine had to do was come into the Pryce family fold.

  Why say no to fifty million bucks? The man didn’t seem stupid. He had to know what that kind of money could do for him. There had to be something driving him to refuse it, and Catherine was certain once she found out what the reason was, it would be easy enough to persuade him out of it.

  * * *

  Blaine served Catherine her salad, then went to the opposite end of the bar and did his best to ignore her. The woman was married for god’s sake. He closed his eyes briefly, wondering how he’d missed the giant rock on her ring finger when she walked in.

  Because it was the little head thinking. The big head knew she was one of those uptown rich girls…one who was probably slumming. Cooter’s Bluff would be an amusing little diversion for her before she moved on.