Chapter One Hundred Seventy One

 

Stunned, Clay quickly said, "I'm sure she didn't know..."

 

Nadia cut back in with a harsh, "'She did know."  She stopped and ran a hand through her short black hair, then blurted, "When your wife showed up here and started asking about Billy Mrs. Ducain told her to leave.  Instead, she followed me from the room and stopped me before I could go upstairs...and away from her and her questions."  Nadia sighed, but locked gazes with Clay.  "Your wife has a very soft heart, and offers beautiful words of comfort, so beautiful, and so sincere, that I broke down and confided in her.  God help me, I believed her when she promised that she could help us." 

 

Clay's voice tightened.  "Catherine would never intentionally hurt..."

 

"Let me finish," Nadia stated.  "Your wife was so convincing, and so gentle with Billy that for the first time in months I dropped my guard.  Billy took to her immediately and, then, like a fool, I let her talk alone with him.  Somewhere within those minutes of letting her get to know Billy, he cried, cried because he couldn't tell his mother 'happy birthday'."

 

Clay glanced at Junior and Eric.  Like him, Eric was stunned into silence, but Junior's stony face confirmed to Clay that this was what Junior had insisted Catherine tell Clay that she had done.

 

Clay looked again at Nadia, who studied him with hard eyes.

 

She nodded.  "The only thing we have going for us, at least for now, is that your wife used her own phone and the call can't be traced back here to the shelter."

 

Clay glanced at Mrs. Ducain, her face impassive, but her eyes as hard as Nadia's.

 

"But it can," Clay noted, "be traced to Los Angeles. And probably tracked to a particular cell tower."

 

"Yes," Nadia said.  "Fortunately, my mother answered the phone, but when my mother started to cry my father knew right away it was one of us calling and grabbed the receiver.  He demanded to know where we were, but when she saw Billy's face and realized something was wrong, to her credit your wife disconnected the call immediately."

 

Clay had no real defense of Catherine's actions.  "I can only guess that Catherine believed it was safe because she used her own phone."

 

Nadia's tone gave no quarter.  "Think what you want.  I had told her, just minutes before that, that we had left Chicago because my father had the call traced and sent someone after us.  I can't imagine why she would do something like this and consider it helping us.  If this call brings them here..."

 

Clay's throat tightened.  He had a pretty good idea why Catherine thought this was helping.     

 

Nadia's voice softened.  "If my father finds us, he can...no, he will have Billy put away.  And he'll make sure I'm never allowed to see him again."

 

Clay's eyes closed tightly and his mind raced before he reopened them.  "What about Billy's checks?  Maybe your father, because of illegally keeping them..."

 

"No," Nadia said.  "Knowing my father, his story is that he's been 'saving' them for Billy and has hired someone to find us so that an all-out manhunt doesn't traumatize Billy.  Even though I graduated high school I'm still only seventeen and he could easily have me arrested for taking Billy away from home.  No one misses Billy because my father wouldn't allow him to be enrolled in recreation activities offered through ARC or township facilities.  Carting Billy back-and-forth would take up too much of my father's time and he refused to let me do it.  I'm sure no one has noticed that Billy isn't home since he rarely left his room.  And I'm sure the story is that I've gone away to school."

 

Clay frowned.  "If your father thinks he has nothing to lose, why doesn't he call in the police?"

 

Nadia's smile held no warmth.  "He's not going to take the chance of his mistreatment of Billy coming to light.  My mother loves Billy, but she's more afraid of my father and what he might...no, will do to Billy if anyone tells."

 

Puzzled, Clay said, "I still don't..."

 

"Because of me," Nadia said quietly.  "My father knows any charges of abuse that I make against him will need my mother's backing, which I'll never get.  And Billy, with his loving, forgiving heart, will never turn on my father.  I've talked to Billy many times about counselors that can help.  He's basically only a little boy, and he gets confused, denies that my father is mean and says he loves my father.  But the sadness in his eyes says he knows that our father doesn't love him in return. There's been only one time that Billy stood up to my father, and that was to protect me."  Unchecked, tears streamed down Nadia's face.  "My father won't take the chance that Billy thinks I need his protection.  It works much better for my father to have someone quietly drag us back home."  She wiped her face.  "Billy would be put away the day we stepped back into that house."

 

Nadia's gaze lifted to the ceiling, as though penetrating to where her brother quietly sat listening while Catherine read. 

 

Nadia's fierce tone echoed throughout the room.  "I don't care what consequences my father has in store for me.  I'll never abandon Billy.  No matter what.  Even if it means running again.  Tonight."

 

Chapter One Hundred Seventy Two

 

Clay shook his head.  "No," he murmured.  "I'll find a safe place for you to go..." 

 

Mrs. Ducain interrupted and sent a sharp look to Nadia. "They're not running, at least for tonight."  She raised a hand to stop Clay's words.  "If you're about to offer to hide them, don't.  You can be prosecuted, as can anyone else who harbors them.  Since this is a homeless shelter for teens we have at least a small modicum of protection from the overzealously well-meaning...or people like Nadia and Billy's father."  She sighed.  "If their father tracks them to here, I can keep investigators at bay...for a short while."  She frowned.  "Your wife insisted that you could and would help.  In exactly what way do you think you can provide help to them?"

 

Clay's gaze and tone was honest.  "I'm not sure yet, and I'll need a few days to do some discreet checking around."  He frowned.  "Are there many shelters in this area?  At least a few that thoroughly checking them would slow down an investigator's hunting process?"

 

Mrs. Ducain's sad smile reached her eyes.  "Unfortunately, there are many, many shelters.  Also unfortunately, there are not nearly enough for those who need them.  Angels of the Night is for teens.  I don't know if Nadia's father will think to narrow it to teen or youth shelters or if he'll consider them all."

 

"That's if he traced Catherine's call," Clay reminded her.

 

Nadia's laugh was humorless.  "Let me ease your mind right now.  He traced it.  You don't know my father."

 

Clay studied Nadia, but Eric spoke.  "Aren't you concerned that your birthday means your father will prosecute you as an adult for taking Billy?"

 

Nadia was silent, then told Eric, "No.  He's not interested in attracting the law...at least not for now.  This is about control.  And, like I said, if Billy thinks I'm in trouble, my father knows that Billy will do anything to help me...he knows that means that Billy will tell whomever he needs to tell about his mistreatment."  Nadia's eyes hardened.  "My mother pleaded for my brother the first time my father threatened to institutionalize him.  The only reason Billy was still home is because of me battling to keep him there...but I was leaving for college."  She lowered her head, then her green eyes lifted again to Eric's compassionate blue ones.  "The deal my father handed down is this:  when I leave for college, Billy goes to an institution.  The only way he'll allow Billy to remain living at home is if he's on enough medication to keep sitting in a chair all day.  Doing nothing and probably not even knowing where he is.  Just so my father can continue to pretend that Billy doesn't exist, to deny to himself that he has a less-than-perfect son."  She choked back a sob.  "Billy deserves so much more than that, is capable of giving so much more than that.  I'm not going to let that happen to him!"

 

Eric looked to the steps and Nadia's gaze followed his.  Billy followed Catherine down the stairs and over to the table.  Billy looked uncertain and Clay's heart constricted at the fear in his eyes.  Billy took Nadia's hand, but said nothing.  Billy looked furtively from Clay, to Junior, to Eric, then quickly dropped his gaze to the floor, only to begin glancing at them all over again before looking at the floor.  His stress was obvious, even after Nadia squeezed his hand and patted his arm.

 

Catherine glanced from Clay to Eric and back, then said lightly, "Is everything okay?  Billy heard Nadia shout and wanted to make sure that she's okay."

 

Nadia laughed and hugged Billy.  Her laugh sounded thin and shaky to everyone but Billy, who didn't relax until Nadia said, "You're such a sweetheart, Billy.  Of course I'm okay.  We were all just discussing which character we like better, Huck Finn or Tom Sawyer."  She laughed again.  "I guess I got carried away."

 

Clay rose to his feet and stuck his hand out to Billy.  "I very pleased to meet you and Nadia, Billy."

 

Billy didn't stick his hand out, and his voice was unsure.  "Are you mad at me?"

 

Taken aback, Clay offered a quick, "No...no...", then gave Nadia a questioning look.

 

Catherine smiled.  "He's not mad, Billy."  She looked at Clay.  "Billy likes the way I read to him and he asked me to marry him, but I explained that I'm already married to you."  She turned a soft gaze to Billy.  "So we promised to be secret friends.  I told him you wouldn't mind that at all."

 

Clay smiled at Billy.  "Of course I don't mind.  I think secret friends is a great idea."

 

Mrs. Ducain rose to her feet, her voice emphatic.  "Secret being the operative word...isn't that right, Catherine?"

 

Catherine flushed, but smiled and answered, "Of course."

 

Billy blurted to Catherine, "Will you come back again?"

 

"Yes," she told him softly.  "I..."

 

"I'll call you tomorrow and let you know what time is good," Mrs. Ducain interjected pleasantly, but with the clear, ringing meaning that tonight's meeting had ended.

 

***

 

With his left arm around her, Catherine's head rested on Clay's shoulder the entire time Junior drove back to the apartment complex.  Small chatter had died almost instantly, with all four of them caught up in thoughts of how to help and if their help would only worsen the situation.

 

But Clay's thoughts were riveted on Catherine.  Catherine didn't fully realize why she had made that phone call, but Clay did.  And it had only partial basis in Billy.

 

Chapter One Hundred Seventy Three

 

After Catherine entered their apartment Clay closed the door behind him and flipped on the living room light switch beside it.  A soft glow immediately flooded the room from two table lamps that flanked the sofa.

 

Catherine sighed and Clay noted her sad expression, though she didn't look like she wanted to talk.

 

But he certainly did.

 

The Krispy Kreme commercial scripts that Eric had tossed onto the sofa caught Catherine's eye and she walked over to pick one up.  She opened it and scanned it, but her smile didn't fully form.

 

"This is a cute spoof," she said in a strained tone.  "And the note on it says they're blocking it tomorrow afternoon so why don't we run through it once or twice."  Her lower lip trembled.  "I could really use something to make me laugh right about now and I know you could, too."  She gave him a half-hearted smile.  "How about it, Rhett?"

 

Clay walked over to Catherine, took the script from her hand and tossed it onto the sofa.  "That can wait," he said quietly.  He took both her hands in his and sat her on the sofa. 

 

"What's wrong?" she asked.

 

Clay pulled the wing chair so that he was seated directly in front of Catherine.

 

Where could he possibly begin?

 

He locked gazes with her, her blue eyes showing her bewilderment as his green eyes searched them. 

 

Clay sighed and took her hands again in his, his heart beating so loudly he wondered if she could hear it. He leaned forward, "We need to call someone," he began delicately, battling to keep anxiety from his tone.

 

Horror leaped into Catherine's eyes and she jerked her hands free from Clay's and jumped to her feet.

 

"Are you crazy?"  Catherine took a step away from Clay.  "I made things bad enough, Clay.  But what you want to do...to turn them in...is worse...much worse.  Nadia told me her story, just like she told it to you, and I am stunned that you'd suggest..." 

 

Clay jumped to his feet and gripped her shoulders.  He shook her gently and his voice was rough with emotion.  "Not for them, Catherine.  For you."

 

Catherine stared, unblinking, at Clay, clearly not comprehending. 

 

"Clay," she said in a tremorous voice.  "I know I was wrong to call their mother.  I have no excuse other than a very, very, stupid, weak moment of watching Billy cry because he couldn't tell his mother happy birthday."

 

Clay released Catherine's shoulders and placed tender fingers on the sides of her face.  His heart ached for her, and he knew that what she had done her subconscious had driven her to do. 

 

Catherine's gaze held his and he saw confusion cloud her blue eyes.

 

"I don't doubt for a second that your kind heart motivated you and I know you'd move heaven and earth to help Nadia and Billy.  But something else drove you that final step, the one that initiated the phone call to their mother."

 

"What on earth are you talking about?"

 

"You did it for yourself, Catherine."

 

Shocked speechless, Catherine gasped and jerked away from him.  Her face turned bright red with anger and the look in her eyes said that he'd just hurt her so badly he'd ripped her heart in half.

 

She backed up from him, shaking with anger. 

 

Chastising himself for his poor choice of words he sighed in disgust. "Wait," he said.  "I didn't mean..."

 

Catherine's voice was barely audible and Clay had never seen such torment in anyone's eyes.  "For myself?"  She put her hands up to keep distance from him, distance he was determined to close.  "Myself?  I can't believe you think I'd be so selfish as to..."

 

Clay raised his voice almost to a shout, but he knew if he didn't he'd never break through her stunned anger.  "That's not what I mean," he said, then turned and walked in frustration to the sliding doors, opened them and stepped onto the balcony into the cool night air.

 

How could he have blundered so badly? he wondered, raking a hand through his hair as he stared up at the blanket of stars.  When he'd most needed the proper, tender words he'd bungled it, badly.  He needed to think for a minute before he started all over again.  This time with the proper approach.  He loved Catherine too much to let it go even until morning.

 

Catherine came out behind him.  He turned to her, her labored breathing saying she was still angry and still waited his explanation and apology.  "You can't drop a bombshell like that and then walk away, Clay."

 

Clay opened his arms.  "We need to talk."

 

Catherine hesitated, but her unsure posture vanished when Clay's fingers gestured he wanted to hold her. 

 

"Please?" he said quietly. "I'm sorry."

 

Catherine's lower lip trembled as she stepped into his arms.  Clay drew her close, laying his head on hers as he continued to look at the stars, breathing in the beautiful, wonderful scent that was Catherine.  God how he loved her.  He'd move mountains to help her, to heal her, to make her happy.  Even when she was unaware she needed healing.

 

Clay turned her face to his and lowered his lips to hers.  Her lips were soft and supple beneath his, in a soft, tender kiss that offered all the incredible, passionate love each possessed for the other.  A promise of a lifetime of more.

 

Clay's heart beat faster, as it always did when she was near him.  But now was not the time to think of where their heated kisses usually led.

 

He laid her head against his chest and said, "I'm sorry, sweetheart."

 

"Why, Clay?" she asked softly.  "Why would you say such a hurtful thing?"

 

He leaned her away from him until her eyes looked directly into his.  "I'd never do or say anything to hurt you, Catherine.  You know that.  But this needed to be said.  There's something you need to recognize."

 

He saw her jaw tighten in defense, of anticipation of hearing, you're selfish, but he forged on with his words.

 

"When you called Billy's mother, Catherine.  You didn't just do it for him.  You also did it for yourself."

 

She jerked away from him.  "So much for you being sorry," she fumed and stormed for the living room. 

 

But Clay's next words, despite a compassion that attempted to take the sting from those words, stopped her cold.

 

"When you called Billy's mother, to reunite them, however briefly on her birthday, somewhere deep in your mind you believed you were reuniting your own family.  Your own mother and your brother.  The family that was ripped apart before you were born.  A reuniting that can never be."

 

Chapter One Hundred Seventy Four

 

Catherine whirled to face Clay and she was angrier than he'd ever seen her.  Honey blonde hair had flown to frame her face when she spun and blue eyes crackled with fire.

 

"How dare you?" she gritted.  "I did what I did because I saw a young man, heartbroken on his mother's birthday.  A handicapped young man who doesn't, who can't, through no fault of his own, understand the depth of the obscene realities of why he and his sister can't go home." 

 

"I don't deny that's part of it," Clay answered.

 

Catherine walked back to him, thunderclouds in her eyes.  "I admitted my mistake, Clay, and it was a huge mistake, one that might bring devastating consequences."  Anger tightened her jaw and ice surrounded her words.  "And all you can do is accuse me of some sort of manipulation for self-gratification."

 

"That's not what I said," he snapped, frustrated at how incredibly quick the situation had gone from bad to severe.

 

She advanced until her face was an inch from his, but he didn't budge and didn't change expression.  Maybe if he let her vent she'd start to see there was more than a glimmer of truth to his words.

 

Clay locked stubborn gazes with her.  Nobody knew Catherine as well as he did and he conceded to himself that not only had he chosen a very poor way to engage a discussion of his insights, he knew it would be a long, unhappy night for them both unless he managed to curb the argument before it became a full-fledged battle.

 

Catherine continued, "My brother grew up happy.  I grew up happy.  Neither of us knew about my mother's tragedy until it was far too late to rectify it, to reunite them, as you so succinctly put it.  My brother is successful; Billy has no real future waiting for him.  There is no comparison to make."  Though she kept her eyes level with Clay's she jabbed her finger into his chest when she told him, "And I can't tell you how much I resent what you said to me and how you're trying to twist this, for God only knows what reason."

 

"You’re going to listen to me," Clay said calmly.

 

Her response was to turn on her heel and enter the living room.

 

Clay went inside and almost slammed the door shut.  He caught Catherine and held her wrists.  "Oh, yes, you are going to listen," he informed her.

 

"Let me go," she ordered him, honey blonde hair flying in all directions. 

 

He shook her.  "Stop it," he warned in a tone that said he meant business. 

 

She stopped, but the sparks in her eyes said that if she opened her mouth the flames would roast him where he stood.  He ignored it.

 

"You'll listen," he stated flatly.  "Whether you like it or not."

 

Catherine stood immobile but stiff, and finally Clay released her wrists.

 

He felt like the worst and lowest kind of heel, almost manhandling the wife he adored in order to convince her that she needed counseling.  He swallowed hard, then said, "Catherine, there's a great deal of comparison between Nadia and Billy and you and Eric.  I believe your mind understood this and your subconscious motivated you to try to bring together your mother and Eric through bringing together another child separated from his mother because of his father." 

 

Catherine stared at him, incredulous.  "Clay, I can't believe you're grasping at such an off-the-wall idea."

 

Clay sighed.  "Even if it did happen five years before you were born, Eric was sent out of your home because of your father."

 

"So what?  That's nothing but a coincidence to this situation."

 

"Catherine," Clay said softly.  "Do you think this is making me happy?  Do you think it brings me any kind of joy to say these things to you?  To tell you that I think you need to speak to a professional?"

 

Sarcasm dripped from, "Well, gee, Clay, I don't know.  Would thinking that about you make me even more selfish?"

 

"Nadia is homeless," Clay added.

 

Catherine waited, but Clay said nothing.  "Okay," she finally said, and threw her hands into the air.  "I give up.  What does that little tidbit have to do with anything?"

 

Clay shook his head, all his frustration ebbing as he looked into Catherine's eyes.  She really had no idea what he was talking about.

 

"Shortly after we met, Catherine, you were homeless, too."

 

Catherine gasped, then shouted, "That was beyond my control and you know it!"  Her fingers briefly flew to her forehead in angry consternation.  "I can not, for the life of me, figure out how your mind works, Clay."  She straightened and her words were hard.  "But I do not, do not appreciate the insinuation that I'm using the desperate plight of those two people for my own selfish gain."

 

"That's not..."

 

"What you said?" she cut him off.  "Then you haven't been listening to yourself."  She turned on her heel and walked into the bedroom, tossing over her shoulder, “Maybe a good counselor can help you out with that.”

 

The door slammed with finality.

 

***

 

In the morning, Clay awoke alone and rose to sit on the side of the bed.  He was stiff and sore, having tossed and turned all night.

 

On the outer edge of her side of the bed, Catherine had lain rigid all night, ignoring his soft touch and attempts to create a dialogue.  Clay talked anyway, not knowing if she heard a single word he said or if her own swirling, angry thoughts blocked his voice from her head.  He had no idea what time Catherine had gotten up.  He didn’t hear the shower so he assumed she was in the kitchen.

 

The only thing he knew for sure was that they were both miserable.  He dropped his head into his hands, rubbed his face and then ran his hands through his hair.

 

Pain lashed his heart.  He couldn’t let this go on.  He could have, and should have, handled it much better than he had, but he was keenly aware he had to make Catherine face the truth, make her face and come to terms with a pain she wasn’t aware she carried.

 

He padded out to the kitchen.  He found a half full glass of orange juice but no Catherine.  Maybe she was on the balcony.  He was halfway through the living room when he saw the note propped on the end table.

 

Clay:

 

A stand-in can block my part of the commercial; they don’t need me for that.  Lilah called and all the models have to make a publicity appearance at the new fashion show site.  I asked Junior to drive me.  I’ll be home no later than early evening.

 

Clay breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the heart Catherine had drawn with her initial inside.  He tossed the note onto the end table.  Maybe it wasn’t as bad as he’d thought.

 

***

 

Clay had been home for almost forty-five minutes before Catherine walked in the door.

 

“How did the blocking go?” she asked, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge.

 

“Fine,” Clay said.  “Normal, boring stuff.  How about the fashion show?”

 

“Fine,” she answered in the same nondescript tone.  “They’ve moved the show to some sort of convention center.  Ticket sales were higher than expected and Spago’s couldn’t handle the volume of people.”

 

“I’m sure that’s because of the main attraction,” Clay said lightly, watching for any sign from Catherine.  Mad, glad, anything.

 

“Flattery doesn’t work with me,” she reminded him, sipping her water.  “Remember?”

 

“Oh, yeah, I forgot,” he said casually.  “I tried to reward you once with a date and you didn’t take it too well.”

 

Catherine nearly choked on her water and burst out laughing.

 

Before he knew it they had moved into each other’s arms, both apologizing in between deep kisses.  Clay’s heart soared.  His Catherine was back and he knew he could talk to this Catherine in a rational, sensible manner and make her see reason.

 

He’d talk to her later, though.  Flames shot through his body as Catherine pressed her sensual mouth and length against his welcoming body, her curves so natural in his arms. 

 

God, how he ached for her.

 

She took her lips from the inviting heat of his just long enough to whisper, “Clay, I want you to know you don’t have to worry anymore about Nadia and Billy.”

 

Clay came to a dead stop and pulled his head back far enough to look into the blue eyes he loved like no other.  Dread knotted his stomach and even though he didn’t want an answer, he forced himself to ask the question.  “What do you mean?” 

 

“I’ve taken them to a safe house.  No one but me knows where they are.”

 

Chapter One Hundred Seventy Five

 

"A safe house?" Clay repeated.  The knots in his stomach unseated the heat in his loins, something he wouldn't have believed possible.  "What...where..."

 

"I can't tell you that," Catherine murmured, snuggling again into his arms.

 

But Clay resisted and held her at arm's length to study her face.  "Why wouldn't Mrs. Ducain be told where they are? Has something happened?"

 

Catherine sighed in exasperation, walked to the living room and plopped onto the sofa.  "This way even if Nadia and Billy are somehow tracked to Angels of the Night East, Mrs. Ducain can honestly say they've left and she doesn't know where they went.  The trail will end there."

 

Clay moved to stand in front of her, his jaw tight.  “Wrong."  He dropped into the wing chair and stared at her.  "Catherine, if that phone number is traced by the investigator, and chances are excellent it either was or soon will be, the trail leads right to you.  Not to Angels of the Night East."

 

Catherine waved a hand, pooh-poohing Clay's concern.  "So what if it is?  I can always say that I was in a restaurant in that area, left my phone on the table when I went to the bathroom and Nadia picked it up and used it without me knowing."

 

"Oh, yeah," Clay said sarcastically.  "That certainly sounds reasonable."

 

Catherine locked gazes with him and sipped her water.  "They're safe for the next three weeks.  Nadia's birthday will be the turning point of how she then makes decisions, how she'll legally fight for her brother."

 

"Mrs. Ducain let you walk out with them..."  Clay snapped his fingers "...just like that?  No discussion?  No concern about Billy's daily needs and care?"

 

Catherine didn't look away.  "She knows I found a safe house...and a benefactor.  She doesn't know who it is, but Nadia told her that we'd had a long talk, discussed absolutely all the details, and that everything is okay."

 

Clay nodded, but he was seething.  "You said Junior also doesn't know about this.  Since he was driving you today, would you mind explaining how you did all this without his help?"

 

Catherine flushed.  "I sent him on an errand while I was doing the fashion show publicity.  I arranged it all during the lunch break."

 

Clay wagged a finger in front of her.  "So you weren't actually physically present for any of these...arrangements."

 

"No," she told him.  "It was all done over the phone.  And you don't have to worry about calls from my phone to the shelter.  The fashion show is to benefit the Angels of the Night shelters and I had Melissa, Lilah's assistant that used to live at the shelter, use my phone to call Mrs. Ducain about how many tickets that shelter might want.  So my phone calling that shelter is explainable."

 

"Uh huh," Clay said thoughtfully.  He waited for the lightbulb to go off for Catherine, but she just continued to watch him and sip water.  "Explainable except for that call from your phone to their mother.  You might have been able to shrug that off to an investigator with your 'I went to the bathroom' story, but you just blew it by letting this Melissa use your phone to call the shelter.  That's two calls involving Nadia and Billy."

 

Irritation flashed across her face and she rose and took her water bottle to the kitchen.  When she returned she said, "I really don't want to talk about it anymore." 

 

Clay bit back his anger and just watched as she picked up and punched a number into her phone.  He hoped this call was to put an end to it.

 

"Hi Doc," she said, and Clay's brows shot up.

 

"I'm fine," she continued.  A pause, then she laughed. "Yes, it's completely healed, not even a trace of it."  She paused again, then said, "I have a favor to ask."

 

Clay was flabbergasted that she'd included Doc Parker in her scheme to hide Nadia and Billy.  And more than a little pained that she'd shut him out completely.

 

"Doc, do you still have that grand piano in your living room?"

 

She listened, then said, "That's great!  I'm doing the finale at the fashion show and Eileen Harper told me that I have to keep my number under wraps until it's time to sing.  If I bring over the music, will you play for me so I can rehearse without anyone knowing what I'm doing?"

 

Clay's jaw dropped.

 

"No," she said with regret.  "I haven't really had time to pick a song yet, but...well, I'd very much appreciate your input."  She listened, then cried, "That's great!  I'd love to have you play for me at the show!" 

 

She turned and gave Clay a huge, happy smile and a thumbs up, not even noticing his look of annoyance.  Maybe he didn't play the piano, but he certainly would have given his input.  He flushed, jolted.  No he wouldn't.  He would have been doing his best to derail Catherine and her singing from getting within fifty feet of a microphone.

 

"Wonderful," she stated.  "I'll see you later tonight."

 

She closed her phone and turned to Clay, smiling from ear to ear, her eyes glowing with joy.  "Isn't that fantastic?  Doc just solved a huge problem for me.  He even has a library of music for me to go through."

 

Clay's return smile was wobbly.  Doc hadn't solved a problem and would get the shock of his life as soon as Catherine started warming up the freight train whistle and fog machine she called her singing voice.

 

Clay's smile strengthened and widened.  Maybe Doc actually had solved this problem.  If there was one thing Clay had learned over the years it was that Doc didn't pull any punches when it came to honest opinion. 

 

"I'll drive you, sweetie," Clay said cheerily.

 

Chapter One Hundred Seventy Six

 

"No thanks," Catherine called breezily as she went to the balcony.

 

Jolted for the second time, Clay followed her.  "No thanks?"

 

She gave him a puzzled look.  "Yes.  No thanks."  She sighed.  "Clay, I know you have a ton of things waiting for your attention.  The first commercial run-through is tomorrow and you need to have that down cold.  The pile of demo tapes you've been sent as possibilities for your next album.  I understand, and...no thanks."

 

She sucked a deep breath of October's crisp night air, exhaled it, smiled at him and returned to the living room.

 

Raleigh watched them, disinterested, from her seat on the sofa.  Almost feeling like a puppy himself, Clay again followed Catherine.

 

His hand on her arm stopped her and her blue eyes were mildly questioning when she turned to him.

 

"Yes," he said genially.  "I'm busy.  I'm real busy with my priorities.  And my number one priority happens to be my wife..."

 

"You're so sweet," she said, kissed his cheek and went to the bedroom for her purse.

 

Clay waited, but made sure he stayed between her and an easy exit.

 

"I'll try not to be too long," Catherine told him, rummaging in her purse for her keys.  "Tonight you just bury your nose in the script..."

 

"Stop it," he said quietly.

 

She lifted her head, surprise in her eyes.

 

"And get rid of that surprised look," he told her.

 

Catherine flushed, but she said nothing, though the flush told Clay that her surprise was indeed a feint and that she wanted very badly to leave him behind.

 

He walked until he was directly in front of her.  "Did you plan on maybe making a side trip, to wherever you stashed Nadia and Billy?"

 

Catherine held his gaze, but her tone dripped annoyance.  "No, Clay."

 

"Then come up with a better reason for me staying here."

 

"You have a lot of..."

 

"The commercial is a one-liner and you know it."  He didn't smile and his sarcasm was humorless.  "Or maybe I should practice inflecting each and every word at various intervals...just to perfect my delivery." 

 

"Well, if that's what you..."

 

"I'm going with you."

 

She sighed and he saw her catch herself before she could toss her purse in exasperation.  "Why?" was all she said.

 

Clay smiled.  "Maybe I'm feeling a little left out."

 

"No, really.  Why?"

 

Clay shrugged.  "Catherine, I make a fairly nice living as a singer.  Yet you've chosen to go to someone else to help you with a pretty important decision."

 

Catherine blinked, not comprehending, then her jaw dropped.  "Oh, gosh, Clay," she said and leaped to hug him.  "I'm so sorry," she murmured into his ear.  "I was so determined to not put you on the spot..."

 

Clay laughed.  "After you accused me of being jealous?"

 

"Of Junior?"

 

"No," he said, annoyed, mainly at himself that he had yet to make right that incident with Junior.  "About you singing in the show and I wasn't asked."

 

Catherine stepped back.  "I thought you were over that."

 

Clay stared at her and his voice rose.  "Over that?  Catherine, once and for all, I was never jealous that you were asked and I wasn't."

 

"Uh huh," she said agreeably and tried to go around him to the door.

 

"I'm driving," he said pointedly, getting his own set of keys from his pocket.  "On the way we'll go over our lines for the commercial.  Don't want to tick Roger off by being unprepared, now do we?"

 

Catherine threw her keys in her purse, looked deep into it, said, "Drat," and headed into the bedroom. 

 

Clay waited patiently, talking to and playing with Raleigh while he waited.  All of a sudden he stopped dead and strained his ears toward the bedroom.  He hadn't noticed her close the door.  Was Catherine whispering to someone on the phone?

 

Quiet steps took him in that direction and he was almost to the door when she unexpectedly opened it and came out.  She looked startled to see him so close and he made a fast decision to not mention he'd heard her talking.

 

"Ready?" he asked quickly.  "Let's go shift into Rhett and Scarlett mode."

 

"Clay," Catherine answered dryly as he held the door for her.  "This will make you very proud:  I've already memorized my entire commercial sentence."  She stopped, stood on tiptoe and kissed his nose.  "Don't pretend that you tagging along tonight isn't mainly about my singing."

 

Clay almost lost his struggle to not laugh.  If she only knew.

 

He merely shrugged.  More importantly, would he be able to warn Doc in time?

 

Chapter One Hundred Seventy Seven

 

Clay chose a leisurely pace for the drive, pretending not to notice Catherine repeatedly glance at the dash clock.  He took his gaze off the road long enough to note that Catherine appeared outwardly calm, though he couldn't guess what mood lay behind her careful mask of a congenial smile. 

 

He sighed.  Should he chance it, right here, right now? 

 

"Care to talk?" he offered in a light tone.

 

"Sure," she answered immediately.  She reached into the back seat and grabbed one of the scripts.  "I'll start the scene..."

 

Clay's right hand left the wheel to take the script and toss it to the rear seat.  "No."

 

Catherine shrugged.  "Okay.  I told you I memorized the whole sentence."  She grinned.  "Should I use an accent?"

 

Clay shook his head, his gaze moving from the road to Catherine, to the road, back to Catherine.  "That's not what I want to talk about."

 

"Well," she told him.  "I haven't had a lot of time to think about what music would be best for the finale, but, you know," she said, the warmth of her smile reaching her eyes, "I really do value your input, Clay.  You're the best I've ever heard and I know you'll help me select the most..."

 

Clay waved a hand to interrupt her.  "Remember what you told me about how flattery doesn't work with you?"  He laughed and leaned his head in her direction, green eyes steady on blue.  "It doesn't work here, either."

 

Catherine giggled.  "Okay.  I'm sorry and I definitely knew better."  She leaned over and kissed his cheek, then nuzzled his ear with a breath that sent shivers up his spine when she whispered,  "But you know, you really are the best...at what you do...I especially like how you give it your all."

 

He couldn't help it.  He grinned back, inviting further entendre when his hand caressed her thigh.  "Oh, yeah?" he asked softly.  "The best what?"

 

The word she then whispered into his ear sent a hot flush from his toes to the roots of his hair.  He was surprised he kept the car on the road. 

 

"Clay, you're grinning from ear-to-ear," Catherine teased.

 

Clay laughed, then just as quickly sobered and shot her a look.  "Oh, no, you don't," he told her.  "You're not going to distract me with your potty mouth."

 

Catherine's brows shot up.  "What does that mean?"

 

"That means," he began.  "That that isn't what I wanted to talk about."

 

Catherine sighed and leaned back into her seat with a pout.  "I hate it when you get so serious."

 

Clay didn't take the bait.  "I want to talk to you about you seeing someone...a professional."

 

Catherine expelled a deep, audibly annoyed breath.  "Clay, no."

 

"Catherine, just listen to me, okay?  Will you give me that courtesy?"

 

Clay pulled into Doc's driveway and shut off the engine, but when Catherine pulled off her seatbelt he put out a hand to stop her from opening the door. 

 

He waited, and finally she turned irritated eyes in his direction.  "I love you, Catherine.  And I care more about you than anyone on this earth.  I'm picking up signals from you that not only is something not right, but that you're not even aware of it.  I want to help.  If I arrange it, will you at least go to one session?"

 

She was silent and anger got the best of him.  "Let me put it this way," he stated.  "I'm arranging it and we're both going."

 

For an answer, she pulled away and jerked open the car door.

 

If Doc heard the two of them slam their car doors shut it didn't show in his cheery, pleasant greeting when they entered the house.

 

Chapter One Hundred Seventy Eight

 

Clay kept a distant pace to Catherine's as they walked down the hallway and into the airy, spacious living room where Doc waited for them.  He glanced around at the renovated room.  The beautiful room, decorated in French country motif similar to that in the Ivy restaurant, held not even the slightest reminder that a maniac had crashed inside during a thunderstorm and tried to kill him and Catherine. 

 

Doc was seated on the couch. Piles of sheet music and music books were stacked on the coffee table in front of him as well as on the floor, but there was no grand piano.

 

Catherine tossed her purse onto the floor next to the couch and sat beside Doc.

 

She kissed his cheek and asked, "Any ideas yet?"  Before he could answer, she looked around and exclaimed, "I thought you still had your piano?"

 

"I do," he said, picking up one of the piles of sheet music.  "When I had the renovations done I had a...well, a sort of multi-purpose studio built out back.  It's not much, since my playing is strictly for my own pleasure, but I create CD's and the like for friends who have the same musical favorites as me."

 

Through the pale curtains that covered the floor-to-ceiling windows beside the french doors, Clay saw a flagstone sidewalk, flanked by softly glowing pathlights, lead to a small outbuilding.  The building was two stories and about thirty feet in length.  Though blinds were drawn he could see that lights blazed inside the building.

 

Clay walked over and scanned some of the sheet titles.  Standards.  Movie soundtracks.  Broadway.  "You know, Doc, it's really generous of you to help out like this," he started, wondering just how lethal a move it would be to drop hints about Catherine's singing in front of Catherine.

 

Doc looked up at Clay and smiled.  "It's my pleasure, believe me.  Vincent Harper is the one who deserves..."

 

Catherine started coughing loudly, then her obviously phony cough turned into a real one.

 

Though Catherine indicated right away it was nothing but a dry spot in her throat, Doc instructed Clay, "Get her a glass of water," while he kept a practiced eye to make sure it really was nothing.

 

So imperceptible that Clay nearly missed it, Catherine gave Doc a short, speed-of-light no shake of her head.  An odd feeling coursed through Clay, one that deeply disturbed him, but he pretended he saw nothing and hurried to bring water to Catherine.

 

All that went through Clay's now rattled mind while the glass filled was, Catherine's keeping something else from me.

 

His concern was real as he handed her the glass, bent in front of her, searched her eyes and noted her face had reddened from coughing.  "Are you all right?"

 

She nodded and smiled her thanks, but another small cough escaped before she sipped the water.  Several more sips, then she handed him back the glass.  "Yes, the water seems to have fixed the dry spot."

 

Clay rose back to full height and spoke casually to Doc.  "What was that about Harper?"

 

Doc glanced at Catherine, then back to Clay.  "Just that he's the one who deserves any credit.  This charity is his baby and he works his tail off for it every year.  He expects the same from anyone who donates their time and what I'm doing by helping Catherine select music pales in comparison to what others contribute."

 

"Oh," Clay said easily, setting the glass down and taking a seat across from them.  "That's pretty much what I thought you meant."  Clay's smile to Catherine gave no indication that he knew Doc's explanation wasn't anywhere close to what he'd originally intended to say to Clay before Catherine stopped him.

 

"Okay," Doc said lightly.  "Catherine, it's always better to play to your strengths and not attempt something you won't excel in..."

 

...like singing Clay thought.

 

"...so I brought in a pretty wide assortment of styles and genres.  Is there a particular style of singing you believe fits you best?"

 

To his horror, Clay said, "Miming," instead of thinking it.

 

Two heads jerked in his direction.

 

Doc stared.

 

Catherine frowned.  "What did you say, sweetie?"

 

Clay cleared his throat, the deep heat in his face saying he'd gone dark red as he fumbled to recover from his verbal calamity.  "Ummm...umm...mine."

 

Now Doc frowned.  "I don't get it."

 

"Well..." Clay started, paused, then jumped in with what he hoped was a smooth explanation.  "I thought, Catherine, that maybe one of my songs would be appropriate."  He saw the stormclouds in her eyes and finished lamely, "It was just an idea."

 

Catherine rose, her back rigid, her eyes shooting flames at Clay.  "You've got some nerve, Clay.  First you're jealous and can't accept that I was invited into the show and you weren't.  Now, because I've been given the honor of performing the finale you're still trying to somehow get your name included."

 

There wasn't much heart behind his protest of, "That's not true," mainly because he'd rather have her think that than know the truth. 

 

He stuck his bottom lip out and blew a frustrated breath upward, ruffling the hair on his forehead.  This had gone far enough.  He'd done everything possible to find a way to let her know, as gently as possible, that her singing could shatter granite.

 

He locked gazes with hers.  "Okay, here goes..." he told her in as firm a voice as he could muster.

 

"Please don't say another word," she said in a decidedly chilly voice, but her eyes were bright with tears.

 

Remorse instantly flooded Clay and he could have kicked himself.  How had he let it go this far, let himself get into such a spot?

 

Catherine turned to Doc.  "If you don't mind, can we...me and you...go out to the studio and continue this?"

 

Doc shook his head.  "Catherine, I don't think Clay..."

 

Catherine was adamant.  "This is supposed to be a happy experience, isn't it?" she asked Doc quietly.  "Right now, it sure isn't."

 

Clay saw a single tear slide down her cheek as she picked up the sheet music and came out from behind the coffee table to head for the french doors.

 

"Wait...please," he said softly and tried to put a hand on her arm but she turned so that his fingers slid off her.  He felt like a heel and his heart dropped to his feet as she went out the door.

 

Doc sighed.  "I'll talk to her."

 

A minute later Clay stood alone in the living room.

 

***

 

Doc must have had the studio soundproofed when it was built, because try as he might Clay could hear nothing.

 

His spirits sank even lower as he imagined Catherine crying at what she perceived his harshness to her.  He couldn't believe he'd actually said miming out loud.  Me and my big mouth.

 

Fifteen minutes later, Doc came back, alone, with an odd look on his face, a stunned look that mirrored in his eyes.

 

He said nothing for a few seconds, then lowered himself into a chair.  His gaze rose to meet Clay's and the words Clay had both dreaded and hoped Catherine would hear were now summed up in one short critique.

 

Doc drew a deep breath and when it expelled it, he breathed a phrase so softly that Clay wasn't sure he'd actually hear it. 

 

"Oh, wow."

 

Chapter One Hundred Seventy Nine

 

Clay ran his hand through his hair.  If this was Doc's reaction, he couldn't imagine how devastated Catherine was that Doc had walked out on her singing.  Or maybe he'd even ran out.  Either way, Clay needed to get to the studio and fast.

 

Overcome with self-condemnation, Clay made a beeline for the french doors. 

 

His own balking, his unwillingness to be brutally frank with Catherine had put her in this vulnerable position where she'd just been humiliated.  He'd never forgive himself for the damage he'd helped inflict. 

 

"Wait," Doc called.  "I need to talk to you."

 

Clay stopped, one hand on the doorknob, his gaze flitting back and forth from Doc to the studio.  "Never mind, Doc," he said hastily.  "I already know."

 

Doc snorted.  "Oh, really?  So now you're psychic, too?"

 

Frowning, Clay answered, "What kind of crack is that?"

 

"I need Michael Orland's phone number, Clay.  Catherine said you have it."

 

Clay stared, his laugh incredulous.  "Michael Orland's phone number?" 

 

Doc looked at him like he had two heads.  "Yeah, Clay.  The phone number."  He shook his head.  "What I just heard is way beyond my expertise and I think Michael is just the one to fill the bill.  Catherine said he does a lot of charity work, and since the two of you are close friends I figured he'd be more than willing."

 

Clay wasn't sure he'd heard correctly and ran Doc's words through his head again.  Did Doc think Michael had some sort of magic piano that could alter Catherine's voice and keep herds from stampeding?

 

Clay's jaw tightened.  "If that's your idea of a joke, it's far from funny."

 

Doc blinked.  "What are you talking about, Clay?"  He shook his head.  "Why would I joke about Michael Orland playing at the fashion show?"  He laughed.  "If I wanted to joke I'd suggest that you play at the fashion show."

 

The visual hit Clay with the impact of a cement truck.  Catherine on stage, beautiful, sexy, intimate in a soft, solo spotlight while she sang.  Clay, in shadow, not far away at the piano, playing poorly for his darling wife while people screamed, knocking each other over while they scrambled for the exits.

 

Doc's impatient voice broke into Clay's waking nightmare.  "The number, Clay?"

 

"I want to talk to Catherine," Clay said flatly.

 

Doc shook his head emphatically.  "That's not a good idea.  Trust me on that.  She needs a little time to herself, Clay.  You saw how upset she was when she went out of here, and it took close to ten minutes for her to get beyond it and down to business in the studio."  He nodded, and briefly closed his eyes.  "Leave her be for now," he said softly. 

 

Clay had no intention of leaving her be for now, something that must have shown on his face because Doc raised a hand to stop Clay's words.

 

"Clay, it's none of my business, but I'm asking anyway.  Is everything okay with Catherine?  She seems a little tense, a little stressed."

 

Relieved, Clay nodded, then sat across from Doc, glancing toward the studio.  "I'm not sure what's going on, but I'm trying to convince her to talk with a professional...even if it's just to sit through one session.  Something is eating at her, deep down and it's something I can't help her through because she won't admit anything is wrong."  

 

Neither of them had noticed Catherine coming down the sidewalk and didn't see her until she'd opened the french doors and stuck her head inside.

 

"Doc?" she asked.  "Did you reach Michael?  Did you ask him about the song?"

 

Clay noticed she ignored him and he rose to the occasion.  Literally.  He went, embraced her against her will and whispered, "I'm sorry.  I'm an idiot," into her ear.

 

To his everlasting relief, the cool gaze she turned on him began to melt.  She giggled, then hugged him back.

 

"Me, too," she told him.

 

Doc clearing his throat interrupted their kiss. "Okay, then can we get back to business?"

 

Clay nuzzled Catherine's neck.  "I'll give you a hand..."

 

"No," she said sharply, and Clay and Doc both stared at her.

 

"I meant," she added lightly.  "I want to surprise you, Clay.  I want to make you proud of what you see and hear at the show.  Proud that Entertainment Tonight is pointing their cameras.  Please allow me privacy in the studio to create."

 

Confusion raced through Clay.  Surely she wasn't serious.  Surely Doc would grab this opportunity to let Clay step in and gently advise Catherine to not even part her lips when she neared a microphone.

 

An awkward silence, then Doc said casually, "So, Clay…  what's Michael's number?"

 

Catherine kissed a stunned Clay's nose and eased out of his arms.  She was halfway out the french doors when she enhanced his shock.

 

"Doc," she said with a big smile, at the same time offering a seductive wink to Clay.  "Don't forget to ask Michael if he knows that special song."

 

"Oh, yeah, right," Doc said, picking up his phone and waiting for Clay to give him the number.

 

Almost afraid to ask, Clay did anyway, but stared at Catherine's retreating back.  "What song might that be?"

 

"House of the Rising Sun."

 

Chapter One Hundred Eighty

 

Though Clay stayed vigilant for the sound of a motor while he and Doc waited for Michael, Michael never made it into the house, intercepted on the sidewalk by Catherine and her welcoming hug, then steered straight back to the studio.  When Clay stuck his head out the french doors to greet Michael he received a friendly wave and return greeting, but no invite from Michael to join them.  To Clay's chagrin, Michael waved with the hand holding sheet music, music he fervently hoped was not House of the Rising Sun.  Even Catherine, as uninhibited as she became when she deeply immersed herself in her art, to the exclusion of all else, wouldn't dare dance for live cameras like she'd danced for Clay.  Would she?

 

Doc shrugged, said, "Guess it's back to work now," and left Clay standing in the patio doorway fighting the urge to follow.  The temptation was strong, real strong, to march out to the studio, jerk the door open and ask both Doc and Michael if they'd had their hearing checked lately.  

 

Instead, he settled onto the sofa and inwardly stewed.  Somehow Catherine had not only managed to convince Doc that she could sing, but that her doing so in front of an audience of millions was a great idea.  Okay, so Doc had a special soft spot for Catherine.  Clay could certainly understand that, as well as understand that when you loved someone you tended to see him or her differently than anyone else did.  The trouble with that theory was that no one loved Catherine liked Clay did and he sure had no trouble admitting that Catherine's singing could clear any sized room in seconds.  Maybe Doc was tone deaf.  That had to be it.

 

But Michael O was a different story.  Michael, also a voice coach, had the ability to recognize a poor singer almost before they opened their mouth.  And if a poor singer had no chance, then where did that leave Catherine?

 

Clay didn't like the fact that this made him happy, happy that Michael would set Catherine and Doc both straight within the next few minutes.  Though Michael would do so in a 'Michael' way, with kind words that still let you know that every one of his piano keys had curled as soon as you hit, or tried to hit, that first note.

 

Clay waited.  And waited, visualizing Michael storming from the studio and throwing black looks in Clay's direction, perhaps blaming Clay for not warning him in advance about the severe vocal assault Catherine launched at his ears.

 

An hour later Clay still waited.

 

Finally, Michael exited the studio and walked toward the house.  Clay watched as he stopped and looked thoughtfully back at the studio, then continued to the house.  He only stepped inside the door, and Clay waited, irritated that Michael didn't look frazzled.

 

Instead, he smiled at Clay.  "I've got to get going, but wanted to say a quick hello.  How you doing, Clay?"

 

Clay stared at him.  "How am I doing?"

 

Michael looked around the room and gave Clay a puzzled look.  "You're the only one in here," he pointed out.

 

Clay's irritation grew and he bit his tongue to speak normally and not to snap his question.  "How was the session?"

 

Michael's smile broadened.  "Great!  That's some wife you've got."

 

Clay's jaw dropped, then he understood.  "Catherine danced for you?"

 

Michael frowned.  "No.  Was she supposed to dance for me?"

 

Dear God, Catherine had sang for Michael Orland.

 

Clay's jaw worked but he had trouble forcing out his words.  "You played..."  then Clay brightened.  Maybe she hadn't.  Maybe the three of them had just tossed around ideas for the finale and the like. 

 

"Yes, I played," Michael interrupted Clay's thoughts.  "And I have to say, Clay...what a voice."

 

Clay rose to his feet and took slo-mo steps to where Michael stood.  It was worse, much worse than he thought.   "You played House of the Rising Sun and Catherine sang it for you?"

 

Michael gave Clay an odd, what's wrong with you? look. "No. We decided to save that song for the next rehearsal.  Tonight we all input ideas and did a few run-throughs on finale number possibilities.  Nothing definite yet." 

 

Clay cleared his throat, then sighed and sent a quick look to the still closed studio door.  "Look, Michael, I'm going to be perfectly honest with you.  I'm not proud to admit that I was hoping someone else could convince Catherine that this isn't a good idea..."

 

"Not a good idea…calling me to play?"

 

"No, no, no," Clay said hastily.  "Her performing the finale.  Let's face it..." he hesitated and flushed when he saw the amusement on Michael's face.  "What?"

 

Michael's amusement had spread to his eyes.  "Are you jealous?"

 

"No!" Clay exploded.  "Are you serious?" he demanded.

 

"Well, gee, Clay," Michael said easily, then shrugged.  "It is a terrific opportunity..."

 

"I am not jealous," Clay said, seething, then snapped his mouth closed as Doc and Catherine came from the studio toward him and Michael.  That's all Catherine needed to hear, that Michael had raised the same question of jealousy that she had.

 

Catherine hugged Michael.  "Thank you so much for an absolutely wonderful evening!  You are a fantastic, very generous friend, Michael."

 

Michael hugged her back.  "It was my pleasure, believe me.  Let me know when you have the next rehearsal set up and I'll be here."

 

Clay almost growled his very annoyed, "goodbye", to Michael, then after a pleasant exchange of "goodnight" and tentative scheduling of the next rehearsal, he and Catherine went to Clay's car.

 

Clay barely heard Catherine's cheerful chatter about tomorrow morning's commercial shoot.  His mind was racing in a different direction.

 

Was Catherine, in fact, an incredibly gifted singer who had duped him into believing she could peel wallpaper with a single note?  Was she going to surprise him at the finale and have the world at her feet when she rendered a flawless performance of a fabulous tune?

 

Clay shook his head hard enough to clear it, knowing beyond certainty that such a scenario came straight from fantasyland.  He had heard Catherine sing when she had no idea he was around, when she believed she was totally alone and had no reason to cover her singing talent.  Talent? Clay snorted at the bizarre usage of 'Catherine' and 'singing talent' in the same sentence, and from the passenger side Catherine gave him a raised brow look.

 

"Something funny, sweetie?" she asked.

 

"Umm...no...just clearly remembering something I heard a time or two," he said lightly. 

 

Clay slowed to a stop as a traffic light changed from yellow to red and Catherine slipped from beneath her seat belt to meet him in a quick kiss.

 

"Clay," she said softly, her warm breath against his lips as her gaze lifted to his.  "All I want is for you to be proud of me.  You do know that, don't you?"

 

Love surged through Clay at the innocence in her eyes and he nearly groaned aloud.  Why would no one tell her the truth? 

 

"Of course," he breathed as he returned her light kiss.  Clay's green eyes again took in the depth of innocence in Catherine's blue ones and he knew that, like it or not, he had to step in before it was too late.  He had to step in because no one had allowed him the coward's way out of telling Catherine her singing stunk. 

 

The light turned green and Clay eased down on the gas pedal.  He turned toward Catherine, then gave her hand a quick squeeze.  "We need to talk."

 

Her excitement filled the car. "I can't wait until tomorrow morning.  Our first commercial together!  And I'm glad Eric is going along, to watch, to get the feel of how it's done before we film his segment.  That's in a few months, you said?"

 

"Umm...uh...yeah, a few months," Clay answered.  "Catherine...sweetheart...the commercial isn't what I want to discuss."

 

Catherine smiled, said a tender, "Hush," kissed her finger and laid it on Clay's lips.  Surprised, he turned to hear her say, "I accept your apology.  It's natural that you'd be just a little jealous of them asking me and not you.  I mean, after all, you're an international superstar and I'm a nobody."

 

Flabbergasted, Clay huffed, "I am not jealous!"

 

Catherine's blue eyes hinted she heard a fib. "It's okay if you are," she assured him. "I really do understand."

 

Before he could stop it, Clay blurted, "No, you don't understand.  You're the worst singer I've ever heard.  Bar none.  The. WORST. Ever."  Shock and remorse at his so-fast-he-couldn't-stop-it harshness ran through Clay and he hit the brakes, jammed the car into park, ripped off his seatbelt and pulled Catherine into his arms.  "Oh, my God, I am so sorry," he whispered, mentally kicking himself up and down the road as he held his darling Catherine's head to his shoulder.  "I never meant for those words to come out like that," he crooned softly.

 

He tightened his embrace around Catherine, one hand wound deep into the thickness of her honey blonde hair, her head still on his shoulder.  His own heart raced so fast in stunned reaction to his impulsive, low-class verbal assault on her that he couldn't hear hers beating.  Clay had no doubt that Catherine's heart had skipped at least one horror-filled beat.  Self-loathing flooded Clay as he realized how devastating the impact must have been at his unwarranted attack.

 

But Clay's shock at what he'd said to her dimmed in comparison to Catherine's gentle words when she raised her head to meet his remorse-filled, pale green gaze.

 

"I know you didn't, Clay.  Maybe you need to speak with a professional…to deal with your jealousy that they preferred me to you."

 

Chapter One Hundred Eighty One

 

Clay sputtered, bit back words worse than what he'd already said, then sputtered some more.  Catherine's blue gaze stayed calm, serene as she watched him nearly choke on words he chose to swallow. 

 

Her sweet face mirrored her tranquil gaze, conveying, I understand.

 

Clay jerked the car into gear and flattened the accelerator, certain that the steam coming from his ears would fog the windshield in a microsecond.

 

Not only was he so flustered he couldn't speak coherently, he was beyond shock that she was convinced, and beyond all doubt no less, that his objections, his desire to spare her not only very public, but national, ridicule, was rooted in petty jealousy.

 

The remainder of the tire-screeching ride home was filled with the sounds of Clay's indignant huffs and puffs and Catherine's understanding glances.  She only attempted once to pat his hand.  The look he shot her stopped her cold and resulted in her drawing her hand quietly back to her own lap.  But her understanding smile didn't falter.

 

You've got to be kidding me, Clay's mind repeatedly fumed.

 

When they reached the parking lot and Clay squealed the car into his assigned spot he ripped off his seat belt and glared at Catherine.

 

She smiled at him, removed her own belt, climbed from the car and headed across the lot toward their building.

 

Clay jumped from the driver's side and slammed the car door, still fuming.  Then a brainstorm hit and in just a few strides his long legs had closed the distance to Catherine on the sidewalk.

 

He grabbed her arm.  "Come with me."

 

Startled, she asked, "Where?  What are you doing?"

 

Clay didn't notice he nearly pulled her along, that she took several hurried steps to match each of his strides; he was only focused on his final goal.  Vindication.  And he knew exactly where to find it.

 

When they entered Junior's building, Clay, with Catherine's arm still firmly in his grasp, jerked a nod of greeting to the security guard behind the desk. 

 

The guard rose, giving Catherine an are you okay look?  "Hold it," he called to Clay.

 

"It's okay," Catherine assured the guard with a wave of her free hand.  "My husband is a little out-of-sorts tonight."

 

The guard wasn't convinced.  "Please remove your hand, sir."

 

Catherine giggled.  "I'm not hurt," she assured him.  She then gave Clay a double-dose of shock when she added, "His feelings are hurt because I was chosen over him."

 

Clay stopped cold, spun Catherine around and demanded, "Say what?"

 

Catherine sighed.  "Honey, I'm really sorry, but..."

 

Clay folded his arms across his chest, his breath coming in deep, ragged breaths.  A flush started on his neck and crept slowly up his face.  But his green eyes darkened with controlled anger and he instructed Catherine, "Sing."

 

Taken aback, she said, "Excuse me?"

 

"Sing," he repeated, then pointed to the guard who stared at Clay like he had just landed from another planet.  "Let this man, this stranger, give you an unbiased evaluation of your singing."

 

"Clay, sweetie," Catherine said cheerily as she headed for the elevator, "I do believe you're going to be very embarrassed when you calm down." 

 

Clay persisted, throwing quick looks between Catherine and the guard, who was backing toward his desk.  "How about a sing-off?  I'll do the first part and then you can pick it up from there."

 

The guard's mouth dropped open and Clay realized he sounded like a crackpot.  But at this point he didn't care.  Worse, he couldn't stop himself even if he'd wanted to, which he didn't.  "Just sing for the man, Catherine.  He has no pre-formed opinion, no emotional, friendship or blood tie to color his...hey, where are you going?" he hollered and ran for the closing elevator door, sticking his hand in between the doors to open them just in time.

 

He stepped inside and looked at Catherine.  "Chicken," he pronounced.

 

She ignored his barb and gave him a passive look.  "I assume you need to see Junior or Eric about something important or you wouldn't be here in the first place."

 

Clay grinned and impending self-satisfaction slaked his body.  "Oh, yes.  I need to see Junior.  But only for a moment."

 

Catherine sighed.  "And the phone wouldn't do?"

 

"Oh, no," Clay said with an even wider grin.  "The phone would not do.  This needs an up close and personal."

 

Catherine raised a brow and cocked her head.  "You do know you're starting to sound a little loony, don't you?"

 

Clay threw Catherine a confident look, completely ignoring his internal system that flashed red alert and warned of impending disaster.

 

They left the elevator and walked the corridor in silence broken only by Clay whistling a happy tune.  He knew he should not be happy, should not be delighted that Junior was about to give Catherine, in answer to Clay's question about Catherine's singing, the expression that said he'd just eaten a rotten egg.

 

Clay knocked on the door and smiled when Eric opened it.

 

"Hey, Clay," he greeted him, hugging his sister.  "Come on in," he offered and held the door wide.

 

"We can't stay," Clay advised him cheerily.  "I just need to see Junior for a minute.  Will you call him to the door?"

 

Eric glanced at Catherine, but Catherine merely shrugged.

 

"Sure," Eric told him, then added, "Oh, before I forget, Catherine.  Alya called and wants you to return her call."

 

Catherine nodded and Clay thought there was something odd about the look she and Eric exchanged.  But he brushed it off and waited while Eric went for Junior.

 

Junior came to the door barefoot, shirtless and with a towel slung over his shoulder.  "I was just heading for the shower.  You need me for something?"

 

Clay pointed to Catherine.  "Tell her."

 

Junior silently held Clay's gaze.

 

Clay jerked his thumb in Catherine's direction.  "Tell her the truth, Junior.  No one else will and you've heard her sing."

 

Junior remained silent.

 

"Her singing," Clay informed him flatly.  "Tell her that her singing is the reason that bark peels from trees."

 

Chapter One Hundred Eighty Two

 

Catherine gasped.  "Oh, my God!" and immediately stepped between Clay and Junior, with her back to Junior.

 

Dark blue flames of anger scorched Clay's surprised green eyes and he blinked.  What was she doing? 

 

"How dare you?" she seethed to Clay and he drew back, startled by her indignation.

 

Caught off-guard, Clay's gaze jumped from Catherine to a grinning Junior, then again to Catherine.

 

"Where do you come off backing him into a corner?" she repeated, and without turning around, jerked her thumb toward Junior.  "What is that poor man supposed to say?"

 

Before Clay could answer, Catherine burst out, "Junior told you that he needs a raise to make the rent here, so you figure you can come over and if he needs that raise badly enough he'll be happy to humor your jealousy?  Even if it means insulting me?"

 

"You tell him, Miss Catherine," Junior said forcefully.

 

Clay glared over Catherine's head at Junior, at the ear-to-ear grin on Junior's face.

 

"No," Clay protested.  "That's not what..."

 

"What then?" Catherine demanded.  Before he could answer she threw her hands in the air and started down the hall, then turned back to a now somber-faced Junior.  "You'll get your raise, Junior.  You can put it in the bank.  No pun intended."

 

Clay watched as she stormed for the elevator.  He turned back to Junior, who was now far enough inside his door that Catherine couldn't see him.  He was laughing so hard he had bent double.

 

Wiping his eyes, he looked up at Clay, his voice dripping mirth.  "Are you crazy?"

 

Clay huffed.  "You said you'd handle it, remember?  You didn't.  I had no choice."

 

"Oh, you did have a choice," Junior answered, still laughing.  "And I can't believe this is the brilliant way you picked to handle it."  He roared again and wiped his eyes, then slapped his thigh.  "Good job!"

 

Clay turned to follow Catherine, but shot back over his shoulder.  "Don't put that raise in the bank just yet.  Pun intended," he added pointedly.

 

***

 

Back inside their own apartment, Catherine gave Clay a cold shoulder like he'd never felt before.  Glacial. 

 

She ignored him, choosing instead to study the commercial script, the directions and her one line of dialogue. 

 

Thought you memorized that one line already? Clay thought sourly.  But if she picked up on his inner sarcasm and witty mental comebacks she didn't let on.  She ignored him with the skill of someone dedicated to it.

 

By bedtime, Clay finally cleared his head.  He stood in the bathroom, his hands gripped on either side of the sink while he stared into the mirror.  And what he'd done settled squarely into his mind.  He groaned and lowered his head.  Childish.  Immature.  Jealous.  They were the images he'd conveyed.  Not the image he'd strived for, that of a husband who would move heaven and earth to protect his wife from anything and everything.

 

He raised his head, ran his hands through his hair and decided to try again.  This time he'd keep his cool and not use words that made him look tantrum-bound.

 

He approached her tentatively, then noticed she was staring at the pages, seeing nothing, unhappiness clear on her face.  He sat next to her, took the script, threw it to the side and held both her hands in his.

 

"I'm sorry," he said.

 

Catherine said nothing and from the way her jaw twitched he knew she was still angry.  All he could hope for now was to find the words he should have used before.

 

Clay sighed.  "Catherine, I told you that I get a special feeling about you.  I don't know exactly how to describe it, but it's...well, I just know."

 

Her expression didn't change and her voice stayed cool.  "You know what?"

 

Clay shook his head and looked off into space for a second, then back to Catherine.  "How can I explain it?  I get this incredible feeling about you...right here..." he said, and placed his hand on his stomach.

 

Catherine jerked her hands from the one that still held hers and leaped to her feet, her voice almost a screech.  "So now my singing makes you sick?"

 

Horrified, Clay jumped to his feet and grabbed her shoulders.  "No!  This is about your safety."

 

"Oh, I get it," she said coldly.  "The mob will attack the stage?"

 

Guilt reddened Clay's face.  Even though that wasn't what he meant, that thought had crossed his mind once before about her singing.

 

"I've had more than enough of this discussion," Catherine fumed and stalked into the bedroom. 

 

Clay watched her go, with Junior's derisive, "Good job!" echoing in his head.

 

Chapter One Hundred Eighty Three

 

Clay stayed in the living room long after Catherine had fallen asleep.  Reclined on the couch, his arms behind his neck, in the glow of nothing more than the kitchen nightlight, he brooded.  Not so much for how immature he'd come across, though he still cringed at how his actions looked to Catherine, but for his inability to convey that her stress level was not only obvious to him, it was deepening.

 

Junior.  Oh, boy, would Junior get an earful as soon as Clay got him alone.  He doubted Junior would be grinning this time.

 

He drew his mouth into a tight line of worry.  With Catherine so insistent that there was nothing wrong, he was impotent to help her.  Helpless against the resistance that her mind put between her and recognizing there was truth to what Clay said about a fantasy reunion of her family through helping Nadia.

 

Maybe he'd hire someone to evaluate her from a distance, to watch her actions, her reactions, her interactions.  He dismissed that immediately, knowing he'd never enter anything so dishonest behind her back, even if it might help.

 

Clay turned at the sound of Catherine coming from the bedroom and heading toward the kitchen.  She didn't look in his direction and he guessed she believed him asleep on the couch.

 

In the soft glow of the nightlight he watched as she took a glass and filled it halfway from the faucet.  Then he noticed how badly her hand shook.

 

With a muffled sob she put the sloshing glass on the counter, then bent her elbows to the counter and lowered her head into her hands.

 

Clay quietly entered the kitchen, but hesitated to step in where he may not yet be welcome.  "Catherine," he said softly.

 

She turned a tear-streaked face to him and as soon as he saw the haunted look in her eyes he pulled her into his arms, his hand on her hair, holding her head against his chest.

 

"It's okay," he said quietly.  "I'm miserable, too."

 

"Clay...I...I...was dreaming..." her soft voice faltered.

 

Clay rocked her tenderly, offering comfort without words, unsure if speaking would reignite all the earlier conflict.

 

"My...m...mm...mother..."

 

Clay came to an abrupt halt and his heart pounded in his chest.  Was she finally realizing that she needed to talk to someone?  Finally coming to terms with that she required help to put her family history to rest?

 

"I understand," he said quietly, brushing her hair back, his green eyes searching hers for a sign that she understood what he'd been trying to tell her, that she understood how worried he'd been for her.

 

"You...you...did this," she said, and tried to take a step back from him.  "All this talk about my family, about my mother...making me remember how she mourned a child she'd never see..."

 

Stunned, Clay breathed, "Catherine!  Honey, it's all going to be dealt with...we'll get through this...together we can beat anything."

 

"You did this," she said again and wiped tears from her face, again tried to step away from him. 

 

But Clay wouldn't release her.  "No," he said firmly.  "The stress has been growing and it's now forcing your subconscious..."

 

"There's a lot of stress," she agreed.  "But I dealt with it just fine until you started pressuring me to drop out of the fashion show."

 

"No, you didn't deal with the stress.  At all," he reinforced. 

 

"Clay, I'm not competing with you," Catherine whispered, her eyes filled with pain.  "Please don't...keep insisting I need help..." she broke off and lowered her head.

 

Clay's heart nearly broke.  She was steadfast in her denial that she was transferring her heart's wishes onto Nadia.  Long fingers tipped Catherine's chin until she was forced to meet his gaze.  "I'd give up my own life before I'd do anything to hurt you," he said gently.  "I won't mention the show or interfere with the finale again."

 

Her tears fell and he gathered her close, his own tears stinging his eyes as his warm embrace tightened protectively around her.  He'd have to find another way to get through to her.

 

And he would.

 

He had to.

 

Chapter One Hundred Eighty Four

 

As Clay pulled from the parking lot the following morning he couldn't help but notice that Catherine's upbeat demeanor and bubbly chatter were stark contrast to her somber eyes. 

 

Junior, in the backseat, met Clay's gaze in the mirror, but whatever Junior was thinking he kept to himself, saying little to nothing during the drive through the sun drenched autumn streets of LA. 

 

Clay glanced in the rearview mirror, at Eric driving behind them. 

 

"Did Eric mention where he was going after the shoot?" Clay asked Catherine as he slowed at the studio gate, flashed his pass to the guard and drove inside.

 

She shook her head.  "No, just that it's a business meeting.  He sure has been in demand since he flew into LA."  She turned to Junior.  "Did he tell you where he was heading?"

 

Junior shrugged.  "His phone rings constantly.  I can't keep up with all the requests for appearances and stuff like that."  He laughed.  "I only pay attention when it involves girls and when there's one too many of them for Eric."

 

Clay grinned.  "Waiting to catch one from the overflow?"

 

Catherine threw them both an exasperated look, but Junior laughed again.  "Actually, Eric doesn't talk much about the ladies he takes out.  I asked him about one that came on to him at The Ivy and he could barely describe her."    

 

"Uh...but I bet you could," Clay stated.

 

"Oooooooh, yeah," Junior said, then his low wolf-whistle filled the car.  "Tall, California tanned, dark-eyed brunette with legs that didn't stop til they reached her..."  he stopped when Clay gave a fast shake of his head and nodded toward Catherine.

 

"Well," Junior continued.  "Knock-out is an understatement."

 

"Maybe Eric got her name," Clay suggested.  "Ask him.  Worst that can happen is that he didn't get her name.  But maybe someone else did."

 

"No," Junior said dejectedly.  "Worst that can happen is that she shoots me down."

 

When Clay eased his car into the spot temporarily marked 'Clay Aiken', Catherine turned to Junior with a sappy smile.  "How could any girl not jump at the chance to fall for a hunk like you?" she crooned, undoing her seatbelt and climbing from the car.

 

Junior narrowed his eye in thought and studied Catherine's face, then turned to a grinning Clay.  "How can I tell if she meant that in a nice way or she was being..."

 

"Being Catherine?" Clay prompted helpfully.  He laughed and shook his head.  "Trust me, you can't.  Don't even bother trying."

 

They waited for Eric to park in his tagged spot, then Clay led them to where Catherine waited at the door.  Clay winked at Catherine and his heart lifted when she returned his mischievous smile.  Maybe today would be okay, after all, maybe this fun atmosphere would segue into a natural dialogue to help resolve their tension.  "She's smooth, Junior.  You're never quite sure when those zingers hit, but she rarely misses."

 

"I know," Junior said, entering the soundstage while Clay held the door for him and Eric.  "I've seen her give you a perfect shot and you didn't get it until two days later."

 

 

***

 

 

Roger's elevated, motorized director's chair was empty, but his superior tone to a scriptgirl alerted them that he was near. 

 

The crew crowded around Clay and Eric, greeting them with eagerness and enthusiasm.  Clay and Eric responded in kind, then Clay noticed that Catherine had moved away to stand quietly on the sidelines, leaving the spotlight to the superstar singer and the football hero.

 

Clay smiled, said, "I'll be right back," and went to where she stood.  Saying nothing, he took Catherine's hand and started pulling her toward the waiting crew.  All eyes were on Catherine, and she smiled graciously, shaking hands with the male crew members who extended theirs to her.

 

"This is my wife, Catherine," Clay said proudly, putting his arm around Catherine's shoulder and squeezing her to him.  "She's also Eric's sister, but today she's our own Scarlett O'Hara, queen of the south and heroine of Krispy Kreme."

 

"How lovely," drawled Roger, approaching through a crowd that parted for him.  "Now, if it's not too much to ask, do we think our queen and heroine would mind getting her behind-schedule butt over to wardrobe?"

 

Catherine flushed and moved away from Clay, but Clay scowled.  "I don't know," he said coldly to Roger, raising a hand to stop Eric's cold words.  "But I mind you talking to my wife like that."

 

"It's all right, Clay," Catherine said hastily, and with a quick, "I'll be back", to the crew, stepped away to follow a chubby older woman with a clipboard who threw a nervous glance at Roger.

 

Clay glared at Roger.  "You're not going to..."

 

"The only reason," Roger cut him off, "that Catherine was included in this commercial is because I had your personal word there would be no problems with her.  Have you forgotten that?"

 

Clay's glare turned to two sheets of green ice.  "Have you forgotten that Krispy Kreme left it up to me whether or not you'd keep this job?"

 

Roger's mouth drew into a tight line, but he ignored Clay and turned to the crew.  "What are you people looking at?" he snapped.  "You're not getting paid to stand around and gawk and eavesdrop.  Lighting, bring that spot down..."

 

"Jerk," Eric fumed under his breath as Roger walked off.  "I have a feeling he's going to get decked before this shoot is over."

 

Clay caught a glimpse of Junior from the corner of his eye.  Junior had missed the whole confrontation.  His attention had been captured by what had to be one of the set's hairdresser's.  Svelte and in the shortest pair of shorts and tightest tank top Clay had ever seen, Junior allowed her to lift his hair, complimenting him on its health. But she was standing directly in front of Junior, her jiggling chest inches away from his attentive gaze.

 

Clay, Eric and Roger could have gotten into a mud-wrestling match and Junior would never have noticed.

 

Chapter One Hundred Eighty Five

 

The crew hustled nonstop as Roger's orders sliced the air.

 

"Lighting...that still looks more like a Hawaiian sunset than a Georgia sunrise.  Where did you get your expertise...a weekend seminar at Home Depot?"

 

"This is supposed to be red Georgia clay...why does it look like Idaho spud dirt?  This commercial revolves around Krispy Kreme, not OreIda twirly fries.  Can't you people do anything right?"

 

"Where did you sound people dig up that orchestration?  At a garage sale where they churn out a hundred copies for the blue hairs and socks-and-sandals that are out for hunting old soundtracks?"

 

No department, grip or gaffer went unscathed. 

 

Clay seethed.

 

A second wardrobe staffer found Clay and gestured for him to follow her toward a corridor and the fitting room.  He blew out a deep breath, wondering how he had thought, for one minute, that Roger would be anything but the total moron he now acted.  He was about to tell wardrobe, "forget it", grab Catherine and give Roger a directly in-his-face message before heading home when a hand clapped down on his shoulder.

 

He turned to find Mark Hunter of Krispy Kreme reaching for his hand.

 

Clay automatically extended his hand for the shake, but before he could say a word, Mark spoke.

 

"Insufferable ass, isn't he?"

 

"You're way too kind," Clay told him stiffly, his hard gaze following Roger while Mark shook hands with Eric.  "As a matter of fact..." he began.

 

Mark interrupted with, "I can't begin to tell you how grateful we are, Clay, that you've proven to be the bigger man, willing to give him a chance."  He nodded toward Roger.  "He's won more Clio awards than any other director and I know that with him directing and you and Catherine starring, this commercial is a sure-fire winner.  Adding Eric will only increase our chances for that win."

 

Clay opened his mouth again, but again Mark cut him off.  "Clay," he started.  "I don't intend to downplay how difficult it is for Catherine to be around someone as temperamental as Roger.  Especially when I know he harbors a personal grudge against her. But..." he said and pulled an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Clay.  "We really believe that this can be a successful team, in every conceivable way.  And the board wanted me to make sure that you know we're behind you one hundred percent, that we appreciate the effort you're making here.  In addition to the revenue percentage that will go to the Bubel Aiken Foundation, we'd like to start this off with an extra gesture of appreciation."

 

Clay stared at him.  Krispy Kreme was already being very generous with how much of the proceeds went to Bubel Aiken.  For them to go this extra distance meant they knew there was serious trouble brewing, that Roger was such a jackass, so oppositional to Catherine, that they were stepping directly into the mix.  They needed Clay and Catherine, but they also needed Roger. 

 

Clay opened the envelope and withdrew a check for one hundred thousand dollars.  He put it back, then looked at Mark.  "A bribe? To let him abuse my wife?"

 

Mark shook his head and Clay saw him battle a smile.  "From what I know of, and have seen for myself, your wife is more than a match for him."

 

Clay blinked slowly, several times.  Normally Mark would be absolutely right and Catherine would have kicked Roger back a peg or two already.  Roger could bluster all he wanted, but Catherine's self-respect made her no one's doormat and she would instantly intercede and go toe-to-toe with anyone she saw abusing another person.  That took his mind directly to Nadia and the current stress Catherine felt and showed.  Could she stand up to Roger this time or would it be the final, stressful straw that pushed her into a breakdown?

 

Clay's heart answered him.  I'll never take that chance. 

 

He started to hand the envelope back to Mark, to give whatever excuse his brain churned up first, but the bottom line was that he wouldn't allow Catherine, in her current mental state, to stand helpless while verbally pummeled by a jerk.  Not as long as there was breath left in Clay's body.

 

His words were cut short, his attention pulled to where Roger pointed.

 

Sarcasm edged each of Roger's words as he walked toward Catherine, now made over into a very believable, stunningly beautiful Scarlett O'Hara.  "Here comes our little Georgia peach now.  I hope you've been pitted, my dear."

 

Fury shot through Clay and he strode toward Roger.  He was still a few feet away when Roger added in a raised voice, "And is that jelly on your dress, Catherine?  You can't even hold a donut without ruining it?"

 

Clay's wrathful lunge for Roger halted when he saw Catherine, without looking at Clay, hold up a hand to stop him.

 

"Yeah, Roger," she said cooly, her gaze locked with his.  "It is jelly.  But don't worry.  I saved some for you."

 

Catherine's hand came up and she pushed the donut into Roger's face, then used it to smear the grape jelly in a wide swath.