Page 54 of Courting Catherine
“I must have missed it.” There had been other things in the papers that had captured his attention.
“I realize you’d been seeing her for quite a while.”
Seeing her, Trent mused. Yes, that cool, passionless phrase described their relationship perfectly. “Yes, I had been.”
“You’re not—upset?”
“About Marla? No.” The fact was he hadn’t thought of her in weeks. Since he’d walked into a garage and spotted a pair of scarred boots.
Another woman, Angela realized. And if she’d had this kind of effect on the boss, she had all of Angela’s support. “Sir, if someone—something else,” she corrected cautiously, “is on your mind, you may be overanalyzing the situation.”
The comment surprised him enough to make him smile again. “Do I overanalyze, Angela?”
“You’re very meticulous, Mr. St. James, and analyze details finitely, which works very well in business. Personal matters can’t always be dealt with logically.”
“I’ve been coming to that same conclusion myself.” He stood again. “I appreciate the time.”
“My pleasure, Mr. St. James.” And it certainly had been. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“No, thank you.” He turned back to the window. “Good night, Angela.”
“Good night.” She was grinning when she closed the door at her back.
Trent stood where he was for some time. No, he hadn’t noticed the announcement of Marla’s wedding. The papers had also been full of the upcoming sale of The Towers. “Bar Harbor landmark to become newest St. James Hotel,” he remembered. “Rumors of lost treasures sweeten the deal.”
Trent wasn’t certain where the leak had come from, though he wasn’t surprised by it. As he’d expected, his lawyers had grumbled over the clause Lilah had insisted on. Whispers of emeralds had sneaked down the hallways. It was only natural that they would find their way onto the street and into print.
Newspapers and tabloids had been rife with speculation on the Calhoun emeralds for more than a week. They’d been termed priceless and tragic and legendary—all the right adjectives to ensure more newsprint.
Fergus Calhoun’s business exploits had been rehashed, along with his wife’s suicide. An enterprising reporter had even managed to track down Colleen Calhoun aboard a cruise ship in the Ionian Sea. The grande dame’s pithy reply had been printed in italics.
“Humbug.”
He wondered if C.C. had seen the papers. Of course, she had, he thought. Just as she’d probably been hounded by the press.
How was she taking it? Was she hurt and miserable, forced to answer questions when some nosy reporter stuck a tape recorder in her face? He smiled a little.Forced?He imagined she’d throw a dozen reporters out of the garage if they had the nerve to try.
God, he missed her. And missing her was eating him alive. He woke up each morning wondering what she was doing. He went to bed each night to toss restlessly as thoughts of her invaded his brain. When he slept, she was in his dreams. She was his dream.
Three weeks, he thought. He should have adjusted by now. Yet every day that he was here and she was somewhere else, it got worse.
The revised contracts for the sale of The Towers were sitting on his desk. He should have signed them days ago. Yet he couldn’t make himself take that final step. The last time he had looked at them, he had only been able to focus on three words.
Catherine Colleen Calhoun.
He’d read it over and over, remembering the first time she’d told him her name, tossing it at him as though it had been a weapon. She’d had grease on her face, Trenton remembered. And fire in her eyes.
Then he would think of other times, odd moments, careless words. The way she had scowled at him from her perch on the arm of the sofa while he’d had tea with Coco. The look on her face when they’d stood on the terrace together, watching the sea. How perfectly her mouth had fit to his when he had kissed her under an arbor of wisteria not yet in bloom.
It would be blooming now, he mused. Those first fragrant flowers would be opening. Would she think of him at all when she walked there?
If she did, he was very much afraid the thoughts wouldn’t be kind.
She’d cursed him when she’d seen him last. She’d leveled those deep green eyes at him and had hoped that the kiss, the last kiss they’d shared, would keep him up at night.
He doubted even she could know how completely her wish had come true.
Rubbing his tired eyes, he walked back to his desk. It was, as always, in perfect order. As his business was—as his life had been.
