Hours to Cherish by Heather Graham Page B

thin anyway, but now the flesh of their thighs touched; the coarse curled hair of his crushed to the smooth softness of hers. Clay could feel his own heat rising, and he was aware from the erotic electricity racing beneath him that she too could feel it. Her features were suddenly white, chiseled stone, as if she were afraid to breathe and give away more. A satanic urge gripped him. “What’s the matter, Cat?” he queried, brows raising in a sardonic tease. “Can’t you handle it?”
    Her emerald eyes touched his, glittering like a million facets. “Hell will freeze over before I can’t handle you, Clay.”
    Knowing he was infuriating her further—if possible—Clay still could not prevent another deep chuckle. “Come to think of it, Cat, you always did handle things remarkably well. …”
    “You son of a—”
    “Okay, stop it!” Clay interrupted her, his voice a whiplash, his mind turning to the seriousness of the situation and the maneuvering he had yet to manage. “I’m really sorry—”
    “Sorry!” Cat raged. “You purposely set me up, you destroyed my life, you dragged me down to the floor—”
    “Self-defense,” Clay interrupted curtly. “Sorry I was so rude as to learn a few countermeasures myself. I know you’re currently wishing that I had disappeared eternally into the Atlantic, and you’re probably envisioning various means to return me to the devil. For your own sake, Cat, settle down.”
    “Settle down! Do you know what you’ve done?” Cat shrieked, testing his grip on her wrists again. It was impossible to break his vise of steel and she was worn out “Clay—you’re crazy. A sane man doesn’t do the things you’re doing. Now, I’ll try to forget everything that’s happened if you just get up and let me go.”
    Clay tilted back his head and laughed. “You’ll forget! Cat, you’ve never forgotten a wrong in your life. Hell will freeze over before I ever believe a comment like that from you. And—” His voice deepened, his spurt of humor gone. “I guarantee you, hell will be a place of dangling icicles before I let you run after that Frenchman.”
    “I’m going to marry that Frenchman!” Cat exploded.’
    “No, I doubt it,” Clay reiterated calmly. “I told you he had no backbone. He left here like a jellyfish.”
    “Oh?” Cat narrowed her eyes to emerald slits. “What did you expect of him after that farce you pulled?”
    “If it were me, Cat,” he said heatedly, his face leaning dangerously close to hers so that she was treated to the enticing scent of fresh shaving lotion and a too close view of the iron in the shape of his now unblurred jaw, “I wouldn’t have walked out. I would have demanded my explanation then and there. You might have been throttled, but I wouldn’t have walked out.”
    Cat clenched her teeth down hard in misery. She wanted to claw his handsome face to ribbons, while at the same time becoming more and more aware of his body pressed to hers, the heat that touched her, alive and warm, the hands that held her, hips crushing hers; his chest, riddled with hair that brushed through the fabric of her gown to tease her breasts.
    “Walk out!” she suddenly hissed. “Don’t you dare mention the words walk out! You took a cruise out of here one day that walked you out of my life. Now get off me! I am going after Jules—and I’m going to explain that you came back totally insane!”
    “And he’s going to believe you? You’re sounding crazy, Cat. Besides, I’m sure Monsieur DeVante is long gone by now, Cat.”
    Cat paled. He was right. When crossed or hurt, Jules left immediately to sulk.
    “God, do I hate you, Clay,” she told him.
    His smile twisted into something very bitter and a touch sad. “Do you, Cat? Maybe. I hope to change that, and you should try to change it yourself, for your own benefit. My two months start today.”
    “Your two months! What two months? I never agreed—”
    “You don’t have to agree. You’ve got no