Catching Katie

  “I want everything. I’m not a moderate man.”

  About the Author

  Title Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  Copyright

  “I want everything. I’m not a moderate man.”

  “Everything?” Katie stared. “What does that mean?”

  “It means I want you, body and soul. No secrets.

  No lies.”

  It sounded wonderful. It sounded terrifying.

  “I can’t,” said Katie from her heart.

  Haydon did not argue. He just looked at her for an unreadable moment. Then he said very quietly, “Will you tell me why?”

  But she made a despairing gesture, not answering. He caught her hand. Katie’s whole body tingled. She should have pulled her hand away. She knew it, but she did not move. All she knew was that she had never felt like this before.

  “Is there someone else?” Haydon asked evenly.

  “No,” she said.

  “But there has been?”

  She almost told him then. But she did not know where it would lead. Or rather, she did know, exactly, and she was not feeling brave enough.

  Not yet. Not quite.

  Born in London, Sophie Weston is a traveler by nature who started writing when she was five. She wrote her first romance recovering from illness, thinking her traveling was over. She was wrong, but she enjoyed it so much that she has carried on. These days she lives in the heart of the city with two demanding cats and a cherry tree—and travels the world looking for settings for her stories.

  Catching Katie

  Sophie Weston

  TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

  AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

  STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

  PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘YOU’RE not serious.’

  Katie Marriott paused in the act of extracting herself from the bottom of the stairs. She was clasping a large artist’s easel. She was of medium height but it was bigger than she was.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ she said. Or rather puffed. The easel was not heavy but it was awkward, and she had wedged and balanced and pulled it down four flights of stairs. ‘I need it for my work.’

  She squeezed past and found that a lock of curly red hair had tangled in a wooden joint. She detached it, wincing. Then she put both arms round the easel again and, locked in a rigid embrace, began to back toward the front door.

  Andrea leaned against the doorpost and watched.

  ‘You look as if you’re dancing with an alien,’ she remarked helpfully.

  Katie’s back was beginning to arch under the pressure.

  ‘Thank you very much for your support,’ she gasped over her shoulder.

  Andrea took pity on her. She stepped forward and briskly righted the easel.

  ‘There has got,’ she announced, ‘to be an easier way to carry that thing than this. Doesn’t it collapse?’

  Thus relieved, Katie straightened. She rubbed the back of her neck.

  ‘No, that was me collapsing,’ she said ruefully.

  But Andrea, ever practical, was considering the problem. At last, she propped the easel against the wall and started twirling butterfly nuts decisively. There was a clunk and three sections abruptly telescoped. Katie stared, amazed.

  Andrea dusted her hands. ‘Didn’t you know it did that?’

  Katie shook her head. ‘I knew it was supposed to but I bought it second hand. I haven’t ever been able to undo those things. If only I had your strength,’ she mourned.

  ‘It’s not strength; it’s in the wrist action,’ Andrea said practically. ‘That’s what Home Economics does for you.’

  ‘All that beating egg whites by hand,’ Katie agreed. ‘I’ve heard about it.’ She looked at the easel and gave a sudden spurt of laughter. ‘I’ve been moving this thing round from room to room, trying to find the best light for painting, and every time I did, I collected a new set of bruises.’ She reached out and rotated a butterfly nut ‘I should have consulted you earlier.’

  ‘You’d do much better to get yourself a man,’ Andrea told her roundly. ‘They’re designed for moving furniture.’

  Katie laughed even harder. ‘Too much like work.’

  When she had stopped choking, she picked up the easel and headed for the small van outside. Andrea took hold of the last bags in the hall and followed.

  ‘I mean it,’ she said. ‘All right, you couldn’t ask anyone home as long as you were living with Claire and Judy. Not while they were scratching each other’s eyes out. But now that you’re going to be on your own, why don’t you do something about your social life?’

  Katie shook her head. ‘I have to fit my painting round full-time teaching as it is. What time do I have for a social life?’

  She stuffed the easel into the back of the van. Andrea handed her one of the bags.

  ‘Books,’ she said briefly. ‘Stuff them down there.’

  Katie wedged them obediently. Andrea peered in the other bag.

  ‘This looks like bath stuff.’ She picked over the contents. ‘Soap, bath oil, shampoo. Anything precious?’

  ‘No, but it might leak.’ Katie closed the van doors and held out her hand. to hold them.’

  They got in and set off. Andrea drove with care. Katie sat beside her, clutching the bathtime unguents upright and reading the road map over the top of them.

  Andrea said, ‘Do you mind if we go via the supermarket? Time got away from me last night and the cupboard is bare.’

  Katie looked out at the London pavements, diamond-bright in the morning sun.

  ‘Be my guest. My time’s my own.’

  If she had not been clutching spillable liquids she would have stretched with delight. As it was she flexed her shoulders voluptuously. She was almost purring.

  Andrea laughed. ‘Anyone would think you haven’t enjoyed sharing a flat with two of London’s hippest swingers.’

  Katie nodded gravely. ‘No more unloading other people’s knickers from the machine before I can do my washing. No more queuing for the telephone. No more booking the bath. Oh, bliss.’

  All he wanted, thought Haydon Tremayne, was peace and a bath.

  The overnight plane from New York had been full and late. Now there were too many pushing bodies round the baggage carousels and so many people were shouting into their mobile phones that Haydon could not hear himself think. He said so.

  ‘Redirecting whoever was meeting them,’ said the respectful airline official beside him. It was the first time she had greeted this newest of the company’s non-executive directors and she was working hard at it. Haydon Tremayne had the reputation of being as tough as he was gorgeous. And he was gorgeous.

  She looked at him and sighed. Tall and athletic, dark good looks—definitely not a typical millionaire. At least not in her experience. A movie star maybe. She had met plenty of those too. Except no movie star had that air of taking harsh decisions hourly—and not regretting a single one. She would not like to get on the wrong side of Haydon Tremayne.

  And then he surprised her again.

  ‘The great technological advance,’ he said sardonically. ‘For which I and my kind are responsible.’

  She looked up. His blue eyes were lit with wicked laughter. She smiled back, relaxing a little.

  She touched her own mobile phone. ‘Would you like me to notify anyone?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not a problem.’

  Of co
urse, she thought. It would not be a problem for the owner of Tremayne International. No doubt he had a brigade of personal assistants looking after the practical details.

  He confirmed it. ‘Bates will wait as long as it takes. That’s what I pay him for.’

  She was sure he was right. Bates, whoever he was, would do just that. Haydon Tremayne had the superb assurance of a man who had not been disobeyed in a long time.

  ‘Well, at least we should be able to get you through this quickly.’

  Gorgeous though he undoubtedly was, Haydon did look tired, she thought sympathetically. No—more than tired; wiped out. She led him quickly through Customs and out onto the main concourse. In spite of his exhaustion, Haydon gave her a warm smile.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘I really appreciate your help. Goodbye.’

  she shook hands. ‘Goodbye.’ She surprised herself by adding, ‘I’d go home and have a good rest if I were you.’

  A weary smile lit his eyes. ‘I’m not even going to wait that long. I’ve been thinking about stretching out on the back seat of the Roller for the last three hours.’

  It was true. He was so tired that he felt his bones crumbling inside him, but he was not worried. He scanned the crowd. Thank God all he had to do was keep upright for another few minutes and then Bates would take over.

  Bates was a rock, Haydon thought. He was always waiting when he said he would be, on the same spot—just to the side of an automatic door, away from the push of the crowd—always immaculate, always blessedly silent. Thank God for Bates.

  ‘Haydon,’ called out a voice.

  Not Bates. Bates called him Mr Tremayne in public and Harry in private, or when he forgot. Mr and Mrs Bates had been with him ever since Carla had announced that millionaires’ wives did not keep house. In fact the voice sounded horribly like Carla’s for a moment. He braced himself.

  But it was not Carla, the unregretted first Mrs Tremayne. It was Viola Lennox. Who wanted to be the second.

  ‘Haydon. Over here.’

  What had that girl said? Go home and have a good rest? Just exactly the plan he had himself. He looked at Viola, advancing on him vivaciously, and assessed his chances of carrying it out in the immediate future. None.

  She was upon him.

  ‘Viola,’ said Haydon without enthusiasm. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Viola was not deterred. She was bright-eyed and quite determined that he was delighted to see her.

  Haydon groaned inwardly. Asleep on his feet and he had to play social games. Oh, well, Bates would be along in a moment and then he could make his escape. In the meantime he pulled himself together and held out his hand with composed good manners.

  But Viola was not interested in good manners. She flung her arms round him.

  Haydon recoiled, but tiredness slowed his reactions. It was too late. She was kissing him full on the mouth.

  ‘Darling,’ said Viola.

  Haydon swayed.

  Viola cuddled in closer. ‘It’s been so long,’ she murmured.

  Haydon let his case fall and stabilised himself with care. Then he caught her by the wrists and held her away from him.

  ‘What’s this?’

  Viola’s eyes fell. ‘You seem to have been away for ever,’ she cooed. But her laugh sounded forced.

  This, thought Haydon grimly, is entirely my own fault.

  Break the rules once—just once—and you’ve got only yourself to blame.

  He said drily, ‘You knew exactly how long I was going to be away, Viola. My secretary arranged a meeting for next week.’

  She looked pained. ‘But that’s business.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ muttered Haydon under his breath.

  The Tremayne board had decided some months ago that they needed a PR campaign to fight off a rumoured takeover bid. He had reluctantly agreed, and he had to admit Viola Lennox and her team had done a good job.

  The problem had arisen one evening when, after a long day and a longer official dinner, Viola had made it more than clear that Tremayne International was not all she was interested in.

  Haydon had been feeling very alone that night. He’d stayed. He’d regretted it immediately.

  Being Haydon, he was used to facing unpleasant truths and then dealing with them. So he had told her so. Viola had not appeared to hear him.

  She had gone on not hearing him for months. Haydon had got more and more suspicious. Take this morning—Viola was not normally demonstrative. He would have said the spontaneous kiss was utterly out of character. And yet . . .

  He said gently, ‘Viola, I’m out on my feet. This is no time to talk if you want me to make sense.’

  She nestled into his shirt-front. ‘Then don’t let’s talk,’ she murmured.

  Haydon looked at her incredulously.

  She caught herself at once and smiled appealingly. ‘Oh, it’s good to have you back. I’ve thought about you so much.’

  Now why didn’t that ring true? Haydon thought. He looked at her: expensively disarranged hair, long, shapely legs, a skirt that professional women’s fashion decreed should be three inches above the knee, black suit with red facings. The facings, he noted with his usual precision, were exactly the same colour as her crimson nails. And lips. For her own private reasons she might have chosen to start behaving like a Labrador puppy. But she was still turning herself out like the successful career woman she was. Even on a Saturday morning, meeting the man she professed to be in love with.

  He let go of her wrists. ‘Have you?’ he said drily.

  Viola’s eyes fell away from his. ‘I was beginning to think I’d missed you—you’re so late. Was it a terrible flight? I’ve been here for ages.’

  Haydon said coolly, ‘There was no need. Bates is collecting me.’

  The luxury of the beautifully maintained Rolls Royce had never seemed more desirable. Nor had Bates’ unemotional welcome.

  Viola laughed up at him. ‘Oh, no, he isn’t. I gave him the day off.’

  Haydon went very still.

  ‘You did what?’ he said softly.

  His subordinates would have recognised danger signs. Viola seemed oblivious.

  She repeated it blithely. ‘I thought it was time you and I had a good talk. This looked like the ideal chance.’

  Haydon stared at her in disbelief. Viola ignored it. Now she had made her announcement, she stopped being puppyish. She disengaged herself briskly and made for the exit. Her high heels tapped like hailstones on the shiny floor.

  ‘Come along,’ she flung over her shoulder.

  Haydon picked up his case and followed. But if she had looked she would have seen his expression was unpromising in the extreme.

  She had brought her car, a red sports job that matched her nails. It was three months old. Haydon knew that because Viola had not been able to talk about anything else for weeks. It had taken him some time, but eventually light had dawned. She had wanted him to make her a present of the racy new car.

  It was then that Haydon had got really suspicious. He’d stopped their occasional dates and began to detach himself at once. And now Viola wanted a good talk.

  Haydon was torn. His every instinct told him to tell Viola to get lost. He could take a taxi home easily enough. But conscience stirred uncomfortably. If he had not spent that night with her, she would never have started this.

  He said quietly, ‘Do you think now is such a good time to talk? I haven’t been to bed for three days. I could be less than my flexible best.’

  Viola waved his objections aside. ‘This is the rest of our lives we’re talking about,’ she said in reproof.

  He looked at her gravely for a moment.

  ‘You’re talking about,’ he corrected.

  But she was sliding behind the steering wheel and did not hear him. Or pretended not to. Haydon shrugged. If that was the way she wanted to play it, fine.

  So he flung his case into the back and inserted his long frame into the passenger seat. He clipped h
is seat belt and, stretching, tipped his head back against the headrest.

  New York time, it was around four o’clock in the morning. Haydon closed his eyes.

  Viola started to talk at once. She was in full flood before she had even negotiated the short-term car park. By the time they were on the motorway for London she was well into the middle of a carefully rehearsed speech.

  Haydon let it wash over him. He was regretting Bates’ absence more by the minute. Why did women always want to make a drama out of everything? At the craziest times, too.

  ‘It’s just stupid to let things drift,’ Viola said with energy. ‘We’re both adults. We both know what we want.’

  For the first time an answer was clearly required. Haydon opened his eyes.

  ‘We do,’ he agreed drily.

  It was the right answer. Superficially, at least. And Viola Lennox was not one for hearing the subtext, he thought.

  She gave an indulgent laugh. ‘The trouble with you, Haydon, is you’re just scared to commit. You got burned once, so you think it will happen again.’

  ‘No. It won’t happen again,’ he said quietly.

  So quietly, it seemed, that Viola did not hear that either.

  ‘You channel all your feelings into work so you don’t have to take any emotional risks. The world is full of men like you.’

  Haydon sighed. ‘Would you say full?’

  ‘My therapist says all successful men are out of touch with their inner child. The trouble is. . .’

  Haydon switched off. There was only so far conscience would carry him. When Viola started talking about her therapist, it gave out. Oh, Bates, Bates, where are you? he mourned inwardly.

  Viola continued to analyse his character for the next ten miles. Traffic lights did not give her pause. Roadworks did not deflect her. The monologue took them over Westminster Bridge, through the Saturday-morning shopping traffic and into the quiet Georgian square where Haydon had his house.