Charade by Sandra Brown Page A

stranger had sent him to meet Jesus. And Jerry Ward's last thought was one of anger and perplexity. Why?
    Chapter Nine
    Summer 1992
    You're angry." Clearly, Dean was not asking a question. Cat continued to stare through the windshield of his Jag. "What was your first clue?" "You haven't spoken a word in twenty minutes." "Because I have you to speak for me. Once again, you practically posted banns." "Cat, I was merely carrying on a conversation during dinner with the woman seated beside me." "Who later cornered me in the powder room and begged to know the details of our forthcoming wedding." She turned to him. "You must have led her to believe it was imminent. The real irony is that we don't have plans to marry." "Of course we do." Cat would have argued, but he swung the Jag into the semicircular driveway of his house. On cue, his housekeeper opened the front door to greet them. Cat smiled at her and said hello as she entered the domed foyer. Being waited on by servants made her uncomfortable. Dean took dealing with hired help in stride.
    Cat now wished she hadn't agreed to spend the night at his house. She had done so only because it promised to be a long evening, making it too late to drive to Malibu and then return early tomorrow morning for her studio call. She decided that if their brewing argument developed as she feared it might, she would call the Bel-Air and ask them to send a car for her. She went into his study, preferring it to the other rooms in the house because it was the coziest and least formal. "What something to drink?" he asked, following her. "No, thank you." "A snack? I noticed you didn't eat much dinner. You were too busy chatting with Bill Webster." She ignored that. Since their first meeting, she and the TV executive from Texas had crossed paths several times at network functions. Dean mistook the nature of her attraction to him. "No, thanks. I'm not hungry." "I can have Celesta fix something for you." "No need to bother her." "She's paid well to be bothered. What would you like?" "Nothing!" She regretted her sharp tone and drew in a deep breath to subdue her temper. "Don't coddle me, Dean. If I were hungry, I'd ask for something to eat." He left the study only long enough to dismiss the housekeeper for the night. When he rejoined Cat, she was standing at the window with her back to the room, gazing out over the formal garden. She heard his approach but didn't turn around. He placed his hands gently on her shoulders. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize that a casual comment would create such a fuss. Why don't we just get married and spare ourselves this recurring argument?" "Hardly a good reason to get married." "Cat." He grasped her shoulders more firmly and turned her to face him. "That's not the reason I want to marry you." They could be talking about anything--the weather, their favorite sundae topping, the national debt--but the subject always came back to this. She squeezed her eyes shut. "I don't want to rehash this tonight, Dean." "I've been patient, Cat."
    "I know." "Our wedding doesn't have to be a media event. We can fly to Mexico or Vegas and have it over and done with before a single reporter gets wind of it." "It's not that." "Then what?" he pressed. "Don't give me that crap about not wanting to give up your house in Malibu, or your fear that you'll sacrifice your independence. Those are stale arguments. If you continue to turn me down, you'll have to come up with more valid objections." "It's only been a year and a half since my transplant," she said quietly. "So?" "So you might saddle yourself with a wife who'll spend a good portion of her life, and yours, in a cardiac ward." "You didn't experience a single rejection event." He raised his index finger. "Not one, Cat." "But there's no guarantee that I won't. Some transplantees live with their heart for years, then wham! For no apparent reason they reject." "And some die from causes totally unrelated to their hearts. In fact, there's a