Catching Katie. Sophie Weston

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      “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

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      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