Katrina didn’t really remember how it had started. Michael was away on business, of course. Katrina and Randall had been sitting together on the old couch in the main living room, comparing pictures of designer furniture for the room. She had her heart set on Perry, which Randall thought was too stodgy. He was pushing a three-piece Vetrina sofa. They’d been sitting there arguing happily, heads together over the photos, and then suddenly . . .
It was Randall who pushed away from her. “Katrina,” he’d said, his voice shaking. “We can’t—this is wrong. It’s, it’s— You’re married.”
“Married in name only,” she said bitterly. And then she had to stifle a giggle because she couldn’t believe she had really said that. What hackneyed old movie had that line come from? “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know it’s wrong, Randall. I just . . .” She shrugged. “I’ve been married to Michael for five years, and—I mean, he’s never home. Even when he is, it’s . . . What. Maybe once a year we have sex.” She felt herself blushing, but she went on anyway. “I need more than that, Randall.”
“I won’t be your sex toy, Katrina,” he said
“I didn’t mean that, Randall, really,” she said. She took his hand. “I really like you, you know that. We have fun together, we like the same things, we laugh at the same things. And if there’s sex, too—is that so bad?”
Randall sighed and turned away from her, looking deeply troubled. “I just—I mean, the way it looks is so”—he shook his head—“‘gold-digging designer preys on heiress,’ you know?” He looked up, and there was a little anger in his eyes. “I don’t want to be anybody’s pet, Katrina.”
“I don’t want a pet, Randall,” she said, taking his hand. “I want a friend.”
“A friend with benefits?” he said.
She saw a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth and felt an answering one growing on her own lips. “Why not?” she said.
“It’s just—I mean, it’s still just wrong,” he said. “You’re married.” He looked down, then up at her again. “And you know, there is the money thing, which is a very big—I mean, it’s just impossible to ignore.”
“How about if I promise not to give you any money?” she said.
His lips twitched again. “Wow,” he said. “You would do that for me?” And he looked at her, a long, straight-faced look, and then suddenly they were both laughing, and somehow that led to more kissing, and then—
And then here she was, a month later, lying in bed with him, naked, and feeling absolutely wonderful about the whole thing. Randall was everything she hadn’t known she wanted and more—a fantastic lover, sure, but so sweet and thoughtful, too, in so many ways, like with washing the wineglasses. Of course, he remained very prickly about the money issue. He refused to allow her to spend anything on him, not even for little things. And to her surprise, she kind of wanted to buy him things. Nothing ostentatious or ridiculous. Just impulse buys, like a ring, or a nice Italian sports coat. Just something to say she cared.
But Randall refused everything. He said it was insulting and silly to spend it on him. She told him that was the point, but he was very stubborn about it. He really didn’t understand that her kind of money was supposed to be spent on silly, impulsive things—and she wanted to spend it on him. And seriously, she could buy him a Ferrari in every primary color, and it wouldn’t put a noticeable dent in her bank account.
Still, if that was Randall’s only fault, it was one she could live with. Other than that, he was as close to perfect as a man could be. He didn’t even snore. Not very much, anyway.
Katrina stretched once more, enjoying the glow, and the movement must have been enough to wake Randall. “What time is it?” he croaked in a voice that was still more than half asleep.
“I don’t know,” she said, flopping over to rest her head on his chest. “You threw away my old clock—”
“It was hideous,” Randall muttered.
“And you made me turn off my phone so we wouldn’t be disturbed.”
“I hate phones,” he grumbled. “And you need to pick a decent clock for this room.”
“I don’t like digital,” she said, running a hand over his chest. “And I like that Waterford.”
“Nineteenth-century crap,” he said. “Won’t go at all with the rest of the room.”
Katrina chortled, a low throaty laugh she hadn’t heard from herself in years. “Now you sound like such a designer.”
Randall grunted. “I am,” he said. Without getting up or dislodging her, he reached over to the bedside table and fumbled for her phone. A moment later he handed it to her. “Here,” he said. “Clock. Phone. GPS, weather station, music player, web surfer—”
“And a whole lot more. So why do you hate them?”
“I need foibles,” he said. “A real artist has to have foibles.”
This time Katrina giggled. “You make ‘foible’ sound like a sex act.” And putting on her deepest voice, she leered at him and said, “Come here, little girl, I’m going to foible you.”
“To you everything is a sex act. So what time is it?”
Katrina turned on her phone, and in a moment her wallpaper blinked into life—a Hans Hofmann painting, in memory of the one she didn’t get. The time was plastered across the picture in big white numerals. “It’s 7:17,” she said.
“A.M. or P.M.?” Randall asked. He put a hand on her back and rubbed gently. “I guess I should go soon.”