If A Man Answers

by Merline Lovelace

  “That’s what it sounded like to me,” she replied, her mouth curving.

  “What time is it?”

  “It’s... Oh, no! It’s after eight! I’m supposed to meet my boss at the new Visitors’ Expo at nine.”

  She scooted off the bed and grabbed the nearest discarded garment, which happened to be Sam’s shirt. As disoriented as he was, he still had time to appreciate the sight of her rounded bottom before it disappeared beneath the pale yellow cotton. He wasn’t surprised when he felt his body tighten.

  She turned to face him, her lower lip caught between her teeth. From the uncertainty in her eyes, Sam guessed that she was just beginning to feel the inevitable awkwardness of a morning-after.

  “I have to get ready for work. Do you want to wait while I shower or, uh, do you need to get home?”

  Definitely morning-after syndrome. Sam knew the cure for that. Unfortunately, he couldn’t prescribe it right now. Molly had to get to work. Throwing aside the sheet, he reached for his slacks.

  “You shower. I’ll make coffee.”

  Nodding, she headed for the bathroom.

  “Molly?”

  She spun around, setting the shirttails to swirling and Sam’s stomach to performing a full-engine stop.

  “Yes?”

  “I’d go to my grave happy this morning.”

  She stared at him blankly. Chuckling, Sam sang a few bars of Buck Randall’s ode to cactus liquor and green-eyed women.

  When he ad-libbed a few lines of his own that made reference to bucket seats and long-legged blondes, Molly blushed furiously and headed for the shower. She certainly wasn’t ready to go to her grave this morning, happy or otherwise. Not when she felt so...so alive.

  Alive and sated and the craziest bit shy. In the bright light of morning, she couldn’t quite believe that she’d slept all night naked and plastered against Sam’s side like wet newspaper. And that she’d taken him into her body not once, but twice. Or was it three times? She wasn’t really sure, since she’d been pretty well out when he’d rolled her over and murmured certain lewd suggestions into her ear.

  If those hazy memories hadn’t been enough to fluster her, the sight of Sam jerking straight up in bed, the sheet barely covering his flanks, would have done it. Asleep, he’d set her pulse hammering. Awake and aroused, he’d short-circuited her entire system. And that scared her. Just a bit. Not enough to incite panic, but enough for some serious second thoughts.

  Frowning, she stepped into the shower. The lukewarm water needled into her skin, sluicing away the last of her languor. Her hands impatient, she soaped her body. What the heck was her problem? Why had the sight of Sam taking up more than his fair share of her bed sent her stomach on a bumpy ride to...

  To where?

  Sam hadn’t made any promises last night, Molly reminded herself sternly. He hadn’t whispered any words of love in her ear.

  And she didn’t want any! Not yet. Not this soon. She still hadn’t fully recovered from the break with Brady. If she needed any reminders of how the wrong kind of relationship could complicate her life, all she had to do was look around her empty house. In her determination to make a fresh start, she’d left Brady and her Boston co-op filled of furniture.

  Which didn’t explain why she lingered far too long in the shower, trying to conquer the traitorous urge to call Davinia, beg out of the meeting and drag Sam back down on the rumpled sheets.

  Frazzled and more than a little exasperated with her uncharacteristic doubts, Molly towel dried her hair and swiped on some blush and lip gloss. A quick search of her closet had her shimmying into a melon pink silk jersey tank dress. Tugging on its matching short-sleeved jacket and a pair of heeled sandals, she followed the mouth-watering scent of coffee down the stairs.

  Sam had turned on the small TV set atop the counter, but Molly paid no attention to the toohandsome newscaster rambling on with the morning traffic report. Her every sense was tuned to the man perched on her solitary kitchen bar stool, a mug in his hands and a smile creasing his unshaven cheeks.

  He’d slipped on his gray suit, minus his shirt, which now lay in a yellow pool on her bathroom floor. His colorful tie hung out of one side pocket. The combination of bare chest and tailored charcoal gabardine made a fashion statement that sent Molly’s breath right back down her throat.

  “Got time for coffee?”

  She didn’t, but Davinia would understand if she was a few minutes late. Especially when Molly confessed that she and her neighbor had finally and irrevocably ended their feud.

  “A quick one,” she told him, wanting to kick herself for the fluttery confusion his smile generated in the pit of her stomach. She had to get a grip here.

  “Traffic’s clear all the way across town,” he commented as she sipped gratefully at the steaming brew. “You won’t even have to navigate around any orange barrels once you get past the bulldozers and culverts at the bottom of the hill.” His eyes glinted with laughter. “You can take it easy coming out of the garage.”

  Letting that good-natured dig pass, Molly took another swig, then set the mug aside.

  “I’d better go. Davinia will be waiting for me.”

  He pushed himself off the stool just as the newscaster’s face gave way to a platform draped with bunting. A smiling politician started to extol the values of family, work and country.

  “I’ll walk out with you,” He reached for the off switch on the little TV. “I have to...”

  “Wait!” Molly shrieked. “Leave it on!”

  Sam froze, his eyes slicing from her face to the flickering screen. The handsome, prematurely gray politician smiled and waved at a cheering crowd. His voice floated out over the speakers, smooth and erudite despite the tinny amplification.

  “...won’t guarantee a job for every person, but the welfare reform bill I introduced last year does guarantee every person’s right to a job.”

  The scene faded to an American flag dancing against a robin’s-egg sky. An announcer urged all listeners to vote for experience and results in November. A trailer appeared, showing dates and locations of a series of public forums at which the speaker would appear.

  “Th...that’s him!” Molly choked out as the newscaster reclaimed the screen. “That man. That voice. That’s the one I heard on the phone!”

  Chapter 8

  Strung as tight as wire, Sam faced Molly across the shining blue countertop. She stared at the TV, her face paper white, her eyes huge with shock. For long moments, the only sound in the kitchen came from a very competent, very pregnant weather forecaster who informed her listeners that the mercury should hit a nice, comfortable eighty-nine by mid-afternoon.

  Molly’s stunned gaze jumped from the TV screen to Sam. “Did you hear him? Did you see him?”

  “I saw him.”

  “That was him!” Her voice quavered, shot up an octave. “The man who shot Joey the Horse.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes! I’ve heard that voice in my dreams. I recognized it instantly.”

  She thrust a hand through her hair and raked the still damp waves. Her eyes locked on the TV once more. She stared at the flickering screen with a sort of fascinated dread, as if she expected the ad to repeat and the speaker to leap right out of the set.

  “Do you know who that man is?” Sam asked, fighting to control his own shock.

  “The banner said Congressman Somebody Walters. I’ve got to call Kaplan!”

  Snatching up her purse, she upended it and shook furiously. A clutter of car keys, a wallet, a cellular phone in a red leather case, lipsticks, tissues, loose coins, laundry stubs and several white business cards dumped out onto the counter. Her hands frantic, she pawed through the jumble.

  “Dammit, I know I have Kaplan’s number here somewhere. I’ve got to tell him...”

  “Molly, that was Congressman Joshua Walters.”

  Sam’s flat remark pierced her absorption in her task. Her head shot up.

  “So?”

 
He pulled in a deep breath. “So Josh Walters has represented this district in Congress for more than ten years.”

  “So?”

  “He’s well known in this area, Mol. He pushed through tough anti-crime legislation that helped clean up the Strip. He also secured tight defense department construction dollars for a new test facility at Nellis. Word has it that he was the architect for the family values platform in the last Presidential campaign.”

  “And that means he couldn’t also pull a trigger and blow someone away? Come on, Sam, get real.”

  She shuffled through the jumble once more, then pounced on a card. She was reaching for the phone when Sam caught her wrist.

  “I know him, Molly. I took him up for an orientation ride in an F-16 a few years ago. I shared a table with him and his wife in D.C. during the Air Force’s fiftieth anniversary celebrations. I can’t believe Josh Walters would have any dealings with a sleaze like Joey Bennett, let alone murder him.”

  Storm clouds gathered in her green eyes. She yanked her hand away with an angry twist. “Believe it or not, I know what I heard.”

  Sam saw that he had to tread warily here. The woman who’d flamed in his arms just a few hours ago was now shooting angry sparks at him.

  “You just caught a few words of the ad,” he pointed out, struggling to sound calm and reasonable. “Maybe you should listen to it again before you make any allegations against a man as powerful as Walters.”

  “Maybe I should,” she conceded grudgingly. “So what do you suggest? That I sit around here all day waiting for the ad to air again?”

  “Call Kaplan. Tell him to meet us at the TV station. We can review the clip there.”

  “We?” Her chin lifted. “Are you sure you want to get mixed up in accusations against your buddy?”

  “He’s not my buddy, but I do like and respect the man. Give me a few minutes to clean up, okay? Then we’ll drive down to the Channel Five studios. If Kaplan can meet us there, fine. If not, we’ll get a videotape of the clip and take it to him.”

  “All right.”

  He brushed a kiss across her rebellious mouth and headed for the patio door.

  Molly watched him disappear through the oleanders. Her nerves still jumped and spit like cold grease in a hot skillet from the shock of hearing the voice that had haunted her for the past week.

  She sagged a hip against the counter, willing her heart to stop skittering all over her chest. How ironic that she’d hear the killer again just when she’d decided to put him and his damned voice out of her mind. When she’d started to feel safe again, secure in her own home. Her hand trembling, she reached for the phone. To her relief, Kaplan was in the office and more than willing to meet her at Channel Five in a half hour.

  Sam reappeared a few moments later, neat and composed in khaki slacks, a teal knit shirt that hugged his muscled frame, and aviator sunglasses.

  “Ready?”

  Nodding, she extracted her keys from the jumble, then swooped her arm across the counter to dump the rest back into her purse.

  “Want me to drive?” he asked.

  “No, I will.”

  She needed to occupy her hands or she’d start gnawing on her nails. As it was, she barely missed scraping the side of the car on the garage when she backed out. Pointedly, she refused to meet Sam’s sardonic glance. The white Trans Am was down the hill and skimming past the row of concrete culverts awaiting burial beside the road at the bottom of the foothills when she suddenly remembered her meeting with Davinia.

  “Damn! I forgot to call my boss.”

  Dragging her purse onto her lap, she dug through the jumble for her cell phone. The steering wheel, the phone, and a bulldozer rumbling across the road all vied for attention. Sam reached over and tugged the little Motorola out of her hand.

  “What’s her number?”

  “She’ll have left her place by now. Her mobile is number three on the recall.”

  He punched the speed dial button and held the instrument to his ear.

  “Try information,” Molly instructed when he got no answer. She flung a look over her shoulder and ignored the reflex stomp of Sam’s foot when she swung the Trans Am off the road and up the ramp to the interstate. “Get the number for the Visitors’ Expo, would you? She might already be there. Her name’s Davinia Jacobbson.”

  When he couldn’t raise an answer at the Expo offices, Sam snapped the phone shut and calmly suggested they go by and leave a message for her. The Expo Center was on the way to the Channel Five studios...and Molly was certainly making good time.

  Taking his advice and ignoring his gibe, she exited the interstate onto Paradise Road. The Trans Am pulled into the Expo Center’s paved lot a few moments later, right behind Davinia’s coal black Jag. Her boss slid out of her car, all long, curvy legs and bright orange heels.

  “Hey, girl.”

  “Hi, Davinia.” Slamming the convertible’s door, Molly hurried across the few yards of asphalt. “I tried to reach you on your car phone.”

  “Antonio’s got it,” the blonde replied.

  “I can’t make the meeting this morning. Something’s come up.”

  Davinia’s turquoise eyes slid past her to the man unfolding his long frame from the Trans Am.

  “So I see,” she purred.

  Molly swallowed a groan. She wasn’t ready to explain Sam. Or last night. Or her confused second thoughts this morning. When he appeared at her elbow, however, she knew there was no way of avoiding the inevitable.

  “Davinia, this is my neighbor, Sam Henderson. Sam, my boss, Davinia Jacobbson.”

  Sam peeled off his sunglasses and held out his hand. Davinia laid her palm on his, her full mouth tipping upward in unabashed, unrepentant female appreciation.

  “Welllll, welllll. Now I understand why Molly opted for sleeping with the enemy instead of camping out in my guest room.”

  Sam shot the red-faced Molly an amused glance but thankfully didn’t let Davinia know just how accurate her comment was.

  “We’ve called a truce,” was all he said.

  “So she told me.” A feline smile curved Davinia’s lips. “Now I see why.”

  Her gaze lingered on Sam’s face, but Molly knew darn well she hadn’t missed an inch of the rest of his tall, muscled frame. How could she? That soft knit shirt showed off every square centimeter of it. Sure enough, Davinia’s smile went up another few watts.

  “You’ll have to meet Antonio sometime. He’s into bodybuilding, too. He’s also got great hands, if you’re ever in need of them.”

  Sam looked a bit startled at that revelation, but merely acknowledged the unknown Antonio’s talents with a sort of half nod.

  “We just stopped by because I couldn’t catch you on the phone,” Molly interjected hurriedly. “I heard the killer on TV this morning, Davinia. The man who shot Joey the Horse.”

  “No kidding!”

  “We’re on our way to the TV station to listen to the news clip again. The detective in charge of the case is meeting us there.”

  Instant concern darkened her boss’s eyes to a deep aqua. “Make sure you watch yourself until this guy is in custody, okay? Or is that why you’re along for the ride?” she challenged Sam.

  “That’s one of the reasons.”

  She looked as though she wanted to explore that flat, uncompromising comment. Molly didn’t give her the opportunity.

  “We’ve got to go. I’ll see you later.”

  “Why don’t you both see me later?” Davinia suggested as they turned away. “Antonio will want to hear this, too. How about my place for dinner? Around seven, if you can make it.”

  “I’ll let you know,” Molly called over her shoulder.

  Once back in the Trans Am, she threw Sam a quick apology. “Sorry ’bout that. My boss can be a bit overwhelming at times. Please don’t feel obligated to take her up on her invitation.”

  “I don’t.” He slanted Molly a wry look. “Before I decide one way or another, though, you’d better cl
ue me in. Just what does this Antonio do with his hands?”

  A quick smile pushed its way through her tension. “He’s a masseur. A good one, according to Davinia, and she should know. They’ve recently moved in together.”

  “In that case, I’m game if you are.”

  “I guess so.”

  The noticeable lack of enthusiasm in her reply lifted Sam’s brows. Obviously, she still hadn’t worked her way through those morning-after, whathave-I-started-here doubts. He could sympathize with her. He wasn’t sure what he’d gotten into, either. He only knew that he’d come out of the first decent night’s sleep that he’d had in months with Molly’s scent on his skin and the driving urge to take her flushed face in both hands and kiss her until her toes curled.

  Still, he might have pulled back and let their explosive attraction take its own, natural course if that damned campaign ad hadn’t put such shock in her eyes again.

  Sam still couldn’t believe that the sound of Josh Walters’s voice had painted that stark fear on her face. Christ! Josh Walters, of all people! Half of him was absolutely convinced that Molly had mistaken the man’s voice. The other half...

  The other half broke out in a cold sweat at the idea that she might find herself crosswise of the congressman. If he had killed someone, and if he believed for one minute Molly could finger him, Josh would make a formidable, dangerous adversary.

  She had to be wrong.

  His hope that a second hearing would shake Molly’s conviction died ten minutes after they arrived at Channel Five.

  Al Kaplan was waiting for them in the lobby. At his request, the receptionist summoned the station manager. A tall, desiccated chain-smoker, the manager’s eyes glowed with the possibility of an exclusive as he led them back to a sound booth. It took him only a few moments to cue the tape to the paid political advertisement that punctuated the morning news show.

  “That’s him,” Molly said fiercely. “That’s the man I heard on the phone. I’m sure of it.”

  She listened to the tape once more, her arms wrapped tight around her waist. Encased from neck to knees in a long, clinging tube of melon-colored fabric, she formed a brilliant splash of color against the racks of equipment. She also, Sam noted with a notch to his breath, looked and sounded utterly convinced. Sam saw a shiver wrack her slender frame when the congressman’s voice filled the booth once again.