“Incredible,” he said, running his fingertips alongside hers. “Makes my condo in the city look damn boring.”
Sam laughed and straightened up. “Anybody’s house looks boring in comparison to Grace’s. You should see the kitchens.”
“Kitchens? Plural?”
“Oh yeah. Three of ’em at last count, though Mike swears they’re multiplying at night.” Sam grinned as she remembered her sister’s colorful cursing only that morning. “She’s redoing the pipes and installing new sinks and countertops in the second kitchen.
“And Jo’s doing the new floor in the study.”
Sam led the way out of the room and down a set of switchback stairs, which, mimicking a set at the Winchester house, boasted forty-four steps, each of which were only two inches high.
“This is just weird,” he said.
“No, this is just Grace,” Sam countered and, grinning, looked over her shoulder at him. He was right behind her. The damn steps were so tiny that there was hardly any distance at all separating them. Her grin faded as his gaze locked onto hers. She felt heat radiating from his body and told herself to hurry the hell up and get down those stairs. They were too alone, here. Too isolated. Too damn close.
“Sam . . .”
His deep voice seemed to echo in the nearly claustrophobic stairwell. It rattled through her body, shaking her bones and boiling her blood, and Sam told herself firmly to knock it off. She only wished she were listening.
She cut him off. “If you think this is something,” she said quickly, letting her words tumble over each other in the hopes of keeping him from speaking again, “wait until I show you the stained-glass windows in the ceiling.”
“Sam . . .”
He looked at her, really looked, and Sam felt the heat pour through her system like sunlight trickling through black clouds. Oh, she really didn’t want to be feeling any of this. Didn’t want to admit, even to herself, that Jeff Hendricks could still have any sort of pull on her. But here he stood and she felt every cell in her body standing up to do a little hip-hop.
“I have to go to San Francisco,” he said, blurting out the news as if the words tasted bad.
Not what she’d been expecting. She wasn’t sure if she was disappointed or relieved. Because all she could think was, He’s leaving. Sam’s heart stopped and a curl of panic opened up in the pit of her stomach. “You’re taking Emma away? Now?”
From outside, the whine of saws and the rhythmic thud of hammers sounded soft, as if it were the rush of blood and the heartbeat of the house itself. Here in the stairwell, they were isolated and Sam felt confident enough to have her say without witnesses.
“You can’t take her away from me yet, Jeff. I’m just getting to know her. I’ve hardly had any time with her at all.”
“I know and—”
“I haven’t signed the papers,” she reminded him quickly, pulling out her big gun early. After all, when you had a decent weapon, why wait to use it?
“I know,” he said tightly, his features suddenly taking on the hard mask of marble. “I didn’t say I was taking Emma.”
Sam drew an easier breath. Panic receded just a bit. “What are you saying?”
“I have to go. Take care of some business that can’t be postponed any longer.” He shifted his gaze back to her and Sam read the frustration in those dark blue depths. He didn’t want to leave. And just how should she take that?
No way at all, that’s how, she told herself. It wasn’t Sam he was reluctant to leave. It was Emma.
“I’ll be back on Sunday,” he was saying, and Sam concentrated. “I thought,” he continued reluctantly, “Emma could stay with you while I’m gone. She’d like it, I know.”
“You don’t, though.”
“Hell no, I don’t,” he said. “Why would I?”
Bristling a little, she reminded him, “I’m her mother.”
He snorted. “Now.”
“Cheap shot, but accurate.” She squared her shoulders and managed to look down her nose at him even though she had to look up to do it.
“I know.” He pushed one hand through his hair, stared at her for a long minute, then said, “Sorry. Don’t know why I said it.”
“Because this whole situation pisses you off?”
One corner of his mouth quirked. “I believe I may have mentioned that.”
“A time or two.”
He sighed and shook his head. Sam curled her fingers into fists to keep from reaching up and smoothing his hair back from his forehead.
“The truth is,” he blurted, “I’ve got things I have to see to in the city.”
“Like Cynthia?” Ouch. Now why’d she go and say the name? Sam really didn’t want to think about Jeff seeing to Cynthia.
“She’s part of it. But there’s also the bank.”
“Ah yes,” she said, shoving both hands into her jeans pockets. Surprise flickered inside her, but Sam hid it well. Nine years ago, he’d talked about breaking away from his family’s business. He’d talked about being an architect. Designing the buildings of the future. Making a mark that was all his own and not being just a part of the family legacy. Apparently a lot of things had changed. And since she was sad for it, she snapped, “The Hendricks family bank. Still making your own money in a back room?”
“Funny.” His features tightened.
“I could have done better,” she admitted. “But it’s been a long day.”
He blew right past her statement. “I’ve been doing what business I can on the phone and via the Internet. But I have to get back. Take care of a few things in person.” He looked at her. “I can take Emma with me . . . or leave her here with you. Your choice.”
“I’ll keep her.”
“Thought you might.”
Sam watched him. He looked as though he hadn’t been sleeping and she wondered if his dreams were as frenetic as hers. She wondered if she haunted him as he did her. And she guessed she’d never find out. Which was probably a good thing. “Thanks.”
Something flickered in his eyes and was gone again in a heartbeat. “You don’t have to thank me.”
“I know.”
His mouth twitched, one corner tilting slightly. “This may be a breakthrough.”
“Huh?”
“Us. Having a conversation without fighting.”
“Hey, I’m Catholic. I still believe in miracles.”
“I used to.” His voice had dropped so that she could barely hear it even in the isolation of the stairwell.
But she strained toward him as if whatever he was saying was far too important to be missed. Her body was answering a call her mind refused to acknowledge. But it had always been that way between them. Even in the midst of one of their blistering fights, she’d be just as tempted to wrap herself around him as throw a sucker punch to his abdomen.
God, she wanted him.
He lifted one hand toward her face and Sam held her breath. His gaze softened, his mouth curved, he bent toward her . . .
His cell phone chirped.
Irritated, he straightened up, reached into his pants pocket, and pulled out the flip phone. He glanced at the caller ID, then frowned as he answered it. “Cynthia. Hi.”
The breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding slid from Sam’s lungs in a rush. If his phone hadn’t rung . . . If Cynthia hadn’t called just in time to remind them both of her existence . . . what would have happened?
Sam’s insides jittered and she sucked in air in a futile attempt to calm herself. As if that were going to work. Disgusted with herself, Sam turned her back on Jeff and led the way down the stairs. She heard him following her, his footsteps loud on the oak steps. His voice, that low rumble of sound that had always been able to slip inside her body and shake things up, sounded different to her now as she half-listened to him talk to his fiancée.
“I’ll be there,” he said. “Don’t worry. We’ll do the caterer’s practice dinner Friday night.”
Caterers.
; Sam smiled to herself and remembered her own wedding to Jeff. A quick trip to a chapel outside Reno and the buffet dinner at Harrah’s. So technically, she mused, they’d had a catered dinner, too.
“I’ll be back in the city by nine. I’ll come to your place, pick you up,” he was saying.
Oh, Sam didn’t want to think about him going to see Cynthia, the Beautiful, the Perfect, the Wonder Bride. She didn’t want to think about the blonde scooping her fingers through Jeff’s hair, pulling his head down for a kiss and—She stopped her brain right there, because there was no way in hell she was going to think any further down that road.
One small thread of consolation . . . apparently he and Cynthia weren’t living together. So she didn’t have to have those images in her brain. Cozy nights in front of a fire, tucking Emma into bed together, sliding into a big comfy bed and—Stop.
At the bottom of the staircase, they stepped out into the “small” study. Sam had always thought of them as Papa Bear, Mama Bear, and Baby Bear studies. And this one, the smallest of the three, was her favorite. She and Emma had finished painting the room only yesterday. The butter-colored walls looked warm and soft in the summer sunlight streaming through the high, arched windows. The mahogany casements gleamed with fresh polishing and the floorboards were waiting their turn with the sander.
She walked across the room to the windows, giving Jeff a little privacy to finish his phone call. The fact was, if he was going to say “I love you” to Cynthia, Sam didn’t want to hear it. She’d just painted this room and throwing up in it would ruin the ambiance.
A minute or two later, she heard him come up behind her. She didn’t turn. Didn’t trust herself to look at him. Something had passed between them in that stairwell. Something tenuous yet powerful. And she could still feel the echo of it rippling inside her.
“I’ve gotta go.”
Sam nodded, fixing her gaze on her daughter, playing in a splash of sunlight. “I know.”
“I’ll be back on Sunday.”
“I’ll be here.”
“Sam—”
She closed her eyes. “Have a good trip.”
“Right.”
She heard him walk away and still she didn’t turn. Then he was there, in the yard, swinging Emma up for a goodbye hug. As he left, Sam watched him and had to quash the urge to run after him.
Chapter Ten
The caterer’s carefully prepared meal might as well have been cold oatmeal.
Jeff had dutifully eaten his share, made all the right noises, and smiled when Cynthia proclaimed the menu a winner. But if someone had held a gun to his head, he couldn’t have told them what he’d just eaten.
Now, sitting in a sleek jazz club on the waterfront, he was having a hard time concentrating on the woman across the table from him. Cynthia had brought him here so he could see the job she’d done on the place.
A talented, creative interior designer, Cynthia was already making a name for herself in the city.
“What do you think of the place?” she asked, a bright smile curving her lips.
“You did a great job,” Jeff said, meaning it. It was a small club, and she’d chosen red leather and stark chrome as the basics and built from there. It looked intimate and edgy. No doubt just what the owners had been looking for.
“Thank you.” She lifted her martini glass and took a sip before speaking again.
Four musicians were crowded together on a too-small stage and teased hot, sultry music from their instruments. The steady thump of the bass fiddle beat in the room like an extra heartbeat and the audience, clustered around tiny, candlelit tables, swayed in time with the rhythm. Wall sconces held yet more candles and the flames flickered wildly in the swirl of chill air sighing through the air conditioner. Shadows danced on the walls as waitresses wearing short skirts and suitably bored expressions weaved in and out of the crowd, carrying trays burdened with martinis.
Cynthia, apparently oblivious to his wandering mind, was holding a one-sided conversation, bringing him up to date on the plans for the wedding.
His wedding, which was now, God help him, just four weeks away.
“The flowers are beautiful, Jeff,” she said and he forced himself to pay attention. “Lilies of the valley, peonies, and sterling roses.”
“Sounds nice,” he murmured, figuring that it was an appropriate response. Hell, he didn’t know a daisy from a weed, so what did he care? Dammit, not the right attitude, he told himself. Cynthia deserved better from him.
But what the hell was he doing? Sitting across the table from his fiancée, thinking about the woman who was still his wife. He scraped one hand across his face, trying to wipe away memories of Sam, but it just wasn’t any good. She was with him all the damn time. So how could he marry Cynthia if he still wanted Sam? And if he walked away from Cynthia, was he any different from the man he was when he’d left Sam nine years ago?
Jesus, a man could go nuts thinking about this shit.
“It’s all going to be beautiful, Jeff.” Cynthia snapped him out of his thoughts by tapping his hand with one manicured fingernail.
“Sure it is, Cyn.” He looked directly at her, focusing only on Cynthia, determined to give her his full attention.
She tipped her head to one side, her blond hair swaying gently with the movement, as she studied him for a long minute. “Do you want to go back to my place?”
Christ, no. His instinctive reaction bulleted through him and all he could hope was that his feelings weren’t etched into his features. But Jesus, he couldn’t even consider going back to her place. Sleeping with Cynthia now that Sam was firmly rooted in his mind was just something he couldn’t do.
He’d feel like a cheating husband.
And technically, he thought wryly, that’s just what he’d be.
But it was more than that. Cynthia was beautiful, no doubt about it. But he didn’t feel the flash of desire for her that just thinking about Sam could create.
What the hell was he supposed to do?
“No,” he said finally and forced a smile he hoped she bought. “Let’s stay. Listen to the music.”
“All right,” she said slowly, dragging the tip of her fingernail across the back of his hand. He was pretty sure she meant it to be seductive. What it was, was irritating, doing to his skin what the sound of nails on a blackboard did to his ears.
He pulled his hand free and picked up his glass of scotch.
“You’re right,” Cynthia said, her voice now a husky whisper filled with promises. “We’ve hardly seen each other in two weeks and I’m talking your ear off about flower arrangements.” She reached across the small, round table and this time covered his free hand with hers, to cut off his escape.
Her hand was cool on his and he realized how he missed the jolt of heat he felt whenever Sam touched him. Dammit, he’d convinced himself a long time ago that the heat was for fools. That the only thing a man got out of the fires of passion was a serious burn. And the good sense to avoid it the next time.
He looked at Cynthia and reminded himself just how perfect she was for him. She was good with Emma. An excellent hostess. Beautiful. She was smart, too, and always up for a debate—whether it was about literature or politics. She loved to travel—last summer they’d hiked all over northern Italy. They’d had a lot of good times together, he thought now.
So why was he looking at her soft blond hair and imagining Sam’s reddish-brown mop? Guilt pinged inside him and had him giving Cynthia’s fingers a quick, perfunctory squeeze. Then he let her go and took a quick gulp of straight scotch, sending a river of fire pouring through him.
“You’re thinking about Samantha, aren’t you?” Cynthia asked, giving him a kind smile and an understanding glance.
Good thing he’d already swallowed or he’d have been choking to death now. Damn. He thought about lying to her, then realized the futility of it. “Guess I was,” he admitted, then tried to soften the blow by adding, “There’s a lot to be thought out.”
> “I know,” she said and leaned back into the plush red leather seat. Toying with the stem of her crystal martini glass, she lowered her gaze to the tabletop before saying, “I’ve been doing some thinking, too.”
Jeff winced. Of course she’d been thinking. He’d hardly considered how hard all of this was on her. And she’d been a damned good sport about the whole thing, considering the circumstances. “Cyn—”
She lifted her gaze to his and again he saw compassion glimmering in her eyes. It would have been a hell of a lot easier on him if she’d just been pissed. A loud Marconi argument would feel good about now, he thought, and just how twisted was that?
But his adrenaline was racing around with no place to go. Sam would have given him a fight. And she’d have pressed him until he’d lost his cool and joined in the shouting. It would have cleared the air, energized the two of them, and they’d have hopped off to bed to finish up with a grand finale.
At least, that was how it had worked once upon a time.
Cynthia was too controlled for that. If a problem was presented to her, she’d think about it for several days, likely discuss it with her shrink, and then come up with several neat solutions that wouldn’t hurt anyone’s feelings. He’d admired her even temper before. And wasn’t he a bastard for now suddenly wishing it were different? For wishing she were different from what she was? For wishing she were Sam?
“It’s okay, honey,” she said. “I understand. You must be so torn about all that’s happened.”
“I am,” he admitted and leaned forward, bracing both forearms on the tabletop. Christ knew he needed to talk all this out. But how could he do that without having to explain to the woman he was supposed to marry that he was still feeling . . . something for his wife? Nope. Cynthia was definitely not the confessor he needed. “I didn’t expect to have to deal with anything like this.”
She reached out and gave his hand a quick pat. “I know, but . . .” Her voice trailed off, hesitant.
“What?”
Cynthia inhaled slowly, then let the air out in a soft sigh. “I realize this is hard on you, Jeff, and it’s just horrible, I know. Still, I hate to say this, but I just feel so sorry for Samantha.”
And Then Came You Page 13