by Sun Chara
Johnny frowned. “Shh.”
Michael paused in the middle of removing his wet coat. “Did I really say that?” He chortled. “Hungry as a hog.”
“You’ll wake Sam.”
“Guess I’m catching onto this country bumpkin slang quicker than I thought.” He shrugged off his coat and draped it over the door.
“Scott, if you don’t put a lid on it, I’ll help you,” he muttered.
“She asleep?” Michael mouthed as if he hadn’t spoken.
Johnny stirred the soup. And stirred … and stirred.
Michael leaned over his shoulder. “Smells good.”
“Help yourself.” Johnny waggled his shoulders to clue him into stepping back.
Far and away back.
What was he up to with this buddy-buddy rap all of a sudden?
Johnny dodged him a glance and breathed a sigh of relief when he stepped aside. Saved him the trouble of bopping his noggin with a right hook.
Johnny closed his fingers in a fist and hiked a brow … no doubt that would hap—
“Thanks.” Michael reached up and flipped a bowl from the cupboard into his palm. “I’m serious about an eatery in this area,” he continued in a conversational tone. “It’s growing faster than you can flick an ace outta your sleeve.”
“You mean your sleeve.” Johnny turned off the stove and carried the pot to the table.
“Well, okay.” Michael chuckled. “Sure to turn a profit in no time.”
“Sounds like a deal.” The quicker Michael refocused on making a buck, the sooner he ’d get him out of his house. “When you planning on cashing in?” Within the hour would work for Johnny.
“Glad you agree, Jonathan,” he said, ignoring his second query.
“Why’s that?”
“I want someone who knows the region to run the place for me.” Michael paused, his chin propped on the bowl in his hand. “I thought you might be—”
“Not a chance.” That explained his chummy overtures … tossing his smooth lines and reeling in anyone fool enough to fall prey to his promises. Johnny wouldn’t be snared. But would Samantha get caught this second time around?
“You’d be making a heck of a lot more moolah than babysitting dogs.”
“You don’t know what I make, Scott.”
Michael shriveled his brow. Finally, it must’ve hit him. He, who prided himself in knowing everything about his competitors, indeed did not know Johnny’s net worth. “I know you don’t make enough to keep her in style.”
“You do?”
“It’s evident by this—this—” He waved the bowl around, screwing up his face in distaste. “This dump.”
“Cut the deck, Scott.” He slammed the cupboard shut and stared Michael down. Time the gloves came off, and no better time than now with Samantha out of earshot. “What’s your real agenda?” He pushed up his sleeves, leaned back against the counter and folded his arms across his chest. “I didn’t swallow that tale about you studying the locals, etc.”
Michael split his lips in a smile, not unlike a hyena’s. “Too smart for your own good, Irishman.”
“Really?”
“You should not have crashed my wedding to Samantha. Her mother and I had things pla—” He shrugged. “I’d hook Sam, bail mamma out, and catch the golden egg.”
“The Lucky Lou.”
“I’d take control” – he stroked his cheek with the bowl, replaying the plot in his mind – “toss mamma a percentage to keep her mum and—”
“—and squirm from under daddy’s thumb,” Johnny finished for him.
He gawked, affronted. “You know too much.”
A wry grin tilted the corner of Johnny’s mouth. “I worked the bank, remember?”
“You sure did,” Michael agreed, his words slick.
The grin morphed to a smirk on Johnny’s mouth. “Samantha’s father?”
Michael shrugged and crossed to the table. “What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him.”
“You lowlife,” Johnny muttered, the words stinging his tongue. “Pretending to be an innocent, bumbling idiot.”
Michael sneered. “Working though, isn’t it.” His eyes slitted, signaling his modus operandi was still engaged. “Mamma empathized, stroking my feathers … chicken soup ’n all. And the daughter” – he sighed, his hand over his heart – “who’d have thought it? She took me in under her roof … and … er … yours, and handed me a job.” He guffawed. “You, Jonathan, are the stinger I can do without.” He shook his head in mock sadness. “You simply have to go.”
“Is that a threat?” Johnny cut back, his jaw taut, his eyes laser sharp.
“Did I say anything to you?” Michael glanced around the room. “No one here but you and me.” He set the bowl on the table, sniffed the soup and straddled a chair. “In a court of law, it would be your word against mine.”
“Got it all figured out, do you?”
“There’s nothing you can do to stop me this time, leprechaun.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure.” Johnny unfolded his arms and stuck his hands in the back pockets of his denims.
Michael bolted upright. “What do you mean?”
“Samantha’s still married to me.”
“That letter says otherwise—”
“How do you know—” Johnny took a menacing step closer, his words cold steel.
On his soapbox, Michael paid no heed and harped on, “Papa had me at his beck and call, jetting the globe … but eventually I got to it and made sure—”
“It was you.”
“Hardly.” Michael mocked a yawn with the back of his hand. “Money can buy inside info. People. Papers.”
“So, you got some lackey to do your dirty work.”
Michael sprang up, strolled to the window and propped his backside on the ledge. “If you say so.”
Johnny stomped after him. “You actually paid some goffer to tamper with our wedding license?”
“Not ours,” Michael chortled. “Yours and Samantha’s.”
“You’re sick, Scott.”
Michael laughed the louder.
Air filled Johnny’s lungs, expanded in his chest and thrashed in his throat.
Swelling.
Gagging.
“Marriage … divorce, same difference.” Michael shrugged, his face deadpan. “In my position, a name dropped here, a few bills greasing the right palm—” He broke off, his meaning clear. “Even bosom buddies will turn if the price is right.”
Steady, Belen. “You have no morals, do you?”
“Have yours done you any good?” He drew his brows over the bridge of his nose. “You have a wife who’s not really yours. You live like a pauper with no prospects for the future—”
Johnny grabbed him by his shirt collar. “Get out before I—”
“Shh!” Michael scoffed. “Or you’ll wake our darlin’ Sam.”
“Then go real quiet like,” he murmured, his words flint hard.
“Walk yourself out of my house before I rearrange your face and throw you out.”
Michael sidestepped him, adjusted his collar and settled back on the chair. “No can do.” He propped his elbows on the table. “Soup’s on.”
Johnny hauled him up with such force, the chair went flying against the wall. “Out.”
“Don’t want to upset Samantha, do we?” Michael huffed, scrapping to get out of his grasp. “Not in her condition.”
“You slime.” Johnny shoved him from the kitchen, but Michael scuffled with him all the way to the door.
“Johnny!” The call floated down the hall, flashing a red alert on his wrestling the other man out.
He gripped Michael’s shoulder with an iron hand, and the man groused out a sound of unease. A struggle raged within him—to pound him to a pulp or respond to Samantha’s summons. Johnny ground his teeth, his jaw steel. There was no contest. Sam won hands down. But he had to control his anger and the situation in a way that would not adversely affect her and their baby.
> Right now, she viewed Michael as an old friend who’d had a raw deal. Her sympathies were with the scumbag. If Johnny unveiled all, she wouldn’t believe him, thinking he was bad-mouthing Michael. He couldn’t blame her since he’d already made his feelings known about the idiot. Johnny squinted at him. He was no dummy. Michael Scott was playing them each against the other, including mercenary mamma.
He heaved Michael off his feet and deposited him back on the floor. “I’ll be there in a sec’, Sam.” He stabbed the other man with a steely glare, signaling it wasn’t over. “Your days here are numbered, Scott.”
“Is that a threat, leprechaun?” Michael challenged, straightening his disheveled clothes.
“Did I say anything to you?” Johnny mocked a glance about the foyer. “Don’t see anyone here but you ’n me.” Chuckling, he sauntered down the hall and heard Michael suck in air and exhale in a gasp.
A deadly pause.
“You have more to lose than me, Irishman.”
Johnny braked to a stop, the venom in the man’s words like a dagger in his heart. Nearly gagging, he corded every muscle in his body and battled his demons. A second later, he rolled his shoulders and hurried to his wife.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Samantha was struggling to fluff up the pillows when he walked in.
“Here, let me.” He pulled her against his chest and adjusted the pillows behind her back. His rain-fresh scent was intoxicating, and a tremulous sigh breezed from her mouth.
“Something wrong?”
She shook her head into his shoulder.
“Why’d you call?” He settled her against the pillows and sat on the edge of the bed, holding her hand.
“I wondered if Michael had gotten in okay.”
“Yeah.” He patted her hand and slipped off the bed. “He’s in the kitchen stuffing himself with chicken noodle soup. You want me to call him?”
She squinted at him. “Is something the matter?”
His face became a cold mask of indifference. “Since he ingratiated himself in our life, you haven’t stopped throwing that goon in my face.”
She wiggled her bottom in place, patted the blankets around her and paused, astonished.
“If it’s him you want, then spit it out.”
Her eyes grew wide. She blinked against the tears pressing on her lids, a reaction to her emotions being on the swing these last few weeks. How could he doubt her so easily? Earlier at the hospital, she’d thought they’d finally made a breakthrough toward reconciliation. And now, to have him accuse her of wanting Michael scoured her already bruised heart. “Is that what you think?”
A tear glistened on the tip of her lash, then rolled down her cheek. He wiped it away with his knuckles and sank back on the bed, his hand covering her fingers fiddling with the blanket.
“I don’t know what to think,” he griped.
“Neither do I.” She pulled her hand away, concentrating on outlining the quilt’s design with her index finger. “You demanded an answer in regard to our marriage.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“I’ll tell you what’s wrong with it.” She shifted to a more comfortable position. “You should never have asked that.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re supposed to know.”
“Know what?”
Exasperated, she smacked the bed with her palm. “That I’d never damage our marriage or let anything break us up.”
“You wouldn’t?” He scooted closer.
“Of course not.”
He frowned. “Why’d you keep throwing Michael in my face?”
“Because you made me mad.”
“I did?” He flicked an unruly curl off his brow with his fingers, and she wanted to knock his hand away so she could do it. “Do I still make you mad?”
“More times than not.”
“I do?”
“You do.” She folded her hands over her big belly. “Why’d you behave like a bear with a sore head?”
He placed his hand over his heart, signaling his feelings. “I didn’t want to lose you.” He covered her fingers with his. “Especially to that bumbler.”
“You do?”
“Do what?” He turned her hand over and stroked her palm with his fingers, sending tingles up her arm.
“Love me.”
Johnny looked deep into her eyes. “Woman, would I have gone through that circus to marry you if I didn’t?”
“Oh, Johnny.” She wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her cheek to his rough one. “I gave you my answer, then.”
“You never doubted me, Sam?”
She coughed into his shoulder. “Doubts crossed my mind, but I didn’t really believe them. Not with my heart.”
He brushed her hair with his hand and hooked a lock behind her ear. “What kind of doubts?”
“I-uh- thought you might be after my money—”
“What?” He laughed, and it sounded more like a howl.
“You showed up so suddenly and were so determined to marry me when—”
“You were about to make the biggest blooper of your life.” He smirked, pleased.
She grinned, happy. “True.”
“True.” Johnny lowered his head, his warm breath tickling her lips. A heartbeat, and he crushed her mouth with his in a kiss filled with longing, love, desire, impatience.
His heart booted his ribs. Passion ignited, and he wanted more, so much more. “Samantha,” he breathed against her lips.
“Johnny.” She sighed, her breath mingling with his.
He scrunched her hair in his palms and showered her face with countless kisses, nibbling his way down her chin. Taking a detour, he nipped her earlobe and blazed a path to her bosom, tasting … heaven.
Purring with pleasure, Samantha held his head to the spot, her fingers slicing through his hair. Careful not to apply his weight over her big tummy, he inched his way back up, branding her skin with love bites until he bumped into her mouth and found a haven.
A breathless moment, and he trailed his hand over her extended belly, caressing her full roundness and brushing across her navel. While his fingertips stroked, his mouth slid along the curve of her cheek, over her obstinate chin, down her neck, pausing at the pulse point on her throat.
Samantha tossed her head back to give him better access, her hands digging into the muscles of his shoulders. At fever pitch, Johnny worked his way back to her belly, his mouth colliding into his fingers vying for favor on her navel. His mouth won out.
While he dallied at the spot, she fondled the silky curls at his nape, the warmth of his love enfolding her in sweet sensation. Johnny played, caressed, tasted … then froze, his mouth staying fused on her stomach.
The child kicked.
He felt it.
And he almost cried.
Samantha sensed the flutter of the baby inside her and stroked his cheek, just as he glanced up. Tears shimmered in her eyes.
A million uncertainties flitted past, but one thing stood strong.
This moment.
This is what mattered.
He and Samantha together … together with their baby.
Raw emotion jolted him, and he cradled her face in his hands, pressing his mouth to hers. When he pushed her deeper into the pillows, emotion ignited to passion and he devoured her with his mouth, his hands, his body. Samantha met his ardor, and the mating rhythm played in their mouths, stimulating, exciting, arousing.
Finally, he panted against her lips, “Sam, I’ve got to stop now, or I won’t be able to.”
She held him to her. “No, please.”
He was drowning in the feel, the taste of her … A thread of common sense thrust through the combustible fervor propelling him into its vortex. “For you,” he gasped. “I must stop.”
“No,” she whimpered, her eyes glazed with emotion.
His hunger for this woman he married was unquenchable. His heart pumped like a countdown to blast off, and every muscle in
his body coiled tight. He planted a fierce kiss on her parted lips, then rolled off her, his chest heaving, his body throbbing.
Flinging the blankets aside, he slipped under the covers fully clothed and pulled her close to his side, her head nestling against his heart.
Samantha slipped her hand beneath his shirt, caressing the spiral of hair on his chest, rising and falling like he’d run a marathon. When he’d kissed her so tenderly, she thought she’d come apart inside; his kisses honored, gave, took, loved … her. This man she married loved her truly.
“I love you, Johnny Belen.”
“I know that, now.”
“Was there a time you didn’t know?”
“Unimportant in the present circumstances,” he murmured, avoiding an explanation.
“Johnny, did you doubt me?”
He caught her hand on his chest and brought it to his mouth, brushing his lips across each finger. “I … uh … thought you might have married me to get back at your mother.” He licked each appendage, suckled, teased … “And to get away from Michael Scott.”
“You didn’t,” she gasped, but her shortness of breath had to do more with his ministrations than his words.
He blew on each fingertip, an erotic caress, and laid her hand over his heart. “Afterward, I thought you might have changed your mind. Wanted to leave me and go to mamma … and to him.”
“Johnny, you didn’t?” she asked, aghast, feeling his heart thudding beneath her palm, echoing the chaotic beat of her own.
“The thought crossed my mind.”
“Oh, Johnny.”
“Him being a rich guy and all might have swayed you.”
“You know me better than that.”
“I did, I do, I will, Mrs. Belen.” He curved his mouth into that sexy smile that had her pulse singing. “Always.”
“I’m glad, Johnny.” She snuggled closer to him.
He touched his lips to her temple. “I didn’t really believe it. Not with my heart.” His words echoed her confession of moments ago.
“You, Johnny Belen, are my only love.”
“You be sure it’s not a flash in the pan deal,” he teased, a contented sigh rumbling from deep in his chest.
Samantha giggled. “After two years? I don’t think so.” An emotional tempest had torn her apart, but she’d landed in the safe haven of her husband’s arms. She stroked the smattering of bronze hair on the back of his hand, her lighthearted banter taking a serious bent. “Johnny, I’ve lived the life of the rich and elite, if not the famous, and it didn’t give me what I wanted.” She drew his hand to her mouth and then held it against her cheek. “I’ve been happiest with you.”