by Sun Chara
Think, Belen, think.
He clambered across the porch, leaped down the stairs and raced to the back of the house, skidding on the gravel. A blast of air from his lungs misted in the cool night, and relief coursed through him.
The bathroom window was open a crack. He jumped up but couldn’t reach the ledge. A glance about, and he dragged the trashcan beneath and climbed on top. He teetered but managed to clamp his hand on the ledge and shove the window wider. He shimmied up the wall and dragged himself through the opening, head first. It was a tight squeeze, and halfway through his rump caught on the frame. Wiggling to and fro, he finally fell through, sprawling on the floor with a thud. He picked himself up, dusted himself off and reeled from the scent of roses still floating in the bathtub.
He thrust the door open and stomped down the hall. “Samantha!”
Not a sound, not even a skitter of a mouse.
Hair on his nape bristled.
And he knew.
She was gone.
But still, a sliver of hope lingered in his heart. He rushed into their bedroom and flung the closet door open.
Empty.
Hope died.
Johnny collapsed on the bed, his head dropping into his hands. He shoved his fingers through his hair, the weight of the world crushing him. A sliver of a whisper, “Lord, help me.”
A sudden sound, and his head shot up. He listened for it again, but it didn’t repeat. House noises. To be sure, he dragged himself up and into the living room. A quick glance around confirmed his worst fears.
Samantha had run off with Michael Scott.
He pounded the wall with his fist, emotion ravaging him— anger, sadness, resentment, love, loss. Spinning, he swatted his hand across the coffee table with such force, plates and teacups went flying, the Book beneath the plate of pastries flipping open. A growl rumbled from deep inside him. He slithered down the wall and splattered to the floor, pain stripping him raw.
His wife, his child, his marriage.
Gone.
Stolen.
Everything he’d believed in, been naive to believe in, had deserted him.
Silent moments hurled by, and he floundered between anger and dejection. He flung his head up and swept the room with his dazed gaze. He wanted to wring Michael’s neck, shake Samantha until she rattled. And as for him— His eyes crossed on the open Book on the coffee table. He snatched it up.
Samantha’s Bible.
Bitterness corroded his tongue. About to fling it against the wall, he tightened his grip on it instead. Samantha didn’t go anywhere without her Bible. For her to have left without it meant they’d left in a hurry. Why?
He had no answers.
He felt lost. Powerless.
He flipped the pages. Samantha said she found answers in this Book. What did she mean? He leafed through the pages so fast they blurred. Then he stopped, perspiration seeping from his every pore, his breathing heavy.
You’re a fool, Belen.
He whacked it back on the table, his eyes glued on the open page.
He squinted at the words, and then a jolt popped him awake.
The kennels. The house. The truck. The money.
He groaned, a guttural sound ripping from deep inside him. All the material success was nothing without Samantha even if his intentions were good … doing it for her.
A dog howled in the night, and it was like it was proclaiming his defeat.
Anguish slashed his insides, and sweat soaked his shirt. At a loss of what to do, how to right his life, Johnny bent his head and prayed. He sucked in a deep breath and exhaled in a rush, blinking away emotion misting his eyes.
Another dog yelped.
Then he laughed, the sound loud and clear as revelation illuminated his heart, filling him with new hope.
Another woof in the night, then another, and pretty soon a canine chorus filled the air.
Johnny snapped up his head, listening. Could it be that instead of destruction, it could be restoration? He staggered to his feet and gripped the window ledge so hard his knuckles ached.
How did this come about? The last two years of his life flashed through his mind, and fierce feelings tore through him. What remained was love. His love for her. And, if he dared believe, her love for him.
And by gosh, he dared.
A tornado of air blasted from his lungs, and he rolled up his sleeves, marching to the kitchen. He brewed a cup of coffee, set it on the table and straddled a chair. After couple of sips, a grin flirted on his mouth.
Two years ago, he’d been wedged between monster mamma and bozo boy, and it had seemed hopeless but—the grin widened across his mouth—he’d caught the girl and married her.
Could history replay itself?
He took a gulp of the bittersweet brew and nearly scalded his throat. Feeling no pain, he slapped his palm on the table. He wouldn’t go down without a scuffle. He’d fight for his family. But he needed a strategy. A foolproof plan.
The digital on the stove flashed two a.m. There were no flights out of Vegas for another five hours. If he drove to L.A. like a maniac, he wouldn’t get there much earlier. Michael either drove back to Beverly Hills with Sam or hopped on the last flight out of McCarran Airport. Either way, Johnny had a few hours in his favor, and he’d use them for all their worth.
After an hour of pacing back and forth through the house, trying to formulate a plan, he flung himself on the couch. Samantha’s delicate scent lingered on the cushions and wrapped around him like a soft caress. Erotic memories tantalized his mind, stirring his blood, his heart, with longing. Heat infused his body. He broke out in a cold sweat; dark images tormented his mind.
Samantha and Michael.
A fierce growl erupted from his lungs. He wouldn’t dare. Could Michael be so diabolical? She was nearly nine months pregnant for heaven’s sake. Finally, tossing and turning, he fell into a fitful sleep.
************
Sun filtering through the window warmed his face. Johnny cracked an eye open and glanced at his wristwatch. Five a.m. He groaned and made to turn over.
A shockwave hit.
The empty gouge in his gut stung, and everything vibrated through his memory banks. A feeling of impending doom chilled his body. His eyes flew open, and he shot off the couch.
An hour later, Johnny slung his carryon bag over his shoulder and paced the airport terminal while waiting for the first flight out to Los Angeles. To pass the time, he dropped a coin in a slot machine. No kling, kling. No flashing lights. A gurgle of laughter sounded from deep in his throat. His gambling luck had run out.
And so had his options in the battle to reclaim his life, marriage, a future with what was his. All through the night, he’d rumbled with his thoughts and hadn’t come up with a clear-cut plan.
In the natural, it seemed a lost cause.
In the gaming circuit, a long shot.
In the faith realm, a possibility.
War raged in his mind. Believe or doubt.
He glanced at the Swiss watch on his wrist and got in line to board the Southwest aircraft, knowing he was about to face the biggest challenge of his life. Combat the enemy—monster mamma, her entourage and high roller Scott. Could he pull it off a second time and reclaim what was rightfully his … Samantha and their baby?
Fear ripped through him.
He found his seat, stored his bag in the bin above and settled back.
Buckling up, he stared out the window while the airliner taxied down the runway.
He had a choice.
Just as the aircraft was airborne, Johnny chose to believe … and the spirit of the fighting Irish rose up inside him. And he knew what he had to do.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
After his plane landed at LAX, Johnny jogged through the terminal, rented a Chevy sports coupe and burned rubber on the Golden State 5 to the strains of Hark the Herald Angels Sing. When he spotted the Wilshire/Beverly Hills off-ramp, he glanced in his rearview mirror, signaled and changed la
nes to exit.
“Breaking news!” The radio newscaster’s voice replaced the Christmas melody and jolted Johnny from his despondent thoughts. “Robbery in progress. Wilshire and Westwood. Advise motorists to stay clear from vicinity.”
Johnny smirked. “Welcome to L.A.”
“Woman hostage going into labor. Bank manager, Scott, assures us that …” Static crackled, drowning the remainder of the newsflash.
Johnny’s heart froze, and then splattered a crazy rhythm in his chest.
Dear God, could it be Samantha? Seconds later, he jackknifed into the Carroll’s driveway and slammed on the brakes. “Nah.” He shook off his foolish fears. Talk about a long shot. It couldn’t be. Too coincidental.
The roiling in his belly sent another SOS.
Right on cue, the front door of the estate flew open and banged shut behind Amelia Carroll. Amazing how she navigated the stairs in spiked heels at record speed, then nearly rammed into his car before she realized she had company.
“Belen, is that you?”
He shoved the passenger door open. “Get in!”
“My baby girl’s a host—”
“It is Samantha.” He felt like someone had taken a vacuum and sucked his insides out. Twisting on the ignition, he backed out through the double wrought-iron security gates, the tires screaming on the pavement.
“And Michael Scott,” Mrs. Carroll murmured.
A foreboding silence filled the cab.
Johnny changed gears, floored the gas pedal and focused on the road ahead. His mouth was set, a nerve battering his cheek.
“It’s not as it seems.” Sam’s mother gave him a wary glance, her words perforating the tension between them.
“No?” He arched a derisive brow. “Suppose you tell me how it is, mmm?”
“I’m too distraught.”
“Give it a go.” Johnny tightened his jaw against bitter feelings resurfacing. Most of his arguments with Sam had stemmed from mamma thinking him an unsuitable husband for her socialite daughter. “You were never at a loss for words when you badmouthed me to Sam.”
“Wh-why I never.” She squirmed in her seat and glanced out the window.
“You did.”
“Well, maybe a little.” She turned back and twisted her purse strap around a scarlet tipped finger. “I encouraged her to go for someone more established in his life.” A peek at him from beneath her mascara-laden lashes. “You can understand my concern as a parent.” A pause then, “You’re almost one.”
“Let’s call a spade a spade, shall we?” he muttered, his words loaded with sarcasm. “You schemed to have her marry money. Lots of it.”
“That would’ve helped.” She fanned her fingers across her neck. “In the circumstances, I figured one day she’d thank me.”
“What ’stances we talkin’ ’bout?”
“Got carried away with the gambling,” she said in an offhand way.
“She admits it,” Johnny mocked in awe.
“Sure, why not?” She played with a button on her silk suit with her fingertips. “I wanted the best for Sammy, and marrying the right man—”
“Scott.”
“He seemed a good catch at the time.”
A traffic light changed to red, and Johnny screeched to a stop, gripping the wheel. “What do you mean, at the time?”
“After I realized Sam wanted you—”
“She wanted me?”
“Oh, Belen,” she said in an exasperated tone. “Of course she did, does. And once my little girl makes up her mind about something, come hell or high water, she’ll stand by it.”
A lump of emotion took permanent residence in his throat. He pummeled out a breath. Hell and high water had flooded their path, washing Michael Scott on their doorstep.
“I decided to stop smashing a brick wall” – she tossed her head – “and gracefully stepped aside, letting her live the life she chose.”
“You still didn’t approve.” The green light flashed, and he pressed the pedal, zooming through the intersection.
“No.” Mrs. Carroll clung onto the seat edge with one hand and her seat belt with the other.
A police car swerved behind them, siren blaring and red light flashing. Like a law-abiding citizen, Johnny made to pull over and then changed his mind. The cop chase would get them to the bank faster.
“And so you got in cahoots with Scott and had him tracking Samantha to Goodsprings.”
“He did what!”
“Don’t pretend you knew nothing about it.”
“This might come as a surprise to you, young man, but I didn’t.”
“Nothing you’d do would surprise me, Mrs. Carroll,” he bit out.
“I did not sic Michael on Samantha.”
Johnny snorted at her choice of words.
“I had other … er … things to concentrate on.” She placed her purse on her lap and tapped her fingernails on it.
The sound aggravated his already major migraine, and he bit out, “Your casino bellying up, for one?”
“How’d you know?
He tossed her a dubious look and received a dodgy one back.
“Michael Scott,” they said in unison.
“That slippery slug—” She seethed. “Imagine my thinking him a suitable catch for my darling.”
“Imagine that.”
After a lengthy pause, she bounced back with her undeniably practiced charm. “Now tell me, what was Michael doing in glitz city? Besides chasing after my beautiful, married and very pregnant daughter.”
“Maybe not so married.”
“What do you mean?”
A heavy sigh. “That’s another story.” Was there a flea’s hair of a chance meddling mamma could be blameless in Scott’s second round dupes? “He was scouting for a casino restaurant.” With her track record, highly unlikely. He dealt her another quick glance, and shook his head.
“I know the one he’s after.” She squeezed her purse between her fingers, nearly bursting its contents.
He hoped she imagined it was Scott’s throat. An image he found immensely satisfying.
“Mine,” she blasted the word like a rifle shot. “The Lucky Lou.”
He’d known as much, but wanting insider info he tossed his head back and laughed. “Going after a losing hand?”
“Not that funny, I can assure you.”
“Okay, so, assure me,” he said tongue in cheek.
“After Sam married you,” she said, and the ‘you’ sounded like an accusation. “I figured I could still cut a deal with golden boy. For a share of the biz, he’d bail me out of my financial pit.”
“What happened?”
“He got greedy.” She hesitated, and then blurted, “Angling to capitalize on your marriage woes, he wanted the girl and the dough.”
A rude noise bounced from his throat while he glanced at the street signs ahead.
She stuck her chin out, indignant. “He threatened to take over … wanted control—”
“And you don’t?”
She raised her perfectly plucked eyebrows, then grinned. “Too smart for your own good, John boy.”
“Aww, gee, thanks.” Johnny shot her a covert glance. Sincere or bumping up his ego? “Why target the Lou instead of purchasing another?”
“Michael Scott talks a good story, but daddykins controls the purse strings. So long as he’s still breathing, Herbert Scott won’t relinquish an inch of his banking interests, especially to his son.” She jutted her bosom and bared her teeth. “Mikey thought he’d lowball me by cracking a quick and easy deal. In the forefront of the real estate buzz, he’d be set to collect a windfall of profits.”
“What made him a better catch then?” he blurted, the pricking of his pride forced the words out.
“The golden goose—”
“What, the egg not good enough for you?” Johnny mouthed back.
Amelia gave him a stern look beneath her brows, but her top lip twitched just a tad. “In any case” – she dismissed his wi
secrack with a wave of her hand – “having the boy in the family would’ve given me the cookie jar … er … piggy bank,” she confided, her tone a notch lower than normal. “Although he had to go to daddy first, I could control Michael and, therefore, work big daddy without him being the wiser.”
“And Sam?”
“She ’d have everything I never had as a girl.”
“Maybe she didn’t want what you wanted?”
“It’s obvious she didn’t.” A nervous chuckle; surprising coming from the stylish Mrs. Carroll. “That didn’t come out as I intended.”
“Yeah.” Johnny let that one go, glad they’d missed the a.m. traffic rush. Checking the rearview mirror, he spotted the traffic cop closing in.
“How dare that boy try to woo my daughter, my married daughter, behind my back just to get his paws on her inheritance.” Mrs. Carroll sniffed, grossly embellishing the drama she was creating. “Trying to get to me through Sammy is treading the edge.” A smug expression glossed her features. “If he doesn’t wise up, he’ll come tumbling down.”
“Don’t underestimate him,” Johnny said. “Michael may act the bumbling idiot, but he’s no fool.” He should know.
Mrs. Carroll poo-pooed the idea. “What an awfully boring life he must live to chase after another man’s wife and then want to pounce on a losing business.” She adjusted the cuff of her Chanel jacket and fluttered her lashes. “Don’t you think?”
Johnny shook his head.
“Why persist like a gamester on a losing streak unless—”
“He had a score to settle,” Johnny thought aloud, recent events clicking into place like a jigsaw puzzle.
“For?”
“Being jilted.”
“At the altar.” Mrs. Carroll giggled, then smothered the sound with her fingers. “Made to look the fool, eh?”
Frowning, Johnny scratched his unshaven cheek.
“Hardly intentional, but in his mind a betrayal nonetheless,” she murmured, a serious undertone to her words.
“And?” Johnny prodded.
“Humiliating in his station in the community,” she added. “That explained why daddy sent Mikey globetrotting for a couple of years. By the time he returned, the media frenzy flapped out and Michael could show his face about town, most hard pressed to recall the jilting incident of two years ago. Everyone, of course, except Michael.”