Chapter 21
The room breathed seduction. Maybe gasped was more like it. Jennifer had been aiming for something like a scene in one of Leigh Ann's better novels, but she had a more contemporary setting in mind, not a medieval romance.
The room was dark, lit only by pink forty-watt bulbs that were supposed to bathe the apartment in a soft, other-worldly glow but created something more like a dim, "Oh, God, I'm going blind" effect.
A cluster of candles on the coffee table formed a bright pocket of light around a fishbowl of stemless, floating carnations. The critique group would give her a D- for the carnations, but the supermarket was all out of everything else, except for daisies. She'd gone with the carnations.
Maybe Sam wouldn't notice. If she played her part right, Sam wouldn't remember anything about the night except that she had been there.
Mentally, Jennifer went down her check list. The wine was chilling in the refrigerator, and Celtic harp music was barely audible in the background. The salads were on ice, a loaf of Dee Dee's best bread was sliced and waiting along with the ingredients for a quick pasta dish—assuming they made it to the entree. The sleeping pills were ground into a fine powder and sat waiting on the kitchen counter, enough to make Sam really, really relaxed when mixed with a little wine. She'd have to make sure he didn't take too much alcohol.
She'd planned it all so perfectly. Everything should go fine. Everything would go fine as long as Sam didn't kiss her like he had on the roof.
The doorbell rang. Jennifer grabbed up a sheer black shirt and slipped it over her black tank top and leggings. She straightened her collar, tossed back her long, wavy hair—men, she'd been told, loved women's hair long and down—and touched the corner of her eye where the liner and the shadow made a dramatic upward curve. Eye makeup made her eyes swell if she wore it too often, but she felt it was necessary tonight.
She drew in a deep breath and threw back the door lock. Ready or not, Sam Culpepper, you are about to be seduced.
Sam greeted her with a puzzled, open-mouthed stare. "Jennifer?"
The cad. He could at least have thrown her a leer.
"Sam," she beamed, her mouth twitching at the corners as she consciously tried to take the plastic out of her smile. She took his hand, pulled him inside, and shut and locked the door behind him. The fly was in the parlor.
She watched as his eyes traveled from the coffee table to the stereo, to the dining table set with china—she owned only two good plates and two crystal water goblets, a gift from her mother to seed her hope chest. He arched an eyebrow. "I thought we were going to talk about the book."
She dropped his hand. She might as well have pinned a sign across her chest reading TAKE ME, YOU FOOL!
Her instincts told her to rip open the door, shove him back into the hall, and lock it after him. But she couldn't. She had to experience that gritty, real-life adrenaline rush of the criminal. And she needed Sam—not needed him, just plain, ordinary needed him—here, in her bed, all night.
She reached for his jacket. He shrugged it off and handed it to her. She hung it on the doorknob of the closet. "I thought you might like a little something before we talk," she purred, taking his arm and pulling him into the living area. She'd listened to enough of Leigh Ann's dialogue. If she could just get the words out without gagging, she should have enough lines stored up to at least get her through an hour with Sam, or however long it took him to pass out.
"A little something?" Sam repeated.
Damn! English majors and journalists were so literal.
She leaned against him and whispered up toward his ear, "Wine."
There was that stirring inside her again. How was she going to get close to this man and keep her objectivity if he sent butterflies racing to her nether reaches every time she was within six inches of him?
"Wine would be good."
Jennifer pushed Sam down onto the couch and reached for his collar. He folded his hand around hers.
"I'm just loosening your tie," she explained. He relaxed his grip but left his hand lightly folded over hers as she slid down the knot and unclasped his top button. She felt his grip tighten, and a tiny ball of panic formed in her stomach.
"I'll get that wine and be back in just a minute," she promised.
Jennifer escaped to the kitchen, where she shuddered against the counter. Was she out of her mind? She should have Steve Moore out there on her couch. She could run faster than he could, and she didn't have any problems staying on task around him—or stuffing him with sleeping pills. She had a funnel in the kitchen cabinet.
She shook the ground-up powder into a blue, long-stemmed glass, paused and then scooped out a little with a spoon. She didn't want to give him too much. She filled the glass with wine and then poured the pink one for herself. She'd seen too many whodunits—not to mention Danny Kaye's flagon-with-the-dragon, chalice-with-the-palace, vessel-with-the-pestle routine—where the drugged glass got switched to leave herself guessing which one had the pills. Blue was for boys; pink was for girls.
She swirled the red wine with a spoon until all of the white bits had disappeared, and then carried the glasses back to the couch. Sam was sitting stretched back with his eyes closed.
"You asleep?" she asked.
His eyes slowly opened. "I was just wondering how the accident happened."
"The accident?"
"The one where I died and went to heaven."
It was corny; it was stupid. If anyone else had said it, it would have made her mad.
She handed him the blue wineglass. He took a small sip and set it down on the coffee table. His arm was stretched out across the back of the couch, waiting. Jennifer took a big swig of wine and sat down next to him, her knee touching his. She stared at the wineglass she held in her lap. She felt his gaze travel over her profile and down the soft curls of her hair.
"I admire you," he said softly.
She whipped her head around to look at him in the gray light, that hair of his falling loose over one eyebrow, his dark eyes shining black in the dim light, and a sweet, half smile on his face. He reached for his wine and took another sip.
"You what?" she asked.
He shook his head. "You heard me."
"Why?"
"Because you have the courage to do what you want to do and because you won't let anyone tell you that you can't."
"Maybe I'm just stupid," she suggested.
He shook his head. "You're smart, you're damn good, and you know it. And it'll happen for you one day."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because it has to. Because you won't give up."
Because you're willing to do anything—including pulling a ridiculous stunt like this—to make it happen.
Jennifer shook her head.
"Look, I work in the newspaper business. Do you know how many journalists plan to write the great American novel? All of them. And do you know how many of them do? Very few, and only a small, small percentage of them ever get published.
"You've studied your field, and you know what you're doing—no illusions. You've got eight books, you tell me. Maybe it'll be your ninth or maybe your fourteenth, but it's got to happen for you. It's what you do. It's who you are." Sam took a big swallow of wine and replaced the glass on the table.
She could have kissed him. She wanted to kiss him. She took another drink of wine, waited for it to hit her stomach in one big burn, set her glass on the table next to his, and leaned forward to kiss the corner of his mouth.
Sam's arm dropped behind her, drawing her close against the tight muscles of his chest. He turned his head and reached for her chin with his hand, drawing her mouth in line with his own and outlining her lips gently with little kisses—and stirring feelings she had long thought she could live without. He stopped and drew back, watching her in the soft light.
"What is it?" she asked.
"Nothing."
"Tell me," she whispered.
"Where's the pod?"
She stared at him. She knew exactly what he meant, the crumb. She'd seen all the versions of Invasion of the Body Snatchers, including a few of the ripoffs.
For just a moment, she'd thought she had him. Why couldn't he just accept her as a sultry, sexy seductress? Stupid question.
"No pods," she said, his face still close enough to hers to feel his breath on her cheek.
"And I guess you expect me to trust you, a pod-person. You're just waiting for me to go to sleep, aren't you, so that a pod can form into the shape of my body and take over."
Go to sleep—yes. And, at that point, a pod-person, a cooperative pod-person, would have been an improvement. She bit back all the smart retorts coursing through her mind, but she couldn't contain herself if she sat there one more second. She had to convince Sam, at least for the moment, that she wasn't at all like she really was.
Jennifer stood up, still holding his hand, and pulled him to his feet. "We need to eat," she said.
Sam wrapped his arms around her. "I already ate something," he said, folding her to him.
"Well, I didn't," she insisted, ducking back out of his hold, fully expecting to see sparks fly in the dim light.
What was she doing? She couldn't run away. Sam had to be convinced she'd let him spend the night with her. She turned back toward him, feeling like a yo-yo, not knowing which way to bob.
Sam must have seen the crazed look in her eyes. "Are you all right?" he asked.
Her plastic smile was back in place. "Fine. Perfect. It's just that I worked really hard on this supper and I want you to enjoy it. And I'm starved. Really, really hungry, and I get a little crazy when I haven't had anything to eat."
Sam scooped up his wineglass and drained it. "Next time, let me bring the wine. This stuff's a little bitter. Want me to help? I'm not a bad cook."
Jennifer stared at the empty glass as Sam put it back down. Just don't let it hurt him, she prayed.
"No, the salads are all ready. Just have a seat."
Jennifer placed the fresh, sliced bread on a small plate and put it between the place settings on the table. She scooped the two bowls of greens from the refrigerator, peeled back the plastic wrap and sprinkled each with croutons and Parmesan cheese. "I do my own salad dressing. I hope you like it," she added, setting the bowl down in front of him and taking her seat.
Sam attacked the bowl with relish.
"I thought you weren't hungry," Jennifer said, watching his greedy descent into the food.
"I never said that. I said I'd already eaten—lunch. Besides, I had something else on my mind. Still do. But the salad will do for the time being." He picked up a piece of bread, tore it in two, and paused.
"What's wrong?" Jennifer asked.
"I don't know. I'm feeling a little spacey all of a sudden." He smiled a crooked smile. "Don't worry about me. I'll be all right."
No one was all right with ground-up sleeping pills and a full glass of wine in his stomach.
"Would you mind getting me another glass of wine?"
"Can't do it."
"What?"
"I only bought one bottle, and… and I want to save the rest to go with our dessert."
"Dessert?" His grin was getting more and more lopsided.
"Cheesecake with a thin chocolate sauce."
Sam's eyes drifted shut and then popped open. "Could you excuse me a minute?"
"Sure. What's the matter?"
Sam stood up. "I don't know. It's been a long week and I guess I'm simply exhausted. Maybe if I splash some water on my face."
He took an unsteady step back from the table.
Jennifer ducked under his arm and steadied him. "Let me help you," she offered. "I think you ought to lie down."
She steered him down the short hallway and pushed open the bedroom door. Muffy was all over them, panting and licking. She should have stashed her in the bathroom, but it was too small and the dog had a habit of jumping into and out of the bathtub creating a ringing sound like one of those huge, old bells on some boat. Most distracting.
"Down, Muffy," Jennifer ordered fruitlessly. Muffy only obeyed when Jennifer's hands weren't full. She was smart like that.
"Ice cream, Muffy, ice cream," Jennifer offered. The dog scrambled out of the room, and Jennifer managed to kick the door shut with her foot.
"What was that?" Sam slurred.
"My roommate. Let me get you down on the bed."
Sam was growing heavier. Jennifer shifted his weight and grabbed the comforter and top sheet with her free hand, pulling it awkwardly to the foot of the bed. Then she eased him onto the mattress. She wanted those covers down so she wouldn't be stuck trying to pull them out from under him after he passed out.
His head hit the pillow and he ran his hand absently over his face. "I'll be all right in a minute," he assured her. "I just need some time to relax."
She unlaced his shoes, dropped them next to the bed, and scooted his feet under the covers. As she reached for his tie, Sam grabbed her hand and pulled her down to him.
"I never thought…" he began. He kissed her full on the mouth, a long, passionate kiss that left Jennifer gasping. She drew back and sucked in a lungful of air. She hadn't been kissed with that much passion since Danny Buckner got her alone in his dad's old Chevrolet the night of their senior prom. But there was a major difference between Danny's needy, greedy, got-to-have-it kind of kiss and Sam's soulful, intoxicating…
She stood up.
"Don't," he pleaded. "Don't pull away." He still held her hand.
She knelt down next to the bed, resting her cheek against his. "I haven't felt this way about anybody…" His speech was becoming more and more indistinct. "Jennifer… Jennifer… I think I…" His breathing steadied, his eyes fell shut, and his fingers loosened around her wrist.
And for one fleeting second, she would have traded all possibility of fame and fortune just to hear the rest of Sam's sentence.
Dying to Get Published Page 21