Wife for a Day

by Patti Berg

  “Look, I’ll return the clothes,” she said, putting the glass coffeepot on the table and sliding into the seat across from him. “I’ll pay back every penny you paid me. It might take me a while, but—”

  “Am I supposed to believe you?”

  “Why shouldn’t you?”

  “You promised you wouldn’t leave without me that night in Palm Beach, but you did.”

  She laughed lightly. “And that makes me untrustworthy?”

  “That and a whole series of things.”

  “Such as?”

  “Stealing a sewing machine.”

  “I borrowed without asking. I don’t know how you found out about that, but obviously the person who told you left out the fact that I returned it the next day. I might be one step away from the poorhouse, but I don’t steal.”

  “Then what do you call buying nearly eight thousand dollars worth of clothing and jewelry, including lingerie that must have been made out of gold, and charging all of it to me? And while we’re at it, what do you call going to the country club with my sister and pretending to be Arabella Fleming?”

  “I call it saving your miserable ass.”

  Jack couldn’t help but laugh. “Now that’s an excuse I don’t hear every day.”

  Her pretty eyes narrowed into a frown. “Didn’t Lauren call you?”

  “Why should she?”

  “Because, Mr. Remington, your sister accidentally turned up at the espresso shop where I work when I’m not working here. It was her birthday, and she asked me to go shopping and have dinner with her. I said no, but she insisted. I don’t know how well you know your sister, but let me tell you, Jack, she doesn’t believe in the word no.”

  “That doesn’t explain the clothes.”

  “Miss,” someone at another table called, “could I have an ice tea?”

  “One second,” she tossed over her shoulder, and leaned close. “Your sister insisted I buy the clothes and charge them to my fiancé. It was pretty obvious to me that you never told her the truth. What was I supposed to do? Screw up your little charade by telling her I don’t have a fiancé or the proper clothes to wear to a country club?”

  She didn’t wait for him to respond. Instead, she slid out of the booth and walked away.

  He watched her as she worked. She didn’t look the type who would perpetrate some clever scam, yet she’d fallen so damn easily into playing a role when he’d asked her to, and she’d picked it up again without missing a beat. She’d seemed hesitant about taking his money, so hesitant she’d made him think she was a troubled woman, then she’d plucked the money right out of his hands.

  But, hell, when he was around her most all his anger drained out of him. She had a smile that warmed him and a way with words that made him want to spend every minute in her company.

  She might be a con artist, then again she might not, but he found himself wanting to be the victim of any one of her schemes.

  Fifteen minutes later she was back, and she slipped into the booth again. “I’ve got a ten-minute break. If you think you can be civil, I’ll keep you company.”

  He pushed his cup of coffee toward her. “Want some?”

  She took the cup in both hands and held it to her lips. “I thought you were going to tell Lauren the truth.”

  “I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I’ve spent most of my life trying to make her happy.”

  “She told me. She also said you sometimes do too much.”

  “Old habits are hard to break. I tried calling her last night to tell her, but she’d already gone to London. I know I should have told her sooner, but I had other things on my mind.”

  “What could have been more important than telling your sister about the crazy scheme you concocted?”

  “A troubled son.”

  She smiled softly, and damn if that smile didn’t come close to melting his heart. “I’m sorry.”

  “Your mama didn’t by any chance have any sage advice about teenage boys, did she?”

  “Only to stay away from them.”

  “Good advice for a teenage girl, not good advice for a dad.”

  Sam picked a cold french fry from his plate, swirled it in the catsup, and stuck it in her mouth. Her cheeks had filled out some since he’d seen her last. Working as a waitress instead of a tailor had obviously provided her with steady meals. Still, the dark circles beneath her eyes were far more visible than they’d been before, and he couldn’t help but wonder why.

  “Have I answered all your questions?” she asked, before putting a second fry in her mouth.

  “There’s only a few more.”

  “Then ask away.”

  “Why didn’t you call me?”

  She frowned in puzzlement. “I didn’t have your phone number.”

  “It was in the note with the roses.”

  The frown deepened. “Did you send me roses?”

  He nodded. “To Antonio’s. A few days after you ran out on me.”

  She bit her lip, looking a little contrite, as if all that had happened weighed heavy on her mind. “I didn’t get any roses. They must have come after I quit.”

  “Quit? I heard a different story. Something about being fired because of the sewing machine.”

  “The sewing machine wasn’t the reason. I took that after I was fired.”

  He put an elbow on the table and rested his chin on his knuckles. He couldn’t help but grin. “Care to tell me the whole story?”

  “It’s long. My break’s not.”

  “Then give me the condensed version.”

  She took a sip of his water and stared at the table as she spoke. She told him about getting fired, about taking the sewing machine, about needing a tip to tide her over until she could get another job. He could sense her embarrassment, but he felt nothing but compassion for her and her troubles, and concern that there was much more to the story, things he wished she would share.

  When she finished, he reached across the table, sliding his fingers over hers. “What are you doing when you get off work?”

  “Going home.”

  “You don’t have far to go, do you? I saw the Volkswagen in the parking lot, Sam. I know where you live.”

  Discomfort was plainly written on her face, and he knew her living conditions were another cause for embarrassment. Still, she offered him a smile. “It’s cozy.”

  “So is my room at the Breakers. You could curl up there and sleep. Maybe have dinner with me later in the day.”

  “I’m not into one-night stands. I don’t like one-day stands, either. Besides, we don’t have anything in common.”

  “I thought we had a lot in common.”

  “Such as?”

  The cowboy part of him that had a tendency to fade when he stepped on Palm Beach soil kicked in. “You fit right nice in my arms when we’re dancing.”

  “An inflatable doll would, too.”

  “I’ve never tried kissing an inflatable doll, but I doubt they holler ‘stop’ just when things are getting good.”

  “I hollered ‘stop’ because you were moving too fast.”

  “What if we started over? Moved a little more slow? Dinner really does mean just that—dinner. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to.”

  “It won’t work, Jack. You don’t trust me. More than likely you never will.”

  “I’ll admit I’m not a trusting man, but I’ll also admit that I’ve been wrong about people before. Maybe we should give each other a second chance?”

  “I don’t think so. We’re from two different worlds, and I don’t want to go somewhere that I don’t fit in.”

  She reached into her pocket and pulled out a sapphire bracelet and earrings. “I’ve been carrying these around for two days now, scared to death someone would know I was carting around a few thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry. Lauren insisted I buy them.” Sam laughed, a sound that made him feel good, a sound he wanted to keep on hearing. “Your sister’s got great taste, but they’re not my style. I kind
of go for plastic and thrift-store hand-me-downs, you know, things I can keep in my purse or the bug, things no one would bother to steal.”

  Jack slipped his hand over her upturned palm. “Keep them,” he told her, but she shook her head as she pulled away, leaving only the sapphires in his grasp.

  Pushing back the cuff on his shirt, she looked at his watch, and the simple brush of her fingers over the hair on his arms made him ache.

  “My break’s over,” she said in a rush. “I’ve got to get back to work.”

  “Dinner’s not a long-term commitment, Sam. Are you sure you won’t reconsider?”

  “No.”

  Rising, she took the check from her apron pocket and set it on the table.

  “Waitress!”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “Looks like duty calls.”

  Her words rang with finality, but he wasn’t ready to give up. “You can push me away, Sam, but I’ll come back. I let someone important get away from me once. I won’t let it happen so easily this time.”

  “Those are pretty words, Jack. But they’re only words. Actions speak so much louder. If you want to impress me, I need something more.”

  “Such as?”

  She laughed, and blew him a parting kiss. “For starters, you could leave a big tip.”

  eight

  “Hey, Sam, there’s a phone call for you.”

  “Be there in a minute,” Sam grumbled, when Tyrone called out to her from the kitchen. She cleared the table where Jack had been sitting a few minutes before, slapped down four new place settings, and stormed behind the counter, ready to do battle with anyone who got in her way.

  What a fool she’d been! For the first time in her whole entire life a good man, someone downright decent—even though he’d inconveniently forgotten to leave a tip—had been interested in getting to know her better, and she’d pushed him away.

  You’re crazy, Sam! Absolutely out of your mind.

  She dumped Jack’s dirty dishes in a nearly full tub and stared at the peach pie he’d barely touched.

  Maybe she wasn’t so crazy. She remembered her mama and the rich man who’d promised her fancy things. She also remembered her mama saying that women from the wrong side of the tracks were the forbidden fruit rich men craved. They’d take one bite, maybe two, then drop the remains in the gutter and go away.

  Jack Remington might have wanted more than a one-night stand. He might have treated her to three or four nights of his time, maybe even days, but in the end, he’d go back to his mansion in Wyoming and she’d still be waiting tables at Denny’s.

  She didn’t want to be the girl he loved and left behind. She didn’t want to get hurt by the only man who’d ever made the soles of her feet tingle. Her heart had wanted more, but self-preservation had won out in the end.

  “Are you ever gonna take this call?” Tyrone growled.

  She pushed through the swinging kitchen doors and grabbed the phone out of his hand, tossing him an apologetic smile. “Hello.”

  “Good morning, Samantha.”

  Johnnie Russo had picked the wrong moment to call. She’d made a habit of being polite and obedient to Johnnie in the past five and a half months. This morning, tired, cranky, and totally confused about her feelings for Jack Remington, she couldn’t be bothered with Johnnie and one of his all-too-frequent calls.

  “What do you want?”

  “Is that any way to talk to your benefactor?”

  “It’s late, I’m exhausted, a millionaire just stiffed me on a tip, and no, I don’t have any money to send you.”

  “You’re running out of time, sweetheart.”

  “Don’t you think I know it? I told you I needed a few more weeks.”

  “And I told you when you signed the contract that I don’t give extensions, no matter what the reason.”

  “I’m working two jobs. I’m living in my car.”

  “I know all that. I know about the Espresso Nook. I know about Denny’s. And I know about the KOA. By the way, I hear you play a mean game of volleyball.”

  Sam leaned against the wall, almost ready to give in to defeat. She’d thought that putting three thousand miles between herself and Johnnie would keep her safe until the contract expired. Obviously, she’d thought wrong. “Are you having me followed?”

  Johnnie sounded like a hyena when he laughed. “Just keeping tabs on you.”

  “I’m not going anywhere. I told you I’d pay you back, and I meant it. So why don’t you get off my case.”

  “Actually, all I want to do right now is deliver a message from an old friend of yours.”

  Sam didn’t have to ask who. She knew perfectly well.

  “Graham Welles said to tell you hello. He also said he’d be willing to pay off the contract if you’d be willing to come back to Hollywood.”

  The mere thought of seeing either Graham Welles or Johnnie Russo again sickened her. “Tell him to go take a flying leap off the Hollywood sign.”

  “He won’t be pleased.”

  “I’m not worried about pleasing him, I’m worried about paying you. Now, if you don’t mind, I can’t make money if I’m talking on the phone.”

  She hung up. Her insides began to shake as she started to think of the mistakes she’d made five months ago. She’d sought out Graham Welles when she should have known better. Mama had told her not to trust him, not to believe any rich man who promised the world. Yet she’d gone to him when her mama needed help. Gone to him and pleaded for his aid, only to have him ask for her body first. She’d made a promise to herself that she’d never sell her soul, and she’d come so close that night. So very close. But she couldn’t—not even for her mother.

  She’d trusted Johnnie Russo, too. During a time of desperation she’d let down her defenses, fallen for big talk and a fancy smile, and gotten herself so deeply in debt to him that she now feared that in two weeks he’d claim her life as the balance she still owed.

  And now Jack. There was a possibility that he might be more ruthless than either Graham or Johnnie. Jack Remington could easily steal her heart and, when he was through with it, toss it away.

  Of all the worries in her life, that one seemed to bother her most.

  “You got a problem?” Tyrone asked, staring at her as he cleaned the grill.

  “Several,” she tossed back, trying to hide her fears behind a smile. “Thanks for asking.”

  “Anything I can do to help?”

  Tyrone stood a good six-foot-six. He must have weighed close to three hundred pounds and had arms the size of palm trees, but he was a pussycat at heart, and Johnnie Russo’s goons would chop him down in no time at all if he got in their way. Jack Remington might not appreciate his interference, either.

  “It’s sweet of you to ask, Tyrone, but unless you have thirty-seven hundred dollars you can lend me, I guess I’ll have to take a rain check.” She grinned as she shoved away from the wall and left Tyrone’s kitchen.

  By 3:30 the restaurant was virtually empty. This was the time of morning she usually asked Tyrone to fix her a big plate of biscuits and gravy, but she wasn’t hungry.

  Grabbing the vacuum cleaner from the back room, she plugged it in and mindlessly pushed it over the carpet. She touched the scar on her jaw, and thought of Graham Welles. He’d ripped her blouse the night she’d gone to him, asking for money to help save her mama’s life. He’d laughed at her and called her a bitch. He’d hit her, and told Sam a whore like her mother was better off dead.

  Graham’s opinions didn’t matter. Felicity Jones never talked about what drove her to the life she’d lived, and Sam had never asked. She’d never talked of the man who’d gotten her pregnant. She’d never complained about her lot in life. She’d just lived it.

  And she’d loved her daughter.

  Sam couldn’t have asked for a better mother, and her opinion was the only one that mattered.

  She’d given her mother the finest funeral money could buy. She’d given her a granite headstone that would last a
n eternity and a plot of ground Felicity Jones could always claim as her own.

  Going to Johnnie Russo for money had been foolish; he’d even told her so after the funeral. But she didn’t regret it at all.

  Foolishness seemed to be part of her life.

  Pushing Jack Remington away might have been her most foolish mistake so far.

  Don’t think about it, she told herself. What’s done is done, so move on.

  She continued to vacuum, moving chairs and tables, and pouring an occasional cup of coffee for the one or two people who straggled in and out.

  At five till four she put the vacuum cleaner away. She was so darn tired, but she still had to go to the KOA and clean bathrooms. Taking her tote bag from her locker, she said good-bye to Tyrone, to the other waitress crazy enough to work this shift, and headed for the door.

  It was dark outside. At the far end of the parking lot, right next to her bug, she could see someone rummaging through the Dumpster, and she waited in the light of the Denny’s sign for the man with the shopping cart to disappear.

  She hated being out in the middle of the night. It made her feel vulnerable and alone.

  A white van pulled to a stop in front of her, and the man behind the wheel stuck his head out the window. “Are you Samantha Jones?”

  She grabbed the handle of the door and started to go back inside. She still had two weeks to pay off her loan, but maybe Johnnie had decided not to wait.

  “Hey, don’t run away. You look like the lady I was told to deliver something to.”

  As if that was supposed to make her feel better.

  The guy looked at a white piece of paper fastened to a clipboard. “You are Samantha Jones, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” she said hesitantly.

  “I thought so.” He climbed out of the van and slid open the side door. “I was told to deliver these to you and you only. The guy who bought them said you had long red hair and a killer body. You fit the bill.”

  “Thanks,” she said, feeling a sudden blush touching her cheeks as she wondered who, besides Johnnie Russo, would send an unmarked delivery van out in the middle of the night with a driver who’d been ordered to give her something.