by Lucy Ryder
Sam’s eyes widened at the woman’s vehemence. “Love?” she gasped, appalled. “Aunt Coco—”
“Dammit, I could shake you,” the other woman snapped. “Your grandfather would be ashamed of you for being such a coward.”
Coming on the heels of her own self-flagellation, the accusation stung and Sam took a step back only to ram her hip into the counter behind her. She sucked in a sharp painful breath and curled her fingers around the edge to steady herself. “C-coward?”
Oh, damn. Did Coco know she still had panic attacks and avoided anything that would cause them? Did she see the pain and panic threatening to break her apart inside at the thought of Adam moving on to someone like Tiffany Travers—or one of the other gorgeous, sophisticated women surrounding him?
“Yes,” Coco affirmed firmly, and for an instant, Sam wondered if she’d spoken out loud. “For hiding and ignoring what’s in front of your nose.” And with that parting shot, she spun away and left Sam gaping at her retreating back, too shocked to admit that she hadn’t thought of her plan in weeks.
“You okay, Ms. Jefferies?” the head server enquired.
She nodded quickly, embarrassed that anyone had heard her being called a coward. “I’m fine,” she said firmly, returning to the job she was making a complete hash of when he looked unconvinced. “Rough day.”
Hell, rough year. But she would be fine, she vowed fiercely. Soon. Maybe. All she had to remember was that she wasn’t the kind of woman to inspire grand passion or loyalty in men and she’d be fine. Lawrence, whom she’d known most of her life, had been promised the position of CEO of Gilford Pharmaceuticals once Lilian retired if he married her and had been quite happy to live a lie to gain access to the Gilford billions. She felt like a complete idiot for not seeing that sooner. Or that he was gay.
Adam? Well, who knew what motivated him? Because she had no idea. Maybe the gossip was right. Maybe he had a thing for socialites—a very temporary thing that allowed him to exorcise his demons without engaging his heart.
Scowling at the platter, she forcibly moved a couple of canapés. Not that she was a socialite. Far from it. She’d always had a job, wasn’t exactly known for being fashionable and was rarely seen at the “right” parties with the “right” people.
As much as she hated to admit it, she was more Samantha than Amanda. Amanda was fun and spontaneous, full of courage and vitality. Amanda was sexy and exciting while Samantha was...meh. She was bland, uninteresting and—bleh.
Was it any wonder, she asked herself when she returned to the party and immediately caught sight of Adam, head bent intimately toward Tiffany and laughing as they shared a joke, that he would prefer being in the company of gorgeous, exciting women?
Ignoring the knife-sharp pain spearing through her body, she spun away only to lurch into someone right behind her. She stumbled back a step, an automatic apology on her lips.
“Oh,” she gasped when she saw exactly who it was. Her heart sank. The last time she’d seen Blake Lowry had been their dinner date where he’d hinted that a donation came with a price. A price she wasn’t prepared to pay.
“Mr. Lowry. I—I’m sorry, I didn’t see you.”
“Samantha,” Blake Lowry drawled smoothly. He lifted his wine glass and took a sip of excellent Zinfandel, his eyes glittering as they swept over her in a way that made her uncomfortable. “I thought you’d agreed to call me Blake?”
“Yes, of course,” she said graciously, pasting on her social smile as she edged away under the guise of facing him. Blake Lowry, it seemed, thought every woman was flattered by his attention, one of those obnoxious men who thought their money and social status gave them permission to take what—and whom—they wanted, regardless. “Have you tried the lobster rolls or the salmon and watercress wraps? The caterer’s recipe is—”
“As excellent as they are,” he drawled, lifting his hand to brush intimately at a tendril of hair that had escaped her updo. “I’m not interested in swapping recipes, Samantha.”
“What about the artwork?” she asked, dislodging his hand by turning to the large painting of the New Mexico landscape beside them. “I noticed earlier that you were interested in the sculpture. Have you met the artist?”
His eyes dropped to her breasts and she had to force herself not to recoil, reminded that she was more than adequately covered—in the front, at least. “I’m much more interested in why you’ve been avoiding me.”
“Not at all,” she said sweetly. “As hostess, I’ve been busy and—”
“Too busy to spend time with a potential donor?” he interrupted softly, catching her hand and tucking it into the crook of his arm. Sam’s instinct was to snatch her hand away but she resisted the urge, especially when he tightened his grip on her fingers. What she couldn’t stop, however, was the irritation that stiffened her spine.
“Of course not,” she said graciously, all but gritting her teeth. “I—”
“I’m delighted to hear it,” he interrupted again, much to Sam’s growing annoyance. He’d done that during their dinner too, reminding her that he was the kind of man who wasn’t interested in anything a woman had to say, only that she made him look good. “Why don’t you tell me more about your little foundation while we admire the artwork?”
* * *
Adam looked down at Tiffany Travers, who was practically bonded to his side, and wondered how he was going to pry her off without causing a scene. For years, petite blondes had kind of been his type—a shrink would have a field day with that, considering his mother was one—but now all he could hear was the sound of husky laughter drifting over the noise of the crowd. Husky laughter that had the power to make him smile even when he didn’t feel like smiling.
Especially as she was purposely avoiding him; which made as little sense as the emotion he’d caught in her expressive eyes before her public mask had slipped into place. As a foundation board member, he was forced to play the social game when all he wanted was to hunt her down and demand to know what game she was playing.
Watching her out of the corner of his eye while pretending interest in the conversation around him, Adam decided that dealing with Samantha was like tracking the elusive spotted lynx. As frustrating as it was, those rare glimpses he had only made him more determined to catch her.
Her back was to him and the sight of her long slender, naked spine had his blood pressure hiking to dangerous heights. And not in a good way. Especially with pretty boy’s hand straying to the dip in her waist just above the shallow dimples at the base of her spine. He wanted to march over there and physically remove the offending touch but since she didn’t seem to mind, he couldn’t very well toss her over his shoulder and drag her into his cave like a Neanderthal.
He wanted to publicly claim her as his but he was all too aware that she’d chosen the golden god with his casually tousled blond hair, careful bronzed tan and elegantly expensive suit. Teamed with the effortless confidence the social elite seemed to be born with, it identified him as someone who’d grown up in the same world as Samantha. Together, they drew the eye, standing out among the other couples filling the gallery. Smooth, polished with the kind of class that shouted money—and lots of it.
It was something Adam would never have and could never offer Samantha. Not the billions her family was reputed to be worth. He was who he was and he’d long since come to terms with it. Living in San José, rubbing shoulders with the upper classes and dating socialites would never make him one of them and he was fooling himself if he thought he had anything to offer Samantha other than the brutal hours of a busy surgeon.
None of that seemed to matter, however, because the sight of another man touching places where Adam’s lips had been was eliciting some pretty fierce emotions that smacked of jealousy. Since he’d never been jealous over a woman before, the roiling emotions were as unwelcome as they were unexpected.
Which is probably
why he stayed where he was surrounded by women he had little interest in while visually tracking Sam’s movements and tracing the delicate line of her spine, the pale creamy skin between the wide V of silver-shot black. Most of the women present were dressed far more provocatively than Samantha, but none of them looked as sexy or classy.
With determined effort, he tried to ignore the swirl of anger and confusion, and focus on Tiffany’s high titters and breathless account of her week in Cabo San Lucas. Frankly, he couldn’t have cared less about her topless bathing or the new micro bikini she was offering to model for him.
All he could think about was watching the guy dip his head to whisper something in Sam’s ear. All he could wonder was if she was shivering the way she did when Adam kissed the soft skin beneath that same ear. And all he could imagine was punching the guy in his perfect nose.
Damn the stuffed shirt for looking like he was anticipating molding Samantha into something as erotic as the sculpture they were studying, he thought with a burst of fury as the guy suddenly tugged her toward the dark hallway that probably led to the owner’s offices. Empty and quiet this time of night.
Abruptly excusing himself, Adam ignored Tiffany’s shocked protest and wended his way between the wine-guzzling crowd discussing everything from the San José Sharks’ recent win to the price of tech stocks.
With his gaze locked where he’d last seen Samantha, Adam didn’t stop until he stepped into the passage, just in time to hear a husky voice say, “Mr. Lowry—Blake, stop. As flattered as I am by your offer, I really need to get back and...oh!”
Adam heard a faint scuffle, an outraged squeak and took a couple of long strides down the darkened passage, arriving in time to see Samantha pinned against the wall, trying to avoid the man’s hands and mouth.
By the time he reached them, Samantha’s dress had been ripped off one smooth shoulder and the guy’s hand was up her skirt.
“Blake, stop.”
Her shocked squeak had fury exploding through Adam’s skull, and before he knew he’d moved, he’d grabbed the other man and flung him against the opposite wall. After one quick glance at Samantha’s shocked face, he turned to face Lowry, taking care to block her body with his.
“I distinctly heard the lady say stop,” he drawled, tamping down the fury that darkened the edges of his vision. If there was one thing he hated, it was men forcing themselves on unwilling women.
“Who the hell are you?” the man demanded, looking furious at the interruption. With a jerk, he adjusted the jacket Adam had practically ripped off him and smoothed his hair back into its preppy neatness.
“A witness if Miss Jefferies decides to press charges,” he said, ignoring Sam’s soft moan of humiliation.
“Charges?” the guy drawled, one eyebrow arching arrogantly as he flicked imaginary lint off his jacket sleeve. “For what exactly?”
“Assault,” Adam snapped coldly, his eyes narrowing dangerously as the other man began to laugh, gaze scathing as it swept over Adam.
“You seriously think anyone’s going to believe the word of a redskin over me?” His insulting emphasis reminded Adam of all the times he’d been called redskin and half-breed. “Do you know who I am, Tonto?”
Adam’s muscles hardened, and as though she knew he was imagining lashing out at the man’s smug face, Sam grabbed hold of his jacket. “Please, Adam,” she murmured, tightening her grip. “Let it go.” And when he and the other man continued their stare-down, she rasped in a low intense voice, “Please.”
After a tense silence, Blake gave a bark of mocking laughter, his gaze flicking over Sam with insulting lewdness. “You’re welcome to her, Cochise,” he drawled insolently, pushing away from the wall where he’d been lounging. “Mousy ice queens aren’t my thing anyway, but it was fun seeing if I could get her to melt.”
With a contemptuous smirk that said, My proposition still stands, babe. Let me know if you’re willing to trade a nice chunk of change for your little charity, Blake Lowry turned and sauntered off, leaving a tense silence in his wake.
Furious that she would put up with being mauled and insulted by a smug, arrogant jerk because of his money and social standing, Adam spun around abruptly, forcing her to release her grip on him. Startled by his abrupt move, she backed away, looking wide-eyed and wary. Not that he could blame her since aggression pumped hot and fierce through his veins.
Unable to help himself, he raked his gaze across her disheveled appearance, taking in the way her dress sagged on one side, exposing a pale shoulder and the tempting swell of her breast. Her elegantly upswept hair looked a little mussed and Adam hated that the other man had seen her like this—soft and tousled and anything but ice-queenly.
Fury rolled through him again.
After a long pause, he lifted a hand to slide the dress back over her shoulder with fingers that shook.
A visible tremor moved through her as her head jerked up, her eyes wide and liquid as their gazes locked. Suppressed emotion darkened her eyes and one lone drop of liquid clung to her lashes. The sight of it tilted the earth on its axis and something clenched hard in his chest.
Feeling abruptly off balance, he fisted shaking hands and shoved them into his trouser pockets to prevent himself from reaching for her. “You okay?” he rasped, telling himself fiercely that nothing had changed. When suddenly everything had.
Seeing her in her social element among other beautiful people had brought home to him how little he had to offer her. He refused to be like his father and he’d been kidding himself thinking there could be a future for them. He didn’t fit into her world any more than she fitted into his and he’d be damned if he’d beg.
Her throat worked spasmodically before her voice emerged low and husky as she said, “I’m fine...thank you,” in a tone so polite his jaw clenched.
And because he felt as though his life were spinning out of control, he gave a brief nod and walked away before the crushing need to yank her into his arms and beg her to love him overwhelmed his common sense.
CHAPTER TWELVE
AS ADAM WALKED AWAY—the expression in his suddenly remote eyes telling her this was the last time—Samantha blinked back the burn of tears and pressed a hand to the cramping in her belly.
Her breath escaped in a long shudder as she sank back against the wall, grateful for the support, the moment of solitude. The relief, however, was short-lived as nausea abruptly rose, sending her rushing into the bathroom.
Fortunately, she was alone when she burst into the ladies’ room, heading for the nearest stall where she promptly lost the contents of her stomach. Not that there was much to lose, she thought with a grimace. Confrontation had always made her feel sick but Blake’s attack—and Adam’s awful remoteness—left her shaking so hard she could barely stand. How did other women handle such situations? And why had Adam reacted as he had?
Staggering from the stall, she caught sight of her reflection in the vanity mirror and froze. Her eyes were huge, stark in her pasty white face and a sheen of perspiration dotted her brow. She looked like she would fly apart at the seams at the slightest encouragement.
It was at that moment she saw herself clearly for the first time. And what she saw had anger abruptly flashing through her, snapping her spine straight and flooding her cheeks with color.
Blake was right, dammit, she thought with a rush of self-loathing. He was a bigoted ass, true, but he was right. About her, at least. She was a mouse and it was time she became a lioness—like the rest of the women in her family.
She was a Jefferies and a Gilford. Her mother—who’d defied Lilian Gilford to study medicine and marry a doctor with no pedigree—would be ashamed of the woman she’d become. Heck, she was ashamed of the woman she’d become. No wonder her grandmother had found it so easy to manipulate her into a relationship with Lawrence.
She was a wimp and it was time she grew into her own woman.
Hands shaking, she stomped over to the basin and glared at the woman reflected there. “I’m done,” she told her reflection fiercely. Done being a mouse and she was done being meh.
Ripping off a section of paper towel, she dampened it and began to pat her face. For heaven’s sake, she looked like she’d been dragged through a hedge backward. If she was going out there, she was going to do it armored, she told herself firmly.
She’d repair her flawless makeup and pretend she had her life together. She’d march out there and demand to know what Adam had meant when he’d sent her flowers after saying they needed to talk. He’d left in the middle of the night; he’d kissed her as though he’d wanted to slide back against her body—and then nothing.
Not a phone call or even a text message. And dammit, she deserved to know why he constantly blew hot, then cold. The stress was killing her, tying her stomach into knots. If he told her they were finished, she’d face the heartbreak with cool dignity.
Or pretend anyway, because the Gilford and Jefferies women were tigresses.
With anger and a new determination fueling her, Sam repaired her appearance and left the bathroom only to discover that Adam had already left.
Dammit, she thought, stewing, you’d think he’d at least have the courtesy of cooperating when she finally had her “moment of truth.” What the heck was she to do with all this roiling determination and energizing anger if she had no one to direct it at?
Fortunately, Blake Lowry had also left because with Adam gone, Sam had been tempted to hunt down the smug bastard and punch him in the face for the racist insults he’d aimed at Adam. And another one for attacking her.
Aunt Coco offered to help with the cleanup but Sam sent her home. Coco may not look it but she was nearly seventy. Besides, left to thank their guests and handle cleanup meant she had no time to focus on her problems or the crushing disappointment and looming heartbreak.