“Get off me, woman,” he mumbled, “or you’re a wet spot on the floor.”
Undaunted, Bev began to tickle him. “Come on, Mr. Tough Guy. Wake up! Everything’s—oops!”
Bev had never been athletic, but she flipped onto her back like a pancake as Sam reared up. “What are you doing?” he asked, still half asleep. He raked a mop of tousled dark hair from his eyes, looking very naked and very sexy as he stared down at Bev’s helpless attempts to smother her own laughter.
“Nobody violates my armpits, babe,” he warned.
“I guess Mr. Tough Guy is ticklish.”
A raffish grin surfaced and his eyes glinted with dangerous lights. “She dares to mock Mr. Tough Guy? Let’s see if the lady flatfoot can take what she dishes out.”
Bev screamed “uncle!” before Sam had even touched her, but he straddled her anyway, yanking loose the tie on her bathrobe. He tickled her until she couldn’t breathe. And then he took advantage of her while she was still writhing helplessly. He kissed her mouth, her throat, her breasts, and on down her vibrating body until he reached her toes. But it wasn’t until he returned to her weak spot—her inner thighs—that she begged him to stop. She couldn’t let him make love to her, not with so many things unresolved in her mind.
He gazed down at her, his pale blue eyes indecipherable. What was behind those eyes? Did he care about her at all? Was he capable of caring? “Sam, about those things I said while we were—”
He shushed her with a touch of his fingers to her mouth. “You don’t have to explain anything to me, Lace,” he said quietly. “Sometimes we say things. It’s okay.”
He swung off her and helped her up, then settled himself against the headboard, pulling the sheet up to cover his hips. “So, what’s the deal with Arthur? You said everything was all right.”
“Yes, it is.” Bev closed the bathrobe, her insecurities burgeoning. Why had he changed the subject so quickly? Why had he covered himself? “Arthur went back to Lydia. How about that for a surprise? He’ll start therapy, and he’s getting a job.”
He stared at her as though he didn’t believe her. “Lydia is taking Arthur back?”
“Yes. Don’t you think she should?”
He snorted laughter. “Not unless she’s crazy. Does she think he’s actually going to change?”
Suddenly Bev felt very defensive. “Of course she does. And he will. He’s motivated.”
“Right, motivated by her stock portfolio.”
“Sam, he told me himself that he loved her.”
“Oh, babe, you heard him. He said he loved all rich women. What he loves is taking them to the cleaners.”
“God, but you’re cynical,” she said softly. His flippant remarks pierced her like a knife through the heart, but it wasn’t the words that stabbed her, she realized. It was his attitude. The cynicism felt like a personal affront, as though he were ridiculing her and the things she believed in. She turned away, not wanting him to see the sparkle of pain in her eyes.
“B.J.,” Sam said gently, “people don’t change because it’s the right thing to do, or because someone else wants them to. They change when it’s in their own self-interest.”
She shook her head. “You’re wrong. He’ll change for Lydia. Arthur will change.”
Sam shook his head. “Why the hell do women always think that?” He knew better than to pursue the argument. She needed to believe that the Arthur Blankenships of the world could be salvaged. It was a romantic illusion she cherished. She needed to believe that any man could change through the love of a good woman, no matter how low he’d sunk—including Sam Nichols.
I don’t want to be with anyone else but you, Sam.
His gut knotted as those trembling words played back in his head. She’d said it as though she couldn’t believe it herself. And then her voice had caught and she’d poured out more sweet, damning secrets. He’d been too blown away to respond. His throat had turned into a fist, nearly strangling him. Why me? he’d asked himself. Why would she want to go and pick a bastard like me?
He glanced over at her pensive profile and felt a sudden need to touch her. There had to be some way to ease the turmoil between them. Maybe he could make a stupid joke, or kid her about her lousy standard operating procedure. The impulse to touch her moved through him like jagged glass.
“Hey, look, maybe I am cynical, okay? It’s a hazard of the trade. Most detectives don’t trust their own mother.”
Bev turned, surprised. That had sounded like the beginning of an apology. Hope glimmered, a dangerous emotion when dealing with a man like him. “I guess I have something to look forward to,” she said. “Getting cynical, that is.”
“It’ll never happen. You’re one of the lucky ones, born with a natural immunity.”
“And you’re the last cynical man?”
He laughed, an irresistibly husky sound. “I guess that makes us quite a pair.”
“Are we a pair?” Bev asked. The moment she’d said it, she wanted to cut her tongue out. He looked startled, then apologetic and wary. She felt her heart twisting. What more did she need to convince her that he didn’t want a relationship? His body language was screaming it. She told herself to change the subject, blow her nose, anything. But something compelled her to go on.
“How do you feel about us, Sam?”
“I think we’re great together.”
“You do?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Then ... you’ll want us to continue seeing each other when we get back?”
His blue gaze was noncommittal. “Do you?”
Bev hesitated for just a split second before she answered. “Yes ... of course.”
“So what are we talking about here? Dating? A meaningful relationship?” He leaned forward, draping an arm over his knee. “That would be interesting. On whose terms?”
“Terms?”
“I’m no prize, babe. Maybe you ought to think about what you’d be getting into with a no-account like me. I drink, I gamble, I drive like a trucker. When the mood strikes me, I take off for parts unknown without asking anyone’s permission.” He took a deep breath and shook his head as though he didn’t like the sound of it any better than she did. “Sorry, Lace, but that’s how it is. No one holds me accountable for the way I live but me.”
Bev felt as though she’d run up several flights of stairs. Her heart was thumping, her breathing shallow. It was his recklessness that had attracted her—and now he was giving her a crash course on living with a reckless man. If he was trying to scare her off, he was doing a good job, she realized. A relationship with Sam Nichols on his terms was a sobering prospect. He was cynical by his own admission, but she could live with that. It was the rest—his moods, his stubbornness. He refused to answer to anyone. He isolated himself emotionally. He was a maverick down to the toothpicks he carried in the pocket of his leather jacket.
She hated the thought that flashed into her head next, but it wouldn’t be dismissed. What would her neighbors think of a roughneck like Sam? She lived in a quiet, tree-lined suburb where toddlers rode tricycles and their dads mowed the lawn on weekends. She had always planned on having that kind of life. She still wanted it.
Sam sat quietly, watching her, saying nothing. He could see it in her eyes, the rising doubts. Their lifestyles didn’t mesh, and she was trying to figure out what that meant, and how to fix it. Whatever solution she came up with might sound reasonable at first, but the price tag would be his freedom. She wasn’t the type to let down her hair and just hang loose with a guy—sex for sex’s sake, fun while it lasted. She’d have to marry him, reform him, turn him into a Stepford husband. That was the legacy of the “nice” gene she carried. He knew. He’d been through it before.
“Beverly Jean,” he said quietly, regret burning through the huskiness. “I’m not redeemable, if that’s what you’re thinking. I like my beer cold, my women hot, and my cards lucky.”
“Women? Plural?”
The hurt and disbelief
that flared in her eyes was like a slap across his face. Just tell me to go to hell, babe. Don’t let yourself in for this. You don’t deserve it. His throat was tight and dry as he added, “Women, plural. That wouldn’t be a problem, would it?”
Add cold-blooded womanizer to the list of his flaws, Bev thought, turning away from him. Heat seared her chest as she breathed in, the air burning a path through her lungs. He was wrong when he said she was immune to cynicism. She felt plenty bitter and cynical right now. “I had a hunch you gambled,” she said, flinging his indifference right back at him. “Are you any good? Lucky at cards? Unlucky at love?”
He didn’t answer her, and when she turned around, he was standing at the terrace doors, staring out. He had on his jeans and his arms were folded against his bare chest. It was an unguarded pose, no male ego at stake, no swagger. Just a solitary man with the morning sunlight playing over his face and shoulders. A proud man, and probably a good man if he would ever give himself a chance. Bev felt the sting of tears as she allowed an unwelcome thought into her awareness. She couldn’t share him with other women. It would destroy her, but she wanted him desperately at that moment, even with all his flaws. He was the most desirable man she’d ever known.
“Maybe we ought to be thinking about getting back home?” he said, turning to her. He looked sad somehow, and weary.
Back home, Bev thought. Where she could feed her goldfish. Where she would never have to see Sam Nichols again.
Bev glanced at her watch, saw that it was nearly noon, and put aside the forms she’d been filling out. Harve would be in soon, minding everyone else’s business and full of bluster. He’d recovered enough to return to the agency on a part-time basis, but he was spoiling for the real thing, some down-and-dirty private-eye action. He’d also been after Bev to take on a new case since she’d returned from Nassau three weeks earlier, but she’d stood her ground. She would help with the paperwork, but nothing more. She’d had enough down-and-dirty private-eye action to last her until social-security age, thank you.
Bev shut her eyes and massaged the bridge of her nose. She’d been out of sorts lately, to put it mildly. The previous week she’d had a touch of the twenty-four-hour flu that was going around. That day she could feel a headache coming on. Maybe she’d go home when Harve arrived.
The buzzing of her intercom gave her a start.
“Visitors, B.J.,” Cory announced, clicking off before Bev could ask who it was.
She was adjusting her sagging shoulder pads when her office door swung open. Bev rose, astonished at the beaming couple who entered. “Arthur? Lydia? How wonderful to see you! How are you?”
“Happy,” Lydia said, holding out her arms, weepy-eyed. “Deliriously happy. And we owe it all to you, Bev.”
Bev rushed around her desk to hug Lydia, and Arthur stood back, smiling sheepishly, shy as ever. Bev hugged him too, once she’d recovered from Lydia’s exuberant embrace, and before the three of them were through with their reunion, they were all laughing and blinking away tears.
“Tell me everything!” Bev said, bringing them with her to sit on the couch. “I want to know all about your wedded bliss.”
Lydia was delighted to comply. She described how she and Arthur had renewed their wedding vows in a rose garden in Key West, and their recent return to Beverly Hills. “The dogs rushed Arthur and knocked him over when we got out of the car. I’ve never seen them so excited. They completely ignored me!”
Bev laughed, aware that the couple’s visit was just what she needed to perk her up. She’d been in a state of mourning since that disastrous day in Nassau.
“Is everything all right, dear?” Lydia patted Bev’s hand as though she’d been reading her mind. “You look a little peaked.”
“How’s S-Sam?” Arthur broke in, his first words since he’d entered the office.
Bev toyed with the idea of telling him that Sam was fine and leaving it at that. But both he and Lydia were staring at her so intently, she found herself wanting to tell them the truth. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen Sam since the cruise.”
Arthur went noticeably pale. “Is there a problem? Oh, dear, I hope it wasn’t because of me.”
Bev had never discussed what happened in Nassau with anyone, not even Harve, and she was reluctant to do so now. There was so much heartache dammed up inside her—anger, confusion, and especially hurt. She felt like the little Dutch boy in the fable who didn’t dare take his finger out of the dike. Talking about Sam Nichols meant risking a flash flood, but she’d reached a point where she needed to talk to someone. And she couldn’t leave Arthur thinking he was responsible.
“Sam is a man with some very deep scars,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “He’s afraid to let anyone close.” She was referring to emotional wounds, but her mind flashed a graphic reminder of his mutilated upper body and the scar that forked from his mouth. Her throat constricted as she thought of how much pain Sam had suffered.
She glanced up to see Arthur and Lydia clasp hands. It was an instinctive reaction to her news, Bev realized. They were reaffirming their bond, reassuring each other of their devotion. At the same time that Bev was happy for them, their linked hands were a piercing reminder of her own losses.
“It’s too bad Sam isn’t here to see you two,” she said, unable to hide her own sadness. “He pretends to have such disdain for marriage, and especially for the healing power of love. I wish he could know how happy you are.”
“Sam’s a fool,” Arthur blurted out passionately. “What is life about if you can’t share things, everything—the joy and the pain—with someone you care about?”
Bev was caught off guard by the depth of Arthur’s conviction. The words ricocheted in her head, forcing her to consider them. He may have been speaking about Sam, but what he said applied to her too. She had cut herself off years earlier, right after Paul left. Her reaction had been to hole up like a hermit in her Valley home, refusing to share any of her pain. And her reaction to
Sam’s rejection had been very much the same. She would have isolated herself totally if her father hadn’t needed her help at the agency.
She could feel the sadness cresting inside her. All that aching emptiness, all those wasted years. “Excuse me,” she said, looking away as tears threatened. It was pain from the past she was fighting. They were yesterday’s tears, and they stung that much more bitterly for having been denied.
“I’m sorry—” Her voice caught as she tried to regain control. “I was afraid this might happen.”
Lydia sat beside her and put an arm around her. “Is there anything we can do, Bev? Would you like us to leave?”
Bev shook her head. She wanted to fall into Lydia’s arms and cry her heart out, but pride kept her rigid. “No, it’s all right. Just give me a minute.”
“We love you, Bev,” Arthur said softly.
Bev’s throat swelled with a sudden stinging heat. Their kindness was more than she could handle. She had to get out of the room or she would never get control. “Please, it’s all right. I’ll just go wash my face.”
A wave of dizziness swept her as she stood up. It was so sudden she could hardly catch her balance. The floor seemed to shift under her feet as she walked, and by the time she reached the office door, her face was filmed with perspiration.
“Bev? What’s wrong?” Lydia said, standing.
“I don’t know.” She turned back to them, and the room went pale, then blindingly white. “I think I’m going to faint,” she said, sliding to the floor.
“Pregnant? That’s impossible!” Bev gaped at the doctor from the emergency room examining table and shook her head. “I can’t be pregnant now.”
The young resident laughed softly. “Tell that to the baby you’re carrying.”
Bev just couldn’t fathom it. She kept shaking her head until finally she began to feel dizzy again. “It’s impossible. Nothing ever happened before.”
“Something happened this time,” he said, busily making not
es on her chart. “Maybe you’ve been more relaxed lately, less anxious about getting pregnant.”
Bev glanced up at him and nodded, but she hadn’t really heard him. “We tried for five years.”
The doctor met her gaze over his clipboard, smiling this time. “In that case, congratulations.”
“Congratulations?” Bev echoed as it finally dawned on her. “I’m pregnant. This is terrible.”
“Doctor!” A nurse burst into the room. “There’s a man in the hall who insists on seeing the patient. I asked him to wait, but he won’t listen.”
A man? Bev’s heart leaped as the door swung open. For one crazy, ridiculous instant, she thought it might be Sam. She even imagined she saw Sam’s face as the man stormed in the room. But as soon as her visitor opened his mouth, Bev knew she’d been hallucinating.
“B.J.!” Harve Brewster bellowed. “Are you okay, baby? What happened? They told me at the office that you fainted.”
“I’m okay. Dad,” she assured him.
“What do they say it is, B.J.? You been eating right?” He swung around to the doctor. “It’s not a brain tumor, is it?”
Bev could see that her father was worried sick. She would have preferred waiting to tell him, but she knew he would drive the hospital staff crazy if she held out. “It’s nothing serious, Dad, really. They say I’m ...” She smiled apologetically as though she was asking permission. “Pregnant?”
“Pregnant?” Harve’s face flushed crimson as he stared at her, and then his voice dropped to an incredulous whisper. “You, B.J.? Pregnant? How did that happen?”
“The usual way, I guess.”
“You’re having a baby?” He clapped a hand to his chest, totally baffled. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing! Who’s the father?”
“Dad, can we discuss this later?” Bev glanced over at the doctor, who nodded hurriedly, still making notes as he left.
“No, we can’t discuss it later,” Harve said, storming her bedside. “You’re my daughter. I didn’t even know you were dating. Who is this guy? Why haven’t I met him?”
Private Dancer Page 16