Private Dancer

by Suzanne Forster

  There was no stopping him now, she realized. She’d created a monster. She would have to tell him or go into hiding. “You have met him, Harve. It’s Sam.”

  “Sam? My Sam? You and Sam Nichols?” Harve spun away as though trying to catch his breath, and then he turned back slowly. “He’s going to marry you, of course.”

  “No, Dad, he’s definitely not going to marry me.”

  “Why not? I’ll—”

  “Dad! That’s not how it is.”

  “I’ll tell you how it is.” Harve balled a fist and slammed it into his open palm. “I never should have saved the miserable bum’s life, that’s how it is.”

  Twelve

  “GIVE ME A BOTTLE of something,” Sam said, pushing his empty beer can across the bar. “Anything but Caribbean rum.”

  The Red Monkey’s bartender rubbed his stubbly jaw. “Maybe you ought to stick with beer, Sam. You’ve been hitting it pretty hard. Mixing is sure to mess you up.”

  “That’s the point.”

  “Don’t go getting drunk and disorderly on me, okay, buddy? I’d hate to see you do something stupid.”

  “The bottle.” Sam’s tone left no doubt about his intentions. If he didn’t get the booze, he’d go over the counter and help himself. Do something stupid? He nearly choked on that one. His buddy, the bartender, obviously didn’t understand. Sam was drinking to keep from doing something stupid.

  Sam’s personal code of ethics wouldn’t have won him a round of applause in church on Sunday, but the one thing he didn’t do was drink and drive. He’d gotten himself good and wasted every night that week precisely because it kept him in the neighborhood bar and out of his ragtop convertible. Otherwise he’d be out cruising the lonely streets at night and ending up Lord only knew where.

  The last time he’d gone cruising, he’d ended up parked outside Brewster’s waiting to get a glimpse of B.J. It wasn’t the first time he’d found himself there— and it wouldn’t be the last, he knew. The week he’d returned from Nassau, he’d gone nearly nuts with the need to see her, to set things straight and tell her the real reason he ran like hell from relationships. It had nothing to do with other women. He hadn’t looked at a woman since he met her. It was fear. Gut fear. He was afraid of that day when his reckless ways would no longer intrigue her, of that day when she would ask him to change, to be some other man ... the man she really wanted.

  He’d watched her leave Brewster’s that night on the dot of five, wearing her polyester slacks and her lace-collared blouse. And once again he’d told himself to sober up and smell the coffee. It was business as usual for B.J. Brewster. She wasn’t pining away for Sam Nichols’s thrill-a-minute lifestyle. She’d made the adjustment without a hitch.

  So be it, he’d told himself all the way back to his rat’s nest of an apartment. So be it. She’d looked happy. Or at least content. What gave him the right to clear his conscience at her expense? He’d given her enough grief.

  “Hey, Nichols—”

  Sam heard the gruff male voice, but he wasn’t in any mood for conversation. “Later,” he said as the intruder began to tap his shoulder.

  “I want to talk to you, buddy.”

  “Give it a rest,” Sam warned. Where the hell was the bartender with that bottle? As a set of beefy fingers dug deep into Sam’s shoulder, he swung around, ready to do damage if he had to. The huge fist came at him so fast, there wasn’t time to duck. A haymaker punch caught him square on the chin and sent him reeling.

  He took a barstool down with him and landed on it, breaking most of the rungs. Pain shot through him; muscles were wrenched under the bruising impact, and ribs screamed in protest. At least it wasn’t his bad side, he thought, grimacing. Now he’d have a matching set of scars. He shook his head to clear it, rubbed his throbbing jaw and looked up at the guy who decked him. Harve Brewster? “Why’d you do that?”

  “This is how you repay me?” Harve bellowed, shaking his fist. “I save your worthless life and all I ask in return is that you keep my daughter out of harm’s way—my only daughter! And this is how you repay me?”

  “What did I do?”

  “Don’t give me that innocent act,” Harve growled, pulling Sam to his feet. “Come on, son. We got some talking to do.”

  Bev was all set to clean Moby Dick’s bowl when her doorbell rang. “Who’s there?” she called out, coming out of the kitchen with a load of algae cleaner, a pink plastic bucket, and her rubber gloves.

  “Delivery for B.J. Brewster.”

  Delivery? She hadn’t ordered anything. “Just a minute,” she said, setting her equipment on the floor. She straightened her blouse and tried to sweep flyaway tendrils of hair into her pink bandanna, but the moment she opened the door, her hand stilled and her heart nearly stopped.

  She gaped at the whoppingly big bouquet of freshly cut daffodils in front of her. And at the man who held them.

  “Sam? What are you doing here?”

  “Bringing you flowers?” He held out the bouquet tentatively, as though he weren’t at all sure of his welcome.

  Bev couldn’t have welcomed him if she’d wanted to. She felt as though the floor had dropped out from under her. She stepped back, her stomach lurching as a wave of dizziness washed over her. She was going to be sick! “Excuse me,” she cried, signaling him to stay where he was as she made a dash for the bathroom.

  “What’s wrong?” he called after her.

  She didn’t actually lose the oatmeal she’d eaten for breakfast, but it was a close call. Morning sickness! Her only prior brush with it had been some queasiness on arising. She hadn’t realized how lucky she’d been. Once her stomach had settled down, she ran a damp cloth over her face and neck, and steeled herself to go out and face him again.

  “Are you okay?” he asked as she returned to the living room. He was still standing on the threshold, daffodils at half mast, concern brimming in his blue eyes. She’d been so startled when she opened the door, she hadn’t noticed how drastically he’d changed. His trademark aviator sunglasses were resting on the top of his head, tucked into thick dark hair that was neatly swept back off his face. It actually looked as though he’d used a comb instead of his hands. He was clean-shaven, clear-eyed, and smiling without noticeable tension. Only his black leather jacket saved him from being mistaken for a yuppie.

  “B.J.? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she said quickly. “It must have been something I ate.”

  He looked as though he wanted to laugh. “I’ve been told I have a strange effect on women, but I’ve never had one throw up on me before.”

  “It’s nothing, really. Just a touch of ...” She checked the phrase on her lips, glancing up at him.

  He said it for her. “Morning sickness?”

  A highly unladylike word slipped out of Bev’s mouth as she stared at him. “You know about the baby?” He knew about the baby. Why wasn’t she surprised? “Harve told you, right?” She threw up her hands in exasperation. “Where is he now? Waiting out in the car with a sawed-off shotgun?”

  “Harve has nothing to do with the reason I’m here, B.J. I came to see you.”

  His expression had the grave, handsome cast to it that she had found irresistible during their cruise. Not only that, his baby-blue eyes were imploring her to be reasonable. He was using every weapon in his arsenal, but Bev wasn’t in the mood to be won over so easily.

  “Can we talk?” he asked.

  “Yes, we can talk, Sam,” she said quietly. “You’re darn right we can talk. And you can start by answering a few questions.” She eyed him suspiciously, a trial lawyer cross-examining a reluctant witness. “What are you doing here, looking like that? Clean-shaven? Flowers?”

  “What’s wrong with the way I look? And since when can’t a man bring a woman flowers?”

  “Any other man, maybe, but not you. Sam ‘The Wild Man’ Nichols with a bouquet of daffodils?” She shook her head. “What’s next? You’re going to propose to me?”

  He loo
ked startled, a man caught in the act.

  Bev gaped at him. “Oh, no! I don’t believe this!” She crossed the room and did an about-face, still incredulous. “You actually have the nerve to come over here, knowing I’m pregnant, knowing I’m carrying your child, and ask me to marry you?”

  “Is that bad?”

  “It’s worse than bad, it’s humiliating! You didn’t come of your own free will. You’re here to do the ‘right thing.’ What did Harve do? Threaten you with a paternity suit? Or maybe murder by means of castration? That sounds more like Harve.”

  Sam stepped over the threshold, suddenly very serious. “I’m here because I want to be here, B.J. Get that straight.”

  Bev took a deep, shaking breath. She’d been secretly thrilled to see him, but she wanted nothing to do with this cowardly act of conscience. “Well, I want you to leave. Get that straight. I’m not marrying a man who feels indebted to my father.”

  “That debt was paid with the Covington case. I’m here because—” His jaw flexed painfully, and his eyes narrowed to a dazzling slash of light. “Because I love you.”

  Bev’s heart took off like a skyrocket. She folded her arms to hide the explosion of inner trembling. Never in her wildest dreams had she expected to hear such a thing from him. Never. She wanted desperately to believe him, but in her heart of hearts she couldn’t. If she’d ever seen a man painfully determined to do his duty, it was Sam Nichols.

  She felt weak from shock. Her head was spinning and so was her stomach—again. For one horrible second she thought she really might lose her oatmeal right there in front of him. “I think you’d better go now,” she said. “And go quietly. Because I’m not feeling well.”

  “If you’re sick, I should stay.”

  “If you stay, I will be sick.” Bev waved him out the door, and when he refused to budge, she unleashed her ultimate weapon. “I know you don’t want to do anything to upset me, Sam,” she said firmly, “because that could be bad for the baby.”

  She had him over a barrel and they both knew it.

  He set the daffodils down. “All right, the first round is yours, Slugger,” he said, his voice a vibrant whisper. “But don’t think the match is over.” His gaze drifted to her belly and then he tossed her a wink. “Was that quiet enough for you and Sam, Jr.?”

  More daffodils arrived the very next day. A beautiful bouquet greeted her at work in the morning. Another enormous bunch of flowers was waiting for her on her doorstep when she arrived home in the afternoon.

  The cards made Bev laugh, and occasionally they made her cry. Sometimes there was a line of poetry by Shelley or Byron that brought tears to her eyes. Sometimes the poetry was less exquisite and more to the point. One card read:

  Roses are red, daffodils are yellow.

  Bev should marry Sam

  because he’s a sweet guy fellow.

  She laughed and cried at that one, especially since he’d so plainly proved her wrong about his being a poet.

  But the card that broke her heart had one simple line. “I’m sorry.” Her chin trembled and tears burned her eyes as she read it. She almost gave in, but something wouldn’t let her. It was too much too soon. She was afraid to trust his sudden turnaround, and she wouldn’t have a man marrying her out of obligation.

  When she didn’t respond to the flowers and cards, the custom-made postcards started coming. One had a picture of Sam on the front, getting his gorgeous black hair trimmed, and waving at her from the barber chair. In another, his five o’clock shadow was losing the battle to a straight-edge razor. The note on the back said: “Marry me before I turn into Dudley Doright!”

  There was even a picture of him in a freshly cleaned apartment. He stood triumphant in front of a trash can bulging with empties, a raised broom in one fist, a dustpan in the other.

  The pressure on Bev increased as the days ticked by. Sam had powerful allies, her father for one. Harve had turned into a crusader for Sam’s cause, and he’d recruited the entire agency.

  “Well?” Cory would say every morning when Bev arrived. She knew exactly what he meant. He wanted to know if she’d cracked yet. With the whole office listening, she would answer, “I’m very well, thank you,” and retreat to her office.

  One Saturday morning as she was trying to make room for yet another bouquet of daffodils, Bev received an urgent telegram:

  Meet me at my place at seven tonight. If you still feel the same way after we’ve talked. I’ll get out of your life. Sam.

  The message included his address. Her first reaction was panic, and then it dawned on her that the telegram was an ultimatum. She wasn’t caving in to his scare tactics! “I’m not going,” she said, repeating the words like a mantra even as she was contemplating what she would wear.

  She was on his doorstep at seven, feeling very much like a nervous maiden entering fire-breathing-dragon country. He opened the door on the first ring, and Bev knew she must be staring. He looked like a catalog model in his pink knit sweater, khaki jeans, and Top-Siders. She could hardly believe it was Sam.

  “Come on in,” he said, husky-voiced.

  At least that hasn’t changed, Bev thought. He still sounded like a roughneck. She declined his offer of a chair, electing to stand between him and the front door as she glanced around his sparsely furnished, surgically clean apartment.

  “Bev,” he said, imploring her with his powder-blue eyes, “I’m not going to force you into anything, for heaven’s sake. Please sit down.”

  “No thanks. Sitting down is a gateway position where you and I are concerned. It leads to ... other things.”

  He laughed, but she could see that he was taking their meeting very seriously. She felt caught in the gaze of his intensely blue eyes, which she knew from past experience was a very dangerous place to be. “What did you want to say to me?” she asked.

  “What do I have to do, Bev? How much more do I have to change before you’ll believe I’m sincere.”

  “I never asked you to change, Sam.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  “A man who’s honest ... a man who honestly loves me.”

  A muscle worked in his jaw as though he were fighting a powerful emotion. “Oh, babe,” he said, his voice aching with husky laughter, “I wish you’d told me that before.”

  “And I wish you’d asked.”

  Sam Nichols hadn’t changed, she realized. The transformation was all for show, just as she’d feared. He’d sent poetry and flowers, but he hadn’t even thought to ask her what she wanted when he launched his campaign to win her over. He was still aggressive and headstrong, a man who acted first and thought about consequences later.

  “B.J.—” he started, then his focus veered to a point just behind her, and his face went taut. “Don’t move,” he said, raising his hands slowly.

  Bev had no idea what he was doing. “What’s going on? If this is some symbolic act of surrender, it won’t work.”

  “It’s a symbolic act of cowardice. There’s a man behind you with a gun.”

  Bev felt something cold and hard press between her shoulder blades. She froze as a man’s muffled voice whispered, “Do what I say, b-both of you, and nobody gets hurt.”

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” Sam warned the intruder. “Take what you want and get out of here.”

  “Thanks, I will.” The man thrust some rope into Bev’s hand and pushed her forward. “Tie your boyfriend up, lady.”

  “Not again,” Bev moaned.

  A half-hour later, she and Sam were tied up and laying face-to-face on Sam’s bed, while the intruder, dressed in black from his ski mask to his shoes, went through Sam’s personal effects, hurriedly filling up a knapsack.

  “I don’t believe this,” Bev whispered to Sam. “Why do people keep tying us up?”

  “Just lucky, I guess.”

  “Lucky?” For a victim of armed robbery, Sam struck her as oddly casual. She also didn’t like the intimate crush of his body against hers, though that was hardl
y his fault. “You’re not supposed to enjoy this, Sam. You’re being robbed.”

  “You can quit whispering,” Sam said. “He’s gone.”

  “So quickly?” Bev craned her neck around, trying to see behind her. As she turned back, something in Sam’s expression riveted her to the spot. There was a flare of desire in his eyes that made her throat go dry. He looked like a man on the brink of something wonderful, or terrible. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “I hope you meant it when you said you wanted honesty, babe. Because I have something to tell you.”

  “I did mean it ... I think.”

  Emotion tugged at the lines of his face, creating hollows and shadows, paring his handsomeness into something dark and gaunt. Bev couldn’t take her eyes off him.

  “Your dad told me everything,” he said. “Why your husband left, what your life has been like since. Don’t be angry at him, B.J. It was what I needed to hear, and he knew it. I’ve been a selfish, self-pitying bastard for a long time now, thinking about nobody but myself.”

  She shook her head. “Sam, don’t—”

  “I have to, babe. I have to say this.” His eyes flared again, turning incandescently blue. “I thought I was doing you a favor back in Nassau. I told myself to get out of your life, that you deserved better. But the truth was, I was scared. I didn’t think anybody could love a holy terror like Sam Nichols. Attraction, maybe. Sex, sure. But not love.”

  Pain stung Bev. “I wish you’d stop,” she said, swallowing over the blockage in her throat.

  “No, I can’t, babe. Hear me out, please. As long as I’m on this honesty kick, there’s one more thing.” His voice broke slightly. “I do love you, so much it’s probably going to be the death of me. But I know I’ll die without you. I need you. I need this love I feel for you. I want you in my life, that’s all. I want our baby.”

  Bev dragged in a breath, fighting a surge of sweet ache that felt as though it might burst her heart. The raw force of the emotion astonished her. She was shaking inside, coming apart. Tears soaked her face as she looked up at him.