by Debra Dixon
Laughter subsided into tiny sighs that sounded suspiciously like chuckles. Sobering, Clare pulled her napkin from beneath her silverware and opened her mouth to ask the question that had to be asked.
“Don’t ask,” Sam ordered, knowing she’d ignore him anyway.
“Aren’t you a little old to have name tags in your underwear?”
“What do you think?” Sam asked, and bit off a corner of his sandwich.
Clare’s mouth hurt from the effort of keeping a grin off her face. “Then why do you have name tags in your underwear?”
Sam contemplated slow tortures for William. How could he explain about the name tags without revealing his status as a world-class slob? A woman as compulsively organized as Clare would certainly get a hoot out of that story. No, he’d rather not tell it. “It’s a long story.”
“Okay,” agreed Clare as she speared a green bean. “You don’t have to talk about your boxers. We can talk about why you’ve been alone for the last two years.”
“No, we can’t. And don’t believe everything William says.”
“Do you have name tags in your underwear?”
Sam dropped his half-eaten sandwich to his plate and shoved it away. “Yes, I do, but that’s beside the point.”
“Have you brought a woman home in the last two years?”
“What difference does it make?”
“I don’t know.” Clare sipped her tea and smiled into the bottom of the glass before she looked up. “But I’m having fun. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
The topic of conversation was not one he would have chosen, but Sam had to admit that Clare was definitely relaxed. She hadn’t mentioned the office, or cleaning her house, or the long list of unfinished tasks waiting for her. She seemed perfectly content to enjoy William’s culinary masterpiece and quiz him about his underwear and his love life. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have accused Clare of flirting. “Why this sudden interest in me?”
“Turnabout’s fair play. It’s been open season on my life history from the moment I met you. Now it’s my turn. I’m getting to know my partner. Remember?”
“All right,” Sam agreed, and wondered if Clare realized that by admitting her curiosity, she’d taken a step toward seeing him as a person and not the enemy. “What do you want to know?”
“Why haven’t you brought a woman home in the last two years?”
Sam drew his thumb down the side of his tea glass, wiping away the moisture that clung to it. “I was busy having a midlife crisis.”
“Aren’t you a little young for a midlife crisis?”
“Trust me. When your father dies, you instantly become middle-aged. Regardless of how young you are.” Sam heard the bitterness in his voice and wished her question hadn’t struck that particular nerve.
Once again Clare felt a flash of empathy for Sam. As he stared into his glass, his eyes looked old. Almost dead. Clare wondered if that’s how other people saw her, and knew she didn’t like the comparison. Sam dragged his gaze back to hers, and the spark in his eyes ignited. Sam was Sam again.
“So I did what any self-respecting man would do. I changed my entire life. Sold my business, sold my condo at Southwind, and burned my day planner.”
Choking on her tea, Clare covered her mouth with her hand and snatched her napkin out of Sam’s hand as he held it toward her. “Day planner? You had a day planner? I thought you couldn’t plan fun.”
“I didn’t. I planned my life. Right down to the second. I planned for everything. Except I didn’t plan to lose the lady in my life.” Sam stood up abruptly and fought the urge to blurt out that he hadn’t planned on being so busy that his father, already devastated by his wife’s death, killed himself from loneliness. The guilt of not making time for his father was suddenly very near the surface, and he knew this wasn’t the time or place to talk about the skeletons rattling in his conscience.
“Come on,” Sam said, and motioned toward the front of the house. “Let’s get out of here and find some ice cream. I’ll tell you all about my blighted love life and how just mentioning William scares most women away.”
Clare popped the last bite in her mouth and took a swig of tea. “Shouldn’t we tell William we’re going?”
Taking her elbow and guiding her away from the kitchen door, Sam said, “No need. I’m sure he heard everything we said.”
Beyond the door, a metal pot clanged loudly into a counter, and Clare heard a disgrunted “Hmmph.”
“Well, what’ll it be?”
Clare looked around and decided Sam had a screw loose if he thought she was going to eat anything prepared inside the shack in front of her. Yellow lights beneath the awnings glowed in the twilight, and the menu was a bulletin board crowded with a patchwork of faded paper. Prices had been written on the paper, scratched through, and written again. Bright neon starbursts were tacked on every available surface, and bold Magic-Marker printing promised new taste sensations like Passion Sundaes and Raspberry Fudge Rhapsody.
Overwhelmed, Clare simply stared at the large concrete drainage ditch that flanked the ice cream joint. People seated in the al fresco area of cinder-block benches were oblivious of their surroundings, unbothered by the exhaust fumes from the busy intersection that invaded the air. The redneck honky-tonk across the street began to rock and roll as four-wheel-drive truck doors slammed in a predictable rhythm.
“You gotta be kidding me,” she finally said.
“I never joke about ice cream.”
Clare lowered her voice. “Sam, do you see a posted health certificate? I don’t.”
“Inside on the wall.”
“You can’t see through the grime on the windows!”
“Relax, Clare. This isn’t going to kill you.”
“Probably not,” she snapped. “I’ll die of carbon monoxide poisoning first.”
Sam laughed and reached for her. “You’d have to relax enough to breathe before the fumes could get you. Come on. My treat. What’ll you have?”
Instead of backing away, Clare found herself leaning into the strength of Sam’s body. He squeezed her shoulder and winked at her as he pulled her toward the small sliding glass window to place an order. When his hand slid lower to cup the curve of her waist, warning bells began to clang in Clare’s head again. Almost nonchalantly, his fingers drifted beneath her jersey and rested against bare skin, his thumb casually rubbing tiny circles against her side.
The window slid open, and an orange-haired woman plopped a small green order pad on the counter. “Yeah?”
“I’ll have the Super Split,” Sam said. “With walnuts. And she’ll have—”
“The … Raspberry Fudge Rhapsody,” Clare said, and admitted to herself she had wanted one from the moment she read the neon starburst. She wet her lips in anticipation.
“You sure, honey? The Super Split’s our Spring Fever Special this week,” the woman explained tonelessly. “Buy one, get one free.”
“Oh,” murmured Clare. “In that case, give me one of those instead.”
“No,” Sam said immediately. The terse correction was a knee-jerk reaction, but all he could see in his mind was a picture of a quiet little orphan sitting in a restaurant, trying not to be a burden. No, thank you. I don’t want dessert. Really. The tone of voice was the same one that he’d heard Clare use—so polite, so disappointed.
Sam shook his head at the woman and pulled his wallet out of his pocket. “Give the lady what she ordered.”
When the window slid shut, Sam glared at Clare. “When you’re with me, I expect you to order what you want, not what’s easiest or cheapest.”
Sam’s tone brought Clare’s chin up sharply. “Next time you’re paying, I’ll order one of everything. Excuse the hell out of me for being practical!”
“Practical? Hardly. I saw your face. I saw the conditioned response. I asked you once if you’d spent a lot of your life giving up things. You avoided the question. I’d bet my last dollar the answer was yes.”
Heat rushed to her cheeks. To hide the flush, Clare glanced over her shoulder at an approaching couple. “You’ve been reading too damn many pop-psychology books.”
Leaning over, Sam whispered, his breath fanning her cheek. “The only reading I’ve been doing is between the lines. And God help me, you fascinate me.”
Startled by the husky promise in his voice, Clare drew in a sharp breath and swung her gaze to his. The uncertain yellow light cast shadows that darkened his eyes to black. When he didn’t look away, her stomach gave the funny lurch it always gave when she found herself losing control. She wasn’t having fun anymore. She didn’t like the electrical charges that zipped along her nerves as he managed to hold her with nothing more than a look in his eyes.
She felt like an actress who’d been promised a wonderful part and then given a blank paper. She was supposed to be witty and charming and send him on his way with a pat on the head. Instead, she was tongue-tied and wanted to bury her fingers in his blond mane.
He wasn’t supposed to make a troubled confession about finding her fascinating. But he had. The look in his eyes wasn’t supposed to awaken the most unlikely places in her body. But it did. She wasn’t supposed to want him to kiss her. But she wanted to, all right, and she was having trouble remembering why kissing Sam was a bad idea.
“You want napkins?” asked the woman as she slid two large containers of ice cream through the window.
“Please,” Sam said, and finally turned away from Clare. He grabbed their desserts and jerked his head toward the benches.
Relieved that the awkward moment had evaporated, Clare chose the concrete table farthest from the intersection and sat down. Sam slid in across from her and handed her the ice cream container, urging her to take it.
“I won’t bite,” he said. Then he added, “At least not until you’re ready.”
Audibly, Clare sucked in a breath, and then clamped her mouth shut.
Sam ferried a spoon of whipped cream, fudge, and strawberry to his mouth. “At least you have the good sense not to deny it anymore.”
“Are you trying to make me uncomfortable?” Clare demanded. “Because you are. I’m as uncomfortable as hell. I don’t know what’s going on here. I don’t have time for what’s going on here. I don’t even know where the assignment ends and you begin.”
“Is that important?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.”
With an effort, she dragged her gaze from his and concentrated on the sinfully rich raspberry sauce drizzled over hot fudge and French vanilla ice cream. Without hurrying, she let the spoon and its precious cargo glide into her mouth. She rolled the taste around on her tongue and closed her eyes before returning to the conversation. When she finished her first bite, she stared at him silently for a moment. Then she said, “You’re not what I bargained for, Tucker.”
“What? You think I phoned the Easter bunny and said, ‘Hey, guy, please drop an impossible woman into my life. One who’ll fit my body like I’d want a glove to fit! Give her a personality that says look but don’t touch. Oh, and by the way, make sure she’s taking my class so I can worry about getting sued for sexual harassment.’ ” Sam glared at her and mined some more bananas from his container. “Bunnies cannot be trusted.”
Stunned, Clare began to realize Sam’s dilemma. He wanted to change her, and he wanted to jump her bones. Succeeding at one would probably cost him the other. His ethics were at war with his libido. The mighty Sam was human after all. Knowing that eased some of the anxiety in her gut.
Toying with her ice cream, Clare asked, “What are we going to do about this?”
Sam’s ethics struggled with a healthy sex drive. Ethics won. “What do you want to do about this?”
“I don’t know.” Clare cocked her head and her brow as she slowly withdrew the pink plastic spoon from her mouth. “But I’m having fun again.”
Sam almost choked when the spoon caught on her full lower lip, offering him a tantalizing sight of her tongue as it brushed against the cradle of the spoon. When Clare repeated the seductive performance with the next bite, Sam groaned and took his frustration out on his dish of ice cream.
She let him polish off several bites in silence. The final rays of daylight twisted through the sunset and accented the pale wheat and gold in his blond hair. The man was hold-your-breath gorgeous, and she knew that hair would feel like spun silk between her fingers. Before she did something foolish, she said, “Tell me about your class, Sam. Is that all you do, or do you have a real job too?”
“You don’t consider the class a real job?”
“A six-week-long party is not a real job.”
“Why do I get the feeling you disapprove of everything I do?”
“Of course I don’t,” Clare quipped with a grin. “You haven’t told me everything you do yet.”
Half finished with his banana split, Sam wiped his mouth and crumpled his napkin into a ball. “I’m a consultant.”
“Don’t tell me—let me guess. The fun doctor.”
Sam gave an exasperated sigh. “No, an export consultant for the Far East. Among other things, I help companies understand the nuances of Asian languages. Like communication in English, they can be filled with ambiguity.”
“You?”
“Why is that so hard to believe?”
“I don’t know.” Clare shrugged and knitted her brows. “I guess I thought that dealing with Asian businessmen would require a … a more polished image.”
Sam pretended to be offended. “And I’m not polished?”
“Maybe that’s not the right word,” Clare backpedaled and tried to put her impression of him into words. She couldn’t see him in a power suit holding a Mont Blanc fountain pen. She couldn’t see him with a day planner. All she could see was his killer smile and the mountain of chaos on his desk. “You’re … well … rowdy.”
Genuine amusement shook Sam as he realized that to Clare the word rowdy bordered on insult. “I guess I am—now anyway. Before you knew me, I was buttoned-down and bottled-up. Obsessed with my company and oblivious of life. Now I’m … rowdy.”
“People don’t change that much.”
“You’re right. People don’t change. They rediscover parts of themselves they’ve lost.”
“I don’t need changing. I’m not lost,” Clare said, knowing that his words were for her benefit.
“No, I think I’ve discovered you just in time.” Sam’s glance roved over her bare shoulder and back to her mouth.
Warmth spread through Clare’s belly at the thought of Sam discovering anything about her. She imagined his strong hands and fingers as he explored her body. Sam. When had he become Sam and not Tucker? Her libido supplied the answer—the moment you started thinking about his hands. When a man puts his hands on a woman’s body, it’s time to drop the last name.
“Gosh, look at the time,” Clare said suddenly, ignoring his comment and the meaningful look he tossed in her direction. She slipped the errant edge of her jersey back over her shoulder. “You promised you’d have me home early.”
“So I did,” agreed Sam, and checked his watch. “But it’s still early. Mickey’s little hand is only halfway between the seven and the eight.”
“That’s late.” Clare’s comment brooked no argument. She scraped the sides of her ice cream container and popped the last bite in her mouth. “Ellie’s coming. I have to clean house. Besides, it’s getting dark.”
“It was dark fifteen minutes ago,” Sam corrected her helpfully.
“Look, Sam, are you going to take me home or not?”
“Sure. Unless you want to lick your bowl before we leave?”
Horrified, Clare realized she had eaten the raspberry chocolate concoction much the same way a starving man might have eaten fresh-baked bread. Defensively, Clare said, “It was good.”
“Uh-huh,” he agreed. “See what you’ve been missing?”
“I haven’t been missing ice cream.”
“Then why didn’t you argue ab
out where to go? Haven’t you got a favorite spot?” When Clare didn’t answer, he prodded, “Can you even name an establishment that sells ice cream?”
“The grocery store,” Clare snapped.
“Right.” Sam nodded his head sadly.
Clare tossed her trash into the double-sized bin and pressed her lips together. Cheerful men annoyed her. Especially when they were right. She didn’t go out for ice cream, but that was beside the point. “Stop analyzing me, Sam. Or is that the one thing you haven’t been able to change about yourself?”
“That and an attraction to impossible women.”
“Take me home, Sam.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He walked her to the car, held her door open, all the while brushing his hand against her back, her shoulder, and elbow as he helped her in. Finally, Clare said, “I can manage!”
“Yes, ma’am.” Sam walked around, got in the car, and started the engine without saying anything else. After Sam pulled the car into the street, he asked, “Who’s Ellie? Three seconds after you mention her name, you start cleaning house again. Is she coming to see you or eat off your floor?”
“She’s my cousin—” Clare paused and told the truth. “And I haven’t the faintest idea why she’s coming. I haven’t seen her in five years.”
Clare’s flat tone was a not-so-subtle warning to drop the discussion about Ellie. Taking the hint, he steered the conversation to safer topics. Not that it mattered now. The damage was done. She’d overreacted, and he’d filed Ellie away for future consideration. As usual, her cousin was gone but not forgotten.
When the Volvo slowed to a stop in her parking lot, Clare jumped out, murmured her thanks, and slammed the door. She was halfway up the walk and congratulating herself for having survived the evening with only minor dents in her social armor, when she heard the telltale clunk of his door opening.
“A southern gentleman always sees a lady to the door.”
“Of course,” Clare said, rolling her eyes in disgust before she continued toward her condo. “I should have known.”
“Known what?” The humor in his voice was barely disguised.
“That you wouldn’t rest until I promised to show up for class tomorrow.”