by Debra Dixon
But first she needed her suitcases, which were nowhere to be found. They weren’t under the bed. They weren’t in the closet. They weren’t under the guest beds or in the guest room closets. Her suitcases seemed to have grown feet and run away from home. Seeing no other choice, she went downstairs to ask William where he’d moved them.
As she entered the kitchen, she found him lifting out the last piece of golden-fried chicken and turning off the stove. The kitchen door was open, and the screen door let the sweet scent of spring steal inside the house. William’s song had been replaced by whistling, and the generic vegetable smells sorted themselves into the specific aromas of snap beans and squash.
“William,” Clare said softly, and tried to erase the image of the man putting condoms in the nightstand.
A broad smile creased William’s face as he turned. “Ah, Miss Clare. I guess Samuel’s already gotten ahold of you.”
Shock lowered Clare’s bottom jaw for a moment, until she realized William wasn’t making a comment about the progress of her intimate relationship with Sam. He referred to Sam’s airport mercy mission. Clare managed a shaky smile, wishing William hadn’t put those condoms in her drawer. Now everything he said was tinged with double meaning.
“Yes. He told me about Ellie and the delay. I’m really sorry to have put you to all this trouble for nothing.”
William chuckled. “No trouble. Food’s got to be fixed whether you’re here or not. Whether we have company or not. You just go on in to supper. I was about to come and fetch you anyway.”
“Oh, no!” Clare said, eager to make him understand about her plans. “I can’t stay for supper. It’s so late, and now that Ellie’s not coming, I’ve got to get packed and out of your way. That’s why I came downstairs. I can’t find my suitcases.”
William allowed himself a disapproving grunt. “Don’t know why you want to run off now. Your suitcases will wait. My chicken won’t.”
“He ought to know,” commented Sam, who miraculously appeared in the room as though from thin air. “Fried chicken is his specialty. Rebecca does most of the cooking—casseroles, lasagna, soup—but William can cut up a mean chicken. He could teach the Colonel a thing or two about special recipes.”
Clare started to make another excuse about packing, but stopped as she noticed how William’s chest puffed up at Sam’s praise. If she refused to taste his chicken, he’d be insulted and disappointed. Suddenly she discovered that she didn’t want to repay William’s many kindnesses with rudeness. He deserved better.
Grinning broadly at Clare’s dilemma, Sam continued. “He won’t even let anyone near his kitchen when he’s frying up some of the South’s finest. He’s afraid they’ll learn his secret—a tiny bit of Cajun heat in the batter.”
Gently, Sam propelled her toward the swinging door that led to the dining room. “Eat now. Pack later. William cooked a mess of snap beans. You wouldn’t want to hurt his feelings after he’s gone to this much trouble, would you?”
Well and truly trapped, Clare pressed her lips together and shot Sam a withering stare. He’d known she’d cave in and stay for dinner because he’d known all about William’s little cooking spree while they were at the airport. That explained his cocky attitude. He’d had an ace up his sleeve, and she’d been outmaneuvered by the master once again. But that didn’t mean she was down for the count. No matter how hard he tried, Sam wasn’t going to cajole or guilt-trip her into staying.
But for William’s sake, she’d postpone her packing until after dinner.
Unfortunately, after dinner was a long time coming. William seemed to have lost the spring in his step. He brought out the food dishes one at a time, placed them very carefully on the table, and shuffled slowly back to the kitchen for the next item. He conveniently forgot to put ice in their tea glasses, which necessitated another delay as he returned to the kitchen for ice.
And Sam made no effort to dig into the meal, preferring, instead, to wait until William finished setting out the entire meal. Finally, dinner was served, and Clare wasted no time in devouring her portion. Neither she nor Sam bothered with conversation.
“Mmmm. The chicken was wonderful.” Clare licked her lips and tossed her napkin on the table.
“How could you tell?” Sam drawled. “You didn’t even chew before you swallowed.”
Guiltily, Clare noted his meal was less than half finished. She’d inhaled her food in the hope of excusing herself to pack. In defense of her table manners, she said, “I was hungry.”
Sam didn’t bother to call her a liar. He contented himself with raising one eyebrow and tilting his head. “Then I’m sure you can’t wait for dessert.”
“Dessert?” Clare echoed and looked at her watch. “Nine o’clock is too late for dessert. I’ve got to pack. Then, when I get home, I’ve got reading to do on the Japanese deal.”
Sam set his tea glass down with more force than necessary. “First Ellie’s coming and all you can do is clean. Now Ellie’s not coming and all you can do is pack. Can we stop dealing with Ellie and your job long enough to deal with us?”
“Us?”
“Us—you and me.” Sam swung an index finger between them. “One plus one equals two. What’s wrong? Is this a new concept for you?”
Right on cue, the kitchen door swung wide. William brought in strawberry shortcake and pretended not to notice the fog of tension in the air as he removed their dishes and beat a strategic retreat through the kitchen door.
“Damn,” Sam uttered, briefly closed his eyes, and shook his head at the interruption. “Look, Clare, forget the cake. We need to talk.” He pitched his napkin beside hers and rounded the table. He pulled her to her feet and jerked his head toward the front of the house to indicate they were moving. In answer to her unspoken question, he said, “Someplace other than within earshot of William.”
Loud cleaning-up noises suddenly emanated from the kitchen.
“See what I mean?” Sam asked. “Little kitchens have big ears.”
Clare pulled away from him, shaking her arm slightly to dispel the sensual imprint of his touch. “No matter where we have this conversation, talking isn’t going to change my mind.”
“Then you have nothing to fear, do you? Ladies first,” Sam ordered, and stepped aside.
Sam followed her to the living room, and while she settled into the corner of the couch, he paced. Pacing was the only way he could control his impulse to touch her. For some insane reason, Clare always looked like she needed a hug. Reaching for her was becoming a habit.
“Think about this situation from the logical perspective, Clare. You and I need to work together on Dave’s Far East deal. If you stay here, we’ll save a lot of time. You’ve already moved in. I’ve already moved out.”
“We won’t be spending that much time working together.” Clare studied her nails and smiled as Sam’s pacing took him past the arm of the couch and behind her. “All you need to do is review my proposal, make suggestions, and coach me on a few points of etiquette. How long could that possibly take?”
“Considering how well you listen? A long time.”
Clare started to take offense until she realized that Sam’s purpose was to draw her into a worthless argument and keep her arguing until it was too late to leave that night. Sidestepping his ambush, she said, “Then I’ll pay more attention when you talk. Is that all?”
“Not quite.” Once again Sam’s pacing brought him into her line of vision and then out of it as he offered his next point of reasoning. “If you stay, William can finally earn his salary instead of spending his days twiddling his thumbs.”
“You couldn’t care less whether he earns his salary. He’s family.”
“It will make him feel useful, keep him busy, and that’s important at his age.”
Clare didn’t even bother to turn around when she answered. If Sam wanted to make her uncomfortable by carrying on this conversation with the back of her head, then fine. “William looks in good shape for his age. I d
on’t think you have to worry.”
“No, but you do. Ellie will eventually arrive.” Sam’s voice was soft, seductive, as if he were sure he’d played the winning card. “You need this house.”
Not as much as I’m beginning to need you. Clare pushed away the idea, not ready to admit that somehow in the last few weeks she’d gone from being happily single to unhappily alone. She’d lost the ability to keep herself separate from Sam. She knew that leaving his house was the only way she’d ever put Sam back into a little box marked “interesting and nothing more.”
Somehow he’d become important, and she hated that. She didn’t want anyone to be important in her heart. She didn’t want to lose anyone else. Not feeling at all was better than the pain that always came from losing.
First she’d lost her parents, and then she’d lost hope that her aunt and uncle would ever love her as they loved Ellie. One by one the servants who’d patched her skinned knees and helped her with her homework either retired or simply left her aunt’s house for other employment. As a child, she hadn’t understood that the help was paid to bandage her scrapes and guide her through tricky math problems. She’d foolishly thought they cared about her. And when they left without good-byes, she felt abandoned and hated it.
Over the years she’d grown very good at keeping busy so she couldn’t feel. Staying in Sam’s house meant opening up her emotions again. If that was the price she’d have to pay for staying, she had no intention of paying it.
Quietly Sam leaned over, kissed the top of her head, and said, “And God knows why, but I need you.”
Then he left her alone with her conscience.
The suitcases had miraculously appeared in her room. Only now Clare didn’t care. She didn’t feel like packing. She felt like crying. She hadn’t cried in years, and she had no idea what she wanted to cry about now. But she recognized the sensations, the burning in her eyes, the lump in her throat, and the crumbling of her self-control.
Sam Tucker scared her. She wanted to stay in his house and come home to laughter. Carefully, Clare positioned herself at the edge of the window and stared at the carriage house. I need you, he said. Not I want you. Just I need you. Unusual choice of words.
Any other woman would jump his bones and be done with it. So what was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she take the chance? Why couldn’t she be more like Ellie? Why couldn’t she see the cup as half full instead of half empty?
Because she was alone. Her closest relative was a cat named Slick. When life didn’t work out, she couldn’t pick up the phone and call her parents for advice. She couldn’t wire “Pop” for money when the budget got tight. If her heart got broken, no one would be there to pick up the pieces.
Suddenly Clare couldn’t bear the thought of going back to her empty apartment that night. The next day would be soon enough. Besides, ten o’clock was too late to go anywhere, she reasoned. She shoved the suitcases off the bed and told herself that staying the night wasn’t weakness, but common sense.
By the time Clare showered and crawled into bed, she’d convinced herself that she’d be up and packed by the crack of dawn. Gone before anyone noticed she’d spent the night. Gone before she had a chance to change her mind again.
She patted the bed and called to Slick. When he didn’t jump up onto the comforter, Clare scooted to the edge and hung her head over to look beneath the bed. “Psst, Slick. Get up here, you lazy cat. I need a hug tonight.”
Slick wasn’t under the bed.
Rolling her eyes, she got out of bed and crossed to the closet. Slick had a passion for dark corners and high-heeled shoes. Opening the door, Clare ordered, “Stop hiding in there and come to bed.”
When Slick didn’t come out, she flipped on the ceiling light and called him again. Puzzled, Clare opened the hall door and said his name, expecting him to bound out of a guest room. He didn’t.
“Where is that darned cat?” Clare whispered, unease beginning to blossom in the back of her mind, but she refused to consider any of the dark possibilities her subconscious offered. Finding Slick was simply a matter of going downstairs, and when she found him, she’d give him an earful about wandering off at bedtime.
She returned to her room and pulled on her robe, not bothering with the sash. Instead, she wrapped it across her chest and held it in place with one arm. Slick was a fairly intelligent cat—when he wasn’t chasing feathers and swinging from curtains. All the same, she’d feel better if she knew he was asleep at the foot of her bed instead of clawing up Tucker’s family antiques or getting into mischief. Quietly, she tiptoed downstairs and whispered his name.
Each dark room greeted her with silence and nudged her uneasiness toward panic. By the time she reached the kitchen, all she could think about was the open kitchen door and William cooking at the stove earlier, the screen door letting the breeze in.
“He hates the outside,” she told herself as she stared at the wooden door that was now safely closed and locked for the night. “William wouldn’t have let him out. I made sure to tell him that Slick was a house cat. He wouldn’t have let him out. Slick’s not gone. He is not gone!” she repeated more firmly.
Then where is he?
Her breaths were too short to supply enough oxygen to her lungs. A tear slipped out of the corner of her eye. Slick might be a pain in the rump, but he was her pain in the rump. He was all she had. She refused to believe he was outside in the dark, scared, and in a strange neighborhood.
Just to be sure, she’d open the door and call him. Even though she knew he wasn’t outside. Yes, just to be safe, she’d call him. Clare pulled open the door and her heart sank. “Oh, my God.”
The old screen door had a tear in the bottom panel. A hole large enough for a determined cat to get through. Clare’s lip began to tremble as she sucked in and expelled air in rapid succession. Each breath became more ragged than the last.
“Oh, Slick. You don’t even know what a car is.”
Clare banished the image from her mind and pulled herself together. She had to think clearly. How long could he have been gone? Two, maybe three hours. Not long. Long enough, her panic whispered. He can’t have gone far, she argued silently. Far enough, came the grim response.
Resolutely, Clare stepped outside and called Slick. The cat’s name fell from her lips and sank into the still night air like a heavy pebble into water. The word created ripples in the silence, but the ripples didn’t reach far enough because the quiet enveloped her again.
Please answer me, Slick, she prayed silently as she waited.
Sounds of the night answered her, but not her cat. Acceptance made Clare’s heart thud in a sickening rhythm against her chest as she turned instinctively toward the carriage house. Her cat was gone. She needed help. She needed a friend. She needed Sam.
Clutching her robe, she ran across grass wet from a brief shower and barely noticed the dampness. Nor did she feel the coolness of the brick walkway beneath her bare feet. Her only thoughts were that together, she and Sam could find Slick. They could work out a plan.
Light still shone through the windows and curtains of the ivy-covered-brick carriage house, but Clare wouldn’t have hesitated even if the windows had been dark. She banged on the door and waited only a split second before calling, “Sam. Sam!”
Impatient, Clare tried the door, and when the knob turned, she breathed a thank-you and let herself in. “Sam, I need—”
Clare skidded to a halt after taking only two steps into the room. Sam looked startled but comfortable, his feet propped up on his desk. Slick lay draped across Sam’s lap, doing his boneless cat imitation and looking contented and safe.
“Need what?” Sam asked cautiously, swinging his feet off the desk. A masculine sixth sense straightened Sam’s spine and tensed every muscle in his body. The night had opened up his door and thrown a whirlwind into the room. Or so it had seemed to him when Clare burst through his door, flamingos swirling and chest heaving. She was breathless and breathtaking. She was dressed for
bed, which meant she’d decided to stay, but something was terribly wrong.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” Clare asked, relief and anger making her voice shake. The flood of relief only made her realize how frightened she’d been, how scared she still was, and how alone she’d be if anything happened to Slick. “How could you? You think this is some kind of game where you push my buttons and I dance to your tune?”
Sam tossed his paperback mystery onto the desk, gathered Slick up from his lap, and stood to face her. He chose his words carefully, uncertain of what he’d done. “Slow down, Clare. What are you talking about? What do you need?”
“I need what’s mine!” Clare shouted at him, knowing that her emotions were out of control, but she was beyond caring. One hand strangled the doorknob, and the other curled into a fist. Sam had no right to take her cat, to make her think she’d lost Slick. Slamming the door released some of her tension, but not all. Not nearly all. She needed her cat. Clare crossed the room and pulled Slick out of Sam’s arms.
For a minute she buried her face in fur, rubbing her cheek against the softness, letting the reality of his small, warm body invade her senses. Unconsciously, she cradled Slick in her arms and rocked him gently back and forth. It’s okay. He’s back. He never left. Bit by bit, the fear began to subside. When she looked up at Sam, she had her emotions under control. “Don’t ever do that to me again. Don’t ever take my cat.”
The words were calm, but raw emotion, barely held in check, stared at Sam from her eyes. A faint moisture trail still glistened on one cheek, and she clutched Slick as though she’d never let go again. Without warning, the last piece of Clare’s puzzle slipped into place in Sam’s mind.
Dear God, he realized, she loves that cat, and she’s terrified of losing what she loves. She lives her life according to schedules and rules because that gives her control. And if she’s in control, losing is a decision she makes and not a quirk of fate. She doesn’t trust the world to open a new door for every one it closes.