by Patricia Kay
"And don't blame Roger," Owen said. "He has a larger responsibility than covering for you. He did the right thing when he told me what happened. Maybe if you had a family back here, as Roger does, you wouldn't take so many chances."
"Aw, come on, Owen, nothing happened. Roger's just an old lady! He's afraid of his own shadow, for Christ's sake!"
"Maybe nothing did happen, but it could have. Because you did something reckless in Alaska. You cornered that bear because you were either too impatient to wait and see if you could get the shots you wanted later, when you and Roger were out of harm's way, or you were too damned cocky to think that normal rules apply to you. Either way, I don't like it. It's only blind luck that everything turned out okay, but if you keep on like this, one of these days you won't be so lucky."
"Look, I'm sorry—"
"Saying you're sorry isn't good enough. Not this time. I want you to take time off. I'd like you to take your full eight weeks, but I'll settle for four." Again, his voice softened, and he leaned forward. "Sam, you have the potential to win a Pulitzer. But first you've got to learn the difference between calculated risk-taking and foolish endangerment."
Sam didn't trust himself to speak. He stood and walked over to the bank of windows and stared out at the afternoon traffic crawling along Westheimer and the intersecting West Loop. He had walked into Owen's office expecting congratulations and an exciting new assignment. Instead, he'd gotten a lecture.
"I know you're angry," Owen said. "But I want you to think about what I said. Think about what your goals are. And when your vacation is over, come in, and we'll talk about where you go from here."
* * *
After Sam left the office, Owen swivelled his chair around and gazed out the window unseeingly. He knew Sam was mad. Well, the kid would just have to get over it.
Owen sighed. If only he could knock some sense into Sam's head. Owen knew what drove Sam. He also knew, or thought he knew, what Sam's deep-seated fears were. Hell, if Owen had been born into the kind of situation Sam had been born into, if he'd had to scrounge on the streets from the time he was a little kid, if he'd been surrounded by pimps and prostitutes and drug pushers and addicts, if he'd been let down by all the people who were supposed to take care of him, maybe Owen would have the same kind of who-gives-a-shit attitude that Sam had.
But although Owen understood, although he realized that Sam had some kind of compulsion to thumb his nose at the conventional world as well as shout at the devil, Owen couldn't let him if it meant jeopardizing the work of the magazine or the lives of his co-workers.
He couldn't help smiling, though, as he remembered Sam's description of Roger Blakely. Roger was an old lady. He hated field work. He much preferred to bury his nose in library archives or microfiche than to be a part of an on-site research team. Too bad he was so good at it.
No matter. Sam was the one in the wrong, and he would either learn from this, straighten up and fly right, or he wouldn't fly at all.
* * *
Sam forced himself to pretend nothing was wrong as he made his way out of the magazine's offices. But he was seething inside, and he decided he'd go to the running trail in Memorial Park and blow off some steam.
Normally he ran in the mornings, but he'd gotten into town late last night, then he and Justin had stayed up even later, talking and pounding a few beers. As a result, Sam hadn't crawled out of bed until eleven this morning, and by the time he'd unpacked and showered and shaved and had something to eat, it was already the middle of the afternoon.
It only took him ten minutes to get from the World of Nature offices to his apartment near the park. It was a stifling day, but Sam didn't mind. He didn't even run the 'Vette's air conditioner, just put the windows down and let the hot air rush through. He'd spent lots of time in jungles and tropical climates the past eight years. His body was used to heat and humidity.
He always got a kick out of the way his Houston friends complained about the heat. Most of them wouldn't survive two days in some of the places he'd been. They were soft and spoiled, going from their air-conditioned homes to their air-conditioned cars to their air-conditioned offices.
Sam shook his head, remembering his astonishment the first time he'd gone to Astroworld and discovered that its creator had even tried to air-condition the outdoors. Only in Texas, he'd thought.
When he got to his apartment, he changed into his running shorts and shoes, then headed for the park. While he ran, he rehashed his conversation with Owen. He tried to get past his feelings of anger, but Owen's criticism rankled. Hell, any wildlife photographer had to take some risks. It went with the territory.
He felt like strangling Roger. Because of his big mouth, Sam had been grounded, like a misbehaving teenager. What in the hell was he going to do for four weeks? He'd go nuts.
He was still mulling over his problem when he finished his run and slowly walked toward the parking lot. As he approached his 'Vette, he heard a faint sound, like a cry.
Frowning, he looked around. There it was again. The sound seemed to be coming from under the thick Indian Hawthorne bushes that bordered the lot. He turned and walked in their direction.
Sam parted the bushes and peered under them. Sweat rolled off his neck.
"Meowww . . . " The muffled cry guided Sam as he finally located its source—a tiger-striped kitten, bedraggled and skinny. "Hey, fella," he said softly, "c'mere." He reached for it, and although the kitten meowed once more, it didn't resist as Sam pulled it out of its hiding place.
He cradled the kitten in his arms and stood. Poor little thing. It whimpered as he petted it and scratched behind its ears. Despite the heat, it was shaking all over. "Whatsa matter, fella? Did somebody toss you out on the streets? Huh? I know how that feels."
Sam knew he couldn't keep the kitten. He'd tried that once, with a puppy, and quickly discovered it was impossible to have a pet when you were away from home two-thirds of the time. In fact, that's how he and Justin had met. When Sam realized he would have to find another home for the pup, he'd put a notice up on the magazine's bulletin board, and Justin—who worked in the business office— answered it. He'd taken the dog, and in the process, he and Sam had become friends—a friendship that had strengthened as the years went by.
Sam cradled the kitten in his arms and wondered what he should do. It had obviously been abandoned, and if he left it, the kitten would probably starve to death.
He scratched its head gently. "Oh, hell, the least I can do is feed you. Then I guess I'll figure out something. C'mon, let's go. We'll be home in a few minutes. And who knows? If we play our cards right, maybe we can persuade Justin to take you, too!"
Chapter Two
The first pink fingers of dawn crept over the horizon at six twenty-eight Saturday morning.
Amy Carpenter had been awake for over an hour. She'd been having trouble sleeping lately. She was restless and would awaken several times during the night.
Lark DeWitt, Amy's best friend since first grade, kept telling Amy she just needed a good fuck, which always made Amy cringe. She hated coarse language, and Lark knew it, so just to be perverse and get Amy's hackles up, Lark said the "F" word every chance she got.
Maybe Lark was right, Amy mused as she drank her third cup of coffee and nibbled on a bagel. She was sitting out on the second floor deck, under one of the leafy red oak trees that ringed her garage apartment. For the past thirty minutes she'd been listening to a mockingbird call to its friends and enjoying the relative coolness of the early morning air.
Maybe a lover was exactly what she needed. But there was a problem with that scenario. Unfortunately, there was no one she could even imagine filling that role. Not that she hadn't had her share of possible lovers. Even now, Glenn would be delighted to step in and do something about her sexual frustration—if that's what this current itchiness was.
Amy frowned. She had to do something about Glenn Wilhelm. She had mistakenly encouraged him when he'd first begun asking her out, because
he was nice, a fellow teacher, clean-cut and attractive. She had talked herself into thinking he might grow on her.
But after a few dates, she'd known the relationship was doomed to go no further. There were simply no magic sparks, no sparks of any kind, when she was with him. She enjoyed his company. They had fun together, but when he kissed her good-night, it was like kissing a brother.
She couldn't imagine going to bed with Glenn. Just the thought of having sex with him made her cringe.
Yes, she definitely had to break it off completely. Glenn was gone this week—off to Idaho to visit his family—but when he returned and called her, she would tell him, as gently as she could, that it was best if they didn't see each other anymore.
She drained her cup and propped her feet up on the deck railing. Would she ever meet anyone who made her feel those magical sparks her mother had described?
Amy knew her parents' fondest wish was to see her happily married.
"It's true that your father and I want you to be safe and secure and that we want grandchildren before we die," her mother said the last time Amy brought up the subject. "But we also want you to be as happy as we've been. We don't want you to settle for just anyone. Be patient, darling. The right man will come along. And when he does, you'll know it."
Amy wanted all of that, too. In fact, she wanted a marriage exactly like her parents'. Faith and Alan Carpenter were the most in-love couple Amy had ever known.
She had heard the story of their meeting countless times: how it was "love at first sight," and how they immediately knew they were meant to be together always. "I took one look, and that was it," Faith had said, her eyes soft in remembrance.
The Carpenters had never spent a night apart, not even the night Amy was born. Her father had been by her mother's side throughout the birth, and he hadn't left the hospital until he could take her and their little daughter home with him.
Yes, Amy thought, her parents had set a shining example of what a marriage should be. Theirs was exactly the kind of relationship Amy wanted but had almost despaired of finding. Her standards were high, and so far no one had come close to filling them.
Amy continued to think about her deep yearning for someone to love, someone who would lift her to the stars and give her the children she wanted as much as her parents wanted her to have them.
Finally, as the sun began to climb, she realized it was getting late, and she'd better go inside and start getting ready for the day.
Although it was summer, and she wasn't teaching, she'd been doing some volunteer work at a nearby pet shelter. She'd started out by working two days during the week, but this past Thursday the director of the shelter asked her if she could possibly fill in today—Saturday.
"Beth moved to Tucson, so we're really shorthanded," she'd said.
Amy agreed readily. She had no plans to go anywhere or do anything until her parents returned from Europe, which wasn't going to happen for several weeks. Even then, she had no concrete plans. Lark had been trying to talk her into taking a cruise, but Amy wasn't sure she wanted to. Instead, she'd been toying with the idea of going to New York or perhaps Santa Fe for a week. She could immerse herself in the museums and galleries, which would give her some fresh ideas to bring to her art classes and would be more relaxing to her than the enforced gaiety and relentless activities associated with the kind of cruise Lark was pushing.
After making her bed, showering, dressing, and feeding her cats, she blew them all kisses and left her apartment a little before eight-thirty.
It was such a pretty morning, she decided to put the top down on her little white Miata—a twenty-seventh birthday present from her parents in March.
By the time she reached the shelter ten minutes later, her vaguely restless mood had disappeared, blown away by the fresh air and blue skies.
She smiled as she knocked on the shelter door and waited for Carl, one of the few paid, full-time workers, to open up.
It was a new day. Anything was possible.
* * *
At ten o'clock Saturday morning, showered and wearing clean army green shorts, an open-necked white cotton shirt, with his bare feet shoved into worn Docksiders, Sam put the kitten in a cardboard box and drove over to the shelter on Weslayen that Justin had recommended.
A few minutes later he reached his destination. The shelter was part of a seen-better-days, L-shaped strip center, the kind that proliferated in Houston. The sign proclaimed the shelter to be PET HAVEN and took up the entire short leg of the L. There were two doors, one leading into the adoption center, one leading into an accompanying pet supplies shop.
Sam opened the door to the adoption center, and a bell tinkled. The small reception area had a beat-up tile floor and a distinct animal smell. A symphony of barking greeted his arrival.
A few seconds later, a girl carrying a large black cat emerged from the back room. She smiled at Sam.
Sam took one look, and his fingers itched for his camera. His photographer's eye rapidly took in the details of her appearance. She looked about seventeen—small, with a heart-shaped face, enormous green eyes, and a flawless complexion with just the barest smattering of freckles across her nose. Her hair, thick and dark and curly, was loosely tied back from her face with a narrow green ribbon and she wore a jaunty green beret angled down over one eye. An oversized black T-shirt and black tights completed her costume. Long silver earrings in the shape of stars dangled from her ears and sparkled in the morning sunlight. She wasn't beautiful, Sam decided, yet she was totally captivating.
He was already imagining how he'd place her against a white backdrop with maybe a green park bench in the foreground. Maybe some bright red geraniums or azaleas to add a counterpoint of color. And that cat in her arms was perfect, too—a match with its black fur, green eyes and silver collar.
"Hi," the girl said. "What've you got there?" Her voice was surprisingly husky.
"It's a stray I found. I can't keep it, and a friend told me to come over here and you'd take it." He couldn't stop staring at her. She had a wonderful face—expressive and open and sweetly innocent. And that smile! Oh, man, he'd love to shoot her, even though he rarely shot people.
"Oh, sure," she said, her gaze connecting with his. "We'll take it." But for a long moment, she didn't move. Finally, with an obvious effort, she tore her gaze away and put the black cat she'd been holding on top of the counter separating her from customers, saying, "Now you stay there, Jasmine." She pulled a form from somewhere under the counter and looked at Sam again. "Um, okay. Name?"
"I don't know."
She frowned for a second, then gave a throaty little chuckle. "I meant you, not the kitten."
Sam grinned foolishly. She was enchanting. He liked everything about her. The way she looked. The way she talked. And he especially liked the way she laughed. Too bad she was jail bait. "Well, in that case, my name is Sam Robbins. What's yours?"
Her eyes sparkled with good humor. "Nice to meet you, Sam. I'm Amy." She pointed to her shoulder.
Belatedly, he noticed she wore a name tag. It read: Amy Carpenter. "Carpenter, Carpenter . . . are you by any chance related to Jack Carpenter, the dentist?"
She shook her head. "Nope. Afraid not." She continued asking questions and filling out the form, and when she finished, she smiled again and reached for the kitten. She petted him, saying, "We'll find him a good home. Don't worry."
Sam knew it was time to say thanks and leave, but he didn't want to, and he didn't think she wanted him to leave, either. "You're doing good work here," he said, stalling.
"Thanks."
"Do you work here full time?"
"Oh, no. I just volunteer a couple of days a week."
He nodded. "Are you a student?"
"Actually, I'm a teacher."
"Really? You don't look old enough to be a teacher."
She eyed him for a moment, a smile hovering at the edges of her mouth. "I know. I get carded everywhere I go. But I'm twenty-seven. I've been teaching for f
ive years."
Sam grinned. "In that case, I won't be considered a dirty old man if I ask you out, will I?"
"Are you going to ask me out?"
"How does dinner tonight sound? If you don't already have plans, that is."
She studied him thoughtfully. "I don't even know you. Maybe you're a serial killer."
"I'm perfectly harmless. Really. I'm a photographer, and I work for World of Nature magazine. Here. Look at my driver's license and my press card." He reached for his wallet. Suddenly, it was very important that she say 'yes.' He couldn't just walk away without seeing her again.
She shook her head. "That's okay, I believe you. Serial killers wouldn't bother to bring an abandoned kitten to a shelter."
"Ted Bundy did," he pointed out.
She grimaced. "You just had to say that, didn't you?"
Sam laughed. "Sure you don't want to see my I.D. Maybe check me out?"
"Well, after that remark, maybe I should." Then she smiled. "But I don't think I need to. I'm a pretty good judge of people."
"Well, then, what do you say?"
"Sure. I'd love to go to dinner with you tonight."
He knew his grin must look idiotic, but he felt ridiculously happy—out of all proportion to a simple acceptance of a dinner date. "What time are you through here?"
"We close at six."
"I'll be back," he promised.
"I'll be waiting."
* * *
Amy watched Sam Robbins fold his tall, muscular frame into a bright red Corvette. He waved before pulling out of the parking lot, and she waved back.
She knew what she'd just done—accepting a date with a man she had only met ten minutes ago, who really could be a serial killer—was foolishly impetuous, perhaps even dangerous.
Yet she hadn't been able to help herself. He was the one.
She had known it the moment she'd gazed into those warm, golden-brown eyes. There had been an instant connection. An instant recognition. It was crazy. Ridiculously romantic. Totally improbable.
But it was also undeniable. It was just as her mother had always said; when she met the right man, she would know it.