by Patricia Kay
Her mother was right. Amy did know it. He was the one.
Chapter Three
"You sound happy," Justin said. "Things must have gone well with Owen yesterday."
Sam broke off in mid-whistle. The reminder of the less than satisfactory meeting took some of the edge off his pleasure. "My good mood has nothing to do with work."
Justin held the back door wide, and as he did, Major, the part yellow Lab, part mutt that had originally been Sam's dog but had lived with Justin for the past six years, bounded into the kitchen and skidded to a stop in front of Sam.
The dog barked joyously, and Sam gave him an affectionate head rub and knelt so the dog could lick his face. Once Major calmed down, Sam stood and walked into the kitchen of Justin's Highland Village townhouse and thought again, as he had every time he was here, how much the place reflected Justin's personality. It was filled with carefully chosen, comfortable furniture and was almost painfully clean and orderly. Even Major's water and food bowls, which sat in the corner, were neat, with no spilled dog food or slopped-over water.
Without even looking, Sam knew the pantry was stocked with neatly-aligned food and so were the refrigerator and freezer. Sam thought of his own apartment—sparsely furnished with only the barest necessities, clothes thrown anywhere they landed, and the only food in sight a box of stale crackers and a few cans of baked beans.
Not for the first time, Sam pondered the phenomenon of their friendship—two such disparate personalities, opposites in every way.
"So what happened?" Justin said. "Did you win the lottery or something?"
"It's not that big a deal. I met someone new today, and I'm taking her out tonight, that's all."
"She must be quite a babe to put you in such a good mood." Justin walked over to the refrigerator. "You want a beer?"
"Sure." Sam pulled out a kitchen chair and straddled it.
Justin removed two bottles of Beck's beer from the refrigerator and handed Sam one. "So? What is she? A model? A dancer? An Oilers' cheerleader?"
Sam grinned sheepishly. "Nothing like that. She works at the shelter. I liked her, so I asked her out." It was weird. Normally he would go into great detail about the women he met, but for some reason, he was oddly reluctant to discuss Amy. He hoped Justin would drop the subject.
"So you did take the cat over to the shelter."
"Yeah," Sam said, relieved. "And you were right. They took him, no problem."
"Good."
"I just hope they can find him a home."
Justin nodded. After a moment, he said, "Since you've got a date tonight, I guess that means you're not going to Jessie's party."
Jessie was one of Justin's sisters, and Sam knew she had a thing for him, which was flattering, because Jessie was attractive as well as nice. But he'd never followed up on any of her hints, because even if she hadn't been Justin's sister—which was reason enough to keep his hands off—Jessie was the kind of woman Sam avoided the same way he avoided three-piece suits and management jobs. Jessie was the kind of woman who had marriage and picket fences written all over her. And that meant any entanglement with her would be doomed for trouble. "I forgot about her party," he admitted.
"She'll be disappointed."
"Tell her I'm sorry." Sam felt a momentary discomfort as Justin studied him in that unnerving way he had of looking right down inside you so that you felt as if he could read your mind. Or your soul.
Justin nodded slowly, his blue eyes reflective. "What about tomorrow? My mother said to bring you to dinner."
In the past, there was nothing Sam had enjoyed more than being with Justin's family, but this thing with Jessie had put a damper on his enthusiasm. Yet how could he refuse to go without explaining why? "Yeah, sure, I'd love to come."
"Good. That'll make Mom happy. She likes you. Don't ask me why. Doesn't have good sense, I guess."
Sam grinned and gave Justin the finger.
Then they both laughed, the slight tension introduced with the subject of Jessie now diffused.
"How'd your meeting with Owen go?" Justin asked after awhile. "Do you know what your new assignment's going to be?"
This, too, was uncomfortable territory. Sam wasn't ready to discuss his interview with Owen or the hint of an ultimatum in Owen's suggestions, not even with Justin. And Justin knew more of Sam's secrets than anyone else in the world.
"No, not yet," he said casually. "I think I'll take some vacation first."
"Really? Where are you going?"
"I don't know. I haven't decided yet."
"Want to go to Wyoming and do some fly fishing? I've still got two weeks vacation left."
Sam shrugged. "Hmm. I don't know. That might be fun." What the hell. Maybe he would. He had to do something to fill up the next four weeks. "Tell you what. Let me think about it tonight, and we'll talk about it tomorrow."
* * *
Amy carefully washed her hands and applied lotion afterwards to make sure there was no lingering doggy smell. She always carried a travel toothbrush with her, so she brushed her teeth and her hair and freshened her lipstick. She also swiped at her T-shirt and tights with a lint brush she'd found in the supply cupboard. She wished she'd suggested to Sam that he pick her up later—at home—so she could have had a shower and changed her clothes, but it was too late now.
By the time she was ready and had turned the sign in the door around so that the CLOSED side was showing, Sam's Corvette was parked out front.
He looked great, wearing close-fitting jeans, a tan knit shirt, and brown boots. His sun-streaked hair gleamed in the afternoon light, and his eyes were an even richer brown than she'd remembered.
Amy knew a perpetual tan wasn't good for a person's skin, but she sure did like the way it enhanced his smile and the color of his hair and eyes.
God, he was sexy. Just looking at him gave her a tingly feeling in her nether regions. The sensation reminded her of Lark's advice about what Amy needed, which in turn caused Amy's face to heat up.
"Right on time," she said, hoping he wouldn't notice how flustered she'd become. She ducked her head as he opened the passenger door for her.
"After our discussion about serial killers, I was half afraid you might have changed your mind," he said.
"Are you glad I didn't?" His smile and the way he looked at her made her feel like the most attractive woman on earth.
"Very glad," he drawled.
He shut her door, walked around to his side, and climbed in. Soon they were on their way.
"Do you like Mexican food?" Sam asked as he pointed the Corvette toward Richmond Avenue.
"It's my absolute favorite."
"Me, too. I know a little Mexican restaurant over on Kirby called Serafina's. They've got the best food and margaritas you ever tasted. How does that sound?"
Amy smiled. "I know Serafina's, too. I love it there."
Fifteen minutes later they sat opposite each other at one of the small round tables filling the family-owned restaurant. A smiling young Mexican girl in a brightly colored dress brought them a big basket of hot chips and a dish of homemade salsa, took their orders for margaritas and promised to be back soon.
Sam attacked the chips enthusiastically, and Amy followed his lead. She was starving. She'd forgotten to pack a lunch today and had been reduced to eating peanut butter crackers from the vending machine. She couldn't leave when the shelter was shorthanded, as it had been today. She and the kennel attendant had been the only workers there, and he didn't know anything about the paperwork involved in adoptions or animal admittance.
"So where and what do you teach?" Sam asked after he'd eaten a few chips.
"I teach art at a neighborhood elementary school."
"You're an artist, huh?"
His smile really was one of the nicest she'd ever seen. And she loved his dimples. He sort of reminded her of a young Jeff Bridges, all effortless charm and laid back sexuality. "I'm an art teacher," she corrected. "There's a big difference."
"Wh
at's the difference?"
For a moment, Amy wondered if he was just being polite, but after studying him, she realized he really wanted to know. "Well, an artist spends his time expressing himself and his feelings through his art. I think a true artist is compelled to create, just as a writer would be compelled to write or an actor compelled to act. There's no choice in the matter." Then she laughed a bit self-consciously. "But why am I telling you this? You're a photographer. And photography is a creative art, too."
He nodded. "Yes. It is."
"Well, I'm not like that," she continued. "I love to paint and draw, but my real love is teaching kids to express themselves. It's the most wonderful feeling to know you've opened a child's eyes and introduced them to something exciting."
"I'll bet you're a great teacher."
"I hope so. I love teaching. It's all I've ever wanted to do." That wasn't quite true, but you didn't tell a guy you'd just met that your other objective in life was to get married and have kids of your own. By now their margaritas had come, and she tasted hers. "Tell me about you. Since you work for World of Nature, I'm assuming you're a wildlife photographer."
"Right, although I've occasionally shot other things. Once I shot a volcano that was actively erupting."
"You must be very good." Amy knew that except for National Geographic, no other magazine in the world was as respected as World of Nature and assignments with them were coveted.
"I am."
No false modesty on his part. She liked that. She liked people who felt good about themselves and their work and weren't afraid to show it. Her father was like that. He was a brilliant cardiac surgeon—a trailblazer in his field who was invited to symposiums and medical conferences all over the world. In fact, her parents were even now in Brussels, where her father would be presenting a paper on Monday.
"So are you based in Houston?" she asked.
"Yes. This is where I park between assignments. Not for long, though." He smiled. "I have itchy feet. In fact, what you were saying earlier—you know—about true artists being compelled to do their art, that's not exactly what I find the most satisfying about my work."
"Oh? What is?"
He shrugged. "The adventure . . . the excitement. In some ways, even the risks." Now his smile turned sheepish. "You know, man against the elements, that kind of thing."
His words sent warning signals to Amy's brain and diluted some of the pleasure she'd felt since meeting him. The last thing she wanted was to get involved with a man who would be gone all the time—a man who thrived on adventure and danger.
Maybe she'd been wrong. Maybe Sam wasn't the one.
"So you're one of those people who's always looking for a new challenge," she said thoughtfully.
"I guess you could say that."
"Do you keep an apartment here, or what?"
"Yes. I've got an apartment near Memorial Park."
"You don't live that far away from me, then."
Just then their food came. Sam had ordered Chiles Rellenos— poblano peppers stuffed with meat and cheese—a specialty of the house, accompanied by guacamolé salad, rice, and refried beans. Amy, who knew how huge the servings were, had been a little more conservative and ordered the soft chicken tacos. Even then, she knew she'd never finish everything.
For a while, they didn't talk much except to comment on how good the food was.
Then Sam said, "So where do you live?"
"I have a garage apartment in River Oaks."
"River Oaks, huh? That's a pretty high class neighborhood."
"Well, I teach close by, and the rent was right." Amy felt funny about telling him the garage apartment was actually on the grounds of her parents' home. She knew it was ridiculous to be embarrassed about it, but a couple of times guys she'd just met had given her an odd look when she'd told them—as if there might be something wrong with an adult woman who still lived so close to home.
On the other hand, telling Sam and seeing his reaction would be a good test. She'd find out if he really was the kind of person she thought he was. "To be honest, the rent is dirt cheap. The apartment is on top of my parents' garage."
"You must get along well with them," was his only comment.
"I do. They're wonderful. We've always been very close."
"You're lucky." His tone was flat, his eyes guarded, as if a shutter had come down, hiding whatever emotion lurked in their depths.
"I know." She waited, hoping he'd volunteer information about his own family but hating to press him. She knew instinctively that whatever he eventually revealed would not be positive.
"You're wondering about me."
"Well, yes," she admitted. "But you don't have to tell me if you don't want to."
He shrugged. His eyes met hers squarely. "No big deal. My father was a sailor who took off before I was born, and my mother died when I was nine." His voice was matter-of-fact, and his expression told her he didn't expect or want sympathy.
"That's tough," was all she said, but her tender heart ached for him. She thought about how loved and safe and secure she'd always felt. If she'd known nothing else in life, she'd known that her parents treasured her more than anything in the world and would always be there for her. That knowledge was the cornerstone of her existence. "Who raised you, then?" she asked softly. "A relative?"
His smile was wry. "Yeah. My cousin, the San Diego Welfare Department."
"Oh. I-I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked."
He shrugged again, but now his eyes betrayed him. They were filled with a bleakness he couldn't hide. "I survived. It made me stronger. Hungrier. More determined. Tell you the truth, I'm not sure I would've been half as successful as I am now if I hadn't had to fight so hard."
Amy forced herself to keep her voice free of pity. She knew Sam Robbins would not want her feeling sorry for him. "Are you an only child?"
He hesitated, but only for a moment. "No. I have a younger sister. She was just an infant when we got placed with the welfare people. I haven't seen her in twenty-one years."
"Oh, Sam, why not?" she said before she could stop herself. Amy had always wanted a sister or a brother, and she'd often thought about the kind of relationship she would have had with one if her parents had been able to have more children. She couldn't imagine a separation like he'd described.
"I don't know where she is. She was adopted within months after our mother died."
"And the welfare people allowed you two to be split up?" Amy felt outraged for him. "And what about her father? Did he take off, too?"
"Nobody knew who her father was. Least of all, my mother," he said with a bitter twist to his mouth.
Oh, God, Amy thought.
"The child welfare people did what they thought was best. Holly was a baby and adoptable. I was nine years old and . . . " He grimaced. "I was a handful. I'd been in some trouble. Nobody wanted me, and I don't blame 'em."
How must he have felt? Amy's natural empathy and vivid imagination told her he had to have felt doubly abandoned and deeply lonely. And he'd only been nine years old. She fought to keep her expression free of her emotions, but knew she hadn't completely succeeded by his next remark.
"Look, don't turn this into some kind of Greek tragedy. I'm glad Holly got adopted. The adoption gave her a chance for a better life. I've never felt resentful of that."
"Did . . . did you grow up in an orphanage, then?" Even the word made her shudder as images of Oliver flashed through her mind.
"Foster homes," he said. Seeing her expression, he added, "Hey, come on, lighten up. It wasn't that bad. In fact, the last home I stayed in is the whole reason I'm a photographer today." A fond smile tipped his lips. "When I was twelve, I was sent to live with a photographer and his wife. Gus and Peggy were great. They were older, childless, and they took a shine to me. And when Gus saw how interested I was in what he did for a living, he started teaching me."
Amy smiled. That was better. His childhood had had some happy moments.
"This is get
ting boring, talking about me," he said. "Let's talk about you for a while. Where you went to school, and what you do for fun, and do you like to dance?"
"I went to St. John's High School, U.T. for my bachelor's degree, and the University of St. Thomas for my master's," she said, ticking the items off on her fingers. "I love to paint and draw, of course, and I like to read, swim, walk. I adore movies and listening to forties music. And I love to dance! How about you?" Amy was already picturing them doing some romantic dance like the tango.
"I can't dance," Sam said sheepishly.
"Then why'd you ask me if I liked to?"
"I wanted to throw you off course. The conversation was getting too maudlin."
All the bleakness had left his eyes, which Amy was glad to see. She chuckled. "Why dancing?"
"I've always wished I knew how to dance," he admitted. "It's my one failing."
If anyone else had said that, Amy would have thought how egotistical they were, but when Sam said it, it just made her want to smile. "Oh, really? Your one failing, huh?" His grin reminded her of some of her most mischievous and irresistible students. "Would you like to remedy that?" she continued.
"Did you have something specific in mind?"
It was Amy's turn to grin, and she totally ignored the inner voice that said she shouldn't do anything rash, that this might need some more thought, that maybe she really was being dangerously foolish.
Instead she said, "Yes, I do. Let's go to my place, and I'll put on some dance music and you'll have your first lesson."
"Now who could refuse an invitation like that?"
Chapter Four
Every city has its enclave where the very wealthy live. In New York, it's the tightly-secured buildings along Fifth and Park Avenues; in Los Angeles, it's Beverly Hills and Bel Air; and in Houston, it's River Oaks.
River Oaks. Oil barons and Italian barons. Astronauts and former movie stars. The famous and the infamous.
As Sam followed Amy's little white Miata down the broad expanse of River Oaks Boulevard, past the five million dollar mansions with their sculpted gardens, he wondered who in the hell her parents were. When she'd said River Oaks, Sam had envisioned one of the streets on the fringes, not this prime center location.