“With everyone but you.”
“He has time for me,” she maintained stoutly. “All tomorrow night.”
Sam snorted. “If he remembers.”
She knew he had witnessed Kurt’s absent-mindedness more than once over the last two weeks, and he made a point of saying so. He never said anything about the good Kurt did for his parishioners.
Josie knew her fiancé wasn’t perfect. But it wasn’t as if Sam had picked such a great fiancée himself. After all, Isobel had dumped him!
“Don’t worry about me,” she said.
“I won’t.” Sam turned on his heel and walked out.
Kurt wouldn’t forget, Josie told herself. Of course he wouldn’t. He knew how much this celebration meant to her.
On the night of her birthday, she made dinner for Hattie and Sam, but declined to eat with them. Instead she went upstairs to get ready to go. Then she sat in the parlor and waited, smiling cheerfully as she chatted with the guests. Six-thirty came and went. So did seven. Her smiles got to be a little more distracted. Her replies to the guests’ comments were just a little vague.
Sam came through on his way up from the wine cellar and raised a bottle in toast to her still sitting there. Josie looked away.
At seven forty-five she excused herself and went out on the porch, still smiling, but a little worried. Kurt’s car wasn’t the newest or in the best shape. Could he have been in an accident?
She peered down the road. She walked to the edge of the bluff and looked to see if she could see his car. She waited outside until eight-thirty. Alone.
Finally, at nine, she gave up. She hurried through the parlor, head down, glad that Sam wasn’t there to smirk at her.
Hattie looked up from peeling apples and frowned. “Back already.”
Josie managed a smile. “I never left. He must have had an emergency come up.” She wished her voice didn’t waver.
“He didn’t call,” Hattie translated.
“He probably couldn’t get to a phone. Here, let me do that,” Josie said. She almost snatched the peeler out of Hattie’s hand and set to work.
She needed to be busy, not to think. Not to hurt.
After the casseroles were assembled and in the refrigerator, she set the table. She folded the napkins into swans, then unfolded them again and made doves. She polished the coffeepot, the teapot, the tray, the creamer and sugar bowl. And all the while she listened for his footsteps and blinked back the stinging beneath her eyelids.
Come, Kurt, she prayed silently. Please, come.
He never came.
She told herself he had a good reason. She was being silly to care so much. It was ridiculous to be so hurt.
But she was. The pain was there, knotted tight inside her. And so—once she gave up hoping and sought the solitude of her room shortly after eleven—were the tears.
Josie wasn’t ordinarily a weeper. Ordinarily she was a stiff-upper-lip, nothing-gets-me-down kind of girl.
But tonight she wept.
She took off the gauzy rose-colored dress she’d bought specially for the evening. She ran her tongue over her lips as she hung it in the closet, then shut the door. She went into the bathroom and washed her face and brushed her teeth. She took her hair down out of the French braid she’d laboriously done it up in that afternoon and shook it out, loose and billowing around her head. And all the while she swallowed, blinked, kept the tears at bay.
But when she put out the light and slid under the covers, they came.
Slowly, one by one, tears slipped from beneath her lids. She tried to stop them. She choked on them, gulped them, swallowed desperately, commanded herself to quit. But there was no quitting this time.
She cried.
She cried for the missed dinner, the lonely birthday, the hopeful fool she’d been, the silly goose she was. She cried for the little girl who’d always been on the outside looking in. She cried for the young woman who didn’t seem to matter to anyone.
She didn’t know how long she cried. But finally, vaguely, she became aware of a soft tapping on her door.
She gulped frantically, trying to silence the sobs, to get a grip on herself. The last thing she needed was for one of the guests to hear her! They couldn’t have, could they?
No, of course not. The room next to hers was the one where Sam was staying—and he wouldn’t have been hanging around on a Saturday night. It was probably the people staying in the Ballroom, needing an extra pillow or a coffee carafe or one of the portable phones. She’d told them when she checked them in where her room was and that if they needed anything to call on her.
Josie swiped the tears from her cheeks, scrubbed at her face with the sheet, and, pulling on a robe and pasting her innkeeper smile on her face, she opened the door.
It was Sam.
She stared, nonplussed.
“You all right?” His voice was as soft as his knock had been, and there was none of the smirking smugness she’d expected. He looked a little ragged himself, his hair mussed as if he’d been running his fingers through it, his short-sleeved shirt unbuttoned and hanging open over a pair of faded jeans. He shifted from one bare foot to the other.
Josie stifled a sniff and nodded, blinking. “Of course I’m all right.”
“I heard you crying.”
She wanted to deny it. She didn’t want Sam Fletcher knowing her weakness. The trouble was, he already did.
She gave an awkward little shrug. “It’s no big deal.”
“He stood you up?” There was no censure in his voice, not even the little bit that Hattie had used. He sounded sad.
Josie gave another shrug. “I’m sure he had a good reason.”
He hesitated. Then, “I’m sure he did,” Sam said quietly. Again she listened for the sarcasm she was used to from him where Kurt was concerned; again she failed to hear it.
“Did you want something?” she asked finally.
He lifted one hand and she noticed the bottle he was carrying. It wasn’t wine. It was a bottle of Irish whiskey. “They say that misery loves company,” he said. “Come have a drink with me.”
Josie frowned. “A drink?”
“It’s your birthday, isn’t it? Let’s celebrate.” His voice was ragged, and Josie, who had a few more wits about her now, looked at him more closely.
“Are you drunk, Sam?”
“Not yet.” He brandished the bottle again. “But I’m working on it.”
“Why?”
“Come on, Josie. You gonna sit here and feel sorry for yourself all night? It’s only your birthday, not your wedding night You’re not the only one who’s ever been stood up, you know.”
And then she understood.
In her own self-absorption, she’d completely forgotten that today was the day Isobel Rule was marrying another man.
She felt a surge of protectiveness toward the one standing in front of her. Handsome, strong, clever, tough, perfect Sam. Sam—the man she’d loved from a distance for years. How could Isobel have preferred anyone else to him?
“Oh, Sam.” She shook her head helplessly.
He scowled, taking her words as a refusal. “It’s not good to drink alone. You don’t want me to have to do it, do you?” A corner of his mouth lifted ruefully. “It’s Walter’s best,” he confided, nodding at the bottle. “I got it from the stash my esteemed great-grandfather toasted them with at their wedding. Only five bottles left.”
Josie’s eyes widened. Those bottles were practically sacred. “And you took one?”
“Hattie doesn’t care. And it seemed appropriate.” He hoisted the bottle once more. “I had to toast the bride’s happiness, didn’t I?”
“Oh, Sam,” Josie said again. The wistfulness in his voice and the love she’d fought against all these years combined to swamp the last vestiges of her good sense.
Shutting the door to her room, she stepped out and padded the few feet down the hall to his.
In her mind—in her heart—in her dreams—she had been in
his room before. She’d smiled at him, toasted him, touched him. This was reality, she reminded herself, and she didn’t dare do any such thing!
Not mention the fact that she was an engaged woman.
Sam pushed open the door he’d left ajar, then stepped back so she could go in. For an instant Josie hesitated. But only for an instant. No more.
She didn’t want to be alone tonight. No more than Sam did.
They’d both been dumped. They could console each other. Smile at each other. Sip a little of Walter’s wonderful whiskey together.
What would it hurt?
Sam followed her in and shut the door.
The Captain’s Quarters was one of the smaller rooms. But it seemed smaller now than it ever had, with the fire flickering in the fireplace and the whirlpool bath in the turret, and the canopied brass bed that suddenly looked bigger than it had when she made it up in the mornings.
Sam was pouring two glasses of whiskey. She could see that the bottle was almost empty. Good, she thought. She wouldn’t lose her head.
“Sit down.”
Josie looked around. The rocker was piled with books and papers and merchandising invoices. There was nowhere to sit—but the bed.
She ran her tongue over her lips, looked hopefully once more at the rocker as if it might suddenly dump its contents on the floor just for her. It didn’t.
Sam was looking at her, waiting for her to sit. If she moved everything off the rocker he would think she was crazy. Obviously he didn’t think about her in connection with beds!
She took a steadying breath and sat as if the bed might explode beneath her. But when it gave gently, and she felt like an idiot sitting primly on the edge, she pushed herself back up against the pillows, then held out her hand for the glass.
He gave it to her. Their fingers brushed for an instant, no more. But she felt electricity in his touch.
Oh, Josie, you fool. You dreamer.
Sam set the bottle on the bedside table and lifted his glass in the timeless gesture of a toast. A corner of his mouth tipped. “To them,” he said.
Josie knew who he meant. Kurt for her. Isobel for him.
She tipped the glass against her lips. The fiery liquid touched her tongue, burning and numbing at the same time. Her eyes, fixed on his, watered. She swallowed.
So did Sam. Then he ran his tongue over his lips and, his eyes never leaving hers, he said, “To us.”
Us?
Josie stared. Gulped. Trembled. But Sam was already taking another long swallow. So she did, too. To us. She could feel the last swallow flaming clear to her toes. This one seemed to soften, to soothe, to mellow. Her fingers tightened around the glass. Sam loomed over her.
“Shove over,” he said.
Josie stared, then moved to do what he said. He sat down and swung his legs up, then leaned back, his shoulder pressing hard against hers. She could feel the warmth of his body through the thin cotton of her robe and his shirt. It felt hotter than the trail of the whiskey. She tried to edge away. Sam caught her knee in a firm grip.
“Don’t,” he said, his voice rough. “Stay.”
Josie turned her head. His deep brown eyes were only inches from hers. His mouth was almost on a level with hers. Even in the firelight he was close enough that she could see each individual whisker that shadowed his jaw, could see the tiny chip in his front tooth that he’d once told her had come from a childhood fall, and the almost imperceptible chicken pox scar by his mouth that turned into a dimple when he smiled. Only Sam Fletcher could turn a chicken pox scar to advantage. She wanted to touch it.
It was too dangerous.
She took another quick desperate swig of Walter’s whiskey. The danger receded.
It was only Sam. Nothing would happen between her and Sam. In ten years nothing ever had.
And then he kissed her.
She thought it was the whiskey, befuddling her brain, making her hallucinate. The touch of his lips against hers was soft and warm. Softer than the whiskey. Warmer. Smoother. Gentler. It didn’t scorch. But the heat was there. Slow and steady. Like kindling catching fire, flickering, growing, then settling into a full-blown blaze.
Sam was kissing her!
It was folly, she told herself. It was foolishness. It was wrong.
It was Sam.
Her lashes fluttered shut Her lips parted. She tasted his lips, his tongue. Her own resisted, but not for long. Her lips nibbled, too. Just for a moment Just to see. Just to touch. Just to taste.
He tasted good. Better than good. Wonderful. And when his lips left her to trail along her jaw and cheek, she whimpered, wanting him back. But the soft rasp of his rough cheek against her jaw felt almost as good as his mouth had. Her whimper turned into a purr.
The ache of need that had been building inside her so long she couldn’t remember when it had begun, now seemed to flower, to open and respond to his touch.
This is Sam! she told herself. Sam!
Her mind did its best to shout a warning. But her body just said, Yes. Yes, it is. And her heart—heaven help her—seemed only to say, At last.
Her mouth, which had more sense than the rest of her, did manage to say, “We shouldn’t—” and her arms even tried to push him away.
What was she supposed to say—or do—when he agreed? When he said, “I know. I know,” but didn’t stop? When he kept on with those soft, gentle kisses, and each one was better than the last?
It felt right to be in his arms.
When, she wondered, had she come to be in his arms? No matter. She was there. Snug. Secure. Safe.
Safe?
No, one glass of whiskey hadn’t muddled her mind that badly.
“Sam, we can’t—”
“Shh,” he whispered against her lips. “We won’t.”
Then he did pull back. He shoved himself far enough away to fill their glasses again, then to draw her hard against him inside the curve of his arm. He rested his cheek against the top of her head. “We won’t,” he said again, his voice soft and ragged. He took a sip.
So did Josie.
“He’s a fool,” he said at last. He took her hand in his, folding them together, making them one.
“So’s she,” Josie whispered, giving his fingers a squeeze.
She felt him smile slightly against her hair. “She didn’t think so.”
She wanted him to look at her. She reached up a hand and touched his cheek, drew a line along his jaw. He turned back again. He was so close her lashes brushed his cheek. She couldn’t see. She kissed instead.
It was odd, really, how one moment she could be thinking that their earlier kiss had been an aberration—a once in a lifetime experience—and the next she could feel as if kissing Sam was the one thing in life she’d always been waiting for.
“I’m sorry,” she breathed against his mouth. “So sorry.” For his hurt, she meant. For the pain that Isobel caused him.
Not for this.
She should be sorry for this. She was a fool not to be. She shouldn’t ache for him, but for herself.
Perhaps she did.
Perhaps she was sorry for both of them, and that was why she kissed him. And let him kiss her. Again.
And again.
It was one of the fantasies she’d woven for herself over the years: the fantasy in which Sam finally noticed her, awakened to the woman she’d become—and wanted her.
The kisses changed. They had little to do with comfort now and less to do with compassion. She wondered when they had stopped saying, I’m sorry Kurt didn’t want you, and started saying, I want you myself.
She didn’t know, but she knew there was hunger in his mouth this time when it touched hers. There was an urgency and persuasion in the way it covered hers, seeking, dipping, tasting. It hoped. It asked. It demanded.
Josie understood the demand. She felt it herself. She didn’t know when she forgot to remember Kurt. She didn’t know when she forgot her birthday and her loneliness and her dreams. But it wasn’t long before
they all faded before the reality of the moment.
Of Sam.
When his hands began to roam over her body, smoothing and touching, learning her lines and her curves, she gave herself up to the sensation. She let him touch because she wanted to be touched. By him.
She never pretended it was Kurt touching her. The whiskey might have lowered her resistance, but it didn’t muddy her thinking. She knew whose fingers skimmed over her nightgown. She knew whose body shifted and hardened, whose breath tickled her cheek and whose mouth touched hers. She knew.
And she knew that she didn’t care.
Or perhaps she cared too much—about the wrong man. About Sam.
She didn’t know what Sam knew. Or what he pretended. Or how much he cared.
For the moment just having him in her arms was enough. She reveled in the sensation of the slightly rough pads of his fingers as they trailed along her arm. She shivered as they slid over her breast and parted the front of her robe, loosing the sash and opening it further.
But then it wasn’t enough. Josie needed to touch him, too.
She set the glass aside and tentatively ran her hand over his arm, loving the silky feel of the sun-bleached hair that roughened the skin there. She eased her hand across his arm to touch the soft cotton of his shirt, then slipped past it to caress the hard flesh of his chest.
She’d never touched Sam’s chest before. Had wished to, had dreamed of it. But never until now had she dared.
It was warm. It was silky and firm. Hair-roughened, like his arms. Strong, like his arms. She’d told herself Sam was a corporate pencil-pusher but he had the body of a man who worked with his muscles for a living. What did he do when he wasn’t pushing pencils or flying around the world on an airplane?
She didn’t know. She wanted to.
She wanted to know everything about him. What he thought, what he hoped, what he dreamed, what every inch of his body felt like under her touch.
He slid her robe off. His head was bent over her breasts as he dropped light, moist kisses through the thin cloth, his hot breaths teasing her flesh beneath the damp cotton. She felt shivers of anticipation, of need. She clenched one hand against his hair, gripping the back of his neck and arching her body closer to his.
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