by Ann Roth
Molly, who had stood silent and watchful, broke into nervous giggles.
“Stop it, Molly,” her mother said with a stern shake of her head.
“I can’t help it.” The girl flushed. “Miss Parker is here with Mr. Cutter,” she said, enunciating their names as if that explained the giggles and red face.
Amy felt her own face heat. She shifted uncomfortably beside Sam.
“Well, we do have to eat,” he said. “We worked hard today and we’re hungry.”
That seemed to work. The girl nodded.
“So are we.” Mrs. Andrews nudged her daughter. “Come on, Molly, let’s finish up and get home.” She winked. “You two enjoy yourselves tonight.”
The gall! Amy lifted her head. “It’s just a dinner between friends,” she explained.
“Right,” Sam added.
“Of course,” the woman said, looking a lot like the proverbial cat who’d swallowed a canary.
Amy could practically see the wheels turning. Who would she call first with this juicy tidbit?
“Goodbye,” Susan warbled.
“See you on Monday,” Molly added as they pushed their cart away.
“That woman reminds me of a vulture,” Sam said.
Amy nodded. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. I don’t want people to think we’re dating.”
“Neither do I. Come on, let’s finish up and get out of here.”
SAM FELT ODDLY ON EDGE as he ushered Amy into his sister’s kitchen. What was the deal? They’d been alone together all afternoon, and this was no different. Amy seemed to sense the shift between them, too. She glanced nervously around while fiddling with her braid. “This is a beautiful place,” she said at last.
Sam nodded as he placed the groceries on the counter. “Jeannie and Mike have done well.”
Sam had, too, and he couldn’t help wondering what Amy would think of his custom-built home on two wooded acres that overlooked a private lake at the back. Since he didn’t intend to show it to Amy, he’d never know. He never brought dates there. And this was no date; it was dinner between friends.
So why was the very air thrumming with tension?
“I could use a glass of wine,” he said, digging through the groceries for the merlot they’d purchased. He held up the bottle. “How about you?”
“Definitely,” Amy said. “Where are the glasses?”
Sam opened the drawer where his sister stowed the corkscrew. “Over the buffet, in the dining room.”
When Amy returned with two flutes, he filled both with the dark red liquid.
“To friendship,” he said, lifting his glass.
“And an end to gossip,” she added.
They clinked rims and sipped.
Amy smacked her lips in appreciation. “This is good stuff.”
“I’ve learned a thing or two about wine.”
She nodded. “Seems you’ve leaned a thing or two about a lot of subjects. I’m impressed, Sam.”
He’d wanted her to be and couldn’t hide his pleased grin. “I appreciate that.”
She smiled back, and the tension faded. They sipped again. This was better.
“Make yourself at home,” he said. He opened the back door, which led to a patio and secluded yard surrounded by an eight-foot high privacy fence. “I’ll fire up the grill.”
Minutes later, he returned to the kitchen, brushing his charcoal-blackened hands together. Amy was closing the oven door. “I washed the potatoes and put them in the oven.”
Sam shot her a friendly frown as he washed his hands. “Hey, I thought I was supposed to cook.”
“I can’t just stand here doing nothing,” Amy said. “Let me make the salad.”
“As a symbol of our new relationship, we’ll make it together,” he said, drying his hands on a gingham towel. “By the time we’re through, the coals should be ready.” He eyed her magenta overalls and pale yellow T-shirt, which she’d managed to keep pristine after a day knee-deep in glue, paint and straw. “It’d be a shame to get those clothes dirty. You need an apron.” He slid open the drawer in the bottom cupboard, grabbed a green bib apron and tossed it to her.
“Thanks.” She slipped it over her head, then pulled her braid free. Reaching behind, she fumbled with the sash.
“I’ll do that.” Sam gestured her to turn around.
Careful not to stand too close, he reached for the sash. The loose end of her braid tickled his wrists, so he lifted the silken hair and dropped it over her shoulder. It was as soft and heavy as he remembered. Her faint, but fragrant vanilla scent filled his nostrils, and he felt the warmth from her body. Dear God, there was the sensitive place at crook of her neck. Kiss her there, and she’d murmur and lift her head to allow him more access. His groin stirred. The urge to touch his lips there, right now, grabbed hold of him. Unable to stop himself he lowered his head.
“Sam?” Amy asked, glancing over her shoulder. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing.” Good thing she’d spoken, breaking the spell. Otherwise… He swallowed and kept his eyes on the sash while he looped the ends and pulled them snug. His knuckles grazed the soft flesh of her hips, and a tidal wave of desire crashed through him. Hands shaking, he jerked back.
They were friends. Nothing more, and that’s how they both wanted it, he sternly reminded himself. “Better get started on the salad,” he said gruffly, turning away to hide his arousal.
“Do you have a peeler for the carrots?” Amy asked.
Thankfully she seemed oblivious to his state. “In the top drawer,” Sam said. He found the steamer, then brought it and the fresh broccoli to the sink. He then rinsed the stalks under ice cold water and added them to the steamer. He couldn’t take a cold shower, but this was better than nothing. The steamer went on the stove. He’d turn on the burner just before he started the steaks. That way everything would be ready at the same time.
As soon as he moved from the sink, Amy took his place. She’d piled several kinds of salad vegetables on the counter. She selected a large carrot, cut off both ends, and washed it under a spray of water, rubbing the dirt with her fingers. The way she stroked that long, thick root remind Sam of the way she used to stroke him. God almighty. A fresh wave of desire flooded him, and the blood seemed to rush from his brain to his now-pulsing groin. He bit back a groan. How in the name of heaven was he going to survive this dinner?
She thrust the washed vegetable at him. “This is ready for chopping.”
Sam moved to the cutting board a few feet away, paying close attention to his work. As long as he didn’t watch Amy, he was fine.
Right, and he was a ballet dancer. He didn’t have to look at her to want her.
She quickly washed mushrooms, radishes, tomatoes and a green pepper. Her stomach growled over the sound of the hissing water.
“Hungry?” Sam asked.
“Starved. Could I have a taste of that green pepper?”
Without thinking, he fed her a chunk. Her lips closed over his fingers for a brief moment. Sam felt the warmth and moisture of those lips clear to his groin. She was killing him. “Amy,” he said on a ragged breath.
“Oh.” Her brows arched. “Sorry.” She backed away, but not before he saw the awareness that flared in her eyes.
So he wasn’t the only one.
Sam cleared his throat. Pivoting away, he grabbed the steaks. “The coals should be ready.”
Amy’s face was flushed as she nodded. “I’ll start the broccoli.”
He couldn’t get out the door fast enough. He lay the meat on the red-hot coals. The hiss of fat dripping released a billow of fragrant smoke. Squinting, he moved upwind. He could go inside now and finish chopping vegetables. But it was safer out here. He wanted Amy, wanted her so much. Sam clutched the barbecue tongs tightly in his fist. What kind of insanity had made him believe he could exchange wanting her for friendship?
The screen door scraped open, and Amy pushed through. “Sam,” she said without meeting his eye.
“Yeah?” The waning su
nlight dappled her face, catching the faint red wine stain of her lips and the fine smattering of freckles on her nose and cheeks.
“There are several salad dressings in the fridge,” she said, at last looking at him. Her eyes, usually a sweet caramel color, had darkened. “What kind do you want?”
Unable to stop himself, he strode toward her. The tongs fell from his grasp, clattering onto the stone patio. He cupped her shoulder and backed her behind a lush rhododendron bush. “I want you.”
Amy opened her mouth. He didn’t wait for her to speak, just closed his eyes and kissed her.
Chapter Eight
AMY COULDN’T BELIEVE Sam was kissing her, couldn’t believe how much she wanted him to keep right on doing it. But they were all wrong for each other. This had to stop. With every nerve in her body tense with longing, she placed her palms on his chest to push him away. Beneath her hands his heart thudded as hard as her own. “Don’t,” she protested weakly.
“Don’t what?” he murmured against her mouth.
He broke the kiss to stare deeply into her eyes, probing as if he saw what was inside of her. He smelled of pine soap and smoke and his special Sam scent, and as he searched her very soul, his eyes, already filled with desire, seemed to smolder. Respondent need exploded in her, as if her body had been asleep for the past twelve years and had suddenly slammed into wakefulness. She couldn’t look away any more than she could stem the hunger raging in her body. Amy forgot what she wanted to say. “Never mind.” She sighed, twining her arms around his neck. “Just kiss me again.”
Sam made a sound of approval and offered a lazy, sexy smile. Then, still gazing into her eyes, he kissed her. Amy’s eyelids drifted shut, and the world faded. There was only Sam, holding her close and kissing her with his fierce and possessive mouth. He nudged her lips open and plunged his tongue inside. He tasted of wine and Sam. He tasted of desire.
“Amy,” he whispered, breaking the kiss to nibble his way down her neck.
She lifted and turned her head to allow him better access. He stopped at the sensitive crook of her neck. Her bones melted and she moaned, barely recognizing her own throaty sound.
“I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” Sam said and she heard the smile in his voice.
Seeking contact with his body, she stood on her toes and pushed against him. Sam ground his hips against hers, his arousal evident even through the apron and her overalls. Frustration tore at her. She couldn’t get close enough.
“Why don’t you take off that bulky apron?” he suggested in sync with her very thoughts. He fumbled with the sash he had tied, undoing his work. In one motion, he pulled it over her head and flung it aside.
Emboldened by her desire and the heat in Sam’s eyes, Amy smiled. “That’s better, but not good enough.” She reached for the hooks of her overalls. “I want to feel your hands on me. Touch me, Sam.”
“I’d like that very much.” He tugged at the straps and the bib dropped to her waist.
Amy pulled her T-shirt free. Sam lifted it over her head. He studied her lilac-color bra through hot, hooded eyes. “So you’re still wearing pretty lingerie. I figured you might.”
She arched one eyebrow. “You thought about my underwear?”
The corner of his mouth quirked. “You’d be surprised at what I’ve thought about.”
“Such as?” she asked, teasing. But under the smile he knew she wanted to know.
“This.” His hands shook as he unhooked the front clasp. Amy shrugged out of her bra, shivering in the cool evening air. “And looking at you.” His eyes darkened as he stared at her breasts. “You’re even more beautiful than I remembered.”
Anticipation quivered through her. She closed her eyes for what seemed an eternity. At long last his hands were on her, his warm palms cupping her aching breasts. Her nipples were hard and sensitive, and Sam grazed them lightly with the pads of his thumbs, the way she liked. After all this time, he still remembered. His mouth soon replaced his hands, nipping and licking until pleasure flooded her senses and moisture dampened her panties. He was unfastening the button that kept her overalls from falling off. Soon he’d touch the aching place between her thighs. The very thought quickened her blood. Any minute now, she would climax, and she didn’t want to do it alone. “Sam,” she moaned, reaching for his swollen zipper, “please.”
A sudden, shrill beep filled the air. “What’s that?” Amy asked from a daze. She squinted at the masses of smoke coming from the grill and smelled the scent of burnt meat. Somehow, the sun had set and darkness had set in, and she could barely make out the charred lumps on the grill. “Oh, my gosh, the steaks.”
Sam swore and released her. “There goes dinner,” he muttered as he grabbed the tongs and tossed what was left of the steaks onto the grass. The hot meat sizzled in the evening dew. “All this smoke must have set off the alarm in the kitchen.” He sped through the back door and disappeared.
Frustrated, embarrassed and astonished at her heated actions, Amy retrieved her scattered clothing, squinting through the darkness. Ignoring her bra, she tugged her T-shirt over her head and pushed her arms through the armholes. The cotton brushed her sensitized breasts, reminding her of what she and Sam had done. She bit her lip as she pulled her braid free. If not for the smoke alarm, she would have made love with Sam, the man who was all wrong for her. With a heavy heart she fastened the straps and shoved her bra into a pocket.
What had gotten into her? What had gotten into Sam? The alarm was still screeching, and she scowled in the direction of the kitchen. He’d started this whole mess by kissing her. Suddenly the noise stopped. In the beat of silence that followed, Amy silently admitted that she could have stopped him. Instead, she’d responded like a woman crazed with desire.
Crazy indeed, not to mention treading very dangerous waters. Angry at herself and also confused, she scooped up the apron and moved hesitantly toward the back door.
Two withered, overcooked baked potatoes sat on the stove. Black smoke billowed from the steamer, which Sam carried stiff-armed toward the sink. The unpleasant odor of burning broccoli filled the room. Amy wrinkled her nose. “Ugh.”
“Amen for smoke alarms,” he said. He set the pan in the sink and turned on the faucet, and a fresh jet of foul-smelling steam shot into the air. Sam jumped back. “So much for a home-cooked meal.”
“I’m not hungry anymore, anyway,” Amy said over the noise of rushing water.
Sam glanced over his shoulder at her. “We should talk,” he said, shutting off the tap. In the moment of silence that followed he pivoted around. He cocked a hip against the counter, wiped his wet hands on his thighs and then hung his thumbs from his belt loops.
Amy couldn’t help but glance at this crotch. He was no longer aroused, but then, neither was she. She tugged her braid over her shoulder, the familiar weight like an anchor. “I’m sorry about dinner,” she said. “But the truth is, what happened saved us from making a terrible mistake.” Even though it had felt so right.
“I know.” He gave a sober nod. “It shouldn’t have happened.” His gaze flickered to her breasts before he jerked his attention to her face. He cleared his throat. “Still, I can’t say I’m sorry.”
Neither am I, she thought. But she said, “Some things never change.”
“That’s a fact, and what just happened proves it. I guess this means we can’t be platonic friends.”
“I guess not.”
His expression was fevered and intent, and she knew he remembered touching her and her frenzied response. Heaven help her, desire shivered up her spine. She folded her arms over her chest, compressed her lips and stared at the window behind Sam and above the sink. Darkness prevented her from seeing through the glass. Frowning she returned her focus to him. “This can’t happen again.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.” He scrubbed a weary hand over his face.
“From now on, we shouldn’t be alone together. It’s too dangerous.”
“Agreed.” He push
ed away from the counter. “With that in mind, I’ll see you to the door.”
Amy sniffed the aroma of burnt broccoli and wrinkled her nose. “Don’t you want help cleaning up?”
Sam shook his head. He grabbed Amy’s purse from the chair in the breakfast nook and handed it to her carefully, as if he were afraid to touch her.
Hooking the strap over her shoulder she hurried through the door, held open by Sam. “Good night, Sam.”
“See you around.”
He stood in the threshold with his arms crossed and his face shadowed in the darkness. Just the same, Amy felt his gaze as she climbed into her car and started it. Self-conscious but wishing she weren’t, she drove off without a glance in his direction.
AS SAM DROVE TOWARD the studio Monday afternoon, Mariah tilted her face toward him and pulled a quizzical frown. “Did you hear what I just said, Uncle Sam?”
“You need to stop at the library after rehearsal,” he parroted absently. He’d left the office to pick up his niece from school thirty minutes ago. Since then, she’d carried on her usual one-sided, nonstop conversation. Sam had counted on her chatter to take his mind off his troubles—namely his unwanted fantasies about Amy. But he could hardly focus on anything the kid said.
He glanced out the side window. It had just stopped raining, and the trees lining the street dripped fat drops of water from their leafy branches like saturated sponges. His brain felt like that, overloaded with thoughts of his ex-wife. He hadn’t been so riveted on sex—in particular, sex with Amy—since high school. It had been two days since he’d lost his head and kissed her. Two days since he’d stroked her taut, rosy nipples and tasted her satiny skin. He couldn’t get her out of his thoughts and he was going mad. Nothing, not even a Sunday trip to the zoo with Mariah and several cold showers, had distracted him.
As he neared the studio, an uncomfortable tension gripped him. He wished Mariah didn’t have ballet today, because he sure as hell didn’t want to see her teacher. Maybe he’d skip walking his niece inside. Jaw set, he slowed and signaled.