by Janet Dailey
“Let go of me!” she demanded coldly.
“Sam, I —” A fine thread of steel ran through his voice, a grim warning that Samantha interrupted.
“Reuben is the only one who calls me Sam. To everyone else I am Samantha or Miss Gentry — and that includes you, Mr. Andrews,” she informed him with icy disdain.
Something she had said struck a sensitive chord. A muscle jerked in his lean cheek as he clenched his jaw to check a retort. The habit of observing people’s reactions and pursuing their cause had already become too deeply ingrained for Samantha to ignore it.
“It’s Reuben, isn’t it?” she demanded grimly. “You’re afraid of my father.”
“I am not afraid of Reuben Gentry.” She could hear the hardness of his low voice as he enunciated each word.
“Probably not in the usual sense that most people are,” Samantha conceded, shaking her head. “No, you don’t want to indulge in any dalliance with his daughter for fear of offending him.” Sarcasm laced her voice. “Are you afraid I’ll run to him and accuse you of — what’s that delightful old phrase — trifling with my affections? If I did that, he just might get angry at you and never agree to sell you that precious stock you’re so anxious to buy. What a story this would make!”
Her laugh was short and contemptuous. His other hand took a matching grip of her opposite shoulder. The bright fire of her gaze unflinchingly met the dangerous storm clouds gathering in his eyes, but she felt insulated from his fury, despite the punishing grip of his hands that threatened to shake her to pieces.
“Maybe I should spread the word of how you cower at the thought of my father,” she continued caustically. “I bet it would amuse a lot of people to discover that you tremble at the prospect of his displeasure. You pretend to call the tune, but you’re the one doing the dancing. If it wasn’t so pitiful, it would be —”
She was jerked to his chest, his mouth smothering the rest of her sentence. With brutal force, his kiss ravaged her lips, inflicting pain. Neither resistance nor response occurred to her. Her only thought was to survive the cruel assault of her senses.
She was caught in the thunderous storm of his male dominance. The reverberating roll of her heartbeat was loud in her ears. Lightning flashed through her veins, carrying a searing exhilaration of fear and excitement. But the punishing kiss had been obtained by arousing his anger, so there was no satisfaction in the crush of his hard embrace.
The iron bands of his fingers kept her trapped against his muscular length as he lifted his head. Feeling beaten and bruised, the sigh that escaped her throbbing lips was one of defeat rather than relief.
“That was what you wanted, wasn’t it?” The cold steel of his eyes was impossible to hold.
“No.” Samantha shivered uncontrollably, and this time it wasn’t from the chilling swim. Her gaze slid away from his face. “No, it wasn’t what I wanted.”
He didn’t try to stop her when she pushed herself out of his arms. The towel slipped and Samantha pulled it tightly around her, wanting to huddle into the rough material. She couldn’t explain, not without admitting how much he had hurt her, first with his chaste attempt at a kiss and then with the latent degradation of the second kiss. She had the family pride, if not her own, to uphold. Squaring her shoulders, she lifted her chin.
“No, it wasn’t,” he said.
It took her a second to realize Chris was agreeing with her earlier assertion. The harshness had left his voice, causing her to glance at him warily. He seemed vaguely bemused.
“Aren’t you afraid I’ll run to Reuben and tell him the way you treated me just now?” she accused.
“You aren’t the type to run to your father. You’re as independent and self-sufficient as he is,” he said with absolute certainty. “I guessed that all along.”
Mystified, Samantha stared at him. “If you weren’t afraid I would cause trouble for you with Reuben, then why didn’t you kiss me?” She challenged him to prove his statement.
“But I did kiss you,” he answered complacently, admitting with a slight shrug, “more roughly than I originally intended, but you have only yourself to blame for that. Your tongue has barbs.”
“I don’t understand.” Samantha shook her head, not quite believing him. “That doesn’t explain what stopped you before.”
“I told you — I wanted more privacy. Come on.” His hand slipped under her elbow, turning her toward the house. His attitude indicated that he had no intention of discussing it any further. “Let’s go to the house.”
Samantha bit her lip, more questions arising from his answer, but she sensed this time he would ignore them. He had said all he was going to say. Instinct told her that she wouldn’t be able to rile him a second time regardless of her persistence. He was firmly in control and she doubted her ability to shake his hold.
Instead, she silently let him direct her toward the house, mulling over the answer he had given her to see if she could find any credence in it. Privacy, he had told her, supposedly because of Tom’s watching. Yet Samantha knew that it had been the motorboat that had distracted him. Perhaps the distraction had reminded him that Tom was in the vicinity.
But why should that matter? Chris Andrews didn’t seem the kind of man who would care what others saw or thought of his actions. Unless — a possibility glimmered — unless Tom would have related what he saw to his sister Maggie. Perhaps that was what concerned Chris and made him withdraw.
Was Maggie his mistress, his lover? It was certainly plausible even if she wasn’t startlingly attractive. And there had already been one disagreement between them — Samantha had overheard part of it that morning. Had it been over her? Was Maggie jealous because he had a young female guest in the house, someone who would be entitled to his attention?
It was very likely. What was it Chris had said — that he didn’t like it any more than Maggie did, but that was the way it had to be. Yes, because that was the way Reuben wanted it. He had specifically asked for Samantha to be invited. Chris could hardly refuse.
There was a dejected curve to her mouth as she reached the conclusion. She regretted the instinct and training that had refused to let the incident rest until she had discovered the reasons behind it. He had kissed her, yes, because she had expected it, invited it. Being the perfect host, he had obliged. Ruthlessly he would use anyone and anything to get what he wanted.
“Damn!” Samantha swore silently in bitterness. Why was it she was always attracted to the men who ended up only wanting something from Reuben Gentry? Her identity as an individual always seemed to get overshadowed by her position as his daughter. She had thought she had accepted that, but now she realized she hadn’t.
Chris Andrews had made her resentment of her situation rise even higher than before. Whatever had made her think that he was any different than the other men she had known?
He wanted to use her to accomplish his own ends just as all the others did.
The knowledge erected a barrier. Behind it, Samantha remained outwardly friendly and congenial, going along with suggestions he made to entertain her the rest of the afternoon and evening, but making sure there was never any opening for intimacy. If he had noticed the difference in her behavior, he didn’t indicate it. And Samantha went to bed that evening confident that she had restored her pride and self-respect.
When she entered the living room the following morning en route to the dining room for breakfast, she saw Chris seated at a desk located in a far corner with walls lined with shelves, a mock study area in the large room. A black telephone receiver was in his hand. He glanced up as she entered, recognition replacing the look of total concentration in his expression.
“I’ll let you talk to her yourself,” he said into the mouthpiece before covering it with his hand. “It’s your father,” he told Samantha. “Something unexpected has come up and he won’t be able to come until the first of the week. He wants to be sure you’re all right and won’t mind waiting until then for him to come. I told him you
wouldn’t mind, but I think he’d rather hear it from you.” There was something faintly mocking in his tone.
Did Chris think she would welcome more days spent alone with him, Samantha wondered as she walked to the phone. He was probably so conceited that he thought she hadn’t guessed the falseness of his attention. In his arrogance, he probably thought he was playing her along very expertly. But she wasn’t a toy to be used and discarded.
Putting those thoughts aside, Samantha took the phone from his hand and said with determined brightness, “Hello, Reuben.”
“How are you doing, Sam?” came the response.
She smiled a bit wryly. “I’m surviving.” Chris Andrews leaned negligently backward in his chair. Yet every fiber sensed the intensity with which he listened and watched.
“Sam, I’m sorry about this delay. Believe me, if I —”
“You don’t have to explain,” Samantha interrupted. She read through his concern and heard the faint preoccupied air in his voice, a telltale sign that he was engrossed in some weighty and no doubt serious problem. She had long ago learned that her father rarely postponed anything unless there was a crisis looming. “I know you’re doing everything you can,” she assured him. “And don’t worry about me. It’s lovely here and I know Chris will keep me entertained until you come.”
“Chris?” Reuben Gentry echoed blankly.
“Yes, Chris,” Samantha laughed. He had sounded miles away, thinking of other things.
“Oh, yes, Chris, of course,” he said as if it had suddenly dawned on him whom she was talking about. “Everything will be fine. You just mind what he tells you,” he added absently.
An incredulous smile curved her mouth. It must have been some problem he had on his mind. He sounded as if he had forgotten she was twenty-two and able to take care of herself. But it was at times like these that she found him the most lovable. He aroused the maternal instinct in her.
“Of course, Reuben,” she agreed in the same tone of voice she had used when she was nine. “Did you want to speak to Chris again?”
“No, it won’t be necessary. Take care, Sam.”
“Yes. I’ll be seeing you, Reuben.” They never said goodbye to each other. It was a habit they had begun when Samantha was a small child and had cried unceasingly whenever he got ready to leave on a business trip. He had made a pact with her not to say goodbye because he would always be back. It had struck some childish logic in her that enabled Samantha to let him leave without tears.
A smile lingered, faintly dimpling the corners of her mouth. She was aware of Chris’s speculating look as she replaced the receiver back onto its cradle.
“Everything all right?” Chris asked, rising as Samantha turned toward the dining room.
“Fine,” she answered smoothly without glancing around. “It’s just as you said. Something rather important has come up to delay him.”
There wasn’t any need to mention that Reuben’s preoccupied manner indicated that it was a very serious problem. It wasn’t any of Chris’s business, especially since she didn’t know the nature of it. It might concern something that would be of benefit to her father’s rival company.
“You and your father are very close, aren’t you?” He pulled a chair away from the table in the dining room as he made the comment.
“It’s always been just the two of us since I can remember,” agreed Samantha. “I enjoy being with him. Lately, with college and work, I haven’t been able to be with him as much as I’d like.” Which was the truth, but she was adult enough to realize it was part of growing up.
“You admire your father a lot, don’t you?” Chris sat in a chair on the opposite side of the table.
“Of course.” Samantha sensed it wasn’t an idle remark. “Why?”
“I was just thinking it would be difficult for a man to compete with your father.”
A pitcher of orange juice sat on the table. Samantha filled two glasses before glancing up to meet his hooded look. It was on the tip of her tongue to say that she didn’t expect a man to compete with her father. “Yes,” she agreed out of obstinacy, “few men can compare with Reuben Gentry.”
A grimness entered his features and satisfaction ebbed slowly through her. She hoped somewhere in his personality there lingered a bit of inferiority. Maybe he wouldn’t be so sure of his ability to attract her.
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Chapter Four
PUNCHING THE FLUFFY PILLOW, Samantha snuggled her head into the hollow made by her hand and closed her eyes. For several seconds she lay motionless in the bed. Then she opened her eyes with an impatient sigh. It was no use; she simply wasn’t sleepy.
Her hand fumbled over the bedside table until she found the light and switched it on. Her watch was beside the light. Samantha picked it up, sighing again when she saw it was a few minutes before midnight. She had been tossing and turning for the past hour and a half and she wasn’t any nearer falling asleep than when she had first laid down.
The covers were thrown back as she slipped out of bed. A book was lying on the dresser, but she felt too restless to read. A walk seemed the better answer. Stripping, she changed into dark blue denims and a dark green and blue plaid blouse. The light blue windbreaker Chris had loaned her during the boat trip to the island was hanging beside the hooded sweatshirt she took from the hanger, and she made a mental note to remember to return it to him as she slipped on the sweatshirt and zipped the front.
Her canvas shoes with their rubber soles made no sound on the carpeted floor. She moved stealthily down the corridor, through the living room and into the dining room, not wanting to awaken anyone in the silent house. She carefully slid the patio doors open and stepped into the cool of the night.
The silvery light from a crescent moon softly illuminated the rocky clearing that provided the house with its view of the river. She started forward, a destination in mind. A flashlight would have been useful, but Samantha didn’t have any difficulty finding the path through the growth of evergreens, sprinkled with oak and maple.
It was not as well worn as the one leading to the boathouse but still easy to follow even in the night’s shadow. Samantha had discovered it that morning when she had explored the island. The path led to the convex side of the crescent-shaped island where a gazebo had been built near a rocky promontory overlooking the river. The gazebo was Samantha’s destination.
The island, she had discovered, was much larger than she had suspected, being several hundred yards wide and two or three times that long. It could have easily accommodated two homes without either of them aware of the other, but there was only one with its private boathouse and gazebo.
The small circular structure was ahead of her, gleaming whitely in the moonlight. The scrolling wood trim of the overhang and around the wooden railing gave it a dainty look. In the starshine, with the shimmering silk of the silent river flowing by, it looked enchanted. Samantha’s restlessness vanished under its spell.
Sitting crosswise on the wooden seat inside the railing, she leaned a shoulder against a supporting post and hooked her arms around one knee, stretching the other leg out on the bench seat. Her wristwatch was still on the table beside the bed and she had no idea how long she sat there, drinking in the serenity, thinking about a multitude of things, none of them very important.
She could have stayed there all night, but the breeze off the river became more cool than refreshing. Flipping the hood of her sweatshirt over her head, she lingered for several more minutes before the invading chill drove her to her feet. A yawn claimed her as she reluctantly turned to retrace her path. It brought a lazy smile to her lips. At least that was a good sign that she might sleep when she got back.
With the hood covering the seal brown of her hair and her hands tucked in the slanted pockets of the sweatshirt, she strolled unhurriedly toward the house. A night bird cried in the stillness, the only sound to herald her return.
Carefully Samantha slid the patio door open and stepped inside, f
reezing when a low voice snarled behind her, “I wouldn’t make a move if I were you!”
Instantly the room was flooded with light from an overhead fixture, momentarily blinding her. Her hand went up instinctively to shield her eyes from the unexpected brilliance.
“What’s going on?” Alarm and astonishment mingled in the breathed question, the hood of her sweatshirt sliding a few inches back as she jerked her head away from the light.
“Sam!” The identification was made in a mixture of anger, exasperation and relief. “What are you doing wandering about at this hour?”
The recognition of Chris Andrews’s voice turned her around. “I couldn’t sleep.” Her eyes were just beginning to focus properly. She was certain she had seen dark metal in the hand that was just sliding out from the inside of his jacket. A gun?
He was shaking his head in wry amusement, his gray eyes running over her. She could almost see the tautness leave him as he adopted an indolent stance.
“Tom!” His voice was directed to the open patio door that Samantha hadn’t a chance to close. His hands were on his hips and his gaze never left her although his head turned slightly. “It’s all right. It’s Miss Gentry.”
“Miss Gentry?” came the muffled reply of astonishment before the burly man stepped into the light shining on the patio, “How did she …?”
The question wasn’t finished as Tom Carlson saw the way Samantha was staring at the revolver in his hand. He quickly tucked it inside his jacket, breaking her trancelike stare.
“I swear I didn’t steal a thing!” she laughed, raising her hands in a mock gesture of fear and surrender as she turned to Chris once more. “I only went for a walk.”
A throaty chuckle joined her laughter. “Well, you can’t blame us for being cautious,” Chris pointed out. “Isolated homes are ideal for burglars, although they generally prefer them to be unoccupied. We’ve only been here a few days, so they might not have known that. I hope we didn’t frighten you too badly.”