"No. I'm vacationing, although I expect to get a lot of work done while I'm here," he said with a lift of both dark brows.
How long was he staying? A week? Two weeks? And where was he staying? Was he married? No, somehow she knew he wasn't, and besides, her subconscious mind had already noted the absence of a wedding ring. She'd have liked to give voice to the questions tumbling around in her head, but somehow the words couldn't find their way out past the knot in her throat. Instead she murmured, "I see."
"How about you? Are you vacationing, too?"
Samantha smiled, pleased at his interest. "No, I live here." She gestured over her shoulder toward a small whitewashed house surrounded by a cluster of gnarled windblown trees just beyond the beach. "That's my house back there."
He looked over her shoulder, his eyebrows lifting in surprise. "You live here year-round? I thought most of the homes here were summer places."
"Mine is one of the few that isn't. It's very quiet and peaceful--" she smiled, her gaze resting on her book for a fleeting second "--and although the town isn't booming with nightlife, I like it here."
"What's your name?"
"Samantha," she told him. "Samantha Monroe." She leaned forward and rested her arms on her knees. The sun beat down on her back—she really she apply some more sun block--but the shimmering warmth felt good on her bare skin. She was just about to ask a few questions of her own when his eyes caught hers and she found herself admiring him again.
"So tell me, Samantha," he said easily, his eyes never leaving hers, "what do you do in this life besides sunbathe on the beach on lazy June afternoons? Are you a--" he smiled as if he already knew the answer "--a member of the idle rich?"
Samantha laughed, a low tinkling sound that floated away on the brisk sea breeze. "Not exactly. I teach second grade at the elementary school here, and since school is out for the summer," she stated the obvious, "that explains why I'm idle, at least at the moment. And as for being rich, my savings account is practically down to zilch since I've been putting every spare nickel and dime I earn into fixing up my house. It wasn't exactly in mint condition when I bought it, but it's beginning to shape up pretty well."
"Mmm," he agreed, though from the direction his eyes were looking, it wasn't the shape of her house he was assessing, but rather the shape of her long slender legs. She felt a momentary discomfort and resisted the impulse to tug at the hem of her bikini bottom to hide the back of her thighs. But when his eyes rested once again on her face, she knew an undeniable but all too brief thrill of satisfaction at the flare of undisguised appreciation in his eyes.
He tipped his head to the side and studied her for a moment. "So you're a schoolteacher," he murmured. "It fits... to a degree."
She stretched out her legs in a smooth supple motion and leaned back again. "To a degree?" she repeated, a little surprised at how much at ease she was with this stranger, despite the rather delirious way she felt when she looked at him.
He nodded and gave her a lopsided grin. "On one hand, you hardly seem like the typical schoolmarm of old—-prim and proper, stern and straitlaced--the type who won't stand any nonsense and who reigns over her classroom with a ruler in one hand and a paddle in the other."
"Sounds like my eighth-grade teacher, Mrs. Webster," Samantha recalled. "She was about six feet tall with iron-gray hair that she wore in a tightly coiled bun, and I never saw her smile once that entire year." She laughed. "I can't say I've ever had much of a discipline problem with my second-graders, though I'll admit you're right. I certainly wouldn't look to a paddle as the solution."
"I think I know why you've never had any problem. All the little boys in your class probably had a crush on you, and all the little girls undoubtedly wanted to grow up to be just like you."
"I'm not so sure about that," Samantha said with a grin, "but I do know that if I ever see another shiny red apple again in my lifetime, it'll be too soon. And to think I believed that was a thing of the past!"
His laughter joined hers for a moment before he spoke again. "You do give the impression of being rather quiet and studious, though, so I can't say I'm surprised to find your head buried in a book." He watched her for a few seconds, an easy smile lifting the corners of his firm mouth. "But I am surprised by your choice of... reading material."
Samantha tilted her chin and regarded him. "Why?"
"A teacher who likes romances?" There was a gleam of laughter in his eyes as he shaded them from the bright glare of the sun. "What would your students say if they knew you were reading tales of lust and passion? Worse yet, what would their parents think?"
Samantha arched a brow, still bristling a little. "They would probably think I was disgracefully depraved," she said primly, then added, "or perhaps exceedingly deprived. But what I read I in my own time is my own business. But just to reassure you, I'll have you know I have a healthy appreciation for Steinbeck and Hemingway and I've read every single word of War and Peace!"
His eyes were a warm shade of toasty brown as he gazed across at her. "I think," he said dryly, "I've just discovered the true meaning of the phrase 'properly chastised.'"
A tingle of excitement raced down her spine at his look. She couldn't help it. She attempted to cover it by tucking her hair behind an ear. "And you seem to be rather well versed in historical romance jargon for a man."
The stranger's smile deepened. "What would you say if I told you I'd read a few?"
It took a moment for his words to sink in, but when they did, her mouth tightened. She observed his relaxed position on the sand, his bronzed skin a sharp contrast to the fluffy white beach towel. He looked very virile and totally masculine sitting there so casually. He was as much an oaf as Fabio and yet... something told her he was perfectly serious.
A man who read romances. He was toying with her. With an effort she forced her eyes to meet his. "How . . . unusual."
"Yes, I suppose it is." A cocky grin split his lean features. "But just for the record, I only did it out of curiosity--and duty. Yes . . . duty."
Duty? This was growing stranger by the moment, she thought to herself. She was on the verge of questioning him further when he reached out a long arm and plucked her paperback from the bag between them. "As a matter of fact--" there was a smile in his voice as he stared at the cover "--I'm extremely familiar with this author's books."
"You are?" A strange feeling of pleasure surged through her as she slipped her legs over the side of her chair and wiggled her toes in the warm sand. Was he mocking her? He didn't seem to be . . ."What a coincidence," she said. "Cathryn James is my favorite author. I love the way she writes and I never miss any of her books."
"Hmm." was his only comment. He rose lithely to his feet and took a single step backward. Her eyes followed his form, and she suddenly realized he was leaving. Of all the luck, she thought to herself irritably. The dream of a lifetime and he was walking out the door after barely sticking his foot inside. What a lousy way to start her vacation.
But someone upstairs must have been watching out for her. She could hardly believe it when he held out a hand to her. "How about a walk on the beach with me?"
"Sure." It was all she could do to restrain herself from doing handsprings on the sand--as if she knew how--but she let him pull her up beside him.
"Tell me something," he said, looking down at her. "How do you say the name of this place?"
"Neskowin?" When he nodded, she smiled. "Nes-kow-in. Slight accent on the first syllable, silent 'w.'" The dazzling smile he gave her nearly took her breath away, but they hadn't gone more than a few steps when she tugged on his hand and halted. She glanced up at him, her look playful, as a belated thought suddenly occurred to her. "It might be nice if I knew who I was walking on the beach with."
His lips turned up in a barely discernible smile as he looked down into her upturned face. "Jason," he supplied softly.
"Jason . . . ?" To her surprise, at her question, he stopped and bowed down low before her with a flourish. Wh
en he returned to an upright position, his smile was transformed into a full-blown grin.
"Jason Armstrong is my name—" there was a brief but very effective pause "—also known as Cathryn James."
Chapter 2
Samantha stared at him for a moment, almost—just almost—tempted to believe he was actually serious. Then she turned on her heel and ambled down the beach, tossing back a comment over her shoulder. "Sure you are. And I'm Norman Mailer." Jason Armstrong caught up with her easily, his long-legged form falling in beside her. "You don't believe me?"
She sent him a sidelong glance. "Mr. Armstrong—"
"Jason. Call me Jason."
"All right then." She gave him a saccharine smile and said mildly, "Not that I'm trying to criticize, but you are sadly in need of a lesson with regard to the written word—"
"Aha, now you're beginning to sound like the teacher you are."
She lifted a slender brow in reproach and continued, "Men write science-fiction stories, fantasy and adventure stories—"
"Sleazy adventure stories?"
"Well, yes—" she frowned slightly at him "—with a lot of sex and violence--"
"And your romances aren't full of sex?"
"Not in the way you're thinking," she reproved confidently. "They're love stories, and there's a world of difference between love and sex." She halted, planting her feet firmly in the soft sand to look up at him. "Even if you are a writer--which I'm not convinced you are--you certainly couldn't write a romance."
"You sound very sure of yourself." He smiled down at her, laughter flickering in his eyes.
"I am. I've read dozens and dozens and dozens of romances, both historical and contemporary, but I've never read one written by a man—"
"Oh, yes, you have." His tone was very soft, almost caressing.
Samantha glowered up at him, beginning to wonder why he was persisting in his little joke. "I haven't," she insisted, a bit more bitingly than she intended. Taking a deep breath, she ran her fingers upward through the soft hair lying on her nape. "Look, I don't know why you insist on—"
"Would you rather have me lie?"
"No, of course not." The tiniest bit of exasperation was beginning to gnaw at her, but as his eyes held hers, she saw something in the chocolaty-brown depths that caused a niggle of doubt to enter her brain. He couldn't possibly be serious... or could he?
She let him lead her over to a huge chunk of whitewashed driftwood near the edge of the sand. With a gentle hand on her shoulder he pushed her down to a sitting position.
"This is just beginning to get interesting," he said as he sat down beside her.
Samantha eyed him rather warily. "What is?"
"Your views on why a man couldn't possibly write a romance." His eyes were full of mirth and his mouth kept twitching as if he was barely able to contain his laughter.
Again Samantha experienced a tiny spurt of doubt. She gazed at him hesitantly. "You really are a writer?"
"I really am a writer," he assured her. "And I make a very good living at it."
"A fiction writer?"
"A fiction writer. Now if you don't mind, pray tell me why you think a man couldn't possibly write one of your precious romances."
Samantha breathed a sigh of relief. At least this time he wasn't insisting he was Cathryn James! "Well--" a thoughtful frown creased her forehead for a moment "--for one thing, I just can't see a man being able to get into the head of a woman the way another woman could."
"Cathryn James writes from a dual point of view, if you recall. The hero's thoughts and feelings are just as much in evidence as the heroine's."
Samantha's eyes flickered away from his steady gaze and she shifted uneasily. "Yes, that's true, but . . ." She stopped, not sure she wanted to go ahead with what she'd been about to say.
"But what?"
Jason lifted one of her hands from her thigh and began to lightly trace a pattern in the palm of her hand.
Her breath caught in her throat. His touch sent a wild swirl of emotion rushing through her. She was suddenly, acutely aware of the hairy thigh pressed against the smoothness of her own. Her heart fluttered wildly in her breast.
"The emotional intensity," she began uncertainly, "particularly in the love scenes--" she swallowed, her voice a mere thread of sound, low and very hushed "—and especially Cathryn James's books, is described in such a way that . . . that when I read those scenes, it's as if I'm actually there." She paused for a fleeting second to sum up her rather tumultuous thoughts. "It's the emotion that touches me, knowing what the heroine is feeling and..."
"Go on," he urged softly when she hesitated. His fingers feathered up to stroke the soft skin on the inside of her wrist and Samantha had to consciously will her mind away from the feeling of excitement he roused in her.
"And no man could possibly describe how a woman feels inside, what she's thinking, when a man is...making love to her." Was she actually sitting here discussing sex with a man she'd just met?
"But what about men?" His low voice broke into her thoughts. "Are we incapable of the same emotions, are we heartless and unresponsive? Do you think that we don't feel the same way a woman does when a man touches her?" A finger under her chin gently turned her face to his, and she stared upward into Jason's rugged features, mesmerized by the liquid heat glowing in his eyes. "And she touches him?"
"I—I don't know." What a question, and for him to ask it now--now when she felt as if she was being turned inside out, her body vaporizing into a vast sea of sensations as his hands cupped her bare shoulders and his palms glided smoothly down her arms.
"A little insight and a little imagination is all it takes." Jason's murmured words were low and husky, his breath warm and caressing as it fanned her cheeks. "Do you want me to tell you how you feel, Samantha?"
"I...no, no!" Her heart beat furiously in her chest. She was trapped in a haze of conflicting emotions. She wanted to pull away, knew she should pull away, but her limbs felt curiously heavy and lethargic, while inside she was strangely agitated, wanting, wondering, hoping this wouldn't end before it had even started.
Jason's hands moved up to frame her face, the pads of his thumbs tracing the delicate contours of her cheekbones over and over again before finding the throbbing pulse beneath her jaw line. "You like this, don't you?" he asked softly. Samantha nodded, unable to find the strength to speak, or to deny the involuntary response of her body. "Your heart is pounding like a drum, your breath is coming as fast as if you've just run a four-minute mile—" His lips parted to reveal the strong even whiteness of his teeth. "This is exciting to you, isn't it?"
Somehow she managed to shake her head this time. "No... stop!"
"Not yet." He moved his dark head closer, the words whispered against her cheek, stirring the soft tendrils of hair near her ear. "It's your turn, Samantha. As the saying goes, turnabout is fair play."
Her hands were lifted and placed against his shoulders. Confused, she raised her gaze to his, unprepared for the compelling glitter in his eyes--yet it thrilled her clear to the tips of her toes. "Go ahead," he chided softly, his voice curiously unsteady. "Touch me. Feel me. Do . . .anything you want."
The feel of the firm bronzed flesh beneath her fingertips and the chance to explore the sleek skin of his nearly naked body as she had so longed to do earlier, were too potent a temptation to deny. Her breath quickened even more in anticipation as her hands glided over the sinewy muscles of his arms in silent reciprocation of his actions. She heard his harsh intake of breath at her first tentative touch and lifted her eyes again. A curious sense of power filled her as she beheld the fierce glow in his eyes once more.
Emboldened by his unexpected response, Samantha slid her slim tapered fingers up the strong column of his neck, delighting in the slightly roughened texture of his clean-shaven jaw line. Her other hand rested lightly on the broad landscape of his chest, fingers twined seductively in the silky dark jungle of curly hair. As her fingers moved to explore the hard cont
ours of his mouth, she could feel the slow steady beat of his heart increase its rhythm beneath her hand.
It was unthinkable that she should be behaving this way with a man she barely knew--so wholly out of character for her. But nothing really seemed to matter. She closed her eyes, reveling in this strange sensation, her senses expanding, widening, reaching out to absorb the heat that seemed to flow from her body into Jason's, his into hers . . .
"You see?" His throaty whisper broke into the hazy shroud of pleasure surrounding her. "Would it be so hard for a person to describe the way you feel--what both of us feel?"
Samantha drew back a little, reluctant to break away from him, not wanting to shatter the web of enchantment he had spun so easily around her. Jason Armstrong was magic. There was magic in his voice, magic in his touch, magic in his words.
"Not for a writer." A soft smile curved her mouth, and this time the inflection of disbelief was gone from her tone. "Are you really Cathryn James?"
"In the flesh," he said softly, tipping her face up to his to search her eyes. "Are you disappointed?"
"No," she answered honestly. Thunderstruck, maybe, but not disappointed, she thought to herself. But a second later a thought suddenly pricked her. She bit her lip and added quietly, "But I'm not sure you needed to go to such lengths to prove your point."
"The end justifies the means, you see," Jason said with a shrug that might have been an apology. "And while the motive and method might have been on Cathryn's behalf—" he studied her openly, his look growing more and more intent "—this is for me."
Before she could divine his meaning, his head blotted out the shimmering glare of the sun and her mouth was claimed with an urgency that left her breathless. Her hands caught at his shoulders, fingers clutching at the taut flesh as waves of pleasure swept through her, stronger than anything she'd ever thought possible. Jason's arms drew her closer, his fingers tightening almost convulsively on the soft flesh of her hips for just a moment.
The Unsung Hero Page 2