"That name does sound familiar, now that I think about it." The soft voice on the other end of the line sounded thoughtful. "Wasn't she your roommate during your freshman year?"
"Uh...yes, that's her. Mom, I really should be g-"
"Very pretty, I recall you saying once, but not terribly bright."
Samantha was sinking ever deeper into a grave of her own digging. She knew she should end this conversation right now, but she couldn't resist a backhanded swipe at Jason. He was watching her with a look that reminded her of a cat stalking a helpless mouse, only he was about to find out that the mouse had the jaws of a lion.
"That's her, mom," she said sweetly, glaring at Jason. "Big on looks, short on brains." At her mother's surprised silence, she amended hastily, "But she really is nice and I'm looking forward to seeing her again." At this, Jason, who had been shaking his head, grinned broadly.
"You still haven't told me when you're coming, dear."
"I'm not sure, mom." She glanced acidly at Jason, hardly able to believe he was actually behaving himself, but grateful that the subject of "Cathryn" had been dropped. "Between teaching and working on my house all year, I've hardly had a minute to myself. How about sometime next month?"
"That's fine, Samantha. Try to let me know a few days ahead, though."
"Sure, mom. I'll call you later."
She'd barely pressed the 'off' button than Jason spoke up. "That was quite a performance," he chided mildly. "Do you think she swallowed any of it?"
"Probably not," Samantha answered shortly. "Since I've never lied to my mother before, I'm sure she knows the difference."
"The way you were hem-hawing around, I wouldn't be at all surprised." He raised an eyebrow. "Why didn't you tell her the truth about why I was here?"
Samantha was already feeling enough guilt without Jason adding to it. "The truth?" she snapped. "That we've known each other less than a day and already you're coming and going from my house exactly as you please? If you'll recall, I didn't know why you came back again--and I still don't!"
Jason merely smiled at her, clearly not at all disturbed by her anger. "I'm not sure you want to know right now," he murmured, rising lithely to his feet.
"You're right. I don't!" She pointed at the bedroom door, still standing ajar. "I think you've overstayed your welcome."
He wasted no time in pouncing. "So you were glad to see me?"
"Of course I wasn't!" When was she going to remember that this man made a living juggling words? She was going to have to watch what she said around him.
"Not even a little?"
The little-boy plaintiveness in his voice, whether feigned or real, reminded her for all the world of one of her second-graders. She felt her heart doing strange things in her chest. "Well... maybe a little," she relented cautiously. Jason Armstrong was impossible— irresistible! And she was a fool. There was no way someone as average in looks and manner as she was could ever hope to land a man like Jason Armstrong. Given his casual outlook on love, the odds for any woman were probably a million to one.
But to her surprise, and then growing delight, he bent over and kissed her again, lightly at first and then with increasing urgency. His hands framed the oval of her face, and Samantha was aware of a yawning chasm of desire spreading through her body.
"Say yes," Jason murmured against her mouth, his tongue tracing the outline of her lips with moist sensuous strokes. "Yes..."
All pretense of thought had long since vanished under the onslaught of his touch. Samantha lifted heavy eyelids to gaze up at him longingly. "Yes," she whispered in husky compliance, vaguely hoping he would continue this passionate assault on her senses. Her lashes drifted closed again.
A low laugh of satisfaction vibrated against her cheek. "I knew it." There was a kind of pleased self- complacency in his voice as his breath fanned her skin. "I knew I could get you to say yes." One last kiss against the corner of her mouth and Samantha was deprived of his vital male warmth. "Remember, seven o'clock tonight at my place."
At his abrupt withdrawal, her eyes flew open and she was brought to an almost painful awareness. She tugged at her rapidly slipping towel. "Wait!" she cried, seeing that Jason's long strides had already taken him halfway across the room. "Seven o'clock at your place...for what?" Dear Lord, what had she done? He could have demanded anything... anything! And after a taste of his abundant male charms, she realized that anything could very well turn out to be everything.
He paused at the doorway, one hand curled around the knob as he gave her a lazy smile. "Second thoughts already? I can guarantee you won't be disappointed."
That was exactly what she was afraid of. She swallowed nervously. "Disappointed in what?"
Jason shook his head, brown eyes glinting teasingly. "My, my," he admonished gently. "You'd make a terrible businesswoman. Don't you know you shouldn't sign your life away without first finding out the terms of the agreement?"
"Terms, nothing!" she sputtered. She was becoming a little annoyed with his deliberately evasive tactics. "All I want to know is what I'm in for tonight—if I decide to show up!"
"Oh, you will," he assured her smugly. He leaned against the door frame. "And you can expect delight and pleasure far surpassing anything you've ever known before." At her indignant gasp he continued as if he hadn't heard her, the firm lines of his mouth still turned up in that infuriatingly confident smile. "Something to tempt your awareness, whet your appetite, a total seduction of the senses "
"No." Samantha shook her head. She took a deep breath, trying to ignore the nagging feeling of disappointment rising within her. Jason Armstrong might take such things lightly, but she was one person who couldn't discard the principles of a lifetime for one fleeting moment of pleasure.
She looked up and met his gaze unflinchingly. "Let's get one thing straight," she said clearly. "I'm not coming—"
"You don't know what you'll be missing," he interrupted in a mocking tone that set Samantha's teeth on edge. "My lasagna is the best in the west. Are you sure—"
"Of course I'm sure!" she snapped. "I won't be there tonight and that's fi—" She stopped as his words finally sank in. "Lasagna?" she asked tentatively. "All that talk about temptation and seduction, and you were asking me for dinner?" At his nod, she bit her lip and laughed shakily. "Oh, dear, and I thought..." Her voice trailed off. She met his eyes hesitantly but dropped her gaze almost immediately.
"You have an overactive imagination, young lady. Probably comes from reading a few too many . . . There was a tiny rustle of movement as he straightened his long body. "I'll see you tonight."
Samantha looked up suddenly. "But I haven't said I'll co—"
"Oh, yes, you did," he reminded her smoothly. He reached again for the doorknob. "And surely you wouldn't deprive a man of a mere few hours of female companionship, would you? Not when he's direly in need of a pleasure-filled evening. I'd even go so far as to say he's starving for a woman's company."
"Starving!" Her eyes opened wide in disbelief. "Yesterday you were practically bragging about your experience with women, and now you're trying to tell me you need a woman—"
"But not just any woman," he cut in with a devastating smile that sent Samantha's blood pounding frantically along her veins. "Not just any woman," he repeated softly. There was a husky timbre in his voice that played across her skin, sending shivers of excitement through her body. "You... only you."
Jason's eyes impaled hers with gentle scrutiny from across the room. Samantha found she couldn't look away from those warm brown depths or the quiet intensity in his lean features, which, for once, bore no trace of laughter.
She shifted uncertainly, still perched on the edge of her unmade bed. His teasing remarks and gentle mockery were easier to deal with. At least then she could shield herself with a wall of annoyance and resentment. Did Jason Armstrong, with his glib and honeyed tongue, somehow present a threat to her rather staid existence?
He was exactly like the heroes in his books—st
rong, dynamic, a man who could take charge of any situation and come out on top.
Yet somehow she suspected that she was the one who had emerged the victor in their little skirmish yesterday, at least in Jason's eyes, but not without sustaining a loss of her own. Her gaze slid away from Jason's to linger on the copy of Love's Sweet Bondage. A touch of wistfulness mingled with the almost poignant look in her eyes.
"I'll see you tonight," Jason repeated. Suddenly she knew that the choice, if it had ever been hers in the first place, had already been made for her. Aware that her silence affirmed her concurrence, she felt her heart thud heavily in her chest as he gave her another long slow look before stepping into the hallway. Once there, he stopped and looked over his shoulder, and it irked her for some reason to see the familiar teasing glint back in his eyes.
"By the way," he said with a wink, "I love your underwear."
His eyes dropped meaningfully to her lap. She looked down in puzzlement to find she still clutched the small scrap of cloth she had snatched from her dresser--it seemed like eons ago. To her horror, she discovered the tiny white bikini underpants were liberally dotted with shiny bright-red hearts, each one pierced with an arrow from Cupid's bow.
Embarrassment at having kept the silly gag gift from her mother, who was well acquainted with her daughter's penchant for romantic novels, was suddenly turned into anger at Jason, who seemed to have an uncanny knack for catching her in the most ridiculous situations.
"I won't be there tonight," she yelled after his departing figure.
"Yes, you will," he called back in a tone of supreme confidence. "I'm fixing dinner for two and I hate leftovers."
"That's your problem, not mine!" She was determined not to let him get the best of her.
She heard the low rumble of his laughter somewhere in the vicinity of her kitchen, followed by the sound of the screen door slamming against the wooden frame.
Samantha gave a sigh of sheer exasperation, but smiled to herself a moment later. No doubt Jason thought he could twist her around his little finger with ludicrous ease, but he would soon learn differently. He hated leftovers? Well, she would show him! He'd simply have to stuff himself until he resembled an overgrown cabbage, because there was no way on earth she was going to have dinner with him that night!
Chapter 4
Samantha's mind hadn't changed when a knock on her front door announced a caller later that morning. She scowled as she opened it, half expecting Jason to be standing on her doorstep with that maddening grin plastered on his face.
Instead she found a gum-popping, fresh-faced teenager. "This 145 Shoreline Street?" he asked, shifting both sandal-clad feet.
She eyed him rather dubiously. "Yes."
"Got a delivery for ya." He gestured to someone behind him and opened the screen door wide.
Samantha watched openmouthed as another teenager maneuvered a huge carton past her through the doorway. "Where do you want this, lady?" the first one asked.
Her confused eyes fixed on the other young man, who had lifted the carton with ridiculous ease despite its bulk and was awaiting her instruction. "Why, there must be some mistake. I haven't bought anything—"
"You Samantha Monroe?" He pulled a frazzled-looking piece of paper from his pocket.
She looked at the van parked in the driveway. It bore the name of a novelty shop in Lincoln City. "Yes, but—"
"Got the order right here. This is supposed to go to Samantha Monroe."
"I don't understand. Surely there must be..."
Her protest fell on deaf ears as he turned and headed out the door, calling back over his shoulder, "Come on, Bill, let's get the rest." The second young man finally deposited the box in the entryway and followed him out.
"The rest" turned out to be three more boxes exactly like the first. Feeling rather dazed, Samantha shouldered her way between the waist-high boxes, then hesitantly lifted one. It was light, lighter than she had expected. Could it possibly be empty? She eyed it dubiously. If she hadn't ordered this, someone else must have... Jason. It had to be Jason. Her mouth turned down at the corners, reminded of Ashton Kutcher's program. . . what was the term? Punked. That was it. Had she been punked? Her head came up, eyes searching for a camera.
Of course not. She was being ridiculous.
She ripped open the first box with a vengeance, but her battle-cry turned into a gasp when she parted the cardboard flaps. Dozens of bright shiny balloons floated upward from their nest.
She was speechless by the time she opened the last of the cartons. She stepped back to survey the sight. The ceiling of her tiny dining room was canopied with an array of wall-to-wall balloons, suspended by gaily colored ribbons and tied together in bunches of three. There was every color imaginable--ruby-red, bright pink, lavender, violet, and all in the shape of a heart. She couldn't help but smile at the hot-pink lettering emblazoned across the shiny surface of one balloon—Do You Kiss and Tell? Another read Embrace Me; yet another, Be Mine.
She tugged playfully at a ribbon, watching as it drifted upward. It was then that she noticed a card attached to one. Her fingers weren't entirely steady as she slipped the card from the envelope, and she couldn't stop the warmth that flooded her when she read the message:
As one heartthrob might say to another, my heart beats only for you.
It was no surprise to find Jason's name scrawled at the bottom.
Maybe it was mere curiosity that made her decide, almost in spite of herself, that it wouldn't hurt to get to know Jason better. Yet somehow she didn't think it was. Later she found herself rationalizing that it wasn't every day she had the chance to rub elbows with a famous author. Or possibly, if she was honest with herself, it was simply the sheer magnetism of the man.
Certainly she had to admit to being touched. No one had ever sent her a roomful of balloons before!
Whatever the reason, seven o'clock that evening found Samantha critically studying her reflection in front of the mirror. The pale yellow of the peasant-style dress she wore set off the light tan she'd acquired during her two days of sunbathing. The boat-neck styling of the dress was slightly off the shoulder, and her smooth skin gleamed in the waning beams of sunlight that lit her bedroom. But she despaired at the sight of her sunburned nose, which neither makeup nor powder toned down more than a shade. Never before had she minded quite so much that she didn't possess fashion model prettiness. Suddenly she found herself yearning for a bit more in the way of looks and body or, barring that, a dash of worldly sophistication. Was that the kind of woman Jason was usually drawn to?
When she realized what she was doing she frowned, Somehow she just couldn't shake the image of Jason with a pair of extremely well-endowed California beauties on each arm. Why take such pains over her appearance? She could never even hope to compete against women like that, and there was no use trying.
With a sigh she picked up a delicately crocheted shawl and headed for the door. "If it's a pinup girl you're after, Jason Armstrong," she grumbled as she left the house, "you'd better head back to Tinseltown. And if you have any complaints, you'd better keep them to yourself, because I won't hesitate to remind you this whole thing was your idea!"
Five minutes later, Samantha was standing on Jason's doorstep. Despite the sun's presence in the western sky, the temperature had dropped drastically in the late afternoon in typically unpredictable Oregon fashion. She shivered as she lifted a finger to the doorbell.
Jason opened the door wide, and Samantha's eyes met his with an unspoken challenge. She half expected him to laugh and say, "I knew you didn't mean it! Didn't I tell you you'd show up?" But all he murmured as he ushered her inside was, "Right on time, I see."
Samantha looked around the living room appreciatively as he took her shawl, admiring the contemporary style so different from her own cozy dwelling. The floor plan was open and spacious, the sloped ceiling warmed by a massive stone fireplace. Across the room, sliding glass doors opened onto a balcony and deck.
Jason
reappeared, a half-smile tipping his mouth as he stood before her. A decided gleam in his eyes, he took in every aspect of her figure. "Nice dress, Samantha," he murmured warmly. "You look—" his eyes reassessed her body "—almost as good with your clothes on as you do with them off." His smile widened as his eyes returned to her face. "Sunburned nose and all."
Samantha reddened. He didn't have to make her feel like Bozo the Clown! "I could say the same of you!" she shot back hotly. He was dressed in a pale gray shirt and dark slacks, the first time she'd seen him in anything but shorts. Too late she realized what she had said.
He laughed. "But you haven't seen me with my clothes off yet, have you?"
She felt like turning tail and running the other way. When was she going to learn? She didn't dare say anything in front of this man! "Close enough," she muttered. "Close enough."
Jason only laughed again. "Come help me with the salad," he suggested, catching her hand in his and leading her toward the kitchen.
Moments later, he had armed her with a stainless steel bowl and a small paring knife. "Did you tell me yesterday how long you've lived here?" he questioned as he opened the refrigerator. "I don't remember."
Samantha eyed him rather warily, half-afraid to open her mouth. Was it any wonder she had the feeling he would make mincemeat of anything she said? She began to meticulously peel a cucumber. "I've taught here for two years, but I bought my house last summer."
"Not that I'm prying, but when your mother called I gathered she isn't local," he recalled. "Where does she live?"
"Astoria."
He pulled two wineglasses from the cupboard and paused to look at her. "So that's where you're from originally?"
She hesitated, then shook her head.
Jason eyed her across the cutting board. "You're just a bundle of information, aren't you?" he chided with a laugh. "Don't be so modest." He gave her an encouraging smile and began shredding lettuce into the bowl. "How do you think I come up with ideas for the characters in my books? Let me pick your brains. Who knows? Maybe you'll show up in the next one."
The Unsung Hero Page 5