“As amusing as you would find that to be, the truth is I’m the one who’s late. Our meeting time was nearly an hour ago. Unfortunately, it completely slipped my mind.”
“Better things to do, such as go to bed alone?”
Her eyes narrowed, making him wonder if he’d scored another hit. Then he pictured her in that bed, alone…and waiting. And he was the one who took the hit. “Sorry.” Michael waved a hand. “It’s none of my business.”
“Right you are.”
“Forget I said it.”
“I’ve tried to forget everything you’ve ever said to me,” she replied airily.
“Yeah?” He cocked his head to one side. “Had any success?”
“Plenty.” She smiled.
“So, you’re saying the past—our past—is water under the bridge?”
She nodded, looking pleased when she informed him, “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“Good. Glad to hear it.” He reached for the chair next to his and pulled it away from the table. “Then it shouldn’t be a problem for you to join me in a drink. You can drown your sorrows.”
He told himself he’d only tendered the invitation to wipe that smug grin off her face. He half hoped she would refuse. His masochistic half, though, knew she would accept. Sam wasn’t one to back down from a challenge or a dare. Essentially, his invitation was both. A chorus of Halleluiah—sung by that masochistic half—broke out in his head as she lowered herself slowly into the chair. He sought to silence it with a sip of bourbon, only to realize a little too late that his glass was empty.
Of course she noticed.
“What are you looking to drown, Michael?” One dark eyebrow arched as she asked the question. Before he could answer she signaled the waiter. “I tell you what. This round is on me.”
Michael tapped the side of the empty glass with his index finger. He meant it when he said, “You’ll get no objection. I’m only too happy to see you pay.”
Sam gritted her teeth. Foolishness, that’s what this was. She couldn’t believe she’d let Michael trick her into having a drink with him, much less buying. She stared at the Addy award that was in the middle of the table and recalled his acceptance speech. She felt her blood pressure rise along with her anger. She should get up and leave. But that would be playing right into his hands. She’d stay. Let him be the first to call it a night. He was stuck with her company now.
When the waiter arrived, she asked for a glass of Chardonnay. Michael ordered bourbon. According to her watch, it took the server eleven minutes and forty-eight seconds to return with their beverages. She and Michael spent the time selecting nuts from the bowl and making inane comments about the conference, which was only marginally better than chatting about the weather.
“A Chardonnay for the lady and your bourbon, sir,” the waiter said as he removed the glasses from his tray and set them on the table.
When he was gone, Sam asked, “What happened to Scotch?”
That had always been his drink of choice. He’d preferred it neat as opposed to on the rocks.
He shrugged. “Tastes change.”
“Yes, they do.” Samantha picked up her drink. “Here’s to change.”
“Are we drinking to any change in particular?”
She watched his fingers curl around his glass. They were long and, she recalled, exceptionally skilled. Sam chased away the memory with a sip of wine and lifted her shoulders in a negligent shrug. “I’ll leave that to you to decide.”
His eyebrows shot up. “I don’t remember you being so accommodating in the past, Sam. I like it. A lot.” He winked then and raised his own glass. “To change.”
She intended to let his remark pass without comment, even though Michael was dead wrong: he’d been the one with issues when it came to accommodation, to compromise, not her. Sam took another sip of her wine before setting the glass back on the table. Then she took a deep calming breath and offered him a bland smile. It promptly turned into a sneer. So much for biting her tongue, she thought as she launched into her attack.
“God, that’s so like you to manipulate the truth. I’m not the one who issued the damned ultimatum that killed our relationship.”
“No? Are you sure about that?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re the one who took a stand, Sam.”
“Me? ‘Come to California now or it’s over.’ Do those words ring a bell? If not, maybe you should go see a doctor. It appears your memory is failing.” She reached over and tapped his temple where a few fine threads of silver shot through his otherwise sandy-brown hair. When had he acquired those? And why did they have to look so damned good on him?
Michael captured her fingers in his. “I postponed our wedding, moved to California without you and waited for you to come, only to have you call to say you were staying in Manhattan. So, it’s your memory that could use a little improvement. Mine is just fine, sweetheart.”
The endearment, issued as it was in such an insulting manner, rubbed roughly across her nerves. It didn’t help that he was still holding her hand. She tugged free of his grasp. “Don’t call me that. You lost the right a long time ago.”
He made a scoffing sound. “I didn’t lose it. I gave it up gladly when you sent back my ring. Daddy—you know, the same guy who spent your entire adolescence kicking your self-esteem to the curb—needed you.”
“You still don’t get it.” Sam shook her head in frustration and even as she called herself a fool all these years later, she wanted him to understand. “After Sonya’s accident—”
Just as he had seven years ago, though, he blocked her attempt to explain. “Don’t. Let’s not talk about your sister or your father or anything else to do with the past.” Before she could object—and, boy, did she plan to give him an earful—he abruptly changed the subject. “How about another toast?”
“I can’t imagine what else we have to drink to.” She meant it. After all, almost everything between them was past tense.
Michael, of course, found the one thing that wasn’t. “How about my win tonight. You know, just to show that you harbor no hard feelings.”
He offered the same grin that he had from the podium. It was a challenge, a dare, and as such she found herself helpless to say no.
“Why not?” she replied.
“Ah. There’s a good sport.”
She doubted he would think so when she’d culled half of his accounts. That was her goal. Maybe then he’d leave New York again. In the interim, she could be magnanimous and humor him. “To your win tonight.”
As Sam reached for her wine, Michael had the nerve to tack on, “And the one last month. You haven’t forgotten the Clio, have you?”
“No. It’s fresh in my mind,” she assured him, twirling the thin stem of her glass between her thumb and fingers. Half of his accounts at Grafton Surry? Why stop there? She wanted them all. “To your win, both tonight and last month.” Just before taking a sip of her wine she added, “May they be your last.”
His laughter came as a surprise, erupting as it did just after he managed to choke down a swallow of bourbon. She remembered that laugh. There’d been a time when she’d loved hearing it.
“I thought there were no hard feelings,” he sputtered.
“None whatsoever.” She nodded toward the award. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t plan to be the one holding that thing next year.”
“It sounds as if you’ve got a serious case of trophy envy, Sam.” He picked up the Addy and held it out to her. His tone bordered on seductive when he leaned close and whispered, “Want to touch it?”
His words awakened needs that had nothing to do with advertising or awards, and stirred up memories of quiet mornings, lazy afternoons and late nights when temptation had turned into passion and obliterated all else.
“It’s heavier than it looks,” he went on. “But, damn, it feels so good.”
So good.
The scent of his cologne wrapped arou
nd Sam, pulling her in. Sex. She remembered what it had been like with him, how glorious it had felt. She exhaled sharply and pushed both Michael and the award away.
“Thanks, but I’ll wait until I’m alone.” She cleared her throat, felt her face heat at what could only be called a Freudian slip. “I mean, I’ll wait until I have my own.”
He studied her a moment longer than was comfortable for her. Then he shrugged and returned the trophy to the table. “Suit yourself. Of course, that might be a while. The competition in your category has gotten pretty stiff these days.”
“Is that your ego talking?”
He snagged a handful of nuts. “Call it what you will. Results are what matter. And we both know what those have been lately.”
“Awards aren’t everything,” she reminded him.
“No. They’re the icing on the cake. In the end, accounts are what matter.”
“The bigger, the better,” she agreed, her thoughts turning to the hotel chain. If the rumor was true and she could land the account, what a feather in her cap that would be. Even her father would be impressed, and God knew earning Randolph Bradford’s approval had never been easy. If not for her sister’s accident and then…Sam refused to allow the thought to be finished.
“Like Sentinel Timepieces?” Michael asked, referring to the watchmaker she’d tried to entice away.
That hadn’t been what she’d had in mind, but she shrugged. “Perhaps. I go after what I want and I usually get it. Sentinel was an anomaly.”
He looked slightly amused. “Is that your polite way of telling me to watch my back?” He wagged his eyebrows and added, “I’d rather watch yours.”
She rolled her eyes, even as his juvenile comeback had heat curling through her belly. “Suit yourself, but don’t cry foul when your preoccupation with my posterior results in a mass exodus of clients from Grafton Surry.”
“Preoccupied goes a little too far. Your butt, as fondly as I remember it, isn’t going to stop me from spending a little one-on-one time with the folks who are signed with Bradford.”
The gloves were off, which was fine with Sam. She liked this better. Work, rivalry—they were straightforward.
“Unlike your clientele, mine is loyal, which I think you’ve already found out.”
“I’ve only called a couple so far.”
“Then I’ll save you some time. I offer them what they want and I deliver the market. None of them is looking to switch.”
“Sure about that? I can deliver the market, too.” His lips curved. “And I can do an even better job of it than you.”
Sam snorted. “God, you’ve never been short on confidence.”
“Neither have you.” He’d been smiling, but now he sobered. “You know, even more than your butt, I always found that to be an incredible turn-on.”
Sam tucked some hair behind her ears and moistened her lips. Laugh in his face, she ordered herself. At the very least deliver an emasculating comeback. All she came up with was, “Me, too.”
As soon as the words were out, Sam wanted to throttle herself. Why did she have to go and admit something so potentially volatile? It was bad enough to think it. After all, she’d been trying to sift out all of the softer emotions she had when it came to Michael. Here was a doozy and it was threatening to whisk her back in time.
She blamed the wine, even though more than half a glass remained. Most of all, she blamed Michael. He’d been the one to bring it up. Glancing at him now, she found a modicum of comfort in the fact that he looked as out of sorts as she felt, as if he too were wishing he could snatch back his words.
“I think I should call it a night,” Sam said, reversing her earlier decision to have him leave first. “I have an early flight.”
“Yeah. Same here.”
With her luck they would be on the same plane, seated next to each other and then stuck on the runway during an extended delay.
After the waiter came with their check, Sam paid the bill. Michael insisted on leaving the tip, though she’d told him she had that covered, too. They argued back and forth, neither one backing down. Just like old times. In the end, the waiter wound up with one whopper of a gratuity.
They walked out of the lounge together yet not together. Sam groped for something to say as they stepped into the elevator, and the awkward silence stretched. Even when the bell dinged and the doors slid open on the tenth floor, nothing came to mind.
She chanced a glance in Michael’s direction as he got out. There’d been a time when she could read every one of his expressions. She didn’t recognize this one. His smile was tight as he reached for the doors to prevent them from closing.
“See you back in New York,” he said, which was unlikely. They’d managed to avoid each other for more than a year.
“Sure,” she nodded. “Maybe I’ll bump into you at the office of one of your clients.”
“Now, Sam.” He tipped his head to one side and made a tsking noise. “Be good.”
“Oh, I’m better than good and…” She blinked. The words were a joke, an old and very private one between the pair of them. Her rejoinder usually ended with the sensual promise: “I’ll prove it to you later.”
Michael’s smoky gaze told her he remembered the joke, too. He leaned forward and for one brief moment she thought he was considering kissing her. A bell chimed then and the doors jolted his elbow in their effort to shut. He released them and stepped back. But the last thing Sam saw before they closed completely was Michael reaching out as if to stop them.
CHAPTER TWO
SAMANTHA overslept.
The alarm went off at the appointed time, right after which she received a wakeup call from the hotel’s front desk. She ignored both and burrowed deeper under the covers, eager to go back to sleep. She could catch a later flight.
Now, as she sat in the first-class section of a 747, awaiting the departure of her noon flight, she flipped through a magazine and admitted that missing the red-eye had been no accident. She had not wanted to chance facing Michael again so soon.
She’d dreamed about him. Her face felt warm now as she recalled that in her dream, before the elevator doors closed, he’d kissed her, deeply, passionately. And he hadn’t stopped there. No, he’d stepped back inside, let the doors slide closed behind him and as the lift traveled to the hotel’s highest floor, he’d helped Sam off with her clothes. She’d returned the favor, every bit as eager as he. What would have happened next was obvious. But before their bodies touched, her alarm had gone off.
Sam had woken up panting and so aroused that she’d actually tried to go back to sleep and let Michael finish what he’d started. Of course, that hadn’t happened. But the mere fact that she’d wanted it to, even in a dream, had her reeling. She’d been keyed up ever since, a feeling she attributed to confusion and irritation rather than sexual frustration or a flaring of old feelings. No, no. It wasn’t either of those things. Closing her eyes she exhaled shakily.
“Nervous flyer?” a deep male voice inquired, jolting Sam’s eyes open.
She glanced up to find Michael standing in the narrow aisle, a laptop computer slung over one shoulder and a smile turning up the corners of the mouth that had once trailed its way down her neck.
Glancing away, Sam accused, “I thought you were taking the red-eye back to the city.”
“Looks like we both missed it.” He dumped the laptop onto the roomy leather chair directly across the aisle from hers and shrugged out of his sports coat.
“Looks like,” she managed as he arranged his belongings and took his seat.
“Actually, I turned off my alarm. When it went off, I was in the middle of a really good dream. I wanted to see how it ended.”
Because she knew exactly what he meant, Sam said nothing. But as Michael fastened his seat belt, she clearly recalled helping him undo the belt on his trousers in her dream. He was a tall man, surpassing the six-foot mark by at least a couple inches. In first class, however, he was able to stretch out his legs, wh
ich he did now, looking the picture of relaxation. In contrast, Sam tensed, as if waiting for a trap to spring.
It did a moment later when he asked, “So, what did you dream about last night?”
“I have no idea. I never remember anything after I wake up,” she claimed, even though that highly sensual encounter was burned into her memory.
He tipped his head sideways. “Really? Nothing? That must be a recent development. We used to lie in bed sharing our fantasies all the time.”
He was dead on, but she wasn’t going to go there. “Fantasies aren’t the same as dreams,” Sam told him matter-of-factly.
“I guess you’re right, even though you can act out both.” He smiled wolfishly.
She heaved an exaggerated sigh and reached for the magazine that was open on her lap. The flight to New York would be a very long one if Michael was determined to chat. Maybe if she pretended to read he would take the hint and stop talking to her.
Of course he didn’t. “So, you really don’t remember your dreams?” He didn’t wait for her to answer, not that she planned to. He went on. “That’s a shame. I always remember mine.”
“How nice for you,” she muttered with a definite lack of sincerity.
He wasn’t put off. No. A sideways glance in his direction revealed he was grinning. Then rich laughter rumbled. “And I have a feeling the one from last night is going to stay with me for a long, long time.”
He winked at her, once again leaving Sam with the uncomfortable yet highly erotic impression that she’d played a starring role in his dreams, too.
Thankfully, the flight attendants came through then to ready the cabin for take-off. Once the plane was in the air, Sam reclined her seat and closed her eyes, determined to nap or at least feign sleep to deter further conversation with Michael. The man was getting under her skin. It was just her bad luck that part of her wanted him there.
The captain had just announced their cruising altitude and turned off the seat belt sign when she felt Michael nudge her elbow. “Hey, Sam.”
Marrying the Manhattan Millionaire Page 2