"Do you like that table?"
Her head shot up, and she spotted him, barefoot but otherwise decent, dressed in faded jeans and that blue sweater he'd been wearing the other day. His long hair, still wet, lay in coils on his shoulders. A key ring—the keys to the Sweet Amy, Delilah had no doubt—dangled from one hand. He came down the stairs toward her.
Delilah, positive the keys constituted an outright taunt, decided to ignore them for the moment. She'd already put herself in enough trouble by reacting without stopping to think.
Keeping her expression composed, she looked down again at the huge table to which he'd referred. It was of some pale wood, perhaps white pine. It was very beautiful in its simplicity. She said, "Yes, I like it."
He smiled, and then went on, as if she'd come here at 3:00 a.m. for the express purpose of learning more about him and his woodworking skills, "I saw it in my mind, just what I wanted. And since I couldn't find it anywhere, I made it. I don't go in much for furniture making. I mostly sculpt in wood. But you already know that."
She thought of the figures, so perfect and fine, abandoned by her on her various windowsills, and she felt a sharp stab of something like shame, to have left such beauty outside in the elements to fend for itself.
Oh, she thought desperately, it had been a mistake to come here. She should have let Brendan go on home, and confronted this beguiling, continually surprising knave someplace tomorrow, in the bright, safe light of day.
He dropped to one of the gray leather couches, and casually tossed the ring of keys on a table beside him. The sound of them dropping made her stiffen. He saw that, and the ghost of a grin lifted a corner of his mouth.
"Sit down," he suggested.
She swallowed and gathered herself. "No. Thank you. I'll stand."
"Suit yourself."
They looked at each other. And, in this graceful room where the paintings intrigued her and the man on the couch watched her with an interested air, this whole melodramatic mess seemed suddenly silly and pointless. A man who'd read Shakespeare and seemed to enjoy John Le Carré for light entertainment, who fashioned incredible sculptures out of wood in his spare time, surely couldn't be serious about forcing her to go out with him by stealing her baby brother's Long Nose Peterbilt.
And that, she decided with some relief, was how she would approach this. As a silly, pointless misunderstanding that two mature adults could easily clear up.
She said, "I really appreciate this."
He frowned, momentarily, and then his brow smoothed out. "You do?" he asked casually.
She smiled, a smile she hoped appeared midway between embarrassed and grateful. "Yes. And I'm sorry things got so out of hand. But I see now that you've made the wisest decision."
"I have?"
"Yes. And, as I said, I'm grateful."
"You are?" He watched her with great interest.
Boldly, she approached. She reached for the keys…
Before she could grab them, his hand shot out and closed on hers.
The familiar hot shivers quivered up her arm. She forced herself to ignore them, to keep on smiling, though her instinct was to jerk away as if she'd been burned.
She said, faking bewilderment, "But you have changed your mind, haven't you? Otherwise, why would you bring me the keys?"
Slowly, he released her. "No, I haven't changed my mind. Brendan told you the terms. They stand. And you know damn well why I brought the keys to you. So you can give them to your brother once you've agreed to hold up your end of the deal." He was grinning again. "Nice try, Lilah. But you didn't really believe it would work, did you?"
Delilah glared at him, dropping her pose of civility since it had done so little good. She said, "I despise you, Sam Fletcher."
He answered, "Why doesn't that surprise me?"
"You're a low-down, mean, rotten scoundrel, and I was right about you all these years."
"Why, thank you, sweetheart."
"I am not your sweetheart."
"Allow a poor fool his fantasies."
"You have left me no choice."
"That was the idea."
"And I hate you for that."
"So you say now."
"And a night out with me isn't going to do you one bit of good."
"It's not?"
"No. It is not. But if that's the price for Brendan's rig…" Oh, it almost choked her to say it, but she did. "I'll pay it. You'll have your pointless date. Next Saturday, all right? You can pick me up at seven. And you will have me home by eleven, and that will be that."
"Oh, will it?"
"Most definitely. Now, give me those keys." She reached again, he caught her arm. This time, she didn't even try to pretend his touch didn't affect her. She yanked away and jumped back. "What now?" she fairly shouted. "I said I'd do what you want."
"You're a hardheaded woman, Delilah Jones."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"I think you've made a real point here."
"What? What point?"
Casually, he picked up the key ring and spun it on a finger. The keys tinkled with nerve-shattering cheerfulness. "Next Saturday night. Seven to eleven. That's what? Four hours? How can even the most persistent of men get through to a woman like you in four hours? It's my guess that if it could have been done, it would have been done already."
"What in heaven's name are you babbling about?" she challenged tightly. She clenched her fists and ground her teeth—because what she longed to do was fly at him and claw his glittering eyes out.
"I mean," he said pleasantly, "if I only get one chance at you, I'd be wise to make it a damn good one."
She didn't like this, not one bit. Something unbearable was coming, and she didn't want to know what it was. She said, "A date. That's what you told Brendan. Those were your terms, dinner, drinks and a show—"
He spun the keys again. "I said a date. That's all. Brendan assumed what kind of date it would be."
"A date's a date. Saturday night, seven to eleven is a perfectly reasonable—"
"From your point of view, yes. But from my point of view, it's a bust."
"What do you mean, a bust?"
"I lose what I won fair and square—either a thousand cash or fifteen thousand equity in a great little piece of equipment. And what I get is you, for exactly four hours, glaring at me across a table and telling me you hate my guts."
Delilah clenched her fists so hard, her nails bit into her palms. She had to keep her temper, she just had to.
She pointed out, through lips pale with her effort to keep from screaming out loud, "It's not your truck, anyway, not really. It's Brendan's. And you took it from him by gambling—which you swore to me a week ago was something you never did any more. You came to my house and you told me you'd changed, and I … well, I started to believe that maybe you had. But you have not changed one bit, Sam Fletcher, and now I know that with certainty. And no matter what you do, I will never in my life spend a willing hour in your company. Do you understand?"
"Completely," he replied. "I understand completely."
"Good."
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as his gaze moved over her, caressing and bold. "And since I do understand, these are my terms—"
"We've already named the terms. And I agreed to them, I—"
He waved the keys. She fell silent. "These are the terms. I want a week."
"A week?" she croaked.
He went on as if she hadn't made a sound. "This week, to be exact. It's Easter Vacation for you, so you're free. Marty can handle things at my store. We're going away together, you and I. Go home and pack for a camping trip. There's a cabin where we're going, but expect low temperatures, it's still the tail end of winter there. We're leaving at dawn."
"You are insane "
"You'll be my date for a week, Sunday to Sunday. You'll give me seven days, and Brendan can go home to Amy with the keys to his rig in his pocket where they belong."
* * *
Chapter 7
« ^ »
Delilah stared at the rotten rat who sat on the gray couch, grinning and holding the keys to the Sweet Amy in his big hand. Oh, how she longed to call him a name so foul it would burn her own ears to utter it.
A week. He wanted a week, for those keys.
And she might as well face it. Her own temper had gotten her into this mess. She should have left well enough alone. If she'd only kept her mouth shut and sweetly agreed to his original terms, she'd be looking forward to a grim Saturday night—and no more.
Instead, she was doomed to spend a week at his side—or let Brendan stew in his own pot. Letting Brendan stew would have been quite easy. But unfortunately, a pregnant woman and an unborn child would be stewing right along with him. Delilah just didn't think she could stand by and let that happen, not when it was in her power to stop it.
Stars above. Now she knew all over again why she always kept herself out of her brothers' lives. Getting involved with them meant trouble. Pure and simple. And being grown up wouldn't change them, they would always be that way: The Jones Gang, wild, crazy and nothing but trouble for any woman foolish enough to get close to them, be she wife, mother, girlfriend, or sister…
Fletcher hefted the keys again, so they clinked together on the ring. "Well?"
She looked at him sideways. Think fast, she told herself. There just had to be a way to get out of this mess. Camping. He said they were going camping. Lots of people hated camping. Maybe he would believe she hated it, too.
"I can't go camping with you," she said. "I hate camping. Ugh. There's nothing worse, as far as I'm concerned."
"Oh, no?" He didn't look convinced.
She elaborated. "No, absolutely nothing. Who in the world would consciously choose to sit around a smelly open fire, swatting at biting insects, eating things out of cans? And don't forget about hygiene."
"What about it?"
"That's just it. When you camp, there isn't any. 'Facilities' consist of disappearing behind a boulder with a wad of paper towels. And there's never, ever a place to take a real bath." She shook her head emphatically. "No way. Give me indoor plumbing, and somewhere to plug in my hot rollers."
Sam chuckled. "Nice try, Lilah. But I'm not buying."
She tried to look guileless. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, even if you hate camping, you seem to do it three or four times every summer."
"I never—"
"Yes, you do. You go camping with your church group. And you're usually the one in charge, as far as I can remember. At least, it's always your name and phone number that are plastered all over the flyer." He granted her a superior smirk. "You know what flyer I mean, don't you? The one Owen Beardsly always brings in and asks if he can put up in the front window of my store?"
Delilah resisted the urge to slap his smug face. The blasted flyer, she thought heatedly. How was she supposed to remember that—let alone imagine that a heathen like him would ever bother to read anything with the church logo on it?
He went on looking at her, still smug, still waiting.
She considered telling him she suddenly felt ill—too ill to go anywhere for at least a week. But then she knew what he'd do: send her home to recover without Brendan's keys.
He asked, "Well?" again.
The sinking feeling in her stomach told her that this dreaded trip was inevitable. But before she gave in and agreed to his terms, she intended to make one thing crystal clear.
She stared him straight in the eye. "All I have to do is go, right? I don't have to like it. And I don't have to … be intimate with you."
He went on looking smug, the misbegotten cad. "Why, Lilah? What are you implying?"
"I'm not implying anything, I'm saying it straight out."
"What?"
Oh heavens, she loathed him. She forced herself to speak even more plainly. "I'm not going to … go to bed with you."
He shrugged. "That's fine with me. You can threaten me with a frying pan any time I dare to come within two feet of you."
He was still smiling. She knew just what he thought. That all he needed was time, and she'd be sure to change her mind about intimacy with him. And the hideous truth was, she wasn't absolutely positive that he was wrong.
Well, there was no point in dwelling on how long she'd be able to keep her forbidden desires at bay. She would manage, one way or another. Maybe, if she was lucky, she could stall for a little while before the grueling ordeal began…
She said flatly. "All right. You win."
He nodded. "Be ready to leave in three hours."
Trying for breezy indifference, she suggested, "I'd like to leave Monday morning instead of today, if that's all right. I do need some rest, and I'll need time to find someone to, um, water my plants."
"Your plants will survive. I'll pick you up in three hours."
"But I—"
He shook his head. "Three hours. Don't argue."
She almost told him again exactly what she thought of him, but then resigned herself to the fact that he already knew.
"The keys," she said.
He tossed them to her. She caught them neatly, and then got out of there.
At her house, she found Brendan in the kitchen making another pot of coffee.
He turned from the counter where the coffee was dripping when he heard her come in. "Well?"
He looked so downtrodden, his black hair a tangled thatch, his eyes red and tired, that she almost felt sorry for him, though she tried to remind herself that her sympathy was the last thing he deserved.
"How'd it go?" he asked.
She remembered how she'd planned to tell Brendan exactly what she thought of him once she was through with Sam Fletcher. But now it was settled, yammering at her brother seemed pointless; a waste of good energy. She said, "It's all taken care of," and held out the keys.
Brendan took them. Then he just stood there for a moment, looking at her, his brows drawn together, as if he were trying to decide what exactly to say. At last, he shrugged. "Thanks, sis. I owe you one."
Delilah nodded. "It's okay."
It wasn't, of course. But she supposed she had to admit that things could have been worse. Brendan could have lost the truck to someone who wasn't willing to give up his winnings for the privilege of hauling Delilah off to the wilds for a week.
And she had to remember that even a week wouldn't last forever. In seven days, the debt would be paid. She could go back to her life. Everything would be as it had always been once again.
Or would it? After a week alone with Sam Fletcher, would anything ever be the same?
Delilah sank into a chair. She remembered Sam Fletcher's broad chest, the reddish hair there, the beads of water that had clung to his skin, the clean, moist scent of him, the blue mirrors of his eyes…
"Sis? You okay?"
Delilah blinked. "What? Yes, fine. Just tired, that's all."
Brendan looked chagrined. "Well, I … suppose I oughtta head on home now, get it all worked out with Amy and everything … if you're sure you're okay."
Delilah stood up. "Yes. I'm fine. You go on." She went to the coffee pot and poured herself a cup. "And give Amy my best."
"You bet," Brendan promised. His voice came from behind her, near the door to the living room. "'Night, then."
Delilah glanced over her shoulder at him, waved, and then turned back to the counter to sip from the coffee. "Sis?"
Delilah looked around again. Brendan was still standing there. "What?"
"You're a hell of a sister, you know?"
"Yes." She sighed. "I'm wonderful."
"In a pinch, you always come through."
She turned around to face him. "Brendan. I said it's okay. You can spare the testimonial."
"But I…" Brendan raked his hair back.
"What?"
"I … well, I'm sorry, damn it. For being a horse's ass. I don't deserve a sister like you, any more than I deserve a wife like Amy…"
Delilah didn't know what
to say. He was right, of course, he didn't deserve her or Amy, but that had never seemed to bother him before. Now, however, he seemed honestly moved by what she had sacrificed for him. His frank apology struck a chord in her. She didn't know how to react.
"Brendan, I… It's all right. Really…" Delilah's voice trailed off as she stared doubtfully at her brother, who looked sweet suddenly, so flustered and unsure.
Then, out of nowhere, he muttered something ear-burning and strode the few steps to where she stood. He took the coffee from her, set it on the counter, yanked her up against him and hugged her so hard it knocked the breath out of her.
"Brendan!" Startled, she shoved at his shoulders.
He held on. "Thanks. Just thanks," he whispered fiercely in her ear. With that, he released her just the way he'd grabbed her, in an instant. She fell back against the counter, nearly knocking over her full coffee cup. She grabbed it and steadied it.
And when she looked up he was gone.
Delilah stared after him for a moment before she returned to the table and sat down again. He was different than the mean little boy he'd been, even if trouble still followed him around. She realized she was glad now that she hadn't had the energy to tell him he was exactly the horse's behind he'd called himself, let alone inform him that his dinner, drinks and a show had become a week-long ordeal in the woods.
And where? In what woods? Delilah realized with increasing exhaustion that she hadn't the faintest idea. But she'd be finding out soon enough, since she was leaving right away.
She sat down, but only long enough to drink the coffee. And then she plodded to her room to start packing.
In a way, it was soothing to her frazzled nerves to prepare for the trip. She concentrated on packing and tried not to think that at dawn she would be off for a week in the wilds with her worst enemy for a companion. As Sam Fletcher had already deduced, she had all the necessary gear.
She set out long underwear, sturdy pants, bulky sweaters and flannel shirts, a down vest and jacket, hiking boots, heavy socks and a good sleeping bag. She also took along her little vanity pack which contained the bare necessities for grooming and hygiene.
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