The Kept Woman (12 page)

With a chuckle, Jack left the great room off the kitchen and headed toward his office, probably to get a piece of paper. Sam turned to Lily.

"You know, if I didn't love you so much, I'd have to wring your skinny little neck."

Greg laughed. "Not if I beat you to it," he said.

"Don't go, Mama! Stay wif me—!" Before Sam could protect herself, Dakota had a hunk of her dress gripped in his Dorito-hued fingers.

"No, baby. Mommy has to go to work. I'll be home in a little bit." She tried to pry his digits off the fabric but only succeeded in helping him tear off a few tiny red beads sewn into the material. Sam gripped his wrist. "No, Dakota. Please don't rip Mommy's dress. I need to go somewhere fancy tonight and this is the only thing I have to wear."

"No, no, no, no, no!" He pulled harder, and Sam was at least grateful that the Dorito smear would blend into the deep red of the dress. She cringed, remembering how close she'd come to buying a white crepe pantsuit for the occasion.

"Hey, Dakota Benjamin."

Jack's voice was calm and low, but the sound of it seemed to startle Dakota. His blue eyes flashed to Jack hovering over him. His chubby fingers relaxed. A shower of minuscule beads fell to the wide plank floors.

"Hey, Mr. Jack!"

Jack held out a pencil to Dakota. "Listen, champ, how about you give me a hand and write down my cell phone number?"

Dakota scrunched up his nose and frowned, then licked some bright orange dust off his fingers and his palm. "I'm only
free
," he said, sporting an attitude Sam knew her youngest could have acquired from any number of people in his life. "I don't know my numbers yet. I know some letters, like
D
, 'cause that's my name letter. Greg and Lily know all their numbers, though."

"Right." Jack looked deflated, and Sam couldn't help but smile. He'd had the right instincts, just the wrong details, and that was impressive coming from a man who had little or no experience with children.

"Let's do it together." Lily took the pad of paper and pencil from Jack, then knelt down next to her brother. Jack gave her the numbers slowly, and Dakota repeated each one with enthusiasm while Lily wrote.

When they were done, Dakota smiled at Jack and gave him a big, orange thumbs-up. "I'll call you later, Mr. Jack," he said.

Sometimes, Christy thought she had the gift of extrasensory perception when it came to Jack Tolliver, and occasionally, especially if she'd had a couple of lemon drop martinis, she'd allow herself to ponder the greater meanderings of the universe and just sit back and be awestruck by it all. Maybe she could sense his presence because he was her soul mate. Maybe she could feel his energy in a crowded room because they had been tragic lovers in another lifetime and she and Jack were destined to dance the dance of fate and sorrow and missed opportunities into infinity.

Christy turned, seeing Jack just as she knew she would. But there was an unexpected twist: her soul mate was bending toward a redhead in a red dress, smiling at the woman as he stroked her bare upper arm. Christy's thoughts became decidedly less poignant—she thought maybe Jack could just go to hell like the scum-sucking pig he was!

"Happy holidays, Christy!"

"Happy holidays to you!"

She engaged in conversation for several minutes with the symphony's director of public relations—covering everything from Handel to Hanukkah—but her eyes and her attention were focused on Jack and Miss Firecracker Red over there. That dress looked ridiculous on Samantha Monroe. She obviously needed an image consultation, a little crash course in what women who venture out into society wore to things like symphony benefit concerts. Red sequins with a slit up the side? Not hardly, and not ever in Indianapolis, even at Christmas. The woman looked like she was auditioning for a job as one of Santa's slut elves.

Apparently, the public relations woman had wandered off without so much as a good-bye, because Christy suddenly found herself alone. She shrugged, taking another small sip of her martini, noting that her teeth were really bugging her again and giving herself kudos for what she'd selected to wear for this event—basic black that looked anything but basic on her. The contrast of the severe dark lines of the Calvin Klein sleeveless gown and the pale gleam of her skin and hair was just the effect she was looking for. Elegant. Reserved. Utterly ladylike.

"
What the fuck?
"

Oh God, she hadn't meant to say that aloud, but Jack had just kissed the slutty elf with one hand at the nape of her neck and another hand so low on her back it was nearly on her ass! Three old biddies just swiveled their heads and stared at Christy, lipsticked mouths agape at her outburst, but there was nothing she could say, really. The damage had been done. So Christy gave them a bug-eyed look and slugged down the rest of her cocktail. Besides, Kara DeMarinis was approaching from her left, and Christy knew she needed to look slightly bored, which would be difficult to do after what she'd just witnessed.

"Ah, Christy. Just the woman I was hoping to run into."

Christy sighed. "And why is that?"

"It's always a pleasure to see you, of course, but I also wanted to apologize again for not being able to make tomorrow's show."

Christy placed her empty glass on a waiter's tray as he sashayed by. Maybe it was the lighting in the Hilbert Circle Theatre's promenade, but it sure looked like Kara DeMarinis was going gray, big-time.

"Your roots need a touch-up, dear."

Kara stiffened almost imperceptibly, but Christy was plenty perceptive.

"I can recommend a good stylist. Her name is Marcia Fishbacher, a few doors down from here, at Le Cirque. But I think you may already know her, seeing that your candidate's temporary tart used to work for her."

Kara's eyes narrowed, but Christy had to admire the fact that the hand holding that Merlot was steady as could be. Kara was a decent sort, and if she wasn't part of Jack's entourage, she and Christy very well might have been friends.

"I see you've done your homework," Kara said.

Christy laughed. "Oh, I've just skimmed the syllabus, sweetness. But I am planning on doing some extra-credit research. I'm going to get way, way down into the dirty truth of the subject matter. What do you think of that?"

A corner of Kara's mouth curled up. "It just kills you that he's happy, doesn't it?"

It was Christy's turn to smile, and she relished it, taking her time to carefully plan what she'd say. "Jack Tolliver isn't interested in being happy, Kara. He's interested in booty, fame, and keeping his mother off his back. But most importantly, he's interested in expending the least amount of energy possible in his effort to get those things."

It shocked Christy to feel Kara's cool hand touch her shoulder. "You poor thing," Kara said, feigning concern. "After all this time and all you've done to get your revenge, you're still in love with him." Kara gave a gentle nod toward Jack and the slut elf. "How hurt you must be."

"Oh, shut up, Kara." This was getting boring. "I'm not sure what you're up to yet, but I'll figure it out. You can count on it." Christy turned to go, knowing her evening was about as done as it could get. She left with a parting shot. "And Kara? Don't waste your bullshit on me. Save it for the campaign, where it belongs."

Jack wasn't sure what he'd done to deserve this night, but he'd take it as the gift it clearly was.

She'd worn red. Red with a slit! Red with
cleavage
. There was a God.

Sam had been funny and sweet and comfortable with everyone he'd introduced her to. She was, in a word, charming. When people asked what she did, she told them she was a hairstylist on sabbatical. When they'd asked how long she'd known Jack, she'd answered with a smile, "It's only been a short while, but it feels like I've known him forever." She truly enjoyed the musical program, a hell of a lot more than Jack did, that's for sure, since
The Messiah
made his knee ache. Sam ate a plateful of hors d'oeuvres, and it thrilled him to see she wasn't embarrassed to consume actual food in public, unlike many women he'd dated. She'd laughed and snuggled up to him when he'd pulled her close. Sam Monroe had been a dream date.

Until just a few minutes ago.

People had already started talking about the weather's bad turn before he and Sam prepared to leave the reception. Rumors running through the crowd claimed that two inches of ice was expected to fall over the Circle City overnight, that state troopers had already shut down parts of I-65 and I-70, and that power was out on the North Side due to downed wires. But Jack had dismissed most of the talk as the kind of exaggerated gossip that routinely caused bread, milk, and toilet paper to disappear from grocery store shelves. Hoosiers could go goofy over a little bad weather.

But then he and Sam stepped outside onto the Circle to find the sidewalks already coated in ice and frozen rain coming down from the sky like miniature daggers.

Sam asked to use his cell phone to call the kids, and there was no answer. She panicked, worried about how frightened Dakota would be if the power was out and how Lily and Greg didn't know where to find flashlights or candles. She began muttering to herself about how the kids were unsafe stumbling around in the huge, strange house in the dark and how much better it would be if they were still in the old place on Arsenal Street, which they knew like the backs of their hands.

Jack wondered if all moms got this psycho when something a little out of the ordinary happened and they couldn't reach their kids.

"This is awful. I'm freaking out." Sam now sat in the passenger seat of the car, one hand gripping the door handle and the other slapped onto the leather dashboard.

"We'll get there," Jack said, trying to time his words between the intermittent rasps of the windshield wipers scraping over ice. "They are going to be fine, Sam."

"Can't you drive any faster?"

Jack smiled and reached over to caress her tense shoulder. "I could, but then there'd be a hundred percent chance we'd end up in a ditch versus the eighty percent we're now dealing with."

"Put both hands on the wheel, please."

"You got it."

They made it to Thirty-eighth Street, only to be greeted by a wall of flashing red lights. The intersection was blocked by ambulances, dozens of police cars, and a few tow trucks.

Jack snaked his way around stopped traffic and tried to turn west to avoid the accident scene. A police officer held up a gloved hand and motioned for Jack to stop. It was a good thing he was going about three miles an hour, because he could barely bring the car to a halt in time to avoid running the policeman over.

Jack lowered his window and greeted the officer, shielding his eyes from the glare of the emergency lights.

"You'll have to pull over and remain in your vehicle, sir." The officer who gave the flat command had a plastic rain cover on his hat and was wearing a bright yellow slicker. "We're not letting anyone through."

Jack nodded, hearing Sam begin to make pathetic little groans of frustration from the passenger seat. "I understand, Officer, but is there any possibility that I can just—?"

"Jack Tolliver?" The cop leaned into the window, his wet face lit up with a grin. "Man, I haven't seen you in ages! It's me—Ed Kitzmiller, Hoosier football, offensive line."

"Ed! Hey, man!" Jack reached across his body and gripped Ed's hand with gusto. "Great to see you!"

"No kidding. Wonderful!" Ed peered inside the car and noticed Sam. He nodded respectfully. "Ma'am."

"Oh, hey, Ed, this is Samantha Monroe. Sam, this is Ed Kitzmiller, the best lineman I ever had the pleasure to work with."

Ed leaned forward, placing both hands on the open window ledge, shaking his head. "That's such a crock, Tolliver. You worked with some of the greats when you played for the Colts, man."

"I did indeed. How long have you been with the IPD?"

"Going on sixteen years, man. I got three kids. Jared's a junior up at Lawrence High, running back. He's got his mama's build, not mine." Ed gave his gut a pat through the rain gear.

"Now who did you marry again?"

"Cynthia Perryman. Remember her? Cute little—"

"
Hello?
" Sam's shout sounded fairly desperate. Jack looked over to find her gesturing wildly.

"Oh. Right. Hey, Ed?" Jack leaned toward the open window, feeling a blast of frozen rain on his cheek. "We have a problem here. I need your help."

"You got it," Ed said without hesitation.

"I need to get up to Sunset Lane off Fifty-sixth Street. The power's out and Sam's kids are in the house alone and she's. . ." Jack looked over at her to see a tear streaming down her cheek. "It's OK, Sam." He touched the sleeve of her coat, then looked back at Ed. "We really need to get up there. Can you let us by?"

Ed gave a swift nod of understanding. "I'll do better than that. Hold a second."

Ed carefully made his way toward the center of the busy intersection, where he had a few words with someone who seemed to be in charge. While they waited, Jack took Sam's hand in his, and she didn't resist. She stared out the passenger side window, but at least she didn't take her hand away.

"Pull around here and then follow me," Ed said. "I'll escort you."

Jack grinned. "Ah, man, you're great. Saving my ass like you did for four straight years in Bloomington."

Ed apparently liked that, and tilted his head back into the icy rain and laughed. "As long as you're aware that's exactly what I did," he said with a grin. The grin began to fade, and he cocked his head slightly. "Your injury. Jesus, Jack. I puked when I saw it happen. Every guy I know said it was the nastiest thing they'd ever seen in professional sports. My God, I've been thinking about you all these years."

A lump rose in Jack's throat. Though his attention was on Ed, he sensed Sam turn toward him. Then he felt her other hand cover his protectively. The lump in his throat got tighter. "Thanks, man," he said. "Thank you."