And Then Came You (17 page)

“Huh?”

“Us. Having a conversation without fighting.”

“Hey, I’m Catholic. I still believe in miracles.”

“I used to.” His voice had dropped so that she could barely hear it even in the isolation of the stairwell.

But she strained toward him as if whatever he was saying was far too important to be missed. Her body was answering a call her mind refused to acknowledge. But it had always been that way between them. Even in the midst of one of their blistering fights, she’d be just as tempted to wrap herself around him as throw a sucker punch to his abdomen.

God, she wanted him.

He lifted one hand toward her face and Sam held her breath. His gaze softened, his mouth curved, he bent toward her . . .

His cell phone chirped.

Irritated, he straightened up, reached into his pants
pocket, and pulled out the flip phone. He glanced at the caller ID, then frowned as he answered it. “Cynthia. Hi.”

The breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding slid from Sam’s lungs in a rush. If his phone hadn’t rung . . . If Cynthia hadn’t called just in time to remind them both of her existence . . . what would have happened?

Sam’s insides jittered and she sucked in air in a futile attempt to calm herself. As if that were going to work. Disgusted with herself, Sam turned her back on Jeff and led the way down the stairs. She heard him following her, his footsteps loud on the oak steps. His voice, that low rumble of sound that had always been able to slip inside her body and shake things up, sounded different to her now as she half-listened to him talk to his fiancée.

“I’ll be there,” he said. “Don’t worry. We’ll do the caterer’s practice dinner Friday night.”

Caterers.

Sam smiled to herself and remembered her own wedding to Jeff. A quick trip to a chapel outside Reno and the buffet dinner at Harrah’s. So technically, she mused, they’d had a catered dinner, too.

“I’ll be back in the city by nine. I’ll come to your place, pick you up,” he was saying.

Oh, Sam didn’t want to think about him going to see Cynthia, the Beautiful, the Perfect, the Wonder Bride. She didn’t want to think about the blonde scooping her fingers through Jeff’s hair, pulling his head down for a kiss and—She stopped her brain right there, because there was no way in hell she was going to think any further down
that
road.

One small thread of consolation . . . apparently he and Cynthia weren’t living together. So she didn’t have to have
those
images in her brain. Cozy nights in front of a fire, tucking Emma into bed together, sliding into a big comfy bed and—
Stop
.

At the bottom of the staircase, they stepped out into the “small” study. Sam had always thought of them as Papa Bear, Mama Bear, and Baby Bear studies. And this one, the smallest of the three, was her favorite. She and Emma had finished painting the room only yesterday. The butter-colored walls looked warm and soft in the summer sunlight streaming through the high, arched windows. The mahogany casements gleamed with fresh polishing and the floorboards were waiting their turn with the sander.

She walked across the room to the windows, giving Jeff a little privacy to finish his phone call. The fact was, if he was going to say “I love you” to Cynthia, Sam didn’t want to hear it. She’d just painted this room and throwing up in it would ruin the ambiance.

A minute or two later, she heard him come up behind her. She didn’t turn. Didn’t trust herself to look at him. Something had passed between them in that stairwell. Something tenuous yet powerful. And she could still feel the echo of it rippling inside her.

“I’ve gotta go.”

Sam nodded, fixing her gaze on her daughter, playing in a splash of sunlight. “I know.”

“I’ll be back on Sunday.”

“I’ll be here.”

“Sam—”

She closed her eyes. “Have a good trip.”

“Right.”

She heard him walk away and still she didn’t turn. Then he was there, in the yard, swinging Emma up for a goodbye hug. As he left, Sam watched him and had to quash the urge to run after him.

The caterer’s carefully prepared meal might as well have been cold oatmeal.

Jeff had dutifully eaten his share, made all the right noises, and smiled when Cynthia proclaimed the menu a winner. But if someone had held a gun to his head, he couldn’t have told them what he’d just eaten.

Now, sitting in a sleek jazz club on the waterfront, he was having a hard time concentrating on the woman across the table from him. Cynthia had brought him here so he could see the job she’d done on the place.

A talented, creative interior designer, Cynthia was already making a name for herself in the city.

“What do you think of the place?” she asked, a bright smile curving her lips.

“You did a great job,” Jeff said, meaning it. It was a small club, and she’d chosen red leather and stark chrome as the basics and built from there. It looked intimate and edgy. No doubt just what the owners had been looking for.

“Thank you.” She lifted her martini glass and took a sip before speaking again.

Four musicians were crowded together on a too-small stage and teased hot, sultry music from their instruments. The steady thump of the bass fiddle beat in
the room like an extra heartbeat and the audience, clustered around tiny, candlelit tables, swayed in time with the rhythm. Wall sconces held yet more candles and the flames flickered wildly in the swirl of chill air sighing through the air conditioner. Shadows danced on the walls as waitresses wearing short skirts and suitably bored expressions weaved in and out of the crowd, carrying trays burdened with martinis.

Cynthia, apparently oblivious to his wandering mind, was holding a one-sided conversation, bringing him up to date on the plans for the wedding.

His
wedding, which was now, God help him, just four weeks away.

“The flowers are beautiful, Jeff,” she said and he forced himself to pay attention. “Lilies of the valley, peonies, and sterling roses.”

“Sounds nice,” he murmured, figuring that it was an appropriate response. Hell, he didn’t know a daisy from a weed, so what did he care? Dammit, not the right attitude, he told himself. Cynthia deserved better from him.

But what the hell was he doing? Sitting across the table from his fiancée, thinking about the woman who was still his wife. He scraped one hand across his face, trying to wipe away memories of Sam, but it just wasn’t any good. She was with him all the damn time. So how could he marry Cynthia if he still
wanted
Sam? And if he walked away from Cynthia, was he any different from the man he was when he’d left Sam nine years ago?

Jesus, a man could go nuts thinking about this shit.

“It’s all going to be beautiful, Jeff.” Cynthia
snapped him out of his thoughts by tapping his hand with one manicured fingernail.

“Sure it is, Cyn.” He looked directly at her, focusing only on Cynthia, determined to give her his full attention.

She tipped her head to one side, her blond hair swaying gently with the movement, as she studied him for a long minute. “Do you want to go back to my place?”

Christ, no
. His instinctive reaction bulleted through him and all he could hope was that his feelings weren’t etched into his features. But Jesus, he couldn’t even consider going back to her place. Sleeping with Cynthia now that Sam was firmly rooted in his mind was just something he couldn’t do.

He’d feel like a cheating husband.

And technically, he thought wryly, that’s just what he’d be.

But it was more than that. Cynthia was beautiful, no doubt about it. But he didn’t feel the flash of desire for her that just thinking about Sam could create.

What the hell was he supposed to do?

“No,” he said finally and forced a smile he hoped she bought. “Let’s stay. Listen to the music.”

“All right,” she said slowly, dragging the tip of her fingernail across the back of his hand. He was pretty sure she meant it to be seductive. What it was, was irritating, doing to his skin what the sound of nails on a blackboard did to his ears.

He pulled his hand free and picked up his glass of scotch.

“You’re right,” Cynthia said, her voice now a husky
whisper filled with promises. “We’ve hardly seen each other in two weeks and I’m talking your ear off about flower arrangements.” She reached across the small, round table and this time covered his free hand with hers, to cut off his escape.

Her hand was cool on his and he realized how he missed the jolt of heat he felt whenever Sam touched him. Dammit, he’d convinced himself a long time ago that the heat was for fools. That the only thing a man got out of the fires of passion was a serious burn. And the good sense to avoid it the next time.

He looked at Cynthia and reminded himself just how perfect she was for him. She was good with Emma. An excellent hostess. Beautiful. She was smart, too, and always up for a debate—whether it was about literature or politics. She loved to travel—last summer they’d hiked all over northern Italy. They’d had a lot of good times together, he thought now.

So why was he looking at her soft blond hair and imagining Sam’s reddish-brown mop? Guilt pinged inside him and had him giving Cynthia’s fingers a quick, perfunctory squeeze. Then he let her go and took a quick gulp of straight scotch, sending a river of fire pouring through him.

“You’re thinking about Samantha, aren’t you?” Cynthia asked, giving him a kind smile and an understanding glance.

Good thing he’d already swallowed or he’d have been choking to death now. Damn. He thought about lying to her, then realized the futility of it. “Guess I was,” he admitted, then tried to soften the blow by adding, “There’s a lot to be thought out.”

“I know,” she said and leaned back into the plush red
leather seat. Toying with the stem of her crystal martini glass, she lowered her gaze to the tabletop before saying, “I’ve been doing some thinking, too.”

Jeff winced. Of course she’d been thinking. He’d hardly considered how hard all of this was on her. And she’d been a damned good sport about the whole thing, considering the circumstances. “Cyn—”

She lifted her gaze to his and again he saw compassion glimmering in her eyes. It would have been a hell of a lot easier on him if she’d just been pissed. A loud Marconi argument would feel good about now, he thought, and just how twisted was that?

But his adrenaline was racing around with no place to go. Sam would have given him a fight. And she’d have pressed him until he’d lost his cool and joined in the shouting. It would have cleared the air, energized the two of them, and they’d have hopped off to bed to finish up with a grand finale.

At least, that was how it had worked once upon a time.

Cynthia was too controlled for that. If a problem was presented to her, she’d think about it for several days, likely discuss it with her shrink, and then come up with several neat solutions that wouldn’t hurt anyone’s feelings. He’d admired her even temper before. And wasn’t he a bastard for now suddenly wishing it were different? For wishing she were different from what she was? For wishing she were Sam?

“It’s okay, honey,” she said. “I understand. You must be so torn about all that’s happened.”

“I am,” he admitted and leaned forward, bracing both forearms on the tabletop. Christ knew he needed to talk all this out. But how could he do that without
having to explain to the woman he was supposed to marry that he was still feeling . . .
something
for his wife? Nope. Cynthia was definitely not the confessor he needed. “I didn’t expect to have to deal with anything like this.”

She reached out and gave his hand a quick pat. “I know, but . . .” Her voice trailed off, hesitant.

“What?”

Cynthia inhaled slowly, then let the air out in a soft sigh. “I realize this is hard on you, Jeff, and it’s just horrible, I know. Still, I hate to say this, but I just feel so sorry for Samantha.”

Jeff blinked. The music went on, surrounding them with a warm flow of softly played jazz that swirled through the room like a summer wind. Around them, couples laughed and talked, and seconds ticked past as he waited for her to continue.

She bit her bottom lip, paused a moment as if to convince herself to go on, and then started speaking. “It’s only that I can see how difficult this must be for Samantha.” She smiled at his obvious confusion. “Oh honey, it’s hard for us too, of course. But we have each other, don’t we? And we have Emma. If you look at it from Samantha’s point of view . . . well, anyone would feel bad for her.”

Frowning now, he was more confused than ever. If anything, Sam had come out the winner in this. Despite his mother’s machinations nine years ago, Sam had her daughter back in her life. She was holding the ace in this little hand of poker and she knew that he’d have to share custody of their daughter if he wanted that divorce. So why was Cynthia wasting any sympathy at all on Sam?

“What do you mean?”

She scooted around on her chair, then leaned toward him. “Think about it,” she said, her voice a low hush of sound. “Samantha’s in a very hard spot right now. To find she’s still married to a man she didn’t want? And added to that, she’s being forced to spend time with a child she gave away.”

Jeff scowled as Cynthia’s words slapped at him.
Forced?
Hell, if anything
he
was being forced to share his daughter with a woman he’d thought betrayed him. “She’s not being forced.”

“Of course not, a bad choice of words,” Cynthia said quickly. Her eyes gleamed quietly in the candlelight and Jeff tried to remind himself that she was on his side.

“I’m sure she’s enjoying seeing Emma again, but Jeff, honey, remember, she gave Emma up.” Cynthia paused again and seemed reluctant to continue. But she managed. “Samantha didn’t
want
to raise Emma. She signed away all of her rights to her own
child
. So having the girl pop back into her life now must be an incredible intrusion.”

He shifted in his chair and suddenly wished they were far away from this crowded room where the music was now just a distraction. Too many people sitting around enjoying themselves. Too many thoughts careening through his brain. An intrusion? Emma?