Love Came Just in Time (41 page)

“Oh, Sam, I'm so sorry.”

“Honey, it wasn't you,” Sam said, sitting down gingerly and willing his stomach to stop churning. “It might not have been the eggs. It could have been the chicken from last night.”

She looked like she just might cry for real this time. Sam took her hand and squeezed it.

“Syd, this is going to give you a great chance to hone your pampering skills. Every man loves to be pampered. I'll show you just what to do.”

“You're right,” she said, sounding relieved. “Let's get you comfortable, and then I'll wait on you hand and foot until you're better.”

And whoever said food poisoning couldn't be fun?

THIRTY-SIX HOURS LATER Sydney sat at Sam's bedside and prayed she hadn't killed him.

First had come twelve hours of staying out of Sam's path to the bathroom. She had decided he looked mighty fine in a pair of red-and-blue-plaid boxers.

Then had come half a day's worth of shivers, when she'd piled every blanket she owned on top of him and he still begged her to turn up the heat.

Then his fever had raged and he'd wanted nothing on him at all. She'd had to fight to make him leave his underwear on.

Now he was sleeping peacefully. He looked like hell and she felt like hell. She had done this to him, laid this beautiful man low with one turn of her spatula. It was no wonder she couldn't find a man to marry.

She leaned forward and brushed an unruly lock of hair back from his face. He opened his eyes and smiled at her.

“Hi,” he croaked.

She couldn't return his smile. “Sam, I'm so sorry.”

“Hey, you're doing a great job of pampering me.”

“Oh, Sam . . .”

He took her hand and pressed her palm against his cheek. “It wasn't your fault, sugar. It was Joe's fault for selling us rotten eggs. We'll bake him some brownies with laxative frosting in a few days as repayment.”

She pulled her hand away. “I'm never setting another foot in that kitchen.”

He pulled himself up against the headboard, wincing as he did so. “Oh, yes, you are. When you fall off a horse, you get right back on. Go take a nap, Sydney, while I clean up. Then we'll make soup for supper and find a good movie on television. Tomorrow we'll start over. You promised to teach me how to change the oil. I don't want to miss out on that.”

“The Ladies Aid Society thinks I killed you,” she said in a small voice.

Sam laughed softly as he swung his legs to the floor. “I'll set them straight next week. Now git.”

Sydney rose, then stopped at the door. “I can make soup.” She met his eyes. “It comes in a can, you know.”

“Then you go make soup. I'll be out to eat it in half an hour.”

She nodded and closed his door behind her. At least soup wouldn't kill him. Saltine crackers would be a nice addition, especially since someone else had cooked them. And ice cream for dessert. Yes, Sam would certainly be safe through dinner.

Half an hour later, she heard the TV go on in the living room. She brought out a tray with two bowls of soup and a package of crackers. She set the tray down and watched Sam try to start the fire. When he started to swear, she knew the time for aid had come. She knelt down next to him and smiled.

“You're pitiful, you know?”

“Yeah, that's what I hear.”

“Try kindling under the log, Sam. Newspaper and twigs. Works every time.”

He used too much paper and wasted half a dozen matches getting the blaze going, but she didn't complain. He sat back on his heels with a smug smile.

“Piece of cake.”

She nodded solemnly. “Of course. Now come eat your dinner before it congeals.”

He followed her over to the couch and sat down, looking at the tray on the coffee table. “It's a feast!”

“Well, at least it won't kill you.”

Once dinner was consumed, she cleaned up, then went back into the living room. Sam was relaxing on the couch with his feet propped up on the coffee table and a blanket over his legs. He smiled when she came in.

“There are so many channels, I don't know where to start.”

She sat down on the opposite end of the couch. “Pick whatever you want. It doesn't matter to me.”

Sam started to flick through the channels, then he slid a glance her way.

“You know,” he said, “we're missing out on a perfect opportunity.”

“How's that?”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “For snuggling practice. It's my understanding that the skill can never be too refined.”

“Really.” Was that her voice sounding so breathless?

“From what I understand.”

“I'm sure Melanie already knows how to snuggle.”

“I'm not interested in Melanie.”

Sydney didn't want to know who he was interested in. But her mouth had a different idea.

“Are you interested in someone else?”

Sam looked away. “Yes.”

“Oh,” Sydney said. Funny how there was that little cracking sound when your heart broke. She'd never expected to have it hurt so badly.

“What about you? Planning on making Frank Slater a wonderful wife?”

She looked up and met blazing green eyes. She blinked.

“Frank?”

“Yes, Frank, damn it.”

“I'm not interested in Frank.”

“Oh.” He looked taken aback. “Then, are you interested in anyone?”

“Yes.”

He looked like she'd slapped him. Then he started to scowl.

“Whoever he is, he isn't good enough for you. I want to meet him. What's his name?”

“That's none of your business.”

“It sure as hell is my business. Who is he?”

“What do you care?” she retorted.

He growled. And he scowled some more. Then he thrust out his hand.

“Come here. We might as well get on with this snuggling business. I'm sure the fool will appreciate it eventually.”

“I think he might.” If Sam only knew!

He took her hand and hauled her over to him. Sydney found herself pinned between his heavy arm and his hard chest. He dragged her arm across his waist and pushed her head down against his shoulder.

“This is snuggling,” he grumbled. “And that's
Singing in the Rain
on TV. I hope you like both because I'm not giving you a choice about either.”

Sydney didn't care what was on television. They could have been watching a televised correspondence course in advanced calculus and she would have been perfectly content. After a few minutes, Sam relaxed, and she relaxed against him. She closed her eyes and sighed as he began to trail his fingers over her back. She snuggled closer to him and pressed her face against his neck.

“That feels good.”

He cleared his throat. “Compliments are, of course, always appreciated. As are comments about the snuggling partner's warmth.”

“You're very warm, Sam.”

“Yes, like that,” he said gruffly. “You're getting the hang of it.”

“No, not quite yet. I think it might take another couple of hours.”

She could hardly believe the words had come out of her mouth, but it was too late to take them back now.

“Yes, well, it might.” Sam sounded positively hoarse. “We'll see how it goes tonight. We might have to do this often. Just so you perfect your technique.”

“Of course.”

“And so you can please Sasquatch. Or whatever the hell his name is.”

“Right,” she agreed.

“I don't want to know who he is.”

“I wouldn't think of telling you.”

She felt the weight of Sam's head come to rest against hers. “Are you comfortable, Syd?” he murmured, the annoyance gone from his voice.

“Very,” she whispered. “This is nice. Thank you, Sam.”

He sighed deeply. “It's the least I can do for the woman who's going to take her life in her hands and teach me how to change the oil in my Range Rover.”

“You'll do a great job.”

He said nothing, but tightened his arms around her.

Sydney closed her eyes and smiled. She didn't think about whoever it was that Sam was interested in.
She
was the one in his arms at present, and if his embrace was any indication, he didn't want to let her go.

There was a nagging doubt at the back of her mind about the identity of Sam's woman, but she pushed it away. There would be time enough tomorrow to be irritated and miffed.

For the moment, Sam was hers.

SAM SWUNG THE axe down, and it split the wood with a satisfying crack. Yes, there was something therapeutic about chopping wood. Especially when you could do it and not worry about losing toes in the process. He didn't need to chop any wood, but it was keeping him busy. And it was certainly the only positive thing in his life at present. His revisions were worse than the first draft, and his plan to woo Sydney was turning out worse than his revisions.

And it had everything to do with her mystery man.

He finished his stack, put the axe back in the shed, and walked into the house. Sydney was lying on the couch, her nose stuck in a book on trail guiding. He wished for once she would read something else. Something he'd written maybe. The woman claimed she wanted to learn how to cook. A little foray into a cooking magazine wasn't too much to ask, was it?

She looked up as he clomped by. He glared at her. She returned his look coolly.

“Ready for our lesson?” she asked, her tone as icy as her look.

“I can hardly wait. Let me shower first.”

“Please do.”

He slammed all the doors he could on his way to the shower. It had been a week since their snuggling lesson on the couch. Sydney had awakened the next morning in a sour mood, one that matched his perfectly. He'd lain awake all night wondering just who the hell this man of hers was. Sydney didn't know any men. Was he some New York investment jockey with plans to take Sydney to the Big Apple? The thought of Sydney Kincaid being yanked out of her native environment rankled. The thought of someone else besides him doing the yanking just plain infuriated him. If anyone was going to be doing anything with Sydney, it was going to be him.

He had no idea why she was so angry. Maybe she was reacting to him being such a jerk. He didn't know. He almost didn't care. Damn her, she was the one making him miserable, not the other way around. She knew he didn't have any ties. He never received mail or phone calls except from his agent. She sure as hell couldn't imagine that he was after Majorie.

He took a shower that used up every bit of hot water in the tank. Then he went into his room and scowled for half an hour.

Love sucked.

He finally walked out into the living room. Sydney was asleep. He hauled her up without warning. She threw her arms around him in self-defense, so he picked her up and carried her into the kitchen.

“Cookbook,” he barked.

She rubbed her eyes as she reached for it and handed it to him.

“Pay attention,” he growled.

“Stop being such a jerk,” she growled back, the sleep fading from her eyes, to be replaced by anger.

“Me?” He threw up his hands. “Women! Go figure.”

He grabbed his keys off the rack and slammed out the front door. Might as well go check the post office box while he was out acting like an adolescent. He drove to town and found nothing in his box. Frustrated, he made his way to Smith's Dry Goods for a cold root beer. He thought about taking up smoking, then discarded that idea. No sense in taking more years off his life than Sydney had already taken.

He leaned against the counter and sipped his root beer. “Joe, does Sydney date much?”

“Reckon she doesn't,” Joe said, polishing a shiny lure.

“Has she dated much in the past?”

“Once,” Joe said. “Frank Slater.”

Sam gritted his teeth. Frank Slater. It figured.

“Only one time, though,” Joe said conversationally. “Her pa wasn't much on seeing her married.”

“Just one time? You gotta be joking.”

“I never joke.”

Sam didn't have any trouble believing that. “But she says she's in love with someone. Some Sasquatchy mountain man.”

“I reckon she's lying,” Joe said, unperturbed.

“Then who could she possibly be in love with? Some city boy?”

Joe looked at him. “Now that's a thought.”

Sam frowned. “Do you know who she's been taking around this summer? Names? Phone numbers?”

Joe held the lure up to the light and buffed it a bit more. “I'd look a little closer to home if I were you, Sam.”

“Then I'll need a map of Flaherty and names of who lives where. And ages of the men, if you have them.”

Joe gave an exasperated snort. “You don't need a map, boy. Just go back home and see if you can't figure it out from there.”

Back home? Well, Sam supposed it wouldn't take all that long to plow through Sydney's copy of the phone book.

Then the proverbial light bulb went on in his head.

“You're joking, right?” he said in disbelief.

Joe looked at him and pursed his lips.

Sam held up his hands. “I know, I know. You don't joke.”

Joe took away Sam's root beer bottle. “Go home, Sam. And don't you dare hurt her. You are planning on staying in Flaherty, aren't you? Permanently?”

Sam thought about it for the space of ten seconds, then he realized there was nothing to think about. He didn't have to live in New York to write. He could take Sydney down to Seattle or San Francisco for a few weeks every now and then so he could do his research. There was absolutely no reason to leave. His mother, his sisters, and his trust fund would survive quite nicely without him.