Wife for a Day (17 page)

“Haven't really decided.”

“Are you going to have kids?”

Jack shoved the bags on the front seat and leaned against the cab. “We haven't decided that, either.”

Beau swung the suitcases he was holding over the side of the truck, set them in the bed, and stood next to Jack. He stared at the side of the barn, focused on nothing more than his thoughts, Jack imagined. “I could go back home if you want me to.”

“Is that what you want?”

“Does what I want matter?”

“Does to me.”

“I want to stay, but I don't want to be in the way.”

“You're not.”

“What if Arabella doesn't want me here?”

Jack put an arm around the boy. The real Arabella might have kicked up a fuss. The woman upstairs in his bedroom seemed to run hot and cold about what she wanted, but on sheer instinct alone, he knew damn good and well she would leave before she'd let anything come between Jack and his son.

“I want you here, Beau. That's the only thing that matters.”

He saw a smile on Beau's mouth and fought the lump in his throat. “Come on. Help me take these things inside.”

 

Sam lounged in a bathtub filled with sweetly scented bubbles. Her hair was pinned on top of her head, and she rested against the back of the tub, trying her hardest to relax when all she could think of was Jack coming upstairs to deliver her luggage or a tray of food.

She didn't want to see him right now.

Then again, she did, but under totally different circumstances.

With her eyes closed, she imagined the charade was over, that she was back in West Palm Beach in a little apartment she'd rented with her own money. She pretended that Jack had flown to Florida with no other thought in mind but seeing her. They'd had dinner together. They'd gone dancing, and she'd invited him in because neither of them wanted the night to end.

By then she was feeling kind of dreamy, letting her imagination run wild. What could it hurt to pretend? It seemed the closest she would ever get to having any more wonderful memories.

She dragged a big sponge over her stomach, across her breasts, and suddenly a make-believe Jack was in the tub with her. She'd never shared a bath with a man. Never stood naked in the shower with a lover who was
doing erotic things to her body, but her imagination was running wild.

Would it be so awful if she gave in to the feelings she had for him? Would it be so horrible if they made love, if she left this charade with a few wonderful memories?

When she heard the creak of the bathroom door, she made a foolish, absolutely insane and spur of the moment decision. She wanted Jack—even if her heart broke in the end.

“Want to join me?” she asked softly.

“Not today, thank you.”

“Oh, God!”

She slid down in the tub till her chin touched the bubbles, and wished she could hide completely. She opened her eyes to see Lauren standing in the doorway with a tray holding two glasses of wine.

“I thought you were Jack.”

“I assumed as much.” Lauren set the tray on the far end of the tub, and took a seat on the toilet. “Hope you don't mind me barging in. I told Jack I wouldn't take up too much of your time, but he's talking to Beau, and I thought you might like some company.”

She handed a glass of wine to Sam and took one for herself. “I brought crackers and cheese, too. I was hoping there were truffles in the house, or something else decadently chocolate, but when you see that kitchen, you'll know
this place is inhabited by nothing but men.”

Lauren took a sip of her wine. “Now, this is wonderful. Jack says it's from some special reserve in California. I prefer French wines myself, but Jack's more the all-American kind of guy.”

Sam tasted the pale pink wine. She didn't know a Bordeaux from a pinot noir, but Lauren was right. It tasted delicious. “Thank you for bringing the wine.”

“Oh, it's no problem at all.” Lauren took a piece of cheese from the tray and nibbled at the edge. “I know you just got here, and I'm sure you're awfully tired, but I was hoping we could talk.”

“About Peter?”

Lauren nodded, and Sam saw a tear slide down her cheek before she wiped it away.

“You'd think after two failed marriages I'd know when a man isn't right for me.”

“Peter's gorgeous. He's charming.” Sam was looking for the right words to say but found it difficult. “He's—”

“Out of my life for good,” Lauren stated.

“You're sure?”

“Positive.”

Sam heard Jack's boots and his distinctive walk before he stuck his head into the bathroom. “Am I interrupting something.”

“No,” Lauren said. “I was just starting to
cry again, but I can do it by myself.”

Lauren started to get up, but Sam reached out of the tub and caught her hand. She'd been saved from doing something totally insane, and she didn't want Lauren walking out now, leaving her alone with Jack, who was staring at the bubbles that hid her naked body.

“Don't leave, Lauren.”

“No, don't leave,” Jack repeated. “I just wanted to tell Arabella I'd brought up her luggage. Thought I might take a ride with Beau,” Jack stated. “You two take your time.”

“You don't mind?” Lauren asked, looking from Sam to Jack, then back again.

“We don't mind at all,” Sam said. “Do we, Jack?”

“Well—”

He had an odd look on his face, a sly smile that made her feel uncomfortable. He walked into the bathroom, right up to the tub. Bending down, he planted a kiss smack on her lips.

He moved back an inch or two, and winked. “I'll see you later, Whiskey.” He stood, but continued to stare at the bubbles that were disappearing far too fast.

“Whiskey,” Lauren repeated. “What a lovely nickname.”

“It's the color of her eyes,” Jack informed his sister. “You may not notice it, but they're damned intoxicating.”

Sam could hear Lauren sigh as Jack turned and walked out of the room.

She rolled her eyes. This entire situation was crazy.

Lauren crossed her legs and drummed nervous fingers atop her knee. “Peter never called me anything other than Lauren,” she said. “It's obvious now that he didn't have any real feelings for me.”

There was so much more behind feelings than a special name, Sam thought, but she didn't say that to Lauren. Instead, she took a sip of wine, and held the glass close to her lips. “Tell me what happened with Peter.”

“Remember that special present he was going to give me after dinner the other night?”

Sam nodded, remembering the dinner and the way Peter picked on Lauren most of the evening. She'd chosen the wrong wine with her steak. She should eat steamed vegetables instead of buttery potatoes. Sam recalled thinking that although the sex might have been good between those two, there wasn't anything closely resembling love coming from Peter.

“Well,” Lauren said with another sigh, “he kept the secret all the way to London. I was dying to know, but he wouldn't tell me. He said it was something we were both going to love. A car met us at Heathrow and we had
the nicest drive out to the country. You've been there before, haven't you?”

“No. I'm a lot like Jack. Pretty much all-American.”

“No wonder you're so suited for each other. Anyway, Peter took me to this beautiful old castle. A gorgeous place with swans on the lake and a hedgerow maze that was centuries old. I knew Peter had won a lot of money playing polo, but I knew he couldn't possibly afford to
buy
me a country home in England.”

“Had he?”

“Oh, no. We were ushered inside by this very tall, very svelte woman who looked me up one end and down the other and pronounced me the perfect candidate for her
spa
.” Lauren popped a slice of cheese into her mouth, chewed it slowly, and swallowed. She looked down at the floor. “The castle was a fat farm.”

“
For you
?”

“For
me
.” Lauren dabbed at her eyes with a napkin. “Maybe I do have fifteen or twenty pounds I could lose, but Peter told me
and
the woman who ran the spa that I had an eating disorder that needed to be controlled. He said our lovemaking was wonderful, but…but that I was getting a little too thick around the middle. I just couldn't understand a man giving me something like that as a present.”

Sam was aghast. Lauren was radiant, and a decent human would never notice a few extra pounds. They wouldn't even notice fifty or a hundred, because the woman beneath the body was lovely, warm, and generous.

But Peter was only slightly human, and Sam could easily picture him presenting Lauren with a cruel and tasteless present.

Sam took a sip of wine, and tried to think of something to say. “Was Peter going to stay there with you?”

“Oh, no. Not Peter. He'd already planned to go back to London. He had reservations at the Ritz, and had accepted half a dozen invitations to parties with his friends. The fat farm was his gift to me and me alone. He told me it was highly recommended, that I could relax for two entire weeks, sit around eating gourmet cucumber slices and getting wrapped in plastic wrap—in all the right places—so I could be slim and trim for our wedding. He said he'd treat me to a new necklace when I got out. Something that would look wonderful on my new and improved body.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“Before or after I pushed him into the lake?”

“You didn't!”

“I most certainly did. I told him if he liked the idea of plastic wrap so much, he should stay and have his head done to take away
some of the swelling. As for muscle tone, I suggested he try some of the spa's workouts on his dick, because it was sorely lacking in strength and endurance.”

Sam choked on her sip of wine.

“Are you all right?” Lauren asked, jumping up and grabbing the glass from Sam.

“I'm fine.” And then she started to laugh.

Lauren joined in.

Finally, Lauren took a deep breath and sighed. “I did the right thing, didn't I?”

“Do you miss him?”

“No.”

“Then you did the right thing.”

Lauren looked at Sam through tear-dampened eyelashes. “What if no one else wants me?”

“I can't imagine that ever happening, but would being alone be so bad?”

“I don't know. I've tried not to be alone since I was a child.”

“First off, you'll never be alone. You've got friends all over the world. You've got Jack, and Beau, and Crosby. You've got me,” she said, reaching out through the bubbles and holding Lauren's hand. “Isn't there anything you've wanted to do, but didn't have the time because you were too busy with a husband or boyfriend?”

“I've never given it much thought.”

“Is there something you do better than anyone else you know?”

Lauren took a sip of wine while pondering the question. “I throw the best parties in Palm Beach.”

Sam smiled at the unexpected answer. “Have you ever thought of going into business?”

“I don't need any money.”

“You could always donate what you make to, oh, maybe the homeless people in West Palm Beach.”

“I like that idea,” Lauren said, as she tapped a perfectly manicured index finger against her lips. “I wonder how much Jack would pay me to plan your wedding?”

Sam let her head fall back against the tub. “We haven't given much thought to a wedding.”

“Oh, but you should.” Lauren stood up and lifted the tray from the edge of the tub. “Thanks for making me feel a little better about Peter.” She sighed. “I'm afraid I've made him sound absolutely horrid, but he does have some wonderful qualities.”

“I'm sure he does,” Sam fibbed. “But you deserve so much more.”

“Someday I hope to have something close to what you and Jack have. Think I ever will?”

Sam nodded as Lauren walked slowly to the
doorway. She stepped over the threshold, then turned around. A smile radiated on her face. “Do you like ice sculptures?”

“Doesn't everyone?”

“Well, I have the perfect one in mind for your wedding.”

“You do?”

“Of course. You and Jack on top of a stallion. It'll be perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

Absolutely perfect?
Sam laughed to herself as she downed the rest of her wine. Absolutely perfect would be if they were really engaged, if Jack loved her and she loved him, but the whole thing was a farce. A sham. An out-and-out lie.

And none of her crazy dreams, none of her wishful imaginings, could make it be something different.

T
he clouds had
gone, and the stars and a full moon brightened the night. It was nearly eight, but not too late for a ride.

Jack led Diablo and Pecos, the horse he'd ridden for half his life, out of the barn. “I'm going out to the west pasture to bring in an Appaloosa for Arabella,” Jack told Beau, tearing the boy's attention away from the fence post he was lassoing. “Want to go with me?”

“Wouldn't you prefer being with Arabella?”

A simple yes or no answer would have been fine, but Jack had already learned that wasn't the kind of response a teenage boy liked to give. “What I want is to go for a ride. Besides, Lauren's got Arabella cornered in the bathroom.”

“Is she crying again?”

“Off and on.”

“Probably a good thing you split. I always
hated it when my grandma would cry. She'd do it when she was watching TV, or fixing dinner, or reading a birthday card. It's kind of embarrassing.”

“Yeah, but it's kind of nice when the woman you love starts to cry and all she wants is for you to hold her. Just remember one thing.”

“What's that?”

“Don't try to offer solutions. Don't say things will get better. Do that and those tears will turn to anger.”

“What do you do when they get angry?”

A grin touched Jack's face. “Kiss them.”

“That's it?”

“For starters.” It didn't always work, but it sometimes left them so dumbfounded—like when he'd kissed Sam in the bathtub—that they couldn't utter another word.

Jack grabbed the rope from Beau's hands. “So, are you gonna go ridin' with me?”

“Yeah.”

Beau swung up on the back of Diablo and Jack wasted no time riding away from the ranch. He liked the feel of Pecos's steady lope through the snow and the brisk night air burning his face. In the distance he could hear the coyotes, and when they passed a stream lined with cottonwood, he heard the faint hoot of an owl.

They'd been riding nearly half an hour
when Beau slowed his horse and Pecos matched Diablo's pace.

“I like it here at night,” Beau said, resting his hands on the saddle horn. “In LA all we could hear was traffic and sirens. Sometimes you couldn't even hear yourself think.” He was silent a moment, listening to the sounds around him. “I never could understand why my grandpa didn't like it here.”

“He liked it once,” Jack said. “I remember when he first opened his practice in town. A bunch of us made bets on how long he'd stay.”

“Why?”

“One winter's about all most greenhorns can stand, then they hightail it back to where they came from. Your grandpa didn't seem to mind the cold all that much.

“So why did he leave?”

He took a moment to answer. “I guess he figured LA would be a better place to raise you.”

“Did he leave before or after my mom died?”

“After.”

“Grandpa never wanted to talk about my mom. You don't either,” Beau said, turning slightly in his saddle and looking at Jack. “Why?”

Jack sighed, and watched his breath fog the
air. “Some memories are better left alone.”

“Is that fair to me?”

Jack reined his horse to a stop. “I suppose not.” He stared at the stars for the longest time, then looked at his son. “I loved your mother.”

“That's not the impression I got from my grandpa. I thought you were a one-night stand.”

He shook his head. “I was young and wild and she was the prettiest thing I'd ever seen. We used to talk about our future together. I wanted to rodeo, travel from town to town—as long as Beth would go with me. That kind of life sounded glamorous at the time, at least to me. Your mom had other ideas, though. She wanted me to build a cabin somewhere on the ranch. She wanted a white picket fence, and she wanted to plant flowers. On top of that, she wanted us to have lots of kids.” Jack laughed. “The last thing I was thinking about at sixteen was being a father. That's when I first learned how big a difference there is between girls and guys.”

“I think I figured it out when I was about eight.”

Jack chuckled low, and when he spotted the Appaloosa he'd been searching for, he galloped across the prairie with Beau following behind. Jack slipped a bridle and a lead rein
on Belle, gave her an apple, then headed back for the ranch.

“Think you'd like to run a spread like this someday?” Jack asked Beau.

“I have a lot to learn before I could do something like that.”

“I hadn't planned on giving it to you in the next day or two. I was thinking more like twenty years from now, when I'm ready to sit on the sidelines and let someone else do most of the work.”

Beau was silent for far too long. “Why would you want to give the place to me?”

“You're the only son I've got. This place has always belonged to a Remington, and you're the only one in my will.”

“My name's Morris, not Remington.”

Jack aimed his gaze at his son. “You're a Remington. I don't much care what your last name is.”

Beau seemed to mull that over for a while. If Jack had his way, he'd have Beau's name changed tomorrow. But that was a decision the boy would have to make, not him.

“What if you have other kids?”

“Doesn't matter. You'll always be my first.”

Beau grew silent again, but Jack watched him from the corner of his eye, and in the moonlight he could see the muscles tensing in his jaw.

Jack reined Pecos in front of Diablo and came to a stop. “Something troubling you?”

Beau nodded. “You didn't put me in your will thinking that would make up for getting rid of me, did you?”

“No.” Jack laughed uncomfortably, took off his Stetson, and ran his fingers through his hair. After readjusting his hat, he scuffed his hand across the day's growth of beard on his chin. “Well, maybe,” he said, keeping his eyes on Beau's face, “I never did feel right about what I did.”

“Why didn't you make an attempt to see me?”

“I did.”

“When?”

Jack remembered that day full well. He remembered the sweat on his palms, the tightness in his chest, and his desperate need to hold his little boy. “It was your fourth birthday,” he told Beau. “Your grandparents were having a party for you at the LA Zoo.”

“I remember that. Sort of. But I don't remember you.”

“I don't imagine you would. I stood under a tree watching you open your presents.”

“Why didn't you come to the party? Why didn't you come to see me any other time?”

“I made a promise to your grandparents that I wouldn't.”

“Why?”

“Because I wouldn't have made a very good dad.”

“That's it? No other explanation?”

Jack shook his head. “That's it.”

“Well, that's one hell of a reason.”

Beau kicked Diablo's flanks and took off across the pasture.

He hated to see the boy so angry, but if he knew the truth, that his grandfather had refused to let Jack see the boy, that he'd promised a messy court battle if Jack tried to get custody, Beau would resent his grandparents, and Jack didn't want that. They'd done their best for Beau, and they'd done enough suffering after Beth was killed.

If Beau had anyone to resent, it was his dad.

 

Jack showered and shaved in the bathroom downstairs. He always kept a set of clothes in the room off the kitchen because he never knew when he might be too dirty to walk through the house. It was tough enough keeping the place clean without trailing mud from room to room.

The house had been quiet when he and Beau returned from their ride. The lights were off in his bedroom and bath, and he figured Sam had already gone to sleep. He wondered if she was in his bed or if she'd curled up in
the big chair in front of the fireplace. Hell, he'd never even built the fire he'd promised.

He'd sure been making a mess of things. Beau was angry with him, too, and after their ride, he'd gone storming up to his room, silent and hurt.

He tried not to think about Beau's justified anger. Instead, he tried to put that anger into perspective. Beau was learning about the past and accepting it one piece at a time.

Jack closed the bathroom door and went to his office. He told himself that he'd neglected his work far too long.

Ah, hell, that was just an excuse. He didn't want to go to his bedroom and see Sam lying in bed. He didn't want to think about his feelings for her, especially when she stomped on them every time he turned around.

He pulled a stack of faxes from the machine and quickly scanned their contents. His partner had sent details for a new advertising campaign. An architect had sent interior sketches for the five new restaurants in Houston and Dallas, and…

Jack rested his hip against the edge of the desk and stared at the fax from Wes Haskins, the investigator he'd asked to check on Samantha Jones.

Damn! He'd meant to call Wes and tell him to forget the whole thing. If there was some
thing more to know about Sam, something not so good, he didn't want to find out.

He crumpled the fax and tossed it into the trash, then thumbed through the rest of the correspondence.

Sitting down at his desk, he ripped open the mail that had arrived earlier in the day. He studied a profit and loss statement, then thumbed through the pages of
Horse & Rider
magazine, but the wadded piece of paper stared up at him from the trash.

He'd wondered for weeks if Sam was in some kind of trouble. Maybe Wes's report shed some light on why she'd needed so much money, and why she'd gone to a loan shark to get it.

Grabbing the paper, he smoothed out the wrinkles, and read the contents. Sam Jones had worked as a waitress in at least a dozen restaurants in West Palm Beach before she and her mother had moved to West Hollywood five years ago. She worked for two and a half years in five different dinner theaters in the Los Angeles area, doing everything from waitressing to set and wardrobe design. Acting hadn't played too much of a part in her employment history in any of those theaters. She'd worked for a movie studio as a seamstress, and spent time behind the counter at Taco Bell, Burger King, and McDonald's. She'd rented a small apartment in West Hol
lywood with her mother, and six months ago buried the woman, Felicity Jones—age forty. Friends and acquaintances said she was a nice kid who kept to herself.

Jack scanned the rest of the page and learned nothing new, except that he owed Wes money.

He ripped a piece of Remington Ranch stationery from his desk drawer and hastily scribbled a note to Wes. “Stop searching for info on Samantha Jones. Services no longer required.”

The things he wanted to know from Sam he was learning little by little. She'd had a one-eared dog. She'd been lonely and poor, her mother worked at night, and for some reason she'd gone from job to job.

Those
were the kinds of things he wanted to know about Sam. The little things that had shaped her, and made him want her more than he'd wanted any woman.

But he needed to know so much more. He wanted to know about her father and why her mother, who had given her so many words of wisdom, had died so young. He wanted to know why Sam was twenty-five, worked harder than any woman he'd ever known, yet lived in a Volkswagen bug.

He also wanted to know why she'd borrowed money from a loan shark. He could just
ask her, but she'd looked so damn uncomfortable telling him anything that he'd left it alone.

He tossed the fax on top of his desk and got up from the chair. It was late, he was tired, and sitting in his room watching Sam sleep sounded a hell of a lot better than sitting in his office going crazy thinking about her.

When he reached his bedroom, he knocked softly. Sam didn't answer, so he stepped inside and locked the door behind him.

Moonlight shone through the window, glancing off the empty bed. The bathroom door was open, and it was dark inside. He walked across the room and saw Sam curled up in the chair in front of the cold, empty fireplace, where he sat sometimes at night to read.

She was dressed in one of his white shirts and a pair of his thick wool socks. With her legs drawn up beneath her he could see her thigh, her bare hip. God, she was beautiful.

Her eyes fluttered open and she smiled. “I waited up for you.”

“Looks to me like you had trouble keeping awake.”

She yawned, and her breasts rose and fell beneath his shirt. “The wine made me sleepy. The bubble bath didn't help, either.”

“Why didn't you go to bed?”

“I couldn't, not until we figured out who was going to sleep where.”

He laughed. “You can have the bed.”

“Good. This chair isn't all that comfortable.”

“So you don't mind if
I'm
miserable all night?” he asked, as she straightened her legs, and rose from the chair.

“It was your decision to take the chair.” A faint smile touched her lips. “We never had much company when I was little, but my mama used to tell me that guests should always be treated special.” She climbed onto the bed and pulled the covers over her. “Mama would have liked the fact that you gave me your bed—and let me sleep here—all alone.”

Jack grinned as she taunted him, tested him, and he knew she was enjoying every moment. “Is there anything else your mama would have liked about me?” he asked, taking her place in the chair, extending his legs in front of him, and crossing them at the ankles.

“She would have liked your family,” she said sleepily, turning on her side and tucking her hands under her cheek.

“What about me—personally.”

“She would have liked the way you gave me your coat today, and the way you carried me into the house and worried that I don't eat or sleep enough.”

Jack watched her eyelids flutter, then close. “What about you, Sam? What do
you
like about me?”