Wife for a Day (9 page)

Lauren took a deep breath, lifted her mocha to her lips, and looked over the top of the cup at Sam. “Suffice it to say, he isn't too trusting. Sometimes he makes me so mad I could scream. Of course, he's gone out of his way since we were kids to make sure I'm happy. My mother moved me from city to city as she moved from man to man. Jack stayed out west, but he made a point of calling me nearly every day to make sure I was okay. How
could I possibly get upset with a brother like that?”

“It would be pretty hard.”

“That's why I'm so happy he's found you. You're perfect for him, Arabella. Absolutely perfect.” She cut into her éclair, but ignored the delectable concoction on her fork. “By the way, when do you go home?”

“Tomorrow.” The moment Sam said tomorrow she regretted not saying today. “Very
early
tomorrow.”

“Then you could go to another birthday party tonight—with Peter and me.”

“I wish I could, but—”

“Let me guess, you haven't got anything to wear?”

“That's an understatement.”

“You can't turn me down, Arabella. Not tonight. It's
my
birthday we're celebrating.”

Sam toasted Lauren with her cup of coffee. “Happy birthday. If I'd known, I would have gotten you a present.”

“Having you at the party would be the best present of all.”

Not if you knew the truth
, Sam thought, feeling awfully crummy for continuing the lie.

“I can't, Lauren. I didn't bring a single fancy thing with me. You know how it is—no clothes, no party.” Sam hoped her statement would end the questioning.

“Nonsense. We could go shopping. Right now, as a matter of fact. My favorite boutique's on Worth Avenue. I'm sure we could find something perfect for you to wear tonight. I might even get something new, too.”

“I'm not dressed for shopping. I'm a mess.”

“Don't worry about any of that. I don't think you could ever look anything but beautiful.” She lifted the fork to her mouth. “Jack's got an account at my favorite boutique. He orders all of my gifts from there. You can charge whatever you want to him.”

“I couldn't do that.”

Lauren frowned. “Why not?”

Think fast!
“We plan on keeping separate accounts after we're married, and I don't expect him to buy things for me. Flowers, maybe. Dinner, of course. But not my clothes.”

A small smile tilted Lauren's perfectly colored lips. “I honestly don't see what there is to worry about. If you don't want to put it on Jack's account, you could open one yourself, or charge something. I doubt an outfit for the evening will cost much more than two, three thousand.”

“That would blow my entire budget.”
For the rest of my life
, she thought.

Lauren laughed. “A budget? You're marrying my brother! If you don't mind me butting in a bit, I think the two of you need to do some
serious talking about your likes and dislikes
and
about the future, not to mention the fact that you're on a budget—which is absolute nonsense. This afternoon I'm going to show you
how
to be the wife of a very rich man, and trust me, Jack won't even blink an eye.”

Sam felt a sickly green color rising up her neck and tingeing her cheeks.

“Wouldn't you and Peter like to celebrate alone?”

“We'll do that
after
dinner.” A hint of desire gleamed in her eyes. “Peter has a special gift for me, something he wants to give me in private. Which reminds me, I should buy myself something for
after
dinner.” Lauren reached across the table and gently squeezed Sam's hand. “Go shopping with me, Arabella. We didn't have much time to talk at my engagement party, and there's so much I want to know about you.”

Going anywhere with Lauren would be fun, but doing so was out of the question. “I'll have to take a rain check. Besides having nothing to wear, Maryanne and I have plans tonight.”

“She could join us.”

“I don't think so. She's more a billiards kind of girl.”

“Now
you're
sounding like a snob.” Lauren laughed, refusing to take no for an answer. She pushed back in her chair. “Don't worry
about a thing. I'll talk to Maryanne.”

A bad case of anxiety ripped through Sam's body. Her stomach churned, rumbled. She could feel sweat beading on the back of her neck even though the air conditioner was cranked down to sixty-eight.

Lauren was chatting animatedly with Maryanne, and when she headed back to the table, Maryanne grinned, as if the whole thing was some big joke, and she was thrilled to play along.

“It's all set,” Lauren said. “You and I are going shopping right now. We'll have another mocha at the boutique. Some wine, too, if that sounds good to you.”

“It sounds terrific,” she lied, “but what about my plans with Maryanne?”

“You were right. She
is
a billiards kind of girl and wasn't the least bit interested in joining us at the country club. What a sweetheart she is. I can see why the two of you are such good friends. When I explained that we're going to be sisters-in-law, and that we'd never had any time alone together, just to talk, she understood perfectly. I promised I'd have you back at her place by ten, and I always keep my promises. Now, come on. We're going to have a ball.”

A ball? Right
. Sam mentally calculated the number of parking tickets she'd have on her
car when she got back to the coffee shop that night. She tried to think of a place she could reasonably picture as Maryanne's home so she'd know where to have Lauren drop her off at ten. And she was wondering if she'd ever find a moment alone so she could find someone to take the first few hours of her shift at Denny's.

Lauren chattered all the way to the zippy red Mercedes two-seater parked in front of a battered orange bug, but Sam didn't hear a word she said. Instead, all she could hear was the constant refrain singing through her head: “
What have I gotten myself into now?
”

J
ack hunched over
the ledger on his desk, making note of the number of cows he and Mike had counted on the home range in the past week. The winter had been brutal, yet healthy newborn calves were spilling right and left. It was shaping up to be a record year for shipping in the fall.

Behind him he heard the ring of the fax. He was expecting his business partner—the creative genius behind the Remington steak houses—to send him a proposal for next year's advertising budget. Jack didn't know the first thing about running a restaurant. Hell, he couldn't even grill a steak, but he knew how to make money. He left the day-to-day operation of the restaurants up to Ben Richman, but he kept an eye on income and expense. Where money was concerned, he trusted his own judgment and no one else's.

He pushed back the heavy oak chair and went to the fax, laughing when he saw the name of a familiar Palm Beach boutique on the invoice that came through. Over the years, he'd ordered dozens of gifts for his sister from Michel's, and rarely a week went by that she didn't purchase another trinket or two and send the bill to Jack. Lauren had more money than she knew what to do with, but she still got a kick out of spending
his
money on frivolous things.

Tearing his gaze from the invoice, he stood at the window and watched Beau practicing his roping skills on a fence post and anything that walked by. Poor old Rufus seemed to get the brunt of it, but the dog kept going back for more.

In the two weeks Beau had been at the ranch, Jack had taught his son how to ride everything from a swayback, aging mare, to a cantankerous stallion, how to rope almost like a pro, and how to handle a Stetson. The boy was a natural at everything. He listened. He learned. But he didn't say much. Jack didn't either. The relationship was strained, at best, and Jack didn't have any idea how to make it better.

Maybe he should take up shopping
, he thought. Hell, his sister seemed to take comfort in buying unnecessary frills. He tore the invoice from
the fax machine. What had she purchased now? Emanuel Ungaro dress: $3,850; Gucci shoes and purse: $972; Voyage bra and panties: $320.

Jack ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head—$320 for underwear. Damn! He ordered boxers from JC Penney's, and he could wear a new pair nearly every day for the next three months and still not pay as much as she had for a few skimpy pieces of silk.

He sure as hell hoped she wasn't buying them to please Peter—but that was her business, not his.

The price of the earrings and bracelet she'd purchased were a blur as his mind turned back to the cost of running a ranch. He tossed the invoice on his desk and set his newly acquired paperweight—one lone shoe, size 9–1/2, that was nothing more than rhinestone straps affixed to a sole and four-inch heels—on top the other bills he needed to pay.

For a moment he allowed himself to think about red ringlets, the soft curve of a woman's spine, whiskey-colored eyes, and a sweet, luscious mouth. Two weeks had gone by, yet he could still taste the champagne on her lips, and feel hard nipples and soft, full breasts burning through his shirt as he held her against his chest.

Damn, if his life hadn't gotten complicated.
He lusted after a woman who hadn't called after receiving the roses he'd sent and his heartfelt note telling her he'd like to talk and get to know her better. On top of all that, he had a son he couldn't talk to and a sister in Palm Beach who thought he was engaged to a beautiful redhead when, in truth, he was engaged to no one. The blasted shoe he was using as a paperweight served as a reminder to call Lauren and tell her the truth, and never again to pay a stranger to be his fiancée.

He picked up the phone. He was distracted now. He couldn't think, which meant he couldn't work, so he figured he might as well call his sister, wish her a happy birthday, and break the news.

What would she think of what he'd done? Would she cry? God, she'd cried so damn much when she was little, when their mother would go off on one of her escapades to Europe or South America, and leave Lauren with the servants. He remembered their long-distance phone conversations over the years. She always put up a front, trying to sound brave, but he could hear her fighting back sniffles and tears. She'd ask him what he was doing. She'd ask about Dad and Mike and Crosby. She'd even ask about the cows and horses, and at the end of every conversation tell him that she loved him, that she knew she
could always rely on him, that she knew he'd never hurt her.

He'd blown it this time!

None of this would have happened if he'd told her the truth the night of her engagement party. But he'd been too damn worried about making her cry. Those tears would probably come tenfold now.

His grip had tightened on the receiver as he listened to the ring. Finally, the butler answered, and informed Jack that Mrs. Lancaster—her second husband's last name—was out to dinner “with Mr. Leighton and Miss Fleming.”

Miss Fleming?

“She's what?” Jack asked incredulously.

“They're celebrating Mrs. Lancaster's twenty-eighth birthday, Mr. Remington. Surely you hadn't forgotten.”

“I didn't forget her birthday. Who did you say she's out with?”

“Mr. Leighton and Miss Fleming, your fiancée, sir.”

“Oh, hell!”

“Is there an emergency?” the butler asked. “They've gone to the country club. I would be happy to get in touch with Mrs. Lancaster for you.”

“No, that won't be necessary. Just tell her to call me as soon as she comes home.”

“She and Mr. Leighton are leaving for London tonight, directly after dinner.”

“Miss Fleming isn't going, too, is she?”

“I don't believe so, sir. I believe Mrs. Lancaster said Miss Fleming would be returning to Denver early tomorrow morning.”

She would, would she?

“Thanks, Charles,” Jack said. “Next time you talk with my sister, tell her I called to wish her a happy birthday.”

“I'd be happy to tell her, sir.”

Jack hung up the phone and stared at the rhinestone shoe. What the hell was the redhead up to? he wondered. She'd easily taken his sixty-one hundred dollars. Was she now trying to get money from his sister?

He grabbed the phone again and called information. When he had the number for Antonio's, he stabbed at the buttons on the phone while absently scanning the invoice again. He listened to the constant ring as he stared at the total: $7,857 and some change. When he realized it was after 9
P.M.
in Palm Beach, he hung up the phone, but his eyes didn't leave the invoice. Instead, they concentrated on the name carefully written at the bottom.
Arabella Fleming
.

“Damn her!” He ripped the invoice from under the shoe. Arabella signed her name in a flamboyant script. The redhead might be wild and engaging, but her handwriting was shaky
and unrefined, and he planned to tell her, up close and personal, that he'd hog-tie her and brand her a con artist if she got within ten miles of his sister ever again.

 

Except for the black tux, Jack thought that Mr. Antonio looked more like a snake-oil salesman than the proprietor of a fine men's store. He greeted Jack with one hand tucked in his pocket, the other extended flamboyantly in front of him.

“Good afternoon. I'm Mr. Antonio.”

Jack was in no mood for pleasantries, especially after the long flight to Palm Beach. “I need to speak with one of your employees.”

“Is there a problem, sir?”

“No. Not at the moment, anyway.”

“Messrs. Erickson and Hansen are with clients. Perhaps I could help you.”

“I'm looking for a woman.”

“I'm sorry, Mr.—”

“Remington. Jack Remington.”

“The restaurateur?”

Answering someone else's question was the last thing Jack wanted to do, but he managed to nod.

“It's an honor to meet you, Mr. Remington. I've had the pleasure of eating in your Boca Raton steak house many times. The food is su
perb.” Mr. Antonio kissed his fingers and flung them into the air.

Jack wanted to punch his lights out.

“You have a redhead working for you. A female tailor named…Sam Jones.”

“Ah, yes. Miss Samantha Jones. I'll apologize now for any grief she may have caused you a few weeks ago. But let me assure you, Mr. Remington, Antonio's always stands behind its merchandise. If there's any problem with your tux—”

“I don't give a damn about the tux. I need to talk to Sam Jones.”

“She is no longer in my employ.”

“Then where can I find her?”

“I'm afraid Miss Jones was not the kind of woman I associated with; therefore, I was not inclined to keep an account of her where-abouts. She stole a sewing machine from me. Oh, she returned it the next day, and I was kind enough not to turn her in to the authorities, but I couldn't have someone of her ilk working in my establishment.”

“Look,” Jack said, tired of Mr. Antonio and his attempts to cover his ass. “I need to find her, and in an establishment such as this, I'm sure you keep records on your employees. Social Security number? An address where you can send a W-2? A phone number for someone to call in case of emergency?”

“Perhaps.” The man fussed nervously with one of his cuff links. “Would you like some wine while I look?”

“No!”

Beads of sweat had built up along Mr. Antonio's hairline. “I'll see what I can find,” he said, his voice faint, almost strangled.

Jack followed the weasel of a man to an ornate, highly polished table at the farside of the room. He took a key from his pocket, opened a drawer, and pulled out a gray index file. “Let me see. Jones. Jones. Ah, here it is. Samantha Jones.” The man's eyes flicked up toward Jack. “A Social Security number and post office box, nothing more. No phone number, either, but that doesn't surprise me.”

“Why?” Jack asked, jotting the information down on a pad of paper he'd grabbed off Antonio's desk.

“I fired her, in part, for spending her nights in the sewing room and bathing in the rest-room sink. Can you imagine?”

Jack glared at the man. “You're telling me she lived here? That she might not have had anyplace else to stay?”

“I never asked. She had certain talents where tailoring was concerned. My clients never complained about her work, and I do not pry into the lives of my employees.”

“What about your other employees? Do you
think any of them pried, or even took the time to get to know her?”

“Mr. Hansen, possibly.”

“Where's he? In the back?”

“He's with a client right now. I could ask him and get in touch—”

“
I'll
ask him.”

Jack stalked across the room, through the swinging doors that led to a hallway lined with dressing rooms. He knocked on the first closed door but didn't bother waiting for an answer. “Are you Mr. Hansen?” he asked, barging in and frightening the bald-headed man who had straight pins protruding from his mouth.

“Yes. May I help you?”

“Do you know where I can find Samantha Jones?”

The tailor stood slowly, pulling one pin from between his lips and then another. “No.”

“Do you know anything about her?”

“I haven't seen or heard from her since she left a few weeks ago. Nice lady. A little down on her luck. She'd been living in her bug before she came here to work.”

“Her bug?”

“A battered orange Volkswagen.”

Jack stuck his hand in his pocket, pulled a hundred-dollar bill from his money clip, and slipped it into the tailor's hand. “Thanks.”

Mr. Antonio was hot on his heels when he walked toward the front door. “Perhaps I could interest you in a new suit while you're here, Mr. Remington. Why, just this morning I received a Tombolini that would look perfect on you.”

“Not interested,” Jack barked, then slammed through the glass door and headed for his rented Lincoln. The only thing he was interested in right now was finding Samantha Jones—thief, con artist, and…Hell! Homeless person.

 

The post office refused to give Jack any information. They wouldn't even verify if the box number he'd given them did, in fact, belong to Samantha Jones. He wasn't going to give up, though. How many orange VW bugs could there possibly be in West Palm Beach?

He'd picked up a map from the Chamber of Commerce and started his search, driving up one street and down another, the wheel in one hand and a cigar in the other. After an hour of searching, he took his cell phone and electronic address book from his briefcase and punched in the number for Wes Haskins, the same investigator he'd hired to check out Peter Leighton.

“I need you to find out everything you can
about someone,” he told Wes. “Her name's Samantha Jones.”

“You're gonna have to give me more info than that.”

“Red hair. Five-nine, maybe five-ten. Slender.”

“What did she do? Break your heart?”

“Why I want to find her is no one's business but my own. She used to be an actress in Hollywood. Played in some kind of dinner theater.”

“What else do you know about her?”

Not enough
, Jack thought,
and more bad stuff than I ever wanted to know
. “She's around twenty-five. Drives a beat-up orange VW bug and might be living in it now, somewhere around West Palm Beach.”

Jack gave Wes Samantha's Social Security number, her post office box address, and all the other details he could remember, little things they'd talked about while she'd altered his tux, sat across from him in a limousine, danced in his arms. He had no idea what an investigation might turn up. Was she on the run from the law? Was Samantha Jones her real name? Was she married?

That last thought bothered him the most.