by Neesa Hart
Cindy glanced meaningfully at the pile of research notes Molly had brought from the Office of Public Documents. “That’s obvious.”
Molly had been relieved at the excuse of the development story to spend the better part of the day away from the office. Even the musty environs of City Hall were more desirable than the close confines and prying eyes of the newsroom. “It was just a misunderstanding.” She rolled a pencil between her thumb and index finger and took a long sip of her drink.
Cindy’s eyebrows arched. “It didn’t look like much of a misunderstanding when the two of you breezed through here this morning.” She flicked the daisy in Molly’s pencil cup with a manicured fingernail. “You gotta admit, after the last few weeks of watching the two of you nearly kill each other in meetings, this is a little surprising.”
Molly drew a steadying breath. “Passion has many forms,” she replied softly. Sam had said so himself.
“So you are involved with him.” Cindy’s expression turned triumphant. “I knew it. I’ve known it for weeks, actually. There’s no way there were so many sparks between you two—unless something was going on.”
Score one for Sam, Molly thought wryly. He’d been right when he’d said that people saw what they wanted to see. She gave Cindy a slight smile. “Well, the cat’s out of the bag now, I guess.”
Cindy leaned closer to her. “So, um, I don’t suppose I can get you to tell me what he’s like, you know, in the sack? I’ve been wondering for weeks.”
Molly stifled a groan. “Cin—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” The blonde shook her head. “You’re not the type to talk about something like that.” She regarded Molly with pursed lips. “Come to think of it, I’ve known you, what, six years?”
“About.”
“And in six years, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you gossip about your love life.” Cindy laughed lightly. “But then—and don’t take this the wrong way—but the men you’ve been involved with, well, it didn’t seem like there was a lot to tell.”
“I date nice guys,” Molly insisted.
“Exactly my point.” Cindy gave her a shrewd look. “In my experience, there’s not a whole lot to tell when you’re involved with a nice guy.”
Despite herself, Molly smiled. There was something oddly endearing about Cindy’s flightiness. She didn’t seem to mind that most people mistook her breezy nature for lack of intelligence. In fact, Cindy’s facade masked a sharp mind and quick wit Molly had come to admire. “Maybe I’m just not the tell-all type,” she quipped.
“That—or,” Cindy frowned slightly, “you’re one of those search-and-rescue kind of women.”
“Search and rescue?”
“Sure. You know the type. You seek out hurting men, drag them from the quagmire, patch ’em up, and send them on their way.”
Molly fought the urge to wince. “I don’t think—”
“Come on, Molly, how many guys have you dated and then fixed up with other friends?”
“A few,” she hedged.
“A lot.” Cindy tapped one long fingernail on Molly’s desk. “I’ve seen ’em tramp through here. Lord, girl, you sure know how to pick ’em.”
“Just because I like respectable—”
“Boring,” Cindy insisted. “You like boring guys.”
“They’re not boring.” Molly had a sneaking suspicion that she was beginning to sound defensive.
“Come to think of it,” Cindy continued, “that’s probably why I didn’t pick up on this thing with you and Reed. He’s just not your usual type.”
“That’s an understatement.”
“I never really understood that about you,” Cindy continued, studying her closely. “You’ve got a lot to work with there. That hair,” she rolled her eyes, “there was a time when I would have killed for hair like yours.”
“That’s only because you’ve never actually had red hair,” Molly assured her. She’d given up fighting with her mop of dark red curls years ago. She was the only one of the five Flynn girls with her father’s red hair and freckles.
“Yeah, well, men find it sexy. Take my word for it.”
That made Molly laugh. “Come on, Cin, you’re the one with the long platinum hair. Don’t tell me guys don’t like that.”
Cindy’s eyes darted beyond Molly’s shoulder toward the elevator. “Depends on the guy, I suppose,” she said.
Molly followed the direction of Cindy’s gaze to find Sam Reed walking purposefully toward her, his jacket tossed casually over his shoulder, his white shirt and black suspenders making his chest look impossibly broad. Drat, she thought. She’d hoped her sudden realization of his personal charisma had been a passing phase brought on by the stress of the morning and the bizarre circumstances in which she now found herself. If she could, she’d rethink her decision to take his offer and keep her job. “But Flynns,” her father would say, “always keep their word.” And for better or worse, Molly had made a bargain.
A bargain that had her pulse racing every time she got too close to Sam. Sam, the world-traveled, high-powered business mogul, who couldn’t possibly find life in a small town like Payne other than mind-numbingly tedious. Molly figured there’d never been a more unlikely match than she and Sam. Passion was one thing, but once it burned down to a slow fire, there just wasn’t enough in Molly Flynn’s world to keep a man like Sam Reed interested.
With a weary sigh, she pushed the folder with her notes from the document office into her top desk drawer, turned the key, and met Cindy’s gaze again. “I’ve got to go.”
Cindy nodded. “We can finish tomorrow.” She glanced at Sam who was nearing Molly’s desk. “Hi, Mr. Reed.”
Sam nodded casually. “Hello.” He placed one hand on Molly’s shoulder. “Ready, babe?”
Molly fought the urge to groan out loud. Babe. Good God. Had he really called her babe? The fact that Sam managed to say the word without sounding like a lounge lizard annoyed her. And the knowing look in Cindy’s eyes told her that the little tidbit about Sam’s endearment would be all over the newsroom by morning. With a sinking feeling, Molly reached for her purse. She frowned at Sam. He had the nerve to wink at her. “I’m ready,” she announced, swinging her purse over her shoulder as she headed for the door.
THEY WERE HALFWAY ACROSS the parking lot before Sam acknowledged the glare in Molly’s eyes. “Something bothering you?”
“Babe?” She gave him an incredulous look. “Babe? What the crabnabbits were you thinking?”
He stopped by her car and propped one hip on the passenger door. “Crabnabbits?”
“I cannot believe you called me ‘babe.’ Ugh.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Crabnabbits?”
Exasperated, Molly folded her arms across her chest. “My mother didn’t let us swear.”
His mouth kicked up at the corner. “How many times did you get your mouth washed out with soap?”
“If you must know, I actually learned to like the taste of Ivory.” She scowled at him. “And quit changing the subject.”
“You’re rankled because I called you babe?”
“You could say that.”
“Is it the word that annoys you—” he gave her a close look “—or the fact that I said it in front of Cindy?”
Molly visibly gritted her teeth. “Both.”
“Fine.” He shrugged casually. “I’ll cross it off the list of acceptable salutations.” Her color, he noted, was rising again. He wondered if she’d blow a gasket if he told her she turned him on when she got angry. “But I can’t do anything about Cindy.”
“Damn it, Sam—”
“I thought you weren’t supposed to swear.” Her eyes closed slowly. Sam could hear her counting to ten beneath her breath. When she looked at him again, her expression was probing and intent. “Do you enjoy irritating me?” she asked softly.
He glanced quickly at the Sentinel building where several employees were standing in the exit watching the exchange with rapt curiosity. “Honestly?”
he asked.
Molly nodded. Sam grinned at her. She had a way of making him feel like a mischievous schoolboy. “Yeah. I kind of do.”
Her huff was simultaneously exasperated and adorable. “God, you’re insufferable.”
“You’re not the first woman to tell me that.”
“What in the world made you think we could make this work? There isn’t a snowball’s chance in Florida that people are going to believe you and I are anything but hostile.”
This was a question Sam was fully prepared to answer. He’d actually been pondering it for weeks—ever since the first time Molly had faced off with him in an editorial meeting and he’d felt a sharp, if surprising, twinge of desire. At first, he’d dismissed it as a random reaction to her blatant challenge, but as the days had passed and he’d continued to experience the various facets of Molly Flynn, the familiar feeling of banked fire had settled in his gut.
Sam had decided one night while lying in his bed, staring at the ceiling and thinking about Molly, that it didn’t matter if she wasn’t exactly his type. He wanted her. That was enough.
Looking at her now, he felt a certain satisfaction in knowing that his instincts had been correct. Molly wanted him, too. She’d deny it if he asked her, but the signs were definitely there. Her breath quickened when she was with him. Her eyes shone a little more brightly. Her color heightened. And her fingers quivered. That had been the giveaway. He’d noticed it today at lunch while she’d talked about the duck races. She’d been gripping her fork and her fingers had trembled.
One thing Sam knew for sure: trembling fingers seldom lie. He dropped his coat from his shoulder and tossed it over one arm so he could brace his hand against the roof of Molly’s car. She was watching him warily, and unless he missed his guess, she was a little rattled by her newfound awareness of him.
The breeze had picked up, and Molly’s curls teased the edges of her face, burnished by the late-afternoon sunlight. Sam gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, then ran his fingertip along her jaw. Molly’s lips parted slightly, and Sam felt his longing spike. He leaned closer, carefully watching the subtle shift of emotion in her eyes. “Because,” he said softly. “It’s just like I told you. Passion has many forms.”
“I don’t think—”
He tipped his head toward the building. “We have an audience,” he told her.
“I thought that was the whole idea,” Molly shot back.
Sam shook his head. “No, Molly. I meant what I said about not playing games. Letting the world think you ran that ad because you were miffed at me was one thing, but when I tell you how much and how often and in how many ways I want you, I’m not going to do it in front of a crowd.”
He leaned down and pressed a brief, hard kiss to her lips. Molly was so startled, she didn’t react before he’d raised his head. Those tiny lines of mischief had formed at the corner of his eyes again, she noted absently as her head swam slightly. Sam pressed his thumb to her tingling mouth. “I was going to take you to dinner tonight, but there’s something I’d like to show you.”
Her eyes clouded. “Show me?”
“It’s about an hour’s drive,” he warned. “I’ll make it worth your while. There’s a good restaurant there.”
Molly seemed to hesitate. “Sam—”
He took a step closer, reached for her hand and pulled it to his chest. “I don’t want to argue anymore,” he said to her. “Not tonight. Please. Just come with me.”
She searched his face with the painstaking care of a forensic scientist looking for evidence. Sam pressed his advantage. “Can we just agree to put things behind us for tonight—just to see where it takes us?”
Evidently, she found what she was seeking. “All right, Sam. Tonight we’ll start over.”
MOLLY RAN A HAND over the lovingly polished teak hull. “It’s beautiful,” she told Sam.
He was watching her in the dim light of the boathouse. They’d made the drive from Payne to a small harbor town south of Rockport where Sam docked the vintage sailboat he’d been restoring for nearly a decade. During the ride, Molly had told him about her afternoon’s research. She’d listened attentively while he talked of a deal he and his brother were considering with a major Midwest syndicate. She’d asked questions, made comments, and generally helped him reason through several problems he’d been studying with Ben.
And Sam had admitted to himself that he found her incredibly, intoxicatingly sexy. Though she was still dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt and the day’s wind had mussed her hair into a tangle of curls, he doubted he could have found her more seductive if she’d sat next to him in satin-and-lace lingerie. Sam couldn’t remember the last time he’d been with a woman who seemed genuinely interested in his life.
Molly did strange things to him. That thought had occurred to him about three weeks ago. He’d realized that his irritability after one of their infamous editorial meeting rows had nothing to do with her challenge to his decision to introduce a second advice column into the Sentinel’s daily lineup. During the argument, Molly had insinuated that he had no business deciding what kind and how much advice people in Payne needed, when he had no idea how they lived their lives.
The comment had grated. Sam had never liked being compared to the social elite surrounding Edward Reed. Despite the advantages of Edward’s name and fortune, Sam had worked hard for his success. He resented the insinuation that life had come easily to him. He still remembered, and hoped he always would, what his life had been like before Edward Reed took him in.
Watching Molly examine the hull of his boat, he realized why he’d wanted to bring her here. He’d wanted to get her out of Payne where she held the advantage. He’d wanted to show her that there was more to him than she seemed to think. He wanted her alone and in his territory.
Moonlight spilled through the boathouse transom windows, bathing Molly’s skin in a soft, luminescent glow. Sam felt his gut twist as he watched her trace a fingertip over a painstakingly polished brass fitting. He wondered what it would feel like to have her fingers touch his skin with that same smooth caress. She gave him a slight smile. “Have you done all the work on this yourself?”
Sam thrust his hands into his pockets to keep from reaching for her. “Mostly,” he told her. “I had to take the anchor mechanism to a shop in the Cape to be refitted. And a couple of the fittings are replicas. I’m sticking with those until I can find genuine parts.”
The temperature had dropped sharply from the afternoon, and his breath formed a plume of mist in the damp air. He’d taken her to a local seafood restaurant before bringing her to see the boat. He still hadn’t fully recovered from watching her eat a two-pound lobster. He’d never known a woman who could make a plastic bib and lobster pick look erotic.
Molly, he was learning, did everything with gusto. Watching her eat had notched his libido into over-drive. By the time he’d unlocked the door and led her inside, he was tingling with anticipation—both for her reaction and for the opportunity to have her completely alone, here in this place where he felt at home and in control. Her delight with the boat made him ache to touch her. He wanted to see that same pleased and satisfied expression on her face after he kissed her. He took a step toward her. “I’ve been working on it for several years.”
“It shows,” she assured him. She rubbed the railing with her palm. Sam’s mouth went dry as her fingers curled around the sleek wood and squeezed. “You’re doing an incredible job.”
He wondered if she had any idea what she was doing to him. The way she was physically examining the textures and surfaces of the boat was heating his blood. It was as if he could feel her touching him in the same delicate, probing, exploratory way—and it was having a very graphic and definite effect on him. “It’s a labor of love,” he told her. Molly stood on tiptoe and peered over the edge of the deck. Sam moved a step closer. One more step, and he could pin her against the hull. His gaze dropped to her rounded bottom. He had to stifle a groan when he pictured
it pressed against him.
“Can we go aboard?” she asked him.
Sam pointed to the stepladder. “That way.”
As she climbed up the ladder ahead of him, he was treated to the gentle sway of her derriere as she easily climbed the steps. As she swung one leg onto the deck, Sam had a passing thought about Pamela, the woman he’d almost married. She’d tried hard to seduce him. She could have taken lessons from Molly’s innocence and exuberance.
Molly looked around with delight. “Oh, Sam,” she said, turning to him with a broad smile. “No wonder you love it.”
Her expression was genuine and guileless. He’d told her at dinner that he’d salvaged the boat years ago after a particularly harsh winter storm had swept through the coast and devastated some of the smaller fishing communities. He said it had given him a sense of purpose and pride to watch the craft come back to life through his efforts. Sam braced a hand on the jib and swung it gently back and forth. “In my line of work, I get accused of tearing things apart—dismantling important institutions.” He held her gaze. “People think Reed Enterprises is only about money and opportunity.”
He saw the slight flicker in her expression that told him she understood what he meant. “Sam—I never meant—”
He shook his head. “I hear it a lot,” he told her. “You’re not the first.”
“Change hurts. People don’t like it.”
He nodded. “But sometimes, change is necessary to stay alive. I like to think of what Ben and I do as effecting change in order to improve the companies that hire us. Sometimes, things have to be cut away.” He shrugged. “Sometimes, people have to lose their jobs. It might surprise you to learn that I don’t particularly enjoy that part of the business.”
“It doesn’t.” She shook her head. “I never thought you were insensitive—just inflexible.”
“Doing what I do is a lot like making this ship seaworthy again. Once, it was a fine vessel. Over time, it lost some of its usefulness. Modernization made ships like this seem outdated and antiquated. But they still have value—you just have to know how to see it.”
