And Then Came You

by Maureen Child

  “And now?”

  He shifted his gaze to look at her. “Now, I’m not sure of anything.”

  She looked at him, considering. Her long blond hair hung, as usual, in a thick braid down the middle of her back. When she tilted her head to look at him more closely, it fell over her shoulder. “You know, there may be hope for you.”

  He laughed shortly. “Thanks.”

  “If Papa doesn’t kill you.”

  Jeff winced, remembering the little warning Hank had already delivered that morning. Hank was thirty years older and several inches shorter than Jeff, but that hadn’t diminished the clear threat.

  Hank stared up at Jeff and poked him in the chest with one thick index finger. “Make no mistake. Samantha cries one more tear over you and I will make your life a living hell.”

  “I don’t want to hurt her, Hank.”

  “You love her?”

  That had caught Jeff off balance. He hadn’t even let himself think about love. All he’d been able to concentrate on was the amazing connection he and Sam still had together. His hesitation was all Hank had needed to bring the threat home.

  “It’s time you decide. Make up your mind what it is you want. Who it is you want.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Jeff said tightly, shifting his gaze back to where Sam and Emma were laughing and hobbling across an open meadow. The sun was low enough in the sky that splashes of red and gold were already creeping across the horizon. And a slice of that late, dying sun fell across Sam, illuminating her, and Jeff felt a hard, solid jolt that rocked him right down to his bones.

  Love?

  Beside him, Mike snorted as she watched him. Then pushing herself to her feet, she looked down at him and shook her head. “Weasel-dog,” she said thoughtfully, “you think too much.”

  Jeff didn’t even notice when she wandered away.

  Cynthia was furious.

  Jeff should have been in the city with her. They had tickets to the symphony. Reservations at Jardinière, tickets to a show. And their wedding was in three short weeks.

  She paced back and forth across her living room, counting the clicks of her heels as she stepped smartly on polished hardwood floors. Her mind raced even as her temper boiled. She’d never been so humiliated in her life.

  That he would rather spend a national holiday in a poky little town with a grubby child and his homespun almost ex-wife instead of her just boggled the mind.

  “And leaving me a message telling me he won’t be back in town until Wednesday?” A message. He hadn’t even had the decency to keep calling until he’d reached her personally. Oh no, he’d had his little office twit call and deliver his regrets that he couldn’t be in the city for the Fourth.

  “Regrets, my ass,” she muttered and spun back around to pace off the twenty-seven steps to the white brick hearth. “This is her fault. Sam. What kind of name is that for a woman?”

  When she reached the hearth, she grabbed hold of the cold brick mantel and stared at her own reflection in the gilt-framed mirror. She saw a beautiful woman with taste and elegance. She saw a woman who de served the very best life had to offer. She saw a woman who deserved to be a Hendricks.

  Thoughtfully, she took a deep breath, tried to count to ten, and gave it up at five. Scowling furiously, she hissed in a breath and muttered, “You’ve put in the time. You’ve played nice with the child. And dammit, you’re not going to lose him now.”

  She’d been too nice, that was the problem. Trying to be understanding and cooperative and compassionate. Definitely time to try another tack.

  Cynthia snarled, slapped the mantel, and chipped a nail. In her frustration, she grabbed up the first thing she could reach—a Waterford candlestick—and hurled it into the cold fireplace. The satisfying crash and tinkle of fine crystal helped.

  But not enough.

  “None of this would be happening if not for the girl,” she said. “You’d think she were the only child ever concei—”

  A slow smile curved her mouth and she winked at her reflection.

  She’d found the right button.

  “Ferris wheel!” Emma crowed and jumped into the air, swinging her legs out ahead of her, clinging to her parents’ hands, trusting them to hold on tight.

  “You’re way too big for this, kiddo,” Jeff teased, even as he winked at Sam and gave the girl another swing.

  “I’m still little, Daddy, swing!”

  “How is she not tired?” Sam asked, amazed that her daughter seemed like the Energizer Bunny. Emma had been on full speed all day. She’d inhaled cotton candy, popcorn, Papa’s special sausage sandwiches, Slurpees, Sno-Kones, and God knew what else. The kid had a cast-iron stomach and apparently boundless stores of energy.

  “Ferris wheel, Mommy!”

  Just hearing that word made Sam want to give the little girl anything in her power to deliver. Besides, she was having as much fun as Emma. Sam had always loved the celebration on the Fourth. But this year was special. Everything looked a little nicer, a little shinier. Even the tacky little carnival that showed up in Chandler every year had a special magic to it that she’d never noticed before.

  She was hot and tired and had never felt better.

  “You’re loving this, aren’t you?”

  Sam turned and shot Jeff a quick look. “What’s not to love?”

  He stared at her for a long minute. “Good point.”

  How did he do that? How did he start a fire inside her with a look? And how could she avoid falling for the same man who’d broken her heart nine years before? Answer: She couldn’t. She’d already admitted as much to Papa, so there was no point in lying to herself.

  She still loved Jeff Hendricks.

  Despite the fact that he was engaged to someone else.

  Her grin faded as he continued to watch her and she felt the flames within licking at the core of her. To avoid thinking about it and certainly to avoid fanning those flames any hotter, Sam gave Emma’s hand a squeeze and looked down at the little girl skipping between them. “Ferris wheel, you said?”

  “Yes!”

  “My favorite,” Sam said and glanced at Jeff. “What do you think?”

  “You lead, I’ll follow.”

  Oh boy.

  The sun slipped into the ocean and slashes of crimson and violet streaked across the sky in a wild abstract of color. A handful of stars blinked into existence and the lights on the Ferris wheel glistened brightly in the growing darkness.

  They slipped into a bucket-like seat, with Emma between them, and the ride operator dropped the steel bar into place. Instantly, their car swung gently and as the giant wheel turned, the crowd fell far below them and the music floating toward them sounded hushed.

  Emma laughed and squealed and as they picked up speed and the wheel moved faster and faster, the wind rushed past them, laughter faded in and out, and the world fell away.

  And when she looked into Jeff’s eyes, Sam felt the magic of the night rise up to surround them.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “I’ll get a room at the inn for tonight if you’ll be more comfortable.”

  Sam paused on the front porch and looked back at him. The glow of the porch light fell in a golden circle that extended just far enough to encompass Jeff, standing on the top step. His hair looked like black silk, the gold light danced in his eyes, and she felt a hard jolt of something hot and dangerous deep inside her.

  Oh, she should take him up on that, she told herself sternly. It would be the smart thing to do. The safe thing to do.

  With Emma spending the night with Papa, Sam and Jeff would be way too alone in the house.

  But if she admitted that she was worried, wasn’t that just making things worse? And why, she suddenly wondered, had Papa agreed when Emma’d asked to spend the night?

  Wasn’t he worried about leaving Sam and Jeff alone?

  Apparently not.

  So, if her father wasn’t concerned, why should she be?

  An excellent point
.

  “You don’t have to do that,” she said and hoped her voice sounded stronger than she felt at the moment. “I’m very comfortable. Cozy, even.” She blew out a breath. “We’re two rational, mature adults, Jeff. I promise to restrain myself, so your virtue is safe.”

  He chuckled and the slow, deep roll of it rippled inside her like the slide of waves trickling onto shore at low tide.

  Oh yeah. Mature. They’d be fine.

  Sam tried to shove the key into the front door lock, missed and tried again.

  “Want me to get that?”

  “I can open my own door.” Or could, if her hands weren’t shaking, for God’s sake. She finally got the key in and turned it. Then, pulling the key back out, she opened the door, tossed the key ring onto the closest table, and turned to face him as he came in behind her. Smile. Make nice. No big deal.

  But there was something. She felt it. Had felt it all day. Maybe it was having Jeff there, with her family, almost as if he belonged with them. As if he were a part of them. Maybe it was that last ride on the Ferris wheel, feeling the world sliding past at a speed that had left her blinded to everything but him.

  Oh boy.

  “Want some coffee?” she blurted, grasping for straws.

  “Yeah,” he said, “why not?” He closed and locked the door behind him, then turned to her again. His eyes darkened and she wondered what he was thinking. No, forget that. She had a pretty good idea what he was thinking. What she’d like to know was what he was feeling.

  But that had always been a mystery, even back when she’d had the right to wonder.

  “Okay, good.” She turned quickly and walked to the kitchen, kicking off her sandals as she went. They skittered across the wood floor and slammed up against the couch, but Sam hardly noticed. She just wanted to be doing something. Keeping her hands busy.

  Besides. Coffee? Always good.

  She bustled around the kitchen, getting the filter and grounds, and filling the pot with water. As she put it all together, she kept up a running stream of conversation.

  “Fireworks were good tonight.”

  “Beautiful.”

  “And no one got sick this year, either.”

  “Sick?”

  Sam shrugged, flipped the on button on the coffeepot, and stared at the little red light as if waiting for it to turn to green. “Um, Rachel Vickers usually brings some weird offering to the ptomaine gods, but this year she’s so busy trying to get her husband reelected mayor, she didn’t have time.”

  “Good for us.”

  “Boy howdy,” Sam said. “You haven’t lived until you’ve tasted her tuna and pineapple casserole.”

  “God.”

  “Come to think of it, not many live after they taste it.”

  “Suicide?”

  Sam laughed, almost forgetting just how nervous she was. Why was she nervous? This was Jeff. The man she’d lost her virginity to. The man she’d once married and promised to love forever.

  Oh yeah. That’s why she was nervous.

  “Of course, Carla’s husband’s running against the mayor this year and—”

  “Carla Candellano’s married?”

  She shot him a quick look. Of course he knew Carla. He’d met all of Sam’s friends nine years ago. He did have a connection to Chandler, albeit a shaky one. “Last year. Jackson Wyatt’s her husband. Remember? My attorney?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  Well, that’s a good way to keep things light. Way to go.

  “All of the Candellanos are campaigning for him. Saw the new flyer tonight.” Flyers? Talking about flyers now? Pitiful. But she kept right on gabbing, because to an Italian, talking came as easy as breathing. Maybe easier. And when nerves were pushing the words out, they came in a torrent. “Mama’s picture’s on ’em and they say, ‘Mama says, vote for Jackson.’ They’re really good. I think Paul did them up. He’s amazing on a computer and—”

  “You’re babbling.”

  Had he moved closer?

  She was just a little too wary to turn around and check.

  “Where do you suppose the word ‘babbling’ comes from?” And who cares?

  “I don’t know.”

  “Yeah, me neither.” God, this was fantastic conversation. Seriously. She should consider giving lessons in how to have a meaningless conversation. “So,” Sam said, when the silence began to scream at her, “Emma seemed to have a great time today.”

  “Still is,” he said from way too close behind her. “Your father said something about taking her back to Grace’s house for dessert.”

  “Dessert?” Sam shook her head and listened to the hiss and whir of the coffeepot as if concentrating on a 258 Maureen Child great piece of music. Come on, come on, she chanted silently. “The child did nothing but eat all day.”

  “She’s having fun.”

  Sam nodded and shot him a quick glance. He had moved closer. Now she could smell him. Pure male. The tangy scent of his cologne. And the faint odor of cotton candy still clinging to him. God, was she drooling?

  “Uh, yeah.” Emma, she thought. They were talking about Emma. “She did have fun. That’s the most important thing.”

  “I had fun, too.”

  “Did you?” Sam didn’t look at him again. She could practically feel his breath on the back of her neck as it was. If she turned, they’d be nose to nose and then mouth to mouth and then . . . “I love the Fourth. Always a good time here.”

  “I had fun with you, Sam,” he said and her hands stilled on the counter.

  She drew in a long, deep breath and knew it wasn’t going to do her any good since she couldn’t seem to force it past the knot in her throat. Need coiled low in the pit of her stomach and sent long, snaking tentacles out to every corner of her body. She trembled with the force of the heat rising inside her. It was like the wildfires that burned through California nearly every summer, feeding on dried-out twigs and grasses. Combustible. Quick catching, long burning, and out of control in a heartbeat.

  She swallowed hard and tried to get a grip. Tried to remind herself that there was no future here.

  Only a past.

  And at the moment . . . a present.

  Nice goin’, Sam. Oh, she couldn’t just stand here and wait all night for coffee. She pulled out the pot and shoved a cup under the stream of hot liquid, and managed to splash some over the back of her hand. “Ow!”

  Instantly, Jeff was there. He shoved the pot back under the coffee, took the cup from her, and dragged her to the kitchen sink.

  “I’m okay,” she said, squirming in his grasp.

  “You burned your hand.”

  “In no danger of dying.” Although, she thought, there was a different kind of danger entirely swirling through the room.

  Turning the cold tap on, Jeff ignored her attempts to get away, held her hand under the icy flow of water, and rubbed the red spot on the back of her hand with his fingertips.

  “That’s good,” she said, her voice papery rough as ripples of awareness swam through her bloodstream. Had his touch always been so electric? So all-encompassing? “I’m fine, really.”

  “Uh-huh.” He kept rubbing, as if she hadn’t spoken, and the longer he kept it up, the more Sam figured she’d be unable to speak again.

  She closed her eyes. Oh, big mistake. Now all she could concentrate on was the feel of his hands on hers. He snaked his fingers along her hand, her wrist, sliding up the length of her arm, and Sam had to lock her knees to keep from oozing down onto the floor.

  “Jeff,” she said as his fingers slid higher and higher, stroking, rubbing, caressing. The back of his hand brushed the side of her breast and her toes curled. “Jeff, do you really think—”

  “Not thinking,” he said and turned her toward him, 260 Maureen Child grabbing her close, pulling her tightly to him. “Feeling.”

  Her eyes popped open.

  She met his gaze and read the same hunger and passion she knew were shining in her own.

  He pressed her
body along his, sliding his hands up and down her spine, to the curve of her behind and back up again. Her gaze locked with his and she watched his eyes as he touched, explored, discovered her anew.

  Sam swallowed hard. Okay, this was way beyond dangerous. Creeping steadily toward hazardous. Stop it, she ordered. But she didn’t hear anything, so she was pretty sure she didn’t say it out loud. Because if she’d said it out loud, he would have stopped, and oh God, she didn’t want him to stop.

  His eyes glittered darkly. The muscle in his jaw twitched. His fingers dug into her back and held her to him until she felt his body, hard and tight against hers.

  Fragments of memories stirred within her and the jagged pieces of the puzzle slowly came together to form an all-too-clear picture of other nights spent in Jeff’s arms. God, she remembered it all. Everything. Good and bad. And she remembered just how passion could burst into furious bloom between them, goaded by something as simple—as all consuming—as a look.

  “For days, Sam.” He whispered brokenly as he touched her. “Days, I’ve wanted to do this. To touch you. To hold you.” His hands swept up, his fingers speared through her hair, cupping the back of her head in his palms. “I need you, Sam. God, I need you.”

  She was lost.

  As she’d known she would be.

  His mouth took hers, claiming it in a frantic dance of desire, need. She felt his urgency and shared it. Her heartbeat pounded, thundering in her ears, and as she closed her eyes and gave herself up to the wonder of being in his arms again, Sam shut her brain down.

  She didn’t want to think, either.

  Didn’t want to second-guess this moment—the moment they’d been building toward since the day she’d opened her front door to find him stepping into her world again.

  His tongue swept past her lips, tangling with hers in a breathless mating. Here was the fire. The magic she remembered. Her blood boiled and every nerve in her body stood straight up and begged for more. She held on, her fingers clawing at his shoulders, pulling him closer, closer.

  It had been so long.

  So very long.

  She should stop him.

  No, don’t stop.

  She groaned, a low moan of sound that shot from her soul, directly into his.