A Match Made in Heaven?

by Sun Chara

  Ignoring his mocking words, she stepped to the fireplace and fanned her hands over the flames.

  “Next time you decide to clean house in one go, let me know.” He strode to the door. “I don’t want you endangering yourself or our child.”

  She turned and glared at his rigid back. “How dare you make such a ridiculous assumption.”

  He eyed her over his shoulder. “What’s ridiculous about it?”

  “I would never do anything to endanger—”

  “You don’t think cleaning a seventeen hundred square foot house from top to bottom in under two hours is rather reckless?”

  “Less than five minutes.”

  He shot her an odd look.

  “In the twinkling of an eye.”

  “Really?” He stroked his unshaven jaw with the back of his hand.

  “Yes, really.” She released an exasperated breath and flailed her hands about. “I didn’t do it.”

  For a space, she’d thought the hyper sensitive emotions during her pregnancy and the shocking news about the legality of their marriage might have sent her off the deep end. But she hadn’t conjured things up. She was not ‘seeing’ things. She was definitely in her right mind.

  “If not you, then who?” He hiked a burnished brow. “Tinkerbell?”

  She ignored his verbal hit and murmured, “Mirabella.”

  “Mira … who?”

  “The lady who visited me when you were in town.”

  “Ah huh.” He drilled her with his gaze and her heart skipped a beat. “Well, next time she comes by, you be sure to let me know.” He winked. “I’d like to meet this superwoman.” Chuckling, he made his exit.

  Samantha stomped her foot. The man was aggravating. She shuffled to the window and stared at the rain battering the land. Groaning, she massaged her temples. Whatever happened to living happily ever after? A mirthless sound burst from her, and she clamped her hand over her mouth, smothering it. She straightened her shoulders, determined to rethink her next move in unraveling this fiasco that had become her life. It was evolved into a comedy of manners like Noel Coward’s How the Other Half Loves, but, unlike the play, it lagged in humor big time.

  Slowly she twisted around and surveyed the room. For the first time in two days, the house was warm, clean and in order, the pantry stocked. It should have felt like home, but something niggled at her. So much so that when she heard Johnny whistling from the kitchen she waddled out and down the hall, whooshing through the kitchen doorway as dignified as her pregnant state allowed.

  The whistling came to an abrupt stop.

  “What’re you so happy about, Belen?” She opened and slammed shut cupboards and drawers, wanting to rattle him. In her condition, she figured she was entitled.

  “Being here with you?” Johnny treaded thin ice, pushing her buttons like that but, sheesh, man. She’d patted, actually patted his hand on the arm of the rocking chair like he was some fool needing comfort, instead of her husband wanting to—a jab of sexual awareness hit him. Savagely, he thrust it away. Far and away, because it made him vulnerable.

  Vulnerable to her. That was something he couldn’t afford … to feel for her.

  It was time to take a firm hand here and put a spoke in the super diva’s wheel, or he’d get squashed beneath. He stepped aside, propped a shoulder against the wall and watched her shuffle about. Dang it! Emotion surged inside him, and he mocked a cough. If he was really honest, he’d admit that what lay beneath his provocation was that he wanted to get a sexual reaction from her.

  For him. Only him.

  Instead, she avoided looking at him, tossed a golden strand over her shoulder and rummaged through a drawer.

  “Looking for something?”

  “Tea.”

  Johnny slapped his open palm to his forehead. “Sorry Sam, I forgot. Of all things not to buy. I’ll get us some next time.”

  “No need.” She turned and held a package in her hand, a triumphant smile on her mouth.

  “Where’d that come from? I didn’t buy—”

  “Yes, well, Mirabella kindly—”

  “Enough.” Now, who was pushing whose pressure points? Who the heck was Mirabella? “If I didn’t know you better, I’d think—”

  He’d done it again and stepped on a land mine.

  “What?” she challenged, placing her hands on her hips.

  He flashed her his sexiest smile. “You do have an imagination.”

  She smirked. “Hmm.”

  “An asset, of course.”

  She bared her dainty white teeth. “Think what you like.”

  Okay, that didn’t work. He straddled the crate, propped his elbows on the table and resting his chin in one palm, watched her beneath his heavy lids. “Willie’s side kick must’ve forgotten it.”

  “No, he didn’t.” She tossed the teabag in the air, opened her hand and it landed in her palm. “By the shambles he left behind, I doubt he could afford even that simple luxury.”

  Johnny set his mouth in a grim line. “He got a good salary.”

  “How would you know?” She yanked the clear plastic wrap off the teabag and blinked at it. “A pink hue. Hmm.” She grabbed the mug from the dish rack. “You pay him?”

  “I did,” he said, refraining from rebutting the color tinting the clear plastic in her hand.

  Samantha laughed and plopped the teabag in the mug. “That explains it.”

  A muscle rammed his jaw. “What?”

  She slanted him an impish gaze from beneath her golden lashes. “The reason he didn’t have enough to live decently.”

  “As a matter of fact, he had plenty because I—”

  “A matter of opinion.” She turned on the stove and set the pot of water on the element.

  Samantha was provoking him—how had she turned that around? And she was doing it like a pro—major league. Steam expanded in his chest, and it was all he could do to prevent the pressure detonating from him. He ground his teeth together and gulped down his discontent.

  “It’s obvious the man gambled his salary in Vegas.”

  She turned off the stove, poured hot water in the mug and replaced the pot. A few jiggles of the teabag to extract full flavor, then she picked up the mug, nestling it between her palms. “You knew him that well, did you, Johnny?”

  Score for her. “Never met the man.”

  “Then how—”

  Point for him. “I know the guy who hired him.”

  “Willie.”

  “Yep.”

  “And what does that make Willie?”

  He elevated his brow and allowed her to draw her own deductions.

  “Primary gambler.” Sounded very much like mamma’s vice, she thought, sipping the tea.

  “Bingo.”

  The delicate chamomile flavor warmed her throat, soothing. Mamma’s penchant for gambling had been behind the inception of her wedding woes. She chanced a glance at Johnny. Would she ever have control of her life? Or would someone else always be grabbing the reins? Mamma. Michael Scott. Johnny.

  Breath rustled from her lungs. For the time being, she’d best keep that profound thought to herself and avoid doing anything rash, which she might later regret.

  “Want some tea?”

  “No thanks”—he pushed himself off the crate— “unless this Mirabe … whatever her name is left something to spike it with.” He gave her a hopeful glance.

  She lowered her lashes a fraction and shook her head.

  “Ah huh.” Johnny grabbed a huge bag of dog chow with the CRK logo emblazoned in red from the corner of the room and hoisted it over his shoulder. “Going to feed the dogs.” At least he knew where he stood with them.

  “How many did you say there are?” she asked, veering the conversation away from Mirabella.

  “Half a dozen.” He tilted his head, considering her a moment and then clicked his tongue, dismissing this whiz woman as a figment of her imagination; and relieved they were back to more practical matters.

  “Pe
digree?”

  “All kinds. Dobermans, Great Danes, Chihuahuas.”

  “Who do they belong to? Clients?”

  “Previous owner’s pets.” Johnny didn’t expound that Willie’s wife had left because he’d given more attention to the dogs than to her. His gambling addiction hadn’t helped either. Blackjack, roulette, slot machines; you name it, Willie was on the frontlines calling the bets. Unfortunately, most missed the mark, and he’d run into a serious losing streak. Strapped for cash, he always looked for his next break to make a comeback.

  When Johnny made him an offer on the Kennels, he’d jumped at it. Grabbed the money and relocated to L.A. to be closer to his ex in hopes of a reconciliation. He wanted to show her he was the man in charge.

  Johnny pursed his lips. Were he and Sam heading down that same road? Their turbulent life whipped through his mind. A deep sigh erupted from his chest. Were men destined to always strive to show their women their better side? Couldn’t they take them as they were?

  To distance himself from the temptation of Vegas, Willie had opened a dog grooming salon cum limo service in Los Angeles, which had been pivotal in Johnny’s pursuit of Sam on that fateful wedding day two years ago. After Johnny had picked up an unsuspecting Michael in the limo, he dropped him off at the Salon. While Willie kept him busy filling forms, thinking they were required for the marriage ceremony, Johnny had zipped off to church and to Sam.

  When the dogs gatecrashed the nuptials, it had been a shocking surprise as much as it had been a rollicking stunt. Willie had been about to deliver them to the owners when Michael confiscated the truck’s keys and drove like a maniac to church.

  The whole incident still brought an amused twitch to his mouth, and a flip to his heart. He’d put everything on the line that day to get to Samantha and make her his.

  Johnny swerved a glance in her direction. Something about her rolly- polly condition had his insides turning to mush. He took a tentative step toward her, itching to haul her into his arms and devour her with kisses, satiating this hunger fueling his gut, never mind another part of his anatomy. Shifting his hand from the load on his shoulder, he adjusted his belt, easing tension. He groaned. After that fiasco they’d gone through to get hitched, he couldn’t believe they weren’t legal.

  Yeah, he could empathize with Willie’s predicament. Wasn’t Johnny in a similar situation, except in reverse? He’d given Sam too much attention. Apparently she didn’t want it, or him. While she planned ways to bolt, he plotted ways to keep her, at least ’til the baby arrived.

  “There are no accounts?” She stared at him in disbelief. “No clients?” Plopping the empty teacup in the sink, she turned on the faucet full blast. “No paying customers?”

  Johnny curbed his recollections. “Not yet.” Adjusting the heavy load on his shoulder, he reluctantly tuned in to her tirade. “But we’re okay with money. In fact, I have a surpri—”

  She laughed, a brittle sound. “How you figure?”

  “All’s not always as it seems,” he said, and then clamped his mouth shut.

  “Best remember that, Johnny.” Realizing the faucet was still running and the cup overflowing, she picked it up and rinsed it.

  “Don’t start with Mirabe … bebe, again.”

  “She’s not a figment of my imagination.”

  He pretended to be taken aback. “Did I say—”

  “No.” She plunked the mug on the dish rack. “But you thought it.”

  “So, now I can’t think?”

  She twisted the tap shut with force. “If it hadn’t been for her, this place would still be a dump.” She wiped her hands on the towel hanging from a nail on the wall. “Now, it’s a clean dump.”

  “Samantha.”

  She cast him a wide-eyed gaze and smirky smile, but the sting of her words grazed him anyway. “What kind of biz sense is it to buy a business without product and without clients?”

  A sudden gust of wind whirled against the window and the whole house rattled, intercepting his reply. Samantha shivered and rubbed her palms together to chase away the chill.

  “That’s going to change.” He flexed his shoulder blades. Definitely a north wind blowing through their home, he thought.

  “When?”

  When you learn to trust me. Unconditionally, Samantha Belen.

  “Soon.”

  “Sure, Johnny.”

  He raised his other hand and supported the weight on his shoulders. “Soon as I get that ad in the paper—”

  “For the ‘hired help wanted’ you mentioned earlier?”

  “Yeah.” Finally, he heaved the satchel off his shoulder and plunked it on the floor at his feet. “Catch two birds—”

  “Catch nothing, Belen,” she bit back, her stance challenging even in her condition. “How’ll you pay wages when you don’t have enough—”

  “Is that what you think, Sam?” Pain wrestled with anger inside him. Could he blame her? He thrust his fingers through his hair and down the back of his neck, easing a muscle knotting there. Would the stigma of his origin never leave him? Must he feel like a second-class citizen compared to Michael Scott and, worse still, Sam?

  He glanced at his callused hands. Heck, he was proud of his heritage. He’d worked hard helping his folks till the land. After he’d saved enough cash, he flew overseas to good ol’ USA and studied even harder, claiming his chance at a better life. Although he’d gotten a late start, he determined to make good at the bank, climb the ladder of success and help care for his folks and six siblings.

  “That’s not all I think, Johnny,” Samantha said, softening her words.

  “Dare I ask?” He squinted, studying her from head to toe.

  She shrugged.

  “I guess not,” he muttered below his breath. Either she didn’t hear him or didn’t want to respond, for she grew quiet, scuffing the toe of her sneaker on the floor.

  It hadn’t been easy. He’d gone to school, worked at the bank and supplemented his meager salary by moonlighting as caddie for the rich and famous at the Bel Air Country Club. While he lugged their golf clubs around, they often peered down their socialite noses at him. With his pride trampled, but needing the cash, he tried to ignore that aspect of his job.

  Then, one fateful day, he’d met Sam. She’d smiled, and he’d been lost. Everything and everyone else had taken a back seat. And now, it looked like he’d come full circle, knowing he had to seriously rethink his life.

  “You think I can’t provide adequately for you, Sam?”

  “Yes, no … uh …” She scrubbed her hands on her hips. “Have I known any different, Johnny?” she asked, so quietly, he nearly missed it.

  Yes, he wanted to shout. The first six months of their marriage he’d showered her with gifts, outings and dining with the social elite. Whatever she’d wanted, he’d given her. He’d wanted to show her a good time. Make her happy. Guess she’d forgotten.

  He propped his hip against the windowsill and folded his arms across his chest. He’d waited for the perfect opportunity to tell her of his good fortune … their golden ticket. Somehow, it hadn’t arrived.

  “You will,” he murmured, his words so quiet, she had to strain to hear.

  “Sure, Johnny.” Samantha studied him from his tousled head to the mud-caked toes of his boots and avoided his searching gaze. Her shoulders sagged. How she wanted to believe him – believe in him – and prove her mother wrong.

  During the first few months of their marriage, Johnny ’d given her the ‘red carpet’ treatment like he was king of the castle and she his queen; but soon after, things deteriorated financially for them. She hadn’t seen any significant change in their life in almost two years. Her mother had noticed, too.

  Sam thought he’d recklessly spent all his savings those first few months, leaving them with nothing for the future. Nevertheless, she’d wanted to stand by him no matter what until he made something of himself, of their life together. She sighed, the sound so deep, so intense it seemed to vibrate aro
und her. Until now, he’d proved unable to sustain a regular job, and his pipe dreams seemed just that: puffs of air.

  “What happened to your grand schemes of making good and helping your folks in Ireland?” Sam blurted, an accusatory tone in her voice.

  “I was just thinking that very same thing.” He chuckled, nearly flabbergasted. “Talk about mental telepathy.”

  That fueled her ire even more, and she rolled her eyes at the extra sensory perception notion.

  “How’re you going to do that when we’re almost a family of three” –she stroked a hand across her swollen stomach— “and barely making ends meet?”

  “And are we, Sam?” His voice soft, tender.

  “What?”

  “A family.”

  He brushed his gaze over her like a caress. Confused for a moment, she avoided giving him a straight answer. “Your folks, Johnny?”

  “I’ve taken care of it.” He’d been sending them a generous allowance since his windfall win two years ago, but he hadn’t mentioned it to her. If he did now, she’d more than likely laugh in his face, not believing him, and accuse him of pipe dreaming again.

  She slanted him a skeptical glance. “And how’re we going to afford paying hired help?”

  His heart lifted a fraction. She said we, so subconsciously she still thought of them as a unit. Johnny was clutching at straws. He wasn’t ready to call it quits on his marriage, although at the back of his mind the possibility pestered him. He tightened his jaw. He might lose Sam, but he wasn’t about to forfeit his child into the bargain.

  “I’ll come to some arrangement.” He allowed his gaze to roam over her, top to toe, tripping over her big tummy. A nerve tapped his temple, and his heart cracked.

  Curls that’d escaped the confines of her ponytail brushed her flushed cheeks, and Johnny wanted to cup her face in his hands. Swipe at the smudge on the tip of her nose with his thumb, and touch the spot with his mouth, working his way to her lips, tasting their moist softness … touching, caressing, loving her …

  She licked her lips.

  He drew in a sharp breath. She’d never looked more beautiful to him. Heat pulsed through his blood. He unfolded his arms, let them drop to his sides and flexed his fingers.