by Sun Chara
But Samantha sidestepped the issue. “After dinner, I’d like to show you some designs, Michael.”
“Do I get a look-see?” Johnny asked, his eyes shadowed.
“If you can tear yourself away from your pet project.”
Michael guffawed. “Quite a pun that. Pet project. Dogs. Kennels.”
Johnny cast him an odd look, then turned to Sam. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“After the house is finished” –Samantha warmed to her cause— “you can start on the grounds. Desert landscaping should make for easy maintenance.” She sighed. “I’m especially partial to roses but—”
“Sure thing, Mrs. Belen. Your every wish is my command,” Johnny muttered, his words a subtle reminder of their early morning romp gone awry in their bedroom.
A blush burned her skin.
Michael missed the friction sizzling beneath their banter, and made the mistake of mumbling, “As it should be.”
“Shut up!”
Affronted, Michael sidled to the doorway. “Well, I’ve never—”
“Keep outta my way.” Johnny stomped to the window and stared morosely at the approaching dusk.
“Samantha, your meal will be ready shortly.”
“Thank you, Michael.”
Their syrupy interchange had Johnny’s gut in knots. He’d do it. He’d renovate the house for the baby. And Sam didn’t have to know how he funded it at this stage. His pulse boomed in his chest. He’d spend the whole blasted five million bucks on her if he knew for sure her love was true; that she wasn’t looking out for number one in the guise of looking after the baby.
Tightlipped he turned, flickered a glance at her then on Michael, still hovering in the hallway. “After you’ve prepped gourmet fare for princess, show your face in the kennels.”
“Aren’t you going to eat, Johnny?” Samantha studied him beneath her lashes, wondering if she’d pushed his hand too far.
“Later.” He shoved past Michael, traipsed into the foyer and out the front door. The sound of his footsteps across the porch and down the stairs echoed back to her.
“That settles that.” Michael peeked back around the doorway, swiping his hands together. “Finally, you and I can be alone.”
By this time, her head buzzed, her eyes dazed.
“Samantha, I want you to know—”
“Michael I’m really hungry.” She patted her big tummy. “For the baby.”
“Sure. Right away.” He backpedaled to the kitchen. “Just give me twenty minutes.”
Left alone, she wondered if she’d gone overboard with her plan. What had seemed like a good idea might very well backfire. Johnny left the house in a huff, and an indignant Michael banged the only pot they had around in the kitchen. Then again, her requests were reasonable. If Johnny wanted to behave like a bear with a sore head, fine by her. She wasn’t asking for a palace, just comfy living quarters. A giggle skimmed her mouth. As for Michael, he was just a big pussycat.
With or without claws?
In a quandary, she paced the floor in the foyer.
Shortly after, mouth-watering smells floated to her, and she made her way to the kitchen. It was surprising how fast Michael got the hang of cooking a decent meal. A hidden aptitude, perhaps.
“Michael, that smells delicious,” she said, a silly grin playing on her mouth. He looked in his element, flipping burgers and toasting buns. “Didn’t know you liked cooking.”
“There’s much you don’t know about me.” He wiggled his brows, grabbed a paper plate and stacked the buns. “One of my pet hobbies, although I haven’t put it to use in a while.” He picked up the patties with a plastic fork and placed them atop the buns. The fork melted, and chuckling, he tossed it in the sink. “That’s why I was a little rusty with the stew last night.”
“You certainly gave us a surprise.”
“Please don’t tell dad. He thinks I dine out at all the fine restaurants.”
She sat on the crate, and Michael served her a hamburger with all the trimmings and condiments fit for a queen. She bit into the burger with gusto and rolled her eyes in satisfaction. “Yummy. Real yummy.”
A flush began to rise on his neck, staining his cheeks, and she realized he was rather shy. A side to him she hadn’t known. She’d bet all that haughty posturing was a cover up. “Michael, come and join me.”
“The kennels—”
“You’re entitled to a dinner break.”
“If you insist.” He piled a plate of food and pulled the crate up to the table.
“I’m beginning to realize you’re not what people made you out to be.”
“What’s that?” he asked, chomping on the burger.
“Playboy of Beverly Hills.”
“Well, I won’t deny I do the Hollywood club scene sometimes … get some of my best clients there.”
Samantha raised both her eyebrows, wondering exactly what he was referring to, but she continued munching.
“But yes, I’d prefer a wife” – he stopped chewing and swallowed – “and home.” He placed the half-eaten hamburger on the plate, wiped his fingers on the napkin and reached for her hand.
She diverted her fingers from any contact with his by reaching for the saltshaker. “I bet you could open a restaurant, Michael. Or a chain.”
“Or invest in mamma’s near-collapsed casino.”
Samantha laughed, slightly embarrassed. “You’d caught onto that?”
“Mmm, hasn’t everyone?” Then, his voice turned serious, his tone confidential. “I’d do it in a second, if you came with the package.”
“You do flatter a girl, Michael.” But she was not for sale. Not for mamma. Not for Michael. Not for anyone.
“Not just any girl,” he whispered, his gaze earnest.
Samantha gulped down the food in her mouth. He was dangling a dangerous temptation before her eyes, for the success of the family business would ultimately be her baby’s legacy. A flash of the serpent tempting Eve with the apple in the Garden flashed through her mind. She blinked, and shook her head at her own foolish musings.
“Such compliments, Mich—”
“I meant them.”
“Thank you.” She picked up a fry and nibbled. “These are good.”
“I cooked them just for you.” He cleared his throat. “It would solve all your problems, Samanth—”
“What? French fries?”
“No, me.”
“Got ketchup?” she asked.
He leaped up to go to the refrigerator.
Would it solve her problems or create new ones? She picked up her glass and took a sip of water. Did Michael really want her? More likely he’d strut and preen, placing her on display with the rest of his family trophies. Her stomach churned, reminding her she’d had a chance to marry this man and she’d run. Samantha pushed her plate of food away.
Underneath the lighthearted chatter, she felt not an ounce of emotion ripple between Michael and herself. He didn’t move her. His conversation didn’t excite her. His life didn’t intrigue her like her Irishman. Her feelings hadn’t changed where Michael Scott was concerned. And neither did the situation between Johnny and herself.
“Just give me the nod, Samantha.” Michael set the bottle of ketchup on the table, plunked down on the crate, his pale blues glued on her face.
To avoid the awkward moment, she sprinkled a few grains of salt on her abandoned food, and returned the shaker to its spot. But Michael was quicker on the draw this time and grabbed her hand. Before she could yank her hand away, the kitchen door swung open.
Johnny filled the doorway, his face a thundercloud.
“Cozy,” he bit out, his eyes zeroing in on her. “Fraternizing with the hired help?”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Samantha stood, the force of her movement toppling the crate and surprising both men. “Do you want to eat or not?” Her eyes flashed at Johnny.
“No thanks,” he said, his features taut.
She grabbed her plate an
d marched to the sink. She’d had it with his innuendoes, veiled suggestions, hints. If he didn’t trust her, she’d just as soon have him spit it out.
“Don’t upset yourself, Samantha.” Michael jumped up and followed her, plate in hand. “I’ll take care of Jonathan.” He placed a concerned hand on her shoulder.
A low growl from Johnny.
Michael dropped his hand to his side. “I mean; I’ll fetch his meal.” He took the plate from her hand and put it in the sink, together with his. “Why don’t you go lie down and put your feet up.”
Samantha gripped the counter top, took a deep breath and exhaled a pool of sound. “Perhaps you’re right, Michael.” She patted his hand and stepped away.
“Don’t let me interrupt you,” Johnny said, his voice low, lethal.
Without another word, she made to brush past him, and the air crackled between them, forcing her to take a step back. She skirted around him and kept moving. But where could she go? She felt claustrophobic in the house. There was a storm brewing inside to rival the intensity of the one on the brink outside. With another cold night approaching, and with her choices minimal, she trudged to the living room. Once again, she sank into the rocking chair by the fireplace.
And rocked … rocked … rocked.
A moment later, she caught a glimpse of Johnny stalking to the bathroom, which left Michael clearing up in the kitchen. She sighed and leaned back in the soft padding of the recliner. A sound, not quite a laugh, bubbled from her mouth. She’d spent so much time in this one room and in this rocker; they’d become her security blanket.
She stared at the miniature inferno blazing in the grate and tried to make sense of her life. How had she gotten herself in this predicament? And, more importantly, how was she going to get herself out? Facing Johnny was like confronting a cold front. She closed her eyes. The rocking and warmth of the fire were a balm to her frayed nerves.
She was almost asleep when she sensed someone near. Felt the tickle of a blanket, a gentle hand brushing hair off her forehead, his lips on her brow. She stirred. Her lashes felt heavy, and by the time she lifted them, he’d gone. She smelled him though, and his scent was unmistakable.
Johnny.
Her husband.
She hadn’t imagined it. And that just added to her confusion. How could he be so gentle and tender when she wasn’t looking and be such a brute when she challenged him?
************
In the bathroom, Johnny turned on the tap full force, scooped cold water in his palms and splashed his face and nape. Turning the water off, he grabbed a towel off the rack and scrubbed his face nearly raw. That domestic scene he’d stumbled across between Michael and Samantha in the kitchen replayed in his mind, stoking his irritation. If he didn’t leave now, get some fresh air and cool down, he’d be dragging Michael out on his back.
He seemed to be losing ground fast where his marriage was concerned. If only Samantha would have faith in him, want him and love him for himself. She married you, didn’t she? A voice battered his brain. Yeah, but the burning question was, why? For his own peace of mind, he had to find out and pronto in order to make a smart decision about his future. After all, he had a baby to think about. He wanted a better home life for his child than what he’d experienced the last few days.
A sigh blasted from his chest, and he gripped the sink tight. Just moments ago, on his way to the bathroom, he’d glimpsed Samantha dozing in the rocker, and his pulse throbbed. He’d backtracked to the bedroom, grabbed a blanket and walked back to her in the living room, each step reserved. Her arms were wrapped protectively around her abdomen, her breasts rising and falling to the rhythm of her breathing. His muscles tensed, his blood stirred, and he wanted to enfold her in his arms and take her to bed.
But he did neither. Instead, he watched her.
Firelight glinted off her hair. Curls framed her face, and gold tipped lashes cushioned her eyes … eyes that could be gentle as a mountain stream one moment and turbulent as an ocean storm the next. He’d kissed and counted each freckle on her pert nose so many times before; the curve of her cheek was smooth as satin in his callused palm. Her lips were cherry-red, soft, sweet. He’d yearned to taste, to play, to mate … he licked his dry mouth and slammed it shut. Another step took him closer, and about to cover her hands with his, he veered away. Then back again. He’d brushed his lips upon her brow, and then walked out and into the bathroom and shut the door.
A growl built in his throat, and hurling the towel on the counter – the bimbo-boy could clean it up – he stalked from the bathroom and down the hall. He paused in step when he passed the living room … good, she was still dozing … and then he stormed out the front door.
Against the force of wind, he kept on walking until he reached the kennels.
“Come on gang, time for exercise.” He snapped leashes on the dogs’ collars, seized the straps and led them out. The rain had stopped, but the bite of wind warned another stormy round was imminent.
A reflection of his life? A dry sound burst from his mouth.
After hiking about a mile, he found himself on the dirt road flanked by fields dotted with Mojave Prickly Pear and Barrel Cactus. A handful of desert flowers – wooly sunflowers, lilac sunbonnets and parish larkspur – swayed amidst the Joshua Trees and dry thistle.
The year he’d worked the kennels for Willie had stocked his knowledge of desert flora and fauna. He squinted at the miles of open scrubland in the twilight.
If he kept on trekking, he’d eventually come to a neighboring homestead and the saddle in the road that led to town.
“What do you say, group?” He paused, allowing the dogs to sniff and explore the ground. Sure as heck, he was messing things up. He glanced up at the sky … he needed all the help he could get. A heavy sigh came from deep in his heart, and he bashed it down his throat.
Suddenly, a banged-up truck with blinding headlights barreled by, and he leaped onto the shoulder of the road.
“What the—?” He thought crazy drivers were in California.
Wrong again.
He glanced up at the gathering clouds. If that had been a sign from above, he’d do better slogging through and getting his own answers. A heaviness settled on his shoulders, and he reined in the growling six pack, straining to chase after the vehicle.
His four-footed buddies trotted beside him and, sensing his turbulent mood, rubbed their muzzles against his thigh.
“Telling me to calm down, aren’t you?” He patted their backs and rubbed behind their ears. “Tough doing, but you could be right.” A frown dug into his forehead, and an unsettling feeling stirred inside him, but he ignored it.
“Come on, troupe,” he muttered, traipsing for the open acreage.
Wind whipped through his clothing like an ice shower. He hunched his shoulders and pulled up the collar of his overcoat. “Let’s grab a handful of those wild daisies as a peace offering and head for home.”
Yelping, the dogs dashed ahead, and he stumbled after them.
Thirty minutes later, Johnny had settled the animals in for the night and bounded up the stairs to the front porch. “Nothing like fresh air to clear a man’s head,” he murmured to himself. With a smile on his mouth and a bouquet in his hand, he marched through the front door and to Samantha.
And braked in his tracks.
Roses. The scent of roses was everywhere. Nauseating.
“What’s going on?” He dropped his hand to his side, and the daisy spray drooped behind his thigh unnoticed.
A myriad of vases overflowing with flowers flanked Sam’s chair. She juggled the bouquets of blooms in her arms and shuffled from the chair, the blanket … his blanket … pooling at her feet. “Michael surprised me with dozens of red roses.”
“And dozens,” Johnny muttered beneath his breath.
“Samantha said she was partial to roses.” Michael beamed like a schoolboy. “So, I ordered them when she was snoozing. Nice surprise, eh?”
Not nice. Johnny snarl
ed in his throat, but didn’t voice the combative words.
“That young man from town delivered them.” Samantha sneezed an explanation, holding the blooms slightly away from her nose.
“Got a hefty tip for it, too.” Michael waggled his brows, pleased with himself.
“Yeah.” The kid had nearly plowed into him and the dogs, busting the speedometer to get here on record time. Johnny curled his lip. Bet that had something to do with the super-size tip.
“Where should I put this bunch?” Samantha glanced about. “There aren’t enough vases.” She giggled. “I mean tin cans.”
“I’ll get you some tomorrow,” Michael offered.
“What, tin cans?” Johnny couldn’t help jabbing.
“That’s your department,” he said, his features folding in distaste. “From me Samantha shall have crystal.”
While Samantha chattered to Michael about roses and vases, Johnny withdrew from the room. Trudging down the hall, he flexed and unflexed his hand. He’d been about to blast the joker but then checked himself. It would backfire, and he’d appear the jerk. Copy that if he refused to allow Samantha to accept the bimbo’s gifts.
Johnny stormed out the front door and banged it behind him. It was beyond him how she could like that goofball. A groan staggered from deep inside him. It was time he faced the truth. He just didn’t measure up. He didn’t when he was poor, and didn’t now, even with his millions.
Samantha and Michael had lived the life of the rich and famous all their lives. He’d lived the life of a pauper since the day he was born almost thirty-five years ago. The five million didn’t suddenly morph him into a new man. He was still the same guy Samantha married. If that wasn’t good enough for her, then too bad. She was free to choose again.
After the baby arrived.
Brave words, but the sinking feeling in his heart told a different story.
Plunking down on the top step, he held the wildflowers loosely in his hands and contemplated the sky. It reflected his mood. A second later, the heavens opened, and rain gushed to earth. A myriad of emotions welled up inside him, and he was ready to explode. Ruthlessly he shoved them aside, except for one.
