by Cathryn Fox
The succeeding week proved to be a hectic one for Samantha. She had been thrilled by Adam’s phone call midday on Sunday to check on her and to tell her that Brett Townsend was going into surgery early Monday and his prognosis was excellent. He also told her his schedule was going to be beyond busy, but he would call her late Wednesday night to make sure she got home safely from class.
Rummaging through her nearly empty desk on Monday, Samantha found a small jeweler’s box tucked into the main drawer. It was a special present from the judge—a pair of sapphire earrings. She went through the rest of the day with a lump of suppressed emotion in her throat. Adam called late Wednesday, from the hospital. Brett had developed an infection. His condition was critical. There were a lot of hospital noises in the background, Samantha struggled to hear his words and then the connection was cut off.
The rest of her week was spent double-checking office correspondence, backing up the computer hard drives and studying for her finals. If it could go wrong with packing the office – it did. Not enough boxes, not enough packing material, the mover’s had lost all her paperwork. By the end of the week, Samantha was wondering if she had developed an ulcer. And what was to be a simple one-week move had been extended to ten days.
Late Friday night, Adam called in a rather harassed state and Samantha was barely able to get a word in during the entire conversation. Brett was doing better and out of ICU. Apparently some extra paintings had been shipped and there was no place for them in the brochure’s current layout. He was doing his work, Brett’s work, attending meetings at the museum, and trying not to kill anyone or himself. Adam muttered something about calling her Wednesday, if he lived that long.
Exam week proved to be less formidable than she had anticipated. It was a relief to have the course completed and the extra tension removed as well as the drive. She was anxious to tell Adam she was now free to join him, but his call never came.
Samantha made a final trip into the office. How strange it looked. The office she had been in for over a year, an office that had been filled with personal touches and warm remembrances, reduced to two telephones sitting in the middle of an expanse of brown carpeting ridged with deep furniture compressions. After more tears than she thought possible, she turned her keys into security, before being taken out for a surprise, farewell luncheon by the other attorneys and law clerks.
Samantha poured herself another cup of tea and grimaced at Morti’s smiling face. Adam’s hunter’s cap was still at a rakish angle between the moose’s antlers. It was close to midnight and he still hadn’t called. Nearly three weeks since she’d kissed him goodbye; a week since she’d heard his voice. And nothing. He hadn’t even responded to the messages she’d left on his cell or office phone. Pulling the quilt over her, she curled into the sofa’s corner watching the dying embers in the fireplace flame up and scatter out.
The judge always had the New York papers sent up daily, so Samantha took a week’s worth of newsprint home. With a resigned sigh and a threatening look at the telephone, she went back to studying the fashion ads and reading which celebrity was visiting what other celebrity in the Big Apple.
She had gotten to Wednesday’s gossip column, when a familiar name jumped out of the paper at her—Adam Rourke. She put her tea mug down with a bang and read every inch of the news story.
Adam apparently had made a great impression at the fund raising luncheon hosted by a ladies’ cultural committee. “Charming, dashing, handsome man-about-town” was the way the columnist described him. “Ladies, this is a man to watch!” was the final line. Samantha swallowed hard; she didn’t want any ladies watching Adam!
She hastily pulled out Thursday’s paper and hunted for the same column. Again, Adam was mentioned. This time there was a picture of him looking very handsome in evening dress with a gorgeous woman by his side. According to the caption, his exotic dark-haired companion was an Italian film actress here to promote her country’s contribution to the art exchange.
Samantha pressed a hand to her churning stomach, closing her eyes in despair. She prayed Adam would call and tell her everything was all right, that he needed her and missed her and would she take the next plane to New York.
The phone did not ring.
According to the papers, mid-night in New York City was the shank of the evening. Samantha pressed his cellphone number into the cordless. It rang several times, she hoped for even the mechanical message prompt that she had received before, when suddenly an actual, live, male voice answered: “Adam Rourke’s phone.”
Clearing her throat, she kept her voice cool and calm. “This is Samantha Logan, is Adam available?”
“Hello, Miss Logan, this is Ted Marshall.”
“You’re in charge of PR for the company, right?”
“That’s right. Can I help you? Adam is um…otherwise occupied at the moment.”
Otherwise occupied? What the hell did that mean? It’s after midnight! “When would be a better time to reach him? I was wondering how Brett was doing? I haven’t heard from Adam in over a week. I’ve left other messages. Is he alright? He had wanted to know when I was available to come down and—”
“Brett’s doing fantastic,” Ted interrupted, “some new antibiotic. He’s already home from the hospital and recovering nicely. As for not hearing from Adam, well, Miss Logan…he’s been incredibly busy. Handling regular office matters, doing double duty there. The fund-raisers have started, there’ve been interviews, photo op’s, he’s got an exhausting schedule and it’s only getting more complicated.”
Her gaze dropped to the newspaper on her lap, focusing on the photo with Adam and the Italian starlet. “Yes, I’m sure, but…”
“You know, Miss Logan, these phone calls are so difficult for me. It’s really my fault that you haven’t heard anything.”
“I…I don’t think I understand.” Her fingers moved to massage her suddenly pounding forehead, an odd prickling feeling skittered up the back of her neck when his crass laugh invaded her ear.
“We in the public relations business often have to clean up our bosses…well, it hurts me to say the word…affairs…but…” his words trailed off suggestively.
“I see.” Samantha pressed a hand to her churning stomach.
“Thank you so much for understanding and making this easier for me. Goodness, some of his women get very emotional, some threatening, most are quite pathetic; they just don’t understand the rules—”
Samantha didn’t let him finish, snapping the phone off in mid-sentence. How could she have been so completely fooled? Pathetic! What a hateful word! She felt all that plus humiliated, stupid, and physically ill. Later, she was.
Somewhere over Denver, Samantha’s numbness wore off. She hadn’t realized she was crying until the elderly lady in the seat next to hers pressed a lilac-scented lace hanky into her palm. Miss Gantry had patted her arm reassuringly and bought them both vodka and tonics. Then she spent an hour regaling Samantha with unrequited love stories before falling fast asleep.
It had been incredibly easy to leave, Samantha stared out the plane’s window into the night. She had packed her suitcase, driven the Jaguar back to the condo, left his clothes on the top of the trunk and locked up the garage. A taxi had taken her to the airport. The red-eye would land her in Los Angeles at nine in the morning.
No one could say she had acted impulsively. She had been the first person at the newsstand in the mall waiting for the New York papers to arrive. She was positive the clerk thought she was insane! Each day the column repeated the same basic story and ran a picture of Adam, always in the company of the same beautiful, Italian actress.
She had tried both his cellphone and office phone each twice more, hoping to actually speak to the man. But she only spoke to the mechanical voice that requested she leave a message. Samantha knew she could easily find him in the city, take the train, and be there in a few hours. Have a face to face…her thoughts skidded to a halt. Now that was pathetic!
Pathet
ic? No, that was not a word that would ever describe her. By Thursday, she had a yard full of bagged fall leaves, the house completely winterized and her backbone restored. When her expedited passport came in the mail, Samantha viewed it as a sign. She called Lucy and Ray, booked the ticket and headed west.
Maybe falling in love wasn’t in her future. It had certainly not been in her past or her present. Maybe Janine had been right. The judge had been giddy with love himself and if he was matchmaking, well… She could have said no to a physical relationship. But she didn’t. And she was smart enough to know the fine line between sex and love.
The problem was she had fallen in love with Adam. Told him so. Twice. But had never heard the three words women all crave to hear. Maybe that was the issue. Maybe that scared him. Men and the fear of commitment – articles that fueled the pages of every woman’s magazine. Maybe he had just wanted one of those exclusive but casual, no consequences relationship.
Fine. Fine. Fine. Maybe she was the one who needed the attitude adjustment. Maybe she needed a new perspective on twenty-first century relationships and sex. At least the sex had been mind-blowing and unforgettable. That was another problem. He haunted her dreams. His deep, sexy voice was lodged in her brain. Her body easily writhed under phantom caresses, remembered thrusts, savored kisses. The primitive power of him when he was deep inside her. The tender touch of his hands when he had shampooed her hair.
How long does it take to fall out of love? Samantha exhaled a sigh that fogged the plane’s window. Never? She thought about that old cliché: out of sight; out of mind. It seemed to work for him. Maybe it would work for her, too. She’d make it work!
Ted Marshall focused one eye on the digital alarm clock on his night stand and pulled another pillow over his head trying to drown out the noises coming from the guest room. It didn’t work. He threw back the tangled bed covers, grabbed a robe, and padded out into the hallway. “Hell, Adam, it’s eight o’clock on a Sunday morning. We just got in four hours ago. What in hell are you doing?”
Adam closed the empty closet door, strode over to the bed, and snapped his last suitcase shut. “I told you yesterday I wanted to catch the first flight out of here,” he answered pleasantly, eyeing Ted’s haggard, bleary-eyed figure with amusement.
“That’s terrific, but your plane doesn’t leave for another four hours,” Ted said sarcastically. “I could use two of those to get some much needed sleep!”
Adam grinned. “That’s what you get for partying all week. Those late hours are bound to catch up with you.”
Ted trailed after him into the galley kitchen. “I was staying up all those late hours subbing for a boss who wouldn’t cooperate,” he reminded Adam facetiously, accepting a cup of steaming coffee with eager hands. “How else was I supposed to placate all those people? You would show up, eat your one-thousand-dollar-a-plate dinner, make a speech, and then depart before midnight. They were sure they had a male version of Cinderella on their hands! However, I am happy to report that this year, despite the economy, a record amount was raised.”
“That’s great but I’m damn glad we only do this every two years. I told you before, I didn’t want to get involved with any of your public relations campaigns,” Adam reminded him, refilling his mug. “I had enough trouble getting that brochure out on time. I was swamped at the office, all that rich food was killing me. Hell, I thought about rooming with Brett at the hospital. My goal was to make sure the job was done, get ahead at the office so Brett didn’t have anything to worry about. And then get the hell out of here.” He frowned at his watch. Four hours until he was with Samantha. Hell, it was stupid to wait, he’d call Mike and see if the charter was available.
Ted’s voice cut into his musings. “You have not been very cooperative,” he told his boss, lighting a cigarette and blowing a cloud of smoke in his direction. “I had to mend a lot of fences, especially Luisa’s.”
Adam hastily swallowed a mouthful of coffee and shook his head. “Who the hell is Luisa?”
Ted looked at him in amazement. “I don’t believe you! Luisa could drive the entire Sixth Fleet insane and you can’t even remember her. Don’t you read all the publicity I get for you?”
Adam shook his head.
Ted gave a resigned sigh and shuffled to a large cluttered oak desk that occupied one corner of the living room. “This is Luisa,” he stated, handing Adam a folder filled with glossy photos.
Adam glanced in surprise at the sight of his own face and that of a beautiful brunette’s. “When…hell, where did you take these?”
“Those were taken whenever you stood still long enough for Luisa to jump in front of our photographer’s camera. You make good copy and the lovely Luisa knew which side her bread was buttered on.”
“I don’t even remember her,” Adam shrugged his shoulders.
“I know. She was very upset, but I did my best to console her.”
“How did you manage that?”
“I told her you broke your contact lenses and couldn’t see worth a damn. The minute they were replaced and you saw all the beauty and charm you had missed, I promised her you would commit suicide,” Ted remarked gravely.
Adam laughed. “Was she convinced?”
“Of course, that’s what you pay me for. I’ve been telling you for years I’m the best PR man in the business,” Ted said with mock humility. “I also handled Miss Logan for you.” He studied the glowing end of his cigarette.
“Excuse me? Handled? I just asked you to tell her what was going on. To see when she was able to join me. You kept saying she was busy, had a problem with the move, and was working on a new project. I’ve been calling her and leaving all sorts of messages.” Adam pulled his phone from the belt holster. “It was odd; because I haven’t been getting her regular voice mail either at home or on her cell. Just that generic robot voice.”
“I know. When I loaded your last agenda calendar and alarms, I reprogrammed your phone. You didn’t need the distraction. You’ve been calling…well no one. I took her out of the equation for you.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” A muscle flexed in his cheek. “Ted, what the fuck did you do?”
“I had your messages forwarded to my phone. When she called last week, for like…” his mouth twisted, “the tenth time, I did my usual shpeal. I explained you were otherwise occupied, that I tidied up after all your affairs, that—” The expression that contorted Adam’s face had Ted backing up. Unfortunately, he wasn’t quite out of range of the large fist that slammed into his jaw.
Lucy and Samantha had a sisterly radar system that had been in operation for a long time. When Samantha got off the plane early Friday morning, it didn’t take Lucy long to figure out that her sister’s depressed state had nothing to do with jet lag. She was finally able to get to the bottom of the story when she was helping Samantha unpack and found an ornate tea infuser, a rather ugly, but somewhat endearing, witch on a broomstick and a man’s red plaid flannel shirt. They were all the catalyst that Samantha’s precarious emotions needed and, in between sobs, she told Lucy the whole story. It had done her a world of good to tell Lucy and she fervently hoped her sister’s prediction of time healing all wounds would come true.
“Why don’t we hit all the touristy spots,” Samantha proposed over Saturday morning breakfast. At her sister’s speculative expression, she held up her hand. “No, you were right. Each day I’m a little better.” Liar! But the relaxed smile that curved her lips, proved successful.
When Ray suggested they accompany him on a site survey to Mexico City. Samantha readily agreed. She would have preferred to be alone but she knew Lucy would insist on staying with her. They boarded the Monday morning flight and arrived in exciting Mexico City a few hours later. After they had exhausted all the shops, Ray took them on a dazzling architectural tour that included the National University, with its mural-splashed campus, the Museum of Anthropology, and the soaring Basilica of Our Lady of Guadeloupe. They were staying with friends of
Ray’s family and were being treated like royalty. Ray decided Samantha needed yet another diversion, insisting they finish the week soaking up the sun on the beach in Acapulco.
“Well, you two have finally returned home,” Ray watched his wife and sister-in-law enter the cool air-conditioned kitchen. “I don’t know what you could have found to buy after all the shopping you did in Mexico.”
“Groceries, darling,” Lucy informed her handsome husband, giving him a quick kiss. “That’s the one thing that needs constant replacement. Want to give us a hand.”
“Of course. Samantha, would you do me a favor and bring this pitcher of lemonade out to the patio for my guest?”
For the first time both women noticed the glass carafe he had in his hand. “Goodness,” Lucy arched a surprised brow, “I didn’t know we were expecting anyone. I didn’t see a car outside.”
“Actually, he’s from out of town. Been here almost a week awaiting for us to return from Acapulco,” her husband informed her. “If Samantha could entertain him for a few minutes, I’ll fill you in and we can discuss dinner plans.”
Samantha traded her grocery bag for the frosted pitcher. “I hope there’s an extra glass out there,” she remarked ruefully, thinking of the pleasant effect the tart lemonade would have on her parched throat.
“There is.” Ray’s protective gaze settled over Samantha. She had lost weight, her flowered sundress was loose. He admired her strength; Lucy told him, Sam was the rock of the family, handling everything beginning with their father’s death and since. Whatever needed to be done, she had done it – be it with the house, their personal lives, finances. Samantha stood strong. But now, it was quite apparent to Ray, there was a fragile vulnerability about her.
“Who’s our visitor? Another business associate?” Lucy inquired watching her sister head for the patio doors that led to the screened veranda and pool.
“Actually, he’s a relative,” Ray’s dark eyes twinkled, his fingers ruffling her auburn curls.
