by Various
“Next weekend.”
“Why the wait?”
“Conflicting schedules.”
“Ah. Good things come to those who wait.”
Sammy Jo a.k.a. Samantha Rossi’s image washed over John and his breathing shallowed. “Actually… I think I’m going to cancel.” He grabbed a towel and wiped the benches.
“Really? Why?”
John shrugged. “Like you said. She’s Sammy Jo and I don’t need to mess with that.”
“This isn’t like you to change your mind, John-boy. Once you get something in your head, it’s there until hell freezes over.”
“Not this time.” As much as he would like to get to know Samantha better, it wasn’t smart. She was a tiny but vital link to his past, a past he didn’t like to think about. Having her in his life in any context would only serve to open doors better left closed. He’d seen her, seen she was alive and well. Done.
Rain splattered against the window behind Sam’s desk as she stared at her computer screen, her fingers idle on the keyboard. The muted tap, tap, tapping of other keyboards throughout the newsroom of the Seattle Statesman fuzzed the air with white noise. She pulled the yellow pencil from behind her right ear and nibbled on it, hoping to get her mind on work.
Ever since she and Nina had gotten together Sunday and — over several glasses of wine — made detailed lists of every man they knew, Sam had been rather preoccupied. It was hard to concentrate on work when faces of possible donor fathers kept popping into her head like still shots on a movie screen. Carl Hamlin? No, his parents died of heart attacks in their forties. Robert Diaz? No, he had the intelligence she was seeking, but he had big-time Dumbo ears. He’d probably been picked on miserably as a child. She didn’t want to subject her child to that if she could help it. She wanted the donor to be of excellent health, smarts, and at least average good looks.
Those requirements had narrowed her list. After a few more categories of elimination, they’d come down to one name. John Everest.
When Nina pointed that out, Sam immediately crumpled the list and threw it away.
“But Sam,” Nina had said, retrieving the list from the trash can and smoothing out the wrinkles. “He meets all your requirements. He’s attractive — you said so yourself.”
Sam grunted.
Nina ignored her. “If his business successes are any indication, he is also quite savvy and intelligent. And from how you’ve described his body, I’d say he has superior genes. Assuming he is healthy, he seems perfect.”
The little butterflies flitting in Sam’s stomach at the thought of his male form really irritated her. She downed her remaining wine in one large gulp. “There are two big reasons I would never ask John Everest. One, he’d have a field day. He’d get the wrong idea and think I liked him, which would inflate his over-inflated ego even more.” She poured another glass of wine. “And two, I hate the man!”
Nina’s eyebrows lifted. “Strong feelings about someone you’ve met only once.”
“He’s a jerk.”
“You mean because of his marital history?”
“Among a ton of other things, yes.” Sam could tell by her friend’s expression she wasn’t going to drop it. “Now come on, Nina, what kind of man would marry and divorce two times before thirty? Once, I can see. Everyone makes mistakes and has lapses in judgment. Look at me and Wayne. But two times?” She made a face. “Give me a break. He’s no better than my dad or Wayne.”
Sam’s father — the rat — was currently on his fourth wife. Her ex-husband, Wayne, was on number five last she’d heard. She’d been wife number two. He’d sworn to her he’d never loved his first wife like he loved her, and just because he’d cheated on the first Mrs. Metzger didn’t mean he’d cheat on her. Being young and naïve, she had believed him. She’d have bought ocean-front property in Arizona from him had he offered it.
Wayne, her father, and John Everest were all cut from the same cloth. Lower on the food chain than road kill.
“What, are you worried he’ll peg you as wife number three or something?”
Sam’s eyes widened. Yikes. “No. I’m just saying he obviously has poor character, so why would I ask him to father my child?”
“That kind of character flaw comes from upbringing, not genetics. I think you should consider asking him. He exceeds all your requirements and you don’t like him, which eliminates your fear of emotional involvement, because — in your words — that would only complicate matters.”
“I don’t care. It ain’t gonna happen, Nina.”
“But—”
“No.”
That had been Sunday. Since then she’d wracked her brain for other possibilities and had come up with all of zero. Then this morning as she was getting ready for work, she’d opened the medicine cabinet and spotted the pregnancy test she’d bought last week when her period was late. Just seeing that pink and white package depressed her. It also gave her new determination. She’d pulled her list of prospective “fathers” from her purse, hoping she’d find another good candidate besides John Everest. But his name stood out like a wart.
Sam cocked her head side to side as if to swish around the creative juices. She reached for her coffee mug beside her computer. Empty. Caffeine might jumpstart these sidetracked wheels in her brain. Cup in hand, she navigated the rows of metal desks, heading for the break room.
“Sam!” Betty Baldwin, fluff reporter and resident goody-two-shoes waved at her. “Your desk phone is beeping.”
If they weren’t calling her cell phone, it wasn’t important enough to answer. “Grab it and take a message? I’m running late. Thanks.” Sam had just reached the hallway when Betty hailed her back.
The young woman held the phone receiver toward Sam. “It’s a John Everest.”
Double dammit. She’d forgotten she’d given him this number, rather than her cell. Sam closed her eyes, not ready to talk to him so soon after making her decision. “Tell him I’m not here,” she yelled.
Betty put her hand over the receiver. “I can’t.”
Sam rolled her eyes. “Why not?”
“Because he’s, um, not on hold. I just can’t figure out these darn phones.” She giggled girlishly.
Meaning John had heard her attempt to dodge his call. Great. Sam exhaled and headed toward her desk. Why would he be calling her unless it was to cancel— “Don’t. You. Dare,” she muttered each step of the way. Yanking the phone from Mary Sunshine, Sam took a deep breath and told herself to be nice. “Hello?”
A soft chuckle echoed over the line. “You were trying to avoid me.”
“And he’s smart, too,” she murmured. “Calling to work out a time for our date next week?”
“Actually, I, ah, called to cancel. I pretty much forced you into saying yes, so I called to tell you you’re off the hook.”
Oh, no you don’t, she thought, even though she should be happy he was canceling on her. “But you paid for my ticket.”
“Forget about it.”
“Nope. I don’t want 300 bucks hanging over my head and I can’t afford to pay you back.”
“Samantha—”
“A deal’s a deal. I won’t let you renege on it. And who knows? We might even have a good time together.” Sure. On a cold day in hell, maybe.
Chapter 4
Hard rock blasted from the Beetle’s radio as Sam drove north on I-5, heading home after a long day at work. This kind of music wasn’t her usual taste, but she was too wired to listen to anything even remotely mellow.
Part of her mood was due to the article she’d just turned in. She grinned, pleased with herself. All day yesterday, rumors had abounded throughout the city about the possibility that Darwin Tooch, the star center of the Seattle Sharks basketball team, had asked to be traded. Tooch was known for his animosity toward the press and had refused all interviews. His agent and the team spokesperson hadn’t been any more forthcoming.
But Sam had an ace in the hole. Six years ago, right around the time
Darwin had been recruited to the NBA out of high school, she’d done a story about a disreputable sports agent who’d scammed several local athletes. Darwin had been about to sign with the guy when her story hit the streets. He’d sent her a dozen red roses in gratitude and told her if she ever needed anything from him…
Today she’d cashed in on that offer. He’d given her an exclusive interview and her competition would die in envy when they read the morning paper. She especially enjoyed the thought of Wayne Metzger, her ex-husband-from-hell and evening sportscaster on Channel 2, reading her story in his condo with cigar and coffee in hand. He’d be royally pissed.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t fully enjoy the thrill of having landed a huge story. She had another, more pressing concern. In less than an hour, she had a date with John Everest. Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel.
Glancing at the dashboard clock, she grimaced and pressed the accelerator. She needed to look her absolute, knock-his-socks-off best. She’d even wear a dress, which was a big deal. She only wore dresses when she wanted to take advantage of a man’s small mind. And she definitely wanted something from John Everest. Yessirree Bob, she did.
She’d had more than a week to let the idea sink in and get used to it. As much as she didn’t like the man, she had to admit Nina was right. John Everest would be the perfect donor father.
John deleted the last three paragraphs he’d just spent twenty minutes on. Writing a grant for the youth center wasn’t nearly as tough as keeping Samantha Rossi off his mind. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so physically attracted to a woman. Every facet of her looks was ingrained on his memory, from her luxurious hair to her luscious lips to her curvaceous figure.
That wasn’t good.
He didn’t need to be attracted to Sammy Jo. Okay, so he couldn’t help himself. He just needed to be damn sure he didn’t act on that attraction. Of course, with her negative reaction toward him at the Extravaganza, he doubted he’d get the opportunity. He was surprised she hadn’t jumped at the chance to get out of the date.
He’d met countless beautiful women in his time, but none had had this effect on him. He couldn’t stop thinking about her. That had never happened to him before, and he wasn’t sure he liked the sensation.
Chalking it up to relief over how well she had turned out after having spent years wondering about her, he glanced at his watch. He still had a few minutes before he had to leave to meet her at the corner Cavanaugh’s, as she’d refused to let him pick her up at home.
He was punching out some numbers on the keypad when he heard clicking heels in the hallway outside his office, then a knock on the door. Assuming it was Margo, his assistant, he called out, “Come in.” The door opened and Sam Rossi stepped onto the plush beige carpet. He took one look at her and said, “Good God.”
He knew it was rude, but he had to stare, needed to let his eyes drink in every bit of her, starting with the black stilettos. His gaze traveled up her shapely legs. The skirt of her dress was just long enough to be considered legal, he was sure. And the dress itself — whew! Blood jetted into strategic parts of his anatomy. It was a shimmer of clinging silver following her every curve. The sleeves were long and fitted and the neckline scooped low enough to tempt him without revealing too much. Her glorious mane of hair swirled over her shoulders in a sexy jumble of dark waves.
“Good God,” he said again.
She laughed and stepped further into the room. “Is that all you can say?” A velvety black coat was draped over one arm and her hands clutched a sequined purse.
He shook his head and stood, circling the desk to stand of front of her. With those high heels, the top of her head just about reached his eyes. He’d only have to bend his neck a little to kiss her. Don’t think that! “What are you doing here?” Checking the time again, he said, “I thought we were meeting at Cavenaughs.”
“I got into downtown early and took the chance you’d be working late.” She glanced around. “Nice office.”
“Uh, thanks.” At a loss for words and coherent thoughts, he motioned to the burgundy leather couch against the wall opposite his desk. “Have a seat. I just need to, ah, finish something real quick, then we can go.”
Her hips swayed as she went, and his gaze followed the hypnotic movement. She deposited her coat and purse on the sofa’s wide arm, then sank onto the plump cushions. Leaning back, she crossed her legs, one shoe dangling off her toe, the skirt of her dress damned close to revealing heaven. God.
He didn’t know what had prompted this change of attitude in her, and with any woman other than her, he wouldn’t question his good fortune. But the small part of his brain not yet on hormonal overdrive warned him to watch his step. This was Sammy Jo he was drooling over. Sammy Jo. If she knew who he was, she’d claw out his eyes with those long, red nails. He couldn’t forget that.
Sitting at the computer, he saved his work and closed out of the software program. The comfortable creaking of leather sent his gaze back in Sam’s direction. She had risen from the couch and smoothed her skirt over her hips. Smiling, she came around the desk. “Are these your kids?” She reached over his shoulder for a framed photograph on the shelf. The side of her breast came tantalizingly close to grazing his jaw.
Searching for his equilibrium, he glanced at the picture. “Uh, no. Those are my brother’s kids. Tori and Harlan.”
“Cute.” She replaced the frame on the shelf beside a miniature dumbbell he used as a bookend. “Do you have kids?” She headed back toward the couch.
“Uh, no. No, I don’t.”
“Mm. Married two times, yet no children.” She sent him a questioning glance over her shoulder.
How did she know about—? Ah, yes. The Extravaganza. His face heated. His marital history wasn’t something he was proud of. At all. “We didn’t want— I mean, I didn’t want— Not every marriage produces children.” Christ almighty, his speaking abilities with this woman ranked right along with his four-year-old nephew’s. He needed to change the focus from himself. “What about you? Any kids?” Of course he already knew the answer to the question from the P.I.’s report.
She reached behind the couch to open the blinds. Her dress came dangerously close to revealing heaven again, but somehow it remained in place. “No. Do all these windows look out on the club?”
“Yes. It lets me keep an eye on things.”
She peered out the window overlooking the Olympic-quality weight room. “Do you like kids?”
“Other people’s kids.”
“You don’t want any of your own?”
“No.” Wait a minute. John narrowed his eyes. He’d been around women before who were on the prowl for a husband. He hadn’t pegged Sam Rossi as the marriage-minded type, but this conversation sure sounded suspect. Was that her agenda? God, he hoped not. “Okay, Samantha. Why all the questions? What gives?”
Her sudden laughter surprised him as she turned away from the window. “Relax, big guy,” she said, coming over to perch on the edge of his desk, giving him a nice view of her thigh. “I’m not looking to be the third Mrs. John Everest, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
He breathed an inward sigh of relief. “Marriage and kids aren’t in the cards for you?”
She stood and put her hands on her hips. “Do I look like the marrying kind?”
Most definitely not, he mused, raising his eyebrows. No, Samantha Rossi wasn’t the wifely type. She was more the type he’d like to—
“So, don’t worry,” she said, interrupting his inappropriate thoughts. “I’m not looking for a husband.”
He flicked off the computer and circled the desk. “What are you looking for?”
One perfectly arched eyebrow lifted. “Sex.” At his wide eyes, she laughed. “Close your mouth, Everest. I’m kidding.”
John told himself he was relieved to hear it. Smirking, he stepped in front of her, reached forward and tweaked a dangly silver earring. “There’s something about you, Samantha Rossi.”
She smiled unevenly and moved away to pick up her coat and purse. “Ready?”
He opened the door and ushered her into the hall. As he locked the door, she said, “So what about you? Is another marriage in the cards for you?”
“Why so curious?”
“I like to know what kind of man I’m going out with. Is that wrong?”
He shrugged. “I suppose not.” They reached the stairs. She went first. His eyes focused on how her shapely calves flexed with each step. It occurred to him he hadn’t dated anyone outside the fitness industry in years. Sam had a great figure, but it wasn’t hard and athletic like the women he normally dated. She was curvy, soft and utterly feminine. He rethought his ideals.
“You didn’t answer my question.” She tossed her hair and peered at him over her shoulder.
“Um, what question?”
She smiled. She had him flustered, just as she’d planned. The dress had done its job. “You know — wedding bells, honeymoon, wife number three?”
“No. Marriage obviously doesn’t agree with me, and vice versa.”
As they walked along the wide hallway, she wondered again what kind of man would marry and divorce twice at such a young age. At least he was smart enough to refrain from reproducing and putting his kids through the hell of divorce.
The occasional clanking of barbells or pounding of a racquet ball reached her ears, but for the most part, the place seemed to be clearing out. She remembered reading on the front door the club closed at nine. “This is a beautiful place, Everest. How long have you been in business?”
“A little over five years.”
“Didn’t I hear at the Extravaganza you started with one club and now have over fifty?”
He nodded but said nothing.
At least he wasn’t a braggart. A checkmark in his “plus” column. One of few. She whistled under her breath. “You should be proud of yourself. I wouldn’t know the first thing about running a business, let alone running a franchise. You must be pretty smart.”
