by Ann Roth
He shifted uncomfortably. “Mariah says you need a volunteer to help with the sets.”
“Yes, I do,” Amy said, looking both surprised and disconcerted. “Can you wait ten minutes? We’ll be finished then.”
She moved to the CD player. The music started, the same piece he’d heard the other day. The young females attempted the steps, their male partners holding on to their waists. There were more girls than boys, and several girls paired up.
Almost lovingly and with great patience, Amy walked slowly among them, calling out instructions over the music. Often she offered encouragement or stopped to help position a dancer’s arm or leg. By the happy expression on her face and her patient ministrations, he knew she genuinely enjoyed working with these kids. Not only that, she didn’t seem to mind that they weren’t very good. She wasn’t the do-it-right-or-die-trying perfectionist Sam remembered. At least not at the moment.
His eyes on Amy, he heard the door open. “Here comes Janelle Swanson and her mom,” Mariah said in a low voice.
Sam glanced over his shoulder in time to see a petite, blonde woman and a girl Mariah’s age saunter in. “It’s Mrs. Swanson’s turn to bring snacks and help out,” Mariah explained. “See you later, Uncle Sam.”
She ran to meet Janelle. Heads bent together and whispering, the girls walked off together, leaving Sam alone with the blonde. She was about his age, with a carefully made-up face. Her hair was cut in a sophisticated style, and her silk slacks and blouse exactly matched her suede pumps. A large, solitaire diamond glinted in the hollow of her tanned throat. In that outfit, she would have fit in well at a country club luncheon.
“I’m Connie Swanson,” she smiled, smoothing her hands down her hips. A flashy, ruby-studded tennis bracelet decorated her wrist. She eyed Sam with blatant interest. “Who are you?”
“Sam Cutter, Amy’s uncle,” he said, ignoring the suggestive innuendo in her tone. He did not mess with married women, but even if she were single, she didn’t interest him. Which was surprising, considering she was exactly the type he’d dated for years—rich and attractive.
“The Sam Cutter?” Connie’s eyes widened. “Wow. My ex-husband is a great admirer of yours. What you’ve accomplished with your fast-food restaurant chain is nothing short of amazing.”
“Thanks.” So she was divorced. Not that that changed things. Sam still wasn’t interested.
She added, “I’ve been divorced for three years, but Bob and I are still friends. He’s a partner in an investment firm in town. Swanson and Davis?”
That explained the jewelry and expensive clothes. No doubt the ex paid out hefty alimony and child support. Sam nodded. “I’ve heard of them.”
He turned his attention to the front of the room. Amy and the group had moved onstage, where they were now working on the steps they’d just practiced. Their legs were out of sync, but they wore confident expressions. Thanks to Amy.
“Say, Sam,” Connie murmured in a low voice. She moved closer, and he caught a whiff of her perfume, something pricey. He didn’t care for the scent—too strong and too sweet. She cupped his biceps and leaned in close. “I’d love to get together and discuss your work sometime.”
If ever Sam had heard a come-on, this was it. Making no secret of his feelings, he narrowed his eyes as he lifted her manicured hand from his arm and put some distance between them. “Taking care of Mariah and running the business uses up all my time. Since I’ll be working on the sets, I’m even busier.”
“Well now, isn’t that a lovely coincidence?” A provocative smile lit the blonde’s face. “I’ll be working on those sets, too.”
Wonderful. Sam scowled and searched out his niece. At that moment, the music stopped and Amy dismissed the group.
“Nice work, Rubies,” she said, beaming. “See you tomorrow morning at nine.”
Thank you, Amy. Glad to get away from man-hungry Connie, Sam strode toward the stage. Amy saw him coming. Her smile vanished. Hands on her hips, her expression cool, she didn’t exactly look pleased that he’d been volunteered. He wasn’t thrilled, either, but he preferred her displeasure to Connie’s blatant flirtation.
Wait a minute. A cute, sexy blonde stood at the back of the room, practically salivating over him, and he’d rather talk to his frowning ex-wife, whom he’d hoped never to see for the rest of his life?
He’d definitely lost his mind.
Chapter Three
SHORTLY AFTER NOON on Saturday, the door clicked shut behind the last of Amy’s students and a peaceful silence filled the studio. Usually Amy cherished the sudden stillness, a welcome relief after a busy session of nonstop noise and activity. Not today. She cast a black look at the closed door of the storage room behind the stage, where Sam and Connie were working on the sets for the upcoming recital. They were awfully quiet in there.
Resisting the urge to climb the steps, stalk across the stage and eavesdrop at the door, Amy instead tugged off her ballet slippers. Then, arching forward, she massaged the small of her back. Normally the school was closed weekends, but with the recital only a month away and the kids in need of extra practice time, she had opened today until noon.
Thank goodness there were no more classes until Monday, because after this morning’s three-plus hours of the hustle and bustle and continuous demands on her attention, she was worn out. Yet she was also oddly restless and edgy. But then, with Sam and Connie here…well, the very air seemed charged with tension.
The muscle in her hip ached, and she pressed her knuckles into it as she walked toward the coat closet beyond the mirrored wall, her stocking feet whispering over the polished wood floor and her mind on the man and woman behind the storage room door.
Connie had arrived first, in time to deliver her daughter Janelle to the Pearls’ hour-long rehearsal. Afterward, Sam had shown up and Mariah had left with Jessica Stevens. Janelle went home with Delia Jeffries. Her mother stayed behind to work on the sets. Dressed in tight, faded jeans and a low-neck, form-hugging T-shirt, the blonde no doubt planned to work on Sam, too.
The woman was a flirt. Amy frowned as she flung open the closet, took her grass-green corduroy overalls from the hook and stepped into them. She pulled her braid free, then fastened the straps of her overalls over her leotard. Retrieving her clogs, she toed into them. A quick glance at her reflection shocked her. Her mouth was pinched sourly and her brow furrowed. Muttering, she smoothed her expression. If Connie wanted to flirt and more, that was of no concern to Amy. None whatsoever.
Sam certainly didn’t appear to mind. True, yesterday he’d seemed on edge, almost panicky about teaming up with Connie. But today he’d seemed eager enough. Maybe he liked the idea of working alone in the back room with the buxom blonde. What man wouldn’t?
As if to reinforce Amy’s thoughts, muted female laughter sounded through the storage room door. Exactly what kind of work were they doing in there? Amy snatched her canvas duffel from the closet shelf, then shut the door with more force than necessary.
From out of nowhere, jealousy whacked her hard, smack in the middle of her chest. Duffel in hand she stalked back to the bench, aggravating her stressed hip muscle. She winced, but not entirely from the pain. Jealous of Connie and Sam? Now that was absolutely ridiculous. She shoved her slippers into the bag.
How could she possibly be jealous when she didn’t care a whit about Sam Cutter?
Her stomach growled, which explained that hollow feeling inside. Of course. She was hungry and her hip hurt. She should get some air, walk out the kinks and grab lunch.
She glanced again at the storage room, wondering whether to tell Sam and Connie she was leaving. Not that they’d care. Still, they ought to know. She climbed the steps to the stage and headed toward the work area. When she was nearly there, Connie squealed.
Enough already. Amy rolled her eyes. Suddenly the door flew open and Sam strode out, his jaw clamped, his face dark and his attention on the wooden floor. He plowed smack into Amy.
She tried to moved asi
de, stumbling in her haste. Reaching out, she caught a handful of his navy T-shirt to steady herself.
“Whoa, there.” Sam cupped her elbows and eyed her curiously.
Her cheeks heated as she slipped from his grasp. “Thanks.” Meeting his gaze made her uncomfortable, maybe because only seconds ago he’d been laughing with Connie, so she frowned at the fist-sized wrinkles she’d put on his shirt.
“Sorry.” Of their own volition her palms smoothed the soft cotton, skimming Sam’s chest. His firm, very broad chest. Under her palms his heart thudded. Amy’s heart thudded, too, so hard that surely he heard. She swallowed and lifted her hands. Or tried.
He stopped her, trapping her wrists against his heart. Warmth from his fingers penetrated the fabric of her long-sleeve leotard. Hunger simmered in his eyes, turning them a darker blue as he searched her face.
“Amy,” he murmured in a husky tone that bathed her in warmth. It was only her name, but from his lips it sounded important and special.
With his hands on her wrists she could not move, nor did she attempt to. Standing so close, she could smell him, the mixture of pine soap and man achingly familiar, even after twelve years. Her senses stirred with the memory, and longing rushed over her, so intense, she yearned to wrap her arms around his waist and sink against him. That scared her witless. She narrowed her eyes. “Let go, Sam.”
He did, reeling as if his heated reaction had caught him off guard as well. Quick as a heartbeat, he banked his expression, folded his arms over his chest and fixed her with a now-impenetrable gaze. Except when he desired her, he’d never been easy to read, but the sudden slant of his brows and the downward curl of his lips told her plenty. He might want her, but he didn’t like it. Feeling the same way, she completely understood.
“You okay?” he asked, his gruff tone matching his expression.
“Fine,” she lied, sounding breathless to her own ears. “You’re in an awful hurry. What’s the rush?”
He glanced behind him at the closed storeroom door, then leaned in as if to confide a secret. “Connie thinks I’m heading out to pick up lunch,” he said in a low voice. “And I am, but I want to talk with you first.”
After what had just happened she’d have preferred that Sam leave now. But this seemed important. So she nodded and did what she always did when nervous, reached for her braid and flipped it over her shoulder. “What is it?”
His gaze dropped to the loose end of her braid, which hung to just below her breast. Raw emotion flickered in his eyes, then disappeared before she could figure out what it meant.
He cleared his throat and pulled his attention to her face. “Uh, I could use your help.”
The man had never asked her for help. Never. She couldn’t stem her surprise. “Oh?”
“It’s Connie.” He shot a second harried look over his shoulder. “She’s driving me nuts.”
For a moment Amy was speechless. Then she threw him a skeptical look. “Puh-leeze. I’m not deaf. You two have been laughing since you walked in there and closed the door.”
“Connie did all the laughing. I swear, I haven’t cracked a smile yet. I’ve done everything short of telling her to get lost, but she can’t seem to understand that I’m not interested. I don’t know how to handle her.”
As Amy thought about it, she realized she hadn’t heard masculine laughter. Maybe Sam didn’t like the sexy flirt, after all. The knowledge loosened the cold knot in her chest. “She can come on pretty strong,” she agreed.
“Like a barracuda.” Sam grimaced. “I promised Mariah I’d help with the sets, and I want to keep my word.” His expression glum, he shook his head. “But I won’t stay in a room alone with that woman.”
Now there was a dilemma Amy had not anticipated. “But Connie’s one of my best volunteers, and the only person besides you who offered help with the sets. I’d hate to lose her, and I know you don’t want to be stuck doing all the work by yourself.”
“Since I don’t have the time, you got that right. Are you sure there’s no one else you can recruit? Some kid’s dad?”
Amy shook her head. “Believe me, I’ve tried everyone. The parents who can help are working on other parts of the recital.”
“Well then, we have a problem.” Sam rocked back on his heels and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Suddenly his gaze homed in on Amy. “You could join us.”
Work alongside Sam and Connie in the back room? Amy spoke her mind. “That’s an interesting idea, except for one big hitch. You and I can barely tolerate each other.” Even standing here on the open stage with him was difficult.
Her remark earned her a quick, inscrutable look. “True,” he readily agreed. “But can you think of any other solution?” He shrugged. “Either you want my help, or you don’t.”
Like it or not she couldn’t afford to lose him. “I want it,” she said with reluctance.
“Then I need a chaperone.”
She fiddled with her braid while she considered her options. Short of tackling the sets herself or asking Connie to finish up alone, there were none. She gave in with a grudging sigh. “I do have plans later on today, but for the sake of the recital, I suppose I could stay and help for a while.”
Sam let out a relieved breath. “Thank you.”
A sudden idea struck her, and she held up a finger. “But there is something I’d like in return.”
“Besides making the sets?” He shot her a guarded look.
“If you wouldn’t mind. During the recital, I need an adult backstage to take care of last-minute details. I don’t allow parents to help because they should be out front, enjoying the program.”
Sam nodded. “Sure, I could do that.” Amy’s stomach gurgled loudly. His brows raised a fraction. “Sounds like you need to eat. I’m headed to Cutter’s to pick up lunch. Do you still like veggie burgers?”
“I sure do.”
As Sam headed out the door, she told herself she dreaded this afternoon. Yet already she anticipated his return. She caught herself and frowned. Where in the world was her common sense? She had no interest in Sam. Once was enough, and besides, only a fool would make the same mistake twice.
And Amy was no fool.
FORTY-FIVE MINUTES later the aroma of hamburgers, onion rings and fries filled the studio. Sam leaned forward in his folding chair near the stage and lobbed his napkin into the large, now-empty lunch sack he’d brought from Cutter’s. He was the first to finish, though Connie and Amy, who sat in identical chairs opposite him, were nearly through.
Fusion jazz played softly from the radio station Amy had chosen, and her foot tapped the floor in time to the beat. He still couldn’t believe he’d asked her to stick around, or that she’d agreed to stay. But he’d needed a buffer between him and Connie. With Amy desperate for someone to build the sets in time for the upcoming recital, her help in return for his seemed a fair trade.
He glanced warily at Connie, who had finished her lunch. For the moment she was quiet with concentration, hunched over a small hand mirror to apply a fresh coat of rose-red lipstick.
So different from Amy. In the past, she’d never used lipstick except on rare occasions. From what Sam had observed, that hadn’t changed. Ditching his straw, he drained the last of his Italian soda.
Connie mooshed her lips together in the universal facial gesture women made after applying lipstick. Seemingly unconcerned about primping in front of him, she dug into her purse for a comb and then ran it through her hair. The ultra-blond color probably came from a bottle. Amy’s hair color was a natural light brown. She wore it long and pulled back like a dancer, the same as years ago. Oddly, the style still suited her. A few loose strands fluttered softly around her face. One longer, thick lock brushed the corner of her eye. She kept pushing that one back, but the stubborn thing wouldn’t stay put. Sam wished she’d find a hair clip and anchor it behind her ear. If he had one, he’d do it himself. Was her hair as soft as he remembered? He itched to find out. Frowning, he rolled his empty bottle between hi
s palms.
He wasn’t interested in Amy. Clearly she wasn’t interested in him, either. Other than when he’d returned with lunch, she’d barely glanced at him.
Connie dropped her tools into her purse and smiled. “That was delicious, Sam,” she cooed, clasping her hands beneath her chin and lowering her mascara-laden lashes. “You are a sweetheart.”
On the other hand, the artificial blonde had continued to flirt shamelessly. Sam rolled his eyes at the tile ceiling.
“It was good,” Amy agreed, wiping her hands on a napkin. “Thank you, Sam.” She folded her veggie burger wrapper into a small square, then did the same with her napkin. She’d always been like that, neat and tidy.
“You’re both welcome.” He stood. “Ready to get back to work?” He held out the paper sack, collecting trash.
Connie and Amy led the way up the stage stairs and across the stage to the storage room, while he lagged behind. Even their walks were different. Connie moved in a hip-swaying step, her skintight jeans accentuating her small waist and shapely rear end. No red-blooded man could fail to notice, including Sam. But he felt nothing beyond mild interest. It was Amy’s loose overalls and clean, no-nonsense stride that quickened his blood. And that darkened his mood. Dammit, he was here to work, not desire a woman he couldn’t have—and didn’t want.
Scowling, he followed the women through the door. The fluorescent lighting that filled the windowless room with harsh light did nothing to brighten his mood.
“Take a look at the trees we started this morning,” he told Amy. Skirting props, bolts of fabric and various odds and ends, he reached the ceiling-high shelves that lined one wall. A half dozen six-foot-high plywood trees, each painted dark brown, leaned against the shelves. “There’s another one over there.” He gestured toward the back of the windowless room, where a horizontal tree was balanced on two sawhorses. “Now that the paint is dry, they’re ready for leaves.”
“Which I traced and started cutting out while Sam made the trees.” Connie pointed to the squares of green felt and the two-inch cutouts piled on the cluttered counter. “I have a ton more to cut.”
