The Unsung Hero

by Samantha James

  Impulsively she laid a hand on his arm. "Of course I do," she told him, smiling a little shyly. Her eyes met his, and the sudden flare of warmth she saw there made her senses swim. She had to turn away or lose herself in those toasty brown depths. "I think there are some shingles in the garage. I hope they're not too old to use."

  "They're fine," he assured her once he had examined the string-bound bundle. One knee bent on the concrete floor, he looked up at her suddenly. "I don't come cheap, you know."

  Samantha blinked. "Cheap?" she echoed.

  "Not much comes free these days. And the best is never free."

  "The best!" She gasped indignantly. Why, of all the conceited, egotistical... "Maybe I should hire a roofer from Lincoln City," she informed him icily. "Or better yet, I could do it myself and probably do just as good a job as you!"

  "So you're as resourceful as you are pretty." His grin was back in place. "An irresistible combination in a woman—now I know why I'm falling so hard." He shifted to both feet, picking up the bundle of shingles as he rose. "Is supplying the food for a picnic on Sunday asking too much in exchange for repairs by an expert roofer?"

  An expert roofer... Falling so hard... Who was he trying to kid? He was no more an expert roofer than she was, and she was the one who had been falling since day one, and he probably knew it!

  She shook her head. "Jason, I don't think—"

  "That's the trouble with you. You do a little too much thinking." He paused to grab a hammer from the assortment of tools hanging from the pegboard on the wall, then looked back at her over one broad shoulder. The warm intimate look in his eyes sent her pulse racing madly. "Two o'clock okay?"

  "Two o'clock is fine." She wasn't even aware that she had spoken until he was halfway to the house. She stood and stared as he scrambled up the ladder as if he was a monkey. He had done it again, she thought in amazement. Seduced her with his eyes—-and with his words! If she had any brains she would tell him what to do with his picnic! If she had any brains she would forget she had ever set eyes on Jason Armstrong!

  If she had any brains she would take this chance at heaven in whatever way, shape or form she could, and worry later about the consequences.

  Much later that night she voted strongly in favor of the latter.

  Chapter 7

  But Samantha later reflected that Jason was right. She could never be totally free and fanciful and carefree. There was too much to be lost, and everything to gain. Life with her father, and Alan, had taught her that much at least. She'd never had a casual fling with anyone. To her, body and soul were only to be given and shared if the relationship was serious. Alan, in fact, had been her first and only lover. Could she handle an affair with Jason, with each of them going their separate ways when the summer was over? But maybe it wouldn't come to that, she later told herself cautiously.

  And then again, maybe it would.

  It was a question she wasn't sure she wanted to answer. For the first time in her life, Samantha found herself procrastinating. She didn't want to think about tomorrow, or next week, or even next year.

  Instead she thought of how much she had now, at this moment. She had never thought it possible that she could grow so close to a man who couldn't share her beliefs in what was perhaps the most important thing in life—love. But it was happening, and it was wonderful. Samantha knew he was taking precious time away from his grueling writing schedule, yet it seemed to bother her more than it did Jason.

  They had dinner together nearly every night--at his place, at hers, at a quiet restaurant in Lincoln City. They walked on the beach on moonlit starry nights. They laughed and talked about silly things, mundane matters, everything but affairs of the heart. The one thing that was on Samantha's mind more and more, and the one thing she wanted to avoid at all costs.

  Jason gave her his undivided attention, made her feel beautiful, young and utterly feminine as she'd never felt before. But even while she basked in the warmth of those feelings, she knew she couldn't let herself fall for him as she longed to do. So she urged herself to tread lightly, as lightly as he.

  But she was never quite sure if she was succeeding.

  Sunday dawned clear and beautiful. Hazy streamers of sunlight floated down from the sky, gilding the dancing waves of the ocean with a bright dazzle. At precisely two o'clock, Samantha and Jason walked along the beachfront not far from home. Sheltered on one side by an outcropping of rock and by a pile of driftwood on the other, the tiny alcove protected them from the wind and prying eyes alike. They spread a blanket on the warm sand, and while Samantha unpacked the hamper she'd brought along, Jason unrolled a fluffy beach towel he'd tucked under his arm, grinning when he brought out a bottle hidden in the folds.

  Her eyes widened. "Champagne!" she exclaimed, then looked at the food spread on the blanket. "With fried chicken and potato salad?" She laughed and pulled one last item from the hamper. "I brought paper cups!"

  "That's all right." The cork flew open and he reached for one of the cups. "Drinking champagne from paper cups doesn't make the occasion any less special."

  Samantha broke off a chunk of crusty French bread and handed him a plate. "What's the occasion?"

  "I finished the first draft of Quest for Love last night." His eyes grew warmer by degrees as they met hers across the small blanket. "But that takes second place to the real occasion. Any time is special when I'm with you."

  Her heart turned over at the smile he gave her but she forced her attention to his first words. "You're finished already?" she asked in surprise. "You've only been here a few weeks."

  "It was in the works before I came." His eyes took in her slim figure, clad in a white one-piece terry sun-suit. Tied loosely at each shoulder, it showed off the light honey tan of her bare legs and arms. "And I did say once I was feeling especially inspired thanks to you."

  Despite his avid gaze, a feeling of dread suddenly gripped her. "So now that it's finished you'll be sending it off to your publisher?" Her heart fluttered as she nibbled on a chicken leg. That wasn't the real question and she knew it. It somehow brought home the fact that there was an end in sight for the two of them, an end she wasn't yet ready for.

  His low chuckle surprised her. "It's a draft, Samantha. I usually do at least two, change a few things here and there." He shrugged. "Maybe add a scene or cut a few." He paused for a moment before adding quietly, "That reminds me, have you finished Love's Sweet Bondage yet?"

  Her eyes flew to his face. He was studying her openly, his look intent. It was a shock to realize he actually looked almost grave. Her gaze faltered a little under his scrutiny. The merest hint of a smile now played at his lips, but that indefinable emotion in his eyes seemed to have deepened. She sensed that it was somehow important to him that she finish the book- but why? Confused, she looked away.

  "No guts, Samantha? Can't you tell me to my face that you've found a replacement for me already?"

  Her head whipped around immediately. The familiar ring of laughter was back in his voice. Oddly enough, she'd grown used to grappling with it, and it was easier to deal with than the side of him she had just glimpsed. "It didn't bother me when we first met," she shot back. "Why should it now?"

  The grooves near his mouth deepened. "Why indeed?"

  With that the ball was dropped in her lap. "No," she admitted grudgingly. "I haven't found a replacement for you yet, and I haven't finished the book, either." She wasn't about to admit it to him, but it wasn't for lack of trying. She'd read half a dozen romances over the past few weeks, and while they were good, they weren't fantastic, as all of his were. Or had been. She was a little angry at having to remind herself.

  "Poor baby." His look was tenderly indulgent as he grinned. "Would it make you feel better if I told you this is the last book on my contract and I'm thinking of doing a thriller?"

  "Infinitely!" She wrinkled her nose at him. All her exasperation fizzled out the second he flashed that entrancing white-toothed grin. "Here, eat this!" She passed him
a small bowl filled with plump ripe strawberries. "There's nothing like fresh Oregon strawberries, and since I can't seem to keep you quiet maybe they can!"

  Strangely enough, they seemed to do the trick. Not very many minutes later, Jason stretched out on the blanket beside her. He reached for the hand that rested on her upraised knee. "You're not still mad at me, are you?" he murmured, and pressed a warm kiss on her palm.

  His head was very near one slender thigh, and as he turned it toward her, the sun's rays slanted down on his dark head. Samantha fought the impulse to tangle her hands in those dark lustrous strands. "I wasn't really mad to begin with," she answered softly. Her skin still tingled all the way up her arm from the brief contact of his mouth on her hand.

  Moments later, his deep even breathing told her he was asleep. Samantha got up and stretched her limbs, looking out at the lacy patterns the surf made on the sand. The distant chatter of children laughing and playing drifted to her ears. Feeling utterly serene and content, she lay down next to Jason and soon joined him in slumber.

  The sun's rays burning on her eyelids woke her an hour later. She opened her eyes, and looked straight into Jason's face. She had somehow moved closer to him in her sleep, and one strong arm was curved around her waist. He had turned onto his stomach, with his head toward her. Not wanting to move for fear of waking him, she studied the dark features so close to her own—the tiny laugh lines extending from

  the corner of his eyes, the thick bushy brows, the straight blade of his nose.

  She smiled when her eyes lingered on his mouth. It was full and sensuous, and she ached to trace the firm masculine shape with her fingers and run them along his roughly textured jaw line.

  His eyes opened then and looked full into hers. "Good morning," he said softly.

  A slight smile curved her lips. "It's afternoon, silly." Still caught up in the pleasure she derived from looking at him, she let her eyes slide down his body when he turned on his side to face her.

  "You're staring at me," he said after a moment.

  Reluctantly she looked up at his face. "Am I?" she murmured. Her eyes moved down his body again, and a wicked glint appeared in his eyes.

  She felt her cheeks pinked as he grinned, but she couldn't prevent her eyes from moving down his body yet again. He was clad in a light-blue T-shirt and skimpy pair of darker-blue nylon shorts that left little to the imagination. The taut muscular thighs and lean flanks were clearly defined, as was the part of him that made the two of them so different. Just thinking about his male essence caused an insistent heat to sweep along her veins, and she became acutely aware that breathing space alone separated their bodies.

  "I don't mind if you look, Samantha." He grinned and added in a stage whisper, "I'll even let you touch."

  And touch she did, drawn to him by a force more powerful than anything she had ever felt before. He still lay on his side, and Samantha's slim hand crept tentatively to his waistline before sliding down over his abdomen. Her fingers slid beneath his T-shirt, raking lightly through the dense mat of hair that covered his chest and abdomen.

  His hand caught hers on its second downward journey. "On second thought, I'm not sure I should let you take such liberties with my person." The words were light, and he was still smiling, but there was a flare of passion in his eyes that hadn't been there before.

  Pleased, Samantha smiled and left her hand where it was, tangled in the wiry curls near his navel. "You have a funny way of talking sometimes," she said softly. "Just like in your novels."

  "I know," he said dryly, then smiled. "Too much... bookwork."

  A couple walked by just then, and suddenly reminded of their surroundings, she withdrew her hand and sat up. Beside her, Jason bounded to his feet and drew her up with both hands.

  "Let's build a sandcastle," he said with a grin.

  "A sandcastle!" The afternoon sun was glaring, and she squinted up at him. "You and me?"

  "You and me. As in us." He laughed at her doubtful tone. "I can't believe you've lived on this beach for a year and never made a sandcastle! The woman with stars in her eyes and all those outdated romantic notions about—"

  "Don't say it!" Her eyes gleamed a warning. "Don't you dare make fun of me, Jason Armstrong!"

  "Make fun of you?" Even with his eyes full of laughter he managed to look wounded. "Not a chance," he vowed fiercely. Then with a chuckle, he grabbed her around the waist and lifted her completely off the ground, twirling her around and around in his arms until she was dizzy.

  Feeling suddenly buoyant and free, Samantha pushed at his chest until he lowered her to the sand. "Enough!" she laughed. "You win. We'll build a sandcastle!"

  They moved toward a stretch of beach where the sand wasn't as dry and loosely packed. The next few minutes found them down on their knees in the sand, carefully scooping up sand for the shell of their castle.

  "Hey, Miss Monroe!" The high-pitched exclamation came from a youngster who nearly fell while scrambling up to Samantha. "Guess what? The girl next door had to have her independix out!"

  Jason looked at her. "Her what?" he mouthed silently.

  Samantha smiled. "She had to have her appendix out?" she asked the little boy, stressing the word slightly so he would hear the difference. He seemed so proud, she couldn't bear to correct him. "My, that's such a big word for you to remember!"

  Kevin beamed at her praise, then did a double take at their excavation. "You buildin' a sand castle, Miss Monroe?"

  Her eyes met Jason's warm gaze and she nodded to the little boy.

  "Gee, I wish I could help." His eager voice encompassed both her and Jason, but he looked to Jason for an answer. "Do you think I could, Mr. Monroe?"

  Jason looked up at him. "Of course," he assured him gravely. "Miss Monroe and I—" here he looked at Samantha, his eyes twinkling "—could use an expert pair of hands."

  As it was, they were soon joined by a group of half a dozen children, several of whom had been in Samantha's class the previous year. With the help of the youngsters, the castle slowly took shape. Jason offered encouragement while Samantha showed several small pairs of hands how to firmly mold the sand into the desired shape.

  An hour later, the two adults and surrounding youngsters stood back to admire their work. A large moat filled with sparkling seawater, diligently hauled bucket by bucket by several of the children, surrounded a castle complete with ramparts and battlements, a gatehouse and a tower at each corner.

  "I thought you didn't know how to build a sandcastle," Jason commented dryly. "You were the one telling the rest of us what to do." He cocked an eyebrow at her. "Medieval history major in college?"

  "Elementary education," she informed him loftily, "with a minor in psychology."

  He shook his head. "I guess I don't have to ask about your source then, but I know it wasn't one of my books."

  Samantha wrinkled her nose at him. "It wasn't," she told him lightly. "It was about a Scottish earl who kidnap—"

  "I know the story well," he proclaimed melodramatically. "A fierce and black-visaged warrior kidnapped the beautiful and hot-tempered daughter of his most treacherous enemy and imprisoned her in his castle--a tale of fiery lust and tempestuous passions unleashed by the fury of love..."

  "Oh, you!" Samantha ended up laughing along with him, but her eyes grew dreamy as she gazed at the sandcastle.

  "Daydreaming again, aren't you?" Now that the castle was completed, the children scampered off in all directions. Jason drew her back with him to their sheltered section of beach.

  Samantha smiled but said nothing. He pulled her down on the blanket and dropped down beside her. "Let me guess." One lean finger turned her face to his and he stared into her eyes. "You're pretending you're a fairy princess who might have lived in such a castle, wishing for the day a noble knight whose chivalrous deeds were known throughout the kingdom would come and claim her as his bride, the woman of his dreams."

  She couldn't help but giggle. "And you think you're the noble knight,
I suppose."

  He spread his hands wide. "Why not? After all," he added, his eyes gleaming, "I did rescue you from your roof."

  Samantha groaned. "You also managed to smoke us out of your house, and your intentions were far from honorable in either case!"

  "My intentions were no different than any man with half a brain and a normal set of hormones." His eyes moved lingeringly over her slender figure with a thoroughness that left her breathless.

  Before she knew it, he moved so that his body was in front of hers, trapping her between his outspread hands. Samantha was forced to lie back on her elbows, half reclining on the blanket. His eyes dropped to her mouth. "But you are the woman of my dreams," he said softly.

  A murmur of protest formed on her lips, but the words died in her throat. They were so close she could see the hazel flecks in his eyes. She felt confused, unsure of him. She'd never been wholly comfortable with his free and easy compliments, and couldn't help but wonder why he persisted. Were the words second nature by now, a reflex action of the romance writer who was a master at his craft? Or did they come from the man himself, straight from the heart? Something inside her yearned to believe him, and yet she knew instinctively that she was probably a far cry from many of the women he had been involved with, including his ex-wife. What was really behind his attraction to her— if indeed there was one?

  Yet why would he bother with her when he could probably have any woman in the world he wanted?

  "Jason..." Her hand came up to rest on his muscled chest, not resisting, but not inviting, either. "I— I love the way you talk sometimes, and—"

  "And the way I make you feel." The words were self-assured yet, strangely enough, far from arrogant as he looked down at her, his weight supported by his hands.

  "And--that, too. But I wish you wouldn't say things you don't really mean."

  "Things I don't mean!" Both dark eyebrows slashed upward. "What makes you think I don't mean them?"