by Judy Duarte
“Okay, but I’m going to help.”
As Samantha led the way to the kitchen, she glanced over her shoulder at him. “I’d planned to make a chocolate pound cake for dessert, and then I wondered if you had any vanilla ice cream to go with it.”
“That’s one thing I never run out of.”
She laughed. “I’m sure you don’t. Your freezer is packed with more cartons of ice cream than a supermarket.”
“What can I say? I’m a kid at heart.”
She lobbed him a smile that would have challenged him to a game of tag, if they’d both been kids. But there was nothing the least bit childish about what he was feeling for her right now.
He had an overwhelming urge to flirt, to ask her out to dinner one night soon, and not just because they were neighbors.
But how did a guy go about hitting on a pregnant woman? Just the thought made him shake his head.
After pulling out a can of whipped cream from the fridge, she gathered chocolate sauce, chopped nuts and a jar of cherries on the counter and made a makeshift assembly line.
“Would you look at this?” He ran a hand through his hair as he studied all the sundae fixings. “Where did you get all this stuff? You didn’t have it in your bag when you came this morning. I would have noticed.”
“That’s because when I saw all the Ben & Jerry’s in your freezer, I got a craving for homemade sundaes. So I went to the market this afternoon and purchased everything we needed.”
“A craving, huh? Did you buy pickles, too?”
“Nope, I’m sorry. I studied all the various brands but couldn’t quite bring myself to put a jar into my cart.”
“That’s a relief.”
They both chuckled as they piled scoops of chocolate and vanilla into their bowls.
“Will you pass the whipped cream?” she asked.
“Sure.” As he handed her the can of Reddi-wip, he thought of a few other things they could do with the gooey concoction, and none of them had to do with neighbors sharing dinner. But he forced his thoughts on creating a mouthwatering sundae.
He dribbled chocolate over scoops of vanilla, then continued adding the other toppings until he had the perfect dessert.
When Samantha eyed the size of his finished product, she smiled and said, “I guess that means your dinner settled.”
“I always have room for ice cream.”
They carried their bowls and spoons back into the family room, then took a seat on the sofa. But this time, Samantha sat closer to him than she had before, and he couldn’t help reading something into it.
Yet there was the phone call earlier, the conversation she hadn’t wanted him to be privy to, even if it was only her side. And he couldn’t help thinking the caller must have been a man, which had unsettled him. After all, she’d said that she hadn’t dated since Peter died.
On top of that, she’d had in vitro fertilization, which meant she hadn’t gotten pregnant the natural way. But that didn’t mean she hadn’t been involved with someone at least once or twice in the past five years.
He’d assumed that there hadn’t been any men in her life, but he might have been wrong about that. After all, a woman as pretty as Samantha couldn’t stay single long.
Hell, he was proof of that. Just look at him. He was tempted to ask her out whenever he looked at her. And each time he heard her laugh or caught a hint of her floral scent, his hormones went wacky.
He could easily imagine making love with her, of caressing the mound of her belly, of taking care to work around it. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine kissing her, stroking her until she cried out in need…
Oh, for Pete’s sake, he scolded himself. Would you just watch the damn movie?
Focusing on the television screen should have been an easy diversion, since gunshots were ringing out all over the place, and a helicopter with a couple of snipers was swooping in on Matt Damon and an attractive new star Hector had never seen before.
But for some reason, try as he might, Hector couldn’t quite lose himself in the story. Not when Samantha was within arm’s reach.
Then, to make matters worse, the romantic subplot began to pick up steam. As Matt swept the beautiful blonde into his arms and kissed her deeply, Hector fought the temptation to steal a glance at Samantha and failed.
She’d leaned forward and was nibbling on her bottom lip, apparently caught up in the onscreen romance.
The intensity of her gaze—of her yearning—nearly knocked his breath away, and a rush of heat shot through him.
At that moment, Hector no longer cared about what was happening in the movie. The only romantic subplot that concerned him was the one churning between him and Samantha, and he realized that before her stay with him was over, he was probably going to end up hitting on her.
And the fact that she was expecting a baby didn’t matter a bit.
The first thing Bradley Langston had done when the doctor had discharged him from the hospital on Monday was to set up a meeting with Hector on Tuesday morning. So after turning in for the night, Hector had set his alarm for seven, which would give him more than enough time to dress and shower. It would also allow him to spend some time with Samantha in the morning.
Once in his bedroom, he read until nearly eleven, which helped him keep his mind off the fact that Samantha was tucked away just down the hall. Then, after drifting off, he slept like a baby—that is, until Samantha’s scream tore through the night.
“No!” she cried out again.
Was she in pain?
He flung off the covers and rolled out of bed. Something terrible must have happened.
She wasn’t in premature labor, was she?
He rushed into the hall and hurried to her room.
When he opened the door and flipped on the light, she was sitting upright in bed, the sheets and blankets tangled at her feet. Perspiration had dampened her brow.
“Samantha?” he said. “Honey? Are you okay?”
She raked her fingers through the sleep-tousled strands of her hair, snagging on a snarl, and turned to him. “Oh, God. I had a nightmare. I’m sorry, Hector.”
“That’s okay.” His adrenaline was pumping like a son-of-a-gun, though, and it would take some time to go back to normal. “I’m glad it was nothing. I was afraid you might have gone into premature labor or something.”
He made his way to the bed and sat on the edge of the mattress. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
She blew out shaky sigh. “There’s not much to tell. I haven’t had a dream like that in ages.”
He placed a hand on her shoulder, let it slip slowly to her back. Then he caressed her, offering comfort the only way he knew how. “What was it about?”
“My stepfather used to abuse my mother, and I dreamt about him.”
“Did he ever hurt you?”
“No, but he was a real jerk. The first time she tried to leave him, he threatened to kill her if she did it again. And we both believed him.”
Hector drew her close, and she rested her cheek against his chin. Her hair brushed across his shoulder, reminding him that he wasn’t wearing much—only a pair of boxers.
It didn’t seem to bother her, though. Or maybe she hadn’t even noticed. Then again, he supposed it didn’t matter to either of them.
“I hope your mother eventually left him,” Hector said, knowing fear kept many women in abusive relationships.
“She did. And every now and then, I have nightmares about him, about how he used to treat her. Tonight, he was chasing me, telling me that he knew I’d orchestrated her escape, and threatening to kill me.”
“Is that true? Were you instrumental in getting your mom to leave him?”
Samantha nodded, yet she remained in his embrace.
“How old were you?”
“Thirteen. I was riding the city bus one day and noticed a poster that provided the phone number for a domestic-abuse hotline. I called on her behalf, and they provided options. I knew we had to leave t
he house, but he worked from home, so getting away during the daytime was next to impossible. And under normal conditions, he was a light sleeper.”
“How’d you manage to escape?”
Samantha lifted her head, and a grin softened the nightmare-induced stress from her face. “What are the statutes of limitation on drugging someone?”
“You drugged him?”
Her gaze sought his, and her smile intensified as a whisper of mischief lit her eyes. “Before I answer that, I need to know if you and I have attorney-client privilege.”
Hector broke into a grin. “You bet, honey. Your secret is safe with me.”
“The doctor had prescribed anti-anxiety medication for my mom, and there was a warning on the label that said alcohol intensified the effects. So I asked if I could fix dinner that night.” She placed her hand on his chest, and his heartbeat kicked up a notch. His breathing, too.
Had she noticed?
“There was a bottle of Chianti in the pantry,” she continued, “so I uncorked it to let it breathe.”
“You knew how to do that at thirteen?”
“He loved having wine with his meals, especially with pasta. And I’d watched him do it a hundred times.”
“So you spiked his drink with the pills?”
“Yes, and as usual, he finished the whole bottle of wine.”
“I take it he didn’t die.”
She shook her head. “I just wanted to buy us some time. So when he passed out, I told her, ‘It’s now or never.’ And we grabbed a few things and hurried out of the house.”
“Smart girl,” he said, continuing to hold her close, to relish the scent of her floral shampoo. “And you were also brave.”
“Thanks.” She leaned into him all the more, and he could feel her unwind, relax.
“Did your stepfather ever threaten you?”
“Not really, but hearing him bellow at my mom, watching him beat her, was enough to make me shake in my boots and toe the mark.”
“Did you ever hear from him again?”
“No. When we left, we half ran, half walked to the nearest phone booth. I called the people from the shelter, and they picked us up and took us to a safe house. My mom got counseling, and we moved to Hastings. But I have to tell you, we both had a habit of looking over our shoulders for the first couple of years.”
“I’m glad you got away.”
“Me, too.”
Hector sat in the early morning silence, holding Samantha, feeling her softness, her gentle curves, sensing her vulnerability, as well as her courage. He tried to wrap his mind and his heart around all she’d been through, all she’d lost.
And as much as he hated to admit it, he was glad Peter Keating had been able to provide her with a better life, even if he hadn’t liked the guy personally.
“I hope your husband showed you that not all men are brutes.”
“Peter was a nice guy, and he loved and respected me.”
He was nice? Had she loved and respected him back?
Of course she had. She’d married him.
Hector shook off the urge to analyze her words. Instead, he continued to hold her, to bask in the silence punctuated by the tick-tock-tick of the clock on the bureau.
“You know,” she said, “I think cooking that spaghetti triggered my nightmare. When I was making the sauce, I remembered the night I slipped those pills into the Chianti.”
“Thank goodness I didn’t have any wine tonight,” Hector said. “That might have really triggered a nightmare.”
She pulled away long enough to return his smile. “Thanks for running in here to chase away the bogeyman.”
“No problem. Do you think you can go back to sleep now? I could lie down with you for a few minutes if you think it would help.”
Her lips parted, and emotion clouded her eyes. He’d be damned if he knew what she was thinking, and about the time he figured her silence meant no, she said, “Actually? I think it would help if you stayed with me for a little while.”
Hector slowly unwrapped his arms and got to his feet, then waited for her to move into a more comfortable position on the bed. He’d planned to lie down on top of the covers, thinking she might be more comfortable that way considering his barely there attire.
But she drew back the spread and the blankets, and he climbed in with her—without hesitation, which immediately mystified him. They were getting involved deeper and deeper, yet he didn’t have any qualms about it.
They lay like that for a while, facing each other. Close enough to touch.
“It’s been a long time since I slept with a man,” she said. “And I forgot how nice it used to be.”
“That’s only natural,” he said. “We’re sexual beings. And you’re bound to miss it.”
“I’m not talking about making love,” she said. “I’m talking about sharing the bed with someone you care about.”
“Okay, but don’t tell me you don’t miss the sex, too.”
She sighed. “Yes, I suppose I do.”
His ears perked up. She only supposed that she missed it?
“The physical part of a marriage is nice, but the best part is having someone to come home to, someone to talk to.”
Sex was just nice? The conversation was better?
Did that mean her relationship with Peter hadn’t been passionate?
Too bad, Hector thought. It sounded as though Peter Keating had dropped the ball—sexually speaking, and Hector couldn’t help feeling sorry for her.
In fact, as he lay in bed with her, he couldn’t help thinking that someday he’d like to make it up to her, to show her that sex was more than just nice.
That with the right man, it could be…magic.
Samantha slept like a baby.
Around six, she’d awakened in the spoon position, with her bottom pressed against Hector’s lap. She could feel the strength of his morning erection through the thin layer of his boxers and her satin gown. Before she knew it, she found herself stirring, too.
She’d felt an almost overwhelming compulsion to roll over, to face him, to run her hand along his cheek, to…start something.
But she’d never been that bold when it came to sex. So she slowly drew away, thinking it might be best to put some distance between them. But as he slept, he pulled her back into his embrace, holding her as though he never wanted to let go.
At least, that’s what it seemed like. So she stopped fighting and let herself bask in his touch, in his woodsy scent.
Never had she slept so well, been so safe. Never had she felt such…love?
She’d told him last night that she’d missed having a man in her bed, and that was true. She’d never liked sleeping alone, not after she and her mom had run away from her stepfather.
So as Hector held her in his arms, she fell back asleep, only to wake again at eight-thirty—alone.
The sound of running water suggested that Hector was in the shower, so she rolled out of bed, then pulled up the sheets and carefully drew up the comforter and replaced the pillows and shams.
After taking the clothes she planned to wear that day, she padded into the bathroom and turned on the spigot and opened the spray. Then she slipped out of her nightgown and let it pool at her feet.
While waiting for her water to warm, she glanced into the mirror, caught the sight of herself naked—the fullness of her breasts, the growing baby bump that seemed to protrude more every day. She liked the maternal image and ran a hand along her belly, fingered the silky skin that stretched over her womb.
Would Hector find her attractive if he were to see her this way?
She couldn’t imagine that he would, which was disappointing. She was feeling something special for Hector, a spark of passion she hadn’t felt for Peter. And last night had only made it stronger.
Of course, there’d been that awkward moment when her phone had rung that second time, and she’d taken the call in private. But how could she talk to Peter’s mother while she was having dinner
and watching a movie with another man?
She was glad that she’d agreed to stay with Hector rather than in a hotel room, but something told her she could get hurt, and that she’d better watch her step.
Maybe it was time to tell Hector about the triplets, to put in a speed bump sure to slow her runaway thoughts. Once he heard, he’d most likely pull back. Who wouldn’t?
So, after taking a shower and shampooing her hair, she dressed for the day and put on a light coat of lipstick. With her hair still damp from the shower, she headed for the kitchen, where she found Hector making coffee.
“Good morning,” she said. “I’m usually a light sleeper, so I didn’t set an alarm. I just assumed that I would hear you moving around and wake up sooner.”
He turned his back to the counter and charmed her with a boyish grin. “I was trying to be quiet. In fact, I didn’t want to wake you, so I planned to make a quick cup of coffee to take with me.”
“But I’d planned to make breakfast for you,” she said.
“Don’t worry about me. I’m used to fending for myself.”
“You know,” she said, “there’s something I probably ought to tell you.”
“What’s that?” He grew serious. “Does it have anything to do with that phone call you received last night?”
“Not exactly.”
He crossed his arms and leaned against the kitchen counter. “Then what’s up?”
“I told you about the in vitro fertilization.”
“Yes. You had it at the Armstrong clinic.” He studied her carefully, as if trying to guess what she had to say. “Is something wrong?”
“No. Not at all.” Did she dare dump this on him now? As he was leaving?
Hector’s gaze grew intense, and she felt as though she was a witness on the stand. “Did the baby’s father call you last night?”
“No, he didn’t.” She wondered why he seemed to have pounced on that phone call. “I told you the father was out of the picture.”
“Then what’s with the secrecy?”
“Can we slow down for a moment, Counselor?”
He paused and let his crossed arms unfold and drop to his sides. “I’m sorry. Interrogations have become second nature to me, and that wasn’t fair—or necessary. It’s none of my business who you talked to last night.”
