by Chelle Bliss
I nodded, finishing the list before I set the pen down. I looked back up at that beautiful face, making sure I didn’t smile and didn’t give her any expression other than something that passed for acceptance. I’d give her what she wanted, then I’d ask for what I needed. “I’ll take care of it.”
“You’ll… I don’t…” She shook her head, then inhaled again. “You can’t just…” Sammy turned her head and watched me as though she wasn’t sure if I was trying to play her. I wasn’t, but she was cunning. She was smart, and from what Cara had told me, Sammy wasn’t easily swayed by anyone. “That will take a lot of…”
“You need it taken care of?”
She nodded, her frown not disappearing.
I waved off her nod. “I’m the building owner, like you said. I’ll handle it.”
Sammy waited a full minute, watching me and sizing me up. Her attention was sharp as she stared at me before she finally spoke. “And you’ll help me find a temporary rehearsal spot?”
I thought about it, wondering if Cara still owned the building downtown for storage or if our cousin Antonia still needed renters for the shop a few blocks from Sammy’s center. “Yeah, I think I can find something. I’ll make some calls.”
“And…” she started, that curious, doubtful expression not fracturing an inch, “you’ll make sure my uncle doesn’t find out you’re helping?”
That one had me pausing. I grinned, earning a glare from Sammy I guessed she’d had waiting. “How long can the man go on hating me?”
She sat up straighter, and some of that calm control slipped from her. “He’s always going to hate you.”
I relaxed against my chair, laughing at her somber expression. “He’s a priest.”
“He’s not perfect.”
Father Patrick hating me was something I’d gotten used to years ago. I’d paid the man. I’d donated and handed over hush money to him and his church whenever they asked. Then I stopped when I realized the old bastard was counting on perpetual Catholic guilt to bleed me dry forever. That shit ended when I realized I’d never be forgiven for my sins. Not by him.
But I didn’t care what the old man thought of me. I didn’t care if he knew I was the one helping Sammy with her center and her charity. Besides, this might help me with a few problems I needed resolved and get me closer to her at the same time.
Her gaze was sharp and followed my movements as I rubbed my chin, considering her request. I cocked my head, pretending to really give the whole clusterfuck my full attention before I made a decision. “Fine, then,” I started, straightening in my chair and adjusting my jacket and tie, ready to negotiate even if Sammy wasn’t. “The renovations and any financial assistance you need are a given. I’ve obligated myself to this charity, and I want to help.”
“Out of the goodness of your black heart?”
“Because I owe you.” I meant that shit, even if she didn’t believe me. I made sure there wasn’t even a hint of a grin or the smallest smirk on my face so she knew that. “It’s for you and only you.”
“Damn it, Johnny. You’ve got a condition.” Sammy flopped back against her chair, shoulders slumping for the first time. She cringed when I didn’t hold back the wide, toothy smile I gave her. She shook her head, muttering under her breath. “I knew it.”
“This promise of keeping your uncle from knowing…”
“Johnny…”
“I can agree to that, but I need something from you.” Her hair was pulled back, but it moved against her shoulder when she jerked her gaze up at me, a sharp, angry glare shooting in my direction that had me laughing already. She had the same pissed-off death glare now that she’d had at seventeen. Her mind was in the gutter, that much I could tell. Sammy thought I was only concerned with one thing because I pretty much had been as a kid. She swore I didn’t know what she wanted, but by the way she sat up straight, tugging up her shirt to cover her cleavage, I guessed she probably thought what I wanted from her was something I could get from any woman.
“Ah, bella, not that the thought hasn’t crossed my mind a thousand times, but no, I do have some dignity. I’m not going to blackmail you into sleeping with me.”
Sammy moved her shoulders, releasing a half chuckle that told me she didn’t believe me for a second.
I didn’t bother trying to convince her, though I did make her a promise I had every intention of keeping. “Sammy, the next time I see you naked, it will because you want it, because you can’t keep from touching me. And trust me, I won’t have to do any convincing or conniving to get you undressed.”
Finally, Sammy laughed, the sound loud and from her belly. It was the first time in the half hour she’d been in my office that I believed she finally relaxed. She looked beautiful, more beautiful than I’d seen any woman look in a long damn time. Sammy laughed over my promise like I was out of my head. “You’re an arrogant bastard, Johnny Carelli.”
“Absolutely.”
After several minutes, Sammy’s laughter died, and she settled back against her chair. “Go on, then. Tell me what you want from me.”
One slow look over her face, down her body, which she ignored, and then I finally spoke. “There is an account I am trying to secure—” I stopped whatever sarcastic comment Sammy seemed ready to make when she opened her mouth with a shake of my head “—for my private business not affiliated with my father’s companies.” Knowing Sammy, she probably didn’t believe any of my businesses were legitimate. My father was into private gambling, finding goods when they fell off trucks, and cleaning money. He’d never messed with drugs or prostitution but had owned several strip clubs and wasn’t always purely honest with his taxes. I made sure those businesses stayed up and running, but I also ran several IT and security companies, one of which I was trying to get off the ground. Which was why I needed Sammy.
“I have several dinner meetings arranged with a potential investor. They’re friendly, family-style meals. He has a wife and children. I do not, and that’s a sticking point. I don’t have time to track down a girlfriend or find someone…”
“You mean,” she started, crossing her leg to turn her chair. She looked a little too smug, and the half grin on her face irritated me more than it should have. Also made me a little hard. “You have to pretend to be a respectable man for this legitimate businessman, and the escorts you normally use aren’t appropriate to act as your girlfriend?”
I considered her a moment, thinking she’d played me. The woman was good at negotiation. That teasing little smirk would have any man handing over his checkbook in a heartbeat. Biting the inside of my lip, I kept my cool, head moving in a slow nod. “I want to make an impression.”
“And I’ll help with that?”
“Samantha, you’re intelligent, funny, charming, and the single most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life. You are the impression.” I caught her gaze, took a second to watch her, see if her green eyes were still light or if the years had darkened them.
She looked back at me, and I could have sworn she wasn’t breathing.
There was no smirk on her face. No frown that told me she was pissed I’d tried buttering her up. Just then, between the low, soft sound of the vents kicking on and the muted ring of Nadine’s phone from outside my closed door, there was only Sammy and me, watching each other with the shadow of what happened between us thickening the air around us. I could almost taste her. I could almost remember how warm her skin had been.
Then, just like that, the moment ended. Sammy blinked, breaking the silence with a laugh that sounded forced. “You know, for a second there, I almost believed you.”
“It wasn’t a line.” I picked up the pen, gripping it between my index finger and thumb to give me something to hold on to.
Sammy turned toward the window, answering me with her attention on the early afternoon skyline to our left. “If you say so.”
Her profile was perfect, everything about her flawless, still like some starlet from the fifties frozen in time, a w
oman no other woman around her could hope to measure up to. Funny thing was, Sammy had no clue just how beautiful, how intimidating she was.
“Fine,” she said finally, still not looking at me. “Have the crews start next week after you find us a suitable place to hold summer classes and rehearsals until the building’s ready.” She slipped a business card from her purse and put it on my desk. She stood from her chair with her bag clutched in front of her, as though that would keep me from getting too close when I circled my desk and stood in front of her. “If you keep your word and my uncle doesn’t find out, I’ll go with you to your dinners. Text me with the dates and times. But don’t get any ideas.”
I stood quickly, and the movement made Sammy flinch, as if she expected me to touch her face. “All I have left are ideas about you, Sammy.”
She turned, hurrying to the door, but I took hold of the doorknob before she could grab it. She stood in front of it, waiting for me to let her out, then glanced up at me when I didn’t.
“They’re really good ideas too.” When I leaned forward, taking her wrist with my free hand, Sammy didn’t object. “You might like the ideas I have.”
She watched me as I kissed her hand, not taking my attention from her gaze, savoring the warm feel of her skin and the still sweet smell that lingered there. Sammy looked me over, head tilting as though I were a kid who’d only understand her if she spoke in short, slow sentences. “You keep your ideas, Johnny Carelli. They’re the closest you’ll get to having me naked again. That much, I promise you.”
Sammy slapped my hand from the doorknob and was out of my office before I could respond. She left me with nothing but the sweet smell of her skin, and a laugh caught in my throat that stayed there all afternoon.
4
Sammy
I knew better than to drink so much wine. Especially in front of strangers. It made me a bit too friendly. A lot too forgetful.
“Another glass, Samantha?” Mrs. Garcia was already refilling my glass before I could refuse.
“Oh no. Thank you, though.”
“I insist. You have a driver, yes? Your man Johnny says you take a driver because you both like to drink red on Friday nights. Here, have another.” The beautiful Spanish woman poured an entire glass full, and I tried to keep my eyes from bulging.
“Oddio,” I whispered, trying to keep the glass from spilling when the woman pushed it in front of me. “Thank you.”
“Is that four or five?” Johnny asked, leaning over the back of my chair to speak next to my ear. I suppressed a shiver. Something I doubted he missed, and I ignored the pleased laugh he released when I waved him away. “What?” he asked.
“Mind your business.”
“Men are so nosy, aren’t they?” Mrs. Garcia said, sitting back down across the table next to her husband. “This one is always asking me where I’ve gone, what I do when he’s at the office.” She pushed her husband away when he wrapped a large arm around her shoulder, his attention on her face as she spoke. Three hours with this couple and already I could tell they were still smitten after ten years of marriage. “I tell him always, I’m busy. I have children and charities, I take classes, and care for my mamá. You worry about yourself, I tell him. And he’s always ‘But, mi amor, how did you spend your day? Did you miss me?’ Always ‘Did you miss me?’ Ah!”
“It’s because I do miss you, amado.” Mr. Garcia was a middle-aged man nearing fifty with salt-and-pepper hair and small lines around his eyes. This was his first marriage, the couple had informed us, and he had met his wife, who was several years younger than him, at her Costa Rican hometown library in San José where she had worked as the head librarian. He’d visited every day for a week while he vacationed there, trying to get her to agree to a date.
“Well, I think it’s sweet,” I told Mrs. Garcia, smiling when she blushed at the attention her husband gave her.
She called the man off again, hiding a grin behind the long drink she took from her wine. She patted his hand when he squeezed her shoulder, then seemed to notice the way Johnny and I watched the couple. “Johnny,” the woman started. “Tell us, how did you meet Samantha. Was it love at first sight?”
“Yes. You must tell us, por favor,” Mr. Garcia said, pulling his attention away from his wife, now seeming interested in his guests. He and Johnny had spent an hour discussing the new security business Johnny wanted to start, going over projections and business plans, but the more wine Mr. Garcia drank, the more he seemed bored of business discussions. The Garcias were already affectionate. Wine only added to that.
Johnny slipped his arm along the back of my chair, and I did my best not to flinch away from his attention. It was a weird sensation, being this close to him, trying to separate all the years of reminding myself what a horrible person he was, of all the terrible things he’d said and done to me, and the sweet boy he’d once been. The man he was now was different from both, and I didn’t know what to think. I only knew I’d made him a promise. I’d play this part, and he’d help me with the center and keep my uncle out of the loop.
It would test my acting skills.
“That’s a long story,” I tried, holding the wineglass as a distraction.
“Not very long,” Johnny said, squeezing my shoulder. “Our families have known each other for years. We fell in love when we were kids, and then…I broke her heart.” When I jerked a gaze at him with the glass still in my hand, he pulled it away with his attention on my face as though he were worried I’d throw my wine in his face. “I blew it,” he told the Garcias, still watching me. “And by the grace of God, Sammy decided to give me a second chance. She’s letting me make up for all the terrible things I did to her when I was a stupid kid.”
I couldn’t speak. In the back of my mind, I knew this was all make-believe. Johnny Carelli had no intention of making anything up to me. His guilt still weighed on him; I understood that. But this? Pretending that he’d loved me? Making me believe that he wanted another chance? That was a show, and he was damn convincing with his performance.
Across the table, I could make out the small exchanges the married couple had with each other, but I couldn’t stop watching Johnny’s expression. How his eyes, shining and slightly bloodshot from the wine, sparkled in the candlelight flickering all over the table, made his handsome face seem unreal.
“Besala.” I heard, blinking when the laughter picked up and Johnny looked away from me.
“What?” he asked Mr. Garcia.
“Kiss her.” He motioned between the two of us. “Amigo, a woman that lovely looks at you the way your corazón just did when you say such a thing, you must kiss her.”
“I don’t…” I started, blinking back the fog brought on by the small moment and the numbing look Johnny gave me.
“Well, if you insist,” Johnny said, turning toward me. He held my face, whispering low against my mouth. “I’ll owe you, Sammy. Just play along.”
He moved in slowly, angling my head, hovering over my mouth. With my eyes open, I could only watch as he descended as though he expected me to push him away. When I didn’t, Johnny dropped one soft kiss on my mouth with enough pressure that our lips barely touched before the weight of his fingers tightened. This time, the kiss lasted longer, was a deeper tease with mouth and tongue stroking, playing, touching together, his control so certain, possessive, until I forgot who and where I was. Who he was and why we were together in this place, performing such a desperate act for these strangers.
Johnny’s low rumble of pleasure moved up his throat—half moan, half growl—and he angled away from me, still holding my head in his hands, pressing one last small kiss on my mouth before he opened his eyes to look at me again.
“There,” he said, his voice a gravel road of sound. “Was that so terrible?”
“Not…not so bad.”
And, I hated to admit, it wasn’t.
I tried to tell myself the wine caused all the fuzzy-headed thoughts. It was responsible for the giggling I’d shared with
Mrs. Garcia when she conveyed how she almost got pregnant again just watching Johnny kiss me at her dining room table. I told myself, as his driver sped through the city toward my apartment, that I hadn’t enjoyed the kiss more than I had all those secret, sweet kisses Johnny had stolen from me as a kid.
It was just the wine.
But one thought kept creeping into my subconscious as the Manhattan streets flew past us and Johnny kept talking about Mr. Garcia’s excitement over the prospect of this new business.
Johnny Carelli was a better kisser than he had been ten years ago.
“Of course, we’ve all had a little bit of wine…”
“We all did,” I offered, not paying attention when Johnny went silent. Not until I felt the pressure of his hand against mine on the armrest. I turned, looking down to see how close Johnny sat to me in the car, then stared back up at him. “Date’s over.”
He nodded but didn’t move his hand.
“And my apartment is three blocks away.”
Again, he nodded. But this time, he leaned forward, reaching a hand toward me.
I stopped him, grabbing his wrist. “We aren’t acting anymore, Johnny.”
He paused half a second longer than it took to smile, then any traces of cool left his features. “Who says I was acting?”
This was Johnny Carelli being his best authentic self. I’d seen it before, years ago and then again the day of his father’s funeral. When he meant something, when the truth came from him, it was all there in his eyes. Just then, he wanted me to know he wasn’t playing a part.
My heart thundered, overtaken by the sensation of blood pumping in my veins as irritation coursed through me. Was he playing me? Using the Garcias and this dinner as a way to get me back somehow? Did he think I could ever forget what he did or the damage he left behind? Or who he was outside of the legitimate businesses he ran?
“I was,” I told him, moving against the door. “My Lord, Johnny, what are you thinking?” I watched him, unsurprised when his expression didn’t change. He was so stubborn, always had been. “Is this the game you’re playing? You want to manipulate me to, what? Win me back? Get me on my back again?”
