by Michele Hauf
“I don’t see why it has to,” she replied mulishly.
“Are you listening to yourself?” Mitch cried. “The man’s going to be a father. He has the right to know that, and that child has the right to a father. I grew up without one, remember?”
Cleo sobered. “You’re right, but what if he wants to take the baby away from me? He’s got money and power ... I can’t let that happen.”
“I don’t think he would do that. Sam might be a jerk on too many levels to count, but deep down, he’s a decent guy. You know, it could be worse—he could be a male dancer out for your money.”
Mitch laughed so hard at her own joke that tears filled her eyes. Cleo joined in her laughter, but it was still tinged with bitterness. To her, Sam’s lies weren’t amusing, and she doubted they ever would be
“I’m starving. Can we go get burgers?” she said, standing. She didn’t want to talk about this anymore.
“No. With the way you haven’t been eating, you need a steak. You’re eating for two now. Let’s get Sammy settled in his kennel, and then we’ll go shopping. Time to fire up that new grill anyway.” She grinned. “I have to go to Reno tomorrow. I’ll answer Charlie’s emails to Mitch Hutchins from the hotel, and see if I can set up a meeting with Sam.”
Cleo sighed. She missed Sam more than ever. Instead of the pain diminishing, it was a raw, gaping wound inside her that would never heal. Her prayers that not seeing him would ease the ache with time wasn’t working, and now fate had conspired against her. Slowly, she moved her hand across her flat belly. A baby! She was going to be a mother. She couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry.
Mitch walked over to her and hugged her. “Listen to me. You love that guy, and I think he really cared for you. Maybe you two could have made a go of it if you’d stuck around long enough. So what if he’s filthy rich? It’s not a capital offense. I’m sure they lied for a good reason—we lied, too. I know using fake names was my idea, and I’ll accept the blame for that if I have to, but at the time it made sense. In my line of work, stalkers are a problem. I’m sure over the years, Sam’s had to deal with more than his fair share of gold diggers.”
Cleo hugged Mitch in return. “What would I do without you? You’re right. Contact Charlie and see if Sam will agree to meet with me. I’ll make a decision from there. No matter what happens, I’m having this baby.” And I intend to keep it. “Now, let’s get this bad boy settled. I need dog food, too.”
I’ve found her.
Sam stared at Charlie’s three-word email on the computer screen, the reason he’d left Wales so suddenly last night. He’d stayed at the job site longer than he’d needed to because he’d been unable to face returning home knowing Cleo was still in the wind.
He glanced down at the plain gold wedding band he wore, the one he’d been forced to buy to replace the cheap one that had turned his finger green. That one was in his safe in Vegas. She hadn’t filed for divorce yet, at least not that his lawyer could see. To Sam, that was a shining beacon of hope. As long as she was still his wife, he had a chance—a slim one—but he would take whatever he could get, and now that he knew where she was...
Charlie had assured him the feelings he had for Cleo would disappear over time, but he’d been wrong. Sam had done his best to throw himself into the renovations and his business. He’d signed three more contracts in Europe: two in France and one in Austria. The renovations and upgrades to the chateaux converted into hotels would add to his corporate wealth. He would create a branch of the company specifically for these types of projects and staff it accordingly.
While business was good, his personal life sucked. Every time Sam saw Walter, he recalled the Skywalk. Each time he met Matt at the airport, his day in the helicopter came back to him, and when he saw couples smiling and kissing, walking hand in hand, his heart ached for Cleo. Despite the evidence he was married, women had thrown themselves or been thrown at him by others, but none of them had affected him in any way. He knew the paparazzi saw things differently, but the only time he had a hard-on was when he dreamed of his wife.
He usually busied himself on these flights with paperwork or drawing plans, but the only thing he’d drawn in the last two months had been pictures of Cleo. He looked down at the quick sketch he’d made of her. In her Orion slave girl costume, she looked at him with that Mona Lisa smile of hers. He slipped the drawing inside his jacket pocket. Soon, he would see the real thing and beg her to give them a chance.
The plane taxied to the hangar. He shut the computer and stood, ready to disembark. Charlie was waiting for him with Roy. Sam couldn’t wait to find out what they’d discovered. He wanted his wife. He just prayed she wanted him, too. After all, absence made the heart grow fonder, right?
Yeah, but out of sight, out of mind, his conscience prodded.
It was just before eight. He’d flown through the night to get here as fast as he could. He’d slept some, but his rest had been plagued by nightmares of Cleo refusing to see him, refusing to speak to him.
“How was the flight?” Charlie asked, reaching for his attaché case.
“Long, very long. What did you discover? Where’s my wife? She is still my wife, right?”
“As far as we know. We’ve had a private detective staking out the post office in Reno since my friend at the IRS gave me that address information for Mitch. She showed up there last week, spent three days in town, and sent me an email requesting a meeting. I told her you were still out of the country, and I would contact her as soon as you got back.”
“And have you?” The sooner he saw Cleo, the sooner he could clear this up, beg her forgiveness, and spend the rest of his life making it up to her.
“Not yet. I wanted to talk to you first. There are decisions to make here. How are we going to play this?”
“What do you mean? There’s no playing involved. I want to talk to my wife, tell her the truth, and beg her to forgive me and give us a chance.” Sam ran his hand through his hair. He needed a shower, a shave, and a haircut.
“It may not be that easy,” Charlie said. “The detective followed her. She lives in a mobile home in Rachel, Nevada. Her real name is Michele Trent. She runs an Internet store specializing in space rocks. I actually bought one of them last year—I had it checked out and it’s the real deal, so she isn’t a con artist. Once I had her name, I ran a background check and found your wife.” Charlie ran his hand nervously through his hair.
“Tell me the rest.”
“Cleo did, as we suspected, use an alias. I figured if she’d used a false name it would invalidate your marriage, and that could all just disappear.”
Sam scowled. What was going on here? “I’m confused. You just said we were still married.”
“When I found out who she was, I had the handwriting expert look at the signature again. He’d been unable to give us anything definitive earlier, but when I gave him the name, it fell into place. She signed her real name that night: C. C. James. She signs it as one word. Catherine Cleopatra James. The marriage is valid, Sam. The only way out of it is a divorce—”
“I don’t want a damn divorce, I want my wife,” he yelled. “Now, did you learn anything useful?”
Charlie grinned. “I just did. Liz was sure you would feel that way, but I needed to see for myself. Here’s what I know. She didn’t exactly lie to you. Most of what she said were half-truths. Cleo was born in Calgary, Alberta—still has family in the area on her mother’s side—but is now an American citizen. She’s an elementary school teacher—kindergarten last year—in Carson Grove, a small town midway between Reno and Carson City, the bastion of conservatism in Nevada. That alone could explain why she bolted. Being married to a stripper wouldn’t be good for her career or standing in the community.” He laughed.
Sam glared at him.
“Don’t look at me. You’re the one who started that. I just went along with it,” Charlie said, holding up one hand as if to ward off a blow. “Maybe if I’d been honest with Mitch, we could�
��ve avoided all this.”
“Don’t remind me,” Sam grumbled. “Let me guess. Carson Grove is a small place, about five thousand, and everyone knows everyone else’s business.”
“Pretty much. Her mother died three years ago, but her father is a tenured professor of archeology at the University of Nevada in Reno. Apparently, he’s on sabbatical for the year, gone on some archeological dig in Peru. Won’t be back until this time next year. He’s sold his house and gone—I understand it was a split second decision.”
“Cleo’s in Peru?” he said, suddenly disappointed.
“No. She’s changed jobs and lives in Alamo.”
“That’s only two hours from here. Let’s go.” He wouldn’t wait any longer than he had to.
15
Cleo turned off the shower and stepped out into the steamy bathroom. Why was it she couldn’t wash herself without reliving the one and only shower she’d ever taken with Sam? He’d certainly been right when he said she would never forget it. Although she’d come out clean, she was always left aching for the man she couldn’t have. Her dreams, worse these last few weeks, were bad enough.
She dried off and ran her hands through the rat’s nest of hair on her head. Maybe she should cut it short. Sam had liked it like this, but it was a real pain at times. With the baby, it would be a nightmare to get up, dressed, take care of the child, and roll out to work each day. The last thing she needed would be a twenty-minute battle trying to tame her curls.
She looked down at the dog who’d followed her into the room. Sammy had become her constant companion.
“I’ll do it. It’ll be my first step to moving on without your namesake—as without him as I can get sharing a child. Mitch will approve. She’s all about signs.” She towel-dried her hair and pulled it into a loose ponytail. Talking to the dog had become a habit.
She went into the bedroom, took her skinny jeans out of her dresser drawer, and discovered she couldn’t zip them. Had she worn them since she’d moved to Alamo? With the summer heat, probably not. It looked like she would need new clothes. Going to the closet, she selected a skirt and peasant top, one of her favorite school outfits, the green oil paint stains notwithstanding, and put it on instead. When she tried to cinch the white leather belt at her waist, it proved impossible. When had that happened?
Why hadn’t she seen the changes earlier? Because she hadn’t wanted to.
Going downstairs to the kitchen, she fed Sammy, then while he gobbled down his food, she took her vitamins and made herself breakfast. The single cup coffee maker had been a great investment since it let her brew the one cup of java she was allowed each day, and all the herbal teas she wanted.
Searching through the fridge, she listed what she would need for the week, and opened her laptop to catch up on the latest news. The computer, a sleek new model with all the bells and whistles, and the photograph quality printer had been housewarming gifts from Mitch. The doorbell rang, and Cleo frowned. Who could be at her door at ten o’clock on a Saturday morning? Mitch wasn’t due for a half an hour, and she was rarely early. Skywalk coffee mug in hand, Sammy barking and jumping at her feet, Cleo walked to the front door.
Probably some kid selling something. I hope it’s chocolate.
“Coming,” she called.
She opened the door, a friendly smile pasted on her face. It died there. Sammy growled. Cleo stopped breathing, the coffee cup fell to the floor, shattering on impact, splattering Sam’s expensive beige pants, and the room began to spin the way it did when the tornado struck and pulled Dorothy off to Oz.
“Sam!” Everything went black.
Sam, arms filled with roses, caught Cleo before she could hit the floor, the small dog yapping wildly beside her.
Shit. He’d known seeing him would be a surprise, but he hadn’t anticipated it would scare her to death and make her faint. Why the look of shock, horror, and fear on her face before she’d passed out? What kind of monster did she think he was?
“Charlie, a little help here,” he cried, dropping the roses into his friend’s arms, and lifting Cleo into his arms amidst the dog’s fervent protests.
“Easy boy, I’m not going to hurt her.”
Sam, grateful the small dog was only barking and not using him as a chew toy, carried his wife over to the leather couch, laid her on it, and covered her with the plaid throw he found there. He knelt down beside her, his hand gentling caressing her pale cheek.
“Is she okay?” Charlie’s voice was filled with concern.
Sam scrutinized his wife. She seemed different somehow—pale as if she’d been sick, or was that just the effect of seeing him? He’d loved her blushes, whether au naturel or under green paint, but this ashen look, not so much. Cleo was just as beautiful as he remembered, but there was something different about her, too. She’d felt lighter in his arms. Had she lost weight? Had he caused her that much misery?
“I don’t know,” he whispered.
The dog, now whimpering, ran back to the door and started barking furiously.
The door opened and Mitch entered.
“Sammy, what’s with all the racket?” She glared from one man to the other and then zeroed in on the couch. “You bastard!” she yelled. “What the hell have you done to her?”
An enraged elephant bent on death and destruction couldn’t have looked angrier.
“Calm down, Mitch,” Sam tried to placate the irate woman who’d picked up the small dog. “I didn’t do or say anything. I rang the bell. She opened the door, said my name, and fainted. I knew I would surprise her, but…”
She turned on Charlie. “How did you find us? Son of a bitch. You stalked me. You said Sam was still out of the country. Don’t you get tired of lying, Mr. Chippendale?”
“It isn’t Charlie’s fault, Mitch—or should I say Michele?”
Mitch reddened. “Mitch is fine, and that wasn’t a lie. I am Mitch Hutchins. I’m the one who told Cleo not to give her real name. Let me put him in the yard, get some water and a cold cloth, and I’ll wake her up.”
Sam watched her go into the kitchen area and heard a screen door open. He glanced around the room, recognizing the images in the Skywalk montage on the far wall and some of the other Grand Canyon pictures she’d blown up. It seemed his wife was quite the photographer and decorator. The little house was gorgeous and suited her.
He reached down and pushed her hair off her face. There was an ethereal quality to her today, and it worried him. Was she eating enough?
Mitch came back with a cold cloth and some water.
“Go sit out on the deck. The dog won’t bother you. He’s all bark, no bite. If I’d known you would show up unannounced like this, I would’ve suggested the pit bull. Go. I don’t want her fainting again. Wait! Why are you here?”
Sam stood. He didn’t want to let Cleo out of his sight, but he knew Mitch was correct. Seeing him had caused this.
“She and I need to talk.”
“You’ve got that right,” Mitch bit off. “Go.”
Charlie and Sam walked out the kitchen door to the small redwood deck. Sam looked out at the fields in the distance.
“Are those mine?” he asked, eying the ripened alfalfa, harvesting machines busily at work.
“Probably. You own almost a thousand acres around here.” He sat, his shoulders slumped. “Mitch is pretty angry. I suppose Cleo must be, too. I had this stupid notion that she might be happy to see me. I should’ve asked her why they wanted to see us. From her response in there, it looks like they know the truth. Damn! I’d hope to be able to tell her myself and explain that it was your idea. Given the situation, I’d had no choice but to play along.”
“I know. Mom used to say lies took on a life of their own. I never really understood it until now. God, she’s got to listen to me. When I saw the look on her face, I wanted to die. She hates me, Charlie.” He looked down at the dog looking up at them. “She named the dog after me. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.”
Cleo hear
d Mitch’s voice calling her from what seemed to be miles away. She focused on the sound and opened her eyes.
“What happened?”
“Apparently you passed out—must be a side effect of your condition. You don’t handle surprises well.”
Cleo frowned and tried to remember what had happened. She’d fed Sammy, had breakfast, and someone had been at the door. Her eyes opened wide, and she sat up. Where was the dog?
“Where’s Sammy?”
“He’s fine. I put him in the yard.”
“My mug!” She searched the floor and saw the remnants of the souvenir mug and spilled coffee, doggie prints crisscrossing the mess and the rest of the floor. Tears brimmed in her eyes. Another thing lost. She started. “Sam! I saw Sam at the door. I must be losing my mind.”
“You’re not, Cleo. He’s here. I sent him and Charlie out to the porch. Nice of him to bring his lawyer partner in crime with him. Well, at least you’ll get your papers straightened out, and you can work something out about the baby. I’ll give Sam one thing. He looked devastated when he was kneeling beside the couch.”
“He’s probably afraid I’m going to cause a scandal. That won’t happen unless he tries to take the baby from me. I’ll fight tooth and nail to keep him or her.” She ran her hand across her stomach and felt the slight swell of their child. “While I go up and try to make myself presentable, can you clean that up?” She indicated the broken pottery and dog prints.
Mitch nodded.
Cleo sighed. “I knew I would have to confront him sooner or later; I just thought I would have more time.”
In the bathroom she washed her face and tried to tidy her hair. She looked into the mirror at the stranger with the haunted eyes and pale face looking back at her. It wouldn’t do. With a surprisingly steady hand, she added blusher to her face and lip gloss. She didn’t dare add mascara. Brave as she might try to pretend to be, there was no way she would get through this without tears. The image in the mirror didn’t look as confident as she’d hoped. She went into her bedroom and change, and there he stood, left hand tucked in his pocket, admiring the mural. He turned at her gasp.
