02_Groom of Her Own (17 page)

“It’s okay, Sam,” he murmured, his lips in her hair. “Let it out You deserve a good cry after the day you’ve had.”

Sam clung to his shirt, her fists balling the fabric, as she struggled for control. She didn’t want to cry. Crying never solved anything or made a hurt go away. But the combined emotional and physical trauma were no match for her shaky control. She couldn’t stop the tears, so she simply tried to stifle the sobs as much as possible.

Brad just held her, rocking her gently in his arms and murmuring soothing words, his cheek against her hair, until her sobs subsided and she rested quietly against him.

Sam would have liked to stay right where she was indefinitely, drawing comfort from the strength and compassion of Brad’s arms, but at last she drew a shaky breath and ventured a glance at him. “Sorry about that,” she apologized with a tremulous, watery smile. “I don’t usually cry.”

“You had good reason,” he replied, stroking her cheek gently with the back of his knuckles.

Sam’s breath caught in her throat at his touch and at the tender caring in his unguarded eyes. She couldn’t let him stay tonight, she told herself, much as she’d like to. It would only complicate things even more.

“Brad, about tonight…”

“Sam. Let it rest, okay? For me.”

When he put it like that, how could she refuse him? she thought helplessly. Besides, she simply didn’t have the strength to argue. She’d just have to deal with the consequences tomorrow, she thought, capitulating with a sigh “I think there’s some microwave stuff in the freezer. And there’s some extra bedding in the closet in the office. If you need to—”

“Sam,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “Stop worrying. You don’t have to play hostess. I’ll be fine. I’m used to coping on my own. And I’m a master at microwave. In fact, why don’t I fix us both something to eat?”

She shook her head wearily. “Thanks. But I think I’ll pass. To be honest, all I want to do is lie down and try to sleep.”

Brad didn’t argue. Rest would probably be better for her tonight than food, anyway, “Okay.” He stood up and then reached for her, carefully drawing her to her feet. “Come on, let’s get you to the bedroom,” he said as he put his arm around her waist.

At any other time that comment would have set a thousand butterflies loose in her stomach and inspired all sorts of romantic fantasies. But the stings were beginning to throb with renewed intensity, and her sole priority was the oblivion of sleep, which would bring welcome relief from her misery.

Brad gave her bedroom a cursory glance as they entered. Like the living room, it featured ultramodern decor. So modern, in fact, that it was almost stark, he realized, the predominant color a cool blue. Not at all the sort of boudoir he’d imagined for Sam, he thought in surprise. This sterile, monotone room definitely did not seem designed to induce romance.

Sam’s quiet sigh effectively refocused his attention on the woman beside him, and he reined in his wayward thoughts as he guided her to the bed. She sank down carefully, and he squatted in front of her, his concerned eyes searching her wan face.

“I’ll get some water and aspirin, and I’ll bring in the lotion that Linda sent,” he said gently.

“Thanks.”

When he returned, he found Sam struggling with her hair, hampered by two swollen fingers that rendered her right hand almost useless.

Brad deposited the collected items on the nightstand and sat down beside her. “Can I help?”

Sam sighed in frustration. “If I don’t unbraid my hair before I go to sleep it will be too tangled to even get a comb through tomorrow,” she said, her voice quavering. “But my fingers aren’t working right.”

“Then let me do it for you,” he said, grasping her shoulders and gently angling her away from him. Brad eyed the tucked-under French braid with a frown. He had very little experience with women’s hairstyles. Rachel had favored a short, simple cut, and he didn’t have a clue where to begin with this complicated style.

“Okay, I give up,” he said at last. “Where are the pins?”

“Down at the bottom,” Sam replied, her voice muffled as she bent her head.

There was something endearing about Sam’s trustingly submissive posture, and an unexpected surge of desire jolted through Brad as he looked at the vulnerable and enticing expanse of skin that was exposed at her nape. Although a sharply indrawn breath was the only auditory evidence of his acute physical reaction, Sam picked up on it.

“Brad?” Her voice was uncertain, and Brad forced himself to focus on the task at hand. Now was
not
the time to wonder how that patch of creamy skin would feel against his lips, he told himself sharply.

“Just trying to figure out where to start,” he said, hoping his voice sounded more in control than he felt.

“I think I got one pin partly out,” she volunteered, her voice still hesitant

He scanned her hair and finally saw the pin in question. “You’re right,” he said, reaching over to gently extract it. Then he took a deep breath, trying to slow the pounding of his heart, and with unsteady fingers began to probe the soft hair at the base of her head for the elusive pins. Gradually he located them, carefully withdrawing them one by one until the bottom of the braid hung free.

“I think that’s it,” he said at last, hoping his voice didn’t betray his elevated hormone level. The intimate nature of his task had set his heart pounding, and try as he might, he couldn’t stop his imagination from creating a picture of what this scene might mean in another context.

Sam reached around with her good hand and made an unsuccessful attempt to loosen the braid, but Brad stilled her uncooperative fingers with his own.

“I started the job. I might as well finish it,” he said, his voice oddly hoarse.

Sam hesitated momentarily. The feel of his hands in her hair was sending electric currents through her body, overriding the pain of the stings, and a tightly wound coil of tension began to pulsate deep within her. The intimate nature of the act wasn’t lost on her, either, despite her injuries. It was sweet agony to sit passively and let this man run his fingers through her hair when what she really wanted to do was turn in his arms and taste his kisses. The struggle of trying to stifle that impulse was actually making her quiver.

Brad’s hand was still covering hers at the back of her head, and he could feel her trembling. Or at least he
thought
it was her. He was so shaky himself at this point that he couldn’t be sure.

“Sam?” he asked questioningly.

The best thing right now would be for him to leave the room, she thought frantically. But what about her hair? It would be impossible to handle tomorrow if she left it alone, and he’d gone this far. How much worse could it get? Drawing an unsteady breath, she removed her hand from under his and let it fall to her lap in silent acquiescence.

Brad didn’t say anything, either. He no longer trusted his voice.

A muscle in his jaw twitched as he began to methodically unbraid her hair, trying desperately to keep his imagination and hormones in check. It had been a long time since he’d touched a woman like this, and he was stunned by the impact it was having on him physically.

When at last her hair was loose, he reached for the brush he’d seen earlier on her nightstand. “I’ll get some of the tangles out for you,” he said quietly, and before she could protest he began to gently run the brush through her hair.

Sam had never had a man brush her hair before, and the pure sensuousness of the gesture sent a shock wave down her spine, producing a surge of desire that radiated all the way to her toes.

It was also a first for Brad, and the effect on him was exactly the same. Sam had incredibly soft hair, and as it slipped through his hands it awakened nerve endings in his fingertips that he didn’t even know existed. What would she do if he tossed the brush aside and ran his fingers through her hair instead? he wondered recklessly. If he pressed his lips to the silky strands, and turned her head to taste—

Brad’s flight of fancy was abruptly halted when the brush dislodged a small object from Sam’s hair. She glanced down as it fell on the bed beside her and, with a sudden shriek of terror, she shot to her feet and backed away, staring at it in horror.

Brad was so startled by Sam’s reaction that it took him a moment to identify the cause—a bee. A very dead bee, actually. With one quick motion he scooped it up, crushed it inside a tissue and deposited it in the trash. In the next instant he was beside her, gathering her into his arms and pressing her face to his chest.

“Sam, it’s okay. It’s dead. It won’t hurt you. Nothing’s going to hurt you,” he whispered, his breath warm on her forehead.

The rigid lines of her body suddenly went limp, and a sob caught in her throat as she sagged against him. “I think I’m go-going to have a bee pho-phobia for life,” she gasped.

She was shaking again, and Brad gently but firmly guided her back to the bed, steadying her with one hand as he pulled back the covers before easing her down. She lay docilely as he applied lotion to her stings, swallowed the aspirin he handed her, and felt him press the ice bag gently against her ankle.

Sam watched him as he pulled up the sheet and sat down next to her, her wide eyes still slightly glazed. Brad took her good hand in his and studied her face as he laced his fingers through hers.

“I’ll be close by, Sam,” he said softly. “Will you call me if you need anything?”

She nodded mutely.

He hesitated, then slowly leaned down and gently, lingeringly, pressed his lips to her forehead. Her eyes seemed even wider when he straightened up, and he tenderly brushed some stray strands of hair back from her forehead.

“Remember that I’ll be here for you,” he said, his eyes compellingly locked on hers. Then he rose, and with one last glance back at her supine form, gently shut the door behind him.

For a long time Sam drifted in a place somewhere between sleep and pain-dulled reality, Brad’s pledgelike words echoing through her mind. But even as she clung to them, suspecting a deeper, longer-term meaning, she knew they applied only for tonight. Because soon Brad, like his words, would be just a distant, treasured memory that was filed carefully and lovingly away in her heart

Chapter Seven

T
he beeping of the microwave timer diverted Brad’s gaze from his view of Sam’s small but well-tended garden. He strode quickly across the room to turn it off before the high-pitched tone disturbed her. As he withdrew the container of fettuccini, his stomach reacted loudly to the savory aroma, and he glanced at his watch—8:00 p.m. No wonder he was so hungry. His last meal had been more than twelve hours ago, and that had consisted of a bagel and black coffee before his early service.

Brad downed the first several forkfuls quickly to appease his grumbling stomach, but then slowed his pace as a bone-deep weariness suddenly overcame him. It didn’t seem possible that he and Sam had arrived at the picnic only five hours ago. It felt like a lifetime had passed since then. Sam had the right idea about sleep, he decided. They could both use a good night’s rest.

He remembered her mentioning something about extra bedding in the office closet, so when he finished his meal he went exploring. He’d given the office only a quick glance earlier as he passed, but his first impression of a neat, businesslike setup was confirmed as he stepped inside and flipped on the light to reveal a no-nonsense, workoriented room.

Brad found the extra pillows, blankets and sheets stacked in the large closet, as Sam had said, and he reached up to retrieve what he needed, only to halt in surprise when his shoulder twinged painfully. He frowned and lowered his arm quickly, flexing it gingerly before reaching up again, this time more carefully, to remove a pillow and blanket. A sore shoulder seemed to be
his
souvenir of their outing, he thought ruefully.

As Brad closed the closet door something on a lower shelf tumbled onto the floor. He opened the door again and bent to retrieve several videotapes, glancing at the titles as he replaced them. He quickly came to the obvious conclusion—for all her apparent sophistication, Sam was a romantic at heart. And she liked happy endings. The shelf was filled with classic romantic movies, including what appeared to be a complete collection of Cary Grant and Rock Hudson/Doris Day flicks. Brad smiled and shook his head as he closed the closet door. No question about it, Sam was full of surprises. And pleasant ones, at that.

Brad deposited the bedding on the couch in the living room and stretched wearily. A shower would sure feel great, he thought longingly. And under the circumstances, he doubted whether she would mind if he took one.

He rummaged around in the hall linen closet, emerging triumphantly a moment later with a towel. Then he stepped into the guest bath and quietly closed the door, glancing in the mirror as he passed the sink. The image reflected back at him, however, made him stop dead in his tracks. His hair was tousled, a five-o’clock—no, make that nineo’clock—shadow was darkening his face and his shirt was streaked with dirt. Disreputable would be a kind way to describe his appearance. But at least the shower should help, he consoled himself.

Brad crossed his arms to pull off his shirt, pausing abruptly as his shoulder once again protested. Moving more slowly, he stripped off the shirt in one smooth but careful motion, then turned his back to the mirror and glanced over his shoulder to check out the damage.

Brad’s eyes widened in surprise at the large, ugly blackand-blue mark that marred his skin. He’d known at the time that he’d taken the brunt of their fall—purposely—and it had hurt, but he hadn’t had a clue about the severity of the bruising.

He supposed he should put some ice on it, he thought halfheartedly. But he was just too tired.

Brad took a longer shower than usual, angling his injured shoulder away from the warm, soothing spray, and by the time he finished and combed his wet hair, he felt much more human. Not to mention cleaner. Unfortunately, he couldn’t say the same for his clothes, he thought, surveying them critically. He shook out his jeans, which helped a little, and pulled them back on, not bothering with the belt. But he quickly came to the conclusion that washing was the only thing that would improve his shirt. He’d noticed Sam’s small washer and dryer earlier in the utility room next to the kitchen, and with one more distasteful glance at his shirt, headed in that direction.