Rose of Betrayal (49 page)

           
Upon
arriving Christmas day, he removed the For Sale Sign.
 
There was no way he could sell a house full
of memories of Sam, not now anyway.
 
First, he had to stop drinking.
 
Pouring every ounce of booze down the drain, he preached to his
self-destructive side, you can do it, you have no choice if you want to play a
convincing part at the wedding, then…
 

Glancing through the
glass patio doors at menacing clouds blanketing the sun signaled a brewing
storm.
  
It was beginning to mist.
  
Conceivably a blazing fire would chase away
the chill, the dampness, the loneliness, the awful aching in his bones, a fire
capable of burning memories of another rainy day.
 
Tonight would be long, and lonely, the first
New Year's Eve alone, a time for resolutions, burying memories of Sam first on
the list.

           
Gathering
an armful of wood, the For Sale sign on top, he approached the fireplace
positioning each piece precisely in the grate before lighting a match.
 
Forearm propped on the mantel, watching
leaping flames eat away each letter of the words staring back; he became lost
in memories of another rainy day.
 
The
last evening spent alone with Sam.
 
As
the fire grew hotter and higher, so did memories until a spark leaped from the
grate.
 
Quickly stomping out the ember,
out of the corner of his eye a white flash drew his attention.
 
Lightening, he assumed, but a foreboding
inkling someone was watching prompted another inspection.
 
On a chair was a white mink coat.
 
The charred, red-hot logs were nothing
compared to the blaze beginning to char the insides of his heart.
 
He knew the owner.

           
Moving
to the chair, lifting the coat he precariously inspected the label.
 
Finding Samantha’s signature pitched his
heart into his throat.
 
As if the coat
was a premonition, he released it.
 
“Sam?
 
Sam?
 
Are you here,” he shouted, more elated than
he wished to feel.

           
Receiving
no answer, he began reprimanding himself aloud, “Don't be a jerk.
 
If she was, she would not be hiding now would
she, however, she had to be.
 
Surely,
that was her purse beneath the coat.
 
It
felt real, looked real.
 
Again, he
fingered the fur convincing verification his sanity remained.
   
Lungs swelling with the air of anticipation
made it difficult to breath.
  
His heart
began plummeting lungs like a Jack Hammer.
 
“God, I'm going crazy.” There was no way Sam could be here.
 

           
Charging
onto the deck, he discovered the driveway empty.
 
Rain plummeted in buckets as Brad stood like a piece of petrified
wood feeling as though his mood was governing the weather.
 
Completely oblivious to the flashing lightening,
the crashing thunder, the pouring rain, he stood like a statue staring into
space while the rain aspired to cleanse the anguish from a face hardened and
tarnished from years of weathering storms.

           
He
heard loud and clear the closing door; he must have, for he felt a sharp pain
deep within his chest, the slamming shut of the steel door masterfully built
over the years to keep love out, sealed for good this time, never again to
allow another woman entrance.
 
He was a
fool for allowing Samantha to discover the combination.
 
Unaware, she had slipped in through a tiny
crack leaving him with the impossible task of exorcising her memory.

           
Possibly,
Brad pondered, if he stood long enough the rain would drown those memories,
instead, shooting pains ricocheted in his skull, his head fell back.
  
The rain pelted his skin attempting to
cleanse an imagination out of control; Sam's coat and purse were nothing more
than visions conjured up by wish filled thoughts.

           
It
did not matter that her dripping wet clothes were making water puddles on the
tile floor, all Sam saw was Brad's magnificence.
 
There was no need to look at his handsome
face.
 
Surely, he would be surprised and
hopefully pleased when he turned and noticed her.
 

           
Over
and over, like a record she practiced the speech expressing thanks for his
exorbitant gift.
 
Positive she had
selected the right words, she held them on the tip of her tongue waiting for
Brad to enter the house.
 
Curious she was
as to why he was standing in the cold rain, except he had always been reckless
with his health.
 
“Brad!
 
Brad!”

           
Placing
his hands over his ears Brad silently screamed, “Go away, go away,” unaware
that during their journey, increasing in volume and force, they exploded from
his lips.

“Do you welcome all your guests that
way,” Sam indignantly acknowledged.
 

Turning slowly revealed his pale
features.
 
Surely, he was seeing a
ghost.
 

           
Though
his words were far from what Sam anticipated, the countenance gracing his gaunt
face made her trip worthwhile.
 
“For heavens’
sake, get in here before you catch your death,” she scolded.

           
Dishtowels
hurriedly grabbed she tossed at him as he entered.
  
Mummified he did not feel his arms move,
though they must have, they were in his hands.
 

           
Bending
over, Sam wrapped her dripping hair in a dishtowel much too small to contain
the long, thick locks and upon raising her head was surprised to see Brad had
not moved.
 
“They're not going to do any
good laying limp in your hands,” she lectured. Like a mother angry with her child
for neglecting his health, she took a few steps forward.
 
Plucking the towel’s she reached up on her
tiptoes dabbing at the water dripping from his face.
 

Brad never moved.
 
He was,
listening to her sneakers squeaking from the water filling them, and inspecting
her soaked sweat suit clinging to the swells of her breasts, the curves of her
small slender body.
 
She was a sight, the
most stunning, captivating sight he had ever seen.
 
Indeed, the strongest weakness he would ever
know.

“I wanted to surprise you, but this
is ridiculous.
 
Speak for Goodness sake,”
she chirped.

           
Verbalization
was not necessary, the grin slowly creasing his cheeks was worth more than a
poets words.
 
Languidly he pulled the
towel from her hair causing the mass to tumble over her shoulders.
 

           
Sam
swore she was frost bit, a virtual impossibility when the heat of Brad's hand
would have melted an iceberg.
 
Allowing
him to touch her could not happen.
 
Every
time they were in close proximity, he cast some awful all-consuming spell.

Taking a giant step
backward, her eyes seized an assessing glance of his appearance.
 
Propping her hands on her hips she chided,
“You are a mess, Brad Johnson.”

The sharpness of her blue eyes
piercing his invisible shield prompted a reply, “And you, Samantha Waverly,
look like a drowned rat.” Both chuckled.

“It's your fault.
 
I went jogging in this God-awful weather
trying to find you.
 
Don't you believe in
letting people know where you are?”

“No one can remain lost forever.
 
Someone will eventually come to their
rescue,” he said, and then continued silently to himself, unless they become
helplessly lost in your eyes.

           
Why
would he want to get lost?
 
What did
those velvet words mean, was he in trouble Sam wondered?
 
Looking as though he was in pain made concern
ripple her forehead, and
tinge
her words.
 
“Are you alright?”
 

           
Brad
was convinced his thoughts commanded the weather.
 
Lightening streaked the sky, thunder rolled,
the lights went out and a strange hush intruded their space.

           
Sam
was positive the intensity of Brad's eyes summoned the thunder and
lightning.
 
Like a frightened child, she
jumped and screamed only to have him rescue her from the blackness.
 

           
While
brawny arms encompassed her comforting words began stroking, “It's alright,
Princess, this happens a lot here, they will come on soon.
 
There are matches and candles in the drawer
behind you.”

           
Needing
room to find them was her excuse to wiggle free from his hold.
 
Seconds later, they were basked in the soft
light of a small candle.

           
“We
need to get out of these wet clothes.
 
I
have some thing's upstairs.
 
Though they
will be too big, they'll be better than nothing.”

           
Upstairs,
get out of wet clothes, better than nothing, what was he really implying, Sam
fretted.
 
Easily detected was Brad's
arousal when he held her.
 
A moan stalled
in her throat.
 
Things were not going the
way she planned.
 
She was only going to
thank him then be on her way.
 
What would
Ted think if he found out where she went?
 
She had promised they would spend New Year's Eve together.
 

           
Strangling
with fear, like a deer peering down the barrel of a gun, Sam desperately wanted
to bolt.
 
She had to go.
 
No one in their right mind would stay alone
in the dark with the devil of seduction.
 
“No,” Sam exclaimed, louder than she would have liked.

           
“No
what, now whose looking to catch a cold?
 
God, Ted will never forgive me if you are sick for the wedding.
 
Don't be a ninny.”
 
Watching Sam's eyes widen with consternation,
Brad wondered why she always seemed to be afraid of him.

           
She
was misinterpreting his insinuation. Calm down, Sam coached herself, wondering
if it was Brad's proximity or the wet clothes making her skin tingle.
 
“You go ahead.
 
I'm freezing.
 
I'll dry off by the fire,” Sam insisted.

“If you say so, follow me, hang on to
my shirt and stay close so you won't trip over anything.”

           
There
was no way she was going to touch him, to do so would undo the control she had
difficulty mustering.

           
Quivering
from head to toe, the fire did little to warm her.
  
Certain it was the soggy clothing, plucking
the blanket from the couch she hurriedly undressed before Brad returned.
 
The thickness and size of the blanket made it
difficult to secure a knot.
 
Tugging it
closed she held it tight with her hands.
 
           
  

           
While
the fire bathed the room in an orange sheen, clouds burst creating a cascade of
water on the windows.
 
Lightning etched
its' art across the chalkboard sky.
 
Thunder rocked and rolled, and Sam wondered if she had done the right
thing by sending her chauffeur to Keller’s to visit with his friends until
summoned explaining to Jack she would not be long, all she had to do was call
him if anything went wrong.
  
Somehow,
the thought became more comforting than the blanket, or the fire.