The Great Bedroom War (13 page)

“That may be.” He chuckled. “But you still got what you wanted, didn’t you?”

An understatement if she’d ever heard one. Her insides still throbbed from the intensity of her climax.

“Unlike some of us.” His eyebrows lifted in a hopeful arch. He glanced pointedly down at the bulge still stretching his shorts. “Since you’ve already finished, I’m willing to settle for an appetizer, too.”

“You can be willing all you want. I’m not.”

“Come on,
cariño
I took care of you. I promise you, considering the state you’ve left me in, it’ll take less than a minute of your day.”

Only a man as arrogant as her ex would have the audacity to try to guilt an outraged woman into stroking his Willie.

“Don’t you think a little payback is in order?” he persisted pleading his case.

“Certainly.” She tilted her chin up and stomped toward the bathroom, calling back, “You’ll get yours right about the time snakes grow feet!”

~*~

Okay, so maybe suggesting it was his turn to be on the receiving end of some whoopee hadn’t been his smartest move or finest moment.

But damn it! Nick slammed the skillet down on the six-burner stovetop and tossed some sausage links into it. Samantha had kept him awake half the night with her bedtime striptease. He’d tossed and turned for hours, recalling how it felt to rest his head on her pillowy breasts and rub his face against her soft skin, breathing her sweet citrus fragrance.

For as long as he could remember, Sam had reminded him of the fresh squeezed lemonade his
papi
bought him and Justin during their family’s last vacation together. The ice-cold beverage had been sweet and tangy, offering just enough tartness to quench his thirst.

The scent suited Sam, who delivered a healthy dose of good-natured wit to amuse him and enough acerbic sass to keep him in line.

He measured fresh-ground coffee into a filter, and as soon as he started the pot brewing, pulled a bag of blueberries from the freezer. He proceeded to mix up a batch of batter. Blueberry pancakes were Sam’s favorite breakfast—although, she probably only loved them because they were the one thing he’d known how to cook during their marriage, other than what he threw on the grill.

By the time the sausage browned, he had half a dozen hotcakes bubbling on the griddle. When the back staircase creaked, he turned. Sam descended the steps wearing a light blue dress with straps that tied at her shoulders.

Considering the outcome of their first bout that morning, one would assume he might have learned something.

Negative. All he could think about was loosening those little bows and sucking her breasts again. She’d tasted so damn good—even better than he’d remembered.

Her feet stalled on the bottom step, and she glanced toward the stove. “If you think pancakes are—”

“Truce, Sammy. I didn’t come home to fight.” He turned and flipped the hotcakes. “I’ll make you a deal. If you’ll stop wearing nightgowns that would give the Pope a coronary and try not to bed-hop in your sleep, I promise to attempt to behave myself.”

“Fine.” She pointed to his running shorts and sneakers. “Aren’t you going to work?”

“Nope. Ethan doesn’t need me at corporate for another month, and I have nine weeks of vacation banked.”

“Wonderful.” The roll of her eyes underscored the sarcasm in her tone. “So what you’re saying is, you’ll be poking your nose into everything 24/7 for the next four weeks?”

“If that’s how you choose to look at it. I’ll be doing some consulting from home, but I’ll have lots of time to spend with Dani.”

“It’ll also give you plenty of time to look for someplace else to live.”

“Right.” As if that was actually going to happen. Still, it was an argument best saved for another time. He transferred three pancakes and two plump sausages to a plate and slid it onto the table at Sam’s customary place. “Is Dani up, or should I eat—”

“Is that Daddy’s blueberry pancakes I smell?” Their daughter thundered down the steps. She planted a kiss on his cheek and flopped into her chair wearing a pair of skin-tight jeans and enough eye make-up for an entire theatrical troupe.

“When did you start going to school looking like raccoon?” he asked, filling her plate.

“She doesn’t,” Sam answered for her and turned to Dani. “Go wash that crud off your eyes.”

“Why? I’m almost fifteen. You wear eyeliner.”

“There’s a big difference between fourteen
and a
half
,” she corrected, “and thirty-two.” Sam poured a small puddle of blueberry syrup on the side of her plate. “And for your information, young lady, I only wear eyeliner when I get dressed up in the evening. You look trashy made up that—”

“Sam.” Nick cut her off, placing Dani’s breakfast in front of her. “Why are you explaining yourself to her?” He turned to their daughter and pointed toward the stairs. “Go do as you were told.”

“And while you’re at it,” Sam added, “change out of those shrink-wrap jeans and into one of the five pair I bought you that fit.”

When the child continued sitting there glaring at her mother, Nick bellowed, “Now!”

Dani shoved herself back from the table and stomped up the stairs, muttering, “You should go back to California.”

“And miss all this fun?” He sputtered. “Not a chance.”

What had happened to the little girl he’d tucked into bed last night who’d seemed so relieved to hear he was staying? It was as if she’d ripped a page out of the
Three Faces of Eve
.

He shook his head and turned to Sam. “Do all teenagers have split personalities, or do we need to medicate her?”

“From what I hear, mood swings are normal. Although, it’s probably worse with girls since their hormones fluctuate with their monthly cycles.”

“You mean she’s getting her period and everything now?”

“Of course. In fact, she’s actually a late bloomer.”

If he recalled correctly, Sammy had also been slow to mature. One day, she’d been a flat-chested thirteen-year-old begging for piggy-back rides, and the next time he’d looked, she’d had breasts.

Sam smeared a pat of butter on her pancakes. “What’d you think I meant last spring when I told you Dani hit puberty?”

“I don’t know.” He hadn’t really given it much thought. “I guess I figured she’d grown breasts or hair or something.” Damn. If he’d really considered the matter, he would’ve realized she was old enough to menstruate. But seeing his daughter so rarely, he’d continued to think of her as a little girl. “So she gets PMS and everything?”

“Yes, Nick.” Sam swallowed a mouthful. “Physically, she’s a woman. Emotionally? Not so much.”

He tipped the mixing bowl to pour more batter onto the griddle and froze at the memory of Sam’s hot breath puffing in his ear fifteen years ago as she pleaded,
“Please, Nicky, I want to know how sex feels
.”

His wife had been only three years older than Dani when she became pregnant with their daughter. Sam’s eager hands, her mouth, her tongue had seemed to caress him everywhere at once, tempting and seducing him. When she’d pressed her naked body against his, a saint couldn’t have resisted taking her.

“Nick! Watch what you’re doing!” Sam jerked his attention back to the griddle. Lost in his memories, he’d poured one huge pancake.

“Crap.” He yanked the bowl upright and set it on the counter.

If his daughter had a menstrual cycle, that meant she also must have sexual urges. If she was anything like her mother during her fertile days....

Damn. The six-foot penis didn’t stand a chance.

Why hadn’t he considered this before? He’d stupidly worried about Ryan, the teen horn-dog who would predictably focus all his energy on getting laid. In reality, Dani’s fickle hormones were the bigger threat to her innocence.

“She must want to have sex. That’s why she put all that goop on her face.”

Sam did a double-take. “Are you insane?”

“No. Think about it. She’s wearing those tight jeans and make-up to get the boys to chase her.”

“Cheese ‘n crackers!” Sam slammed down her fork. “Would you get a hold yourself?” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but just because a girl wants a boy’s attention doesn’t necessarily mean she wants to jump into bed with him. You’re thinking like a typical man.”

“I hope so.” He pulled out his waistband and peered into his running shorts. “Whew.” He blew out a breath of relief. “For a minute, I was worried
El Capitán
had gone AWOL.”

“Very funny.”

Dani’s footsteps at the top of the stairs put an end to their discussion. He cut his giant pancake into a peace sign on the griddle and turned it over in three pieces.

“I suppose my breakfast is cold now,” Dani said when she reached the kitchen.

“You can have these rejects if you want,” Nick offered.

Dani peered at the mutilated sections. “What happened to ‘em?”

“You don’t really want to know,” Sam muttered.

“O-kaaay.” Dani sat down and dug into the pancakes on her plate. “Ryan can still have supper here tonight, right?” she mumbled past a mouthful.

More than anything, Nick wanted to decree the kid could never come within a hundred feet of Dani. But knowing his daughter, it would only make her more determined to see the boy.

“Sure.” Nick agreed. “I’ll make my black bean chili.”

Of course, there was no guarantee a little saltpeter wouldn’t accidentally fall into Ryan’s bowl.

CHAPTER 7

Sam left her breakfast unfinished to make turkey sandwiches for Dani’s and her lunch bags while Nick escaped to check his e-mail in the small study they’d added behind the family room.

Dani rolled her second sausage in a syrup-soaked pancake and ate it like a burrito. Out of the blue, she asked, “Did you and Daddy split up ‘cause of Uncle Justin?”

The knife Sam had used on the sandwich slipped from her hand and clattered to the granite countertop. “Where on earth would you get a ridiculous idea like that?”

“Last night I was talking to Haley on the phone, and she said she overheard a conversation between her father and Uncle Justin.”

Nick’s brother and Marc Simmons had been roommates in college and buddies ever since. Their close association had led to Sam’s eventual friendship with Marc’s wife, Lindsey, and ultimately to their daughters playing together as preschoolers.

Not a day went by that Sam didn’t miss her friend. After she lost Michael and, then later, during the divorce, Lindsey had been Sam’s main source of emotional support and comfort.

“Mr. Simmons wants to start dating,” Dani continued while Sam stuffed a wrapped sandwich, an apple, and a package of veggie chips into a lunch bag. “Her mom’s only been gone eight months.”

Sam sank back into her chair at the table, wracking her brain for a diplomatic way to explain that, although Marc might still be mourning his wife, he was also a man with physical needs. Needs which Lindsey had suggested might be nearly as great as Nick’s.

“I know it seems too soon, sweet pea. But it might comfort Haley if you suggest that maybe dating will help her dad to stop missing her mom so much. Anyway, how does this have anything to do with your uncle and me?”

“Mr. Simmons asked Uncle Justin if he was really over you. Haley’s dad wanted to know if it would be okay if he asked you out. Was there something going on between you and Uncle Justin?”

“Of course not. I dated him for a while before your father and I got married. I can’t imagine why Marc thinks your uncle still—

“
Ewwww
! You did it with Daddy’s brother?”

“I said I
dated
him.”

“But you kissed him, right?”

“I still kiss your uncle,” she said and took a sip of her now cold coffee.

“I meant on the mouth....or
other
parts.” Dani’s wrinkled nose implied she hadn’t been referring to Justin’s cheek.

Sam sputtered and choked, which forced the lukewarm liquid up her nose instead of down her throat, spraying it halfway across the table. She alternated between coughing and gasping. “If you think simply dating a guy includes”—she coughed—“oral sex, you can forget about going out”—
gasp
—“with anyone”—
cough
—“until you’re thirty!”

“Chill out, Mom.” Dani stood and grabbed her lunch bag off the counter. I have no intention of putting my mouth anywhere near some guy’s privates. It’s gross.”

With any luck, the child would feel that way for many years to come—like until she was married.

“I gotta go. Bye, Dad!” Dani called into the study and laid a peck on Sam’s cheek.

Only a moment after her daughter ran out the front of the house, Justin knocked on the back door and strolled into the kitchen.

Sam shook her head. Speak of the devil.

“Hey, gorgeous, I hoped I’d catch you alone before you left for work.” He leaned down and kissed Sam’s cheek.

“Why?” Nick asked from the study’s doorway. “Were you planning to say something my daughter or I shouldn’t hear?”

“Nick!” Justin smiled. “Sam mentioned you were moving back east soon. I stopped by to ask when you’d be getting here.”

“I arrived yesterday afternoon,” Nick explained as he crossed the family room into the kitchen. “I was planning to call you today. I appreciate you looking after the house while I was gone.”

“No problem. Sammy’s still family. I couldn’t leave her to fend for herself.”

“Justin mows the lawn and comes twice a week to take the trash to the road,” Sam explained, clearing the table.

“His chivalry is touching.” Nick turned to his brother. “You don’t need to do that any longer. I hired Keith next door to cut the grass—” The shrill ring of the phone cut him off.

She snatched the handset from the wall. Marc Simmons’s voice echoed in her ear. “Hey, Sam.”

Great. It hadn’t taken him long to summon up the courage to call her. “Marc, how have you been?”

Hearing Marc’s name, both Justin’s and Nick’s gazes snapped to her.

“I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner with me some evening—maybe tonight?”

She had no desire to get involved with her late friend’s husband. However, rather than give him the brush-off, it would be easier and kinder to agree to a meal—as friends—and let Marc down gently in person. “Dinner sounds wonderful. The girls don’t have school tomorrow, so why don’t you let Haley have supper here with Dani and stay overnight?”