The Jock (22 page)

"Be
careful," Harry said from the backseat in his usual controlled tone. His
hands clutched onto the bags of food containing their dinners. "You're
going to spill the raspberry-almond sauce that goes on our salads."

Sam
shot Harry a sour look through the rearview mirror. "I think I'm more
worried about the white sedan following my wife!"

Harry's
head snapped to attention.
"What?"

Sam
followed Candy and the white car into another series of high-speed turns.
"Didn't you hear what Marc said? That car is following Gwenyth and
Candy!"

"Oh
no." Harry swallowed nervously. "We can always get more
raspberry-almond sauce," he concluded in what Gwen often referred to as
his senatorial tone. "Catch my sister, damn it!"

"What
do you think I'm tryin' to do?!"

"Will
you two shut-up!" Marc heatedly chastised. He waved his hand toward the
white sedan. "Get as close as you can, Sam. I want to take down the
license plate number."

"Good
idea."

"Yes,"
Harry agreed, "a very good idea." Thinking more on the subject, he
frowned slightly. "And if the raspberry-almond sauce soils my clothing, I
plan to sue the pants off of that guy."

"Would
you forget about the damn sauce already!" Sam growled. Spitting out a
string of inventive curses, he made another sharp turn. "Sweet Jesus,
Candy can drive like a bat out of hell."

"She
once took drag racing lesson," Harry added helpfully.

"Oh
great," Sam drawled out, "as if I wasn't worried enough."

"I
can almost make out the plate number," Marc announced, his eyes squinting
slightly for a better focus. "Just another foot or two, Sam."

Sam
nodded implacably. "I'm tryin'. Give me a few seconds."

"Got
it!" Marc jotted the number down on the upside of his hand.

"Good,"
Sam spat out, his jaw rigid, "because now I'm goin' to make this guy wish
he'd never laid eyes on my wife."

Harry's
green gaze widened considerably. He'd known Sam for twenty-one years and the
icy light in his brother-in-law's eyes didn't bode well. "What do you
mean?" he asked hoarsely.

Sam's
eyes narrowed dangerously. "Think
Thelma
and Louise
, my
friend."

"They
were women!"

"Oh
well."

Marc's
tie inexplicably tightened of its own accord. He reached up to tug at it.
"Just what are you saying here—
Saaaaaaaaaaam
!"

Harry
clapped a hand to his forehead. "There goes the goddamn raspberry-almond
sauce."

"It's
no wonder that opposites attract." Wearily, Harry closed his eyes while
Monique stood behind him massaging his temples and fussing over him. "If
two people like Sam and Candy ever got together, World War III would
ensue."

Grinning,
Sam winked at Candy. "Brian Goodman is as stable as Gwen, Can." He
waggled his eyebrows mischievously. "You still have his phone
number?"

Blowing
out a bubble, Candy flipped Sam the bird, then stood up to go help Marc warm up
dinner in the kitchen. Sam and Gwenyth laughed as they watched her shuffle
away. Gwenyth could only hope that Candy relented and called Brian soon. She
had a feeling the duo would be great together.

After
Candy disappeared into the kitchen, Gwenyth turned her attention toward another
pair of opposites who was suitably matched. Trouble was, Harry hadn't figured
out exactly how well suited he and Monique truly were yet. She sighed. Her
brother was a terrific guy and Gwenyth was certain he'd make a hell of a good
senator, but when it came to women, the man was as blind as she didn't know
what.

Of
course, Gwenyth mused, it would help matters considerably if Monique at least
attempted to pretty herself up. Poor woman obviously didn't know the first
thing about flirting and seducing. And that was a definite shame; especially in
light of the fact that the first person Harry had called after leaving the
events of this evening behind was his assistant. Come to think of it, her
brother always turned to Monique when he needed comforting.

Even
now, Monique was standing behind Harry, coddling him with her hands and cooing
to him with her voice. Rather than turning away from her ministrations, Harry
was nuzzling his face closer, like a kitten that wants petted. Gwenyth stifled
a chuckle; Monique was shy enough as it was without being made to feel
embarrassed about her seemingly instinctive behavior.

Clearing
her throat, Gwenyth turned toward her husband, who was watching Harry and
Monique with a bemused expression on his face, and smiled. "Detective
Anderson said he would call as soon as he got an ID on the plate, right?"

A
frown marred Sam's face, making Gwenyth wonder if she should have reminded him
of the day's earlier events. "Yeah. And I for one can't wait to get some
answers." Clutching his wife's hand in his own, he peered harshly into her
eyes. "I about had a heart attack when I realized what was goin' on, Gwen.
That man, whoever he is, is damn lucky he decided to break off his pursuit of
you, otherwise I can't say what I'd have done when I got my hands on him."

Sam
drew in a breath to steady his nerves. In the hour since the police detective
had left, there had already been several moments when he'd silently wondered if
he had made the right decision by letting the white sedan get away rather than
chasing it down. Sam's only thought at the time had been to make sure Gwen was
unhurt. Deep down he realized that he couldn't have done anything else, but the
vengeful part of him wished he'd followed the sedan. "I don't want you
goin' anywhere alone until this guy's caught, Gwen." He slashed his hand
tersely through the air. "End of story, no discussion."

Gwenyth
merely patted his hand and nodded—a gesture Sam had come to realize meant his
wife was humoring him. His gaze narrowed. "I'm serious Gwen." He
threw his hand toward Harry and Monique. "Don't try to coddle me like
she's doin' to your brother."

Harry
opened one eye and scowled at Sam. "She is not coddling me," he bit
out.

Monique
ran her fingers through Harry's silky light-brown hair until he closed his eye
again, purring his contentment. "I never coddle him," she insisted
stiffly, blushing all the while. "It's just that Harry's is a very
delicate soul and he needs to be treated accordingly."

Sam
lowered his eyes to the ground to keep from laughing. That Harry was over six
feet tall and thickly muscled, no doubt outweighing Monique by close to a
hundred pounds, gave her impassioned plea an ironic ring to it.

"Delicate?"
Harry's eyes flew open in alarm. His masculinity clearly affronted, he grabbed
Monique's slight wrist and frowned. "I am a man. I am not delicate. Not by
any stretch of the imagination."

Monique
smiled wistfully, apparently a pro at dealing with the senator's reactions.
"I didn't mean physically, Harry, and I didn't mean it in a bad way."
She gently released her wrist from his tight grip and continued her fussing.
"It's just that I know how much you care for Gwen and how frightened you
were for her." She sighed dreamily. "It's your heightened sensitivity
that makes you the perfect man to represent Florida in Washington."

Appeased,
Harry grunted. He closed his eyes again and allowed Monique to work her magic
on his temples and scalp.

With
an amused shake of her head, Gwenyth decided not to comment on the spectacle
the pair made. Monique was going to have to realize for herself that Harry
would never notice her as a woman until she stopped mothering him. Gwenyth just
wished she could be a fly on the wall the day her brother finally did realize
it.

Turning
toward her husband to meet his disgruntled gaze, Gwenyth smiled reassuringly.
"I wasn't trying to placate you, Sam. I was merely being supportive."
She rolled her eyes with a chuckle and amended her statement. "Okay, maybe
I was trying to placate you, but unless they catch this guy tonight, it's going
to be impossible for me to keep an escort at all times."

"You'll
manage."

Gwenyth
shook her head with a sigh. "What about work?"

"I'll
take you."

"And
you plan to stay, to watch over me for the length of an entire shoot?"

Sam
shrugged dismissively. "That goes without sayin'."

Gwenyth
was about to comment on the implausibility of that plan, when Candy yelled from
the vicinity of the kitchen that dinner was ready. She patted her husband on
the knee before taking to her feet. "We'll talk about this later,
Sam."

Sam
smiled sweetly. "Whatever you say, sweetheart."

Gwenyth
narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "Are you trying to placate me?"

"Nah,
baby, I'm just bein' supportive."

* * * * *

It
took all of an hour into the following day's photo shoot for Gwenyth to rapidly
tire of her husband's brand of support. The Prima Donna modeled swimwear one
time and suddenly he knew her job better than she did. Annoyed, Gwenyth gritted
her teeth as she watched her husband make suggestions to the male model she was
photographing for a New York based men's underwear line. Making matters worse,
it was apparent that her model Claude was actually paying attention to her
husband's idiotic advice.

"I
know what you're thinkin'," Sam reasoned aloud as he rubbed his chin and
regarded Claude. "You're thinkin' that the women who read this catalog
will want to see more of you, not less of you, but there's where you're wrong
C-man." Sam propped his leg up on the chair next to Claude and impaled him
with his icy blue orbs. "Leave somethin' to the imagination is what I've
always said." He splayed his hands at his sides. "Kinda like a family
motto."

Thoroughly
exasperated, Gwenyth rolled her eyes. It couldn't be more obvious to her that
Sam was jealous of the younger model. His possessiveness apparently taking over
what was left of his brain, his only thought was to keep the perfectly honed
man fully clothed in his wife's presence.

"But
Mr. Trevianni," Claude stammered out, "if I wear my blue jeans, how
will anyone know what the underwear beneath it looks like?"

Gwenyth
folded her arms under her breasts and smiled like a Cheshire cat. "Yes,
Claude, a fine point you've made." Blinking sweetly, she gestured towards
her husband. "Sam?"

A
muscle in Sam's jaw ticked, but other than that, he showed no outward signs of
defeat. "You see, this is where you're both wrong," he ground out.
"It won't matter a lick to the readers. It will only heighten their
curiosity, makin' them wonder what the 'Georgie-Boy Gee-String' really looks
like under the jeans."

Claude
seemed to consider that notion, albeit briefly. "But I think George
Finklestein from
Georgie-Boy

Underthings
wants
photographs of his wife's creations." He smiled brightly. "She's
already a sensation in Europe, you know."

Sam
gritted his teeth in an effort to stop himself from wrapping the damned
gee-string in question around Claude's throat and wrenching it tightly.
"What does George Finklestein know 'bout what women want to see?" he
roared belligerently.

Gwenyth
raised a regal brow. "His underwear line was voted #1 by women readers in
five different magazines last year."

Sam
deflected that comeback with a wave of his hand. "What do women know 'bout
what they want to see?"

Huffing,
Gwenyth decided that enough was enough. "Out." Glowering at her
husband, she pointed toward the studio door. "Now."

"Excuse
me?"

"Please,
Sam." She implored him with her eyes. "Let me finish my job here so
we can go home and celebrate Christmas Eve with the family, okay?"

Muttering
something about stay-at-home wives and what a man really needs, Sam finally
relented with a begrudging nod. "Alright," he growled, "but make
this quick. And Claude!" he snapped.

"Sir?"

"Make
sure you keep the family jewels in the safe deposit box."

Christmas
Eve had always meant food, family, and friends at the Jones estate and this
Christmas Eve was no different. Willy and Verlene hosted a holiday dinner that
could put Martha Stewart to shame. Turkey, ham, mashed potatoes, stuffing,
gravy, collared greens, yams, cakes and pies—they had it all.

And
again as always, each of the grandchildren brought a guest with them. Harry
brought Monique, Gwenyth brought along Candy, and Sam invited Marc. The eight
of them gathered around the dining room table, and after Willy said grace, they
proceeded to eat until they were all close to busting at the seams.

Sam,
who had looked forward to Christmas Eve dinners with the Jones' since he was a
kid, had an even better time of it this year than he'd had back then. Perhaps
it was because, as an adult, he was now better able to appreciate the
close-knit family gatherings. Or perhaps it was because his marriage to Gwen
made him feel as though he truly belonged here. Either way, Sam mused, it
didn't matter. What was important was the fact that they were all here,
celebrating the holidays together.