The Kept Woman (4 page)

"I agree completely." Sam grabbed her purse and followed Jack Tolliver out the conference room door. She looked over her shoulder at Denny. "If I'm not back in an hour, call the police."

"A girl could really get used to this kind of five-star dining," Sam said, sucking soda through a plastic straw. "Do you bring all your fiancees here?"

Jack took another bite of his sinfully good cheeseburger—as always, crispy on the outside and juicy on the inside—and felt a big glob of mustard drop on his chin. Before he could reach toward the dispenser at the table, Sam had snagged a napkin and wiped it off for him.

"Why are you doing this, Samantha?"

Sam looked around at the lunch crowd at the Workingman's Friend diner and shrugged. "I figured if you're running for Congress people shouldn't see you with mustard on your face."

"Technically, I haven't declared yet, and I brought you here because, in case you haven't noticed, this place has the best burgers in town. Besides, that's not what I was asking you and you know it."

Jack set down his overloaded bun and leaned toward her. Sam was obviously a resourceful woman. A survivor. Her husband had been some flaky artist type who hit the road right after their third kid was born, the kid named for one of the fifty contiguous states, Montana or Nevada, he couldn't remember which. And though she had a degree from Hanover in medieval art history or something equally useless, she'd found a way to make ends meet.

"Why did you agree to this," Jack lowered his voice to a whisper, "this make-believe relationship?"

"For my kids' future."

"Fair enough, but—"

"Look, Jack. I've done nothing but think about Kara's proposition for two weeks straight, turning it over in my brain and looking at it from every possible angle, and it always seems to boil down to this—if my children and I can play a part for six months, we can reap the benefits for the rest of our lives. When will an opportunity like this come again? My two older kids understand what is expected of them, and why we're doing this."

Jack leaned over the table and whispered, "They can't tell
anyone
—not even their best friends, or the deal is off."

"They know that."

"Same goes for you, Samantha."

She nodded, and Jack got to watch as she smoothed a hand through the loose red curls that framed her angelic face. Sam was thirty-six, but she could have easily passed for twenty-nine. Her skin was peachy and smooth and devoid of makeup, except for a clear sheen of lip gloss and maybe some mascara. She was wearing a very soft-looking pale blue sweater with tiny satin-covered buttons down the front, which made him frown. Unbuttoning all those suckers would be a time-consuming affair.

"Too late for that, Jack," she said. "My best friend already knows. Her name is Monte McQueen, and she works with me at the salon, and she was there the night Kara came over. Her son, Simon, knows too. And then my lawyer, Denny Winston, whom you've met."

"Indeed."

"How about you? Who knows on your end?"

"Stuart and Kara, of course, and my mother will have to be informed eventually."

Samantha blinked. "Right. Your mother. I read about her. She's this society bigwig, right? When will you tell her?"

The choking feeling was upon him again, and Jack yanked at his tie. Marguerite Dickinson Tolliver was going to go postal when she heard about this—no doubt about it. The great disappointment of her existence was that at the age of thirty-eight her only child had yet to select a beautiful woman of status and grace with whom to procreate, naming the whole lot of them Something Dickinson Tollivers.

Though Jack had successfully kept encounters with MDT to a minimum over the last two decades, there was no way she wouldn't find out about him cavorting around town with a hairstylist, and there was no way he wouldn't hear MDT's opinion about it. She had ways of knowing what went on in Indianapolis, even from a thousand miles away.

"I thought it would be best to wait until everything was a done deal," Jack said matter-of-factly. "My mother spends the winters in Florida, so she's out of town for the time being. It can wait."

Samantha nodded.

"Tolliver? Hey, stranger!" A heavy hand smacked down on Jack's right shoulder just as he took another bite of heaven. He looked up into the glistening red face of Brandon Miliewski, a gambling-industry lobbyist with whom Jack had wasted many evenings as lieutenant governor. "I heard you might throw your hat into the ring for Ditto's seat? Is that true? And who is your lovely lunch companion?"

Jack swallowed his mouthful and motioned toward Samantha, who was already shaking hands with Miliewski. "This is a friend of mine, Samantha Monroe."

"A pleasure," the lobbyist said to Sam. His gaze flew back to Jack. "So, is it true?"

Miliewski was jangling the change in his trouser pockets and seemed in no hurry to move on, and Jack knew that whatever answer he gave to this man would be echoing throughout the State House in a matter of hours. "I've heard that rumor, too, Brandon. It's an intriguing possibility, I must admit."

He laughed. "An intriguing possibility? Come on now, Jack! Since Ditto dropped the bomb that he's not running again, all anyone's been talking about is whether you're stepping up to the plate. You're the sexiest thing the party's got to offer—by a long shot!"

"Well, thank you." Jack looked at Samantha's wide-eyed stare. "He meant 'sexy' in the political context, Sam. As in I'm young, have some charisma, and happen to have a recognizable name."

"But only if the voters can forgive you for—" Brandon's eyes darted toward Samantha, who was now munching on a French fry, a frown marring her cute face. Miliewski cleared his throat. "Well, Jack, this was nice. Let us know when we can host a little shindig for you." With a wink, the lobbyist walked away from their table, chuckling to himself.

"I'm afraid I missed some of the finer points in that conversation." Sam dabbed at her lips with a napkin and took a quick sip from her straw. "I've never followed politics all that closely."

Jack smiled. "You'll probably live a longer and happier life."

"Don't you like it? Politics, I mean?" She looked so earnest sitting across the table from him, her face attentive and open, her back straight against the ancient red vinyl chair. "Why are you running for the Senate if you don't love politics?"

There it was—out of the mouth of a babe. The question he tried not to ask himself. Jack chuckled and decided he'd give her the abridged version of his dilemma.

"I'm a Tolliver," Jack said, keeping one eye on Miliewski, who was placing his to-go order at the counter. "And historically, Tolliver men have done two things well—football and politics. I blew out my knee, so I went straight to the politics."

Samantha scowled at him, leaned back into her chair, and crossed her arms over her cute chest. He wished he'd stop thinking that everything about the woman was cute, but it was. Her breasts were adorable—sweet rounded handfuls that would look mighty fine in a 34C demi bra, if he wasn't mistaken.

"Look, Jack," she said, her crisp voice jarring him from all thoughts of flimsy lingerie. "It's obvious that if it weren't for Kara's scheme, you and I would never have met, let alone been friendly. And—I'm just being honest here—I'm not even sure I like you very much."

"Really now?" Jack was trying not to smile, but there was something about this feisty, cute, C-cupped rental woman that made him want to grin.

"Really. I think you're a phony. I think you're a spoiled rich boy who's never had to work for a damn thing in his life, and if I weren't completely exhausted and drowning in debt I would never, ever agree to this farce. But I'm desperate. I just wanted you to understand that upfront."

Jack let those remarks stew for a moment, then smiled. "Samantha Monroe—desperate hairstylist. That has a mighty nice ring to it."

Unfortunately, Sam didn't appreciate his witticism. She grabbed her purse and stood up, clearly ready to end their lunch. Jack stood with her, helped her with her coat, and escorted her out the glass door of the diner and onto a chilly Belmont Avenue. He felt the eyes of Brandon Miliewski boring into his back and, just to get a rise out of him, reached for Sam's hand and hooked it around the sleeve of his overcoat as they approached the corner.

Jack glanced back to find Brandon's chubby face peering at them in blatant fascination from the inside of the burger joint.

"Are we starting already?" Sam glanced down at Jack's hand covering hers, then peered up at him. Her lovely blue eyes narrowed with uncertainty and those cute cheeks began to blush pink, from the cold or the contact, he didn't know which.

"We sure are." Jack lowered his lips toward her fore head, where he intended to deliver a chaste kiss for Miliewski's benefit. But something made him dip his head a few inches lower. Maybe it was the warm, spicy scent of her hair or the way her plump lips separated in surprise. But he wanted more than a dry peck, and he used one finger to lift her adorable little chin, and his mouth was suddenly on hers. The kiss lasted all of three seconds, but the buzz he'd felt back at Stuart's office had returned, only this time he was also buzzing below the belt—big-time.

Samantha Monroe was as warm and moist and soft as she looked, and she let out the tiniest little mewl of shock as his lips covered hers. It was three seconds of buzzing bliss.

Sam jerked back like she'd been seared by a hot brand. "Money first, then nooky," was all she said.

Jack laughed and pressed her arm tighter to his side. He was relieved to see Sam smiling, and the two of them grinned all the way back to Stuart's office. Later, as Jack watched Samantha Monroe sign on the dotted line, the memory of that kiss sent a tingle to his lips and additional buzzing to his boxers.

For a brief, thoroughly insane moment, Jack hoped Sam might have enjoyed the kiss, too, even a little bit, and even though it was only politics.

"Shut
up
, or what? This place is humongous!"

Lily was first to jump out of the van, and she stood stock still, her hands on her hips and her mouth hanging open dramatically.

Greg soon tumbled out of the backseat and stood with his sister in the circular gravel driveway. "J-j-jeesh. Is that an indoor pool back there? And a greenhouse? No way!"

Simon was right behind. He put a hand on Greg's shoulder and shook his head in slow appreciation. "Son," he whispered. "This could be Kobe's joint or somethin'."

"You sure got the right address?" Monte took very slow steps to stand behind the kids. She blinked a few times in amazement. "'Cause this place looks like Buckingham Palace. You've even got yourself some turrets, girl."

"Of course it's the right house, or the key card wouldn't have worked in the gate!" Sam listened to the "oohs" and "ahhs" as she tried to extricate a fidgety Dakota from his car seat, noting with annoyance that in the twenty-minute drive the child had managed to spill the entire contents of his juice box down his front and clumps of white dog fur now stuck to his jacket, creating an attractive mangy parka look.

Sam sighed, knowing that this was no way to make a good first impression—not that she necessarily wanted to impress Jack Tolliver. But what was wrong with putting her little family in the best light possible? After all, that was the job she'd just signed up for—to improve Jack Tolliver's image. And she was going to be paid quite well for it.

Dale barked and squeezed between Sam's legs, and as soon as Dakota's little feet hit the drive, he went running after him. Sam shut the van door and finally got a leisurely look at their new digs.

"Holy f—." She slapped a hand over her mouth and stared at the looming limestone structure. Denny had mentioned that the estate was as imposing as houses got in Indianapolis, but Sam really had no idea it was
this
imposing. Sam wasn't aware that normal people lived in houses like this. Maybe that was the whole point—the Tollivers weren't normal people. They were abnormally rich people.

She'd probably driven by this hidden lane a hundred times over the years and never even took note. It was studded by a dozen or so estates tucked behind woods, privacy walls, and strategically placed shrubs. People who lived in these houses obviously didn't want the riffraff to know what was back here.

"Well? Do we go in the front door?" Lily was nearly jumping with excitement, and Sam couldn't remember the last time she'd seen her daughter jump. It was before puberty; that much she was sure of.

Sam patted the front right pocket of her coat for the house key, just as the huge mahogany front door creaked open and the studly politician stood framed in its archway.

She watched a warm smile spread across Jack Tolliver's face, and she couldn't help but think about how unexpectedly hot the man's kiss had been, and how it took every bit of self-control she had not to jump him on the sidewalk, wrap her legs around his waist, and beg for it. Of course, that was not the kind of public display his campaign would benefit from. But it was just plain cruel for him to kiss her like that, when she hadn't had any for going on eighteen months.

Samantha snapped back to the present. Jack's smile had frozen on his face as he observed the collection of people on his driveway. Maybe Sam should have mentioned that Monte and Simon were helping them get settled, but she didn't think it was a big deal.

She noticed how Jack seamlessly recovered from his surprise and descended the limestone steps leading to the walkway. He wore pressed khakis and a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. A navy and burgundy Argyle sweater was tossed casually over his shoulders. If it weren't for her beat-up Toyota van in the drive, the vision of this man and this house would have looked like a living, breathing Ralph Lauren magazine ad.

Sam thought she saw a slight limp in Jack's gait, but it was gone as soon as it appeared. He had moved to within a few feet of Lily, Greg, and Simon and had extended his hand in greeting when a noise caught his attention. Jack turned his head and. . .

"Lord have mercy," Monte sighed.

Perhaps Stuart had hidden a loophole somewhere in the body of the contract, an escape clause to be used in an emergency. That's the thought Jack clung to as he set out seven mugs and made seven cups of hot cocoa and engaged in small talk with these seven people. Because clearly, this was not going to work.

The littlest kid had been naked from the waist down. Right out on his front lawn. In
December
. With dog hair stuck all over the front of his little coat!

Meanwhile, the source of the dog hair had been merrily taking a dump on said lawn.

Now seated at the breakfast bar in the kitchen were three silent, wide-eyed adolescents, who looked like they were afraid to breathe the wrong way. It was obvious that the brown-haired boy, Greg, had a wicked stutter. The girl, Lily, was sickly pale, skinny, and wore so much eye makeup she looked like someone had given her two shiners. The African-American kid, Simon, kept his arms crossed over his chest and his lips tightly sealed.

And Sam's friend Monte had been scanning the house from top to bottom and making little humming noises of approval when she saw something she liked. Such as the powder room off the foyer. And the front staircase. And the media room, the pool and fitness center, and the built-in Sub-Zero refrigerator. Jack felt strangely violated when Monte turned that same assessing gaze on his person, her eyes taking him in from tip to toe, a deep "
mmmm, mmmm, mmmm
" vibrating in her throat.

Then there was Sam. She had obviously been embarrassed by what happened in the front yard, and she'd chased after little Arizona and put his clothes back on him, apologizing all the while, rambling on about potty training, a subject Jack believed should only be broached on a need-to-know basis, and he sure as hell didn't need to know anything about potty training and never would.

At that moment, Sam held the squirming red-haired kid like she feared he'd run away or touch something or take off his pants again. The scruffy white dog was barking his head off and clawing at the glass door of the Florida room.

Jack blinked, recalling that Kara had used the word "perfect" when describing Sam and her entourage. What had the woman been
thinking
? The only votes this crowd would bring him would be sympathy votes.

"I think now that I can take a leave of absence from the salon and be home with him every day, he'll get the hang of it real quick."

Jack nodded at Sam's comment, vaguely aware she must once again be referring to Utah's potty-training problems, and realizing that when she said the word "home" she meant this house, the house built by his grandfather Wilson Milford Tolliver in 1927, now home for Sam and her brood for the next six months.

Jack chatted with Sam about the real estate market, the specifics of the kids' school transfer, and the hours usually kept by Mr. and Mrs. Dyson, the handyman and the housekeeper. All the while he tried to keep his mind and his eyes off of Samantha Monroe's curvy little shape. She'd worn a pair of snug jeans today and another little sweater thing, and though the clothes were simple, she looked unbelievably gorgeous in them. It pained him to admit that Sam's butt was just as cute as the rest of her. It pained him further that he couldn't seem to forget that kiss outside the restaurant.

There had to be a loophole somewhere.

The kids sipped their hot cocoa in silence as Jack calculated how much time it would take to get all their stuff back out of the house. The movers had arrived earlier that morning with boxes of clothes and toys and books and CDs, mentioning that most of Sam's furniture and belongings went into a big storage facility on West Tenth Street out near the Speedway. As the movers carried several large boxes and a few wardrobes up to Sam's suite, Jack couldn't help but be curious about what Sam had decided she couldn't live without for six months.

Six long months
.

"I'd like to get my room set up if that would be OK." Lily's request came out in a tentative voice, and Jack found himself trying to look past the smudged eye pencil to see the girl beneath. She had blue eyes just like her mom, but her mouth was pinched and thin, not plump and cute like Sam's. Jack gave her a polite smile, thinking that the girl had just moved into a stranger's house and was supposed to start at Park Tudor School on Monday, transferring from the inner-city Tech High. All of this couldn't be easy for her, either.

"Sure. No problem. I'll give you all a tour of your upstairs wing."

It became very quiet. Sam cleared her throat.

"I've never lived in a place with wings before," she said with a smile, trying to engage the surly teenagers in small talk. "Greg knows that all I've ever wanted was an attached garage."

Monte nodded. "Hmm-hmm. Only wings I've ever experienced are the chicken kind."

The two women let loose with a guffaw, and the kids started to snicker—even Simon—and Jack found himself comforted by the thought that as soon as everyone was settled in their rooms he'd be on the phone with Stuart.

Sam let her head sink back into the sea of down pillows and tried to slow her breathing and calm her pulse. It struck her as ironic that her heart had apparently chosen that evening to pound out the rhythm of three years' worth of doubt and sadness and worry—now that everything was going to be fine. Maybe it was just an adrenaline letdown. Maybe it was just that she finally had a little time to breathe. To think. To
feel
.

Unfortunately, most of what she was feeling didn't feel so good.

It helped to look down at Dakota's peaceful face beside her, his little bow of a mouth open in blissful dream-sleep, his cheeks flushed, his baby eyelashes fluttering from the images only he could see. He'd lasted about five minutes in his new room next door, too scared to be alone. Sam knew that poor Greg had to be loving the peace of having a bedroom of his own after all these years, so she'd welcomed the little one into her suite. Sam had turned out all the lights but the one over the sink in the adjoining bathroom and had tucked Dakota into the down comforter.

She studied his cherubic face and let her fingers play in his curls. Dakota certainly had inherited her hair, but the rest of him looked just like Mitchell. Sometimes, Sam was caught off guard by the resemblance and before she could even think about protecting herself the pain would have already sliced her into pieces. Sure, it hurt that she'd apparently done such a bang-up job at being a wife that her husband decided he was gay and filed for divorce—all while she was pregnant. But what killed her was that once Dakota was born, Mitchell just left—he left his kids—and no one knew where he was or even if he was alive. That's the kind of hurt that never heals, Sam knew. It was the kind of pain you just had to find a way to live around, like how tree roots bust up through the sidewalk in order to survive. Life has to go on.

Sam closed her eyes and listened to the sounds of this strange, huge house. She heard the mechanical hum of the furnace, the chimes from the grandfather clock in the foyer—and she felt her heartbeat settle and her pulse return to normal.

The most important thing was that they were all together and everyone was healthy. The happiness would come in six months, when they'd fulfilled the terms of the contract. By then, they'd have found their own cozy little house. When Sam eventually went back to the salon, she could afford to hire a nanny for Dakota until he started school. Lily could go to France or anywhere else she wanted to travel. Greg would be getting the best—and most private—speech therapy available in Indianapolis. And all three of her kids would be encouraged to dream big, to apply to the most exclusive colleges in the country—and it would all be taken care of.

That
was why she was doing this.
That
was why she and her kids were here.

Sam opened her eyes again. Even in shadow, this room looked like a set from an old Hepburn and Tracy movie. Yards of pale satin flowed like waterfalls from elaborate wrought-iron drapery rods on high windows, puddling onto the plush off-white carpeting. The same satin adorned the two sofas in front of the white marble fireplace mantel. The walls were covered in a rich, velvety cream-on-white fleur-de-lis wallpaper. Every stick of furniture in the place looked like expensive antique stuff, and maybe even French, but Sam couldn't be sure. A mixed bouquet of fresh flowers spilled its colors from a huge cut-glass vase on the round marble coffee table, and Sam wondered if Mrs. Dyson had put them there and what it would be like to have a housekeeper.

The bathroom was bigger than the living and dining rooms of her old house combined. It was a retreat of solid white marble, spotless glass, and gleaming stainless steel. There was a shower with six shower-heads, big enough for. . .well. . .she'd allow herself to contemplate the possibilities some other time. Plus there was a sunken Jacuzzi tub, heated towel racks, a heated floor, and stacks of fluffy, clean-smelling, pristine white towels of every size.

But it was the bed upon which she and Dakota now floated that was the most extravagant thing in the suite. It was a king-sized four-poster yacht with a diaphanous canopy overhead. The coverlet was a satin cream and rose stripe, fringed all along its edge in tiny white hand-tied tassels, topped with what looked like two dozen accent pillows of varying sizes, shapes, and fabrics. The sheets were the finest quality Sam had ever felt against her skin. And the cumulative effect was a deeply satisfying luxuriousness that bordered on sinful. She couldn't help but compare all this splendor to her simple double bed at the house on Arsenal Street, where she'd lived in her former life.

Sam felt a smile curl on her lips, recalling the last conversation she'd had with her landlord, Skeeter Westerkamp. Yes, they were breaking the lease and moving out. Yes, she would gladly forfeit their damage deposit. And
hell yes
, he'd been a cheap horse's ass and she wished Skeeter good riddance. That's when they'd piled in the van and left behind the broken garbage disposal, the leaking bathtub, the cracked window in the boys' room, and the not-quite-reliable furnace and driven through the gates of the Tolliver mansion.