The Kept Woman (6 page)

Christy nodded. The confidence in his voice, along with his obvious appreciation of her talents, seemed to soothe her. "I suppose just a glass wouldn't hurt," she said.

Stuart bent forward at the waist and braced his palms on his knees, sucking air. Jack watched the sweat stream off the ledge of his friend's chin and puddle onto the hardwood floor of the racquetball court.

"Damn, Jack," Stuart panted. "Don't take it out on me. I'm not the one who got you into this. Kara should face this punishment. Not me."

"Kara can't return my serve."

Stuart looked up from his crouched position, blinking behind clear plastic safety goggles. "Like I can?" He straightened and put a hand to his lower back. "I gotta get some water."

Jack watched Stuart stagger out of the racquetball court and into the hallway and take a big gulp from his bottled water. Jack followed, knowing he had to ask just once more to make sure. "So you're absolutely positive there's no way we can back out of this?"

Stuart squirted some water onto his forehead and patted his face with a towel. "Sure you can, Jack. But then she walks away with everything—every dime she negotiated for, her monthly stipends and the trust fund—and you get nothing. Is that what you want? I mean, it's been exactly three days. What could the woman have done in three days to scare you like this?"

Jack laughed off the question. Sam Monroe didn't scare him. . .exactly. "It's a comfort level thing, Stu. It's too much, that's all. The kids. The friend. The friend's kid. The diapers. The dog. It's just not my style."

Stuart nodded, a sly smile moving across his face. "You know they aren't real, right, Jack?"

Jack chuckled at Stu's bluntness. "Of course they're real! I've been staring at them for days on end, and I'm telling you, Samantha is packin' only what God gave her. I know the difference."

Stuart stared at him with his mouth hanging open, then shook his head. "I'm not talking about the woman's ta-tas, Jack. Jesus! I meant
they
as in all the
people
you just mentioned."

Jack adjusted the Ace wrap around his knee and nodded. "Of course. I knew that."

"Anyway." Stuart took another chug. "What I'm saying is that Samantha Monroe isn't really your fiancee. She and her kids are just props. So if they annoy you, just go home to your condo and forget them. Don't let the situation get you down. Has Kara been running some numbers by you?"

"Yeah. Looks like Preston-Norwich is in to the limit in both corporate and private contributions, and so is Gerring Pharmaceuticals. But Charlie Manheimer's got a boatload of family values money, Stu. It's got me a little worried—those religious right organizations have a ton of cash to play with."

Stuart shrugged. "Manheimer can talk the talk all he wants, but you, my boy, are going to be walking the walk, right in front of the voters. I think the less of a deal you make of Sam and the kids the more impact it's going to have."

"That's what Kara said."

"So you ready for the Pacers game?"

Jack sighed. Tomorrow night was supposed to be his first official public outing with Sam. Their first date, so to speak. They had courtside seats to watch Indiana annihilate Milwaukee. Kara had planned everything down to what they should both wear and how he was to whisper in Sam's ear at least twice a quarter to ensure the photographers would catch it. He had been instructed to kiss Sam's cheek and buy her popcorn. He had been reminded to drape his arm around her shoulders protectively as they walked out of Conseco Fieldhouse. Like he needed to be told how to date a woman! He could practically write the field guide! "Yeah. I'm ready."

Stuart tossed the water bottle into his gym bag and glared at Jack through his goggles. "Is there something else you're not telling me? What's going on?"

Jack shook his head. He sure as hell wasn't going to tell Stuart that he'd lost sleep several nights in a row thinking of Sam and the way her lips felt just damn perfect under his. He wouldn't dare tell Stuart that he'd already decided that the first gift he'd buy her would be a flaming red bra and thong set, something to accentuate her pale flesh and warm curls.

"Nothing," Jack said.

"No way, Jack." Stuart laughed. "Anything but that." He shook his head in disdain. "Look, it's just six months. You can go without the kitty for six months. You have to. You're clear on this, right?"

Jack rolled his eyes.

"No. Really, Tolliver. You want to be U.S. senator? Then keep Mr. Man in your pants for the next six months. Think about it. Let's say Christy or any lucky city desk reporter sees you stepping out on your new 'fiancee.' You think they'd keep that little secret to themselves? Maybe back in your dad's day, but not now, dude. You think getting caught cheating on your intended is gonna win back the hearts of the voters? I sure as hell don't."

Jack took a quick glance around the hallway of the Columbia Club just to make sure no one could overhear this little chat. The place was crawling with politicos, journalists, lawyers, and captains of industry and commerce. "Keep your voice down, Stu."

"And even worse—if you even
think
about messing with Samantha Monroe, it's gonna get really complicated really fast. This is business, Jack. She is a prop—keep reminding yourself that—
prop, prop, prop
. She's pretty and sharp, but she's a prop nonetheless."

Jack nodded silently.

"Repeat after me." Stuart got right in his face, and Jack had to laugh at how goofy he looked lecturing him in those ridiculous goggles. He resembled a pissed-off frog. "Samantha Monroe is not real. She is a prop. Say it."

"Sam Monroe is not real," Jack whispered, feeling fairly foolish. "She is a prop."

"Good." Stuart slapped Jack in the upper right forearm and nudged him back into the racquetball court. "Now finish kicking my ass so I can get back to the office."

"You gotta get me out of that hellhole." Lily slammed her Army surplus knap sack onto the kitchen table and stared at her mother with real panic. "I'm serious. That place is completely fucked up."

Before Sam could gasp at her daughter's language, Lily had already started apologizing.

"I'm sorry, but it's true. I refuse to go to school with a bunch of rich-kid suck-ups and phonies. So far, the only difference I can see is that private schoolies are better at hiding shit than the kids in public school. Whoops—I meant to say 'stuff.' Sorry."

Sam stood stock still with the plate of homemade cookies in her hands. This wasn't turning out to be the after-school Kodak moment she'd planned. She wanted this afternoon to be special—perfect. But her chest felt heavy and her stomach churned with a sudden anger. The language pouring out of her daughter's innocent mouth! Amazing! Where the hell did a ninth-grade girl learn to talk like that?

Oh shit
.

"I'm gonna get some milk to go with those," Lily said, marching across the kitchen, her tartan uniform skirt swaying at the backs of her skinny, pale thighs. Sam hadn't noticed that her daughter had accented her ensemble that morning with a pair of gray wool socks and hiking boots with thick treads and Day-Glo orange laces. It also looked like she'd rolled up the skirt's waistband at least twice, because it was markedly shorter than it was when she'd left the house.

"Those cookies look good, Mom. Did you really bake them? What are they?"

"Chocolate chip with pecans," Sam managed, still unable to move.

Greg's hand scooped three from the plate before Sam could place it on the table. She hadn't even seen him come into the kitchen. "And how about you, Greg? How was your second day?"

Greg shrugged, munching on a cookie. "These are great," he said with his mouth full. "Real good, Mom. Thanks."

Sam collapsed into a chair.

"Where's diaper boy?" Lily plopped down across from Sam and reached for the plate of cookies.

"He should be getting up from his nap in a minute."

"Any miraculous breakthroughs today?" Lily asked with a grin.

Sam sighed. "Well, he sat on the potty for about a half hour with
Goodnight Moon
. I think he taught himself to read, but that's about it."

"You could've gotten me some milk while you were up," Greg said, frowning at his sister. "You never think of anyone b-b-but yours-s-self."

Lily laughed, a few cookie crumbles spilling from her mouth onto her standard-issue navy blue cardigan, which Sam noticed was buttoned once at her navel, barely covering a Nine Inch Nails T-shirt. Sam marveled at the fact that Lily had been at Park Tudor School exactly two days and was already pushing the envelope on the dress code. Where did the girl get her nerve?

"You lost the use of your limbs now, too?" Lily asked Greg. "You need occupational therapy now in addition to speech therapy?"

"S-s-screw you, Lily."

"Bite me, weasel."

"Stop it!" Sam felt her entire body vibrate with regret. When did her beautiful little children become so caustic? When had they started hating each other? She remembered the two of them—just a year apart—playing Fisher-Price farm together, taking baths together, sleeping together. Until he was seven, the ultimate reward for Greg was the right to snuggle next to his sister in her double bed, where the two of them would laugh and talk until they drifted off to sleep. Sam had often checked on the two of them before she went to bed herself, observing how Lily's hand draped protectively over her little brother's forearm, their faces slack with the deep sleep of innocence.

Her two oldest kids didn't look so innocent at the moment. They looked angry. They looked tired. They looked unsure. And she couldn't exactly blame them.

"It's going to be all right, guys," Sam said, reaching across the table to touch them. "All I ask is that you give Park Tudor one grading period, and if by the spring you don't like it, I won't force you to go. I'll even send you back to Tech if you like, or anywhere else you want. We can even buy a house in the district you prefer."

Lily blinked. "Seriously?"

"Yes. I want you to be happy. But I also want you to have the best opportunities—art, drama, music, foreign language, you name it—and you have more of a say at Park Tudor than at Tech. You have more control over what you do. But if you're not happy, what's the point?"

Lily and Greg looked at each other, then at Sam. Greg narrowed his eyes. "Is this child psychology or something?" Sam watched him get up from the table, open one of the kitchen's glass-front cabinets, and pull out a cut-crystal drinking glass like he'd lived here forever.

She smiled. "It's not psychology. I just love you guys and want the best for you. It's that simple."

"Gotcha," Lily said.

"There's one nice kid I met," Greg volunteered. "He seems OK. He's into chess."

"Sounds like a keeper," Lily muttered.

"How about you, Lil? Any potential friends on the horizon?"

Lily reached for another cookie before she answered her mother. "Not really. Everybody's in established little cliques. One loser dude keeps bugging me, though. He's in my AP English class and he calls me 'Goth Girl.' So original."

"But how would we go back to Tech, Mom?" Greg sat back down with his milk. "Now that we've got some money, why would we move back to the East End?"

Lily made a face. "We could live on some fancy cul-de-sac in Carmel and Jack could get us in Tech if we wanted. Look at the way he pulled strings to get us into Park Tudor at the end of the grading period. Guess it comes in handy to have that much clout."

Sam smiled. "We will never take advantage of that."

"I bet he could get us into anything," Greg said, not bothering to hide his excitement. "I'd like to sit at the f-f-fifty-yard line to watch the Colts play, then go down on the field for autographs. I know he could do that!"

"I'd like front-row seats at the Green Day concert." Lily said, her eyes lighting up. "With a limo ride and backstage passes."

Sam laughed. She was about to explain that Jack Tolliver was not their own personal gravy train but realized that would sound ridiculous. Because that's exactly what he was.

The game had definitely started, Jack noted, because Samantha Monroe was now seated next to him looking dutifully datelike. He hoped she'd loosen up some and be quick about it, since the Indiana versus Milwaukee contest had started, too, and all around them were the usual suspects tucked into their prime courtside seats—the Marion County prosecutor, the U.S. Attorney, the president of Indiana University—Purdue University Indianapolis, the mayor, the managing editor of the
Star
, and assorted wives, kids, lobbyists, trial attorneys, legislators, professional athletes, and trophy bimbos, including three women Jack was fairly certain he'd dated at some point, especially the brunette who had not stopped scowling at him.

That any one of them had failed to notice Jack with Samantha was a near impossibility. He'd already exchanged greetings with most, including the brunette, whose name he thought might be Amanada. Or Amelia. He chuckled a little to himself, realizing that for a politician he was pretty damn awful with names.

He looked over at Sam again. There was no way that any of these people could see Sam over here and think,
Love-struck fiancee
. Descriptive phrases like "nervous wreck" and "fish out of water" were far more likely. Jack wished Sam would stop bouncing her leg up and down like that.

He smiled at Sam and she offered up a pained and brief smile in response. Jack sighed. Kara had instructed both of them to dress down for the evening as evidence they were attempting to be low-key about the relationship. She'd suggested they both wear jeans and casual shoes and tops. She told Sam to go light on the makeup (which seemed silly, considering that Jack had hardly seen her in anything other than lip gloss) and to minimize jewelry. She told Jack to wear a ball cap as if he were trying to hide from the press.

"Need anything else, Sam?" He felt ridiculous and knew that she did, too. Sam had hardly said ten words to him that evening, and her leg kept shaking like there was a swarm of fire ants crawling up the curve of her lovely left calf. Jack checked her out again from head to toe, noting that Sam had opted for a simple scoop neck black T-shirt obviously made of some sort of cotton-Spandex blend, because, even untucked, it clung to her curves like a coat of shellac. She wore simple black leather boots with a two-and-a-half-inch heel. Jack had been unable to determine whether they were the ankle-high or the knee-high variety. Thigh-high seemed too much to hope for and probably wouldn't work with such close-fitting jeans anyway. As icing on the cake, Sam had chosen a pair of simple silver hoop earrings—not so small that they were invisible, but not so big as to be gaudy. Her hair fell in soft waves to her shoulders.