The Unsung Hero (10 page)

Samantha cast a wary eye in his direction
and stepped to the front door. "The only pleasure that awaits me is
the pleasure of my bed-" she squelched the hopeful gleam in his eye
with a look and a word "--alone."

He leaned against the door frame and smiled.
"Saved not by the bell," he quipped softly, "but by the fire."

Samantha couldn't hold back a laugh. He might
be persistent but at least he conceded defeat gracefully. "You can
let this place air out while you walk me home," she told him as he
draped her shawl around her shoulders.

A salt-tanged breeze curled around their
silent figures as they walked the narrow pathway between the two
houses. A full moon spilled down" from the sky, lighting the way.
Samantha stopped once to shake sand out of her sandal.

"This is one of the pitfalls of living on the
beach in the summer," she said with a laugh as she slipped it off.
Jason obligingly bent down so she could prop her hand on his back
while she hopped on one foot. "You see why I have a hose outside my
back door?"

"You really love it here, don't you." It was
more a statement than a question, and Jason looked at her as they
stopped on her doorstep.

"I wouldn't dream of living anywhere else,"
she said simply. "I love it, even in the winter. There's nothing
like watching a storm blow in, curled up in a chair with a hot cup
of tea and—"

"And a good book," he finished for her, a
trace of laughter in his voice.

Samantha looked at him searchingly,
expecting to see a mocking glint in his eyes but satisfied when she
found none. "And a good book," she echoed with a smile. She could
feel his eyes on her in the darkness, and a small silence cropped
up. "I had a good time tonight," she said finally, feeling
compelled to break it. She looked away quickly, once again acutely
aware of his maleness. "I. . . tonight was the first time I've ever
been inside David's house. It's really very nice."

Jason didn't seem to share her unease. "Yes,
it is," he remarked conversationally. "It's a lot like my place in
Malibu. Lots of cedar and glass, the same split-level design." He
met her eyes and smiled. "I'm surprised you've never met
David."

Samantha shrugged her
slender shoulders. "I've lived here less than a year. I suppose
he's been here during that time but we've just never run into each
other." The reply was automatic, her mind on what he'd just
said.
Malibu
. The
word conjured up images of long sandy stretches of beach, expensive
homes, and again, scantily clad California beauties. She almost
groaned. It seemed a million miles away, as far from her reach as
Jason was.

"That's something I think I'm thankful for.
You're probably the only thing I've ever beat him to."

"What?" Frowning Samantha dragged her mind
away from the thought.

Jason grinned. "Girls, sports, cars...you
know how competitive men can be. Especially in college." He shoved
his hands into his pockets and eyed her thoughtfully. "Yes, if he'd
met you first you probably wouldn't be here with me tonight. He'd
have snapped you up so fast you wouldn't have known what hit
you."

Samantha felt her cheeks
grow hot. He was talking as if she was some kind of
femme fatale.
She fished
for her key in her pocket. "I really should be going in,
Jason."

He nodded and took the key from her hand.
After swinging open the front door, he slanted her a wry smile. "At
least you locked it this time." When Samantha said nothing, merely
looked at him, he nodded toward the doorway with his head. "I'll
feel better when you're inside, Samantha."

She obligingly stepped upward, watching as he
murmured a good-night and started back down the pathway.

She took a breath and called after him.
"Jason."

He halted immediately and stepped back to
her. She suddenly felt like a teenager on her first date. He'd made
it plain the evening could have ended far differently. "Thanks
again for the dinner--and the balloons," she said softly. A smile
pulled at her mouth. "No one's ever sent me balloons before."

He moved forward a step. "You sure you don't
want to come back and check the sheets on the bed?"

She almost laughed at the undisguised hope in
his voice. From her position on the threshold, they were looking
directly into each other's eyes. He was so close their faces were
almost touching, her mouth only inches away from his. Her nails dug
into her palms, but she quelled the impulse to lean forward and
press her mouth to his.

"No." She shook her head and dropped her
eyes, a rueful little smile pulling at her lips. "I'll take your
word they're not red satin."

"Samantha."

She looked up quickly. "Yes?"

"I've never sent heart-shaped balloons to
anyone before, either." His voice was full of laughter, but his
eyes were warm and tender, and she suddenly felt her heart had
taken on a pair of wings.

The glowing promise in that look was
something she couldn't get out of her mind. She told herself that
she was being mawkish and sentimental, that she was foolishly
reading far too much into Jason's attentions. Nonetheless, her
dreams that night were filled with visions of a laughing,
dark-haired stranger. She spent that night, and the next few as
well, sorely regretting her solitary bed in a way that hadn't
happened since the early days of her divorce, and she woke up in
the morning a very frustrated woman.

Over and over the next day she found herself
wondering if that fleeting sense of magic they had felt the night
before was just that--fleeting. Not for herself, but for him.
Because he had felt something for her, at least she hoped and
prayed that he had!

But the days passed, and she heard nothing.
How many times she caught herself parting the kitchen curtains and
looking out the window toward the house next door, hoping to catch
a glimpse of him, she couldn't have said. For all that she knew, he
could have packed himself up, lock, stock and barrel, and gone back
to Los Angeles. There was absolutely no sign of him.

At the end of a week,
Samantha was fuming. Much as she hated to admit it, she was
convinced she'd been nothing but a playmate that night, a pleasant
diversion to wile away an evening. Her only consolation lay in the
fact that all he'd gotten from her was a little mild petting. And
what had she received in return?
A dream
come true
... She refused to complete the
thought. Pride wouldn't let her. If she'd slept with him, she'd
never have forgiven herself.

Even so, there was a part of her that knew
she'd never have forgotten it, either.

The thought only made her angrier. "After
all," she reminded herself scathingly, "forewarned is forearmed,
and you can't say he didn't warn you. A one-night stand is probably
the most a woman could ever hope for from a man like him. He
probably doesn't even know the meaning of the word commitment!"

Still, she was glad she was able to keep
busy. She'd worked on the inside of her house during the dreary
winter months, painting and papering the walls and the cupboards.
The previous owners hadn't taken very good care of it. Nor had the
salt air been particularly kind to the clapboard siding, but she'd
had to put that off until summer. She'd spent the last couple of
days scraping and meticulously sanding, taking advantage of the
warm sunny weather. Today was her first day painting. It was
shortly before noon, and she had finished nearly one whole side of
the house.

Laying the brush carefully across the bucket
of paint, she wiped her hands on a rag and stepped back to admire
her handiwork. The light blue-gray she'd chosen was a vast
improvement over the peeling blistered shade of yellowed white it
covered.

"Not bad," she murmured approvingly, bending
over to retrieve her brush. "Not bad at all—"

"Especially not from this vantage point."

The teasing voice came from behind her. There
could be no question about its owner. Samantha froze. It was only
when she realized the picture she presented that she slowly
straightened.

She faced Jason with a glare. "I'd appreciate
it if you'd keep your sexist remarks to yourself!"

"Touchy today, aren't we?" he murmured with a
smile. "Would you believe it if I said I was talking about the
paint job and not your—"

She cut him off abruptly. "Not in the least!"
She brushed by him toward the back door, resolutely ignoring the
sudden lurch of her heart at the sight of him. He was dressed in
jeans and a white V-necked pullover that intensified his tan and
his dark masculinity.

She scowled when she saw that he had followed
her into the kitchen. "I don't remember inviting you inside," she
said pointedly.

He shrugged. "What's an invitation among
friends?"

"Friends? I wasn't aware that we were
friends. You certainly don't seem to think so!"

Jason stared at her for a moment. "You're
angry," he said in some surprise.

Samantha took a deep breath, prepared to tell
him exactly what she thought of him. Even she was surprised at
what came out. "Where have you been this past week?"

"Why. . .I've been working." He blinked at
the high-pitched demand.

"Writing?"

"Yes."

"The whole time?"

"Of course."

She gazed at him for a moment, as if trying
to decide whether or not to believe him. Then she turned and began
to wash her hands in the sink, scrubbing furiously.

"I'd take it easy if I were you. It's only
skin."

She only scrubbed the harder and darted an
angry glance at him from the corner of her eye. He'd come to stand
very near her, one lean hip resting against the edge of the
counter.

"I didn't know if you were dead or alive."
The accusing voice was directed at the sink. "For all I knew you
could have drowned in your coffee cup or—or been eaten alive by
your computer!"

She could feel his eyes on her face. "You're
upset because you haven't heard from me." It was a statement, not
a question.

Samantha grimaced and turned off the rush of
water. He'd been working . . . writing. Why did it come as such a
surprise that he took it so seriously? He could hardly churn out a
five-hundred-page novel a year--sometimes two a year--and not work
at it. She was suddenly reminded of the last year with Alan. Fresh
out of college, he'd been offered a fantastic job with a firm in
Portland. But the hours were long and demanding ... and that was
when things began to sour.

She had felt left out. And wasn't that how
she was feeling now--left out?

"And you thought I might have been hurt."

She nodded, aware that it wasn't quite the
truth. She took particular pains in wiping the watery trails of
grayish paint from the stainless steel sink, aware of a twinge of
shame at her pettiness, but it wasn't enough to erase the feeling
of hurt.

"And of course there's no other reason you're
upset with me."

She hated the knowing tone of his voice, as
well as the note of dry humor. "No," she said shortly. Reluctantly
she reached for a towel.

"I have no objection to you keeping an eye
on me, Samantha. In fact, I have the perfect solution. We could
move in together."

It was too much. She whirled to face him.
"Oh, you know that's not it at all!" She scowled. "I'm not a nosy
little busybody who spies on her neighbors. I just thought that
after—after that night you would have..." Her voice trailed
off.

"You thought I'd forgotten about you, that
you were no more than a voluptuous body and a comely face. You
thought that after I'd gotten what I wanted from you—"

"Oh, stop!" She threw the towel at him. "You
didn't get what you wanted, did you?" The minute the words were out
she could have bitten off her tongue. It was stupid to be so upset,
especially when she had no claim on him, but how she wished she
did! And it hadn't been anger so much as disappointment... and he
was conceited enough to know it! But she hated being so
transparent. "Oh, of all the... I'm not voluptuous and you know
it!"

There was a seemingly endless silence. Jason
moved closer, so close she could see the flecks of gold in his
eyes. "No, I didn't get what I wanted," he said finally. "And
don't make the mistake of taking that the way it sounds." He
paused, then added quietly, "And you're not voluptuous . . . you're
perfect."

He knew exactly how to get to her, Samantha
thought weakly. The words were precious as gold, his tone smooth as
honey. And if only she could believe him. She bit her lip and
turned aside. "I'm sorry," she said. "I really shouldn't have
jumped down your throat. I should have known you were working . .
."

He moved to take a seat at the small maple
table. "You're just not used to my working habits. I dive in and
don't come up for air for days. And while I'd much rather be with
you, I do have a deadline to meet." He stopped and she could feel
his eyes on her. "But it's nice to know you care," he added
softly.

"I—I didn't say that." Nervously she wiped
her hands on her jeans.

Jason made no comment. Instead he turned his
head to look at her. "Just because I haven't seen you didn't mean I
wasn't thinking of you. In fact—-" a satisfied smile spread across
his features and he propped his chin on his hands to look at her
"--thinking of you was very inspiring." He grinned wickedly.
"Especially during the love scenes."

The love scenes. She noticed he didn't call
them sex scenes this time. Her heart leaped. Did that mean...? But
no, she was reading too much into it. No doubt his womanizing was a
reflex reaction. She sat down at the table across from him. "What's
this one about?"

He raised a dark eyebrow. "I thought you'd
read the last of my books."