Wife for a Day (10 page)

Deep inside, he hoped Wes would come up empty-handed. He'd spent a lifetime not trusting people, but for some reason, he didn't
want to believe the worst of Samantha Jones.

Eight hours later he was still driving the streets. He thought he had checked out every parking lot, every back alley, and every surface street in West Palm Beach. He'd counted twenty-three bugs. Five of them were the new models, the remaining seventeen were in various stages of decay or had been souped up with wide tires and bright paint—but not the color he was searching for.

There didn't seem to be an orange bug anywhere in West Palm Beach.

At 1:00
A.M.
he drove through the parking lot of Denny's. He thought about stopping to get a cup of coffee, but he was tired and ready to head to the Breakers and catch a few hours' sleep.

The lot was well lit and more cars than he'd expected at that hour filled the spaces. He was just about ready to pull back onto the street when he caught sight of a round headlight in his rearview mirror. He turned, and partially hidden behind a Dumpster at the back of the lot was an orange VW.

Backing up, Jack pulled the Lincoln close, got out, and checked the inside of the car. Half a dozen wire hangers holding an assortment of clothes were suspended from a rod mounted over the cramped backseat. A jumble of shoes rested on the floor. A pillow and folded blanket sat on the passenger seat, and
on top of the bedding was a gold-and-black shopping bag marked Michel—a boutique in Palm Beach that was all too familiar to Jack.

Pay dirt
.

Jack locked the Lincoln and headed for the coffee shop.

“Just one?” the hostess asked when he walked through the door.

Jack nodded. “Is there a Samantha Jones working here?”

“Sam? Sure,” the young girl answered. “Would you like to sit at her table?”

He nodded again, checking out the two women behind the counter with their backs to him. Sam was easy to pick out. She stood a good head taller than her coworker, and her flaming red hair could be seen a mile away.

“Is this okay?” The hostess set a menu on the table and smiled.

“It's fine. Thanks.”

He slid into the booth, hung one arm over the back of the seat, and got comfortable. He wanted a clean view of Samantha Jones as she headed for his table.

She had a coffeepot in one hand and a glass of ice water in the other when she stepped out from behind the counter. The water sloshed onto the floor when their eyes connected.

“Evenin', Sam.”

She let out a sigh, and he could easily see
the rise and fall of her breasts beneath the white shirt and Denny's tie. “I was wondering if you'd come looking for me.”

“You weren't easy to find.”

Her hand was shaking when she set the glass of water on the table. “Coffee?”

“I'd prefer answers.”

She leaned across the table and turned over the mug. “The coffee's good, and I'm busy.” Steam rose from the cup as she poured. He could tell she was trying to concentrate on the coffee, but her eyes peeked at him through thick lashes. “Have you had time to look at the menu?”

“I'm not hungry.”

“You can't sit here if you're only going to have coffee. We need the tables for customers who want to eat.”

“Then give me a hamburger with fries.”

“How do you want it cooked?”

“Medium-well.”

“Onions?”

“No.”

“Would you like a salad, too?” she asked, scribbling down his order.

He stilled her hand. “What I want is to talk.”

She pulled away. “I can't. It's busy tonight, and I've got other customers to take care of.”

“When do you get off?”

“Four.”

He lounged back in the seat and lifted his cup of coffee. “I'm in no hurry.”

The skirt she wore was short and tight, and he couldn't miss the provocative swing of her hips as she walked away. A thick braid hung down her back, and just then he wanted to pretend it was a rope and pull her back to his booth.

All in good time, he decided.

She must have walked by three or four times, clearing tables, delivering an armful of plates to another, not slowing down a moment. She didn't take time to count the tips she shoved into her pocket, or to glare at him as he watched every sensual step she took.

Ten minutes later she delivered his plate.

He wasn't interested in the food—only in her. “Looks good,” he said, watching the way she stared at the table instead of him.

“Thanks. More coffee?”

He put a contemplative finger to his lips, making her wait for an answer. “Do you have any apple pie to go with it?”

She rolled her eyes. “We had a run on apple earlier tonight. Is peach okay?”

He lifted the burger and held it close to his mouth, watching the way her pretty lips pursed in annoyance while she waited. Let her get angry. She'd made him angry when she'd
walked out of his hotel room without saying good-bye. Let her see how it felt to be totally annoyed.

“I'm waiting for an answer, Jack. Do you want peach pie?”

“Do you have berry?”

“Only peach.”

“Well, I prefer apple, but I suppose peach will do.”

Again she filled his cup, but this time she didn't bother watching what she was doing. Instead, she stared him right in the eye. “Are you going to make my life miserable all night?”

“That's my plan.”

“Couldn't you wait outside until four?”

“I prefer the view in here. If it's a tip you're worried about, don't.”

“I don't want a tip from you.”

“What about money for services rendered? What about clothes and jewelry?”

“I don't want anything.”

“That's a switch.”

She straightened, looking away as if she couldn't face the animosity he knew was in his eyes. “I deserved that,” she whispered.

“Hey, miss,” a burly man called to her from two booths away. “Could I have some more coffee.”

“Be right there.”

Jack wasn't hungry, but he managed to choke down the hamburger and fries as he watched every one of Sam's moves. He didn't know if she'd bolt, but he wanted to be ready to go after her if she did.

When Sam came back to the table, she slid a jumbo slice of peach pie in front of him. He hadn't asked for ice cream, but there were two scoops on the side.

“Look, I'll return the clothes,” she said, putting the glass coffeepot on the table and sliding into the seat across from him. “I'll pay back every penny you paid me. It might take me a while, but—”

“Am I supposed to believe you?”

“Why shouldn't you?”

“You promised you wouldn't leave without me that night in Palm Beach, but you did.”

She laughed lightly. “And that makes me untrustworthy?”

“That and a whole series of things.”

“Such as?”

“Stealing a sewing machine.”

“I borrowed without asking. I don't know how you found out about that, but obviously the person who told you left out the fact that I returned it the next day. I might be one step away from the poorhouse, but I don't steal.”

“Then what do you call buying nearly eight thousand dollars worth of clothing and jew
elry, including lingerie that must have been made out of gold, and charging all of it to me? And while we're at it, what do you call going to the country club with my sister and pretending to be Arabella Fleming?”

“I call it saving your miserable ass.”

Jack couldn't help but laugh. “Now that's an excuse I don't hear every day.”

Her pretty eyes narrowed into a frown. “Didn't Lauren call you?”

“Why should she?”

“Because, Mr. Remington, your sister accidentally turned up at the espresso shop where I work when I'm not working here. It was her birthday, and she asked me to go shopping and have dinner with her. I said no, but she insisted. I don't know how well you know your sister, but let me tell you,
Jack
, she doesn't believe in the word
no
.”

“That doesn't explain the clothes.”

“Miss,” someone at another table called, “could I have an ice tea?”

“One second,” she tossed over her shoulder, and leaned close. “Your sister insisted I buy the clothes and charge them to
my
fiancé. It was pretty obvious to me that you never told her the truth. What was I supposed to do? Screw up your little charade by telling her I don't have a fiancé
or
the proper clothes to wear to a country club?”

She didn't wait for him to respond. Instead, she slid out of the booth and walked away.

He watched her as she worked. She didn't look the type who would perpetrate some clever scam, yet she'd fallen so damn easily into playing a role when he'd asked her to, and she'd picked it up again without missing a beat. She'd seemed hesitant about taking his money, so hesitant she'd made him think she was a troubled woman, then she'd plucked the money right out of his hands.

But, hell, when he was around her most all his anger drained out of him. She had a smile that warmed him and a way with words that made him want to spend every minute in her company.

She might be a con artist, then again she might not, but he found himself wanting to be the victim of any one of her schemes.

 

Fifteen minutes later she was back, and she slipped into the booth again. “I've got a ten-minute break. If you think you can be civil, I'll keep you company.”

He pushed his cup of coffee toward her. “Want some?”

She took the cup in both hands and held it to her lips. “I thought you were going to tell Lauren the truth.”

“I couldn't bring myself to do it. I've spent
most of my life trying to make her happy.”

“She told me. She also said you sometimes do too much.”

“Old habits are hard to break. I tried calling her last night to tell her, but she'd already gone to London. I know I should have told her sooner, but I had other things on my mind.”

“What could have been more important than telling your sister about the crazy scheme you concocted?”

“A troubled son.”

She smiled softly, and damn if that smile didn't come close to melting his heart. “I'm sorry.”

“Your mama didn't by any chance have any sage advice about teenage boys, did she?”

“Only to stay away from them.”

“Good advice for a teenage girl, not good advice for a dad.”

Sam picked a cold french fry from his plate, swirled it in the catsup, and stuck it in her mouth. Her cheeks had filled out some since he'd seen her last. Working as a waitress instead of a tailor had obviously provided her with steady meals. Still, the dark circles beneath her eyes were far more visible than they'd been before, and he couldn't help but wonder why.

“Have I answered all your questions?” she
asked, before putting a second fry in her mouth.

“There's only a few more.”

“Then ask away.”

“Why didn't you call me?”

She frowned in puzzlement. “I didn't have your phone number.”

“It was in the note with the roses.”

The frown deepened. “Did you send me roses?”

He nodded. “To Antonio's. A few days after you ran out on me.”

She bit her lip, looking a little contrite, as if all that had happened weighed heavy on her mind. “I didn't get any roses. They must have come after I quit.”

“
Quit?
I heard a different story. Something about being fired because of the sewing machine.”

“The sewing machine wasn't the reason. I took that
after
I was fired.”

He put an elbow on the table and rested his chin on his knuckles. He couldn't help but grin. “Care to tell me the
whole
story?”

“It's long. My break's not.”

“Then give me the condensed version.”

She took a sip of his water and stared at the table as she spoke. She told him about getting fired, about taking the sewing machine, about needing a tip to tide her over until she could
get another job. He could sense her embarrassment, but he felt nothing but compassion for her and her troubles, and concern that there was much more to the story, things he wished she would share.

When she finished, he reached across the table, sliding his fingers over hers. “What are you doing when you get off work?”

“Going home.”

“You don't have far to go, do you? I saw the Volkswagen in the parking lot, Sam. I know where you live.”

Discomfort was plainly written on her face, and he knew her living conditions were another cause for embarrassment. Still, she offered him a smile. “It's cozy.”

“So is my room at the Breakers. You could curl up there and sleep. Maybe have dinner with me later in the day.”

“I'm not into one-night stands. I don't like one-day stands, either. Besides, we don't have anything in common.”

“I thought we had a lot in common.”

“Such as?”

The cowboy part of him that had a tendency to fade when he stepped on Palm Beach soil kicked in. “You fit right nice in my arms when we're dancing.”

“An inflatable doll would, too.”

“I've never tried kissing an inflatable doll,
but I doubt they holler ‘stop' just when things are getting good.”

“I hollered ‘stop' because you were moving too fast.”

“What if we started over? Moved a little more slow? Dinner really does mean just that—dinner. I won't do anything you don't want me to.”

“It won't work, Jack. You don't trust me. More than likely you never will.”

“I'll admit I'm not a trusting man, but I'll also admit that I've been wrong about people before. Maybe we should give each other a second chance?”