Wife for a Day (12 page)

“Someone's in a gall-darned hurry.”

The Explorer turned off the road, swerved to miss a mudhole, then skidded to a stop right in the middle of the yard.

“Well, I'll be,” Crosby muttered. “If it ain't little miss Lauren.”

“Who's Lauren?” Beau asked his dad.

“My sister…your aunt.”

Jack walked toward the car, totally baffled by Lauren's sudden and uncommon visit. He opened the door, and a sobbing Lauren threw her arms around him.

“Oh, Jack,” she cried. “I've just had the
worst two days of my entire life, and I never, ever thought I'd get here.”

Jack smoothed damp strands of hair from her cheeks and tried to calm her down, but he knew from experience—and from memories of her two divorces—that he was in for several long rounds of tears.

“Did Peter do something to hurt you?” Jack could feel anger seething inside. He'd told Peter he'd break him in half, and he'd meant every word.

Lauren looked stricken when she raised her head and nodded. Her already-red face turned blotchy, and she started to cry even harder.

Sliding a comforting arm around her waist, he led her up the stairs, but she stopped before they reached the threshold. She sniffed back her tears, applied a lacy white handkerchief to her nose, and aimed her eyes at the befuddled kid sitting on the porch.

“Oh, Beau!” She threw her arms around the boy. “I am
so
happy to finally meet you.” She pushed him out to arm's length. “You look exactly like your dad when he was sixteen.
Exactly
. It's wonderful to have you here.”

Lauren twisted around, smiling as she looked at Jack, at Crosby who was scratching his whiskers, at Mike walking toward the house, his arms laden with three suitcases,
probably only a tenth of the gear she'd brought with her.

She kissed Crosby's cheek before he limped into the house shaking his head. When Mike got close, she threw her arms around him and her lips started to tremble. “You don't have to go to Florida,” she blubbered. “Peter and I…Oh, it's so awful. We're not going to get married.”

“Want to talk about it?” Mike asked gently, his ministerial side pushing the ranch-manager part of him clean out of sight.

“There's nothing to talk about. It's over. Finished. Forever.”

Mike set the luggage on the porch and slipped an arm around Lauren's shoulders. “Come on inside. We'll have some coffee and try to sort all this out.”

Jack gladly let Mike take over. He was a hell of a lot better at solving problems. He had a special calling, something that had completely eluded Jack.

“Does she always cry like that?” Beau asked after Mike and Lauren disappeared inside.

“Only when she gets a divorce or loses another love of her life. Usually about every two or three years.”

“That often?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Who's Peter?”

“A rattlesnake.”

“Are you thinking about murdering him?”

Jack unconsciously hung an arm around his son's shoulder. For a moment he thought about pulling it away, but he left it there instead. Just like hearing Beau's earlier laugh, holding the boy made him feel good.

“What do you think would be just punishment for a man who'd tampered with a woman's affections?”

Beau shrugged. “I don't know. String him up by his balls?”

Jack laughed and, feeling a natural bond with his son, even though they'd always been separated, pulled him closer. “That's exactly what I was thinking.”

Beau looked at him and smiled, the first true smile he'd seen on the boy's face. Jack dragged the baseball cap from Beau's head and looked at it. “You know, I've got a Stetson upstairs that I've never gotten around to breakin' in. Think you might like to try it on for size?”

“Yeah.” Beau tilted his head, looking at Jack's hand on his shoulder, then turned back, a grin on his face. “Maybe I could wear it to church on Sunday. There's this girl. Tynna. Prettiest thing I've ever laid eyes on.”

Jack's throat tightened. His son had gone from newborn to girl-crazy in the blink of an eye. He'd missed so much, so damn much.
Those sixteen years were lost to him—but the future was still ahead, and it was starting to look a hell of a lot brighter.

 

Two hours later Jack still had no idea what had happened between Lauren and Peter. “Everything was fine at dinner the other night.” She sniffed, and looked up at Jack through tear-dampened lashes.

Jack sat on the coffee table facing her, his elbows planted on widespread knees. Mike sat beside her, fingering the cross hanging around his neck. He'd been silent for a long time, but that was okay. Lauren was spilling her guts about everything and nothing. She needed to talk. Didn't matter to Jack if she said anything constructive. All he wanted was for her to get stuff off her chest. He wanted,
needed
for her to be happy again.

“Did I tell you that Arabella helped me celebrate my birthday? We had such a wonderful time, before…before…” Another tear slid down her face.

Jack pulled a clean red-plaid handkerchief from his pocket and held it out to her, wishing she hadn't brought up the subject of Arabella. He should have told her the truth long before. Telling her now would be a disaster.

“Did she tell you we went shopping together?” Lauren asked, taking the handker
chief from his fingers and daintily touching the skin beneath her eyes.

“She told me.”

“She's got terrible taste in clothes, Jack. Oh, my gosh, you should have seen the outfit she wanted to buy for the country club. It was so totally wrong, but, you know what?”

“What?”

“You couldn't have fallen in love with anyone more perfect.”

“Who's Arabella?” Beau asked, grabbing one of Crosby's half-charred oatmeal cookies.

“Your father's fiancée.” Lauren looked from Beau to Jack, her brow wrinkling into a frown. “Don't tell me you haven't told Beau about your fiancée.”

“He ain't told me, neither,” Crosby stated. “When did you get yourself a fiancée?”

Mike leaned back on the couch. He crossed one boot over his knee and grinned at Jack. He was the only one who knew the truth, and now he was going to enjoy watching Jack sweat.

“You know I don't talk much about my personal life.”

“You ain't never had a personal life, but I sure as hell figured you'd tell me if you got one,” Crosby muttered.

“Oh, Jack, I can't believe you haven't wanted to tell the world.” Lauren looked at
the four men surrounding her. “Arabella's wonderful.” She aimed her eyes at Beau. “She's not all that much older than you, but you're going to love having her as a mother.”

Jack stared down at the floor. If he looked up, he knew he'd be forced to face eight glaring eyes.

“You aren't getting married soon, are you?” Beau asked, and Jack could hear a hint of anger in his voice.

Jack tilted his head and looked at the boy. “Haven't made any plans yet.”

“That's exactly what Arabella told me,” Lauren stated. “You know me, I don't believe in long engagements, and I told her so. Spring weddings are always the nicest.” She took a sip of the coffee Crosby had made. “I love planning weddings, Jack. I hope you and Arabella will let me help.”

Hell! He'd sure gotten himself into a mess this time.

“When the time comes, I'm sure she'd like your help. But that could be years from now. We're not in any hurry.”

“That's nonsense, Jack. You need to be together. Just like…Just like…” She started to cry again, and Jack lifted her hands into his. He hated to see her cry, but at least with her thinking about Peter, she wasn't focusing on the dangerous topic of Arabella.

“Do you feel like talking about what happened in London?” he asked. “Maybe you'd feel better if you got it all out in the open.”

“I can't talk to you.
Any
of you.” She drew in a shaky breath. “It's one of those woman things that you couldn't possibly understand. Oh, I wish Arabella was here.”

Lauren blew her nose on Jack's handkerchief, then looked at him with tear-filled blue eyes. “Would you call her, Jack?”

“Why?”

“I need her. She'll understand what I'm going through.”

Hell!
“She's busy, Lauren. I can't ask her to drop what she's doing and come up here.”

“Please.”

Tell her the truth
, he told himself.
Tell her now and get it over
.

“There's something I need to tell you.”

She sniffed and attempted to dry her eyes. “Please don't tell me something I don't want to hear. I just don't think I could take it right now.”

Jack smiled, and wiped a tear from her cheek. “All I wanted to say is—” Ah, hell! “It might take me a while to get in touch with her, but I'm sure she'll come.”

He hoped.

S
am sat in
the VW and watched the blur of traffic flying by in front of Denny's. It was two in the morning, and she was taking a ten-minute break. She'd dealt with one too many frustrated diners tonight, Tyrone had had a fight with his lady before coming in to work and snapped at every special request or substitution, and she was so darn tired she could easily grab her pillow, put her head down, and go to sleep.

Instead she thought about Jack, the same thing she'd done ever since he'd sent the gift. She'd FedEx'd the thousand dollars off to Johnnie, the whiskey she'd wrapped in a few brown paper bags and tucked away in her trunk for a special occasion, and the flowers she'd carried with her from her car, to the KOA bathrooms, to the Espresso Nook, and to the salad station at Denny's.

The roses had opened fully, and every chance she got she inhaled their fragrance, remembering the scents of the many bouquets in Jack's suite. She held the vase in front of her now, closed her eyes, and wished for Jack to appear.

Like a child, she cracked open one eyelid and peeked to see if he might have miraculously shown up. He hadn't, but that didn't keep her from hoping. She'd blown it the other night when she'd pushed him away, and wanted nothing more than another chance—and time together—to see if anything could develop between them.

Mama would have told her she was silly to have such a far-fetched dream, would have reminded her that men—especially rich ones—had a bad habit of hurting women.

“Sorry, Mama,” she whispered. “I'd have to ignore you if you said those things. Jack might hurt me, but that's a risk I have to take.”

There was something special about Jack Remington. More than anyone in her entire life, he made her feel good inside. It had nothing to do with words
or
actions, because all he had to do was appear, and she felt a strange, uncontrollable tug on her heart.

Even now, just thinking about him, she felt the powerful pull deep inside her. She
laughed, feeling so darn wonderful even as her break time came to an end.

When she returned to the restaurant, she scooped up a tip from one of her tables, stopped and asked two diners how they were doing, then went behind the counter and started to make a double chocolate malt for Tyrone, hoping it would put him in a better frame of mind.

She heard the phone in the kitchen ring but ignored it. She'd only gotten one call since she'd started working at Denny's, and that was from Johnnie Russo. She remembered Jack Remington telling her their first night together that phone calls had a nasty habit of bringing bad news. Well, she'd had enough bad news in her lifetime—and she didn't want anything spoiling the wonderful mood she was in right now.

“Hey, Sam. It's for you,” Tyrone yelled over the pickup counter.

She looked up from the tub of vanilla ice cream. “Me?”

“You know anyone else named Sam?”

“Not around here.” She wiped her hands on a towel and went into the kitchen.

“You're getting to be awfully popular around here,” Tyrone barked, flipping two hamburger patties on the grill while holding the dingy white phone out to her.

Her eyes trailed from Tyrone's disgruntled face, to the receiver, then back to Tyrone. “It isn't a man, is it?” she whispered.

Tyrone nodded.

“Does it sound like the same guy who called a few days ago?”

Tyrone shoved the mouthpiece against his hard, rotund stomach and glared at her like she'd gone mad. “I ain't no secretary. You want to know who it is, you ask.”

“Thanks loads!”

She grabbed the phone from his meaty fist. The last person she wanted to talk with was Johnnie Russo. She'd called him yesterday, right after she'd shipped off a thousand-dollar cashier's check. Again she'd asked him for an extension, and again he'd given her a flat-out no. Now she had the feeling he was calling to tell her that he'd refigured her balance, and found out that she owed him more than twenty-seven hundred dollars.

That thought wasn't too pleasing. Maybe she should attempt to be courteous. Friendly even. “Hello.”

“Evenin', Whiskey.”

The deep, familiar voice vibrated her insides. A smile touched her lips, and the giddy feeling slid all the way down to her toes. “Hello, Jack.”

“Surprised to hear from me?”

“I'm
thrilled
to hear from you.” She inhaled deeply, hoping she might be able to pick up the scent of his cigars and cologne and picture him standing in front of her. Just like in the car, he didn't appear, but she could see him plain as day. A lock of light brown hair hung over his brow. He had a hand tucked into his trouser pocket, and the tie to his tuxedo was loose about his neck. He had a slightly off-kilter grin on his face, and lips that looked in desperate need of a kiss.

Too bad he was so far away.

“Thank you for the gifts…and the tip.”

She could hear his laugh, and it sounded better than a theater full of applause. She was feeling kind of dreamy, kind of warm and tingly inside, waiting for Jack to speak again. Until a moment ago, she hadn't realized how much she liked the deep, resonating tone of his voice, sort of like Harrison Ford at his sexiest.

“How are you doing?” he asked, his question sounding strained, as if he'd been searching for something to say.

“Fine. How about you?”

“Good.” She heard his long, drawn-out sigh. “Sam?” It seemed forever before he continued. “There's something I need to ask you.”

“Okay.”

He hesitated, just as he had their first night
together, right before he'd asked her to play his fiancée.

“Is something wrong, Jack?”

“No.”

“Then what do you want to ask me?”

“Have you tried the whiskey I sent?”

She laughed, winding her finger around the cord, wishing it was Jack's hair, that he was close, that she could see what emotions were crossing his face, because she couldn't tell over the phone what was causing him so much uneasiness. “I'm saving the whiskey, Jack. I'd rather share it with someone—like you.”

“Then come to Wyoming.”

She straightened, trying to regain her senses, then walked away from the wall to a place where she could have an ounce of privacy, stretching the spiraling cord as far as it could go. “Would you repeat what you just said?”

“Come to Wyoming.”

This was better than anything she'd hoped for, but all she could think to say was, “Why?”

“Lauren's here. She's broken up with Peter and…and I need you to be Arabella again.”

Of all the
…Sam walked across the room and without another word, slammed the phone on its hook.

He was supposed to tell Lauren the truth. He was supposed to have feelings for
her
, the
real
her, not some fake fiancée. He was sup
posed to have given her all those gifts without wanting anything in return.

And now this.

The phone rang again. Once. Twice.

On the third ring she shot an annoyed glance at Tyrone. “Would you get that?”

“No way. It's bound to be the guy you just hung up on, and I don't want to be the one who gets yelled at.”

“What if it isn't him? What if it's the guy who wants money from me?”

“Just answer the damn thing!” Tyrone bellowed.

Sam jerked the phone off the wall, and took a deep breath. “Hello,” she said sweetly.

“Sam? Is everything okay?”

“Is that you, Jack? You sound so far away.”

“I
am
far away. What the hell's going on?”

“Nothing. We have a bad connection, and I couldn't hear you.”

“Then answer me. Will you come to Wyoming? Lauren's been crying all evening and none of us can make her stop.”

Jack didn't want her for himself. He only needed her help—for his sister. If he'd given her any other reason, she would have given him a flat-out no. But he'd asked for Lauren's sake, and Sam liked her too much to turn him down

“How soon do you want me to come?”

“Your flight's at eight in the morning. Be there no later than seven and pick up the ticket at United.”

“You already bought the ticket?”

“I consider myself a good judge of character. I knew you'd come—for Lauren.”

That hurt. She would have gone for him, too.

Definitely for him.

But now? She was so mad she could…

Jack might think he was a good judge of character, but his opinion of her was going to go downhill any moment now.

“Jack?” she said, in her most syrupy voice.

“What?”

“I'll need two thousand seven hundred dollars.”

“You
what
?”

“Don't yell. If you want me to be Arabella again, you'll have to pay me.”

“Where's the thousand I gave you two days ago?”

“That was a tip. That was free and clear with no strings attached—and I spent it.”

“What did you do? Buy more bras?”

That did it!

“Yeah. But don't count on ever seeing any of them.”

She could hear half a growl, half a sigh. “I suppose you need clothes, too?”

“Well, the way I hear it, sundresses and bikinis just won't cut it in Wyoming this time of year.”

“You know what, Whiskey?”

“What?”

“You're going to be the death of me. Either that, or you're going to lead me straight to bankruptcy court.”

“You could always tell Lauren the truth.”

“I thought about that.”

“So why didn't you?”

There was a long moment of silence, and then an even longer, agonized sigh. “Because for some damn reason I wanted to see you again, but hell if I can remember why.”