With This Ring (5 page)

"Did you have something specific in mind?"

It was Amy's turn to grin, and she totally ignored the inner voice that said she shouldn't do anything rash, that this might need some more thought, that maybe she really was being dangerously foolish.

Instead she said, "Yes, I do. Let's go to my place, and I'll put on some dance music and you'll have your first lesson."

"Now who could refuse an invitation like that?"

Every city has its enclave where the very wealthy live. In New York, it's the tightly-secured buildings along Fifth and Park Avenues; in Los Angeles, it's Beverly Hills and Bel Air; and in Houston, it's River Oaks.

River Oaks. Oil barons and Italian barons. Astronauts and former movie stars. The famous and the infamous.

As Sam followed Amy's little white Miata down the broad expanse of River Oaks Boulevard, past the five million dollar mansions with their sculpted gardens, he wondered who in the hell her parents
were
. When she'd said River Oaks, Sam had envisioned one of the streets on the fringes, not this prime center location.

He couldn't suppress a low whistle as she turned on Inwood Drive, drove about half a block, then pulled into the driveway of an enormous red brick Georgian home with a gray mansard roof. After stopping to punch in the code for the electronic security gate, she drove on through, and he was right behind her.

"Holy shit," he muttered. "These people have some bucks!" For a few seconds, he wondered what he was doing there. Then he told himself not to get weirded out just because Amy obviously came from a background so far removed from his that they might as well have been born on different planets.

Still, this kind of money was a bit intimidating. But what the hell, he wasn't planning on marrying her or anything even close. They were just having fun together. They'd go up to her apartment, and she'd try to teach him how to dance—finding out soon enough how hopeless that was—and then, if he got lucky . . .

He smiled wryly.
Forget it, Robbins.
He might have only known her a few hours, but he was smart enough to understand that Amy wasn't the kind of woman who'd jump into the sack with some guy she'd just met. Not only that, from what she'd told him about herself, she might as well be wearing one of those marriage/picket fences signs, too. No, this was probably a one-shot deal, and sex wasn't going to enter into the picture.

Amy's taillights vanished around the back of the house, and Sam followed. It wasn't fully dark. Instead, the day had faded into the hazy lavender of twilight, and the house and trees were inky silhouettes against the muted sky. For the second time that day, Sam's fingers itched for his camera.

A large, four-car garage, partially obscured by dozens of huge leafy trees, loomed ahead. Amy opened the door at the far right with an automatic opener and pulled inside.

Sam parked his Corvette behind her. He didn't want to block anyone in, although the main house was dark except for outside lights flanking the front and back doors and lining the flower beds.

"Well, this is it," Amy said, walking toward him.

Sam looked around. The grounds of the estate seemed to go on forever, and the house was huge. "Good Lord, Amy, what does your father
do?
Own an oil company or something?"

She smiled. "No. Nothing like that. He's a heart surgeon."

It took Sam several seconds before comprehension dawned. He stared at her. "Is your father Dr. Alan Carpenter?"

"Yes."

Her father was world famous. Like Michael DeBakey and Denton Cooley, Alan Carpenter was a pioneer in open-heart surgery and had perfected several techniques that he had demonstrated all over the world. He had operated on kings and Saudi princes, famous actresses and ex-presidents. Dr. Alan Carpenter! Jesus H. Christ. No wonder Amy was such a class act.

Good thing you have no serious intentions toward her, isn't it, Robbins? 'Cause you wouldn't stand a snowball's chance in hell . . .

"Do you mind if I collect my parents' mail before we go up to my apartment?" she asked, beginning to walk around to the front of the house, motioning for Sam to follow. "They're in Europe right now," she explained, "and part of my deal with them is that I take care of the house and mail and stuff while they're gone. They travel a lot."

Sam nodded, still a bit dazed by his discovery of Amy's identity.

After gathering the mail, they walked back to the garage, and Sam saw that there were outside steps leading up to the apartment.

"Come on," she said. "Let's go up."

When they reached the top, he realized that there was a wooden deck on the second level that appeared to go around three sides of the garage, although it was getting too dark to really see. He hadn't noticed the deck at first because, when you stood at the bottom, the trees hid it from view. "This is nice. Like living in a treehouse."

He followed her inside, and as she snapped on lights, he looked around with pleasure. Even though he prided himself on the fact that he could be ready to go anywhere in an hour and could carry all of his important worldly possessions in a backpack and his camera bags didn't mean he couldn't appreciate a place like Amy's.

The main living area of the apartment had few interior walls that he could see. The different areas were defined by the placement of furniture and the judicious use of screens as well as a low counter/bar that separated the kitchen area from the living area. He noted the highly polished wood floors, the brightly colored rugs scattered about, the proliferation of wicker and light oak furniture, and the dozens and dozens of plants of every description and variety.

He noticed other things, too: speakers mounted in four different places high on the ceilings, literally hundreds of books overflowing two bookcases, a sturdy-looking easel in the far corner, and standing next to it, a fishing tackle box that looked as if it were filled with tubes of paint.

There were also cats. Three of them. One sitting on top of the coffee table, one perched on the windowsill, and the third curled up against the cushions of a green and white striped sofa.

Sam walked over and petted the one on the coffee table, a salmon-colored, long-haired beauty with huge topaz eyes.

"That's Delilah," Amy said, tossing her parents' mail on a rosewood bachelor's chest to the right of the doorway where it joined an already large mound.

Delilah purred and stretched, leaning into his hand.

"I think she likes me," he said.

Amy rolled her eyes. "Typical female," she murmured. "Stick a good-looking guy in front of her, and she's putty."

Sam grinned. "What's the black one's name?" He looked at the cat on the windowsill.

"That's Sheba. Isn't she beautiful? I got her at the shelter."

Sheba stared at Sam, then turned back to face the window which reflected her haughty image.

"She
doesn't
like me."

Amy chuckled. "She doesn't like anyone."

"Not even you?"

"She tolerates me."

Amy took off her beret and tossed it at the big calico laying on the couch. "Hey, Elvis, move your fat rump off that couch. You know I don't allow you up there!"

The calico stretched lazily, then slowly stood, arched his back, and lightly hopped off the couch. He walked away slowly, his head and tail up in the air.

"Guess he told you," Sam said.

Amy laughed. "Honestly. They run the household."

"Yeah, I know."

"Do you have cats? No, of course, you don't. You're traveling all the time."

"I used to have a dog. But I had to find him another home."

Because she looked as if she felt bad for him, he said, "I get to see him all the time, though, because he lives with my best friend. So it's
almost
like having a dog of my own."

"What kind of dog is he?"

"Major is part Lab, but mostly Heinz 57 . . . like me."

"The very best kind," Amy said softly. Her eyes met his, and there was something about their expression that caused Sam's breath to catch.

For a long moment, nothing stirred except the current of emotion crackling between them.

Jesus, Sam thought. What's going on here? His throat felt suddenly dry.

Amy was the first one to look away. "Do you mind if I check my messages?" she said.

"No, go ahead."

She headed toward the telephone which sat on the bar. Sam watched her. She walked like a dancer, sort of bouncing on the balls of her feet. She'd probably had years of ballet lessons, along with everything else that money could buy. He thought about his own childhood. About every spare penny going to feed his mother's drug habit. About all the times they wouldn't have eaten if not for the soup kitchen at the mission a couple of blocks away from their seedy apartment and his skill at panhandling . . . and other things.

Amy punched a button on her answering machine, and after a few beeps, a woman's slightly nasal voice said:
Hey, Amy, where the hell are you? I thought we were supposed to go see that new Michael Douglas movie tonight. Call me when you get home.
The machine clicked off.

"Oh, no," Amy said, "I completely forgot . . . Lark's going to kill me." She turned, grimacing. "I've got to call her. I'm sorry."

"Hey, go ahead. I don't mind. I'll just sit here and pet Delilah. Or do you want me to go outside and give you some privacy?"

"No, of course not. I'll just be a minute."

Sam sat on the couch and reached toward the cat who still perched on the coffee table. He liked cats. His favorite animals to photograph were the big cats, especially tigers. They were so beautiful and sleek and strong. So completely sure they were superior beings. They walked as if they owned the earth.

"Hello, Lark?" Amy was saying behind him. "I know, I know, I'm sorry. I . . . well, I just forgot. I went out to dinner." Her voice lowered. "I
know,
Lark. I said I was sorry. Look, can I call you tomorrow?" There was silence for a few seconds, then, "Well, this isn't a good time for me to talk. I've got someone here."

Sam tried not to listen, but it was impossible not to. Because he was afraid she might be embarrassed, he got up and sauntered toward her easel. There was a painting in progress—a fairly faithful reproduction of a snapshot that was clipped to the top of the easel. Both portrayed three young women with their arms around each other. One of the women was Amy. The other two were a blonde who was a few inches taller than Amy, and an even taller woman with light brown hair. All three were dressed in shorts and T-shirts and were laughing as if they hadn't a care in the world.

The painting was nice but showed no spectacular talent. Amy had been honest rather than modest when she'd said she was primarily a teacher and not an artist. He wondered who the other two women were—was one of them the woman named Lark who Amy was still trying to appease?

A few minutes later Amy wrapped up her conversation and walked over to where he stood. "I'm really sorry about that." She inclined her head toward the phone and made a face. "Lark's my best friend, and normally she doesn't get mad easily, but she's really ticked off right now. I don't usually do things like that. I honestly don't know how I could have forgotten about her."

It was kind of ego-boosting to think that he'd been the cause of Amy's uncharacteristic lapse. Certainly, from the moment he'd laid eyes on
her
, just about everything else had been wiped from
his
mind. "It was my killer charm that did it," he said lightly, trying to lighten her mood. "You just couldn't resist me."

She laughed, but he could see that some of the sparkle had disappeared from her eyes. Maybe he should go. "Do you want me to leave? You don't have to feel obligated to—"

"No, please, Sam, it's okay. This isn't your fault. I just feel bad. I've always hated those women who forget all about their girlfriends when a guy appears on the horizon, and I never thought I'd be one of them."

"Don't you think you're being a little hard on yourself? If this Lark is really your best friend, she'll get over being mad."

She nodded. "You're right. She
will
get over it. I'm just mad at myself, that's all."

"Speaking of your friend, is she one of the people in this painting?"

Amy smiled. "Yes. Lark's the one with the blonde hair and . . . " Her eyes softened. "The other one is Courtney Slavin . . . " She swallowed, her smile turning bittersweet. "Courtney and Lark and I . . . we all started out in kindergarten together. We became best friends, inseparable. Our mothers called us the three musketeers." Without warning, her eyes filled with tears and her lower lip trembled. "God, I'm sorry. I-it's been two years. You'd think I'd be over it by now."

Sam touched her shoulder. "What happened?"

A tear rolled down her cheek, and she brushed it away. "Courtney died two years ago. She had breast cancer. Can you imagine? Only twenty-five years old, and she died of breast cancer! It was so awful. You see, her sister Christine, who had been three years older, died of breast cancer, too, four years earlier."

"Jesus . . . " Sam didn't know what to say.

She sniffed and swiped at her eyes again. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get emotional about it. It's just that sometimes . . . sometimes I think life can be so unfair. Courtney . . . she was so alive . . . so beautiful and so talented . . . she played the flute, and she had such a promising future . . . and then . . . just like that . . . she was gone."

Sam nodded. Sometimes things happened that way. He'd long ago given up trying to figure out why. A person could go crazy trying to figure out why.

"I miss her a lot," Amy said. She seemed to have herself under control now. Her voice was steadier. "She and Lark were like the sisters I never had." She smiled. "Lark still is." She rolled her eyes. "But she won't be for long if I keep forgetting she exists."

"Send her some flowers tomorrow. She'll forget all about being mad." Flowers were Sam's solution to everything, as one disgruntled ex-lover had once said.

"That's a good idea. Now," she added brightly, "I
did
promise you a dance lesson, didn't I?" She walked over to a light oak entertainment center that divided the living area from the dining area and slid open one of the doors, exposing a rack of CDs. After sorting through them, she selected several, then opened another section and inserted the CDs into a player. The push of a few buttons started the unit, and within moments, music filled the air.