Authors: Maureen Child
When she’d tried to talk to him nine years before, he hadn’t even bothered to answer her letters.
Now
he wanted to talk? She didn’t think so.
He sighed, then swept the edges of his brown sport coat back and shoved both hands into the pockets of his slacks. If he started jingling the coins in his pockets, she just might hit him.
“I don’t like this any more than you do,” he said.
“Sam?” Jo’s voice, coming from the kitchen. “Who is it?”
She stiffened. Her sisters wouldn’t be real pleased to see the man still referred to in the Marconi household as the Bastard standing on the porch. Best to just get rid of him before a bloodbath could erupt.
Man, how could a day go from crappy to downright rotten in the time it took to open a door?
“Nobody,” she called back and wished it were true. Instead, her day was still racing downhill and the speed was blinding.
Stepping out onto the porch, Sam pushed past him, pulling the door closed behind her. It was as if the morning rain had never happened. The sky was a blue so clear it almost hurt to look at it and the wind carried the fresh scent of the sea. From down the street came the sounds of kids playing at the park and she caught a whiff of smoke in the air, telling her that Mr. Bozeman was firing up his back-yard grill.
Everything was as it should be.
Normal.
Except for the fact that a man from her past was suddenly
crowding her present. Dammit, a woman shouldn’t be distracted when trying to deal with someone like Jeff. She needed all cylinders firing. All thrusters up and moving.
All bullets primed and pointed.
Sam walked across the porch and stomped down the five steps to the brick walkway leading to the street. She didn’t bother to look behind her. She knew Jeff was following her. Not only could she hear his footsteps on the worn brick, she
felt
him.
And how weird was that?
He reached out, grabbed her arm, and pulled her around to face him. A bolt of something hot and completely inappropriate sliced through her like lightning spearing through storm clouds. For one heart-stopping second, she was eighteen again and feeling that electric charge that only happened when Jeff touched her.
It had always been that way between them. Right from the first. And in that eternity-filled second, she remembered everything she had spent nine years trying to forget. Heat poured through her, boiling her blood and clouding her brain.
Instinctively, Sam yanked free of his grasp and took a step back. “Do
not
touch me.”
“Sorry.” He lifted both hands in mock surrender and nodded agreement to her terms. “It’s just—” He stopped, glanced around, then shifted his gaze back to her. “This is harder than I thought it would be.”
Something cold and tight squeezed Sam’s heart, but she steeled herself against it. She’d wasted too many nights crying into her pillow over him. She’d buried her dreams, surrendered her innocence, and she wouldn’t go back. Not now. Not ever. Whatever he had
to say to her didn’t matter. He wasn’t a part of her life anymore. He was just . . . a life lesson learned. “Say what you came to say and then leave.”
She hadn’t changed.
Somehow, Jeff had expected . . . hell, he wasn’t even sure of that. But he
hadn’t
counted on taking one look at her and getting slammed in the chest with what felt like a hammer blow. He should have known this wouldn’t be easy. Nothing about Sam had ever been easy. That was part of her attraction all those years ago.
Until Sam, no woman had ever refused him. Sounded cocky as hell to admit, but it was the simple truth. Some of those women had been more interested in his bank balance than him, but still. He’d never struck out with a woman until the first time Sam had said no to an invitation to dinner. And damned if her resistance hadn’t made her all the more appealing. They’d come together in a rush of heat and want and need and they’d convinced themselves it was love. But if it had been, it wouldn’t have burned out like it had, right?
Yet here he was again, standing next to her, looking down into those same, pale blue eyes and feeling too damn much.
Nine years was a long time. And God knew he had plenty of reason to resent Samantha Marconi—although he had one very good reason to be glad they’d been together, no matter how briefly. She stood there glaring at him, and damned if a part of him didn’t enjoy it. Her blue eyes flashed with sparks and the demented
part of him found it both annoying and arousing.
Her long, reddish-brown hair fell down her back from a clip at the nape of her neck. It looked as soft as ever and he was half-tempted to reach out and touch those tumbling curls, just to see. But he figured she’d take his hand off at the elbow in the attempt, so he let that one go.
She wore curve-hugging jeans that were faded and decorated by splotches of dried paint in a rainbow of colors. Her dark blue T-shirt, proclaiming
MARCONI CONSTRUCTION
in faded white letters, fit her way too well and the toe of her heavy work boot tapped against the bricks like a clock ticking off the last remaining seconds before a bomb blast.
Her blue eyes were wary and the jut of her chin told him that she hadn’t mellowed any over the years. Fine. Just as well.
“Sam, there’s a problem.”
“A big one as far as I’m concerned,” she said, folding her arms over her chest. “You’re here.”
“Just as sweet as ever, I see.”
“Why would I change?”
“Dammit, do you always have to immediately go on the defensive?”
“Hello? When being attacked, defending yourself is pretty much standard operating procedure.”
“Who’s attacking?”
“You.”
“I haven’t said anything yet.” Stupid. He knew it was stupid and he still couldn’t stop himself. They were sliding right back into the same kind of arguments they used to have. The circular kind. Where
there was no beginning and no end. It just was. Like mold on bread. It was a fact of life that defied description.
“You’re here, aren’t you?”
“To tell you something.”
“Write me a letter.” She started past him for the house and he had to risk losing a hand by grabbing her arm again.
“Dammit, Sam—”
Her gaze fixed on his hand for a long minute, then she lifted it and looked directly into his eyes. “Move that hand or lose it.”
He was desperate, not foolish. He released her. “We have to talk.”
“We have nothing to say to each other.”
“Wanna bet?” He was following her, his long legs keeping pace with her quicker steps.
“We’re divorced,” she reminded him.
“Wanna bet?” he asked.
She stopped dead.
At least he had her attention. He hadn’t planned on blurting out the truth like this, but trust Sam to make any conversation the beginning of World War III. “Finally. A breakthrough.”
“What’re you talking about?” Her voice was hoarse and now that he was looking a little closer he could see that the gleam in her eye was more of a glassy look.
“Are you sick?” he asked.
“Getting sicker by the minute,” she shot back. “Now, are you going to explain the whole ‘divorce’ statement or not?”
He pushed one hand through his hair, then shoved that hand in his pants pocket again. Old habits kicked
in and he started to jingle his keys nervously until he saw her left eye twitch. Then he remembered how she’d always hated that habit of his and decided he didn’t need to infuriate her even further, so he stopped. “The divorce never went through,” he said bluntly, figuring there was no easy way to say it. “We’re still married.”
Her mouth opened and closed a time or two. She blinked, then stumbled backward and plopped down hard onto the third step. Tipping her head back, she inhaled sharply, blew it out again and said, “What?”
“You heard me. Dammit, I can’t believe it, either, but it’s true. The county clerk who handled the paperwork? He never filed the papers.”
“He never—” She pushed herself up from the step, walked a few paces, then whirled around to stare at him. “What do you mean, he didn’t do it? It was his
job
.”
“Apparently, he didn’t much like his job.”
“So he just didn’t do it?”
“Right.” He watched her face, noted each emotion as it played over her features and understood completely. Since he’d gotten the call from the county seat a week ago, he’d been going through the same thing. “No consolation, but we’re not the only ones.”
“Huh?” She shook her head as if trying to clear her vision while she looked at him.
“There are fifty other couples out there, still married when they thought they weren’t.”
She held up one hand. “Color me selfish, but all I’m thinking about at the moment is
us
. We’re really still—”
“Married. Yeah.”
“Oh, my God.”
“That about covers it.”
Behind her, the front door opened. Jeff shot a look at the woman stepping outside. “Hi, Mike.”
“Oh crap,” Sam muttered, and he thought that summed up the situation pretty well.
Mike didn’t smile, just called out over her shoulder, “Hey, Jo. The Bastard’s here.”
“Great,” Jeff muttered.
“Shut up, Mike.” Sam shot her sister a warning look that Mike paid no attention to at all.
“What’s
he
doing here?” Jo demanded, pushing past her younger sister to come down the steps and stand beside Sam.
“Hi, Jo,” he said, despite the frigid atmosphere suddenly swirling around him.
There was a time when the Marconi girls had actually liked him, Jeff remembered. Now, he’d be lucky if he left here with all his limbs attached. They weren’t happy to see him? Well, tough shit. It’s not like he’d been looking forward to this little reunion, either.
“I thought we weren’t speaking to him.” Jo’s voice, soft.
“We’re not.” Mike walked to the edge of the porch and picked up one of the hammers out of an open toolbox. Slowly, she slapped the heavy metal hammer head into her palm as she kept her gaze on Jeff.
He could take a hint. Besides, he’d done what he came here to do. And it was plain he and Sam wouldn’t be talking any further right now. Not with her sisters ready to rip his lips off. He was only surprised that Hank Marconi, his genial ex—or not so ex—father-in-law
wasn’t out here, demanding his head.
“You need to go, Jeff.” Sam’s gaze, still locked with his.
“I’m going.”
“And don’t come back.” Mike walked down the steps, too, flanking the other side of Sam.
The sisters were more different than alike; the only feature they shared were the pale blue eyes they’d inherited from their father. Yet no one seeing them now could ever doubt their connection. The three of them stood there, not even touching, yet linked together into a single unit to stand against all invaders. And even though it frustrated the hell out of him to be facing it, a part of him wondered what solidarity like that felt like.
“Good advice,” Jo pointed out.
“Okay, look.” Deliberately ignoring the other two women, Jeff stared only at Sam. “I’m staying at the Coast Inn. When you’re ready to talk, call me.”
“Yeah,” Jo snorted. “That’ll happen.”
“Get out of town, weasel-dog.”
He shot a glance at Sam’s sisters. “Really good to know the Marconi girls haven’t changed any.”
Jo and Mike looked ready to rumble, but it was Sam who answered him. “No, we haven’t. But you haven’t changed, either, Jeff. Still giving orders, expecting them to be followed.”
“I’m not—”
“Mike’s right. Go away.”
Frustration simmered inside him, but there was no help for it. He wasn’t going to get anywhere with her now, and besides, he had to get back to the inn anyway. He’d already been gone longer than he’d planned.
Nodding, he turned and headed for his car, parked at the curb. With every step, he felt the icy stares of three sets of eyes boring into his back—and he was grateful the Marconis weren’t armed with more than a hammer.
Two hours later, the Marconi sisters were still arguing in circles.
“It’s a good thing Papa’s not here,” Mike grumbled. “He’d have a stroke.”
“Thanks,” Sam said. “That’s helpful.”
Mike jumped up off the overstuffed sofa and stalked around the living room. “You want helpful? How about I go over to the Coast Inn and hit him with a hammer until he doesn’t move anymore?”
“For God’s sake, Mike, sit down.” Jo sounded more resigned than angry and Sam thought that, at least, was a step in the right direction.
“How can you and Jo both be so calm?”
“This is
not
calm,” Sam told her younger sister. She didn’t feel calm. She felt . . . as if she were standing between two boats, with a foot in each, while trying to keep her balance during storm surf. Sooner or later, she was going to get wet. The question was, would she drown? “This is . . . hell, I don’t know what it is.” She lifted her gaze to Jo. “Can you believe this?”
“No.” Jo scowled thoughtfully into her Diet Coke. “What’s he want from you, anyway?”
“A divorce, apparently.” Sam shook her head and leaned back into the sofa cushion. Snatching up a pale pink throw pillow, she clutched it to her middle like a shield. “But Mike started swinging her hammer before he could tell me.”
“Should have hit him with it,” Mike said, still radiating fury.
“Not until we know what’s going on.” Jo’s voice was calm, cool, but her eyes flashed with indignation. “I’m guessing he’s got more divorce papers for you to sign.”
“More divorce papers. For God’s sake, I’m
married
.” Sam still couldn’t believe it. For nine years, she’d lived her life as a divorcée. The very first divorced woman in the history of the Marconi family—as Nana had continually reminded her for the first year or so of her humiliation. The taunts had finally stopped when Sam had offered to sew a big red
D
on her clothes.
But now what? She’d dated. She’d had sex. Okay, not a lot of sex, but
some
. Did that make her an adulterer? Great. So now the scarlet letter on her clothes would have to be the
real
scarlet letter? “This is great,” she said, “just perfect. It’s a wonder women aren’t lining up outside the house just to take their turn at having my life. It’s just so damned entertaining.”