Deception (Southern Comfort) (6 page)

Pushing her key between her fingers and scanning the perimeter for anything hinky, Sam scurried through the creeping mist which had begun to roll in from the nearby waterfront.  The air pressed in on her, heavy and electric, a portent of the rain which was due by morning. Despite the mild temperature her shoulders quivered with an unexpected chill.

Stopping beside a battered minivan with fast food wrappers piled on the dash, Sam took a second to do another quick survey of her surroundings.  This was the third or fourth time in the past couple of weeks that she’d gotten this itchy feeling between her shoulder blades, as if an unseen presence was boring a hole through her clothes, watching her with feral eyes.

Sucking in a breath, Sam stepped quickly away from the vehicle, surreptitiously checking beneath it before doing a slow three-sixty, chin held high.  She made sure her body language indicated pretty clearly that she was not going to be easy pickings, although she found no obvious source for her instinctive alarm.  Maybe she was just tired, overreacting to the situation because she still harbored too many questions about what had happened to her brother several months ago.  The police still had no suspect for the shooting which had landed Donnie in the ER, nor any explanation as to why he’d fled prior to surgery and found himself in the path of an oncoming bus. 

But she’d learned, over the past decade, to pay attention to her intuition. And right now that little voice was telling her that she was not alone in this lot.

Feeling an unexpected rush of nerves, Sam set her feet into motion, sticking close to the pools of bluish light cast by the flickering security lamps.  The mist had grown thicker, recoiling from her scissoring legs before settling down to obscure the blacktop.  With one ear Sam listened for the telltale scuffle of soles hitting pavement, while the other ear registered the reverberation of her thudding heart.

Shit.  She hated feeling scared.  But she knew it was simply her body’s instinctive reaction to a potentially threatening situation.  Picking up the pace, Sam broke into a jog toward the back of the lot.  She’d almost reached her car when the cat darted across her path.

“AAhhhh!”  Grabbing her chest, jumping three feet, Sam collapsed against a nearby pickup. The slick metal felt cool against the bare skin of her trembling arms.  The damn orange tabby had nearly given her a heart attack.  Rolling her eyes heavenward, Sam took a deep breath and smiled ruefully when the interloper brushed against her jean-clad legs.  She glanced down at the ferocious feline, squatting to stroke it as it began to purr.

“Well, you might be feral, but you’re not exactly what I was expecting.”  The tabby was huge, sleek and muscular with the proud arrogance of a tom.  Obviously he’d been around neighborly people before, or else he knew a sucker when he spotted one, because he rolled over on his back and scooted from side to side, begging for a belly rub. “Ham,” Samantha accused softly when he executed a full back circle, digging his sharp claws into the blacktop to push himself along.  The rumbling from beneath his fur grew so loud that she had to laugh.  If this was the predator she’d been sensing then she needed to dial the paranoia down a notch.  The cat flipped onto his feet in a move so graceful it defied the laws of physics, strolling over to poke its snout into the canvas bag which had dropped at Sam’s feet.

“Nosy.”  She gathered up the loose change, half-eaten Milky Way, and borrowed library book which had spilled from the purse, mentally chastising herself for letting the foggy night breed visions of horror.  She had enough problems without creating fictitious monsters lurking in the dark.  “There’s nothing in there that would interest you,” she assured the animal.

With a last pat on the friendly feline’s head, Sam unlocked the door to her car and headed for the dump she’d been calling home.

CHAPTER FIVE                                                              

THERE
was a box in front of Donnie’s door.  Shifting the small sack of groceries which she’d just picked up at the mini-mart around the corner, Samantha stooped over to study the writing on the outside of the brown cardboard.  She thought that maybe it belonged to one of the neighbors and had been delivered to her apartment by mistake, but SAMANTHA MARTIN was written in clear block letters in the upper left-hand corner.  There was no return address, no postage, no bar codes or distinguishing marks.

Whoever had delivered it, it hadn’t come through the usual channels.

Feeling that chill again, Sam glanced sharply down the hall.  Her brother’s apartment was on the first floor of what had once been a turn-of-the-century townhome, now subdivided into four dark, irregular little dwellings.  He shared the lower level with an eccentric, nearly blind elderly woman, so Sam had little hope that her neighbor had seen anyone coming or going.  Upstairs was a struggling artist who painted unfortunate depictions of famous Charleston landmarks on old bricks and sold them down at the Market, and a man whom Sam was pretty sure sold his body when he wasn’t selling drugs.  All in all, it wasn’t the friendliest environment, and she couldn’t imagine any of the building’s inhabitants leaving her any kind of neighborly gift.

Aside from her fellow tenants, no one except her employers – both at the bar and at the company she’d stripped for – knew that she’d taken over Donnie’s lease. And any mail which came her way was delivered to the post office box she’d rented.  Discounting Justin, a handful of nurses and a couple of girls who worked with her at the bar, she didn’t think that anyone else in this town even knew her full name.

So who the hell could have left a box addressed to her in front of Donnie’s door?

Feeling that familiar prickling of skin along the back of her neck, Sam scooped the box – which was light – into the same arm with the sack of groceries. With her free hand she worked the deadbolt on the battered wooden door.

She turned it back immediately when she was on the other side.

Uneasy, Samantha deposited both the box and the food onto the tiny piece of laminate that served as a kitchen counter, flipping on the switch which bathed the whole living area in florescent light.  It didn’t take much – the entire place was basically one big room, except for the tiny bathroom which had been added to make it rentable.  Inching forward, Sam peered around the door into the tiled environment, satisfied by the absence of anyone lurking behind the shower curtain.

This place her brother had rented six months ago still smelled slightly of old gym socks and moth balls – an unpleasant combination to which she would never grow accustomed. But as she glanced around for signs of anything out of place, she noted that it was at least clean, and as orderly as she’d left it.  The plaid sleeper-sofa sagged in the middle and the tiny dinette had seen better days, but in the way of men her brother had purchased a large, flat-screen television to dominate the small room.  Sam picked up the remote and punched the button to turn it on low, suddenly feeling the need for some background noise in the otherwise silent apartment.

After gathering up the remains of the morning paper, whose headlines continued to speculate about the whereabouts of the mayor’s AWOL teenaged daughter, missing since July, Sam pushed a wayward lock of hair from her eyes and returned her attention to the box.  Feeling a bit like Pandora, she had the uncomfortable suspicion that opening it would lead to a whole host of problems she hadn’t foreseen.

“Get a grip, Sam.  You’re turning into a head case.”  She pulled a knife from the utensil drawer, realizing that she’d also developed the disturbing tendency to talk to herself.  Probably because she spent so much time reading aloud to her brother and carrying on one-sided conversations that she’d grown entirely too used to hearing the sound of her own voice.

Slicing through the clear tape which held the flaps of the box together, Sam peered inside as they popped open and another box was revealed.  This one was hot pink, featuring a black velvet ribbon tying the top and bottom pieces together, as well as the insignia of one of Charleston’s most exclusive boutiques embossed on the outside.  She’d definitely never ordered anything from Intimate Expressions. The packaging alone probably cost more than she earned in an entire shift at the bar.

Curious despite her unease, Sam lifted the ends of the ribbon until the bow slipped loose from its knot.  Then she pulled off the top, only to discover layer upon layer of pink tissue paper.  An expensive fragrance, something like jasmine, wafted out as she separated the tissue.  Tucked beneath all the aromatic packing was the most beautiful negligee she’d ever seen.

Leaning a hip against the counter, Sam studied the incredible garment.  Of shimmering cream silk and nearly transparent black lace, it looked like it must have cost a fortune.  She lifted it, noting the way the fine material shifted like water beneath her fingers, and it spilled out from its folds to fall from thin black straps toward the floor. 

Huh. 

She had no idea what to make of it, nor a clue as to who could have sent it. She hadn’t been involved with anyone back in Columbia, having no time to devote to anyone or anything but her studies and the jobs which helped fund them, and since she’d been here romance was probably the last thing on her mind.  Any number of men from the bar had made passes, but they weren’t exactly the type to patronize fancy boutiques.  John Deere and Harley Davidson were more their speed.  So this was… a mystery.

And it kind of freaked her out.

The knock on her door gave her her second heart attack of the night, and she clutched the mysterious gift to her chest.  Good God.  She was going to have gray hair when she woke up in the morning.  Seeing as how it was after one a.m. and she wasn’t exactly expecting company, Sam figured it was probably one of her upstairs neighbor’s customers come banging on the wrong door.  It had happened before, and given the nature of the man’s business, she had no doubt it would continue to be a problem.  Hopefully if she just yelled through the door, redirecting the person upstairs, they’d leave her in relative peace.  She inched over toward the door, pressed her ear against it for a second, and after detecting movement outside offered directions.

“If you’re looking for weed or sex, try apartment 3B.”

There was a pause, and Sam waited for the sound of feet hitting stairs.  A second later, someone cleared their throat.

“Samantha?”

Oh, shit.  Someone put her out of her misery.  Unless she was very much mistaken, she’d just solicited a cop on behalf of her neighbor.  Squeezing her eyes closed in the vague hope that she was wrong, she held her breath and sort of wished him away.

“Sam?  I know you’re in there. It’s me, Josh.”

Of course it was.  Because she hadn’t suffered enough already.  Apparently there was some sort of humiliation lottery, and she’d somehow drawn the winning number.

“Sam, come on, honey.  May I please come in?”

Well.  Why the hell not?  Sam reached for the dead bolt but then realized she was still holding the negligee.  She glanced at it briefly, wondering if maybe Josh had…

Nah.  That would never happen.

After tossing the garment back into the box and pulling the lid closed, she worked the lock on the door and swung it open.  There, in all his shining, perfect glory, was the reason she’d probably never get married.  What was the point in dragging someone else into a farce?  She’d only end up comparing her husband to Josh, like she’d done with every other man she’d met in the past eight years, and like the rest he’d end up a dollar short and a day late. 

How was it that one person could be both the best and the worst thing that ever happened to you?   

JOSH’S
breath backed up in his lungs when Samantha opened the door.  Something about her managed to pull at every one of his heart strings.  He knew it was probably a bad move on his part, tracking her down like this, when she obviously hadn’t wanted anything to do with him last night.  She’d probably been embarrassed, sure, but…

That didn’t explain the Houdini she’d pulled eight years ago.  They’d been close, then.  Really meant something to one another, or so he’d thought.  And then she up and left town without a word.  He’d tried to track her down, probably would have reported her missing at some point – Lord knew he’d suspected foul play when he’d first discovered her gone – if he hadn’t eventually run across her brother, who’d told him that Sam was taking classes, putting herself through school.  Josh had been… really proud of her.

Incredibly hurt, but really… proud.

And now, here she was, looking sheepish and defiant and lovely, standing in the doorway of a hovel of an apartment in a part of town that made him itch to palm his weapon, and he wanted so badly to just wrap her in his arms and take her out of here and never, never let her go.

But she’d run away from him once, and he couldn’t risk smothering her again.  So he’d just see that she was okay, offer whatever support or friendship he could, and sweat bullets thinking about her living beneath a drug-dealing male prostitute.

Shit.  Who was he kidding?  He wanted her out of here tonight.

“So… is it okay if I come in?”

Sam stepped back, and he moved past, careful not to touch her.  After all these years and well, after seeing her – all of her, God, he had to put that image out of his mind – last night, he didn’t trust himself to behave at all appropriately if he got her in his arms.  He’d have her pinned beneath him on that broken down sofa so fast it would make her head spin.