Jay, when informed why these elaborate preparations were taking place, fell on the work with a will. He had never understood why the two of them had broken up in the first place, he said. Anybody could see that Lisa would make a great wife, even if she couldn’t do things like cook. And then, to Sam’s amusement, his son had proceeded to give him detailed instructions on how to go about proposing marriage to a woman. Rolling around on the floor behind a couch just didn’t make it, Jay told him sternly.
Despite the almost overwhelming preoccupation with Lisa, Sam found time to make a few inquiries into the fate of the men who had accompanied him on that ill-starred mission to Rhodesia. When he finally got Frank Leads on the phone—at his daughter’s house in Florida—Sam was conscious of a deep sense of relief. As the leader, he had been responsible for the safety of his men, and to his own mind he had failed them miserably. Although exactly what he could have done to avert the shambles the mission had been reduced to he didn’t know. But he couldn’t help thinking that if he had not been so caught up with Lisa, things might have turned out differently. Very differently.
Sam could tell from Frank’s voice that his old friend was as relieved to hear his voice as he was to hear Frank’s. They laughed and joked, each recounting his experiences in getting out of Rhodesia—although Sam’s carefully edited version was by far the more exciting of the two, as Frank and the rest of the survivors managed to catch the scheduled airplane out. Then the talk turned serious. Five men had died over there, the four killed by the initial blast and young Mike Harley. And at least one—either of the survivors or of the dead—had betrayed them. At this point it was impossible to positively identify the traitor, although Frank, like Sam, had his suspicions. In any case, it no longer mattered. Again like Sam, Frank had decided that he was getting too old to lay his life on the line for every crazy despot with a fistful of money. He had retired as of the day he had set foot back in the States, he told Sam, and was in the process of setting up a little business taking tourists out on boats to fish. When Sam confessed, almost sheepishly, to his own plans to marry Lisa—if she would have him—Frank guffawed and twitted him loudly for some minutes before growing serious and wishing him the best. Sam returned those wishes, then both men grew embarrassed by their lapse into sentimentality. The conversation ended quickly. But afterward Sam felt better than he had for a long time.
It was the middle of June before Sam finally felt that everything at the ranch was as ready as it was going to get. There was nothing left to do but go fetch Lisa. Sitting in his seat in a plane bound for Washington, D.C., Sam felt as nervous as a young kid getting ready to ask a girl out for the first time. Which was stupid, at his age, he knew, but—what if she wouldn’t have him?
It was hot as hell when he walked out of National Airport in Washington toward the rental car that awaited him. Must have been ninety in the shade. The sun shone over everything, reflecting hotly off the pavement and the shiny tops of the cars as they pulled in and out of the airport. People bustled about everywhere, always in a hurry. He had never liked Washington: it was too crowded and noisy and dirty.
By the time he had fought his way out of the city’s congested traffic and set the cream-colored LeMans on the road for Annapolis, Sam was burning up. Of course, the damned air-conditioner was on the blink. He shed the lightweight tan sportscoat in which he had traveled, thanking God that his pale blue sports shirt was short-sleeved, and wished vainly for a pair of cut-off jeans instead of the navy-blue slacks he was wearing. But with the windows rolled down so that the breeze generated by the car’s movement circulated through the interior, it wasn’t too bad. With a faint grin, he decided that he would survive it.
His first setback came at the house. Mary Dobson, giving him a long, disapproving look that he couldn’t account for, informed him that Mrs. Collins no longer lived there: she had taken an apartment in Baltimore. Sam was floored by this announcement, at least temporarily. Then he realized that he would just have to drive on to Baltimore, which was only about twenty-five miles away. To his surprise, Mary flatly refused to give him the address. He would have to wait and talk to Mr. Bennet, who was in the city and wouldn’t be back until later that evening, she said, before practically closing the door in his face. Sam had been about to bang on it again, demanding the information he wanted, when he spied Henry Dobson around at the side. Getting Lisa’s address out of Henry took only a few minutes, but something in the man’s attitude started Sam thinking. He had seemed almost as disapproving as his wife.
The sun was going down in a blaze of orange fire when Sam finally located the street on which Lisa now lived. It surprised him, because it was nothing fancy. Just Victorian-era brick houses that had apparently been converted into apartments with neat little yards and a few tall shade trees lining either side of the street—not Lisa’s kind of neighborhood at all. Maybe Henry had given him the wrong address. Frowning, Sam parked the car and walked up to a three-story house with Victorian-style porch painted a cheerful shade of yellow running around the front, and gables spouting from the roof. According to Henry, Lisa lived on the very top floor.
On the porch, just outside the ornate walnut door, were three small mailboxes set into the wall. The third one bore the label
L. COLLINS.
Lisa did live here, after all; Henry hadn’t made a mistake. Sam had started to knock on the door, not seeing a security intercom or anything, when a young couple came out and smilingly held it open for him, not even questioning what he wanted. Frowning, Sam walked inside. What the hell was Amos thinking of, to let Lisa live in a place like this? he wondered irritably as he climbed the old-fashioned staircase. It wasn’t safe. He could have been anybody—rapist, murderer, anybody—and here he was, inside the house. What was going on?
As Sam reached the third-floor landing and stood outside the door that was all that separated him from Lisa, such useless speculation fled in the face of his returning nervousness. Would she be glad to see him? What would she say?
Taking a deep breath, he knocked on the door, noting that there wasn’t even such an elemental precaution as a peephole. Good God . . . But at least she would be totally surprised.
Then the door opened. Sam found himself looking into the slanting green eyes that had been haunting his dreams for months. They widened at the sight of him; she was surprised, all right, no doubt about that. She didn’t say anything for a moment, then her brows snapped together and she frowned. Sam drank in every nuance of her expression like a marooned man coming across water in a desert.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, not looking at all pleased to see him.
Well, he had half-expected that. Sam smiled wheedlingly at her, leaning against the doorjamb with one arm curving over his head.
“I bought a dishwasher,” he said huskily, and then his eyes traveled down from her face to her throat to her soft, sexy body—and he suddenly felt like he had been kicked in the gut. Her stomach pushed out against the soft white fabric of her sleeveless smock like she had swallowed a basketball. She had to be at least six months’ pregnant!
“Christ!” he said after a moment, staring at her burgeoning belly. He couldn’t take his eyes off it; he shook his head, hoping to clear it, thinking that maybe, just maybe, he was hallucinating. But no, the bulge didn’t disappear.
“Christ!” he said again, his eyes coming up to meet hers in horrified question.
Her mouth tightened. “Go away!” she ordered, starting to close the door.
This galvanized Sam into action. He put his foot in the rapidly diminishing space, then shouldered his way inside. Lisa, helpless in the face of his greater strength, stood holding the edge of the door, glaring at him.
“Get out of my apartment!”
Sam shook his head. “No way!”
“Get out!”
“Don’t be stupid, Lisa,” he said, regaining control of his tongue at last. “You must see we’ve got to talk. You’re pregnant!”
“Really? I hadn’t noticed!”
Sam merely looked at her. After the stunning blow of coming here and finding her in such a state, her sarcasm bounced off him like water off a duck’s back.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked finally, staring at her.
“Because it was none of your damned business!” she snapped, her face white except for two flags of angry color in her cheeks.
“None of my business! That’s my baby!”
“Is it?” She smiled tauntingly at him.
“You know it is.” He felt not the slightest doubt about that.
Lisa looked at him, her eyes challenging. When he met her stare with rocklike determination, her eyes flickered.
“So what?” she said finally, no longer even bothering to deny that he was the father.
“So what?” Sam was momentarily flabbergasted. “So I had a right to be told, that’s what! Christ, you must have been pregnant when you came out to the ranch! Why the hell didn’t you say so? I . . .”
“I didn’t know,” she muttered resentfully. “I didn’t find out until two weeks later.”
Sam shut his eyes, taking a deep breath. When he opened them again, he had mentally settled everything to his own satisfaction. If anything, this unexpected development just made everything that much easier.
“For God’s sake, shut the door,” he said, turning away from her and moving on into the small living room. Like the rest of the building, it was not luxurious, but it was comfortably furnished in light, airy tones of yellow and green and white.
“I want you to leave!” she said imperiously, glaring after him.
“Well, that’s too bad, because I’m not leaving, and you can’t throw me out.” He seated himself in a chintz-covered armchair as he spoke. “Shut the door, Lisa.”
She hesitated for a moment, then shut the door. Her mouth was set mutinously and her eyes were shooting sparks when she came to stand in the middle of the room, fixing him with a darkling look.
“I have nothing to say to you, Sam,” she said frigidly.
“When is it due?” He gestured at her stomach, totally ignoring her words.
“The end of September,” Lisa answered, reluctant to provide him with even that much information.
Sam thought back rapidly. “Then it must have happened that night in your room. . . .” His voice trailed off as he remembered giving her the ring, and what had come after. Lisa blushed. Sam, seeing her embarrassment, felt his heart turn over. What she must have gone through, discovering that she was expecting his child after he had sent her away so callously! He deserved to be shot for that, he thought. But he hadn’t known. . . . If only she’d told him, he would have eased her worry at once.
“Honey, I’m sorry, sorrier than I can tell you, that you had to go through all this by yourself,” he said in a gentle tone, standing up and moving to take her carefully into his arms. She was rigid as his arms slid around her. “I’ll do my best to make it up to you. We’ll get married right away, and . . .”
“No!” She pushed away from him, thrusting against his chest with a strength that surprised him.
Sam stared down at her. “What do you mean, no?” he questioned carefully, still retaining his grip on her upper arms.
“I mean no! N-o! Negative! I don’t want to marry you!”
“You’re going to have my baby,” he pointed out, as if she had somehow overlooked that fact.
“That doesn’t mean I have to marry you!”
“Oh, yes, it does!” Sam was fast beginning to lose his patience.
“No, it doesn’t!”
Sam counted to ten carefully before he said anything. He had to remind himself that she was pregnant, and that women, when pregnant, tended to be a trifle unreasonable.
“Honey, I realize you’re angry with me. And I’ll even admit that you have cause. And I’ll apologize again, if you like. But whether you’re angry or not, it doesn’t change the fact that that baby needs a father—and you need a husband. You did divorce Collins, didn’t you?” he added in a sharper tone.
“The divorce was final three months ago.” She was pulling away from him as she spoke, and he released his grip on her arms, letting her go.
“Then there’s nothing to stop us from getting married,” he said, as if that settled everything.
She planted her hands on her hips, staring up at him defiantly. Sam found himself fascinated by the picture she presented. Pregnant, with her belly sticking out to there, she was lovelier than ever. Her silver-gilt hair had grown longer, and she had swept it up in a ponytail that made her look about seventeen, if one disregarded her stomach. Her skin was flawless, a rich cream color with roses in her cheeks and lips. Her eyes were a clear sparkling emerald, very bright as she glared at him. The white cotton smock she wore was ruffled around the sleeves and hem and had embroidered flowers around the square neck. Her long, slender legs were clad in blue jeans, and her feet were bare. She was the very essence of femininity, and he was shaken by the emotions that tore through him as he looked at her, standing there challenging him while she was big with his child. She was his woman, he thought fiercely, and it was time to put a stop to all this nonsense to the contrary.
“We’re getting married as soon as I can arrange it,” he said with finality, his eyes taking on a hard gleam as they dared her to contradict him.
She didn’t even hesitate. “Oh, no, we’re not,” she retorted. “Try to get it through your head, Sam: I no longer take orders from you. I intend to do what’s best for me, and the baby, and that doesn’t include marrying you! And if that leaves you with a guilty conscience, then I’m sorry!”
Sam’s mouth compressed. He eyed her, not liking the determined set to her jaw or the green glitter of her eyes. Clearly, she was determined to make him pay in blood before she relented. He couldn’t believe that her defiance was any more serious than that. Dammit, she was a woman, wasn’t she? A woman pregnant with his child! She needed him—and she was going to get him, if he had to drag her to the altar by her hair. But he would try reason first. After all, she had every right to be angry, and he was willing to do anything he could to make amends—at least, to a point.