Wife for a Day (7 page)

J
ack's suite seemed
different now. Personal, filled with many special reminders of the man who'd turned her into a princess for a few hours. As he closed the door behind them, Sam walked about the room, absorbing the scents of gardenia, tobacco, and the musky aftershave he wore, which had smelled so wonderful as they'd danced cheek to cheek. She swept her fingers over the exquisite fabrics that covered the backs of chairs and sofas, capturing a few additional memories of the night she went to the ball. Slowly, she turned around and looked at Jack. He was the best part of the entire evening.

A man she would always remember.

He'd been silent on the short ride to the hotel, as they walked through the lobby and rode the elevator to his floor. Even his eyes had been silent, betraying none of his thoughts.

She wished the things going through his mind mirrored her own. She wanted more time with him. She wanted to get to know him better. She wanted to dance together again, and kiss while they were doing it. But she didn't hold any hope that he wanted more than just one night.

The kisses, the gentleness of his touch, so many of the things that had made the evening perfect were all part of the charade. After all, a handsome, society-loving millionaire could never be interested in one of
those
people Chip Chasen had talked about.

Mama had fallen for a man from Palm Beach once. He went to her street corner every Thursday night for nearly two months, and he'd told her she was worth far more than he paid her. He'd made promises, too, about taking her home to meet his family, about taking her out on his yacht with his friends.

Mama had tried to laugh—she had known all along he was lying to her. But Sam remembered her tears. She'd been hurt anyway; Sam didn't want to suffer the same fate with Jack Remington.

“Would you like a drink?” Jack asked, capturing her attention again. He loosened his tie, looking casually elegant as he went to the bar and removed the stopper from a crystal decanter.

“No, I'm fine. Thanks.”

“You missed Lauren's dinner. I could order something from room service.”

She shook her head. Part of her told her to accept his offer, but that would only prolong the agony of saying good-bye. “You've got a party to get back to, and I should change clothes and head for home.”

He returned the stopper, his hand resting on top the crystal knob. “Lauren knows I'm with you. She'll understand if I don't go back.”

“The charade is over, Jack. You're with
me
—the woman who altered your tux—not with Arabella. Had you forgotten?”

“I haven't forgotten a thing,” he said, his eyes hot, enflaming her skin as they blazed over her body. “I told you before that you're not at all like Arabella. And she's not the one I want right now.”

She was foolish to listen to his words. Crazy to think he meant anything more than that he wanted her just for tonight. She turned away, yet she didn't run. Instead, she watched his reflection in the picture window as he moved toward her and cupped her shoulders in his hands. His head tilted toward her. His lips were warm, teasing, as they trailed the length of her neck, over her shoulder. He fingered the thin straps on her gown, and she dragged in a deep breath, trying to remain calm when his
touch was making her anything but.

“You're beautiful,” he whispered, slowly sliding the straps over her shoulders. “I couldn't have asked for a more perfect accomplice tonight.”

The word
accomplice
brought her back to her senses, made her think of something sinister, made her remember that the night had only been a game, that she'd been paid to do a job. If they went any further tonight, she'd feel as if she'd been paid for that, too.

And she wasn't a whore. She'd loved her mama with all her heart, but she wasn't like her and never would be.

“Stop. Please.” She pulled out of Jack's arms, pushed the straps back to her shoulders, and walked toward the bedroom. “I'm going to change. It's late, and I need to get home.”

He didn't argue or try to coax her into something more. He'd never know how much she appreciated that, because if he'd given her any kind of excuse, she might have rushed back into his embrace. She already felt guilty about deceiving Jack's sister; she didn't want to feel shame and disgrace, too.

She could feel his heated gaze on her back long after she closed the door. She wondered if he might try to follow. She wanted him to; she didn't want him to. She wanted to go back out to him; she didn't want to.

She leaned against the door.
Oh, Mama. What should I do?

The answer suddenly came into view. Sitting just inside the bedroom she saw Jack's luggage, two expensive leather bags that had been found in some other airport and returned to Palm Beach. The suitcases reminded her that he was rich, that he could afford anything he wanted—a last-minute tux, a rented fiancée, a temporary makeover for a girl from the wrong side of the tracks. It also served as another reminder that the past few hours had been nothing more than a one-night stand. It was over now. Time to pack up and go home.

Slowly, she locked the door to keep him out.

 

Jack heard the distinct click of the lock, answering the question he'd been asking ever since she pulled out of his arms:
does she want me to follow her?

Hell, she didn't want him to follow. She didn't want him anywhere near. She'd been paid for a job, she'd performed her part to perfection, and she was ready to go home—his feelings, his needs be damned!

Stalking across the room, he took his checkbook from the inside pocket of the coat he'd worn on his flight from Wyoming. He still owed the redhead five thousand dollars for spying on Peter Leighton, and he didn't hold
any hopes that she'd turn it down.

Arabella had liked his money. She'd never come right out and told him so, but she'd had a knack for spending one hell of a lot. The handful of women he'd dated before Arabella hadn't been much different. He'd never really cared about the money issue because he had plenty to spare.

But the redhead asked for money right off the bat. As far as she was concerned, he was a means to making big bucks fast and easy.

That annoyed the hell out of him.

He grabbed a pen from the desk and scribbled the date on the check, then hesitated at payee. Damn! He still didn't know her name.

He filled out the rest of the blanks, stuffed the check into the pocket of his tux, then went to the humidor and took out a cigar. Next he poured himself a swallow of whiskey and felt the burn in his throat as he swigged it down.

Staring at the bedroom door, he thought about knocking to find out what was taking her so long. Maybe she was changing her mind about staying. He didn't want to interrupt her thoughts if that was the case.

God, he didn't want her to go.

Not now.

 

Sam stood in front of the dresser in her How Tacky ensemble. She took the pins
from her hair and let it fall, and pulled her own lipstick from her tote and painted her mouth cherry red. She almost felt like herself again, except for the diamonds.

She touched the earrings and necklace that she hadn't yet removed. They'd looked beautiful when she was all dressed up. Now they felt cold, impersonal, like almost everything tonight. Taking a deep breath, she took off the jewelry and set it on the dresser.

Slipping her tote bag over her shoulder, she grabbed the handle of the sewing-machine case and headed for the bedroom door, stopping for one last look at the shimmering white gown she'd worn tonight, at the diamonds the hotel's jewelry store had loaned Jack for the evening, at the rhinestone shoes that had sparkled when she'd stepped out of the limousine. Those things had made her feel all aglow as she'd walked and danced with Jack Remington.

That glow had now begun to fade. The night was nearly over.

So was the dream.

When she heard Jack's knock, she turned the knob.

He filled the doorway, looking so handsome in his tux, his perfectly cut hair disheveled now, with a light brown lock falling over his brow. The expression on his face betrayed
none of his feelings, and then he gazed at her lips. She could easily see the rise and fall of his chest as he leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb.

He still wanted her. But he'd still be leaving in the morning.

“You didn't by any chance change your mind about staying while you were in there?”

She had no home to go to except her bug. No job to go to in the morning, only an apology to make to Mr. Antonio for taking his machine. Staying would be so easy, but she shook her head.

“You're sure?”

“Positive.”

He studied her eyes for the longest time, as if waiting for her to show a sign that she'd changed her mind. But she didn't waver, and finally he said, “Come on. I'll walk you to your car.”

He'd know she was living in her bug if he saw the clothes hanging in the back, the shoes on the floor, the boxes stacked on the backseat, and the pillow and blanket up front. He'd know she was down on her luck, and she didn't want him to know about her troubles.

She remembered the sneers, the leering eyes and taunts of people who'd chastised her mama for living on the streets, for not having a decent job. Mama hadn't cared what those
people thought, and Sam had held her head high. But when they were alone she'd hear her mama cry, while she was crying, too. That wasn't the life she wanted.

It seemed as if she'd never get away from her past, no matter how she tried. Right now, the only good things she had in her life were a shred of dignity and her pride. She'd already put a damper on both by taking Jack's money to play a part in his charade. If he knew more, she'd jeopardize whatever she had left.

She hitched the strap on her tote bag higher on her shoulder. “The evening was magical, Jack. But why don't we just say good-bye here?”

He touched her arm, and she impulsively jerked away. She wanted to leave before she got hurt, and if he touched her again, if he made an attempt to kiss her, she'd fall into his spell.

Laughing, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “You hadn't planned on leaving without this, had you?”

She frowned, and then she knew what it was. She'd nearly forgotten the five thousand he owed her for spying on Peter Leighton. It seemed an awful lot of money for such a simple job.

“Are you going to take it?” he asked, holding the check out to her.

Guilt ripped through her. She didn't want to take it, but over Jack's shoulder she could again see their reflections in the window, and lurking behind her was a vision of Johnnie Russo, laughing as he sliced an index finger across his throat.

As much as she wanted to tell Jack no, as much as she wanted to leave with a few shreds of self-respect intact, she took the check from his hand. Right now, money seemed far more important than dignity.

“That's not made out to anyone,” he said, his gaze focusing on the check. “I still don't know your name.”

What difference would it make if he knew her name or not? He'd never come looking for her, and she had nothing to hide, except the pitiful state of her life, even if he did. “Sam Jones,” she told him.

His brow rose. “You expect me to believe that?”

“You asked for a name, I gave you one.”

“Yeah, and you asked for money, and I gave it to you.”

That made her mad. “Then we're even, aren't we?”

“If you can call it that,” he said cynically. He walked across the room and opened the door. “Let's go find your car.”

“I said I could go alone.”

“It's late, and I'll be damned if I'm going to let you go to your car by yourself.”

“You don't need to worry about me.”

The phone rang, and he let out an exasperated sigh.

“I bet that's Lauren,” Sam said. “She's probably wondering what happened to the two of us.”

Jack stared at the tote hanging over her shoulder, at the sewing machine that was growing terribly heavy in her hand. The phone rang again.

“I'll just be a second.” He started toward the phone, then twisted around to look at her. “Don't go. Promise.”

She put one hand behind her and crossed her fingers. “Promise.”

The minute his back was turned again, she rushed to the elevator. Saying good-bye would be too hard.

The elevator doors opened, and she stepped inside. When the wooden panels were sliding closed, she heard Jack's shouted plea from the hallway. “Wait, Whiskey. Please.”

She stared at the
STOP
button, giving it a moment's consideration, but the doors shut tightly, and the elevator began its descent.

The fantasy had ended.

Jack Remington had disappeared from her life.

J
ack caught a
flight for home at eight the next morning. He didn't particularly care for flying. Solid earth beneath his feet felt better than clouds and thin air, and he preferred the wide-open spaces of the prairie to the confines of a first-class seat.

As the plane fought bad weather, he tried to concentrate on the contract he'd promised his business partner he'd review over the weekend, but his mind wandered far too much.

Thoughts of Beau—what they would talk about, what he would look like up close instead of in an impersonal school picture, how his voice would sound—captured his attention. He wasn't afraid to meet his son, but he
was
frightened over the uncertainty of their future. Jack knew full well that money could solve a lot of problems. But it couldn't fix six
teen years of being apart. That was something only words and actions could mend.

He didn't even know where to begin.

Thoughts of Beau led to thoughts of Lauren. She'd been radiantly happy last night, even though she was marrying a man Jack considered to be a jerk. He'd continued the charade long after Sam Jones had disappeared, fabricating a story as he talked with Lauren on the phone about Arabella having a terrible headache. Afterward he'd gone back to the party and attempted to have a good time, but something was missing.

The redhead.

She hadn't said good-bye, and even now that weighed heavily on his mind. She hadn't given him the chance to discover personal things about her, like where she lived, her age, her phone number, or whether or not her name really was Sam Jones.

That she'd run off while his back was turned was a less-than-subtle hint that she didn't want him knowing anything more about her. She'd made it perfectly clear that she didn't want to see him again. Of course, what she wanted and what he wanted were two different things.

When he was leaving the hotel that morning, he'd asked the concierge to send flowers to her at Antonio's. He took a chance having
them addressed to Sam Jones, hoping she'd told him the truth about her name. On one of the Breakers' note cards he'd called her Whiskey, scribbled his phone number, and asked her to call him collect.

She made him feel good. Damn good. And he wanted to see her again. He'd even settle for hearing her voice—at least for now.

 

The plane arrived late in Denver, and the connecting flight touched down even later than it should have in Sheridan. From there it was a two-hour drive to the ranch. The weather was good, the evening sky cloudless, the moon full, and Jack used the time alone to run through the speech he planned to deliver to Beau.

I'm sorry
, he'd tell him right at the start.
I'm glad you're here
. Then he'd tell his son about the accident, about his mother's death, about giving custody to Beth's folks because he'd thought they were better able to take care of a baby than a sixteen-year-old kid who lived with a bunch of cowboys.

God, how could he tell Beau those things when for sixteen years guilt and remorse had eaten away at his heart?

When he turned onto the road leading to the ranch house, Rufus barked as he ran through mud and patches of snow to greet the truck.
The dog jumped and twisted in circles, glad to see Jack even though he'd been gone less than two full days.

Pulling the pickup to a stop, he climbed out of the cab, ruffled the Border collie's fur, and headed toward the unfamiliar silhouette he saw sitting on the porch. A lump formed in his throat. Even if he'd been able to utter the words to his speech, the emotions that had welled up inside him—anxiety, fear, love—would have kept him silent.

That was just as well. Right now, he had no idea what to talk about. They were strangers—a father, a son, who had nothing in common except their genes.

He mounted the steps, with Rufus right on his heel, tossed his hat, upside down, into an empty chair, and pulled another up close to Beau and sat. The boy never once looked up. Instead, he stared at the knife and piece of wood he was whittling.

Jack took a cigar from his pocket, leaned back in the chair with his legs crossed, and watched the stars twinkling overhead. “Have you been waiting out here long?” he asked.

“Most of the afternoon.”

He captured the sound of Beau's voice, imprinting the tone in his mind. It was the first memory he'd added since the boy was four,
when he'd watched from afar as Beau played in the park with his friends.

That day he'd promised Beau's grandparents he'd stay away, that he wouldn't interfere. He'd kept his word, standing quietly in the shadows, his emotions rendering him speechless. Words weren't coming much easier now.

“It's awfully cold to do nothing but sit and wait,” he said awkwardly.

“It's no big deal,” Beau muttered. “I've been waiting for you for sixteen years. A few hours in the cold didn't seem so bad.”

The statement hit him hard, but Jack knew he deserved every reproachful word.

Beau turned his head, and Jack saw the spitting image of himself at that age—square jaw, the first stubble of a beard, dark blond hair that had a mind of its own, and an angry, blue-eyed glare. Jack wasn't big on crying, but he could feel a whole lot of tears building up behind his eyes.

“Smoking can kill you,” Beau said, staring at the cigar, and for one moment he allowed his eyes to take in the height and breadth of his dad before turning back to his whittling.

Jack stubbed out the cigar and tried his damnedest to think of something meaningful to say.

He leaned forward. With his legs spread
wide, he rested his elbows on his knees and tilted his head toward his son. “Did your Grandpa Morris teach you to whittle?”

“Yeah, when I was a kid. He had arthritis in his knees and back, so he wasn't big on sports. Whittling was about the most active thing he ever did.”

“What about you? Do you play any sports?”

“Some basketball and football. A little baseball, when the mood strikes. I wanted to rodeo once. Even thought I'd like to be a cowboy, but I didn't have a horse.” Beau's eyes flickered toward Jack, then back to the knife in his hand. “I wouldn't have had anyone to teach me to ride even if I did have one.”

“I guess you deserve an apology.”

Beau laughed cynically, digging the knife deep into the wood and shoveling out a chunk that flew across the porch. “If you were going to apologize, you would have done it before you sat down in that chair and started asking about sports.”

Hurling the knife into the floor planks, Beau shoved up from the chair, and it skittered out from under him as he stormed from the porch and across the yard.

Jack watched him, seeing himself in every one of the boy's moves. The baseball cap he took from his coat pocket and pulled low on his brow and the blue-and-gold letterman's
jacket he wore were a sure sign that sports weren't just a passing thing. That sure as hell wasn't something they could talk about. What Jack knew about sports could be written on the back of a baseball card. He knew cows, horses, how to rodeo and run a ranch.

As for teenage boys, he knew as much about them as he knew about women, and that wasn't saying much.

He left the porch, following Beau at a slower pace. He was making a mess of things, but he knew he couldn't fix sixteen years of wrong right away.

Beau straddled the top rail of one of the corrals. Jack rested his arms on top, staring at the moon rising in the distance.

“Do your grandparents know you're here?”

“Yeah. Pastor Mike made me call them last night.”

“Are you planning on staying long?”

“Don't know yet.”

Pecos, the gelding Jack had ridden since he was just a few years older than Beau, came toward him, looking for a handout. He didn't have carrots, an apple, or even a sugar cube. Instead, he rubbed the horse's jaw, wishing it would be that easy to smooth things over with Beau.

“I was sixteen,” Jack said, “the same age as you are now, when you were born.”

“So,” Beau snapped. “I wouldn't give up my kid, no matter how young I was.”

“I'm not saying what I did was right, but I can't change that now, and apologizing isn't going to make up for sixteen years of us being apart.”

“I don't think anything can make up for all that time.”

“If you felt that way, you wouldn't be here now.”

Jack gave the boy a nudge with his arm. “By the way, I heard you hitchhiked all the way here. You can get killed out on the road. Don't do it again.”

There was rage in Beau's eyes when he glared at Jack. “What gives you the right to tell me what I can and can't do?”

“I could tell you I'm your father, and you have to do what I say, but you know as well as I do that I gave up all my rights to you a long time ago.”

“Pretty shitty thing to do to your kid, wasn't it?”

“Yeah, it was,” Jack threw back. “But that's history. The way I see it now, we're starting from scratch. I've got to earn your respect, and you've got to earn mine. And don't think I'm going to coddle you, tell you something's right when it's wrong, or let you do whatever you want, just because you think I owe it to you.”

“Maybe I should go back home.”

“If that's what you want, go.”

Hell! He didn't mean that, but it was too late to take it back now. He could already see the anger in Beau's face.

“Fine. I shouldn't have come in the first place.” He jumped down from the corral and headed for the house, but Jack caught his arm and brought him to a halt. The boy struggled, but Jack didn't let go.

“Why did you come?” Jack asked.

“What does it matter?”

“If you came to tell me you hate me, go right ahead. You're more than justified.”

“I don't hate you.”

“Then why are you here?”

Tears built up in the corners of Beau's eyes, and he turned away, wiping them with the back of his hand. Jack watched the boy's shoulders rise and fall as he took a deep breath. Slowly, he looked back. “I just wanted a chance to see you, to find out what you were like.”

Jack swallowed the hard, heavy lump that had formed in his throat. “I'm not an easy man to know.”

“Well, guess what. I'm not an easy kid to like.”

 

The television blared through the house when Jack walked inside. It was Saturday night, and that meant Mike and Crosby had a date in front of the TV. Ever since Mike's wife had passed away four years ago, he'd come up to the house in the evenings. In the beginning he'd done it to fight off the loneliness. After a year or so he said he came in an attempt to save Crosby's ornery soul, but when those efforts failed, he'd settled into the comfortable routine of keeping the old man company.

Jack liked having him around. Mike had been his friend for thirty-two years. They'd grown up together on the ranch, been taught in a one-room schoolhouse together, and gotten in trouble together when they were young. They'd taken separate paths when they'd grown up. Jack wanted to make money; Mike wanted to be a minister. Six years earlier, when Jack's dad left the ranch for Santa Fe, Mike's folks, who'd spent a lifetime working with and for Reece Remington, went with him. That's when Mike and his wife moved from town to the ranch, taking over the log home where Mike had been raised.

If he'd looked forever, Jack couldn't have found a better manager or a better friend. He'd been at Jack's side after Beth had died and when he'd given up his child. Jack had been
at Mike's side through his wife's illness, through her death. As far as Jack was concerned, Mike was family—and he'd do anything for those he loved.

Mike was as devoted to Jack and the ranch as he was to his God. Jack liked the combination—although he didn't always like the preaching.

“How did it go?” Mike asked, catching sight of Jack and following him up the stairs and into his bedroom.

Jack slung his garment bag across the bed. He didn't want to talk but knew Mike would hound him until he did.

“I would have preferred getting thrown and gouged by a bull.”

Mike leaned against the doorjamb. “It's not going to get any easier.”

“Beau pretty much said the same thing.” Jack unzipped the bag and pulled out his newest tux. “Did you know he got kicked out of school last year?”

“Is that what he told you?”

“Yeah.”

“When I talked to Mrs. Morris last night, she told me Beau's had a three-point-nine average for the last two years, just made captain of the baseball team, and was thinking about being a doctor, like his grandpa.”

Jack stopped unpacking. The kid had lied to
him, but Jack chalked that up to anger. What he didn't understand, though, was why the boy would give up so damn much to come to Wyoming, especially to find a man who'd never been a part of his life.

“Was coming here a surprise to his grandparents?” Jack asked. “Or had he been talking about it for a while?”

“A surprise. He didn't show up at school on Tuesday, and when they called to check up on him, Mrs. Morris found a note on his bed saying he was going to find his dad.”

“Has he said much to you about his reasons for coming?”

“Not much. He's got a stubborn streak. Takes after you, I imagine.”

Jack refused to comment. Mike was trying to make light of something that was resting far too heavy on his soul. “Any idea why he'd lie to me about school?”

“He's a teenager. How can anyone know what's going on inside his head. The way I see it, Jack, you're just gonna have to talk to the kid and find out.”

“He's not big on talking.”

“Neither are you.”

Jack heard Crosby approaching long before he reached the room. He had a distinct, limping walk, and a habit of clearing his throat just
before beginning a conversation. “You two havin' a party in here?”