How to Score (33 page)

Around midnight, Sammi rose from the bed, grabbed Chase’s shirt off the floor, and pulled it on. “I need a glass of water. How about you?”

He rolled over and watched her fasten the middle two buttons, leaving a tempting shadow of cleavage. The shirt came to the top of her long legs and barely covered the essentials. It looked far better on her than it ever had on him. “The only thing I need is more of you.” He flashed a grin. “And maybe a couple more condoms.”

She grinned. “Check the nightstand table.”

He enjoyed the view as she left the room, then rolled over, sat up, and pulled open the drawer. His brows shot up. Holy Moses—it looked like she’d cleaned out Sex Toys ’R’ Us.

He was holding a lime green dildo as she walked back in, a glass in her hand. She froze in the doorway.

He wagged the faux johnson. “Your battery bill must be pretty high.”

Her face flamed with color.

He pulled a blindfold and French tickler from the drawer. “Play around with this stuff often?”

She sank to the edge of the bed, her face flaming. “I, uh, just got it all this afternoon.”

“I don’t know if I should be insulted or not.”

“Actually, Chloe gave them to me.” Sammi set the glass on the nightstand. “Her boss owns the Adult Toy Box and she gives Chloe free samples, and Chloe gave them to me, because… ” She fell silent.

The handcuffs jangled as he lifted them. “Because you told her you wanted to chain me up and have your way with me?”

“No.”

He lifted a blue plastic circular item labeled “Vibrating Cock Ring.” “Because you have a thing for intimate torture devices?”

“No!”

He picked up a deck of cards and riffled through them. Each one pictured a couple in an impossibly contorted sexual position. “Because you’re trying out to be an Olympic gymnast?”

The red on Sammi’s face deepened.

He rummaged in the drawer. “Hmm. Love juice, nipple pinchers, edible panties—this is quite the collection.”

Sammi buried her face in her hands.

He was immediately contrite. “Hey—are you upset?” He moved to the edge of the bed, swung his legs to the floor, and put his arm around her. “I was just teasing. If you want to play around with this stuff, count me in.”

“No!” She looked embarrassed and upset and like she might burst into tears. “It’s for… backup. In case you got, you know—bored, and things started to go south.”

“If I got
bored?
” His eyebrows rose. “Did you really think that if I ended up in your bedroom, I could possibly be
bored?
”

“Well, that’s what used to happen.” She stared down at her hands.

“That’s what that SOB told you?” Chase had never known that such tenderness toward one person could coexist with such rage toward another.

She nodded and twisted her fingers together.

A nerve ticked in Chase’s jaw. Man, he hoped he never ran into this jerk, because he wasn’t sure he could resist the urge to rearrange his dental work. He gently tilted Sammi’s downturned face toward him.

“Sammi, sweetheart, boredom was never Lance’s problem. His problem was the butt growing out of his neck.”

She gave a crooked grin.

“Seriously.” He gently tucked her hair behind her ear. “You are exciting as hell. I get a woody just thinking about you.”

He was gratified to see her lips curve up.

“Think I’m kidding?”

She glanced down at the sheet, which was tenting in his lap, then laughed.

“In fact, the only thing that’s keeping me from ravishing you right now is the lack of a condom. That’s the one item your collection is missing.”

“They’re in the drawer on the other side of the bed.”

“Well, then, come here, vixen.” He hauled her onto the mattress and kissed her thoroughly, then began to slowly make love to her all over again. She was sexy and soft and giving and warm, and she excited him beyond endurance. When he felt her shudder and contract around him, he followed her off the launch pad, only to discover that she’d rocketed him to a height he’d never reached before, a height where he apparently needed oxygen, because he found it hard to breathe.

He was falling for her—falling hard.

She looked up at him, her eyes misty and tender, and he knew he wasn’t falling alone.

Oh, God. He’d rather break his own neck than break her heart, and yet when he told her the truth, she was going to be hurt. She was going to be angry. She might even storm off and refuse to ever see him again, and he couldn’t really blame her if she did.

But he couldn’t let that happen. He had to make her hear him out, had to make her understand, had to make her forgive him.

Because he’d finally found the woman he wasn’t sure even existed. Sammi was his romantic Yeti, the Loch Ness Monster of his heart.

He’d finally found the SCABHOG of his dreams.

S
ammi sat at her kitchen table a little after noon the next day, cruising the real-estate rental listings on her laptop, when Chloe’s vintage VW rattled into her driveway. A moment later, she heard Chloe’s key in the door, the creak of the hinges, and the familiar tip-tap of Joe’s claws on the hardwood.

“In here!” Sammi called.

Joe yanked the leash out of Chloe’s hand as she rounded the corner and bounded for Sammi. The giant dog put his paws on her shoulders and slurped her face with kisses.

Sammi put up her hands to ward off the dog-spit facial. “Hello to you, too, boy.” She unfastened the leash and rubbed his ears. Joe longingly sniffed her leather clogs. “What’s the matter, boy—wouldn’t Chloe play footsie with you last night?”

“Bet
you
didn’t have a problem finding a footsie partner.” Chloe grinned slyly.

Sammi stroked the dog’s head. “For your information, no footsie transpired.”

“So what did?”

“As if I’m going to tell you.”

“You don’t have to. That glow on your face says it all.” Chloe smiled in an annoyingly know-it-all fashion as she headed for the refrigerator. “I take it you didn’t inflict any mortal wounds.”

“No. But I did set my shirt on fire.”

Chloe wryly shook her head. “The lengths you’ll go to get attention.”

“It was an accident.”

Chloe helped herself to a Coke and slammed the refrigerator door. “More than likely it was a subconscious desire to shed your clothes.”

Sammi rolled her eyes. “Why do I put up with you?”

“Because I’m your sister, and you love me.”

“Uh-huh.”

Chloe pulled the tab on the can. “Not that my opinion counts for much, but I wholeheartedly approve.” Chloe seated herself at the table. “Chase is gorgeous, he’s a genuinely nice guy, and he’s looking to find ‘the one.’ ”

“Yeah. But I don’t know that he sees me as his ‘one.’ ”

“Why not?”

Sammi gazed at her computer as it went into hibernation. “Because afterward he got kind of funny.”

“Funny, how?”

“It’s hard to say, exactly. He just seemed to withdraw and get all quiet.”

“He’s a guy, that’s all.” She took a sip of her cola. “They’re all like that.”

“Since when did you become an expert on men? As I recall, you haven’t had a steady boyfriend since college.”

“That doesn’t mean that I’m not a keen observer of human nature.”

“Yeah? Well, what does it mean that he cleared out of here at the crack of dawn, telling me he has a lot of work to tackle?”

Chloe lifted her shoulders. “Probably that he has a lot of work to tackle.”

“On a Sunday?”

“You told me the FBI is twenty-four seven.”

Sammi shook her head. “Something just seemed off.”

“Did you make plans to see each other again?”

She nodded. “We’re going camping next weekend.”

“Camping as in going to a lodge, or camping outside?”

“Outside.”

“In an RV?”

“No. In a tent.”

“Whoa.” Chloe’s eyes bugged out. “You? In a tent? You’re the poster child for bug and reptile phobias.”

“I’m only afraid of the dangerous ones,” Sammi said defensively.

“Since you don’t know which are dangerous and which are harmless, that means you’re afraid of all of them.”

“If I’m with someone who’s knowledgeable, well, then, I’ll be okay.”

Chloe took a long swig of cola and regarded Sammi over the top of the can. “No doubt about it. You’re in deep.”

It was true. She only prayed he felt the same way about her.

Joe nudged her hand. Sammi reached out and stroked his flank. “Speaking of scary animals, can you watch Joe again next weekend?”

“Sure. But you’d better loan me those sandals of yours, ’cause I didn’t like the way he was eyeing my Doc Martens.”

Ten trunks remaining. Arlene stood in front of them and drew a deep breath. The janitor had hauled off the twenty-seven she’d already emptied. That made thirty-seven steamer trunks in all, full of years and years of Justine’s clothing.

Why had Justine kept them? It wasn’t like she was going to wear them again; she bought new clothes every season. The amount of money Justine Phelps spent on clothing would have financed several small nations.

The trunks had been stacked in the back of the basement like coffins in a mausoleum, the most recent ones first, which meant Arlene was working her way back through time. Each trunk might contain pieces from several seasons, but Arlene was now, apparently, in the early 1960s—around the time she’d started working for Phelps Oil.

The hinges squeaked as Arlene opened the lid of the next trunk. The fragile tissue crinkled as she parted it to reveal the top garment. Arlene’s breath caught in her throat as she lifted out a scarlet evening gown, as dazzling as a Christmas ornament. The silk slipped between her fingers, smooth as water. It was a sleek, fitted column of a dress, with a bodice that sparkled with ruby-colored beads. It was exquisite, dramatic—and familiar.

Arlene knew exactly when she’d seen it. She sank onto the lid of an adjacent trunk and closed her eyes as the memories washed over her.

It had been the weekend before Christmas in 1962—the night of the annual Christmas party, the first year she’d worked at Phelps Oil. Every December, the staff from the executive offices was invited to the Phelps mansion for a glamorous evening of live music, champagne, and exotic hors d’oeuvres. Arlene had heard about the much-anticipated event on her very first day of work.

No one anticipated it more that year than Arlene. If she could get into the inner sanctum of Chandler’s home, she’d thought, maybe she could find the key that would unlock the inner sanctum of his heart. She was dying to see the inside of his house, to get a glimpse of his private life, to see his wife in person.

Arlene had seen Justine’s wedding photo on Chandler’s desk, of course. She’d looked lovely in it, but didn’t every woman look beautiful on her wedding day? Besides, that photo was fifteen years old. Surely she was an old hag by now. Maybe if Chandler saw them side by side, he’d realize that it was Arlene he loved, Arlene that he wanted to share his life with.

God, how foolish she’d been. Arlene sank onto the lid of the next still-closed trunk and shut her eyes.

She’d sewn a special dress for the party—bright red velvet, with a full skirt and a satin sash—and worn rollers in her hair all day so it would stay curled. She’d taken pains with her makeup. She’d looked, she was sure, better than she’d ever looked in her life.

She’d driven her old Chevy to the mansion, parked it on the street, and walked up the long drive, past the trees draped with Christmas lights. She’d practically been shaking with excitement when the butler had opened the door and she’d stepped into the stunning black-and-white foyer.

It looked like a grand hotel rather than a home. Dazzled, Arlene stared up at the brilliant chandelier. A black-and-white-clad maid had materialized at her elbow. “May I take your coat?”

Arlene had shrugged out of it, accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, and eagerly scanned the room for Chandler.

She’d seen him, all right—standing beside Justine, his hand on the small of her back, directly beneath the immense chandelier in the center of the black marble starburst on the floor. That gesture—his hand on her back, so natural, so proprietary—had twisted Justine’s gut like twine. They’d looked perfect together.

Justine had looked perfect, period. She’d been wearing the jewel of a crimson gown that Arlene held now, as if she were the centerpiece of the room.

And, of course, she was. This was her home. Her life.

And Chandler was her husband.

Arlene’s confidence had shriveled like a grape at the Sunsweet plant. What, oh, what had she been thinking? Justine belonged in Chandler’s world. She’d been a debutante, she’d studied abroad, she knew about fine dining and wine and art and a million other things that a farm girl like Arlene would never know. Beside her, Arlene must look like a country bumpkin in her homemade dress, with her Dippity-Dooed hair and her Thom McAn shoes.

Chandler had said that he and his wife led separate lives, that it wasn’t really a marriage, that they didn’t even share a bedroom. Up until now, Arlene had thought of Justine as nothing but an obstacle, a roadblock standing between her and Chandler. Now, however, she saw Justine as part of the road.