The Kept Woman (9 page)

"See you at seven, then. And remind me to dig up a ring in the next couple weeks, OK?"

Sam was wondering how a man goes about "digging up" an engagement ring when she noticed the pool had become silent. All four kids were lined up near the shallow-end steps, listening intently.

Jack noticed the audience, too, and turned on the charm. "How's Park Tudor treating you?"

"It's pretty g-g-good," Greg said.

"Great." Jack looked expectantly at Lily, and Sam hoped her daughter would at least be civil. She watched the girl's dark-rimmed eyes tighten before she smiled. "It's OK, thanks," she said with a shrug. "Some of the kids are real snobs, though."

Jack chuckled. "Everywhere's got its share of snobs, Lily, but you have every right to be there, so don't give them the satisfaction of making you uncomfortable."

"Yeah, I guess," Lily said, then she brightened. "Hey, Jack? You ever go to concerts at the Fieldhouse?"

Sam tried to end this line of questioning. "
Lily. . .
"

"On occasion. I saw Pearl Jam there a few years ago."

"No way!" Lily's mouth hung open.

"I hear 50 Cent is coming in the spring. Would you guys like to go?"

"I could roll with that," Simon said, trying to look as nonchalant as possible while his eyes widened.

"I'll see what I can do about tickets. In the meantime, I'm on my way to a meeting."

Jack said his good-byes to Monte and the kids, and Sam walked him to the doorway. Sam heard Simon in the background saying, "Naw! He can't get those tickets! The man's fooling with us!"

Sam watched him stroll down the hallway that connected the pool house to the rest of the mansion, noting that he was tall and dark and smooth and impossible to stop staring at.

Jack glanced over his shoulder and said, "Oh, and no flip-flops—and no damn-near passing out."

It had been a long day, and Christy retreated to her office in the Channel 10 studios and shut the door. She groaned with relief as she unzipped her snake-skin boots and yanked her feet from their stylish prisons. She wiggled her toes and tried to get the circulation back in her legs, realizing her wisdom teeth were bugging her again. Someday, she knew, she'd have to have them taken out, but where was the time?

She checked her e-mails. The prosecutor's office hadn't bothered to get back to her about their repeated attempts to locate one Mitchell J. Bergen, the former husband of that beautician Jack was parading around with. It was no wonder they hadn't responded to her inquiries. It must be embarrassing that an entire task force couldn't locate one measly no-talent glassblower.

Christy laughed to herself, thinking how entertaining it would be when she'd get around to doing their job for them, in a spare afternoon.

The details of Samantha Monroe's life were coming quite easily. A single trip to the Marion County Clerk's office managed to unearth Samantha's marriage license and divorce decree, a visit to the state health department's Web site revealed she had a valid cosmetologist license, and a five-minute call to the Indiana Bureau of Vital Statistics rounded up the birth records of her three children. The rest of the Monroe woman's life story Christy got from Marcia Fishbacher, who said Samantha's husband had been a deadbeat who'd lived off his wife's flair with a pair of scissors until he skipped town. The reverence in Marcia's voice indicated she thought Samantha Monroe was a combination of Vidal Sassoon and Mother Teresa, or some nonsense.

"She's been through the wringer," Marcia had said. "I know her new boyfriend is running for office, but Christy, please don't do anything to hurt her. She deserves any joy she can find."

Yeah? And who doesn't?
With gusto, Christy deleted at least a dozen spam e-mails from that assumed she was an impotent man in dire need of a home loan, remembering the night Jack made a fool of her in front of her peers.

She'd been up for an Associated Press Excellence in Broadcast Journalism award. She eventually lost to Al Gilligan over at Channel 3, but that wasn't the point. The point was that she and Jack had been dating for about three months and she really thought they'd go all the way to the altar. She was in love and assumed he was, too. Technically, he never actually said the words, but she could see it in his eyes. And her parents were thrilled with Jack. Marguerite simply adored her, even inviting her on a girls' shopping day to Chicago—which never happened, because Jack obviously suffered from some kind of hormonal disorder that prevented him from forming any kind of deep bond with a woman!

That night at the awards banquet, he just couldn't seem to resist dragging a Fox associate producer into the bank of pay phones and nibbling on her neck.

Had Christy been the one to witness this indiscretion, she could have dumped him with her pride intact. But no—her boss and four of her coworkers on their way to the men's room saw everything and, with glee, relayed the details to all at the Channel 10 table. When Jack returned to his seat a few moments later, looking refreshed and at peace with the world, no one could keep a straight face. When Jack reached for Christy's hand as it lay on her lap, she snapped. She twisted his index finger with all her might and hissed at him, "You disgusting pig!"

It was the highlight of everyone's evening, of course. Christy left the banquet without a little gold statue and without a date to her cousin's wedding that next weekend. But what galled Christy the most was how awful everything had gone on a night when she'd looked so great. Marcia had done her hair in an elegant upswept twist, and the cute little pink satin strapless dress she'd found on sale at the Circle City Nordstrom fit so perfectly it hadn't even needed alterations!

That should have been her night!

Jack should have been her man!

They looked so perfect together!

Christy sighed, returning her attention to the task at hand, and slogged through e-mails from viewers, coworkers, sources, and, of course, Brandon Miliewski.

She yawned with abandon and propped her stocking-clad feet upon the desk. As mind-numblingly bizarre as it seemed, that sebaceous hick Miliewski had sent her six e-mails in one day. It was rather sad that he'd been flirting with her for years now. Sadder still was the fact that he clearly thought buying her one glass of cheap Zinfandel made her the future Mrs. Video Poker.

"Sorry, big guy." With a few clicks, Christy deleted Brandon's request that she join him and his colleagues at St. Elmo that night for dinner, and an additional five e-mails, which she didn't bother to read. What had she been thinking the day at the Chatterbox Tavern? Miliewski wasn't assertive or attractive—he was a fat ferret. Getting the scoop on Jack's latest bimbo must have left her light-headed.

Christy clicked off her computer and slipped on a pair of flats for the walk out to the parking lot, thinking to herself that the teacher convention thing was soon to become a mere hors d'oeuvre on her buffet table of revenge.

She got into her little yellow Nissan 350Z and shook her head in regret. She'd never been able to wear that gorgeous pink dress again—it held too many bad memories.

"Her name was Tina. And things were already coming to an end before you and I signed our agreement."

"Do you miss her?" Sam was immediately embarrassed by the intimate nature of her question. She had no right to be talking to Jack Tolliver like this—and that's exactly what made this arrangement so strange. He was her date but not really; she was starting to like him, but she didn't know why; she thought he was funny and sweet and a prick at the same time; her panties got damp whenever he glanced her way, which was just plain disconcerting.

"Truthfully, I do miss aspects of that relationship," Jack answered. As he sipped his wine, the sparkle in his eyes indicated he amused himself.

"I imagine she had aspects out the wazoo." Sam turned to look out the window onto Meridian Street. They'd gotten the best table at St. Elmo, which shouldn't have surprised her, but it was a little thrill nonetheless. She'd only been in this venerable old downtown steak house once in her life—when Mitchell took her here for their tenth anniversary. It had been such an unexpected splurge at the time, and she remembered how she'd struggled to enjoy herself while wondering how the hell they could afford thirty-dollar steaks and a forty-dollar bottle of wine, even on their anniversary.

Mitch had reassured her. Told her to relax. Then their waiter had delivered a dozen long-stemmed red roses to their table and Mitch took her hands in his and said, "Happy anniversary." He leaned across the table to kiss her hand and they talked about how big Greg and Lily were getting. Mitch told her about his latest glass projects, and for the first time in a long time she'd felt a sweet excitement being in his company. She allowed herself to believe things might be getting better between them, that Mitch might be turning some kind of corner as a husband and an artist.

Sam sighed softly, blinking at the city lights outside the window, remembering how her husband had taken her home that night and made love to her.

Within three weeks she found herself spending the first waking hour of every day on her knees, suffering from morning sickness the likes of which she'd never experienced with Greg or Lily. One Tuesday morning, Mitch appeared behind her in the bathroom door. She could have sworn he was saying something about their marriage being a sham and that he'd discovered he was gay, but it was hard to hear when her ears were ringing from the retching. Mitch moved out the next week, the same day the mailman delivered the Visa bill for their anniversary meal. It became one of many shared debts her husband never got around to helping her pay.

"You OK over there?"

Jack's question startled Sam, and she realized she'd been impossibly rude in her silence. "I'm sorry. Guess I'm not great company tonight."

Jack gave her an understanding nod. The poor guy was probably bored to tears. He might even dock her pay—the contract called for her to "execute her duties to the best of her abilities and to the satisfaction of her employer."

Sam forced a smile. "I bet Lisa was a good dinner date."

"Her name is Tina. I did say Tina, didn't I?"

"Her, too."

Jack laughed gently, and she watched his face soften with something she hoped to God wasn't sympathy. "Who knows, Sam? After these six months are up, you and I could actually end up as friends. Stranger things have happened."

The warmth of that comment surprised her, and she fiddled with her wineglass for a moment before she smiled at him, this time for real. She looked at Jack Tolliver—that aristocratic nose and those dark lashes and the broad, charismatic grin—and she couldn't help it. Sam felt a hot rush spread from her chest down her arms and head right smack toward the crotch of her panties, which made two things painfully clear: she'd gone so long without sex that she didn't remember how to behave in the company of an attractive man, and she really should lay off the wine.

"A girl can never have too many friends," Sam said, hoping Jack couldn't tell how difficult it had been to come up with that stupid reply.

He speared a hunk of romaine lettuce and raised an eyebrow. "You actually think Monte will let you have auxiliary friends?"

She laughed. "I already have them. And I'd apologize for Monte, but that's just who she is. Though I suppose she could cut back on the play-by-play commentary."

Jack smiled. "How did you two get to be so close, if you don't mind my asking?"

"We started at Le Cirque the very same week. We were just babies back then, you know?" Sam shook her head, hardly recalling what it felt like to be twenty-two years old, madly in love, a new mother, and bursting with hope. "Everything we learned about hair and children and life we learned together—the wonderful and awful and the everyday stuff in-between. We became each other's family. She's always had my back and I've always had hers."

Their steaks arrived. Sam's was prepared to a perfect medium well and cost a whole lot more than thirty dollars and she didn't feel a speck of concern about the bill. Jack was fine company, and his relaxed demeanor helped her settle in. She laughed at his stories about football and politics and forgot that spending time with this man was her job.

At one point, Jack reached across the table and took her hand in his. He leaned close, and the devilish sparkle in his expression gave her another hot rush of awareness. Oh, this man was the stuff of which dreams were made. His words were smooth and his skin was warm and she didn't even have to be told that someone was watching.

She turned up the wattage on her own smile and squeezed his hand. In a whisper she asked, "What's the script call for tonight?"

"Hmm. How about you tell me you're going to the ladies' room and kiss me before you go? Stay there for about five minutes; then I'll introduce you."

Without taking her eyes from Jack's she asked, "Anyone famous?"

Jack laughed, picked up her hand, and put his lips on her fingertips. The kiss was gentle and he held her gaze as he held her hand. "I think we're being stalked by Brandon Miliewski."

Sam chuckled and pulled her hand from Jack's mouth as if he'd just said something highly amusing. The truth was, her knees were wobbling. When's the last time a man had kissed her fingertips? The only males she touched on a regular basis were three and thirteen years old. She reached for her purse and said, "I'll be right back, Jack."

As instructed, she bent to kiss his cheek on her way to the ladies' room. Jack turned his head just in time to catch her lips with his, and Sam didn't know if it was the wine or the delicious meal or just Jack, but she kissed him back, then slipped him a little taste of her tongue.

She shocked herself so much that she pulled away, blinked at Jack twice, then nearly ran to the bathroom. Once inside she stared in the mirror, steadying herself by gripping the edge of the sink with both hands. Who was this woman looking back at her? She didn't have the slightest idea. In fourteen years she'd barely had the time to ask.

She was a mom. She was a stylist. She was a friend and a daughter and an ex-wife. She was, thank God, a financially solvent person for the first time in her life.