Heart of the Night (46 page)

“Please, Sam,” she whispered. “Let me go.”

“We have to talk.”

She gave a small shake of her head. “I think everything was said last week.”

“And you're satisfied with that?”

“Aren't you?”

“Not for a minute. Not for a minute since you left have I been satisfied.”

Squeezing her eyes shut, she wailed softly, “Oh God, don't do this to me.”

“Do what?” Sam demanded.

Her eyes opened with a snap and she focused sharply on his face. “Talk of satisfaction in that tone. Bring it down to its lowest form. Make it physical. Because it was more than that, Sam. Always. I'm a living, feeling person, not a sex object. If you think that my sole purpose in life is to satisfy your urges—”

Sam's look was just as sharp. “I
never
thought that. For Christ's sake, what do you take me for?” His lips thinned, and he dropped his arms to his sides. “Stupid question, Craig. She told you what she takes you for. She takes you for a dumb cop. A Neanderthal, without a touch of class.”

The words haunted Susan, particularly as they came from Sam's mouth. She had hurt him—which was precisely what she'd intended at the time, only now the hurt boomeranged. “I don't take you for that,” she rushed out.

“You said it.”

“I was angry. You'd just told me that I only appealed to you in bed.”

“Nuh-uh. I never said that. I said that I only appealed to
you
in bed.”

“But that's not true.”

“That's what I felt. You made me feel it, coming in the way you did, trying to change everything about my life.”

“I didn't do that. I didn't want to change everything. All I wanted to do was to decorate your house. I mean, what else could I do? I'm not good for much else. I'm not a great cook or a great cleaner, not that you need either of those things since you do them just fine by yourself. I don't have a career for you to respect like Savannah—”

Sam cut her off. “Don't bring her into this, Susan. This is between you and me. Savannah's irrelevant.”

“Okay, but still, what do I know? I know how to plan fund-raisers. Does that impress you? Of course not. I know how to arrange flowers, but you're not a flower person. And I know how to decorate. I was trying to be useful. That was the only thing I could think to do. So I thought wrong.”

“You sure did. You made me feel like a bush-league nothing. It's bad enough that you're loaded. I'm not. Never have been, never will be. I can't begin to measure up to the other men you know when it comes to assets. I can't give you anything you don't already have—”

“I've never
asked
you for anything—”

“That's not the point. It's a matter of pride, Susan. Don't you see? I'm proud of what I have. I'm proud of what I've done with my life. You suggested it wasn't good enough—”

“I didn't!” she cried and reached for his arms. “Listen to me. You were the one who said I said it wasn't good enough. I love your place. It has more warmth to it, even without a stitch of furnishing, than my house does. But you mentioned decorating, so I thought I'd do it. I guess I got carried away. I thought you'd be pleased. I wanted that.” Then she realized something else, and with the realization came a return of the vulnerability she had been feeling so much of lately. Releasing his arms, she tucked her hands in her pockets and said quietly, “I wanted to please you, just … wanted to please you.”

Looking at her, seeing the rawness of her expression, hearing the naked need in her tone, Sam couldn't doubt her. “Why, Susan?” he asked softly. “Why would you want to do that?”

He had no way of knowing that his own expression was as raw or his tone as naked. But Susan saw and heard, and the urge to cry that had hit her earlier brought tears to her eyes now. “I don't know,” she whispered. Taking her hands from her pockets, she closed her fingers around the lapels of his jacket and clung to the wool. “I don't know. You're so different from other men I've known. I can't stop thinking about you.”

He touched her chin with no more than his thumb and forefinger. “The feeling's mutual.” When a tear trickled from the corner of her eye, he blotted it up. “I want to see you again.”

Susan wanted that more than anything in the world, but the problems that had driven them apart remained. “We fight so much. I don't know if I can go on like that with you. It hurts, Sam.”

“It hurts me, too, but it hurts more to be without you. Can't we try it again? Can't we approach the thing differently this time?”

“Like how?” she asked cautiously.

He thought for a minute, searching for the words to express what he meant without offending her. “Maybe it was too physical before. For both of us.” He hurried on. “We're great together in bed, but we let that be the starting and stopping point of our relationship. It was a high. We fell back on it, especially when we were feeling insecure about so many other things.”

“You've never felt insecure.”

“Of course I have. That's what I've been trying to tell you. I feel insecure a lot when I'm with you. It's a new feeling, and I'm not sure how to handle it, but I have to do something, because it's there. You're special, Susan. Classy. Don't you think I want to please you, too?”

“You do,” she whispered.

“Not as much as I'd like. You said I was traditional, and I never thought of myself that way, but when it comes to you, I guess I am. Possessive. Protective. Give you a few drinks, and you need a protector. Stone sober, you're pretty self-sufficient.”

“Shows how much you know,” Susan murmured but said no more because there was something else she needed just then. Slipping her arms inside his coat and around his waist, she leaned against him for the warmth that had been so missing from her life.

Making a small sound deep in his throat, Sam crushed her close. He didn't try to kiss her. He just needed to hold her. He needed to know that they'd have another chance. “Ahhh, sweetheart,” he breathed into her hair. “You feel so good.”

“I always did.”

“Not like this. This is special.” He hugged her tightly for another minute, then took her face in his hands, turned it up, and spoke with exquisite gentleness. “You teach me a lot. You may not believe that, but it's true. You teach me things about myself. Like being old-fashioned. I am, I suppose. And that's not the best way to be in this day and age.”

“Then again,” Susan argued, able to do so because he'd made the admission first, “it's not such an awful thing. There are times when a woman wants to feel protected.”

“Do I do that for you?”

She nodded. “Besides that, you think. You say what you feel.”

“You don't always like what I say.”

“It's not what you say that bothers me, as much as the way you say it. When you yelled at me last week—”

“I didn't yell. You were the one who yelled.”

“Well, it
felt
like you were yelling. I felt like I'd been slapped in the face. I really wanted to help, Sam. It wasn't a question of walking all over you. I thought you'd be happy.
That
was what I wanted.”

Sam had no comeback, because his mind was grappling with the sudden realization that of all the women he had known, none had ever said that to him. That Susan, who had so much and was by some measures spoiled, should be the one to say she wanted him happy—and to say it with such sincerity—affected him deeply.

Unable to speak, he lowered his head and kissed her, but it wasn't the kind of fevered kiss they'd so often shared before. It was a kiss from the heart, deep and filled with soul.

Susan, who'd never received a kiss like it, was stunned. It pulled at something deep inside her, sparking thoughts of once upon a time and forever after. But before she could begin to grapple with those thoughts, the approach of a third car intruded.

Still holding her face in his hands, Sam looked around, then watched in disbelief when a full-fledged police cruiser drew to a halt. The officer riding shotgun rolled down his window.

“Any problem here, folks?”

“No, sir,” Sam drawled.

“How about moving along, then?”

“Yes, sir.” But he didn't budge.

The officer waited for a minute, then looked at Susan. “Is this man giving you trouble?”

“He's been giving me troubles since the day I met him,” Susan replied sweetly, “but I think things are under control. Thank you.”

“Why don't you both move on, then.”

“We will,” she said and smiled up at Sam.

“Now,” the officer prompted.

Sam returned Susan's smile and, brushing his thumbs over her cheeks, said in a low voice, “Your place is closer.”

“Yours is nicer.”

“All that way in two cars?”

“Follow me while I drop off the Jag, then we'll go together.”

“I like the sound of that. I want you close.”

“I like the sound of
that.
”

“Uh, excuse me,” came the police officer's voice, less patient this time. “This is a public street. I doubt the good folks of Newport would appreciate prolonged tête-à-têtes at this hour.”

Sam had an inkling that something was coming when Susan drew herself straighter, but he wasn't quick enough to catch her when she slid around him and approached the cruiser.

“Officer, I
am
the good folks of Newport, and quite frankly, I resent your interference.”

“Susan,” Sam murmured as he put an arm around her from behind, “let's just do as the good officer says.” He began drawing her back toward the Jag.

“You don't have to take this from him,” she argued. “You're a lieutenant.”

Sam gave the officer an apologetic grin. “She's a spirited one,” he said, and guided Susan into the car. As soon as he closed the door, the police cruiser started to roll off.

“He's a cop, you turkeys!” Susan shouted through the open window. “He's one of you—”

Sam silenced her with a sound kiss. By the time he let her up for air, she had an arm draped around his neck. In her eyes he could see subtle accusation for what he had done, but the accusation faded quickly, fallen prey to the deeper feelings that had been released before the cruiser had arrived.

“I'll be right behind you,” he said softly.

She nodded.

“Drive slowly.”

She nodded again.

Unable to resist, he kissed her again, then returned to his car.

C
HAPTER
19

Savannah spent the weekend with Jared on his boat. She had to laugh when she thought of how casually he had called his small yacht a boat. Built of fiberglass with interior trimmings of ash, its amenities included a galley as modern as Savannah's kitchen, a washer and dryer, a king-size bed, and a luxurious bath.

Jared had had the craft put in the water on Friday, but there was plenty of cleaning and polishing to do before he was satisfied with its condition. Working alongside him, Savannah enjoyed every minute.

Not that they worked the entire time. They talked a lot, slept a lot, and loved a lot. She had never been happier.

On Sunday evening, she told him so. It had been a beautiful day, mild and fragrant as was the best of early April on the Rhode Island coast, and though the air had begun to chill with the setting of the sun, an inner glow kept them warm. They were below deck, facing each other from opposite corners of a sofa with their legs snugly entwined, sipping from glasses of the wine Jared had uncorked for the occasion.

“This has been great,” she said with the kind of soft smile that never failed to make his heart turn over.

His chuckle was like the wine, light and dry. “Then you're a glutton for punishment. I've made you work all weekend.”

“No, no. It's been great. A vacation, even more so than last weekend in Florida. There's something truly therapeutic about what we've done.”

He nudged her bottom with his bare foot, which was tucked there for warmth. “You hate cleaning.”

“But this was different. I've loved it. Really I have.” When he arched a skeptical brow, she insisted, “Really. I'd do this any time with you.”

Jared's heart turned over again. But then, it had been turning over practically since the first time he'd seen Savannah. In some respects, she'd turned over his whole life, certainly his outlook on the future.

“Many me, Savannah.”

She caught her breath.

“I love you,” he said, and his voice was as low and deep and intense as she'd ever heard it. “You haven't said the words, but I think you feel them, and I can't risk letting that go. Let's get married.”

Savannah didn't know what to say. Somewhere in the back of her mind she had wanted him to ask, then feared that he would. Confused, she whispered his name on a broken breath.

“Is that a yes, or a no?” he asked.

“I don't know. I don't know what to say.”

“Do you love me?”

She hesitated for just a minute, not because she didn't know the answer, but because saying it aloud implied a commitment. But that time had come. “Yes,” she said, then with greater feeling, “Yes.”

Setting his wine glass on the carpet, he leaned forward, took her under the arms, and brought her forward to straddle his hips. He locked his hands at the small of her back. “Say it.”

Savannah smiled. “I love you.”

“Again.”

“I love you,” she said, and the smile became a grin, because it seemed so absurd that she hadn't said the words sooner.

So she sat there grinning, loving his face with its rough-hewn features, its faintly squared chin with a ghost of a dimple, its eyes of pale blue with gray flecks, the one with its slight cast. She loved the sandy hair that tumbled across his forehead, brushed the tops of his ears, hit his collar in back. She loved the way his shirt was open to midchest, laying bare a faint sprinkle of tawny hair, and the way he sat eye to eye with her, though she was on his lap.