The Kept Woman (13 page)

Ed slapped him on the shoulder. "Well, you look damn good now—for a politician." He laughed. "I'll get you and your girlfriend home."

Jack wasn't normally a sentimental guy, but he was overwhelmed by a sudden rush of. . .what was it? Tenderness? Here was his old friend Ed Kitzmiller cutting him a break. Here was beautiful Sam Monroe sitting right next to him, holding his hand in concern. He felt plugged into the world. He felt damn good. And he heard himself call out, "She's my fiancee, Kitz! Can you believe that shit?"

Ed stopped so abruptly he nearly lost his balance on the ice. He looked back toward the car with a silly smile plastered across his face. "I'll be damned," he said.

It took another forty minutes, but they made it to the house in one piece. Jack tried to convince Ed to come in for coffee, but Ed pointed out there was no electricity and, besides, he needed to get back to work. He then offered to pitch in with Jack's campaign for Senate if he'd like his help. Jack gave Ed a quick hug and said he'd take him up on it, then made sure he got safely out of the drive and back onto the lane. He parked the Lexus in the garage and went in to find Sam and the kids.

"Lily? Greg?" Sam's voice sounded so small in the cavernous and dark house. She didn't want to yell too loud, in case Dakota was sleeping, but she was nearly shaking with worry.

"Lily?" Sam poked her head into the empty formal living room. There was just enough ambient light that she could make it across the main foyer and stumble through the dining room, parlor, library, great room, and butler's pantry, calling for Lily and Greg at each turn.

Nothing.

Sam took a deep breath, insisting to herself that there was no reason to be worried. The house might be dark, but it was dry and warm and there was food and water and, frankly, abject luxury all around. Her children were fine.

If only she could find them.

She felt her way down the long hallway that connected the main house to the pool house. It was eerily silent and dark and she was trying her best not to cry.

"Sam?"

She nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of her name. A strong hand steadied her at her lower back.

"Let's check upstairs, OK?" Jack turned her by the shoulders and guided her through the dim kitchen to the back stairwell. The passageway was narrower and far less formal than the grand staircase at the front of the house, and Jack's arm stayed tight around her as he led her up the dark steps and to the north wing. "Maybe they fell asleep before the power went out. They might not even know there's a storm."

Sam nodded. Jack was right, of course. And for a brief moment, she wondered why she'd reacted with such panic to something as simple as an early ice storm.

Maybe deep down, she was afraid of the good fortune that had come her way, that it wasn't possible for her to have escaped the grim situation she was in. Maybe she felt it was all too good to be true and that something extremely bad was bound to happen that would wipe out all the good.

That had to be it. And she clung to that understanding of her own insecurity even when they didn't find anyone in Lily's bedroom, or Dakota's or Greg's. As they reached the double doors to Sam's suite, she heard giggles and the unmistakable sound of Dale's bark, and it had to be the sweetest music she'd ever heard in her life. She threw open the doors.

"Mom!" Greg leaped up from where he sat next to Lily, on the floor near the fireplace. "We were so w-w-worried!"

Lily jumped up, too, and Sam's two older kids were suddenly in her arms. She squeezed them tight and felt the relief rush through her so hard that tears came to her eyes.

"Don't get all psycho on us, Mother," Lily said. Then she kissed Sam's cheek. "But we're real glad to see you."

Sam peered around Greg and Lily at the small form of Dakota under the comforter in her bed. She watched with wonder as Jack pulled aside the covers and scooped up her baby in his arms. He winked as he turned to carry Dakota down the hall to his own room.

Sam snuggled with Lily and Greg on one of the room's two couches, taking comfort in their smiling faces in the warm glow of the gas flames. Dale jumped in her lap.

Her family was all right. Everything was all right.

". . .and then all the sudden, the TV just zapped off and the whole house went black!" Lily swept hair off her face and Sam loved the sense of wonder she saw in her daughter's eyes. "This place is like a tomb without lights, Mom! I'm telling you—total Scooby Doo haunted mansion stuff. We were completely freaked because we couldn't see our way around!"

"Did Dakota cry?"

"No!" Lily began to laugh. "Mom, he just loved it. He ran all over the place like a crazy man and we had to catch him and lock him up in here."

Sam shook her head. "That kid."

"We had n-n-no idea where to look for f-f-flashlights."

"The butler's pantry," Jack said to Greg as he strolled back into Sam's room. He relaxed into the couch across from them. "For future reference, that's where you can find most anything you would need in an emergency—matches, candles, batteries, flashlights, first-aid supplies, duct tape, chocolate, and booze to restock any of the bars."

Sam frowned at him.

"Not that you ever would want to restock any bars or anything."

Lily laughed. "I guess every palace has to have a secret hiding place, right?"

Jack smiled, and the sight took Sam's breath away. Those deep green eyes of his glowed in the firelight and his white teeth gleamed, and Sam wondered what it would feel like to be Jack Tolliver's woman for real, what it would feel like to be loved by such a male specimen. Sam sighed. If only outside beauty were a measure of a man's heart. But she'd learned the hard way that that wasn't the case, and a man's heart was the only thing that mattered in the end.

She gazed upon all that sexual beauty—packed into a tuxedo, no less—and had to smile. Yes, Jack was art on legs. But she wanted a good man, not a perfect-looking one. And a good man was a balance of passion and levelheadedness. A good man would put the woman he loved before all else, including his job and his ego.

Sam wondered just how many women had been rolled flat as Jack's ego took a turn around their block.

"There's an honest-to-God secret room in this house," Jack told the kids, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "My grandfather had it built into the wall of his office when he designed this house about eighty years ago. I'll show it to you sometime. It's pretty cool, I've gotta say. I loved it when I was a kid. I used to hang out in there and play army men."

"Whoa!" Greg sat up straight and leaned toward Jack. "This house belonged to your grandfather the governor?"

"Yep. Then it belonged to my dad, who was a governor, too."

"I know! We read about them in history class. I think it's so cool that I'm living in the governor's old house. I'd really love to see that secret room someday."

It didn't escape Sam that all those words just came from her son's mouth without a single stutter, a sure sign that he was interested in the subject at hand. It seemed when Greg was fascinated by something it took him out of himself enough that his lips could keep pace with his thoughts just fine.

"So, you're a student of history, are you?"

"I love history," Greg said, nodding.

"The state of Indiana sort of requires that we study it in school," Lily added, with just a touch of annoyance.

Jack nodded. "Absolutely. I remember when I was lieutenant governor we used to sit around and brainstorm about how we could torture the youth of our great state. We always came back to history and, of course, math."

Both Sam's kids were silent for a moment, until they figured out he was kidding. Sam watched the realization spread across Greg's face just as he started to laugh. She watched her daughter roll her eyes.

"I'm thinking once I get to Washington, I'll whip up some teenage torture legislation, like no driver's licenses until you're twenty-one or something."

"No way!" Greg said, sitting up straight.

"That would be major suckitude," Lily said, then narrowed her eyes. "Unless you're trying to be funny again or something."

Greg reached across Sam to smack his sister's arm. "I think he
is
funny, Bones."

Lily crossed her arms over her chest and stared at Jack for a second, and Sam was about to interfere on his behalf when she noticed the way his face had softened as he looked at Lily, how his eyes shone with amusement. Something was going on here between her kids and Jack, and Sam decided she'd let it play out.

"OK," Lily said. "You're pretty cool, Jack. But in the name of all that is good and holy, don't mess with that law until I've got my learner's permit."

This was the kind of context in which Jack usually did his finest work. He was alone with a beautiful woman in her boudoir, in the dark, in front of the fireplace, and they'd already decided that he'd be spending the night.

In his playbook of love, this was the moment when the ball was delivered into his waiting hands via a flawless snap. This was when he'd reach back with grace and steadiness and rocket that sucker in a perfect spiral down the field, a direct hit into the breadbasket of his intended.

Touchdown. Every fucking time.

Jack loosened his black tie, crossed his right leg over his bad knee, and laughed a little to himself. Of course, this was no ordinary entry from his little black playbook. This was Sam, and the boudoir was the one his mother's cronies preferred when they came to visit, which was a little strange, and the lights were off not as a part of an overall plan of seduction but because of a power outage. Jack was spending the night not because the woman had invited him but because the roads were iced up.

In his rational brain, Jack knew that all this meant that the usual rules did not apply, but his heart and his dick weren't listening. All he wanted—the
only
thing he wanted—was the feel of Samantha's body against his, his hands on her flesh, his mouth on her skin, that little moan escaping from the back of her throat as he buried himself inside her.

"Would you like to go downstairs and have a glass of wine?" she asked him.

Jack was up off the couch. "Red or white?"

"Uh. . ."

He was at the door. There was no way he could risk a change in venue. He wanted Sam in this bedroom, not in the damn kitchen. "Your preference, madame?"

He watched a nervous little smile spread across Sam's lips and marveled at how sweet and sexy she was. He marveled at the way that red dress shimmered in the firelight and how her skin glowed and how he wanted to lick her from her navel to her temples and then all the way back down to the soles of her pretty little feet.

"Red is good."

Hell, yes, it was, Jack thought to himself as he raced down the back stairs, mentally reviewing which wines might be stashed in the butler's pantry, because he sure wasn't going to risk the five minutes it would take to run down to the wine cellar. Red was great. Red hair and red dresses and tiny red-painted toenails and the red lights that were pulsing behind his eyelids—these were all good things.

Jack first rooted around for a flashlight, then snagged the first Cabernet he found, along with two red wine goblets and a corkscrew. Then he made a snap decision to provide whatever else might be needed up there, took off his tux jacket, spread it out on a marble counter, and began to pile things in the center of the satin lining: a lighter, six white tapered candles, six ceramic candleholders, and two additional flashlights. He bundled up the whole mess, stashed the corkscrew in his pocket, stuck the wine bottle under his arm, and cradled the goblets in his free hand.

"Wow." Sam blinked in surprise. "That was quick."

Jack smiled. His knee would never again be strong enough to withstand a direct hit from a three-hundred-pound defensive lineman or even go more than two miles around the high school track, but he could still make quick work of a set of stairs—as long as it wasn't first thing in the morning.

"I live to serve," he said, placing the bottle down on the coffee table, enjoying the slow chuckle his falsehood had elicited from Sam.

"Did you steal your mother's silver or something?" Sam nodded at the sack he'd tossed on the sofa.

He smiled at Sam as he uncorked the bottle, trying not to dwell too much on what he was doing, because, clearly, he was trying to seduce her.

Clearly, he wanted her.

And if he got her—and when did he not get what he wanted?—things could get a little dicey around here.

Kara and Stu would go ballistic. They'd accuse him of all sorts of nastiness, none of which was true. The only truth was that he really liked Sam Monroe. He thought she was sweet and beautiful and smart. He thought they could have a hell of a lot of fun with the five months and two weeks that lay ahead.

He untied the bundle and began placing items on the coffee table. "I figured we could give each kid a flashlight and we could use the candles."

"That was nice of you."

"No problem."

"Tell me about your knee, Jack."

Great
. He lowered himself into the sofa across from Sam and gave himself—and the wine—a few minutes to breathe. "Let's see. I got hit so hard I saw angels. That's pretty much the whole story."

Sam tilted her head and ran a hand through those tempting red curls of hers. He knew her hair felt like the finest silk. He knew it smelled like heaven.

"I think you might have left out a few details."

Jack sighed. "My NFL career was over before it really got started. I'd spent two seasons on the bench as second-string quarterback, then our starter retired, and I got my chance. We went all the way to the Super Bowl my first season out."

Jack untied the black satin of his bow tie and took out the top stud of his tuxedo shirt, stuffing it in his pants pocket. He noted how Sam watched every move of his hands, swallowing hard and blinking while she stared.

She was halfway to the end zone, if he could only get her to change the subject.

"So what exactly happened to your knee? And how did it happen?"

Jack tried not to laugh. He couldn't possibly give her the honest answer and make progress toward his goal, which was getting into the elastic band of her panties. In his experience, women were not exactly turned on at the mention of muscle separating from bone.

"It's pretty gruesome, Sam."

She nodded, tucking her legs up tight against her butt. He wished he were one of her legs.

"That's what Greg told me, and that's what your friend Ed said tonight, so that's why I'm asking." Sam's gaze strayed toward his knee. "It's the left one, right?"

"Right. The left one." He uncrossed his legs and poured two glasses. "Here. Drink up. If I'm going to tell you about my knee, you may need to be slightly tanked."

Sam held out her hand and Jack reached over the coffee table and placed the goblet in her hand. He intentionally let his fingers brush against the inside of her wrist as he retreated, and he was rewarded with a big-eyed stare of surprise.

"Cheers," he said, reaching for his own wineglass and clinking his crystal against hers.

"Bottoms up," Sam said.

Jack closed his eyes in a valiant effort to dismiss the lustful image that just flashed in his brain. That's the thing that amazed him about being with Sam—he thoroughly enjoyed her company yet couldn't seem to shake the lustful brain flashes, one after the next, all involving her naked and offering herself with abandon, this time with her bottom up in the air.

"Tell me how you got hurt."

Jack took a long drink of the Cabernet, wondering what the hell he'd pulled out of the pantry in the near dark, because it tasted a little musty, in his opinion. He frowned and began reading the label on the wine bottle.

"You don't want to tell me, do you?"

He set the bottle down and looked her in the eye. "It was supposed to be a pass play. We were down by three with fourteen seconds on the clock and it was third and ten." Jack noted the blank look on Sam's face. "It was our last chance to score in the third quarter. We were losing."

"Oh." She nodded and took a sip of wine.

"I couldn't find an open target, and I tried to bolt from the pocket, and I saw him coming. . .." Jack shook his head and took a deep breath. He really hated remembering this moment, and if it had been anyone but Sam asking, he would have told them to drop the subject.

"Wait." Sam untucked her legs and sat up straight. She put her glass down. "You don't have to tell me, Jack. I'm sorry for intruding."

He glanced up, shocked by the look of concern on Sam's face. She smiled softly at him. "I can read about it online, I guess. I can see that it's hard to have to relive all that. I guess I didn't realize how awful it would be for you."

Jack thought this was a good time to make his move and switched from his couch over to Sam's. He relaxed next to her and draped an arm over the back of the sofa, looking down into her face. "You mind if I come over here to tell you? It'll be easier for me if I can whisper."

Sam nodded.

This might not be so bad after all.

"Of course, when it was happening, it was just a blur. I only learned the details six months later, when I finally got the courage to watch the film."

"OK."

"Apparently, before I could get any momentum going, a Cleveland defensive end bounced off a block and used every bit of his six-foot-six, two-hundred-and-seventy-five-pound body to slam me to the AstroTurf. Have you ever played Whack-A-Mole at the State Fair? You know that game where you use a sledgehammer to slam down the little gopher head every time it pops up?"

Sam nodded, her eyes wide. "Sure. I love that game. Stress relief through violence."

"Exactly." Jack laughed softly as he brushed a curl from the side of Sam's face. "I was the mole, babe. And as I thudded to the ground I felt stuff tear apart inside my body. From inside my helmet, I swear it sounded like somebody was smashing a big old party-sized bag of potato chips right in my ear. The pain was so intense I blacked out, and when I woke up. . ." Jack shook his head slowly. "When I woke up, I wished I were dead."

"Oh my God, Jack."

"The docs at Methodist Hospital called it a cluster-fuck injury. I'd dislocated my knee, damaged a bunch of nerves and some arteries, torn three ligaments, and ripped the calf and hamstring muscles right off my bones."

Sam gasped. "
Holy crap
."

"I was told that if the initial surgery didn't go right, they'd have to amputate."

"Please stop." Sam closed her eyes and put a hand to her chest. "No wonder you didn't want to tell me. This is just awful."

"But it worked out all right, if you consider six surgeries and five years of rehab all right. I survived. Both legs are still attached. I can walk and even run a little, which is a hell of a lot better than the docs hoped for me. So I came out smelling like a rose."

Jack didn't expect this, but Sam threw one arm over his shoulder and the other around his waist and she hugged him. Hard. And she just stayed there, breathing against him, holding him close.

The feel of her warm little female body pressed so tight against him, the soothing, spicy scent of her hair, the soft pressure of her breasts against his chest—all these things caused him to feel the strangest rush of warmth. This felt so good. Just having her here like this. With him.

"I am so sorry, sweetie," Sam whispered in his ear. He felt her delicate lips brush his cheek and couldn't decide what it was that had bothered him about what she just said, and then he realized it reminded him of the day they first met. He'd made a fool of himself falling out of his chair, then looked across the conference table to see Sam's concern and desire to help.

She was mothering him. Not exactly what he was looking for.

Jack took hold of her upper arms and gently peeled her off his chest. He tried to smile at her politely. "I'm perfectly fine, Sam. You don't have to comfort me."

A deep frown appeared between her auburn brows. Sam leaned away from him and studied his face so carefully it was unnerving. It was like she was summing him up, examining every line and pore and wrinkle and making some kind of silent decision about him.

"I disagree," she said. "We all need comforting. But I get the feeling that you never really let anyone comfort you about this. How many years ago did this happen?"

"That's ridiculous, Sam. My hospital room was filled with people. I still get letters from Colts fans every time ESPN airs a 'most gruesome injuries in professional sports' retrospective."

"How many years ago?"

"Thirteen. And I sure don't need you to mother me."

Sam's eyes widened in surprise; then she let loose with the kind of laugh Jack hadn't heard from a woman in ages. It was raucous and deep and she slapped a hand down on one of her sparkly red thighs. "Oh, my," she finally said, blinking and using a dainty finger to wipe away a tear. "That's a good one."

"What's so funny?"

Jack noticed a subtle change in Sam's expression and the way she held her body. She raised her chin and relaxed her shoulders, allowing a slow, sensual smile to spread across her lips. "Hey, Jack?" she whispered.

"Yeah?" His heart was doing the Whack-A-Mole thump in his chest.

"Everything I'm thinking and feeling about you is so unmotherly you wouldn't believe it."

He licked his lips. "Really?"

"Definitely." Sam reached down and slowly removed the sling-back high heels she was wearing. Jack watched them plop to the floor one by one, and the dainty black shoes on the white carpet looked alarmingly carnal to him.

"Like those nonmotherly things you said to me in the car?" His hands went to the Marilyn Monroe cuff links at his wrists, and he stowed them in his pocket with the shirt stud. He had a feeling that his pockets were going to be loaded with studs in just a few minutes.

"Just like in the car—only more so." Sam hopped up so that she knelt on the cushions. She balanced herself with one hand on the back of the sofa and the other on Jack's thigh, her face close to his. She wiggled an eyebrow.

Jack looked down the front of her dress and was treated to a spectacular view of cleavage, creamy mounds of flesh, scattered freckles, and the barest hint of pink areola. "I see," he said.

"I'll be right back."

He watched Sam grab the three flashlights and pad across the carpet in bare feet, loving the view of her cute little round ass in that red dress. He wanted to bite it so bad his teeth ached.

Sam looked over her nearly bare shoulder. "I'm going to check and make sure the kids are asleep and leave these by their beds. Don't move."

Don't move? He couldn't fucking breathe, but he sure wasn't going to sit there and twiddle his thumbs in her absence. He planned to light some candles and get real naked real fast, then jump in her bed. Jack was beginning to think that Sam was a woman who appreciated the no-nonsense approach.