A Family Circle 1 - A Very Convenient Marriage (8 page)

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Sam was no surer of the answer to that question a few hours later, when he turned onto the narrow street that led to Nikki's home—his home for the past two weeks. In those two weeks, he and Nikki had done a fine job of avoiding each other, which wasn't difficult in the large house. But he didn't doubt that they could have managed to keep a certain distance, even if they'd been sharing a one-room studio apartment.

Luckily, his new residence was far from a studio apartment. The house was nestled in the hills that surrounded the Rose Bowl. Even after having lived there for two weeks, Sam still found himself surprised by it. He'd had a certain image of the place before he married Nikki. He'd been picturing pillars and a veranda, a sort of latter-day Tara. He should have known better. Everything about Nikki Beauvisage—now Walker—spoke of money, but it wasn't flashy money. It was quiet money, the kind that had been around so long that it didn't need to be flashy.

And the house in front of him could be called many things, but flashy wasn't among them. A sprawling, two-story, Spanish style home with off-white stucco walls and clay tile roof, it nestled gracefully into, its setting. Three ancient pepper trees, their delicate branches shifting in the slightest breeze, stood near the house, contrasting with the darker green of the oaks that created a ragged line along the edges of the property. The landscaping was beautiful but modest, giving the impression of nature gently curbed.

Sam parked in front of the house, at the end of the long driveway. As soon as he cut off the engine, he was struck by the quiet. Like a lot of other things about his new living arrangements, he still wasn't used to the silence.

He'd grown up in a lower-middle-class neighborhood in Glendale, a place with lots of families, lots of kids and dogs, and not much silence. His own apartment was situated not far from Hollywood and Vine, a fabled corner that had little to recommend it these days, unless one liked taking a chance on getting mugged. The street noise was so prevalent that he'd long since stopped hearing it.

Here he listened to a silence broken only by the sound of a mockingbird working its way through the scales. In the distance, he could hear a subtle rushing noise that was the traffic on the Foothill Freeway, but the sound was far away and unobtrusive. The house was set so far back from the small winding road that he couldn't even hear a car go by.

For no particular reason, the quiet was suddenly irritating, and Sam took some pleasure in slamming the door of the Bronco when he got out. The mockingbird paused, as if shocked by the rude interruption, and then continued with his song, graciously ignoring the ill-mannered human in his territory. Sam glared in the bird's direction. Even the birds were high-class.

The complete irrationality of that thought brought him up short. He was losing it. The stress of this past month had finally gotten to him. He brought his hand up to run his fingers through his hair, but his eyes caught the glint of sunlight on the gold band nestled at the base of his finger and the movement was never finished.

It felt odd to be wearing a wedding ring again. He rubbed his thumb over the band, remembering. He'd worn a ring during his marriage to Sara. It had been buried with her, along with a good part of himself. When he'd bought Nikki's wedding band, he'd hesitated a moment over the matching band for himself, but he knew his family would expect it.

It had been tough enough to spring the news that he was married again, he didn't want to do anything that might make them question the reasons for that marriage. It was important that they all believe this was a real marriage, particularly Cole. His youngest brother had more than his fair share of pride, and knowing the reasons for Sam's marriage would grind that pride into the dust.

He'd have to stress to Nikki that his family was not to know the truth behind their marriage, any more than her family could.

Nikki. His wife.

Sam shook his head in disbelief as he started toward the house. He just couldn't quite connect the words Nikki and wife. Not his wife, anyway. Maybe by the time the year was up, he'd get used to the idea. He paused to consider that possibility and then shook his head. Nope, Nikki Beauvisage and Sam Walker just didn't go together. Not in a year, not in five years, not in a lifetime.

He glanced at the beat-up old Chevy parked directly in front of the house. It was painted an improbable shade of purple that made him shudder every time he saw it. He still couldn't believe the vehicle belonged to Nikki. It was a long way from the sleek luxury car he'd envisioned her driving. The first time he'd seen it, he'd assumed it was the housekeeper's and thought that if it was the best she could afford, maybe it was time to suggest a raise. But the housekeeper, Lena Sinclair, drove a respectable, late-model sedan and the purple bomb was Nikki's.

Sam shook his head as he passed it, wondering, as he did every time he saw it, why a woman who wore silk suits and Italian leather shoes drove a car that looked—and sounded—as if it were on its last legs.

He pushed open one of the heavy wooden doors and stepped inside. The entryway was all Spanish tile and white stucco. There was a fountain in one corner, and a profusion of potted tropical plants. The stained-glass skylight overhead provided enough light to keep the plants luxuriantly green. The exterior landscaping was the province of the gardener, an elderly Scotsman named McDougal, but the indoor plants were Lena Sinclair's pride and joy.

When Sam entered, she was nipping faded fronds from one of the several ferns that hung from wrought-iron hooks on the wall above the fountain. The thud of the door closing behind him made her turn. She dropped a faded leaf into the basket that hung over her arm as she came to greet him.

"How was your drive?"

"Long and wet," Sam said with a smile. Nikki's housekeeper had proven far more welcoming than Nikki had been, and Sam liked her.

Lena was one of those women who could have been any age from forty to sixty, though Sam thought she was closer to the latter than the former. He guessed that, in her youth, she'd been strikingly beautiful. In late middle age, she was still a handsome woman. She was tall, with a trim figure and a subtle elegance to her carriage that made him think of deposed queens rather than housekeepers.

"Supper's in an hour," she told him.

"Thanks, but I'll probably just get a sandwich later."

They had the same conversation or a variation of it nearly every evening. He wasn't comfortable with the idea of her cooking for him, but, even more than that, he had no desire to share a meal with Nikki. They'd managed to be civil for the past two weeks, a feat that could be attributed, in large part, to the fact that their paths rarely crossed. He didn't see any reason to tempt fate by having a meal with her.

"I've got my best baked chicken in the oven, fresh wholewheat rolls and an apple pie to die for," Lena coaxed.

Sam felt his stomach stir with interest. Aside from a couple of stale doughnuts in the early hours of the morning, the only thing he'd eaten all day was half of a steak-and-egg breakfast with Keefe. The meal Lena had just described sounded wonderful. On the other hand, the odds of him and Nikki making it through an entire meal without getting into an argument were slim to none.

"Is Nikki home tonight?"

Lena's patrician features tightened with annoyance. "I swear, the two of you are acting like a pair of children. Nikki going out to dinner and you eating sandwiches in the kitchen like a sneak thief just to avoid sitting down to dinner together."

"I don't think sneak thieves normally take time for a sandwich," Sam pointed out.

She ignored the facetious interruption and continued her scolding lecture. "The two of you agreed to live together for the next year. Do you plan on spending all that time avoiding each other?"

"It's worth a try."

"Well, it won't work. My nerves won't take it, even if yours will. Besides, the holidays are coming up." She waved her pruning shears for emphasis. "Seems to me it's going to look a little odd if you spend them apart."

"We'll work something out," Sam assured her, without the least idea of what that something might be.

"Not if you don't talk to each other."

"We'll talk. And I'll be ready for dinner in an hour. I wouldn't miss your baked chicken for the world." After all, from what she'd said, it sounded like Nikki wasn't home, so there was no sense in wasting a perfectly good chicken dinner.

Lena watched him disappear up the stairs and considered her conscience. She hadn't actually told him that Nikki was going to be out. She could hardly be blamed if he chose to infer that from what she'd said. Her conscience was in fine shape, she decided as she turned back to her plants.

Besides, she was tired of watching the pair of them walk around like a couple of unfriendly cats forced to share a barn. It was time and past that they sat down and actually talked to one another.

Nikki approached Sam's room with all the enthusiasm of a dental patient anticipating a root canal. At least a dentist gave you novocaine, she thought, stopping in front of his closed door. She could have used an anesthetic to still the butterflies in her stomach.

It was ridiculous to be so nervous at the thought of talking to him. In the two weeks since the wedding, they'd managed several perfectly civil exchanges. Of course, none of those had consisted of much more than hello and goodbye, but they had been civil, which was more than could be said about any of their exchanges prior to their marriage. Or after, for that matter. Her mouth tightened at the memory of Sam threatening to put her out on the freeway on their wedding night.

But she wasn't going to think about that now, she reminded herself firmly. She had business to discuss with him. It should only take a moment and, once it was done, he could continue avoiding her. For the moment, she chose to ignore the fact that she'd been doing a considerable amount of avoiding herself.

Nikki smoothed her palms down the sides of her pale grey wool trousers and then adjusted the collar of her jade green silk shirt. Fussing with her clothes was a delaying tactic and she knew it. The truth was, Sam Walker made her just a little nervous. He was large and he was ridiculously male. Worse, she was married to him. It wasn't as easy as she'd hoped to forget that.

She suddenly became aware of the picture she must make, hovering in the hall like a schoolgirl dreading a meeting with the principal. Her soft mouth tightened with irritation. This was her house and she wasn't going to stand here getting butterflies in her stomach at the thought of talking to the man she'd married.

Nikki lifted her hand and rapped briskly on the door. The response she received was muffled but she thought she heard the words come in. The sound of that deep voice renewed the tension in her stomach and her hand was not quite steady as she reached for the doorknob. The fact that they were married was irrelevant, she reminded herself. He was practically an employee, if she chose to look at it that way. Not that she could imagine ever hiring Sam Walker for anything. But, husband or employee, he was still just a man, no different from any other man.

On the other hand, maybe there were a few differences.

Nikki stood transfixed in the open doorway. Sam was across the room, his back to her, his attention on the open drawer in front of him.

And he wore not a stitch of clothing.

She forgot how to breathe as her stunned eyes skimmed the muscled width of his back to the tight globes of his buttocks and down the length of his legs.

There were, most definitely, differences between Sam Walker and other men. She'd seen a lot of men in bathing suits that covered little more than the bare necessities, but this was the first time she'd found it hard to breathe. As if compelled by some outside force, her eyes moved upward, tracing every corded muscle on the way.

There was a towel bunched casually in his left hand, held against his hip. From that and the dampness of his hair, she assumed he must have just taken a shower, which explained the fact that he was naked. But it didn't explain him telling her to come in.

She was angry, of course. Or she would be as soon as she caught her breath. How dare he expose himself to her like this, as if... as if they were really married!

There was a jagged white scar across one shoulder and she wondered how he'd gotten it. Would it feel rough in contrast to the smoothness of his skin? What would it feel like to put her hands against the hard muscles of his arms?

Not that she'd want to do that, of course. But the mental denial sounded a Utile weak. And there was a faint tingling feeling in her fingertips that hinted at a curiosity she had no business feeling.

It seemed as if she stood there forever, but in reality, it was probably less than a minute. Sam reached for something in the open drawer. The simple movement made the muscles ripple across his back and shoulders.

Nikki swallowed hard.

She didn't make a sound, but something must have alerted Sam to the fact that he was no longer alone. He turned suddenly, spinning around in a half crouch, his right hand going across his chest—reaching for a shoulder holster, she realized. Of course it wasn't there.

No shoulder holster. Nothing at all to cover the solid wall of muscle that was his chest. Nikki stared wide-eyed at the mat of dark gold hair that covered his chest, tapering downward across a tautly muscled stomach to—