Heart of the Night (32 page)

She wasn't sure what to expect. When Savannah had mentioned a condo on the waterfront, she pictured Drew Wyker's place in Manhattan. It was an ultramodern high rise, made of steel and glass.

Sam's place was nothing like that. It was more of a garden apartment, rising only two flights, with glass, but no steel in sight. It was Cape Cod style, with cedar shingles stained gray and sparkling white trim. There looked to be a dozen or so units in the complex.

“New?” Susan asked as Sam guided her to the front door.

“Brand new. I've only been here a few months.”

“It has charm.”

Opening the door to a small foyer, he led her directly through to the living room. Seeing the bricked walls, the broad expanse of glass, and the cushiony sofa from which one could view the river, she realized there was charm inside the place, too—charm, if very little furniture.

“Like I said,” Sam explained when he caught her looking around, “I've just moved in. I haven't had much time to order things. And I'm not even sure what to order. I'm not a decorator.” Taking her coat, he gestured toward the sofa. “Please.”

It wasn't so much his use of that word as the look on his face that touched Susan. She could have sworn that he was uncertain of himself. Cocksure Sam Craig was unsure of himself.

It helped.

Slipping onto the sofa, she eased off her sneakers and curled her legs under her. After a minute of sitting straight, she lowered her head to the sofa's arm. Behind her, Sam rummaged in the kitchen, but she didn't have the inclination at that moment to see what he was doing. Nor did she have the inclination to ask for a tour. Her head was still throbbing. Her eyes hurt. Sleep was the easiest, most noble escape.

She awoke some time later to the smell of fresh coffee and the sizzle of bacon. Before she could do more than drop her feet to the floor and sit up, Sam was lowering plates of food to the small area rug that lay between the sofa and the tall window of glass that overlooked the river.

Without a word, he went back to the kitchen, returning this time with a pitcher of orange juice and a stack of dishes, silverware, and glasses. After he arranged everything to his satisfaction, he sat back on his heels.

“Breakfast is served.”

Susan was still feeling groggy. “What time is it?”

He glanced at his slim black watch. It was different from the practical one he had worn when he was working, just as the plaid shirt he now wore was a step up from the old, faded sweatshirt. He still didn't look conventional; his shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbow and his shirttails hung out over jeans that, while clean, were torn at the knee. But he had obviously made an effort to dress, and, muzzy as she was, she noticed.

“It's nearly two-thirty,” he told her.

She lifted her chin in acknowledgment, relieved to find that the pain in her head had eased. “This must be brunch, then.”

“Isn't it a little late for that, too?”

“No,” she said and took the plate he offered. It was filled with an assortment of breakfast goodies. “It's Sunday. Anything goes.”

“Tell me about Saturday.”

“Coffee first.”

He poured her a cup. Carefully, she set the plate down beside her on the sofa, took the cup, and held it between her hands. She sipped it slowly, savoring its strength. As the caffeine seeped into her system, the fuzzy feeling faded.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Sam alternated between eating and watching her. He could hardly believe that she was in his home, and that she had entered it without a condescending quip. Though he adored the place, she was obviously used to far larger and more elaborate surroundings. He didn't need large, and he didn't want elaborate.

Nevertheless, Susan added class to the place.

“Saturday,” he prompted, lest he get carried away with his thoughts. “How was it?”

“Fine.” She helped herself to a piece of raisin toast.

“What did you do?”

“Shopped. Had lunch. Went to the exhibit of Dutch landscape painters at the museum. Shopped some more.”

“Did you buy anything?”

She gave him a look that answered him quite well—and adorably, he thought. He grinned. “Tell me.”

“A handbag, two pairs of shoes, a darling silk dress for spring, and a bunch of stuff that was black, intimate, and sexy.”

“Don't stop there.”

“That's all I bought.”

“What kind of
stuff?
”

She took another bite of toast and shrugged. “Silk stockings, garter belts—you know, Sam, personal stuff.”

He could picture it all too well. “When do you wear stuff like that?”

“All the time.”

“Are you serious?” he asked. His voice sounded strange, but there was nothing strange about the bulge in his pants. He had been hard a lot lately.

‘Of course, I'm serious. I like feeling feminine.”

Sam cleared his throat. “What about Savannah? Does she buy silk stockings and garter belts, too?”

Susan stared at him hard. “What's Savannah got to do with this?”

Her vehemence startled him. “Not much. I was just asking.”

“I thought there wasn't anything going on between Savannah and you.”

“There isn't.”

“Then why do you want to know whether she was buying sexy underwear?”

“It was just a thought. Innocent conversation.”

“But why do you have thoughts like that about Savannah?”

“I don't. I mean, it was just an extension of what you were saying. You and Savannah were shopping together. You bought something sexy. I wondered if she did, too.”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course not!” He sent a helpless glance skyward. “Christ, Susan, you're making a big deal over nothing. I don't give a good goddamn what Savannah wears under her clothes, but at the time it was the first thing that came to mind. If you want to go on talking about what you wear to feel sexy, be my guest. If I jump you before you make it to your eggs, it won't be my fault.”

Susan studied him in silence. Then she said, “You want me?”

“Are you blind, deaf, and dumb?”

Her eyes flashed and she stood so quickly that her plate tottered on the next cushion. “No, I am not blind, deaf, and dumb.” Her arms were straight, her hands in fists by her sides. “Don't you ever,
ever
suggest that I'm any one of those things. I may not be as brilliant as my sister Savannah, but I am not stupid.” She stormed to the side of the room, coming to an abrupt halt at the window, where she crossed her arms over her chest and stewed.

Sam was quickly at her side. His voice was a little uneven, but gentle. “My God, Susan, I didn't mean any harm. It was an expression. I was being facetious. You sat there asking whether I wanted you—do you have any idea how much I do? Do you have any idea what looking at you does to me?” Taking one of her hands, he stroked her fingers open, then put her palm against his fly. It was pure torture. “That's how much I want you.” He moved her hand to show her the extent of his arousal. “You. No one else, Susan. Just you.”

Susan's anger had faded with the gentleness of his voice, and with his arousal beneath her palm, she was quickly aroused, herself. Unable to resist, she began touching him on her own, measuring his length, exploring his shape and fullness. He strained against her hand, and for a minute she was tempted to unzip his jeans and feel his bare flesh. But she wasn't ready to make love. So she slid both hands under his shirt and up his chest.

He gave her a long, deep kiss. When it was done, she was nearly as short of breath as he. Still, she stepped back.

“I'm not an easy lay,” she announced and returned to the sofa.

“Susan…” he warned, still painfully aroused.

“Come have your breakfast, Sam.”

“I had breakfast at five o'clock this morning.”

“
Five.
What were you doing up at five?” She took in a healthy forkful of scrambled eggs.

“Coming home from work.”

“You worked all night?”

“That's right.”

“And that,” she said, pointing her fork at him, “is why you and I would never work. I drank myself silly last night waiting for you to break into my house. I have certain needs. A man can't fill them if he's never around.”

Sam hadn't moved. “I'm around now. That's what this argument's about. You come over here and I'll fill your needs real good.”

She put the tines of the fork against her lips and looked at the ceiling. “To paraphrase the great Conway Twitty, I need a man with a slow hand.” She turned the fork toward his plate. “Eat, Sam. Then we'll see how slow you can be.”

With an agonized moan, Sam did an about-face, hung his head, and wrapped a hand around his neck. “You're a witch.”

“Mmm. Great bacon. I always burn mine.”

“Why are you being so cruel?”

“I guess I'm still a little hungover.”

Lips thinned, he turned around. “Bullshit. You just enjoy giving me a hard time. It gives you a feeling of power.”

She shrugged. There was no point in denying it.

Sam returned to the rug, poured himself a glass of juice, and drank the whole thing. Then he set down the glass. “So you had a nice time yesterday. I'm glad.”

Susan let her mind wander back to the day before. “It was nice.” After another minute, she added, “Interesting. Savannah was in a really good mood.”

“Isn't she usually?” he asked, then held up a hand. “Look, you were the one who raised the issue of Savannah, not me. If you don't want to talk about her, fine, but don't say things and then expect that I'll be a good little mummy and stare straight ahead. That's not my way.”

She realized that. She also realized that she wanted to hear his opinion. “You have my permission to talk about Savannah, and to answer your question, yes, she's usually in a good mood, but yesterday was different. I can't quite put my finger on it. We stopped at the hospital to see Megan before we left, and I know that she was a little down about that. Then she made a phone call from the hospital, and that seemed to cheer her up. I think she's got a guy on the side she's not telling me about.”

“Not me,” Sam vowed, raising both hands this time. “Not me. I swear it.”

She believed him. “Any idea who it could be?”

Sam shrugged. “Savannah comes into daily contact with lots of men. It could be anyone. Didn't you ask?”

“Sure, I asked. She said the phone call was to the FBI agent who's heading Megan's case. Has anything happened there?”

“Not that I know of, and I'd know.”

“She looked pleased while she was talking with him. Maybe he's the one. When I asked, she laughed and denied it, but then, when we were shopping, she bought the most incredible teddy.” She arched a brow. “I'm not knocking Savannah's taste, but it's usually a little more sedate when it comes to lingerie. Sweet, maybe even lacy, but certainly more sedate than that teddy.”

Sam grinned. “The teddy was real racy?”

Susan didn't like his enthusiasm. “Why does that please you so?”

His grin vanished. “Why are you so fast to jump to conclusions? I am not interested in Savannah.” He palmed his crotch. “There's nothing here. Totally soft.”

Susan dropped her eyes to the place he touched. “I wouldn't say there's nothing there,” she said, watched and waited for a minute, then added, “or that what's there is totally soft.”

Gritting his teeth, Sam asked tightly, “Want it now?”

She shook her head.

“Then, ease up, honey. Push me too far, and you'll get it whether you want it or not.”

His threat excited her. She supposed it had something to do with the fact that she trusted him. She knew he'd never hurt her. And she suspected that whenever he took her, she'd be ready.

“I'm sorry,” she said.

He looked irritably off toward the wall, then dropped his head and shook it slowly. When he looked up again, he wore a sheepish grin. “You are incredible, do you know that?”

“Is incredible good or bad?”

“Only time will tell.” He took a deep breath. “Okay. We still haven't figured out why you went home and drank last night.”

“I didn't know we were here to find out.”

“Indirectly, we are. So. Why did you go home and drink?”

“That's indirect?” When he gave her a warning look, she said, “I told you. I was waiting for you to break in and you didn't come.”

“You also said that you suspect Savannah has a new man. Does that bother you?”

“Of course not.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure, I'm sure. Besides, maybe I'm imagining things. Savannah doesn't have time for involvement with a man. She has a career.”

“Many women have men
and
careers.”

“But do they handle both well?” Susan asked in a knowing way. “It seems that every time I turn around another article's being written about the plight of superwoman. Either she's consumed by guilt that she's depriving her family of something, or she's angry that her husband isn't doing his share, or she's too tired to make love. A person only has one head; she can only wear one hat.”

Sam popped a rasher of bacon in his mouth whole and talked around it. “That's an interesting statement.”

“It's true.”

“On the other hand,” he swallowed and spoke more clearly, “if you were to say that she can only wear one hat
at a time,
the statement takes on new meaning. Men have to switch hats. I can't wear my cop's cap twenty-four hours a day.”

Staring at his complacent expression, Susan had the sinking feeling that she would lose the argument if she pursued it. So she decided a small detour was in order, particularly since he'd raised an interesting point. “I can't picture you wearing any kind of cap,” she said and held out her coffee cup for a refill. “Why do you wear your hair so long?”