Hot Blooded (6 page)

Lips compressed, he anchored the wheel with one hip and felt rain slide down the neck of his parka. The wind had snatched off his hood and tossed his hair around his eyes, but he kept the powerful glasses trained on the house nestled deep in a copse of live oaks. Spanish moss clung to the thick branches and drifted in the wind. Rain ran down off the dormers and down the gutters. An animal—cat, from the looks of it—crept through a square of light thrown from one window. It disappeared quickly into dripping bushes flanking the raised porch.

Ty concentrated on the interior of the house—through the windows. He lost sight of Samantha for a second, then found her again, bending down, reaching forward to pick up her crutch. The nightshirt rode upward, giving him a peek at lacy white panties stretched over round, tight buttocks.

His crotch tightened. Throbbed. He ground his back teeth together, but ignored his male response just as he disregarded
the warm rain stinging his face blurring the lenses of his binoculars.

He wouldn’t think of her as a woman.

He needed her. He intended to lie to her. To use her. And that’s all there was to it.

But, God, she was beautiful. Those legs—

She straightened suddenly, as if she sensed him watching her.

Turning, she walked to the windows and stared out, green eyes wide, red hair tousled as if she’d just gotten out of bed, skin without a hint of makeup. His pulse jumped a notch. She squinted through the glass, her eyes narrowing. Maybe she saw the silhouette of the boat, his shadow at the helm. Eerily, as if she knew what he was thinking, she met his stare with distrustful eyes and a gaze that scoured his black soul.

Wrong.

She was too far away.

The night was dark as pitch.

His imagination was running wild.

There was a slight chance she could see his running lights or the white sails, and, if so, make out the image of a man on his boat, but without binoculars there was no way she’d be able to see his features, would never recognize him, and couldn’t, not for a minute, guess what he was thinking, or his intentions.

Good.

There was time enough for meeting face-to-face later. For the lies he would have to spin to get what he wanted. For a half a second, he felt a twinge of remorse, gritted his teeth. No time for second-guessing. He was committed. Period. As he watched through the glasses, she reached up and snapped the shades of her window closed, cutting off his view.

Too bad. She wasn’t hard on the eyes. Far from it.

And that might pose a problem.

In Ty’s mind, Dr. Samantha Leeds was too pretty for her own damned good.

“…so you’re sure you’re okay?” David asked for the fifth time in the span of ten minutes. Holding the cordless receiver to her ear, Sam walked to the window of her bedroom and looked into the gloomy afternoon. Lake Pontchar-train was a somber gray, the waters shifting as restlessly as the clouds overhead.

“I’m fine, really.” Now she wished she hadn’t confided in him about the caller, but when David had phoned, she decided that he would find out soon enough anyway. It was a matter of public record, and sooner or later the news would filter across state lines. “I’ve talked to the police, and I’m having all the locks changed. I’ll be okay. Don’t worry.”

“I don’t like the sounds of it, Samantha.” She imagined the tightening of the corners of his mouth. “Maybe you should look at this as some kind of…warning…you know, a sign that you should turn your life in a different direction.”

“A sign?” she repeated, her eyes narrowing as she stared at the lake stretching from her yard to the distant shore. “As in God is trying to talk to me? You mean like the burning bush or—”

“There’s no reason to get sarcastic,” he cut in.

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” She balanced her hips on the arm of a wing chair. “I guess I’m a little edgy. I didn’t sleep well.”

“I’ll bet.”

She didn’t mention the boat; she was certain a sailboat had been drifting just off her dock, that in the barest of light from the shore, she’d seen running lights and the reflection
of giant sails with a man’s contour against the backdrop. Or maybe it had been her imagination running wild….

“So where are you, again?” she asked, reaching to the nightstand and retrieving a knitting needle she’d found in the closet, part of the personal items she’d inherited from her mother. Feeling a twinge of guilt, she slipped the needle between the cast and her leg and scratched. Her doctor would probably kill her if he knew, but then he was the crusty old guy down in Mazatlán, the expatriate she’d never see again if she was lucky.

“I’m here in San Antonio, and it’s a deluge. I’m standing at the window of my hotel room looking over the River Walk and it’s like a wall of water—can’t even see the restaurant across the river. The sky just opened up.” He sighed and for a second his cell phone cut out, the connection was lost, only to return. “…wish you were here Samantha. I’ve got a room with a Jacuzzi and a fireplace. It could be cozy.”

And it could be hell.
She remembered Mexico. The way David had smothered her. The fights. He’d wanted her to move back to Houston, and when she’d refused, she’d witnessed a side of him she didn’t like. His face had turned a deep scarlet and a small vein had throbbed over one eyebrow. His fists had even clenched as he’d told her that she was an idiot not to take him up on his offer. At that moment, she’d known she never would.

“I thought I made it clear how I felt,” she said, watching a raindrop drizzle a zigzag course down the window. She gave up on the knitting needle and tossed it onto the bureau.

“I hoped you’d changed your mind.”

“I haven’t. David, it won’t work. I know this sounds corny and trite, but I thought you and I, we could—”

“—just be friends,” he finished for her, his voice flat.

“You don’t have to put the ‘just’ in there. It’s not like being friends isn’t a good thing.”

“I don’t feel that way about you,” he said, and she imagined his serious face. He was a good-looking man. Clean-cut. Athletic. Handsome enough to have done some print work while he was attending college, and he had the scrap-books to prove it. Women were attracted to him. Sam had been, or thought she’d been, but in the two years they’d dated some of the luster had faded, and she’d never really fallen in love. Not that there was anything specifically wrong with him. Or nothing she could name. He was handsome, intelligent, the right age, and his job with Regal Hotels was certain to make him a millionaire several times over. They just didn’t click.

“I’m sorry, David.”

“Are you?” he asked with a bite. David Ross didn’t like to lose.

“Yes.” She meant it. She hadn’t intended to lead him on; she’d just wanted to be careful, to make sure this time.

“Then I suppose you don’t want me to be your escort at that benefit you’ve been talking about?”

“The auction for the Boucher Center,” she said wincing when she remembered she’d brought it up to him months ago. “No, I think it would be best if I went alone.”

He didn’t immediately answer, as if he expected her to change her mind. She didn’t and the tension on the line was nearly palpable.

“Well,” he finally said. “I guess there’s nothing more to say. Take care of yourself, Samantha.”

“You too.” Her heart twisted a bit. She hung up and told herself it was for the best. It was over, and that was that.

All of her friends thought she was nuts not to marry him. “If I were you, I’d set my hooks in him and reel him in faster’n you could say prenup,” her friend Corky had confided over shrimp bisque less than a month ago. Corky’s eyes had twinkled mischievously, almost as brightly as the three rings she wore on her right ring finger—prizes from
previous relationships and marriages. “I don’t know why you’re so uptight about the whole thing.”

“I’ve been married before, and I believe in the old once burned twice shy routine.”

“I thought it was once bitten.” Corky had broken off a chunk of bread as she glanced out the windows of the restaurant to the slow-flowing Mississippi, where a barge covered with gravel was chugging upstream.

“Samey-same.”

“The point is you’ll never find a better catch than David, believe you me.” Corky had nodded, her short blond curls bobbing.

“Then you take him.”

“I would. In a heartbeat. But he’s in love with you.”

“David’s in love with David.”

“Harsh words, Sam. Wait til you get back from Mexico, then you tell me,” Corky had said with a naughty smile. As if hot sand, even hotter sun, and, she implied, far hotter sex, would change how Samantha felt. It hadn’t. The sand had been warm, the sun hot, the sex nonexistent. It had been her problem, not his. The fact of the matter was that she just wasn’t in love with the guy. Period. Something about him grated on her nerves. An only child, a brilliant scholar, David was used to having things his way. And he always wanted them to be perfect.

Life wasn’t supposed to be messy, which, of course, it always was.

“All men are not Jeremy Leeds,” Corky had said, wrinkling her pert nose as she mentioned Samantha’s ex-husband.

“Thank God.”

Corky had signaled to the waiter for another glass of Chardonnay, and Sam had absently stirred the soup while trying not to conjure up images of her ex-husband.

“Maybe you’re still not over him.”

“Jeremy?” Sam had rolled her eyes. “Get real.”

“It’s hard to get over that kind of rejection.” “I know about this,” Sam had assured her. “I’m a professional, remember?”

“But—”

“Jeremy’s flaw is he falls in love with his students and doesn’t take his marriage vows very seriously.”

“Okay, okay, so he’s yesterday’s news,” Corky had said, waving the air as if she could push the subject of Jeremy Leeds out the window. “So what’s wrong with David? Too good-looking?” She’d held up a finger. “No? Too eligible—never been married before, you know, so there’s no baggage, no kids or ex-wife.” She’d wiggled another digit. “Oh, I know, too rich…or too ambitious. Too great a job? Lord, what is he, CEO of Regal Hotels?”

“Executive vice president and director of sales for the eastern United States.”

Corky had flopped back in her chair and thrown her hands over her head as if in surrender. “There you have it! The man’s too perfect.”

Hardly,
Samantha had thought at the time. But then she and Corky, friends since second grade in LA had always had different views on boyfriends, courtship and marriage. One lunch hadn’t changed anything, and the trip to Mexico had convinced her—David Ross wasn’t the man for her, and that was just fine. She didn’t need a man, didn’t really want one right now. She shook herself out of her reverie and stared through the sweating windowpanes to the lake…where she’d imagined a mysterious man on the deck of his sailboat, binoculars trained on her house in the middle of the night, no less. She grinned at her folly. “You’re jumping at shadows,” she told herself, and with Charon trailing behind her, hitched her way to the bathroom, where she tied a plastic sack over her cast, sent up a prayer that the damned thing would be cut off soon, and climbed into the shower. She thought about David, about the man on the sailboat in the
lake, about the seductive voice on the phone and about the mutilated picture of herself—the eyes gouged out.

Shivering, she turned the spray to hot and closed her eyes, letting the warm jets wash over her.

“What the hell happened here last night?” Eleanor’s voice shook with rage, her face was set in a hard mask, and as she followed Sam down the aorta of WSLJ, she was hellbent for an explanation.

“You heard about the caller?” Sam set her dripping umbrella in a corner of the compact room, then placed her crutch over it.

“The whole damned town heard about the caller, for Christ’s sake. It was on the radio! Remember? Who was he, and how in the hell did he get past screening?”

“He tricked Melanie—we were talking about vacations and he said something about Paradise—”

“This much I know,” Eleanor said, her lips pursing, as Sam shrugged out of her raincoat. “I have it all on tape, and I’ve listened to it half a dozen times. What I’m asking you” “—she pointed a long, accusing finger at Sam as she tucked her coat into a closet—” “is do you know who this guy is and what he wants?”

“No.”

“But there’s something more.” Eleanor’s dark eyes trained on Sam’s face. “Something you’re not telling me. Does this have anything to do with your accident in Mexico?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What about your ex? I remember him from when we worked in Houston together.”

“I don’t think Jeremy would bother with crank calls. It would be beneath him.”

“But he still lives here, right? Got that professorship at Tulane.”

“Give it up, Eleanor, okay? Jeremy’s remarried—what we had was over a long, long time ago,” Sam said.

“Well,
somebody
around here made the calls, and I want to know who. Don’t I wish we could trace calls from here. I’ve suggested it, you know, but George is so damned tight he squeaks.”

Sam smiled with more than a trace of cynicism. “Maybe we’ll get lucky. Maybe John will call back.”

Eleanor chased her down a jagged hallway to the kitchen area, where coffee was brewing, and the lingering smell of chili from someone’s lunch permeated the air. The room was utilitarian, remodeled half a dozen times in its two-hundred-year history, with three round tables, a few scattered chairs, microwave and refrigerator. Whatever charm the area once embraced had long ago been covered with layers of Formica, vinyl, and glaring white paint. The only hint of the building’s original charm was in the French doors, surrounded by original, ornate grillwork that once opened to a small verandah seven stories above the street. Now the doors were locked and double bolted.

Sam clomped her way to the coffeepot and poured herself a cup.

“When do you get the cast off?” Eleanor asked, her
temper seeming to be under control again as Sam poured coffee into Eleanor’s favorite cup, one that read, I
hear
what you’re saying, I just don’t
believe
it!