Part 30 (2/2)

”Yes,” she said quickly, relieved that they were talking even if it was stiffly. ”I think she really likes her job. And Kyle seemed nice. If she's found fault with him, she hasn't mentioned it to me.” In fact she'd barely heard from her sister since the eruption at Bellewood. She had no idea if that was good or bad.

”And Hunter?” Jonathan asked, looking steadily at her.

”A major disaster of course. I . . .” She dropped her gaze to her winegla.s.s, which had somehow become empty. ”I told him if he didn't give the money back to any investor who wanted it or work something out with Edward, that he wouldn't be a member of our family anymore. And that we'd warn everyone we knew that he couldn't be trusted.”

She hesitated, realizing she'd committed him to a course of action without consulting him, but all he said was, ”And?”

”And I don't know. That was almost a week ago and I haven't heard a word from him. Edward and the others insist I'm not responsible but . . .”

”You still feel like you are,” he said. ”Just like you always have.”

She tried but couldn't gauge his tone.

”Some things that you've held on to for so long can be hard to let go of.” He looked her directly in the eye as he said this and her heart thudded heavily in her chest. Was this a warning? Was he saying that he'd let go of his feelings, whatever they were, for her?

”Shall we go to the table?” Her voice was Minnie Mouse on helium. Embarra.s.sed, she busied herself scooping up the bottle of wine and carrying it to the table. As she refilled their gla.s.ses she braced herself for what lay ahead. If only she'd gone with the Saran wrap, they could have skipped dinner and all this awkwardness.

The salad was good, but then the most complex step had been separating the egg for the dressing, which she'd managed in just three tries.

Her hands shook slightly as she ladled the beef Bourguignon over a slice of the grilled bread as Ina had suggested and placed spoonfuls of misshapen new potatoes and overly limp green beans on their plates. Determined not to apologize before he tasted anything, she placed their plates on the table and slid back into her seat across from him.

He looked at his plate, then up at her surprised. ”You really made this, didn't you?”

”Yes.” Ignoring her own plate, she watched Jonathan slip a forkful of stew and bread into his mouth. She didn't speak as he chewed, even though he did this carefully and for a really long time. She barely blinked as he took a long drink of water, which he swallowed even more carefully before retrieving his fork from his plate. He gave her a small smile, then eyed the mounds of food with the kind of steely determination a mountain climber might reserve for his first sight of Kilimanjaro.

Alarmed, Samantha scooped up a large bite of stew and slid it into her mouth. The meat wasn't bad if you chewed it long enough, but a second bite revealed that a lot of the clumps weren't meat; they were glutinous globs of onion skin hot glued around clumps of uncooked flour.

”Don't!” Samantha grabbed his plate to keep him from soldiering on. ”I knew it was a little lumpy. It's just that I couldn't decide if the onion skins were supposed to be left on. Then after I singed my eyebrows trying to burn off the cognac I . . . Oh, h.e.l.l, I can't even remember what happened after that.”

Humiliated she carried their plates to the sink and deposited them with a clatter. She'd wasted almost three whole days attempting to cook one decent meal; time she could have spent thinking out the best way to say what needed to be said. She could barely bring herself to turn and face him. She walked back to the table on legs that had turned to Jell-O. ”I don't know why I thought this would work. It seemed so important to serve you a genuine home-cooked meal.” She sat and faced him across the table even as she tried to beat back the fear and panic. ”I was going to call Giancarlo, but you wanted to see the real me. And I guess this is it. Lumps and all.”

He watched her even more carefully than he'd chewed, but she couldn't read his thoughts or his mood. It had been ridiculous to think she could hide behind a meal no matter who had cooked it. But then hadn't she been hiding behind one thing or another since her parents had died? And not only from Jonathan but from herself.

”No matter how much you dislike hearing it, I can't pretend I'm not grateful to you,” she said. ”Grat.i.tude and the desire to please you have been my primary motivators.”

His lips tightened and his eyes cooled. Samantha resisted the urge to bolt.

”How else was I supposed to feel?” she whispered. ”I was way too overwhelmed when we got married to feel much of anything but relief. I never would have managed my parents' deaths, or their ridiculous load of debt, or my father's criminal acts-not to mention Meredith and Hunter-if it weren't for you.”

His mouth opened as if to speak. She shook her head, needing to finish.

”But I couldn't think of any reason you would have for marrying me except for pity. And I guess I was afraid to look too closely.” She swallowed again, but the fear and regret refused to be dislodged. ”I figured it was kind of like a business deal. You gave us a home and financial security and, well, basically I was yours to do whatever you wanted with. Your mother wasn't the only one who knew I got the best end of the bargain.”

He continued to watch her, his eyes deep pools of unfathomable blue.

Despite his lack of response she forced herself to continue. She knew if she stopped now, she'd never say what needed to be said.

”I love you.” She said the words quickly, awkwardly, before she could chicken out. ”I never meant to,” she said, her tone turning wry. ”I mean it's kind of stupid to love someone who doesn't love you back, isn't it? Especially someone who's married you out of kindness and rarely utters a word of complaint.” She paused, steeling herself. ”But I couldn't help it. And then when I realized what I'd done I was afraid to admit it. I just couldn't tell you I loved you and then have you not say it back. I'm kind of a coward that way.”

”But, Samantha, I did tell you. I told you more than once.” His tone was calm and rational, the ant.i.thesis of hers.

”Oh, Jonathan.” She looked away embarra.s.sed. ”Only when we were in bed. It only counts when you're clothed and sober. And you're thinking with your brain and not your . . .” Her voice trailed off, once again hostage to her embarra.s.sment.

”Samantha,” he said more firmly. ”You can't be serious. That's . . .”

”No.” She leaned across the table and pressed a finger to his lips to shush him. ”Just let me finish.” She brought her eyes back to his. ”So, I convinced myself that we were fine the way we were. Why fix it if it's not broke, right?” She attempted a laugh that fell short and dropped her hands into her lap. ”And now all the sudden you're interested in my feelings. After I've spent so much time and energy trying not to have any.”

She knotted her hands and blew out a breath of air while she waited for him to speak.

But he said nothing. Good G.o.d. She couldn't read his expression. Was that shock? Dismay? Her worst fears rose up to taunt her. She'd finally confessed her love for him and now he sat silent, searching for the words to not hurt her feelings any further when he told her that he didn't love her back.

”Are you completely horrified?” she finally asked. ”Because if you are, I can . . .”

”What?” he asked sharply. ”Do you think you can take it back?” His eyes plumbed hers, so serious that she went completely still. As if a total lack of movement would better brace her for impact. ”I just wasn't sure I was allowed to speak yet.”

His lips twitched and she allowed herself to breathe.

”I would have been more surprised if you hadn't already told me that night on the phone.”

Her gaze narrowed. ”What are you talking about? Which night was that?”

”You know, the night you called me when you were drunk and”-he cleared his throat-”and apparently naked.”

She blinked in confusion.

”You told me that you loved me more than Doris's cheese grits. And then you told me you wished I were there so that you could . . .” He paused, then said quite matter of factly, ”Well, I think you offered to 'screw my brains out.'”

”Oh.” She slumped in her chair, barely resisting the urge to cover her face with her hands.

”If I hadn't had an early meeting, I would have been on the next flight out of Boston. Just to see if that were anatomically possible.” He flashed her a wicked smile and she couldn't stop the blush that heated her cheeks.

In the midst of her embarra.s.sment-tinged relief, irritation raised its hand. ”So why force me to tell you something I'd already told you?” Samantha thought of the lost weeks and the awful meal her fear had pushed her to produce.

”Well, you were pretty quick to dismiss my confessions when I was either drunk or naked. I thought it might be smarter and more binding if you said it while you were dressed and of sound mind.” He smiled almost apologetically. ”But I guess that's the lawyer in me.”

Samantha tried to process this, but she could barely think let alone sort through the emotions surging through her.

”Before we go any further,” he said. ”I think I should make one thing clear. I would have never married you if I didn't want to.”

”But . . .”

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