A Match Made in Heaven?
SUN CHARA

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First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2018

Copyright © Sun Chara 2018

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

Cover photograph © Shutterstock.com

Sun Chara asserts the moral right to

be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book

is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are

the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is

entirely coincidental.

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and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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Source ISBN: 9780008145118

Ebook Edition ©August 2018 ISBN: 9780008145101

Version: 2018-08-17

To all the believers … may you catch a glimpse of the angels at work in your life … feel the breeze light as an angel’s wing fleeting by … cherish.

Thank you! to superstar editor, Charlotte Ledger for her shining example in all things books.

A special thank you! to brilliant assistant editor, Eloisa Clegg and superb HarperImpulse team for working at supersonic speed to make this book sparkle.

“Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.” Hebrews 13:2

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Epilogue

About the Author

Also by Sun Chara

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

Prologue

May Day! Meddling mamma’s about to bust…

“What now?” Mirabella slapped her hands over her ears and shifted for a comfy spot at the base of the poplar. With her combat boots as pillow and her frizzy braid wrapped around her like a blanket, she’d been about to indulge in some off-duty snooze time.

May Day!

A niggle persisted, and she tuned into the call. “What d’ ya got?”

Matrimony emergency.

“Where?” She yawned and, lifting her lashes, glanced at the rain-drenched heavens. A crystal drop slid from a leaf; she opened her mouth and it landed smack on her tongue. “Mmm … not bad.”

Your turf.

“Uh, uh. Came to California for a little R&R remember?”

Take a rain check.

“Don’t mention rain.” She sprang bolt upright. Southern California was supposed to be sunshine, beaches and cute guys. Huh!

His chuckle crackled through the airwaves, tickling her ears.

“This is very inconvenient,” she grumbled.

Be a trooper, Bella. Shouldn’t take you long to wrap things up.

She hugged her knees and propped her chin on them, the fabric of her fatigues chaffing her skin, but she barely noticed. “Must I care about these humans?”

You must.

“What’s it this time?”

The usual.

“Send a cadet from the rookie force.”

No can do. I need experience. Yours.

“Flatterer,” she muttered.

’Tis truth I speak, Mirabella.

Sheepish, she grinned. “Okay, okay.” She tossed her copper-red plait over her shoulder. It clashed with the pink bandanna knotted at her throat. “Specifics?”

Mother meddling in the match.

She groaned. Didn’t He know she didn’t do well with busybody mammas?

Of course, He knew.

“Another agent …” She tried again. “I’m due forty-eight hours leave.”

After the assignment, the voice boomed in her ears.

“Do I have a choice?”

She could almost hear him grinning. Always.

“Cover?”

Bartender at the local Pub ‘n Grill.

“Wha-a-at?!” she asked. “Isn’t that a little risqué?”

He chuckled. I need reps where lost souls congregate.

“Designer water, here I come.”

I knew you’d set a good example.

“Huh! They hardly ever listen.”

Ahh, don’t I know it. He smiled, lighting up the skies.

“This better be worth it.”

Enjoy … and yes, it’s worth it.

“Wait! Names … addresses. I don’t know who …”

Chapter One

Sam Carroll skidded to a halt at the church entrance in a cloud of Valentino lace and satin. Too bad. The groom had showed up after all.

A bead of moisture slid between her breasts, and her heart hammered so fast, she bet it’d put a hole in her new Victoria’s Secret bra. A brave breath, and she adjusted the double veils that kept her face hidden, but also made everything a blur. She clutched her father’s elbow and squinted down the aisle. He was still there. Argh!

It made her insides shrivel at the thought of saying ‘I do’ to Michael Scott … instead of—instead of—but he’d skipped town. She whimpered and almost turned and fled. Her father patted her hand, and she nearly screamed.

That’d be a shocker to the stiffs at this upper crust event. A giggle won out at the thought, and she felt better. Another pat to her hand. The scream scratched her throat, but got outclassed by the wedding melody filling the church.

Samantha froze in step and prayed for dissolution of these nuptials. Her ingenious plan of hours ago zoomed through her mind at supersonic speed. Her stomach swayed. Suppose it backfired?

Her father smothered a cough with his fist.

She must’ve been in another dimension to have allowed mamma to railroad her with her dramatic groanings of a flailing business. Sheesh, she’d only had a latte or two with golden boy to appease her, and here she was the lead in the society wedding of the season.

Gulping a mouthful of air, she let it whiz out between her teeth. A delicate situation, but time to snuff it out … in style … er … not that exactly, but it should have the groom snapping up the right of first refusal. With that thought in the forefront of her mind, she tightened her fingers on her father’s arm and stomped forward in her galoshes.

The guests’ muffled murmurs followed her down the aisle, grating on her raw emotions and compounding her doubts. The chatter grew louder, and abruptly stopped when she stepped beside the groom. An odd sensation teased. She dismissed it, not daring to glance at him just yet.

“Oh, my,” someone said. “Mrs. Carroll’s about to pass out.”

Her father plunked down beside mamma and held her upright. “Not another word out of you, woman.” He chuckled, pleased.

“Are we-e-e rea-a-ady?” The wiry priest sneezed, pointing to the burning candles. “All-ll-ergies.”

Samantha nodded in empathy, and the groom curled his fingers around her hand. His heat zapped up her arm, through her bloodstream and straight into her heart. Her pulse zinged her ribs.

“Dearly beloved …” the priest began the sermon.

Oxygen spiraled in her throat. Pressure pounded her temples. Perspiration dampened her forehead and prickles chased up her spine. She crinkled her brow and twitched her nose at the hint of a familiar scent. Cool spice. She shook her head. Stress of the situation must be causing this crazy speeding of her vitals.

The priest droned on, “… why these two should not be joined in holy matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

“I wish to spea-a-ak.” A man stumbled into the church, his hair standing on end, shirttail hanging out and torn tux sagging at the shoulder.

Dang the veils. She couldn’t see his face clearly, and in the commotion, couldn’t ID his voice. But she could smell the splatter on him … phew, heavy-duty stuff. She held her breath and grinned. Good timing.

“Tha-at” –he pointed to the groom— “is-is an impostor … a-aah!”

Samantha exhaled in a rush, and her veils fluttered.

A Doberman snarled at his heels. He shrieked and jumped onto a pew, setting off a myriad of sound effects from the guests.

A parade of yelping canines raced inside, and a pot-bellied man huffed and puffed after them. He stumbled to a halt, and dolled up babes of all shapes and sizes hyperventilated, groping for their hubbies in the pews.

“What’s the meaning of this?” the priest demanded. “We are in the house of God.”

“What’s going on?” Sam glimpsed her mother swoon a second time, her gargantuan hat tipping. Her father was too slow in catching her, and she slithered to the floor.

“Wasn’t ’bout to let prissy boy scoop you up, Sammy,” the groom whispered in her ear, his eye on the dog keeper.

“He got away in the pick-up with the dogs in back,” the dogcatcher muttered.

“Who?” Samantha yanked the veils over her head and blinked, her contacts nearly popping from her pupils. “You?!” She narrowed her eyes at the two-day stubble shadowing his jaw. “How?”

Johnny gaped, then tossed back his head and laughed. “What’ve you done to yourself?”

“You should talk … you … you no good, stubborn mule.” She couldn’t use the choice words itching to spill off her tongue. She was, after all, in church; she cringed at the blue streak whipping through her mind.

Air crackled.

She looked him over from head to toe. His work shirt slouched beneath his waist-length jacket and a chauffeur’s cap was tucked under his arm. Faded jeans hugged his legs, a tear exposed one of his knees and scuffed boots were visible beneath his tattered cuffs. His shoulder-length reddish hair was combed though.

“Didn’t have time to change.” He cupped her chin and gazed deep into her scarlet eyes, squinting to see through the blood-red lenses to her blue irises. “Sorry.”

He touched the dark paint beneath her eyes and smudged his fingers.

She slapped his hand away.

Not easily deterred, he pushed a gaudy green lock off her golden brow and goop smeared across her forehead. “You clash, sweetheart,” he teased.

She sniffed, nose in the air.

He dabbed at the smudge, but heat from his hand made it worse. “You know I love you as you are … er … were.” He tried to caress her cheek beneath the layers of ruddy foundation, but only scraped the crusty surface. “You didn’t have to morph just for me.” He winced at the gaping hole between her teeth. “I would’ve preferred you hadn’t.” His grin widened. “It’s washable?” His query was hopeful.

A soft growl in her throat, and she turned, sinking her small sharp teeth into his hand.

“Hey!” He yanked his hand back. “Glad to know you still have all your teeth, princess.”

“Don’t you sweet talk me, you … you …” She swung away and clipped his jaw with her bouquet of dandelions.

He staggered back, tumbled over a yelping Chihuahua, and sprawled on the floor. Appalled at her behavior, she dropped to her knees beside him, heedless of squashing her gown around her. “Johnny, are you all right?” She slapped his face, and his bristles scoured her fingers. “I didn’t mean it.”

He mocked a moan. “If you could just cradle my head in your lap, sweetheart, and kiss …”

“Ooo!” She caught the twinkle in his brown gaze. Struggling to her feet, she swished to the side and stomped her foot. The hem of her dress brushed his temple and his head plopped back to the floor.

“Rubber boots, Sam?” He winked. “Setting a new trend?”

She ignored the hit, and favored him with her stiff back.

“We’ll have none of this.” The priest ran a hand around his collar, patted his thinning hair and sneezed.

He squinted heavenward through his wire rim spectacles. Sam could swear … oops … perhaps not swear exactly, but could bet … not that either … see, yes, she could see the man was offering prayers for deliverance from the lot of them.

She took a step closer, about to whisper to him that a long vacation after this might help, but she staggered to a stop. Something Johnny said smacked her in the pit of her stomach.

“Good thing the floor’s carpeted.” Johnny rubbed the back of his head, his eyes fixed on her. He inhaled, and the air blasted from his mouth in frustration. Her heat hinting of roses had his temperature rising and his belly tensing. He was tempted to grab her by the boot and topple her onto his lap. His groin tightened, and his jaw did the same. He wanted to touch, taste … feel … If he had to marry her prematurely to nix that bozo’s attempt to get her in the sack, so be it.

He pushed himself up to a sitting position and stroked his chin with the back of his hand. Whether he could keep her without exposing his secret was another matter altogether.

“Red here picked me up in a limo …” The jilted groom loomed above him and shoving a finger in his face, distracted his thoughts. “… and dumped me off at the dog pound.”

Sam swiveled around, her brows shooting upward.

“A slight detour.” Johnny bounced back up and a burnished lock flopped over his brow.

“I could have you arrested.” Michael wiped dirt off his chin with his torn sleeve, and an Irish setter pawed his chest. “Down, boy, down,” he strained a croon.

A rotund man elbowed his way through the crowd and confronted Johnny. “You are finished at Global Bank, young man.” He puffed out his chest and grabbed his wife by the arm. “Gertrude, Michael, let’s go.”

“Yes, dad.” Michael tripped after him, trying to extricate himself from the beasts, and shot Johnny a lethal look. “Coming.”

Johnny glanced at Sam smoothing her gown; glad she missed Michael’s hostile darts. Her head snapped up, and she pinned him with her sharp gaze. His heart sank. She must’ve caught on, and the game was up.

“What did you say?” She took a step, then another.

Air whistled from his mouth, and he backtracked.

She advanced.

He leaned back against the church organ, and the keys sounded off cue but nobody noticed.

“When?” He bolted up and averting his eyes, straightened his shirt cuffs. “Did I say what?”

“A couple of minutes ago.”

“You mean when you landed a right hook on my mug?”

“Yeah.”

He feigned a cough; relieved she wasn’t referring to the exiting buffoon. A grin curved his mouth. “I would’ve preferred you hadn’t changed.”

“No.” She shook her head, veils flapping like wings on either side of her shoulders. “Before that.”

“I said that I … uh … love you.”

“You do?”

“The woman still questions my word.” He slapped a hand to his forehead and rolled his eyes heavenward. “If she but knew what I went through to get here—” He blinked, once, twice. Nah, he must be seeing things.

Angels didn’t flitter about the church ceiling chewing bubblegum and dressed in fatigues—hey, did she just wink at him? Must be the stress of the scene, but he could’ve sworn … Chuckling, he shook his head and dismissed the illusion. Just as quickly, a sobering thought flashed through his mind. There must’ve been one tapping on his shoulder earlier, when he made that pit stop at Lucky Lou’s on the Nevada state line.

“You do.” Samantha flung herself into his arms.

“Mmm.” He rained kisses all over her face, hoping he wouldn’t regret the tough decision he made to keep his finances under wraps, for the time being. “Yum, this goop’s candy flavored.”

“Belgian chocolate, lite … low carbs.”

“Could get used to the taste … you.”

“I love you, Johnny Belen.”

The priest coughed. “Is there a wedding to be had?”

“Just a minute.” Sam twisted aside and popped the red lenses from her eyes. After tossing them behind her, she turned to him and looked every inch the radiant bride. Johnny gulped, and hauled her back into his embrace.

“Did you really drop Michael off at the pound?” She muffled a giggle with her veils.

Michael was pressed flat against the back wall and inching his way to the door. A Doberman Pinscher pawed his chest and slurped his face.

“Willie’s Doggie Salon, sweetheart.” Johnny caught sight of his buddy scrambling to round up the animals, and his mouth twitched at the corners. “Start up in Goodsprings, Nevada.”

“Never heard of it—”

“Well, that’s because it’s—”

“Johnny, you trekked across the desert to find me,” she whispered, delighted.

“I did,” he murmured. “The Mojave Desert no less.”

She laughed, the sound ringing off stained glass windows like the bells of St. Mary’s. “Funny man.”

“Yeah.” He swallowed the lump in his throat before it exploded into a confession he might later regret.

“Do you want a wedding or not?” the priest asked in exasperation, but his mouth twitched a smile.

“I do,” she said.

“I do,” he said.

“I pronounce you man and wife.” The priest breathed a sigh of relief and blotted his moist brow with the back of his hand. “You may kiss the bride.”

A sliver of doubt pricked his heart, but when she threw her arms around his neck and smiled, it dissipated. Amidst shrieks and snarling dogs, the sweetest serenade he ever heard, Johnny kissed his Sam.

************

Two years later …

“Honey …” Samantha stood at the kitchen counter mixing pancake batter in a plastic bowl.

“Mmm.” Johnny wrapped his arms around her protruding belly and pushed aside the collar of her sweatshirt, nuzzling her neck.

“Someone’s at the door.” She leaned back against his chest, breath checking in her throat. “Uh … will you get it?”

“No.” He nibbled at her earlobe.

“Jo— ”

He nipped the tip of her ear. “If I must.”

Smiling, she watched him stride from the tiny kitchen. She pressed one hand to the small of her back and rubbed her swelling abdomen with the other. A sigh of contentment slipped from her mouth. The baby was due in three months.

Johnny walked back, pulling the letter from the envelope.

She plopped the spoon in the batter. “What is it?”

He remained silent, perusing the page.

“Johnny?”

“Special delivery.”

“What’s it say?”

He glanced up, not quite meeting her eyes, a wry twist on his mouth. “You don’t want to know.”

Chapter Two

Samantha leaned over his shoulder, and the words hit her like a sledgehammer. “Not married!” She snatched the paper from his hand, her gaze riveted on the black bold-faced type. “Not legally married.” She raised her eyes and collided with his look of consternation.

“Is this possible, Johnny?”

He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Dunno.”

Laughter bubbled from her, first softly, then growing louder. She swallowed the hysteria and her shoulders drooped, her face crumbling.

“Sam?”

“We-we’re not married.” She swiped her damp cheeks with the back of her hand, sure her mascara, her one luxury, and pancake batter blended on her face. “A-nd I’m six months pregnant.”

Johnny reached for her, and then let his hand drop by his side. “We can clear this up … sure it’s some kind of mistake.”

She groaned. “Mamma’ll have a royal fit.”

He scowled. “More like she’ll boogie woogie.”

“Wish you two would get alo—” She bit off the words that’d trigger an argument between them and spread her hand across her big belly.

“You okay?” He stepped closer.

“No.”

“Is it the baby?” he asked, his voice uneasy.

“Yes … no … what I mean is … yes, baby’s okay.”

A whistle of relief sounded from his mouth, but got snuffed by her next words.

“But I’m not okay with this bombshell you’ve dropped.” She lifted the spoon from the bowl. “What am I going to do?”

He slitted his gaze. “You mean we, what are we going to do, right?”

Blobs of batter dripped at her feet, adding a new dimension to the scruffy linoleum. “No.” She considered him for a long moment. “What are you going to do, Johnny?”

Her challenge, a gauntlet hurled at his feet, and he swooped it up.

“I’ll get a new license … I’ll sign this one … I’ll—”

“Signature on wedding license does not match groom’s identification,” she read. “Document false. Signature forged.” She stared at him, sure her eyes were huge and accusing. “What were you thinking?”

He straddled a chair. “I was thinking about you.”

“Huh?”

“I was mesmerized by your … er … beauty if you remember.”

She shook the spoon at him. Minute batter missiles sprinkled his face and his shirt. “Johnny Belen, I’m warning you …”

He ran a finger down his cheek and licked the drop with his tongue. “Mmm, this is good.”

“Johnny.”

“Okay, Sam.” He leaped up, a sheepish grin on his lips. “Guess I forgot … but I was sure—”

“I don’t believe it.” She plunged the spoon back in the batter. “You don’t forget a thing like that.” Swinging open the cupboard, she grabbed two plates, shoved them at him and slammed it shut.

He set the chipped dishes on the bottle-cap sized table. “You’ll recall ours was no ordinary wedding.”

Sam sighed. “Yes.” For a fleeting moment, her wedding day replayed at speed before her eyes and emotion swelled inside her. Abruptly, she crammed the memory aside and opened the refrigerator, welcoming the frosty air on her hot cheeks. “I re-re-remember.”

“It was easy to overlook—”

She took out the butter and banged the fridge door shut with her elbow.

“—a thing like that.” What could he say? It was a rhino-size blunder and he felt like a heel for it. He bashed a tuff of hair dangling on his forehead back with his fist. Thoughts of cuffing snoboy into cyberspace had distracted him, and subconsciously he must’ve scribbled Scott’s name on the wedding doc.

He shot Sam a covert glance.

She shot one back.

Until he checked the copy in their safety deposit box at the bank, he’d be in the doghouse under lock and key. “There is a funny side to this, Sam.” He tested the waters, his words half question, half statement, his lips tugging at the corners.

Silence.

“Sam?’

“Oh, you’re impossible.” She set the bowl on the counter, crumbled the letter in a ball and took aim.

“I wanted to get you away from that jerk fast and—”

The paper missile ricocheted off his chest, and she gripped the wooden spoon, stirring the batter. “One.” She paused for emphasis. “I’ve put up with your chronic unemployment—”

“Reverting to high and mighty socialite are you?” His eyes darkened. “I couldn’t just be temporarily between jobs?”

“Tempo-perma is what you mean,” she let fly, her words stinging.

“Aww, Sam, that was a low blow.”

“You’re always out of a job, Johnny.” She absent-mindedly created figure eights in the batter with the ladle.

“Nope.” He fixed his sights on his very pregnant wife, and his gut hitched. Fool, to think love could bridge the gap between them.

Love never fails.

The silent message lit his brain. He wrinkled his brow but couldn’t recall where he’d heard those profound words. Was what they shared enough to transcend social status pressure? He smirked and nearly guffawed at his naiveté, even at thirty-four. At a loss, he gulped down the self-deprecating sound, thinking it might be time to ’fess up. “I’ve bought … er … working … I’ve wanted to tell you about—”

“Heard that before, Johnny.”

Her words were like ten-pound weights crushing his shoulders.

In the heavy silence, the batter sloshed in the bowl, keeping time with the ticking cuckoo clock above the stove.

“Two.” She smacked the ladle on the batter, speckling the counter. “I’ve put up with living in this drabby matchbox for two years.”

“It won’t always be that way, Sam.” He stepped closer, encircling her shoulder, but she shrank away. “I thought it was our home … and I’ve wanted to tel—”

“Oh, it is, Johnny. It is.” Her tone softened a tad, giving him hope.

He pulled her into his arms, and she laid her head on his shoulder. “Then, what is it?” He stroked her hair, the motion soothing…arousing. “I’ve wanted to tell you about my, our good fortu—”

“Not legally wed.” She jerked away and grabbed the frying pan off the shelf and banged it on the stove.

He rubbed the back of his head and breathed a sigh of relief she’d found another target.

“What will people … I mean—”

“Mamma …” he inserted for her.

“… think.” She turned on the gas element and it flared to life.

“You made a choice on that score when you married me.” He flexed his shoulder muscles. “But if that matters so much to you, Sam, maybe you shouldn’t have said ‘I do.’” He’d just given her an out if she wanted it, and his heart faltered.

By social standards, he was an ordinary guy from the poor ’hood, and she was high society from the ritzy side of town. His roots stemmed from Irish farmers tilling land for survival. Her ancestry was linked to the English aristocracy. While he’d pounded the pavement for work during the day and studied for a business degree at night, she hung out at the café on campus, sipping designer lattes with her socialite friends.

Maybe he should’ve joined her there … maybe that’s where he’d made his mistake. Regardless, it was time he found out the truth about why she married him. He’d been putting it off until after the baby came, but the grenade in that letter was about to blast them apart. He’d have to toss in his ammo prematurely and either neutralize or detonate matters between them.

‘Rich debutante jilts catch of the season to marry poor boy Belen.’ Isn’t that how the society page read in the Beverly Hills Weekly? His tone sounded empty, his heart padlocked.

“Doesn’t matter, now.” She scratched a dried disc of batter with her slipper.

“Why’s that?”

“We’re not married.”

“Easy to fix.”

“No, it isn’t.” She yanked open the cutlery drawer, took out a knife, sliced a slab of butter and tossed it in the pan. It sizzled.

“Why not?” He removed the knife from her fingers, placed it on the countertop and closed the drawer before she could slam it shut.

She shrugged, not quite meeting his searching gaze.

Johnny plowed a hand through his hair, breath blasting from his mouth. Heck, she still thought him the peasant barely making enough to keep a roof over their heads. Of course, his pad in North Hollywood couldn’t compete with her family’s Beverly Hills mansion. The recent news of their union, or lack thereof, had her speed-redialing about their life.

“Why’d you marry me, Sam?” An air pocket jammed in his throat, and his pulse jerked off beat.

“Because … I …” She twisted her wedding ring around her finger.

“Maybe it was to get back at your mother and get away from that bozo, Scott.”

“Leave my mother out of this,” she snapped. “And as for Michael, well … you could be kind.”

“You defending that circus clown?” he bit out.

“Not exactly.” An unbidden smile brushed her mouth, and then vanished in the onslaught of their verbal shoot out.

“I’m supposed to know what that means?”

“He’s a family friend.”

“And that makes this” –he pointed to her and himself, then slashed his hand through the air— “all right?”

“No … yes … I dunno.”

“Maybe it had nothing to do with me—feelings for me.” He drilled, wanting to read her … get answers. Maybe the nuptials had been a set-up for self-serving purposes; the notion flogged his mind … his gut.

Samantha blinked at him, aghast. How could he think such a thing, and with her carrying his child? Maybe love and marriage didn’t mean the same to him as it did to her. She muffled a hiccup; she’d even given up lattes to save them money. Well, she’d better find out what kind of man she married … er … thought she married.

She glared at him.

He glared back.

“Johnny Belen, that’s a rotten thing to say.” She twitched her nose at an odor filling the kitchen, but was too upset to identify the source.

“What?” He rubbed a hand across his jaw and pushed open the window above the sink. “That Scott is a buffoon or a circus clown?”

“No.”

He rolled his shoulders. “You mean about feelings, etc.?”

She didn’t answer.

“Isn’t it true?”

She compressed her lips.

“Want to make this marriage legal or not?” He challenged, loosening his tie and folding his arms across his broad chest.

She scooped up a ladle full of batter.

“Guess I’ve got your answer.” He spun around to leave.

“Hey, Belen.”

He glanced over his shoulder. “Wha-a-”

She tossed the batter at him like a lacrosse ball and it smacked his forehead, dribbling down his face.

“Not funny, Sam.” He wiped the back of his hand across his eyes, and she glimpsed a storm brewing in them.

“You’re right, it’s not.” She scooped fresh ammo and pitched ladle ‘n all at him.

He ducked, and the wallop landed beneath the cuckoo clock on the wall behind him. The utensil rattled to the floor. He kicked it aside and stomped forward to do battle, the cuckoo clock chirping the ninth hour to the tempo of his steps.

A low growl in his throat gave way to the amused twitch on his lips. He advanced one step … two … until his muscled torso brushed her belly. “If you weren’t six months pregnant, I’d turn you over my knee.”

“And what?” Sam raised her chin, her lip trembling and her eyes stinging. At any other time, he would’ve played along, washing her face with the flour mix, then lifting her in his arms, he’d climb the stairs and dunk her beneath the shower to make up. A catch in her throat, and erotic memories zinged through her mind, sensitizing her body and spiking her pulse.

Now, the playful antics backfired, fueling anger and lengthening the distance between them.

“Sam—” He sniffed, and a string of choice words rambled off his tongue. “You trying to burn us down or what?”

Smoke billowed around the pint-sized stove.

“Oh my!” She shuffled to the sink.

“No!” Johnny turned the element off and grabbed the pan lid. “Can’t snuff a grease fire with water.” Slamming the cover on the pan, he extinguished the danger. “Gotta suffocate it.”

Like our marriage? He frowned, the thought zinging through his mind.

“Wasn’t that hungry, anyway,” she murmured.

He shook his head and stomped from the kitchen. The shrill sound of the doorbell startled her and made him pause in stride. She waddled close behind him, hugging the mixing bowl to her bosom.

Johnny yanked the front door open. “What the—”

“Have I come at an inopportune time?” Michael Scott stood on the doorstep, dressed in a designer suit, his blond hair slicked back and his arms laden with red roses. Glancing from one to the other, he preened like a peacock. “I’ve come to claim my stolen bride.”

Chapter Three

Oblivious to simmering tension, Michael skimmed his pale blues over Sam’s soot-streaked face, a notch lower to the plastic bowl in her hands, and up again, zeroing on Johnny’s batter-stained shirt.

“A domestic dispute?” He grinned like a Cheshire cat and took a step closer, pinching his nose in distaste. “Not trying to cook, are you Irishman?”

“You’re outta line, bozo.” Johnny lunged and landed a right hook on his jaw. “Beat it.”

“Johnny!” Sam grabbed his sleeve to pull him away but by then, Michael lay sprawled on the walk, scarlet blooms flying every which way.

“Should’ve done that two years ago.”

She squinted at the sunlight and shoving past Johnny, wobbled down the two steps to the fallen man. “Are you all right, Michael?”

“Yeah,” he grumbled, reaching for her outstretched hand. “That freckle-faced leprechaun better watch his temper or he’ll land in jail.”

“I think not.” Johnny advanced like a man with a mission. “You’re trespassing.”

“This is Samantha’s property, too.”

“Yeah, and she’s my wife.”

“Not anymore.” A triumphant grin split his mouth. “She’s mine.”

“Michael …” Samantha glanced at Johnny and sucked in her breath, allowing it to slowly filter between her teeth. His shoulders were rigid, his jaw steel and a flush slashed his cheekbones. He was spoiling for a fight. “Johnny …”

“We’ll see about that.” Johnny pushed up his sleeves and in one long stride came at him.

In fluid motion, reminiscent of his former ballet training, Michael grabbed her outstretched hand, leaped up and raised his fists.

“Right, put up your dukes, then.”

“Bang on, mister,” Johnny muttered.

“No!” She kept him at bay with the bowl she held and pushed Michael back with her other hand. “Stop it, the both of yoa-aa-h!” She doubled over and the bowl cluttered down the steps, pancake batter splattering the cement walk.

“Samantha!” Johnny reached for her, his whole body seeming to pale. “What is it?”

Michael Scott stood locked on the step, mouth hanging open. “What ca-a-an I do?”

“Shut up!”

“A-agh … I’ve got to …” She leaned against Johnny’s shoulder. “Not to worry.” She took a deep breath and exhaled in puffs. “I-I need to lie down for a minute.”

Samantha lowered her lashes, hating to worry Johnny and panic Michael, but she had to do something to diffuse the situation. A woman could take license at a time like this, couldn’t she? She felt a twinge of uncertainty; was that a niggle pricking her conscience?

“Sure, honey.” Johnny scooped her up in his arms, climbed the steps, kicked the front door open and strode into the living room.

“Michael,” he bellowed. “Fluff up the cushions, will ya?”

Michael thawed to life and pranced behind him.

He placed Sam on the sofa and knelt beside her, holding her hand. “You okay, Sammy mine?”

Michael grabbed a magazine off the coffee table, fanning himself.

Johnny shot him a frosty look.

Michael froze in mid-motion, and then quickly turned the paper fan toward Sam.

“Thank you, both.” She pushed up to a sitting position, not missing the antagonistic glances between the two men. “Now, let’s talk this out.”

“You okay, Sam?” Johnny brushed a golden curl off her brow, his gaze connecting with hers.

“Fine … like civilized—”

“Sure?”

“Yes, Johnny—people.”

“Good.” Johnny leaped to his full six-foot height, flexed his hands, and light glinted off his wedding ring. He stared Michael down. “You, get out of my house.”

“For you, Samantha.” Michael pulled a wilted rose from his breast pocket and offered it to her.

Johnny knocked it from his hand.

“Johnny …” She touched his arm.

“Samantha, do you want me to go?” Michael took a step toward her but Johnny blocked his path.

“Michael …” she whispered.

“My wife does not want you to stay” –Johnny gave her a tentative glance— “do you?”

“She’s not your wife, anymore.” Michael almost stomped his foot.

“Stop.” She fell back against the cushions and closed her lashes. A myriad of emotions churned inside her, and she opened her eyes wide. “Out.”

Startled, both men gaped at her.

“You and yo—”

“Okay, okay, Sa-sa-mantha,” Michael stammered, backing away. “Do-don’t get upset again, please.”

Johnny grinned.

Michael glowered at him. “I’ll be back for her.”

“Scram.” Johnny chased him out, slammed the door behind him and straightened his shirt cuffs. “Glad that’s done with.” In two strides, he was beside her and plunked down on the sofa, his weight pressing down the cushions. He laced his fingers with hers, his thumb stroking the inside of her wrist, his breath a sliver of sound in the lull of silence.

“It’s not.” She gritted her teeth, trying desperately to ignore his heat zapping into her. Her pulse leaped. Before she succumbed to the emotion and curled into him, she withdrew her hand. Not quite meeting his eyes, she snatched a cushion and hugged it to her bosom.

“No?” he asked.

Tick. Tock. The cuckoo clock sounded the half hour, the echo ominous.

“I want you to leave, too, Johnny.”

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