The Unsung Hero Page 3

  "Miss Monroe! Hey, Miss Monroe!"

  Recovering her senses far more quickly than she'd have expected under the circumstances, Samantha drew back from the circle of Jason's arms in time to see a small figure racing toward her.

  "Hello, Kevin." Samantha couldn't help but smile at the towheaded youngster sporting a broad toothless grin who halted before her in a spray of sand.

  "Notice anything different about me, Miss Monroe?"

  Samantha reached out and gently pinched his sunburned cheek. "You lost your other front tooth. Did you pull it out yourself, champ?"

  "Nope," the little boy proudly announced. "It fell out while I was eating an apple just a few minutes ago and there was blood all over..." Samantha stifled a groan, glad when Kevin decided to go no further. He was hopping from one foot to the other, barely able to control his excitement. "Hey, you want me to go get one for you? My mom brought a whole bunch along with us."

  She exchanged a subtle look of amusement with Jason, who was looking on quietly. "No, thanks, Kevin." She bit her lip, trying hard not to laugh as she saw a slight tremor at Jason's mouth, as well. "I, um, I just had lunch not long ago and I'm really not very hungry."

  Kevin's vivid blue eyes lost their hopeful gleam. "You sure?"

  "I'm sure," she said gently. Then, at his crestfallen expression, she added, "Maybe next time. You will come and see me again, won't you?"

  The little boy's face brightened immediately. "You betcha! I sure do miss you, Miss Monroe, even though I just saw you a couple days ago."

  "I miss you, too, Kevin." Samantha reached out and ruffled his blond curls.

  "I guess I better get back to my mom now. She told me not to bother you for long." He grinned up at her, then sent a shy but curious glance at Jason. "See ya later, Miss Monroe. Bye, Mr. Monroe."

  Samantha laughed aloud as Jason's thick eyebrows shot up at Kevin's departing address. "Mr. Monroe?" he echoed doubtfully, amusement flickering in the eyes that met hers. "I think I've just been adopted--" his gaze grew warmer by degrees as it continued to rest on her flushed cheeks "--but you know, I think I like the idea."

  She couldn't help but respond to his bantering tone. "But if you misbehave, I'll have to send you home to—" She stopped and looked at him quizzically.

  "Los Angeles." His devastating smile sent waves of heat pouring through her veins. "I don't think you have to worry about it, though. I'll be close enough that you can keep an eye on me practically every minute of the day."

  And night? Unbidden, the words came tumbling into her mind. The thought, as well as the memory of his recent kiss, kindled a kind of restless longing in her body. She turned her eyes away from his hurriedly, watching distractedly as the frothy surf raced toward them. But curiosity and maybe even reckless hope made her ask, "And just how close would that be?"

  "Right next door."

  Surprise widened her eyes before a hint of disbelief came into them. "That house is owned by a man named David Winters who lives in Portland, not Los Angeles," she said evenly, wondering if she'd been duped after all. "And he isn't a writer, he's—"

  "An advertising executive," Jason finished for her smugly, and quite correctly.

  Samantha frowned good-naturedly. "Next I suppose you're going to tell me that besides having a triple identity, you lead some kind of a double life."

  "Nothing quite so melodramatic," he said with a chuckle. "David is an old college buddy of mine. He's letting me use his place for the summer." A long finger reached out to tilt her chin up to his. "So tell me. Do you mind having me as a neighbor all summer?"

  Samantha's heart fluttered wildly at his words. The whole summer . . . he was staying the whole summer! Part of her wanted to stand up and shout for joy while another part was very much afraid the word "neighbor"—people who nodded a civil hello on the way to the car or smiled politely while picking up the mail-- would dictate the bounds of their relationship.

  She forced a light tone. "Of course not. So long as you don't peck away at your typewriter all night long or come pounding on my door at six in the morning to borrow the newspaper. I'm an absolute bear if I don't get my eight hours beauty sleep."

  "I won't bother knocking then." With his even noncommittal tone it was hard to tell if he was serious, but a quick glance revealed a tiny network of fine lines extending outward from his eyes, visible only when he smiled. "And as for getting your beauty sleep," he added, "you've obviously been getting plenty."

  Samantha looked away in confusion. She supposed she was attractive enough, but she would never have called herself pretty. Her mouth was a little too wide, her nose too pert and uptilted, her hair a mousy brown. Of average height, her body was supple but lean. In high school she'd often despaired of having any bustline at all. "You're just a late bloomer," her mother had often laughed. And her mother had been right, though Samantha had thought the time would never come. But even now that her breasts were nicely rounded, her hips slightly fuller, she considered her eyes her best asset. Large and widely spaced, they were a clear shade of blue, which was further enhanced by a thick fringe of lashes.

  Pushing herself off the chunk of driftwood with both hands, she got to her feet. She ignored the warm rush of color staining her cheeks at Jason's knowing glance, once again conscious of the brevity of both their suits.

  "Shall we get back?" she said quickly. "My house is unlocked and I don't like to stay away for long."

  Jason glanced at his watch, a look of obvious reluctance on his face as he rose to his feet. "I suppose so. I have a long drive ahead of me yet this afternoon."

  "So soon?" she asked curiously. "You just said you were staying for the summer."

  "Oh, I am. But I'm being interviewed on a radio talk show tonight in Seattle."

  "Coming out of the closet?" Samantha asked, unable to hold back a smile.

  "In a way." He shrugged. "Word leaked out about a year ago that I was the man behind Cathryn James. My publisher wasn't exactly overjoyed until they found out it actually seemed to boost sales."

  "Why did they mind so much?"

  "It was my publisher's recommendation that I write under a female pseudonym," he explained. "They didn't think women would buy a romance written by a man." He looked at her out of the corner of his eye and raised a mocking eyebrow. "Sound familiar?"

  "Now I'm the one who's been 'properly chastised,' " Samantha responded dryly. They lapsed into a companionable silence as they picked their way through a smattering of broken seashells and around a clump of seaweed, their bare feet weaving a meandering trail behind them in the sun-warmed sand.

  When they neared her small sequestered home, Samantha's steps faltered. She was admittedly reluctant to see him leave so soon. Taking a deep breath, she turned to him. "Would you like to come in for a drink? That is, if you have time."

  A quick glance at his watch and Jason assured her with a decided gleam in his eyes, "Just enough time. Lead the way, fair lady."

  As she entered through the back screen door, golden rays of sunlight streamed through maple-stained shutters, which she had left ajar in her compact kitchen. Jason followed her. Her bare feet padded silently across the spotless tiled floor toward the refrigerator. After a hasty glance inside, she bit her lip and turned toward him. "I hope you don't mind orange juice or iced tea. I don't usually keep liquor on hand unless I'm expecting company."

  "Iced tea will be fine," he said easily. "I don't drink much anyway, especially with a lady around." Samantha sent him a quizzical glance over her shoulder as she reached for the pitcher of iced tea. "It befuddles the mind," he explained, an almost wicked glint in his eyes, "and dulls the senses."

  "Not to mention what it does to a man's ability," she muttered under her breath, knowing full well she had fallen right into his trap. She poured the tea into two large chilled glasses and handed one to him.

  "That goes without saying." He took a long draft of the amber-colored liquid, then grinned at her. "Can't say I've ever had that problem, though."r />
  Looking at his trim muscular form, she could see why. The man positively reeked of virility, to say nothing of the very potent attraction he would possess for many a woman. But for some reason, his response irked her to no end.

  "Well," she muttered, turning on her heel and walking into the living room, "I don't suppose you could write the kind of love scenes you do without at least some experience."

  "I suppose," Jason agreed mildly. He sat down across from her as she curled up on her favorite velour chair. His mouth twitched with amusement as he took in her suddenly distant expression. "Would you like it better if I didn't include sex scenes in my books? Your face looks like it might splinter into a thousand pieces if you even attempted a smile."

  When she refused to say anything, he pressed further. "I write it and you read it," he said with a shrug. "So which of us would you call the worst degenerate?"

  "I don't think either one of us is," she admitted grudgingly after a moment's silence. It wasn't the inclusion of sex in his novels that bothered her. Heaven knew she felt like melting into a mass of sizzling nerve endings when she read his love scenes. It was the fact that he might be drawing on his own experiences while writing them. She knew she had no right to feel this way, but the thought was little comfort.

  "I think the difference between us lies in what you just said," she added with a slight bite to her tone. "You call them sex scenes and I think of them as love scenes."

  Jason studied her averted profile silently, his smile slowly fading. "I guess that's what they're intended to be," he finally murmured.

  Samantha blinked, then frowned. "Don't you know?" she demanded. "You certainly should--you've written dozens of love scenes! Why, love is what makes these books so special! Sex is nothing more than a biological function, a chemical reaction! I've read enough romances to know the difference between an author who writes sex scenes and an author who writes love scenes, and yours are definitely love scenes!"

  "I write what the reader expects and what my publisher wants. In my opinion, my sex scenes--or rather love scenes--are a bit idealistic." He swirled the ice in his glass and shrugged indifferently. "Making love is physically fulfilling, emotionally satisfying, but as far as inducing a blissful state of euphoria a la the romance novel—" he gave her a half-smile "—let's face it. These books are little more than fantasy."

  Samantha stared at him incredulously, her momentary ire all but forgotten. "Just what are we talking about here? Love or making love?"

  Jason smiled blandly. "I have the feeling you equate the two."

  "Forgive me for being such a daydreamer—" her tone was even, but she could hardly believe what she was hearing "—but yes, that's how I see it. Love is more than just a state of mind, and making love should be the ultimate expression of the way two people feel about each other. Without it, it doesn't mean a thing." And that was how it had been for her and Alan, at least at first, especially at first. They had been wildly, madly in love their first year together, but two more years of marriage had found them drifting apart. And she knew from experience that once the feelings began to wane, so did the magic.

  When Jason merely smiled and shrugged his shoulders dismissively, she leaned forward, her hands curling into fists on her thighs. "In Conquer the Wind, your heroine said that the way she felt was like--" she searched for the phrase, snapping her fingers when she remembered "--heaven on earth. Are you saying that was pure bunk?"

  "Oh, yes, the fair Rosalind," he murmured, crossing his long legs at the knee as if he hadn't a care in the world. "You, like Rosalind, have been bitten by the happily-ever-after bug. And maybe it's not pure bunk, but it's certainly exaggerated."

  Samantha's temper was off and running at his casual manner and offhand words. "What about this afternoon at the beach?" she charged hotly, cold fury beginning to burn inside her. This was deceit of the worst kind! "That bit about men feeling the same way women do--what was that? Exploitation? Research for your next book? When you said it was for Cathryn's benefit you certainly weren't kidding! The high and mighty Jason Armstrong certainly wouldn't have spoken so humbly! He's too much of a cynic, isn't he? I'll give you one thing, though, you're an even better writer than I thought for being able to fabricate that kind of emotional intensity!"

  She felt a brief moment of triumph at the startled look on his face, the momentary confusion in his eyes as if she'd pointed out something he hadn't really considered. But when his features relaxed into that now-familiar but oh-so-maddening smile, it was too much. Samantha jumped up and started to brush past him, only to find herself caught around the waist and dragged down beside him on the couch.

  "What's the rush?" he murmured into her ear.

  As her bare skin pressed against the naked warmth of his furry chest, her pulses skittered alarmingly, but she ignored the sudden racing of her heart. "You're on your way to Seattle, remember?" she pointed out furiously. "I'm merely obliging you by leaving so you can be on your merry way!" This time when she started to rise, both of Jason's arms snaked around her and he held her firmly in place, grinning down into her mutinous face.

  "Isn't this where you say, 'Let me go, you beast!'?"

  Samantha didn't even bat an eyelash at his hysterical falsetto. She glared up at him, holding herself rigidly away from him, which proved to be nearly a circus feat due to his constricting grip. The dratted man was barely giving her room to breathe!

  "A show of brute strength might be expected in one of your novels, Jason Armstrong," she announced tautly, "but as you so aptly pointed out, romances are pure fantasy, and I'm not about to reenact a scene from one of your books—or anyone else's."

  "Why not? You might enjoy... a small dalliance." There was a gleam in his eye as he added hopefully, "Or maybe a big one?"

  Samantha stared at the smooth firmness of the mouth smiling ever so slightly above hers. She suppressed an inward tremor and wished her earlier indignation would return to swamp the sudden churning of her insides. If only his breath on her cheeks was not so warm, so inviting.

  "I don't think so," she said in a voice that wasn't entirely steady. "You see, I expect fireworks and skyrockets, and maybe even a few shooting stars, and you've already told me I won't get that." She took a deep breath, finally finding the strength to turn her head aside. "And frankly, I'd be disappointed with anything less."

  She could see that she had surprised him again, but this time felt no elation as she had before. The mocking light faded from his eyes but his smile was still faintly teasing as he looked down at her.

  "To think I was actually looking forward to subduing a feisty wench just like one of my heroes," he said lightly. His arms dropped from her body. "And instead I find my head on the chopping block." He stared down at her motionless form, his eyes almost somber as they swept over her body. "We're bound to run into each other again this summer. Maybe we'll see each other soon."

  "Maybe," she echoed quietly, watching uneasily as his long legs carried him across the floor and out the front door.

  It seemed that, like it or not, she was stuck with Jason Armstrong for the summer, and right now the idea wasn't quite as appealing as it had been earlier.

  ***

  Samantha did a fairly creditable job of dismissing Jason from her mind that day. But when she crawled into bed that night, she found herself reliving his kiss on the beach, the feel of his hands on her body.

  Sighing defeatedly, she switched on the bedside lamp and reached for the copy of Love's Sweet Bondage. But as she stared at the cover, a curious thing happened. The idea of reading Cathryn James's--or rather Jason Armstrong's—romantic storytelling suddenly lost all its appeal for her.

  Almost as if she was saying farewell to an old friend she would never see again, she dropped the book in the wicker wastebasket near her bedside, conscious of an almost painful ache of her breast.

  The memory of Jason's touch still filled her with a sense of wonder and excitement, perhaps even awe, but the magic of his words had palled...
for the moment.

  And maybe even for good.

  Chapter 3

  Golden sunlight streaming through pristine white curtains prodded Samantha into wakefulness the next morning. With a muffled groan, she rolled onto her back and threw an arm over her eyes. Her lids drifted peacefully closed and she was ready to doze off again when suddenly a curious feeling prickled her skin.

  Her eyes flew open as she quickly sat up, muscles tensed and ready to spring from the bed. "You!" she gasped at the sight of Jason Armstrong sitting nonchalantly on the side of her bed. "What are you doing in here?"

  His grin was all too disarming, that beautifully shaped mouth was doing strange things to her in- sides. Samantha swiftly fought down the alarming flutter of her pulse. "I couldn't find you anywhere else," he said cheerfully.

  "But you're in my bedroom! And—you're supposed to be in Seattle." Eyes that had been wide with shock narrowed suddenly. "Why didn't you ring the doorbell? Or at least knock?"

  "I was in Seattle," he said mildly. "I missed you, so I drove back last night and got in early this morning. And as for knocking... well, I told you yesterday I wouldn't bother." There was a sudden twinkle in his deep brown eyes. "Serves you right, though, for leaving your door unlocked again. You're lucky it was me and not some other—" his look sharpened as his eyes ran boldly down her body, the gauzy material of her nightie concealing precious little of her flesh "—degenerate," he finally finished, his eyes lingering on the gentle thrust of her breasts.

  Samantha grabbed wildly for the sheet. The fact that she'd forgotten to lock her door last night took a back seat to the wholly masculine glint of appreciation in his eyes. When Jason leaned toward her, she flung out her other hand, her palm slapping against the unyielding muscle of his shoulder as she attempted to thwart his forward motion.