The Unsung Hero Read online

  Samantha snorted. "That's a joke! Your heroes might be unscrupulous at times but at least they have a heart."

  "Even Beau?"

  "Even Beau." She eyed his loose-limbed form, now stretched out lazily on the carpet, his dark head propped against his hand. "Especially Beau! I'm not so sure about you!"

  Jason lifted himself to a sitting position, long legs tucked up in front of his chest. "Wow!" he said softly. "You've really got it in for me! I guess I'm going to have to change while I'm here."

  "As the saying goes, if it ain't broke, don't fix it! You keep telling me you're in perfect working order, so why bother?" She turned and would have flounced from the room but suddenly Jason was there before her. She hadn't known he could move that fast.

  "Well, then... couldn't we use a bandage?"

  Samantha looked up to find a hopeful expression on his face, but his eyes were dancing with devilry. She suddenly realized he had cupped her shoulders in his hands and was gently running his fingertips over the bare skin of her arms. An occasional finger trespassed into the sleeve of her dress.

  "Fine," she muttered. "You do that." But the words lacked their former heat. Already she was weakening. She was beginning to suspect that staying angry with this man was indeed a lost cause.

  And that was her last thought for a very long time. His mouth came down on hers, hard and tender, inviting and demanding. Samantha felt something inside her blossom and grow, something she hadn't felt in years, something she'd never felt before. She shivered when his mouth left hers to blaze a trail of fire down the slender column of her neck to the wildly beating pulse throbbing in her throat.

  Her body was lifted and fitted even more closely against his unyielding bulk. Never before had she felt so helpless, so much a puppet in the hands of a master, but she couldn't have cared less. She felt a sensation not unlike a feather drifting slowly down to earth, unaware that she'd been swept from her feet and borne downward until she felt the plushness of the sofa at her back.

  "God, you're sweet." Jason's groan was muffled against her parted lips. "And soft...I've never touched anyone so soft."

  Samantha opened her eyes to stare at the dark face hovering just above hers. The shooting flames of the fire cast flickering shadows over his lean features, throwing into prominence his straight nose and full sensuous mouth. Driven by some need she didn't fully understand, she lifted a hand to him.

  "You don't have to say that." Her fingers came in contact with his lower lip, trembling slightly as they traced the shape of it. "You don't h—"

  His mouth opened to nip gently at her fingertips while long fingers tangled in her hair and pulled her mouth to his. His lips swallowed her halting whisper. His laugh was a little shaky when he finally drew away. "Yes, I do. I want to." He gave her another lingering kiss. "Don't you know that?"

  "Jason..." His name was a whisper, a prayer, a demand and a plea. His response was all she had ever dreamed of and more. His fingers caressed and explored, glided and probed. She moaned as he turned so that they lay facing each other, their legs entwined together. She ached to feel his touch on her bare skin and arched against him in an effort to make known her silent plea, delighting in the bold thrust that surged against her.

  Aching desire rippled through her body, so strong it almost shocked her. She was on fire, naked flames of longing sizzling through her blood. Jason Armstrong was all that she had ever wanted in a man, all that she needed, all she had ever dreamed of. He was a renegade, an outlaw, and she was his prey; a brigand and a pirate, and she was his booty, his prize. He was a wealthy sea captain, a mighty landowner and she was his mistress, his beloved bride and his most treasured possession. She was the woman who could tame all of those men and gain a world in the bargain. He was the dream lover she had always yearned for, the tender suitor whose arms would shield and protect her forever.

  He invited and she gave; she yielded and he took; he dominated and she controlled. And all the while, her mind was carrying her farther and farther away, to a place she'd never been before, a place that existed only in the mind--a Garden of Eden, a castle in the air. But the pleasure his roaming hands gave was only too real, the warm breath filling her mouth and fanning her skin all too tangible.

  It no longer mattered that this was a stage supplied by Jason; the wine, the fire, the moonlight streaming through the windows and bathing the room in a silver glow, nothing but props. Never before had Samantha felt so alive and so vital, or so wanted. Wanted by the man above her. He was Beau. He was Marshall. He was a dozen other imaginary heroes all rolled into one, the man she'd always wanted but could never have. He was the most exciting man on this earth and he wanted her.

  She moaned, a tiny sound of protest. Her fingers were curled in the silky mat of hair on his abdomen, his skin was warm and faintly damp. Their clothes were a barrier she could no longer tolerate. Her eyes opened, dazed and pleasure-filled, and her fingers began to fumble with the buttons of his shirt. Jason's eyes opened, too, and he smiled into hers. The smoldering warmth she saw there sent a rush of pleasure surging through her body, and she took a deep breath to clear her swelling senses. The heady scent of his cologne filled her nostrils as she lifted her head and teasingly brushed her mouth across his, but suddenly she froze.

  She sat up, blue eyes wide and dazed as they swept around the room. She sniffed, and sniffed again. Then her mouth opened in a soundless scream.

  "Fire!" she managed to gasp. "Fire!"

  Chapter 5

  Samantha finally pointed an arm toward the fireplace. Through the wire-mesh screen, flames could be seen licking eagerly upward. Jason jumped up from the couch and stared across the room. His eyes opened wide, his jaw dropped open and he stood rooted to the floor as if he was cemented in place.

  "For God's sake!" Samantha dove across the floor. Ghostly billows of smoke climbed toward the ceiling. Grabbing the poker from the set of brass-finished tools on the hearth, she shoved it inside the screen and searched frantically for the handle of the damper. When it was finally opened, she threw open the windows and pushed aside the sliding glass door across the room.

  Jason still stood where she'd left him. His jaw had finally closed, but there was a stupefied look in his eyes as they moved disbelievingly from the fireplace to where Samantha stood with her hands on her hips.

  She'd adjusted her dress while opening the windows, but Jason's partially unbuttoned shirt hung half in and half out of his slacks. His fingers had carved half a dozen pathways through his dark hair. Gone was the dashing and debonair soul of an hour before. But despite his rumpled appearance, he still looked damnably good to her.

  She wasn't sure how welcome the admission was, because in the face of her near surrender, she realized there would have been no stopping either one of them in only a few short minutes. An unwilling smile tugged at her lips. Jason Armstrong had almost killed them both--well, perhaps that was an exaggeration. But she could imagine the headlines of the weekly Lincoln City newspaper. Neskowin Lovers Succumb to Smoke. And to think she was worried about succumbing to him!

  It was her outright laugh that finally penetrated his dazed state. "What's so funny?" he growled. He finally moved to take her arm and pull her into the dining room.

  "You," she said brashly. "Don't you know you're supposed to open the damper before you start a fire? But then I guess you wouldn't—" she grinned impishly "—coming from Southern California. You must worry more about how to keep cool than how to keep warm."

  Jason scowled. "I forgot about it." He stared at her a second before a reluctant smile tugged at his lips. "I guess I should be glad you smelled the smoke before it did any real damage. I don't think David would be very happy if I told him I almost managed to burn down his house."

  At the mention of his friend, Samantha's smile faded. It was an almost unwelcome reminder that Jason's appearance in her life was only temporary. She would never see him again after this summer, and it was altogether possible he wouldn't be staying that long.
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  Heaving an inward sigh, she made a move toward the entryway but Jason stopped her.

  "You're not leaving yet, are you?"

  She hesitated. Much as she hated to admit it, this was no more than a game to him. Love was probably a game to him, he'd as much as said so yesterday. And yet his devilishly handsome features touched something inside her that made her want desperately to throw caution to the winds and let the magic flow. Hard to believe of a woman who meticulously planned even her meals two weeks in advance.

  Her hair swirled gently on her cheek as she shook her head. She softened her words with a slightly wistful smile. "I think I'd better."

  His self-assured air was back in full force and running full speed ahead. "Why? 'The night is still young,'" he quoted in a deep velvet tone, " 'and who knows what untold pleasures await the two of us?'"

  Samantha cast a wary eye in his direction and stepped to the front door. "The only pleasure that awaits me is the pleasure of my bed-" she squelched the hopeful gleam in his eye with a look and a word "--alone."

  He leaned against the door frame and smiled. "Saved not by the bell," he quipped softly, "but by the fire."

  Samantha couldn't hold back a laugh. He might be persistent but at least he conceded defeat gracefully. "You can let this place air out while you walk me home," she told him as he draped her shawl around her shoulders.

  A salt-tanged breeze curled around their silent figures as they walked the narrow pathway between the two houses. A full moon spilled down" from the sky, lighting the way. Samantha stopped once to shake sand out of her sandal.

  "This is one of the pitfalls of living on the beach in the summer," she said with a laugh as she slipped it off. Jason obligingly bent down so she could prop her hand on his back while she hopped on one foot. "You see why I have a hose outside my back door?"

  "You really love it here, don't you." It was more a statement than a question, and Jason looked at her as they stopped on her doorstep.

  "I wouldn't dream of living anywhere else," she said simply. "I love it, even in the winter. There's nothing like watching a storm blow in, curled up in a chair with a hot cup of tea and—"

  "And a good book," he finished for her, a trace of laughter in his voice.

  Samantha looked at him searchingly, expecting to see a mocking glint in his eyes but satisfied when she found none. "And a good book," she echoed with a smile. She could feel his eyes on her in the darkness, and a small silence cropped up. "I had a good time tonight," she said finally, feeling compelled to break it. She looked away quickly, once again acutely aware of his maleness. "I. . . tonight was the first time I've ever been inside David's house. It's really very nice."

  Jason didn't seem to share her unease. "Yes, it is," he remarked conversationally. "It's a lot like my place in Malibu. Lots of cedar and glass, the same split-level design." He met her eyes and smiled. "I'm surprised you've never met David."

  Samantha shrugged her slender shoulders. "I've lived here less than a year. I suppose he's been here during that time but we've just never run into each other." The reply was automatic, her mind on what he'd just said. Malibu. The word conjured up images of long sandy stretches of beach, expensive homes, and again, scantily clad California beauties. She almost groaned. It seemed a million miles away, as far from her reach as Jason was.

  "That's something I think I'm thankful for. You're probably the only thing I've ever beat him to."

  "What?" Frowning Samantha dragged her mind away from the thought.

  Jason grinned. "Girls, sports, cars...you know how competitive men can be. Especially in college." He shoved his hands into his pockets and eyed her thoughtfully. "Yes, if he'd met you first you probably wouldn't be here with me tonight. He'd have snapped you up so fast you wouldn't have known what hit you."

  Samantha felt her cheeks grow hot. He was talking as if she was some kind of femme fatale. She fished for her key in her pocket. "I really should be going in, Jason."

  He nodded and took the key from her hand. After swinging open the front door, he slanted her a wry smile. "At least you locked it this time." When Samantha said nothing, merely looked at him, he nodded toward the doorway with his head. "I'll feel better when you're inside, Samantha."

  She obligingly stepped upward, watching as he murmured a good-night and started back down the pathway.

  She took a breath and called after him. "Jason."

  He halted immediately and stepped back to her. She suddenly felt like a teenager on her first date. He'd made it plain the evening could have ended far differently. "Thanks again for the dinner--and the balloons," she said softly. A smile pulled at her mouth. "No one's ever sent me balloons before."

  He moved forward a step. "You sure you don't want to come back and check the sheets on the bed?"

  She almost laughed at the undisguised hope in his voice. From her position on the threshold, they were looking directly into each other's eyes. He was so close their faces were almost touching, her mouth only inches away from his. Her nails dug into her palms, but she quelled the impulse to lean forward and press her mouth to his.

  "No." She shook her head and dropped her eyes, a rueful little smile pulling at her lips. "I'll take your word they're not red satin."

  "Samantha."

  She looked up quickly. "Yes?"

  "I've never sent heart-shaped balloons to anyone before, either." His voice was full of laughter, but his eyes were warm and tender, and she suddenly felt her heart had taken on a pair of wings.

  The glowing promise in that look was something she couldn't get out of her mind. She told herself that she was being mawkish and sentimental, that she was foolishly reading far too much into Jason's attentions. Nonetheless, her dreams that night were filled with visions of a laughing, dark-haired stranger. She spent that night, and the next few as well, sorely regretting her solitary bed in a way that hadn't happened since the early days of her divorce, and she woke up in the morning a very frustrated woman.

  Over and over the next day she found herself wondering if that fleeting sense of magic they had felt the night before was just that--fleeting. Not for herself, but for him. Because he had felt something for her, at least she hoped and prayed that he had!

  But the days passed, and she heard nothing. How many times she caught herself parting the kitchen curtains and looking out the window toward the house next door, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, she couldn't have said. For all that she knew, he could have packed himself up, lock, stock and barrel, and gone back to Los Angeles. There was absolutely no sign of him.

  At the end of a week, Samantha was fuming. Much as she hated to admit it, she was convinced she'd been nothing but a playmate that night, a pleasant diversion to wile away an evening. Her only consolation lay in the fact that all he'd gotten from her was a little mild petting. And what had she received in return? A dream come true... She refused to complete the thought. Pride wouldn't let her. If she'd slept with him, she'd never have forgiven herself.

  Even so, there was a part of her that knew she'd never have forgotten it, either.

  The thought only made her angrier. "After all," she reminded herself scathingly, "forewarned is forearmed, and you can't say he didn't warn you. A one-night stand is probably the most a woman could ever hope for from a man like him. He probably doesn't even know the meaning of the word commitment!"

  Still, she was glad she was able to keep busy. She'd worked on the inside of her house during the dreary winter months, painting and papering the walls and the cupboards. The previous owners hadn't taken very good care of it. Nor had the salt air been particularly kind to the clapboard siding, but she'd had to put that off until summer. She'd spent the last couple of days scraping and meticulously sanding, taking advantage of the warm sunny weather. Today was her first day painting. It was shortly before noon, and she had finished nearly one whole side of the house.

  Laying the brush carefully across the bucket of paint, she wiped her hands on a rag and stepped back to admi
re her handiwork. The light blue-gray she'd chosen was a vast improvement over the peeling blistered shade of yellowed white it covered.

  "Not bad," she murmured approvingly, bending over to retrieve her brush. "Not bad at all—"

  "Especially not from this vantage point."

  The teasing voice came from behind her. There could be no question about its owner. Samantha froze. It was only when she realized the picture she presented that she slowly straightened.

  She faced Jason with a glare. "I'd appreciate it if you'd keep your sexist remarks to yourself!"

  "Touchy today, aren't we?" he murmured with a smile. "Would you believe it if I said I was talking about the paint job and not your—"

  She cut him off abruptly. "Not in the least!" She brushed by him toward the back door, resolutely ignoring the sudden lurch of her heart at the sight of him. He was dressed in jeans and a white V-necked pullover that intensified his tan and his dark masculinity.

  She scowled when she saw that he had followed her into the kitchen. "I don't remember inviting you inside," she said pointedly.

  He shrugged. "What's an invitation among friends?"

  "Friends? I wasn't aware that we were friends. You certainly don't seem to think so!"

  Jason stared at her for a moment. "You're angry," he said in some surprise.

  Samantha took a deep breath, prepared to tell him exactly what she thought of him. Even she was surprised at what came out. "Where have you been this past week?"

  "Why. . .I've been working." He blinked at the high-pitched demand.

  "Writing?"

  "Yes."

  "The whole time?"

  "Of course."

  She gazed at him for a moment, as if trying to decide whether or not to believe him. Then she turned and began to wash her hands in the sink, scrubbing furiously.

  "I'd take it easy if I were you. It's only skin."

  She only scrubbed the harder and darted an angry glance at him from the corner of her eye. He'd come to stand very near her, one lean hip resting against the edge of the counter.