Fletcher's Baby Page 12

  “Sometimes I think it kicks all the time.” She shrugged lightly. “That’s not true, really. Sometimes, though, I think it’s nocturnal.” There was that smile again. “Kicks all night long.”

  “How do you sleep?” He pressed his hand flat against her belly and felt the tiny thumps.

  “Some nights I don’t.”

  She said it matter-of-factly. Not as a complaint. He hadn’t heard Josie complain once—not about the baby he’d left her with, not about the inn that Hattie hadn’t left her with, not about anything. He drew her back against him and pressed a kiss on her shoulder. Her skin was so soft and smooth. He wanted—He wanted—

  He groaned and dragged himself away. “Let me help you out of that,” he said gruffly, keeping his eyes averted.

  It didn’t matter what he wanted. He couldn’t have it.

  Awkwardly Josie got off the bed, and Sam helped her strip off the gown. He made sure his movements were perfunctory. He didn’t let his fingers linger against her soft flesh. He didn’t let his hand trail down the length of her spine to the hollow at its base. He tried not to touch more than necessary. He tried not to breathe at all.

  Josie certainly did her part. She kept her back to him the whole while, then took the robe he held out and scurried into the bathroom without looking at him. “I can manage the rest myself,” she said, not even looking back.

  Sam told himself it was just as well. He breathed again, reminding himself that lusting after Josie was an exercise in frustration. He couldn’t have her. He shouldn’t want her.

  He told himself to make his bed on the floor and be glad for it. He did. It worked until she came back.

  The moment she walked across the room, stripped off her robe and climbed into the queen-size bed, only to look at him sweetly and say, “Thank you, Sam. For everything,” all the desire he thought he’d tamped down rose strong and hard and aching once again.

  He cleared his throat. “You don’t have much to thank me for,” he said hoarsely.

  “For today,” she said simply.

  He shut his eyes. Today wasn’t over yet.

  It was, despite everything, one of the most memorable moments in Josie’s life. Sam had stood up in front of his mother, a minister, friends and relatives, and had taken his vows with her. He’d given no indication that things weren’t exactly what they seemed. Everyone undoubtedly thought they were snugly ensconced in the Captain’s Quarters, wrapped in each other’s arms.

  No one knew the groom was sleeping on the floor.

  Josie rolled onto her side now so that she could look at him. He was lying on his back, his arms folded under his head. She knew he wasn’t asleep. She didn’t know if he thought she was. Probably he hoped so.

  She saw him flex his shoulders, then hunch them and roll over, nudging the floor, as if by doing so he could make it softer, more comfortable.

  “Sam?”

  He went totally still. She couldn’t even see him breathing now. She edged closer to the side of the bed.

  “Sam?”

  “What?” Then suddenly he rolled to a sitting position and looked at her intently in the moonlight. “What’s wrong? Are the contractions worse?”

  Josie shook her head. “No. They’ve stopped. I...” She hesitated, then plunged on, “I wondered if you wanted to share the bed.”

  “What?”

  She recoiled at the harshness in his voice. “I just thought...never mind,” she said, turning away again, lying back down. Why had she thought he might? He wasn’t drunk tonight.

  She heard him get up and thought he was going to leave. Then she felt a hand on her shoulder. His touch was light, so light she thought for a moment she was imagining it. Then he curved his fingers and tugged so that she was forced to resist or turn to face him.

  “You want...?” His voice trailed off. She saw him swallow. Was it that distasteful? she wondered.

  “I said, never mind,” she replied, her tone fierce. She turned away from him. But the next instant she felt the duvet jerked back and the bed sink slightly as Sam slid in beside her. He didn’t just lie on his side, either. He spooned his body next to hers, so that they lay hard and warm together, the two of them.

  Like lovers.

  Josie felt his arm steal around her and she closed her hand over his, holding it fast against her belly. His breath came short and quick, stirring her hair, tickling her ear. She wriggled and the movement of her body rubbed his. And she felt him respond, felt the very obvious need in him press up against her.

  It made her glad—and sad at the same time. It meant that his desire was not a one-time thing.

  But the satisfaction of it would be.

  “I can’t—” she whispered, agonized. “The doctor said—”

  “I know.” His fingers tightened around hers. He pressed in more tightly still. His voice was aching, ragged. “I know.”

  “I can... I would... If you want... If you need...” Her voice faltered. Her cheeks warmed. She couldn’t find the words to tell him what she would do for him if he wanted her to.

  He turned his hand so that his fingers laced with hers. “It’s all right. Go to sleep.”

  She looked at him wonderingly. “You’re sure.”

  “I’m sure.”

  He was sure he’d die of frustration.

  He was sure he had a terminal case of sexual excitement which constant exposure to Josie Nolan—no, Josie Fletcher—only made worse.

  He should damned well stay away from her!

  He couldn’t do it.

  Even after his relatives had scattered and his mother went back to New York and the guests returned in force, he couldn’t go back to Coleman’s Room and leave her alone in the library.

  He told himself it was because he’d be too far away if she needed something in the night. If she started having contractions for real, he would have to be there. He told himself it was because their guests would think it odd if they saw him coming out of Coleman’s Room in the morning when it was clear that Josie was spending the nights in the library. Newly married couples didn’t sleep two floors apart.

  He told himself God would approve of him spending his nights with Josie—He would be glad Sam was suffering for his sins.

  He was also, perversely, loving every minute of it.

  He even stayed with her during the day. He went up to Coleman’s Room to contend with whatever problems Elinor faxed or phoned his way from his New York office. But as soon as he could, he brought his portable phone or some paperwork downstairs so he could “keep an eye on Josie.”

  The same reasons applied, of course. How could she get ahold of him if she needed him?

  “Buy a pager,” Benjamin suggested.

  “No,” Sam said.

  And that was that. Besides, he needed to make sure she didn’t do too much. She was quite capable of thinking that she could do everything she’d done before she’d become pregnant. She still tried to do all the cleaning that she could on the main floor. And she would have tried to do the rest—and the laundry—if Sam hadn’t insisted on hiring two high school students to come in and strip the beds, do the wash and remake up the rooms every day.

  “How do I know they’re doing a good job?” she complained the first day. “I can’t even supervise them.”

  “I’ll make sure they’re doing it right.”

  “How do I know you’ll know a good job?”

  He looked down his nose at her. “I can tell a well-made bed as well as the next man.”

  Josie rolled her eyes. “Exactly what I’m afraid of.”

  “You’ve met my mother. Do you think she would tolerate less than hospital corners on every bed?”

  “Well, all right.” Josie gave in. Amelia’s standards were nothing short of exacting. “But you have to check under the beds, too. No dust fuzzies. And make sure the towels are hung straight. And every room has fresh flowers. Two soaps. A lotion. A shampoo. A shoe-shining rag.”

  Sam made a list. He saluted.


  She stuck her tongue out at him.

  Then, when he was just about out of the room, she called after him, “What about your work? How can you spare time for mine? You have your own work to do.”

  “I’ll manage.”

  “Can’t I help you?”

  He hesitated. But she looked at him so hopefully, so willingly, that he shrugged. “Maybe.”

  It was easier, he assured himself several times over the next week and a half, to let Josie do what she could to take some of the burden of his work while he did what she needed done in the inn.

  He hadn’t counted on her being quite so interested in the items he imported or the people who made them. Her questions were tentative at first, but became increasingly eager as he provided answers. He discovered how much he enjoyed sharing his enthusiasm for a particular artist or artisan. When he wasn’t repainting the porch ceiling or sorting out guests or unplugging a sink, he drifted back to the library just to talk to her, to explain the whys and wherefores of the business and to regale her with stories about some of the craftspeople and artists he met during his trips.

  It entertained her. It kept her from thinking about all the things she couldn’t do since she was confined to the main floor of the house. It also pleased him. He liked seeing her eyes sparkle with enthusiasm. He liked the questions she asked, the quick curiosity she showed.

  He caught himself about to say, I could show you, once when he was telling her about a Thai village he’d visited in pursuit of some particularly wonderful textiles. He didn’t say it.

  But, even though he swallowed the words, he wanted to take her there. And he wanted to show her the tiny shops in Hong Kong he frequented and the art dealer in Bali who kept his eye open for perfect pieces of art. He longed to be able to watch her face as she saw for the first time all the places that were common to him now.

  But he wouldn’t, because he would never take her there.

  Theirs was a marriage of months, not years. Of convenience, not love. He was giving their child a name. He was giving Josie moral support at a difficult time. He was giving her a secure financial future.

  He wasn’t giving her forever.

  It was just a matter of time, and she knew it. She had weeks with Sam. Months, maybe. That was all. She knew it.

  She just wished her heart realized it, too.

  It was easy to intellectualize, to tell herself that theirs wasn’t a real marriage, that it would end in a matter of months or maybe even weeks, that there would come a time when Sam would be her child’s father, but no longer her husband. It was even easy to believe it—in her mind. Not in her heart.

  Her heart beat faster every time Sam came into the room. Her mouth smiled more often—every time, in fact, he slipped his arms around her in the dark of night. Her body grew soft and welcoming in the embrace of his. Even her mind began to betray her, to pretend that he loved her the way she couldn’t stop loving him.

  It was foolishness. Insanity. Impossible.

  And yet she couldn’t stop.

  She asked herself why, if he didn’t love her, he came to her every night and held her in his arms. She answered that he felt obliged to stay close so he could hear her call if she needed him to get her to the hospital. But he could have brought in a rollaway bed. He could have simply taken one cellular phone upstairs with him and told her to call him on the other one.

  He could have. But he didn’t.

  He could have given her short answers to her questions about the objects he imported and the people who made them. He could have answered in monosyllables, instead of pulling up a chair and telling her tales of Singapore and Chiang Mai and Hokkaido and Bali.

  He could have. But he didn’t.

  And so her heart began to sing. Her mouth continued to smile. Her mind began to hope.

  If he didn’t care for her, why had he got so upset that afternoon when he’d come downstairs from putting new glass in the skylight over Anna’s Room to find Kurt in the kitchen drinking coffee with her.

  He had stopped stock-still in the doorway, his normally cheerful greeting swallowed in the scowl that accompanied his sighting of Kurt.

  “What the hell is he doing here?”

  Josie, who had been smiling at one of Kurt’s long-winded narratives about his flock, had blinked at Sam’s ferocity. “Just visiting.”

  “I came to ask her to type a paper for me,” Kurt said, always honest and forever, it seemed, oblivious.

  “She can’t.”

  Kurt stared at him. “But... she just said she would.”

  “She won’t.”

  “But—”

  Sam pointed at the paper sitting on the table in front of Josie. “Give it back to him,” he said.

  “It won’t take me long,” she protested. She had no desire to type the paper for Kurt. She hadn’t seen him for a month—since the last time she’d typed something for him. She’d begun to realize she was well off without him. But there was something in Sam’s tone, in the possessiveness of the way he was looking at her, that made her want to challenge him.

  Or to understand him.

  Was he jealous? Surely not. But then...

  “Give it back.” Sam said the words through his teeth. His fingers curled into fists at his sides. He looked strained and tired and sweaty and irritable. He looked as if he might take the top of Kurt’s head off and enjoy it very much.

  She picked up the paper and held it out to Kurt. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I guess I won’t have time right now.”

  Kurt looked from one to the other of them, clearly baffled by the dynamic between the usually unflappable Josie and the man she had married. “But you’re just sitting around,” he said, puzzled.

  It was not the right thing to say.

  Sam was halfway across the room before Josie got out of her chair. She managed—just barely—to get between him and the still oblivious Kurt.

  “I think there must be some work that Sam wants me to do,” she said to Kurt. “You know, I told you I was working for him.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And it was lovely of you to drop by, but we ought to get started.” She kept turning, keeping her face to Sam and her back to Kurt as Sam’s path arced around her.

  “I just got here,” Kurt protested.

  “Well, you can’t stay.” She was behind his chair now, doing her best to tug it out away from the table and send him on his way.

  “Why not?”

  Because if you value your life, you’ll leave now. “Because Sam and I have work to do.” She kicked Kurt’s ankle.

  “Ow.” He bent to rub his ankle. Josie kicked his hand.

  Finally he got the point. “Right. I, um, do have to be on my way.” Scowling at her, he shoved his chair back and got up. He still had the paper in his hand and was looking at it as if trying to figure out how to leave it behind when he went.

  “Don’t forget your paper,” Josie said firmly, herding him toward the door.

  “No, don’t,” Sam said in a steely voice behind her.

  Kurt looked from one to the other of them, then gave Josie what looked like one last hopeful smile. “See you soon?”

  “Of course.” She opened the door and practically shoved him through it.

  Sam said, “Not on your life.”

  He had never wanted to take apart another man before. Not piece by piece. He’d never wanted to blacken anyone’s eyes or shove anyone’s teeth down his throat.

  Obviously there was a first time for everything.

  And over what? Sam asked himself. It wasn’t as if he’d caught them in a compromising position. They’d been in the kitchen, for heaven’s sake! Fully clothed! Josie had even been wearing an apron.

  But she’d been going to type Kurt’s paper. She’d been going to let him back in her life. See him again. Talk to him.

  And then what?

  They’d never know, Sam vowed. Because he wasn’t letting it get that far! Josie was, damn it all, his wife!

 
For now.

  He stood on the edge of the bluff and jammed his hands in his jeans pockets. He hunched his shoulders and scowled out across the city. He rocked back on his heels, then stared down at his feet and drew one deep lungful of air after another.

  “For now,” he said aloud. “Just for now.”

  So what do you care what she does?

  He didn’t.

  Did he?

  Of course not. It was hardly a love-match. Not for either of them. Josie didn’t love him any more than he loved her. It was just frustration that had had him jumping down Kurt Masters’s throat.

  Sexual frustration.

  He needed a woman.

  He had a woman.

  He had a wife.

  That was the trouble.

  CHAPTER NINE

  SHE was the last person he’d expected to hear from when he picked up the phone that evening. “The Shields House,” he said in his best innkeeper’s voice.

  “Sam?” He heard disbelief. Incredulity. Amazement. Followed by giggles. “Is that you?”

  “Izzy?”

  Another giggle. “C’est moi. How are you? I’ve been trying to call you for a week! Then I got brave and called your mother.” Dramatic pause. “She told me you were in Dubuque.”

  “I’m in Dubuque,” Sam verified. There was a pause. One second. Two. Three. He could almost hear the vibrations coming through the line, but he knew Izzy would wait forever before she said anything else.

  So he said it for her. “I’m married.”

  “That’s what she told me! How great! Oh, I’m so happy for you!”

  No doubt she was. Knowing the extent of Izzy’s ingenuousness, he was willing to bet she thought this was a love-match, that he and Josie had fallen as fast and as hard as she and Finn had.

  “Finn didn’t believe me when I told him,” Izzy went on cheerfully. “Until I told him about the bab—Oops! I mean, well...” There was a typical Izzy pause for embarrassment. “Oh, Sam, I always say the wrong thing! I didn’t mean to imply—”

  “I know.” Even though it was the truth and even though another woman would have. There wasn’t a spiteful bone in Izzy Rule‘s—no, Izzy MacCauley’s—body. Sam knew that. All the same, he didn’t want people saying he’d only married Josie because of the baby—even if it was true. “And now Finn believes it?” he asked dryly.