Jack hunched over the ledger on his desk, making note of the number of cows he and Mike had counted on the home range in the past week. The winter had been brutal, yet healthy newborn calves were spilling right and left. It was shaping up to be a record year for shipping in the fall.
Behind him he heard the ring of the fax. He was expecting his business partner—the creative genius behind the Remington steak houses—to send him a proposal for next year’s advertising budget. Jack didn’t know the first thing about running a restaurant. Hell, he couldn’t even grill a steak, but he knew how to make money. He left the day-to-day operation of the restaurants up to Ben Richman, but he kept an eye on income and expense. Where money was concerned, he trusted his own judgment and no one else’s.
He pushed back the heavy oak chair and went to the fax, laughing when he saw the name of a familiar Palm Beach boutique on the invoice that came through. Over the years, he’d ordered dozens of gifts for his sister from Michel’s, and rarely a week went by that she didn’t purchase another trinket or two and send the bill to Jack. Lauren had more money than she knew what to do with, but she still got a kick out of spending his money on frivolous things.
Tearing his gaze from the invoice, he stood at the window and watched Beau practicing his roping skills on a fence post and anything that walked by. Poor old Rufus seemed to get the brunt of it, but the dog kept going back for more.
In the two weeks Beau had been at the ranch, Jack had taught his son how to ride everything from a swayback, aging mare, to a cantankerous stallion, how to rope almost like a pro, and how to handle a Stetson. The boy was a natural at everything. He listened. He learned. But he didn’t say much. Jack didn’t either. The relationship was strained, at best, and Jack didn’t have any idea how to make it better.
Maybe he should take up shopping, he thought. Hell, his sister seemed to take comfort in buying unnecessary frills. He tore the invoice from the fax machine. What had she purchased now? Emanuel Ungaro dress: $3,850; Gucci shoes and purse: $972; Voyage bra and panties: $320.
Jack ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head—$320 for underwear. Damn! He ordered boxers from JC Penney’s, and he could wear a new pair nearly every day for the next three months and still not pay as much as she had for a few skimpy pieces of silk.
He sure as hell hoped she wasn’t buying them to please Peter—but that was her business, not his.
The price of the earrings and bracelet she’d purchased were a blur as his mind turned back to the cost of running a ranch. He tossed the invoice on his desk and set his newly acquired paperweight—one lone shoe, size 9–1/2, that was nothing more than rhinestone straps affixed to a sole and four-inch heels—on top the other bills he needed to pay.
For a moment he allowed himself to think about red ringlets, the soft curve of a woman’s spine, whiskey-colored eyes, and a sweet, luscious mouth. Two weeks had gone by, yet he could still taste the champagne on her lips, and feel hard nipples and soft, full breasts burning through his shirt as he held her against his chest.
Damn, if his life hadn’t gotten complicated. He lusted after a woman who hadn’t called after receiving the roses he’d sent and his heartfelt note telling her he’d like to talk and get to know her better. On top of all that, he had a son he couldn’t talk to and a sister in Palm Beach who thought he was engaged to a beautiful redhead when, in truth, he was engaged to no one. The blasted shoe he was using as a paperweight served as a reminder to call Lauren and tell her the truth, and never again to pay a stranger to be his fiancée.
He picked up the phone. He was distracted now. He couldn’t think, which meant he couldn’t work, so he figured he might as well call his sister, wish her a happy birthday, and break the news.
What would she think of what he’d done? Would she cry? God, she’d cried so damn much when she was little, when their mother would go off on one of her escapades to Europe or South America, and leave Lauren with the servants. He remembered their long-distance phone conversations over the years. She always put up a front, trying to sound brave, but he could hear her fighting back sniffles and tears. She’d ask him what he was doing. She’d ask about Dad and Mike and Crosby. She’d even ask about the cows and horses, and at the end of every conversation tell him that she loved him, that she knew she could always rely on him, that she knew he’d never hurt her.
He’d blown it this time!
None of this would have happened if he’d told her the truth the night of her engagement party. But he’d been too damn worried about making her cry. Those tears would probably come tenfold now.
His grip had tightened on the receiver as he listened to the ring. Finally, the butler answered, and informed Jack that Mrs. Lancaster—her second husband’s last name—was out to dinner “with Mr. Leighton and Miss Fleming.”
Miss Fleming?
“She’s what?” Jack asked incredulously.
“They’re celebrating Mrs. Lancaster’s twenty-eighth birthday, Mr. Remington. Surely you hadn’t forgotten.”
“I didn’t forget her birthday. Who did you say she’s out with?”
“Mr. Leighton and Miss Fleming, your fiancée, sir.”
“Oh, hell!”
“Is there an emergency?” the butler asked. “They’ve gone to the country club. I would be happy to get in touch with Mrs. Lancaster for you.”
“No, that won’t be necessary. Just tell her to call me as soon as she comes home.”
“She and Mr. Leighton are leaving for London tonight, directly after dinner.”
“Miss Fleming isn’t going, too, is she?”
“I don’t believe so, sir. I believe Mrs. Lancaster said Miss Fleming would be returning to Denver early tomorrow morning.”
She would, would she?
“Thanks, Charles,” Jack said. “Next time you talk with my sister, tell her I called to wish her a happy birthday.”
“I’d be happy to tell her, sir.”
Jack hung up the phone and stared at the rhinestone shoe. What the hell was the redhead up to? he wondered. She’d easily taken his sixty-one hundred dollars. Was she now trying to get money from his sister?
He grabbed the phone again and called information. When he had the number for Antonio’s, he stabbed at the buttons on the phone while absently scanning the invoice again. He listened to the constant ring as he stared at the total: $7,857 and some change. When he realized it was after 9 P.M. in Palm Beach, he hung up the phone, but his eyes didn’t leave the invoice. Instead, they concentrated on the name carefully written at the bottom. Arabella Fleming.
“Damn her!” He ripped the invoice from under the shoe. Arabella signed her name in a flamboyant script. The redhead might be wild and engaging, but her handwriting was shaky and unrefined, and he planned to tell her, up close and personal, that he’d hog-tie her and brand her a con artist if she got within ten miles of his sister ever again.
Except for the black tux, Jack thought that Mr. Antonio looked more like a snake-oil salesman than the proprietor of a fine men’s store. He greeted Jack with one hand tucked in his pocket, the other extended flamboyantly in front of him.
“Good afternoon. I’m Mr. Antonio.”
Jack was in no mood for pleasantries, especially after the long flight to Palm Beach. “I need to speak with one of your employees.”
“Is there a problem, sir?”
“No. Not at the moment, anyway.”
“Messrs. Erickson and Hansen are with clients. Perhaps I could help you.”
“I’m looking for a woman.”
“I’m sorry, Mr.—”
“Remington. Jack Remington.”
“The restaurateur?”
Answering someone else’s question was the last thing Jack wanted to do, but he managed to nod.
“It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Remington. I’ve had the pleasure of eating in your Boca Raton steak house many times. The food is superb.” Mr. Antonio kissed his fingers and flung them into the air.
Jack wanted to punch his lights out.
“You have a redhead working for you. A female tailor named…Sam Jones.”
“Ah, yes. Miss Samantha Jones. I’ll apologize now for any grief she may have caused you a few weeks ago. But let me assure you, Mr. Remington, Antonio’s always stands behind its merchandise. If there’s any problem with your tux—”
“I don’t give a damn about the tux. I need to talk to Sam Jones.”
“She is no longer in my employ.”
“Then where can I find her?”
“I’m afraid Miss Jones was not the kind of woman I associated with; therefore, I was not inclined to keep an account of her where-abouts. She stole a sewing machine from me. Oh, she returned it the next day, and I was kind enough not to turn her in to the authorities, but I couldn’t have someone of her ilk working in my establishment.”
“Look,” Jack said, tired of Mr. Antonio and his attempts to cover his ass. “I need to find her, and in an establishment such as this, I’m sure you keep records on your employees. Social Security number? An address where you can send a W-2? A phone number for someone to call in case of emergency?”
“Perhaps.” The man fussed nervously with one of his cuff links. “Would you like some wine while I look?”
“No!”
Beads of sweat had built up along Mr. Antonio’s hairline. “I’ll see what I can find,” he said, his voice faint, almost strangled.
Jack followed the weasel of a man to an ornate, highly polished table at the farside of the room. He took a key from his pocket, opened a drawer, and pulled out a gray index file. “Let me see. Jones. Jones. Ah, here it is. Samantha Jones.” The man’s eyes flicked up toward Jack. “A Social Security number and post office box, nothing more. No phone number, either, but that doesn’t surprise me.”
“Why?” Jack asked, jotting the information down on a pad of paper he’d grabbed off Antonio’s desk.
“I fired her, in part, for spending her nights in the sewing room and bathing in the rest-room sink. Can you imagine?”
Jack glared at the man. “You’re telling me she lived here? That she might not have had anyplace else to stay?”
“I never asked. She had certain talents where tailoring was concerned. My clients never complained about her work, and I do not pry into the lives of my employees.”
“What about your other employees? Do you think any of them pried, or even took the time to get to know her?”
“Mr. Hansen, possibly.”
“Where’s he? In the back?”
“He’s with a client right now. I could ask him and get in touch—”
“I’ll ask him.”
Jack stalked across the room, through the swinging doors that led to a hallway lined with dressing rooms. He knocked on the first closed door but didn’t bother waiting for an answer. “Are you Mr. Hansen?” he asked, barging in and frightening the bald-headed man who had straight pins protruding from his mouth.
“Yes. May I help you?”
“Do you know where I can find Samantha Jones?”
The tailor stood slowly, pulling one pin from between his lips and then another. “No.”
“Do you know anything about her?”
“I haven’t seen or heard from her since she left a few weeks ago. Nice lady. A little down on her luck. She’d been living in her bug before she came here to work.”
“Her bug?”
“A battered orange Volkswagen.”
Jack stuck his hand in his pocket, pulled a hundred-dollar bill from his money clip, and slipped it into the tailor’s hand. “Thanks.”
Mr. Antonio was hot on his heels when he walked toward the front door. “Perhaps I could interest you in a new suit while you’re here, Mr. Remington. Why, just this morning I received a Tombolini that would look perfect on you.”
“Not interested,” Jack barked, then slammed through the glass door and headed for his rented Lincoln. The only thing he was interested in right now was finding Samantha Jones—thief, con artist, and…Hell! Homeless person.
The post office refused to give Jack any information. They wouldn’t even verify if the box number he’d given them did, in fact, belong to Samantha Jones. He wasn’t going to give up, though. How many orange VW bugs could there possibly be in West Palm Beach?
He’d picked up a map from the Chamber of Commerce and started his search, driving up one street and down another, the wheel in one hand and a cigar in the other. After an hour of searching, he took his cell phone and electronic address book from his briefcase and punched in the number for Wes Haskins, the same investigator he’d hired to check out Peter Leighton.
“I need you to find out everything you can about someone,” he told Wes. “Her name’s Samantha Jones.”
“You’re gonna have to give me more info than that.”
“Red hair. Five-nine, maybe five-ten. Slender.”
“What did she do? Break your heart?”
“Why I want to find her is no one’s business but my own. She used to be an actress in Hollywood. Played in some kind of dinner theater.”
“What else do you know about her?”
Not enough, Jack thought, and more bad stuff than I ever wanted to know. “She’s around twenty-five. Drives a beat-up orange VW bug and might be living in it now, somewhere around West Palm Beach.”
Jack gave Wes Samantha’s Social Security number, her post office box address, and all the other details he could remember, little things they’d talked about while she’d altered his tux, sat across from him in a limousine, danced in his arms. He had no idea what an investigation might turn up. Was she on the run from the law? Was Samantha Jones her real name? Was she married?
That last thought bothered him the most.
Deep inside, he hoped Wes would come up empty-handed. He’d spent a lifetime not trusting people, but for some reason, he didn’t want to believe the worst of Samantha Jones.
Eight hours later he was still driving the streets. He thought he had checked out every parking lot, every back alley, and every surface street in West Palm Beach. He’d counted twenty-three bugs. Five of them were the new models, the remaining seventeen were in various stages of decay or had been souped up with wide tires and bright paint—but not the color he was searching for.
There didn’t seem to be an orange bug anywhere in West Palm Beach.
At 1:00 A.M. he drove through the parking lot of Denny’s. He thought about stopping to get a cup of coffee, but he was tired and ready to head to the Breakers and catch a few hours’ sleep.
The lot was well lit and more cars than he’d expected at that hour filled the spaces. He was just about ready to pull back onto the street when he caught sight of a round headlight in his rearview mirror. He turned, and partially hidden behind a Dumpster at the back of the lot was an orange VW.
Backing up, Jack pulled the Lincoln close, got out, and checked the inside of the car. Half a dozen wire hangers holding an assortment of clothes were suspended from a rod mounted over the cramped backseat. A jumble of shoes rested on the floor. A pillow and folded blanket sat on the passenger seat, and on top of the bedding was a gold-and-black shopping bag marked Michel—a boutique in Palm Beach that was all too familiar to Jack.
Pay dirt.
Jack locked the Lincoln and headed for the coffee shop.
“Just one?” the hostess asked when he walked through the door.
Jack nodded. “Is there a Samantha Jones working here?”
“Sam? Sure,” the young girl answered. “Would you like to sit at her table?”
He nodded again, checking out the two women behind the counter with their backs to him. Sam was easy to pick out. She stood a good head taller than her coworker, and her flaming red hair could be seen a mile away.
“Is this okay?” The hostess set a menu on the table and smiled.
“It’s fine. Thanks.”
He slid into the booth, hung one arm over the back of the seat, and got comfortable. He wanted a clean view of Samantha Jones as she headed for his table.
She had a coffeepot in one hand and a glass of ice water in the other when she stepped out from behind the counter. The water sloshed onto the floor when their eyes connected.
“Evenin’, Sam.”
She let out a sigh, and he could easily see the rise and fall of her breasts beneath the white shirt and Denny’s tie. “I was wondering if you’d come looking for me.”
“You weren’t easy to find.”
Her hand was shaking when she set the glass of water on the table. “Coffee?”
“I’d prefer answers.”
She leaned across the table and turned over the mug. “The coffee’s good, and I’m busy.” Steam rose from the cup as she poured. He could tell she was trying to concentrate on the coffee, but her eyes peeked at him through thick lashes. “Have you had time to look at the menu?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You can’t sit here if you’re only going to have coffee. We need the tables for customers who want to eat.”
“Then give me a hamburger with fries.”
“How do you want it cooked?”
“Medium-well.”
“Onions?”
“No.”
“Would you like a salad, too?” she asked, scribbling down his order.
He stilled her hand. “What I want is to talk.”
She pulled away. “I can’t. It’s busy tonight, and I’ve got other customers to take care of.”
“When do you get off?”
“Four.”
He lounged back in the seat and lifted his cup of coffee. “I’m in no hurry.”
The skirt she wore was short and tight, and he couldn’t miss the provocative swing of her hips as she walked away. A thick braid hung down her back, and just then he wanted to pretend it was a rope and pull her back to his booth.
All in good time, he decided.
She must have walked by three or four times, clearing tables, delivering an armful of plates to another, not slowing down a moment. She didn’t take time to count the tips she shoved into her pocket, or to glare at him as he watched every sensual step she took.
Ten minutes later she delivered his plate.
He wasn’t interested in the food—only in her. “Looks good,” he said, watching the way she stared at the table instead of him.
“Thanks. More coffee?”
He put a contemplative finger to his lips, making her wait for an answer. “Do you have any apple pie to go with it?”
She rolled her eyes. “We had a run on apple earlier tonight. Is peach okay?”
He lifted the burger and held it close to his mouth, watching the way her pretty lips pursed in annoyance while she waited. Let her get angry. She’d made him angry when she’d walked out of his hotel room without saying good-bye. Let her see how it felt to be totally annoyed.
“I’m waiting for an answer, Jack. Do you want peach pie?”
“Do you have berry?”
“Only peach.”
“Well, I prefer apple, but I suppose peach will do.”
Again she filled his cup, but this time she didn’t bother watching what she was doing. Instead, she stared him right in the eye. “Are you going to make my life miserable all night?”
“That’s my plan.”
“Couldn’t you wait outside until four?”
“I prefer the view in here. If it’s a tip you’re worried about, don’t.”
“I don’t want a tip from you.”
“What about money for services rendered? What about clothes and jewelry?”
“I don’t want anything.”
“That’s a switch.”
She straightened, looking away as if she couldn’t face the animosity he knew was in his eyes. “I deserved that,” she whispered.
“Hey, miss,” a burly man called to her from two booths away. “Could I have some more coffee.”
“Be right there.”
Jack wasn’t hungry, but he managed to choke down the hamburger and fries as he watched every one of Sam’s moves. He didn’t know if she’d bolt, but he wanted to be ready to go after her if she did.
When Sam came back to the table, she slid a jumbo slice of peach pie in front of him. He hadn’t asked for ice cream, but there were two scoops on the side.
“Look, I’ll return the clothes,” she said, putting the glass coffeepot on the table and sliding into the seat across from him. “I’ll pay back every penny you paid me. It might take me a while, but—”
“Am I supposed to believe you?”
“Why shouldn’t you?”
“You promised you wouldn’t leave without me that night in Palm Beach, but you did.”
She laughed lightly. “And that makes me untrustworthy?”
“That and a whole series of things.”
“Such as?”
“Stealing a sewing machine.”
“I borrowed without asking. I don’t know how you found out about that, but obviously the person who told you left out the fact that I returned it the next day. I might be one step away from the poorhouse, but I don’t steal.”
“Then what do you call buying nearly eight thousand dollars worth of clothing and jewelry, including lingerie that must have been made out of gold, and charging all of it to me? And while we’re at it, what do you call going to the country club with my sister and pretending to be Arabella Fleming?”
“I call it saving your miserable ass.”
Jack couldn’t help but laugh. “Now that’s an excuse I don’t hear every day.”
Her pretty eyes narrowed into a frown. “Didn’t Lauren call you?”
“Why should she?”
“Because, Mr. Remington, your sister accidentally turned up at the espresso shop where I work when I’m not working here. It was her birthday, and she asked me to go shopping and have dinner with her. I said no, but she insisted. I don’t know how well you know your sister, but let me tell you, Jack, she doesn’t believe in the word no.”
“That doesn’t explain the clothes.”
“Miss,” someone at another table called, “could I have an ice tea?”
“One second,” she tossed over her shoulder, and leaned close. “Your sister insisted I buy the clothes and charge them to my fiancé. It was pretty obvious to me that you never told her the truth. What was I supposed to do? Screw up your little charade by telling her I don’t have a fiancé or the proper clothes to wear to a country club?”
She didn’t wait for him to respond. Instead, she slid out of the booth and walked away.
He watched her as she worked. She didn’t look the type who would perpetrate some clever scam, yet she’d fallen so damn easily into playing a role when he’d asked her to, and she’d picked it up again without missing a beat. She’d seemed hesitant about taking his money, so hesitant she’d made him think she was a troubled woman, then she’d plucked the money right out of his hands.
But, hell, when he was around her most all his anger drained out of him. She had a smile that warmed him and a way with words that made him want to spend every minute in her company.
She might be a con artist, then again she might not, but he found himself wanting to be the victim of any one of her schemes.
Fifteen minutes later she was back, and she slipped into the booth again. “I’ve got a ten-minute break. If you think you can be civil, I’ll keep you company.”
He pushed his cup of coffee toward her. “Want some?”
She took the cup in both hands and held it to her lips. “I thought you were going to tell Lauren the truth.”
“I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I’ve spent most of my life trying to make her happy.”
“She told me. She also said you sometimes do too much.”
“Old habits are hard to break. I tried calling her last night to tell her, but she’d already gone to London. I know I should have told her sooner, but I had other things on my mind.”
“What could have been more important than telling your sister about the crazy scheme you concocted?”
“A troubled son.”
She smiled softly, and damn if that smile didn’t come close to melting his heart. “I’m sorry.”
“Your mama didn’t by any chance have any sage advice about teenage boys, did she?”
“Only to stay away from them.”
“Good advice for a teenage girl, not good advice for a dad.”
Sam picked a cold french fry from his plate, swirled it in the catsup, and stuck it in her mouth. Her cheeks had filled out some since he’d seen her last. Working as a waitress instead of a tailor had obviously provided her with steady meals. Still, the dark circles beneath her eyes were far more visible than they’d been before, and he couldn’t help but wonder why.
“Have I answered all your questions?” she asked, before putting a second fry in her mouth.
“There’s only a few more.”
“Then ask away.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
She frowned in puzzlement. “I didn’t have your phone number.”
“It was in the note with the roses.”
The frown deepened. “Did you send me roses?”
He nodded. “To Antonio’s. A few days after you ran out on me.”
She bit her lip, looking a little contrite, as if all that had happened weighed heavy on her mind. “I didn’t get any roses. They must have come after I quit.”
“Quit? I heard a different story. Something about being fired because of the sewing machine.”
“The sewing machine wasn’t the reason. I took that after I was fired.”
He put an elbow on the table and rested his chin on his knuckles. He couldn’t help but grin. “Care to tell me the whole story?”
“It’s long. My break’s not.”
“Then give me the condensed version.”
She took a sip of his water and stared at the table as she spoke. She told him about getting fired, about taking the sewing machine, about needing a tip to tide her over until she could get another job. He could sense her embarrassment, but he felt nothing but compassion for her and her troubles, and concern that there was much more to the story, things he wished she would share.
When she finished, he reached across the table, sliding his fingers over hers. “What are you doing when you get off work?”
“Going home.”
“You don’t have far to go, do you? I saw the Volkswagen in the parking lot, Sam. I know where you live.”
Discomfort was plainly written on her face, and he knew her living conditions were another cause for embarrassment. Still, she offered him a smile. “It’s cozy.”
“So is my room at the Breakers. You could curl up there and sleep. Maybe have dinner with me later in the day.”
“I’m not into one-night stands. I don’t like one-day stands, either. Besides, we don’t have anything in common.”
“I thought we had a lot in common.”
“Such as?”
The cowboy part of him that had a tendency to fade when he stepped on Palm Beach soil kicked in. “You fit right nice in my arms when we’re dancing.”
“An inflatable doll would, too.”
“I’ve never tried kissing an inflatable doll, but I doubt they holler ‘stop’ just when things are getting good.”
“I hollered ‘stop’ because you were moving too fast.”
“What if we started over? Moved a little more slow? Dinner really does mean just that—dinner. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to.”
“It won’t work, Jack. You don’t trust me. More than likely you never will.”
“I’ll admit I’m not a trusting man, but I’ll also admit that I’ve been wrong about people before. Maybe we should give each other a second chance?”
“I don’t think so. We’re from two different worlds, and I don’t want to go somewhere that I don’t fit in.”
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a sapphire bracelet and earrings. “I’ve been carrying these around for two days now, scared to death someone would know I was carting around a few thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry. Lauren insisted I buy them.” Sam laughed, a sound that made him feel good, a sound he wanted to keep on hearing. “Your sister’s got great taste, but they’re not my style. I kind of go for plastic and thrift-store hand-me-downs, you know, things I can keep in my purse or the bug, things no one would bother to steal.”
Jack slipped his hand over her upturned palm. “Keep them,” he told her, but she shook her head as she pulled away, leaving only the sapphires in his grasp.
Pushing back the cuff on his shirt, she looked at his watch, and the simple brush of her fingers over the hair on his arms made him ache.
“My break’s over,” she said in a rush. “I’ve got to get back to work.”
“Dinner’s not a long-term commitment, Sam. Are you sure you won’t reconsider?”
“No.”
Rising, she took the check from her apron pocket and set it on the table.
“Waitress!”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Looks like duty calls.”
Her words rang with finality, but he wasn’t ready to give up. “You can push me away, Sam, but I’ll come back. I let someone important get away from me once. I won’t let it happen so easily this time.”
“Those are pretty words, Jack. But they’re only words. Actions speak so much louder. If you want to impress me, I need something more.”
“Such as?”
She laughed, and blew him a parting kiss. “For starters, you could leave a big tip.”