“Hey, Sam, there’s a phone call for you.”
“Be there in a minute,” Sam grumbled, when Tyrone called out to her from the kitchen. She cleared the table where Jack had been sitting a few minutes before, slapped down four new place settings, and stormed behind the counter, ready to do battle with anyone who got in her way.
What a fool she’d been! For the first time in her whole entire life a good man, someone downright decent—even though he’d inconveniently forgotten to leave a tip—had been interested in getting to know her better, and she’d pushed him away.
You’re crazy, Sam! Absolutely out of your mind.
She dumped Jack’s dirty dishes in a nearly full tub and stared at the peach pie he’d barely touched.
Maybe she wasn’t so crazy. She remembered her mama and the rich man who’d promised her fancy things. She also remembered her mama saying that women from the wrong side of the tracks were the forbidden fruit rich men craved. They’d take one bite, maybe two, then drop the remains in the gutter and go away.
Jack Remington might have wanted more than a one-night stand. He might have treated her to three or four nights of his time, maybe even days, but in the end, he’d go back to his mansion in Wyoming and she’d still be waiting tables at Denny’s.
She didn’t want to be the girl he loved and left behind. She didn’t want to get hurt by the only man who’d ever made the soles of her feet tingle. Her heart had wanted more, but self-preservation had won out in the end.
“Are you ever gonna take this call?” Tyrone growled.
She pushed through the swinging kitchen doors and grabbed the phone out of his hand, tossing him an apologetic smile. “Hello.”
“Good morning, Samantha.”
Johnnie Russo had picked the wrong moment to call. She’d made a habit of being polite and obedient to Johnnie in the past five and a half months. This morning, tired, cranky, and totally confused about her feelings for Jack Remington, she couldn’t be bothered with Johnnie and one of his all-too-frequent calls.
“What do you want?”
“Is that any way to talk to your benefactor?”
“It’s late, I’m exhausted, a millionaire just stiffed me on a tip, and no, I don’t have any money to send you.”
“You’re running out of time, sweetheart.”
“Don’t you think I know it? I told you I needed a few more weeks.”
“And I told you when you signed the contract that I don’t give extensions, no matter what the reason.”
“I’m working two jobs. I’m living in my car.”
“I know all that. I know about the Espresso Nook. I know about Denny’s. And I know about the KOA. By the way, I hear you play a mean game of volleyball.”
Sam leaned against the wall, almost ready to give in to defeat. She’d thought that putting three thousand miles between herself and Johnnie would keep her safe until the contract expired. Obviously, she’d thought wrong. “Are you having me followed?”
Johnnie sounded like a hyena when he laughed. “Just keeping tabs on you.”
“I’m not going anywhere. I told you I’d pay you back, and I meant it. So why don’t you get off my case.”
“Actually, all I want to do right now is deliver a message from an old friend of yours.”
Sam didn’t have to ask who. She knew perfectly well.
“Graham Welles said to tell you hello. He also said he’d be willing to pay off the contract if you’d be willing to come back to Hollywood.”
The mere thought of seeing either Graham Welles or Johnnie Russo again sickened her. “Tell him to go take a flying leap off the Hollywood sign.”
“He won’t be pleased.”
“I’m not worried about pleasing him, I’m worried about paying you. Now, if you don’t mind, I can’t make money if I’m talking on the phone.”
She hung up. Her insides began to shake as she started to think of the mistakes she’d made five months ago. She’d sought out Graham Welles when she should have known better. Mama had told her not to trust him, not to believe any rich man who promised the world. Yet she’d gone to him when her mama needed help. Gone to him and pleaded for his aid, only to have him ask for her body first. She’d made a promise to herself that she’d never sell her soul, and she’d come so close that night. So very close. But she couldn’t—not even for her mother.
She’d trusted Johnnie Russo, too. During a time of desperation she’d let down her defenses, fallen for big talk and a fancy smile, and gotten herself so deeply in debt to him that she now feared that in two weeks he’d claim her life as the balance she still owed.
And now Jack. There was a possibility that he might be more ruthless than either Graham or Johnnie. Jack Remington could easily steal her heart and, when he was through with it, toss it away.
Of all the worries in her life, that one seemed to bother her most.
“You got a problem?” Tyrone asked, staring at her as he cleaned the grill.
“Several,” she tossed back, trying to hide her fears behind a smile. “Thanks for asking.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
Tyrone stood a good six-foot-six. He must have weighed close to three hundred pounds and had arms the size of palm trees, but he was a pussycat at heart, and Johnnie Russo’s goons would chop him down in no time at all if he got in their way. Jack Remington might not appreciate his interference, either.
“It’s sweet of you to ask, Tyrone, but unless you have thirty-seven hundred dollars you can lend me, I guess I’ll have to take a rain check.” She grinned as she shoved away from the wall and left Tyrone’s kitchen.
By 3:30 the restaurant was virtually empty. This was the time of morning she usually asked Tyrone to fix her a big plate of biscuits and gravy, but she wasn’t hungry.
Grabbing the vacuum cleaner from the back room, she plugged it in and mindlessly pushed it over the carpet. She touched the scar on her jaw, and thought of Graham Welles. He’d ripped her blouse the night she’d gone to him, asking for money to help save her mama’s life. He’d laughed at her and called her a bitch. He’d hit her, and told Sam a whore like her mother was better off dead.
Graham’s opinions didn’t matter. Felicity Jones never talked about what drove her to the life she’d lived, and Sam had never asked. She’d never talked of the man who’d gotten her pregnant. She’d never complained about her lot in life. She’d just lived it.
And she’d loved her daughter.
Sam couldn’t have asked for a better mother, and her opinion was the only one that mattered.
She’d given her mother the finest funeral money could buy. She’d given her a granite headstone that would last an eternity and a plot of ground Felicity Jones could always claim as her own.
Going to Johnnie Russo for money had been foolish; he’d even told her so after the funeral. But she didn’t regret it at all.
Foolishness seemed to be part of her life.
Pushing Jack Remington away might have been her most foolish mistake so far.
Don’t think about it, she told herself. What’s done is done, so move on.
She continued to vacuum, moving chairs and tables, and pouring an occasional cup of coffee for the one or two people who straggled in and out.
At five till four she put the vacuum cleaner away. She was so darn tired, but she still had to go to the KOA and clean bathrooms. Taking her tote bag from her locker, she said good-bye to Tyrone, to the other waitress crazy enough to work this shift, and headed for the door.
It was dark outside. At the far end of the parking lot, right next to her bug, she could see someone rummaging through the Dumpster, and she waited in the light of the Denny’s sign for the man with the shopping cart to disappear.
She hated being out in the middle of the night. It made her feel vulnerable and alone.
A white van pulled to a stop in front of her, and the man behind the wheel stuck his head out the window. “Are you Samantha Jones?”
She grabbed the handle of the door and started to go back inside. She still had two weeks to pay off her loan, but maybe Johnnie had decided not to wait.
“Hey, don’t run away. You look like the lady I was told to deliver something to.”
As if that was supposed to make her feel better.
The guy looked at a white piece of paper fastened to a clipboard. “You are Samantha Jones, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” she said hesitantly.
“I thought so.” He climbed out of the van and slid open the side door. “I was told to deliver these to you and you only. The guy who bought them said you had long red hair and a killer body. You fit the bill.”
“Thanks,” she said, feeling a sudden blush touching her cheeks as she wondered who, besides Johnnie Russo, would send an unmarked delivery van out in the middle of the night with a driver who’d been ordered to give her something.
The man, who’d been leaning into the van, faced her, holding a bottle of Chivas Regal and a bouquet of roses. “These are for you. I told the guy he was crazy sending flowers and a bottle of booze at four in the morning, but he told me actions speak louder than words. Personally, I think he might have been drunk.”
Sam’s throat tightened as she took the whiskey and flowers. She made a valiant attempt to smile, but tears were already threatening.
“There’s a card, too.” The deliveryman dug an envelope out of his shirt pocket, handed it to Sam, then stuck the clipboard in front of her. “Could you sign this. I need to show I delivered everything.”
Sam’s fingers trembled as she set the gifts on the concrete. She kept the card clutched in one hand, and with the young man holding the board, signed her name.
He checked out the signature. “That ought to do it.” He climbed into the cab and slammed the door. “That cowboy sure went to a lot of trouble to have this delivered to you. Enjoy,” he said through the open window, and drove away.
With shaking fingers she drew a plain white note card from the envelope. A piece of paper was folded inside, and she opened it. One of Jack’s checks stared up at her. She angled it so she could see the writing in the light from the streetlamp. Her name was plainly written on the check, and a tear slid down her cheek when she saw one thousand dollars on the line below.
Her vision was blurred by the buildup of tears in her eyes, but she managed to read the note.
Sam,
Actions do speak louder than words. Yours send mixed messages, Whiskey, so I’ll have to check them out again.
For now, I hope you didn’t think I’d forgotten your tip.
Jack
She sat down on the pavement next to the whiskey and flowers, not bothering to hold back her tears. They dripped right off her face and splattered on Jack’s note. He’d given her two dozen beautiful roses. He’d given her the finest Scotch whiskey. He’d given her a thousand dollars.
Best of all, he’d given her hope that she’d see him again.
And he hadn’t asked for anything in return.