Any sunday, p.8
Any Sunday, page 8
“I am, too,” Sam agreed, and turned her toward him. He wanted to kiss her again, taste her sweetness and experience once again that special power she possessed that filled him with such energy.
It was a long time before Marjorie saw any more of the movie. Or cared.
Six
“You aren’t going to let Al get away with it, are you?” Lydia cried in outrage, indignation flushing her cheeks.
Marjorie didn’t need to be angry about Al Swanson’s latest attempt to steal a customer from her; Lydia was furious enough for the both of them. “Bud will be the one to decide.”
“But you know Al is lying.”
“It’s my word against his, and unfortunately Bud’s only the manager, not Solomon.”
“But it’s so unfair.”
“Tell me about it,” Marjorie grumbled.
Once again Al had tried to horn in on her deal. Only this time he’d succeeded. Marjorie had spoken to a couple about an AMG E63 sedan, worked with them, called twice to keep them interested, and even rode with them as they went on four different test drives in order to answer their numerous questions. The last time, the couple had gone home to sleep on the decision, and then they returned the following day with a deposit. Al had met them at the door, claimed Marjorie had stepped out of the office, and they had accepted his offer to write up the deal on her behalf. This was the same trick he’d used once before, only this time it worked. Once the paperwork was firmly clenched in his hand, Marjorie didn’t have a leg to stand on. She had complained to the manager, insisted she had been at the dealership and not out, as Al had alleged. Since Bud had been gone and there wasn’t anyone to verify her story, things didn’t look good for her. But she knew the manager wasn’t completely naïve when it came to Al. She was certain he’d heard complaints from several of the other salespeople. Bud’s fair assessment of the situation was Marjorie’s only real hope. Sadly, Al’s name was on the paperwork.
The commission scale was based on how much profit the dealership made on the sale of each new car. Marjorie collected thirty percent commission. In this case she’d worked hard to give the couple the best deal possible. Her share was meager enough. If forced to split her commission with Al, she would have worked long, hard hours for practically nothing. Everything rested on Bud’s decision.
“But Bud doesn’t know Al the way we do,” Lydia continued insistently.
Marjorie studied her friend and was hard-pressed to hold back her own indignation. Al might think he was getting away with something, but if she had anything to do with it, the cheating salesperson would spend the next fifty years regretting his underhandedness. Given enough time, karma was bound to catch up to him sooner or later, and she intended to be around to see it happen.
“If he’s tried those things with me, you know he’s done it with the others,” she said thoughtfully after a while. Yes, she was furious, but losing her cool wouldn’t solve anything.
“It’s the meantime that I’m worried about,” Lydia mumbled, crossing her arms righteously over her chest. “When’s Bud going to let you know?”
Marjorie glanced at her watch. “As soon as he gets in.”
The low hum of the intercom caught their attention. “Marjorie, call on line three. Marjorie—line three.”
“I better get that,” Marjorie mumbled, and sighed. “It could mean another sale.”
“Not if Al can get his greedy hands on it,” Lydia responded sourly, and returned to her place behind the customer-service counter.
With her friend’s words ringing in her ears, Marjorie walked over to her office and reached for the phone. “Marjorie Majors,” she said in a cordial, businesslike tone.
“Dr. Sam Bretton here,” Sam returned.
She sat down and propped her elbows on the desktop. A rush of pleasure washed over her, taking with it some of the bitter aftertaste of Al’s trickery. “Hello.”
“I was just thinking about you.”
“Oh?” She knew that she sounded about as intelligent as mold, but he’d taken her by surprise.
“I just returned from the hospital, and my first appointment isn’t scheduled for another five minutes, so I thought I’d give you a call. You don’t mind, do you?”
“No…it’s a pleasant surprise.”
“How’s your day going?”
“Fair.” It would have been much better if things were settled between her and Al, but none of this mess was Sam’s problem. “How about your morning?”
“Hectic, as always.” Actually, he’d been preoccupied, thinking about Marjorie and angry with himself for not setting a date for their next…well, date. He’d left her apartment feeling exhilarated and excited. They’d sat and talked long after the movie had finished, easily drifting from one subject to another. She was well read and knowledgeable about current affairs. He’d found her opinions insightful and intelligent, and marveled that he’d found a woman who stirred his heart as well as his mind. So she didn’t cook; he could deal with that. He enjoyed her company, relished their time together, and longed to see her again soon. Unfortunately, his head had been in the clouds, and he hadn’t thought to make plans. He’d tried calling her apartment, but she’d already left for work. He knew she worked long hours and decided his best chance of catching her was at Dixon’s. He didn’t want to wait another two days to see her again.
“I suppose I should apologize for last night,” she said softly.
“Why?” Something was wrong. Sam could detect the subtle difference in her voice. Whatever it was, he hoped she would share it with him.
“I feel bad about not being able to offer you anything more appetizing than microwave popcorn.”
“I can’t remember when I’ve enjoyed a meal more.”
Marjorie was sure that couldn’t be true. No doubt there were a thousand nurses out there who longed to lure him into their arms with warm chocolate-chip cookies straight from the oven. Her microwave couldn’t hope to compete with all the talented, domestically inclined women who wanted him.
“Are you free tonight?” he asked, thinking about taking her to the waterfront for a lobster dinner. He wanted to wine and dine her, and give her an evening she would remember for the rest of her life. He thought about bringing her to his home and showing her his view of Commencement Bay. He wanted to sit by the fireplace with her and watch the flickering light dance over her face.
“Tonight?” she asked, confused by the unexpected invitation.
Sooner, if possible, Sam thought, but he knew his schedule wouldn’t allow it.
“Actually, I’m working late, so maybe—”
“What time do you get off?”
She wished he wasn’t so insistent. With Bud’s decision hanging over her head, she needed some time alone to clear her thoughts. When she was with Sam, she wanted to look and feel her best. “Would it be all right if I called you next week sometime?”
Sam’s breath caught at the implication. There wasn’t a woman alive who threw him off course with as much ease as Marjorie. Just when he was prepared to overlook her flaws and lay his heart at her feet, she made it sound as though going to dinner with him was an inconvenience.
“Sure,” he returned flippantly. “You call me. That won’t be any problem.”
But it was, and Marjorie recognized it from his stiff tone. She had just opened her mouth to explain when he spoke again.
“Listen, I’ve got to get back to my patients. We’ll talk soon.” He was eager to get off the phone. The entire conversation had left a bad taste in his mouth. He’d read Marjorie wrong, read everything wrong. It wasn’t the first time she’d led him astray. The stock market was more predictable than Marjorie Majors.
“Right.” But her voice was barely audible. “Good-bye, Sam. Thanks for calling.”
He didn’t answer, and she bit her bottom lip to keep from shouting that she would love to see him any night, any time, if only she didn’t have this mess with Al to settle first. The phone went dead, and Marjorie felt physically ill. She’d ruined everything.
The polite knock outside her office lifted her from the pit of despair.
“It’s only me,” Lydia said, opening the door and peeking inside. “Hey, you look like you just lost your best friend. What happened? Another deal fall through?”
The words congealed in Marjorie’s throat, and it took a few moments for her to unscramble her thoughts. “That was Sam.”
“Dr. Sam?”
It was all Marjorie could do to nod. “I blew it.”
“Oh good grief,” Lydia said. “Not again.”
Marjorie dropped her gaze to the floor. “I’m afraid so.”
“What did you do?”
“He suggested we get together tonight, and I said I was busy and that it would be better if I contacted him next week.”
A moment of stunned silence followed.
“You didn’t! Tell me you didn’t say that!” Lydia marched into the room and pressed both hands on top of Marjorie’s desk, leaning forward so that their faces were scant inches apart. “If the two of you ever get together, I swear it will be a miracle. What made you put him off that way?”
“I don’t know. This thing with Al’s really got me down, and I wanted Sam to see me at my best, not my worst.”
Lydia closed her eyes and slowly shook her head. “I’ve got more bad news for you.”
“What’s that?”
“Bud’s here,” Lydia announced starkly. “And he’s in one hell of a bad mood. He wants to see you right away.”
* * *
—
Even before Marjorie left the dealership at a quarter after nine, she knew she wasn’t heading home. Sam’s Brown’s Point address was tucked safely away in her purse, and she had every intention of talking to him before she did anything else. Maybe she could undo some of the damage.
She located the house without a problem, pulled into the wide driveway, and turned off her engine. Sam’s home was a magnificent sprawling ranch house made of used brick. Huge picture windows faced the street.
Her heart was pounding like a locomotive chugging uphill. Now she understood what courage it had taken for him to arrive unannounced at her apartment. She didn’t often do this sort of thing, and the need to swallow her pride made it all the more difficult.
While her conviction held, she climbed out of the car and marched up to his front door like a soldier making her way to the front of a firing squad. Her hand faltered as she rang the bell.
She heard Sam’s footsteps long before the door was opened.
“Marjorie.” He blinked, certain she was a figment of his imagination.
“I know I should have called, but…”
“No,” he said, and smiled that slow, sexy smile of his as he stepped aside. “Come in, please.”
Relieved by his warm welcome, she entered his home. The first thing that she noticed when he led her into the huge, tiled entryway was the large, unobstructed view of Commencement Bay from the floor-to-ceiling living room windows. The twinkling lights of barges and ferryboats lit up the inky black night and reflected off the water.
“Oh Sam,” she said, her voice low in wonder. “This is so beautiful…It’s marvelous.” Words failed her, and she simply stared into the night.
“I love it, too.” He didn’t know what had brought her here, and he didn’t care. She’d been on his mind all day. He regretted the abrupt way in which he’d ended their telephone conversation, and all because his fragile ego had been pricked. Most of the evening had been spent trying to come up with a way to see her again and preserve both his pride and hers.
“Sam,” she said, tearing her gaze from the water and turning to face him. Her features were strained with an expression of practiced poise. “I’ve come to apologize for this morning.”
“No,” he countered quickly, sensing her apprehension. “I should be the one to do that.” The appeal in her gaze cut a path straight to his heart, but he kept his own features tightly controlled.
“You?” she said, and laughed shortly. “I was the one who was rude.”
“Something was troubling you. I knew it the minute you spoke.” He longed to ease whatever was bothering her and kicked himself more than once for having been such a fool.
Her eyes narrowed as she studied him. If Sam found her so readable, it would be difficult to hide anything from him.
“Come in and relax,” he offered, leading her into the living room. The white leather couch was L-shaped, and decorated with several huge pillows in brilliant shades of blue to complement the plush carpet.
Marjorie sat, and her gaze drifted once more to the panoramic view of Commencement Bay. Just being here with Sam soothed her. All day she’d been battling her resentment toward Al and what the loss of this commission would mean to her already strained budget.
“Do you want to tell me about it?” Sam asked, taking a seat beside her.
Marjorie nodded. “I owe you that much, at least.” For the next half-hour she explained what had happened with Al—though she was careful not to name names—and how his devious methods had cheated her out of half the commission. By the time she’d finished, Sam was pacing in front of the coffee table with barely restrained anger. The corners of his mouth were pinched and white, his hands knotted in tight fists.
“What’s being done about this?” he demanded.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” Sam repeated incredulously.
“The decision’s already been made.”
“But he lied.”
“I know that, and so does nearly everyone else, but it’s his name on the contract, so he’s entitled to a commission no matter how much time I spent with those people. At least my protest to the manager earned me half of it. That’s the way things are done in sales.”
It had been a long time since Sam had felt this angry. He wanted to find Marjorie’s coworker in a dark alley some night and teach him a lesson. The intensity of his fury shocked him; he hated unnecessary violence.
“I’ll take care of this for you,” Sam said without any real plan in mind. He knew how hard Marjorie worked—the long hours with few free weekends. She’d climbed her way up the sales ladder and deserved to be a success. The last thing she needed was someone sabotaging her efforts. The burning desire to protect her seared through him like a surgical laser beam.
“Sam, please. I’m a big girl, I’ll find a solution my own way.”
“No.” He shook his head once, hard. “I want to handle this.”
“Sam.” His reaction wasn’t a joke, she realized. If she’d known this was the way he was going to be, then she wouldn’t have told him about Al. As it was, she was glad she’d been careful not to mention Al’s name. “Listen to me. I appreciate your concern, but I don’t involve myself in your business, so I’m asking you not to interfere in mine. Things have a way of working themselves out.”
“But this heel deserves—”
“Everything he’s going to get.” She stood and placed her hand on his forearm. “I don’t need anyone to rescue me. I’ve been on my own for a long time now. This guy hasn’t made many friends at Dixon. He won’t last long.”
“You’re sure?” At her nod, Sam relaxed a bit. “Have you eaten yet?”
“No,” she answered with a smile, surprised to realize how hungry she was. “Are you offering to feed me?”
“Better than that,” he answered with a slow, sensuous grin that edged his strong, well-shaped mouth upward. “I’m willing to cook for you.”
Just looking at Sam made Marjorie feel light-headed. She could drown in those appealing eyes of his, dark, deep, penetrating.
“Follow me,” he instructed, taking her hand and leading her into his kitchen. He was a good cook and thought he might be able to teach her a thing or two.
Sam’s kitchen was huge and equipped with every modern convenience. An island with restaurant-quality gas burners was set up in the middle of the expansive floor. A wide assortment of copper pots, pans, and skillets was suspended from the ceiling above the island.
“Wow,” Marjorie said, and released a slow, wondering breath. “You must be some chef.”
“I try.” He pulled out a stool for her to sit on. “First things first.” With that he opened the wine refrigerator and, with little hesitation, drew out a bottle, then chose two tall wineglasses from a cabinet.
Expertly he removed the cork and poured them each a glass, pausing to taste his first. He gave his approval before handing the second glass to Marjorie.
While she sipped her Chablis, Sam set to work with a huge wok, a large supply of fresh vegetables, and a sharp cleaver.
It had been hours since she’d last eaten, and the first glass of wine went straight to her head. “Here, let me help,” she offered, slipping off the stool.
“No you don’t. You’re my guest,” Sam insisted, noting the way her cheeks were reddening. She was already a little tipsy.
He refilled her glass, and she sat down again and took another sip. “So you don’t want my help. Have you been talking to the fire department?”
“No.” Sam chuckled and set about slicing the vegetables in neat, even sections. “This is a recipe a friend of mine from Hong Kong taught me several years back. It’s authentic and delicious.”
“Is there anything you can’t do?” she asked, only a little intimidated.
“A few things.”
She sighed, crossed her legs, and sipped some more wine. “My grandmother used to do all the cooking.”
“Your grandmother?” he prompted. She rarely talked about her childhood, he’d noticed.
“Jody and I went to live with her after Mom and Dad were killed in a car accident.”
“How old were you?”
