Silent Warrior: A Loveswept Classic Romance (25 page)

“Oh, please. Like he wants anything to do with me. And I’m not moving to Nevada, anyway. Besides, I’d have to deal with Deana, and I’m not the stepmother type.”

Lana laughed in between bites of her roll. “We hear you, Callie. How many more excuses can you come up with? But I never have understood what you have against Nevada. I wouldn’t mind going to live on a big ol’ ranch.”

“Then you marry Sam,” Callie teased.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t do that. I’m waiting for my policeman.”

Millicent frowned disapprovingly at her friends’ ridicule of a subject she took quite seriously.

Their food arrived, and the conversation turned to more mundane matters. But Millicent didn’t want to let the matter of Theodora’s predictions drop. “Callie, won’t you at least consider spending some time with Sam while he’s in town? Y’all have both grown up a lot. Things might be different.”

Callie pushed aside her half-eaten turkey sandwich. “Millicent, I know you want everyone to be happy, but I’m not interested in Sam anymore.” Never mind that not an hour had gone by in the last twenty-four that she
hadn’t thought about how his hands had felt on her. “He means nothing to me.”

“Well, in that case, here comes nothing,” Lana said in a wary voice.

Callie followed her friend’s gaze. Sure enough, there was Sam Sanger walking through the restaurant, bearing down on their table. His work jeans and battered boots looked out of place in the frilly, feminine tearoom.

“Oh, no,” she murmured, bowing her head and pretending to study the dessert menu. Maybe he would walk on by and not see her.

“Afternoon, ladies.”

“Hi, Sam,” Millicent said with her best smile. She reintroduced Lana, and when their murmured greetings were barely out of their mouths, she added, “Lana and I were just on our way out.” Despite Callie’s frantic gestures and panicked, silent pleas, her two friends deserted her faster than rats from a sinking ship, and she was left alone with solemn Sam and his censorious frown.

“Your secretary told me where to find you,” Sam said. “Mind if I sit down?”

Callie shrugged. She didn’t feel like being polite, didn’t feel she owed it to him. His coolness from yesterday, and the fact that he doubted her journalistic integrity, still stung.

The moment he settled his tall frame into the booth, the waitress swooped to their table. Sam absently ordered coffee and apple pie, while Callie declined dessert Her stomach was suddenly tied up in knots.

“Well, go ahead,” she said when they were alone. “Tell me everything you hated about my story. Tell me
I’m an opportunistic hack writer. Get it out of your system.”

“Callie, I came to apologize. I was way out of line yesterday.”

“Yes, you were.” She met his steady blue gaze head-on, unwilling to let him off easy. “The
Record
is a responsible newspaper with plenty of readers, thank you. I don’t need to entice more with sensationalism.”

“So I’ve been told.”

To gain time, Callie pulled off her wire-rim glasses and began cleaning them with a napkin. She didn’t know quite what to make of Sam’s apology. Was it sincere, or did he have an angle?

“You still wear glasses to make you look older?” he asked. “I figured you’d have gotten over that by now.”

“The joke was on me. A couple of years ago I found out I’m nearsighted. These are prescription.”

An awkward silence followed. She stirred sugar into her iced tea, not intending to drink it.

“The story on Dad’s funeral was good,” Sam said abruptly. “It was everything Millicent promised and more. I even liked the picture of Deana, once I saw it.”

“Thank you.” Callie kept her voice neutral, though she was secretly pleased to know that her agonizing hadn’t been for nothing. She’d fluctuated between running Deana’s picture or a more generic wide-angle shot of the whole family. She’d finally decided the shot of Deana was in no way offensive or overly melodramatic. The story and picture had run on page three of the Metropolitan section.

“In fact, Mother wants to know if she can get a copy of the photo,” Sam continued. “She thought it might be
a nice keepsake for Deana, something to remember her grandfather by. I’ll pay you.” He reached for his wallet.

Callie bristled. “I’ll be happy to send you a print, but payment isn’t necessary.”

“In that case, how about dinner?”

Callie’s breath caught in her throat until Sam added, “Mother’s doing up a pot roast Thursday night, and she said she’d love to have you.”

Callie slowly released her breath. She should have known better than to think, even for an instant, that Sam would ask her out on a date. “I don’t want to impose so soon after—”

“She wants you to come. She’s been cooking ever since … that day, even though the fridge is full of food the neighbors and friends have brought. She says cooking keeps her mind off things.”

And a table full of family and guests probably disguised the fact that a certain chair was empty, Callie couldn’t help thinking. She had fond memories of all those dinners she’d eaten at the Sangers’ house. Johnny had always sat to Sam’s immediate right during meals at the small kitchen table. And Sam had always complained—good-naturedly—because his father’s elbow was in Sam’s face as they ate. It was a standing joke.

Her heart suddenly filled with emotion at the bleak look on Sam’s face. He really was grieving, as Millicent had said. Sam had never been one to show his feelings, but in this instant, no matter how hard he tried to keep his sadness hidden, it flowed out of him.

She couldn’t seem to say no to him. She had no idea why Beverly Sanger would insist that Callie come to dinner, but she didn’t think it had been Sam’s idea.
“Will it bother you if I come?” she asked. “If you’d rather I stay away—”

“I’d like you to come. It’s the least I can do to make up for the things I said yesterday.”

“Then I’ll come. Can I bring anything besides the picture?”

He shook his head. “Mother’s always been real fond of you. I’m sure just having you around will be like a tonic for her.”

Sam’s pie arrived. He took a couple of bites without comment. Then, despite the fact that the Pie Pantry served the best homemade desserts in the county, he pushed his plate aside and scooted out of the booth.

“See you Thursday, around seven.” He donned his beige felt Stetson, pulled some money out of his jeans pocket, laid it on the table, and left without further comment.

Callie watched him go, admiring the fit of worn denim on his backside despite herself. He’d filled out some since she’d last seen him, exchanging his thin, wiry build for one that was still lean but well muscled.

“Lean and mean,” she murmured, knowing the phrase wasn’t accurate. Sam wasn’t the least bit mean, but he did know what he wanted out of life and he usually got it.

She could only hope he never decided he wanted her again. As teenagers they’d done their share of kissing and caressing, sometimes with their clothes more off than on. But Callie had been afraid to consummate their mutual desire. She’d thought they were too young, their future too uncertain. She’d worried about everything from her “reputation” to unplanned pregnancies. Sam,
though he’d been burning to make love to her, had respected her wishes.

But she’d always wondered.

As an adult woman, she wasn’t sure she would have the same qualms she’d had eight years ago. That was one temptation she hoped she never had to face.

The Pigeon Man was usually here by now. Tuning out her companion’s self-serving story for a moment, Cath double-checked the LED display suspended over the station platform. Ten minutes until the train. In this woman’s company, it would feel like a lifetime.

Resigned to her fate, Cath crossed her legs and relaxed back against the bench. At least she could enjoy the unseasonably cool morning—the first break all week from the miserable July weather that had been tormenting London.

“… and they told me it was the most brilliant way to add a tactile element to protest action they’d ever heard of. I happened to mention you wanted to put the piece in your exhibit, but they didn’t know who you are,” Amanda said, her prep-school English accent turning the statement into an accusation.

Cath perked up. “I’m with the V and A. They know the V and A, right?” She was a small cog, but she worked for a big machine. Surely even Amanda’s hard-core activist cronies had heard of the Victoria and Albert Museum’s world-renowned collection, even if they hadn’t heard of the upcoming exhibit on the history of hand knitting that Cath had been hired to assist with.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Amanda said dismissively, and Cath spotted the sun gleaming off the bald pate of the Pigeon Man as he made his way up the steps. He took his place in front of the map kiosk and fixed his eyes on the ground. Calm today, then. When he didn’t talk, the Pigeon Man could pass for normal. It was when he launched into agitated conversation with a stranger that he began thrusting his head forward in a bird-like manner and his beady eyes and beaky nose took on greater prominence.

He pulled a candy bar out of his pocket, and she remembered it was Friday. He was often late on Fridays, no doubt because he stopped at the newsstand to buy himself some end-of-the-week chocolate.

The thought caught her up short. Shit, did she really know the habits of the train station regulars that well? She did a quick survey of the sparsely populated platform. Emo Boy was wearing his favorite pair of skinny jeans this morning, and Princess had gotten her roots touched up.

Sadly, yes, she did.

“The next person who comes up the steps will be an older lady carrying a purse the size of a bus and a bakery bag with a croissant in it,” Cath said. “What?”

“It’s a prediction.”

“You’re clairvoyant now?” Amanda asked, her pert nose in the air.

“Sure.” Cath was beginning to see how her pathetic store of knowledge might come in handy. “I know who’s coming up the stairs next, and I know you’re going to do the right thing and give me that straitjacket for the exhibit.”

Thinking of the exhibit reminded her that she and her boss, Judith, would be pawing through sweaters from storage this morning. Cath rummaged through her bag for her antihistamines, freed two from their hermetic blisters, and swallowed them with a sip of water. Curatorial work could be sneezy. She’d learned to arrive prepared.

As she slipped her water bottle back into her bag, Bus Purse came into view, right on schedule.

Amanda frowned and straightened up, trying to get a better view of the steps. “You can see down to the high street. That’s how you knew she was coming.” “You’re closer than I am. Can you see down there?”

The frown deepened. “Well, you must be using a mirror or something. It’s not as if you’re capable of magic.”

“Wanna bet?” Cath answered, warming to the challenge.

Magic had never been her specialty, but she wanted that straitjacket. It had been featured in a widely covered protest demonstration Amanda and her buddies had staged outside the prime
minister’s residence a few years ago, and it would look fabulous on display, the perfect visual complement to the story the museum’s exhibit would tell.

Unfortunately, Amanda had a stranglehold on the thing, and Cath had known her long enough to understand she got a kick out of stringing people along.

On the other hand, she was also competitive and narcissistic, which made her the sort of woman who rarely turned down a bet.

“How about this?” Cath asked. “If I correctly predict the next two people up those steps, you give me the jacket.” It was possible. Just. Greenwich was way out in Zone Four on the London transport map, far enough from the city center to avoid being a true commuter suburb. The station platform never got too crowded, even during rush hour. Most of the regulars for this particular train had already arrived. The question was, Who was missing?

Amanda’s eyes narrowed. “What do I get if you’re wrong?”

“I’ll stop bugging you about the straitjacket.”

This was a lie, but no lapsed Catholic from Chicago’s South Side was above lying for a good cause, and Cath considered her career a good cause.

Amanda leaned forward, all excitement now, and said, “Make it three and you’re on.”

The first one was easy. Cath heard the musical clang of the ticket machine dispensing change down at street level and knew it had to be the dog guy from the park, because he always took the 7:09 from Greenwich to Bank on Fridays, and he bought his single ticket from the vending machine with cash.

“Old guy in a fedora,” she said.

He came up the steps and made his way to the empty bench next to them. Amanda inclined her head, acknowledging one down.

Next up was tricky. Normally, it would be the girl with the two-tone hair, but it was late summer, and people took vacations. The girl had been missing all week. Cath imagined her on a beach in Spain, soaking up the sun in a red bikini. What if she was back, though?

The booming laugh of Bill at the ticket window carried up the stairs. The Merry Widow,
then. Bill was a friendly guy, but he pulled out all the stops for the Widow.

“Redhead with three inches of cleavage,” Cath said.

The Merry Widow rose into view, proud bosom bobbing.

Amanda gave a low whistle of appreciation.

Cath glanced at the station’s clock and repressed a smile. She only needed one more to complete the hat trick, and you could set your watch by the next guy.

“Tall blond man in an expensive suit,
Financial Times
under his arm,” she said, then added, “Possibly a cyborg.”

Thirty seconds ticked by, and City rose into view, punctual as ever and way too good looking to be human.

Cath had a soft spot for City. From the moment she’d spotted him waiting for the train to Bank last winter, he’d intrigued her. She’d given him the nickname as a nod to his profession, because everything about him announced he worked in the City of London, the square-mile financial district at the center of the metropolis: the dignified wool overcoat and scarf he’d worn all winter, the shined shoes, the ever-present newspaper. Aristocratically remote, he was Prince Charming in a suit.