The Jock (15 page)

Those
girls were beautiful in a way Gwenyth never would be. From their perfectly
rounded, surgically enhanced breasts to their hips that didn't store up any
excess fat whatsoever, they were everything she wasn't. It was like turning
sixteen all over again and finding out that Sam had fallen in love with another
woman she couldn't compete with. Three more Stacys. Three younger, nearly
topless, gee-string-clad Stacys.

"Are
you well, chère?"

Gwenyth
stood up and turned around to face Etienne. She shrugged her shoulders and
offered him a half-hearted smile. She briefly considered prevaricating, but
what was the point? "Not really, no."

Etienne
smiled fondly down to her as he raised Gwenyth's hands and kissed them.
"He iz a fool, ma belle."

Gwenyth
squeezed Etienne's hands affectionately. He was always so thoughtful of her.
"Thank you for that." She made to move her hands away, but he didn't
let go. Not understanding, she arched a tawny brow and regarded him.

Etienne
sighed. "I know zis is not the best time to try to win your affections,
but should you decide to give another man a chance." He craned his neck
downward and pressed his lips to Gwenyth's forehead. "I should like to be
zat man. N'est pas?"

Gwenyth's
eyes rounded in surprise. She'd had no idea Etienne had even thought of her in
that light. Ever. It was extremely flattering.

Nodding
her head like a marionette, Gwenyth relented. "D'accord." She
grinned. "Okay."

Etienne
released her hands and smiled gently down to her. "I'm certain we shall
see one another soon. Au revoir, chère."

Gwenyth
hoisted her duffel bag over her shoulder and smiled back at the too beautiful
model. She had to get out of here. "Au revoir, Etienne."

Gwenyth
cast a brief glance in Sam's direction before spiriting herself toward the
elevators. Had she been in a less upset frame of mind, she might have noticed
the scowl of possessive jealousy Sam had garnered after seeing Etienne kiss
her. Had Gwenyth's heart not been breaking, she might have stayed long enough
to witness Sam throwing the hands of his fawning fans off of him, then standing
up to watch Gwenyth's retreat with a look of helpless defeat about him.

But
she didn't notice. She was too busy wiping the tears from her eyes.

Sam
stomped into the hotel lobby primed for a fight. He had wanted to trail after
Gwenyth and have done with this conversation the very second she'd run out of
Vantry Sportswear, but Big Ed had clamored for his attention just then,
reminding Sam of the fact that they had another hour left of shooting before
his obligation to his contract had been fulfilled.

So
Sam had stayed, thinking of Cupcake the whole time, and wishing like hell that
he'd never allowed those three college models to fondle him. He had seen the
hurt in her eyes and recognized immediately that Gwenyth was no longer
considering their tit-for-tat tactics of the past two days a game. She was taking
it seriously.

Never
having been comfortable with emotions such as guilt, Sam had soon twisted the
day's events around in his mind to a point where he could almost believe he was
the injured party here. Almost. If he tried really hard.

And
so now, as he stalked inside of the hotel lobby preparing to take the defensive
with Gwenyth, Sam refused to consider the possibility that he had been the one
in the wrong. Him and Cupcake were going to have it out alright, at which time
he was going to inform her of his list of demands. Namely that they were
getting married right away and that they were going to resume their sexual
relationship immediately.

Like
now.

"Mr.
Trevianni."

Sam
had to resist the urge to growl at the front desk clerk that was waving a piece
of paper in the air to gain his attention. He took a deep breath to steady his
self, then turned on his heel and arched a brow.

"Yes?"

"A
message for you, sir."

Sam
nodded, then smiled tentatively at the clerk. He sighed. There was no sense in
getting angry at the guy for doing his job. "Thank-you." He walked
over to where the employee whose nameplate read
Arty
stood behind an
enclosed desk structure and accepted the written message from his hand.

It
was a note from his agent Lee, asking Sam to call him and let him know how the
shoot had gone. Sam would do that later. Right now his only concern was getting
to Gwenyth. He needed to get things back to the way they had been. He missed
her so much that he was aching from it.

Sam
thanked Arty, then headed toward the elevators. He had taken only a few short
strides when an idea came to him. Sam turned back around to enlist the aid of
the desk clerk. Lord knows he was going to need all the help he could round up
to set things with Gwenyth to rights. "Arty my man, could you do me a
favor?"

"Of
course, Mr. Trevianni. How may I be of assistance to you?"

"In
about twenty minutes, could you have a bottle of champagne sent up to Gwenyth
Jones' suite?" Sam scratched his chin, considering the precariousness of
his position. "And flowers. Chicks love flowers."

Arty
cleared his throat, his face stained a dull crimson. "I'm certain they do
Mr. Trevianni, but perhaps you should send them to wherever it is Ms. Jones
lives."

Sam
raised a brow. "Why is that?"

"Because
Ms. Jones is no longer here."

Sam's
breathing stopped for a threadbare moment. He shook his head, certain he'd
heard Arty wrong and praying he had. "What?"

Arty
nodded implacably. "Ms. Jones checked out about an hour ago. I put her in
a cab headed for the airport myself."

In
that brief moment, Sam's entire life flashed before his eyes. Gwenyth had left
him. She had well and truly walked out on him. It was difficult at best for him
to form a coherent thought beyond that, but there was something else, some
kernel of knowledge that had festered itself down deep in his gut and was
gnawing at him.

Sam
had to get to Gwenyth before that plane took off. He couldn't explain how or
why, but he knew, just knew, that if he didn't stop her from leaving it would
be over between them. Gwen would never have him back.

Somehow,
though Sam would never remember exactly how, he managed to pack his clothes,
check out of his suite, and call a cab, all in under ten minutes time. His
heart beating wildly, he settled into the back seat of the taxi and regarded
the driver. "If you can get me to LAX in fifteen minutes or less, there's
a hundred dollar tip in it for you."

* * * * *

Gwenyth
chewed on her lower lip to keep from crying—again. She was doing the right
thing, she told herself over and over. She was doing what she had to do, what
her sanity required of her to stay intact. It was just too bad if the right
thing didn't happen to coincide with what she wanted to do. Namely hightailing
it back to the hotel, throwing herself into Sam's arms, and begging him to love
her.

Gwenyth
took her place in line, waiting gloomily for the passengers in front of her to
hand over their tickets to the gate agent working the flight back to Tampa so
they could board. At this point, all she wanted to do was get it over with and
go home to her apartment where she could lick her wounds in private.

The
thought that she was taking the coward's way out flitted through Gwenyth's mind
and weighed heavily on her conscience.
Bah
! She'd realized even as she
was throwing her clothes into suitcases that that was exactly what she was
doing—running away—so why bother to ruminate over it now? It was done. And in
the long run, she vehemently reassured herself, it was the wiser choice.

It
was time to go home, put Sam from her mind, and begin anew. Gwenyth frowned,
thinking that the option no longer sounded as inviting as it had when she'd
first descended into the cab that had brought her here to the airport. Going
back to Sam held a much more appealing ring to it.

No!
No! No!
she
chided herself for at least the tenth time in an hour.
Don't even go
there, Gwenyth
. That way lies madness. That way lies heartbreak. After all,
when everything was said and done, the men of Sam's world inevitably settled
their rings onto the fingers of artificially enhanced, bleach blonde women
named "Bambi" and "Muffin"... they certainly didn't marry
women of passing beauty whose breasts were beginning to sag and whose hips
could stand a five pound reduction without putting a dent in them.

"Miss,
may I have your ticket please? Miss?"

Gwenyth's
head shot up. She had been so lost in her own thoughts that she hadn't even
realized she'd finally made it to the front of the boarding line. "Yes.
Yes, of course." She smiled apologetically. "Sorry... I wasn't paying
attention."

The
gate agent winked at her, but didn't reply to her comment. "You're in seat
15c. Enjoy your flight and thank-you for—"

"
I
said hold that damn plane!"

All
heads turned, Gwenyth's included, at the sound of that belligerent and all too
familiar voice. He'd come for her.

Gwenyth
attempted to squelch the positively glowing feeling that knowledge engendered.
But she couldn't. She couldn't stop her traitorous heart from being pleased by
the way Sam was barreling toward her, looking fiercely and magnificently
determined, any more than she could stop the sun from setting at day's end.

Too
stunned by Sam's presence to come up with anything quick and witty to say, she
simply shook her head and forcibly closed her unhinged jaw. "Sam? What are
you doing here?"

Sam,
however, had no intention whatsoever of discussing anything about their
relationship in front of a hangar full of strangers. Without glancing once in
Gwenyth's direction, he ripped her ticket unapologetically from the gate
agent's hand. "There seems to be a mistake. Ms. Jones will not be on this
flight." He drew Gwenyth to his side, still without acknowledging her, and
inclined his head toward the gate agent. "We'll be needin' her bags before
this plane can leave."

Gwenyth
didn't hear the gate agent's reply over the pounding in her ears. When Sam led
her to a seat and gently but forcibly lowered her into it, she didn't argue.
When he walked over to the ticket counter and had a conversation with the agent
standing there that was out of her earshot, she thought nothing of it. She was
simply too stunned to do anything other than gape at Sam's back. Never once had
it entered into Gwenyth's mind that Sam would stop her from going. She hadn't
even considered it as a viable outcome.

So
why then? Why was Sam here? What could he possibly hope to accomplish with this
stalling tactic? This was insane. Flattering as she didn't know what, but
insane nonetheless.

Ten
minutes later, Sam set Gwenyth's luggage at her feet, plopped down into the
chair next to hers, and regarded her in stony silence. Gwenyth studied him
back. And for the first time since Sam had come tearing toward her at the gate
twenty minutes ago, she felt a tad apprehensive at the visible signs of his
anger. Sam's nostrils were flaring. His breathing was choppy. Even the veins on
his forearms were bulging out more than usual from the pressure of clenching
his hands into fists.
Good
grief.

"Sam,
I—"

Sam
held up a silencing hand. He shook his head in the negative. "I don't want
to hear it, Gwen. The only thing I want to know is why you did it."

Gwenyth
opened her mouth to answer him, but he forestalled any explanations with an
interruption. "Is this how you plan to deal with our relationship for the
rest of your life, Gwen? Are you going to run away like a little girl every
time the water gets a little rough?"

Ouch.
Accurate blow
.
"Well, I—"

Sam
laughed humorlessly. He shook his head and scowled at her. "Are you
enjoyin' this, Cupcake? Do you like makin' me beg?"

Not
fair.
"Of
course not! How was I—"

"Enough!"
Sam bellowed, causing a few passersby to turn their heads. He lowered his voice
and bore into Gwenyth with his gaze. "I find that your words today please
me even less than your actions have."

That
got Gwenyth's attention. Her look of shock turned into one of anger. "How
dare you! How was I to know that you would follow me? I thought you'd be too
busy getting felt up by your trio of groupies to even notice the fact that I'd
left!"

Sam
snorted incredulously. Her words stirred a little guilt deep within him, but he
concentrated on his anger instead. "Oh I noticed alright! And after the
way you let Frenchy fawn all over you this past week?" He made a rude
noise. "You've got no room to criticize."

"Fawn
all over me?!"

Sam's
eyes narrowed into predatory blue slits. "Yes, fawned." He cocked his
head and imitated Etienne, using his best Parisian accent. "Ah mon chère,"
he mimicked in a falsetto voice, "that Sam iz no good. Let us go to ze
hotel and make amour for the whole of ze night."