The Unsung Hero (4 page)

"Los Angeles." His devastating smile sent
waves of heat pouring through her veins. "I don't think you have to
worry about it, though. I'll be close enough that you can keep an
eye on me practically every minute of the day."

And night? Unbidden, the words came tumbling
into her mind. The thought, as well as the memory of his recent
kiss, kindled a kind of restless longing in her body. She turned
her eyes away from his hurriedly, watching distractedly as the
frothy surf raced toward them. But curiosity and maybe even
reckless hope made her ask, "And just how close would that be?"

"Right next door."

Surprise widened her eyes before a hint of
disbelief came into them. "That house is owned by a man named David
Winters who lives in Portland, not Los Angeles," she said evenly,
wondering if she'd been duped after all. "And he isn't a writer,
he's—"

"An advertising executive," Jason finished
for her smugly, and quite correctly.

Samantha frowned good-naturedly. "Next I
suppose you're going to tell me that besides having a triple
identity, you lead some kind of a double life."

"Nothing quite so melodramatic," he said with
a chuckle. "David is an old college buddy of mine. He's letting me
use his place for the summer." A long finger reached out to tilt
her chin up to his. "So tell me. Do you mind having me as a
neighbor all summer?"

Samantha's heart fluttered wildly at his
words. The whole summer . . . he was staying the whole summer! Part
of her wanted to stand up and shout for joy while another part was
very much afraid the word "neighbor"—people who nodded a civil
hello on the way to the car or smiled politely while picking up the
mail-- would dictate the bounds of their relationship.

She forced a light tone. "Of course not. So
long as you don't peck away at your typewriter all night long or
come pounding on my door at six in the morning to borrow the
newspaper. I'm an absolute bear if I don't get my eight hours
beauty sleep."

"I won't bother knocking then." With his even
noncommittal tone it was hard to tell if he was serious, but a
quick glance revealed a tiny network of fine lines extending
outward from his eyes, visible only when he smiled. "And as for
getting your beauty sleep," he added, "you've obviously been
getting plenty."

Samantha looked away in confusion. She
supposed she was attractive enough, but she would never have called
herself pretty. Her mouth was a little too wide, her nose too pert
and uptilted, her hair a mousy brown. Of average height, her body
was supple but lean. In high school she'd often despaired of having
any bustline at all. "You're just a late bloomer," her mother had
often laughed. And her mother had been right, though Samantha had
thought the time would never come. But even now that her breasts
were nicely rounded, her hips slightly fuller, she considered her
eyes her best asset. Large and widely spaced, they were a clear
shade of blue, which was further enhanced by a thick fringe of
lashes.

Pushing herself off the chunk of driftwood
with both hands, she got to her feet. She ignored the warm rush of
color staining her cheeks at Jason's knowing glance, once again
conscious of the brevity of both their suits.

"Shall we get back?" she said quickly. "My
house is unlocked and I don't like to stay away for long."

Jason glanced at his watch, a look of obvious
reluctance on his face as he rose to his feet. "I suppose so. I
have a long drive ahead of me yet this afternoon."

"So soon?" she asked curiously. "You just
said you were staying for the summer."

"Oh, I am. But I'm being interviewed on a
radio talk show tonight in Seattle."

"Coming out of the closet?" Samantha asked,
unable to hold back a smile.

"In a way." He shrugged. "Word leaked out
about a year ago that I was the man behind Cathryn James. My
publisher wasn't exactly overjoyed until they found out it actually
seemed to boost sales."

"Why did they mind so much?"

"It was my publisher's recommendation that I
write under a female pseudonym," he explained. "They didn't think
women would buy a romance written by a man." He looked at her out
of the corner of his eye and raised a mocking eyebrow. "Sound
familiar?"

"Now I'm the one who's been 'properly
chastised,' " Samantha responded dryly. They lapsed into a
companionable silence as they picked their way through a smattering
of broken seashells and around a clump of seaweed, their bare feet
weaving a meandering trail behind them in the sun-warmed sand.

When they neared her small sequestered home,
Samantha's steps faltered. She was admittedly reluctant to see him
leave so soon. Taking a deep breath, she turned to him. "Would you
like to come in for a drink? That is, if you have time."

A quick glance at his watch and Jason assured
her with a decided gleam in his eyes, "Just enough time. Lead the
way, fair lady."

As she entered through the back screen door,
golden rays of sunlight streamed through maple-stained shutters,
which she had left ajar in her compact kitchen. Jason followed her.
Her bare feet padded silently across the spotless tiled floor
toward the refrigerator. After a hasty glance inside, she bit her
lip and turned toward him. "I hope you don't mind orange juice or
iced tea. I don't usually keep liquor on hand unless I'm expecting
company."

"Iced tea will be fine," he said easily. "I
don't drink much anyway, especially with a lady around." Samantha
sent him a quizzical glance over her shoulder as she reached for
the pitcher of iced tea. "It befuddles the mind," he explained, an
almost wicked glint in his eyes, "and dulls the senses."

"Not to mention what it does to a man's
ability," she muttered under her breath, knowing full well she had
fallen right into his trap. She poured the tea into two large
chilled glasses and handed one to him.

"That goes without saying." He took a long
draft of the amber-colored liquid, then grinned at her. "Can't say
I've ever had that problem, though."

Looking at his trim muscular form, she could
see why. The man positively reeked of virility, to say nothing of
the very potent attraction he would possess for many a woman. But
for some reason, his response irked her to no end.

"Well," she muttered, turning on her heel
and walking into the living room, "I don't suppose you could write
the kind of love scenes you do without at least some
experience."

"I suppose," Jason agreed mildly. He sat
down across from her as she curled up on her favorite velour chair.
His mouth twitched with amusement as he took in her suddenly
distant expression. "Would you like it better if I didn't include
sex scenes in my books? Your face looks like it might splinter into
a thousand pieces if you even attempted a smile."

When she refused to say anything, he pressed
further. "I write it and you read it," he said with a shrug. "So
which of us would you call the worst degenerate?"

"I don't think either one of us is," she
admitted grudgingly after a moment's silence. It wasn't the
inclusion of sex in his novels that bothered her. Heaven knew she
felt like melting into a mass of sizzling nerve endings when she
read his love scenes. It was the fact that he might be drawing on
his own experiences while writing them. She knew she had no right
to feel this way, but the thought was little comfort.

"I think the difference between us lies in
what you just said," she added with a slight bite to her tone. "You
call them sex scenes and I think of them as love scenes."

Jason studied her averted profile silently,
his smile slowly fading. "I guess that's what they're intended to
be," he finally murmured.

Samantha blinked, then frowned. "Don't you
know?" she demanded. "You certainly should--you've written dozens
of love scenes! Why, love is what makes these books so special! Sex
is nothing more than a biological function, a chemical reaction!
I've read enough romances to know the difference between an author
who writes sex scenes and an author who writes love scenes, and
yours are definitely love scenes!"

"I write what the reader
expects and what my publisher wants. In my opinion, my sex
scenes--or rather love scenes--are a bit idealistic." He swirled
the ice in his glass and shrugged indifferently. "Making love is
physically fulfilling, emotionally satisfying, but as far as
inducing a blissful state of euphoria
a
la
the romance novel—" he gave her a
half-smile "—let's face it. These books are little more than
fantasy."

Samantha stared at him incredulously, her
momentary ire all but forgotten. "Just what are we talking about
here? Love or making love?"

Jason smiled blandly. "I have the feeling you
equate the two."

"Forgive me for being such a daydreamer—"
her tone was even, but she could hardly believe what she was
hearing "—but yes, that's how I see it. Love is more than just a
state of mind, and making love should be the ultimate expression of
the way two people feel about each other. Without it, it doesn't
mean a thing." And that was how it had been for her and Alan, at
least at first, especially at first. They had been wildly, madly in
love their first year together, but two more years of marriage had
found them drifting apart. And she knew from experience that once
the feelings began to wane, so did the magic.

When Jason merely smiled and
shrugged his shoulders dismissively, she leaned forward, her hands
curling into fists on her thighs. "In
Conquer the Wind
, your heroine said
that the way she felt was like--" she searched for the phrase,
snapping her fingers when she remembered "--heaven on earth. Are
you saying that was pure bunk?"

"Oh, yes, the fair Rosalind," he murmured,
crossing his long legs at the knee as if he hadn't a care in the
world. "You, like Rosalind, have been bitten by the
happily-ever-after bug. And maybe it's not pure bunk, but it's
certainly exaggerated."

Samantha's temper was off and running at his
casual manner and offhand words. "What about this afternoon at the
beach?" she charged hotly, cold fury beginning to burn inside her.
This was deceit of the worst kind! "That bit about men feeling the
same way women do--what was that? Exploitation? Research for your
next book? When you said it was for Cathryn's benefit you certainly
weren't kidding! The high and mighty Jason Armstrong certainly
wouldn't have spoken so humbly! He's too much of a cynic, isn't he?
I'll give you one thing, though, you're an even better writer than
I thought for being able to fabricate that kind of emotional
intensity!"

She felt a brief moment of triumph at the
startled look on his face, the momentary confusion in his eyes as
if she'd pointed out something he hadn't really considered. But
when his features relaxed into that now-familiar but
oh-so-maddening smile, it was too much. Samantha jumped up and
started to brush past him, only to find herself caught around the
waist and dragged down beside him on the couch.

"What's the rush?" he murmured into her
ear.

As her bare skin pressed against the naked
warmth of his furry chest, her pulses skittered alarmingly, but she
ignored the sudden racing of her heart. "You're on your way to
Seattle, remember?" she pointed out furiously. "I'm merely
obliging you by leaving so you can be on your merry way!" This time
when she started to rise, both of Jason's arms snaked around her
and he held her firmly in place, grinning down into her mutinous
face.

"Isn't this where you say, 'Let me go, you
beast!'?"

Samantha didn't even bat an eyelash at his
hysterical falsetto. She glared up at him, holding herself
rigidly away from him, which proved to be nearly a circus feat due
to his constricting grip. The dratted man was barely giving her
room to breathe!

"A show of brute strength might be expected
in one of your novels, Jason Armstrong," she announced tautly, "but
as you so aptly pointed out, romances are pure fantasy, and I'm not
about to reenact a scene from one of your books—or anyone
else's."

"Why not? You might enjoy... a small
dalliance." There was a gleam in his eye as he added hopefully, "Or
maybe a big one?"

Samantha stared at the smooth firmness of the
mouth smiling ever so slightly above hers. She suppressed an
inward tremor and wished her earlier indignation would return to
swamp the sudden churning of her insides. If only his breath on her
cheeks was not so warm, so inviting.

"I don't think so," she said in a voice that
wasn't entirely steady. "You see, I expect fireworks and
skyrockets, and maybe even a few shooting stars, and you've
already told me I won't get that." She took a deep breath, finally
finding the strength to turn her head aside. "And frankly, I'd be
disappointed with anything less."

She could see that she had surprised him
again, but this time felt no elation as she had before. The
mocking light faded from his eyes but his smile was still faintly
teasing as he looked down at her.

"To think I was actually looking forward to
subduing a feisty wench just like one of my heroes," he said
lightly. His arms dropped from her body. "And instead I find my
head on the chopping block." He stared down at her motionless form,
his eyes almost somber as they swept over her body. "We're bound to
run into each other again this summer. Maybe we'll see each other
soon."

"Maybe," she echoed quietly, watching
uneasily as his long legs carried him across the floor and out the
front door.

It seemed that, like it or not, she was stuck
with Jason Armstrong for the summer, and right now the idea wasn't
quite as appealing as it had been earlier.

***

Samantha did a fairly creditable job of
dismissing Jason from her mind that day. But when she crawled into
bed that night, she found herself reliving his kiss on the beach,
the feel of his hands on her body.