The Unsung Hero (7 page)

"You don't know what you'll be missing," he
interrupted in a mocking tone that set Samantha's teeth on edge.
"My lasagna is the best in the west. Are you sure—"

"Of course I'm sure!" she snapped. "I won't
be there tonight and that's fi—" She stopped as his words finally
sank in. "Lasagna?" she asked tentatively. "All that talk about
temptation and seduction, and you were asking me for dinner?" At
his nod, she bit her lip and laughed shakily. "Oh, dear, and I
thought..." Her voice trailed off. She met his eyes hesitantly but
dropped her gaze almost immediately.

"You have an overactive imagination, young
lady. Probably comes from reading a few too many . . . There was a
tiny rustle of movement as he straightened his long body. "I'll see
you tonight."

Samantha looked up suddenly. "But I haven't
said I'll co—"

"Oh, yes, you did," he reminded her smoothly.
He reached again for the doorknob. "And surely you wouldn't deprive
a man of a mere few hours of female companionship, would you? Not
when he's direly in need of a pleasure-filled evening. I'd even go
so far as to say he's starving for a woman's company."

"Starving!" Her eyes opened wide in
disbelief. "Yesterday you were practically bragging about your
experience with women, and now you're trying to tell me you need a
woman—"

"But not just any woman," he cut in with a
devastating smile that sent Samantha's blood pounding frantically
along her veins. "Not just any woman," he repeated softly. There
was a husky timbre in his voice that played across her skin,
sending shivers of excitement through her body. "You... only
you."

Jason's eyes impaled hers with gentle
scrutiny from across the room. Samantha found she couldn't look
away from those warm brown depths or the quiet intensity in his
lean features, which, for once, bore no trace of laughter.

She shifted uncertainly, still perched on the
edge of her unmade bed. His teasing remarks and gentle mockery were
easier to deal with. At least then she could shield herself with a
wall of annoyance and resentment. Did Jason Armstrong, with his
glib and honeyed tongue, somehow present a threat to her rather
staid existence?

He was exactly like the heroes in his
books—strong, dynamic, a man who could take charge of any
situation and come out on top.

Yet somehow she suspected that she was the
one who had emerged the victor in their little skirmish yesterday,
at least in Jason's eyes, but not without sustaining a loss of her
own. Her gaze slid away from Jason's to linger on the copy of
Love's Sweet Bondage. A touch of wistfulness mingled with the
almost poignant look in her eyes.

"I'll see you tonight," Jason repeated.
Suddenly she knew that the choice, if it had ever been hers in the
first place, had already been made for her. Aware that her silence
affirmed her concurrence, she felt her heart thud heavily in her
chest as he gave her another long slow look before stepping into
the hallway. Once there, he stopped and looked over his shoulder,
and it irked her for some reason to see the familiar teasing glint
back in his eyes.

"By the way," he said with a wink, "I love
your underwear."

His eyes dropped meaningfully to her lap.
She looked down in puzzlement to find she still clutched the small
scrap of cloth she had snatched from her dresser--it seemed like
eons ago. To her horror, she discovered the tiny white bikini
underpants were liberally dotted with shiny bright-red hearts,
each one pierced with an arrow from Cupid's bow.

Embarrassment at having kept the silly gag
gift from her mother, who was well acquainted with her daughter's
penchant for romantic novels, was suddenly turned into anger at
Jason, who seemed to have an uncanny knack for catching her in the
most ridiculous situations.

"I won't be there tonight," she yelled after
his departing figure.

"Yes, you will," he called back in a tone of
supreme confidence. "I'm fixing dinner for two and I hate
leftovers."

"That's your problem, not mine!" She was
determined not to let him get the best of her.

She heard the low rumble of his laughter
somewhere in the vicinity of her kitchen, followed by the sound of
the screen door slamming against the wooden frame.

Samantha gave a sigh of sheer exasperation,
but smiled to herself a moment later. No doubt Jason thought he
could twist her around his little finger with ludicrous ease, but
he would soon learn differently. He hated leftovers? Well, she
would show him! He'd simply have to stuff himself until he
resembled an overgrown cabbage, because there was no way on earth
she was going to have dinner with him that night!

Chapter 4

Samantha's mind hadn't changed when a knock
on her front door announced a caller later that morning. She
scowled as she opened it, half expecting Jason to be standing on
her doorstep with that maddening grin plastered on his face.

Instead she found a gum-popping, fresh-faced
teenager. "This 145 Shoreline Street?" he asked, shifting both
sandal-clad feet.

She eyed him rather dubiously. "Yes."

"Got a delivery for ya." He gestured to
someone behind him and opened the screen door wide.

Samantha watched openmouthed as another
teenager maneuvered a huge carton past her through the doorway.
"Where do you want this, lady?" the first one asked.

Her confused eyes fixed on the other young
man, who had lifted the carton with ridiculous ease despite its
bulk and was awaiting her instruction. "Why, there must be some
mistake. I haven't bought anything—"

"You Samantha Monroe?" He pulled a
frazzled-looking piece of paper from his pocket.

She looked at the van parked in the driveway.
It bore the name of a novelty shop in Lincoln City. "Yes, but—"

"Got the order right here. This is supposed
to go to Samantha Monroe."

"I don't understand. Surely there must
be..."

Her protest fell on deaf ears as he turned
and headed out the door, calling back over his shoulder, "Come on,
Bill, let's get the rest." The second young man finally deposited
the box in the entryway and followed him out.

"The rest" turned out to be three more boxes
exactly like the first. Feeling rather dazed, Samantha shouldered
her way between the waist-high boxes, then hesitantly lifted one.
It was light, lighter than she had expected. Could it possibly be
empty? She eyed it dubiously. If she hadn't ordered this, someone
else must have... Jason. It had to be Jason. Her mouth turned down
at the corners, reminded of Ashton Kutcher's program. . . what was
the term? Punked. That was it. Had she been punked? Her head came
up, eyes searching for a camera.

Of course not. She was being ridiculous.

She ripped open the first box with a
vengeance, but her battle-cry turned into a gasp when she parted
the cardboard flaps. Dozens of bright shiny balloons floated upward
from their nest.

She was speechless by the
time she opened the last of the cartons. She stepped back to survey
the sight. The ceiling of her tiny dining room was canopied with an
array of wall-to-wall balloons, suspended by gaily colored ribbons
and tied together in bunches of three. There was every color
imaginable--ruby-red, bright pink, lavender, violet, and all in the
shape of a heart. She couldn't help but smile at the hot-pink
lettering emblazoned across the shiny surface of one
balloon—
Do You Kiss and Tell?
Another read
Embrace
Me
; yet another,
Be Mine
.

She tugged playfully at a ribbon, watching
as it drifted upward. It was then that she noticed a card attached
to one. Her fingers weren't entirely steady as she slipped the card
from the envelope, and she couldn't stop the warmth that flooded
her when she read the message:

As one heartthrob might say to another, my
heart beats only for you.

It was no surprise to find Jason's name
scrawled at the bottom.

Maybe it was mere curiosity that made her
decide, almost in spite of herself, that it wouldn't hurt to get to
know Jason better. Yet somehow she didn't think it was. Later she
found herself rationalizing that it wasn't every day she had the
chance to rub elbows with a famous author. Or possibly, if she was
honest with herself, it was simply the sheer magnetism of the
man.

Certainly she had to admit to being touched.
No one had ever sent her a roomful of balloons before!

Whatever the reason, seven o'clock that
evening found Samantha critically studying her reflection in front
of the mirror. The pale yellow of the peasant-style dress she wore
set off the light tan she'd acquired during her two days of
sunbathing. The boat-neck styling of the dress was slightly off the
shoulder, and her smooth skin gleamed in the waning beams of
sunlight that lit her bedroom. But she despaired at the sight of
her sunburned nose, which neither makeup nor powder toned down
more than a shade. Never before had she minded quite so much that
she didn't possess fashion model prettiness. Suddenly she found
herself yearning for a bit more in the way of looks and body or,
barring that, a dash of worldly sophistication. Was that the kind
of woman Jason was usually drawn to?

When she realized what she was doing she
frowned, Somehow she just couldn't shake the image of Jason with a
pair of extremely well-endowed California beauties on each arm. Why
take such pains over her appearance? She could never even hope to
compete against women like that, and there was no use trying.

With a sigh she picked up a delicately
crocheted shawl and headed for the door. "If it's a pinup girl
you're after, Jason Armstrong," she grumbled as she left the house,
"you'd better head back to Tinseltown. And if you have any
complaints, you'd better keep them to yourself, because I won't
hesitate to remind you this whole thing was your idea!"

Five minutes later, Samantha was standing on
Jason's doorstep. Despite the sun's presence in the western sky,
the temperature had dropped drastically in the late afternoon in
typically unpredictable Oregon fashion. She shivered as she lifted
a finger to the doorbell.

Jason opened the door wide, and Samantha's
eyes met his with an unspoken challenge. She half expected him to
laugh and say, "I knew you didn't mean it! Didn't I tell you you'd
show up?" But all he murmured as he ushered her inside was, "Right
on time, I see."

Samantha looked around the living room
appreciatively as he took her shawl, admiring the contemporary
style so different from her own cozy dwelling. The floor plan was
open and spacious, the sloped ceiling warmed by a massive stone
fireplace. Across the room, sliding glass doors opened onto a
balcony and deck.

Jason reappeared, a half-smile tipping his
mouth as he stood before her. A decided gleam in his eyes, he took
in every aspect of her figure. "Nice dress, Samantha," he murmured
warmly. "You look—" his eyes reassessed her body "—almost as good
with your clothes on as you do with them off." His smile widened
as his eyes returned to her face. "Sunburned nose and all."

Samantha reddened. He didn't have to make her
feel like Bozo the Clown! "I could say the same of you!" she shot
back hotly. He was dressed in a pale gray shirt and dark slacks,
the first time she'd seen him in anything but shorts. Too late she
realized what she had said.

He laughed. "But you haven't seen me with my
clothes off yet, have you?"

She felt like turning tail and running the
other way. When was she going to learn? She didn't dare say
anything in front of this man! "Close enough," she muttered. "Close
enough."

Jason only laughed again. "Come help me with
the salad," he suggested, catching her hand in his and leading her
toward the kitchen.

Moments later, he had armed her with a
stainless steel bowl and a small paring knife. "Did you tell me
yesterday how long you've lived here?" he questioned as he opened
the refrigerator. "I don't remember."

Samantha eyed him rather warily, half-afraid
to open her mouth. Was it any wonder she had the feeling he would
make mincemeat of anything she said? She began to meticulously peel
a cucumber. "I've taught here for two years, but I bought my house
last summer."

"Not that I'm prying, but when your mother
called I gathered she isn't local," he recalled. "Where does she
live?"

"Astoria."

He pulled two wineglasses from the cupboard
and paused to look at her. "So that's where you're from
originally?"

She hesitated, then shook her head.

Jason eyed her across the cutting board.
"You're just a bundle of information, aren't you?" he chided with a
laugh. "Don't be so modest." He gave her an encouraging smile and
began shredding lettuce into the bowl. "How do you think I come up
with ideas for the characters in my books? Let me pick your brains.
Who knows? Maybe you'll show up in the next one."

Her? Now that was a laugh. His heroines were
known for their feistiness, their fiery tempers and vivacity,
their ability to take someone in hand and whip him into
shape--except the hero, of course. Was that why she liked his
heroines so much, because they were all the things she wasn't, but
secretly longed to be?

She smiled in spite of herself. She wasn't
sure she'd want to change even if she could. "Not a chance."

"Oh, come on." Jason's tone was cajoling. "So
what if you're not a woman with a past?" He tipped his head to the
side and smiled engagingly, while eyeing her a bit quizzically.
"If you're not originally from Astoria, where are you from?"

Samantha gave in with a sigh. This was a man
who could probably charm a pirate into walking the plank-ever so
willingly. "I was born in Kansas City, Missouri," she finally told
him.