let the conversation get so heated and out of control?
“What the hell was that?” Nick fumed as he followed her into the kitchen.
“What?” Sam asked, opening the oven and peering inside—more for something to do than anything.
“Were you baiting him?” he asked in an exaggerated whisper.
“ You were baiting me! ”
Ignoring that, he said, “Have you forgotten he’s our guest?”
“ Your guest.”
“Right.” He stormed around the kitchen, adding dressing to a tossed salad and retrieving dishes warming in the oven. “It’s not like we’re a couple who’d do something so committed as entertain together or anything.”
Sam folded her arms, her back rigid with tension. “Maybe I should just go.”
“Fine. Run away. That’s what you do, isn’t it?”
“No,” she said softly, “usually I stay, which is how I ended up unhappily married for four long years to a man who tried to control my every thought and action.”
Nick’s expression shifted from anger to regret.
The anger, she decided, was easier to handle.
“Sam—”
She held up a hand to stop him from approaching her. “I’m going to go so you can visit with your friends in peace. I don’t belong here.”
“That’s not true. You know it isn’t.”
“Tell them I got called into work,” she said, desperate to get out of there before she embarrassed herself by getting emotional. “I’m sorry.” With a last glance at his unreadable face, she darted from the kitchen, grabbed her coat and headed out the door while contending with a huge knot in her throat.
Chapter 11
The lobster had been flown in from Maine, but to Nick, it might as well have been cardboard. The meal he had planned down to the garnish received rave reviews from his guests. He couldn’t have cared less. Oblivious to his dismay, the other three laughed and talked and told old stories. Even though he participated in the conversation, Nick wished they would leave so he could go after Sam and nip this thing growing between them before it couldn’t be fixed.
They lingered over dessert and coffee and then asked to see the rest of the house.
He took them through the three floors, answered their questions about his plans for the place, and withstood their good-natured ribbing about his oh-so-public romance with the pretty lieutenant.
By the time they finally left at eleven, Nick was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. He grabbed his coat, rushed down the street and up the ramp to Skip’s house. After a month of being in and out of there, it didn’t occur to him to knock. Bursting into the darkened living room, he found Skip and Celia on the sofa locked in a passionate embrace.
“Oh shit,” Nick muttered through his mortification. “Sorry.”
Like a teenager who’d just been caught in a clutch with her boyfriend, Celia scrambled off Skip’s lap and pressed her hand to her swollen lips. Skip’s empty wheelchair sat next to the sofa where he was propped into the corner with pillows under his arms. Clearly, they had given this arrangement some serious thought, and Nick was horrified to have interrupted them.
“I’ll, ah, just go up to see Sam.”
“She’s not here,” Celia said. “We thought she was with you. At your dinner party for the justice.”
“She was. Earlier. But we had an, um, a thing.”
“A fight,” Skip said, his sharp eyes trained on Nick.
“Sort of.” Nick pushed a frustrated hand through his hair. “Where do you think she’d be?”
“How upset was she?” Skip asked.
“Pretty upset.”
“Lincoln.”
“Excuse me?”
“She goes to see Lincoln when she’s upset or needs to think.”
“As in the monument? ”
“One and the same.”
“At eleven at night?” Nick asked, incredulous.
“She carries a gun. The dark doesn’t faze her.”
“All right. I’ll check there. Thanks for the info.”
“What did you do to her?”
“Nothing!”
“It wasn’t nothing if she’s gone to see Mr. Lincoln.”
“It’s
“What the hell was that?” Nick fumed as he followed her into the kitchen.
“What?” Sam asked, opening the oven and peering inside—more for something to do than anything.
“Were you baiting him?” he asked in an exaggerated whisper.
“ You were baiting me! ”
Ignoring that, he said, “Have you forgotten he’s our guest?”
“ Your guest.”
“Right.” He stormed around the kitchen, adding dressing to a tossed salad and retrieving dishes warming in the oven. “It’s not like we’re a couple who’d do something so committed as entertain together or anything.”
Sam folded her arms, her back rigid with tension. “Maybe I should just go.”
“Fine. Run away. That’s what you do, isn’t it?”
“No,” she said softly, “usually I stay, which is how I ended up unhappily married for four long years to a man who tried to control my every thought and action.”
Nick’s expression shifted from anger to regret.
The anger, she decided, was easier to handle.
“Sam—”
She held up a hand to stop him from approaching her. “I’m going to go so you can visit with your friends in peace. I don’t belong here.”
“That’s not true. You know it isn’t.”
“Tell them I got called into work,” she said, desperate to get out of there before she embarrassed herself by getting emotional. “I’m sorry.” With a last glance at his unreadable face, she darted from the kitchen, grabbed her coat and headed out the door while contending with a huge knot in her throat.
Chapter 11
The lobster had been flown in from Maine, but to Nick, it might as well have been cardboard. The meal he had planned down to the garnish received rave reviews from his guests. He couldn’t have cared less. Oblivious to his dismay, the other three laughed and talked and told old stories. Even though he participated in the conversation, Nick wished they would leave so he could go after Sam and nip this thing growing between them before it couldn’t be fixed.
They lingered over dessert and coffee and then asked to see the rest of the house.
He took them through the three floors, answered their questions about his plans for the place, and withstood their good-natured ribbing about his oh-so-public romance with the pretty lieutenant.
By the time they finally left at eleven, Nick was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. He grabbed his coat, rushed down the street and up the ramp to Skip’s house. After a month of being in and out of there, it didn’t occur to him to knock. Bursting into the darkened living room, he found Skip and Celia on the sofa locked in a passionate embrace.
“Oh shit,” Nick muttered through his mortification. “Sorry.”
Like a teenager who’d just been caught in a clutch with her boyfriend, Celia scrambled off Skip’s lap and pressed her hand to her swollen lips. Skip’s empty wheelchair sat next to the sofa where he was propped into the corner with pillows under his arms. Clearly, they had given this arrangement some serious thought, and Nick was horrified to have interrupted them.
“I’ll, ah, just go up to see Sam.”
“She’s not here,” Celia said. “We thought she was with you. At your dinner party for the justice.”
“She was. Earlier. But we had an, um, a thing.”
“A fight,” Skip said, his sharp eyes trained on Nick.
“Sort of.” Nick pushed a frustrated hand through his hair. “Where do you think she’d be?”
“How upset was she?” Skip asked.
“Pretty upset.”
“Lincoln.”
“Excuse me?”
“She goes to see Lincoln when she’s upset or needs to think.”
“As in the monument? ”
“One and the same.”
“At eleven at night?” Nick asked, incredulous.
“She carries a gun. The dark doesn’t faze her.”
“All right. I’ll check there. Thanks for the info.”
“What did you do to her?”
“Nothing!”
“It wasn’t nothing if she’s gone to see Mr. Lincoln.”
“It’s
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