WAGERED WOMAN Page 4

  But the nod was all he got. After that, she kept right on coming, her face blank, like it always was, not acknowledging him further, as if, in reality, he was no longer there at all. He wanted to rush forward to meet her. He wanted to grab her by the arms and shake her, until she looked in his eyes at last, until her mouth went soft and yielding and she held it up to his—

  He heard a low growling sound and knew it came from him. And then he ducked into the next doorway, into Santino's store. He went straight to the back, to the little room where Julio Santino presided, with the Naugahyde couch and scarred side table stacked with tattered magazines by one wall, and the barber's chair in the middle of the floor.

  "Well, shut my mouth and call me a rug," Julio Santino exclaimed at the sight of him. "I never thought I'd see the day."

  Sam sat in the chair. "Just the mustache and beard," he said flatly. "Don't touch the hair."

  "Well, it's a start," remarked Julio.

  "Shut up and cut."

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  « ^ »

  That wild man Sam Fletcher was sitting on her front porch when Delilah drove up. It took her a moment to realize it was him. For some inexplicable reason, he'd shaved off his mustache and full beard. He'd also tied back his shoulder-length hair into a ponytail. From the front at least, he almost looked respectable.

  But not quite. There was still that troublemaking gleam in his eye and the arrogant way he carried his big, powerful body. Even crouched on her front step, his shoulders hunched over a stick of wood as he worked at it with a knife, he looked alert and ready to pounce at a moment's notice.

  Delilah shot him a "get lost" look from behind the wheel. It had absolutely no effect. He didn't budge, but just went on slicing away at the little stick of wood.

  For a moment, reluctant to get out of the car and deal with him, Delilah didn't move. What in heaven's name could he be doing here? she wondered. He'd never come to her house. Yet here he was, sitting on her step like he belonged there, causing her stomach to knot in a distressing way.

  And that really bothered her—to feel anxious about Sam Fletcher. Seething, furious, indifferent, disgusted, enraged—all those emotions came to mind when she thought of the man. But anxious? Never. Until recently.

  Oh yes, there was definitely something going on with him lately. Since the day she'd solicited a donation for the bell tower fund from him, it had seemed like the man dogged her every move.

  He watched her in the mirror while she tried to enjoy her Sunday brunch at Lily's Café. He stared at her in the post office as if she had her skirt on backward. His icy gaze chilled her when she passed him in the street, and she could swear he peered at her out of the windows of his store every time she passed by.

  It just didn't make sense. For over a decade, they'd lived in a perfectly good state of truce. They'd put the battles they'd fought during the years she'd lived with her father behind them. They'd learned to ignore each other; each had developed the habit of pretending the other wasn't there. And it had worked out just fine.

  Now, all of a sudden, the rotten rogue was changing the game plan on her. And Delilah didn't like it. Not one little bit. It made her nervous, very nervous. And, worse than that, it made her think about him. Which was crazy. She had better things to do with her time than to think about Sam Fletcher.

  Well, she thought grimly as she emerged from her car, whatever the incorrigible wretch was doing here, she was going to give him a large piece of her mind for his trouble. She would take this opportunity to tell him in no uncertain terms that she wanted him to stop giving her the eye every time she walked by him. She wanted him to start ignoring her again, and that was that.

  Also, he had no business being on her porch, which was the first thing she said to him once she'd marched around the nose of her little car and planted herself at the base of her own front steps.

  "Sam Fletcher, you have no business being on my porch."

  He shot her something that resembled a grin—a sort of flattening out of his lips. Then he stood up and pocketed his whittling knife. "Good to see you, too, Lilah."

  She glared at him, shielding her eyes with her arm because, to the west behind the house, the sun was dropping low. "What do you want?"

  He held out the bit of willow that he'd been slicing away at. "For you."

  Dropping her shielding arm, Delilah looked down at his outstretched hand where a wooden raccoon sat, balanced on its hind legs, paws up. The little figure was primitive, but utterly charming. She stared at it for a moment, realizing with alarm that she itched to finger the grooves where his knife had shaped it. Then she pointedly looked away.

  With a shrug of his muscular shoulders, he stuck the lovely thing in a pocket. Delilah felt a stab of regret for that small object of rough beauty, lost to her because she mistrusted its creator.

  "What do you want?" she demanded again, more forcefully than before.

  He looked over her shoulder, into the windows of her car. "You've got groceries. I'll bring them on in."

  "No, you won't."

  Ignoring her words, he took the few steps down to where she stood. She didn't budge.

  He feinted around her. She mirrored his step. She wasn't exactly blocking his way; Sam Fletcher was six-five and broad as an oak. She could no more block his way than a gnat could stall a buffalo. But she was standing, quite purposefully, in his path.

  "Come on, Lilah," he said.

  "I don't need your help."

  He looked minimally annoyed. "I didn't say you needed it. I just said you're getting it, that's all."

  "What for?"

  "Why not?"

  "You're up to something. I want to know why you're here."

  He looked at her for a moment, sighed as if he were the one whose patience was being tried, and then casually took her by the shoulders and moved her out of his way. He'd reached her car before she even had time to sputter her outrage that he'd dared to lay hands on her.

  "You have absolutely no right—"

  "I want to talk to you." He tossed out the words casually, overriding her budding fury with nonchalance, as he pulled open the hatch at the back of the car and hauled three grocery bags into his powerful arms.

  "Stop that," she snapped. "I told you, I didn't want—"

  "Settle down, Lilah," he said, sounding weary. "Let's get this stuff inside, and then we can talk."

  He mounted her steps again and went to the front door, where he waited quite patiently for her to let him in.

  "Oh, all right," she muttered, when a few seconds of vituperative glaring did her no good at all. She had some frozen things in the cooler, and the groceries had been waiting in the car for a while now; she'd had errands to run in town before coming home after her trip to Grass Valley to get them. It would probably be best to get the perishables put away as soon as possible—even if that meant putting up with Sam Fletcher for a few grueling minutes more.

  Grabbing up a bag herself, she climbed the steps, slid around Sam Fletcher's imposing bulk, and unlocked the door. "This way," she instructed. He followed her in.

  They set the bags on the kitchen counter. Then he went back for the cooler, which he said he could handle himself. She quickly set about putting the milk and meat in the refrigerator and when he returned she took the frozen vegetables out of the cooler and put them away.

  Once that was done, she faced the clean-shaven giant. "Now, what do you want?"

  He glanced around at the bags on the counter, almost as if, now the moment had come, he shrank from it. "There's more here to put away."

  "It will wait. Talk. Now."

  He looked at her, an unnerving look that seemed to drink in the whole of her, though his eyes never moved from staring into hers. "It's Saturday night," he said finally.

  "So?"

  "Do you have a date?"

  She gaped at him. What in the world difference could it make to Sam Fletcher if she had a date or not? "As a matter of fact, no. Though it
's none of your business."

  "You aren't … seeing anyone, then?"

  "What are you getting at?" This was becoming stranger by the second. These were the kinds of questions a man only asked a woman when he was considering…

  Heavens, she couldn't even bear to finish the thought. It wasn't possible. Not wild Sam Fletcher who detested her just as much as she loathed him. He couldn't be thinking of asking her for a…

  Delilah shook her head. No. She wouldn't think it. It was too appalling. There had to be some other perfectly reasonable explanation for the way he'd been behaving lately.

  "Sam." She was so taken aback by her own thoughts that she actually forgot to be hostile for a moment. "Sam, what is going on?" The pleading note in her voice shocked both of them. They stared at each other.

  He was the first to look away, smoothing his already tightiy pulled-back hair with his hand. "Look. I'm thirsty. Could I have—"

  Without letting him finish, she whirled, popped open the fridge, and yanked out a can of cola. She shoved it at him. "Here."

  He looked down at the can, as if he couldn't figure out how it had gotten in his hand. "Mind if I … sit down?" Good heavens, he was being so polite. There was something the matter with him, no doubt about it now.

  She peered at him more closely. He didn't look well. His face was pale, and his breathing seemed rapid. Maybe he was sick, maybe that was what was wrong with him. Maybe he'd been sick for a couple of weeks now, and that was why he'd been behaving so strangely. Yes, that must be it.

  Though it made no sense. If a man was sick, why would he show up at the house of a woman he hated just to tell her he was ill? Unless he hoped she'd catch what he had.

  "Lilah?"

  And why was he calling her Lilah all of a sudden? "What?"

  He looked longingly at the table in the window nook a few feet away. She remembered he'd asked for a seat. "Oh. Of course. Go ahead."

  He dropped to a chair and popped open the cola. She waited, her heart doing erratic things in her chest, as he took a long drink.

  He set the can down. "That's better. Thank you."

  "It's okay. Now, tell me—"

  "I am. I will… Lilah, I—"

  Suddenly, she didn't want to hear. "You know, you're absolutely right."

  He blinked. "I am? About what?"

  "These groceries. I really should put them away."

  She sprang to life, peeling herself off the refrigerator where she'd been drooping in dread and flying around the roomy kitchen as if getting the bags unloaded meant life or death.

  "Lilah?"

  She grabbed a bag full of produce and whirled to yank open the refrigerator door. Then she knelt, the bag beside her, and began frantically piling lettuce and celery, radishes and zucchini, into the crisper drawer.

  "Lilah?"

  "Won't be a minute…"

  "Lilah?"

  Slowly, she looked up. He'd left the chair and now loomed above her, looking down. His eyes, always so cold in her every memory of him, shone now with a strange blue fire.

  She shot to her feet and confronted him. "You stop. You just stop. I won't, I will not, do you hear?" She backed away, stepping over the half-unloaded bag.

  Gently, he closed the refrigerator door. "Lilah."

  She shook her head. "It's no. No ahead of time. So don't bother to ask."

  He smiled then, a smile that charmed and beguiled her. Stars above, with all that hair gone, his face was downright … handsome.

  "Ask what?" he said tenderly and took a step toward her.

  Out the window over the sink, the day was going. The sun gleamed on the rim of Sweetbriar Summit, which rose on the other side of Main Street

  , past the river and the woods. Shadows claimed the edges of the bright room. Oh, she had to get rid of him, she knew it. Before dark, before he could say what he'd come to say.

  "I want you to leave. Please," she told him on a mere whisper of sound.

  He only shook his head. "Not until I ask you…"

  "No. Don't do it. Please."

  "I have to."

  "Oh, heavens, Sam, don't…"

  But it was too late. He said, "How about a date, Delilah?"

  She turned away and looked out the window, as the sun slid behind the mountain. For a moment the room lay in soft, tempting shadow. She could feel his hopeful, tender gaze.

  And then Delilah turned, edged around him swiftly, and went to the wall by the living room arch. She flipped on the light. "No. Never. Forget it. No way."

  His gaze was hard now, his big body tense. When he spoke he almost sounded like the rotten scoundrel she'd always known. "Why the hell not? It's only a date."

  "Because."

  "That's no answer."

  She looked past him out the window over the sink again, at the near-darkness where the trees were only dim shapes now and the rim of Sweetbriar Summit shimmered with the very end of day.

  "Why not?" he demanded again. "Give me one good reason." He took a step toward her. She slid around him once more and went back to the sink.

  "A reason, Delilah."

  She said, rather mindlessly, "You want a reason."

  "That's what I said."

  "Fine. I'll give you a reason." She crossed her arms under her breasts. "I don't go out with jailbirds, for one."

  "What the hell do you mean, jailbirds? I'm no jailbird."

  She shook her head, feeling self-righteous. "Don't stand there and lie to me. Sheriff Pangborn is always tossing you in the jail, for being drunk and disorderly, for getting in fights."

  "Lilah." He spoke with infinite patience. "I haven't spent the night in jail in fifteen years—and even then, the sheriff was more giving me a place to sleep it off than anything else. Charges were never filed. Not once."

  "Sheriff Pangborn's a forgiving soul. Too forgiving, as far as a lot of people in town are concerned."

  "That was fifteen years ago, I'm no jailbird now. Let's talk about now, that's fair, don't you think? Why can't you go out with me now?"

  "Well…" She glowered a little and bit the inside of her lip. "There are a hundred reasons."

  "Fine. Start with one."

  "All right—you drink too much."

  "I used to drink too much. Past tense again, Lilah. We're talking about now."

  "Drunk or sober, you're always hanging around my father's bar."

  "My friends are there, and I drop in once or twice a week. But that's tops. Lately, I haven't even been stopping in that often."

  "You love to gamble. You're a gambling man."

  "Lilah. I like a game of poker with the guys every now and then as much as the next man. But that hardly adds up to a dangerous habit."

  "Of course you'd say that."

  "Because it's the truth."

  "Well, it doesn't matter anyway. My answer is still no."

  "You still haven't given me one solid reason."

  "I … I have the best reason in the world for not dating you. I don't need any others."

  "All right, what? What is the reason?"

  "Because we've always hated each other!"

  He looked completely unconcerned. "No reason that can't change."

  "It can't. It can't change. It's how it's always been."

  "Past tense, Lilah. Give right now a chance."

  Delilah uncrossed her arms and recrossed them again. She felt more than uncomfortable now. She felt … like her whole world was fraying at the edges. He sounded so reasonable. She was weakening, and she knew it.

  She was actually starting to wonder why she shouldn't say yes to him—a man exactly like her father and brothers, a man she'd always been careful to avoid like the plague. Oh, what was wrong with her? She must be getting desperate, though she'd always believed she was perfectly happy with her single life.

  She'd had one love affair, in college. It had not amounted to much in the end. In fact, the physical part of it had been awkward and groping, and had left her secure in her conviction that she could
get along just fine without whatever it was that everyone else got so excited about.

  But, heavens to Betsy! If she was as completely immune to passion as she'd always thought, why was it that right this minute, she was actually pondering what it might be like to kiss Sam Fletcher on the lips?

  Could it be, she wondered, even though she wished she hadn't, that she'd always loathed Sam Fletcher as a defense, because deep down she was attracted to him?

  Delilah recoiled from such an impossible idea. Frantically, she sought a fresh defense against this forbidden new fascination with a man who would never in a thousand years be the right man for her.

  And then it came to her: her father, two weeks ago, tossing off that ludicrous taunt that he'd picked out a man for her. It was crazy to think that he might have really done such a thing. However, if Oggie had done it, who better to choose than Sam Fletcher, fellow troublemaker, son of his heart if not of his blood?

  And, come to think of it, Sam had begun acting strangely on that very day…

  Delilah, who'd felt her bones starting to melt, now stiffened her spine. She glared at the handsome giant across the room from her. "My father put you up to this, didn't he? I know him. He wants to see me married. He doesn't care to whom. He's probably offered to pay you if you can put a ring on my finger. Do you actually think I'd have anything to do with a man who was paid by my father to take me out—let alone, if that man was you…"

  Though Delilah didn't know it, this particular indictment gave Sam a moment's pause. After all, Oggie had offered him The Mercantile if he married her.

  But then, Sam shrugged. Two weeks ago, there wasn't enough money in the world to bribe him to go after Delilah Jones. And today, there wasn't enough to hold him back.

  He answered her accusation with heavy irony. "Why, thank you, Delilah. Your high opinion of me never ceases to amaze me. But you're wrong. I'm not here for money. I'm here for you."

  Delilah eyed him warily. He sounded grim, but sincere. She found, against all wisdom, that she actually believed him, though to believe he'd only come here because he wanted her seemed impossible. Incredible. Downright dangerous.