Complicated Creatures: Part One Page 16

  “Sounds like she’s okay,” Mitch replied, laying the menu down calmly. “Besides,” he continued, “Sam’s the kind of woman who can more than hold her own.”

  Jaime glanced at Carey’s table again. “Wonder what military outfits they come from.”

  “If you have to ask, you probably don’t want to know,” Mitch drawled. “The inscrutable Ms. Wyatt keeps some deadly company.”

  “Mitch, man, sounds like Sam is the deadly company,” Jaime replied, bemused.

  The waiter returned with his drink. Jack took a deep swallow, feeling the burn heat up his mouth and esophagus on the way down.

  “We’ll be having the eighteen-course tasting menu,” Mitch told the waiter. “And please send over the sommelier.” Once the waiter was gone, he leveled a look at Jack. “All right, what’s going on?”

  “What is she doing in goddamn Somalia? And what is she doing getting shot at?” Jack snapped. “I haven’t seen this woman since she turned me down flat after a night of one of the best sleeps I’ve had in ages, and this is what she’s been doing?” Jack took another swallow of his scotch.

  “Okay, that’ll do for now.” Jaime deftly moved the scotch to his side of the table, replacing it with a glass of water. “She turned you down?”

  “You’ve already slept together?” Mitch’s eyes danced. “Bravo.”

  “No, asshole,” Jack shook his head. “It wasn’t like that.”

  “But you said—”

  “Remember when I had a bad time of it a couple weeks ago?” Jack prompted.

  Mitch thought about it. “Yeah.”

  “What happened?” Jaime piped up, worried. “Did you use?”

  “No.” Jack shook his head. “I thought about it. God, I felt half crazy, but then she was there. And she stayed up with me. We talked. Ate stew. Next thing I know—I’m waking up on her couch, and I feel like a million bucks.”

  “And this is all good… right?” Jaime asked, looking confused.

  Jack shrugged. He eyed the scotch glass across the table. If he punched Jaime’s arm hard enough, he’d be able to reach around him, no problem. He took a breath. “I asked her out. As a thank you. She turned me down flat.”

  Mitch grinned.

  Jaime’s brows went up. “So keep asking. What’s the problem?”

  “Your brother’s in a unique position, Jaime. One that is very new to him,” Mitch replied sagely.

  “And what’s that?”

  “He’s not the one in the position of power.” Mitch smirked as the sommelier approached the table.

  As Mitch discussed the wine selection, Jaime turned to Jack. “Why are you so worked up?”

  Jack brooded before deciding to come clean. “Because I like her. A lot. A lot more than I want to. And I can’t stand the idea that she could have been seriously hurt. And I would have known nothing about it.”

  Jaime considered him. “You’re still irrationally hyped up about this though. What gives?”

  “Madre di Dio, I barely know her, and she already drives me nuts,” Jack groaned, dropping his head back in frustration. “You know I called her ex-lover and bought all the wine he made for her when they were together?”

  Jaime’s brows rose. “That’s not weirdly obsessive or anything.”

  Jack scowled. “Give me my scotch back.”

  Jaime took a good look at his expression and then shook his head. “Man, you’ve got it bad,” he told him, sliding his glass back over. “This is your one tonight, so don’t hammer it. I’m only giving it back ’cause I feel sorry for you.”

  “Why do you feel sorry for him?” Mitch asked, returning to the conversation after he’d selected the wine pairings. “He’s met his match. He’s about to have the ride of his life. Lucky fucker.”

  Jack took a sip of the scotch, calming down. He didn’t bother to contest Mitch because he strongly suspected the man was right.

  Jaime and Mitch gave him a reprieve, shifting the conversation away from Sam as Jack calmed down. Mitch was right in one sense. Jack couldn’t honestly remember the last time he’d been turned down. And he certainly never anticipated feeling so disappointed about it. He spent the past couple weeks trying and failing not to think about her, losing himself in work, at the gym, inside Rebecca, who’d finally stopped hounding him for the where-are-we-going conversation, replacing it with the oh-yeah-baby-right-there smutty talk. But at night, late at night when the rest of Chicago was asleep, Jack wondered if he’d run into her again or see her in the pool, slicing through the water. He caught himself listening for her. Watching her door. Glancing at her parked car like it was a sign.

  And she was halfway across the world. Getting shot at.

  Jack could shake her for that. He wanted to run his hands down her arms, see for himself she was all right, examine her stitches. Kiss her. Then he wanted to spank her. Hard. In the middle of his brooding, Jack caught sight of Samantha entering the dining room.

  She was striking in a bold red shift dress. She moved toward Carey’s table with a small smile on her face. The men stood, and Carey kissed her gently on the cheek. She shook Cameron’s hand, looking pleased to see him. Simon kissed her hand, making a production of it while she laughed it off. Jack felt his hand tense around his glass.

  Each time he saw her, Samantha was another version of herself. Last time he’d run into her, she’d looked so damn good in that biker jacket and boots, her hair tousled and wild. Tonight, she looked every inch the sophisticated, urbane business woman, the dark skein of her hair in an elegant twist, diamonds in her ears and on an elegant rope around her neck. Samantha had the polish of money, education, and class. She had the confidence that came with personal power. But she didn’t just have power, she had control. And she knew how to wield it. He’d never seen anything sexier in his life. And Jack had known some of the sexiest women in the world.

  “Jack?” Mitch asked, trying to get his attention. “What do you think?”

  He blinked, his gaze shifting to Mitch. “Sorry, wasn’t listening. What was that?”

  Mitch and Jaime turned to find the object of Jack’s attention.

  “Ah, I see. That is cause for distraction,” Mitch murmured, his gaze admiring.

  “She looks fine. Her arms are covered, but she looks fine,” Jaime pointed out.

  “She’s better than fine. She’s a stick of dynamite,” Mitch commented admiringly, sipping his wine. “Pure and unadulterated TNT.”

  “More like a heat-seeking missile,” Jack muttered into his drink.

  As if she could feel their eyes on her across a dining room full of people, Samantha looked up. Directly at him. She’d been smiling at something Kurt was saying when she caught his eyes. They stared at each other for a few seconds before Jack lifted his glass, saluting her. Samantha nodded in return before allowing Kurt to draw away her attention.

  “Hey, it’s the point guard for the Bulls,” Jaime announced as he noticed the basketball player stepping into the restaurant with his wife. The conversation immediately transitioned to their upcoming season, starting in late October.

  Jack listened with one ear while Jaime and Mitch debated the Bulls’ roster. He glanced over at her table again. She was leaning forward, listening to Carey. Her hand touched her neck, fingertips toying with the diamond rope around her neck. Jack thought about how those fingers felt sifting through his hair. His imaginings immediately evolved toward the more erotic. He shifted in his seat, looking away. Enough, he thought. Enough of this strange yearning.

  Jack tracked back into the conversation in an attempt to distract himself, speculating on the NBA preseason conference standings while the waiter began bringing out courses. As they dined on king crab with passion fruit and hearts of palm, sweetbreads served with bread and toasted hay, green beans perched on pillows of nutmeg-scented air, and lamb flavored with black truffle, they caught up on life, business, and of course, continued speculations as to Simon and Cameron’s military background.

  Chef Achatz came o
ut to greet them, accepting their praise for the procession of bold and exquisite tastes for the evening’s fare. Though only a small portion of their commercial properties included bars and restaurants, Mitch cultivated relationships with top restaurateurs, chefs, and mixologists as carefully as he selected art. As he and Jack developed properties, particularly historical restoration projects, Mitch approached the culinary masterminds he was most impressed with to develop new concepts. Dinners like this one were a regular “scouting” ritual.

  Jaime, who cycled daily and had the metabolism of a jack rabbit, was always happy to be included on tasting dinners. “I need a break from spaghetti and Lunchables,” he joked. “And my daughter can’t appreciate a five-hundred-dollar bottle of wine.”

  “Yet,” Mitch replied. “God help you when she learns to.”

  As Chef turned to greet another table, the next course was served. While the waiter began describing the Anjou pear served with onion, brie, and smoking cinnamon, Jack took the opportunity to glance across the room at Samantha again. Her pose was casual, but he could see her resting her arm against the table, cradling it gently as she toyed with the stem of her wine glass. Jack wondered again at what had happened to her in Somalia while he was thousands of miles away, jogging along the lake or sitting in his office reviewing land development deals, oblivious.

  “How many more courses?” Jack asked the waiter suddenly.

  “Four, sir,” the waiter answered, refilling their water glasses.

  “Wonderful. In the meantime, please send over a bottle of Macallan 24 to that table,” Jack replied.

  “Very good, sir,” the waiter nodded.

  When they finally made their way over to Carey and Samantha’s table after finishing their meal, Jack could see the group had already made it through to their second round of the single malt. The waiters helped them arrange additional seats. He sat next to Samantha, Simon on her other side.

  “Hey there, Jack,” she greeted him, a relaxed smile on her lips. Jack felt the tension melt from his shoulders, her nearness soothing.

  “Miss me?” he asked, feeling a little buzzed off the scent of her—her heady fragrance rapidly becoming his drug of choice.

  “Desperately,” she drawled with a smile. “Did you get introduced to Simon earlier?” she asked, gesturing toward the man at her side.

  Jack nodded. “How’d you like the meal?” Jack asked him.

  Simon grinned. “Even better than our dinner in London, right, love?” he said, leaning toward her.

  She smiled. “Even better now that we’re celebrating the both of you joining us.”

  “Victory tastes sweeter?” Simon murmured in a low voice, his expression teasingly intimate.

  “Doesn’t it always?” Jack asked, interrupting the moment. Who the hell was this guy? Simon glanced up at him, his gaze sharpening. Jack ignored him, watching Samantha. “What is this I’m hearing about you getting shot at?” he asked, touching the arm she was unconsciously cradling.

  Her brows drew together momentarily before she relaxed under his touch. “Just a scratch.”

  “Told ya, mate,” Simon smirked, his eyes smug.

  Jack gave him a hard look. “It was your fault she was hurt, correct?”

  Simon straightened in his seat, expression darkening. “It was my responsibility to get us out, yes.”

  “So you’re new on the job, and you’ve already failed?” Jack asked pointedly.

  “Whoa, whoa, okay,” Samantha intervened, holding her hands up. “Nobody failed at anything. We were outnumbered by a hundred men, and we got lucky getting out intact at all. Jack—” She put her hand on his arm, looking at him. “I’m fine. I promise. Look,” she said, wiggling the fingers on the hand of her injured arm. She was wearing a blood red ruby the size of a nickel.

  “Fuck me, that’s a ridiculously huge ring,” Simon commented.

  “More proof my arm is okay.” She grinned as Simon snatched up her hand, examining the ring. “I can carry this sucker around just fine.”

  “Your bloke buy that for you?” Simon asked, glancing at Jack.

  Samantha laughed, her eyes twinkling. “I’m the kind of lady who can buy her own baubles, thank you.”

  Jack scowled at Simon as he grinned at Samantha. Noticing the look, she withdrew her hand, using it to pick up her whisky glass. “You’re not drinking?” she asked Jack.

  He shook his head. “No. Had one with dinner, but that’s it. I’m driving.”

  “Well, thanks then. I love a good whisky.”

  “Nothing sexier than a bird who can hold her drink,” Simon commented over the rim of his own glass.

  “Call me a bird again, and I’ll stab your hand with my fork,” she replied lightly.

  “Right. Boss. I meant boss,” Simon amended with a crooked grin.

  Jack would have been happy to stab him with the fork, or the butter knife, dessert spoon…whatever he had at his disposal.

  Mitch turned to Simon, asking him where he was from in the UK, and Jack took the opportunity to lean closer to Samantha. “What would I have done if something happened to you?” he asked her softly so no one else could hear.

  Samantha’s eyes shuttered as she watched him. Jack could feel the air around her tighten though her demeanor remained deceptively relaxed.

  “I’d put money on you strong-arming Jaime into the penthouse,” she replied.

  “I’m being serious,” he chided. “I’ve been thinking about you almost constantly.” He traced the angles and lines of her face with his eyes. “You just—disappeared. Come to find out you were in Somalia, of all places. So let me ask you again, what would I have done if something happened to you?”

  “Jack—”

  “Well, folks, that’s all she wrote,” Cameron declared, tossing his napkin onto the table. “If y’all don’t mind excusing me, I’ve got an early flight to catch back home to Tennessee and some long-overdue vacation.”

  They all stood, and Cameron rounded the table to shake Samantha’s hand. “I owe you. Big time.”

  “You’re one of us now,” she smiled. “We’ve got your back.”

  “Sine pari,”3 Cameron said with a responding grin, squeezing her hand.

  Jack strongly suspected from his expression that she’d garnered another loyal follower for life.

  “We’ll see you at the office after Thanksgiving?” Carey asked, clasping Cameron’s hand.

  “Absolutely. I’ll have a word with Avi Oded,” he promised. “Heard he’s next on your list.”

  “We’d appreciate that,” Carey smiled.

  “My pleasure,” Cameron replied.

  “I’ve got to get home to the kiddo,” Jaime chimed in. “I’ll head out with Cameron.”

  And just like that, people began to peel off.

  Simon turned to Samantha. “You want to split a cab?” he asked.

  “She can go back with me,” Jack answered before Samantha could reply. She glanced at him, her brow raised. “I drove,” he explained.

  “Normally I’d insist on you letting me take that Aston out for a spin, but I’ve had a couple drinks,” she told him mournfully.

  “Another time,” Jack promised. “If you let me take out your ’vette.”

  “You have an Aston Martin?” Simon asked.

  “A Vanquish. You a fan?”

  “You could say I have an appreciation for any kind of fine motor,” Simon answered, a glint of humor in his eye. Samantha bit back a laugh. Simon winked at her.

  Jack watched their private joke exchange silently while he imagined punching Simon hard in the face. Multiple times. Simon was saved by a fine margin when the waiter delivered their bills at just the right moment.

  As they left Alinea, Simon kissed Samantha’s cheeks, lingering for a second too long as he glanced at Jack over her shoulder. Jack felt his fists curl, but he kept his hands safely hidden in his coat. Samantha stepped back from Simon, distracting Jack by slipping her arm through his with the familiarity of a lover. He s
miled down at her, enjoying standing in the chilly fall night with her, doing something as mundane as waiting for his car.

  Jack drove them home in companionable silence, navigating the quiet night streets of Lincoln Park. When he hit Lakeshore Drive, he looked over at her, still and silent as she leaned back in the seat, her eyes closed. Street lamps illuminated her face in intermittently, like a measured tempo.

  “How many times have you been at risk?” he heard himself ask.

  Samantha opened her eyes, her gaze lazy and amused. “You asking how many lives I have left?”

  Jack took his hand off the gear shift, grasping her hand. He kissed her palm, breathing in the scent from her wrist. “Do you know or have you lost count?” he asked, watching the road.

  He could feel her wondering why he’d ask such a thing. “Including being in this car with you right now?” she asked as he curled their hands into his lap.

  “I’m being serious.”

  He heard her soft, husky laugh. “Clearly. But you’re being too serious.” She squeezed her fingers around his reassuringly. “I’m fine, Jack.”

  He pulled into the Whitney, parked in his space next to hers. “Let me get your door,” he told her.

  “Jack—”

  He shook his head, interrupting her before leaning across the console to rub a thumb across her cheek. “I’m not ready to say goodnight to you,” he admitted. “Have a drink with me. Please.”

  He could feel her thinking through her easy-let-down answers, trying to decide which one to use. “Samantha,” he breathed in the quiet of the car, their eyes locked. “I want to talk to you, look at you…touch you. Let me. Just for a couple hours. Otherwise I’ll just be awake anyway, thinking about it.”

  Samantha took a deep breath, closing her eyes momentarily before giving him a single, brief nod. “Give me fifteen minutes.”

  *

  October—That night

  The Whitney, Chicago

  S A M A N T H A

  She didn’t give herself time to dissect it, debate it, or cancel it. He’d been on her mind too, despite how much she’d thrown herself into work the past couple weeks.

  “Oh, what the hell,” she said to no one, changing into her favorite cut offs and a soft, loose t-shirt, struggling a little with her tender arm. Sam wondered briefly if he thought she’d show up at his door in some sort of see-through negligee, ready to play out a seduction scene. She laughed softly at that image.