Complicated Creatures: Part One Page 17

  Sam walked down their hall, took a deep breath, and lifted her hand to knock. Before her fist connected with the door, Jack swung it open, looking relaxed in lounge pants and a snug black tee. His eyes seemed even lighter silver than usual, dark hair tousled and damp from a shower, the shadow of the day’s stubble lining his jaw. He took her in from tip-to-toe, a small smile turning up one side of his mouth, as if he were unexpectedly pleased to see her.

  “You thought I’d bail,” she accused, poking his chest when she caught his expression.

  He grabbed her hand, pulling her into his place. Their layout was nearly identical, with a wide, open living room, two levels of floor-to-ceiling windows in leaded glass, and a sprawling chef’s kitchen next to the dining room. Where she had a gently curved steps in polished mahogany, he had a beautiful wrought-iron spiral staircase leading to his second floor. His home was appointed in dark, rich colors with glowing parquet floors and large cognac leather sofas surrounding a modern copper-backed fireplace. Sam whistled.

  “I like your version of my house,” she admired, taking in the bookshelves, art, and sculptures dotting his home. “It looks like a sanctuary. I’ll be lucky if I ever achieve that feel,” she conceded.

  “If that’s what you’re going for, you’ll need more than a couch, a table, and a bed,” Jack teased, watching her look around.

  Sam laughed, conceding his point. “But you forgot I’ve also got coffee, wine, and an excellent stereo. You learn to live with the basics when you’re constantly on the road.”

  “What’s your pleasure?” he asked, walking into the kitchen.

  “I’ll have whatever the Insomniac is having,” Sam replied, running her fingers down a modern sculpture of a torso. “I’d like to know what a typical night in the life of Jack Roman looks like. That is, when you’re not stalking me at the pool,” she teased, turning to look at him.

  Jack grinned. “In that case, I’ll make tea. Do you drink Valerian, Chamomile?”

  “Either is fine.” She took a seat at his dining table, a gorgeous, rough-edged redwood that had been polished and sealed to a soft shine. The legs were made of stainless steel branches artfully and individually welded. She loved how he blended traditional and modern pieces, how lived in and warm his place felt despite the grandiosity of the space. Sam spread her hands on the wood, touching the grooves, dipping her fingertips into the whorl of a knot.

  He’d left the Tribune and the New York Times open at the head of the table. She could see he’d been working on the crossword puzzle, though he hadn’t quite finished. A worn hardcover peeped out from under the newspapers. She slid her finger under the papers to pull it out gently, watching him from the corner of her eye as he took down mugs, preparing the tea. She probably shouldn’t pry, but it was nearly right in front of her, and she was curious about his taste and preferences.

  He was reading Nabokov’s Pale Fire. Jack turned, catching her looking at the book. “Have you read it?”

  Sam shook her head, sliding the book back under his papers. “The only Nabokov I ever read was Lolita. Beautifully written, if not incredibly sad and more than a little depraved. Why are you reading it?”

  Jack carried a small tray over to the dining table. “As an author, Nabokov was almost exclusively defined by that single piece. As much as I was disturbed by Lolita, I also thought his writing was beautiful. Here’s a man who was a refugee twice, taught at some of the most prestigious schools in the US, and he could write like that in a language that wasn’t his mother tongue or even his second language.” Jack paused, looking up at her. “I figured I should at least read another piece of his. Try not to judge a body of work by one book I didn’t connect with.”

  Sam accepted the mug he offered her, staring at him. Jack continued to surprise her. By day, this man sported the ultra-glossy veneer of a high-powered and charismatic philistine as effortlessly as he donned his hand-tailored suits. But on nights like these, with his long legs stretched out and his fingers pushing the damp waves of his hair off his forehead, he reminded her that was just one aspect of him—and maybe not even the dominant one at that. What Sam hadn’t expected was the intelligent, playful, and introspective side of Jack Roman. She had the distinct notion this would be the beginning of many nights where they would carefully unfold truths about one another like pieces of elaborate origami. And she liked that notion. She liked it a lot.

  “You’re…complicated,” she murmured, watching him over the rim of her mug. “Far more complicated and astute than I gave you credit for when we first met.”

  His brow arched. “Are you telling me you thought I was vapid?”

  “I thought you were a what-you-see-is-what-you-get profligate with a penchant for the fast life,” she answered readily. “I’ll freely admit I wouldn’t have imagined you had an architectural passion for historical restorations, read Nabokov, and worked on the Times crossword puzzle.” Sam sipped her tea. “It’s ‘Lafayette,’ by the way.”

  “Lafayette?” Jack asked.

  “Nine-letter word for ‘The Hero of the Two Worlds.’”

  He reached backward to a small console table, picking up a pair of chic black-framed glasses as he looked at the paper. “How did you know that?” he asked, glancing up.

  “My father and granddaddy were war buffs. Couldn’t tutor for a damn when it came to calculus or physics, but anything to do with history or politics and they were savants,” she laughed softly.

  Jack looked down at the paper again, his tongue touching his upper lip just so. Goddamn, this man is irrationally attractive. Sam smiled her into tea.

  “Eight-letter word for ‘guarded’? Has an A in it.”

  Sam thought for a minute. “Vigilant.”

  “Okay, now you know I only invited you over to help me finish this,” he joked, filling in the word.

  “So you plan on using me for my mind,” Sam quipped.

  “Would you prefer I use you for your body?” Jack asked with a brazen smile, his eyes bright behind his glasses.

  “I prefer you not use me at all,” Sam replied, taking another sip of her tea. “How many do you have left?”

  “Two,” he said, looking back down at the newspaper. “But I know this one.”

  “What is it?”

  “Thirteen-letter word for ‘absorbed to the exclusion of other things.’”

  She poured them both more tea, watching the steam rise. “That’s not in there.”

  “Yes, it is,” he defended, holding the paper to his chest.

  “No, it’s not. You’re a crap bluffer. You’d never survive playing poker with me and my guys,” Sam returned.

  “I would do better than survive, I’d wipe the floor with you and your guys,” he replied, his brow raised mockingly. “Now quit hemming and hawing. What’s the word?”

  “Preoccupation,” she answered. She sipped her tea. “Stop lying to me.”

  “I am not lying,” he insisted.

  “Then why aren’t you writing anything down?”

  He looked down at the paper, made a show of writing something down and then tossed the pen down, crossing his arms. “How did you know?”

  “You have a tell,” she murmured into her mug.

  “No, I don’t,” he replied. “Wait, what is it?” he asked immediately, his forehead creasing.

  She lifted a brow. “If I told you, you wouldn’t do it anymore,” she drawled. “Now what are you so preoccupied with, Jack Roman?”

  “You.”

  Sam sat back, wrapping her hands around her mug. She’d walked right into that one.

  Jack leaned forward, taking off his glasses. “You’re an unexpected distraction, Ms. Wyatt.”

  “You’re just bored, Mr. Roman,” she replied. “What with all the hours you spend not sleeping. I’m just the latest interesting thing within a thirty-foot vicinity.”

  “So you admit you’re interesting,” he pointed out.

  Sam shrugged. “I’m a reclusive neighbor with odd hours and an unusua
l occupation. I don’t know if it’s really all that interesting, but it’s something.” She got up, walking across his living room toward the shelves of vinyl records. “What’s all this?” she asked, thumbing through a few of them.

  “My dad was a traditionalist when it came to music,” he explained, following her. “I grew up listening to records. I began collecting, and when Dad moved to D.C., I absorbed his collection as well. Just became a thing.” Jack turned on a sleek, modern turntable.

  “How are they organized?” Sam asked.

  “Genre, Artist, Year.”

  “Christ, you really are an insomniac,” she said, amazed. He had thousands of records, neatly organized on seven-foot shelves.

  Jack scoffed, slanting her a look.

  “Pick one,” she told him. “And tell me why you like it.”

  He flipped through a few, pulling an album out of its sleeve. “The first record I ever bought with my allowance. I was eight.” He placed the needle gently on the vinyl.

  Huey Lewis and the News’s “Heart & Soul” came pouring out of the speakers.

  “Get out of town!” she exclaimed. “I loved this song!”

  Jack smiled, showing her the cover. “I knew I liked this song from the radio, and the album was called Sports, and I knew I liked sports, so I figured I’d be getting the best of both worlds.” He laughed. “I didn’t get then that it was just a name.”

  They listened for a bit. Sam hummed along, thumbing through more records, smiling when she found familiar ones or singers she’d listened to growing up. She pulled out Men at Work.

  “Would you play ‘Overkill’?” she asked. “I’m dedicating the lyrics to you.”

  Jack laughed, taking the record from her and deftly switching out the albums. As the song came on, she smiled. She hadn’t heard it in years. She lay down on her back, sprawled on Jack’s Kilim rug, her uninjured arm behind her head. Jack hummed along, flipping through his other records. When the song finished, he played The Rolling Stones’ “Moonlight Mile.” Jack leaned over her, offering his hand. Sam smiled quizzically before slipping her hand into his. He pulled her up, interlacing their fingers as he danced her around his living room. Jack was a fantastic dancer, his movements fluid and easy to follow. Relaxing into him felt instinctive. At the end of the song, he surprised her into laughter with a dramatic dip. He smiled down at her before ducking his face into her neck.

  “God, I love your scent. What is it?” he asked, tilting her back up.

  “Just a little something I have Hove Parfumeur in New Orleans make for me.”

  “Elusive.” Jack considered her. “Unforgettable,” he murmured, the shards of his silver eyes expanding slowly like a languid kaleidoscope. “And maddening. It’s perfect.”

  “It’s just the scent of a woman, Jack.” She smiled. “I have a feeling you like them all,” she teased, directing the little jag into the intimacy of the moment.

  He released her, guiding her to one of the sofas. “I think you make me out to be more of a womanizer than I really am.”

  “Really? Because if I were an insomniac, I’d be filling those hours with a ridiculous amount of orgasms.” She smirked. “I’d be incredibly disappointed to hear you waste all those useful hours with Dewey Decimal Systeming your records and reading important, dead authors.”

  “First of all, that’s not the Dewey,” Jack replied, grinning. “And I may have had my fair share of sex—” He paused when she snorted. “Well, all right, more than fair,” he admitted, a touch unrepentant. “But I think you like to come back to that so you can remind yourself not to like me so much,” he continued, pulling her feet into his lap. Jack rubbed his thumb into the arch of her foot. She hummed her pleasure, nestling into his sofa.

  “The problem isn’t liking you, Jack. I like you just fine.” She groaned as he worked the ball of her foot, tired from a night of looking pretty in killer heels. She closed her eyes in unabashed pleasure as he kneaded.

  “Then what is the problem?”

  “You’ve already got a woman on the stringer, Jack. How many you looking to add to the line?”

  His deft fingers worked her toes. She was beginning to feel her muscles slackening as she sank deeper into the soft leather cushions.

  “Rebecca and I aren’t serious.”

  “Does she know that?” Sam asked. “Don’t answer that,” she corrected herself, opening her eyes. “It’s none of my business. And I’m hardly looking to get into anything serious myself, but I’m old enough to know better when it comes to guys like you, Jack.”

  “Guys like me?” he asked, kneading her heel. “And what kind of guy am I?”

  “The very best kind,” she answered, closing her eyes. “And the worst. The kind you never forget.”

  “Isn’t that something to revel in?” he asked, pulling her closer. “What if I don’t want you to forget me?” he asked, running his hands up her bare shins as he hooked her legs over his lap.

  “Don’t revel in much anymore, I’m afraid,” she replied lightly, stretching an arm behind her head.

  “That’s a shame,” he told her, bending to kiss her knee. “I’d be excellent for you, then.”

  “You’d be something,” she agreed with a languid smile. “Not sure what.”

  “You should take a chance on me, Samantha. I’d be good for you.”

  Sam scoffed. “You’re quoting ABBA to get me in the sack? Does that actually work?”

  Jack grinned. “Do you want me to put it on? Get you in the ‘Dancing Queen’ mood?”

  “Only if you want me to respond with an ‘S.O.S,’” she teased. “I’m imagining you dancing around to that at three in the morning when the rest of the building sleeps. Do you do that, Jack?” she asked. “Play vintage seventies and dance about in reckless abandon?”

  “At three in the morning, I prefer to do something else with reckless abandon,” he answered, his smile utterly disarming.

  She’d just bet he did. His hands smoothed up and down her calves. His touch was light and thrilling. At this time of night, feeling a little languid and a lot turned on, she was finding very few reasons not to take this man on. Sam began to push up so she could shift away and clear her head. The sleeve of her t-shirt lifted. Jack stared at the bandage on her arm, his mouth compressed in a thin line.

  “You gonna tell me about that?” he asked after a moment of tense silence.

  Sam fought the instinct to cover her arm, shrugging it off. “Told you—just a scratch.”

  “A scratch that required stitches?” Jack asked. He lifted his hand to run a gentle finger over her arm. Her skin raised in goose bumps, the pain of her wound sharpening in anticipation. She watched as he traced his finger up to touch the edge of the gauze. Jack edged the tape off, staring at the gash that had been stitched closed with precision so that now it was just an angry red welt. The fresh marks from the stiches crisscrossed the raised skin.

  Jack raised his eyes to hers slowly. Silver darkened to a charcoal. “One inch over and it would have shattered the bone.”

  Sam slid the bandage back on. “It hurt a lot less than some of my other wounds. It’s no big deal, Jack.”

  “Will you tell me what happened?” he asked after a moment.

  Sam watched him for a minute, debating. “We went in to get Kurt out of a bad situation in Somalia. When we were trying to pull out, I got winged. I was so pumped up on adrenaline I didn’t really realize it until we got back to Mogadishu.”

  “I think there’s more to it than that.”

  She watched him silently for a moment before she began to laugh.

  “Why are you laughing?” Jack asked, squeezing her foot.

  “Because you’re endlessly curious about my scars. What kind of gentleman are you that you press a woman on her imperfections?”

  A lock of hair fell across his eyes as he glanced down at her, a smile tugging his lips. “I guess not much of one at all.” He looked back at her arm. “Do you blame me? The women I usually date co
nsider a bad day missing a manicure. You see getting shot in the arm as an annoyance.”

  Sam’s brow popped up, her expression mocking. “We’re dating?”

  Jack pulled her foot up and nipped her arch. “I’m trying. My quarry’s proving elusive.”

  “I’m rarely the quarry,” she replied, trying to pull her foot back.

  Jack wouldn’t release her. Instead, he dragged her closer, his arms circling her shoulders. He touched his lips to her neck, breathing in again. Sam struggled not to shudder. She could easily escape his grasp, but she didn’t want to. She liked this—the easy intimacy, the warmth and comfort of him. They sat like that for a while, listening to the music, her legs draped over his, her back curved into his arm. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d let anyone just hold her like this. She began to drowse in her unexpected relaxation.

  “Samantha.”

  She stirred.

  “You’re falling asleep, baby.”

  Sam murmured something, tucking her face into his shoulder.

  Jack leaned in closer. “Say it again?”

  But she was already out.

  *

  October—7:00 a.m., the next morning

  The Whitney, Chicago

  S A M A N T H A

  Sam floated into wakefulness, groaning as she stretched her arms above her head. She felt well-rested, the pain in her arm reduced to a dull ache. As she sat up, tucked under layers of down and crisp linen, she realized she was in a strange room. It looked like one of her guest rooms, facing the wrong direction. As she glanced around, confused, there was a soft knock on the door.

  “Come in,” she called out.

  Jack stepped into the room, holding a cup of coffee. He was wearing dark slacks and a partially open dress shirt, his feet still bare, and he looked more awake and energetic than he had a right to, smiling at her with a sparkle in his eyes.

  “I considered giving you a little more sleep, but I don’t know what time you like to get into the office,” he said as he handed her the coffee, sitting beside her on the bed.