A Match Made in Heaven?

He ran a finger down his cheek and licked the drop with his tongue. “Mmm, this is good.”

“Johnny.”

“Okay, Sam.” He leaped up, a sheepish grin on his lips. “Guess I forgot … but I was sure—”

“I don’t believe it.” She plunged the spoon back in the batter. “You don’t forget a thing like that.” Swinging open the cupboard, she grabbed two plates, shoved them at him and slammed it shut.

He set the chipped dishes on the bottle-cap sized table. “You’ll recall ours was no ordinary wedding.”

Sam sighed. “Yes.” For a fleeting moment, her wedding day replayed at speed before her eyes and emotion swelled inside her. Abruptly, she crammed the memory aside and opened the refrigerator, welcoming the frosty air on her hot cheeks. “I re-re-remember.”

“It was easy to overlook—”

She took out the butter and banged the fridge door shut with her elbow.

“—a thing like that.” What could he say? It was a rhino-size blunder and he felt like a heel for it. He bashed a tuff of hair dangling on his forehead back with his fist. Thoughts of cuffing snoboy into cyberspace had distracted him, and subconsciously he must’ve scribbled Scott’s name on the wedding doc.

He shot Sam a covert glance.

She shot one back.

Until he checked the copy in their safety deposit box at the bank, he’d be in the doghouse under lock and key. “There is a funny side to this, Sam.” He tested the waters, his words half question, half statement, his lips tugging at the corners.

Silence.

“Sam?’

“Oh, you’re impossible.” She set the bowl on the counter, crumbled the letter in a ball and took aim.

“I wanted to get you away from that jerk fast and—”

The paper missile ricocheted off his chest, and she gripped the wooden spoon, stirring the batter. “One.” She paused for emphasis. “I’ve put up with your chronic unemployment—”

“Reverting to high and mighty socialite are you?” His eyes darkened. “I couldn’t just be temporarily between jobs?”

“Tempo-perma is what you mean,” she let fly, her words stinging.

“Aww, Sam, that was a low blow.”

“You’re always out of a job, Johnny.” She absent-mindedly created figure eights in the batter with the ladle.

“Nope.” He fixed his sights on his very pregnant wife, and his gut hitched. Fool, to think love could bridge the gap between them.

Love never fails.

The silent message lit his brain. He wrinkled his brow but couldn’t recall where he’d heard those profound words. Was what they shared enough to transcend social status pressure? He smirked and nearly guffawed at his naiveté, even at thirty-four. At a loss, he gulped down the self-deprecating sound, thinking it might be time to ’fess up. “I’ve bought … er … working … I’ve wanted to tell you about—”

“Heard that before, Johnny.”

Her words were like ten-pound weights crushing his shoulders.

In the heavy silence, the batter sloshed in the bowl, keeping time with the ticking cuckoo clock above the stove.

“Two.” She smacked the ladle on the batter, speckling the counter. “I’ve put up with living in this drabby matchbox for two years.”

“It won’t always be that way, Sam.” He stepped closer, encircling her shoulder, but she shrank away. “I thought it was our home … and I’ve wanted to tel—”

“Oh, it is, Johnny. It is.” Her tone softened a tad, giving him hope.

He pulled her into his arms, and she laid her head on his shoulder. “Then, what is it?” He stroked her hair, the motion soothing…arousing. “I’ve wanted to tell you about my, our good fortu—”

“Not legally wed.” She jerked away and grabbed the frying pan off the shelf and banged it on the stove.

He rubbed the back of his head and breathed a sigh of relief she’d found another target.

“What will people … I mean—”

“Mamma …” he inserted for her.

“… think.” She turned on the gas element and it flared to life.

“You made a choice on that score when you married me.” He flexed his shoulder muscles. “But if that matters so much to you, Sam, maybe you shouldn’t have said ‘I do.’” He’d just given her an out if she wanted it, and his heart faltered.

By social standards, he was an ordinary guy from the poor ’hood, and she was high society from the ritzy side of town. His roots stemmed from Irish farmers tilling land for survival. Her ancestry was linked to the English aristocracy. While he’d pounded the pavement for work during the day and studied for a business degree at night, she hung out at the café on campus, sipping designer lattes with her socialite friends.

Maybe he should’ve joined her there … maybe that’s where he’d made his mistake. Regardless, it was time he found out the truth about why she married him. He’d been putting it off until after the baby came, but the grenade in that letter was about to blast them apart. He’d have to toss in his ammo prematurely and either neutralize or detonate matters between them.

‘Rich debutante jilts catch of the season to marry poor boy Belen.’ Isn’t that how the society page read in the Beverly Hills Weekly? His tone sounded empty, his heart padlocked.

“Doesn’t matter, now.” She scratched a dried disc of batter with her slipper.

“Why’s that?”

“We’re not married.”

“Easy to fix.”

“No, it isn’t.” She yanked open the cutlery drawer, took out a knife, sliced a slab of butter and tossed it in the pan. It sizzled.

“Why not?” He removed the knife from her fingers, placed it on the countertop and closed the drawer before she could slam it shut.

She shrugged, not quite meeting his searching gaze.

Johnny plowed a hand through his hair, breath blasting from his mouth. Heck, she still thought him the peasant barely making enough to keep a roof over their heads. Of course, his pad in North Hollywood couldn’t compete with her family’s Beverly Hills mansion. The recent news of their union, or lack thereof, had her speed-redialing about their life.

“Why’d you marry me, Sam?” An air pocket jammed in his throat, and his pulse jerked off beat.

“Because … I …” She twisted her wedding ring around her finger.

“Maybe it was to get back at your mother and get away from that bozo, Scott.”

“Leave my mother out of this,” she snapped. “And as for Michael, well … you could be kind.”

“You defending that circus clown?” he bit out.

“Not exactly.” An unbidden smile brushed her mouth, and then vanished in the onslaught of their verbal shoot out.

“I’m supposed to know what that means?”

“He’s a family friend.”

“And that makes this” –he pointed to her and himself, then slashed his hand through the air— “all right?”

“No … yes … I dunno.”

“Maybe it had nothing to do with me—feelings for me.” He drilled, wanting to read her … get answers. Maybe the nuptials had been a set-up for self-serving purposes; the notion flogged his mind … his gut.

Samantha blinked at him, aghast. How could he think such a thing, and with her carrying his child? Maybe love and marriage didn’t mean the same to him as it did to her. She muffled a hiccup; she’d even given up lattes to save them money. Well, she’d better find out what kind of man she married … er … thought she married.

She glared at him.

He glared back.

“Johnny Belen, that’s a rotten thing to say.” She twitched her nose at an odor filling the kitchen, but was too upset to identify the source.

“What?” He rubbed a hand across his jaw and pushed open the window above the sink. “That Scott is a buffoon or a circus clown?”

“No.”

He rolled his shoulders. “You mean about feelings, etc.?”

She didn’t answer.

“Isn’t it true?”

She compressed her lips.

“Want to make this marriage legal or not?” He challenged, loosening his tie and folding his arms across his broad chest.

She scooped up a ladle full of batter.

“Guess I’ve got your answer.” He spun around to leave.

“Hey, Belen.”

He glanced over his shoulder. “Wha-a-”

She tossed the batter at him like a lacrosse ball and it smacked his forehead, dribbling down his face.

“Not funny, Sam.” He wiped the back of his hand across his eyes, and she glimpsed a storm brewing in them.

“You’re right, it’s not.” She scooped fresh ammo and pitched ladle ‘n all at him.

He ducked, and the wallop landed beneath the cuckoo clock on the wall behind him. The utensil rattled to the floor. He kicked it aside and stomped forward to do battle, the cuckoo clock chirping the ninth hour to the tempo of his steps.

A low growl in his throat gave way to the amused twitch on his lips. He advanced one step … two … until his muscled torso brushed her belly. “If you weren’t six months pregnant, I’d turn you over my knee.”

“And what?” Sam raised her chin, her lip trembling and her eyes stinging. At any other time, he would’ve played along, washing her face with the flour mix, then lifting her in his arms, he’d climb the stairs and dunk her beneath the shower to make up. A catch in her throat, and erotic memories zinged through her mind, sensitizing her body and spiking her pulse.

Now, the playful antics backfired, fueling anger and lengthening the distance between them.

“Sam—” He sniffed, and a string of choice words rambled off his tongue. “You trying to burn us down or what?”

Smoke billowed around the pint-sized stove.

“Oh my!” She shuffled to the sink.

“No!” Johnny turned the element off and grabbed the pan lid. “Can’t snuff a grease fire with water.” Slamming the cover on the pan, he extinguished the danger. “Gotta suffocate it.”

Like our marriage? He frowned, the thought zinging through his mind.

“Wasn’t that hungry, anyway,” she murmured.

He shook his head and stomped from the kitchen. The shrill sound of the doorbell startled her and made him pause in stride. She waddled close behind him, hugging the mixing bowl to her bosom.

Johnny yanked the front door open. “What the—”

“Have I come at an inopportune time?” Michael Scott stood on the doorstep, dressed in a designer suit, his blond hair slicked back and his arms laden with red roses. Glancing from one to the other, he preened like a peacock. “I’ve come to claim my stolen bride.”

Chapter Three

Oblivious to simmering tension, Michael skimmed his pale blues over Sam’s soot-streaked face, a notch lower to the plastic bowl in her hands, and up again, zeroing on Johnny’s batter-stained shirt.

“A domestic dispute?” He grinned like a Cheshire cat and took a step closer, pinching his nose in distaste. “Not trying to cook, are you Irishman?”

“You’re outta line, bozo.” Johnny lunged and landed a right hook on his jaw. “Beat it.”

“Johnny!” Sam grabbed his sleeve to pull him away but by then, Michael lay sprawled on the walk, scarlet blooms flying every which way.

“Should’ve done that two years ago.”

She squinted at the sunlight and shoving past Johnny, wobbled down the two steps to the fallen man. “Are you all right, Michael?”

“Yeah,” he grumbled, reaching for her outstretched hand. “That freckle-faced leprechaun better watch his temper or he’ll land in jail.”

“I think not.” Johnny advanced like a man with a mission. “You’re trespassing.”

“This is Samantha’s property, too.”

“Yeah, and she’s my wife.”

“Not anymore.” A triumphant grin split his mouth. “She’s mine.”

“Michael …” Samantha glanced at Johnny and sucked in her breath, allowing it to slowly filter between her teeth. His shoulders were rigid, his jaw steel and a flush slashed his cheekbones. He was spoiling for a fight. “Johnny …”

“We’ll see about that.” Johnny pushed up his sleeves and in one long stride came at him.

In fluid motion, reminiscent of his former ballet training, Michael grabbed her outstretched hand, leaped up and raised his fists.

“Right, put up your dukes, then.”

“Bang on, mister,” Johnny muttered.

“No!” She kept him at bay with the bowl she held and pushed Michael back with her other hand. “Stop it, the both of yoa-aa-h!” She doubled over and the bowl cluttered down the steps, pancake batter splattering the cement walk.

“Samantha!” Johnny reached for her, his whole body seeming to pale. “What is it?”

Michael Scott stood locked on the step, mouth hanging open. “What ca-a-an I do?”

“Shut up!”

“A-agh … I’ve got to …” She leaned against Johnny’s shoulder. “Not to worry.” She took a deep breath and exhaled in puffs. “I-I need to lie down for a minute.”

Samantha lowered her lashes, hating to worry Johnny and panic Michael, but she had to do something to diffuse the situation. A woman could take license at a time like this, couldn’t she? She felt a twinge of uncertainty; was that a niggle pricking her conscience?

“Sure, honey.” Johnny scooped her up in his arms, climbed the steps, kicked the front door open and strode into the living room.

“Michael,” he bellowed. “Fluff up the cushions, will ya?”

Michael thawed to life and pranced behind him.

He placed Sam on the sofa and knelt beside her, holding her hand. “You okay, Sammy mine?”

Michael grabbed a magazine off the coffee table, fanning himself.

Johnny shot him a frosty look.

Michael froze in mid-motion, and then quickly turned the paper fan toward Sam.

“Thank you, both.” She pushed up to a sitting position, not missing the antagonistic glances between the two men. “Now, let’s talk this out.”

“You okay, Sam?” Johnny brushed a golden curl off her brow, his gaze connecting with hers.

“Fine … like civilized—”

“Sure?”

“Yes, Johnny—people.”

“Good.” Johnny leaped to his full six-foot height, flexed his hands, and light glinted off his wedding ring. He stared Michael down. “You, get out of my house.”

“For you, Samantha.” Michael pulled a wilted rose from his breast pocket and offered it to her.

Johnny knocked it from his hand.

“Johnny …” She touched his arm.

“Samantha, do you want me to go?” Michael took a step toward her but Johnny blocked his path.

“Michael …” she whispered.

“My wife does not want you to stay” –Johnny gave her a tentative glance— “do you?”

“She’s not your wife, anymore.” Michael almost stomped his foot.

“Stop.” She fell back against the cushions and closed her lashes. A myriad of emotions churned inside her, and she opened her eyes wide. “Out.”

Startled, both men gaped at her.

“You and yo—”

“Okay, okay, Sa-sa-mantha,” Michael stammered, backing away. “Do-don’t get upset again, please.”

Johnny grinned.

Michael glowered at him. “I’ll be back for her.”

“Scram.” Johnny chased him out, slammed the door behind him and straightened his shirt cuffs. “Glad that’s done with.” In two strides, he was beside her and plunked down on the sofa, his weight pressing down the cushions. He laced his fingers with hers, his thumb stroking the inside of her wrist, his breath a sliver of sound in the lull of silence.

“It’s not.” She gritted her teeth, trying desperately to ignore his heat zapping into her. Her pulse leaped. Before she succumbed to the emotion and curled into him, she withdrew her hand. Not quite meeting his eyes, she snatched a cushion and hugged it to her bosom.

“No?” he asked.

Tick. Tock. The cuckoo clock sounded the half hour, the echo ominous.

“I want you to leave, too, Johnny.”

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