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.”
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