Marrying the Manhattan Millionaire Read online

  “For my parents, too.” She laughed roughly. “They may not agree on anything else, but they both have been devastated by this. For the first year, my mother was sure Sonya was going to just snap out of it, like something you see in a made-for-television movie. Dad was more skeptical, but I think he wanted to believe that, too.”

  “And you?”

  “I still want to believe it,” she murmured. “Even if I know it’s all but impossible.”

  “She wasn’t very responsive when I was in there,” Michael said, hooking a thumb in the direction of Sonya’s room.

  “She’s the same way with me. Still, I have to believe she knows I come and that she looks forward to my visits…in her own way.”

  “I’m sure she does.” They stood in awkward silence for a moment before he added, “Well, I won’t keep you.”

  Sam nodded and stepped around him, managing to paste a bright smile on her face before she stepped through the door to her sister’s room.

  Michael stayed. When Sam wrapped up her visit half an hour later, he was seated on one of the sofas in the lobby. He stood as she approached. She looked exhausted, he thought, noting the slight droop to her usually squared shoulders and the dark smudges under her eyes. Despite all that, she also managed to look lovely.

  “You’re still here?” She sounded surprised, but was she pleased? And why, exactly, did he hope that she was?

  “I decided to wait for you.”

  Her brows pulled together. “Why?”

  Good question. Michael tucked his hands into the front pockets of his trousers and rocked back on his heels. After exhaling, he admitted, “I’m not sure.”

  Sam let out a weary laugh. “Well, at least you’re honest.”

  “I was always honest.”

  She nodded slowly. “Yes, you were.”

  “Do you want a ride?” he asked.

  The question had her blinking. “You drove here?”

  “No, I’m offering to carry you on my back all the way to Manhattan,” he replied dryly. “Of course I drove. One thing I got used to in L.A. was having a car at my disposal. I decided not to give it up when I moved back, even if I still rely on cabs and the subway at times.”

  She tilted her head to one side and studied him. “What kind of car do you have?”

  “Why? Is that going to sway your decision?” he asked.

  “No, but I am curious. You always talked about owning a Porsche.”

  “You’ve got a good memory.”

  “Cherry red with a stick shift,” she said.

  “I stand corrected. You have a great memory.” He smiled and in a conspiratorial voice added, “You wouldn’t believe the way that baby hugs the road on turns, or how fast she can go from zero to sixty on a straightaway.”

  Sam looked to be on the verge of grinning back at him, but then she lectured, “It’s not terribly practical to own a car in New York. You must pay a fortune in insurance premiums, not to mention parking fees.”

  He cast his gaze skyward. “I can afford it, Sam. Remember?”

  “Ah, yes. Mr. Independently Wealthy.” She was one of the few women who knew Michael’s net worth and was unfazed by it. Maybe that’s why he’d fallen for her all those years earlier. At the moment, though, her indifference was annoying, especially when she asked, “I can’t believe you dipped into your trust fund for a phallic symbol on wheels.”

  “It’s not a phallic symbol.”

  “Whatever. I thought you believed in earning your own way. Isn’t that why we lived in that closet of an apartment in the Village with a view of an alley rather than something uptown that offered a view of the park?”

  The mention of their apartment had nostalgia beckoning before he could stop it. “The place wasn’t that bad. We had a lot of good times there.” He cleared his throat, snapped his mind back to the present. “As for my trust fund, I haven’t dipped into it. What I spend is what I’ve earned.”

  “Self-made,” she murmured.

  Was she impressed? God help him, Michael wanted her to be.

  “That’s my plan and despite some temptation over the years, I haven’t deviated.”

  “Right.” She nodded. “No rerouting for you. Once you’re set on a destination, you don’t believe in taking a detour, no matter what the reason. In fact, you won’t even listen to the reason.”

  The color rose in her cheeks. She was talking about their relationship, and they both knew it.

  Michael grimaced. “We’ve tap-danced around this ever since I learned about Sonya, but I still haven’t offered a sincere apology for what happened. If I do that now, will you accept it? Will you forgive me, Sam?”

  He watched her eyes widen and her lips part. “You’ve waited a long time to hear me say that, haven’t you?” he said.

  She nodded.

  “You know, you once accused me of being unable to compromise.”

  Her voice returned along with a wisp of humor. “Actually, I’ve accused you of all sorts of unflattering things over the years. That was only one of them.”

  “Well, you were only partly right. I would have compromised if I’d known this had happened to Sonya.” He held up a hand to stop her from interrupting. “And I take full responsibility for not listening when you called to explain. I was so angry.”

  “I know. I was angry, too.”

  Since they were clearing the air, he wanted it cleared all the way. “I think you should know I still feel I was right about your father. You can’t please him, Sam. Has he ever told you that he appreciates the sacrifices you’ve made or the hard work you do at Bradford?”

  “He might not say it, but—” She shook her head. “Let’s not talk about my family anymore.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’d like that ride if you’re still offering.” She pushed a hand through her unruly hair. “I got caught in the rain on my walk here from the train station.”

  “I noticed.”

  He’d always liked it when Sam left her hair natural and wavy, rather than turning it sleek with a blow dryer and round brush. He reached out and wrapped one of her wayward curls around his index finger. He released it quickly, a little embarrassed to have touched her in such a familiar manner despite their personal history. Or maybe because of it.

  “I look a mess.” She sounded oddly self-conscious as she straightened the lapels of the soggy blouse that peeked out from the collar of her equally soggy jacket.

  “I wouldn’t say that.” He contradicted her only to say, “More like pleasantly disheveled.”

  She laughed, as he’d intended. “Isn’t that the same thing?”

  “Maybe, but pleasantly disheveled sounds better, kind of like the difference between used and preowned. In our business, it’s all about word choice. Use the right ones and even a frozen dinner can sound like haute cuisine.”

  Sam didn’t appear convinced. In fact, she frowned at him. “I have a low-calorie grilled chicken dinner waiting for me in the freezer at home. I’m sorry, but no amount of flattery is going to make that thing more appetizing, although I’m thinking a couple of glasses of Chardonnay might do the trick.”

  He chuckled. “Mine is Salisbury steak smothered in clumpy brown gravy. I was going to pair it with the nice Merlot my boss gave me for winning the Addy.”

  “You just had to bring that up again,” she said, but her tone held humor rather than irritation. The fragile truce they’d reached appeared to be holding.

  “Yeah, I did.”

  “Figures.”

  “What do you say we have dinner together?” Michael ignored the part of his brain that warned he was playing with fire. Truce or no truce, too much between them remained unsettled…and unsettling. Still he asked, “Do you know of a place around here where we can stop without having reservations?”

  Sam began to laugh, delicately at first and then with unbridled humor. “God, Michael, Bakerville isn’t Manhattan. I doubt any of the restaurants here require reservations. Not that it matters. They roll
up the sidewalks in this town about the same time the streetlights come on.”

  “Oh. Then we’ll head back to the city and stop someplace suitable along the way. How does that sound to you?”

  “I don’t know,” she hedged.

  “Come on. You’ve got to eat, and so do I. We’ve both admitted that we have unappetizing prospects in that regard waiting for us back at our homes. Besides, you’ve already accepted my offer of a ride.”

  “You could always drop me off at the station. The next train leaves in about forty minutes,” she said, consulting her watch.

  “Is that what you want, Sam?” It was a dangerous question to ask, Michael realized, when she looked up and he found himself submerged in her dark eyes.

  Wants, needs—he thought he saw them there and they had nothing to do with his Porsche. But then she blinked and whatever spell she’d cast was broken.

  “What I want—would love, in fact—is a change of clothes and the opportunity to take off these damned shoes. They’re proving downright lethal.”

  Michael tapped his chin thoughtfully. “I can’t do much about the first I’m afraid, but I won’t object if you lose the shoes once you’re seated in my car.”

  “I’d just have to put them back on to go inside a restaurant.”

  “True, but you can kick them off again under the table.” He leaned toward her, lowered his voice. “It will be our little secret.”

  She took a moment to answer. “Fine,” Sam said at last, waving a hand. “I’m too cold, tired and hungry to argue with you.”

  “I don’t necessarily like to win by default, but I’ll take it in this instance,” he said.

  As they walked to his car, Michael peeled off the jacket to his suit and settled it around her shoulders. When Sam snuggled inside of it rather than handing it back, he felt another small sense of victory.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THEY’D been traveling west on I-495 for half an hour, engaged in polite conversation, when Michael spied a billboard for a newly opened restaurant just off the interstate. Two exits and a few turns later, they were pulling into its parking lot in a strip mall that featured several other shops, all of which were closed for the day.

  “Casablanca. Nice name for a restaurant,” Sam mused as Michael nosed the Porsche into a spot under a light. “I caught part of the movie again the other night when I was flipping through channels. Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman. God, I love that movie.”

  Her sigh had him swallowing. “I remember.”

  She’d talked Michael into watching it with her once, claiming that it was, in a way, a war movie. Since he was partial to that genre, he’d agreed. It wasn’t a war movie, a few Nazis notwithstanding, but he hadn’t regretted snuggling under an afghan on their couch to watch it with Sam…especially given what had transpired between the pair of them by the time the credits rolled.

  “Sex.”

  “Excuse me?” she said, and he realized he’d said the word aloud.

  “Sexy,” he backpedaled, as he switched off the ignition. Jingling the keys in one hand he added, “You know, the movie, the era, the characters.”

  “Oh.” She didn’t look convinced.

  Hoping to take the focus off his Freudian gaffe, he pointed toward the restaurant. “I’m guessing the food here won’t be quite as sophisticated as the film that inspired the place’s name, but it’s bound to have our frozen dinners beat all to hell.”

  “True enough.” Sam slipped her shoes back on and then flipped down the passenger-side sun visor, exposing the lighted mirror on its back. As she pulled an assortment of compacts and tubes from her handbag, she said, “This will just take me a minute.”

  He shrugged. “No hurry.”

  Although Michael tried not to, he couldn’t help sneaking a peek as she applied lipstick, freshened up her blush and eyeliner, and then attempted to tame her wild hair with a little finger combing. Sam was a no-frills sort of female in so many other ways. Maybe that was why he’d always found watching her primp to be such a damned turn-on.

  Uh-oh. We’re not going there, he warned his already wayward libido. He got out of the car, taking refuge in the cool evening air. When she joined him a moment later, he’d managed to shift his hormones back into neutral, but he had the sinking feeling they wouldn’t be staying there.

  Given the hour, the dinner crowd had thinned considerably, so he and Sam were seated immediately. The place was hardly on par with the restaurants back in the city where Michael regularly dined, but the atmosphere was pleasant, the staff friendly and efficient and, well, he couldn’t fault the company.

  Warm Italian bread and the wine they ordered arrived while they looked over the menu.

  “Are you still crazy for pasta?” he asked. “The fettuccine with asparagus and roasted red peppers sounds pretty good.”

  “Ooh, it does. But I was thinking about something I could really sink my teeth into, like a nice medium-rare steak that’s just dripping in juice.” She made a moaning noise that had his interest shifting away from the menu’s selections. “I haven’t had something like that in a long, long time.”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” he mumbled.

  Though he’d hardly lived as a monk since their split, Michael hadn’t enjoyed a truly satisfying sexual encounter with a woman since Sam. That was galling to admit even to himself. She glanced over at Michael now and smiled. Though it was clear from her open expression that she had no idea the direction his thoughts had taken, he felt the blood begin to drain away from his head. He stanched the flow by looking away and reaching for his wineglass. Asking the woman to dine with him was proving to be the kind of challenge that made Odysseus’s trials look like a walk in the park.

  He took a liberal sip of Chianti. “Why don’t we order both entrees?”

  Her gaze connected with his. “And share?”

  “Sure.”

  She seemed surprised by his suggestion, though they’d always done that in the past. As a couple. Of course, they weren’t a couple now. They were…

  “I guess we could do that,” she said slowly. “As long as I get to choose the dressing for the salad that comes with the steak.”

  Sam had always been good at bargaining.

  “Can I put in a request for the house Italian?” he asked.

  “You can.” She’d always been good at getting her way, he recalled when she added with a smile, “That doesn’t mean I’ll order it.”

  No, they weren’t a couple. At this time, Michael wouldn’t consider them to be friends, although it was possible they were heading in that direction. He wasn’t sure friendship was what he wanted or even in his best interests. What he did know was that they were rivals. They were a pair of driven and determined competitors. Adversaries, if John Wells’s defection was any proof. Even so, Michael was smiling right back at her when he set his menu aside.

  They had finished their meal and passed on dessert. Though the hour had grown late and only a couple other tables in the quaint eatery were occupied, they lingered, talking about everything but advertising accounts and steering clear of any mention of Sam’s father.

  After finishing his initial glass of wine, Michael had switched to coffee, not only because he was driving but because he’d decided it was best to keep a clear head around Sam. Without anger, misguided though it had turned out to be, to act as a stopper, old feelings and desires kept bubbling to the surface. He was now on his third cup. He blamed caffeine for the fact that his pulse was racing, though part of him suspected the woman across from him was partly to blame. He’d forgotten how alluring, how downright intoxicating, her company could be.

  Sam also had switched from wine after a single glass. Now, she was sipping tea, some herbal variety that she claimed was rich in antioxidants. She smiled at him, further revving his pulse. “You know, Michael, I’d forgotten what a good conversationalist you are.”

  “Conversationalist,” he repeated, slightly annoyed. It wasn’t exactly what a man wanted to
be known for.

  “Do you still subscribe to three different newspapers and half a dozen magazines?” She laughed then, the sound taking him back in time right along with her words. “God, our recycling bin was always overflowing.”

  “I’ve cut back on traditional subscriptions,” he replied. “I read a lot of publications online these days. It’s more convenient, given my schedule, and fewer trees have to die so I can remain informed.”

  She rested her chin on her linked hands, looking suitably impressed. “Are you an activist now, too?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far, but I try to do my part for the environment where I can.” Since she’d been the one to insist on recycling, he added, “See, Sam, it turns out you were a good influence on me.”

  “Not good enough if you’re driving a car in Manhattan where public transportation is not only abundant but relatively cheap and convenient.”

  He drained the last of his coffee and set the cup back on its white saucer. “Tell me you don’t like my car,” he challenged.

  “I don’t like your car.” But she glanced down at her teacup after making the statement.

  “You are such a liar. I saw you stroke the leather seat when you thought I wasn’t looking. You all but purred.” And he’d nearly moaned.

  “I don’t like your car,” she stated a second time. This time she maintained eye contact, but a grin lurked around the corners of her mouth. Then her laughter, as rich and inviting as he remembered, erupted. “I love it, okay? I absolutely love your car.” She leaned back in her chair, folded her arms. “There. Are you happy?”

  “Ecstatic. I knew you did. I could always read you like a book, Sam. And you haven’t changed a bit.”

  She straightened, mirth vanishing as quickly as it had come and he was sorry to see it go. “I have, Michael. I’ve changed a lot.”

  “I didn’t mean it as an insult. Honest. Why are you taking it as one?”

  “Because I don’t want you to think that I’ve been stuck in some sort of time warp since we parted ways seven years ago. I might still be working for my father, Michael, but I’m a different person these days.”