Marrying the Manhattan Millionaire

Sam unfolded her arms. “Well, I just came over to offer my congratulations.”

“That’s big of you under the circumstances.”

“Just say ‘you’re welcome,’” she said tightly.

“You’re welcome.” Michael angled sideways in his seat and settled one elbow over the back of the chair. Testing himself, he allowed his gaze to meander to the vee of her décolletage again. Even without her arms crossed, enough gently mounded skin was exposed to ignite his imagination and send his hormones into overdrive. “That dress looks good on you. And I do mean that as a compliment, in case you’re wondering.”

She shrugged dismissively. “It was just something I had hanging in my closet.”

“Ah. I see you still have expensive taste.” When she said nothing, Michael added, “That particular designer’s fashions are very high end. I know because he’s one of my clients.”

“Yes. For now.” She smiled sweetly and he felt a muscle begin to tick in his jaw.

“You work too hard, Sam. It makes me wonder if you’re ever off the clock or if you’re always scheming up ways to grab my accounts.”

“I don’t have to scheme for that, Michael. I just have to do my job well. As for my personal life, it’s none of your business.”

He shrugged. “Still, I’m surprised to see you in here. I figured you’d be tucked in your bed by now, alarm set, bags packed and ready to head to the airport to catch the first flight to LaGuardia.”

This time the muscle that ticked was in her jaw, making him wonder how close he’d come to the truth.

“If you must know, I was supposed to meet someone for drinks.”

Michael glanced around. His amused expression belied his words when he said, “I hate to be the one to break it to you, but it looks as if you’ve been stood up.”

“As amusing as you would find that to be, the truth is I’m the one who’s late. Our meeting time was nearly an hour ago. Unfortunately, it completely slipped my mind.”

“Better things to do, such as go to bed alone?”

Her eyes narrowed, making him wonder if he’d scored another hit. Then he pictured her in that bed, alone…and waiting. And he was the one who took the hit. “Sorry.” Michael waved a hand. “It’s none of my business.”

“Right you are.”

“Forget I said it.”

“I’ve tried to forget everything you’ve ever said to me,” she replied airily.

“Yeah?” He cocked his head to one side. “Had any success?”

“Plenty.” She smiled.

“So, you’re saying the past—our past—is water under the bridge?”

She nodded, looking pleased when she informed him, “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“Good. Glad to hear it.” He reached for the chair next to his and pulled it away from the table. “Then it shouldn’t be a problem for you to join me in a drink. You can drown your sorrows.”

He told himself he’d only tendered the invitation to wipe that smug grin off her face. He half hoped she would refuse. His masochistic half, though, knew she would accept. Sam wasn’t one to back down from a challenge or a dare. Essentially, his invitation was both. A chorus of Halleluiah—sung by that masochistic half—broke out in his head as she lowered herself slowly into the chair. He sought to silence it with a sip of bourbon, only to realize a little too late that his glass was empty.

Of course she noticed.

“What are you looking to drown, Michael?” One dark eyebrow arched as she asked the question. Before he could answer she signaled the waiter. “I tell you what. This round is on me.”

Michael tapped the side of the empty glass with his index finger. He meant it when he said, “You’ll get no objection. I’m only too happy to see you pay.”

Sam gritted her teeth. Foolishness, that’s what this was. She couldn’t believe she’d let Michael trick her into having a drink with him, much less buying. She stared at the Addy award that was in the middle of the table and recalled his acceptance speech. She felt her blood pressure rise along with her anger. She should get up and leave. But that would be playing right into his hands. She’d stay. Let him be the first to call it a night. He was stuck with her company now.

When the waiter arrived, she asked for a glass of Chardonnay. Michael ordered bourbon. According to her watch, it took the server eleven minutes and forty-eight seconds to return with their beverages. She and Michael spent the time selecting nuts from the bowl and making inane comments about the conference, which was only marginally better than chatting about the weather.

“A Chardonnay for the lady and your bourbon, sir,” the waiter said as he removed the glasses from his tray and set them on the table.

When he was gone, Sam asked, “What happened to Scotch?”

That had always been his drink of choice. He’d preferred it neat as opposed to on the rocks.

He shrugged. “Tastes change.”

“Yes, they do.” Samantha picked up her drink. “Here’s to change.”

“Are we drinking to any change in particular?”

She watched his fingers curl around his glass. They were long and, she recalled, exceptionally skilled. Sam chased away the memory with a sip of wine and lifted her shoulders in a negligent shrug. “I’ll leave that to you to decide.”

His eyebrows shot up. “I don’t remember you being so accommodating in the past, Sam. I like it. A lot.” He winked then and raised his own glass. “To change.”

She intended to let his remark pass without comment, even though Michael was dead wrong: he’d been the one with issues when it came to accommodation, to compromise, not her. Sam took another sip of her wine before setting the glass back on the table. Then she took a deep calming breath and offered him a bland smile. It promptly turned into a sneer. So much for biting her tongue, she thought as she launched into her attack.

“God, that’s so like you to manipulate the truth. I’m not the one who issued the damned ultimatum that killed our relationship.”

“No? Are you sure about that?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re the one who took a stand, Sam.”

“Me? ‘Come to California now or it’s over.’ Do those words ring a bell? If not, maybe you should go see a doctor. It appears your memory is failing.” She reached over and tapped his temple where a few fine threads of silver shot through his otherwise sandy-brown hair. When had he acquired those? And why did they have to look so damned good on him?

Michael captured her fingers in his. “I postponed our wedding, moved to California without you and waited for you to come, only to have you call to say you were staying in Manhattan. So, it’s your memory that could use a little improvement. Mine is just fine, sweetheart.”

The endearment, issued as it was in such an insulting manner, rubbed roughly across her nerves. It didn’t help that he was still holding her hand. She tugged free of his grasp. “Don’t call me that. You lost the right a long time ago.”

He made a scoffing sound. “I didn’t lose it. I gave it up gladly when you sent back my ring. Daddy—you know, the same guy who spent your entire adolescence kicking your self-esteem to the curb—needed you.”

“You still don’t get it.” Sam shook her head in frustration and even as she called herself a fool all these years later, she wanted him to understand. “After Sonya’s accident—”

Just as he had seven years ago, though, he blocked her attempt to explain. “Don’t. Let’s not talk about your sister or your father or anything else to do with the past.” Before she could object—and, boy, did she plan to give him an earful—he abruptly changed the subject. “How about another toast?”

“I can’t imagine what else we have to drink to.” She meant it. After all, almost everything between them was past tense.