A Match Made in Heaven?

‘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—”