The Pregnant Mistress. Sandra Marton
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minutes ago.
Sam scanned the room. Where was he? Ah. There he was, talking with a blonde who looked as if she’d be happy if he’d strip her naked right then and there. No. Her sisters wouldn’t introduce her to anyone like him. Since their marriages, they seemed to think they were the only Brewster women who could safely be involved with dangerously sexy types.
“The kinds of men you date won’t ever settle down,” Amanda had said primly at breakfast, and Sam had thought, sadly, Mandy, Mandy, what happened to you? Was her sister turning into a Marta-clone?
“That’s right,” Sam had replied, just as seriously. “That’s what makes them so much more interesting.”
Carin had sighed, and Amanda had sighed, and the only thing that had saved them all was that Sam had sighed, too, with all the drama she could muster. Her sisters had tried to look stern but, thank goodness, they hadn’t been able to pull it off. All three of them had started to giggle and, finally, they’d laughed so hard that Rafe and Nick had asked them to be let in on the joke, which had only made them laugh harder.
Later, Sam saw the four of them with their heads together, deep in a low-pitched conversation that stopped abruptly when they spotted her. Her brothers-in-law—Twelves, the both of them—had colored and said hello, wasn’t it a beautiful day, and Sam had known, known, that they were all part of the Get Samantha Married conspiracy.
The proof, if she’d needed any, had come a couple of hours later.
“You’ve been to Greece, haven’t you, Sam?” Nick had said casually over lunch.
“Uh-huh.” Sam had speared a grape tomato with her fork. “Beautiful place.”
Everyone had stilled. “It is,” Nick had said to the rest of the table. “A beautiful place.” And they all nodded before conversation resumed.
A little while later Rafe had strolled by while she was stretched on a chaise longue, pretending to read but really napping under the hot kiss of the sun.
“So,” he’d said brightly, “do you speak Greek?”
“Tourist Greek, I guess. You know, ‘Where is the toilet? How much does that cost?’ That kind of stuff.” Sam had pushed her sunglasses down her nose and looked at him over the rims. “Why? Is there a reason I should?”
“No, no,” he’d replied quickly. Too quickly. That was why warning bells rang in her head when first Carin and then Amanda just happened to stop by her room as she dressed for the party and agreed, with studied nonchalance, that it was truly a pity she didn’t speak Greek because one of the guests, an old friend of Rafe’s and Nick’s, was from Greece.
“Well, of course, I’ve never met Mr. Karas but I should think he’d have appreciated it if someone spoke his language,” Carin had murmured, studying her carefully manicured nails.
“Interesting,” Sam had said politely. “That the gentleman should be a friend of Rafe’s and Nick’s and speak only Greek. I’d have thought English was sort of the lingua franca that the three of them would have in common.”
Her sisters had tripped over their own words, hastily explaining that Demetrios Karas spoke English, of course.
“Ah,” Sam had replied, as if she hadn’t already figured out their plan, “is that his name? Demetrios Karas?”
Yes. It was. And he was a Shipping Magnate—Sam could almost hear the capitalization—and even though she didn’t speak Greek, it would be kind of her—
“And such a help to Rafe and me,” Carin had added, with a bright smile.
“—kind of you, Sam, if you’d try and make Mr. Karas feel comfortable by spending a little time with him tonight.”
Sam sighed and folded her hands around her half-empty glass.
What she was going to do was make herself comfortable by going to her room. Tomorrow, she’d tell her sisters she’d waited as long as she could but the estimable Mr. Karas had not arrived by the time exhaustion overcame her. That much was certainly true. She had yet to spot any short, overweight, overaged Eminently Suitable shipping magnates, and she didn’t want to. The probability was that she was too tired to be polite to Demetrios Karas if and when he swooped down on her.
Though, if she were in the mood, she could probably dredge up a smile for the hunk who’d wandered in a little while ago.
She wasn’t. She really was tired and besides, her determined family would be watching and who knew what they’d do if they saw her flirting with a dark, dangerous, sexy stud? Still, it didn’t hurt to see what he was up to…There he was, surrounded this time by a little covey of females. Two blondes, a brunette and one whose hair was highlighted so many shades that she looked like a used paintbrush. All of them were gazing up at the man as if they wanted to eat him, whole.
What a fine idea, Sam thought dreamily.
Whoops! Oh, yes. She was tired, for sure. She liked men and she liked sex, but she wasn’t given to daydreaming about…
Uh-oh. Carin had just rushed into the living room. She gave a gave a squeal of delight and launched herself at Mr. Twelve…who looked over Carin’s dark head, straight at Samantha.
Sam’s pulse sky-rocketed. His eyes were, indeed, the hot blue of a summer sky on the Côte d’Azur. They swept her from head to foot, then climbed again until they met hers and locked. Carin leaned back in his arms, said something. He laughed, turned his attention to her…and it was all over.
Sam let out her breath. All over? It had never been. He couldn’t see her, not on the dark terrace.
She swung away, moved further into the darkness. Tired, she thought with a tiny shudder, that was what it was. Her hand trembled as she lifted her glass and brought it to her lips. It was ridiculous to feel so shaky. A good thing she was alone out here. It was a magnificent night, fragrant with flowers that bloomed in the pots set on the flagstone floor and lit by a full moon that rode high over the Brazilian prairie. Too hot, she’d heard one woman say of the weather, but to Sam it felt just right.
“Hello.”
Her heart kicked against her ribs. She spun around…but it wasn’t him. And it couldn’t be the Greek. This was a tall, pleasant-looking guy with sandy hair. Very civilized. Civilized? What an odd distinction to attach to a person she didn’t even know. Everybody here was civilized, the women in their elegant gowns, the men in their tuxes. How much more civilized could you get? Still, there was something—well, something less than civilized about the man she’d been watching, a hint of raw, even primitive power…
Sam blinked and put out her hand. “Hi. I’m Samantha Brewster.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, too, unless…I’m sure it’s not, but just reassure me. Your name isn’t Demetrios, is it?”
He laughed. “No way! I’m Jack Adams. I went to school with Nick al Rashid. And you’re his sister-in-law, Samantha.”
How many Eminently Suitables were wandering around tonight, Sam thought grimly, clutching her name in their reliable, stultifying hands?
“Ah,” she said politely, “then you must know his wife. My sister.”
Jack did. He and Sam talked about Philadelphia, where he lived, and New York, where she lived. They talked about Indonesia, where she’d just been, and New Jersey, where he’d just been. Then Jack fell silent, cleared his throat and said it would be nice to get together sometime, maybe when he was in Manhattan on business.
“I’d love to,” Sam said, “but I’m hardly ever home. I do a lot of traveling.”
Jack’s smile turned cool. “Yeah,” he said, “so I’ve heard.” He excused himself, went inside and melted into the crowd.
Sam took a sip of her caparhinia.
Well,