Bringing Down Sam Page 4

She quickly scanned the article. "Sam is the only son of Jacob Kenneman? The Jacob Kenneman who owns about half the state of Pennsylvania?"

  Diana nodded.

  "Well what's he doing working for this magazine, and writing nasty relationship books?"

  "Nobody knows," Diana said with an air of mystery. "He used to work for his father, back when the photo was taken. The guy's got an MBA, for cripe's sake. But a few years ago, he walked away from the family conglomerate and started writing for His World. We all assume he'll leave the magazine soon, now that his book is getting so huge. I hear he's already working on a new one."

  “What’s it called, Women Would Be Perfect If Only They Couldn’t Think?”

  Diana snickered. “Yeah, well, if only men couldn’t speak maybe they’d be perfect.”

  “Oh, so you like the strong-and-silent type now?”

  “Strong, silent, good-in-bed, sexy-as-hell, who’ll go away afterward and not be all clingy and needy. That’s my type.”

  “Wow. You sound like Kenneman.”

  “Shut up, I do not,” Diana said. Then, with a self-deprecating grin, she admitted, “Well, maybe I do sound like him. But I don’t mean it…”

  Eve merely raised a brow, disputing that.

  “Okay, okay, maybe I do mean it, at least a little.”

  Knowing Diana would eat-up any clingy, needy man who crossed her path, Eve suspected she meant it a lot. But she also knew that, deep down, Diana was a very loving, thoughtful woman. When she did meet the right man, she’d give herself to him completely. In the meantime, though, she relished her tough, swaggering, I-don’t-need-anybody routine.

  Hmm. Interesting. When she thought about it, she had to admit that Diana’s attitude, and the man-bashing sessions her friends so enjoyed, didn’t seem so different from what Sam was talking about. Switch the sex and a few pertinent details and his book might very well be a play-by-play out of the angry-single-woman’s handbook.

  As if reading her mind, Diana pointed out, “However, I don’t go around writing books about it!”

  Right. While Sam had. So obviously, he wanted the world to think he believed all that.

  That didn’t, however, mean he really did. It made her wonder…was Sam just having a far more public woman-bashing session, not really meaning everything he said? Had he substituted printed pages for margaritas, and thousands of readers for a handful of friends? And if so…why?

  It bore considering.

  Eve continued to study the photo. Though Sam was obviously a few years younger when the picture was taken, there were pronounced circles under his eyes and he looked tired. She couldn't see a glimmer of the grin, much less the killer dimples. Next to him, his father looked stern and unmoving. The other man in the photo was, she read, a cousin. He didn't hold her attention any longer than the father did. It was Sam she kept staring at.

  Which Sam was the real one? The playboy? The sexist writer? The suit?

  Or the guy with the great smile, the warm laugh and a genuine personality.

  "He’s very interesting, isn’t he," Eve murmured. "I can’t help wondering what his real story is.”

  But she wouldn’t wonder for long. One way or another, she was going to find out.

  After Sam finished up his portion of the interview, and the meeting with Diana, he returned to his own office. Forcing thoughts of Eve Barret out of his mind, he wrapped up some phone calls and refused to wonder what would happen the following night when they went out.

  Just before five, James, another staff writer who worked nearby, poked his head in the door. "So how was the photo shoot, Mister Millennium? Did you blend in with the rich and famous?"

  Sam shrugged. "The congressman was interesting. That guy from Netland was a geek, and the actor from the CW show had more hairspray than a Hair Cuttery."

  "Glad to see they had the sense to include an unattractive, normal, middle-class guy like you," James said with an evil grin. "I hope they put you in the middle of the picture so your female readers have a nice target to put dead center on their dart boards."

  "Hey, bite me," Sam said as he grabbed his jacket and briefcase.

  James laughed as he walked out. Sam had gotten used to the ribbing from his male co-workers, most of whom recognized his book as the complete tongue-in-cheek bit he'd intended it to be. Too bad few of the women in the world had figured that out yet. The women who wrote for the magazine, and Diana, the only female editor at His World, still managed to glare daggers at him occasionally.

  As Sam headed for the stairs, he found himself wondering what Eve Barret thought of his work. Stupid question. He didn't even know if the bimbo could read.

  Sam paused on the landing between the first and second floors, reaching for his tape recorder. "Lovemaking with the love of your life is better than hot sex with a gorgeous stranger," Sam said out loud after clicking the recorder on. Hot sex with a gorgeous stranger had been much on his mind since he'd met Eve Barret.

  An elderly janitor carrying a bucket full of cleansers and some rags paused three steps below Sam. He looked up in amazement. Sam, who hadn't even heard the man's shuffling footsteps, tucked the cassette player back into his jacket pocket and grinned down at him. "Well, am I right?"

  "Don't know 'bout that," the other man said as he resumed his slow trek up the steps. "After thirty years, the love of my life turned out to look just like her mother, hairy moles and all."

  Sam chuckled as he continued down the stairs and out of the building. It was just after five, and the traffic in downtown Philadelphia was heavy with workers ready to let loose for the weekend. The stifling July afternoon appeared to be stretching into a hot night, and the air was thick with car exhaust.

  When there was a lull in the traffic, Sam stepped into the street, heading toward the parking deck where he'd left his car. Suddenly, he noticed a blond head entering the garage ahead of him. No question, it was Eve Barret. For some reason he couldn't have explained, Sam quickened his steps.

  Hearing a squeal of tires, he glanced up to see a small black pickup truck cut a sharp turn and speed past him to enter the deck. The truck's tires practically ran over Sam's feet.

  "Slow down, ya jerk!" he yelled, but the truck sped on, the driver not even hearing him.

  By the time Sam reached the entrance, Eve was nowhere to be seen. But from the slack-jawed look of the attendant, who stared toward the elevator with a vacant expression of awe, Sam figured he'd be correct in assuming the beautiful woman had gone that way.

  He watched the light above the elevator indicating the floors, and saw it stopped on the fifth level…where he'd parked. "Fate," he muttered as he punched the up button and waited for the elevator.

  As he rode up to his floor, Sam glanced at his watch. Eve had probably already driven away. But he couldn't resist taking a quick look around as the doors slid open and he stepped out.

  He spotted her instantly. She stood merely three cars away, and she wasn't alone.

  "Look, mister, my name's not Delilah Allen, okay? That is not me on the cover of your gun magazine, and I certainly never posed for Playboy. Now, would you please get off my car?"

  Sam approached Eve from behind, hearing her as she spoke to the young man blocking access to her blue convertible. The man didn't appear threatening. He was thin, pale, the blotches on his cheek making him look about seventeen years old. But he was obviously making a nuisance of himself. Eve had even dropped the breathy voice, and Sam heard the frustration in her tone.

  "You've just made a mistake, now, please, excuse me," she said as the youth continued to stare at her in fascination.

  "Oh, Miss Allen, don't worry, I'm not some creep. I just want your autograph."

  Sam heard her groan out loud.

  "Look, how many times do I have to tell you..."

  "Delilah, sweetheart, why don't you just give him an autograph and send him on his way?" Sam moved behind Eve to slide an arm around her waist. "How should she sign it, son?"

  Eve immediate
ly stared up at him, outrage widening her blue eyes. "Stay out of this," she hissed.

  "The jig's up, sweetie. You can't hide who you really are," Sam said with a smile.

  She tensed against him, and quickly glanced away, trying to pull free. Sam didn't let her go. He knew how to deal with over-zealous fans. He'd been handling them since his first TV appearance, and had, many times, listened quietly while women tried to educate him, and men said they wanted to be him. It was best to just let them talk, nod kindly, then walk away. Particularly when the fan looked as nervous and harmless as this one.

  "Come on, Dee, honey. It can't do any harm to give one little autograph, can it?"

  Sam caught the silent curse word she mouthed as she turned back toward the boy. Sighing, she grabbed the magazine and pen the young man held out and began to sign the cover.

  "No, not there," the man exclaimed in horror as she started to write directly across the voluptuous breasts of the cover model. "You'll ruin the best part!"

  “One more word and I’ll ruin your best part,” she mumbled under her breath, so softly the boy didn’t hear it. But Sam definitely did, and he had to wonder who she was talking to—him or her “fan.”

  "Is this all right?" Eve asked as she scrawled someone else's name in the white block letters on the top of the magazine.

  "Oh, thank you so much, Miss Allen. My buddies just won't believe it. It's just lucky this issue came out this week and I happened to have it in my truck when I spotted you crossing the street. Gosh, I wish I'd had the Playboy issue with me."

  "Wherever would I have signed it?" Eve bit out.

  Sam laughed out loud as the young man scrunched his brow, obviously not getting her sarcasm. Then, with another mumbled, Thanks, the kid ran across the garage to the black pickup truck he'd kept idling in the middle of the ramp. He'd been the moron who'd nearly run Sam over in his rush to follow Eve. The truck's tires squealed in the sudden silence of the garage as the boy drove away.

  "Now, was that so tough? You made his day. And, I imagine by the way he's clutching the magazine, his night, too."

  “Ewww!”

  Sam gave her an evil grin as she glared at him.

  "I don't look anything like her,” she insisted.

  He didn't think before replying, "I've seen that issue of Playboy. And no, you don't. You’re much more attractive."

  She colored a little before replying, “Of course you’ve seen that issue. I suppose that’s the only female companionship you can get these days.”

  “You’re saying you think I attract Playboy bunnies?”

  She smirked. “I’m saying the only woman you could get a date with nowadays is a two-dimensional photograph.”

  When he whistled in response to the harsh, blunt zinger—which was so unlike anything that had come out of her mouth before—her eyes widened and her lush, full lips parted. She breathed in a deep, audible breath and swallowed, trying to gain control of herself. And to don the mantle of bimbo model, he suspected. He wondered why she felt she had to wear it.

  Her words confirmed his suspicions.

  “I’m so sorry, Sammy, I don’t know what came over me.” That saccharine sweetness was back, as fake and deliberate as a mask.

  “I’m sure you’re just shaken-up by your over-zealous fan,” he said, his tone dry and skeptical.

  She cast a glance toward the down-ramp, where the black truck had disappeared. “He was harmless.” Appearing lost in thought—or in dark memory—she continued. “Over-zealous is a complete stranger who breaks into your house and tells you he knows from the way you look at him from the pages of a magazine that you’re really in love with him and are meant to be his forever.”

  He stiffened, seeing something that looked like pain in her eyes, and knowing she spoke from experience. Something primal roared up inside him as he thought about her once having gone through that. Or the thought of her ever going through it again. He wondered why the magazine hadn’t provided her with a bodyguard.

  “Price you pay for fame, I guess,” she said with a forced smile. As if she knew she’d already blown her cover, and didn’t trust herself to stand around talking anymore, she opened the door of her car and got in. He saw her hands grip the steering wheel tightly. Finally, she glanced toward him and offered a strained smile. "And thanks so much for the compliment—you sure know how to flatter a girl.”

  Compliment? Oh. The centerfold thing. That hadn’t been a compliment…just the truth.

  Besides, she hadn’t been flattered, she had been mad as hell, he could see it in her eyes. But he let her think her batting eyelashes and moist smile had distracted him. He wanted to get away from her, where his brain could re-take control when it came to Ms. Barret, instead of letting his raging libido lead the way. Because whenever she was around, he seemed to be riding a spinny carousel of emotions, from lust to amusement to protectiveness. He needed to shed all of those, to think, long and hard, about who she really was and what she was really up to.

  No good. He knew that much. But that was all he knew.

  "Goodbye, Miss Barret. I will certainly look forward to seeing you tomorrow night."

  Nodding, she pulled the door shut, buckled her seat belt and started her car.

  Some wicked demon inside him just couldn’t let her go without trying to get under her skin one more time. Unable to resist, Sam tapped on the driver's side window and watched as she reluctantly rolled it down.

  "Yes?"

  "I still have my issue of Playboy. Can I bring it along tomorrow night and get an autograph, too?"

  He thought she would spit right in his eye, but she simply pursed her mouth into a prissy smile, rolled up the window and backed away. Sam quickly stepped back to avoid getting his toes flattened. Standing in the empty parking space, he shook his head as he watched her speed away down the parking ramp.

  "Until tomorrow night, Eve Barret," he said aloud in the silence of the garage. "And we'll just see who you are then."

  Chapter 3

  "Stay away from women who play hard to get. They're also hard to lose." -- from 101 Ways To Avoid Commitment

  "He's a pig."

  Eve threw herself down on the plush sofa in the company condo and curled the telephone into the crook of her neck to free her hands. She kicked-off the uncomfortable heels, then slid her feet onto the heavy coffee table as Leanne replied.

  "Sweetie, you knew that going into this. Isn't that why you're doing it?"

  "I'm doing it because you three begged me to. I wish I'd never agreed to it," Eve retorted.

  She'd seethed throughout the twenty minute drive from the parking garage to the exclusive condominium building where she was staying. Not even the opulent apartment could brighten her mood. In fact, it worsened it. Because she was here under false pretenses. Sure, Diana had the authority to let her use the condo, which was, apparently, vacant much of the year anyway. But Eve's stay was definitely not legit. She sure as heck wasn't the latest discovery of His World and never wanted to be.

  "I feel like such a fraud," she sighed. "This is nuts. It's juvenile. It's something my con artist father would have done to try to get money out of someone!"

  She nearly bit her tongue, wishing she hadn't brought up the subject of her father. Though Leanne had been her roommate for four years during college, and her best friend for nearly ten, they had never talked too much about Eve's past. One night after a few sangrias, Eve had broken down and spilled her guts about the darkest parts of her childhood to Leanne and Diana. Ruthie had been out on a date that night. Even tipsy, Eve would never have gotten into such a painful topic if Ruthie had been around. Her bubbly friend tended to like things light and happy and would never have understood. Diana and Leanne, however, had their own stories to tell. The three of them had cried and laughed and cried some more well into the morning hours.

  "Oh, my God, Eve, I am so incredibly sorry!” Leanne exclaimed. “I never even considered that. Of course, if you're uncomfortable and you want to back out
, we'll understand. We never meant to hurt you, or bring up any unpleasant memories."

  Eve heard the genuine remorse in her friend’s voice. Leanne meant what she said. She would let her off the hook if Eve said she didn't want to go on with this charade.

  "It's not your fault," Eve said. "I guess the photo shoot brought a lot of it back. I thought I'd put it all behind me."

  The crap with the teenage boy and the magazine hadn’t helped. Because she’d had those kinds of run-ins in the old days, especially when she’d been recognized for the provocative blue-jeans ads she’d done as a teenager. What Brooke Shields had been to the eighties, Eve had been to the late nineties. No, she’d never looked at the camera and said nothing came between her and her Calvins, but the ad campaign had basically sent the same message: hot jailbait in tight jeans.

  She heard Leanne groan softly. "I can't believe how insensitive we were to ask you to do this. Eve, it just didn't occur to me. I thought it would be a perfect set up since you've modeled before. It seemed like a good idea at the time."

  Famous last words.

  Eve didn't reply. She heard the remorse in her friend's voice but couldn't quickly gloss it over and tell Leanne everything was okay. Because, she suspected, everything was not okay.

  It shouldn't have been any big deal, and actually, the photography session hadn't been. She'd liked being back in the spotlight. Eve's father, who had also been her agent, financial manager, and a convicted con man, had once told her she had a face the camera loved. A lot of companies whose products she'd sponsored had obviously felt the same way. And she'd learned as a child that, for the camera, she could be absolutely anyone.

  Unfortunately, her father had used the same line of flattery to bilk money out of the hundreds of clients who'd come to him, wanting him to make their babies super child-models the way he had his own daughter. He assured them he could do it, if they just kept paying. Of course, he never followed through on his promises. Not to his clients, not to his wife who'd left when Eve was five. And not to his daughter, who'd come to view herself as his cash cow by the time she was fourteen.