And so now, as he stalked inside of the hotel lobby preparing to take the defensive with Gwenyth, Sam refused to consider the possibility that he had been the one in the wrong. Him and Cupcake were going to have it out alright, at which time he was going to inform her of his list of demands. Namely that they were getting married right away and that they were going to resume their sexual relationship immediately. Like now.
“Mr. Tremont.”
Sam had to resist the urge to growl at the front desk clerk that was waving a piece of paper in the air to gain his attention. He took a deep breath to steady his self, then turned on his heel and arched a brow. “Yes?”
“A message for you, sir.”
Sam nodded, then smiled tentatively at the clerk. He sighed. There was no sense in getting angry at the guy for doing his job. “Thank-you.” He walked over to where the employee whose nameplate read Arty stood behind an enclosed desk structure and accepted the written message from his hand.
It was a note from his agent Lee, asking Sam to call him and let him know how the shoot had gone. Sam would do that later. Right now his only concern was getting to Gwenyth. He needed to get things back to the way they had been. He missed her so much that he was aching from it.
Sam thanked Arty, then headed toward the elevators. He had taken only a few short strides when an idea came to him. Sam turned back around to enlist the aid of the desk clerk. Lord knows he was going to need all the help he could round up to set things with Gwenyth to rights. “Arty my man, could you do me a favor?”
“Of course, Mr. Tremont. How may I be of assistance to you?”
“In about twenty minutes, could you have a bottle of champagne sent up to Gwenyth Jones’ suite?” Sam scratched his chin, considering the precariousness of his position. “And flowers. Chicks love flowers.”
Arty cleared his throat, his face stained a dull crimson. “I’m certain they do Mr. Tremont, but perhaps you should send them to wherever it is Ms. Jones lives.”
Sam raised a brow. “Why is that?”
“Because Ms. Jones is no longer here.”
Sam’s breathing stopped for a threadbare moment. He shook his head, certain he’d heard Arty wrong and praying he had. “What?”
Arty nodded implacably. “Ms. Jones checked out about an hour ago. I put her in a cab headed for the airport myself.”
In that brief moment, Sam’s entire life flashed before his eyes. Gwenyth had left him. She had well and truly walked out on him. It was difficult at best for him to form a coherent thought beyond that, but there was something else, some kernel of knowledge that had festered itself down deep in his gut and was gnawing at him.
Sam had to get to Gwenyth before that plane took off. He couldn’t explain how or why, but he knew, just knew, that if he didn’t stop her from leaving it would be over between them. Gwen would never have him back.
Somehow, though Sam would never remember exactly how, he managed to pack his clothes, check out of his suite, and call a cab, all in under ten minutes time. His heart beating wildly, he settled into the back seat of the taxi and regarded the driver. “If you can get me to LAX in fifteen minutes or less, there’s a hundred dollar tip in it for you.”
* * * * *
Gwenyth chewed on her lower lip to keep from crying—again. She was doing the right thing, she told herself over and over. She was doing what she had to do, what her sanity required of her to stay intact. It was just too bad if the right thing didn’t happen to coincide with what she wanted to do. Namely hightailing it back to the hotel, throwing herself into Sam’s arms, and begging him to love her.
Gwenyth took her place in line, waiting gloomily for the passengers in front of her to hand over their tickets to the gate agent working the flight back to Tampa so they could board. At this point, all she wanted to do was get it over with and go home to her apartment where she could lick her wounds in private.
The thought that she was taking the coward’s way out flitted through Gwenyth’s mind and weighed heavily on her conscience. Bah! She’d realized even as she was throwing her clothes into suitcases that that was exactly what she was doing—running away—so why bother to ruminate over it now? It was done. And in the long run, she vehemently reassured herself, it was the wiser choice.
It was time to go home, put Sam from her mind, and begin anew. Gwenyth frowned, thinking that the option no longer sounded as inviting as it had when she’d first descended into the cab that had brought her here to the airport. Going back to Sam held a much more appealing ring to it.
No! No! No! she chided herself for at least the tenth time in an hour. Don’t even go there, Gwenyth. That way lies madness. That way lies heartbreak. After all, when everything was said and done, the men of Sam’s world inevitably settled their rings onto the fingers of artificially enhanced, bleach blonde women named “Bambi” and “Muffin”…they certainly didn’t marry women of passing beauty whose breasts were beginning to sag and whose hips could stand a five pound reduction without putting a dent in them.
“Miss, may I have your ticket please? Miss?”
Gwenyth’s head shot up. She had been so lost in her own thoughts that she hadn’t even realized she’d finally made it to the front of the boarding line. “Yes. Yes, of course.” She smiled apologetically. “Sorry…I wasn’t paying attention.”
The gate agent winked at her, but didn’t reply to her comment. “You’re in seat 15c. Enjoy your flight and thank-you for—”
“I said hold that damn plane!”
All heads turned, Gwenyth’s included, at the sound of that belligerent and all too familiar voice.
Sam.
He’d come for her.
