Sam winced at the sound of slamming cupboard doors. It wasn’t going to be as easy to smooth things over with Cupcake as he’d hoped it would be. Gwenyth was currently in the end all be all of black moods. The sight of her flared nostrils and heavy breathing—breathing that made her breasts heave up and down seductively no less— was as much a turn-on to Sam as it was a reminder of how he kept getting himself in his wife’s bad graces. And they’d only been married less than three days, he thought grimly.
Gwenyth was wearing a pair of faded, worn blue jeans with a black tank top that fit snugly around her breasts and hips. And no bra. Sweet Jesus, didn’t the woman understand what she did to him when she pranced around the apartment with those sweet, soft breasts bouncing and her tight nipples puckered up? Apparently not. If she did, she’d realize he was no longer in the mood to argue.
“I still cannot believe you had the nerve to reprimand me in front of an outside party.” Gwenyth slammed her coffee cup down onto the kitchen counter. Reaching for the coffeepot, she shook her head and clenched her teeth. “Detective Anderson must think I’m a weak-willed, ignorant, submissive woman.” She laughed mirthlessly as she poured the Irish Creme flavored coffee into her mug. “And, of course, he’ll have to go on thinking that because unlike you, I refuse to publicly humiliate my spouse.”
“Now Cupcake—”
“Don’t ‘now Cupcake’ me, Sam, because I don’t want to hear it!” Gwenyth slammed the coffeepot down onto the warmer, then whipped around and eyed her husband belligerently. “But what galls me the most, what well and truly slays me, is the fact that you had the unmitigated nerve to demand that I go home and think about what I’d done.” Her nostrils flared to wicked proportions. “Ooooh that just makes me so damn mad!”
Sam crossed his arms over his chest defensively. “You did go behind my back, Gwenyth Marie.”
“And stop calling me Gwenyth Marie!” Gwen picked up her coffee cup and stormed from the kitchen to the living room, her husband hot on her trail. “I’m not a little girl you have the right to scold, Sam! I’m allegedly your wife, remember?”
“What do you mean ‘allegedly’?”
“I mean that I’m tired of you treating me like a five-year-old! Somehow or another I actually managed to get through these past eleven Sam-less years on my own without serious incident.”
Sam made a rude noise. “An apparent idiocy on my part. You never, ever would have spoken to me like this eleven years ago, Gwen.”
Gwenyth stopped in her tracks and whirled around to confront Sam. “That’s just it! I’m not sixteen anymore! If you wanted a child bride you should have married someone a little greener and more amenable!” She slapped her mug onto the nearest table with a thud, then raged into the hallway and headed for the front door.
“Where are you goin’?” Sam bellowed, rushing after her.
“I’m walking over to Candy’s,” she gritted out, picking up her house keys as she continued to fume.
“Like hell you are! We’re havin’ a discussion here!”
“No we’re not, we’re having an argument,” Gwenyth informed him as she slipped into her black, faux leather jacket. “An argument, I might add, that has reached a serious impasse.”
Sam regarded his wife warily. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“What it means,” she countered as she swung open the front door, “is that I think you are the one who needs to sit here and think about his actions.” Gwenyth craned her neck around long enough to impale her husband with a heated gaze. “And you best figure out what you want in your life, Sam. Do you want an obsessive, doting fan that has no mind of her own and therefore does everything you say, or do you want a wife who loves you for who you are and isn’t afraid to be herself?” She shook her head sadly and took a deep breath. “Because if it’s the fan you’re wanting, I’m afraid we made one hell of a big mistake in Las Vegas.” The door slammed shut and she was gone.
Sam stared at the closed door for an extended moment, uncertain as to what he should do to get Gwenyth to forgive and forget, or at least to forgive. He knew she was right. He didn’t even need to think about it to know it. Sam didn’t want a groupie for a wife. He wanted Gwen.
The need to pound on something, to take out a little aggression, was foremost in Sam’s mind. It was either that or storm after his wife all the way to Candy’s apartment, which would only serve to set her further against him. Realizing the wisdom behind allowing Gwenyth time away from him, he picked up the phone and gave Brian a call, knowing his plane didn’t leave for several more hours. They could go shoot some hoops or play a little tennis—anything. Anything was better than sitting around the apartment feeling sorry for himself and worrying that his wife was starting to believe she’d been better off single.
Chapter 17
Gwenyth and Candy spent an enjoyable afternoon together. They took in a movie at a Hyde Park cinema, then lunched on salads and drank wine at an outdoor café across the street.
Gwenyth smiled nostalgically as she watched the late afternoon crowds meander the streets of this small, trendy section of the city. At this time of day, the majority of the throng consisted of businessmen and women wheeling and dealing with potential clients at Happy Hour, and upper-class housewives pushing fashionable strollers into the various local shops. It was a sight Gwenyth was accustomed to, having grown up in this tiny enclave and lived here all of her life.
Gwenyth finished chewing on a crouton as she gestured with her wineglass toward Candy. “So what’s the deal with you and Brian?”
Candy’s eyes widened as she blew out a bubble that made a smacking sound when it popped. “There isn’t one. Nothing has happened yet.”
“Oh?”
Candy sighed. “Brian’s going back to Boston tonight. He gave me his phone number and asked me to call him.”
“And will you?”
“I don’t know.” Candy shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know if I’m ready to have a man like Brian in my life yet.”
Gwenyth grinned. She batted her eyelashes mockingly. “Yes, I can see how it would be difficult to accept the attention of a handsome, virile man who just so happens to be a millionaire jock. You’re much better off asking out Trevor.”
Candy smiled mischievously as she threw a braid of dark hair over her shoulder. Another bubble popped in its wake. “You’re in no position to give advice. I seem to recall the words ‘domineering jerk’ and ‘infuriatingly arrogant Neanderthal’ used in conjunction with Sam’s name more than once this afternoon.”
