Gwenyth smiled. “Will do, Grandmama.” She offered Verlene one last peck on the cheek, then strolled out of the front door as Granddad Willy yelled something behind her to the effect that she better not forget to buy him a present.
Gwenyth glanced up at Harry and chuckled. Granddad was quite a character.
* * * * *
“You’re certain you won’t mind seeing Sam again, Sis?” Harry kept his eye on the road as he continued to ease down Swann Avenue in his American built sedan.
Gwenyth glanced absently at the road in front of them, then did a quick study of the interior of Harry’s new car. Her brother had traded in his stylish, imported automobile months ago for this domestic monstrosity so voters wouldn’t cast him aside for not “buying American.” That the maker of this particular sedan imported the majority of the factory work from overseas was somehow lost on the voting populace. If it carried an American label, it was an American car. Period. “Harry, get real. I’m not a little girl anymore. I don’t think the sun shines and sets on Sam Tremont’s biceps.”
Harry’s lips curled with amusement. “I didn’t think so, but I had to be certain. I remember that day he brought his ex-wife Stacy over to the house all too well.” He grimaced, as if the memory of having offered his sister unmanly consolation still pained him. “Don’t want to repeat that.”
Gwenyth rolled her eyes to the ceiling. Then she frowned. Good lord, the beige sedan’s overhead interior was blue. Yuck! Talk about visually mismatched. “You worry too much, Bro. Besides, I’m dating someone right now if you will recall.”
Harry made a small sound that sounded suspiciously like a snort of disapproval. “If one can call Trevor a date,” he muttered.
The brow above Gwenyth’s good eye rose up a notch. “Meaning?”
“Let’s just say that I hate lawyers.”
“Harry, you are a lawyer.”
“Yeah, well, that means I’ve dealt with enough of them to know you shouldn’t be dating one.”
Gwenyth decided against commenting on that particular observation. That she had been suspecting the same thing of Trevor was beside the point. She would deal with that revelation later. “So how exactly is Sam helping the ‘get Harry Jones to Washington’ cause?”
Harry’s right hand absently thumped on the steering wheel in time with the rock song playing quietly in the background. It was a shame that voters weren’t allowed to see this playful, boyish side of him, Gwenyth mused. She was certain they’d all fall in love with him if they did. “He’s coming into town to attend that dinner and speech my campaign is throwing at the University of Tampa in two weeks.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Sam’s going to give a little speech on my behalf.”
And she would have to look her best. That disquieting thought rumbled through Gwenyth’s brain like shock waves. Not that it mattered what Sam thought about her looks, she told herself. What mattered was that Sam see the brilliant, respected photographer she’d become, that he realize she was a woman of the world, a woman to be reckoned with. A woman whose looks meant nothing to her. A woman who had made it on ambition and grit alone. A woman who…
Bah! Okay, so she wanted Sam to think she looked good.
But only so he’d realize what he’d given up eleven years ago when he’d broken a sixteen year old girl’s heart. Not because she still cared. Not because she was still in love with the man. It wasn’t like she still slept in his #33 jersey or anything. Well, unless she had nothing else to wear. Or unless she was feeling particularly under the weather.
Sighing, Gwenyth pondered the man known as Sam Tremont as she watched her brownstone apartment loom into view. She wondered what he’d think when he next saw her. She wondered if he’d like what he saw. Gwenyth called herself ten kinds of a fool for even thinking about him. Still, she couldn’t help but to wonder what it was Sam was doing right now.
Chapter 2
Sam “The Slam” Tremont woke up with a bitch of a headache. Disregarding the telephone whose rings were grinding into his skull like a battle axe, he pulled himself up from the hotel room’s king-sized bed and made his way to the bathroom—and the aspirin.
Sam flipped open the medicine cabinet and grabbed hold of one of the aspirin packages, ripping it open with his teeth as if it was a gift from the gods. Sweet Jesus, he should never have bet a week’s pay that he could drink Brian Goodman under the table. He’d done it alright, but damn was he paying for his sins now. He groaned dramatically. He was getting too old for this shit.
Closing the medicine cabinet, Sam ran his fingers through his tousled hair and called it a comb job. He’d worry about grooming after his head quit pounding. He stomped out of the bathroom and toward the phone, his goal being to put an end to its incessant, damned ringing, when he was intercepted half way by a knock at the door.
Sighing, Sam stopped in his tracks and made his way back to the door. “Yeah, who is it?” he barked.
“Room service,” a breathy voice returned.
Sam didn’t remember ordering any room service, but maybe he had. It was just as well. Not only was his head pounding, but his stomach was damned hungry. He opened the door, then cast a quick but thorough glance over the hot redhead who’d brought up his food. He flashed her his million-dollar smile. “Bring it on in, honey. Put the tray by the bed.”
“You got it.”
Sam nodded. That quickly, the redhead was forgotten and the still blaring telephone was remembered. He strode toward it and picked it up, bringing an end to the goddamned noise. “Yeah. Sam here.”
“Hey Sammy. It’s Lee.”
Sam grimaced. The last person he felt like talking to right now was his overly tenacious manager. His head was still throbbing as it was. “Hey Lee. I’m kinda busy. Mind calling back?”
“This will only take a minute.”
