Mrs. Scrooge Page 13

  "One word out of any of you bozos and you're history," Murphy growled as Scotty stepped forward. He turned to look at his educated pal. "And if you give me a corsage, I swear I'll—"

  "A corsage?" Scotty's elegant brows lifted. "I had thought more along the lines of a simple nosegay to complement your eyes."

  "I've been wondering who you're dating, Murph," called out one of the regulars from across the bar. "Robbing the rest home again, are you?"

  His dad's deep laugh grew louder. "At least now I know why I don't have grandchildren from this one!"

  "I'm glad you jokers are having a great time at my expense."

  "Philistines, all of them," said Scotty as he slipped into his topcoat.

  Murphy grabbed for his own coat. "I'm getting the hell out of here," he mumbled, then made a beeline for the door with Scotty close behind.

  It was only seven-thirty and already it was the worst night of Murphy's life.

  * * *

  THE LIGHTS WERE LOW. The music was grand and lush. Chandeliers twinkled like diamonds overhead while the diamonds glittered like—well, like diamonds on the fingers of Princeton's old guard. The women were lavishly coiffed and expensively dressed while the men were suave and sophisticated in tuxedos and old-fashioned tails.

  And, miracle of miracles, Sam fit right in. No, she more than fit in, she looked as if she belonged. The moment she stepped inside the grand ballroom she knew she was home free. Caroline's date had spotted the glamorous blonde immediately—even with the plumed and sequined mask in place—and before Caroline was spirited off into the crowd, she whispered "Break a leg!" and Sam was on her own.

  She straightened her shoulders and held her head high. There was something to be said for dressing for success. She felt positively regal. The voluminous skirt rustled and the toes of her peau de sole pumps alternately appeared and disappeared with each step she took. Her shoulders were bare; the low neckline revealed surprising cleavage.

  How wonderful it felt to be the center of attention as she swept through the ballroom, a study in sapphire satin and nonchalance. Men watched her as she passed, their eyes glittering behind their black masks. Sam couldn't remember the last time she'd been the recipient of so many long and lingering looks. In fact, she was fairly certain she'd never been the recipient of so many long and lingering looks.

  Unfortunately none of those looks originated with Murphy O'Rourke.

  Sam peered through her mask at each man she passed. Tall men. Short men. Fat men. Men with mustaches and beards and foreign accents. Either these masks were infinitely more concealing than she'd originally believed or Murphy was nowhere to be found. She scanned the room for beautiful blondes, assuming one of them was Murphy's date.

  She accepted a flute of champagne from a waiter and declined an invitation to dance tendered by a tall, slender man with piercing dark eyes. Where are you, O'Rourke? she wondered as she made her way across the room toward the French doors. If I live to be one hundred, I'll never look this good again.

  The bubbles tickled her nose as she sipped her champagne. The least he could do was put in an appearance so she could dazzle him! This was all Caroline's fault. Sam was about to search out her best friend and attach herself to Caroline's side like a burr when she heard a familiar voice.

  "Good evening, Samantha. May I say you look especially lovely tonight?"

  She spun around. "Scotty! It's good to see a friendly face."

  The man pressed a kiss to her cheek. "I want you to meet my date."

  Sam laughed. "You've been keeping secrets." The older man took her arm and propelled her across the dance floor in the direction of the orchestra. "Where is she?"

  "You're jumping to conclusions, Samantha," said Scotty in a cryptic fashion.

  Her eyes widened behind her mask as they approached a man of medium height whose back was to them. Her cheeks flamed with embarrassment. "Oh, Scotty! I'm sorry-- I mean I didn't . . . I didn't realize that you were--"

  The man turned around.

  It was Murphy O'Rourke.

  Chapter Eleven

  What on earth had happened to the rumpled, sloppy Murphy O'Rourke she thought she knew?

  His sandy hair was beautifully barbered. His five-o'clock shadow was a thing of the past. His tux was tailored to fit his broad-shouldered frame and his shirtfront was snowy white and starched to perfection. Even his bow tie was exactly the way it should be.

  "Murphy?" Her voice was wispy for it was hard to draw a breath. Her heart was beating so rapidly that she felt her pulse pounding in her ears, at the base of her throat, her wrists . . .

  "Sam." The sparkle in his hazel eyes turned to something darker, more intense. "You're beautiful."

  She ducked her head for a moment then remembered that this was a night for magic. "So are you."

  "I thought you weren't coming tonight."

  "I wasn't." She told him briefly about Caroline's surprise Christmas present. His eyes never left hers. A warm, tingly feeling blossomed inside her heart. "So, here I am, the brand new, one hundred percent improved version of Samantha Dean."

  "I liked the old version, too," he said, taking her elbow and leading her toward the dance floor. "You looked pretty cute last night in your ponytail."

  Sam's ponytail was now a thing of the past. She'd left it behind on the floor of the Shady Lady Hair Salon that afternoon. "I hope you didn't get rid of your corduroy jacket," she said as he took her champagne glass and deposited it on a side table. "I'm rather fond of it."

  "This isn't me," said Murphy, gesturing toward his fancy clothes.

  "And this isn't me either," said: Sam, motioning toward her glamorous garb. This was a fairy tale come true, complete with Cinderella, and the handsome prince. She glanced down at her shoes, half expecting to see they had been transformed into glass slippers.

  The lush sounds of romantic music from the Big Band era drifted over to where they stood. Sam longed to ask Murphy to dance but she couldn't summon up the nerve. How foolish! This was the same man she'd tumbled with in the snow just a few days earlier. The same man who had fallen across her legs and rubbed her face in the snow and kissed her on the cheek like a brother would kiss his kid sister. The same man who had sat at her kitchen table last night and made her laugh. She looked at him in his elegant clothes and wicked mask. Nothing had changed.

  Yet everything had.

  She knew it and, she suspected, so did he.

  The music grew more poignant, more enticing. Murphy cleared his throat. "Scotty's a matchmaker."

  Sam swallowed hard. "So is Caroline."

  His hazel eyes twinkled behind the mask. "Do you think we've been set up?"

  "Oh, yes," said Sam, "and I think I know who's behind it all."

  "Patty?"

  She nodded. "Patty."

  He took her hand then and drew her into his arms. "Remind me to thank the kid."

  "Oh, I will." A deep sigh of pleasure rose up inside Sam as she went to him. His arms were strong as he held her close to his broad chest. He moved gently at first, his body barely swaying to the rhythm of the music, and it seemed to Sam—practical, down-to-earth Sam!—as if she'd been waiting all her life for this moment. The cut of the gown bared her back almost to the waist and a thrill of excitement shot through her as he rested his warm palm flat against the ridge of her spine. Her dangerously high heels made Sam closer to his height, and her temple, brushed the strong curve of his jaw.

  If only the orchestra would never stop playing. . .

  * * *

  THE FRENCH had a word for it, but then the French had a word for all things romantic.

  Coup de foudre. The lightning bolt.

  The way Murphy had felt when he turned and looked at Samantha in that shimmering blue dress. The sight of her, tall and slender in that incredible gown, knocked the breath out of his lungs. For a long moment he couldn't think or speak or do anything but stare at her. Her arms and legs were long and finely made; her torso, gently curved. She held her he
ad high; her slender throat was white and supple, encircled with a glittering necklace.

  This was Sam. His friend Sam. The Sam who made sandwiches for the gang at the bar and laughed when he buried her face in a snowdrift. The same Sam who was mother and daughter and friend.

  A few hours ago he would have sworn on a stack of bibles that their friendship would never be anything more than exactly that. Now, with her in his arms, he wondered how he could ever have been such a fool. The feelings that had thrown him for a loop last night in her kitchen hadn't been his imagination, after all. Whatever it was that made Sam Sam had the power to mesmerize him whether she was dressed in a bathrobe or a satin gown. She was the most fascinating woman he'd ever met.

  And the most desirable. Her skin was silk beneath his fingertips. Her hair held the scent of an exotic garden on a summer's day. The way her body fit against his made him rethink his position on Fate. She was an exotic stranger in his arms, and yet she was the same woman he'd come to know and care for this past week.

  Murphy had waited thirty-six years and five months for a woman to sweep him off his feet and now that he'd found her, he wasn't about to let her go.

  * * *

  "LOOK AT THEM," said Caroline to Scotty as the happy couple danced past them. "They couldn't be more perfect together!"

  "We should be quite proud of ourselves," said the professor.

  "That we should."

  Sam looked up at Murphy as if he were the sun and the stars. He looked down at Sam as if she held the keys to paradise. They glowed with delight and the newfound blush of discovery, and if Caroline wasn't so crazy about Sam she might have been envious.

  "Murphy has always claimed he was not the marrying kind," said Scotty.

  "Sam said she hasn't time for anything but Patty and her store."

  She met Scotty's eyes and the two of them burst into delighted laughter.

  "Shall we dance, my dear?"

  "Charmed, Professor," said Caroline. They both knew it was only a matter of time.

  * * *

  "WE'VE BEEN DANCING for almost two hours," Murphy murmured against Sam's ear.

  "I know," she whispered. "Isn't it wonderful?"

  His grip tightened as he drew her yet closer to him. Her body went softer and more yielding, if that was possible. At that moment all things seemed possible. Boundaries and rules and her old ways of thinking no longer mattered. The shell around her heart had broken at last and she felt almost giddy with joy.

  She was Sam and yet she wasn't. He was Murphy, and yet he was someone better, someone exciting and dangerous and potently masculine.

  This couldn't be happening, and yet it was.

  She sighed and rested her forehead against his shoulder.

  Oh, it definitely was happening. . .

  For the past week, Sam had thought of Murphy O'Rourke as a reporter, a bartender, a dirty snowball fighter, and a brand new friend. The one way she tried not to think of Murphy was as a man.

  She knew he had problems with his dad and his brother, knew that a lot of people wanted to hire him to report the news, and that there was a soft spot in his heart for kids and damsels in distress. She also knew there was an ex-wife somewhere out there in the world and probably a good number of ex-girlfriends, as well, but none of it had made a lasting impression upon her.

  Oh, sure, she'd felt a prickle of envy when she thought he'd be attending this party with some nubile young blonde but the moment she saw him with the not-so-nubile Scotty in tow, her envy vanished.

  So did everything else, save for the overwhelming sense that she was exactly where she should be, and at the exact moment of time she should be there.

  Don't get carried away, Sam, her internal censor warned. This isn't any more real than that dress you're wearing or the fake diamonds around your neck. Come midnight Cinderella would have to leave the ball and go home alone without Prince Charming because that was the way life really was.

  Murphy's arms tightened pleasurably about her. He smelled faintly soapy, faintly spicy, altogether masculine and intoxicating. His body was warm and broad and wonderfully powerful and he had an athletic grace that translated beautifully to the dance floor. If her fairy godmother appeared before her and said this moment could go on forever, Sam would have pledged her undying gratitude.

  She floated through the evening on a cloud of excitement. Caroline joined them at the front of the ballroom and they all applauded madly as the eminent Professor Edmund MacTavish received his award. Scotty was such a splendid fellow! Caroline was such a wonderful friend!

  She looked at the handsome, debonair Murphy O'Rourke and practically melted right there on the spot. And to think she owed it all to her precocious daughter. Sam was awash with tenderness, with excitement, with gratitude and happiness and--could it be?--a sudden, inexplicable rush of Christmas spirit.

  Scotty rejoined them and Sam, Murphy, and Caroline toasted the older man's health and happiness. The orchestra started up once again and Sam went into Murphy's arms as naturally as drawing a breath. Not that drawing a breath was an easy task, for his closeness was having the most decidedly powerful effect upon the once staid and practical Samantha Dean.

  "It's getting warm in here," said Murphy, his eyes sparkling behind the mask that tradition decreed should remain in place until the midnight hour.

  She fanned herself delicately. "It certainly is."

  He inclined his head toward the French doors across the ballroom. "Maybe we need some fresh air."

  She nodded. "I think we do."

  He danced her across the room in the blink of an eye, and before anyone could notice they slipped out onto the patio.

  "Are you cold?" he asked.

  "I should be but I'm not."

  "It's almost time for the late-night supper." He traced the line of her jaw with the tip of his index finger. "Are you hungry?"

  Sam shook her head. Let the others swarm into the dining room. She felt sorry for them. What was food compared with a moonlit winter night?

  Tiny white lights glittered from the bare branches of the trees beyond the patio. From somewhere far away came the sounds of laughter and music and crystal glasses raised in a toast.

  "I know it's not midnight," said Murphy, "but I think it's time to unmask."

  She watched, spellbound, as he reached for his mask and slowly removed it. She'd thought herself on familiar terms with the planes and angles of his broad and masculine face but she felt as if she were seeing him for the very first time: those high strong cheekbones; the powerful jawline and stubborn chin; the fleeting dimples and off-center smile; those thick sandy lashes framing his hazel eyes. Why hadn't she noticed what a beautiful man he truly was?

  She lifted her hand to remove her own mask.

  "No." His voice was deep, commanding.

  Taking a step toward her, he brought his large hands to her face and slowly removed her sequined velvet mask. Sam felt as if she were losing the last of her defenses against him.

  "Hi, Sam," he said in a dark and dangerous voice she hadn't heard before.

  Her hands trembled and she found it impossible to speak. The world seemed far away, as if they were suspended somewhere in infinite time.

  Murphy reached forward and brushed a curl away from Sam's eyes. Such a gentle touch from such a strong and powerful man. That gentle touch was Sam's undoing. She lifted her eyes to meet his. He lowered his head toward her. Sam's lips parted; her pulses quickened.

  This is it, she thought wildly. This was the moment they'd been moving toward all evening, the moment she'd been waiting for--

  "Excuse us."

  They leaped apart. A middle-aged couple, looking delightfully guilty, emerged from the shadows. "Sorry," said the woman with a giggle. "Don't want to miss dinner.'

  The man did his best to look dignified but the smudges of crimson lipstick near his mouth undid his valiant attempts.

  Murphy's stormy expression matched her wildly churning emotions. "The roads are clear," he
said, his voice almost a growl. "We could take a drive."

  "Patty," Sam whispered. "Her sitter goes home at twelve-thirty."

  He glanced at his watch. "An hour and a half," he said, slipping out of his tux jacket and draping it across her shoulders. "I'll have you back on time."

  If either had feared that the intrusion of reality would tarnish the luster of the evening, their fears were groundless, for once they were tucked into the velvet darkness of the rented car, away from the sharp winter wind and prying eyes, the world dropped away once again.

  "Where are we going?" Sam asked as he eased the car out of the parking lot.

  "Someplace quiet."

  A frisson of nervousness made Sam's breath catch for an instant. It was so dark and they were so alone. He drove slowly along Route 206, past stores and old houses and huge wooded areas yet to catch the land developer's eye. Turning right on tiny Highway 518, he headed up the winding curves toward Rocky Hill. Christmas candles burned in living room windows and colored lights twinkled around doorways. There were huge candy canes and wreathes with big shiny red bows. She could almost swear she heard the lilting voices of carolers in the distance. Sam smiled in the darkness of the car. What a wonderful season.

  She cast him a quick glance. What a wonderful man.

  Murphy made a right, then a left, and suddenly Sam knew exactly where they were headed. Five minutes later he pulled alongside the bridge that overlooked one of the Delaware-Raritan valley canals.

  "I forgot you grew up around here," Sam said as he helped her from the car.

  "This has always been one of my favorite spots." He put his arms around her shoulders and led her toward the railing. "Even when I wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of New Jersey, I still loved it here."

  "You know what they call it, don't you?" The wind whipped up from the icy water but for some strange reason she didn't feel a thing.

  He grinned at her. "Make-out Point."