Page 28 of One in a Million
“Everything will come together, Sam. I have faith in you.” He caught her use of his first name and let it go. After their time together, it felt all right.
“How did the family dinner go?”
“Testy, but no blood spilled. Darrin and Simone tried to back Lila into a corner over the memorial plans, who is to speak, and what can or can’t be said. She held her own in favor of an open invitation for anyone to come forward. As I’ve told you, I despise what the woman did to our family. But I can’t help wishing I had her strength. Lila is one tough cookie. But she can’t hold out forever. Wait till our mother gets here.”
“I’ll be looking forward to meeting her,” Sam said.
By the time he finished his meal, Jasmine had made no move to leave. Sam found himself hoping she would stay longer.
“Tell me a little more about yourself, Jasmine,” he said, popping open the can of iced Michelob that had come with the meal. There was an extra. He extended it to her. She took it. “It must’ve been interesting, making those movies and TV shows, meeting those stars.”
“It was a job, and they were just people—most of them nice, a few of them assholes. I married one of the latter. We lasted through a miscarriage before we agreed to part ways. Probably for the best. I don’t know what kind of mom I would have been. For a while, I stayed in Hollywood hoping to revive my so-called career. All I could get were a few TV commercials. So I’d come home on and off to lick my wounds before trying again. You probably see me as a spoiled brat. And there is that side to me. Dad always gave me whatever I asked for. But this isn’t the real me—not the me I want to be.”
“After spending time with you, I’m aware of that, Jasmine. You’re smart and strong. You’ll make it through this.”
“Thanks for that endorsement.” She laid a hand on his sleeve. Her touch was light, barely a butterfly’s. But it sent a sensual jolt along his nerves that rippled through his body. The memory of holding her this afternoon flashed in his mind.
“Just don’t get into trouble,” he added, trying to dampen his reaction to her. “Getting mixed up with those animal rights people could set you way back.”
“I understand.” Her noncommittal reply told Sam she was still weighing her choices. From beyond the ranch’s far border, toward Charlie Grishman’s ranch, came the faint sound of rifle fire. She shuddered but didn’t speak of it.
“You owe me, Sam,” she said after a silent pause. “I spilled a private piece of myself to you. I don’t care if you are an untouchable FBI agent; you’d be a jerk not to reciprocate.”
Sam sighed.
“Do you have a wife back in Chicago? Any children? That’s something I deserve to know.”
“I have an ex-wife in Chicago—no children. Great woman, but she wanted more of me than I had time to give her. She was tired of competing with my work. It’s been five months, and she’s already remarried.”
“That had to hurt,” Jasmine said. “Do you still love her?”
“In a way, I always will. But not like I did. I just want her to be happy. I’m moving on. But some things take time.”
“I’m impressed that you don’t hate her.”
“Don’t be. There was nothing to hate. She was unhappy and she changed her life the way she saw fit.”
“Are you still friends?”
“She wanted a clean break. Looking back, I can see the wisdom in that.”
“So we’re both walking wounded—you more than I, I think.” The hand rested on his arm, then withdrew. “What brought you here to Texas? A fresh start?”
“Just a chance for a transfer. It was time.” Sam watched the golden rim of the moon rise above the eastern hills. Here he was, alone with a seductive woman whose presence suggested that she might be willing to engage in more than small talk. But no, it was too soon for him. And Jasmine Culhane was a prime suspect in his murder case. To lay as much as a finger on her would be professional suicide.
The urge to open up—to pour out the anguish of his young partner’s recent death—welled in him. For a moment Sam was tempted to tell her the story. But no, it was still too raw, too intimate to share with a woman he’d only known for a day. Some things, like deep grief and scathing guilt, were better kept to himself.
But Jasmine was getting to him in more ways than one. It was time to send her back to the house before he gave in to temptation. He stretched and yawned. “The last time I slept was on an airplane,” he said. “If you’ll excuse me, Jasmine, I need to go to bed before I fall off this chair. Thanks for dinner and your company.”
“Of course.” She rose, replaced the cover, and picked up the tray. For a long moment she stood in silence as if weighing a confession. Then she spoke.
“I know you didn’t get much rest in that old horror of a motel, with the wind outside and that infernal racket from the next room.”
Sam’s jaw dropped.
“I saw your car,” she said. “I was with this sleazy cowboy I picked up in Willow Bend, both of us drinking. When things started to get out of hand, I left. I guess he did, too. I never plan to see him again. I’m not proud of myself, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to apologize.”
Sam found his voice. “No apology needed, Jasmine. I imagine you were working out your grief any way you could. And what you did was none of my . . .”