A Match Made in Heaven?. Sun Chara

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СКАЧАТЬ wanted to get you away from that jerk fast and—”

      The paper missile ricocheted off his chest, and she gripped the wooden spoon, stirring the batter. “One.” She paused for emphasis. “I’ve put up with your chronic unemployment—”

      “Reverting to high and mighty socialite are you?” His eyes darkened. “I couldn’t just be temporarily between jobs?”

      “Tempo-perma is what you mean,” she let fly, her words stinging.

      “Aww, Sam, that was a low blow.”

      “You’re always out of a job, Johnny.” She absent-mindedly created figure eights in the batter with the ladle.

      “Nope.” He fixed his sights on his very pregnant wife, and his gut hitched. Fool, to think love could bridge the gap between them.

       Love never fails.

      The silent message lit his brain. He wrinkled his brow but couldn’t recall where he’d heard those profound words. Was what they shared enough to transcend social status pressure? He smirked and nearly guffawed at his naiveté, even at thirty-four. At a loss, he gulped down the self-deprecating sound, thinking it might be time to ’fess up. “I’ve bought … er … working … I’ve wanted to tell you about—”

      “Heard that before, Johnny.”

      Her words were like ten-pound weights crushing his shoulders.

      In the heavy silence, the batter sloshed in the bowl, keeping time with the ticking cuckoo clock above the stove.

      “Two.” She smacked the ladle on the batter, speckling the counter. “I’ve put up with living in this drabby matchbox for two years.”

      “It won’t always be that way, Sam.” He stepped closer, encircling her shoulder, but she shrank away. “I thought it was our home … and I’ve wanted to tel—”

      “Oh, it is, Johnny. It is.” Her tone softened a tad, giving him hope.

      He pulled her into his arms, and she laid her head on his shoulder. “Then, what is it?” He stroked her hair, the motion soothing…arousing. “I’ve wanted to tell you about my, our good fortu—”

      “Not legally wed.” She jerked away and grabbed the frying pan off the shelf and banged it on the stove.

      He rubbed the back of his head and breathed a sigh of relief she’d found another target.

      “What will people … I mean—”

      “Mamma …” he inserted for her.

      “… think.” She turned on the gas element and it flared to life.

      “You made a choice on that score when you married me.” He flexed his shoulder muscles. “But if that matters so much to you, Sam, maybe you shouldn’t have said ‘I do.’” He’d just given her an out if she wanted it, and his heart faltered.

      By social standards, he was an ordinary guy from the poor ’hood, and she was high society from the ritzy side of town. His roots stemmed from Irish farmers tilling land for survival. Her ancestry was linked to the English aristocracy. While he’d pounded the pavement for work during the day and studied for a business degree at night, she hung out at the café on campus, sipping designer lattes with her socialite friends.

      Maybe he should’ve joined her there … maybe that’s where he’d made his mistake. Regardless, it was time he found out the truth about why she married him. He’d been putting it off until after the baby came, but the grenade in that letter was about to blast them apart. He’d have to toss in his ammo prematurely and either neutralize or detonate matters between them.

      ‘Rich debutante jilts catch of the season to marry poor boy Belen.’ Isn’t that how the society page read in the Beverly Hills Weekly? His tone sounded empty, his heart padlocked.

      “Doesn’t matter, now.” She scratched a dried disc of batter with her slipper.

      “Why’s that?”

      “We’re not married.”

      “Easy to fix.”

      “No, it isn’t.” She yanked open the cutlery drawer, took out a knife, sliced a slab of butter and tossed it in the pan. It sizzled.

      “Why not?” He removed the knife from her fingers, placed it on the countertop and closed the drawer before she could slam it shut.

      She shrugged, not quite meeting his searching gaze.

      Johnny plowed a hand through his hair, breath blasting from his mouth. Heck, she still thought him the peasant barely making enough to keep a roof over their heads. Of course, his pad in North Hollywood couldn’t compete with her family’s Beverly Hills mansion. The recent news of their union, or lack thereof, had her speed-redialing about their life.

      “Why’d you marry me, Sam?” An air pocket jammed in his throat, and his pulse jerked off beat.

      “Because … I …” She twisted her wedding ring around her finger.

      “Maybe it was to get back at your mother and get away from that bozo, Scott.”

      “Leave my mother out of this,” she snapped. “And as for Michael, well … you could be kind.”

      “You defending that circus clown?” he bit out.

      “Not exactly.” An unbidden smile brushed her mouth, and then vanished in the onslaught of their verbal shoot out.

      “I’m supposed to know what that means?”

      “He’s a family friend.”

      “And that makes this” –he pointed to her and himself, then slashed his hand through the air— “all right?”

      “No … yes … I dunno.”

      “Maybe it had nothing to do with me—feelings for me.” He drilled, wanting to read her … get answers. Maybe the nuptials had been a set-up for self-serving purposes; the notion flogged his mind … his gut.

      Samantha blinked at him, aghast. How could he think such a thing, and with her carrying his child? Maybe love and marriage didn’t mean the same to him as it did to her. She muffled a hiccup; she’d even given up lattes to save them money. Well, she’d better find out what kind of man she married … er … thought she married.

      She glared at him.

      He glared back.

      “Johnny Belen, that’s a rotten thing to say.” She twitched her nose at an odor filling the kitchen, but was too upset to identify the source.

      “What?” He rubbed a hand across his jaw and pushed open the window above the sink. “That Scott is a buffoon or a circus clown?”

      “No.”

      He rolled his shoulders. “You mean about feelings, СКАЧАТЬ