She left them be.
Instead of barging in, she went out the front door and waited by that old-fashioned convertible. The temperature was still eighty degrees in spite of the fact that the sun had started to go down, and there was a mugginess in the air—or maybe that was her nerves. To get some shade, she kept herself in the lee of one of the big magnolias that grew up close to the house.
As she stared at the car, she remembered the times she had been in the thing with Samuel T., the night wind in her hair, his hand between her legs as he drove them along the winding roads to his farm.
The convertible had been purchased by Samuel T., Sr., on the day of the birth of what had turned out to be the man’s one and only living offspring. And it had been given to young Samuel T. on his eighteenth birthday with strict instructions that he was not to kill himself in the damn thing.
And funny, the instruction had found home: It was only when he was behind the wheel of a car that Samuel T. was careful. Gin had long suspected it was because he knew that if anything happened to him, his family tree was over.
He was the only member of his generation who had survived.
Lot of tragedy.
For which, until this very moment, she had had little appreciation.
While she waited, her heart beat fast, but not hard, the fluttering in her chest making her light-headed. Or perhaps it was the heat—
Samuel T. pulled open the front door and strode out of Easterly, crystal glass of bourbon in his hand. He cut quite the dashing figure with that perfectly beautiful seersucker suit, and his astonishing face, and his monogrammed briefcase. He had put on a pair of gold-rimmed sunglasses, and his thick, dark hair was brushed back off his high forehead, that cowlick in the front making it seemed styled when in fact that had never been necessary.
He stopped as he saw her. Then drawled, “Come to thank me for saving you?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“Oh? Trying to negotiate a retainer using something other than cash?” He tossed back the liquor and put the glass on the front step—as only someone who had lived with help all his life could. “I am amenable to all suggestions.”
She measured every step he made toward her and his car. She knew so well that body of his, that hard, muscular body that belied him for the farmer he was in his soul under all his fancy, barrister trappings.
Amelia was going to be tall like he was. And she was smart like he was.
Unfortunately, the girl was also stupid like her mother, although maybe she would grow out of that.
“Well?” he said as he put his briefcase in the jump seat. “Do I get to pick the way you pay your bill?”
Even through his sunglasses, she could feel his eyes on her. He wanted her, he always wanted her, and at times, he hated her for that: He was not a man who appreciated constraints, even of his own making.
She was the same way.
Samuel T. shook his head. “Do not tell me the cat has that luscious tongue of yours. It would be such a pity to lose that particular piece of your anatomy—”
“Samuel.”
The instant he heard the tone in her voice, he frowned and took his sunglasses off. “What’s wrong?”
“I …”
“Did anyone mistreat you in that jail? Because I will go down there personally and—”
“Marry me.”
He froze, everything stopping—his expression, his breathing, maybe even his heart. Then he punched out a laugh. “Right, right, right. Sure you do—”
“I’m serious.”
The car door opened silently, a testament to the meticulous care that was paid to the vehicle. “The day you settle down with any man is the eve of the Second Coming.”
“Samuel, I love you.”
He shot her a sardonic look. “Oh, please—”
“I need you.”
“Jail really bothered you, didn’t it.” He lowered himself into the bucket seat and stared out over the hood of the car for a moment. “Look, Gin, don’t feel bad about having gone in there, okay? I’ve managed to scrub everything down at HQ so that it won’t even get on the blotter. No one’s going to know.”
“That’s not why. I just … let’s get married. Please.”
Looking across at her, he frowned so deeply, his eyebrows came all the way together. “You actually sound serious.”
“I am.” And she was no fool. She’d tell him about Amelia afterward, when it was harder for him to run, when there was paperwork in place to hold them together until he got over what she’d done. “You and I were meant to be together. You know it. I know it. We’ve been skirting around this relationship for a lifetime, maybe longer. You date waitresses and hairdressers and masseuses because they’re not me. You hold every woman up to my standard and they all fail. You’re obsessed with me just like I am with you. Let’s stop the lie and do it right.”
He shifted his eyes back out to the hood and ran his beautiful hands around that wooden steering wheel. “Let me ask you something.”