CHAPTER TWELVE
SAMANTHA STOOD ROOTEDto the floor watching Teague and Dixon walk away, waves of painful emotion breaking over her—degradation, humiliation, betrayal, anguish, heartbreak. She had thought when her mother died that that was as alone as she would ever feel. But her mother hadn’t left willingly, hadn’t dangled her love like a carrot, snatching it away when Samantha reached for it.This,Samantha realized, watching Teague walk away,this is loneliness.
Swallowing against the ache that lodged in her throat, she backed out of the door, kneeling to brush away the dirt her shoes had left on the expensive rug before pulling the door closed.
She made it to her car by putting one foot in front of the other, slid behind the wheel and hit the return-trip button on the GPS system so she wouldn’t have to think about the traffic or the turns to get back home. She was still numb when she walked onto the elevator in her building.
“Hi.”
She turned her head to see Stewart Estes standing there in his pristine suit, his eyes slightly guarded.
“Hi, Stewart,” she said, conjuring up a small smile before glancing away.
“Are you okay?” he asked. “You look…upset.”
“Bad day at work,” she said. “I’m fine, but thank you for asking.”
He nodded stiffly and turned back to the control panel but waited politely for her to precede him off the elevator when it stopped on their floor. She walked to her door, feeling like such a fool—with a perfectly nice guy borrowing sugar from her, how could she have fallen in love with Teague Brownlee?
Because he made her feel alive, and he made her feel adventurous, and he made her feel like there was more to the world than what she had created in her own little corner. He drew her out of herself…but apparently not enough to truly see him.
Teague was right—she hadn’t treated him fairly when they were younger, and when their paths had crossed again she had jumped to false conclusions about him based on his appearance and her expectations of him. Then she’d thrown money at him and taken for granted that he would handle the messy details of the job site, that he would cover her, not just because he was an employee but because of the superior/subordinate relationship they’d always had.
Her arrogance had not only cost her the love of her life but the job of her career.
And she couldn’t blame her father for the snob she’d grown into—how many times had he said that nomatter how much he trusted his employees, the buck stopped with him—he checked every detail of an important job himself.
She closed the door behind her and straightened, shaking off her personal despair over Teague—she had the rest of her life to brood about what might have been, but she had only two more days to come up with a plan to salvage the library project. She bypassed the counter where just days before Teague had spread plans for them to study and had instead wound up making love—correction…having sex.
Pushing the erotic images out of her mind, she headed for the drafting table in her den. Without a crew, she couldn’t do anything to the site before the Monday morning meeting, but she could prepare a passionate presentation for the board of directors, accept blame for the job delay and ask for more time. In return she’d offer to forego the design details of the library that would have been her signature in order to trim the budget.
It would be a humbling experience but necessary.
She went into the bathroom to change clothes and spotted Teague’s yellow hard hat. Her face burned when she remembered asking him to wear it while they had sex. He must have felt belittled, used…manipulated. She didn’t blame him for hating her…she hated herself for behaving like a debutante sleeping with the hired help.
Feeling sadly wiser, Samantha changed clothes,brewed a pot of coffee, spread the current plans for the library on the drafting table and settled in for a marathon work session.
* * *
DIXON WHINEDand dropped the chew toy that Samantha had given him at Teague’s feet in front of the leather club chair where he sat in his big, empty office.
Teague frowned. “Get over it, buddy.” Then he took another drink of bourbon from his glass. Two rounds of the stuff hadn’t erased from his mind the stricken look on Samantha’s face when he’d told her that he’d been playing her all along. Instead of the sense of vindication he’d expected to feel, a stone of guilt had dropped to the bottom of his stomach and had grown heavier since she’d left—after brushing away the dirt on his stupid rug like he’d asked her to do.
He put the cold glass against his temple, hoping the chill would jar him out of his funk and remind him that Samantha deserved everything that she’d gotten. Dixon put his warm head on Teague’s knee and looked up at him with the most sorrowful eyes imaginable.
Teague sighed and put his hand on his pet’s head. “I know how you feel.” He set down the glass of bourbon and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. He flipped it open and punched in a number, relieved when it was answered on the first ring.
“Griggs, it’s Teague. I need your help.”
