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Sam’s luminous eyes narrowed. “A teenager?”
Jake shook his head. “Not exactly.”
“Then how old is she, exactly?”
“She’s, uh, she’s just past her twenty-first birthday.”
Could a woman’s eyes narrow more than that? Could she see out of them, if they did?
“She’s a woman?”
“Yeah. More or less.”
“More or less,” Samantha said coolly. “And what does she look like?”
He knew what she meant. But that didn’t make it mandatory to answer as if he did.
“Oh, I don’t know. She’s five-eight, maybe five-nine—”
“What does she look like, Jake?” Sam’s voice took on a sharp intensity. “Is she attractive?”
Why in hell had he thought this conversation would be helpful? “I guess.”
“You guess.” Sam reached for her wineglass. “And where have you stashed her?”
Where was the waiter? It had to be getting late. To hell with dessert. Jake wanted the check. He wanted fresh air. He wanted to slice out his tongue.
“If you mean,” he said cautiously, “where is Cat staying—”
“Cat?” Sam said, her voice as frigid as her slitted eyes.
“Catarina. She’s, uh, she’s staying at my place.”
Silence. A long silence. After which Jake could have sworn he saw Samantha unsheath her claws.
“How charming. You have a woman living with you, and here you are having dinner with me.”
“She isn’t ‘living’ with me.”
“No wonder I’ve spent the past hour talking to myself!”
“Take it easy, Sam.”
“I should take it easy while you sit there, fixated on this—this—?”
“Sam.” Jake’s tone turned as cool as hers. “Watch what you say.”
Samantha pushed back her chair. “I want to leave.”
“We haven’t finished our—”
“But we have. We’ve finished everything.” Her mouth twisted. “To think of the time I wasted with you.”
“Hey—”
“Wasted,” she said bitterly, “with a man whose idea of decency is to pretend he’s committed to one woman while he moves his—his paramour into his house.”
Which charge should he answer first? Jake leaned forward. “She’s not my paramour. And I never made any commitments, Sam. You know that.”
