up, she'd thought about kissing him.
And the next time he stayed after closing, he'd kissed her. Their affair began.
But she'd always known it had to end. He was a Matthews; he was a judge. She was a Wilder first, and then all that she'd been after.
If there really was a child growing in her belly, D. B. Matthews wouldn't want to be its father. He and Samantha were supposed to be engaged in an affair. No, in something less. A fling.
God, not in forever.
But the more she thought about it, the more that menopause or premenopause or something like that seemed likely - there just couldn't be a child on its way.
Inhaling a deep breath, Samantha picked up the tray and then walked toward D. B. This time he looked up and smiled at her, but she pretended not to notice as she slid the drinks onto the table.
She spoke to the vicinity of his nose. "Would you like a tab, or...?"
"I'll settle up at the end of the night," D. B. said.
She fought off the little shiver rolling down her back. "Fine." That usually meant he was going to stay until after closing. That he was going to stay with her. "Good."
It was good. It would give her time, tonight, to tell him it was over.
The next hours passed in a blur. Samantha supposed she poured drinks and made change and smiled and said good night, because the till was full and she had dozens of dirty glasses to wash when the clock read closing time. Dylan had taken off after nursing his first whiskey and half of another, leaving his father contemplating two of the three fat olives she always put in his martinis.
After locking the door, she poured two mugs of decaf. Then, plastering on a sophisticated, if-only-you've-seen-what-I've-seen smile, she seated herself opposite D. B., setting one mug of coffee before him.
"Hi," he said softly. He took her hand in both of his. "You look tired."
He was a beautiful man. His body was lean and the lines on his handsome face were made by years of smiling, of laughing, of caring about other people. Steeling herself, she slipped her hands from his and gave them two brief pats.
His eyes narrowed. "What's going on?" he asked.
Damn, he was smart. She stared into her coffee mug, thinking this shouldn't be so hard. "D. B. ... I ... we..."
The legs of his chair screeched against the parquet floor as he scooted close to her. "What's the matter, sweetheart?" He ran the knuckles of one hand down her cheek.
She almost lost it right there. She wanted to put her head down on the table and cry. Worse, she wanted to climb onto his lap and weep against his warm neck that she knew smelled of shaving cream and sandalwod.
Instead, she lifted her head. She thought of all the times she'd had to pretend, night after night, years and years of pretending, and looked him straight in the eye. "I don't think we should see each other anymore."
"What?" He didn't even blink.
She let one eyebrow arch, as if she were slightly annoyed by his inattention. "We're not going to see each other anymore."
"Bullshit." Now he blinked, but only in the most natural of ways. Not as if she'd stunned him, surprised him, or even disappointed him.
Uneasiness trickled down her spine. "I said - "
"And I said bullshit."
Samantha sat, frozen. For twenty years she'd been able to wear next to nothing and direct men to do her bidding. It had been a gift, considering her business. She'd been able to maintain her dignity, to be touched in ways that only she allowed, because of this certain air of command she possessed that had never failed her.
She swallowed. "D. B...."
He leaned forward. "I've missed you," he said against her mouth. He parted her lips and slid his tongue inside. It rubbed against hers like old friends rubbing shoulders.
Samantha shuddered, her resolve slipping too easily away. As if he'd read her mind earlier, he urged her out of her chair and onto his lap.
She had no idea why she went so willingly. But his mouth tasted like vodka's dry heat and his hand was so soothing when it trailed down her back, then not soothing at all as it edged under her sleeveless turtleneck and then inside her bra to cup her breast.
"Let's take this off, sweetheart," he said. In seconds he'd bared her torso, and her hard nipples were poking against the soft cotton