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  “Um, hi,” Molly called to Sam. “Karen didn’t tell me you had company.”

  Sam had risen from his desk upon Molly’s precipitous entrance. He was making his way toward her with a look of both relief and warning in his eyes. Her heart accelerating at the sight of him, Molly realized her real reason for coming here this morning had nothing to do with the information in her hand.

  He’d driven her home last night, her hand clasped firmly in his in the close confines of his car. Molly’s pulse, still racing from the boathouse, had not yet slowed when he’d walked her to her front door and kissed her, hard, thoroughly, and with a passion that had left her breathless. The look in his eyes had been unmistakable. If she’d given him even the slightest indication that she was willing, he’d have taken her straight to bed. She’d fought an internal war with common sense versus desire and passion. It had left her feeling slightly drained when she’d finally managed to whisper, “good night” and close the door. Somehow she knew he’d waited there until she’d turned the key in the dead bolt. Molly had leaned against the cool wood door, listening to the sound of his footsteps retreating down her walk.

  When she’d heard his car door close she knew that he’d finally left. The image of him standing outside her door, just out of reach, waiting only for her invitation, had followed her to bed where she’d tossed and turned, wondering what she’d gotten herself into.

  Molly had been with men before, but never had she felt such a shaky, overwhelming feeling of passion and desire. She knew now what her sisters had been telling her for years. Molly had tumbled into relationships before, but she’d always been in charge. Until Sam, no one had toppled her off her feet, swept her into a storm of possibilities, and given her this feeling of perpetual dither. Her stomach was in knots, her pulse was too fast, her heartbeat was irregular. Even her skin seemed warmer than usual. If it’s not passion, she mused, then it’s the flu.

  Sam was looking at her curiously. “Molly,” he said quietly. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  Her gaze darted quickly between the two women, then back to Sam. She wasn’t ready to explain her relationship with him, not to her family, her friends, or to these two strangers who were watching her with keen interest. What was she supposed to tell them? That she suddenly wanted—no, craved him—after all these weeks of irritation and anger?

  She’d been relieved to see the note she’d left herself yesterday, reminding her to talk to Sam about a discovery at the county clerk’s office. It gave her a reason to see him this morning. She wouldn’t have to broach the subject of whether or not he too had spent his night heated and bothered with longings. She’d headed straight to his office and been waved through the door by Karen, who was on the phone at the time.

  Sam’s expression was slightly amused, telling her all too clearly that he knew exactly what she was thinking. Molly had to fight a blush. The corner of his mouth twitched. “I was just going to have Karen call and see if you could come up for a minute. I have someone I wanted you to meet,” he told her.

  Molly shoved the note from her desk into the back pocket of her jeans. “Oh,” she said, feeling awkward under the close scrutiny of the two women.

  Sam placed a hand at the small of her back and guided her forward. “Genelle, Aunt Margaret, this is Molly.”

  Molly immediately recognized the names. This was Sam’s stepmother—Edward Reed’s widowed wife—and her eccentric older sister, Margaret DeVie. “Hello,” she said as the two women rose. She moved forward and extended her hand, suddenly aware of an ink stain on her index finger. “I’m Molly Flynn.”

  Genelle Reed’s smile was more genuine than Molly had expected. Another miscalculation on her part, she thought resignedly. “It’s very nice to meet you. Margaret and I were just in the process of chastising Sam for keeping you secret from us.”

  Sam shook his head. “It wasn’t you I kept it from. It was Taylor.”

  “Your sister’s got the wedding planned, you know,” Margaret assured him. “You know how she is.”

  “Unfortunately,” Sam concurred, but his voice held a hint of humor. “Now that Ben’s married, I’m Taylor’s latest project.”

  “At least she’s taken to planning other people’s weddings,” Margaret said. “Instead of just her own.”

  That made Genelle laugh. “Now, Margaret, don’t be so hard on Taylor. She means well.”

  “She’s the only woman I know who has planned five weddings for herself and hasn’t made it down the aisle for any of them.”

  Sam indicated a spare chair for Molly while he sat on the edge of his desk. “Genelle and Margaret drove down from Boston today,” he told her, “because they didn’t want to wait any longer to meet the woman who finally got the better of me.”

  Molly winced. “I hope Sam explained that the ad—”

  “Oh, I understand perfectly, dear,” Genelle said as she lowered herself gracefully back into her chair. “Sam is a dear boy, but I swear he can drive even a patient woman to desperation.”

  Molly glanced at Sam. He was watching his stepmother with easy benevolence. She didn’t know how to respond, so she merely waited.

  Margaret concurred with her sister. “I’m sure you don’t have to tell Molly that. But at least she took him to task for it.”

  “Unlike Pamela,” Genelle said.

  Sam’s expression registered a flicker of annoyance. “Genelle,” he said, warning in his tone.

  His stepmother took the cue. “Don’t worry, dear,” she assured him. “I don’t want to discuss that woman any more than you do.” She looked at Molly. “Tell me, Molly, how hard has it been to work for Sam these past few weeks?”

  A smile played at the corner of Molly’s mouth. “Next to impossible,” she admitted. “He’s not very flexible.”

  “And you are?” Sam shot back.

  “I don’t have to be,” she told him. “I’m not the one making the decisions.”

  “For which we can all thank God.” Sam glanced at his family. “Molly would have this paper out of business in a quarter if it were up to her.”

  “I would not,” she countered. “I just wouldn’t do away with something crucial like coverage of the duck races.”

  “Duck races?” Margaret and Genelle said in unison.

  “Long story,” Sam assured them. “I’ll tell you later.”

  “Important story,” Molly muttered.

  Genelle laughed. “I see why you like her, Sam.” She looked at Molly. “I’m really not here to take up your time—” she flashed a brief smile at her stepson “—or Sam’s. I just came to meet you and issue you an invitation.”

  “Invitation?”

  Genelle nodded. “I’m sure Sam hasn’t told you.”

  “I haven’t,” Sam said bluntly.

  “He’s hoping we’ll forget the entire thing,” Margaret told Molly.

  Molly glanced at Sam. “What thing?”

  “It’s ridiculous,” Sam said.

  “No,” his stepmother insisted. “It is not.”

  “Taylor’s been planning it for weeks.” Margaret drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair.

  “Taylor plans everything for weeks,” Sam pointed out.

  “Planning what?” Molly asked.

  Genelle smoothed an invisible wrinkle from her skirt. “We’re celebrating Sam’s birthday next week. Taylor is hosting a party. We’d all like it if you’d come.”

  Curious, Molly thought. Sam had told her he had some business to take care of in Boston that weekend, but that he’d return on Saturday morning for the duck races. The birthday had not come up. His lips pressed into a thin line and she sensed a tension in him she couldn’t define. “I’d love to,” she replied carefully.

  He gave her a probing look. “I’m not even sure I’m planning to go.”

  Margaret clucked her tongue. “Don’t be ridiculous, Sam. You’re not going to disappoint Taylor, and you know it.”

  “I told her not to do this.”

  �
��And she’s never listened to you when you gave orders,” his stepmother retorted. “Why should she start now?” She looked at Molly. “Don’t let him fool you. I think he’d appreciate it if you came.”

  Molly watched Sam. “We’ll talk it over,” she said, certain of that much at least.

  Genelle and Margaret rose to leave. Genelle leaned over and kissed Sam gently on the cheek. “Don’t worry, dear,” she told him. “Taylor promises she won’t embarrass you.”

  He didn’t respond. Margaret extended her hand to Molly. “It was very nice meeting you, young lady.” She nodded toward Sam. “Hard as it might seem, try to keep him from working himself to death.”

  Molly nodded. “I will.” She waited while Sam walked the two women to the door. He was cordial and apparently relaxed, yet she sensed an underlying tension. She’d never met a man with as many different layers as Sam Reed. He accepted his stepmother’s farewell kiss, hugged his aunt, then shut the door behind the two women, pausing for several heartbeats before turning to face her.

  “Well,” he said. “You’ve had your first taste of the Reeds.”

  “You say that as if I just survived some initiation ritual.”

  “My family is a little—intense.”

  That made her laugh. “Geez, Sam, wait’ll you meet mine.”

  He seemed genuinely baffled by the comment, but didn’t respond, so Molly forged ahead. “Actually, I kind of have a theory about that. I think every family is weird—you just don’t necessarily see it from the outside. Once you’re close to ’em, though—” She smacked her hands together. “Whammo.”

  Sam’s expression remained mercurial. “You may have a point there.”

  “Oh, definitely.” Molly rose from her chair and crossed the plush carpet toward him. “So, um, when were you planning to tell me about the birthday party?”

  “As late as I possibly could and still get away with it.”

  “Come on, Sam, don’t tell me you’re the I-can’t-stand-getting-old type.”

  “I have nothing against getting old.”

  Complex, she reminded herself. Sam was incredibly, sometimes even infuriatingly, complex. She’d learned that after weeks of arguing with him in editorial meetings. Something told her she was about to reveal another of his layers. “It’s just the party that makes you cranky,” she said slowly, her understanding beginning to dawn. He looked every inch the powerful businessman today. Conservatively dressed in a white shirt and dark trousers, he wore a fashionable tie perfectly knotted at his throat. She glanced quickly at the still-healing scrape on his knuckles to remind herself of the man behind the facade. “And by the way, who is Pamela?” She’d detected a note in his voice when his stepmother had mentioned the woman’s name, a hard note she hadn’t heard since the day he’d fired the source-fabricating journalist in an editorial meeting.

  “No one important,” Sam said flatly.

  Sure, Molly thought. “Oh, really?”

  “Yes. Really.”

  Molly decided now was not the time to press the issue of Pamela. There’d be plenty of opportunities later. Vaguely, she remembered him saying something about a former relationship and its disastrous end during their conversation yesterday. But she’d been too preoccupied to catch its significance. She had assumed he was talking about Pamela Quorrus, the Boston socialite and blue-blooded member of the politically powerful and wealthy Quorrus clan. When Sam had arrived at his brother’s wedding with Pamela Quorrus, the tabloids and gossip columns had speculated widely that another Reed marriage was in the offing, but the relationship seemed to have ended before it began. Later, she promised herself, she’d find out the details. For now, she was more interested in knowing why Sam was bristling over something as simple as a birthday party. “So if it’s not the age thing,” she pressed, “what’s got you so worked up about the party?”

  He shrugged and reached for a stack of papers on his desk. “I dislike spectacles. I told you that.”

  “It’s just a party, Sam. Not the invasion of Normandy.”

  He regarded her with a raised eyebrow. “You have no idea what’s entailed in one of my sister’s parties. It’s never just a party.”

  She shook her head. He looked determined, but so was she. She pictured the expression on his face last night when he’d kissed her in the boathouse. It had showed a side of Sam she’d never seen before. The side that avoided telling her about this party, and for reasons other than his schedule or a slight annoyance with his sister. There was a vulnerability to that side of him that Molly was powerless to resist. “That’s not good enough, Sam.” Molly crossed her arms over her chest. “I want the details.”

  “There are no details.”

  “I’m not buying that. I’m a journalist. I’m naturally suspicious, intuitive and pushy.”

  “What if I told you it’s none of your business?”

  “Then we’ll fight.” She frowned at him. “You gave me the right to ask these questions yesterday. Consider it a VIP press pass with unlimited private and exclusive interviews.”

  “Molly—”

  “I’m serious. You’re the one who said you wanted to be involved. We’re not just going to pretend, we’re actually going to get to know one another. I distinctly remember—”

  Sam muttered a dark curse and rounded his desk to stare out the window. She noted that in the morning sunlight, his hair looked lighter. She could see a slight reddish cast where the sun had kissed the ends of his dark waves. Molly impatiently tapped one foot while she waited in the thickening silence. Finally, he turned toward her again. “I have no idea why Taylor got this harebrained idea. I told her not to do it.”

  “Maybe she just wanted to do something nice for you.”

  “She did,” he agreed. “Taylor might be eccentric, but she’s generous—sometimes to a fault.” He raked a hand through his hair. Molly had learned he only did that when he was intensely agitated. It gave him a rumpled look she found blatantly sexy. “I don’t celebrate birthdays,” he said simply. “I never have.”

  “If it’s not about getting old, then why not?”

  “Because,” he thrust his hands into his pockets. “I don’t actually know when mine is.”

  Molly took a moment to absorb that. “You’re kidding.”

  He shook his head. She frowned, the thought alien to her. In the extended and immediate Flynn family, birthdays might as well be federal holidays for all the pomp and circumstance surrounding their celebration. “You’re not kidding,” she said. “Why not?”

  “I don’t find anything funny about it.” His voice was curt.

  She blinked. “What? Oh, no, I mean why don’t you know, not why aren’t you kidding.”

  “The event obviously wasn’t newsworthy enough for my mother to share when Edward took me in,” Sam shrugged. “And he didn’t ask.”

  “What does it say on your driver’s license?”

  “October 15. It’s sometime in October, or at least, that’s what my mother cited in her paternity suit against Edward. She claimed they’d had a brief affair the February before I was born. Whether it was true or not, Edward didn’t contest it. He picked the fifteenth of October, and I’ve used it officially ever since.”

  “So your sister—”

  “Taylor likes to plan things. She especially likes to plan weddings, but she’s having a dry spell.” He leaned back against the desk. “Frankly, I was hoping my involvement with you would distract her from the birthday party.”

  “You’d rather have her planning your wedding?”

  “Any day. I can call off a wedding. I’m stuck with a birthday.”

  Molly nodded. “I see.”

  “Do you?”

  “Sure. You’ve got it in your head that if the date of your birthday never mattered enough for your own mother to write it down, then you shouldn’t bother observing it either.”

  “Something like that.”

  “That’s just dumb, Sam,” she said bluntly.

  He frowned.
“Thanks for your opinion.”

  “Well, sorry, but it is.” Molly joined him by the desk. “I mean, where’d you get the stupid idea that birthday parties are all about you? The rest of us have a say in it, too, you know. It’s kind of like, welcome to the world, Sam; glad you could join us, Sam; thanks for being a part of our lives, Sam. We celebrate birthdays because it’s one of the few opportunities we have to celebrate life and family and community.”

  “And getting old.”

  “I thought you said it had nothing to do with that.”

  “It doesn’t,” he said. “I just fail to understand why people who are obsessed with age are also obsessed with birthdays. Doesn’t that strike you as a contradiction?”

  Molly shook her head. “It’s just human nature—it’s one of the things that bind us together. Everyone has a birthday.”

  “I don’t,” he said.

  “Sure you do. Just because you don’t know when it is doesn’t mean you don’t have one.” Molly shrugged. “So tell me about this party.”

  “Tell me first why you came up here,” he said, deftly changing the subject.

  She shoved her hand in her pocket and pulled out the note she’d left herself the day before. “Yesterday at the county clerk’s office,” she told him, “I jotted this down, and I forgot to mention it to you last night. I thought you might want to put in a call about it.” She handed him the piece of paper.

  Sam scanned it, then raised an eyebrow. “Interesting.”

  “That’s what I thought.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I still want to know about the birthday party.”

  He picked up his electronic organizer, flipped it open and pressed a couple of buttons. “I’ve got a contact in Boston that can help us with this.”