“I’ll see you tomorrow.” He gave her a light kiss. “Happy Halloween.”
Clare gave his hand a light squeeze. “Don’t eat too much candy.”
He watched them cross the street, turn to walk down to the parking lot. He wished he were going with them, he realized. Not just to see her safely home, but to be there. Maybe help her put the kids to bed.
He’d actually taken a step forward before he stopped himself. Stupid, he decided. She’d do it all faster without him there to hype the boys up even more. And she was probably tired, wanted some quiet time after she’d gotten them down.
He’d see her tomorrow—that was enough.
But damned if it felt like enough.
He went back inside, sat at the bar. What the hell, he’d have a beer.
“You were pretty slammed tonight,” he said to Avery when she brought him a bottle.
“Always are on trick-or-treat night. Fun stuff, and God, my feet are killing me. I’m going to get off them, have Dave close out.”
“Want a beer first?”
She considered. “You know, I would.” Pulling off her apron, she got a beer, walked around the counter to sit beside him.
She tapped her bottle to his. “Happy Halloween.”
Chapter Twenty
Walking through Clare’s empty house gave Sam a thrill of satisfaction. He could come and go as he pleased, anywhere he pleased and whenever he pleased. He studied the photographs she had arranged on tables and shelves, imagined himself in them.
He soon would be. It was just a matter of getting her alone until she understood what was best for her. Until she finally admitted she belonged to him.
A real man took what he wanted, and though he’d been patient with her—maybe too patient—it was time she understood that as well.
“Lessons begin tonight,” he said as he walked upstairs.
Look how she lived, he thought, in this crackerbox of a house. That’s what his mother would call it, a crackerbox in a one-horse town.
He’d change that.
He walked into her bathroom, gave a little sigh at the size, the simple, inexpensive fixtures. No bigger than his walk-in closet at home, he decided. It was pathetic, really, what she settled for. He poked into the medicine chest, nodded his head at the birth control pills. Good, that was good, they wouldn’t want any mistakes that needed fixing.
Bad enough she already had those three brats to deal with. A decent boarding school would take care of that, a reasonable investment to clear the road.
After studying, sniffing her skin creams, body lotions, he made a note to have his mother take Clare to her day spa. A nice treat, he thought, and another lesson. Any woman attached to him had to present herself a certain way, in public and in private.
Considering that, he stepped into her bedroom.
She’d tried to make it pretty, with what she had to work with. Really, she did the best she could with her limited resources. He thought of how grateful she’d be once he took her in hand, showed her how to live well.
Had she had sex with Montgomery in that bed? They’d talk about that—oh yes, they would. Time for a firm hand there, but he’d forgive her, of course. Women were weak.
Opening her closet, he stroked dresses, blouses. He remembered her wearing most of them, thought of how she looked walking down the street or pushing a cart in the grocery store, standing behind the counter in that silly bookstore.
A whole new wardrobe was called for. He imagined how excited, how pleased she would be when he helped her select it. He should probably do the selecting himself, until she acclimated to her new status.
Yes, that would be best. He’d teach her how to dress.
Curious, he crossed to her dresser, opening drawers, touching, studying. Obviously, she needed his guidance on nightwear, on what went under her new clothes. A woman, certainly his woman, needed style and status even in very private moments.
He came across two pieces unlike the others—sexy, seductive. His pulse picked up as he brushed the material with his fingers, pictured her wearing them for him.
Then he realized, no, not for him. She’d worn this for Montgomery. He ripped a froth of lace from the bodice. She wouldn’t wear them again, he determined. He’d make her burn them. She’d have to apologize—he’d accept no less—and burn the slutwear she’d worn for Montgomery.
Then she’d wear what he bought her, what he told her to wear. And be grateful.
Anger, so acute, roared in his head. He nearly missed the barking dogs.
He closed the drawer, quietly, carefully, and slipped into her closet moments before he heard the door open downstairs, and the sounds of the brats running through the house, shouting like hoodlums.
They’d be taught, too, he assured himself. They’d soon learn to live by his rules if they knew what was good for them.
Her superheroes rushed to the back doors as a team to let the dogs in. Five minutes, she thought, as fresh mayhem began. She’d give them another five to settle down before getting ready for bed.
They wouldn’t be the only kids in Boonsboro Elementary the next day who’d gone to bed a bit late and hyped on sugar.
She put the bags of Halloween treats far back on the counter—away from curious dogs and sneaky kids—and thought just how much she wanted to yank off the wig, peel out of the costume, scrub off the Storm makeup.
Fun while it lasted, she decided. But she was ready for the fun to end. She let them chatter about their big night, thrill the dogs with games of tug—then brought the hammer down.
“Okay, boys, time for bed.”
She got the expected But, Moms, the protests, excuses, negotiations—and stood firm against them as much for herself as the boys.
She wanted her comfortable pj’s, some quiet, maybe a big mug of tea and a book.
“I guess you’re not that interested in going to the arcade on Sunday.”
“Yes, we are!” Harry shot her a stunned and appalled stare.
“Boys who argue with their mothers don’t go to arcades. I want you in your pajamas. And you’re all going to brush your teeth extra well tonight. Let’s move out, troops.”
She herded them upstairs, stood in their doorway a moment to make sure they got started. “Don’t throw your costumes on the floor. Put them in the costume box—I mean it. I’m going to get in my pajamas, too.”
“Can we wear our costumes to the arcade?” Liam asked her.
“We’ll see. Put them away for now.”
She crossed to her own room, started to yank off the wig, but caught her reflection in the mirror. The grin snuck up on her. “Well, you’re no Halle Berry, but not half bad.”
Pulling off the wig, she let out a long, long sigh.
In the closet, his breath shallow, his eyes riveted to the thin opening in the slats, Sam wondered what he was doing. The moment of clarity sent his heart into a gallop.
He’d broken into her house like a thief, and now he hid in her closet like—it didn’t bear thinking about. What if she opened the doors? What would he say? Do?
She’d put him in this position, this terrible position, and now . . .
The moment passed as she tugged the ridiculous costume off her shoulders, drew the snug skirt down her body. Her hair tumbled free down her back as she folded the skirt, laid it on a little chair.
She wore a plain white bra, plain white panties. He hadn’t known plain and white could be so arousing.
He knew what he was doing, he reminded himself. He was taking what he wanted.
He reached up to open the closet.
“Mom! Harry’s hogging the toothpaste!”
“There’s plenty for everybody. I’ll be there in one minute.”
The brats, he remembered, and quietly lowered his trembling hand. He’d forgotten them. He had to be patient a little longer. He had to wait until they were in bed.