get up and leave. But that would be playing right into his hands. She’d stay. Let him be the first to call it a night. He was stuck with her company now.
When the waiter arrived, she asked for a glass of Chardonnay. Michael ordered bourbon. According to her watch, it took the server eleven minutes and forty-eight seconds to return with their beverages. She and Michael spent the time selecting nuts from the bowl and making inane comments about the conference, which was only marginally better than chatting about the weather.
“A Chardonnay for the lady and your bourbon, sir,” the waiter said as he removed the glasses from his tray and set them on the table.
When he was gone, Sam asked, “What happened to Scotch?”
That had always been his drink of choice. He’d preferred it neat as opposed to on the rocks.
He shrugged. “Tastes change.”
“Yes, they do.” Samantha picked up her drink. “Here’s to change.”
“Are we drinking to any change in particular?”
She watched his fingers curl around his glass. They were long and, she recalled, exceptionally skilled. Sam chased away the memory with a sip of wine and lifted her shoulders in a negligent shrug. “I’ll leave that to you to decide.”
His eyebrows shot up. “I don’t remember you being so accommodating in the past, Sam. I like it. A lot.” He winked then and raised his own glass. “To change.”
She intended to let his remark pass without comment, even though Michael was dead wrong: he’d been the one with issues when it came to accommodation, to compromise, not her. Sam took another sip of her wine before setting the glass back on the table. Then she took a deep calming breath and offered him a bland smile. It promptly turned into a sneer. So much for biting her tongue, she thought as she launched into her attack.
“God, that’s so like you to manipulate the truth. I’m not the one who issued the damned ultimatum that killed our relationship.”
“No? Are you sure about that?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re the one who took a stand, Sam.”
“Me? ‘Come to California now or it’s over.’ Do those words ring a bell? If not, maybe you should go see a doctor. It appears your memory is failing.” She reached over and tapped his temple where a few fine threads of silver shot through his otherwise sandy-brown hair. When had he acquired those? And why did they have to look so damned good on him?
Michael captured her fingers in his. “I postponed our wedding, moved to California without you and waited for you to come, only to have you call to say you were staying in Manhattan. So, it’s your memory that could use a little improvement. Mine is just fine, sweetheart.”
The endearment, issued as it was in such an insulting manner, rubbed roughly across her nerves. It didn’t help that he was still holding her hand. She tugged free of his grasp. “Don’t call me that. You lost the right a long time ago.”
He made a scoffing sound. “I didn’t lose it. I gave it up gladly when you sent back my ring. Daddy—you know, the same guy who spent your entire adolescence kicking your self-esteem to the curb—needed you.”
“You still don’t get it.” Sam shook her head in frustration and even as she called herself a fool all these years later, she wanted him to understand. “After Sonya’s accident—”
Just as he had seven years ago, though, he blocked her attempt to explain. “Don’t. Let’s not talk about your sister or your father or anything else to do with the past.” Before she could object—and, boy, did she plan to give him an earful—he abruptly changed the subject. “How about another toast?”
“I can’t imagine what else we have to drink to.” She meant it. After all, almost everything between them was past tense.
Michael, of course, found the one thing that wasn’t. “How about my win tonight. You know, just to show that you harbor no hard feelings.”
He offered the same grin that he had from the podium. It was a challenge, a dare, and as such she found herself helpless to say no.
“Why not?” she replied.
“Ah. There’s a good sport.”
She doubted he would think so when she’d culled half of his accounts. That was her goal. Maybe then he’d leave New York again. In the interim, she could be magnanimous and humor him. “To your win tonight.”
As Sam reached for her wine, Michael had the nerve to tack on, “And the one last month. You haven’t forgotten the Clio, have you?”
“No. It’s fresh in my mind,” she assured him, twirling the thin stem of her glass between her thumb and fingers. Half of his accounts at Grafton Surry? Why stop there? She wanted them all. “To your win, both tonight and last month.” Just before taking a sip of her wine she added, “May they be your last.”
His laughter came as a surprise, erupting as it did just after he managed to choke down a swallow of bourbon. She remembered that laugh. There’d been a time when she’d loved hearing it.
“I thought there were no hard feelings,” he sputtered.
“None whatsoever.” She nodded toward the award. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t plan to be the one holding that thing next year.”
“It sounds as if you’ve got a serious case of trophy envy, Sam.” He picked up the Addy and held it out to her. His tone bordered on seductive when he leaned close and whispered, “Want to touch it?”
His words awakened needs that had nothing to do with advertising or awards, and stirred up memories of quiet mornings, lazy afternoons and late nights when temptation had turned into passion and obliterated all else.
“It’s heavier than it looks,” he went on. “But, damn, it feels so good.”
So good.
The scent of his cologne wrapped around Sam, pulling her in. Sex. She remembered what it had been like with him, how glorious it had felt. She exhaled sharply and pushed both Michael and the award away.
“Thanks, but I’ll wait until I’m alone.” She cleared her throat, felt her face heat at what could only be called a Freudian slip. “I mean, I’ll wait until I have my own.”
He studied her a moment longer than was comfortable for her. Then he shrugged and returned the trophy to the table. “Suit yourself. Of course, that might be a while. The competition in your category has gotten pretty stiff these days.”
“Is that your ego talking?”
He snagged a handful of nuts. “Call it what you will. Results are what matter. And we both know what those have been lately.”
“Awards aren’t everything,” she reminded him.
“No. They’re the icing on the cake. In the end, accounts are what matter.”
“The bigger,
