“Sara?”
Judging by the pitch of his voice, he was moving from irritation to full-blown annoyance. “Okay, okay. I was going to get around to discussing your writing in a general way because it's what you do and is very important to you.” She hesitated, trying to think of a way to gentle her words. It was like sugar coating a lemon. No matter how much of the white stuff you dumped on it, it was still a lemon.
“Stop dancing, Sara. What the hell's the problem?” As soon as the question was out of his mouth, he slapped his chair with his right arm and said, “You don't like my writing!”
She wished she could slither away and hide until her embarrassment died down. Like in two thousand years. He'd guessed the awful truth. Little literary nobody, Sara Hamilton, did not like best-selling author, Matt Brandon's work.
“I'm sorry.”
He threw back his head and laughed. A full deep-bellied laugh that ended in a sigh. “Nobody's ever had the guts to tell me they didn't like my work. I was just worth too damn much money, selling too damn many books and movie rights for anybody to tell me they thought my work stunk.” He laughed again. “Until you.”
Sara was horrified. “I didn't say your work stunk.”
“You didn't have to. That's one thing about being blind. You learn to compensate with all of your other senses, including intuition. When I accused you of not liking my work, your body tensed and your breathing patterns changed. That’s when I knew.”
“Oh Matt,” she said, wincing. “I am so embarrassed. And so sorry.”
He waved a hand in the air. “Save the apologies. People apologize to me every day and they don't even know why they're doing it. Tell me what you don't like.”
What did she have to lose? He wanted the truth? Okay, she’d give it to him. “I don't like Jack Steele. It's his attitude. He can do anything he likes, with little or no repercussions and he always gets the girl.”
Matt’s lips twitched. “And that’s a problem?”
“Do you want to hear what I have to say or not?” Now that he'd given her the go ahead, she was eager to forge on and blast Jack Steele right off the page.
“Please. Go on.”
She dove right back in as though there'd been no interruption. “Actually, he always gets several girls. They fall all over him, or maybe they're just so top heavy they can't hold themselves up.” He howled at that. “Anyway, he's a horrible example for both men and women. His persona says, ‘I'll ignore you until I want sex, demean you with my sarcastic tongue, cheat on you as often as I like, with whomever I like, and there's not a damn thing you'll do about it. Because you'll be so desperate to win even a scrap of affection from me, you'll put up with anything I throw your way.’ That's what I think of your Jack Steele.”
He sat with his right hand under his chin, eyes open, mouth unsmiling. Maybe she'd been a little too honest. She cleared her throat. Sometimes honesty needed a touch of diplomacy to make it more palatable. “I'm sorry, but you asked—”
He held up a hand to stop her. “I know I did. There's no reason to be sorry. I asked and you responded.” He let out a short laugh. “Though I must admit, I'm not accustomed to such brutal honesty.”
She should have toned it down a bit.
“But I wanted to hear it from you.” He rubbed his jaw. “I never thought about my stories from a woman's point of view. I was too busy having fun with Jack. He's a man’s man. You know, rough kind of stuff. Thinks ‘the other meat’ means the blonde next to him. Belches when he drinks beer. Eats nothing but red meat and cheese fries.”
“Sounds so appealing,” Sara said, scrunching up her nose.
“Yeah, doesn’t he? But women go nuts over the guy. They send him fan mail and all kinds of gifts.” He lowered his voice. “Some are really bizarre. You wouldn’t believe it.”
“Oh yes, I would.” Some women had no pride where a man was concerned. That's why they came to her when they were all bled out.
“A lot of the women think I'm him.”
“Uh-huh.” And then, “Are you?”
“Hell no!”
“Hey, don’t get mad at me. He’s your guy. You make him walk, talk, and exert his machismo style.” She cocked her head to the side. “I can see where some women might think Jack Steele was living out Matthew Brandon’s fantasies. Just one time, I’d like to see him not get the girl. Just once. Let old Jack feel the pain of heartbreak.”
“But he’s Jack Steele,” Matt said. “Jack always gets his man and he always gets the girl.”
“That’s why I don’t like him.”
“Not even a little? Not even in your subconscious thoughts?”
“Not even in my sub-subconscious thoughts,” she said.
“Tell me,” he asked, “how many of my books have you read?”
He was determined to sell her on his man, Jack. “I read
Cry in the City
. That was enough of Jack Steele’s escapades for me. But of course, Jeff reads them all and loves them. I told him I wouldn’t read another one until Jack is the one who gets dumped.”
“It would ruin his image,” Matt protested.
“What image?” Sara countered. “Hardass bully or pompous pig?”
“Neither. Avenging hero was more what I had in mind.”
“Well, Matthew Brandon, he’s your man. You can do whatever you want with him. Have him sit in a tree and collect acorns, for all I care. But remember,” she said, raising her voice a notch, “this reader isn’t following Jack Steele anywhere until he takes the big fall. Not one baby step. Until he loses his heart.”
“He’ll never agree to it, Sara,” Rex said.
“Trust me, Rex. I’ll handle it.”
“Just because you got him to walk to the mailbox doesn’t mean you can convince him to go to Dodger Stadium. There are a few more people there, Sara.” He ran a beefy hand over his face and muttered, “Like thirty thousand.”
“We've been talking baseball solid for the past three days. We listen to several games every day. Rex, the Pirates are coming to town. You know Matt loves them. He even told me he used to wear his Pirates cap when he was writing as a sort of good luck charm. Do you really think he wouldn't want to see them?”
He looked at her, his expression full of concern and resignation. “Sara. He doesn't go out in public. Period. Not since the accident.”
Rex was determined to honor Matt's wishes and protect him from interlopers. Like herself. “Do you want him to get back to his old self? I mean minus the vision, because that's still an iffy thing.”
“Of course I do.”
He looked pitiful with his head bent forward and his big hands clasped together. “Then get me the tickets. Upper deck, left field. Somewhere in the first five rows.”
Beads of sweat popped out on his wide forehead. “I don't know—”
“Just get them.” The time for talking was over.
“I'll make a few phone calls,” he said, heaving a sigh like someone caught between two choices—bad and worse.
“Good. And Rex, make that three tickets. You're coming with us.”
***
Matt stuffed a handful of popcorn into his mouth. Five minutes to game time. Sara better hurry up or she'd miss the starting pitch.
“C'mon, Sara. Game's starting.”
“I'll be right in,” she called from the kitchen.
Sara Hamilton was turning out all right. Considering she was a shrink. He took that last thought back. Sara Hamilton was all right. Period. Too bad she was leaving in a few days. Would it be horrible to admit he would miss her? Damn, but it was the truth. Ever since they'd discovered they were baseball fanatics a few days ago, he and Sara had fallen into a comfortable routine. At breakfast, over grapefruit and wheat toast with eggs and salsa, they talked baseball. At lunch, with chicken fajitas or seafood supremes, they talked baseball. Sipping iced tea in the afternoon, with fat lemon wedges, they talked baseball. And at dinner, with grilled tenderloin a la chiles, or frijoles negros and rice, they talked baseball. Hell, two nights ago, they'd gotten into a heated discussion about right-handed versus left-handed batters. Matt believed the power was with the right-handed batter, but Sara argued that a left-hander had more versatility, greater ability to change the ball's placement and therefore, keep the outfield guessing. After two glasses of cabernet and a midnight breeze blowing over them, they decided that a switch-hitter had the greatest advantage.
The woman was everywhere, her voice, her scent, sinking into the stucco, the marble, filling their coolness with heat. But most of all, she was in his brain, in his thoughts, in his dreams … And yesterday, they'd discussed more than stats and home field advantage. As stimulating as it was to debate right-handed versus left-handed batters, it had proven equally challenging to discuss the environment and carbon footprints.
It was the woman who made the difference, with her fresh, honest perspective on issues that ranged from soul-provoking and morally responsible to light and inconsequential. For the first time in months, he looked forward to kicking off the sheets in the morning and getting out of bed.
He didn’t care about besting her anymore or digging beneath that impenetrable surface calm to excavate old wounds. Now, he just wanted to get to know her, and if he discovered any hidden scars, he wanted to help heal them. That's what friends were for—and they were friends. Nothing more. He just liked to be around her. He had almost forgotten that night in his bedroom. As a matter of fact, he hardly thought of it anymore. Except when he was drifting off to sleep and his subconscious took control. Then, it consumed him. Every touch, every whisper, every sweet smell magnified itself, ending with Sara waking up naked in his bed.
Sara broke into his thoughts with, “Just another sec.” Another
sec
and the icemaker clunked ice, followed by the hum of the machine dispersing water.
“Extra ice in mine,” Matt hollered to her.
“I know. I know.” She padded into the room, handed him his drink, and plopped on the sofa. “I almost think I liked it better when you weren't talking to me. At least you weren't bossing me around all of the time.”
He slid her a crooked smile. “Women. Just can't please ‘em.” His smile deepened. “Damned if I do and damned if I don't.”
She slouched beside him, slumping into the leather. “Right.” Her shoulder brushed his. “Something tells me most women would be pleased playing servant for you anytime.”
“But not you.” It was a statement, but there was a hint of curiosity there. Would she be interested? Would he want her to be?
“Not me,” she said, her throaty little laugh rolling over him.
He couldn't picture her being interested in that position either. She leaned over and scooped a handful of popcorn from the bowl resting on his thigh. God, but she smelled good. Since when did he find orange blossoms intoxicating? Her bare leg touched his. Soft. Smooth. Enticing. Her breast brushed against his arm and he turned rock-hard. Shit! How had that happened? He did not need this bulge in his pants getting in the way of his friendship with Sara. He squeezed his eyes shut and willed the erection away.
“Matt?”
There was that low, velvety voice. “What?”
Think of something else. Mother Teresa. The Virgin Mary. Joan of Arc.
“Why are you squeezing your eyes shut? Is something the matter?”
“No.” He forced the word out and edged the popcorn bowl closer to his stomach.
Don't inhale, don't listen, don't feel. Think of something else. Sister Mary Catherine. Sister Julia Angelina.
He jumped when her fingers touched his forehead. “What are you doing?”
“Relax. You've got a crease six inches deep. Right here,” she said, smoothing out the lines on his forehead.
He let his head fall back onto the cushions. Her fingertips were warm and soothing. She could do that all night. She worked her way to his temples in long even strokes, then began circling.
Keep going. Lower. Lower.
“Enough.” He grabbed her wrists, halting them in mid-motion. He had to stop this insanity before it got out of control. “I'm fine. Okay?” He knew he sounded too abrupt, but damn it all, she was pushing him. The hell of it was, little Miss Innocent had no idea what she was doing to him.
“I was just trying to help you relax a little.” He didn't miss the defensiveness in her voice.
He wanted to reassure her she'd done nothing wrong. He was the sick one who had taken their new friendship and desecrated it with sexual fantasies. But he couldn't afford to be soft right now, because if he did, she might forgive his rudeness and spend the rest of the night six inches from him, talking, laughing, sometimes touching, and never knowing he’d been thinking about jumping her bones.
Talk about ruining a friendship.
“And would you mind sitting in that chair over there?” he asked, pointing to one of the matching leather loungers. He had to put some distance between them. Clear his head. And his nostrils of her sweet orange scent. “I need to spread out a little more.”
“Sure.” Her tone told him it was anything but okay. She bounded from the sofa and flopped into the lounge chair. “How's this? Do you have enough room now? Maybe I should go sit in the kitchen.”
Matt ignored the sarcasm. This was for her own good. He turned his back to her, stuffed a pillow behind his head and lay down, propping his feet on the armrest. “Yeah, this is great.”
“Good. I'm glad.”
She probably hoped he choked on his popcorn. “Just one more thing.”
“Yes, your majesty. What might I do for you?”
“Could you not talk so I can concentrate on the game?” When she didn't answer, he figured she got the message. He heaved a sigh and called himself a thousand kinds of fool. The erection was gone. Unfortunately, the fragile new friendship they shared might have followed the same path.
***
He should be here any minute. She gnawed on her lower lip and played with the edges of the tickets. Crisp. Hard. She flicked them back and forth with her thumb. Where was he? Rosa had gone to wake him ten minutes ago.
She had to tell him today. No more postponing. The game was tomorrow night. She sucked in a breath, swallowed twice, and wondered how she'd ever come up with such a ridiculous idea. Matt would never agree to it, especially after last night
She still didn't understand why he’d gone and ruined the whole evening. Told her not to talk so he could concentrate. The big oaf. Of course, she'd clamped her mouth shut for the rest of the evening, tighter than a size four dress. She would have ripped her tongue out before uttering another word. But he didn't seem to notice her silence because he was intent on treating her like a piece of furniture. Why had he reverted back to the old Matt, cutting and arrogant, nothing like the man she'd come to know these last few days? Why had he shut her out and gone to such pains to be rude? The question plagued her the whole night, wrecking any hopes of enjoying the ball game and stealing precious hours of early-morning sleep. Had she offended him in some way? It was a usual night, the same kind they'd shared for the last three days. Relaxing. Enjoyable. Intimate.
Intimate?
Where had that come from? She dropped the tickets on the kitchen table.
Intimate?
She replayed the events of last evening, leading up to Matt's strange behavior. She'd been fixing their drinks in the kitchen and enjoying his playful bantering. He kept telling her to hurry up or she'd miss the game. All perfectly normal. He wanted more ice. She got it and went to the living room, handed over his iced tea and sat down beside him. Nothing strange there. Then they'd joked about her being a servant or something. They'd both laughed, and she’d grabbed a handful of popcorn. And a big whiff of his cologne. Woodsy, with a tang of spice. Hmm. How close was she anyway? Then she'd noticed his tense expression and reached up to massage the lines away. That's when he'd gone a little ballistic.
Sara rewound the last part. His change in behavior had something to do with her touching him. She'd bet on it. Did he think she was coming on to him? Like the last doctor? Matt knew her better than that. Didn't he? He knew she'd touched him with nothing but friendly concern. Knew she'd thought nothing of her leg brushing against his. They were friends, bordering on becoming good friends. It had nothing at all to do with romance.
Didn't he know that? Was he still thinking about that night in his bedroom? Hadn't she told him to pretend it didn't happen? Not that she'd been able to look at his mouth without remembering, but she'd die before she admitted it to him. How could she, when she couldn't even admit it to herself?
She had to see him right away so she could set his mind at ease and reassure him the last thing she wanted in this world or beyond was a romantic relationship with him. Sara took a sip of lukewarm coffee and glanced down the hall. What was keeping them? She heard a door open and Rosa waddled out, carrying her purse and a piece of paper.
“He be right out,” the older woman said. “I go to grocery store with Rex. You need something?”
“No, but thank you.”
When Rosa left, Sara glanced at the three tickets in front of her. First she'd talk to Matt about last night, then she'd deliver the real blow. The Pirates were playing the Dodgers tomorrow night. And they were going—she hoped.
Matt ambled into the kitchen a few minutes later, his curly hair still wet from a recent shower. His silver eyes scanned the room, honing in on her. “Hello.”
“Good morning.”
He gave her a little half smile and walked to the coffee pot. This wasn't going to be easy but it had to be done. She wiped her damp hands on her sundress and took a deep breath.
“About last night,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
He’d moved right behind her but she refused to turn around. It would be easier to say what needed saying without looking at him. “Actually, I think I might be the one who should apologize.” She traced the edges of the tickets in front of her.
Just say it and be done.
“I think that maybe…though I don't know how…I might have given you the wrong impression last night.”
Silence.
He wasn't going to make this any easier on her. “Anyway, when I touched you last night…I mean, when I touched your face last night you know, tried to massage your forehead and temples, well, I was only trying to help you feel better.”
What an idiot.
“I know.”
“It's not what it might have seemed like,” she continued, as though he hadn't spoken.
“What did it seem like?”
“Well…you know,” she said, hoping he'd use his imagination to fill in the blanks.
“Why don't you tell me?”
He leaned forward, his breath fanning her hair. His scent filled her nostrils, pulsed through her veins and drowned out everything, especially common sense. She closed her eyes and said, “It might have looked as if I were coming on to you.”
“Oh.” He trailed a finger down the side of her neck. “Or maybe I was sending out some invisible signal that said I wanted you to come on to me,” he suggested, making lazy circles along her collarbone. “Maybe I wanted you to, even as I was pushing you away.”
It was too hard to think with him touching her. “Did you?”
He didn't answer right away, as though he wasn’t certain of the answer himself. “I don't know,” he said with a ragged sigh. “I just don't know. Last week I wanted to boot you back to Pittsburgh. Now I'm dreading the day Jeff shows up at my doorstep.”
“I know.” Sometime over the last few days, she'd forgotten she was on assignment. Forgotten it was temporary. Forgotten that she was never going to get involved again.