This is what love did to a man? Tore at his humanity, shred by shred, emasculating him, clawing away his dignity, until nothing was left but a tragic desperateness in a black hole of hopelessness? Well, no thank you. He was not interested.
“I'll talk to you in a few days. Call me if there are any changes,” he said into the receiver. “Okay. Take care.”
Click
. He blew out a long breath and hung up, thanking God he was immune to that kind of heartache. You had to love somebody to hurt like that.
“Matt, what is it?”
He turned and faced her. “It's Nina. She's bleeding again.”
“Oh, no,” she whispered.
“They put her in the hospital.” He paused. There was no nice way to say the rest except straight up. “They don't know about the baby.” A small sob escaped her lips. “It's fifty-fifty right now.” She sniffed. “Jeff’s taking it pretty hard.” Another sob. “Looks like you'll need to stay.” Silence. “Three, maybe four weeks.” Nothing. “Or longer.” Why wouldn't she say something? Anything? “Sara?”
“I can't,” she whispered. “I just can’t.”
“I'll double what Jeff pays you. Name your price.”
Her voice quivered. “It's not about money.”
In his experience, somewhere, buried beneath all the protestations, it was always about money. “I'll triple it.”
“Didn't you hear me? It's not about the money.”
“What then? Your clients? He said they're fine.”
“No.”
What was wrong with her? She was acting like a scared chicken. What was she so afraid of? “No, what? No, they're not fine? No, it's not about them.”
What is it?”
“I have responsibilities to my clients—”
“Who are fine,” he cut in.
“And I have a responsibility to myself.” She let out a weary sigh.
“Would you care to explain that?”
“I have to leave now, Matt…before, we get any more involved. Before I don't want to leave.”
“Can you honestly tell me it's not already too late?” He reached out and clasped her hands. “That you can turn around and walk away? Just like that?”
“I have to.”
“No, you don't. Stay. With me.” It was as close to a plea as he had ever come.
“And then what? You'll send me back to Pittsburgh when you're through with me? When I've fallen so hopelessly in love with you that I can't bear the thought of life without you? I don't think so.”
How could she be talking about love in one breath and have her suitcase half out the door in the next? “Why are you so afraid of caring about someone?” he asked, beginning to think she had just as big a problem in the commitment area as he did.
“I care about people,” she said, her tone stiff and defensive. “I care about a lot of people.”
“Not men, I'll bet, except for Jeff and he's a friend.” Something wasn't right. “Are you afraid of men?”
“Of course not.”
“But you don't like to get involved with them,” he ventured.
“Too many complications.”
“Is that how you see me? As a complication?” This was a side of Sara he hadn't noticed before. Not to this degree. Scared. Vulnerable. Defensive. With a wall around her a mile high. Even he, athlete that he was, couldn't scale it. Not unless she threw him a rope. And for some ridiculous, insane reason he wanted her to. Was that part of this whole doctor-patient infatuation thing? He doubted it. Deep down, he doubted the whole concept. At least for him. But he didn't dare explore his real feelings any deeper. “Answer me,” he persisted. “Am I just a complication to you?”
“No,” she breathed. “But I'm scared.”
“Of me?”
“Of everything. Scared of caring too much. Scared of getting hurt. Scared. Period.”
He pulled her to him, coaxing her head to his chest, one hand running through her hair, the other stroking her back. He wanted to protect her, comfort her, heal her.
“I'm scared, too,” he whispered. She buried her face in his shirt and sighed. “I don't make promises. You know that. But I think there's something going on between us that can't be ignored. We'll go slow. You set the pace.” He worked his hand up and down her back in slow circles. “Tomorrow, we'll start working on my book. Maybe we can venture out again. I'd like to take a walk on the beach.” He brushed his lips over the top of her head. “Just the two of us. Okay?” She nodded. “Good,” he murmured, closing his eyes and inhaling her scent. Vanilla. He'd told her to get rid of the citrus smell because it made him think of her luscious body and what he wanted to do with it. Vanilla was no better.
“If and when our relationship goes any further, it'll be your call. No pressure from me.” Those words were probably going to kill him, especially if they spent much time holding each other, like they were now, but he had to gain her trust.
“Thank you,” she whispered, lifting her head from his chest. She stroked his cheek, his jaw, his chin.
Matt held himself still, trying to think of something other than her warm fingers and firm breasts.
Sister Catherine Angelina. Sister Margaret Esther
. Thank God for Catholic school. He'd promised Sara she could move at her own pace. Damn his big mouth. If it were up to him, he'd throw her suitcase off the bed and take her right now. Then he'd do it again. And again. And again.
“What's the matter?”
Her breath fanned his jaw, her fingers stilled on his chin. “Nothing. Nothing at all.” He circled her wrists and removed them from his person, stepping back to put space between them.
“Matt?”
“Look”—he ran a hand through his hair—“I'm not a saint. I'm just a flesh-and-blood man trying to keep my promise, but I want you so damn much, I can't think straight.” He took another step back. “So don't get too close right now. And don't tempt me.”
“Are we going to go through that again?”
He shook his head. “The vanilla's just as dangerous as the citrus.”
“It's only a fragrance.”
“And nitro's only a liquid. Until you light it. Then kapow!” He slapped his hands together. “It explodes.”
She laughed then, a rich, clear sound that warmed his heart. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for caring.”
“Do you really mind staying?” It was a silly, almost childish question and he could have kicked himself as soon as the words were out. Nothing like exposing insecurities, but he had to know. He didn't want her to feel like he'd coerced her into staying. She needed to be here because it was where she wanted to be.
She touched his cheek. “No, Matt,” she said, her low throaty voice transmitting sensual signals straight to his groin. “I don't mind staying.” She brushed her lips along his jaw and murmured, “Not at all.”
“Does anyone have any idea how much starch is in this stuff?” Gabrielle Jontue asked, lifting a single strand of angel hair pasta onto her fork.
Adam rolled his eyes. Rosa huffed. Rex snickered and shoveled a forkful into his mouth. Matt ignored her and Sara merely stared.
The beautiful Gabrielle was too involved in her nutrition lesson to notice. Starch, grams of fat, calories, sugars, protein. The words flowed out of her red-lipped mouth like a child reciting a nursery rhyme. Did they know how many grams of fat lurked in their pasta and rolls, just waiting to latch onto some unsuspecting celluloid victim? And butter?
An absolute no-no
, she'd told them in her most exaggerated French accent.
Do not even look at it.
“You have to be very careful about starches,” she continued, twirling a lone strand of pasta on her fork. “They break down into sugars that just kill the body.” She lifted the fork to her mouth and munched on half the strand. “Matt, it would be much healthier to eat pasta made from wheat flour.” She tipped her red head to one side and looked at him. “Haven't we had this discussion before?”
He took a sip of wine before answering. “You've told me all about it. Several times.”
A little huff escaped her lips. “I'm only trying to help you improve your dietary habits.”
“I like my dietary habits,” he said, tearing off a chunk of bread slathered in butter.
“I'll bet you still eat potato chips.”
“With dip.”
“Disgusting.”
“He had three beers the other night,” Adam chimed in.
“Matt?” she practically wailed. “How could you do that to your body? Water. That's what you need. It flushes out the impurities.”
“I like my impurities,” he said flashed a grin around the table, settling on Sara a fraction of a second longer than the rest.
“I don't understand why you insist on making fun of this.” Gabrielle twirled two more strands of pasta around her fork. That left approximately ten on her plate. “If everyone was just a little more observant in their dietary habits, we wouldn't have so many overweight people crowding out the rest of us.” Her green gaze swept the table, landing on Rex's slight paunch.
He smiled at her. “Gabrielle, would you please pass the pasta?”
She glared. “Certainly.”
“And the meatballs? Can't have pasta without meatballs.”
“Of course not.” She edged the platters toward him. “How about some bread? And butter?”
“Sure,” he said, around a mouthful of meatball. “Why not?”
“Why not, indeed?” She raised a well-sculpted brow. Rosa hid a smile and passed the bread and butter.
“One piece will do me,” he said, reaching for a thick hunk of Italian bread. “Gotta save room for Rosa's cheesecake.”
Sara hid her own smile. It was obvious Rex was goading Gabrielle. He seemed to be the only one paying her the slightest amount of attention, even if it was derogatory. Everyone else was ignoring her—especially Matt.
But the woman didn't seem to notice. Her attention was focused on Matt and herself, of course. She was beautiful, almost surreal, with her high hollowed cheekbones and thin straight nose. Her lips were full and pouty. And her eyes were the color of emeralds gleaming in the sunlight. Her tousled flame-red hair lay heaped atop her head like a glowing crown. Sara felt awkward and dowdy beside her, like an evergreen standing next to a willow. Everything about the woman spoke of elegance, though, whether born of breeding or hours in front of a mirror, Sara wasn't certain. She was certain that Gabrielle Jontue was obsessed with herself—and the man beside her.
“How long will you be staying?” Adam asked. He'd spoken very little during the meal and Sara got the distinct impression that this redheaded beauty was not one of his favorite people.
“Well,” she cooed in a long drawl, “that depends on your brother.” She leaned over, her full breasts brushing Matt’s forearm. He flinched but didn't pull away. “I'd like him to come to Venice with me.”
“Venice?” Matt yanked his arm out of her grasp and turned toward her. “What are you talking about?”
“I meant to discuss this with you when we had a little more privacy,” she said in the softest of voices.
“Out with it, Gabrielle.”
“Really, Matt. Sometimes you can be so cruel.” When he didn't respond, she gave a little sniff and said, “Well, if you must be such a spoilsport about it, I'll tell you. I was planning a little surprise for you. Back to Venice. Just the two of us.” Magenta nails stroked his biceps.
Back to Venice? As in they'd been there before? Together?
Sara tried to push back the jealously that gripped her. He may not be involved with her anymore, but he once was, and from the way she was rubbing herself against him and touching him, odds were Gabrielle was doing her darnedest to rekindle the relationship.
“I don't think so.”
“Why?” She edged her red, silk-clad body closer. “Is it because of…your condition?”
Sara saw the left side of his jaw twitch. And twitch again. “No. It is not because I'm blind.”
Gabrielle flinched, but pressed on. “Then why won't you go?”
He shrugged and forked a chunk of meatball. “Other commitments.”
“What kind of commitments?”
“Personal.”
“Oh.” She sat up ramrod-straight. “I see.”
Sara doubted the woman saw anything other than her own desire to get what she wanted.
There was very little conversation during the rest of the meal, with the exception of an occasional comment on the food or a casual remark about the news. Gabrielle Jontue remained quiet, toying with the last strands of pasta on her plate. It was obvious from her silence and the sour-lemon expression on her face, she was not pleased.
What had Matt meant by other commitments? Was he trying to give her the brush-off or had he been referring to something else? Someone else? Herself, perhaps?
“I'm stuffed,” Rex announced, pushing his plate aside and patting his belly. “It was delicious, Rosa.” He winked at her. “Especially the hot pepper bits in the meatballs.” He brought his hand to his mouth and kissed his fingers, making a loud, smacking sound. “Exquisite.”
Rosa beamed at him. “Thank you.”
“Everything was indeed delicious,” Sara said. “Especially, the meatballs.” It was one of the few comments she'd made during the entire meal. She'd been too busy trying to analyze Gabrielle Jontue and her motives. Sara hadn’t missed the other woman's eyes on her, studying her as though she were some kind of bug who'd just flitted into the light.
“How long will you be here, Dr. Hamilton?” Gabrielle asked, leaning back against the chair, her hand under her chin.
“Well, I'll be staying a little longer—”
“Until I don't need her anymore,” Matt cut in.
Talk about truth in words. They hadn't discussed the real length of her stay, or her eventual departure.
Gabrielle's eyes widened a fraction at the firmness in his voice. “What exactly will you be doing?”
What indeed?
She cleared her throat and met the other woman's level stare. “I'll be helping Matt adjust to life outside of these walls.”
“And she's going to help me work on my book,” he interjected.
“Oh.” Gabrielle insinuated plenty with that one little word. “I thought you never let anyone but your editor read your books before they were finished.”
He shrugged. “Don't have much of a choice. I need a typist. Sara volunteered for the job.”
That wasn't quite true, but this wasn't the time to bring it up.
”Well, I don't care what Sara's doing,” Adam said, laying down his napkin. “I'm just happy she's staying.”
“I'll second that,” Rex's said.
“Yes,” Rosa chimed in.
Matt’s gaze settled on Sara, looking past her, into her. When he spoke, his voice was low and soft, as though they were the only ones in the room. “I'm happy, too.”
She wanted to reach across the table and squeeze his hand, but she didn't. Whatever was happening between them needed time to gather strength before the outside world bombarded them with all of its demands and expectations.
Take it slow. Wait and see
. A few short weeks ago she'd have agreed to a root canal rather than coming to California and dealing with Matthew Brandon. A few short weeks ago she’d also believed every tabloid, every article on the man and his many women, permitting no margin for error or misrepresentation on the part of the publisher.
“Well,” Gabrielle purred, “how nice that you all are so happy. Now if you'll excuse me ...” Her words hung in the air as she rose and clipped away on her three-inch red heels.
“Somebody's in a mood,” Rex whispered.
“We've got about fifteen minutes before she explodes,” Adam said, glancing at his watch. “Let's get out of here.”
“I stay. To protect Mister Matt,” Rosa said in a half-joking voice.
“Wait a minute,” Matt said. “I don't want to be around her when she blows, either. I'm coming with you.”
Adam's eyes crinkled at the corners. “Sorry, old man. She's your guest. You find a way to detonate her. We're outta here.”
“Sara?”
“Sorry. She is your guest.” She smiled at his obvious discomfort. The woman might be a porcelain image of perfection, but she was a witch. So much for professional objectivity. Might as well admit she didn't have any where Gabrielle Jontue was concerned.
“Fine,” he muttered. “I'll take care of this situation myself.”
“I know you can do it,” Adam said, suppressing a laugh.
Sara walked around the table and gave his shoulder a light squeeze. “Good luck,” she murmured.
“Right. Don't be too late. We've got a lot of work to do tomorrow.”
“I know. Good-bye.” Her fingers skimmed the back of his chair, trailing along his shoulders.
“Later.” The word tumbled over her, heating her insides.
“Grab a jacket and let's go,” Adam said, breaking the intimate moment.
“Just give me a minute.” She headed down the hall to her room, pulled open the closet doors and rummaged through her clothes until she located her jacket.
“Have a good time.”
The voice startled her. Sara swung around and met Gabrielle's inquisitive gaze less than five feet from her. “I didn't hear you come in.”
The other woman stood with her arms crossed under her full breasts, making them appear even larger. Her smile was cool, assessing. “What you're trying to do for Matt is commendable,” she began, shifting from one stiletto heel to the other. “Truly commendable.” She paused a moment, tilting her head to one side, exposing a graceful column of creamy neck. “I just hope you're doing it for the right reasons.”
When Sara didn't answer, Gabrielle gave a little throaty laugh and continued. “I understand Matt. We've been through a lot together. No matter our differences, he always comes back to me.” Her red lips curved at the corners. “Always.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
The woman smiled again, taking in Sara’s brown hair and white sneakers. “Well, I think you know, Dr. Hamilton. I think you know exactly what it has to do with you.”
“I've got to go,” Sara said, anxious to get away from the woman's hard stare and cold insinuations. She headed past her, yanking her jacket on as she passed.
“Only a fool would fall in love with Matthew Brandon.” Gabrielle's words struck, slowing her step. “And something tells me, Dr. Hamilton, you're no fool.”
***
“‘He watched her from across the smoke-filled room, his eyes scanning her every move. Cataloging for future reference. Her thick sable hair swirled behind her, rose-tinted lips sipping the straw of her fancy pink drink, long slender legs crossed at the ankle. He could only see her in profile. It wasn't enough.
But he was a patient man. It wasn't that she was beautiful in the classic 'skin' sense, because she wasn't. The woman wasn't even his usual type. He normally opted for a bustier, brassier female with a beautiful face and well-rounded curves. The kind who turned heads and made men drool. And liked it, too.
This one seemed quiet, almost demure in her mannerisms. She kept her eyes down, ignoring the questioning gaze of the regulars. There was a paper spread out in front of her. Reading? He wanted to laugh. Didn't she know she didn't fit in a place like this? Someone should tell her she didn't belong. Someone should tell her the inhabitants of
Charlie's Grill
only came here for two reasons. To drink or get laid.
She didn't seem to fit into either category. Now on the occasion when he felt the serious need for a drunk, then
Charlie's Grill
was the only place for him. It afforded him privacy, the best bourbon in town, and Charlie's willing ear. As for the other, well, getting laid was not something he usually had to worry about. Women found him.
Take the blonde in the corner. She'd been eyeing him for the past twenty minutes. He knew all the classic signs—the unwavering stare, the slight tilt of the head, the forward thrust of an already large bust, the shimmying of material to expose a little extra thigh. Yeah, he knew it all. That one was on the make, all right. It wouldn't take more than a flick of his finger to have her next to him, panting in his ear.
But not the other one. His gaze shifted back to the brunette. She was like sunshine after a hard rain, all fresh and serene. And he wanted her. Badly.’”
“Well, she better not give in,” Sara's loud warning filled the room, interrupting Matt's next words. “Why is he going after this innocent woman when he has a ready-and-willing one waiting for him?”
Matt laughed, adjusting the bill on his Pirates cap. Only Sara would say something like that. “You're the psychologist, Dr. Hamilton. You tell me.”
“I thought Jack Steele was interested in anything with breasts, the bigger the better.”
“Not true. You don't really know Jack. He's not the marauder. It's the women. They're always after him, throwing themselves at him.” He shrugged. “What's a man to do?”
“What, indeed? Perhaps he could try to have a relationship with one of them.”