The tabloids painted Matthew Brandon as a user and a manipulator of women. Like her ex-husband. Jeff had told her the man wasn’t what he seemed, whatever that meant. She needed answers to the biggest question of all—why hadn’t Jeff told her Matthew Brandon wouldn't talk to anyone but him? Sara grabbed her cell phone and punched out Jeff’s number.
“Good afternoon, Doctor Sander's office. May I help you?”
“Hi, Jessie. It's me.”
“Sara! Hey! How are you?”
“I'm fine. How is everything?”
“You mean since ten hours ago, when you left? Well, let's see.” Sara pictured the young woman looking at the ceiling and twirling a strand of curly red hair around her index finger. “April called to say the job interview went very well and she thinks she'll get an offer next week. She said to make sure I told you the next time I talked to you, which I didn't think would be quite so soon.”
“Let's hope things work out for her,” Sara said. “Anybody else?”
“Heather called. Her husband's pressuring her big-time. Roses, cards, dinner. Says he'll never look at another woman again and she wants to believe this time will be different. But”—she sighed—“he's told her that six times already.”
“I know. Just listen to her. That's all you can do until she's ready to make a change.”
They spent the next several minutes talking about clients, reviewing strategies, discussing probable outcomes. None of it was necessary. They'd been through it all countless times in the past several days. Jessie might be young and her light-hearted style different than Sara's more conservative one, but she was smart, dedicated, and clients loved her. She didn't need Sara to check behind her like a doting mother.
But Sara needed the familiarity of her work right now to bring back her focus and avoid hearing the inevitable disappointment in Jeff’s voice when she told him she was coming home.
“So tell me,” Jessie said, the excitement bubbling in her voice, “is he as handsome in person as he is in his photos?”
“Who?” Sara asked, marveling at the other woman's constant energy.
“How can you ask me that? Matt Brandon. Super hunk. Every woman's dream!” Her laughter filled the other end of the receiver. “Is he as handsome as his pictures?”
Oh, God, not Jessie too. “I haven't really noticed.” She'd been so annoyed with him she couldn’t get past his words.
Of course Jessie couldn't let it go at that. “You haven't noticed?” she squealed. “How could you not notice? He's so incredibly handsome. And sexy. And beautiful.”
“I think I'm going to be ill.”
“Be serious, Sara. How is he?”
Now, there was a question. “Difficult.”
“Really? Hmm? Well, I'm sure it'll take him some time to adjust to his situation, but if anybody can do it, he can.”
Matthew Brandon was right. Nobody could say the damn word. “You mean his blindness?”
“Yeah.” Her tone grew serious. “What a bummer.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Those beautiful silver eyes,” Jessie said. “Looking at you, into you, through you.” She sighed. “Every picture of him makes me feel that way. Are they as breathtaking in real life?”
“I don't know. He wears dark glasses.” This conversation was ridiculous. Jessie was too intelligent to get reeled in by a handsome face with a glib line. And a pair of silver eyes. “Jeff said he might stop by late in the day to get a little work done. Is he there?”
“Nope. Haven't seen him.”
“Everything okay with Nina?”
“Yeah. The ultrasound looked good and no more bleeding.”
“Great. Thanks, Jessie. I'll catch him at home.”
“Sure. Keep me posted on the hunk. Okay? And if you can get him to take off those shades, look at his eyes. Real good. I bet they'll blow you away.”
“Right. Good-bye,” With responses like Jessie's, no wonder the man had such an overblown ego. She dialed Jeff’s number and he answered on the third ring.
“Hello.”
“Hi, Jeff. This is Sara.”
“Sara. Hi.” He didn't sound at all surprised to hear from her.
“Why didn't you tell me Matthew Brandon wouldn't talk to anybody but you?”
He ignored the question. “Is there a problem?”
“Oh, I'd say there's a problem, all right. He kicked me out of his house. In less than fifteen minutes.” She didn’t tell him how he mistook her for a hooker. Some things were better left alone.
“That bad, huh?”
“Worse. Why did you send me here when you knew he wouldn’t want me?”
“Because right now Matt doesn't know what he wants. But he needs you there, irrespective of what he says or does.”
“Would two weeks really have made that much of a difference? Couldn't he have just waited for you?”
“No. He’s on the verge of shutting down and then nobody will be able to reach him. I need you to spend time with him, encourage him to talk. But don't let him know it's a form of treatment because if he suspects you're playing psychologist, he'll shut you out faster than you can blink.”
“You're asking an awful lot, considering we didn't exactly hit it off.”
“Be patient with him. He'll come around.”
“Right. Patience.” She needed three truckloads right about now.
“And, Sara? Thank you. I know this trip wasn’t your first choice but I really appreciate it.”
“Just take care of Nina.” She hung up and glanced at the sliding glass doors that opened to the mystery man on the deck. Thirteen and a half more days and she could go home.
Matt tried not to dwell on the latest casualty. He'd been pretty tough on her. It wasn't his style to be rude to women, but he’d had it with doctors expecting him to open his mouth and spew out acceptance. Well, she was gone, probably several thousand feet in the air headed due east for Pittsburgh.
The sliding door scraped open. He really needed to have Rex put an extra lock on the door. And he would have the only key. Who was it this time? Rosa again, laden with a fresh tray of fruit or a basket of salsa with chips on the side? Or Adam, come to chew him out for scaring Little Red Riding Hood away?
“I'm back and I'm not leaving, so save your scare tactics.”
It was
her
. He lay very still, not moving a muscle.
“Don't pretend you're sleeping either,” she said. “I've been watching you from the window and I saw you adjust your cap less than a minute ago.”
Matt flipped his cap up and turned his head in the direction of her voice. “I thought you flew home on your broom.”
“How could I when you so obviously need my help?”
Her throaty voice was low. Sweet. Full of sarcasm.
“I decided to stick around and see if I could help the lion find his courage. Or are you the tin man?” She paused. “Of course, you could definitely be the scarecrow. Yes, that would probably be you. But then again, you just might be a combination of all three. No courage. No heart. No brains.”
He'd heard enough. “Get out.”
“Sorry,” she said, “but I'm staying until Jeff gets here.”
“Like hell you are.” Who did she think she was, coming into his home and telling him what she was going to do?
“The sooner you accept the fact that I'm going to be here for the next two weeks, the better it will be for both of us.”
“Stop treating me like a goddamned child.” He pushed himself up from the recliner to a standing position, a safe distance from where he thought she might be. “I run this show. Me.” He jabbed his thumb at his chest. “Not you, or Adam or anybody else. If I want you to leave, you leave. Got it?”
Metal clanged against stone as the chair clattered to the ground. That unique citrus blend filled his nostrils. She was close. And most likely pissed. Good, maybe now she'd get the hell out of here.
“Do you really think I want to be here ‘Mr. I'll do what I want to do’? Don't you think if I had a choice I'd be on my way back to Pittsburgh right now?” Her words fell out in choppy breaths but she plowed on. “Are you so arrogant that you think I would actually want to stay and help a man who hasn't an ounce of interest in helping himself?” She didn't wait for an answer, most likely didn't expect one. “Well the answer to all of the above, with the exception of the one regarding your arrogance, is an emphatic no.”
It was obvious she didn't think much of him. Good, the feeling was mutual. Curiosity won out and he asked, “So why do you want to stay?”
“Because I gave my word.”
A woman with honor. How unique. Most of the ones he'd known felt honor-bound only as long as his wallet stayed open.
She cleared her throat and said in a more even voice, “Jeff’s wife almost lost her baby. He’ll be here in two weeks, so until then, you might as well get used to me.”
Matt rubbed the back of his neck.
Damn.
“I don't like you.”
“At least we have that in common.”
He laughed. A real laugh, not the short, fake ones he used to emphasize his irritation or the crude cynical ones he saved for the doctors, but an honest-to-God laugh. And it felt good. “Okay, let's negotiate.”
“Fine. I promised Jeff I would stay until he can get out here. Probably two weeks, give or take a day or two.” Matt said nothing. The key to negotiation was waiting out the silence. The person who spoke first lost the edge. So he waited. “And we've got to get along.” Silence. “Or at least try to get along,” she amended, her voice lifting a notch. She was waiting for his response, but he kept his mouth clamped shut. He was actually enjoying her mounting frustration. “Matthew?” Nothing. “Aren't you going to say something?”
She was about two seconds away from losing her cool. “Yeah. I've got something to say. The only people who ever called me Matthew were my mother and my fifth-grade teacher, Mrs. Peterson.”
“That is not funny. Now are you going to cooperate or not?”
“You can stay.”
“I knew that”
“But not as my doctor.”
That threw her. “What do you mean?”
He rubbed his chin. “Just what I said, Sara. You can stay, but not as my doctor.”
“Well. Exactly what would I be staying as?”
Man was she prickly. “Relax. I may be blind but I'm not desperate.”
“Of all the—”
“Hold on.” He held up his hands and backed up a step. “That didn't come out right. What I meant was that when I go to bed with a woman I have to at least like her.”
“My, such high standards.”
“So you have nothing to worry about.”
“Good. Good,” she repeated in a stronger voice. “Because I find the very idea revolting.”
Revolting?
“If you don't want me as your doctor or bed partner, what's left?”
“How about just plain old Sara?”
You would have thought he'd asked her to turn into a zombie. “I don't think I can do that. You're…” she stumbled and finished with, “my client.”
“No, I'm not. You can stay here until Jeff comes. But you won't be following me around with a pad of paper asking questions like, ‘Tell me more,’ or ‘Would you care to expand on that?’ And definitely not, ‘How does that make you feel.’ No prying into my childhood either or asking questions about the accident or my blindness. Unless I bring it up.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?” That had been too easy. This woman didn't seem the type to give up precious bargaining ground without a fight…unless she was planning a sneak attack.
“Yes, I won't pressure you into telling me anything you don't want to.”
Now he was certain she was up to something. She sounded too smug, too unconcerned with his ultimatum. Let her play her little games. He had a few of his own. There was more to her than she let on and his brain needed a challenge. Who was the woman beneath the buttoned-up persona? He'd dig around, scratch the surface, maybe excavate a few old skeletons. What the hell. He had nothing else to do.
Matt smiled. “Let's shake on it,” he said, extending his hand.
Seconds later, cool fingertips touched his palm, flitting around like a butterfly refusing to land. Matt clamped his hand over hers, capturing her in a warm grip.
The next two weeks might prove quite interesting.
***
Sara had just enough time to unpack her clothes and freshen up for dinner. The guest room was decorated with plums and grays and splashes of cream. Classic. Rich. Perfect. The delicate scent of roses drifted to her from a large vase in the corner. Everything she'd seen so far spoke of understated elegance, from the fresh-cut flowers that adorned each room to the modern artwork that graced the walls. Even the carpeting spoke of wealth.
Nothing like her little bungalow in the western suburbs of Pittsburgh with its hand-braided rugs and window boxes overflowing with petunias and impatiens. Her fresh-cut flowers came from the backyard. Tulips and daffodils in the spring and blood-red roses in the summer. All nurtured with love and sunshine as opposed to a greenhouse thermostat and humidifying system. And the artwork, well that was either her own humble dabblings or prints from the local craft store.
She loved her house. It provided respite from the cold, sometimes cruel, world around her. She already missed the ancient overstuffed rocking chair where she'd sit at night and lose herself in a book, cuddled with the blue-and-yellow afghan her grandmother had made twenty years before. It was the only time she permitted herself to dream of what-ifs.
Sara walked to the sliding glass door and glanced at the patio beyond. It was similar to Matthew's—same wrought-iron chairs and table. Same hot tub tucked in the far left corner. She'd counted four of them so far. The closest she came to something like that in her neighborhood was the rare aboveground pool. Did Matthew Brandon even know what an aboveground pool was?
Probably not. He'd lived a life of wealth and privilege, though Jeff had told her he'd come from the Pittsburgh area. High-rent district, no doubt. The man didn't seem the type to be inconvenienced by anything and lack of money could certainly prove a major inconvenience. Not that she'd ever cared about money, because she hadn't. She had enough to live a comfortable life. All she'd wanted was a family and children. She'd ended up with neither.
“Sara?” Adam's voice drifted to her from the hallway. “Supper's ready.”
“Just a minute.” She ran her fingers through her hair and let the wisp of bangs settle on her forehead, minus the giant cowlick sticking out on the left side. When she was a kid, she'd tried everything to keep the big comma of hair flat on her forehead. It sprang back, no matter how much Dippity-Do she'd plastered on it, until one day she finally realized that some things were just part of a person and couldn’t be changed. She shrugged and pasted a smile on her face.
When she opened the door, Adam stood waiting for her, looking stylish in a blue polo shirt and tan slacks. He smiled down at her, his gray eyes warm. “How did it go this afternoon?” he asked as they headed down the long marble-tiled hall toward the dining room.
“Fine, actually,” she said, not meeting his gaze. “It went just fine.”
“Really? That seems hard to believe.”
Because it is.
She couldn’t very well tell him she planned to trick his brother into verbalizing by becoming his friend so she simply remained silent.
***
“Rosa, these enchiladas are delicious,” Sara said, munching around the edges of her second.
The older woman looked up from her plate and murmured, “Thank you.”
Sara went back to eating her food. It was the third attempt she'd made in the past fifteen minutes to start a conversation with the woman, and she'd gotten no more than a mumbled thank you or an ungracious grunt. Adam tried to cover up Rosa's rudeness by filling in the long gaps between Sara's questions and Rosa's answers. Even Rex kept the conversation going to avoid embarrassing Sara. Only Matthew remained silent.
He sat at the round cherry table, eating with such grace and precision, one would never have guessed he was blind. Sara tried not to stare, but she couldn't help sneaking glances in his direction, waiting for a piece of food to miss his mouth. It never happened. She was the one losing shreds of lettuce and tomato from the bottom of her wrap.
She stole another glance. The Pittsburgh Pirate ball cap was gone. So was the stubble on his face. He looked showered and fresh, his chestnut hair still wet and combed straight back, curling toward the nape of his tanned neck. He still wore dark sunglasses, which made her think of Jessie's comment about his eyes.
Those beautiful silver eyes. Looking at you, into you, through you.
Why had he opted for sunglasses when his eyes, sightless or not, were such a huge attraction? Maybe they’d been damaged during the accident. Or maybe he didn't want everyone staring at him, speculating. Pitying.
“How about seeing the sights after dinner, Sara?” Adam asked. “Rex is a great tour guide. He knows all the hot spots and need-to-see places around here.”
“Sounds like fun,” she said, “Would you mind, Rex?”
Rex shook his head and grinned. “Not at all. Did I tell you I was a tour guide?”
“Yes, you did. Among other things.”
“That's right. I can do just about anything, and if I can't I know where to find somebody who can.”
“Isn't that the truth? And then you talk my brother into hiring them,” Adam said in a dry voice.
“Matt's a great boss. Everybody loves him,” Rex said.
Adam shot him a quick look. “And why shouldn't they? He pays them—”
“Adam,” Matt cut in, his deep voice filling the room. “I really don't think Sara wants to hear about it.”
Oh, but she did want to hear about it. All of it. She wanted to know about the kind of people Rex brought to him, wanted to know about their jobs and even what they got paid. Adam had implied his brother was generous, too generous, in his hiring and with his wallet. But that didn't fit the picture she had of Matthew Brandon and it certainly didn’t match the one she'd read about in all the tabloids and magazines.
She was beginning to wonder if the Matthew Brandon the media was obsessed with and the man sitting across from her was the same person. Or was one nothing more than an image? Which one? The man was like one of those funky puzzles with extra pieces—just when you thought you had the perimeter worked out, you realized you didn't. The rest of the meal passed in relative silence with the exchange of benign comments and small talk. Matthew Brandon might be a shell of his former charming self, but he still commanded respect and he'd sent the message that intimate conversations were off limits.
Rex was the first to rise from the table. “If you'll excuse me, I'll get the car ready,” he said. “Thanks, Rosa.” He winked at her. “It was too good, as usual.”
Adam rose next. “Sara, are you ready?”
“Sure,” she said, dabbing her mouth with her napkin. She glanced at Matt as she rose. He made no effort to get up, his strong arms resting on either side of the ornate chair. “Matt?” she asked. “Are you ready?”
He inclined his head in her direction, a hint of a smile on his lips. “Ready for what?”
The silkiness in his voice rolled over her and her stomach jumped. She should not have eaten that second enchilada.
“Sara?”
There it was again. That voice, but several octaves lower. How did he make it so soft and sexy, like a breeze blowing over naked skin? She didn’t like it. Not one bit.
“Are you going to answer me, or ignore me?”
“I'm not ignoring you,” she snapped. “I just want to know if you're going with us or not.”
“No, I'm not,” he said. “I've seen everything before and I can't see anything now, so what's the point?” His voice was still low and quiet, but the gentleness of a moment ago had vanished, replaced by strains of bitterness.