Partners

by Nora Roberts

  Laurel struggled not to smile as she chose a chair across the room. Did he have to be so damned charming?

  Olivia’s laugh was a sound of pure, feminine appreciation. “Thirty years ago, you scoundrel, I’d have given you a chase, even if you are a Yankee.”

  Matt took the offered glass, and the grateful look, Curt gave him before he turned back to Olivia. “Miss Olivia, I wouldn’t have run.” He perched on the arm of her chair, much, Laurel thought resentfully, like a favored nephew.

  “Well, the time’s passed for that,” she decided with a sigh before she aimed a look at Laurel. “Why haven’t you taken up with this devil, Laurellie? He’s a man to keep a woman’s blood moving.”

  Color, as much from annoyance as embarrassment, rose in Laurel’s cheeks as Matt sent her a wolfish grin. She sat in stony silence, cursing the fairness of her skin.

  “Now that’s a fine, feminine trick,” her grandmother observed, tapping Matt on the thigh. “Good for the complexion, too. Why, I could still call out a blush on demand after I’d had a husband and three lovers under my belt.” Pleased with the deadly stare her granddaughter aimed at her, Olivia lifted her face to Matt’s. “Good-looking girl, isn’t she?”

  “Lovely,” Matt agreed, enjoying himself almost as much as Olivia was.

  “Breed fine sons.”

  “Have another drink, Mother,” William suggested, observing the war signals in his daughter’s eyes.

  “Fine idea.” She handed over her empty glass. “You haven’t seen the gardens, Matthew. They’re at their peak. Laurellie, take this Yankee out and show him what a proper garden looks like.”

  Laurel shot her grandmother an icy glare. “I’m sure Matthew—”

  “Would love to,” he finished for her, rising.

  She switched the glare to him without any effort. “I don’t—”

  “Want to be rude,” he supplied quietly as he helped her out of her chair.

  Oh, yes, she did, Laurel thought as she swung through the garden doors. She wanted very badly to be rude. But not in front of her family, and he knew it. “You really enjoy this, don’t you?” she hissed at him the moment the door closed behind them.

  “Enjoy what?” Matt countered.

  “Infuriating me.”

  “It’s impossible not to enjoy something one’s so good at.”

  She chuckled, then despised herself. “All right, here’s the garden.” She made a wide gesture. “And you don’t want to see it any more than I want to show it to you.”

  “Wrong,” Matt said simply, and took her hand again.

  “Will you stop that!” Exasperated, Laurel shook her hand but failed to free it. “That’s a new habit you’ve picked up.”

  “I just found out I like it.” He drew her off the terrace onto one of the narrow paths that wound through the flowers. “Besides, if you don’t make a good showing at this, Olivia’ll just think of something else.”

  Too true, Laurel admitted. She’d tolerate the man beside her. After all, the sun was splashing red on the horizon and the garden smelled like paradise. It’d been too long since she’d taken the time to see it at dusk. They walked under an arched trellis with wisteria dripping like rain. The birds of the sunlight were beginning to quiet, and those of the night had yet to wake.

  “I’ve always loved it best at this time of day,” Laurel said without thinking. “You can almost see the women with their hooped skirts swishing along the edges of the paths. There’d have been musicians in the gazebo and strings of colored lanterns.”

  He’d known she had a streak of romance, a touch of her brother’s dreaminess, but she’d been so careful not to show either to him before. Instinctively, he knew she hadn’t meant to now, but the garden had weakened her. He wondered, as he trailed his thumb lightly over her knuckles, what other weaknesses she might have.

  “It would’ve smelled the same then as it does tonight,” Matt murmured, discovering just how exquisite her skin looked in the golden light of sunset. “Hot and sweet and secret.”

  “When I was a girl, I’d come out here sometimes at dusk and pretend I was meeting someone.” The memory made her smile, a little dreamy, a little wistful. “Sometimes he’d be dark and dashing—or he’d be tall and blond, but always dangerous and unsuitable. The kind of man a young girl’s papa would’ve whisked her away from.” She laughed, letting her fingers trail over a waxy, white camellia. “Strange that I would’ve had those kinds of fancies when my papa knew I was much too ambitious and practical to fall for a . . .”

  Laurel trailed off when she turned her head and found him close—so close it was his scent that aroused her senses rather than the blossom’s; his breath she felt on her skin rather than the sultry evening air. The light was touched with gold, blushed with rose. Hazy, magical. In it, he looked too much like someone she might have dreamed of.

  Matt let his fingers play lightly with the pulse at her wrist. It wasn’t steady, but this time it wasn’t anger that unsettled it. “A what?”

  “A rogue,” Laurel managed after a moment.

  They were talking softly, as if they were telling secrets. The sun slipped lower, and the shadows lengthened.

  His face was so lean, she thought suddenly. Not predatory, but the face of a man who wouldn’t step aside if trouble got in his way. His eyes were guarded, but she’d noticed before how easily he concealed his thoughts. Perhaps that was why he nudged information from people without appearing to nudge at all. And his mouth—how was it she’d never realized how tempting, how sensual his mouth was? Or had she simply pretended not to? It wouldn’t be soft, she thought as her gaze lingered on it. It would be hard, and the taste essentially male. She could lean just a bit closer and . . .

  Laurel’s eyes widened at the drift of her own thoughts. Beneath Matt’s fingers, her pulse scrambled before she yanked her hand away. Good Lord, what had gotten into her? He’d tease her for months if he had any idea how close she’d come to making a fool of herself.

  “We’d better go back in,” she said coolly. “It’s nearly time for dinner.”

  Matt had an urge to grab her and take the kiss she’d very nearly given him. And if he did that, he’d lose whatever inching progress he’d made. He’d wanted her for a long time—too long—and was shrewd enough to know she would have refused ordinary advances from the first. Matt had chosen the out of the ordinary, finding it had its amusements.

  Patience, Matt reminded himself, was a crucial element of success—but she deserved one small dig for making him pound with desire and frustration.

  “So soon?” His voice was mild, his expression ironic. “If Olivia had sent you out here with Cartier I doubt you’d have cut the tour so short.”

  “She’d never have sent me out here with Jerry,” Laurel said before the meaning of her statement sank in.

  “Ah.” It was a sound designed to infuriate.

  “Don’t start on Jerry,” Laurel snapped.

  Matt gave her an innocent grin. “Was I?”

  “He’s a very nice man,” she began, goaded. “He’s well mannered and—and harmless.”

  Matt threw back his head and roared. “God save me from being labeled harmless.”

  Her eyes frosted and narrowed. “I’ll tell you what you are,” she said in a low, vibrating voice. “You’re insufferable.”

  “Much better.” Unable to resist, he stepped closer and gathered her hair in one hand. “I have no desire to be nice, well mannered or harmless.”

  She wished his fingers hadn’t brushed her neck. They’d left an odd little trail of shivers. “You’ve gotten your wish,” she said, not quite evenly. “You’re annoying, rude and . . .”

  “Dangerous?” he supplied, lowering his head so that their lips were only inches apart.

  “Don’t put words in my mouth, Bates.” Why did she feel as though she were running the last leg of a very long race? Struggling to even her breathing, Laurel took a step back and found herself against the wall of the trellis. She woul
d have sidestepped if he hadn’t moved so quickly, blocking her.

  “Retreating, Laurellie?” No, it wasn’t just temper, he thought, watching the pulse hammer at the base of her throat. Not this time.

  Something warm moved through her, like a lazy river. Her spine snapped straight. Her chin jutted up. “I don’t have to retreat from you. It’s bad enough that I have to tolerate you day after day at the Herald, but I’ll be damned if I’ll stand here and waste my own time. I’m going in,” she finished on a near shout, “because I’m hungry.”

  Shoving him out of her way, Laurel stormed back toward the house. Matt stayed where he was a moment, looking after her—the swinging hair, the long, graceful strides, the simmering fury. That, he thought, was one hell of a woman. Making love to her would be a fascinating experience. He intended to have it, and her, very soon.

  Chapter 2

  Because she was still seething from the night before, Laurel decided to walk to the paper. Half an hour in the warm air, shifting her way through people, pausing by store windows, listening to snatches of casual conversation from other pedestrians would go a long way toward soothing her agitation. The city, like the plantation house outside it, was an old, consistent love. Laurel didn’t consider it a contradiction that she could be drawn to the elegant timelessness of Promesse d’Amour and the bustling rush of downtown traffic. For as long as she could remember, she’d straddled both worlds, feeling equally at home in each. She was ambitious—she was romantic. Practicality and dreaminess were both a part of her nature, but she’d never minded the tug-of-war. At the moment, she felt more comfortable with the noise and hustle around her than with the memory of a twilight garden.

  What had he been up to? she asked herself again, jamming her hands in her pockets. Laurel felt she knew Matt well enough to understand that he rarely did anything without an underlying purpose. He’d never touched her quite like that before. Scowling into a shop window, Laurel recalled that Matthew Bates had rarely touched her at all in an entire year. And last night . . . last night, Laurel remembered, there had been something almost casual about the way his fingers had brushed the back of her neck and skimmed over her wrist. Almost casual, she repeated. But there’d been nothing casual about her response to it.

  Obviously, he had caught her off-balance—intentionally, Laurel added with a deeper scowl. What she’d felt hadn’t been excitement or anticipation, but simply surprise. She was fully recovered now. The garden had been moody, romantic. She’d always been susceptible to moods, that was why she’d found herself telling him foolish things. And why, just for a minute, she’d wanted to feel what it would be like to be held against him.

  Blossoms and sunsets. A woman might find the devil himself attractive in that kind of a setting. Temporarily. She’d pulled herself back before she’d done anything humiliating, Laurel reminded herself.

  Then there was her grandmother. Laurel gritted her teeth and waited for the light to change. Normally, Olivia’s outlandish remarks didn’t bother her in the least, but she was going too far when she insinuated that Matthew Bates was exactly what her granddaughter needed.

  Oh, he’d lapped that up, Laurel remembered, glaring straight ahead. He was easily as impossible as the old girl herself—without her charm, Laurel added loyally. She took a deep breath of the city—exhaust, humanity, heat. Right now, she appreciated it for what it was: genuine. She wasn’t going to let an absurd incident in a fantasy world spoil her day. Determined to forget it, and the man who’d caused it, she started to step off the curb.

  “Good morning, Laurellie.”

  Surprised, she nearly stumbled when a hand shot and grabbed her arm. Good God, wasn’t there anywhere in New Orleans she could get away from him? Turning her head, she gave Matt a long, cool look. “Car break down?”

  Haughtiness suited her, he mused, as well as temper did. “Nice day for a walk,” he countered smoothly, keeping her arm as they started to cross the street. He wasn’t fool enough to tell her he’d seen her start out on foot and followed the impulse to go after her.

  Laurel made a point of disengaging her arm when they reached the sidewalk. Why the hell hadn’t she just gotten into her car as she would have any other morning? Short of making a scene on the street, she was stuck with him. When she gave him another glance, she caught the amused look in his eye that meant he’d read her thoughts perfectly. After rejecting the idea of knocking him over the head with her purse, Laurel gave him a cold smile.

  “Well, Matthew, you seemed to enjoy yourself last night.”

  “I like your grandmother, she’s beautiful,” he said so simply, she stopped short. When her brows drew together, he smiled and ran a finger down her nose. “Isn’t that allowed?”

  With a shrug, Laurel began to walk again. How was she supposed to detest him when he was being sweet and sincere? Laurel made another stab at it. “You encourage her.”

  “She doesn’t need any encouragement,” he stated all too accurately. “But I like to anyway.”

  Laurel wasn’t quite successful in smothering a laugh. The sidewalk was crowded enough to make it necessary for their arms to brush as they walked. “You don’t seem to mind that she’s setting you up as my . . .”

  “Lover?” he suggested, with the annoying habit of finishing her thoughts. “I think Olivia, for all her, ah, liberated ideas, has something more permanent in mind. She threw in the house for good measure.”

  Stunned, Laurel gaped at him. He grinned, and her sense of the ridiculous took over. “You’d better be sure she tosses in some cash; it’s the devil to maintain.”

  “I admit, it’s tempting.” He caught the ends of Laurel’s hair in his fingers. “The . . . house,” he said when her gaze lifted to his, “isn’t something a man turns down lightly.”

  She slanted a look at him, one she’d never aimed in his direction before. Under the lashes, sultry, amused and irresistible. “Matthew,” Laurel said in a soft drawl, “you’ll put me in the position of considering Jerry more seriously.”

  Then, he thought as desire crawled into his stomach, I’d have to quietly kill him. “Olivia’d disown you.”

  Laurel laughed and, without thinking, linked her arm through his. “Ah, the choices a woman must make. My inheritance or my sensibilities. I guess it’s just too bad for both of us that you’re not my type.”

  Matt put his hand on the glass door of the Herald Building before Laurel could pull it open. “You put me in the position, Laurellie,” he said quietly, “of having to change your mind.”

  She lifted a brow, not quite as sure of herself as she’d been a moment before. Why hadn’t she noticed these rapid mood swings in him before? The truth was, she admitted, she’d dedicated herself to noticing as little about him as possible. From the first moment he’d walked into the city room, she had decided that was the safest course. Determined not to lose the upper hand this time, she smiled as she pushed through the door. “Not a chance, Bates.”

  Matt let her go, but his gaze followed her progress through the crowded lobby. If he hadn’t already been attracted to her, her words would have forced his hand. He’d always liked going up against the odds. As far as he was concerned, Laurel had just issued the first challenge. With an odd sort of smile, he moved toward the bank of elevators.

  ***

  Laurel’s entire morning involved interviewing the director of a highway research agency. A story on road repair and detour signs wasn’t exactly loaded with fire and flash, she mused, but news was news. Her job was to assimilate the facts, however dry they might be, and report. With luck she could get the story under the fold on page two. Perhaps the afternoon would yield something with a bit more meat.

  The hallways, rarely deserted, were quiet in the late-morning lull. Other reporters returned from, or were on their way to, assignments, but most were already in the field or at their desks. Giving a perfunctory wave to a colleague hurrying by with an on-the-run lunch of a candy bar, she began to structure her lead paragraph. Preoccupi
ed, she turned toward the city room and jolted another woman. The contents of the woman’s purse scattered onto the floor.

  “Damn!” Without glancing over, Laurel crouched down and began to gather things up. “Sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

  “It’s all right.”

  Laurel saw a very small hand reach out for a plain manila envelope. The hand was shaking badly. Concerned, she looked over at a pale blonde with pretty features and red-rimmed eyes. Her lips were trembling as badly as her hands.

  “Did I hurt you?” Laurel took the hands in hers instinctively. A stray, an injured bird, a troubled stranger—she’d never been able to resist anything or anyone with a problem.

  The woman opened her mouth, then closed it again to shake her head violently. The fingers Laurel gripped quivered helplessly. When the first tears rolled down the pale face, Laurel forgot the noise and demands of the city room, the notes scrawled in the book in her bag. Helping the woman up, Laurel led her through the maze of desks and into the glass-walled office of the city editor.

  “Sit down,” she ordered, nudging the blonde into a faded leather chair. “I’ll get you some water.” Without waiting for an agreement, Laurel strode out again. When she came back, she noted that the woman had swallowed her tears, but her face hadn’t lost that wounded, bewildered expression. “Come on, sip this.” After offering the paper cup, Laurel sat on the arm of the chair and waited.

  Inside the office, she could hear the muted echo of activity from the city room. It was early enough in the day that desperation hadn’t struck yet. Deadline panic was hours away. What desperation there was came from the blonde’s efforts to steady her breathing. Hundreds of questions buzzed in Laurel’s mind, but she gave the woman silence.

  “I’m sorry.” She crushed the now empty paper cup in her fingers before she looked up at Laurel. “I don’t usually fall apart that