7 Days and 7 Nights

by Wendy Wax

  They didn’t yet have the final report, but Charles knew the numbers had been phenomenal from day one of the remote. The press snapped up every morsel he fed them, and even the consultant had been walking around the station with a smile on his face.

  The company was happy, T.J. was happy, and Charles knew that made him look good. But being a hero would be even better—and could keep the national office out of his hair for years to come.

  It didn’t matter whether Matt or Olivia won the ratings war, at least not to him. The station was a big winner no matter whom the audience preferred. But if he could engineer something totally unexpected, something bigger than the skirmishes Matt and Olivia had waged so far, his career would be made. And that, of course, was job number one.

  Charles looked at the sliver of room again and tried to imagine how he could use it. He panned left to the furniture grouping and back again to the balcony, but nothing popped out at him and shouted, “Do this!” He stared at the screen a little longer and then moved the camera back to its wide-angle shot.

  Charles told himself not to despair. He had a day and a half to come up with something he could use to his advantage, and his first move would be to take over the camera operation and monitoring full-time. Then, like a spider contemplating two juicy flies, he’d be ready when one of them stumbled into his web.

  22

  Thirty was too old for hangovers. Olivia buried her face in her pillow and drew her legs up into the fetal position. Reaching down to pull the sheet up over her head, she encountered bare skin and stopped in surprise. Keeping her eyes shut, she felt around for her pajamas and discovered she wasn’t wearing them. Or anything else. Shit. Her thirtieth birthday came flooding back to her in graphic detail, and she cringed. Thirty should be too old for stupidity, too. But apparently it was not.

  Fortunately, she appeared to be alone. Neither snores nor body warmth emanated from the other side of the bed, which meant Matt was definitely gone.

  Head pounding, Olivia pried her eyes open and made a valiant attempt to bring the room into focus. She noted the closed door, the black dress lying in a heap on the bed (shit, again), and finally the clock beside the bed.

  She squinted at the Roman numerals in an attempt to make some sense of them, certain there was no way they could be right. “Shit.” She blinked and tried again, but the little and big hands continued to point to the four and the twelve.

  Olivia rolled over on her back and turned her face carefully toward the window, where bright sunlight pushed its way past the drapes. If it was four o’clock in the afternoon, “shit” didn’t begin to cover it.

  Trying not to panic, Olivia got a grip on the cell phone next to the bed and hit speed dial. Her mouth was as dry as the Sahara, and her head pounded like the concrete beneath a jackhammer, but before she went in search of aspirin and the biggest glass of water she could find, she had to know the worst.

  “Diane?”

  “Mmmph.” There was a gulp followed by the sound of cellophane being crumpled—all the earmarks of Diane’s old standby, the Oreo Diet.

  “Olivia. Is that you?”

  “It’s me.”

  “What happened? Are you okay?”

  “I’m okay. But I think I need to ask the questions here.” She grabbed her throbbing head with her free hand and braced herself. “Why didn’t you wake me this morning?”

  “I tried to.”

  “But?”

  “But Matt answered your phone and he wouldn’t let me speak to you.”

  The surge of disappointment was immediate. Obviously, he’d seen his chance and grabbed it. When had she started expecting something more from Matt Ransom?

  “What happened to my show?”

  “Why—”

  “I can’t believe I let this happen. It’s the end of the remote, isn’t it? Oh, God. I left a great big hole in the schedule. T.J. must be totally pissed off.”

  “Olivia?”

  “I mean, how unprofessional can you get? I should have had my head examined before I agreed to be locked up in here with—”

  “Dr. O?”

  “What!” Olivia snapped.

  “There wasn’t a hole.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Matt did your show.”

  “It’s not nice to tease a woman teetering on the edge of a nervous breakdown, Diane. What are you saying?”

  “Well, Matt said you were sick, maybe with food poisoning, and that you’d decided to switch shows for the day as a publicity gimmick.”

  “Matt did Liv Live?” Olivia’s throbbing head tried to take it in. “You’re telling me Matt Ransom went on the air and did my show?”

  “Um-hm.”

  “They must have eaten him alive.”

  Diane laughed. “Don’t tell him I said so, but in his own totally offensive way he was really pretty good.”

  “He gave advice? To women?”

  “Yeah. He offered the male point of view and then decimated everyone with the horrible, though probably accurate, way men actually think.”

  Olivia smiled to herself at the picture. “You’re kidding.”

  “No. I’m not.”

  “So I’m not totally disgraced and on my way out?”

  “Well, everyone knows you had too much to drink. And the Webcam did get mysteriously disconnected in the middle of the night. But there’s no proof of anything, and for some reason that no one can fathom, Ransom’s not talking.”

  Incredible. Olivia closed her phone and propped herself up against the pillows, tucking the sheet up under her chin. The Matt Ransom she’d known in Chicago would have brought the camera right into the bedroom with them if it would bolster his career, but for some reason he’d refrained from exposing her. Literally.

  The throbbing in her head dulled, probably because there wasn’t enough room in there for both hangover and confusion. A memory of their lovemaking tried to elbow its way in, but she tossed it out, not willing to crowd her poor brain further.

  Dressing hurriedly, Olivia considered the contradictions between the man she knew and the behavior he’d exhibited, but she couldn’t come close to reconciling the two. Either Matt Ransom had turned over some wonderful new leaf, or he had something even more awful than professional embarrassment up his sleeve.

  She found him in the living room lying on the couch with his eyes closed. The last inning of a baseball game played out on the TV, but Matt was in no position to notice.

  Olivia went into the kitchen, found two Extra Strength Tylenol, and washed them down with an industrial-sized glass of water.

  Her thirst quenched, she clicked off the television and took a seat on the second couch. For several minutes she watched him sleep and listened to him breathe while she attempted to sort through her contradictory feelings.

  In sleep, Matt Ransom looked like a lot of things he wasn’t—namely sweet, vulnerable, and easy to handle. In fact, if it weren’t for the shadowy stubble covering his face, he might have been a little boy tuckered out after a strenuous day of play. Except for all the really incredible stuff that started just below his neck.

  Olivia let her gaze travel down the length of his lightly muscled torso, hesitating for just a moment at the waistband of his jeans before traveling on to the part of him with which she had become intimately reacquainted.

  This was no child. And if he was tired, it was because he’d stayed up all night making love to her. Being with Matt turned her into someone she barely recognized. She wanted to hate him for it, but just thinking about last night brought a satisfied smile to her lips.

  No, anger wasn’t going to cut it. There was no blame to be cast. He hadn’t pressed alcohol on her, he hadn’t taken anything she hadn’t been embarrassingly anxious to give, and this morning, when he’d had the chance to expose her to her listeners, he hadn’t. Matt Ransom just kept popping out of the box she kept trying to stuff him into.

  Yanking her gaze back up to his face, she found his eyes open.

/>   “Well, good morning, sleepyhead,” he said.

  “I wish it were morning.”

  He gave her a smile that made her want to curl up next to him on the couch. She combated the weakness by reminding herself that doing one teensy-weensy honorable thing didn’t make a man trustworthy.

  “Really? I don’t know how you face all that angst first thing in the morning. If you ask me, those women are way too—”

  “Matt,” she interrupted. “I’m trying to say thank you.”

  “Oh, it was nothing. I enjoyed myself too, Livvy.” He waggled his eyebrows at her.

  “We’re talking about you filling in for me. Diane told me what you did.”

  “Oh . . . your show. Well, I enjoyed that, too, in a way, but it wasn’t anywhere near as great as—”

  “Matt,” she warned.

  “Why, Liv, you’re blushing.” His eyes danced. “You’re very cute when you blush.”

  “I’m not in the mood for jokes or compliments, Matt. I haven’t figured out what you’re up to yet, but I won’t let my guard down like that again.” She felt the heat climb to her cheeks again and dropped her gaze.

  “Ahhh.” Matt stretched his arms out and then folded them to pillow the back of his head. “Would you care to be more specific?”

  “Last night was a one-time thing. It won’t happen again.” She watched his face carefully, looking for some sign of the regret she felt, but his smile never faltered.

  “I assume you’re not referring to the meal.”

  “You know perfectly well what I’m referring to.”

  “Well, why don’t you go ahead and spell that out, too. We guys can be incredibly dense sometimes.”

  She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry I came on to you, um, under the kitchen table.”

  He nodded sagely, but the dimple in his cheek nearly split his face in two.

  “I shouldn’t have done that,” she continued. “And we shouldn’t have had sex. It was inappropriate and counterproductive, and it muddies the water between us.”

  Matt crossed one ankle over the other and settled deeper into the couch. “Ahh, Livvy. There you go again, making this more complicated than it needs to be. The water’s perfectly clear.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He shrugged. “We had sex. It was great, really great. But it’s no big deal.”

  Olivia stiffened.

  “It’s just sex, Livvy. There’s no reason to beat yourself up over it.”

  She stood, drawing herself up to her full height.

  “Silly me. I forgot it’s just a physical thing for you.” She looked down at him, her eyes carefully blank, determined to match his careless tone. She’d cut out her tongue before she admitted how deep his lack of interest cut. “I guess we’re both in agreement then. We have three shows left between now and Monday morning. It’s time to take the gloves off and come out swinging.”

  23

  Olivia did more than come out swinging; she came out kicking butt. If Matt had thought Olivia would shy away from him or the audience after he’d saved her glorious rear end, he was dead wrong. And if he thought she was upset by his attitude about their night together, well, he had that wrong, too.

  He’d actually been relieved when she pronounced their encounter a one-time thing. As a master of disengagement, he’d been quick to use the opportunity to piss her off and push her away. Somehow the woman had gotten too close and become much too important. Again.

  He could have told her it wasn’t the sex that muddied the water. It was the totally unfamiliar and completely unacceptable urge he kept feeling to protect her that was screwing everything up. And of course she wasn’t behaving even remotely like he’d anticipated. He’d expected some sort of reaction—tears, recriminations, something. Instead, she’d been prancing around the living room all night, flaunting herself in front of him and the Internet audience as if she had nothing on her mind but winning rating points and votes.

  At nine forty-five they both went on headphone with his producer to discuss her coming stint as host of Guy Talk.

  She was coolly professional, not at all like the naked woman who’d come apart in his arms the night before. Focused and competent, Olivia appeared ready for four hours of live radio with potentially hostile callers, while he sat on the couch fantasizing about her like some teenage boy with a thing for the teacher.

  “Hello, everyone. Welcome to Guy Talk. I’m Dr. Olivia Moore, and I’m here to field your calls and take your pledges. The number is 1-555-GUY-TALK. Call me.”

  She punched up Matt’s theme song, and once it was established, she lowered the volume until only the tune remained audible. “Okay, guys. You can put away the baseball scores and forget about your automobiles. I’m here to help, and I’m ready to talk to anyone who’s prepared to share their feelings.”

  Matt held back a laugh. Like his listeners had any interest in baring their innermost thoughts to a total stranger. Sheesh. He settled in, certain they would either refuse to call in or, better yet, call and make mincemeat out of her. Each option held its own special appeal.

  “Ah, good,” he heard Olivia say. “I see we’ve got callers lined up waiting to go on the air.”

  Okay, so he’d go with the mincemeat. He bit back another grin as she took on her first caller.

  “Hi, Marvin,” Olivia said. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

  “Well, it’s my wife.”

  “Yes?”

  “She wants me to give up golf and I can’t do that, not even for her. I won’t.”

  Matt thought Marvin sounded a bit hysterical, and no wonder, the poor slob had married a woman intent on sucking the last kernel of enjoyment out of him.

  “Has she asked you to give it up?”

  “Well, not yet, but I know it’s coming. She says it takes up too much of my time.”

  “How much time do you spend playing golf?”

  “Not so much.”

  “How much, Marvin? Once a week, twice?”

  “Well, let’s see. I have a regular foursome on Saturdays. I usually play another nine Sunday. On Tuesdays, I may go out and hit on the driving range after work. And, well, of course on Wednesdays I take off from work to play, but everybody does that.”

  “And this doesn’t seem excessive to you?”

  “No, why?”

  “Okay. Let’s look at this in another way. Do you ever ask your wife to join you on any of these occasions?”

  “Well, she used to play on Sundays with me, and sometimes we’d go to the driving range together on Tuesdays, but she’s kind of lost interest.”

  “Because?”

  “Because we have one-year-old triplets?”

  Matt saw Olivia’s eyes narrow and began to suspect it wasn’t Dr. O who was going to get minced.

  “You have three one-year-old babies in your home?”

  “Yeah. Two boys and a girl. Very cute. My wife’s doing a wonderful job with them.”

  “And you’re wondering why your wife resents all the time you spend playing golf?”

  “Well . . .”

  Matt could almost see the guy squirming in his chair.

  “Marvin. Grow up. Get with the program. You’re lucky you haven’t been murdered in your sleep or had your golf balls cut off.”

  Matt grinned. Olivia looked like an avenging angel ready to swoop down and give old Marvin a head butt with her halo.

  “Marvin. Your wife and children deserve more of you than what you’re squeezing in between golf games.”

  “I’ve already traded the Porsche for a Suburban, and I’ve cut my golf trips down to two a year. A guy’s gotta have some fun.”

  “Marvin. Do you hear what I’m saying to you?”

  “Well, I . . .”

  “Marvin. Fix it. Do better. Please. Or the next show you’ll be appearing on will be Divorce Court.”

  And then she dumped the call. Impressed despite himself, Matt nonetheless wanted to rub his hands together in glee. After hearing
Olivia maul Marvin that way, 90 percent of the waiting calls had probably hung up. He’d just sit here and watch her shoot off her own foot with all that feminist business. Guys didn’t want to hear that kind of stuff.

  “Well, look at those phone lines light up,” Olivia crowed. “Hang on, fellas,” she said as she prepared to punch up a commercial. “I want to talk to each and every one of you.”

  Olivia turned to Matt. “Gee, this is kind of fun. Maybe I’ve been preaching to the wrong half of the relationship all this time.” She stood and stretched, drawing his gaze up her long torso, over the wonderful breasts, and up her long, sinewy arms. She threatened everything he cared about: his show, his equilibrium, and, at the moment, his ego, and still he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  She brought a Diet Coke back to the audio board with her and sipped it thoughtfully, totally tuning him out as she prepared to take her next call. It galled him that she could do that, when all he could think about was her. And it irritated him even more that his audience seemed to be falling all over themselves to talk to her. Traitors.

  The next caller was young Jason of Fantasy Island fame. Matt perked up.

  “Hi, Dr. O.” Jason’s voice broke on the “O,” turning it into a painful symphony of sounds.

  “Hi, Jason. Are you sure you’re allowed to be up this late?”

  “Sure.” His voice broke in the middle of the word, and Matt bit back a laugh. Olivia hastily disguised hers behind a cough.

  “So, what are you calling about, Jason? No more raft fantasies, I hope.”

  “No’m.” Jason evidently had a parent somewhere who believed in manners. “I’m real sorry about that. My mom says it’s this puberty thing. I . . . well, I’m always imagining everyone naked.”

  “Gee.” Olivia’s tone was dry. “That is rough. Now, what can I do for you?”

  “Well, actually.” He cleared his throat, and his voice broke, yet again. “That is my problem.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Every time I see a good-looking woman—even older ones like you—I...”