by Mary Campisi
“Good luck,” Rex said, all traces of his usual casualness gone. His beefy hand grabbed Matt's. “You can do it,” he said in a rough whisper.
Matt nodded but said nothing. Rex got out, walked to the other side of the limo, and opened the door. Matt unfolded himself from the backseat, planted his feet on the concrete, and stood very still. Noise, loud and overwhelming, buzzed around him like a giant bee trying to land. Some of the sounds he could identify—car horns, screeching brakes, crying children, shouting men, wailing sirens. Others were not as recognizable, but they blared in his head just the same, tearing at his concentration, upending his orientation to time and place.
“Sara?” He couldn't move. He could barely breathe.
“I'm here,” she whispered as she clasped his left hand and gave it a squeeze.
He let out a ragged sigh. He couldn't do it. Where was Rex? He wanted to get the hell out of here. Now. “I can't.” He admitted the defeat. “Maybe another time.”
“You can do it.” She squeezed his hand. “We're going to turn around and walk to the gate. Put your arm around my waist and I'll do the same. It will be more secure until we get inside the gates.”
“I don't know.” He was probably a thousand steps from his seat. How was he ever going to make it?
“Just do it, Matt,” she persisted. “If you don't, you'll go back to that mansion of yours and spend the next several months tormenting yourself.” She didn’t wait for a response but slung an arm around his waist and half dragged him forward.
Matt caught up with her, draped his arm around her waist, and hauled her against his hip. “Okay, let's do it.”
“Take smaller steps. There, that's it,” she said, as he shortened his stride. “The turnstile is just ahead. About thirty of my steps.” Matt started counting. “Swing left, there's a couple to the right.” He moved to the left. “Almost there.” They took ten more steps and she slowed. “We have to go single file through this thing. You go first. Here's your ticket.” Sara disengaged herself from him and thrust the ticket into his hand. “I'll be right behind you,” she whispered.
He inched forward, the sound of the turnstile cranking back and forth in front of him. He felt Sara's hands on his waist, propelling him forward. “You're next,” she murmured.
Holding out his ticket, he waited.
“And a good day to you, sir,” a pleasant-sounding woman said, taking the ticket from him. “Enjoy the game.” Matt passed through the clicking gate and turned to wait for Sara.
“You did great,” she said, grabbing his hand and coaxing him along. “Do you want a program?”
He heaved a sigh. He'd made it through the first blockade. “Of course.” He actually dared a half smile. “I want it all today. Peanuts, hot dogs, beer, cotton candy. Everything.”
“Including a barf bag for the way home,” Sara said, stopping to get him a program. “We're coming to the steps,” she said in a low voice. “Lots of them, I think. You'll need to hold onto the railing.”
“I would have to pick seats halfway to heaven,” Matt muttered.
“Once you're in your seat, you'll think you are in heaven.”
He wanted to thank her for doing this for him, but he was too nervous. He'd thank her once he was safe in the car and heading home. Right now, he had to spend all of his attention staying upright and clear of moving and nonmoving objects. “It's another fifteen steps or so and then we turn right and head straight to heaven.”
“Right,” he said, pulling his cap lower over his forehead to meet the top of his sunglasses. He didn't want to chance anyone recognizing him. Not now, when he was being led around like some helpless child.
“Turn to the right. Slow down,” she said, squeezing his hand. “There's a group of teenagers getting ready to cut us off.” He slowed. “Good. I'm guessing another thirty steps or so to the usher.”
He concentrated on Sara's directions. So far, she'd been pretty close to target. He shortened his stride to accommodate her smaller gait and counted thirty-three steps to her next tug on his hand, which he knew by now meant stop.
“Up the stairs, second section, second row,” an old man said in a mechanical voice.
“Thank you.” Sara turned to Matt and leaned up to whisper in his ear. “I'll go first. Hold onto my belt loop with your right hand and the railing with your left. I'll go slow. It'll all look very natural. Like we're a couple. Ready?” He nodded. “Good. Let's go.”
She turned and placed his right hand on her hip and headed up the stairs. Matt grabbed the railing with his left hand and followed her. One, two, three, sway. Four, five, six, sway. Seven, eight, nine, sway, all the way up thirty-two steps with the feel of her hips moving beneath his fingertips.
“Here we are. Second row, first three seats.” Sara grabbed Matt's hand and sidestepped into the row. He followed, taking tiny paces. “You take the end. You've got the longest legs,” she said.
“Good idea.” He turned and the edge of the seat dug into his calf muscles. Feeling for the sides, he lowered himself onto the hard plastic. He’d made it.
“Would you like something to eat or drink?” Sara asked, her vanilla scent teasing his senses. “Peanuts? Popcorn? A beer?”
He grinned. “Sure.”
“Okay. It's your stomach.”
“Hey, I told you I was serious about tasting everything.”
“And I'm serious about the bag for the ride home.” There was a lightness in her voice that reminded him of sunshine on a winter day. Was Sara his sunshine come to warm his cold, lonely existence? Come to melt his heart? God, what a sickening commentary. Where had that come from and moreover, what could he do to kill anything else remotely resembling that thought?
“So, you want a beer, peanuts and popcorn.” Sara's words pulled him back. “That's it? No cotton candy? Hot dog with mustard? Lemon Chill? Maybe an ice cream?”
He'd miss her sarcastic tongue. And that low throaty voice and soft laughter. Hell, he'd even miss her pain-in-the-butt persistence and dogged stubbornness. The truth of it was, he'd miss her.
“Matt?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah.” He needed a beer. “That's it for this round. Do you want something?”
“I think I'll settle for a Diet Pepsi.”
“How boring.”
“That's me. Plain old boring. Keeps me out of trouble.”
“You should take a walk on the wild side sometime,” he said, leaning toward her. “Try a regular Pepsi,” he whispered. “It'll change your life.”
“Glad to see you two are all settled in,” Rex's voice boomed from a foot away.
“Hi, Rex,” Sara said. “You're next to me.”
“No argument there.”
Matt stood to let him squeeze by. “You can sit by her, but don't get any ideas. She's mine.” It was a joke, meant as nothing more than lighthearted bantering, but once the words were out, they didn't sound funny to him. Maybe because beneath the teasing attempt at humor, he'd been dead serious. When had he started to think of Sara Hamilton as his? She was leaving, for Christ's sake. They were from two different worlds. It could never work. She'd want a commitment. Marriage. He wanted neither. Maybe he was experiencing one of those doctor-client things—even though she wasn't technically his doctor—when the patient falls for the doctor who helps him. That had to be it. It was nothing more than mild infatuation as a result of her relentless efforts to help him regain his life. Why hadn't he realized that sooner?
Today was a perfect example. A month ago, he wouldn't have even considered the possibility that he'd be sitting in Dodger Stadium, waiting for the opening pitch to hit off the game. Sara had made that possible. She'd shown him a glimpse of life outside his iron gates. Shown him it was possible to see without his eyes—if he chose to.
It was natural to hold the giver of such a gift in high esteem, wasn't it? Sara was giving him back his life. Not the life he'd had before, but a new one. Deeper, richer, more profound. One he could carve out for himself, like a writer with a
blank page, according to his own will and desire and not the demands and dictates of society. That in itself was a powerful aphrodisiac.
Matt smiled, relieved he could find a reason for this intense, almost obsessive attraction to Sara Hamilton. Relieved that it wasn't terminal. He could relax now and enjoy her company, knowing his heart was safe. The more independent he became, the less he'd need her. The less he'd want her. And if he could do that in a week's time, then he could put her on that plane for Pittsburgh and wave good-bye.
He hoped.
“One beer,” Sara said, jolting him back to reality. She handed him a large plastic cup. “Rex's got the peanuts. Popcorn's coming up the aisle and pop's coming down.”
“Sounds like we're all set,” Matt said and took a healthy swallow. “Rex, did you remember the radio?”
“Sure thing,” he said. “All ready to go.” The sound of the local radio station buzzed around them as the broadcasters talked about today's game.
“I'll hold it for you,” Sara said. “I think with all the food you're planning to stuff yourself with, you won't have any room left for the radio.”
He grinned. “You might just have to roll me out of here.”
“Now that would be a sight.”
“Would you please stand for the singing of our National Anthem,” the announcer blared through the P.A. system. Matt stood and experienced a moment of panic when he removed his Pirates cap. What if someone recognized him? What would he say? What would he do? A gentle touch on his forearm was all he needed. The tension left his body. It was as though Sara knew his fear and understood it.
The crowd cheered with the last words and the opening pitch signaled the start of the game. He plopped the cap back on his head and sat down, lost in the announcer's words as he gave a play-by-play. Soon, Sara had her own version of what was happening and he found her opinions more interesting and enlightening than the cardboard voice transmitting over the airwaves. Rex threw in his occasional perspective on a particular play, usually precluding it with a history of the player, including birthplace, family background, and number of children.
By the end of the seventh inning, they were all hoarse from yelling and cheering the Pirates to a narrow 5 to 4 lead. Matt had managed to gorge himself with two hot dogs, a box of popcorn, which Sara helped him eat, peanuts, a beer, and a Lemon Chill. Another beer sounded awfully tempting, but that would mean a bathroom trip for sure. He'd save that adventure for next time. He was already thinking about the next game. It had been months since he'd considered next times. Up until Sara came into his life, he hadn't even been interested in getting through the first time. But now he was. He wanted a life. Maybe it wouldn't be a traditional existence with two functional eyes, but he still had four other senses and a hell of a lot of willpower.
“‘Take Me Out to the Ball Game,’” roared through the crowd, signaling the seventh-inning stretch. Matt joined in, bellowing out the verses with Sara and Rex.
“Thank you,” he said, turning to her when the song was over. “This was a great idea.”
“You're welcome.” Her words were warm, soft, and genuine. “Now if they can just hold on for two more innings, everything will be perfect.”
“Excuse me,” a gruff voice interrupted, “but don't I know you?”
Damn. “I doubt it,” Matt said.
“You sure do look familiar,” the old man persisted.
Matt pulled his cap lower over his face and looked away. Had this guy recognized him?
“Don't you play for the Broncos? Second-string quarterback?”
Second-string quarterback? Matt laughed. “Sorry. Not me.”
“But I could swear I've seen that face before. Maybe it's the Red Sox.”
“Nope.”
“Phillies?”
“Excuse me, sir,” Sara said in a sweet voice. “But this is my husband.” She paused. “Of four days. And he's nobody's star but mine.” Her voice dropped to a throaty chuckle. She stroked his cheek, traced his jaw. “I think I'd know if he were some big celebrity, don't you?” Her lips grazed Matt's cheek.
The old man coughed, almost choking on his next words. “Sure, miss, I mean missus,” he sputtered. “Sorry for the mix-up.”
Sara giggled. “He's gone.”
“Nice ploy,” Matt said, thinking he rather liked her tactics.
“It got the job done.”
And then some. The kiss, the touch, the sexy voice left him rock-hard and throbbing. Again. At least he knew why this time. Nothing more than mere infatuation for the woman who was helping him regain his life. That was it. Nothing more. Thank God.
Chapter 11
Sara closed her eyes and lay back against the soft leather of the limousine. What a perfect day. Matt had walked into Dodger Stadium and taken his seat among twenty-eight thousand screaming, yelling fans—and become one of them. He'd told her he wanted to start writing again tomorrow, with her as his typist and she’d agreed. Maybe she could work on reforming Jack Steele.
Step by step, Matt would find his way, fueled by willpower and sheer determination. Thank God she was leaving in three days. Matthew Brandon functioning at full potential would be downright deadly.
“I have to tell you, Sara,” Matt said, cutting into her thoughts, “I was a little concerned someone might recognize me.”
She opened her eyes and studied him. “You mean other than ‘Mr. Don't I Know You From Somewhere?’”
“Yeah. A second-string quarterback, for Christ's sake. At least he could've said I looked like a starter. And the Red Sox? And Phillies? Good God.”
“I knew nobody would recognize you.”
He turned toward her, flipping up his cap. “Why?”
She gave a quick little laugh that fell out like a squeak. “In case no one has informed you, I don't fit the MO for Matthew Brandon's typical date.”
He gave her a strange look. “Oh?”
“No, sad to say, I am only five-feet-five, several inches shorter than your mandatory five-nine, or ten, and am well over your standard ninety-two and one half pounds, with natural brown, not bottled-blond hair.” His lips twitched. “My fingernails are tapered and functional, sometimes sporting a clear gloss, not the three inches of acrylic red, magenta, or poppy-pink you seem to like. I opt for comfort, not spike heels. Too much like stilts. And spandex is a dirty word in my vocabulary.”
Those lips stretched into a full-blown grin. “That's it? Nothing else?”
“Oh, there is one more thing. My name is Sara. Not a confection or a rhyme. No Candy, Sandy, Mandy, Dolly, Holly, Polly, Fawn, Dawn…or any other half-syllable vowel equation.”
“I have never dated a Candy. Or a Dolly, that I can remember.” He rubbed his chin and asked, “Rex, have I ever dated a Dolly?”
“No Dollys.”
“See? Rex remembers these things.”
“How nice for you. Do you take him along on dates so he can take notes?”
“Now there's an idea. Rex, the next time I have a date, you're with me. Not just as the driver. Sara's onto something. If I take a date to dinner, you come too and take notes. We go to a show, you write down the important stuff.”
Sara rolled her eyes. The man drove her insane. She was still thinking about how much he irritated her, when he reached for her hand. His first attempt landed on her hip. “Sorry,” he murmured, in a low sexy drawl that made her wonder if he'd known his mark all along. He stroked her hand with warm fingers and spoke in a soothing voice. “I was honored you asked me to go to the game with you.”
“I didn't exactly ask you to go. If you'll recall, you told me you were going.”
He shrugged. “Same thing.”
It would be pointless to argue with the man about something so inconsequential. She knew what had been said and so did he.
“I enjoyed being with you,” he said, moving his thumb in slow circles along her wrist. “But I don't like to hear you knock yourself down like that.”
She stiffened. “I was not knocking m
yself down. Only citing reality.”
He stared at her as though he could see her. “Rex, I need a little private time. Excuse us?”
“Sure.”
“Thanks.” The dark-tinted glass divider whirred into place, separating driver and passengers. “Now,” he said, “I have a little secret to confess about all of those beautiful women who flutter around me.”
Flutter. Good word. Reminded her of butterflies.
“That's okay,” she said, trying to pull her hand away. He tightened his grip. “I don't think I want to hear this.”
“Yes, you do.” His voice moved over her, making her insides all soft and gooey, like melting caramel. “The reason I've dated the kind of women you mentioned—models, starlets, that type—is that they're not real to me. They're like hot fudge on a sundae. An extra. Gone long before the ice cream. They enjoy fun, know how to have a good time, and leave when the party's over.”
“Sounds wonderful.”
“No, it doesn't. Not to somebody like you. You, Sara Hamilton, are the ice cream, the flavor that stays on a man's lips long after he's finished.”
She'd never thought of ice cream as erotic. Until now.
“That's why your type is so dangerous,” he continued. “Men marry women like you, have babies, move to the suburbs, buy a van.”
“But not you,” she said, her heart aching with an emptiness she didn't understand.
“No,” he whispered, moving closer, “not me.”
She tried to inch away, but he caught her chin. “But by God, right now, I wish I were.” He took her mouth with a fierceness that surprised her, hard, possessive. His hands were all over her, molding her breasts, her hips, her butt, dragging her onto his lap, never breaking the kiss. He yanked her shirt from its waistband and ran his fingers up her body to cup a lace-covered breast. She wound her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, pushing thought and reason out the window.
“I know I told you to stay away,” he rasped, breaking the kiss to brush his lips over her eyes, her cheeks, her throat. “But I'm the one who can't stay away.” He ran his tongue along her neck, sending tiny shivers through her. “I need you, Sara.”
