by Mary Campisi
She needed him, too. She pressed him closer, wanting to feel his strength against her, needing to feel it. If she made love with him, nothing would ever be the same. Not now or long after, when she was back in Pittsburgh living her safe, practical life. The choice was hers. She placed a soft kiss on his mouth and said, “I need you, too.”
He stroked her cheek. “I can't wait to get you home.”
“Oh?” She pulled the polo shirt out of his jeans, trailing her fingers up his chest.
“Yeah. Oh,” he murmured, unfastening her bra, “to bed.”
“Tired, huh?” She slid her hands to his waist, toying with the belt buckle.
“Hardly.” He eased his fingers under her bra, cupped her breasts and urged them toward his mouth.
“Aahhh.” The flick of his tongue on her nipple drove her wild. She pulled his head to her breasts, holding him there while he sucked and laved first one and then the other.
Neither noticed that the car had stopped. Or that the engine was off. They didn’t spring apart until Rex's baritone said, “He'll be out in a minute.”
“Jesus,” Matt said, rifling a hand through his hair. His cap was long gone, lying on the floor somewhere. Sara tried to scurry off his lap and adjust her clothing. She heard another voice outside. A woman's.
“No.” Matt brushed her hand aside. “We are not going to hide like two teenagers caught in the backseat of a car. Whoever is outside can wait. Let me help you.” He reached behind her and fastened her bra with an expertise she didn’t want to think about.
“I can get myself together,” she mumbled.
“I know, but I want to help.” He ran his hands down her shirt, tucking it inside her shorts.
How could he be so calm? Had he been in this situation before? Of course, he had.
The voice kicked in again on the other side of the window. Louder. More demanding. Rex's muffled response followed. Who was that person?
Matt jammed his shirt into his shorts. “Is my hat around here, anywhere?” Scooping it from the floor, she placed it in his hand and ran her fingers through her hair. No time for anything as civilized as a brush.
“Ready?” Matt reached for her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.
“Ready.” She tried to keep her voice steady but it was hard to concentrate on anything but what had been happening a few minutes ago.
“Let's see what all of the commotion is about. And how fast I can take care of it.”
Before she could reply, he drew her to him and planted a hard, possessive kiss on her mouth. It was over almost before it began. By the time she gathered her senses, the door swung open and Matt stepped out, taking her with him.
“Oh, Matt!” A woman with a tangle of red hair and long magenta nails flung herself at him. “I've missed you so much.”
Sara's hand fell away as Matt reached out to steady the woman. “Hello, Gabrielle.”
“Oh, darling, have you missed me, too?” She ran her long nails through his curly hair, her red lips mere inches from his.
“Of course.”
The woman named Gabrielle laughed, a low, sultry purr that exuded sensual promises. Then she pulled him to her and kissed him.
Sara stumbled back toward the limousine, trying to block out the sickening scene in front of her. Matt and another woman—a beautiful woman wrapped in sex and the color red. Kissing each other. The images faded in and out like a disjointed picture. She closed her eyes, blinked, and refocused. The woman had her head resting on Matt's shoulder, eyes closed, a dreamy expression on her face.
Sara had seen enough. She turned toward the house and walked away from the man she'd trusted and the beautiful woman named Gabrielle.
***
Matt stormed into the kitchen, his expression grim. “Where is she?”
Rosa feigned ignorance. “Who?”
He hated when she did that. “You know who,” he said, trying to hold on to his last two shreds of patience.
“Ah, Miss Sara.”
“Yes. Miss Sara.”
“She no tell me where she goes.” The old woman clucked her tongue like a chicken. “She come in with the big tears in her eyes.” Cluck, cluck, cluck. “So sad.”
He had to get to Sara and tell her it wasn't what it looked like. And what was that? He didn't need his eyesight to tell him he and Gabrielle would have looked like lovers reunited. He headed down the hall toward Sara's bedroom. When he reached her door, he lifted his hand to knock and hesitated. What could he say to her? Well, the truth, for starters. Gabrielle is nothing more than a friend. She just forgets that sometimes. Correction. Most times. And if you think I could even consider touching her after being with you, then you don't really know me at all.
He knocked.
“Who is it?” Her voice reached him through the door, thin and strained.
“It’s me.”
Silence.
“I need to talk to you.”
Silence.
“Now.”
“It's open.”
He turned the knob and stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
She was flitting around the room, making a lot of noise, expending a lot of energy. A closet door opened, then a drawer, then another. “What are you doing?” He had a damn good idea what she was doing.
“Packing.”
The word smacked him in the face.
“Why?” He took another few steps into the room. Closer to her.
“I'm leaving in three days. I wanted to get ready.”
“Bullshit.”
She said nothing.
“You're running away.” I don't want you to go.
“I am not running away.” Was that a tremble in her voice? Damn, if only he could see her face, look into her eyes. Then he'd know if she was telling the truth. But he couldn't so he had to depend on his other senses to guide him.
“Actually, I was thinking about asking you to stay a little longer. Say another few weeks or so.” Or months. Until I get you out of my system.
“I don't think so.” She slammed a drawer shut and headed into the bathroom.
He moved toward the bed, located her suitcase and started pulling things out of it, tossing them on the bed. She was staying. Period.
“What are you doing?”
She was furious. Too bad. Once she calmed down, she'd understand there really was no other choice. They had to ride this damn thing out until it either crashed or landed. His fingers slid over a pair of silk underwear. “Helping you unpack.”
“I said I was packing. And you heard me the first time.” She yanked the panties from his hand.
“She doesn't mean anything.” He figured he might as well get it over with. For a psychologist, she sure had a strange way of dealing with her own personal issues.
“Who?”
“Gabrielle.”
“If you say so.”
Her nonchalant attitude irked him. “I do say so. We're just friends.”
“Right. The kind with benefits.”
Matt grabbed her arm and pulled her to him. “Stop it. And stop trying to avoid this conversation. She may want something more, but I don't.” He paused, lowered his voice. “Not with her.”
Her body relaxed a little. He loosened his grip. “She's very beautiful.”
“Yes, she is.” Was that jealousy rearing her ugly green horns?
“And tall.”
“Yes.” It sure sounded like it.
“And thin.”
“Yes.” Yep. That was her all right. Jealousy. In all her green glory.
“Did you sleep with her?”
“What?” That threw him. He was still basking in Sara’s jealousy.
“Did you sleep with her?” she repeated as though he were deaf and blind.
He wasn't going to lie to her. “It was over a long time ago.”
“Not from what I saw,” she said, pulling free from his hold.
“You can't just ignore what happened between us.”
“You mean wh
at almost happened between us,” she said, escaping to a far corner of the room. She was making sure he couldn't get to her again.
“Mister Matt?” Rosa's voice called to him from the other side of the door. “The phone, it is for you. It is Mister Jeff.”
“I need to talk to him,” Sara said, hurrying toward the phone.
Matt took two steps and snatched the receiver.
“Jeff? How's it going?” It was an innocent question with a gut-wrenching answer. “Christ. I'm sorry.” He sensed Sara hovering close by, trying to make out the conversation. “Sure. No. I'll tell her.” The words came out in tiny intervals, helpless responses to helpless words. If only there was something he could say that would make a difference. Why in the hell did life have to be so goddamned unfair? Matt rubbed the back of his neck, listening to his best friend's voice choke on the word baby.
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.”
Chapter 12
“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?”
