by Webb, Peggy
"Hunter?"
His eyes focused on his date. Her red hair was limp from all the dancing, and her face had a petulant look. He wondered why he had ever thought she was fun. She was just another poor substitute for Mattie.
"Not tonight, Gwendolyn." He patted her on the cheek and gently pushed her into her apartment. "See you later."
Gwendolyn knew better than to argue. Just being seen with Hunter Chadwick was enough to enhance her social status. Not every woman was lucky enough to spend an evening in the company of Dallas's most eligible bachelor. His reputation as a playboy was well known, however. She certainly had expected more than a pat on the cheek.
She batted her eyes at him. "Not even one little kiss?"
Hunter had a sudden vision of Mattie with her head thrown back, laughing. How could he expect to maintain his image if she kept interfering with his thoughts? Thrusting her firmly out of his mind, he smiled at his date.
When Hunter smiled, Gwendolyn almost swooned.
"Certainly, my sweet," he said. "A kiss to dream on." He bent down and treated Gwendolyn Macintosh to a Hunter Chadwick special. It was a kiss so expert, so thorough, that only he knew it contained no feeling. It was a masterpiece of deceit. He had spread these kisses around Dallas by the hundreds. It was a kiss that had built his reputation. And when it was over, he always walked away unchanged.
"Good night, Gwendolyn." He got in his car and didn't look back. Sometimes he wondered if he wasn't becoming as mechanical as one of his windup toys.
He struck the steering wheel of his Maserati. As he whizzed toward home, he turned on the radio. Jazz filled the car. His fingers tapped out the rhythm on the steering wheel. Then suddenly he stiffened. Nobody played Body and Soul with that much command except Mattie Houston.
His face was tight as he switched off the radio and rammed a tape into the deck. He didn't even look at the label. Anything was better than another reminder of the woman who had walked out on him.
He hadn't meant to think about Mattie, but he couldn't seem to help himself. Maybe it was the music. Maybe it was seeing her again tonight. Whatever the reason, that summer of ten years ago crept into his mind. He had been twenty-six and Mattie only eighteen, but they had known what they wanted. She wanted a career in music, he wanted to become a toy manufacturer, and they both wanted each other. He gave her a ring and they set a wedding date. Then suddenly she was gone. No good-bye, no explanation. Nothing. Just the ring stuck in a plain brown envelope, delivered to his door by Phillip Houston's butler.
Hunter's hands tightened on the wheel until his knuckles turned white. "Dammit, Mattie. Why did you come home?"
He floored the accelerator, racing home as if he could outrun his demons. All the lights in his house were ablaze. He smiled. Trust Uncle Mickey to spread out the welcome mat.
Hunter gunned his car through the gates and roared up his driveway. He slammed out of his car and strode through his house, flipping off the lights. When he reached his upstairs bedroom, he walked to the window.
The Houston house was dark as a tomb. He couldn't see a thing. Not that he was looking for anything in particular. Certainly not Mattie. He just figured a light in the window might mean Phillip was sick and needing help. After all, he was getting old.
Hunter pounded a fist on the windowsill. Who was he kidding? He was trying to see whether he could spot Mattie and that brainless jock she had been swooning over all evening. He jerked off his coat and tie and flung them at a nearby chair.
It was as hot as a cotton field at high noon, and he couldn't have settled down if he'd been under a court order. He spun away from the window and strode out of the room. Maybe a dose of night air would cure whatever ailed him.
Without bothering to turn on the outside lights, he walked onto his patio. It was shadowed with moonlight and fragrant with the scent of summer jasmine. He crossed to the gap in the hedge and looked at the Mattie’s darkened house. A belated attack of conscience smote him. What had possessed him to act like such an ass? He'd earned her slap. And more.
He grinned sheepishly. Even if seeing Mattie did tear his heart out, he couldn't help but be pleased with her spunk. Still the same old fire-breathing Mattie. Lord, how he'd missed that spirit.
A small sound behind him caught his attention. It was the unmistakable sound of water splashing. He turned around and peered through the dark toward the enclosed bower that housed his hot tub. What the devil was Uncle Mickey doing out here at this time of night? Suddenly he stiffened. A woman's sultry voice floated to him across the darkened patio, singing The Man I Love. Mattie! No other woman could make music sound as if it belonged especially to her. The words were slightly breathless, and interspersed with tiny gulping noises. Hiccups or sobs.
With long, purposeful strides Hunter crossed the patio and entered his private spa. Mattie was sitting in one comer of his tub, alternately sipping champagne and singing. Her hair was piled on top of her head, water bubbled around her, and moonlight splashed her face and bare shoulders. She looked like a mermaid presiding over the sea.
"What the devil are you doing here, Mattie?"
With slow, languid movements Mattie set her glass down on the rim of the tub, tipped back her head, and looked up at Hunter, towering over her like a black fury.
"What does it look like I'm doing, Hunter?"
"Trespassing."
She smiled. "I'm relaxing. By Invitation."
"Whose?"
"Uncle Mickey Mouse." She didn't notice she had used the affectionate nickname she'd coined for Hunter's uncle ten years before. "He said since Papa was too stubborn to install a hot tub, I could use his any time."
"He forgot to consult me."
She made a face at him. "Don't glower, Hunter. It makes you look like a grizzly bear instead of a teddy bear."
"I'm not glowering."
"Yes, you are." She waved a hand airily toward the lounge chairs. "If you’re going to stay, sit down over there and try to smile. I don't want some old sourpuss ruining a perfectly good soak." She picked up her glass and took a large gulp of champagne.
Hunter ignored the chairs. "I don't intend to stay, Mattie."
"What's the matter? Afraid I'll seduce you?"
"On the contrary. I'm afraid I’ll seduce you."
They were playing a game of one-upmanship, and they both knew it.
"Wasn't the painted-up redhead enough for one evening?" Mattie asked.
Hunter's smile was deceptively indolent. Seeing Mattie in his hot tub, her golden skin water-slick and shining, was almost more than he could bear. She evoked too many memories. His muscles tightened, and he crammed his fists into his pockets. "Her name is Gwendolyn, and she's no concern of yours."
"I'm not concerned. Just curious." She sipped some more champagne. "I'm surprised you even remember their names."
"I keep a little black book, Mattie. What do you keep?"
"Scalps. I have a few dozen hanging from my belt." She hiccuped into her champagne.
He bent down, took the glass from her, and set it on a nearby table. "You never could drink champagne."
She glared up at him. "Since when have you become my keeper?"
"Since you got into my hot tub."
"You're scowling again."
"You shouldn't be out here alone, anyway. Where's that boyfriend of yours? Gone to make a down payment on an IQ?"
Mattie affected another hiccup to hide her giggle. Hunter had expressed her sentiments exactly. But then, he always did have a knack for that, she thought. Why did he have to be so good-looking and so vital and so close? Damn that charm and those incredible black eyes. He wouldn't break her heart this time. No, sir.
She was wiser, more sophisticated. She'd play the game and walk away unscathed. No pain, no tears, no regrets. And no feelings. Most of all, no feelings. She'd learned that the hard way—from Hunter. Revenge would be so sweet.
She pulled her gaze away from his and reached for her champagne, forgetting that it wasn't there.
"Damn you. Hunter."
He thought she was talking about the IQ remark. "Don't cuss, Mattie. You never used to cuss."
"One learns all sorts of things in Paris."
His jaw clenched and his fists threatened to tear holes in his pockets. He stalked to a lounge chair and sat down. "I can see this is going to be a long evening."
"You don't have to play watchdog. Go upstairs and dream about your precious redhead."
"I don't relish the idea of waking up in the morning and finding you floating face down in my hot tub."
"My, my. I didn't know you still cared."
"I don't. I just don't like messy situations."
She almost choked on her rage. "Pity you couldn't have had those scruples ten years ago." She was so shaken by the enormity of her feelings that she ducked under the water to blot out his face. How dare he say such a thing after what he had done? She stayed under until she felt the pressure build inside her head. When she came up for air, Hunter was kneeling beside the tub, one knee of his tuxedo pants soaked and his face a mask of anger. Another emotion played on his face, too, something she would have called concern if she hadn't known better.
He gripped her shoulders so tightly, his fingers dug into her flesh. "Are you crazy? Get out of that tub before you drown yourself."
She pushed his hands aside and lolled indolently in the tub. "I have to intention of leaving. I haven't finished my soak."
"In that case, I'll have to join you." He stood up and quickly peeled off his shirt, tossing it carelessly onto the lounge chair. With his hand on his pants zipper, he hesitated, looking down at her.
"Don't worry. I've seen it all before," she drawled. But her bravado didn't stop the rush of heat to her face or the increased pounding of her heart.
Hunter assumed she was referring to the countless other men in her life, men whose names had been linked to hers in the papers. He stripped grimly, throwing his clothes in the direction of the chair, until he stood before her as naked and unselfconscious as a Greek statue.
He remained standing for a small eternity, his body moon-splashed and his black eyes challenging. Mattie threw back her head and returned his look. The night was so still, they could almost hear the moon move across the sky. Nothing marred the deep purple silence except their harsh breathing and the far-off whirring of a cicada.
They were drowning in memories—memories of hot kisses in the backseat of his Thunderbird, tangled sweaty bodies on a beach blanket, hurried clutchings behind the hedges. All the awkwardness and purity and wonder of first love swept over them, and they were forlorn.
It was Hunter who broke the spell. He stepped into the hot tub, making small eddies as the water swirled about his body.
Mattie couldn't keep her eyes off him. At thirty-six he was powerfully built, at the peak of his form. His muscles rippled under his smooth, tanned skin. Hair as black as the untamed locks on his head made a provocative triangle from his chest to his groin.
She hiccuped softly. It was the only visible sign of her turmoil.
He grinned, and she could have shot him.
"What's wrong, Mattie? I thought you'd seen it all before."
"Shut up and sit down."
He did, but it didn't help all that much. At night the lights near the bottom of the tub shone up through the water, illuminating everything in their path. Hunter was sitting directly above one of the lights.
"This soak was your idea, not mine," he said.
"I didn't intend to have company."
"Didn't you?"
"No."
"Then why did you choose my tub?"
"Mere convenience."
"Come now, Mattie. This is about as convenient as that song you played the other night." His black eyes searched her face. "For me."
"You egotistical, arrogant, two-timing playboy! Did it ever occur to you that professional pianists have to practice?"
"Wearing peignoirs and standing in front of French windows?"
"It's my house. I’ll do as I please."
"Your games won't work this time, Mattie. I'm immune to your charms."
"And I'm immune to yours." But not tonight, she thought. Not with his much-too-desirable body spotlighted so well. And not with those black eyes, as bottomless as the pits of hell and as breathtaking as lovemaking, looking at her like that, as if he were ravenous and she a mouth-watering banquet. Now was the time for a dignified exit. Tomorrow would be soon enough for dangerous games.
She stood up, the water plastering, her minuscule strapless bikini to her body.
"It's been a lovely evening," she said, "and I do hate to leave such good company, but I must go. I have an early date tomorrow with another of my admirers. Good night. Hunter."
She stepped from the tub and strolled off through the moonlight.
And not a minute too soon. Hunter heaved a sigh. At close range Mattie was as dangerous as a match in a parched forest. His arousal had been instant and dramatic. It mocked him through the lighted water.
"You shouldn't play with fire," he called after her, but he didn't know whether he was saying it to himself or to her.
Mattie didn't look back until she was safely across Hunter's patio and through the hedge. Then she turned and leaned her forehead against a night-dark oleander bush. Why had she done it? Why had she gone recklessly to Hunter's hot tub? She had known that he would find her. Those black eyes of his never missed a thing. She pushed her wet hair away from her flushed face. If this was revenge, it wasn't so sweet after all. It hurt almost as much as the betrayal.
She sighed, a forlorn sound in the lonely night, then turned away from the hedge and started toward her grandfather's house. Images of Hunter were with her every step of the way, not the self-assured, ruinously gorgeous man in the hot tub, but a Hunter of ten years ago, a laughing, sweet teddy bear, an idealistic man with a pocketful of dreams, a charmer who had caught her up in his vision and promised her the world.
She put one hand up to shield her face as if she could shut out the visions. But still they came. The laughter, the kisses, the tender young love, and finally the ring.
Then her mother had come back, charming, beautiful Victoria, the toast of three continents. Victoria, who had had it all—an adoring husband, a talented daughter, a successful career as a high-fashion model.
Mattie swayed, stopped, pressed her hands over her eyes. Stop it, her mind screamed. Don't replay the ugliness. Don't recall the awful words.
She forced herself to draw deep breaths. Slowly the visions began to fade. Don't look back, she told herself. Her mother was dead and Hunter was just an empty dream. All that was behind her now. Dallas was at fault. In Paris she could keep everything in perspective, but here, there was a memory around every corner. She supposed she'd just have to march straight ahead and quit looking for the memories.
Squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin, she went into the house.
"Kee-yii!" Papa Houston leaped in front of her, arms raised, fists balled, legs in karate fighting stance.
"Papa, it's me!" Mattie pressed her hand over her fluttering heart.
"Hell's bells, girl. Don't you know better than to sneak up on an old man in the middle of the night? You're liable to give me a heart attack."
She laughed. "I'm the one who's going to have the heart attack. Why aren't you in bed?"
"Why aren't you?"
"I've been soaking in Hunter's hot tub."
"Damned newfangled contraption. Sitting on your tail in a tub of boiling water's not the way to release tension. Exercise!" He executed a perfect roundhouse kick. "That's the ticket."
Mattie reached out to catch him, then realized there was no cause for alarm. At seventy-five Phillip Houston was nearly as spry as he had been at thirty. He landed squarely on his feet.
"Papa, someday you're going to jump around the corner at the wrong person and get yourself killed. What if I had been a real burglar?"
"We wouldn't be having this conversation. You'd be flat on your b
ack and trussed up like a turkey." He demonstrated a powerful side kick. "I've still got what it takes, girl."
Mattie laughed and took his arm. "You certainly have. Now, come to bed, Papa. It's late."
Phillip shook off her arm and studied her with his keen blue eyes. "I don't need babying, Mattie. Just because I didn't come to Paris this year for my birthday doesn't mean I've got one foot in the grave. Contrary to what your mother thought, getting old's no crime."
"Of course not, Papa. But it's after two o'clock."
He threw back his head and laughed, and Mattie was startled again at the strong resemblance between herself and her grandfather. They had the same high cheekbones, the aristocratic nose, the generous mouth. Age had streaked Phillip's red hair with silver and lined his face, but it had not dimmed his good looks.
"In my heyday," he said, "I was just getting started good at two o'clock." He winked at her. "I won't tell Mrs. Cleary if you won't. I don't know why I keep that old dragon around."
Mattie wasn't fooled by his pretended fear of his housekeeper. Mrs. Cleary was as starchy as leftover pasta and as formidable as an angry bulldog, but she watched after Phillip Houston with the same possessive love she bestowed on his house.
"You keep her around because she's the only one who can get you to stay in line. Heaven knows what you'd be up to if it weren't for Mrs. Cleary."
They walked through the back sun-room and up the staircase, arm in arm.
"Why don't you move to Dallas and keep me in line?" Phillip asked.
"Papa, we've been through this before. My career—"
"Your career will allow you to live anywhere in the world. Jet travel puts you within hours of wherever you need to be." He squeezed her waist. "With William and your mother both gone, there's no need for you to live off over yonder all by yourself."
Mattie couldn't help but smile. Phillip's favorite phrase for Paris was "off over yonder," and he rarely referred to his daughter-in-law by her name.
"I'm happy living in Paris."
"Are you, Mattie?" Phillip gave her a look that made her squirm.
Instead of answering his question, she leaned over and kissed his cheek. "Good night, Papa."
