The Sexiest Man Alive

by Sandra Marton

  “Susannah,” he said politely.

  “Matthew,” she said, every bit as politely.

  He cocked his head. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes,” she said, with a little laugh, “I’m fine.”

  “You look as if you’ve been crying.”

  “Crying? Me? No, don’t be silly. I—I just got out of the shower, that’s all. There’s shampoo in my eyes.”

  “Oh.” He glanced at his watch. “May I come in? I’ll only be a minute. I have—an appointment.”

  The wispy flutter of hope, which was what it had been, even though it was agony to admit it, died a quick death in her breast.

  “I understand,” she said brightly.

  “And you? Are you going out this evening with one of our heroes?” His tone was flat and made the word sound foolish, but she smiled as if she hadn’t noticed.

  “You frightened them off, remember?”

  “And a good thing, too. We have an early start tomorrow.”

  Susannah’s false smile faded. Why had her heart been doing flips? It was her stomach that should have flipped at the presence of Matthew the Insolent.

  “Actually, Alejandro asked me if you and I were really seeing each other. I explained that that kiss was your idea of a little joke, and he said he might drop by for a drink later this evening.”

  “Alejandro,” he said. His lip curled. “Doesn’t Sam mind?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Sam.” Matthew’s eyes were dark. “You do remember Sam, don’t you? How would he feel if he knew you were going to spend the evening with another man?”

  Susannah flushed. “I know it’s difficult for you to comprehend, but spending the evening with Alejandro doesn’t mean spending the night. Besides, Sam and I have an…understanding.”

  “And Peter? Do you and he have an understanding, too?”

  “Is that why you came here? To interrogate me about Sam and Peter?”

  “I’m just curious, Madison. Your lovers seem to have a very liberated attitude toward fidelity and commitment.”

  She laughed. “You’re a fine one to talk about fidelity and commitment.”

  “We’re not talking about me,” he said. And, even if they had been, she was wrong. One at a time, was his motto. For a week. A month. Two months, if the woman was really special. Nonna, during one of her lectures on the importance of finding a wife, had once accused him of being afraid to make a commitment to a woman, but it wasn’t true. He just—he wasn’t ready to give up the joys of bachelorhood, that was all.

  “At least I don’t keep two women dangling on the same string,” he said coldly.

  “I’m sure you’re a candidate for sainthood, Mr. Romano. Fortunately, it’s a free country, and I don’t have to answer to anybody. Now, if you’ll excuse me?”

  She started to shut the door, but Matthew jammed his foot in the way.

  “Maybe that’s your problem. Maybe you need a man who wouldn’t accept that kind of answer.”

  “I’m not interested in that kind of relationship.”

  “Why not?” He smiled, and the smile sent a sudden warning heat racing through her blood “Afraid somebody like that would be too much for you to handle?” He reached out, ran a finger lightly from her temple to her throat. “I’ll bet nobody’s ever tapped into that fire trapped inside you.”

  She knew better than to tell him there was no fire. He’d kissed her, he’d felt her ignite in his arms. There was nothing she could do to wipe away the knowledge, but he must never know that the fire had shocked her as much as it had shocked him, that all it would take to set it blazing again was the stroke of his hand on her skin.

  They looked at each other, and the world stopped. Everything had changed. There was no teasing glint in his eyes, no taunting smile on his lips. All she had to do was move, lift her face for his kiss…

  Susannah jerked back, terrified. Her pulse was racing. She wondered if he could see its telltale thump in the hollow of her throat.

  “Did you come here for a reason, Romano? A business reason? If you did, let’s hear it. If not, get out.”

  Her voice trembled Matthew wanted to think it was with desire, but he knew better. It trembled with anger, and the realization shattered the sexual haze that had engulfed him.

  Dammit, he thought furiously, what was going on here? He’d come to apologize for usurping her authority. For giving her a bad day. For making an ass of himself by turning everything upside down, and all because he couldn’t watch her laugh and play and have a good time with those four harmless, silly, muscle-bound boys. Not that he was going to tell her that. What was the point? Susannah and he were like oil and water. Forget the sizzle. There was no way they’d ever really connect.

  “I’m waiting, Romano. And time is running out.”

  He looked at her. She was barefoot. Without shoes on, she didn’t even come up to his chin. Her face was scrubbed, her hair was damp, she was clutching the lapels of her robe as if he were an Aztec high priest and she were a virginal sacrifice.

  Something knotted deep in his belly. Get out, every instinct in him screamed, get out, Romano, get out!

  He took a step back. “Here,” he said gruffly, and shoved the bouquet at her. She looked at it as if she thought it might be hiding a beehive.

  “What’s that?”

  “Dammit, Madison, what do you think it is?”

  “Flowers?” she said. Puzzlement shone in her eyes. “For me?”

  Matthew blew out his breath. “I’m standing at your door with a bouquet in my hand. Who else would it be for?”

  “Well, I thought—I assumed the flowers were for—for whichever of those girls you’re seeing tonight.”

  “Girls? Oh. Oh, the models.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I’m not seeing…I’m not picking up, ah, Bernadette, until later.”

  “Bernadette? Was there a Bernadette at the interviews this afternoon?”

  Was there? Damned if he knew. The interviews had been a nightmare. All those overly made-up females, with their cleavage and their hair…

  “Yes. No. I mean…Look, it’s a peace offering, okay? There’s no sense in you and me going at each other the rest of the time we’re here. We both want what’s best for CHIC, right?”

  Susannah nodded. “Of course.”

  “Then take the flowers. We’ll shake hands, I’ll leave, and you can wait for Bart to drop by.”

  “Zeke.”

  Matthew frowned. “Bart. Or Alejandro. I’m sure you never mentioned Zeke.”

  “Alejandro said Zeke might stop by, too,” she said quickly. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter.” She looked up and smiled. “I’ll take them.”

  “What?”

  “The flowers. You’re right, it’s foolish for us to argue. Thank you,” she said formally, as she accepted the bouquet. “It was nice of you to think of me.”

  Nice of him? Nice? Matthew swallowed hard. He thought of her all the time. Dreamed of her. Imagined what it would be like to take her in his arms….

  Which was nonsense. Even if he set aside his rules about business mixed with pleasure, why would he want to get involved with a woman like Susannah? She was prickly and obstinate. She’d surely put her career ahead of anything else, ahead of him. Not that that would matter. The last thing he needed was a woman who wanted more of him than he was willing to give.

  “Have a scent.”

  He blinked. Susannah was smiling at him over the roses.

  “Sorry? I, ah, I missed that.”

  “I said, the roses have a scent. They never do, at home.”

  Roses she got from Sam? From Peter? “I’m glad you like them.” He held out his hand. “Friends?”

  Susannah hesitated. “Not enemies, at least,” she said, and smiled.

  He smiled, too. His hand closed around hers. Her skin was cool, but when she tilted her head and looked at him, her eyes were smoky.

  “Well,” he said.

  “Well,” she said.

  “Go
od night, Susannah.”

  “Good night, Matthew.”

  He turned. She put her hand on the doorknob. He stepped into the hall. She began to shut the door…

  “The hell with this,” he growled, and swung toward her. “Dammit, Susannah,” he said, and before his heart could take another beat, she was in his arms.

  He lifted her, and she wound her arms around his neck as his hand tunneled into her hair. He kicked the door shut and kissed her without preliminaries, without gentleness. Why would there be wooing when they both knew that this moment had been inevitable?

  “Alejandro’s not coming, is he?” he said, his mouth a breath from hers.

  Susannah shook her head. “Bernadette?”

  “There is no Bernadette.”

  She laughed, but the laugh became a moan as his mouth covered hers. His hands were everywhere, stroking her beneath the silk robe, fingers excitingly rough and hot.

  “No more games, Susannah.”

  “No,” she whispered, stroking the tip of her tongue against his, reveling in the heavy beat of his heart against hers. “No more games, Matthew.”

  He tasted of danger and of darkness. Of the heady wildness of desire.

  She tasted of hunger and of need. Of the sweetness of passion.

  “I want—I want—”

  “Everything,” he whispered, and kissed her again.

  “Yes. Oh, yes.”

  She dragged his jacket off his shoulders. He ripped away his tie. She slid her hands under his shirt, thrilling at the sharp intake of his breath, at the sound he made when she swept her palms over his muscled chest.

  “Matthew,” she said, her voice breaking, “Matthew…”

  Her hands clenched in his hair as he lifted her again and carried her to the bedroom, to the canopied bed. Her heart thundered as he eased her down the length of his aroused body. Her toes curled into the deep carpet as he slid her robe from her shoulders. It fell around her in a waterfall of pink silk, exposing her to his gaze.

  “Sweet Susannah,” he whispered, and framed her face in his hands.

  She looked at him, her eyes wide with wonder. Carefully, as if she were some fragile work of art, he bent to her, sucked her bottom lip between his teeth, bit gently as she sighed his name and sighed again as his mouth traveled the length of her throat. She was a creature of pounding blood and shimmering fire. Her head fell back. She needed his strength to support her, and he gave it, lifting her, holding her to him before laying her gently on the bed.

  He rose above her. She watched from under her lashes as he removed his shirt, baring the hard muscles of his shoulders and chest. Her breath caught when he undid his belt and peeled off the rest of his clothing, revealing the shadowed planes that were the magnificence and power of his male body.

  “Look at me, Susannah,” he said, his voice husky with desire.

  She did, forcing open eyes heavy with passion, fixing her gaze on his taut features as he cupped her breasts.

  “My beautiful Susie,” he whispered. “My lovely Susannah.”

  “Matthew,” she sighed, “oh, Matthew.”

  “Say my name again.”

  “Matthew. Matthew, Matthew, Matth—”

  He crushed her mouth beneath his, then bent his dark head and gently rubbed his stubbled chin over the soft, sensitive flesh of her breasts. When his lips closed first around one pebbled nipple and then the other, she arced toward him.

  “Do you like that?” he whispered. “Tell me, Susie. Tell me what pleases you.”

  “You,” she said, lifting her arms to him, “you, always—”

  He kissed her again and again She could feel the heat in him, smell his excitement, feel the heat of her passion and how it had turned her wet and ready for him But she had always been ready for him, from that first day, from some time that existed only in the dark, dim past.

  Now, at last, the waiting was ended.

  “Now,” she pleaded. “Matthew, please, I want—I need—”

  She rose to him, her arms clinging to his neck, her mouth hot, and he buried himself deep, deep within her on one long, hard, exquisite thrust. A sweet cry of surrender broke from her throat as he possessed her.

  “Oh, yes,” she sobbed, “Matthew, Matthew…”

  “Susannah,” he said, “my Susannah,” and then he was moving, moving, and she was flying into the sun, splintering, shattering until, at last, she was whole.

  Whole, and in Matthew’s arms.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  MATTHEW awoke slowly from the most erotic dream he’d ever had.

  The dream had been about Susannah, about a long, incredible night shared with her. He’d made love to her, with her, in all the ways a man and a woman could possibly make love.

  Except, it wasn’t a dream.

  Susannah was right here, nestled in the curve of his arm. She lay on her side, her head on his shoulder. Her hand was curled in the middle of his chest. Her leg was draped across his. They must have been lying this way for quite some time, because his shoulder felt a bit stiff and his leg felt a little cramped.

  It didn’t matter. His muscles could end up screaming, for all he cared. What was a little muscle ache compared to the joy of having Susannah in his arms?

  Carefully, he turned his head. He didn’t want to wake her he just wanted to look at her. To study that lovely profile with its dark sweep of lash. The sexy fullness of her lower up. The elegant nose and feminine yet determined chin.

  She was so beautiful. So very beautiful. How could he resist? He wouldn’t really wake her, he’d just kiss her. Only one kiss. A gentle one.

  He moved, shifting his weight so they were lying face to face. He stroked his hand over her hair, then all the way down her spine. Her skin was silken and warm, her bottom gently rounded. She stirred under his touch, sighed but didn’t awaken.

  “Sweet,” he whispered, and brushed her mouth with his. “So sweet.”

  He had to be careful. He reminded himself that he really didn’t want to wake her. She was sleeping so soundly, and it was enough for him just to lie here, to hold her. But her mouth was only a breath from his. And her breasts were so soft against his chest.

  One more kiss. Just one. One more feathered caress.

  He kissed her. Touched her. She came awake in his arms, her mouth eager under the questing pressure of his, and the need within him burned bright and fierce. He rolled her beneath him, and her sighs of pleasure became moans of passion.

  “Matthew,” she whispered, and she rose to meet his thrusts, rose to meet his kisses.

  “Yes,” he said, “yes,” and as he held himself poised above her, prolonging that last, magical moment, he knew it was no use pretending this was only sex.

  It was—it was…

  Susannah sighed his name again, and moved against him. Matthew stopped thinking. He groaned her name, threw his head back, thrust even deeper and imploded in her arms.

  * * *

  Later, they sat at a small table near the window in the sitting room, Matthew wearing only his trousers, Susannah wearing the hotel’s oversize terry-cloth robe.

  The table was covered with starched white linen and spread with fine china and sterling flatware. A crystal vase filled with flowers stood amid serving dishes and baskets filled with fresh strawberries, cheeses, water biscuits and flaky pain au chocolat.

  Susannah took a sip of her champagne. “This,” she said, “is not Aunt Sally’s.”

  Matthew chuckled. “Yeah, I’d say you were right.”

  “And this is not breakfast. Champagne. Chocolate. Strawberries.”

  “I agree. Breakfast is a glass of orange juice, a bowl of oatmeal, lots of bacon, four eggs, buttered toast…”

  “Good grief! You have to be joking!”

  Matthew grinned, sat back in his chair and reached for her hand.

  “When your job means you wake up while it’s still dark and cold, then head out into the Pacific on a trawler, you don’t worry very much about calories or chole
sterol.”

  “Whose job?” Susannah’s eyes widened. “Yours?”

  “Sure. It’s what my old man did. It was what I figured to do, too, until I got lucky.”

  “Lucky how?”

  He looked at her hand, lying curled within his.

  “I’d like to tell you I was a brilliant student, that I was a Rhodes scholar and spent a year at Oxford.” His eyes me hers, and he smiled. “But the truth is, I was big and tough and I sacked enough quarterbacks on the teams my high school played to win myself a football scholarship to the University of Michigan. I figured I’d get lucky and end up playing for the pros. My old man thought it was a waste of my time and his income because he had to hire a kid to replace me.” He shrugged. “So I made him a bet.”

  Susannah was sitting forward, her eyes fixed on his “What kind of bet?”

  “I said I’d ditch the scholarship, come home and work with him on his boat if I didn’t tackle the quarterback as many times in the season as he came home with a full load of fish. Well, actually, it was a little more complicated than that. He worked out a formula that compared the probability of fist tonnage to getting to the quarterback. Anyway, I won, and Pop lost. He stopped giving my mother a hard time over my ‘foolishness,’ and I suddenly realized I could maybe do more with my head than use it to confuse an offensive lineman.”

  “And?”

  Matthew looked at Susannah. Her eyes were bright. She was smiling as if she really gave a damn about the boy he’d been. He wasn’t sure which surprised him more, that she’d be interested enough to listen or that he’d just told her stuff about himself nobody else knew.

  Why had he done that? he thought, and the hair rose on the back of his neck just as it had that night, weeks ago, at the Gilded Carousel.

  “And,” he said lightly, “why am I sitting here, boring you to death with the story of my life when we should be finishing our champagne before it goes flat?”

  Matthew didn’t want to talk about himself anymore. Susannah understood that. She never talked about herself or her past, either…except for that night at the Gilded Carousel. A faint prickle of alarm raced along her skin. It was so easy to be with him. Not just to make love but to talk to him, listen to him, watch the animation in his face.