“I’m talking to you,” she said.
Her eyes were huge when she looked up at him. Matt’s stomach tensed. He couldn’t do this. Didn’t do this.
“I teach lighting design,” he muttered.
“You’re the only person who’s given a damn about me in the two years I’ve been at Montford.”
“It may seem that way,” he said slowly, panic shooting through him as he quickly relived the past two and a half years with his star pupil. Had he ever, unwittingly, done anything to give her any indication that he regarded her as more than a student? “But I’m sure that there are other people here who care about you.”
“You make me believe I’m worth something.”
The tears pooling in her eyes spoke more to him than her words. “You are worth something,” he said before he could analyze the significance of his remark. Lighting design and theater operation were what he spoke to his students about. It was all about art. Craft.
Never about life.
Not anymore.
“My mom’s getting divorced again.”
Matt waited. Home lives were off-limits. Because he couldn’t trust himself to know when enough was enough, Matt adhered very strictly to the promise he’d made himself when Will Parsons had given him this chance at Montford. He’d teach. He’d give his students every bit of knowledge he could give them about his area of expertise. And nothing else.
There were school counselors and trained professionals to help students with their personal problems.
“It’s the fifth time.”
Matt knew that. He’d heard Sophie—and many of his other regular students—speak about their lives during the long hours they all spent together getting ready for a show. During a show week they were often at the theater until midnight. Even later for breakdowns. He heard. He didn’t comment.
He gathered together the specs he’d been working on, put them in a folder.
“She’s a slut.”
His mother had been one of those, too. Cringing, Matt leaned against the lighting board again, a frown on his face.
“What does this have to do with your staying in school?” It wasn’t the question he wanted to ask, the words he wanted to say. They were just the only ones he was allowed to say.
“What’s the point?”
“To make something of yourself,” Matt answered immediately. “You have great talent, Sophie, a natural feel. It’s not just technical work to you, it’s art. You know how to help people get more out of their productions. With enough training, you’ll go far in this business.”
Shoulders slumped, she didn’t even seem to hear him. Not judging by the sullen look on her face.
Something had happened to this girl.
And it wasn’t any of his damn business. She was just a student. Someone who would pass in and out of his life—someone who’d be there long enough to get lighting design information from him. And nothing else.
“You look like you’ve lost some weight,” he said. Get her to a counselor.
She shrugged, her long blond hair as dull as the expression in her eyes.
“You been eating okay?” Too personal. He shouldn’t have asked.
“Yeah.”
Nodding, Matt picked up some sample gels he’d been perusing earlier. Sophie handed him the envelope they’d come in. She’d broken a nail, her right index finger, and done nothing to fix it. That was odd, too. One of Sophie’s trademarks was her long, always wildly polished fingernails.
“Sign up for classes for next semester,” he said suddenly. He had to get her out of the theater before he did something stupid. Like try to help her figure out whatever was bothering her.
Her gaze was confused as she looked up at him. Confused and helpless. “You really think I should?”
“I think it would be ludicrous not to.” Was she doubting her abilities because of the mistakes she’d made that semester? Did she think that being distracted now and then negated her natural talent?
“But what kind of girl goes for a career as a theater technician?”
Or was there a boyfriend involved in her sudden doubts?
“Lots of girls do,” he said with confidence. This was a question that was perfectly in order for him to answer. “Smart girls. Artistic girls. Girls who love the theater as much as you do.”
“You don’t think it makes me seem too masculine?”
Matt wanted to pull up a chair and sit down. He stood awkwardly by the door, instead. “No.”
He might have told her how utterly ridiculous she was being. That she was a classically beautiful college co-ed. And that she was far too smart to wear any labels imposed on her by people who didn’t know any better. But he couldn’t.
Not his place. Get her to a counselor.
She stood up, watching him for a moment, and Matt had no idea what was going on behind those troubled blue eyes. “Okay, I’ll go register.”
And then she was gone.
Though he’d seemingly won that round, Matt stared after her, uneasy. He didn’t know what had just happened. What the entire conversation had really been about. But he had the distinct impression it wasn’t good.
NOT FEELING ANY BETTER that afternoon, Matt tried to concentrate on the schedule in front of him. He needed five crew members for next week’s Winter Dance concert. And that many plus more for the two-week Theater Department production of Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol following that. And they’d just had a request from the Phoenix Symphony for extra rehearsal time for the show they were doing in Shelter Valley the week before Christmas.
He volunteered himself for that show. He could work as many hours as needed during the Christmas holiday. It wasn’t as if he had any shopping to do—or anyone to celebrate with.
That thought brought him a measure of relief.
Until he wondered what Phyllis Langford was doing for Christmas. Did she have family to go home to? Family she’d have to break her news to? Or had she already told them all?
He wondered how her loved ones had reacted—or would react—to the news.
Or if she even had any loved ones. Seemed like something he should know about her. But he couldn’t figure out why he felt that way. It had nothing to do with him.
The phone on his desk rang, and Matt grabbed it, glad for the reprieve. “Sheffield,” he said more brusquely than necessary.
“Matt?”
“Phyllis?” How could he immediately know her voice when he’d only talked to her on the phone a time or two?
“You busy?”
He glanced at the schedule. And then at the stacks of paper on his desk, all concerning new projects, all waiting for something or other from him. He could be there till midnight.
But at least he’d taught his last class for the day.
“Not at the moment. What’s up?” He hadn’t seen or heard from her since their trip to Tortilla Flat two weeks before.
“I really hate to do this,” she started, and then stopped. Her unusually hesitant tone had him instantly alert.
“Do what?”
“Ask you to drive me to Phoenix.”
Matt dropped the pencil he’d been holding. “Something wrong?”
“I don’t think so,” she said quickly, her words more confident than her tone. “I’m just…bleeding a little.”
“Did you call your doctor?”
“Yes. She doesn’t think it’s anything, but she wants to see me. She did say, though, that I probably shouldn’t be driving all that way by myself.”
“Of course you shouldn’t.” Matt reached for the keys he’d thrown onto the corner of his desk when he’d come in that morning. “Where are you?”
“In my office.”
“Here on campus?”
“Yeah. Psych 132. I’m really sorry about this—”
Matt cut her off. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Cassie’s in surgery, Randi had an away basketball game and I can’t get hold of Becca or Tory. I could call Martha Moore
or even Will, but to be honest with you, I haven’t told anyone except Cassie about my pregnancy yet—”
“I’m on my way over,” Matt said. She didn’t need to make excuses to him. He was responsible for her current situation. It was right that she call him.
As Matt checked out with his secretary, locked his office and hurried across campus, he couldn’t help offering up a small prayer that the baby would be okay.
He’d been plagued over the past few weeks by the need to take some kind of responsibility. This wasn’t quite what he’d had in mind.
THE BLEEDING WAS nothing to worry about. It had stopped by the time Phyllis and Matt reached Phoenix.
When her lab work came back, she was hospitalized overnight, anyway. She’d been throwing up so much she was dehydrated. As someone who wasn’t exactly uninformed about medical matters, Phyllis felt stupid for not seeing the signs or taking more precautions.
Embarrassed, lying in the bed with the IV drip hanging beside her, she wished she could slide under the covers when Matt knocked on her open door.
“You decent?”
If you called wearing a gown that had no back to it decent. “Yeah.” She pulled the covers up under her chin.
“Dr. Mac says you’ll only need to be here overnight. Luckily they caught things before they could get too serious.”
She nodded, feeling at a complete disadvantage as he sat, fully clothed, in the chair beside her bed.
“Why didn’t you tell me you’d been having such a problem with morning sickness?”
Raising her bed with the fingertip control, Phyllis said, “Why would I? It’s a normal part of pregnancy.”
“It must’ve been pretty severe to require an IV drip.”
Phyllis couldn’t argue with him there. “I’m really sorry about this. You can head on back home. I’ll call Cassie tonight and she’ll make sure someone’s here in the morning to pick me up.”
“I’ve got nobody waiting for me at home,” he said, his hands steepled under his chin as he gazed at her.
For one crazy moment, Phyllis remembered how those hands had felt on her body….
“I figured I might as well keep you company tonight.”
She swallowed. “That’s not necessary.”
“Might be good for us to talk a little more,” he said, almost as though she hadn’t said a word. If it wasn’t for his slight frown, Phyllis would’ve thought he hadn’t heard her at all.
“It occurred to me that I don’t even know if you have any living family.”
She didn’t understand why that should matter to him. She’d repeatedly told him her pregnancy wasn’t his responsibility.
Phyllis wasn’t planning to get to know him any better than she already did.
He wasn’t father material. He’d said so himself.
“My parents are both gone,” she said. She’d meant to tell him to leave. “My father was fifty, my mom in her forties when they had me. I was an only child.”
He nodded, still watching her.
“You really don’t have to stay.”
“It’s the least I can do,” he said, his tone of voice warning her she wasn’t going to win this one. “I’ll get a room in the motel across the street and be back here in the morning. You said your first class doesn’t start till eleven. We should be able to make it home in plenty of time for you to shower and get to school.”
The doctor had said that if everything continued to look good, there was no reason Phyllis couldn’t be released after her eight-o’clock rounds.
She’d also said Phyllis should be getting more rest. That the bleeding was nothing serious at the moment, but these things were frequently warnings of future problems. She’d warned Phyllis to slow down. She could work, take care of business, but she wasn’t to do any heavy lifting or anything that required exertion.
She’d also said Phyllis was already starting to show and seemed a bit surprised by that.
And she’d said all of it when Matt was standing right there, listening.
“You really shouldn’t have told Dr. Mac that you’re the baby’s father,” Phyllis said now, frowning as she thought of the unexpected repercussions she was facing from the day’s phone call. She’d expected an impersonal ride into the city and an equally detached ride home. A bit of small talk maybe, but that was it. Then she would’ve thanked him and said goodbye.
“I had to. Otherwise, they weren’t going to tell me what was happening.”
“I didn’t intend to name you on the birth certificate.”
His eyelids lowered. If she hadn’t been trained to notice such things, Phyllis would have missed the hurt he’d quickly concealed. And the relief that immediately followed.
“You still don’t have to,” he said.
“Dr. Mac—”
“Knows only what I told her. How you fill out your child’s birth certificate is entirely up to you.”
He was right, of course, but—
“You never seem to take that ring off,” Matt said, gesturing toward her fingers that were busily twisting the opal ring on her right hand. “Does it have some significance?”
“It was my mother’s.”
Silence fell. And lingered for several seconds.
“Sounds like you’re going to need a little help around the house during the next few months,” he finally said.
“I can manage,” Phyllis assured him, adding, “I’ve got enough friends to build a house, let alone keep one up.”
The prospect of further involvement was untenable. In the first place because she knew he didn’t want to be there.
And in the second…
“How many leather jackets do you have?” She’d seen two so far, and he looked damned good in them.
“Three.”
“Black, brown and…?”
“Maroon.”
Trying to ignore the interest his dark eyes were stirring inside her, Phyllis looked at the tube attached to her arm.
“You feeling okay?” he asked.
He was attentive, she had to give him that. Far more attentive than a man in his position should be. Especially when she had to remain completely immune to him, for a lot of reasons.
An almost impossible feat after she’d slept with him, Phyllis was beginning to discover.
Which was why he had to stay the hell away from her.
“I’ll come over once a week and do any heavy chores that need doing.”
“What?” Where had that come from?
“I’m partially responsible for this situation,” Matt said, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. “There’s no reason for your friends to be put out when I’m perfectly capable of doing whatever needs to be done until you’re up and going again.”
There was a good reason. Phyllis didn’t think it was a smart idea to have him around.
“Please.”
And then she saw that look in his eyes. The one she’d seen when they went to Tortilla Flat. The one that had been haunting her ever since. Matt Sheffield was a man carrying around some pretty deep hurts.
And Phyllis, a healer of hurts, couldn’t refuse the father of her baby this little bit of peace he was seeking. If he’d feel better about himself by helping her out, then she could certainly put up with seeing him occasionally.
He wanted a relationship between them even less than she did, if that was possible. She’d laid down her rules and he’d readily agreed to abide by them. The baby was all hers.
In the past weeks he’d been as good as his word and had left her alone.
She was in control. She felt sure of what she wanted. What she didn’t want. Knowledge was freedom.
As long as she knew which turns to avoid, she’d be fine.
And she knew. She’d spent long years learning every last one of them.
CHAPTER SIX
GOD, SHE WAS LOVELY. Her short, sassy red hair splayed on the pillow propped behind her head, Phyllis made a face at him while a nurse checked her blood pressure.
Matt grinned, more relaxed then he’d been in…forever. This woman was easy to talk to.
His kid was going to be one lucky son of a gun growing up with her for a mother.
“Perfectly normal,” the nurse said to the accompaniment of ripping Velcro. Once the cuff was removed, the woman made a note on the piece of paper she was holding and left the room with a swish-swish of panty hose and rubber-soled shoes.
“Guess the personality gods skipped her,” Phyllis said as soon as the nurse had closed the door to the private room.
“She was just lusting after your French fries.” Opting to forgo hospital food, Matt had made a run at dinnertime, returning with burgers and fries for him and Phyllis to share.
“She could’ve had them. I’m stuffed.”
“And you haven’t gotten sick once since we’ve been here.”
Phyllis grimaced. “It usually happens in the morning.”
As the hours had passed that afternoon—surprising Matt with their swiftness—he’d found himself having an increasingly hard time keeping his eyes from straying to her breasts, hidden and yet revealed by the thin cotton of the hospital shift she was wearing. He might not know the woman well, but he sure remembered the feel of those breasts….
“You really don’t have to stay,” Phyllis said for about the fiftieth time, laying her arm gingerly on the mattress beside her.
Her hand looked so slender, so fragile, with the IV needle inserted and taped to the top of it. She was going to have a bruise there in the morning.
He’d gladly have borne it for her.
“I’ve got nothing else to do,” he told her now. “But if you want to sleep or watch TV or something, go right ahead.”
“I don’t watch a lot of television.”
He didn’t, either. “Do you like to read?”
They’d already covered favorite foods, recent and not-so-recent movies and music that afternoon. Phyllis was a fascinating combination of classic and fad.
“I love to read,” she said now, one hand resting her cup of takeout coffee on the hospital sheet covering her lap. “I read at least a chapter of something everyday. How about you?”
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