Simple Riches

by Mary Campisi

  Sara knew firsthand how a marauding bandit could pillage a woman's heart and darken her soul. Two weeks. Maybe less. She hoped not more. Then she'd be on her way back to Pittsburgh and her safe, comfortable life.

  Women would always want this man, blind or not, and she’d bet he’d continue to use and discard them like an empty container of Chinese takeout. Her job was to get him to care again. About something. Anything. Period.

  She took a deep breath and opened the sliding door.

  ***

  He pretended he didn't hear the door slide open. It would be Rosa. Again. Trying to pawn off another fajita, or taco, or whatever in the hell it was she'd been after him to eat for the last three hours. Since when was skipping a meal because you just weren't hungry a major offense?

  “Rosa.” Matt heaved a sigh. “What is it this time? Frijoles? Enchiladas? Tostadas? No, no, and no. I'm not hungry.” He kept his head back, baseball cap low over his brow, sunglasses shielding his eyes.

  “They all sound good to me.”

  His head jerked toward the woman’s voice. That low, throaty voice did not belong to Rosa. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Sara,” the woman said. “Adam sent me.”

  Damn that brother of his. He'd warned, threatened, argued, and bullied Matt for weeks, telling him he'd fix Matt but good if he didn't get his butt out of that chair and start acting like a human being instead of a waste product. Decomposing pile of compost, he'd called him. Said he needed a woman to get his mind off his miserable self. Well, from the sounds of that sexy voice pouring over his senses, Adam had got him one all right. “Whatever Adam paid you, I'll pay you double to leave.”

  “I gave my word I'd stay.”

  Since when did a hooker’s word count for anything? “I don't want you here.” He settled back against the cushions, dismissing her.

  “Maybe we can just talk a little while.” The woman pulled a chair next to him, scraping the legs along the stone. He could smell her scent, orange blossom sprinkled with lemon. Odd fragrance for a woman like her. Maybe she was one of those innocent-looking virgin types some men liked.

  “You want to talk with me? That's it?”

  “For starters,” she said. Her voice rolled over him, smooth and silky with a hint of scratchiness to it. Like she'd just downed a shot. Or spent a sleepless night with her lover. Talking. Right.

  “How long have you been in the business?” The old reporter in him wanted to ask how she'd gotten sucked into this kind of life, but he held his tongue. He wasn't a reporter anymore. Or much of anything else.

  “Seven years.”

  “Seven years,” he repeated, trying to guess at the number of times she'd bartered her body for money. The figure was staggering, even for him.

  “I'm very qualified if that's your concern.” There was an edge of defiance in her voice. “Most of my work is done on an individual basis though from time to time, I have worked with couples.”

  Matt choked, coughed, and sputtered, “Couples?”

  “I'd like you to give me a chance,” she continued as though she were talking about sampling cheese spreads instead of sex.

  He took off his cap, ran a hand through his unkempt hair, and plopped the cap back on his head. The woman was one cool cookie, intent on proving she was qualified to have sex with him. Crazy woman. “I'll tell you what, Sara,” Matt said. “You leave now and we keep this little secret between us. Okay? You get your money and I keep my reputation.” He gave her one of his slow smiles. “Deal?” He leaned forward. “Now give me your right hand,” he said, holding his own out, palm up. Cold fingers grazed his skin. He closed his fingers around hers, and stroked his other hand up her arm. Smooth and soft as satin.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Just keeping you honest,” he said. “In case someone asks if anything happened between us, you can say yes and it'll be the truth.” Poor thing probably wasn't used to tenderness in or out of bed. He massaged her collarbone, trailed a finger down her neck and began to trace the plump fullness of her breast when she smacked his hand away and pulled out of his grasp.

  “How dare you!” The chair clattered to the stone floor in her obvious desire to escape his touch.

  He’d been trying to let her off easy and now she was going all prim and proper on him? “What did I do?”

  “Do?” Anger shot out of her mouth and boomeranged around the patio. “You…you…touched me.”

  Oh for God’s sake. He should have just booted her out the minute she opened her mouth. “That’s how you get paid, isn’t it? When men touch you?”

  “You think I’m a hooker?”

  She said it with such disbelief he almost backslid and asked, Well, aren’t you? The mere fact that she’d caused him to question himself created all sorts of jumbled feelings in his gut. He didn’t care who she was or what she was—but her outrage annoyed him. Like everyone else on this screwed-up planet, she was hiding behind deceit. Well, the smoke-and-mirrors routine wouldn't work with him. He would have respected her more if she'd just come clean and owned up to her profession. Straight out. No excuses. Show a little dignity. As much as one could find dignity in selling one's body. What the hell. People sold their souls every day, chunks at a time, bartered to the highest bidder without so much as a trickle of conscience. Everything had a price. It was a damn sad fact of life. So what was this woman's problem?

  “Look, lady, I don't care who you are. You're not a hooker? Fine. You're Mother Teresa's niece? Great. Just take your overblown outrage and walk your little fanny out of here.” He pointed to the glass doors. “Now.”

  “Jeff sent me.”

  “Jeff? What the hell does Jeff have to do with this?” When she didn’t respond, he swung his legs over the side of the recliner and said, “Start talking.”

  “It was Jeff s idea that I come,” she said, practically spitting out the words. “I'm a psychologist. He and I are partners. He thought I could help you.”

  “Help me? With what? The last lady doctor wanted to help me by having sex. For her case study. Is that what you're after?” He crossed his arms over his chest and waited.

  “Of course not.”

  “Good. Because you've got exactly three seconds to get out of here.” Damn, Adam. Damn Jeff. Another shrink. And a woman, no less. It took her a moment to respond. He imagined her licking her lips, even though he had no idea what she looked like. Blonde, brunette, bald, it didn't matter. He was through with shrinks, especially the female variety.

  “I think we should talk.”

  She was persistent, he'd give her that. “Talk? What should we talk about?”

  “Well, we'll talk about your condition and ways to deal with it.”

  “My condition?” He took two steps in the direction of her voice. “My condition?” Couldn't anybody say the damn word? “You mean my blindness. Say it.” He was close enough to smell her citrus scent.

  “Your blindness,” she repeated.

  “And you're going to show me how to deal with it, right?” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that.”

  “Of course not. Nothing is as simple as a snap of the fingers.”

  “But that's what you're after, isn't it? Acceptance with minimal fanfare.” He didn't wait for an answer. “Sure it is. You're all the same. Forget about the sunsets and blue skies. Don't think of the beautiful woman by your side. They no longer exist for you. Just shut up and accept your plight.”

  “That's your attitude. Not mine.”

  Oh, she was a cold one. Frozen over like a glacier. That low, throaty voice of hers might turn a man's head, but it was all a trick. The woman was an ice cube. He rubbed his jaw, determined to chip away at her frosty reserve. “Have you ever lost something dear to you? Something you took for granted, thought would be around forever, and then, poof, one day it's gone?”

  “We're here to discuss you, Matthew, not me.”

  There was a definite edge in her voice, buried beneath layers of composure. Matt plowed on
, “And you keep hoping, and praying that maybe it's all a bad dream and you'll wake up soon? But it isn't, and deep down, you know it, even as you barter with God and the devil at the same time, promising to do anything, give everything, if only you could have this one thing back? Even for a little while longer? But you're talking to a blank wall because no one hears you?”

  The woman made a small, muffled sound.

  “You're in it all alone, your heart gouged with grief, bleeding the pain of your loss. And you want more than anything to die, but your damned heart keeps pumping away, pushing the hurt and anguish through your tormented body, until you think you'll explode. But you don't, and that's the hell of it.” He let out a ragged sigh. “You live.”

  He was so lost in his own misery he never heard her move until the sound of the sliding glass door caught his attention. He'd known she'd retreat once he let out his emotions. They were too honest, too real, too dark for her to handle. He shrugged as he found his chair and sank into it. It didn't matter. His tactics had worked. Rex was probably loading her luggage into the limo right this minute. Matt leaned back against the soft cushions of his recliner and heaved a sigh of relief.

  ***

  Sara jerked the sliding glass door shut and gulped air. Matthew Brandon's cruel words had punctured the surface of her carefully constructed world and broken open old wounds. She had to get out of here. The man was too crass, too full of anger, the deep, visceral kind that spreads like an insidious cancer, eating away the last vestiges of humanity until nothing remains but an empty shell.

  Have you ever lost something dear to you? Oh, yes, she had wanted to scream, she knew what it was like to stare at the ceiling for days, too weak and hopeless to crawl out of bed, too full of despair to care. She could probably teach him a thing or two about pain. But she'd kept silent because that was the best course of action, especially in a direct attack like the one Matthew Brandon had launched at her.

  What bothered her most was that his words blasted her defenses, ripping holes in the wall she'd constructed as though it were made of paper. No one got through, not even Jeff, though he never stopped trying. So why had a blind man succeeded?

  Because she was vulnerable. The situation with Jeff and Nina’s baby made her think of her own child—a little baby girl lying in a tiny white casket trimmed with gold. She'd named her Rebecca. She would have been three now. Sara swiped at her cheeks and willed the memories to stop, but they bombarded her. Brian hadn't cared what name she put on the death certificate. He’d been too busy packing so he could take up residence with his new girlfriend, which he did the day Sara came home from the hospital.

  The tabloids painted Matthew Brandon as a user and a manipulator of women. Like her ex-husband. Jeff had told her the man wasn’t what he seemed, whatever that meant. She needed answers to the biggest question of all—why hadn’t Jeff told her Matthew Brandon wouldn't talk to anyone but him? Sara grabbed her cell phone and punched out Jeff’s number.

  “Good afternoon, Doctor Sander's office. May I help you?”

  “Hi, Jessie. It's me.”

  “Sara! Hey! How are you?”

  “I'm fine. How is everything?”

  “You mean since ten hours ago, when you left? Well, let's see.” Sara pictured the young woman looking at the ceiling and twirling a strand of curly red hair around her index finger. “April called to say the job interview went very well and she thinks she'll get an offer next week. She said to make sure I told you the next time I talked to you, which I didn't think would be quite so soon.”

  “Let's hope things work out for her,” Sara said. “Anybody else?”

  “Heather called. Her husband's pressuring her big-time. Roses, cards, dinner. Says he'll never look at another woman again and she wants to believe this time will be different. But”—she sighed—“he's told her that six times already.”

  “I know. Just listen to her. That's all you can do until she's ready to make a change.”

  They spent the next several minutes talking about clients, reviewing strategies, discussing probable outcomes. None of it was necessary. They'd been through it all countless times in the past several days. Jessie might be young and her light-hearted style different than Sara's more conservative one, but she was smart, dedicated, and clients loved her. She didn't need Sara to check behind her like a doting mother.

  But Sara needed the familiarity of her work right now to bring back her focus and avoid hearing the inevitable disappointment in Jeff’s voice when she told him she was coming home.

  “So tell me,” Jessie said, the excitement bubbling in her voice, “is he as handsome in person as he is in his photos?”

  “Who?” Sara asked, marveling at the other woman's constant energy.

  “How can you ask me that? Matt Brandon. Super hunk. Every woman's dream!” Her laughter filled the other end of the receiver. “Is he as handsome as his pictures?”

  Oh, God, not Jessie too. “I haven't really noticed.” She'd been so annoyed with him she couldn’t get past his words.

  Of course Jessie couldn't let it go at that. “You haven't noticed?” she squealed. “How could you not notice? He's so incredibly handsome. And sexy. And beautiful.”

  “I think I'm going to be ill.”

  “Be serious, Sara. How is he?”

  Now, there was a question. “Difficult.”

  “Really? Hmm? Well, I'm sure it'll take him some time to adjust to his situation, but if anybody can do it, he can.”

  Matthew Brandon was right. Nobody could say the damn word. “You mean his blindness?”

  “Yeah.” Her tone grew serious. “What a bummer.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Those beautiful silver eyes,” Jessie said. “Looking at you, into you, through you.” She sighed. “Every picture of him makes me feel that way. Are they as breathtaking in real life?”

  “I don't know. He wears dark glasses.” This conversation was ridiculous. Jessie was too intelligent to get reeled in by a handsome face with a glib line. And a pair of silver eyes. “Jeff said he might stop by late in the day to get a little work done. Is he there?”

  “Nope. Haven't seen him.”

  “Everything okay with Nina?”

  “Yeah. The ultrasound looked good and no more bleeding.”

  “Great. Thanks, Jessie. I'll catch him at home.”

  “Sure. Keep me posted on the hunk. Okay? And if you can get him to take off those shades, look at his eyes. Real good. I bet they'll blow you away.”

  “Right. Good-bye,” With responses like Jessie's, no wonder the man had such an overblown ego. She dialed Jeff’s number and he answered on the third ring.

  “Hello.”

  “Hi, Jeff. This is Sara.”

  “Sara. Hi.” He didn't sound at all surprised to hear from her.

  “Why didn't you tell me Matthew Brandon wouldn't talk to anybody but you?”

  He ignored the question. “Is there a problem?”

  “Oh, I'd say there's a problem, all right. He kicked me out of his house. In less than fifteen minutes.” She didn’t tell him how he mistook her for a hooker. Some things were better left alone.

  “That bad, huh?”

  “Worse. Why did you send me here when you knew he wouldn’t want me?”

  “Because right now Matt doesn't know what he wants. But he needs you there, irrespective of what he says or does.”

  “Would two weeks really have made that much of a difference? Couldn't he have just waited for you?”

  “No. He’s on the verge of shutting down and then nobody will be able to reach him. I need you to spend time with him, encourage him to talk. But don't let him know it's a form of treatment because if he suspects you're playing psychologist, he'll shut you out faster than you can blink.”

  “You're asking an awful lot, considering we didn't exactly hit it off.”

  “Be patient with him. He'll come around.”

  “Right. Patience.” She needed three truckloads right abou
t now.

  “And, Sara? Thank you. I know this trip wasn’t your first choice but I really appreciate it.”

  “Just take care of Nina.” She hung up and glanced at the sliding glass doors that opened to the mystery man on the deck. Thirteen and a half more days and she could go home.

  The Way They Were is available at all major retailers.

  Copyright 2012 by Mary Campisi

  SIMPLE RICHES is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and situations are all products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to real persons, locales, or events, are purely coincidental.

  Simple Riches was previously published in 2002 by Kensington Publishing Corp.

  About the Author

  Mary Campisi should have known she’d become a writer when at age thirteen she began changing the ending to all the books she read. It took several years and a number of jobs, including registered nurse, receptionist in a swanky hair salon, accounts payable clerk, and practice manager in an OB/GYN office, for her to rediscover writing. Enter a mouse-less computer, a floppy disk, and a dream large enough to fill a zip drive. The rest of the story lives on in every book she writes.

  When she’s not working on her craft or following the lives of five young adult children, Mary’s digging in the dirt with her flowers and herbs, cooking, reading, walking her rescue lab mix, Cooper, or on the perfect day, riding off into the sunset with her very own ‘hero’ husband on his Electra Glide Classic aka Harley.

  Mary has published with Kensington, Carina Press, The Wild Rose Press, and Jocelyn Hollow Romance.

  Mary loves to hear from readers:

  website: www.marycampisi.com

  e-mail: mailto:mary@marycampisi.com

  blog: http://www.marycampisi.com/blog/

  twitter: https://twitter.com/MaryCampisi