7 Days and 7 Nights

by Wendy Wax

  He reached for a warm piece of corn bread, broke it open, and drenched it with butter. As he munched on his salad, he propped the menu in front of him and began to study the possibilities. It was a good thing he hadn’t eaten much today. If he was going to hold on to his table until closing time, he had a hell of a lot of food ahead of him.

  Matt moved around the kitchen preparing for the birthday feast while Olivia lounged on the sofa. She’d grumped around for a good hour or so after her show, but finally joined him for a triple-header of All My Children, One Life to Live, and General Hospital, thereby giving ABC a nonrecorded ratings boost of significant proportions.

  “I like Oprah.”

  “Hmm?” Matt looked up from the duck breast medallions he was preparing, to find Olivia contemplating him from the couch.

  “I used to make fun of daytime television. I never really had the time for it, and most of the talk show hosts are really just there to entertain, you know?”

  “Which bothers you.”

  She ignored his dig and continued rhapsodizing. “But she has heart. You can tell she really wants to help people and change their lives for the better.”

  “Like you.”

  She looked surprised at the compliment, as if he could have been observing her all this time and not been aware that she was genuinely motivated to help.

  “Well . . . yes.”

  “I’m sure there’re openings in Oprah’s fan club. Maybe you should consider joining.”

  “Be serious.”

  “No, I won’t. You’re serious enough for the both of us. Besides, it’s your birthday. You’re required to have fun.”

  Matt pulled the white asparagus out of the refrigerator and began rinsing them. “If you could do anything you chose today, what would it be?”

  He saw her gaze stray to the front door.

  “Other than leave.”

  “Well, that certainly narrows the possibilities.”

  He leered at her, and waggled his eyebrows for good measure. “There are lots of things we could do here.”

  “Right. And how many of them don’t involve taking our clothes off?”

  “Oh. Well. If you’re going to be picky.”

  Olivia speared him with a look and then turned her attention back to Oprah. Watching her, Matt was pleased to see evidence of the success of his relaxation campaign. Where before she would have been sitting upright, her back barely touching the back of the sofa, she now lounged on the couch with the remote in her hand. Though she didn’t yet use it enough to satisfy him, she no longer treated it like a foreign object. And that wasn’t the only change he’d initiated.

  He’d influenced her dress code, too. At the beginning of the week, she’d been painfully starched and perfectly turned out. Today, her blonde hair was slicked back into a ponytail, and the feet that poked out under the faded jeans were bare—except for the shocking-pink toenails. Her T-shirt proclaimed, “Liv Lives Live on WTLK,” and fit tight enough to outline her shapely breasts very nicely.

  Matt ran his eyes along the luscious curves, remembering the heft and feel of them in his hands, until his body began to react to the images.

  He worked in silence for a while, intrigued by Oprah’s interview with a father who stayed home with quadruplets while his wife went out to work—a premise that zapped his erection in a matter of seconds. As he listened, he caught himself wondering whether quadruplets shared the same kind of bond that twins did, or if it somehow lessened when divided among a greater number of siblings.

  His own connection with his twin, Adam, had been so strong that the severing of it had crippled him for years. Even now the hollow spot deep at his center remained, and he expended considerable energy protecting the vulnerable core.

  Only Olivia refused to leave his memories and guilt undisturbed, and the more she prodded and pushed, the greater the possibility that she’d discover the emptiness yawning inside him—something he’d never allowed another soul to see.

  He was beginning to question whether he could tempt Olivia, put her off kilter, and take advantage of her confusion, without damaging himself. This softening he felt toward her worried him, and so did his audience’s potential reaction; Olivia’s wasn’t the only image the consultant would put under a microscope.

  Matt peeled potatoes and put them on to boil. A few minutes later, Olivia clicked off the television and wandered into the kitchen, ambling toward him at a leisurely pace he’d never seen her use before.

  Matt smiled to himself. Given a few more days, he’d have her sleeping until noon and wandering around the apartment in her jammies—preferably the sheep ones that covered everything and drove him right toward the edge of sanity.

  She took a seat on a barstool directly across from him. Without asking, he opened a bottle of the Veuve Cliquot he’d had delivered and poured them each a glass.

  “Happy birthday, Olivia. I hope the next thirty are even better than the first.”

  She snorted inelegantly, but lifted her glass of champagne to clink against his. “To my advanced age. May it make me wiser in all things.” She looked him in the eye. “May I learn from my mistakes . . . and know better than to repeat them.”

  “I think I’ll just stick to ‘Happy birthday.’ ” Matt raised the glass to his lips and took a long sip. Olivia did the same. “Do you have any plans for the rest of the afternoon?”

  Her glass halted midway to her lips. “I’m considering something really different—like hanging around and killing time.”

  “Why not take a nap? You’re going to need your strength to consume the meal I’m putting together.”

  “A nap?”

  “Um-hmm. With a nice long soak in the tub afterward.”

  “Matt, I told you I—”

  “You can have the bath all to yourself. You can even leave your clothes on if you insist.” He smiled. “Of course, it’s a lot more relaxing and you get a whole lot cleaner naked.”

  She laughed then, her eyes taking on the richness of cut green velvet. His laugh joined hers as his mind formed a picture of Olivia squishing out of the bath, with bubbles dripping from her clothes. Then there was an awkward silence while he pictured her stepping out of that same tub completely naked with tiny droplets of water clinging to her. . . .

  “Matt? Are you okay?”

  “Oh, um, yeah. Sure.” He cleared his throat and lifted the champagne to top off their glasses. “I was just thinking about some things I need to go over with Ben. I want to prep for my show before we sit down for dinner.”

  “Okay.”

  “Why don’t you go ahead and take an hour’s snooze, Livvy? I’ll have your bath drawn and waiting for you at six-thirty so you can be nice and relaxed for your birthday dinner.”

  She stood and rested one hand on the back of the barstool. “You’re going to draw my bath?”

  “But of course, ma chérie,” he replied in his best French accent, which degenerated into a campier version of Inspector Clouseau. “It wheel be my great pleasure.”

  Continuing the imitation, he put his palm under Olivia’s to cup her hand so that he could drop a kiss on the outside of her wrist.

  “Until six-thirty, ma petite. At which time I will be chomping on zee bit.”

  17

  Olivia knew deep shit when she soaked in it. It might be disguised as hot water frothing with perfume-scented bubbles, but it smelled like trouble all the same. Incredibly, she’d slept for more than the allotted hour and would probably be sleeping now if not for Matt.

  He’d banged on her bedroom door until she finally forced herself out of bed to open it, and then with a finesse that spoke of too much experience, he’d led her to the bathroom and presented her with the promised bubble bath.

  So here she sat, her hair piled on top of her head, soaking her naked self, nibbling on fresh strawberries and sipping a fresh glass of champagne. She’d never felt more pampered or more suspicious in her life.

  Olivia swirled a hand through the water,
idly watching the bubbles slide across her skin. They parted and reunited around her, while the warm water caressed her to the bone. She knew Matt was up to something, something undoubtedly fueled by her food donation and votes jump after this morning’s show, but it was hard to keep up one’s guard when one felt as wonderfully lethargic as she did right now.

  The juice of an especially plump strawberry trickled down the corner of her mouth, and Olivia licked it off with her tongue, enjoying the sweet stickiness.

  She trailed the washcloth lightly over her body, down one leg and up her belly to pass across a hardening nipple as she imagined sharing the steamy tub with Matt. Weightless, she floated in the warmth, her body tingling. Slowly, she drew the cloth over her breasts and felt an accompanying ache begin to build deep within her belly.

  Closing her eyes, she sank deeper under the water, drew her knees up, and skimmed the washcloth slowly up between her thighs. The water-weighted cloth pressed against her, and she gave herself up to the sensation, imagining Matt in the tub with her. . . .

  A light rap sounded at the door.

  “Livvy, how are you coming?”

  Olivia dropped the washcloth and sat up in the tub. “I’m good.”

  She imagined her audience’s reaction if she were to open the bathroom door, reach an arm out, and drag Matt inside so that she could have her way with him.

  “Do you want some more champagne? I could top your glass off if you’d like.”

  She wanted to yell, “Fill her up,” and knew she wouldn’t be referring to her glass. Lying here naked with Matt a mere doorknob-turn away was doing funny things to her insides. And her brain. This was not good. “Um, no thanks. I’ll be out soon.”

  With water cascading down her body, she stood and wrapped herself in a towel.

  “I’m completely shriveled,” she hollered.

  When he didn’t respond, Olivia released the drain lever with one toe and stepped out of the tub. Opening the bathroom door, she peeked out to make sure the coast was clear, and finding the hallway empty, she tip-toed the few steps to her room.

  She dressed quickly but with care—repinning her hair into a smoother French twist and applying both eyeliner and mascara along with a swipe of blush high on both cheekbones. Then she painted her lips poppy pink and stepped into a fitted black halter dress.

  In the middle of reaching into her underwear drawer, her gaze swung to the nightstand, and before she could really think it out, she was pulling out the Victoria’s Secret bag so that she could shimmy into the black satin thong. Uh-oh.

  Dropping the hem of the dress back into place, she stopped to study her reflection in the mirror. Outwardly, nothing seemed different. On the outside, she looked like the calm and collected Dr. Olivia Moore; but inside, under the black satin thong, she felt sexy and wanton and someone else entirely—a dangerous dichotomy unlikely to work to her advantage.

  Olivia frowned at her thirty-year-old reflection. Subdued and decorous would see her through the evening far more safely than wild and uninhibited, and if she knew what was good for her, Matt would never suspect what she wore beneath the folds of her dress.

  At his first glimpse of her, Matt’s eyes lit up, and he gave an appreciative whistle. “Wow. There must have been something pretty potent in those bath bubbles.”

  Olivia blushed as she remembered just how potent those bubbles had been. “It felt great, Matt. I never would have thought of it on my own.”

  He looked surprised by the admission, but then smiled, obviously pleased. “Here, have some more champagne while I go shower and change. I seem to smell a little more like dinner than I intended.” He sent her a cheeky glance and an exaggerated wink. “Wouldn’t want you to get confused about what to chomp down on first.”

  She smiled back and tried not to enjoy the way he was looking at her. Subdued and decorous, she repeated to herself as the soft fabric of her dress swished against the bare flesh of her behind. Her lips twitched up at the thought. “Go. Is there something I can stir or turn while you’re gone?”

  “Nope. But you can put some music on if you’d like. I’ll be back in a flash.”

  “Good. I’m starving. And I’m not sure how long I can control myself.” Wasn’t that the truth?

  “Fair enough. If I’m not back before the timer goes off, the hors d’oeuvres are all yours.”

  Olivia sipped champagne and wandered around the room. With a small wave to the Webcam, she knelt down next to the CD player and rifled through the CDs Matt had brought with him, surprised to discover how closely his taste mirrored hers.

  The black balloon bouquets and “Over the Hill” sign still drew her gaze, but with a little effort she managed to focus on the flower arrangements instead. Matt had moved one of them to the center of the kitchen table, which he’d set for two.

  She spent the rest of her time pacing and trying not to picture Matt naked in the next room, rubbing soap all over his hard-muscled body. Or showering it off under the pulsing stream of hot water. Or skimming the towel over every inch of his awesome body. Oops.

  Olivia stopped in front of the small mirror on the foyer wall and glared at her reflection. “Okay, you. Repeat after me,” she commanded. “Do not touch the chef under any circumstances. Do not get any closer to him than absolutely necessary. And whatever you do, don’t drink too much.”

  Olivia picked up her wineglass and took another long, soothing sip. Her nerves vibrated just under her skin, and the only thing that seemed to interrupt the hum was the ingestion of wine—a very temporary fix that required constant repetition and put a great big hole in her plan to keep her distance.

  So far she’d maintained the maximum clearance possible given the shortage of space, but she’d caught the amused look on Matt’s face enough times now to suspect he knew just how hard she was working to keep it that way. Worse, it was becoming increasingly difficult to remember just why maintaining that distance was so important.

  Somewhere along the way, they’d finished the second bottle of champagne and started on the burgundy Matt had insisted would complement the upcoming meal. Smoothing the hem of her dress over her knees, she sat up straighter on her barstool and made a stab at conversation. “Is this spanakopita?”

  Matt picked up one of the triangles of puffed pastry and popped it into his mouth. “Umm-hmm. The Greek deli near the station sent them over as a birthday treat for you. Actually, a lot of our advertisers are wanting in on your thirtieth birthday.”

  “I can’t tell you what aging before a national audience does for a woman’s ego.”

  “Just think of yourself as a fine wine, Olivia. You’re becoming richer, more full-bodied.”

  Funny, how his voice could go all hot and sexy without any warning like that. Olivia lifted her wineglass, drained it in one long swallow, and felt the resulting warmth seep through her.

  “And?” she demanded.

  “And what?”

  She tried to figure out why he was being so charming, but her brain didn’t seem to be up to the task. The warmth infused her and began to seep outward to her limbs.

  “No cracks? No jokes about my age? Just ‘You’re like a fine wine’?”

  “Me? Make jokes about your age?” He smiled. “I happen to think the wine analogy fits. You were cute at twenty-one, Olivia, but you wear thirty very well.” His gaze swept over her, and her flesh reacted as if it were his fingers that trailed across it.

  Looking for a distraction, Olivia picked up the bottle of wine sitting on the counter and poured herself another glass.

  Spellbound, she watched his large, capable hands arrange the duck breast medallions on the plate. His fingers were long and supple, and for a moment she allowed herself to remember the feel of them skimming over her skin, urging her on to places she’d never been before or since. She took a gulp of wine and watched him place whipped garlic potatoes and blanched white asparagus next to the duck.

  “Wow,” she said. “I feel like I’m in a five-star restaurant.”<
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  “Only zee best for zee birthday girl.” He winked and nodded her toward the table. “If you’ll bring the wine and our glasses, we can get started.”

  Olivia picked up the half-empty bottle in one hand and her own mysteriously empty glass in the other. She felt warm and wonderful and increasingly comfortable with the glow that enveloped her. Being thirty felt considerably less traumatic than it had that morning.

  She unfolded the napkin, laid it in her lap, and scooted her chair in closer to the table. When she looked up, her wineglass was once again full, and Matt was passing a basket of rolls in her direction.

  “Bon appétit.” His dark eyes were warm. Very warm.

  Since her mouth was dry, Olivia took a small sip of wine to facilitate swallowing, and when he continued to study her, she took another.

  “Bon appétit to you, too,” she managed.

  Dragging her gaze from his, Olivia turned her attention to her plate. Her knife sliced easily through the duck’s butter-soft breast, and she lifted the first forkful to her mouth while Matt watched. The exquisite mingling of port wine sauce and smoky duck flooded over her tongue to tease her taste buds, and she forgot all about Matt for a moment while she lost herself in the sensation.

  “Mmmm.” Eyes closed, Olivia savored the perfectly blended flavors, enjoying the taste that lingered in her mouth even after she swallowed. “God, that’s good.”

  She opened her eyes to see him light up at the compliment, and she couldn’t help noticing how the candlelight added depth and shadow to the already arresting planes and angles of his face.

  “Glad you like it. I’ve always been partial to duck, though it can be a bit tricky.”

  “Well, you’ve certainly mastered this one.” She took another sip of wine and continued to meet his gaze full-on. His eyes were like two tumblers of whiskey, amber brown and ready to drown in. She felt a delicious tightening deep in her belly that had nothing to do with digestion, and she felt her hazy glow expand in size to encompass them both.