by Debra Webb
She clung to the bedpost and screamed bloody murder.
~*~
Barney’s booming bark coupled with Abby Wade’s chilling scream echoed through the house. Matthew swore and slammed his mug down on the counter, sloshing coffee on his hand. Ignoring the burn, he sprinted out of the kitchen, down the hall, then bounded up the stairs two at a time.
What the hell had happened now?
He skidded to a halt at the door to his guest’s room. Instantly his gaze sought the woman who had haunted his dreams all night long. Perched precariously on the headboard, Abby Wade was all but wrapped around a bedpost. The pale yellow nightshirt she wore displayed those gorgeous long legs he had admired during her brief stint as an exotic dancer. Her auburn tresses were tousled from sleep.
Barney broke into another round of raucous, indignant barking, evoking an earsplitting squeal from Abby. How could she be afraid of Barney? A tickle started in Matthew’s throat and mushroomed into such an overwhelming need to laugh out loud that he barely contained it.
“Do... something... about... the... dog,” she ground out slowly, hotly, anger suffusing every feature of her pretty face.
“Barney, down!” Matthew managed to command without bursting into laughter. He patted his thigh, an unspoken command for the dog to come. Relief flooded Abby’s face as Barney lumbered toward his master.
“You never mentioned having a dog,” she said accusingly.
Matthew flared his palms in a gesture of innocence. “You never asked. It didn’t occur to me when I let him in this morning that you would mind.” He glanced down at Barney who had stationed himself at Matthew’s feet. Convinced that he had nabbed an intruder, the dog gazed expectantly at his master, anticipating a reward. “Downstairs, boy,” he told him firmly. Giving Matthew one final somber look, the old dog reluctantly trudged out of the room. Poor fella. He was really getting on in years.
Abby scrambled off the bed and marched straight up to him. “I know I closed the door last night,” she declared, suspicion in her tone. “I know I did. And unless Barney has learned to open doors, I would like to know exactly how he got in this room.”
Matthew had the sneaking suspicion that he had just been accused of being a peeping Tom. One side of his mouth quirked at the prospect of catching Abby Wade off guard in a tangle of sheets. He blinked the image away and gestured toward the door. “I should have warned you that you have to slam it really hard.” He shrugged. “It’s an old house, what can I say?”
To his sheer amusement, the lady still hadn’t realized that she stood before him in only a thin nightshirt. With the morning sun streaming through the windows behind her, the luscious outline of her body showed up especially well. His lips twitched again with the need to smile.
“Do you find this situation amusing, Mr. Stone?” She tilted her head and all that silky, fiery hair tumbled over one delicate shoulder, but there was nothing at all delicate about her deadly glare.
He shook his head. “Call me Matthew. It’s just that...” The picture of her perched on his grandfather’s old oak headboard suddenly flashed through his mind. The grin won the battle and claimed his lips. “Sorry,” he sputtered as a full-blown laugh erupted from him.
“Look,” Abby hissed. Her gaze narrowed, she shook a finger at him. “Up Close has gone to a lot of trouble to accommodate you on this interview. I’ve traveled all the way from New York, and am prepared to give you my undivided, professional attention. But between your crazy friends and that ferocious animal, I’ve been kidnapped, humiliated...”
She hesitated, her face flushed, whether from anger or remembered emotion, Matthew didn’t know. But the deepening blush only served to enhance her porcelain skin. His body reacted, and he suddenly found himself mesmerized by her full, pouty lips. Lips so naturally red against her pale complexion they looked like berries fallen against winter’s first snow. The kind of lips a man wanted—needed—to kiss.
“What are you staring at?” she demanded crossly.
Matthew jerked his gaze back to hers. “I...ah...” He frowned, chastising himself for acting like a randy teenager who’d just realized how irresistible a woman could be. “Barney’s harmless,” he finished distractedly. “He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
Abby arched one skeptical brow. “No animal that large could ever under any circumstances be considered harmless.”
“He doesn’t bite,” Matthew clarified.
She lifted her chin in challenge. “I saw those fangs. He could bite if the compulsion struck him.”
“Point taken. I’ll make sure he stays outside for the rest of your visit.” Matthew shoved his hands into his pockets, his amusement—as well as his awareness of her womanly attributes—turning to annoyance.
“Now,” she said triumphantly, obviously considering herself the winner of that round. “Are we going to do this interview, or not? I know you’re a busy man, but I have a deadline. I’d like to get started as soon as possible.”
“You know, this interview wasn’t my idea anyway,” Matthew said, more curtly than he’d intended. But, what the hell, the truth would come out sooner or later. “All this hoopla over my doing what anyone else would have done is a little ridiculous if you ask me. But then, no one asked me.”
Miss New York City folded her arms over her chest and shot his a defiant look. “Are you backing out?”
Matthew blew out a breath. As much as he’d love to, he couldn’t. His sister would kill him if he refused to do the interview. Owner of the local newspaper, Jenny had been thrilled beyond belief to have a reporter from a national magazine coming to town. If he were to hazard a guess, he would bet his last dime that Jenny had been instrumental in initiating all this publicity. Everybody knew the hometown hero-of-the-month for Up Close was selected from nominations. Jenny had probably been the one to encourage Salem’s mayor to nominate Matthew.
But he didn’t consider himself a hero. He was just a regular guy who’d done what he had to do. End of story.
“Are we going to do this interview or not?” she prodded, her foot tapping impatiently against the bare wood floor.
“Sure,” he relented. He didn’t miss the flash of relief in her eyes. Miss Wade might be a little ticked about all the mishaps since her arrival, but she wanted this interview. He’d pegged her for a hotshot hell bent on making it to the top the first time he’d spoken with her on the telephone. And now he knew he was right. “Right after the ball game,” he qualified before turning to leave.
“Ball game? What ball game?” Irritation marked her tone.
Matthew paused and glanced over his shoulder. “Didn’t I tell you? I’m not only a hero, but I’m a coach as well.” Before she could rally a comeback, he gave her a slow, deliberate once-over. “By the way, most folks around here wear a little more than that to the Saturday morning games.”
Her gaze immediately dropped to the nightshirt. Deciding the mortified look on her face was revenge enough, Matthew strode out of the room. He would do the stupid interview, but it would be on his terms. If Miss Hotshot from New York City didn’t like it, she could pack up and catch the next flight back to the Big Apple. He didn’t care one way or another.
Well, maybe part of him cared.
But that part didn’t have a say in the matter.
~*~
July’s scorching midmorning sun beat down on the crowd in the weathered bleachers. Abby was enormously thankful for the small slice of shade she’d found at the end of one set of bleachers. It wouldn’t take long in this heat for her pale skin to burn. A lobster-colored complexion was less than attractive, especially on a redhead. Sunscreen hadn’t been on her packing list. Obviously it should have been.
She plucked the front of her T-shirt from her damp skin and shifted uncomfortably on the hard wooden bleachers. Never in her life had she felt so ill at ease. Of course, being surrounded by screaming children and an army of doting mothers didn’t help. If she’d ever seen this many happy families and their rambunctious offsp
ring in one place before, she had no memory of it. Zealous fathers were gathered in clutches around the fence, betting and bragging on whose child would hit a home run or strike out, then immediately blaming the umpire or pitcher if things didn’t go their way.
Abby shook her head. Thankfully she had never once heard any so-called biological clock ticking. Children were fine—as long as they belonged to someone else. And marriage, she mentally harrumphed, was for the people who couldn’t make it on their own. She had tried it once, but once was definitely enough.
Admittedly, the occasional date offered a welcome distraction from her busy career, but that was as far as it went. Unlike the women she knew who juggled careers, husbands and children, all the while bragging about how they had it all, Abby didn’t want it all.
A career woman through and through, she had no time for such domestic distractions. Or desire, either, she added as her gaze did another sweep of the large gathering of harried mothers and restless children. A tiny, traitorous longing that she refused to acknowledge kindled inside her, but she resolutely squashed it.
Her life was full just as it was.
She peered out on to the field where Matthew and the children, who appeared to be in the nine to ten year old range, played. He was certainly a popular coach. And no wonder. He constantly praised the children’s efforts and cheered louder than anyone else when they scored. He jumped, shouted for joy, clapped his hands, and ran around the field like one of the kids himself. But he was definitely no kid.
He wore a pair of faded, hole-in-the-knee jeans, that fit entirely too well. The soft fabric of his T-shirt conformed to his amazingly sculpted torso. “Blue Jays” had been stamped across his broad chest in big blue letters.
As she continued to reluctantly admire the subject of her assignment, he pulled off his cap and swiped his brow with the back of his hand. With the sun blazing down, she could see that his hair was more a dark blond than brown. Not that it mattered, really. Without warning his gaze connected with hers and he gave Abby a breath-stealing smile that thoroughly unnerved her. Her pulse tripped and she quickly averted her gaze. She wondered vaguely if any of the other women in the stands were suffering heart palpitations from merely watching the handsome coach. Probably not, she decided as she scanned the crowd once more.
“You must be Miss Wade.” A friendly voice interrupted her disturbing musings.
Abby looked up to find a blond woman taking a seat beside her. The woman, probably in her early thirties, tall and slender, with luminous blue eyes, looked somehow familiar.
“Excuse me, do I know you?” Abby shifted to face the woman and gave her a brisk, professional smile.
“No, you don’t know me.” The woman’s pleasant smile widened. “But I would know you anywhere from Matt’s description.”
Matt. Realization dawned as details rumbled one over the other into her head. Stone’s mother was deceased, but he still had his father and one sibling—a sister. The blondish brown hair and blue eyes completed the puzzle. “Oh, you’re Jenny, Matthew’s sister.” Abby extended her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Finally, a source. Maybe this interview would get started this morning after all.
“Likewise.” As Jenny shook Abby’s hand her expression turned suddenly somber. “Matt told me about what happened yesterday.” Concern puckered her brow. “I am so sorry. Those guys can be a little strange sometimes, but they mean well. Besides, it would never have happened if Matt had told me when and where you planned to arrive. He’s always so busy he never remembers anything. I think he’d forget his head if it weren’t attached to his shoulders.
Abby frowned. “Why wouldn’t he tell you?”
Jenny bit her lower lip, looking abashed. “I think he was afraid I would ask you for an interview.”
“An interview?” Abby echoed, bewildered.
Jenny’s face lit up with excitement. “I own the Salem Sentinel. I’d love to run a story on what it’s like to be a big city journalist.”
Surprised by her request, Abby waited a beat before she answered. But during that brief pause, she saw the spark she recognized in all journalists. The desperate need—almost an addiction—to uncover a story no one else had. To fill that blank computer screen with words that expressed one’s own unique voice.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked,” Jenny offered meekly.
“That’s okay, really,” Abby put in quickly, feeling an instant connection to the woman. “I’ll make a deal with you. You tell me all about the real Matthew Stone, and I’ll give you that interview.”
“You have a deal, Ms. Wade.” Her bright smile returned a hundredfold.
“Please, call me Abby.”
Jenny nodded, then glanced toward the playing field. “Matt loves kids, that’s for sure. He’s always wanted some of his own, but it wasn’t meant to be,” she said wistfully. “Do you have children?” She turned back to Abby with an I-have-photos look in her eye.
“No,” Abby said quickly. “I don’t.”
Just as she had anticipated, Jenny reached into her purse and pulled out a snapshot with the deftness of someone who showed off her children on a regular basis. “I have five-year-old twins. Chris and Carlee.”
“They’re beautiful,” Abby said in all sincerity. The children really were quite adorable. If they were related to Matthew Stone, they couldn’t help but be cute, she admitted. Jenny prattled on about her children’s antics and their love for their Uncle Matt. Abby listened, maintaining a properly impressed expression.
The crowd around them suddenly cheered and applauded so loudly that the bleachers shook. Abby jumped. Neither she nor Jenny had realized the game was over until the roar broke loose from the crowd. The Blue Jays had won.
They stood to join in the applause. The players clamored around Matthew and the other coach. Matthew looked as joyous as any of the kids on his team. As the Blue Jays gave the members of the other team high fives for trying, Abby followed Jenny in the direction of the parking lot, along with the rest of the dispersing crowd.
A disturbing, empty feeling seized Abby. She paused, watching the exuberant couples hug their children and each other. Siblings shoved and chased each other affectionately, their shrill laughter filling the air. She swallowed back something that felt entirely too much like envy. Not once in her life had she ever attended a baseball game with her father. Her mother had died when Abby was an infant, so she didn’t remember her at all. But this—she surveyed the knots of people once more—she had never been a part of anything like this. Why did that seem suddenly important?
“Good game, coach.”
Abby jerked her attention from those troubling thoughts to Jenny, then to the man striding purposefully toward them, a huge grin plastered across his handsome face. Matthew pulled his sister into his arms and hugged her enthusiastically. Sadness tugged at Abby. What the hell was wrong with her? She plucked at her T-shirt again and fanned her flushed face. Maybe it was the heat. The heat could do strange things to a person.
That had to be it. She couldn’t possibly be envious of a brotherly hug. And she’d certainly never had sentimental feelings about ball games.
“Thanks, Sis. I see you met my shadow.” Matthew directed his electrifying grin in Abby’s direction.
“I sure did.” Jenny winked conspiratorially. “And we struck ourselves a bargain.”
“Is that a fact?” Matthew shifted his attention from Jenny to Abby, pinning her with a look that rattled her, and made her already overheated body swelter.
His gaze still held Abby captive when Jenny asked, “You don’t have anything planned for tonight, do you, Matt?”
He blinked as if he’d just awakened from a dream. “Not as far as I know.”
“Ed’s boss invited us to dinner, but my regular babysitter suddenly came down sick, and Dad already has plans. Can the twins possibly spend the night with you? We’ll get back too late to pick them up.” She flashed Abby an apologetic glance. “I know you have company, but
I’m in a real bind here.”
Matthew opened his mouth to respond, but the pager he wore on his belt, the one Abby hadn’t noticed until now, sounded an alarm. Matthew swore, then listened intently as the dispatcher recited the location of a 1072.
Whatever a 1072 was.
“Gotta go. Can you entertain Abby until I get back?” he asked, already backing toward his truck.
“Be happy to,” Jenny assured him.
“What’s going on?” Abby looked from brother to sister.
“It’s a fire. You can stay with me—”
“Thanks, but I’d like to go.” Abby gave Jenny a quick smile before dashing after Matthew. “Wait,” she shouted as he jumped behind the wheel of his truck. “I’m going with you.”
“You can’t—”
Too late. Abby was already in the passenger seat buckling up. Matthew did not look pleased.
“This isn’t show and tell,” he warned, irritation creasing his brow. “I don’t have time—”
“Then stop wasting it.”
Exhaling his exasperation, Matthew shifted into drive and sped out of the parking lot. The short drive from the ball field to the fire station was accomplished in record time, Abby felt certain. She’d gripped the door so hard during the brief ride that her hand hurt.
The shiny red fire truck roared to life as they entered the building. Matthew and two other men grabbed their gear and suited up as they hurried to climb aboard. Abby watched in utter fascination. In less than ten minutes from the time the alarm sounded, the truck was ready to roll.
Matthew jerked the passenger side door open. “Get in!”
Abby climbed into the big truck and immediately scooted to the middle of the bench seat. Matthew swung in beside her as someone shouted “go” from the rear of the vehicle.
“Let’s roll,” Matthew commanded, his voice gruff, his expression intent.
“Franklin County, this is Salem, we are en route.”
At the sound of that familiar male voice, Abby’s attention snapped to the driver who was speaking into the radio’s mike. Roger. Her mouth dropped open, but before she could speak, Roger shot her a wide, good old boy grin.