The Mona Lucy

by Peggy Webb

  As far-fetched as that sounded, it was certainly a possibility. Dolly and a cast and crew from Hollywood were staying at O’Banyon Manor filming a scene for her latest movie. A minor detail Lucy had failed to mention when she’d issued the weekend invitation.

  “No, dear, I’m afraid he won’t be coming. He’s very sorry he couldn’t make it, though.”

  “He is?”

  “Oh, I’m sure of it.”

  Sandi floated upstairs on that bit of good news, following Lucy to a room that was heart-stoppingly familiar.

  “Every room in the house is occupied. I’m putting you here. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “No, of course not.”

  Mind? She was ecstatic. After Lucy left she went around Matt’s bedroom caressing furniture and mooning over selected portions of the Oriental carpet. Here, her gown on the floor with his pants. Here, his socks abandoned while they made love. Here, his pillow.

  Here, the sheets that had covered them while they kept the storm at bay.

  Oh, she couldn’t wait for bedtime. She couldn’t wait to climb into that wonderful, history-laden four-poster bed. She was going to climb in buck naked, wallow around in the cool sheets and hot memories arousing her and pretend that she was waiting for Matt to return so she could give birth.

  “No, no,” she would tell the doctor. “I can’t do this till my husband gets here. He wants to see the birth of his first baby right in the same bed where he was born.”

  She didn’t know that for sure, of course, but why couldn’t it be true? Naturally her husband would want his son to be born there. Naturally he would want his wife to follow the long line of O’Banyon women who—

  “Sandi? Dinnertime. Are you okay?” It was Dolly outside in the hallway, knocking and calling her name.

  Chagrined, Sandi opened the door. “I’m sorry. I’m so excited to be back I got carried away and forgot the time.”

  “That’s the way I feel every single time I come back. Like being welcomed home.”

  “Exactly.”

  Arm in arm, the two women went down to dinner.

  If anybody had cared enough to ask why he was on the road in the middle of the night headed to Shady Grove, hell-bent for leather, Matt would have said, “Insanity.” That was the only explanation he could think of for getting up in the middle of a fairly decent movie he’d rented, leaving a half-eaten pizza on the coffee table and packing his bag.

  It wouldn’t hurt to visit his mother more than once a month is what he told himself. Lord knows he wasn’t much else except a good lawyer. He might as well try to be a dutiful son.

  Of course, there were his sisters. He did all right by Elizabeth and Jolie when he saw them, which wasn’t much.

  “Face it, old boy,” he said. “You’re all alone.”

  Here he was talking to himself, though he wasn’t going to mentally flagellate himself over that. The Natchez Trace Parkway did that to lots of people. Once an Indian trade route between Nashville, Tennessee, and Natchez, Mississippi, the Trace was now a controlled-access federal parkway with a speed limit designed for sightseers and the patrolmen who delighted in catching lawyers who ought to know better than to go sixty-five miles an hour instead of the lawful fifty.

  The speeding ticket irked Matt. It was his first since he was a kid with a new driver’s license and a yen for some reckless fun.

  He didn’t like to think about why he’d been speeding, any more than he wanted to contemplate his hasty decision to visit his mother. If he had a lick of sense left he’d have turned and gone back home when he was only twenty minutes on the road.

  But no, he was now more than halfway to Shady Grove, so he planned to make the best of it. He’d slip quietly into his bed, make a few pleasant remarks to Sandi in the morning, then call home for messages and leave saying he had urgent business to attend to, sorry to cut the weekend short, that sort of thing.

  It was a good plan. And he was going to stick to it. No matter what.

  Feeling better now that he had a course of action, Matt turned on the radio and whistled along to the first two tunes, which he happened to know. He didn’t know the next one nor the ten after that, and all of a sudden it struck him as sad that he didn’t know the tunes to songs that half the people in Jackson hummed on their way to work. What did that say about a man?

  That his life was damn narrow, for one thing. And that it was pretty empty if it didn’t even have music.

  Right then and there he made up his mind that when he got back to Jackson he was going to purchase a CD player with the best set of speakers on the market, then go into a good music store and get the latest of everything—blues, jazz, rock and roll, rap. You name it, Matt Coltrane was going to buy it.

  And by George, the next time he found himself on the road all alone late at night, he was going to whistle along to every damn song on the radio.

  “That’ll show them,” he snarled, though he had no idea who he’d be showing nor why he nearly tore the knob off when he shut off the radio.

  His dark mood didn’t lessen all the way to Shady Grove, and when he drove up in his mother’s yard and saw about two dozen vans and cars and trucks, his attitude turned positively vile.

  Wasn’t that just like Lucy to plan a big party for Sandi? Peacocks from all over Shady Grove would be there strutting around, showing off their colors, trying to catch her eye.

  Well, let them. He’d stand back and watch and not lift a finger even if she wanted him to.

  He jerked his bag out of the car and banged his shin. Hard. It took considerable effort not to stand there in the dark cussing.

  He wouldn’t lower himself to that. He’d show them all. Matt Coltrane was a man in total control.

  The house was dark, everybody sleeping, thank God. He wasn’t up to an inquisition tonight.

  He stood letting his eyes adjust to the dark before he headed toward the stairs. He didn’t want to trip over any furniture left out of place by late-night revelers.

  Why Lucy had invited them all to spend the night was beyond his comprehension. None of it made any sense. He wished he’d taken a closer look at the license plates, but he wasn’t about to go poking around outside at this late hour. He probably couldn’t see them anyway. It was one of those starless nights with a bottomless black sky.

  All he wanted was to fall into his bed and try to sleep. Maybe being back at O’Banyon Manor would work like a sleeping narcotic to cure his recent insomnia. He could use about four straight weeks of sleep.

  Since his mother’s house was full of people, he sneaked into his own room, not even turning on the lights lest he wake a perfect stranger. He didn’t even bother to put his bag in the closet, just stripped off his clothes and climbed into bed then fell gratefully toward his pillow.

  That was more like it. A man could sleep in a bed like this. Settling in, getting comfortable, Matt rolled to his side…and into the soft arms of a sleeping woman.

  “Hmm?”

  The sleepy female voice lit firecrackers inside him, and he shot out of bed as if it were occupied by man-eating barracudas.

  “What the hell?”

  He snapped on the light and Sandi sat up wearing nothing except an expression of surprise.

  “Matt? What are you doing here?”

  “More to the point, what are you doing here?”

  “Sleeping…until you came along.”

  “You don’t have to act so huffy about it. This is my bedroom.”

  “It’s the only one available.”

  “I see.”

  Actually he was seeing more than he wanted to. All that lovely flushed skin, the rosy nipples tightly puckered, the tiny nipped-in waist, the cute belly button that he wanted to lick.

  God.

  “Where are your clothes?”

  “I’m not wearing any,” she said.

  She took her sweet time pulling up the sheet. Belatedly he realized he was standing there stark naked, watching. He pounced on his briefs, wishing fervently
he was the kind of man who wore baggy boxers so he could hide at least some of his embarrassing condition.

  He breathed deeply three times, then turned back around to find her wide-eyed and pink-cheeked, irresistible. Almost.

  “It seems we’re stuck with each other,” he said, and when she blushed, he regretted his poor choice of words.

  “Yes.”

  God. How many ways could this sleepy, disheveled woman seduce him?

  “I’ll sleep in the chair.” He headed that way. All business.

  “No, let me.” She leaped out of bed, then hopped back in and wrapped the sheet all the way up to her neck. But not before he’d seen everything he’d ever wanted.

  “Stay put.”

  “You don’t have to roar,” she said.

  Matt counted to ten. “You’re already settled in, so please just lie back down and go to sleep.”

  “But the chair is so small and you’re so big.”

  She had this engaging way of slipping her pink tongue over her lower lip when she was unsure of herself. Pierced, he stalked across the room and snapped off the light in self-defense.

  “Tonight won’t be the first time I’ve slept in a chair.”

  “Well, then, if you’re sure.”

  “I’m positive. Go to sleep, Sandi.”

  He felt around the top of the closet for a quilt, snapped it open then wadded himself into a space that would have been perfectly comfortable for a five-year-old. Dreams of a good night’s sleep now in tatters, he gritted his teeth, shut his eyes and tried to make the best of it.

  “Matt?”

  He jerked up and pulled a crick in his neck. “What?”

  “You don’t have to yell.”

  “I’m not yelling. I’m asking you politely, what do you want?”

  “I don’t want anything. I was just saying good-night.”

  “Good night, Sandi.”

  He pulled the quilt around his ears, uncovering his feet in the process. Well, hell, let them stick out. There were worse things than cold feet.

  Sleeping in the same room with Sandi Wentworth and not being able to touch her, for one thing. Good Lord, what was the matter with him? And why in the world hadn’t he turned around and gone to a motel the minute he discovered her in his bed?

  Insanity. The woman was driving him stark raving mad.

  Unhinged, he lay there trying to decide whether to go or stay. If he left now, after making such a big to-do of sleeping on the chair, she’d think he was running away from her.

  Well, he’d have her know that Matt Coltrane didn’t flee from anybody, and that included enticing wenches with tangled golden hair, innocent-looking eyes and a body designed by somebody who obviously had a cruel sense of humor. Why else would the only woman on the planet he absolutely, positively could not resist be put in his path looking like that?

  “Matt?”

  He jerked up so fast he banged his knee on the marble-topped table beside the lounge chair. Matt counted slowly to ten before he answered her.

  “What?” he said, just as sweet as pie.

  “Are you all right over there?”

  “Yes.” What did she mean by that? “Why shouldn’t I be?”

  “Well, you keep tossing and turning.”

  “Sorry if I’m keeping you awake.”

  “Oh, no, it’s not that. I just thought you might want to change places. I’m smaller, you know.”

  “I know.”

  He could measure her with his hands. And had. The precise length and breadth and depth of her was seared into his memory.

  “Thanks for the offer,” he said. “Just go to sleep, Sandi.”

  “Okay. ’Night, Matt.”

  “Good night again.”

  She lay perfectly still until she heard the even sound of his breathing. Oh, she felt dreadful taking his bed, and selfish to the core. Squinting till her eyes became adjusted to the dark, she saw how uncomfortable he looked, legs jackknifed off the chair, one arm crushed behind his head, the other hanging nearly to the floor.

  And with only one quilt. The least she could do was make sure he didn’t get cold.

  Easing out of bed so she wouldn’t wake him, Sandi slid her quilt off the bed and tiptoed across the room to cover him. He stirred but didn’t wake up.

  She made sure his feet were covered, then stood there telling herself she absolutely must not brush his hair back from his face. Oh, but she could look, couldn’t she? She could drink her fill of the man who overflowed her heart so that she wondered she didn’t leave a trail of love everywhere she went.

  A small sigh escaped her, and he mumbled in his sleep. She still wasn’t wearing a stitch. What if he woke up and caught her staring at him? What would he think? What would he do?

  If she went rummaging around in the dark for her gown, she’d surely wake him, and they’d be right back where they started. Holding her breath, Sandi tiptoed to bed, eased under the sheet and lay there trying to fall back to sleep.

  It was impossible, of course. She never could sleep when she was cold. Maybe she should check the closet and see if she could find another quilt. But no, then there would be the same problem of being caught awake, naked.

  She would just have to make the best of the situation, that was all. There were worse things than freezing to death alone in Matt’s bed while he slept nearby under two quilts. But she couldn’t think what they were.

  Whoever invented air-conditioning with lying thermostats that said seventy but felt like sixty ought to be shot. Sandi would write a letter if she knew where to send her complaint.

  She tried wrapping her arms around herself, then she tried curling into a ball, then she pulled the sheet over her head. Nothing helped.

  She was doomed to spend the rest of the night awake and shivering.

  Pinpricks in his left leg woke Matt up. Somehow the leg was wedged under him and was now a dead weight with absolutely no feeling, as if it had been amputated.

  Stretching and rubbing his leg, Matt noticed the extra quilt. No wonder he’d felt toasty. Too hot, as a matter of fact.

  Sandi must have put the quilt there.

  He squinted toward the bed till he could make her out, a small huddled form looking no bigger than a kitten in the middle of his large antique bed. She was probably freezing. Women were like that. Or so he’d been told.

  The feeling was coming back. Matt tested his leg against the floor, found it secure and tiptoed over to the bed with the extra quilt. Bending over, he gently tucked it around her.

  She heaved a little sigh, uncurled her legs and rolled to her side with one hand tucked under her cheek. She was smiling.

  She was beautiful.

  She was irresistible.

  Being very careful, Matt lifted a strand of golden hair that had fallen across her cheek. It was silky and liquid-feeling, like something alive.

  He stood there with his hand suspended over her face while the soft strand of hair drifted through his fingers.

  It suddenly struck him as remarkable that a woman as kind and gentle as Sandi Wentworth was alone in the world. What had been wrong with her three fiancés? Hadn’t they known they were holding pure gold in their hands?

  If Matt had anything to offer her, he’d go after her in a heartbeat. But she deserved more than cynicism and coldness. She deserved more than a guilt-racked man who had lied to a worthy mother in order to protect an unworthy father.

  Standing beside the bed watching her sleep, he lost track of time. She made a little moaning sound and he wondered, was she cold?

  He tiptoed back across the room, retrieved the other quilt and tucked it tenderly around her. A streak of rosy gold from the rising sun fell across her cheek. Soon it would be dawn. No sense trying to go back to sleep.

  It wouldn’t work anyhow. Not with this aching vision of Sandi in his head.

  He held vigil over her until dawn crept over the windowsill, then he sneaked back to his chair and feigned sleep so she wouldn’t wake up and feel guilty
.

  He heard her the minute she woke up. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her sit up in bed and stretch, her skin deliciously flushed and her eyes bright with morning.

  She tiptoed to her suitcase and pulled on a robe, and he could no longer pretend. He sat up rubbing his eyes as if he’d just had the best night’s sleep of his life.

  “Good morning,” she said. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Like a rock.”

  She didn’t believe him. He’d read enough faces in a court of law to know.

  “Do you mind if I shower first?” she said.

  He pictured Sandi in the bathroom, wet and naked.

  “Go ahead. I’m going down to the pool to do a few laps.”

  “That sounds like fun.”

  Was she angling for an invitation? That’s all he needed.

  “Not the way I swim,” he said. “I do serious laps. It’s a tough workout.”

  “Your body shows it.”

  Why was it the least little thing she said was a turn-on for him? He told her thanks a little too curtly, he was sorry to say. Then he turned his back on the enchantress and rammed his toned but aching body into a pair of jeans.

  “Matt?”

  He turned around shirtless then wished he hadn’t. The way she was staring at his chest made him long for things he knew he couldn’t have. He got caught up in her soft, wanting look, and for an instant he thought about taking her in his arms and leading her to the bed where they would make slow, sweet love to greet the morning. The very best kind.

  Fortunately his common sense reasserted itself, and he dragged himself out of his desire-induced stupor to say, “What, Sandi?”

  “Your mother invited me here for the entire weekend.”

  “I know.”

  She caught her delicious pink tongue between her lips in that unstudied pose that drove him mad. He covered his condition, now acute, by turning sideways and putting on a shirt.

  “I’ll take a hotel room tonight,” she said.

  “Absolutely not.” Breathe, he told himself. “You’re Mother’s guest, and you will stay here. I’ll take the hotel room.”

  “Oh, no. I couldn’t possibly let you do that. Why, I’d feel awful, chasing you out of your own home!”