Paradise Found

by Mary Campisi

  The door to his study was open. Rex sat in the big leather chair behind the desk, flipping through a magazine while the Rolling Stones belted out Gimme Shelter in the background. He looked up when she entered the room.

  “Hi, Rex. I can't believe I slept so late. Next time, we better settle on a ten o'clock curfew.”

  “Maybe so.”

  Sara glanced at the patio and the back of Matthew Brandon's Pittsburgh Pirates ball cap. He had repositioned his chair so he couldn't be viewed from the window. Clever of him. “I think I'll go say hello,” she said, turning from Rex. “I'll catch you later.”

  “Sara?”

  She swung back around and noticed the pinched lips and paleness. “What is it?”

  His eyes darted around the room, from ceiling to floor, and everywhere in between. “You can't go out there.”

  “I can't?”

  He fidgeted in his chair. “Matt said no,” he mumbled, studying his watch.

  “Matt said no?”

  A dull flush crept up his cheeks. “Said he wants some time alone.”

  Sara laughed. “He's had nothing but time alone for months.” She shook her head and laughed again.

  “I'm glad you're not upset.”

  “Why would I be upset?” She shot a glance at the Pirates cap. “That doesn't mean I'm going to honor his request and stay in here, though.” She smiled at Rex, whose complexion had gone from red to green.

  “You can't go out there.”

  “Yes, I can. Watch me.” Sara strode to the sliding glass door and reached for the handle. Get ready, Matthew Brandon, here I come. She yanked on the door. Nothing. She pulled again, harder this time.

  “Rex, I think this door's locked. Can you get me the key?” When he didn’t answer, she looked over her shoulder. “Rex? The key?”

  Guilt and dread washed over his face. “There's only one key.”

  “Do you know where it is?”

  He nodded. “Matt's got it.”

  “Oh for heaven's sake,” she muttered. “He locked me out of his patio?” Sara stared at Rex, hands on hips. He shrugged. “And I suppose all of the other sliders are locked as well. With only one key?”

  “No. But Matt had me turn the security system on.” Rex hung his head. “You can't open the sliding glass doors unless you have the code.”

  “Fine.” Damn him. Did he really think a silly old lock and a security system would keep her away?

  “I'm really sorry,” Rex said in a quiet voice. “I like you. You're not like the other docs. You're different.” He lifted his broad shoulders. “Maybe he just needs a little time to see that.”

  “It's not your fault and I'm not upset with you.” But his boss was a different story. “What am I supposed to do while I wait for him to come around?” She hadn't expected an answer and was surprised when Rex provided one.

  “Well, according to Matt, you should consider yourself on vacation and enjoy the sights.”

  She swung away from the door. She'd play his game. For a little while. “Well, if you'll excuse me, I guess I'll be retiring to my cell ... I mean room.” Sara whizzed past him, anxious to be by herself. When she reached the door, she stopped and called over her shoulder, “And you can tell your boss I declare him the victor.” She waited a second before adding, “Of round one.”

  ***

  Sara shook her head at the pecan pie Adam offered her and groaned. “I can't eat one more thing.”

  “How can you resist pecan pie?”

  “I can't, but my hips can,” she said, pushing away her plate. “Besides, didn't you see me eat that double fudge brownie? Where I come from, that's considered rich enough for two desserts.”

  “Well, I guess you leave me no choice but to eat it all myself. Unless of course Rex thinks he's got room for more.” They glanced at Rex who was stuffing a piece of chocolate cheesecake into his mouth. He shook his head.

  “That's what I thought.” Adam popped a pecan in his mouth.

  “We've got to stop eating like this,” Sara said. “It's our second night of overindulgence. Pretty soon they'll have to roll us to our car.”

  Adam shrugged. “So we enjoy food.”

  “Indeed we do,” Rex said, saluting them with a forkful of cheesecake.

  Sara met Rex's warm gaze and her smile deepened. Things were good between them and she wanted to keep them that way. It had been two days since the key incident. Two days of shopping, playing, eating, and having that miserable miscreant avoid her.

  When Adam heard about the situation, he wanted to confront his brother immediately but Sara had urged him to wait it out and play by her rules. Matthew Brandon probably thought she'd succumbed to his high-handed tactics and taken his advice to see the sights for the remainder of her stay. She was seeing them, all right, enjoying them too. But it was merely a ploy to get his guard down. One more day and then she would attack.

  ***

  She crept down the dark hallway, her tiny pocket flashlight providing a faint path of light in front of her. Aside from the faint hum of the air conditioner, the house was still. Conditions were perfect

  Moving along the wall, she touched uneven sections of stucco, marking each room she passed. His was the fourth one on the left. It seemed to take a lifetime to travel a few feet, but she couldn't afford a mistake. When she reached his door, she sipped in air and touched the knob.

  Could she do it? What if someone saw her? How would she ever explain? Sara pushed past the fear and turned the knob, opening the door just enough to slip through and close it behind her.

  The room was huge. Even with the small beam from her pocket flashlight, she could make out a wet bar, large-screen TV, stereo system and the king-size bed that dominated the center of the left wall where Matthew Brandon slept, oblivious to her intrusion.

  He was on his side, his back facing her. She inched closer, comforted by his rhythmic breathing. Thank God he was asleep. She rounded the foot of the bed and tiptoed to the side so she was facing him. The first thing she noticed was his eyelashes. Dark, spiky, full. She hadn't seen them before, not with the sunglasses he wore.

  Her gaze flitted over his face shadowed in darkness, traveled along the strong jaw and neck to settle on his chest. It was broad and from what she could tell, covered with a thick mat of dark hair that trailed along his belly and disappeared beneath a sheet—a sheet that rode low on his hips. Perhaps coming to Matthew Brandon's room at five-thirty in the morning hadn't been such a good idea. But it had seemed so brilliant last night. Of course, she'd been sitting in the safety of her own room, surrounded by light and sweet-smelling flowers, plotting the grandest of schemes to outwit him. She would sneak into his room in the early morning hours, perch next to his bed and pounce on him as soon as he woke up. He would have no choice but to acknowledge her presence. She would get her answers and set some rules.

  It had all seemed perfect but now she wasn't so sure. Perhaps she should opt for plan B. Borrowing the window cleaner's ladder to climb onto Matt's patio seemed a far more reasonable solution than standing in his bedroom at predawn hours watching him sleep with nothing but a swath of sheet wrapped around him. She took a small step backward as the idiocy of her current actions suffocated her. She had to get out and get out now. Sara took another small step.

  Matthew Brandon grabbed her wrist, hard and fast, thrusting her onto the bed. The pocket flashlight flew out of her hand and landed on the ground, blacking out the room. She tried to yell but he clamped a hand over her mouth and pinned her beneath him. “What the hell do you think you're doing?”

  “Get off of me,” she gasped, pushing at his chest. Big mistake. Touching his bare skin only reminded her of their intimate position. She yanked her hands back.

  “Not until you tell me what you're doing in my bedroom.” He jerked her arms over her head and held her there with one hand.

  “You've been avoiding me for days,” Sara spat out, squinting in the darkness, trying to make out his expression. Where was that darn fla
shlight? Not that she needed to see his face to tell he was angry. It was in his voice, in the rigid way he held his body—a body that was touching hers.

  “I wanted my privacy.”

  “You're afraid.”

  “You're crazy.”

  “Am I?” she challenged, trying to ignore his warm breath blowing on her cheek. Anger warred with common sense and won. “You're afraid to talk about the accident because then you'd have to deal with it. And your blindness. Straight out. No more excuses.”

  “Oh really?” His tone was half threat, half mockery. “Well, Sara, I think you're the one who's afraid.”

  “Don't be ridiculous.”

  “And do you know what I think you’re afraid of?” he asked, trailing a free hand along her cheek. She turned her head away, trying to ignore the sensation of heat and light melted together, flowing in and over her. She did not want to feel anything. Not with this man. Not with any man. “You're afraid of me,” he whispered. “Afraid of my touch.”

  “Just because I don't want you pawing me, doesn't mean I'm afraid of you.” She wished she could not feel the springy hair on his chest rubbing against her thin cotton T-shirt.

  He actually laughed at that. “You're a terrible liar.” He brushed his fingers along her jaw, over her cheek, and settled on her mouth. He traced her lips with two fingers, learning the shape and curve of them, teasing the crease until they parted.

  She should stop him, at the very least mouth a word of protest. But she could think of nothing but the feel of his body on hers and the touch of his fingers on her lips. She flicked her tongue along his fingers which made him groan and pull his hand away. “Sara.” He crushed his mouth against hers in a kiss of need and possession, burning hotter with each stroke of his tongue. He loosened his grip on her wrists, framing her face with his hands. She wound her arms around his neck, burying her fingers in his hair. Her tongue mated with his, slow and easy at first, then quick and urgent.

  She moaned.

  He jerked away and let out a curse. Her arms fell away. “Christ,” he muttered, levering himself off her to sit on the edge of the bed. “I think it's time you left,” he said in a quiet voice that reminded her of the balmy breeze that fills the air just before a hurricane rips reality in half.

  Dismissed. Just like that. Was that how he got rid of his women? A one-liner, straight up, no sugar? She wasn’t his woman and she wasn’t leaving until they reached some sort of compromise. “We have things to discuss.”

  “Not now.”

  “When?”

  “Later. Ten o'clock.”

  “Where?”

  “My patio.” He paused a second, then added, “In the hot tub.”

  “You've got to be kidding.” What was he up to now?

  “Do you hear me laughing? If you want to talk, be in my hot tub at ten o'clock. No pencil, no paper, no tape recorder, and no fancy technical terms. Got it?”

  Sara scrambled to her feet. “I've got it,” she mumbled. “I'll see you at ten.” She turned to leave. Now what? How was she supposed to get out of here when the only light in the room came from the digital clock on the nightstand? It would illuminate two, maybe three steps and then she'd be in total darkness again. If only she hadn't lost her flashlight.

  “If you don't get out of this room right now, I'm going to think you came here to do more than talk.”

  At least he didn’t remind her they'd been doing more than talking a few minutes ago. She took two small steps forward. Then two more. She would crawl before admitting she needed his help. Sara put her hands in front of her, feeling the way for obstacles intruding on her path. Step by half step, she moved in the general direction of the door.

  “Need some help?”

  “No.” A half second later her big toe crashed into a hard object and she yelped.

  “What the hell.” He grabbed her by the arm and propelled her forward, leaving her no choice but to put one foot in front of the other. When they reached the door, he pulled it open and waited for her to pass.

  “I could have found my own way,” she said as he led her down the dark hallway to her room.

  “Right.”

  His tone told her he knew she was lying. She should have given it up, but something in his superior attitude would not let her. “I was disoriented. This is the first time I've been in your room…and it was dark.”

  They'd reached her door. Matt leaned over and opened it for her. His bare shoulder brushed hers and she jumped back. “Good night, Sara,” he whispered. “Don't come to my bedroom again unless you're planning to stay. I don't like a tease.”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. By the time her brain formulated a half-intelligent response, he was gone.

  Chapter 5

  She wasn't coming. Not after the way he'd treated her last night. It had been uncalled-for and rude. So why had he done it? More to the point, why did he care? That was the hell of it, he didn't know. Didn't have a clue. And he'd spent the rest of the predawn morning trying to figure it out.

  It was acceptable for him to act like a bastard these days. Even expected. Since the accident he could say and do most anything and women still came back for more. Not that there had been a bevy of female companionship in the past few months. He'd ordered them all away, but initially they'd swarmed him, unrelenting in their pursuit. Now he only had Gabrielle to contend with every once in a while, when she decided to flit in from Milan or Paris or wherever in the hell she'd been.

  So why should he care if one mouthy female from Pittsburgh was insulted? None of this would have happened if Sherlock Holmes hadn't come snooping around his room in the middle of the night. His defenses kicked in, telling him she got what she deserved, but self-justification didn't make him feel any better. Nothing would, except an apology.

  Matt sighed. He hadn't apologized to a female since he was sixteen years old and found his hand up Heather McAllister's sweater. She'd only protested so he wouldn't think she was ‘one of those girls.’ By the end of the night, she'd unbuttoned her sweater, took both hands and told him two were better than one. It had been that way ever since. No challenges, no maybes. They'd all been eager, willing participants—in business and in bed.

  Not this one. Not that he wanted to bed her, because he didn't. But he did want her to be a little more compliant, not so inquisitive. Malleable, that was the word. Like a piece of clay he could shape and design to his liking. Then they could both glide through the rest of her stay with a minimal amount of emotional expenditure.

  The sliding glass door scraped open above the low hum of the hot tub jets. Had she decided to come after all? A tangy scent filled the air. Citrus. Matt took a deep breath, inhaling the fresh fragrance.

  “Mister Matt, I bring you your juice and fruit.”

  Matt frowned. That was not the low throaty voice he had expected to hear. “Thank you, Rosa. What do we have today?” he asked, pretending interest. Rosa believed if a person were eating, the world always looked brighter.

  She rattled off the contents of the tray and their location. “Today we have your fresh-squeezed orange juice at two o'clock, grapefruit cut in half at six o'clock, two oranges, peeled and sliced at nine.” She paused. “Oh, and a wedge of fresh-picked lemon at twelve.”

  “Two, six, nine, twelve. Got it,” Matt said, laying his head back against the edge of the hot tub, arms outstretched on either side. Lemon. Oranges. Citrus. His mind wandered. Sara.

  “Would you like anything else, Mister Matt?”

  “No. This is fine, Rosa. Just leave the tray in the usual spot.”

  “Yes.” She fussed around another minute, then left. He pictured her waddling away, black and gray bun flopping back and forth. Matt reached for a slice of orange from the nine o'clock position. Good old Rosa, she knew how to take care of him. Now if she could only learn to cook something that didn't have chiles or frijoles in it.

  “Sorry I'm late.”

  He paused, the orange slice halfway to his mout
h. Sara. “I thought you weren't coming.”

  “I wasn't,” she answered, her throaty voice deeper than usual.

  “But?”

  “I came to apologize. I never should have invaded your privacy.”

  Matt heard a small splash. She must be in the water now.

  “I'm sorry, Matt.”

  He liked the way his name rolled off her tongue. Like a soft song. Or a caress. He thought of last night and the way her fingers had stroked the back of his neck. He cleared his throat. “I'm the one who should apologize. I was out of line.”

  “It's okay. Let's just forget it.”

  Right. That was like asking someone to forget a pink-striped elephant. “You don't want to talk about it?”

  “No.”

  “Sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought you doctor types wanted to talk about everything,” he said, biting off a chunk of orange. “You know, why did you do it, what were you thinking, what did it feel like—”

  “No.” The denial came too quick, but followed with a calmer, “It was a simple kiss. Nothing more.”

  Didn’t she know when a man had his tongue rammed halfway down a woman's throat it was not considered a simple kiss? But if she wanted to play it cool, he could too. “Good,” he said. “We'll just chalk it up to misguided groping in the dark.”

  “That won't happen again,” she added.

  “I sure as hell don't want it to,” he said, wondering at the truth of his words.

  “Nor do I.”

  “Great.” He had no desire to feel her warm body pressed against his again. None at all.

  “Great,” she echoed. Had he just heard a tremor in her voice? Of course not. That would mean last night had affected her and she'd just admitted it hadn't.