by Mary Campisi
“Somehow I can't picture her guzzling a beer. Kind of like thinking about Rosa in a miniskirt.” He shook his head. “The image just doesn't work.”
“That's sick,” Adam said, laughing himself. “Sara's not the beer type. White wine, maybe,” he mused. “But she was stealing a glass of milk and a few of Rosa's chocolate chip cookies. Said she'd smelled them all day and couldn't resist them any longer.”
Matt wondered if she was one of those anorexic types who weighed and measured every ounce of food that went in their mouth. Or she could be a yo-yo dieter who starved herself until she couldn't take it any longer and then started gorging. “How many did she eat?”
“Huh? Two. Why?”
Hmm. Didn’t sound like an anorexic or a gorger. And he'd known both kinds. “What? Oh, nothing. I was just wondering.” Matt took another drink. “Did you tell her Rosa probably spiked them with tequila or hot sauce?”
“She's not that bad.” When Matt raised a brow, Adam added, “Okay, she is that bad. She can't help it if she thinks everybody should be Mexican. We should all have such strong ties to our heritage.”
“It would sure make for some interesting new foods,” Matt agreed.
“Yeah. It would at that.”
“What does she look like?” The question fell out of his mouth before he could yank it back.
“Who?”
Curiosity won over his annoyance with himself. What the hell. “Sara,” he mumbled. “I've spent hours with her and I have no idea what she even looks like.”
“She's not your type.”
“That's an understatement. I have no romantic interest in the woman.” Other than a shared kiss that scorched him every time he thought about it.
“Good. Keep it that way.”
Matt turned his head in Adam's direction. “Was that a threat?”
Adam ignored him. “She's a nice woman, Matt. That's all I'm saying.”
“Okay, Sara Hamilton's guardian angel has spoken. Now will you answer the damn question and tell me what she looks like? For all I know, Medusa could be sitting across from me every day.”
“Hardly. Sara's a very unique woman. In looks and personality.” Adam's tone made Matt perk up. “She's not beautiful, at least not in the classic way of your models and starlets, but there's something about her, an almost ethereal quality that makes her glow. And she's so honest. And caring. With a great personality,” he added.
“A real dog, huh?” Talking about personality and avoiding description was usually a bow-wow sign.
“Not at all. It's just that around Sara, you don't concentrate on her physical attributes as much as her other qualities. Her smile lights up the room. And when you speak to her, she listens. I mean, really listens, not like one of those empty-headed, big white teethers who smile and nod, but have no clue what you're talking about. She does. And she cares about things. You can hear the passion in her voice when she talks about something important to her.” Adam paused. “But I don't need to tell you all this. You noticed it yourself, didn't you?”
Right. The woman Adam had just described was not the same one who'd stormed out of his hot tub this morning. But he couldn't tell Adam that, so he opted for the big lie. “Of course I knew all that.” He almost choked on the words. “That's why I was asking you what she looked like. So I could piece it all together and get an image of her. Visualization and all that stuff the doctors talk about.” What a joke. He'd visualized Sara Hamilton plenty of times in the last several hours. With a big broom and a pointy hat. At least that was better than fixating on her supple mouth and soft skin.
“Oh. Sure. That makes sense.”
Poor Adam, he could be so damn gullible sometimes.
“Well, let's see. She's about five-feet-four or five. Not very tall. Nice shape. Not too skinny. Good curves. Great legs. And there's this neat little swing to her hips when she walks. Almost like she's moving to a beat.” He paused a second. “Oh, and her hair is dark brown, kind of glossy, cut a little above the shoulders with bangs. And a cowlick on the left side.”
“What did you do, put her under a microscope?”
“Hey, what can I say? It's my legal training that makes me notice details. And I can't forget her eyes. You can get lost in them when she looks at you. They're an amber green, kind of tilted at the corners. They change colors with her moods and clothes. When she's passionate about something, they turn this incredible rich amber color, flecked with gold. Like old whiskey. Really beautiful,” he murmured.
Matt was still stuck on passionate. He wondered if her eyes changed shades last night when he was kissing her
“And that's about it, old boy,” Adam said, interrupting his thoughts. “That's Sara Hamilton. Did you get the picture?”
Now, there was a question. Matt forced a smile. “Oh, yeah, I got the picture.” And he did. His little brother was falling big-time for Sara Hamilton, the Wicked Witch from Pittsburgh.
***
Sara stuffed her white tank top into her jean shorts and zipped them up. Her head throbbed with the beginnings of a headache—a Matthew Brandon headache.
Was she going to spend the rest of her stay dodging bold interrogations like the one yesterday morning? He'd pushed and pushed, accusing and formulating his own erroneous conclusions. She'd let him because his words had pierced her heart, bled her soul dry, and left her numb with grief. She hadn't been able to move, let alone think. So she'd told him she was committed to her work and that's why she had no husband, no children. Nothing.
What would he have said if she’d told him the truth? I had a husband and I almost had a baby. But he left and my little girl died. And the only life I have now is the one I live through my clients because I'm too damn scared to live again. It just hurts too much.
Of course, she'd never say anything like that to him. She headed for the sliding glass door and opened the blinds. His chair was empty. Maybe he was still sleeping. She could grab a quick bite before he got up… No, dammit, she was not going to cower like a frightened child. He would like that, had probably anticipated that reaction. Well, he was in for a surprise.
Two minutes later she entered the spacious black-and-white tiled kitchen. Rex sat at the table sipping a Coke and reading the newspaper. Rosa was stirring something at the stove.
“Good morning,” Sara said, grabbing a mug and pouring a cup of coffee. A drop of cream. A hint of sugar. She took a sip. Perfect
Rex glanced up from his paper. “Hey Sara, good morning.”
Rosa turned and offered her a big grin that transformed her lined face into a road map. “Hello, Miss Sara. I have good food for you today. Eggs with salsa.”
“No, thank you, Rosa. I was thinking of something more along the line of a piece of toast.” Seeing the crestfallen look on the older woman's face, she recanted. “Well, maybe just a taste.”
“Good.” Rosa grinned again. “I like you, Miss Sara. You no like Mister Matt's other women. They no eat nothing Rosa fixes. Only coffee. Always coffee. Black coffee.” She waved a plump hand in the air. “Black, black, black. And so skinny. No meat on the bones. How they gonna have the babies? But you”—she nodded her head in approval—“you have a nice hips for babies. You and Mister Matt make lots of babies.”
Babies with Matthew Brandon? “No, Rosa. You've got it all wrong.”
The other woman grinned, a knowing look on her face.
“We're just friends.” And that was stretching it.
“If you say so,” Rosa murmured, turning back to the pot on the stove.
How had she gotten such a crazy idea? A few days ago, Rosa had wanted to drag her out on her ear. Did her change of heart have anything to do with the promise she'd made on her cross? Even so, the whole idea was too bizarre. She and Matthew Brandon? Involved with each other? As in a couple? As in dating? As in more of what happened the other night? Kissing? Touching? More? Good Lord, no. A snicker from Rex's corner drew her attention. At least somebody could laugh at Rosa's blatant matchmaking attempts
.
“Where is he, Rex?”
“Who?” he asked, covering his smile with a huge hand.
Sara gave him a warning look. “Matt.”
“Haven't seen him.” A muffled chuckle escaped his lips. He bent his head over the paper, pretending great interest in the lower left section.
“Mister Matt was not in his room last night,” Rosa said in a singsong voice, as though she were a little bird chirping news. “Perhaps he no can sleep.” She turned her head and gave Sara a pointed look. “Perhaps he lonely.”
“Rosa, that is the most absurd—”
“Perhaps he miss his sweetheart.” She chuckled.
“Who misses his sweetheart?”
Matt.
Sara swung around so fast she almost bumped her nose on the cupboard in front of her. How long had he been standing there? How much had he heard? Her fingers shook as she picked up the coffee pot and poured a little more of the steaming liquid into her cup.
“Who misses his sweetheart?” Matt repeated, his voice closer.
Rex dove in with the grace and ease of one well accustomed to handling sticky situations. “Nobody in particular, Matt. Rosa was just telling us about some guy and his girlfriend.”
“Oh.” Sara heard the scrape of wood on tile. He was at the kitchen table. Sitting down. “Hi, Rosa.” He paused. “Hello, Sara.”
“Hello,” she breathed. How had he known she was here? Had he heard her talking?
“That lemon-orange scent tricks me every time. I'm never sure if what I'm smelling is you or the real thing,” he said.
“Kind of like a fruit salad, I guess,” she said, trying to sound cute. Stupid. That's what she'd sounded like. A fruit salad? Good God.
Rex chuckled.
Matt laughed, a rich, low timbre washing over her with its warmth. “Actually, it reminds me of your personality. Sometimes sweet. Sometimes tart. But always tangy.”
Sara blinked. Had he just complimented or insulted her? Or both? She wasn't sure. That was the problem with Matthew Brandon. She was never sure of anything with him.
Rex cleared his throat. “Coffee, Matt?” Thank God for Rex. He always seemed to know his way around an awkward situation. She guessed he'd had plenty of experience.
“Sounds great. But you sit still. I'll get it.”
“I'll get it for you,” Sara said, her words spilling out so fast she knew they must all be watching her—Matt more than the others. His blindness was no obstacle to his sight, not the sight that counted, the intuitive perceptive vision that gained entry into another person's thoughts, ideas, hopes. He seemed quite adept at crawling inside, making himself comfortable, dissecting words and emotions, one feeling at a time. Especially hers—and that made him very dangerous.
“Thank you.” There was an odd note to his voice. What was it? Hesitation?
She pulled another mug from the cupboard and lifted the pot. “Black, right?”
“Yes.” Pause. “Thank you.”
Rex cleared his throat. Again. Rosa started humming a squeaky rendition of I Will Always Love You. Sara would have a long talk with both of these instigators later. She picked up the cup, ignoring the wave of heat spreading across her face, and turned around. She'd taken no more than three steps when she forced herself to look at him. The mug crashed to the floor, sending hot coffee and splintering shards of white ceramic everywhere. She gasped. Her eyes remained fixed on the most arresting pair of silver eyes she'd ever seen.
“Are you all right?” Matt jumped up from his chair, inching forward, his arm outstretched to her.
She recovered from her initial shock. “Clumsy,” she murmured.
“Did you get burned?” There was real concern in his voice.
“No.” She shook her head, staring at him.
“I've got it,” Rex said, his big bulk pushing through the laundry room with a mop and bucket. When had he left? Sara remembered nothing but the startling shock of seeing Matt without his sunglasses.
Rosa tsk tsked behind her. “You no get burned for sure, Miss Sara?”
“I'm fine, Rosa. Just clumsy, I guess.”
“Give me your hand,” Matt said, holding his out to her.
She clasped his warm fingers, felt them close over hers and urge her toward him. He led her through the living room, pushed open the sliding glass door and stepped outside. Neither spoke as they made their way toward the patio. His footsteps were measured and even. Sara guessed he was counting his way. Adam had said he'd spent weeks calculating paces so he could move about with ease—like someone who wasn't blind.
Chapter 7
Sara followed Matt onto the stone patio. He released her hand and said, “I'll get you a chair.” He moved several paces ahead of her and located a recliner with a green-and-white striped cushion. Pulling it toward his own, he said, “Go ahead and sit down.” He waited for her to settle in before taking his own seat, his tanned legs straddling either side.
“Thank you,” Sara managed, not sure if she was thanking him for showing her an unexpected gentleness or not commenting on her obvious clumsiness. She suspected a little of both.
He shrugged but said nothing.
“Matt,” she said, drawn to the silver depths of his gaze. “Your eyes…”
“What?” he asked, lifting his hand to his face. “Dammit, I forgot my glasses.” He started to rise, his mouth flattening into a straight line.
“Stay. Don't hide behind them anymore.”
His eyes narrowed. “I'm not hiding behind them. It's just that I'm more comfortable when I have them on,” he muttered, sitting straight up, as if he were preparing to bolt from the chair.
“Please, Matt. Don't.”
It was a simple request but the implications were more complicated than California driving during rush hour. If he conceded and honored her request, she'd take that as a sign of trust. If he chose to ignore her, then she'd know where she stood with him—nowhere. His brow was furrowed, his lips flattened, his jaw clenched. He blew out a long breath and sank into his chair.
“I like you without your glasses,” she admitted, anxious to make him feel more comfortable with his decision.
“Thanks.”
The sharpness in his voice told her he wasn’t one hundred percent okay with it. She pushed on. “I've never quite seen that shade of…silver.” She studied his eyes, her heart tugging at the blank stare in them. What would they look like filled with emotions like passion, anger, joy?
“They might be intriguing, but they're useless.” Matt lay back in the recliner, heaving a big sigh that sounded a lot like disgust and crossed his arms over his chest. “I'd settle for plain old brown ones any day if they came with sight.”
What could she say to that? He was right. No one in his or her right mind would choose beautiful over functional. Well, maybe that wasn't really a good analogy. People did that every day. Women crammed their feet into three-inch heels to slenderize their legs. Then they stuffed their bodies into super control-top panty hose to hide that extra tummy bulge. Why? To attain The Look. Beautiful? Perhaps. Functional? No. Men were no better. They tooled around in sports cars with no legroom and even fewer passenger accommodations. And some made a hobby of collecting gorgeous females whose only useful skill was looking beautiful.
It was a crazy world. But Matt's situation was different. He just wanted to see, no matter if the eyes were brown, green, or violet. The swoosh of the sliding glass door interrupted her thoughts on beauty and function. Rosa appeared with a tray full of coffee, mugs, toast, eggs, and fruit. And a big bottle of hot sauce.
“I bring you your breakfast,” Rosa said, smiling. She laid the tray on the glass table and started to arrange a plate. “Is your favorite, Mister Matt. Scrambled eggs with salsa. And I bring your hot sauce, too.”
“Ah, Rosa,” Matt teased, “you know they say ‘the way to a man's heart is through his stomach.’” He patted his own. “Well, I think you're about two-thirds of the way through my stomach lining.” He grinned
. “I'd say you're almost there.”
Sara laughed and Rosa clucked her tongue at him. “I look for you this morning, Mister Matt. The bed is nice and neat.” She handed him a plate heaped with eggs, toast, and melon. “Eggs is two o'clock, toast is six, and melon is ten.” She wiped her hands on her cotton apron. “So, where you sleep last night?”
Matt took a bite of egg and said, “Weight room.”
She scooped a healthy serving of eggs onto Sara's plate. “Weight room?”
Matt shrugged. “I'm getting a gut.” He sunk his teeth into a piece of toast.
“Hah!” the older woman huffed. “You no fat. You perfect.” She cast a sly smile in Sara's direction. “Is he no perfect, Miss Sara?”
“Ah…” she stammered, dragging her gaze to Matt. He had a look on his face that said, See if you can get out of this one. Rosa would accept no less than full agreement. Matt's smile broadened as he waited for her to answer. “Ah…yes. Yes, he is…” She couldn't bring herself to utter the word perfect, not when he sat there, grinning at her and waiting.
Rosa smiled, satisfied with her answer. “So why you no sleep in your own bed?” she asked, handing Sara a plate. “Maybe something, say somebody on your mind and you no can sleep?” She winked at Sara.
Sara threw the troublesome matchmaker a warning look. She almost wished Rosa were still trying to oust her from the house. It would be less embarrassing. Rosa playing matchmaker was about as subtle as an elephant in tights.
Matt laughed, as if the very idea that a female would render him sleepless was outrageous. “No, nothing like that. Adam and I finished working out, had a few beers, and then I closed my eyes. The next thing I know, I'm waking up with a stiff neck and a bad case of tennis ball breath.” He popped a melon into his mouth. “And no glasses.” He turned his head toward Sara and smiled.
Oh, but he had a smile. And with those silver eyes, it was a killer combination.
“You hair no look so great either.” Rosa patted her plump fingers on his head and tried to smooth a few errant locks. “Is curly this way”—she pulled on a dark brown tuft—“and stick out that way.”