One Blazing Night

by Jo Leigh

  She turned mostly to glare at him, but then her shoulders relaxed a little. “Fine. But you can never use the grown-up card again. Are we clear?”

  “As crystal.”

  She took her seat as he focused on not grinning. “So?” she said, sounding quite pissed. “Talk.”

  Matt lost any desire to grin or tease. He wanted this too much. “Look,” he said, keeping his voice low. Private. “We’re both buried in work. You right now more than me, but tomorrow morning the wheels will start turning, and who knows how slammed I’ll be. But I know one thing for sure. If I can get some really good time off—I mean not looking at my calendar, not fielding phone calls, just relaxing—I’ll do a better job when I go back to the grind. If that time is spent with you, it would be outstanding.

  “I know you can’t just take off work, but how about we both keep our evenings free for each other? I won’t swear I can do it for a week, but for the next four days... That I can manage.”

  Her gaze moved from him to her purse, where she’d shoved her cue cards. He wished he knew what she was thinking. He knew what he wanted, but he wasn’t going to press her. It had to be something she wanted, too. Relaxing could mean a lot of different things. A great many of them ending with orgasms.

  He glanced at the brochure he’d brought along. Now, more than ever, he wanted a yes. He’d take three evenings. Two.

  She sighed so long he had to stop himself from grabbing her hands and telling her to rethink her position. “Okay,” she said.

  He leaned back. “I didn’t see that coming,” he admitted.

  “Me neither. But now that I’ve said it, I’m going to stick to it. To the best of my ability.”

  “Of course,” he said. “That’s only fair.”

  “Yes. Fair. Besides, we both have to eat, right? So evenings make sense.”

  He held back a telling smile. “Right. Eating.” As if that were all she had in mind.

  Sam stabbed the last bit of lobster on her plate. “Shut up, you weirdo.”

  6

  MATT TOOK OFF his suit jacket, relieved that it was still early enough in the morning that no employees had shown up at headquarters yet. At a quarter to seven they’d start swarming off the elevators. What he needed to decide was whether or not he wanted his father to know he was already here in Boston.

  He thought about loosening his tie, reconsidered and glanced down at his jeans. He’d sat at the conference table for the entire Skyped call, so he hadn’t bothered with a full suit. But if he stuck around, he’d meet with more than a few raised eyebrows at this bastion of conservative values that was Wilkinson Holdings. There was nothing wrong with that in itself, but the company could do with some fresher voices. The firm was massive and hugely successful just the way it was and could weather storms that would flatten lesser conglomerates. It had strong footholds in international real estate, constructions, pharmaceuticals, small aircraft and, of course, the Wilkinson Hotel chain.

  Matt had worked in every division, starting the day after he’d received his diploma from law school. Actually, even before that. He’d interned summers starting in high school. It was in his blood, this behemoth. The tax structures, the patents, trademarks, public relations, IT. The list went on, and on days like today, the mantle felt heavy. Constricting.

  Although that was most likely because he hadn’t got enough sleep. It felt as though it had been years since he’d woken refreshed. There were too many late nights and not enough downtime. Last night he’d been preoccupied by Sam. He’d have given anything to have seen all her cue cards. But the one he saw was good enough for him. The elevator dinged and he cringed. Just when he’d decided to slip out before anyone saw him. Wait. He still had a shot. Jacket in hand, he walked in the opposite direction from the lobby and down the hallway to the executive elevator. As he pressed the down button, he jerked at the sound of his name being called.

  By his father.

  He made sure his face was neutral and turned around. Charles Wilkinson stood in front of the open door to his office, frowning at Matt’s jeans.

  “What are you doing here? I had no idea you were even in town yet.”

  “Right. I’m not here officially. I’ve barely recovered from the Asia trip. But Takagi’s son was trying to weasel his way out of the non-compete clause. I took care of it. Conference call.”

  “I see,” his father said, undoubtedly noticing that Matt had conveniently left out the part about what he was doing at the office in Boston when he was still supposed to be at home in New York. “Is the kid going to become a problem?”

  “I doubt it. Junior wants to prove he’s the toughest hombre in town, so he’s showboating. They weren’t thrilled that we’re planning a total overhaul of what was their flagship hotel. But it’s all bluster. The contract is sound. He’ll get tired of being a nuisance soon enough.”

  “Good,” Charles said. “We don’t need any drama this close to the board meeting.”

  Matt nodded.

  “Come have a cup of coffee before you disappear.”

  “Did you make it?”

  His father cracked a very small smile. “Shannon put it together last night. All I had to do was press a button.”

  “Okay, then. One cup.” Matt let the elevator slip through his fingers as he joined his father in the suite that overlooked the Charles River. A portrait of Matt’s great-great-grandfather hung in the place of honor above the least comfortable couch in the world. The old man’s bookshelves were heavy, the carpet thick, and no computer had ever touched his big oak desk. The best thing about the office was the view, but the sophisticated coffee machine was a close second.

  Matt let his father pour for them both, and they took their seats opposite each other in the big leather guest chairs. “You’re worried about the board meeting. You think the vote’s going to be that close?”

  His father frowned at his cup. “Bannister and Lee are still on the fence. They both have their own ideas about how the London office should be handled. Truit is never going to vote for you. If we can’t swing one of them...”

  Sighing, Matt took small solace in the great coffee. “You’d think I’d have proved myself by now.”

  “You know better, Matthew. It has nothing to do with merit. You’ve proved your worth many times over. This is far more about me than you.”

  “I don’t think that’s quite true,” Matt said.

  “Regardless, now’s no time to take risks or play loose with this Tokyo deal. All it would take would be one misstep.”

  “Right. One can be forgiven, but two?”

  “Truit has the memory of an elephant. He wants to be right about everything and he did warn you about purchasing a company as new as Featherstone in the 2009 economy.”

  “Yes, yes. He did. And I went after them anyway.” Matt had been fresh out of law school and maybe a bit brash, but Jesus, it was time to let it go. “I’m ready for London, Dad. I mean it.”

  “I believe you. But the board will vote for whoever they think will make them more money.”

  “As long as it doesn’t involve anything to do with the twenty-first century.”

  “It’s not that bad. The plans for the hotel you’re bickering about are ultramodern. You did well there, son. Your input on the deal was invaluable.”

  He could never say his father wasn’t on his side. Which was a good thing. Despite his silver hair and the brutal hours he worked, he was as sharp as he ever had been. Though Matt sometimes wondered if his dad still worried he might make another rash decision.

  “So, Takagi’s son. He’s gunning for...?”

  “His father’s approval, basically.” Matt shrugged. “Legally, he doesn’t have a leg to stand on.”

  “Is that why you seem so agitated?”

  “No.” Matt unclenched his jaw, a
nnoyed that he’d let his unease show. “I didn’t like him. He’s not interested in making his own mark. He wants to displace someone. As publicly as possible.” All true, but that wasn’t what was bothering Matt.

  “Keep him controlled. Don’t bring your ego to the table.”

  Matt finished his coffee and stood up, grabbing the jacket he’d slung over his leather chair. “I need to go before anyone else sees me. We’ll speak before the gala.”

  “Are you bringing someone?”

  “Doubt it,” he said. He thought about the fund-raiser all the way down the thirty-nine floors to street level. Pity Sam wasn’t into parties. He had a feeling she’d rather chew off her own arm than show up at a damn gala with more than five hundred guests.

  But it didn’t make him want to take her any less.

  * * *

  THE MOMENT MATT stepped outside the Wilkinson Holdings building, he called the folks who would be handling the surprise he’d planned for Sam tonight. Apparently they weren’t in yet, and he probably didn’t need to confirm, since he’d spoken to them last night, but he left a message anyway. It could all go south if the timing didn’t work out.

  Around him, crowds of people were rushing to work, and he had nothing to do all day but wait for Sam. Well, if he wanted to review some contracts, yeah, sure, there was plenty to do. But he was too restless and edgy. He needed to burn off some negative energy. Banish the thoughts of the one big mistake he’d made early in his career.

  It wasn’t as if he’d lost all that much money for the company. He’d bet every one of those guys sitting on the board had made more than one error in judgment in the time they’d been there. That the risk he’d taken was still held against him pissed him off. And the fact that his father felt it necessary to warn Matt about his behavior made him sad.

  He’d had offers from other firms. Top-notch legal firms that would have paid him whatever he asked. But he would never know if they had just been buying his name, and that wasn’t for sale. He wasn’t for sale.

  One of the reasons he wanted the London job so much was to prove, once and for all, that he wasn’t a man easily defined, and certainly not by one misstep. That he had no control over whether he got the job or not was so damn frustrating...

  He smiled, knowing exactly what he needed. And hailed a cab.

  When he reached the ugly Southie warehouse, it wasn’t even 8:00 a.m. yet. He wondered if he’d know anyone inside. Probably a few.

  He walked in, and the first thing that hit him was the smell. The sweat that was like a fog had almost gagged him the first day he found the place. This was the stink all the upscale gyms did everything they could to abolish. Kind of disgusting, but at least his tolerance for it had held since college.

  Then came the stares, though far fewer than all those years ago. Boxing as a body workout had gained favor with the millennials, and the ratio of hard-core boxers to those who would never dream of boxing as a profession had shifted. He was met by a couple of wolf whistles, however. He cursed himself for forgetting about his tie and jerked it loose.

  At the back end of the building, the door to the office he was looking for was open and he heard the old man’s rusty voice before he saw him. It occurred to Matt that his ex-trainer had probably forgotten him. Didn’t matter.

  “I’ll be damned,” Carrick Moynihan said, standing up behind his battered desk. “It’s the fancy one come back.”

  Matt held out his hand. “You forgot my name? I’m hurt.”

  “Hell, I know who you are, Matty boy.” Carrick grinned. The guy was still missing a front tooth, but his black Irish hair was now white. “You look good. What are you doing here?”

  “You’ve hardly changed, Carrick. Still skinny as a snake and twice as charming. I’m looking to spar. I’d have to borrow a pair of gloves.”

  “You’d have to borrow a magic wand, too. When’s the last time you were in a ring?”

  “It’s been a while.”

  Carrick moved around the desk and punched him in the gullet. It wasn’t a hard punch, but Matt hadn’t prepared for it. “What the hell?”

  “You’re in no shape to spar,” Carrick said. “Why don’t we just give you some gloves, let you work on a bag?”

  “I work out with a bag. That’s not why I’m here. You never used to be worried I’d get hurt.”

  “You were younger. You healed better.”

  “I was thinking how much I missed you, you old prick. I’m not looking to make this a regular thing, okay? It’s not like back in college. I’ve got a lot of tension to work out, that’s all. You got someone I can go against or not?”

  The older man—he must have been sixty at least—shook his head. “Your funeral.”

  That itch in his chest started to feel better as soon as his hands were taped and he got a good look at his sparring partner. The guy was around Matt’s age. Fit. Hopefully, they would be evenly matched.

  The idea wasn’t quite as shiny when he stepped into the ring. He’d had the time and he should’ve gone by the apartment to change first. He’d hung his dress shirt and was down to a white T and his jeans, which wasn’t ideal, but doable. But he wore the wrong shoes. They wouldn’t keep him near as steady as he needed to be. Sure, he worked out with a bag, but the bag didn’t hit back.

  This was one of the stupidest ideas he’d had in a long time. He hadn’t been so foolish as to decline the protective headgear, but it was no guarantee he wouldn’t get marked. The gala was coming up. If he walked in with a shiner or a swollen jaw, it would spook the board members and he’d kiss the London job goodbye.

  But instead of doing the smart thing, leaving, he leaned in at the handshake and said, “Do me a favor, huh? Don’t mess up my face.”

  The guy started laughing and then announced the request to his trainer and the rest of the room, but he agreed.

  All Matt could do was let the laughter slide off his back. He was in great shape. He could do this.

  It felt damn good to land two straight rights in a row.

  Less so when his opponent abandoned the jabs and the pitty-pat punches and nailed him with a right hook to the ribs.

  * * *

  AS THE SUN inched slowly down, Sam stood in front of the apartment door, knowing Matt probably knew she was there. She hesitated anyway. She was hungry, which was good, because no matter which chef’s brochure he’d chosen, the food would be excellent. She’d purposely worn comfortable clothes, not wanting to send any kind of message, especially because they weren’t going out. Her black jeans were old favorites and who knew how the pink bowling shirt had come into her possession, but she liked it. Since the warm weather from last evening had taken a turn for the bitter, she’d pulled on her camel coat. She carried her big black tote bag as a purse.

  It was the tote that had her worried. She’d put her overnight kit inside. Panties, a T-shirt, socks, toiletries, condoms, a little makeup, a brush. Everything that shouted one-night stand so loudly she was positive Matt would take one look at her and know she’d decided to go for plan B.

  In her defense, she’d made her final decision for the good of her work. Not that she’d tell Matt that. Her brain was too full of wanting him, and she wasn’t concentrating properly. Clark had noticed, of course. And even though she hadn’t said what was bothering her, he probably knew.

  Right now, though, work wasn’t her main concern. So many things could go wrong. The most important of which was she might lose Matt’s friendship.

  No, even if Matt did figure out she’d brought condoms in her purse, it didn’t mean she couldn’t change her mind. He would never press her for more than she was willing to give.

  She rang the doorbell, grinning at the sound of the MP3 playing the first twenty seconds of “Immigrant Song.” At least she didn’t have to worry about Matt finding out suddenly that she was a
weirdo. He’d known that from the get-go.

  The door swung open, and his smile hit her right in the flutters. It made breathing a little difficult.

  “You have a key,” he said with that dry voice that always made her smile.

  “I’m not going to barge in on my guests. I wasn’t raised by wolves.”

  “No, maybe robots. Or cyborgs. Probably cyborgs. Come on in.”

  She stepped into the room, and Matt was suddenly coming at her, his face close enough that she didn’t even think—she just turned so his lips would touch hers.

  She could feel him jerk a little, and that was when she realized he’d been going for a cheek kiss.

  Swell.

  But the man was quick. Before she could even lean back, he’d pressed in, changing the cool lip-on-lip stalemate into what felt like a real kiss. No tongue, though. She put her mixed feelings aside about that, mostly because she’d seen something, people, probably the servers or the chef, standing in the space between the living room and the kitchen.

  Matt let her pull back, and his eyes met hers square on as she did. He grinned again. “Hey. You’re here.”

  “I am,” she said. “It smells like honey and strawberries. Are we having dessert first?”

  “Uh...no. In fact, I’ll take your coat. You can take the rest of your clothes off in the second bedroom. The robe is already laid out on the bed.”

  “Excuse... What?”

  “Coat? Purse?”

  Sam leaned to her right until she could see past Matt. The two people, one male, one female, were dressed in white as chefs would be, but they weren’t there to prepare food. There in the living room were two massage tables set up side by side. Something soft played over the apartment speakers, and the smell inside changed from supersweet to sweet with a spicy edge.

  She stood up straight again. “Massages?”

  He nodded. “Couples massage. We did agree to try out some of the recommendations from the brochure.”