by Maya Banks
“Oh!” Staring at the notice-board, she bristled as he hovered over her shoulder, reading with growing indignation the words beneath the hastily drawn black arrow. “The opening’s been moved to the rooftop.”
“Which makes more sense,” he drawled, raising a curious, perfectly arched eyebrow at her obvious annoyance, before following the arrow to a different set of lifts. “Given that it is the rooftop garden that’s being officially opened today and not the function room.”
“Yes, but...” Swallowing her words, Matilda followed him along the corridor. The fact she’d been arguing for the last month for the speeches to be held in the garden and not in some bland function room had nothing to do with this man. Admin had decided that a brief champagne reception and speeches would be held here, followed by a smooth transition to the rooftop where Hugh Keller, CEO, would cut the ribbon.
The logistics of bundling more than a hundred people, in varying degrees of health, into a couple of lifts hadn’t appeared to faze anyone except Matilda—until now.
But her irritation was short-lived, replaced almost immediately by the same flutter of nerves that had assailed her only moments before, her palms moist as she clenched her fingers into a fist, chewing nervously on her bottom lip as the lift doors again pinged open.
She didn’t want to go in.
Didn’t want that disquieting, claustrophobic feeling to assail her again. She almost turned and ran, her mind whirring for excuses—a quick dash to the loo perhaps, a phone call she simply had to make—but an impatient foot was tapping, fingers pressing the hold button, and given that she was already horribly late, Matilda had no choice.
* * *
Inadeguato.
As she stepped in hesitantly beside him, the word taunted him.
In adeguato—to be feeling like this, to be thinking like this.
Dante could almost smell the arousal in the air as the doors closed and the lift jolted upwards. But it wasn’t just her heady, feminine fragrance that reached him as he stood there, more the presence of her, the... He struggled for a word to describe his feelings for this delectable stranger, but even with two languages at his disposal, an attempt to sum up what he felt in a single word utterly failed him.
She was divine.
That was a start at least—pale blonde hair was sleeked back from an elfin face, vivid green eyes were surrounded by thick eyelashes and that awful lipstick she’d been wearing only moments ago had been nibbled away now—revealing dark, full red lips, lips that were almost too plump for her delicate face, and Dante found himself wondering if she’d had some work done on herself, for not a single line marred her pale features, her delicate, slightly snubbed nose absolutely in proportion to her petite features. She was certainly a woman who took care of herself. Her eyes were heavily made up, her hair fragranced and glossy—clearly the sort of woman who spent a lot of time in the beauty parlour. Perhaps a few jabs of collagen had plumped those delicious lips to kissable proportions, maybe a few units of Botox had smoothed the lines on her forehead, Dante thought as he found himself scrutinising her face more closely than he had a woman’s in a long time.
A very long time.
He knew that it was wrong to be staring, in adeguato to be feeling this stir of lust for a woman he had never met, a woman whose name he didn’t even know.
A woman who wasn’t his wife.
The lift shuddered, and he saw her brow squiggle into a frown, white teeth working her lips as the lift shuddered to a halt, and Dante’s Botox theory went sailing out of the absent window!
“We’re stuck!” Startled eyes turned to him as the lift jolted and shuddered to a halt, nervous fingers reaching urgently for the panel of buttons, but Dante was too quick for her, his hand closing around hers, pulling her finger back from hitting the panic button.
She felt as if she’d been branded—senses that had been on high alert since she’d first seen him screeched into overdrive, her own internal panic button ringing loudly now as his flesh closed around hers, the impact of his touch sending her into a spin, the dry, hot sensation of his fingers tightening around hers alarming her way more than the jolting lift.
“We are not stuck. This lift sometimes sticks here...see!” His fingers loosened from hers and as the lift shuddered back into life, for the first time Matilda noticed the gold band around his ring finger and it both disappointed and reassured her. The simple ring told her that this raw, testosterone-laden package of masculinity was already well and truly spoken for and suddenly Matilda felt foolish, not just for her rather pathetic reaction to the lift halting but for the intense feelings he had so easily evoked. She gave an apologetic grimace.
“Sorry. I’m just anxious to get there!”
“You seem tense.”
“Because I am tense,” Matilda admitted. The knowledge that he was married allowed her to let down her guard a touch now, sure in her own mind she had completely misread things, that the explosive reaction to him hadn’t been in the least bit mutual, almost convincing herself that it was nerves about the opening that had set her on such a knife edge. Realising the ambiguity of her statement, Matilda elaborated. “I hate this type of thing—” she started, but he jumped in, actually nodding in agreement.
“Me, too,” he said. “There are maybe a hundred places I have to be this morning and instead I will be standing in some stupido garden on the top of a hospital roof, telling people how happy I am to be there...”
“Stupid?” Matilda’s eyes narrowed at his response, anger bristling in her as he, albeit unwittingly, derided the months of painstaking work she had put into the garden they were heading up to. “You think the garden is stupid?” Appalled, she swung around to confront him, realising he probably didn’t know that she was the designer of the garden. But that wasn’t the point—he had no idea who he was talking to, had spouted his arrogant opinion with no thought to who might hear it, no thought at all. But Dante was saved from her stinging response by the lift doors opening.
“Don’t worry. Hopefully it won’t take too long and we can quickly be out of there.” He rolled his eyes, probably expecting a sympathetic response, probably expecting a smooth departure from this meaningless, fleeting meeting, but Matilda was running behind him, tapping him smartly on the shoulder.
“Have you any idea the amount of work that goes into creating a garden like this?”
“No,” he answered rudely. “But I know down to the last cent what it cost and, frankly, I can think of many more important things the hospital could have spent its money on.”
They were walking quickly, too quickly really for Matilda, but rage spurred her to keep up with him. “People will get a lot of pleasure from this garden—sick people,” she added for effect, but clearly unmoved he just shrugged.
“Maybe,” he admitted, “but if I were ill, I’d far rather that the latest equipment was monitoring me than have the knowledge that a garden was awaiting, if I ever made it up there.”
“You’re missing the point...”
“I didn’t realise there was one,” he frowned. “I’m merely expressing an opinion and, given that it’s mostly my money that paid for this ‘reflective garden’, I happen to think I am entitled to one.”
“Your money?”
“My firm’s.” He nodded, revealing little but at least allowing Matilda to discount the movie-star theory! “Initially I was opposed when I heard what the hospital intended spending the donation on, but then some novi
ce put in such a ridiculously low tender, I decided to let it go ahead. No doubt the landscape firm is now declaring bankruptcy, but at the end of the day the hospital has its garden and I appear a man of the people.” All this was said in superior tones with a thick accent so that Matilda was a second or two behind the conversation, blinking angrily as each word was deciphered and finally hit its mark. “Never look a gift pony in the mouth.”
“Horse,” she retorted as she followed this impossible, obnoxious man up the disabled ramp that she had had installed to replace the three concrete steps and opened the small door that led onto the rooftop. “The saying is never look a gift horse...” Her words petered out, the anger that fizzed inside, the nerves that had assailed her all morning fading as she stepped outside.
Outside into what she, Matilda Hamilton, had created.
* * *
The barren, concrete landscape of the hospital roof had become available when the helipad had been relocated to the newly built emergency department the previous year. The hospital had advertised in the newspaper, inviting tenders to transform the nondescript area into a retreat for patients, staff and relatives. A landscape designer by trade, most of her work to that point had been courtesy of her fiancé, Edward—a prominent real estate agent whose wealthy clients were only too happy to part with generous sums of money in order to bolster their properties prior to sale, or to transform Nana’s neglected garden into a small oasis prior to an executor’s auction. But as their relationship had steadily deteriorated, Matilda’s desire to make it on her own had steadily increased. Despite Edwards’s negativity and scorn, she’d registered a business name and duly made an appointment to take measurements of the rooftop and start her plans. Though she hadn’t expected to make it past the first round, the second she had stepped onto the roof, excitement had taken over. It was as if she could see how it should be, could envision this dry, bland area transformed—endless potted trees supplying wind breaks and shade decorated with fairy lights to make it magical at night, cobbled paths where patients could meander and find their own space for reflection, mosaic tables filled with colour, messages of hope and inspiration adorning them like the stained-glass windows of a church where families could sit and share a coffee.
And water features!
Matilda’s signature pieces were definitely in the plural—the gentle sound of running water audible at every turn, blocking out the hum of traffic or nearby people to enable peace or a private conversation. Hugh Keller had listened as she’d painted her vision with words, her hands flailing like windmills as she’d invited him into her mind’s eye, described in minute detail the image she could so clearly see—a centre piece of water jets, shooting from the ground at various, random intervals, catching the sun and the colour from the garden—a centre piece where the elderly could sit and watch and children could play. And now that vision was finally a reality. In just a few moments’ time, when Hugh cut the ribbon, the water features would be turned on and the garden declared open for all to enjoy!
“Matilda!” From all angles her name was being called and Matilda was glad for her momentary popularity—glad for the excuse to slip away from the man she’d walked in with. Not that he’d notice, Matilda thought, accepting congratulations and a welcome glass of champagne, but cross with herself that on this, perhaps the most important day of her life, a day when she should be making contacts, focusing on her achievement, instead she was recalling the brief encounter that had literally left her breathless, her mind drifting from the vitally important to the completely irrelevant.
He’d been nothing but rude, Matilda reminded herself firmly, smiling as Hugh waved through the crowd and made his way over towards her.
Very rude, Matilda reiterated to herself—good-looking he may be, impossibly sexy even, but he was obnoxious and—
“Hi, Hugh.” Matilda kissed the elderly gentleman on the cheek and dragged her mind back to the important event that was taking place. She listened intently as Hugh briefed her on the order of the speeches and part she would take in the day’s events, but somewhere between Hugh reminding her to thank the mayor and the various sponsors Matilda’s mind wandered, along with her eyes—coming to rest on that haughty profile that had both inflamed and enraged her since the moment of impact. Watching a man who stood a foot above a dignified crowd, engaged in conversation yet somehow remaining aloof, somehow standing apart from the rest.
And maybe he sensed he was being watched, perhaps it was her longing that made him turn around, but suddenly he was looking at her, making her feel just as he had a few moments ago in the lift, plunging her back to sample again those giddy, confusing sensations he somehow triggered. Suddenly her ability to concentrate on what Hugh was saying was reduced to ADHD proportions, the chatter in the garden fading into a distant hum as he blatantly held her gaze, just stared directly back at her as with cheeks darkening she boldly did the same. Although the sensible part of her mind was telling her to terminate things, to tear her eyes away, turn her back on him, halt this here and now, somehow she switched her internal remote to mute, somehow she tuned out the warnings and focused instead on the delicious picture.
“Once things calm down, hopefully we can discuss it.” Someone inadvertently knocking her elbow had Matilda snapping back to attention, but way too late to even attempt a recovery, Matilda realised as Hugh gave her a concerned look. “Are you OK?”
“I’m so sorry, Hugh.” Reaching for her mental remote control, Matilda raised the volume, glanced at the gold band on the stranger’s ring finger and, pointedly turning her back, flashed a genuinely apologetic smile. “I really am. I completely missed that last bit of what you said. I’m a bundle of nerves at the moment, checking out that everything’s looking OK...”
“Everything’s looking wonderful, Matilda,” Hugh soothed, making her feel even guiltier! “You’ve done an amazing job. I can’t believe the transformation—just a bare old helipad and rooftop and now it’s this oasis. Everyone who’s been up here, from porters to consultants, has raved about it. I’m just glad it’s finally going to be open for the people who really deserve to enjoy it: the patients and relatives.”
“Me, too.” Matilda smiled. “So, what was it you wanted to discuss, Hugh?”
“A job.” Hugh smiled. “Though I hear you’re rather in demand these days.”
“Only thanks to you,” Matilda admitted. “What sort of job?”
But it was Hugh who was distracted now, smiling at the mayor who was making his way towards them. “Perhaps we could talk after the speeches—when things have calmed down a bit.”
“Of course.” Matilda nodded. “I’ll look forward to it!” More than Hugh knew. The thought of giving a speech—of facing this crowd, no matter how friendly—had filled her with dread for weeks now. The business side of running a business was really not her forte, but she’d done her best to look the part: had been to the beautician’s and had her hair and make-up done—her hair today was neatly put up instead of thrown into a ponytail, expensive foundation replacing the usual slick of sun block and mascara. And the shorts, T-shirts and beloved Blundstone boots, which were her usual fare, had been replaced with a snappy little suit and painfully high heels. As the dreaded speeches started, Matilda stood with mounting heart rate and a very fixed smile, listening in suicidal despair as all her carefully thought-out lines and supposedly random thoughts were one by one used by the speakers that came before her. Tossing the little cards she had so carefully prepared into her—new�
�handbag, Matilda took to the microphone, smile firmly in place as Hugh adjusted it to her rather small height and the PA system shrieked in protest. Staring back at the mixture of curious and bored faces, only one really captured her, and she awaited his reaction—wondered how he would respond when he realised who he had insulted. But he wasn’t even looking—his attention held by some ravishing brunette who was blatantly flirting with him. Flicking her eyes away, Matilda embarked on the first speech in her adult life, carefully thanking the people Hugh had mentioned before taking a deep breath and dragging in the heady fragrance of springtime and, as she always did, drawing strength from it.
“When I first met Hugh to discuss the garden, it was very clear that the hospital wanted a place that would provide respite,” Matilda started. “A place where people could come and find if not peace then somewhere where they could gather their thoughts or even just take a breath that didn’t smell of hospitals.” A few knowing nods from the crowd told her she was on the right track. “With the help of many, many people, I think we’ve been able to provide that. Hospitals can be stressful places, not just for the patients and relatives but for the staff also, and my aim when I took on this job was to create an area void of signs and directions and overhead loudspeakers, a place where people could forget for a little while all that was going on beneath them, and hopefully that’s been achieved.”