The Sexiest Man Alive (The Romanos Series Book 1)

by Sandra Marton

  How simple it would be, she thought suddenly, to fall crazy in love with Matthew Romano.

  “Susannah?” Matthew said, and when she met his gaze, she knew he’d seen something in her face. She worked hard to draw breath into her lungs, harder still to shove the terrifying thought aside and to smile.

  “Yes?”

  “You drifted away for a minute, Susie. Where’d you go?”

  Where, indeed? She ran the tip of her tongue over her lips. “I—I was thinking that—that we have a meeting this morning.”

  A meeting? Matthew frowned. She was right, they did have a meeting scheduled. He had forgotten all about it, which was something he’d never done before. But Susannah had remembered. His smile faded. He should have known that she would not forget.

  “A meeting. Of course.”

  “And soon. So—so I’ll need to shower and dress.”

  His gaze swept over her, from her tousled curls down the robe to her bare feet.

  “We both will.” He rose and gently tugged her to stand beside him. “What kind of showerer are you, Madison? Hot? Cold? Warm?” He bent his head, brushed her lips with his. “These things are important, you know.”

  She knew what he was saying. He expected they’d shower together. But she couldn’t. Not now. She’d slept with him, made passionate love with him, and it was too much. Her thoughts, her emotions were running away.

  She needed tune and space.

  “I like my shower hot,” she said, with a quick smile. “And, luckily for me, this hotel seems to have an unending supply of hot water.” She took a deep breath. “How about your hotel? Will you get a hot shower this morning, or a tepid one?”

  It was a direct hit. She saw the sudden narrowing of his eyes, knew he’d gotten the message—and that he didn’t like it. I don’t like it, either, she longed to cry out, but I’m afraid, Matthew. I don’t want to fall in love with you.

  “Am I being told, ever so courteously, that it’s time I packed my things and headed for my own quarters?” he asked with a polite smile.

  Susannah drew the lapels of her robe together.

  “Well,” she said, with an equally polite smile, “well, you know how it is….”

  “I don’t think I do. Suppose you tell me.”

  Damn him! He was making this difficult. Well, so be it. He was the one who’d pointed out that sex was sex and business was business.

  “The meeting,” she said.

  Matthew stepped back and folded his arms over his bare chest. Muscles rippled in his shoulders, and she tried not to think about how hot his skin had felt under her palms.

  “What about it?”

  “It’s going to be here. In this suite.”

  “So?”

  “So, if the suite’s not made up, if that table is still set for two, if you’re already here…”

  “Yes?” he said politely.

  “They’ll know.”

  “Know what?”

  “Matthew, for heaven’s sake, must I spell it out?”

  “Yes,” he said coolly. “You must.”

  Susannah puffed out a breath. She crossed the room, then swung to face him, her arms outstretched.

  “They’ll know that we—that you and I…Dammit, Matthew! They’ll know that we—that we…”

  That we made love, he waited for her to say. And then he’d go to her, swing her into his arms, carry her to the bedroom and tell her he didn’t care who in hell knew, that he was going to make love to her again, just to make sure her eyes glowed and her skin had the flushed look of a woman well-loved when the A-to-Z Sexiests came walking in.

  “They’ll know that we slept together,” she said, in a strangled voice.

  She said it the same way someone else might say, They’ll know that we stole the silverware. A muscle knotted in his jaw. It should have been funny. He knew that. But the last thing he wanted to do was laugh.

  She was right. They had slept together. It was a phrase he’d used often, a phrase he’d always felt comfortable with, even if what people did in bed together had little to do with sleep. But the other phrase, the one about making love, had always struck him as cloying and untrue. So why did it bother him, to hear “we slept together” coming from Susannah’s soft, sweet mouth?

  “Matthew? Did you hear me?”

  “I heard you.” He tried a smile. “It’s not against the law, Susie, especially not here, in Paris.”

  “You know what I mean, Matthew. They’ll know. And—”

  “And your authority will be undermined.”

  His tone was flat and cold, as was the look in his eyes. No, she thought, oh, no. That wasn’t what she meant, not at all. What they’d done had been so special. So wonderful She wanted him to tell her that, to say, Susannah, we didn’t sleep together, we made love. We made love, and it meant everything to me….

  “Susannah? Is that the problem?”

  Her head came up. She looked at him. “Yes,” she said, because the lie was far, far safer than the truth. “It isn’t that I’m—that I regret it.”

  Her words were rushed, tumbling from her lips like stones, but she couldn’t stop them, even though she knew she was ruining everything, destroying the few days or weeks they might have shared—not that Matthew gave her the chance.

  “There’s no need to explain.” He turned from her. She followed him into the bedroom, watched as he collected his scattered clothing. “I understand completely.”

  “Good,” she said, in a tight voice. “I wouldn’t want you to think—”

  He looked at her, his face expressionless. “Think what? That business is business and sex is sex?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to. I did.” He flashed a quick smile. “Phone housekeeping. Ask them to come up and do a quick cleaning. I’ll be back in an hour. And, Susannah?”

  “Yes?” she said, and tried for the same even tone as his.

  He smiled again. “Thank you for reminding me just how things are.”

  He buttoned his shirt, slipped on his jacket, tucked his tie into his pocket and walked out, closing the bedroom door after him.

  Susannah stared at the closed door.

  Well, that had been easy enough. She’d expected him to argue. Or to show a rush of anger. To try, at least, to change her mind. He couldn’t have, of course. She knew what she had to do, knew things were best handled this way.

  Her mouth trembled, and she shot an enraged look at the closed door. After a moment, she lifted her chin, shrugged off her robe, stepped over it and strode into the bathroom.

  “The hell with you, Mr. Romano,” she whispered as she turned on the water in the shower. “Just—just the hell with—with…”

  Tears rose in her eyes, spilled down her cheeks. She bowed her head under the spray and let them come.

  “Susannah!”

  She spun as the shower door opened. Matthew stood on the Italian tile floor. He was naked, furious and magnificently, fully male.

  Susannah’s heart turned over. She wanted to throw her arms around him, kiss him, tell him to get out of her life…

  Instead, she did the only logical thing. She crossed her arms over herself in a gesture of classical feminine modesty.

  “Are you crazy?” she demanded.

  “One of us is,” he said. “What kind of games are you playing, Madison?”

  “I’m not playing games, Romano. And if you want to talk to me, you’ll wait until—”

  He stepped inside the shower stall, slammed the door after him and reached for her.

  “Get out,” she said. “Damn you, Romano…”

  He pulled her into his arms and crushed her mouth beneath his. His kiss was rough and electric, and she struggled against it for a heartbeat before she moaned, sank her hands into his hair and opened her mouth to his. His hands slid down, cupped her bottom, lifted her. She wrapped her legs around him and he drove into her, fast and hard and deep, and she came at once, sobbing out his name against hi
s lips, convulsing around him as he poured himself into her.

  “Tell me you don’t want that,” he said, his voice hoarse and passionate in her ear.

  “Matthew. Matthew, please…”

  “Did you really think one night would be all I’d want, Susannah?”

  “No. I don’t… Oh. Oh, Matthew. I can’t—I can’t…”

  “Yes,” he said, pushing her against the marble wall. He was still inside her, hard again, swollen and hot. “Yes,” he whispered, as he began moving, “you can. You will. We both will.”

  She shattered again, and cried out his name. He turned off the water, lifted her and carried her to bed, where he made sweet, tender love to her until she wept with joy in his arms.

  * * *

  In the end, they handled things with discretion.

  He rose from the bed after they’d made love that last time, collected his clothes, kissed her lightly on the mouth and said he’d see her in an hour.

  By the time the meeting began, the suite looked pristine. Matthew joined the little group a few minutes late.

  “Sorry,” he said pleasantly. “The traffic was heavier than I’d expected.”

  And if Susannah’s heart beat faster at the sight of him, no one was the wiser.

  The meeting ended. Everyone rose, stretched, got ready for work. The Sexiests huddled with Jimmy and Claire. The models—Bebe and Noelle today—huddled with the makeup guy and the hairdresser.

  Matthew sought out Susannah.

  “We should be finished by six,” he said softly.

  Susannah nodded. “I think so.”

  He turned his back to the room, blocking everyone from view. “I know a little bistro on the Left Bank.” He smiled into her eyes. “Why don’t I make reservations for eight o’clock?”

  Susannah looked past his shoulder. “They’re all watching us,” she said in a breathless whisper.

  “I’ll come by at seven. We can have drinks first.”

  “Matthew, I don’t—”

  “Yes. You do.” His eyes turned dark and smoky. “Shall I prove it to you the way I did this morning?”

  Color flooded her face.

  “Why?” she whispered.

  He laughed, a low, sexy laugh that made her blood sizzle.

  “I mean,” she said quickly, “why me? I’m not your type.”

  “No,” he said. He ran his finger along the back of her hand. Goose bumps rose on her skin. “You’re not.” He smiled again, right into her eyes. “You’re not blond. You’re not dumb—although many of the ladies I’ve dated would be very upset to hear you use that word in conjunction with them, Susie.” His smile tilted. “I remember Miss North Carolina… She said she wanted to become a physicist.”

  “Matthew, I’m serious.”

  “So am I.” His smile faded. “You’re right. You’re not my type. You’re stubborn and hotheaded. You have a nasty temper and you like things your own way.”

  “You’re a fine one to talk,” she said huffily.

  “And I’d bet I’m not your type either, Madison. I don’t think you like being with a man who reminds you that you’re a woman.”

  “Your ego is unbearable, Romano.”

  “I’m just being honest.” His eyes grew hot. “Tell me if Sam or Peter ever made you feel the way I make you feel.”

  Sam. And Peter. Oh, God…

  “I can see the answer in your eyes, Susie.” Matthew smiled. “Seven o’clock. Don’t keep me waiting I like my women to be prompt.”

  “I am not your—”

  He bent his head and kissed her lightly on the mouth. Then he sauntered away.

  Susannah stared around the room, trying to think of something to say. She wanted to murder him. The cat was out of the bag, for sure. Every eye was fixed on her. Claire was grinning, Jimmy was smiling, and Bebe looked as if she’d swallowed a shoehorn, but why wouldn’t she? Bebe was tall and stunning, with legs up to her armpits and masses of blond hair down to her waist. Matthew’s type, definitely.

  But not anymore.

  She was the woman Matthew wanted. She, and nobody else.

  The sudden realization sent a flush of warmth through her blood. Me, she thought, he wants me…

  And, in that moment, Susannah finally knew the truth.

  She was deeply, completely in love with Matthew Romano.

  * * *

  They flew home late Sunday evening, Matthew to Los Angeles, Susannah to New York.

  Her flight left first, and he waited with her at the airport.

  It was silly, she knew, but she felt on the verge of tears. Already, the magical weekend seemed to have taken place in the distant past. Every time she looked at Matthew, she was afraid she was going to blurt out something she would regret, like those foolish, dangerous words, I love you.

  So she talked, nonstop, about business. The next issue of the magazine and The Sexiest Man Alive issue, which would come out Valentine’s Day. Matthew teased her, gently, about which of the Sexiests she’d choose to be the centerfold.

  “The only sexy guy I want you to think about is me,” he said, softly enough so no one could hear but with a look in his eyes that made her body flush with remembered heat.

  She wanted to tell him the truth, that he really was the sexiest man alive and that she loved him. Instead, she talked about circulation figures and advertising revenues until, finally, her flight was called.

  “Goodbye,” she said.

  Matthew tugged her into his arms and kissed her, gently at first, then passionately. Any last hopes she’d harbored about keeping their relationship a secret were gone.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” she said shakily, when he lifted his mouth from hers.

  “They all know, Susie,” he said, with a little smile. “They can see it in your face, and in mine.” He tucked a stray curl behind her ear, his fingers lingering on her cheek. “I have to be in L.A. all week, but I’ll fly to New York on Friday. Okay?”

  How will I live without you until Friday? she thought, but she wasn’t foolish enough to say that.

  “That’s fine,” she said, and smiled. “I’ll be busy all week, anyway. Even if you managed to fly in, I wouldn’t have time to see you.”

  His smile seemed to dim. “Business is business.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You’d better make sure you’re not busy on Friday,” he said gruffly.

  She knew he was going to kiss her again, so she didn’t give him the chance. “Until Friday,” she said, and she broke away and hurried to the boarding gate.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE week seemed interminable. She couldn’t believe it could take so long to get from Monday to Friday.

  But Friday came and went.

  Matthew phoned. He was apologetic, but business…

  “I know,” Susannah said. “You don’t have to explain.”

  He sent flowers and more flowers. He sent chocolates. The flowers were lovely. Peter thought so, too, and neatly beheaded them all. Susannah swept up the mess and told herself there was nothing meaningful in the sight of those sad little corpses lying among the coffee grounds in the kitchen trash.

  “Next Friday, for certain,” Matthew said, when she called to thank him for the flowers. But as soon as she heard his voice the following Wednesday, she knew.

  “Can’t make it, hmm?” Her words shimmered with artificial cheer.

  “Susannah.” He sounded hurried. She could imagine him glancing at his watch while he spoke with her. “Susannah, I’m sorry. I really thought I’d be able to get to New York this weekend.”

  “That’s all right, Matthew. I have plans anyway”

  “Plans?” He sounded brusque. “What kind of plans?”

  “Oh,” she said gaily, “just plans.” Peter leaped onto the counter and butted his head against her hand. “With—with an old friend.”

  “An old friend?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Goodbye, Matthew.”

  She hung up the phone. He’d
sounded more than brusque, he’d sounded curt. She might have expected that.

  She lifted Peter into her arms and kissed the top of his head. Matthew didn’t like the idea of her having a life that didn’t include him, even if the magic of Paris had worn off in the reality of San Francisco. He didn’t want to continue the relationship. Or maybe he did, but on more convenient terms. Business was business. Sex was sex.

  “Of course,” she said.

  And, really, no surprise. She wasn’t important enough to put before other things.

  Tears filled her eyes, rolled down her cheeks. Peter blinked when they plunked onto his head.

  “Mrrow,” he said indignantly, and demanded she put him down. Even he was deserting her.

  “Even you, Petey, ” Susannah said, and then she slid down the wall, covered her face with her hands and wept.

  * * *

  In Los Angeles, Matthew slammed down the phone, tilted back his chair and glowered at his brother.

  “She’s seeing somebody,” he said.

  Joe looked up from the report he’d been reading. “Who’s seeing somebody?”

  “The woman spends the weekend in bed with me and not two weeks later, she’s seeing somebody else!”

  “What woman? What bed? What are you talking about, Matt?”

  Matthew sat up straight. “Susannah, that’s what. I know she doesn’t confuse sex with—with anything more than sex, but damn, you’d think she’d put a little more value on that weekend.”

  “Susannah? Our Susannah? You and she—”

  “Yeah,” Matthew growled. “And she’s not ‘our’ Susannah. She’s…”

  “Yes?” Joe said, with an interested smile.

  Matthew shot to his feet. “It was meaningless. We were in Paris. It happened, that’s all.”

  Joe’s brows rose. “Paris? I thought you and the French chick… Baby?”

  “Bebe,” Matthew said, and shuddered. “Don’t tell me she called again.”

  “She’s been lighting up the switchboard,” Joe said, and chuckled. “You should be flattered, Matt. It’s not every day a woman follows a guy across the ocean.”

  “She followed her career. She’s got a modeling gig here, so she’s playing all her cards. She left a dozen messages at my hotel in Paris. Now that she’s here, she’s driving me nuts. The other day, she pounced as I was coming out of the office.”