For the rest of that week, Rita felt as if she were walking on eggshells—no, ice-cream cones, a much more appropriate Barone comparison. Whenever she saw Dr. Grayson, she tried to pretend there was nothing different about them just because he was going to be her date—or, rather, escort, she quickly corrected herself.
Except that, somehow, everything felt different.
Suddenly every time she saw him, a funny little burst of heat exploded in her belly, and her mind went blank. She never knew what to say to him after that first hello, so she’d manufacture some excuse to flee his presence before he began thinking her a complete dolt.
She also started noticing things about him that she hadn’t noticed before. Like how he put more sugar into his coffee than any health professional should. Like how long and elegant his fingers were—which was hardly surprising for a surgeon. But she was never thinking about him performing surgery when she noticed his hands. Instead she thought about those hands doing other things, things to her, things she really shouldn’t be thinking about in polite and mixed company. She noticed, too, how broad his shoulders were beneath his white coat. And how he smelled so clean and earthy and masculine. And how his dreamy green eyes seemed to have flecks of blue in them whenever the light hit them just so.
Things like that.
So, by the time Friday evening arrived, Rita just wasn’t sure how she was supposed to act. Not around her family when she showed up at Baronessa’s executive headquarters with Dr. Grayson at her side, and certainly not around Dr. Grayson himself. As she stood before the mirror in her bedroom at half past six, pondering her reflection, she realized the outfit she had allowed her sister to choose for her was nothing like the kind of outfit she would have chosen for herself.
Talk about your little black dresses…
This particular black dress was just about the littlest one she’d ever seen. And somehow it seemed a lot littler now than it had in the dressing room of Lord & Taylor. In spite of her efforts, the hemline kept creeping several inches above her knees, the neckline kept creeping several inches below her neck, and the cap sleeves several inches away from her collarbones. Granted, Maria had said the dress was supposed to be “off the shoulder,” but Rita couldn’t help thinking this dress was going to be off way more than her shoulders before the night was through.
Then, when she realized how that thought had come out, she really began to panic. She told herself there was no way her dress would be going off anywhere tonight. Dr. Grayson was much too professional a man ever to try anything like that with a co-worker. And Rita had promised herself a long time ago that when she gave herself to a man it would be because she was utterly and irrevocably in love with him. And she wasn’t in love with Dr. Grayson. Not utterly, not irrevocably, not any way. Ergo, the only place her dress was going tonight was back in her own closet.
Besides, she thought further as she tried to tug down the hem again, the garment was so tight, it was bound to cling to her body like a second skin. Somehow, though, that realization wasn’t particularly reassuring, either.
She had accessorized the dress with a pearl choker, bracelet and earrings that had belonged to her Nonna Barone. And then she had slipped on the smoky black stockings Maria had also made her buy during their shop-till-they-drop excursion—real stockings, too, the kind you had to wear with a garter belt, even though Rita had protested that such an ensemble was archaic and uncomfortable, and more than a little silly.
But Maria had laughed off her objections, had insisted that wearing such a garment would make Rita feel feminine and playful and even a little powerful—Maria had read all about it in Cosmopolitan, after all—and that feeling that way would help Rita battle the nervousness she felt around Matthew Grayson. When Rita had asked her sister what made her think she felt nervous around Matthew Grayson, Maria had only smiled a secret little smile and had pitched the garter belt and stockings—along with a matching black-lace, strapless demi-cup bra—onto the pile of Rita’s other purchases.
Now, as nervous as she was—and as reluctant as she was to admit it—Rita did feel more feminine and playful than she normally did. And, oddly, she felt a little more powerful. Maria had told her that she shouldn’t want to be practical tonight, not when she was taking “that yummy Dr. Grayson” to the party.
That yummy Dr. Grayson, Rita repeated to herself as she pulled a brush one last time through her hair, which she’d opted to wear loose. Funny, but she’d never thought of him as yummy before. Other things, certainly, including intense, intriguing and enigmatic. And, oh, all right, handsome, too, in an imperfect kind of way. And, yes, sexy, as well. She admitted that. But not yummy. That was too frivolous a word for Dr. Matthew Grayson. What he was was…
Delicious.
Rita closed her eyes and made herself turn away from the mirror. He was not delicious, she told herself. He wasn’t. He was Dr. Matthew Grayson, gruff, distant co-worker. And why had that funny little heat exploded in her belly again all of a sudden, when he wasn’t even around to cause it?
With one final, deep breath, she opened her eyes and straightened her shoulders and told herself there was no reason for her to be nervous. She would be surrounded tonight by family and friends she’d known forever, and they would be celebrating a new direction for the family business that was bound to put Baronessa Gelati back on its feet after the debacles and scandals of the last two months. She would be festive and happy and bright.
Even if there was a funny little heat exploding in her belly at every thought she had about Matthew Grayson.
The executive headquarters of Baronessa Gelati were located near the Prudential Center on Huntington Avenue, in a five-story glass-and-chrome building that was ultra-modern, ultra-elegant and ultra-sleek. To Matthew’s way of thinking, the structure was reflective of the Barones themselves, fresh and brash and stylish. Rita gave him a brief history and overview of Baronessa Gelati as they took the elevator to the very top of the building, where she said the offices of the CEO, COO and CFO were located—and also where the party would be held. Marketing and PR, she told him as they passed it, were located on the fourth floor, while the actual manufacturing plant was located just west of Boston in Brookline. In addition to those two business locales, she told him, the Barones had a family compound in Harwichport, on Cape Cod, to which they retreated on a fairly regular basis for holidays and such.
“Of course, I don’t visit as often as some of my brothers and sisters and cousins do,” Rita said as they stepped off the elevator and into the world of Baronessa Gelati. “What with work and everything, it’s hard to take off for any length of time. Still, it’s a wonderful house and location. Maybe sometime—”
She halted mid-sentence, without completing the thought, even though Matthew was fairly sure she had been about to extend another invitation to him, one that included joining her and her family there sometime. Or had she halted because, deep down, she really didn’t wanted to prolong their liaison, or because she was afraid he would say no? The possibilities, he thought, were fascinating.
As was Rita Barone.
He still couldn’t get over how beautiful she looked. He’d thought her pretty since the first day he had seen her, but dressed as she was tonight, pretty was far too tame a word for her. His mental thesaurus could conjure some much more appropriate ones with fairly little effort. Gorgeous. Stunning. Ravishing. Magnificent.
Those were good for a start.
When he’d opened his front door to find her on the other side, he had been immediately glad that he’d opted for his best, most elegant dark suit, white dress shirt and silk tie. But after that, the only thing he’d been able to register was all that skin on Rita. And how soft and supple and darkly exotic it was. He’d never seen her in anything but her scrubs, and he hadn’t been able to help himself as he’d skimmed his gaze over her from head to toe and back again, noting the soft swells of her breasts peeking out of the top of her dress, and the long, long legs beneath.
And her hair. Finally, he knew how long it was, shimmering with dark fire as it cascaded to the middle of her shoulder blades. Straight and thick and silky, it was the kind of hair that drew a man’s hand, and Matthew had been battling the urge to reach out to her all evening. Not just to touch her hair, either. No, there were lots of places on Rita Barone he’d like to touch. But not here, he quickly amended. Not surrounded by members of her family. It would be much better to touch Rita later, when they were alone.
But he was getting ahead of himself there. Farther ahead than he’d actually ever be, no doubt. Because Rita had offered no sign that this evening was going to be anything other than a family gathering to which she had invited a co-worker, and only because she needed an escort to prevent her from being harassed by family members about her state of singleness. Unless, of course, he took as a sign that dress she was almost wearing.
The dress that her sister had picked out for her, a little voice in his head reminded him when he recalled their conversation of Monday. So even the dress couldn’t be construed as a sign. He’d have to rely on Rita herself for those. And unless he could convince himself that meaningless small talk was a come-on, she’d offered no indication she wanted anything more from him tonight than his simple companionship.
So far.
Speaking of meaningless small talk, he remembered then that they were supposed to be engaged in that activity. So he leapt on her final statement, especially since she had voiced something about which he had always been curious anyway.
“Why didn’t you go into the family business?” he asked. “After all, the name Barone is synonymous with Italian ice cream here in Boston. Why did you pursue a career in nursing instead?”
Rita shrugged as she thought about it. “I don’t know,” she told him. “I got a toy nurse kit for Christmas when I was five, and there was just no going back after that. I can’t remember ever wanting to be anything but a nurse. I mean, I could have gone into the business, I guess, if I’d wanted to. But I’m not especially business-minded, and I really never had that much of an interest in it. Not like some of my brothers and sisters did. Nicholas is COO, Joe is CFO, Gina is the VP of marketing and PR, and Maria manages the original Baronessa Gelateria on Hanover Street. But there are eight of us,” she reminded him. “And cousins, too. My cousins Derrick and Emily both work for the company. I don’t think even Dad could have found a place for all of us. Fortunately, some of us did want to follow other courses. My brother Reese is a day trader. Alex joined the navy. Colleen is a social worker now. My cousin Claudia does volunteer work. And my cousin Daniel…” She smiled. “Well, Daniel is sort of a professional thrill-seeker and playboy.”
“Nice work if you can get it,” Matthew commented wryly.
“Isn’t it, though?” Rita agreed with a chuckle. “Come on, Dr. Grayson. I’ll stop talking about them, and you can meet them face-to-face. I’m pretty sure just about everyone will be here tonight, except Reese and Alex.”
As she took a step away from him, Matthew remained rooted in place. But he reached out to circle her wrist with loose fingers and pull her back toward himself. She faltered at the unexpectedness of his gesture, then overshot her original position as she stumbled backward, coming to a halt when there was scarcely an inch of space to separate their bodies. Instinctively, she opened her hand against his chest to steady herself, and for one split second, Matthew’s entire body went rigid under her touch. When his gaze met hers, he could see that she was startled, though whether it was by his action or by his reaction to her action, he couldn’t have said. But she never moved her hand, only pressed it even more intimately against him, as if she were afraid she might fall if she didn’t. And he never let go of her wrist, as if he were afraid of something, too.
“What’s wrong?” she asked softly, breathlessly, and something about the low, throaty timbre of her voice did funny things to Matthew’s insides.
“I’m not going anywhere with you, Rita,” he said quietly, “until you promise to stop calling me Dr. Grayson and start calling me Matthew.”
She hesitated for a moment, her lips parting slightly, her gaze still locked with his. Her eyes were so dark, so deep and so hypnotic, that he felt as if he were nearly drowning in their bittersweet chocolate depths. Her mouth, too, was so succulent and seductive, he wanted nothing more than to dip his head to hers and brush his lips lightly, once, twice, three times, over hers. So focused on the thought was he, in fact, that he actually began to lower his head to hers, until…
“O-okay,” she said, “M-Matthew.”
Just like that, the spell was broken and Matthew realized the insanity of his thoughts. He pulled his head back and released her wrist, and Rita, seeming nearly as dazed as he, dropped her hand from his chest and back to her side.
At least he had finally heard her speak his name, he thought, trying to reassure himself. Even if she hadn’t been able to say it without tripping over it. Still, he liked the way she said it. He liked it a lot. When she took a step forward this time—though with a bit less determination than she had shown the first time—he followed her.
As she led him down a long corridor past offices and utility rooms and meeting areas, Matthew heard the faint strains of music drawing nearer, music filled with saxophones, clarinets and the soft brush of drums. Cool jazz. Finally, they turned a corner and cleared another, shorter, corridor, and then found themselves in a massive, glass-enclosed banquet room that had clearly been designed for social functions such as this.
Even from the entry, Matthew could look to the other side of the room and see the lights of Boston twinkling against a dusky sky washed with the deep lavenders and golds of impending sunset. Wispy clouds smudged with purple stretched from one side of the panorama to the other, hinting at the darkness that would come soon. Inside, there were twinkling lights, too, tiny white ones in scores of potted trees situated throughout the room, and crisscrossing the ceiling overhead. In the far corner, he saw the source of the jazzy music, a small combo near which a few couples were dancing. Portable bars and tables of elegant-looking appetizers and finger foods were interspersed throughout, and the place was packed with people.
“Boy, your family certainly knows how to throw a party,” Matthew said as he followed Rita inside.
“That they do,” she agreed enthusiastically. “Oh, look, there are my parents. We can start at the top of the Barone hierarchy and work our way down,” she told him. “Once I get the family introductions out of the way, we can enjoy ourselves without the gloom of nosy questions hanging over us.”
Matthew eyed her cautiously. “First tell me who’s at the bottom of that hierarchy,” he said.
She smiled. “Those of us who have the least illustrious and most difficult jobs,” she said. “Like me, for instance.”
As ending-up places went, Matthew thought, Rita Barone wasn’t such a bad deal. In fact, he thought further, she’d be very nice to end up with. In a variety of ways.
Upon meeting Rita’s mother, Moira Reardon Barone, Matthew realized that he needn’t be so worried about building a bridge between Rita’s family and his own. He’d forgotten that the red-haired, green-eyed current matriarch of the clan was the daughter of a former Massachusetts governor. That ought to go over well with his parents—if indeed there was any need for it to go over well with his parents. Which there wasn’t, he reminded himself, because there was nothing between him and Rita.
Moira Barone, he also discovered, was gracious and friendly and clearly very interested in her daughter’s escort tonight, as was evident immediately after Rita made their introductions.
“A surgeon, you say?” she asked with much interest, leveling an approving smile on her daughter. “Well, well, well. We don’t have any doctors in the family. Yet.”
“Mother,” Rita said with clear warning.
“Which is surprising, really,” Moira Barone continued, unbothered by her daughter’s admonition, “because there are so very many of us. Oh, yes. A doctor could definitely come in handy.”
“And this is my father,” Rita hastily interjected, “Carlo Barone. Dad, this is Dr. Matthew Grayson, who works with me at Boston General.”
The Barone patriarch had dark hair and eyes like his daughter, but his hair was cut with military precision and was graying at the temples. He stood pretty much eye-to-eye with his daughter, but where Rita was trim and curvy, her father was stocky and powerful-looking. Matthew could easily see him as the driving force behind Baronessa Gelati. Even speaking for only a few minutes, the man came across as vigorous and straightforward.
“You seem to get along well with your parents,” Matthew remarked as they parted with the elder Barones after Rita had kissed each on the cheek. He always found it interesting to observe the relationships his peers had with their families, having never had a close alliance with his own. He wasn’t sure if that was due to nurture or nature, but the Graysons just weren’t the type to get too close. Not physically, and certainly not emotionally.
“I think it helps that I was second to last to be born,” she said. “With six kids ahead of me, my parents had a lot of practice. But you’re right—we do get along well. They’re good parents. Dad was always kind of stern when we were growing up, especially with my older brothers, but he was never overbearing. Well, maybe with Reese, for a while anyway. But he seems to have mellowed over the years. And he always doted on us younger girls. I always kind of thought Nicholas and Reese and Joe broke him in for Gina and Maria and me,” she added with another one of those dazzling smiles.
After lifting two stems of white wine from a passing waiter, Rita led Matthew toward a bank of windows overlooking the heart of Boston. But she forsook the spectacular view and instead pointed out some of the other Barones as they passed.
“That’s my cousin Derrick,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper, pointing discreetly at a tall, thin, tuxedo-clad man with dark hair and hawk-like features who was wearing a dour expression. He was standing at a nearby table and seemed to be trying to make an earth-shattering decision between the shrimp puffs and the mini-quiches. “We’ve always joked that he’s the evil twin. My cousin Daniel,” she added, pointing to another man who was a bit fairer and more handsome and athletic-looking than the first, “is Derrick’s twin. Fraternal, obviously. But then, Daniel’s no angel, either,” she continued with a laugh. “Still, the two are like night and day. Daniel’s always excelled at sports, and just about everything he touches turns to gold. Derrick, well…” She made a little face. “He tries, but he just doesn’t have the touch the way Daniel does. He’s always been overshadowed by his brother. And I think he knows it.”
“They compete a lot, do they?” Matthew asked.
“In some ways,” Rita said. But she seemed to be distracted as she said it, and overly focused on watching her cousin. Her distraction lasted only a moment, however, before she turned to Matthew. “How about you?” she asked. “What’s your family like?”
Oh, great, she would have to ask something like that, Matthew thought. Where to begin?
“Small and very old Bostonian,” he said simply, hoping that would be all she needed to know.
He should have known better.
“Oh, listen to you,” she said, chuckling. “You talk as if they came over on the Mayflower.”
“Well, as a matter of fact…”
Her chuckles ceased and she studied him with frank amazement. “Are you serious?”
“’fraid so.”
“The Graysons have been here that long?”
He nodded.
“And they were probably rich and blue-blooded when they got here, too, huh?”
He nodded again. “There are rumors that we can trace our lineage back to minor royalty in the old country, but I’ve never pursued that.”
“Not the princely type, huh?”
“Let’s just say I’m better suited to cardiology.”
“Wow, that’s pretty amazing. I’m only a second-generation American myself. My grandfather came to the United States from Sicily in 1935 and he waited tables until he started up Baronessa. Rags to riches. Peasant to capitalist. Interesting,” she added, “that you and I should come from such different backgrounds only to be standing in the very same place now.”
“It is,” he agreed. “Very interesting.”
“So what about brothers and sisters and cousins and parents?” Rita asked. “What are they like?”
He groped for some acceptable adjectives to describe his family, but the only ones that came to mind weren’t particularly flattering. Cool. Distant. Proud. Pale. For all their social distinction, the Graysons had nothing on the warm, affectionate, vivacious Barones.
“I have one younger sister,” he finally said, forsaking the adjectives for now.
“Ah-hah, firstborn child,” she observed.
“You sound as if you think that’s significant,” Matthew said, eyeing her suspiciously.
She lifted one rather delectable shoulder in a half shrug. “Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t,” she replied cryptically. “So what does this sister do? Do the Graysons have a family business, too?”
Matthew shook his head. “Not really, though I am something of a black sheep. My father is a merchant banker, my mother is a CPA, and my sister is a stockbroker. My cousins, uncles and aunts, too, are all financiers.”
Rita laughed. “A successful cardiologist is the black sheep? Boy, what a rogue you are.”
“I never said we were interesting,” Matthew reminded her.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” she murmured as she lifted her wine to her lips for an idle sip.
He was about to ask her what she’d meant by her comment, but Carlo Barone took to the podium vacated by the jazz combo then, citing his need to make an announcement about an upcoming contest for Baronessa Gelati. Then he introduced Gina Barone Kingman, who Matthew recalled was the VP of PR.
Gina didn’t much resemble Rita, however, beyond sharing the same olive complexion. Rita’s sister was taller, had light-brown hair that was curly instead of straight, and even from a short distance, Matthew could see that her eyes were light in color, and not the mesmerizing espresso of her younger sister’s. Like nearly every woman at the party, she was dressed in a black cocktail dress, though hers covered more of her than Rita’s did, as befitted one of the company’s executives.
Gina spoke for a few minutes about the history of Baronessa, made a brief mention of having abandoned a recently tested passionfruit flavor, then held up a letter-sized sheet of paper for everyone to see.
“What I have in my hand,” she said, “is a list of the rules and requirements for our new Name That Flavor contest. Tomorrow’s newspaper will carry this in a full-page ad. We’re challenging anyone in the Boston metro area who’s inventive and culinarily inclined to develop a recipe for a new gelato flavor.”
A smattering of enthusiastic applause went up at this, along with the nodding of several heads.
“All recipes entered,” Gina continued as the clapping eased, “will be duplicated and produced in a small batch at the Baronessa factory in Brookline, and a panel of judges that includes the executives of Baronessa and the board of directors—and also Mom,” she added with a smile, again to much applause, “—will taste each entry and, among them, choose a winner.”
More applause met the announcement.
“The creator of the winning recipe,” Gina went on, “will not only see his or her flavor become a reality in Baronessa stores across the country—not to mention supermarkets everywhere—but will also win $1,000 for his or her efforts, which is some pretty nice pocket change.”
Amid more applause, Matthew leaned over toward Rita and murmured, “Have they totally abandoned the passionfruit flavor, then? That sounds like it would be pretty good.”
Rita turned to look at him as if she couldn’t believe he’d asked her such a thing. “I think that’s a safe bet, after the debacle at the launch.”
“Have you discovered how the habanero peppers got into the gelato?” Matthew asked.
Rita shook her head. “We have no idea. The family’s pretty well divided into two camps. Some think it’s someone from a rival ice-cream company, and some think it’s the work of the Contis. Do you know about that?” she asked. “The big family feud?”
“I’ve heard about it,” Matthew told her. “I think anyone who’s lived in Boston any length of time has.”
She nodded. “I don’t know, though. I can’t see the Contis doing something like that. Personally, I lean toward the corporate sabotage angle. Though even that’s hard to believe. I just can’t imagine some legitimate business doing something like that.”
“You’d be surprised what people are capable of,” Matthew said.
And when he said it, his voice carried an edge that Rita hadn’t heard before. Something told her not to pursue it, though, so she changed the topic of conversation to something more innocuous, telling him she hoped that whoever won the contest came up with some variation on chocolate, since that was her own personal favorite.
Gina said a few more words about the contest, outlining the requirements and such, and then the excitement gradually began to settle. After a few more announcements, she encouraged everyone to go back to enjoying the party.
The champagne never stopped flowing for the rest of the night. And since the atmosphere was so festive, and since neither Rita nor Matthew would be responsible for driving home, they both partook freely.
That could be the only reason, Rita decided later, after she had led Matthew out to the terrace adjoining the party room on the top floor of the building to gaze out at the lights of Boston, why she would ask him the question she did once they were finally alone.
“How did you get those scars on your face?” she said before she had even realized she meant to say it.
Immediately, she clapped a hand over her mouth, regretting at once having put voice to the question. But the thought had been circling in her head all night, ever since she’d seen him looking so exquisitely handsome in his expensive suit. She just hadn’t been able to stop thinking that if it weren’t for those scars, he would be absolutely perfect. And then, suddenly, she was asking how those scars had originated, when she should have kept her mouth shut. Not just because the question had been so frightfully impolite but because Matthew went absolutely rigid when she asked it.
“I’m sorry,” she immediately apologized from behind her hand. “I had no right to ask that. Please…forget I said anything.”
And then she shivered, though she told herself it was because of the cold April breeze that whirled around the building just then, and not Matthew’s glacial stare.
The glacial stare lasted only a moment, though, and then vanished as quickly as it had appeared. He must have noticed her trembling, because his expression softened, and his voice was gentle as he said, “You’re cold. I never should have suggested we come out here.”
Before she could say anything else, he whipped off his suit jacket and draped it around her shoulders. Rita was going to decline the gesture and suggest they go back inside, but the moment the soft fabric settled over her bare shoulders and arms it began to warm her, and she realized it was Matthew’s warmth. And then she noticed that it smelled like Matthew, too, spicy and clean and male, and that having his jacket around her was almost—almost—like having his arms around her. Suddenly she didn’t want to go back inside. Suddenly she wasn’t cold anymore. In fact, heat was starting to seep into parts of her she hadn’t even realized were cold until that moment.
“Thank you,” she said softly as she pulled the jacket more tightly around herself, reveling in the sensation of having him so close, even if he wasn’t standing very near her. Then, once again, she said, “I’m sorry, Matthew. I shouldn’t have asked. It’s none of my business.”
“No, it isn’t that,” he said quickly. But his voice was still somber and a little distant, as if he were lost in thought. “I just…” He sighed heavily. “It happened so long ago, you’d think it wouldn’t be a big deal anymore. That it wouldn’t bother me to talk about it.”
“But it does?”
“Sometimes.”
“Look, honestly, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t—”
“I was mauled by a lion.”
Rita stopped speaking the moment he started, but never quite closed her mouth. She continued to gape at him when he concluded his brief—if shocking—revelation. Frankly, she wasn’t sure whether to believe him. Was he joking, trying to make light of what had really happened? Did people actually get mauled by lions? It sounded like something from a nineteenth-century novel.
“When I was ten years old,” he continued. “My parents and I were on safari in Kenya at the time.”
She realized then that he was indeed telling the truth, but she still shook her head in silent disbelief.
“I strayed away from camp one night,” he said, his voice quiet, sober, as if he were deep in thought, “even though they’d warned me against doing that. I was looking at the sky,” he told her by way of an explanation. Then he turned his head to do that now. He gazed out at the star-spattered darkness above them as if he’d never seen it before. “It was so beautiful that night,” he continued, “so clear, and I guess I just didn’t realize how far I’d walked. I was like the baby wildebeest who strays from the herd,” he added with a halfhearted smile. “Easy prey.” His smile fell suddenly and he turned to look at Rita again. “The lion came out of nowhere. A female. One minute everything was quiet and still and magical, and the next…” He met her gaze levelly. “The next minute, I was literally fighting for my life.”
“Oh, Matthew,” Rita said. She couldn’t imagine the confusion and terror he must have felt.
“Someone in the camp must have heard the commotion, because a group came running and screaming and waving torches, and the lion, amazingly, let go of me and disappeared into the darkness. My shoulder and back bore the brunt of the attack,” he told her. “You think the scars on my face are something, you should see the ones there.” He seemed to realize then that what he’d said might have a double meaning, because he glanced anxiously away and quickly added, “On second thought, no, you shouldn’t. The plastic surgeons did what they could with my face, but the first wounds went so deep—”
He didn’t finish whatever he’d intended to say. But then, Rita thought, he really didn’t have to. She understood. She had no idea what to say to him, however. But when Matthew looked up at her, he seemed so anxious about her response to him that she made herself smile. Then, strangely, she realized that her smile felt like a perfectly natural response.
“I think the plastic surgeons did a wonderful job,” she told him. “Of course, they had a good foundation to start with. You could be a movie star.”
“I don’t know about that,” he said, dropping his gaze to the ground again like a bashful teenager. “But the whole thing certainly sounds like something from a movie. I’ve spent most of my life wishing it were. It wasn’t much fun growing up looking like a beast.”
He looked thoughtful for a moment, taking great care about whether or not he should say any more. And he gazed up at the sky again when he finally did begin to speak. “I remember once,” he said, “when I was in eighth grade. I’d started a new school—again—because I’d gotten thrown out of the last one—again—for fighting so much. Not that I was ever the instigator, mind you,” he added parenthetically, as if he needed for her to know that. “But I was in a new school, and like an idiot, I was hoping maybe things would be different this time. And there was a girl in my semantics class—”
His voice drifted off, but had mellowed to the point where Rita knew he was recalling what must have been a pretty powerful crush. She smiled in spite of his somberness.
“She was so pretty,” he said with a halfhearted smile. “Blond hair, blue eyes, tight sweaters, every adolescent boy’s idea of the perfect girl. And she always turned around whenever I was looking at her, as if she could feel me watching her. But she never seemed to mind, you know? She’d always look at me back. My rational mind told me she looked at me for the same reason everyone looked at me. Because I was a freak—”
“Matthew—” Rita began. But he hurried on before she had a chance to say any more.
“But there was a part of me that wondered, that hoped—” He shrugged. “I don’t know. She just seemed to be different from the others. Then, one day, her best friend came up to me at my locker and told me this girl wanted to meet me. That she liked me. That she wanted to talk to me. I couldn’t believe it. I was so happy. So I went to meet her behind the gym, where her friend said she’d be waiting for me.”
He paused again, inhaling deeply before letting the breath out in a slow, melancholy exhalation. “Long story short,” he continued, “the girl was indeed there waiting for me. With her boyfriend. She told me to stop looking at her in class, because I made her sick to her stomach. And then she let her boyfriend do the rest of the talking. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much talking after that. And I had to leave that school for another one a few weeks later.”
“Oh, Matthew,” Rita said again.
“So, there you have it,” he concluded flatly. “The life and times of the beast.”
Something inside of Rita turned over at that. He couldn’t possibly think of himself that way, could he?
“You’re not a beast,” she said.
He laughed, but there was nothing happy in the sound. “Aren’t I?” he asked. “Everyone at the hospital seems to think so.”
“That’s not because of your scars,” Rita was quick to correct him. “It’s because of your attitu—” She halted again before finishing, slapping a hand over her mouth again, appalled at what she had just revealed. “Matthew, that’s not what I meant,” she hastened to clarify, dropping her hand. “You’re not a beast,” she said again, with more conviction this time.
As if she wanted to prove that, she lifted her hand to his face and, after only a small hesitation, skimmed her fingertips lightly over the scars he seemed to think so repulsive. At first, he jerked his head back, as if he didn’t want her to touch him. But she moved her hand forward again, laying her fingers gently over his injured flesh, and this time, for some reason, he let her.
“You’re not a beast,” she insisted. “You’re…”
His eyes met hers again, and she realized that somehow, at some point, they’d moved closer together, and that scarcely a breath of air separated them now. Matthew turned his head just the merest bit, tilting it to the side so that he might enjoy her touch more fully.
“I’m what?” he asked softly, lifting his hand to cover hers.
Now Rita opened her hand completely, pressing her palm gently to his face, cupping his cheek and jaw more completely. She felt herself moving closer still, and didn’t recall making the decision to advance. Her instincts seemed to have taken over by then, and all she could do was follow them.
“You’re…” she tried again.
But no words came to her aid to describe him. Probably because at that point he was…indescribable. But also very, very desirable. Something about the way he was looking at her then sent a shudder of emotion spiraling through the center of her. And when he covered her hand with his the way he did, that spiral coiled even tighter.
Not sure why she did it and still following her impulses, Rita pushed herself up on tiptoe and pressed her lips lightly to his. The moment their mouths made contact something inside her ruptured, spilling heat and fire throughout her body. The sensation was so immediate, so intense, so startling that she instinctively pulled away from him again.
A quick peck, she told herself when it was over and she was back on her feet—however precariously. A brief, chaste, perfectly innocuous little kiss. That was all it had been. She had wanted to show him he wasn’t repulsive, as he seemed to think. So she had brushed her lips gingerly over his, and then she had pulled away again.
A quick peck, she repeated to herself more firmly. No harm, no foul. Nothing to it. Somehow, though, she felt as if the entire earth had slipped away beneath her feet.
“You’re not a beast, Matthew,” she said one last time. “Not in any way.” And then, because she was afraid of what might happen if they stayed outside—alone—any longer, she stepped back and added, “We should probably go back inside. They’ll be looking for us. And it really is colder out here than I thought.”
She felt like a big, fat liar as she turned away from him without awaiting a reply and made her way back toward the terrace door. Not just because she knew the last thing the Barones would do was look for her if she’d disappeared with a handsome, distinguished doctor. But because she’d never felt hotter in her life.