Mattie lifted herself on one elbow and stared at the envelope. All the horror she had felt ten years before flooded through her. She didn't need to look inside to see the pictures. They were etched clearly in her memory. Hunter and her mother. Victoria's hands pinned back. Forced sex.
Mattie clenched her teeth and tried to shut out the ugliness. But she could still hear her mother's voice telling the revolting story. . . .
"He came from behind. I didn't even see him until he'd already grabbed me." Victoria's voice was shaking as she fought back tears. "Look at that top picture, Mattie. You can see how it was. . . . Mattie? Can't you, darling?"
Mattie hated the pictures. She wished she'd never seen them. She wished Victoria had never told her. The pictures were blurred and out of focus as she stared at them through her tears. Her mother kept talking, talking, going on and on about Hunter. She wanted to yell. "Shut up!" but a great lump of fear closed her throat.
"He forced me into the tub," her mother continued. "I fought him. Believe me, darling. I used all my pitiful strength against that—that monster you decided to marry. But he's strong, Mattie. You know that. He's a big man. He tore my suit, crushed me against the side of the tub, forced himself on me. It was awful!"
Her mother's voice battered Mattie’s soul. Everything that was bright and beautiful in her world came crashing down at her feet. "Hunter, Hunter," her mind screamed. "How could you have done this?"
"As if the awful defilement weren't enough, that slimy photographer tried to blackmail me with these pictures. They show as plain as day what happened. I just hope he didn't keep a set. You know how they love to follow me around, hiding in the bushes, taking pictures, making up stories for their sleazy magazines. Only, this time, they don't have to make up a story. It's all there in black and white. I just hope my poor William never finds out."
Her loud sob made Mattie look up. Her mother's beauty always reached out and grabbed her. Even in her anguish Victoria was beautiful, like one of Shakespeare's tragic heroines. No wonder Hunter couldn't keep his hands off her, she thought. A fresh stab of pain caught at Mattie.
"I . . . hate . . . him." Each word sliced her heart. She was breathless, drained, after she'd said them.
"I'm glad, darling," Victoria said. "I mean ... I'm not glad it happened this way, but I'm happy you found out about him before you made the mistake of marrying him." She dabbed a perfume scented handkerchief on her brow. "We won't tell your father, of course. There's no need for him to know what a rat his future son-in-law turned out to be. Poor William. He would be so heartbroken."
Mattie was numb. She could only nod her assent.
Victoria took the pictures from her and stuffed them back into the envelope. With a red felt-tip pen she scrawled "Private" across the left hand corner of the envelope.
"Then it's settled, Mattie. You'll send the ring back. There's no need for you to ever see that wretch again."
"No. No need." Mattie managed to speak around the lump of fear in her throat, which was growing bigger and bigger. She felt cold and empty and frightened. Hunter had been her love, her friend, her strength. Who could she turn to now? Not her father. Her mother was right. No need for him to be hurt, too. She couldn't even tell Papa. He had to live in Dallas, right next door to Hunter. There was no need to make it hard for him.
She longed to put her head on her mother's shoulder and cry, to feel her mother's arms around her, to know the comfort of being loved. But Victoria disliked overt displays of affection. Silly pampering, she called it. Mattie hugged her hurt to herself.
"We’ll leave on the first plane out, darling." Victoria was suddenly gay. "We’ll go on a lovely shopping spree as soon as we get to Europe. There's no better way to forget one's troubles than by spending money, lots of it. What do you say?"
Mattie said nothing. She was lost in her private hell…
Mattie stared down at the envelope. It seemed to pulse with a strange power. She felt herself drawn to it, unable to keep from opening the flap, pulling out the hateful pictures.
"I won't look," she whispered. "Not my mother. Not my mother."
She shut her eyes against the pain that ripped through her. Memories flooded her mind. There was the day they had gone to the zoo. She recalled Victoria imitating the antics of the monkeys, the two of them laughing over the pink cotton candy that got all over their faces, and both of them riding an elephant, pretending to be on safari. And always, always Victoria had been beautiful. And somehow fragile. She had been so easy to love.
Her mother's charm had colored her childhood, had painted a bright aura of love around her. Even though Victoria had not been a toucher, she had convinced those around her of her love.
"Please, God, not Mommy." It was half plea, half prayer. In her agony Mattie used the name she'd called Victoria in the magic days of her childhood, the days when reality blended with fantasy and nothing bad existed in the world that a smile from her mother couldn't fix.
Mattie clenched her jaws and kept her eyes shut to the truth, clinging to her image of Victoria with the tenacity of a drowning sailor clinging to a sinking ship. But her hands refused to stuff the pictures back inside the envelope. Against her better judgment she opened her eyes and stared down at them. They were every bit as hideous as they had been ten years earlier. The only difference was that they weren't blurred through tears. She had no more tears to shed. She'd finished with crying over Hunter.
She bent over the photos, studying his profile, the broad shoulders, his black hair. That hair, she thought. Something wasn't right. She reached over and snapped on a bedside light. The dark hair of the man in the photograph was smooth, not tousled, like Hunter's.
She leaned closer. Something was wrong about the profile, as well. The chin was too sharp. And the shoulders . . . She could shut her eyes and see Hunter's shoulders. There was a subtle difference here, one she couldn't quite put a name to.
She fanned the pictures across the bedspread and looked at them from a different perspective. This time she didn't think about the physical evidence. She thought instead about the man, his tenderness, his humor, his honesty, his basic goodness.
Her hands shook as she gathered up the pictures and stuffed them back inside the envelope. Now she knew what had bothered her all these years. The pictures were out of character for Hunter. He was a straightforward, up-front man, with a strong sense of pride and nobility. He would never have forced himself on Victoria. He would never have betrayed Mattie with such a sneaky, vicious deed.
Her mind reeled. That meant Victoria had lied. Mattie tried to shut her mind to the thought, but the floodgate of possibilities was down. Little things spilled over - how Victoria had been caught crying when Mattie turned sixteen, how she'd always stayed around to charm Mattie's dates, how she'd been obsessed with the idea of remaining youthful.
Dazzling Victoria with her harmless little flirtations, beautiful Victoria with her charming mannerisms and her lilting laughter had possessed a hard core of selfishness and deceit. How well she had hidden it. How easy it had been to believe in her beauty, her lies.
The truth lacerated Mattie's soul. The shock of it rocked the very foundations of her life. Her wedding, her happiness, her future with Hunter—all her bright dreams became obscure shadows, lifeless things, under the pall of darkness that fell over her spirit.
Hunter. Her heart clenched with pain. She had a sudden vision of him—laughing, witty, tender, passionate. And then a second vision was superimposed over the first—Victoria, bright and beautiful and treacherous.
Mattie's hands tightened on the envelope. "Nooo!" she screamed. Then she was tearing and ripping and shredding, trying to rid herself of the awful truth by destroying the pictures.
When she had finished, she flung the pieces across the room and rose from the bed. Dry-eyed, she left her room in search of Papa. She found him downstairs, in his study.
"Papa."
"Mattie." He came to her swiftly and embraced her.
"I'm leaving, Papa. On the next flight to Paris."
"For how long, Mattie?"
"I don't know. I can't deal with this . . . this . . ." She waved her hand helplessly in the air. She couldn't bring herself to put an ugly label on what she had seen. Admitting it, saying it out loud, would simply make it so.
"Stay," Papa said. "I love you. Hunter loves you. The two of you can work it out."
She hesitated. Her need to see Hunter was so powerful, she could almost feel his arms around her. But if she went to him now, wounded and bleeding, if she sought refuge in his arms, it would be a betrayal of her mother, a denial of her childhood. Even worse, the rage she felt might be glossed over, sealed off. It would be only a temporary healing, a Band-Aid applied where major surgery was needed.
"Right now, I can't deal with anybody's feelings except my own, Papa."
He leaned back and looked into her face. "You're sure? I think running away would be a mistake."
"I'm not running away this time. I'm making a rational decision to separate myself from everybody and everything that reminds me of my mother's selfishness."
"What about Hunter? It seems that he's the most maligned one in this sorry business."
"I'll call him."
"I'm glad for that much, at least." Papa patted her shoulder and chuckled. "He might not be so glad to hear from you, though. Your aim is lethal. I taught you well."
She kissed his cheek. "You're a rock, Papa. What would I do without you?"
"No need to find out. I'm planning to set a record for longevity."
"Is that a promise?"
"It's a promise."
o0o
Back upstairs Mattie made two calls: one to an airline and one to Hunter. The first was easy, the second hard.
"I'm flying back to Paris, Hunter—"
"No, Mattie—"
"—tomorrow."
Hunter felt as if an anvil had been dropped on his heart. Common sense told him that she needed time to reconcile herself to the truth, but his gut reaction was to rush next door and keep her in Dallas, to make her face the truth. Squelching that urge, he made himself ask a sensible question.
"When are you coming back?"
"I don't know."
"I can't let you go like this. You need me. We need each other."
"I need ..." She hesitated, thinking about what she needed. She needed Hunter, his love, his strength, his encouragement. But she also needed her mother. She needed something, some bright and wonderful image, to fill the great, aching void inside her.
"I need nobody," she finished. "I need time."
"We need to talk. We can resolve this problem together."
"I'm finished with talking. I may even be finished with thinking. All I want is to be alone."
Hunter was afraid. He recognized an old pattern. Mattie hated to face an unpleasant truth, had always hated it. She would run to the ends of the earth to preserve her blindness. He clenched his jaw so hard he nearly cracked a tooth.
"I'd come over there right now, Mattie, and chain you to the bed if I thought it would keep you here. And if I could move. You kick like a mule."
"Save your energy for something else. Somebody else."
"Mattie, don’t."
"I've suddenly discovered that I don't have what it takes to sustain a relationship."
"If you think for one minute I'm going to let you go . . . Mattie?" Hunter was talking to a dead receiver.
o0o
Mattie set Paris on its ear. At the Moulin Rouge she climbed onstage, kicked off her shoes, and did glissandos on the piano with her bare feet. Her entourage of doting men carried her around the room on a huge silver platter, borrowed from the waiter. She attended a costume party dressed as a musical note. The black sequined note, attached to a sheer body suit, barely covered her strategic parts. An enterprising photographer got a by-line on the front page with her picture.
Her behavior kept her in the headlines. And her fear kept her running. She lived high and fast. She spent time and money as freely as if neither would ever run out. She didn't look forward and she didn't look back. Rather, she lived for the moment. She surrounded herself with people—gay, frivolous people who wouldn't ask her to think. She attended parties, she gave parties, and she played cards with a vengeance.
But in the still, lonesome moments of the night, those dark hours after midnight when she had no one to love, her fears haunted her. She was afraid of facing the truth about the mother she'd loved, the woman she'd thought was wonderful, the woman she'd sought to emulate.
She knew she had Victoria's gaiety and lilting laughter. Did she also have her cold, devious heart? Did she have a hidden core of selfishness that would someday surface? She was flesh of Victoria's flesh, heart of her heart. Did that mean the old adage would come true? Like mother like daughter? Not only her future, but her very identity, was threatened.
And so, in order to keep her identity intact, Mattie reinvented her mother. She closed her eyes to a part of the truth, shutting out all that was bad, and concentrated on the bright moments of her youth. She conjured up the carrousel rides and the birthday pony and the summer picnics. She created for herself an ordinary mother, one she could love and imitate.
o0o
The first week Mattie was gone, Hunter was reasonable and sensible and mature. He told himself that he would give her the time she needed, that he would cope with her absence by staying busy. He jogged till his legs threatened to buckle and swam till his arms were too heavy to move. He spent so much time at work Uncle Mickey accused him of sleeping at the office.
The second week was harder. He took to muttering to himself, and he had all-night marathons of cartoon watching.
Uncle Mickey complained that a body couldn't get a decent night's sleep for the racket from Bugs Bunny. He claimed if he heard that rabbit scream, "What's up, Doc?" one more time in the middle of the night, he'd personally shoot the TV.
But the final indignity came when Hunter put the newspaper in the washing machine with Uncle Mickey's favorite, peppermint-striped pajamas.
"You've ruined them," Uncle Mickey said, holding up his pitiful pajamas. Their once-proud stripes were blackened with printer's ink. Bits of gooey paper clung to them. "They look like they have smallpox."
"Sorry," Hunter said. "I had my mind on other things."
"Mattie."
"Yes."
"When's she coming back?"
"I don't know. I haven't heard from her."
"Then what are you doing, sitting here in Dallas? Get your butt on a plane to Paris before we all go crazy."
o0o
Hunter did exactly that. The first thing he saw after he landed in Paris was a picture of Mattie, wearing a policeman's hat and a bikini hardly big as a handkerchief, directing traffic on the Boulevard des Capucines.
He grinned. "At least she's not moping."
It took him exactly forty minutes to get from the airport to Mattie's apartment.
When her doorbell rang, Mattie was sitting in a tub filled with bubbles.
"Bother," she muttered as she stepped out of the tub. Without pausing for a wrap, she ran to the front door, leaving a trail of soap bubbles. "Whoever you are, go away," she called through the door. "I'm not receiving callers today."
"I'm not a caller, Mattie. I'm your future husband."
Excitement exploded in her. She put her hand on the door chain, then pulled it back. She wasn't ready to face Hunter. And she certainly wasn't ready to face a future. Right now she was living for the moment.
"Go away, Hunter."
"Mattie." He rattled the doorknob. "Let me in."
"No."
He stood outside her apartment considering his options. He could kick the door down, but that wouldn't remedy her stubbornness. He could stand here and keep pestering her, hoping she would relent, but that wasn't his style. Suddenly he smiled. He had always preferred a flamboyant approach, and what he had in mind should send her barriers tumbling. It might even send her scurrying for cover.
"This is war, Mattie," he said through the door. "Get ready to have your citadels penetrated."
She couldn't help but grin. "Whatever happened to my door to paradise?"
She waited and listened, but there was no reply. Finally she looked through the peephole. Hunter was no longer there.
o0o
Hunter didn't waste any time. He hired a private detective that day, and every move Mattie made was reported to him.
"She's attending the opera tonight," Claude Leveque told him the next morning. "Mozart's Don Giovanni. Her escort is Jean-Louis Rameau. He has a box at the Opera." Claude, a fastidious little man, wiped a bead of perspiration from his moustache, carefully refolded his immaculate handkerchief, and continued his report. "Jean-Louis is curator at the National Museum of Modern Art. He's forty-eight, a widower, and has two grown children and six cats. He and his live-in housekeeper Monique have been engaged in a fifteen-year dalliance.”
He handed Hunter a picture. “This is a snapshot of him entering the museum.”
"Skinny devil," Hunter commented. "What in the world does she see in him?"
"He's rich, old family money. And he has quite a reputation with the ladies. Smooth, fast talking, a veritable—"
"That was a rhetorical question. I don't want to hear about his bedroom exploits." He took the report from Claude. "Good work. There's no need for you to follow her tonight. I’ll be with her."
"Shall I expect to resume trailing the lady tomorrow morning?"
He hoped not. Tomorrow morning he expected to be occupying the lady's bed.
"I’ll call you if I need you again."
When Mattie came out the front door of her apartment building, Hunter felt as if a Roman candle had exploded inside him. Her sheer French silk gown fit like sin on a fallen angel. It was green, like her eyes. The satin slip underneath left so much skin bare, it must have been an afterthought. Diamantes, attached to sheer chiffon, were sprinkled over her arms and shoulders, beckoning across the hot night to him. Her hair, caught high in an emerald clip, cascaded down her shoulders.
It took all his willpower to keep from running across the street and snatching her out of Jean-Louis Rameau's clutches. Hunter followed boldly behind Rameau’s car, even tailgating on occasion. That smitten Frenchman wouldn't have noticed if a military parade were in his wake. Who would, with the intoxicating Mattie at his side?
Hunter parked near them and watched until they had entered the Opera and he was certain they had time to be seated. Then he slipped inside and gave an amiable looking, gray haired usher an obscene amount of money to take a message to Jean-Luis Rameau that his housekeeper Monique needed him to rush home right away.
When Jean-Louis hurried into the lobby, Hunter slid into the theater and slipped into the empty seat beside Mattie.
"It's you!" she exclaimed. The expression on her face was a mixture of exasperation and amusement.
"An improvement, don't you think?" He spread his long legs so his thigh was touching hers.
Mattie glanced at the adjoining boxes. She was certain their stage whispers were disrupting the entire theater. She needn't have been concerned. The rollicking scene onstage had completely captivated the audience's attention. "You can't stay here," she whispered fiercely.
He tucked a curl behind her ear. "Don't worry, princess. I plan to adjourn to your apartment as quickly as possible." He leaned over and kissed the tender spot next to the curl.
"Jean-Louis is waiting for me at his house. He had to rush home.”
"He’ll be busy for quite a while trying to figure things out.”
"You’re the one responsible for that message."
"Creating a diversion is one of my many talents." He started massaging the back of her neck. "Do you want to see the rest of them?"
"You ought to be arrested."
"I probably would be if the police knew what I was thinking." He nibbled her ear. "You want to see the rest of my talents, Mattie?"
"Stop that. You're ruining the opera."
"I'm hoping to ruin our reputations." He pulled the emerald clip from her hair, which he let cascade over his arm. "I'd like to walk barefoot through your hair."
"I'd like to do something else with my bare foot."
"I love it when you're angry. Your eyes glitter like cat's eyes." He twisted a strand of her shining hair around his hand.
Mattie had thought she could endure his preposterous remarks. She'd thought she could watch the rest of the opera and then leave with dignity, leave Hunter sitting there wishing he'd never come. But she couldn't. His presence brought back all the things she was trying to forget—their love, their promises, her mother's betrayal. He weakened her resolve to live for the moment and made her question her decision to deal with hurt by pretending it didn't exist. She'd thought she could come to Paris and live a carefree life, not making commitments, not forming attachments.
She turned to face him. He was so heart-stoppingly gorgeous, he made her lose her breath. He wore his tuxedo and his charm with such careless grace he might have invented them both. Oh, Hunter. Why did you come here? Why couldn't you let me go?
He seemed to be reading her thoughts. He smiled, and that, too, was devastating. She stood up, dumping her program onto the floor.
"I'm leaving."
"Good."
He matched her stride for stride as she left the box.
She turned on him. "Go away."
"Never. You once told me never to let you forget that you love me. I'm keeping that promise."
"I don't want to hear it. I can't deal with it right now."
"If you don't deal with it now, you never will."
"Leave me alone." She lifted her skirts and drew back a lethal leg.
"Mattie!" He was too fast for her. Before she'd aimed her kick, he scooped her up and slung her over his shoulder.
She pounded his back. "Put me down."
"Only if you promise to behave."
"Never!"
They attracted more than a little attention as they left the theater. She was a celebrity and he was devilishly handsome. A few of Mattie's fans, who took great delight in following all her escapades, remarked that it looked as if she had met her match.
They encountered one reluctant patron of the arts in the lobby. He blocked Hunter's path.
"Excush me. Ish that caterwauling finish?"
"It's not over yet," Hunter told him. "Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get the wife home. She's dead on her feet." He patted Mattie's backside.
She kicked his thigh.
The man seemed to notice Mattie for the first time. "Shay. How'd she get up there?"
"She climbed. Can't keep her off me. She's wild about me."
Mattie retaliated by pinching his leg.
He swatted her butt. "She's a regular little hellcat."
The man reeled aside, laughing. "Marsha won't believe thish. The besh show wash in the lobby."
Hunter strode out the door and to the parking lot. He didn't put Mattie down until he got to his car. Opening the door with one hand, he dumped her onto the front seat.
"This is kidnapping, you bully."
"Remember what happened the last time I kidnapped you? You loved it, Mattie."
"I’ll open the window and scream."
"With your reputation, nobody will pay any attention."
She knew that was true. Besides, nobody would bother to involve himself in her affairs. That was one of the things she'd always loved about Paris. People minded their own business.
As Hunter whizzed through the streets toward her apartment, she clung to her indignation, hoping it would insulate her against the powerful attraction she felt for Hunter.
"You can bulldoze your way into my apartment," she said when they reached her building. "You can hug me, you can kiss me, you can even have your way with me—"
He roared with laughter. "Such an old-fashioned term coming from such a modern day hellcat."
"It's not funny, Hunter. Stop laughing."
Suddenly he was serious. He reached over and covered her hand with his. "If 1 don't keep laughing I'm liable to cry, Mattie. I'm not going to let you pretend that I don't exist."
"I'm not pretending."
"Yes, you are. It seems to be the only way you can deal with what your mother did."
She covered her ears. "I don't want to hear it."
Hunter felt a cold shiver of defeat. He'd hoped to avoid this subject until he had Mattie back in his arms. He'd hoped to rebuild trust and love with affection. He'd planned to show her that she could turn to him, even with this problem. "You've got to face it sometime, Mattie," he said quietly.
"I can't. I can't deal with anything except how I feel."
"How do you feel?"
"Empty. Betrayed. Used."
"I'm here for you. Lean on me, Mattie."
"No." She clenched her hands and glared at him. "Don't you understand? You remind me too much of what she did. Every time I see you, I think of her treachery." She pounded her hands on his shoulder. "I hate her. I hate my own mother. Nobody can change that."
"I understand your rage. And I'm glad you can vent some of it on me." He parked the car in front of her apartment and turned to look at her. "My shoulders are broad; they can take a pounding." He grinned. "As long as you stay away from the family jewels."
"I'm sorry about that, Hunter. Did it hurt much?"
"Not any more than if King Kong had used me for a volleyball." He pulled her into his arms. He could feel the tension in her stiff back and unyielding shoulders. "We need each other, Mattie. Your rage will pass, and when it does, I want to be there at your side."
His tenderness almost penetrated her shell of resolve. She was almost persuaded that there was still room in her heart for love. But the images of those damning pictures burned through her memory, and she knew there wasn't. Rage consumed her. Each day she woke up to the searing knowledge that she hated her own mother. The only way she could endure such knowledge was to live on the cutting edge of excitement, live as if nothing mattered but selfish pursuits in a cruel world.
She pushed against his shoulder. "No, Hunter."
"I won't let you go."
He kissed her swiftly, before she could turn away. Everything about the kiss was tender—the gentle touch of his lips, the sweet coaxing of his tongue, even the way he held her. The kiss gave everything and demanded nothing. Because of that, she couldn't turn away. She leaned into him. She felt safe. She felt protected. For the moment, she gave herself up to the haven of Hunter's arms.
The kiss lasted until her bones had turned to liquid, until the imprint of him was tattooed on her heart. It lasted until he had almost mounted the battlements of her hurt and penetrated the citadels of her pretense. It lasted until there was no air left in the hot car to breathe.
He pulled back and looked down at her. "I need you, Mattie. We need each other."
"No. Don't you understand? I can't love and hate at the same time."
"You don't have to. Just be, and let time heal your wounds."
All the hatred—and the love—she felt for her mother burst inside her, and she pushed Hunter away.
"Go home, Hunter."
"No."
"I have to deal with this my way."
"Your way excludes me. I won't be left out of your life, Mattie. Not for a few weeks, not for a few days, not even for a few hours."
"You have no choice. My door is closed to you."
"Your apartment door or your door to paradise?"
He smiled at her. It was a smile of such charm, such persuasion, that she almost fell back into his arms.
"Both," she said.
He caught her hands. "I'm not asking for any promises. I'm not asking that you keep any appointed schedule. I'm simply asking that you let me be a part of your life. I want to share your pain as well as your joy."
"Words. Those are just pretty words, Hunter." She pulled her hands away. "I know about pretty words. My mother was a master of them."
"I'm not your mother, Mattie. Those are not just pretty words." He caught her shoulders. "I love you. Nothing's going to change that."
"Can't you see? There's too much inside me now, too much pain and ugliness. I can't give you what you want. I can't be anything to you."
"I'm not asking that you give, Mattie. Not right now. I'm asking you to receive. I want you to accept my support."
"No. I have to be free. I don't want any reminders of the past." She put her hand on the door handle. "Go back to Dallas, Hunter, where you belong."
"I belong wherever you are. And that's how it's going to be. You won't get rid of me that easily. I'm not Jean-Louis Rameau."
His stubbornness suddenly made her angry. Why couldn't he see things her way? If he loved her so, why didn't he respect her wishes? In her confusion and ire she reached for the most effective weapon she knew, a brittle woman-of-the-world facade.
"How do you know I plan to get rid of Jean-Louis? I hear he's quite talented in bed."
Hunter's eyes turned blacker than sin. "Don't start that game with me."
She shoved open the door and stepped onto the sidewalk. Bending over, she made her parting shot. "Maybe it's no game. Maybe I'm proving the old adage: like mother, like daughter."
"You're not Victoria!"
She didn't bother to reply. She didn't even bother to close the car door. She turned and walked quickly into her apartment building. The slam of the door resounded through the summer night.
o0o
While most of Paris slept, two restless people paced their floors. Mattie thought of Victoria's betrayal and kicked her dressing table. Hunter thought of Mattie's stubbornness and struck his desk. Mattie remembered the feel of Hunter's arms and hugged her pillow. Hunter remembered the taste of Mattie's lips and gazed out the window.
"I'll be so wicked, he’ll go back to Dallas in disgust," Mattie told the walls of her apartment. "Then I’ll be free."
"I’ll be so persistent, she won't be able to shut me out," Hunter told the walls of his hotel room. "Then we’ll be happy."
Having come to those conclusions, the star-crossed lovers climbed into their separate beds.