If he didn’t have such a tender heart Matt would bundle the vixen into her car, toss her duffel bag in behind her. Then, when she got sober enough to drive, she’d be out of his mother’s house and out of his life. In spite of the fact his opponents in court and more than one woman had accused him of being heartless, Matt was really a soft touch.
He couldn’t simply dump her outside. She might be scared of the dark.
Sighing, he trudged up the staircase that had never seemed longer, wondering why this little vamp had to come in such an enticing package.
“Here we go.” When he reached her room, he shifted her off his shoulder and into his arms, then laid her out on the bed as if he were arranging a display of fine diamonds.
She wore a little black dress and not much else. Her feet were small and high-arched with toes as delicate as fine porcelain, toenails painted purple.
Matt stalked to the closet and dragged out a quilt to cover her before he made any more unsettling discoveries. In the short time it took him to get back to the bed, she’d shifted so that her skirt was hiked up to Christmas and her top was barely covering her.
Desire stabbed him so hard he was actually in pain. Gritting his teeth, he tossed the quilt over her. Unfortunately it flopped over her face and he had to adjust the covers so she could breathe.
She sighed, her breath soft and warm against his hand. Riveted, Matt watched her face. Nothing was more appealing than a sleeping beautiful woman.
Against his will he touched her cheek. No person had ever exerted such power over him. Matt forced himself to back away from her bed.
“Sleep tight, little succubus. Tomorrow you get your walking papers.”
He escaped to his own bedroom, tossing and turning all night with dreams of being caught in the web of a golden spider with eyes the color of the sea.
The next morning, the sun slapped Matt in the face. He bolted upright and glared at the clock. It had to be wrong. He never slept past six. Occasionally he indulged himself on a weekend and slept till six-thirty, but eight?
“Damn,” he said. Here he was lying abed while Sandi Wentworth had full range of the house. Even worse, she had time to exert her strange and mesmerizing power over his mother. It didn’t take much to fool Lucy. That’s why it was imperative that he get that enticing vixen out of the house. Today.
Matt jerked on his clothes and didn’t even bother to shave. A first for him. Rapping on the connecting door between their bedrooms, he called her name. “Ms. Wentworth? Are you up?”
No answer. Which turned out to be a very good thing, for Matt Coltrane had done the unthinkable. He’d forgotten to put on his shoes.
“Damn,” he said once more. Not only did he put on his shoes—he shaved. What did fifteen more minutes hurt?
He knocked again, the hall door this time. He wasn’t about to get trapped inside a bedroom with her. Fifteen minutes had given him time to regain his composure. Another first for him. He never lost composure.
“Sandi. Rise and shine.” When he got no response, he pushed open the door. The bed was neatly made and her duffel was out of sight. The only evidence that she had been there was the perfume that lingered in the air, that heady fragrance that was going to be his undoing.
Matt backed out of the room and hurried to the west wing to have a heart-to-heart talk with his mother. Portrait or no portrait, Sandi had to go.
“Mother,” he said, and Lucy held up a hand. “Shh,” she said. “Sandi’s at the good part.”
The vixen sat on the side of the bed, transformed. She was wearing a little blue-and-white sundress with an honest-to-God sailor collar. She looked like a schoolgirl of sixteen. Totally innocent. Never been kissed.
“Good morning, Matt.” Her smile lit the whole room.
He didn’t smile back. Didn’t dare. “Morning.” He gave her a curt nod, then skirted around her so he could kiss Lucy’s cheek. “How are you feeling this morning, Mother?”
“Much better now that Sandi’s reading to me.”
He glanced at the book—Gone With The Wind. Wouldn’t you know? A thousand pages. And she was on page ten.
“You don’t have to do that, Ms. Wentworth.”
“Oh, but I don’t mind. In fact, I love it.”
“So do I. Sit down, Matt, and stop scowling.”
“I need to go to the bank and get papers for you to sign, Mother.”
“Kitty’s gone to do that.” Lucy patted the bed. “Sit down and visit a minute.”
He sat on the edge of the bed and took his mother’s hand. The sight of her red-painted fingernails almost broke his heart. Lucy had always been so full of life. It didn’t seem possible that she was dying.
“Where’s Aunt Dolly?”
“Gone to buy Chinese lanterns.”
“Chinese lanterns?”
“To swing across the courtyard.” Lucy stroked his hand. “Don’t look so disapproving. I thought a festive alfresco dinner with music would do us all a world of good.”
“Music?”
“Yes. Dolly’s hiring a band.”
“Good God, Mother, you’re not up to a party.”
“I know, dear, but it will make me feel better to think of the rest of you having a good time.”
Matt became unsettled just thinking about being around Sandi Wentworth in the romantic setting.
“I think Ms. Coltrane looks better already,” Sandi said. “Just look at the roses in her cheeks.”
“That’s the flush of sickness.” He strode across the room, as far as possible from Sandi. “Ms. Wentworth, I need to talk to you. Alone.”
Lucy pouted. “She’s not finished reading. I want her to read, and I want you to go downstairs and fetch me a nice cool glass of lemonade. Bring one for Sandi, too.”
As he stalked out, his mother said, “He’s not really such a bear.”
Sandi said, “I know. Underneath that gruff exterior he’s kind of sweet.”
Sweet? Sweet! The next thing he knew she’d be tying a pink ruffled apron on him and calling him domestic.
As he poured lemonade he thought about Chinese lanterns, moonlight and music. “Turn your back for one minute,” he muttered.
He would have to be more vigilant. While the cat wasn’t watching, the mice had revolted and were threatening to take over.
He’d have to a build a mousetrap, that was all. And he knew the perfect one….
Sandi needed advice, and she needed it now. She called C.J.
“C.J., I’m in love.”
“Not again. Who is it this time?”
“Not who. I’m in love with this house. My room has the greatest old four-poster bed, walnut. The canopy is crocheted, hand done. I keep picturing myself lying there with a baby. Matt’s baby.”
“Matt? As in Matt Coltrane?”
“Yes.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“That’s terrible. He hates me.”
“Sandi, nobody hates you. You’re sweet and wonderful and kind. You’re smart and beautiful….”
“He thinks I’m a tramp.”
C.J. started laughing.
“I don’t see what’s so funny.”
“Men. The harder they fall, the faster they run.”
“You mean, he pretends he hates me because he likes me?”
“Yes. Some people are scared of love, Sandi. Clint was.”
“I remember that. But you were always in love with him. I’m not in love with Matt. Just his house. Though he is wonderful to his mother. This morning she asked for lemonade, and he brought roses, too. He picked them in the garden. Don’t you think that’s kind of sweet?”
“I do.”
“And then he kept saying he had to leave and take care of her business affairs, but he puttered around her desk the whole time I was reading to Lucy. I get goose bumps just thinking about his stolen glances.”
“Stolen glances? You’ve been reading romance.”
“Yes. One of Lucy’s. Tender Is The Plight.” Sandi’s skin flushed thinking about romance and love and babies and Matt. Especially Matt. “Tonight there’ll be a band and Chinese lanterns and a full moon. Oh, C.J., what am I going to do?”
She supposed she sounded desperate, and maybe she was. How many chances did a girl get? Besides, she wasn’t even sure she wanted a romance with Matt Coltrane. She wanted a man to adore her. She wanted a man to love her every moment of every day, no matter what. She wanted love requited and unconditional.
“Don’t do anything, Sandi. Don’t try to figure angles, don’t play games. Just be yourself. Be honest and follow your heart. The universe will take care of the rest.”
In the background she could hear Clint’s deep voice then C.J.’s soft, muffled giggle. Sandi felt guilty taking her away from her husband with idle chatter about her own problems.
“Thank you, C.J. Tell Clint hello for me. Sorry I kept you so long.”
“Call anytime, Sandi. I mean that. Call me.”
“Okay.”
Sinking into the deep comforting folds of the bed, Sandi imagined herself in a pink satin bed jacket, continuing her dream.
Mood music drifted up from the courtyard, and from his window Matt could see Sandi Wentworth in the soft glow of Chinese lanterns. Wearing white. Looking demure and virginal and helpless.
“How am I going to force her to show her true colors with her looking like that?”
He’d expected vampish red with slits that showed lots of leg and a plunging neckline that showed lots of breast. Not that soft, diaphanous skirt that made her look as if she was walking on a cloud. Not that high neckline that showed not a single shred of cleavage.
“She looks like a bride.”
Matt was furious. He jerked on his tuxedo jacket and raced downstairs. Before dinner got cold. Before he could change his mind.
“Matt.” Good God. Sandi practically glowed when she said his name.
To make matters worse, she touched his cheek. Once. Briefly. A butterfly’s brush that lingered just long enough for him to be almost overcome with that siren’s fragrance that wafted off her hair, her skin. What diabolical game was she playing now?
“I thought you weren’t coming,” she said.
“I never miss dinner.”
“Oh.”
She feigned disappointment so well, he almost believed her.
“Will you excuse me? I have to talk with Aunt Kitty.” He left Sandi beside a potted hibiscus and bolted toward a fountain.
“Aunt Kitty.” Matt was so happy to be in safe territory, he practically fawned over his startled aunt.
“Why, Matt. What’s put you in such an expansive mood?”
“Our guest, I hope,” Dolly said.
“She’s not my guest. She’s mother’s.”
Dolly swatted him arm with her Japanese fan, a theatrical touch she’d added to her long embroidered silk kimono. “You’re more fun when you smile.”
“I’m smiling.” He made a grimace in her direction, and was turning to ask Kitty about the papers from the bank, when Dolly grabbed her arm and raced toward the wrought iron table. “Matt,” she called over her shoulder, “escort Miss Wentworth to dinner.”
What had gotten into her? Dolly Wilder’s manners had always been impeccable. Was she getting senile? At this early age?
Sandi gave him that megawatt smile again. He could almost believe it was genuine.
“It looks like we’re stuck with each other for the duration.” He offered his arm. “May I?”
“Of course. How lovely.”
“That’s a strange word for torture.”
“Do you plan to torture me?”
Artless. That’s what she seemed. Too bad it was all an act.
“Yes.”
He tried to conjure up images of her slowly roasting on a spit, but all he saw was Sandi spilled across the bed with the moon in her hair and his lips on her skin. Rapturous torture. Exquisite torture.
“Then I must warn you. I’m the screaming type.”
Matt suppressed a groan. He would have to be more careful. This woman was an expert. Get her in a court of law, and he would make mincemeat of her. But put her in the bedroom and he was out of his league.
He’d avoided that venue for years, and he didn’t plan on taking any crash courses now.
“My victims don’t scream, Ms. Wentworth. They run.”
She laughed. Darned if she didn’t throw back her head to boot. The moon gilded her throat and the Chinese lanterns shot golden sparks off her hair.
My God, she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. The most appealing. And the most dangerous.
“I’m not the running type,” she said.
“Another warning?”
“No, just an honest confession. You see, I grew up the hard way, Matt. My dad died when I was three, and I was brought up by a series of nannies who trotted me out to play cute for whichever current lover my mother wanted to impress. After I got too old to be cute, she packed me off to live with my grandmother who subscribed to the creed ‘out of sight, out of mind.’ Little children were to be washed and fed and put to bed without fanfare and as quickly as possible. My mom’s friend Phoebe provided the only touch of home I ever knew.”
Matt felt poleaxed. He wanted to fold her into his arms and hold her tight and whisper sweet encouragement against her hair. He wanted to tuck her into warm blankets and bring her hot chocolate and stroke her beautiful face while he told her how very much she was loved.
He must be going crazy. Speechless, he stood in the middle of his mother’s courtyard listening to the distant call of whippoorwills and trying to pack ice back around his heart.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to blurt out those things. It just happened. There’s something about you…”
He put his hand on her cheek. That was all. Just put it there and let it rest for a moment, warm and loving and reassuring.
“It’s okay, Sandi.” Her smile carried a world of bravery and a hint of tears. “It’s okay.”
She nodded, and Matt put his hand on her elbow and led her to the table where Dolly and Kitty waited, led her with such care, he feared the thawing of his heart would become a permanent condition.
His carefully laid plans went up in smoke. How could he try to get Sandi to reveal her true colors when she was a rainbow?
The things she’d said had the ring of veracity, and yet he’d been fooled before. Not for one evening, but for several months. He’d have sworn that his fiancée was the real thing, an angel-faced woman of sweet temperament and honorable intentions. And yet Nancy McMains Stayman had turned out to be a gold-digging floozy with the heart of a barracuda.
And then there had been that awful and shocking revelation about his dad, a man Matt had once considered a hero.
No, he couldn’t afford to stick around. He would get through dinner as quickly as possible, then make his escape.
When they reached the table, he breathed a sigh of relief. But even after he pulled out Sandi’s chair, his hands still burned with the print of her soft skin.
“Oh, everything looks wonderful,” she said. “I haven’t eaten alfresco since I was in Paris.”
“You studied there, didn’t you?” Dolly said.
“Yes. Even when I was a toddler I knew I wanted to paint. Fortunately, Dad was the kind of man who planned ahead. ‘Someday you will study at the Sorbonne,’ he used to say, and then he made sure I could. He was a wonderful man. I remember he used to carry me outside on his shoulders to watch rainbows.”
“Is that why so many of your paintings feature rainbows?” Dolly asked.
Matt had thought Sandi was merely a photographer and a portrait painter. He had no idea that she had a body of work. Trust Dolly to know, though. There was hardly a topic she couldn’t discuss, hardly a current event she didn’t know about or had witnessed in her travels.
He found himself leaning toward Sandi, waiting for her answer with more than idle curiosity.
“Yes,” she said. “Not only are rainbows pure, untouched beauty and symbolic of promise, but they evoke memories of family for me. Happy memories.”
Matt pictured Sandi riding high above the crowd on her daddy’s shoulders, laughing with the freedom and uninhibited delight of a child. And he had a sudden, unexpected desire to make her laugh that way again.
“Will you excuse me, please?” He pushed back his chair and stood up.
“Matt, you haven’t even eaten your dinner.” This from Aunt Kitty. Worried.
“I’m going to take my plate up and eat with Mother. She’s probably getting lonesome. Good night, all.”
“Good night, Matt,” Sandi said, and then she set about blaming herself for his leaving. If she’d talked about happy, uplifting things instead of her painful past, he would have stayed.
Then she got ashamed of herself for wanting him to stay. She was selfish to the core, wanting to keep a man by her side while his mother lay upstairs dying. But, oh, she had enjoyed the touch of his hand upon her cheek. She’d loved the way he held her elbow, the solid feel of him as he walked beside her, the sense of power and confidence that emanated from him as he sat beside her at the table.
She got through dinner but didn’t know how. Then as soon as she could, she made her own escape. But not to her room. She couldn’t bear the thought of being alone in that wonderful four-poster bed.
Instead, she went into the library and got comfortable with a good book. But not one of Lucy’s romances. Sandi couldn’t bear to read about other people falling in love and having babies while her own arms and womb were so painfully empty.