Made to Last (Where Love Begins Book #1) (28 page)

Over in the corner, he’d set up a card table and covered it with a white tablecloth. A pair of candles flickered in the center. He’d picked up their dinner spread from a restaurant Miranda had once mentioned as a favorite.

“This is . . .” She stopped in the middle of the room, turning in a full circle before finishing her sentence. “Amazing. How in the world did you . . .”

Her voice trailed as he reached her side. “So I did all right? You don’t think it’s hokey?”

“Try incredible.” Specks of light danced in her eyes.

He led her to the table and pulled out her chair, then paused as a waltz picked up where the previous song left off. “Actually, the food will stay warm a little longer. Should we have a dance first?”

“I don’t know if our one dance lesson prepared me for this.” She bit her lip, the same uncertainty feathering over her face now as that first day, standing knee-deep in creek water, when she’d talked about her grandpa’s truck, unknowingly spilling her heart . . . and in the process, capturing his.

“That’s why we’re here.” Part of it, anyway. Possibly a very minor part. The bigger reason being his exploding desire to spend every minute he could with this woman before he had to go home. “I’m going to finish teaching you.”

“At least there’s nobody here. I can’t embarrass you. Myself, yes. You, no.”

“Not a chance. Besides, even if this room were packed, by this point in my life, I’m pretty unembarrassable.” He reached for her hand. “Remind me to tell you about the time Jase and I got caught breaking into a zoo building while trying to be all Hardy Boys sleuth-like.”

He pulled her toward the center of the room.

“That’s hilarious. How long ago was that?” She tipped her head back, smoky eyes beaming.

“Uh, what?” Maybe if he didn’t look at her he’d make it through an entire conversation. But then, well, he wouldn’t get to look at her. Not so sure the trade-off was worth it.

“When you and your brother broke into the zoo. What were you, like, teens?” She stepped closer, placed her right hand on his shoulder, poised to move into the dance just as he’d taught her.

“I’d rather not say.”

“No way, you were older? Adults? Oh, don’t tell me you were on an assignment.”

Left hand to her waist, right arm raised, fingers closed around hers. With a step, he nudged them into the nonexistent pool of dancers on the floor. She stiffened only for a moment, then eased into the floating movement. The tap of their footsteps accompanied the music.

“How long ago was it? Were you just starting out as a reporter? An eager-beaver journalist hot on the trail of his first story?”

“I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“And why was Jase with you?”

“I lost my camera.”

“Tell me, when was it?”

She missed a step as she joked, and instinctively he tightened his hold on her before she could stumble. “Careful there, Miss Curiosity.” He pulled her in, moving to the sway of the strings, breathing in the lilac scent of Miranda’s perfume. Her favorite . . . quickly becoming his.

“So are you going to tell me?” she said over his shoulder.

“Tell you what?”

A shadow flickered in the doorway, and for a moment his heartbeat picked up. Was someone there?

“The zoo story, Matthew. Do I get to hear it?” Miranda tilted her head, her teasing grin coming to a slow fade as they locked eyes. “You okay?”

No, of course no one was there. They were alone. “I’m perfect, Miss Woodruff.” Absolutely perfect.

Except for one tiny thing.
I can’t do that article.
He’d known it for days but hesitated over making the final decision.

She leaned in again, letting him carry them along to the music.

He had to do it—back out of the article, maybe even the blog. He’d call Dooley tomorrow and endure the tongue-lashing. But it’d be worth it. Because he was gone. So far gone, “conflict of interest” took on a whole new meaning.

“Anyone ever tell you that you exaggerate, Miranda Woodruff?”

Matthew spoke the words into her ear, his cheek brushing hers and the scent of his aftershave lingering as he guided her into an easy whirl. They’d finished their meal, Miranda gushing the whole time over her favorite restaurant’s food. And then he’d coaxed her into another dance, which turned into two, and then three. “I exaggerate?”

“Yes. You’re a much better dancer than you led me to believe.”

“Not really. You’re just easy to follow. That, and I slipped out of my shoes back at the table.”

His head jerked down. “Really? What if I step on your toes?”

“You haven’t so far.”

She met Matthew’s gaze as the music stopped, something telling in his hazel eyes with specks of green. And if it had been tangible, she’d have grabbed at it, held it tight. Instead, another number began, this one slow and lazy, and she closed
the inches between them and laid her head on his shoulder. She imagined the room as it might have been back in the 1920s: flashes of deep red from the drapery ornamenting the room, the gold shine of ceiling lights bouncing off the instruments of the band, a rainbow of dresses dotted by the black of tuxedos . . .

But no, this was better. She closed her eyes and molded her movement to his.

“Absolutely perfect,”
he’d said. Absolutely right.

I could stay here.
Forget ratings and awards and lies.

“You know, if there’s a rumba on my iPod, we might be done for.” Matthew led her from the perimeter of the floor into the center. “We never got to that during dance lessons for Izzy and Jase’s wedding.” He chuckled, his breath feathering over her cheek.

Absolutely perfect . . .

“Miranda?”

“Hmm?”

“I’m supposed to go home in a couple days.”

Suddenly the smooth floor under her feet turned ragged. One foot tangled over the other. Not the first time since they’d started dancing. And just like every other time, Matthew’s arms tightened, and his movement slowed until she found her stride . . . and the warmth crept over her face. “Sorry.”

“My leaving bothers you that much, does it?”

Didn’t have to see his face to hear the smile. “Who said it bothered me?”

“Your feet.”

My, but he was smug. A good dancer, but smug. “My feet are simply ill-suited to dancing.”

“Your feet are cute.”

“Are not. They’re calloused and ugly. And I haven’t painted my toenails since I was five.”

“They’re cute.”

“Stop looking at them.”

He lifted his eyes to hers, and as his gaze inched down her face and landed on her lips, every thought save one disintegrated:
He’s going to kiss me. Right here in the middle of the dance floor in an abandoned speakeasy.

Her eyelids eased closed. Her head tilted as Matthew closed the space between them and . . .

His foot came down on hers.

“Oww!”

Matthew jerked back, dropping both his arms. “Sorry. I’m sorry!”

“It’s okay, I’m fine. A few broken toes, that’s all.”

“Seriously? Ice, we need ice.”

“Matthew, it’s all—”

“Just like me to ruin the night.”

“You didn’t ruin anything.” Except maybe her ability to walk. She took a gingerly step forward.
Hmm, not bad.
Another step. “See, I’m totally fine.”

“You should get your shoes.”

“Trust me, the heels are more of a danger to me than you are. I’ve still got all my toes. And look.” She lifted her foot, wiggled her toes. “They still work.” She replaced her hand on his shoulder.

“You really want to keep dancing?”

Such a simple question shouldn’t burrow so deep into her heart. But the intensity in his voice spoke more than his words. She squeaked out a “yes” and took a step closer.

Lord, what’s happening?

Matthew’s hand encircled hers.

As if I’m not already in enough of a web. Now this . . . what?
Infatuation? No, definitely more than that. Deeper.

“Hey, I should teach you to dip.” The forced lightness in his tone was obvious. But she’d accept the reprieve, because
suddenly the giddiness, the emotion, the connection she felt with Matthew carried a new layer: fear.

It filtered through her, foggy, blurring any chance of easy hope for this blooming, uh, friendship.
He’s going to leave. Just like Robbie.
Sure, in this moment, he might fancy himself taken with her. Might even be caught up in a momentary star-studded whirlwind. But eventually he’d leave, return to his home and family in Minnesota. And once again, she’d be alone, rejection her only companion.

“The best time to dip is when the music swells. I’ll lean forward, you lean back. Let my arms support you. Pretend we’re in a crowd of onlookers and flash that TV-screen smile.”

“Okay. You’ll tell me when?”

“I’ll tell you when.”

They circled the floor, her movements smoothing out, crushed toes forgotten. The almost-kiss, so totally not.

The music crescendoed.

“Ready, Miranda?”

His arm around her waist tightened. She leaned back into his firm hold, then felt herself pulled back up.

“Very nice,” Matthew whispered, his face only a breath away from hers, his smile reaching past her resolve. “And on your first try.”

“I don’t want you to go.” The words tumbled out, unstoppable.

He scrunched his brow. “You don’t . . .”

She shook her head. Around them, lights twinkled as the hollow room listened.

“Why not?” His voice was husky.

“I just don’t.”
Please don’t ask me to explain.
Because she couldn’t. Or maybe she could. But saying it aloud was just too much of a risk. Even now, if he turned away, she’d shatter like glass.

His eyes found her lips again. A second chance. She tucked her feet under her dress. No breaking the spell this time.

The kiss was soft, sweet. Unintrusive. Her arms slid around his neck as he kissed her again, this one deeper, longer, perfect. And when she broke it off, the dazed look in his eyes matched the contented sighing of her heart. “Well, I’ll take that any day over broken toes.”

His laugh shook her as he pulled her close again. “In that case, there’s more where that came from.”

“Is that so?” Full-on flirt. Who knew she had it in her?

“Yes, ma’am.” His arms tightened, head lowered, lips met hers.

A flash of light and movement. Her eyes blazed open as she pulled away from Matthew. His own gaze shot over her shoulder as another unmistakable camera flash lit up his face. “Jones!” he gasped.

She whirled . . . and caught a glimpse of a woman’s retreating form.

Had she followed them?

A reporter, maybe paparazzi. But whoever it was didn’t stick around. She disappeared from the doorway before Miranda could move. And did Matthew recognize her? Wait, was it the same reporter Matthew had tried to hide her from the other day?

She turned back to Matthew. “Who was that?”

And then it sunk in, like an anchor tugging her to reality. Whoever she was, this Jones, she’d caught them kissing. On camera. And Miranda, supposedly married . . .

Matthew raked a hand through his hair, shook his head. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” Her stomach lurched. “Did you know she was going to show up?”

He froze. “You can’t possibly think that I—”

“Staged this? How else does a reporter find us in the middle of nowhere? A reporter you know?”

His eyes searched hers, his hurt clear. He spoke slowly. “Miranda, if I wanted to break a story about you, I wouldn’t have to go to all this work. I’ve got enough ammo as is.”

Miranda slid one hand up and down her bare arm, goose bumps raised at the sting in Matthew’s words. She’d allowed herself to forget all he knew, the damage he could do with one blog post. One article.

But that may not even matter anymore. Not if the pictures that reporter just took found an audience.

“Matthew . . .” she started, but he wouldn’t look at her.

He only blew out the candles on their makeshift table and turned as he jogged toward the door. “I’m going after her.”

“Miranda? You in here?”

Miranda awoke slowly, the nagging pain in her side prodding her to consciousness—that and the voice jutting into her dreams.

“I sure hope you’re out here. Otherwise, I’m going to be seriously worried.”

Blaze? She shifted to free herself from the wooden arm jabbing into her waist. Her back, her neck, her whole body protested at her movement. She groaned as the hard back of her chair and the smell of sawdust reminded her where she was.

Note to self: I’m too old to be sleeping out in the workshop.

And then the memory of last night moved in like the gray light of the outdoors. For one hopeful moment, she wondered if it had all been a bad dream. No reckless kiss, no sinister camera flash. But one glance down at the midnight blue dress peeking out from under her blanket assured her the nightmare was pure reality.

How late had she worked last night, attempting to smooth out her emotions as she sanded away the nicks all along the surface of the dresser she refinished?

“Ahh!” Blaze’s annoyed growl sounded along with the crash of something metal. Probably a can of varnish.

“I’m back here, Blaze.”

The sound of his bumping against equipment and furniture tracked his movement. “There you are. Babe, do you have any idea how worried I was when I woke up this morning and couldn’t find you?”

She leaned back, propping her feet on the edge of the tool cart in front of her chair. “Sorry. But don’t call me babe. Makes me feel like a pig.”

He plopped onto the stool beside her table saw. “Yeah, but that pig could talk. And he starred in, what, two, three movies?”

She pulled her blanket up to her chin. “He’s a pig.”

“He’s cute. As are you.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“What? You’re wearing high heels and a ball gown with a pair of safety goggles on your forehead. It makes for a great picture.”

Picture!
Oh dear, had the pictures that reporter took last night hit the Internet already? She reached for her phone from her purse on the floor, checked the display. Four voice mails and eight unread text messages . . . all from Matthew.

Huh, if all the messages were from Matthew—none from Brad or Lincoln or Liv—then maybe whoever had taken those photos hadn’t gone public with them. Had Matthew stopped it from happening?

She sat up straight. How could she have accused Matthew of being a part of scheming with another reporter last night? Well, she’d been in shock. She could’ve believed just about anything. The Easter Bunny, tooth fairy, Santa . . .
Yes, Virginia, men do let you down.

But Matthew?

“Hey, Randi, seriously, you all right?” Blaze’s eyes were filled with genuine concern.

“Last night was . . . bad. Something happened. I blamed Matthew.”

“So that’s why the guy never showed up. I wondered.”

“He didn’t come back?”

Blaze shook his head. “Didn’t see his car, and he didn’t answer at the cabin.” He leaned forward to gently tug off her goggles with his un-casted hand. He chuckled. “You better hope those lines on your forehead fade before the gala tonight.”

She lifted her hand to her face, traced the pattern the goggles left from one side of her hairline to the other. The Giving Heart gala—so not what she felt like doing tonight.

She quirked a grin. “Think I could get away with keeping on this dress and going as is?”

“The dress, maybe, but the sawdust in your hair might raise a few eyebrows.” He pulled the goggles over his head and sat, posed with his arms folded. “What do you think? Do I look like a serious carpenter?”

“First carpenter I ever met who wears shorts at the end of October. Aren’t you freezing?”

“You’re the one in a sleeveless dress.”

She snuggled farther into the cocoon of her blanket. “I
am
cold. My toes feel like icicles.”

He pulled on the lever underneath his stool, and it whistled as he lowered. He grabbed one of her feet before she could protest.

“What are you doing?”

He clamped her foot between his one palm and the fingers of his casted arm and started rubbing. “Warming your feet.”

“This is weird.”

He shook his head. “It’d be weird if I was your former fiancé, who obviously still likes you. And it’d be weird if I was Knox, who’s got the biggest crush on you this side of anywhere. But I’m just your pretend husband, so it’s all good, hon.”

Her muscles tightened at the mention of Robbie. No, Matthew. No, both. “Blaze—”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have said it out loud, but come on, it’s obvious. You’re in one mess of a love triangle. Make that square, if you count me. You’re going to have to make some hard decisions.” He switched feet.

“What decisions? The way I see it, I’m left with little choice in this whole thing.”

He dropped her foot. “Your toes are practically blue.” He shook off his shoe and reached down to peel off his sock, brought it up to her foot.

“Where you going with that, buddy?”

“They’re clean, I promise.”

“I’m not wearing your socks.”

“I’ll turn it inside out.”

“Really, Blaze, I’m fine. I’ll go to the house and put on some real clothes.”

He grabbed her ankle. She shook it. “Now, come on, Mrs. Woodruff. Make that Mrs. Hunziker. Listen to your hubby. He knows what’s best for you.”

“I don’t need your socks.”

He only held on tighter, his fingers sneaking to the arch of her foot. “Wear the socks, or hubby tickles you ’til you cry.”

“This is abuse!”

He tickled her.

She screeched. “Blaze!”

“I mean it, missy. Blaze just wants to take care of you.”

“Blaze should stop talking in third person!” She whacked at him as he forced a sock over her foot.

“So this is Blaze.”

Miranda froze at the sound of the female voice. She hadn’t heard the door open, nor the approach of the figures highlighted from behind by pale rays streaming in from the window.
She squinted, ankle still encased in Blaze’s hand and hair falling around her face from the playful struggle.

“Miranda.”

Robbie?
Of course. He just couldn’t stay away.

But strangely, he wasn’t the one she couldn’t look away from. She gulped and found her voice. “Mom?”

At the first hint of sunrise, Matthew emerged from his Jeep and marched toward the Asheville Marriott. Weighty clouds dimmed the sky in a swirl of silver, a mountain haze fogging the landscape.

He’d have had a better night’s sleep if he’d actually checked in to the hotel when he arrived shortly after midnight. But assuming Delia was still here, he hadn’t wanted to miss her if she made an early departure.

A valet dipped his head in greeting as Matthew passed.
Yes, I know I’m a wreck.
He still wore his tux, though he’d loosened his bow tie and ditched the jacket.

He pushed through the revolving door and dropped onto the first maroon bench he saw in the lobby. He’d stand guard all day if he had to. Because it wasn’t happening this time. He wouldn’t mess everything up, hurt someone he cared about. It’s why he’d spent half the night on the phone, bugging Dooley, bugging the lawyer Dooley recommended. He had enough ammo now to keep Delia from leaking those photos—if she hadn’t already.

If only he could find her. He’d left half a dozen messages on her cell phone. Somehow he’d stop her—protect Miranda.

Never mind the sting of Miranda’s actions last night. Oh, she hadn’t completely accused him with words, only implied. But the look in her eyes said it clearly enough.

It’s not fair, Miranda. Not after how I’ve kept your secret all this time.

His shoes tapped against the carpet as he waited. Fatigue tempted one eye closed, then the other. He blinked. No, couldn’t sleep. He might miss—

“Matthew Knox. Fancy meeting you here.”

His head whipped up and his mouth dropped open as the familiar voice snaked into his concentration. “Delia.” Her name came out flat, listless.

“All rested up after your evening of dancing?” she asked with a self-satisfied smirk. “I had no idea you were such a Fred Astaire type. I’d call you Twinkletoes, but something tells me you might not appreciate the endearment.”

“Speaking of things I don’t appreciate . . .” He stood. “You’re not going to use those photos.”

Her sardonic laugh had its intended effect, rankling his determination. “Don’t be naïve. I hit the jackpot, and you know it. Although, I have to admit, I’m curious. That kiss—was it the real thing or was it part of some scheme to get Woodruff to open up? Either way, it’s a great story.”

If she wasn’t a woman, the fists balling at his sides might not have stayed there. “I’ve already got a lawyer writing up a defamation suit. So unless you’ve got a hankering to hang out in a courthouse, you’ll forget the whole thing.”

“Hankering? You’ve been down south too long.” She stepped closer, her spiked heels giving her enough height to face him eye to eye. “Your blog might be cute, Knox. Your name might be a hot thing at the moment. But your comeback’s coming to an end.”

How to convince her to drop this? Wasn’t there something he could do? Apparently the idea of a lawsuit didn’t faze the woman. The splashing of the atrium fountain, an impatient patron dinging the concierge bell, the need for sleep, it all muddled his brain.
Think, Knox.
“Jones, please.”

“Please what? Have compassion on the man who let his
personal ambition and desire for revenge against his father ruin
my
career?”

That’s it!

He grabbed Delia’s wrist, pulled her to the bench. “Just listen. I’ll do it. I’ll do the story with my dad, and you can write it.” Dread ran a marathon through his head at even the idea, but it would be worth it. For Miranda, it would be worth it.

“Write it for the AP, whomever. Former Pulitzer finalist on his way to a fine journalism career throws it all away to get back at his father. He causes his own downfall. Now, years later, his magnanimous father reaches out in forgiveness.” Yeah right, more like in the name of Gordon Knox’s own personal interests. But Delia’s stillness, the way her pursed lips released, signaled her interest. “Father and son reconcile. Gordon Knox goes on to a blooming political career.”

Delia chewed on the inside of her cheek, then shifted to face him, her elbow propped on the back of the bench. “I could write that story anyway, Knox. Only with a different angle. Father reaches out to son—son refuses.”

“It’d be one-sided.”

She shrugged. “As was the attempt at reconciliation. Besides, at best, the story has regional appeal. Randi Woodruff, that’s national news.”

“It’s national
tabloid
news. I know you, Jones. We worked together for years. You’re like me—there’s teeth to your reporting. You’re a hard-news journalist, not a bottom-feeder.”

“You say that, and yet, you’re writing for
Today.
”

“Not anymore. I’m writing one last blog entry after the Giving Heart ceremony, but I’m done after that.”

“What about the cover story?”

He shook his head. “Not doing it. Not the way Dooley wants.” He scooted an inch closer to Delia. “Miranda Woodruff is a good person, Delia. Please, don’t attempt to ruin her
life the way I tried to ruin my father’s. I only ended up hurting myself . . . and you.”

Delia peered at him. “It
was
for real, wasn’t it? That kiss.”

Yes.
“She’s a good person,” he repeated. Even if she had jumped straight to thinking the worst of him last night.

Delia folded her arms and nodded. Nodded again. She stood. “Let me think about it. I wasn’t going to make any kind of move today anyway. I want to see how the awards turn out tonight. Besides, I’m following up on a different lead, too. Something about a new show to possibly replace
From the Ground Up.
”

“I’ve been looking into that, too. Haven’t gotten too far yet.”

All he had was a name—Hollie Morris, the woman who had once been a shoo-in for the
From the Ground Up
gig before Miranda arrived on the scene.

The way he figured it, she may have created the new show just to get back at Miranda. But that was as far as he’d taken his research—because he’d become sidetracked, caught up in feelings for a woman who apparently still might not trust him.

Man, what if I’m doing all this and at the end of the day have only a good-bye to show for it?

“Anyway,” Delia said, “I guess I’m willing to wait it out. Maybe a better story will present itself—better than America’s tomboy darling cheating on her hubby.”

His first urge was to argue that last part, but he swallowed his retort. “Thank you,” he said instead. “Really.”

“I only said I’d consider it.”

But it was hope enough for today. He thanked Delia again, even shook her hand, then hurried to his car.

It’s going to be okay, Miranda. Everything’s going to be fine.
As long as that better story really panned out. He’d ask Miranda about Hollie Morris. See if the woman had held a grudge. But assuming Delia had gotten as far in her research as he had, would she really consider the maneuvering of Hollie
Morris more intriguing than, as she said, a story about America’s tomboy darling cheating?