Paradise Found (20 page)

Ridiculous
. Matt Brandon never let himself care enough to get hurt, and if he had made that mistake, it had nothing to do with her. She was long forgotten. It was probably some new love. Maybe that's why he hadn't been in the news lately. Or maybe he'd finally fallen for Gabrielle Jontue. Loving her could make a man look like that, and then some.

She heard his voice—low, deep, sweeping down the line, drawing her to him. She pushed her cap lower, reached into her pocket and pulled out the folded piece of paper.

There were two more women in front of her…soon…

“How would you like me to sign this?”

It was him. Sara shook her head, stared into Matt's silver eyes.

He gave her a gentle smile.

She thrust the paper toward him.

He scanned it, his smile deepened. “Laryngitis, huh?” He took a copy of
Over the Edge
and scrawled a few words followed by his signature on the inside cover. “Hope you feel better soon,” he said.

He started to hand the book back to her, then stopped. His face turned white under his tan. “That scent you're wearing,” he said, his eyes narrowing, his words slow, cautious. “What is it?”

The perfume! How could she have forgotten about the perfume?

“What is it?” he repeated, his smile fading.

She had to get out. Now. Sara grabbed the book and ran, ignoring the deep voice a few paces behind, calling after her. She picked up speed, darted out of the building, zigzagging through the streets. Not until she was three blocks away did she collapse against a brick wall, and gasp for air. Even then, she kept turning around, looking for him.

Nothing. Thank God he hadn't followed her.

Her hands shook the entire twenty-minute drive home. How could she have been so stupid? She never should have gone. What had it proved? That he could still make her heart do flip-flops? That when he smiled, she grew light-headed and breathless? Stupid. Stupid.
Stupid
.

By the time she pulled into her drive, she had a monstrous headache. Her sweats were damp, soaked in some spots from the puddles she'd blasted through on her escape route. But she was safe now. Her house was less than twenty feet away. She scrambled from the car and rushed toward the door. Once inside, she put the kettle on for a cup of chamomile tea and stripped off her sweats, opting for her faithful blue flannel bathrobe and fuzzy slippers. Two Tylenols later, Sara was snuggled in her grandmother's blue-and-yellow afghan, a cup of hot chamomile blend by her side, and a copy of
Over the Edge
in her hand.

She traced the embossed lettering on the cover. She'd helped create this book, or at least part of it. Slowly, she turned the book over and gazed at the photo on the back. Dressed in a black turtleneck and faded jeans, Matt was leaning against a stucco wall, a faint smile tugging at his lips. His arms were crossed over his chest and he was staring straight ahead, his silver gaze pensive.

This picture was different from the other jackets. It was more reserved, less inviting. Again, she thought of the look, guarded, she would call it, as though he were protecting the space between himself and the reader, lest one of them saw too much, uncovered too many secrets. The jackets of his six previous books, lying photo-side-up on the floor next to her bed were all casual, relaxed, open. She touched a finger to his mouth, traced the outline of his lips, remembering the feel of them on her skin.

Gently, she turned the book over and opened the first page.
Thank you for coming, laryngitis and all.
The next page was the dedication. One single line, that's all it was.
To everyone who believes in forever, this one's for you.
Tears blurred her vision. She swiped her eyes, grabbed the box of tissues beside her tea and turned the page.

At three thirty in the morning, she pulled the last tissue from the box and sniffed her way through the final sentences:

‘He gazed into her amber-green eyes, knowing he'd never find another love like Sara. Marry me, he said in a gruff voice, pulling her into his arms. Her smile was all the answer he needed as he lowered his lips to hers. Their love for one another would carry them through today, tomorrow…and forever.’

Forever.
Why couldn't you have loved me?
Sara closed the book, great sobs tearing her soul, ripping her heart, as she gave herself up to a lifetime of lost forevers.

Matt shifted in his chair and pulled his cap down low. The wind whipped through Three Rivers Stadium, belting the crowd with big gusts. He pulled his jacket closer to him. Damn, but he wished he'd gotten second-row seats, number one and two. He liked those best. They were the ones he and—he pushed the thought from his head. There was no reason to want those particular seats other than the view was better and he'd had them before. It wasn't because she'd been sitting beside him at the time. He just liked the seats. Period.
She
had nothing to do with it.

But there was already a woman in seat two and an old man in seat one. That had been his seat. So he'd settled for row four, seat four. His gaze floated back to the man and woman. It didn't look like they were together. He was one of those die-hard Pirates' fans, outfitted in black and yellow, with a radio in one hand and a small television in the other. Probably some retired steel worker, spending his golden days following the home team.

The woman was younger, thirty-something and could have been the man's daughter, but Matt doubted it. They hadn't said two words to each other. She was all huddled up, like the cold bothered her, even though she wore jeans and a down jacket. And black mittens with yellow thumbs. She had on the same ball cap as Matt, pulled low, so he couldn't see her eyes or much else, except for her lips that were kind of pouty, no smile.

A roar from the crowd brought his attention back to the ball field. Foul ball, far left field. The rest of the inning and the next two were uneventful—five pop-outs, two grounders, three strikeouts, a double, and a single. Every now and again, he'd look at the man and woman in seat one and two. The old guy was totally engrossed in the game, radio blaring, hot dog and beer wedged between his legs. The woman just sat there, staring straight ahead. Her body might be in the seat, but her mind was definitely somewhere else.

Damn, if she wasn't going to watch the game, she should give up her seat. To him. Maybe he should ask her if she wanted to trade—she wasn't watching the game anyway. He thought about it a few minutes, decided against it. She didn't look like she was in the mood for any kind of conversation, let alone a favor. Three beers and four innings later, the old man gathered his belongings and moved to an empty seat in row one. Matt eyed the vacant spot next to the woman. What the hell? Two minutes later, he slid into the seat next to her.

Might as well be polite. “Hope you don't mind…” he began, turning toward her.

She jerked her head down, like a turtle trying to get back into its shell.

“Excuse me,” he began again, “I hope you don't mind if I sit here.”

The woman shook her head, pulled her cap lower.

“What do you think of the game?”
Do you even know who's playing?

She shrugged.

“Yeah, my thoughts exactly.” It was a boring game, maybe that's why he'd been paying so much attention to the crowd, the woman and the old man, in particular. They had his seats, after all.

“You know you've got one of the best seats in the house.” He slid his gaze back to her. “And I've got the other one.”

She didn't respond, didn't even acknowledge that he'd spoken, just kept her head bent, looking at…what? What was wrong with her? Why didn't she answer him? Was she upset? Depressed? He knew what that felt like. Maybe her boyfriend had just dumped her, or her husband. He knew what getting dumped felt like, too.

He leaned forward, lowered his voice. “Are you okay?”

“Hmm hmm.”

Progress. She'd made a sound. He should just leave her alone. What business was it of his if her boyfriend or husband had another girlfriend, or a boyfriend, for that matter? He should shut his mouth and watch the game.

But God, she looked so absolutely pathetic, sitting there all hunched over like the life was shriveling out of her. He knew what that felt like too. “You seem…like something's bothering you.”

The tears started then, a stream, slipping down her cheeks to her chin onto her coat “Hey, I'm sorry. It's none of my business, I know. I'll shut up, okay?” Now he’d really done it. More tears, harder. “It's about a guy, isn't it?” The words were out before he could stop them.

The woman swiped her black-and-yellow mittened fingers across her cheeks, jerked her head up and down one time.

Of course, it was always about a guy. Or a woman.

“Married?”

She shook her head, sniffed twice.

“Hmm. Doesn't want to commit?”

Her head dipped forward so far all he could see was the back of her cap and a tiny swatch of brown hair.

“Maybe he just needs a little time to get used to the idea.”

Silence. Thousands of people all around him and all he could hear was this woman's silence.

“Some guys get scared no matter how great the woman is.” He should know. “They run, at least for a while. But if the relationship's got any substance, if it's worth it, they come back.”
And the woman's waiting for him, arms wide open. Unless she's found someone else.
“And if not, well...” He couldn't tell her the truth, not his truth ...
Then you feel like the biggest sucker in the world. And you bleed. And the bleeding doesn't stop; it just keeps gushing out, more, more, draining you, leaving you lifeless until you're numb from the pain of it. After a while, the hole in your soul scabs over... but it's always there, ready to break open and bleed all over again. And the bitch of it is, there's not a damn thing you can do about it. Not a goddamn thing.
No, he wasn't going to tell her any of that. It would be too cruel. He opened his mouth to push some balm-filled words out, but it was too late. She was already gone.

***

“Couldn't wait to see me again, huh?” Matt's lips twitched into a half smile.

“Hey,” Jeff said, “you're leaving for sunny California in a few hours. Who knows when you'll grace this side of the continent again? Probably not until you're promoting your next bestseller.” He laughed. “Besides, I have an affinity for airport food…something about the cardboard taste. Mmmmm.”

“Especially the hot dogs. Cardboard mixed with rubber.”

“Right.” Jeff untwisted the cap on his bottled water and took a drink. “So how's it feel to have that ugly mug plastered all over Pittsburgh?”

Matt shrugged, trying to block out the airline attendant's voice.
Flight 452 to Dallas-Fort Worth is now boarding…
“People probably get tired of looking at me. I know I sure as hell do.”

Jeff laughed. “Not the female population. We've been sitting here less than five minutes and you've gotten the eye from just about every woman who's passed by.”

“Is there something on my shirt?” Matt brushed his hands over his polo. “My face?” He rubbed his chin.

“It's your face all right, you dummy. And I guess all the rest of you. Hell if I know, I'm a guy. But my assistant still can't believe she actually talked to you on the phone this morning.” Jeff rolled his eyes. “I'll be hearing about it for the next five months.”

“I bet your office will be thrilled.”

“Aside from me, yeah, they will be.”

“I'm sure they won't all be doing handstands.” He could think of one person who wouldn’t want to hear his name or see his face.

There was a long pause. “Well…”

“Right. Well.” So what if she didn't want to hear about him? He didn't want to hear about her either. In less than two hours he'd be in the air again, away from Pittsburgh. Safe.

“How was the game yesterday?” Jeff asked.

“Boring.” He thought of the woman, huddled up, hiding from something, her pain, maybe.

“She was there, you know.”

Matt jerked his head up, said nothing. He knew who
she
was.

Jeff drummed his fingers on the Formica table. “Said she saw you.”

“What?” Sara saw him? Yesterday?
Impossible.

“Said she saw you,” Jeff repeated, his voice calm.

“I didn't see her.”

Jeff shrugged. “Said you even talked to her.”

“Bullshit. The woman's a liar.” Blood pounded in his temples. “Is this why you wanted to see me before I left? To tell me about her?”

“Look, Matt, I don't know what happened between the two of you, but even an idiot can see you're both miserable. Hell, you've both been walking around half dead since she came back here and I think it's time you talked things out.”

“There's nothing to talk about.”

“She's a wonderful woman.”

“Great. Glad to hear it.”

“She'd make a wonderful wife.”

“I hear she's already had that role.”

“That was low. Her ex-husband was a real bastard. Cheated on her and left her when she lost their baby.”

“So I heard.”

“You two are perfect for each other. Can't you think about settling down?”

Matt clenched his jaw, said nothing.

“Make a commitment, think about loving just one woman?”

“She didn't want me.” Cold truth.

“I don't believe it.”

Matt shrugged. “Doesn't matter. It's over and she and I both know what caused it.”

“Can't you even talk to her?”

“Listen to me, dammit. There's nothing to talk about. Do you understand?”

“No. I really don't.”

Anger pushed out his next words. “And I don't know why she'd tell you we talked,” he said, his voice rising with each word. “I didn't talk to anybody except some poor, pathetic woman ...” It hit him then ... the hunched figure in his seat... the tears . . . the refusal to speak…
The woman in his seat had been Sara.

***

Sara dipped the washcloth in the pan of ice water, wrung it out and placed it on her forehead. Her head was still throbbing. It had started at the ball game yesterday, a dull ache that worked itself into a full-blown pounding this morning, right after she told Jeff about her encounter with Matt.

She still couldn't believe he'd been at the stadium, sitting right beside her, talking to her… like a stranger. She'd always wondered if he'd recognize her if they ever saw each other, maybe identify her somehow. But he hadn't. He'd said a few words but in the end, he'd only pitied her. She drifted off thinking of him and how he pitied her.

Minutes or hours later, a shrill ring tore through her sleep, yanking her awake. “Agghhhh.” She rolled to her side and pushed the hair from her face. Her headache was better, reduced to a faint pulsing in her temples. The ringing started again. Doorbell. Someone was at the door. If she closed her eyes again, maybe they'd just go away. It stopped, but a few seconds later, the pounding started.

“Okay, okay,” Sara called from the sofa. “I'm coming.” She pushed into a sitting position, stood, and straightened her sweatshirt and sweatpants. “Just a minute.” If it was some person selling magazines, she was going to scream.

She opened the door, preparing her ‘no thank you’ line, but the words lodged squarely in the middle of her throat, blocking speech and thought, trapping everything but the vision of Matthew Brandon standing on her doorstep.

“Sara.”

She stared. It really was him, looking cool and beautiful in his faded jeans and black turtleneck, like he'd just walked off the cover of
G
Q. His silver gaze narrowed, no doubt taking in her baggy blue sweats and gray sweatshirt. And fuzzy red slippers. Ugh. She shrank back a little, tried to pat her hair down. What a mess. She didn't want him to see her like this, like some pathetic urchin, worn and tattered.

“Did I wake you?”

“I…” She wrapped her arms around her middle. Even a cold, remote Matt Brandon was dangerous to her defenses. “I had a headache so I laid down…”

“I guess I should have called first.” His words were stiff and forced.

“Would you like to come in?”
Say no, say you've got a prior engagement. Say anything.

He nodded. “Sure.”

Sara’s heart pounded hard and fast as he stepped past her and entered the living room. He stood there, next to the Peace Lilly, drinking in the tiny room—the overstuffed sofa and faded rocker, the ceramic pots stuffed with lavender, the windowsill filled with African violets, the canvas splattered with ten different shades of blue. “A little smaller than what you're used to,” she said, trying to find something safe to say, anything to break the awkward silence.

His gaze swung back to the windowsill and the six African violets perched on the edge. Two purple, two white, two pink. “It's you.” Had his voice softened, just a little? “Totally you.”

“It's home.”

“Right. Home.” He cleared his throat, jammed his hands in his pockets. “So, how are things?”

“Fine. I'm keeping busy.” Since she'd returned from California, she'd signed up for classes in yoga, Feng Shui, Asian cooking. Anything to keep her mind off Matt Brandon. She'd even joined a book club discussion group that met once every two weeks, but she'd dropped out when they selected Matt's book for discussion.

“I'm pretty busy too,” he said. “Book tours, speaking engagements, plotting my next book.” His gaze settled on her.

“Great. You must be very excited.”
Damn you, Matthew Brandon, why did you come?

“
Over the Edge
could be as big as
Dead Moon Rising
. I've got some in the car, let me grab one for you and sign it.”

Sara raised a hand to stop him. “That's okay,” she said. “I've already got one.” Her voice faded out as she remembered the scene at his book signing. At least he didn't recognize her, thank God.

“Oh? Where is it? I'll sign that one.”

You already did.
“Hmm. I don't know where I put it.” She scratched her head, shot a sideways glance at the rocker. Half of
Over the Edge
lay exposed, right in the middle of the seat, the other half was covered with the yellow-and-blue afghan.

Matt followed her gaze. “And…there it is,” he said, walking over and snatching it from its spot.