Paradise Found (4 page)

“I just thought—”

“No.” He clutched the edge of the chair until his knuckles turned white. This was the Matthew Brandon she expected. Angry, forceful. Him, she could handle. It was the other side she'd seen a few moments ago, the seductive, gentle one that scared her to death. Before she could think of anything else to say, he pushed back his chair, nodded a curt good night and strode from the room, maneuvering past the furniture, through the room, and down the hall, never slowing a step.

***

The late afternoon sun followed them as they wound their way past the quaint little shops and boutiques of Laguna Beach. Sara peered through the tinted windows of the limousine, catching glimpses of artists weaving their craft on canvas, pottery, wood, and glass.

Adam noticed her keen interest and promised, “We'll come back another day and you can take it all in until you've had your fill.”

She flashed him a quick grin. “Better wear a comfortable pair of shoes.”

“Ridiculous,” Rex said as they rounded a corner and spotted a man painting plastic milk cartons. He had twenty or so finished ones resting on a pallet behind him.

“They're beautiful,” Sara breathed, admiring the bold designs and brilliant colors that transformed an ordinary household object into a work of art.

“Junk,” Rex muttered under his breath.

“How can you say that?” she asked, as they passed a young woman painting PVC pipe. “The medium doesn't matter. It's what the artist does with it that counts.”

“Right. So, you're saying I could take toilet paper rolls and paint some fancy little doodads on them and call it art.”

“You probably could.”

“And,” he continued, “I could probably sell them for fifty bucks a pop.”

Sara tried to keep a serious face. “Or more, depending on how original it is.”

“I'll tell Greta to start saving our toilet paper rolls for you, Rex,” Adam said and turned toward Sara. “That's profession number twenty-two, for our man, Rex.”

“Who's Greta?”

“Greta,” Adam said, letting out a long sigh, “is Rex's latest find.”

“And she's a darn good find, too,” Rex added.

They were on the highway now, heading south toward a place called Dana Point. Rex told her they could get a taste of native life there, watching experts and amateurs with surfboards, Wave Runners and fishing boats. Sara was content to see sun, water, and blue skies.

“At dinner, you mentioned Rex's penchant for finding people,” she said. Now was her opportunity to get some answers. “What did you mean by that?”

Adam inclined his head toward their chauffeur. “Rex has a habit of bringing home strays.”

“Haven't they all proved very helpful?” Rex asked, shooting Adam a challenging look in the rearview mirror.

“Helpful and necessary are two different things. I fail to see why Matt needs a cook, a cleaning lady, a window cleaner, a laundry lady, a plant man, and a gardener.”

“You forgot the car washer and light fixture man.”

“Oh. How could I forget them?”

Rex grinned. “Matt just hired them last week.”

“If he doesn't need them, why does he hire them?” Sara asked. Another interesting twist through the maze to discover the real Matthew Brandon.

“Thank you, Sara,” Adam said. “It's nice to know someone else agrees with me. Matt and Rex, now they're a different story. Rex meets these people, from who knows where. They've all got a story. Somebody has a sick mother, or twelve kids, or is going to night school. You fill in the blank. Anyway, they come to Rex because word gets around that he's a sucker for a sob story.”

“That is absolutely not true,” Rex insisted, honking his horn at a car cutting in front of him. “They come to me because I'm honest.” He jabbed his index finger at his chest. “Because they know I'll do right by them.”

Adam rolled his eyes. “You do right by them all right. And Matt's too much of a softy to say no.”

Matthew Brandon? Softy?

“I think we're pretty well staffed for the time being,” Rex said. “Though there is that little Mexican lady who—”

“No.”

“All right, all right.” Rex shrugged. “So we'll talk to her again in the fall.”

“Rex—”

“Winter then. Or next spring,” he amended in the same breath.

Sara enjoyed the playful antagonism volleying between the two men. They were much easier to relax around than Matthew Brandon. He made her too jumpy. The easy camaraderie of the night continued and when they reached Dana Point, Rex pulled a large plaid blanket out of the trunk and went in search of the perfect spot to watch the water lovers. Adam and Sara kicked off their shoes and followed him to a sandy slope where he staked his claim and for the next few hours they enjoyed the surfers. When the sun rode low in the skyline, Adam leaned over and said, “There’s nothing quite like a California sunset. Matt loved to come here.”

“Adam?” Now was the time to ask the question that had been plaguing her since Matt left the dinner table. “When Matt got up from dinner tonight, he walked right out of the room. How did he do that without falling flat on his face?”

He shot her a sideways glance. “Practice. Lots and lots of practice. When he first came home, it was a nightmare. He refused to use a cane and had more bumps and nasty bruises than you can imagine.” He raked a hand through his hair and stared at the water in front of him, as if remembering those early days. “It went on for weeks. He refused to let anybody help him.” He gave her a wry smile. “If you haven't guessed, Matt's very proud. Too proud, sometimes.”

“I've already figured that out.”

“Yeah, that's Matt. Thinks he has to have all the answers. Can't ever depend on anybody else.” He frowned. “Not even me.”

“Some people are just like that. They prefer to be self-sufficient.” She should know.

“Well, it's damn hard on the rest of us.”

Sara sensed the underlying anger in his words. She knew he cared about his brother and wanted only what was best for him. “Maybe tomorrow we'll go for another ride. Rex can take us to that fishing place you were telling me about and we'll talk Matt into going with us. What do you think?”

If she'd sprouted three heads and an elephant nose, Adam wouldn't have looked at her any more strangely than he was now.

“Sara,” he said, narrowing his gray eyes on her. “Matt would never come with us. He hasn't left the house in months.”

Sara padded into the kitchen dressed in shorts and a sleeveless top at a little past ten the next morning. She never slept past eight o'clock, and usually was up and showered by seven. But then again, the last time she'd seen midnight was New Year's Eve four years ago. When Rex and Adam dropped her off last night, the clock on the microwave display read one-fifteen. If she factored Pittsburgh time into that, it was really four-fifteen. Four-fifteen! The only time she'd ever seen that hour in the morning was when she'd glanced at the clock on her nightstand after an occasional bathroom trip.

“Hi, Rosa,” Sara said, picking up a black mug from the counter and heading for the coffee pot. “Where is everybody?”

“Up,” the older woman mumbled from her place at the stove. She was stirring something with a long wooden spoon. “Out.” The smell of peppers and onions permeated the room.

Sara poured her coffee, splashed a little cream in it, and walked over to her. Leaning against the counter, she studied the cook whose plump fingers worked the spoon, scooping and tossing a small mountain of peppers and onions in a huge frying pan. The extra flesh under her arms jiggled with each movement. Her breath came in short steady gasps, her small nostrils flared, thin lips pursed into a frown.

She was upset about something. Again. “Rosa,” Sara said, her tone gentle, encouraging. “What's the matter?” The cook shook her head, eyes fixed on the food she was preparing. “I know you're upset about something. Please tell me what it is.” She laid a hand on the older woman's sun-weathered forearm. Rosa shot her a glance, her black eyes misted with tears. “Why are you crying?” Sara set her coffee mug on the counter and took the wooden spoon from her.

“Onions,” she said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hands. “Onions do this to Rosa.”

“I don't think so.” Sara moved the frying pan to the back burner. “You've been upset since you met me. Please tell me why. Have I done something?” Tears trickled down the older woman's cheeks, following the path of lines etched into her skin. They reached her jaw, hovered an instant, then fell, unchecked, onto her ample bosom. “Tell me.” What could she have done that would cause her this much distress? She hadn't even been in California twenty-four hours.

Another sniff. Rosa pulled out a white lace handkerchief from her apron pocket and blew her nose. “It is Mister Matt,” she said in halting syllables. “I worry for him. He say no more women. He go crazy last time with lady doctor. Make big scene. Very, very bad.” Her thick braided bun bounced back and forth as she shook her head.

“I'm sorry, Rosa,” Sara said, amazed at the loyalty this man's employees showed toward him. First Rex and now Rosa.

“Mister Matt take care of Rosa. Give me nice job, food to eat, place to stay.” She raised her eyes heavenward and blessed herself. “He say maybe hire nephew, Chico, in few months.”

Did Adam know about Chico? Probably not.

Rosa wiped her damp eyes with the corner of her printed apron. “Rosa want Mister Matt be happy. Too much sadness for him.” She sniffed again. “Too much pain.”

“I want to help Mister Matt, Rosa, not hurt him. But he might not want my help at first and he may get very angry with me. But I won't hurt him.” She held the other woman’s gaze. “Okay?”

Rosa eyed Sara a full fifteen seconds. “Yes,” she said. “Yes.” Then she reached into the opening of her starched white shirt and pulled out a small gold cross. Holding it between her plump fingers she said, “You promise, Rosa, on this cross, that you no hurt Mister Matt.”

Sara looked at the gleaming gold. This woman was willing to give her a chance, but only if she gained protection for her boss. The simple honest request moved her, and again, she wondered how he'd earned this kind of devotion. Sara reached for the shiny cross and said, “I promise you, Rosa, on this cross, that I will not hurt Mister Matt.”

A half hour later, Sara headed down the hall toward Matt's study and the sliding door that led to his patio. From what Adam had told her, this particular patio was his refuge. He came here every day and spent several hours doing exactly what she'd seen him do yesterday.

Nothing.

Well, not today. Today was going to be different for Matthew Brandon, because in her own subtle way, she was going to get him to talk. About anything. The weather, the state of foreign affairs, the stock market. Why he wore a Pittsburgh Pirates ball cap. Nothing too personal. That would make him uncomfortable and alert him to potential privacy infringements. She'd work the safe zone for a few days and if she didn't show her hand too early and bluffed when necessary, she might just win the pot and get him to talk about himself.

The door to his study was open. Rex sat in the big leather chair behind the desk, flipping through a magazine while the Rolling Stones belted out
Gimme Shelter
in the background. He looked up when she entered the room.

“Hi, Rex. I can't believe I slept so late. Next time, we better settle on a ten o'clock curfew.”

“Maybe so.”

Sara glanced at the patio and the back of Matthew Brandon's Pittsburgh Pirates ball cap. He had repositioned his chair so he couldn't be viewed from the window. Clever of him. “I think I'll go say hello,” she said, turning from Rex. “I'll catch you later.”

“Sara?”

She swung back around and noticed the pinched lips and paleness. “What is it?”

His eyes darted around the room, from ceiling to floor, and everywhere in between. “You can't go out there.”

“I can't?”

He fidgeted in his chair. “Matt said no,” he mumbled, studying his watch.

“Matt said no?”

A dull flush crept up his cheeks. “Said he wants some time alone.”

Sara laughed. “He's had nothing but time alone for months.” She shook her head and laughed again.

“I'm glad you're not upset.”

“Why would I be upset?” She shot a glance at the Pirates cap. “That doesn't mean I'm going to honor his request and stay in here, though.” She smiled at Rex, whose complexion had gone from red to green.

“You can't go out there.”

“Yes, I can. Watch me.” Sara strode to the sliding glass door and reached for the handle.
Get ready, Matthew Brandon, here I come
. She yanked on the door. Nothing. She pulled again, harder this time.

“Rex, I think this door's locked. Can you get me the key?” When he didn’t answer, she looked over her shoulder. “Rex? The key?”

Guilt and dread washed over his face. “There's only one key.”

“Do you know where it is?”

He nodded. “Matt's got it.”

“Oh for heaven's sake,” she muttered. “He locked me out of his patio?” Sara stared at Rex, hands on hips. He shrugged. “And I suppose all of the other sliders are locked as well. With only one key?”

“No. But Matt had me turn the security system on.” Rex hung his head. “You can't open the sliding glass doors unless you have the code.”

“Fine.”
Damn him
. Did he really think a silly old lock and a security system would keep her away?

“I'm really sorry,” Rex said in a quiet voice. “I like you. You're not like the other docs. You're different.” He lifted his broad shoulders. “Maybe he just needs a little time to see that.”

“It's not your fault and I'm not upset with you.” But his boss was a different story. “What am I supposed to do while I wait for him to come around?” She hadn't expected an answer and was surprised when Rex provided one.

“Well, according to Matt, you should consider yourself on vacation and enjoy the sights.”

She swung away from the door. She'd play his game. For a little while. “Well, if you'll excuse me, I guess I'll be retiring to my cell ... I mean room.” Sara whizzed past him, anxious to be by herself. When she reached the door, she stopped and called over her shoulder, “And you can tell your boss I declare him the victor.” She waited a second before adding, “Of round one.”

***

Sara shook her head at the pecan pie Adam offered her and groaned. “I can't eat one more thing.”

“How can you resist pecan pie?”

“I can't, but my hips can,” she said, pushing away her plate. “Besides, didn't you see me eat that double fudge brownie? Where I come from, that's considered rich enough for two desserts.”

“Well, I guess you leave me no choice but to eat it all myself. Unless of course Rex thinks he's got room for more.” They glanced at Rex who was stuffing a piece of chocolate cheesecake into his mouth. He shook his head.

“That's what I thought.” Adam popped a pecan in his mouth.

“We've got to stop eating like this,” Sara said. “It's our second night of overindulgence. Pretty soon they'll have to roll us to our car.”

Adam shrugged. “So we enjoy food.”

“Indeed we do,” Rex said, saluting them with a forkful of cheesecake.

Sara met Rex's warm gaze and her smile deepened. Things were good between them and she wanted to keep them that way. It had been two days since the key incident. Two days of shopping, playing, eating, and having that miserable miscreant avoid her.

When Adam heard about the situation, he wanted to confront his brother immediately but Sara had urged him to wait it out and play by her rules. Matthew Brandon probably thought she'd succumbed to his high-handed tactics and taken his advice to see the sights for the remainder of her stay. She was seeing them, all right, enjoying them too. But it was merely a ploy to get his guard down. One more day and then she would attack.

***

She crept down the dark hallway, her tiny pocket flashlight providing a faint path of light in front of her. Aside from the faint hum of the air conditioner, the house was still. Conditions were perfect

Moving along the wall, she touched uneven sections of stucco, marking each room she passed. His was the fourth one on the left. It seemed to take a lifetime to travel a few feet, but she couldn't afford a mistake. When she reached his door, she sipped in air and touched the knob.

Could she do it? What if someone saw her? How would she ever explain? Sara pushed past the fear and turned the knob, opening the door just enough to slip through and close it behind her.

The room was huge. Even with the small beam from her pocket flashlight, she could make out a wet bar, large-screen TV, stereo system and the king-size bed that dominated the center of the left wall where Matthew Brandon slept, oblivious to her intrusion.

He was on his side, his back facing her. She inched closer, comforted by his rhythmic breathing. Thank God he was asleep. She rounded the foot of the bed and tiptoed to the side so she was facing him. The first thing she noticed was his eyelashes. Dark, spiky, full. She hadn't seen them before, not with the sunglasses he wore.

Her gaze flitted over his face shadowed in darkness, traveled along the strong jaw and neck to settle on his chest. It was broad and from what she could tell, covered with a thick mat of dark hair that trailed along his belly and disappeared beneath a sheet—a sheet that rode low on his hips. Perhaps coming to Matthew Brandon's room at five-thirty in the morning hadn't been such a good idea. But it had seemed so brilliant last night. Of course, she'd been sitting in the safety of her own room, surrounded by light and sweet-smelling flowers, plotting the grandest of schemes to outwit him. She would sneak into his room in the early morning hours, perch next to his bed and pounce on him as soon as he woke up. He would have no choice but to acknowledge her presence. She would get her answers and set some rules.

It had all seemed perfect but now she wasn't so sure. Perhaps she should opt for plan B. Borrowing the window cleaner's ladder to climb onto Matt's patio seemed a far more reasonable solution than standing in his bedroom at predawn hours watching him sleep with nothing but a swath of sheet wrapped around him. She took a small step backward as the idiocy of her current actions suffocated her. She had to get out and get out now. Sara took another small step.

Matthew Brandon grabbed her wrist, hard and fast, thrusting her onto the bed. The pocket flashlight flew out of her hand and landed on the ground, blacking out the room. She tried to yell but he clamped a hand over her mouth and pinned her beneath him. “What the hell do you think you're doing?”

“Get off of me,” she gasped, pushing at his chest. Big mistake. Touching his bare skin only reminded her of their intimate position. She yanked her hands back.

“Not until you tell me what you're doing in my bedroom.” He jerked her arms over her head and held her there with one hand.

“You've been avoiding me for days,” Sara spat out, squinting in the darkness, trying to make out his expression. Where was that darn flashlight? Not that she needed to see his face to tell he was angry. It was in his voice, in the rigid way he held his body—a body that was touching hers.

“I wanted my privacy.”

“You're afraid.”

“You're crazy.”

“Am I?” she challenged, trying to ignore his warm breath blowing on her cheek. Anger warred with common sense and won. “You're afraid to talk about the accident because then you'd have to deal with it. And your blindness. Straight out. No more excuses.”

“Oh really?” His tone was half threat, half mockery. “Well, Sara, I think you're the one who's afraid.”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“And do you know what I think you’re afraid of?” he asked, trailing a free hand along her cheek. She turned her head away, trying to ignore the sensation of heat and light melted together, flowing in and over her. She did not want to feel anything. Not with this man. Not with any man. “You're afraid of me,” he whispered. “Afraid of my touch.”

“Just because I don't want you pawing me, doesn't mean I'm afraid of you.” She wished she could not feel the springy hair on his chest rubbing against her thin cotton T-shirt.

He actually laughed at that. “You're a terrible liar.” He brushed his fingers along her jaw, over her cheek, and settled on her mouth. He traced her lips with two fingers, learning the shape and curve of them, teasing the crease until they parted.

She should stop him, at the very least mouth a word of protest. But she could think of nothing but the feel of his body on hers and the touch of his fingers on her lips. She flicked her tongue along his fingers which made him groan and pull his hand away. “Sara.” He crushed his mouth against hers in a kiss of need and possession, burning hotter with each stroke of his tongue. He loosened his grip on her wrists, framing her face with his hands. She wound her arms around his neck, burying her fingers in his hair. Her tongue mated with his, slow and easy at first, then quick and urgent.