Scenes of Passion (11 page)

M
att's eyes opened as the sun streamed into his tower bedroom.

He glanced at his clock: 6:18. Four hours of sleep. Not bad. Not great, but not bad, considering…

Maggie was only one floor beneath him, but after last night, she might as well be a million miles away.

He'd spent most of the night tossing and turning, trying to ignore how much he wanted her, trying to figure out how he'd be able to return to his status of
friend
after tasting her lips. But he'd done it before. He'd fallen desperately in love with her more than ten years ago, and he'd survived.

Or had he?

Matt had spent the night alternately praying that it would simply be a matter of time before she came to him, and praying that he would have the strength to keep his distance from her.

It was probably a good thing that she'd told him no last night.

It was ten days and counting until he was scheduled to go back to the hospital for a checkup. He'd all but decided not to go, thinking it was little more than a visit to a high-tech fortune teller. Whether he was going to live for one year, ten years, or a hundred years certainly mattered to him, but knowing wouldn't change the way he lived his life.

Except now everything had turned upside down, and now he desperately wanted to know.

He pulled himself out of bed.

He had work to do.

 

Maggie grabbed an apple from the refrigerator, still humming the melody from the summer musical's closing number.

The first rehearsal—a read through of the script—had gone well, except for the fact that she'd counted seven different times she was going to have to kiss Matt on stage. Each kiss would have to be set up, blocked and rehearsed. Over and over again. She wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry.

As she took a bite of the apple, she opened up the connecting door to the office and turned on the lights.

“Whoa,” Matt said. “What are you doing?”

“I want to look over those numbers some more,” she said.

She held her apple in her teeth as she used both hands to clear a stack of file folders from one of the chairs. The conference table itself was stacked high with files and bound reports and computer printouts. They had worked hard all day, right up to the rehearsal.

“It's nearly midnight.” Matt cleared off another chair so he could sit, too. “This will still be here tomorrow.”

“These numbers are bad,” Maggie said. “I've looked at the quarterly reports for the past four years, and the gross profits have remained pretty darn constant, even after your dad died. There's not a lot of room for increased profits here, Matt.”

“So what do we do?”

She stretched her arms over her head. “I guess we have to start thinking creatively.”

“Oh, good.”

“Good?” She looked at him in disbelief.

He grinned. “Quarterly reports and gross profits make my head spin. But creative thinking is something I can handle.”

It was true. Even back in school, Matt had never had the patience for math. He hadn't been very good at following rules. But in terms of creativity, he was a pro. Put him in an empty room with a canvas and paints, and you'd get a masterpiece. Most likely the canvas would remain blank and the masterpiece would be painted on the wall, but it would be truly magnificent.

“Tomorrow we should go down and take a look at the plant,” she said. “Maybe that will trigger your creative process.”

“Okay,” he said easily, idly picking up a thick file folder and leafing through it. “God, can you believe a temporary secretary costs more than forty dollars an hour from some of these agencies?
That's
not within our budget, is it?”

Maggie searched through the piles of reports for the current year's annual budget. “Actually, it is. But we can cut costs. I mean, jeez, we could hire Stevie to be our slave for fifteen dollars an hour.”

Matt smiled. “That's a great idea. Let's hire Steve.”

She looked at him in exasperation. “I was kidding.”

“Can he type?”

“Probably. He's always online.”

“I'll call him tomorrow.”

“Matt, sometimes I think you're totally nuts.” She rubbed the back of her neck, twisting her head to stretch the muscles. She'd have to make time tomorrow to get in a workout at the club.

With a start, she felt Matt's hands touching her shoulders. She stood up quickly, breaking free. “Don't,” she told him.

“Mags, lighten up. I was trying to help you relax.”

“Well, just don't, okay?”

He didn't say anything then. He stood there, looking at her, his eyes guarded, his face nearly expressionless.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I don't know what's wrong with me. I know it must have confused you when I…did what I did the other night. I was upset and angry and I wasn't thinking clearly. Sometimes I wonder if I'm still not thinking clearly. But I do know that you were right. Our friendship is far too valuable to throw away for a little sex.”

She risked a glance at him, and found he'd turned to stare out the window. Part of the lawn was lit by spotlights aimed at the house, and the semicircles of bright green grass stood out as islands in the surrounding sea of darkness.

“I'm still feeling really vulnerable,” she said softly. “Every time you touch me, I question your motivation. And damn it, I don't want your pity, Matt.”

He just shook his head. “You know, if I'm feeling sorry for anyone here, it's myself.”

She rolled her eyes. “I need you to give me some space so we can get things back to normal.” Sooner or later she'd start feeling human again. Sooner or later, she'd be able to accept a back rub from him without wanting his hands to caress her entire body.

“All right.” He glanced at her and forced a smile. “I'm going up to bed. I'll see you in the morning.”

He made a wide circuit around Maggie, careful not to get too close, and went out of the office without looking back.

Wait
, she wanted to say, but she kept her mouth tightly shut.

 

“You did
what?
” Angie's voice sounded remarkably clear over the international connection.

Maggie smiled, imagining the look on her friend's face. “I moved out. It was right after I had a fight with Van, who moved back home because she and Mitch are getting a divorce, and now she wants to go out with Brock, so he
dumped me, but that's okay because he was a jerk, and this all happened on the same day I quit my job because I'm working full-time for Matthew now.”

Angie's stunned silence was extremely impressive because she was Angie and rarely stunned or silent.

“So what else is new?” she finally asked.

“I got the lead in the summer musical,” Maggie said.

“I was kidding,” Angie exploded. “Damn, Mags is that all?”

“That about covers it.”

She sat in her nightgown, with her feet up on the late Mr. Stone's big desk, talking on his private line. She'd gotten up very early to give Angie a call. It was already lunchtime in London, and she knew her friend was rarely home in the afternoon.

“Let me get this straight. You're working for Matthew?”

“Yep.”

“He's paying you?”

“What, do you think I'd do it for free?”

“You? Yes.”

Maggie laughed. “Yeah, you're probably right.”

“How is he?” Angie asked.

“He's fine,” Maggie told her friend. “He's great, actually. He's changed an awful lot, Ange.”

She snorted. “Don't count on it. With Matt, you never know what's reality and what's just an elaborate song and dance. My guess is right now he's taken on the role of the prodigal son. He's probably imitating his dear departed father, dressing like a businessman and saying things like, ‘Let's do lunch.'”

“No,” Maggie said. “He's not. I don't know exactly what happened, but he went through some very tough times over the past few years. He's different now. You'd probably have trouble recognizing him.”

“Now
that
I refuse to believe,” Angie said. “Hey, tell me
what happened with that jungle guy from the club. You meet him yet?”

“Um,” Maggie said cautiously. “Yes, I did.”

“And…?”

“And…I don't know.” She couldn't tell Angie that her fantasy man and Matt were one and the same. She just couldn't.

“Is he human?”

“Extremely human,” Maggie said. “Totally, absolutely human. Incredibly human.”

“Uh-oh.” Angie laughed. “You've got it bad, haven't you?”

“It's terrible,” Maggie admitted, pulling her feet off the desk. “I may never recover.”

“That's the way I felt when I first met Fred. Obviously you don't have a choice. You've got to marry the guy.”

Maggie closed her eyes. “I don't think so. Angie, look, I've got to go. I've got to go down to the courthouse this morning, and there's a ton and a half of paper sitting in the office waiting to be read. I'll call you again soon, okay?”

“Mags, where are you staying?” Angie said. “You told me you moved out, but you didn't say where you're living now.”

“I'm staying with a friend,” Maggie told her, feeling doubly dishonest. “I've got to run. See you, okay? Bye!”

She hung up the phone and put her head down on the desk.

She should have told Angie the whole truth, but she couldn't deal with the thirty-minute lecture on the evil of Matthew Stone that would have been sure to follow.

Maybe she wouldn't ever have to tell Angie. Maybe her feelings for Matt would conveniently vanish. But her own words came back to her.
I may never recover
.

She had to smile, thinking of Angie's solution. Marry the guy. Ange would be horrified to know that she'd even inadvertently advised her best friend to aim for marriage with Matthew Stone.

Angie would be even more horrified to find out that Mrs. Stanton thought Maggie and Matt were already married.

Married. To Matt.

She'd have a better chance of winning the lottery. Matt simply wasn't the marrying kind.

He
was
however, the hot sex in the hot tub kind.

She had to stop thinking about that.

The clock on the wall said six forty-five. She was too wired to go back to sleep. She might as well get to work.

On her way through the kitchen, she put on the tea kettle and searched the cabinets for the tin of tea bags. Hoping against hope, she opened the refrigerator, looking for a lemon.

There were five in the lower drawer.

That was odd. Fresh fruit and vegetables filled the refrigerator. She'd been here for two days now, and she hadn't noticed anyone delivering groceries. And Lord knows she hadn't had time to pick anything up. Yet the refrigerator was packed with food—

“Hey, you're up early.” Matt came into the kitchen. His skin was slick with perspiration and his shorts and T-shirt were soaked through. He was still breathing hard, as if he'd just finished some strenuous exercise.

“So are you,” she managed to say.

Matt wiped a bead of sweat that trickled down his face as he looked at her. She was backlit by the light from the refrigerator, and her nightgown had become diaphanous. Her hair was still messy from sleep, and without makeup, her face looked fresh and young. But her body was all woman.

She had no idea of the show she was putting on for him. And wasn't that a shame. At first glance, he'd dared to hope that she was purposely trying to drive him crazy, that maybe she wanted him to pick her up and carry her into the nearest bedroom and make love to her.

God knows that was what he wanted to do.

“I didn't expect you to be up so early,” she said, clutching a lemon to her chest.

Yeah, no kidding. She didn't move, so he reached past her into the open fridge for the orange juice. He drank directly from the plastic container. “I was out running,” he told her. “I try to do five miles a day, but sometimes I miss.”

“You've
already
run five miles this morning?” The tea kettle began to howl, and she closed the refrigerator door—too bad—and carried her lemon to the stove. She took the kettle off the burner, then turned to look at Matt skeptically. “Sometimes I think aliens have invaded your body. The Matt I know had to be dragged out of bed every morning to make it to school on time. I remember when noon on a Saturday was unbearably early for you.”

“It's not a Saturday,” Matt pointed out, finishing off the juice.