Scenes of Passion (4 page)

He'd grown up in this house, playing on the vast lawns that overlooked the Long Island Sound, scrambling on the rocks at the edge of the shore. It was a wonderful old place, full of nooks and crannies. It had rooms that weren't perfectly square, windows that opened oddly, and closets that turned out to be secret staircases.

“What's the catch?” Maggie finally found her voice.

After Matt's mother died, his father had had the house renovated and restored. And although he knew his father hadn't intended for it to happen, the renovations removed every last trace of her, every homey, motherly touch, leaving the house as impersonal and empty as a museum.

Matt pulled around to the back, where the office was, and parked the Maserati under another bright spotlight.

“The catch,” he said, turning toward her in the sudden silence after the car's powerful engine had been shut off. “Yeah, there's definitely a catch. You know my father had money. Big money.”

Maggie nodded. The Yankee Potato Chip Company, the mansion, the twelve-car garage with the twelve cars to go in it.

“Dear old dad decided to leave it all to me—all twenty-
five million, if—” Matt took a deep breath “—I can show that I can run the business within a three-month time period—which started last week. If I can't—adios to everything. The executor of the estate will shut down the business, auction off the factory, and all the money will go to charity. If that happens, I'll get nothing. And if I get nothing, your job—and everyone else who works for YPCC—will be terminated.” He looked at her. “How's that for a catch?”

Maggie nodded again, her eyes serious. “That's some catch. What exactly does the will stipulate?”

Matt opened the car door. “I've got a copy inside. I'll let you take a look at it.”

She got out of the car, too, staring up at the house. “You know, Matt, all those years we were friends, I never went inside your house.”

“That's because my father hated Angie,” Matt told her. Angie had taken Mr. Stone's crap and handed it straight back to him. “He would've really liked you, though.”

“Is that a compliment or an insult?” she asked with a laugh.

“Oh, it's a compliment,” he told her. And wasn't that strange? He and the old man would've finally agreed on something.

Maggie followed him up the path to the office door and into the house.

The outer office was large and spacious, with rows of file cabinets along one wall. There was a huge oak conference table in front of enormous bay windows that looked out over the water. The hardwood floors glistened, as did the intricate wood molding that surrounded the windows and door. It was a modern office with computers, copy machine and fax, but the feel of the room was Victorian. It was gorgeous. And in the daytime, with the view of the sun sparkling on the water, it would be even more beautiful.

Matt led the way to a dark wooden door and, pushing it open, he turned on the light.

Maggie had to laugh, looking around at the late Mr. Stone's private office—Matt's office now. “Oh, Matt,” she said. “It's
you
.”

He grinned.

Thick red carpeting was underfoot. The walls were paneled with the same dark wood as the built-in bookcases. Row upon row of books lined the wall, and Maggie glanced at the varying titles and subjects. Mr. Stone had a few books on astronomy, several on geology, an entire shelf of medical books on cancer, many titles on the Second World War, but the vast majority of the books in the room were fiction—mysteries.

Matt's father had been into whodunits. He had always seemed so practical and down-to-earth, with no time for nonsense of any kind. She just couldn't picture him biting his fingernails in suspense as he read faster and faster to find out who was the killer.

The inner office had big windows but they were shuttered with elaborately carved wood. The centerpiece of the room was a massive cherry desk and what looked like a black leather Barcalounger behind it.

Maggie slowly circled the desk. It was quite possibly as large as a queen-sized bed, its rich dark wood buffed to a lustrous shine. She picked up the single item that rested on its clean surface—a photo of Matt at about age six, clinging possessively to his smiling young mother's neck.

“Why didn't you come to his funeral?” she wondered.

He turned away.

“I'm sorry,” she said swiftly, putting the picture down. “I shouldn't have asked—”

“I saw him about two weeks before he died. I was in the hospital—it was back when I was sick. Somehow he'd managed to track me down and he came to see me.”

He was leaning against the door frame now, arms crossed. His pose was relaxed, but Maggie could see tension in his jaw. And she could hear it in his voice.

He laughed, but it didn't have anything to do with humor. “I don't know how he did it, but he managed to pick a fight. I mean, I'm lying there, dying for all he knows, and he's telling me I never did anything worthwhile with my life.”

Maggie didn't hesitate. She crossed toward him and put her arms around him. “I'm so sorry.”

“I told him to go to hell.” Matt rested his cheek on the top of her head. “I told him to stay out of
my
life, because no matter how short it was going to be, it was my life. So he got up to leave, and I thought he was just going to walk out, but he turned and he told me that he loved me, and that he didn't want me to die. I told him—”

His voice broke, and Maggie held him even more tightly. She felt him take a deep breath, then exhale loud and hard. “I told him that I hated him,” Matt said, “and that I couldn't wait for him to die.” He made another noise that wasn't quite laughter. “God.
Why
did I
say
that? Of course, two weeks later the son of a bitch went and had a massive coronary. It was his ultimate revenge—he couldn't have planned it better if he'd tried.”

She looked up at him. “Matt, he loved you. He knew you didn't mean what you said.”

He sighed. “I hope so.”

In this light, from this angle, flecks of color made his eyes look more green than gold. Green, and very warm. As he looked down at her, his face held something—a sadness, a sweetness, and also a tenderness—that she hadn't ever seen there in all the years she'd known him. At least not when he wasn't acting.

It was entirely possible that back then, he simply hadn't let it show.

His arms were still around her, and she was still holding him. They'd stood like this, leaning against each other, so many times—Matt had always been very casual with affectionate embraces. But everything felt different now, and as she looked into his eyes, she knew he felt it, too.

Attraction. Desire.

It seemed inappropriate. It had been years, but it was still hard not to think of Matt as Angie's boyfriend.

Except Angie was married now to someone else. And this new, fantasy jungle man version of Matt was here, looking at Maggie as if he were thinking about kissing her. Not just a Matt kiss—he'd always been generous with friendly kisses on the cheek, too—but a real, on the mouth, tongues in action kind of kiss.

Like the way Tony had kissed Maria. Maggie's stomach did a flip as she remembered kissing Matt on stage. Except that hadn't been them—it was the characters they were playing who had kissed so passionately.

Still…

She pulled away from him and went to stare once again at the books on the shelf. This was just too weird.

“I'm sorry,” he said quietly. “I shouldn't have laid all that on you.”

Maggie shook her head. “Oh, no, I'm glad you told me,” she said as she turned to face him. “That's what friends are for, right?”

Their eyes met. And Maggie felt it again, that spark of sexual energy that seemed to flow between them. Friends.

“You were going to give me a copy of that will,” she reminded him breathlessly, reminded herself, as well.

He took a step toward her, and another, and she knew he was going to kiss her.

But the kiss he gave her was only a Matt kiss, on the cheek. He stepped past her, going into the outer office. She followed, feeling oddly disappointed—was she insane?—as she watched him switch on the copy machine.

“You can take this home and look it over,” he told her as he opened one of the file cabinets and took out a manila folder. “Let me know what you think by Monday. I know it's short notice, but I need you to decide by then because if
you aren't interested in the job, I'll have to start looking for someone else to help me right away.”

Maggie watched as he copied the document.

A three-hundred-thousand-dollars-per-year job, guaranteed to blow up in three months if she didn't help Matt become a businessman.

Was it exciting? Absolutely. Was it crazy? More than absolutely. What would her mother, her father, God, even
Brock
think?

They'd think she was irresponsible, silly, reckless, wild.

But what did
she
think? How about answering
that
question for once?

Sure, there was a chance this decision would backfire, leaving her without a job and laughed at by her friends and family. But there was a chance that something special was going on here—that she finally had an opportunity to take control of her life, to get out of her cell and make a difference in some way, even if only in her life and Matt's and the people who supported their families from the Yankee Potato Chip Company.

To do something she wanted to do, something
she
would be proud of…

But the risk…

There were butterflies in her stomach—just like when she was little and in line for the Ferris wheel at the firemen's carnival. As the line got shorter and the moment of truth approached, she would nearly sweat with anxiety. Would she do it or would she chicken out?

She would look up at the seemingly shaky structure that would take her on a ride fraught with danger, up to terrifying heights. Then she'd remember the exhilaration of the wind in her hair as she looked way, way down at the little people below and out at the horizon that seemed to stretch on forever.

It had been worth it. It always had been worth it.

She looked at Matt as he shut off the copy machine, as he stapled together the copies he'd made, as he put the original back in the folder, back in the file cabinet.

Where are we going?

Does it matter?

No.

“I'll take the job,” she told him.

He turned and stared at her. “But you haven't even read the—”

“I don't care,” she said. “You offered, I'm taking it.”

Matt laughed. “Since when do
you
make a decision without forty-eight hours of soul searching?”

“Since right now,” she said.

“Are you sure?” He looked worried.

She felt a twinge of uncertainty. “Are you sure you want me?”

“Absolutely!”

“Then I'm sure.”

Matt just looked at her. With that same, disconcerting heat in his eyes. She had to turn away, look out the window at the night.

“I've been thinking for some time now about making some changes,” she confessed. “It occurred to me that if I took your offer I wouldn't have to go back to that horrible office without a window.”

“You don't have a
window?
”

She glanced at him. “You've got to earn a window at Andersen and Brenden.”

“God.”

“I wouldn't have to make that awful commute, I wouldn't have to wear uncomfortable shoes—would I?”

“No way.” He was grinning at her. “If you work for me, you don't have to wear shoes at all. Of course in three months you won't be able to afford to
buy
shoes….”

“Not if I can help it,” she said. “This is a beautiful office. It's ten minutes from home, inches from the ocean….” She
made a face. “Although, telling my dad that I'm leaving A&B isn't going to be fun….”

His smile had faded. “Maggie,” he said, seriously. “I don't want to pressure you.” He paused. “Don't get me wrong. I want you to say yes. I
really
want you to say yes. But this isn't going to be easy. Your job will be to help me figure out how to run this business. At this point, I can barely remember how to add or subtract. It'll mean really long hours. I've only got three months, and right now, quite frankly, I couldn't run a business if my life depended on it. So if you aren't absolutely sure or if you're doing this just to help me out of a tough spot or if you're going to regret this tomorrow…” He looked searchingly into her eyes. “I want you to be really sure.”