Paradise Found Page 6

  Matt was more than ready to let go of the subject. He didn't even know why he'd dwelt on it so long, when she'd given him the perfect out. Not many women did that, but he was learning that this one wasn't like most women. In fact, he'd never met a woman quite like her.

  He took a deep breath and said, “Let's start over. Hi. I'm Matt Brandon. Nice to meet you.” He extended his right hand.

  She let out a small laugh. “Hi. Sara Hamilton.” She placed her hand in his and they shook. Contact lasted less than three seconds before she pulled her hand away.

  “Care for some fruit?” He gestured toward the tray.

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “Help yourself, just don't mess up my clock. Rosa arranges all my food in relation to the hands of a clock,” he explained.

  “So that's how you did it! That first night, I kept wondering how you knew where everything was. I made such a mess of my food and you didn't even lose a shred of lettuce.”

  “That comes from much practice. Rosa thinks everything should be wrapped in a tortilla with chilies and hot sauce.”

  “She's a sweetheart,” Sara said.

  “Yes, she is. But, I got the impression you two didn't hit it off very well,” Matt said, popping a wedge of grapefruit in his mouth.

  “Well, we didn't, at first. Actually, she was the one who had reservations about me, but everything's fine now.” She hesitated and he felt her eyes on him. What color were they? Green? Blue? “I had to promise her that I wouldn't hurt you.”

  “And do you always keep your promises?” The question was light, almost flippant, but he wanted to hear her answer.

  “I try very hard to keep my promises.”

  Matt wished in that moment that he believed in promises. A light breeze blew by, filling his senses with citrus. Was it Sara or the fruit? There was one way to find out. “Did we eat all of the oranges?”

  “All gone.”

  “Lemons?”

  “Gone, too.”

  “Then, it's you I smell,” he said.

  “I smell?”

  “Like a special blend of oranges with a hint of lemon.”

  “I know it's not the latest craze but I've worn it for years.” She sounded almost defensive. “The strong stuff gives me migraines.”

  “I like it. Very refreshing.”

  “Oh. Thank you.”

  He’d bet from her reaction that compliments made her uncomfortable. Maybe she didn’t get many, but he found that hard to believe. The quiet hum of the hot tub filled the ensuing silence and Matt slid further down, resting his head along the edge of the tub. The warm water swirled around his body, pulling him into its soothing caress that relaxed his body and his brain…

  “I know I'm not supposed to ask you any personal questions…”

  Wham! Just when he started to relax a little and let his guard down, she hit him with a fastball. In the groin. “But you're going to anyway.”

  “Would you tell me about the accident?”

  Here it comes. “I'm sure you read all about it in the papers. They're much more eloquent than I am.”

  “I'd like to hear your version.”

  It was a simple request, honest and sincere, without a hint of vulgar curiosity or blatant demand. Maybe that’s why he started talking. “There's not much to tell. It was a damned freak accident. I went to Vail for Thanksgiving, like I've been doing the last five years or so. Adam was there, too. The snow was great, lots of powder. It was twilight, and I wanted one more run.” He rubbed his jaw, remembering. “Adam had already gone in to get ready for dinner, so I went out alone. I flew down, faster than I ever had before, hit the ridge and went airborne. It was great, just like flying. Until I spotted a body lying right in my landing path. I swerved and hit a tree head-on.”

  “And?” Sara's soft, low voice drifted to him.

  “I must have blacked out, because the next thing I remember was waking up in a hospital.” He still remembered the antiseptic and alcohol odor of his hospital room. “I could see, but it was blurry. Three days later I was blind.”

  “What did the doctors say?”

  That was the million-dollar question every busybody, bloodhound, and media monger wanted to know. Would Matt Brandon ever see again? They'd dogged him, stuck the microphone in his face, snapped pictures from trees, and continued their relentless pursuit to the iron gates of his home. And still he refused to answer them. That was his press agent's job.

  But Sara wasn't a bloodhound searching for dirt. “Matt?”

  The words spilled out. “The formal diagnosis was Mild Traumatic Brain Injury, otherwise known as MTBI. Seems I developed a clot at the site of the injury. That's what caused the blindness.”

  “But it doesn't necessarily mean it's permanent, does it?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “You know the odds. Every month after six reduces my chances. It's been seven.”

  “Do the doctors agree?”

  “You know doctors.” Matt gave her a dry smile. “Afraid to commit to anything anymore. Too many lawsuits. They've given me some real scientific advice.” He raised one finger at a time. “Time. Patience. Periodic medical evaluation, whatever that means, and concessions.”

  “Concessions?”

  “White cane. Seeing-eye dog. Braille.” He ran a hand through his hair. “And everybody's telling me what I have to do. As if I didn't know I'll never drive a car again, or ski, or do any of the thousand things I took for granted. They're all standing over me, spoon-feeding the have to’s and must not’s down my throat like I'm some kind of baby. I don't have to do a goddamn thing I don't want to. Not until I'm ready.”

  “You're right, you don't.”

  She was like his conscience, spurring him on. “My family can't accept it. I've always been the strong one and they want me to deal with it, so they can stop feeling guilty. My editor calls me every other day, asking about my next book. And if he's not on the phone, it's my agent. They all want something, every damn one of them.” His voice fell five octaves. “I say screw 'em all.” He sucked in air as though he'd just finished a fifty-yard dash. What the hell had come over him? He'd said volumes more than he had intended.

  How had she gotten him to open up like that? Anger gripped him, fierce and hot, pulsing through him like a brushfire gone wild. Sara Hamilton knew how to draw a person out, get him to divulge deep dark secrets without realizing it until it was too late. Until he'd told the tales, relived the fears, unleashed the demons. Like he'd just done.

  Damn her.

  He felt used. Not that it made any sense, because it didn't. But he needed anger right now, needed to hold onto it to keep from getting sucked into the undertow of naked truth and grim reality. One person stood in his way. Sara Hamilton. She'd almost slipped past his defenses with her sympathetic, ‘I care about you’ manner. But he'd recognized danger and thwarted her attempts, however innocent they were. He was beginning to have his doubts about that, too. She seemed too good, too honest, too damn sincere. Nobody had those qualities anymore. At least not the people he knew.

  Matt took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax. It wouldn't do for her to know she'd gotten to him. And she would be studying him for telltale signs of anger or frustration. Or capitulation. She could watch until she was cross-eyed for all he cared, because capitulating was not in his vocabulary. Attack. Now that was a word he understood very well.

  “Enough about me,” Matt said. “Tell me about yourself.” He'd blast that cool exterior away.

  Sara coughed, cleared her throat. “Me? Well, there really isn't much to tell.”

  He threw her a dry smile. “Of course there is. You don't get to be…How old are you, anyway?”

  “Thirty-four,” she said in a tight voice.

  “Okay, well, you don't get past the age of three or four and not have a history. So what's yours?” Target sighted. Second round preparing to launch.

  “Matthew—”

  “Matt,” he corrected.

  “Matt, I really d
on't discuss my personal life with my clients.”

  Gotcha. “As well you shouldn't,” he agreed. “But, I’m not your client. Remember? We're just two people having a conversation, and to my way of thinking, I just unloaded a whole heap of emotional garbage. Now it's your turn.” Why was she so reluctant? What was she hiding?

  “What do you want to know?” Her voice was distant, muted, as though she were speaking in a tunnel.

  “For starters, I'd like to know how you can just pick up and come out here for two weeks.” Missile launched.

  “It's my job.”

  Good answer. Perfect avoidance tactic, but not clever enough for his former journalistic nose. “No one stopped you. No one cared? No one said, ‘I'll miss you’?”

  “No.” Her voice grew dimmer. If she were a battery, she'd be in desperate need of a recharge.

  “No husband? No kids? No dog?”

  “No.” A single word, prompting hundreds of questions with thousands of possibilities. It reminded him of eighth-grade algebra.

  “Why?” Kaboom!

  “Why what?”

  Sara Hamilton did not want to answer his questions. “Why is there no husband, no kids? Not even a dog?” If he had to be blunt-face bold about it, he would.

  “I'm very involved with my work.”

  “Too involved to take a minute to have a life?” She was really starting to annoy him.

  “Just because I don't have a family, does not mean I don't have a life.”

  Her throaty voice rose like sandpaper rubbing against stone. That last question blew her away, so he decided to back down. His eyes might be sightless, but he still didn't want her scratching them out, and if the conversation didn't change soon, they were headed in that direction. “Okay, I get it. You're a career woman. What kind of people do you see? Adolescents? Couples?”

  “Women.”

  “Women? I see,” he murmured, though he didn't. “What kind of women?”

  “Abused women,” she said. “Women who have been turned into physical and emotional wastelands by abusive husbands or boyfriends.”

  Ah, now that was a statement. There was an odd note to her voice almost like a subtle accusation woven in.

  “Men mistreat women all the time, stripping them of their self-esteem, stealing their self-respect. Taking and taking, until there's nothing left.” Her next words were flat, emotionless. “That's when they dump them like trash in the street, and move on to their next victim.”

  Talk about an attitude. “Some women set themselves up,” he said, feeling a need to defend the ordinary Joe. “Some women meet a guy and remake their whole life for him.” He'd known a few of those in his time. “They eat what he eats, think like he thinks, wear only what he wants them to wear. Forget ever hearing an original idea from them again. It'll never happen. They're banking on the guy to give them everything. Love, happiness. Even self-respect.” He shook his head. “And then they wonder why he leaves.”

  “You seem to have quite an opinion,” Sara said, her tone cool and distant. “Are you speaking from personal experience?”

  Matt laughed. “Not necessarily.”

  “From what I've read, you're quite familiar with that territory,” she snapped.

  What the hell was her problem? “You shouldn't believe everything you read. Besides, when you're in the public eye, you become a target for all kinds of people. Especially desperate women.”

  “That may be true, but I've found most men don't even entertain the word desperate until after they've had their fill of these very same women.” He opened his mouth to disagree, but the sound of Rosa's voice stopped him.

  “Mister Matt, what you like for lunch?” The woman was always happy when she was around food. Cooking, cutting, cleaning, it didn't matter what it was as long as she could be near it, smell it, touch it.

  “Damn, Rosa, we just finished breakfast.”

  “But now Rosa needs to think about lunch. It does not hop on table.”

  “What are you offering today?” he asked. “Hot dogs? Pork Lo Mein?”

  She laughed. “I make your favorite. Steak fajita with peppers, onions, and cheese.”

  Otherwise known as a Philly cheese steak in a tortilla. Rosa would be crushed if he told her he preferred a crusty, six-inch hard roll to the soft corn wrap. She ‘Mexicanized’ everything she cooked, from hot sauce on scrambled eggs to chilies in spaghetti sauce.

  “I will set up your table in the usual place. And Miss Sara, she will be joining you?”

  “No.”

  Sara's rapid response left no room for doubt. So, she couldn't wait to get away from him. Not that he was in the mood for another minute of her company either, but it irked him to hear the vehemence in her voice. “Thank you for asking, Rosa, but Miss Sara will not be joining me today.”

  Chapter 6

  Matt leaned over the elaborate exercise bike, sweat pouring from his body. He drew in a deep breath through his nostrils, held it, and exhaled through his mouth. Damn, but he'd needed this workout tonight. His neck muscles were still tense, though he'd massaged them and even tried basic range of motion techniques. They hadn't helped. Stress tended to do that to him, bunching up his muscles and tying them into knots even a modern-day Houdini couldn't untangle.

  Sara Hamilton was responsible for the tightness in his neck, the kink in his shoulders, and the pounding in his head. He'd been in a bad mood since lunchtime when she’d whisked out of the hot tub with nothing more than a mumbled good-bye.

  Now, several hours later, her actions still grated. So he'd pushed and probed a little. Well, maybe a lot more than a little. So what? She'd done the same thing to him. Those were the rules, his rules, and she couldn't handle it. And what was all that high-and-mighty ‘save the feminine soul’ talk about? For Christ's sake, you'd think she'd been one of those women. He'd bet his last buck no one had ever gotten close enough to take advantage of her.

  He grabbed the towel from around his neck and dragged it over his face. It felt good to sweat again. He needed to do it more often, not just when he was pissed and stressed, which he’d been since Sara Hamilton’s arrival.

  Where in the hell was Adam with his beer?

  Matt climbed off the bike, walked the ten steps to the lifting bench and plopped down. It was twenty-five steps to the door, fifteen to the treadmill, and twelve to the rowing machine. He measured his whole world in steps these days. It had taken weeks of concentrated effort, several bumps and bruises, and a lot of cursing, but he'd mapped out his home according to his size-twelve foot. His system was perfect.

  But along with his incredible ability to navigate unassisted around his home came one major drawback. The more comfortable he became in his own dwelling, the more insecure he grew about venturing outside of it. Not that he would ever admit it to anyone, but as the days passed, the world beyond the iron gates grew dimmer and dimmer. Farther from reach. He'd become a prisoner in his own home. He’d refused to use the blind man's aids, but he couldn't maneuver in the outside world without them. Trapped in a hell of his own making, that's what he was, with no way out.

  The door clicked open and Adam said, “I'm back.” Matt listened to his brother's sure footsteps moving toward him, stopping a few feet away. Next came the snap of a beer top and the dull thud of the can as it hit the table next to him. “There you go. Let's toast.”

  Matt frowned and picked up the beer. “You know I don't go in for that kind of thing.”

  “I know you don't. But you know I do. Humor me. Okay?”

  “All right, but don't get all sappy on me.” Matt raised his can. “And don't take too long. I'm thirsty.” Adam had a tendency to go on and on, eulogizing everything from Buster, the family mutt, to the tree house they'd built twenty-five years ago. That was what made him such a good lawyer. He never stopped talking.

  “I've got it,” Adam said. “To my brother, Matt. May he live bold new dreams, conquer the unconquerable, and be strong enough to admit I can out bench him.”

&
nbsp; “Like hell you can,” Matt said, taking a healthy swallow of beer. “This is the first time I've lifted weights in seven months, and you still only beat me by ten pounds.”

  Adam laughed. “I know, but let me bask in the limelight for a few days, okay?”

  Matt saluted him with his beer and took another drink.

  “It's good to see you in here again,” Adam said, all traces of earlier humor gone.

  “You mean, it's good to see me up off my ass and doing something.”

  “Well, that, too.”

  “It's been too long.” He slapped his stomach. “And this old gut feels it, too. If I don't get moving, it'll be nothing but flab.”

  “Yeah, right. You're sweating it out all over the place. I'll make sure I tell the cleaning lady to wipe everything down.” He paused. “What's her name? Is that one Greta or Alice? Or Consuela?”

  “I think it's Alice. Rex would know.”

  “If he weren't such an honest guy, I'd say he's taking a percentage of their wages as his cut,” Adam said.

  “Rex? The Good Samaritan?”

  “I know. Kind of like thinking about Mother Teresa stealing from the Church.”

  “Bizarre,” Matt agreed. He lifted his beer can. “Want me to make the next run?”

  “No need. I brought extras.” Matt heard the flip top snap open. “Here you go.” Adam handed the can to him.

  He took another swig and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “So that's why you took so long. Raiding the fridge. Got anything else? Cheese? Crackers?”

  “No. Sorry,” Adam said. “I would have been quicker, but I ran into Sara.”

  “Oh?” Matt tried to pretend a casual interest but it proved damn difficult since he really wanted to know what the little witch was up to. She must be mighty pissed off at him because he hadn't heard from her since their little hot tub meeting this morning. She'd even conned Rex into taking her out to dinner—presumably to try out the new little Thai restaurant in the area, but he knew better. The only thing Sara Hamilton wanted to try out was a way to avoid him.

  “She was getting a little midnight snack,” Adam said.