7 Days and 7 Nights (13 page)

Matt smiled. “Some people just don't have a light enough touch. I guess you're either born with it or you're not.”

“Some people are not only born with it, they're full of it.”

“All right. But don't say I didn't try to educate you.” Matt laughed and handed her the remote. “I have to go over a few things for tonight, and then I'm going to see what kind of meal I can put together. You ready to wash dishes for your supper?”

“And analyze you to boot. Just let me know when you want me to set the table.”

Ten minutes later, when he looked up from his work, she'd put the remote down on the coffee table. But now, instead of hiding behind her books and notes, she was stretched out on the sofa avidly watching
Oprah
. And if the deep belly laugh she'd just let loose was any indication, she seemed to be enjoying herself.

It appeared that the lovely Dr. Moore was far more open to new experiences than Matt had suspected. Which might make it time for lesson number two.

14

Olivia changed her clothes before dinner. She also freshened her makeup, fluffed her hair, and dabbed perfume on every available scrap of skin—blatant acts of primping that both amused and horrified her. Unfortunately, amusement and horror weren't the only contradictory responses fighting for dominance within her.

She felt oddly relaxed but totally on edge. She was warm and liquid one moment and paralyzed by uncertainty the next. Extreme sensations bombarded her at every turn and left her feeling decidedly . . . not herself.

Dr. Olivia Moore lived her life in moderation. She kept her boat on an even keel. On those rare occasions when life made her boat heel to one side or another—her affair with Matt and her divorce from James being the most glaring examples—she found a way to right it, or at least pretended that she had.

Being trapped with Matt Ransom was like being sucked into the eye of a hurricane . . . and staying there. Indefinitely. While her sails flapped madly in the wind.

She had been right to be afraid of this promotion. She had too many unresolved feelings for Matt to come through this week unscathed. She should have kept her boat moored at the dock and refused to be pushed out to sea.

Olivia took a deep breath, opened the bedroom door, and stepped out. She found Matt chopping tomatoes in the kitchen and noticed that he, too, had spruced up for dinner. His hair was still wet from the shower, and his Levis, though well worn, were neatly pressed.

At her approach, Matt glanced up and smiled—a lazy flash of white teeth framed by dark skin. “You're just in time.”

The sound of his voice sent her pulse jumping—not a welcome reaction for a woman who craved calm waters. When he bent back over the cutting board, she took advantage of the opportunity to observe him. Her gaze traveled over the thick dark hair shot through with gray, down the slanted cheekbones to the squared-off jaw. His shoulders were broad, his forearms muscled, and the hands that wielded the paring knife, strong and sure.

Matt Ransom was a pleasure to look at. But watching him dissect the hapless tomato, Olivia admitted that his movie star looks were only a small part of his appeal.

She was drawn by his simple air of confidence and the keen intellect that fueled his wicked sense of humor. He made her laugh and sputter with indignation. And while he often infuriated her, he never bored her.

“Are you going to stand there gawking, or are you going to get over here and set the table?” He added the chopped tomato to the ingredients in a large wooden bowl and drizzled oil and vinegar over the top.

Olivia inhaled the rich scents emanating from the pot on the stove. “Are we having spaghetti?”

“We are. Do you like Italian?”

“I've never met a region in Italy I didn't like.”

“Smart woman.” He walked around the counter to fill two glasses with a deep red wine, and Olivia's heart did an embarrassing flip-flop.

Pretending a nonchalance she didn't feel, Olivia moved toward the silverware drawer. Trying to create distance where none existed, she hugged the counter, only to discover that opening the drawer put her directly in Matt's path.

“ 'Scuse me.” Matt reached around her to check the sauce simmering on the stove.

Olivia sucked in her breath as his front brushed across her rear. “God, I feel like a sardine.”

“No, you don't.” A glimmer of humor stole into his eyes and a dimple flashed at the corner of his mouth. He put both hands up in apology as they slid out of each other's way, but he didn't look particularly sorry. “Can you hand me a dish?”

Olivia passed one of the two he'd set out and watched him place a heaping mound of spaghetti with meat sauce in the center. When he reached for the garlic bread wrapped in foil, his finger trailed across the still-hot burner. “Damn.”

“Are you all right?”

“I'm fine.” With quick, efficient movements, he turned off the stove and stuck the singed finger in his mouth.

“Can I rub some butter on it?”

The look of surprise that flashed across his face made her want to laugh.

“Your finger, Matt. Can I grease it for you?”

“Oh.” His face fell. “My finger's fine.”

“You say that now, but tomorrow morning I'll be hearing from attorneys and nurses. Let me take a look.”

“My
finger's
perfectly okay.” He didn't appear to be in pain, but his voice sounded a bit strained.

Intrigued enough by his reaction to stop worrying about her own, she followed him to the refrigerator. There he retrieved a block of Parmesan cheese and backed out, coming to a stop only when his rear end pressed up against her crotch.

They both froze.

It would have been comical if her heart hadn't been beating so hard. Matt turned around to face her—which didn't slow her heartbeat one iota—and then he reached over her to set the Parmesan on the counter, casually caging her between his forearms in the process.

Trapped against the wall of his chest, she became a part of every breath he took. And when he dropped his hands to cup her buttocks and pull her tighter against him, she could feel the hammer of his heartbeat against hers.

Her nerve endings jangled as he whispered in her ear. “My finger's fine, but other parts of me could use some attention.”

Olivia licked her lips, but her mouth was too dry to swallow. Something hard and insistent had sprung up between them. “You don't say.”

Matt nuzzled at her neck and brought his lips up to nibble on the lobe of her ear. “I'm in love with the butter idea, Livvy. Why don't we put dinner on hold and adjourn to my room for some first aid?”

Olivia swallowed.

“We can sit down at the table, eat our spaghetti, and maintain this charade. Or we can skip dinner and get right down to dessert.”

His look left no doubt who would be consuming whom.

Desire coursed through her as she stared up into Matt's eyes and tried to comprehend his effect on her. She could have been locked in a room half this size with her ex-husband and have no difficulty avoiding intimacy. Being on the same planet with Matt demanded it.

And what of Matt? Was this his standard reaction to an available member of the opposite sex? Or a convenient means of embarrassing her in front of her audience? How far would he go to do away with her as a competitor?

When Olivia finally found her voice, she kept her words even and her tone light. It cost her, but she did it. “I wouldn't miss your spaghetti for anything.”

Turning away from him, she picked up their dinner plates. “Why don't you bring the salads? And the rest of the wine, too. I think I need a drink.”

Without a word, Matt followed her to the table. It took him a moment or two to seat himself, but once settled he raised his glass and clinked the rim of it against hers. “To calmer heads prevailing.”

She tilted her head in acknowledgment and swept away a tiny shard of disappointment. Then she took a bite of her spaghetti and chewed as calmly as she could, trying to enjoy the perfect blending of flavors on her tongue.

Only when she had herself completely under control did she allow herself to make eye contact. “Tell me how you started cooking, Matt.”

For a moment she thought he was going to refuse to follow her lead, but finally his lips quirked up at the corner and he said, “Desperation. Hunger. The usual things that drive a person into a kitchen. Sometimes a man just has to learn to fend for himself.”

“I'd hardly call this fending.”

“Thanks.”

“Was your mother a good cook?”

Matt's smile disappeared and his body stiffened. “She was at one time.”

She could tell he didn't want to pursue the subject, but in her line of work that usually signaled the ideal time to forge ahead. “But . . .”

“But when I was thirteen, we had a family crisis and she stopped.”

“Cooking?”

“Everything.”

She saw Matt's flash of regret at the honesty of his answer. He picked up his fork and started on his meal while she watched him from across the table. Funny that she had considered herself in love with him, yet knew so little about him.

“What kind of crisis made her stop cooking?”

He stopped eating, and she knew that if there'd been anywhere for him to go, he would have found an excuse to leave. He set his fork on the edge of his plate and looked at her. “We had a death in the family.”

His eyes warned her not to trespass further.

“Who died, Matt?”

“I don't need your two hundred bucks' worth tonight, Olivia. Why don't you just do the dishes when we're finished, and leave my past alone?”

“Not until you tell me who died.”

He sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. It didn't take a trained psychologist to read the body language. But she was glad she had the background all the same.

“Who died, Matt?”

He reached out and picked up his wineglass. After several long sips he set it back down and looked her in the eye. “My brother. Adam.”

“Was he older than you or younger?”

“He was my twin.”

“Oh, Matt.” She felt a brief stab of pity for the boy who had lost so much at such an early age, but she forced herself to resume the conversation, carefully keeping the emotion out of her voice. “Tell me what happened.”

Matt ran a hand through his hair in a sign of irritation she was coming to recognize.

“It happened so long ago, Olivia. I don't see any point in talking about it now.”

She wondered if he had ever seen the point and hoped that some adult had known enough to make him share the hurt when the wounds were fresh. “There doesn't need to be a point. Why don't you just tell me what happened?”

His voice dropped lower and she leaned forward to hear what came next. “We were all swimming in the lake near our house, and he hit his head on a boulder.”

He seemed to expect her to say something, but she just sat quietly and waited for him to continue.

“None of us realized what had happened until it was too late. I thought he was just horsing around.”

“And your parents . . .”

“Blamed themselves. Fell apart. I don't know, but they couldn't seem to whip up any real enthusiasm for the two of us who were still alive.”

“And how did that make you feel?”

He stopped as if thinking about the answer for the first time, and she shuddered to think of the thirteen-year-old boy bottling up all that hurt and confusion. “Lonely. Guilty. Scared. And totally pissed off.”

“And what did you do?”

He shrugged again. “What does anybody do? I went on. It felt like shit, but I went on. And when my sister and I got tired of ordering pizza every night, we learned how to cook.”

“You became a gourmet cook at thirteen?”

He snorted his amusement. “Hardly. I had an aunt who bought my sister and me kids' cookbooks one year for Christmas. We learned how to make meatloaf and mashed potatoes—got really good at pigs in a blanket— that kind of thing. We used to take turns cooking dinner.”

“You didn't cook like this when we knew each other in Chicago. Where did you learn all the fancy stuff?”

“Television.”

“Ah, you didn't mention that during my remote lesson. So you also stop for . . .”

“Julia Child, when she had a regular show. Mario Batali, Paul Prudhomme, Emeril, Justin Wilson before he died, pretty much anyone standing in a kitchen who looks like they know what they're doing.”

“You're full of surprises, aren't you?”

“Oh, I'm a real man of mystery, all right.” He sat back in his chair and studied her closely, so she studied him in return. His smile seemed a little freer, and his eyes were no longer so cautious.

He stood and carried the dishes to the sink and piled the pots and pans on the counter next to it. “I appreciate your interest in my past and all, Olivia. But the next time I want to root around in the Ransom family closet, I'll let you know.”

He came back to the table, pulled out her chair, and escorted her into the kitchen. “In the meantime, you might want to get started on these dishes. I've got a show to get ready for.”

From his seat in the WTLK control room, Charles Crankower watched Olivia Moore wash dishes. She looked almost as good from the back as she did from the front, and it was kind of interesting to watch the intensity with which she applied herself to cleaning those pots and pans.

His gaze swung to Matt Ransom, who was also watching the doctor, though he was pretending not to. After observing Ransom's progress over the last few days, Charles had to admit the guy hadn't overestimated his ability with women.

Dr. Moore might not be eating out of her roommate's hand, but she was eating at the same table and seemed to be enjoying it. It was their body language and the way they kept studying each other while pretending not to that had finally sent Charles to Human Resources for a peek at Matt's and Olivia's résumés. There he had discovered an interesting tidbit that didn't appear on either of the talk show hosts' publicity bios: Olivia Moore had done an internship at the same station in Chicago where Matt Ransom did afternoon drive. And despite all the recent on-air bickering and one-upmanship, neither of them had ever mentioned it.

Charles wasn't certain yet just how to use this information to his or the station's advantage, but he recognized the significance of the omission. If their time together in Chicago hadn't meant anything to either of them, the whole world would already have known about it.

He'd caught their kiss on the couch and the way they kept rubbing up against each other in the kitchen. As he settled in to watch the evening unfold, Charles tried to imagine what, other than sex, two such opposite personalities might have shared. He crossed his long legs in an effort to get comfortable in the too-small chair and reminded himself that good things were supposed to come to those who waited.