7 Days and 7 Nights (3 page)

At the all-clear signal, Matt stood, removed his headphones, and headed out of the studio. He made it past the control room, down the corridor, and through the security door before slowing down. The last two days were enough to spoil a man's good time. First, T.J. had to go and share his budget dilemma with him, and now his audience was trying to turn him into some kind of Donahue. Sheesh.

As far as Matt was concerned, the best relationships were every bit as uncomplicated as he'd said. Two people got together, they enjoyed each other's company, and they moved on when it stopped being fun. If you didn't get too close, no one got too hurt. He'd been living that philosophy successfully all his adult life, with the exception of one long-ago assault on his heartstrings, and he saw no reason to reconsider that philosophy now.

He stopped in front of a publicity photo someone had tacked up on the bulletin board and studied Olivia Moore, Ph.D. Funny how completely she'd managed to intrude into his life, once again. Not only was her show beginning to change the face of his own, but according to T.J., Olivia was now the competition. One of their shows could go.

He narrowed his gaze and contemplated the likeness more closely. She'd grown sleeker, more sophisticated, but physically Olivia hadn't changed much since Chicago. Her cheekbones still angled dramatically upward on either side of the straight, slightly pointed nose, while her lips remained too full for the determined chin underneath. Her silky blonde hair fell straight to the shoulder like it always had, and her wide-set green eyes continued to glitter with wicked intelligence.

And she still turned him on without even trying.

Matt poured himself a last cup of hours-old coffee, zapped it back to life in the microwave, and headed toward the control room, his mind full of Olivia. When the time came for T.J. to make his choice, he'd be strangely sorry to see her go.

Yep. He'd miss her all right. He'd also miss the surge in listener response that resulted every time he ruffled her feathers on the air.

3

JoBeth Namey sorted through the basket of dirty clothes on the laundry room floor. Spinning the washer's control knob, she started a stream of hot water and propped up the lid of the machine. Then she added a cup of liquid detergent and watched the water turn sudsy before feeding the contents of the basket into the washer one article at a time.

Dawg's T-shirts were as industrial-sized as the man who wore them, and so were his jockey shorts. JoBeth dangled a pair of white cotton briefs above the soapy water, blushing as she remembered how urgently she'd tugged them off him the night before. A sigh escaped her at the memory of his lovemaking and the contentment she'd felt cradled in his arms afterward—a contentment that had disintegrated when she awoke to overhear him discussing her on the air with Matt Ransom.

JoBeth felt a fresh wave of humiliation and an equally unwelcome pang of despair. Earl Wayne Rollins II was not the first man she'd ever had a relationship with, but she'd assumed he'd be the last. She loved him, that was the hard, cold truth of it, and he kept saying he loved her. But the ticking of her biological clock had begun to drown out those words of love.

She wanted . . . Lord, she wanted children and a family of her own. Not the empty keeping-up-appearances sort she'd grown up in, but the real thing fueled by real feelings and emotional commitment. Being forced to lobby for a marriage proposal made her feel like an article of clothing destined for the clearance rack—not worth the original, retail price.

JoBeth dropped the lid on the washer and bent to pull a load of blue jeans out of the dryer.

“JoBeth, you downstairs?”

Silently she pulled clothes out of the dryer and folded each one in turn, carefully separating hers and Dawg's into neatly stacked piles.

Dawg came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her. His touch, as always, was surprisingly gentle for such a big man. “Mornin', sweetheart.”

Normally she would have turned, gone up on tiptoe, and pressed her body up against the solid wall of Dawg Rollins's chest, but today she held herself stiff.

“What's wrong?” He nuzzled the back of her neck and locked his forearms together just under her collarbone. In a minute he'd be slipping his fingers under her pajama top and making her tingle all over again. “We don't have anywhere we need to be just yet. Why don't you come on back to bed?”

Holding her body rigid, she pulled away and turned to look up into the rugged angles of his face. He had a good ten inches on her and close to a hundred pounds, but she refused to feel small. Righteous indignation bubbled in her veins, and she enjoyed his start of surprise when she placed a hand in the center of his chest and pushed him back a step.

“You have got more nerve than the whole state of Texas.”

Golden-gray stubble covered Dawg's cheeks, and his blue eyes shone with good humor. He actually smiled.

“You went on the radio last night and told the whole of Atlanta that you don't want to marry me.”

His smile fled.

“How do you think that makes me feel?”

“Well, now, I—”

“That was a rhetorical question, Dawg. You are not supposed to answer.”

“But, JoBeth, I—”

“I'm in love with you. And you keep saying you're in love with me.”

“I am, JoBeth. You know I—”

“No.” She pointed a finger at him, cautioning him not to speak. “Don't you dare say it right now. I'm tired of hearing words that go nowhere.”

“But JoBeth, honey . . .”

She stopped him with a look.

“I'm forty-one, Dawg. I can't keep hanging around while you think this through. Who knows how many good eggs I have left?”

Dawg opened his mouth as if to speak, but now, when she yearned for a response, no words came out. They just faced each other in the overheated laundry room with the sounds of the washer and dryer underscoring the silence that stretched between them.

His blue eyes turned apologetic, and he looked almost as miserable as she felt. Realizing she was close to tears, she ducked under his arm and escaped upstairs. Yanking on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, JoBeth swiped at her eyes and reflected on the irony of her situation. Four years ago she'd walked away from a marriage proposal because she couldn't settle for a man who didn't make her pulse pound or her heart race.

Now she had more pulse pounding and heart racing than she could shake a stick at, but it looked like it would take an act of God to convince the man she loved to marry her.

With her Monday morning show behind her, Olivia went in search of Matt. Braced for confrontation, she strode toward the production studio where Matt was recording commercials, determined to establish ground rules for the remainder of their time together at WTLK.

She'd been wrong not to acknowledge what had happened between them in Chicago. While she had no intention of making their past common knowledge, letting it simmer in silence between them had proven a bad idea. She hadn't realized how hard it would be to work with Matt again, but now that she knew, well, she'd just have to find a way to set things straight.

The glowing red light above the studio door indicated Matt's microphone was open, so she stopped outside and studied her nemesis through the rectangle of glass.

As she watched, he leaned forward in to the microphone, his attention split between the typewritten copy and the digital timer beside it, and read the copy aloud. His body language declared him both focused and relaxed. Olivia was neither, because even through the wall of a sealed room, Matt Ransom still had the power to unnerve her.

She'd been a twenty-one-year-old intern when WZNA's sexy afternoon disc jockey had singled her out. He'd been worldly; she'd been painfully inexperienced. He'd offered a good time; she'd fallen completely and embarrassingly in love. And if she'd been ill prepared for the advent of their relationship, she'd been even less equipped to handle its sudden end.

Her experience with Matt had marked and changed her. Never again did she give herself so freely or trust so blindly. Even her choice of husband could be traced to the lessons she'd learned from Matt.

Now, eight years later, it was hard to fathom how she could have fallen so deeply for a man she'd barely known. It was even harder to understand why a part of her still wanted to believe there was more to Matt Ransom than a sexy smile and easy charm.

Watching him work, she told herself that she felt only disdain for a man who plowed through women like a farmer did a field, but she could still remember every detail of his lovemaking. Just as she remembered what it felt like to have the full force of his personality focused solely on her.

The red light flashed off, and Olivia reached for the doorknob. Quickly, before she could lose her nerve, she turned it and opened the door.

Matt looked up from the audio board and stood, his face reflecting his surprise. “Hello, Livvy.”

The use of his old nickname for her stopped her cold. It took several long seconds to recover and an enormous amount of will not to drop her gaze. Stepping forward, she pulled the door shut behind her, trying not to notice how small the space was and how completely he filled it. “I want to talk about what's going on between us.”

“Between us? Have I missed something?” He smiled, and his brown eyes went warm. “No, I'd definitely know if there was something between us.”

She felt the heat steal up her neck to warm her cheeks and fought the urge to fall back a step.

“It's amazing, given what you do for a living, Olivia, but talking about sex still makes you blush.” He didn't wait for a reply. “We were talking about sex, weren't we?”

The smug amusement in his voice straightened her spine. “
You
may have been, but then, that's standard operating procedure for you, isn't it? I'm not here to trade double entendres, Matt, and I have no interest in wasting time on sexual innuendo.”

“No, let's not ever waste time. And let's not enjoy ourselves too much, either. Wouldn't want to appear
too
human.”

She felt a fine, hot flash of anger.

Raising her chin, she said, “Until T.J. clarifies our situation, we need to strive for a little professionalism. You remember what that is, don't you?”

“Remember it? I taught it to you. Along with quite a few other things.”

Olivia flushed at the blatant reminder. She opened her mouth to respond, but had to swallow her retort when a knock sounded on the door. She turned as the door swung outward to reveal a very young, very beautiful female.

“Hope I'm not interrupting.” The girl's gaze swept over Olivia. “You promised me lunch, Matt. Are you almost done?”

“Olivia, this is Cherie. She just started in the sales department. Cherie, Dr. Olivia Moore.”

Cherie's face glowed with obvious adoration. For Matt. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Dr. O. I'm a big fan.” The girl's respectful tone placed Olivia squarely in the ancient-crone-not-to-be-considered-competition category—not a place a woman approaching thirty wanted to be.

Olivia forced a smile. “Thank you, Cherie, it's a pleasure to meet you, too. But I'm not quite finished with Matt yet.” Assuring herself she had not just made a Freudian slip, Olivia waited for the young woman to duck back out the door. Then she turned to face Matt again, fortified by the knowledge that Matt, like her father, would always be surrounded by Cheries.

She straightened to her full height. Matt Ransom was nothing more than a colleague—and according to T.J., a temporary one. All she required from him was professional courtesy and a little respect. “I expect you to stop making fun of me on the air. And I also expect you to keep your callers in line. I don't appreciate being held up to ridicule, even on that free-for-all you call a radio show.”

The glint of amusement disappeared from Matt's eyes. “Well, you'd be a less tempting target if you didn't take yourself so damned seriously.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It's just radio, Olivia. Not brain surgery. And no matter what you want to tell yourself, it's all about entertainment and ratings.”

“That's no excuse for your behavior.” Belatedly she realized that her gaze had strayed to the young woman waiting on the other side of the plate glass.

Matt followed Olivia's gaze. “Are you referring to my show or to what you assume to be my sex life? As I recall, at one time you had no problem with either.”

The reminder carried the force of a slap. What a mistake it had been to try to reason with him. “I don't give a fig about your sex life. I'm not one of your groupies anymore, Matt. And I don't think every word that spills out of your mouth is gospel. I just can't believe you're still living in Never Land. Isn't it about time for you to grow up?”

He clutched at his chest, his tone still mocking, but there was something unreadable in his dark eyes. “Ah, Olivia. You wound me.”

“I doubt it. But I'd like to.”

With that, she turned and walked carefully out of the studio, past the waiting Cherie and down the hallway, her brain already searching for a weapon capable of blowing a hole in Matt Ransom's massive ego.

“Good morning, everyone, and welcome to the Tuesday edition of
Liv Live
. Today we're going to do something a little different.”

She caught Diane's surprised glance and gave her a thumbs-up. Butterflies threw themselves against the walls of her stomach, but she didn't let them deter her.

“Instead of starting off with your individual issues like we usually do, we're going to talk about a problem that plagues lots of relationships. It's kind of a
guy
thing.” She paused for emphasis. “Dan Kiley wrote a book about it in the eighties, but I'm convinced it's still a problem in the new millennium.”

Diane took the first call as Olivia explained. “The Peter Pan Syndrome refers to the problem many men have growing up. Like the mythical Peter, they want to fly through life without ever having to accept adult responsibility.”

Olivia smiled. “I'll describe typical Peter Pan behavior, and you let me know if you know anyone like that. I'm especially interested in hearing how this kind of behavior has affected your life.”

Olivia glanced down at her notes, though she didn't need them. She could describe this man in her sleep.

“He's attractive, lots of fun, and knows how to show a woman a good time. He's probably a serial dater, staying with one woman until she starts making noises about commitment. Chances are he's got it down to a science. You know, that whole ‘just let them know what to expect up front' business that he uses to rationalize his inability to sustain a long-term relationship. Bottom line, this guy has plenty going for him—unless you're interested in ‘happily ever after.'

“When someone wants to discuss real feelings, he looks for a less threatening topic.” She paused for emphasis. “Like football or car leasing versus buying. The last thing he wants is a serious discussion about anything personal.”

Olivia caught Diane's eye through the rectangle of glass, and the two women shared a smile as Olivia took her first call.

“Hello, JoBeth. Do you know a Peter Pan?”

“Oh, yeah. I've been living with one. Dawg, that's my boyfriend, he qualifies big time. And so does his hero, Matt Ransom.”

Olivia couldn't believe her luck. She hadn't expected to hit pay dirt so quickly.

“Matt Ransom, really?” She tried to sound surprised, but didn't think she was that great an actress. “What makes you think your boyfriend and Matt Ransom are Peter Pans?” She felt a twinge of guilt at letting her caller do the dirty work.

“Well, Dawg thinks Ransom walks on water. Especially since Matt got named Bachelor of the Year for about the hundredth time. Whenever I see a picture of him in the paper, he's with a different woman, and I don't think I've ever heard so much as a rumor about him settling down. Does that qualify him?”