7 Days and 7 Nights (7 page)

7

Matt wiped steam from the bathroom mirror. Still humming the tune he couldn't seem to push out of his head, he lathered his face and then shaved in time to the mental beat. A slash of deodorant, a splash of aftershave, and he was set.

With the towel tucked around his hips, he left the steamy warmth of the bathroom. From the hallway he spotted Olivia behind the kitchen counter, knife aloft, and spent a moment or two imagining just what sort of meal she might be making with the provisions she'd laid in.

Olivia kept her head down and her gaze on the counter, but the stiffness of her shoulders and the rigid tilt of her head revealed her awareness of him. He almost felt sorry for her, trapped as she was with a man who knew just how much heat simmered beneath her cool facade.

A gentleman would allow her to pretend indifference. But no one had ever accused him of being a gentleman.

In his bedroom he dropped the towel and dressed quickly, then padded, barefoot, out to the living room.

Olivia looked up from her seat at the kitchen table.

“What're you eating?”

Olivia stopped in mid chew. He waited patiently while she swallowed and then took a sip of her Diet Coke. She dabbed delicately at the corner of her mouth with her napkin, as if she were dining in a five-star establishment.

“Peanut butter and jelly. I made an extra sandwich if you're hungry.”

“That's what you're having for dinner?”

“Um-hmm.”

“Peanut butter and jelly.”

“That's right.”

“For dinner.”

“Yep.” She dropped the last bite into her mouth, chewed it thoroughly, and swallowed. “Is this a problem for you?”

“No. I've just never met anyone over the age of ten who would consider that an actual meal.”

“And I suppose you're a connoisseur?”

“Well, I know the difference between PB&J and . . . dinner. But if your taste buds are willing to settle, who am I to criticize?”

“Who indeed?”

“So is this what you eat every night, or are Monday nights special?”

“What are you, the food police?” She dabbed once more at her mouth and then got up to throw her napkin away, erasing all evidence of her meal.

Matt shrugged. “I'd just hate to see you waste away on my watch.”

Olivia went to the pantry and pulled out a bag of chocolate chip cookies. He watched as she removed one cylinder, opened the plastic casing, and took out three cookies. Replacing the bag, she moved over to the counter, munching happily. “I'm hardly wasting away. And I'm sure even you have heard of comfort food. Lots of people like to eat foods that remind them of their childhoods.”

“Not me. I prefer my comforts grown-up. And without chocolate bits.” He leered at her—just in case she hadn't caught his meaning.

She bit daintily into a cookie and ignored him. Pointedly.

Undaunted, Matt began to assemble ingredients for his dinner. From the fridge he pulled wrapped packages containing paper-thin medallions of veal and sliced mushrooms. From the case of wine, he selected a Barolo and pulled two wineglasses out of the cupboard.

Olivia finished the final chocolate chip cookie and slid onto a barstool.

“Can I pour you a glass?”

“You're going to drink before you go on the air?”

“Absolutely.”

“But . . .”

“But what? I have roughly three and a half hours until I go on, I don't have to drive to work, and I'm not planning to operate any heavy machinery.”

“But . . .”

“We don't have any heavy machinery here, do we?”

She studied him from beneath spiky lashes. Her eyes were a lovely shade of green flecked with tiny shards of hazel. And they were not amused.

Since she hadn't exactly refused, Matt poured a generous glass of wine for both of them and set hers in front of her. He swirled the heavy red liquid and sniffed appreciatively before taking a satisfying sip of his own. Then he started to cook.

Within minutes he had dredged the veal in flour and had butter melting in a large sauté pan.

Olivia eyed him suspiciously. “What are you doing?”

“Making dinner.”

“Dinner?”

“Um-hmm.”

“You cook?”

“That's right.” Without taking his gaze off her, he emptied the mushrooms into the waiting butter.

“But you're using flour and . . .” She peered over the counter at the ingredients he'd assembled. “And mushrooms and . . . and
utensils
. . .” She pronounced the last word as if it were foreign and didn't quite fit on her tongue.

“Yep.” He allowed himself a small smile but held a tight rein on his laughter. “Too bad you've already eaten. I make a mean veal marsala.”

“Veal marsala.” Her voice was little more than a whisper. “You're making veal marsala?”

Olivia looked as if she'd just discovered the world was actually flat after all, and he couldn't resist passing the perfectly sautéed mushrooms under her nose as he removed them from the pan and set them aside. She sniffed audibly, a reflex action that told him she'd probably cave in and join him if he asked her again.

Which left him feeling smug, in charge, and completely in control. Until Olivia licked her lips. He watched, fascinated, as the tip of her tongue darted out and worked its way across the bow of her mouth. His own hunger spiked, though it had nothing to do with the meal he was preparing.

She took a sip from her glass, and then she ran her tongue over her lips once again. They were wet and dewy with wine, and Matt considered volunteering to dry them off with his own. He glanced up quickly but caught no hint of malice or sexual intent in her eyes. They were, however, full of hunger and lust—all of it focused on his veal marsala.

Matt put pasta in a pot of boiling water and broke up a loaf of Italian bread. For a few minutes he cooked in silence, sipping his wine while he contemplated the situation. However attractive he found Olivia, no matter what the sight of her tongue skimming over her lips did to him, she was the competition. Only one of them would walk out of this apartment with a radio show on WTLK. And while he doubted he'd be on the street for long, he had no intention of coming in second.

Feeding Olivia would be like offering aid to the enemy. He wanted her off balance and uncertain. Could he use food and drink to help achieve that end?

He drained the linguini, put a large helping on the plate next to the veal, and then topped the cutlets with marsala sauce. The aroma made his mouth water.

Matt slid his plate across the counter, topped off both their wines, and moved around to claim the stool next to Olivia's. Her entire body tilted precariously toward his plate, and her eyes were locked on the result of his culinary efforts.

“Gosh, I feel bad eating in front of you like this.” He tried to look truly apologetic, but it was hard to pull it off when she looked as if she might land face first in the center of his veal.

He waited for her to say something. A little polite begging and the second helping could be hers, but she just closed her eyes and breathed deeply, no doubt committing the smell of veal marsala to memory for replay during her next PB&J extravaganza.

“No, no. Don't be silly,” she said. “I'm, uh, just going to finish my wine and watch the food, I mean . . . tube, for a bit. You go right ahead and meat . . . I mean, eat.”

Matt clinked his wineglass against hers and took a healthy sip, enjoying the flush of embarrassment that rushed up her cheeks at the obvious Freudian slip. He watched her as he slipped a forkful of veal and mushroom into his mouth, and had the satisfaction of seeing her wince with envy. His cooking had thrown her off balance, which was exactly the way he wanted her. Surely he had enough resources at his disposal to keep Olivia Moore permanently off kilter. All he had to do was identify them.

Her green eyes clouded under his perusal. She took a sip of wine, swallowed it, and stole a surreptitious glance at his plate, as if to reassure herself she wasn't imagining things. “Did you know how to cook in Chicago?”

“Hmm?”

“When we knew each other in Chicago, did you already know how to cook like this?”

He couldn't remember sharing a single meal with her, though he knew there'd been many. What he remembered was her earnest innocence and the joy with which she'd given herself to him.

“Did I
have
a kitchen back then?”

He could tell from the stain spreading across her cheeks and the way she shifted in her chair that her memories were no more food related than his.

He watched her worry her bottom lip with her teeth and realized he'd been overlooking the obvious. As an experiment, Matt leaned in closer and let his lips brush against her ear. “I couldn't tell you where or what we ate in Chicago, but I remember exactly how
you
tasted, Olivia.”

He paused for a moment, waiting for a reaction, and sure enough, her eyes fluttered closed. Encouraged, he continued. “I'll never forget how cool and smooth your skin used to feel under my tongue.”

Matt reached a hand out to brush his knuckle down the curve of her cheek. “And I remember the little sounds you used to make when I was inside you. And how you used to sink your nails into my back when you were ready to come.”

He used the truth and their memories to probe beneath the cool exterior, hoping to find the woman who had once dwelt inside. “Do you remember?”

Olivia's eyes were suddenly wary. Unsure whether she was about to turn tail and run or round on him with teeth bared, Matt turned and glanced up at the Webcam monitor. What he saw there at first stopped him cold and then filled him with delight. He cocked his head and studied the video image a moment longer while he considered the possibilities.

The shot revealed the mostly empty bottle of wine, the two wineglasses, and himself and Dr. O engaged in what appeared to be an intimate tête-à-tête. The average viewer would see only what was framed in the camera, and that didn't include the snarl springing to Olivia's lips or the warning glint stealing into her eyes.

“Nice try, Matt.”

She uncrossed her long legs and sat up straighter on her stool. The steely look she sent him made him grateful that Mother Nature hadn't seen fit to endow her with the defense mechanisms of either the skunk or the porcupine. With the Webcam and its misleading image in the forefront of his mind, he maintained the illusion of intimacy by staying put.

“Don't think you're going to use what was between us, Matt. I already regret that we ever had a past, and I'm going to do everything in my power to make sure we don't have a future.”

He put a hand out to cup the back of her neck and used his thumb to caress her cheek once more. She tensed at his touch, but he ignored it, keeping his voice low and his body language intentionally intimate. “You go ahead and give it your best shot, Olivia. But I still remember every delicious thing about you, and as you may have noticed, I've learned a thing or two about good food over the last eight years.”

“You really think you're every woman's fantasy, don't you? You've been listening to your own show too long. I am not even remotely tempted.”

“Liar.” Even to his ears, the word sounded suspiciously like a caress. Matt smiled as Olivia slipped out from beneath his hand. He couldn't help admiring the picture she presented as she made her exit—striding across the living room with her head held high and her shoulders thrown back. She sat on the edge of the couch, her posture painfully correct, and picked up the TV remote like a queen reaching for her scepter. Very carefully she tuned CNN in and, he suspected, the disturbing Matt Ransom out.

Being dismissed didn't bother Matt in the least. He'd noticed the way Olivia had responded to him.

If he wanted to come out of this week the victor, undermining his opponent's formidable powers of self-control would certainly give him an advantage.

It was time to bring out the big guns, time to lay siege to Dr. Moore's castle of calm. Thanks to his friend the Webcam, he now knew exactly how to breach her defenses.

All he had to do was make history repeat itself.

8

In the WTLK control room, Charles Crankower studied the Webcam monitor with interest. At the audio board, with his back to Charles, Matt's producer, Ben Markum, set up for the night's show. Olivia's producer stood next to him discussing some problem with the on-hold system that she wanted fixed before morning. Charles tuned them both out to concentrate on the drama unfolding on the screen.

Matt and Olivia sat at the counter with a bottle of wine between them. They looked much cozier than he would have expected, and as he watched, Matt not only reached out and cupped the back of the doctor's neck, but caressed her cheek with his hand. Charles waited for Matt to either kiss her or get smacked, but neither happened.

A glance out of the corner of his eye confirmed that the couple on the screen now had Ben's and Diane's attention, too. In silence, the three of them watched Olivia storm off to the couch while Matt cleaned up the kitchen, and he knew he wasn't the only one wondering what in the hell was going on.

When Matt moved to sit down at the audio board, Olivia passed by him without a glance, and all three of them watched her bedroom door close behind her.

Charles was still puzzling over what he'd seen as Matt put on his headphones, propped his feet up on the audio table, and leaned back in his chair.

“What do you think, Ben?” Charles started at the sound of Matt's voice booming over the control room speakers. “How long do you think it'll take me to have her eating out of my hand?”

Ben looked over his shoulder at Diane and Charles. “Hey, Matt, there's, uh . . .”

Matt laughed. “Forget about eating out of my hand. I'll bet you a hundred bucks I'll have her flat on her back before the end of the week.”

Diane Lowe froze, while Ben hurried to cut his boss off. “Matt, this isn't a good time to . . .”

Ben put on his headphones and shut off the control room speaker, turning the conversation private. After aiming a withering glare at Ben, Diane stormed out of the room, but Charles just sat there thinking about the possibilities. This promotion was his brainchild, and he intended to use it to prove he could handle things at WTLK without interference from the corporate office. What better way to preserve his autonomy than with a local promotion that garnered national attention?

Charles smiled at the thought, because anything resembling a relationship between the proper Dr. Moore and the alley cat Matt Ransom would warrant that kind of attention. It was his job to make sure of it.

At 9:45 P.M. Olivia locked her bedroom door, slid between crisp, cool sheets, and congratulated herself on surviving her first day of captivity. She'd taken a few hits, but she was still alive. For a good five minutes she reveled in her newly appreciated privacy, breathing the quiet into her being and attempting to exhale the anxiety.

Snuggling deep under the covers, she breathed in the good thoughts and tried to breathe out the bad. She could do this, of course she could. All she needed was a good night's sleep.

Olivia closed her eyes and tried to drift off, but her brain refused to shut down. Old memories, the very ones she'd spent most of the evening trying to block, rose up to taunt her: the feel of Matt Ransom's skin against hers, the merging of his body into hers, the utter contentment of drifting off to sleep in the shelter of his arms.

She breathed in and she breathed out until she was huffing and puffing like the Big Bad Wolf, but sleep eluded her. With a groan, Olivia sat up in bed, clicked on the radio, and tuned in
Guy Talk
.

“Thanks for the donation, man. Remember, you can donate food or money, and you can donate it in the name of guys everywhere. To find out how we're stacking up against the ladies, just log onto our website for an up-to-the-minute tally.”

A prerecorded chanting of “Go men, go men, donate” done to the foot-stomping rhythm of “We will, we will, rock you” played out full blast as Matt engineered a one-man pep rally.

The chant continued for several seconds and then faded out. The next thing she heard was the unexpected sound of waves washing up on the shore. If she'd had any thoughts of falling asleep while she listened to Matt's show, his next words quashed them.

“I had a chance to listen to
Liv Live
this morning, fellas.”

The sound of canned gasps and murmurs rose, then fell as Matt continued. “Yeah, I know, I know. The woman is way too preoccupied with life's harsh realities.”

Another wave rolled into shore, and the surf pounded. A gull cawed.

“I prefer a little fantasy in my life. Tonight I'm going to show you how to add some to yours.”

Olivia let out the breath she held and abandoned the in-and-out thing. Like a conductor staring into the headlights of an oncoming train, she closed her eyes and braced for the crash.

“Pretend for a minute that you're shipwrecked on a deserted island. You've got warm trade winds, a lovely little inlet for swimming and fishing, and unlike Tom Hanks, you do not have to form an intimate relationship with a rubber product. You get to choose both your companions and your supplies. This is, after all, your fantasy.”

Reggae music snuck up full and then lowered to background volume. Gulls called again and mingled with the subtle rhythm of waves lapping gently on the shore. Olivia could almost feel the sun on her back as Matt continued.

“It's a gorgeous day. The sand is like powdered sugar. The sea is that bright blue-green color it gets when the sun is dancing on top of it. I can see a shipping channel off in the distance, so I know when I'm ready to be rescued everything will get worked out. No pressure, just a great escape.”

His voice was as powerful and warm as a deep-tissue massage, and Olivia began to relax despite herself. What could happen on an island getaway?

The soft strains of “Don't Worry Be Happy” joined the audio mix and then disappeared beneath the mesmerizing timbre of Matt Ransom's voice.

“I walk down the beach and discover two crates that have come in on the tide. One of them holds twenty-four jars of beluga caviar packed in ice. The other is a case of Guinness with an opener attached.”

The happy island music cranked up and then faded back under.

“As I set the crates under a palm tree near the entrance to a cave, I spot the only other people on the island—you can have a maximum of three companions, guys. In my case, they're Heidi, Lourdes, and Veronica—a blonde, a brunette, and a redhead—who look absolutely exquisite in the only article of clothing they've brought with them: thong bikini bottoms.”

Male sighs of ecstasy mingled with the island sound effects. Then came several seconds of teasing feminine laughter.

Alone in her room, Olivia gritted her teeth.

“Okay, guys, that's my scenario, but everyone gets to create his own.”

Matt paused and then brought the soft feminine laughter up once more.

Olivia was just getting ready to write off the whole thing as a waste of time when Dawg came on the air. She recognized his name from her conversations with JoBeth, and she wasn't surprised to discover that he spoke like a good ole Southern boy—and an unhappy one at that.

“Hey, Matt.”

“Dawg. Did you call to pledge food or to visit Fantasy Island?”

“Well, I wanted to pledge some milk for the food drive, but I'm not getting any of that anymore.”

Olivia caught herself smiling at Matt's puzzled silence.

“JoBeth moved out. She's left me.”

“I'm sorry to hear it, man. You definitely deserve a getaway. Who do you want to take with you?”

“JoBeth. She's the only one I want on my island, but thanks to you and that Dr. O, she doesn't want to have anything to do with me.”

“We're talking Fantasy Island, Dawg. You don't need to invite JoBeth...or anyone else you actually know. I'd consider Miss March. Her last pictorial tells me she knows exactly how
not
to dress for an island vacation.”

“Matt, I don't think you're listening. JoBeth has moved out. And not only that, she'll barely talk to me. Threw a damn pie in my face when I tried to get her to come back home.”

Olivia sat up in bed, intrigued, but Matt refused to be drawn into Dawg's reality.

“I'll say this one more time, Dawg, because I like you and you've been calling in to the show for a while. This is not Relationships R Us. You can call Dr. O in the morning if you have to, but the only advice I'm going to give you is this: Suck it up, man. Stop whining. There are probably two million women in Atlanta. Pick another one. Women are like buses. If you miss one, another will be along any minute.”

Olivia felt her spine stiffen. She heard none of Dawg's protests or Matt's flip responses as he moved on to the next caller. She remembered all too well how easily Matt had switched buses in Chicago, though she couldn't understand why the memory still hurt.

Olivia burrowed back down beneath the covers. She wanted to be in her own bed. She wanted her life back. She also wanted to be asleep right this very minute and not lying here wondering whether Matt Ransom really remembered exactly how she had tasted eight years ago.

Olivia reached over to snap off the radio, but something perverse inside her made her keep listening.

“I've got Jason on the air. Who are you with, Jason, and what have you brought with you?”

“Wow. I can't believe I got through. I listen to your show all the time.”

“Thanks, Jason. Does your mother know you're up this late?”

Jason laughed, but Matt was right. The caller sounded distinctly pubescent.

“Tell us what's happening on your island.”

Jason cleared his throat nervously. “Well, I, um, spend the first day just hanging out drinking beer.”

“You can imagine yourself under a palm tree drinking until you puke if you want to, Jason, but I'm not sure this will appeal to our other listeners. So . . .”

“Wait. A raft is floating toward my island.”

“A raft?”

“Yeah. It's just a bunch of trees lashed together with a little lean-to on one corner. And there's some kind of material rigged on a really tall branch for a sail.”

“That's nice, Jason. But what about the occupants?”

“Well, at first I can't tell if there's anyone on the raft or not. But then I spot this really long pair of legs sticking out of the lean-to.”

There was a pause and Olivia imagined she could hear the boy's Adam's apple bob up and down.

“It's a woman.”

“Very good, Jason. You have real potential. Who is she?”

“I can't tell yet. But when she comes out and stands up, I can tell that she's really tall, you know. Like an Amazon.”

“Ah, a Xena, Warrior Princess, fantasy.”

“Well, she's tall like her, but she's blonde. And it's really weird, but there's something familiar about her, you know?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, she's naked except for this little, like, animal skin between her legs. And she's tan. All over.” Jason's voice went up another octave.

“This would be from floating on the raft without clothing?” Matt's tone was dry.

“Yeah, I guess. Anyway, she steps off the raft onto the beach and I can see that she's in really incredible shape, but older. You know, like thirty or something.”

“That old, huh?”

Jason totally missed Matt's sarcasm, but as a woman turning thirty in a matter of days, Olivia was not amused.

“So I can't believe this is happening, and I—”

“Jason, please. Just tell us who the woman is. Believe me, at this point, that's all anyone wants to know.”

“Well, that's the really strange thing, you know? Because when she gets closer I recognize her.”

“And?”

“And, well, I hope it's okay to say this.”

“Don't worry, Jason. As long as it's not obscene, you're okay with—”

“It's that head doctor you're locked up with. The one you call Dr. O.”

“Why, of all the . . .” Olivia muttered as she sat straight up in bed. She flipped on the light and swung her legs over the side.

Matt's shout of laughter filled her ears. He laughed for a good thirty seconds until Olivia pictured tears running down his face.

“Boy, Jason. I have to hand it to you. I didn't even see it coming.”

Yeah, right
. Olivia sprang out of bed. In two strides she had her hand on the doorknob.

“What a fertile imagination you have, son. And a thing for older women, too. I can just picture how flattered Dr. Moore will be when she discovers she's every boy's fantasy.”

The reggae music swelled up and then faded underneath Matt's voice. “Thanks for sharing, Jason. You've given us all something really . . . special . . . to think about. This is
Guy Talk
, where a guy can be a guy.”

When she heard the first commercial come up, Olivia yanked open her bedroom door. Unwilling to get too close to the Webcam, she stood in the doorway and hissed, “What do you think you're doing?”

Matt looked up from the audio board. “Olivia?”

“No, it's Xena, Warrior Princess. Come here.”

He got up, walked around the equipment, and came to stand in front of her door. “Nice pajamas.” Reaching out a hand, he traced a part of the design with his finger. “Are those sheep?”

Olivia slapped his hand away. “How dare you set that boy up to talk about me that way?”

“You think I arranged that?”

“I know you did. And I won't stand for it.”

“This is talk radio, Olivia. People say things. I did not put those words in that boy's mouth.” He laughed. “But I really wish I had.”

The blood thrummed through her veins, urging her to wipe the smile off his face. “Your show is a complete and utter travesty. For your information, women are not buses to be
ridden
at will. Your advice to that poor Dawg was completely insulting. And if you ever hold me up to that kind of ridicule again, I'll—”