Paradise Found (6 page)

“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.”

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.”

“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.

“Somehow I can't picture her guzzling a beer. Kind of like thinking about Rosa in a miniskirt.” He shook his head. “The image just doesn't work.”

“That's sick,” Adam said, laughing himself. “Sara's not the beer type. White wine, maybe,” he mused. “But she was stealing a glass of milk and a few of Rosa's chocolate chip cookies. Said she'd smelled them all day and couldn't resist them any longer.”

Matt wondered if she was one of those anorexic types who weighed and measured every ounce of food that went in their mouth. Or she could be a yo-yo dieter who starved herself until she couldn't take it any longer and then started gorging. “How many did she eat?”

“Huh? Two. Why?”

Hmm. Didn’t sound like an anorexic or a gorger. And he'd known both kinds. “What? Oh, nothing. I was just wondering.” Matt took another drink. “Did you tell her Rosa probably spiked them with tequila or hot sauce?”

“She's not that bad.” When Matt raised a brow, Adam added, “Okay, she is that bad. She can't help it if she thinks everybody should be Mexican. We should all have such strong ties to our heritage.”

“It would sure make for some interesting new foods,” Matt agreed.

“Yeah. It would at that.”

“What does she look like?” The question fell out of his mouth before he could yank it back.

“Who?”

Curiosity won over his annoyance with himself. What the hell. “Sara,” he mumbled. “I've spent hours with her and I have no idea what she even looks like.”

“She's not your type.”

“That's an understatement. I have no romantic interest in the woman.” Other than a shared kiss that scorched him every time he thought about it.

“Good. Keep it that way.”

Matt turned his head in Adam's direction. “Was that a threat?”

Adam ignored him. “She's a nice woman, Matt. That's all I'm saying.”

“Okay, Sara Hamilton's guardian angel has spoken. Now will you answer the damn question and tell me what she looks like? For all I know, Medusa could be sitting across from me every day.”

“Hardly. Sara's a very unique woman. In looks and personality.” Adam's tone made Matt perk up. “She's not beautiful, at least not in the classic way of your models and starlets, but there's something about her, an almost ethereal quality that makes her glow. And she's so honest. And caring. With a great personality,” he added.

“A real dog, huh?” Talking about personality and avoiding description was usually a bow-wow sign.

“Not at all. It's just that around Sara, you don't concentrate on her physical attributes as much as her other qualities. Her smile lights up the room. And when you speak to her, she listens. I mean, really listens, not like one of those empty-headed, big white teethers who smile and nod, but have no clue what you're talking about. She does. And she cares about things. You can hear the passion in her voice when she talks about something important to her.” Adam paused. “But I don't need to tell you all this. You noticed it yourself, didn't you?”

Right. The woman Adam had just described was not the same one who'd stormed out of his hot tub this morning. But he couldn't tell Adam that, so he opted for the big lie. “Of course I knew all that.” He almost choked on the words. “That's why I was asking you what she looked like. So I could piece it all together and get an image of her. Visualization and all that stuff the doctors talk about.” What a joke. He'd visualized Sara Hamilton plenty of times in the last several hours. With a big broom and a pointy hat. At least that was better than fixating on her supple mouth and soft skin.

“Oh. Sure. That makes sense.”

Poor Adam, he could be so damn gullible sometimes.

“Well, let's see. She's about five-feet-four or five. Not very tall. Nice shape. Not too skinny. Good curves. Great legs. And there's this neat little swing to her hips when she walks. Almost like she's moving to a beat.” He paused a second. “Oh, and her hair is dark brown, kind of glossy, cut a little above the shoulders with bangs. And a cowlick on the left side.”

“What did you do, put her under a microscope?”

“Hey, what can I say? It's my legal training that makes me notice details. And I can't forget her eyes. You can get lost in them when she looks at you. They're an amber green, kind of tilted at the corners. They change colors with her moods and clothes. When she's passionate about something, they turn this incredible rich amber color, flecked with gold. Like old whiskey. Really beautiful,” he murmured.

Matt was still stuck on passionate. He wondered if her eyes changed shades last night when he was kissing her

“And that's about it, old boy,” Adam said, interrupting his thoughts. “That's Sara Hamilton. Did you get the picture?”

Now, there was a question. Matt forced a smile. “Oh, yeah, I got the picture.” And he did. His little brother was falling big-time for Sara Hamilton, the Wicked Witch from Pittsburgh.

***

Sara stuffed her white tank top into her jean shorts and zipped them up. Her head throbbed with the beginnings of a headache—a Matthew Brandon headache.

Was she going to spend the rest of her stay dodging bold interrogations like the one yesterday morning? He'd pushed and pushed, accusing and formulating his own erroneous conclusions. She'd let him because his words had pierced her heart, bled her soul dry, and left her numb with grief. She hadn't been able to move, let alone think. So she'd told him she was committed to her work and that's why she had no husband, no children. Nothing.

What would he have said if she’d told him the truth?
I had a husband and I almost had a baby. But he left and my little girl died. And the only life I have now is the one I live through my clients because I'm too damn scared to live again. It just hurts too much.

Of course, she'd never say anything like that to him. She headed for the sliding glass door and opened the blinds. His chair was empty. Maybe he was still sleeping. She could grab a quick bite before he got up… No, dammit, she was not going to cower like a frightened child. He would like that, had probably anticipated that reaction. Well, he was in for a surprise.

Two minutes later she entered the spacious black-and-white tiled kitchen. Rex sat at the table sipping a Coke and reading the newspaper. Rosa was stirring something at the stove.

“Good morning,” Sara said, grabbing a mug and pouring a cup of coffee. A drop of cream. A hint of sugar. She took a sip. Perfect

Rex glanced up from his paper. “Hey Sara, good morning.”

Rosa turned and offered her a big grin that transformed her lined face into a road map. “Hello, Miss Sara. I have good food for you today. Eggs with salsa.”

“No, thank you, Rosa. I was thinking of something more along the line of a piece of toast.” Seeing the crestfallen look on the older woman's face, she recanted. “Well, maybe just a taste.”

“Good.” Rosa grinned again. “I like you, Miss Sara. You no like Mister Matt's other women. They no eat nothing Rosa fixes. Only coffee. Always coffee. Black coffee.” She waved a plump hand in the air. “Black, black, black. And so skinny. No meat on the bones. How they gonna have the babies? But you”—she nodded her head in approval—“you have a nice hips for babies. You and Mister Matt make lots of babies.”

Babies with Matthew Brandon?
“No, Rosa. You've got it all wrong.”

The other woman grinned, a knowing look on her face.

“We're just friends.” And that was stretching it.

“If you say so,” Rosa murmured, turning back to the pot on the stove.

How had she gotten such a crazy idea? A few days ago, Rosa had wanted to drag her out on her ear. Did her change of heart have anything to do with the promise she'd made on her cross? Even so, the whole idea was too bizarre. She and Matthew Brandon? Involved with each other? As in a couple? As in dating? As in more of what happened the other night? Kissing? Touching? More? Good Lord,
no.
A snicker from Rex's corner drew her attention. At least somebody could laugh at Rosa's blatant matchmaking attempts.

“Where is he, Rex?”

“Who?” he asked, covering his smile with a huge hand.

Sara gave him a warning look. “Matt.”

“Haven't seen him.” A muffled chuckle escaped his lips. He bent his head over the paper, pretending great interest in the lower left section.

“Mister Matt was not in his room last night,” Rosa said in a singsong voice, as though she were a little bird chirping news. “Perhaps he no can sleep.” She turned her head and gave Sara a pointed look. “Perhaps he lonely.”

“Rosa, that is the most absurd—”

“Perhaps he miss his sweetheart.” She chuckled.

“Who misses his sweetheart?”

Matt.

Sara swung around so fast she almost bumped her nose on the cupboard in front of her. How long had he been standing there? How much had he heard? Her fingers shook as she picked up the coffee pot and poured a little more of the steaming liquid into her cup.