Simple Riches (27 page)

“I’m Rex. Pleased to meet you, Dr. Hamilton.” He stuck out a large paw and pumped her hand like a seesaw.

“Call me Sara,” she said, hazarding a smile at the man whose crooked grin transformed him from grizzly to teddy bear. Her smile deepened.

“Sara,” he said. “Let's get out of here before traffic heats up.”

She took two steps to each of Rex’s lumbering strides, trying to ignore the honking horns, squealing tires, and roaring engines. And this traffic was
before
traffic heated up?

“We're sure happy you're here,” Rex said, once he’d stowed her things and begun the maneuver from the parking lot.

“Why, thank you.” She wished she could say the same.

“Things just haven't been the same since the accident.” His voice slipped a notch. “I couldn't tell you the last time I had this honey out for a spin. We miss him, Doc. We want you to get him back for us.”

She hadn’t missed the sadness and pain in his voice. “I'll try to help him.”

Rex's big shoulders relaxed against the back of the seat. He glanced at her from the rearview mirror and grinned. “I think you're going to be the one, Doc,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “Yes, sir. I think you just might be the one.”

“How many others have there been?” She kept her eyes trained on the rearview mirror.

“Others?” His gaze flitted to hers for a brief second. “Well, that was before…”

“Before what?”

A hint of red crept up his neck and settled on his ears. “Before… before you came. Yup, before you came, there were four other big-name doctors. Matt didn't like any of them. Three men and a woman.” He shook his head. “The men were all stuffed shirts and the woman was just”—he hesitated—“pardon the expression, but she was downright crazy.”

Sara stifled a smile. Rex said what was on his mind. And then some. Would he be as willing to talk to her about his boss? Speaking of, very soon she'd be meeting the man himself. Would she be number five on the casualty list? Did she care?

“You look tired, Doc. We've got a ways to go yet. Why don't you settle back and take a little nap?”

“That's the best idea I've heard all day. And it's Sara,” she murmured, closing her eyes. “Just plain Sara.”

The rest of the trip whisked by as she curled into the luxury of the leather seats and slept. She didn’t wake until Rex’s soft voice called to her. “We’re home.”

Sara stretched and opened her eyes.
Home?
Good Lord, she’d never seen anything like this—a gigantic three-story stucco dwelling with a multi-tiered, terra cotta roof. Bougainvillea and hibiscus splashed against the stucco backdrop in yellow, orange, and red. Pink and purple cacti flowered on either side of the stone walkway. There were other flowers and shrubs, exotic ones she'd never seen before, whose names she wouldn't even venture to guess.

Rex opened the car door for her and she stepped into the heat. The ocean air filled her lungs as she took in the swatch of blue water in the far distance. White peaks crested and fell, smashed into mountains of rocks in a display of nature’s beauty. Seagulls loomed overhead and shrieked as they swooped toward the water in graceful arcs.

“Nothing quite like it, is there?” Rex said in an almost-reverent tone.

“Everything is so”—she tried to find the right word but settled on—“beautiful.” It would take a string of words, perhaps twenty strings, to pay full homage to the magnificence of the view before her.

“If you think it's beautiful from this vantage point, then you'd love it from up there,” he said, nodding toward the sky.

She followed his gaze. A wash of blue blanketed the sky, tucking puffs of cloud beneath it. “I’ll bet it’s incredible.”

“It's incredible, all right,” he said, shielding his eyes from the blast of rays that beat down on them. “I'll show you just how incredible someday. I'll take you up there myself.”

She wasn't certain she'd heard him right. “You're a pilot?”

Rex threw her his teddy bear grin. “Sure. Why not?”

“Well, it's just that I don't know many limousine drivers who fill in as pilots.” She opened her mouth to speak, closed it, and then opened it again. “To be honest, I don't know many limousine drivers at all. In fact, I think you're the first one.”

He winked. “I'm not your typical driver.”

“So I noticed.” She leaned close and whispered, “Do you have any other professions you'd like to tell me about?”

His quick grin made her laugh. “Did I tell you I'm an aerial photographer? No? Well, how about a genuine mister fix-it, mechanic, tour guide, and gardener?”

“I don't think you mentioned any of those facts,” Sara teased. They'd reached a heavy wrought-iron gate that separated the yard from the house. Its complex carvings twisted into thick black bands, strong and unyielding, warning against unwanted intruders. And it was locked. As Rex fitted the key into the opening, Sara wondered if Matthew Brandon was like this gate—complex, strong, unyielding. And most definitely closed to unwanted intruders.

“Oh, and one more thing,” Rex said as they headed up the stone walkway to the main entrance, “I'm a great listener.” He flashed another disarming smile and opened the door for her. Sara had no time to ponder that last comment as she stepped over the threshold into a level of elegance she had only seen in magazines. A three-tiered black-iron chandelier caught her eye first. Its sheer size dominated the foyer, its commanding presence demanding to be noticed and appreciated. Like the owner, no doubt. She glanced down the white hallway, looking for signs of Matthew Brandon. She heard voices, soft and muted, one male, one female. Was it him? She pasted a smile on her face and followed Rex toward the voices, no longer aware of the magnificent wealth scattered about in the form of paintings, sculptures, and furniture. She kept her eyes trained on Rex's broad back, but the vision of Matthew Brandon, cool, handsome, and very unapproachable, flashed before her.

Rex led her to a large room full of potted palms and white leather. A man and woman turned toward them but the man wasn’t Matthew Brandon. He was tall and blond and looked to be somewhere in his mid thirties. The woman was well into her fifties, dark complected, with a short, round body that reminded Sara of rising bread.

The man smiled and moved toward Sara, holding out his right hand. “You must be Sara,” he said, clasping her hands in his. “I’m Adam, Matt’s brother.”

She looked up into warm gray eyes. “Nice to meet you, Adam.”

His smile deepened, revealing two deep dimples on either side of his mouth. They added to his boyish charm and casual good looks. Sara doubted there was an ounce of anything boyish or casual about Matthew Brandon.

The older woman made the sign of the cross. “You are the doctor?” She closed in on Sara, black eyes darting from top to bottom as she studied Sara's face—hair, clothes, shoes. Like a bug under a microscope. Crossing her arms under her ample bosom, she repeated the scrutiny in slow motion.

“This is Rosa,” Adam said, gesturing toward the woman who watched her with such undisguised suspicion. Sara nodded. She wasn't opening her mouth. Not an inch.

“This is the doctor! How can this be?” she uttered, crossing herself again. “Mister Adam, did you know this is the doctor?”

“I sent for her, Rosa.” Adam shot her a sideways glance and said, “I know who she is.”

Rosa
tsk-tsked
as though she hadn't heard him. “He's no gonna like this.” She shook her salt-and-pepper head making the bun on top bounce back and forth.

Adam’s voice turned sharp. “I'll handle it, Rosa.”

“It's okay, Rosa,” Rex said from the corner of the room, his words soft and reassuring.

Sara turned and spotted him standing with arms crossed over his chest, minus baggage. Something was going on here and she had a feeling she was in the middle of it. “Is there something I should know?”

Adam’s lips curved into a small smile. “It's really no big deal,” he said, shrugging his broad shoulders. Rex cleared his throat. Loudly. The woman named Rosa stood next to Sara, eyes downcast, lips moving in quiet repetition. Her fingers worked the beads of a small black rosary that hung halfway out of the deep pocket of her white apron. “Really,” Adam repeated. “Everything's fine.”

Rosa lifted her head and stared at Adam, her plump fingers continuing their silent litany along the beads. “'No more women. No more women. No more women.' That's what he say.” The words flew out in quick, rapid succession. No more women? Matthew Brandon was swearing off women? Somehow, she found that hard to believe.

“Adam, what does that mean?” Sara asked.

Adam shot a quick look at Rex. “Matt had a bad experience with the last female psychologist I hired.”

“He did? What happened?” Probably blazed her ears with his fancy, four-letter vocabulary.

A dull flush crept up Adam's tanned neck, spreading to his high cheekbones. “It seems she was more interested in conducting experiments of a physical nature than aiding his recovery.”

“Oh.” The woman had come on to her patient. And he'd turned her down. Perhaps Matthew Brandon had a few scruples after all. Or maybe she just hadn't been his type.

“But you're nothing like her,” Adam said, his gray eyes warming. “As soon as Matt meets you, he’ll realize that. Everything will be fine.”

Rosa shook her head again in obvious disbelief. The whole scene made Sara uncomfortable. It was as though she'd walked in on the last act of a play where everyone knew their part but her. What was going on? And where on earth was Matthew Brandon?

“Is your brother expecting me?” she asked with growing apprehension. Adam took a sudden interest in the tassels on his fancy loafers. Hmm. As Jeff once told her, the answers were always in the seemingly insignificant details, such as Adam avoiding her gaze and her question. “He isn’t, is he?”

“Not exactly.”

Great. “Is that not exactly as in he knows I'll be here sometime but not when? Or is it not exactly as in he has no clue I'm coming and doesn't even know I exist?”

Rex coughed twice and cleared his throat—an innocent sign if one weren’t looking for a deeper meaning.

Adam finally looked her in the eye and said, “Jeff and I felt this was the only way.”

“Jeff? He sent me here knowing your brother wanted nothing to do with another female doctor?”

“It's my fault,” Adam said with an apologetic smile. “I was desperate. Matt’s been getting worse every day and I didn’t know what else to do. I begged Jeff for help. Don't hold it against him, Sara. If anyone's to blame, it's me for pressuring Jeff to send us a miracle before Matt destroys himself and everyone around him.”

They waited for her response. Even Rosa stopped the incessant rosary bead clicking to hear Sara's words. What could she say when Adam had practically fallen to his knees and begged her to stay? “I'll talk to him,” she said in a quiet voice.

Adam grasped her hand and squeezed. “Thank you.”

She nodded. “Where is he?” Might as well meet the lion in his den.

“This way.” Adam turned and headed toward a long hall. He passed three closed doors and stopped at the fourth. “This is his study,” he said, opening the door and waiting for her to pass through. It was a warm, lived-in room with a large cherry desk and matching leather chair. A computer rested on the left corner of the desk. How long had it been since its cursor blinked with activity? An elaborate entertainment center, complete with a state-of-the-art stereo system, monopolized the wall facing the desk. Rows and rows of CDs lined the shelves. Sara leaned over and scanned a few of the artists' names. Bach. Beethoven. Led Zeppelin. The Rolling Stones. What an interesting mix.

“He used to spend most of his time in this room,” Adam said, running his fingers along the smooth grain of the desk. “But it's been months since he's ventured in here.”

“And his work?” Sara skimmed the framed awards and various recognitions mounted on the wall in front of her. How did a person stop doing what obviously gave him so much pleasure?

Adam shook his head. “Not a single word. Not even a punctuation mark.” He moved to the bookcase and pulled out one of his brother’s novels, flipping through the pages.

“I'm sorry.”

“We all are.” He put the book back in its spot.

“Where is he?” she asked.

Adam nodded toward the sliding glass door behind her. “Out there. Where he is every day.”

She turned and walked to the door, peering out onto the stone patio. A man sat off to the right, partially hidden from view. She leaned closer to get a full glimpse of him. He was a big man, tall and broad, filling the green-and-white-striped recliner with casual grace, his long legs stretched out in front, crossed at the ankles. His skin harbored the honeyed tones of one who's spent long hours in the sun. The white polo shirt and navy shorts he wore fit his body well, accenting muscular legs and arms. He could have been just another California male with a tanned body and bulging biceps who never failed to draw an appreciative glance from the opposite sex.

But he wasn't. He was Matthew Brandon and no woman with a pulse was immune to his charm. At least that's what the tabloids bragged each time they splashed a picture of him and his latest conquest across the cover of their magazine. No doubt, he was great to look at and that alone pumped up their sales. But some said his allure was more than just physical magnetism. They said it wasn't just the penetrating silver eyes that could strip a woman of common sense with the first hello. Or the hint of that ever-present half smile playing about his full lips as though he had secrets—bold, sensual secrets—waiting to be shared. They insisted it wasn't even the sound of his deep gravelly voice speaking in hushed tones that made him irresistible to women.

They said it was the
aura
of the man that left most females weak-kneed and hopeful, desperate for attention, any kind of attention, and willing to do most anything to get it. Matthew Brandon knew how to smile his boyish smile, steal the essence of the moment, and slip away like a thief in the night, leaving a trail of shattered hearts behind. And so evolved the man whose very elusiveness was the greatest attraction of all. Every woman believed she would be the one to change him, to tame him, to make him stay. Each one failed. Miserably.

Sara knew firsthand how a marauding bandit could pillage a woman's heart and darken her soul. Two weeks. Maybe less. She hoped not more. Then she'd be on her way back to Pittsburgh and her safe, comfortable life.

Women would always want this man, blind or not, and she’d bet he’d continue to use and discard them like an empty container of Chinese takeout. Her job was to get him to care again. About something. Anything. Period.

She took a deep breath and opened the sliding door.

***

He pretended he didn't hear the door slide open. It would be Rosa. Again. Trying to pawn off another fajita, or taco, or whatever in the hell it was she'd been after him to eat for the last three hours. Since when was skipping a meal because you just weren't hungry a major offense?

“Rosa.” Matt heaved a sigh. “What is it this time? Frijoles? Enchiladas? Tostadas? No, no, and no. I'm not hungry.” He kept his head back, baseball cap low over his brow, sunglasses shielding his eyes.

“They all sound good to me.”

His head jerked toward the woman’s voice. That low, throaty voice did not belong to Rosa. “Who the hell are you?”

“Sara,” the woman said. “Adam sent me.”

Damn that brother of his. He'd warned, threatened, argued, and bullied Matt for weeks, telling him he'd fix Matt but good if he didn't get his butt out of that chair and start acting like a human being instead of a waste product. Decomposing pile of compost, he'd called him. Said he needed a woman to get his mind off his miserable self. Well, from the sounds of that sexy voice pouring over his senses, Adam had got him one all right. “Whatever Adam paid you, I'll pay you double to leave.”

“I gave my word I'd stay.”

Since when did a hooker’s word count for anything? “I don't want you here.” He settled back against the cushions, dismissing her.

“Maybe we can just talk a little while.” The woman pulled a chair next to him, scraping the legs along the stone. He could smell her scent, orange blossom sprinkled with lemon. Odd fragrance for a woman like her. Maybe she was one of those innocent-looking virgin types some men liked.

“You want to talk with me? That's it?”

“For starters,” she said. Her voice rolled over him, smooth and silky with a hint of scratchiness to it. Like she'd just downed a shot. Or spent a sleepless night with her lover. Talking. Right.

“How long have you been in the business?” The old reporter in him wanted to ask how she'd gotten sucked into this kind of life, but he held his tongue. He wasn't a reporter anymore. Or much of anything else.

“Seven years.”

“Seven years,” he repeated, trying to guess at the number of times she'd bartered her body for money. The figure was staggering, even for him.

“I'm very qualified if that's your concern.” There was an edge of defiance in her voice. “Most of my work is done on an individual basis though from time to time, I have worked with couples.”

Matt choked, coughed, and sputtered, “Couples?”

“I'd like you to give me a chance,” she continued as though she were talking about sampling cheese spreads instead of sex.

He took off his cap, ran a hand through his unkempt hair, and plopped the cap back on his head. The woman was one cool cookie, intent on proving she was qualified to have sex with him. Crazy woman. “I'll tell you what,
Sara
,” Matt said. “You leave now and we keep this little secret between us. Okay? You get your money and I keep my reputation.” He gave her one of his slow smiles. “Deal?” He leaned forward. “Now give me your right hand,” he said, holding his own out, palm up. Cold fingers grazed his skin. He closed his fingers around hers, and stroked his other hand up her arm. Smooth and soft as satin.

“What are you doing?”

“Just keeping you honest,” he said. “In case someone asks if anything happened between us, you can say yes and it'll be the truth.” Poor thing probably wasn't used to tenderness in or out of bed. He massaged her collarbone, trailed a finger down her neck and began to trace the plump fullness of her breast when she smacked his hand away and pulled out of his grasp.

“How dare you!” The chair clattered to the stone floor in her obvious desire to escape his touch.

He’d been trying to let her off easy and now she was going all prim and proper on him? “What did I do?”

“Do?” Anger shot out of her mouth and boomeranged around the patio. “You…you…touched me.”

Oh for God’s sake. He should have just booted her out the minute she opened her mouth. “That’s how you get paid, isn’t it? When men touch you?”

“You think I’m a hooker?”

She said it with such disbelief he almost backslid and asked,
Well, aren’t you?
The mere fact that she’d caused him to question himself created all sorts of jumbled feelings in his gut. He didn’t care who she was or what she was—but her outrage annoyed him. Like everyone else on this screwed-up planet, she was hiding behind deceit. Well, the smoke-and-mirrors routine wouldn't work with him. He would have respected her more if she'd just come clean and owned up to her profession. Straight out. No excuses. Show a little dignity. As much as one could find dignity in selling one's body. What the hell. People sold their souls every day, chunks at a time, bartered to the highest bidder without so much as a trickle of conscience. Everything had a price. It was a damn sad fact of life. So what was this woman's problem?

“Look, lady, I don't care who you are. You're not a hooker? Fine. You're Mother Teresa's niece? Great. Just take your overblown outrage and walk your little fanny out of here.” He pointed to the glass doors. “Now.”

“Jeff sent me.”

“Jeff? What the hell does Jeff have to do with this?” When she didn’t respond, he swung his legs over the side of the recliner and said, “Start talking.”

“It was Jeff s idea that I come,” she said, practically spitting out the words. “I'm a psychologist. He and I are partners. He thought I could help you.”

“Help me? With what? The last lady doctor wanted to help me by having sex. For her case study. Is that what you're after?” He crossed his arms over his chest and waited.

“Of course not.”

“Good. Because you've got exactly three seconds to get out of here.” Damn, Adam. Damn Jeff. Another shrink. And a woman, no less. It took her a moment to respond. He imagined her licking her lips, even though he had no idea what she looked like. Blonde, brunette, bald, it didn't matter. He was through with shrinks, especially the female variety.

“I think we should talk.”

She was persistent, he'd give her that. “Talk? What should we talk about?”

“Well, we'll talk about your condition and ways to deal with it.”

“My condition?” He took two steps in the direction of her voice. “My condition?” Couldn't anybody say the damn word? “You mean my blindness. Say it.” He was close enough to smell her citrus scent.

“Your blindness,” she repeated.

“And you're going to show me how to deal with it, right?” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that.”

“Of course not. Nothing is as simple as a snap of the fingers.”

“But that's what you're after, isn't it? Acceptance with minimal fanfare.” He didn't wait for an answer. “Sure it is. You're all the same. Forget about the sunsets and blue skies. Don't think of the beautiful woman by your side. They no longer exist for you. Just shut up and accept your plight.”

“That's your attitude. Not mine.”

Oh, she was a cold one. Frozen over like a glacier. That low, throaty voice of hers might turn a man's head, but it was all a trick. The woman was an ice cube. He rubbed his jaw, determined to chip away at her frosty reserve. “Have you ever lost something dear to you? Something you took for granted, thought would be around forever, and then,
poof
, one day it's gone?”

“We're here to discuss you, Matthew, not me.”

There was a definite edge in her voice, buried beneath layers of composure. Matt plowed on, “And you keep hoping, and praying that maybe it's all a bad dream and you'll wake up soon? But it isn't, and deep down, you know it, even as you barter with God and the devil at the same time, promising to do anything, give everything, if only you could have this one thing back? Even for a little while longer? But you're talking to a blank wall because no one hears you?”

The woman made a small, muffled sound.

“You're in it all alone, your heart gouged with grief, bleeding the pain of your loss. And you want more than anything to die, but your damned heart keeps pumping away, pushing the hurt and anguish through your tormented body, until you think you'll explode. But you don't, and that's the hell of it.” He let out a ragged sigh. “You live.”

He was so lost in his own misery he never heard her move until the sound of the sliding glass door caught his attention. He'd known she'd retreat once he let out his emotions. They were too honest, too real, too dark for her to handle. He shrugged as he found his chair and sank into it. It didn't matter. His tactics had worked. Rex was probably loading her luggage into the limo right this minute. Matt leaned back against the soft cushions of his recliner and heaved a sigh of relief.

***

Sara jerked the sliding glass door shut and gulped air. Matthew Brandon's cruel words had punctured the surface of her carefully constructed world and broken open old wounds. She had to get out of here. The man was too crass, too full of anger, the deep, visceral kind that spreads like an insidious cancer, eating away the last vestiges of humanity until nothing remains but an empty shell.

Have you ever lost something dear to you?
Oh, yes, she had wanted to scream, she knew what it was like to stare at the ceiling for days, too weak and hopeless to crawl out of bed, too full of despair to care. She could probably teach him a thing or two about pain. But she'd kept silent because that was the best course of action, especially in a direct attack like the one Matthew Brandon had launched at her.

What bothered her most was that his words blasted her defenses, ripping holes in the wall she'd constructed as though it were made of paper. No one got through, not even Jeff, though he never stopped trying. So why had a blind man succeeded?

Because she was vulnerable. The situation with Jeff and Nina’s baby made her think of her own child—a little baby girl lying in a tiny white casket trimmed with gold. She'd named her Rebecca. She would have been three now. Sara swiped at her cheeks and willed the memories to stop, but they bombarded her. Brian hadn't cared what name she put on the death certificate. He’d been too busy packing so he could take up residence with his new girlfriend, which he did the day Sara came home from the hospital.