Читать книгу That Man Matthews - Ann Evans - Страница 9

A WEEK LATER, Joan created a new and unexpected list—The Pros and Cons of Finding a New Teaching Position and/or Relocating.

She wasn’t certain what had prompted her to make it. Maybe it was frustration over Headmaster Mueller’s continued sly and silent observation of her. Maybe it was the impasse she’d reached with a sulky, unreasonable Todd, who’d withdrawn every cent from their joint savings account and refused to consider that some of the money belonged to her. Or maybe it was just the fact that the school term was nearly over. Around this time of year she was always overtaken by a slightly sad feeling of finality, the realization that her children were moving on, away from her protective influence.

Regardless of the reason, in the span of one evening she made the decision not to return to the academy in the fall. The next day she tendered her resignation before she could change her mind. Mueller seemed surprised and annoyed by it, and even Todd made an appearance at her classroom door, demanding an explanation that she refused to give.

Anxious not to lose the momentum of such life-altering actions, she took a fellow teacher’s advice and sent an application and letters of recommendation to a small private school in Oregon. It seemed a daring change, so much so that Joan couldn’t sleep for two nights after she’d mailed the letter.

By the weekend she was feeling disheartened. Every summer she had worked a temporary job. It helped financially and kept her busy during the months until school started again. Since moving out of Todd’s place had been expensive, extra money in the bank would be especially helpful if she had to relocate. But the classifieds in Friday’s paper indicated pitifully few summer jobs available, and by Saturday afternoon, a dozen job applications had yielded nothing promising.

Her job search over for the day, Joan went up the stairs of her apartment building slowly, her feet aching, her hair beginning to tumble down her neck. She retrieved her mail from the box, sighing over a couple of bills. If she couldn’t find temporary employment, how long before her mailbox was stuffed with demands printed in increasingly irate colors? How long before even her tiny efficiency became unaffordable? Her head filled with gloomy thoughts, she fumbled to insert the key into her front door.

The lock was stubborn, as usual, the notches bent out of alignment by some previous tenant. She wiggled and shook the key, but the lock held tight. Shoving strands of hair out of her eyes, she tried to remove the key, but it refused to budge.

Today’s failure coupled with this new irritation curdled Joan’s frustration into anger. She glared at her key ring, dangling impotently from the lock. Nothing seemed to be going right lately. Not even a dime-store lock would cooperate.

Rattling the knob, she gave the door a hard kick that only succeeded in squashing the toe of her high-heeled shoe. “Open up, damn you. What do you think you’re guarding? Fort Knox?”

The words bounced off the empty corridor walls. An open display of anger wasn’t her style. She tilted her head back, concentrating on calming her breathing.

Stalactites of peeling paint hung from the ceiling, held in place by a network of cobwebs. Farther down the corridor one of the hall lights wasn’t working. She hated this place. Moving so quickly out of the home she’d made with Todd had been a mistake, a sacrifice of common sense for the sake of foolish pride.

“If you break it off in there, I’m pretty sure you’ll have to call a locksmith. And on the weekend, it’s likely to cost a small fortune.”

She jumped at the sound of the male voice behind her. The folded newspaper and handful of mail slid from her grasp to land in a haphazard mound at her feet.

She turned to see William Cody Matthews seated on the steps that rose to the next floor. With daylight sliding toward extinction, shadows lay heavy in the corridor. His features were cast in an odd half-light, and partially hidden by the newel post, he looked like a prisoner behind bars.

The first thing she noticed was that he was dressed very differently from the man she’d met nearly two weeks ago. The flamboyant Texas garb had been replaced by jeans and a sport shirt—the trappings of an average Joe. Well, not so average, she amended. He still wore that ridiculous belt buckle. Still had those great eyes, the blue gone almost to sapphire in the dismal light of the hallway.

Every nerve went electric at finding him here. She’d never expected to see him again, and she wasn’t sure it was wise to be alone with him now. Her mind raced as she wondered what her next move should be.

She could see he’d caught her thoughts. He tilted a look of clear blue toward her, his eyes warm and engaging. “I was beginning to think you’d never come home.”

If his affable attitude was meant to soothe her distress, it was a dismal failure. Her heartbeat quickened as he rose from the stairway, coming toward her with the easy confidence of a man completely in command of his surroundings. He nudged her aside so that he could reach the key still imprisoned in the lock.

“Let me try.”

He worked the key slowly out of the lock, then began to reinsert it with all the finesse of a master locksmith. Twisting the metal this way and that, he slid back the bolt in no time. Instead of opening the door, Cody Matthews removed the key, then leaned against the jamb with his arms crossed over his chest.

“You know, old locks are like women. You have to go slow.”

Her pulse stuttered. “Mr. Matthews—”

“It’s like this,” he continued, without acknowledging she had spoken. “You made the same mistake with this lock that I made with you. You tried force. Tried to make it behave the way you think it should, when what you really need to do is get a better feel for it. Find out what makes it work.”

“What are you doing here, Mr. Matthews?”

“I’d like to talk to you. May I come in?”

The thought was unthinkable. “Certainly not.” She extended her palm. “My keys, please.”

She half expected him to refuse. Instead, he let them drop into her hand. She felt oddly relieved when his fingers found no excuse to touch hers. Before she could react, he bent to retrieve the paper and mail at her feet. The classifieds were on top. She noticed with resentment that he didn’t bother to hide his interest in the ads she’d circled, leaving her with all her camouflage blown.

“Looks like you’ve had a busy day. Any success?”

“That’s none of your business.”

He shrugged, seeming to take no offense. “No, it isn’t, but I think I might be able to help you, anyway.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’re full of lots of ideas that you think will help me. Unfortunately I’m not interested in any of them.” A sudden thought made her look at him sharply. “How did you find me?”

“I was at the school yesterday afternoon, but I guess I missed you. A teacher friend of yours told me where you live.” He glanced around the corridor, frowning a little. “She said you’d just moved here recently, but I have to admit, I don’t see this place as quite your style.”

Her patience snapped. “I think you should leave.”

He smiled at her, seemingly unaffected by the sharpness of her voice. “But then you’d miss the opportunity.”

“What opportunity?”

“The chance to see a jackass apologize.”

She wasn’t expecting that. Was it just her imagination, or was he not quite the same obnoxious man she’d met in the Alexandria Hotel? Still too bold. Still provoking. But the crudity had vanished. Of course, he could just be a very good actor…Through the intricacies of her own flaring sensations, she realized the mistake of engaging in any further conversation.

“I don’t think—”

“Miss Paxton, I don’t apologize well or very often—”

“Really? I would expect you spend most of your life apologizing for your behavior.”

She read the accuracy of that dart on his face. He scowled, and then unexpectedly he laughed. For a moment his features seemed incapable of forged feelings, then he shook his head. “I knew you wouldn’t make this easy for me.”

“I can’t think of any reason why I should. Can you?”

“Not a one. I was an ornery SOB the day we met, and you have every reason not to believe a word I say, but I’m honestly sorry we got off on the wrong foot.” He expelled a heavy breath, ran a distracted hand across the back of his neck and pinned her with an earnest glance. “How about we start over? If you’re too nervous to invite me in, we can go someplace neutral, have a cup of coffee. Crow’s a lot easier to swallow if you have something to wash it down with.”

“You don’t make me nervous,” she said quickly, then chided herself for feeling the need to protest.

“I didn’t think so. You’re not the nervous type, are you?”

“No.”

“Good. I need someone who’s not afraid.”

“I don’t understand. And after the way you behaved, I can’t believe you’d come here…”

She let the words trail away, aware of a sudden change. He was still watching her closely, and something flickered in his eyes. Desperation, uncertainty…the light was too dim to be sure.

“Listen,” he began. “I wouldn’t have come here—I’d have written off our meeting as a stupid mistake—but right now I can’t afford to make any more. You were right about what you said. My daughter does need your help. So that’s why I’m here. To apologize for my previous behavior and ask you to hear me out. Frankly, circumstances have made me pretty desperate.”

His words had grown soft by the end of that statement, and his tone of voice carried a fatigue and fear so profound it stunned her. After a long silence she asked quietly, “What circumstances?”

“After you walked out of the hotel, I got a call from home. My daughter, Sarah, had been taken to the hospital with a concussion. It wasn’t serious, but it could have been.” Cody Matthews turned his gaze down the hallway, concealing his emotions as though he waged some private debate. Her eyes were drawn by the sight of muscles bunching along his jawline, and when he turned his head toward her again, his look was tame and collected. “Please. All I’m asking for is ten minutes of your time. This is hard for me, but my daughter needs something that I don’t know how to give. Help me figure out what it is. And how to keep an emergency trip to the hospital from ever happening again.”

Joan drew a deep breath, then let it out slowly. She felt a sense of panic, as though she were poised on the precipice of a very long drop, but his words had the power to catch her heart. A child in need? When had she ever been able to refuse an appeal like that? She slid past him to turn the doorknob, looking up at him at the last minute. “Ten minutes and a cup of tea,” she said sternly. “I won’t promise you anything more than that.”

Within the confines of her tiny efficiency Cody Matthews seemed an overpowering presence, an invasion that left her self-conscious and uneasy. She should have known he wouldn’t settle on the couch to wait. Instead, he wandered the room restlessly, as though he could find clues to her personality through the few items she’d bothered to set out. He said nothing, and it made her uncomfortable to watch him touching the fragments of her life in such a dismal setting.

He studied a small photograph of her parents and herself, an informal shot taken aboard the family sailboat. It was a silly tangle of arms and legs and wind-tossed hair—her father had scrambled into the picture at the last minute—but they were laughing and cuddling close. Many stately, stuffy pictures had been commissioned of Alistair Paxton over the years, but none of them meant as much to Joan as this one.

“Pa mentioned your father was the Alistair Paxton,” Cody remarked. His finger skimmed across the picture, as though he could make contact through the glass. “He doesn’t look much like the ‘Dean of Diplomacy’ here.” He tossed her a sideways glance that was startlingly direct. “But then, that’s probably why you like it, isn’t it?”

She replied with a vague nod, a little thrown by his astuteness. Not even Todd had ever guessed the truth of her relationship with her parents. Before the conversation could become any more personal, Joan escaped to the kitchen.

She ran water into the kettle, then pulled china down from the cupboard. One of the cups clattered as she set it on the counter, tattling a tale of nervousness she’d claimed not to feel. The sound annoyed her. She’d once attended a State Department dinner, met the president, for heaven’s sake. Who was this man Matthews to make her so jittery?

The water was ready in an irritatingly short time. Taking slow, steadying breaths, she came out of the kitchen bearing two cups and a new resolve to find out what Cody Matthews wanted as quickly as possible.

He’d made himself comfortable at the dining-room table that doubled as a desk. Like a good friend who’d stopped by for a bit of neighborly gossip. One ankle was crossed over the other knee, and he smiled at her as she joined him.

Determined to keep the conversation businesslike, she rescued a yellow legal pad and pen from beneath the uncharacteristic litter of paperwork that had been piled up for days on the corner of the table. “Do you mind if I take notes?”

“Suit yourself.”

“You said your daughter suffered a concussion?”

“She’s fine now and back at the ranch.”

“How did it happen?”

He took a sip of the tea, not bothering to hide a small grimace of distaste. “She took a nosedive off one of the barn roofs.”

“Intentionally?” Joan asked quietly, hoping that Sarah Matthews wasn’t the self-destructive type.

Cody Matthews bit back an agitated response. “Hell, no. Sarah’s not suicidal. She was trying to jump onto the back of her horse, like they do in the movies. She missed.” After a pause, his fierce expression mellowed. “I suppose I ought to start at the beginning. How much did my father tell you about my situation?”

“He said you have a twelve-year-old daughter who’s been behaving wildly—”

“Sarah is free-spirited,” he interrupted. “Not wild.”

“You asked what your father told me.”

That calm response won a sheepish look from him. “Sorry. Go on.”

“Your father attended my lecture on attention deficit disorder. He felt it might be the root of Sarah’s problem.”

“I don’t believe my daughter has attention deficit disorder,” Cody stated.

The brevity of that answer should have warned her off the subject. Instead, with slow deliberation, Joan set aside her pen, dunked her teabag one last time, then slipped it onto the saucer. She didn’t look at him, but she was determined to persevere. Denial was a common reaction from parents of troubled children, and taking exception to his attitude would serve neither of them well.

After a moment she said, “I’m not a physician, Mr. Matthews. Nor have I met or even spoken to your daughter. So I wouldn’t presume to offer a diagnosis.”

“Damn,” he said with a look full of regret. “I’m going to end up apologizing to you more in one day than I have in my entire lifetime. I’m sorry if I sounded defensive. Sarah’s my only child, and I get a little crazy when this subject comes up. She’s a bright, strong-willed kid. There’s nothing wrong with that.” He looked at Joan, as though daring her to disagree. “In fact, I happen to like her that way.”

“How long has her behavior been what your family considers unacceptable?”

“Off and on for about two months. Worse lately.”

That was a good sign. A recent change in behavior might indicate the problem was situational. “Have you spoken to your daughter about it?”

“I’ve taken away her allowance. Cut her riding privileges. I haven’t spared the discipline, if that’s what you mean.”

“No, that’s not what I mean. I mean, have you talked to her about the way she’s been acting? Tried to discover if there’s a reason behind it.”

He made an odd face, one full of contradictions. There was regret there, but frustration and annoyance, as well. “Lately Sarah and I have had problems communicating.”

“What about Sarah’s mother? Has she spoken to her?”

He shook his head sharply. “Daphne was killed in a plane crash shortly after Sarah was born.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Sarah doesn’t ask about her mother. She doesn’t even remember her.”

Joan didn’t like the way his face had become a chilling mask of banality when there was such bitterness in his voice. Had he loved Sarah’s mother so much—still missing her even now, after all this time—that he could not discuss her? His abrupt statement was patently false, of course. What young girl didn’t want to know everything about a mother who had never been part of her life?

Joan wanted to ask more, but the hot message glowing in Cody Matthews’s eyes told her that lingering over this line of questioning would gain her nothing. It was absurd and frustrating to feel so much and know so little.

“Who else makes up your household?”

“My father. Merlita, our live-in housekeeper. Ranch hands.”

“No one else?”

“No.”

His mouth flattened, as though he was angry with himself for allowing emotion to seize him, even temporarily. His fingers played along the rim of his cup a long moment. Long enough for her to notice that his hands were beautifully shaped and not at all what she’d expect from a high-powered businessman. Tanned and unmanicured, they were a workingman’s hands.

She made a few more notes on her pad. When she looked up, she discovered that he was watching her intently. His thumbs were hooked under his belt; the slight movement of his fingers made the dining-room light shoot sparks from that preposterous buckle. Her hand stilled, but her chin inched upward. “Something wrong?”

“You take a lot of notes.”

“They’ll give me a better picture of your daughter’s situation.”

“May I read them?”

“Of course,” she said, trying not to register anything but the mildest agreement. “If you feel that they threaten you in some way.”

The look he gave her sent shivers down her spine. “You have a sharp tongue for a woman who’s fresh out of work and just moved out on the love of her life.”

The knowledge that he knew such intimate details about her personal life left her stunned, but she refused to show it. She met his eyes. Trying to modulate her voice, she said, “And you have quite a belligerent attitude for a man whose ten minutes are up and who still seems to need my help.”

Not a flicker of a response crossed his face. Had she overestimated her ability to carry her own weight in a contest of words with this man? A hush took over the room, unbroken except for the growl of afternoon traffic in the street. And then, just before his silence could unnerve her completely, he made a low sound in his throat that could have been laughter.

“All right,” he said, and his face had lightened a little. “What else would you like to know?”

Relieved, she dived into safer water. “Has Sarah had a physical recently?”

“Yes, I had the doc check her out thoroughly when she was in the hospital last year to have her tonsils out. Nothing to worry about there.”

“What about her education? What’s that like?”

“Public school in Goliath—that’s the nearest town of any size. I’d prefer better, but there’s nothing private near the ranch, and I’m not going to pack her off to some fancy boarding school thousands of miles away, see her head stuffed with a bunch of nonsense and have her sent home only on holidays.”

Joan showed no trace of opinion on this information, but secretly she was pleased by Matthews’s determination to keep his daughter close to home. She herself had been sent to all the best schools abroad, and with a tinge of the old regret, she wondered if her parents had ever been as impassioned about her as this man seemed to be about Sarah. She shook off the thought immediately. Now was not the time to mourn for things that had never been. “Has the school done any special testing? What do her teachers think?”

“She’s ahead of most of her class, but her grades have been up and down this last semester. Her teachers say she’s quick and eager sometimes, but often disruptive and disobedient. One of them—Miss Beasley—is the same crab-apple old witch I had when I was Sarah’s age, so I don’t know what to believe from her.”

“Do these behavior problems occur only during school hours?”

“No.”

“During certain hours of the day or night?”

“No.”

“Before or after meals?”

“No.”

“Does she get enough sleep?”

“The kid sleeps like a rock.”

“No insomnia? No nightmares?”

“Nightmares? No. Where are you going with this?”

“Sometimes the symptoms of ADD can mimic other problems. You have to eliminate other possibilities that could be causing this behavior. Dyslexia, for instance. Or anxiety. Even depression.”

Cody made a face at that. “Sarah isn’t dyslexic, and she has nothing to feel anxious or depressed about.”

“Mr. Matthews, do you or any other family members suffer from ADD?”

“Absolutely not,” he said firmly.

Another sore subject, she thought. But she had to be honest with the man. For Sarah’s sake. “It tends to run in families. What about on her mother’s side?”

“We don’t have much contact with her mother’s side of the family. But from Daphne…no.”

Hesitation in that short answer caused her to snap a direct look his way, but judging by the look on Cody Matthews’s face, this, too, was forbidden territory. She sighed, setting her pencil down. When she spoke, her tone was soft, carefully neutral. “I’m afraid this isn’t going to help much. No single question or test can determine if a child has ADD. Have you considered taking Sarah to someone who can give her a complete neurological examination? Someone who can also work up a detailed history of Sarah’s past?”

The soft illumination from the dining-room light revealed an evasiveness on his face. His eyes and mouth had become almost too indifferent, too implacable, yet there was an odd vulnerability in the mask of his features. As annoyed as she was with this deception, she felt moved by his desperation, because a man like Cody Matthews couldn’t begin to fathom a once-loving child who now indulged in an insolent indifference to reason.

He looked down at his hands to see that he had made fists of them, and his brow furrowed as though he found the sight surprising. He played with the handle of his teacup, and she watched him wrestle with his reluctance. “I don’t want someone poking and prying into family business, upsetting Sarah with a bunch of questions. I just want my daughter back.”

The admission seemed torn from him, and he fell silent, into the pit of what he probably considered parental failure. Observing him, Joan felt sure there was a weight of sorrow here she didn’t fully comprehend, some dark, unknown current too strong to chance exploring.

She could see now why his father had said Cody Matthews was likely to balk at outside help, why he had deliberately sabotaged their first meeting. He was a proud man, a proud parent. He’d obviously been determined to immerse himself in practicalities, weathering Sarah’s stormy behavior with a pragmatic unsentimentality until the worst was over. Unfortunately the worst had stayed and stayed, until the man was left with no more choices.

Matthews had turned his head, pretending an interest in the scratch of a magnolia branch outside the window. Without thinking, Joan laid her hand on his forearm to recapture his attention.

“Mr. Matthews, there’s no shame in a father admitting he doesn’t understand his daughter. The fact that you’re trying to help her now, that you’re willing to consider other alternatives, is a very positive sign….”

The words trailed away as his head swung back, his glance falling to his arm where her hand still lay. He looked at her, and she thought the blue of his short-sleeved shirt turned his eyes almost turquoise, so brilliant against the sooty blackness of his lashes. There was something new in the look he gave her, something besides frustration and fatigue. It brought a quick, suffocating tightness to her chest, alarming in its intensity, yet carrying with it the gentleness of a caress.

His head tilted toward her as though in puzzlement, and when he spoke, his voice was low. “My father thinks you’re some kind of miracle worker. Are you?”

“No,” she murmured, suddenly barely able to draw breath.

He smiled, no more than a lazy curl of his lips. She wasn’t sure whether it was one of acceptance or subtle mockery, but it was absurdly charming nonetheless, a smile made to make a woman melt. More disturbing, Joan realized how easily she could fall victim to it.

“I’m a man in need of miracles, Joan Paxton. Work just this one,” he said in a silken tone, “and whatever you want most in life, I’ll see to it that it’s yours.”

It was all silly imagination, wasn’t it? The way his words seemed to work in some secret place within her. She felt as though her center of balance had radically altered, and that all the forbidden fantasies of last night’s dream were on the verge of materializing into life.

His eyes were still on her. She lost the courage to hold his gaze and lowered her head—to discover that her hand was still poised on his arm. The hard muscled flesh felt warm. The feathering of crisp, dark hair tickled her palm. She disengaged her hand so quickly that an outsider might have thought she’d burned herself.

She rose abruptly. The stack of paperwork on the corner of the table slid to the carpet. Willing away her awareness of him, she picked up their cups in a rush that surely must have been embarrassingly noticeable. “What I’d like is a little more tea. How about you?”

By the time she finished speaking she was in the kitchen, so she didn’t catch his response. She knew it was ridiculous, but the thought of rejoining him in the dining room, where the energy in the air moved like an invisible tide, seemed more than she could manage at the moment. Instead, she asked from the safe distance of the kitchen doorway, “Did you say you wanted another cup?”

He was bending to retrieve the paperwork from the floor, but he lifted his head long enough to give her a wry glance. “No, thank you. I’m not really a tea drinker.”

She turned back to the kitchen counter, concentrating on pouring water from the kettle. The odd intensity that had crackled between them only moments ago had passed, but the silence was becoming uncomfortable. She should say something, shouldn’t she? But just when she found an innocuous topic, he stunned her with his next words.

“So, you’ll come to my ranch?”

Sure she’d heard incorrectly, she returned to the kitchen doorway, kettle in hand. “What?”

He was sorting through the jumble of paper, stacking it neatly into piles. “I want to hire you to come to Luna D’Oro. You can evaluate Sarah in person.”

“I couldn’t possibly.”

He looked up at her. “Why not?”

“I have obligations here.”

“No, you don’t. I told you, I know all about your quitting your job, moving out on your boyfriend. One of your fellow teachers—Marilyn, I think her name was—seemed fascinated by the whole thing. She didn’t have all the reasons why, but she liked to talk, and I know when to listen.”

“I’ll definitely have to speak to her about that.”

“Money’s not an issue,” he continued. His blue eyes sparkled.

The still-hot kettle was almost unnoticed in her hand, and she repositioned her fingers around the handle. “It doesn’t have anything to do with money. I don’t have the qualifications you’re looking for.”

“I disagree. Do you think that when it comes to Sarah, I’d take suggestions from just anyone? I checked your credentials. In addition to teaching, you act as an educational therapist for your school. You were invited to take part in that seminar in Austin because of a paper you had published in Higher Education. You know your stuff. And while I may not agree with your findings, I think you’d be impartial. Objective.”

“It takes time to do a complete evaluation.”

“You can take as long as you like. You don’t have a new job to start until the fall, do you? And only if you get that position in Oregon.”

“I’m definitely crossing Marilyn’s name out of my address book,” she muttered.

“But you’ll come?”

“It isn’t just Sarah who would have to be evaluated. It’s important to know how she interacts with others in the family. It would mean a huge emotional investment from every member of the household.”

“I’ll make sure everyone cooperates.”

She gave him a tight challenging look. “Including you?”

“If I have to.”

She withdrew to the kitchen with the excuse that the kettle needed fresh water. While she ran tap water into it, she stared at the wall, thinking.

It was so odd, really, to be mouthing so many objections to Cody Matthews’s idea, yet at the same time, to be overcome by a moment of complete exhilaration and conviction. She could help Sarah Matthews. She could help father and daughter develop coping skills if it turned out the child did have ADD. She’d experienced such conviction before, but never without gathering more information, and certainly never without at least meeting the child in question. But somehow, she just…knew.

Placing the kettle back on the stove, she drew a deep breath, thinking of the motherless and alienated child waiting back in Texas. Joan emptied her lungs, then returned to the doorway.

Matthews looked up from the papers he’d stacked on the table, giving her a questioning glance. “Well?”

“I’ll do it.” Annoyingly, he looked as if he hadn’t expected any other answer. It made her tone sharper than she intended when she continued, “But for no longer than two weeks.”

“All right. I think I should warn you that life on a ranch can require some getting used to. We’re out in the boondocks, but we’re completely self-contained. The land is unforgiving of mistakes, so it’s my world down there. I’m blunt and demanding, and I run Luna D’Oro on my terms. My people call me el jefe grande—the big boss. If that offends any of your female sensibilities, you’d better tell me now.”

She allowed a skeptical expression to flit across her features, refusing to be cowed by the note of challenge in his voice. “Actually, you’ve managed to offend me so frequently in the short time I’ve known you, a few more transgressions will hardly make a difference.”

He laughed out loud at that. “Why, Miss Paxton, you can be pretty blunt yourself.”

“Does that bother you?”

“Not at all. Just means it ought to be interesting. Let’s call this a done deal, shall we?” He extended his hand and she took it, meeting his gaze squarely as he smiled broadly at her.

He wrote out a check that seemed generous, but not foolishly so. Then he rose from the table. By the time they reached the front door, Cody Matthews had promised to send a messenger around with an airline ticket before the week was out. The idea of leaving Alexandria on such short notice was disconcerting, but better to make the break from her past a clean quick one, she thought.

“Someone will pick you up at the San Antonio airport,” he told her. “Although my foreman will probably pitch a fit at having to pick up another ‘expert’ to handle Sarah.”

Her brows rose. This was something she hadn’t considered—that others had come before her and failed. “You’ve brought others to your home?”

“Not like you. Nannies. Two in one week.”

“What happened?”

“Sarah gave the first one a series of interesting bedmates. I believe the one that sent her packing was a king snake.” He cocked his head, and the movement allowed the lamplight to limn his mouth as it curled with amusement. “Harmless. But enough to scare a skittish woman, I suppose.”

She sensed he wanted a reaction, and she refused to give it to him. “And the second?”

“My attorney advises me not to discuss the details of the case.”

She frowned, unable to hide her surprise. “Mr. Matthews—”

“I’m kidding,” he said with a laugh. “You need to lighten up, Miss Paxton. Are you always so serious?”

The teasing glint disappeared from his blue eyes, and for a moment she was stunned by the curious intimacy of his gaze. It reminded her of those moments at the table when her hand had been on his arm. She felt the power of physical awareness arc between them, a temptation to reckless things. It was gone in an instant.

Unsettled, she found her voice, wishing him a safe trip back to Texas.

“Pack for hot weather,” he instructed.

She nodded blindly, but just as she was closing the door behind him, he snagged the edge of it with his hand. “One more thing,” he added, and an unholy grin laced his features with subtle mischief. “This belt buckle is special. It was a gift from my daughter, so I wouldn’t advise telling her what you really think of it.”

He was gone before she could ask what he meant by that. Scowling, she leaned against the door. While she didn’t like that silly buckle, she’d never said a word to him about it, had she? She’d only—

The blood drained from Joan’s cheeks. The list. All his flaws itemized on paper. What had she done with it? She hurried to the dining-room table where the papers Cody Matthews had retrieved from the floor now lay neatly stacked.

Two envelopes down, right beneath the electric bill, lay the list she’d compiled—What Makes Cody Matthews So Obnoxious. The words practically leaped off the page. “Poor taste in clothes—especially belt buckles!”

Scathing.

Satisfyingly petty.

And listed right below it, where he could not have failed to read it, “Beautiful bedroom eyes.”