Читать книгу Back in Service - Isabel Sharpe, Isabel Sharpe - Страница 9

3

MATTY CROSSED THE alley behind the Pasadena Playhouse and stepped through the artists’ entrance onto El Molino Avenue. The show had gone well tonight; she was pumped. The usual stage-door crowd had gathered to see the actors emerge, but given that she had such a small part, Matty put on an impersonal smile and didn’t even hope to be asked for her autograph. That way she couldn’t be disappointed, and the few occasions she had been asked were a real surprise and pleasure.

The night was cool, mid-sixties, she’d guess, a beautiful night to be out. She had a sudden impulse to drive to the ocean, maybe Santa Monica, which wasn’t far from where she lived in Culver City. Hang out on the pier and have a drink. Maybe her roommate and longtime friend, Jesse, would want to come with her.

She was digging in her purse for her cell when it rang. Kendra!

“Hey, Kendra, how are you?”

“Fine. Is this a bad time?”

“No, it’s perfect. What’s going on?” She tried not to sound too anxious, which was hard, considering she was...too anxious.

“Your brother is definitely having a tough time.”

Matty grimaced, stomach sinking. “I know.”

“But all is not lost. He’s in pain, physically, which will dissipate, and emotionally, which will be harder. But I think—think—he’ll let me help him.”

“And will you?”

Kendra gave a low, dry chuckle that came from somewhere Matty didn’t understand. “Yes. I will.”

Relief exploded out of her in a long exhale. “Thank you.”

“I might live to regret it.”

“No, no, you won’t. That is...” She laughed breathlessly. “You will live, you won’t regret it. What will you do for him?”

“First? Clean up the place and cook him some decent meals. Then we’ll try getting out to reconnect with some of the world he knows and introduce a bit of a world he doesn’t. See what works. It can be a slow process, but he’s not past help.”

“Oh, my gosh, Kendra.” Emotions jammed in Matty’s throat. Hearing that Jameson was not in true despair, that he wasn’t going to do something crazy like kill himself...ugh, she couldn’t even think about it. That wasn’t an option. “I have no idea how to thank you.”

“Really, don’t be too excited. I haven’t done anything yet but piss him off.”

“Ha!” Matty nodded sympathetically. “That’s not hard these days. Even I can do that.”

“We’ll see if I can get around the mood. I’ll give it a try. For old times’ sake.”

Matty caught the bite of irony. Hmm. There might be something there. “Kendra...did you and Jameson ever date?”

“Date? Jameson and me? God, no.”

“Huh. Okay, sorry.” Matty frowned. Pretty violent denial. The main reason Matty had such huge hopes Kendra could help Jameson was because she’d been sure Jameson had had feelings for her back in middle and high school. Maybe she’d been wrong.

“I’ll stay in touch and let you know how things are going.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much. I—” Matty rolled her eyes. “I can’t stop thanking you.”

Kendra laughed. “Not a problem. Talk to you soon. Take care.”

Matty ended the call and stood, pressing the phone to her cheek, trying to contain her excitement. This could be good. This could be really, really good. She wanted Jameson free of pain, but also free of the family pressure to be something he might not be. She’d done her medical research, she knew ACL repair surgery could be unsuccessful, that there was a small chance Jameson could end up out of a career in the Air Force, the first Cartwright discharged since God knew when.

But maybe for him that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. Maybe Kendra could help him rediscover living life his own way, as he’d been doing in Spain, working for a U.S. company, taking art and English courses at St. Louis University in Madrid and dating a dancer, before their father had reached his patience limit and dragged him back to the U.S. and the Cartwright Plan for Life.

A hand bumped her arm. She automatically moved away.

After that, Jameson had—

“Mattingly?”

Matty’s head jerked up. Only one person outside her family ever called her by her full name.

Her eyes met a pair of deep brown ones under a shock of wheat-colored hair that had gone slightly gray at the temples. Somehow she managed to stifle a gasp.

“Chris.” Calm. Stay very calm. As if she’d just bumped into him a week ago, not wrenched herself away from him back...how long had it been now? Years. She’d been a senior at Pomona College. He’d been an associate professor. Bad choices had happened. Drama. Pain. Deep love, and the best sex she’d ever had. Not that she was comparing. “What a surprise to see you.”

Surprise was putting it mildly. If she didn’t make sure to keep breathing, she’d pass out on the sidewalk.

Luckily, being raised by Jeremiah and Katherine Cartwright had taught her how to suppress every vestige of human emotion. Not a good technique on stage, but it could come in damn handy during real life.

“I saw the show.” He seemed calm, too. But then, he always did. Except when he was laughing or about to come. “You were great.”

Matty accepted his compliment with a polite nod. She had a few solo lines and part of one song—no bragging rights, but she took pride in having been chosen for that much, and in doing her role well. God knew she never took any theater job for granted. “Glad you enjoyed it.”

“It was...” He was looking at her too intently, with eyes that were too warm. “It was a shock to see you, Matty, I admit.”

“A good one, I hope.” She was appalled at the automatic response. Do not flirt, Matty.

“Best one I had all week.” He smiled down at her and boom, too many memories came rushing back—the nights of passion, the blissful stolen hours together.

What the hell? Had she learned nothing?

“Chri-i-is?” A woman’s voice behind them, fake sweet. “There you are.”

And there she was, slim and elegant in some high-fashion drapey tunic thing she pulled off to perfection. Exactly the type Chris should be with.

“Zoe, this is a former student, Matty Cartwright. Matty, this is Zoe Savannah.”

Matty nearly snickered. Zoe Savannah? She was perfect. Right down to the leopard-print pants.

Smiling with as much warmth as she could muster, Matty chided herself. Zoe had every right to date Chris. She was closer to his age, for one thing—meow. And she was probably a lovely person. Or maybe she wasn’t and they deserved each other. Either worked. “Nice to meet you, Zoe.”

“Oh, me, too! I loved the show.” She whacked Chris playfully on the arm with her program and went into gales of laughter for no apparent reason. “And now I see why Chris was staring at you all night. He knows you! I was afraid it was love at first sight.”

Actually, it had been.

“No, no, nothing like that.” He glanced uncomfortably at Matty, who refused to look uncomfortable.

“You look great, Chris.” She wasn’t lying, unfortunately. He looked incredible, hair still thick, that new sexy touch of frost at the temple. He’d always reminded her of a cross between Ben Affleck and Russell Crowe: boy-next-door handsome but with powerful masculinity backing it up. “Still teaching at Pomona?”

“They haven’t fired me yet.”

They should have when she was there.

“Silly.” Zoe whacked him again. “You’re tenured.”

Matty smiled again, for real this time. She was happy for him. He’d wanted that very badly. “Congratulations. A great accomplishment.”

“Thank you, Matty.” He really needed to stop looking at her like that, half amused, half hungry. It was horrendously unsettling.

“Well!” She glanced pointedly at her watch and lifted a hand in cheery farewell. “I’m due to meet someone for a drink. Great to see you, Chris, and to meet you, Zoe.”

Not waiting for answers, she turned and headed for her red Kia Sportage parked in the lot behind the theater, her cheeks hot, mind whirling. So. Finally, it had happened. She’d seen Chris Hamilton.

For the first couple of years after graduation she’d imagined bumping into him, fantasized about it, actually. How after one glance into her eyes, he’d tell her he’d made a terrible mistake letting her go, that he couldn’t live without her, that he loved her desperately and always would and blah blah blah blah.

More years had gone by, six in total by now, and she’d stopped worrying about seeing him. Stopped worrying she’d fall apart, beg him to take her back, stopped worrying about the pain she was sure only he could bring. Because she was over it, thank you very much. There’d been other men since, and no, she was not comparing.

The only really awful part was that after all her efforts, after she’d reached a real understanding of the forces that drove their passion, analyzed that passion to death and accepted not only that it was over, but that its being over was for the best, tonight it turned out Chris Hamilton in the flesh was still dangerously attractive to her. Whatever had pulled them together, in spite of the utter stupidity of professor and student hooking up, that power was still there.

“Matty.”

Crap. Matty closed her eyes, considered pretending she hadn’t heard him, but he wouldn’t buy it. Probably because it was ridiculous.

She whirled to face him. He stopped short, watching her warily. Damn him, why hadn’t he put on weight or wrinkled or just turned ugly, for heaven’s sake? He looked fabulous. Six feet of good-looking that knew how to do the sheet tango better than anyone she—

No, she was not comparing.

“What do you want, Chris?” Matty bit her lip, shocked at how bitter and angry she sounded. So much for putting her feelings safely behind her.

“I want to see you. I want— I just want to see you.”

“Ha!” The syllable came out without her permission, a mixture of shock, horror and a tiny explosion of pleasure. “How does Zoe feel about that?”

He put his hands on his hips, pushing back his jacket. Stomach still flat. Thighs still long and muscular under casual pants. Darn him.

“Zoe is a colleague.”

“Oh, so you’re doing those now, too?”

“Low, Matty.” The bastard spoke calmly. She could not get to him with insults.

Matty checked herself. She should not want to get to him at all.

“Sorry. You know me. If it’s in my brain, it comes out my mouth.” She inhaled slowly to settle herself. “I just don’t think getting together is a good idea.”

“But...how is that possible?” He looked genuinely confused. “I only have good ideas.”

Her laughter was reluctant. Charm as well as sex appeal. Chris had it all, the slime bucket. “No, thank you.”

He took a step toward her.

Turn around. Turn around and walk away now.

“You look great, Matty.” His gentleness enveloped her. Too much intimacy. “I like your hair long.”

“Yeah, thanks.” She was not going to tell him how fabulous he looked.

“You doing okay?”

“Yes! Fine! Great!” Her voice cracked. He’d notice. He was good at that. And what woman wasn’t a sucker for a man who noticed? It’s just that she hadn’t noticed six years ago, that while she had fallen madly in love with him, he was only interested in what lay between her legs. “I’m getting theater work pretty regularly, and I have a side business in real estate that’s picking up.”

“Good. Good for you.” His brows drew down. He pursed his lips, the way he did when he had something uncomfortable to say. “I’ve thought about you a lot over the years.”

Me, too. She stood silent, hands in her jacket pocket clutching her car keys.

“Well.” He touched his forehead as if he were tipping his hat and turned away, a gesture at once so familiar and dear to her that tears threatened. Six years ago, Matty. For God’s sake.

She walked rapidly toward her car, breaking into a run when her steps weren’t getting her there fast enough.

Damn it. Damn it. What the hell was wrong with her? How could she let him affect her so deeply?

She unlocked the car, wrenched open the door and hurled herself inside, started the engine and peeled out of her parking space.

Santa Monica Pier, here I come. She was going to go there alone and drink herself into a stupor, how pathetic was that?

Very! And it was exactly what she was in the mood for. A long parade of drinks, surrounded by happy partyers and the wild, wavy ocean. She’d sit by herself, looking mysterious and sultry, indulging memories she hadn’t allowed herself to call up for years, brooding and wallowing in emotional agony.

Then she’d sleep soundly in the apartment she shared with her best friend and be fine tomorrow. Chris would again be safely part of her past and she could really move on this time, having gotten this first post-relationship encounter over with and ending up unscathed.

An hour later, she was standing at the pier’s end, inhaling deeply, pulling her jacket around her for warmth against the stiff, salty wind. Of course she was much too sensible to get drunk. One beer and the crush of bodies around her had gotten annoying, the noise not conducive to proper misery. Her big scene, like most, played better in fantasy than in real life.

But she loved it out here, staring at the black sea, a whole world under there, not one single resident of which had gotten his or her heart crushed by Chris Hamilton.

They’d met in class her senior year. He was teaching a seminar on music and culture in Paris around the turn of the twentieth century. She’d thought he was hot from the first day. In fact, she and her girlfriends—including a new friend named Clarisse—had giggled and oohed and aahed and had a great time dissecting his every word, gesture and look. As crushes went, hers seemed particularly intense, but so what? He was a professor. She was a student. And never the twain shall sleep together.

They’d gotten to know each other through a shared love of all things French, had talked earnestly after class one day, then another, had gone out for croissants and café au lait. Then lunch at a French restaurant he particularly enjoyed...

Later they’d admit that they’d known what was happening, but since they hadn’t the slightest intention of doing anything about it, the attraction was harmless. What counted were the ideas they shared, their similar views and tastes and humor.

Ironically, the crossing of the line had happened because of Clarisse’s first “suicide attempt,” a low-risk grab for attention after a guy dumped her.

Eventually, Matty had realized Clarisse suffered from pretty serious mental issues. Compulsive lying, sociopathic tendencies and a deep need to screw her friends’ boyfriends. But at the time, Matty had been terrified and extremely upset. Who wouldn’t be? The woman had tried to take her own life!

Matty had called nine-one-one and ridden with Clarisse to the hospital. When she’d heard Clarisse was going to survive—of course she was—Matty had finally broken down, tears that wouldn’t stop. Walking home to her dorm, she’d run into Chris, returning from a Pomona orchestra concert. One look at her face and he’d invited her out for coffee. She hadn’t wanted to be out in public looking like hell. No problem, he’d drive her to his apartment, where he’d set up the spare bedroom if she wanted to stay over. They’d shared a bottle of wine. Talked until very, very late.

She’d never made it to the spare bedroom.

The next morning they’d agreed it could never happen again. They weren’t that kind of people. He was too old for her—more than ten years older. She was his student. An affair was wrong, and he could lose his job. They’d stay away from each other.

They couldn’t stay away from each other.

For the next six months they’d tried to break up, gotten back together, then did both again. All those agonies of longing and pain followed by the joys of giving in to temptation, the guilt, the fear—by the time Clarisse caught on and set her sights on Chris, Matty was frankly exhausted. When she’d caught them together, along with the pain there had been relief. Finally it was truly over. No more temptation. Because Matty understood what he was and how foolish she’d been.

Chris had come after her, he’d explained. He’d laid the blame on Clarisse. It wasn’t what it looked like, he’d sworn to her...

Please. It was always what it looked like.

Three weeks later, Clarisse took enough sleeping pills to look ill, but not really threaten her life, and Matty had known it was over for them, too. She’d waited, even telling herself she shouldn’t, but Chris hadn’t come looking for her again.

On the pier now, arms wrapped around herself, squinting into the wind, Matty thought about how she’d come such a long way since then. She’d built a good, rich life for herself. Dated a couple of guys seriously, though none who took her over the way Chris had.

Yes, she was comparing. She’d always been comparing.

But unfairly. Her feelings in college had been intensified by her youth and inexperience, by the lure of the forbidden, by the perfect bubble in which their encounters took place. She hadn’t met his friends, he hadn’t interacted with hers. They’d had no problems to cope with but the drama of their own taboo passion.

A tear made its way down her cheek. She flung it forward into the sea, sniffed angrily and turned to go home.

Enough. She’d done what she’d come here to do. Brooded. Remembered. Cried one beautiful tear. The actress side of her had been fed.

Now she’d do her father proud, march home, get up at 0700 hours and take on the next day of her life.