That Man Matthews

In another moment she had disappeared behind the jungle of plants and fake waterfalls that all fancy hotels insisted on cluttering up their lobbies with these days. But he could imagine her sitting there, glancing at her watch. Maybe tapping her foot.

Cody frowned again, then exhaled in disgust. What had Pa been thinking?

“No way in hell,” he muttered under his breath.

There were other people he could consult about Sarah’s behavior problems. Authorities of his own choosing. Not someone who would blame attention deficit disorder or him. Not someone who would probably suggest drugs that would turn his baby girl into a complacent little zombie with the personality of navel lint. No! No overbred blue blood was going to tell him how to raise his kid. And Cody was definitely not going to give said blue blood the opportunity to figure out that the Matthews household wasn’t exactly what it seemed to be.

Instead, he’d send a bellman to her with a message. Apologize for the inconvenience, cancel the meeting. Perhaps sometime in the future, he’d suggest. A vague-enough promise he never intended to keep.

There was still Pa to deal with. He was a stubborn old cuss. Once he’d wrung that promise out of Cody, he wouldn’t let up. There would be at least two more trips back here to D.C. to complete the Williston deal. Cody could hear Walt’s argument now. Surely one of those trips would allow him time to reschedule a meeting with Joan Paxton?

Of course, if he and the schoolmarm didn’t hit it off, he could say he’d given it his best shot.

He tipped his Stetson to the back of his head as an idea came to him. He was suddenly glad he hadn’t had time to change out of his comfortable buckskin jacket and jeans. Boots and western garb would suit this interview just fine. If he’d learned one thing from his father, it was how to make a Texas drawl and good-old-boy attitude work for him. In the corporate world, he’d used his rough frontier persona more than a few times to set those bean counters on their ears.

Joan Paxton would be easy to chase off.

A little snake-oil charm. A lot of Texas arrogance. Maybe he’d even shamble into his best aw-shucks, dumb-cowpoke routine, the one that never failed to get a cackling laugh out of Merlita. Miss Joan Paxton would hightail it home but quick and count herself lucky to get away.

Leaving him with no chance of another meeting.

Leaving him to find his own solution to Sarah’s wayward behavior.

He could spend the rest of the evening working out his frustrations in the hotel gym. Relax afterward in a hot whirlpool. Maybe he’d even stop by the hotel gift shop, see if he could find something to take back to Merlita. Just in case Sarah had been up to tricks again in his absence.

Striding toward the atrium, Cody’s lips curved into a satisfied smile.

Ten minutes.

Tops.

CHAPTER TWO

THE ATRIUM was filled with tourists just back from a bus trip to Arlington Cemetery and businessmen anxious to unwind from meetings held in hotel conference rooms. Waitresses, ever cognizant of the big tippers, had come out of the piano bar and were circling the tables of men.

Joan Paxton sat with her head down, making notes in her appointment book. She wouldn’t have minded a glass of water, but it was impossible to catch a server’s attention, and she soon gave up.

She glanced at her watch again. The man was ten minutes late.

Not a good sign, Mr. Matthews.

She refused to think of him as anything but Mr. Matthews, regardless of the fact that Walt Matthews had told her that his son hated formality. What kind of name was Cody, anyway? It was like Howdy Doody. No real adult had a name like that. It made her think of cowboys and Indians and Wild West shows. Understandable, considering the man lived in Texas, but if William Cody Matthews was really the successful businessman his father said he was, you’d think he’d have used his more professional-sounding first name.

Stop, she told herself firmly. You’re just finding fault because you’ve been upset lately. Mr. Matthews isn’t the reason your professional and personal life are in chaos right now. Don’t take it out on him.

Headmaster Mueller was the one who deserved her scorn. And quite a bit more than that if he didn’t keep his roving hands to himself. Which he might not.

Last week, after he’d cornered her in the supply closet and she’d slapped him so hard her hand still stung the following day, he’d seemed so sure of himself, almost amused. After all, in spite of her solid credentials, she was still just a teacher at the school, while he was the man who had almost single-handedly built, financed and ran the Virginia Academy for Gifted Children.

If she ever touched him again, he’d told her, she’d be looking for another job. Her face felt warm even now to think that she had countered that threat with one of her own. That if he ever touched her again, he’d be looking for a doctor. Since that time he hadn’t tried anything. But now she was always uncomfortable in his presence, feeling his eyes on her constantly, and the knowledge that she was under his scrutiny had begun to wear on her nerves.

How mortifying the whole episode had been. How unlike her. Struggling in a supply closet with a man old enough to be her grandfather. Threatening bodily harm to another human being. What would her father have said about such a tasteless display, such unladylike behavior?

She stared down at the latest to-do list she’d begun in her book, not really seeing the words she’d written there. Distasteful as that incident had been, she supposed she could manage Mueller. It was her most recent argument with Todd that had left her reeling. A week ago, when the tension had finally come to a head at their favorite Italian restaurant, she had been stunned to watch their relationship reach an unexpected and bitter climax.

What happened? Joan asked herself for the hundredth time. Todd Ingles was the man she was supposed to marry someday, the man she’d known since high school, the man with whom she intended to share a lifetime of dreams. And yet, after she’d told him what had happened with Mueller, he’d been unsympathetic and uncommunicative. Unable to understand his attitude, she’d finally asked him what the problem was.

“Now, don’t take this the wrong way,” he’d said to her over a plate of spaghetti and meatballs. “But are you sure you haven’t been sending Mueller the wrong signals?”

It was fortunate that the restaurant had been crowded and noisy, because Joan was so shocked she dropped her fork, and it clattered on the table. “What is that supposed to mean?” she asked when she could find her voice.

Todd shrugged as he twirled pasta on his fork. “Just that Mueller never struck me as a skirt chaser. You know his background, his education. He’s been published in the Journal, for Pete’s sake.”

“Oh, I see,” Joan had said, unable to keep the annoyance out of her voice. “A degree from Harvard prohibits you from being a lech?”

“I’m not saying that. He just seems too refined to play those kinds of high-school games. He’s well respected. Monied. His ancestors are founding fathers.”

“So are mine. And I’ll bet my father never tried to put his hand up an employee’s skirt. Are you saying I might have led him on?”

“Of course not. I’m just saying you might have misinterpreted the situation—”

“Todd, it’s hard to misinterpret someone shoving their hand down the front of your blouse. He tried to kiss me.”

Recognizing that he had chosen the wrong side in this argument, Todd reached over to cup her hand. “Well, why wouldn’t he? You are a beautiful woman.”

Joan withdrew her hand and stared at him. “Don’t. You’re only making it worse.”

“All right, I’m sorry. But so he got a little frisky. He’s probably feeling his age and trying to prove to someone that he still has what it takes to get a woman to look at him. You don’t want to piss him off, do you? This job pays well. It’s prestigious…”

Her mouth had gone dry. Carefully she took a sip of water and just as carefully replaced the glass on the table. She gave him a level, knowing look. “The only one at this table who cares whether Mueller gets…pissed off, is you. Isn’t that right?” When Todd didn’t respond right away, Joan folded her napkin and quietly laid it on the table. Her appetite had completely disappeared. “What are you afraid of?” she asked softly. “That when he retires next year and the board chooses a new president of the school, he won’t give his endorsement to you because your girlfriend wouldn’t…put out?”

“Don’t be like this. You’re not thinking straight. Tomorrow—”

“No, don’t say anything more.” It had occurred to her suddenly that she really did not know this man. They’d been together for so many years. When had they stopped communicating? “I know how badly you want your own academy, Todd, and how frustrated you are that it’s taking longer than you’d planned. I just never realized that you’d want it so badly you’d be willing to see me humiliated in order to make it happen.”

“Joan, I’d never let Mueller hurt you. I love you.”

“Do you? I wonder sometimes.”

And she couldn’t stop wondering, even now, after she’d left him sitting in the restaurant alone, after she’d dumped the flowers he sent to her classroom, and after she’d boxed up her belongings and moved into a small apartment on the other side of town. She’d given up her own apartment two years ago to move in with Todd. She didn’t know where she’d end up now, but she knew she couldn’t stay at Todd’s place one day longer.

Maybe when she went up to the Cape with her mother this weekend…Her mother had never been a fan of Todd’s, but she could be quite objective when she chose to be. All those years as the wife of a career diplomat had rubbed off on her. Somewhere between the Burbanks’ barbeque and the Olsons’ regatta Joan would confess everything, ask for advice…

God, thirty-one years old and asking for advice on her love life from her widowed mother. What was she thinking? She rubbed absently at her temple, realizing that she was getting a headache.

She turned her attention to the well-worn appointment book on her lap. With the tip of her pen, she ticked off the items on her list:

Buy new swimsuit for weekend

Birthday card for Mother

Haircut with Denise

Clothes to cleaners

Black pumps to shoe repair

Talk to apartment manager about light in the stairwell

She frowned at what she’d written. A compulsive list maker, Joan prided herself on her organizational skills and the ability to prioritize. There was nothing on this list that couldn’t be handled in one afternoon. All of it was so mundane-sounding. So normal. And yet, it was reassuring in a way to know that in spite of her current difficulties at work and with Todd, the requirements of life still marched on, needing attention.

“A new bathing suit, huh? Ever try one of those French thong things?”

Joan wasn’t the skittish type. The husky, male voice coming from behind her and laced with amusement didn’t make her jump or suddenly swivel in her chair. It only annoyed her to realize that a total stranger was reading her notes over her shoulder. She turned her head slowly, prepared to make sure that a man with such odious manners would know just what she thought of him.

The first thing she saw was the belt buckle. Large, silver. It was a spectacle of male adornment that had been hammered and engraved by a craftsman’s loving hands. Unfortunately not by a craftsman with any sense of style or taste.

It depicted the head of a long-horned cow, or at least that’s what Joan thought it was. Behind the head was a wandering outline of the state of Texas. Or New York. Hard to tell.

Her eyes traveled upward, away from the snug jeans that delineated strong male thighs, past an elaborately stitched and fringed buckskin jacket. Her gaze stopped momentarily at the open neckline of a faded blue shirt. Fascinating. Not the shirt, but the glimpse of swirling midnight hair that covered a muscular chest. Thick and crisp and extremely touchable.

That interest unsettled her. Todd’s body was nicely muscled, but practically hairless. His torso had the pale, smooth perfection of a Greek statue. Until recently, she’d thought it the most magnificent body in the world. Until recently, she’d thought Todd the most perfect man.

She lifted her eyes to the stranger’s face. Sun-bronzed, with the hard features of a renegade, this man would never be called handsome. Rugged, maybe, but even that seemed too tame, too polite a term to describe him.

Suddenly Joan realized that her scrutiny hadn’t gone unnoticed. One inquiring brow rose with devilish interest, and he winked. She would have been embarrassed to be caught staring if she hadn’t felt that his breach of manners warranted an indignant look.

“So what do you think?” he asked with a grin. “About the swimsuit, I mean. You look like a gal who wouldn’t mind attracting a little attention. I know I’d give you a second glance.”

She wanted to tell him that as pickup lines went, he had the worst she’d ever heard, but it was probably better not to indulge in conversation with this man, no matter how attractive he was. “I’m really not interested in your opinion,” she said in the haughtiest tone she could manage, and then added with her most withering look, “or your attention.”

The stranger faked a wounded look at her rebuff. Then unexpectedly, he was shaking her hand as though her arm was a pump and he was bent on drawing water. “Howdy. You must be Joan Paxton. I’m Cody Matthews. Mind if I call you Jo-Jo?”

She barely registered the fact that this mannerless cretin was the man she’d planned to meet. She was stunned, but he had already flung himself into the chair opposite her before she found her voice. “Actually I’d prefer being called—”

“Sorry about the delay, Jo-Jo, but I didn’t think you’d mind waiting.” His dark brows rose again. “How ’bout a drink? I’m parched.” He threw back his head, spotted a waitress nearby and bellowed, “Hey, honey! We need some service over here.”

Oh, God. Was this Walter Matthews’s idea of a joke? How could this Neanderthal be that sweet old man’s son? The man she’d met at the seminar had been soft-spoken, asking her advice with an oldfashioned courtesy you seldom saw anymore. But this man…after a few minutes in his company, she’d be certifiable.

The waitress came to take their order. Cody Matthews tilted his hat to the back of his head with one finger and turned his appraisal of Joan into a leer. “What’s your pleasure, Jo-Jo?”

My pleasure would be for you to end this meeting and go away, she thought. And then the rest of that line of thinking faded as she got her first good look at his eyes. Remarkable. Startling robin’s-egg blue in that darkly tanned face. Beneath the hat, his hair was solidly black, silky and crisp-looking, if just a shade too long to please a fashion editor. She felt a moment’s regret that these two features should be wasted on a loud obnoxious moron like William Cody Matthews.

“Don’t keep this little gal waitin’, Jo-Jo.” He turned a hundred-watt grin on the waitress and patted her arm. “Time’s money, ain’t it, honey?”

The waitress had obviously been well-trained. She didn’t move a muscle. Joan was the one who bridled at such familiarity. It reminded her unpleasantly of the way Headmaster Mueller had begun his little games with her, finding those opportunities to touch and hug. “A glass of white wine, please,” she said quickly, ordering the first thing she could think of to give the poor woman a chance to escape.

Cody’s gut tightened. He should have guessed. Every woman in his life had loved wine. It was a drink to be sipped and fawned over, and personally, he had no patience for it. “Shoot,” he said with a dismissive shake of his head. “Wine’s no better than cow piss. Give me a double scotch. No rocks.”

The waitress hurried away and deliberately he leered after her. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the Paxton woman stiffen. Her complexion had gone the color of new milk, and he knew he’d made one hell of a first impression.

Kind of a shame to blow her out of the water like this, ’cause up close she didn’t look that much like Daphne, after all. Her nose was shorter and her eyes were nicer than Daph’s had been. A warm brown. But she had the attitude down pat. That regal distain that had been Daphne’s specialty and had eventually helped to kill their relationship.

“Mr. Matthews—”

“Call me Cody, gal. Mr. Matthews is my pa. ‘Course he doesn’t like that kind of formality any more than me. Reminds us too much of standing before the judge waiting to hear him pass sentence.” He made a loud snorting sound. “And we’ve both been that route often enough. How ’bout you? You ever been on the wrong side of the law?”

She looked honestly stymied by that question. It was a good five seconds before she formed an answer. “No, I can’t say that I have.”

“No, of course you haven’t. You’re a diplomat’s daughter, aren’t you? You probably went to some snotty private school and got taken everywhere in your father’s limousine and never once complained about having to put up with piano lessons.”

“Actually it was violin lessons.”

She was watching him closely now, as if he’d turned into a bug stuck on a pin. He lifted a speculative brow. “I’ll bet you never even jaywalk.”

Joan ducked her head to allow herself time to think. There was something about the look in his eyes, the way those words hissed out between his teeth, as though he begrudged them. She realized that for some reason he found her objectionable. It was odd, really, when he was the one who was clearly being outrageous. But she’d never been the type of woman to run away from a challenge. Surely, if she tried hard enough, she’d find something worth salvaging from this conversation.

She lifted her head to look at him sharply. “Mr. Matthews, perhaps we could discuss your daughter? Your father was very insistent that I make time to speak to you.”

He seemed to find her words extremely funny. His laughter was loud and hard, bouncing off the nearby waterfall and drawing the attention of several tables. “Of course he was. Pa knows what I like, and he really came through for me this time.”

“Perhaps we should limit ourselves to—”

“I figure I owe him big time for picking out such a looker.”

She blinked in surprise, not sure she’d heard correctly. “I beg your pardon?”

“If you come to my place in Texas to evaluate my kid, it doesn’t hurt that you won’t scare off the crows.”

“I see.”

He slid forward in his chair until their knees nearly touched. In a voice trimmed to conspiratorial tones, he said, “’Course, it gets kinda lonely at the ranch. You get finished sizing up Sarah, the two of us might work on a little…bunkhouse etiquette.” His finger touched her knee suggestively. The look in his eyes was glazed with self-assured passion. “You catch my meaning?”

“Yes. I believe I do.”

She stood, so abruptly that the chair wheeled back on its castors and bounced off the lip of the atrium reflecting pool.

Cody stared up at her, expecting her to haul off and slap him. Instead, he watched her indignation turn into exasperation. He had to give her credit. If she was alarmed by his aggression, she hid it well.

He rose slowly, not sure what to expect. Her eyes glittered; he could see anger in their dark, chocolate-colored depths, and a curious…disappointment. With him? That jarred Cody, yet at the same time, he was aware of his own faint, peculiar sense of relief.

She closed her appointment book with a firm snap. “Mr. Matthews, I don’t believe we can continue this discussion. I’m afraid this meeting has been a waste of time for both of us.”

He tried for bewilderment. “Did I say something wrong?”

“I don’t believe you’ve said anything right. Frankly, I find that strange, because your father struck me as sincerely concerned about your daughter’s welfare. And he thinks very highly of you. I understand that you graduated from Princeton at the top of your class. That you’ve been very successful in your business and running a ranch, as well.”

Her chin angled upward. The movement caused a few golden curls to escape along the nape of her neck. Cody found he had to resist the urge to nudge them back into place. He looked away only to meet up with Joan Paxton’s glare of smoldering dislike. She wasn’t finished with him yet.

“What I can’t understand,” she continued, “is why that sort of man would deliberately sabotage this meeting by behaving in a manner that can only be described as repugnant.” She fished a handful of dollars out of her purse, then slapped the bag back under one arm. “I believe your daughter could use my help. For her sake, I’d like to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that you’ve come to this meeting drunk.”

“Nope,” Cody protested. For good measure, he winked again. “But a few drinks for you probably wouldn’t be such a bad idea. You could stand to loosen up a little. You’re pretty uptight.”

She released a ragged strand of breath, and a moment later he saw color leap to her cheeks. For one frozen moment he felt guilty. There was a sour taste in his mouth, as if maybe he had been drinking. Let up, Matthews. You’ve gone too far now.

But Miss Joan Paxton had more starch in her spine than he expected. The subtle flex of her facial features, the flare of her nostrils—she was struggling for control and winning. Her guard was up now. Her determination transformed her eyes, making them seem lit by fire from within. All bristling anger and indignation, she was damned near beautiful, so attractive that it ignited a sharp thrill in Cody’s senses and almost made him forget just how much he didn’t want to have anything to do with someone like her.

“No, I don’t believe you have been drinking.” Those few syllables were no more than chipped slivers of ice. “I would say there’s only one other possibility.”

“And what’s that, Jo-Jo?”

“That your unfortunate daughter has a jackass for a father.” She tossed the bills on the table. “That should pay for my drink. I wish you luck, Mr. Matthews. I suspect you’re going to need it.”

She pushed past him. He watched her walk through the artificial jungle of the lobby, cutting a precise, angry swath that could have rivaled anything Sherman had planned for Georgia. She didn’t look back. He didn’t expect her to. The role he’d played for her benefit had been Oscar caliber.

He found himself staring in the direction she’d gone long after he’d lost sight of her. Staring…and wondering why success didn’t have a better feel to it. He’d accomplished what he’d set out to do. He’d made her despise him. That final look from her had been sharp enough to slice steel, and maybe that was part of what was bothering him. The fact that Joan Paxton thought he was a first-class son of a—

Ah, hell, where was all this silly regret coming from? So what if some high-brow diplomat’s brat hated his guts? Hadn’t he learned a long time ago how to separate his ego from the core of every dispute? People didn’t have to like him. They just had to give in.

He rubbed a hand across his jaw, his mind fleecy. After today, he’d be glad to head back to Luna D’Oro. If there was any place on earth he understood the how and why of himself, it was at the ranch, surrounded by the people who meant the most to him.

After adding enough cash to the table to cover the drinks—including a generous tip for the uncomplaining waitress—Cody stopped by the front desk. The clerk handed him a pink message slip. It was from Pa, urging him to call the ranch. Cody’s gut belly flopped at the word emergency underlined twice in red pen. By the time he put a call through on the lobby courtesy phone, chaos was already sliding through his system, spreading tentacles of ice-cold, sweaty fear up his spine.

Merlita picked up the phone, letting loose a string of rapid Spanish when she realized it was him. Cody cut in, and in weeping fits and starts, the housekeeper explained the situation at home as his heart leaped to his throat.