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“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.
4
KENDRA PULLED INTO the parking lot at Villas of the Pacific, CD player blaring Adele’s “Don’t You Remember.” Villas? Really? She could have sworn they were apartment buildings. Nice ones, yes. But a villa needed a sprawling estate. Jameson didn’t quite fit that mold, but he’d also looked painfully out of place in his friend’s apartment, which was decorated with modern art, odd sculptures and plants. Jameson belonged in a more traditionally masculine interior, all leather and dark wood, books and model fighter jets, one plant, always about to die...
She found a visitor spot and turned off the engine, sat for a moment in the sudden silence, annoyed at herself for being nervous. Hadn’t she been through all this after her visit here the day before? Yes, she had. Going forward she’d continue bypassing Jameson’s obnoxious behavior, understanding that it came from his pain and anger. She’d focus only on how she could help him. And she’d ignore the...complication.
Finding herself a teeny, tiny bit attracted to Jameson after all these years did not mean the world was about to end. He was an attractive man. So what? He was also an entitled jerk, who happened to be in a terrible situation and needed Kendra’s help. Kendra had agreed to help him because...quite honestly, she was curious. Who was this guy now? Who had he always been? Why had he chosen her to make miserable for so long?
One thing she had definitely decided—no more massages. Yikes. Not that his erection had been significant. He was a guy, one who probably hadn’t had any in a long time. His reaction had undoubtedly surprised him as much as it had her, especially after so many years of rather juvenile enmity between them.
Out of the car, she took a moment to gaze over the red-tiled roofs and palm trees toward the rust-colored cliffs that dropped to the edge of the vast Pacific. Blue sky today, a good breeze—the sight calmed and filled her as it always did. She could bring beauty and positive feelings and hope back into Jameson’s life if he would let her. She’d focus on that. The erection, not so much.
Today’s goal: clean the apartment, cook him a healthy meal. Push him gently to talk about his situation. Duck when he threw things at her. Maybe throw a few things back.
Kendra turned to unload the groceries and cleaning supplies she’d brought for this visit, one bag of each. Above all, she’d stay cheerful and brisk in spite of his sarcasm and cranky bad-boy mood, intent on what she was there to accomplish. She was not the same cowed high school kid having to fake self-confidence. She had the real thing now.
At the entrance to Jameson’s building, she balanced one bag on her hip and the other on a raised knee, trying to free up a hand to push the buzzer. Her finger had almost made it when a guy pushed out the door and let her in with a warm smile. Well. Looked like she’d catch Jameson by surprise again. She’d called that morning and left a message after another client canceled a late-afternoon meeting, letting him know she’d have time for him today. He hadn’t called back to say he wouldn’t be in or didn’t want to see her, so here she was.
On the second floor she turned right and strode down the cream hallway, enlivened by dark green carpeting and prints of landscape paintings on the walls. At his door she balanced the bags again and knocked, four fast raps, I’m here, ready or not, then stepped back to wait, bright smile in place.
Nothing.
Was he home? Had he planned to be out just to annoy her?
A noise inside. Her heart gave a little flip and she scoffed at herself. Still scared of the big bully, Kendra?
The door opened.
Whoa.
Jameson had cleaned up. Gone was the stubble, ditto the greasy hair and wrinkled clothes. He looked really good.
Really good.
Unwrinkled navy-and-white Air Force T-shirt over neat khaki shorts. Great legs, scarred on one knee. Awesome chest.
Had she referred to him as an attractive man?
She’d lied. He was smoking hot.
And he was standing there, stone-faced, staring at her. Was she gawking? Well, yeah, but she didn’t think it was that obvious.
“Come in.” He stepped back to let her pass.
“Hello, Jameson.” She pushed through the door. First thing that hit her was the absence of crap strewn all over the living room. “Wow, you cleaned.”
“Mike has a service.” He seemed taller today? Maybe he was just standing straighter. In any case, he already looked 100 percent better, and Kendra hadn’t even started her program yet. Matty would be happy.
“Looks like you resumed your human form.” She smiled at him, cheerful nurse, big sister, teacher, counselor, whatever kind of person would not want to have wild sex with him all over the apartment. “Did you get my message?”
“What’s in the bags?” He took one from her, apparently possessing at least some gentlemanly tendencies.
“That’s cleaning stuff, obviously not necessary now. This one is groceries.”
