A Solitary Heart (16 page)

studied for a year in Paris. I'm sorry about the mess—I meant to

straighten things up a bit, but didn't have the time.'

'Don't apologise, I like it.' Sian dropped her case on the foot of the

temporary bed and, because she was so hypersensitive to his warm

presence at her shoulder, she turned away to the drawing table and let

her hand hover, eager but hesitant, over the papers. 'May I? I promise

I'll be careful.'

'Help yourself.' He watched as she pored with fascination over the

drawings. Painstaking and meticulous, delicately precise, and

complex, they revealed a side of him that before she had only

wondered at: a love of pattern, symmetry and order, and a striking

flair for design. 'Some of them look rather like a rat's maze, don't

they?'

'I think they're magnificent,' she breathed, rapt. 'We studied

architecture in some of my design classes. Nothing in depth, mind

you, but just enough to show how much training and talent goes into

something like this. Look at this drawing, it's breathtaking!'

He glanced indifferently at the line-drawing of an office tower she

held, and said, 'It pays the bills. That kind of project is a challenge to

incorporate zoning restrictions, building codes and the specifications

of the consumer, but personally I prefer designing homes for people

to live in. Then the drawing seems to take on life, and breathe with

all kinds of possibilities.'

She looked over her shoulder at him. 'Joshua said that you designed

this block.'

He smiled crookedly into her green eyes. 'That paid the bills as well,

especially as I was able to strike a deal with the developers for some

cheap accommodation.'

'It's a beautiful place.'

'It's convenient for work, and certainly comfortable enough, but it's

only home for now. I don't plan on living here for the rest of my life.

You couldn't raise a family here, or in all conscience keep pets. You

need space, and greenery, and plenty of room for them to play and

explore in safety.'

Matthew held her gaze. His smile had faded away, and in its place

was an intent, searching expression. She looked back at the drawing

she held, struggling to hide how powerfully his words struck her. He

described so perfectly the kind of quiet, spacious life that she herself

desired; they could almost be picturing the same thing. In an effort to

lighten the mood, she said teasingly, 'For whom to play—the kids or

the pets?'

'Why not both?' he returned, strolling over to reach with a long finger

to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. The finger remained, tracing

the perfect shell, while she stood rooted to the floor and shivered. 'I

must confess to a secret desire to have a dog some day. Say one

about, oh, knee-height, with bright, intelligent eyes and a frantic

wagging tail, gentle with little children but with a great ferocious

bark that would scare away any potential intruders and keep my

precious wife safe when I would have to go away on a business trip. I

wouldn't want to leave her too often, you see, so it would comfort me

to know she was protected. You know the kind of dog.'

Her head bent forward. His fingers explored the edge of her cheek-

bone, and very lightly curled against her skin. She said huskily, 'Most

likely it would chew up all your shoes.'

'I'd forgive it,' he said quietly, in her ear. 'For all those other things,

I'd forgive it that.'

Her hands trembled on the drawing. Carefully she turned to lay it

back in its place, carefully she smoothed the immaculate edges. Then

she felt a feather-light stroke across the back of her shoulders as he

drew aside her hair and kissed the side of her neck. 'I'm glad you

came,' he murmured against her soft, beating skin. She felt his lips

part, and he stroked her pulse with a velvet tongue. 'I missed you.

Did you miss me?'

Liquid waves of pleasure rippled down her back, loosening muscles

and inhibitions. Her head fell to one side as he nuzzled her, as her

eyelids lowered, and her breath, coming from between parted, full

lips, quickened in tempo.

'Matthew,' she groaned.

'Go on,' he purred, bringing up both hands to flex those long, clever

fingers around her narrow waist. 'Say it. You missed me a little bit, if

only for the lack of someone to rant and rave at when you're feeling

peeved.'

Her head went back against his shoulder; somehow she had come to

lean on him. He spread his legs apart to support her weight, slowly

running his flattened palms around the curve of her ribs and up to her

breasts, and she turned her face with a sigh into his hair, raising one

hand to caress his temple. She opened her mouth to confess the truth

of just how much she had missed him, but just then he bit her neck

with delicate savagery, and she arced and gasped, and his hands

crushed her back to him convulsively.

'Matt! Where did you hide your tequila?' Joshua's shout from down

the hall made her jump. For a second he continued to press her

against his beating heart, and she felt the lean muscle in his jaw

tighten against her cheek.

Then he laughed shortly, let go of her and whispered, 'Saved by the

bell, darling?'

'You said it,' she told him huskily, 'not I.'

He seemed to freeze, but she could not look at him. Joshua shouted

again, so that Matt snarled something vicious-sounding under his

breath and went to answer the summons, and Sian had enough wit

left to wonder just what exactly she had meant to convey by saying

that.

AFTER Sian had recovered herself and checked on Jane, she made her

way to the living-room where the three men appeared to be

concerned with nothing more vital than the proper mixture of

ingredients contained in drinks.

At her entrance, Matt looked up and said, 'We're just whipping up a

batch of margaritas. Would you like one?'

She shook her head and replied with a smile, 'No, thank you. I don't

drink spirits, even diluted in cocktails.'

'You're not counting calories, are you?' He cast a swift, doubtful

glance down the length of her already slim body.

'No,' she said, choosing a stuffed armchair to sink into. 'I just can't

take the alcohol. It puts me to sleep. A couple of glasses of wine are

about my limit for the evening. I'll tell you what I would like,

though—do you have any lemonade?'

'No, but I've got some fresh lemons. Would you like to make some?'

She nodded, and he handed the budding concoction over to Joshua.

'Finish that up, why don't you, while I show Sian where everything is

in the kitchen?'

'Sure thing. Shall I pour you a glass?'

'Yes, thanks.'

Matt led her into the compact kitchen, fetched a sharp knife and an

empty pitcher, and pulled out several lemons from the vegetable

container in the refrigerator, while Sian admired the butcher block

inset between the stove and the sink. He laid the tart yellow fruit

before her and said with a rakish grin, 'If you slice, I'll squeeze.'

She turned away, composure triumphant, and began to work. 'There

you go again, always making innuendoes.'

'What did I say this time?' Sexy laughter threaded his low voice, a

sultry undertone.

'You know perfectly well, and don't try playing the innocent with me.

It doesn't work. You're about as innocent as a piranha!' The knife she

wielded thunked satisfyingly into the butcher block, and she reached

for another lemon.

'Piranhas, my love,' murmured Matthew silkily, 'only do what is in

their nature to do.'

'Hi, guys,' said Jane who had wandered in. 'Matt, I love your condo.

What are you talking about?'

'Fish,' said Sian. The knife thunked again. Matt leaned back against

the counter and shook silently, and she shot him a sharp look. 'Matt

likes piranhas.'

'Actually I prefer octopuses. All those waving tentacles,' he said,

hazel eyes limpid. 'When one of those grabs a hold of something,

they don't let go.'

She shuddered delicately. 'They don't even look as if they belong on

this earth. They probably came from outer space.'

'Why,' asked Jane reflectively of no one in particular, 'do I get the

feeling that I'm missing something here?'

'Don't worry,' Sian said soothingly, 'you're not missing a lot.'

'Oh, thanks
very
much,' drawled Matt, and she blinked wide,

innocent-looking eyes at him.

'Gibberish, pure gibberish,' exclaimed the blonde in exasperation, as

she turned to exit the kitchen. 'I give up on you two, I really do.

You're talking in some kind of foreign language!'

'Am I, Sian?'

The quiet question came from Matthew when they were alone once

more. All his light-headedness had disappeared; he sounded

brooding, grim.

She said after a moment, warily, 'What do you mean?'

'Am I speaking some kind of foreign language to you?'

The knife wavered in her hand; prudently she removed her fingers

from danger, waiting until she gained more control. His strong hand

clasped her wrist; her chest moved hard on a deep breath. She

admitted in a shaken voice, 'I don't know.'

'Tell me.' His insistence was wearing her down, wearing her out, his

hazel eyes adamant. 'Tell me when you do know.'

Her lips parted as she looked at him. Then she nodded, and he sighed,

and his hand slipped away as Steven came into the kitchen with his

margarita.

They settled with their drinks in the spacious living- room, talking

comfortably for about a half an hour. Sian was curled on the floor,

cradling a tall, cool glass of the refreshing lemonade she had made,

thankful that Matt had to abandon his intimate pursuit in favour of a

more general companionship.

She needed the reprieve, for she felt flustered and confused by not

only his confounding behaviour, but her own complex reactions to it.

Flirtation carried its own set of rules, which she knew very well, but

the layers upon layers to Matt's own particular game were impossible

to fully divine. Dimly she could sense the makings of a greater

pattern to his intentions, in the fluidity with which he shifted from

mood to mood, and, though she could not seem to glimpse his real

motivations in their entirety, she was caught in the spell of

fascination for how he so cleverly manipulated and anticipated her

own mood swings.

The first layer was friendliness. How easy it was to relax in the

warmth he could generate. Then, when he had her relaxed and open-

minded, he touched her vulnerable side with confessions of his own

hopes and longings and awakened in her sympathy and tenderness—

all the softer emotions she had once vowed never to become

entangled in when involved with a man.

And just when she was beginning to feel the fear of exposure, he

danced away with a wickedness that was so irresistible to her highly

developed sense of humour, she followed him along the path to

bright laughter and a quick repartee interwoven with delight.

When she was angry, he slammed head on into her. When she was

roused, he taunted her to a higher pitch. When she was shaken, he

held her. When she goaded, he responded; when she was attracted, he

lit her torch. When she was thoughtful, he challenged her.

Was this seduction? If so, it was unlike anything she had ever before

experienced. Most men were so ridiculously easy to evade, for they

declared their sexual intentions with about as much finesse as a

trumpeting elephant. By comparison, Matthew had a manifold touch:

a gossamer thread floating in the sunlit air, a rampant whirlwind rush,

a quiet observation, a laughing taunt. He was straightforward and

demanding, yet remained so oblique and inconclusive that every

exchange of the undoubted sexual attraction quivering between them

could be taken at face value alone, just another part of the flirtatious

game which could lead anywhere or nowhere, nowhere at all.

She wondered, as she rested her contemplative gaze on him, smiling

to herself at the mellifluous change of expression as he listened

attentively to something that Joshua said, then responded with quick,

concise logic. How extremely clever he was, on every level. A

declaration of intent was a tangible thing and therefore easy to react

against, and reject. But he declared nothing, admitted nothing, and,