Paradise Found (10 page)

“Fine.” She knew how to be damned disagreeable.

“And don't stand next to me, brush up against me, or touch any part of your person to mine.”

Now he was beyond ridiculous. “I've got a better idea. Why don't we communicate through my door for the next few days? That way you won't run the risk of touching or smelling me.”

“Don't be a smart ass.”

She ignored his comment. “Better yet, we'll use Rex as a go-between. That way, you won't have to hear me either. Just in case you think I'm trying to seduce you with my voice.”

“Stop it,” he said, grabbing her hands.

“Let me go.”

“What's this?” he asked, touching the tickets in her left hand.

She tried to pull away, but he held fast. “Nothing. They're mine.”

He traced them, felt the raised lettering, the embossed surface. “Baseball tickets.”

“They're mine,” she repeated.

“All three?”

“Yes.”

“Tomorrow night's game, I'll bet. Who's going?”

“Rex and I,” she hedged.

“That's two. Who gets the third one?”

You were supposed to get it, you idiot
. “I thought I'd ask Adam.”

“Like hell you are. Didn't I just tell you he's off-limits?”

“And didn't I tell you we're just friends?”

“Not if he has anything to say about it.”

“Well, he doesn't.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

“I'll take the third ticket.”

She blinked. Twice. “You?”

“Sure. Why not?”

Why not ? Because you haven't left the house in months, haven't walked down the street, let alone considered submerging yourself in a throng of thirty thousand screaming fans.
“Because…you haven't…”

“Exactly,” he said. “Because I haven't.”

Before she could ask any more questions, he released her hand and turned away, leaving her gaping after him. She remained glued to her spot, staring straight ahead, long after the door clicked shut.

The limousine maneuvered along the highway, winding its way toward Dodger Stadium. Matt’s pulse tripled as the miles ticked away. Soon, he'd be forced to enter the real world.

He wasn’t ready. He doubted he'd be ready a year from now—or ten. So why had he opened his big mouth and said he was going to the game with Sara? He knew the answer, had known it from the beginning, but it didn't make it any more palatable.

Anger had spurred him forward to claim that third ticket. He hadn't liked the thought of Sara going with Adam. That was another situation that had him bugged. Was something going on between those two? Of course she denied it, but was she telling the truth? Was she capable of groping around in the kitchen with him one minute and accepting his brother's advances the next? The possibility burrowed a hole straight to his heart.

And just exactly what had been happening in the kitchen yesterday? He still couldn't figure it out. Oh, he knew what they'd said to each other later that day. Her words had lain in his gut like a cold slice of pizza coated with congealed cheese and greasy pepperoni.

Can't we just forget about it?
There had been an almost desperate sincerity in her voice.

Forget it? Hardly. Not when the thought of her soft skin under his fingers made him hard. What the hell was wrong with him? He'd touched a lot of women with a lot more intimacy than the brief encounter in the kitchen. It didn't mean anything, he kept telling himself.
She
didn't mean anything. It was a physical thing. Period. His biological time clock was reminding him he was way overdue in the sex department.

So why did the touches that meant nothing from the woman who meant nothing to him, continue to plague him?

“We'll be there in a few minutes.” Sara's husky voice jolted him back. She was sitting beside him, smelling like some sort of tropical concoction. Vanilla, maybe. There was probably a good three feet between them, but he could still smell her. At least it wasn't that orange-lemon scent that drove him wild. Unfortunately, this was a close second.

“Okay. Fine,” he said, feeling anything but fine.

She cleared her throat. “We may have one slight problem at the stadium.”

“Problem?” He'd thought of hundreds of ‘slight problems’ since he'd gotten into the car. What if he fell? Got separated? Was recognized? Couldn't maneuver the steps? Bumped into something? Or someone? The problems went on and on.

“Someone is going to have to stay very close and help you negotiate your way around.”

That was a problem? “Right. I know that.”

“Well…” she dragged out her words, “that would be either me or Rex.”

He let out a short laugh. “I’ll take you over Rex.”

Rex snorted. “Some friend.”

“But that will mean I have to touch you,” she said, lowering her voice.

“So?”

Her breath brushed against his ear. “Yesterday, you told me not to get near you or touch your person again.” She sounded irritated. “You were very specific about it.” Those last words came out like a hissing cat. Pissed. That's what she was.

Of course he'd said those things and he'd meant them. She
was
making him think about her too much. Time to put up the wall and create some distance—but not today.

“I need you now,” he whispered, ignoring her words. “I need you to help me get through this.” It was as close as he would come to admitting he was scared.

After the slightest hesitation, she said, “Okay.”

“Thank you.”

“I'll hold your hand and lay out a blueprint as we go,” she said. “I'll be with you every step of the way.”

“Good.” He laid his head against the back of the seat, tilted his ball cap low over his forehead and closed his eyes, trying to shut out the road in front of him, the miles behind him, and the unpredictable, tempting woman beside him.

Matt didn't talk for the rest of the trip, letting the classical music and Rex's tour guide instincts fill the air. As for Sara, she seemed intrigued with Rex's elaboration on the glimpses of various locales they passed along the highway, questioning him about the scenery, history, and people.

Rex's loud voice and Sara's throaty responses bombarded Matt's quiet. It was impossible to ignore either one of them. Rex was a great guy, one of his most trusted friends, but damn the man had a mouth on him. Gregarious was an understatement. And Sara. Well, lately it seemed she only had to breathe and his senses pricked with awareness.

“The stadium's over there, down to the right,” Rex said in his usual voice, which ranked eight decibels louder than the average person.

“Oh, I see it! Matt, we're almost there.”

“Mmm,” he grunted, pretending to be roused from sleep. In less than ten minutes, he'd be thrust among a crowd of about thirty thousand people. And he'd bet he was the only blind man among the whole lot.
Get a grip, Brandon. Do you want to look like a coward? Do you want to let the fear grip you so hard, it'll paralyze you? Then you'll never be able to pull out of its clutches. It's time. Now.
Sweat beaded on his forehead as Rex slowed the car.
Don't fall apart. Don't lock yourself into it.

You can do it. You can do it.
His breathing came in rapid little spurts.
Count the steps. Sara will guide you. She won't let you fall. Trust her.
His hands grew wet, clammy.
Open up, just this once. Trust somebody other than yourself.

“Okay,” Rex said, pulling the limo up to the curve. “Here we are. Sara, you know the game plan.”

“Right. Matt and I will get to our seats and meet you there. We've got almost forty-five minutes to game time.”

“Good luck,” Rex said, all traces of his usual casualness gone. His beefy hand grabbed Matt's. “You can do it,” he said in a rough whisper.

Matt nodded but said nothing. Rex got out, walked to the other side of the limo, and opened the door. Matt unfolded himself from the backseat, planted his feet on the concrete, and stood very still. Noise, loud and overwhelming, buzzed around him like a giant bee trying to land. Some of the sounds he could identify—car horns, screeching brakes, crying children, shouting men, wailing sirens. Others were not as recognizable, but they blared in his head just the same, tearing at his concentration, upending his orientation to time and place.

“Sara?” He couldn't move. He could barely breathe.

“I'm here,” she whispered as she clasped his left hand and gave it a squeeze.

He let out a ragged sigh. He couldn't do it. Where was Rex? He wanted to get the hell out of here. Now. “I can't.” He admitted the defeat. “Maybe another time.”

“You
can
do it.” She squeezed his hand. “We're going to turn around and walk to the gate. Put your arm around my waist and I'll do the same. It will be more secure until we get inside the gates.”

“I don't know.” He was probably a thousand steps from his seat. How was he ever going to make it?

“Just do it, Matt,” she persisted. “If you don't, you'll go back to that mansion of yours and spend the next several months tormenting yourself.” She didn’t wait for a response but slung an arm around his waist and half dragged him forward.

Matt caught up with her, draped his arm around her waist, and hauled her against his hip. “Okay, let's do it.”

“Take smaller steps. There, that's it,” she said, as he shortened his stride. “The turnstile is just ahead. About thirty of my steps.” Matt started counting. “Swing left, there's a couple to the right.” He moved to the left. “Almost there.” They took ten more steps and she slowed. “We have to go single file through this thing. You go first. Here's your ticket.” Sara disengaged herself from him and thrust the ticket into his hand. “I'll be right behind you,” she whispered.

He inched forward, the sound of the turnstile cranking back and forth in front of him. He felt Sara's hands on his waist, propelling him forward. “You're next,” she murmured.

Holding out his ticket, he waited.

“And a good day to you, sir,” a pleasant-sounding woman said, taking the ticket from him. “Enjoy the game.” Matt passed through the clicking gate and turned to wait for Sara.

“You did great,” she said, grabbing his hand and coaxing him along. “Do you want a program?”

He heaved a sigh. He'd made it through the first blockade. “Of course.” He actually dared a half smile. “I want it all today. Peanuts, hot dogs, beer, cotton candy. Everything.”

“Including a barf bag for the way home,” Sara said, stopping to get him a program. “We're coming to the steps,” she said in a low voice. “Lots of them, I think. You'll need to hold onto the railing.”

“I would have to pick seats halfway to heaven,” Matt muttered.

“Once you're in your seat, you'll think you are in heaven.”

He wanted to thank her for doing this for him, but he was too nervous. He'd thank her once he was safe in the car and heading home. Right now, he had to spend all of his attention staying upright and clear of moving and nonmoving objects. “It's another fifteen steps or so and then we turn right and head straight to heaven.”

“Right,” he said, pulling his cap lower over his forehead to meet the top of his sunglasses. He didn't want to chance anyone recognizing him. Not now, when he was being led around like some helpless child.

“Turn to the right. Slow down,” she said, squeezing his hand. “There's a group of teenagers getting ready to cut us off.” He slowed. “Good. I'm guessing another thirty steps or so to the usher.”

He concentrated on Sara's directions. So far, she'd been pretty close to target. He shortened his stride to accommodate her smaller gait and counted thirty-three steps to her next tug on his hand, which he knew by now meant
stop
.

“Up the stairs, second section, second row,” an old man said in a mechanical voice.

“Thank you.” Sara turned to Matt and leaned up to whisper in his ear. “I'll go first. Hold onto my belt loop with your right hand and the railing with your left. I'll go slow. It'll all look very natural. Like we're a couple. Ready?” He nodded. “Good. Let's go.”

She turned and placed his right hand on her hip and headed up the stairs. Matt grabbed the railing with his left hand and followed her. One, two, three, sway. Four, five, six, sway. Seven, eight, nine, sway, all the way up thirty-two steps with the feel of her hips moving beneath his fingertips.

“Here we are. Second row, first three seats.” Sara grabbed Matt's hand and sidestepped into the row. He followed, taking tiny paces. “You take the end. You've got the longest legs,” she said.

“Good idea.” He turned and the edge of the seat dug into his calf muscles. Feeling for the sides, he lowered himself onto the hard plastic. He’d made it.

“Would you like something to eat or drink?” Sara asked, her vanilla scent teasing his senses. “Peanuts? Popcorn? A beer?”

He grinned. “Sure.”

“Okay. It's your stomach.”

“Hey, I told you I was serious about tasting everything.”

“And I'm serious about the bag for the ride home.” There was a lightness in her voice that reminded him of sunshine on a winter day. Was Sara his sunshine come to warm his cold, lonely existence? Come to melt his heart? God, what a sickening commentary. Where had that come from and moreover, what could he do to kill anything else remotely resembling that thought?

“So, you want a beer, peanuts and popcorn.” Sara's words pulled him back. “That's it? No cotton candy? Hot dog with mustard? Lemon Chill? Maybe an ice cream?”

He'd miss her sarcastic tongue. And that low throaty voice and soft laughter. Hell, he'd even miss her pain-in-the-butt persistence and dogged stubbornness. The truth of it was, he'd miss her.

“Matt?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah.” He needed a beer. “That's it for this round. Do you want something?”

“I think I'll settle for a Diet Pepsi.”

“How boring.”

“That's me. Plain old boring. Keeps me out of trouble.”

“You should take a walk on the wild side sometime,” he said, leaning toward her. “Try a regular Pepsi,” he whispered. “It'll change your life.”

“Glad to see you two are all settled in,” Rex's voice boomed from a foot away.

“Hi, Rex,” Sara said. “You're next to me.”

“No argument there.”

Matt stood to let him squeeze by. “You can sit by her, but don't get any ideas. She's mine.” It was a joke, meant as nothing more than lighthearted bantering, but once the words were out, they didn't sound funny to him. Maybe because beneath the teasing attempt at humor, he'd been dead serious. When had he started to think of Sara Hamilton as his? She was leaving, for Christ's sake. They were from two different worlds. It could never work. She'd want a commitment. Marriage. He wanted neither. Maybe he was experiencing one of those doctor-client things—even though she wasn't technically his doctor—when the patient falls for the doctor who helps him. That had to be it. It was nothing more than mild infatuation as a result of her relentless efforts to help him regain his life. Why hadn't he realized that sooner?

Today was a perfect example. A month ago, he wouldn't have even considered the possibility that he'd be sitting in Dodger Stadium, waiting for the opening pitch to hit off the game. Sara had made that possible. She'd shown him a glimpse of life outside his iron gates. Shown him it was possible to see without his eyes—if he chose to.

It was natural to hold the giver of such a gift in high esteem, wasn't it? Sara was giving him back his life. Not the life he'd had before, but a new one. Deeper, richer, more profound. One he could carve out for himself, like a writer with a blank page, according to his own will and desire and not the demands and dictates of society. That in itself was a powerful aphrodisiac.

Matt smiled, relieved he could find a reason for this intense, almost obsessive attraction to Sara Hamilton.
Relieved that it wasn't terminal
. He could relax now and enjoy her company, knowing his heart was safe. The more independent he became, the less he'd need her. The less he'd want her. And if he could do that in a week's time, then he could put her on that plane for Pittsburgh and wave good-bye.