The Seduction Request (4 page)

Back when they were kids, during summer vacations when Matt was practically living at their house, he and Emily would sometimes stay up all night talking. After everyone had gone to bed, they would go out on the back patio, curl up in chaise lounges and talk until the sky turned pink with the first hint of dawn. There wasn't a thing about each other they hadn't known.

She'd never blamed him for what had happened between them that night on the beach. She'd let it happen, with no second thoughts and no regrets. She only regretted that it had ended their friendship. It was too late to get that back. They had both changed too much.

Sure, he looked the same, and sounded the same
and sometimes he even acted like the old Matt. On the inside, where it counted, he was a different person.

When she'd gotten over the initial shock of his leaving, her heart had begun to heal. And after a while she'd even stopped missing him. Now that he was back, that old longing had returned with him. But she was longing for the friendship of a man who no longer existed.

Behind her on the brick path she heard approaching footsteps. Heavy steps that would indicate the person in question was probably male, and most likely large. Six foot three, two hundred and twenty pounds—most of it muscle—if memory served. She closed her eyes and prayed silently, please let it be someone else.

“Dinner is almost ready.” Matt's deep voice wrapped around her, raising the hair on her arms and sending a shiver down her spine despite the heat. “Your mom sent me out to get you.”

Thanks, Mom. Without even trying she somehow always managed to make Emily's life a little bit more miserable. “Tell her I'll be right there.”

There was a brief silence then, “Emily, come on. You could at least look at me.”

Apprehension surging up her throat, she slowly turned. Matt stood, hands tucked casually into the pockets of his pants. At the sight of him, her body sighed with satisfaction. Talk about eye candy. The man was far too attractive for his own good. His hair was damp again and the same near-black shade as his eyes. A hint of his aftershave drifted in her direction, drawing her attention to his chiseled jaw and
mouth. And oh, the things that mouth had done to her. Intimate things that still made her blush.

All his features combined, Matt looked rugged and dangerous—which was at complete odds with the conservative polo shirt and chinos he wore. Was it possible for a man to look reckless and sexy wearing Ralph Lauren?

His eyes soft and apologetic, he said, “I screwed up last night.”

It was the last thing she expected to hear, and it sounded far too much like something the old Matt would say. Don't, she wanted to plead. Don't you dare be nice to me. She wanted to hate him for leaving her, for not loving her.

But how could she hate him for being honest?

She hugged herself, feeling naked and vulnerable in a simple tank top and shorts. Which was beyond ridiculous, because she wore similar clothes all the time and she'd never felt underdressed before. Maybe it was the way Matt looked at her, as if he were studying every inch, memorizing her.

His cell phone rang and he reached down—she thought to answer it. Instead he turned it off.

“Emily,” he said, taking another step toward her. She wanted to turn and run to the house, but she couldn't make her legs move. “I'm sorry I hurt you. I'd do anything to take it back if I could.”

She looked for a trace of deceit in his eyes, a sign that he was only manipulating her. All she saw was sincerity, and it put the tiniest crack in the ice covering her heart.

“Can you give me another chance? Can we be friends?”

“For how long, Conway? How do I know you're
not going to go back to California and never call me again? What reason do I have to trust you?”

“None,” he admitted. “You have no reason to trust me. I'll have to earn it.”

She knew she was losing it when the idea of Matt working to gain her trust gave her a giddy, adolescent thrill. The thrill she used to get every time he smiled at her, or bent his head close to help her bait her fishing line. How many times had she intentionally popped her bike chain off the track for the sheer pleasure of watching him fix it, knowing he was doing something nice for her. And he would do it without question every time. What would he have said had he known she could bait a line with more skill than he could, or tear apart a bike and rebuild it blindfolded.

At times her adoration had been so intense she'd ached with it. But Matt had always been, and always would be completely unattainable. Even now, after everything that had happened, the thought made her inexplicably sad.

“So, what do you say? Tentative friends?” He reached for her, and though she opened her mouth to object, the words died on her lips the second he took her hand. He cradled it gently in his enormous palm. She watched, mesmerized as his thumb brushed across her knuckles. Heat pooled deep in her stomach and her eyelids felt weighted down.

She risked a glance up to his face and found herself instantly locked into his dark gaze. Something sparked deep inside his eyes—a flame she thought had died a long time ago. How could she deny him anything when he looked at her that way?

“Emily! Matt!” Her mother's voice cut through the silence like a guillotine, obliterating the moment.

Emily yanked her hand free, and when he reached for her again, she backed away. “Don't. I need some time to think about this.”

“Emily—”

“Just give me a little time.”

Matt watched Emily walk briskly down the path toward the house. Though he knew he'd hurt her, he hadn't realized just how badly until that very moment. She was so afraid to be hurt again she wouldn't even risk a friendship with him.

If he could only make her see that his leaving had been for her own good. That he'd been protecting her by breaking all ties. And yes, he'd been protecting himself, too. But last night he realized just how much he'd missed her friendship. He wanted that deep connection back in his life. He yearned for it. But she needed time.

Ironically, time was the one thing he didn't have.

M
att leaned back in his chair, draining the last of his coffee, doing his best not to flinch as the bitter sludge slid down his throat and sat like a rock in his stomach next to the overcooked chicken. “That was an amazing meal, Mrs. Douglas. Thanks again for having me over.”

“Aren't you sweet.” Emily's mother beamed with pride and reached across the table to pat Matt's hand. “You know you're always welcome, dear.”

Beside him Emily, who had been quiet throughout the meal, made a “pfft” sound. Matt glanced over at her, eyebrow raised, and she looked back, the picture of innocence. More than once during dinner Matt had found himself watching her out of the corner of his eye, intrigued by the subtle changes since he'd last seen her. And some not so subtle. Her hair was the same pale shade of blond, but instead of the
short, boyish cut she used to wear, it now hung halfway down her back in silky waves. Her neck was long and slim, her face thinner, accentuating the high arch of her cheeks and full mouth. Despite her height, which he guessed to be at least five-nine, and the muscle tone that indicated she was no stranger to vigorous exercise, she was distinctly feminine.

And then there were her breasts. Not too big, not too small. Not that he had a right to look, but damn, they were as pretty as the rest of her. He let his gaze wander down to the front of her tank top, where he could barely make out the pattern of a lace cup beneath the white cotton.

At the sudden, intense pull of lust, and a death glare from Emily, he tore his gaze away.

“Hey, Matt, I'll bet you can't get a home-cooked meal like this in California,” Mr. Douglas boomed from the opposite end of the long dining table.

And thank God for that, Matt thought wryly. Mrs. Douglas had a heart of gold, but she still couldn't cook worth a damn. “No, sir, not even close.”

“Oh, Phil.” Emily's mother waved a hand at her husband. “Don't be silly. Matt probably has an entire staff of cooks in that fancy house of his. Don't you, Matt?”

“I eat out most of the time,” he admitted. “And when I'm home I like to cook for myself. I only hire kitchen staff when I'm entertaining.”

Ty lifted an inquisitive brow. “Entertaining?”

Matt knew exactly the kind of entertaining Ty was referring to. But it was rare that he invited a woman home. Most of his relationships were far too superficial and short-lived. “Dinner parties mostly or holiday meals.” He turned to Emily's mother and
grinned. “I've yet to find someone who cooks like you do.”

“You flatter me,” Mrs. Douglas said, her smile radiant. Her face had a taut, stretched look he didn't remember, and he wondered if she'd had some work done.

Emily cleared her throat and Matt could swear she mumbled something that sounded a lot like “brownnoser.” He looked over at her but she was sawing at the rock-hard pecan pie.

“Would anyone like a warm-up on their coffee?” Mr. Douglas asked, holding up the carafe.

“There's more pie in the kitchen,” his wife added.

“None for me,” Ty said. He leaned back and stretched his arms high over his head. “I'm stuffed. I'm gonna go turn on the game.”

Emily stood and began gathering the dishes. “My turn to clear and load the dishwasher.”

“Don't you even think about it, young lady,” her mother scolded. “We
hand
-wash the good china.”

“Wonderful,” Emily muttered under her breath, shooting Matt a look of contempt, as if it was somehow his fault. Then he realized it probably was. In all the years he'd known the Douglases, they'd used the fine china only on special occasions. He was guessing tonight's special occasion was probably him.

As Emily reached for her mother's plate, Mrs. Douglas grabbed her hand, studying her nails. “For heaven's sake, Emily, look at your fingernails. They're filthy. What happened to the nailbrush I gave you?”

“I was in a rush.”

“It's not bad enough you dig around in the dirt
all day, you couldn't have the decency to wash your hands like a lady?”

“I did wash my hands,” Emily said, calmly tugging her hand away and stacking her mother's plate atop the others. “Why should I spend an hour scrubbing my nails when they'll just get dirty again tomorrow?”

Mrs. Douglas turned to her husband. “Phil?”

“Hope, leave the girl alone.” As Emily picked up her father's plate, he patted her arm. “Honey, if it makes your mother happy, would it kill you to take a few extra minutes with the nailbrush?”

“No, Daddy, of course not.”

“That's my girl.”

Matt watched the exchange with mounting irritation. Throughout the meal Emily's mother had nagged at her incessantly. It amazed him that after all these years the woman still nitpicked every little thing she did. “Emily, chew with your mouth closed.” “Emily, sit up straight.” “No elbows on the table, Emily.” Emily, Emily, Emily.

It was enough to drive a person crazy, yet Emily seemed immune.

Matt rose from his chair, seeing this as the perfect opportunity to spend some quality time with her—and yes, earn a few brownie points. “I'll help with the dishes.”

“Emily doesn't need help,” Mrs. Douglas said sternly. “You're our guest. We'd love to hear more about your restaurants.”

His restaurants and his social contacts were pretty much all they had talked about during dinner. He was getting bored with the subject, and having a hard time finding anything interesting to say. His life
wasn't nearly as exciting as they seemed to think. He worked so many hours lately, he didn't have much of a social life anymore.

He started clearing away the dishes. “I wouldn't mind catching up with Emily.”

Emily disappeared into the kitchen and Mr. Douglas shot his wife a look. “Give the kids some time
alone,
Hope.”

As if co-conspirators in some secret plot—a plot to lure Emily from her boyfriend, no doubt—Mrs. Douglas gave her husband a wink and smiled at Matt. Though he'd agreed to do exactly that, he felt a jab of resentment on Emily's behalf. They treated her as if she were a child.

He helped Emily clear away the last of the dishes, and when he was sure the rest of the family was tucked away in the other room and out of hearing range, he asked her softly, “Why do you let her do that?”

She turned on the faucet, filling the sink with hot sudsy water while she scraped the plates off into the garbage. “Do what?”

“Nag you like that. It wasn't even me your mother was riding and I wanted to stuff a napkin in her mouth.”

“I barely notice anymore.” She held up a dishrag and towel. “Wash or dry?”

He took the towel. “How can it not bother you?”

“I suppose it gets annoying sometimes, but I've learned to tune a lot of it out.” She submerged the plates in the soapy water, then dumped a pile of silverware in with it and started washing. “Is that why you're hiding in here with me and not out regaling them with tales of your jet-set lifestyle?”

“My life isn't nearly as glamorous as everyone thinks.” He plucked a plate from the drain board, rubbed it dry and set it on the counter. “And I am
not
a brownnoser.”

She propped her hands on the edge of the sink and looked up at him, her expression pure sass. “‘That was an amazing meal, Mrs. Douglas,'” she mimicked. “What's amazing is that we don't all have ulcers. My mother is and always has been a lousy cook.”

“Ah, but I was being polite,” Matt said. “It's all in the delivery.”

She rolled her eyes up. “Oh, please.”

“It was the truth. I've never met anyone who cooks like her.” And, he hoped, he never would. “I don't know why they're making all this fuss over me.”

She slanted him a sideways glance. “I don't suppose it would have anything to do with you being a celebrity.”

He grimaced at the label. “I own a couple of restaurants, so what?”

“Last I heard it was closer to twenty. And let's not forget that you're a millionaire.”

He shrugged, taking the serving platter after she'd rinsed it. “I made a few smart investments, I have a good business manager.”

“Okay, you're an ex-football star.”

“I was not a star. I wasn't even the starting quarterback. My pro career was just beginning when I blew out my knee. Nothing impressive about that.”

“
People
magazine?” she said and he grimaced again. “You can't deny that was an attention grabber.”

Which is why he'd been so against it when his publicist had called to break the good news. “It was a business decision.”

She handed him a dripping wineglass and their fingers touched. She felt it like an electric surge, the soapy water acting like a superconductor. It took all her concentration not to snatch her hand away. Don't let him know, she warned herself. As soon as he figures out you want him, you'll be toast.

“And I'll bet you didn't get a single date from the exposure,” she said.

“Would you believe me if I said no?”

Jeez, did he think she was completely naive? She'd seen that magazine; Matt decked out in tight, threadbare blue jeans, his white shirt unbuttoned exposing his wide, muscular chest and deeply tanned skin. His hair was a little messy, as if he'd just taken a romp with his favorite Playboy Bunny. And the “come hither” look on his face, the heat in his dark eyes; it gave her shivers just to imagine it.

She sank her hands deeper into the sink to scrub the silverware, the hot water making her feel edgy and overheated. Or it could have been Matt. Actually, it probably
was
Matt.

The adolescent affection she used to feel for him, the giddy, excited sensation she would get in the pit of her stomach every time she saw him had evolved over the years. This new, hot-all-over, weak-kneed desire felt a lot more like lust. Fortunately, lust was superficial and without substance. It could be ignored—if he weren't standing less than a foot away from her oozing sex appeal and smelling like a million bucks.

“I didn't want to do the photo shoot,” Matt said,
and it took Emily a second to remember what they had been talking about. Magazine photo. Right.

She rinsed a handful of silverware and dropped it in the drain board. “So why did you?”

“The truth is, the restaurants weren't catching on the way I'd hoped. I could potentially have lost millions. My publicist thought it might boost business.”

“Did it?”

“Within the next three years, I'll be opening five more restaurants.”

“You should be really happy then,” she said, scrubbing a plate with more vigor than necessary. “Being filthy rich is what you've always wanted.”

He was silent for a minute, then he laughed. “You're threatened by my money.”

“That's ridiculous,” she said, the denial coming automatically.

“No, I could see it in your eyes when you walked into the restaurant the other day. You were on the defensive. You think because I have money, I'm a different person.”

Though she wanted to, she couldn't deny it. All these years, she'd just assumed money had changed him. Could she have been wrong? Could it be that this was her Matt, the Matt who had once been as integral a part of her life as the air she breathed? Her mind wrapped itself around the possibility, trying it on for size.

He leaned close and cupped her chin in his hand, turning her to face him. “It's still me, Em. I'm still here.”

Right then she had the wildest urge to kiss him. She wanted it so bad she even leaned in the tiniest bit, but came to her senses at the last minute and
pulled away. “I guess that remains to be seen,” she said instead. He might be the old Matt, but that didn't mean he was incapable of hurting her again. In fact, it made the chances even greater that he would.

He cleared his throat. “So, about the friendship thing…”

“I'm still thinking.”

“Come on, Em.” He gave her shoulder a nudge. “You know you can't resist me.”

“You're right, you haven't changed. You're still an incurable egomaniac.”

He gave another one of those grins, the kind that softened her tough, outer shell. “See, I told you I haven't changed.”

She suppressed the smile that was itching to creep across her face. Grabbing the scrub brush, she started in on the pan her mother had cooked the chicken in, deciding almost immediately that she would need a sandblaster to loosen the blackened goo clinging to the bottom. She put it aside and grabbed a bowl instead.

Realizing that Matt had gotten awfully quiet, she glanced up and caught him staring at the front of her shirt. Again. All through dinner he'd been looking at her, undressing her with his eyes.

“They're breasts, Matt. I'm sure you've seen plenty, so mine shouldn't be all that fascinating.”

He had the decency to look apologetic. “Sorry, I just can't get used to the way you look now.”

“
Different,
right?”

“Good, Em. You look
really
good.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Let's be clear on something, Conway. Friendship is one thing but I am
not, under any circumstances, going to sleep with you again.”

Something hot and dangerous sparked in his eyes and her knees instantly went mushy. “That sounds like a challenge, Emily. And you know how much I love a challenge.”

The bowl she'd been washing slipped from her fingers and splooshed down into the sudsy water. She turned away so he wouldn't see the rush of color in her cheeks. “I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not the least bit attracted to you anymore.”

“Here, let me help you with that.” He stepped behind her and slid his arms into the water next to hers. The width of his chest spread heat across her back and every feminine nerve ending in her body screamed to life. His hands folded over hers, fingers linked with her own and her temperature shot up what felt like a thousand degrees.