Hot August Nights

“Great,” she muttered, and set her goblet down with a clink beside her purse and the manila envelope beneath it.

She didn’t feel relaxed anymore. The drive had been a total waste.

“Tell me,” she said, leaning forward again to see if she could see her sandal, “is he really playing tonight, or is he just doing what he tends to do when it comes to his family and avoiding me?”

“He didn’t say what he was doing.”

Liar, she thought. He and Cord were as thick as thieves.

“Tell me where he is and I’ll take the papers to him. All I need is two minutes.”

“He didn’t say where he’d be.”

Exasperation threatened to surface. Years of biting back anything that might sound less than agreeable kept it from her tone. “You don’t have to protect him from me,” she assured him, drawn by his loyalty as much as she was annoyed by it. As a Kendrick, it wasn’t easy knowing who to trust. Cord could obviously trust Matt, though. “I’m not asking him to donate an organ. I just want his signature.”

“He’d probably give you the organ.”

“Then, tell him I need a lung and that I’m on my way.”

The corner of his mouth crooked, the expression dangerously close to a smile. “For some reason, I think he might not believe that.” With lazy masculine grace, he pushed himself away from the door. “Leave me the papers. I’ll see that he gets them.”

“I can’t leave them with you.” Still probing for her shoe, she barely noticed the way Matt came to a halt at her flat refusal. “I know my brother. He’ll let them sit around until I have to come back for them. Or he’ll lose them,” she decided, hearing boards creak as Matt resumed his stride. “Then the lawyers will have to redraw them and I’ll have to waste hours chasing him down again. He could have signed these two days ago, but he was in such a hurry to get out of his meeting and up to New York for some concert that he totally spaced it.”

“Maybe he spaced it on purpose.”

“I can’t imagine why. It’s not as if he’s getting cut out of anything. It’s just an administrative formality that Dad wants taken care of this week.”

She nudged her chair back farther, pine legs scraping against cedar.

“Would you turn on the light, please? I can’t see.”

There were times she would like to take a hike from responsibility, too, she thought. At the very least, she would love, for once, to know what it felt like to do what she wanted to do, the way her brother did, instead of what was expected of her. There were times she felt so stifled she could scream.

But that wouldn’t be dignified, either.

A while ago, she’d only felt frustrated by her parents and her life in general. Now, she felt frustrated by a brother who obviously had never learned the value of other people’s time. It didn’t help that she couldn’t find her shoe.

The clean scent of soap and something hinting of citrus, musk and warm male filled her lungs an instant before she glanced up. Matt crouched in front of her. With one hand braced on the arm of her chair, he reached under the table. His arm brushed her leg as he did, the feel of it as solid as granite against her calf.

He picked up what was little more than a dainty heel and a few intersecting ribbons of leather. In the dark, the crimson leather was practically invisible.

“Is this what you’re looking for?”

Ashley’s glance slid from the breadth of his shoulders to the dainty shoe he held in his big hand. With it extended toward her, he openly studied her face and waited for her to take what he offered.

From the unblinking way he watched her, it was almost as if he were daring her not to.

She had no idea where the odd thought had come from. “Thank you,” she murmured, taking the shoe from his hand.

Without a word, he rose, dwarfing her, and stepped back so she could slip the little straps over her foot.

Dismayed by how quickly her heart was beating, she glanced up to see him hold out his hand.

Refusing to let him rattle her was her goal for the day. Utterly determined to have at least that much go her way, she curved her palm over his, willed herself to ignore the heat seeping into her skin and rose from the chair before she could spend any time thinking about the flutter the contact put in her stomach.

She stood too fast. Suddenly light-headed, wanting to ignore that, too, she turned to pick up her purse, keys and the envelope beneath them.

The quick lack of equilibrium wouldn’t be overlooked. Swaying just enough for her to consider that the last splash of wine might not have been the best idea, she steadied herself against the first thing she could reach—which happened to be Matt’s chest and a forearm that felt like hammered steel.

The man wasn’t just solid. His body felt as hard as concrete. Even his fingers felt as if they had no give at all when they automatically locked around her upper arms to keep her upright.

Beneath her hand, she felt the steady beat of his heart.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m…fine.” She was aware of the scowl in his voice, more aware of the heat wherever her body touched his. Each little point of contact seemed to physically burn—her palm where it had flattened against his chest, her arm where it lay against his. “I just got up too quickly.”

She shifted, getting her footing, trying to ease back.

Still holding her by one arm, he picked up the bottle of wine and tipped it. The scowl deepened. “Was this full?”

“It was when I opened it.”

“You sat out here and drank half a bottle by yourself?”

She was tempted to point out that he could have joined her. He just didn’t give her a chance. His frown had settled hard on her mouth. The displeasure carved in his face seemed to be slowly fading, though. It turned to something that looked far more like curiosity. And heat.

The air in her lungs went thin. She wasn’t sure she was even breathing when his eyes finally locked on hers once more.

“Give me your keys.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your keys,” he repeated, finally deliberately letting her go. “You’re not driving anywhere.”

She had already realized that she’d had more wine than could be considered wise. She’d realized, too, that his power to rattle her went a tad beyond anything she might be able to physically control. Yet, all she truly cared about at the moment was that he was the third person that day to tell her what she couldn’t do.

Curling her fingers around her key ring, she tipped her chin, reminded herself not to be intimidated and politely said, “No.”

The sound he made leaned heavily toward exasperation. “Don’t do this.”

“I’m not doing anything,” she replied ever so reasonably. “You asked for my keys. I said no. End of discussion.”

“It might be the end of the discussion, but it’s not the end of the issue.” The determination in his eyes met the uncharacteristic stubbornness in hers. “Don’t make me have to take them.”

“Well, I’m afraid you’re going to have to,” she informed him.

Her tone mild, her expression faintly mutinous, she slipped her hand under her jacket, beneath her blouse and tucked them into her bra. She was perfectly capable of keeping her keys in her possession while she figured out how to get home without driving there herself. She wasn’t drunk, but she doubted she could walk a perfectly straight line, either. The last thing she wanted was to be stopped for driving under the influence. Worse, harm someone in an accident she caused. The press would have a field day with that one.