Matthew shifted from the chair to sit beside her on the bed and pulled her close before she could think to protest. His fingers tunneling under her damp hair, he patted between her shoulder blades. Slowly, she relaxed against his chest, drawn by the now-familiar scent of his aftershave, the steady thud of his heart beneath his starched shirt. After a hellish day such as the one she’d been through, who could fault her for stealing a moment’s comfort?
“It’ll be okay,” he chanted, his husky Southern drawl stroking her tattered nerves as surely as his hands skimmed over her back. “You’ve got plenty of people to help.”
His jacket rasped against her cheek and she couldn’t resist tracing the palmetto tree tie tack. Being in his arms felt every bit as wonderful as she remembered. And here they were again.
Could she have misread his early departure this morning? “Thank you for stopping by to check on me.”
“Of course. And I was careful not to be seen.”
Her heart stuttered and it had nothing to do with the whiff of his aftershave. “What?”
He smoothed her hair from her face, his strong hands gentle along her cheeks. “I was able to dodge the media on my way inside the hospital.”
She thought back to the barrage of questions shouted their way as she’d been loaded into the ambulance. Uneasily, she inched out of his arms. “I imagine there will be plenty of coverage of your heroic save.”
Matthew scrubbed a hand along his jaw. “That’s not exactly the angle the media’s working.”
Apprehension prickled along her spine nearly managing to nudge aside the awareness of his touch still humming through her veins. “Is there a problem?”
“Don’t worry.” His smile almost reassured her. Almost. “I’ll take care of everything with the press and the photos that are popping up on the Internet. Once my campaign manager works his magic with a new spin, nobody will think for even a second that we’re a couple.”
Three
N ot a couple? Wow, he sure could use some lessons on how to let a girl down easy.
Ashley shoved her palms against his chest. His big arrogant chest. So much for assuming he’d been attracted to her after all. It would be a cold day in hell before she fell into those mesmerizing eyes again. “Glad to hear you’ve got everything under control.”
Matthew eased to his feet, confidence and that damned air of sincerity mucking up the air around him. “My campaign manager, Brent Davis, is top—”
Ashley raised a hand to stop him. “Great. I’m not surprised. You can handle anything.”
He searched her with his gaze. “Is there something wrong? I thought you would be pleased to know about the damage control.”
Damage control? Her experience with him fell under the header of freaking damage control? Her anger burned hotter than any fire.
But the last thing she needed was for him to get a perceptive peek into her emotions. She scrambled for a plausible excuse in case he picked up on her feelings. “I’m dreading going over to the store tomorrow, but at the same time can’t wait to set things in order. It’s a relief to know I don’t have anything to worry about with the press.” Damn it all, she was babbling now, but anything was better than an awkward silence during which she might do something rash—like punch him. “So that’s that then.”
He didn’t leave, just stood, his brows knitting together. Her heart tapped an unsteady beat in spite of herself.
Okay, so he was hot and confident and sincere looking. And he didn’t want her. She shouldn’t be this pissed off. It was just an impulsive one-night stand. People did that sort of thing.
She just never had. But she wasn’t totally inexperienced. Why then did a single lapse against his chest plummet her into a world of sensation that a bolt of silk couldn’t hope to rival?
She wanted, needed, him gone now. “Thanks again for visiting, but I have to dry my hair.”
Oh great. Really original brush-off line.
He massaged his temple beside the bandage. “Promise me you’ll be careful. Don’t rush into Beachcombers until you get official notice that it’s safe.”
“I pinky swear. Now you really can go.” Why wouldn’t he leave the hospital? Better yet, return to Hilton Head altogether.
“About this morning…Ah, hell.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “You’re still okay with everything. Right?”
Full-scale alert. The man was rolling out the pity party. How mortifying.
If he said anything more, she might well slug him after all, which would rumple his perfectly tailored suit and show far more than she wanted him to see concerning his effect over her. “I have bigger concerns in my life right now than thinking about bed partners.”
“Fair enough.”
“I have to deal with the shop, my sisters, insurance claims.” She was a competent businesswoman and he should respect her for that. No pity.
“I’ve got it.” He held up his hands, a one-sided smile crooking up. “You’re ready for me to leave.”
Sheesh. How had he managed to turn the tables so fast until she felt guilty? Blast his politician skills that made her feel suddenly witchy.
She softened her stance and allowed herself to smile benignly back. “Last night was…nice. But it’s back to real life now.”
He arched one aristocratic brow. “Nice? You think the time we spent nak*d together was nice?”
Uh-oh. She’d thrown down a proverbial gauntlet to a man who made a profession out of competition. A chill tightened her scalp.
She shuffled to the window, offering him her back until she could stare away the need to explore the heat in his eyes again.
Her poise threatened to snap. Matthew’s return had already left her raw, and today she had little control to spare.
“Matthew, I need for you to go now.” She toyed with the satin bow in a potted fern, the ribbon’s texture reminding her of the gown she’d foolishly donned earlier.
“Of course.” His voice rumbled, smoother than the ribbon in her hand or the fabric along her body.
Two echoing footsteps brought him closer. His breath heated through her hair. “I’m sorry about the media mess and for not keeping my distance when I should have. But there’s not a chance in hell I would call last night something so bland as ‘nice.’”
If he touched her again, she’d snap, or worse yet, kiss him.
Ashley spun to face him, the window ledge biting into her back. His gaze intense, glowing, he stared down at her. The bow crumbled in her clenched hand.
Forget courtesy. “My sister is on her way with a blow-dryer. She forgot to bring one when she brought by my other things.”
He nodded simply. “Call me if you have any unexpected troubles with the press or the insurance company.”
The door hissed closed behind him. Snatching up the rose he’d held, Ashley congratulated herself on not sprinting after him. Especially since her lips felt swollen and hungry. She’d always been attracted to him. What woman wouldn’t be?
Her body wanted him. Her mind knew better—when she bothered to listen. She’d vowed she wouldn’t be one of those females who lost twenty IQ points when a charming guy smiled.
She sketched the flower against her cheek, twirling the stem between two fingers. How would she manage to resist him now that she’d experienced just how amazing his touch felt on her nak*d skin?
Straightening her spine, she stabbed the long stemmed bud back into a vase. The same way she’d done everything else since her parents tossed her out before kindergarten.
With a steely backbone honed by years of restraint.
It took all his restraint not to blow a gasket when he saw the morning paper.
Matthew gripped the worst of the batch in his fist as he rode the service elevator up to Ashley’s hospital room. He’d known the press would dig around. Hell, they had been doing so for most of his life. Overall, he took those times as opportunities to voice his opinions. Calmly and articulately.
Right now, he felt anything but calm.
He unrolled the tabloid rag and looked again at the damning photos splashed across the front page. Somehow, a reporter had managed to get shots of his night with Ashley. Intimate photos that left nothing to the imagination. The most benign of the batch?
A picture of him with Ashley at her front door, when she’d been wearing her robe. When he’d leaned to kiss her goodbye.
The photographer had gerrymandered his way to just the right angle to make that peck on the cheek look like a serious liplock.
Then there was the worst of the crop. A telephoto-lens shot through one of the downstairs bay windows when he and Ashley had been in the hall, on their way to her room, ditching clothes faster than you could say “government cheese.”
Had she seen or heard about the pictures yet? He would find out soon enough.
The elevator jolted to a stop. Door swished apart to reveal a nurse waiting for him with a speculative gleam in her matronly eyes. He managed not to wince and gestured for her to lead the way.
The nurse’s shoes squeaked on the tile floors as he strode behind her, the sounds of televisions and a rattling food cart filling the silence as people stopped talking to stare when he walked past.
He understood well enough the ebb and flow of gossip in this business. For the most part, he could shrug it off. But he wasn’t so sure someone as private and reserved as Ashley could do the same.
Matthew nodded his thanks to the nurse and knocked on Ashley’s door. “It’s me.”
The already cracked open door swooshed wider. Ashley sat in the chair by the window, wearing jeans and two layered shirts, all of which cupped her curves the way his hands itched to do.
He shoved the door closed behind him.
Ashley nodded to the paper in his fist. “The political scoop of the year.”
Well, that answered one question. She’d already seen the paper. Or watched TV. Or listened to the radio.
Hell. “I am so damn sorry.”
“I assume your campaign manager hasn’t rolled out of bed yet,” she said quietly, as stiff as the industrial chair.
“He’s been awake since the phone rang at 4:00 a.m. warning him this was coming.”
“And you didn’t think it would be prudent to give me a heads-up?” While her voice stayed controlled, her red hair—gathered in a long ponytail—all but crackled with pent-up energy as it swept over her shoulder, along her pink and green layered shirts.
“I would have called, but the hospital’s switchboard is on overload.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, a long sigh gusting past her lips. Finally, she unclenched her death grip on the chair’s arms and looked at him again. “Why does the press care who you’re sleeping with?”
She couldn’t be that naive. He raised an eyebrow.
“Okay, okay.” She shoved to her feet and started pacing restlessly around the small room. “Of course they care. They are interested in anything a politician does, especially a wealthy one. Still why should it matter in regards to the polls? You’re young, unattached. I’m single and of legal age. We had sex. Big deal.”