That Man Matthews. Ann Evans

Mueller the wrong signals?”

      It was fortunate that the restaurant had been crowded and noisy, because Joan was so shocked she dropped her fork, and it clattered on the table. “What is that supposed to mean?” she asked when she could find her voice.

      Todd shrugged as he twirled pasta on his fork. “Just that Mueller never struck me as a skirt chaser. You know his background, his education. He’s been published in the Journal, for Pete’s sake.”

      “Oh, I see,” Joan had said, unable to keep the annoyance out of her voice. “A degree from Harvard prohibits you from being a lech?”

      “I’m not saying that. He just seems too refined to play those kinds of high-school games. He’s well respected. Monied. His ancestors are founding fathers.”

      “So are mine. And I’ll bet my father never tried to put his hand up an employee’s skirt. Are you saying I might have led him on?”

      “Of course not. I’m just saying you might have misinterpreted the situation—”

      “Todd, it’s hard to misinterpret someone shoving their hand down the front of your blouse. He tried to kiss me.”

      Recognizing that he had chosen the wrong side in this argument, Todd reached over to cup her hand. “Well, why wouldn’t he? You are a beautiful woman.”

      Joan withdrew her hand and stared at him. “Don’t. You’re only making it worse.”

      “All right, I’m sorry. But so he got a little frisky. He’s probably feeling his age and trying to prove to someone that he still has what it takes to get a woman to look at him. You don’t want to piss him off, do you? This job pays well. It’s prestigious…”

      Her mouth had gone dry. Carefully she took a sip of water and just as carefully replaced the glass on the table. She gave him a level, knowing look. “The only one at this table who cares whether Mueller gets…pissed off, is you. Isn’t that right?” When Todd didn’t respond right away, Joan folded her napkin and quietly laid it on the table. Her appetite had completely disappeared. “What are you afraid of?” she asked softly. “That when he retires next year and the board chooses a new president of the school, he won’t give his endorsement to you because your girlfriend wouldn’t…put out?”

      “Don’t be like this. You’re not thinking straight. Tomorrow—”

      “No, don’t say anything more.” It had occurred to her suddenly that she really did not know this man. They’d been together for so many years. When had they stopped communicating? “I know how badly you want your own academy, Todd, and how frustrated you are that it’s taking longer than you’d planned. I just never realized that you’d want it so badly you’d be willing to see me humiliated in order to make it happen.”

      “Joan, I’d never let Mueller hurt you. I love you.”

      “Do you? I wonder sometimes.”

      And she couldn’t stop wondering, even now, after she’d left him sitting in the restaurant alone, after she’d dumped the flowers he sent to her classroom, and after she’d boxed up her belongings and moved into a small apartment on the other side of town. She’d given up her own apartment two years ago to move in with Todd. She didn’t know where she’d end up now, but she knew she couldn’t stay at Todd’s place one day longer.

      Maybe when she went up to the Cape with her mother this weekend…Her mother had never been a fan of Todd’s, but she could be quite objective when she chose to be. All those years as the wife of a career diplomat had rubbed off on her. Somewhere between the Burbanks’ barbeque and the Olsons’ regatta Joan would confess everything, ask for advice…

      God, thirty-one years old and asking for advice on her love life from her widowed mother. What was she thinking? She rubbed absently at her temple, realizing that she was getting a headache.

      She turned her attention to the well-worn appointment book on her lap. With the tip of her pen, she ticked off the items on her list:

      Buy new swimsuit for weekend

      Birthday card for Mother

      Haircut with Denise

      Clothes to cleaners

      Black pumps to shoe repair

      Talk to apartment manager about light in the stairwell

      She frowned at what she’d written. A compulsive list maker, Joan prided herself on her organizational skills and the ability to prioritize. There was nothing on this list that couldn’t be handled in one afternoon. All of it was so mundane-sounding. So normal. And yet, it was reassuring in a way to know that in spite of her current difficulties at work and with Todd, the requirements of life still marched on, needing attention.

      “A new bathing suit, huh? Ever try one of those French thong things?”

      Joan wasn’t the skittish type. The husky, male voice coming from behind her and laced with amusement didn’t make her jump or suddenly swivel in her chair. It only annoyed her to realize that a total stranger was reading her notes over her shoulder. She turned her head slowly, prepared to make sure that a man with such odious manners would know just what she thought of him.

      The first thing she saw was the belt buckle. Large, silver. It was a spectacle of male adornment that had been hammered and engraved by a craftsman’s loving hands. Unfortunately not by a craftsman with any sense of style or taste.

      It depicted the head of a long-horned cow, or at least that’s what Joan thought it was. Behind the head was a wandering outline of the state of Texas. Or New York. Hard to tell.

      Her eyes traveled upward, away from the snug jeans that delineated strong male thighs, past an elaborately stitched and fringed buckskin jacket. Her gaze stopped momentarily at the open neckline of a faded blue shirt. Fascinating. Not the shirt, but the glimpse of swirling midnight hair that covered a muscular chest. Thick and crisp and extremely touchable.

      That interest unsettled her. Todd’s body was nicely muscled, but practically hairless. His torso had the pale, smooth perfection of a Greek statue. Until recently, she’d thought it the most magnificent body in the world. Until recently, she’d thought Todd the most perfect man.

      She lifted her eyes to the stranger’s face. Sun-bronzed, with the hard features of a renegade, this man would never be called handsome. Rugged, maybe, but even that seemed too tame, too polite a term to describe him.

      Suddenly Joan realized that her scrutiny hadn’t gone unnoticed. One inquiring brow rose with devilish interest, and he winked. She would have been embarrassed to be caught staring if she hadn’t felt that his breach of manners warranted an indignant look.

      “So what do you think?” he asked with a grin. “About the swimsuit, I mean. You look like a gal who wouldn’t mind attracting a little attention. I know I’d give you a second glance.”

      She wanted to tell him that as pickup lines went, he had the worst she’d ever heard, but it was probably better not to indulge in conversation with this man, no matter how attractive he was. “I’m really not interested in your opinion,” she said in the haughtiest tone she could manage, and then added with her most withering look, “or your attention.”

      The stranger faked a wounded look at her rebuff. Then unexpectedly, he was shaking her hand as though her arm was a pump and he was bent on drawing water. “Howdy. You must be Joan Paxton. I’m Cody Matthews. Mind if I call you Jo-Jo?”

      She barely registered the fact that this mannerless cretin was the man she’d planned to meet. She was stunned, but he had already flung himself into the chair opposite her before she found her voice. “Actually I’d prefer being called—”

      “Sorry about the delay, Jo-Jo, but I didn’t think you’d mind waiting.” His dark brows rose again. “How ’bout a drink? I’m parched.” He threw back his head, spotted a waitress nearby and bellowed, “Hey, honey! We need some service over here.”

      Oh,