That Man Matthews. Ann Evans

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      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, God. Was this Walter Matthews’s idea of a joke? How could this Neanderthal be that sweet old man’s son? The man she’d met at the seminar had been soft-spoken, asking her advice with an oldfashioned courtesy you seldom saw anymore. But this man…after a few minutes in his company, she’d be certifiable.

      The waitress came to take their order. Cody Matthews tilted his hat to the back of his head with one finger and turned his appraisal of Joan into a leer. “What’s your pleasure, Jo-Jo?”

      My pleasure would be for you to end this meeting and go away, she thought. And then the rest of that line of thinking faded as she got her first good look at his eyes. Remarkable. Startling robin’s-egg blue in that darkly tanned face. Beneath the hat, his hair was solidly black, silky and crisp-looking, if just a shade too long to please a fashion editor. She felt a moment’s regret that these two features should be wasted on a loud obnoxious moron like William Cody Matthews.

      “Don’t keep this little gal waitin’, Jo-Jo.” He turned a hundred-watt grin on the waitress and patted her arm. “Time’s money, ain’t it, honey?”

      The waitress had obviously been well-trained. She didn’t move a muscle. Joan was the one who bridled at such familiarity. It reminded her unpleasantly of the way Headmaster Mueller had begun his little games with her, finding those opportunities to touch and hug. “A glass of white wine, please,” she said quickly, ordering the first thing she could think of to give the poor woman a chance to escape.

      Cody’s gut tightened. He should have guessed. Every woman in his life had loved wine. It was a drink to be sipped and fawned over, and personally, he had no patience for it. “Shoot,” he said with a dismissive shake of his head. “Wine’s no better than cow piss. Give me a double scotch. No rocks.”

      The waitress hurried away and deliberately he leered after her. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the Paxton woman stiffen. Her complexion had gone the color of new milk, and he knew he’d made one hell of a first impression.

      Kind of a shame to blow her out of the water like this, ’cause up close she didn’t look that much like Daphne, after all. Her nose was shorter and her eyes were nicer than Daph’s had been. A warm brown. But she had the attitude down pat. That regal distain that had been Daphne’s specialty and had eventually helped to kill their relationship.

      “Mr. Matthews—”

      “Call me Cody, gal. Mr. Matthews is my pa. ‘Course he doesn’t like that kind of formality any more than me. Reminds us too much of standing before the judge waiting to hear him pass sentence.” He made a loud snorting sound. “And we’ve both been that route often enough. How ’bout you? You ever been on the wrong side of the law?”

      She looked honestly stymied by that question. It was a good five seconds before she formed an answer. “No, I can’t say that I have.”

      “No, of course you haven’t. You’re a diplomat’s daughter, aren’t you? You probably went to some snotty private school and got taken everywhere in your father’s limousine and never once complained about having to put up with piano lessons.”

      “Actually it was violin lessons.”

      She was watching him closely now, as if he’d turned into a bug stuck on a pin. He lifted a speculative brow. “I’ll bet you never even jaywalk.”

      Joan ducked her head to allow herself time to think. There was something about the look in his eyes, the way those words hissed out between his teeth, as though he begrudged them. She realized that for some reason he found her objectionable. It was odd, really, when he was the one who was clearly being outrageous. But she’d never been the type of woman to run away from a challenge. Surely, if she tried hard enough, she’d find something worth salvaging from this conversation.

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