7 Days and 7 Nights (9 page)

Olivia put her right arm out and connected with the bag.

“Not bad. But you need to do it like you mean it. A real quick extension and a hard jab before you pull back.”

She jabbed harder, making solid contact with the picture of his face.

“Ouch. Very impressive.”

She smiled and took a bow.

“Okay, champ. Why don't you try that with your left, now? Take it across your body at an angle, like this,” he pulled her glove forward, “and jab hard.”

Olivia followed his instructions and clipped the side of his caricature's face.

He knew he should move around behind her to better help guide her punches, but was reluctant to get too close to the delicious backside. It would be a hell of a lot easier to use his body to unsettle her if his own weren't so eager to take the bit in its teeth.

Matt stayed where he was as she began to dance around on the balls of her feet. Something about the way she held her body gave him the sense that she'd done this before.

“How's this?” She jabbed harder, pummeling the bag with both gloves, working into a barrage of blows. Right after left, then two quick lefts and another right.

“I feel like the crotchety old trainer in
Rocky
.” He hummed the movie's theme music as he directed her attack on the bag and earned an unguarded flash of white teeth.

Her arms were tanned and gently muscled, and her full breasts bobbled beneath the sleeveless T-shirt that had come untucked at the waist. He liked watching her body move. Whether pacing or punching, she had a natural grace that drew his eye and definitely held his attention.

Matt stepped in closer and crouched over a bit, intrigued by the rotation of her hips as she moved from foot to foot. Her belly was flat, and there was an occasional flash of smooth skin as her T-shirt rose with her movements. The way she bobbed and weaved struck a chord in the back of his mind.

“That's it. Now you're cooking.”

He forgot both his plans and her flying fists as her hair came loose from its clip and swirled seductively around her shoulders. In fact, he was at exactly breast height and getting quite a jiggly eyeful when he saw her body start to whip around and heard the beginning of her breathless warning.

“Matt, watch out for—”

And then he heard nothing but the resounding thud of her foot connecting with the side of his jaw, followed by the slap of his body hitting the floor.

And then there was silence, followed by a merciful layer of dark.

10

None of your publicity mentions a former career as an assassin.” Matt lay flat on the floor where Olivia's kick had sent him.

“Are you all right?”

He turned his head toward her and slowly opened his eyes. “What in the hell did you hit me with?”

“Try not to talk.” Olivia squatted down next to him and pressed a dishtowel stuffed with ice against his jaw.

Pushing her hand away, Matt pulled himself into a sitting position and ran a hand tentatively along the side of his jaw. When it reached the big tender spot, he winced.

“Jesus, Olivia. What happened?”

“Here. Hold this on it.” She placed the makeshift ice pack in his hand and directed it toward his face, noting the grimace when cold met throbbing skin. “It was a spinning hook kick. I didn't see you bend over.”

“You're a kickboxer?”

“Well, I'm not a professional or anything.” She put a hand out to stop him when he started to remove the ice. “Keep the cold pack on it, Matt. You're going to have a big-time bruise as it is.”

She stood and took a step away.

“How long have you been kickboxing?”

“I was only on the amateur circuit for a couple of years.”

“Oh. Well. That must be why I'm still alive.” He leaned back so that his shoulders rested against the back of the sofa and drew his knees up in front of him. “How long was I out?”

It was Olivia's turn to wince.

He closed his eyes and sighed. “You don't need to spare my feelings now, Olivia. The station's recording the Webcam feed twenty-four hours a day. They're probably already rerunning the KO in slow motion.”

“You were only out for about a minute. Not all that long.”

“Oh, great. I was afraid this was going to be embarrassing or something.”

“Do you want me to call a doctor?”

“No, I don't want you to call a doctor.” He moved as if to stand, but seemed to reconsider. “I thought you were a runner.”

“I was until it got too hard to go out and sweat in public. You'd be surprised what my listeners have decided I should and shouldn't do.”

“Yeah. I bet they feel real good about your ability to tear men apart with your feet. Aren't people in the helping professions supposed to be nonviolent? I mean, what did you do, get a doctorate in psychology and a master's in martial arts?”

The phone rang, eliminating the need for a response, and Olivia left him propped against the couch while she went to answer.

“Oh, hello, Charles.” She walked the cordless phone back toward Matt. “No, he's fine. No, you don't need to call 911.” She covered the mouthpiece with one hand and looked down at Matt. “He wants to send in the paramedics. Someone told him that might warrant a segment on
Real Life Rescues
.”

She handed him the phone and then stood beside him to eavesdrop.

“No, Charles. Don't call anyone. I'm fine. Olivia just kicked the shit out of my face. It's no big deal.” He started to grin up at her, but the grin turned into a grimace of pain. He moved the ice to another spot on his jaw. “Yes, if anyone's going to hurt anyone again, we'll be sure to call you first.” Matt rolled his eyes, a move that didn't require the use of his jaw. “Yes, I promise. Yes, I'll get up off the floor now. Goodbye, Charles.”

Matt turned the phone off and rose slowly from the carpet. “He wasn't happy about not being able to promo our altercation, and he doesn't want me sitting on the floor. Evidently my pain and suffering aren't visible enough from down here.”

He walked around to the front of the couch and plopped himself down on it, offering a jaunty wave to the Webcam as he went. “Charles is becoming quite the tyrant, isn't he?”

Olivia sat down on the edge of the couch and pressed the ice back against Matt's jaw. “And why not? He's got us performing like a couple of trained apes, while he's out there poking sticks through the bars of our cage.”

“Well, this monkey's thirsty. How about a cold one from the fridge?”

“I guess I did more damage than I realized. Aren't your arms and legs working?”

“My injuries are not all visible. You coldcocked me in front of a live audience. Just think of the dent you put in my masculine pride. We're talking major emotional pain and suffering.” He kept his expression tragic, but there was an unholy twinkle in his eye. “I'd say you owe me some special treatment.”

Olivia went to the refrigerator and extracted a Newcastle, which she presented to him with a flourish. “For you, Your Injured Highness.”

Matt took a long pull on the beer. “Ahh, I think I feel my wounds beginning to mend already.” He took another sip and set the bottle on the table beside him as Olivia turned to go. “But I also hear my stomach rumbling. I was going to make linguini with clam sauce, but I'm not sure I have the strength.”

Olivia turned back to face Matt. “You're asking me to make you dinner?”

“Well, I do need to rest up for my show, and I'm going to have to eat to produce energy for all those hours of talk.”

“You don't seem to be having any trouble running your mouth right now.”

“I know there must be at least a flicker of guilt buried under your unconcerned facade.” He leaned forward so that she could plump the pillow behind his head and then settled back into the couch with a grateful sigh.

“Thanks. You don't mind if I put on the Braves game while you whip up a little something, do you? They're playing the Cardinals.”

Without waiting for an answer, Matt pointed the remote at the TV and tuned in the game. Then he reapplied the ice to his jaw and reached for the beer with his free hand. She saw him smile as he crossed his long legs at the ankle and settled in to watch.

Without a word, Olivia made her way to the kitchen. She did in fact feel guilty about knocking him out, but if he was thinking linguini with anything, he was in for a disappointment.

While Matt lolled on the couch, Olivia foraged in the kitchen. Ten minutes later she laid his dinner tray on the cocktail table.

Matt eyed his meal with interest. “Gee, I haven't had grilled cheese and tomato soup since elementary school. Can we have cookies and milk for dessert?”

“If you behave yourself, I might part with a few of my Chips Ahoy. But only because you're injured.”

“I guess I'll have to mind my manners, then, won't I?” He lifted one golden brown triangle to his lips and took a healthy bite. Then he took a long pull on the beer. “Maddux is pitching. The count's two balls, one strike.”

Olivia wouldn't have minded watching the game, but she never actually got the chance to sit down. First she cooked another grilled cheese—this time made with sourdough bread and a fat slice of tomato at Matt's request. Then she fetched aspirin and water to combat the throbbing he said he felt in his jaw, though it didn't seem to stop him from voicing an ever-increasing list of demands.

While she contemplated the possibility of taping his mouth shut in the guise of first aid, he wolfed down a whole sleeve of her chocolate chip cookies and started on a second bottle of beer.

She had just taken a first bite of her own long-cold sandwich when Matt held up the makeshift ice pack and waved it in her direction.

“If you're not too busy?” He handed her the plastic bag that she'd tucked inside a dishtowel. “My ice seems to be melting.”

“Funny what a blast of hot air can do.” Olivia snatched the baggie out of Matt's hand and went to the freezer to refill it.

“Oh, and while you're up, I was thinking that—”

“No.” She slammed the freezer shut. “No more thinking. No more food and drink. No more requests.”

“Why, Olivia, what happened to your bedside manner? I'm going to have to call the nurse's union about your attitude.”

Olivia stalked back to the couch. “I'll bring you the phone if you'd like to call an ambulance or a cab, but I will not bring you one more ridiculous thing.”

Standing over him, she lifted the bag full of ice, positioned it precisely, and when she had his complete attention, dropped it directly into his crotch.

“This is
Guy Talk
. You're on the air.”

“What's going on in that apartment, Matt? How could you let the doctor get the drop on you like that?”

“Ding, ding, ding, ding. You are the one thousandth person to call and ask that very same question. In a moment, our announcer will tell you what you've won. In the meantime, I have a question of my own: What were you doing watching us on the Internet in the middle of the afternoon? Does your boss know you're visiting non-work-related websites during business hours?”

“I hate to disappoint you, Ransom, but I caught it on
Atlanta Alive
. They ran it in slo-mo about twelve times just before the six o'clock report.”

Matt raised the ice pack to his jaw. “Great. So all of Atlanta has seen it, huh?”

“And then some. Your own station's promoting the hell out of it. They're talking about offering a poster of Dr. O's foot hitting your jaw as part of a giveaway. Do you have any idea how I could get one?”

“Not in this lifetime.” Matt dropped the call and punched up the next.

“This is
Guy Talk
. You're on the air.”

“Matt, you're not looking so good at the moment, buddy.”

“I'm okay.”

“Maybe, but you're giving us guys a bad name. I couldn't believe it when I saw you hit the floor. I'm donating a carton of Wheaties in your name. And half a dozen cans of spinach.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“You're welcome. And if you'd like a little free advice, you ought to dismantle the punching bag while she's asleep. The boxing gloves definitely belong in the dumpster.”

“Yeah. Great plan. And maybe I can glue her feet to the floor to give myself an extra advantage, huh?” Matt dropped the call just as Olivia wandered out of her bedroom and headed for the kitchen. “Wimps, all of you,” he finished. “Sometimes you just have to take it on the chin . . . or jaw, like a man.”

Without a word, Olivia picked up her headphones, plugged them into the board, and walked into the kitchen to put a kettle on to boil. He'd just opened his mouth to comment when he noticed the new message scrolling across his monitor. Instead of the usual caller name and opinion, his producer had simply typed “va-va-vavoom.” Matt put the mystery caller on the air.

“You're on
Guy Talk.
But if you're calling to harass me about kissing the carpet, I'm not interested.”

“Oh, I wouldn't do that.” The voice was female and sultry, not his usual brand of caller at all. “I'm actually calling to offer my sympathies.”

Matt sat up straighter in his seat. “Sympathy? Now that's been in short supply tonight.”

“I sure do hope your jaw is feeling better, Matt. And I'll tell you something else. If I were locked up with a big, strong hunk of man like you, I wouldn't be wasting my energy on a punching bag.”

He cut his gaze toward the kitchen and caught a glimpse of Olivia standing stock-still, her hand outstretched toward the kettle.

“Now that's exactly what I was telling the good doctor before she laid me low.” He leaned in closer to the microphone and let his tone grow as intimate as his caller's. “You'd never knock a guy out, would you?”

“Oh, no. I prefer to
tire
my men out.”

Matt kept his gaze trained on Olivia, who was still doing her statue imitation despite the now-howling teakettle.

“It's good to hear there are women out there who still know how to
be
women.”

He bit back a grin as Olivia's jaw clenched.

“Why, thank you. I do pride myself on knowing how to treat a man.” The caller's voice was close to a purr. If he wasn't mistaken, Olivia looked ready to roar.

“I bet you wouldn't have to be forced into cooking a meal or pampering a fellow a bit, either.”

“You're right about that. I think men deserve all kinds of attention. And if you make it out of that apartment in one piece, I'd like to give you some. Um, attention, that is.”

Olivia snatched the kettle off the stove and the whistling stopped abruptly.

Matt kept a watchful eye on Olivia—and the boiling water—as he ended the call with, “Now there's an offer no man in his right mind would refuse. You check in with me anytime you feel like it.”

He could read the anger in Olivia's eyes as he rose from his chair at the audio console and leaned down toward the microphone. “This is
Guy Talk,
where a guy can be a guy. Call me.”

Matt flipped his microphone off and stepped around the console. “You look ready to deck someone . . . again. I hope you're not expecting me to turn the other cheek?”

“I can't bear to hear women talk as if their entire mission in life is to make some man happy. And you, of course, lapped it up as if it were your due.”

“It was a harmless flirtation, Livvy. Men and women have been talking to each other that way since Eve tempted Adam. I don't think she meant any more by it than I did. It was just a little wordplay.”

“Hmmph. Foreplay is more like it.”

He moved closer, intentionally invading her space. “Jealous, Livvy? I have plenty of wordplay to go around. Hell, we could kill a little time looking up new definitions in the dictionary.”

“Are you ever serious?”

“Are you always?”

They stared at each other for a long moment, neither budging. Olivia's eyes still sparked with anger; they'd deepened to a verdant green that made him think of primeval forests.

“You need to lighten up, Olivia. I happen to know firsthand that life is way too short to waste it sweating the small stuff. And in the end, it's all small stuff.”

“Now there's a convenient philosophy for a man who refuses to grow up. I assume you'll forgive me if I don't consider
my
show or
my
career small stuff.”