Redemption (7 page)

He had gotten more than he had bargained for at the meeting with Kaslow’s execs. Or maybe he had given more. Somehow he had found himself making concessions he had never intended, letting his emotions cloud his good sense. That was why he had cut short his football career at the University of Montana in favor of acting. In a clutch, Matt had always gone with his instincts, rather than the carefully arranged game plan the coaches had drawn up.

Now his instincts had him blowing his budget before filming had even started, all as a result of a boardroom duel with a hard-hearted hombre in a designer blouse.

The voice of the woman at Kaslow’s still echoed in his mind, tapping at a long-ago memory. He often forgot faces, but voices stayed with him. The inflections, the accents, their unique rhythms. The way they reflected the speakers’ moods.

And her mood had definitely been testy. He could still hear the chill in her voice, a chill that was mirrored in the ice floes of her eyes.

The voice from his memory, though, was softer, less distinct than the one challenging him in Kaslow’s boardroom. Filtered by a southern drawl, slightly husky—that low-pitched purr that accompanies sexual satisfaction.

He closed his eyes, sliding deeper into the sofa, letting the images, the sounds, seep back into his memory. That voice moaning, a sexy little catch in the throat. His own voice groaning in response. A gasped, “Oh, Johnny.”

His eyes flew open.
Johnny
.

“Oh, shit.” His eyes narrowed as he stared unseeing at the beer in his hands. Vanessa. No, her name wasn’t Vanessa, and his wasn’t Johnny. Vanessa and Johnny were the doomed lovers they had played, roles that had eventually mirrored actual events all too eerily.

The image of her face, and more, appeared suddenly like a photograph in his mind. That hair, the black untamed wildness that smelled like honeysuckle. Eyes like soft gray suede. A smile that turned her cheeks into rose-tinted apples and his insides to jelly.

He raised the beer to his mouth again, remembering. It had been a long time ago. Ten years, he figured. What was Clarissa Peters doing now? What had ever become of her?

Then recognition struck, bright as a kick light. The hair was scraped back and lassoed with a clasp now, her eyes granite hard but still gray. Her face was leaner; the lips stiff, not nearly so inviting. But the voice was the same. Oh, it certainly used different words now. Harder, stronger, more confident. But ten years and a thick layer of sophistication couldn’t alter vocal chords, and he distinctly remembered her voice whispering against his throat.

The wide-eyed innocence he had found so appealing was gone, but then, that was to be expected. There had been a time when he even believed it had never been there, that it was all an illusion that had roped him in like a bleating calf.

Now she possessed more potent weapons. Her seat on Kaslow’s board put her directly in a position to stop him from filming there.

He stared at the beer bottle in his hand. It all added up—why she had been so determined to thwart their plans. If Claire Porter really was who he thought, then it was no wonder she didn’t want him around. She had obviously changed her name, altered her appearance and mannerisms enough so that no one would recognize her.

He wondered how she had managed to make it so far up the corporate ladder. But then, one of the things he had been drawn to was her intelligence.

His eyes narrowed. Thoughts of today’s skirmish faded as he wondered just how to confront her with his knowledge. First thing tomorrow morning, he decided, he would call on the former Clarissa Peters. They were long overdue for a morning-after squaring of accounts.

The next morning Claire had just begun to imagine she was in the clear when the phone rang. She picked it up, and her heart skipped a beat as she recognized the voice on the line.

“This is Matt Grayson,” he said, as if she could mistake that voice. “I was wondering if we could meet.”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea, Mr. Grayson.”

“Call me Matt. After all, you used to,
Clarissa
.”

At the sound of the name, her throat closed up, her hand clammy on the receiver.

He knew. She didn’t say a word, couldn’t, and then she swallowed and cleared her throat. “I—I think you may have misheard. I-It’s Claire. Claire Porter.”

He gave a short laugh. “Cut the crap. It took me a while, but I finally figured it out. You’re Clarissa Peters. Though, I have to admit, you’ve changed. A lot.”

“I really can’t talk now—” she began, but he stopped her.

“Then tell me when we can meet.”

“That—that would be inadvisable.”

She heard him sigh. “A phone call, Clarissa.” He emphasized the name. “That’s all it would take. I could find out where you live, show up on your doorstep—the husband doesn’t know, I take it.”

“I don’t have—” Too late she realized it might be better to let him think she was married. “You seem to be misinformed,” she said firmly. “I’m not this Clarissa—who did you say?”

For a moment, the line was silent, and she was beginning to think he had fallen for her ruse, but then he spoke. “Then tell me why you’re so damned eager to keep us out of your store.”

“That’s very simple. It’s a bad business decision. As I explained yesterday, the inconvenience, the possibility of damage…” Her voice trailed off as she scrambled for another reason.

“Ah yes,” he said, smooth satisfaction in his voice. “You always were concerned about the bottom line, weren’t you, Clarissa? That’s the only reason you agreed to take your clothes off for the camera, if I recall correctly. You wanted more money.”

Now it was her turn to be silent. Finally she spoke, her voice bitter. “You’ve got your facts wrong, Mr. Grayson.”

“I don’t think so,
Miz
Peters.”

“It’s Porter,” she said, feeling an urge to sharpen her claws on his flesh. “And I would appreciate it if you would keep your suspicions to yourself. This has nothing to do with the current transactions.”

“It has everything to do with the
current transactions
. And no, I can’t promise you I won’t blow your cover—unless you agree to meet with me. How about, say, in an hour? My hotel room?”

“No.”

He sighed. “Then I’ll call your boss—that would be Mr. Kaslow, wouldn’t it? Mention I knew you once—” Claire heard him chuckle over the phone. “Implying of course, that as a former
girlfriend
and all, you’re probably not the best person to negotiate with me on this.”

She swallowed, feeling trapped. But then, she reminded herself, she had gotten out of worse scrapes before. “All right. I’ll meet you. But not at your hotel room.” She thought quickly. “The store doesn’t open for another hour. Come to the service entrance on Tenth Street; take the freight elevator to the seventh floor. My office is just past the elevator entrance. If anyone asks, you can explain you’re checking out the location for…storage.”

“All right. I can be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Twenty,” she said, just to be obstinate. And to give herself more time to compose herself.

“Twenty minutes,” he agreed, and for a moment, Claire remembered how easygoing he had once been. Apparently she wasn’t the only one who had changed.

Twenty minutes later, Claire stood gazing out the bare window behind her desk. She had sent Joan off on an errand that should keep her occupied for an hour. And, fortunately, her office was located near the end of the corridor, near the freight elevator—in fact, she used it often when she was in a hurry. There was little chance Matt would run into any of the other store personnel on his way here. Still, she felt as if she were inviting a mountain lion over for breakfast.

Maybe she should have faked her own death…

Stop it
, she told herself. This was just going to be one of those “haven’t seen you in a long time, how’ve you been” kind of things. He’d probably try to twist her arm over the contract, but she’d had her arm twisted before, to no effect.

She sat behind her desk, staring at the open door as she composed her features. When she heard the heavy clang of the elevator doors, her throat went dry.

She could always move to Mexico…Surely there were cultural advantages to living in a foreign country. And they did have soccer there. Tripper could easily learn Spanish—

Oh, my God, Tripper!
Her gaze flew to the photograph on her desk. She could hear footsteps in the hall as she grabbed the frame with a shaking hand. But before she could open a desk drawer and shove the damning evidence inside, Matt appeared at her door.

Claire hid the frame in her lap. She looked up at Matt in the doorway, her expression carefully blank. He
had
changed, she realized, filled out, grown broader, his features more handsome with another ten years added to his age. As he walked toward her desk, wearing jeans that looked more suited to the range than to the office, she realized one thing about him hadn’t changed: He still exuded sex appeal the way most men sweat. Effortlessly, gracefully—and to Claire, at least, dangerously. Though she was in absolutely no danger of falling for his brand of sex appeal again. As she had discovered, on the few dates she had found time for in between climbing the corporate ladder and raising a son, she was now practically immune to the appeal of the opposite sex.

She gave him the same smile she would give her dentist and, without a trace of nerves, said, “I see you were able to find it with no trouble.”

“Yeah, I’m starting to feel right at home in freight elevators. I’ve been using the one at the hotel.”

“Why all the secrecy?” She opened her desk drawer and as unobtrusively as possible slid in the photograph frame while he sat in the chair across from her desk.

He settled his green gaze on her. “That’s funny. I was just about to ask you the same question.”

Claire looked away. She had rehearsed her answer, yet now, the words seemed to have been spirited away by a band of butterflies. “I don’t know what you mean,” she finally said.

“Clarissa Peters. That’s who you are. Or should I say ‘were?’”

Claire shook her head. “I was never Clarissa Peters.”

Before she could explain, he pounced on her statement. “Come on. You’ve changed a bit in the last ten years, I’ll admit, but I never forget a voice.” Dark amusement crept into his gaze. “Especially one that’s whispered sweet nothings in my ear.”

She resisted the urge to toss the jar of jelly beans at him. Instead, she tossed him a frosty glare. “Clarissa Peters was a stage name. I never intended to have an acting career, so I invented the name. The acting job was simply a way to earn some easy money—at least, I thought it would be easy.” The bitter thought twisted her lips. What a naïve ninny she had been. “It was supposed to help with expenses for grad school.”

“I remember you told me you wanted to go to grad school. MBA, right?”

She nodded.

“So you were really ‘Claire’ all along.” He seemed satisfied with that. But his next words were a shock. “I tried to contact you.”

“Oh? Whatever for?”

“What do you mean, ‘whatever for’? To see if you were all right, to see if you needed anything—”

“What on earth could I possibly have needed—except anonymity?”

“Hell, I don’t know. I just know I tried, and your agent said he didn’t know how to get in touch with you. I even tried calling all the Peters in the Oklahoma City directory.”

Claire refused to feel any satisfaction at his words. There had been a time, briefly, when she would have given anything to hear that he had been concerned. But now, the words were too late. “Well, that’s very touching,” she said coldly.

Matt’s eyes remained level, and for a second, she thought she saw regret. “You really have changed, haven’t you?” he said quietly.

Claire didn’t reply.

He looked away, taking in the well-trimmed office. A painting of the store hung on one wall, along with her master’s diploma. Then she saw his eyes rest on the credenza, at a photo of her brandishing a tennis racket.

“It looks like you’ve done pretty well for yourself.”

“Well enough,” she agreed.

“I never would have pictured you here.” He shrugged. “I thought you were…more of a country girl, maybe. Not so many hard edges back then.”

Claire raised her eyebrows. “You hardly knew me ‘back then.’”

“I wouldn’t say that.” He grinned wickedly. “I thought we got to know each other pretty well, in fact.”

Claire couldn’t tell if he was mocking her. “Having sex with someone hardly constitutes ‘knowing’ them—not in the usual sense of the word.”

“Maybe you’re right. I didn’t even know your real name, much less anything else about you. As I recall, I did most of the talking when we were together.”

She shifted her gaze, remembering against her will. It was true, she had encouraged him to talk about himself. And she had listened, wide eyed, as he shared anecdotes about his family back in Montana. It was as if he were talking about life in the Australian outback, so different was the life he described from hers.