Texas Rose (8 page)

Until Matt.

She glanced at him covertly as he stood in front of one of the side altars, reading the description of the
saint portrayed there. And now that she'd lost her heart, she was still no closer to that huge church wedding than she was years ago when she'd only fantasized about it.

Eventually, it was time to leave. Refreshed though she felt, the moment they stepped outside, the hot air assaulted Rose like a fireball that had been lobbed directly at her. As if in a trance, she clutched the banister and slowly made her way down the steps until she reached the street.

She felt as if she'd been through a wringer. The air was almost tangible and she felt its weight on every inch of her body. Reaching blindly, she grabbed Matt's arm, afraid that her knees were going to buckle.

“Breaking Rule Number One? Oh, I forgot. You can't break it, only I can.” When he looked at her, his joking tone evaporated the way the hot moisture in the air refused to. “Rose, are you all right?” Her cheeks were so flushed, she looked as if she'd liberally smeared blush on them.

She could make out his voice, but it was echoing in her brain.

“I'm…fine. Maybe…we should go somewhere for…something cold to…drink.”

The words dribbled from her lips as she struggled to keep the world in focus, but it insisted on winking in and out like a light show.

The next moment the lights disappeared, as did the bones in her legs.

“Rose!”

Lunging, Matt caught her just as her body went limp. Scooping her into his arms, his heart pounding, he was momentarily lost as to his next move. Did he take her to the hospital? Bend with her right here and lay her on the sidewalk until she came to?

And then someone placed a hand gently on his arm.

Jerking around to look behind him, he saw an older, petite woman dressed in a summery blue skirt, blue vest and white blouse. She was wearing a short blue veil that hid part of her hair, but allowed a shock of white to peer out. She looked at him solicitously with bright, intelligent blue eyes.

“Is she all right?”

“I don't know,” Matt replied. “She just suddenly passed out.”

“Perhaps it's the heat. Why don't you bring her inside for a moment?” the woman coaxed. “I'm Sister Mary Katherine. I'm sure Father Malkowski won't mind if you bring her into the office to rest a bit.”

Turning, the nun led the way back up the stairs. Matt followed, surprised at how many people had just continued on their way, shifting curious glances at him but not stopping. He was grateful that the nun had come along when she had.

Sister Mary Katherine led him to a small office. There was a well-worn desk in the room, shelves
stuffed with books lining two of the walls and a creased burgundy leather sofa in the corner against a third. The sofa faced the desk and a large window that looked into a side yard.

“Place her there,” the nun urged.

As he made to comply, Sister Mary Katherine stepped into what turned out to be a tiny bathroom. Matt could hear water running. He brushed Rose's hair from her forehead and took her hand. Her eyes were still shut. Nervous, he felt for a pulse.

“Was she feeling ill?” the nun asked, coming back into the room.

“Not that she mentioned.” Feeling completely inept, he rubbed Rose's hands. Her face continued to look flushed.

Leaning over Rose, Sister Mary Katherine placed a cold, wet cloth on her forehead. “Is she by any chance pregnant?”

“No,” Matt responded immediately. And then he paused. The thought had never occurred to him. “That is…No,” he concluded again.

Rose would have told him if she were pregnant.

Wouldn't she?

Unsure, he looked down at the woman he had involuntarily lost his heart to. The woman who had turned his world completely upside down while never asking him for a thing.

The nun beside him was nodding. “Then it's probably this ungodly weather—you'll pardon the pun,”
she added with a twinkle in her eye. “That's one of the reasons we keep so many smelling salts on hand.” She indicated the small capsule she was holding in her palm. “More than one light-headed visitor has found herself suddenly communing with the floor.”

She laid a hand on Matt's shoulder. “I'm sure your young lady will be just fine. Hold her still now. We don't want her falling off the sofa and adding to her troubles.” Waiting until Matt placed his hands on Rose's shoulders, Sister Mary Katherine broke open the capsule beneath Rose's nose.

An acrid smell immediately assaulted her nose. Rose twisted and turned, trying to get away from the pungent odor. A small moan escaped her lips. She jerked suddenly and would have bolted upright if someone hadn't been restraining her.

Rose's eyes were watery as she blinked, trying to focus on her surroundings. The last thing she remembered was standing outside of St. Patrick's, trying to get the world to stand still.

“What…what happened?”

Relief washed over him. For now, Matt packed away the sister's innocent question. The idea was absurd, but it nagged at him anyway. Still, it would keep.

“You fainted.”

She'd never fainted before in her life. That was for weaklings, not her. “No, I didn't,” Rose protested incredulously.

“Gave your young man here quite a scare,” Sister Mary Katherine told her.

Stunned, she stared at Matt. “You brought me back into the church?”

“Coolest place there is right now,” the nun told her. “I'm Sister Mary Katherine and you're welcome to remain here as long as you like. Or I could hail a cab for you if there's somewhere you'd rather go.”

“No, that won't be necessary. I'm fine,” Rose assured her, trying to sit up. The only problem was, Matt was still holding her in place. “Matt, let go of my shoulders. I'm fine.”

He pulled back his hands. “Right. Rule One.”

She heard the slightly bitter edge to his tone. “No, not Rule Number One. Just a request.” She bit her lower lip, still feeling woozy. “I really fainted?”

“Dropped like a stone.” He saw her glance down at herself. Probably looking for any bruises that might be beginning to form. “I caught you before you had a chance to hit the ground.”

She looked at him ruefully. “I guess I should thank you for breaking a rule.”

The flush was receding from her cheeks. She was starting to look like her normal self. “Only if you want to.”

Sister Mary Katherine folded her hands in front of herself, glad that she wasn't needed any longer. “Well, if you young people will please excuse me, I do have errands to run.”

“We'll be on our way,” Rose told her, rising. Her legs felt a little wobbly as she stood, but at least they held her. “And thank you.”

Sister Mary Katherine squeezed her hand. “Don't thank me, thank your young man, my dear. He's the one who caught you.”

Yes, Rose thought, looking at Matt. He certainly did.

T
he inordinately good-looking young man standing in front of Beth Wainwright was pouring out his heart in a Marlon Brandoesque voice that sublimated his own, richer tones.

Tucker Stephens was one of eighteen young, would-be thespians who comprised her intermediate acting class and gathered around her twice a week for three hours to absorb her direction and expertise. Tonight they were gathered in her living room and the hour was getting late.

In spite of the fact that Tucker's performance was rather good, aside from the somewhat grating accent he had affected, Beth was having trouble concentrating. Her mind was elsewhere.

A week had passed.

A week in which, she knew, Matt continued to play the part of the patient, curious tourist and Rose continued to play his polite but distant guide. Beth knew this was the way things were going because Matt had filled her in. Beth also knew that Rose's young man was beginning to think about giving up again. He wasn't the caveman type, he wasn't about to grab
Rose by the hair and drag her to his lair, to keep her there until she came to her senses.

That alone recommended Matt to her, Beth thought. There just had to be some way to cut to the chase, to get Rose to see past her stiff, noble sentiments and cleave to the man who would make her life that much more worthwhile if she just allowed him.

In her heart, Beth knew that Matt was the one for Rose and she was positive that Rose knew it, too.

If only that damned stubborn Wainwright streak wasn't there…

Rose needed, Beth suddenly decided as Tucker called out to an imaginary wife his character had wronged, a catalyst. Something to set things in motion and to send Rose into Matt's arms.

Or someone…

A thought came to her, taking root swiftly.

Beth began to smile.

Tucker ended his scene to a smattering of applause from the rest of the students.

They were a hard lot to share praise, she thought. Already competitors.

“Very good, Tucker,” Beth said, rising from her winged chair from where she held court over the class.

“Well, that's all for tonight's class.” They began to gather their things together. “I want you all to rehearse those scenes we selected earlier this evening
and be ready to go on the next time we meet.” Like a queen sending her soldiers to the wars, Beth waved them off to the front door. All except for Bryce Keaton.

Bryce had been her prize student more than a year ago. She had even recommended him to an old friend of hers who'd been producing an off-Broadway play at the time. Graduated now, Bryce still sat in on her classes, saying he never stopped learning from her.

They had an affinity for each other that both enjoyed. “Oh, Bryce.” She turned toward him as the last of the students filed out. “Would you mind staying a moment longer? I'd like to discuss something with you.”

Beth saw one of the students nudge another as they left and didn't have to guess what they were probably thinking. She smiled to herself. She had always liked being the center of attention, the mystery woman people were always guessing about. Bryce had taken a break between graduating high school and going on to college. He'd allowed himself a few years to bum around Europe and earn his own way around the world before enrolling in college. Hence, he was older than the others and seemed years older than that.

She, on the other hand, never thought of herself as any older than twenty-nine.

Bryce smiled at her as she closed the door. “So, what's on your mind?” he asked. “I could see those wheels up there suddenly turning when Tucker was
on. Want me to give him some help nailing down his motivation?”

She waved her hand at that. “Very kind of you, dear. But, no.” She smiled at him. “He's no Bryce, but then, neither were you when you first came to my class.”

As she spoke, she slowly circled Bryce, looking at him from all angles as if she'd never seen him before. He'd come to class dressed completely in black, which had given her the idea in the first place. The more she thought about it, the more she liked it.

He certainly had the body for it, she silently approved. Still, she had to ask. “I think I remember you saying you were into track and field when you were in college.”

“Yes, I was.”

She stopped in front of him. He was a good deal taller than she was. “How fast can you run?”

“Why? Are you planning to chase me?”

He almost sounded as if he drawled when he said that. The way that Matt did. It made her feel a little homesick. She smiled. “Maybe later. What's your best time?”

He rattled off the last numbers he remembered achieving. “I can run the hundred-meter dash in ten seconds.”

Beth smiled as she clapped her hands together with relish. “Excellent.” He would do very nicely indeed.
The glint in her eye intensified. “How do you feel about helping Cupid along, Bryce?”

He crossed his arms at his chest and eyed her. “Just what is Cupid supposed to be doing?”

Beth dropped back into her winged chair, still looking up at him. Pleased with her plan. “Mugging someone.”

Bryce shook his head. His grin was just slightly confused. “Come again?”

“I think, my dear, that a little live improvisational theater might be just what you need to keep you fresh and on your toes.”

“And where is this live performance supposed to take place? Off-Broadway?”

Oh, it was off Broadway, all right, Beth thought. Way off. “The Metropolitan Museum of Art. More specifically, the alley beside it.”

“All right, you've got me really curious now.” He perched on the edge of the arm of her winged chair. “Fill in the blanks for me.”

He was in on it, she could tell. It was what she liked best about him. His willing spirit. “With pleasure, my dear.”

 

Matt didn't mind art. He had to admit that during the endless hours they'd spent crisscrossing the different rooms within the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Rose had shown him several pieces that he hadn't minded looking at. They were even nice—especially
the one with water by Monet, or Manet, or something like that. The names were swimming in his head.

But if he were being totally honest with Rose as well as himself, what he liked best about the museum was its air-conditioning system.

What's more, he had a sneaking suspicion that at least half of the souls wandering around the museum today agreed with him.

Impatience drummed through him as he followed Rose to yet another painting; this one a mass of colors he could have sworn a three-year-old had created by getting into a paint box and flinging the contents onto a canvas.

Matt had moved slowly, just as Beth had counseled him to do. Trouble was, it was so slow that he was beginning to feel as if he were actually moving backward.

In addition, he still couldn't get the little nun's question out of his mind. It had planted a seed that he couldn't seem to weed out.

Is she pregnant?

He knew that it was ridiculous to even remotely entertain the idea, and yet he just couldn't seem to get past the question. It nagged him, cropping up at odd times in the day and night. Asking Rose would be nothing short of insulting, and he knew it. The logical conclusion to be drawn was that she'd fainted because of the heat.

Still, that little notion kept buzzing around his head.

What if she was pregnant?

What if that was the real reason Rose had left—because she couldn't face him?

That was absurd, too, he chided, because why shouldn't she face him? After all, if she was pregnant, it was his baby, too…

Unless it wasn't.

Abruptly, Matt shut his mind down, refusing to go any further with the thought. He was getting far too carried away with something that probably didn't have a germ of truth in it. Rose deserved better than that from him, he thought, annoyed with himself. And he should have better control over his own thoughts than to let his mind wander like that.

“So, what do you think?” she was asking. She'd stepped back from the painting she was admiring. And then she took a better look at Matt. Rose smiled. He'd been indulging her. “You're bored, aren't you?”

Matt tried not to blink like a man waking up from a self-induced trance.

“No,” he lied.

He didn't lie worth a damn. Which was good in her book. “Then why are you trying to stifle a yawn?”

He shrugged carelessly, looking away at another painting. This one had slashes of red and yellow. “I didn't sleep much last night.”

That much was true. He'd kept waking up all
through the night. Thinking of her. Wanting so badly to cut the distance between their two rooms and to get into her bed. He'd actually gotten up several times, only to herd himself back into his bed.

If he kept it up, Beth was going to have a path worn in her rug, he mused.

“Maybe we've had enough culture for one day.” Rose glanced at her watch. She knew that the museum would be closing within the half hour. “It's getting a little late, anyway. What do you say we go back to Aunt Beth's and then maybe the three of us can go out to dinner?”

He'd much rather it was the two of them, but he kept that to himself.

Agreeable, be agreeable,
he kept repeating silently. He was going to wear her down with his agreeableness or die in the attempt.

“Sure.”

They'd worked their way down to the first floor again. Having spent the better part of the day here, Matt had gotten the lay of the museum pretty well memorized. He led the way to the front entrance.

He was a man who didn't ask directions, but he never seemed to need any. He'd always had an uncanny sense of direction, Rose mused.

There was so much about Matt that made him stand out from all the others. Sometimes, despite her resolution to keep her distance, she wanted to forget and just be with him. In the total sense of the word. She
knew she'd be negating all the groundwork she'd made up, but it was getting harder and harder for her to be noble about this. Especially when she wanted nothing more than to have him hold her.

To have him make love with her.

The sad thing was that it looked as if he'd finally come to believe her that she didn't want any of that. They'd spent every day going somewhere new and he'd been a complete and utter gentleman. He'd faithfully observed rules one and two ever since she'd fainted in front of St. Patrick's Cathedral.

That had been a week ago and he hadn't tried anything. Not a single, solitary thing.

Maybe he really was here just to play tourist. Maybe he had lost interest in her.

The thought pinched her heart and her stomach. It was all for the best, she knew that, but it certainly didn't feel that way.

It felt as if someone had gutted her.

It felt, she thought, exactly the way it had when she'd screwed up her courage and lied to him, saying that she'd lost interest in their being together and that it was all for the best if they just didn't see each other anymore.

Maybe this was payback.

Maybe this was some elaborate charade Matt was orchestrating to let her see how it felt to be emotionally abandoned.

Maybe, Rose advised herself as they walked out
side, she had better stop letting her imagination run away with her and just cease thinking altogether.

It felt as if she'd stepped into an oven. A hot, moist oven.

“Didn't get any cooler while we were inside, did it?” she murmured as the door sighed closed behind them.

He looked at her, concerned. “You're not planning to faint again, are you?”

“That was entirely unplanned,” she assured him. “And I'd just as soon you didn't bring that up again.”

They began to walk down the street. Several cabs went by, but they were either occupied or off duty.

“Why?”

She wondered if he was walking slower because he was tired, or because he didn't think she could keep up. Her sense of competition made her want to pick up the pace, but this baby kept sapping her strength.

“Because I'd rather not think of myself as one of those weak-wristed women who pass out.”

He slanted a look at her and smiled. “Nothing weak about you. You've got a will of iron. I heard your aunt talking about someone she once knew who was nicknamed the Iron Butterfly. I kind of figure that name suits you pretty well.”

It took her a second to sort through her aunt's stories in her head and make the connection. “That was Loretta Young's nickname.”

The name meant nothing to him. “Who?”

She'd said the same thing the first time Aunt Beth had told her. Then spent the next two hours watching a video of
The Farmer's Daughter.
“A big-time actress my aunt met when she was first starting out. That was when Aunt Beth went to Hollywood. She got a part in Miss Young's TV show.”

Matt could only shake his head. “Your aunt's certainly been around.”

“That she has.” Rose fought the temptation to slip her arm through his, even though it would have felt natural to do so. “I'm glad you like her.”

“I like her niece better.” Damn. It had just slipped out. He admonished himself, hoping it hadn't sent him back to square one. Beth had all but promised him that if he held back, Rose would come around. He could only hope the older woman knew what she was talking about. “Oh, sorry, I know I'm not supposed to say that.”

She smiled. The compliment warmed her like the good wine she missed having on special occasions. “That's all right, I—”

Rose didn't get a chance to finish what she was saying. Still keeping an eye out for a cab, they'd crossed the street and were passing an alley. Someone grabbed her from behind and yanked her into the shadows.

“Just give me your money and the little lady doesn't get hurt,” the attacker threatened.

Rose's eyes grew large as she became utterly still.
The scent of a man's cologne registered at the same time that fear made its appearance. She saw the look in Matt's eyes. There was instant pent-up fury there, as volatile as the tornadoes that periodically tore through the Texas Panhandle.