Ann Evans - That Man Matthews

She turned her head to follow the concierge’s pointing finger, and a few wisps of golden hair had the audacity to escape their French prison. Impatiently she lifted a manicured hand to smooth the disobedient curls back into place.

Glancing at her watch, she made a beeline for the hotel atrium where they were to meet in five minutes. He’d bet she’d never been late for an appointment in her life.

In another moment she had disappeared behind the jungle of plants and fake waterfalls that all fancy hotels insisted on cluttering up their lobbies with these days. But he could imagine her sitting there, glancing at her watch. Maybe tapping her foot.

Cody frowned again, then exhaled in disgust. What had Pa been thinking?

“No way in hell,” he muttered under his breath.

There were other people he could consult about Sarah’s behavior problems. Authorities of his own choosing. Not someone who would blame attention deficit disorder or him. Not someone who would probably suggest drugs that would turn his baby girl into a complacent little zombie with the personality of navel lint. No! No overbred blue blood was going to tell him how to raise his kid. And Cody was definitely not going to give said blue blood the opportunity to figure out that the Matthews household wasn’t exactly what it seemed to be.

Instead, he’d send a bellman to her with a message. Apologize for the inconvenience, cancel the meeting. Perhaps sometime in the future, he’d suggest. A vague-enough promise he never intended to keep.

There was still Pa to deal with. He was a stubborn old cuss. Once he’d wrung that promise out of Cody, he wouldn’t let up. There would be at least two more trips back here to D.C. to complete the Williston deal. Cody could hear Walt’s argument now. Surely one of those trips would allow him time to reschedule a meeting with Joan Paxton?

Of course, if he and the schoolmarm didn’t hit it off, he could say he’d given it his best shot.

He tipped his Stetson to the back of his head as an idea came to him. He was suddenly glad he hadn’t had time to change out of his comfortable buckskin jacket and jeans. Boots and western garb would suit this interview just fine. If he’d learned one thing from his father, it was how to make a Texas drawl and good-old-boy attitude work for him. In the corporate world, he’d used his rough frontier persona more than a few times to set those bean counters on their ears.

Joan Paxton would be easy to chase off.

A little snake-oil charm. A lot of Texas arrogance. Maybe he’d even shamble into his best aw-shucks, dumb-cowpoke routine, the one that never failed to get a cackling laugh out of Merlita. Miss Joan Paxton would hightail it home but quick and count herself lucky to get away.

Leaving him with no chance of another meeting.

Leaving him to find his own solution to Sarah’s wayward behavior.

He could spend the rest of the evening working out his frustrations in the hotel gym. Relax afterward in a hot whirlpool. Maybe he’d even stop by the hotel gift shop, see if he could find something to take back to Merlita. Just in case Sarah had been up to tricks again in his absence.

Striding toward the atrium, Cody’s lips curved into a satisfied smile.

Ten minutes.

Tops.

THE ATRIUM was filled with tourists just back from a bus trip to Arlington Cemetery and businessmen anxious to unwind from meetings held in hotel conference rooms. Waitresses, ever cognizant of the big tippers, had come out of the piano bar and were circling the tables of men.

Joan Paxton sat with her head down, making notes in her appointment book. She wouldn’t have minded a glass of water, but it was impossible to catch a server’s attention, and she soon gave up.

She glanced at her watch again. The man was ten minutes late.

Not a good sign, Mr. Matthews.

She refused to think of him as anything but Mr. Matthews, regardless of the fact that Walt Matthews had told her that his son hated formality. What kind of name was Cody, anyway? It was like Howdy Doody. No real adult had a name like that. It made her think of cowboys and Indians and Wild West shows. Understandable, considering the man lived in Texas, but if William Cody Matthews was really the successful businessman his father said he was, you’d think he’d have used his more professional-sounding first name.

Stop, she told herself firmly. You’re just finding fault because you’ve been upset lately. Mr. Matthews isn’t the reason your professional and personal life are in chaos right now. Don’t take it out on him.

Headmaster Mueller was the one who deserved her scorn. And quite a bit more than that if he didn’t keep his roving hands to himself. Which he might not.

Last week, after he’d cornered her in the supply closet and she’d slapped him so hard her hand still stung the following day, he’d seemed so sure of himself, almost amused. After all, in spite of her solid credentials, she was still just a teacher at the school, while he was the man who had almost single-handedly built, financed and ran the Virginia Academy for Gifted Children.

If she ever touched him again, he’d told her, she’d be looking for another job. Her face felt warm even now to think that she had countered that threat with one of her own. That if he ever touched her again, he’d be looking for a doctor. Since that time he hadn’t tried anything. But now she was always uncomfortable in his presence, feeling his eyes on her constantly, and the knowledge that she was under his scrutiny had begun to wear on her nerves.

How mortifying the whole episode had been. How unlike her. Struggling in a supply closet with a man old enough to be her grandfather. Threatening bodily harm to another human being. What would her father have said about such a tasteless display, such unladylike behavior?

She stared down at the latest to-do list she’d begun in her book, not really seeing the words she’d written there. Distasteful as that incident had been, she supposed she could manage Mueller. It was her most recent argument with Todd that had left her reeling. A week ago, when the tension had finally come to a head at their favorite Italian restaurant, she had been stunned to watch their relationship reach an unexpected and bitter climax.

What happened? Joan asked herself for the hundredth time. Todd Ingles was the man she was supposed to marry someday, the man she’d known since high school, the man with whom she intended to share a lifetime of dreams. And yet, after she’d told him what had happened with Mueller, he’d been unsympathetic and uncommunicative. Unable to understand his attitude, she’d finally asked him what the problem was.

“Now, don’t take this the wrong way,” he’d said to her over a plate of spaghetti and meatballs. “But are you sure you haven’t been sending 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?”