Hot August Nights. Christine Flynn
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you friends with anyone on the board?”
“I’ve met the board members,” she admitted, couching her words carefully. “They were all at the fund-raiser in Richmond last month. I would say I’m acquainted with them.”
“What about your brother?”
“My brother?”
“Senator Kendrick.”
He was fishing. For what she had no idea.
“My brother has more friends than I can count. He also has a staff that is far better prepared than I to answer questions about him. I’m here to build a house.”
Taking advantage of his momentary silence, Paula popped back in.
“When do you actually start work on the project?”
“Today. I was told to arrive ready for work.”
The short guy stuck out his hand.
“Ron Conway. Network special projects,” he said in that terse way media people had of identifying themselves. “I’m directing the documentary. The guy in the red cap over there is Andy,” he said, nodding to a young man who barely looked old enough to shave. “He’s audio. The guy with the ponytail behind the camera is Steve. Just go about your business and pretend we’re not here. We can pick up most conversations from twenty feet away, so don’t worry about us missing anything. We’ll be with you the whole way.”
She couldn’t begin to tell him how thrilled she was to hear that.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Conway. Just let me know what you need me to do.”
“Nothing other than what you’re supposed to do. We’re not staging anything. Just ignore the camera.”
“Ours, too.” Paula gave a “cut” signal to one of the cameramen in front of them. “We want some footage at the site.”
Microphones were turned off and cameras swung away as everyone headed for the open gate. But not by a single nerve did Ashley relax. Six cars down, she saw Matt straighten his long, muscular frame from where he’d leaned against his vehicle’s front fender.
The uneasy thought that he was apparently her ride competed with the voices behind her. The WFAZ cameraman complained about how hot it was going to get. Someone else wanted to stop for cold drinks.
“Hey, Tony.” Ashley heard the tall female reporter demand as she watched Matt emerge from the rows of cars, “what were you after with those questions?”
“A story,” came the terse reply. “I want something with some meat to it. I can’t think of anything more boring than covering some pampered celebrity whose trauma of the day will be ruining her manicure.”
“She’s a Kendrick. Ratings will be up ten points on any station that has anything on her.”
With their voices low and walking several yards behind her, Ashley didn’t think they knew she could hear them. Not that it mattered. She knew it wasn’t really her people were interested in. It was the mystique created by her mother’s royal blood, her father’s carpetbagger ancestors and his own family’s wealth. Few people truly knew her at all. What they knew was an image, the one she felt honor bound to maintain. There most definitely wasn’t anyone on the planet who knew her the way Matt did. Not even the man she’d once considered marrying had known of her deep-seated craving for freedom, or so completely destroyed her normal reserve.
The fact that she had let her guard down so completely with him now pulled that guard firmly into place. She had never blamed the wine for what had happened that night. She’d never even considered it. She knew she had let the barriers fall because he’d made it easy to do, because something about him had made her not care about propriety or obligation to a family image. She was afraid of what he now knew about her, of how easily she’d allowed herself to be seduced. Afraid of what he thought of her because of it. And seeing him again was truly the last thing on earth she wanted to do.
The knot in her stomach felt the size of a Florida orange when he stopped in front of her.
A white T-shirt stretched over his broad shoulders and chest. Well-worn jeans hugged his powerful thighs. Beneath the windblown hair falling over his forehead, black sunglasses hid his eyes. She could see nothing but her own reflection in those concealing lenses, but she could practically feel his glance work its way from the collar of her casual pink polo shirt and over her designer jeans to her new boots before he reached over and took her bags.
“I hope you brought cooler clothes,” he said, his voice flat as he headed back to his truck. Reaching it, he lifted her luggage into the pickup’s bed. “We’ve been hitting the nineties every day. The humidity is up there, too.”
“My clothes are fine,” she assured him, far more uncomfortable with him than the sticky heat. “I like warm weather.”
With her bags stowed, he walked past her to open the passenger door. “Then, you’re going to love it here.”
The documentary crew’s camera had them in their sights. Aware that they were being filmed, she should have felt relieved to put some distance between the lens and the reporters. Instead, she felt more as if she were stepping from the mouth of the lion into its throat when she climbed into the truck and Matt closed the door with a solid thud.
She barely had a chance to blow out an uneasy breath before he climbed in on the other side.
Not knowing what to make of his impersonal attitude, telling herself she should probably just be grateful for it, she shifted her glance toward the floorboard. His feet looked huge in his heavy work boots. The bottom of his jeans were frayed, the fabric so worn in spots that it was nearly white. A few more washings, or one deep knee bend, and the tiny hole above his knee would become a split.
It didn’t look to her as if he were dressed simply to play chauffeur.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were involved with Shelter?”
“It didn’t seem important.”
Keys rattled as he stuck one into the ignition.
“It seems important now,” she quietly replied.
The engine rumbled to life, hot air blasting from the air-conditioning vents. “All that matters right now is that we both have a job to do, Ashley. You’re here to work and so am I. Let’s just let it go at that.”
Looking as resigned as he sounded, he put the truck into gear to back out of the space. Behind him was the white van. Its driver was clearly waiting for him to go first.
Seeing the vehicle in the rearview mirror, Matt bit back a sigh. Ahead, a blue WFAZ TV van sat waiting for him to go so it could follow them, too.
He had no one but himself to blame for the fact that they all were there.
Beside him, Ashley finished buckling her seat belt and folded her hands almost primly in her lap. Her pale pink nails were perfectly polished, perfectly shaped. Her shining hair was swept smoothly back from her delicate features and caught at her nape with a wide gold clip. Her flawless skin looked as smooth as satin, her lips lush and moist.
He knew exactly how soft those lips were, and how arousing her hands could be. It was the way she smelled that got him, though. Her light, fresh scent had been instantly familiar, its effects on his subconscious immediate, and definitely unwanted.
“I saw in the volunteer brochure that your company manages these projects,” she said, her voice dripping with caution. “I just didn’t think you would actually be working here yourself.” Especially knowing I would be here, she could have added, but didn’t.
“I wasn’t until yesterday.” He’d felt frustrated even before she’d arrived. He felt even more so having to deal with the effects of her scent on the primitive part of his brain that clearly recalled the pleasure he’d experienced with her. “I donate a foreman and a couple of craftsmen