Barbara Freethy - Some Kind of Wonderful

"PLEASE. I DON'T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT BABIES."
Matt looked into Caitlyn's eyes with a hopeful expression. "I only moved to town a couple of months ago, so there's no one else to call."
"I've been manipulated by the best," Caitlyn said dryly, "so I can recognize a sob story when I hear one."
"I really would appreciate your help. This isn't an area I know how to control."
And she had a feeling there wasn't much in his life that he didn't control. "You're pretty good at getting what you want, aren't you?"
"That depends on your answer," he said, turning on that killer smile.
With the baby and Matt both looking at her with their big brown eyes she was completely lost. She handed Matt the baby
and put a hand on his arm. The heat between them suddenly seemed to sizzle. He looked into her eyes and she felt her
stomach clench. She'd meant to offer him a gesture of comfort, but instead the touch had created awareness between them,
a connection, a sexual attraction.
Oh Lord. What had she gotten herself into?

Some Kind of Wonderful

Barbara Freethy

To the Ladies at the Peninsula Tennis Club,
who provide great tennis, great ideas,
and great friendship

one

Cool wet fingers of fog brushed against his face as Matt Winters walked up the hill to his San Francisco apartment building. At the sound of a siren, he automatically stiffened. He'd been chasing ambulances
for so long he couldn't help but wonder what new story was developing, what tragedy was unfolding, what family was about to receive an unwelcome late-night phone call.
As the siren drew closer, he glanced down the street behind him. All was quiet. Parked cars, shadowy buildings, the light from the street lamps broke the darkness, but nothing looked out of place. Still, Mall felt Ihe prickles of uneasiness stab the skin on the back of his neck. He felt like someone was watching him, and his instincts screamed caution even though his brain couldn't figure out why.
Taking one last look down the street behind him, he moved to unlock the front door of his apartment building. He frowned when he saw that the door was ajar and the lock appeared to be jammed. Matt wasn't particularly concerned about his barely furnished apartment or even his own safety. He'd lived
in places far more dangerous than this. The broken lock aggravated his sense that something was
wrong, but a quick look around the lobby revealed nothing amiss.
With a weary sigh, Matt pressed the elevator call button and rubbed a hand across his tired eyes. He hadn't slept more than three hours in a row in the last seventy-two. He'd been chasing a news story, following a money trail that had led him straight up the steps of City Hall. Tomorrow the rest of San Francisco would read about the corruption of one of its supervisors in the morning edition of the Herald.
His mission accomplished, Matt should have been feeling satisfied. Instead he felt restless, once again reminded that no matter how many truths he unveiled, no matter how many mysteries he solved, he couldn't solve the one that mattered most.
Matt pressed the elevator button again, hating himself for not being able to let go of the past. How ironic that he lived his life in search of the truth, yet couldn't seem to accept it when it stared him in the face.
That need for closure, the desire to stop the endless hunger, the unquenchable thirst for answers had brought him back to San Francisco, the place where it had started and where it had ended.
Finally, the elevator doors opened. A minute later. Matt stepped onto the tenth-floor landing and walked down the hall to his apartment. He let himself in just in time to catch the phone before the machine
picked up. "Winters," he said abruptly.
There was no reply, just the sound of someone breathing. A prank call, an informant, a threat? He
didn't know which.
"Matt?" It was barely a whisper, so hushed he couldn't tell if it was a female or a male.
"Who is this?" No answer. "Look, I don't have time to"
The sound of a click, then the dial tone, told him the caller had hung up. Out of habit, he wrote down
the caller ID number. It wasn't one he recognized, but he'd check it out later. He was simply too tired
to deal with one more thing tonight.
Tossing his car keys onto the dining room table, he headed into the kitchen, wondering if by some impossible chance there was actually something edible in the refrigerator. Unfortunately, it boasted nothing more than a couple of beers, some wilted lettuce, and molding tomatoes. Popping open one
of the beers, he took a long grateful swallow, then walked back into the living room.
It wasn't much of a room for living in at the moment. There was an old black leather couch along one wall and a matching overstuffed armchair, an oak coffee table that held his array of newspapers and magazines, a stereo system, because he couldn't live without music, and a punching bag hanging from a hook in the ceiling, because he didn't know a better way to relieve stress than to beat the hell out of that bag. Boxing had gotten him through some tough times, given him a sense of control over himself and the chaos that had once been his life.
At some point, he'd have to invest in some furniture or maybe not. Who knew how long he'd stay in San Francisco? Who knew how long he'd stay anywhere? His life had been a series of entrances and exits, new places, new faces.
The phone rang again and Matt's muscles tensed. For a second he was tempted to let it ring, but he'd never been one to run from a fight or avoid a confrontation, although there had been plenty of people
in his life who had told him to do just that. He reached for the phone again and said, "Winters."
"Congratulations," David Stern replied.
Matt relaxed at the sound of his editor's voice.
"I can't wait until the morning paper hits the streets," David crowed. "Your story will rock this town."
"As long as Keilor doesn't file a libel suit."
"Let him try. You covered your ass quite well."
"Yours, too," Matt reminded him.
"That's why I pay you the big bucks."
"Yeah, right." Matt walked across his living room with the portable phone in one hand. "What's next?"
"Why don't you take a break? You've been on this story nonstop since you landed in town six weeks
ago. Take some time off. A few days in Lake Tahoe wouldn't do you any harm."
Matt didn't want a few days off. Vacations were for people who wanted to relax, to think, to philosophize, and he wanted to do none of the above. Too much time on his hands would only make
him feel that much more restless.
"I'm fine. I don't need a break," he said.
"I figured you'd say that. By the way, that P.I. friend of yours stopped by the paper today. Want to
tell me what you're working on?"
"It doesn't involve the paper."
"So it must have something to do with why you surprised the hell out of me by actually accepting my
job offer and leaving Chicago," David said, obviously fishing.
"Could be."
"We've been friends a long time, Matthew. I'm going to have to pull rank on you and insist on the truth."
Matt laughed. "You can try."
"I can do my own investigation."
"If you were any good at investigating, you'd be writing the stories instead of editing them."
"Now that hurts. Did anyone ever tell you that you wield honesty like a blunt instrument to the head?"
"And your point is?"
Matt's attention drifted as David launched into a long-winded reminder of how any investigation Matt
was involved in could ultimately affect the newspaper. Matt didn't bother to interrupt. He simply stared out at the lights of San Francisco weaving like drunken sailors up and down the city hills. It was a staggeringly good view, but most days he wondered what had possessed him to take this tenth-floor apartment in Pacific Heights. The burnished hardwood floors, the big bay window, the ultramodern kitchen felt wrong. This wasn't him. He was back alleys and bad neighborhoods, Chinese take-out