“That’s just what I was thinking about you,” he said. “What is it that makes all the gorgeous ones so wacko?”
With a dainty snort, she rolled her eyes. “What is it that makes men like you so full of themselves?”
“Probably wackos like you chasing us around,” he said with a grin, and took a step forward, so that they were standing almost chest to chest. “But if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather just fast-forward past your little game and get down to whatever it is you’re after.”
She gave him a withering glance she had probably used a million times on a million guys in a million venues; a superior, don’t-touch-me-look that, on lesser women, Matt could usually dismantle with merely a smile. Only this woman was obviously a master at deflecting, so Matt just reached around her for his coat, his arm next to her head, his body only inches from hers. He couldn’t help himself; he glanced down at her endlessly blue gaze, one that was challenging him, he could see it, and felt a smile playing at the corner of his lips. “Let’s just pretend you aren’t following me—”
“Oh, let’s.”
“So what are you doing here?” he asked, quietly breathing in her perfume.
She cocked her head to one side, obviously enjoying the fact that he didn’t know. “What are you doing here?”
Matt leaned in a little closer, his mouth only inches from her face as he groped for his coat behind her back. “I asked you first, Miss Priss.”
“Okay, genius,” she said, tapping a finger against her bottom lip. “Let’s put on our thinking caps, shall we? Why would in be the offices of a state senator?”
He wasn’t actually thinking too much at the moment as his gaze wandered her lips, her little nose, and her killer eyes . . . until a thought suddenly occurred to him. A thought that perhaps this really wasn’t about him. “You’re not here to see Senator Masters . . . are you?”
“Brilliant deduction.”
Matt instantly reared back, coat and all. So the little cuckoo was a friend of Tom’s? Unbelievable! “You’re kidding.”
“I am so not kidding,” she said cheerfully, smiling with such pleasure that cute little laugh dimples creased her cheeks. “Now it’s your turn. What are you doing here?” she insisted. “Friend of Tom’s?”
“Fraternity brothers.”
“That certainly would explain a lot.” She smiled fully at him then, almost blinding him with it.
Matt shook his head as he shoved into his coat, marveling at the unbelievable odds of this little coincidence. Too bad, really—he was enjoying their verbal fencing. But, as he really shouldn’t continue to bait Tom’s friend by calling her a stalker, he motioned vaguely to the office across the hall. “You’d probably be more comfortable waiting in his office.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” she said, obviously pleased with herself. “I’m sure he’ll want to meet in a larger area. I had the impression that several people would be here.”
Matt paused in the straightening of his tie to look at her. “Are you sure you have the right day? Tom’s got a meeting this afternoon, but it’s with the campaign staff—”
“Yes, that’s why I’m here.”
Now Matt was seriously confused. The campaign was fully staffed, and it was too early for neighborhood volunteers. He looked at her expensive suit, her purse and shoes, the black pearl ring on her hand. “But . . .”
The door opened at that moment; they both turned toward the sound of several people entering the office, and squeezed, simultaneously, through the door and into the crowded hallway. “Tom!” she called, and Tom waved at her over someone’s head as he came hurrying forward.
“I see you two have met!” Tom exclaimed happily before grabbing her in a big bear hug that almost swallowed her whole.
“Not really,” she said politely, straining for air.
“Oh? Well, this is Matt Parrish—but you can call him Matt,” Tom said, and let go of her, winking over her head at Matt. “I bet you remembered Rebecca Reynolds right off, didn’t you?” he said to Matt.
Why should he—
“It’s Lear,” she quickly corrected him, blushing lightly.
“Oh, that’s right, I keep forgetting. Rebecca Lear. That was your name back in the glory days, right?” Tom continued jovially, and to Matt he said, “You know what I’m talking about—Miss Texas 1990?”
Matt’s jaw dropped, and he wasn’t certain that his tongue didn’t all but roll out onto the carpet, Tasmanian Devil style. He looked at Rebecca Lear again, his shock mixing with a growing sense of alarm. What was Tom doing?
But Tom had grabbed Rebecca’s elbow and was already steering her toward the conference room before Matt could say anything. “You were Miss Houston in 1989, weren’t you, Rebecca?”