pedestal that was frighteningly high and had gone through college on a sports scholarship. He had decided to go to law school mainly because he wanted to earn a big salary.
Lorna jumped up as well. “Did you see that icing?” she demanded to Matthew.
“Are you cold?” he whispered next to her ear.
“Certainly not,” she hissed back. “I’m usually overwarm at these games-that’s why I dressed this way.”
“Misha-”
She glanced at him. Those dark eyes had settled on her with an intensity that caused needed heat to rush through her veins. She touched the tips of his fingers and looked away. Chaos had broken out below. One of the Detroit players was shoved into a little box, like a jail. Nobody seemed to replace him. The whole thing wasn’t fair; the other team got to use all their players. Lorna, like her son, didn’t like injustice.
All of a sudden, the fans were on their feet again. Lorna gulped down the last of her hot dog and jumped up.
“Did you see that assist?” Becky demanded.
“Terrific!” Lorna raved.
She screamed with pleasure like everyone else when a Blackhawks player got shoved into the jail. Then two players were in the jail. The lights flashed again. Then again.
“I haven’t seen a hat trick in years,” Aaron said. “This is some game.”
“I haven’t ever seen a hat trick,” Lorna said truthfully.
Matthew pressed her hand again. She refused to look at him this time, and took away her hand. She folded her arms beneath her breasts and buried her hands under her arms. Some warmth there. The crowd’s enthusiasm was catching. Loyalty was beginning to build up in Lorna. The Detroit players looked more scarred than the others.
To some extent, she was appalled. The game was simple, really, just like any other competitive sport in which one team tried to score higher than the other. The terminology, unfortunately, was like a foreign language she hadn’t learned yet, but the gist was obvious. The only problem was that the players on both sides seemed to spend more time trying to kill one another than trying to score. She’d let Johnny go to a game like this with friends when she monitored every violent show on TV? And the more violent the game, the more the crowd roared its approval.
“…so I applied to Whitaker and Laker.” Aaron was responding to her questions, patiently and gently asked. “Matthew Whitaker is the best. I knew I’d be the youngest member of his firm, but I…”
Lorna’s eyes all but popped out at the scene on the ice. She pulled at Matthew’s sweater. “He
“Puck,” Matthew whispered.
“Puck, then. They’re letting him get away with it!”
“They’re a wee bit ticked they’re losing,” Matthew commented. “See where they’re pulling the goalie? They’ve got to score and now, or they’re going to lose.”
The goalie wasn’t being “pulled” anywhere; he left the ice of his own volition, as far as Lorna could tell.
The fans hurled themselves to their feet and stayed up, screaming encouragement and insult. The puck pitched back and forth at the speed of light. Adrenaline was racing through the crowd; lights were flashing and eardrums were popping.
By the time it was over and the Red Wings had won, Lorna was exhausted, exhilarated and without question, warm. Johnny was crazy. She could have worn a sundress.
An hour and a half later, Matthew had dropped off Aaron and Becky and was driving Lorna home. “So what was your impression of him, Misha?” he asked her.
“I have to vote no,” she said simply.
He frowned in surprise. “I was almost sure you liked him.”
“I did. He’s a very nice young man. Bright, from a good family, ambitious, personable, nice-looking.”
“Misha.”
She leaned back against the car seat. “He lacks commitment, Matthew. He wants to get ahead-he’s willing to work. I have no doubt he’ll do his best on anything you tell him to do. But the commitment he made to go into law school was only a commitment to secure a niche in the higher income brackets. That’s not
“Maybe that was what I wanted,” he said quietly. “A perfectly emotional reaction, Mish. It was the reason I wanted you to come-to get your honest opinion.” A smile played on his mouth as he turned into the driveway of her building. “There might have been another reason or two.”
“Such as?”
“The way those slacks fit across your bottom.” He slid up and out of the car, closing his door and striding around to her side. He opened her door, and in a moment they were strolling up the walk to her front door, his arm looped around her neck. “The way your hair looks when it’s loose on your shoulders.” He pressed a kiss on her hair. “The way you fill out a sweater…”
“I believe that was a sexist comment,” she directed in general toward a black velvet sky.
“I take it back, about the way you fill out a sweater,” he offered obligingly. At the door, he seemed in no hurry for her to produce her key. She’d understood from the beginning that there would be no long ending to the evening. It was a weeknight; Matthew was exhausted; it was already after midnight. Still, when she started to open her purse, he hooked both arms around her shoulders and pressed his forehead against hers. White frost-breath suddenly appeared between them. “The game was an excuse to be with you,” he remarked. “And then, you happened to mention that you were a big hockey fan.”
She found an imaginary piece of lint on his coat shoulder. “A good game,” she said brightly.
“Have you ever seen anything like that last slap shot?” he questioned dryly.
“Shut up, Matthew.”
“You’d never seen a hockey game before in your entire life.”
“Maybe I just happened to want to be with you, too,” she informed him gravely. Gray eyes met ebony ones. They were both smiling. “Matthew, jogging makes me ill. You might as well know it. I
“What else?” he murmured.
He didn’t exactly make it easy for her to find her key, insert it in the lock and turn it. He was unbuttoning her coat as she rummaged in her purse; once the key was in the lock he was pulling her close again, checking the fit of her pants with the palms of his hands, cradling her to his thighs, which were parted as he leaned against the door. Moonlight glistened down on snow, gleamed on his dark hair. His eyes shone like black opals. He was so dark in the winter’s light, all tall and proud and sensual in a way she had never understood a man to be sensual. Sure of himself, but not overt about it. Experienced…in life, in love. He radiated that, as if he could be so sure…
“Have you loved many times?” she queried softly.
“Many? No.” His palm brushed back her hair, first one side and then the other. “Let’s get back to potato chips and the other things you think I need to know about you.”
“My weaknesses?”
“I already know your strengths, Misha.” Teasing kisses landed on her temple.
“I have to read before I go to sleep or I have insomnia,” she confessed.
He chuckled, his arms folding loosely around her again, his fingers lifting and playing with the tendrils of hair at the nape of her neck. “Try harder,” he suggested.
“I hate to be interrupted when I’m working. No human being could want to live with me the first day of my period.” He kissed her, hard, on the mouth then, as if he understood how shocked she was at letting that personal detail slip out. “I like TV dinners. I lose socks in the dryer. I also lose my temper on occasion. I’ve always wanted to go to one of those…uh…movies. I have no control over my son, no discipline. I hate grocery shopping… How long do I have to go on?” she questioned. “Your turn for true confessions.”
“Not yet.” His slash of a smile was only token; it did not reach his eyes. Those dark orbs held stark desire, depths of feeling where lightness suddenly didn’t belong.
