Summer Jazz Read online

  Summer Jazz

  Peggy Webb

  Copyright 2011 Peggy Webb

  Smashwords Edition

  Cover art copyright 2011 Marc Fletcher

  Publishing History/Bantam Loveswept

  Copyright 1987 Peggy Webb

  All rights reserved

  CHAPTER ONE

  "Mattie's back in town."

  Hunter Chadwick pretended he hadn't heard. He leaned closer to the tin soldier in his hand, turning it this way and that, inspecting the painted face, the miniature sword. But he wasn't really seeing the toy; he was looking backward in time, recapturing a summer ten years ago, a sultry summer of sea and sunshine and jazz. A summer of Mattie.

  The voice of his toy designer continued on, providing singsong accompaniment to Hunter's thoughts. "Her granddaddy says she's a regular hellcat. Out all night, partying till Lord knows when, bringing in a parade of men that would make your head swim just to keep up with the count. She's got quite a reputation, that girl. Earned it in Paris, I guess. Remember that scandal about. . . ?"

  Hunter nodded absently, but he wasn't remembering a scandal. He was remembering Mattie at eighteen, her hair wet from the sea and her long, tanned legs sugared with sand. He was remembering the way the sunshine brought out the amber in her green eyes. Cat's eyes, he used to call them. And how she had hated that! She would rail against him, calling him a spoiled rich boy, a lazy ne'er-do-well.

  The old toy designer, with his wise little gnome's face and shaggy gray hair, gave Hunter a keen look. "I don't believe you've heard a word I said."

  "Yes, I did. You said Mattie's back in town." Hunter placed the tin soldier on a marble-topped table, leaned back in his swivel chair, and propped his feet up on his desk. "And I don't give a damn."

  That statement might have been convincing coming from anybody else, but in spite of his looks—his wild black eyes, bristling black hair, and intimidating size— Hunter was a teddy bear, lovable and softhearted.

  And Mickey Langston, the venerable toy designer and Hunter's great-uncle, suspected Hunter cared. "Are you going to her welcome home party? It’ll be quite a berry mash, I'm told."

  Hunter chuckled. Sometimes he thought Uncle Mickey's spoonerisms were all that kept him sane. "Merry bash or not, I'm not going. Besides, I'm not even invited."

  "It's not until next week. And Phillip's feelings will be hurt if you don't come, it being right next door, and all. It's not every day a man's famous granddaughter comes home, you know."

  Headlines flashed through Hunter's mind. “Mattie Houston, Jazz Sensation." "Jazz Pianist Takes Paris by Storm." "The Incomparable Mattie Wows London." He'd kept up with them all. Through the years he'd known exactly where Mattie was appearing, what songs she was playing, whose heart she was breaking.

  His feet banged against the hardwood floor as he stood up. The vacated swivel chair spun crazily from his abrupt departure.

  "Let's get on with this business of toy making," he said. "Mattie Houston is ancient history."

  o0o

  But she wasn't. The minute he heard the jazz later that night, Hunter knew he'd been lying. He was standing on his patio, surrounded by moonlight and cricket song and the sweet smell of gardenias. From across the hedge came the haunting melody, the shivers-up-the-spine blues, played as only Mattie could.

  The music ripped at his gut, turned his heart inside out, and seared his nerve endings. The song was Summer Wind. Their song. He stood rooted to the spot, scarcely daring to breathe as the music poured over him. It was sunshine and laughter, wild summer rides and stolen summer kisses. It was sweet satin thighs and honeyed mouth. It was agony and ecstasy, promises and heartbreak, past and future. It was Mattie.

  When the last strains died away Hunter walked to the gap in his hedge and looked up. Mattie was there, sitting at the piano in the second-story music room, as he'd known she would be. Through the open French doors he could see her profile, classic and beautiful, unmarred by the years and the riotous living. Her dark blond hair, loose and flowing over her shoulders, was still long and streaked with gold and honey and flame.

  She stood up and walked to the French doors, taking Hunter's breath away. The body that had driven him wild that hot summer so long ago was clothed in nothing more than a filmy negligee, so sheer, it might as well have been left in the closet. As Hunter gazed up at her, he felt like a starving man who had been invited to a sumptuous banquet. He couldn't get enough of her— the long length of leg, the tiny waist, the perfect breasts.

  Did she know he was out here? Had she deliberately chosen that song? Was she teasing him?

  He gazed at her without guilt. The lovely girl who had become a tantalizing beauty. The woman whose sweet kisses had lifted him to the mountaintop, then had plunged him to the pits of hell. The delectable hoyden who had ripped out his heart and scattered little pieces of it all over Europe.

  Sweat popped out on his brow, and he knew it wasn't from the heat. He lifted his hand in a mock salute. "To hell with you, Mattie Houston."

  Then he turned on his heel and walked away.

  o0o

  When Mattie laughed, she threw her head back, baring her throat and setting her hair aswing. She was laughing now, looking up at her adoring escort, flirting outrageously with him. Suddenly the laughter stopped. Her face froze into a mockery of a smile and her hands became cold.

  Hunter was here, standing in the doorway across the ballroom, bigger than she remembered, too handsome, too debonair, and much too real. She clenched her hands into fists and stiffened. How did he dare show his face? Who had invited him? Although ten years had passed, his shocking betrayal was still as vivid as if it had happened only yesterday. And it still hurt.

  She hadn't realized she was staring, until Hunter looked her way. His mocking black eyes raked her from head to toe, triggering emotions she had thought long buried. Suddenly her skin felt too big for the gold lame evening gown, too hot. Tossing her hair back defiantly, she returned his look. She assessed him boldly, as if she were planning to attack him and add him to the trophies hanging from her belt.

  He acknowledged her gaze with a lazy smile. The smile evoked memories so powerful that Mattie wondered if some trick of fate had transported her back in time. The noise of the orchestra and the guests faded into the background. For her, nothing existed except Hunter and bright memories. She remembered the way the sun had looked on his bronzed skin, the sound of his laughter. She remembered the feel of his untamed hair, the taste of his wild kisses.

  "Mattie, is anything wrong?" The voice of her companion penetrated her consciousness.

  She tore her gaze away from the mesmerizing power of Hunter and looked at her escort for the evening. Brad Something-or-Other. His name wasn't important. He was simply a means of forgetting.

  She leaned over and kissed him full on the lips. "Brad, would you be a love and get me a glass of champagne?"

  "Certainly, Mattie," he said, and hurried off as if he had been commissioned to save the world.

  Mattie couldn't resist checking Hunter's reaction. She tossed her head and sneaked a peek at him through the curtain of her hair. He seemed oblivious to her. He was bending toward his companion, an overdone redhead, smiling at her as if she were the only person in the room.

  Mattie felt a tightening in her chest. The room was suddenly too hot. She couldn't breathe. Without a word to any of her guests, she left the room.

  Heads turned as she walked toward the courtyard. There was no slipping out quietly for Mattie. Wherever she was, she created a sensation. The price of fame. She knew what the press said about her: The stunning beauty of her face and the glorious hair are enough to give people pause, but it is more than that. Mattie Houston has presence. Self-confidence oozes from every pore, and her unquenchabl
e spirit reaches out to grab onlookers.

  Like the waters of the Red Sea, the guests parted, making a path for her to sweep through. Whisperings and murmurings followed in her wake, but Mattie had stopped paying attention a long time ago.

  She swept through the French doors, across the courtyard and didn't stop until she was almost to the gap in the hedge that separated her grandfather's yard from Hunter's. Her head felt light as she leaned against one of the stone columns outside the entrance to the formal flower garden. The stone felt cool against her flushed cheek. She closed her eyes and tried to regain her composure. She was Mattie Houston, rich and famous and talented. And scared.

  She never should have come back. She should have sent someone to bring Papa Houston back to Paris for his birthday.

  "Running scared, Mattie?"

  Hunter! Although she hadn't heard his voice in ten years, she could have picked it out from a thousand others. Its deep timbre vibrated through her.

  Lifting her chin in a regal gesture, she turned to face him. "I'm not scared of the devil," she said.

  "Is that a fact?" The moonlight turned his eyes to glittering black coals, and he was impossibly handsome in his tuxedo. Age had improved him. The lankiness and uncertainty of youth had been replaced by solid muscle and a comfortable arrogance.

  Casually he braced his arm on the column and leaned close to her. "Running away seems to be your style."

  His well-defined lips were so near the slightest movement on her part would put them in contact with hers. She drew a shaky breath and stood her ground. "That was a long time ago. Why the sudden interest?"

  Hunter scanned her face, memorizing every small detail, cataloging it for later comparison to the Mattie he'd once known. The heady smell of gardenias almost suffocated him as she returned his scrutiny.

  Suddenly he stepped back. "I'm just curious, Mattie. Whose heart are you planning to break this time?"

  She lifted her hand to strike, but he caught her wrist.

  "You still have cat's eyes when you get mad."

  "And you're still a spoiled child. Let go of my hand."

  He released it and lifted his champagne glass in a salute. "To you, Mattie. I always did admire your spirit."

  "It's a pity all that admiration had to be spread around."

  "What is that supposed to mean?"

  She leaned back against the column, needing its solid support to remind herself that this scene was real, not a figment of her imagination.

  "I have no intention of dredging up the past," she said. "I think what happened ten years ago should be left alone."

  He raised his eyebrows. "Do you, Mattie?" He drained his glass then tossed it over his shoulder. It shattered with a careless tinkle against the stone path. "Do you want to forget this?" He pulled her roughly against his chest, his eyes blazing down at hers. "And this?" He bent swiftly and took her lips in a punishing kiss. "And this?" His voice was harsh as his lips burned the skin revealed by the deeply slashed V of her dress.

  By a supreme act of will she held herself erect, stiff and unyielding. But the erratic pounding of her heart betrayed her.

  The kisses stopped as suddenly as they had started. Hunter drew back and stood as casually as if the madness had never happened.

  "What are you trying to prove, Hunter? That you're irresistible to women? Your reputation seems proof enough."

  "At least mine doesn't make headline news."

  "That's one of the drawbacks of fame."

  "When did the callous disregard for feelings come, Mattie? Before or after the fame?"

  She slapped him. Her hand connected with a sharp sound that resounded in the quiet courtyard.

  He laughed without mirth. "Is that any way to treat a guest?"

  "I didn't invite you."

  "Phillip did."

  "I can't imagine why."

  "He likes me. Always did. Even when I was a law school dropout, planning to marry his teenaged granddaughter, Phillip liked me."

  "That was his mistake. And mine."

  Hunter's hand snaked out and lifted her chin. "But I came because of your invitation, Summer Wind."

  Her eyes widened. "You heard?"

  "And saw."

  "I didn't mean for you to."

  "Didn't you?" He let his hand drop to his side.

  She opened her mouth to say no, but his eyes stopped her. They seemed to see through her brittle facade, to see past her glamour and her bravado. They seemed to burrow all the way to the uncertainty.

  She tossed her head, and her false laughter rang out on the summer night. "You caught me red-handed." She shrugged. "What can I say? All men are a challenge to me."

  "Even me?"

  "Especially you." Summoning all her courage, she touched him. For a brief moment her long, pianist's fingers played over his face, remembering the texture of his skin, retracing the squareness of his jaw, recalling the sensuous outline of his lips. "Yours is the heart I plan to break, Hunter."

  She heard his sharp intake of breath, but he recovered quickly. "Then I'd be careful if I were you. This time yours might be the heart that's broken." He turned on his heel and walked toward the ballroom.

  "Leaving without saying good-bye?" she called after him.

  His steps slowed, and he turned beside the fountain. "I'm giving you a dose of your own medicine. How does it feel?"

  "Better than betrayal."

  He opened his mouth to reply, then changed his mind. She thought she saw a look of puzzlement cross his face, but it was gone as quickly as it had come. The splintered glass crunched beneath his feet as he stalked back toward the house.

  Suddenly she felt cold. She shivered in spite of the hot summer night. Wrapping her arms around herself, she looked up at the sky. She had thought she was over him. She had thought time and distance had anesthetized her. But when he kissed her, a tide of desire had welled up inside her and threatened to spill over. How long had it been since she’d felt that way? How long since a man's touch had made her feel alive?

  She shook her fist at the moon, a giant lemon cake in the sky, bright and frothy as only a Texas moon can be. "I’ll show you, Hunter Chadwick. I'm not a scared eighteen-year-old kid anymore. I’ll make you sorry you ever toyed with Mattie Houston's feelings!"

  She ground the splintered glass under her gold slippers as she hurried back to the ballroom. She spotted Hunter immediately, dancing with that buxom redhead. With an amber light gleaming dangerously in her green eyes, Mattie crossed the floor and tapped Hunter's companion on the shoulder.

  "You don't mind if I cut in, do you?" she asked. Her manner was so syrupy, it could have been wound around a fork. "Hunter is an old and very dear friend of mine." She signaled to a nearby waiter. "James, bring my guest a glass of champagne." The astonished redhead was speechless as Mattie moved smoothly into Hunter's arms.

  "Hello, darling," she drawled. "You forgot something."

  "Did I?" His eyes danced with wicked glee as he pulled her so close, she could barely breathe.

  "When I'm kissed, I prefer it French style." She lifted herself on tiptoe and wound her arms around his neck.

  "Is this going to be a demonstration, Mattie?"

  She didn't reply. Instead, she circled his lips with her tongue. "For starters." Her voice was low and sultry, like jazz. "Then this." She moved her mouth slowly back and forth across his, nibbling, tasting, teasing. "And this." With bold abandon she plunged her tongue between his teeth.

  "Women who play with fire get burned."

  "So they tell me." She took charge of his mouth again, and it was exquisite torture. She felt the pain of resurrecting forgotten dreams and the pleasure of remembering carefree days. The kiss was a heady journey into the past, to a time of innocence and invulnerability, a time when the gold was still at the end of the rainbow. The kiss was an imitation of love.

  When she could stand it no more, Mattie backed away. Hunter led her smoothly into a dance as if nothing had happened.

  "Do y
ou always require an audience for your performances?" he asked.

  Mattie felt light-headed as she glanced around the room. Some of the guests, whose mothers had pounded it into their heads that it wasn't polite to stare, were dancing. Others were staring openly, not trying to conceal their curiosity about the famous jazz pianist who had scandalized Paris and seemed bent on doing the same to Dallas.

  "Always," she said, tossing her hair. "Next time I’ll call the press." She backed off and patted him on the cheek. "You can go back to your painted doll now. Tell her that women with D cups shouldn't advertise the merchandise."

  "At least she has a heart, Mattie." With that parting shot Hunter went in search of his date.

  Mattie watched the crowd swallow him. If things had turned out differently between them, would she have become this brittle woman with cat’s claws?

  "I had one, too, Hunter," she said softly. "Once upon a time."

  "There you are! I thought I'd lost you."

  She turned and flashed a false bright smile at Brad What's-His-Name. He handed her a champagne glass, and she took a big swallow. "How can you lose me, Brad, darling?" she drawled. "I'm the star of the show. Mattie Houston, golden girl. Rich and famous and talented." And lonesome. So lonesome that sometimes she felt she was weeping inside.

  She took another fortifying gulp of champagne, then kissed Brad. "Let's dance," she said. "Let's dance until our heads swim. Let's dance until the stars disappear and the sun starts to rise."

  Turning, she aimed her glass at the ornate fireplace. It shattered against the cool pink marble.

  "Let's dance until we forget."

  But there was no forgetting. Hunter was always in her vision, leaning his dark head close to his companion, laughing at something she said, whispering in her ear, holding her head against his shoulder.

  And Mattie felt betrayed all over again.

  CHAPTER TWO

  "Aren't you coming in, Hunter?" Gwendolyn Macintosh turned the key and pushed open the door to her apartment.

  Hunter looked at her without really seeing her. His mind was still on Mattie. Things would have been easier if she’d stayed in Paris.