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Before he could think better of it, he walked toward her. “You picked a cold night to hang around outside.”
She glanced up at him, her surprise over his presence proving just how lost in thought she’d been. “Hi, Matt,” she said somewhat coldly before looking behind him as if expecting to see someone else. “Where’s Patricia?”
Ah. And now he understood the anger. Henri, his personal assistant, had sent him the link to that ridiculous article about him and Patricia getting married. He’d been annoyed when he’d seen it because—when he replayed the dinner date—it became obvious that Patricia had instigated not only the photographs but the article as well.
She’d made certain they were seated by that front window, the perfect location for some member of the paparazzi to snap countless pics. The photos that accompanied the article were clearly staged, as he recalled the odd way Patricia had handed him the cuff links. He could see now it had been premeditated, her actions making it look as if he’d placed that ring-shaped box in her hand, not the other way around.
He’d been half tempted to call Patricia to force her to confess, but in the end, he decided it didn’t matter. He had no intention of seeing her again, so no harm, no foul.
Now that he suspected Liza had seen the same article, he could use it to his benefit as there was no love lost between the women. Allowing Liza to think he and Patricia were back together might be enough to break this pull he felt toward her. Because regardless of his wayward, unwanted feelings, he and Liza Moretti could never be.
And the sooner he—and she—accepted that, the better.
He had worried that as time passed and Liza replayed their evening together, she might develop feelings for him, that she would begin to see him in a different light.
The wrong light.
So he fanned the flames.
“Patricia’s in Aspen,” he replied, recalling the woman’s holiday plans.
“Why aren’t you with her?”
Matt lifted one shoulder casually. “I always spend the holidays with my brothers.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Penny said you spent Christmas Day at the office.”
Navigating through this endless minefield with Liza was going to be even trickier if his sister-in-law kept feeding her information. Rather than reply, he changed the subject. “Why are you outside?”
Liza turned her face away from him, and for a moment, he didn’t think she would answer. When she looked at him again, he saw that damn resignation he’d seen in her eyes one too many times.
When she replied, it was with that same forthright, blunt honesty he’d come to expect from her. “I don’t have another still-single, stroke-of-midnight New Year’s Eve kiss in me.”
Goddammit.
Her words felt like a punch to the gut. Was it because he now cared about her happiness?
Or because her words struck a vein deep inside him? Reminded him just how lonely he was.
Liza held his gaze, let him see. Her pain, her loneliness, everything was right there, reflected in those gorgeous brown eyes. He was seeing the real her.
It was as beautiful as it was heartbreaking.
She’d captured his attention a year and a half earlier, her eyes meeting his, full of fire and challenge and even desire. She never looked away, never hid who she was.
Before he could begin to formulate a response to her confession, the countdown began, loud voices yelling from inside the club.
“Ten! Nine! Eight!”
They’d just hit “Seven!” when Matt moved. He gripped her upper arms and pulled her toward him, her chest hitting his at the same time their lips touched.
If he’d taken her by surprise, she gave no indication. Liza’s hands gripped his waist, her fingers burrowing beneath his jacket, finding his shirt. She tightened her hold, tugging him even closer as their mouths opened.
His tongue brushed hers, stealing her taste, her breath, her sensuous moan. He released her arms so that he could touch her face, cup those rosy cheeks, twist her head to deepen the kiss even more.
Sliding his fingers around her neck, he grasped her silky hair. Closing a fist around it, he pulled her head back, fighting like the devil not to slam her against the lamppost and fuck out all this excruciating need.
Liza groaned again and he captured the sound, her hands slipping down to his hips as she pushed herself against him. He recalled the night of the gala, the way he’d thrust his thigh between her legs in the elevator, the way she’d humped against it, seeking stimulation, completion. What would he give to hear her cries as she came again?
