Page 51 of Lovers' Dance

When I crawled out of bed the next morning, I couldn’t stop smiling at the sight of Matt sprawled over the sheets, his face partially covered by his dark hair and the pillow hiding the rest. He was scrumptious. My eyes travelled slowly over the lines of his back, lingering on the rise of his incredible ass cheeks before running over his toned thighs and legs. Matt’s body was a well-oiled machine. He obviously took good care of himself, physically resembling a strapping young jock instead of a well-heeled business man. I chewed my bottom lip, undecided whether to crawl back into bed or go to the studio. Matt stirred in his sleep, turning over to give me a more detailed uninterrupted view of his impressive physique. I backed away from the bed, resisting temptation—only just. I needed to dance. A week was a long time for me to not be in the studio. If I didn’t put in floor time today, I would be having withdrawal symptoms by this afternoon. We had work to do on our upcoming production. With a quiet sigh, I crept around my bedroom, gathering clothes and heading for the shower.

It would be better to let him sleep. Matt worked so hard I was surprised he hadn’t run himself into the ground. The man was a sea of boundless energy. It didn’t take long for me to get ready, and I left Matt a brief note explaining where I’d gone and what time I’d be back. My cell was charging. It had been off from the moment we’d gotten on his jet and the battery was predictably flat.

Matt said he loved me.

I stopped in the process of walking out the front door, suddenly uncertain about everything. Did he mean it? Last night he said he did, but we hadn’t been together that long. Not really. Could people fall in love that fast? I loved him—at least I thought I did—but did my feelings stem from him being the first man I had slept with? Was this simply infatuation? Were our obvious differences the only reason we were attracted to each other? Opposites attracting in its most extremist form? Or was he playing me? Matt was much more worldly than me. And scarily intuitive. Maybe he was feeding me lines, telling me what he knew I secretly wanted to hear to keep our affair going. Sometimes, I thought he knew what I was thinking before I said anything.

I locked up, pushing those confusing thoughts out of my head and heading for my car. I needed to dance. Dancing cleared my mind, made me feel at peace. Dancing made everything right. If I had known what was waiting for me, I would’ve stayed home and hid under the bed.

Matt stretched languorously, inhaling deeply. Her intoxicating scent tickled his nose and he smiled, reaching out for her warm body.

“Poppet?” He jerked into an upright position, vigorously rubbing his face as he peered around the empty bedroom. Wrapping the sheet around him, he went in search of her.

“Madi?” he called from the landing. The house was quiet. Too quiet. With a small frown on his face he made his way downstairs, puzzled over her disappearance. Where was she?

When he found the post-it note stuck to fridge, slight irritation filled him. She’d gone to the studio, promising to be back in a couple of hours. Matt let out a disbelieving snort. The woman would happily spend every waking hour at that place. Feeling spurned, he went back upstairs to have a shower and get changed. By the time he came back down his mood had improved at the memory of her fiery admittance to loving him. He needed to have a talk with her over going public with their relationship, but the worry he felt was gone. She loved him. There was no need to keep their feelings secret. Matt made himself tea, then wandered around aimlessly. He finally decided to get some work done while Madi was out. After getting his stuff from the car, he relaxed on the couch and put his feet up on the coffee table. His mobile was charging while he opened up his emails. Matt glanced at her mobile next to his. He didn’t like the fact he couldn’t call her. He shook his head, then turned his attention to his emails. There was nothing pressing, or so he thought until he came across one from Nathan—a rude email instructing him to check in with him at once. The email rubbed Matt the wrong way, so he picked up the house phone and called his friend.

“Nathan Walthamstow,” came the curt greeting.

“It’s Matt.”

“You bloody idiot.” Nathan’s voice blared down the line. “Do you have any idea of the shit storm you’ve created? Everyone is hounding me for answers. Your family haven’t stopped calling me, the press are all over this—”

“Nathan,” Matt interrupted sharply. “What on earth are you going on about? Has something happened to our stocks?”

“Stocks? Stocks? No, you imbecilic arse.”

Matt lost his temper. “Listen here, Nathan, I have no idea what you’re on about and frankly your behaviour—”

“How was Venice, Matt?” Nathan asked, his voice cold and hard.

Matt’s jaw clenched in shock. He hadn’t told anyone where he was the past week. As far as anyone knew, he was working from his home in Surrey. That was the line his secretary had been ordered to give. A week free of distractions so he could go over their strategy for the upcoming takeover. The staff he hired for his jet would never break their non-disclosure contracts. Nor would his staff in Venice. How in the blazes did Nathan know?

“Matt? Matthew are you there?” Nathan huffed impatiently down the phone.

“Yes,” he replied in a tone void of all emotions as his mind raced. “How did you know I was in Venice?”

Nathan let out a harsh laugh. “By reading the goddamned papers and the Internet. We can’t forget the informative net. You bloody twat. Why didn’t you tell me you were seeing her? Did you not assure me you would keep this under wraps? I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were seeing her. How long has this been going on, Matt? Our press offices haven’t made a statement, but we’re going to have to do something fast. The past two days we’ve had the paps circling our headquarters like sharks. Your father is livid, demanding answers that I don’t have.”

Matt took a deep calming breath, then asked, “What exactly does the media know?”

“That you’re shagging Madison DuMont. Yes, Matt, they know who she is. A rag broke the story Wednesday afternoon with pictures of you and her in Venice—suggestive photos—and they made a game of it, inviting the public to name Matthew Bradley’s latest conquest. Jesus Christ! You wouldn’t believe what they’re speculating about your relationship.”

His blood ran cold. Madi. She had no idea how to handle the British press. Bloody hell. They would eat her alive.

“Matt? Are you there, man?”

“Yes.” Matt knew he had to find her, and fast. Falling into crisis mode, he began issuing orders to his best friend. “Listen, we are not making any statements to the media about this—”

“Matt,” Nathan interrupted.

“No, this is my personal life. They have no right to it,” he said tersely.

“Mate, we have to give them something. You know what they’re like.”

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