Mattie Grant was prepared for anything. Mosquitoes the
size of hummingbirds. Fires with all the durability of
tissues, drinking water with enough germs to contaminate a
small rodent colony.
She could handle all of it. And win.
She had, after all, trained for competing on Survival of
the Fittest with the dedication usually only seen in
marathon runners. Reading books, practicing fire building,
studying native flora and fauna. She had the art of
survival down pat. In a jungle, a woodland, even a cave,
she'd be fine.
What she was not prepared for, however, was a lavish
mansion with a manicured lawn and a butler waiting at the
door.
She parked her Jeep out front and considered the address
on the letter she'd received via Speedy Delivery Services
that morning. Bowden, her regular delivery man, had waited
for her to open the envelope because he knew how much she
wanted this chance at the Survival contest. Once he'd seen
the look on her face, he'd offered a congratulations, told
her good luck and bid her goodbye.
But she didn't need good luck. She had skill, and during
her twenty-six years Mattie had learned skill was what
counted, not money, not connections, not beauty. On the
field and in the game of life.
She glanced again at the opulent home, sitting like a gem
in the early-July sunshine. It had to have at least twenty
rooms, all behind a stone facade with great white columns
flanking the front steps. This was the right street and
number, but as far away from what Mattie considered
roughing it as life could be.
Maybe she had to do publicity photos first or something.
She'd seen CBS pull that on their contestants once. She
wouldn't put it past the Lawford, Indiana, network to do
the same.
She got out of the car, strode up the granite steps and
raised the bronze knocker, lowering it twice against the
matching plate. A moment later an older man wearing a
black suit opened the massive eight-foot oak door.
"I'm here for the TV show," Mattie said, holding up the
letter, her voice more question than declaration. This so
didn't feel right.
The butler, tall, slim and gray, didn't blink. Or even
seem to breathe. In fact, if she hadn't seen his hand
twitch a little on the door frame, she'd suspect he was
one of Madame Tussaud's best. "Right this way, ma'am." He
stepped back and waved her into the house.
"This can't be right," Mattie said, entering the ornate
marble foyer. A crystal chandelier hung over them, the cut
glass reflecting like a constellation in the sudden burst
of outdoor light. "I'm here for Survival of the Fittest.
This looks more like Day Camp for the Rich."
The butler merely walked down the hall without answering
her. Mattie considered leaving. If this was the right
place, though, and it was some kind of trick to throw her
off guard before the real Survival contest started, then
she might disqualify herself by walking away.
"So, do you have a lot of Girl Scout campouts here?" she
asked as she hurried down the hall to catch up, looking
around for hidden cameras.
"Excuse me, ma'am?"
"You know, sitting around the fire, singing "Kumbaya" and
eating s'mores? Or is this more the place people go for
serious mall withdrawal?"
"Uh, no, ma'am. We have none of that here at the James
Estate," the butler said, without a hint of humor in his
voice. He cast a glance over his shoulder at her flip-
flops and khaki shorts, not bothering to hide his look of
disdain for her attire. Apparently, guests who weren't
properly clothed weren't allowed very far into the house
because he stopped at the first room on the right, a fancy-
dancy parlor well suited for a poodle, and led her inside.
"Please have a seat," the butler said, gesturing toward an
ornate love seat with some curlicue fabric on it. She knew
there was a name for the pattern β a name she'd never
bothered to learn, much to the consternation of her
mother, who thought living well was the only way to live.
Mattie, who'd spent her life with scraped knees and grass-
stained socks, believed in playing hard and winning well.
Curlicue fabrics didn't fit into that equation.
The butler cleared his throat. Mattie regarded the chair.
It looked more like dollhouse furniture than people
furniture. Still, the butler seemed convinced it would
make a suitable seat.
"May I take your, ah, bag, ma'am?" He eyed her Lands' End
backpack with a little confusion. She'd be willing to
place odds on the number of people who came into a house
like this ready for outdoor adventures.
"I'll keep it with me, thanks." On the other network's
show, Mattie had seen what happened to people who made the
mistake of giving up their stuff. They ended up stuck on
some island with nothing while their smarter competitors
remained fully equipped. That wasn't going to happen to
her. She intended to win, and if that meant keeping her
backpack away from the mortician over there, so be it.
She tucked it on the floor beside her feet and lowered
herself to the love seat. No matter what it was called,
the chair certainly didn't hold a lot of love for her rear
end. The seat felt stiff and uncomfortable, as if it was
layered with concrete beneath the fabric. She hoped she
wouldn't be here long. Mattie Grant was about as well
suited for an environment like this as a cheetah was for a
cat carrier.
The butler backed out of the room, shutting the double
doors without a sound. Mattie fished out the letter again
from her back pocket. The single piece of stationery from
the Lawford television station was simple and to the
point, telling her she'd been selected as a contestant on
their new reality show. The letter hadn't been very
detailed, which she'd expected. When she'd gone to the
tryouts for Survival of the Fittest, the producers had
warned her they'd keep as much information secret as
possible, but still...
This letter was taking subterfuge to a whole new level. It
said little more than "Congratulations on being selected
as a contestant on Lawford Channel Ten's newest reality
show," the address to which she was supposed to report and
the day, Tuesday. Nothing else specific at all, except the
prize money amount.
Fifty thousand dollars. "Fifty thousand dollars." Even
aloud, the number sounded huge. She needed that money. She
had to win. Even if it meant putting up with this
environment for a while before she got to the place where
she felt most at home β the great outdoors.
The doors opened again and in walked a man. Okay, not a
man. A demigod. At least six feet tall, he had the dark
good looks and deep-blue eyes that made grown women trip
over themselves in order to get a better look. Sort of a
Pierce Brosnan type, only younger.
Mattie figured she could take him. No problem.
A guy like that wouldn't last long in the woods. He'd be
too worried about what gathering a few sticks of kindling
would do to his manicure. Good. One competitor she didn't
have to worry about.
"Am I in the right place?" He paused, adjusting his maroon
tie.
What kind of guy wore a suit on a survival show? Well,
there had been that lawyer on the other network's show two
or three seasons ago. Maybe this guy had some crazy ideas
about using his navy Brooks Brothers suit for a makeshift
sleeping bag.
"Depends on where you're supposed to be," she said.
"TouchΓ©." He smiled. "I'm sorry. I probably should have
started by introducing myself. I'm David Simpson." He took
a step toward her, putting out a hand. "And you are?"
Mattie rose and shook with him, grinning. "Your worst
nightmare."
"Excuse me?"
"Sorry. I'm Mattie Grant." She broadened her smile.
"And I don't intend to lose this game."
He grinned. "And neither do I."
She gave his three-piece suit and polished shoes another
glance. "I don't think you're quite cut out for this
competition."
"Funny, I was going to say the same thing about you." He
gave her the once-over, his gaze lingering on her shorts
and flip-flops. "Aren't you a little...underdressed?"
"I'm not here for a beauty pageant. Who cares what I look
like?"
He chuckled. "I like you, Mattie Grant. You aren't what I
expected. This is going to be one interesting show," he
said. "Very interesting."
He had a way of looking at her that was both direct and
intent. Like he was sizing her up. Well, two could play
that game. She circled the room in an idle pattern. "Why
do you think they're doing a show like this in Lawford, of
all places?" Mattie asked. "I'm not complaining, and
Lawford is a good-size city, but this is usually the kind
of thing the big networks do."
"Well, reality TV is low budget, big viewership. To the
head honchos at Channel Ten, this was a no-brainer. The
new station owner is hoping to make a big splash in this
marketplace. Lawford Channel Ten isn't exactly the shining
gem in the Media Star conglomerate."
Mattie cocked her head and studied him. "How do you know
all this?" She didn't remember reading much more than a
press release announcing the new station ownership in the
Lawford Sun. Apparently David Simpson knew something she
didn't know.
He had an edge. And Mattie didn't like that at all. "I,
ah, heard about it at work." David turned away and moved
across the room to study a spring landscape hanging on the
wall. "Do you work in TV?" She tried to keep her tone
casual, friendly. This not being a girly-girl thing made
it tough, though. Even to her own ears she sounded like an
FBI interrogator.
"No."
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