Green Lightning

  From Back Cover…

  "It will never work,"

  her friend warned

  Helen winced at the frank assessment of her chances for romantic happiness. For she had loved Heath since childhood, and as she'd grown into a woman, her emotions had deepened and changed in ways she was only starting to understand.

  Suddenly Helen wanted more than the warm affection Heath had always given her—she wanted the heat of his passion.

  But Heath thought of her as a child—and when he finally saw her for the woman she was, he sent her away….

  Excerpt…

  "You used to like me

  to kiss you," Helen said

  "That was different," Heath retorted, releasing her abruptly. "You're growing up now, Helen, and—what you did—well, with anyone else it would have got you into a lot of trouble."

  "But not with you," Helen said softly, and she sensed the sudden tensing of his body.

  "No, not with me," he agreed shortly.

  "Why not?" Helen breathed, tipping her head so she could rub her cheek against the back of his hand. Suddenly, with a muffled groan, he got to his feet.

  "What am I going to do with you, Helen? " Heath demanded harshly. "What kind of person do you think I am?"

  "I think you're a man and I'm a woman," replied Helen softly. "I think you want me and I know I want you."

  Green Lightning

  by

  Anne Mather

  CHAPTER ONE

  She was waiting at the Bell corner when Helen turned into Castle Street. Helen knew it was her right off, even though she had never set eyes on her before. Heath had described her so accurately—blonde, willowy, elegant—everything Helen was not, and possessing the necessary qualities of a lady, which Helen was required to learn.

  Compressing her lips, Helen brought the Land Rover to a squealing halt beside the kerb and regarded the newcomer mutinously. She had been tempted to come and meet her on the Honda, but her disregard for her uncle's wishes would only stretch so far, and already she had the underlying suspicion that by coming in the dusty Land Rover she was only reinforcing his opinion that she was irresponsible and childish.

  Squashing these thoughts, Helen thrust open her door and got out, facing the young woman with grim determination. 'Miss Patterson?' she enquired, glanc­ing at the two expensive suitcases standing beside her on the pavement. 'I'm Helen Mortimer.'

  The young woman turned a decidedly haughty look in her direction. 'You are?' she exclaimed, her expression eloquent of her opinion that she had made a terrible mistake. 'You're Mr Heathcliffe's niece? My goodness, he wasn't exaggerating, was he?'

  Helen's lips tightened over the retort she would have loved to have made. Instead she controlled her temper and said stiffly: 'If you'd like to get in …'

  Miss Patterson's horrified blue eyes moved incredul­ously over the beaten-up vehicle. 'Into that? Where's Mr Heathcliffe?'

  'He couldn't come.' Helen shifted her weight from one foot to the other. 'He sent me instead.'

  'A baptism of fire, no doubt,' remarked Miss Patterson dryly. 'So where is your uncle?'

  'Does it matter?'

  Helen was rapidly losing any lingering sympathy she might have felt for the young woman. Miss Patterson's contemptuous appraisal was making her feel gauche and immature, and she was beginning to wish she had brought the Mercedes as Heath had directed. And worn something a little more flattering, she reflected unwillingly. Faded jeans and a sloppy tee-shirt might successfully demonstrate her desire for independence, but compared to the attractive cream and green pants suit Miss Patterson was wearing, they looked cheap and shabby. Even the silk scarf draped casually about Miss Patterson's neck must have cost more than her scuffed trainers, and the other girl's hair was fashionably short and smooth, curving lovingly in to the back of her neck.

  'Are you saying your uncle sent you to meet me in—this?' Miss Patterson enquired now, causing Helen's nails to ball into her palms. 'How quaint! The original covered wagon, no doubt.'

  Helen's colour deepened. 'Heath had to go to the office unexpectedly,' she declared aggressively. 'Shall we go?'

  'Well…' Miss Patterson glanced about her doubt­fully and Helen had the distinct impression that she half expected Heath to appear in spite of what had been said. Perhaps she thought she was playing at being chauffeur. It was obvious from her attitude, she thought miserably little of Helen's offer.

  Walking round to get back into the driving seat, Helen schooled the errant impulse to drive away and leave her. If the Land Rover wasn't good enough, let her find her own way to Matlock, she thought broodingly, but a glance back at her charge made her make another attempt to be civil.

  'Are you coming?' she asked, pulling open her door, and waiting with impatience for the other girl to move.

  But Miss Patterson didn't move. Glancing down at her luggage with the air of someone unused to carrying anything heavier than a handbag, she lifted her shoulders indifferently, and Helen's resentment deepened at the obvious implication. Dammit, why couldn't the woman put her own suitcases into the Land Rover? she thought angrily. Time was passing, and she had no wish to meet Heath's car at the gates, or anticipate his undoubted fury when he discovered what she had done.

  Miss Patterson shifted her handbag and jacket from one arm to the other and looked up and down the street, as if hoping divine providence might intervene. She still made no move to get into the Land Rover, and Helen's nerves tightened when she saw Father Kirkpatrick emerge from the Presbytery and start to walk in their direction. Heath was not a religious man, but he did occasionally have Father Kirkpatrick to dinner, and the last thing Helen needed now was the garrulous old priest to start questioning her for being there.

  With a muffled curse, she came back round the vehicle and swinging open the passenger door, indicated that Miss Patterson should get inside. Then, with the resilience of youth, she tossed the two offending suitcases into the back of the Land Rover, before striding back to resume her seat.

  Miss Patterson hesitated just long enough to put Helen's teeth on edge, and then, after examining the worn leather seat rather dubiously, she acquiesced. The door closed behind her only seconds before the shortsighted priest would have reached them, and the Land Rover's tyres sent up a cloud of dust as Helen made her getaway.

  Not until she had put several hundred yards between them and embarrassing discovery did she relax, and Miss Patterson clung to her seat in dismay as the vehicle bounced recklessly along the High Street before swinging dangerously round the corner into Church Lane. The outskirts of the village were left behind within a few minutes, and Helen lifted her foot slightly as they crested Starforth Bank.

  'Have you been driving long?' Miss Patterson enquired scathingly, when at last it seemed safe to distract Helen from her driving, and the younger girl nodded.

  'Nine months,' she declared carelessly, refusing to rise to the bait. Matlock Edge, Heath's sprawling country estate, was only five miles from Starforth, and she refused to be disconcerted now when all around them the countryside she loved was unwinding in undulating curves.

  'Nine months?' Miss Patterson sounded surprised. 'But I thought your uncle told me you'd only recently had your seventeenth birthday.'

  'Six months ago, I did,' replied Helen defensively. 'But I've been driving around the estate roads for ages. I passed my test a month after my seventeenth birthday.'

  'Really?' Miss Patterson did not sound impressed. 'I presume you learned to drive in tractors and the like.'

  'No, in Heath's Mercedes, actually,' retorted Helen shortly. 'He taught me himself, when he had the time.'

  'Heath?' Miss Patterson shook her head. 'You mean—Mr Heathcliffe, don't you? Your Uncle—Rupert?'

  Helen sighed
impatiently. 'Yes,' she agreed shrug­ging. 'But no one calls him Mr Heathcliffe. Well, practically nobody anyway. He doesn't care for it.'

  'I wonder why?' Miss Patterson folded her jacket precisely. 'I think it's rather an attractive name. And so reminiscent of the area. I mean,' she went on carefully, 'this is Brontë country, isn't it? And Heathcliff was such a—marvellous character!'

  Helen's skin prickled. 'Heath's not at all like his namesake,' she declared contemptuously. And then, with reckless abandon, she added: 'Is that why you've come here, Miss Patterson? Because you found my uncle attractive?'

  'Why, you—' The ice-cool features slipped for just a moment, and then, with an effort, the other girl uttered a light laugh. 'Dear me,' she exclaimed, her tone at once provoking and mocking, 'no wonder your uncle feels you need some discipline! If you embarrass all his guests the way you just tried to embarrass me, I imagine he finds your presence rather tiresome!'

  'You're not a guest,' declared Helen tensely, but her hands were damp where she was clutching the wheel. She really had done it now, she thought unhappily. Heath would be furious with her when he found out about her insolence, and the spectre of the school in Switzerland where he had threatened to send her moved one step nearer.

  'I think you're wrong,' Miss Patterson was saying now, smoothing a pleat in her skirt. 'Your uncle made it quite clear that I was to be treated as a member of the family, and that your—instruction—was, for the most part, to take the form of correction, rather than actual teaching.'

  Helen did not answer; she was too choked up. This was typical of Heath, she thought mutinously. To hire a glorified governess for her, and then to treat the governess as if she, and not Helen, was his prime concern. She didn't know what was the matter with Heath lately. He didn't used to be like this. But in the last year he had become really objectionable. He hardly ever took her out with him any more, and when he had visitors he didn't even ask her to join them for dinner. Once upon a time, he used to introduce her to all his friends, even the women who came and went in his life, and there had been a lot of them. Miss Patterson was right about one thing: Heath was an attractive man, and there had never been any shortage of females eager to show that they could be indispensable to him. But he'd never got married, even though she had overheard Cook telling Mrs Gittens that he should.

  She used to hope that she might be responsible for that. During long nights at boarding school, she used to fantasize that Heath was only waiting for her to grow up to tell her he was madly in love with her. The other girls used to envy her in those days. When sports and speech days came around, all her friends wanted to be introduced to her handsome uncle, and she had lived for the holidays and the opportunities they gave her to be with him again. But it hadn't happened that way. Since she was sixteen and had begged to be allowed to leave school, he had increasingly found reasons to avoid her, and the culmination of her humiliation had been his denuncia­tion of her as a responsible adult.

  She supposed she was partly to blame for the poor opinion he had of her. It was true that his neglect had led her to look for ways to attract his attention—not always sensible ways either. When he bought her the Honda for her sixteenth birthday, he had not intended her to use it to ride along the wall bounding the vegetable garden, or to tumble ignominiously in among Mr Wesley's prize raspberries, successfully destroying the canes and tearing some of the bushes out at the roots. But it had been so boring riding the modest little machine up and down the roads of the estate, and she had been sure she could keep her balance.

  The upshot of that had been that she was grounded for a couple of months, and by the time she got the use of the motorcycle back again, much of the novelty had worn off. Six weeks later she had passed her test for the machine, and she had never been reckless enough to repeat such an episode.

  Nevertheless, there had been other escapades: like climbing one of the apple trees in the orchard and pretending she couldn't get down. She had expected Heath would climb up to help her, but instead Mrs Gittens had called the fire brigade, and Helen had had the embarrassing experience of being carried down over a young fireman's shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

  But the incident which had caused the most bother had happened only a few weeks ago. One hot evening in June, she had decided to take a midnight dip in the swimming pool, and Heath had caught her climbing out of the water, naked as the day she was born.

  Glancing sideways now at the elegant figure of Miss Patterson, Helen reflected dourly that she had probably never gone skinny-dipping in her life. She couldn't imagine the immaculate Miss Patterson shedding the scales of civilisation, or see her dripping with water, her hair all wet and mussy. Touching her own rope of silky black hair, presently confined in a thick braid over one shoulder, Helen recalled how glad she had been of its length to hide her blushes, the harsh words that Heath had uttered making her want to die of shame and confusion.

  The narrow lanes around Starforth gave on to the wooded beauty of Jacob's Hollow, and beyond, the valley of the River Pendle. To the south and west lay the industrial areas of Yorkshire and Lancashire, but Matlock Edge was set in the rolling beauty of the Pendle valley, whose only claim to the twentieth century was the tall stone chimneys of Deacon's Woollen Mill. Heathcliffes were in the textile trade, too. Heath's grandfather had founded the company, and Heathcliffe's Worsted had been produced in the West Riding since 1908. The fact that the West Riding was now West Yorkshire made little difference. Heathcliffe's Worsted still had a name for quality, and although Heath's father had diversified and Heath himself had interests in various other industries, the original mill continued production. It had been modernised, of course. Heath had used the profit from some of his other interests to maintain the standards of employment his grandfather had always insisted upon, and although other mills had had to close during the recent recession, Heathcliffe's had managed to keep their heads above water.

  'Is it much farther?'

  Miss Patterson's enquiry brought Helen out of her reverie, and glancing sideways at her passenger, she unwillingly shook her head. 'No,' she said, changing gear to negotiate the hazardous bends of Matlock Bank. Then, shrugging her shoulders carelessly, she added: 'That's the house, over there.' She pointed. 'It's only another mile to the entrance to the estate.'

  The older girl surveyed the stone building outlined against the backdrop of fields and woodland with evident interest. And indeed, Matlock did look rather impressive, thought Helen uneasily. Who could fail to admire its irregular yet aristocratic lines, the walls even from this distance darkened by the flourishing creeper whose scented blossom pervaded the house with its perfume? It was the kind of house anyone might wish to own, and she had always felt proud to show people her home in the past. But Miss Patterson was different. Somehow, Helen had the feeling, this woman was going to bring unwelcome changes to her life, and she wished with all her heart that Heath had never espoused the idea of finding her a companion.

  The house disappeared behind hedges as the road levelled off at the foot of the bank, and Miss Patterson sank back in her seat, a faint smile lifting the corners of her mouth. 'So that's Matlock Edge,' she remarked half to herself. 'Your uncle must be a wealthy man.'

  Helen did not respond. Gnawing at her lower lip, she was unhappily aware that her previous outburst about Miss Patterson's interest in her uncle had not been so wide off the mark, and whether or not she seriously considered herself a contender for the role of mistress of Matlock Edge, she certainly would not object to being entered in the lists. Helen's jaw jutted frustratedly. Heath couldn't be interested in Miss Patterson, could he? With so many other women to choose from, he wouldn't get involved with his niece's companion, surely! Helen's lips quivered. Why did it matter so much? she asked herself angrily. There had been women before; no doubt there would be women again. So why object so strongly to just another candidate for his bed?

  The truth was that since she had left school, there had been no other women at Matlock Edge; at lea
st, not for any length of time. The glamorous females who used to haunt the schoolroom when she was a little girl, and later on proffered gushing congratula­tions at her skill on the tennis court or her prowess at swimming, had given way in recent years to the wives and girl-friends of business colleagues, and she was no longer obliged to put on her party frock or recite her party piece in front of simpering felines who couldn't wait to get Heath into bed.

  Helen wasn't exactly sure when she had realised that this was their objective. She had not been a particularly precocious child, at least, she didn't think so, but gradually, as her own body's processes started to mature, she began to understand why all those girls had hung about him. Heath was attractive—very attractive. He was tall and lean, not especially muscular, but possessed of any easy grace of motion that gave all his movements a peculiarly sexual appeal. His hair was silvery fair—though his skin was not—and smooth, requiring no artificial conditioner. His features were slightly irregular—high cheekbones, a nose that was not entirely straight, and a strong uncompromising chin. But it was his eyes that gave his face its sensual magnetism; set deep beneath hooded lids and shaded by thick stubby lashes, they could spear a person with living steel or melt an ice-cap with emerald fire. Helen remembered those eyes first when her parents died—her stepmother had been Heath's only sister—and the three-year-old orphan had been totally disarmed by their tender loving kindness. She still recalled how he had gathered her into his arms and carried her away from the memory of how her parents had died, trapped in their car beneath the wheels of an articulated lorry, and he had been carrying her ever since, she brooded, in one way or another…

  The lodge gates stood wide, and old Jenkins, the lodge-keeper, scratched his head disapprovingly as Helen swept between them. No doubt he was wondering where she had been with the Land Rover, Helen thought impatiently, hoping his old eyes had not glimpsed her passenger.

 
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