A Woman of Passion Page 10

  ‘Then I’ll get you to deal with the next one we see,’ she said pleasantly, and smiled as he looked anxiously about him.

  Notwithstanding the heat, and the ever-present danger of the children falling over and hurting themselves, Helen found herself relaxing. Away from the house, and with no disturbing neighbour on the horizon, she could almost convince herself that nothing bad had happened. Even the thought of her mother, sunning herself on Matthew’s veranda, only aroused a muted resentment. Despite the shock she’d had, she’d lived for almost twenty years without seeing her mother, and she had to be pragmatic if she wanted to keep her job.

  Because they never stayed out too long, in a short while Helen peeled off her shorts and T-shirt and took them down to the water’s edge. She reasoned that salt-water was unlikely to cause Sophie any problems, and it was so good to feel the comparative coolness on her skin after the undiluted heat of the sun.

  Both children wanted to swim, but Helen didn’t let them go out of their depth. For all it looked so idyllic, the current was quite strong. Henry grumbled, as usual, but he was still wary of finding another sea urchin, and Sophie splashed about quite happily in the shallows.

  She was so busy keeping tabs on both children, however, that she wasn’t aware of anyone’s approach until a woman spoke. And, because Henry and Sophie only stared at the visitor, Helen guessed who it was before she turned her head.

  ‘Hello, Miss—Graham?’

  Her mother was alone. Helen hadn’t expected her to be, and she’d already steeled herself to meet Matthew’s mocking gaze when she turned around. But only Fleur was standing there, looking like an exotic butterfly in billowing silk trousers and a poncho-like top of flowing chiffon. She was wearing dark glasses, too, which made her expression hard to read. But the fact that she was here at all caused a sudden sinking in Helen’s stomach.

  Oh, lord, she thought, grasping Henry’s and Sophie’s hands and drawing them closer, as if in protection. Did Fleur know who she was? Was that why she had come?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  MATTHEW woke up with a hangover.

  It wasn’t the first time it had happened, and he didn’t imagine it would be the last, but it was frustrating. He didn’t enjoy working with a pounding head, and he wasn’t in a particularly good temper when he stepped into the shower.

  It was late, too, he noticed. It must have been after nine before he stirred. Too late for a walk, too late to go jogging; his whole schedule had been messed up. He preferred to be at his desk by nine o’clock and no later. He’d be lucky if he made it by ten the way things were going.

  Not that it really mattered, he acknowledged edgily as he stood beneath the pummelling spray. It wasn’t as if he had a deadline, or an editor breathing down his neck for copy. But he’d always believed it was essential to have self-discipline, particularly if, like he did, you worked for yourself.

  It was a habit he had acquired during his days as a roving correspondent. Not that he’d had a desk to sit at in those days, but the discipline had been just as important. That was why he had been successful; why he had been on the spot when some of his fellow journalists had still been recovering from the previous night’s excesses. Wherever he’d been, whatever he’d done—and he had to admit he had been as wild as any of them when he was younger—he’d always been around when he was needed.

  Which was hardly a description of what had happened last night, he brooded angrily. He’d been on the spot all right, but it wasn’t a memory he wanted to keep. Looking back, the whole affair had all the elements of fantasy. He didn’t know what had possessed him; he could hardly believe how reckless he had been.

  And the fact that that was the real reason why he had a hangover this morning was what was really bugging him. As soon as he’d opened his aching eyes, he’d remembered. God Almighty, he was too old to go cavorting about on the beach like some sex-starved adolescent; too old to arrive back at the villa soaked to the skin and howling with frustration.

  Of course, he’d resorted to the only refuge he knew. By the time Fleur and Lucas came home, he was past feeling anything at all. Which was just as well, he reflected, turning off the shower. He hated to think he’d been so desperate that he might have turned to Fleur for comfort. Perhaps he was flattering himself, but he feared that was exactly why she was here.

  He half expected Lucas to appear as he was dressing. They often discussed work, or the day’s mail, before he returned to his study. But, like everything else this morning, his expectations didn’t run to order. Lucas was sitting at the breakfast table, staring broodingly into space, when he entered the room.

  A plate of scrambled eggs was congealing in front of him, and, judging by the almost-empty state of the coffee-pot, Matthew guessed the other man wasn’t feeling like eating either. Still, at least he was alone, he thought with some relief. As only one place had been disturbed, it appeared that Fleur was still in bed.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, when Lucas only offered him a silent acknowledgement. For all he wasn’t feeling in the mood to be conciliatory, he guessed Lucas was peeved because he’d abandoned them the night before. And, what the hell, it wasn’t his assistant’s fault that he’d behaved like an idiot. He deserved an explanation, but Matthew was loath to tell the truth.

  Lucas’s brows arched. ‘Hi,’ he conceded, after a moment. Then, with some enjoyment, ‘You look like hell.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Matthew hooked out a chair and levered himself into it. ‘I’ll return the compliment some time.’

  Lucas’s expression wilted. ‘Well,’ he muttered, as if in vindication, ‘that was a rotten trick you pulled last night. Do you have any idea what it was like, trying to mollify the Sheridans? Making excuses when there weren’t any to make.’

  Matthew pulled a wry face. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘So you should be.’ Lucas warmed to his theme. ‘It was bloody embarrassing, I can tell you. I don’t often give Fleur any credit, but I have to admit, she saved your neck.’

  Matthew’s mouth turned down. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really.’ Lucas pushed the eggs aside, and poured himself the last dregs of the coffee. ‘She made up some tale about you getting these sudden ideas, that had to be immediately recorded in case you forgot them. She assured those poor sods that you’d be working at your word processor until all hours.’ He grimaced. ‘Whether they believed her is another story, if you’ll forgive the pun.’

  Matthew scowled. ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘It does to me.’ Lucas glared back. ‘Until you had that clever idea of me playing cards instead of you, Helen and I were getting along nicely. She’s a really interesting woman, Matt, and I’d hoped to see her again.’

  Matthew suppressed the sudden surge of emotion he felt at hearing the other man talk about Helen so familiarly. He told himself it was irritation; he refused to consider that it might be anything else. For God’s sake, she was just a little tramp, he thought repressively. He didn’t care about her. It was Lucas he was thinking about. He didn’t want his friend to get hurt.

  All the same, he couldn’t quite hide the rancour in his voice as he answered him. ‘In what way was she interesting?’ he asked. ‘Whenever I looked in your direction, you seemed to be doing all the talking.’

  Lucas flushed then, and Matthew felt even worse. He had enough guilt rolling round inside him already. Did he have to make fun of the other man just to satisfy his own perverted sense of justice?

  ‘I admit—I did do most of the talking,’ Lucas conceded now. ‘But that was just because we didn’t have enough time together. If you hadn’t cut and run, I might have learned something more about her. I know I said she was only here for a month, but, hell—a month can seem like a lifetime.’

  ‘Can’t it just,’ murmured Matthew drily. And then, as another thought occurred to him, ‘She—er—she did go back to the party, didn’t she?’

  ‘Go back?’ Lucas pounced on the words, and Matthew hurried to rectify his mistake.

 
‘Well—yes,’ he said. ‘I—er—I met her on the beach. When I was walking back,’ he added. ‘I—think she’d been in the water.’

  Lucas frowned. ‘I wonder why she didn’t say she’d seen you?’ he mused. ‘Still, as you say, she was wet.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘You had nothing to do with that, I suppose?’

  ‘No.’ Matthew made the denial without hesitation. ‘As I said before, she was wet before she saw me. Perhaps she’d been swimming. People have done crazier things.’

  Lucas shook his head. ‘She said she’d fallen. In the water, I mean. But, as you say, who knows? In any event, she went off to change and didn’t come back. Fleur and I had a couple of drinks, and then we came home.’

  Matthew inclined his head, annoyed that he couldn’t find anything in Lucas’s story to lift his mood. Last night had proved to him that getting involved with Helen Graham would be madness. He didn’t need that kind of complication in his life.

  Ruth appeared just then, to ask him if he wanted his usual breakfast, but this morning he refused everything but toast and coffee. He needed the caffeine to alleviate his headache, and a slice of toast might help to calm the churning in his gut.

  ‘So,’ he said, after the housekeeper had gone, forcing himself to be civil. ‘Where’s my dear sister-in-law this morning? Not that I’m worried,’ he added swiftly. ‘I just like to keep ahead of the game.’

  Lucas grimaced. ‘She’s gone out.’

  ‘Out?’ Matthew stared at him disbelievingly. ‘Fleur’s gone out alone? I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Oh, it’s true,’ Lucas assured him. ‘I saw her leaving the garden myself. She seemed to be heading towards Dragon Point. Perhaps she enjoyed the Sheridans’ company better than we thought?’

  Matthew’s stomach tightened. ‘You’re not serious!’

  ‘Why not?’

  Why not, indeed? Matthew didn’t really understand the sense of apprehension he was feeling himself. He just doubted Fleur had gone to Dragon Point to see the Sheridans. It wasn’t in Fleur’s nature to cultivate anyone she couldn’t use.

  And yet, why else would she go there? Not to see Helen, he was sure. Unless he’d said or done something to make her think he was interested in the younger woman. Despite the unwelcome implications of that thought, he wouldn’t like to see the girl terrorised by Fleur.

  Unable to sit still with such thoughts churning his already queasy stomach, Matthew thrust back his chair and got unsteadily to his feet. Dammit, what was he going to do? He could hardly go charging after her like some latter-day cavalier.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  Lucas was looking at him curiously, and, realising he was acting out of character, Matthew pulled a rueful face. ‘Too much to drink, I guess,’ he said, squeezing the back of his neck and finding it clammy. ‘And I’m not sure I trust Fleur. What the hell is she playing at?’

  Lucas frowned. ‘Well, I must admit I wondered where she was going,’ he conceded. ‘D’you want me to go after her? She hasn’t been gone long.’

  Matthew hesitated, as though giving the matter some

  thought. ‘No,’ he said at last, as if coming to a decision.

  ‘I need some air myself. I’ll go see what she’s doing.’

  * * *

  ‘Is the water cold?’

  Fleur stood safely out of reach of the incoming tide, her high-heeled sandals totally unsuitable for a walk along the beach. She had to keep moving to prevent her heels from sinking into the sand, and Helen doubted the salt would improve the expensive bronze leather.

  But, with the children waiting to see what she would say, she was obliged to answer her mother. ‘It’s—quite warm, actually,’ she replied politely. But she was under no illusions that Fleur’s enquiry meant that she wanted to join them.

  ‘I never liked swimming in the sea,’ she declared now, making sure the creamy rivulets didn’t reach her feet. ‘Salt-water dries your skin, and the sand gets into everything. I hated that gritty feeling between my toes.’

  ‘I like it,’ said Sophie, letting go of Helen’s hand and paddling out of the water. She splashed a bit, and Fleur stifled an impatient exclamation. But she didn’t go away as Helen had hoped.

  Henry hunched his shoulders and scowled at Helen. ‘Who is she?’ he asked in a stage whisper. ‘What does she want?’

  ‘Oh—’ Helen bit her lip. ‘Um—this is Mrs Aitken, Henry. You remember: she came to supper with Mummy and Daddy last evening. She’s staying at the house beyond the headland.’

  ‘Where the dragons are?’ asked Sophie at once, and Helen wished they’d stayed in the garden after all.

  ‘It’s called Dragon Bay,’ said Fleur, keeping well away from danger. ‘But there aren’t any dragons. Who on earth told you there were?’

  ‘Maybe you’re a dragon,’ said Henry rudely, responding to the edge of contempt in the woman’s tone. ‘And how do you know there aren’t any dragons? You don’t live there.’

  ‘He has a point,’ drawled another voice, a male one this time, and Helen wondered what she’d done to deserve this fate. She’d been so busy worrying about something that wasn’t going to happen, she’d overlooked the very thing that had.

  ‘Oh, Matt!’

  For all she was sure that her mother had expected this, Helen glimpsed a trace of impatience in Fleur’s eyes as she turned to her brother-in-law. Just for a moment, she had the feeling that Fleur was as shocked to see him as she was, but it might have been because of what he’d said.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said now, encompassing all of them in the greeting, and Helen decided that this was her chance to escape. Without looking at him at all, she offered a muffled greeting, and then shepherded the children before her up the beach.

  ‘My bucket—I’ve forgotten my bucket,’ protested Sophie loudly, and, adjuring the children to stay where they were, Helen ran back to get it. She was not unaware that, in her green- and white-striped bikini, she was at something of a disadvantage, but she snatched up the bucket quickly, and turned to make her escape.

  ‘I hope we haven’t spoiled your plans for the morning,’ Matthew remarked drily, and she was forced to acknowledge him then, or arouse her mother’s suspicions.

  ‘Not at all,’ she said stiffly, clutching the bucket to her midriff. ‘We never stay out long. It’s much too hot for the children.’

  ‘For you, too, by the look of it,’ he commented, and she wondered if he was being deliberately unkind because Fleur was looking on.

  She didn’t need him to tell her that her face was like a lobster. She was burning with humiliation inside as well as out.

  ‘Don’t be cruel, Matt.’ Her mother came to her rescue, but once again Helen sensed she had her own reasons for doing so. ‘Come along, darling. We’ve taken up enough of Miss—Graham’s time.’

  ‘If you’ll excuse me…’

  Helen just wanted to get as far away as possible—from both of them. It seemed obvious to her that whatever Matthew Aitken had said there was something going on between them. It sickened her, not just because of who Fleur was, but because of her own vulnerability. In God’s name, why had she let him touch her?

  The image of his dark, sardonic face accompanied her back to the house. That, and the unwelcome memory of Fleur clinging on to his arm. He had strong arms, dark-skinned and muscular, covered with a light coating of dusky hair, just like his legs.

  Andrew was just coming out on to the patio as they reached the house, and he viewed her half-naked state with obviously appreciative eyes. ‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘Nurse’s uniforms get better all the time.’ He grinned at Helen’s discomfort. ‘You appear to have caught the sun.’

  ‘We saw Mr and Mrs Aitken,’ declared Sophie, evidently assuming Fleur’s familiarity with Matthew meant they were married. Relationships were always simple in the little girl’s mind, and Helen stifled a sigh when Andrew frowned.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Aitken?’ he echoed. ‘Would that be Fleur and Matthew Aitken?’

  ‘Wh
o else?’ replied Helen, heading for the children’s bedroom. ‘Come along, you two. Let’s go and take a shower.’

  ‘Can I come?’ asked their father, in an undertone only she could hear, and Helen hoped Andrew was not going to prove a nuisance on this holiday. The little she’d seen of him in London had not led her to believe he might become a problem, but since his arrival three days ago she’d been on her guard.

  There’d been that business at the airport, for example. And while Helen knew it had just been a game on his part, she’d been left with the feeling that Andrew liked to tease. With her mother to contend with, she didn’t need any more problems. She half wished they could just pack up and go home.

  The rest of the day passed reasonably uneventfully. To Helen’s relief, Tricia took her husband off to have lunch with some friends in Bridgetown, and after their afternoon nap both Henry and Sophie were disposed to be friendly. She suspected it was the heat as much as anything that was sapping their energy, and they were quite content to splash about in the swimming-pool, which was partially shaded by a stand of palms.

  The Sheridans didn’t come back until after six, and by then Helen had the children bathed and ready for bed. She’d eaten her evening meal with them, to avoid having to join her employers, and she spent the evening reading, and trying to come to terms with what she should do.

  Now that she was certain that Fleur was her mother, it had put her into something of a quandary. For all she told herself that her mother had deserted her, that she owed her nothing, the ties of blood couldn’t be wholly ignored. Whatever she felt about Fleur, however much she resented the fact that she’d been thrust into her orbit, the fact remained that it had happened. Could she just forget about her? Or did she owe it to her father’s memory to tell her mother who she was?

  It would be hard explaining why she’d lied about her surname to Matthew, of course. Would Fleur believe that it had just been a knee-jerk reaction, brought about by her initial desire to hide her identity from her? She couldn’t deny the panic that had gripped her when she’d first been faced with the woman. Was that why she’d succumbed to Matthew’s lovemaking? Because she’d already used up all her resistance with Fleur?