A Woman of Passion Page 13

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Yes.’ She grimaced. ‘So am I.’ Then, with a sudden change of direction, ‘How long were Fleur and your brother married?’

  Matthew didn’t want to talk about Fleur at this point, but he humoured her. ‘Oh—about seventeen years, I guess,’ he said carelessly. ‘I was sixteen when Chase brought her to live with us. They weren’t married then, of course. Fleur’s husband hadn’t divorced her.’

  Helen put down her glass. ‘She was already married, then, when your brother found her?’

  ‘What is this?’ Matthew was impatient, and it showed. But, dammit, why was she interested in Fleur? It wasn’t as if the two women even liked one another.

  ‘What do you mean?’ A faint trace of colour had entered her cheeks again, and Matthew wondered how it was that he could disconcert her so easily. And then he thought he had the solution. She was talking about Fleur to prevent him from saying anything provocative.

  Shaking his head, he said, ‘OK. She was married, right? But if you’re implying that Chase broke up a happy marriage, you couldn’t be more wrong. There’d been men before him, I’m convinced of it. If you knew Fleur as well as I do, you’d know she’s one hungry lady!’

  Helen’s colour dissolved as quickly as it had appeared. In seconds her face was completely white, and Matthew knew an unfamiliar sense of concern. He guessed the combination of the heat, the dazzling sun and an unaccustomed amount of wine was responsible for her pallor. She needed somewhere cool and shady, where she could relax for a while.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, and she looked at him with unexpectedly wounded eyes.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said quickly, though she clearly wasn’t. ‘Um—thank you for lunch. I’ve got to go—’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Matthew firmly, grasping her wrist when she would have risen from the table. ‘Let me get the bill, and then I’ll see you back to the villa.’

  ‘No—I—I’ve brought Maria’s car,’ she protested, but Matthew knew she was in no condition to drive.

  ‘I guess they have laws about drinking and driving here, too,’ he informed her softly. ‘Now, just sit still a minute. You’re in no fit state to go anywhere alone.’

  ‘Wine doesn’t make me drunk,’ she exclaimed faintly, after Matthew had summoned the waiter and arranged to pay. ‘Please, let me go. Everyone’s looking.’

  ‘Only because you’re making a scene,’ Matthew informed her drily. ‘Take it easy, can’t you? We’ll be out of here directly, I promise.’

  He noticed, with some relief, that her colour was returning as they left the table. But he retained his hold on her arm, just in case she felt a little weak. Besides, although he didn’t want to admit it, he enjoyed looking after her. He liked the feeling of her fine bones beneath his hand, though he sensed her resistance was only dormant and not totally suppressed.

  At the corner of Broad Street she halted. ‘I think this is where we part company,’ she said, obliging him to release her. ‘Thank you again for lunch. It was most-unexpected.’

  Matthew drew a breath. ‘You’re going to drive back?’

  Her brows arched. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then, where are you parked? I’ll follow you. Just to make sure you’re all right.’

  Helen’s mouth tightened. ‘There’s no need.’

  ‘I think there is.’

  ‘Why?’ She gazed at him angrily. ‘Aren’t there any hungry ladies for you to annoy around here?’

  Matthew’s lips parted. ‘Did that upset you?’ he exclaimed. ‘Was that why you looked so sick back at the restaurant?’ He shook his head. ‘Hey, I’ve never satisfied Fleur’s particular appetite. If you think I was speaking from experience, you were wrong.’

  ‘It’s of supreme indifference to me,’ she declared, turning away. ‘Goodbye, Mr Aitken. I don’t suppose I’ll see you again.’

  The hell you won’t, Matthew muttered to himself irritably. For God’s sake, what was wrong with what he’d said? Fleur was nothing to her; they hardly knew one another. Yet there was no denying she’d reacted to his words.

  He gnawed broodingly at his lower lip as he walked back to where he had left the buggy. It wasn’t until he was on his way home that he remembered he hadn’t bought the books he’d intended to buy. Meeting Helen had put everything else out of his head, he thought frustratedly. And for all she’d had lunch with him, he was fairly sure she still resented him like hell.

  And why? Because he’d come on to her one time? Well, maybe more than come on to her, he admitted honestly, but it wasn’t as if she’d been wholly opposed to what he’d done. If he hadn’t come to his senses as he had, he had the feeling she wouldn’t have stopped him. Was that what was eating her? Was she blaming him for being a tease?

  If she only knew, he reflected bitterly, feeling the tight constriction of his trousers. What he really wanted was for them to spend the afternoon in bed. Then maybe both of them could get it out of their systems. There was no denying his frustration as he drove back to Dragon Bay.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ‘WHERE did you go today?’ Tricia asked at supper, and Helen wished she’d had more warning of the question. She’d foolishly assumed that the Sheridans would think she’d spent the day at the villa. But evidently Maria had been talking, and there was no escape.

  ‘I went into Bridgetown this morning,’ she replied, aware of Andrew’s eyes upon her. But then they’d been on her since she had joined them at the table, and she wished she’d worn something less revealing.

  But it was so hot tonight, and the ankle-length skirt and chiffon blouse had looked perfectly adequate in her bedroom. It was only now that she was aware of the blouse’s transparency, and the fact that the skirt was slit to the knee.

  ‘Yes. Maria said you’d taken her car,’ Tricia remarked, with some impatience. ‘I’d have thought you’d have welcomed some time alone instead of rubbing shoulders with a crowd of tourists.’

  ‘We’re tourists,’ put in Andrew mildly, but Tricia was obviously in no mood to accommodate her husband.

  ‘Not that kind of tourists,’ she said. ‘We’re sort of staying with friends. In any case, I thought Helen might be tired.’

  ‘She’s not an old woman,’ Andrew inserted, and earned a malevolent look from his wife.

  ‘Like me, you mean?’ she countered. ‘I know that’s what you were really saying. You embarrassed me at the Rutherfords as well.’

  Andrew gave a resigned sigh. ‘I did not embarrass you,’ he retorted. ‘But if you must go around telling everyone what a saint you are, you must expect a little fire and brimstone in response.’

  Tricia’s eyes flashed. ‘I did not tell everyone I was a saint—’

  ‘As good as,’ countered Andrew laconically. ‘And I doubt Helen would approve of her affairs being gos siped about indiscriminately. You had no right to tell them about her father. Or her mother either, as it happens. It’s nothing to do with—’

  ‘What have you been saying about my mother?’ Helen, who had been congratulating herself on avoiding any mention of Matthew Aitken, now felt a sudden twinge of alarm. ‘What do you know about my mother?’ she protested anxiously. ‘I—I’ve never even mentioned her to you.’

  ‘I haven’t said anything,’ denied Tricia irritably, though the glance she cast in her husband’s direction promised retribution later. ‘I simply told them you were my nanny, and someone—I don’t remember who—asked if you were James Gregory’s daughter. Of course I had to say you were, and that was that.’

  ‘But what did they say about—about him?’ she finished lamely, realising she couldn’t mention Fleur’s name without creating more confusion, and Tricia sighed.

  ‘Nothing that you haven’t told me yourself,’ she replied impatiently. ‘Drew’s exaggerating, as usual. For goodness’ sake, it’s not a secret, is it? It was in the papers when it happened.’

  ‘What Trish means is that people are naturally curious,’ Andrew declared now, evidently decid
ing the joke had gone far enough. ‘If she hadn’t made such a big thing out of employing someone without any previous experience, I doubt your name would have come into it. But as she compared her actions to those of Mother Teresa—’

  ‘That is not true!’

  Tricia was incensed, but Helen didn’t find their bickering amusing any more.

  ‘Well, you were waxing lyrical about how generous you’d been to Helen,’ Andrew persisted unrepentantly. ‘For heaven’s sake, after spending a day in the offspring’s company, I’d say she deserved a medal, not you.’

  ‘They’re your children,’ retorted Tricia, but her eyes flickered somewhat remorsefully in the younger woman’s direction. ‘Oh—what does it matter anyway?’ she exclaimed with feeling. ‘Nobody knows you here.’

  Except Fleur, thought Helen uneasily. And how would she react if these friends—whoever they were—knew Matthew, and mentioned it to him? So far, he only knew her as Helen Graham. But even he might make the connection if he was pushed.

  At least her own activities weren’t questioned any further. So far as the Sheridans were concerned she had spent the morning in Bridgetown, and that was that. Besides, Matthew Aitken had been the last person she’d expected to meet in a bookshop. Although, now she came to think of it, it wasn’t as unlikely as all that.

  In any event, they’d never suspect that he might have bought her lunch. Encountering him was one thing; having him spend time—and money—on her was another. She didn’t even know why he’d done it. He certainly didn’t know that Fleur was her mother.

  Which was, of course, why she had accepted his invitation. Without the fact that she’d wanted to question him about his brother’s relationship with Fleur, she’d never have spent any longer with him than she had to. As it was, she’d found out rather more than she’d expected, and, although she’d told herself that she didn’t believe everything he’d said, she couldn’t forget what her mother had said about marrying the wrong brother.

  The next few days passed reasonably uneventfully. Now that Andrew was here the Sheridans went out occasionally in the evening, either to friends’ houses or to dine at one of the better restaurants in the area. Thankfully Helen wasn’t expected to accompany them, and she spent most of her evenings reading, or listening to the World Service, which she could tune in to on Maria’s radio.

  Henry and Sophie had settled down to a regular routine, and to Helen’s relief her mother didn’t try to contact her again. Whether she would, when Helen was back in London, was another matter. For all she told herself she didn’t want to see Fleur again, the memories still hurt.

  Then, towards the end of their second week, an invitation arrived. It was from Dragon Bay, from Matthew Aitken, and Tricia couldn’t wait to tell Helen that she’d been right.

  ‘I knew he’d invite us to his house,’ she declared. ‘It would have been terribly rude if he hadn’t. Apparently his father is staying with them, and he’d like us to join them for lunch tomorrow.’

  ‘Lunch?’ echoed Helen in surprise, and Tricia bridled.

  ‘Yes. He says we should bring the children along as well.’ She grimaced. ‘I bet that was his assistant’s idea. What was his name? Lucas? I noticed his interest in you, and I suppose it’s the only way he could get you to come, too.’

  ‘Me?’ echoed Helen, aghast, and Tricia nodded.

  ‘Yes, you,’ she exclaimed shortly. ‘I forgot to mention it. Your name’s on the invitation as well.’

  Helen spent the next twenty-four hours wondering how she could get out of going. She didn’t want to see Matthew’s house, and she was fairly sure her mother wouldn’t want her there either. Whatever Matthew had said, Fleur evidently thought she had some hope of achieving her ambitions. Helen didn’t want to watch her trying. She just wanted to get on with her life.

  Besides, she thought unhappily, she didn’t want to have to explain to Tricia and Andrew why she hadn’t mentioned meeting Matthew in Bridgetown. And as for admitting they had had lunch…

  It was all getting horribly complicated, and it was all Matthew Aitken’s fault. Why did he have to play his games with her? Wasn’t one member of her family good enough for him?

  Of course, he didn’t know who Fleur was, and she had no intention of telling him. The opinions he’d voiced about her mother were hardly flattering. The last thing she wanted was for him to think that she was like that, too.

  And yet, who could blame him if he had misinterpreted her actions? But, until that incident on the beach, she’d never imagined she could lose control. Perhaps due to her father’s unhappy experience, she had kept her relationships with men strictly casual. She’d reached the ripe old age of twenty-two without ever giving her heart—or herself—to anyone.

  Unwillingly, the memory of how she’d felt when Matthew cornered her in the bookshop came back to haunt her. She hadn’t believed it when she’d heard his voice, and she’d taken cover almost instinctively. But he’d seen her. His sharp gaze had located her, hidden behind the bookshelves. She’d snatched up that anthology of Matthew Arnold just seconds before he’d appeared.

  She wondered if it was fate that had caused her to choose Matthew Arnold. Goodness knew, there had been any number of other writers she could have picked. But her hand had reached unerringly for the nineteenth-century poet, although she couldn’t remember a word she’d read.

  She sighed. It had amused Matthew. Accusing her of panicking, forcing her practically to beg him to get out of her way. And watching her with those cool green eyes, enjoying her disconcertment. She’d been afraid he was going to touch her, but he’d been far too clever for that.

  Her mouth felt dry just remembering how he’d made her feel. Her breasts had suddenly felt absurdly tender, and there’d been a disturbing pain low in her stomach. She’d felt hot, too, hot and sticky, especially between her legs. She’d been so afraid he’d notice; so afraid he’d do something to embarrass her all over again.

  And, despite her protestations, panic had won out. She had tried to get past him, tried to force her way to the door through the immovable wall of his chest. She hadn’t succeeded; not until he’d let her. All she’d gained was a trembling awareness of the sensual heat of his body.

  She hardly remembered what they’d said. She knew he’d made some comment about her choice of reading material, and she’d retaliated by putting him down. But she hadn’t read any of his books, she defended herself fiercely. And his head was quite big enough without her adding to his ego.

  Of course, he had derided her resistance to his teasing. And if she’d had any sense, she’d have made her escape as soon as he let her go. But, instead of that, she’d agreed to have lunch with him. And however honourable her motives had been, she’d been aware of him every second they were together.

  Yet, she sighed inwardly, it hadn’t been all bad. When Matthew wasn’t baiting her or asking awkward questions, he could be really nice. And the food had been delicious, the surroundings equally as good. With the yachts rocking at anchor, and the sun dancing on the water, it had been absolutely heaven—until she’d asked about Fleur…

  Did she believe him? That was the point. Did she want to believe him, and was she in danger of condemning her own mother on the strength of what Matthew had said? And, finally, was she any better? Had she just not had the opportunity to expose her own unstable nature?

  By the following morning she had resigned herself to the fact that she had to go. For her own peace of mind, if nothing else. She had to prove to herself, once and for all, that Matthew Aitken meant nothing to her. That the animosity she’d felt towards her mother was not simply—jealousy.

  ‘Are you going like that?’ Tricia exclaimed disparagingly, when she appeared on the terrace in her usual attire of T-shirt and shorts. ‘You are going for lunch, Helen. Don’t you think a dress—or even a skirt—would be more suitable?’

  ‘Well, I think Helen looks very nice as she is,’ remarked Andrew, with predictable arrogance. ‘You should wear sho
rts, Trish. Then your legs wouldn’t look so deathly white. Helen’s acquiring quite a tan, even though her skin’s as fair as yours.’

  ‘Helen isn’t a redhead,’ retorted Tricia, stung, as usual, by her husband’s ability to put her down. ‘And I think wearing shorts is passé, especially on a formal occasion. Though I suppose Helen will be eating with the children…’ She paused. ‘Perhaps she has a point.’

  Helen didn’t choose to comment. Between them they’d succeeded in making her feel like the poor relation, but perhaps that was to her advantage. And she was poor, if not an actual relation. And it would suit her very well if she had only Henry and Sophie to deal with.

  ‘Will we see the dragons?’ asked Sophie, after she and her brother and Helen had been installed in the back of the estate car, and her mother gave an exasperated sigh.

  ‘How many more times?’ she exclaimed. ‘Sophie, there are no dragons. It’s just the name of a house, that’s all. Now, please, sit down and shut up.’

  It took about fifteen minutes to reach Matthew’s house by road. Helen had half expected they’d go via the beach, as Matthew and the others had done the evening they’d dined with the Sheridans. But Tricia had insisted that she couldn’t walk so far in the blazing sun. It was different after dark, she’d added. It was cooler, and one didn’t perspire quite so much.

  Which was true, Helen reflected, if one had a car with air-conditioning. The Parrishs’ estate car had no such refinements, and the heat in the back was almost unbearable. Tricia had insisted that Andrew couldn’t possibly have all the windows open or her hair would lose its style. And, as she’d spent most of the morning getting ready, Helen wasn’t really surprised.

  Nevertheless, by the time they reached the private road leading to Dragon Bay Sophie was feeling sick, and Helen’s nerves were stretched as tight as violin-strings. She assured herself it was the child’s health that was troubling her, and not the thought of their destination, but she wasn’t convinced. Still, if Sophie was ill, perhaps she and the children could go home. She doubted Tricia would object. She hadn’t wanted them here in the first place.