Green Lightning Page 15

  'Are you wearing anything under this?' he muttered unsteadily, his hands moving up from her waist to the pointed arousal of her breasts, and Helen shook her head.

  'I was going to bed,' she said huskily. 'You know I don't wear anything when I go to bed. You've seen me.'

  'Not like this,' he told her thickly. 'Never like this!' and pressing the silk gown down from her shoulders, his hands sought possession of her body.

  She had never had a man touch her like this before. She had never felt a man's hard fingers moulding her firm beauty, filling his hands with her fullness and her softness, feeling her nipples crest into hard peaks against his palms. With trembling fingers, she separated the buttons of his shirt and pressed herself against him, her emotions roused to fever pitch by the hair-roughened abrasion of his taut skin.

  His hands were at her waist suddenly, loosening the restraining cord and allowing her robe to fall unheeded to her feet. Now when he reached for her, his hands were on her hips, lifting her yielding body to meet his thrusting masculinity, making her aware of how impeding his garments were.

  'I want you,' he said against her hair, his breathing as tortured as hers was now, his hands holding her against him with urgent intensity. 'Dear heaven, I've got to have you. You're tearing me apart!'

  Helen's answer was to reach up for his mouth, her bare arms around his neck driving him on to that ultimate surrender. With a groan of anguish, he dealt ruthlessly with his own clothes, kicking his boots and socks aside as he lifted her into his arms.

  He laid her on the long sofa below the windows, where she had sat the evening after he had delivered the spanking, listening to his and Angela's conversation. Now there was no conversation, only an irresistible need, and the overpowering need to assuage it.

  'I'm going to hurt you,' he muttered, cupping her face in his hands and parting her lips with his thumb. 'Forgive me,' he added, covering her mouth with his, and the involuntary cry she uttered was stifled by his passionate caress.

  For a moment, she panicked, the full realisation of what she was doing—of what she had done—causing her to buck against his crushing weight. But the probing sensuality of his mouth against her parted lips was intoxicating, and the awareness of their undeniable intimacy turned all her limbs to water.

  When he started to move, she wanted to protest, half afraid he was going to leave her, but he didn't. Instead, he covered her face with urgent kisses, and his lean frame incited a rhythm she was powerless to resist. What began as an instinctive response to his movements soon became a compulsive lure, a throb­bing, expanding need inside her, that only Heath could fulfil. She didn't know what he was doing to her she didn't know where he was taking her, but her limbs grew moist and her scalp felt damp as she surged to meet his demands.

  The sudden satiation was unbelievable, a shattering fragmentation of herself into Heath and Heath into her, and he slumped heavily against her, his shuddering body eloquent that he had experienced it, too.

  'Oh—I love you,' she breathed, turning her face against his neck, and although he didn't answer her, she was content that he must feel the same. It was fantastic, she thought disbelievingly; that Heath should have held out for so long. She was meant for him, they were meant for each other, and they must never ever be parted again.

  The heavy rhythm of his breathing grew deeper, and turning her head, she saw to her surprise that he was asleep. The arduous journey he had made, added to the amount of alcohol he had consumed, plus the exertion of their making love had all combined to exhaust him, she reflected tenderly. What a pity they weren't in bed. He could have slept until the morning.

  'Heath,' she whispered, endeavouring to wriggle free of him. 'Heath, wake up. You can't stay here.' But no amount of shaking would dislodge him, and although she disliked having to do so, she was forced to extricate herself from beneath him.

  He slumped on the couch where she had been without stirring, and she crossed the room quickly to pick up her wrapper. She picked up Heath's clothes, too, folding them carefully before placing them on a chair, and then regarded him anxiously as she considered her options.

  Eventually she came to a decision, and letting her­self out of the library, she hurried back up the stairs. Heath's room was empty, his bed turned down as Mrs Gittens had left it, and gathering up the embossed cream quilt, Helen carried it back downstairs.

  Once Heath was covered with the quilt, she had no further reason to linger. If only he hadn't fallen asleep like that, she thought regretfully. If only they had had a chance to talk together and discuss what they were going to do. As it was, she felt lost and a little tearful, and reluctant to return to her own empty bed …

  It was early when Helen went downstairs the next morning, but her hasty glance into the library proved superfluous. Heath had gone; his clothes, and the quilt she had used to cover him, had all disappeared, and the room was as unoccupied as it generally was at this hour.

  Frowning, she made her way to the morning room, only to halt in surprise at the sight of the man she was looking for seated casually at the table. Heath was eating toast, the morning's paper propped against a jar of marmalade, the remains of a cooked breakfast pushed carelessly to one side.

  Helen was astonished that he was up so early when he must still be suffering from jet-lag, but she was delighted to see him. Without waiting for him to greet her, she went quickly across the room to his side, sliding her arms round his neck from behind and bestowing a warm kiss on his ear.

  'For Pete's sake, Helen!' His reaction made her wonder if he hadn't observed her after all, and had hoped she would go away again. 'What the hell do you think you're doing? Do you want Mrs Gittens to think I've taken leave of my senses?'

  His hands about her wrists extricated himself, and he got abruptly to his feet, putting the width of his chair between them. His face was dark with anger, eloquent of the tight rein he was having to put on himself, Helen decided, and she gazed at him uncomprehendingly as he continued to keep her at bay.

  'It doesn't matter,' she exclaimed. 'It doesn't matter what Mrs Gittens thinks, does it? After today, she'll know all about us, won't she? I imagine she'll be surprised, but not entirely outraged.'

  Heath's mouth tightened. 'What do you mean—after today? What has today got to do with it?'

  'Well, we'll be telling her, won't we?' declared Helen reasonably. 'She'll have to know sooner or later. It's not a secret, is it?'

  His hands clenched on the back of the carved chair. 'What's not a secret, Helen?'

  She bent her head. 'Don't make me say it, Heath. You know what I'm talking about. Stop pretending you don't.'

  Heath drew in his breath wearily, and then turned away. 'Oh, yes,' he said harshly. 'Yes, I know. I wish fervently I didn't, but that's hardly relevant now, is it?'

  She felt as if someone had just delivered a sharp blow to her solar plexus. 'You—you wish fervently you didn't?' she echoed faintly. 'I'm—I'm afraid I don't understand…'

  'You must,' said Heath heavily, turning to face her from some feet away. 'You can't believe that what happened last night is in any way forgivable? For heaven's sake, Helen, why did you let me do it?'

  'Why did I—?'

  'Oh, yes, yes.' Heath raked his scalp with his fingers frustratedly. 'I know I can't blame you exactly. It was all my doing. But you knew it was wrong. Why on earth didn't you get the hell out of there while you had the chance?'

  Helen gulped. 'I didn't want to go, Heath. I—I love you. For me, it was a marvellous experience. Why are you spoiling everything now, when—'

  'Spoiling? Spoiling? he repeated savagely. 'The spoiling was done last night. I behaved like an oaf, a barbarian—a drunken brute, without the sense to satisfy my baser needs with someone who knew what it was all about!'

  Helen's hands were trembling so much, they would hardly push into the narrow pockets of her jeans, but she forced them to do so, not wanting Heath to see how badly shocked she was. A small part of her brain kept insisting that this c
ould not be happening, that it was some bad nightmare she was having, and any minute she would wake up in the pink and gold luxury of her own room. But the major part of her consciousness was aware of what was going on. The major part of her consciousness was telling her that Heath had not intended to make love to her, that it had been a combination of circumstances that had driven him to do what he had, and that without the lateness of the hour, the amount of alcohol he had consumed, and her state of undress—her actual mistake in being there, in fact—he would never have allowed her to see that side of his nature.

  'Stop looking at me like that!'

  Heath's fists clenched as he met her helpless gaze, and Helen shook her head in bemused disillusion. 'I don't know what to say,' she said, her eyes darting away from his. 'I've obviously made a terrible mistake.'

  'No,' he said violently. 'I made the mistake, Helen. It was all my fault. But that doesn't alter the situation, or reassure me about the state of your emotional development.'

  She gasped. 'What do you mean?'

  'I mean—' Heath broke off awkwardly, and then went on harshly: 'It seems to me, you don't under­stand the implications of what happened last night.'

  'The implications?'

  'Yes.' He ran a hand round the back of his neck, where the ash-blond lightness of his hair brushed the collar of his dark jacket. 'Look, this isn't easy for me to say—I'm not your mother—but,' he paused, 'what would have happened if it had been—Nigel Fox or—or Miles Ormerod who tried to seduce you?'

  'They wouldn't have succeeded,' declared Helen unsteadily. 'I don't love Nigel Fox or Miles Ormerod.'

  'Oh, for heaven's sake, you don't love me!' grated Heath angrily. 'You—you just think you do because I'm the first man to—to make you feel—'

  'That's not true,' she interrupted him fiercely, unable to listen to any more without defending herself. 'You surely can't believe I'd let any other man touch me? For heaven's sake, Heath, what do you think I am?'

  'You're crazy! he muttered, but there was an unmistakable trace of uncertainty in his voice now, and Helen responded to it.

  'I'm not,' she exclaimed. 'I've told you—I love you. I could no more have stopped you making love to me than—than I could change the days of the week.'

  'Oh, Helena He shook his head in resigned defeat. 'I suppose I should have suspected you would say that.'

  'Why not?' Helen took a hesitant step towards him. 'It's the truth, Heath. Why won't you admit it? What happened between us, it—it was beautiful! I couldn't let anyone else—do that.'

  'Well, I could—and have,' he declared grimly. 'Helen, you may not be crazy, but this situation certainly is. I am not in love with you. I care about you, of course. You're in my care, such as it is,' he added derisively. 'But what happened last night was—a mistake, as you suggested a few moments ago. I must have been out of my mind. It was not marvellous—or beautiful; it was just a sexual experience and please forgive me, my only consolation is that your first experience was not the traumatic affair it might have been with someone else.'

  Her jaw quivered defensively. 'Oh—you're good, I'll give you that,' she burst out painfully. 'You actually made me believe you cared.'

  'Helen, I did care,' retorted Heath roughly. 'But that's no excuse, is it? What we have to decide now is what we're going to do with you.'

  She blinked. 'To do with me?' she echoed. 'Why, nothing, I suppose. We just go on as before—'

  'No!'

  Heath was vehement, and her stomach churned unpleasantly. 'What do you mean? What else is there to do?' Her lips twisted. 'I promise I won't tell Angela, if that's what you're afraid of.'

  'I don't give a damn about Angela,' replied Heath flatly. 'Angela will have to go.'

  'To go?' She stared at him apprehensively.

  'Yes, to go,' he agreed, pacing across the room restlessly. 'If you go to Geneva, there'll be no use for her here.'

  Her cry of protest was heartfelt. 'But you can't do that!' she exclaimed. 'You said—you brought Angela here—'

  '—to try and improve a deteriorating situation,' he interrupted her harshly. 'That hasn't happened, has it? I won't bother to specify each individual incident, but all in all, Angela's presence has not proved a huge success, has it?'

  Helen's mouth was too dry to speak, and he went on inexorably. 'I'm sorry it has to be like this, but I can't say I haven't had fair warning. My mother was of the opinion—'

  'Your mother? she overrode him tearfully. 'Since when has your mother had anything good to say about me? Oh, Heath, don't do this! Don't send me away! I'll die if you send me to Geneva!'

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Of course she wouldn't, she couldn't die to order, Helen reflected miserably, staring out at Manchester's rain-wet streets. Even though she had wished desperately that she could; even though she had given up eating and drinking, and sleeping too, with any degree of regularity, she had stayed very much alive, and she was painfully aware that she would remain so. People didn't die of a broken heart, at least, not these days. If the worst came to the worst, she would be taken into hospital and compulsorily fed, Mrs Heathcliffe had informed her severely, and Helen's bid for immortality had died instead of her mortal self.

  Around her, the strangeness of the room provided no comfort. Oh, Heath had transported all her clothes and her personal belongings to his mother's apartment, when Mrs Heathcliffe had agreed, somewhat grudg­ingly, to accommodate the girl for a few weeks. But she missed the open spaces of Matlock, and the familiarity of the room she had lived in all her conscious life.

  Of course, rooms and belongings, even open spaces, were just a symptom of what was really wrong with her, what she really missed. Most of all, she missed Heath, with a desperation that knew no bounds, and every waking moment was a torment, knowing he was never going to take her back.

  Sometimes she wondered what she would do, given her time over again. Would she have allowed him to make love to her, knowing what the outcome was going to be? Would she have left him, as he had asked her to do so many times before it became too late?

  Mostly, she acknowledged that she wouldn't. Mostly, she was honest enough with herself to admit that given her time over, she would still have encouraged Heath to make love to her. It was what she had wanted, what she had longed for, since she was old enough to have such feelings. How could she have run away from his lovemaking, when every nerve and sinew in her body had cried out for his fulfilment?

  Three weeks ago, when Heath first brought her to stay with his mother, she had prayed every night that she might be carrying Heath's baby. She was convinced that given that ultimatum, he would have been unable to refuse her, and given time, she had convinced herself, he would learn to love her.

  But time, and the uninterrupted cycle of her body, quickly destroyed this faint hope, and gradually she came to acknowledge that finding herself pregnant would have solved nothing. She didn't want Heath on those terms. She didn't want him to take her, whether in wedlock or without, just because she was expecting his child, and only the agony of betrayal remained of that fatal night.

  A tap at her door heralded Mrs Heathcliffe's entrance, and Heath's mother came into the room, dressed ready for going out.

  'I'll be back about six,' she declared, pulling on tan leather driving gloves. 'If you want something to eat, Mrs Henley has left some sandwiches in the kitchen. She'll be back later to prepare dinner, so don't bother to wash your dishes.'

  'I don't mind,' Helen said indifferently, but Mrs Heathcliffe was not.

  'I know you don't mind,' she declared tartly. 'However, I'd prefer it if you didn't break any more of my bone china. Leave your things for Mrs Henley. She knows how to handle them.'

  'Yes, Mrs Heathcliffe.'

  Helen slid off the windowseat where she had been kneeling to face the older woman, and Mrs Heathcliffe's sharp glance flicked appraisingly over her wine-coloured sweater and matching pleated skirt.

  'So you'll be all right until I get back,' she demanded, brushin
g a speck of cotton from the suit covering her ample form. 'Amelia never provides much in the way of refreshment, so when the cards are over, I'll take my leave.'

  'Don't hurry on my account,' said Helen stiffly. She was used to Mrs Heathcliffe's regular bridge after­noons, and in all honesty, she welcomed having the apartment to herself.

  'Very well.' Heath's mother inclined her head in agreement. 'I'm pleased to see you're learning some manners at last. I can't imagine what they'll make of you at St Helena's. Perhaps it's just as well they're not warned in advance.'

  Helen swallowed convulsively. 'Has—has Heath mentioned St Helena's to you recently?' she ventured faintly, realising she had begun to believe she was to remain at the apartment indefinitely.

  'Of course.' Mrs Heathcliffe was without compas­sion. 'Rupert's making arrangements for you to go there at the start of the autumn term in two weeks' time. I forgot—he won't have told you. He only speaks to me when he rings.'

  'Two weeks!' Helen said the words disbelievingly, and Mrs Heathcliffe sighed.

  'You really must stop behaving as if it was the end of the world, Helen,' she asserted impatiently. 'You've known, ever since Rupert brought you here, that it was only a matter of time before you departed for Switzerland. And not before time, in my opinion. Keeping you at Matlock all these years! I've not known where to show my face.'

  Helen bent her head. 'There was nothing wrong with my living at Matlock.'

  'When you were a child, perhaps.'

  'No.' She looked up. 'When I was an adult. Heath and I—we were happy together.'

  'But no longer,' remarked Mrs Heathcliffe acidly. 'For some reason best known to himself, Rupert has at last come to his senses, and I for one am delighted that he's done so before any serious harm was done.'

  Helen frowned. 'What do you mean?'

  'What do you think I mean, you foolish girl? I may be sixty, but I'm not in my dotage yet. You're—well, you're a reasonably attractive girl, and Rupert was always far too interested in the opposite sex, in my opinion.'