Savage Awakening Page 6

  ‘I do know who he is,’ she said, wondering where this was going.

  ‘Then you’ll know there have been rumours about his mental state since he got back from Abuqara,’ remarked her father, reaching for the marmalade. ‘Oh, here comes Amy.’ His smile irritated Fliss anew. ‘Hello, sweetheart. I hope you and Harvey haven’t destroyed any of your mother’s precious flowers.’

  Amy gave her mother a rueful look. ‘Not deliberately,’ she said, as the retriever went to beg beside his master’s chair. ‘I think Harvey knocked the heads off a couple of roses, that’s all.’

  Fliss shook her head, but she was too disturbed by what her father had said to offer much in the way of chastisement. ‘I wish you’d be more careful,’ she muttered, finishing the dishes and drying her hands on a paper towel. Then, ‘Do you want to come down to the Black Horse with me? I want to check on my hours for next week.’

  ‘Ooh, yes!’ exclaimed Amy, who enjoyed being fussed over by Patrick Reardon, the landlord. ‘Can I?’

  ‘May I?’ Fliss corrected automatically, as her father said.

  ‘Is that wise? Taking the child down to the pub? Do you want her to get into bad habits?’

  ‘Like yours, you mean,’ retorted Fliss tartly, but her heart wasn’t really in it. What had her father meant? That Matthew Quinn had mental problems? Or was he simply using some gossip he’d heard to spoil Fliss’s enthusiasm for her new job?

  Whatever, Fliss decided that now was not the time to tackle him on it. Besides, on the whole, Matthew Quinn had struck her as a perfectly normal human being. OK, maybe he had problems interacting with people, but you didn’t have to have been a political prisoner to feel that.

  When she was younger, she’d had a similar problem. An only child, she’d been painfully shy with boys, envying girls like Diane who found it so easy to flirt with the opposite sex. No wonder Terry Matheson had taken advantage of her. She’d been ripe for the taking.

  It wasn’t until she’d gone to university that she’d learned to have faith in herself again. Which was why she felt such a debt of gratitude to her parents. It was also why she hated to disappoint her father now. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps Matthew Quinn did have psychological problems. But, despite his dangerous appearance, she’d liked him. And she couldn’t believe Diane would be involved with someone she couldn’t trust.

  Nevertheless, as she cut through the churchyard on Monday morning on her way to the Old Coaching House, Fliss couldn’t deny a frisson of apprehension. Working for Matthew Quinn was not going to be like working for Colonel Phillips. For one thing, Colonel Phillips had spent most of his days in a wheelchair. He’d spent his mornings doing the daily crossword in his newspaper, and his afternoons dozing in the conservatory that adjoined the morning room. He’d been sweet and amenable, and always willing to adapt his needs to hers.

  No one would make the mistake of describing Matthew Quinn as ‘sweet.’ And, although he’d seemed amenable enough when he was asking her to work for him, only time would tell.

  Still, if she didn’t like working for him, if he proved an impossible employer, she’d be out of there. It wasn’t as if she didn’t have another option. Lady Darcy beckoned, and working for her might not be as bad as she anticipated.

  A gate opened from the churchyard into the grounds of the house. Colonel Phillips had used it in the days when he’d attended church, but latterly Reverend Jeffreys had called at the house himself to give the old man the sacrament.

  Beyond the gate, a flagged path wound around an overgrown vegetable garden before climbing steadily towards the terrace. Tall trees, ash and poplar mostly, bordered lawns badly in need of mowing. Flowering shrubs flanked the path, but they were gradually choking the life out of the perennials that grew between them.

  The place needed a gardener, thought Fliss, but since Colonel Phillips went into hospital six months ago there’d been no money to pay Ray Jackson, who used to do the work. She wondered if Matthew Quinn would employ him. He didn’t seem the type to do all the work himself.

  Deciding he wouldn’t expect her to use the front door, Fliss knocked at the back door instead. A fleeting glance through the window revealed that her employer wasn’t in the kitchen. She hoped he was up. She wanted to get started.

  And finished, she admitted ruefully as another shiver of apprehension rippled down her spine.

  When no one answered her knock, she tried again, using a piece of wood she found beside the step instead of bruising her knuckles. A piece of Buttons’s hutch, no doubt, she mused, dropping the stick again. Which reminded her she really would have to get some netting. The rabbit was still waiting for his run.

  There seemed to be no movement in the house and, sighing, Fliss glanced about her. Foolishly, she’d expected Matthew Quinn to be waiting for her, ready to tell her what he wanted her to do. Instead, the place seemed deserted. Surely he hadn’t forgotten she was coming?

  Biting her lip, she laid her hand on the door handle, and then nearly jumped out of her skin when it opened to her touch. Just like the haunted house in that movie she’d watched with Amy, she thought, glancing behind her once again. Matthew Quinn must be up, she told herself fiercely. The door would have been locked otherwise.

  Pushing it open, she stepped into the kitchen. At least this was familiar territory, and she looked around, expecting to see breakfast dishes littering the sink. But, although at some time someone had made coffee and left the dregs in the pot, it was stone cold. Clearly, he hadn’t had breakfast. So where on earth was he?

  ‘Mr Quinn!’

  Moving across the tiled floor, Fliss was acutely aware of her shoes squeaking against the terrazzo tiles. Colonel Phillips had had the kitchen updated about fifteen years ago, long before she had come to work for him, and he’d chosen the décor. She supposed it was old-fashioned by today’s standards, but she liked it.

  ‘Mr Quinn!’

  She called his name again as she emerged into the short corridor that led to the entrance hall. Now that she had time to look about her properly, she could see how dusty the place had become. There was even paper peeling from the wall halfway up the staircase, probably torn when the colonel’s furniture had been moved out. It was a shame, but flocked wallpaper was definitely not a fashion statement these days. The whole hall and staircase needed stripping and redecorating. It would look wonderful with a fresh coat of paint and some light, cheerful wallpaper.

  The hall divided the house into two parts. On one side was the drawing room and what used to be a formal dining room before Colonel Phillips had moved his bed downstairs. The old man had found the stairs difficult in recent years and Fliss had suggested the alternative arrangement.

  The room was empty now, of course, as was Colonel Phillips’s library at the other side of the hall and the morning room at the back of the house. She felt a little wistful when she saw the empty shelves in the library. Evidently the colonel’s nephew had sold his uncle’s books as well.

  She didn’t want to admit it, but Fliss was getting a little worried now. Where on earth was Matthew Quinn? Unwillingly, what her father had said came back to haunt her. His comments, that the man was rumoured to be unstable, were a constant drain on her confidence.

  Which was silly, she told herself severely. Matthew Quinn had to be here somewhere. Perhaps he was ill. Perhaps the reason the door was unlocked was because he’d called a doctor. It wasn’t so unreasonable. He had had a pretty stressful couple of years.

  She paused at the foot of the stairs and called his name again. Again there was no answer, and she placed one trainer-clad foot on the bottom step. Dared she go up? Did she want to? Did she have a choice?

  Of course she did, but she ignored the alternative. Taking a deep breath, she started up the stairs, assuring herself that it was what anyone else would have done in her place. After all, when Colonel Phillips had been taken ill, it was she who had called an ambulance to take him to hospital. If she hadn’t had a key to the house, he would have died alone
and uncared-for.

  The fact that she didn’t have a key now was hardly relevant. She’d surrendered her key to the solicitor when the old man died. But the door had been unlocked, she reminded herself. All she’d done was let herself in. And she was expected. She glanced at her watch. It was already a quarter past nine.

  Reaching the galleried landing, Fliss paused again. She knew from experience that there were six bedrooms and three bathrooms on this floor. None of them had been used recently, but they weren’t in bad decorative order. Which one would Matthew Quinn choose?

  Several of the doors stood ajar so it was a fairly easy task to peer into the rooms. Like downstairs, the empty rooms stirred wistful memories. She missed Colonel Phillips. He’d been kind to her and to Amy, and they’d been fond of him in return.

  The door to the back bedroom was closed and she regarded it doubtfully for a few moments before she looked into the rest of the rooms. She guessed her employer had chosen the same room as the colonel used to occupy before his arthritis got so bad. It was probably in the best state of repair.

  The door to the front bedroom stood ajar like all the rest and Fliss pushed it wide enough to peer in before moving on. The curtains weren’t drawn and she’d assumed the room was empty. But then her breath caught in her throat at the sight of Matthew Quinn sprawled across the mattress, his only covering a thin sheet that had wrapped itself tightly about his hips and thighs.

  To her relief, he appeared to be sound asleep. Which was just as well, as the sheet was his only covering and it left little to her imagination. She tried to concentrate on the brown width of his shoulders and the hard muscles that defined his stomach. But her eyes were irresistibly drawn to the triangle of dark hair that arrowed down to his navel before disappearing beneath the low line of the bed linen.

  The bones of his hips were clearly visible, his powerful legs relaxed now in sleep. Dragging her gaze away from what lay between his legs, Fliss let her eyes travel slowly up his body, lingering curiously on the silky strands of hair that grew beneath his outstretched arms. She wondered if the hair felt as soft as it looked. She knew a quite ridiculous urge to touch it and find out.

  The trouble was, she had never seen a naked man before. When Terry Matheson had seduced her, it had just been a furtive fumble in the back of his car. She hadn’t enjoyed it, but she had to admit she didn’t know what it was like to make love with a man, to share a bed with a man. She doubted she ever would. In her opinion the whole sex thing was vastly overrated, and she fully expected to remain single for the rest of her life.

  Even so, seeing Matthew Quinn like this did make her wonder what it would be like to be loved by a man like him. What would it be like to feel his hands upon her; to be kissed and caressed in places she’d never dreamed of outside of the romantic novels she borrowed from the public library? She’d always thought it was just the imagination of the author that caused the love scenes to give her such a spine tingling spasm in her stomach. The pleasurable pain she’d felt at those times had seemed almost wicked, yet she was feeling much the same sensation now, if for different reasons.

  She swallowed hard. This was crazy. She shouldn’t be standing here in his bedroom doorway indulging in girlish fantasies about a man she scarcely knew. Thank God, he was asleep. She didn’t know what she’d do if—

  But he wasn’t asleep. As her hand groped for the handle of the door to pull it closed behind her, her gaze strayed to his face again—and saw his eyes were open.

  At once, her face suffused with colour. Oh, lord, how long had he been awake? How long had he been aware of her staring at him? And what excuse could she give? Surely nothing she said could explain her behaviour?

  There was an awkward silence while Fliss struggled to regain her composure and he blinked sleepily at her, lifting a languid arm to rake his nails across his scalp. Then, as if taking pity on her, he said, ‘What time is it?’ As if he didn’t know she’d been ogling him for the last five minutes.

  Fliss licked dry lips before replying. ‘It—it’s nearly half past nine,’ she said jerkily. ‘I—I tried the door downstairs and it was open.’ She paused. ‘I—wondered if you were all right.’

  His dark eyes narrowed as he took in the ramifications of her statement. ‘So you decided to—what? Take the time to check the place out?’

  ‘No!’ Fliss was defensive. ‘When Colonel Phillips was taken ill, I was the one who found him. It occurred to me that you might be—might be—’

  For the life of her, Fliss couldn’t think of a way to finish her sentence without sounding melodramatic. Matthew Quinn had levered himself up on his elbows in the interim, and was now regarding her sardonically across the sunlit room. As he moved, the sheet fell a little, and her eyes dropped automatically. She wasn’t a prude, but she couldn’t ignore his nakedness as he apparently could.

  ‘I’ll see you downstairs,’ she muttered, but, as if recognising her embarrassment, Matthew swiftly hauled the sheet up to his waist again.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ he said, not sounding sorry at all. ‘I’m not used to finding strange women in my bedroom.’

  ‘No, well, I’m sorry, too,’ said Fliss, backing onto the landing. ‘As I say, I’ll—um—’

  ‘I have been up, you know,’ he remarked, before she could escape. ‘I haven’t been sleeping all that well, and I got up around five and made some coffee.’

  Fliss swallowed. ‘Coffee doesn’t seem to be a wise choice if you’re suffering from insomnia,’ she offered awkwardly, and he gave her a rueful grimace.

  ‘I guess not.’ He lifted a hand to massage the back of his neck, arching his back as he did so, and once again he had to rescue the slipping sheet. ‘God, what time did you say it was? Half past nine?’

  ‘It’s actually nearer twenty to ten.’ Fliss corrected him a little primly and he groaned out loud.

  ‘Dammit, that guy, Gilchrist, said the furniture would be here about ten. I’d better get dressed.’

  ‘Take your time,’ said Fliss hastily, half-afraid he was going to get out of bed before she had time to close the door. ‘I’ll go and make some fresh coffee.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, and she hurried away before he could say anything else.

  CHAPTER SIX

  A COUPLE of hours later, Matt surveyed his newly furnished rooms with some satisfaction.

  The twin hide sofas and satin-striped armchairs he’d chosen certainly gave the drawing room a little more panache, and the antique desk and leather chair he’d bought for the library would allow him to work at his laptop in comfort, if he needed to.

  Of course, he realised now he had gone about things backside first. He should have had the place redecorated before he started buying furniture, but his needs were too immediate to allow him that luxury. He needed somewhere to sit, somewhere to relax. And, after all, it wasn’t as if the paper was peeling off the walls.

  Except in the hall, of course. The hall and stairs would have to be tackled immediately, he acknowledged that. The impression it presently created was one of age and dilapidation.

  His new housekeeper had been terrific. He had to acknowledge that, too. After providing him with toast and coffee, she’d started on the drawing room, and by the time the delivery truck arrived, albeit an hour later than he’d anticipated, both the drawing room and the library were as clean as she could make them.

  She’d opened all the windows, and the pleasant smell of furniture polish mingled with the warm breeze from the garden. The windows themselves gleamed and the musty aroma of disuse that had pervaded the house had almost totally dissipated. Even the floorboards had received a coat of liquid polish and the Chinese rugs he’d bought as a temporary measure until he could get a carpet fitted looked at home on the shining floor.

  If he’d had the impression that Fliss was avoiding him he’d put it down to his imagination. She was here to work, he reminded himself, trying to forget what had happened earlier. It wasn’t his fault if she’d seen more than she’d barg
ained for. He hadn’t invited her into his bedroom, for God’s sake.

  All the same, he couldn’t deny that he’d actually enjoyed her confusion. And, for a few moments, before she’d become aware of him watching her, he’d felt a disturbing hunger in his loins. She looked so unlike any housekeeper he’d seen in her skimpy T-shirt and tight-fitting jeans, and the rush of heat that had surged into his groin had been as surprising as it had been fleeting.

  It hadn’t lasted. And, despite everything, he told himself he wouldn’t have wanted it to. He’d do himself no favours getting involved with his housekeeper, however neutral his involvement was bound to be. She didn’t know about that and he’d be a fool to indulge in sexual foreplay that could backfire on him in the most humiliating way.

  Even so, that didn’t stop him thinking about her. After she’d gone upstairs to tackle the bedrooms and he started unpacking the boxes of books he’d brought with him from London onto the newly polished shelves in the library, he had to admit that she intrigued him. He couldn’t honestly understand why she was happy doing what she did. She was an intelligent woman, for God’s sake. Didn’t she want to do anything else with her life?

  He supposed having Amy made her situation different from Diane’s, for example. If what Diane had said was true, Fliss had given up a promising education to have her baby. But why hadn’t she married the baby’s father? Why was she still living at home when she must have had other opportunities to get married?

  His brain baulked at the avalanche of questions. It wasn’t his problem, and he had the feeling Fliss wouldn’t appreciate his curiosity. Despite her occasional outbursts, he sensed she was a private person. And he couldn’t forget the way she’d acted that morning when she’d found him in bed.

  He was back to square one, to the very subject he didn’t want to think about. Weariness enveloped him, a combination of the physical work he was doing and the mental depression he had to constantly fight against. Despite his confinement, he wasn’t used to manual labour. Weeks, months spent in the confines of a small cell caused muscles to stiffen up and grow painful with lack of use. He’d tried to keep himself fit, doing push-ups and other exercises, but he’d been fighting a losing battle. Living on a starvation diet turned every effort into a major task.