Savage Awakening Page 9

  He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a swear-word, but as it wasn’t spoken in English she couldn’t be sure. In any case, she was appalled at her own behaviour. It was all right making those kinds of gestures when you could afford it. Unfortunately she couldn’t.

  Matt shifted then, coming to stand with his back to the counter beside her, his frustration evident. ‘Look, can’t we forget all this nonsense and start again?’ he demanded.

  Fliss turned her head. ‘You really want me to stay?’

  Matt expelled a weary sigh. ‘Yeah. I really want you to stay.’

  She considered. ‘And you won’t—tell Diane what happened?’

  Once again a quirk of amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth. ‘No, I won’t tell Diane,’ he promised. Then, with a strangely mocking expression, he turned away. ‘Take my word for it, she’d never believe it.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  MATT spent the rest of the day cursing himself for letting the situation with Fliss develop as it had. It would have served him right if she’d decided she didn’t want to work for him after all. And, in spite of everything, he wanted her to stay.

  With hindsight, he didn’t know what had possessed him to act the way he had. What crazy urge had compelled him to touch her at all when he knew damn well that nothing would—or could—come of it?

  OK, he understood his initial reaction when she’d landed on top of him. Having the breath knocked out of you by a warm and nubile young woman could cause a momentary loss of memory, and that was his excuse. Unfortunately, he’d prolonged the offence by holding on to her, by allowing her to believe, however briefly, that he knew what the hell he was doing.

  Just because it was the first time his body had reacted normally since he came home from Abuqara, he’d wanted to prove something to himself. In those few seconds, he’d actually imagined what it would be like to ease her down onto the kitchen table and bury himself in her moist flesh, and when reality had intruded he’d fought against it.

  Though not for long. His brief arousal hadn’t lasted beyond the point where his brain reasserted itself. Whatever fantasy his body had entertained, his mind soon reminded him what he was capable of and what he wasn’t. And making love with Fliss, however appealing that might seem in theory, clearly wasn’t possible in practice. And he was a fool if he thought otherwise.

  Nevertheless, for a few delightful moments, he’d enjoyed the fantasy, and that was what he regretted most. He’d let her think he wanted her, instead of just the dream she represented.

  All the same, the memory of how soft her skin had been was a constant irritant. No, not an irritant, he contradicted himself impatiently, a torment. It reminded him of how things had used to be, how he had used to feel. Her mouth had been soft, too, moist and generous, and the intimate brush of her tongue had made him want to do more than just taste her lips.

  He wondered if that was a good sign. Surely it had to be, he told himself grimly as he carried a tumbler half-filled with mature single malt out onto the patio that evening. It was significant because he hadn’t felt any such emotions while he was in London. In spite of everything Diane had done to spark his interest, he’d backed away from any intimacy, and he knew she was hurt by his determination to keep her at arm’s length.

  The night air felt surprisingly warm. Or was that just his imagination, too? Certainly he felt a little more optimistic than he’d done for some time. Maybe this really was what he’d needed. A complete change of scene, an escape from the associations his life in London had represented. He had to believe it; had to believe that in time he’d feel like a man again.

  He went to bed at ten o’clock, but he slept only fitfully. His dreams were filled with erotic images; not of Diane, as they should have been, but of Fliss Taylor, and what might have happened the day before.

  The scenario was always the same: Fliss was standing at the top of the steps, long legs pale and slender, the rounded curve of her bottom prominently displayed in the khaki shorts.

  His physical reaction was immediate and unbelievably carnal. Even before the steps snapped as they had that morning, he was already anticipating what she would do if he touched her, if he slid his hand over her calf and the shapely length of her thigh to the provocative cuff of her shorts. And if he slipped his fingers beneath the cuff, would she be wearing any underwear?

  The crack the steps made as they broke was clearly audible, and he lunged to save her just as he’d done in reality. But there the comparison with reality ended. Instead of stumbling backward and allowing her to wind him, somehow they fell together, legs entangling, the full swell of her breasts crushed against his chest.

  And his arousal was almost painful. With her lissom body moulding itself to his, his response was all-consuming. The driving urge to possess her had him rolling on top of her, parting her legs with his thigh. His hands spread over her breasts, loving the thrust of the hard peaks against his palms. He wanted to tear the sleeveless top from her, to expose her breasts to his hungry gaze, but somehow he couldn’t do it. Instead he had to content himself with sucking her nipples through the thin cloth.

  A haze of desire gripped him. Looking down at her, meeting her heavy-eyed gaze, he was struck anew by his own body’s needs. His sex, hot and engorged, was an actual physical ache now, and he rubbed himself against her, seeking a satisfaction he desperately needed to fulfil.

  It didn’t happen. Like a mirage in the desert, the images faded, and a moan of real anguish escaped him as the dream slipped away. He awoke to find himself tangled in the bed sheets, one of his pillows clutched between his legs.

  But this was no wet dream. Turning on to his back, he acknowledged he’d known that even while he was unconscious. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t make love to a woman; any woman. He was impotent.

  Pushing himself to get up, he staggered out of the bed and into the bathroom. Then, in the shower, with the water beating hot and fiery on his chilled skin, he let the memories come. The fear, the beatings, the months of isolation; they had all taken their toll. But it was the night when General Hassan had sent for him, when the disgustingly fat Arab had made it clear what he expected of him, that destroyed him still.

  The horror of that night was never going to go away, he acknowledged despairingly. Even though Hassan had never laid a hand on him, he had only to think about sex and it all came back in all its sordid detail. The man had expected Matt to be flattered by his attention, that he’d welcome any chance to improve his living conditions and gain some greater comfort for himself.

  As if.

  Matt felt sick at the thought. But, dammit, what had he said to give Hassan the idea that he might be agreeable to his demands? What had he done to attract the interest of a pervert like him?

  He guessed a psychiatrist would tell him that he hadn’t done anything, that Hassan didn’t need any encouragement to use his prisoners for his own amusement. He was that kind of man, that kind of monster.

  Yet Matt had never told anyone about that night. Maybe if he had, he would have been able to deal with it and move on. As it was, it remained like a cancer in his soul, something he wanted to put behind him, but which refused to be ignored.

  So why didn’t he tell someone? he asked himself bitterly, reaching for the towel and drying himself with a savagery that spoke of his inner frustration. He’d done nothing wrong, for God’s sake. He’d escaped before Hassan could force his will on him.

  Matt remembered now how he had still been tied to the chair in the general’s office where the guards had shackled him when the sudden sound of gunfire outside had distracted Hassan’s attention. A guard had been sent to investigate and he’d come back with the news that the small town was under attack from a unit of government forces, and the general had had no choice but to go and deal with the emergency.

  For a short time, Matt had been alone, listening to the uproar outside. There’d been shouting and yelling, guns being discharged into the air, apparently in all direct
ions judging by the howls of protest that penetrated the shutters on the windows. Briefly, he’d entertained the hope that the raid had been engineered to rescue him, but that idea was extinguished as soon as Captain Rachid appeared in the doorway.

  The rebel captain came into the room, closing the door behind him, and for an awful moment Matt had thought he had been sent to kill him. He couldn’t think of any other reason why the man might be there, and even though they’d talked together at length, he’d been under no illusion that Rachid was his friend.

  Even when the captain pulled out a knife and began cutting through the ropes that bound him, Matt had expected the worst. As soon as his hands were free, he’d made a futile attempt to attack the man, but he was weak from hunger and his arms and legs were numb from a lack of circulation.

  He supposed it was a measure of the man’s decency that he hadn’t defended himself as harshly as he might have done. Overpowering Matt with little effort, he’d thrust his lips close to his ear and told him that a Jeep, with a full tank of petrol, was hidden around the back of the prison. By his reckoning, Matt had had less than ten minutes to find the Jeep and use it. After that, he was on his own.

  In the months that followed, Matt had often wondered why Rachid had helped him. The man had been Hassan’s second-in-command, a trusted ally, who had had nothing to gain by aiding him to escape.

  Except, perhaps, that he hadn’t approved of what his commander had intended to do. Matt knew he would never know now. Rachid had been killed during the final battle for Abuqara City, and Hassan had been arrested some time later for crimes against the state. The only positive outcome had been the change of government, brought about by external pressure when the rebellion was quashed, but he doubted there would be any fundamental change of policy.

  Nevertheless, he owed a tremendous debt of gratitude to the rebel captain. Without his intervention—and Matt had come to believe there never had been any government forces in the area—he’d never have got away.

  So why was he so unwilling to talk about it? He had nothing to be ashamed of. He scowled. The truth was, he was ashamed. Ashamed of his own weakness; of his helplessness in the face of danger; of the stupidity he’d displayed in letting such a thing happen to him.

  And, even though he knew it was crazy, he couldn’t confess his deepest fears to a total stranger and there was no one else. If his father had still been alive, he might have been able to talk to him, but Alistair Quinn had died while his son was in captivity. Another burden Matt had had to bear since he got back.

  Discussing his imprisonment with his mother had been out of the question. Louise would have been horrified at the news that her son had suffered any kind of brutality at the hands of his captors. She hadn’t even wanted to see the scars on his back, that had had to be treated at a hospital and which some news hack had found out about and made such a big thing of. She’d been delighted to have him home. But she definitely didn’t want to be reminded of what might have gone on while he was away.

  Diane had remained the only possibility, but she had quickly diverted him from any discussion of the squalid conditions he’d had to suffer. Like his mother, she didn’t want to think about the past. She wanted to talk about the future, their future. A future, Matt now acknowledged, that had never seemed more remote.

  He dressed in a cotton vest and drawstring sweat pants and was drinking his first coffee of the day when Fliss knocked at the back door. He knew it was her. He could see her shadow through the windowed half-panels in the door, and, although he could have done with a little more time to regain his composure before seeing her again, he had no choice but to let her in.

  She wasn’t alone. To his surprise, when he opened the door, Amy was standing at her mother’s side. They were both dressed in shorts and T-shirts, Amy’s hair, which was longer than her mother’s and straighter, caught up in a pony-tail.

  ‘Hi, Quinn.’

  Predictably, it was Amy who spoke first and Matt saw the way Fliss winced at her daughter’s familiarity. But she had evidently decided to put what had happened the day before behind her and her tone was coolly polite as she said, ‘Amy’s got a day’s holiday today. I hoped you wouldn’t mind if she came and played in the garden while I’m working.’

  ‘No.’ Matt took a step back, silently inviting them inside. ‘I don’t mind at all.’ His eyes moved to the child and he managed a grin. ‘Hello again, Amy. Or are you calling yourself something else today?’

  Amy giggled. ‘Well…’ she said thoughtfully, putting a finger against her lips, but her mother intervened.

  ‘Amy will do,’ she said firmly, stepping inside. She glanced behind her. ‘Don’t go out of the garden, will you, Amy? And if you want anything, come and knock at this door.’

  ‘She can come and have a drink,’ said Matt, not quite knowing why he’d made the suggestion, but clearly Fliss thought she did.

  ‘It’s not necessary,’ she said, her cheeks a little pink. ‘I’ll be starting work straight away—’

  ‘Well, as I’ve just made a pot of coffee, why don’t we all have a drink first?’ suggested Matt drily, and Amy gave him a huge smile.

  ‘Oh, yes, Mummy. Can we?’

  She was obviously eager and Fliss, finding herself outvoted, had little choice but to give in. All the same, Matt noticed that she ignored his offer of a seat and took her coffee standing, her hip firmly wedged against the counter behind her.

  And, conversely, he found himself resenting her behaviour. A few moments ago, he hadn’t wanted to open the door to her, and now he was finding her polite detachment hard to take. Dammit, he regretted what had happened just as much as she did. More, probably. And she hadn’t had to contend with erotic dreams that had tormented his sleep and left him feeling strangely off-key.

  ‘Grandad’s going to make a bigger place for Buttons,’ Amy offered, after Matt had handed her a glass of fizzy lemonade.

  ‘An enclosure,’ corrected Fliss and Amy nodded.

  ‘Yes. A “closure.”’ She glanced about her. ‘Do you have a straw?’

  ‘Amy!’

  Fliss was impatient, but Matt was grateful to the child for lightening the mood. ‘Sorry,’ he said, pulling a wry face. ‘But I’ll be sure and have some for next time.’

  Amy beamed. ‘Colonel Phillips used to buy straws just for me,’ she said proudly. ‘Did you know Colonel Phillips? He was very old.’

  ‘Amy,’ Fliss said again, but Matt was happy to continue the conversation. At least with Amy there were no undercurrents; no suspicion that Fliss had only agreed to stay to prove something to herself.

  ‘No, I didn’t know Colonel Phillips,’ he said, wishing Fliss would sit down so he could do the same. He could feel an ache in his lumbar region, which he guessed was the result of the fall he’d taken the day before. ‘He was gone before I bought the house.’ He paused. ‘Did he let you come here with your Mummy, too?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Amy spoke airily. ‘He used to like me to come and play games with him. Board games, I mean. Draughts and ludo, that sort of thing. Oh, and he had boxes and boxes of coins and stuff. I used to like looking at them.’

  ‘I bet.’ Matt’s eyes moved thoughtfully to Fliss’s solemn face and then away again. What was she thinking? he wondered. That he was using the child to find out more about her? He considered. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have any coins, but I do have lots of books that need sorting out. How would you like to help me this morning? We could sort them out together.’

  ‘It’s a fine morning,’ said Fliss at once. ‘Amy will be happy enough in the garden. You don’t have to entertain her, Mr Quinn.’

  ‘I know I don’t,’ said Matt, and, seeing the little girl’s disappointed face, he couldn’t help responding to it. ‘But I mean it. Amy can help me. You saw how many boxes of books there are.’

  ‘I’m a good reader,’ put in Amy at once. ‘Mrs Hill says I’m the best reader in my class.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ said Matt, with a rueful grin at
Fliss. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

  Fliss allowed a sigh to escape her. ‘I—of course I don’t mind, but—’

  ‘That’s settled, then,’ said Matt, and, deciding there was no point in being proud, he sank gratefully into a chair at the table. ‘I’ll be glad of her help, and if she gets bored she can always go outside.’

  ‘I won’t get bored,’ declared Amy, but Matt could see that Fliss still had her doubts.

  ‘If you need help…’ she began, but he shook his head.

  ‘She’ll be good company,’ he assured her. If only because she would stop him from dwelling on other things. ‘We’ll be fine.’

  ‘Well, it’s very kind of you,’ Fliss said awkwardly, and he glimpsed a trace of empathy at last. She finished her coffee and put down her cup. ‘I’ll leave you to it, then.’ She bent and gave Amy a kiss. ‘You be good now,’ she added. ‘And don’t get in Mr Quinn’s way.’

  The morning passed remarkably quickly. Matt hadn’t exaggerated when he’d said that Amy would be good company. She was. She liked to talk. She chattered on about everything, from school and her family to what she’d watched on television the night before. And he discovered she wasn’t at all inhibited about the fact that she didn’t know her father.

  ‘He went away before I was born,’ she said matter-of-factly, spilling books, that Matt had just sorted into categories, over his desk. ‘Where do you want me to put these?’

  ‘Oh—just leave them where they are,’ said Matt resignedly, beginning to sort them all over again. ‘You open that box over there. You might find something interesting in it.’

  Amy went to squat beside the box he’d indicated, and Matt wondered if she’d say any more about her father. But she didn’t. Instead, she used the scissors to cut the string that bound the box, and then hauled out the first of the photograph albums that were inside.

  ‘Is this yours?’ she asked, and Matt nodded.