by Susan Napier
‘Could you please keep your voice down?’ she snapped, looking over her shoulder at the people watching from the terrace.
His laughter abated to a taunting grin. ‘I’m right, aren’t I? You and that bulky young man on the door are playing on the same team.’
‘WSS is supplying the security coverage here tonight, yes,’ she admitted stiffly.
He rocked on his heels, shaking his head. ‘I just don’t believe it!’
Rachel had had enough of being the target for his amusement. ‘What? That we’re capable of doing a first-rate job? You may have chosen to think otherwise, but Westons has a string of very satisfied private and corporate clients who are extremely impressed with the services we deliver—’
‘And what little service are you, personally, delivering this evening?’ he wondered, with a mocking leer at her exposed skin. ‘A “relief” massage for the stressed-out cat burglar?’
Even though she’d thought she was inured to sly jokes about being a masseuse, Rachel found herself blushing.
‘I’m in charge!’ she threw at him, and when his eyebrows climbed above the frames of his glasses she sucked in a furious breath at his provoking scepticism. ‘You know damned well from reading our bids that I’m a qualified security guard—’
‘With the ink barely dry on your certificate,’ he charged.
‘And a licensed private detective—’
‘Ditto…both of which only serve to prove that you passed a police vetting of your background.’
‘And in monitoring private functions like this, where there’s a lot of valuable art on display and expensive jewellery around people’s necks, it’s standard practice to have operatives working undercover,’ she finished grittily.
‘Or, in your case, uncovered!’ he drawled, toasting her tight bodice with his glass. ‘You’ve certainly perfected the art of distraction. With a bodyguard like you around, few men would be likely to find anything else worth pinching…’
‘Is that why you stopped Westons winning those contracts we quoted on?’ she burst out, the suspicion having haunted her ever since those abortive meetings. ‘Not because we didn’t present the best bid, but because of some stupid macho prejudice you have against me? Because of the way I look you presume I can’t possibly be a competent professional. Is that why you’ve been whispering to your father and Neville Stiller, warning them against choosing us for the KR Industries job?’
‘You think I’m macho?’ His wandering attention was snagged by the diverting notion.
‘Just answer the questions!’ she rapped out.
‘I thought they were rhetorical,’ he responded blandly. ‘In view of the sex discrimination act, if it were true I’d be stupid to admit to it…and we’ve both already agreed that I’m merely drunk.’
He crooked his elbow at her in a parody of politeness. ‘I think I just heard the call to dinner. Shall we go in? No doubt Merrilyn’s already arranged for us to sit cosily together, so that her pet Amazon can keep me firmly on the leash!’
CHAPTER FOUR
‘I THINK a choke-chain would be more appropriate,’ muttered Rachel as she reluctantly linked her arm with his. ‘Are you going to behave during dinner?’
‘Probably not…’
There was an angry bleakness in the laconic answer that made her heart sink. She halted, forcing him to swing around to face her, his back to the pool.
‘Why?’ She braced herself for yet another sarcastic, evasive response.
He shook off her hand and fortified himself with another mouthful of bubbles, uttering a sound of disgust when he discovered he had drained the bottle. He cast it with a reckless arm into the pool. It hit with a loud splash and bobbed briefly on the surface, then spiralled down through the ripples of light as the water poured in through the narrow neck.
He watched it sink with an intense fascination, waiting until the rippling surface of the water settled back into reflective smoothness before he spoke. ‘You know…it was a night just like this; a perfect, romantic, cloudless, starry summer night…’
His lyrical tone gave Rachel an ominous tingling at the base of her skull. ‘What night?’
‘The night my wife killed herself,’ he said casually, and Rachel’s breath stopped in her throat.
‘She—didn’t…drown?’ she stammered, alarmed by the fixed intensity with which he was staring into the pool.
He pivoted unsteadily on the coping stone to give her a sardonic look. ‘No, she wanted to make it neat and tidy for both of us. She took a handful of pills washed down with half a bottle of vodka…exactly four years ago tonight.’
Oh, God, no wonder he was in such a black fugue! On each anniversary of David’s death Rachel, too, was a mass of raw nerves as she coped with the onslaught of painful memories, re-experiencing the angry sense of helplessness she had suffered at the time. But for Matthew the pain must be multiplied tenfold. At least Rachel had the comfort of knowing that the man she’d loved had died for a positive purpose—to save the life of the child his car had successfully swerved to avoid.
‘Perhaps she expected to be found…’ she offered tentatively, hampered by her ignorance.
‘And saved? By me?’ His laugh was bitter. ‘Then I obviously failed her, didn’t I? Her death was my fault…’
‘That wasn’t what I meant—’
‘Even though she was married to me?’ he lashed out. ‘Grounds for suicide in itself. Wasn’t that what you said?’
‘When I said that, I didn’t know about your wife—’
‘You were just taking a lucky guess?’
She swallowed. ‘I was angry. I was trying to think of the worst insult I possibly could.’
‘Congratulations. You succeeded admirably!’
‘Matthew, I’m sorry.’ She reached out, unconsciously using his first name in an effort to re-establish their tenuous emotional connection.
He recoiled violently.
‘Go to hell!’ He struck her hand away and in that moment she knew that it would be sheer madness to let him sit down in polite company.
His self-control was too precarious. The alcohol had already stripped away far too many of his inhibitions, freeing him to express thoughts and feelings which would normally be taboo to a man of his pride and emotional reserve. He had gone beyond the point where he was willing, or even able, to exercise reasonable judgement.
Which meant that Rachel would have to fall back on her risky plan B.
While he was still swaying from the momentum of his action she surged forward with a little cry of alarm.
‘Look out!’ She caught his padded shoulders in a bunching grip. ‘Don’t move—’ Her body bumped softly into his as he instinctively stiffened. ‘—or you’ll trip over—’
He teetered on the brink of the pool as something firm slid against the back of his ankles, preventing him from shifting his feet to re-establish his centre of gravity over his arching back.
‘The—’ She snatched her hands back, her eyes flying wide with horror as he continued to topple backwards, his arms now windmilling wildly.
‘Cat!’ Her hands clapped over her mouth as he crashed down into the water, sending a small tidal wave spilling over the tiled edges.
‘Oh, no!’ she cried as the string quartet on the balcony craned to see what had happened in a cacophony of discordant strings. ‘Matthew, are you all right?’
For one awful instant when he went under she thought he might not be able to swim, but he almost immediately resurfaced and began to swim clumsily towards the side, hampered by his waterlogged clothes.
‘I could see it was going to happen but I couldn’t do anything to stop it!’ she cried apologetically.
A waiter and a few other guests hurried down the steps to assist, and she waited for them to reach her before she risked offering Matthew her helping hand. While one person falling in the pool could be dismissed as an accident, two would be serious grounds for gossip.
Merrilyn fluttered to the fore as he
was hauled to his dripping feet. ‘W-what happened?’ she stammered.
‘He tripped over the cat and fell into the pool,’ Rachel told her succinctly.
Merrilyn’s smooth brow wrinkled. ‘But we don’t have a—’ She caught Rachel’s eye. ‘Oh, you must mean the neighbour’s cat. That wretched tom is always prowling over here—one day I’m going to ring the SPCA…’ She trailed off as Rachel’s tight smile warned her not to overdo the descriptive colour.
‘Unless I get my hands on it first and wring its damned neck!’ growled Matthew Riordan, removing his fogged glasses and raking his hand over his wet head, sending little rivulets streaming down into the back of his collar. ‘I didn’t even see it!’
‘It’s coal-black,’ Merrilyn said quickly. ‘I’m most frightfully sorry, Matthew. How awful! Naturally we’ll pay for dry-cleaning. Oh, dear, you’re so wet!’ she finished feebly.
‘Water tends to do that to people,’ he said blithely.
‘And we were just about to sit down to our individual herb soufflés!’ Merrilyn shrilled, clenching her beringed fingers over her heart.
There was a little pause, and Rachel could see her obsessive need to be the perfect hostess warring with her fervent desire be swiftly rid of her unexpectedly awkward guest.
There was an audible squelch as he shifted on his feet. ‘Since I don’t have my car with me, I can’t drive home…and I can hardly get into a taxi like this,’ he said impatiently, moving his arms and sending water cascading out of his sleeves.
Rachel noticed with alarm that his consonants were now definitely blurred and he was visibly unsteady on his feet. Instead of sobering him up, as she had half hoped, the adrenalin shock of his dunking had evidently speeded up the absorption of alcohol into his already saturated system.
‘You can’t let all those soufflés go flat, Merrilyn,’ she said pointedly. ‘Shall I show Matthew somewhere to dry off while the rest of you go ahead with dinner? Preferably somewhere that he doesn’t have to trek back through the house—like your guest quarters, perhaps? He might like to have a shower, as well as a change of clothes…’
‘Of course!’ Merrilyn eagerly fell on the immediate solution to her dilemma. ‘The guest-house would be perfect!’ It was tucked well out of sight and sound of the main house. ‘I’ll send a maid along shortly with some suitable clothes.’ But not shortly enough to interfere with dinner, she silently communicated as she added, ‘Uh, do you need any help, Rachel…?’
Rachel had received the silent message. ‘No thanks.’ She wedged her shoulder discreetly under a dripping arm. ‘I’m sure I can manage.’
‘You will see that he has everything he needs?’ Merrilyn couldn’t help pleading.
‘Of course I will,’ said Rachel confidently.
She wasn’t so sure of her ability to manage ten minutes later, as she was faced with the task of manhandling a fully-grown male out of his clinging wet clothes. Although Matthew Riordan had meekly allowed her to guide his listing body along the cobbled path around the house, once they had reached the guest-house he had turned infuriatingly passive.
‘If you don’t get out of those things soon you’re going to get a chill,’ Rachel repeated as he stood motionless in the middle of the big bedroom, creating a small puddle on the polished wooden floor.
He merely gazed at her blankly and she sighed, taking the spectacles out of his limp hand and placing them on the table beside the king-sized bed, with its wrought iron bedhead topped with shiny brass.
‘Look, you’re shivering already.’ She put a hand on his chest to confirm her point and was taken aback at the heat burning through his wet shirt. Even given the warmth of the night it seemed unnatural, particularly in view of the visible tremors which were shaking his torso.
‘I’m hot,’ he said helpfully, and she moved her hand to lay it across his flushed forehead. That, too, felt uncomfortably warm. She frowned as he sighed and turned his face to rub it against her soft palm. ‘Mmm…That feels so good…’
She flushed and hastily circled around behind him to collar his drenched jacket and ease it down his uncooperative arms. She carried it into the bathroom and dropped it into the expansive marble spa-bath. While she was there she turned on the pulsating shower in the transparent glass cabinet, hoping that the inviting sound would lure him in, but when she returned to the bedroom, carrying a towel with which to mop the water from the floor, he was still standing in exactly the same place, his bedraggled shirt hanging twisted and loose, his expression darkly frustrated.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked, averting her eyes from the drops of water sliding down his chest and pearling on his peaked brown nipples. She excused her momentary fascination as professional interest—his firm upper body suggested that he must work out, since he wouldn’t retain that kind of muscle definition just sitting around in boardrooms.
‘It won’t come off,’ he complained, plucking at the wet fabric on his shoulder.
‘That’s because you haven’t undone your tie or cufflinks,’ she said in exasperation.
Silk-shaded table lamps beside the rattan couch and the shiny brass bedhead had sprung to soft life when Rachel had keyed in the alarm code in the electronic panel by the door. Now, trying to read the expression in his eyes, she was sorry that she hadn’t bothered to also flick on the overhead lights. Without the protection of his glasses his eyes seemed larger, their pale lids heavier, but in the muted shadows of the room it was impossible to guess what he was thinking as he stared at her with that strange, unblinking concentration.
‘Matthew?’
‘Matt. My friends call me Matt.’
‘We’re not friends, remember? We’re practically strangers.’
‘Rachel…’
At least he knew who she was, she thought humorously, and he didn’t sound as if he bore a grudge…
Tossing the towel on the cream bedspread, she dealt briskly with the gold links in his sleeves and reached up to unsnap the studs which fastened the black tie. As she pulled it free from his wing collar his hands came up to settle heavily on her waist, and she stiffened as he swayed forward, his damp chest pressing against her breasts.
‘What are you doing?’
‘The room is moving,’ he protested thickly, sliding his arms further around her body.
‘It’s not the room; it’s your head,’ she told him, pushing at his chest.
‘It hurts.’
‘What? Your head? Did you hit it when you fell?’ Fears of delayed concussion swirled in her head. She ran her hands up the nape of his neck and sifted her fingers through the silky strands of wet hair, but could detect no flaws in the smooth symmetry of his skull.
‘Not there,’ he muttered, and took one of her hands and pressed it back across his forehead. ‘Yes, there…’ He sighed with satisfaction. ‘Your hands feel nice…so cool…’
In fact they were quite warm. He was running a slight fever, guessed Rachel. He wasn’t only drunk, he was also ill. Which might explain why he was so very drunk.
‘Are you taking any pills or painkillers?’
‘Doctor says I don’t need anything. Just mild flu. Hate pills. Never take them.’ He shivered, his eyes closed, his voice hoarse. ‘They don’t kill pain, they cause it. That’s how Leigh died. Too many damned pills!’
‘So you were telling me,’ she said cautiously, afraid his wife’s name would be the trigger for another angry outburst.
‘She shouldn’t have done that,’ he murmured. ‘I loved her.’
‘I’m sure you did,’ she soothed. She noticed that the arm around her waist had relaxed and drifted southwards, his hand curving down the slope of her buttock, and hurriedly detached herself.
‘You should be able to take off your shirt now,’ she said, stepping back. She deliberately made her tone brusque, placing her hands on her hips to reinforce the distance she was consciously creating between them.
Unfortunately he appeared blind to the subtleties of her body language…but not to h
er body. His eyes dilated as they roved down the shimmering column of white sequins standing before him.
‘I can’t,’ he said, in the same vague, unfocused voice. He shrugged helplessly, creating an intriguing interplay of muscle across his upper chest. Trapezius, deltoid, pectoralis major, latissimus dorsi, Rachel charted silently, forcing herself to see the biomechanical entity rather than an attractive man.
He was watching her from under his lashes, and she was abruptly aware that, drunk or ill, he was still a consummate male. ‘You do it, Rachel.’
His suddenly sweet and beguiling smile made heat pool in the pit of her stomach. ‘You haven’t even tried.’
He pouted, and to her horror she found herself wondering what it would be like to suck on that sullen lip. ‘I’m cold.’
She immediately felt a surge of guilt. What if his enforced swim had a further ill effect on his weakened immune system?
‘You were hot only a minute ago,’ she protested weakly.
He gave a dramatic shiver and she caved in, refusing to acknowledge the forbidden pleasure she took in removing his shirt, peeling the thin silk away from his damp body. His chest and upper arms were hard and smooth, the muscles twitching with tension as she picked up the thick peach-coloured towel and briskly blotted him down, trying not to notice the tingling in the tips of her fingers whenever they brushed his overheated skin.
As a masseuse, her sense of touch had become highly refined and her tactile skill made her very aware of the subtle changes in his body as his muscles began to relax. She instructed him to bend his head and vigorously attended to his hair, and when she moved around to deal with his back and shoulders he sighed with contentment, flexing his spinal column and rotating his shoulderblades, purring like a big cat.
‘I like being rubbed,’ he told her, his ability to communicate apparently reduced to simple expressions of sensory acknowledgement.
‘Most people do. It stimulates the blood supply which in turn helps removes toxins at cellular level,’ she said clinically, with a final dust down his lumbar vertebrae.
