by Anne Mather
‘About what?’
‘About the fact that I’m engaged to be married!’ she retorted hotly. ‘Oh, I realise things are done differently in your world, but in mine, if a girl is engaged to be married to one man, she doesn’t play around with another!’
His brows descended. ‘And what makes you think things are done differently where I come from?’
‘Because they are.’ Samantha hesitated. ‘I—I saw you.’
‘Saw me?’ He looked confused. ‘Saw me—what?’
‘With—with that woman. Miss Mainwaring. I saw you together.’
‘Yes?’ He still didn’t appear to understand. ‘And what did you see?’
Samantha felt the colour invade her cheeks. ‘That doesn’t matter.’
‘I think it does.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ Samantha’s hands clenched round the portfolio. ‘I have no intention of satisfying some perversive streak in your nature. Let’s just say, you weren’t exactly strangers to one another.’
‘No, we weren’t. We aren’t.’ Matthew expelled his breath rather heavily. ‘At one time, Melissa thought she was going to marry me. Does that make it easier for you?’
‘Oh!’ Samantha knew a sudden weakness in the pit of her stomach. ‘I—see.’
‘Do you? I doubt it.’ His tone was ironic now, as he closed the space between them, and looked down at her. ‘Look—I need a drink. Come with me.’
Samantha bit her lip. ‘I don’t drink and drive.’
‘A lemonade, then.’
That was said with rather less tolerance. He was losing patience. She could see it in the faint lines of tension that bracketed his mouth. She had only to wait long enough and he would get tired of humouring her. He would realise she meant what she said. She wasn’t like Melissa Mainwaring. She had principles. But—oh, God!—how smug she sounded.
‘Sam, please!’
The rough appeal in his voice raked her already crumbling defences. She wanted to tell him to go; to do the right thing; to prove to herself, if no one else, that everything was still the same as before. Only it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. No matter how she tried to deny it, things had changed. She had changed.
The truth was, unprincipled or not, she wanted to accept his invitation. And she knew that if she refused he would never ask her again. This was her last chance. And what was one drink, after all? It wasn’t as if it meant anything. As he had said the last time he came to the café, he wasn’t asking her to go to bed with him!
‘I—all right,’ she said, regretting the words as soon as they were uttered. It suddenly seemed quite unpardonable to accept a drink from a man who had proved to be so dishonest. Had she forgotten the way he had tricked her into going to his office? And what about his behaviour while she was there?
‘OK.’ His response to her acceptance was obviously relieved. She guessed he wasn’t used to rejection, in any form. ‘The car’s parked just round the corner. In—Pilgrim Street, is that right?’
‘The car?’ Samantha blinked. ‘I thought you just invited me for a drink.’
‘I did.’
‘Well?’
He pushed his hands back into his pockets. ‘You think we should go into one of these pubs in the High Street?’ He grimaced. ‘If that’s what you want.’
It wasn’t. Samantha pressed her lips together. The pubs around the Market Square did not have a particularly salubrious reputation. It would be just her luck to be seen coming out of one of them with Matthew Putnam. Damned on two counts, instead of just one.
‘I suppose you know somewhere better,’ she challenged, deciding to let him think he would have to persuade her, but he merely fell into step beside her, and shook his head.
‘It’s immaterial to me,’ he replied, and she gazed at him frustratedly. ‘You choose,’ he added. ‘You know better than me.’
Samantha suppressed a groan. She should have known. A man like Matthew Putnam was unlikely to fall for her little schemes. He was far too experienced for that.
‘We’ll go somewhere else,’ she muttered in an undertone, and he glanced sideways at her.
‘Come again.’
She knew he had heard her the first time, but she had to repeat herself, and Matthew’s mouth twisted in a most infuriating way.
Pilgrim Street was log-jammed, not least because of the black Porsche that was parked half on the pavement and half on double yellow lines. It was causing the traffic turning out of Pilgrim Street into the High Street to cross into the incoming lane, and at rush hour the hold-up was totally unforgivable.
‘Who would park—–?’ Samantha was beginning disgustedly, when Matthew left her to walk round the car and unlock it. ‘I should have known,’ she muttered grimly, as the driver trapped behind the Porsche raised his hand in an explicit signal. Then, when Matthew pushed open the passenger door from inside, she hurriedly took her seat. She just hoped no one had recognised her. It was going to be hard enough to explain.
The Porsche moved off at the first break in the traffic, and Samantha, who was still smarting from the insulting gesture she had had to suffer, gave a resentful snort. What was she doing here? she asked herself disbelievingly. Risking everything she cared about for a crazy impulse.
‘It’s a cliché, I know,’ remarked Matthew, evidently misunderstanding her reaction, ‘but it’s not mine. It’s Rob’s. My—a friend’s. He likes obvious status symbols. I don’t.’
Samantha noticed her skirt had ridden up almost to her thighs, in the hasty scramble into the car, and endeavoured to inch it down. ‘Don’t tell me—you drive a Robin Reliant,’ she retorted, in no mood to be friendly. And then felt a curl of raw awareness in her stomach when he gave a husky laugh.
‘Not exactly,’ he replied, glancing sideways at her, and she knew he had observed her awkward manoeuvrings. ‘Driving in London is pretty hopeless, anyway. As no doubt you know in your business.’
‘It’s not my business,’ said Samantha shortly, giving up any attempt to be circumspect, and tugging forcefully at her hemline. ‘Not any more. I’ve given up working for other people.’
‘Why?’
Matthew was negotiating the roadworks in Falls Way as he spoke, but that didn’t stop him from giving her a curious look. It was her opportunity to tell him exactly what part he’d played in her decision, but for some reason she chose not to. Why should she give him the satisfaction of knowing he was responsible? she argued. It really was nothing to do with him. It was her fault for being so naïve.
‘Because—because the only time I see my fiancé is in the evenings, and it was taking up too much time,’ she said at last. ‘Um—where are we going? I can’t be too long, you know.’
Matthew’s mouth turned down. ‘Because you’re meeting your fiancé, I suppose.’
‘As a matter of fact, yes.’
He nodded. ‘Will this do, then?’ he asked, indicating the swinging sign of a pub on the outskirts of the town, his tone considerably cooler. ‘The Black Raven! That sounds appropriate.’
Samantha didn’t answer him, and Matthew swung the sleek sports car into the car park and brought it to a restrained halt. ‘OK,’ he said, thrusting open his door and swinging his long legs out of the vehicle. ‘Let’s hope they serve their Scotch in generous measures.’
Samantha struggled out with as little dignity as she’d got in. But she didn’t want him coming round to help her. ‘You shouldn’t drink—–’
‘—and drive, I know,’ he finished for her tersely. ‘Don’t worry, mou kardhia. My constitution is quite used to it.’
Samantha frowned as he locked the door. ‘Moo—moo, what?’ she echoed, having heard nothing after that rather musical address.
‘Mou kardhia,’ he repeated, making the second half of the first word sound like e. ‘It’s Greek,’ he added flatly. He nodded towards the entrance. ‘Shall we go in?’
Samantha blinked, but when he started towards the open door she hurried after him. ‘Greek,’ she said, a little br
eathlessly. ‘Do you speak Greek?’ She shook her head. ‘How—clever of you.’
‘Not really. My mother’s Greek,’ he informed her carelessly. And then, pausing in the narrow hallway of the hotel, ‘Bar or lounge? It’s up to you.’
Samantha left the decision to him, and then wished she hadn’t when they ended up in a dark booth in a corner of the smoky bar. Exactly the sort of place she had imagined he would choose, she thought irritably, as he took the seat opposite. The only difference was that his knees brushed hers, instead of his thigh, but she quickly moved her legs to avoid that situation.
She had asked for a mineral water, and, although Matthew had given her a wry look when she did so, that was what he set in front of her. For himself, he had a foaming glass of the local brew, and Samantha couldn’t help her look of surprise when he set the glass on the table.
‘So I took your advice,’ he remarked, after she had shifted out of his way. ‘Is this what your fiancé drinks? Real ale?’
Samantha didn’t particularly want to be reminded about Paul at this moment, and her shoulders stiffened. ‘Yes, as a matter of fact,’ she retorted, resenting the disparaging way he said it. ‘But I’m sure you’re not interested in what Paul drinks.’
‘On the contrary.’ He took a mouthful of the beer and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘I’m interested in everything about you. Including your fiancé.’
‘Have you no shame?’
The words burst from her, and he expelled a resigned breath. ‘Apparently not. Where you’re concerned,’ he appended ruefully. ‘Does that damn me in your eyes?’
Samantha chose not to answer that and, after a moment, he said gently, ‘Tell me about you; about what you like to do. Whose idea was it to open the café?’ He paused. ‘Paul’s?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact.’ Samantha pressed her lips together. ‘Paul—supports me a lot. In—in everything.’
‘Except when it interferes with his time with you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He forced you to give up the outside catering, didn’t he?’ Matthew reminded her mildly, and she guessed he had used those words deliberately. ‘Which is a pity, because I—had a commission for you.’
She was tempted to tell him that he had had more to do with her giving up the catering than Paul had, but that would have been playing into his hands once again. So, instead, she said, ‘Another one?’ managing to sound almost as disparaging as he had sounded earlier.
‘Hmm.’
Matthew looked into his drink, stroking one long finger down the condensation on his glass. In spite of herself, it reminded her of those same fingers sliding down the quivering column of her throat. She experienced almost the same sensation, and when he lifted his heavy lids and intercepted her gaze she suspected he was thinking of it, too.
‘What’s he like?’ he asked huskily, and for a moment she was too mesmerised to speak.
‘I—I beg—your—–’
‘Paul,’ he prompted, cradling the glass between his palms. ‘Does he make you happy? In bed, I mean,’ he added incredibly. ‘Because I have to tell you, I don’t think he does.’
‘You know nothing about—–’
‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were totally inexperienced,’ he went on, as if she hadn’t said anything. ‘He must be a rank amateur, that’s all I can say.’
‘I don’t think you’d better say anything else,’ hissed Samantha, clutching her glass. ‘Not unless you want me to throw this over you.’
Matthew shrugged. ‘So what are you doing here with me?’
Samantha gasped. That he should ask her that! When he had practically kidnapped her outside the café! Forget the fact that she had agreed to come with him of her own accord. It was his fault she was here, and that was that.
‘I think you’d better take me back to town,’ she declared unsteadily, but when she would have slid out of the booth his thigh was in the way.
‘Don’t do this,’ he implored wearily. ‘Not again.’ He captured her trembling hands. ‘All right. That was unforgivable. I apologise. Now, will you cool down?’
‘No.’ Her eyes sparkled resentfully. ‘I should have known better than to expect any kind of respect from you! You just enjoy tormenting me, don’t you?’
His eyes darkened. ‘There are things we’d both enjoy a hell of a lot more,’ he told her shortly. And then, before she could comprehend what he was doing, he had levered his lean frame out of his side of the booth and into hers. His arm went along the back of her seat, and it took all her will-power to resist the urge to try and melt into the woodwork. ‘Let’s both stop playing games, shall we?’ he murmured, his free hand turning her face to his. His thumb brushed sensually across her parted lips. ‘Do you have any idea what I want to do at this moment?’
Samantha breathed unevenly. There didn’t seem to be enough air in the booth, and every time she tried to fill her lungs she was intensely conscious of her full breasts straining at the lacy confines of her bra. She rather thought he was aware of it, too, and there was a frankly sensual curve to his mouth as he watched her agitation.
‘Do you?’ he prompted again, and she moved her head in a helpless sideways gesture.
‘I’ve got to go,’ she said instead, glancing half apprehensively towards the bar, but the bartender was busy, and no one was paying any attention to them.
‘No, you don’t,’ he contradicted her gently, bending his head and touching the sensitive hollow beneath her ear with his tongue. ‘Be honest: you want to stay.’ He took the lobe of her ear between his teeth and bit it. ‘You just feel guilty, that’s all.’
‘Yes, I do.’ She latched on to that statement like a drowning woman. ‘I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t have come here. I want you to take me back.’
Matthew sighed, his hand falling away on to her lap. It was where her two hands were clasped together, but she didn’t allow him to take hold of them again. Instead, she gripped the banquette on either side of her, cooling her hot palms, and digging her nails into the coarse cloth.
She was aware of him watching her; she was aware of the strong hand lying weightily against her knees. She was also aware that she was exuding moisture from every pore of her body, and that between her legs a pulse was beating wildly.
‘I’ll take you back,’ he said at last, and she wondered why that news didn’t give her the relief it should. ‘But I think you should listen to what I have to say first,’ he added, turning his hand over and testing its strength against her taut thigh. ‘It’s my grandfather’s birthday at the end of this month. On Easter Saturday, actually. My mother is giving a party for him, and I suggested that you might be willing to help her.’
Samantha’s breath caught in her throat. ‘Your—your grandfather?’ she got out, in a high, unnatural voice, and Matthew inclined his head.
‘Hmm,’ he said, flexing his fingers against her leg. He looked down as his knuckles brushed the hem of her short black skirt, but instead of withdrawing his hand he slid it back and forth against the ribbed mesh of her black tights. ‘I guess we’re talking about fifty people, or thereabouts.’ His eyes sought hers. ‘A family get-together. What do you think?’
Samantha swallowed, a convulsive movement of her throat that owed more to the sensitised state of her body than to any sense of consternation at the numbers. ‘I—couldn’t cater for fifty people,’ she protested weakly, but his lazy smile sent a shaft of pure, unadulterated hunger through her shaking body.
‘No one’s asking you to,’ he murmured, taking advantage of her parted lips and tracing their softness with his tongue. ‘She just needs someone to help her, that’s all,’ he went on, bestowing a light kiss at the corner of her mouth. ‘I told her you’d be the ideal person.’
Samantha shivered. ‘You—you said—your mother was Greek,’ she stammered, torn between the desire to destroy this intimacy once and for all, and the aching wish that he would kiss her properly, and put her out of her m
isery. ‘Wh-where do she and—and your grandfather—live?’
‘In Greece, of course,’ he declared, shattering her hopes and reaching for his drink. ‘Well? Will you do it?’
CHAPTER SIX
MATTHEW came up out of the ocean, shaking water from every limb. At this hour of the morning the sea was icy cold and refreshing, still harbouring the cool temperatures of winter, and not yet tempered by the already strengthening sun.
He swept his hair back with a careless hand, and squeezed moisture from where it clung to the back of his neck. The cold drops ran down over his muscled shoulders and disappeared into the waistband of the shorts he had worn to sleep in, and he shivered. But it felt good to be alive, and a lazy hand confirmed that the thickening at his midriff had been checked. Since he had cut down on his drinking and started exercising again, his health had improved considerably, and he could face each morning without the recurring hangover he had grown to accept.
And he owed at least part of it to Samantha, he reflected ruefully, feeling his body stir as it always did when he thought of her. But, in the thin shorts, his reaction was unwelcome, particularly as he could see his grandfather sitting on the terrace waiting for him. The old man always rose at six. He had forgotten about that. It was his mother he had been thinking of when he’d kept his shorts on for swimming. But his grandfather had arrived the night before, and now Matthew was glad he had decided to show some respect.
He had left a towel lying on the sand, and now he picked it up and took a moment to dry his head and shoulders. Then, knotting it loosely about his waist, he crossed the fine sand to the steps that led up to the terrace.
‘Papa,’ he addressed the old man politely, and Aristotle Apollonius inclined his grey head in a look that mingled slight displeasure with reluctant pride.
‘Matthew,’ he accorded, gesturing to the cushioned chair at the other side of the lacquered wrought-iron table. ‘You did not use to be such an early riser.’
‘No.’ Matthew acknowledged the faint censure in his grandfather’s tone, and although he would have preferred to go straight into the villa for his shower he humoured him and sat down. ‘The water’s very inviting.’
