Rich as Sin

by Anne Mather

  ‘I do.’

  ‘—when all the time—–’ His words suddenly diverted her. ‘What do you mean, you do?’

  ‘I mean I do work for a computer software company.’

  Samantha looked suspicious. ‘But you don’t have to.’

  ‘Oh, I do. If the company fails, I’ll lose all my money.’

  ‘All your money!’ Samantha’s expression was cynical. ‘And I’m expected to believe that?’

  ‘It’s true.’

  She shook her head. ‘So who owns this place?’

  ‘My grandfather.’

  ‘And what does your grandfather do?’

  ‘What does he—–’ Matthew broke off abruptly, and lifted his shoulders. ‘You don’t know,’ he murmured, after a moment. And then, ‘No. How could you?’ He made a rueful sound. ‘Well, he—he—–’

  It was the first time she had seen Matthew at a loss for words, and suddenly it all made sense. ‘Apollonius!’ she exclaimed. ‘It was on the helicopter. The Apollonius Corporation! Of course. Your grandfather must be—what was the name?—Aristotle? Yes, that’s right. Aristotle Apollonius. My God!’ She paled. ‘Am I right? Is that who your grandfather is? Aristotle Apollonius!’

  Matthew’s expression was enough, and she clung to the wooden frame now for support. All the time she had been here, fretting over Matthew’s reasons for deceiving her like this, she had never once given a moment’s thought to his grandfather’s identity. But now she had, and the revelation was mortifying.

  ‘So now you know,’ he said, and there was a curiously flat note to his voice. ‘Does it make a difference?’

  ‘Does it make a difference?’ Samantha gasped. ‘Of course it makes a difference!’ She quivered. ‘How could you even imagine it wouldn’t?’

  ‘No.’ Matthew shrugged. ‘I suppose you’re right.’

  ‘You suppose I’m right.’ She kept repeating everything he said, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. ‘Good lord, don’t you understand? I came here because I thought—oh, never mind what I thought. I came here believing you were just—just an ordinary person. Not so different from me. A little better off, perhaps. But nothing outrageous. And now—now I find that you’re—Aristotle Apollonius’s grandson! You’re probably going to own this place one day. And—and everything else!’

  Matthew’s face was sombre. ‘And that matters to you?’

  Samantha blinked. ‘Of course it matters to me. What do you take me for?’

  ‘What do I take you for?’ Now it was Matthew’s turn to play mimic. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’

  ‘Don’t you?’ Samantha’s lips twisted. ‘Well, let me put it in words of one syllable for you. I am not your whore! I am not for sale! You can’t buy me like you can buy anything else you want, Kyria Putnam!’

  ‘Kirie. It’s kirie,’ Matthew corrected automatically, but his eyes were dark and wary. ‘Sam—–’

  ‘Don’t speak to me!’ she choked, and now, because this whole interview had taken so much out of her, she was near to tears. ‘Just—just find a way to get me out of here. Tonight. Tomorrow. As soon as possible.’

  Matthew shook his head. ‘You want to leave?’

  He seemed astounded at the notion, and she wondered if she was going mad, and that she hadn’t said any of the things she thought she just had. ‘Yes,’ she told him unsteadily. ‘I want to leave. What did you expect? That finding out who you really were might persuade me to forgive you?’

  Matthew gazed at her half disbelievingly. ‘Let me get this straight,’ he said, and she closed her eyes for a moment, wondering how much more she could take. ‘You’re not—impressed by this place.’

  ‘I’m not impressed by you!’ retorted Samantha, glaring at him. ‘Of course I’m impressed by the house. Who wouldn’t be? It’s—it’s beautiful! But it’s not the house we’re talking about, is it? It’s you. And—and the lies you’ve told to get me here!’

  Matthew looked bemused now. ‘You’re angry,’ he said wonderingly, and Samantha wondered what she had to do to prove it decisively to him. ‘God,’ he added, with more assurance. ‘You really are angry.’

  ‘Of course I’m angry!’ she exclaimed, her brows drawing together in sudden confusion when an unexpected smile tipped the corners of his mouth. She clenched her fists. ‘I’m glad you think it’s funny.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s funny,’ he replied abruptly, sobering. But the smile still lurked in the corners of his eyes, and she didn’t altogether believe him. He moved his shoulders in a negligent gesture, and moved closer. ‘You never fail to surprise me, Sam. That’s what I like about you.’

  Samantha stiffened. The change in his tone was unmistakable, and when he put out his hand, and captured one of hers, she was hardly surprised at his audacity.

  ‘Is—is that supposed to placate me?’ she asked, realising that the only way she could defeat the emotions he aroused inside her was by hanging on to her anger. ‘I want to go home. And—and if you won’t arrange it, I’ll call Paul, and ask him to get me out of here.’

  Matthew’s mouth flattened. ‘Will you?’ he said, turning her hand over, in spite of her resistance, and carrying it to his lips. He pressed a kiss on to her palm, and then traced its contours with his tongue. ‘And what if I tell you there’s no way you can get off this island without my grandfather’s permission? The harbour’s too small to handle the ferry, and there isn’t enough room for a plane to land.’

  Samantha’s nostrils flared. ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘It’s true.’ Matthew looked at her through his lashes. ‘Would I lie?’

  ‘Yes,’ she snapped, snatching her hand away from him. She shook her head. ‘Oh—you have no shame, do you? You don’t care what happens to me, so long as you get what you want!’

  ‘Forgive me, but I thought it was what you wanted, too,’ Matthew ventured, with soft insistence. His eyes drifted down to her mouth. ‘And so far as that’s concerned, nothing’s changed.’

  ‘You’re crazy!’ It was like knocking her head against a brick wall. ‘Haven’t you listened to anything I’ve said?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve listened.’ His eyes dropped to the toes of his loafers. ‘You resent the fact that I haven’t been entirely honest with you about my background.’ He lifted his shoulders in a dismissing gesture, and Samantha, who had been diverted by his apparent submission, suddenly found herself cornered, with the wall of windows on one side, and his arm on the other. ‘So—I’m sorry.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  It was little more than a squeak, with the draught of his breathing shifting the moist hair on her forehead. He was too close, too disturbing, not touching her physically yet, but surrounding her with his warm male presence. Everything about him spelled temptation, and danger, and she knew if she had any sense she’d fight him tooth and nail.

  The trouble was that her emotions got in the way of common sense. After living for twenty-four years believing herself capable of handling any situation, any man, she was discovering a part of herself she couldn’t control. Although she knew he had lied to her before, and would probably lie to her again, he aroused feelings she’d hardly begun to understand, and even without touching her he could turn her bones to water.

  ‘Yes, sorry,’ he repeated now, sliding his hand into her hair, and cradling her scalp against his palm. He bent and licked her upper lip with his tongue. ‘You’re not going to spoil our weekend together just because I wasn’t entirely honest about the party?’

  Samantha’s heart was hammering in her chest. She felt hot, and excited, but frightened as well. Frightened of what he was doing to her, frightened of what she was getting into. Something inside her was telling her that if she let Matthew make love to her there would be no turning back. It was an irrevocable step, and one she would probably live to regret. And yet …

  ‘I—don’t know—–’

  Her words were weak, helpless. Fool! Fool! The inner warning voice sounded so loud in her ears, she was amazed
Matthew couldn’t hear it. But evidently he couldn’t, because his other hand moved to trap her face, and his thumb brushed sensuously over the lower lip.

  ‘Please,’ he said, and the husky tenor of his voice was incredibly persuasive. ‘Please.’ He lowered his head, and covered her mouth with his. ‘Please me,’ he begged, against her lips, and his tongue slipped into her mouth.

  His arms went round her, his hands sliding down the curve of her spine to her hips. He pulled her against him, against the lean male strength of his body, and between the muscular power of his legs. He held her firmly, inescapably, inflaming her with his heat. Every inch of her body was sensitised by his nearness, and the urgency of his caresses left her no room to think.

  He kissed her many times, over and over, possessing her mouth, bruising her mouth, inspiring a burning need that wouldn’t be denied. Time lost all meaning as he plundered the vulnerable sweetness of her lips, and although Samantha had begun by resisting his invasion her senses were soon spinning out of reach.

  That was when she began to kiss him back, when instincts she had barely grazed with Paul began to take control. She wanted to touch him as he was touching her. She wanted to feel the delight of his skin against hers. Her hands slid up to his neck, and she coiled her fingers in the silky smooth hair at his nape. Then her hands invaded his collar, and she spread her palms against the brown flesh of his shoulders.

  ‘Sam, Sam,’ he whispered raggedly, tipping one strap of the vest off her shoulder, and running his teeth across the narrow bones he found there. Then, with a slightly unsteady finger, he traced a line from just below her jaw to the dusky hollow between her breasts. ‘So responsive,’ he muttered, as her swollen nipples surged against his shirt. And, with an impatient gesture, he tore open his shirt, and brought her even closer. ‘I wanted to see you like this. You have such a beautiful body.’

  ‘M-me?’ she stammered, gazing up at him, and he deliberately cupped her breast, and crushed the taut bud against his palm.

  ‘You,’ he said, averting his eyes. ‘Look—have you ever seen anything more beautiful than this?’

  She had to look, even though the idea of admiring her own body was as alien to her as the wicked shamelessness of her responses. And, as she watched, he tugged the vest off her shoulders, and allowed his exploring fingers to slide over both naked breasts.

  ‘No bra?’ he teased, and her face flamed intolerably.

  ‘I—I didn’t bring a strapless one with me,’ she protested, but he wasn’t listening to her excuses. Instead, he had bent his head towards her and took one exposed nipple into his mouth, suckling on it insistently before transferring his attention to the other.

  Samantha’s knees almost gave way, and there was an ache in the pit of her stomach. But it wasn’t an unpleasant ache. It was an expanding sensation of weakness that spread right through her abdomen, and down into the quivering muscles of her thighs. And with it came a sense of guilt for what she was doing. How could she allow Matthew to caress her in this way, when she had always denied Paul such intimacies?

  But coherent thought ceased when he found her mouth again. With his tongue stroking hers, and the unmistakable evidence of his own arousal pressing against her stomach, she felt her senses swimming. Matthew had backed her against the wall, holding her there with his body, so that his hands were free to slide sensuously over her hips and her waist, to the moist underside of her breasts. His thumbs brushed the nipples, still wet and aching from the roughness of his abrasion, and then moved on to her ears, and the sensitive skin just beneath.

  ‘I want you,’ he said, against her neck. ‘I want to bury myself inside you, and make love to you until you’re senseless.’

  ‘Do you?’

  It was all she could say, and even that was barely audible. She had never been in such a state before. Never acted this way; never felt this way; never known what it was like to lose control. With the blood drumming in her ears, and all her pre-conceived ideas of her own needs shot to pieces, she was dazed and submissive.

  ‘Yes,’ he breathed, his hands cupping her bottom, and bringing her into intimate contact with his swollen manhood. His breath escaped him in a slightly unsteady rush. ‘God! You make me feel like a sex-hungry adolescent!’

  ‘Do I?’

  Her response was no less unintelligent than before, but with Matthew’s lips covering her uptilted face with dozens of hot, eager kisses, and his fingers gripping the backs of her thighs, she was incapable of rational thought. She was drowning; melting in the heat of his arousal; and the only reality was in the demanding pressure of his mouth.

  But then, when her scattered senses were crying out for him to take her to the bed, and finish what he had started, he gently, but firmly, pulled away from her. While she gazed at him with uncomprehending eyes, he ran a possessive finger from the waistband of her cotton trousers to the cleft between her legs. But, although his expression was decidedly sensual, his withdrawal was unequivocal.

  ‘You do,’ he said, and it took her a moment to realise he was answering her. ‘However, even adolescents have to show some restraint.’ His lips twisted, and although she sensed it took an effort he turned away from her. ‘We’re expected to join the family for afternoon tea. A habit my mother acquired when she was married to my father.’

  Samantha let her breath out on a gasp, and, hearing her, Matthew paused. Half turning towards her, he took in the wanton picture she made, still resting against the wall of glass, and for a moment he impaled her with his stare.

  ‘Get dressed,’ he said tautly, and although Samantha’s hands automatically groped for the vest that was balled about her waist her eyes registered the blatant proof that he was still as incapable of controlling his body as she was.

  ‘I—don’t know what I’m supposed to wear,’ she protested, drawing the crumpled vest against her breasts, and he closed his eyes for a moment, as if he was in pain.

  ‘Right,’ he said, after a moment, tugging at the material that was compressing his groin. ‘I’ll see to it.’ And without even a backward glance he walked away from her.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  MATTHEW was on his second Scotch when Samantha appeared. Despite his mother’s disapproval, he had eschewed tea in favour of something more fortifying, but he was still stunned by his reaction when Samantha walked out on to the terrace.

  She looked stunning. He had to admit it. In the knee-length silk shorts and matching halter he had rifled from his mother’s wardrobe, she had acquired a surface sophistication that was at once unexpected and appealing. The outfit was mainly turquoise in colour, with exotic streaks of green and blue that shone iridescently when they caught the rays of the dying sun. Combined with her honey-coloured hair and pale skin, the clothes accentuated a latent sensuality, and with gold rings hanging from her ears she was disturbingly unfamiliar.

  Yet, when she caught his gaze, he saw at once the uncertainty in her eyes. She might look sophisticated, but she wasn’t, and he knew the almost overwhelming urge to stake his possession.

  But the maid who had escorted Samantha from her room was intercepted by his mother, and it was Caroline who took narrow-eyed stock of her unwanted house guest. His mother, who had so many clothes she wouldn’t recognise them all, was probably wondering how someone in Samantha’s position could afford a designer playsuit, Matthew reflected drily, but he returned Caroline’s stare with innocent enquiry when she cast an accusing glance in his direction.

  There were perhaps thirty people in various stages of relaxation on the terrace. Although his grandfather had had no other children after Matthew’s mother, his own siblings had been far more prolific. In consequence, any family gathering was bound to be extensive, with great-aunts and uncles, all eager to enjoy the famous Apollonius hospitality.

  Which meant Matthew had to be patient while his mother introduced their guest to the other members of his family. Of course, he could have intervened, and exposed his interest, but he didn’t. In spite of his initial r
eaction to her appearance, he refused to admit his attraction towards her was anything more than a novelty. All the same, he couldn’t deny the sense of irritation he felt when one or other of his cousins appeared captivated by her modest smile and lissom figure. He hadn’t brought her here to be ogled by his Greek relations, he thought resentfully. He hadn’t lent her his mother’s clothes so that some other man—most notably his second cousin, Alex—would find her quite so unmistakably to his taste.

  But, because he had determined not to display his preference, he was obliged to stay on the sidelines nursing his grievances. And it wasn’t until his grandfather came to join him by the drinks trolley that he became aware his attitude had not gone unnoticed.

  ‘So that is the famous Miss Maxwell,’ remarked Aristotle Apollonius drily, in his own tongue. ‘I must say, she is not what I expected.’

  Matthew’s brows arched, but that was the only sign he gave that his grandfather’s words interested him. ‘Really?’ he responded politely, picking up the decanter of fine malt whisky and pouring another generous measure into his glass. He glanced at the old man. ‘Do you want to join me?’

  ‘In abusing my liver and addling my brain? I don’t think so.’ Aristotle shook his head disparagingly. ‘I shall have one small ouzo before the evening meal. Aside from that, I prefer to keep my wits about me.’

  Matthew acknowledged the subtle reproof with a sardonic smile. ‘As you say, Papa,’ he essayed, adding more ice to his glass, and raising it to his lips. He took a mouthful, and deliberately savoured its texture. ‘At your age it’s important to preserve your health.’

  ‘And at yours, boy, and at yours,’ retorted the old man harshly, his temperament less capable of control than his grandson’s. ‘For pity’s sake, Matthew, why do you persist in provoking me? Do you want to see me dead?’

  Matthew’s mouth tightened. ‘Don’t exaggerate, Papa. How I choose to mess up my life is my concern, not yours.’

  ‘I disagree.’ The old man squared his shoulders, annoyed as always that Matthew’s height gave him the advantage. ‘You know what is expected of you. You know that both your mother and myself want to see you married; settled. The whole future of this family rests with you, Matthew. Yet you persist in making gestures which you know will give us pain.’