by Anne Mather
Matthew’s eyes had narrowed as he surveyed the other man’s appearance, and Samantha guessed he wasn’t pleased. The fact that she hadn’t had time to tell him yet that she had broken her engagement now seemed like rough justice. Was he wondering how she was going to handle it? Was he worried that she might tell Paul that he had seduced her?
But no. With bitter logic she knew that Matthew was unlikely to worry about anything. And she was fooling herself if she believed either of them would risk life and limb for her honour. Matthew had no honour, and Paul had no excuse.
‘No,’ she said at last, realising it was up to her to make whatever amends she could of this situation. There was no point in inflaming tempers with emotive words. For Paul’s sake—and for her own self-respect—she had to get rid of Matthew. ‘Mr—er—Putnam was just leaving.’ Her hostile gaze dared him to deny it. She walked past Paul and opened the door. ‘Thank you for your offer,’ she added coldly. ‘But I don’t accept that kind of assignment.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MATTHEW strode into his office in the Purcell building, only to halt abruptly at the sight of the man reclining in the chair behind his desk. ‘Papa!’ he exclaimed, hiding his irritation behind a mask of politeness. He advanced more slowly into the room. ‘I didn’t know you were in London.’
‘No, I know.’ For once his grandfather spoke in English. ‘I asked your mother not to tell you I was coming.’
‘Really?’ Matthew’s dark brows arched interrogatively. ‘Any reason why?’
‘Yes. I wanted to be sure you would not invent some non-existent reason for being out of the country when I arrived,’ replied Aristotle mildly. His dark eyes, so like his grandson’s, glittered with malicious satisfaction. ‘I also wanted to see for myself that your mother was not exaggerating.’
Matthew’s features stiffened. ‘My mother?’
‘You did not think she would not share her worries about you with me?’ enquired the old man, with rather more animation. ‘Thee mou, Matthew, it is six months since my birthday! Six months since you told me you never wanted to see the Mainwaring woman again!’
‘So?’ Matthew shrugged.
‘So, why does Caroline tell me you are never out of the office these days?’ He glanced at the thick gold watch on his wrist. ‘Are you aware it is already after nine o’clock in the evening? What are you trying to do, aghori mou? Work yourself to death?’
Matthew’s mouth flattened. ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’
‘What is ridiculous?’ The old man jerked forward angrily. ‘Have you looked in a mirror lately? You look—ill!’
‘No, I don’t.’ Matthew heaved a sigh, and flung himself into the chair across the desk from his grandfather. ‘I’m tired, that’s all.’
‘Tired!’
‘It’s true.’ Matthew crossed one ankle across his knee, and rested his hand on his thigh. ‘I can tell you what I’ve been doing, if you like. Only you generally say you have no interest in J.P. Software.’
‘I don’t.’
‘There you are, then.’ Matthew lifted his shoulders. ‘You won’t want to hear how I’ve been rewriting a program for translating English into a foreign language and vice versa. And not just any language, I might add. I’ve been experimenting with—–’
‘Arketa!’ The old man silenced him with an angry gesture. ‘You are right. I do not wish to hear how successful you have been in thwarting my efforts to ensure the corporation’s future. I am sure that if you had your way you would have me sell off its assets, and put thousands of people out of work. But I cannot do that, and it angers me that you care so little for my feelings.’
‘That’s not true.’ The words were mumbled, but they were audible just the same. ‘Of course I care about your feelings, Papa. And, whatever you think, I do know my responsibilities. But—I’m not a boy. I can take care of myself.’
‘Can you?’ His grandfather didn’t sound any more convinced, but there was concern, not irritation, in his voice now. ‘Matthew, your mother is worried about you. And frankly, having seen you for myself, so am I. She says you do not eat enough, and you have obviously lost weight. Must I take it that you are drinking again?’ He gestured towards his grandson’s appearance. ’Thee mou, this is not just the result of overwork!’
Matthew tipped his head back on his shoulders. ‘Leave it, Papa. I’m all right, really. And I’m not drinking—well, not to excess anyway. But we all need a little stimulation sometimes. Even you.’
His grandfather shook his head. ‘That woman has a lot to answer for,’ he snapped bitterly.
‘What woman?’ Matthew’s head tipped forward again, his eyes dark and wary.
‘Why—the Mainwaring woman, naturally,’ complained his grandfather irritably. ‘What I do not understand is, why do you not marry her and have done with it? You know that was why she got engaged to Ivanov. And you told me yourself she was never in any danger of taking her own life. It was just her way of trying to get you back. And she is still in London. Caroline tells me so. Why, only the other day your mother met her at some charity function or other. She may be a fool, but she obviously cares about you—–’
‘Papa!’ Matthew’s harsh words overrode his grandfather’s monologue. ‘How many times must I tell you, I don’t care that—–’ he snapped his fingers impatiently ‘—for Melissa’s feelings? I know why she put on that act about taking those tablets. I’d made sure she knew about—well, about me taking someone else to Delphus, but she thought she just had to pull my strings and I’d come running. But it didn’t work. Oh, I’m not denying I went to see her. How could I do anything else, when I didn’t know at that time how serious it might be? But there was never any chance of us resuming our relationship. Believe it, old man, whatever I saw in Melissa is well and truly dead!’
‘Then, why—–?’
‘Why what?’ Matthew turned flat, emotionless eyes on him. ‘For pity’s sake, Papa, don’t you and my mother have anything better to do?’
The old man’s brows drew together, a bushy grey line above features that were not unlike his grandson’s. He stared at Matthew, as if trying to see into his mind, and then uttered a disbelieving snort when his grandson looked away.
‘Of course!’ he exclaimed, smacking his forehead with the heel of his hand as if punishing himself for not thinking of it sooner. ‘I am a fool! I saw it for myself, and I let you persuade me otherwise. It is her, is it not? The other one. The—kopela who runs the café!’
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Matthew’s foot hit the floor with a thud, and he thrust himself up from his chair. ‘Why do you do this, Papa? Why can’t you accept the fact that it’s been a long hard slog, getting this program running? I’ve worked long hours; I admit it. And I’ve missed the odd meal here and there; I admit that, too. But I’m not unique. Other people work just as hard. Just because I’ve lost a little weight, you’ve let my mother browbeat you into coming here to play the heavy father. Well, it’s not necessary. I don’t need anyone to hold my hand!’
Aristotle was not intimidated. ‘And this is why there are no women in your life?’ he enquired mildly. ‘Hard work requires celibacy?’
‘Maybe.’ Matthew fought his way past his indignation, and managed a faint smile. ‘Maybe it does,’ he repeated, leaving the desk to walk across to the windows. Outside, the lights of the city provided a glittering display, throwing his reflection back at him through the darkened glass. He thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and wished the old man would go. He didn’t need anyone else telling him he was losing weight. Loss of weight he could cope with. What he was afraid of was that he was losing his mind.
‘So—your association with Miss Maxwell was unproductive?’ came his grandfather’s voice behind him, and Matthew’s hands balled into tight fists.
‘It depends what you mean by unproductive,’ he responded shortly, as memories of Samantha’s soft skin beneath his hands returned to torment him. Desperate to dispel the images that were always more painful
after dark, he spoke with rather less caution. ‘But if you mean did I make any lasting impression on her life, then perhaps you should ask her husband!’
‘Her husband?’ Aristotle’s slightly stooped figure joined his reflection in the window. ‘She was not married when you brought her to Delphus.’
Matthew glanced sideways at him. ‘What if she was? Why should you care? As I recall, you’ve brought a number of married women there yourself.’
‘That is beside the point.’ The old man sounded tired suddenly. ‘The women I knew were older; sophisticated; they knew what they were doing. The Maxwell girl was young, and—I believed—innocent.’
Matthew stared at him. ‘How do you know that? You didn’t even speak to her.’
‘You are wrong.’ His grandfather held up his hand. ‘That night—the night you went back to England to see Melissa—we talked on the terrace. She was unhappy. I could tell. I suspected it was because your mother had been less than tactful.’
‘Hmm.’ Matthew remembered the conversation he had had with his mother, after talking to Samantha at the café. Caroline had taken the brunt of his frustration. But even she had had no idea of exactly how desperate he’d felt.
‘You did not speak to her yourself, before you left for London?’ the old man pressed now, and although since then he hadn’t spoken of his feelings to anyone Matthew found himself shaking his head.
‘No. She’d locked her door. I couldn’t make her hear.’
‘And Spiro was waiting to leave, of course.’
Matthew nodded. ‘Of course.’
‘But you saw her when you got back to England, after that weekend?’
Matthew hesitated. ‘Briefly. For about fifteen minutes, to be exact.’
His grandfather frowned, and Matthew guessed he was having to re-think his argument. ‘You did not apologise?’
Matthew sighed. ‘Of course I apologised!’ he exclaimed. And then, because the temptation to confide his real feelings to someone else was just too much, he added wearily, ‘I screwed up. I told her how I felt about her, and asked her to come and live with me. She turned me down.’
Aristotle sucked in a breath. ‘You asked her to marry you?’
‘Not marry, no.’ Matthew’s tone was flat. ‘In any case, she was engaged to someone else.’
‘Ah, yes.’ His grandfather nodded. ‘But the engagement could have been broken, could it not?’
‘Maybe.’ Matthew heaved a sigh. ‘Maybe I didn’t want to get married. Maybe I was afraid you’d try and stop us. Maybe I just saw marriage as giving in to what you and my mother expected of me. And, let’s face it, my experience of marriage hasn’t been good.’
‘Because of me,’ said his grandfather shrewdly. ‘All those women you talked about. I guess you think I should have had more respect for your grandmother.’
‘Well, shouldn’t you?’ suggested Matthew drily, and the old man laughed.
‘Perhaps. But your grandmother was not like Miss Maxwell. She did not marry me because she cared about me. Ariadne married me because it was what her father wanted. Because he wished to join his company with mine.’ He grimaced. ‘That was the start of the Apollonius Corporation, do you know that? Skiathos Ferries and Apollo Shipping! How far we have come since then.’
Matthew shrugged. ‘Indeed.’
‘So—–’ His grandfather paused. ‘Miss Maxwell is now Mrs—–’
‘Webster,’ supplied Matthew bleakly. ‘Her fiancé’s name was Paul Webster. I had Victor check him out.’
‘Really?’ The old man looked reluctantly impressed. ‘And the marriage took place—when?’
Matthew turned away. ‘June, July. I don’t know. Does it matter?’
‘It does, if that is what is eating you up inside,’ replied his grandfather impatiently. ‘Do you mean to tell me you do not even know if they are married? For shame, Matthew! I thought I had taught you better than that.’
Matthew walked to his desk. ‘You seem to forget she didn’t want me, Papa. That afternoon, when I went to see her, I knew it. As soon as her fiancé turned up, she couldn’t wait to get rid of me.’
‘Well—–’ The old man turned to look at him, obviously searching for a reason. ‘As you say, they were still engaged.’
Matthew’s expression was eloquent of his feelings. ‘Nice try, old man, but it won’t run. Sam had her chance, but she didn’t take it. She’d had her bite of the apple, and she didn’t like the taste.’
The wind whistled round a corner of the house, and something blew over on the paved patio her father had had laid the previous year. It was a little unnerving, hearing inanimate objects falling about like live creatures, but the doors and windows were locked, and the storm had been predicted.
Samantha shivered. Perhaps she should have taken her mother’s advice and gone with them to Tenerife. Right now, she could have been sitting in a bar, drinking sangria, with nothing more to worry about than what bathing suit she was going to wear to sunbathe in the next day. But the summer flu she had contracted in July had lingered on into September, and she dared not close the café again, and risk losing the rest of her customers.
Not that anyone would really care, she reflected unhappily. Now that she had competition in the High Street, it was getting harder and harder to hang on to her clientele. And the truth was, her heart wasn’t in it any more. Since she had been so ill, she had lost interest in everything.
No, that wasn’t precisely true, she corrected herself, reaching for the TV Times and scanning the evening’s programmes. Actually, she had had no interest in anything since that afternoon Matthew had come to the café. She blinked back the tears that seemed to come so readily to her eyes these days. She should never have sent him away.
It was impossible to read the programme times in her present state, and, tossing the magazine aside, she plucked another chocolate from the open box beside her. An orange cream, she saw dispassionately, biting into its soft centre without really tasting it. She had bought the chocolates that afternoon in the hope that they would cheer her up. But it wasn’t much fun eating them alone.
She looked around the cosy sitting-room, and tried to count her blessings. She had a good home, a good family and, aside from a maudlin tendency to feel sorry for herself, she was all right. The café would pick up again once she found another assistant. She shook her head. Imagine Debbie getting married like that! Still, it was probably the best thing for the baby.
Her eyes filled with tears again, and she dashed them away with an impatient hand. She ought to consider herself lucky, she chided. That could have happened to her. And what would she have done with a baby? What would her father have thought then?
She sniffed. She was remembering how she had felt in those weeks before she’d known for certain that she wasn’t pregnant. For a brief spell she had actually hoped she was expecting Matthew’s baby. It would have been something of him to cherish. Someone who needed her love.
A bang, louder than the rest, startled her out of her reverie. And then the doorbell rang, echoing round the quiet house with loud insistence. Samantha looked at the clock. It was half-past nine. Who on earth would call so late in the evening? Her nerves tingled apprehensively. Who knew she was here alone?
Paul!
Her breath escaped in a rush, and she got up unwillingly from the couch. Only Paul knew the rest of the family was away on holiday. Only Paul was likely to call so late. And, although she had heard he was seeing someone else, she wouldn’t put it past her father to have asked him to look in on her. Mr Maxwell still held out the hope that his daughter might change her mind. It didn’t seem to occur to him that Paul’s new girlfriend was unlikely to appreciate his interference.
It was dark in the hall, and Samantha was suddenly reluctant to turn on the light. What if it wasn’t Paul? she fretted. How many times had women been warned about the dangers of opening their doors after dark? She could be in line to be the first victim of the Northfleet strangler! Murderers had to start
somewhere, didn’t they?
The doorbell didn’t ring again, and she leaned uncertainly against the wall. Perhaps whoever it was had gone away. It could have been someone delivering circulars. But the letterbox didn’t provide any clues.
She sighed, and straightened. This was ridiculous, she thought grimly. She wouldn’t relax until she’d opened that door and made sure there was no one outside. It could be a thief, of course, checking to see if anyone was at home. At least if she opened the door she’d prove there was.
She unlocked the door without giving herself any more time to change her mind. Then, inching it open, she peered out. The wind swept into her face, bringing a scattering of leaves into the hallway. But, although the front gate was swinging back and forth, the caller seemed to have vanished.
And then she heard a groan from somewhere near the ground, and she let out a startled cry. A man was propped on the doorstep, his shoulders hunched, his body curled in on himself, as if he was in pain. Her initial reaction was to slam the door and call the police. But there was something about his appearance that was achingly familiar.
Dear God! Her throat went dry, and instead of slamming the door she squatted down on her haunches beside him. His head was lolling, and it was an easy matter to turn his face to the light. ‘Matt!’ she breathed, wondering with a sense of alarm if she was hallucinating. How could he be here, sitting on her doorstep? He didn’t even know where she lived.
But it was him. Dark eyes, which seemed somehow glazed, lifted to her face. ‘Sam,’ he said, and she could have sworn he sounded relieved. ‘Hell, Sam, isn’t this the damnedest thing? I seem to have lost the use of my legs.’
Samantha stared at him helplessly. She couldn’t believe he was here. It was like the answer to her dreams, and she wanted to take him in her arms. But once again common sense came to her rescue.
‘Are—are you ill?’ she asked, curling her nails into her palms, to prevent herself from touching him, and Matthew grimaced.
‘No,’ he replied. ‘I don’t think so.’ He uttered a short laugh. ‘Give me a hand up, will you? This is what comes of drinking Scotch on an empty stomach.’
