by Alexia Adams
Helen’s stomach did a flip. She had nothing in common with a domestic goddess, Stepford or otherwise. With her nonexistent cooking skills and use of chaos theory for household management, Mrs. Lamont would no doubt find her lacking. Not that it mattered anyway. Within four days she would be out of Simon’s life. Her stomach shriveled to a tight ball. Oh God, this is going to get worse, isn’t it?
“What time do we arrive?”
“Just before nine thirty in the morning, British time.” Simon adjusted his watch.
“I think I’d better get some sleep then.” She needed to be fresh to meet Simon’s mother. And to keep from blurting out things better left unsaid.
He gave her a concerned look, then tucked a blanket around her after she lowered the seat.
“Sleep tight, darling.” He gave her a chaste peck on the cheek, but his touch down her arm before squeezing her hand was warm and caring.
He’d said he couldn’t let her go. She couldn’t figure out how they could stay together.
…
Simon led the way up the rose-edged flagstone path to the front door of his parents’ house—no, his mother’s house now. He’d automatically looked for his father’s BMW in the drive as he’d parked the rental car, forgetting for a moment his parents had split. He was thirty-three years old; he should be able to comprehend the dissolution of his parents’ marriage. Except it had come so out of the blue, he still wondered if it was all a strange ruse on his parents’ part to get him to visit.
Helen’s tiny hand in his gave a soft squeeze, a silent gesture of comfort and support. It had been over twenty-four hours since he’d kissed her properly, held her in his arms, her naked body against his. And he was working on a deadline. He wondered whether they could claim jet lag and escape to his room for an hour or six without offending his mother.
He pressed the doorbell and waited for his mother’s light steps. His mind flashed back to the informality of Liam’s house—everyone just walking in and helping themselves throughout the weekend, the genuine love and friendship that permeated the air. As far from the rigid formality of his family home as possible.
The old oak door swung open and his mother appeared in the threshold. She was dressed in a slim black skirt that stopped below her knees, a gray knit top, and coordinated cardigan, with a double strand of pearls at her neck and matching teardrop earrings. Not a single one of her light brown hairs dared to escape from the tight knot at the base of her skull. If he’d have arranged for a photographer to come on the same day once a year for ten years and take a photo of his mother, he doubted there would have been much variation in her wardrobe.
“Simon, welcome.” She kissed him on the cheek as he stooped for her customary greeting.
“Mother, may I introduce you to Helen Winston. Helen, this is my mother, Adele.” For the past five minutes he’d been trying to work out how to introduce the two women. He couldn’t call Helen his girlfriend; it would imply more of a relationship than either of them had ever acknowledged. To say she was a colleague or even an employee would then shock his mother when she caught them in an embrace, which she undoubtedly would.
Was Helen his friend? Friend with benefits? That implied a casualness to their affair that belied the intensity of his feelings for her. In the end he’d given up and decided not to ascribe any category to Helen and let his mother work out the nature of their relationship herself. Maybe then she could enlighten him.
Helen stepped forward and followed Adele’s cue and air-kissed her on both sides.
“Hi, Mrs. Lamont. Wow, your house is gorgeous. I thought these thatched cottages were all gone. It’s just like the pictures in magazines.”
“Thank you, Helen. Would you like to freshen up? I have tea ready to serve in the back garden. With the weather so lovely we really must take advantage.”
“I think we’d both appreciate a quick wash. I’ll show Helen upstairs,” Simon said. He was desperate to get her alone for at least one minute.
“Very well, dear. The guest room is ready for your friend. But don’t be too long or the sandwiches will curl.” His mother gave a pleasant smile, turned on her practical heel, and headed for the back of the house.
As Helen stared after his mother, he grabbed the suitcases and gestured toward the stairs. “After you.” He admired her backside, clad in dark gray trousers, as she preceded him to the upper level. “Straight ahead, at the far end of the hallway,” he said when she hesitated at the top of the stairs.
He was two steps behind her when she entered the blue-and-yellow guest bedroom, which had been redecorated since his last visit. Every single item was coordinated, down to the water glass and pitcher that waited on the bedside table. Two fluffy towels sat on the bed; a fresh vase of flowers on the dresser filled the air with their perfume. Helen made a quick survey, turning around as he closed the door behind him.
Without waiting for him to ask, she launched herself into his arms, her lips raised to meet his kiss. He lost track of time as he poured every pent-up emotion that had assailed him over the past two days into the kiss. It was only when she eventually pushed against his chest and took a step back that he remembered they were at his mother’s house.
Her chest heaved as she tried to steady her breathing, her eyes blazed with passion, and he could see the faint outline of her nipples through her top. The sensitive peaks beckoned his touch, begged him to taste them. The low groan that filled the air came from his throat.
“Your mother is waiting,” Helen said when his eyes were still fixated on her chest.
“Do you think we could both fake headaches and spend the rest of the day in bed?”
Her eyes flared at the suggestion and for a moment he thought she might go for his plan. Instead, she took his hand and opened the door. “Your mother needs you now. There’ll be time for us later.”
Not enough time.
…
Helen stripped off the clothes she’d been wearing for far too long. About to kick them into the corner of the room, she changed her mind and carefully folded and placed them in the meshed-off portion of her bag. She had a feeling Simon’s mother would be horrified if she found her dirty clothes on the floor.
Settling on a floral print dress that seemed to have escaped the worst of the wrinkling her clothes had endured from her quick and inexpert packing, she pulled it on. It was demure and sensible, both qualities she felt Simon’s mother would admire. She hung up a couple of her other outfits, hoping the creases would miraculously fall out while she wasn’t looking. If not, she might have to ask for an iron and then instructions on how to use one. She could hardly tell the domestic diva that she was used to her clothes being unpacked and de-wrinkled for her when she vacationed. One of the perks of traveling with her brother and his rich friend.
Running a quick brush through her hair, she was trying to decide whether to pin it up at the sides or leave it down when a light knock sounded at her door. Simon’s head poked around a second later. “You ready?” He took a step into the room, belying his intention of going down to join his mother.
“Do I look okay?”
“Perfect to meet my mother,” Simon said. “Although I prefer you with fewer clothes on, a soft blush turning your creamy skin a delicate pink, unrepentant lust in your eyes…”
She could feel her cheeks heat up at the vision he created with his words. “If you don’t behave yourself the one night is all you’ll get.”
That wiped the smile off his face.
“Mother awaits,” he said. He took her hand and led her back down the stairs, through a kitchen so immaculate it could be in a magazine, and out French doors to a perfect English garden.
“Ah, there you are,” Simon’s mother announced. “I thought I might have to send out a search party.” She rose majestically from her seat and gestured to the two chairs on either side of her.
Adele poured them each a cup of tea without asking whether they wanted one, then offered a serving tray of delicate sandwi
ch triangles, bite-size cake squares, and petits fours that looked so perfect Helen was sure they must be made of plastic. She hesitated before taking a small piece of carrot cake, worried the wrong selection would ruin the artistic display and brand her forever as a philistine in Adele’s opinion.
“So, Helen, where did you meet my son?”
She wanted to reply that they’d met when Simon was near enough naked and Helen had extorted a meeting out of him in his hotel room, just to see if she could elicit some reaction from Adele. “We met in San Francisco. Simon was there on business.”
“You’re a Californian, then.”
Which obviously ranked along with ax murderer in her mind, based on the disdainful way she’d said the word “Californian.”
“Actually, I was born in Washington State, an hour out of Seattle, which makes me a water sign.” The Pacific Northwest joke went right over Mrs. Lamont’s head. “But I’ve lived in San Francisco for the last five years.”
“And you are still in New York, Simon?”
“Yes, Mother. I will tell you if I move.”
Appearing satisfied that the whole of the continental United States stood between her son and the current resident of her guest room, Adele now moved on to various banalities in her own life. “Simon, did I tell you Laura Weston’s son was kicked out of Oxford? Drugs, they say, such a shame.” Although the glee with which she delivered the announcement contradicted her indictment of the offense.
She prattled on as though her marriage hadn’t recently ended and Simon regularly popped by for a cup of tea with his mother.
“I was planning a beef roast for dinner. I hope you’re not a vegetarian, Helen. I read that most people in California are. I suppose I could always make extra vegetables if you don’t eat meat.”
“No, I’m not a vegetarian.” Helen fought the desire to laugh. She didn’t know if it was nerves or the absurdity of the situation.
“I thought we’d go out for dinner, Mother. Save you the trouble of cooking,” Simon cut in. If they were in a competition for discomfort, she wasn’t sure which of them would win. Only Adele seemed unperturbed by the brittleness of the atmosphere.
“I guess we could, if you don’t want my roast. It used to be your favorite.”
“Roast beef is one of my favorites, too. And I’m exhausted. I didn’t even adjust to New York time before coming here. A cozy dinner at home sounds lovely,” Helen said.
“Wonderful. I have a recipe for rosemary potatoes I’ve been wanting to try. Now that Simon’s father is gone, it seems a waste to try new dishes on just myself.”
The acknowledgment that her husband of thirty-five years had left her was delivered with the same tone as the suggestion of rosemary potatoes. Helen blinked. Perhaps Simon’s mother was a robot.
By the time dinner was served, Helen’s nerves were tighter than Spanx. Adele somehow managed to be sickeningly sweet while discovering that Helen lacked any domestic abilities whatsoever. She’d also been able to drop into the conversation the names of several more suitable women should Simon be interested in settling down, most with titles or links to the peerage.
When Helen’s cell phone rang as they were having a post-dinner glass of wine in the sitting room, she nearly shriveled from Adele’s glare. However, it was Dennis with the latest test results, and they needed to decide if it was worth continuing the experiment.
“Please excuse me, I’ve got to take this call,” she murmured, rushing from the room. At least it would give Simon time to explain to his mother that they had a temporary relationship and she didn’t need to worry that Helen would be a permanent part of his life.
She took a deep lungful of air, hoping to release some of the pressure on her chest before answering the call.
Having instructed her colleague to make some minor adjustments to one of the chemical formulations and then email the results to her, she returned to the sitting room. As the phone connection had been rather bad she’d had to talk louder than normal. Judging by the expressions on Simon’s and Adele’s faces, they’d heard every word. Simon looked amazed; Adele looked horrified. Helen’s head began to pound in earnest.
Note to self: don’t meet your lover’s mother before you know how he feels about you. The tension will kill you.
Chapter Twelve
Simon tried to be discreet in checking his watch. Helen had gone up to bed half an hour ago and he was so desperate to join her, he might explode. Still his mother prattled on about relatives he barely remembered and women he might like to meet.
“Mother, I’ve only had a couple hours of sleep on the plane. Can we talk about this tomorrow?”
“But Simon, I’ve been waiting for your visit.” She said it without emotion, no pleading or cajoling, no unspoken guilt trip. She might as well have said she was waiting for the milkman so she could change her order to semi-skim.
“Do you want to talk about why I’m here?”
He eyed his father’s whisky decanter on the sideboard. He wanted to get up and help himself, yet he hesitated, feeling as though he should ask.
“You’re right. It’s late. That discussion is better held until tomorrow. Can I get you anything before I go to bed?” She stood and straightened the doilies that protected the head and armrests of the chair in which she’d been sitting.
“No, thank you. I’m fine. I have a couple of phone calls to make and then I’ll be retiring as well. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Good night, dear.” She left the room without looking back.
Simon pulled his phone from his pocket and called Sylvia. It was five thirty in New York. She might as well go home; he wasn’t going to get any work done tonight.
“Afternoon, Simon,” Sylvia said. “The lawyer working the Bertram deal is anxious to speak with you. He said he got disconnected yesterday before he could tell you something.”
“I’ll call him now. Go home and enjoy the weekend. I’ll see you on Monday.” While he was looking up the lawyer’s number, Simon heard his mother’s bedroom door click closed. Talk to a boring lawyer about some minor technical issue, which he was probably blowing out of proportion to justify his exorbitant fees? Or go upstairs and make love to Helen? No contest. He tossed his phone onto the coffee table. Then, like a rebel without a cause, he poured two glasses of whisky and headed up the stairs.
Please be awake, please be awake, he repeated as he took the stairs two at a time. A shaft of light came from under Helen’s closed door. He knocked as quietly as possible so as not to disturb his mother at the far end of the hall.
“Come in.”
He almost dropped the glasses of whisky when he saw her. She lay on her side on the bed, wearing a see-through black negligee. Her hair had been brushed to a golden glow and framed her face. Putting the glasses on the bedside table, Simon kicked the door shut, no longer caring if his mother was disturbed or not.
“I was beginning to wonder if you were coming,” Helen murmured. He could see her one hand clenched on the bed covering, the other fisted on her hip. She was trying so hard to be serene and sexy and not cover herself. His respect for her kicked up another notch at her determination to overcome her fears.
“And miss this vision of you that I will take with me to the grave?” He shoved his own hands in his pockets to stop from reaching for her. “I brought up a glass of whisky. Do you mind if I sit on the bed while we talk?”
“Sure.” She sat up, pulling her legs up to her chest. The movement, a telling sign of her nerves, encouraged him to go slowly. He handed her the drink and sat on the bed, facing the pillows so he could watch her face.
“Did your mother talk to you about your father after I left? I didn’t think she’d say anything with me in the room,” Helen said.
“No. She said we’d talk tomorrow.”
Helen took a sip of the whisky, a light shudder racking her body as the amber liquid burned a path to her stomach. “If my husband of thirty-five years left me, I’d still be throwing things. I�
��d have cut the crotches out of all his pants and underwear and spray-painted nasty things on his car. No way could I be as cool and calm as your mother appears.”
“That’s because you’re a passionate woman. I don’t think my mother has ever thrown a thing in her life.”
“Pity. It would probably help.”
He took a swig of his drink, then replaced the glass on the bedside table. “Speaking of passion, can I kiss you now? I’ve been very good and waited all day.” He tried the same look he used to give his mother when as a child he wanted an extra cookie after dinner.
“You have been very good. Perhaps just one then.” She leaned over and put her glass next to his and pursed her lips.
“Temptress.”
He tasted her lips until they relaxed. Then he kissed her with all the pent-up frustration, desire, and need that had been hammering in his blood all day long. When she pushed against his chest with her hands he sprang back. He’d forgotten her inexperience and insecurities. Gazing into her eyes, he searched for any hint of fear or panic. All he saw was passion and promise.
“We can’t make love in this bed.” Her voice was strained; her chest heaved.
“Why the hell not?”
“Have you ever brought a woman home before?”
“No.” He tried to work out her logic and failed.
“Then I don’t think anyone has had sex under this roof in a very long time. I’ll be horrified if when your mother changes the bed she sees evidence of what we’ve done.”
“My mother has a housekeeper who changes the beds. And I’m sure she doesn’t care what we do in here.” Helen’s fingers plucked at the bedspread. “How about the shower?”
“The shower?”
“My parents put in a huge shower when they renovated the bathroom a couple of years ago. We can make love without leaving any evidence of our activities. Plus with both of us washing at the same time, it should appease your environmental sensibilities as we save water.” He didn’t add that they’d have to run the water six times as long, which wouldn’t save anything but his sanity.
