by Anne Mather
He supposed he did feel a little guilty about Lucas, but he wouldn’t admit that Luke had annoyed him, too. Dammit, what did he care if the other man made it with the nursemaid? Fleur was probably right; Helen acted as if she was only here on sufferance.
The card players went into the dining-room for their game. Candlelight was all very well, but it wasn’t strong enough to play by, and besides, the breeze was apt to lift the cards from the table. It suited Matthew. It meant Fleur’s flirtatious giggle was muted. It also meant he could avoid Lucas’s patient face.
Depositing his glass on the tray, he abandoned any thought of pouring himself another drink and crossed the patio. Beyond the low stone wall that formed the boundary of the garden he could hear the gentle murmur of the ocean. Although there was no moonlight to speak of, the lights from the patio illuminated a portion of the beach, and as his eyes became adjusted he could see the curling tide.
It was odd to think that he had never seen the ocean from this angle. Usually he saw the villa from the shoreline, and he remembered the sensation he’d had of being watched. That was how he’d known the villa was occupied. Though he hadn’t known by whom until Fleur arrived.
Stepping down on to the softer sand that had drifted against the boundary wall, Matthew kicked off his leather loafers. It was one of the advantages of living in a hot climate that he didn’t have to wear socks, and the coral grains were pleasantly cool between his toes.
Tying the laces of his shoes together, he looped them around his neck and walked lazily towards the water. Soon he had left the softer going behind, and the damp sand, compacted by the ocean, was firm beneath his feet. When he’d first come here, he had often used to bathe by moonlight. The idea of being able to swim as nature intended had been a novelty. But these days he generally confined himself to the simpler delights of the pool.
All the same, there was still something rather appealing about stripping off his clothes and wading naked into the waves. It would certainly ease his frustration, he thought wryly. A good cold shower was just what he needed.
Which was ridiculous, he had to admit. It wasn’t as if the Graham woman was particularly attractive, after all. Oh, she was tall and slim, and she had nice eyes—but so what? That description could apply to a dozen other women of his acquaintance, and none of them disturbed his concentration.
The water seeped around his toes as he stood there, and he knew he should roll the cuffs of his trousers up. But what the hell? he mused with some impatience. It wasn’t as if he cared what anyone else thought.
And then he saw her.
She was coming out of the sea, perhaps fifty yards further along the beach, and for a moment he half believed that his thoughts had conjured her up. In that first, gut-wrenching awareness he thought that she was naked. And then, as he gazed like some dumbstruck youth, he realised that her dress was plastered to her body.
But she had been in the sea, that much was obvious, and, like him, she apparently hadn’t cared what happened to her clothes. The skirt of the thin garment was sodden, and she bent to squcczc the hem as she stepped on to the damp sand.
Matthew swallowed, his breath escaping in short, uneven bursts. God, there was something almost—pagan—about her. Had she any idea he was watching her? Or was she totally immune to his eyes?
In a minute she’d be gone, and because this whole scene had all the unreality of a dream, Matthew found himself moving towards her. Perhaps he was imagining it; perhaps she wasn’t really there. She was certainly the stuff of fantasy as she rubbed those long, sexy legs.
‘Hi.’
His greeting caught her unawares; he knew that immediately. But at least she was all too disturbingly human as she turned her head towards him. Despite the poor light, he was instantly aware that she was no fantasy. Her warmth, her breath, her nearness assaulted his senses. He wanted to reach out and touch her to prove she knew it, too.
Of course, he didn’t do any such thing. But he couldn’t prevent his eyes from making a swift inventory of her body. Her breasts were far too provocative in profile, and the folds of her dress, clinging to her hips and thighs, were almost more erotic than if she’d been completely naked.
The shadows they created at knee and groin tormented him. He wanted to peel away the fabric and expose the flesh beneath. He wanted to put his hand between her legs, and feel her sweetness. He wanted to feel her close about him and lose all control…
‘What do you want?’ she asked, arresting his descent into madness, and Matthew forced his brain to function over the dictates of his sex. ‘I thought you were playing cards,’ she added, crossing her arms about her waist almost protectively.
‘Well, as you can see, I’m not,’ said Matthew evenly, relieved to find that his voice was only marginally affected by his mood. ‘Tell me—’ he endeavoured to strike a casual tone ‘—do you usually go swimming fully clothed?’
He thought she might have flushed, but the darkness revealed nothing but a faint glimmer in her eyes. ‘Not usually,’ she replied tightly. ‘I was—hot, that’s all. And I didn’t want to disturb the children by getting changed.’
Matthew’s mouth turned down. ‘I thought you said you were going to check on them,’ he reminded her smoothly, and she straightened her spine.
‘I was. I did. But—they were restless.’ She lifted her shoulders. ‘I expect they could hear the strange voices. The villa’s walls are quite thin.’
‘Mmm.’ Matthew doubted that had been her motive, but it wasn’t worth arguing over. ‘It’s funny,’ he said, ‘I was just thinking of doing the same thing. Oh—not plunging in with all my clothes on. But taking a swim.’
Helen’s eyes widened. ‘Here?’
She sounded quite appalled, and Matthew took his cue. ‘Why not?’ he asked. ‘You’ve obviously enjoyed it.’ He hesitated only a second before flicking the curve of one alluring breast with his finger. ‘Was it cold? Is that why…?’
His meaning was obvious, and he could tell by the way her eyes sparked that she resented his familiarity. ‘Why don’t you find out?’ she demanded, swinging round on him unexpectedly, and before he could guess her intentions she’d thrust both hands at his chest.
She was quite strong, he thought, but it wasn’t her strength that defeated him. The element of surprise was what caused his downfall. That and a sudden depression of sand beneath his heel.
He tried to regain his balance, but the tide was working in her favour. The undertow sucked away his footing, and with an almighty splash he floundered on to his back.
God, it was cold—or perhaps he had just been incredibly hot. Whatever, the shock of it drove the breath from his lungs, and left him gasping for air. Like some wallowing sea creature, he struggled to regain stability, splashing about and soaking himself with every move he made.
It was her laughter that provoked him into action. Peal after peal of it broke over him as she stood there, apparently forgetting how vulnerable she was. It was as if she thought his position was irretrievable, and only when he scrambled to his feet did she take off.
But she was too late—too late and too slow, and hampered by the soaking folds of her skirt. Matthew’s trousers were much less cumbersome, his legs much swifter. He lunged for her ankle without compunction, and wrestled her to the sand.
She was breathless, as much from the laughter his plight had evoked as from her belated sprint across the beach. She fell, a helpless victim to his superior strength, still choking on convulsive giggles as he rolled her on to her back.
‘Beast,’ she exclaimed, but it came out as a stutter as she tried frantically to crawl away from his hands. Thankfully, the sand was damp, or they’d have both been covered in it, and it squelched beneath his knees as he brought her down.
She was twisting and turning so much that he had to use his weight to subdue her. Even so, she wriggled increasingly under him, trying to draw up her knee between his legs. In the end, he forced her legs apart and lay between them, suffering the ja
b of her heels against his thighs.
‘You didn’t honestly expect to get away with it, did you?’ he demanded, imprisoning her wrists above her head with one hand, and forcing her to look at him with the other. ‘Dammit, what am I going to tell the others when I get back there? They’re going to think I’m crazy or something worse.’
They were nearer the terrace now, and the faint illumination spilling from the lanterns caught the fleeting look of withdrawal in her eyes. But it was only a momentary aberration before she answered him. ‘You should have thought of that before you made a pass at me,’ she retorted. ‘Now, will you get off me, you neolithic brute? It’s not my fault if you’ve got some awkward explanations to make.’
‘Isn’t it?’ Matthew made the obvious rejoinder, but he found he was enjoying himself too much to let her go. Beneath his chest her heart was pounding frantically, and a hot surge of awareness was pooling in his groin. His voice thickened. ‘Who else’s?’
‘It’s your own fault,’ she panted, his weight causing a constriction in her lungs. ‘But don’t worry. I’m sure your—your sister-in-law will believe you. She’s sure to think it was me if you play nice.’
Matthew’s eyes narrowed. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Nothing.’
Her reply was swift, but he had the impression she’d said more than she intended. Dammit, she couldn’t be jealous of Fleur, could she? The implications of that possibility made his head swim.
He looked down at her suddenly, and the eyes that had been wide and imploring a moment ago were quickly veiled. Long lashes, several shades darker than her hair, made a dusky fringe against her cheeks, and for the first time he noticed the tinge of darkness that created a revealing shadow beneath their rims.
Either the children were keeping her awake, or she wasn’t sleeping well for some reason, he decided. There was exhaustion in her pallor, and he wanted to know why. But, for the moment, he was selfish enough to put a hold on his compassion. Holding her like this, feeling her move against him, inspired thoughts of a totally different nature. He still wanted to comfort her, but in a very different way.
‘You don’t have to be jealous of Fleur,’ he said, releasing her wrists to cup her face. ‘She won’t be staying long.’
Her outrage was evident in the violent thrust she made against him, but this time she didn’t have a hope in hell of succeeding, he reflected smugly. Her anger only made him even more determined; her frustration made him settle even more surely against her. If she did but know it, she was exciting him by her actions. He could already feel the ache of longing between his legs.
‘I don’t give a damn how long that woman is staying,’ she seethed, but her denial turned to a muffled moan beneath his lips. Giving in to the desire to taste her, his mouth cut off her angry protest, and although she fought his possession she couldn’t win.
Groaning his satisfaction, Matthew moved over her, subduing her flailing hands without too much effort. She tried to clench her lips together, but he wouldn’t let her, and his tongue entwined with hers in an intimate dance.
He knew the moment when she stopped resisting him. Until then, despite his efforts, it had been a fairly onesided affair. Her eyes were open and she stared at him in accusation. The sounds she uttered were protests that he ignored.
But suddenly, as if in spite of herself he’d touched some vulnerable chord inside her, she gave in. Almost innocently, it seemed, she surrendered to the sensual brush of his tongue. Her lips parted to allow his hot invasion; when his tongue seared across hers she met its fire with her own.
Her hands, which had been balled against her sides, slid into his hair now. Her nails raked his scalp as he deepened the kiss. She was heat and light and fire, and his blood responded, thickening to a throbbing mass as she arched beneath his thighs.
Did she know what she was doing? he wondered unsteadily, finding it difficult to think coherently with her passion beneath his hands. She was more, so much more than he had ever expected, and his own senses were reeling in eager response.
Her small breasts thrust against his chest, unbearably provocative in his present state of arousal. The wetness of their clothes was creating an urgent friction, and when he released her mouth to take a breath, his eyes dropped to the sensuous suction of their bodies.
He wanted to tear her clothes from her, he thought crazily. He wanted to strip off his own shirt and trousers, and warm her with his heat. But, for all his whirling senses, he knew they were far too close to the villa to allow such madness. He contented himself with lowering his head, and suckling her through the cloth.
Fire shot through him as he took that pert nipple between his lips. For all that its dusky peak was hidden beneath her dress, it tasted like the sweetest kind of heaven. Thrusting, throbbing, it surged into his mouth, and, forgetting what he’d thought a moment before, he gave in to his instincts and unbuttoned her bodice.
Her breasts looked every bit as delicious as they had tasted. Tight and swollen, their pointed fullness tipped towards his mouth, and he took a moment to enjoy their provocation. His own body throbbed in anticipation, and he wondered if she could feel his urgent response. Between his legs his sex was aching, straining for a satisfaction she could give him.
He didn’t delay any longer. Although her eyes had barely fluttered when he drew back from her, he was afraid she might suddenly change her mind. But when he took the knotted curve of her breast into his mouth, she barely shuddered. The sigh of contentment that escaped her was an involuntary admission.
Matthew groaned then, low in his throat, the sounds she was making intensifying his need. He wanted her, he thought shakenly. God, he wanted her so much it hurt. He was harder than he’d ever thought possible, and he couldn’t hold out much longer.
Her hands slid inside his collar, cool against his spine. Small palms massaged his shoulders, peeling the shirt away from him, as she nuzzled his throat with her tongue. She was tasting him, he thought weakly, feeling that sensuous wetness against his skin. She must know how he was feeling. God, he was perilously near the brink.
A feeling of reckless hunger swept over him. Images of how slick and tight her womanly sheath would be filled his head. He could imagine the fulfilling sweetness of his possession. He could imagine burying himself deep inside her, stretching her to the limits, taking her with him to the mindless heights of oblivion…
Reason reasserted itself. It was lust, he told himself savagely, suppressing the urge to slide his hand up her thigh and discover her arousal for himself. The musky scent of her body and his was all around them, and he wouldn’t have been human if he hadn’t wanted what she could give. It was a long time since he had been with a woman—any woman—and he was horny. He needed the act, but not the complications. Seducing the Sheridans’ nanny wouldn’t just be foolish, it would be mad.
Yet, when she gripped his neck and brought his mouth back to hers, temptation hovered. His blood felt like liquid fire in his veins. The feel of her toes, caressing now, was almost driving him crazy, but with a muffled oath he let her go, and got unsteadily to his feet.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘WHEN are you waking up, Helen?’
The plaintive cry, accompanied by a persistent tugging at the sheet which was all that covered her, forced Helen to open her eyes. Sophie was standing beside her bed, still in her baby-doll pyjamas, her thumb tucked unhappily into her mouth.
Helen stifled a groan and blinked rapidly, trying to clear the sleep from her eyes. There was a heavy sense of apprehension hanging over her, which she couldn’t quite interpret at this moment, and her head was throbbing dully, as if she’d slept too long.
‘Oh, Sophie,’ she said, struggling to focus on her watch. ‘What time is it?’
‘It’s late,’ replied Sophie defensively, making snuffling noises with her thumb. ‘Mummy said I could come and wake you up. She says she’s got a headache.’
Haven’t we all? thought Helen with some resignation, rollin
g on to her back. For heaven’s sake, what time was it? Tricia didn’t usually surface before she did.
When she finally made sense of the pointers on her watch, she gave a horrified gasp. It was half-past eight. She could hardly believe it, but she’d slept long past her normal deadline. She’d acclimatised with a vengeance, and Tricia had a right to feel aggrieved.
And then, as she turned to Sophie to tell her she was sorry, the reasons why she had overslept surged over her. Oh, God, she thought, remembering why she had lain awake for several hours the night before, how could she have been so stupid? She’d actually let Matthew Aitken crawl all over her. She’d let the brother of the man who’d destroyed her father’s life almost make love to her. And, what was worse, she hadn’t stopped him. She’d encouraged him to do it.
‘He-len!’
Sophie’s protest was more of an angry whine now, as if she sensed Helen wasn’t listening to her any more. Helen’s eyes might be open, but she wasn’t looking at her. She was staring right through her, and Sophie didn’t like it.
‘What?’ With an effort, Helen forced her treacherous thoughts aside and struggled to pay attention. ‘Oh—yes, I am late, aren’t I?’ she said ruefully. ‘Go and tell your mummy I won’t be long. I must just wash my face.’
‘You slept in.’ Henry’s appearance in the doorway heralded another accusation, and Helen wondered if Tricia realised how like her her son was. ‘You’re not s’posed to sleep in,’ he added reprovingly. ‘You’re s’posed to give us our breakfast.’
‘And I will,’ said Helen wearily, ‘just as soon as I’ve cleaned my teeth and got some clothes on. Now—’ she forced a smile ‘—why don’t you two do the same? I’m sure you can manage to put your clothes on without me for once.’
‘We’re not s’posed—’ began Henry, but Sophie cut him off.
‘I’m staying here,’ she declared, depositing herself on the end of Helen’s bed. ‘I want to watch you get dressed. I can, can’t I? I’m a girl.’
