by Anne Mather
Matthew’s jaw tightened. It was impossible to discuss his original reasons for giving the party with Lucas now. For a while there, he’d forgotten how smitten with Helen his assistant was, and he felt ashamed when he considered what he’d been planning to do. In his experience, there was only one way to get a woman out of your system, and, while he’d known of the obvious dangers, he’d decided to take the risk.
But now…
‘So you won’t have any objections if I include Helen in the invitations?’ Lucas went on, happily unaware of his employer’s feelings, and Matthew gave a grudging shrug of his broad shoulders.
‘Why should I?’ he asked tautly, as if that wasn’t exactly what he had been planning to do anyway. ‘Though you may find the Sheridans won’t appreciate the gesture.’
‘Why not?’ Lucas frowned. ‘Oh—do you think they’ll need her to babysit? I hadn’t thought of that. You may be right.’
‘I am right,’ said Matthew equably, though until that moment he’d never even thought of it. He felt a growing swell of relief. ‘Never mind, Luke. I’m asking the Longfords. They can bring Hazel along instead.’
Lucas gave him a dry look. ‘Hazel Longford is a kid,’ he said flatly. ‘And I don’t care to babysit myself.’ He paused. ‘Unless it’s with Helen.’ He looked suddenly thoughtful. ‘I wonder how the Sheridans would feel about that?’
‘Whatever the Sheridans would feel, I’d be bloody angry,’ declared Matthew heavily. ‘Forget it, Luke. I need you here.’ Then, ignoring the mocking tug of his conscience, he added, ‘If you want to see the woman, do it on your own time.’
The conversation ended soon after, and although Matthew had expected the other man to object to his heavy-handedness he hadn’t. Lucas had probably put his attitude down to the continuing problem he was having with Fleur, he reflected. It was bloody hard not to feel guilty with so many paragons around.
An hour later, with the pile of manuscript hardly touched, Matthew had to concede that he was getting nowhere. His mind simply refused to concentrate on fiction, when his own life seemed to be running out of control.
With a feeling of raw impatience, he pushed his chair away from the desk. What was the matter with him? he thought irritably. Why couldn’t he put the Graham woman’s face out of his mind? And not just her face, he recalled unwillingly. He could still feel her small breasts against his chest…
He scowled at his watch. It was barely eleven o’clock. Far too early to think about meeting his father at the airport. Ben wasn’t due to arrive until three-thirty. Even allowing for the time it would take to get there, he’d still got more than a couple of hours to fill.
Getting up from his chair, he walked broodingly over to the long windows. Beyond a flowering hedge, the still surface of the pool gleamed in silent invitation. But beside the pool, stretched out beneath a striped umbrella, Fleur was enjoying the brilliance of the day. Like the serpent in his particular Eden, she basked in the sun while he sweated in his study.
Matthew’s scowl deepened. If Fleur hadn’t been there, he would probably have taken a swim. A refreshing dip in cool water was exactly what he needed to clear his head. And cool his blood, he acknowledged tersely. It wasn’t just the temperature that was making him hot.
But Fleur was there, and there was no way Matthew was going to join her. In his present state of mind, he might just say something he’d regret. Besides, he wasn’t totally convinced that his body wouldn’t betray him. And the last thing he wanted was for her to think she turned him on.
He swung away from the window and propped his hips against the broad sill. He ought to work, but doing so was no more inviting now than it had been minutes before. He needed to get out of the villa. He needed to put some space between his actions and his thoughts.
He’d go into Bridgetown, he decided abruptly. There was a book shop in Broad Street, and it was some weeks since he’d checked out the latest titles. Whenever he finished writing, he always enjoyed the relaxation he found in reading. It was such a relief to let some other author carry the story, and work out the final dénouement.
Lucas was working in the outer office, and he looked up in some surprise when his employer appeared. ‘D’you want some coffee?’ he asked. ‘I can ask Ruth—’
‘I don’t want anything,’ said Matthew firmly, realising that Lucas would think he was acting out of character. ‘I—er—I thought I’d take a ride into town. I feel like having a break. I won’t be long.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Lucas at once, but Matthew pressed him back into his seat with a purposeful hand.
‘No need,’ he said, tempering his refusal with a grimace. ‘I guess Fleur is getting me down. I need to cut me a little space, OK?’
‘OK.’
But Lucas regarded him with doubtful eyes. What was he thinking? Matthew wondered ruefully as he strode along the cool marble tiles of the corridor. That he was seeking to assuage his conscience? That, however he denied it, he was attracted to his dead brother’s widow?
A louvred door gave access to the rear of the villa. Here a pleasantly-shaded courtyard gave on to a range of outbuildings. This was the oldest part of the estate, with some of the buildings dating back to the eighteenth century. Unlike the house, which had been rebuilt from the foundations, what had once been the servants’ quarters had been converted into a string of garages.
There were stables here, too, though Matthew didn’t keep any horses. If he wanted to ride, there were hacks available, but, having been brought up with the cream of horseflesh, he was loath to accept anything less. Besides, when he visited the ranch—which wasn’t often, he admitted ruefully—he spent most of his days on horseback. His father was a tireless rider, and he’d taught both his sons to appreciate the sport.
Too well? wondered Matthew wryly, adjusting his jean-clad thighs beneath the wheel of an open-topped buggy. He hoped his father wasn’t blaming himself for Chase’s death. His brother had always been mad on horses, right from being a schoolboy, and becoming a professional polo-player had seemed a natural progression.
The traffic into Bridgetown was fairly hectic, and, like every other tourist resort, the town was thronged with eager sightseers. Skins of every colour mingled in the busy shops along Broad Street, and Matthew thought he was incredibly lucky when he found a parking space just off the square.
Unlike some Caribbean resorts, however, Bridgetown had a distinctly British appeal. Many of the Gothic structures dated from the reign of Queen Victoria, and a monument to Lord Nelson stood impressively in Trafalgar Square.
Leaving the buggy, Matthew negotiated a narrow lane that led down into the main thoroughfare. To his left the inner basin of the Careenage provided a tranquil harbour for luxury yachts. It was a far cry from the busy port it had once been, its erstwhile warehouses converted now into pretty cafés and shops. To his right, St Michael’s Row led along to the cathedral. One of the oldest surviving churches in Barbados, the cathedral had been rebuilt after its destruction in the hurricane of 1780.
Leaving the square, Matthew started along Broad Street. As well as shops, there were several office buildings here, their wrought-iron balconies giving the place a colonial feel.
Graftons, the book store he sought, was situated on the corner of Maize Street. Small and personal, it nevertheless stocked an enormous collection of reference books and novels, with guide books for the tourists and paperbacks for everyone.
The owner, Becky Grafton, was a grey-haired Barbadian, and she greeted Matthew with her usual cheerful smile. ‘Morning, Mr Aitken,’ she said. ‘What can we do for you this morning?’
Matthew grinned. ‘Nothing, thanks. I’ve come to browse.’ He grimaced. ‘Unfortunately, you don’t stock inspiration, do you?’
‘Depends what kind of inspiration you’re looking for, man,’ chuckled her assistant, Larry Kamada. ‘I’m told folks get all kinds of ideas from some of the books we sell.’
Matthew was nodding good-humouredly when he glimpsed
a familiar figure beyond the shelves. With his stomach tightening unwillingly, he felt sure it was Helen Graham. He’d have recognised that braid anywhere, and the slender elegance of her figure.
Fortunately someone came to pay for their books at that moment, and it enabled Matthew to excuse himself from Becky and her assistant. And, although common sense dictated that he leave his browsing until later, he ignored the warning voice and followed his senses.
He found her in the furthest corner of the shop, half hidden behind the final fixture. He was fairly certain she had seen him now, and was hoping to avoid him. But her pale limbs were too noticeable, particularly as she was only wearing a short denim skirt and a pink sleeveless vest.
‘Good morning,’ he said, forcing her to look up from the volume of poetry she was studying. ‘Are you a fellow reader, Miss Graham?’
‘It’s—’ she began, and then broke off, flushing.
‘Um—yes. I enjoy reading. When I have the time.’ She paused, and, having regained her composure, gave him a cool look. ‘I haven’t read any of your books, however.’
‘It’s not obligatory,’ said Matthew, apparently un-fazed, though the faint contempt in her voice wasn’t welcome. ‘What do you read, Miss Graham? Apart
from—’ he dipped his head ‘—my namesake, Matthew Arnold?’
Helen thrust the anthology back on to the shelf, and moved as if she would have gone past him. ‘Lots of things,’ she said. ‘So long as they’re interesting.’ She took a short breath. ‘Excuse me.’
‘Novels?’ Matthew knew it was crazy, but he wouldn’t let her pass him. Not until he’d got her to relax with him at least. For God’s sake, if Lucas had his way, she’d be invited to Dragon Bay. They couldn’t meet with animosity between them.
‘Occasionally,’ she acknowledged now, and he knew she was only answering him to avoid an argument. But, hell, when he was with her, he couldn’t help being aware of her. For some reason, she disturbed him in a wholly unfamiliar way.
‘You’re alone?’ he persisted, wondering where her charges were this morning, and he could fairly feel the antagonism surging through her.
‘For the moment,’ she said tightly. Then, ‘Will you please move out of my way? I’ve some other errands I want to run and you’re making me late.’
Matthew took a deep breath, and folded his arms across his chest. He looked relaxed, he thought, but his fingers were digging into the dark blue silk of his sleeve. He’d rolled the sleeves back to his elbows, and the muscles in his forearms tightened reflexively. But he’d never get another chance like this, and he wasn’t about to lose it.
‘What do you mean?’ he said at last. ‘You said, “for the moment”. Do I take it the little horrors are with you? Or have you left them back at the house?’
Her tongue appeared and circled her lips. It was a pink tongue, Matthew noticed, and there was something unknowingly sensual in the way she moistened her lips. Not that she was aware of it. He’d gamble on that assumption. She was simply weighing the odds of lying to him or simply telling the truth.
The truth apparently won out. ‘If you mean my charges,’ she replied stiffly, ‘they’re spending the day with their parents. Tricia and Drew—Mr and Mrs Sheridan, that is—are visiting some friends in Speightstown. And, as their friends have got children, they’ve taken Henry and Sophie with them.’
‘Really?’ Matthew felt an unwarranted surge of exhilaration. He felt as if someone had just handed him a present, but one which he wasn’t supposed to accept.
‘Yes, really,’ Helen repeated shortly, clearly eager to be on her way. ‘Now, will you let me pass? Or must I call the assistant? As you’re apparently known here, I don’t suppose you’d like it if I screamed.’
Matthew’s lips compressed. ‘So you did see me come in,’ he remarked, ignoring the implied threat. ‘Was that why you panicked and hid in this corner?’
‘I did not panic.’ But her nervous lips betrayed her. ‘I simply didn’t want to speak to you, that’s all.’
‘Why not?’
‘Why not?’ She regarded him with frustrated eyes. ‘I should have thought that was obvious, in the circumstances.’ Then, as if gathering some courage from his silence, ‘For a writer, you’re extremely unimaginative. If you give it some thought, I’m sure you’ll understand.’
Once again, she attempted to go past him, but this time she came up against the unyielding wall of his body. If she’d thought that by insulting him she’d cause him to lose interest, he reflected, then she didn’t know him very well at all.
‘It’s a little late to play hard to get, isn’t it?’ he asked, as she recoiled from the heat of his chest. ‘Just because I didn’t finish what I started, don’t pretend you spent the whole time fighting me off.’
Her colour deepened then, and in spite of himself Matthew was intrigued. She was such a curious mixture of sensuality and innocence, and although he didn’t believe the latter, he wanted to prolong this encounter.
It took her a minute to compose herself again, and then she said in a low voice, ‘If you’ve finished, I’d like to go. Please.’
Matthew frowned. ‘And if I’m not?’
‘Not what?’
She was confused now. He could tell by the blank look in her eyes that his earlier accusation had found its mark. But, contrarily, it didn’t please him. Her submission was no more appealing than her retaliation had been.
‘Not finished,’ he said almost gently, and, acting purely on instinct, he stepped aside. ‘Look, can we just forget what happened last week? Let’s put it down to experience. Why don’t you let me buy you lunch, to prove there’s no hard feelings?’
‘I can’t.’
Her immediate denial annoyed him, but at least she hadn’t rushed away. ‘Why can’t you?’ he asked evenly. ‘There’s a café just round the corner.’
‘I’ve got to get back,’ she said automatically, but he sensed that she was weakening. ‘Mr Aitken, there’s no need for you to do this. We’ll say no more about it.’
Matthew sighed, controlling his impatience with an effort. ‘You said yourself that the Sheridans are away all day,’ he reminded her.
‘I know.’
‘So there’s really no reason for you to hurry back?’
‘Perhaps not.’
He took a gamble. ‘But you find my company objectionable? You’d rather eat alone.’ He shrugged. ‘Well, OK, if that’s the way you feel, there’s nothing more to say.’
‘No.’
She did move then, tucking the strap of her bag over her shoulder and starting towards the door. Matthew was just consoling himself with the thought that she’d probably done him a favour, however unlikely that felt at the moment, when she glanced back over her shoulder and stopped.
‘Just around the corner?’ she said, coming back on what were obviously reluctant feet. ‘The café? That is what you said, isn’t it?’
Matthew’s stomach contracted. ‘Yeah.’ He paused. ‘Down on the quay, if you know where that is.’
‘I do.’ She hesitated. Then, ‘Why not?’ She shrugged. ‘If you really meant it, that is. If you weren’t just being-polite.’
All the air seemed to go out of Matthew’s lungs, and all he could do was nod. And, with a gesture of compliance, Helen turned again and sauntered towards the exit. He knew she couldn’t be feeling as nonchalant as she appeared from behind, that if he looked into her eyes he’d see the uncertainty that still lingered, but he had to admire her confidence all the same.
He watched her as she traversed the aisle ahead of him, and he was aware of the possession in his gaze. But hell, the tail of that neat braid, bobbing about at her waist, was absurdly sexy, her slim legs long and curvaceous below the short hem of her skirt. He wouldn’t have been human, he told himself, if he hadn’t remembered how she’d looked that evening nearly a week ago. He’d wanted to make love with her then, and he wanted to now.
There was a half-moon of sunburned skin above the scooped
neckline of her vest, and as he came up behind her at the entrance he knew the craziest urge to bend and soothe it with his tongue. But then his eyes encountered Larry Kamada’s and he quickly stifled the impulse. He was letting his senses rule his reason, and it had to stop.
The café he took her to overlooked the Careenage, and for a while, as the waiter took their order and Helen’s attention was diverted by the gleaming yachts lying at anchor, Matthew was able to convince himself that he’d imagined the way he’d felt. She was attractive and sexy, and—hell!—she probably knew it better than he did. That diffidence was just an act; he was sure of it.
They sat outside, at a table shaded by a huge umbrella. With the sun dazzling on the water, and the sound of muted conversation all around them, it was all very normal and civilised. Matthew decided that anyone watching them would assume they were holidaying together.
Or perhaps not, he considered. His arms and legs were tanned while Helen’s skin was still fashionably pale. Like the back of her neck, where the sun had caught her, her skin turned pink. An indication of its delicacy that he was loath to admit he’d noticed.
They ate shellfish and salad—juicy island shrimp served with mixed greens and papaya. There were spicy sauces to accompany the food, and Matthew noticed Helen avoided them. But she did drink several glasses of the dry Californian wine he’d ordered, and he guessed that she was thirsty.
‘Nice?’ he ventured, after their plates had been taken away, and because the wine had relaxed her Helen nodded.
‘Very nice,’ she conceded, elbows lodged on the table, her wine-glass cradled between her palms. ‘Thank you,’ she added belatedly. ‘It was kind of you to bring me here. My—my father and I used to come to Barbados many moons ago.’
Matthew hesitated. ‘But your father’s dead now,’ he averred softly, and she gave him a guarded look.
‘How do you know that?’
Matthew sighed. ‘Oh—Luke told me, I think.’ He hoped he hadn’t spoiled the mood. ‘It’s not a secret, is it?’
‘A secret?’ Her lips twisted suddenly, but, although he’d been half-afraid he’d said the wrong thing, she shook her head. ‘No, that’s not a secret. He—died seven months ago.’
