A Woman of Passion

by Anne Mather

  Stone gateposts marked the entrance to Matthew’s property, and they crunched down a coral shale drive, between hedges of flowering hibiscus. The perfume of the flowers invaded the car, filling the air with a heady fragrance.

  Further on, acres of manicured lawns came into view, their lushness enhanced by the continual use of sprinklers. They could see the house now, too, a sprawling two-storey dwelling, and Tricia exclaimed excitedly, delighted she’d got her way.

  But it was an attractive house, even Helen had to concede that. Peach-coloured brick, weathered to a creamy radiance, was topped by a pink-tiled roof, whose eaves drooped protectively over wrought-iron balconies. A profusion of pink and white bougainvillaea trailed delightfully over the walls, and many long windows were trimmed with shutters.

  ‘What a place!’ breathed Tricia, nudging her husband’s arm, as they reached a tree-shaded courtyard. A stone nymph holding a pitcher tipped water tirelessly into a basin, creating an illusion of coolness in its lily-strewn depths. “All this, and the ocean, too,’ she added enviously, nodding towards the turquoise water just visible beyond the adobe wall that enclosed the stables. ‘Imagine living here in such luxury! No wonder Fleur wants to hang on to her connection with the family.’

  Her words disturbed Helen, but Sophie chose that moment to wail, ‘I’m going to be sick!’ and Helen tumbled her out of the car before it happened. In consequence, she was attending to the little girl when Matthew appeared around the side of the house, and she wondered if she was ever destined to meet this man on equal terms.

  But, before Matthew could speak to her, Tricia thrust open her door and intercepted him. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, by way of a greeting. ‘I’m afraid my daughter is a proper pain. She doesn’t seem able to travel a hundred yards without having this problem. It was kind of you to invite the children, but perhaps you shouldn’t have bothered.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Matthew, in a black silk shirt, open down his chest to display the smooth brown skin of his torso, gave Tricia’s apologies short shrift. He ran a careless hand over the light covering of dark hair that thickened around his navel, and despite herself Helen’s eyes were drawn to the way it arrowed beneath his belt. Tight black jeans, worn to a comfortable softness, moulded his powerful thighs, and she had to tear her gaze from the muscles that bulged against his zip. ‘I can remember not being a particularly good traveller myself at Sophie’s age. Especially in hot weather,’ he appended drily, and Helen was sure he’d noticed that all the car windows were shut.

  ‘Beautiful place you’ve got here, old man,’ Andrew remarked, evidently deciding not to make an issue of the children. ‘What is it? An acre or so?’

  ‘Two acres of gardens, and a further half-dozen that are uncultivated,’ replied Matthew shortly. He glanced at Helen again, who was drying Sophie’s face with a tissue now. ‘Come along. I’ll introduce you to my father. Then I’ll show Helen where she can wash Sophie’s face.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure that’s not—’ began Tricia protestingly, but Henry disconcerted her by running up to Matthew and grabbing his hand.

  ‘Are there really no dragons?’ he asked, proving he was not as sophisticated as he’d pretended, and Sophie pursed her lips because he’d stolen her thunder.

  ‘Only little ones,’ Matthew replied good-humouredly, pointing out one of the tiny lizards that clung to the trunk of a tree. ‘Of the animal variety, anyway,’ he added, with another glance at Helen. ‘But we do have some monkeys as neighbours, and you might see one of them if you’re lucky.’

  ‘I hope you’re not referring to us, old man,’ exclaimed Andrew, laughing, but Tricia didn’t find that amusing at all.

  ‘It’s so hot,’ she said affectedly. ‘I’m looking forward to a cool martini. Oh—look, what a delightful pool! It’s not like that poky one back at the villa, where you can’t even get a decent swim.’

  As Tricia hadn’t even wet her toes in the pool at the villa, Helen couldn’t quite see her argument, but it was true that the huge swimming-pool, nestling among flowering cannas and ginger lilies, was spectacular. A row of cabanas provided a colourful side-screen, with striped chairs and loungers set beneath tall umbrellas. Above the cabanas an arched bell-tower added a touch of character, and gave an indication of the Mediterranean style of the villa.

  The back of the building, which faced the sea, was built on three sides of a paved courtyard. A cloister-like veranda, threaded with flowering vines, jutted out at the first-floor level. Above this there were balconies, shadowed, as before, by the hanging eaves. Helen guessed all the rooms inside the house would be cool and shaded. Whoever had designed the building had had its occupants’ comfort in mind.

  In the centre of the courtyard, matching the one at the other side of the house, a fountain played incessantly. And it was around the fountain that a selection of chairs and tables had been arranged, carefully protected by a shady canopy.

  Fleur, dressed more modestly today in a simple apricot sheath, was seated beside an older man with greying dark hair. Matthew’s father, obviously, Helen decided, hanging on to Sophie’s sticky hand. He got to his feet as they stepped into the courtyard, and his warm smile was disturbingly like his son’s.

  Matthew made the introductions while Fleur looked on, and Helen saw—to her relief, she told herself—that her mother had no intention of betraying their relationship. The smile she cast in her daughter’s direction was no more and no less condescending than the smile she offered their other guests. She didn’t even get to her feet to greet them. She simply proffered a languid hand.

  ‘Sophie’s been sick,’ Matthew announced, after acquainting his father with the names of their guests. ‘I’m just going to show Helen to a bathroom where she can clean the little girl up. Dad, can I leave you to give these people a drink? I know Tricia would like a martini.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Ben Aitken easily, giving Helen a knowing look. ‘Don’t worry about us. We can look after ourselves. Show her the house, why don’t you?’

  The look Matthew exchanged with his father was no less exasperated than the look Fleur cast at her daughter. ‘Surely—Helen—can manage on her own,’ she said. ‘There’s a bathroom off the gallery. You don’t need to escort her, Matt. She’s not a child as well.’

  ‘But I want to,’ replied Matthew smoothly, causing Helen no small twinge of anxiety, and she felt like assuring all of them that she was here against her will. Only Sophie seemed delighted at the unexpected attention, and, trying to remember the child’s feelings, she followed Matthew into the house.

  Her impressions, such as they were, were of cool marble tiles and tall, pale walls. A shallow staircase wound against one wall, flanked by a banister made of some dark wood that had been polished to a mirror-bright sheen. Then darkly-polished floors, strewn with thick Chinese carpets, and cool air from a system that controlled the atmosphere.

  There were pictures on the walls lining the staircase, set at intervals between long windows. There were carved occasional tables that supported bowls of flowers, and urns of some stemmed foliage that gave off a fragrant scent.

  They passed several pairs of double doors before Matthew halted before those at the end of the long corridor. Taking a handle in each hand, he threw the doors open, and indicated that Helen and Sophie should precede him inside.

  Despite her determination not to be impressed by him or his house, Helen couldn’t quite stifle the gasp that escaped her as she viewed what she could only assume was a guest suite. A sitting-room, elegantly furnished in olive leather and pale oak, gave access to the bedroom beyond. Through a wide archway, Helen glimpsed an enormous square divan, spread with turquoise silk. Long curtains, whose colour matched the bedspread, moved gently in the controlled air, allowing a view of the balcony, with the sun-kissed ocean as a backdrop.

  Helen would have liked to stand and stare some more, but Matthew was already heading across the sitting-room to another door. ‘It’s in here,’ he said. And, at her momentarily dazed l
ook, ‘The bathroom. I’ll come back in a few minutes to take you downstairs.’

  ‘Oh-oh, yes.’

  Helen blinked her eyes and, tightening her grip on Sophie’s hand, hurried across the thick Chinese rug that lay like a magic carpet in the middle of the polished floor. He probably thought she was stupid, she thought, acting like a schoolgirl in a sweet shop. But even the places she’d stayed with her father hadn’t prepared her for this, and, like Sophie, she was silenced by her surroundings.

  ‘Just use what you like,’ he said as she stepped into a pale green cave, whose walls were finely veined marble tiles, inset with mirrors. Their reflections were diffused into a thousand different images, and Helen felt her colour deepen as she saw the way her clothes were clinging to her.

  But it had been so hot in the car, and the scoop-necked T-shirt she’d worn over her swimsuit was already pasted to her back. Her shorts clung, too, delineating the cleft of her bottom, and crumpling up between her legs to expose her upper thighs.

  But it was the way her breasts were outlined against the front of the T-shirt that caused her the most embarrassment. The reaction she had to Matthew Aitken was evident in every thrusting line. Despite her swimsuit, and the cotton shirt, her nipples pressed against the cloth, and she had no doubt that he’d noticed it as well.

  Taking a trembling breath, she turned to close the door and found him gone. While she had been steeling herself to meet his mocking gaze, Matthew had left the suite. There was no one in the sitting-room, no one in the bedroom, as far as she could see. Just herself and Sophie, and these very beautiful rooms.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ‘WHAT’S this?’

  Unaware, Helen had released Sophie’s hand, and now the little girl was poking her finger into a bowl of dried flowers standing at one end of the vanitory unit.

  ‘Oh—um—pot-pourri,’ Helen said absently, still glancing over her shoulder. And then, trying to regain her confidence, ‘It’s scented, sweetheart. Leave it alone.’

  The bathroom was huge, with an enormous whirlpool bath and a shower cubicle besides. A bank of soft cream towels resided on a rack beside the twin basins, and a glass shelf displayed an assortment of bath-oils, gel and other preparations.

  Helen noticed all the preparations were of a masculine variety. And, as she ventured to peep inside the glass cupboards, she found shaving-soap and razors, and deodorants for men. It couldn’t be, she thought; he wouldn’t allow them to use his bathroom. Yet, unless the room was Lucas’s, who else’s could it be?

  Deciding she had spent quite enough time speculating about unessentials, Helen plucked Sophie’s questing finger out of a jar of shower gel and handed her a tablet of soap instead. Then, turning on the gold taps, she filled one of the basins and, using a facecloth from the pile, she quickly washed the little girl’s face.

  ‘Mmm, this soap smells lovely,’ said Sophie, enjoying herself immensely, and Helen’s hopes of leaving the party early died a death. The child was always like this—down one minute and up the next. Once she was out of the car, she soon recovered her spirits.

  ‘Well, hurry up and wash your hands,’ said Helen a little tersely, realising she was blaming Sophie for something that was all her fault really. But, heavens, the idea that this was Matthew’s bathroom, that he had stood naked before these mirrors, excited her in ways she didn’t comprehend. She only knew that it wasn’t wise for her to be here. She was far too vulnerable at the moment.

  The sound of the outer door opening gave her a start, but the woman who appeared presented no problem. She was small and round and maternal, and Helen guessed she must be in her fifties. With salt-and-pepper hair and button-black eyes, she had a smile that split her swarthy features.

  ‘You all finished?’ she asked, and Helen wondered if she’d come to clear up after them. She’d tidied the basin as best she could, but it was no longer in its previously pristine condition. And Sophie’s fingermarks were probably everywhere. The little girl had an inquisitive nature.

  But, ‘Yes,’ she said now, managing a rueful smile. ‘Thanks very much.’

  ‘It’s no trouble.’ The woman’s accent was faintly middle-European. ‘Come.’ She held out her hand to Sophie. ‘We will see if we can find some lemonade. And perhaps some ice-cream, hmm?’

  Sophie looked up at Helen. ‘Can I?’

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ agreed Helen, patting her shoulder. ‘You go along with Mrs—’

  ‘It’s Ruth,’ said the woman. ‘Just Ruth.’ She took Sophie’s hand in hers and smiled confidingly. ‘Your brother will be envious, eh? Only little girls who’ve been unwell are offered my ice-cream.’

  ‘And it’s delicious,’ declared Matthew, appearing behind her, and Ruth looked up at her employer with teasing eyes.

  ‘How would you know?’ she asked. ‘You’re not a little girl, are you?’ She glanced down at Sophie again. ‘He’s just trying to butter me up.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ asked Sophie, as Ruth urged her past her employer and into the corridor beyond. ‘Do you use butter to…?’

  The child’s voice grew indistinct, and, realising she hadn’t moved since Matthew appeared, Helen quickly gathered herself together. ‘She—she’s very good—your housekeeper?’ she finished questioningly. And, at his nod, ‘Thanks again. I was feeling rather—sticky.’

  Matthew inclined his head, but he didn’t move out of the doorway, and, realising she couldn’t hear Sophie any more, Helen took an uneasy breath. ‘I’d better go,’ she said. ‘And—and join the others. Tricia will be wondering where I am. Henry can be such a handful.’

  ‘But he is her handful,’ Matthew pointed out, without budging, and Helen shook her head.

  ‘I’m—I’m supposed to look after both children,’ she said. ‘That’s why the Sheridans employ me. And if I know Tricia, she’ll already be annoyed that I’ve seen your house and she hasn’t.’

  ‘But you haven’t seen my house,’ pointed out Matthew evenly. ‘Only the hall and stairs, and these apartments. There are five other suites, sitting-rooms, dining-rooms and a couple of offices. Not to mention a library, my study and the kitchen.’

  Helen expelled a nervous breath. ‘Very impressive.’

  ‘It wasn’t said to impress. I was only stating what there was to see.’ He glanced around. ‘These are my apartments. Would you like to see the view from the balcony? It encompasses the whole of Dragon Bay.’

  ‘Oh—well, I—’ Helen licked her dry lips. Once again

  she had been put in the position of indebtedness to him, and to refuse what, on the face of it, was a simple request seemed rather churlish. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Good.’

  He smiled, an unguarded smile this time, but she noticed he closed the doors behind him before advancing across the floor. They were shut into these rooms now, alone in his apartments. She wouldn’t have been human if she hadn’t been faintly alarmed.

  Yet, following him into what was obviously his bedroom, she found herself able to give her surroundings the attention she’d craved. Once again the furnishings were spare but elegant, with carved antique cabinets at each side of the huge bed and a carved antique chest of drawers between the windows. Another door led into what appeared to be a dressing-room, with yet another bathroom beyond. The ceiling was high and richly carved, and a selection of misty water-colours adorned the walls. The whole ambience of the room was cool and understated, yet no one could pretend its simplicity was there by chance.

  While Helen had been admiring the room’s appointments Matthew had unlatched the long windows, and a draught of warm air swept into the room. It reminded Helen of how hot she’d been when she arrived here, and a hasty glance at her shorts and T-shirt showed her how right she was to feel apprehensive.

  Matthew was obviously waiting for her, however, and, trying not to feel self-conscious about the way her clothes clung to her, she stepped past him on to the balcony.

  The view was, as he had implied, magnificent. The curving
arms of the headland were joined by the reef, and the ocean exposed its teeth with every surging tide. Right now the water was receding, laying bare the rocky promontory, and seabirds swooped unceasingly for the flotsam left by the tide.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said at last, aware that although the balcony didn’t overlook the courtyard it was just a few yards away. The last thing she wanted was for Tricia—or Fleur—to look up and see her. It was going to be hard enough to explain her absence as it was.

  The sound of Henry yelling his head off caused her to look beyond the courtyard, to where the pool was now in use. The party had evidently moved to the chairs on the poolside sun-deck, and Andrew must have found some shorts, because he was in the pool as well.

  ‘I’ll have to go,’ Helen said with some consternation, realising she had already been longer than she’d thought. ‘Can you imagine what—what Tricia will be thinking? I’m supposed to entertain the children; that’s why I’m here.’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ said Matthew quietly, easing her back into his bedroom and closing the windows. ‘You’re here because I invited you. Unfortunately, I had to invite the Sheridans also.’

  Helen swallowed. ‘Well, that’s very—kind—’

  ‘It’s not kind at all, and you know it.’ He was standing very close to her, just inside the windows, and she could feel the disturbing heat of his body. ‘I wanted to see you again. Don’t ask me why. I find you very attractive. Is that enough?’

  Helen’s legs seemed to have lost the ability to move. Which was silly, because he wasn’t touching her, and she certainly wasn’t frozen to the spot. On the contrary, she was sweating; an actual droplet of perspiration was trickling down her spine. Perhaps her legs were stuck together too, she thought. There had to be some reason why she didn’t step away.