by Anne Mather
She wanted to protest, he knew, but a glance at her inner thighs had her covering herself defensively, and, not giving her a chance to escape him, he swung her up into his arms.
The shower cubicle in the adjoining bathroom was plenty big enough for two, but she gazed at him in horror when he joined her. ‘You can’t,’ she said, when he turned the taps on. ‘I—my hair’s going to get wet.’
‘I’ll dry it for you,’ he replied softly. ‘Now, stop making a fuss and enjoy it.’
He found himself in the unusual position of wanting to please her. When she reached for the soap he let her take it, even though his hands itched to do it himself. It was incredible, he could hardly keep his hands off her. And when he saw the water streaming off her breasts, and the upturned thrust of her nipples, he thought how frustrating it was to be good.
But at last she was finished, and, giving in to the urge he’d had all along to caress her wet skin, he pulled her back against him for a minute. ‘Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?’ he asked, nuzzling her shoulder. Then, with intimate enquiry, ‘Do you feel better?’
Helen quivered, but he noticed she didn’t pull away from him this time. ‘I—I suppose so,’ she said, squeezing her legs together when his fingers spread down her stomach. ‘If—if you’ll give me a towel, I’ll get dried. I don’t think my hair’s very wet.’
‘I’ll do it,’ said Matthew unevenly, letting her go with some reluctance. ‘Step outside the cubicle. The towels are beside the bath.’
Forcing himself not to look at the way she curled in on herself in embarrassment, Matthew collected a huge bathsheet and wrapped it about her shoulders. ‘Is this what you do with Sophie?’ he asked, trying to distract her, but as he rubbed her trembling shoulders the towel slipped down to her waist.
Matthew’s eyes sought hers then, and what he saw there had him reaching for her. She was nervous, no doubt, but she was also aware of his arousal. And he told himself that excused his disgraceful lack of control.
Gathering her up in his arms again, he carried her back to the bed, and although she whimpered something about her hair being wet he didn’t respond to her plea. God, he thought, he’d never felt this way about any other woman. She was everything he wanted, and so much more.
It was strange, because usually he was such a restless animal. Once he’d had his way with a woman, he’d been glad to leave. And, apart from a couple of abortive affairs in his teens, he’d remained emotionally inviolate. He guessed Fleur’s behaviour had something to do with it. Certainly he’d never trusted a woman since.
But suddenly this woman was making him feel emotions he’d considered were for mutts and school-kids. Ownership, the need for possession—he was aware he was feeling them both. Not to mention jealousy, he acknowledged tautly. The thought of some other man touching her drove him mad.
Her lips were pressed together when he touched them, but, as if the caressing brush of his tongue was all that was needed to break the spell, her jaw sagged almost instantly. The sweetness of her breath was like nectar in his nostrils, and, although he’d determined restraint, his tongue surged helplessly into her mouth.
Desire, hot and fluid, poured through his veins. And he wanted to pour himself into her just as urgently. Dear God, she was so sweet, so responsive, so passionate. He wanted her so badly, he didn’t know how he was going to stop.
Then her hands crept up his chest, and he felt incredible. When they linked behind his neck and drew him closer, he felt as if he was actually on fire. The feel of her small breasts pushing against his chest was unbelievably erotic, and he tucked one hand between them to stroke her swollen core.
To his amazement, she didn’t stop him. And, what was more, he could feel her musky arousal on his fingers. For some amazing reason she still wanted him. And his body ached to show her how it should be.
‘You don’t know what you do to me,’ he got out unsteadily, and winced when her nails dug painfully into his shoulders.
‘I—know what you do to me,’ she whispered, and he realised what he’d hoped might be going to come true. She wound her arms around his neck. ‘Do you think I might enjoy it more this time?’
‘Depend on it,’ he said huskily, parting her legs and bending to press his face against the damp cluster of honey-gold curls. ‘Don’t stop me,’ he added, as she jerked a little nervously. ‘Just let yourself go with the flow.’
Matthew remembered those words later, when he lay panting beside her. Lord, he thought, she was every man’s dream come to life. Despite her inexperience, she’d responded without inhibition, and the pleasure he’d found with her had been intense.
In fact, he realised tautly, he’d never felt this way before either. Always, when he’d made love to a woman, there’d been some part of himself he’d held back. He’d found satiation, but not satisfaction; release but not relief. Yet, with Helen, he’d felt no sense of restriction. With her, he was a whole person; together, they were complete.
It was at once awesome and frightening. He’d never let anyone have that kind of control over him before. In many ways, he was an emotional virgin, he thought wryly. But, God, she made him eager to shed the shackles that state had wrought.
Realising he needed reassurance that he wasn’t the only one who felt that way, he turned his head and looked at Helen. She was lying within the circle of the arm and leg he’d thrown possessively across her, but she seemed to sense his sensual appraisal because she slanted him a sleepy gaze.
‘I can’t stay here much longer,’ she murmured ruefully, but he could hear the reluctance in her voice.
‘I know,’ he said, drawing a finger line from her breastbone to her navel. ‘We’ve got to talk, I guess. And it’s not easy to be rational in this position.’
‘No.’ Her lips parted, and for a moment she looked as anxious as she had done before. ‘But was it—? I mean—it was all right, wasn’t it? The second time, I mean. I didn’t do anything wrong.’
Matthew’s lips tilted lazily. ‘You tell me.’
Helen licked her lips. ‘It was—amazing. I didn’t know—I didn’t think—that is—’
His finger over her lips silenced her, and then he bent and replaced his finger with his mouth. ‘I get the picture,’ he said, when they were both deliciously breathless. ‘We’ll talk about that later. When the others have gone.’
‘The others!’
Helen gazed at him with horror-stricken eyes, but Matthew wouldn’t let her get away.
‘I’m sure they’ve guessed what’s going on,’ he said flatly. And, at her anxious gasp, ‘Does it matter? They’re going to find out anyway.’
Helen swallowed. ‘They are?’
‘Aren’t they?’
A twinge of her anxiety touched him then, but before she had time to formulate a reply the doors to the outer room were flung open and Fleur marched into the suite.
Matthew had never felt so furious—or so helpless—in his life. That Fleur should be here in his house was bad enough. That she should have the effrontery to burst into his private apartments unannounced was intolerable.
And short of confronting her—nude—there was no way he could throw her out again. An option that wasn’t an option, in his present protective position.
Helen’s reaction had been equally as violent, though he guessed she was more shocked than angry. Beneath his palm—the palm which moments before had been teasing the swollen bud of her breast—her heart was racing madly. And, although she hadn’t a hope of dislodging him, her elbows were scrabbling for purchase on the pillows.
He wanted to wring Fleur’s neck, he thought savagely. She had ruined his life once before, and he was damned if she was going to ruin it again. It was time he told her what he really thought of her. It was time to get her out of his life. She couldn’t be allowed to embarrass Helen. Whatever happened, that was one thing of which he was sure.
But before he could speak, almost before he had had time to drag the silk sheet over their nak
ed bodies, Fleur charged into the bedroom, with Lucas at her heels. Matthew guessed his assistant had come upstairs with Fleur to try and restrain her, but what he saw in the bedroom set him rocking back on his heels.
However, before Matthew could say anything in his own defence, before he could try and explain that this was not what it looked, Fleur screamed. Her cry, raw and anguished, echoed and re-echoed around the vaulted ceiling of the apartment. It caused Helen to jerk violently beneath him, and he soothed her pained expression with a kiss.
‘Trust me,’ he said, for her ears only, but she didn’t seem to be listening to him any more. Her eyes were on the woman who had haunted him since his youth, and the anger he’d felt initially rekindled anew.
Deciding there was only one way to handle this, and that wasn’t lying down, Matthew jack-knifed off the bed, taking the quilt with him. Then, wrapping it about himself, he faced Fleur with eyes that were as cold as glaciers. ‘What the hell d’you think you’re doing?’ he snarled. ‘Get out of here, before I throw you out myself.’
Lucas’s face was haggard. ‘I tried to stop her,’ he said stiffly, as Fleur snatched a tissue from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes. ‘I didn’t know—I didn’t think—’ His expression mirrored his contempt. ‘For God’s sake, Matt, there are people downstairs! What are they supposed to think?’
‘I don’t give a damn what they think,’ said Matthew harshly. ‘Just get this mad woman out of here. I want her packed and out of my house.’
Fleur drew a dramatic breath. ‘And can I take my daughter with me?’ she enquired haughtily, drawing an anguished breath from Helen. Fleur threw the crumpled tissue on the floor. ‘Oh, yes—’ this as Matthew stared at her disbelievingly ‘—didn’t she tell you she’s my daughter? Why else do you think she came here, if not because of this?’
‘That’s not true!’
At last Helen spoke, and Matthew gathered the quilt about him as he turned to look at her. ‘What’s not true?’ he found himself asking. ‘You’re not her daughter? Or—she—isn’t why you came here? Why you let me take you to bed?’
Helen’s face paled. ‘I am her daughter—’ she began, but he wouldn’t let her finish. Like a house of cards, the world he’d been building for the two of them, ever since he’d realised how he felt about her, came tumbling about his ears. She was Fleur’s daughter! The woman who for a few short minutes he’d thought he’d loved was the offspring of that vile creature. He couldn’t believe it. He wouldn’t believe it. But he was very much afraid it was true…
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
‘THERE’S a letter for you, Miss Gregory.’ Helen’s landlady came out of her door as her tenant came running down the stairs. ‘Couldn’t climb all those stairs,’ Mrs Reams added, patting her ample chest as if she was already breathless. And, as she weighed considerably more than her five-feet-two-inch-frame could support, Helen could quite understand her dilemma.
‘That’s all right, Mrs Reams,’ she said now, taking the letter with barely a glance and tucking it into her trouser pocket. ‘It’s a lovely morning, isn’t it?’
‘Mmm.’ Mrs Reams looked disappointed. ‘Aren’t you going to open your letter, dear? It might be something important.’
‘I doubt it.’
Helen felt a fleeting twinge of sympathy for the garrulous old lady. Mrs Reams had probably examined the letter very thoroughly before handing it over. In the three months since Helen had been living in her top-floor bed-sitter, she’d learned that Mrs Reams was extremely inquisitive. It frustrated her considerably that her tenant remained so obstinately close-mouthed.
‘Well—’ Mrs Reams gave it one last shot ‘—it’s not one of those advertising circulars. I’d say it was from a woman. Your mother, perhaps?’ she queried. ‘Or your sister?’
‘I don’t have a sister,’ replied Helen dampeningly. ‘And I’ve really got to go. I’ve got a class in half an hour, and I can’t afford to miss it.’
Mrs Reams adopted a resigned face. ‘Oh, very well,’ she muttered, turning back into her ground-floor apartment. It was obvious she was getting nowhere, and she was missing her game-show on the telly.
Meanwhile, Helen jogged determinedly towards the bus stop. She hadn’t been lying when she’d said she had a class at half-past nine. She was taking an intensive course in word-processing and other secretarial skills, and she’d already learned that missing a class was to her disadvantage, not theirs.
But at least she was doing something positive with her life at last, she thought firmly. And a six-month secretarial course was all she could afford right now. She would have preferred to work with children, but that would have entailed a lengthy course at college. And the money she’d saved wouldn’t last that long.
Still, the prospect of becoming a secretary was much preferable to working at a filling station. And she’d be supporting herself for the first time in her life. When she’d worked for Tricia, she’d always felt indebted to her. Now she was making her own decisions, and the outcome was up to her.
The bus arrived, on time for once, and after paying her fare Helen found a seat and dumped her haversack beside her. It was only then that she extracted the letter from her pocket. She couldn’t delay reading it any longer, however fruitless the exercise might be.
It was from Tricia. She’d seen that at once, as soon as Mrs Reams had handed it to her. Her erstwhile employer had written to her twice since she’d terminated Helen’s employment: once to convey her feelings, and once to send her a cheque.
In conscqucncc, she couldn’t possibly imagine what Tricia might want now. She’d made her feelings plain enough, and she’d sent her final salary. There didn’t seem much else to say, unless Andrew had been causing trouble again.
Slitting the envelope, she extracted the thin sheet of writing-paper. It was a handwritten note, short and to the point.
Helen, I’ve been contacted by Matthew Aitken’s father. He’d like you to get in touch with him. His address is given below.
Tricia Sheridan.
Helen swallowed, and folded the slip of paper back into the envelope. Then, turning her attention to the window, she stared resolutely at the street outside. They were passing a park, and she could see children with their mothers. There were dogs, too, and an old man rummaging in a bin.
What was he looking for? she wondered, noticing that his clothes were fairly clean. Perhaps he was looking for something he’d lost, she reflected grimly. She’d lost something, too, but it wasn’t something she was likely to find.
The letter was still in her hands and, forcing herself to act normally, she folded the envelope in half and stuffed it back into her jeans. When she found a bin she’d dispose of it, she told herself. If she left it on the bus, someone might return it to her.
The secretarial college was the next stop, and, hefting her bag, she got to her feet and made her way to the front of the bus. ‘Lovely morning,’ remarked the driver, responding to the slim young woman with her chunky braid of hair. ‘Too nice for working, eh? How’d you fancy going for a spin on my bike?’
‘No, thanks.’
Helen’s smile was distracted, and, as if realising he was wasting his time, the driver stood on the brakes with a heavier foot than was necessary. ‘Ooh, sorry, love,’ he said, as Helen was thrown against the handrail, but she knew it had been deliberate.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said disparagingly, and sauntered down the steps.
But once the bus had pulled away her defiance left her, and Joanne Chalmers, a young woman she had become friends with in the six weeks they had been sharing the course, came to meet her with anxious eyes. Joanne was the same age as herself, but she was already married with a family. In consequence, she mothered all the girls and Helen in particular.
‘Hi,’ she said, falling into step beside her. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Oh—’ Helen looked at her a little defensively.
‘Um—nothing. Not really.’ Then, realising Joanne would expect an explanation
, she added, ‘The driver was a bit fresh, that’s all. He nearly tipped me off the bus.’
‘Men!’ Joanne pulled a sympathetic face. ‘Aren’t they just the limit! Barry and me had a bit of a barney this morning. Lindsey’s got a rash, and he thinks I should take her to the doctor’s.’
‘Oh, dear.’
It was a relief to think about something other than her own problems, and Helen listened while her friend extolled the virtues of being single. ‘I should never have had a baby at seventeen,’ she said. ‘My mother was right, only I wouldn’t listen.’ She grimaced. ‘Mothers usually are right, aren’t they? Oh—sorry. I forgot yours had done a bunk.’
Helen shook her head and turned away, in no state to think about Fleur at present. The letter from Tricia—and its connotations with Matthew—had resurrected the whole sorry mess, and she was unutterably relieved when a group of their fellow students came to join them and she had time to regain her composure.
Joanne probably thought mentioning her mother had upset her, Helen reflected ruefully, feeling the other woman’s eyes watching her with some compassion. She’d told Joanne her father was dead, and that her mother had left them when she was a baby. It was the truth, if somewhat encapsulated, and it had prevented a lot of unnecessary questions.
Now, however, she found herself wondering what Joanne would say if she was completely honest with her; if she told her friend that her mother had accused her of seducing the man she loved. And what if she added the rider that the man in question had believed her, that he’d actually thought she’d done it to avenge her father’s death?
Oh, God, she thought later that morning, as she stared blankly at the keys of the word-processor, she’d believed she’d got over it—or over the worst, at least. But the pain was no less acute because she’d been ignoring it for so long. On the contrary, it felt as if it had festered and infected her whole body.
