A Woman of Passion

by Anne Mather

  ‘Tricia?’

  Ben looked confused, and Helen quickly explained that she meant Mrs Sheridan. ‘The only communication I’ve received from the United States was when she sent me your address.’

  Matthew’s father frowned. ‘But—Matt wrote to you. Twice, that I know of. It must be—two or three months ago now. Before he and Luke had that bust-up. Oh—you won’t know—Luke has left.’

  Helen blinked. ‘Lucas doesn’t work for Matthew any more?’

  ‘No.’ Ben looked rueful for a moment. ‘Oh—you probably know—the guy was infatuated with you. Finding you with Matt that time—well, I guess it blew his mind. At any rate, he and Matt had the most god-awful row a couple weeks afterwards.’ He grimaced. ‘Wrecked the office, they did. Chucked his goddamn computer on the floor.’

  Helen gasped. ‘Matt?’

  ‘What? No—Luke did it. I think it was aimed at Matt, but, thank God, he missed.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘That would have given Matt more than a mild concussion. As it was, I had to fly down and help Ruth put things straight.’

  Helen swallowed. ‘You’re saying Matt had a concussion?’

  ‘Just a mild one,’ said Ben drily. ‘And you should have seen Luke’s face. No——’ he grimaced ‘—Luke didn’t brain him; he hit his head on the metal cabinet. But it knocked him out, and Luke decided to get out while he still could.’

  Helen shook her head. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Don’t you?’ Ben snorted. ‘Well, I’m beginning to. Matt must have given those letters to Luke to post, and my guess is he didn’t do it. I can’t prove it, of course, but it makes sense. I think Luke would have done anything to keep you two apart.’

  Helen tried to absorb what he was saying, but after all these weeks she’d given up on ever hearing from Matthew again. And even now she didn’t really know what his father was doing here. What did he mean, Matthew was hurting? He couldn’t mean because of her—could he?

  And then another thought struck her. ‘The day—the day I left, I tried to ring Matt,’ she said carefully. ‘Lucas—Lucas answered the phone, and he said Matt-Matt didn’t want to speak to me.’ She licked her lips. ‘Do you—do you think he was lying? I never got a chance to explain, you see.’

  Ben sighed again. ‘This would be the day after—well, the day after you and Matt-—’ He broke off significantly. ‘I don’t know. I suspect he might have been telling the truth.’ And when Helen’s lips parted in consternation he added hurriedly, ‘No one could speak to Matt for several days after that.’

  Helen tried to be casual. ‘Oh? Why?’

  ‘Because—’ Ben grimaced. ‘Because he went on quite a bender. He took it hard, you see, you being Fleur’s daughter. I guess he didn’t tell you, but that woman blighted his young life.’

  Helen’s voice was barely audible. ‘How?’

  ‘Oh, you don’t want to know.’

  ‘I do want to know,’ insisted Helen tautly. ‘Please, I have a right to know. She is my mother, after all.’

  ‘Which is why—Oh, what the hell?’ Ben lay back in his chair and gazed wearily into her face. ‘When Matt was twenty-two, she tried to seduce him. And he’s blamed himself for it ever since.’

  Helen’s breath caught in her throat. ‘But—she was married to his brother.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Well—where was he when—when this was going on?’

  ‘Nothing went on,’ Ben informed her flatly. ‘And Chase was away at the time. He often was.’

  Helen hesitated. ‘But—how do you know it was—it was like Matt says? Perhaps he—’

  ‘Because it happened to me, too,’ snarled Ben with sudden anger. ‘Goddammit, what do I have to say? The woman’s psychologically sick!’

  Helen felt sick, too. ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘How could you?’ Ben sighed. ‘She’s not your problem. But why do you think Chase had been drinking before that fatal match? Because he’d found her with some other man the night before.’

  Helen trembled. ‘And—Matt knows this?’

  ‘He does now.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, I told him. As soon as I could talk some sense into him. I guess it was a couple of days after you left. I told him he couldn’t believe a word she said.’

  Helen moved her head. ‘And he—believed you?’

  ‘You mean, is that why he wrote to you? Yeah, I guess that sounds about right. But by then I think he’d come to the conclusion that he wanted you, whatever.’ He scowled. ‘I’ve never seen him in such a state before.’

  Helen pressed her damp palms to her knees. ‘I—don’t think I understand.’

  ‘Sure you do.’ Ben sounded almost sardonic now. ‘He sent me here because he believes you never want to see him again. He wouldn’t listen to your explanation, so why should you listen to his?’

  ‘I see you haven’t eaten your lunch again,’ Ruth chided her employer reprovingly. ‘And that won’t aid your digestion,’ she added, nodding at the glass of whisky in his hand. ‘I don’t know what’s the matter with you. You always used to like my cooking.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with your cooking, Ruth,’ Matthew assured her evenly. ‘The quiche was really delicious, and the apricot mousse just melted in the mouth.’

  ‘But not your mouth, hmm?’ Ruth observed wryly. ‘Will you be working this afternoon, or shall I tell Vittorio he can have the afternoon off?’

  Matthew scowled. ‘What a trial you are, woman. No, I shan’t be working. Tell Vittorio to come back tomorrow morning. I’ll probably be working then.’

  ‘Probably.’

  Ruth went away, muttering to herself, and, leaving the table, Matthew carried his glass to the windows. The housekeeper could be a nuisance, but he knew she only had his best interests at heart. But the trouble was, he didn’t have any enthusiasm for anything these days. He had more money than he needed, and his writing was too demanding in his present state.

  He sighed, raising his glass to his lips and draining it in one gulp. Whisky, he thought. The total panacea. But unfortunately even that was losing its potency. In the last few days, he’d found nothing would dull the pain. Perhaps he should have taken his father’s advice and gone to see her. But after what had happened—and the fact that she hadn’t answered his letters—he’d chickened out.

  All the same, he’d have thought the old man would have had a result by now. All he’d had to do was ring the Sheridans and get Helen’s address from them. They couldn’t know what Matthew had written in those letters. But they must have had an address to forward them or they’d have sent them back.

  But yesterday afternoon, when he’d phoned the hotel where his father was staying, Ben had been decidedly vague. He’d spoken to the Sheridans, he’d said, and yes, he had Helen’s address. But she was staying somewhere out in the suburbs, and he hadn’t had the energy to see her yet.

  Naturally, Matthew had been concerned, but when-seizing the opportunity—he’d offered to fly over and join him, Ben had insisted that he stay where he was. He’d be all right, he said. He was only tired. But Matthew intended to ring again today, and if he was still feeling under the weather…

  He looked down at his empty glass, and then turned back to where he had left the decanter. But although he removed the stopper he didn’t pour any. Until Ben had spoken to Helen nothing was going to do any good.

  The phone rang just then, and he practically lunged across the room to answer it before Vittorio could beat him to it. But then he remembered. He’d given Vittorio the afternoon off. His new assistant was a young Barbadian, and he lived in Bridgetown with his wife.

  ‘Dad?’ he exclaimed into the receiver, and then suppressed a savage curse when he heard his publisher’s voice. ‘Oh, hi, Marilyn. Yeah, I know, I did promise. But I did have a concussion, I told you that.’

  Marilyn wasn’t appeased. And Matthew guessed he couldn’t blame her. The book was now three months overdue, and he was slacking. OK, he’
d had his problems, but he was supposed to be a professional, for God’s sake.

  ‘Three weeks,’ he said at last, having driven her up from the ten days she’d first suggested. ‘Yeah, I’ll deliver it myself. You have my word. I know, I’ve said that before, but this time I mean it. Just give me a few more days to get my head together.’

  ‘It looks all right to me,’ said a soft voice behind him, and Matthew swung round so sharply that the base of the phone went crashing to the floor.

  He could hardly believe it: Helen was standing just inside the door. Then, as Marilyn protested, ‘God—what? Oh, I’m sorry. I dropped the phone.’

  She looked so good, he thought incredulously, hardly aware of what Marilyn said after that. A sleeveless green tunic, slit to the waist, over clinging white ankle-length leggings, gave her a sinuous, sensuous beauty. And her hair was loose for once, drawn back loosely at her nape with a white ribbon.

  ‘Dammit, Matt, are you listening to me?’

  Dragging his eyes from Helen’s increasingly nervous gaze, Matthew knew he had to get rid of Marilyn without delay. Why Helen was here, what the old man had told her, were questions he needed answering. There was nothing more important. Whatever his publisher might think.

  ‘Look, I’ve got to go,’ he said, as Helen smoothed her palms against the panels of the door behind her. ‘Um—something’s come up. I can’t talk now. Leave it with me, and I’ll get back to you. Just don’t hold your breath, eh, Marilyn? There are more important things in life.’

  He saw the way Helen’s expression changed when he mentioned the other woman’s name and, drawing courage from that revelation, he said huskily, ‘My publisher,’ as he put down the phone. He swallowed. ‘She’s on my back because I haven’t been doing any writing.’ He shrugged. ‘I guess I’ve had other things on my mind in recent weeks.’

  ‘Like a concussion?’ Helen suggested, proving his father had been talking, and Matthew felt a momentary anger towards the old man.

  ‘It wasn’t serious,’ he said, with a taut grimace. ‘I guess my skull’s too thick to do it any real harm.’

  ‘All head injuries are serious,’ she retorted swiftly, and then, with a nervous twitch of her spine, ‘I’m sorry. That is, I had no idea Lucas felt that way about me. I didn’t give him any encouragement. I’m not like—like Fleur, whatever you think.’

  Matthew conceded the point, suddenly aware that he hadn’t shaved that morning, and that there was an unbecoming shadow of stubble on his jaw. The dining-room wasn’t the place he’d have chosen to have this discussion either. But it was too hot outside, and he was loath to remind her of the last time she was here.

  ‘Well, it’s over now,’ he said at last, when it became apparent that she had nothing more to say. ‘Luke’s gone back to working in television. I got a request for a reference from a news station in New York.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Helen nodded, and, realising he couldn’t restrain himself any longer, Matthew decided to confront his fears right off. ‘Yes,’ he said, massaging the tense muscles at the back of his neck with unsteady fingers. ‘Was—was that the only reason you came?’

  Helen straightened then. ‘Not exactly,’ she replied, and Matthew felt a tightening in his loins. ‘I came to—to tell you I—didn’t get your letters. Your father said you’d written to me, but I didn’t know.’

  Matthew blinked. ‘Son of a—’ He broke off abruptly, and stared at her with uncomprehending eyes. ‘But the Sheridans knew where you were living, didn’t they?’ He shook his head. ‘They must have. How else did the old man get your address?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Helen moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue, and Matthew wondered if she had any idea how much he longed to feel that tongue in his mouth. ‘Tricia had my address, and she wrote and told me that your father wanted me to contact him. But—’ she coloured ‘—I thought it could only be because—because of what had happened. And, well—I didn’t want to go through all that again.’

  Matthew stared at her. ‘Let me get this straight. You didn’t get my letters, but you did get the message from my father?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So what happened?’ He scowled. ‘If Sheridan held them back, I’ll—’

  ‘He didn’t.’ Helen hesitated. ‘At least, your father and I don’t think so. Mr Aitken said you probably gave them to Lucas to post, and—well, maybe—maybe he didn’t.’

  Matthew swore. ‘So—when my father came to see you—I’m assuming he did come to see you—yesterday?’

  ‘The day before.’

  ‘Until then, you thought I still believed what Fleur had said?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Dear God!’ He raked back his hair with an aggressive hand. ‘And here was I, thinking you still hated my guts for what I’d done.’

  Helen lifted her slim shoulders. ‘I—never—hated your guts,’ she told him softly, and Matthew felt some of the misery he’d been carrying around since she left lift from his shoulders. ‘What happened—happened because I wanted it,’ she went on carefully. She took a breath. ‘Your father said you were worried about me. Does that mean you’ve forgiven me for who I am?’

  ‘There was nothing to forgive,’ said Matthew gruffly. He’d waited so long—without any hope of redemption—to hear her say those words, and even now he could scarcely believe she was here. ‘I had no right to accuse you. My God, you’re not your mother’s keeper. And you were the best thing that had ever happened to me, besides.’

  ‘Was I?’ she asked faintly, and he uttered a sigh.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘but I guess that’s why I found it so easy to believe the worst. What Fleur said-—God! It made a horrible kind of sense. And after what Chase had done to your father…’ He shook his head.

  ‘Oh, Matt!’

  ‘I know, I know.’ He gripped the back of his neck with painful fingers. ‘But I’d never felt that way before, and I was hooked. Fleur and me—well, let’s say she has reason to resent me.’ He grimaced. ‘I was one of her— disappointments, and she doesn’t forget.’

  Helen hesitated. ‘I know.’ Then, at his look of surprise, she added ruefully, ‘Your father told me. He’s worried about you, too, but I expect you know.’ She shook her head. ‘There’s a lot of things I don’t know about my mother. But I don’t think I blame Chase any more for what happened to my father.’

  Matthew’s eyes narrowed. ‘And me?’ he said. ‘What about me? Can you ever forgive me for treating you as I did? I should never have let you leave the island. I should have trusted you. You’re nothing like Fleur, and I was a fool to let you go.’

  Helen swallowed. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It does, too.’ He took a step towards her and, stretching out one hand, he brushed the back of his knuckles against her cheek. ‘Are you going to stay? Are you going to let me make it up to you? I never thought I’d be grateful to the Sheridans for anything, but I’m really glad they fired you right now.’

  Helen stiffened. ‘You don’t have to feel responsible for me.’

  ‘But I do.’

  ‘No.’ She dashed her hand across her cheek, as if to remove the imprint of his fingers. ‘You don’t understand. I didn’t come here because I want you to—to help me. I’ve saved some money, and I’m taking a secretarial course so that I can get a decent job.’

  Matthew closed his eyes for a moment. ‘But I thought—’

  ‘What did you think?’ she demanded, suddenly distraught. ‘That as soon as your father contacted me, I saw a meal-ticket for life?’ She caught her breath. ‘I’m not like that. I don’t need your money. I’ve seen what money can do, and I’m not impressed.’

  Matthew took another step towards her. ‘And me?’ he said. ‘What about me? What if I need you? Doesn’t that count?’

  Helen shook her head. ‘You don’t need me.’ She spread her hands. ‘You don’t need anyone. Besides, there are any number of beautiful women more than eager to do anything you say. I was just—
a novelty. A silly virgin. But that doesn’t mean you have to look after me for the rest of my life.’

  Matthew drew a steadying breath. ‘And what if I want to?’ he asked. ‘What if I tell you that’s why I thought you’d come here? Because I thought you shared the way I feel? My father told you so much about me. Didn’t he tell you I was crazy about you, too?’

  He saw the tremulous hope dawning in her face and, taking advantage of her momentary uncertainty, he grasped her wrists and pulled her towards him.

  ‘Didn’t he tell you I love you?’ he demanded, taking her arms behind his back and staring down into eyes grown misty with longing. ‘I do, you know. That’s why I was such a fool. I was afraid…’

  ‘Afraid?’ she whispered, and, realising he didn’t have to imprison her any longer, Matthew cupped her face in his hands.

  ‘Yeah, afraid,’ he breathed, bestowing a kiss at the corner of her mouth. ‘Afraid I’d made a mistake. Afraid you didn’t feel the same way.’

  Helen moved her head. ‘But you knew—’

  ‘What did I know?’ he countered, running a line of kisses along her jawline before finding her mouth again. ‘That I was the first man who’d touched you? That I’d taken advantage of your—?’

  ‘Don’t.’ She raised her hand and pressed a finger against his lips. ‘You didn’t take advantage of me. I—I wanted you just as much as you wanted me.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now?’ She looked doubtful.

  ‘How do you feel now? Are you going to put me out of my misery?’

  ‘Oh, Matt.’ He felt her hands slip beneath his shirt and spread damply against his spine. ‘If—if you want me, I—I’m here.’

  His eyes darkened. ‘For how long?’

  She coloured. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  Matthew’s thumbs brushed her lips. ‘Are we talking weeks, here, or months—or a lifetime commitment?’

  He felt her tremble. ‘As—as long as you want me, I suppose.’