Melting Ice (Roundwell Farm Trilogy)

by Rosalie Ash

  She stared down at her hands, gripped together in her lap, thinking that this intensely emotional scene she had caused seemed to be taking on unreal, dreamlike overtones. She could scarcely believe she and Matt were sitting in her old bedroom, with Grunt for company, discussing whether or not she was in love with him, and whether he found her desirable or not. Especially since the tone of voice Matt was using was more suited to a boardroom discussion on a business problem.

  She decided his determined self-control gave her a perfect escape route, and she took a deep breath.

  'Yes, I'm sorry. You're right. This must be so embarrassing for you. Shall we go?'

  She stood up, and Matt frowned, standing up too and taking hold of her arm as she would have moved away. Victoria gritted her teeth and met his eyes, finding that he was frowning down at her thoughtfully.

  'I don't find this so much embarrassing as puzzling,' he said, 'Your attitude towards me seems…' He stopped, appearing lost for a description. Victoria's cheeks were burning. There was the sensation again of being a specimen being prepared for dissection beneath a magnifying glass.

  'Seems what?' she challenged, scornfully. 'Quite grown-up? I am past the age of puberty, you know!'

  His eyes flicked down over her high, full breasts under her thin grey T-shirt, and he gave a twist of a smile.

  'Yes, I do know. But you're only eighteen. Your life is just beginning. You've got another two years at university, and then an opportunity to use your degree.'

  'Yes, I see. And I should try to avoid infatuations with completely unsuitable men. Correct?'

  'More or less.' There was a gleam of amusement in his eyes now. 'You're very direct, Victoria. Are you always like this?'

  She was shivering, perhaps an after-effect of the strong emotions she had experienced in Matt's arms, and pointedly she lifted her arm out of his grip and took a step away from him.

  'Like what? Honest? I find it hard to be devious, if that's what you mean,' she said lightly. 'Life's too short to pretend.'

  'That's very philosophical. But you talk as if you've hardly any life left to live.'

  'Well, I'm not wasting away from consumption or anything, like La Dame aux Camellias,' she countered coolly.

  'Then stop wearing your heart on your sleeve,' Matt advised with a cold smile. 'It makes you vulnerable, Victoria. Sometimes it's not a bad thing to be devious.'

  'Spoken by an expert, I suppose,' she snapped, finding she had taken enough ego-battering, and started towards the door. 'Now that I've been lectured, do you mind if we go?'

  He followed her silently down the stairs and out into the dazzling sunshine.

  Bill, her father's foreman, was hosing down the milking-shed floor, and waved to her as she stood uncertainly in the yard. She waved back, realising that she was still clutching Matt's immaculate white handkerchief, now spotted with her blood. She pressed it to her lip again, and checked the white linen. At least her lip had stopped bleeding, she registered, stuffing the handkerchief into her pocket, and walking down towards the gate into the field, her head held high.

  Their walk back through the fields was strained and silent. Matt took two brief calls on his mobile, then eventually flicked a sideways glance at her, and said,

  'I thought you said you never sulk.'

  Somewhere deep inside, a small part of her thawed just a little. She managed to smile back at him warily.

  'True, I don't. At least, I try not to. The 'offended silence' was one of my mother's front-line weapons. I've always vowed I'd never inherit it.'

  'Then will you accept my apology?'

  'What for? Cutting my lip with all that repressed animal passion?' she asked, raising her eyes to him in wide, mock innocence. Seeing the darkening of his expression, she looked quickly away, remembering the effect of his kiss, her pulses beginning to drum. It had been like slow drowning, sucked into a lazily spinning whirlpool. 'No, I won't,' she said at last. 'I mean, I don't want an apology. The kiss was my idea, and if that's the way you usually kiss women, who am I to complain?'

  With a stifled sound, Matt's hard fingers gripped her arm again, stopping her in her stride, and twisting her round to face him.

  'Victoria, of course that's not the way I usually…'

  He halted, raking his hand through his hair, and glaring at her in obvious frustration.

  She swallowed hard, quaking under the laser-intensity of his eyes,.

  'Don't you have any idea at all how fucking seductive you are?' he snapped icily.

  He made it sound like a shameful fault she ought to rectify at once, she thought, amused in spite of her inner turmoil.

  She pretended to consider, then shook her head.

  'No. I don't think I have, really.' She dropped her eyes to his hand on her arm. 'Are you trying to stop my circulation?'

  He dropped his hand away hastily, and they both looked at the red marks growing more defined on her smooth skin. She rubbed the spot slowly, as he stared at it in fresh remorse, and then she turned and walked on.

  'Victoria…' He hesitated, and she didn't look round, keeping her eyes fixed on the path ahead, silently counting the minutes until she could be back at Jessica's house, and escape to hide her humiliation in the sanctuary of her own room.

  When she finally achieved that goal, she sank on to the window-seat, feeling strangely numb, and dazedly seeking explanations for her own behaviour and for Matt's.

  He had been angry with her for showing him how much she'd wanted him. That much she understood. She felt a rush of heat all over as she realised he probably viewed her as some kind of teenage nymphomaniac. The contempt in his eyes still haunted her, the distaste she had seen in his face when he'd crushed her against him and proceeded to kiss her so brutally, presumably to teach her a lesson. But then, for a brief few moments he had seemed to relent, and there had been a warmth, a tenderness in their physical contact before he'd pushed her away from him. She shuddered inwardly at the memory of her reactions to that short, blissful union, the tingle of heat inside her, in places she preferred not to analyse too carefully.

  Did he see her as a sex-mad Lolita trying to seduce him? Of course he did. Fucking seductive, that’s what he’d said.

  She stood up restlessly, and went into the en-suite bathroom. Running the cold tap, she splashed her face, rinsing her sore mouth carefully. Matt probably had the impression that she made a habit of throwing herself at any available male, she decided ruefully, seeing the comic side of the situation. The numerous boyfriends who had been hard pressed to obtain more than the occasional maidenly peck on the cheek would be astonished if they had witnessed her behaviour at the farm this afternoon. She wished she could account for it, herself. But she was bewildered by her instant reaction to Matt's touch. Nothing in her previous uncomplicated life seemed to have prepared her for this cauldron of emotions Matt Larson had stirred up inside her.

  She plucked a tissue from the box thoughtfully provided by Jessica, and blew her nose, eyeing her reflection in the mirror without enthusiasm. She had always thought of herself as a sensible, well-balanced sort of person. Admittedly her course tutor last term had criticised her occasional lapse into romantic fantasy in her historical essays. And Jessica sometimes teased her for being reckless, impetuous, unpredictable. But she was generally considered to have a good analytical brain, and was treated by her friends as someone who dished out sound advice and down-to-earth opinions.

  Leaning forward, she examined her mouth more closely. It had split slightly on the inside, presumably where the soft flesh of her full lower lip had been ground against her teeth. She touched the swollen spot with her tongue, then, remembering the bloodstained handkerchief, she fished it out of her pocket, rinsed it under the cold tap to loosen the stains, then rubbed white toilet soap over it and swished it around in warm water. Who normally laundered his handkerchiefs so beautifully? she wondered. Maybe he washed them himself. She smiled involuntarily at the thought. It wouldn't surprise her. She had a sudden, cle
ar mental picture of Matt, living in some austere, functional flat in the centre of London, meticulously tidy, like an officer's room in an army barracks, washing and ironing his own shirts and handkerchiefs because no one else could be trusted to achieve the requisite high standard.

  She mocked her fantasising. Her guesswork was probably wildly off the mark. He probably had a live-in lover devoted to his every need. Or maybe he sent everything to the laundry!

  In a sudden wave of depression she realised it was unlikely she would ever find out. Matt Larson was obviously an intensely private man, who swiftly erected barricades against any kind of intrusion into his personal life. After all, Jessica had known him for years, yet even she admitted she knew little about his past, his family, or his life-style.

  Fresh mortification swept over her as she recalled her behaviour at the farm, her naive confession of her feelings for him. She clenched her fists in frustration. Why had she done it? Weren't you supposed to play it cool at such times? Feign sophisticated indifference? Even resort to a spot of teasing flirtatiousness? She groaned aloud as she relived the humiliation of Matt's disapproving lecture. She should have laughed it off. Anything, in short, apart from blurting out that she’d fallen in love at first sight.

  People just didn't fall in love in the space of a single weekend. Or at least, if they did they certainly didn't admit it, when the object of their affections was so patently lukewarm about the whole thing.

  She glared censoriously at her reflection in the mirror, despairing of the open, childish features. How did you succeed in hiding your feelings with a face that mirrored every thought?

  Wide-apart brown eyes, flecked with specks the colour of toffee, gazed back at her unrepentantly, and she compressed the wide, too wide mouth, full-lipped and with its aggravating gap at the centre, where her lips formed a permanent tiny 'O' of surprise. She did look ridiculously young. She had an unlined, unlived-in sort of face, no imprint of experience or character on it. A blank page.

  In the absence of a mask to hide behind, it was going to be extremely difficult to get through the rest of this weekend in the sardonic presence of Matt Larson, she decided miserably.

  Her worst fears were confirmed as soon as she went back downstairs. Andrew had rung to say he would be delayed at the office until around five, although by way of a peace offering he had apparently booked four seats for the Royal Shakespeare Theatre that evening, and Jessica insisted that Matt take Victoria for lunch at the Golden Lion, claiming far too much to do in the house to be able to join them.

  Victoria was appalled at the prospect of lunching alone with Matt, but she could hardly refuse, and with a sinking heart she prepared for the worst.

  Chapter Seven

  The Golden Lion was the most popular pub in the village. Stone-built in the sixteenth century, like most of Harbridge, with lots of uneven floors, open fires and black oak beams, it had recently been transformed from a very ordinary, tobacco-stained public house popular with all the local farmworkers for a quick pie and a pint, into a gastro pub, with lots of stripped wood and trailing foliage, and a coveted mention in this year's Egon Ronay's pub-food guide.

  The September sun was still shining, so they chose a table in the newly tacked-on conservatory, filled with old pine and jungle greenery. There was a view of undulating farmland, most of it her father’s, bathed in hazy autumn mist.

  She eyed Matt across the table, tense and apprehensive, expecting an uncomfortable meal from his aloof expression. But Matt could clearly rise to the occasion when absolutely necessary. He surprised her by being polite and attentive, skilfully steering the conversation over a wide variety of neutral topics which she found herself discussing with growing relaxation.

  It wasn't until they had almost finished eating that she realised the trap she'd fallen into. Her tension had been translated into nervous chattering. She gone on and on about her likes and dislikes, with much emphatic gesticulation, among them Beethoven's piano concertos, folk festivals, Italian food, gymnastics, swimming and dancing, and Matt had paid her the flattering compliment of listening without actually giving away any of his own preferences.

  As the waiter removed their plates she stopped abruptly, and stared at Matt with guilty annoyance.

  'Sorry, I've been talking too much. One of my worst faults!'

  'I wouldn’t say that,' murmured Matt, his eyes amused. 'I find your vivacity quite entertaining!'

  This remark struck her as so patronising that she could think of nothing to say. She kept quiet, twiddling with the stem of her wine-glass, aware of the growing anger inside, positively clamouring for revenge.

  She eyed his glass of mineral water, and recalled his choice of something from the vegetarian menu called 'Black-eyed beans au gratin' in preference to her own meaty lasagna dish. Sipping her red wine, she cupped her chin in her hands and fixed him with a slow, puzzled smile.

  'You don't give much away, do you? Are you a worrier, Matt?'

  He sat very still, his eyes half closed as he returned her stare of wide-eyed sympathy. With a twist of discomfort she remembered Jessica's comment about men with heavy-lidded eyes, and thought crossly that in Matt's case, at least, that lazy stare had nothing to do with sexual invitation. He had made it clear earlier on that he wouldn't dream of inviting her to bed with him, not even if she was clad in black lace and clenching a red rose between her teeth.

  'Maybe you'd like to be more specific.' There was a warning note in his voice, but she waved her hand airily at his mineral water, undaunted.

  'I mean, you worry about what you eat and drink. Is that because of how it might affect your health?'

  'To a certain extent, maybe that’s true.'

  She giggled. 'Oh, dear! You do sound a bit uptight, you know!'

  'Really?' His tone was like ice cracking underfoot.

  'I'll bet you swallow handfuls of vitamins every morning, as well, don't you? And go jogging? Or no, wait a minute, let me think, you work out five times a week with weights.'

  'I go speed-skiing in the Italian Alps as well,' Matt put in smoothly, with a sudden, tight-lipped smile. 'And your mockery of thirtyish keep-fit fanatics betrays your lack of maturity, Victoria.'

  She lowered her lids under the scorching sarcasm in his eyes, and spread her fingers in mock surrender.

  'Oh, I'm sorry, I've offended you,' she apologised, smiling at him insincerely. 'Only I find your rigid self-control fascinating. Do you have an ulcer or something?'

  'No, I don't have an ulcer.'

  The urge to torment some raw response out of him wouldn't go away. She poured herself another glass of wine from the half-carafe on the table, and a demon of mischief goaded her into asking for the rich-sounding chocolate truffle gateau rolled in marzipan and with lashings of double cream, as Matt asked for Stilton and a glass of port.

  'Port?' she queried, affecting genuine surprise.

  'I do occasionally drink alcohol,'Matt replied blandly, clearly refusing to be drawn any further. 'I merely don't abuse it.'

  'Implying that I do?' she couldn't help asking. Matt smiled infuriatingly.

  'Implying that the more criticism you dish out, the more others are entitled to retaliate.'

  'I can see you don't like criticism. Am I right?' she said sorrowfully, shaking her head at him. 'You really have a monstrous ego. None of us is perfect, you know. We should all be able to discuss our faults without getting angry, or feeling a need to retaliate.'

  She had gone too far. She saw the steely flash in his eyes and began to quake at the anger she was sure she must have provoked, but then he startled her by bursting out laughing.

  She stared at him helplessly, all thoughts of teasing and goading gone. His laughter created havoc with her senses. Her pleasure felt so great it was almost like a pain.

  'I would hope to take criticism constructively,' he countered, his voice cool despite his laughter, 'Provided I thought the person giving it was qualified to do so.'

  'Now you're being pompou
s,' she flashed back glibly.

  'You're incredible,' said Matt shortly. 'Didn't your father ever put you over his knee and give you a good spanking?'

  She sat up straight, colour tingeing her cheeks as the waiter placed her gateau before her with a flourish.

  'No, he didn't,' she said tautly, taking a mouthful of the rich concoction and wishing she hadn't ordered it. After a few moments, she admitted defeat, and pushed the dish away, flicking a glance of cautious apology at Matt. 'We must be quits by now, surely?'

  'Maybe.' There was a touch more warmth in the silver eyes, and she swallowed, staring out of the window at the misty sunshine for a while, with the feeling that some invisible barrier might have been crossed, albeit temporarily. She fiddled with the spoon in her dish, twirling it around in the cream until she remembered her mother's instructions never to play around with your food, and quickly pushed the dish away again. She looked up at Matt to find his eyes on her with an unnerving intensity.