Give in to…

Passion & Pleasure

Three heart-stopping, dramatic romances from three beloved Mills & Boon authors!

Passion & Pleasure
SAVAGE AWAKENING
BY
ANNE MATHER

FOR PLEASURE…OR MARRIAGE?
BY
JULIA JAMES

TAKEN FOR HIS PLEASURE
BY
CAROL MARINELLI

www.millsandboon.co.uk

SAVAGE AWAKENING

Born and raised in the north of England, Anne Mather still makes her home there with her husband, two children and now grandchildren. Asked if she finds writing a lonely occupation, she replies that her characters always keep her company. In fact, she is so busy sorting out their lives that she often doesn’t have time for her own! An avid reader herself, she devours everything from sagas and romances to mainstream fiction and suspense. Anne has also written a number of mainstream novels, including Dangerous Temptation, published by MIRA Books.

Don’t miss Anne Mather’s exciting new novel, His Forbidden Passion, available December 2009 from Mills & Boon® Modern.

Chapter One

IT WAS the chimes of the church clock that woke him.

Ironically enough, he’d grown used to sleeping through the wailing call of the muezzin. Four years in North Africa, the last eighteen months in an Abuqaran jail, had made such sounds familiar to him. That, and the staccato shots that erupted from time to time across the prison yard.

Not that he’d slept well, of course. A thin blanket thrown on a concrete floor was hardly conducive to a sound—let alone a comfortable—slumber. But it was amazing what the body could get used to, how little sustenance it needed to survive.

Still, he had survived, and after six months back in England he should have become accustomed to the ordinary sounds of civilised living again.

But he hadn’t. He was still coming to terms with the fact that he was not the man he used to be and whether or not he slept well—or at all—was a small problem in the larger scheme of things.

Not liking the direction his thoughts were taking, he thrust back the covers and swung his legs out of bed. At least sitting up no longer caused the sickening feeling of dizziness he’d suffered during his first few weeks of freedom. And his limbs, which had been almost skeletal when he returned, were gradually filling out, his muscles strengthening with the regular workouts he subjected himself to every day. The doctors had warned him not to try and do too much, but there’d been no way he could control the desire to regain his health and strength, and moving at a steady pace had never been good enough for him.

Consequently, although his psychological problems showed little sign of improvement, physically he felt much better than he had even a month ago.

Which was such a sucker, he chided himself grimly, pressing down on the mattress and getting a little unsteadily to his feet. Sometimes he had the feeling he’d never make it, never recover even the belief in himself he’d once enjoyed. Perhaps it would be kinder all round if other people realised it, too.

Nevertheless, he’d had to give it a try. And, to that end, he’d bought this house in a village far enough from London and the life he and Diane had had there before he’d been sent to Abuqara to cover the civil war.

Diane didn’t approve of his decision. Mallon’s End was the village where she’d grown up and where her parents still lived. She thought he was crazy wanting to leave the exciting opportunities London presented behind. He’d already been offered his old job with a commercial television station back again and she couldn’t understand why he’d turned it down. He didn’t honestly know himself. But, thanks to the legacy his grandmother had left him, money wasn’t a problem, and there was always that offer of a book deal if he should choose to write about his experiences as a prisoner of the rebel forces in Abuqara.

He crossed the floor to the windows, shivering a little in the cooler air. The polished boards beneath his feet were cold, too, but he didn’t notice them. He was used to going barefoot. The first thing his captors had done was take his shoes away from him. And although initially his feet had blistered and been agony to walk on, gradually they’d hardened up.

All the same, he was used to temperatures that usually hovered near forty degrees Celsius in daylight hours, and although England was supposed to be enjoying a heatwave at the moment, he hadn’t noticed.

Pulling the curtain aside, he peered out. Outside the long windows, the gardens of the house stretched in all directions, lush with colour. To someone used to bare walls or stark packed-earth streets stripped of any sign of civilisation, it was an amazing view. Even the months he’d spent since his return in his comfortable apartment in Belsize Park hadn’t prepared him for so much beauty. This was what he needed, he told himself, what he’d dreamed of while he was in prison. It was a humanising experience.

Beyond the grounds of the house, the churchyard offered its own kind of absolution. He could see cottages through the swaying branches of the elms and yews that guarded the lychgate, and an occasional car passing the bottom of his drive on its way into the village proper.

It was all so—yes, that word again—civilised. But he was still isolated from the people and places that had once been so familiar to him. It was strange but while he was a prisoner, he’d longed for company, for someone who spoke his own language.

He’d had some conversations with the captain of the rebel forces. Fortunately, he’d known a little of his language, and the man had been surprisingly intelligent and well read.

Yet now he was home, he found himself shunning company, avoiding conversation. He was a mess, he thought ruefully. Diane was right. He wouldn’t blame her if she got sick of trying to get through to him.

Even so, he thought as he moved away from the windows, given the hassle of the last few months, surely he had a right to some peace, some tranquillity. God knew he hadn’t been prepared for the amount of interest his return had engendered, but what with interviews, phone-ins, online question-and-answer sessions, he’d begun to feel persecuted all over again. He’d wanted out, not just out of London, but out of that way of life. His old way of life, he acknowledged. And if that meant he was cuckoo, then so be it.

A shower removed a few more of the cobwebs that were clouding his system, and after towelling himself dry, he dressed in drawstring sweat pants and a black cotton T-shirt. He pulled a rueful face at his roughening jawline and decided he liked not having to use a hair-dryer. In North Africa his head had been shaved, and since his return he’d kept his hair barely long enough to cover his scalp. Diane said it suited him, but then, she’d say anything to boost his self-esteem. She was worried about him, worried about their relationship. And he couldn’t say he blamed her.

The house felt chilly as he went downstairs. It was barely seven o’clock, after all, and until he’d worked out how the central heating operated, he’d have to live with it.

But at least the place had central heating, he mused gratefully. These old houses often didn’t, but the previous owner had apparently demanded that comfort and he was glad.

Nevertheless, he would have to see about getting some decorating done. The heavy flock wallpaper on the stairs and the crimson damask in the main reception room would definitely have to go, and he needed a lot more furniture than the bed and the couple of armchairs he’d brought with him. The rest of his furniture was still in his London apartment and, until he’d definitely decided he was going to stay here, it would be staying there.

But this place was big enough for several living and bedroom suites and he couldn’t exist with what he had. He would have to visit a saleroom; an auction saleroom, perhaps. These rooms would not take kindly to modern furniture.

Thankfully, the kitchen faced east and already it was warm and bathed in sunlight. Like the rest of the house, it could do with some updating, but he decided he rather liked the rich mahogany units and the dark green porcelain of the Aga.

However, the Aga presented another problem and, rather than try to figure it out this morning, he started a pot of coffee filtering through the strong Brazilian grains he preferred and turned with some relief to the gas hob.

Pretty soon, the kitchen was filled with the appetising scents of hot coffee and frying bacon and he was glad his mother had suggested taking a box of groceries with him. Left to himself, he would probably have had to go out for breakfast and that was definitely not part of his plan.

The kitchen windows overlooked the gardens at the back of the property and he stood staring out at an overgrown vegetable plot as he drank his first cup of coffee of the day. There was such a lot to do, he reflected with a twinge of apprehension. Had he bitten off more than he could chew?

But, no. The whole idea was that he should be able to fill his days to the exclusion of all else. He didn’t want time to relax, time to think. Until he’d figured out whether he was ever going to feel normal again, simple manual labour was what he needed.

The sound of footsteps clattering across the paved patio outside brought his brows together in a frown. Dammit, he thought. No one was supposed to know he was here yet. He’d deliberately stowed the four-by-four in the garage to disguise his presence. Who the hell had discovered he’d moved in?

He moved closer to the windows and looked out. He couldn’t see anyone and that bothered him, too. He had heard the footsteps, hadn’t he? He couldn’t be starting having hallucinations. God, that would be the last straw!

He drew back, setting his coffee down on the pine-blocked table behind him. But as he moved to check on the bacon, he heard the footsteps again and a sick feeling of apprehension invaded his stomach.

There was no one there. He would have seen a shadow cross the window if anyone had really walked past. Which meant? Which meant what?

Swearing, he moved to the door and, flicking the lock, he yanked it open, all in one fluid motion. And disturbed a young girl who was squatting down beside what looked like a rabbit hutch, feeding dandelion leaves into the cage.

He must have frightened her, he thought, his own feelings of relief flooding his system with adrenalin. But it was good to know he wasn’t losing his mind as well as his—

He severed that thought and forced a rueful smile to his lips as the girl got hurriedly to her feet. Sufficient unto the day, he quoted grimly. He was alive, wasn’t he? And sane? Which was definitely a bonus.

‘Who are you?’

The words caught him unawares. That was his question, he thought, half resenting her presence of mind. She was looking at him as if he was the intruder, and he gave a rueful shake of his head.

‘My name’s Quinn,’ he said, humouring her. ‘Who are you?’

‘Um—Nancy,’ she answered, after a moment. ‘Nancy—Drew.’ And then, before he could comment on her name, a frown creased her childish features. ‘Do you live here?’

‘I do now,’ said Quinn drily. ‘Is that a problem?’

Nancy shrugged. ‘No,’ she conceded, but she sounded less sure of herself now. ‘That is—you don’t have a dog, do you?’

Quinn grinned. He couldn’t help himself. ‘Not at present,’ he replied, considering it. ‘Do you like dogs?’

‘I do.’ Nancy sounded doubtful none the less. ‘Grandad has a dog. A retriever. But he’s very naughty.’

‘Who, your grandad?’

Quinn couldn’t help himself and Nancy gave him a reproving look. ‘No!’ she exclaimed impatiently. ‘Harvey. He used to chase Buttons all around the garden. He was terrified!’

‘Harvey?’ asked Quinn innocently and Nancy’s face took on a suspicious stare.

‘Buttons,’ she corrected him. ‘You’re teasing me, aren’t you?’

Quinn sighed. ‘Just a little.’ He paused. ‘Who’s Buttons?’

‘My rabbit,’ said Nancy, squatting down again and pointing to what Quinn now saw was a cage, as he’d thought. ‘Mummy said I ought to find another home for him. So I did.’

Quinn suspected her mother had not meant in someone else’s garden, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he hunkered down beside her and saw the white nose of what appeared to be quite a large rabbit nuzzling at the wires of its cage.

‘This is Buttons,’ went on Nancy, performing the introduction. ‘Isn’t he sweet?’

‘I guess.’ Quinn knew nothing about rabbits so his opinion was limited. ‘But isn’t his cage rather small?’

‘Mmm,’ Nancy agreed. ‘That’s why I used to let him out. But as I said—’

‘Harvey chased him,’ Quinn finished for her and Nancy nodded.

‘He doesn’t realise that Buttons is frightened of him.’

‘Well, dogs chase rabbits,’ said Quinn matter-of-factly. ‘It’s what they do.’

‘So—can he stay here?’ asked Nancy quickly, and Quinn got abruptly to his feet.

‘I—maybe,’ he said slowly. ‘If your mother approves.’

‘Oh, she doesn’t know,’ said Nancy airily, standing up, too. Then, more anxiously, ‘You won’t tell her, will you?’

Fliss had opened her mouth to shout Amy’s name again when she saw her. The door to the Old Coaching House was open and a man was standing on the threshold talking to her daughter.

A relieved breath escaped her. She hadn’t really been worried, she assured herself, but you heard such awful stories these days about children being abducted and Amy was only nine years old.

Nevertheless, she didn’t approve of her coming here without permission, even if Amy was naturally familiar with the place. She’d accompanied her mother often enough during school holidays and the like and she knew the grounds almost as well as her own garden.

But that didn’t alter the fact that things had changed now. Old Colonel Phillips was dead and, although she hadn’t heard about it, the Old Coaching House had apparently been sold. To someone Amy didn’t know, Fliss reminded herself, quickening her step. How many times had she warned her daughter not to talk to strange men?

The man became aware of her presence before her daughter did. His head turned and she got a swift impression of a hard, uncompromising face with dark, deeply tanned features. He was tall, that much was obvious, but there didn’t appear to be an ounce of spare flesh on his leanly muscled frame.

He looked—dangerous, she thought fancifully, not liking the conclusion at all. He looked nothing like the people who usually retired to Mallon’s End, and she wondered why someone like him would choose to buy a house in such a quiet, unexciting place.

She got the distinct impression that he would have preferred to cut short his conversation with Amy and close the door before she reached them. But something, an unwilling acceptance of his responsibilities—or common decency, perhaps—persuaded him to at least acknowledge her before he made his escape.

For her part, Fliss was more curious than anything else. As she got nearer, she could see that he was younger than she’d imagined; possibly late thirties, she guessed, with very short dark hair that added to his harsh appearance.

But for someone who looked so menacing, he was absurdly attractive. Goodness! Fliss swallowed a little nervously, feeling butterflies fluttering in her stomach. Who on earth was he?

‘I—I’m sorry,’ she began, deciding an apology was in order. ‘If my daughter’s been troubling you—’

‘She hasn’t,’ he said, his voice low and a little hoarse, and Fliss saw the way Amy’s shoulders hunched in the way she had when her mother embarrassed her.

‘Oh, Mum!’ She grimaced, casting an impatient look in Fliss’s direction. ‘I’m not a baby, you know.’

Fliss reserved judgement on that one. In her opinion Amy was still young enough to warrant the anxiety she had felt at her disappearance.

‘I’ve been looking for you,’ she said, deciding any chastisement could wait until later. ‘Didn’t you hear me calling you?’

Amy shrugged now. ‘I might have done,’ she said airily, but Fliss wondered if it was only her imagination that made her think her daughter was looking slightly uneasy now. What had been going on, for heaven’s sake? What had this man been saying to her?

‘Well, why didn’t you answer, then?’ she demanded, before allowing their audience a slight smile. ‘I was worried.’

‘I’m sure Nancy didn’t mean to cause you any unnecessary distress, Mrs Drew,’ the man broke in abruptly, and if Fliss hadn’t been so shocked by the name he’d used, she’d have realised there was an increasing weariness in his harsh tone. ‘No harm done.’

‘You think not?’ Fliss couldn’t let it go. She looked down at her daughter. ‘Amy? Did you tell this—gentleman—that your name is Nancy Drew?’

Amy flushed now. ‘What if I did?’

Fliss shook her head. ‘I don’t believe it.’

The man breathed heavily. ‘I gather that’s not her name?’

‘No.’ Fliss tried to control her temper. It wasn’t his fault, after all. ‘It’s Amy. Amy Taylor. Nancy Drew is just—’

‘Yeah, I know who Nancy Drew is.’ He interrupted her drily. ‘Way to go, Nancy. Solved any exciting cases lately?’

Amy pursed her lips, but she reserved her anger for her mother. ‘Now see what you’ve done!’ she exclaimed. ‘You’ve made me look silly in front of Quinn!’

‘Quinn?’

Fliss’s eyes moved to the man again and glimpsed the spasm of resignation that crossed his face. ‘Matthew Quinn,’ he agreed flatly. ‘I’ve bought this place.’

‘Oh.’ Fliss wondered why he seemed so reluctant to tell her that. ‘Oh, well—good,’ she murmured. ‘I hope you and your—er—family will be very happy here.’

‘I don’t have a family,’ he replied in that harsh, abrasive voice that Fliss found as sexy as his appearance. ‘But thanks.’

‘You’re welcome.’

Fliss managed a polite smile and then caught her lower lip between her teeth. Would this be a good time to explain why Amy felt she had a right to enter his garden at will? Maybe he would need a housekeeper, too. If he didn’t have a wife…

‘Come on, Mum.’ Amy caught her arm now and attempted to pull her away. ‘It’s nearly time for school.’

‘Is it?’

Fliss’s brows narrowed. Since when had Amy been so eager to go to school? Her suspicions resurfaced. What had she been doing? What had this man been saying to her that she didn’t want her mother to know about?

Her eyes returned to his dark face, but when he met her gaze with a cool appraisal she was forced to look away. Her gaze dropped down over his tight-fitting T-shirt, over drawstring sweat pants that couldn’t hide the impressive bulge of his sex, the powerful length of his legs. And bare feet. Her skin prickled. He must have just got out of bed.

Had Amy awakened him?

And then she saw the box-like structure that was wedged beside the doorstep and comprehension dawned. The compulsive—if unwilling—awareness his hard male beauty had had on her disappeared beneath a sudden wave of frustration.

Grasping Amy’s arm before she could get away from her, she pointed to the offending item. ‘What is Buttons’s hutch doing here?’ she demanded shortly. ‘Is he inside?’ She dipped her head. ‘Yes, I can see he is. Come on, Amy. What is he doing here?’

Amy’s shoulders drooped and Fliss wasn’t at all surprised when her eyes moved appealingly to Matthew Quinn. Of course, she thought irritably. He must have known about this. That was what he and Amy had been talking about when she’d interrupted them. And he hadn’t said a word, even though he must have realised that she hadn’t been aware of what was going on.

She turned on him then, prepared to voice her indignation—however unjustified that indignation might be—and found him leaning tiredly against the frame of the door. His face was drawn now and scored with a haunting weariness she was sure wasn’t just the result of lack of sleep.

Immediately, all thought of reprimanding him fled. The man looked ill, for goodness’ sake. And exhausted. Or utterly bored by their exchange.

‘Um—are you all right?’ she ventured, and at her words he seemed to make a conscious effort to recover himself.

‘A little fatigued is all,’ he assured her firmly, but he backed into the kitchen as he spoke and now she could smell the acrid aroma of charred bacon. He glanced behind him, evidently noticing the same problem, and, forestalling any offer she might have made, he added, ‘Can we continue this at some other time, Mrs Taylor? I’m afraid my breakfast is burning.’

Chapter Two

FLISS endeavoured not to think about Matthew Quinn again until she’d taken her daughter to school.

Instead, she’d concentrated on Amy’s behaviour, on how disappointed she was that the little girl had lied to her. When, faced with the prospect of Buttons being sent to the local animal shelter for his own safety, Amy had come up with a solution of her own, her mother had been relieved. A friend at school had offered the rabbit a home, she’d said, and Fliss had allowed her to take Buttons away on her grandfather’s wheelbarrow, never dreaming that Amy had had no intention of giving the rabbit to anyone.

Now, however, her deception had been discovered, and in the most embarrassing way possible. Matthew Quinn either considered Fliss was an unfit mother—a label that had been slung at her more times than she cared to remember since, at the age of sixteen, she’d discovered she was pregnant—or an unfeeling one, which was probably worse.

Amy, attempting to justify her actions, had assured her mother that ‘Quinn’ hadn’t minded the fact that he had had an unwanted squatter on his land, but Fliss believed she knew better. From what she’d seen of him, she thought Matthew Quinn was not a well man, and he’d probably only been humouring the child to avoid further argument.

Whatever, Fliss was faced with the not-very-pleasant task of returning to the big house to collect the rabbit and make her apologies. Again. Amy wouldn’t be pleased, particularly if she was once again forced to consider the prospect of Buttons living out his days at the animal shelter, but it couldn’t be helped. Whatever Matthew Quinn had said, she doubted he would really appreciate having a furry mammal—however appealing—on his premises on a permanent basis.

And if he did have a wife…

Just because he’d said he didn’t have a family didn’t necessarily mean…

But that was one speculation too far. Fliss had no intention of making that mistake. OK, he was one of the most attractive men she’d ever seen. He was also one of the most dangerous to her peace of mind and, with or without a wife, he was way out of her league.

Her father was up by the time she got back from taking Amy to school.

Until four years ago George Taylor had run the small pharmacy in the village. But a dwindling population—due to the shortage of jobs, and many houses being bought as second homes by city-dwellers—plus the cheaper attractions of the supermarket in nearby Westerbury, had hastened his retirement. These days he supplemented their income by writing articles for the local paper, occasionally babysitting Amy when Fliss worked occasional evenings at the local pub.

Harvey, her father’s retriever, barked and jumped up at her excitedly when she let herself into the cottage, and she wished the dog would act his age. Harvey was seven years old, for heaven’s sake. Old enough to behave himself. But he still acted like a puppy and her father spoiled him outrageously.

‘Everything OK?’ he asked now as Fliss came into the kitchen, where he was enjoying his breakfast of toast and marmalade, and she dropped down into the chair opposite him and pulled a face.

‘As it will ever be, I suppose,’ she grumbled, reaching for the coffee pot and pouring herself a cup. ‘I’ve just discovered where Buttons is living.’

‘The rabbit?’ Her father put his paper aside and regarded his daughter curiously.

‘Yes, the rabbit.’ Fliss scowled.

‘Well, I thought Amy had found him a home,’ he said, puzzled. ‘Don’t tell me she’s keeping the rabbit in her room.’

‘No. Nothing like that.’ Fliss shook her head. ‘She’s been keeping it at the Old Coaching House.’

Her father started to laugh and then subdued it. ‘Well, the little monkey,’ he said instead. ‘Still, it doesn’t matter, does it? The place is empty.’

‘As a matter of fact, it’s not,’ declared Fliss, taking a sip of her coffee. ‘There’s a new tenant. Or rather, a new owner. I met him this morning.’

‘Really?’ George Taylor looked surprised. ‘They’ve kept that quiet. I didn’t even know it was on the market.’

‘Nor did I.’ Fliss looked momentarily wistful. ‘It certainly brings it home to me that Colonel Phillips is gone for good.’

‘Hmm.’ Her father nodded, and then reached across the table to pat his daughter’s hand. ‘He was very old, Fliss. What was he? Ninety-two or—three?’

‘Ninety-one,’ said Fliss firmly. ‘And I know he was old. But he was very kind to me.’

Her father sighed. ‘And you were kind to him, too. I doubt if he’d have got anyone else to do all his housework as you did.’

‘He paid me,’ Fliss protested. ‘I miss that income, I really do.’

‘Well, I can’t say I’m sorry you’re not working as a domestic any longer,’ declared her father, buttering another slice of toast. ‘You deserve better than that. I don’t know what your mother would say about you wasting your degree.’

Fliss sighed now. This was an old argument and one she didn’t particularly want to get into today. It was true, while her mother was alive, she had been able to leave Amy with her and attend the local university. But when her mother died in a car crash just a year after she’d graduated, she’d had to give up her job as a trainee physiotherapist to look after Amy herself.

There’d been no question of paying a child minder. Her father’s business had been folding and money was scarce. And, although he’d offered to babysit, he’d had enough to do coping with his own grief. Looking after a lively four-year-old would have been too much for him to manage.

Now, of course, he could have coped, but Fliss didn’t think it was fair to ask him. He’d settled happily into his retirement and he would have missed being able to go to the library when he felt like it, calling in at the pub for a drink, gossiping with his cronies.

‘Anyway, we weren’t talking about me,’ she said, taking another swallow of coffee. ‘Hmm, this is good. Why does my coffee never taste like this?’

‘Because you don’t put enough coffee in the filter,’ replied her father comfortably, slipping a crust of bread beneath the table for Harvey to take. Then, seeing his daughter’s eyes upon him, he added swiftly, ‘Anyway, maybe the new owner will want a housekeeper, too.’

Fliss knew he’d never have said that in the ordinary way. It was just to divert her from his persistent habit of feeding the dog at the table, and she pulled a wry face.

‘I don’t think so.’

He frowned now. ‘Why not?’ He paused. ‘Oh, perhaps they already have a housekeeper, hmm?’

‘Perhaps they do.’ Fliss felt curiously loath to discuss Matthew Quinn with her father. ‘In any case, I’m going to have to go over there and fetch the rabbit back.’

‘Do you want me to do it?’

It was tempting, but Fliss shook her head. She wanted—no, needed—to see Matthew Quinn again. She needed to explain why Amy had felt free to deposit the rabbit on his doorstep.

When Colonel Phillips was alive and Fliss had worked at the house three mornings a week, Amy had often accompanied her. The old man had been especially fond of the little girl and he’d encouraged Fliss to bring her along. So, whenever Amy had been away from school, for holidays and suchlike, she’d been a welcome visitor at the house.

Sometimes the colonel had played board games with her, and she’d been fascinated by his display cases filled with coins gleaned from almost a century of collecting. The house had been an Aladdin’s cave to the little girl, and she’d been encouraged to share it.

In consequence, Amy had missed him almost as much as Fliss when he’d suddenly been taken into hospital. She hadn’t understood why she couldn’t go to visit him and, although Fliss had explained the circumstances of his illness, she suspected the child still regarded the Old Coaching House as his home.

When he died the house had been inherited by a distant cousin, who had apparently lost no time in putting it on the market, Fliss thought wryly. No one in the village had known anything about it or she was sure her father would have picked up the news on the grapevine.

Now she got up from the table, carrying her empty cup across to the sink. The overgrown lawn at the back of the cottage reminded her that she had other jobs she’d promised herself she’d do today. Dammit, if only Amy had let the rabbit go to the shelter and been done with it.

‘So what’s the new owner like?’ asked her father, getting up from the table to bring his own dishes to be washed. Then he opened the door to let the dog out, stepping outside for a moment and taking a deep breath of the warm, flower-scented air. ‘Mmm, those roses have never smelt better,’ he added. ‘I don’t know why you don’t bring some of them into the house.’

Because I don’t have the time, thought Fliss grimly, fighting a brief spurt of irritation. But it would never have occurred to her father to do something like that himself. No more than it occurred to him to wash his own dishes or make his own bed in the mornings. She filled the washing-up bowl with soapy water and dropped his cup, saucer and plate into the hot suds. She sighed. She mustn’t let her annoyance over the rabbit in—fluence her attitude towards her father. He was the way he was, and there was nothing she could do about it.

But despite his admiration for the roses, he hadn’t forgotten his original question. ‘Who is he?’ he asked, coming back into the kitchen. ‘The man you spoke to at the big house? Did he tell you his name?’

Deciding there was no point in prevaricating, Fliss shrugged. ‘I think he said his name was Quinn,’ she replied carelessly. She finished drying the dishes and hung the tea towel over the rail to dry. ‘I might as well go and get Buttons now. You never know, he may have gone out. Do you think it would be all right if I took the rabbit without his say-so?’

‘Why not?’ asked her father, but he was looking pensive. ‘Quinn,’ he said ruminatively. ‘Quinn.’ He frowned. ‘Where have I heard that name before?’

‘The Mighty Quinn?’ suggested Fliss, giving her reflection a quick once-over in the mirror beside the hall door.

She looked unusually flushed, she thought ruefully, and she hadn’t even set out on her mission yet. Pale skin, that never tanned no matter how long she stayed out in the sun, had the hectic blush of colour, vying with the vivid tangle of her hair. Blue eyes—her father insisted they were violet—stared back with a mixture of excitement and apprehension, and she felt a frustrated surge of impatience. She wasn’t going on a date! She was going to rescue a rabbit, for pity’s sake.

‘I know!’ Her father’s sudden exclamation had her swinging round in surprise to find him balling a fist into his palm. ‘That name, Quinn. I knew I’d heard it recently. That’s the name of that man—that journalist—who spent about eighteen months as a prisoner of the rebels in Abuqara. You remember, don’t you? They did a documentary about it on television recently. He escaped. Yes, that’s right, he escaped. But not before he’d suffered God knows what treatment at the enemy’s hands.’

Fliss swallowed with difficulty. Her breath suddenly seemed constricted somewhere down in her throat. ‘I—don’t remember,’ she said faintly.

But she did. Now that her father had reminded her of it, she remembered the documentary very well. Not that Matthew Quinn himself had appeared in it. It had simply been an examination of the situation in Abuqara, with Matthew Quinn’s imprisonment used to illustrate the violence meted out to foreigners who got caught up in the country’s civil war.

‘Not that I’m suggesting that your Mr Quinn is the same man,’ her father was going on, unaware of his daughter’s reaction. ‘That would be a bit of a coincidence, don’t you think? What with his aversion to the media and me being a part-time hack myself.’

‘Y-e-s.’ Fliss let the word string out, not sure why she didn’t just admit what she was thinking there and then. But the memory of Matthew Quinn’s dark, haunted face was still sharply etched in her mind, and, if he was who she thought he was, she couldn’t betray him. Not even to her own father. ‘Um—I ought to get going. I’ll take the car. I can easily dump the hutch in the back.’

‘Right.’ But her father was still looking thoughtful and her nerves tightened. ‘Perhaps I ought to come with you. Introduce myself, welcome him to the village, show him we’re a friendly lot. What do you think?’

‘I—no.’ Fliss realised he might take umbrage at the sharpness of her tone and hurried to justify herself. ‘I mean—I don’t think this is a good time, Dad. What with the trouble over the rabbit and all. Let’s let the dust settle, hmm? We don’t want—the family—to think we’re pushy.’

‘Well, you could be right.’ He looked downcast. ‘It’s a pity, though. It would have been a good opportunity to get to know them.’

‘Later,’ said Fliss fervently, picking up the car keys. ‘See you soon.’

‘Wait.’ As she was about to leave, her father came after her. ‘How are you going to lift the hutch into the car? It’s heavy, you know. It was all Amy could do to push it on the wheelbarrow.’

‘I’ll manage.’ Fliss thought she’d do anything rather than have her father discover who the new occupant of the Old Coaching House was because of her. As he’d said, he took his journalism seriously, and he wouldn’t be able to resist talking about a scoop like this. ‘Bye.’

It was only a few minutes’ drive from the cottage to the Old Coaching House. Their cottage adjoined the grounds of the church on one side and the Old Coaching House adjoined them on the other.

But there the similarity ended. Cherry Tree Cottage was set in a modest garden whereas the Old Coaching House had extensive grounds, with lawns and flowerbeds and an apple orchard, as well as a tennis court at the back of the house.

As she drove, Fliss had to concede that Amy had done well to wheel the rabbit this far. Of course, when Fliss was working for Colonel Phillips, they had taken the short cut around the back of the church, but it was still some distance. She gave a rueful smile. Amy had obviously been determined to keep the pet that one of her school friends had given her.

The front of the old house was still impressive, despite its air of faded grandeur. Stone gateposts, with rusting iron gates that hung rather optimistically from them, gave access to a drive that definitely required some maintenance. Fliss’s father’s elderly hatchback bumped rather resentfully over the holes in the tarmac, and Fliss realised she would have to make sure the rabbit hutch didn’t bounce out again as she was driving home.

Tall poplars lined the drive, framing the house with greenery. The rhododendron bushes that flanked them had been a mass of colour a couple of weeks ago, but now they were shedding their brilliant petals onto the grass verge. They made Fliss feel sad. Colonel Phillips had loved those rhododendrons.

There was a car parked at the foot of the shallow steps that led up to the terrace, one of those expensive off-roaders, much favoured by people who wanted to make a statement about their financial status. It was not the sort of car Fliss would have expected Matthew Quinn to drive—if he was the Matthew Quinn her father had been talking about—but what did she know? She was a humble single mother who had to serve bar meals and clean other people’s houses just to make ends meet.

And how pathetic did that sound?

Parking the Ford beside the BMW, Fliss turned off the engine and opened her door. Sliding her legs out of the car, she wished she’d taken the time to change before coming back. Her sleeveless vest and canvas shorts were all very well for taking Amy to school, but they hardly created an impression of responsible motherhood. But then, she reflected, if she had changed, her father might have wondered why and that might have opened another can of worms.

Taking a deep breath, she rounded the car and mounted the steps to the heavy oak door. She couldn’t help noticing that no one had polished the brass work recently, or swept the terrace, and she pulled a wry face. It was true. She was developing a servant’s mentality. Go figure!

Dismissing such thoughts, she lifted the knocker and let it fall, wincing as it echoed around the building. There was no way anyone could ignore that.

There was silence for a few moments and Fliss was just considering knocking again, when she heard the sound of footsteps crossing the hall. They didn’t sound like a man’s footsteps, however, and she steeled herself for the ordeal of identifying herself to Matthew Quinn’s wife. She just hoped he’d clued her in to what had happened. She was going to feel such a fool if he hadn’t.

She straightened her spine, drawing herself up to the full five feet six inches she’d been blessed with. Squaring her shoulders, she looped back several strands of bright coppery hair behind her ears. As if that would improve her appearance, she thought wryly. She looked what she was; a slightly harassed woman in her mid-twenties, with a little too much weight both above and below her waist.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you—’ she was beginning as the door opened, and then broke off in surprise. ‘Diane,’ she exclaimed, recognising the girl she had used to go to school with. ‘Diane Chesney!’ She hesitated as the obvious thought struck her. ‘Or should I say Mrs Quinn?’

‘Diane will do,’ retorted the other woman shortly. She arched an enquiring brow. ‘Can I help you—Felicity, is it?’

Great!

Fliss blew out a breath. It was obvious that whatever the circumstances of Diane’s being here, she had no desire to rekindle old friendships. Fliss couldn’t believe she’d forgotten how much she hated her name, or that there was any doubt about her identity.

But it was also obvious that her—husband? Boyfriend? Whatever—had conveniently forgotten to mention the uninvited visitors he had had earlier.

‘Well…’ She murmured now, feeling even more inadequate in the face of Diane’s cool sophistication. ‘I’ve come to get my daughter’s rabbit.’

‘Your daughter’s rabbit!’

Clearly Diane had no idea what she was talking about. Her contemptuous tone proved it and, unwillingly, a memory surfaced of Diane using that tone to her before. It was when Fliss had first confessed to her friend that she was going to have a baby. She’d been seeking advice, understanding. But all Diane had done was urge her to have an abortion.

‘You’re too young to have a sprog!’ she’d exclaimed scornfully. ‘Do yourself a favour, Fliss. Get rid of it. I would.’

With hindsight, Fliss had to admit that Diane had had a point. She had been too young, too innocent, too infatuated with the boy who had taken advantage of her to know exactly what she wanted to do. She’d been afraid to tell her parents; scared of what they might say; desperate for a way out.

In the event, it was her mother who had come to her rescue. Lucy Taylor hadn’t thought twice. Fliss should have the baby, she’d said. She’d help her. Both her parents would help her. They’d also supported her decision to have nothing more to do with the father of the child. Terry Matheson had denied everything, of course, and thankfully he’d left the district long before Amy was born.

Nevertheless, Fliss’s pregnancy had driven a wedge between her and Diane. She’d had to postpone taking her higher-level exams for a year and, by then, Diane had moved on.

They could have resumed their friendship, of course, but Diane hadn’t been interested. She was having too good a time at university in London to care about a girl who, in her opinion, had as good as ruined her life.

By the time Diane graduated, her parents were telling everyone that she was an art expert, that she was going to be running a gallery in the smartest part of town. The fact that she rarely visited her parents was always conveniently forgotten. Diane was soooo in demand; soooo busy. They were soooo proud of her.

And now, here she was, apparently living with the man who, either with or without his consent, had become a minor celebrity in his own right.

No surprise there, then.

‘Amy’s rabbit,’ Fliss continued, trying not to let the other woman’s attitude faze her. ‘I spoke to your—er—?’

‘My fiancé?’ suggested Diane condescendingly, and Fliss nodded.

‘I guess,’ she said. She moistened her lips. ‘I gather he didn’t mention it.’

‘Why would he?’ Diane rolled her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Fliss, but Matt and I have more important things to talk about than a bloody rabbit, for God’s sake!’

So she did remember her name, thought Fliss smugly. But Diane was annoyed about something. That was obvious. And it was evidently nothing to do with her and Amy.

‘OK.’

Fliss was trying to decide how to explain the situation in the briefest terms possible when Matthew Quinn himself appeared behind Diane. He was still barefoot, Fliss noticed unwillingly, his expression only marginally less hostile than his fiancée’s.

‘What’s going on?’ he asked impatiently, and then he saw Fliss. ‘Oh—Mrs Taylor.’

Diane snorted at this and he paused a moment to give her a curious look. Then, with a shrug, he went on, ‘Did you want something else?’

Fliss’s cheeks had flushed at Diane’s scornful reaction to her name, but she refused to be daunted. ‘It’s Miss Taylor, actually,’ she said, telling herself she didn’t care what he thought of her. ‘I’ve come to collect the rabbit.’

‘Ah.’ Matthew Quinn glanced again at the woman beside him. He frowned. ‘Forgive me, but do you two know one another?’

‘We used to.’ Diane answered him before Fliss could say a word. ‘But we lost touch many years ago.’

Matthew’s only response was a sudden arching of his brows, but Fliss had no intention of continuing this. ‘Is it all right if I back the car along the path beside the house?’ she asked. ‘Then I can just lift the hutch into the boot.’

‘What’s all this about?’ demanded Diane, clearly not liking the idea that Fliss and her fiancé had some unfinished business she didn’t know about. ‘Where is this rabbit, for heaven’s sake? And what’s it doing here?’

‘It’s a long story,’ said Matthew carelessly. Then, to Fliss, ‘You don’t have to move it, you know.’

‘Oh, I think I do,’ she retorted stiffly. She turned away. ‘I’ll get the car.’

By the time she’d reversed the Fiesta along the service lane, he was waiting for her. Still barefoot, he had hoisted the rabbit’s cage into his arms, and when she hurriedly got out to lift the hatch, he shoved the hutch inside.

‘Thanks,’ she said, a little breathlessly, noticing that he seemed out of breath, too. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘No problem,’ he assured her, leaning forward with his hands on his thighs, taking a few gulping breaths of air. ‘God, I’m out of condition. I guess I need to get myself in shape in more ways than one.’

Fliss forced a faint smile. ‘I think you need to rest,’ she murmured carefully. Then, glimpsing Diane watching them from the corner of the house, ‘Thanks again. I’ll try and keep Amy out of your hair in future.’

Chapter Three

DIANE was pacing about the kitchen when Matt came back inside. ‘D’you want to tell me what’s going on?’ she demanded, her grey eyes flaring with irritation. ‘How long have you and Fliss Taylor known one another?’

Matt gave her an incredulous look. ‘We don’t know one another,’ he said, going to wash his hands at the sink. ‘How the hell would we? I’ve only been here a couple of days.’

‘You tell me.’ Diane was huffy. ‘You seemed pretty familiar with one another. And she obviously didn’t expect to see me. Didn’t you tell her I was coming down this morning?’

‘Oh, for pity’s sake!’ Matt dried his hands and then shoved them into his pockets so she wouldn’t see they were shaking. ‘Why would I tell her anything? I’ve only met her once before.’

Diane regarded him suspiciously. ‘So what was that rabbit doing here?’

Matt heaved a sigh. He badly wanted to sit down, but dogged determination—and pride—kept him on his feet. He should have known Diane would come here looking for trouble, but however appealing Fliss Taylor might be—and he couldn’t deny she was appealing—he wasn’t interested.

‘She has a kid,’ he said wearily. ‘But then, you probably know that. You’re the one who seems to know everything about her.’

‘I used to,’ declared Diane dismissively. ‘Personally, I haven’t set eyes on her or her kid for years.’

‘OK.’ Matt endeavoured to control his irritation. ‘Well, for some reason, the kid decided her rabbit would be safer in my garden than hers. She’d stowed its cage near the back door and I caught her feeding it this morning. That’s all there is to it.’

‘So—then what? You phoned her mother and asked her to come and get it?’

‘No.’ Matt was tired of this interrogation. He didn’t know why Diane had bothered to come if all she intended to do was pick an argument with him. Surely she knew he was supposed to avoid any unnecessary stress, and getting riled up about something so trivial was definitely unnecessary. He blew out a breath. ‘She came here looking for her daughter. No law against that, is there?’

Diane’s lips tightened. ‘I suppose not.’

‘Good. I’m glad we agree on something, at any rate.’ Matt turned away. ‘Want some coffee?’

‘So why didn’t they just take the rabbit with them?’ she asked after a moment, and Matt swore.

‘For pity’s sake,’ he snapped. ‘Does it matter? I’ve explained what happened. Let that be an end of it.’

Diane hesitated. ‘I—suppose it would have been difficult to move the thing without a car.’

‘Right.’

Diane nodded. ‘And Fliss didn’t know the kid had left the rabbit here?’

‘Diane…’

Matt’s tone warned her not to proceed, but she spread her hands defensively. ‘I just want to know,’ she said innocently. ‘I suppose Amy still regards this place as her second home.’

Matt swung round then, a frown drawing his brows together. ‘What are you talking about?’

Diane looked smug now. ‘I thought you were sick of talking about it,’ she mocked, and then, realising she was pushing her luck, she gave in. ‘Fliss used to work for the old man who owned this place,’ she explained. ‘I’ve heard she used to bring the kid with her.’

‘What work did she do?’

‘What do drop-outs usually do?’ asked Diane contemptuously. ‘She was his housekeeper, of course. When she wasn’t working in the pub, that is.’

Matt poured coffee into two mugs and handed one to her. ‘For someone who claims not to have seen the woman for God knows how long, you seem to know a lot about her,’ he said, sinking gratefully onto one of the two stools he’d brought down from London. He swallowed a mouthful of coffee, feeling the reassuring kick of caffeine invading his system. ‘Are you a snob, Diane?’

‘No!’ She was indignant. ‘But I can’t help it if I think she was a fool to throw away a decent education to be a single mother.’

Matt arched a dark brow. ‘Is that what she did?’

‘Yes.’ Diane scowled. ‘I mean, she was sixteen, for God’s sake. She must have been crazy.’

‘Obviously she didn’t think so.’

Diane shrugged. ‘More fool her.’ She shook her head. ‘It was the talk of the village.’

‘I bet.’

‘Well, it was so stupid. She could have had an abortion. No one need have known anything about it. It wasn’t as if the boy wanted to marry her. Mummy thinks her mother never really got over it.’

‘Ah.’ Matt was beginning to understand. ‘So you get your information from your mother.’

Diane looked offended. ‘There’s no need to take that attitude. Mummy thought I’d be interested. After all, Fliss and I used to be friends.’ She grimaced. ‘To think, I used to be like her!’

Matt was not prepared to get into that one. Instead, he concentrated on his coffee, knowing that sooner or later Diane would remember what they’d been talking about before the other woman had knocked at the door.

And he didn’t have to wait long.

‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘that doesn’t matter now. You were telling me what you intend to do with this place. I mean, look around you, darling. It’s going to take a fortune to make it anything like habitable.’

‘A small fortune, perhaps,’ he allowed, with a wry smile. ‘And I don’t intend to do it all at once. Just the main bedroom and a couple of reception rooms. Most of the changes are cosmetic, anyway. According to Joe Francis, the building’s sound enough.’

‘But what does it matter?’ protested Diane, setting down her mug with hardly controlled frustration. ‘Matt, you’re not going to stay here. You may kid yourself that this is what you want, but that’s just a passing phase. As soon as you’re feeling yourself again, you’ll realise that you can’t live anywhere but London. Your job’s there; your friends are there. You don’t know anyone in Mallon’s End. Except Mummy and Daddy, of course, and you don’t really care for them. Admit it.’

‘I know Mrs—Miss Taylor,’ remarked Matt, knowing it would annoy her. But dammit, she was annoying him right now. ‘And you don’t know what I want, Diane. What you’re talking about is what you want. How do you know my priorities haven’t changed?’

‘Because I do know you!’ she exclaimed fiercely. ‘You’ll soon get bored doing nothing. Even if you don’t need the money.’

Matt shrugged. ‘We’ll see.’

‘Oh!’ Diane’s exclamation was impatient. ‘All right, what about me? Have you thought about me at all? I can’t live here. My job’s in London.’

‘I know that.’

‘And?’

Matt bent his head, rubbing palms that were suddenly slick with sweat over the knees of his pants. ‘And—I think it would be a good idea if we cooled it for a while—’

‘No!’

‘Yes.’ Matt knew he was being harsh but he really didn’t have a choice. Not in the circumstances. ‘Help me on this, Diane. I need some time on my own; time to get my head straight.’ He paused, considering his words. ‘Pretending things are the way they used to be isn’t going to do it.’

‘It could.’ Diane quickly crossed the room to kneel at his feet. ‘Darling, don’t do this to me. To us. We’re so good together.’

We were, thought Matt flatly, making no attempt to touch her. ‘Diane—’

‘No, listen to me.’ She looked up at him appealingly, her heart-shaped face alight with enthusiasm, grey eyes entreating now, eager to persuade him she was right. ‘I can help you, darling. You know I can. But not if you send me away.’

‘Dammit, I’m not sending you away,’ he muttered grimly, but she wasn’t listening to him.

Moving his hands aside, she replaced them with her own. For a moment, she was still. And then, watching him with an almost avid concentration, she slid her hands along his thighs to the apex of his legs. Her intention was clear. When she licked her lips, he could see her anticipation. Then, she spread his legs and came between them…

Matt couldn’t let her go on. With a surge of revulsion, he thrust her aside and sprang to his feet. Somehow he managed to put the width of the room between them, his pulse racing, his heart hammering wildly in his chest. But it wasn’t a good feeling. He felt sick, and sickened, by what she’d tried to do, and he could hardly bear to look at her now.

‘Well…’ Diane got to her feet, bitterness and disappointment etched sharply on her flushed face. ‘You had only to say no, Matt. There was no need to practically knock me over in your eagerness to get away from me.’

Matt groaned. ‘Diane, please—’

‘At least I know where I stand,’ she went on, patting down her skirt, brushing a thread of cotton from the silk jersey. ‘What happened in Abuqara, Matt? Did you suddenly acquire a taste for different flesh from mine? Or was it something even more extreme? A change of sex, perhaps?’

Matt’s hands balled into fists at his sides. ‘I think you’d better go, Diane,’ he said harshly. ‘Before I forget I was brought up to be a gentleman.’

She stared at him for a moment, and then her face crumpled, the coldness in her expression giving way to a woeful defeat. ‘Oh, Matt,’ she breathed, scrubbing at the tears that were now pouring down her cheeks, ‘you know I didn’t mean that. I love you. I’d never do anything—say anything to hurt you.’

Matt felt weariness envelop him. It was all too much. Diane was too much. She had no idea how he was feeling and he didn’t have the urge—or the patience—to deal with her histrionics.

That was why he’d bought this house in the first place. He’d known Diane would not be able to accompany him and he’d persuaded himself that she’d come to see it was the best solution for both of them. He still cared about her, of course he did. But she had to understand that his attitude had changed, his aspirations had changed. He was not the man he used to be.

God help him!

‘Look,’ he said at last, crossing his arms against any attempt she might make to touch him again, ‘I know this has been hard for you, Diane. It’s been hard for both of us. And I don’t expect you to give up your life in London and move down here.’

Diane sniffed. ‘So what? You’re giving me the brush-off.’

‘No.’ Matt gave an inward groan. ‘I’m not saying I never want to see you again—’

‘Is that supposed to reassure me?’ Diane pushed back her silvery cap of hair with a restless hand. ‘Matt, I thought you loved me; I thought that one day we might—well, you know, make it legal.’

‘And I’m not saying we won’t. One day,’ said Matt steadily. ‘Come on, Diane, you know I’m right. It’s just not working right now.’

Diane regarded him from beneath her lashes. ‘And that’s all it is? This—need you have for some time alone, for some space?’

‘I swear it.’ Matt spread his hands. ‘What do you think? That there’s someone else? Goddammit, Diane, when have I had the chance to find someone else?’

‘I don’t know everything you did while you were in Abuqara,’ she protested. ‘Tony said that Abuqaran women are really beautiful—’

‘Tony!’ Matt was scathing. ‘I might have known Tony Corbett had a hand in this. Since when has he been such an expert on Abuqaran women?’

Diane shrugged a little defensively now. ‘He was only speaking objectively.’

‘I’ll bet.’

Diane pulled a face. ‘He’s my boss. He cares about me.’ She paused. ‘I’m glad he’s wrong.’

‘Yeah.’ Matt managed a faint smile in response. ‘So—what are you going to do? I’d offer to let you stay the night but only one of the rooms is furnished.’

‘We could always share—’ began Diane, and then cut herself off with a wry grimace. ‘No, scrub that. I can’t stay in any case. I’ve got a meeting with the board of governors this afternoon and I’ve promised to have dinner with Helen Wyatt this evening. She’s hopefully going to give the gallery some good publicity and I wouldn’t want to disappoint her. No, I’ll drop in on Mummy and Daddy and then I’ll head back to town. I suppose I just wanted to assure myself that the move had gone OK, to assure myself that you were all right.’ She paused. ‘And obviously you are.’

Matt inclined his head. ‘Thanks.’

Diane managed a bright smile. ‘My pleasure,’ she said, restricting herself to a quick squeeze of his arm. ‘OK, you look after yourself, right? I’ll be in touch again in a couple of days.’

The words ‘I’ll look forward to it’ stuck in Matt’s throat and he gave a rueful smile instead. ‘You take care,’ he said, as she picked up her handbag and headed towards the front door.

‘I will,’ she replied, and he felt guilty when he heard the sudden break in her voice. ‘Bye.’

‘’Bye,’ he answered roughly. But he closed his eyes against the sudden surge of relief he felt as the BMW crunched away down the drive.

‘I’ve been thinking, perhaps I could build a run for Amy’s rabbit in the garden. That way, Harvey wouldn’t be able to chase him. What do you think?’

It was a couple of days later and Fliss was making a shopping list to take to the supermarket in Westerbury when her father joined her. He had spent most of the morning editing an article he was writing about the need for care in the community, but now he came to lean on the table next to her chair.

Fliss looked up in some confusion. In all honesty, although her fingers were busy detailing the household goods and foodstuffs they needed, her mind had been far away. Well, across the churchyard actually, she conceded drily. Despite her resistance, Matthew Quinn had had that effect on her.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, blinking rapidly. ‘What did you say?’

‘The rabbit,’ said her father patiently. ‘I was wondering whether it would be a good idea for me to build it an enclosure in the garden.’

‘Oh.’ Fliss endeavoured to get her brain in gear. She hesitated. ‘Do you think you could?’

‘I dare say.’ He straightened and regarded the expanse of lawn beyond the windows. ‘We can’t keep the poor thing trapped in its hutch all day, can we?’

‘I suppose not.’ Fliss shrugged. ‘Unless I take Buttons to the animal shelter while Amy’s at school.’

‘You wouldn’t do that,’ said her father firmly. ‘OK. I think there are some slats of wood in the shed. Perhaps you could get me a roll of netting when you go into Westerbury. A couple of metres should be enough.’

‘More than enough,’ agreed Fliss drily, hoping he wouldn’t destroy her flowerbeds in the process. She got to her feet. ‘What shall we have for lunch?’

It was a quarter to two when Fliss parked the Fiesta on the lot adjoining a small retail park. A do-it-yourself outlet, an electrical store, an auction warehouse—where Fliss sometimes liked to browse—and a supermarket circled the central parking area. Fliss liked its location because it was situated at the edge of town. It meant she didn’t have to negotiate the maze of oneway streets that characterised the central part of the city.

It was hot, the grey spire of the cathedral rising tall and impressive against the vivid blue of the sky. She knew she was lucky to live in this part of the country. It was very busy at this time of year, of course, with foreign tourists and more local traffic thronging the streets and clogging up the main arteries. But it was worth it for the times when there were no visitors, and she could walk along Cathedral Close and visit the ancient church without being jostled by the crowds.

She had got what she needed from the supermarket and was stowing her shopping in the car when she saw him. He was coming out of the auction warehouse and, judging by the fact that the manager had accompanied him outside, she guessed he’d bought something substantial.

Or maybe Harry Gilchrist had recognised him. Fliss knew the man who was with him. Harry Gilchrist’s son was in the same class as Amy at the village school. A single father himself, he’d often tried to draw Fliss into conversation. He evidently thought they had a lot in common, but Fliss didn’t encourage single men. Or married men, for that matter, she thought wryly. She was happy the way she was.

Now, however, she wished she had been a little more friendly. Then she might have felt free to saunter across the car park and exchange a few words with him and Matthew Quinn. Just to find out what Quinn had been buying, she assured herself firmly. Not with any idea of presuming on what had been a very brief acquaintance.

In any case, Diane was probably with him, she thought. Just because she wasn’t visible at the moment didn’t mean she wasn’t around. It was the most natural thing in the world that a couple who were planning on setting up home together should look for suitable furniture. Yet, knowing what she did of Diane, Fliss wouldn’t have expected her to want old—albeit valuable—furnishings.

Still…

She turned back to the car and finished packing her shopping into the boot. It meant wedging things together, but she didn’t want a jumble of spilled goods when she got home. Then, closing the hatch, she straightened—and looked directly into Matthew Quinn’s eyes, staring at her from across the car park.

For a moment she was immobilised by his gaze, which seemed more penetrating than the brilliance of the sun beating down on her bare head. Had he recognised her? Was that why he was staring at her? What was she supposed to do about it? Smile? Wave? Ignore him? What?

The dilemma was taken out of her hands when he nodded in her direction. Yes, she thought, feeling the erratic quickening of her heartbeat, he had recognised her. She felt ridiculously gratified that in spite of Diane’s hostility he did remember who she was. But then, it had only been a couple of days since he’d seen her. And he had been a journalist, after all.

She’d confirmed his identity by following her father’s example, when he was researching a story for his column, and checked the Internet. And, although the pictures they’d shown of him didn’t compare to the way he looked now, she’d been left in no doubt that he was the same man. He’d been gauntfeatured and skeletally thin when he’d returned from his imprisonment in Abuqara, but the strength of character and intelligence in his face had been unmistakable.

She hadn’t told her father who he was, however. She’d consoled herself with the thought that it wasn’t her job to expose the fact that they had a celebrity living in their midst. It was bound to come out sooner or later. Maybe Harry Gilchrist would be the one to blow his cover. Just so long as it wasn’t her. For some reason, that was important.

Deciding that the netting her father had asked her to get could wait, Fliss pulled her keys out of her pocket and started towards the driver’s door. It had suddenly occurred to her that she hadn’t bothered to change before she came out. In a white cotton vest and pink dungarees that fairly screamed their chainstore origins she’d be no match for Diane in her expensive designer gear. She wasn’t a vain woman, but she had her pride.

She had no desire to allow the other girl to embarrass her again. She swung open the car door, but before she could get inside, she heard someone call her name. Matthew Quinn was striding across the tarmac towards her and there was no way she could pretend she hadn’t noticed him.

Once again, she was impaled by the distracting intensity of his gaze, and she found herself turning to press her back against the car, holding on to the handle of the door with nervous fingers.

‘Mr Quinn,’ she said, clearing her throat as her voice betrayed her. But in narrow-fitting chinos and a black T-shirt, he made her nerves tingle, his dark eyes and hard features more familiar than they should have been. ‘How—how are you?’

‘I’m getting there,’ he said drily, regarding her so closely she was sure no aspect of her appearance had gone unremarked. ‘How about you? How’s—what’s its name—Buttons getting on?’

‘Oh—he’s OK.’ Fliss wondered if anyone would believe they were standing here having a conversation about a rabbit. She swallowed, forcing herself to look beyond him. ‘Is Diane with you?’

‘No.’ He didn’t elaborate. ‘Are you heading home now?’

‘Yes.’ Fliss lifted her shoulders awkwardly. ‘You don’t need a lift, do you?’

‘Would you have given me one?’ he enquired, a trace of humour in his voice, and Fliss felt her cheeks heat at the deliberate double entendre.

‘Of course,’ she replied, refusing to let him see he’d disconcerted her. ‘Well, if you don’t need my help…’ She glanced behind her. ‘I suppose I’d better be going…’

‘Do you have time for a coffee?’

If she’d been disconcerted before, his question caught her totally unawares and she gazed at him with troubled eyes. ‘A coffee?’

‘Yeah.’ His mouth turned down. ‘You know, an aromatic beverage beloved of our so-called civilised society?’

‘I know what coffee is,’ she said a little stiffly.

‘Well, then…?’

Fliss hesitated. She was getting the distinct impression that he was already regretting the invitation, but he’d made it now and he’d stand by it.

So why shouldn’t she take advantage of it?

‘All right,’ she said, feeling a little frisson of excitement in the pit of her stomach. ‘Where do you want to go?’

Matthew Quinn frowned. ‘Well, there’s a coffee shop in the supermarket, isn’t there? Or—’ His mouth thinned. ‘We could go back to my place.’

‘The supermarket sounds fine,’ said Fliss hastily, turning to lock the car again. She moistened her lips. ‘If you’re sure.’

‘Why shouldn’t I be sure?’ he demanded, and then sudden comprehension brought a sardonic twist to his mouth. ‘Oh, right. You think I might want to avoid public places, yeah?’

Fliss gave a nervous shrug. ‘It’s your call.’

‘But you know who I am, right?’ he persisted, and she gave him a defensive look.

‘Did you think I wouldn’t?’

‘Perhaps I hoped,’ he admitted, moving closer as another car came to take the slot beside Fliss’s. ‘I guess the whole village is twittering about it.’

‘You flatter yourself!’

Fliss used the retort to put some space between them. The other car had initiated an intimacy she hadn’t expected and she couldn’t deny she was flustered. The brush of his arm against hers had stirred an awareness that pooled like liquid fire in her belly and she was desperate to escape before he realised she was unsettled by his nearness.

‘Do I?’ he asked now, falling into step beside her as she hurried towards the supermarket. ‘How’s that?’

‘Well, I didn’t say anything!’ exclaimed Fliss hotly, feeling an unwelcome trickle of perspiration between her breasts. Rushing about in this heat wasn’t just unwise, it was stupid. ‘If you don’t believe me—’

‘Did I say I didn’t believe you?’ he countered softly. Then hard fingers fastened about her upper arm, bringing her to an abrupt stop. ‘OK, let’s start again, shall we? I know I probably seem paranoid to you and I’m sorry. It’s what comes of spending the last six months trying to pretend I’m normal. Obviously I’m not being very successful.’

Fliss’s eyes widened. ‘Don’t be silly,’ she said after a moment. ‘Of course you’re normal. It’s me. I’m too easily offended. But, honestly, I haven’t told anyone who you are.’

His lips twitched. ‘I believe you.’

‘Good.’ Fliss forced a smile, even though she doubted anything he said would slow her pulse. ‘So—do you want to go in?’

Matthew Quinn smiled then, which did nothing for her rattled equilibrium. Yet there was a vulnerability about that smile—as well as a raw sensuality—that seemed to tug almost painfully at her heart.

The fact that he’d actually said nothing to warrant such a reaction disturbed her quite a bit. She had no reason to feel sorry for him, for heaven’s sake. Or was feeling sorry for him her defence? The alternative—that she might be attracted to him—was definitely a more dangerous proposition.

‘You wouldn’t reconsider my offer of coffee at my house,’ he said at last, when she was almost at breaking point. ‘Maybe you’re right; maybe I do flatter myself. But right now, I’ve got no desire to risk being stared at yet again.’

Chapter Four

HE WAS sure she would refuse.

As he released her arm and stepped back from her, he realised he was banking on it. He’d already regretted issuing the invitation, however urgent his motives had been. All he really wanted to do was go home and close his door against the world. He wasn’t up to entertaining anyone. Diane’s visit had proved that. So what in hell was he doing inviting this young woman back to his home and risking his fragile independence yet again?

She was looking at him now, her blue eyes wide and troubled. What was she thinking? he wondered. That she couldn’t trust him? That he was some crazy nutcase who was suffering a bad attack of paranoia? If so, she was probably right.

She looked so innocent, he thought irritably. Which couldn’t be true. What had Diane said? That she’d got herself pregnant at sixteen? Hardly the behaviour of an innocent. And women could effect any number of disguises. Diane had proved that, too.

But this girl was nothing like Diane. He knew that. For one thing, Diane would never go out without make-up, or give so little regard to her appearance. OK, Fliss Taylor’s skin was smooth and creamy and seemed to need little improvement, but her hair clashed wildly with the pink overalls she was wearing, and, judging by the way her breasts moved, she wasn’t wearing a bra beneath that skimpy T-shirt—

Hold it! Where the hell had that come from? It was a long time since he’d even noticed a woman’s breasts.

‘All right,’ she said suddenly, startling him out of his guilty reverie. ‘Let’s do that.’ Was it only his imagination or was she putting a brave front on it, too? ‘I assume you came in your own vehicle.’

Matt’s gaze moved automatically to where he had parked the Land Cruiser. ‘Oh—yeah,’ he said, his heart sinking. He was going to have to go through with this. ‘D’you want me to follow you home or vice versa?’

‘I’ll follow you,’ she said at once, and he wished he hadn’t given her the option. Now he was going to be aware of her behind him, watching his every move, all the way back to Mallon’s End.

Great!

‘OK,’ he said now, forcing a polite smile. ‘I’ll get going.’

In fact it wasn’t as bad as he’d anticipated. She kept a comfortable distance between them the whole way and he’d already parked the Toyota and got out of the driving seat before she turned up the drive.

Fortunately Matt had visited the supermarket himself before he’d accosted her and now he hauled a couple of plastic carriers out of the back of his vehicle before wrestling his key into the lock.

‘Come on in,’ he said, backing up against the door to allow her to precede him into the hall. ‘You’ll have to forgive the state of the place. I haven’t gotten around to doing any decorating yet.’

‘Actually, I like it the way it is,’ she said as he closed the door behind them, and he remembered why he had wanted to talk to her in the first place.

‘Yeah, right,’ he said, edging past her when she paused to look up the curving staircase. ‘Diane said you used to work here. Is that true?’

A faint colour invaded her creamy cheeks as he spoke. ‘I might have done,’ she said, and he sensed she wasn’t as comfortable with it as Diane had implied. Her steps definitely slowed as she reached the kitchen. ‘Where is Diane, anyway? Did she suggest I might be interested in working for you? Is that what this is all about?’

He dumped the carriers on the pine table before he looked at her again. ‘Diane’s in London,’ he said flatly. ‘I’m sorry if you expected she’d be here. I’m afraid there’s only me.’

Fliss’s soft lips pressed together for a moment. ‘But she did suggest that I might be glad of a job, didn’t she?’ She gave a rueful shake of her head. ‘I should have known.’

Matt hesitated only a moment. ‘If you know Diane at all then you should know that she’d never suggest I employed any woman under the age of fifty. Especially not someone she seems to regard as a rival.’

He heard her suck in a breath. ‘You’re joking, right?’

He hadn’t been, but Matt regretted being so honest. ‘Yeah, maybe,’ he said, knowing Diane would definitely not approve of him saying that. ‘Anyway, forget it. Which do you prefer? Tea or coffee? I have both.’

She hesitated. ‘Um—tea would be nice,’ she said at last. ‘Do you need any help?’

Matt’s mouth compressed. ‘Why? Do I look as if I do?’ He plugged in the kettle. ‘No, don’t answer that. My ego’s not up to it at the moment.’

A trace of humour touched her lips. ‘I’m sure that’s not true either.’ She wrapped her arms about her midriff. ‘What did Diane tell you about me?’

Matt didn’t want to get into that. ‘Not a lot,’ he said, not altogether truthfully. He unloaded some steak and a couple of pre-cooked meals into the fridge. ‘I guess Amy’s at school right now, isn’t she?’

Fliss nodded. ‘She’s in year five at the village primary. You must have seen the school as you drove through.’ She paused and then went on. ‘So—do you need a housekeeper?’

Matt was taken aback. He wasn’t used to people speaking their minds so openly. Since his return, the opposite had been true. Even his mother verbally tiptoed about him, as if she wasn’t entirely sure what he might do if she said the wrong thing. But Fliss Taylor…

‘I—I need some help around the house,’ he agreed neutrally.

‘And when Diane told you I used to work for Colonel Phillips, you thought snap! She can work for me, too.’

Matt abandoned the rest of the shopping and propped his hip against one of the mahogany units. ‘It wasn’t quite like that.’

‘But that is why you approached me in the car park,’ she persisted, and he gave a concessionary shrug.

‘All right. I admit, I thought about it.’

Her brows drew together. ‘But now you’ve changed your mind?’

‘No! Yes!’ Matt heard the kettle boiling and turned gratefully to make the tea. He sighed. ‘You make it sound as if I could have no other reason for speaking to you. We’re not exactly strangers, for pity’s sake. I mean, I made no complaint about your daughter dumping her rabbit on my doorstep, did I?’

‘Gee, thanks.’

Her sardonic response was hardly unexpected and he turned to face her again with weary compliance. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘That was uncalled-for. You both thought the house was empty. I know that. But, just for the record, when I first came out of the showroom and saw you across the car park, the idea of asking you to work for me was far from my mind.’

And that was true, he conceded, half amused by the admission. But with the sun adding gold lights to the coppery beauty of her hair, she’d been instantly recognisable. And, although the prospect of offering her a job had given him a reason to speak to her, he might have done so anyway.

Or not.

Her sudden decision to leave the doorway and cross the room towards him disrupted his thought processes. For a crazy moment, he wondered if something in his face had given her the impression that he was attracted to her and he moved almost automatically out of her way.

He realised his mistake when she cast him a pitying glance and reached instead for the two mugs he’d filled with hot water. With casual expertise, she spooned the two used tea bags into the waste bin and then said drily, ‘I don’t like strong tea. Do you?’

Matt felt furious with himself as he shook his head. For heaven’s sake, he was doing everything he could to reinforce the opinion she probably already had of him. Cursing under his breath, he opened the fridge and pulled out a carton of milk. He set it down on the counter beside her rather more heavily than was wise and predictably some spilled onto the marble surface. He swore again. ‘Sorry.’

Fliss added milk to both cups. Then, cradling hers between her palms, she said softly, ‘Did I do something wrong?’

Matt felt a wave of weariness envelop him again. ‘No,’ he said flatly. ‘It’s not you. It’s me. Like I said before, I’m not finding it easy to—to interact with people.’

Fliss frowned. ‘Is that why you’ve moved out of London?’ she asked, and then coloured. ‘Oh, sorry. It’s nothing to do with me.’

‘No.’ He conceded the point. ‘But it’s the truth.’ He picked up his own cup and swallowed a mouthful of tea. ‘I needed some space. London offers very little of that.’

She absorbed this, her eyes on the beige liquid in her cup, and, against his will, he noticed how long her lashes were. For someone with red hair, they were unusually dark, too, but lighter at the tips, as if bleached by the sun.

His jaw tightened. As if it mattered to him. She could be a raving beauty, with a figure to die for, and he wouldn’t be interested. He wondered what she’d say if he told her that.

‘I suppose Diane’s parents said this house was for sale,’ she ventured now, and Matt accepted that she deserved some explanation.

‘No,’ he assured her. ‘As you might have guessed, Diane isn’t in favour of me moving out of London. I found the house on a property website. It sounded exactly what I was looking for so I bought it.’

‘Sight unseen?’ She was obviously surprised.

‘Well, I had Joe Francis, an architect friend of mine, look at it,’ he said, a little defensively. ‘And I did speak to the Chesneys. They seemed to think it was OK.’

‘And what do you think, now that you’ve moved in?’

‘I like it.’ He smiled in spite of himself. ‘I’ll like it better, of course, when it feels less like a mausoleum and more like a home.’

Fliss glanced about her. ‘Colonel Phillips didn’t think it was a mausoleum.’

‘No, well, he probably kept the place furnished.’ He paused, wondering how much he should tell her. ‘That’s what I was doing in Westerbury. Buying some furniture that won’t look out of place in these rooms.’

‘From Harry Gilchrist,’ she said, and Matt quirked an eyebrow.

‘You know him?’

‘He lives in the village,’ she said regretfully. ‘I suppose he recognised you.’

Matt finished his tea and set his empty mug down on the counter. ‘Did he ever,’ he said, pulling a wry face. ‘Oh, well, I guess a week is better than nothing.’

‘You might be surprised.’ Fliss finished her own tea and, to his surprise, moved to the sink to wash up the cups. ‘Most of the villagers tend to mind their own business.’

‘Do they?’

Matt spoke almost absently, his eyes unwillingly drawn to the vulnerable curve of her nape. She’d tugged her hair to one side and secured it with a tortoiseshell clip, and the slender start of her spine was exposed.

He wasn’t thinking, or he would have looked away, but instead his eyes moved down over the crossed braces of her dungarees. A narrow waist dipped in above the provocative swell of her bottom, the loose trousers only hinting at the lushness of her hips and thighs. Her legs were longer then he’d imagined, her ankles trim below the cuffs of her trousers.

‘What do you mean?’

Her words arrested whatever insane visions he had been having, and he shook his head as if that would clear his brain. For God’s sake, what was he doing? And what was she talking about? He was damned if he could remember.

‘I beg your pardon?’

His apology was automatic, but her expression as she turned towards him fairly simmered with resentment. ‘You said, Do they?’ she reminded him tightly. ‘What did you mean?’

Matt didn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed. For a moment there, he’d been entertaining himself with the thought that he was just the same as any other man. Of course, he wasn’t, but she didn’t know that. And she probably thought he was leering at her like any other member of his sex.

‘You know,’ she said flatly, as he struggled to answer her, ‘when you said Diane hadn’t told you a lot about me, you were lying, weren’t you? Have the decency to admit it.’

‘You’re wrong.’ Matt blew out a breath. ‘Whatever I said, it had nothing to do with anything Diane had said about you. But, OK, she didn’t tell me that you were still at school when you got pregnant. However, that has nothing to do with me.’

‘Damn right.’

There was a catch in her voice now, and Matt silently cursed Diane for getting him into this. ‘Right,’ he said, folding his arms across his chest. ‘So, shall we put that behind us and start again?’

‘Whatever.’ She finished drying the cups and moved towards the door. ‘I’d better be going. Amy will be home from school now and she’s quite a handful for my father.’

‘I’ll bet.’ He kept his mind firmly on what she was saying and not on the curling strands of red-gold hair that had escaped the clip and were bobbing beside her cheek. He chewed at the inside of his cheek for a moment, relishing the pain as a distraction. ‘You—er—you wouldn’t still consider working for me, I suppose?’

She halted, but she kept her back to him as she spoke. ‘Doing what, exactly?’

Matt knew an almost overwhelming urge to touch her then. She suddenly seemed so vulnerable, so alone. Which was ridiculous really, considering she had a father and a daughter who probably thought the world of her. Yet he sensed that he’d hurt her and he didn’t know how to repair the damage.

He thought about asking what she used to do for Colonel Phillips, but that would sound as if he was being flippant and he couldn’t have that. Instead, he prevaricated. ‘Whatever needs doing,’ he said. ‘I won’t expect you to do anything I wouldn’t do myself.’ He paused. ‘I guess what I need is help, that’s all. Just a few days a week if that suits you.’

Fliss shrugged. ‘I can do that,’ she said. Then she half turned, looking at him over one creamy shoulder. ‘With one proviso.’

‘Which is?’

‘I won’t work for you when Diane comes to live here,’ she said. ‘This is only a temporary arrangement—’

‘Diane won’t be coming to live here,’ he broke in impulsively, and he saw the look of disbelief that crossed her face.

‘But she’s your fiancée!’

‘She’s my—what?’ Matt stared at her. ‘She told you that?’

‘Yes.’ She looked uncertain. ‘She is, isn’t she?’

Matt allowed a sound of frustration to escape him, realising he couldn’t deny they had had a relationship. ‘We—she and I—we have been involved, yeah,’ he admitted unwillingly.

A faint smile touched her lips. ‘I thought so,’ she said, and he had to stifle the urge to explain that the situation—his situation—had changed.

‘That still doesn’t alter the fact that she’s not going to be living here,’ he said instead, more forcefully than was necessary. ‘Diane’s a city person. She works in London. It wouldn’t be feasible for her to move down here.’

Fliss held up her hand as if to stop him. ‘Not immediately, I understand that—’

‘Not at all,’ he said flatly, and knew he was being far too obdurate. He took a deep breath. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think that’s your business—’

‘I mean, about the job,’ he said grimly, not altogether sure she wasn’t mocking him, and she shrugged.

‘When would you want me to start?’

Matt’s initial reaction was to say, How does tomorrow suit you? But tomorrow was Saturday and he doubted she’d want to start then.

‘Would Monday be OK?’ he asked. ‘Your friend, Gilchrist, is delivering the furniture I ordered on Monday morning. I’d be glad of your help.’

‘All right.’ She pushed her hands into the pockets of her dungarees. ‘I’ll come over about nine, does that suit you?’

‘That’s great,’ he said, and as she moved out into the hall he followed her. ‘See you Monday, then.’

‘Monday,’ she agreed, opening the door before he could get past her and do it for her. ‘G’bye.’

Matt waited until she’d turned her car and driven away before he closed the door and sagged back against it. He felt exhausted and he didn’t honestly know why. It wasn’t as if she’d said or done anything to deplete his energies and yet he felt drained. And strangely let down, which was something new for him.

Straightening, he made his way back to the kitchen and surveyed the room with frustrated eyes. What was wrong with him now, for God’s sake? He’d just completed a satisfactory shopping trip and found himself a part-time housekeeper into the bargain. What more did he want?

A hell of a lot more, he conceded grimly, but it wasn’t going to happen. Nevertheless, for a short time there he’d found himself having thoughts he hadn’t had since he’d got back from North Africa. He didn’t kid himself it meant anything. Despite what his doctors had said, he knew he was never going to be the man he was. But Fliss Taylor was different. She intrigued him. And, like anyone else, he responded to that.

He knew he’d never met a female who was as unaware of herself as she was. There was no artifice about her, no desire to draw attention to herself, no overt sexuality. Yet she was all woman, with a soft innocence that any man would have found challenging.

Any man but him, that was, he reminded himself, the reason for his sense of dissatisfaction no longer so obscure. He picked up one of the mugs they had used and flung it across the room, uncaring when it shattered against the Aga. He had to keep reminding himself he was only half a man, he taunted himself savagely. And if that was true, what the hell was he doing hiring a housekeeper who aroused any kind of feelings inside him?

Chapter Five

‘I’VE got another job.’

Fliss made the announcement as her father came into the kitchen to have his breakfast on Saturday morning. She’d intended to tell him the previous afternoon, but Amy had been home and it would have been difficult to have a private word with him then. Well, that was her excuse, anyway.

Now, however, Amy had had her breakfast and had gone out into the garden with Harvey. The child and the golden retriever were racing round the lawn at present, chasing a ball that Amy was trying to play with and generally tearing the place up. Fliss decided she would have to have a word with Amy later. She was getting too old to act so irresponsibly.

Her father took a seat at the table as Fliss set a pot of coffee and a rack of toast in front of him, and then said stiffly, ‘With Matthew Quinn, I assume?’

Fliss pressed her lips together, surprised by his attitude. ‘Is that a problem?’

‘Only in the sense that you apparently forgot to mention that he was the Matthew Quinn I was talking about,’ he remarked coldly, and her heart dropped. Her father had gone out for a drink the evening before and Fliss had been in bed when he’d got home.

‘I suppose you heard the news at the pub,’ she said, turning back to the sink to hide the hot colour that had stained her cheeks.

‘From at least half a dozen different sources actually,’ he replied, and she knew he was hurt that she hadn’t confided in him. ‘D’you want to tell me how long you’ve known you were going to work for him?’

‘Just since yesterday,’ she protested, turning to rest her jeanclad hip against the drainer. ‘But I couldn’t tell you who he was, Dad. He’s come down here to try and escape the media.’

‘He told you that, did he?’

‘Not in so many words, no. But he said he needed some space. More space than he had in London, anyway.’

‘Space!’ Her father was scornful. ‘Why do you young people think you need so much space? How much space did my father have when he was fighting in the trenches? The man’s spent less than two years as a prisoner of war, if you want to call it that. Some of my father’s men spent twice as long as that in German prison camps and there was no red carpet laid out for them when they got home.’

‘I know that.’ Fliss was defensive. ‘In any case, I don’t know what you’re getting at me for. All I did was respect the man’s privacy.’

George Taylor’s nostrils flared. Then, as if acknowledging that she had a point, he heaved a sigh. ‘I just wish you’d trusted me, that’s all,’ he said, pouring himself a cup of coffee from the pot. ‘I can keep a confidence as well as anyone else.’

Fliss’s brows arched. ‘This confidence?’ she asked sceptically, relieved to see he was looking a little less severe. ‘Come on, Dad, you wouldn’t have been able to resist it. Knowing Matthew Quinn was living in the Old Coaching House. What a scoop that would have been!’

Her father’s lips pursed. ‘If he’d asked me to keep his identity a secret, I’d have done so.’

‘Oh, and how was he going to ask you that?’ Fliss stared at him. ‘You’d have had to have gone to see him. Can you imagine how I’d have felt if you had?’

‘Well, it’s a moot point now,’ declared her father curtly. ‘Harry Gilchrist couldn’t wait to spread the news. I suppose that’s when you saw him, too. When you went shopping in Westerbury. Was that why you forgot the netting?’

Fliss could have denied it, but there didn’t seem much point. ‘I suppose so,’ she said, turning back to the sink. ‘Anyway, I’m starting on Monday. Just mornings, I expect. Like I used to do for Colonel Phillips.’

‘Huh.’ Her father didn’t sound too happy. ‘I don’t know why you insist on demeaning yourself like this. Doing other people’s housework. It’s not what I hoped for you, Felicity.’

‘Oh, Dad!’ Fliss didn’t want to get into that again. ‘Until Amy’s older and I can go into Westerbury to work, there aren’t a lot of jobs around.’

‘What about working for Lady Darcy? She needs a social secretary, and I know she’d look very kindly on your application. She was only saying the other day—’

‘I’m happy as I am,’ said Fliss quickly, suppressing a grimace. The idea of being a companion—dogsbody—to the wife of the local member of parliament didn’t appeal at all. At least what she did gave her a small measure of autonomy. Or it had when she’d worked for Colonel Phillips.

‘Oh, well, don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ declared her father casually, buttering a slice of toast, and Fliss was compelled to turn and look at him again.

‘Warn me?’ she echoed, regarding him with puzzled eyes. ‘Warn me about what?’

‘I thought you knew who he was,’ said her father blandly, and Fliss’s nails dug into her palms in frustration.

‘I do know who he is,’ she said, wondering where this was going.

‘Then you’ll know there have been rumours about his mental state since he got back from Abuqara,’ remarked her father, reaching for the marmalade. ‘Oh, here comes Amy.’ His smile irritated Fliss anew. ‘Hello, sweetheart. I hope you and Harvey haven’t destroyed any of your mother’s precious flowers.’

Amy gave her mother a rueful look. ‘Not deliberately,’ she said, as the retriever went to beg beside his master’s chair. ‘I think Harvey knocked the heads off a couple of roses, that’s all.’

Fliss shook her head, but she was too disturbed by what her father had said to offer much in the way of chastisement. ‘I wish you’d be more careful,’ she muttered, finishing the dishes and drying her hands on a paper towel. Then, ‘Do you want to come down to the Black Horse with me? I want to check on my hours for next week.’

‘Ooh, yes!’ exclaimed Amy, who enjoyed being fussed over by Patrick Reardon, the landlord. ‘Can I?’

‘May I?’ Fliss corrected automatically, as her father said.

‘Is that wise? Taking the child down to the pub? Do you want her to get into bad habits?’

‘Like yours, you mean,’ retorted Fliss tartly, but her heart wasn’t really in it. What had her father meant? That Matthew Quinn had mental problems? Or was he simply using some gossip he’d heard to spoil Fliss’s enthusiasm for her new job?

Whatever, Fliss decided that now was not the time to tackle him on it. Besides, on the whole, Matthew Quinn had struck her as a perfectly normal human being. OK, maybe he had problems interacting with people, but you didn’t have to have been a political prisoner to feel that.

When she was younger, she’d had a similar problem. An only child, she’d been painfully shy with boys, envying girls like Diane who found it so easy to flirt with the opposite sex. No wonder Terry Matheson had taken advantage of her. She’d been ripe for the taking.

It wasn’t until she’d gone to university that she’d learned to have faith in herself again. Which was why she felt such a debt of gratitude to her parents. It was also why she hated to disappoint her father now. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps Matthew Quinn did have psychological problems. But, despite his dangerous appearance, she’d liked him. And she couldn’t believe Diane would be involved with someone she couldn’t trust.

Nevertheless, as she cut through the churchyard on Monday morning on her way to the Old Coaching House, Fliss couldn’t deny a frisson of apprehension. Working for Matthew Quinn was not going to be like working for Colonel Phillips. For one thing, Colonel Phillips had spent most of his days in a wheelchair. He’d spent his mornings doing the daily crossword in his newspaper, and his afternoons dozing in the conservatory that adjoined the morning room. He’d been sweet and amenable, and always willing to adapt his needs to hers.

No one would make the mistake of describing Matthew Quinn as ‘sweet.’ And, although he’d seemed amenable enough when he was asking her to work for him, only time would tell.

Still, if she didn’t like working for him, if he proved an impossible employer, she’d be out of there. It wasn’t as if she didn’t have another option. Lady Darcy beckoned, and working for her might not be as bad as she anticipated.

A gate opened from the churchyard into the grounds of the house. Colonel Phillips had used it in the days when he’d attended church, but latterly Reverend Jeffreys had called at the house himself to give the old man the sacrament.

Beyond the gate, a flagged path wound around an overgrown vegetable garden before climbing steadily towards the terrace. Tall trees, ash and poplar mostly, bordered lawns badly in need of mowing. Flowering shrubs flanked the path, but they were gradually choking the life out of the perennials that grew between them.

The place needed a gardener, thought Fliss, but since Colonel Phillips went into hospital six months ago there’d been no money to pay Ray Jackson, who used to do the work. She wondered if Matthew Quinn would employ him. He didn’t seem the type to do all the work himself.

Deciding he wouldn’t expect her to use the front door, Fliss knocked at the back door instead. A fleeting glance through the window revealed that her employer wasn’t in the kitchen. She hoped he was up. She wanted to get started.

And finished, she admitted ruefully as another shiver of apprehension rippled down her spine.

When no one answered her knock, she tried again, using a piece of wood she found beside the step instead of bruising her knuckles. A piece of Buttons’s hutch, no doubt, she mused, dropping the stick again. Which reminded her she really would have to get some netting. The rabbit was still waiting for his run.

There seemed to be no movement in the house and, sighing, Fliss glanced about her. Foolishly, she’d expected Matthew Quinn to be waiting for her, ready to tell her what he wanted her to do. Instead, the place seemed deserted. Surely he hadn’t forgotten she was coming?

Biting her lip, she laid her hand on the door handle, and then nearly jumped out of her skin when it opened to her touch. Just like the haunted house in that movie she’d watched with Amy, she thought, glancing behind her once again. Matthew Quinn must be up, she told herself fiercely. The door would have been locked otherwise.

Pushing it open, she stepped into the kitchen. At least this was familiar territory, and she looked around, expecting to see breakfast dishes littering the sink. But, although at some time someone had made coffee and left the dregs in the pot, it was stone cold. Clearly, he hadn’t had breakfast. So where on earth was he?

‘Mr Quinn!’

Moving across the tiled floor, Fliss was acutely aware of her shoes squeaking against the terrazzo tiles. Colonel Phillips had had the kitchen updated about fifteen years ago, long before she had come to work for him, and he’d chosen the décor. She supposed it was old-fashioned by today’s standards, but she liked it.

‘Mr Quinn!’

She called his name again as she emerged into the short corridor that led to the entrance hall. Now that she had time to look about her properly, she could see how dusty the place had become. There was even paper peeling from the wall halfway up the staircase, probably torn when the colonel’s furniture had been moved out. It was a shame, but flocked wallpaper was definitely not a fashion statement these days. The whole hall and staircase needed stripping and redecorating. It would look wonderful with a fresh coat of paint and some light, cheerful wallpaper.

The hall divided the house into two parts. On one side was the drawing room and what used to be a formal dining room before Colonel Phillips had moved his bed downstairs. The old man had found the stairs difficult in recent years and Fliss had suggested the alternative arrangement.

The room was empty now, of course, as was Colonel Phillips’s library at the other side of the hall and the morning room at the back of the house. She felt a little wistful when she saw the empty shelves in the library. Evidently the colonel’s nephew had sold his uncle’s books as well.

She didn’t want to admit it, but Fliss was getting a little worried now. Where on earth was Matthew Quinn? Unwillingly, what her father had said came back to haunt her. His comments, that the man was rumoured to be unstable, were a constant drain on her confidence.

Which was silly, she told herself severely. Matthew Quinn had to be here somewhere. Perhaps he was ill. Perhaps the reason the door was unlocked was because he’d called a doctor. It wasn’t so unreasonable. He had had a pretty stressful couple of years.

She paused at the foot of the stairs and called his name again. Again there was no answer, and she placed one trainer-clad foot on the bottom step. Dared she go up? Did she want to? Did she have a choice?

Of course she did, but she ignored the alternative. Taking a deep breath, she started up the stairs, assuring herself that it was what anyone else would have done in her place. After all, when Colonel Phillips had been taken ill, it was she who had called an ambulance to take him to hospital. If she hadn’t had a key to the house, he would have died alone and uncared-for.

The fact that she didn’t have a key now was hardly relevant. She’d surrendered her key to the solicitor when the old man died. But the door had been unlocked, she reminded herself. All she’d done was let herself in. And she was expected. She glanced at her watch. It was already a quarter past nine.

Reaching the galleried landing, Fliss paused again. She knew from experience that there were six bedrooms and three bathrooms on this floor. None of them had been used recently, but they weren’t in bad decorative order. Which one would Matthew Quinn choose?

Several of the doors stood ajar so it was a fairly easy task to peer into the rooms. Like downstairs, the empty rooms stirred wistful memories. She missed Colonel Phillips. He’d been kind to her and to Amy, and they’d been fond of him in return.

The door to the back bedroom was closed and she regarded it doubtfully for a few moments before she looked into the rest of the rooms. She guessed her employer had chosen the same room as the colonel used to occupy before his arthritis got so bad. It was probably in the best state of repair.

The door to the front bedroom stood ajar like all the rest and Fliss pushed it wide enough to peer in before moving on. The curtains weren’t drawn and she’d assumed the room was empty. But then her breath caught in her throat at the sight of Matthew Quinn sprawled across the mattress, his only covering a thin sheet that had wrapped itself tightly about his hips and thighs.

To her relief, he appeared to be sound asleep. Which was just as well, as the sheet was his only covering and it left little to her imagination. She tried to concentrate on the brown width of his shoulders and the hard muscles that defined his stomach. But her eyes were irresistibly drawn to the triangle of dark hair that arrowed down to his navel before disappearing beneath the low line of the bed linen.

The bones of his hips were clearly visible, his powerful legs relaxed now in sleep. Dragging her gaze away from what lay between his legs, Fliss let her eyes travel slowly up his body, lingering curiously on the silky strands of hair that grew beneath his outstretched arms. She wondered if the hair felt as soft as it looked. She knew a quite ridiculous urge to touch it and find out.

The trouble was, she had never seen a naked man before. When Terry Matheson had seduced her, it had just been a furtive fumble in the back of his car. She hadn’t enjoyed it, but she had to admit she didn’t know what it was like to make love with a man, to share a bed with a man. She doubted she ever would. In her opinion the whole sex thing was vastly overrated, and she fully expected to remain single for the rest of her life.

Even so, seeing Matthew Quinn like this did make her wonder what it would be like to be loved by a man like him. What would it be like to feel his hands upon her; to be kissed and caressed in places she’d never dreamed of outside of the romantic novels she borrowed from the public library? She’d always thought it was just the imagination of the author that caused the love scenes to give her such a spine tingling spasm in her stomach. The pleasurable pain she’d felt at those times had seemed almost wicked, yet she was feeling much the same sensation now, if for different reasons.

She swallowed hard. This was crazy. She shouldn’t be standing here in his bedroom doorway indulging in girlish fantasies about a man she scarcely knew. Thank God, he was asleep. She didn’t know what she’d do if—

But he wasn’t asleep. As her hand groped for the handle of the door to pull it closed behind her, her gaze strayed to his face again—and saw his eyes were open.

At once, her face suffused with colour. Oh, lord, how long had he been awake? How long had he been aware of her staring at him? And what excuse could she give? Surely nothing she said could explain her behaviour?

There was an awkward silence while Fliss struggled to regain her composure and he blinked sleepily at her, lifting a languid arm to rake his nails across his scalp. Then, as if taking pity on her, he said, ‘What time is it?’ As if he didn’t know she’d been ogling him for the last five minutes.

Fliss licked dry lips before replying. ‘It—it’s nearly half past nine,’ she said jerkily. ‘I—I tried the door downstairs and it was open.’ She paused. ‘I—wondered if you were all right.’

His dark eyes narrowed as he took in the ramifications of her statement. ‘So you decided to—what? Take the time to check the place out?’

‘No!’ Fliss was defensive. ‘When Colonel Phillips was taken ill, I was the one who found him. It occurred to me that you might be—might be—’

For the life of her, Fliss couldn’t think of a way to finish her sentence without sounding melodramatic. Matthew Quinn had levered himself up on his elbows in the interim, and was now regarding her sardonically across the sunlit room. As he moved, the sheet fell a little, and her eyes dropped automatically. She wasn’t a prude, but she couldn’t ignore his nakedness as he apparently could.

‘I’ll see you downstairs,’ she muttered, but, as if recognising her embarrassment, Matthew swiftly hauled the sheet up to his waist again.

‘Sorry about that,’ he said, not sounding sorry at all. ‘I’m not used to finding strange women in my bedroom.’

‘No, well, I’m sorry, too,’ said Fliss, backing onto the landing. ‘As I say, I’ll—um—’

‘I have been up, you know,’ he remarked, before she could escape. ‘I haven’t been sleeping all that well, and I got up around five and made some coffee.’

Fliss swallowed. ‘Coffee doesn’t seem to be a wise choice if you’re suffering from insomnia,’ she offered awkwardly, and he gave her a rueful grimace.

‘I guess not.’ He lifted a hand to massage the back of his neck, arching his back as he did so, and once again he had to rescue the slipping sheet. ‘God, what time did you say it was? Half past nine?’

‘It’s actually nearer twenty to ten.’ Fliss corrected him a little primly and he groaned out loud.

‘Dammit, that guy, Gilchrist, said the furniture would be here about ten. I’d better get dressed.’

‘Take your time,’ said Fliss hastily, half-afraid he was going to get out of bed before she had time to close the door. ‘I’ll go and make some fresh coffee.’

‘Thanks,’ he said, and she hurried away before he could say anything else.

Chapter Six

A COUPLE of hours later, Matt surveyed his newly furnished rooms with some satisfaction.

The twin hide sofas and satin-striped armchairs he’d chosen certainly gave the drawing room a little more panache, and the antique desk and leather chair he’d bought for the library would allow him to work at his laptop in comfort, if he needed to.

Of course, he realised now he had gone about things backside first. He should have had the place redecorated before he started buying furniture, but his needs were too immediate to allow him that luxury. He needed somewhere to sit, somewhere to relax. And, after all, it wasn’t as if the paper was peeling off the walls.

Except in the hall, of course. The hall and stairs would have to be tackled immediately, he acknowledged that. The impression it presently created was one of age and dilapidation.

His new housekeeper had been terrific. He had to acknowledge that, too. After providing him with toast and coffee, she’d started on the drawing room, and by the time the delivery truck arrived, albeit an hour later than he’d anticipated, both the drawing room and the library were as clean as she could make them.

She’d opened all the windows, and the pleasant smell of furniture polish mingled with the warm breeze from the garden. The windows themselves gleamed and the musty aroma of disuse that had pervaded the house had almost totally dissipated. Even the floorboards had received a coat of liquid polish and the Chinese rugs he’d bought as a temporary measure until he could get a carpet fitted looked at home on the shining floor.

If he’d had the impression that Fliss was avoiding him he’d put it down to his imagination. She was here to work, he reminded himself, trying to forget what had happened earlier. It wasn’t his fault if she’d seen more than she’d bargained for. He hadn’t invited her into his bedroom, for God’s sake.

All the same, he couldn’t deny that he’d actually enjoyed her confusion. And, for a few moments, before she’d become aware of him watching her, he’d felt a disturbing hunger in his loins. She looked so unlike any housekeeper he’d seen in her skimpy T-shirt and tight-fitting jeans, and the rush of heat that had surged into his groin had been as surprising as it had been fleeting.

It hadn’t lasted. And, despite everything, he told himself he wouldn’t have wanted it to. He’d do himself no favours getting involved with his housekeeper, however neutral his involvement was bound to be. She didn’t know about that and he’d be a fool to indulge in sexual foreplay that could backfire on him in the most humiliating way.

Even so, that didn’t stop him thinking about her. After she’d gone upstairs to tackle the bedrooms and he started unpacking the boxes of books he’d brought with him from London onto the newly polished shelves in the library, he had to admit that she intrigued him. He couldn’t honestly understand why she was happy doing what she did. She was an intelligent woman, for God’s sake. Didn’t she want to do anything else with her life?

He supposed having Amy made her situation different from Diane’s, for example. If what Diane had said was true, Fliss had given up a promising education to have her baby. But why hadn’t she married the baby’s father? Why was she still living at home when she must have had other opportunities to get married?

His brain baulked at the avalanche of questions. It wasn’t his problem, and he had the feeling Fliss wouldn’t appreciate his curiosity. Despite her occasional outbursts, he sensed she was a private person. And he couldn’t forget the way she’d acted that morning when she’d found him in bed.

He was back to square one, to the very subject he didn’t want to think about. Weariness enveloped him, a combination of the physical work he was doing and the mental depression he had to constantly fight against. Despite his confinement, he wasn’t used to manual labour. Weeks, months spent in the confines of a small cell caused muscles to stiffen up and grow painful with lack of use. He’d tried to keep himself fit, doing push-ups and other exercises, but he’d been fighting a losing battle. Living on a starvation diet turned every effort into a major task.

Now his muscles were aching from the continual bending and lifting, and he felt an almost overwhelming desire to go back to bed. The blessed relief of oblivion beckoned, and he had to force himself to continue with his task.

A tap at the library door was not welcome. He would have preferred time to pull himself together, time to wipe his features clean of the pathetic self-pity he was feeling at this moment. But he hardly had time to straighten his shoulders before Fliss put her head round the door.

‘I’ve made a start on the bedrooms—’ she was beginning, when she caught sight of his haggard face. Her expression changed and she pushed the door wider. ‘I’m sorry. I’m interrupting.’ She paused, and then went on curiously, ‘Are you all right, Mr Quinn?’

‘It’s Matt,’ he said flatly, propping his hip against the rim of his desk. ‘And, yeah, I’m fine. Just a little tired, is all.’

She clearly wasn’t satisfied with his response. ‘Are you sure?’ she asked, linking her fingers together at her waist. ‘You’re not—well, you’re not overdoing it, are you?’

Matt’s lips twisted. ‘Shelving books? I don’t think so.’

‘But you have been ill,’ she pointed out reasonably, making him wonder exactly what she’d heard about him. ‘I can do this tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘It’s ten past one,’ she offered, with a swift glance at the workmanlike watch on her wrist. ‘I usually only work mornings.’

He guessed she didn’t know she had a smudge of dust on her cheek or that her T-shirt had come loose from the waistband of her jeans, leaving a wedge of creamy skin to tantalise him. Didn’t she realise that in his present incarnation, he was far more dangerous to both her and himself? But no. Why would she? As far as she was concerned, he and Diane…

Dragging his thoughts away from that particular minefield, he made a concerted effort to concentrate on what she was saying. ‘Is that what we agreed?’ he asked neutrally, folding his arms across his chest, as if by doing so he could somehow ease his aching back and subdue the emotions that were roiling inside him. ‘How many mornings?’

‘Well, we did agree to two days a week,’ she conceded. ‘We could call that five mornings, if you like. Until we see how it goes.’

‘We could.’ Matt considered. ‘Is there some reason why you don’t want to work all day?’

‘I pick Amy up from school at three o’clock,’ she said simply. ‘And I make lunch for my father at one.’

‘So you’re late.’

‘It’s not set in stone,’ she assured him quickly. ‘He won’t mind waiting.’

Matt arched a brow. ‘He’s retired, I take it?’

‘More or less.’ She looked a little uneasy now.

‘More or less?’ It was really nothing to do with him but he couldn’t prevent the question. ‘You mean he works part-time?’

‘Sort of.’

Matt didn’t say anything but she obviously realised he expected her to go on. With a little shrug, she added, ‘He used to own the village pharmacy. He retired three years ago.’

Matt’s brows drew together. ‘I didn’t realise a village of this size would have a pharmacy.’

‘It doesn’t now.’ She hesitated. ‘People go to the supermarket in Westerbury. It’s cheaper.’

‘So your father works in Westerbury?’

‘No.’ He could actually feel her frustration now, sense her unwillingness to continue. But, with a sudden gesture of resignation, she spread her hands. ‘If you must know, he writes a weekly column for the local newspaper.’

Matt snapped to his feet then, gasping as his back protested the sudden move. ‘Say what?’ he croaked, against the pain that shot down into his thighs.

‘He writes—’

‘I heard you.’ Matt turned and braced himself with the heels of both hands on the desk. ‘Hell, no wonder you didn’t want to tell me.’

‘I didn’t tell him about you!’ Fliss exclaimed defensively. ‘I could have done, but I didn’t.’

‘Why not?’

He heard her shift a little uncomfortably then. ‘I—I didn’t think you’d want me to.’

‘Damn right!’

Matt attempted to move away from the desk, but for some reason his spine appeared to have locked and he couldn’t deny the sudden oath that escaped his lips.

Oh, great, he thought bitterly. As well as being an emotional cripple, he was now a physical one as well. God, how had he got into this state?

‘Are you all right?’

Despite her obvious unwillingness to be honest with him, Fliss came round the desk so that she could look at him. She seemed genuinely concerned about him, but Matt wasn’t in the mood for her sympathy—for anybody’s sympathy, actually—and the look he cast her way should have shrivelled a hardier soul than hers.

‘And if I’m not? What are you going to do about it?’ he snarled, wishing she would just go. He had to deal with this alone—and with the fact that anything he’d said to her up to this point could find its way into the local rag. Christ, what were the odds against him choosing the daughter of the local hack to be his housekeeper?

‘I could help,’ she said quietly, and with an effort he swung himself round again to rest against the desk.

‘Oh, right. You’re a masseuse, too, I take it? Is there no end to your ingenuity, Ms Taylor?’

She held up her head. ‘I do have some experience,’ she said stiffly. ‘I was training to be a physiotherapist when my mother died and I had to give up my work to look after my father and Amy.’

Matt was stunned. ‘A physiotherapist?’ he echoed half disbelievingly. ‘But Diane said—’

He broke off, but she evidently knew what he had been about to say. ‘What?’ she asked drily. ‘That I was a school drop-out? I was. Until I’d had Amy, that is.’

He shook his head. ‘I’m impressed.’

‘Don’t patronise me.’ Her lips tightened. ‘Now, do you want me to help you or not?’

Matt shifted against the desk. ‘I’m just stiff, that’s all.’

‘I’d say you’ve overdone the lifting and bending.’ She contradicted him. She hesitated. ‘Can you stretch out on the desk?’

Matt gave her an open-mouthed look. ‘What?’

‘I mean it. I’ll just wash my hands.’

She headed for the door and was gone before he could stop her, and Matt made another attempt to straighten up. But the pain made him wince in agony and he wondered if he’d done something stupid like slipping a disc or trapping a nerve.

Yeah, that would figure, he thought grimly, regarding the prospect of prostrating himself on the desk with mild incredulity. But, on the other hand, he had to get mobile again.

She was back before he knew it. She came into the room smelling faintly of lemon and he guessed she’d washed her hands in the kitchen.

‘Will you be warm enough if you take off your shirt?’ she asked briskly, and he wondered if she had any idea what she was letting herself in for. ‘But what the hell?’ he muttered under his breath. She was bound to see his back sooner or later. With an effort, he managed to haul the shirt over his head, wincing only when her soft hands brushed the back of his neck.

She was trying to help him, he realised. Her nails scraped across his nape and for a moment any pain he felt melted in the raw heat of his reaction. It was as if an electrical charge had invaded his system and, for a moment, he couldn’t get his breath.

Then, with a jerky movement, he swung away from her, mumbling something about not needing her assistance to take off his shirt. If she was hurt, if her cheeks turned a little pink, that wasn’t his problem. He had enough to do handling the minor explosions that were arcing down into his gut.

He couldn’t help but hear the way she sucked in her breath when he turned his back on her. It even made levering himself across the desk that much easier to do. He sensed she was dying to say something, but she held her tongue, and somehow he laid his shirt over the wood and spread-eagled himself upon it. He stifled a groan as he did so. Dammit, he was weaker than he’d thought.

‘Right,’ she said when he was lying on top of the desk, his muscles trembling from the exertion. ‘If I hurt you, let me know. Just try and relax, hmm?’

Yeah, right.

Matt gritted his teeth. That was easier said than done. He reminded himself that during his first few weeks with the guerrillas, he’d been forced to march barefoot over what had felt like the roughest terrain possible, until every nerve in his body had felt as if it was on fire. His limbs had screamed for relief, but none had been forthcoming. He’d learned not to complain. That had only brought him a beating. He’d actually felt grateful when they’d thrown him into a prison cell.

So he could do this, he thought, even if the first touch of her hands on his scarred skin had him grabbing the corners of the desk, digging his palms into the sharp edges of the wood. He had to steel himself against whatever pain she inflicted; create a barrier between his conscious and subconscious self.

He soon discovered no barrier was necessary. The rhythmic kneading that began between his shoulder blades had a mesmeric effect on his brain. Her strong fingers curled into his flesh, finding and releasing the taut tendons in his neck and shoulders, splaying over his torso, moving smoothly down his spine.

He felt himself loosening, adjusting, relaxing, as that almost liquid friction probed each vertebra in turn before gliding on. His muscles still burned, but the heat spread smoothly over him. He felt a sinuous feeling of inertia, and a mindless relief from the stiffness that had almost paralysed him minutes before.

Then, just when he was wondering what he could do to thank her, he felt her fingers slip beneath his waist and fumble for the buckle on his belt. ‘Can we loosen this?’ she asked, not seeming to realise he had stiffened up again. ‘If you could just push your pants down around your hips, I could—’

‘No!’ With an effort, Matt managed to grab her hand and shove it away from him. He blew out a breath. ‘What the hell do you think I am?’

‘A prude?’ she suggested, loosening her fingers from his and tucking them beneath her arms. She stepped back from the desk and although he sensed she was far from relaxed with him she added bravely, ‘You weren’t half so modest when I woke you up.’

Matt’s jaw clamped, but with a supreme effort he managed to roll onto his side. ‘Yeah, well…’ He regarded her dourly. ‘That was different.’

‘Because you were calling the shots?’ She didn’t back off. ‘I’m not about to jump your bones, Mr Quinn.’

As if she could, thought Matt grimly, pushing that thought aside to acknowledge that it was going to be bloody difficult to get down from the desk without her help. ‘Look, you’ve done a good job,’ he began, only to have her spread her hands in frustration.

‘I haven’t finished,’ she protested. ‘I haven’t even touched your lumbar region, and in my opinion that’s where the root of the problem lies.’

‘I don’t have a problem,’ muttered Matt, edging uneasily across the desk and somehow swinging his legs to the floor. He winced as his body denied that statement, but he wouldn’t let her see how stiff he still was. ‘Thanks, anyway. I appreciate it.’

‘My pleasure,’ she said, though he doubted it was. She paused. ‘I’ll be going now. Shall I come back tomorrow?’

Matt eased himself onto his feet. ‘If that’s OK with you,’ he said.

‘OK.’ She nodded. Then, with a reluctant gesture, she added, ‘You’d better put your shirt on. You’re sweating and you wouldn’t want to catch a chill.’

‘As opposed to what exactly?’

He regretted the words as soon as they were out, but Fliss had already turned away so he couldn’t see her face. ‘I always care about my patients,’ she said smoothly, opening the door. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

The house seemed absurdly empty after she’d gone. Despite the fact that his whole purpose in coming here had been to get away from people, suddenly he missed the almost comforting awareness of her working in another part of the house.

He moved jerkily across to the windows and was in time to see her striding away down the path that led to the church. He guessed there must be a short cut through the churchyard, though, in all honesty, he didn’t even know where she lived. Just that she lived with her widowed father and her daughter. That was it.

Diane would know where she lived, he acknowledged, but he had no intention of asking her. He could already imagine her reaction when he admitted that he’d employed Fliss Taylor as his housekeeper. And if she ever found out Fliss had given him a massage…She would not be pleased, but what the hell? Did he really care?

He knew he should. It wasn’t Diane’s fault that he’d been sent to Abuqara. It wasn’t Diane’s fault that he’d come back only half a man. She saw what she wanted to see. Any essential differences she either couldn’t—or wouldn’t—understand.

The phone rang then, startling him out of his reverie. His spirits slumped. Had his thoughts about Diane somehow communicated themselves to her? It was several days since she’d left for London and no doubt she’d expected him to ring her over the weekend.

Fortunately, there was an extension in the library so he didn’t have to go far to answer the call. His reluctance as he lifted the receiver spoke volumes, but he endeavoured to inject a positive note into his voice as he said, ‘Yeah, this is Quinn.’

‘Matthew!’ His mother’s voice was so much more welcome than Diane’s that Matt sagged against the bookshelves.

‘Ma.’

‘Are you all right?’ There was concern in her voice. ‘I expected you to ring me after you’d settled in.’

‘I intended to.’

‘Oh?’ Louise Quinn’s voice rose a little now. ‘When, exactly?’

‘Soon.’ Matt sighed. ‘I’ve been busy, Ma. Apart from the few things I brought from London, I didn’t have any furniture.’

‘Oh, Matthew!’ There was reproof in her voice now. ‘You can’t possibly live like that.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ve remedied the situation.’ He sighed. ‘I’m not incapable, you know.’

‘But after all you’ve been through—’

‘That’s in the past now.’

‘Is it?’ She didn’t sound convinced. ‘According to Diane, it’s still very much in the present.’

Diane. Matt controlled the urge to say that Diane had no right to be unloading her problems onto his mother. Instead, he said evenly, ‘Diane’s peeved because I moved out of town.’

‘And with good reason.’ His mother clucked her tongue now. ‘Oh, Matthew, are you sure you’re going to be all right? I liked to think I was just across town if you needed me.’

‘I’m fine, honestly.’ Matt shifted as his back twinged again, wondering how honest he was being. ‘And I’m not a million miles away. You can always come and see me. Now I have a spare bed.’

‘But how are you going to look after a barn of a place like that? Diane says it has six bedrooms, for heaven’s sake.’

Diane, again. Matt stifled his irritation and said neutrally, ‘I’ve got a housekeeper. She’s helping me get the place in order.’

‘A housekeeper.’ Louise sounded relieved now. ‘Oh, well, that’s something, I suppose. Is she going to cook for you, too?’

‘I…’ Matt hadn’t considered the fact that he was now obliged to provide all his own meals. ‘Possibly,’ he said, wondering how Fliss would react to that suggestion. After this morning’s fiasco, he’d be lucky if she didn’t decide to find herself another job.

‘Well, I hope so,’ said his mother firmly. ‘You’re not fit to do everything for yourself.’

‘Ma—’

‘No, I mean it, Matthew. You may think you’ve put your past experiences behind you, but I know differently. It’s all very well pretending that a person can endure years of incarceration—’

‘It was one year, Ma.’

‘It was nearer two.’ She huffed. ‘Anyway, that’s not the point. No one—and I mean no one—suffers the kind of physical abuse you had to contend with and emerges unscathed.’

‘I don’t need this, Ma.’

‘I think you do.’ She was determined. ‘You were starved, Matthew. Starved and beaten. God knows what other kind of mental torture they put you through—’

‘For pity’s sake.’ Matt could feel every nerve in his body chilling with the memory. ‘Do you think this is helping? Is there any useful purpose in forcing me to remember? I’m trying to forget.’

‘I know, I know.’ At last his mother seemed to realise how insensitive her words must sound. ‘I’m sorry, darling, I’m a stupid old woman and you have every right to be angry with me. But I’m so worried about you, Matthew. We both are.’

‘Both?’ Matthew frowned.

‘Diane and I,’ said his mother impatiently. ‘She was such a comfort to me while you were away. A daughter couldn’t have been sweeter.’

‘Yeah, well…’ Matthew definitely didn’t want to talk about his relationship with Diane. ‘You can relax. I’m OK. Right?’

‘Right.’ But she still sounded uncertain. Then, injecting a note of optimism into her voice, she added, ‘Anyway, at least I’ll be able to tell Diane that you’ve got yourself a housekeeper. I know she’ll be relieved.’

Will she? Matt wanted to ask her not to mention it to Diane, but he didn’t have the strength to explain why. ‘I’ll ring you later in the week,’ he said, hoping to escape any more reproaches on Diane’s behalf. ‘OK?’

‘You will take care, won’t you, Matthew?’

‘I promise,’ he said, and with another brief word of farewell, he ended the call.

But, as he pushed himself away from the bookshelves and looked wearily around the library, he wondered if he was just kidding himself by thinking he could escape himself…

Chapter Seven

FOR the rest of the week, Fliss did her best to avoid her employer. She had plenty to do, and Matt himself seemed more than willing to keep out from under her feet. He didn’t mention what had happened and nor did she. She hadn’t forgotten the scars she’d seen on his back, but if he suspected she might tell her father he was very much mistaken.

On Wednesday morning, she arrived to find Albert Freeman, a local painter and decorator, already at work with his measuring tape and clipboard. He was only too happy to tell her that he’d been approached by ‘Mr Quinn’ to give him an estimate for how long it would take him to redecorate the hall, stairs and landing. Fliss knew a momentary—and totally unjustified—feeling of alienation at being cut out of the process. Matt had said nothing about his plans to her, and she consoled herself with the thought that he’d very likely find the pompous Mr Freeman rather hard to take.

However, she said nothing, getting on with her work as usual, and on Thursday morning it was Matt who came looking for her. She was cleaning out one of the store cupboards in the kitchen when his lean dark frame appeared in the doorway, and she was instantly conscious of him in every fibre of her being.

Fliss was standing on the top of the steps that had been rusting in the garden shed since old Colonel Phillips’s time, and she was unhappily aware of her bare legs below the cuffs of her khaki shorts.

It was ironic really, because for most of the week she’d sweated in her jeans and T-shirt. But today it was so hot, she’d decided to go with a sleeveless vest and shorts. It wasn’t as if Matt noticed what she was wearing, she’d assured herself. Most of the time, he barely seemed to notice she was there.

Except for that first morning…

But she didn’t want to think of that now, not when Matt was standing staring up at her with those dark, inscrutable eyes. He was wearing loose-fitting cotton trousers and an open-necked chambray shirt folded back over muscular forearms. Both the trousers and the shirt were black and accentuated the sombre cast of his expression.

‘D’you have a minute?’ he asked, and she wondered with an uneasy pang if he was going to give her notice. Finding out that her father wrote a column for the weekly newspaper had definitely angered him. It was only because he’d developed those muscular pains in his back and shoulders that the subject had been dropped.

The fact that that was several days ago now didn’t reassure her. He had been avoiding her, and he might have thought he had to let her work a week before finding fault with her efforts. Whatever, he was waiting for her to get down before telling her what he wanted, and, dropping the cloth she’d been using into the bucket, she turned, her foot groping blindly for the second stair.

The sudden crack as the support that had been holding the steps together snapped sounded like a gunshot in the quiet room. Almost in slow motion, it seemed, the two sides of the steps parted company, sliding away in opposite directions, leaving Fliss to flail uselessly for something to hold on to.

She was going to fall onto the steps, she knew. She couldn’t avoid it. A vision of herself hitting the floor, of her limbs crumpling onto broken ribs and bare metal was all too vivid in her imagination, and there was nothing she could do about it.

It didn’t happen. Somehow, Matt managed to grab her around the waist and haul her back out of harm’s way. For a heart-stopping moment she was in his arms, the hard muscles of his chest and thighs pressed close to her back. Then he lost his balance and they both went down, Fliss landing heavily on top of him.

He grunted as her weight knocked most of the air out of his lungs, but for a moment Fliss couldn’t move. She was so relieved that she’d escaped serious injury, that she wasn’t nursing any broken bones, that it wasn’t until she heard his stifled groan that she scrambled off him.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she cried, only just resisting the urge to run her hands all over him. Just to reassure herself that he was still in one piece, she told herself fiercely, ignoring the other urges his supine form engendered in her. ‘I’m such a fool. I should have had more sense than to use those old steps!’

Matt shifted a little uneasily, as if testing his own resistance to injury, and said weakly, ‘It’s not your fault. You didn’t know they were going to break at that moment. Where the hell did you get them, anyway?’

Fliss pulled a wry face. ‘From the shed.’

‘Whose shed?’

‘Colonel Phill—I mean, yours,’ she amended lamely. ‘They’ve been there for years.’

‘I believe it.’ He managed to get an elbow under his body and levered himself up onto it. ‘I guess I need some new ones.’

Fliss sat back on her heels. ‘I suppose you do.’ She bit her lip. ‘Are you all right? I haven’t—damaged anything, have I?’

Matt’s lips twitched with reluctant humour. ‘Well, you’re not as light as you look,’ he conceded mildly, and faint colour entered her cheeks. He winced as he moved again. ‘I may have need of your other services, however.’

Fliss blinked. ‘My other services?’ she echoed, not understanding what he meant for a moment. ‘What other services?’

Matt gave her a dry look. ‘What are you offering?’

Fliss swallowed. ‘I don’t know what—’

‘Physiotherapy?’ suggested Matt innocently, though his eyes were giving her a decidedly sensual appraisal. ‘I’m afraid I’m not in the market for anything else at present.’

‘Oh!’ Fliss’s face burned. ‘I wasn’t—I mean I never thought—’

‘No.’ His gaze had dropped to her mouth and she felt a flame ignite deep down in the pit of her stomach. ‘I know that. I was only kidding.’

He didn’t look as if he’d been kidding, she thought, knowing she should scramble out of reach before this situation got any more embarrassing. She wasn’t used to this. She wasn’t used to dealing with a man as sophisticated as he was, and if she wanted to save herself further humiliation she should move before he realised it.

Getting hurriedly to her feet, she said awkwardly, ‘Do you need help getting up?’

‘Do I look as if I do?’ Matt pushed himself into a sitting position and seemed to be assessing his injuries. ‘Yeah, why not?’

He held out his hand towards her and Fliss had no choice than to take it. His fingers were long and hard, his palm slightly callused—possibly the result of his incarceration. She’d read somewhere that he’d been kept in a cell barely big enough to lie down in, and she doubted he’d slept in a bed. God knew how he had kept himself sane, let alone anything else.

His hand fairly engulfed hers and she hoped he wouldn’t notice how damp her skin was. Well, she had been using a wet cloth, she assured herself, hoping he’d put her sweating palm down to her exertions. But, looking into his knowing eyes, she rather doubted it.

She heaved then, stepping back as she did so, and with very little effort, it seemed, Matt came to his feet. He grunted, which might have been in protest, and clutched her other arm as he gained his balance.

‘Thanks,’ he said, his warm breath invading her mouth and nostrils, making what should have been a casual act of kindness into something personal and intimate. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Me?’ The word was hardly more than a squeak and she struggled to recover her voice. ‘Yes,’ she said, intensely aware of his hand gripping her bare forearm. ‘You—er—you cushioned my fall.’

‘Oh, right.’ Humour lurked at the corners of his mouth, but for some reason he didn’t immediately let go of her. ‘I knew it was only a matter of time before somebody used me as a doormat.’

‘I didn’t—’ she began and then broke off abruptly, pressing her lips together when she saw the glint in his eyes. ‘I suppose you’re teasing me again? It must be so satisfying to have such an easy target.’

‘Sorry.’ His humour disappeared and he looked down at his hand circling her arm. Was he comparing the darkness of his flesh to the paleness of hers? she wondered tensely, and then felt an unwarranted tremor in her knees when he added softly, ‘I didn’t mean to offend you.’

Fliss didn’t know how to answer him. She was afraid her amateur efforts to defend herself had summoned an entirely too-serious response. Unless he was joking with her again. How was she supposed to know? How did women know these things? She wished she knew.

His bent head drew her unwilling gaze. He kept his hair very short, but that didn’t hide how thick and springy it was, and she wondered how it would feel to run her hands over his scalp. Her fingers itched to touch him, to take advantage of this sudden, unexpected intimacy. How would he react if she behaved in a totally uncharacteristic way?

She wasn’t going to find out. Not in this lifetime. She simply didn’t have the courage and, besides, he would probably think she was mad. He already had a girlfriend, one far more versed in the arts of seduction than she’d ever be. Goodness, did she want to lose this job before she’d even had her first pay packet?

That didn’t stop her from noticing that from this angle she could see the streaks of grey among the dark strands. Another consequence of his imprisonment, she presumed. He must have been scared at times. No matter how brave a person was, he had to have wondered if they were going to kill him. How old had they said he was in the article she’d read? Thirty-two or thirty-three? He looked older.

It was then that he lifted his head and found her looking at him. Their eyes connected, and it was like that moment in his bedroom all over again. His eyes were the same, heavy-lidded and intent, but also sensual. Her pulse quickened automatically, and she realised she should have moved away before he became aware of her interest.

She tried to do so now, but for some reason he held on, his fingers tightening about her arm. ‘You’re not afraid of me, are you?’ he asked, as if the reaction she was exhibiting were panic. ‘I’ve noticed you’ve been avoiding me all week. What has your father been telling you about me?’

‘Nothing.’ In all honesty, her father had been more interested in what she could tell him. ‘I haven’t been discussing you with him. I do have other things in my life.’

‘Of course you do.’ Matt pulled a wry face. ‘So, when can I expect to see this article he’s writing about me?’

Fliss gasped. ‘He’s not writing an article about you,’ she protested, hoping that was true. ‘You really are paranoid, aren’t you? Do you think the world revolves around you?’

Matt’s mouth tightened. ‘I’ve had that impression,’ he muttered.

‘Well, not from me,’ said Fliss staunchly, levering his fingers from her arm and stepping back. She took a deep breath. ‘Now, did you want something? If not, I’ve got to finish these cupboards.’

Matt stared at her for another long moment and then shook his head, as if by doing so he could clear his mind of what he’d been thinking. ‘Oh, yeah,’ he said, raking fingers across his scalp as she’d fantasised about doing only moments before. He sighed. ‘I came to ask you if you’d prefer to be paid by the week or the month.’ He paused. ‘It’s your call.’

Fliss felt a slightly hysterical desire to laugh. His words had certainly put things in perspective. ‘Am I going to be here long enough to find out?’ she asked, before she could stop herself, and Matt’s mouth twisted.

‘Well, I want you to stay,’ he said, and once again she had to struggle with the desire to ask him why.

‘That’s good,’ she said instead. ‘I—well, I had wondered.’

‘Why would you do that?’

He seemed genuinely puzzled, and to add to her confusion he reached out and tucked one errant strand of fiery hair behind her ear. His fingers brushed her skin, and Fliss felt the heat explode beneath them. He had no idea what he was doing to her, she thought, and that brought her briefly to her senses.

‘I—because of what you said about my father,’ she stammered a little breathily, trying desperately to remember who he was and why she was here. ‘You weren’t exactly pleased to discover he worked for the local paper.’

‘Ah.’ Matt nodded, as if that explained everything. But instead of withdrawing his hand, he allowed his knuckles to trail along the curve of her jawline. ‘You shouldn’t take what I say so literally.’ His thumb brushed her mouth, and then returned to abrade her parted lips. ‘You’re very trusting, aren’t you, Fliss? You make me wish I were not such a burned-out husk.’

‘You’re not burned out,’ she responded at once, and almost involuntarily her hand came up to cover his. She told herself later that she’d intended to push his fingers away, but when his thumb probed inside her mouth, all the strength drained out of her legs.

For that moment in time, she couldn’t think of anything or anyone but him. The rights and wrongs of what she was doing didn’t even come into it. And as if he had been startled by her unexpected action, Matt’s eyes darkened, and with a muffled sound he bent towards her and replaced his fingers with his mouth.

It was just a fleeting kiss, but its effect was electric. Her lips parted instinctively, and she felt the sensuous touch of his tongue. Need, hot and totally inappropriate, invaded her system, causing her to step half-involuntarily towards him. The blood was pounding through her veins, consuming her with her own body’s needs, and even the distant clang of warning bells couldn’t halt the urge she had to deepen the kiss.

With goose-pimples dancing along her skin, she had no thought for Diane or anyone else. There was liquid fire in her belly and a yielding ache between her legs and for the first time in her life she understood how irresistible sexual desire could be. She’d had a taste now and she wanted more, and she uttered a little moan of protest when he abruptly gripped her upper arms and put some space between them.

‘This is not a good idea,’ he said thickly, and Fliss stared up into his tormented face in sudden comprehension.

Dear heaven, what was she doing? He was engaged to Diane, for heaven’s sake. Whatever she thought she’d seen in his eyes was for someone else. Not her.

Her mouth was suddenly dry and she ran a nervous tongue over her lips before saying desperately, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ She spread her hands wide, wishing the floor would open up and swallow her. ‘I—I don’t know what came over me. You’re right. That—shouldn’t have happened.’

‘Forget it.’

His voice was harsh, but she didn’t kid herself he was saying that because he felt any responsibility for what had just occurred. It was even possible that he was feeling sorry for her, and that was worse. She couldn’t bear the thought that he and Diane might laugh about this behind her back.

‘Look,’ she said uncomfortably, ‘if you’d rather I left now, I’ll quite understand. I’m sure you won’t have any difficulty in finding someone else to take my place.’

‘Do you want to leave?’

His question startled her. ‘I—it’s not what I want, is it?’

‘Isn’t it?’

‘No.’ She realised she was still standing there with her arms spread and hurriedly dropped them to her sides. ‘I mean, it’s going to be difficult for us to work together after—this.’

‘For you, you mean?’

‘For you, too.’ Fliss stared helplessly at him. ‘All I can say is that I’ve never done anything like this before.’

‘I believe you.’ A hint of a smile touched his lips again. ‘From what I’ve heard, your last employer was in his nineties.’

Fliss flushed. ‘That’s not what I meant,’ she said, her fear that he might find the situation funny resurrecting itself. ‘I don’t—get involved with men.’

Matt held her gaze. ‘Except with the man who fathered your child,’ he remarked wryly. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t marry him if you have such conservative views.’

Fliss’s lips tightened. She wasn’t sure but she thought that might be an insult and she wondered what Diane had told him. And, even though she never discussed Amy’s father with anyone, she felt compelled to defend herself.

‘I didn’t want to marry Amy’s father,’ she said stiffly. ‘And I certainly didn’t plan on having a baby at sixteen.’

‘So why take the risk?’ Matt’s brows ascended. ‘Forgive me, but you must have known what would happen, even at sixteen.’

Fliss shook her head. ‘You don’t understand.’

‘So enlighten me.’

‘Why should I?’ Fliss gave him a defiant look.

‘Because I’m interested.’

‘Curious, don’t you mean?’ He shrugged, and although she suspected she was going to regret it later, she said, ‘I was naive. I’d never been the kind of girl to—well, to get involved with boys. I’d always been more interested in my school work, in getting good grades.’

‘Admirable.’

‘Yes.’ She didn’t know if he was being sarcastic or not, but she went on anyway. ‘I was flattered by an older boy’s attentions, and I made a mistake. End of story.’

‘But it wasn’t the end of the story, was it?’ he said. ‘You had Amy.’

‘Yes, I did. And Terry and his parents left the village telling everyone who would listen that he wasn’t the baby’s father.’

‘Nice guy!’

She pulled a wry face. ‘It was all for the best really. It would never have worked.’ She glanced about her at the worktops piled high with goods she’d taken from the cupboards she was cleaning. ‘Anyway, I’ll just tidy this stuff away and then I’ll go.’

Matt folded his arms across his midriff. ‘Are you still annoyed with me?’

Fliss shook her head. ‘No. I’m annoyed with myself.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I don’t want you to think I regret anything that’s happened.’

‘Not even us sharing a kiss?’

She flushed. ‘Not even that.’

His lips twisted. ‘Well, don’t worry about it. As you said, it’s not going to happen again.’

‘No, it’s not.’ Brushing past him, she lifted the broken steps out of the way and shoved them next to the back door. Then, lifting the bucket she had been using into the sink, she emptied the water away. ‘And as far as paying me for this week is concerned, you can have it on the house.’

He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a swear-word, but as it wasn’t spoken in English she couldn’t be sure. In any case, she was appalled at her own behaviour. It was all right making those kinds of gestures when you could afford it. Unfortunately she couldn’t.

Matt shifted then, coming to stand with his back to the counter beside her, his frustration evident. ‘Look, can’t we forget all this nonsense and start again?’ he demanded.

Fliss turned her head. ‘You really want me to stay?’

Matt expelled a weary sigh. ‘Yeah. I really want you to stay.’

She considered. ‘And you won’t—tell Diane what happened?’

Once again a quirk of amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth. ‘No, I won’t tell Diane,’ he promised. Then, with a strangely mocking expression, he turned away. ‘Take my word for it, she’d never believe it.’

Chapter Eight

MATT spent the rest of the day cursing himself for letting the situation with Fliss develop as it had. It would have served him right if she’d decided she didn’t want to work for him after all. And, in spite of everything, he wanted her to stay.

With hindsight, he didn’t know what had possessed him to act the way he had. What crazy urge had compelled him to touch her at all when he knew damn well that nothing would—or could—come of it?

OK, he understood his initial reaction when she’d landed on top of him. Having the breath knocked out of you by a warm and nubile young woman could cause a momentary loss of memory, and that was his excuse. Unfortunately, he’d prolonged the offence by holding on to her, by allowing her to believe, however briefly, that he knew what the hell he was doing.

Just because it was the first time his body had reacted normally since he came home from Abuqara, he’d wanted to prove something to himself. In those few seconds, he’d actually imagined what it would be like to ease her down onto the kitchen table and bury himself in her moist flesh, and when reality had intruded he’d fought against it.

Though not for long. His brief arousal hadn’t lasted beyond the point where his brain reasserted itself. Whatever fantasy his body had entertained, his mind soon reminded him what he was capable of and what he wasn’t. And making love with Fliss, however appealing that might seem in theory, clearly wasn’t possible in practice. And he was a fool if he thought otherwise.

Nevertheless, for a few delightful moments, he’d enjoyed the fantasy, and that was what he regretted most. He’d let her think he wanted her, instead of just the dream she represented.

All the same, the memory of how soft her skin had been was a constant irritant. No, not an irritant, he contradicted himself impatiently, a torment. It reminded him of how things had used to be, how he had used to feel. Her mouth had been soft, too, moist and generous, and the intimate brush of her tongue had made him want to do more than just taste her lips.

He wondered if that was a good sign. Surely it had to be, he told himself grimly as he carried a tumbler half-filled with mature single malt out onto the patio that evening. It was significant because he hadn’t felt any such emotions while he was in London. In spite of everything Diane had done to spark his interest, he’d backed away from any intimacy, and he knew she was hurt by his determination to keep her at arm’s length.

The night air felt surprisingly warm. Or was that just his imagination, too? Certainly he felt a little more optimistic than he’d done for some time. Maybe this really was what he’d needed. A complete change of scene, an escape from the associations his life in London had represented. He had to believe it; had to believe that in time he’d feel like a man again.

He went to bed at ten o’clock, but he slept only fitfully. His dreams were filled with erotic images; not of Diane, as they should have been, but of Fliss Taylor, and what might have happened the day before.

The scenario was always the same: Fliss was standing at the top of the steps, long legs pale and slender, the rounded curve of her bottom prominently displayed in the khaki shorts.

His physical reaction was immediate and unbelievably carnal. Even before the steps snapped as they had that morning, he was already anticipating what she would do if he touched her, if he slid his hand over her calf and the shapely length of her thigh to the provocative cuff of her shorts. And if he slipped his fingers beneath the cuff, would she be wearing any underwear?

The crack the steps made as they broke was clearly audible, and he lunged to save her just as he’d done in reality. But there the comparison with reality ended. Instead of stumbling backward and allowing her to wind him, somehow they fell together, legs entangling, the full swell of her breasts crushed against his chest.

And his arousal was almost painful. With her lissom body moulding itself to his, his response was all-consuming. The driving urge to possess her had him rolling on top of her, parting her legs with his thigh. His hands spread over her breasts, loving the thrust of the hard peaks against his palms. He wanted to tear the sleeveless top from her, to expose her breasts to his hungry gaze, but somehow he couldn’t do it. Instead he had to content himself with sucking her nipples through the thin cloth.

A haze of desire gripped him. Looking down at her, meeting her heavy-eyed gaze, he was struck anew by his own body’s needs. His sex, hot and engorged, was an actual physical ache now, and he rubbed himself against her, seeking a satisfaction he desperately needed to fulfil.

It didn’t happen. Like a mirage in the desert, the images faded, and a moan of real anguish escaped him as the dream slipped away. He awoke to find himself tangled in the bed sheets, one of his pillows clutched between his legs.

But this was no wet dream. Turning on to his back, he acknowledged he’d known that even while he was unconscious. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t make love to a woman; any woman. He was impotent.

Pushing himself to get up, he staggered out of the bed and into the bathroom. Then, in the shower, with the water beating hot and fiery on his chilled skin, he let the memories come. The fear, the beatings, the months of isolation; they had all taken their toll. But it was the night when General Hassan had sent for him, when the disgustingly fat Arab had made it clear what he expected of him, that destroyed him still.

The horror of that night was never going to go away, he acknowledged despairingly. Even though Hassan had never laid a hand on him, he had only to think about sex and it all came back in all its sordid detail. The man had expected Matt to be flattered by his attention, that he’d welcome any chance to improve his living conditions and gain some greater comfort for himself.

As if.

Matt felt sick at the thought. But, dammit, what had he said to give Hassan the idea that he might be agreeable to his demands? What had he done to attract the interest of a pervert like him?

He guessed a psychiatrist would tell him that he hadn’t done anything, that Hassan didn’t need any encouragement to use his prisoners for his own amusement. He was that kind of man, that kind of monster.

Yet Matt had never told anyone about that night. Maybe if he had, he would have been able to deal with it and move on. As it was, it remained like a cancer in his soul, something he wanted to put behind him, but which refused to be ignored.

So why didn’t he tell someone? he asked himself bitterly, reaching for the towel and drying himself with a savagery that spoke of his inner frustration. He’d done nothing wrong, for God’s sake. He’d escaped before Hassan could force his will on him.

Matt remembered now how he had still been tied to the chair in the general’s office where the guards had shackled him when the sudden sound of gunfire outside had distracted Hassan’s attention. A guard had been sent to investigate and he’d come back with the news that the small town was under attack from a unit of government forces, and the general had had no choice but to go and deal with the emergency.

For a short time, Matt had been alone, listening to the uproar outside. There’d been shouting and yelling, guns being discharged into the air, apparently in all directions judging by the howls of protest that penetrated the shutters on the windows. Briefly, he’d entertained the hope that the raid had been engineered to rescue him, but that idea was extinguished as soon as Captain Rachid appeared in the doorway.

The rebel captain came into the room, closing the door behind him, and for an awful moment Matt had thought he had been sent to kill him. He couldn’t think of any other reason why the man might be there, and even though they’d talked together at length, he’d been under no illusion that Rachid was his friend.

Even when the captain pulled out a knife and began cutting through the ropes that bound him, Matt had expected the worst. As soon as his hands were free, he’d made a futile attempt to attack the man, but he was weak from hunger and his arms and legs were numb from a lack of circulation.

He supposed it was a measure of the man’s decency that he hadn’t defended himself as harshly as he might have done. Overpowering Matt with little effort, he’d thrust his lips close to his ear and told him that a Jeep, with a full tank of petrol, was hidden around the back of the prison. By his reckoning, Matt had had less than ten minutes to find the Jeep and use it. After that, he was on his own.

In the months that followed, Matt had often wondered why Rachid had helped him. The man had been Hassan’s second-in-command, a trusted ally, who had had nothing to gain by aiding him to escape.

Except, perhaps, that he hadn’t approved of what his commander had intended to do. Matt knew he would never know now. Rachid had been killed during the final battle for Abuqara City, and Hassan had been arrested some time later for crimes against the state. The only positive outcome had been the change of government, brought about by external pressure when the rebellion was quashed, but he doubted there would be any fundamental change of policy.

Nevertheless, he owed a tremendous debt of gratitude to the rebel captain. Without his intervention—and Matt had come to believe there never had been any government forces in the area—he’d never have got away.

So why was he so unwilling to talk about it? He had nothing to be ashamed of. He scowled. The truth was, he was ashamed. Ashamed of his own weakness; of his helplessness in the face of danger; of the stupidity he’d displayed in letting such a thing happen to him.

And, even though he knew it was crazy, he couldn’t confess his deepest fears to a total stranger and there was no one else. If his father had still been alive, he might have been able to talk to him, but Alistair Quinn had died while his son was in captivity. Another burden Matt had had to bear since he got back.

Discussing his imprisonment with his mother had been out of the question. Louise would have been horrified at the news that her son had suffered any kind of brutality at the hands of his captors. She hadn’t even wanted to see the scars on his back, that had had to be treated at a hospital and which some news hack had found out about and made such a big thing of. She’d been delighted to have him home. But she definitely didn’t want to be reminded of what might have gone on while he was away.

Diane had remained the only possibility, but she had quickly diverted him from any discussion of the squalid conditions he’d had to suffer. Like his mother, she didn’t want to think about the past. She wanted to talk about the future, their future. A future, Matt now acknowledged, that had never seemed more remote.

He dressed in a cotton vest and drawstring sweat pants and was drinking his first coffee of the day when Fliss knocked at the back door. He knew it was her. He could see her shadow through the windowed half-panels in the door, and, although he could have done with a little more time to regain his composure before seeing her again, he had no choice but to let her in.

She wasn’t alone. To his surprise, when he opened the door, Amy was standing at her mother’s side. They were both dressed in shorts and T-shirts, Amy’s hair, which was longer than her mother’s and straighter, caught up in a pony-tail.

‘Hi, Quinn.’

Predictably, it was Amy who spoke first and Matt saw the way Fliss winced at her daughter’s familiarity. But she had evidently decided to put what had happened the day before behind her and her tone was coolly polite as she said, ‘Amy’s got a day’s holiday today. I hoped you wouldn’t mind if she came and played in the garden while I’m working.’

‘No.’ Matt took a step back, silently inviting them inside. ‘I don’t mind at all.’ His eyes moved to the child and he managed a grin. ‘Hello again, Amy. Or are you calling yourself something else today?’

Amy giggled. ‘Well…’ she said thoughtfully, putting a finger against her lips, but her mother intervened.

‘Amy will do,’ she said firmly, stepping inside. She glanced behind her. ‘Don’t go out of the garden, will you, Amy? And if you want anything, come and knock at this door.’

‘She can come and have a drink,’ said Matt, not quite knowing why he’d made the suggestion, but clearly Fliss thought she did.

‘It’s not necessary,’ she said, her cheeks a little pink. ‘I’ll be starting work straight away—’

‘Well, as I’ve just made a pot of coffee, why don’t we all have a drink first?’ suggested Matt drily, and Amy gave him a huge smile.

‘Oh, yes, Mummy. Can we?’

She was obviously eager and Fliss, finding herself outvoted, had little choice but to give in. All the same, Matt noticed that she ignored his offer of a seat and took her coffee standing, her hip firmly wedged against the counter behind her.

And, conversely, he found himself resenting her behaviour. A few moments ago, he hadn’t wanted to open the door to her, and now he was finding her polite detachment hard to take. Dammit, he regretted what had happened just as much as she did. More, probably. And she hadn’t had to contend with erotic dreams that had tormented his sleep and left him feeling strangely off-key.

‘Grandad’s going to make a bigger place for Buttons,’ Amy offered, after Matt had handed her a glass of fizzy lemonade.

‘An enclosure,’ corrected Fliss and Amy nodded.

‘Yes. A “closure.”’ She glanced about her. ‘Do you have a straw?’

‘Amy!’

Fliss was impatient, but Matt was grateful to the child for lightening the mood. ‘Sorry,’ he said, pulling a wry face. ‘But I’ll be sure and have some for next time.’

Amy beamed. ‘Colonel Phillips used to buy straws just for me,’ she said proudly. ‘Did you know Colonel Phillips? He was very old.’

‘Amy,’ Fliss said again, but Matt was happy to continue the conversation. At least with Amy there were no undercurrents; no suspicion that Fliss had only agreed to stay to prove something to herself.

‘No, I didn’t know Colonel Phillips,’ he said, wishing Fliss would sit down so he could do the same. He could feel an ache in his lumbar region, which he guessed was the result of the fall he’d taken the day before. ‘He was gone before I bought the house.’ He paused. ‘Did he let you come here with your Mummy, too?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Amy spoke airily. ‘He used to like me to come and play games with him. Board games, I mean. Draughts and ludo, that sort of thing. Oh, and he had boxes and boxes of coins and stuff. I used to like looking at them.’

‘I bet.’ Matt’s eyes moved thoughtfully to Fliss’s solemn face and then away again. What was she thinking? he wondered. That he was using the child to find out more about her? He considered. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have any coins, but I do have lots of books that need sorting out. How would you like to help me this morning? We could sort them out together.’

‘It’s a fine morning,’ said Fliss at once. ‘Amy will be happy enough in the garden. You don’t have to entertain her, Mr Quinn.’

‘I know I don’t,’ said Matt, and, seeing the little girl’s disappointed face, he couldn’t help responding to it. ‘But I mean it. Amy can help me. You saw how many boxes of books there are.’

‘I’m a good reader,’ put in Amy at once. ‘Mrs Hill says I’m the best reader in my class.’

‘Brilliant,’ said Matt, with a rueful grin at Fliss. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

Fliss allowed a sigh to escape her. ‘I—of course I don’t mind, but—’

‘That’s settled, then,’ said Matt, and, deciding there was no point in being proud, he sank gratefully into a chair at the table. ‘I’ll be glad of her help, and if she gets bored she can always go outside.’

‘I won’t get bored,’ declared Amy, but Matt could see that Fliss still had her doubts.

‘If you need help…’ she began, but he shook his head.

‘She’ll be good company,’ he assured her. If only because she would stop him from dwelling on other things. ‘We’ll be fine.’

‘Well, it’s very kind of you,’ Fliss said awkwardly, and he glimpsed a trace of empathy at last. She finished her coffee and put down her cup. ‘I’ll leave you to it, then.’ She bent and gave Amy a kiss. ‘You be good now,’ she added. ‘And don’t get in Mr Quinn’s way.’

The morning passed remarkably quickly. Matt hadn’t exaggerated when he’d said that Amy would be good company. She was. She liked to talk. She chattered on about everything, from school and her family to what she’d watched on television the night before. And he discovered she wasn’t at all inhibited about the fact that she didn’t know her father.

‘He went away before I was born,’ she said matter-of-factly, spilling books, that Matt had just sorted into categories, over his desk. ‘Where do you want me to put these?’

‘Oh—just leave them where they are,’ said Matt resignedly, beginning to sort them all over again. ‘You open that box over there. You might find something interesting in it.’

Amy went to squat beside the box he’d indicated, and Matt wondered if she’d say any more about her father. But she didn’t. Instead, she used the scissors to cut the string that bound the box, and then hauled out the first of the photograph albums that were inside.

‘Is this yours?’ she asked, and Matt nodded.

‘It’s a kind of picture record of the different stories I used to report for Thames Valley News,’ he explained. ‘I thought you might find it more interesting than all these reference books.’

Amy’s eyes widened. ‘Did you used to work on television?’ she exclaimed. ‘Oh, wow! That’s so cool.’

‘It was just a job,’ said Matt modestly, finding her innocent admiration much more appealing than the insincere flattery he’d received from various quarters since he’d got back. All the same, he didn’t deserve it, and to divert her he bent and pointed to a man pictured in one of the stills. ‘Did you know he used to be the President of Abuqara?’

Amy stared. ‘Have you met him?’

‘Oh, yeah.’ Matt’s jaw tightened and he wondered why he’d bothered to bring Abraham Adil to her attention. ‘That was why I was in Abuqara. To report on the rebellion that was trying to get rid of his administration.’

‘And did they?’ Amy asked, her interest as innocent as her praise, and Matt sighed.

‘Get rid of the government?’ And after a quick nod of assent, ‘Eventually.’ He pulled a face. ‘Unfortunately, the new government is likely to be just as corrupt.’

‘Corrupt?’ Amy frowned.

‘Bad,’ amended Matt, straightening again with an effort. ‘There are oil reserves in Abuqara and everyone wants to control them. Not always for humanitarian reasons.’

Amy clearly didn’t understand now, and he realised he shouldn’t be talking of such things to her. She didn’t understand. How could she? In her world—thank goodness—people didn’t lie and cheat and torture to gain their own ends.

‘Was it this man who put you in prison?’ she asked suddenly, and Matt caught his breath.

‘Who told you I’d been in prison?’ he demanded, feeling unexpectedly betrayed. ‘Your mother?’

Amy wouldn’t look at him now. ‘No one told me,’ she muttered, turning another page of the album and pretending to be interested in a picture of sand-dunes. ‘Is this in Abuqara, too?’

Matt sighed. ‘Amy,’ he said sternly. ‘How did you find out?’

Amy glanced at him then, her brows arched in artless enquiry.

‘How did I find out what?’

‘Amy!’

She sighed. ‘If you must know, I heard Grandad talking to Mummy,’ she admitted in a low voice. ‘He was annoyed because she hadn’t told him who you were.’

Matt hesitated. ‘And do you know who I am, Amy?’

She gave a careless shrug. ‘Yes.’

‘So who am I?’

‘You’re Matthew Quinn,’ she responded at once. ‘You told me who you were.’

‘Mmm.’ Matt considered her answer. ‘I suppose I did. Not that it matters. The whole village probably knows I’ve bought this place.’

Amy’s brows drew together again. ‘Do you mind?’ she asked, and he was unwillingly touched by her sincerity. ‘Are you ashamed because they put you in prison?’

‘No.’ Matt wished it were that simple.

‘So why did they put you in prison? What did you do wrong?’

Matt sighed. ‘In Abuqara, you don’t have to do anything wrong to be put in prison.’ He grimaced. ‘If you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time, you don’t have a choice.’

Amy put the photograph album aside. ‘And you were in the wrong place at the wrong time?’

‘Yeah.’

‘So why don’t you want people to know where you are now?’ she asked practically, and he couldn’t prevent a wry smile.

‘Do you know what the media is?’

Amy shook her head. ‘No.’

‘Well, it’s newspapers and magazines and television reporters—’

‘Like you?’

‘Like I used to be,’ he admitted honestly. ‘Since I got back, they’ve all wanted a piece of me.’

‘A piece of you?’ Amy was perplexed. ‘You mean, they want to cut you up?’

In a manner of speaking, thought Matt drily, but he didn’t say it. ‘I mean, they all want a story—my story,’ he said instead. ‘I guess getting kidnapped by guerrillas is news. They want to know how I survived it.’

‘Gorillas?’ said Amy curiously. ‘Why would gorillas want to kidnap you? Did they hurt you?’

Matt couldn’t help himself. He laughed, and, seeing his amusement, Amy laughed, too. For a few moments, they were both convulsed with mirth, and it was only when the door opened and Fliss appeared that Matt realised she must have heard them and wondered what on earth was going on.

‘Is everything all right?’ she asked, and Matt made an effort to control himself. But it was the first time he’d laughed so unrestrainedly since he got back from Abuqara, and it felt good. Really good.

‘Everything’s fine,’ he said now, as Amy scrubbed the heels of her hands over her wet eyes. ‘Amy said something funny, that’s all.’

‘Did you know Quinn was kidnapped by gorillas?’ asked the little girl, trying to stifle her giggles, and Matt saw the look of comprehension that crossed her mother’s face.

‘Guerrillas, Amy,’ she said, and then, as if realising she was being too pedantic, she shook her head.

‘Well, I can see you’ve been having a good time,’ she remarked wryly. ‘Are you ready to go home now?’

Amy’s face dropped, and even Matt felt a reluctance to let her go. ‘Is it that time already?’ he asked, gazing at his watch in disbelief. ‘I had no idea.’

‘Do we have to go, Mum?’ protested Amy. She hurriedly picked up the album again and opened it at the page showing the picture of Abraham Adil. ‘Look, that’s the President of Abuqara. Quinn says he knows him.’

‘Really?’ Fliss barely glanced at the picture before looking at Matt again with concerned eyes. ‘You haven’t been telling Amy about—well, about your experiences, have you?’ she asked tightly, and he gave her a narrow-eyed look.

‘Oh, yeah,’ he said. Then, seeing her dismay, he relented. ‘What do you think I am? Crazy?’

‘Of course not.’ Her response was automatic, but he couldn’t make up his mind whether he believed her or not. And, dammit, he hadn’t exactly given her a good impression of himself so far.

‘Look, we were just talking, that’s all,’ he muttered gruffly. ‘If anything, I was giving her a history lesson. About the problems in North Africa.’ He paused and then continued wearily, ‘She already knew I’d been in prison. Perhaps you ought to ask her how she knew about that.’

Chapter Nine

FLISS had to work at the pub that evening.

She didn’t feel like it, particularly after the way she’d left the Old Coaching House that afternoon. She felt on edge and uneasy, ready to snap at the first wrong word. But, although she would have liked to blame Matt for her bad mood, she knew it wasn’t his fault that she felt so depressed.

Yet it seemed that every time she and Matt seemed to be making some progress, something happened to upset the balance. This time, it was what Amy had overheard—and apparently related to him—and she hadn’t known what to say when he’d accused her of gossiping about him at home.

Of course, his response had been triggered by her reaction to Amy’s excitement over the photographs. She’d immediately jumped to the wrong conclusion and there was no excuse for that. But, dammit, her fears had been fuelled by what her father had told her. If he hadn’t filled her head with what he’d heard about Matt’s supposed instability, she’d never have suspected him of telling Amy horror stories in the first place.

Not that those things weren’t constantly on her mind, too, she conceded unhappily, heading back to the restaurant to take another order. Although she’d attempted to convince herself that the scars she’d seen on his back looked worse than they actually were, the images they’d evoked simply wouldn’t go away. What had he done, for God’s sake, to deserve such punishment? What kind of monster had done that to him? Did anyone ever recover from that kind of experience?

‘Hello, Fliss.’

Someone spoke, a man, and Fliss, who had been concentrating on adding the table’s number to her order pad, looked up in surprise.

Harry Gilchrist was one of the four young people who had recently been shown to a table in the window. He and another man Fliss knew by sight were sitting opposite two young women she didn’t recognise. Pasting on a friendly smile, she returned his greeting and then said, ‘Are you ready to order?’

‘What are your specials?’ asked the other man, nodding towards the extra dishes that were posted on a board beside the bar. He raised his eyebrows at his companion. ‘I fancy a steak.’

‘Do you?’ she said archly. ‘I fancy something else entirely.’

Fliss ignored this and recited the evening’s special dishes, but she could see that Harry wasn’t comfortable with his friends’ behaviour. ‘Are you OK, Fliss?’ he asked, showing her the kind of attention he should have been showing his girlfriend. ‘I heard you’d gone to work for our local celebrity. What’s he like?’

Fliss’s lips tightened. ‘You should know, Harry. I saw you talking to him yourself the other afternoon.’

Harry looked a little put out now and Fliss knew she shouldn’t have taken her bad mood out on him. ‘I only meant what’s he like to work for,’ he muttered. ‘He’s bit of a weirdo, isn’t he?’

‘Who, Matthew Quinn?’ asked his male companion with interest. ‘I didn’t know you knew him, Gil.’

‘I don’t,’ said Harry shortly, giving Fliss a resentful look. ‘He came into the store, that’s all.’ He paused, before returning to his earlier comment. ‘That’s what I’ve heard, anyway.’

‘Well, you heard wrong,’ said Fliss, her nails digging into her pad. ‘Now, have you decided what you want to eat or shall I come back?’

She was flushed when she got back to the kitchen and Eileen Reardon regarded her curiously. ‘Is something wrong, love?’ she asked, her gentle Irish brogue soft with concern. ‘I saw Harry Gilchrist come in. What’s he been saying to you?’

‘Oh—nothing.’ Fliss couldn’t let Eileen think Harry was to blame. In all honesty, he had only been trying to be friendly, as always. ‘I—it’s very warm in there, that’s all.’

‘Are you sure?’

Eileen was looking at her with such compassion in her eyes that Fliss was tempted to confide in her. This was when she missed her mother most. Her father did his best, but he was a man. He didn’t always understand how she was feeling.

But she didn’t have the right to discuss Matt’s affairs with anyone, and, forcing a rueful smile, she said, ‘It’s been a long day. Thank goodness it’s the weekend.’

Eileen hesitated. ‘Is the job at the big house getting too much for you?’

‘Oh—no.’ Once again, Fliss’s colour deepened. ‘Um—I’d better give these orders in,’ she added, easing past her employer’s wife with some relief. ‘Or your customers will be complaining.’

Eileen let her go, but Fliss knew she wasn’t entirely satisfied with her answer. She hoped the older woman thought it was just because she was tired. She would hate any more gossip to find its way to Matt’s ears.

Fliss had hoped to stay in bed a little later the next morning, but at seven o’clock Amy came bounding into the room. She’d taken to copying her mother’s example and sleeping in cotton boxers and a T-shirt, and now she bounced onto the bed and crossed her bare legs.

‘It’s another lovely morning, Mum,’ she announced brightly, as her mother struggled to get her bearings. ‘Do you think we could go to the beach?’

‘The beach?’ Fliss shook her head in some bewilderment. She’d slept only fitfully again and she was having trouble in assimilating the fact that it was Saturday and she didn’t have to go to work. ‘Oh, I don’t know…’

‘Come on, Mum,’ Amy was pleading. ‘You know we always have a good time at the beach. And we haven’t been for ages and ages.’

‘At least a month,’ agreed her mother drily. ‘Amy, I’ve got housework to do. And shopping. You can come into Westerbury with me, if you like.’

‘I don’t want to go shopping,’ said Amy moodily. ‘We always go shopping. I wanted us to have some fun together. Kelly Mason says that her mum and dad always take her out at weekends.’

Fliss expelled a weary breath and eased up against her pillows. She could have pointed out that Kelly Mason’s mother had all week to do her household chores. She didn’t have a job outside of looking after her husband and family, but Amy didn’t want to hear that.

Besides, Fliss had to admit she was right. She did usually spend Saturdays shopping or working in the garden, and it was only natural that Amy resented her preoccupation with such matters. But going to the beach…

‘How about having lunch at McDonalds?’ she compromised, knowing Amy loved eating out, but the little girl only picked disconsolately at a thread hanging off the bed sheet.

‘I’m not hungry,’ she muttered, pursing her lips, and Fliss sighed.

‘Amy—’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said indifferently, sliding off the bed. ‘I’m going to give Buttons his breakfast.’

Which was something else she had to do, Fliss reminded herself, unable to suppress a yawn. Unless she got some netting, the rabbit’s enclosure would never be made. Her father had made his order and he wouldn’t do anything else until she supplied the materials.

With a feeling of tiredness that had little to do with her restless night, Fliss swung her legs out of bed and got up. When she opened her bedroom door she found that her father had beaten her into the bathroom. She could hear the shower running, and, realising he was going to be some time yet, she went downstairs to use the toilet there.

There was no sign of Amy, but she wasn’t worried. Although the child was unlikely to have got dressed before she went out, it was a warm, sunny morning and she’d come to no harm going outside in just her sleeping shorts and T-shirt. Besides, Harvey was obviously with her, and he’d bark if anyone was about.

After attending to her immediate needs, Fliss washed her hands and then spooned coffee grains into the filter. With the reassuring sound of the coffee straining into the pot, she linked her hands together and stretched her arms above her head.

It was so good to feel her spine expanding, to feel all the kinks disappearing beneath a sudden wave of well-being. At least she was fit and healthy, she reminded herself firmly, her spirits lifting. She should be grateful for that.

She frowned as she looped one arm over her shoulder to meet the arm she’d twisted behind her back. Perhaps she and Amy could go to the beach, after all. She was up early enough, goodness knew. If she hurried and got her chores done straight after breakfast, she could leave the shopping until they got back.

She was reversing the exercise when the back door opened behind her. Guessing it was Amy, she didn’t immediately turn to look at her. She was too busy anticipating how delighted her daughter was going to be when she broke the news, and only when the cooler air from outside drifted about her bare midriff did she say, ‘Can you close the door, Ames? Please.’

She was arching her back in a final stretch when a disturbingly familiar male voice said, ‘Amy’s coming. She’s just checking on the rabbit, I think.’

Immediately, Fliss abandoned her exercises, and swung round to face him. ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded, the shock of being discovered in her night wear briefly obscuring the fact of how unusual it was for him to leave the house. ‘Where’s Amy?’

Matt tucked his fingers beneath his arms, an expression of mild amusement giving his dark features a disturbingly sexual appeal. Like her, he was wearing shorts, though she guessed he hadn’t slept in his. And a black vest, that revealed surprisingly muscled biceps for a man who supposedly led a sedentary life. Just looking at him like this made her toes curl, and the ache down in her belly caused a moist heat to make itself felt between her legs.

‘As I said before, she’s coming,’ Matt declared, his eyes surveying her just as thoroughly as she was surveying him. ‘I think she wanted me to speak to you first.’

Fliss’s heart sank. ‘What’s she done now?’ she asked wearily, deciding she couldn’t worry about her appearance right now. What she was wearing was decent enough, even if her nipples were etched unmistakably against the thin cloth of her T-shirt. ‘Don’t tell me she’s been annoying you again.’

‘As far as I’m aware, Amy has never annoyed me,’ he retorted, emphasising the last two words. ‘I like her. She’s a good kid.’

Fliss breathed through her nose, trying to subdue the erratic beat of her heart. ‘I know that,’ she said. ‘Unfortunately, that doesn’t stop her from getting into mischief.’ She paused, and then, as the reality of his presence registered, ‘I’m sorry. Were you looking for me?’

Matt sighed. ‘In a manner of speaking, I guess.’

Fliss frowned. ‘You haven’t come here to speak to my father, have you?’

‘Unlikely.’ Matt’s lips twisted. ‘My information was that he isn’t up yet.’

‘From Amy?’ Fliss blew out an exasperated breath. ‘Well, sorry to disappoint you, but he is up. He’s in the bathroom, but I have every reason to believe he’ll be down here any minute now.’

‘Magic.’ Matt pulled a wry face. ‘OK, here’s what I came to say—Amy tells me you don’t have time to take her to the beach—’

‘Amy told you that?’

‘Yeah.’ Matt shifted his weight from one foot to the other. ‘All right, I’ll admit it. She did come over to the house. The dog—what’s its name? Harvey?—had got into the garden and she was looking for it.’

Fliss snorted. ‘Yeah, right.’ She gave him a pitying look. ‘Believe me, if Harvey was in your garden, Amy must have put him there. There’s no way he could get out of this garden without someone opening the gate.’

‘Perhaps she was taking him for a walk?’ suggested Matt mildly, but Fliss only made another impatient gesture.

‘In her nightclothes?’ she demanded scornfully, and Matt gave a lazy shrug.

‘Why not? You apparently do aerobics in yours.’

Fliss felt the colour flood into her throat. ‘In my own kitchen,’ she retorted indignantly, and his lean mouth tilted in an incredibly sexy grin.

‘OK,’ he conceded. ‘That wasn’t fair. I’m sorry. But it’s true, isn’t it? You did tell Amy you couldn’t take her to the beach.’

‘I might have done.’

Matt waited a beat. Then, he said, ‘I wondered if you’d allow me to take her out.’

‘You?’

Fliss was taken aback and it showed, and Matt’s mouth compressed. ‘Yeah,’ he said flatly. ‘I knew it was a crazy idea, but I had to run it by you.’ He half turned. ‘Forget it. I’ll see you Monday morning at the usual time—’

‘Wait!’ Fliss didn’t know what possessed her, but she couldn’t let him go like this. ‘I—let me think about it, at least.’

Matt paused, and eyes dark as sin impaled her with a sceptical look. ‘What’s to think about?’ he asked. ‘You hardly know me. I know that. You don’t know if you can trust me. Like I said, it was a crazy idea. Why don’t we both forget I ever mentioned it?’

Fliss shook her head. ‘I can’t do that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well—for a start, because I do think I can trust you.’

‘Thanks.’ His tone was dry.

‘I mean it.’ Fliss sighed. ‘But Amy had no right to involve you—’

‘If you say so.’

‘—and I’m sure you have better things to do than take a nine-year-old to the beach.’

‘Ah.’ He was sardonic. ‘This is your way of letting me down gently, right?’

‘Wrong.’

‘But you’re going to say no, anyway,’ he persisted harshly. ‘Why don’t you just come out and say so?’

‘If you must know, I’d already decided to take her myself,’ said Fliss defensively, and she saw the way his mouth turned down at this news.

‘Yeah, right.’

‘I mean it.’ She gave a helpless shake of her head. ‘Why would I lie?’

‘You tell me.’

‘I’m not lying,’ she protested. ‘If you don’t believe me, why don’t you come with us?’

It was one of those moments when the air in the room practically shimmered with tension. Matt was obviously taken aback by her words and Fliss was wondering how much deeper a hole she was going to dig herself. Dear God, she didn’t want to spend a whole day with him any more than he wanted to spend the day with her. Dammit, why hadn’t she kept her big mouth shut?

‘What’s going on here?’

Her father’s appearance in the doorway seemed like the last straw. She had hoped Matt would have said his piece and disappeared before her father came down, but now George Taylor was staring at their visitor with wary eyes. He’d recognised him, of course. How could he not? And he was characteristically suspicious as to why Matt should be standing in his kitchen.

In fact it was Matt who took the initiative. ‘Mr Taylor, I presume,’ he remarked easily, putting out his hand to shake the other man’s as if he’d never expressed any reluctance to speak to a member of the Press. ‘Matt Quinn. I’m the new owner of the Old Coaching House.’

‘I know who you are Mr Quinn,’ said Fliss’s father stiffly, obviously as taken aback by Matt’s cordiality as Fliss was herself. Then his gaze turned to his daughter, and his lips tightened. ‘I suggest you go and put some clothes on, Felicity. I’ll entertain our guest.’

Fliss rolled her eyes. ‘Dad—’

‘It’s OK,’ said Matt, before she could say anything more. ‘I’ve got to go and finish my breakfast and lock up the house.’ He met Fliss’s gaze with apparent unconcern. ‘I’ll leave your daughter to explain that I’m taking her and your granddaughter out for the day.’

Fliss didn’t know which of them was the most shocked, her or her father. But rather than wait to see how she was going to handle it, Matt arched a challenging brow in her direction and headed for the door.

‘I’ll be back in an hour,’ he promised blandly. ‘Nice to meet you, Mr Taylor.’

And with that, he was gone, and Fliss was left to face her father’s undoubted irritation. The door had scarcely closed behind Matt before he snapped, ‘Do you want to tell me what’s going on between you and that man? Why would he think he had the right to come here at—’ he consulted his wrist-watch before continuing—‘at seven-thirty in the morning? Has he been here all night?’

Fliss’s jaw dropped. ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

‘What’s ridiculous about it? I didn’t hear a car, and you’re hardly dressed to receive visitors.’ His lips pursed with annoyance as he viewed her attire. ‘And couldn’t you buy yourself some nightgowns? What must he think, finding you wearing men’s underpants to sleep in?’

‘They’re boxers,’ Fliss corrected him shortly. ‘And they’re very comfortable, actually.’

‘No doubt.’ Her father sniffed. ‘Well? What’s all this about?’

Fliss expelled an exasperated breath, but before she could answer the door opened again and Amy and Harvey bounded in. ‘Is it true?’ the little girl demanded as Harvey raced wildly about the room. ‘Are we really going out with Quinn? He said we were. He said you’d said we could all go to the beach.’

‘Amy—’

‘I think your mother’s taken leave of her senses,’ retorted her grandfather dauntingly. ‘I never approved of her going to work for that man, but getting you involved as well—’

‘I didn’t get Amy involved,’ protested Fliss quickly, not prepared to be blamed for something that really wasn’t her fault. ‘It was Amy who let Harvey into Matt’s garden.’

‘So it’s “Matt’s” garden, is it?’ Her father was scornful. Then he turned to his granddaughter. ‘Is this true, Amy? Did you let Harvey out?’

Amy hunched her shoulders. ‘I might have done.’

‘Either you did or you didn’t.’ Her grandfather regarded her sternly. ‘You know that was a very naughty thing to do, don’t you? Harvey could have run away, or got knocked down. Anything.’

‘No, he couldn’t,’ muttered Amy sulkily. ‘He was safe enough in the garden at the big house.’

Her grandfather gasped. ‘So, you admit you deliberately released the dog in Mr Quinn’s garden?’

Amy looked mutinous. ‘He didn’t mind.’

‘How do you know that?’ Fliss’s father was angry now. ‘You hardly know the man.’

‘I do, too.’ Amy was defiant. ‘I spent all yesterday morning talking to him.’ She took a breath and then added staunchly, ‘He likes me.’

‘Does he?’ George Taylor turned back to his daughter now. ‘Why wasn’t I told about this?’

Fliss sighed. ‘About what?’

‘About Amy spending the morning with that man,’ stated her father grimly. ‘I thought you told me she was going to play outside, as she used to do when you worked for the colonel—’

‘I didn’t always play outside,’ Amy interrupted him quickly, and although Fliss knew the child was only trying to defend herself, she wasn’t doing herself any favours by reminding her grandfather of that. He had always been jealous of the time Amy spent with Colonel Phillips, and of the affection she had had for the old man. ‘We often used to play games—’

‘Be quiet, Amy.’ Her grandfather had heard enough. ‘Well, Fliss? I’m waiting for an answer.’

‘You’re not talking to Amy now, Dad,’ retorted Fliss, deciding her own grievance with her daughter would have to wait. ‘Amy was helping Mr Quinn unpack some books, that was all. He was glad of her company.’

‘And you left her with this man? With a man you hardly know?’ Her father shook his head. ‘I thought you’d have had more sense!’

Fliss stared at him. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Oh—’ He swung away to lift his coffee mug from the hook and poured himself a cup before saying anything else. Then, aware that she was still watching him, he muttered, ‘I should have thought it was obvious.’

Fliss felt cold. ‘I hope you don’t mean what I think you mean,’ she began, and Amy looked confused.

‘What does Grandad mean?’ she asked innocently, and Fliss realised she couldn’t say anything more in front of her daughter.

‘Your grandfather’s just feeling liverish,’ she said instead, deciding getting dressed would have to wait until after breakfast. ‘Now, I suggest you go and put your clothes on. I’ll get my shower after you’ve finished.’

Amy moved reluctantly towards the door and Fliss was hardly surprised when she paused in the doorway. ‘We are going out, aren’t we, Mummy?’ she asked anxiously. ‘You’re not going to say no because Grandad’s cross?’

Fliss blew out a breath. ‘Just get dressed, Amy,’ she advised the little girl flatly, but Amy was persistent.

‘Are we?’ she pleaded. ‘Please say we are.’

‘I’ll think about it,’ said Fliss, giving her father a reflective look. ‘Now, scoot.’

‘Can I wear my new skirt?’

‘Don’t push your luck,’ Fliss declared drily, and the child had to be content with that.

But after Amy had disappeared upstairs, Fliss turned from taking milk from the refrigerator and said, ‘Why are you being so horrible about this? What have I done to make you think I can’t look after myself and my daughter?’

Her father pulled out a chair at the table and then shook his head. ‘You can ask me that?’

Fliss caught her breath. ‘I was sixteen, Dad.’ She paused. ‘I thought we’d got over that.’

‘We have,’ he muttered, setting his mug on the table and then dropping wearily into his chair. ‘But dammit, Fliss, I’ve told you what I’ve heard about that man.’

‘And what have you heard exactly?’

‘Just what I said—that he’s had some mental problems since he got back from Abuqara.’

‘What kind of mental problems?’

‘I don’t know.’ Her father took a mouthful of his coffee. ‘God knows what state he was in when he got back.’

Fliss sighed. ‘Isn’t this just gossip?’

‘Well, you said yourself he’d left London because he felt he needed space.’

‘So?’

‘So—why would he do that? I mean, as I hear it, the company he worked for were more than willing to give him his old job back.’

‘Perhaps he felt like a change.’

‘Yes.’ Her father reached for the morning newspaper Fliss had picked up from the hall when she came down. ‘Well, in my opinion, no one in their right mind would have turned down the opportunity to pick up where they had left off. Most wouldn’t get the chance.’

Fliss lifted a loaf from the bread bin. ‘Perhaps that was because he was good at his job,’ she said practically, but her father wasn’t having that.

‘And perhaps it’s because he knows he can’t hack it anymore,’ he retorted shortly. ‘Grow up, Fliss. The man’s a kook, and if you can’t see it, you don’t deserve to have responsibility for an impressionable child like Amy.’

Chapter Ten

MATT wasn’t sure whether he’d expected Fliss to back out of the arrangement or what. It had been obvious that her father hadn’t been pleased to find them together and no doubt he exerted quite a lot of influence on her life. And, although Fliss had offered the invitation, he had the feeling she’d expected him to refuse.

What he definitely hadn’t expected, however, was that she and Amy would turn up on his doorstep less than an hour later carrying backpacks and a cooler. Fliss’s face was flushed and even Amy looked a little less exuberant than usual, and he wondered what had been said after he’d left.

‘Hi, Quinn.’ As usual, Amy was the first to speak. ‘Are you ready to go?’

Matt frowned. ‘I can be,’ he said, his eyes on Fliss’s face. Then, ‘You could have used the front door, you know.’

‘We walked,’ said Fliss, and he could tell by her tone that she was embarrassed to admit it. ‘Um—my father’s decided he needs the car today.’

‘No problem. We can use mine.’ Matt stepped back. ‘Come on in. The coffee’s still hot. Help yourself to a cup while I put some shoes on.’

‘Do you have any more of that lemonade I had yesterday?’ asked Amy at once, dumping her backpack just inside the door and looking expectantly round the kitchen.

Her mother gave her a reproving look. ‘You’ve just had breakfast,’ she said, following her daughter inside. ‘You don’t need another drink.’

‘But I’m thirsty,’ protested Amy, and Matt opened the fridge and pulled out a can of cola.

‘Help yourself,’ he said, taking a glass from the cupboard. He hoped it would give him a chance to have a private word with Fliss. He arched his brows in her direction and they moved to the far side of the room. ‘Everything OK?’

‘As it will ever be, I suppose,’ she said tightly, shedding her own backpack, and he found himself staring at her breasts again.

Dragging his eyes away, he said the first thing that came into his head. ‘Your father doesn’t approve of me, does he?’

‘He doesn’t know you.’

‘Nor do you.’

She averted her eyes. ‘I know enough.’

‘You think?’

She looked at him then. ‘Are you trying to get out of this arrangement?’

‘No.’

She shook her head, and her hair, which was loose about her shoulders this morning, fell forward to hide her face. ‘Maybe you should.’

Her drooping stance made him long to put out his hand and loop that fiery curtain back behind her ear so he could see her expression. But with Amy watching them over the rim of her glass, he restrained himself.

All the same, he was aware that spending time with Fliss was probably not the most sensible thing he’d done in his life. She disturbed him in ways Diane never had, and, although she was not conventionally beautiful, her creamy features had a warmth and sensuality that was far sexier than mere good looks could ever be.

Strictly speaking, he supposed, trying to downplay his attraction, she was slightly overweight. Her breasts were full, possibly too full, and the generous swell of her hips gave a distinctly provocative curve to her bottom. Yet in low-rise pink cut-offs, with white daisies hand-embroidered along the seams, and a matching cropped T-shirt that exposed her navel, she reminded him of things that, in his condition, were better forgotten.

‘What’s wrong?’

Predictably, Amy broke the uneasy silence that had fallen, and Matt realised that it was up to him to rescue the situation.

‘Nothing’s wrong,’ he assured her lightly. ‘I’ll get my shoes.’

Although he thought about changing his shorts for jeans, it seemed a pointless exercise. It wasn’t as if by changing his clothes he was going to change his feelings towards Fliss, and she was unlikely to be impressed by his judgement, either way.

By the time he came back downstairs, Fliss had washed up Amy’s glass and his breakfast dishes, but he still couldn’t say how she really felt about this outing. It was obvious she hadn’t wanted to disappoint Amy, but taking him along…

That had definitely been an afterthought.

He backed the four-by-four out of the garage and indicated that they should get in while he locked up the house. But, as he was closing the front door, the phone rang.

Cursing, he opened the door again and was about to answer it when it occurred to him that it might be Diane. It was the weekend, after all. Perhaps she’d expected him to invite her down for a visit.

He closed the door again, inserting his key in the lock with grim determination. He didn’t have time to talk to her, he told himself firmly, ignoring the fact that he owed her a call. Then, picking up the sports bag containing a towel and a six-pack of diet cola, he ran down the steps to where the Land Cruiser was waiting.

He’d half expected Fliss to put Amy in the front. Anything to avoid another loaded conversation with him. But common sense had prevailed, and Amy was seated in the back of the vehicle, her seat-belt fastened firmly across her lap.

Fliss glanced at him curiously as he got into the driving seat beside her. ‘Wasn’t that your phone?’

He didn’t look at her as he started the car. ‘So?’

‘So—oughtn’t you to have answered it?’

Matt’s mouth compressed. ‘Probably,’ he agreed carelessly, putting the heavy vehicle into gear and turning down the drive. ‘Where are we going?’

He was aware of Fliss giving him a studied look, but it was Amy who answered him. ‘We usually go to Cobbleton,’ she said, leaning forward to tap her mother on the shoulder. ‘Isn’t that right, Mum?’

Fliss shrugged. ‘Maybe Mr Quinn would prefer to go somewhere else,’ she replied, that prim note of disapproval Matt found most challenging in her voice.

‘I don’t know this area at all,’ he declared, glancing over his shoulder at his other passenger. ‘But Cobbleton sounds good to me. You’ll have to give me directions how to get there.’

‘Oh—’ Amy put a finger to her lips. ‘Well, I know it’s not that far.’ She paused. ‘Perhaps Mummy could tell you which way to go. She knows, don’t you, Mum?’

He heard Fliss give a small sigh. ‘I’m sure Mr Quinn would rather go somewhere he knows,’ she said stiffly. ‘He’s not that unfamiliar with the area. His fianceée’s parents live in the village.’

‘What’s a fianceée?’ asked Amy innocently before Matt could reply, and Fliss turned to give her daughter a tight smile.

‘That needn’t concern you—’

‘I don’t have a fianceée,’ Matt overrode her grimly, and then, as they reached the crossroads on the outskirts of the village, ‘Which way?’

‘Cobbleton is that way.’

Fliss waved a dismissive hand in the direction she wanted him to take, but he could feel the censure oozing from her pores. It annoyed the hell out of him. Dammit, the reason why he hadn’t answered his phone was nothing to do with her. Because that was what this was all about. He just knew it. Did she suspect it might have been Diane? Of course she did. But why the hell did she care what Diane thought when the other woman clearly had no such inhibitions about her?

For a while they travelled in silence. A signpost at the next junction offered the information that Lyme Regis and Honiton were in one direction, while Brightsea and Cobbleton were in the other, so there was no argument over which road to take. Even Amy had subsided into silence, and he guessed his angry outburst had frightened her a little.

That annoyed him more than it should. He and Amy had got along so well up to that point, and he didn’t like to think that she blamed herself for his attitude towards her mother.

Taking a deep breath, he glanced over his shoulder again and said pleasantly, ‘Tell me about Cobbleton. I’ve never heard of it. I guess it isn’t a big place.’

Amy hesitated, but shyness was not her strong suit. ‘No, it’s just small,’ she agreed. ‘But we like it, don’t we, Mum? We’ve been lots of times.’

‘Sounds good.’ Matt concentrated on the road, determinedly not looking at Fliss. If she wanted to sulk, that was her problem. ‘Does it get many visitors?’

‘Some,’ said Amy thoughtfully. ‘But we don’t bother with them. We use’ly just go down to the beach, don’t we, Mum?’

Fliss gave a noncommittal shrug and Matt stifled an oath. This was going to be some outing if she refused to speak unless she was spoken to. Dammit, couldn’t she see that he was making an effort here?

‘Do you swim?’ he asked now, looking deliberately at her, and Fliss was obliged to acknowledge his question.

‘You can, if you want to.’

‘That’s not what I asked.’

She shifted a little uncomfortably in her seat. ‘Not if Amy and I are on our own,’ she replied unwillingly. ‘She can swim, but the beach drops away quite steeply once you’re in the water. I’d be afraid she’d get into difficulties and I couldn’t get to her.’

‘Right.’ Matt was grateful to have got more than a monosyllabic answer at last. ‘So—are there no lifeguards?’

Fliss gave him an incredulous look. ‘At Cobbleton? It’s a fishing village, Mr Quinn. Not Bondi Beach!’

‘It’s Matt,’ he said evenly. Then, ‘There are lifeguards all over the place, not just on Bondi Beach.’

‘Which I suppose you know all about,’ said Fliss shortly, and he raised a modest eyebrow.

‘That there are lifeguards all over the place?’ he asked innocently. ‘Oh, yeah, I—’

‘I meant Bondi Beach,’ she corrected him, even though Matt was fairly sure she’d known exactly what he was doing. ‘I expect you’ve travelled all over the world.’

‘Well, not all,’ he said mildly. ‘But I have been to Oz. Have you?’

Fliss snorted in disbelief, but once again it was Amy who intervened. ‘What’s Oz?’

‘Australia,’ said Matt and Fliss in unison, and then she exchanged a reluctant smile with him. ‘People call it Oz because it’s easier to say than Australia,’ he added for the child’s benefit, giving her mother a conciliatory look. ‘Bondi Beach is a famous Australian landmark.’

‘Oh.’

As Amy absorbed this information, Matt tried again with Fliss. ‘I don’t know what Diane’s told you, but she and I are not engaged. We never have been. Chances are we never will be.’

‘Well, it’s nothing to do with me,’ she said, turning to look out of the window, and for some reason that really annoyed him.

‘Yeah, right,’ he muttered. ‘That’s why you’ve taken a vow of silence, is it? Or was it because I didn’t answer my phone? Forgive me, but I thought that was my business, not yours.’

Of course that was unforgivable and he knew it. He didn’t need to see the hectic colour that stained her cheeks to know he’d offended her again, and he swore under his breath.

‘Do you want to go back?’ he demanded, deciding he was too tired of fighting off his own demons to contemplate fighting hers, too. Either she wanted to spend the day with him or she didn’t. It was her call.

She said nothing for a few moments and he was already looking for somewhere to turn the car when she said in a low voice, ‘Do you?’

Matt did a double take. ‘Me?’

‘Yes, you,’ she murmured unhappily. ‘You’re right. What you do is not my concern. I had no right to interfere. Particularly as you’ve been kind enough to offer to take us to the beach.’

Matt shook his head. ‘Don’t say that.’ And when she looked uncomprehendingly at him, he continued, ‘It wasn’t kind at all. I gatecrashed your outing with Amy, and I’m guessing your father wouldn’t have suddenly acquired a use for his car if I hadn’t been coming along.’

‘You could be right.’ Fliss cast a nervous glance over her shoulder as she answered him, but Matt could see Amy in his rear-view mirror and she didn’t appear to be listening to them. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Hey, I’m used to it.’ Matt grimaced. ‘The Press went from hanging on every word I spoke when I got back, to writing eulogies about my mental incompetence when I began refusing interviews.’

Fliss looked at him then. ‘Are you saying they wrote lies about you?’

Matt pulled a wry face. ‘Nothing libellous, I don’t think. They have teams of legal experts who pore over every word that’s printed to ensure they don’t have to pay out a fortune in damages.’

‘Then—’

‘You have to understand that not everything you read is gospel. So long as there’s a germ of truth in there somewhere they can argue that they’re justified in reporting the story.’ He paused and then went on doggedly. ‘Like the fact that I was—well, for want of a better word, traumatised when I got back. That provided endless columns of newsprint, I can tell you.’

Fliss frowned. ‘But being traumatised doesn’t mean you’re mentally incompetent.’

‘No.’ Matt sighed, his hands tightening on the leather steering wheel. ‘But it could be argued that it depends on the degree of trauma, and most people reading the article would accept that. Hell, I’d have accepted it myself if I hadn’t had firsthand experience of that kind of grey journalism.’

He saw her bite her lip, and the tightening in his groin caught him unawares. This wasn’t what he’d had in mind when he offered to take them to the beach, and it was unsettling to find that she still had that effect on him.

‘But you were—traumatised,’ she said at last, looking down at her hands. ‘Weren’t you?’

Matt expelled a weary breath, and told himself he was glad her words had dispelled his moment of madness. ‘Oh, yeah,’ he said flatly. ‘Traumatised, right. A pitiful excuse for a man, that’s what I was when I got back.’

Fliss glanced at him. ‘It must have been a terrible experience.’

‘Yeah.’ Matt conceded the point, and then, because he needed someone to understand his dilemma, he went on, ‘It was all my own fault, really. I wanted a story and I suppose I never thought they’d imagine I might be a spy.’ He grimaced. ‘Me? A spy? How ludicrous can you get?’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Fliss regarded him thoughtfully. ‘I thought you looked—well, different, when I first saw you.’

‘Different?’ He was wary.

‘Sort of—dangerous,’ she admitted unwillingly. ‘It’s your haircut, I think. It’s very short.’

‘Ah.’ Matt raked his nails over his scalp, absorbing that confession. It was kind of reassuring to know he didn’t look like the wimp he felt. ‘Anyway, that was their excuse for taking me prisoner. And, when I couldn’t answer their questions, they—got angry.’

Fliss glanced at Amy then, but he knew she knew exactly what he meant. And he found to his amazement that it was liberating to talk about it. It didn’t seem half so terrifying when he was discussing it with her.

‘So—how did you get away?’ she asked, and he sensed her nervousness in asking the question. After all, if she’d read anything about him she’d know that he’d never discussed his experiences publicly.

‘One of the rebel captains arranged for a Jeep to be waiting for me,’ he said. And then, with an effort, ‘He saved me from a fate worse than death, if you know what I mean.’

‘My God!’ Fliss stared at him for a moment, and then put out her hand and touched his knee. ‘I’m sorry. No wonder you were traumatised when you got home.’

‘What’s traum’tised?’ asked Amy, leaning forward, and Matt wondered how much she’d heard or understood. Not a lot, he guessed, and he was so grateful to Fliss for listening to him and understanding. He had the feeling no other woman of his acquaintance would have reacted so positively to his story.

‘Traumatised means depressed,’ Fliss said now, glancing at Matt again for his approval. ‘Mr Quinn was just telling me about someone who had lies written about them because they were ill.’

‘Really?’

Amy sounded only mildly interested, and Matt gave her mother a rueful smile. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘For that and for not judging me.’ He blew out a breath. ‘So—how much further do we have to go?’

Despite its inauspicious beginnings, it was a good day. Matt, who had started out feeling tense and irritable, found himself relaxing completely. Amy had that kind of effect on him, and although Fliss caused a different reaction entirely their combined companionship was exactly what he needed.

With Amy, he could forget everything but how easy it was to please a child, and because she was there, his relationship with Fliss couldn’t progress in a way that might have embarrassed both of them. Amy made him wish he had a child of his own, a possibility that seemed exceedingly remote now, but at least he could pretend she was his. And there was no doubt that anyone seeing the three of them together would assume she was.

As Amy had said, Cobbleton was little more than a village on Lyme Bay. A small harbour gave refuge to the handful of fishing boats that still used this stretch of the coast as a mooring, but its main attraction was the unspoilt spread of beach that curved away from the river estuary. Fliss said that the muddy flats to the west of the harbour were rich in bird life, and Matt thought how different it was from the arid sand-dunes that had rolled back from the coast in Abuqara.

After leaving the Land Cruiser on the quay, they spent some time exploring the rocks that edged the harbour. Amy was fascinated by the crabs and other crustaceans Matt turned up, and even Fliss took off her tennis shoes and paddled in the shallows.

Then they climbed back up onto the quay and followed the narrow promenade along to where the seemingly miles of unblemished sand stretched away to limestone cliffs. It was getting hotter all the time as the sun rose higher in the sky and they were all glad to relax for a while on the rug Fliss pulled from her backpack.

If Matt was intensely conscious of Fliss’s slim limbs only inches from the hairy length of his up-drawn knee, he tried not to think about it. But there was no denying that he was conscious of her with every fibre of his being, and only Amy’s presence prevented him from doing something totally outrageous like testing the shape of her calf with his hand. The memory of how she had looked in his dream two nights ago hadn’t gone away and he wondered if he was doomed to spend the rest of his life hankering after something he could never have. If so, it was going to be a pretty miserable existence, and when Amy suggested that they ought to cool off in the water he was more than willing to oblige.

It was only when she started stripping off her shorts and T-shirt that he realised she didn’t just mean that they should go paddling. She was wearing a pretty blue-flowered bikini beneath her clothes and she obviously expected him to accompany her.

Fliss, perhaps sensing his ambivalence, said quickly, ‘Don’t go out of your depth, Amy,’ and the little girl pulled a disappointed face.

‘I can swim, Mum,’ she protested, but Fliss was adamant.

‘I mean it, Amy. I don’t want to have to come into the water after you. Unlike you, I haven’t brought my swimsuit.’

For a moment, Matt allowed himself to entertain an erotic image of Fliss racing stark naked into the sea. But such images were not productive, even if they did have the desirable sideeffect of propelling him to his feet.

‘I’ll go with her,’ he said, forgetting for a moment that by hauling off his shirt he was exposing his scarred back to public gaze. There were few people on the beach, it was true, but if anybody did notice him they were bound to be curious as to where he’d got his injuries. Still, what the hell? he thought grimly. He couldn’t spend the rest of his days hiding from life.

He’d reckoned without Amy, of course, and, although they walked down to the sea together, as soon as he plunged into the waves she was given an unrivalled view of his back. For a few moments he was intent on acclimatising his body heat to the much cooler temperature of the water, but when he turned onto his back and looked towards the shore he found the little girl still standing in the shallows where he’d left her.

‘Are you coming in?’ he called, but Amy only stood there shaking her head and he realised she was upset.

Raking back his short hair with a careless hand, he wondered what was the matter. Whatever, he knew he would have to do something about it. At any moment, Fliss was going to notice something was wrong. If Amy was upset about his injuries this was something he and the child had to deal with together.

He was still within his depth and, standing up, he waded back to the shallows, shivering a little in spite of the heat of the sun. ‘What’s wrong?’

Amy sniffed. ‘I don’t want to go swimming,’ she said offhandedly. ‘I’m going back to Mummy.’

‘Wait!’ Matt had no experience in these matters, but something told him he could do this. ‘Is it me that’s upset you?’

‘No.’

But Amy wouldn’t look at him and he knew it was. ‘Is it the scars on my back?’ he persisted gently.

‘No.’ Amy flicked him an indignant look. ‘I just don’t feel like swimming anymore.’

‘OK.’ Matt lifted his shoulders in a careless gesture. ‘I’ll have to swim on my own, then.’

Amy pursed her lips. ‘All right.’

‘All right.’

Matt turned away, but before he’d taken more than a few steps Amy spoke again. ‘What happened to your back? Did you have an accident?’

His shoulders rounded now, but he turned back again. ‘No. It’s like I told your mummy. The people who put me in prison thought I was a bad man so they—punished me.’

Amy’s eyes widened. ‘Does it hurt?’

‘Not anymore.’

She caught her breath. ‘They must be really bad men.’

‘I suppose that depends on your point of view.’

He gave her a rueful smile. ‘I’d been warned not to go too far from my hotel in Abuqara City, but I thought I’d be clever and get an interview with this old mullah—er, man—who was believed to have contact with the rebel forces. He did, and by the time I realised how stupid I’d been it was too late.’

‘Too late for what?’

‘I think that’s enough, Amy,’ murmured a soft voice close by and Matt realised that, in concentrating on the little girl, he’d missed the fact that Fliss had come to join them. She was looking at him now with that mixture of regret and understanding in her eyes he’d seen before, and he wondered why he found it so easy to talk to her and her daughter when it was so difficult for him to talk to anyone else.

Chapter Eleven

THEY drove back to Mallon’s End in the late afternoon. Amy was tired, and Fliss wasn’t surprised when she glanced over her shoulder to find the little girl had fallen asleep. It had been a long day for her, filled with activity, and Fliss wished she knew how to thank Matt for his kindness towards her daughter.

Matt himself seemed quite willing to remain silent on the return journey, but it was an amicable silence, much different from the charged atmosphere she had created that morning. But, dammit, Diane had said he was her fiancé, Fliss defended herself. And she was fairly sure that was who Matt had suspected was on the phone.

However, that was nothing to do with her, and the fact that Matt had confided in her about his experiences had been much more important. Her skin tingled just thinking about what he’d had to go through, and she suspected that if Amy hadn’t been there, her attraction to him might well have got her into other difficulties. There was no doubt there had been times when the tension between them had been almost palpable.

Not least when she’d interrupted his conversation with Amy at the water’s edge early in the day. Just remembering how he’d looked then, all dark and tanned and wet, made her feel shivery. His cargo shorts had been clinging to his legs, outlining every bulge that they were supposed to cover. He’d have looked less sexy if he’d been naked, she thought ruefully, her pulse quickening in spite of herself. Although perhaps not. She knew better than anyone that Matt always looked sexy, with or without his clothes.

Still, she was glad she hadn’t taken her swimsuit with her. Her bikini, which she’d had for far too many years, would only have accentuated the extra pounds she’d put on since Amy was born. She could just imagine how she’d have looked, her breasts spilling out of the cups of the bra, the bikini briefs tight around her hips. Oh, yes, she was no photographic model, nor ever would be.

Later in the morning, they’d all played beach cricket before retiring to the fast-food restaurant that adjoined the harbour. Fliss had brought sandwiches for lunch, but Matt’s offer of cheeseburger and chips and a delicious cup of freshly brewed coffee had been too tempting to turn down. Which would have done little for her waistline, she acknowledged now. But what the hell? She wasn’t trying to impress anyone.

After lunch, they’d gone for a walk along the cliffs, and Matt had entertained Amy by telling her stories of the pirate ships that had used to patrol the coastline on the lookout for young women they sold into slavery in North Africa.

‘Like you were?’ Amy had asked artlessly, and Matt had exchanged a wry look with Fliss before saying flatly, ‘In a manner of speaking.’ But Fliss had been left with the impression that that was one aspect of his captivity he still found hard to discuss.

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