Savage Awakening(11)

       
           



       

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.