Savage Awakening(12)

       
           



       

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.'