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.