How could the right thing feel so wrong? And how could the wrong thing be so right?
She gave up thinking and clung to him, feeling every muscle, every curve, every bulge of his body. She wanted him, but there would be plenty of time for that. Right now he deserved to know that he meant so much more to her than that. Laying herself bare, she whispered words she’d never dared to say to another person in her entire life, and had only ever said to Jason once before while he was asleep. Over and over she said them, unable to stop herself, and she saw that he understood, that he had always understood how difficult it was for her.
They were both breathless when he finally let her go. Her rain-sodden clothes had left a dark mark on his shirt.
‘You’re completely soaked,’ he said.
She shrugged. ‘It’s still the monsoon. I’ll dry.’
He curled one of her wet tresses around his finger. ‘Helen, why?’
‘I thought it was for the best I left. You said nothing in your e-mails so I thought you agreed.’
‘I didn’t, but I wanted you to tell me face to face. Except you covered your tracks pretty well. Even your aunt’s as tight as a clam. And I didn’t want to ask my dad.’
‘That’s what I pay her for.’
‘You pay her to be your aunt? Poor Helen.’
Helen laughed and thumped him on the shoulder. ‘Don’t be an idiot. So how did you find me? Not that I mind,’ she added and covered the hand caressing her cheek with her own.
‘Jim,’ he said. ‘Apparently he posted a parcel to you from your aunt. He comes around a lot now that Charlie is better. Says he wants you and me to have a happy ending too.’
‘You think that’s even possible?’
‘We won’t know until we’ve tried, will we?’
He crouched down and opened the top of his rucksack. Typical backpackers’ gear, Helen noticed, with padded waist belt, chest strap, and criss-cross elasticated string at the front, which was holding a pair of Wellington boots in place. Jason handed her a large brown envelope.
‘Here, my father asked me to give you this.’
‘What is it?’
‘Info on the guy who was hired to kill your mother. Who he is, where he lives, right down to what he eats for breakfast if I know my father.’
Helen slipped her finger under the sealed flap and began to tear it open. Then she stopped, filled with suspicion. ‘Why’s he doing this?’
‘That’s the one thing I did ask of him. I told him he owed it to you. He’s probably only doing it because he’s hoping you’ll give me up. Something for something, that’s how my father operates. He doesn’t understand anything else. But only you and I can make the decision about being together. Not him.’
Helen stared at the envelope in her hand, then dropped it on her desk. It wasn’t the fact that Moody thought he could buy her with this information which made her put it away, it was the sudden realisation that it wasn’t important any more. Whoever he was, this killer, he was just another name. He meant nothing to her.
For years she’d used her epilepsy and the tragedy of her mother’s death to isolate herself from other people. She’d held onto her condition this way because she’d had a seizure the last time she saw her mother alive, made it into a shield, safeguarding all her anger and loss, but it hadn’t stopped her caring about other people, nor losing them in the end.
She blamed herself for Charlie nearly dying – and as a child even her mother’s death – but knew it wasn’t quite that simple. People made their own choices, and sometimes those choices led to bad results. Despite warnings, her mother had arranged a meeting on a deserted park lane in the early hours. Aggie had involved Ruth in her assisted suicide, and Ruth had had the choice to refuse, but not the will. Charlie had insisted on opening those crates, delaying their escape … although they were equally to blame for that.
And Jason had travelled halfway around the world to give Helen another chance to get it right.
‘I’ll open it later,’ she said. Once she would have resented that comment he made, about paying her aunt to be her aunt, now she just let him put his hands on her hips and pull her close. She dropped her head to his shoulder with a sigh. ‘Will he ever come around, I wonder?’
‘A couple of grandchildren will no doubt melt his heart. Imagine him bouncing a baby boy on his knees.’
Helen shuddered. ‘Sorry, I know he’s your dad and everything, but that’s a pretty disturbing thought. How about a houseful of Indian orphans for the time being?’
‘Hm, wouldn’t go so well with his reputation for being a hard bastard.’