Passion & Pleasure: Savage Awakening / For Pleasure...Or Marriage? / Taken for His Pleasure

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.