Men of Intrgue A Trilogy (20 page)

“Helen...” he said, his voice hoarse with strain.

“Yes,” she murmured, and he took her at her word.

He meant to go slow, he meant to be careful, but this was Helen, and he had wanted her, it seemed, for such an endless, aching time. He plunged into her, and she tensed immediately. He couldn’t stop, rearing back and plunging again.

Helen cried out and pulled away frantically. Instantly contrite, Matteo withdrew, cursing his damned impatience, the bottled up longing that had caused him to lose control. He enfolded her tenderly, blinking back tears of frustration and regret.

“I’m sorry,” he said brokenly. “Helen, I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” she replied, and sounded like she meant it, but her body language told him otherwise. She was stiff, unyielding in his arms, closed against him like a clenched fist.

Matteo continued to hold her, wishing that he could relive the last minute, disgusted with himself because even though he’d hurt her he wanted nothing more than to bury himself in her again. She was so sweet in those stolen seconds, fitted to him like a glove, and he couldn’t forget the sensation. He knew she would feel it too, if he could win her trust once more.

She would have to decide. He let her slip to the floor and kissed her hands, turning them over to put his mouth against her palms, ready to abandon the effort if she rebuffed him. She responded, allowing him to touch her again, and they were soon caught in the ascending spiral that had brought them to the brink before. But this time he was determined to prepare her; he kissed her body until she was weak with longing, and then pressed his lips to her navel, exploring it with his tongue. She moaned; he moved lower, putting his arms around her hips and lifting her to his mouth. She made no sound, unable even to utter one, but her legs fell apart to admit him.

The pleasure was indescribable. She was powerless before its onslaught and he was relentless, caressing her with his lips and tongue, stroking her to a wordless, powerful climax.

She shuddered and went limp. And as she lay relaxed and spent he moved over her again, pulling her legs around him.

When he entered her the second time she made an impassioned sound of pure animal gratification and his deep groan was lost in hers. He waited for her to react and then she said, slurring her words, “You tricked me.”

He smiled to himself. “Yes, I did.”

“You can trick me like that anytime,” she said, sighing blissfully, and he almost laughed.

“I don’t think it will be necessary again,” he said, beginning to move inside her.

* * * *

When Matteo awoke he was alone. They had fallen asleep together, curled up like puppies. He could still hear the rain beating on the tent with a steady, incessant cadence. Where could Helen have gone?

Then he saw the drape in the back of the tent, pushed just high enough to allow a slender blonde to exit. He followed, crawling on his hands and knees and pausing before the sight that met his eyes.

The demure Ms. Demarest, who wouldn’t say “hell” if condemned to it, was twirling round and round in the rain, hair flying, bare feet splashing mud, stark naked.

“What
are
you
doing?” he called, laughing incredulously at her unselfconscious glee. She was certainly loosening up mighty fast.

“Taking a shower,” she responded, flinging her arms wide. “Care to join me?”

He signaled to her to wait and ran back inside, snatching the sheet they had slept on from the floor. He dashed into the rain and wrapped her in it, practically carrying her into the tent.

“It will be light in half an hour,” he said, rubbing her dry. “Did you want someone to see you?”

“Wake ‘em up faster than Theresa’s terrible coffee,” she said, grinning, and he shook his head.

“Did you have a good time?” he asked archly.

“Not as good as the time I had with you,” she whispered conspiratorially, and he smiled.

“Feeling our oats, are we?” he inquired.

“We are,” she replied smugly.

He dropped the sheet and bundled her into the discarded shirt, saying absently, “We have to find you something else to wear.”

“How about you?” she said, pointing to the puddle of his clothes.

He picked up his pants and put them on, saying, “I’m starving.”

“Me, too,” she observed. “I don’t have anything here except that tin of biscuits,” she added, indicating a box sitting on top of a cardboard carton in the corner.

Matteo got it and they shared what was left, sitting cross- legged on the dirt floor.

“I wish your friends back home could have witnessed that scene,” he said, gesturing to the back of the tent.

“What friends?”

He paused in the act of biting a cracker in half. “Don’t you have any friends?” he asked cautiously, trying to sound as if the topic were of only mild interest.

She shrugged. “You,” she said simply, looking down at the crumbs in her hand.

He was glad she couldn’t see effect of her answer on his face.

“How about when you were a kid?” he asked quietly, chewing thoughtfully.

“Oh, then I had girlfriends at boarding school,” she said, “but we were all at the mercy of our families, shipped around like so much luggage. We would lose touch when we were separated. And when I got older, my parents were always paranoid about people taking advantage of me, for my money, you know. So I was pretty much restricted to classmates, but even then my mother invariably hated everyone I liked. She used to say they were ‘unsuitable.’”

“Why? I would think that everyone at the schools you went to would come from a background like yours.”

“They did. But there’s a caste system even among the rich, and Sophia was its most fervent devotee. She would say that my friends didn’t have enough money or had lost too much of their money or came from the wrong kind of money—something. It never failed.”

“What’s the wrong kind of money?” Matteo asked, intrigued. He stretched out on the floor and supported his head with one hand, studying her.

Helen selected a morsel and popped it into her mouth. “Money that came from bootlegging, smuggling, that sort of thing. The right kind was the kind my great greatgrandfather made, through the indentured servitude of immigrants who crossed the water to escape the same slavery they found in his factories. That was legal, you see. No less immoral than the rum running or drug trafficking, but that sort of distinction doesn’t cut much mustard with my mother. She would find fault with anyone I brought home and, believe me, she could make things impossible. After a lifetime of that you sort of lose the knack of making friends, you know what I mean? And the work I’ve been doing for the past few years is kind of solitary.” She paused and sought his eyes. “Actually, I didn’t mind it much until I met you. You don’t miss what you’ve never had.”

Matteo didn’t know what to say. He had spent his whole life with the comradeship of others; he couldn’t imagine the existence she described.

“Poor little rich girl,” he murmured as she went back to her snack.

“What?” she said, looking up.

“Nothing. Your mother sounds like a monster.” He was trying hard not to think about such a person raising the sensitive, impressionable child that Helen must have been.

Helen shook her head. “No, she isn’t. She loves me in her way, she really does. She can’t help what others made her; my grandmother, who died when I was two, was supposedly a real horror. I feel sorry for Sophia. I must have been such a letdown.”

“Why?”

“She wanted a daughter just like her, who would run around the world depleting the stock of fancy boutiques and collecting rich, important husbands. And she wound up with me.”

“You must be like someone along the line. I wonder who.”

Helen smiled. “I think I’m a throwback. By the time I was a teenager it was abundantly clear that I had nothing in common with most of my living relatives, so I began to investigate the family tree. I discovered that my great grandfather Harold, the robber baron’s son, spent ten years writing a biography of Richard Lovelace.”

Matteo rolled onto his back and stared up at her. “That sounds about your speed. Who’s Richard Lovelace?”

“Early seventeenth century British poet. He wrote, ‘To Althea: From Prison’ and ‘To Lucasta: Going to the Wars,’ among other things.”

Matteo Shook his head, indicating ignorance.

“I guess the second poem is the better known. The narrator is a soldier explaining to his beloved why he must leave her and go away to war. He says that if he stayed, made her more important than the thing he’s fighting for, then he wouldn’t be the person she fell in love with, the man she wanted.”

Helen was so familiar with the story that she just rattled it off without thinking and then saw that he had become very still. The falling rain suddenly sounded loud, filling the pregnant silence, and his dark eyes seared hers as she coughed nervously and added, “The most famous line goes: ‘I could not love thee, dear, so much/Lov’d I not honor more.”

He didn’t reply for a long moment, then he sat up with one smooth movement and said quietly, “I think I remember it now.”

Helen waited a beat before continuing. “Anyway,” she said, striving to keep her voice normal, “you can imagine Sophia’s chagrin at delivering into the world a dreamer like Harold Demarest rather than the mini debutante she wanted. I don’t think she’s gotten over it yet. No wonder she spends all her time in Europe, romancing candy barons.”

“Candy barons?”

“Her latest husband is a Swiss chocolate heir.”

Matteo dusted crumbs from his pants and said, “You talk like your mother raised you alone. Where was your father when you were young?”

“He was never around. He was always flying off to meetings, spending a week here, three days there. Administering a fortune like his is a full time job. He would call home and issue orders, like a general directing troop movements from the field. When I was small and my parents were still getting along, sometimes Sophia would join him wherever he was, but mostly it was just the two of us, with Sophia dictating who was ‘suitable.’ No one ever was.”

Matteo smiled, and then the smile faded as a cruel thought struck him, one almost too hurtful to bear. He waited a moment before he voiced it, and then said softly, “Is that what you’re doing with me?”

“What do you mean?” Helen asked, puzzled.

“Well, if you scoured the earth, I’m sure you couldn’t find a man less ‘suitable’ for you in your mother’s opinion. Is that what drew you to me, Helen?”

She found the question so preposterous that at first she thought he was kidding. Then she saw the expression on his face and realized that he really believed it might be true.

She crawled next to him and kissed him, settling into his arms when he refused to let her go. “Matteo, listen to yourself,” she finally told him. “You’re saying that I fell in love with you to spite my mother. That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” he asked, searching her face.

“Of course. It may be accurate to say that you exemplify a lot of the qualities she doesn’t have, but it isn’t wrong to seek out a person who has the character somebody else lacks, is it?”

“Well, when you put it that way...” he said, looking sheepish.

Helen grinned. “Besides, you might be surprised. Sophia wouldn’t think you’re so bad. She has an eye for handsome young gentlemen, especially dark-eyed Latino types.” She ran a finger down the line of hair bisecting his middle. “She would find you very sexy,
jefe.”

He groaned. “Give me a break.”

“She’d give you one. Probably put you on the payroll.”

His eyes widened.

“Sure,” Helen went on. “When I was growing up she had a long succession of grooms and stableboys and chauffeurs attending to her needs. Not the right class, of course, but kept around for their expertise in other areas.”

He stared.

“Don’t tell me, man of the world, that you’re shocked,” Helen said. She put her lips to his ear and whispered, “Money changes everything.”

He nodded slowly. “I guess it does. My father and his wife were probably up to some games at his big house on the hill, but I wasn’t around to see them.”

“It must have been hard on your mother, seeing his wife with him all the time,” Helen said sympathetically.

Matteo stared over her shoulder at the guttering lamp, which was almost out. “It was. I think my mother loved him. One time I sneaked up close to get a good look at his wife. I guess I wanted to compare the two women, to try to see what his wife had that my mother lacked, you know. I remember that it was weird because his wife and my mother looked so much alike. Even as a kid I could see it; the resemblance was that clear. I guess his taste didn’t change.”

“Were they both dark?” Helen asked.

“Yeah. Black hair, black eyes, full figured. Faces like icons, features carved in Iberian clay.”

“Like Alma,” Helen said carefully.

He looked at her quickly, then away. “Like that.”

“She is beautiful,” Helen persisted, picking at the sore.

“No more than you,” he said lightly, trying to slide out of it.