Men of Intrgue A Trilogy (4 page)

He glanced at the offering without enthusiasm, then turned his head away.

“I know your appetite is gone, but it’ll come back once you taste something good,” she encouraged him.

He brightened. “Got any Angel Bites?”

Helen stared back at him in amazement. “Angel Bites? You mean those chocolate covered marshmallow snacks the kids like?”

He looked offended. “I never heard they were just for kids.”
      

“That sounds like an advertising campaign,” Helen said dryly. “Sorry buddy, no Angel Bites. I’ll pick some up when I go to the store. In the meantime you’ll have to make do with this.” She handed him the fork.

He eyed her warily.

“Eat, or I’ll feed you,” she threatened.

He picked up the plate and obediently swallowed several mouthfuls, then pushed the dish back into her hand. Helen allowed him the round and presented him with a cloudy glass of dissolved pills.

“What’s this?” he asked suspiciously.

“An antibiotic and a painkiller crushed up in water,” she answered.

When he still hesitated she added, “You’ve been belting it down since Friday night, so I wouldn’t worry. I do believe it’s the reason you’re not dead, so drink up.”

He drained the glass and said, “You’re the reason I’m not dead, Helen.”

She didn’t answer, unable to think of a suitable reply to such a tribute.

“Where did you get the medicine?” he asked, handing the empty tumbler back to her.

“My stepmother keeps an entire pharmacy in the bathroom. I just went through the bottles and picked out something from the assortment.”

“The right stuff, apparently. That was clever.”

“Not really. Adrienne has enough drugs in there to outfit the Peace Corps. It was only a matter of looking. She’s probably got the cure for the common cold buried in that closet.”

“Well, you don’t mind if I think you’re clever, do you?” he asked, teasing her.

Helen permitted herself a small smile. He talked just like an American, yet she had seen the foreign labels in his clothes, and sometimes she could hear a faint accent. And he had consumed enough Angel Bites to develop a fondness for them. What was going on here? Why was he in Florida, and why had he been shot? The pieces of the puzzle didn’t fit together, and it was driving her crazy, but she stuck to her resolution not to interrogate him. She wanted to keep the conversation light until he was feeling stronger.

“This house belongs to your stepmother?” he asked abruptly.

“My father, but he never comes here anymore. Adrienne and her children use it mostly; I came during the off season because I wanted privacy and quiet.”

“Which lasted until I arrived,” he concluded.

“It’s still quiet,” Helen said, and he grinned. The effect on Helen was considerable; she looked away so he wouldn’t see the response in her eyes.

“You’re much more alert,” she observed neutrally, fussing with his pillows. “You fell asleep in the middle of our last conversation.”

He sobered instantly. “No more painkillers. They’re knocking me out, and I have to get moving.” He tried to sit up, but fell back, his face pale. A fresh stain began to seep onto the gauze covering his wound.

“What are you doing?” Helen cried, grabbing his hands to hold him down. “You’re in no condition to get out of bed, do you want to open up that arm again?”

He subsided reluctantly. “I’ve been here too long already; there are people who need me, people waiting for me.”

“Well, they’ll just have to wait. If you go anywhere now, you’ll be scraped off the sidewalk in ten minutes and wind up in a hospital, a hospital full of doctors. And do you know what doctors have to do when they treat a gunshot wound? Call the police. How would you like that?”

The question was rhetorical. His eyes slid away from hers, and she picked up his dishes and took them to the kitchen. She made a production out of rinsing them off to give herself time to consider what he had said. Of course he would want to leave. Whatever had brought him to her door was still waiting to be accomplished. If he had succeeded in doing it, he would not have been shot. But the thought of his departure was painful in a fundamental way she didn’t wish to examine too closely. During the past few days Matteo had become the central feature of her existence; his total dependence on her had forged a bond between them that she wished, she now realized, could continue. But he intended to return to his original objective without a thought for her except the gratitude he had already expressed.

Helen dried a dish thoughtfully and replaced it in the cabinet above the sink. Had she expected something more?

When she returned to Matteo’s room he was staring out the window at the ocean. “This is a beautiful spot,” he said to her as she entered.

“Yes, my father had this house built for my mother as a wedding present because she loved this part of St. Augustine so much. It was originally sort of a log cabin, very rustic, but it’s been redone a couple of times since then.”

“Your parents are divorced now?”

Helen noticed that he wanted to know all about her, while offering no information about himself. But then again, she had nothing to hide.

“Yes, and both have remarried twice. I’ve had assorted stepmothers and stepfathers, as well as, let’s see, nine step-siblings at various times. We’re a very modern family.” She tried to make a joke of it, but he didn’t miss the forlorn expression she banished as soon as it appeared.

“Something tells me you won’t follow that pattern,” he said quietly. “You seem like a one-man woman to me.”

“I hope so,” she said lightly, turning her back on him deliberately. “Things are confusing enough right now.”

He sensed that the issue was a sensitive one and sidestepped it. “You must have an interesting time at family reunions,” he said lightly.

She faced him with a grateful smile. “Oh, we’d never get together all at once,” she said. “Too much potential for open warfare. My mother would probably knife Adrienne.”

“Is she jealous?” he asked.

“You bet.”
 

“Why?”

“Adrienne currently holds the position my mother used to have.”

“And that’s enough?”

“For my mother it is. She regards men as property, once acquired, always owned.” She didn’t have to add that she disagreed with this philosophy; her tone as she said the words spoke volumes.

“Is she still in love with your father?” he asked, not caring about the answer, but about the insight he was getting into Helen’s character.

“I think she is, in a way, although she would never admit it. He was her first real love, and you never forget the first one, no matter who comes after him.”

“You sound like an expert.”

Helen hesitated. “No as a matter of fact, I’m not. But I know
I’d
never forget.”

He noticed the way she phrased it. The event was still in the future for her, and somehow he wasn’t surprised.

“I don’t think Sophia has felt the same way about another man since my father,” Helen went on. “Or maybe I just like to think that he was special to her. I don’t know.”

“Sophia? You call your mother by her first name?”

“I’d better. She’d have a stroke if I ran around calling her Mom. She likes to tell people that we’re sisters and see if they believe it.”

“Do they?”

“Sometimes. More often than you’d think.” Sophia’s lifetime preoccupation with her physical appearance had paid off handsomely. At forty-seven she was remarkably well preserved.

“You look alike, then?”

Helen smiled wryly. “I don’t know if you’d say that. We have the same coloring, similar features, but my mother is far more flamboyant, stylish. We’re sort of like the original and the photographic negative.”

Matteo was watching her face, noting its changing expression as she spoke about her mother. “I can’t imagine your being a shadowy imitation of anyone,” he said softly, and she looked up to meet his eyes. They were closing, but he smiled at her before he fell asleep.

* * * *

Helen got up in the middle of the night to check Matteo’s dressing, and as she touched his shoulder his good hand flashed from beneath the covers and caught hers in a viselike grip. Helen recoiled from the pain; for someone recovering from such a severe illness, he was remarkably strong.

“Matteo, it’s me,” she said quietly. “Helen. I just want to change the gauze pad on your arm.”

He studied her in the half light admitted by the open door to the hall and then released her, moving his fingers up to lay them against her cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “You took me by surprise.”

Not a good idea, Helen thought to herself as she discarded the stained dressing and replaced it with a fresh one. He must have had some rude awakenings in the past.

When she stepped back he grasped her hand and pulled her toward him. She couldn’t read his face, but his intent was clear as he drew her onto the bed and into his arms.

“Stay with me,” he murmured. “You’re too far away.”

Helen lay next to him, snuggling up to his uninjured shoulder and putting her head on his chest. He encircled her with his arm, moving his leg so that she could fit comfortably against his side. He felt warm and solid, and she could hear his voice rumbling in his chest as he said, “While I was sick I dreamed that we were together like this.”

“That wasn’t a dream,” Helen replied, feeling her face flame in the darkness. “You had the chills and couldn’t seem to stop shaking. I got on the bed with you and held you until you quieted down.”

He didn’t answer for a moment, but she felt his lips moving in her hair. When his voice came it was low and husky.

“I don’t know how to thank you for what you have done,” he said quietly. “You probably saved my life. And I’ve got to live long enough to do what must be done.”

There it was again, the hint that his business encompassed more than he could say. Since he had brought it up, she pressed her advantage, asking, “Can’t you tell me what you were doing when you were hurt?”

“No.”

“Why?” She cast about for an idea. “Did you steal something?”

His whole body stiffened, and she was immediately sorry she had said it.

“Do I seem like a thief to you?” he responded softly, and his grip on her shoulders relaxed, as if he didn’t want to touch the person who could ask him such a question. “I told you once I was not a criminal, and I wasn’t lying.”

Helen half sat, looking down into his face. “You admitted that what you were doing is illegal. Most people would say that makes you a criminal.”

“Is that how you see the world,” he replied coldly, “all clear choices, everything black and white?”

“I see,” Helen answered, frustrated by his obstinacy, his distant tone, “that you are treating me like a child.”

“You act like one,” he stated flatly. “‘Tell me, tell me,’ as if this were a game we are playing, keeping secrets. It is not a game. When I say that I do not want you to know in order to keep you safe, you refuse to believe me. You kept me alive when I might have died without you. Should I pay you back by putting you in danger? What kind of friend would I be if I did that, Helen?”

She didn’t answer, unable to argue with him. She noticed that his English became less colloquial when he was upset. He dropped the familiar conjunctions and adopted a more formal style, speaking the way he must have when he first learned the language.

He sighed heavily and reached for her again. “Come here. I don’t want to fight with you.”

Helen curled up with him again, unwilling to pursue the discussion, but still troubled.

“Can you trust me, Helen?” he asked, twining his fingers with hers and inching her closer. “Can you accept that I am making the right decision?”

“I guess I’ll have to,” she replied grudgingly, settling against him.

There was a smile in his voice when he directed, “Go to sleep, my stubborn little American.”

Helen was tired and, despite her misgivings, found it surprisingly easy to obey him. She was almost out when she murmured, “The Chinese believe that you are always responsible for someone whose life you have saved. Do you think that’s true?”

He waited a beat before he answered soberly, “I wonder.”

But Helen didn’t hear him.

She was asleep.

Chapter 2

Helen was reading in the chair next to the bed when Matteo opened his eyes the next morning. He didn’t speak, but studied her covertly, taking in every detail.

She was wearing a blue robe with white lace ruching at the neckline, her blonde hair flowing over her shoulders loosely. Her pose and her clothing reminded him of a painting he had once seen; it depicted a golden girl in a blue dress sitting in a shaft of sunlight, bending her head over a book in her lap. Helen was absorbed, turning the pages without looking up, her expression rapt.

What an unexpected delight she was, Matteo thought. By all indicators, she should have grown up to be a vain, self indulgent woman like her mother. Instead she was a dreamer, a loner who had come to this out-of-the-way place to escape the heedless life her family led. And when he had burst into her self imposed isolation and ruined it, she had saved him with a spontaneous act of kindness.