Men of Intrgue A Trilogy (6 page)

Matteo scratched around the edges of his bandage, his expression bleak. The healing skin was itchy, but he barely noticed what he was doing, his mind racing. His whole adult life had been dedicated to one goal. It had never occurred to him that anyone or anything could interfere with his desire to reach it. Until now.

He understood with a deep sense of alarm that he didn’t want to leave Helen. The realization was revolutionary, disturbing. No single person had ever meant enough to him to threaten his purpose. He was used to thinking in terms of hundreds, thousands; individuals got lost in a scheme like that, even when the individual was himself. But Helen, with her gentle persuasion, had reminded him that he was a man, who needed not just commitment to noble ideals but love, too.

He picked up the shirt, wincing as a knife blade of pain shot through his injured arm, and slipped it on, careful to slide it slowly over his wound. The thing was a constant annoyance.

Matteo had no patience with physical infirmity, and consequently he frequently compounded any illness he had by getting up too soon—or never lying down in the first place. This instance was certain to be no exception. He was planning on leaving the next night, well before any doctor in his or her right mind would have let him out of bed. But in a real sense his imminent departure was flight; flight from the one woman who could become more important to him than his cause.

He finished dressing, taking about five times longer than usual because his arm, and his general weakness, fought him all the way. He emerged from the bathroom to find that Helen had changed to an oversized T-shirt that left her slim, tanned legs bare and was sitting at the dining table, making notes on a yellow legal pad. She didn’t look up as he came into the room, but said, “Would you like some lunch? I bought sandwich rolls and cold cuts at the store.”

He realized she was going to pretend that nothing had happened. Well, that was probably for the best, and he decided to go along with it.

“That sounds good,” he answered, his resolution lasting until she got up to walk past him and he saw that her brief outfit barely grazed her hips, immediately conjuring up all sorts of images in his overstimulated imagination.

“Do you think you could put something else on?” he snapped irritably, turning away.

Helen glanced down at herself, momentarily puzzled. “What’s wrong with this? I always wear it to work in; it’s comfortable and...”

“What’s wrong is there isn’t enough of it,” he interrupted stiffly.

“Oh,” she said, reddening. “I didn’t think; I was just used to wearing anything while you were sick.”

“Helen, I’m not sick anymore,” he informed her, feeling idiotic and wishing he hadn’t brought the subject up at all.

“Go into the bedroom and take a rest,” she said, dismissing the topic. “I’ll bring the food when it’s ready.”

He followed her instructions, wondering, as he sat on the edge of the bed, how he was going to keep his hands off her until it was safe for him to leave.

* * * *

The next day was going to be his last, and they both knew it. Silence reigned for most of the morning as Matteo studied the local maps Helen had gotten for him. Helen remained in the dining room, pursuing her work, trying to forget what he was doing. Even the briefest conversation was painful, reminding them that soon there would be none at all.

Around noon Matteo emerged from the back hall, rubbing his arm and tucking in his shirt. It was his usual size, but too big for him now with the weight he had lost during his illness.

“Do you know the Camache Island boat basin?” he asked Helen.

She looked up from her papers. “Yes, it’s just a couple of miles away, down Route A1A. Why?”

“I’d like you to take me there, in your car. After it gets dark, so there’s less chance of us being seen. All right?”

“All right,” she agreed, determined to be as stoic as he was.

He looked out the glass doors at the sunswept panorama of sandy beach and aquamarine ocean.

“Gorgeous day,” he said.

“Why don’t you go out on the patio? You’ve been cooped up in here for almost a week; the fresh air would do you good.”

He hesitated. “I might be seen.”

She looked incredulous. “Here? Matteo, there isn’t another house for half a mile down the beach either way.”

“I meant from a boat. With binoculars.”

She was speechless for a moment and then said quietly, “Your enemies would go to such lengths?”

He shrugged slightly. “They have before.”

Helen was staring at him in consternation when they both heard a noise on the front walk. Moving with lightning speed, Matteo grabbed Helen and clamped one hand over her mouth, stopping any sound she might have made. He drew his gun, which he had earlier retrieved from its hiding place, and pointed it at the door, continuing to hold Helen in a throttling grip that immobilized her completely. After a couple of seconds several letters fell through the slot in the door and slid onto the floor. It was only the mailman. Matteo released Helen slowly, and she stumbled away from him, fingering her bruised lips and fighting tears.

“Why did you do that to me?” she gasped. “Do you think I took care of you all this time in order to betray you now?”

He had the good grace to look ashamed and was unable to meet her eyes. “I’m sorry. It was an instinctive reaction.”

Helen stared back at him, outraged. What kind of life did he lead, that his “instinctive reaction” was not to trust anyone, including herself?

He continued to look away from her, and she tried to brush past him, tired of waiting for him to acknowledge her. His hand came out to stop her and she shook him off.

“Helen...” he began.

“I don’t want to hear it. There is no excuse for treating me that way. If I had wanted to I could have called in a legion of police while you were flat on your back and out of your head.”

“I know that. I was startled, Helen, that’s all. I didn’t expect to hear anyone come to the door.”

“He comes to the door every weekday, Matteo. We have mail service here just like everyplace else. You haven’t heard him because before today you were spending all of your time in the bedroom. Now will you let me get by? I have work to do.”

He grabbed her shoulders and spun her around to face him. “Helen, don’t do this. I don’t want to go with things all wrong between us.”

“Why not?” she answered cruelly. “You’ll be gone, what difference will it make?”

“Helen, I have no choice!”

“Oh, yes, yes. I know,” she replied sarcastically. “How could I possibly forget? You have your all important mission, whatever on God’s green earth that is. And everyone is after you, and it’s bigger than both of us, but you can’t tell me about it. Did I miss anything, any of the bad movie cliches you’ve been feeding me since you came here? To tell you the truth, I’m sick of listening to them, and I am heartily sick of you, so why don’t you just...”

She didn’t complete the sentence because he pulled her into his arms and covered her mouth with his. She resisted futilely for a few seconds, but they both understood that she didn’t really want to get away from him.

For a first kiss it was remarkably free of tentative exploration. Matteo knew what he was doing, and Helen’s response was elemental, total. This was Matteo, whom she had saved, and who might yet save her.

Matteo was as lost as she was, moving his lips to her cheek, her ear, lifting her against him to merge her body with his, then opening her mouth with his tongue. Helen responded eagerly, her desire to please making up for her lack of experience, and he ran his hand down her back, forcing her closer. He was still holding the gun, and it slipped from his grasp as he embraced her, clattering to the hardwood floor exposed at the edge of the rug. They broke apart, looking down at it, then at each other. The weapon was a brutal reminder of their true situation, and Helen stepped back, out of the circle of Matteo’s arms. She didn’t say a word but went straight to the bedroom and shut the door. Matteo did not follow.

Miserable and exhausted from her long vigil at Matteo’s side, she fell asleep and woke in late afternoon, sticky and uncomfortable. She listened, but couldn’t hear anything from the rest of the house. For a brief moment she thought that he had already left, but then realized he would have no way of getting to the marina other than hitchhiking, and he would never risk the exposure. She emerged to find him reading one of her books, a treatise on Elizabethan poets. The contrast struck her immediately: earlier in the day he had been ready to shoot the mailman, and now he was calmly reading a textbook, looking for all the world like a graduate student in the stacks of a library. Even the clothes she had brought enhanced the illusion; the jeans and oxford shirt would not have been out of place on any campus in the country.

“I’m going to take a shower,” she announced. “I assume we’ll be leaving later.”

He looked up, putting the book aside. “Feeling better?” he asked.

“Not really,” she answered, unwilling to comfort him. “You should eat something before we go. You don’t know how long it will be before your next meal.”

He didn’t dispute her assumption that his upcoming schedule would not exactly be routine. He nodded, and she left him to prepare for the coming night.

When she returned, dressed like him in jeans and a shirt, he was setting out food on the bar, a conglomeration of the leftovers from her last shopping trip. Helen sat next to him on an adjoining stool, noticing that he ate methodically but without enthusiasm, as if he were forcing himself to consume fuel, knowing he would need energy later.

The atmosphere was thick with undercurrents, very tense. Helen could manage only a few bites and then he cleared everything away, walking a wide circle around her as if she might explode at any moment. Helen felt that his caution was justified; she didn’t know whether to scream at him or burst into tears. He was actually going to leave, without apology and without explanation. It seemed incredible, but there was no mistaking his attitude of quiet determination. He was looking to the future, in his mind already on his way.

“Let me check your dressing one last time,” Helen finally said, breaking the silence that had lasted for almost an hour.

He sat in the chair he had occupied the night he arrived, and she knelt before him, unbuttoning his shirt and pulling off his sleeve, exposing the wound to view. She peeled away the bandage and saw that there was nothing to be done; it was clean and dry. She retaped the gauze in place. Then, unable to help herself, she leaned forward and pressed her mouth to his naked shoulder, hiding her face.

His arm came up convulsively, his fingers tangling in the fine mass of her hair.

“Oh, Helen,” he said brokenly, and in that one moment she almost believed he would stay.

But then she moved back to look into his face, and what she saw there seemed too much like pity for her to allow it. She straightened at once, rose to her feet and turned away. He was not going to feel sorry for her. She had tried, and she had failed. Whatever called him was more important to him than she was, and that was that.

He rose also, buttoning his shirt. “Can you go to the store once more for me?” he asked quietly. “There are a couple of things I need.”

“Have I ever refused you anything?” she said bitterly, and he rounded on her, his dark eyes blazing.

“Helen, do you think I wanted it to work out this way?”

“I don’t know what you want, other than to get back to whatever it was you were doing last Friday night. And judging from appearances, that wasn’t good.”

He looked away, his face closing. “You’d better get going to the store. It’s getting late.”

Helen sighed resignedly. “What do you want?”

“Dark glasses...”

“Sunglasses?”

“Yes, and a knit hat to cover my hair. And a penknife.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s it.”

“I’ll go right now.”

She picked up her purse and was on her way as he called after her, “Thank you.”

She ignored him, pulling the door closed behind her.

By the time Helen got back it was full dark, and Matteo was waiting for her anxiously, pacing the living room floor.

When she handed him her purchases he donned the glasses and the hat and put the knife in his pocket.

“Won’t people think it’s odd that you’re wearing dark glasses at night?” Helen asked. “If they see you, that is.”

“They’ll probably just think I’m a drug addict,” he answered, and she couldn’t help smiling.

He saw her expression and shrugged. “It’s better than being spotted,” he added, smiling a little himself.

As she watched he pulled the .38 from his belt and depressed the hammer, sliding the cartridge out to check it.

“Do you have to do that in front of me?” she inquired tightly, and he glanced at her quickly.

“I’ll be ready in a minute,” he replied quietly, going into the bedroom and shutting the door.

Helen waited, trying not to think how empty the beach house would seem without him.

He returned shortly, the gun concealed beneath a pullover sweater Adrienne’s son Andy had left behind. She had to admit that he looked like a local. His dress was appropriate for early spring weather in north coastal Florida; the days were warm, but the nights were usually cool and breezy.