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‘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.
He moved jerkily across to the windows and was in time to see her striding away down the path that led to the church. He guessed there must be a short cut through the churchyard, though, in all honesty, he didn’t even know where she lived. Just that she lived with her widowed father and her daughter. That was it.
Diane would know where she lived, he acknowledged, but he had no intention of asking her. He could already imagine her reaction when he admitted that he’d employed Fliss Taylor as his housekeeper. And if she ever found out Fliss had given him a massage…She would not be pleased, but what the hell? Did he really care?
He knew he should. It wasn’t Diane’s fault that he’d been sent to Abuqara. It wasn’t Diane’s fault that he’d come back only half a man. She saw what she wanted to see. Any essential differences she either couldn’t—or wouldn’t—understand.
The phone rang then, startling him out of his reverie. His spirits slumped. Had his thoughts about Diane somehow communicated themselves to her? It was several days since she’d left for London and no doubt she’d expected him to ring her over the weekend.
Fortunately, there was an extension in the library so he didn’t have to go far to answer the call. His reluctance as he lifted the receiver spoke volumes, but he endeavoured to inject a positive note into his voice as he said, ‘Yeah, this is Quinn.’
‘Matthew!’ His mother’s voice was so much more welcome than Diane’s that Matt sagged against the bookshelves.
‘Ma.’
‘Are you all right?’ There was concern in her voice. ‘I expected you to ring me after you’d settled in.’
‘I intended to.’
‘Oh?’ Louise Quinn’s voice rose a little now. ‘When, exactly?’
‘Soon.’ Matt sighed. ‘I’ve been busy, Ma. Apart from the few things I brought from London, I didn’t have any furniture.’
‘Oh, Matthew!’ There was reproof in her voice now. ‘You can’t possibly live like that.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ve remedied the situation.’ He sighed. ‘I’m not incapable, you know.’
‘But after all you’ve been through—’
‘That’s in the past now.’
‘Is it?’ She didn’t sound convinced. ‘According to Diane, it’s still very much in the present.’
Diane. Matt controlled the urge to say that Diane had no right to be unloading her problems onto his mother. Instead, he said evenly, ‘Diane’s peeved because I moved out of town.’
‘And with good reason.’ His mother clucked her tongue now. ‘Oh, Matthew, are you sure you’re going to be all right? I liked to think I was just across town if you needed me.’
‘I’m fine, honestly.’ Matt shifted as his back twinged again, wondering how honest he was being. ‘And I’m not a million miles away. You can always come and see me. Now I have a spare bed.’
‘But how are you going to look after a barn of a place like that? Diane says it has six bedrooms, for heaven’s sake.’
Diane, again. Matt stifled his irritation and said neutrally, ‘I’ve got a housekeeper. She’s helping me get the place in order.’
‘A housekeeper.’ Louise sounded relieved now. ‘Oh, well, that’s something, I suppose. Is she going to cook for you, too?’
‘I…’ Matt hadn’t considered the fact that he was now obliged to provide all his own meals. ‘Possibly,’ he said, wondering how Fliss would react to that suggestion. After this morning’s fiasco, he’d be lucky if she didn’t decide to find herself another job.
‘Well, I hope so,’ said his mother firmly. ‘You’re not fit to do everything for yourself.’
‘Ma—’
‘No, I mean it, Matthew. You may think you’ve put your past experiences behind you, but I know differently. It’s all very well pretending that a person can endure years of incarceration—’
‘It was one year, Ma.’
‘It was nearer two.’ She huffed. ‘Anyway, that’s not the point. No one—and I mean no one—suffers the kind of physical abuse you had to contend with and emerges unscathed.’
‘I don’t need this, Ma.’
‘I think you do.’ She was determined. ‘You were starved, Matthew. Starved and beaten. God knows what other kind of mental torture they put you through—’
‘For pity’s sake.’ Matt could feel every nerve in his body chilling with the memory. ‘Do you think this is helping? Is there any useful purpose in forcing me to remember? I’m trying to forget.’
‘I know, I know.’ At last his mother seemed to realise how insensitive her words must sound. ‘I’m sorry, darling, I’m a stupid old woman and you have every right to be angry with me. But I’m so worried about you, Matthew. We both are.’
‘Both?’ Matthew frowned.
‘Diane and I,’ said his mother impatiently. ‘She was such a comfort to me while you were away. A daughter couldn’t have been sweeter.’
‘Yeah, well…’ Matthew definitely didn’t want to talk about his relationship with Diane. ‘You can relax. I’m OK. Right?’
‘Right.’ But she still sounded uncertain. Then, injecting a note of optimism into her voice, she added, ‘Anyway, at least I’ll be able to tell Diane that you’ve got yourself a housekeeper. I know she’ll be relieved.’
Will she? Matt wanted to ask her not to mention it to Diane, but he didn’t have the strength to explain why. ‘I’ll ring you later in the week,’ he said, hoping to escape any more reproaches on Diane’s behalf. ‘OK?’
‘You will take care, won’t you, Matthew?’
‘I promise,’ he said, and with another brief word of farewell, he ended the call.
But, as he pushed himself away from the bookshelves and looked wearily around the library, he wondered if he was just kidding himself by thinking he could escape himself…
Chapter Seven
FOR the rest of the week, Fliss did her best to avoid her employer. She had plenty to do, and Matt himself seemed more than willing to keep out from under her feet. He didn’t mention what had happened and nor did she. She hadn’t forgotten the scars she’d seen on his back, but if he suspected she might tell her father he was very much mistaken.
On Wednesday morning, she arrived to find Albert Freeman, a local painter and decorator, already at work with his measuring tape and clipboard. He was only too happy to tell her that he’d been approached by ‘Mr Quinn’ to give him an estimate for how long it would take him to redecorate the hall, stairs and landing. Fliss knew a momentary—and totally unjustified—feeling of alienation at being cut out of the process. Matt had said nothing about his plans to her, and she consoled herself with the thought that he’d very likely find the pompous Mr Freeman rather hard to take.
However, she said nothing, getting on with her work as usual, and on Thursday morning it was Matt who came looking for her. She was cleaning out one of the store cupboards in the kitchen when his lean dark frame appeared in the doorway, and she was instantly conscious of him in every fibre of her being.
Fliss was standing on the top of the steps that had been rusting in the garden shed since old Colonel Phillips’s time, and she was unhappily aware of her bare legs below the cuffs of her khaki shorts.
It was ironic really, because for most of the week she’d sweated in her jeans and T-shirt. But today it was so hot, she’d decided to go with a sleeveless vest and shorts. It wasn’t as if Matt noticed what she was wearing, she’d assured herself. Most of the time, he barely seemed to notice she was there.
Except for that first morning…
But she didn’t want to think of that now, not when Matt was standing staring up at her with those dark, inscrutable eyes. He was wearing loose-fitting cotton trousers and an open-necked chambray shirt folded back over muscular forearms. Both the trousers and the shirt were black and accentuated the sombre cast of his expression.
