Men of Intrgue A Trilogy (12 page)

Helen jumped up and flung herself into his arms.

“Hey,” he said, laughing and nuzzling her, “I’m going to leave you alone more often if this is the kind of greeting I get.”

Helen’s erstwhile companion followed him in, carrying a tray. When she saw the two of them embracing she made a remark to Matteo and cackled loudly, winking at Helen.

“What did she say?” Helen asked, her face beginning to flame.

“I think I’ll leave that one untranslated,” Matteo said dryly, shooting the woman an exasperated look. “Elena brought you something to eat; she said you told her you were hungry.”

The woman put the tray on the bed and stood grinning at Helen, obviously waiting for an introduction.

Matteo sighed, shaking his head.

“Helen, this is Elena, the innkeeper’s wife. The man who owns this place is an old friend of my mother’s family.” He turned to Elena and said something in Spanish.

Elena curtsied with remarkable grace and said prettily,
“Con mucho gusto, la senorita bonita de Matteo. Mi casa es a su servicio.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you too, Elena,” Helen answered.

The ritual observed, they all looked at one another.

Matteo then stared at Elena and nodded toward the door.

Elena made another crack, and he took her arm and escorted her into the hall, slamming the door with a resounding thud.

“Matteo, what was she saying about me?” Helen demanded when he returned.

“Never mind her, she has an overactive libido. Did you sleep well? You’d better eat something; we have to get an early start in the morning.”

“Where are we going?” Helen asked, sitting on the bed and picking up the piece of buttered bread Elena had left.

Matteo sat next to her and looked into her eyes. His own were direct, sober, and very dark.

“To my camp,” he answered her. “You can’t get out of the country now, Helen. You were seen with me at the airport. They’ll have your description posted everywhere by now and they’ll know the name you were using, as well.”

Helen dropped the bread back onto the plate and swallowed hard, her throat suddenly closing.

Matteo tipped her chin up with his forefinger and said huskily, “You have to stay with me.”

Chapter 5

“Stay,” Helen repeated, unsure whether she should burst into tears of joy or have hysterics. She wanted nothing more than to be with Matteo, but here, where they were both still fugitives...

“For a while,” he added. “Until I can find a way to get you back home safely.”

Helen didn’t know what else to say. Matteo picked up the bread she had dropped, added a slab of cheese and put it in Helen’s hand again. Helen took a bite and chewed obligingly, washing the sandwich down with a healthy drink of the dark brew Elena had provided. She swallowed it, then coughed and began to blink rapidly, inhaling deeply.

“What is that stuff?” she asked Matteo, when she could talk.

“Agua de fuego,”
he answered. “Firewater.”

“I’ll say. You could have warned me.”

“I thought you might like to go native,” he teased her, enjoying her discomfiture.

“Haven’t they heard of iced tea around here?” she said, and he laughed.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he offered, standing up. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

“How about a bathtub?” she asked.

“I think you’ll have to make do with that basin in the corner,” he said, “but I’m sure Elena can heat the water for you.”

“And a change of clothes?” she went on, raising her eyebrows questioningly. “I’m wearing half the road we traveled to get here.”

“I don’t think you and Elena are the same size, but she has a daughter who might fit the bill. Finish that food and I’ll be right back.”

Helen polished off the meal while she was waiting and was inspecting the sorry state of her shoes when he returned.

“Tea,” he said, handing her a glass. “Sorry, no ice.”

Helen drank it anyway; it was wet, and at least tasted familiar.

“And,” Matteo said, holding out his other arm, “for my lady’s toilette.”

Helen took the bar of crude yellow soap, the pair of rough, ribbed gray towels and the square of fleecy material to be used for a washcloth.

“I seem to remember getting these things for you,” she said to him, piling the items on the bed.

“The supplies you provided were a little more refined,” he replied ruefully.

Helen lifted one shoulder negligently. “Soap is soap.”

She was pinning up her hair with barrettes from her purse when he stilled her hands with his and said gently, “You’re something else, lady. This must have been the worst day of your life and I haven’t heard one word of complaint.”

Her hair fell over his fingers as she replied softly, “It wasn’t the worst day of my life, Matt. I spent it with you.”

Matteo twisted a bunch of the silken strands around his fist and said quietly, “I’m sorry I got you into such a mess,
majita.”

“What does that word mean?”

“Little
maja,
little lady.”

“Is that what I seem to you?”

“Yes. A perfect lady: warm, generous, loyal. Look what you’ve done for me. I don’t understand how anyone can give so much and take so little.”

Helen was too moved to speak. She had never been paid such an extravagant compliment.

Matteo dropped his hands to her shoulders and said, “What’s wrong with that family of yours? How can they ignore you? Don’t they see what a treasure you are?”

There was a knock at the door and Matteo went to answer it. He returned carrying a steaming kettle by its wooden handle.

“Here’s your hot water,” he said to Helen. “Let me pour it into the basin for you, and then I’ll see if Elena found those clothes.”

He left Helen preparing for her bath and went below to collect fresh clothing from his friend’s wife. When he returned, the door to Helen’s room was ajar, and as he was about to leave the things in the hall he was stopped by a sight that took his breath away.

Helen was standing in a pool of light from the table lamp, washing. Her skirt and blouse were off, dark shadows on the bed, and her one piece teddy was folded down to the waist, leaving her torso bare. Her back was to him, but she was turned slightly sideways, so he could see her three-quarter profile. His lips parted as she lathered her upper arms, rubbing the creamy soap over her ivory skin. The fine muscles of her slender back tensed and relaxed as she moved, tilting her head back and stroking the snowy column of her throat.

Matteo’s gaze traveled lower, taking in the long, slender legs and narrow hips exposed by the high cut of the teddy. He looked up again to find her hands traveling to her breasts, and he almost groaned aloud. He watched as the dusky nipples rose to her touch, as they would surely rise to his. She picked up the washcloth and glided it over her abdomen, then moved it upward to stroke the valley between her breasts before she lifted her hair with one hand and washed the nape of her neck. Her breasts, free of the confinement of clothing, were more ample than he would have suspected, full and high.

Matteo could not seem to get enough air into his lungs. Perspiration broke out on his forehead. Look away, he told himself. Turn around and go downstairs; wait until she’s finished. Voyeurism is pathetic, an invasion of her privacy.

But he discovered that he couldn’t move. He had imagined her naked so many times, wondered how she would look, and the reality did not disappoint him. Just a few more seconds, he thought, and then I’ll go quietly and she’ll never know I was here.

Helen bent and splashed clear water over her skin, and Matteo watched as the sparkling rivulets caressed her like crystalline fingers. She raised each of her arms in turn, rinsing, and her breasts rose, taut and firm, the nipples stiffening even more in reaction to the cooling water. He leaned against the wall, his stomach knotting with desire. This was too much, more than any mortal man could bear. Sweat was trickling down his sides under his shirt as he stared helplessly, spellbound, caught in the same net that had once held David as he coveted Bathsheba.

Helen dipped her cloth in the basin and rinsed her back. Matteo’s eye traveled her spine, taking in the beautiful arch from straight shoulders to slim waist, and he longed to trace with his hands the path the water took. When she began to dry herself, he saw a rosy hue invade her skin, saw the imprint of her fingers on her flesh as she cupped each breast and then released it.

Matteo’s hand went to his hardening sex and he shifted his weight, easing the stricture of his jeans. He tried once more to leave, but instead found himself pushing open the door and walking toward her. He dropped the clothes Elena had given him on the chair and said, “Helen.”

He didn’t recognize his own voice. It was low and hoarse, filled with longing.

She half turned before he touched her, sliding his hands under her arms and enclosing her breasts from behind. She gasped at the intimate contact, but then relaxed as he pressed his lips to the base of her neck.

“Oh, Helen, what a picture you make,” he moaned, as she lay back in his embrace, closing her eyes as his fingers stroked her nipples, teasing them to new sensitivity. He drew his mouth along the satiny line of her shoulder, and Helen whimpered when he lowered his hands to her hips and forced her back against him.

“Feel what you do to me,” he said into her ear. He grasped her waist and turned her to face him, kissing her wildly, the pretense of control he had maintained so carefully for so long gone in an instant.

Helen’s mouth opened under his, welcoming the invasion of his tongue. She had never been kissed like this, with such primitive urgency, and she responded in kind, running her palms over the hard surface of his back, reveling in the coiled power she felt there, tension she had created and which sought her for its release. She had touched him often while he was sick, seen to his every need, but this was different; it was almost like discovering him anew. The first time he had held her the day he got out of bed he’d changed their relationship forever, and now she associated this hunger with him, the only man who had ever made her feel it.

Matteo picked her up and set her on the bed, falling with her into a prone position and nuzzling her neck. His lips moved lower, tasting the soft skin, redolent of soap and her own unique scent. They settled on the pink bud of her nipple, and Helen arched her back, sinking her fingers into his hair and holding his head steady as he laved her, then sucked gently. She made a small sound, not of protest, but of pleasure, and he increased the pressure until she was stimulated to a point just below pain. When he moved back to sit up, she tried to hold him, but he slipped out of her grasp and unbuttoned his shirt, stripping it off quickly and dropping it to the floor. Then he lowered himself to her again and she wound her arms around his neck, sighing with the satisfaction of feeling his naked skin against her own.

Matteo twined his limbs with hers on the bed, and Helen’s thighs loosened to allow him closer. She felt him, ready, and he grunted when she unconsciously lifted her hips to meet him. She was acting on blind instinct, but her eager innocence inflamed him, urging him onward. He rolled her on her back and laid his flushed cheek against the smooth flesh of her belly, placing a kiss there before peeling back the rest of her chemise and pulling it off her legs.

Helen stiffened, but did not resist; she had already made the commitment to him in her mind. There was only one small concern, and she voiced it as he stood to remove his pants.

“Will it hurt?” she asked, her quiet voice coming at him out of the semidarkness.

Matteo’s hand froze on his belt buckle, and he didn’t reply for several long seconds. Then he thrust trembling fingers through his tousled hair and sat down slowly on the edge of the bed, moving like a man recently awakened from a dream.

“No, Helen, it won’t hurt, because nothing is going to happen,” he answered evenly. He retrieved the folded sheet from the foot of the bed and flung it open, drawing it over her from feet to neck.

“What is it?” Helen said, sitting up and clutching the sheet to her breasts. “Did I do something wrong?”

He shook his head. His hands were braced on his knees, and she could see the decreasing motion of his chest as his breathing returned to normal.

Helen reached for him with her free hand, touching his smooth shoulder, slick now with perspiration.

“It’s all right, Matteo.”

“No, it’s not,” he replied huskily.

“I’m ready,” she insisted. “I love...”

He whirled suddenly and clamped his hand over her mouth. “Don’t, Helen. Don’t say it.”

“Why not? I feel it,” she answered, when he relaxed his grip.

“You don’t know what you feel!” he said fiercely, standing and shrugging back into his shirt. “It’s just the circumstances, and everything’s new, and we’ve been thrown together so much. You’ve been waiting all your life to attach your pent up feelings to somebody, and I’m here, that’s all.”

“I’m not twelve, Matteo. I know what I want.”