Men of Intrgue A Trilogy (5 page)

“What are you reading?” he finally said, and she started, glancing toward him.

“You’re awake,” she said. “Are you hungry?”

“What is that book?” he persisted, and she held it up for his inspection.

“Faust in Hell
,” he read aloud, “
The Tragedy of Christopher Marlowe.
Why tragedy?”

“Oh, because he died so young, in such a senseless way. He might have been greater than Shakespeare, if he had lived.”

“‘Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss,’” Matteo recited. “Is your name a coincidence?”

Helen shook her head, putting the book aside. “No, my father is a Marlowe buff; he named me. Dad also introduced me to his work when I was young.” She smiled ruefully. “I think it’s the only interest we have in common.”

“Something, anyway,” Matteo said gently, and she nodded.

“I have to get through this during the next week or so to remain on schedule,” she said, standing up.

“What schedule?”

“My own. I’m working on my thesis and I have it all mapped out, what areas to cover and how long each should take.” She folded her arms and examined the patient. “You’re looking remarkably chipper today. I have to go to the store; we’re out of food. It won’t take me long. I’ll be back before you know it, okay?”

He forced her to meet his eyes. She seemed to know what was coming, but he said it anyway. “Helen, I’d like you to get me some clothes. I have to take a shower and get dressed.”

“You’re going to leave soon,” she responded.

“Yes.”

“Today?” she asked dismally.

“We’ll see,” he said quietly, relenting. He studied her clouded face and added, “I have no money.”

“I do,” she replied simply. “What should I get?”

He looked thoughtful, trying to remember his American sizes. “Shirt: fifteen and a half, thirty-four. Pants: waist, thirty-four; inseam, uh, thirty-two, I guess. And shoes, see if you can get that tennis kind, what do you call them...”

“Sneakers?” Helen supplied.

“That’s right, sneakers. Size ten. Is that all right?”

“Fine,” she replied briskly, turning for the door.

“Helen,” he said.

She paused.

“I have to go. I don’t want to, but I must.”

She didn’t answer, merely left the room and went across the hall to change. He heard her leave a few minutes later.

As soon as she was gone he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and tried to stand. His knees gave way and he had to grab for the back of Helen’s chair to steady himself, but he was on his feet for the first time in days. He maneuvered into position and sat down slowly, stretching his long legs in front of him. It felt good to be out of the bed, but even he had to question whether he was going to be doing any traveling right away. He felt punchy and lightheaded, which he ascribed partly to the lingering effects of Helen’s miracle pills. As they wore off the wound in his arm began to feel like it was being gouged by a hot poker, but he wanted to be clearheaded when he left.

He had to get back to his men. But just as important, he had to protect this girl who had taken such a risk for him. In his diverse life he had seen other acts of selfless behavior, but nothing quite the equal of this. That a rich, beautiful American woman would shelter a wounded stranger from the police and drop everything to nurse him back to health seemed unbelievable, but it had happened. To him. And now he had to make sure that he got away clean, so that she wouldn’t suffer any repercussions.

Unlike most of his compatriots, Matteo liked Americans, having gone to school in the United States for years. He had developed a solid affection for their open, easy manner, fierce independence and amazing resourcefulness. What he liked best was their romantic unpredictability; this young woman would have had every reason to throw him to the wolves and go back to studying literature and cashing her trust fund checks, but she had done exactly the opposite. And now he had to get out of her life without satisfying her legitimate curiosity or getting her into trouble with the authorities, who were surely still looking for him.

It was not going to be easy.

When Helen returned she came into the bedroom carrying several wrapped packages and a brown paper grocery bag.

“Angel Bites, as requested,” she announced, tossing a cellophane packet into his lap. “And what are you doing out of bed, may I ask?”

“It’s time,” he answered flatly.

“Clothes,” she said, dumping the parcels on the bed. “In the stated sizes. I don’t think you’ll make the cover of
Gentlemen’s Quarterly
, but they should do the trick as long as you don’t take off the shirt and display that shoulder to anybody.”

“Thank you. Will you help me to the bathroom? I want to get cleaned up.”

“Are you sure you’re strong enough for that?” she asked, challenging him.

For an answer, he stood and took a step toward her. She moved to aid him, slipping her arm around his waist and walking at his side. She could feel the resurgence of his natural strength; it wouldn’t be long before he would depart her life as suddenly as he had entered it. She led him to the bathroom and took him past the whirlpool and the sauna closet to the sunken bathtub, made to order for Adrienne and inlaid with imported Italian tiles. The gold plated faucet had more gadgets and dials then a ship’s boiler, and Helen showed him how to regulate the temperature and flow. She left him leaning against the wall and went to the closet for the things he would need. She returned to find him unbuckling his belt, favoring his injured arm but otherwise holding up very well. Too well.

He paused as she handed him a stack of Lord and Taylor towels, a bar of Adrienne’s gardenia scented soap and a bottle of her henna herbal “specially formulated for the client” shampoo. Adrienne kept the place stocked like a Paris salon, and so Helen had seized the opportunity to travel light and leave her own toiletries at home. She wasn’t sure Matteo would appreciate the amenities; he would probably emerge smelling like a high priced bordello. But he would undoubtedly be clean.

“I’ll be right outside the door if you need me,” she said, watching as he set the towels on top of the rack and turned to face the tub. He was moving slowly, but gaining assurance with each passing second. He glanced at her and nodded.

“Go ahead. I’ll be fine.”

Helen left and closed the door behind her, listening as the rush of water began shortly afterward. It continued for a long time, sounding like Victoria Falls in the narrow hallway. When the shower stopped she waited anxiously, hoping that his impaired balance wouldn’t cause him to fall on the slippery tile floor. Seconds later the door opened, and a cloud of steam emerged. When it cleared she saw Matteo standing in front of the mirror over the sink, wearing a towel knotted around his waist. Barefoot, dripping, his soaking hair pushed back from his forehead, he was frowning down at Adrienne’s Lilliputian sterling silver razor. It was totally inadequate to handle his five day growth of coarse black beard.

“Is this all you have?” he asked. “Your father didn’t leave a razor here?”

“No, but I have a disposable one in my luggage. I’ll get it.”

She went for the razor, and when she came back he was lathering his face, grimacing at his own image.

“I look like a bus station degenerate,” he said grimly, and she had to laugh.

“What bus station have you been hanging out in?” she asked playfully.

“Port Authority,” he answered, before he thought. “At least I used to pass through there, years ago. I don’t imagine it’s changed much.”

“How long since you’ve seen it?” Helen asked innocently, and his eyes met hers in the mirror.

“All right,” she conceded grumpily. “I’m probing, I admit it, but I can’t understand why...”

The razor fell from his fingers as he gripped the edge of the sink with both hands, his knuckles white.

“What is it?” Helen asked, moving in to steady him.

“Nothing, just felt a little dizzy.” He went to pick up the razor again, and Helen grabbed it out of his hand.

“That’s it,” she said firmly. “You sit down and I’ll shave you.”

“You’re not shaving me,” he protested as she tried to push him into the vanity chair. He was objecting to the servile nature of the task.
      

“Yes, I am, or you keep the beard. And unless you want little children to run screaming out of your path, I suggest you get rid of it.”

“That bad, huh?” he replied glumly.

“You said so yourself.”

He sat down, subsiding with surprising meekness. Helen had a strong feeling that it was a rare thing for him to succumb to another’s will. She relathered his face, noticing that his drying hair was the color of bittersweet chocolate, a shade lighter than his brows and lashes, which were jet black. Shining now with cleanliness, it fell in loose waves onto his forehead and around his ears. And as she drew the razor over his skin, his features emerged, more clearly than she had ever seen them; even on the first night they were already shrouded with stubble. The face that evolved was that of a young grandee in a Goya court portrait: fierce, proud, beautiful. Careful to avoid glancing down at his near nude body, Helen finished shaving him, wiping his cheeks with a towel and removing daubs of cream from his ears. He watched all the while with his alert, cola brown eyes; they moved with her, following her to the medicine chest as she removed a fresh gauze pad from a shelf and stripped off the paper wrapper.

“Just hold still for a minute,” she instructed him. “I want to cover your arm with this.”

The wound was scabbing over and healing nicely, draining just a little clear fluid. Helen swabbed it with alcohol and fastened the new bandage in place, smoothing the surgical tape with a meticulous fingertip.

“You take such good care of me,” he said, looking up at her from his sitting position.

“All part of the friendly service,” Helen answered lightly, putting away the shaving gel. “Now on your feet, buddy. You should be back in bed.”

She took both his hands and hauled him upward, while at the same time he rose on his own. The result was that he stumbled forward and lost his balance for a second, falling against her. Helen caught him, supporting his weight. As he straightened, the towel around his waist came loose, falling to the floor, and Helen suddenly found herself in the arms of a naked man.

He smelled wonderful, not feminine at all; Adrienne’s goodies took on a distinctly rugged flavor in combination with his masculine flesh. His skin was smooth and fresh, like satin, with the hard base of muscle underneath it. She wanted to cling but drew back, flustered, until he reached out with his good arm and pulled her tight against him.

Matteo’s hands slipped to her hips, and he molded her to him, shifting his position to straddle her. Helen gasped as she felt his arousal, and he groaned in response, his head dropping to her shoulder. He nudged her neck, moving his mouth inside her collar, and Helen closed her eyes as the delicious friction of his lips on her throat made her weak with longing.

“Helen,” he muttered, caressing her through her clothes, moving his mouth to the swell of her breasts above her bra. She sighed luxuriously, running her fingers through his damp hair, trailing them to the firm column of his bare neck. He reacted swiftly, stepping back from her slightly to reach for the top button of her blouse.

She tilted her head back to look into his face, and her movement seemed to snap him out of the drugged haze of sensuality that had enfolded both of them. He released her so suddenly that she almost fell.

“What am I doing?” he rasped, slumping against the wall behind him and closing his eyes. “Helen, get out of here. Shut the door and leave me alone.”

Helen obeyed because she didn’t know what else to do. She went into the living room and sat down woodenly, wondering what would happen next. In the space of a minute everything had changed between them.

Still in the bathroom, Matteo rubbed his mouth with the back of a trembling hand, then reached for the new shirt that Helen had bought for him. He started to remove the pins from its folds, then threw it on the floor in frustration.

So much for his lauded self control. He had been deluding himself that if he could just get away without touching her, everything would be all right. But of course that had focused all of his concentration on avoiding physical contact, which was the same thing as pining for it every moment. Restricting himself to affectionate embraces and kisses on the cheek had only inflamed him more. He had been injured, but he was far from dead. Every day of his recovery had brought him closer to acting on his feelings and finally he had.

It didn’t help to know that he would still have to leave her, and thanks to this incident, more bereft and alone than ever. He could tell that she wasn’t used to letting people get close to her. From what she had told him of her life, she obviously preferred her own company. He couldn’t blame her. Her background was hardly conducive to instilling faith in enduring relationships. She wasn’t cynical or jaded, just understandably wary. But circumstances had changed her perspective in his case, before she even realized it, and now it was too late. The tie was there between them, indestructible, permanent. She had saved his life. There was no more to be said.