Montega's Mistress (5 page)

“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.

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.