Amy’s father,’ she said stiffly. ‘And I certainly didn’t plan on having a baby at sixteen.’
‘So why take the risk?’ Matt’s brows ascended. ‘Forgive me, but you must have known what would happen, even at sixteen.’
Fliss shook her head. ‘You don’t understand.’
‘So enlighten me.’
‘Why should I?’ Fliss gave him a defiant look.
‘Because I’m interested.’
‘Curious, don’t you mean?’ He shrugged, and although she suspected she was going to regret it later, she said, ‘I was naive. I’d never been the kind of girl to—well, to get involved with boys. I’d always been more interested in my school work, in getting good grades.’
‘Admirable.’
‘Yes.’ She didn’t know if he was being sarcastic or not, but she went on anyway. ‘I was flattered by an older boy’s attentions, and I made a mistake. End of story.’
‘But it wasn’t the end of the story, was it?’ he said. ‘You had Amy.’
‘Yes, I did. And Terry and his parents left the village telling everyone who would listen that he wasn’t the baby’s father.’
‘Nice guy!’
She pulled a wry face. ‘It was all for the best really. It would never have worked.’ She glanced about her at the worktops piled high with goods she’d taken from the cupboards she was cleaning. ‘Anyway, I’ll just tidy this stuff away and then I’ll go.’
Matt folded his arms across his midriff. ‘Are you still annoyed with me?’
Fliss shook her head. ‘No. I’m annoyed with myself.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I don’t want you to think I regret anything that’s happened.’
‘Not even us sharing a kiss?’
She flushed. ‘Not even that.’
His lips twisted. ‘Well, don’t worry about it. As you said, it’s not going to happen again.’
‘No, it’s not.’ Brushing past him, she lifted the broken steps out of the way and shoved them next to the back door. Then, lifting the bucket she had been using into the sink, she emptied the water away. ‘And as far as paying me for this week is concerned, you can have it on the house.’
He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a swear-word, but as it wasn’t spoken in English she couldn’t be sure. In any case, she was appalled at her own behaviour. It was all right making those kinds of gestures when you could afford it. Unfortunately she couldn’t.
Matt shifted then, coming to stand with his back to the counter beside her, his frustration evident. ‘Look, can’t we forget all this nonsense and start again?’ he demanded.
Fliss turned her head. ‘You really want me to stay?’
Matt expelled a weary sigh. ‘Yeah. I really want you to stay.’
She considered. ‘And you won’t—tell Diane what happened?’
Once again a quirk of amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth. ‘No, I won’t tell Diane,’ he promised. Then, with a strangely mocking expression, he turned away. ‘Take my word for it, she’d never believe it.’
Chapter Eight
MATT spent the rest of the day cursing himself for letting the situation with Fliss develop as it had. It would have served him right if she’d decided she didn’t want to work for him after all. And, in spite of everything, he wanted her to stay.
With hindsight, he didn’t know what had possessed him to act the way he had. What crazy urge had compelled him to touch her at all when he knew damn well that nothing would—or could—come of it?
OK, he understood his initial reaction when she’d landed on top of him. Having the breath knocked out of you by a warm and nubile young woman could cause a momentary loss of memory, and that was his excuse. Unfortunately, he’d prolonged the offence by holding on to her, by allowing her to believe, however briefly, that he knew what the hell he was doing.
Just because it was the first time his body had reacted normally since he came home from Abuqara, he’d wanted to prove something to himself. In those few seconds, he’d actually imagined what it would be like to ease her down onto the kitchen table and bury himself in her moist flesh, and when reality had intruded he’d fought against it.
Though not for long. His brief arousal hadn’t lasted beyond the point where his brain reasserted itself. Whatever fantasy his body had entertained, his mind soon reminded him what he was capable of and what he wasn’t. And making love with Fliss, however appealing that might seem in theory, clearly wasn’t possible in practice. And he was a fool if he thought otherwise.
Nevertheless, for a few delightful moments, he’d enjoyed the fantasy, and that was what he regretted most. He’d let her think he wanted her, instead of just the dream she represented.
All the same, the memory of how soft her skin had been was a constant irritant. No, not an irritant, he contradicted himself impatiently, a torment. It reminded him of how things had used to be, how he had used to feel. Her mouth had been soft, too, moist and generous, and the intimate brush of her tongue had made him want to do more than just taste her lips.
He wondered if that was a good sign. Surely it had to be, he told himself grimly as he carried a tumbler half-filled with mature single malt out onto the patio that evening. It was significant because he hadn’t felt any such emotions while he was in London. In spite of everything Diane had done to spark his interest, he’d backed away from any intimacy, and he knew she was hurt by his determination to keep her at arm’s length.
The night air felt surprisingly warm. Or was that just his imagination, too? Certainly he felt a little more optimistic than he’d done for some time. Maybe this really was what he’d needed. A complete change of scene, an escape from the associations his life in London had represented. He had to believe it; had to believe that in time he’d feel like a man again.
He went to bed at ten o’clock, but he slept only fitfully. His dreams were filled with erotic images; not of Diane, as they should have been, but of Fliss Taylor, and what might have happened the day before.
The scenario was always the same: Fliss was standing at the top of the steps, long legs pale and slender, the rounded curve of her bottom prominently displayed in the khaki shorts.
His physical reaction was immediate and unbelievably carnal. Even before the steps snapped as they had that morning, he was already anticipating what she would do if he touched her, if he slid his hand over her calf and the shapely length of her thigh to the provocative cuff of her shorts. And if he slipped his fingers beneath the cuff, would she be wearing any underwear?
The crack the steps made as they broke was clearly audible, and he lunged to save her just as he’d done in reality. But there the comparison with reality ended. Instead of stumbling backward and allowing her to wind him, somehow they fell together, legs
