Montega's Mistress (4 page)

“Yes, my father had this house built for my mother as a wedding present because she loved this part of St. Augustine so much. It was originally sort of a log cabin, very rustic, but it’s been redone a couple of times since then.”

“Your parents are divorced now?”

Helen noticed that he wanted to know all about her, while offering no information about himself. But then again, she had nothing to hide.

“Yes, and both have remarried twice. I’ve had assorted stepmothers and stepfathers, as well as, let’s see, nine step-siblings at various times. We’re a very modern family.” She tried to make a joke of it, but he didn’t miss the forlorn expression she banished as soon as it appeared.

“Something tells me you won’t follow that pattern,” he said quietly. “You seem like a one-man woman to me.”

“I hope so,” she said lightly, turning her back on him deliberately. “Things are confusing enough right now.”

He sensed that the issue was a sensitive one and sidestepped it. “You must have an interesting time at family reunions,” he said lightly.

She faced him with a grateful smile. “Oh, we’d never get together all at once,” she said. “Too much potential for open warfare. My mother would probably knife Adrienne.”

“Is she jealous?” he asked.

“You bet.”
 

“Why?”

“Adrienne currently holds the position my mother used to have.”

“And that’s enough?”

“For my mother it is. She regards men as property, once acquired, always owned.” She didn’t have to add that she disagreed with this philosophy; her tone as she said the words spoke volumes.

“Is she still in love with your father?” he asked, not caring about the answer, but about the insight he was getting into Helen’s character.

“I think she is, in a way, although she would never admit it. He was her first real love, and you never forget the first one, no matter who comes after him.”

“You sound like an expert.”

Helen hesitated. “No as a matter of fact, I’m not. But I know
I’d
never forget.”

He noticed the way she phrased it. The event was still in the future for her, and somehow he wasn’t surprised.

“I don’t think Sophia has felt the same way about another man since my father,” Helen went on. “Or maybe I just like to think that he was special to her. I don’t know.”

“Sophia? You call your mother by her first name?”

“I’d better. She’d have a stroke if I ran around calling her Mom. She likes to tell people that we’re sisters and see if they believe it.”

“Do they?”

“Sometimes. More often than you’d think.” Sophia’s lifetime preoccupation with her physical appearance had paid off handsomely. At forty-seven she was remarkably well preserved.

“You look alike, then?”

Helen smiled wryly. “I don’t know if you’d say that. We have the same coloring, similar features, but my mother is far more flamboyant, stylish. We’re sort of like the original and the photographic negative.”

Matteo was watching her face, noting its changing expression as she spoke about her mother. “I can’t imagine your being a shadowy imitation of anyone,” he said softly, and she looked up to meet his eyes. They were closing, but he smiled at her before he fell asleep.

* * *

Helen got up in the middle of the night to check Matteo’s dressing, and as she touched his shoulder his good hand flashed from beneath the covers and caught hers in a viselike grip. Helen recoiled from the pain; for someone recovering from such a severe illness, he was remarkably strong.

“Matteo, it’s me,” she said quietly. “Helen. I just want to change the gauze pad on your arm.”

He studied her in the half light admitted by the open door to the hall and then released her, moving his fingers up to lay them against her cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “You took me by surprise.”

Not a good idea, Helen thought to herself as she discarded the stained dressing and replaced it with a fresh one. He must have had some rude awakenings in the past.

When she stepped back he grasped her hand and pulled her toward him. She couldn’t read his face, but his intent was clear as he drew her onto the bed and into his arms.

“Stay with me,” he murmured. “You’re too far away.”

Helen lay next to him, snuggling up to his uninjured shoulder and putting her head on his chest. He encircled her with his arm, moving his leg so that she could fit comfortably against his side. He felt warm and solid, and she could hear his voice rumbling in his chest as he said, “While I was sick I dreamed that we were together like this.”

“That wasn’t a dream,” Helen replied, feeling her face flame in the darkness. “You had the chills and couldn’t seem to stop shaking. I got on the bed with you and held you until you quieted down.”

He didn’t answer for a moment, but she felt his lips moving in her hair. When his voice came it was low and husky.

“I don’t know how to thank you for what you have done,” he said quietly. “You probably saved my life. And I’ve got to live long enough to do what must be done.”

There it was again, the hint that his business encompassed more than he could say. Since he had brought it up, she pressed her advantage, asking, “Can’t you tell me what you were doing when you were hurt?”

“No.”

“Why?” She cast about for an idea. “Did you steal something?”

His whole body stiffened, and she was immediately sorry she had said it.

“Do I seem like a thief to you?” he responded softly, and his grip on her shoulders relaxed, as if he didn’t want to touch the person who could ask him such a question. “I told you once I was not a criminal, and I wasn’t lying.”

Helen half sat, looking down into his face. “You admitted that what you were doing is illegal. Most people would say that makes you a criminal.”

“Is that how you see the world,” he replied coldly, “all clear choices, everything black and white?”

“I see,” Helen answered, frustrated by his obstinacy, his distant tone, “that you are treating me like a child.”

“You act like one,” he stated flatly. “‘Tell me, tell me,’ as if this were a game we are playing, keeping secrets. It is not a game. When I say that I do not want you to know in order to keep you safe, you refuse to believe me. You kept me alive when I might have died without you. Should I pay you back by putting you in danger? What kind of friend would I be if I did that, Helen?”

She didn’t answer, unable to argue with him. She noticed that his English became less colloquial when he was upset. He dropped the familiar conjunctions and adopted a more formal style, speaking the way he must have when he first learned the language.

He sighed heavily and reached for her again. “Come here. I don’t want to fight with you.”

Helen curled up with him again, unwilling to pursue the discussion, but still troubled.

“Can you trust me, Helen?” he asked, twining his fingers with hers and inching her closer. “Can you accept that I am making the right decision?”

“I guess I’ll have to,” she replied grudgingly, settling against him.

There was a smile in his voice when he directed, “Go to sleep, my stubborn little American.”

Helen was tired and, despite her misgivings, found it surprisingly easy to obey him. She was almost out when she murmured, “The Chinese believe that you are always responsible for someone whose life you have saved. Do you think that’s true?”

He waited a beat before he answered soberly, “I wonder.”

But Helen didn’t hear him.

She was asleep.

Chapter 2

Helen was reading in the chair next to the bed when Matteo opened his eyes the next morning. He didn’t speak, but studied her covertly, taking in every detail.

She was wearing a blue robe with white lace ruching at the neckline, her blonde hair flowing over her shoulders loosely. Her pose and her clothing reminded him of a painting he had once seen; it depicted a golden girl in a blue dress sitting in a shaft of sunlight, bending her head over a book in her lap. Helen was absorbed, turning the pages without looking up, her expression rapt.

What an unexpected delight she was, Matteo thought. By all indicators, she should have grown up to be a vain, self indulgent woman like her mother. Instead she was a dreamer, a loner who had come to this out-of-the-way place to escape the heedless life her family led. And when he had burst into her self imposed isolation and ruined it, she had saved him with a spontaneous act of kindness.

“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.”