Something Spooky (10 page)

Todd shattered her illusions with the first bite.

‘May I have some meat please, Ellie?’

Dismay in her eyes Ellie stared at the dish. She wondered if she’d overcooked it. Did meat dissolve?  Grabbing up the spoon she churned feverishly through the stew. ‘It must have sunk to the bottom,’ she muttered. ‘I was cutting it up just before I took your tea through.’ She gave the cat a murderous look before gazing back at Patrick. ‘Scruff must have eaten it.’

Ellie wanted to die … anything to blot out the expression in Patrick’s eyes.

‘Your cooking prowess seems to be on par with your witchcraft.’  Leaning back in his chair Patrick managed to open the larder door and gaze inside.

Ellie hoped the chair legs would snap off and send him crashing to the floor, but no such luck. Patrick reached inside, plucked a tin of corned beef from the shelf and came back to earth in one fluid motion. His eyes sought hers as he opened the tin, tipped the beef on to a plate and sliced it. ‘Would you like some meat with your vegetables? If corned beef doesn’t suit your palate I could probably find a couple of bats’ wings or a lizard’s tongue.’

Ellie’s appetite suddenly fled. Wasn’t it enough that she’d slaved over the walls - not to mention being chained to the damned stove?  Was it
her
fault the cat was a reincarnation of Dickens thieving character, Fagin?  Did she
have
to put up with Patrick’s sarcasm when her body was one big ache and all she wanted to do was sleep for a month? No, she did not! 

‘It must be wonderful to be so perfect.’ She’d meant to snap his head off but her voice came out in a crushed whisper. Tears? Disgusted with herself, Ellie tried not to groan as she eased herself from the chair, but didn’t quite succeed. She felt as though she’d aged sixty years in five seconds.

The frown that creased Patrick’s brow when he looked at her was the last straw. Tears streaming down her face she shuffled towards the door. ‘I can’t do anything right for you,’ she muttered. She hated displaying her martyrdom, but if Patrick felt one iota of guilt, it would be worth every suffering step. ‘I’m going to bed.’ Remembering Todd, she shuffled back and dropped a kiss on his head. ‘I’m sorry there wasn’t any meat, Todd.  Tomorrow I’ll be more careful.’

‘Patrick rose to his feet. ‘Are you all right, Ellie?’

‘No. You’ve made it perfectly clear that I’m all wrong.’ Pain sprinted from her neck to her shoulders as she lifted her head to glare at him. She winced. There was something gratifying about the flicker of concern in Patrick’s eyes. Instinct told her he wasn’t quite as tough as he made out. Shamelessly she exploited her theory, murmuring weakly. ‘Excuse me, Patrick. I ache all over.’

‘You little fool.’ Not quite what she’d hoped for, but the hint of tenderness in his voice was an improvement. ‘Go and get in bed. I’ll bring your dinner in on a tray.’She twisted the knife a little deeper. ‘Eat yours first. I know it’s not very good, but it will taste worse cold.’ 

She’d overdone it. His eyes narrowed and a sardonic smile etched his lips.

    ‘Sometimes, you’re deadly, green-eyes.’

‘Thanks.’ Accepting his words as a compliment she moved slowly towards the door. ‘Actually, I feel as deadly as a pig on a spit at the moment.’

‘I’ll do something about that later,’ he whispered in her ear as she passed by him.

‘Like what?’

‘Like baste you in oil. It might soften you up.’

His unexpected sense of the ridiculous touched a chord with her and she choked out a laugh.

‘That’s better.’ He smiled as his finger gently traced the path of a tear down her face. ‘I didn’t expect tears from you. I suppose it’s my fault.’

She could have replied with an affirmative, but Ellie knew she’d be lying. Although Patrick constantly challenged her self-esteem she didn’t
have
to try and prove herself to him. She’d been stupid to work herself to the point of exhaustion, stupid to blame the cat for ruining the dinner.

‘I guess I’m suffering from an overdose of self-pity,’ she admitted.

‘I’m speechless.’ 

Ellie could have done without the feigned amazement. ‘That makes a change,’ she muttered, and then neatly shut the door in his face before he could answer.

* * * *

Ellie should have
known
Patrick meant to carry out exactly what he’d said he’d do.

* * * *

 As a liberal amount of cold baby oil landed on the warmest part of her back, she buried her face in the pillow and cringed.

‘Strip off and throw that over you,’ he’d said, throwing her a towel.

To give Patrick his due, he’d listened politely to her reasons for not doing so before dismissing them.

‘If you don’t allow me to ease those muscles you won’t be able to walk for a week. I’ve got enough to do without looking after an invalid.’ He’d turned his back and gazed at his watch. ‘You have sixty seconds before I do it for you. If it’s any consolation, I learned massage techniques when I coached the local junior football team.’

She might just have well been the local junior football team by the impersonal way Patrick touched her body. His thumbs applied pressure to the knotted muscles until she yelped a protest.

‘Relax,’ he murmured. ‘This bit will be over soon.’

Relax?  Hah!  How could anyone relax when they were being tortured?  Just about to utter a heart-wrenching groan, Ellie changed her mind. The probing had become a firm kneading motion that would have done justice to a lump of bread dough. At least it was bearable. Sensing the towel beginning to slip she lowered one of her arms and reached around for it. In defiance of his order she’d left her panties in place. They weren’t much of a defence, but better than nothing.

‘Don’t wriggle.’ He adjusted the towel before her hand could reach it and sighed. ‘Stop fighting me Eloise, there’s nothing personal in this, believe me.’

The exasperation in his voice made it clear he considered her a nuisance. As she twisted her head around in a effort to see his face she was attacked by a twinge of pain that shot into her shoulder. She gasped.

‘Serves you right.’ Patrick chuckled as she carefully moved it back to its former position. ‘You hate not being in control, don’t you?’

‘Not really.’  Her cool reply was muffled by a mouthful of feather pillow so she moved slightly. ‘What I hate is
you
being in control of me.’

‘Do you?’ Ellie sensed he was grinning. ‘I imagine you’d get used to it. You’re surprisingly adaptable considering your up-bringing.’

‘You know nothing about my up-bringing.’ She sighed as his hands moved to the back of her neck.

‘Vera told me you were brought up by your father.’ Patrick’s hands slid into the hollows of her shoulders. ‘I should imagine he spoiled you.’

Ellie’s shoulders relaxed against his sensational hands. ‘You couldn’t be more wrong, Patrick.’ She smiled as she thought of her father. ‘He wanted me to grow up with as much independence as possible. He said ... he might not ...?’

‘Might not what?’ Patrick asked gently when her voice faltered.

‘Might not always be there for me - and he wasn’t.’

‘I’m sorry. You must miss him.’

Patrick could be so nice sometimes, Ellie thought dreamily. Despite his disastrous involvement with her father’s company he sounded genuinely sympathetic. ‘I’m glad he didn’t live to see his company go into liquidation.’ Ellie winced as Patrick’s fingers dug into her flesh. ‘He built it up from nothing.’

‘He must have known it was in trouble.’

‘The company outgrew his ability to manage it. My father was just a figure head for the two years preceding his death. David Lessingham was in control.’ David must have known the company was going under thought, Ellie thought uneasily, and then murmured. ‘I can’t understand why David didn’t tell me the company was going broke.’

‘Should he have?’

Cautiously she said, ‘I was
friendly
with him.’

‘The massage stopped. ‘How friendly?’

She took a deep breath. ‘I
understood
we would eventually marry.’

‘Why didn’t you?’

‘My father died, the company folded, and David Lessingham ... went overseas.’

‘He ditched you?’ Patrick’s thumb chased a line of shivers down her spine. ‘He used you up, and then he discarded you. Is that what you’re saying?’

‘If you want to put it that way.’ 

His hand applied pressure to the middle of her back when she tried to sit up. ‘I haven’t finished yet, Eloise. Tell me about David Lessingham.’

‘What else is there to tell?’

‘Were you in love with him?’

‘I thought I was at the time. I was straight out of school when I met him. It was the classic story. Young impressionable girl meets sophisticated glamorous older man. You know the rest.’

‘Poor Eloise. You must feel bitter about being used in that way.’

‘Not any more.’ Why should she be when she’d learned a lot from the experience? ‘I don’t plan to live the rest of my life being negative about a failed love affair.’

‘What plans
do
you have for the rest of your life?’

Feeling totally relaxed now from the caressing hands Ellie smiled. ‘I’m going to get married and raise a family,’

‘You’ll have to learn to cook,’ he observed with a chuckle. ‘A family needs to eat.’

‘Stop being difficult, Patch Morgan.’ She’d forgotten to tell him that her legs didn’t ache. Her calf muscles seemed to melt away, then her thighs, then her buttocks. Sensational - hands gliding over warm dunes of oiled silk. She’d become weightless. ‘Mmmm ... that’s nice.’ The long fingers spanning her waist, the thumbs inching up her spine ... were almost erotic. ‘The man I marry will overlook my faults. He’ll be perfect.’

‘There’s no such beast.’

Definitely
erotic. What would Patrick do if she encouraged a more personal massage. Smack the almost bare behind he’d stroked so deliciously a few seconds earlier? Her eyes flew open. The towel must have slipped off for him to have done that!

Knocking his hands aside, she grabbed the edge of the quilt and rolled over, taking it with her. Wrapped in the quilt like a fat sausage she accused. ‘Why didn’t you tell me the towel had slipped?’

‘You looked better without it.’

 It was hard to convince herself she was angry when his damned male logic was a compliment. The laughter in his eyes drew a responding grin from her.

‘Sweet dreams, Eloise,’ he murmured. He leaned over and robbed her body of its breath in one long kiss. ‘Have a good night’s sleep.’

Sleep?  How could she sleep when every demolished inch of her craved fulfillment?  He’d skillfully brought her to the boil then turned off the heat. Her body had fragmented into marshmallow pieces, each one flavored with different desires. She’d never sleep again, just drift in the heaven his wonderful hands had created for her and imagine ...?  Imagine he was Andrew?

There was only one problem. Try as she might, Ellie couldn’t recall Andrew’s face.

For every action there was a reaction. Ellie scowled at the rain teeming down the window. If she hadn’t messed with the spell-book it wouldn’t have rained, and she wouldn’t be spending her holiday pandering to a misogynist with a hair-trigger temper.

The rapport that seemed to exist between them when they’d shared the intimacy of the massage had evaporated the next morning. It was as if he’d revealed some softer part of his nature, regretted the lapse, and had decided to establish some distance between them.

Turning to the cooker she lifted the lid of the pan, stabbed moodily at the potatoes with a fork and muttered. ‘I just hope you like shepherd’s pie, Patch Morgan.’ She carried the pan to the sink and upended its contents into a colander to drain. ‘Come to that, I hope it turns out to
be
shepherd’s pie. You’ll probably inform me I should have used
real
shepherds instead of lamb mince.’

Over the past few days Patrick hadn’t let one meal go by without making some sort of disparaging comment. The previous day he’d told her if she didn’t have a spell to take the lumps from the gravy she could always try straining it. The day before that the carrots had only been fit for donkeys to eat. He’d eaten them anyway, she thought with a grin. This morning the toast had got stuck in the toaster and had caused a minor fire when her back was turned.

‘Even a sorcerer can manage toast,’ he’d muttered, his eyes blistering her. ‘One flick of the fingers and hocus-pocus!’ His fingers had snapped under her nose, making her jump and he’d grinned. ‘Try that, Ellie. It just might work.’

If wish fulfillment actually worked he’d now be wearing a slimy wart-covered frog skin instead of his ravishing set of muscles.

Vigorously applying the masher to the potatoes she whipped them into a fluffy mountain, and then grinned to herself as she spread them over the mince. Michelangelo couldn’t have formed a better likeness of Patrick on top. She’d try anything to extract a microcosm of humility from her adversary. Placing the dish in the oven she glanced over her shoulder to make sure he wasn’t around, then snapped her fingers at it. ‘Hocus-pocus!’

At first she thought that the bright flash that filled the kitchen was the oven blowing up. Then an ominous rumble of thunder tumbled overhead. It was coincidence, she thought, trying not to panic as she gazed uneasily at Scruff for reassurance.

No help was forthcoming from him. Scruff’s fur ridged along his back, he gave her a yellow baleful stare, and then squeezed himself under the dresser for safety.

‘Very funny.’

A second flash of lightning set Ellie’s heart on overdrive. The terrifying thunderclap that accompanied it brought a panicky gasp to her lips. Then the electricity flickered rapidly on and off before failing altogether and plunging her into darkness. She considered joining Scruff under the dresser.

* * * *

Why was she panicking? Thunderstorms didn’t usually have this effect on her. Thoroughly rattled she groped her way towards the door, and then yelped as the lightning illuminated a devilish figure in the doorway.