Julia James - Passion & Pleasure

His brain baulked at the avalanche of questions. It wasn’t his problem, and he had the feeling Fliss wouldn’t appreciate his curiosity. Despite her occasional outbursts, he sensed she was a private person. And he couldn’t forget the way she’d acted that morning when she’d found him in bed.

He was back to square one, to the very subject he didn’t want to think about. Weariness enveloped him, a combination of the physical work he was doing and the mental depression he had to constantly fight against. Despite his confinement, he wasn’t used to manual labour. Weeks, months spent in the confines of a small cell caused muscles to stiffen up and grow painful with lack of use. He’d tried to keep himself fit, doing push-ups and other exercises, but he’d been fighting a losing battle. Living on a starvation diet turned every effort into a major task.

Now his muscles were aching from the continual bending and lifting, and he felt an almost overwhelming desire to go back to bed. The blessed relief of oblivion beckoned, and he had to force himself to continue with his task.

A tap at the library door was not welcome. He would have preferred time to pull himself together, time to wipe his features clean of the pathetic self-pity he was feeling at this moment. But he hardly had time to straighten his shoulders before Fliss put her head round the door.

‘I’ve made a start on the bedrooms—’ she was beginning, when she caught sight of his haggard face. Her expression changed and she pushed the door wider. ‘I’m sorry. I’m interrupting.’ She paused, and then went on curiously, ‘Are you all right, Mr Quinn?’

‘It’s Matt,’ he said flatly, propping his hip against the rim of his desk. ‘And, yeah, I’m fine. Just a little tired, is all.’

She clearly wasn’t satisfied with his response. ‘Are you sure?’ she asked, linking her fingers together at her waist. ‘You’re not—well, you’re not overdoing it, are you?’

Matt’s lips twisted. ‘Shelving books? I don’t think so.’

‘But you have been ill,’ she pointed out reasonably, making him wonder exactly what she’d heard about him. ‘I can do this tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘It’s ten past one,’ she offered, with a swift glance at the workmanlike watch on her wrist. ‘I usually only work mornings.’

He guessed she didn’t know she had a smudge of dust on her cheek or that her T-shirt had come loose from the waistband of her jeans, leaving a wedge of creamy skin to tantalise him. Didn’t she realise that in his present incarnation, he was far more dangerous to both her and himself? But no. Why would she? As far as she was concerned, he and Diane…

Dragging his thoughts away from that particular minefield, he made a concerted effort to concentrate on what she was saying. ‘Is that what we agreed?’ he asked neutrally, folding his arms across his chest, as if by doing so he could somehow ease his aching back and subdue the emotions that were roiling inside him. ‘How many mornings?’

‘Well, we did agree to two days a week,’ she conceded. ‘We could call that five mornings, if you like. Until we see how it goes.’

‘We could.’ Matt considered. ‘Is there some reason why you don’t want to work all day?’

‘I pick Amy up from school at three o’clock,’ she said simply. ‘And I make lunch for my father at one.’

‘So you’re late.’

‘It’s not set in stone,’ she assured him quickly. ‘He won’t mind waiting.’

Matt arched a brow. ‘He’s retired, I take it?’

‘More or less.’ She looked a little uneasy now.

‘More or less?’ It was really nothing to do with him but he couldn’t prevent the question. ‘You mean he works part-time?’

‘Sort of.’

Matt didn’t say anything but she obviously realised he expected her to go on. With a little shrug, she added, ‘He used to own the village pharmacy. He retired three years ago.’

Matt’s brows drew together. ‘I didn’t realise a village of this size would have a pharmacy.’

‘It doesn’t now.’ She hesitated. ‘People go to the supermarket in Westerbury. It’s cheaper.’

‘So your father works in Westerbury?’

‘No.’ He could actually feel her frustration now, sense her unwillingness to continue. But, with a sudden gesture of resignation, she spread her hands. ‘If you must know, he writes a weekly column for the local newspaper.’

Matt snapped to his feet then, gasping as his back protested the sudden move. ‘Say what?’ he croaked, against the pain that shot down into his thighs.

‘He writes—’

‘I heard you.’ Matt turned and braced himself with the heels of both hands on the desk. ‘Hell, no wonder you didn’t want to tell me.’

‘I didn’t tell him about you!’ Fliss exclaimed defensively. ‘I could have done, but I didn’t.’

‘Why not?’

He heard her shift a little uncomfortably then. ‘I—I didn’t think you’d want me to.’

‘Damn right!’

Matt attempted to move away from the desk, but for some reason his spine appeared to have locked and he couldn’t deny the sudden oath that escaped his lips.

Oh, great, he thought bitterly. As well as being an emotional cripple, he was now a physical one as well. God, how had he got into this state?

‘Are you all right?’

Despite her obvious unwillingness to be honest with him, Fliss came round the desk so that she could look at him. She seemed genuinely concerned about him, but Matt wasn’t in the mood for her sympathy—for anybody’s sympathy, actually—and the look he cast her way should have shrivelled a hardier soul than hers.

‘And if I’m not? What are you going to do about it?’ he snarled, wishing she would just go. He had to deal with this alone—and with the fact that anything he’d said to her up to this point could find its way into the local rag. Christ, what were the odds against him choosing the daughter of the local hack to be his housekeeper?

‘I could help,’ she said quietly, and with an effort he swung himself round again to rest against the desk.

‘Oh, right. You’re a masseuse, too, I take it? Is there no end to your ingenuity, Ms Taylor?’

She held up her head. ‘I do have some experience,’ she said stiffly. ‘I was training to be a physiotherapist when my mother died and I had to give up my work to look after my father and Amy.’

Matt was stunned. ‘A physiotherapist?’ he echoed half disbelievingly. ‘But Diane said—’

He broke off, but she evidently knew what he had been about to say. ‘What?’ she asked drily. ‘That I was a school drop-out? I was. Until I’d had Amy, that is.’

He shook his head. ‘I’m impressed.’

‘Don’t patronise me.’ Her lips tightened. ‘Now, do you want me to help you or not?’

Matt shifted against the desk. ‘I’m just stiff, that’s all.’

‘I’d say you’ve overdone the lifting and bending.’ She contradicted him. She hesitated. ‘Can you stretch out on the desk?’

Matt gave her an open-mouthed look. ‘What?’

‘I mean it. I’ll just wash my hands.’

She headed for the door and was gone before he could stop her, and Matt made another attempt to straighten up. But the pain made him wince in agony and he wondered if he’d done something stupid like slipping a disc or trapping a nerve.

Yeah, that would figure, he thought grimly, regarding the prospect of prostrating himself on the desk with mild incredulity. But, on the other hand, he had to get mobile again.

She was back before he knew it. She came into the room smelling faintly of lemon and he guessed she’d washed her hands in the kitchen.

‘Will you be warm enough if you take off your shirt?’ she asked briskly, and he wondered if she had any idea what she was letting herself in for. ‘But what the hell?’ he muttered under his breath. She was bound to see his back sooner or later. With an effort, he managed to haul the shirt over his head, wincing only when her soft hands brushed the back of his neck.