by Anne Mather
Helen caught her breath. ‘We don’t sleep together, if that’s what you’re implying,’ she flashed back at him angrily, and Reed held up an apologetic hand, as if regretting his words. But Helen was too incensed to think clearly, and before she could stop herself she had added, ‘I don’t sleep around, Mr Wyatt. Whatever you may have assumed to the contrary!’
Reed was momentarily lost for words. She could see that—just as she could see that she had been unforgivably rude. And, even though she told herself she was glad she had embarrassed him for a change, it would be awful if her reckless tongue caused him to have second thoughts about her. What if he did remember who she was? Dear God, how could she have been so stupid?
‘I’m sorry,’ Reed said now, and for once his tone was lacking the warmth she had become used to. ‘I guess I spoke without thinking. Young people today—’ He lifted his shoulders in a deprecating gesture. ‘As you say, one should never assume anything.’
Helen bent her head, looking down at the toes of her boots with a feeling of total humiliation. So much for embarrassing him, she thought tensely. All she had succeeded in doing was making a complete fool of herself.
‘I’m sorry, too,’ she mumbled, lifting her head to meet his cool gaze with wary green eyes. ‘I didn’t mean to—to be rude.’
‘Didn’t you?’ To her dismay, Reed didn’t take her apology at face value. ‘Forgive me, but I think you did. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that you’ve been looking for an opportunity like that ever since you got here.’
Helen’s face blazed with unwelcome colour, and she was sure she must look as guilty as she felt. ‘I—I beg your pardon?’ she got out at last, but now it was Reed’s turn to ignore her excuses.
‘I think you heard what I said,’ he replied evenly. ‘You haven’t exactly hidden your feelings, have you? For some reason, you resent us. Me! I’m not sure which. But I’d sure as hell like to find out why!’
Helen swallowed. This was dreadful. ‘You’re wrong—!’
‘Am I?’
‘Yes.’
‘Convince me.’
‘What?’ Helen stared at him with disbelieving eyes.
‘I said—convince me,’ Reed repeated, stepping round the table, and resting his hips against the rim. He folded his arms and regarded her steadily. ‘Tell me that you haven’t avoided speaking to me, whenever it was possible to do so. Tell me that you haven’t treated me like some particularly objectionable form of life.’
Helen shook her head. ‘You’re mistaken—’
‘I don’t think so.’ Reed was disturbingly close, and she could feel tiny rivulets of sweat trickling down her spine, as he continued to stare at her. His eyes were grey, she knew. As grey as Alexa’s, in fact. But right now they looked almost black, and her mouth dried as she realised what a dangerous situation she had created.
‘I’m sorry if you think I’ve been ungrate ful,’ she ventured at last, but Reed’s expression didn’t alter.
‘Who said anything about ingratitude?’ he countered drily. ‘I want to know what it is about me that bugs you. What did I say, for heaven’s sake? What did I do?’
That was too close for comfort, and no matter how she might despise herself later Helen knew she had to distract him. Plastering a weak smile to her lips, she gave what she hoped sounded like a gurgle of laughter. ‘Honestly, Mr Wyatt,’ she exclaimed, moving round him to take her place at the breakfast table, ‘I don’t know how you’ve got that impression. Why, last night I thought we were getting on together rather well. I really appreciated you showing me round the gallery, and I did apologise for giving Jon an excuse to gatecrash his aunt’s party.’
Reed expelled his breath on a long sigh, turning his head so that he could look at her over his shoulder. ‘Last night was an exception,’ he declared flatly. ‘And you know it.’
‘Was it?’ Helen forced herself to look up at him with innocent eyes, and Reed’s brow furrowed.
‘You know,’ he said, pushing himself away from the table, ‘you remind me of someone.’ He shook his head. ‘But I can’t remember who it is.’
Helen could feel the colour draining out of her face, but she managed not to flinch. ‘Do I?’ she countered, keeping the tremor out of her voice with a supreme effort. ‘Someone nice, I hope.’
‘I can’t remember that either,’ he declared, resuming his seat with a resigned expression. ‘That’s what comes of getting old. The memory is the first indication.’
Helen moistened her lips. ‘You’re not old,’ she said, still trying to divert him, and Reed looked across the table at her, his eyes intent.
‘You don’t have to lie to make a point,’ he told her gently, and Helen hated the way her stomach muscles melted at his words. Just the sound of his voice was like a rough hand scraping across her emotions, and her own vulnerability had never been more apparent.
‘I’m not lying,’ she said, as much to convince herself that she could handle the situation as anything else, and Reed lifted his shoulders in a dismissing gesture.
‘OK,’ he conceded, his lean mouth turning up slightly at the corners. ‘So—let’s talk about something else, hmm? Like—what are you and Jon planning to do today? And does the idea of spending a few hours on the yacht appeal to you?’
As it happened, one of the Asian maids appeared at that moment to ask Helen what she would like for breakfast, but the breathing-space she might have had was swallowed up with her insistence on having toast and nothing else. And, by the time the maid departed, she was still at a loss for words.
‘The yacht?’ she said at last, pouring herself a glass of orange juice, holding the jug with both hands to prevent it from clattering against the rim of the glass. ‘You—you have a yacht?’
‘Didn’t Jon tell you?’ Reed’s eyes were disturbingly perceptive. ‘Well, no. Perhaps he wouldn’t,’ he added humorously. ‘The last time he took the yacht out, it capsized.’
Helen concentrated on her orange juice to avoid looking at him, and made a suitable sound of distress. ‘No, he never mentioned it,’ she admitted, licking a speck of zest from her lip. ‘Are—are you a keen sailor, Mr Wyatt?’
‘I like to take the yacht out occasionally,’ he responded, and she was aware of him helping himself to another cup of coffee. ‘And I think I asked you to call me Reed,’ he added. ‘Or is that something else I’m mistaken about?’
Her head jerked up unwarily, and she met his intent gaze with unguarded eyes. She had thought she had averted a crisis, but she found at once she hadn’t. ‘I—no—that is, I didn’t like to,’ she stammered, furious that she had let him disconcert her once again. ‘I mean—you are Jon’s father. And—and we hardly know one another.’
‘True.’ Reed was reluctantly prepared to be benevolent, and she breathed a little more easily. ‘Nevertheless, I think I’d feel better if you could dispense with the formality. If we’re going to be friends, it seems unnecessary.’
Helen forced another smile, and then the maid came back with her toast and some fresh coffee, and for several minutes she was able to divert herself by dealing with her breakfast. But she wasn’t hungry. Indeed, it took an immense amount of will-power even to lift the buttered toast to her lips. Perhaps she should have ordered scrambled eggs, she thought uneasily. Maybe she could have swallowed them without such an effort.
‘Tell me about your daughter,’ said Reed suddenly, and she was forced to acknowledge him again. He had finished his breakfast now, and instead of resuming his appraisal of the previous day’s Financial Times, as he usually did, he was lying back in his chair, watching her with unnerving speculation. God, where was Jon? she fretted desperately. The last thing she wanted to do was discuss Alexa with him.
‘Um—there’s not a lot to tell,’ she mumbled, her mouth full of the toast she was trying unsuccessfully to swallow. She turned her head deliberately and looked at the Sound. ‘You are lucky living here. Imagine seeing this view every morning.’
Reed barely cast a g
lance at the dark blue waters of the bay. His interest was still trained on herself, and she realised that by being evasive she was only deepening his curiosity.
‘She’s called Alexa, isn’t that right?’ he remarked, almost as if Helen hadn’t said anything, and she was just arming herself for another bout of verbal fencing when Jon came slouching into the room.
Her relief was almost palpable, and it took an enormous effort not to get up from her chair and throw her arms around him. However, almost immediately she realised that something was wrong, and Jon confirmed this opinion by throwing himself into the chair opposite and propping his head in his hands.
‘Do you have any aspirin, Dad?’ he asked thickly. ‘I’ve got the most God-awful headache!’
Reed pushed back his chair and got to his feet. ‘I’m sure we’ll have some about here somewhere,’ he said, and although he exchanged another look with Helen his attention was distracted. ‘Just a minute. I’ll have a word with Laura.’
He left the room and Helen, who had been gazing at Jon with anxious eyes, left her seat and went round the table to him. ‘What’s caused this?’ she asked softly, massaging his neck muscles. ‘Too much champagne?’
‘Hardly,’ responded Jon drily, lifting his hand to cover one of hers. ‘It feels like a migraine. I guess riding the bike without any shades could have done it.’
‘What a shame!’ Helen squeezed his shoulders. ‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘Well, I have heard that sex can help,’ he answered teasingly, looking up at her with an obvious effort, and Helen pressed her finger gently down upon his nose.
‘You’re incorrigible, do you know that?’ she exclaimed, making a face at him, and Jon was just reaching up to pull her head down to his when Reed came back into the room. Immediately, Helen jerked back, and Jon gave a grunt of protest as his father came towards them.
If Reed had noticed the little tableau that was being enacted in his absence, he gave no sign of it. Instead, as Helen withdrew to her own side of the table, he poured some of the orange juice into a glass, and set it down, together with a couple of tablets, in front of his son.
‘Take them,’ he said, standing over Jon as he did so. ‘Laura says her mother swears by them.’
‘Laura’s mother’s a witch,’ declared Jon grumpily, but he took the tablets anyway, grimacing as he did so.
‘Whatever, she’s usually right,’ Reed responded evenly. ‘She also said you should rest for a while, to give them time to work.’
Jon groaned. ‘I can’t do that.’
‘Do what?’
‘Rest.’ He sighed. ‘What about Helen?’
‘Oh, honestly—’ Helen began to protest that she was perfectly capable of entertaining herself, when once more Reed intervened.
‘I’ll take care of Helen,’ he assured his son firmly. ‘It will give us a chance to get to know one another better. Isn’t that right, Helen?’
‘Oh—right,’ murmured Helen unwillingly, and then forced a smile to her lips as Jon looked at her for confirmation. ‘Really. You go and get some rest.’
Jon pushed himself to his feet again with an effort. ‘Well, OK,’ he said. ‘If you’re sure you don’t mind—’
‘She’ll be fine.’ Reed gave his son a gentle push towards the door. ‘Go on. We’ll see you later.’
Jon gave Helen one last rueful grimace before leaving the room. But it was obvious he was relieved to be going back to bed. Which was great for Jon, but not so great for her, thought Helen, trying not to feel envious. Now all she had to do was convince Reed that she could take care of herself for the next few hours. The last thing she wanted was for him to feel he had to entertain her. The less time they spent alone together, the better.
Resuming her seat at the table, she lifted her coffee-cup to her lips, hoping Reed would get the message and leave her alone. But she was wrong on two counts. One, her coffee was cold, and two, Reed exploded any hopes she might have had about escaping to her own room by saying casually, ‘It looks as if I’ll have to take you sailing myself. When you’re finished there, join me down at the dock.’
CHAPTER SIX
OF COURSE, HELEN protested. She said there was no need for Reed to feel responsible for her, that she couldn’t possibly take up his time, and that, in any case, she had things she wanted to do—but it didn’t do any good. Reed insisted he had promised Jon he would look after her, and besides, he was looking forward to taking the yacht out.
‘You can crew,’ he said, pausing in the doorway, and, when she objected that she had never done any sailing before, he assured her that it was a piece of cake.
‘I suppose that’s why Jon capsized, the last time he went out,’ she retorted, stung into instinctive retaliation, but Reed only smiled.
‘It wasn’t this yacht he capsized,’ he told her tolerantly. ‘And in any case I’ll be with you.’ He paused. ‘Bring your swimsuit. And don’t be long.’
His arrogance infuriated her, but there was nothing she could do. And, when she eventually made her way down to the jetty, she found Reed loading a can of petrol into what appeared to be a launch with an outboard motor. With his hair rumpled by the breeze off the water, and a smear of oil on his cheek, he looked little older than his son, and she realised unwillingly how easy it must have been for the sixteen-year-old Helen to be attracted to him. Compared to the boys she had known at that time, he must have seemed so cool and sophisticated—only she hadn’t used words like sophisticated in those days. To her, he had been exciting, and sexy, and the dangers he represented had only added to his appeal.
He looked up then, and saw her, and his lips twisted as he misinterpreted her troubled expression. ‘This is not it,’ he declared drily, straightening and holding out a hand to help her aboard. ‘She’s anchored out there,’ he added, indicating the yachts moored some distance from the shore. ‘These waters are too shallow, and too rocky.’
‘I see.’
Helen accepted his assistance to climb into the launch, but she extracted her hand from his as soon as it was humanly possible, and bumped down on to the plank seat at the far end of the boat. But her hand was still tingling, even after she had stowed the canvas bag containing a second swimsuit and her protective cream down at her feet.
If Reed noticed her withdrawal, however, he gave no sign of it. Hauling a wicker basket into the launch after him, he cast off the line and started the motor. Then, seating himself beside the tiller, he guided the fast-moving little boat out to where a cluster of masts bobbed on the tide.
Helen spent the time it took to reach the yacht reading the names of the craft that were moored offshore. She saw lots of female names, like Felicity, and Aurora, as well as cuter appellations such as Stingray, Dream Trader, and Sea Fever. She wondered what Reed’s yacht would be called. Something classy, she expected. She couldn’t imagine him calling a boat Sassy Alice, or Match O’Man. No, she speculated wisely, more like Ariadne, or Desdemona. Something with a classical connotation.
She was wrong—which was only to be expected, she thought crossly, as the launch nudged the hull of a vessel with Ocean Tramp painted on its side. She should have known that one thing Reed Wyatt was not was predictable, and she sighed a little heavily as he stood up to toss both the basket and the can of oil on to the larger vessel. And it was much larger, Helen saw, with some anxiety. At least forty feet in length, with sleek, racing lines. How on earth were the two of them going to handle it?
Reed noticed her look of trepidation then, and grinned. ‘What’s the matter?’ he said. ‘Are you wondering how you’re going to get aboard?’
In fact, that particular obstacle hadn’t occurred to her, and she shook her head. ‘It seems so—big,’ she murmured, making no attempt to get up from her seat. ‘Don’t—don’t we need Jon, too?’
‘To sail it, you mean?’ suggested Reed, securing the launch to the mooring mast. ‘No. It’s possible to sail it single-handed, actually. What’s wrong? Aren’t you a good sailor?’
>
‘I don’t know,’ replied Helen honestly. ‘I’ve never tried.’
‘But you can swim.’
It was a statement, more than a question, but Helen nodded indignantly. ‘Of course.’
‘OK, then.’ He regarded her tolerantly. ‘Let’s go.’
She stood up unwillingly, the misgivings she had about being alone with Reed combining with a sense of unease about this whole expedition to turn her legs to jelly. Stepping clumsily over the centre seat, she made it to the end of the boat where he was standing, trying not to notice the fact that their combined weight caused the side of the boat to dip perilously close to the water. It was funny, she thought; she could swim in these waters without turning a hair, but the idea of falling out of a boat seemed intrinsically dangerous.
‘Now,’ said Reed, taking her hand again, ‘step on to the gunwale, can you? That’s the side of the boat,’ he added, for her benefit. ‘Then, you’ll be able to climb aboard.’
‘Will I?’
Helen couldn’t prevent the doubtful rejoinder, and Reed chuckled. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I won’t let you fall. I’ll be right behind you.’
That’s what worries me, thought Helen uneasily, but this time she made sure the words didn’t pass her lips. Instead, she concentrated on following his instructions, trying not to remember the last time she had felt his strong lean body close to her own.
In the event, it proved easier than she had anticipated. Or perhaps she had wanted to prolong those moments when his arms had been reaching past her on to the deck, Helen acknowledged unsteadily. Whatever, in a short space of time she was standing on board the Ocean Tramp, and the fascinating sights all around her were a welcome compensation.
Until then, she had not realised how interesting it would be. She had watched the craft using the Sound from her bedroom window, of course, and envied their owners’ skills in avoiding one another. But now, she was actually part of the activity, and it was infinitely more exciting to be out here on the water. She almost felt a sense of gratitude to Reed for bringing her. Except that gratitude was something she reserved for people she could respect.