Green Lightning

by Anne Mather

  'In computers?' Angela tried to sustain his interest, and Heath frowned.

  'Not initially, no. Greg's good with figures, and he became my financial adviser.'

  'Oh, I see.' Angela paused. 'His wife seems older than he is.'

  Helen's head jerked up then, but realising it was a deliberate ploy to bring her into the conversation, she quickly lowered it again. It was again left to Heath to reply, and he lifted his shoulders carelessly as he gave his opinion.

  'I don't think so,' he declared slowly. 'I was best man at their wedding, and as I recall it, Marion's about the same age.'

  Angela crumbled her roll delicately. 'I suppose it's difficult for me to judge. She's so much older.'

  Helen took long steady breaths. She would not be brought into this, she told herself fiercely, but Angela's ingenious comments were designed to frustrate her.

  'They're a nice couple,' said Heath at last, either unaware of Angela's bitchiness or dismissing it. ;Marion thinks a lot of Helen. She has a son and a daughter almost the same age.'

  'Really?'

  Helen thought Angela made it sound as if she had imagined Marion's children would be years older. But just then she was more concerned with the inflection in Heath's voice, and she chanced a look at him to see if she could read anything from his expression. But his face was averted his eyes studying the wine in his glass, and without their revealing message she could make no confident assessment.

  'I have to go away tomorrow,' he said suddenly, startling both women by the unexpectedness of his announcement.

  'Away?' All of a sudden Helen was unable to remain silent. 'Away where? London?'

  'No. Montevideo,' replied Heath flatly, meeting her gaze now without revealing any of his thoughts, and she gulped.

  'Montevideo!' echoed Angela, almost as hastily. 'But that's in South America!'

  Helen paused only long enough to give Angela an irritated glance before exclaiming accusingly: 'You've not mentioned this before.'

  'I didn't know before,' retorted Heath, with annoying coolness. 'You may remember, I got a phone call from South America last evening.'

  'And you knew then!'

  'No.' He spoke distantly. 'I received another call this evening. I'll be away about a week. I'm sure you'll be well looked after in my absence.'

  Helen looked down at her plate. It was over a year since Heath had last visited South America, and not long ago he had commented that he was unlikely to be called upon to undertake such a journey again. He had men who worked for him, managers and directors, who could be relied upon to act in his best interests, men to whom a trip to South America provided a welcome break in their busy lives. Yet now Heath was proposing to make this trip himself, and Helen couldn't help thinking that she was to blame for his sudden decision. Like her, he wanted to get away; like her, he felt he needed time to think. What worried her most was the possibility that he might decide he had had enough, and in spite of her humiliation, Helen knew she would rather live with Heath as his niece than not live with him at all.

  The telephone rang again as they were having coffee in the sitting room, but this time the call was for Angela. Left alone with Heath, Helen knew she had to take this chance to try and heal the breach between them, but her tentative opening was overridden by his more powerful voice.

  'I suppose I should apologise,' he said stiffly, startling her into silence. 'If that dress is an example of Angela's choice of clothes for you, then you were right to refuse to wear them.' He sighed. 'Once again, I've overreached my responsibilities. I have to remember you're too old to be treated like a little girl.'

  Helen didn't know what to say, and Heath impaled her with an ice-green gaze. 'That's not to say the spanking wasn't justified. It was,' he stated harshly. 'But I am not usually so barbaric, and for that, I do offer my apologies.'

  Helen moistened her lips. 'Is that why you're going away?' she asked impulsively, and saw the look of loathing that crossed his face.

  'Why should you imagine that?' he demanded tautly. 'I'm going to Montevideo on business. What possible connection can that have to what happened last night?'

  Helen shrugged. 'It seems rather sudden, that's all.'

  He arched his brows. 'It happens that way sometimes.'

  'Does it?' She looked at him through her lashes. 'You told me a few weeks ago that you wouldn't have to go there again. You said you could delegate all your—'

  'This is different,' Heath interrupted her shortly. Then he sighed. 'If you must know, Señor Garcia has insisted that I sign the contract between us myself. And as it happens, his eldest daughter is getting married next week also. He's invited me to the wedding, and this way, I can accomplish both feats. All right?'

  Helen pursed her lips. 'Señor Garcia has—other daughters?'

  'Three, I think,' agreed Heath, getting up to pour himself a glass of brandy. 'Now, are you satisfied? I'm obliged to go.'

  'Take me with you!'

  The words slipped out almost involuntarily, but they could not be withdrawn, and Heath turned to face her, his face dark and forbidding. 'No.'

  'Why not?'

  He took a mouthful of the brandy, and then said harshly: 'You're not invited.'

  'I don't believe you. Señor Garcia knows about me. He used to send me little gifts from time to time, didn't he? That painted fan, and the doll, dressed in—'

  'You're not going,' said Heath flatly. 'Whether or not you were invited is irrelevant. You stay here, with Angela.'

  Helen's chin quivered. 'You—you bastard—' she choked, then broke off abruptly as Heath took a menacing step towards her.

  'What did you say?' he demanded, but before he could reach her, Angela reappeared.

  'So sorry for the interruption,' she said, sitting down on the couch again and picking up her coffee cup. 'It was a friend of my father's. He just wanted to reassure himself that I was happy here.' She paused, and then added demurely: 'Of course, I told him I was .'

  Helen was in that drowsy state between sleeping and waking when Heath came to her room. She had dozed only fitfully throughout the night, so that when he opened her bedroom door she was immediately alert to his presence. It was light outside, so she guessed it must be morning, but the coolness of the air suggested it was not long after sun-up.

  'Oh—you're awake,' he said shortly, as she struggled up on to her pillows. 'I just came to say goodbye. I'm leaving in a few minutes.'

  'So soon?' Helen was too bemused to sustain any hostility, and Heath's expression softened at her unguarded exclamation.

  'It's seven-thirty,' he told her, the darkness of his suit contrasting sharply with the silvery lightness of his hair. 'My flight leaves Heathrow at a quarter to twelve. Ormerod is driving me to Manchester to catch the shuttle.'

  Helen sighed. 'How long will you be gone?'

  'You know—about a week.'

  She looked anxious. 'I'll miss you.'

  'I'll miss you, too,' agreed Heath tautly. 'But I guess this trip will give us both a break. And give you and Angela a better chance to get used to one another.'

  She bent her head. 'If you say so.'

  'Oh, Helen—' with an exclamation of frustration, Heath came down on the bed beside her, uncaring that the sheet might muss his dark pants. 'What do you want me to say?' he demanded, taking one of her hands between both of his. 'Last night—well, the least said about last night the better, don't you agree? I don't like being called a bastard, not by anyone. And don't pretend you didn't use the word. My hearing's still as acute as it ever was.'

  Helen moved her shoulders helplessly, taking care to keep the sheet tucked under her arms. 'You just seem to do things to hurt me,' she murmured unwillingly, and his fingers tightened round hers as he expelled his breath impatiently.

  'To hurt you!' he exclaimed. 'I don't do things to hurt you,' he protested. 'For heaven's sake, Helen, I care about you too much for that.'

  'You do?' she ventured to look at him and he gave a deep sigh. With her hair loose
and tumbled about her shoulders and the delicate blush of colour in her cheeks, she had a natural sensuality, and Heath was not unaware of it.

  'Of course I do,' he told her roughly. 'All right, so I lost my temper on Saturday night, but surely that was understandable. You must learn not to take advantage of our relationship.'

  Helen hunched her shoulders. 'You used not to object. You used to like me to kiss you.'

  'That was different.' He released her hand abruptly. 'And you know it, Helen. You're growing up now, and—and what you did—well, with anyone else it could have got you into a lot of trouble.'

  'But not with you,' she tendered softly, and sensed the sudden tensing of his body.

  'No, not with me,' he agreed shortly. 'And stop looking at me like that! I don't want us to part in anger.'

  She looked away from him. 'All right, go then,' she said, pushing back her hair with annoyingly unsteady fingers. 'Have a good trip. Give Señor Garcia my regards.'

  'Helen!' His use of her name was tormented, and relenting a little she looked back at him.

  'Goodbye,' she whispered, her eyes filled with unshed tears, and with a groan of anguish, Heath bent towards her.

  'Goodbye,' he said, but he said it against her mouth, and her lips parted in instinctive response. With a little moan deep in her throat, she wound her arms around his neck and kissed him back, and the sweetness of her lips was an irresistible invitation.

  'Ah, Helen—' he muttered, his hands curving unwillingly over her shoulders, and she lifted herself from the pillows to facilitate his embrace. With unknowing sexuality, she invited his response, and the urgent passion of his kiss became a moist and searching intimacy.

  The protective sheet was forgotten and it fell away to expose the thrusting beauty of her breasts, and it was only when she parted the buttons of his shirt and he felt the taut peaks probing at the hair-roughened skin of his chest that he seemed to come to his senses. But when he pressed her away from him, she made no attempt to cover herself. Instead she faced him proudly, uncaring that he might despise her, and his fingers dug painfully into her shoulders as he met that deliberate challenge.

  'No, Helen,' he said, but his voice was as unsteady as hers had been earlier, and she knew he was not as indifferent as he maintained.

  'Why not?' she breathed, tipping her head so that she could rub her cheek against the back of his hand, and with a muffled groan he got swiftly to his feet.

  'What am I going to do with you, Helen?' he demanded harshly. 'For heaven's sake, what do you think I am?'

  'I think you're a man and I'm a woman,' replied Helen softly. 'I think you want me, and I know I want you.'

  He swore savagely. 'Want? Want) What do you know about wanting? How many men have you wanted?'

  'Only you,' she replied honestly, and he swore again.

  'You're crazy,' he declared. 'You know nothing about the relationship between a man and a woman!'

  'I know what happens.'

  'From biology textbooks, no doubt,' retorted Heath grimly. 'For Pete's sake, Helen, you know nothing about what it's like to have a man make love to you. You talk blandly about sex, as if you were. an experienced woman of the world! You're not. You're a teenager; a crazy teenager, who doesn't know the first thing about it.'

  'You do,' said Helen innocently, and Heath scowled.

  'Don't talk like that.'

  'Is it important to you?' she asked suddenly. 'Would you prefer it if I were experienced?'

  'For heaven's sake, no!' Helen raked savage fingers across his scalp. 'And that doesn't mean I want you as you are! Helen, listen to me—listen to me carefully: you're my responsibility, but that's all there is between us.'

  'I don't believe you!' She spoke indignantly, but there was a glimmer of doubt in her voice, and he pressed home his advantage.

  'I mean it,' he said tensely. 'We've known each other too long. We're too—closely related. I don't think of you in that way.'

  She groped blindly for the sheet, dragging it over her. 'When—when you kissed me—' she began, but Heath interrupted her.

  'I felt sorry for you,' he declared bleakly. 'I'd been rough with you, and I was sorry. It shouldn't have happened. It wouldn't have happened if I hadn't felt so bloody guilty.'

  Helen looked at him bitterly. 'So why are you hanging about?' she exclaimed. 'Why don't you go to Manchester or Montevideo, or wherever it is you're going? You've had your little victory. Now leave me alone.'

  'Oh, Helen—'

  'Please go away,' she cried, rolling over to bury her face in the pillow, and with a muttered oath Heath walked out, slamming the door behind him.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Of course, as soon as she heard the Mercedes pull away, Helen regretted sending him off like that. For the remainder of the day she plagued herself with thoughts of how she would feel if his plane came down or some other disaster befell him. But by the next morning she was able to breathe more easily. No plane crashes had been reported during the night, and so far as she could ascertain, Heath had reached his destination safely.

  Nevertheless, she missed him desperately. The house wasn't the same with the knowledge that he would not be coming home in the evenings. Even Angela's jibes had no power to penetrate the wall of reserve she built round herself, and the days passed slowly, dictated by the weather.

  On fine, sunny days the two girls spent most of their time outdoors, swimming in the pool, or sunbathing on the patio. Safe behind the pages of a book, Helen was not obliged to be sociable, and as Angela basked in the sunshine like a seal, she made few demands upon Helen.

  But by Thursday the weather had changed, and imprisoned indoors, Angela seemed to take a delight in keeping Helen under her eye every minute. She wanted to know where Helen was going, even when she went to the bathroom, and the younger girl grew pale and listless, desperate for some diversion.

  On Friday morning Helen determined that today things were going to be different. Instead of staying in bed until Mrs Gittens came to disturb her, she got up at seven o'clock, and pulling on a leather jerkin over her tee-shirt and jeans, she made her way down the back stairs and out through the kitchen garden.

  It was a relief to wheel the Honda out of its shed, and donning her helmet, she swung her leg across the saddle. With a bit of luck, she'd make her escape before Miles came to work. He, like Angela, was someone else she had no wish to encounter this morning.

  Realising Miles would use the private road to reach the house, Helen took off over the fields, the little machine bucking bravely as it negotiated the muddy bogs left by the rain. Her legs were getting splashed with mud, too, but she didn't care, and for the first time since Heath went away, she felt a lifting of her spirits.

  Beyond Jacob's Hollow, she came out on to the Starforth road, and stopped a moment to examine the damage. As far as she could see, she had only covered herself and the motorbike with a coating of soft earth, and once it had dried it would easily brush away. Her jeans might have to be washed, of course, but that wasn't important. They had already been washed half a dozen times, and they were unlikely to shrink any more.

  The road was busy with early morning traffic, and after travelling for some miles with a continual escort, she turned off on to a country lane, just before the village, bouncing along more happily without the noisy roar of other vehicles.

  She came to another village called Shipwell, and paused on the green to read the signpost. Evidently she could take the road to Bishopston from here, which was some miles further on than Matlock Edge in the opposite direction, which would mean she had completed a circuit of the estate, without riding over any more of Heath's land.

  She was perhaps halfway to Bishopston when the motorbike began to sputter and finally died on her. No matter how she tried, it refused to start again, and she looked about her helplessly, aware of how vulnerable she was. It was ages since she'd seen a signpost, ages since she'd seen any kind of habitation other than a farmworker's cottage, and who could possibly help
her when she didn't know what was wrong?

  Sighing, she tried to think positively. She was, she estimated, approximately eight miles from Bishopston and probably an equal number from Shipwell. There didn't seem much point in going back. She would be nearer home at Bishopston. Perhaps if she could push the Honda to a garage there they might be able to do something for her, and if not, at least she would be able to phone home and let Mrs Gittens know she was all right. The old housekeeper would worry terribly if she found Helen was missing, and for the first time she realised how selfish she had been in riding off without even leaving a note.

  It was amazing how heavy the Honda was, now that she had to push it. It made her wish she had stayed on the main road after all. She would certainly have felt less isolated, and seen more garages, too, than on a winding country lane that merely connected two villages.

  She had been walking for almost half an hour and her legs and arms were aching and she was soaked with sweat, when she heard the sound of a vehicle. Although it was not a sunny morning, it was warm, and the leather jacket which had seemed ideal for riding had begun to stick to her neck and arms. She turned her head wearily when she heard the engine, and then pulled the motorbike off the road when a Land Rover came into sight.

  The Land Rover slowed however as it neared her, and Helen prepared herself to parry the comments of some would-be knight-errant. With Heath's warning still ringing in her ears, she was in no mood to accept a lift from anyone she didn't know, and she gripped the handlebars tightly as the vehicle stopped beside her.

  'Want some assistance?'

  The voice did not have the broad West Yorkshire accent she had expected, and Helen looked up unwillingly to find a man in his early twenties looking down at her sympathetically.

  'Oh—no,' she declined firmly, accompanying her refusal with a faint smile nevertheless. 'I can manage, thank you.'

  'Have you run out of petrol!' asked the young man casually, pushing open his door and getting out. 'I know these machines do a fantastic number of miles to the gallon, but they do need refilling sometimes.'