by Anne Mather
'Since when have I cared what other people said?' he demanded thickly. 'Other people would have had me put you in a children's home. Other people considered our relationship almost indecent.' He bent his head. 'I was determined that it wouldn't be so.'
'Oh, Heath!' Helen spread her hands. 'But you sent me away.'
'After seducing you, yes,' he agreed flatly. 'I didn't admire myself for that. You were right—just then, I did want you out of the house. Loving you was an addiction I had no intention of satisfying.'
'But—but why?'
'For pity's sake, Helen, I thought I was doing the right thing. I knew I couldn't keep you with me, and marrying you seemed out of the question. I thought—oh, I don't know what I thought. I guess it did cross my mind that if I could send you away for a while we might both come to our senses, but heaven help me, it didn't work. These past weeks have been hell on earth, and I came here this evening with the intention, as I said, of fixing you up as Mrs Golightly's companion.'
'Mrs Golightly?' Helen blinked. 'But—she just lives across the river—'
'—about three miles from Matlock. That's right,' agreed Heath heavily. 'Far enough to be out of temptation, but near enough for me to keep an eye on you, and on the people you associate with.'
She caught her lower lip between her teeth. 'It's been hell for me, too.' She paused. 'I've lost weight. Haven't you noticed?'
'I noticed,' he said huskily. 'I noticed everything about you in those minutes when I thought you must have got involved with some other man.'
'Were you jealous?'
She couldn't resist the question, and his lips twisted. 'What do you think?' he demanded. 'If I could be jealous of Fox and young Ormerod, then yes, I think you could say I'd be jealous of any competition.'
She made a little sound of exhilaration. 'You were jealous of Miles?' She shook her head. 'He said you were, but I didn't believe him.'
'I guess he's more perceptive than I thought,' said Heath quietly. 'So—what are you going to do now? Do you still want to go ahead and take this job?'
Helen half turned to rest her spine against the frame of the door, her limbs shaking so much, she could hardly support herself. 'What—what is the alternative?' she whispered, looking at him out of the corners of her eyes, and with a muffled oath, Heath crossed the space between them.
He halted right beside her, so close that the arm she had raised to rest against the opposite framework of the door was brushing his chest. Then, with evident restraint, he lifted her hand from its position and raised it to his lips, taking each of her fingers into his mouth in turn, depositing a kiss on each.
'The alternative,' he said, somewhat constrictedly, 'is that you could marry me at Christmas.'
'At Christmas?' Helen's cry was a protest.
'Yes, at Christmas,' he affirmed huskily, his mouth against her palm. 'Then no one can say you were not old enough to make your own decision. Always assuming you accept my proposal, of course.'
She expelled her breath unsteadily. 'Of course I accept your proposal,' she exclaimed, looping her other arm round his neck. 'Oh, Heath!' this as he gathered her close against him. 'Oh, Heath, why must we wait so long?'
'We—oh, Helen!—we don't have to wait to be together,' he muttered unevenly, his mouth finding the parting of hers. 'I—I may be diligent in some ways, but that is not one of them. Indeed,' his fingers slid beneath her hair to cradle the vulnerable curve of her nape, 'the way I feel right now, I don't think I can wait until I get you back to Matlock.'
'You're taking me back to Matlock?' she breathed eagerly. 'When? When?'
'Tonight?' he suggested unsteadily. 'Or am I asking too much?'
'Too much?' Helen shook her head, burrowing against him urgently, sliding her arms about his waist inside his jacket with compulsive abandon. 'But I shall have to explain the situation to Ricardo.'
'Ricardo?'
Heath drew back to look at her, and she gave a helpless little grimace. 'The hairdresser who has employed me. The one Angela wanted to cut my hair, as it happens.'
'Angela wanted you to get your hair cut?' Heath interceded harshly, and she nodded.
'Ricardo said it would be a shame—'
'Damn right!' His hand slid possessively into the silken mass of curls. 'If I'd known—'
'You'd probably have agreed with her,' said Helen ruefully, and he expelled his breath heavily.
'I've been a brute, haven't I?'
'Some,' she admitted unsteadily, and he covered her mouth with his with increasing hunger.
'Leave—Ricardo to me,' he told her thickly. 'Right now, I'm not thinking very coherently. What time did you say my mother was due back?'
Some time later, Helen opened her eyes to find Heath propped on his elbow beside her in her bed, regarding her with unconcealed possession. 'You know, you're the only female I know who looks good without any make-up,' he remarked, touching his tongue to the corner of her mouth.
'And you've known quite a few,' murmured Helen sleepily, reaching up to link her arms about his neck.
'Some,' he agreed honestly, submitting to her demands. 'And don't do that, my darling, or my dear mama may come back and find us in flagrante delicto.'
'Do you mind?' Helen was still bemused from his lovemaking, and he drew back to give her a wry smile.
'No,' he conceded, 'I don't mind. But I think discovering we are planning to get married is enough of a shock for one night, don't you? And in any case, you've got to finish your packing. We're leaving as soon as I've explained.'
'She's going to be surprised,' murmured Helen as he released her. Then, sliding reluctantly out of bed, she paced over to the mirror. 'Hmm, you know I used to wish you'd made me pregnant, so you'd have to marry me,' she admitted provocatively. 'Now I'm glad you didn't. You might not love me if I was fat.'
'I'd love you whatever you looked like,' retorted Heath, getting out of bed to come and join her, drawing her back against his muscled body so that their reflections mingled. 'Remember, I've known you in pigtails and braces, as well as you are now.' He brushed her hair with his lips and then pushed her away from him. 'So—put some clothes on, will you? Go on, do it. Or I won't be held responsible for my actions!'
She and Heath were married on the twenty-third of December, and spent Christmas in London with Marion and Greg Marsden and their family before flying to Nice, and Heath's villa on the shores of the Mediterranean. It was a rather grey Mediterranean at this time of the year, but they were not particularly interested in their surroundings. The privacy of the villa was all they required, and only occasionally did they venture out to walk along the sands at low tide.
Heath's mother had attended the wedding, somewhat reluctantly, before joining a conducted tour of Egypt, which she and some of her cronies had arranged. She had taken no part in the organising of the wedding, she had left all that to Heath, but she was quite prepared to stand beside them at the reception, and receive everyone's congratulations for Heath's having found himself such a beautiful bride.
'I really believe she's quite relieved to see me married at last,' Heath remarked one morning, as they lingered over the leisurely breakfast which Clothilde, the elderly maid, had prepared for them. 'I think she'd suspected for some time exactly what was stopping me.'
'Me,' murmured Helen mischievously, cupping her chin on her hand and surveying him with unconcealed satisfaction. 'Perhaps she was afraid I might seduce you.'
He regarded her tolerantly. 'With good reason, as it happens,' he remarked drily. 'I didn't stand a chance.'
'Are you sorry?' She arched her dark brows.
'Are you?'
'Oh, yes—' and at his look of disconcertment, she gave a soft laugh. 'I'm sorry we didn't do this a year ago,' she finished huskily. 'But you didn't answer my question.'
'What do you think?'
'You tell me.'
'What?' The green eyes, which had once been so unpredictable, narrowed caressingly. 'That I love you more than I thought it
was possible to love another human being? That I was crazy for ever thinking I could live without you?'
'That will do to be going on with,' she said breathily. 'Let's go back to bed, hmm? I don't feel like getting dressed just now, do you?'
Heath's smile was sardonic. 'You can't still be tired,' he remarked provokingly. 'These last few days—'
'Stop teasing!' Helen reached out and captured his hand, carrying it to her lips deliberately, keeping her eyes on his as she did so. 'Don't you feel the tiniest bit lazy?'
'With you around?' He grimaced, but his eyes darkened as emotion stirred in spite of himself. 'All right,' he said unevenly, 'let's go back to bed. We can talk later.'
'All the days of our lives,' agreed Helen, as he swung her up into his arms, and Heath did not disagree with her.
Harlequin Plus
A ROMANCE CLASSIC
Anne Mather's hero in Green Lightning is Rupert Heathcliffe, a man with a famous—perhaps we should say infamous—surname. For Heathcliff (without the "e") is the name of the handsome, but strangely menacing hero of Wuthering Heights, a famous romantic novel by Emily Brontë published in England in 1848.
Wuthering Heights is the story of the beautiful Catherine Earnshaw and the orphaned Heathcliff, brought into the Earnshaw household as a child. As he grows up, Heathcliff is cruelly tormented by Hindley, Catherine's jealous and petty older brother. Catherine is Heathcliff's protector—and kindred spirit, because they share a love for the eerie desolate beauty of the lonely Yorkshire moors. Only Catherine can still the turbulent angry emotions that smoulder behind the troubled Heathcliff's dark eyes.
Eventually Catherine marries a prosperous neighbour—an act Heathcliff cannot accept. He refuses to forgive her and accuses her of destroying him. After Catherine dies in childbirth, Heathcliff challenges her ghost to haunt him, crying, "Be with me always—take any form—drive me mad! Only do not leave me in this abyss where I cannot find you!"
So blinded is Heathcliff by his obsessive love and his feelings of betrayal that, like the Devil himself, he swears revenge and spends many years slowly and methodically destroying the lives of everyone around him. And, still haunted by Catherine, he begins to wander the moors, searching for her. He looks forward to his own death—to his deranged mind an hour of triumph—and when it comes, his spirit joins Catherine's, and they are united again at last.