by Rosalie Ash
'Seriously, I really am interested in…in, well, what makes people choose the life-styles they choose.' She shrugged, trying out a tentative smile which warmed as it met an answering smile in his eyes. 'It's nothing personal,' she added. 'Just a hobby, really.'
'Really?' Matt's tone was dry, and she had the feeling he was unconvinced.
'Yes, did you mean it, about the speed-skiing?'
'Yes, I meant it. I also jog, and I work out with weights,' he said, with a fleeting smile. 'Mainly to keep my leg muscles in decent shape. Downhill racing puts a heavy load on knee joints and thigh muscles.'
Victoria nodded, remembering Andrew talking about the subject not so long ago. 'Four times the body's weight, isn't that it?' she said, anxious to impress him with her knowledge. Matt looked faintly surprised.
'Yes, something like that. Do you ski?'
'No. But I'd like to. Although the only sport I'm really any good at is gymnastics.'
'Hence the hand-walking skills?'
'Yes! Oh, and swimming, my front crawl's not bad! But I'm rubbish at anything to do with a racquet.'
‘I don't race seriously any longer,’ Matt said, ‘I'm considered over the hill at thirty-three.'
She eyed him curiously, remembering that effortless movement as he had helped her up off the pine needles yesterday down by the river. His muscles must still be in superb condition.
'So what are you replacing downhill racing with?'
'Rambling,' said Matt, grinning as her eyes flew open in disbelief. 'With the odd spot of rock-climbing. I get up to Scotland whenever I can, or down to Cornwall. I’ve got a cottage there.’
She remembered the sparrow-hawk, nodding slowly. It fitted, somehow. Skiing, climbing, jogging, walking, solitary pastimes, for a strangely solitary man.
She couldn't see him as a team player. Couldn't imagine him as the life and soul of the local squash or tennis club.
'Yes, I see. I like walking too. It's a good feeling, being pitted against the elements, dependent on your own resources.'
'Hopefully including map, compass and survival bag.' Matt cut through her rather romantic description with a sardonic gleam in his eyes.
'Well, yes!' She inspected him frankly across the table, anxious to take advantage of this rare, expansive mood. She somehow doubted it would last very long. 'Tell me about your vegetarianism. I mean, you seem to have this…this in-built gauge of moderation in all things. You select your food carefully, you avoid too much strong liquor. You'd have made a wonderful Wesleyan Methodist or New England Puritan!'
'Would I?' The heavy lids had half closed again, and Matt was leaning back, sipping his port, watchful and wary once more. 'I'll admit I have an occasional aversion to red meat,' he said at last. 'I spent an impressionable age living next to an abattoir. Maybe that would account for it.' There was self-mockery in his expression.
Victoria gazed at him, her obvious disbelief finally prompting him to continue.
'My abstinence, if you can call it that, is just a habit. It suits my own interests.' The silver eyes were briefly frank. 'I've always had to be a self-starter. If I'd relaxed into excess I'd have failed.'
He stopped abruptly, and the silence hung between them again. Victoria had the impression he was looking back down the years, remembering whatever struggles and fights had led him to his present success. Whatever he was thinking, she sensed he wasn't going to share any of it with her.
'So moderation in all things?' she suggested softly.
He looked up, grey eyes unreadable. 'Yes, I think you could say that’s been the key to my success.'
'By success, presumably you mean financial success,' she hazarded. Matt gave a hard smile.
'What else?'
'Well, I can think of lots of other ways of being successful. What about your artistic talents? Jessica told me you…'
Matt cut in on her, the sardonic edge to his voice not completely hiding the underlying bleakness of spirit. 'When you've been passed from one foster-parent to another and end up the most undesirable rebel in a children's home full of undesirable rebels, you soon learn that financial success is the only one to aim for.' The clipped flatness of his voice was somehow accentuated by the cynicism of the words.
Victoria stared at him in surprise. The compassion she felt welling up inside was so great, it took all her reserves of self-control to hide it. But she sensed that pity, even sympathy, was the last reaction Matt Larson would approve of.
Belatedly she realised she had just been made the recipient of normally highly classified information, and the knowledge gave her a small glow of pride. She looked away quickly, feeling sure that this, too, would probably not be welcome.
'Well, you're obviously a born cynic,' she commented lightly.
'It's safer than being an incurable romantic,' Matt retorted, waving for the bill.
As they left, he held open the door for her with impeccable courtesy. He seemed to retreat rapidly into aloof formality on the way back to the cottage. Victoria glanced a few times at his remote profile as they walked back through the village, then relapsed into silence herself. Even if he had succeeded in nothing else in his life, she mused, Matt would always have been highly skilled in the subtle technique of putting people down.
The Royal Shakespeare Company's current production was The Taming of the Shrew, and as it was one of Victoria's favourites she sat entranced through the first half, even to the point of forgetting that Matt sat next to her, his long muscular thigh only inches from hers in the darkened theatre. Victoria had prepared for tonight's outing with an obstinate little glow of pleasure, brought about by Matt's reluctant confidences over lunch. Jessica had been right, he was a strange, closed and private person, but the fact that he had seen fit to give her a sketchy insight into his personal life made her feel ridiculously happy.
She had taken trouble with her appearance again tonight, borrowing an outfit from Jessica, and in silky black evening trousers and a silver-grey silk top, she felt cool and elegant, and happy out of all proportion to the circumstances.
But after the interval, the party in front of them changed places, and a man with an infuriatingly bushy hairstyle completely obscured her view. Matt became aware of her predicament, and indicated that she could change seats with him, and the unavoidable physical contact as she gratefully shuffled across in the restricted space ruined her concentration on the last few acts.
Her mind had been wandering away from the intricate beauty of the Elizabethan language and the enduring comedy of the plot in any case, and instead she had been thinking about Matt's surprising admission during the interval that he had never read a single Shakespeare play in his life.
She'd been confused by such a confession. Admittedly English and history were her own favourite subjects, but even so, surely everyone studied one or two Shakespearian plays at school, at the very least?
Pinned close together in the usual mammoth crush in the stalls bar, and unaware of the surprised glances from Jessica and Andrew, they had talked almost exclusively to each other throughout the interval, while they sipped their pre-ordered drinks. Matt had patiently explained how her sheltered, middle class upbringing bore no relation to his own early years, how he had spent very little time at school, preferring to play truant and helping on an antiques stall in an East End market. Her obvious shock seemed to afford him considerable amusement.
When Katharina made her final, ringing speech in praise of the loyal and devoted wife, Victoria was mortified to find she had daydreamed her way through most of the last half, her mind full of images of a young, rebellious Matt, in conflict with authority, rejecting his formal education to pursue his own single-minded ambitions.
They drove back to a delicious stir-fry supper, which Jessica had prepared in advance and left all ready to throw into her much-used wok when they got home. Afterwards, the evening was still so warm they sat out on the terrace in the dark, the scent of honeysuckle heavy in the air.
In a desultory fashi
on they discussed the play. Discussion strayed to Matt's reason for coming down from London, and he described his finds to Andrew, who promised to take a look at the watercolour and the bird-painted jug the next day.
By now Victoria was very sleepy, a result of her previous disturbed night. She was yawning every two minutes, but she felt reluctant to go to bed and risk missing out on Matt's company.
His secretary, who it appeared was also a friend of Jessica’s, had already rung from London just before they left for the theatre, and he had announced his intention to leave very early in the morning. The prospect left her so dejected she was alarmed by the intensity of her feelings.
Eventually, when Andrew and Matt appeared locked in a conversation about the antique trade which seemed set to go on indefinitely, she gave Jessica a hand in clearing up the kitchen, conscious of her sister's speculative gaze but not in the mood for one of their usual frank discussions.
'William's ear is obviously better,' Victoria said, casting around for a subject which would take Jessica's mind off her obvious preoccupation with herself and Matt. 'Mira said he went straight off to sleep and didn't stir all evening.'
'That probably means he'll wake me up at half-past three wanting a drink,' said Jessica drily, then fixed her with a gaze which made her heart sink. 'You and Matt seem to be getting on very well.' There was a sharper, enquiring note in her voice.
'Do we?' Victoria countered brightly, shrugging with what she hoped was convincing nonchalance.
'I've never heard Matt talk about his past before, to anyone,' went on Jessica musingly. 'What's been going on between you two today?'
Victoria was too tired, and her feelings for Matt were too confusing, too raw, to discuss, even with Jessica. She shook her head, with an apologetic smile, and stifled another yawn.
'I won't deny he has a strange effect on me,' she admitted sleepily. 'But if you don't mind, I'd rather not talk about it tonight.'
'Vic…' Jessica hesitated, seeming uncertain, her brown eyes wary, 'I know you're old enough to look after yourself, but maybe I ought to warn you…'
'No, don't bother,' said Victoria quickly, feeling colour sweeping up her neck and suffusing her face, infuriated with this new tell-tale habit of blushing. 'I already know. Matt Larson is as cold as steel, ascetic as a monk, and the only god he worships is the almighty dollar. Forget the come-to-bed eyes, totally misleading, I can assure you!'
There was a slight sound from behind her, and she spun round to see Matt, standing in the doorway to the kitchen, his expression mask-like.
'I'm glad to hear you've got my measure at last,' he said, with a humourless smile. 'I came to say goodnight, Jessica.'
Scarlet-faced, Victoria excused herself, pushing past him and running upstairs to the safety of her bedroom. She leaned against the closed door, trembling all over with embarrassment at her own crass stupidity.
Chapter Eight
Stripping off her clothes, she ran a deep, scented bath. This had certainly been her weekend for saying and doing all the wrong things, she reflected bitterly. Self-defence had prompted those childish, acidic remarks about Matt, and she fiercely cursed her pride. Why couldn't she have been honest, for God's sake? Admit she had somehow managed to flounder into the ridiculous, painful throes of calf-love? That at the moment anything Matt said, or did, and every movement he made seemed to have taken on the major importance of a world crisis?
She chewed her lip miserably, trying to decide whether she would have preferred Matt to overhear a confession like that. No, definitely not. She had already been less than discreet on the subject earlier on today. She would rather Matt had overheard nothing at all. She cringed inwardly at the memory of his face, framed in the doorway.
She lay in the bath a long time, swishing the bubbles around with her toes, staring broodingly at the pinky-red varnish she had painted on her toenails in honour of tonight's outing.
Voices on the landing told her the others were going to bed, and she heard Matt's door close, then muffled sounds of the shower running in the bathroom en suite with his bedroom. Jessica had masterminded this guest-wing, anxious to provide elegant accommodation for her friends from London whenever they came. Both rooms had king sized beds, and chic creamy French furniture. The room she was in was decorated in green and white, and Matt's next door in pale blue and cream.
Climbing out of the bath, she dried herself and smoothed on body lotion. She pulled on sleep shorts and a lacy-necked camisole top in soft black jersey, pausing only briefly to check on her appearance in the mirror. She didn't want to look too closely at herself, or she might change her mind, falter from the course of action she had quietly decided on.
Picking up her hairbrush, she vigorously brushed her hair until it framed her face and shoulders in a thick, shiny cloud of curls. Then, collecting the white handkerchief she'd carefully ironed earlier on in the day, she crept cautiously out on to the landing and tapped lightly on Matt's door.
Her heart was thudding so fast she almost didn't hear Matt's low instruction to enter. She slipped inside and closed the door, leaning against it weakly as she stared into the room.
Matt was propped up on his elbow, in bed, and he had obviously been reading in the concentrated pool of light from his bedside lamp. An open book lay on the cream and blue striped duvet, face down. A biography of Guy de Rothschild, she saw, The Whims of Fortune.
She opened her mouth to speak, but her throat was so dry, nothing came out. Nervously she watched his cynical expression as he flipped off the steel-rimmed glasses he was wearing and placed them on the bedside table. She was mesmerised by the ripple of muscles in the movement. The width of his powerful shoulders and the deeply carved muscles of his chest and abdomen were thrown into exaggerated relief by the light at his side. He obviously didn't go in for pyjamas, she found herself noting, in a detached way.
'Victoria, what do you think you're doing?'
He sounded wearily sarcastic, as if he knew quite well what she was doing but preferred to make her spell it out.
'I…it's not what you think,' she said hurriedly, seeing his eyes moving over her skimpy sleep outfit, lingering on the length of lightly tanned leg below the tiny shorts. Something in his eyes disturbed her. There was an expression she couldn't quite decipher. 'I've brought your handkerchief back.' She held it out, like a white flag in a cease-fire. 'And I also wanted to apologise. Those remarks I made weren't very polite!'
'Go to bed, Victoria.' He sounded tense, wary, as if he was anticipating some emotional trauma and was determined to fend it off. 'There's no need to make any apology.'
'Listen, I promise I'm not going to throw myself at you again!' she protested with a shaky laugh. 'But…but if you're leaving very early in the morning, I wanted to…to talk to you before you went…'
She trailed off as she watched his stony expression, and went forward on legs suddenly made of rubber, to sit primly on the edge of his bed. She placed the handkerchief on the duvet.
'There. Is it pressed neatly enough?' she asked, with a faint grin. He didn't reply, taking it and putting it on the bedside table. Victoria gazed unseeingly at her knees, locked together in nervous propriety, like a Victorian maiden, she thought derisively.
'You know, it's the strangest thing—despite your being so foul-tempered, and…'
'…cold as steel, and ascetic as a monk?' he supplied flintily, and she flushed slightly.
'Well, yes, if you like. Despite all that, I feel, I feel so drawn to you. I feel as if I want to tell you all my secrets, share all my deepest thoughts. Crazy, isn't it?'
'Insane,' Matt agreed mockingly. 'Victoria, when you've finished your little ego trip, has it occurred to you that I might not actually want to share your deepest thoughts?'
'Well, yes! But…'
'And has it occurred to you that trotting into a man's bedroom at this time of night, begging to share your thoughts and secrets, dressed like that, might just be misunderstood by any red-blooded male who doesn’
t happen to be a monk?'
The biting sarcasm drew more colour to her cheeks. She began to stand up, feeling it was high time she made a dignified exit, but Matt sat forward abruptly, bemusing her by revealing a breadth of darkly tanned body, with its whorls of blond hair between flat, dark nipples. Catching hold of her shoulders in a punishing grasp, he drew her back on to the bed, a pale fire flickering suddenly in the silver-grey eyes.
'Where the fuck do you think you’re going?' he grated softly, the hooded eyes containing a new, disturbingly feral gleam. 'We haven't discussed the come-to-bed eyes, yet.'
Slowly shaking her head, she felt a hard lump grow in size at the back of her throat, and the enormity of her stupidity finally hit her like a ton of cold water bursting through a dam. She felt alternately sad, panic-stricken, despairing. She wanted to cry, but she couldn't even do that. She felt as if all her emotions were suspended, frozen, in the laser-cruel gaze pinning her to the bed.