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The Tycoon's Hidden Heir
Yvonne Lindsay
An eye for an eye–that was Mason Knight's motto in the boardroom and the bedroom.And it certainly applied to gold-digging Helena Davies. The ravishing beauty had spent one unforgettable night in his arms…only to marry a much older man the next morning.But, twelve years later, the newly widowed Helena was on his doorstep, claiming her son was really Mason's and she'd do anything to secure his inheritance. Oh, yes, Mason Knight would finally have his revenge.
The Tycoon’s Hidden Heir
Yvonne Lindsay
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Robyn Donald and Daphne Clair
for their support in the darkest hours,
for creating Kara School of Writing
for people just like me
and for sharing the joy when dreams come true!
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Coming Next Month
Prologue
Twelve years ago…
Black, ice-cold water swirled around her, sapping the last of the heat from her body, the last of her will to survive. A tinge of irony touched her mind that she should die this way. Helena Milton, full of life, colour and crazy dreams, and powered by a get-go attitude to life that had alternately amazed and dismayed her quieter elderly parents.
Her parents—would they ever understand why she’d left? Why she’d agreed to marry Patrick Davies and settle for less than love? Deep in her heart she knew she was doing the right thing—for herself, sure, but most of all for them and for the sacrifices they’d made for her.
But she’d failed. An uncontrollable skid on the ice-and snow-strewn road had plunged her car through the bridge barrier and into the swollen river below. The river which now flumed with chilled water from the melting snow that came straight off New Zealand’s central plateau mountains.
Helena lifted numbed frozen fingers to try the switch for the electric windows again. Futile. Not even her ever-weakened attempts to break the glass had any effect. With the doors jammed and the car’s electrics out of commission she remained trapped. Helena closed her eyes again. What was the point in keeping them open when all around her was nothing but blackness?
A spark of anger lit briefly in her chest that she could die like this—alone and with her goals unfulfilled, no chance to earn her father’s pride instead of being the object of his quiet disappointment. Defeat had an ugly, bitter taste.
Let go, whispered the little voice at the back of her head. Let go. She sagged deeper into her car seat, accepting the cold that penetrated to her bones, and let her mind drift. How long would it take, she wondered.
A new and different sound from outside penetrated the thickening fog of reluctant acceptance in her mind. She forced her eyelids up and scanned around her. Fairy lights on the road above. A crazed laugh, broken and weak, choked from her throat as some of her usual humour surfaced. Whatever happened to the white light at the end of the tunnel everyone talked about?
A dark figure loomed at her driver’s window, a pale face pressed against the glass. Water foamed around the figure and against the window’s edge. Helena felt the car shift slightly with the increasing pressure of the river’s pummelling force. The man’s lips moved but she shook her head slowly in response. What was he saying? His arms raised and she recognised the outline of an axe clenched in his hands. He tapped it against the glass. Helena suddenly understood what he’d been trying to say. She threw herself sideways, into the deepening pool in her car, oblivious to the dice-shaped pieces of broken safety glass that showered her body.
The roaring growl of the water, muffled before, now crashed intrusively against her ears. Strong hands reached in to grab her by her jacket, her hair, anything that gave her rescuer purchase. Helena struggled to help him as he dragged her through the gaping window but she flopped uselessly as her limbs refused to obey. With one powerful lift he manoeuvred her slight frame free from the car. The shield of his body protected her from the hungry determination of the swirling current as he carried her to the bank.
The bank was hard, blessedly so. Helena relished each pressure point of discomfort as confirmation she still lived. She’d been so close to giving in. The concept that she was finally safe rejoiced through her mind. Now, all she wanted to do was sleep, except the man who’d pulled her from the car seemed determined not to let her.
“Is there anyone else in the car?” her rescuer shouted in her ear. “C’mon! Answer me, is there anyone else?”
Slowly, her lips formed the words, her voice weak. “No. Alone.”
“Thank God. Are you hurt? Did you lose consciousness?”
She felt his hands, strong and capable, probe her scalp then skim her body as she shook her head. The cold air bit through her wet clothing all the way to her bones.
“Doesn’t look like you’ve broken anything. Let’s get you somewhere dry.”
“My things? My car?” she managed to ask through frozen lips.
“Sorry, hon. Your car’s heading downstream. First order of business is to get you dry and warm.”
Her rescuer lifted her into his arms and strode toward what she now recognised as a large truck and trailer unit parked in a lay-by to the side of the road. A tiny smile pulled at her lips as she recognised the source of her earlier confusion. A long-distance trucker, his rig was festooned with driving lights.
“What’s so funny?”
His voice was deep, young. Reassuring. She wanted to see what he looked like but the effort required to tilt her head and pick out his profile in the shadows cast by the truck’s lights remained beyond her.
“Fairy lights,” she whispered.
A deep chuckle rumbled through his body. “Sure, fairy lights.”
He lifted her up into the cab of his truck then climbed in after her to settle her into the basic sleeping compartment behind.
“Do you remember how long you were in the water? What time you crashed?”
“J-just after nine…I think.”
He flung a look at the clock on the dash. “About half an hour then. What the hell were you doing out on the road without chains? Didn’t you see the warning signs?”
“D-didn’t w-want to stop. I have to get to Auckland.” The short speech took every last ounce of energy left within her.
“You won’t be going anywhere tonight.”
A sudden disembodied voice on the radio elicited a sharp curse from her rescuer before he responded. She tried to listen, catching only the words accident and hypothermia before drowsiness pulled at her with the strength of a super magnet. She began to slide into unconsciousness, rousing only as he shook her gently.
“Hey, don’t go to sleep yet. You have to get those clothes off and get warm again. Can you manage?”
“N-no. F-fingers t-too cold.”
She felt as helpless as a rag doll when he began to peel off her wet clothing, muttering under his breath as her limp limbs hindered the process and massive tremors racked her body.
“Shivering, that’s good. You’re on your way back.”
Pain seared through her as circulation sluggishly resumed. “B-b-back? I n-never got where I was g-going.”
He chuckled again, and Helena decided she liked the sound. It was deep and warm and made her feel alive again. Alive—something she’d taken for granted for far too long.
“I hate to tell you this, but we’re stuck here for the night. I’d hoped we could make it farther up the line to a motel but the authorities have closed the roads in both directions until morning.”
As soon as she was naked he laid her gently, almost clinically, on her side on the narrow bunk and tucked a down-filled sleeping bag around her body. She vaguely heard the sounds of his own wet clothing slap onto the floor. She couldn’t stop shivering and the sleeping bag slid away from her body, exposing the length of her back. She barely felt the mattress dip as he lay down beside her but the heat that radiated from his body was seductively welcome. She sighed as strong-muscled arms gathered her close against the rock-hard plane of his chest and was asleep before he settled the sleeping bag around them both.
It was still dark when Mason Knight woke, disoriented, to find a warm, slender and very naked female body on top of his. The crush of her breasts against his chest and the tangle of her legs in his brought him to full aching arousal. Disorientation fled as he remembered the rescue from the car stuck in the rising river and bringing the driver to the truck to get her warm. Standard survival procedure, he reminded himself—get naked, get dry, get warm—but nothing in his survival training during his stint in the New Zealand army had prepared him for this particular scenario.
He willed his body into submission but one part of his anatomy stubbornly ignored him. Slowly and deliberately he poured images through his mind designed to quell even the hottest ardour—no luck.
He tried to shift his hips and roll her to one side against the back wall of the sleeper but she squirmed against him—the central core of her body so close to him he could feel the heat that now emanated from that private part of her. Shit. She’d freak out if she woke now, and he sure wouldn’t blame her.
Shock jolted through his body as small feminine hands stroked feather-light across his torso, sending wild coils of desire tightening in ever-decreasing spirals. She rubbed her cheek against his chest, a sigh escaping her lips to brush over his sensitised skin.
“I need you.” Her voice was husky and travelled through the velvet midnight darkness like a caress.
“No, it’s just reaction to the accident. You’re in shock.” In shock? He was the one in shock. “You don’t want to do this.”
“I need this. I need you.” Her lips found one of his nipples and her tongue swirled around the sensitive flat disk, sending a raging hunger through his body that didn’t want to take no for an answer. “Show me I’m alive,” she whispered as she pressed her hips against his hungry flesh, a sharp moan punctuating her demand.
She rose up onto her knees—deft hands reaching for him, stroking his iron-hard shaft, her fingertips barely touching the swollen head, guiding him to the source of her heat—then she sank down onto him with a throaty groan that almost saw him lose control right there and then. A massive tremor rippled through her body as she took his full length deep within her and she stilled, her hands now resting on his shoulders. Then, she began to rock, slowly tilting her pelvis back and forth, maintaining the searing contact between their bodies, heat and moisture building between them like molten lava.
Mason trailed his fingers over her thighs and to her hips where he grasped a firm hold of her, silently encouraging her to up the tempo as his hips thrust upward to meet her every stroke.
This was crazy—he was crazy to let her do this—but somehow, in the anonymity of the dark night hours, it seemed as if it was the only right thing left in the world. To think that all her vitality, her heat, could have been gone forever. Yeah, he understood her need to affirm life—to feel life—right now.
Right. Now.
His climax hit him with the force of a runaway train and his fingers bit into her skin as he pumped against her. Her sharp cry of completion and the rhythmic pull of her muscles as they contracted around him prolonged the ecstasy even as she collapsed against him, shaking with the aftermath of pleasure.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her head resting against his chest where his heart pounded so hard he thought any second now it would leap right from his chest. He cleared his throat to speak, but she raised one finger and pressed it against his lips. “Shh, don’t say anything.” And then, just like that, she was fast asleep again.
Aftershocks continued to quiver through his body. Mason hooked his arms about her and cradled her to him as he’d never held another woman before. In this timeless moment she was his woman and his alone. The overwhelming urge to claim her and protect her from the world came from out of nowhere—strong, feral, invincible. What the hell was he thinking? He didn’t even know her name! Who was she? What kind of woman was she, that she could make love with such abandon to a total stranger then fall asleep in his arms as if she belonged nowhere else?
By the time the wintry-grey fingers of dawn crept across the sky he was no closer to finding his answers. Silent and careful, he eased her from his body, watching as she instinctively nestled into the warmth of the depression where he’d lain. He stifled an oath as his toes made contact with the near-frozen wet clothing abandoned on the floor and quickly reached for clean dry jeans and a sweatshirt from the locker above the bed.
A quick check on the radio confirmed the roads had been declared safe enough to reopen. It was time to go. He had a lot of time to make up and a wedding to get to in Auckland later that afternoon. His boss was much older than his bride-to-be and had been alternately ridiculed and lauded in the tabloids about his forthcoming nuptials. Either way, Mason didn’t give a damn, but he did respect the man who’d given him his first job out of the army and had begun to teach him everything he knew about the transport industry in New Zealand. Mason considered it an honour to stand up for him when his boss’s adult son from his first marriage had point-blank refused to have anything to do with the wedding.
The rustle of bedclothes in the sleeper drew his attention back to his immediate problem.
“The roads are open again,” he said over his shoulder, reluctant to make eye contact.
“That’s good. Is there a chance I can borrow something of yours to wear until my clothes dry out?”
“Sure, just check the locker. There’s a spare belt in there somewhere, too.”
“Thanks.”
He felt her pause, as if weighing up the wisdom of bringing up last night. She’d obviously reached the same conclusion he had—ignore it and just maybe it would fade away. Every muscle in his shoulders clenched and he gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled fingers as he listened to her pull on some clothes. The thought of his clothes clinging to the satin-soft creaminess of her skin had him rock hard in a split second. He fought the urge to turn around and watch her. Did her body clamour to repeat their nocturnal experience in the cold light of day as loudly as his did?
Apparently not. Eventually she came forward and plopped down into the passenger’s seat in the cab and he got his first real look at her.
Hell, she barely looked twenty. Delicate fingers combed through tousled, long brown hair, hair that inthe streaks of early sunlight reflected reddish lights of burnished copper. Delicate fingers that had held him last night, had guided him inside her body. His gut clenched into a fiery ball of want and he forced his eyes forward to the frozen landscape that stretched ahead of them, not willing to see what lay in her green eyes, not wanting to commit the pale heart-shaped face to his memory. But it was already too late. He would never forget her. Not her scent, not her touch—nothing.
“Thanks. For everything.” Her voice was husky, hesitant, as if she found the words difficult to say.
“You’re welcome,” he ground out through teeth that ached, they were clenched so hard together. He forced his gaze back out the windscreen. It was clear she regretted her impulsiveness already. Okay, he could be a gentleman. He could ignore last night and the clawing need that the mere sight of her aroused in him. Somehow. “So, where are you headed?”
“Auckland, but you can drop me at the nearest town. I need to make a phone call first.”
“That’s it then?”
He heard her breath catch in her throat, just the slightest hitch, but quite enough to tell him she’d understood his question fully. Her answer was softly spoken but rang with finality as she turned to stare out the passenger window. “Yes, that’s it.”
Mason ran a finger inside the stiff white collar of his shirt and loosened his tie another blessed millimetre. All day he’d been plagued by last night’s memories. Finally, while he was getting ready for the wedding, he’d resolved to try to find out who she was. The registration of her wrecked car would be a good start once it was dragged from the river. A few calls would do it. Then he would track her down—to see if they could make something more of the incendiary passion they’d shared. He’d never known anything like it. Like her. He wanted to know more.
He thought of what he’d gotten up to as a teenager to rile his dad and of the five years he’d spent in the army—of how he’d constantly searched for that one thing that would make his life feel like it had a purpose. The one thing to fill the void he himself couldn’t define. For a brief time that void had been filled last night. He had to find her. He had to know if she was what he’d been looking for.
Patrick gave him a nudge as the opening strains of the wedding march drew the assembled congregation to their feet in unison. A hush settled amongst the crowd as the bride began her journey down the thickly carpeted centre aisle in Auckland’s oldest and largest city church. All heads turned for their first look at the wife-to-be of one of New Zealand’s wealthiest men and for the first time in his life Mason Knight nearly blacked out as his midnight lover glided down the aisle.
One
Present day…
“It’s quite simple, Helena. If you don’t assign control of Brody’s half share of the business to me within the next thirty days I will take every step to ensure the world knows exactly how you and my father met. Let’s see how your precious son copes at school once everyone knows that juicy titbit.”
He knew? How on earth had he found out? Helena’s stomach lurched. Despite how careful she’d been to conceal her past, it was something she’d known could come out of the woodwork anytime in the last twelve years. That it should be from Patrick’s eldest son, Evan, shouldn’t have come as a surprise.
Her heart ached for Brody. He had only just settled back at his exclusive boarding school and had been troubled since Patrick’s sudden death—easily upset and reluctant to leave her. Understandable, all of it, of course. She was already worried about how he’d cope at school during this difficult period of adjustment. If Evan spread his poisonous secret Brody’s life would become a living hell. She would not let that happen.
But what on earth was she to do? Already entrenched in the company as marketing director, from the day of Patrick’s fatal heart attack, Evan had exerted his power as new part owner of Davies Freight and taken over Patrick’s chair and the decision-making processes that fell to the managing director. She’d been unable to stop him, and with the demands of dealing with Brody’s grief, not to mention her own, she hadn’t had the energy left to fight back in the boardroom. This week, she’d finally returned to the office, where she supervised the business’s administration. It hadn’t taken long to discover Evan had completely taken over.
Evan had never appreciated or understood his father’s love of the cut and thrust of the industry, or his cautious plans for expansion. No, all he saw was an easy ticket to maintain his plush lifestyle and the quickest way to get rid of her. Of course, on paper, he could be seen to have gone through the motions—pitching new contracts, renewing old ones—but deeper analysis had shown the truth. If Evan was permitted to keep on his current path the business would be bankrupt within a year.
She’d grown up having to scrape together every penny. There was no way she would let that happen to her son.
A look of scorn slid across her stepson’s face, making it patently clear that no matter how coldly polite he’d been to her while his father was alive, the gloves were most definitely off now. Helena’s fingernails bit into her palms as she struggled not to whack him hard across his smug features. No doubt he hoped she’d do exactly that. With his connections, he could press assault charges and see her son removed from her care. Then he could do whatever he wanted with Brody’s share of the company. Yeah, he’d like that all right, but it sure wouldn’t happen this side of hell freezing over. Not while she still had breath in her body.
What scared her most was if Evan discovered the full truth he’d delight in ripping his much younger half brother to shreds. With the resources he had at his disposal she knew he’d have people digging for dirt on her—the fact he’d found out how she and Patrick had met was just one example of how far he was prepared to go to find anything to discredit her and help him reach his avaricious goal. She had to protect her son, no matter what, and at the same time to somehow find the courage to honour Patrick’s last wishes to the letter.
Helena swallowed back the tears that threatened. When she’d met Patrick she’d been prepared to accept his help in return for her companionship in marriage. She’d never dreamed she would learn to love him. She missed her husband more than she could ever have imagined—his steady hand on the tiller of their world, his gentle encouragement to strive for her dreams, his unadulterated enjoyment in the child born within the first year of their marriage. He’d always boasted Brody had made him young again. Not young enough, unfortunately, to see the fast-growing boy much past eleven years old.
“So?” Evan’s sneer jerked her back to cold harsh reality. “What do you say?”
“I can’t answer you now, Evan. It’s too soon.”
“Don’t underestimate me, Helena. You and the bratare just a blip on my radar. I’ll leave now, but remember I will have what’s my due—one way or another.”
Helena couldn’t bring herself to rise from her chair to even see him from her home, couldn’t trust herself not to resort to the old Helena and to fly at him, giving vent to her rage. No, if there was one thing she’d learned the hard way in the past twelve years it was to think first, act second. Evan knew the way out; she only wished he’d stay there.
The hollow echo of the front door resounded through the house and the tension slowly ebbed from her shoulders. God, she’d thought she was tough but it would take more than tough to see her through this. It would take a miracle. She drew in a deep breath and rose from the chair. There was work to be done, and plenty of it. First, she had to arrange an appointment—one she’d been dreading. She couldn’t ignore Patrick’s final instructions any longer.
Her heart twisted with regret that her sweet, generous husband had understood the reality of his eldest son’s true nature, that he’d known that this situation would come to pass.
Half an hour later Helena let the telephone receiver fall back haphazardly into its cradle. Mason Knight was nigh on impossible to track down. She couldn’t give up though, he was the one man Patrick had said would be able to help her, the one man he’d insisted she ask and, coincidentally, the last man on earth she wanted to seek out for help.
The secretary at his office had said he was out of Auckland and refused to give any further information, but Patrick had mentioned something about a holiday home on the Coromandel that Mason used as his bolt-hole when he needed to escape the city. She’d lay odds on him being there, so that’s where she had to go.
A warning trickle of dread ran down her spine and for a moment Helena questioned whether she was doing the right thing. As intimately as they’d known one another that one and only time, the man was a virtual stranger. How would he react when she turned up on his doorstep and asked for help? Over the years he’d made it perfectly clear to her how much he detested her, and had avoided seeing Patrick when she too would be there.
Could she stand it if he slammed the door in her face and left her to deal with Evan on her own? And what of Brody?
There was only one thing for it. She had to get to the isolated Coromandel Peninsula address she’d found in Patrick’s Rolodex. For a minute she rued the fact that Mason Knight couldn’t have built his minipalace somewhere like Pauanui, a popular playground for New Zealand’s wealthy and somewhere she was familiar with. But it was probably best not to have any chance of being recognised in his presence. It wouldn’t take much mental arithmetic before tongues would start to wag and minds to speculate. She couldn’t do that to Brody, no matter what.
Mason looked through the wall of floor-length glass that faced out to the ocean and drank in the wild beauty of the scene. He loved this place and not just because it was his own personal testament to the first million he’d ever made. He’d never grow tired of the sight of the native bush, as it hugged the hillside on its gentle drop toward the sea, or the sea’s ever-changing mood. It’d been too long since he’d come here to recharge.
When he woken at 5:00 a.m., his mind still fogged with sleep, he’d known it was time to clear his diary and get away from the city, and all its demands, for the weekend. Okay, so it had taken some juggling, and a few extra grey hairs for his secretary, but he’d walked out of the office at two-thirty this afternoon without a backward glance. Now the weekend stretched before him, gloriously empty. His to do with whatever the hell he wanted.
He lifted a glass of red wine in a silent toast to the view then put it to his lips and relished the flavour of his favourite merlot—an indulgence he saved only for these stolen weekends here at his hideaway. His mouth twisted into a wry smile. Of course, Patrick had always teased him that the only thing to make a runaway weekend perfect was spending it in the company of a special person. But Mason had no such special person in his life. He had neither the time nor the inclination to weed through the gold diggers, the publicity seekers, the schemers.
Realistically, of course, he knew that not all women were like that—his sisters-in-law being perfect examples and hell-bent on putting what they believed were suitable marriageable candidates across his path. What was it about happily married people that made them want to see everyone in the same state, he wondered. It was like an epidemic over the past couple of years. His eyes rested briefly on the snapshot of his growing extended family taken at their last gathering. Who would’ve thought he’d be an uncle twice over by now?
Marriage. His lip curled slightly at the thought. While his brothers, Declan and Connor, didn’t seem to have any complaints it certainly wasn’t a state he was in any hurry to embrace. What he enjoyed now was the company of suitable escorts from his personal list. Sophisticated women who made no emotional demands on him at all. Cut-and-dried—just the way he liked it.
Mason strolled across the room to flip the light switch. It grew dark early this time of year. The wind was coming up. Good. He loved a howling winter storm. Nothing like it to blow the cobwebs from your mind and reenergize your soul. He had everything here he needed, and if the power went out, so be it. Nothing would mar the perfection of his all-too-infrequent time away from work, alone.
Buzz, buzz!
Mason froze. Nothing but the intrusion of an uninvited guest, he thought as the gate intercom’s strident warning bounced about the high-raftered ceiling. Who the hell could it be? He hadn’t even told his secretary where he was headed when he walked out the office door. Sure, his brothers or his dad would figure this was where he’d come if they tried to contact him at home, but they would respect his privacy. One thing was for sure: whoever was at the gate wasn’t welcome.
Buzz, buzz, buzzzzzzzzz!
With a muttered expletive Mason put his glass of wine down on the heavy pine coffee table and walked over to the intercom console on the far side of the room. He leaned one forearm against the wall and depressed the Talk button with a dangling finger.
“Yeah, what?” he snarled into the speaker.
“Mason? Mason Knight?”
His skin chilled as he recognised the husky lilt of the woman’s voice. How the hell had she tracked him here and, more importantly, why?
“Can we talk? I really need to see you.”
“We have nothing to talk about, Mrs. Davies.”
“Don’t switch off. It’s important, or you know I wouldn’t be here. Mason? Please?”
Oh yeah, she injected just the right amount of pathos into her tone. Any other man would leap to her aid. Any other man but him. But then not everyone knew what a little schemer Helena Davies was, or how little she’d valued her wedding vows. He’d often wondered just how many times she’d cuckolded Patrick since that night and the thought still made his blood boil.
“It’s for Patrick. Just give me five minutes,” she finished.
Mason’s heart gave a twist. Patrick Davies, the one man he’d admired unreservedly—until he’d married Helena. He warred with his desire to switch off the intercom, go out onto the deck and be buffeted by the rising wind and pretend he’d never begun this conversation. But despite Patrick’s appalling taste in wives, he owed it to both the man and his memory to hear her out.
“Five minutes only. Come on up.”
He hit the button to unlock the gate then strode through the house to the front door and threw it open to wait for her arrival. She didn’t take long. He could hear the strain of the car’s engine as the transmission dropped to a lower gear to climb the steep, unsealed private road. His whole body tensed as the taxi drove onto the flagstone-covered apron outside the house.
Taxi? He stifled a groan. Only Helena Davies would bring a taxi for the two-and-a-half-hour drive from Auckland to this spot on the Coromandel. The woman threw money around like there was an unending supply. He watched as she handed a fistful of hundred-dollar notes to the driver then alighted from the vehicle. His stomach tensed. She still looked good, he noted bitterly, although a bit paler and a bit thinner than the last time he’d seen her. In the dark emerald-coloured suit, buttoned just high enough to expose a hint of perfect creamy breast, and with her brown-red hair tightly twisted to the back of her head, she played the grieving widow well.
“A taxi, Helena?”
“And what’s wrong with that? I’ve recompensed him, and then some.” Her glittering green eyes met his gaze and clashed. Every nerve in his body went on full alert.
“Just seems a bit extravagant, don’t you think? Especially when you can drive any one of Patrick’s cars yourself.”
“I don’t drive anymore. Not since…Well, anyway, I never got my confidence back behind the wheel.” Her eyes drifted away from his face and fixed on a spot somewhere behind him.
Acid burned low in his belly. Like he needed the reminder of that night right now.
The taxi driver swung through the circular turning bay at the front of the house and disappeared back down the drive. What?
“Hey, where’s he going?”
“Back to Auckland.” Helena’s voice held an underlying thread of steel.
The tightness in his gut ratcheted up another notch as, in a few graceful steps, she closed the distance between them. Her perfume reached out to tantalise his nostrils—a bit sweet, a bit spicy. His body stirred with unwelcome interest. He hated that she could still do that to him.
“You said five minutes.” He bit the words out as if he’d chipped them from stone.
“I lied.”
The conniving witch. Rage boiled up inside of him and he ground his teeth together hard to keep the heated words he wanted to shout from spilling out. She hadn’t changed a bit. Now her easy source of income was gone she probably thought she could move onto her next victim. He knew her type only too well.
“Enjoy your walk home.” He spun away from her and stepped back inside, but he wasn’t fast enough. The telltale waft of her fragrance followed close behind.
“So call me a taxi when we’re done. I don’t care. I have to talk to you.”
“Oh, we’re done all right. Now get off my property before I have you charged for trespass.”
He was unprepared for the butterfly-like touch of her hand on his arm. His skin contracted sharply under the cool softness of her fingers and he shook himself free.
“I’m sorry, Mason. I shouldn’t have tricked you.”
“There are a lot of things you shouldn’t have done, Helena. Marrying Patrick was only one of them.”
She flinched as if he’d struck her and for a split second remorse lanced through him. His mother, rest her soul, would have been ashamed to hear him speak like that to a woman—even one like Helena—but the anger he’d borne toward her, and women just like her, took a firmer grip.
“Well, neither one of us is perfect,” she murmured and shivered in the rapidly cooling air.
The storm he’d predicted started to make its presence felt in the darkened sky and heavy splats of raindrops hit the pavers outside in an increasing staccato. Damn, as much as he wanted to, even he couldn’t make her walk out in this.
“You’d better come in,” he said begrudgingly.
He held the door open for her to pass through, showed her through to the expansive sitting room that faced out to the ocean and gestured for her to sit in a chair.
Helena looked around the room, impressed with the luxurious comfort of the large open-plan living and dining area that had obviously been structured to take advantage of what must be a spectacular view of the water in daylight. He kept the place tidy. Aside from the half-full wineglass on the coffee table there wasn’t so much as a dish left out on a bench. Even the wood stack next to the fireplace was arranged with military precision.
She sat, forcing the butterflies in her stomach to calm their crazy fluttering, as Mason lifted his wine from the table and took a deliberate slow draft. He set the long-stemmed glass back on its coaster and thrust his hands deep in the pockets of his black trousers. A slight sheen of the wine lingered on his lower lip and he swept it away with the tip of his tongue. Her eyes locked onto the tiny movement and, deep inside, her muscles clenched. She forced herself to drag her eyes from his lips, from his face, and stared out at the rain that lashed against the floor-length glass windows. Darkness encroached outdoors; solar-powered lamps began to glow gently around the periphery of the deck. She stared at the lamp nearest the window until the shape blurred into a watery ball of light.
It had been a long time since she’d felt at such a disadvantage. She hated the way he deliberately tried to dominate her—forcing her to look up to him, not offering her so much as a glass of water. If it was only up to her, and if she didn’t need his help so badly right now, she’d have darned well started that walk back to Auckland and damn the consequences. But this was Brody’s future, his life, and she’d crawl over broken glass if that’s what it took to get Mason to help her.
Where to start, where to start? She gathered her fractured thoughts. It had been so easy when she’d mentally rehearsed this scene in the taxi during the trip down. Now, face-to-face with him, it wasn’t as easy as she’d hoped.
She let her eyes briefly rake over his body. Physically she couldn’t discern much change from the dark-haired stranger who’d rescued her from certain death that night—he stood at six feet tall and beneath the dark soft cotton polo shirt he still had shoulders like a world-class rugby player. But now there was a hardness to his face, a remote look to his eyes, that had never been evident in the plethora of photographs Patrick had proudly shown her of his protégé.
“Is this going to take long?” His irritated drawl dragged her attention back to the present.
“No, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to waste your time. It’s just…I…”
“You what?”
She’d rarely heard less interest in a question. Helena reached to the soles of her feet and hauled up all the courage she could muster. “I need your help.”
“And I’d want to help you—why?” His upper lip curled in derision.
Helena forced her fingers to relax their grip on the straps of her handbag. “Because it was Patrick’s last wish.”
She watched as he snagged the glass with his fingers and took another pull at the wine, the slight tremor in his hand the only giveaway that, oh yes, she’d struck a chord this time. It was a low blow, she knew, using his relationship with his old mentor now, but she had to useall the ammunition at her disposal. She knew Patrick’s death had hit him harder than he’d shown at the well-attended funeral six weeks ago. There he’d been locked behind an aloof façade. Polite and friendly and not a sign of any other emotion. But to her, his grief had been stark in his dark eyes, in the pallor of his face and in the tight lines that bracketed his lips. She’d ached to comfort him but knew he’d spurn any empathy from her.
“Go on.” His voice was steady, his eyes cold and flat.
Helena took in a deep breath. “He told me that if I ever had a problem with Davies Freight to call on you. To ask you for help. So I am. We need you. We’re in trouble, Mason.”
“You’re talking crap. If there was anything crumbling at Davies Freight I’d know about it. Now, if you’re finished, I’ll call that taxi.”
Helena bit back the sharp retort that sprang to mind and took a breath before continuing, “Hear me out, please. You’ll have heard that Evan took over the managing director duties. You know that was never Patrick’s intention. He always knew that if Evan assumed charge that he’d find some way to cut Brody out, to use any profit for his own means. It’s what he’s doing now. He’s systematically bleeding the company dry. There’ll be nothing left in a few months time. Nothing.” Helena dug into her handbag and withdrew a typed sheet of paper. “It’s why Patrick left specific instructions on his death to give you this.”
She watched as Mason’s eyes flew over the letter she’d been given by Patrick’s lawyer after the will had been read.
“Anyone could’ve typed this. Even you. Why would he have wanted me to run Davies Freight?”
Helena watched as Mason discarded the letter to let it flutter onto the coffee table.
“I didn’t make it up, you have to believe me. Patrick never expected to die so suddenly. He was fit, he was healthy—he expected to live for years more. To have the opportunity to start to groom Brody to take over from him in the future, the way he’d hoped you would until you set up your own firm. But you know how cautious he was. He wouldn’t have asked you to do this if he hadn’t thought it was important.
“You have to believe me. Evan’s after blood. You know he’s always been jealous of his father’s relationship with me and with Brody. He wants to hurt us.”
“Hurt you? C’mon, Helena. I think you’re overstating things. Besides, wouldn’t it be easier if you just stayed on Evan’s side? It’s the way people like you operate, isn’t it?”
Helena ignored the hurtful inference in Mason’s words. As difficult as it was, she had to school herself to be immune to his jibes, no matter how far they were from the truth. She sighed. “You don’t know Evan like I do.”
“And of course you know him exceptionally well, don’t you.”
Oh no, now he’d definitely gone too far. She leaped from her seat and met him face-to-face, shaking with anger. “Don’t you dare suggest that! I would never…I could never…”
“Never?” Mason didn’t move so much as a muscle, his voice low and filled with disgust. “You slept with me the night before you pledged yourself to a much older man. A man who could never keep pace with your physical needs. Why wouldn’t you turn to someone else? Especially someone who stood to inherit equally with your own son.”
“No! I loved Patrick. He became the hub of my whole world. I know I did wrong that night. But I wasn’t the only one to blame. I didn’t act responsibly, that’s true, but I never heard you cry �stop’. You can’t possibly still hold that night against me.”
“Can’t I? I wasn’t the one getting married the next day.”
Tears burned in the back of her eyes but she wouldn’t give in to them. Too much was at stake. Besides, he was wrong. Despite what she’d thought when she’d entered into her marriage she had loved Patrick. If she could have him back in a minute she would. She owed it to him—for everything he’d done for her, for the wonderful man he’d been—she had to get Mason to agree to help and somehow do it without giving Evan the chance to spread his malicious story and destroy her son’s remaining security. She had to appeal to Mason some other way. Patrick must have known how he’d react. In his letter to her he’d been insistent she tell Mason the truth. But at what cost? She drew a steadying breath, deep into her lungs, and turned to face him.
“Please, Mason. Please help. I need your expertise and acumen. You’re the only one who can make a difference now. This is Brody’s inheritance we’re talking about. His whole life lies ahead of him.”
“So you’re telling me you’re not affected by this? You’re only doing it for Brody? Your platinum card won’t suddenly dry up without that astronomical salary Patrick paid you to decorate a desk at the office? I’m not a fool, Helena. The only person this will make a difference to is you. I’m sure Patrick left Brody more than well provided for.”
“Of course. Patrick left both of us well provided for. But you know how much the business meant to him. From Brody’s birth he groomed him to take over one day. You can’t simply stand there and let that slip from Brody’s future. Besides, this isn’t only about Brody and me. Any damage to Davies Freight is going to affect far more people than just me. You have to help.”
“Have to? And why is that?”
A painful throb started in her head. She didn’t want to do this, but Patrick’s instructions had been explicit. She still hadn’t even completely gotten over the shock of his letter herself, or the fact that he’d kept the truth hidden from her for so long. That he had, hung heavy in her heart. Gathering all her strength to her, Helena reached out and grasped Mason’s forearm in a tight grip.
“Isn’t it enough that Patrick asked for your help?”
He flung her a look of absolute distaste. “Through you? No. It’s not. I think you overestimate your appeal.”
Helena’s fingers tightened as she hauled out the courage to say what needed to be said. “Then do it because Brody’s your son.”
Two
Your son. Your son.
The words echoed in his head, drowning out the roaring denial that filled his brain. Somewhere, deep inside, an intangible flicker leaped at the possibility, but then the heated brand of her fingers fought through the fog of shock to remind him she was there. A part of this—potentially a part of him through Brody—and he didn’t trust her. Not so much as a millimetre.
She’d dealt with her grief in record time—it made sense she was on the lookout for her next cash cow, of course she’d look to pin something as outrageous as this on him. There was no way on this wide earth he was going to fall for that one—he’d seen firsthand how destructive a lie like that could be. He placed his hand over hers, peeled her fingers off his arm and dropped her hand.
“I don’t believe you.” He pitched his voice low and hard so she’d be in no doubt that he could be dissuaded.
She started and paled, as if he’d slapped her.
“You don’t…?”
“You’ve wasted enough of my time, Helena. Now get out of my house.” He banked down the anger. He simply wanted her to take her lies and her sexy body somewhere he’d never have to hear them, or see her, again. He stalked across the room, snapped up the handset of a cordless phone and began punching in a series of numbers. “You can wait in the front porch for the taxi.”
“No.”
His finger hovered over the last digit. “No?”
“I’m not going until you agree to help.”
Fury clenched low in his belly like a tight fist. If he had to take her physically from the property himself he’d damn well do it. He dropped the phone back on the side table he’d snatched it from and began to walk toward her, his intent obvious in every step.
“I have proof that Patrick isn’t Brody’s father.”
Mason stopped in his tracks. “Proof?”
“On his death he instructed his solicitor to make certain documents available to me, documents that prove he was incapable of fathering a child.”
Mason choked out a humourless laugh and raised one brow. “And Evan? How do you explain him?”
“Adopted.”
Sure he was. Was there no end to her lies? “Does he know?”
“Yes. I think that’s partly why he’s so bitter toward Brody. He thinks Brody is Patrick’s natural-born son.”
“And you, of course, know he’s not.”
“I do now.”
“Why the hell should I believe you?”
She scrabbled in her bag, withdrew a letter-size envelope and handed it toward him. “Here. Read it yourself.”
Reluctantly he took the envelope from her and lifted the flap to remove the folded sheets from within. He sat down on the long sofa facing her chair and began to read.
“So, this proves Patrick was infertile.” He tossed the papers back across the coffee table toward her. “It certainly doesn’t prove I’m Brody’s father. How many other men have you slept with, or are none of them rich enough to pin this onto?”
“Brody is your son. You and Patrick were the only ones.”
“You can’t possibly expect me to believe that. You might have lost track of the details during your parade of lovers but I remember that night very, very clearly. You were no innocent virgin, Helena.”
“Okay, you weren’t my first, no, but there was no one else once I married Patrick.”
He could neither help, nor wanted to prevent, the incredulous snort that escaped him. He’d been an unwilling audience to Evan’s drunken boasts about how athletic his father’s beautiful young wife was in bed. He knew she was lying right down to the delicately formed bones of her exquisite body.
A sudden flash of lightning split through the room, rapidly followed by a deafening rumble of thunder and an almighty crash outside. The lights overhead flickered, dimmed and brightened.
He had to get rid of her before the power went out altogether. Mason picked the phone back up and hit the Talk button. Silence. He hit the button two times in quick succession. Still nothing.
“Problem?” Helena sat back on the chair and crossed her legs.
“Phone’s out.”
“So use your mobile.”
“Can’t. This is a black spot. No reception. I’ll take you into Whitianga myself. You can check into a motel and get a taxi back home in the morning.”
Helena watched in dismay as he grabbed a set of car keys from a softly glazed pottery dish on top of the dining table. That he meant what he said, she had no doubt. Reluctantly she picked up the papers from the table, pushed them back into her bag and rose to follow him through to the garage. If need be she’d come back tomorrow, and the day after that and the day after that until he’d agree to help.
Inside the garage, Mason flipped a switch on the wall. The ceiling light bathed a black behemoth parked in solitary splendour in the middle of the parking bay. She stared at the four-by-four, recognising in its strong powerful lines the personality of the man who drove it—yet, with the chrome running boards and highly polished mag wheels, enough of the daredevil showman who’d brazenly taken the freight community by storm to build the largest privately owned company in the country. The blip of the car alarm disengaging startled her as it echoed in the large area.
“Get in.” Mason walked around the other side of the four-by-four, opened the driver’s door and climbed up.
With as much dignity as she could muster, Helena opened her door and placed a foot on the running board to give her a lever up into the high leather seat. As she settled in and clipped her seat belt he put the key in the ignition and pressed a button on a remote on the central console. The wooden segmented door behind them slowly lifted open.
A long low-pitched string of expletives ran from Mason’s mouth as he looked through the rearview mirror to the driveway. Before she knew what was happening he was out of the truck. What? She unclicked her belt and scrambled back down. Mason stood, just inside the doorway, hands on hips and with frustration and anger roiling off him in tangible waves.
She looked past him and out onto the softly lit forecourt. There, firmly planted across the drive, its tip entangled in dark wires, lay the solid trunk of a toppled pine tree.
“Is that what took the phone out?” Helena looked at the sorry excuse for a tree. It looked as if it should have come down years ago.
“Yeah, it was tagged for removal next week along with a few others. Stay here,” he commanded.
“Is there anything—”
“Just do as I said.”
Without another word, Mason went to a large storage cupboard along the back wall of the garage and flung open the door. He reached inside and pulled out a set of earmuffs, safety glasses and gloves and a mean-looking chain saw. Setting the saw onto the concrete floor he checked the petrol level, put on the earmuffs, then hefted the saw up again. For a split second, as he passed her, he met her gaze—accusation stark in his angry stare—before striding out into the driving rain. As if it were her fault the stupid tree had come down. Helena crossed her arms defensively in front of her body and fought back a shiver of cold. The temperature had dropped markedly with the onset of the storm.
In a half a dozen steps the driving rain had plastered his shirt to his body. She tried to tear her eyes away from him, from the outline of a supremely well-honed male, but failed miserably. About as miserably as she’d managed to convince him of the truth of Brody’s parentage. It was her fault. If she hadn’t come he wouldn’t be out there right now. But she’d had to try—still had to. There was simply far too much at stake.
She should be helping him—after all, he wanted to get rid of her, didn’t he? Another gust of wind whipped a flurry of needles and small branches to lash against him as he pulled on the gloves and started up the saw, immediately setting to work to remove the branch nearest him. Before she knew it she was out the door.
“Let me help,” she shouted over the ragged noise.
Mason lifted one side of the silencers protecting his ears. “Don’t be stupid, it’s too dangerous. I told you to stay inside.”
She ignored him and gripped a hold of the branch he’d just cut, and dragged it away to the side of the drive.
“Go to the garage and get yourself a set of earmuffs and safety glasses, you’ll need them. And Helena?”
She paused and straightened.
“Don’t get in my way.” The words were nothing but a growl.
She gave a sharp nod to acknowledge his warning. Sure, she wouldn’t get in his way, at least not while he wielded that chain saw with the dexterity of a seasoned professional.
From the garage cupboard she pulled out a pair of gardening gloves, although after trying them on she decided to do without. The way they fell off her hands would be more hindrance than help and right now it was more important to her to leave a better impression on Mason than that she’d arrived with.
The rain had soaked through her hair and ran in rivulets beneath the collar of her jacket, sending trickling shivers of discomfort down her spine. She mentally squared her shoulders and focussed on what she had to do. She slipped on the glasses and earmuffs and went back outside.
It was more difficult than she’d expected to clear the branches off to the side, especially in a suit and shoes better suited to a cocktail party than a logging operation.
Mason’s eyes burned a hole through her back more than once as she staggered with another branch across the driveway. Through the earmuffs the softened roar of the saw bounced between the bank and the side of the house until Helena’s head felt as if it was vibrating in unison with the noise. She pressed fingers, sticky with pine resin, over her earmuffs to seal off any gaps as Mason battled a particularly knotted piece of wood. He wielded the chain saw as if it was second nature to him, but then that’s pretty much the way she’d noticed he managed everything in his life. A total perfectionist in whatever he did.
Any other day of the week Helena would have turned tail and left. The discomfort, the noise and the incessant rain would individually have been enough to persuade her to find sanctuary elsewhere. But she couldn’t stop. She had to prove she was worth listening to and not, as Mason so clearly thought, just some grasping bimbo out to find her next sugar daddy. She bent to pick up the branch he’d finally worked free and jumped when Mason leaned forward and pulled one of the earmuffs away from the side of her head.
“Ready to give up yet?”
She looked up, raking his face for any clue that she’d satisfied him she wasn’t just some pretty thing looking for an easy ride, but his features remained unreadable except for the flicker of heat in his eyes when they dropped to the gaping neckline of her jacket.
“Are you finished yet?” she countered, not daring to move.
Slowly, his eyes trailed back up to her face. “Not yet.” His pupils dilated slightly.
Helena felt a brief surge of power. He might act as if he hated her, but he wasn’t unaffected by her. At least not as much as he tried to portray. That telltale flare in his eyes had given her more control than she’d dreamed. “Well, then, I’m not finished either.”
Despite all the activity, the cold evening air and her wet clothes combined to send a deep chill into her bones. She shivered as she bent to pick up one of the slices of the trunk. Mason reached out to stop her.
“What?” She stood up and put her hands on her hips.
“Go inside, you’re wet through.”
“It’s okay, I can manage,” she replied through gritted teeth, bending at the knees to get closer to the richly scented disk of wood.
Mason stood and watched her as she hefted up the piece. Holding it close to her body, she lurched over to where she’d stacked the cut branches. Then, he set to finishing off the remainder of the tree, although she noticed that he cut the slices narrower to make her job a little easier. Eventually he was done and, scooping up three disks to her miserable one each time, they finished clearing the driveway.
“What about that bit?” Helena gestured toward the tip of the tree that had tangled in and brought down the phone line.
“I’ll leave that for the phone guys. C’mon.” He gestured toward the garage.
Helena hesitated a moment in the rain, which hadn’t let up even the tiniest bit as they’d worked to clear the tree, then followed him back inside. She fought to combat the shivers that now cascaded through her body. The last time she’d come close to feeling this cold she’d been with him, too. Only then the outcome had been vastly different to today. She resolutely pushed away the memory of that night, of the lover who was as far removed from this aloof creature as a person could be.
From beside the passenger door of the truck she watched as he grabbed a rag from the cupboard to wipe down the chain saw and put everything away. She lifted a foot to the running board to climb back into the vehicle when warm hands slipped around her waist and lifted her back down. He only touched her for a moment yet it was enough to send a fire coursing through her body, radiating out from where his hands had rested against her sodden clothing. Fire blended with a bit of something else—something she couldn’t afford to acknowledge or identify.
“Forget the road trip tonight.”
“You mean it?” Relief coursed through her. The prospect of sitting in cold wet clothing even for the relatively short trip to Whitianga was anathema to her.
“I don’t say what I don’t mean. Clearing this mess took longer than I expected and we’re both soaked through. By the time we get dried out it’ll be too late for you to check in anywhere around here. I’ll get you some dry things. You can stay in one of the guest rooms.”
He sounded as though he’d rather endure a root canal without anaesthetic. Even so, Helena tried to say thank-you but he was already walking away from her. She followed him down the native-timber parquet floor hall to a separate wing of the house that she hadn’t noticed on her arrival. He flung open a door at the end of the passage and walked through to another door that led into a large champagne-coloured marble bathroom and snapped on the faucet in the shower. Steam slowly started to fill the room.
“Don’t lock the door,” he said as he left her. “I’ll find something for you to wear and drop it inside.”
Helena could barely respond. The lure of warm running water called to her from the shower stall. With cold, stiffened fingers she tried to undo the buttons on the front of her jacket but they just wouldn’t cooperate.
“Here, let me.”
Warm hands brushed her fingers aside. She shivered as Mason deftly undid the buttons and peeled the tailored jacket from her body. Underneath, her simple black silk camisole clung to her skin, shamelessly exposing the fact she wore no bra. Under his gaze her nipples hardened and pressed against the dark silk. A flush of embarrassment flooded her cheeks.
“I’ll be all right from here,” she protested as he started to lift the hem of her camisole.
“You’re so frozen you can barely move. Be sensible, Helena. Besides, it’s not like I haven’t seen you naked before.”
His fingers brushed against her belly as he took hold of the bottom edge of her cami. The shiver that rippled through her body had nothing to do with cold—his touch scorched like a brand.
“Please, stop.” Helena pushed his hands away and stepped backward. “I’ll be fine from here. Truly.” Blindly, she reached for a towel and pulled it in front of her.
“Whatever you say.” He took a step back. “Come through to the living room when you’re finished. I’ll get the fire going and warm up something for us to eat.”
Helena nodded and watched as he left the bathroom. She let go of the breath she’d been holding and swiftly shimmied out of her skirt and peeled off her clinging wet pantyhose and undies. She released her hair from the army of clips that bound it then gratefully stepped beneath the cascade of warmth thundering in the shower. Sheer bliss. She quickly lathered herself up and rinsed off. The stinging needles of the spray invigorated her and although her fingers and toes still felt cold she felt much better. Hungry though. She towelled off her wet skin, and arranged her damp clothes on the heated towel rail to dry, then picked through the mixed assortment of clothing Mason had dumped just inside the door while she’d been luxuriating in the hot water.
In amongst a couple of well-washed soft T-shirts and a pair of grey track pants her hand hesitated over a powder-blue merino wool sweater and a relatively new pair of woman’s jeans. Was he sending her a message by including some other woman’s forgotten clothing? Resolutely Helena selected a large faded sweatshirt and the track pants. There was no way she would wear another woman’s castoffs—years of hand-me-downs from her parents’ neighbours combined with the smart remarks from her classmates when she’d worn their old clothing to school had seen to that.
The sudden lance of jealousy that shafted her sideways at the thought of Mason with another woman came as an unpleasant surprise. It’s not as if she had any say in his love life, she groaned inwardly, don’t even think about it. She’d been a happily married woman herself for twelve years, so why did it suddenly bother her so much to think of another woman’s clothing being left here?
With a determined push she shoved the blue sweater under the pile of remaining clothes and dragged on the pants and sweatshirt. The pants were far too large, but they were warm, and she wasn’t beyond sacrificing a bit of dignity for warmth right now. She rolled over the waistband several times to try and pull them up a bit on her hips and turned up the legs. The sweatshirt hung almost to the top of her thighs. Well, she decided, looking in the large vanity mirror, she wouldn’t win any fashion parades but then she wasn’t here to impress anyone, was she. Lord, but her hair was a mess. She rummaged through the vanity drawers, searching for a comb or a brush. Her cheeks flamed as her hand brushed against an unopened twelve-pack of condoms.
“You okay in there?” Mason’s voice at the door made her slam the drawer shut. Okay, she could go with the wild look for her hair for now.
Helena opened the bathroom door. “Yes, I’m fine. Thanks for the clothes.”
He looked at what she was wearing and then the pile of clothes she’d dumped onto the vanity. If she wasn’t mistaken the corners of his mouth lifted slightly for just a moment. She bit her teeth together to avoid verbalising the snaky comment that came unbidden from the jealousy that still twinged inside. He was letting her stay the night. There was no way she was going to do anything to jeopardise his reluctant goodwill.
“Come and eat then.”
She followed him back down the hall to the sitting room where the aroma of warmed bread made her mouth water. Fire licked hungrily over split logs in the large stone fireplace and Helena bent to warm her fingers.
“Still cold?” Mason asked.
“Just a bit.” Helena grimaced at the state of her fingernails and her hands. No sign now of the elegant manicure she’d had earlier in the week. But it was worth it to get this opportunity. If she hadn’t already lugged so much of the tree from one place to another she probably would’ve hugged it for falling as it did and giving her the chance to stay longer.
“You’ll feel better when you’ve had something to eat. Sit down.”
When she was settled in the chair nearest the fire, Mason brought a tray with a bowl of a soup, filled with chunks of vegetables and meat, and several slices of warm French bread. They consumed their meal in silence. It was only as Helena placed her spoon back down in her now-empty bowl that he spoke.
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