Passion & Pleasure. Julia JamesЧитать онлайн книгу.
talking of such things to her. She didn’t understand. How could she? In her world—thank goodness—people didn’t lie and cheat and torture to gain their own ends.
‘Was it this man who put you in prison?’ she asked suddenly, and Matt caught his breath.
‘Who told you I’d been in prison?’ he demanded, feeling unexpectedly betrayed. ‘Your mother?’
Amy wouldn’t look at him now. ‘No one told me,’ she muttered, turning another page of the album and pretending to be interested in a picture of sand-dunes. ‘Is this in Abuqara, too?’
Matt sighed. ‘Amy,’ he said sternly. ‘How did you find out?’
Amy glanced at him then, her brows arched in artless enquiry.
‘How did I find out what?’
‘Amy!’
She sighed. ‘If you must know, I heard Grandad talking to Mummy,’ she admitted in a low voice. ‘He was annoyed because she hadn’t told him who you were.’
Matt hesitated. ‘And do you know who I am, Amy?’
She gave a careless shrug. ‘Yes.’
‘So who am I?’
‘You’re Matthew Quinn,’ she responded at once. ‘You told me who you were.’
‘Mmm.’ Matt considered her answer. ‘I suppose I did. Not that it matters. The whole village probably knows I’ve bought this place.’
Amy’s brows drew together again. ‘Do you mind?’ she asked, and he was unwillingly touched by her sincerity. ‘Are you ashamed because they put you in prison?’
‘No.’ Matt wished it were that simple.
‘So why did they put you in prison? What did you do wrong?’
Matt sighed. ‘In Abuqara, you don’t have to do anything wrong to be put in prison.’ He grimaced. ‘If you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time, you don’t have a choice.’
Amy put the photograph album aside. ‘And you were in the wrong place at the wrong time?’
‘Yeah.’
‘So why don’t you want people to know where you are now?’ she asked practically, and he couldn’t prevent a wry smile.
‘Do you know what the media is?’
Amy shook her head. ‘No.’
‘Well, it’s newspapers and magazines and television reporters—’
‘Like you?’
‘Like I used to be,’ he admitted honestly. ‘Since I got back, they’ve all wanted a piece of me.’
‘A piece of you?’ Amy was perplexed. ‘You mean, they want to cut you up?’
In a manner of speaking, thought Matt drily, but he didn’t say it. ‘I mean, they all want a story—my story,’ he said instead. ‘I guess getting kidnapped by guerrillas is news. They want to know how I survived it.’
‘Gorillas?’ said Amy curiously. ‘Why would gorillas want to kidnap you? Did they hurt you?’
Matt couldn’t help himself. He laughed, and, seeing his amusement, Amy laughed, too. For a few moments, they were both convulsed with mirth, and it was only when the door opened and Fliss appeared that Matt realised she must have heard them and wondered what on earth was going on.
‘Is everything all right?’ she asked, and Matt made an effort to control himself. But it was the first time he’d laughed so unrestrainedly since he got back from Abuqara, and it felt good. Really good.
‘Everything’s fine,’ he said now, as Amy scrubbed the heels of her hands over her wet eyes. ‘Amy said something funny, that’s all.’
‘Did you know Quinn was kidnapped by gorillas?’ asked the little girl, trying to stifle her giggles, and Matt saw the look of comprehension that crossed her mother’s face.
‘Guerrillas, Amy,’ she said, and then, as if realising she was being too pedantic, she shook her head.
‘Well, I can see you’ve been having a good time,’ she remarked wryly. ‘Are you ready to go home now?’
Amy’s face dropped, and even Matt felt a reluctance to let her go. ‘Is it that time already?’ he asked, gazing at his watch in disbelief. ‘I had no idea.’
‘Do we have to go, Mum?’ protested Amy. She hurriedly picked up the album again and opened it at the page showing the picture of Abraham Adil. ‘Look, that’s the President of Abuqara. Quinn says he knows him.’
‘Really?’ Fliss barely glanced at the picture before looking at Matt again with concerned eyes. ‘You haven’t been telling Amy about—well, about your experiences, have you?’ she asked tightly, and he gave her a narrow-eyed look.
‘Oh, yeah,’ he said. Then, seeing her dismay, he relented. ‘What do you think I am? Crazy?’
‘Of course not.’ Her response was automatic, but he couldn’t make up his mind whether he believed her or not. And, dammit, he hadn’t exactly given her a good impression of himself so far.
‘Look, we were just talking, that’s all,’ he muttered gruffly. ‘If anything, I was giving her a history lesson. About the problems in North Africa.’ He paused and then continued wearily, ‘She already knew I’d been in prison. Perhaps you ought to ask her how she knew about that.’
Chapter Nine
FLISS had to work at the pub that evening.
She didn’t feel like it, particularly after the way she’d left the Old Coaching House that afternoon. She felt on edge and uneasy, ready to snap at the first wrong word. But, although she would have liked to blame Matt for her bad mood, she knew it wasn’t his fault that she felt so depressed.
Yet it seemed that every time she and Matt seemed to be making some progress, something happened to upset the balance. This time, it was what Amy had overheard—and apparently related to him—and she hadn’t known what to say when he’d accused her of gossiping about him at home.
Of course, his response had been triggered by her reaction to Amy’s excitement over the photographs. She’d immediately jumped to the wrong conclusion and there was no excuse for that. But, dammit, her fears had been fuelled by what her father had told her. If he hadn’t filled her head with what he’d heard about Matt’s supposed instability, she’d never have suspected him of telling Amy horror stories in the first place.
Not that those things weren’t constantly on her mind, too, she conceded unhappily, heading back to the restaurant to take another order. Although she’d attempted to convince herself that the scars she’d seen on his back looked worse than they actually were, the images they’d evoked simply wouldn’t go away. What had he done, for God’s sake, to deserve such punishment? What kind of monster had done that to him? Did anyone ever recover from that kind of experience?
‘Hello, Fliss.’
Someone spoke, a man, and Fliss, who had been concentrating on adding the table’s number to her order pad, looked up in surprise.
Harry Gilchrist was one of the four young people who had recently been shown to a table in the window. He and another man Fliss knew by sight were sitting opposite two young women she didn’t recognise. Pasting on a friendly smile, she returned his greeting and then said, ‘Are you ready to order?’
‘What are your specials?’ asked the other man, nodding towards the extra dishes that were posted on a board beside the bar. He raised his eyebrows at his companion. ‘I fancy a steak.’
‘Do you?’ she said archly. ‘I fancy something else entirely.’
Fliss ignored