A Case For Trust (8 page)

In fact, if you ignored that she was a gold-digger after the main chance, if you were prepared to allow for paradoxes that suggested a complex and sometimes contradictory character, you could almost imagine Philippa Lloyd was exactly who she pretended to be. Interesting that, having met him now, she hadn't turned her attention from Justin to himself. Because Justin Mason wasn't the main chance. He, Matt, was.

So why wasn't she chasing
him
?

It wasn't pique behind the question. It bloody wasn't. Kiss or no kiss, brother or no brother, he had no interest in Philippa Bloody Lloyd.

Then why are you still hanging around some strangers' wedding waiting to drive her home?

He couldn't answer his own question. It was as unfathomable as that hot, impulsive kiss he knew had taken him by surprise as much as it had her. He wouldn't deny, he'd felt something, something perplexing, something stirring, when he kissed her. Perhaps it was
because
of that kiss he was hanging around. If it were any other woman, he'd have no hesitation in wooing Philippa Lloyd until she once more quivered under his hands. But Philippa was off limits. Justin wasn't having her, and neither was he.

Don't be too hasty, Mason.
Justin
wasn't
having her, Justin was marrying Lucy. But surely the easiest way to ensure Justin lost interest in Philippa was for Philippa to be off the market. Involved elsewhere. Matt's mouth creased as he acknowledged where his thoughts were leading. His threats hadn't worked in dissuading Philippa from chasing his brother. Maybe it was time to try a little honey in place of vinegar. Appraising her delicate features, her lissom figure, it would be no hardship. He was sure he could turn her head. It had been years since he'd been seriously interested in a woman, since he'd actively set about pursuing one, but he wasn't unaware of his charm. Women reminded him of it all the time. Perhaps not as often as Justin, but still … The fact Philippa hadn't fallen at his feet already simply meant he hadn't applied it to her.

And it would be no hardship to relax those limits he'd so strictly imposed upon himself. It had been so long since he'd allowed himself to be involved with anyone, it was little wonder he responded like tinder to a match when he got close to Philippa.

What if she's really in love with Justin? And he with her?

If she was really in love with Justin, she'd never fall for Matt. Simple. But the way she'd kissed him back that morning, even if only for the briefest of moments, told him he could make her desire him. And then he could expose her for the fickle, greedy wannabe he was still convinced she was.

And if she actually falls for you? What then?

The thought gave him pause. While he'd cut himself off from serious relationships long ago, had mostly indulged in short affairs with women who knew the score, he'd never wilfully set out to hurt any of them. He wasn't setting out to hurt Philippa either, just separate her from his brother.

She's not a sophisticate, not really. She doesn't know the score. She might be greedy, but she's not cynical. You could really hurt her.

It was a qualm destined to go unattended. Philippa had seen him skulking in the corner, and judging from the narrowed glare that quite transformed her serene, unflappable mask for just the space of a heartbeat, she wasn't happy.

***

‘You didn't have to wait for me. I can assure you, I'm not slinking off to some secret assignation with your brother.'

His raised brow was an exercise in mocking urbanity. ‘I never imagined you were. Justin was due in Sydney this evening for a client dinner. He'll already be in the air.'

‘And what makes you think I'm not joining him there?'

Why,
why
did she say something so ridiculous? What demon had possessed her tongue to bait him like that? But his face remained calm. ‘Because you just told me you weren't.'

‘And suddenly you're believing what I tell you?'

He wouldn't be drawn into the fight she was imprudently picking. Instead, he merely took her briefcase from her resisting fingers and turned towards the door. ‘Don't be argumentative, Philippa, it's too nice a day for it. Besides, your groom wants to speak with you.'

Mr Jackson was indeed making his slow but purposeful way towards them. Philippa switched on her most professional and winning smile, aware of the smirk it elicited from Matt beside her.

‘Is this your young man, Philippa? I'm delighted you brought him along. Lily will be so excited to meet him. The refreshments are over in the hall next door.'

Pippa started her usual demurral, but Mr Jackson was having none of it, and his insistence on offering hospitality had her looking to Matt to add his weight to her excuses. Instead, he smiled at Mr Jackson and said, ‘Why not? We have nowhere else to be. I'm Matt Mason, Mr Jackson. Congratulations on your marriage.'

Philippa was startled by the charm in his smile and his voice. Pity he never used that on her. She found her elbow gripped in his hard fingers and her feet steered out of the chapel and into the throng of well-wishers now congregating in the reception hall. The crush forced her close to Matt, close enough to catch the sophisticated, woody scent she recalled so vividly from their fierce encounter that morning. A waiter offered them drinks and Pippa reached for an orange juice, only to have a champagne flute thrust into her hand instead. Her startled protest was ignored.

‘One won't kill you,' Matt murmured, and the unexpected brush of his lips against her ear was more intoxicating than the whisper of bubbles against her nostrils from the champagne she gingerly tasted.

Something had changed. Pippa couldn't put her finger on it, but there was something different in his stance, in the hand that casually but firmly steadied her back as a teetering partygoer threatened to jostle her, in the hooded glance he didn't redirect quite quickly enough from her face.

What was he up to?

She'd not allowed herself to think of Matt Mason throughout the ceremony. But it had been harder, today, to concentrate. Her mind had wanted to wander, to recall that rich voice throbbing alternately with anger and with superior disdain, to linger over its memories of his lean brown fingers spinning the steering wheel, to relive the moment when her tongue had touched his and her skin had caught fire. She'd dragged it back ruthlessly, focusing her attention with long practice on the sweet octogenarians she'd married.

Now, though, as he stood beside her making polite conversation to strangers, she sipped her champagne and gave her thoughts free rein. What would it be like to have those hands wrapping around her body the way they had enfolded the leather wheel? Those harsh lips were softer now, and still. What would it be like to have them tracing her skin, nuzzling the nape where his clever fingers, as if conscious of her rocketing thoughts, now rested as he gently brought her attention to the conversation she'd only dimly been aware of?

She'd missed the question the other guest had directed to her, but it didn't seem to matter—he and Matt were already talking about something else. She lifted her glass to drain it, only to discover it was full once again. This time, the bubbles didn't make her sneeze. Those caressing, teasing fingers were at her nape again, and she wilfully stopped herself from purring out loud, instead leaning a little against the muscular warmth that pressed against her. Matt's fingers were now at her waist, slowly stroking, and she curved her own companionably around them.

I wonder why I've never wanted to stay for my clients' receptions? They're really quite lovely.

***

She was floating. There was soft music, and a cocoon of warmth; a low hum that occasionally shifted to a higher tone, and a spicy, woody, musky scent an inch or two from her nostrils. It was mostly dark. She was safe. Not quite sure of where she was, but safe. Something brushed her knee, and her eyes opened long enough to see a hand moving over the gearstick beside her leg. She knew that hand. Matt's hand. She was with Matt. In Matt's car. Matt was driving her home from the wedding. Mr and Mrs Jackson's. She'd had a champagne or two, and it hadn't made her sick at all. She hadn't fallen down; hadn't made a fool of herself; hadn't been aggressive, or maudlin, or silly. They'd danced, and Matt had held her and looked at her like he wasn't angry at her anymore. Two champagnes? Maybe three. But no more than three. For sure.

Best. Wedding. Ever.

She slid her hand over Matt's resting on the gear, giggled a little as she felt him start at her touch. There were fine dark hairs at his wrist. When she smoothed them backwards they gleamed in the amber light from the console. Fascinated, she watched them spring back, one by one, as she moved her fingers on his skin. ‘You have beautiful hands.'

She thought she heard a low rumble of laughter. ‘You're drunk, Philippa Lloyd.'

‘Am not. Only had two.'

‘You had four.'

‘Two.'

‘Suit yourself.'

She hadn't had four, she knew she hadn't. If she'd had four, she'd be drunk. And she wasn't drunk. Just a little sleepy, a little … sexy. And soooo happy.

***

Matt rose from the bed and shucked on his boxers, then his trousers; his shirt was in a rumpled heap near the door and he pulled that on, too, then cast about the room for his shoes. One was under the bedside table, socks shoved into the toe—at least his fastidiousness hadn't deserted him that far. The other he eventually found under a pile of her clothes. Jacket, wallet, keys, phone, and he was at the bedroom door having managed to not so much as glance at the soft-breathing woman asleep in the bed.

He let himself out of her house, grimacing as the insubstantial lock rattled in the front door behind him. Not his business. None of it was his business. Not any more. He'd proved his point, and that was the end of Philippa Lloyd's messing with his family, with Justin.

The early morning suburban streets were empty of life and it took only fifteen minutes before he slung the Audi into the subterranean garage below his apartment. Slick acceptance of his keycard at elevator and his own front door reinforced the differences between her world and his. She didn't belong with the Masons. He'd said that all along.

His thoughts were an echo of her muzzy words a few hours before. In the moonlight slanting through her shutters, her coppery hair had been golden on the pillow. He'd tugged on it to wake her. ‘You're not having an affair with Justin.'

She'd smiled at him sleepily—‘I've said that all along,'—before the slumbrous eyes closed and she drifted off again.

She was no virgin—if there'd been any saving grace to the whole sorry incident, at least there was that—but she wasn't one of Justin's regular types either. Seductive, certainly. Responsive. Even demanding. His lip curled a little in recollection, though he certainly hadn't been complaining at the time. She was all of those things in bed, as she'd never appeared to be when out of it. But while she wasn't inexperienced, neither was she the sophisticated sex siren he'd first imagined. He was damned sure he'd given her an orgasm she'd never imagined possible, for a start, and he hadn't been trying all that hard.

If Philippa was involved with Justin—assuming the cringe-inducing stories of Justin's prowess were true, and no woman Matt knew of had given evidence to the contrary—roof-clutching orgasms would have been part of her daily routine.

And if she hadn't been with Justin, what the hell was her game?

She surely couldn't be keeping his younger brother dangling simply on a promise of sex. Justin didn't have, didn't
need
to have, that kind of patience. There was always another willing woman throwing herself in his path.

In that case, it must really be love this time for Justin. For Philippa, too? Was this unlikely, unwanted relationship between Justin and Philippa Lloyd for real? Were they really in love?

At that thought, Matt felt his first pang of … of what? Guilt, he supposed. And some other, niggling, uncomfortable emotion he wouldn't put a name to. Guilt would do, anyway. He had plenty to feel guilty about. If Justin and Philippa were really in love, he'd just shoved a man-sized spoke in their wheels. He could argue that
she
had seduced
him
, that her head nuzzling against his shoulder and her fingers furtively exploring his wrist all the way home in the car had been the kind of invitation Justin, for example, would never be expected to refuse. But he wasn't Justin. He was cautious, conservative, responsible Matt. Matt, who wouldn't set out to prove to a brother that his woman couldn't be trusted. Matt, who wouldn't knowingly encourage a woman to get tipsy on champagne. Matt, who wouldn't act on that woman's drunken, fumbling advances.

Except he had. He'd done all of those things. With appalling ease and effect. With unconscionable enjoyment.

He rested his forehead against the chill glass walls and stared out at the city waking below him. Was she still sleeping? Still wearing that satisfied, replete little smile as she dreamed? Was she stretching that luscious, welcoming body across the bed, reaching again as she'd reached through the night for him?

Or reaching for Justin?

No, not reaching for Justin.

He pounded his forehead in slow, thumping frustration against the glass. What the hell was her game? He couldn't work it out. What was she after? He thought she'd been after Justin, but she hadn't slept with Justin. She'd slept with him. Goddammit, she'd slept with
him
. Had she been playing him all along?

Impatiently he thrust away from the wall and stalked pointlessly through the apartment. He'd been careless. Arrogant. He'd forgotten that for all her seeming sincerity, her every appearance of integrity, Philippa Lloyd was a spectacularly effective cheat. He thought he'd known everything about her. His dossier on her ran to hundreds of pages. He'd been thorough in his research. He thought he knew Philippa Lloyd pretty well, as well as she could be known through desk research, and that was very well indeed for most people. But he'd forgotten the most important, the most basic, the very
first
thing he'd known about her: she had a Mason bridegroom in her sights, and it seemed she wasn't fussed which Mason brother she bagged. She'd played him, and between them, they'd both betrayed his brother that night. The knowledge was bitter, and again he couldn't tell if it was guilt that most discomfited him, or shame that he'd been fooled by her kittenish ardour and urgent, breathy entreaties.