‘We have to talk,’ said Matt, opening the packet of plasters and examining its contents. ‘Why don’t you start by telling me why you thought your husband was dead?’ He paused. ‘Did you try to kill him?’
‘No!’ Her denial was instantaneous, and, looking into her horrified eyes, he couldn’t help but believe her. ‘I wouldn’t do that,’ she added, with a revealing tremor in her voice. ‘Max fell. Down the stairs in our apartment. I tried to find a pulse but I couldn’t.’ She took a breath. ‘It wasn’t Max who called the emergency service. It was me.’
‘So why didn’t you stay and speak to them?’ Matt asked, hoping that by getting her to talk to him he could divert her attention. He urged her back against the pillows again, avoiding her eyes as he lifted the hem of her skirt. ‘I don’t understand why you ran away.’
‘Don’t you?’ The laugh she gave was without humour. ‘No, well, perhaps it is hard for you to understand how I felt. I suppose the simple answer would be to say I panicked. I was afraid no one would believe my version of events.’
Matt frowned. ‘Okay,’ he said evenly. ‘I’ll buy that. Having seen what the bastard’s done to you, you’ve got a point.’ His jaw compressed as he cleaned the abrasion on her hip with a sterile wipe. ‘But for goodness’ sake, Sara, why did you stay with him?’
Sara caught her breath, and he guessed her hip was stinging. ‘You don’t know that Max did this to me,’ she argued. ‘If you met him, you’d think he was a charming man. Hugo thinks so, and so does my mother. As far as she’s concerned I’m an ungrateful wife.’
The area around the abrasion was clean now, and Matt stared at it for a long time, trying to contain his anger. Who the hell was Hugo? he wondered, resenting the thought that some other man might be involved. He didn’t like the idea that there was someone else she cared about.
‘Who is Hugo?’ he asked at last, when he had himself in control again. But the question was too personal and he felt her eyes upon him.
‘Hugo is Max’s brother,’ she replied at last, and Matt cursed his own stupidity. He remembered now seeing the man’s name in the article he’d read about her disappearance. Her lips twisted as she added, ‘He’s harmless.’
‘But he doesn’t stop his brother from beating up his wife every chance he gets,’ pointed out Matt harshly, and she sighed.
‘I’ve told you,’ she said, pressing a protective hand to her midriff. ‘Hugo doesn’t know anything about it. He—he thinks Max and I have the ideal marriage. He’s a hopeless romantic at heart.’
Hopeless? Right. Matt shook his head. But touching her was becoming the finest form of torture, and the idea that some man felt he had the right to brutalise her infuriated him anew. ‘What about your father?’ he demanded roughly. ‘Doesn’t he care?’
‘My father’s dead and my mother wouldn’t want to believe me. She has a very comfortable lifestyle, thanks to Max,’ she said unsteadily. She looked down. ‘Have you finished?’
‘Not nearly,’ retorted Matt, his tone savage. ‘Dammit, Sara, women don’t have to put up with this sort of thing today. Why don’t you get a divorce?’
She stiffened then. Her muscles locked, and he felt the withdrawal of a confidence he’d hardly begun to explore. ‘You don’t understand,’ she told him tersely, and he knew if he hadn’t been applying a gauze coated with antiseptic ointment to her hip at that moment she’d have scrambled off the bed and left him. She licked her lips. ‘Thank you for doing this, but please don’t think it gives you the right to offer me advice. I know what I’m doing—what I have to do. And getting a divorce isn’t an option!’
‘Why the hell not?’
Matt was impatient, but she just regarded him with cool guarded eyes. ‘Well, your knowing who I am solves one problem,’ she declared, ignoring his outburst. ‘I can’t stay here now.’ She hesitated. ‘I’ll have to go back.’
‘No!’
The word was torn from him. She couldn’t be serious. He tried to concentrate on the two strips of adhesive he was smoothing over the gauze. To go back to a man who clearly had no respect—let alone any love—for her. For God’s sake, after what she’d told him about the circumstances of her departure he had no doubt that Max Bradbury would have reserved some particularly unpleasant punishment for embarrassing him when she got back.
His hands trembled as he completed his task but he didn’t immediately release her. Although he knew she was eager to end this awkward encounter, his hands lingered on her skin. He wasn’t unaware of the impropriety of his actions. He was running the risk of her accusing him of God knew what! But at that moment it wasn’t important. He simply didn’t want to let her go.
His eyes drifted down, over the quivering muscles of her stomach. The dusky hollow of her navel tantalised him, made him catch his breath. Below her navel the lacy briefs offered little protection, the triangular shadow that marked the apex of her legs inviting his hungry gaze.
He wanted her, he realised, even as he rejected the thought as unworthy of him. This was no fantasy; this was real, this was honest—though he doubted she’d believe his feelings had no strings attached. She’d probably find any overture he made towards her, however innocent, utterly repulsive. He wasn’t arrogant enough to think she felt any attraction to him.
Yet still he prolonged the moment. And, as if becoming aware that the atmosphere between them had changed, she struggled to get up. ‘Please,’ she said, and although there was no fear in her eyes there was withdrawal. And a mute appeal he found hard to resist.
‘You do please—me,’ he told her huskily. And despite herself, he was sure, she gave a helpless little moan.
‘Oh, Matt,’ she whispered, her voice breaking with emotion.
And, unable to prevent himself, he bent his head and kissed her, brushing the bruised skin with his lips.
She jerked beneath his caressing touch, her hands balling into fists at her sides. He would have liked to think it was to prevent herself from touching him, but he didn’t believe that. Indeed, apart from one revealing twitch, she made no move either to encourage or stop him, and Matt knew it was up to him to show some sense here.
But it was hard to be sensible. Her skin was so tender, so delicate. She tasted good, too, the light film of perspiration that had beaded her skin when he’d cleansed her hip like nectar on his tongue. Even the faint scent of the ointment was not unpleasant. It certainly wasn’t enough to deter his desire. He wanted to taste every inch of her. In spite of everything, he couldn’t stop.
His breath dampened her flesh. His lips burned a circle of kisses around her navel before beating a sensual path over her flat stomach. His thumbs urged the folds of the dress aside, revealing the hem of her bra. The enticing hollow between her breasts was visible to his impassioned gaze. He caught his breath. He wanted to remove her bra, to expose the rounded swell of her small breasts. He could see her nipples were already straining at the delicate lace that confined them. He longed to feel those hard peaks against his palms.
Dear God!
His own reactions to what he was doing could no longer be ignored. Between his legs his arousal throbbed with a painful insistence, and the blood was pounding in his head.
But he had to stop. With considerable effort he lifted his head and looked at her, encountering an unexpected trace of regret in her gaze. He’d expected many things: indignation; disillusionment; anger, even. What he hadn’t expected was that she might actually have welcomed his lovemaking, and his brows drew together in momentary disbelief.
But her first words didn’t match the fleeting expression that had now disappeared entirely. ‘Are you going to