Passionate Protectors?: Hot Pursuit / The Bedroom Barter / A Passionate Protector. Anne Mather
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‘What have you been telling her?’
‘Me?’ Despite the quickening of her heartbeat, Sara managed to sound reasonably calm. ‘I haven’t been telling her anything. Well, not about school anyway.’
Matt came further into the room. He was wearing shorts today, khaki shorts that exposed his long muscled legs. Like hers, his black tee shirt barely skimmed his waistband, and her eyes were unwillingly drawn to the wedge of brown skin that appeared every time he moved.
Why was it that when she looked at him she was so acutely aware of her own sexuality? she wondered. Why, when for years she’d believed herself immune from any man’s attraction, was she so irresistibly drawn to Matt’s masculine grace? It was pointless, when all was said and done, and foolish. But she couldn’t help herself. And if Max ever found out…
Well, he’d make her suffer for it, she reflected bitterly. But then, he’d make her suffer anyway. And perhaps she deserved his contempt. She was his wife, after all. She shouldn’t be having these kinds of feelings for a man who wasn’t her husband. Yet it was such a long time since Max had engendered anything inside her but fear and revulsion.
Even thinking about what was facing her when she returned to London was terrifying. Max was never going to forgive her for leaving him as she had. She mustn’t forget that he knew that she was to blame for his fall. However accidental it might have been, she would bear the brunt of his wrath.
‘So what were you talking about?’
Matt’s words broke into her pained reverie and she forced herself to meet his dark gaze. Was that an accusation she could see in the depths of his eyes? Or was it just, as Mrs Webb had said, that he did look excessively weary?
She hesitated now, and then, deciding she had nothing to lose, she said quietly, ‘Are you thinking of sending Rosie away to school?’
‘What?’
He looked stunned, and Sara felt somewhat reassured. ‘You’re not?’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ he demanded, and then, as if noting how his angry words affected her, he calmed down. ‘Where did you get that idea?’
‘Would you believe from Rosie?’ Sara dug her fingers into the back pockets of her jeans, aware that her hands were sweating. She wished she had shorts to wear, she thought ruefully. The jeans were far too warm for the humid weather they were having at present. But beggars couldn’t be choosers. ‘I think she’s worried about what you’re planning to do when I leave.’
‘Rosie?’ Matt shook his head. ‘But I’ve never—’
‘Not even to Mrs Armstrong?’ asked Sara, before she lost her nerve, and Matt’s eyes narrowed.
‘Gloria?’ he said, apparently confirming that he knew the woman far better than Sara could have wished.
‘If that’s her name,’ she agreed, annoyed to hear the note of censure in her voice. ‘I believe you were discussing the problems you were having in keeping a nanny with her.’
‘Blast!’ Matt raised a hand and raked long fingers over his scalp. His action widened the gap between his shirt and his shorts and once again Sara’s eyes were drawn to his flat stomach. ‘What did Rosie say?’
‘What? Oh—’ Sara swallowed, finding it difficult to drag her gaze away from his taut body. Trying to concentrate on what she was saying, she mumbled, ‘I don’t remember exactly what she said now.’
‘No?’ Matt didn’t sound convinced, and, as if becoming aware of her distraction, he uttered a rough oath. Turning away from her, he added in a strangled voice, ‘Dammit, Sara, will you stop looking at me that way? It’s difficult enough keeping my hands off you as it is.’
Sara sucked in her breath. She’d never expected that. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said huskily. She turned towards the door. ‘Would you like me to go?’
Matt gave an incredulous snort. ‘No, I wouldn’t like you to go,’ he retorted harshly. ‘I think you know what I’d really like you to do, so don’t let’s pretend we’re fooling anybody here. You’re married, and for some crazy reason you insist on going back to your husband. I can’t say I’m happy about it, but my feelings don’t count for much, do they?’
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