Passionate Protectors?. Maggie Cox
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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 let me up now?’ she asked, her voice as cold as her words. ‘Or are you going to demand payment for your services? Max said all men were the same in that respect.’
Matt’s face flamed. Jerking back, he moved to the foot of the bed, wondering how he could have fooled himself into believing that she might want anything from him. She’d merely tolerated his lovemaking, borne his maudlin sympathies. For God’s sake, she was married to someone else. What did he expect?
But then, as if she’d instantly regretted the harshness of her words, Sara gave a despairing little moan. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, pulling down her skirt and scrambling across the bed towards him. She swung her feet to the floor beside him. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean it.’
‘Didn’t you?’ Matt wasn’t prepared to put his feelings on the line again. He was already deploring the impulse that had got him into this situation. Having her forgive him for being such an idiot was no compensation at all. Getting up from the bed, he thrust his hands into the hip pockets of his jeans, swayed back on his heels with what he hoped looked like cool indifference. ‘Well, that’s good. I’d hate you to think I’d planned to seduce you as well.’
‘I don’t.’ She stood up, too, and although she was considerably smaller than he was without her high heels she was still too close for comfort. ‘Matt, I—I know you meant well, but—’
‘Spare me the lecture,’ he said, his own voice harsh in his ears. ‘I’ve obviously embarrassed you—embarrassed us both—and I apologise.’ He stepped back a pace, to put some space between them. ‘I’ll leave you now. You can let me know what you intend to do when—’
‘No!’ She caught his arm then, her cool fingers slipping almost possessively about his wrist. ‘Please, Matt. Don’t go away mad at me.’
Matt expelled a heavy breath, trying not to consider what she wanted now. ‘I’m not mad at you,’ he said, after a few moments of self-denial. Forcing himself to concentrate on the reason why he’d come to her room in the first place, he nodded towards the loveseat. ‘I bought you a couple of things in Ellsmoor. You may want to change before you leave.’
Sara’s lips parted. She didn’t even look at the jeans and tee shirt he’d found in the mini-market. ‘You want me to leave?’ she asked anxiously, her hands tightening on his arm, and he stared at her with guarded eyes.
‘I understood that was what you wanted,’ he said, stifling the sudden urge he had to beg her to stay.
Sara swallowed. ‘It’s what I ought to do,’ she admitted. ‘My staying here—well, it could put you in an awkward position.’
‘Do I look like I’m worried?’ Matt’s lips twisted. ‘It’s your decision. I’m not sending you away.’
Sara gazed up at him. ‘So—I can still stay until tomorrow?’
‘You can stay as long as you like,’ retorted Matt roughly, taking the hand resting on his arm and raising it to his lips. His mouth grazed her knuckles before seeking the network of veins at her wrist. ‘I may not approve of what you’re doing, but you’re safe here. I can promise you that.’
‘Oh, Matt.’ She brought her free hand up to his face, cupping his jaw with unsteady fingers. ‘I don’t know how I’m ever going to be able to thank you.’
‘No thanks are necessary,’ Matt told her flatly. But when he would have turned away she reached up, and pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth.
‘I’d like to stay,’ she whispered at last, drawing back. ‘For a few days at least, if you’ll let me.’ She moistened her lips. ‘But I’m going to have to let—let Max know that I’m all right.’
‘As opposed to being at his mercy?’ suggested Matt, with some bitterness, but it was a reprieve and he was grateful for it. ‘Why don’t you leave that to me? You write a note and I’ll get it to him without running the risk of his finding out where you are.’
Her eyes widened. ‘You can do that?’ She trembled. ‘But how?’
‘You don’t want to know,’ replied Matt, removing her hand from his face before temptation got the better of him. Then, at the anxious look she was wearing, ‘Don’t worry. I won’t cause any trouble. Not until I know what kind of hold he has over you, at least.’
He walked to the door, eager now to withdraw and consider his options. ‘Check out the gear. I’m going to speak to Mrs Webb. And don’t fret that she’s not trustworthy. She is. If it hadn’t been for her this place would never have become the sanctuary it is.’
Sara looked painfully vulnerable as she stood watching him leave the room. But he wondered if he wasn’t being the world’s most gullible fool for taking her in. Or for being taken in by her? he mused, wanting to restore his sense of balance. He might be judging her husband without cause. But he didn’t think he was. It might be foolish, but he trusted her.
But how the hell was he supposed to write fiction in his present frame of mind?
Chapter Eight
SARA spent the rest of the morning in her room, trying to come to terms with what Matt had told her.
Max wasn’t dead, she repeated incredulously. He was alive. The fears she’d had on his behalf had been groundless. He’d been taken to hospital, sure, but he’d been well enough to discharge himself the following morning. And since then he’d been trying to cover himself by pretending that she had disappeared, that she might have been kidnapped.
She trembled. After Matt had left her, she’d taken up a position on the window seat, gazing out at the sun-drenched cliffs and the water beyond with a feeling of disbelief. She still found it hard to accept that she was here, hundreds of miles from London; that she’d escaped. However grateful she was that Max had survived, the manner of her departure remained a constant source of amazement. How had he let her get away?
Of course, he had been unconscious at the time. He must have hit his head when he fell and for a few minutes he’d been dead to the world. Dead to her, too, she thought bitterly. She should have known it would take more than a simple fall to kill a man like Max Bradbury.
Not that she wanted him dead, she assured herself. That was too high a price to pay, even for her freedom. But if only he had been a reasonable man, a man she could appeal to. When it had become obvious that their marriage was not what he had expected, that she was not what he had expected, why couldn’t he have let her go? It was what any other man would have done; any normal man, that was. But it hadn’t taken her long to find out that Max was anything but normal.
She supposed they must have been married for about six months when he’d struck her for the first time.
She’d already learned not to contradict him, particularly if he’d been drinking. He had said some incredibly cruel things to her, things he’d said he regretted bitterly when he was sober again, and she’d believed him. The crude words he’d used, deriding her for the smallest thing, belittling her intelligence, accusing her of being something she was not, had seemed so uncharacteristic of the man she’d believed she’d married. She’d been sure that it was the alcohol that was responsible for his ungovernable rage, and for a while he’d been able to hide his real nature from her.
But then everything