Passionate Protectors?: Hot Pursuit / The Bedroom Barter / A Passionate Protector

Pushing the bathroom door to with her uninjured hip, she called weakly, ‘What do you want?’

‘Can I come in?’

Sara breathed a little more easily. She’d thought at first that he was in. ‘Why?’ she asked, suddenly remembering what he’d said about Mrs Webb. ‘I don’t need any assistance.’

‘I’m not offering any,’ he replied, his voice louder now. ‘I’ve brought you a gift.’

A gift!

Sara blinked. What kind of gift could he have brought her? Some more of his old clothes? Or perhaps he wanted to show her the newspaper where he’d read about her? That seemed infinitely more likely.

‘I—just leave it on the bed,’ she called, deciding there was no point in expecting him to go away without achieving his objective. ‘I’ll be out in a minute.’

There was silence for a moment, and then she heard Matt’s voice just outside the bathroom door. ‘What are you doing?’ he exclaimed. ‘Is your hip all right?’

Sara trembled. ‘It’s fine,’ she insisted. ‘What do people usually do in the bathroom?’ She closed the door of the cabinet, just in case he came to investigate, but that was a mistake. She had evidently dislodged the items inside and a tube of hair gel came clattering down into the basin in front of her.

‘What the—?’ Without more ado, the bathroom door was forced open, and Matt stood on the threshold staring at her with bleak horrified eyes. ‘For God’s sake,’ he exclaimed, staring at her injury. ‘Did I do that?’

‘As if.’ Sara managed the contemptuous rejoinder with amazing composure. But then, realising that her lacy briefs left very little to his imagination, she allowed her skirt to fall and sagged against the basin. ‘I had a fall before I came away.’

Matt gave a disbelieving snort. ‘You do a lot of falling in your house, don’t you?’

‘What do you mean?’ Sara stared at him with confused eyes.

‘Your husband,’ he stated flatly, his eyes still fixed on the spot her skirt had now hidden from his gaze. ‘He fell, too. What a coincidence!’

Sara’s shoulders slumped. ‘You don’t know anything about it.’

‘No.’ Matt agreed. ‘But I’m willing to listen if you want to tell me. I’m not jumping to conclusions here, but a simple fall wouldn’t have caused that mess.’

‘It did.’ Sara was desperate. ‘It was an accident. I didn’t mean it to happen. And that’s the truth.’

Matt’s brows drew together. ‘Hey, I’m not accusing you of anything,’ he protested. His eyes darkened. ‘I’d guess it had something to do with your running away, right?’

‘If you say so.’ Sara spoke wearily. ‘So what now? Are you going to turn me in?’

Matt eyes sought hers. ‘Turn you in?’ he echoed blankly. ‘You talk as if you’re a criminal. The last I heard, running away isn’t a capital offence.’

‘Running away?’ She repeated his words barely audibly. ‘But you said you knew about—about Max having a fall.’

‘So?’

‘So—so what did it say about how they found him? Did it tell you the way he—he died?’

‘He’s not dead!’ Matt spoke harshly now. He stared at her. ‘Why would you think he was?’ He shook his head. ‘He apparently had the presence of mind to call the emergency services before he passed out. He spent the night in hospital and discharged himself yesterday morning. That’s when you were reported missing. According to the article I read, your husband’s afraid you might have been kidnapped.’

Chapter Seven

MATT wouldn’t have believed Sara could get any paler, but she did. Every scrap of colour drained out of her face, leaving her unnaturally pallid. The circles around her eyes stood out in sharp relief and her mouth worked in silent consternation.

‘You’re—you’re lying,’ she got out at last, and he wondered why, if she’d believed her husband was dead, the news that he wasn’t should have such a shattering effect.

‘Why would I lie?’ he reasoned, becoming anxious in spite of himself. ‘Sara—’

‘Max calls me Victoria,’ she said dully. ‘You must know that.’ Then she slid to the floor in a dead faint.

It was the second time he’d had to pick her unconscious body off the floor. Not that she weighed much. She felt wholly insubstantial in his arms. How long was it since she’d eaten a decent meal? he wondered. In the last twenty-four hours she’d only picked at her food, and he suspected her weakness was due in part to hunger.

So, why? Why had she been starving herself? Why had she run away? And how had she sustained such an ugly bruise on her hip? As Matt carried her into the bedroom and laid her on the bed his mind buzzed with a jumble of questions. The most obvious explanation was fear. But what was she afraid of?

He straightened and stood looking down at her. He wished he could believe she was a spoiled wife who had grown bored with her pampered existence and decided to give her husband a wake-up call. Could she really have been that self-indulgent? Somehow he didn’t buy it.

Her eyelids were fluttering and, realising that in a short time she was going to be wide awake and denying everything he was thinking, Matt came to an abrupt decision. Hoping she wouldn’t object too much, he took the hem of her skirt and drew it up to her waist.

He was shocked again by the sight of the ugly lesions on her hip, but he knew he didn’t have time to examine them more closely right now. Instead, he slipped his arm beneath her and eased her dress out of the way.

She began to protest now as consciousness returned, trying to push his hands away without any success. Matt wasn’t listening to her. Horror had replaced his concern and he sank down onto the bed beside her in speechless disbelief.

There was barely an inch of her torso that didn’t bear the scars of injuries old and new. Some bruises were obviously more recent than others, the colours ranging from stark black and blue to a jaundiced yellow or brown. She’d been beaten, and beaten badly, and Matt wanted to take the man who’d done this to her and wring his cowardly neck.

His hands trembled as he eased the dress away. Sara seemed to realise there was no point in trying to stop him. It was too late; too late for both of them. Matt closed his eyes for a moment against the murderous rage that was demanding revenge.

‘Your husband did this to you?’ he asked at last, when he had himself in control again, and she shrugged.

‘Does it matter?’ She sighed. His hands lingered at her waist. ‘I think you’d better let me get up.’

‘And I think you ought to have that hip treated,’ said Matt flatly. ‘From what I’ve seen, it needs medical attention.’

Her response was urgent. ‘I don’t need a doctor,’ she exclaimed fiercely, and he didn’t think this was the time to tell her that that was what he had been before he’d become a writer.

He expelled an unsteady breath, hoping she wouldn’t mistake his concern for something less commendable. ‘I’ve got some first aid stuff in my bathroom. I suggest you let me deal with your hip if you don’t want me to involve anyone else.’

‘I can do it,’ she protested, but once again he prevented her from getting off the bed.

‘I’m sure you can. I’m sure that’s what you’re used to,’ he muttered harshly. ‘But in this instance I’d prefer it if you’d let me make sure there’s no infection.’

Sara made a weary sound. ‘There is no infection,’ she insisted. ‘It’s just bleeding a bit, that’s all.’

‘So I see,’ he said grimly, unable to hide his reaction. And she suddenly seemed to realise that the lower half of her body was still exposed to his gaze.

‘Mr Seton—’

‘Don’t call me that.’ He was impatient. ‘It’s too late for us to behave as if we’re just casual acquaintances. We’re not. I know it and you know it. Whether you like it not, I feel responsible for you.’

‘Don’t patronise me!’

‘I won’t if you’ll do as you’re told.’