Prisoner Of The Heart. Liz Fielding

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      He didn’t even bother to comment on the absurdity of that remark, but continued as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘That I brought you to my home, bathed your wounds-’

      ‘And a great deal else.’ She flushed as his mouth curved in a provoking little smile. Stupid. Stupid to have mentioned that. Why couldn’t she have forgotten that?

      ‘I bathed your wounds,’ he repeated, ‘before I put you into my own bed and sent for a doctor, who advised several days of rest.’ He paused. ‘It doesn’t sound much like kidnapping to me. But—’ and he shrugged ‘–if you think the police will be interested I’ll get them right now.’ He waited for her response—imperious, tyrannical, scornful and infuriatingly right.

      She didn’t need to have it spelled out for her in words of one syllable. He would make himself sound like a hero with her playing the role of an ungrateful idiot. If he threw in the fact that she had been trespassing–she didn’t think he would worry too much about the finer details of truth–he would probably be beatified. Given his own feast-day. With fireworks. Damn! ‘Forget the police,’ she muttered. ‘But I don’t want to rest. I just want to leave.’

      ‘If you think that having you as a house-guest is an undiluted pleasure, Miss Nash, I have to tell you that you’re mistaken. I value my privacy and you’ll go the minute it’s possible. We’ll discuss terms after breakfast.’ He turned abruptly to leave. ‘I recommend a lightly boiled egg.’

      ‘A boiled egg? I thought bread and water was the traditional prisoner’s fare,’ she threw after him.

      His eyes darkened. Sea-green? Maybe. But what sea? The Arctic Ocean in mid-winter, perhaps? ‘If that’s what you want...’ He snapped the door shut behind him.

      ‘Wait!’ But she was already talking to herself. Then in a sudden quiver of panic she ran across the room, and ignoring her painful hands almost tore at the door. But it wasn’t locked. For a moment she stood there, in the-open doorway, wondering whether to make a run for it down the thickly carpeted stairway. She glanced down at herself. He wasn’t that careless. He didn’t need a lock to keep her confined. How far would she get in a sheet, without any shoes? Without any money. She retreated into the bedroom and closed the door.

      Think, Sophie, she urged herself. You need a plan. Forget the plan, she answered herself a little caustically. What you need first are some clothes. Her glance fell on the chest of drawers and, for the first time since she woke, her mouth curved in the semblance of a smile.

      She gripped the brass handle of one of the drawers and pulled, biting back a cry as pain shot through her shoulder where Chay Buchanan had hauled her over the edge of the cliff. She gave up all attempts to cling on to the sheet as she eased it, recalling with a tiny spurt of anger the huge bruise that decorated her back. Monster! He hadn’t needed to drag her up like that. She could have managed. Oh, really? Yes, really, she told the irritating little voice inside her head. Of course she could. But the recollection of that sickening lurch as she had missed her foothold and started to slip made her flesh rise in goose-bumps, and she shivered despite the warmth stealing in through the window as the early morning mist was burned off the sea. She had to get out of here.

      She regarded the chest with loathing, but to escape she needed something to wear. This time she grasped both handles and the drawer slid open to reveal piles of beautifully ironed shirts. And this time she really smiled, with an almost irresistible curve of her lips.

      She helped herself to a pale blue cotton shirt, easing her painful shoulder up to slide into the sleeve. The shirt was too big, hanging almost to her knees, but that was good. At a pinch, with a belt, she could wear it as a dress. She tried to fasten the buttons, but her fingers were stiff and painful, slowing her down, and she gave up after a couple.

      She rifled through the remainder of the drawers, ignoring the ties but helping herself to a pair of thick white socks that would cushion her feet against stone. Pants? She regarded Chay Buchanan’s taste for plain white American boxer shorts with dismay. They would never stay up. What she really needed was a pair of jeans and a belt. Her fingers grasped the handles of the bottom drawer as she heard his voice speaking to someone on the stairs.

      She flew across the room to the bed, and as the door opened she was demure beneath the sheet. He backed in with a tray and there was just the slightest hesitation, as he regarded the shirt that now covered her anatomy, before he placed it on the table beside the bed.

      ‘Feeling a little better?’ he asked.

      ‘Well enough to leave,’ she replied brightly, ignoring heavy, painful limbs and the overwhelming sense of weariness that her exertions had produced.

      ‘I think that is a decision for the doctor to make.’

      ‘Doctor?’

      ‘He’ll call in to see you later.’ He regarded her thoughtfully as hope betrayed itself in her eyes. ‘He’s a friend, Sophie, so don’t bother to bat those long eyelashes at him. He won’t be impressed.’

      ‘I’ve never batted an eyelash in my life!’

      ‘No?’ He sat on the edge of the bed and regarded her impassively. ‘I must have mistaken the signals. I had the distinct impression that you were batting like mad yesterday morning when you asked me to sit for you.’

      ‘That’s not true!’ she protested. She just hadn’t been prepared for the instant response of her body to the perilous masculinity of the man, the unexpected pull of dangerous undercurrents tugging her towards something new and exciting and wonderful. She swallowed. He had seen it. Was that why his rejection had hurt so much? Because he had quite wrongly assumed that she was offering herself as a reward for his co-operation and had still said no?

      He sat beside her on the bed and handed her a cup of tea, holding her clumsy fingers around it with his own. And it was still there. The urgent fire surging through her veins as he touched her. She felt the sudden start of tears to her eyes. It wasn’t fair.

      ‘Come on, Sophie, drink this,’ he said. ‘It’ll make you feel better.’

      ‘I doubt it,’ she sniffed. It wasn’t a cup of tea she needed. Her face, her whole body grew hot as she privately acknowledged that what she needed was Chay Buchanan. To be held in his arms, to... Oh, lord! She had always imagined herself feeling this kind of bewildering desire for a man she had fallen deeply, wonderfully in love with.

      She buried her face in the cup. She hardly knew this man. And what she knew of him she didn’t like. It was lust, far from pure, and shockingly simple. What she should be doing was standing under a cold shower, not lying in his bed with his warm thigh pressed against hers, separated only by the single thickness of a sheet, his hands wrapped close around hers. Why couldn’t the wretched man wear a pair of trousers instead of those tailored shorts that blatantly offered his well-muscled thighs and beautifully shaped calves to her hungry eyes?

      She gulped down the tea and he took the cup from her. ‘Can you eat something?’

      ‘Bread?’ she asked, making an effort to keep the exchange hostile, but suddenly too weak to care much.

      ‘The bread, and water will keep,’ he replied a little sharply. ‘Try some toast.’ She shook her head. Then wished she hadn’t. ‘All right. Just take these and lie down.’

      She stared suspiciously at the white tablets. ‘What СКАЧАТЬ