Passion: In Wilde Country: Book Two

by Sandra Marton

  “Mmm,” she said.

  He smiled. “Is that a sign of approval?”

  “Absolutely.” She paused. “This has to stop.”

  His gaze met hers, then slid away.

  “It’ll probably never happen again,” he said, deliberately misunderstanding what she’d said. He met her eyes, then quickly busied himself unfolding the cloth to expose a cooler surface.

  “I’m not talking about fainting. I’m talking about not being aware of what’s going on.”

  “Ariel...”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “I know what that means. That ‘Ariel.’ The way you say it is infuriating.” She pushed the cold compress aside and began to sit up.

  “Not yet. Stay there for another minute.”

  “I’m fine!”

  “That’s what Luca said when we were twelve and we got some kind of shots. Flu, probably. We’d had shots before and nothing ever happened. That time, I got mine first. Then it was Luca’s turn ‘You’re awfully pale,’ the doctor said, after he’d jabbed him with the needle. ‘Why not sit still for a bit?’ And Luca made a face and said he was perfectly fine. So he stood up, keeled over and hit the floor. Gave himself one heck of a bloody nose.”

  “The same Luca who broke his arm going after a kite?”

  “Right. We thought he’d broken it. His nose, I mean. But it healed just fine.” He flashed a quick smile. “He’s still as handsome as I am. How many fingers am I holding up?”

  “Three. Either your Luca is terribly accident prone or you’re making up these stories.”

  “Would I do that? How many now?”

  “Two. And yes, you would do that. You would do anything to avoid answering my questions.”

  Caught, Matteo thought. Game, set, and match.

  “Ariel, listen—

  “No,” she said, batting his hand away, “you listen. You’ve been wonderful. You got me out of that hospital, got me here, and I’m eternally grateful. But—”

  “I’ve done what needed doing,” he said. “And I sure as hell don’t want your gratitude.”

  The words had come out more sharply than he’d intended, but it was true. He had no wish whatsoever for her gratitude.

  He grabbed the compress, stood, walked into the bathroom and slammed the door shut. Easy, he told himself. Just take it easy. He was tired, overwrought. He was letting the endless hours, the snow, Pastore’s ugly threats get to him.

  There was no other reason for him to be so edgy.

  None whatsoever.

  He dumped the cloth on the ledge above the sink and looked at himself in the mirror. Man, what a sight. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, and he needed a shave. A shower wouldn’t be a bad idea, either.

  He turned on the cold water and ducked his head under the icy stream. When he straightened up, his reflection looked back at him.

  Why had he jumped on her like that? All she’d done was try and thank him for what he’d done.

  “Shit,” he said softly.

  Yeah, but he didn’t want her thanks. He just wanted her to be safe.

  Who was he kidding? What he wanted was her.

  He stared at himself in the mirror. Just what is it you think you’re doing, Bellini?

  The answer was simple.

  He had no fucking idea what he was doing.

  He’d gotten into something way over his head.

  He’d been told the woman in the next room was the next best thing to certifiably crazy. That she took drugs. That she had delusions. Now, he’d have staked his life on the fact that all of those things were lies.

  What was true was that she’d traveled hundreds of miles from home in the most low-profile way imaginable. And as soon as she’d arrived at her destination, a car had come close to running her down.

  Matteo stared into the mirror again.

  Aren’t you leaving something out?

  Yes. He was. All she’d had in her possession was his card and an envelope of cash.

  What else? Come on, dude. You’re a hotshot attorney. You’re a logical guy. What’s the most important piece of information in all of this?

  His jaw tightened.

  She was married. To a dangerous man who’d made it clear he wanted to get rid of her and him, too.

  There you go, Bellini. Add it all up, and what do you have?

  What was that expression? A no-brainer. That’s what this was. Put all the dots together, and you had a case to take to the cops.

  That was the advice any lawyer would give would give. It was the advice he would give…

  But it was bad advice.

  Go to the police. Lay it all out in front of them. Pastore’s claims that Ariel was mentally ill. That she was a drug addict. His threat to kill them both.

  He had no proof of anything. Just the opposite. Stafford would have to admit he’d found drugs in her blood. Ariel wouldn’t be able to answer any questions that went further back in time than, what, thirty-six hours. He’d have to say yes, he’d lied about being her lawyer.

  And he’d top it off by telling the cops that the big convincer was—wait for it—that Ariel was everything a man could want and nothing Tony Pastore should have.

  Matteo stared at his grim-faced reflection.

  Yes, he was in over his head, but that was how it had to be. There was only one way to keep her safe, and he was it, and if all she felt for him was gratitude, maybe that was for the best.

  What he had to do now was stop thinking with his hormones and start thinking with his head.

  Dumping his phone and the GPS had been instinctual. Not using his credit card at the gas station a little while ago to pay for food and gas and the cabin had been instinctual, too, but he was almost out of cash, out of ideas…

  “Matteo.”

  He swung around.

  Ariel stood in the bathroom doorway.

  His heart turned over at what he saw, the bruises on her face, the blackened eyes, the delicate tracery of stitches, all of it a vicious reminder of what could have happened to her, of what somebody had tried to do to her because, goddammit, he was as sure that somebody had tried to kill her as he was of knowing what he ached to do, to gather her into his arms, kiss each bruise, each mark, and promise her he would protect her from Tony, from the world, from whatever tried to harm her.

  You’re losing it, the voice inside him muttered, and he turned away, grabbed a towel from the rack and rubbed it over his hair and face.

  “You shouldn’t be walking around,” he said, so calmly that he amazed himself.

  “And you can’t hide in here all night.”

  He glanced at her in the mirror. She looked as if the touch of a feather could knock her over, but her voice was firm, her words composed.

  Matteo folded the towel, hung it and turned toward her, arms folded over his chest.

  “I’m not hiding.”

  “I’m sorry for the way I acted.”

  “You don’t owe me an apology.”

  “You just don’t understand.”

  “I do. I understand. But, see, you aren’t strong enough to—”

  She came at him in a rush. So much for composure, he thought, as she plowed her fist into the center of his chest.

  “Hey,” he said, grabbing her hand, but it was like trying to hang onto a whirlwind.

  “Do you have any idea, any idea what it’s like to be me? To wake up in a room full of bright lights and someone slicing off your clothes while someone else jabs a needle into you?”

  “Calm down.”

  “Calm down? Calm down? You try calming down when a bunch of people wearing masks crowd around you, poking, prodding, asking questions in loud voices as if maybe, on top of everything else, you’re an—an alien and you can’t speak their language!”

  “Okay. I get it. I know this must be rough—”

  “You’re in a hospital, somebody says. There’s been an accident, somebody else says, and then…” Her voice broke. Angrily, she jerked her hand from Matt
eo’s and swiped it across her eyes. “And then a nurse s asks the million dollar question. What’s your name? she says, and you open your mouth but nothing comes out and you realize that you don’t know your name, you don’t know a damned thing except that you’re not anybody, not anybody, because you don’t know anything about yourself, your mind is like—it’s like a page with nothing written on it…”

  A cry of anguish broke from her throat.

  Matteo pulled her into his arms, gathered her against him even as she fought him until, at last, she buried her face against his chest, and wept.

  She wept for a long, long time, him holding her, whispering to her, stroking her, telling her everything would be fine even though it was a lie because how could he make such a promise when he felt like a blind man standing before a jigsaw puzzle the size of the universe?

  Gradually, her sobs faded, became deep, sad sighs.

  Matteo, still holding her, reached for a small box of tissues on top of the commode and pulled some out.

  “Look up,” he said softly.

  She raised her tear-stained face to his. Gently, he blotted her eyes. She took the wadded tissues from his hand and blew her nose.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Carefully, he smoothed her hair back from her face. “Okay now?”

  She nodded. “Yes. And I’m sorry for coming apart just now. It was silly.”

  “It wasn’t silly, and you never have to apologize to me for anything.”

  She smiled.

  “You’re a very nice man, Matteo Bellini.”

  He laughed. “There are those who’d disagree with that assessment.”

  “I’m serious. You’ve been so kind, so understanding…”

  He cupped her face with his hands, smoothed his thumbs lightly over her cheekbones.

  “I’m here for you, honey.” His eyes searched hers. “I know damn well I can’t even begin to comprehend what you’re going through. You need to cry, cry. You need to shout, shout.” He smiled. “Just go easy on those punches, okay? You’ve got a mean right.”

  He’d wanted to make her smile and she did. It made him feel good. Not only did she have a beautiful smile, he suspected she hadn’t done much smiling in a long time.

  If only she could remember. If only she could tell him about Pastore, about what he’d done to her…

  About why she’d married him.

  It was impossible to see her falling for a man like that.

  “What are you thinking?”

  Nothing he could share with her.

  “I’m thinking that it’s been one long day. I don’t know about you, but I need some sleep.”

  Her answer was a huge yawn.

  “So do I.” She paused. “But it doesn’t mean I’m giving up on wanting answers. It only means I’m willing to admit I’m probably too tired to think straight.”

  He nodded. “I understand.”

  “I hope so, because I’m bound to end up asking you questions again. Fearing something, running without knowing why … I can’t begin to explain what that’s like.”

  “Ariel. I swear, I’ll keep you safe.”

  “From what?” she said, with a little catch in her voice. “See? That’s the problem. I don’t know what I need to be kept safe from. And I don’t know why you’d do all this for me, if we’re just acquaintances.”

  The truth was, that last was a damned good question.

  Anyone would ask it. He knew that. Hell, hadn’t he asked it of himself?

  Yes, she was in trouble. Yes, she needed help. And yes, it had been his name in her pocket, but none of those things were truly enough to turn a logical man into one who was willing to lie, ignore the rules, ignore the law…

  “Okay,” he said, a little gruffly. “I guess we’re more than acquaintances now.”

  She smiled. “Progress,” she said, and yawned.

  She slumped against him. He could feel the beat of her heart, the warmth of her body. She felt wonderful, in his arms. He wanted to gather her closer, hold her this way all through the night.

  “Okay,” he said again, and cleared his throat. “Time to get some rest.”

  “I’m not going to argue with that. I think I could fall asleep standing up.”

  “Well,” he said, “we can’t have that. Dr. Stafford would never approve.”

  She smiled, and he scooped her into his arms and carried her into the other room, sat her in a big wing chair beside the bed. It squeaked as she settled into it, and she gave a soft laugh.

  “Musical chairs,” she said on a jaw-cracking yawn.

  He chuckled as he drew down the blanket. Blankets, he saw, with a nod of approval. By the time he’d fluffed the pillows and turned back to Ariel, her lashes were fluttering. He picked her up, laid her down in the bed, and drew the blankets over her.

  “Warm enough?”

  “Mmm.”

  She gave him a loopy smile. How could he not bend down and brush her lips lightly with his own? It had no actual meaning, that kiss. Hell, it was hardly a kiss, just a whisper of skin against skin.

  “Nice,” she whispered.

  The bed? The prospect of sleep? Or maybe his kiss.

  “Yes,” he said briskly. “Nice.”

  She yawned. Gave him another smile and, what the hell, he kissed her again. Her lips clung softly to his and it took all his determination to pull back.

  He eased into the chair. Dio. What was it made of? Bristles? Well, it would have to do. Maybe he could drape a bath towel over it.

  Thinking of bath towels made him think of the last time he’d showered. That morning, sure, but how many zillions of hours had gone by since then?

  Okay. He’d take a shower. A fast one, because even with the fire still going, it was getting cold in here. There was a heating unit on the back wall, but he suspected it had stopped putting out heat about the same time they’d finished eating.

  Shower time.

  Then he’d put on the jeans he’d bought, wrap himself in the afghan that was at the foot of the bed, and catch a few hours sleep on the sofa.

  He checked Ariel again. She was lying on her side, all curled up like a kitten.

  What if he took that shower, then lay down beside her? On top of the blankets, of course, not under them.

  No.

  Bad idea.

  Shower. Put on the jeans. Hit the sofa.

  That was the plan.

  Ten minutes later, he discovered that sleeping on the sofa was impossible. It was a minefield of busted springs.

  Time to use the chair instead.

  Hell. The chair squeaked like a live thing and, also like a live thing, it seemed intent on swallowing him whole.

  It was old. Worn out. So was he. Not old, but definitely worn out. So what? As Ariel had said, he could have slept standing up.

  Yeah.

  He just couldn’t sleep in this chair.

  He shifted his weight. Squee. Slumped down. Squee. Sat straight. Squee. Stretched out his long legs, gave that up, crossed his feet at the ankles…

  “Matt’o?”

  Dammit! All that moving around, the chair squeaking… He’d woken her.

  “It’s okay, honey. Go back to sleep.”

  “You…ca… …slee…that way.”

  “Sure I can. I’m half-gone already.”

  “…can…share.”

  Share what? The bed? Matteo swallowed hard.

  “Ariel,” he said, “I’m fine here.”

  “Don’ wan’…be alone.”

  “You’re not alone. I’m right here.”

  “Please,” she whispered. “Sleep with me.”

  Everything around him seemed to go very still. Talk about bad ideas…

  “Matteo. Sleep with me.”

  He rose from the chair. Got on the bed. On the very edge of the bed. Lay on his back outside the blankets, his arms straight at his sides, and fixed his eyes on the ceiling and the soft glow of the flames reflected against its dark surface.


  It was as cold as Alaska. Why hadn’t he brought the afghan with him?

  She sighed his name. Lifted up the corner of the blankets.

  “’S’okay,” she said drowsily, as if she’d read his mind. “More’n acquaintances now, remember?”

  She was teasing him; he could hear the smile in her voice. Well, hell, he thought, why not? Any second, his teeth would start to chatter. And he had to get some sleep. Tomorrow, and all the decisions that went with it, would be on them soon enough.

  Sharing the bed would be completely innocent, no different than sharing their meal.

  She was married. She was hurting. She was trapped in a nightmare, and his job was to protect her. Besides, she was already asleep. The sound of her breathing had become slow and steady.

  He’d be asleep, too, once he was warm, probably in less than two minutes. And he’d stay where he was, far away from her on his own side of the bed.

  He breathed in, breathed out, got under the blankets and shut his eyes.

  He’d been wrong about falling asleep within minutes. It happened within seconds. He’d been wrong about the rest of it, too, because when he came awake hours later, in the darkest part of the night, Ariel was nestled in his arms.

  CHAPTER TEN

  At first, he was disoriented.

  He was in complete darkness, lying in a bed that wasn’t his own. The mattress was too short, too narrow, and as lumpy as a bowl of oatmeal.

  The sounds around him were wrong, too.

  At home, he had a water wall in the sitting room that adjoined his bedroom. He’d grown so accustomed to the soothing whisper of the water as it fell down the slate and copper wall that he hardly heard it.

  Now, what he heard was its absence.

  Instead, he heard other things. Wind, moaning through trees. The desolate cry of an owl.

  The soft whisper of a woman’s breath.

  And it all came rushing back.

  He was in a cabin somewhere in the Adirondacks, on the run with a woman he’d never seen until a few days ago. The fire had gone out, which explained the lack of so much as a glimmer of light.

  What nothing could explain was how come Ariel Pastore was in his arms.

  He was still lying on his back, but nothing else was as it had been when he’d joined her in the bed.

  There was zero space between them.

  Instead, he was holding her in the curve of his arm. She was on her side, her body flush against his. Her head was on his shoulder, her leg lay high over his hip.