effort to remember what she had been doing when she’d discovered him here.
She saw the white towel lying on the deep blue carpet and remembered she had been using it to dry the excess water off her wet hair. Knowing that bending to pick it up again was completely beyond her physical abilities at the moment,she ignored the towel and went over to the dressing table where, earlier, she had spied a hairbrush.
He was standing with his back to her, in front of a polished wood tallboy inside which, Althea had shown her, were housed a television set and a very expensive-looking music system.
The room with everything, she thought sarcastically, and grimaced as she picked up the hairbrush and began drawing it through her damp hair.
‘What are you here for anyway?’ she asked, needing to break through the silence. ‘I presume you did have a reason to come in here?’
He turned, stiff, tense, and supremely remote—like a man sitting alone on the top of a mountain, she thought, and felt a return of her earlier sense of humour at the absurd image.
No apology forthcoming this time, she noted, and the smile actually reached her eyes.
He saw it, didn’t like it and frowned, something interestingly like the pompous male equivalent to a blush streaking a hint of colour across his dark cheekbones. Fascinated by that, Claire turned more fully to face him so she could see how he was going to deal with this momentary loss of his precious composure.
Recognising exactly what she was doing and why, he released a heavy sigh. ‘How are the ribs?’
Ah, a diversion, she noted. ‘Sore,’ she replied, telling the blunt truth of it.
‘And the wrist?’
‘Agony,’ she grimaced.
‘Then maybe I did the right thing coming in here to bring you—these …’ He was holding up a small bottle of what had to be tablets. ‘Pain-killers,’ he explained. ‘Issued by the hospital. I forgot I had them.’
Half turning, he placed the bottle on the top of the tallboy. Then he turned back to Claire. ‘Where is your sling?’
Glancing down to where her plastered wrist was hangingheavily at her side, ‘I must have left it in the bathroom,’ she replied, putting down the hairbrush so she could use her hand to lift the cast into a more comfortable position resting against her middle.
Without another word he strode off, his composure intact now, and his arrogance along with it, she observed as she watched him disappear into the bathroom then come out again carrying the modern version of a sling in his hand.
About to approach her, he paused, thought twice about it, then—sardonically—requested, ‘May I?’
Her wry half nod gave her permission and he came forward. By then she had moved to ease herself into a sitting position on the edge of the dressing table, so he really towered over her this time as he coolly looped the sling-belt over her head then gently took hold of her plastered wrist.
‘You didn’t even get it wet,’ he remarked.
‘I’m a very clever girl,’ she answered lightly.
‘And sometimes,’ he drawled, ‘you are very reckless and naïve.’
‘How you can make such a sweeping remark about me when you’ve barely known me for a day is beyond me,’ she threw right back. Then she broke the banter to issue a wince and a groan as he gently eased the weighty plaster-cast into its support.
Instantly his eyes flicked upwards to her face, wondrously lustrous curling black lashes coiling away from those dangerous black holes to reveal—not anger, but genuine concern.
‘How much pain are you actually in?’ he demanded huskily.
A lot, she wanted to say, but tempered the reply to a rueful, ‘Some,’ that was supposed to have sounded careless but ended up quivering as it left her.
The anger came back then. ‘How much and where?’ He grimly insisted on a truthful answer.
‘All over,’ she confessed as all hint of flippancy drainedright out of her and her throat began to thicken with pathetic, weak tears.
On a
She saw the white towel lying on the deep blue carpet and remembered she had been using it to dry the excess water off her wet hair. Knowing that bending to pick it up again was completely beyond her physical abilities at the moment,she ignored the towel and went over to the dressing table where, earlier, she had spied a hairbrush.
He was standing with his back to her, in front of a polished wood tallboy inside which, Althea had shown her, were housed a television set and a very expensive-looking music system.
The room with everything, she thought sarcastically, and grimaced as she picked up the hairbrush and began drawing it through her damp hair.
‘What are you here for anyway?’ she asked, needing to break through the silence. ‘I presume you did have a reason to come in here?’
He turned, stiff, tense, and supremely remote—like a man sitting alone on the top of a mountain, she thought, and felt a return of her earlier sense of humour at the absurd image.
No apology forthcoming this time, she noted, and the smile actually reached her eyes.
He saw it, didn’t like it and frowned, something interestingly like the pompous male equivalent to a blush streaking a hint of colour across his dark cheekbones. Fascinated by that, Claire turned more fully to face him so she could see how he was going to deal with this momentary loss of his precious composure.
Recognising exactly what she was doing and why, he released a heavy sigh. ‘How are the ribs?’
Ah, a diversion, she noted. ‘Sore,’ she replied, telling the blunt truth of it.
‘And the wrist?’
‘Agony,’ she grimaced.
‘Then maybe I did the right thing coming in here to bring you—these …’ He was holding up a small bottle of what had to be tablets. ‘Pain-killers,’ he explained. ‘Issued by the hospital. I forgot I had them.’
Half turning, he placed the bottle on the top of the tallboy. Then he turned back to Claire. ‘Where is your sling?’
Glancing down to where her plastered wrist was hangingheavily at her side, ‘I must have left it in the bathroom,’ she replied, putting down the hairbrush so she could use her hand to lift the cast into a more comfortable position resting against her middle.
Without another word he strode off, his composure intact now, and his arrogance along with it, she observed as she watched him disappear into the bathroom then come out again carrying the modern version of a sling in his hand.
About to approach her, he paused, thought twice about it, then—sardonically—requested, ‘May I?’
Her wry half nod gave her permission and he came forward. By then she had moved to ease herself into a sitting position on the edge of the dressing table, so he really towered over her this time as he coolly looped the sling-belt over her head then gently took hold of her plastered wrist.
‘You didn’t even get it wet,’ he remarked.
‘I’m a very clever girl,’ she answered lightly.
‘And sometimes,’ he drawled, ‘you are very reckless and naïve.’
‘How you can make such a sweeping remark about me when you’ve barely known me for a day is beyond me,’ she threw right back. Then she broke the banter to issue a wince and a groan as he gently eased the weighty plaster-cast into its support.
Instantly his eyes flicked upwards to her face, wondrously lustrous curling black lashes coiling away from those dangerous black holes to reveal—not anger, but genuine concern.
‘How much pain are you actually in?’ he demanded huskily.
A lot, she wanted to say, but tempered the reply to a rueful, ‘Some,’ that was supposed to have sounded careless but ended up quivering as it left her.
The anger came back then. ‘How much and where?’ He grimly insisted on a truthful answer.
‘All over,’ she confessed as all hint of flippancy drainedright out of her and her throat began to thicken with pathetic, weak tears.
On a
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