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‘I’m hot,’ he said helpfully, and she moved her hand to lay it across his flushed forehead. That, too, felt uncomfortably warm. She frowned as he sighed and turned his face to rub it against her soft palm. ‘Mmm…That feels so good…’
She flushed and hastily circled around behind him to collar his drenched jacket and ease it down his uncooperative arms. She carried it into the bathroom and dropped it into the expansive marble spa-bath. While she was there she turned on the pulsating shower in the transparent glass cabinet, hoping that the inviting sound would lure him in, but when she returned to the bedroom, carrying a towel with which to mop the water from the floor, he was still standing in exactly the same place, his bedraggled shirt hanging twisted and loose, his expression darkly frustrated.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked, averting her eyes from the drops of water sliding down his chest and pearling on his peaked brown nipples. She excused her momentary fascination as professional interest—his firm upper body suggested that he must work out, since he wouldn’t retain that kind of muscle definition just sitting around in boardrooms.
‘It won’t come off,’ he complained, plucking at the wet fabric on his shoulder.
‘That’s because you haven’t undone your tie or cufflinks,’ she said in exasperation.
Silk-shaded table lamps beside the rattan couch and the shiny brass bedhead had sprung to soft life when Rachel had keyed in the alarm code in the electronic panel by the door. Now, trying to read the expression in his eyes, she was sorry that she hadn’t bothered to also flick on the overhead lights. Without the protection of his glasses his eyes seemed larger, their pale lids heavier, but in the muted shadows of the room it was impossible to guess what he was thinking as he stared at her with that strange, unblinking concentration.
‘Matthew?’
‘Matt. My friends call me Matt.’
‘We’re not friends, remember? We’re practically strangers.’
‘Rachel…’
At least he knew who she was, she thought humorously, and he didn’t sound as if he bore a grudge…
Tossing the towel on the cream bedspread, she dealt briskly with the gold links in his sleeves and reached up to unsnap the studs which fastened the black tie. As she pulled it free from his wing collar his hands came up to settle heavily on her waist, and she stiffened as he swayed forward, his damp chest pressing against her breasts.
‘What are you doing?’
‘The room is moving,’ he protested thickly, sliding his arms further around her body.
‘It’s not the room; it’s your head,’ she told him, pushing at his chest.
‘It hurts.’
‘What? Your head? Did you hit it when you fell?’ Fears of delayed concussion swirled in her head. She ran her hands up the nape of his neck and sifted her fingers through the silky strands of wet hair, but could detect no flaws in the smooth symmetry of his skull.
‘Not there,’ he muttered, and took one of her hands and pressed it back across his forehead. ‘Yes, there…’ He sighed with satisfaction. ‘Your hands feel nice…so cool…’
In fact they were quite warm. He was running a slight fever, guessed Rachel. He wasn’t only drunk, he was also ill. Which might explain why he was so very drunk.
‘Are you taking any pills or painkillers?’
‘Doctor says I don’t need anything. Just mild flu. Hate pills. Never take them.’ He shivered, his eyes closed, his voice hoarse. ‘They don’t kill pain, they cause it. That’s how Leigh died. Too many damned pills!’
‘So you were telling me,’ she said cautiously, afraid his wife’s name would be the trigger for another angry outburst.
‘She shouldn’t have done that,’ he murmured. ‘I loved her.’
‘I’m sure you did,’ she soothed. She noticed that the arm around her waist had relaxed and drifted southwards, his hand curving down the slope of her buttock, and hurriedly detached herself.
‘You should be able to take off your shirt now,’ she said, stepping back. She deliberately made her tone brusque, placing her hands on her hips to reinforce the distance she was consciously creating between them.
Unfortunately he appeared blind to the subtleties of her body language…but not to h
er body. His eyes dilated as they roved down the shimmering column of white sequins standing before him.
‘I can’t,’ he said, in the same vague, unfocused voice. He shrugged helplessly, creating an intriguing interplay of muscle across his upper chest. Trapezius, deltoid, pectoralis major, latissimus dorsi, Rachel charted silently, forcing herself to see the biomechanical entity rather than an attractive man.
He was watching her from under his lashes, and she was abruptly aware that, drunk or ill, he was still a consummate male. ‘You do it, Rachel.’
His suddenly sweet and beguiling smile made heat pool in the pit of her stomach. ‘You haven’t even tried.’
