Gentleman Jim - Mimi Matthews Page 0,67

adversaries on the verge of battle. A pulsing heat throbbed between them. A palpable tension that was as much a product of hurt and anger as desire.

“You lied to me,” she said.

His gaze was locked with hers, his heavy-lidded eyes almost sullen. “I know.”

“You made me doubt myself. When all the while—”

“I know.” Bitterness and frustration sounded in his voice, along with a raw edge of genuine regret. He raked a hand through his golden hair. His tousled locks, usually combed into meticulous order, stood half on end.

She’d never seen him less poised. Less in control of himself. “Why did you do it?” she asked.

He turned away from her for a moment, his countenance half-hidden in the shadows cast from a branch of guttering candles on his bedside table.

And she felt it, the tremor that went through his body. The anger and frustration and soul-deep remorse. The roiling conflict that warred within him between the past and the present.

“Is it so terrible to recall it? To remember who you were?” She took a step toward him. “Who we were to each other?”

He shook his head, his face taut with some inexplicable emotion.

“I knew it was you. All I wanted was the truth. For you to acknowledge—”

“Acknowledge what?” The question was practically a snarl. “I never expected to see you again. How was I to know you’d be here? That you’d come to me as you did that night?”

“You must have been surprised.”

He made a choked noise. It might have been a laugh. “You’ve developed a talent for understatement.”

“And you’ve developed a skill for hiding your true feelings.”

“Whatever skill I had has left me. I am as you see me now, without a shred of my armor.” He poured himself another drink. “You’ve taken it all from me.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “You can hardly blame me for your present condition. It wasn’t I who—”

“No. It’s my own fault. I have no control at all where you’re concerned. I never have.” He drained his glass. “You should go,” he said. “I’m not myself.”

She gave him a wry look.

“I mean—”

“I know what you mean. You’re upset with yourself for acting so impulsively on my behalf. And you’re in pain, I suspect, which accounts for your drinking.”

He scrubbed his face with his hands. “You have to go,” he said again. “I mean it, Maggie.”

“Undoubtedly. But first things first.” She came closer, backing him against his bed. “Let me have another look at your wound. A proper one this time.”

“Haven’t you seen enough?” he growled at her.

“Sit down.” Her pulse was fluttering madly, but her voice was under admirable control. “No more nonsense.”

Muttering something that sounded like an oath, he grudgingly sank back onto the edge of his mattress. His hands were braced at his sides, his feet planted firmly on the floor.

Maggie stepped forward between his legs. When he was seated, the two of them were of a similar height. It gave her a sense of command over the situation she didn’t entirely feel. “You’re like a great lion with a wounded paw. A wounded paw and a sore head.” She untied his banyan and pushed it off of his shoulders. “You don’t often drink too much, do you?”

“Rarely.”

“I’m pleased to hear it.” She moistened her lips. Her mouth had gone dry. And no wonder. He was bared to the waist in front of her. An arresting sight. It made her cheeks heat and her stomach quiver. She forced herself to focus on his arm. To behave in a clinical fashion, not in the manner of a lady on the verge of having the vapors.

It wasn’t easy.

His chest might have been chiseled from a slab of marble. Every hollow and groove of his naked flesh was perfectly defined. As elegant with power as a statue of some Grecian God or hero. All lean muscles and tightly coiled strength.

The Nicholas of her youth had been spare and lanky. Far less intimidating to her senses. She wondered what he’d done to earn all these muscles. Jane had said he was a sportsman, but the smattering of faded scars on his chest and shoulders spoke less of pleasure than survival.

And he had survived.

More than that. Somehow, someway, he’d forged a life for himself—an entirely new identity. He’d become, in these ten years, a completely different man.

Maggie frowned as she examined the wound on his arm. The torn flesh was stitched together rather neatly with black thread. “Enzo’s work, I presume. I trust you cleaned it thoroughly

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