her this way ... Oh, God, Clea!
He began rubbing gently at her cold hands, but there seemed to be no circulation getting through; her skin was opaque in patches, the pressure of his fingers leaving indentations in the pale, lifeless skin.
'Clea—' he urged huskily, willing her to come around.
She did so slowly. A small nerve flickered at the corner of her mouth, then her eyelids fluttered and life seemed to seep back into her limbs, making her stir a little.
Max continued to rub at her hands, and it was upon them that she focused her confused gaze first. Then, as painful memory returned, she stiffened, pulling free of his grasp and lifting very wary eyes to his.
'I wouldn't have done it.' He rushed into denial, his voice rough and rattling. He looked as white as a sheet, shock holding his jaw rigid. 'It was reaction. I wouldn't have hit you.'
No? Max had lost complete control of himself for those few terrifying seconds. She had always considered his self-control formidable. Now she knew that wasn't true. And she had no wish to incite him to that point again, so she remained very still and said not a word, letting her lids slip downwards again while she tried to steady the shakiness still clamouring inside her ... Max had almost hit her, and her shock to this was almost as debilitating as the fear that had enveloped her for those few pole-axing seconds.
He was watching her; she could feel his concerned gaze on her as she lay. To his eyes, she seemed to be still struggling with faintness, but really she just didn't know how to handle the situation any more and was using her faintness to hide behind. His breathing was the only sound in the quiet oppressiveness of the room, short and rasping, as though he, too, was labouring under shock.
He moved away after a while, going over to where she kept the brandy. Poor Max, she thought wearily.
He hadn't known what was going to hit him when he'd arrived here tonight with his sombre face and cool words of understanding.
'Drink some of this.' He was back at her side, running an arm around the back of her shoulders to lift her a little.
Clea flinched. 'Don't touch me,' she whispered, dragging herself up to lean on the arm of the sofa and away from him, running trembling fingers through her hair. He held the brandy glass between clenched fingers; she noticed the tension in them, and felt a twinge of satisfaction that she had managed to throw him this much. But she took the glass from him, acknowledging the necessity of the harsh spirit.
The foul-tasting stuff burned her at the back of her throat as it slid down, and she grimaced, but at least she felt some warmth filter back into her and was able to pass the glass back to him with a steady hand.
He moved away again without a word, and Clea lay back against the sofa arm, feeling utterly drained.
Her head was throbbing, and her heart was pumping out slow, heavy beats that sounded in her ears. It was inevitable, she supposed, as bitterness once again welled up inside her, that things should have come to this. It didn't help her to know that she'd handled the whole scene very badly. That her stupid emotions had all become knotted and in the way of a clear, calm and precise explanation. Stupid, unwanted things, like love and need and fear of the aloneness she was going to have to face, had all come to complicate everything for her. But what she struggled with now, in the heavy atmosphere of her lounge, was the hard and fast realisation that she'd been hoarding a secret hope that he would prove her completely wrong and react in a way that would make her heart sing.
Now she knew, and her thin smile was full of self-derision.
She pulled herself into a sitting position, sliding her feet to the floor and pushing her tumbled hair from her pale face. Max was slumped in the chair, his lean body hunched over his spread knees, eyes brooding on the glass of brandy dangling from long fine-boned fingers.
'It was an accident,' she muttered
He began rubbing gently at her cold hands, but there seemed to be no circulation getting through; her skin was opaque in patches, the pressure of his fingers leaving indentations in the pale, lifeless skin.
'Clea—' he urged huskily, willing her to come around.
She did so slowly. A small nerve flickered at the corner of her mouth, then her eyelids fluttered and life seemed to seep back into her limbs, making her stir a little.
Max continued to rub at her hands, and it was upon them that she focused her confused gaze first. Then, as painful memory returned, she stiffened, pulling free of his grasp and lifting very wary eyes to his.
'I wouldn't have done it.' He rushed into denial, his voice rough and rattling. He looked as white as a sheet, shock holding his jaw rigid. 'It was reaction. I wouldn't have hit you.'
No? Max had lost complete control of himself for those few terrifying seconds. She had always considered his self-control formidable. Now she knew that wasn't true. And she had no wish to incite him to that point again, so she remained very still and said not a word, letting her lids slip downwards again while she tried to steady the shakiness still clamouring inside her ... Max had almost hit her, and her shock to this was almost as debilitating as the fear that had enveloped her for those few pole-axing seconds.
He was watching her; she could feel his concerned gaze on her as she lay. To his eyes, she seemed to be still struggling with faintness, but really she just didn't know how to handle the situation any more and was using her faintness to hide behind. His breathing was the only sound in the quiet oppressiveness of the room, short and rasping, as though he, too, was labouring under shock.
He moved away after a while, going over to where she kept the brandy. Poor Max, she thought wearily.
He hadn't known what was going to hit him when he'd arrived here tonight with his sombre face and cool words of understanding.
'Drink some of this.' He was back at her side, running an arm around the back of her shoulders to lift her a little.
Clea flinched. 'Don't touch me,' she whispered, dragging herself up to lean on the arm of the sofa and away from him, running trembling fingers through her hair. He held the brandy glass between clenched fingers; she noticed the tension in them, and felt a twinge of satisfaction that she had managed to throw him this much. But she took the glass from him, acknowledging the necessity of the harsh spirit.
The foul-tasting stuff burned her at the back of her throat as it slid down, and she grimaced, but at least she felt some warmth filter back into her and was able to pass the glass back to him with a steady hand.
He moved away again without a word, and Clea lay back against the sofa arm, feeling utterly drained.
Her head was throbbing, and her heart was pumping out slow, heavy beats that sounded in her ears. It was inevitable, she supposed, as bitterness once again welled up inside her, that things should have come to this. It didn't help her to know that she'd handled the whole scene very badly. That her stupid emotions had all become knotted and in the way of a clear, calm and precise explanation. Stupid, unwanted things, like love and need and fear of the aloneness she was going to have to face, had all come to complicate everything for her. But what she struggled with now, in the heavy atmosphere of her lounge, was the hard and fast realisation that she'd been hoarding a secret hope that he would prove her completely wrong and react in a way that would make her heart sing.
Now she knew, and her thin smile was full of self-derision.
She pulled herself into a sitting position, sliding her feet to the floor and pushing her tumbled hair from her pale face. Max was slumped in the chair, his lean body hunched over his spread knees, eyes brooding on the glass of brandy dangling from long fine-boned fingers.
'It was an accident,' she muttered
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