responsibilities…
You needn’t worry about anything else. Any infection…
The words pounded against her skull like blows, making her want to cover her head with her hands and moan aloud. As it was, she closed her eyes for a moment so that she didn’t have to look into Rhys’s cold, brutal face.
He hadn’t left her with a shred of self-respect or pride—but that wasn’t the worst thing about this whole appalling situation.
The worst thing was knowing that he had come for Fleur. That the baby was what he wanted. And that, if he could, he would take the little girl away from her.
And leave her with nothing.
In the darkness behind her closed lids she suddenly heard Rhys draw in his breath sharply and rawly.
‘Caitlin…’
Something about his use of her name penetrated the fog of misery that shrouded Caitlin’s mind, forcing itself on her attention. Some sudden, dramatic change in his tone of voice, an unexpected, totally bewildering note of sharp concern alerting her to the fact that he was suddenly in a very different mood.
‘Dear God, Caitlin, what’s wrong? What’s happened to you?’
‘Wrong?’
She couldn’t help herself; her eyes flew open, looking straight into the dark, shadowed concern of his.
Had she got him all wrong? Had she misread a sign or two somewhere? Was it possible that he actually really cared after all? That she mattered at least just a little bit to him?
‘Wh—what do you mean, what’s wrong?’ she quavered, afraid of letting show just how much this change of heart meant, and at the same time afraid that he might think it didn’t matter at all.
But Rhys’s sapphire eyes were fixed on a point much lower than her pale, strained face. He was staring at—
Fearfully she followed the line of his gaze down past her waist, her knees, her legs, to the point where…
‘Oh!’
Seeing what he’d seen, she couldn’t hold back the cry of shock and concern. Her left foot was bleeding, red stains were smudged and painted all over the white skin of her instep and above. And on the beige tiles of the kitchen floor, little red drops marked everywhere she had stood, tracing out her path with perfect clarity. ‘What the hell have you done?’ His tone was a disturbing blend of exasperation and concern.
‘I—don’t know.’
Shaken, Caitlin held out her foot, watching in shocked fascination as another tiny drop of blood trickled along the edge of the sole.
‘What…?’
Instantly she regretted her action as Rhys slammed down his coffee mug and came towards her. To her horror he dropped to one knee before her, taking her bare foot in cool, solicitous hands and turning it gently so that he could examine it closely.
‘What’s happened?’
‘The photo frame upstairs,’ Rhys pronounced. ‘The broken glass. You must have stood on that when you were getting dressed. Didn’t you notice?’
‘N-no. Not really.’
Wasn’t the truth more that she had been so totally uptight, so severely stressed out, that she hadn’t been capable of noticing—or feeling—anything? She had been so horrified by what she had just learned about Rhys, completely obsessed with just what this meant and the possible repercussions of the discovery, that she couldn’t form any other thought in her mind. She must have cut her foot then and simply not even realised.
‘It looks worse than it is.’
Rhys was examining the sole of her foot, studying it closely and touching it carefully in several places. The indescribably gentle sensation of his fingers against her lacerated skin made Caitlin draw in her breath on a raw, uneven sigh.
Instantly his dark head came up sharply, blue eyes locking with burning gold.
‘Am I hurting you?’
Caitlin could only shake her head in fierce desperation, willing him to believe her. She felt the colour ebb and flow in her face and could only pray that he thought the discomfort in her foot was responsible for her uncontrolled reaction.
She couldn’t bear it if he
You needn’t worry about anything else. Any infection…
The words pounded against her skull like blows, making her want to cover her head with her hands and moan aloud. As it was, she closed her eyes for a moment so that she didn’t have to look into Rhys’s cold, brutal face.
He hadn’t left her with a shred of self-respect or pride—but that wasn’t the worst thing about this whole appalling situation.
The worst thing was knowing that he had come for Fleur. That the baby was what he wanted. And that, if he could, he would take the little girl away from her.
And leave her with nothing.
In the darkness behind her closed lids she suddenly heard Rhys draw in his breath sharply and rawly.
‘Caitlin…’
Something about his use of her name penetrated the fog of misery that shrouded Caitlin’s mind, forcing itself on her attention. Some sudden, dramatic change in his tone of voice, an unexpected, totally bewildering note of sharp concern alerting her to the fact that he was suddenly in a very different mood.
‘Dear God, Caitlin, what’s wrong? What’s happened to you?’
‘Wrong?’
She couldn’t help herself; her eyes flew open, looking straight into the dark, shadowed concern of his.
Had she got him all wrong? Had she misread a sign or two somewhere? Was it possible that he actually really cared after all? That she mattered at least just a little bit to him?
‘Wh—what do you mean, what’s wrong?’ she quavered, afraid of letting show just how much this change of heart meant, and at the same time afraid that he might think it didn’t matter at all.
But Rhys’s sapphire eyes were fixed on a point much lower than her pale, strained face. He was staring at—
Fearfully she followed the line of his gaze down past her waist, her knees, her legs, to the point where…
‘Oh!’
Seeing what he’d seen, she couldn’t hold back the cry of shock and concern. Her left foot was bleeding, red stains were smudged and painted all over the white skin of her instep and above. And on the beige tiles of the kitchen floor, little red drops marked everywhere she had stood, tracing out her path with perfect clarity. ‘What the hell have you done?’ His tone was a disturbing blend of exasperation and concern.
‘I—don’t know.’
Shaken, Caitlin held out her foot, watching in shocked fascination as another tiny drop of blood trickled along the edge of the sole.
‘What…?’
Instantly she regretted her action as Rhys slammed down his coffee mug and came towards her. To her horror he dropped to one knee before her, taking her bare foot in cool, solicitous hands and turning it gently so that he could examine it closely.
‘What’s happened?’
‘The photo frame upstairs,’ Rhys pronounced. ‘The broken glass. You must have stood on that when you were getting dressed. Didn’t you notice?’
‘N-no. Not really.’
Wasn’t the truth more that she had been so totally uptight, so severely stressed out, that she hadn’t been capable of noticing—or feeling—anything? She had been so horrified by what she had just learned about Rhys, completely obsessed with just what this meant and the possible repercussions of the discovery, that she couldn’t form any other thought in her mind. She must have cut her foot then and simply not even realised.
‘It looks worse than it is.’
Rhys was examining the sole of her foot, studying it closely and touching it carefully in several places. The indescribably gentle sensation of his fingers against her lacerated skin made Caitlin draw in her breath on a raw, uneven sigh.
Instantly his dark head came up sharply, blue eyes locking with burning gold.
‘Am I hurting you?’
Caitlin could only shake her head in fierce desperation, willing him to believe her. She felt the colour ebb and flow in her face and could only pray that he thought the discomfort in her foot was responsible for her uncontrolled reaction.
She couldn’t bear it if he
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