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“Mmm,” she said.
He smiled. “Is that a sign of approval?”
“Absolutely.” She paused. “This has to stop.”
His gaze met hers, then slid away.
“It’ll probably never happen again,” he said, deliberately misunderstanding what she’d said. He met her eyes, then quickly busied himself unfolding the cloth to expose a cooler surface.
“I’m not talking about fainting. I’m talking about not being aware of what’s going on.”
“Ariel...”
Her eyes narrowed.
“I know what that means. That ‘Ariel.’ The way you say it is infuriating.” She pushed the cold compress aside and began to sit up.
“Not yet. Stay there for another minute.”
“I’m fine!”
“That’s what Luca said when we were twelve and we got some kind of shots. Flu, probably. We’d had shots before and nothing ever happened. That time, I got mine first. Then it was Luca’s turn ‘You’re awfully pale,’ the doctor said, after he’d jabbed him with the needle. ‘Why not sit still for a bit?’ And Luca made a face and said he was perfectly fine. So he stood up, keeled over and hit the floor. Gave himself one heck of a bloody nose.”
“The same Luca who broke his arm going after a kite?”
“Right. We thought he’d broken it. His nose, I mean. But it healed just fine.” He flashed a quick smile. “He’s still as handsome as I am. How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Three. Either your Luca is terribly accident prone or you’re making up these stories.”
“Would I do that? How many now?”
“Two. And yes, you would do that. You would do anything to avoid answering my questions.”
Caught, Matteo thought. Game, set, and match.
“Ariel, listen—
“No,” she said, batting his hand away, “you listen. You’ve been wonderful. You got me out of that hospital, got me here, and I’m eternally grateful. But—”
“I’ve done what needed doing,” he said. “And I sure as hell don’t want your gratitude.”
The words had come out more sharply than he’d intended, but it was true. He had no wish whatsoever for her gratitude.
He grabbed the compress, stood, walked into the bathroom and slammed the door shut. Easy, he told himself. Just take it easy. He was tired, overwrought. He was letting the endless hours, the snow, Pastore’s ugly threats get to him.
There was no other reason for him to be so edgy.
None whatsoever.
He dumped the cloth on the ledge above the sink and looked at himself in the mirror. Man, what a sight. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, and he needed a shave. A shower wouldn’t be a bad idea, either.
He turned on the cold water and ducked his head under the icy stream. When he straightened up, his reflection looked back at him.
Why had he jumped on her like that? All she’d done was try and thank him for what he’d done.
“Shit,” he said softly.
Yeah, but he didn’t want her thanks. He just wanted her to be safe.
Who was he kidding? What he wanted was her.
He stared at himself in the mirror. Just what is it you think you’re doing, Bellini?
The answer was simple.
He had no fucking idea what he was doing.
He’d gotten into something way over his head.
He’d been told the woman in the next room was the next best thing to certifiably crazy. That she took drugs. That she had delusions. Now, he’d have staked his life on the fact that all of those things were lies.
What was true was that she’d traveled hundreds of miles from home in the most low-profile way imaginable. And as soon as she’d arrived at her destination, a car had come close to running her down.
Matteo stared into the mirror again.
Aren’t you leaving something out?
Yes. He was. All she’d had in her possession was his card and an envelope of cash.
What else? Come on, dude. You’re a hotshot attorney. You’re a logical guy. What’s the most important piece of information in all of this?
His jaw tightened.
She was married. To a dangerous man who’d made it clear he wanted to get rid of her and him, too.
There you go, Bellini. Add it all up, and what do you have?
What was that expression? A no-brainer. That’s what this was. Put all the dots together, and you had a case to take to the cops.
That was the advice any lawyer would give would give. It was the advice he would give…
But it was bad advice.
Go to the police. Lay it all out in front of them. Pastore’s claims that Ariel was mentally ill. That she was a drug addict. His threat to kill them both.
He had no proof of anything. Just the opposite. Stafford would have to admit he’d found drugs in her blood. Ariel wouldn’t be able to answer any questions that went further back in time than, what, thirty-six hours. He’d have to say yes, he’d lied about being her lawyer.
And he’d top it off by telling the cops that the big convincer was—wait for it—that Ariel was everything a man could want and nothing Tony Pastore should have.
Matteo stared at his grim-faced reflection.
Yes, he was in over his head, but that was how it had to be. There was only one way to keep her safe, and he was it, and if all she felt for him was gratitude, maybe that was for the best.
What he had to do now was stop thinking with his hormones and start thinking with his head.
Dumping his phone and the GPS had been instinctual. Not using his credit card at the gas station a little while ago to pay for food and gas and the cabin had been instinctual, too, but he was almost out of cash, out of ideas…
“Matteo.”
He swung around.
Ariel stood in the bathroom doorway.
His heart turned over at what he saw, the bruises on her face, the blackened eyes, the delicate tracery of stitches, all of it a vicious reminder of what could have happened to her, of what somebody had tried to do to her because, goddammit, he was as sure that somebody had tried to kill her as he was of knowing what he ached to do, to gather her into his arms, kiss each bruise, each mark, and promise her he would protect her from Tony, from the world, from whatever tried to harm her.
You’re losing it, the voice inside him muttered, and he turned away, grabbed a towel from the rack and rubbed it over his hair and face.
“You shouldn’t be walking around,” he said, so calmly that he amazed himself.
“And you can’t hide in here all night.”
He glanced at her in the mirror. She looked as if the touch of a feather could knock her over, but her voice was firm, her words composed.
Matteo folded the towel, hung it and turned toward her, arms folded over his chest.
“I’m not hiding.”
“I’m sorry for the way I acted.”
“You don’t owe me an apology.”
“You just don’t understand.”
“I do. I understand. But, see, you aren’t strong enough to—”
She came at him in a rush. So much for composure, he thought, as she plowed her fist into the center of his chest.
“Hey,” he said, grabbing her hand, but it was like trying to hang onto a whirlwind.
“Do you have any idea, any idea what it’s like to be me? To wake up in a room full of bright lights and someone slicing off your clothes while someone else jabs a needle into you?”
“Calm down.”
“Calm down? Calm down? You try calming down when a bunch of people wearing masks crowd around you, poking, prodding, asking questions in loud voices as if maybe, on top of everything else, you’re an—an alien and you can’t speak their language!”
“Okay. I get it. I know this must be rough—”
“You’re in a hospital, somebody says. There’s been an accident, somebody else says, and then…” Her voice broke. Angrily, she jerked her hand from Matt
eo’s and swiped it across her eyes. “And then a nurse s asks the million dollar question. What’s your name? she says, and you open your mouth but nothing comes out and you realize that you don’t know your name, you don’t know a damned thing except that you’re not anybody, not anybody, because you don’t know anything about yourself, your mind is like—it’s like a page with nothing written on it…”
A cry of anguish broke from her throat.
Matteo pulled her into his arms, gathered her against him even as she fought him until, at last, she buried her face against his chest, and wept.
She wept for a long, long time, him holding her, whispering to her, stroking her, telling her everything would be fine even though it was a lie because how could he make such a promise when he felt like a blind man standing before a jigsaw puzzle the size of the universe?
Gradually, her sobs faded, became deep, sad sighs.
Matteo, still holding her, reached for a small box of tissues on top of the commode and pulled some out.
“Look up,” he said softly.
She raised her tear-stained face to his. Gently, he blotted her eyes. She took the wadded tissues from his hand and blew her nose.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Carefully, he smoothed her hair back from her face. “Okay now?”
She nodded. “Yes. And I’m sorry for coming apart just now. It was silly.”
“It wasn’t silly, and you never have to apologize to me for anything.”
She smiled.
“You’re a very nice man, Matteo Bellini.”
He laughed. “There are those who’d disagree with that assessment.”
“I’m serious. You’ve been so kind, so understanding…”
