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‘Murat,’ she croaked.
There was a short silence as he stared at her and, although he seemed to be swimming in and out of focus, the shock on his face was almost palpable. Did she look that bad? She supposed she did. She hadn’t washed her hair in days and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten. Her jeans felt looser than they used to and her T-shirt was crumpled and creased.
‘You’re sick!’ he accused, as if she’d done something wrong.
‘No. I’m fine.’ It was unfortunate that she chose just that moment to produce another of those horrible, hacking coughs.
Black eyes raked over her. ‘You don’t look fine to me. Or sound it.’
‘That’s none...’ She coughed again, putting her hand over her mouth, which made her words come out all muffled. ‘None of your business.’
There was a brief silence while Murat noted her flushed cheeks and dull eyes and he felt a sharp pang of something he didn’t recognise. He hadn’t seen her for weeks. Not since she’d left him in Italy and he’d woken up and reached for her and found the other side of the bed empty. And hadn’t he completely lost it at that moment? Hadn’t he run outside and threatened to sack every one of his bodyguards for failing to hear her leave? He had been beside himself with worry and fear until word had reached him that somehow she had managed to get herself to Rome airport, where she’d caught a scheduled flight back to London.
And now she was standing in front of him and nothing was how he’d thought it would be. Had he thought her face would light up when she saw him again? That she’d admit that running out on him had been the biggest mistake she’d ever made?
Because if that was the case, he had been badly wrong.
She was staring at him suspiciously—the way an animal did when it was backed into a corner—and she looked terrible. Her hair was plastered to the side of her hot cheeks and there were angles on her face where there hadn’t been angles before.
‘Let me in, Cat,’ he said grimly. ‘Please.’
Catrin flinched, knowing she ought to refuse, but she opened the door anyway. It was pointless to engage in a battle you stood no chance of winning and she was too weary to try. He had come all this way—had stepped outside his usual luxurious habitat to find himself in the staff quarters of a Welsh seaside hotel. She could hardly turn him away.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘But please keep the noise down. Some of my colleagues are on night duty and some might still be asleep. I don’t want you making some kind of racket and waking them up.’
Murat’s mouth hardened as he stepped inside the room. It was clean but it was also very cramped, and he thought how bare it looked. Why, even the servants at his palace in Qurhah had better accommodation than this. On a small dressing table, he could see that over-sized hairbrush she always used to rake through her thick hair, along with a framed photograph of her and her sister. As always, there was an open book on a locker beside the narrow bed and, on the wall, an ugly notice warning inhabitants what to do in case of fire.
Finishing his brief reconnoitre, he returned his gaze to her face but he could do absolutely nothing about the sudden protective clenching of his heart. She looked as if a light breeze might be enough to make her float away.
He walked over to the small window and looked out onto a yard filled with bins, before turning back—his black eyes narrowed in question. ‘Why did you run out on me in Italy like that?’
‘You know the answer to that question—so please don’t insult my intelligence by pretending you don’t. I went because I needed to get away and I didn’t want to have to ask your permission. I’m a free agent now and I look after myself.’
‘You didn’t think I’d be worried?’
‘Funnily enough, your reaction wasn’t the biggest thing on my mind. For once, it wasn’t about you, Murat. It was about me.’ The effort of saying so much had tired her out and she sat down on the bed and leaned back against the pillows. ‘What are you doing here?’
Once again, he swept his gaze over the small room, countering her question with one of his own. ‘Why have you come back to Wales?’
‘Because of...family reasons.’ Rather defensively, she stared at him. ‘I like it. It’s a decent enough hotel and quite adequate for my needs. How did you find me?’
‘A person can always be found.’
‘That doesn’t answer my question.’
‘The answer isn’t important. I have means at my disposal—you know that. What matters is why you’re here.’ His black eyes narrowed. ‘What kind of family reasons?’
She shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Yes, it does.’
She had forgotten about his stubborn nature and autocratic determination to get his own way. She’d forgotten that, a few minutes in his company, she would be longing for him to hold her in his arms again. She pushed a strand of hair away from her hot cheek and met the question which was lancing from his eyes.
And why was she resisting telling him? Wouldn’t the truth kill off any residual dreams of romance for good—and send him running from here at the speed of light? Was that what she was secretly afraid of?
Catrin felt a sudden rush of nerves constricting her throat as the inevitable moment of revelation approached. If only she were somebody different, it might not have mattered. If she’d been one of those high-born aristocratic women with bishops and artists in her lineage, then an eccentric relative would have been perfectly acceptable.
But she wasn’t.
