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Sympathy and sadness assaulted him. What the hell had happened to her, to make her so afraid?
At last the lights flickered back on and the sound of the rain died to a soft patter. The storm had passed as quickly as it had come. But the storm of emotion gripping his chest continued to bite as she shifted out of his arms.
Blinking against the bright, brittle light, she turned away and braced her hands on the countertop, holding herself together with a force of will he had to admire, even as he watched her try to shove the last of her fear back into the shadows.
‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured, as if there was something to apologise for. ‘I need to go to bed.’
He should let her go. Whatever had just happened, it wasn’t his concern. But as she passed him, hightailing it towards the staircase, his hand reached out of its own accord to curl around her bicep.
‘Hold on.’
She stopped instantly, her shudder of reaction almost as disturbing as his surge of desire. He forced it down. Again.
‘Please, I just...’ She stumbled over her words, her head bowed, her humiliation so complete it made his ribs hurt. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again, sounding so hopeless that the drawing sensation in his chest cinched tight.
He tucked a knuckle under her chin, lifted her face to his. ‘What have you got to be sorry about?’ he asked, because suddenly he wanted to know.
The shattered look in her eyes, before she could mask it, turned the golden brown to a rich caramel. She looked away, the glow on her cheeks highlighting the reddened tracks of her tears.
He could see her exhaustion.
He hadn’t noticed it earlier, because he’d been so mad—about everything. But he could see it now, in the weary line of her shoulders, the smudged shadows under her eyes, that bone-jarring shudder when she sighed. So she hadn’t been getting any more sleep than he had these last couple days...
‘I’m sorry for making such a ridiculous scene.’
She raised her head, the direct stare somehow brave and bold, a valiant attempt to deny her obvious fatigue and the remnants of her anxiety attack.
‘I don’t want you to think I’m weak, because I’m not,’ she added. ‘That was just a...a blip. I’m not used to being anywhere that gets so dark at night.’
He found his lips softening at the prim, carefully chosen words, the unconvincing defence. He was captivated, even though he didn’t want to be. And relieved that whatever had been terrifying her had been conquered.
Part of him wanted to ask where the ‘blip’ had really come from. What had caused it? Because her explanation was garbage. People didn’t react with that level of fear and panic just because they normally lived in a metropolis with a lot of light pollution. What he’d just witnessed was a fairly major phobia was his guess. One she’d somehow managed to keep hidden the first night they’d been together.
How come she’d been okay in the darkness when she was tucked against his body?
He sliced off the thought and stopped himself from asking the question burning in his gut. Increasing the intimacy which was already making his chest hurt would not be a smart move. But somehow, even though he knew he should let her leave, he couldn’t seem to loosen his grip on her arm.
His lips quirked and she stiffened.
‘What exactly is so amusing?’ she snapped. The prickly tone dispelled the last of shadows in her eyes, easing the pressure on his chest.
He let go of her arm, enjoying her show of strength. ‘That’s gotta be the dumbest thing you’ve ever said to me,’ he replied truthfully. ‘Whatever you are, you’re not weak.’
Her eyebrows rose up her forehead and he could see the observation had surprised her? Why?
‘Okay...well, thanks,’ she said, her tone a fascinating mixture of embarrassment and indignation.
He was glad. Because the broken child was finally gone, replaced by the smart, forthright woman whose armour was almost as beautiful to him as the furious light in her eyes which had added streaks of gold to the rich caramel.
His gaze drifted down, entirely of its own accord, and snagged on the front of her T-shirt, where her breasts rose and fell, full and high and untethered. The nipples were clearly visible, puckered into hard peaks beneath the worn cotton of the Portland State logo of the shirt, which he was pretty sure he’d seen a few times on his fifty-something housekeeper.
Funny...that old T-shirt had never looked hot on Mrs Mendoza.
He raised his gaze with an effort, and the flush of indignation on her cheeks did nothing to stem the renewed pulse of desire.
So he went with it.
Desire he understood—it made sense, unlike the pressure in his chest, which still hadn’t disappeared.
