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Because nothing good comes easy, she thought again, her heart lurching sideways like a train coming off the rails as his dark eyes locked with hers.
‘Because my dad told me never to get into a car with a stranger,’ she said hoarsely.
He stared down at her, that mouth of his curving at one corner. ‘You’re still my wife...’ his voice thickened around the word ‘...my responsibility.’
A wave of misery rose up inside her, blocking her throat. She had so wanted that to be true, and for a time, bathed in the solar intensity of his focus, she had believed it was. She had believed them to be in love—the head-over-heels, truly, madly, deeply kind of love that was as rare and bright as a comet.
But she knew now that what he loved was the chase, and by presenting him with a challenge worthy of some mythical Greek hero she had fuelled his competitive instinct, that same need to win, to call the shots that he displayed both in the boardroom and on the polo field.
And it was why he was here now. She had told him she wanted a divorce, so naturally he had to throw an obstacle in her way.
‘I’m not your anything,’ she said quickly. ‘And, like I told you before, I don’t need your help. If I want a lift I can call my housemate, Ashley.’
‘Unfortunately not.’ He stared down at her through thick dark lashes, his expression unreadable. ‘You see, she went to visit her mother. But after she picked up your message she was worried about you. Apparently, you sounded “shaken”.’
The pattern of the curtains blurred a little. Ashley had been worried. If things had been different—if Omar had kept his promises—then she might have told him the truth. She might have shared her stomach-churning panic and fear in those few half-seconds when the car had jolted forward.
But he’d let her down so often and so painfully she doubted she would ever trust anyone, again.
‘Is there a point to this?’ she asked coolly, and saw his expression harden.
‘She sent Travis—I think that was his name—to your house to check your passport. See if there was a family member she could get hold of.’
She felt a spike of adrenaline as Omar’s mouth did one of those almost-smiles.
‘And guess what? I was listed as your next of kin.’
It was a historical mistake to add to the long list of mistakes she’d already made. An oversight. She had meant to cross out his name but forgotten to do so.
‘I could call Dan,’ he said softly.
She felt as if she might throw up. Her eyes darted to his face.
‘Why? So you can play at being the hero?’ She shook her head violently. ‘That’s not going to happen.’
‘But you do want to get out of here, don’t you?’ Without waiting for a reply, he said smoothly, ‘Then let me give you a lift.’
Delphi swallowed. Through the curtains she saw a man limp past on crutches, his foot mummified in bandages, face puffy with bruises. He winced as he moved, but she knew he was leaving the hospital and found herself envying his freedom.
Her heart felt as if it was going to burst through her ribs. She absolutely didn’t want to go anywhere with Omar. She certainly didn’t want him coming into the untidy little house she shared with Ashley. But she could tell from the set of his shoulders that he wasn’t going anywhere without a fight.
Since London the fight had drained out of her, and it was getting harder and harder to balance on her heels. She pressed her leg against the bed to steady herself against a shivering head-rush. Omar was right about one thing. She wanted, needed to get out of here—now.
‘Okay,’ she said curtly. ‘You can drive me home. But then I want you gone.’
Not wanting to see the triumph on his face, she turned. The strip-light flickered and the room spun out of focus and her eyes slid sideways, like marbles on a polished floor.
‘Delphi?’
His hand closed around her uninjured arm, close to her elbow, guiding her backwards swiftly and purposefully to the bed.
‘Here. Sit down.’
She did, shaking off his hand, then choking back a sound that was a mixture of frustration and anger as Omar crouched down in front of her.
He was much too close. Close enough that, had she wanted to, she could have reached out and traced the enviable swell of his biceps beneath the crisp shirt, or pressed her hand against the superbly muscled chest.
‘I’m fine,’ she muttered, closing her eyes, fighting the urge to lean into his strength. But it was so hard. Hard, too, not to be soothed by the fact that he was there...right there in front of her. Solid. Strong. Steadfast.
