“Now,” he said, “let's get the worst of that off and have a look at the damage.” He smoothed my hair back and dabbed efficiently at the blood on my forehead.
I sat with my eyes closed and let him get on with it, too weary to put up much of a fight. His hands were cool and careful, their touch firm but reassuring. The movement lulled me.
“It's only a small cut, and it's stopped bleeding,” he murmured at last. “Scalp wounds always look worse than they are to begin with.”
He took my hands and turned them over, wiping the worst of the grit away gently.
“They're not too bad,” he decided. “Where else do you hurt?”
I opened my eyes reluctantly and admitted that my ribs were still aching. Hardly stunning when I thought about it. I was lucky to be still walking.
Marc had pulled my shirt out of my leather jeans and started to unbutton it before I had the wit to object. “Hey!” I tried to bat his hands away, but my depth perception was off, and he was determined. When he slid his hands over the skin of my ribcage my protests died in my throat as my heart leapt up and bounced there.
“You're going to have some cracking bruises, Charlie,” he said, and his voice suddenly seemed very deep. “I don't think there's anything broken.” He seemed to be too close to me. I could see the individual pores in the skin of his face. The faint line of an old scar running through his eyebrow. Much too close. My breath hitched.
He looked straight into my eyes and smiled, then got to his feet. “I think I'd better go and check on that bath,” he said, and strolled away.
The brief pause gave me chance to look round the suite for the first time. The sofa had a low mahogany table in front of it, and beyond that was the open fire I'd sensed, full of burning logs. It was so healthily ablaze that it could only have been one of those fake gas affairs, but it was pretty convincing.
There was a desk on the far side of the room, and doors leading off for the bathroom and bedroom. The decor was subdued, expensive. I didn't even begin to want to know how much a night it was costing him. I chucked back the remainder of my whisky and set the glass down on the polished wood without regard for watermarks.
Marc returned, drying his hands on a towel. “You're all set,” he said. “Do you need any help?”
I wavered for a moment, enticed, then shook my head. “I can manage,” I said. It was becoming a mantra.
I got to my feet stiffly, trying to ignore the complaints from my body, and tottered across to the bathroom. Inside it was all white marble and mirrors clouded with steam from the bath. I almost groaned at the sight of it. Marc had dropped in a generous quantity of the foam bath furnished by the hotel, and hadn't stinted on the hot water. It was filled to the brim.
I shut the door and took a moment to study my reflection in the mirror. What I saw made me grimace. Marc had managed to mop away most of the blood from my face, but my hair still looked matted like a stray cat's. The flesh over my left cheekbone seemed swollen, closing my eye a little, but some ice would probably sort it.
I stripped off my shirt and prodded experimentally at my ribs. There was moderate blueing along them that was slightly alarming, but it was nothing I couldn't handle. More bruises came to light as I peeled off my leather jeans. Even with the kevlar and the padding, the hip I'd landed on was turning a regal shade of purple.
I held my hands out in front of me and inspected the damage. A few cuts and scratches; a big graze on one palm. Nothing drastic. All in all, I was lucky to have got away so lightly.
Despite my aches and pains, I finished stripping off in record time, sliding chin-deep into the delicately scented water. For someone who doesn't own a bath – all the flat has is a shower – it was the apex of luxury. I lay back and let the heat seep into my bones. My eyes closed, and I drifted off.
It didn’t seem like more than a minute or two before I was groggily awake again to find Marc perched on the side of the bath, staring down at me.
“Is there no peace?” I grouched, nerves jangling at the sight of him. It didn’t help that he was still fully clothed and I was naked. The bubble bath, traitor that it was, had dispersed enough to leave little to his imagination.
“You’ve been in there nearly an hour,” he pointed out mildly. “I was worried about you and besides, the water’s cold.” He reached in to the far end and yanked the plug out. The admittedly tepid bath water started to slip away with disturbing speed. It hadn’t provided much in the way of a modesty blanket, but it had been better than nothing.
Oh, what the hell. If he fancied me when I was doing my best impersonation of a human punchbag, the man needed help. I struggled to my feet, suddenly ponderous. He moved back to let me step dripping out of the bath, his face giving nothing away.
Marc engulfed me in a huge fluffy towel, warmed from the heated rail. I was happy to sag weakly against the strength of his body. I rested my head against his crisp shirt front, and let him rub me dry. My eyes closed again, but even I couldn’t sleep standing up.
He sat me down on the edge of the bath while he dried my legs, then towelled my hair. I was so far gone I nearly nodded off while he was doing it.
“Oh Charlie,” he said ruefully, catching me as I rocked. “You’ve no idea what a temptation you are, but if I take advantage of you now it will practically be necrophilia.”
I was too drowsy to make either comment or objection as he hoisted me up into his arms and carried me through to the bedroom. The bed was voluminous and gave invitingly when he tipped me gently onto it. He pulled the covers up round my chin and tucked my damp hair away from my face, as you would a child.
I think I was asleep before the mattress finished swaying.
***
I started into wakefulness four hours later with a clear head and no idea where I was. I sat up abruptly, the bedclothes tangling round my legs so that when I tried to climb out of bed I ended up dropping in a knotted heap heavily onto the floor. The jar of it highlighted a myriad of bruises. Despite my efforts to stifle it, I cried out.
It was only then I realised I wasn't alone in the room. I could sense someone's movement, but it was too dark to see them. I tried to scramble away, get to my feet, but the bed covers were relentless in their grip.
There was a man looming over me. Instinctively, I lashed out with a strong right, connecting into unbraced muscle with enough force to leave him winded. Mind you, the effort didn't do my own ribs any good, either.
“Charlie, for God's sake, it's me!”
I recognised Marc's voice over the thundering of my heart, and dropped back, sweating and breathless, clutching at the bedclothes. I heard him move away and the next thing the bedside lamp had been clicked on.
When I'd finished blinking in the glare, I saw Marc by the switch, rubbing at his stomach. One of the large armchairs had a rumpled pillow and quilt on the floor next to it. He'd evidently been keeping his eye on me.
Marc was wearing the thick towelling robe the hotel provided, and pretty obviously nothing else. I felt a furious colour flaming my face. Never a good idea to blush when you've got my hair colouring. It clashes horribly.
Marc looked at me sardonically. “You're feeling better,” he said, and it wasn't a question.
“I'm sorry,” I said, shakily, climbing hastily back onto the bed and pulling the covers back with me. Marc came and settled on the edge, looking dangerous again, but for a different reason. I swallowed nervously as he traced a finger round my face, my eyes fixed on him.
“Oh Charlie, you're such a puzzle,” he said, almost to himself. “So strong, but so vulnerable. Such a temper to go with that red hair.” He picked up a few strands, let them slip through his fingers, murmuring half to himself, “Not that it's really red; all those different shades of copper, and honey, and gold. And who'd have thought there'd be such a glorious body under all that denim and those heavy leathers you wear, hmm?”