She turned her head to look at the object of her chaotic thoughts. His short-cropped hair was just beginning to grow. Then she gasped. Instinctively she lifted her hand, and reached out to touch the long, jagged scar that gouged a line from the edge of Luc's hairline down his neck. It was red and obviously quite new. She traced the shape with her finger; it was like a half-moon.
Steely fingers grasped her wrist as Luc spun around, wide awake. 'What's the matter, Parisa? Does my scar upset you?' he demanded icily.
'No, no, of course not,' she replied quickly, wondering at his obvious anger. 'I had never noticed it before,' she offered, suddenly acutely aware of his nakedness, his long legs brushing lightly against her, and the threatening look on his unshaven face.
She felt herself blush scarlet, the events of last night uppermost in her mind. 'What happened?' she queried quickly, hoping he wouldn't notice her blush.
He arched one eyebrow. 'Do you really want to know?' he asked sardonically.
'Yes.' If she kept him talking, it might keep his mind off the intimacy of the bed.
He let go of her wrist, and lay down on his back, not looking at her. 'The day after the fire at the factory, I went around the burnt-out building with the insurance assessor. Unfortunately the fabric of the building was unsafe. A roof joist fell and caught me on the back of the head.'
'Oh, my God!' Parisa sat up in bed, and stared down into his impassive face. He'd been hurt, and she hadn't known.
'Yes. I spent a week in a coma, and a few more weeks convalescing.'
She was completely unconscious of how desirable she looked, naked to the waist, her gorgeous hair a tangled mass around her shoulders. So that was why he hadn't called her. He couldn't; he had been ill. The information put an entirely different complexion on their relationship, she recognised immediately. Her full lips parted in a wide, beautiful smile, her heart lifting. 'You would have called me.' He hadn't used her as she had thought. But Luc was not smiling.
'Yes, I probably would have called sooner, but under the circumstances it is just as well I didn't—you obviously weren't that concerned. This way we have no illusions about each other.'
Parisa didn't understand. 'You weren't concerned', he had said. But she hadn't known. Her smooth brow creased in a frown. If she had, she would have dashed to his bedside. She stretched out her hand and brushed the short dark hair on his head. 'Your hair... that's why you had it cut,' she murmured softly, her blue eyes wide and tender.
'Of course.' He pulled his head back out of her reach, his face shuttered and blank. 'I wouldn't willingly walk around half scalped.' And, swinging his long legs off the bed, he rose to his full height, stretched his arms above his head, then casually picked his towelling robe from a nearby chair, and shrugged into it, before turning to glance at Parisa. 'I'll order coffee, then shower. Take your time—you look tired,' he said hardly and, collecting an assortment of clothes from the wardrobe, he walked out of the room.
Parisa opened her mouth to speak, but the words wouldn't come. What could she say? I waited for your call, and when it didn't come decided you were a bastard and hated you.
That would certainly go down well! She had told him she despised him, acted like a mercenary gold-digger, agreeing to his proposal. How could she now declare she loved him?
She fell back on the bed, the shock of her discovery and what it implied almost too much to assimilate. She had a horrible sinking sensation in her heart, and a slowly growing conviction that she had made yet another mistake. She should have had more faith in him originally, instead of worrying over the fact that she thought he was a liar and a crook. At the very least, when she discovered on the Sunday his true identity she should have tried to contact him, then perhaps their relationship would have grown in a normal way. Instead she had run home to lick her wounds, hating him, and all the time he had been ill.
How had she never noticed the scar before? But then she realised that when he had first reappeared in her life he had worn a white roll-neck sweater, and, of course, the Cossack shirt at the hospital the next day. It made sense: the clothes disguised his injury.
Tears misted her lovely eyes. How he must have suffered. Injured himself, and then having to deal with his mother's illness. No wonder he had looked gaunt and thin. Why hadn't she realised? she asked herself over and over again. She brushed the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. God, but she was insensitive! she castigated herself. So wrapped up in her own selfish problems that she had never considered that there could be a valid reason for Luc's lack of communication.
But what was she going to do about it? And would it change anything? He had said 'This way we have no illusions about each other.' Perhaps she was being foolish all over again? The simple fact of admitting she did not know he was hurt was not going to make him love her.
The stark reality of her situation struck her a body blow. Any time in the past few days Luc could have mentioned his accident. The night at dinner, when he had hit his head. She had actually asked him if he was ill, and he had denied it. Once again she was falling into the trap of weaving her dreams around Luc.
She sat up in the large bed. She had to get a mental grip on herself. Wondering, What if? was not going to do her any good at all. Luc wanted her body; he had proved that last night. Just thinking about it made her toes curl. But he had also told her he wasn't interested in her heart. Maybe, just maybe, she could make him change his mind, she thought resolutely, and, jumping out of bed, a new determination in her step, she entered the bathroom.
Standing under the steaming spray of the shower, she made her decision. She would tell Luc she had not known about his accident, and how sorry she was, and let him draw his own conclusion. She loved and wanted him. Maybe propinquity and a willing woman in his bed might persuade him to alter their limited marriage into a lifelong commitment. She could but try...
Ten minutes later Parisa, dressed in her favourite straight blue tweed skirt and matching blue sweater, her long hair swept back and tied with a silk scarf, and wearing a minimum of make-up, walked into the living area of the suite.
Luc was sitting at the small dining table, a sheaf of papers in front of him, and a coffee-pot with the accompanying cups. He glanced up as she entered.
'No bacon and eggs today?' she said lightly to hide her nervousness.
'It's Easter Friday—the one day of the year I fast until after church.' His black eyes casually flickered over her. 'You can come with me, then we'll have lunch and visit Mother.' He laid out his plan for the day with barely a glance at Parisa, his attention once more on the documents in front of him.
Parisa sat down opposite him and helped herself to a cup of coffee. Greedily she drank it, the strong, hot brew reviving her flagging confidence. She looked at his downbent head, and ached to reach out and touch him. Instead she curled her hands around the now empty cup, and, keeping her eyes lowered to the tablecloth, she said softly, 'Luc, I never knew you were ill. If I had, I would have tried to get in touch with you. I'm sorry.'
He lifted his head, and studied her pale face. 'Yes, I'm sure you would,' he said drily. 'Tell me, do you still keep in touch with your friend Moya?'
Parisa couldn't credit his reaction. It meant nothing to him, her declaration and apology. Instead he was questioning her about her friend. She lowered her lashes to hide the hurt she knew must be revealed in her eyes. She had her answer to all her earlier heart-searching. Luc didn't care... But she couldn't quite believe it. She had to try again. 'Yes, of course. But Luc, about your accident. I…'
'Forget it, Parisa.' He stood up and, walking around to where she sat, he bent and pressed a kiss to the top of her head, before taking her arm and urging her to her feet.