Her eyelids flickered, registering his closeness. He was leaning over her, and over his shoulder she saw the grey morning light advancing slowly through the room. The fine white linen curtains billowed and flapped in the wind, and the chill made her pull the sheet tighter around herself. He shifted obligingly, eyes not leaving her face, but she couldn't look at him.
"What time is it?" she asked, eyes firmly averted. Her voice sounded odd – hoarse, somewhat choked. She extracted one arm from under the sheets to pick up her Blackberry from the bedside table. "Six-thirty," he said, before she'd glanced at the display. Without a reply she began scrolling through her texts and then calls. He was still watching, but she'd be damned if she let him unnerve her. Pulling the sheet tighter around her, she swung her legs out of bed and was about to get up. But before she could as much as prop herself up on her elbows, he was looming over her, his arms caging her in so she couldn't leave. Even a well-placed shove couldn't dislodge him, and she fell back among the pillows with a little huff of exasperation. "I have work to get to," she told him expressionlessly.
He didn't answer, just hooked his hand under her knee and hauled her legs back on the bed. In the morning, his face looked both worse and less terrifying than the night before. There were charcoal smudges on her pillows – and probably on her skin – but the skin of his shoulders and his back felt good, so good to her. Unbidden, she ran her fingers down his chest and watched his eyes flicker closed briefly. Mildly, she said, "And now what?"
"Hmm?" he murmured, eyes still closed. He lowered his head to her neck, grazing her skin with his teeth. The chill in the air was delicious, she thought, and she stretched lazily in momentary bliss. So much work to do, she thought, consciously ignoring the sharp jab of apprehension about the future. She picked up her Blackberry and placed a call.
"Broxton Trading?" she asked, her voice muted yet entirely alert. "Mr. Abbey, please."
He splayed his fingers wide open on the arced curve of her belly and looked up at her intently.
"Yes, good morning. We're supposed to meet at ten? I had a minor query about the storage spaces. About the actual square area, and also former insurance documents if possible. Yes, I know."
His hands came up to grip her elbows, dominating her space. But her eyes were focused elsewhere, her attention on the phone. She hardly saw the beginnings of his scowl.
"Yes thank you, I'll email you the confirmation as well. Nine. All right. See you soon. Have a nice day. I beg your pardon? Yes. Thank you, you too. Goodbye."
She hung up. Five seconds later she was speaking to someone else, about arrangements for shipping. Then there was an email to forward and a schedule planner to check. She made notations, trying to blank him out as thoroughly as possible as he lay beside her, now staring up at the ceiling contemplatively as she sat up cross-legged on the bed, Blackberry tucked into her shoulder as she typed rapidly on her laptop. The sheet she was using to cover herself trailed down to her waist, leaving most her back bare. The tendrils of her bed-tossed hair curled over her shoulder-blades, tickling her back whenever she shifted. And her cool, methodical voice went on at regular intervals, calmly organizing what promised to be a productive if harried day. He waited.
At almost seven, she hung up with someone and turned over her shoulder to look at him. "Would you like some coffee?" she asked, as politely as if he hadn't spent the night leaving his mark on every inch of her. His eyes were fixed on the sky outside, watching the storm-clouds build over the river. The view was spectacular, and her eyes followed his gaze too. The massive moss-covered trunk of the oak-tree outside her window shaded most of her bedroom balcony too, the overhanging branches draping the small alcove outside her room with the fresh scent of dew on leaves. Through the leaves you could see the rainwashed city streets, the tree-lined avenues, and from high up here, the river in the distance. Today everything looked grey and yet oddly light and clean.
"Do you really think you can just blank me out?' he asked. It was a deceptively mild question, no anger there. Yet. She looked at him steadily. His hands were folded on his chest, like the most patient of saints. He was still looking at the grey river.
"I have to leave in an hour," she replied, carefully not looking at either her laptop or her phone. He transferred his gaze from the middle distance to her face. "You can't stay here after that."
He didn't answer that, just idly kicked his sheets off and swung out of bed. She watched him lope out of the room without a word. Sounds of splashing came through the open bathroom door. She got out of bed herself and went to make coffee. When she came back, holding two fragrant, steaming mugs, he was sitting on the edge of her bed, buttoning his shirt. He looked up when she came in, and she halted abruptly.
His make-up was gone, his face scrubbed clean of the cheap paint. And his hair was damp and stringy, but noticeably brown. With astonishment she noticed that the ends were actually a little curly. He looked wary, but held her gaze steadily enough. She set the coffee mugs down with hands that trembled just a little, and he stood to face her, shaking his wet hair out of his face. She noticed that he'd picked her clothes from last night off the floor and dumped them on a chair. Somehow, this struck her as absurdly touching.
She gestured vaguely towards the mugs, not knowing what to say. And he only stood there, his hands stuffed in his pockets in an oddly defiant way, staring her down. He shrugged.
"Take me as I am," he said offhandedly, making a joke of it. But it was a question, she thought, it must be, otherwise he wouldn't watch her like he was waiting for her to say or do something in reply. Carefully she smoothed her hands down the side of her silk robe, trying to figure it out. Decisions, decisions, she thought. She gave him a tentative half-smile, lifting a hand to brush her hair back out of her face. His scarred cheeks creased too, but only slightly. His eyes fell on her arm, and as he registered the bruising there, his expression grew still more watchful.
"Does it hurt?' he asked, voice giving nothing away as he gestured to the marks of his fingers. She shook her head mutely, not wanting to rush into speech. He looked away, down at the laptop still on the bed, then at the floor. She walked over to him, standing squarely in front of him till he was forced to look directly at her. Then she raised her hand to trace his scars. He looked at her steadfastly while she did so, not moving, not touching her, not doing anything.
"Do I repulse you?" he asked, so matter-of-factly that she hardly registered the relief in his expression when she laughed and said no, of course not, quite the opposite, but it was time he left.
He put his hands on her arms, holding her away from him. His mouth twisting, he said, "I meant it, you know. If anyone else touches you, I will kill them."
She nodded gravely, hands fingering the collar of his shirt. "I know," she said. She reached up on tiptoe to brush her lips against the scarred corner of his mouth. "None of that matters."
He kissed the top of her head briefly. "I'll see you soon,' he said. She nodded again. Then he let go of her and she heard him walk out of the apartment. With presumably the same keys he used to get in, she thought, trying to suppress a sudden glad feeling that kept cropping up most disconcertingly. Oh, christ. She shook herself vigorously. And now to work.
