Passionate Protectors?

by Anne Mather

  ‘You’re doing just fine.’ He raised his glass of ruby-red Chianti to his lips to imbibe a fortifying sip. ‘How long have you been working at the bank?’

  ‘Ten years.’

  ‘That’s a long time doing something you dislike.’

  ‘Too long.’ Eyes cast down, Megan put her fork to the side of her plate and smoothed back her hair. How much she disliked her work had been made crystal-clear to her this morning, after that unnecessary little contretemps with her boss.

  ‘Why do you stay?’

  ‘Apart from my fears of not being good enough to do anything else? Because I need to make a living, of course.’

  ‘You could make a living doing something you enjoyed. Ever thought of that?’

  Her eyes grew even darker. ‘Of course I’ve thought of that, but I just didn’t have that many options before…’ She curled her fingers around the fragile stem of her wine glass and fell silent. She didn’t want to talk about Nick, or her disastrous marriage, and she instinctively knew this was where the conversation was leading. She glanced up to see a frown cross Kyle’s handsome face.

  ‘You’re a beautiful intelligent woman. You could do anything you wanted to do if you put your mind to it.’

  ‘You make it sound so easy.’

  ‘It is.’ Kyle shrugged. ‘It all comes down to choice.’

  ‘Yeah…I could even run the London Marathon if I wanted to!’ Megan glanced away, appalled at her outburst when Kyle was clearly only seeking to help. But there hadn’t been so much as a flicker of surprise on his coolly implacable face.

  ‘All kinds of people run the Marathon—even disabled people,’ he said quietly.

  ‘So you think of me as disabled?’ The hot press of tears pricked the back of her eyelids and Megan’s hand squeezed the napkin on her lap into a tight ball.

  ‘I was using the term merely to make a point,’ he answered calmly. ‘What I’m trying to illustrate is that people make their own limitations. It’s how you think of yourself that matters, not what anyone else thinks of you. If you’re staying in a job you hate because you’ve convinced yourself you don’t have any other options, then you may as well lock yourself in a box and throw away the key.’

  What he said made sense. She knew it did. But she still didn’t see how she was going to change so easily. Marriage to Nick had robbed her of any kind of self-worth. It would take time to rebuild it again, time and patience and probably a lot of hard work.

  God, she was sick of hard work! What she really wanted was a rest. No—strike that. What she really wanted was the time and the space to make her dream of being a painter come true. Everything else paled into insignificance against that.

  ‘Your painting blew me away.’

  A muscle worked in the side of one smooth bronzed cheek and Megan’s thoughts came to an abrupt standstill.

  ‘I had no idea what you were capable of. I know artists—professional artists—who would give their eye-teeth to create work like you produced last night. Such talent is a gift. I know. I’ve been around art and artists for long enough to know it when I see it. If you’ve got all that inside you, Megan, you owe it to yourself to bring it out.’ He wasn’t just talking about the skilful execution of the painting either; he was predominantly thinking about the power of the message.

  Somewhere between breathing in and trying to breathe out again, Megan’s breath got suspended. When she did finally exhale the air whooshed out of her in a heated rush. Her cheeks two spots of hectic colour, she stared at Kyle as though he’d just explained to her the meaning of the universe.

  ‘You think I might—I mean that I could—maybe do something in the future?’

  ‘I think you definitely could have a future in painting.’

  Once again the unbidden craving came to him for a cigarette. It was excitement, he realised. The pure adrenaline rush of being in this woman’s company and wanting so much more than conversation. A woman who had as much passion inside her as the dark-haired beauty sitting opposite him would be a hell of a lover to any man who shared a similar passion.

  Kyle felt the sudden demanding heat of arousal in his groin. If he wasn’t careful he was going to find it bloody difficult to stand up without drawing unwanted attention to himself. His gaze travelled over Megan’s melting brown eyes, with their thick sweeping lashes, down her straight little nose to the sexy mouth—her burgundy lipgloss almost wiped clean—her plump lower lip damp with tantalising moisture from her wine. Further than that he dared not go. Already the quietly maddening effect of her softly floral scent was driving him slowly crazy with want. If it had been any other woman he would have had no hesitation in letting her know that he wanted her, but Megan Brand was not just any other woman. More than that, Kyle really wanted to help her make it as an artist. Forcing a more personal relationship at this stage would probably not be in her best interests.

  Damn! He really wished he had that cigarette!

  ‘You don’t know how much it means to me to hear you say that I might be able to have a future as a painter. It’s like a dream come true. I mean, I know I’ll need to work hard and everything, but now I know there’s a glimmer of hope I won’t ever give up. Do you think—what I’m trying to say is—I mean, would you be willing to help me? I’d obviously pay you; that goes without saying…’

  She stared down at the table, suffused with sudden embarrassment at even asking for such a man’s help. He must have far more important things to do with his time than spend it helping a fledgling artist struggle to express herself. Especially one as emotionally wounded as she was.

  ‘Do you really think I’d want you to pay me?’ Kyle’s jaw clenched tight, and any expression of empathy in his gold-flecked eyes quickly disappeared. ‘If I were to help you in that way I wouldn’t want payment. I’d do it because I recognise a God-given talent when I see it, and everyone deserves a chance to shine in this life. I’d do it because it would give me pleasure as well as immense satisfaction. On that understanding alone I’m willing to extend my time and my knowledge. That clear, Miss Brand?’

  Exhilaration and fear swamped her at the same time—as well as remorse that she might have offended him in some way because she’d offered him money for his services.

  ‘I—then, thank you. I accept your offer…Kyle.’

  Kyle’s heated gaze swept her with a look of such burning intensity that underneath her clothing Megan’s stomach muscles clenched tight, as if he had physically touched her.

  ‘I hope you find the rewards are worth it,’ he murmured, unable to stop himself feeling as though he were about to throw her to the lions.

  The art world could knock you down just as quickly and as cruelly as it could build you up. But then, Kyle had distanced himself from the need for anyone’s approval—let alone an organisation of pompous fat cats who wouldn’t know how to draw a straight line across a blank sheet of paper, never mind compose a picture of such exquisite impact as Megan’s. Fame and money, he’d discovered, were singularly unhelpful distractions. He’d still paint, even if he lived in a garret without a penny to his name, and it felt good to know that.

  Raising his glass to his lips, Kyle tipped it back to savour the rich dry burst of flavour that flooded his mouth, knowing without reservation that if it was Megan’s destiny to make it as an artist she’d do it with or without his help. But, all things considered, if she had to have a mentor there was no doubt in his mind he would prefer it to be him than anyone else.

  Chapter Four

  MEGAN woke suddenly, her brow and the back of her neck drenched in perspiration. Feeling as if she were suffocating, she kicked back the soft plump duvet that had bunched round her middle, swung herself round to sit at the edge of the bed and almost cried out in agony at the pain that was stabbing through her leg. Excruciating didn’t begin to describe it.

  ‘Dear God, please!’ Blinking back helpless tears of desperation and pain, she pulled back her modest white cotton nightdress and started to rub both hands
up and down her leg in a bid to somehow try to ease her agony.

  The raw-looking scars crossing her knee, plus the two others snaking up her thigh, only served to highlight her distress. Megan squeezed her eyes shut in dismay and hung her head. It was still a shock to see them there, and each time she did her stomach took a sickening dive as memories of that dreadful night came flooding back.

  ‘Damn.’ Her curse was a grated whisper. She moved her head slowly from side to side and her dark hair slipped like a shroud round her ashen face, as if to ward off further torment.

  Automatically, as on every night she couldn’t sleep, her bleary eyes sought out the illuminated green digits on the alarm clock that sat atop the pine chest of drawers. The exercise was a form of self-torture, really, and three o’clock in the morning was a particularly bad time for her. It was the time when all her demons came to haunt her. One by one they would confront her, torment her, blinding her to all ways out in a bid to take possession of her mind. Was that why they called the dead of night the Witching Hour? Nice one, Megan. Scare yourself witless, why don’t you? Ah, God, this pain was making her crazy, its intensity almost unbearable. As much as she hated the idea, she’d have to go and find her painkillers. There was no other way on earth she was going to get back to sleep otherwise.

  In the kitchen, she sat at the breakfast bar, her hand shaking slightly as she swallowed down two plain white capsules with a glass of water. They’d make her drowsy, because they were particularly strong, but right now that was no bad thing. She was minus her robe, and gooseflesh dotted her bare arms in response to the cooler night-time temperature, but truth to tell the cold was the last thing on her mind. She’d give anything for this pain just to go away—disappear for good, never to torture her again. God forbid that she might have to face a third operation. Every day she prayed her leg would heal better, faster, so that dreadful prospect wouldn’t manifest into a reality, but the way the pain was searing through her right now, things honestly didn’t look too hopeful.

  The flat was deathly quiet apart from the sound of an occasional car driving past into the night. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that made a person withdraw inside herself even if she didn’t want to. Megan stared at her glass of water, her eyes burning with tiredness, her mind racing.

  Penny was spending the night with Ryan, her architect boyfriend, so Megan had the place to herself. Usually she didn’t mind being on her own but right now, when sleep seemed to be nothing more than a dim distant land that she had no hope of visiting anytime soon—at least not until the painkillers kicked in—she could have done with her friend’s cheering company. Penny had a way of dishing out comfort and consolation that was second nature, and Megan had succumbed to her friend’s kindness on more occasions than she could possibly recall.

  Despondency washed over her. The trouble was, every throb of agony in her leg reminded her why it was there. At this ungodly hour of the morning, with no one else to distract her from such tormenting introspection, it was unlikely that she could hold back the clamouring memories of her ex-husband. Nick. The man she’d once been so enamoured with she’d given up her longed-for place at art college just because he’d told her to. The man who’d turned all too soon from an attentive besotted lover to a philandering, untrustworthy, cruel alter ego. She could scarcely believe she’d contemplated having children with him…

  Children. Somewhere inside Megan agony of a different kind threatened. Hardly a day or night went by when she didn’t think about the baby she’d lost. But she’d grown adept at forcing the pain away, relegating it to a dim room in her mind, because how else was she going to get through each day otherwise? Discovering she was pregnant right at the end of her marriage, when she’d known there was nothing left worth salvaging, had been a shock—but a secret joy, too.

  It had happened one night when Nick had been drunk and Megan at a particularly low ebb. She hadn’t had the heart to even fight him off—a fact she was mortally ashamed of. But although the prospect of bringing up a child on her own was nothing to cheer about, she had had the strength of mind and determination to do it. Much better to be a loving single parent than inflict a cruel egotistical bully on her child for a father. She’d deliberately not told Nick about the baby because she’d been terrified he would find a way to somehow take it away from her when the child was born.

  But he hadn’t even waited that long, had he? He’d taken her child from her before she’d even had a chance at life…

  Megan covered her face, numb with pain that was no longer just physical. It didn’t seem right that Nick had made a new life with Claire while Megan was still suffering all the trauma of physical injury, as well as bereavement, with no possibility of recovering from either condition any time soon. The icy cold tentacles of her loss wrapped themselves around her heart, squeezing unmercifully. She gasped out loud at the force of her feelings as wave after wave of unbearable hurt rolled through her.

  Losing the precious baby she’d been carrying had been the ultimate devastation. Somehow, a broken leg seemed like nothing in comparison.

  ‘Don’t think about it Megan! Not now…not ever!’ Berating herself out loud, she pushed herself off the stainless steel barstool, shock eddying through her as her leg gave way beneath her. Her hand reached out in desperation just at the right moment to grab the edge of the breakfast bar. The lightning reaction stopped her from hitting the floor.

  Easing herself back down onto the stool, perspiration beading her brow, she took several deep gulps of air to help steady her pounding heart. This wasn’t good…it wasn’t good at all. She shouldn’t be on her own. She should call someone…Penny had left her Ryan’s number somewhere. She remembered pinning the white scrap of paper onto the cork noticeboard by the kitchen telephone.

  Glancing across the wide expanse of black and white tiled floor to locate them both, Megan wondered how a room of reasonably generous proportions could suddenly turn into the size of a ballroom when she had to contemplate getting to the other side of it with the assistance of just one good leg. But she didn’t dare put her bad leg onto the floor—the last thing she wanted to do was to end up face-first, unable to get up again.

  Time seemed to pass with excruciating slowness. Every tick of the clock on the wall passed in an eternity of anguish and indecision. She couldn’t ring Penny at this hour of the morning. It wasn’t right. Saturday was the one day she spent totally with Ryan; the last thing Megan wanted to do was intrude into her precious weekend with her boyfriend.

  But who else could she call? Right now, just the sound of another human being’s voice at the other end of a telephone would be wonderful. Staving off the urge to cry, Megan gritted her teeth to ease herself gingerly off the stool. With her injured leg hoisted as far off of the floor as she could manage, she started to hop slowly, the pain in her leg jolting a merciless reminder with every step she took.

  Finally, her body damp with perspiration from the effort, she reached the opposite counter and the telephone. As she scanned the various numbers scribbled onto odd bits of paper pinned to the board her dark eyes fell almost automatically on Kyle’s number. Penny had pinned up the postcard offering his services, with a yellow sticker above saying in red pen ‘Remove at your peril!’

  Megan cracked a smile, even though it was the last thing she felt like doing. But ring Kyle? Had she totally lost her mind? It was the early hours of the morning. The man was bound to be in bed fast asleep. Maybe he wasn’t even alone…

  The thought that he might have female company made Megan bite her lip so hard she drew blood. Unexpected jealousy cut a swathe through her insides like a hot blade, stealing her breath. What could it possibly matter to her whether he was seeing someone or not? They didn’t have that kind of relationship. Kyle was her teacher. He was going to help her with her painting. He’d offered to tutor her purely in a professional capacity, even though he hadn’t actually let her pay him yet.

  But, all that aside, the urge to ring the man who had been oc
cupying most of her thoughts since the moment she’d laid her eyes on him was almost too overpowering to resist. If he could just spare a moment or two to talk…

  Megan frowned, her hand curving irresistibly round the cream-coloured telephone, her body tense with the effort of propping herself up against the edge of the marble worktop.

  ‘What will I say?’ she muttered aloud to herself, hand trembling. ‘He’s not my doctor—how could he possibly help?’

  But that didn’t really signify. Suddenly all that mattered was that she heard his voice. That she had access to a listening ear. And if it couldn’t be her best friend Penny, then for some inexplicable reason she knew it had to be Kyle.

  She punched the number on the keypad quickly, before she chickened out and changed her mind. Hearing it purr at the other end, she didn’t know which was louder—that or the erratic pulse of her heartbeat.

  ‘Do you know what the hell the time is?’ All of a sudden his deeply sexy voice rumbled like a bear in her ear. She heard something clunk to the floor in the background, heard a further string of frustrated expletives. She almost put the phone down. Almost…

  ‘Kyle.’ Megan stared at the nondescript oyster-coloured blind pulled down over the narrow kitchen window, shutting out the dark—disconnecting her from the rest of the world.

  ‘Who is this?’ There was a sudden alertness in his voice that overrode the sleepy undertone.

  A vivid picture of him sitting up in bed drawing an irritated hand through his tousled chestnut hair flashed up in Megan’s mind. Would he wear pyjamas or did he sleep naked? Oh, Lord! Perhaps it wasn’t such a good thing to be ringing him after all. A hot stab of pain radiating up her thigh just then reminded her brutally of why she was calling, and brought her nocturnal fantasising to an abrupt end.

  ‘It’s Megan. Megan Brand.’ She added her full name as an afterthought, suddenly anxious he wouldn’t remember who she was. He probably had lots of clients; who was she to think she might be any more special than anyone else?