Lovers' Dance (2 page)

“Are you coming?” Matt paused, then disappeared down the hallway. I hurried after him, then came to a standstill at the first open door.

“Wow,” I murmured, peeking in. The living room—if you could call it that—was bigger than my home’s whole downstairs, tastefully done in muted greys and black with a splash of colour coming from the numerous paintings on the walls.

“Madi.”

I jumped, feeling guilty at snooping. Matt glanced at my dress, then asked, “Would you like to clean up?”

I nodded. Cleaning up sounded like a great idea.

“After which I’ll take you home, and you can call the police to make a report—”

“No way. I want to forget what happened.”

Matt frowned at me. Grey. He had grey eyes, almost silver grey. His frown deepened at my scrutiny, and I blurted out the first thing that came to my lips.

“You’re big. Like giant big.”

I got an arched eyebrow. Matt took a couple of steps back in my direction. “And you’re short. Even in those ridiculous heels, you barely reach past my shoulders.”

I glanced down at my heels. They weren’t ridiculous. I grimaced and lifted one lower leg up behind my back to undo the clasp. Matt’s eyes widened as I balanced effortlessly on one heel while undoing the other.

“I’m a dancer,” I explained. One heel off, now the other.

Matt raised both eyebrows at me. “What sort of dancer?” he asked blandly.

My head snapped around at the tone in his voice. “I’m a ballet dancer, not that sort of dancer,” I said, making no effort to hide the offense in my tone. “Are you a racist? I mean, do you think all black girls shake their butts up and down a pole? Because white girls do that, too. Why would you think that? Do I look like an exotic dancer? A stripper? Is that what you think?”

“Calm down,” he ordered sharply, then his expression gentled. “You don’t look like a stripper, and I apologize if my words seemed insulting.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. Yeah, right.
What was I doing here?
Maybe the blows I had suffered to my head had knocked something loose in my brain.

“In fact, I think you’re exceptionally beautiful, even with puffy eyes and bruised cheeks.” He turned on his heels and headed for the stairs, but not before I noticed his eyes widening for a second. Huh, why did he do that? I followed at a slower pace, not knowing where we were going and losing track of where the front door was.

“You can clean up in here.” Matt abruptly flung a door open to reveal a large bedroom that was at odds with the muted colours downstairs. There were warm browns and yellows, with a hint of green courtesy of large plant-filled vases situated around the room. “Bathroom’s through that door.”

Then he was gone. I closed the door and stood there for a moment. Was this a guest bedroom or his? Upon entering the ensuite, I forgot about whose bedroom it was and stripped off. The shower was hot and welcomed. I used the shampoo and conditioner that was on a glass ledge, then scrubbed myself clean, feeling much better when I turned off the shower. Dripping wet, I balked at the idea of putting back on my vomit dress.
Shit. I hadn’t asked for a towel.

I sloshed over the tiles and opened the door cautiously. There on the bed was a thick pink bathrobe that hadn’t been there before. And a towel. I grabbed the towel, drying off quickly before wrapping it around my hair and pulling on the robe. Pink? Did he have a girlfriend? Guys don’t have pink robes…unless they swung that way. No, even if he was gay, I couldn’t picture him in a pink robe. Matt oozed masculinity like it was going out of style. It had to be a woman’s. I was wearing some random chick’s robe. That was an unsettling thought as I made my way out of the room.

“Matt?” I called. No answer. I ventured down the carpeted hallway to the room at the end. The light was on and the door slightly ajar. I knocked softly.

“Matt?” Still no answer. I pushed the door open further and stuck my head in. Stark was the only word for it, maybe sterile. This room was larger than the one I’d been in and the walls were white, the furniture a mixture of black and white. The bed was huge with a balled up towel left haphazardly on the edge of the black satin sheets. The towel was the only untidy thing in the room. Jeez, even the pristine white carpets were fluff free. How could carpets this white stay white? I glanced across the room at the ensuite. The door had been left wide open, but I couldn’t see or hear anyone in there.

Then I spotted the walk-in closet with the doors also left wide open. I looked down at the pink robe I sported and guiltily headed for the closet. Maybe I could find a shirt or something to wear instead of this pink monstrosity that another chick used…

<><><>

Matt finally found plasters after searching the cabinet in the downstairs loo. He hurried to the guest room and felt surprised alarm when he found the door wide open with no one inside it.
What the hell? Where was she?
Backing out the room he noticed his bedroom door gaping open down the hall. She’d probably gone looking for him after cleaning up. Matt strode towards his room, plasters in hand with what he hoped was a friendly, nonthreatening smile on his face. She was jumpy; one couldn’t blame her after the night she’d had. A rush of anger ran through him as he remembered those arses attacking her.
What was wrong with the world?

He entered his room, mouth parting to call her name when he froze. She was in his closet, slipping off the robe he’d left her with a towel wrapped around her head. She hadn’t heard him enter, too busy taking down one of his shirts. Matt’s eyes were fixated on her nakedness. Although he felt like a pervert for staring at her, he couldn’t look away, the bright lights overhead giving him a clear uninterrupted side view of her dark-skinned slender body.
Bloody hell. She was perfect.
His body reacted with an intensity of arousal that left him light-headed. What was wrong with him? Mentally berating himself, he couldn’t move from where he stood, gaze locked on the woman shrugging on one of his shirts and buttoning it up. He watched as she opened drawers, lips pursed as she found the one with belts. She picked one up and grimaced when she realized it was too big before dropping it back untidily in the drawer. Then she pulled down a silk tie and knotted it around her waist. Matt was trying his best to ignore the almost painful hardness in his pants and forced himself to quietly back out the room, shaken from his unexpected reaction to the stranger in his room. And thoroughly aroused over the contrast of the white shirt against her dark skin.

In a sort of daze he made his way downstairs, confused over the sudden desire to run his hands over that spectacular arse of hers. He ended up in his kitchen, pouring a shot of whiskey that he gulped down without an appreciation for its fineness. An image of her popped before his eyes, an image of her on his bed with his hands roaming all over her. He swore softly and poured another shot. Matt downed this one too with a shake of his head. This was what happened when he was too busy to engage in his usual bedroom activities with his usual conquests. He was fantasizing about a black woman who obviously had no sense of judgement. Walking around that area, on her own, at that time of night…
who does that in London?

Matthew Bradley was wealthy, spoilt and arrogant. Used to getting his own way in work and in his personal life. His family’s businesses were well-known throughout the world and he lived in an elite social class that few were allowed entry to. You were born into it. Matthew Bradley was privileged. And privileged men like him didn’t lust after women like the one in his bedroom upstairs. Only she wasn’t upstairs anymore. He could hear her calling his name tentatively and the throbbing below his waist threatened to overwhelm him.

He hid his lower anatomy behind the counter and said loudly, “I’m in the kitchen.”

Matt remembered with embarrassing guilt, the way he had stared at her sleeping form when parked up in front his house. Even then he had been fascinated by her stunning features, forcing himself to keep his sight on her face and nowhere else. Now, having seen her naked, he wanted to know what it felt like to have her legs wrapped around his waist while he…
What was wrong with him? How could he be thinking like this about an injured woman he’d saved a mere few hours ago?
Pulling his mind out of the gutter he arranged his features into a polite mask and awaited her arrival.     

<><><>

I had a moment’s worry at Matt’s reaction to me wearing one of his shirts with his tie in lieu of a belt, and running shorts that I’d knotted at one side of the hip. His clothes swamped me, but I couldn’t go around in that pink bathrobe and my clothes were icky.

“Hi,” I said, walking into the kitchen with my clothes bunched up in one hand. “I hope you don’t mind me borrowing your clothes.”

He shook his head, mouth pressed into a thin line as his eyes followed me. Was he annoyed? I started to babble while resting my dirty clothes on the counter. “I didn’t want to wear your girlfriend’s robe—”

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” he interrupted smoothly.

I tried not to look shocked. “So, uh, the pink robe is yours?”

Matt’s lips tugged at the corners. “No, it’s for my friend. I can find you clothes that fit if you want.”

“Aaah,” I drawled with a knowing look. “And does your friend have a hairdryer here?” I gestured to the towel on my head.

He nodded. “Would you like me to get it for you?”

Feeling at ease with my strange rescuer I nodded back. “So clothes and a hairdryer. She’s your girlfriend.”

“No, she’s not,” he shot back a bit sharply, then grinned at me to take the sting out of his words. I couldn’t help but grin back. He had a nice smile.

“Yes, she is,” I said emphatically. “Or she wants to be. Seriously, Matt, when someone starts leaving clothes and stuff at your place, they’re planning on moving in. Soon.”

“And what do you know about that?” he asked, fiddling with something in his hands. “You barely look eighteen.” His face abruptly lost its previous joviality and he was back to looking sternly at me. “Wait, exactly how old are you?”

“Twenty-six.”

His disbelief was obvious, as was the wariness creeping into his silver grey eyes. “Try again.”

“I’m twenty-six,” I repeated indignantly. “Do you want to see my license?”

“Please.” He had stopped fiddling with whatever he was holding and was folding his arms across that broad sweater-clad chest of his.

“Seriously?” I couldn’t believe this, but the expectant air around him didn’t dissipate so I went to recover my purse which I’d left on the pretty little table in the foyer. When I returned Matt was pacing in front the sleek island in the centre of his kitchen. Barefoot and without makeup, I knew I probably looked younger than my age, but not jail bait young. “Here it is. I must say I’m insulted that you think I’m lying about my age.”

I held it out to him, trying my best to wipe the scowl off my face as he snatched it from my hand and scanned it intently. A look of relief covered his face for a second then his gaze travelled up and down my form.

“God. You’re tiny.” he murmured.

I scowled at my rescuer. First he implies I lied about my age, and now he was cracking on my height. “I’m a ballet dancer. We’re tend to be short. It’s not my fault you’re freakishly tall.”

He placed my license on the counter, picked up a plaster and stuck it to the cut on my head. “All better.”

I blinked a few times, unnerved by his nearness. He smelt nice, really nice. He was devastatingly handsome, too. I wasn’t into white guys, never saw them in that way. But, standing close to Matt with his fingers gently touching the bump at my temple, I was getting uncharacteristically hot.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go to the hospital?” he pressed. “Or call the police?”

I shook my head, uncomfortable by my body’s strange reaction to him. Matt moved away. “I think you’re making a mistake, but it’s your decision. Would you like something to drink before I take you home?”

I glanced at the bottle of whiskey. Heck, after the night I’d had, it was deserved. Without asking I took his glass, filled the tumbler to the rim and chugged it down under his astonished observance.

“Ack.” I gasped, feeling the burn all the way down to my stomach. “That’s good whiskey.” My eyes streamed and my tongue felt numb, but damn, it was some top-notch booze.

“I meant tea or coffee.” Matt huffed and eyed the level in his whiskey bottle. I reached for the bottle, but he snatched it away before my fingers could close around it. “Let’s put this away for now.”

I drained the last few drops in the glass, then hopped onto one of the stools on my side of the counter while he put his depleted whiskey away. I flopped over, resting my head on the cool granite worktop and sighed loudly. “Those guys would’ve hurt me badly.”

<><><>

“What was that, poppet?” Matt asked absent-mindedly, then froze in the act of closing the cupboard door.
Did he call her poppet? What the fuck was wrong with him tonight?
He turned around, hoping she hadn’t heard his slip of tongue, to see her slumped over the counter resting her towel-wrapped head on her arms. She’d rolled the sleeves of his shirt up and, again, he marvelled at her petite frame. An unexpected feeling of protectiveness swamped him and he glided over to where she sat. She raised her head, brown eyes glassy with unshed tears as she watched him.