Silent Run - Barbara Freethy [53]
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry for hurting you and ruining everything.”
He saw her blue eyes fill and steeled himself against those damn tears. He couldn’t stand watching a woman cry. “Don’t. I’m not going to try to make you feel better.”
“I don’t want you to. I just wish I could at least explain why I did what I did.”
“Nothing can explain it.”
“Maybe not, but I am sorry. For what it’s worth.”
“It’s not worth much,” he said harshly, because even though he wanted to believe her, he’d already made that mistake more than once and paid a terrible price. He couldn’t do it again. He was thankful Sarah didn’t give in to her emotions. Instead she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and stood
up.
“I’d better keep looking for some clues,” she said.
He watched her return to the dresser, going through each drawer with resolute determination. There wasn’t much clothing in the drawers, as far as he could tell, just the basics. He wondered what she’d done with the stuff she’d taken from their home.
Standing up, he walked over to the closet and opened the door. He rifled through a couple of dresses, some jeans, a few shirts, but none of them looked familiar. Had she worn these clothes when she’d been with him? Then he saw the large plaid shirt in the back corner of the closet, a man’s shirt, his shirt.
He caught his breath, imagining her in that shirt, the hem barely covering her ass, highlighting her beautiful long legs. He didn’t have to pull the shirt out to know that the top two buttons would be gone; he’d ripped them off one night when he’d thrown her down on the bed and made love to her.
His breath came short and fast at the memory. Fuck! He didn’t want to remember her in that way. He didn’t want to see his hands on her breasts. He didn’t want to remember what her skin tasted like, the way she moved restlessly beneath him, her soft mouth begging for release.
He slammed the door shut.
Sarah glanced over at him in surprise.
“Don’t ask,” he warned. He walked into the kitchen and filled a glass with water from the tap. He probably would have been better off pouring the cold liquid over his head, but at least the water was cooling him slowly from the inside out. Finally, composed, he refilled the glass and walked back into the main room.
“I thought being here in my home would help me remember,” Sarah said in frustration a moment later. She ran a hand through her hair, her fingers tangling in the curls.
Once again he was distracted by unwanted memories of wrapping the long strands around his fingers as he held her head to his. He blew out a breath and took another sip of water.
“It’s not working,” Sarah continued. “Maybe I wasn’t here long enough—only a few months. What I need to know is who I was before I met you, where I lived, my name, everything. The trouble had to have started long before, because otherwise I wouldn’t have lied to you.” She sat down heavily on the chair by the kitchen table, as if her legs were about to give out on her.
Sarah was exhausted, he realized, noting the dark shadows mixing with the bruises on her face. She was probably still hurting from the accident, and certainly her sleep the night before had been as restless as his. They’d had only a couple of glazed doughnuts for breakfast. As much as he wanted to keep charging forward, he knew she needed a break.
“Let’s get some food,” he said. “You look like you’re going to pass out.”
“Do we have time? I feel as if every second that goes by means another second that Caitlyn is in danger.”
“Yeah, I know, but your brain might work