Never to Love by Anne Weale Page B

clean it up for you,” she retorted with some asperity.
    Justin allowed himself to be hustled into her bathroom and, making him hold his hand over the basin, she unwrapped the stained handkerchief, biting her lip at the sight of the long gash from knuckle to wrist.
    “This ought to be stitched. There’s bound to be a doctor in the hotel or somewhere near. I think we should call one,” she said anxiously.
    “Think again,” he said tersely.
    Andrea opened her mouth to protest, but his black brows drew together in such a forbidding scowl that she thought better of it and began to administer what first aid was possible with her limited equipment.
    “There, that’s the best I can do, so don’t blame me if you get blood poisoning,” she said crisply, pinning the end of the improvised bandage into place.
    “No, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.” The scowl had gone and there was a glint of laughter in his eyes as he rolled down his shirt sleeve and fumbled with the cuff link.
    “I’ll do it.” She pushed his good hand aside and fastened the link.
    He watched her clean the basin and wash her hands.
    “What would you have done if that chap had beaten me up?”
    “I’ve no idea. Run for help, I suppose.”
    “Most women would have had hysterics at the outset.”
    “Most men would have handed over their wallets. I believe you enjoyed it.”
    “It’s a long time since I’ve had a scrap like that. I doubt if you would understand. In spite of civilization, the primitive urge to fight is still pretty strong in most men. Like a woman’s instinct for homemaking and child care.”
    “I don’t see how anyone can enjoy violence,” she said with a shiver.
    “Would you have preferred me to let him get away with it?”
    “No, I suppose not,” she admitted reluctantly. “He deserved to get some of his own medicine. But it was still a hateful thing to happen.”
    He explored the deepening bruise on his cheekbone and winced slightly.
    “If I have a black eye tomorrow they’ll think you’ve been knocking me about.”
    “Let me look.”
    With gentle fingertips she touched the place.
    “Short of putting a piece of steak on it, I don’t think there’s anything we can do.”
    “Never mind. It isn’t the first crack I’ve had.”
    He took hold of her wrist and held her hand against his cheek. She could feel the clean-cut line of his jaw, and the roughness of stubble. For a long moment their eyes held, hers concerned, his unreadable. Then he moved her hand so that his lips were against the palm.
    The other day when he had kissed her hand, she had taken it as a gesture for Leonie’s benefit. Now they were alone, and the pressure of his mouth sent a faint tremor down her spine. What he had said was true. She was afraid of him. Not so much of his anger or passion but of something in the man himself, some hidden force which she sensed but could not understand.
    “Our plane leaves at midday. We’d better get to bed,” he said, letting go of her hand. “Have you an aspirin or something to help you sleep?”
    “I will be all right.”
    “Thanks for patching me up. Good night.”
    “Good night.”
    She waited to hear the bedroom door close and then turned to the mirror and stood gazing at her reflection as if to find the answer to her question in the troubled green eyes looking back at her.
    They landed at London airport in the early afternoon, and it was while they were driving home that Justin told her that he had arranged for her rooms to be decorated during their absence.
    “I hope you’ll approve of my choice,” he said. “Naturally you can make any alterations you want to.” She was surprised and pleased, but could not help wondering why he had not told her earlier and consulted her taste.
    Hubbard was waiting to welcome them and said that tea was ready in the library.
    “Could it wait for a few minutes? I’d like to see my room,” Andrea said.
    “By all means.” Justin led the way upstairs.
    He had shown