The Man Behind the Mask by Maggie Cox Page B

tea, and the strain on his face and the faint beads of sweat standing out on his forehead had shocked her. She hadn’t had to ask if he was in pain. The evidence had been staring her right in the face.
    As she had been about to leave him to go and make the tea, she hadn’t been able to help turning back and saying crossly, ‘I thought a therapist was meant to ease pain…not cause it!’
    â€˜What do you suggest I do?’ Eduardo mocked bitterly, lifting his injured leg onto the couch and barely suppressing a groan. ‘Fire him?’
    â€˜I’m sorry,’ she murmured, hurrying forward to help him, then felt redundant when she saw that he had already settled himself quite satisfactorily, without any aid from her. ‘I don’t mean to interfere.’
    â€˜You have appointed yourself my personal guardian angel I see,’ he commented, and before Marianne knew what was happening he had captured her hand, held it, then stroked her knuckles with the slightly roughened pad of his thumb.
    The sensual heat that ricocheted through her was like a ruthless thief, stealing every scrap of moisture from her mouth and making her heart hammer. Insideher cotton bra, her nipples stiffened hotly and pain fully. Never before had she experienced such a torrid reaction to a man’s touch. Her bones had turned fluid as a river, and it was hard to see how she remained standing she was so shaken.
    Before she could come to her senses Eduardo released her hand to fix a cushion more securely behind his back. Then he smiled at her… really smiled…and it was like being miraculously treated to a stunning glimpse of the real man behind the aloof, pain-filled mask that he normally wore. Her reason bound and gagged for debilitating seconds, Marianne experienced an almost un controllable urge to touch the skin round his jaw. She instinctively knew it would be like rough velvet. She wanted to smooth back the tantalising lock of dark wheat hair that had strayed boyishly onto his brow. So stunned was she by the power of that desire, she had to bite her lip and clench her hands to stop her from following its forceful command.
    â€˜I think that cup of tea would be most welcome now,’ Eduardo remarked, with just a hint of an amused curl of his lip, as though he was quite aware of the effect he had had on her and—shockingly—did not regret it in the least.
    Once she had reached on the other side of the closed sitting room door, Marianne had gratefully breathed again with more ease, leaning back against the oak panelling to compose herself. But it had been quite a few moments before she had been able to move freely again. Eduardo’s electrifying touch had all but set her onfire, and had been an utter revelation. Closing her eyes, she’d put her hand up to her throat and dreamily relived it again. At last, willing herself to move, she had dazedly made her way back down stairs to the kitchen.
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    In the early hours of the morning, with the long shadows from the stately trees reflected into the room by the moon light and the ticking of the bedside clock for company, Marianne was wide awake, and about as far from sleep as it was possible to be. With a resigned sigh she switched on the pretty fringed lamp on the cabinet next to her. Punching her feather pillow a couple of times to re in state its plump ness, she arranged it more com fort ably behind her back, then reached for her book. But her gaze couldn’t help straying towards her guitar, still in the same position against the wall where Ricardo had left it for her.
    It seemed like eons since she had played. Who would she disturb if she strummed a few gentle chords? Ricardo was away, and Eduardo’s rooms were on the floor above Marianne’s. Swinging her legs out of bed, her book discarded, quiet excitement gripped her at the idea of making music again. Perhaps if the snow started to disperse she could visit the folk club and get