Tears stung her eyes and the effort of not crying made her throat burn. Only she was not going to cry—not in front of him.
‘Actually, Mr Milburn—’
The calm, bland expression on his face made her pulse shiver. ‘Why so formal? I think we went past the “Mr Milburn” stage when you decided to get all warm and cosy in my bed.’
Her jaw dropped. She felt heat in her face, in her throat. Oh, but he was a horrible, horrible man.
Folding her arms, she took a deep breath. ‘It’s not my fault, Mr Milburn, that you’re some boorish oaf who throws his guests out into the rain.’
He gave a bark of laughter. Only she knew he wasn’t amused.
‘Boorish oaf?’
The air crackled between them, and the snap of current mirrored the lightning forking through the sky outside.
His eyes narrowed and he stalked towards her.
Standing up, she held out a defensive hand. ‘Stop—’
But he kept on coming as if she hadn’t spoken, and she was struck again not just by his size, but by the sense of purpose beneath the layers of muscle and sinew and skin and by the intent in his eyes.
He stopped in front of her. ‘Boorish oaf...’ he repeated softly, his expression arctic. ‘I just saved your life. Or have you forgotten how close you came to drowning?
Of course she hadn’t.
For a few half-seconds she replayed the press of his hard chest against her cheek and how his arm had shielded her from the storm raging around them.
Her skin felt suddenly hot and tight. He had been so solid, so large. And, as ludicrous as it sounded now, he had seemed as implacable as the storm. As uncompromising and unyielding. She had wanted to burrow beneath his skin. To stay in the endless stretch of his arms with her head tucked under his chin...
Her heart bumped against her ribs. It was because he was implacable and uncompromising and unyielding that she’d been out on the causeway in the first place.
‘You wouldn’t have had to save my life if you hadn’t been so horrible.’
His gaze raked her face like the lamp from a lighthouse.
‘I think the word you’re looking for is truthful,’ he said coldly.
He ran his hand over his face, as if he wanted to wipe her out of his eyes, and her breath caught. She hadn’t noticed it before but three of the fingers on his left hand looked too short, the tips oddly flattened.
She shivered inside. What kind of man was she dealing with?
‘You know...’ he spoke slowly, his dark gaze locking with hers ‘...I thought you were just some clueless airhead who was hoping to get her claws into my soft-hearted brother.’ His hard voice echoed around the room. ‘But you are a child. A wilful, reckless child who wants everything her own way and when that doesn’t happen throws a tantrum.’
The expression on his face made her skin sting. ‘I—I’m not a child and I wasn’t throwing a tantrum. I made a mistake—’
‘And mistakes cost lives.’ His voice was cold, each word more clipped than the last. As if he was biting them off and spitting them out. ‘You’re lucky it wasn’t your life.’
Frankie blinked, tried to breathe, to swallow, but it was as if her heart was blocking her throat. She felt sick. It was true, and part of her had wanted, needed, to hear the truth for so long. Only it hurt so much more that she could have imagined.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, and even though she was warm she was shivering again.
For months she’d been trying to hold it all together, but now she could feel her control starting to unravel—here in this room, with this stranger.
‘You’re right. I wasn’t thinking about anyone but myself. I just wanted to go home. Only I can’t—’
Not back to London. Home, home. But she could never do that again.
He was staring at her with those unyielding grey eyes and she took a shaky step backwards. What was she thinking? Had she really been about to tell Arlo the truth? Him, of all people? A man who clearly thought she was not worth saving.