Free Dangerous Temptation by Anne Mather

there, he couldn't help wondering what it was he'd seen in her face. He was convinced now he had seen something, and the thought occurred to him that she might have been afraid. But afraid of what? Of him? Of his condition? What kind of man had he been before the crash?
    He looked at his hands, examining them, as if the answer might be found within their trembling grasp. What if he was a violent man? A wife beater? Dear God, was that the reason she'd looked so—strained?
    Once again, the old fears threatened to overwhelm him. And once again, he managed to fight them back. Yet his sanity was in danger; he felt it. Even if he believed he wasn't a violent man.
    He caught the man in the next bed watching him warily, and he realised he must look strange, staring at his hands. Thrusting them under the bedclothes, he offered the man a wry grimace. If he wasn't careful, he'd prove what he was trying so hard to refute.
    Even so, another thought had occurred to him. His hands might not tell him what manner of man he was, but they did hold clues to the kind of work he'd done. His hands were hard, but he didn't remember seeing any calluses, and his nails were free of oil and grease. Which pointed to the fact that he wasn't a manual worker. Was it possible if he thought about an occupation he might have some success?
    He made a salutary effort to swallow the stew and greens they served at lunchtime. But the meat was tough, and the greens were floating in their own juice. He seemed to remember that hospital food was always unappetizing. Could that mean he'd been in hospital before?
    An hour later, he'd achieved no conclusions, either about his occupation or about whether he'd been in hospital before. It was like butting his head against a brick wall, which, come to think of it, was what it felt like had happened. His brain felt thick and mushy, just like soup.
    He elbowed himself into a sitting position. It was almost visiting time again. The man in the next bed hadn't had a visitor the day before. In fact, he didn't think he'd had any visitors at all. He turned to him, preparing some friendly remark of commiseration. And then saw the woman walking toward him down the ward.
    It was her.
    Caitlin.
    His wife!
    He swallowed convulsively and immediately wanted to go to the washroom again. Christ, he was like a kid, getting excited just because she was here. It wasn't as if she was doing him any favours. For God's sake, she was twenty-four hours late!
    But immediately on the heels of this came the awareness of his own shortcomings. He should have made an effort to improve his appearance while he had the chance. The nightshirt he was wearing was hospital issue. But what the hell! He usually slept in the raw.
    The question of how he knew that was overwhelmed by his delight at seeing her. For almost forty-eight hours, he'd lived in anticipation of this moment, and for all his brave attempts to motivate himself, he admitted he needed her now, probably more than ever before.

4

    Lisa Abbott stood at the sitting-room window of her fourth-floor apartment, watching the rain dancing on the balcony outside. The plastic table and chairs that furnished the small balcony were dripping with water, and it was hard to imagine now that she'd actually sunbathed from that very spot.
    Of course, that had been months ago, she acknowledged dourly. Since then, she had had plenty of time to complain about the English weather. Why didn't it snow, for God's sake, instead of this interminable rain? The dampness seemed to have invaded the apartment and seeped into her bones.
    Still, the weather mirrored her mood, she thought grimly, crossing her arms over her slim body. Was it really only weeks ago she had felt so optimistic about the future? She'd been so happy; so sure nothing could go wrong.
    Tears pricked at the back of her eyes. She should have known she was tempting fate. Oh, yes, she knew she should be grateful that Nathan was still alive, but why the hell hadn't