Men of Intrgue A Trilogy by Doreen Owens Malek Read Free Book Online

rasped, slumping against the wall behind him and closing his eyes. “Helen, get out of here. Shut the door and leave me alone.”
    Helen obeyed because she didn’t know what else to do. She went into the living room and sat down woodenly, wondering what would happen next. In the space of a minute everything had changed between them.
    Still in the bathroom, Matteo rubbed his mouth with the back of a trembling hand, then reached for the new shirt that Helen had bought for him. He started to remove the pins from its folds, then threw it on the floor in frustration.
    So much for his lauded self control. He had been deluding himself that if he could just get away without touching her, everything would be all right. But of course that had focused all of his concentration on avoiding physical contact, which was the same thing as pining for it every moment. Restricting himself to affectionate embraces and kisses on the cheek had only inflamed him more. He had been injured, but he was far from dead. Every day of his recovery had brought him closer to acting on his feelings and finally he had.
    It didn’t help to know that he would still have to leave her, and thanks to this incident, more bereft and alone than ever. He could tell that she wasn’t used to letting people get close to her. From what she had told him of her life, she obviously preferred her own company. He couldn’t blame her. Her background was hardly conducive to instilling faith in enduring relationships. She wasn’t cynical or jaded, just understandably wary. But circumstances had changed her perspective in his case, before she even realized it, and now it was too late. The tie was there between them, indestructible, permanent. She had saved his life. There was no more to be said.
    Matteo scratched around the edges of his bandage, his expression bleak. The healing skin was itchy, but he barely noticed what he was doing, his mind racing. His whole adult life had been dedicated to one goal. It had never occurred to him that anyone or anything could interfere with his desire to reach it. Until now.
    He understood with a deep sense of alarm that he didn’t want to leave Helen. The realization was revolutionary, disturbing. No single person had ever meant enough to him to threaten his purpose. He was used to thinking in terms of hundreds, thousands; individuals got lost in a scheme like that, even when the individual was himself. But Helen, with her gentle persuasion, had reminded him that he was a man, who needed not just commitment to noble ideals but love, too.
    He picked up the shirt, wincing as a knife blade of pain shot through his injured arm, and slipped it on, careful to slide it slowly over his wound. The thing was a constant annoyance.
    Matteo had no patience with physical infirmity, and consequently he frequently compounded any illness he had by getting up too soon—or never lying down in the first place. This instance was certain to be no exception. He was planning on leaving the next night, well before any doctor in his or her right mind would have let him out of bed. But in a real sense his imminent departure was flight; flight from the one woman who could become more important to him than his cause.
    He finished dressing, taking about five times longer than usual because his arm, and his general weakness, fought him all the way. He emerged from the bathroom to find that Helen had changed to an oversized T-shirt that left her slim, tanned legs bare and was sitting at the dining table, making notes on a yellow legal pad. She didn’t look up as he came into the room, but said, “Would you like some lunch? I bought sandwich rolls and cold cuts at the store.”
    He realized she was going to pretend that nothing had happened. Well, that was probably for the best, and he decided to go along with it.
    “That sounds good,” he answered, his resolution lasting until she got up to walk past him and he saw that her brief outfit barely grazed her hips,