Read Online Intimate Strangers by Denise Mathews - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Denise Mathews
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Why do I have these surges of anticipation running through me? What am I anticipating anyway
?
Sara looked around her. The room was bathed in a soft golden glow. The only other light in the room besides the candles was the lamp at her bedside. Sara wistfully reflected—if only life could be bathed in a warm golden glow, how nice it would be. The golden warmth smoothed over all the harshness. Candlelight has an effect on people that makes them speak in hushed tones and softens the hard edges of life, the side of life no one wants to admit is there but is reality. Sara shook herself out of her dreaming when she realized Roarke was speaking to her. "I'm sorry, what did you say?" She looked over at him.
"I said, a penny for your thoughts." Roarke leaned back in his chair, his eyes hooded by his long dark lashes.
"I was thinking about candlelight. It makes everything seem so much warmer. Did you ever notice there are no harsh lines in candlelight? Everything is smoothed out and softened." Sara stopped self-consciously. Her candlelight philosophy sounded so absurd when she said it out loud.
Roarke seemed amused. "Candlelight also makes dark corners and some people would be frightened by that. The kind of people who have to have everything right out in the open, with every corner well lit, every secret exposed. Don't dark corners frighten you?" Roarke looked at her intently.
"Dark corners! Roarke, don't you understand my whole life, my whole existence is one large dark corner." Getting up from her chair, Sara grasped her cane and limped over to the balcony window. "I know you find all this hard to believe, but it's true. You think I'm playing some kind of terrible game, but I tell you, I'm not." Sara turned toward the window so he couldn't see the tears that had gathered in her eyes.
Roarke leaped to his feet and stood in front of her. He placed his hands on her shoulders. "Look at me, Sara," he demanded.
She couldn't disregard the command in his voice. Slowly she turned with the faint pressure of his hands and looked deeply into his eyes. Her eyes sparkled in the glow of the candlelight, the unshed tears barely contained, misery echoing in every line of her thin face.
Roarke moved his hand from her shoulder and cradled her face with his palm. "Sara…" he groaned. Gently he gathered her into his arms and held her head against his heart. "Sara, I want to believe in you, I want to trust you again."
Sara pulled away and raised her face to look at him. "Why can't you believe in me? What did I do to you to make you doubt me? Please tell me, I have to understand what there was about me that would make you distrust me. Please, Roarke, please! Can't you understand I need to know?" Sara's eyes pleaded with him, her hands gripping his forearms.
Again he moaned her name and gently pulled her to him, his face an anguished mask.
There was a tap on the door and Bradley and Martha came in with their meal. Roarke drew away from Sara and she sagged inwardly, deflated from frustration, wondering what he had been going to do or say. It was the first time since she had come home that he'd been this open with her—open enough at least for her to feel sufficiently safe to expose her fears to him. They went back to the table and sat in silence while Bradley pushed the cart over to them.
Martha busily uncovered dishes and Bradley checked the champagne bottle to see if it needed replacing. Sara could barely control the urge to cry and tried to concentrate on Martha's chatter about the dinner, hoping to divert her stormy thoughts.
Roarke seemed to share her frustration; his movements were abrupt as he lit a cigarette. "Martha, Bradley, thank you for this, however, we will serve ourselves. I'll ring if we should need anything else."
What was his hurry to get rid of them? It didn't matter if they were alone or not. In Sara's mind their moment had been ruined and she despaired of ever having another chance to convince Roarke that he could trust
?
Sara looked around her. The room was bathed in a soft golden glow. The only other light in the room besides the candles was the lamp at her bedside. Sara wistfully reflected—if only life could be bathed in a warm golden glow, how nice it would be. The golden warmth smoothed over all the harshness. Candlelight has an effect on people that makes them speak in hushed tones and softens the hard edges of life, the side of life no one wants to admit is there but is reality. Sara shook herself out of her dreaming when she realized Roarke was speaking to her. "I'm sorry, what did you say?" She looked over at him.
"I said, a penny for your thoughts." Roarke leaned back in his chair, his eyes hooded by his long dark lashes.
"I was thinking about candlelight. It makes everything seem so much warmer. Did you ever notice there are no harsh lines in candlelight? Everything is smoothed out and softened." Sara stopped self-consciously. Her candlelight philosophy sounded so absurd when she said it out loud.
Roarke seemed amused. "Candlelight also makes dark corners and some people would be frightened by that. The kind of people who have to have everything right out in the open, with every corner well lit, every secret exposed. Don't dark corners frighten you?" Roarke looked at her intently.
"Dark corners! Roarke, don't you understand my whole life, my whole existence is one large dark corner." Getting up from her chair, Sara grasped her cane and limped over to the balcony window. "I know you find all this hard to believe, but it's true. You think I'm playing some kind of terrible game, but I tell you, I'm not." Sara turned toward the window so he couldn't see the tears that had gathered in her eyes.
Roarke leaped to his feet and stood in front of her. He placed his hands on her shoulders. "Look at me, Sara," he demanded.
She couldn't disregard the command in his voice. Slowly she turned with the faint pressure of his hands and looked deeply into his eyes. Her eyes sparkled in the glow of the candlelight, the unshed tears barely contained, misery echoing in every line of her thin face.
Roarke moved his hand from her shoulder and cradled her face with his palm. "Sara…" he groaned. Gently he gathered her into his arms and held her head against his heart. "Sara, I want to believe in you, I want to trust you again."
Sara pulled away and raised her face to look at him. "Why can't you believe in me? What did I do to you to make you doubt me? Please tell me, I have to understand what there was about me that would make you distrust me. Please, Roarke, please! Can't you understand I need to know?" Sara's eyes pleaded with him, her hands gripping his forearms.
Again he moaned her name and gently pulled her to him, his face an anguished mask.
There was a tap on the door and Bradley and Martha came in with their meal. Roarke drew away from Sara and she sagged inwardly, deflated from frustration, wondering what he had been going to do or say. It was the first time since she had come home that he'd been this open with her—open enough at least for her to feel sufficiently safe to expose her fears to him. They went back to the table and sat in silence while Bradley pushed the cart over to them.
Martha busily uncovered dishes and Bradley checked the champagne bottle to see if it needed replacing. Sara could barely control the urge to cry and tried to concentrate on Martha's chatter about the dinner, hoping to divert her stormy thoughts.
Roarke seemed to share her frustration; his movements were abrupt as he lit a cigarette. "Martha, Bradley, thank you for this, however, we will serve ourselves. I'll ring if we should need anything else."
What was his hurry to get rid of them? It didn't matter if they were alone or not. In Sara's mind their moment had been ruined and she despaired of ever having another chance to convince Roarke that he could trust
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