Nothing stirred. Nothing spoke. Kathryn held her stance a minute longer. Then she let out her breath in a long, explosive sigh. Her hands fell from her hips. It was silly, she knew, but now that it was over, she was shak—
"Hello, Catherine."
The voice behind her was deep, masculine, and frighteningly familiar.
The hair rose on the nape of Kathryn's neck. Slowly, slowly, she turned around.
A shaft of late afternoon sunlight illuminated the staircase, falling like a spotlight on the man coming down the steps towards her.
He was tall and golden-haired; he was handsome enough to steal her breath away. He was wearing black tights and high black boots and a shirt with ruffles at the neck and at the cuffs...
And she could see the stairs right through him, see the pattern on the Persian runner...
"Must I introduce myself, m'lady?" He paused on the bottom step, his tone cool but his green eyes hot on her face. "Surely you have not forgotten my name."
"Certainly not," Kathryn said, in a voice that was very clear and calm. "You're Matthew McDowell."
Her eyes rolled up into her head and she tumbled to the floor in a dead faint:
Chapter 8
Hell and damnation!
Matthew managed to catch Catherine in his arms just as she crumpled to the floor. She felt as boneless as a rag doll.
"Cat," he said urgently, "speak to me."
Was this what he had been reduced to, then, terrorizing women?
His heart hardened. And it was all her fault.
He carried her into the drawing room and deposited her none too gently on one of the settees. Then he rose to his feet and stared down at her, his arms folded and his legs apart.
"All right," he said coldly. "You've done your swooning act.
Now open your eyes."
She didn't stir.
"Do you hear me, Cat? Stop this nonsense and look at me."
She lay there, as still as death.
Matthew frowned. There was no satisfaction in this. There was a vast difference between taking revenge and scaring a woman senseless.
A man could not be proud of that.
It was true, he had acted precipitously, coming down the stairs and revealing himself to her, but her taunting words had stung him.
She deserved retribution for that alone. As for the rest—what did it matter when he confronted her?
Except that there could be no confrontation, not when Catherine lay senseless on the settee.
His gaze flew to her face. She was so pale that her dark lashes seemed to cast purple shadows against her cheekbones.
"Cat?"
She didn't answer. She didn't so much as stir.