The Player - By Rhonda Nelson Page 0,22

herself if it became downright unbearable.

Which was a distinct possibility, she thought, as her thighs tensed with the ache of unfulfilled expectation.

With a helpless half-laugh, half-sob, Audrey bit her bottom lip, then held her breath and sank beneath the water. She stayed there until her lungs burned and her focus had shifted to the ache in her chest, opposing the one in her loins. Ah, she thought, pushing the hair away from her face when she finally emerged from the water. Much better. Her lips formed a weak smile. Nothing like a little dunk to help one get their perspective in order. Drastic times called for drastic, not altogether sane, methods.

Did she still want Jamie? Of course. And she grimly suspected that the more time she spent with him, the more she could expect that malady to worsen. But at least her head was clear enough for the moment to try and put a defense in order, to get her head fully in the game, so to speak.

Because regardless of how badly she might want him, she’d never slept with a guest before and she damned sure wasn’t going to start now.

Not this guy. Not this time.

Not Jamie Flanagan.

Yes, it was unfortunate that he’d mysteriously managed to awaken her inner porn star—when she hadn’t known she’d even had one—but Audrey knew she’d simply have to wrestle her IPS back into submission with truckloads of guilt and a stringent professional attitude. Jamie was here because he needed help. Help, dammit, not sex.

Above all else, she needed to keep that in mind.

Furthermore, she needed to talk with her grandfather and find out exactly what had happened to Jamie’s friend. Merely losing him couldn’t account for that wretched sadness she’d glimpsed in those gorgeous eyes earlier this evening. Granted no doubt losing a close friend would have put it there, but not to the extent she’d seen—or felt. There was something more, something else that haunted him and dogged his every step. In fact, though the Colonel had sent him here, Audrey didn’t think her grandfather was even aware of the full extent of Jamie’s pain.

Clearly Jamie had gotten good at covering it up, but that’s what most hurting guys did, right? If they couldn’t beat the pain into submission, pound it into the ground or simply ignore it away, they hid it. God forbid they ask for help, she thought. Help indicated weakness. Jamie, in particular, she knew, wouldn’t be able to stand that, perceived or otherwise. What the fool didn’t realize was that it took strength to ask for help. Men, she thought with an eye roll. They had the emotional intelligence of a goat.

Audrey toed the drain open and levered herself out of the tub. She dried off, then wrapped herself in a towel and, rather than do the sensible thing like dress for bed, she strolled to her kitchen window, inexplicably drawn. After only a moment’s hesitation, she nudged the curtain aside and stared down the hill toward Jamie’s cottage.

To her surprise he was sitting on the topmost step of his porch. The light illuminated his impressive profile in stark relief, leaving the rest of him in dark shadow. A bottle of whiskey—the Jameson she’d had to special order for him—sat at his side, and he held a tumbler of the flickering amber liquid loosely in one hand, allowing it to dangle in the deep V between his thighs.

To a casual observer he appeared unguarded and relaxed, but for reasons which escaped her at the moment, she knew better. It was all part and parcel of the image he liked to portray. Or maybe had to portray to keep up the status quo? She sighed softly and rested her head against the glass. That seemed more likely.

If he held it together and pretended like nothing was wrong, then it wouldn’t be. He’d be normal and the rest of the world could simply accept that he was fine, or they could go to hell. Audrey didn’t have any idea where these impressions and feelings were coming from—she seemed to be more in tune with him than with anyone she’d ever met before—but she knew her instincts were right on. Felt the familiar weight of grief and emotion—his grief and emotion—seep into her very bones.

She was siphoning already, she realized with a flash of dread, and she’d barely spent any time with him. That certainly didn’t bode well for the rest of the week.

God, why did this always happen to her?