The Player - By Rhonda Nelson Page 0,28

“Not at all,” he said. “Art is meant to be shared, after all,” he drawled.

Still smiling, Tewanda sidled forward and inspected the painting on the easel. The smile froze comically and she cocked her head and squinted, seemingly trying to make Jamie’s mountains into, well…mountains. Her eyes widened and a shocked laugh burst from her throat when she realized what she was looking at. “Oh, you did not!” she said, her voice equally flabbergasted and impressed.

Jamie chuckled at her. “Want to see my orchid?” he offered.

One look at the orchid made Tewanda dissolve into a fit of hysterical laughter. “He’ll have your beautiful white ass drawn and quartered for this, you know,” she finally told him when she could speak.

Jamie inclined his head. “Probably.”

“You don’t look nearly as worried as you should,” she added.

“Nothing worries me much anymore,” Jamie said lightly, but there was a truth in the humor which somehow rang very honest. It was a telling statement, Audrey thought, and filed it away for future consideration.

Tewanda sighed regretfully. “I’ve got to get back to work,” she said with one last look at Jamie’s orchid.

“Radio me if you need me,” Audrey told her.

She laughed. “Don’t I always?”

Audrey sidled into her friend’s vacated spot next to Jamie and inspected the mountains for herself. Like the orchid, there was a surprising amount of detail which told her that, while he definitely was a novice painter, he had quite a knack for capturing the female form. And since he was painting from memory, well…She instinctively knew he’d never leave a girl hanging.

He would be a guaranteed orgasm.

The mere knowledge made a shiver work its way through her.

“You cold?” Jamie asked.

Audrey shook her head, trying to clear it of before and after orgasmic visions of her and Jamie. “No, I’m fine.” She drew a bracing breath. “So…are you finished painting or would you like to try your hand at a banana?”

His eyes crinkled at the corners. “I’ll save the banana for later in the week.”

A self-portrait? Audrey wondered, her mouth watering. “All right, then. Let me take a look at your schedule and see what you’re supposed to do next.”

Jamie rinsed his brush off, then disposed of the water in the cup. “Aren’t you going to ask me what I want to do next?” he asked. He’d lowered his voice an octave and a curious invitation, one that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, rang through the deep, sexy baritone.

She paused, toying with the necklace around her throat. “I’m hoping you’re going to want to follow along with the schedule, but if it makes you feel better to tell me what you want to do, then by all means, go ahead.”

“Where’s Moses?” he asked, moving closer to her.

Audrey felt her brow wrinkle. “He’s at home.”

“Locked up tight, then?”

“Er…yeah.”

She lost a little more of her personal space as he crowded even closer in. “Can’t escape and tear my throat out?”

“No,” she said hesitantly.

Jamie’s finger slid up her neck, tilting her face closer to his, and rested under her chin. “Can’t interrupt?”

“R-right,” she murmured shakily, utterly mesmerized and rooted to the spot.

“Then, if you have no objections, I’d like to pick up where we left off last night,” he murmured softly, weaving his voice and the image he’d effortlessly conjured around her senses. His warm breath fanned against her lips and his body heat seemed to be magically absorbed into her own hot spots. Her nipples tingled, her belly grew muddled, and that throb in her womb hammered until she wasn’t altogether sure remaining upright without his support was going to be possible.

“Can I kiss you, Audrey?” he whispered, asking permission, of all things, when he could surely tell she had no objections. Making the choice completely hers. It was old-fashioned and noble and her heart squeezed with the kindness behind the gesture.

“Y-yes,” she breathed, unable to conjure the sane response.

And God help her, that was the last fullyformed thought before his lips touched hers and life as she’d known it abruptly ended.

JAMES AIDAN FLANAGAN had stolen his first kiss in third grade from a blue-eyed blonde who’d smiled with angelic wonder after his bold preemptive move—then immediately thereafter cold-cocked him for his impertinence. His nose had bled for half an hour and his mother—probably the hardest working person he’d ever known—had had to leave her job and come to the school for a “meeting” on his behalf.

Jamie had learned two important lessons from that singularly defining experience.

One, never