nothing to feel guilty about. But logic was a cold comfort, and despite my attempts to distract myself and stop thinking about it, I was brooding myself into a deep, dark funk.
I tried everything I could think of to occupy my mind with something else, but Emma’s death loomed over me like a massive shadow blocking out the light of the sun.
And then, as I sat on my couch with my computer on my lap and clicked from one website to another, looking for my magic potion of forgetfulness, I clicked by the page where I’d seen the ad for the Indian art exhibit at the Sackler, and I remembered the mixture of comfort and passion I’d experienced in Jamaal’s arms last night, before he’d pulled away from me yet again.
Jamaal had a way of occupying my mind like nothing else in the world did, and as I closed my eyes and tried to remember every touch and caress, every word, every scent, every sound, the rest of the world seemed to fade away. He was such a hard, angry man, and yet his lips were deliciously soft, his hands gentle. I shivered in remembered pleasure, wishing I had kept my wits about me and not touched his scars.
How would things have worked out if I hadn’t made that crucial mistake? If Jamaal were an ordinary man, I knew exactly where things would have led, but Jamaal was anything but ordinary, and there was more than just his scars holding him back.
I was very aware that I was reaching for a distraction, looking for an excuse to end my self-imposed isolation, but it occurred to me that Jamaal had probably gone back out to the clearing to practice with Sita this afternoon once I was safely out of the house. There was good reason to think she might be a bit cranky today after our aborted attempt at romance. I wondered if there was any chance she would take her anger out on Jamaal if I wasn’t around. The thought sent a chill of alarm through me.
Was my sudden concern nothing but a big, fat rationalization, an excuse to fling myself at Jamaal when he’d made it clear he thought we should maintain our distance? Yes. But I didn’t care. I needed a distraction, and Jamaal was the biggest, best distraction I could imagine.
It was a little after eleven at night when I rapped on Jamaal’s door. It didn’t occur to me until after I’d knocked that some people like to get a full night’s sleep and go to bed at a reasonable hour. I had the vague impression that Jamaal was a night owl, but I didn’t have much evidence to support it.
If he didn’t answer the door, should I assume he was asleep? Or should I worry that my fears were more than a flimsy rationalization and Sita had hurt him?
Luckily, I didn’t have to make that decision, because the door opened, and Jamaal stood there in all his manly glory, looking good enough to eat.
He hadn’t been in bed yet, or he wouldn’t have gotten to the door so fast, but he had changed into a pair of plaid pajama bottoms topped with a wife-beater. Instinct told me he wore the top to cover his scars, even in his sleep, and the thought made me hurt somewhere deep inside.
“What do you want?” he asked curtly when I just stood there in his doorway staring at him.
If I’d come down just because I was worried Sita might have hurt him, I could turn around and go back to my room now. He was obviously fine. Besides, he was blasting out keep-away vibes so hard I couldn’t possibly miss them.
“Did you practice with Sita while I was gone today?” I asked, instead of acting on the unsubtle message.
Jamaal sighed and rubbed his eyes like he was tired. I didn’t think he was. I didn’t feel like standing in the hall, so I pushed past him into his sitting room. The door to his bedroom was open, and I could see that the covers on his bed had been neatly pulled back. Jamaal was the kind of neat freak who makes his bed every day, so I knew this meant he’d been about to turn in for the night.
“Go to bed, Nikki,” Jamaal said, a hint of pleading in his voice.
“Tell me what happened with Sita. Was she pissed off because of last night?”
Jamaal looked like he wanted to strangle