He began a creeping perimeter check. As he rounded the backyard, he caught movement and ducked into moon shadow beneath a tree canopy. Beside the car, a deer raised its head and froze. Its ears flicked.
A fucking deer.Merde.
He’d been a soldier too long, on edge too long. Hell, when had he not been on edge? The cold seeped from the grass into the bones of his feet. A duck called as it flew overhead, like a hyena’s squawking laugh. Eventually, the doe ambled off.
Jamie stayed hidden, though the deer would have bolted if there were people out here. He itched to reassure Samira. He forced himself to wait. A panic attack was recoverable. Failing to detect a threat was not.
Ah, Samira. The longer he spent with her the more he liked her, the more he wanted her, the harder it was to pull back. So much going on behind those deep brown eyes. Not a person you could know on first sight—or even after years—but the kind who revealed herself slowly, each layer more alluring than the last, until you were buried deep.
There was indeed a thing between them but he remembered all too well where acting on it had got them. If he hadn’t kissed her by the river, maybe he wouldn’t have scared her off, maybe he could have been there for her in the past year. And if he hadn’t been so eager to run when she’d pushed him away...?
Wait—if you had two one-night stands with the same woman, did they still count as one-night stands?
Just the kind of real-life dilemma he’d been merrily avoiding. He hadn’t allowed himself to miss normal life. He’d kept his body busy with work or training, his mind full of tactics and strategies and medicine. But Samira—she reminded him of that other dimension, of the magic of exploring a deeper connection with a woman who lit you up. She reminded him that you could truly bond with somebody only if you took the risk of laying your soul bare.
And no way was he doing that. Which only made him feel like he was deceiving her, all over again.
Far away a stag roared, a pained bleat that echoed around the bald hills above the tree line. The loch and cottage had changed so little he could be on a trip back in time. Any minute his mother would throw open the door and bellow for him and Nicole, her voice echoing like the stag’s. No dinner bell needed in the Armstrong family. They’d hear it wherever they were—launching themselves into the loch from the frayed rope swing, fighting epic battles in the ruins of the castle on the hill (or suffering through Regency balls, if it was Nicole’s turn to choose the game), spying on the posh holidaymakers around the loch at the country house.
He and Nicole would take turns rowing out with their dad to help him fish—as kids they fought over who got to go, as teens they fought to stay behind. In those later years, they’d moan about having to go to the loch at all but for him that was just for appearances. Here, his parents stopped worrying about work and money, stopped talking about his exams and football development squads and piano recitals. He no longer needed to be the best to make them happy.
He’d sure freed himself from that pressure.
You saidimpressive. Like you’re doing it to get approval.
Hell, maybe approval had been his first addiction, the first indication that something was wrong in his programming. Maybe his drug back then had been attention and acceptance, which had worsened as he got older, his gut heaving with that endless spiral of craving and risk and reward, churning up to tornado forces. And once a tornado had started, nothing known to science could stop it.
Shite. Reality and regret. Were there two bigger passion killers?
His head ached, like the cold was shrinking it. He rolled the syringe in his hand. How good would just a small dose be? A wee reprieve from the pain, the memories, the failures and betrayals.
Was that why he wanted Samira so badly? He wanted an anesthetic; she wanted an escape. She wanted to forget the immediate future; he wanted to forget the past. And he’d like to give her that reprieve as much as he’d like to take it. The idea of spending even one night peeling off her layers... He blew out a foggy breath and stood, rubbing his quads.
After one last check, he banged on the door. “Just a deer,” he shouted. “Nothing to worry about.”
Silence. Maybe she’d gone to sleep. That would solve the dilemma of what to do next. He could sleep in the car.
Quick scuffling footfalls, and the door opened.
“You were gone a long time,” she said, stepping back into the shadows.
“Needed to be sure.” He laid the syringe and gun and knife on the counter and bolted the door. Suddenly he had...butterflies in his stomach.Sonot manly. His body was going all-out fight-or-flight—adrenaline releasing, pulse soaring, blood racing to the limbs and brain and lungs. Digestion slowing, blood vessels constricting in his gut, his stomach’s sensory nerves complaining about the shortage of blood and oxygen. As ifshewere a greater threat than the goons. He turned, rubbing his hands together. And in one sense, she was. “I’ll stoke up the fire, will I?”
Fight or flight or see this through—what would it be?
As he worked, he sensed her standing behind him, as motionless as she’d been on the platform at the Gare de Blois. In the bathroom, he washed the soot from his hands. When he returned she was in the same spot, the fire and candles throwing a warm glow onto her skin and hair and dancing in her eyes. Dilated pupils—her autonomic nervous system firing up, just as his was.
“Jamie.” Her voice wobbled. His butterflies turned into locusts. “I want this—us, tonight.”
“You’re sure?” Washesure?
“This may be the only thing I am certain of right now. I’m just...” She slipped her hands in her rear jeans pockets and fixed him with a determined look, the same expression as when she’d stared at the computer screen. A woman who knew what she was seeking and just where to find it. Oh aye,nowhis blood was going to all the right places. “I just... I still feel...strange about doing this when La—”
She closed her mouth and inhaled fiercely through her nose. She was thinking about her fiancé.
And so what? She wasn’t looking for a replacement, just a distraction. And Jamie could absolutely provide that. The fire crackled, its warmth building. Slowly, he walked to her, pulling up an inch short. She dropped her gaze. She had to be the one to cross the gap, this time. No doubts. She smelled fresh, like shampoo. Tentatively, she rested her hands either side of his waist. He could see the touch of her fingers on his jeans but couldn’t feel it, it was that light. Their chests were heaving, like magnets trying to connect.
Cross the gap, Samira. Come to me.
