Games People Play (10 page)

He leaped up and followed her.

“Why?” he asked, catching her elbow.

“You know why.”

“I wouldn’t hurt you.”

Self-loathing ate into his conscience. He thought of Amelia and kept talking. “There’s this thing between us, Sydney. From the start. It’s keeping me up at night.” A truth, but not enough to banish the mortal sin of the lie he offered her every day. And now that he knew the pain she carried from her past . . .

Wretch.

He lowered his voice, heard the same husky tone emerge from his throat that he used on his clients at Avalon. “You know what I think about when I lie awake?”

“Don’t say it.”

Don’t say it. Let her out of this trap, let her run free.

Amelia would go to a nursing home when the money stopped coming in.

“I think about touching you . . .” He traced the curve of Sydney’s eyebrow with a single finger and she shivered, her face upturned to him, asking for his kiss, yet ready to turn it aside again.

“I think about tasting you”—he leaned to murmur in her ear—“and making you cry out with pleasure . . . ”

“I said don’t.” She drew back and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her wool coat. “Even if this were the passion of a lifetime, Colm, it’s not going to work. Do you honestly think I’d go bounding into an affair with the man Max hired to model for my next show? He’s trying to help me.”

“Hell of a way to do that,” Colm said shortly.

“But I do think he is, in his own messed-up way. So I won’t betray him. He and I . . . it’s ending, but not until I can do it right. We’ve gone too many miles together.”

He didn’t answer. The half-decent being still alive inside him wanted to lay down the truth about her beloved Max.

“I’m sorry,” he told her as he rose from the merry-go-round. “I won’t touch you again until you ask me.”

She gave a dry laugh. “You really think I will? Come on, Colm.”

“Let me see you home safely and I’ll leave you alone.” More lies. Even though it was dark, he imagined he could see the doubt die in her eyes and knew she trusted him to do just that. The hustler in him knew this wasn’t over. She was gullible. He would have her under his hands and mouth, twist her and mold her into exactly what he wanted.

Exactly like Max Beaudoin had for four years—only Colm would do it in nine days.

Chapter Eleven

S
ydney couldn’t sleep.

Four hours after she and Colm shared a tension-choked walk home, she kicked free of the binding covers and climbed out of bed. The wood floor creaked under her feet loud enough to wake the dead, but not even a phantom would be interested in her sleeplessness.

Downstairs, she flipped on the kitchen light and blinked in its high fluorescent glare. The room was cavernous. Who needed such a big kitchen? Three people lived in this house. She, Max, and Hans. Three. The kitchen would never know the sounds of children, either. Once upon a time Sydney had believed she could change Max’s mind—change him. But the subject of children, the impasse they’d reached, had ceased to even matter with his accident, like a child in its own right the way it took her attention, her time, her devotion, every cell of her soul.

Now, again and at last, the relationship was over. When he came home from Chicago, she would tell him good-bye. As friends, if he would allow it, but no more so-called lover, and no more puppet master. It was all she knew for certain in her existence on this damned planet.

Sleep tonight was a fickle friend. She headed back upstairs to dress.

When she stepped outside and drew the massive front door closed behind her, the world outside was hers. Wind rifled through the dried autumnal canopy overhead as she swung her flashlight along the path to the studio. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked.

Beyond the trees, Colm’s cabin windows glowed golden and muted, reminding her of one of those clichéd, mass-produced prints that somehow still appealed to her haggard artist’s heart. His cabin looked warm and welcoming.

Sydney changed direction at the last minute, away from the studio and toward Colm. The fallen leaves crunched beneath her tennis shoes as she approached the small guest cabin and slowed to see if she could spot him through the open curtains. The TV was on. His bare feet were braced on the coffee table in front of it, his ankles hemmed by pale blue pajama bottoms. Although she couldn’t see all of him, she knew he was slumped down on the sofa so that the back cushions caught the nape of his neck, one hand resting on his flat stomach. Even from the porch steps, she could hear the low murmur of his voice, the conversation indecipherable but the tone low, intimate. He was obviously on the phone, talking to a friend. At this inappropriate hour, a very special friend. Someone uncomplicated who deserved such intimate attention, not a woman entangled in a mess with Max Beaudoin.

Feeling like a fool, she backed away and headed for the studio. Inside, she jacked up the heat, set the canvas of the ménage against the wall, and uncovered Colm’s portrait, then put it on the easel to look at it. It could still be salvaged from the other night. She played with her brushes, trying to decide if she wanted to work on it now, while night waned and dawn threatened, and a few yards away, Colm was the only other person awake in the world.

Then she remembered the way the champagne had made her feel the night of her last show—that she could do anything, even stand under a beautiful man’s piercing regard and discuss genitalia. Hers.

A new bottle of Shiraz in the cabinet, via Hans, would have to do.

Soon she was settled down with a plastic cup of wine and a fresh palette of paint. She put on some Joan Baez, poured herself more wine, organized her supply area . . . poured herself more wine, changed her mind about working on Colm’s portrait, tried to stretch a canvas and felt too silly and loose-muscled all of a sudden to deal with hammer and nails.

By the time the bottle was three-quarters empty, she sat perched on the barstool again, staring at the portrait. She did need to fix the smudges from where she’d thrown it on the floor. The part that wasn’t ruined looked just like him, especially the eyes and the collarbones. Collarbones? The thought made her smile. She stopped abruptly when the room tilted a little. His lips looked good, too, but there was no way to capture their resilience in two dimensions. They were so soft, and God, did the man know how to kiss, with sinuous tongue, with soft invasion, which meant he probably did everything else with the same thoroughness and care.

He shouldn’t have kissed her earlier. She certainly hadn’t given him a signal to do so. Had she? Maybe she should ask him. After all, he was awake. Maybe she should come clean and tell him that he was creating all sorts of problems for her, and by God, if anyone was going to rock her boat, it would be her own damned self, not some man. Men were pain-in-the-ass wolves, thieves, and liars, and she could hardly tolerate them.

Well, some of them.

She turned off her work light, shut off Joan Baez, and headed out of the studio without bothering to lock it.

The guesthouse porch light was still on, but the windows were dim. It didn’t stop her. One knock, two, the second one significantly sharper, and then Colm answered the door. She’d obviously awakened him. His short hair stood in spikes and he squinted at her in the amber porch light glow. “Here to play truth or dare again?” He glanced at his watch. “At four a.m.?”

Sydney swayed and grabbed the side of a porch rocking chair, which instantly listed her sideways. When he caught her elbow and straightened her, she shook him off. “I’m here to say . . . to tell you off.” God, she sounded tipsy. Deep down, the part of her that wasn’t buzzed completely panicked. What was she doing?

“I have a few things to say,” she continued, sounding less confident with every slightly slurred word. “Some truth and some other stuff.”

His mouth twitched. “Okay. Do you want to do this inside, or out here on the porch where it’s freezing?” He glanced at her breasts in her thin sweater, and she instantly went hot all over. She would not look down to see if her nipples were as perky as he’d implied.

She looked down. They were.

“Inside, if you don’t mind.”

The living room with its fifties hunting lodge décor set a cozier scene than she remembered from the couple of times she’d been in the guest cottage. Hans had decorated it and lived there a brief time while the big house was being built three years ago. The man had a surprising eye for creating atmosphere with his hunter green and gold plaids, the red chenille sofa and maple tables.

The only light in the room was a small hurricane reading lamp beside the sofa and the flickering glow from the fireplace. Much too intimate, she decided, and turned to leave . . . just in time to see Colm shut the door and lean his back against it.

“Have a seat,” he said.

“No, thank you. I’d rather stand.” But the floor rolled beneath her, so she perched carefully on the sofa arm. “I have things to say.”

“I’m ready.” He pressed his palm against his abdomen, that muscled, six-pack sculpture Sydney would never, ever touch, or caress, or lick. Especially no licking, even though she knew his flesh would be tough and smooth under her tongue.

She waved a hand. “You shouldn’t have done that . . . that thing at the playground.”

His smile widened. “What thing, Boss?”

“Don’t call me that.”

He sobered and looked at her, the fire’s dancing glow reflected in his eyes. “What thing, Syd?”

As if he didn’t know. She hated when he spoke to her quietly and softly. It made her go all light and funny inside. “You know what thing. The kiss.”

Colm pushed away from the door and came to sit a proper distance from her, on one of the old-fashioned rocking recliners. It squeaked under his weight when he leaned his forearms on his knees and said, “I know. It was an unfair thing to do, and I apologize.”

She opened her mouth to argue and realized there was nothing to contradict, so she stared at the fire rather than the flames in his green, green eyes. “Does that mean you wish you hadn’t done it?”

He didn’t reply, just sat there and watched her.

“Say something,” she ordered, and finally he straightened, but before he could speak, a wave of nausea brought burning wine into her throat. She swallowed a few times but it didn’t help. God, she was going to throw up. She leaped to her feet and bolted for the hallway. “Bathroom!”

She didn’t wait for his directions. The first door she opened was a closet.

“End of the hall on the right,” he said calmly, and she made it to the toilet just in time.

Sydney had heaved the last of that godforsaken wine when she became aware of his bare feet to her right, then his long, strong legs in those low-slung pajama bottoms, then the rest of him. Damn, she hadn’t shut the door.

“You can’t be in here,” she groaned.

“Oh, but I can. This is my cabin for eight more days.” She sensed him move, heard the sound of the water splashing in the sink, then jolted as something cool and damp touched her nape.

“Just a washcloth,” he said.

It did feel good. “Go away.”

A gentle hand settled on her back. “Think you’re done?”

“I’m definitely empty.”

“Why did you drink all that wine?” Damn that voice. Soft and low, soft and low. The way he would kiss her body if she let him.

She quickly flushed the toilet and got to her feet with his hand at her elbow to help. “I’m confused. About stuff. Not about you, of course.”

“Of course not.” He opened a drawer in the vanity and withdrew a toothbrush and toothpaste. “Brushing my teeth always helps me feel better after I puke my guts out.”

A warm flush seeped from her cheeks to her ears. “I did not.”

“Did too.” He paused in the doorway. “Come to the kitchen when you’re done.”

She didn’t want to go to the kitchen, she wanted to run like hell for home. Why was she here again? Oh, yes. Because she couldn’t stay away. And she was tipsy. And he was a magnet and apparently she was a shaky paperclip sculpture like the one on Max’s desk in the library. All tangled, clingy pieces and confusion.

She brushed her teeth, and he was right, it did make her feel better. When she stopped in the kitchen doorway, Colm swung open the fridge, reached inside, and handed her an ice-cold sports drink.

“To replace the electrolytes you lost. Now hold out your other hand.”

She obeyed, and he dropped two aspirin in her palm. “For the thundering headache you’re going to have if you don’t take these.”

Obediently she took the pills, then he handed her a piece of fluffy, delectable smelling bread. “Plain white bread.”

She preferred whole grain.

“This stuff is glue in your gut,” she said flatly, but took a reluctant bite. Oh, it was soft and so delicious in that starchy, loaded-with-preservatives way she remembered from childhood.

A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “I’m so sorry I don’t have brioche or croissants, Your Highness. Eat the whole thing or your stomach will hate you in the morning.”

She stood in sulky silence and finished the bread. Then he led her by the hand, unresisting, to a darkened room near the living room.

When Sydney saw the queen-sized bed, she immediately stepped backward and bumped into him. “Are you kidding?”

“No,” he said, “and you’ve got a dirty mind.”

“I can’t spend the night here.”

“Why not?”

“How will it look?”

“To who? Hans? I don’t think he’ll rat you out.”

“He told you I was at the playground,” she said. “He’s the enemy. He cannot be trusted.”

Colm studied her. “Maybe he’s the only one you
can
trust.” Then, “Are you going to sleep or not?”

While she stood there, dancing a mental jig of indecision, he went to the closet and pulled out a couple of blankets and a pillow. “I’ll wake you up in a couple of hours so you won’t have to take the walk of shame back to your house in the blazing sun.”

“But . . . I can’t take your bed.” She sat down on the edge and closed her eyes. “Where will you sleep?”

“Sofa, remember? You’re fading fast. Lie down.” He slipped her unlaced Keds from her feet and helped her stretch out.

“I’ll only lie here a minute,” she said, without opening her eyes.

“Uh-huh.”

The weight of a blanket settled over her, scented with cedar and so soft and warm. She snuggled into it and drifted off, but not before feeling him push the hair away from her face. No one had tucked her in since she was a kid. Months had passed since anyone had touched her so tenderly. Sure, she’d feel embarrassed later. But for now . . . oh, it was sweet. He was sweet.

She slept.

* * *

S
ydney awoke at daybreak with a bitchy little headache and what felt like a mouthful of cotton. The floorboards creaked under her as she crept to the bathroom, where she found he’d left her a fresh washcloth, her toothbrush, and mouthwash.
Nice birthday present,
she thought.
Happy birthday to me.

She scrubbed her teeth and swished, wiped her face, drank a glass of water, and felt human again. She vaguely remembered Colm saying he’d wake her before sunrise, but when she peeked into the living room and saw him still asleep in the sliver of golden dawn peeking through the curtains, his long form cramped up on the too-small sofa, she couldn’t blame him for sleeping through his promise. All she wanted was to climb back into his cozy bed and snooze till noon.

Max was out of town. Hans wouldn’t tell. She already knew the valet had her best interests at heart. Before she went back to bed, though, she had to get a good long look at Colm.

She crept closer, her footsteps muffled on the living room’s braided rug. He slept on his right side, still bare-chested, his pajama bottoms slid low on his hip. Even utterly relaxed, his body remained hard and sculpted.
Art at rest,
she mused, her gaze taking in the bulge of his biceps, which pillowed his head, the other arm folded over his stomach. Not an ounce of fat on him.

A wave of chill bumps spread through her, raising the fine hairs on her arms. The fire had died with the night, and a stark cold that reminded her of her mother’s house in Nebraska pervaded the room. Moving gingerly so as not to wake him, she drew up the blanket he’d kicked aside and tucked it around him. It didn’t look like enough. She headed back to the bedroom, grabbed her own blanket, and returned to spread that over him, too.

Then she studied his profile, the long lashes resting on his cheeks, the perfect, uninteresting nose, those soft lips and stubborn chin. What would it be like to wake up every morning with such a man beside her? She’d slept alone so long, she could hardly remember what it felt like not to be an island in her bed. Even in the old days, Max hadn’t been a cuddler; he liked his space, and so Sydney had often awakened hugging her side of the bed to keep from rolling into him in the middle of the night. What would Colm be like? No doubt a lot of women knew. His wife. God. The one who’d died in the accident.