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  She’d forgive the Colonel—he was her grandfather, after all, and had her best interests at heart—but she would never forgive him, Jamie realized.

  She’d hate him.

  And the kicker was…he’d deserve it.

  8

  * * *

  “DON’T BE GENTLE, CARLOS,” Audrey said, sighing with pleasure as Unwind’s resident masseur used his magic hands on her shoulders. The soothing sound of bubbling water and the pungent aroma of relaxing herb-scented candles wrapped around her senses. If she didn’t have so much on her mind—namely a six and half foot Irish American with miracle lips and the best ass she’d ever seen—she’d undoubtedly take a little catnap. As it was…

  “Okay, then,” he said, upping the pressure. “You asked for it. Geez, I haven’t seen you this tense since that week we had the Slim-It-Up Diet group here.”

  “God, don’t remind me,” she groaned, her face pressed into the hole of the massage table. “Those women were horrible.” And that was an understatement. They’d driven Tewanda stark raving mad with their low-fat no-fat strictly-organic screw-it-where-the-hell-are-the-candy-bars? demands.

  Carlos clucked his tongue. “Hungry women are bitches.”

  She grunted. “Hungry women are insane. They broke into the kitchen. Remember that?”

  He chuckled, working on a particularly tense spot between her shoulder blades. “I’d forgotten about that,” he mused aloud. “That diet was too stringent. No wonder they snapped.” He sighed. “Everything in moderation, I always say.”

  Yeah, well, that only worked if you only liked things in moderation, Audrey thought, guiltily picturing the half-pound block of chocolate in her bedside drawer. No one ever wanted good stuff in moderation, and those who did were…boring, she decided. To her dismay, an image of Derrick leaped instantly to mind, bringing guilt right along with it. She determinedly pushed both away, unwilling to devote any brain-power to what she knew would be a sobering thought process.

  Say what you wanted about those dieters, but at least they were passionate. They knew what they wanted and had the guts to go after it. What if Monet hadn’t painted in excess? If Beethoven had only been moderately motivated to compose? What if she did exactly what she wanted and seduced the hell out of Jamie Flanagan without the slightest notion of right, wrong and consequences?

  What if she threw every bit of good sense and caution to the wind and didn’t consider the repercussions of her actions at all? As if there wasn’t a Derrick? As if Jamie wasn’t her grandfather’s friend? What if she did exactly what those passionate dieters had done and just said to hell with all of it? She let go a whimper. Would that be so terribly wrong?

  Carlos paused. “You say something?”

  She blushed. “No.”

  She was in hell, Audrey decided. And considering parts of her were still feverish and she’d left Jamie more than an hour ago, she imagined things were only going to get worse. Honestly, finishing out the day with him after that meltdown of a kiss—hell, she’d practically scaled his body, trying to get closer to him—had been sheer torture. Rather than dealing with the situation like an adult, she’d pretended like it had never happened. Pathetic? Juvenile? Cowardly? Yes…but she couldn’t help it.

  That timely call from her grandfather had been like a well-planned, well-aimed hose. Nothing could snuff out a blaze of lust faster than a hefty dose of guilt, that was for damned sure. As a result of her grandfather’s call, Audrey had forced herself to focus on helping Jamie, the real reason he was here, after all.

  Granted it had been difficult—she couldn’t look at his face without zeroing in on that mouth, particularly after what had happened down by the lake—but fortunately, the Lord had blessed her with a very stubborn nature. When she truly set her mind to something, she could typically make it work.

  Besides, she was genuinely curious and, after glimpsing his pain, genuinely concerned. No doubt Jamie’s special forces training had included how to handle an interrogation because every single time she’d attempted to bring the conversation back around to his military career, he’d shut down and charmingly changed the subject. At one point, he’d given her a probing gaze which led her to believe that he knew exactly what she was fishing for, but wasn’t going to be baited into giving it to her. While he hadn’t overtly smirked at her, that’s exactly what it had felt like.

  Ordinarily she’d opt for the patient approach, but for whatever reason, she knew that wasn’t going to work with him. Audrey frowned, considering. He was too controlled, too far into denial. In too much pain. No, patience definitely wasn’t going to be the key in his case. It would take persistence. She’d simply have to keep asking questions, keep hammering away, adding to the pressure and he’d tell her to go to hell.

  Or he’d explode.

  And who knew? Audrey thought with a silent chuckle. He might do both. But she wasn’t going to stop until she got something from him. Whatever his problem, it was festering inside him and, whether he knew it or not—or wanted to or not—he needed to let it go. Did she expect him to forget his friend? No, of course not.

  But Jamie’s hurt went far deeper than typical grief and holding onto that pain was much more destructive than allowing himself to heal. He was punishing himself, purposely, she suspected. Atonement for some sort of sin? Audrey wondered. Guilt? And if so, for what?

  “Relax,” Carlos chided.

  Audrey frowned, unaware that she’d tensed back up. She took a deep breath, allowing her muscles to loosen once more. “Sorry,” she mumbled.

  Carlos’s soft chuckle sounded in the relative silence. “No worries,” he teased. “How can you expect the guests to adhere to our motto when the owner doesn’t?”

  A long futile sigh leaked out of her lungs. “The owner never does, otherwise people here wouldn’t have ‘no worries.’”

  He tsked. “Now that doesn’t sound fair.”

  Audrey felt her lids flutter shut and a small smile curled her lips. “Haven’t you heard? Life’s not fair.”

  Carlos slid his thumbs down her spine, his signature “massage over” ending. “There you go, sweetheart. I hope you feel better.”

  Audrey gingerly levered herself into a sitting position. “I do, thanks,” she said, pushing her hair away from her face. She wrapped the sheet tighter around her body and slid off the table. The tile was cool beneath her bare feet.

  “Man or money?”

  She blinked. “I’m sorry?”

  Carlos sent her a thoughtful glance. “When a woman is as tense as you are, it’s either a man or it’s money.” He smiled and shrugged. “Since business is good, I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that it’s a man.” He paused. “And since I know you need me, I’m going to saw it off and say it’s not Derrick.”

  Audrey considered feigning outrage, but couldn’t summon the energy. What was the point? Carlos was right. She did need him. He was a thirty-four-year-old Cuban American who was handsome enough to make her female clientele happy, but manly enough to put most of the men who came through camp at ease—and made some of the men who came through camp swoon. Frankly, Audrey had no idea whose team he batted for and she didn’t care. He was charming, dependable and competent. Furthermore, he was a friend.

  “What makes you so sure that it’s not Derrick?” Audrey asked, intrigued.

  “In my line of work, there’s tension…and then there’s tension,” he told her, his lips twisting with knowing humor. “You’ve been seeing Derrick for more than a year, but in all that time you’ve never been wound so tight that a quick trip over a set of railroad tracks would set you off. Derrick doesn’t have that—” his lips twitched “—effect on you.”

  “Carlos!” Audrey admonished, feeling her face flame. Good grief. Was she that transparent? Did she have “I need an orgasm from Jamie Flanagan” plastered on her forehead?

  “Save that tone for Tewanda,” he said, tossing a towel over his shoulder. “Denial’s bad for your complexion. Are you drinkin
g enough water? You look a little flushed.”

  “Shut up,” Audrey replied, exasperated.

  “Get laid,” Carlos shot back, chuckling. “You know you want to.”

  “What I want to do and what I should do are two completely different things.”

  “Cop-out.”

  “It’s not a cop-out,” she said shrilly. “It’s—” She gestured wildly, searching for the correct response. “It’s being an adult.”

  He shrugged, unconcerned. “It’s being a coward.”

  Sending Carlos an annoyed look, Audrey took a deep breath, counted to five, then let it go. She definitely needed to check on that death penalty thing because throttling her help was becoming an almost overwhelming temptation.

  “I’m not afraid,” she said, chewing the words lest her temper get the better of her. “I’m cautious. There’s a difference.”

  “Cautious, eh?” he asked, seriously now, his gaze soft and somehow pitying. “And where’s that gotten you?”

  Audrey swallowed, recognizing the truth that lay unspoken between them. They both knew where being cautious had gotten her—with an arrogant egomaniac who didn’t ignite any of her passions and who planned to dump her at the end of the week if she refused to marry him. That’s what being cautious had done for her. Audrey chuckled darkly, released a low sigh and dropped her head.

  Carlos walked over, tilted her chin up and planted a sweet, friendly kiss on her forehead. The gesture made her eyes inexplicably water and a lump swell in her throat.

  “Sorry to hold up a mirror, babe, but someone’s gotta do it,” he said. “You want him, take him,” he urged. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

  Audrey laughed, shook her head at the futility of it all. “You hit the nail on the head, Carlos,” she said with a melancholy smile. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  FROM THE CORNER OF HIS EYE Jamie watched Audrey try to covertly study the basket he was presently—much to his displeasure—weaving. He was quite obviously not following the pattern which had come with his kit and, being as she was a very observant person, she’d no doubt noticed his…modifications. He waited, instinctively knowing that she wouldn’t be able to resist “helping” him. His lips twitched with a smile.

  After all, that’s what she did, what she was best at. Thus far he’d managed to thwart every casually veiled attempt to draw him out, but as he was her new project, so to speak—and he was so obviously screwed up—he knew that she’d officially taken him under her wing and had become one of those damaged men she was self-destructively drawn to.

  Needless to say, it galled him to no end.

  And despite Garrett’s assertion that he’d chosen Jamie for this mission because of his player reputation, Jamie fully believed now that Garrett had chosen him for another reason. He hadn’t sent Jamie in solely because he’d thought Jamie could charm her—he’d sent him because he knew she wouldn’t be able to resist fixing him. Amazing what sort of clarity could come from being half-loaded, Jamie thought.

  Last night had been another drink-himself-into-numbness act of futility. Hell, even the best Irish whiskey couldn’t dull this ache. If he’d been thinking clearly before he kissed her, he would have realized that, but considering that anything remotely resembling coherent judgment had eluded him since he’d met Audrey, that was equally pointless.

  At any rate, he knew she wasn’t going to stop trying to make him share his past—or God forbid, his feelings, Jamie thought, stifling a wave of panic—so he’d decided that she’d left him with no choice but to up his offensive.

  In short, despite Garrett’s warning, he was going to stage a full-out no-holds-barred seduction.

  Let Garrett castrate him, Jamie thought, because it was definitely better than the alternative. He didn’t want to be fixed, thank you very much. He was fine. He’d lost a friend. He was grieving, dammit. Why couldn’t everyone just accept it and let him deal with things in his own time? If he tagged every woman from here to Borneo, it was nobody’s damned business. His gaze slid to Audrey and he broodingly considered her.

  Furthermore, he’d castrate his own damned self before he became her pity project.

  The way Jamie figured it, she needed to focus her energy elsewhere. If she wasn’t willing to do it on her own, then he’d simply have to help her. She wanted him. He knew it. He could feel it every time that clear blue gaze slid over him. His skin practically sizzled in its wake. He’d tasted it in her kiss, felt her breasts pearl against his chest. In fact, the only thing that made being here bearable was knowing that she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

  Audrey hesitated, then predictably scooted closer to him and inspected his work. “Did you abandon your pattern on purpose?” she asked.

  Jamie chewed the inside of his cheek. “I did.”

  “Oh,” she said. “You’re doing quite well. I thought you’d said you’d never done this before.”

  Jamie didn’t look up, but continued to work. Hell, if he could assemble a weapon in under sixty seconds, he could weave a damned basket without following a pattern. Besides, this, too, was another gift to Garrett and he somehow didn’t think that they made a pattern for one shaped like a pair of testicles. “I haven’t.”

  She hesitated again, bit her lip. “Then don’t you think you’d be better off following the instructions the first time?” she asked gently.

  “I don’t follow instructions well.”

  “You were a Ranger. You’re not like the typical man. You have to follow instructions.”

  “I followed orders,” Jamie clarified. “Not instructions.”

  A smile rolled around her lips. “And there’s a difference?”

  Jamie pulled in a deep breath, let it go with a whoosh and then smiled at her. “It’s subtle.”

  “Oh,” Audrey said, laughing. “Thanks for clearing that up for me. I had no idea.”

  “Most women don’t.”

  “Ouch,” she teased, feigning offense.

  “Present company excluded, of course,” Jamie told her. He continued to work the reed through his frame, and nodded in approval when his new present for the Colonel began to take proper shape.

  “Does it come naturally to you, I wonder, or did you have to take a special class?” she asked conversationally, working on her own design. They presently sat at a table on her front porch. She’d ordered a nice breakfast this morning, which they’d shared, and Moses—who’d immediately gone for his crotch again the instant he’d arrived—currently lay sprawled across her feet. If he wasn’t so sexually frustrated and constantly on guard, he would have said that this was…nice.

  Jamie frowned. “Did I take what class?”

  “Bullshit 101. Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone quite as good at BS as you are.”

  A startled laugh bubbled up his throat. “Oh, I didn’t have to take a class. I’m a natural when it comes to bullshit.”

  Blue eyes twinkling, she shot him a grin. “Well, I suppose everyone has to have a special talent.”

  Jamie help couldn’t himself, that opening was just too perfect to resist. “BS is an art.” He chuckled wickedly and lowered his voice. “You haven’t seen my special talent…but I’d certainly be willing to show you.”

  In fact, he had every intention of showing her over and over again. Quite frankly, he’d like nothing better than to show her right now, but he suspected if he so much as made a move near her, dear old Moses would obligingly tear his throat out.

  Predictably, she flushed. She blinked as though suddenly disoriented and he had the privilege of watching her pulse suddenly flutter wildly at the base of her throat. God, how he wished he could taste it. Taste her all over. His dick leaped in his jeans and a hot, achy throb pulsed in his loins, forcing him to grit his teeth. He wanted her so much that even his chest ached, in the vicinity of his heart if he could admit he had one. Did that scare the hell out of him? Most certainly. His heart had absolutely no business in this.

  But if he�
�d ever wanted another woman more—had ever been so obsessed with marking her as his—Jamie couldn’t recall it. This force that was pulling him toward her…it was more than mere attraction. Attraction he could deal with—need, on the other had, posed a problem and that’s what this felt like.

  He didn’t just want her—he had to have her. He wanted to take her hard and fast, then slow and easy. He wanted to settle her over his thighs, impale her on his dick, then suckle her breasts until she screamed his name. He wanted to wring her dry, then whet her appetite again. He wanted to take her so hard that the idea of ever being with anyone else would be jarred right out of her beautiful head.

  And for reasons which were absolutely beyond his understanding, he wanted to punish her for making him want her so much. When this was over, he may finally have to break down and see a shrink, Jamie decided. In the meantime, he was going back to what had worked before—sex therapy.

  Audrey finally cleared her throat. “So,” she said, in an unnatural high-pitched voice. “If you aren’t making the Country Onion basket, then what sort are you making?” She frowned. “It looks like you’ve got an egg there that didn’t split.”

  “Close,” Jamie said. “It’s a testicle basket.”

  Audrey’s eyes widened in shock and she choked. “A what?”

  Jamie grinned. “It’s another gift for your grandfather. I was thinking about crocheting some little sperm to go in there for him, but since he didn’t list needlework as one of my hobbies, I guess I’ll have to settle for some sort of substitute. Any ideas?”

  Still laughing, she sighed and shook her head. “Your last wishes, because if you send him this in addition to your orchid and mountains paintings, he’s going to kill you.” She paused. “Is it so bad being here?” she asked. The note of genuine interest and insecurity he detected in her voice prevented the glib comment he would have otherwise provided.