Games People Play (16 page)

“I don’t think. I know.”

“You’re wrong. It just happened. That’s why they call them accidents.”

He closed his eyes. When he opened them, Amelia was still watching him.

“My life’s been no romp through the poppy fields,” she said with a sad smile. “But I don’t think it’s anywhere near the torture yours is. How long are you going to punish yourself?”

He shrugged and looked away. It was either that, or crumple.

Amelia gave a slow nod. “I see. So let me ask you. The woman you met on that job a few weeks ago—was she a chance at happiness? Did you let it slide because as with everything, you thought you don’t deserve better than loneliness? James, look at me.”

At the mention of Sydney, he raised his eyes to hers and found her face soft with compassion.

“Your sadness is mine,” she said. “How can I be happy if you’re miserable?”

He sat there a long time and held her limp hand, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. Then he drew a breath. “It was lonely here without you tonight.”

“I wish you’d have come to dinner with us instead of skulking around in your secret world.”

A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “Is that what I do? Skulk around?”

“You’re full of secrets, weirdo.”

They both laughed. Then he said, “How weird would it be if I just stretched out right here next to you for a little while?”

“There’s plenty of room. Grab a blanket.”

In a million years he’d never thought he would find himself sleeping on his sister’s bed, craving comfort. He found a blanket on a nearby chair and crawled gingerly onto the hospital bed beside her, crooking an elbow beneath his head for a pillow. They spoke no more. Her warmth, her easy presence, lulled him. Finally, finally he slept, dreamless at last.

Chapter Seventeen

S
now fell soft on Sydney’s shoulders, brushing her face and the back of her neck as she dragged the Christmas tree down the sidewalk and left a path of pine needles and streaked concrete behind her. She should have driven, but the tree lot was only two blocks away . . . and she loved winter . . . and the light snow . . . But now it fell harder, gathering in her collar, and the population of pedestrians on the sidewalk thinned. She walked a little faster and wished she’d been a little smarter.

Getting a Christmas tree alone was cold and depressing.

It was only midafternoon, but the wind had picked up and she shivered beneath her down jacket. Determination set her jaw. If it hadn’t been December twenty-third, she wouldn’t have bothered picking up a tree. As relieved as she was to be independent of Max, Thanksgiving spent alone had been a miserable experience last month, and she was determined not to endure such a magic-less holiday again. She would get this darn six-foot tree to the warehouse apartments where she lived and up the steep, narrow staircase to her third-floor loft.

She glanced over her shoulder to check the condition of the tree as she arrived at her building. A little worse for the wear, but it had been dragged over curbs and pavement. She could face the bad side to the window.

When she turned back to start up the entry stairs, a ghost stood before her. A tall, arresting phantom from another life, one she’d never imagined she’d encounter again.

“Hi, Sydney.”

She sucked in a breath and just stared at him. Colm stood with his hands in the pockets of his leather coat, the snow floating down to dust his shoulders and neatly shorn brown hair. The strands still held streaks of the golden sun as it always had. The cold flushed his clean-shaven cheeks, and he looked so healthy and strong, she imagined crawling into his arms and curling up inside his coat, next to his steady, thrumming heart.

For a moment her old life came rocketing back, and nonsensical fear seized her. For a moment she thought about dropping the tree and racing past him, up the stairs and into the lonely warmth of her loft, but then courage took over. She couldn’t just stand there and stare. Finally she approached him, dragging her Christmas burden with one hand as though it was the easiest task in the world.

They were alone on the sidewalk. Everyone else—smarter than they—had scurried off to warm homes.

“Is this your place?” he asked, and oh, his voice was a welcome sound, washing over her with its husky sweetness.

She nodded, not trusting herself to make decent conversation.

He leaned around her and examined the tree. “Can I help you with that?”

“No, but thank you.”

“Please?”

She bit her lip. “The elevator has been broken since yesterday, so we’ll have to walk up.”

“I don’t mind.”

With that muscular shape of his, he didn’t exactly look like the climb would exhaust him.

She half smiled. “Thanks. I’ll get one end.”

He caught the trunk, while she took the soft-needled top. Together they maneuvered it through the wide double doors and into the lobby, where she dropped her part of the tree. “Stop for a minute.”

He set down his end.

So many questions whirled in her mind, she hardly knew where to start. The fact that he stood in her world again, looking so damned delectable and polished, made her stomach turn circles and her chest go tight. She couldn’t wrap her mind around this dreamlike moment.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice emerging hoarse. “This isn’t a coincidence, running into you on a snowy street the day before Christmas Eve.”

“No. That would be like a bad movie.” He stared at his gloves and flexed his fingers as though he didn’t know what to say. Then he met her eyes, and the look in his green gaze sent heat shimmering all the way to her feet. “I wanted to see you.”

“Why?”

His mouth twitched at the question. “Do I have to have a reason?”

“Well, yes.”

“Seeing you at the gallery opening last month . . . we couldn’t really talk—”

“You were on a date with someone else.”

His brows drew down. “And you were with Max.”

“I wasn’t with him. He was there because he had clients in the show.”

“I saw the look on his face when you talked to him. He’s still in love with you.”

“Well, it’s over with him. And why do I owe you an explanation?”

“You don’t. And I don’t owe you one, either.”

They glared at each other like a couple of petulant kids.

“What does it matter?” she finally said. “Colm—”

“You’re right.” He drew a breath. “I’m not here to bicker. I’m here because we left things unfinished and I want to settle it, not under duress like before, but in a peaceful way.”

How did he plan to do that? The only thing left undone between them was making love. She couldn’t—wouldn’t. Yet the memory of the feel of his flesh, of him climaxing under her fingers, shot through her mind. He was probably thinking the same thing. She had to shift her eyes from his, they were so intense. As before, they stripped her defenses and made her feel hot and naked at the same time.

“How did you find me?” she asked. “I’m still unlisted.”

When he didn’t answer right away, she squinted at him. “Who told you where to find me?”

“Hans.”

She shook her head. “How does he even know these things? I never gave him my address. The only person who has it is Max, and it would be among his things, which means Hans had to dig through those things to . . . and he would never . . . oh. Apparently, yes he would!”

Colm smiled a little and shrugged. “I consider him a friend.”

“Yeah? Well, he’s a villainous character.” With a sigh, Sydney bent to pick up her end of the tree and waited for him to do the same. “I’m up three more flights. Have I thanked you yet for doing this?”

“You thanked me.”

They made it to the third floor, where she dug her keys from the pocket of her jacket and fit them into the locks, all four of them.

“This isn’t the safest neighborhood,” he said behind her shoulder, sounding concerned and not one bit winded.

“It’s up-and-coming, and besides, I like all the space I have.” She spoke like a petulant child in response to his unwarranted protectiveness, but damn it, she didn’t know how to act. The unexpected sight of him standing in the snowfall had turned her inside out, and every moment with him close at hand left her knees more watery and her resolve weaker. Would he try anything? If he did, could she control herself after all these weeks of aching for him?

She swung open the door, and he dragged the tree over the threshold by himself.

“This way,” she said, leading him into the wide-open space. “Let me help you.”

“I’ve got it.”

She showed him into the living room area, where he laid the pine down near the multipaned factory windows. When he straightened, he slipped off his gloves, studying her all the while. She wanted to stare back, to gulp in the sight of him. Instead she looked at her coffee table and noticed the dust on the corners.

“You look good,” he said, drawing her attention back.

Glancing down at her gray jacket and jeans, she fought down a wave of self-consciousness and shoved her hands into her back pockets. “So do you.”

And oh,
good
was such a ridiculous understatement. He was wearing khaki cargo pants, brown Doc Martens, and a cream-colored sweater beneath his open coat. The scent of some kind of sandalwood aftershave brushed her senses, not overpowering but subtly delicious. Sydney wanted to gulp in big breaths of his fragrance, it was so poignantly familiar.

“Are you happy?” he asked, tilting his head to regard her with speculative green eyes.

Leave it to him to go straight for the kill.

“I’m getting there.” Her chin lifted. “Are you?”

“Define
happy
.”

She moved a little closer, stopped to take off her jacket and hold it against her chest, blocking the pull that tugged at her solar plexus. After a moment of staring at him, and him staring back, her face went hot and she turned away, headed for the galley kitchen. “Would you like something warm to drink? I can put on coffee or mix some hot chocolate—”

He caught up with her. His hand closed around her upper arm and gently turned her to face him. “I don’t want anything to drink.”

“Then what?”

Bad question.

That ever-subtle smile made a welcome appearance. “Let me put the tree up for you. I know it can’t be easy to do it alone.”

Such a simple request. Her nod came before she could stop it. “I’ll take your coat.”

When he slid out of it and handed it to her, she resisted the urge to bury her nose in it and breathe in. And when she turned from hanging their coats in the closet near the kitchen, she stopped in her steps and stared. Beneath his ivory crewneck sweater, a tan T-shirt peeked above the sweater collar. She remembered that T-shirt. She remembered how he would stroll into her studio and strip it off. It was easy to picture it now—the particular way he would cross his arms in front of him and grab the hem, his naked torso emerging as he pulled the garment up and over his head.

In all her thirty years, Sydney had never known a more handsome man.

“I’m going to look at your canvases first,” he told her, heading toward the area where she painted. “If I have your permission.”

“Of course.”

Hugging herself, she followed and kept a respectful distance to allow him space to examine each new piece. The portrait of Colm wasn’t there. In her hurry to get out of Max’s house, she’d left it behind, and lately, missing it, she’d begun to think it wasn’t so accidental that she had forgotten it. She’d been so determined to get on with her life, she’d shoved the memory of Colm into the past with everything else dark and hurtful.

He didn’t deserve that. He’d been a bright spark, an awakening light.

While she watched him, he stopped before the Philip Franklin pastel, which was framed and hung over her worktable. He looked at it a long moment, his thoughts unreadable, then turned to regard the large canvases leaning in a line against the wall.

“The portraits are actually auction pieces from charity events, waiting for pickup,” she told him.

Colm cast her a look of surprise. “So you donate your services?”

She nodded. “It makes me feel good.”

“And your work is more vibrant than ever. Are you working from live models?”

“No. Just photos right now until I gain some confidence.”

“Good,” she thought he said.

Her brows lowered. “What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

She cleared her throat. “I haven’t sold much since . . . since Max, but the last show helped, and I’m living off my savings for now and trying to establish myself in portraiture circles. Business is starting to build.”

“That didn’t take long, but then I’m not surprised.” He glanced at her, then back at the paintings. “I love them,” he said finally. “But this one most of all.”

He motioned to a newer version of the ménage à trois he had never seen, for she had only started it a week after moving into the loft. In this monochromatic rendering, Colm was kneeling beside an entangled Garrett and Cherise, his back turned to them but holding Cherise’s hand behind him, as if unable to release her.

“You know,” he added, leaning to take a better look at the life-sized painting, “Cherise looks like you here.” He moved closer, squinting at it. “A lot like you.”

Heat crept up her neck to burn her ears. She’d never noticed before, but he was right. The only thing that looked like Cherise was the dark, shoulder-length hair. Everything else was Sydney, even the breasts, which weren’t as full as the other woman’s. And the way she was twisted away from Garrett and clinging to Colm’s hand . . .

She nearly choked on realization. How had she painted herself into this work and not have recognized it before now?

Thank God Colm had moved on to look at the next picture. All she could think to say was, “I really need some coffee. Sure I can’t persuade you?”

Colm’s mouth twitched, then he took another sweeping look at the paintings and nodded. “Maybe after I put the tree up. Is the ménage for sale?”

“No,” she said quickly. The piece was too risqué to auction at the charities. And anyway . . . she wanted to keep it. Colm was in it.

And apparently Sydney was, too.

He tucked his hands in his pockets. “How about I get started with the tree?”

While he went to work, she put on the pot of coffee and some soft Christmas music. Bing Crosby sang sweet and low on the stereo, and the snowy gloom beyond the factory windows seeped into darkness. She moved around the loft, turning on more lights, sending golden warmth descending on her home.

For the first time since she moved in weeks ago, everything felt right: Colm kneeling to secure a fragrant pine in its stand while Christmas music limned the air; the scent of coffee drifting from the kitchen; the gilded light warming them. Sydney even turned on the gas fireplace. It wasn’t her intention to set an intimate atmosphere. She would have done the same even if he hadn’t been there, but it all just fit together with his presence, and she wanted to please him. He pleased her even now . . . and she knew so little about him. After tonight, she might never see him again.

“Are you still modeling?” She leaned against the wall between the studio and living room, letting the curiosity rise in her untethered at last.

“Mostly.”

“For art students again?”

“Right.”

Art students like beautiful, sexy Cherise Ford, who’d made it no secret she wanted Colm. Sydney blinked and banished the image of him in bed with some hot young painter. “What else do you do?” she asked, cupping her mug in both hands to warm them.

“Different things. I keep busy.”

She didn’t know if he was being intentionally vague, but she had nothing to lose, and damn it, she was curious. She straightened away from the wall and wandered into the living room. “I’d like to know more about you, Colm.”

“Oh, yeah?” He leaned his head to peer through the branches at what he was doing. “Ask me anything.”