No Kissing Allowed

Chapter 13: A Minor Twist

He looked like he had something to say to her now, but they'd missed their chance. A buzzing sound behind her built into a roar, and Cora turned to see the motorboat headed to the pier at the other end of the beach.

The host, Cora remembered. Danna Something-or-other had come to judge their finger-painting contest. She looked back toward Jamie, rolling her eyes at the ridiculousness. But he ignored her. With a grim set of his mouth, he made his way across the sand toward his easel, walking under his own power, with only the barest hint of a limp.

It didn't matter, Cora decided, as she allowed Mel to shepherd her into position. Whatever it was, Jamie would tell her later. Tonight, in the safe confines of their bungalow. She just had to get through a few more hours of the inane manufactured drama, and then she would be alone with him again.

Cora kept her eyes carefully averted from her co-star, but a shiver rolled through her as she imagined how the evening might unfold. She knew how the mating ritual went. She would cluck and fuss over his injury the moment the cameras left. He would submit to her tender ministrations. And together, they would do whatever was physically necessary to ease his pain.

***

Jamie focused on his destination, and didn't allow his mind to register the throbbing in his ankle. A stream of curse words lodged in his head in rhythm with each step. Shit. Shit. Bollocks. Fucking hell...

He kept his jaw locked and his face impassive. The ankle would hold up. He'd had far worse and lived to tell the tale. Jamie had once carried out a full day's photoshoot with a broken collarbone after the backdrop toppled onto him, without so much as a whimper of distress. Such was the nature of his profession. He'd understood the rules at a tender age, watching his compatriots wash out of the business one by one.

Do the job without complaint, or be replaced by someone who would.

Jamie had always found a way to keep going. He did what he needed to survive. His longevity in the industry had as much to do with sheer force of will as anything. He put the work before all else. Before pain or cold. Before hunger or thirst—or any other physical desire.

It made no sense, then, the way his thoughts raced in his mind during the long march across the beach. No sense at all to be thinking about Cora, of all things. Cora Glass, doctor of optometry, an amateur who didn't need to be here. She didn't even want to be here. She'd much rather be home, telling her research subjects to look at the chart and read the fourth line.

She'd be utterly thrilled by the outcome of the scene they were about to shoot.

Their two paintings, side by side, were to be "judged" by Danna Morton. But the show's writers had already decided that Cora's effort would come up short.

And then the prize would be announced. A minor twist. Winner would be rewarded with a new partner, deemed more his type (and more telegenic) by the all-knowing matchmakers. Loser would be on the next flight back to New York.

Jamie had known the outcome since lunchtime and made his peace with it. He'd only gone to the water's edge to give her fair warning. He owed her that much. He didn't want her to leave thinking he had a say in the matter. She didn't deserve that kind of rejection. Not after the good turn she'd done him by coming on the show.

He needed her to know it wasn't his choice. The show's writers had seized the reins for reasons beyond his comprehension, and he had no more power over the storyline than the seagulls squawking uselessly overhead.

But he'd missed his chance to speak to Cora off camera. He wouldn't get another. He would have to let her take the blow without forewarning, and go home cursing the day she'd ever laid eyes on him. Damn, damn, damn it all.

His thoughts churned as he looked her way again.

Cora stood by her own easel, distracted by something at her waist. She swiveled her mic pack around on its belt, but not before Jamie saw what she was attempting to cover up: A handprint. Red, yellow, and green. Left behind in the area of skin exposed by the cutout in her bathing suit.

Jamie recognized that hand. It must have happened during his botched rescue attempt from the waves. What would the viewing public make of that?

He'd left his mark on her. Jamie sucked in his breath between his teeth. Something about the sight of it on her skin affected him, much more than it should have. The change was so sudden, it took the air straight out of his lungs.

Jamie winced, but not from pain. The burning in his ankle had been replace by something else. A spark, somewhere deep within him. Bloody hell.

That last round of cursing had nothing to do with his twisted ankle. If anything, his injury seemed to be improving. A good sign. He should be happy. Relieved. But he wasn't.

He didn't want her to go.

No. His mind rebelled at the thought of it. He didn't want to lose her. Not yet. To his amazement, Jamie realized it mattered to him a good deal. He'd nearly forgotten how it felt to care about anything at all beyond his own survival.

A wave of sheer possessiveness swept over him, just as surely as the ocean had knocked him off his feet.

He hadn't finished with her yet. He wanted to know what the next night would bring. He wanted to see how she would look at him in the darkened bedroom, with what little light she could muster reflecting off her eyes. So faint, like a distant lighthouse beacon. And he was so far out to sea. But he wanted to see that light again. He had to follow it, some instinct screamed within him, or he'd be lost.

Why did the damned writers have to take her from him now? Jamie closed his eyes and breathed in deeply through his nose.

The host was taking her position. The scene was about to begin. Jamie had to make a choice. He could do the wise thing as he'd always done and play the part he'd been assigned. Or, for the first time in ages, he could refuse to set aside everything he wanted, everything that made him who he was.

If he was anything at all.

If he had any hope of remembering who he'd ever been...

He wasn't powerless. He had a voice. He had a mind. He might outwit the writers yet, if he applied himself.

Or he might earn their ire and slit his own throat for his efforts.

"Jamie!" he heard his name called. "Jamie, are you ready?"

He wasn't ready. He needed time. To understand what he was feeling. To think what it all meant.

But Jamie didn't ask for what he needed.

He straightened his spine and bared his teeth for the cameras. "Ready when you are!" he called back.

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