Chapter 16: Damsel Is Disrobed

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Chapter 16: Damsel is Disrobed

"Hold on," Jamie called in Cora's wake. "I'm not finished yet."

He kept his face impassive, pushing down the seething disappointment in his chest. So much for all his cunning machinations. He should have known it wouldn't go his way in the end. It never did.

He'd been looking forward all day to more time alone with Cora. He'd gone to battle on her behalf to keep her here, and nearly gotten himself axed in the process.

And this was the thanks she gave him?

He shouldn't have bothered. The other girl—the one on the poster—she had the look of a leading lady. The pair of them would make a handsome couple. Clearly, the producers had kept the real talent in reserve. As visual imagery went, no one could deny that girl was fit.

And wasn't that why he was there? To serve as visual imagery. That was his role. He needed to remember it.

For the life of him, Jamie couldn't fathom why he'd gone off script. Some sentimental drivel about eyes at night and ships lost at sea... Good lord. The pain from his ankle injury must have affected his brain. That was the only plausible explanation.

Cora halted and turned back toward him, putting her hands on her hips. The gesture caused the belt of her bathrobe to loosen. A wardrobe malfunction loomed, but Jamie wouldn't warn her. She didn't want his help, as she'd made abundantly clear.

"Stop rescuing me and worry about yourself."

So he would. If he ended up catching an unintended glimpse of creamy flesh beneath that robe, she couldn't lay the blame on him.

What rankled most was not the lack of thanks in general, but her insistence on misconstruing his intentions. He'd merely bought her time. He'd given her the opportunity to decide for herself whether to stay or leave, as he'd attempted to explain. "I thought you should have some say in the matter. That's all."

"So you spoke for me."

He'd done no such thing. Just the opposite, as a matter of fact. And it had required no lack of skill to pull it off. Did Cora truly not understand what he'd done for her?

He would have to spell it out. "To be fair," he began, "I didn't speak for you. That was the point."

"Did you ask me if I wanted to stay here? Did it ever occur to you that I might not?"

"Yes," he said simply.

She strode toward him, and her robe gaped at the neck. It took a good deal of fortitude to keep his eyes on her face. If he so much as glanced at the band of cleavage she'd revealed, she would tighten it back up again.

"But you kept me here anyway. In what universe is that not speaking for me?" She threw up her hands in disbelief. Truly a reckless maneuver, given the state of her attire. Had the woman no sense of self preservation?

He ought to say something. It would only make things worse if she flashed him. A gentleman would warn her of the impending disaster. Or at least avert his eyes.

But alas, as he'd told her more than once, Jamie Bowen was no gentleman.

He cleared his throat. "Why do you think I held on to the poster. My 'Get out of jail free' card, as you so aptly put it?"

"I don't know. You wanted to feel powerful?" She narrowed her eyes at him. "You control my fate? Does that make you feel like a big strong man?"

That struck a nerve. If her goal was to provoke him, she succeeded. The blood raced in Jamie's veins. He crawled across the bed in her direction and kneeled atop the mattress so his eyes were level with hers. "Listen to me." He clenched his jaw and spoke in a carefully controlled voice. "I'm not a big man. I'm a very small one. I have no power or control whatsoever." He paused a moment to let his words sink in before plowing onward. "And I have to say, I'm disappointed in you. I thought you were more intelligent than that."

Her jaw went slack. A direct blow. "Oh, that's rich!" She threw back her head and forced a laugh. "No, you know what? You're right. If I had any brain at all, I would never have come on this show to begin with. I would be back home where I belong! Instead of getting myself stuck here! For a month! With a—a pretentious, irritating, self-involved pretty-boy!" She leaned in for greater emphasis with each adjective she added to the list. At "pretty-boy," the belted robe gave way at last.

Jamie's hand flashed forward. He caught the two gaping edges just in time and held them closed at her bust-line.

She gasped, realizing how close she'd come to giving him an eyeful. She gathered the robe around herself as tight as it would go and tied it closed again with a jerk. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he replied. "Was that so hard to say?"

She glared. "For the robe. Not the other thing."

"As to that, I may be a pretentious pretty-boy, but you're not stuck with me for a month." He waved a hand in the direction of the rolled up poster, cast aside in the corner of the room. "That's why I kept dear Camilla in reserve over there. So I could ask you privately, tonight, if you preferred to stay or go."

"Oh."

"I would never keep you here against your wishes. All you have to do is say the word."

She looked down, flicking a stray piece of lint from her robe. "I see."

"I assume that's what you want? To go home?"

"That would probably be the best thing for everyone."

"Right then." He nodded once. "I'll send you on your way first thing tomorrow."

Jamie sat back on his heels. He'd won the argument, but it wasn't the victory he wanted—and her answer was not the one he'd hoped to hear.

He couldn't tell her that. It would be humiliating at this point, after she'd made her true opinion of him clear.

Pretentious... irritating... self-involved...

She wasn't wrong. She wouldn't be the first person to find his literary stylings pretentious. Growing up, he'd taken more than his fair share of beatings from the older boys until he'd learned to hide his books. Learning to conceal his thoughts had proven trickier, but he'd eventually learned that as well.

No one wanted to hear what truly went on in his head. People didn't follow his meanderings for the most part, and that wasn't a likeable trait.

No, in fact, it was pretentious.

And irritating.

Cora was correct about the "pretty-boy" part as well, of course. That's all he was to her. To the whole world. A pretty face. A nice body.

Cora wrapped her arms around herself. She didn't look particularly pleased with the outcome of the argument either. "OK," she muttered. "Sorry."

"No worries."

"No, I apologize. I misunderstood your intentions."

"You assumed the worst." He shrugged. "Most people do."

She bit her lip. "Thank you."

"For not allowing you to flash me? I'm starting to regret it." He gave her a wolfish grin.

She rolled her eyes. "For the other thing."

"You're welcome for that too."

"You're not a total asshat."

"A pretentious irritating pretty-boy?"

"I stand by that."

"Ah, intelligent after all," he said dryly. "What a relief."

He looked up at the ceiling. She smiled down at her feet.

That should have been the end of it, but she stayed put. She rolled her weight on the outside of her feet. Jamie recognized the stance from the night before. She'd stood that same way, just before he flipped the lights and she took the opportunity to grope him with her roving fingers.

If he were a poker player, he'd say she had a tell. Jamie raised an eyebrow. His pulse still pounded from the argument. His blood was roused. He wouldn't mind putting all that adrenaline to some purpose. "I suppose," he said slowly, "That still leaves us with tonight?"

She met his eyes, catching the proposition in his voice. "Are we enemies or friends now? I can't keep track."

"Neither. We're strangers." He waved his hand back and forth between them. "Two ships passing in the night."

She took a hesitant step toward him. "Even though I broke your leg?"

"Even though you impugned my honor." He clapped a hand across his heart. "But I forgive you. It's feeling much better."

"Your ankle or your honor?"

"Both," he lied. His honor, if he had any, still felt bruised and battered by the words she'd spoken in anger. He had a feeling he'd be hearing those words of judgment over and over in his head all night long if he didn't find a way to drown them out.

"I should probably examine it," she murmured, glancing at his foot.

"My ankle or my honor?"

She cast him a tart expression, then gestured for him to sit back and lift his leg. "Let me see."

Jamie obeyed, extending his bare foot in her direction. She pushed up the hem of his jeans to get a better look.

"I thought you weren't a medical doctor," he said.

"I'm not, but I play one on TV."

He rewarded her with a faint chuckle as she poked and prodded. There was a bruise along the ankle bone, but otherwise no harm done. He pointed his toe and flexed his foot this way and that.

"That doesn't hurt?"

He shook his head. No, it didn't hurt, but he couldn't deny that he felt wounded. The truth was, he hadn't put his neck on the line and earned the distrust of every crew-member on the show merely so he and Cora could part ways the next morning.

A small part of him had hoped that she would stay. Not because she had no choice. Not because she was doing him a favor. Because she genuinely wished to share his company.

But of course she didn't. Not for anything more than a tumble. And they wouldn't need more than a night for that.

She flexed his toes upward, pressing the sole of his foot with the flat of her hand. "What about bearing weight on it?" she asked.

"It's fine. A mere flesh wound, milady."

She shook her head. "I'm not so sure."

"Are you serious?"

She nodded and met his eyes with the most doleful expression he'd ever seen across her pretty face. "It's not fine, Jamie."

"Of course it is!" he protested.

She shook her head. "No. I'm afraid not."

What was she on about? She wasn't going to insist on an x-ray again, was she?

"I don't know how to tell you this." She took his hand and pressed it gently between both of her own. "I'm afraid it will need to come off."

Jamie had opened his mouth to argue but he closed it again at the somber look she cast in the direction of his foot. He fought to suppress his smile, but he lost that battle too. Damnit, why did she have to be funny? He couldn't remember the last time he'd found someone who could make him laugh with any regularity.

"Amputation?" he inquired. "That is unfortunate."

She petted the top of his foot. "Such a pretty leg too. It's a shame."

"Will you be doing the procedure yourself, Dr. Glass?"

"Yes, Mr. Bowen, if you like." She was trying to keep the doctorly expression on her face, but she was no actress. Jamie could see the laughter dancing in her eyes. "But I'll need to examine you more closely first," she told him. "Would you mind removing your pants?"

***

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