Page 31 of Blood Game

“How do you feel?”

Sore, bruised, every part of her hurt, and then there was the bruise on her cheek that throbbed.

“I'll let you know in a minute,” she replied, taking that first sip, pushing back the nightmare of the previous evening, frowning at a memory as she closed the lid on that imaginary box.

That came from somewhere. Something he'd said?

She was vaguely aware of that dark gaze, the brush of his fingers across hers as he handed her the mug, intimate, as if they were any two people sharing that first cup of coffee the morningafter. She took another sip, closing her eyes as the coffee worked its way to her belly, caffeine gradually kicking in.

She looked around. It was still dark outside, the flat filled with shadows except for a single light in the small kitchen.

“Where are we?”

He saw the frown that struggled past the memories of the night before, then when there were no memories, only the residual of the Scotch he'd given her.

“The flat belongs to a friend,” he explained, brushing her hair back from her cheek, his fingers gently probing the bruise.

“I stay here when I'm in London—appointments, doctors, psychologists trying to decide if I'm a danger to humanity.”

“Did you get any sleep?” she asked. She'd obviously spent the night on the couch. Had he stayed up all night?

Sleeplessness. She knew it came with the rest of things guys who had been in the Middle East carried around with them. Her brother had gone through it—“I get enough.”Two hours, three?

“Some,” James replied, that dark gaze angling away from hers.

He was shirtless, barefoot. The jeans rode low at his hips, enough to draw any healthy female's attention.

Get over it, she told herself. He's a handsome guy, you're a healthy female. Basic chemistry. There were whole ad campaigns that celebrated the male body—lean, muscular in all the right places, flat belly. And the way those jeans fit. Book covers they put out were all in on that sort of thing. It was all about sex.

James Morgan had it, there was no argument there. The scar on his shoulder somehow added to the appeal, along with those dark eyes that had a way of taking everything in with just a glance. And then there was the tattoo.

It seemed everyone had one—personal statements, a way to establish one's identity—skulls, symbols, a name. Not something she was usually attracted to.

She thought of Innis, tattoos down the length of both arms, covering his hands, neck, and God knows where else. But this was simple, beautiful, almost elegant, and frightening at the same time in the sweeping lines.

It was a stag's head that covered the entire upper half of his body in shades of blue and black, the head bowed, the animal's eyes staring at her, antlers wrapped around ribs and up over both shoulders, one twisted over the scar on his shoulder, and another word added itself to that first impression—fierce. And she realized it was his own statement.

She'd seen it at the roadside tavern on that long drive from Edinburgh, glimpsed it in conversations, the way he had of watching everything around him, that dark gaze, and the thought came again. Fierce.

“Some of Innis's artwork?” she asked, putting conversation between them.

He shook his head. “An artist in Manila a few years back. But don't tell Innis. It would hurt his feelings.”

“Why the stag?” She needed the conversation, anything to keep from thinking about what had happened the night before.

He shrugged. “Certain cultures are very superstitious. They believe the stag has supernatural powers,” he explained. “Others believe that death takes the form of the stag.”

Like a good luck charm to keep him safe?

“Do you believe it?”

“It doesn't matter what I believe, only that the other person believes, even for a moment.”

She realized what he meant—an advantage, just a few seconds in a confrontation that might make a difference. Life or death.

“That bruise is just getting started,” he commented. “Have you ever had a black eye?”

She nodded. “A couple.”