Page 14 of Resisting His Target
“I’m fine.”
He picked up his pile and walked it to the dune, then sat beside her in the sand, facing the water. “You’re lonely.”
“So are you.”
“My needs are met.”
He meant sex. She shook her head. “There’s more to it than that.”
“Did your husband make you happy?”
“No.”
“Yet you still think happiness exists.”
“And you don’t.” Her eyes raked over his features, so masculine and strong. There was a stubbornness to the set of his jaw, a flame somewhere behind his eyes that spoke of great pain and even lower expectations of other people. “You never have.”
“No.”
It showed. He held out no hope for the one thing she wanted to believe above all others. That there was someone for her in this life, that she wasn’t meant to be alone, that it was possible she would find happiness as part of a couple one day. A family for Selena.
Something about this man resonated inside her, like the thinnest of wine glasses vibrating with a soprano’s voice. But she would find no happiness here, only emptiness that resembled what she was after, a mirror image of the real thing. She didn’t know how she knew it, but she was certain just the same.
Razorback was not the answer to any of her questions.
“I need to get dinner started.” She moved to stand up, but he beat her to it and offered his hand. Grudgingly, she took it, letting him pull her to her feet. He smelled like hard work and virile male, and she stood perilously close to him, his hand still holding hers. Her heart skipped a beat. “What happened to your face?”
He pulled away from her hand. “Afghanistan. I was carrying an oxygen tank for a patient—a kid who’d taken a bullet in his lung. The shrapnel from a roadside bomb punctured the tank and set it on fire.”
She inhaled sharply, the back of her hand coming reflexively to her mouth as she imagined the scene he described. “I’m so sor—”
“The kid died. If you want to feel sorry for somebody, feel sorry for him.”
8
Hours later, Jackie still couldn’t sleep, despite being so tired. So she turned the television on quietly and tuned in toSaturday Night Live. The US episode was delayed but broadcast in English. A guilty pleasure. They were in the middle of a skit, set on what looked like the Senate floor. A big, hairy man wore pink lingerie and twirled like a dancer, the others around him lamenting that the underwear man would never be president now.
Another guy entered the scene. The hairstyle, plaid tie, and suspenders uncomfortably familiar. “I’ll be your president.”
“Isn’t he the valet?” one man asked. The audience chuckled. Everyone looked confused. A second man spoke up. “No, that’s the guy who works at the 7-Eleven down the street.” A third said, “I thought that was the janitor.” A petite woman rolled her eyes. “Oh, don’t mind him. That’s just the senator from California.”
The audience laughed, but Jackie stopped breathing, the program suddenly taking on a surreal quality.
“That’s right,” said the actor playing the senator. “Doug McGrath.”
The people looked nonplussed, shaking their heads and shrugging. “Nope, there’s no senator named McGrath.”
“I’m running for president.”
“Green party?” asked one of them.
“No! I’m a Democrat, just like you,” McGrath whined.
“The Democrat’s by the punch bowl in the G-string and pasties. Pink really isn’t a good color for him.”
“Mauve would be nice,” said the petite woman, the men nodding their agreement.
“I’m the Democrat running for president. Doug McGrath.” He pointed to the man in pink. “That guy withdrew almost two weeks ago.”