Pity.
'Takin' a shower.' Christian headed for his room. 'G'night.'
To him, she might as well have been a ghost. Jasmine wasn't sure she liked the new experience of being invisible to a man. He even tried to shut the door behind him—like mere wood could keep her out—but it remained open a crack.
She knew she should have followed his lead and washed off the disappointment, but her mind wouldn't stop. Anxiety mixed with adrenaline and kept her moving. She paced the living room and downed a shot of vodka. Nothing helped. When the shower rumbled in the next room, her eyes shifted to his door, more out of reflex. Yet once she caught a glimpse of Christian in the mirror of his dresser, she couldn't take her eyes away. The mirror angled toward the bathroom, giving her a spectacle she had no right to see.
Had she been hindered by a conscience, she might have exercised restraint. Instead, she stepped closer, figuring if she got caught, she'd slam the door and act offended by his display. But with his back turned, her voyeurism held no such consequence, so she indulged herself.
She narrowed her eyes and peered in.
Christian removed his holster and put away his gun. Heading for the bathroom, he stripped off his dark shirt and tossed it to the floor. The steam in the shower billowed, but the sound of it faded away. The stillness of the moment closed in. With his black undershirt stuck to his skin, he tugged it over his head—tanned skin and lean muscles with the hint of pale skin below the waistband of his pants.
Jasmine swallowed. Her cheeks flushed with heat. And the air-conditioning made the salt from her dried sweat prickle her skin.
When Christian unzipped, she should have turned away. Instead, she nibbled her lower lip and held her breath. Piece by piece the rest of his clothes hit the floor until he was down to his natural assets. His thick, dark hair curled at the nape of his neck. Broad shoulders tapered to narrow hips. A striking man.
Like father . . . like son.
Christian stepped into the billowing steam, his body moving behind the opaque shower door. She pictured hot streams of water rolling down his skin. But when her fingertips touched the doorknob, all she thought about was Nicholas . . . how it felt to lie with him. She shut her eyes, fighting back the lump in her throat.
Jasmine took a deep trembling breath and shut Christian's door. Left alone with her thoughts, she walked across the room and sat at the wet bar. Still smelling of insect repellent and sweat, she downed more vodka as images of Nicholas ran through her mind. As pathetic as she felt, she couldn't shake the blues.
So when Christian joined her again twenty minutes later, she welcomed the company.
'Thought you were going to bed,' she said.
'Too wound up.'
Barefoot and dressed in khakis and a navy tank, he brushed by her smelling of herbal soap. He looked exhausted. Dark circles had formed under his eyes. They made the bruising on his body look worse. After taking a glass and a bottle of vintage Macallan single malt whiskey from the bar, he sprawled on the sofa and indulged. Jasmine recognized the pricey label. One of Nicky's favorites. It made her all the more sad. Without a word, Christian drank in the dark, not bothering to put on the lights, except for the one she had lit by the suite door.
Once again she'd been relegated to ghost status. To distract him, she asked the one question they had both avoided.
'At Genotech. Do you think Zharan is involved?' The thought punched her in the gut when she said it aloud. She had hopes Zharan might have a solution to finding Nicky. She needed to believe it. Now, she had no idea. 'Or is Duarte acting alone?'
Jasmine knew Christian had been disappointed with the day, and she couldn't blame him. She felt the same. It took everything she had to keep herself together, the facade of self-reliance and strength.
'I don't know what to think. Not anymore,' Christian mumbled, and took another gulp. She barely heard him.
'Are you in pain?'
He didn't answer, only waved a dismissive hand. Typical tough guy. She knew if he drank himself into oblivion, he'd be no good to her tomorrow. She went to her room and came back with something from her well-equipped first aid kit. She could take care of his physical pain—and maybe with a little bit of luck, he'd get a night's reprieve from his emotional scars. The best she could do.
'Here. Take these.' She held out two pain pills. With the alcohol he'd consumed, he'd be dead to the world. He turned to ask what they were, but she anticipated his question.
'Pain meds. They'll dull the aches and you'll get some sleep. With no lingering hangover the next day.'
She lied about the hangover. In his current condition, she gave no guarantees. Christian swallowed them both and washed them down with the last of his drink. Neither of them could afford the luxury of self-pity. She had to keep him focused and his mind open to possibilities. Jasmine joined him on the couch. Her eyes fixed on him, even though he didn't return the gesture. Christian was too absorbed in his thoughts. She had to get her point across before the drugs and alcohol took over.
'Duarte's a lone wolf. Can't see him being one in a crowd. And I can't imagine they staged Zharan taking over Nicky's case just for our benefit. It would serve no purpose.'
Christian raised his head, his brow knitted as he considered her assessment.
She continued, 'If Zharan continues to make progress, what harm would it do to follow his lead?' Jasmine found it hard to believe she had proposed working with the police, under any circumstance.
'You've got a point. Maybe we can see what tomorrow brings.' He wiped his face with both hands, an attempt to clear the fog. 'If he comes through with his promises, we may get an opportunity to fill him in. Otherwise, we keep our mouths shut.'
She nodded. 'Agreed.'
Even though Christian continued to speculate about Genotech and the role of the men in handcuffs, Jasmine only listened and offered little. She had to protect Nicky's interests the only way she knew how. When Christian's words started to slur and his beautiful green eyes grew droopy, she noticed the change.
'The pills have kicked in. Don't bother to argue the point.' She stood and tugged at his elbow, pulling him to his feet. Not an easy feat. 'Let's get you to bed, little acorn.'
'I told you . . .' He garbled his words. 'Don't c-call me that.'
Christian nearly toppled to one side as he took his first steps.
'Whoa.' He braced himself onto the back of the sofa, but when Jasmine stepped in to help, he grimaced. 'Hey ... do I smell DEET?'
'Give it a rest, Delacorte.'
She rolled her eyes and forced his arm over her shoulder, gripping his wrist. With her other arm wrapped around his waist, she led him to his bedroom and flipped a light switch. Recessed lighting across one wall cast a pale glow onto the room. Surprisingly, Christian let her help as he rehashed his theories on Genotech. Perhaps in his condition, he had forgotten she was practically the enemy.
'They g-gotta be looking . . . for a new . . . addiction . . .' He yawned and moaned with the effort. Jasmine pulled back his bed linens with one hand, not trusting Christian to stand on his own. He kept talking. '. . . something to rewire a person's brain . . . without them knowing it. They'll wrap it up in a n-nice bow . . . s-saying it's . . . medicinal. A miracle cure for something . . . maybe depression. Hell . . . who knows .. . what the lasting effects w-would be .. . when you're talking ge-genetics. And . .. and they're using the natives of Brazil ... as lab rats. What do you th-think?'
Even doped up, Christian and his sharp mind explored a trail that made logical sense. Jasmine had a feeling Nicky would be proud of his son, in a peculiar sort of way.
'I think you need to let it go. Let the pain meds do their job.' She sat him on the bed, toppling onto him when he shifted his weight. When Christian collapsed onto the mattress, clothes and all, she covered him with the blanket.
