Free Challenging Andie by Sally Clements Page A

wonderful. Dead to the world, she wouldn’t know if he breathed in the faint lemon perfume of her hair like a lovesick sap. Wouldn’t know if his hand played with a lock of her golden hair like a talisman. Curled it around his finger and gripped on tight. Her legs against his, thighs to knees. Her soft breaths punctuating the darkness of the night.
    What had started as an irresistible attraction had morphed into something more. He’d meant to make slow and careful love to her, knowing she’d had it tough the past few weeks, and wanting to make the night perfect. The moment she’d demanded they make love, so desperate and demanding, all thoughts of taking it easy had burned up and disappeared. He’d never felt like that before. Never been so…desperate, so out of control. Never wanted to snuggle in passion’s aftermath.
    Andie sighed in her sleep.
    Ryan released her hair, slid his hand over her ribcage, and closed his eyes.
    *****
    Sun steaming through the window woke Ryan from sleep. Another dreamless night. He sat up, and scrubbed a hand over his face. The room was empty. He touched the indentation where she’d lain, finding it cold. Relief flowed at the knowledge he was alone with his disquieting thoughts. The dreams were so constantly present that their absence threw him out of kilter, brought home the fact that for many, a peaceful night’s sleep was the norm, rather than an oddity. Being alone was good. It negated the possibility he’d unwittingly reveal a part of himself he wasn’t ready to share—not even with Andie.
    In his world, tormented dreams were an inevitable side-effect of allowing a story to penetrate the psyche. Many of the correspondents who arrived at the daily press briefings in the embassy were bleary eyed through an over consumption of alcohol the night before. Drink and reportage went together hand in glove. A necessary evil to get through the days and nights reporting a bloody conflict and the horrors that man perpetrated against man. He’d avoided the bottle, seeing in all too graphic detail how drinking had destroyed talented men and women alike. The old pros propping up the bar in the hotel the press used were always jovial, but dead inside.
    Ryan made for the bathroom. The shower’s pounding spray washed away thought, washed away reflection, but pain still lingered. He stuck his head under the spray, breathed in the cloud of damp steam, and tried to quiet his mind.
    Andie had grown up without a mother for Emily had rejected the warm safety of home and family to champion another country’s cause, blocking out the alternate reality that she could have lived. Did that future lay in store for him too? He’d considered himself self-contained. Didn’t believe he needed anyone or anything but the chance to report on stories. Awards had been given for his dispassionate reporting and he’d been proud of his ability to disconnect from the tragic events he documented. His report on the aftermath of the bombing in Rexa had been syndicated around the world, with its haunting footage of children and adults caught in the wrong place, at the wrong time, lying bloodied in the makeshift hospital on the outskirts of the city.
    He’d been able to report calmly on their pain. Capture their faces and ravaged bodies, and talk to the survivors about their experiences. Being one step removed was part of the job, the only way to survive in the midst of such agony. For years he’d pushed down his emotions—considered himself immune, but they bled out into his dreams.
    The dreams had been absent for the past two nights with Andie at his side. Without even trying, she’d changed him. Made it difficult to remain detached in the face of her grief. Now, the veil between day and night was gossamer thin, stretched to ripping. The horrors were in danger of protruding through into his daily reality. The mechanism instinctively used for years to push them back into his unconscious irretrievably broken.
    Ryan