Free The Passion Play by Amelia Hart Page B

her. Truth be told, the way he felt, the het up and bothered, can't think straight, wide-eyed adoring way he felt just to look at her, be near her, gave him an uncomfortable suspicion being 'done with her' wasn't something he'd ever achieve.
    Which considering how things were right now, made him feel the next thing to despair.
    Still, he wasn't a man who gave up easily. Unless and until she told him there was no chance she would ever want him – and he prayed to a merciful heaven he could keep his foot out of his mouth long enough to convince her otherwise –– he would play a long game, and a cautious one.
    He ought to remember as little as a fortnight ago she'd been married and inaccessible. Just because he'd so nearly had her and then lost her was no reason to lose his strategic abilities.
    Now how could a man woo a woman from afar, when she had made up her mind not to like him?
     

CHAPTER NINE
     
    Two Friday nights in a row he came to her new favorite club.
    Now, a third time, he was here again. Wretched man.
    She turned away with a scowl on her face, determined to act like she did not see him, just like she had last Friday night, and the Friday night before.
    He would be studiously ignoring her right now. Mostly that was what he did. She knew because she looked at him over and over again through the evening, covertly. Pretended her eyes were closed, that she was lost in the music, the rhythm, the dance, but watched him under her lashes to see if she could catch him watching her, sometimes with that dreamy smile of his, sometimes brooding. He danced too, with other women, if he was invited. It happened. Women approached him, the tall, attractive guy at the bar, quietly holding on to his one drink through the evening.
    Yes, he seemed quiet, until he got on the dance floor. Then he moved like the beat incarnate, unself-conscious and fluid. He made them look good, the women who took the trouble to ask him, making the dance about the two of them, reflecting her moves, his own easy to follow. He had some skills. It was hard not to watch. Hard to remember she was pretending to be oblivious.
    Then when he had had enough, or the woman had, he would chat to her for a while, smiling and nodding. Maybe she would join him for a drink. They might sit there, talking and laughing. Three times now she had caught that final moment when an offer was made, an invitation, a phone number written down. Each time the woman issued it. Each time he had put his hand on his heart and said thank you but shaken his head no.
    Other times Felicity turned around and saw the woman had gone and he sat there alone.
    Honestly the first Friday night he showed up she found it kind of creepy. She wondered what he would do next. Would he make a nuisance of himself? Would he . . . follow her home?
    It was not as if she had ever had that vibe from him before, but never had a guy shown up somewhere in search of her before either, and he was very big and she was a small woman living alone . . .
    She set her burglar alarm when she went to bed, as well as when she went out.
    The next day – Saturday – he was absent, and it was a relief. Of course he had not come. He had a game tomorrow. He would be at the team's hotel, maybe in some other city. She could have looked it up on the schedule but she did not. She did not need to know.
    Going out dancing was truly enjoyable now she had found the right club - a place where the lighting was better and the music more mellow, easier to dance to. And it was fun to move her body to the beat, to be approached by this man or that one, to accept a drink, to chat. It felt like a wall of cool detachment stood between her and those men, and she accepted that was how an emotionally bruised woman would be, disinterested in connection. It suited her exactly. Yet it was good to know she could fit into this scene if she ever was ready. She drank little, left early, hired a taxi to drive her safely to her car which was parked too