Free Game For Love: Game for You (Kindle Worlds Novella) by Jami Davenport Page A

fami ly of his own. Everything in his life had revolved around football. But now it couldn’t.
    Branson slumped down on the veranda of his waterfront view home , wishing for dark storm clouds or thick, hazy fog to match his mood. Instead, bright sunshine streaked the water with cheerful bursts of light, as if mocking him.
    He heard his housekeeper, Sarah, bustling about the living room, cleaning and vacuuming. He wished she’d finish and leave him to wallow in his misery. Those pitying glances she’d cast his way all morning pissed him off. He hated being the object of anyone’s pity and she didn’t deserve his anger, so he’d escaped outside with his bad attitude and a carafe of coffee rather than take his frustrations out on an innocent bystander.
    “Mr. B ullock, I made you some lunch.” Sarah stood in the doorway, usually a slight, nervous little thing. She used to remind him of a fairy or a lost waif or something equally small and fragile. She’d always been skittish, and he tamped down his temper so he wouldn’t scare the heck out of her.
    Only today , she regarded him with a steady gaze, friendly yet firm, and only a hint of her former shyness.
    “ It’s Branson,” he said wearily, repeating the words he’d uttered a hundred times over the past three years she’d worked for him.
    “Sorry.” Nodding, she placed a grilled- cheese sandwich and bowl of thick, rich soup in front of him.
    Even in his crappy mo od, the delectable smell of one of her signature soups wafted to his nostrils, reminding him that he was damn hungry, not having eaten since yesterday at lunch when he’d gotten the final results from that last doctor and talked to his agent.
    Sarah turned to walk back inside. He put out a hand to stop her, and she cringed and pulled away, staring at him with frightened eyes, reverting back to the old Sarah. Branson frowned, temporarily forgetting about himself and focusing on her, and what little he knew about her, other than she was close to him in age and came highly recommended by a former teammate. She stayed in the background and out of his way. Never said much. And he never asked much. At least not anything personal. He understood her need for privacy. He was a private person himself.
    She’d been one of the constants in his life which he took for granted. Like football had been.
    But now he noticed little things, now that he was looking. He ran his gaze down her cute little body and up again to her face. She wore no makeup that he could discern. Funny that he’d never noticed before how pretty she was, or how nicely her simple cotton shirt shaped itself around a pair of mouth-watering breasts, or how her tan pants hugged her fine, rounded ass. Or those eyes. She had beautiful, expressive brown eyes, like a scared doe about to bolt at any moment. Her pale skin shone like porcelain. He guessed most women would die for skin like that, and his fingers itched to touch her. That thought sat him back on his heels.
    What the hell?
    He stared harder, unable to stop himself.
    Lately, she’d been differ ent. Not so skittish. There’d been subtle changes in her, even if they didn’t register in his brain until now. He’d long suspected she’d been involved in an abusive situation. He knew the signs all too well. Unfortunately . The long-sleeved shirts on hot days, the occasional black eye, an arm in a cast, moving as if she hurt, and the fear in her eyes. He’d even approached her about it on more than one occasion, offered to help if she needed it. Of course, every time, she flat out denied any problem. And he’d let it go at that.
    Then, months ago, she started wearing short sleeves and the bruises on her arms faded to nothing. He hoped like hell she’d gotten rid of the bastard who’d done that crap to her. Branson’s fingers curled into fists at the thought of a man beating on a little thing like this. He’d like to give the jerk a taste of how it felt to fight a real man, not a woman half