The Heart of the Jungle, стр. 8
Not again. He swayed on his feet.
Before he knew what was happening, the man was at his side. A strong arm draped loosely across his shoulders, and a hand pressed against his chest. The intimacy of the touch unbalanced him more. The fire in his cheeks blazed red-hot.
"Let's get you to the couch."
He allowed himself to be guided, dumbfounded and unable to muster the slightest resistance. As he moved, he became aware of the warm, spicy scent of the stranger's skin. That and the reassuring pressure of his gentle touch nearly sent him over the edge. It was a small miracle he could focus on the mechanics of walking.
He sat on the couch, and only when the other man stepped back and appraised him anxiously did he finally begin to gather his wits. He dared not stare too long. The stranger's brows knitted in concern. "I saw what happened at the station earlier today---looks like you're still a little unsteady on your feet." The man pointed toward a chair opposite the sofa.
"Mind if I sit?"
"Who are you?" Chris finally found some semblance of a voice, but it was barely audible. It was the best he could manage. This loss of control was absurd. He'd never experienced anything like it.
"Of course, how rude of me. Jason Kingsley. I'd offer to shake your hand, except...." There was a twinkle in the other's eyes that said he knew exactly what kind of effect he was having on Chris. "Well, I'm a little worried about what might happen. A simple smile nearly dropped you." The twinkle resolved into a self-satisfied grin. There was a hint of smug assurance behind it that raised the heat in Chris's cheeks into a full-fledged conflagration. He was completely transparent to this man.
Oh, how he wished the sofa would turn into a deep black pit and swallow him whole.
"What do you want?" he croaked.
"Can I sit?"
The prickling flared into anger. Jason Kingsley had some nerve.
"No."
"Now you're being rude."
"What do you want?"
"To help. I have some information you might be interested to hear."
"I doubt it." His outrage finally gave him something to work with.
Contempt cleared his head. Egotism always irked him, and this man was positively dripping with it. The conceit had worked its way under his skin and dulled the edge of the instant and insistent attraction. He might be handsome, but Jason Kingsley was obviously full of himself.
Kingsley sighed and crossed his arms over his chest. "I had a feeling you weren't going to make this easy on me."
"Then save yourself the trouble. Leave."
"You know, I don't think I like you very much."
Despite his growing disdain, for some reason Chris felt a flash of shame, and that caught him off guard. Why the hell should he care what Jason Kingsley thought? He had known him for a span of heartbeats and, under normal circumstances, wouldn't have allowed the relationship to progress that far. Even through the fog of schoolboy befuddlement, he could tell that Jason Kingsley was the worst kind of jerk. He knew the type.
So why could he not control the rapid staccato of his heart? Why did his breath continue to catch in his throat when his eyes took in that bewitching face? Why did there still linger a pleasurable warmth across his shoulders and upon his chest where the man's hands had touched him only moments ago?
He shook his head to clear it. It had to be stress. This was the breakdown Dr. Resnick had promised him was coming. Great, just great.
Of all the times to lose it.
Kingsley hadn't moved. He just stood there by the chair, staring down at Chris. His smug grin had faded, and he looked annoyed.
"Well?"
Chris wanted to scream at him, wanted to be furious, but all he could summon was a defeated sigh. "Please, just leave. I've had a difficult day."
Kingsley was silent, and his expression softened. With something akin to compassion, he said, "You've had a difficult year, actually."
"Please---"
"Give me five minutes. If you don't agree that I can help you, I'll leave and you'll never have to see me again."
"I can't deal with this right now---"
Ignoring his protests, Kingsley rushed ahead. "I understand the police have suspended investigation on your case."
"I mean it. Please leave." He started to rise from his seat to show Kingsley to the door.
"I know that must seem very final to you, like there's no reason to have hope anymore, like you've been let down by the system."
The truth in Kingsley's words brought him up short, and he dropped back onto the sofa. Chris hung his head. He couldn't deny it.
Without fully understanding what compelled him to speak, he said, "My attorney, George, thinks this is a positive development. He thinks it's going to help me move on. Maybe if they had found something. Anything."
"In defense of law enforcement, they're usually admirably competent---far more competent than one would expect, considering that the odds are almost always stacked against them. Unfortunately for you, our friend Callahan doesn't fit into the category I've just described."
"He's despicable," Chris agreed.
"You have to admit, it would have been much easier to trump up some motive, slap you with a murder charge, and forego a long drawn-out investigation." As if sensing he'd gotten his foot in the door, Kingsley sat down in the chair. He leaned back and rested his arms on the overstuffed sides of the seat.
"I had nothing to do with it," Chris said, searching the other man's expression for any sign of disbelief.
Kingsley raised his hands in defense. "You don't have to convince me."
"You have no idea what it's like to lose everything and then be accused of murder on top of it." Chris stopped short. Why was he babbling like this? Why did he feel the need to pour his heart out to this conceited bastard? Who had invited himself to sit down, by the