by Nora Roberts
Cautious, she passed him the salad. “I’m glad you asked me to come. We didn’t have much of a chance to talk when you came to New York. I’m sorry I didn’t have a chance to show you around.”
“Next time,” he said and cut into his steak.
They lingered over the meal until twilight. She’d forgotten what it was like to talk about unimportant things, to laugh over dinner with music in the background and a candle flickering. The dog, sated with half of Emma’s steak, snored by her feet. Nerves, strung tight for months, smoothed out.
He could see the change. It was a gradual, almost a muscle-by-muscle relaxation. She never spoke of her marriage, or the separation. He found it odd. He had friends, both male and female, who had gone through divorces. During the process, and long afterward, it had been their favorite topic of conversation.
When Rosemary Clooney’s seductive voice drifted from the radio, he rose and pulled Emma to her feet. “The old ones are the best to dance to,” he said when she took a step in retreat.
“I really don’t—”
“And it’d give Mrs. Petrowski such a thrill.” Gently, drew her closer, forcing himself to keep the embrace friendly and undemanding.
Emma moved with him automatically as Clooney crooned out “Tenderly.” Closing her eyes, she concentrated on staying relaxed, on ignoring the emotions that were creeping into her. She didn’t want to feel anything, unless it was peace.
There was only a flutter of a breeze now as they danced across the grass. The shadows were long. When she opened her eyes on a long, careful breath, she could see the sky in the west glowing in sunset.
“When I was waiting for you to come, I figured out that we’ve known each other about eighteen years.” He brushed a finger over the back of her hand. She didn’t jerk away this time, but there was a moment of stillness. “Eighteen years,” he repeated. “Even though I can count the days I’ve spent with you on one hand.”
“You didn’t pay any attention to me the first time we met.” She forgot to be nervous when she smiled up at him. “You were too busy being dazzled by Devastation.”
“Eleven-year-old boys can’t notice girls. Those particular optic nerves don’t develop until the age of thirteen, twelve in some precocious cases.”
Chuckling, she didn’t object when he brought her a few inches closer. “I read that somewhere. It’s fully developed when the young male anticipates the arrival of Sports Illustrated’s swimsuit issue as much as he anticipates the football preview.” When Michael grinned, she lifted a brow. “It was your loss. I had quite a crush on you.”
“Did you?” He skimmed his fingers up her back to toy with the ends of her hair.
“Absolutely. Your father had told me about how you’d roller-skated off the roof. I wanted to ask you how it felt.”
“Before or after I regained consciousness?”
“In flight.”
“I guess I was up for about three seconds. It was the best three seconds of my life.”
It was exactly what she’d hoped he’d say. “Do your parents still live in that same house?”
“Yeah. You couldn’t get them out with a howitzer.”
“It’s nice,” she mused. “To have a place like that, a place that’s always home. I felt that way about the loft.”
“Is that where you’re going to live when you go back?”
“I don’t know.” The haunted look came back into her eyes, and lingered. “I may not go back.”
He thought she must have loved her husband very much to be so hurt the marriage was over. “There are some nice places along the beach. I remember you like the water.”
“Yes, I do.”
He wanted to see her smile again. “Do you still want to learn how to surf?”
She did smile, but it was wistful. “I haven’t thought about it in years.”
“I have Sunday off. I’ll give you a lesson.”
She glanced up. There was a challenge in his eyes, just enough of one to hook her. “All right.”
He brushed a kiss at her temple in a gesture so easy, she was hardly aware of it. “You know, Emma, when I told you I was sorry about you and your husband …” He brought her hand to his lips. “I lied.”
She retreated instantly. Turning, she began to gather the dishes. “I’ll help you wash up.”
He stepped back to the table, putting a hand over both of hers. “It doesn’t come as that much of a surprise, does it?”
She made herself look at him. The light was pearly with dusk. Behind him, the eastern sky was deep, deep blue. His eyes were on hers, very direct, a little impatient. “No.” She turned and took the dishes inside.
Though it cost him, he didn’t press. She was vulnerable, he reminded himself. A person was bound to be just after the breakup of a marriage. So he’d give her time, as much as he could stand.
She didn’t relax again. Couldn’t. What kind of a woman was she to be drawn to one man so soon after she’d left another? She didn’t want to think about it. Her mind was made up. She would never become involved again. She would never allow herself to be trapped by love, by marriage. Now she only wanted to go back to her hotel, to lock the doors and feel safe for a few hours.
“It’s getting late. I really should get back. Can I call a cab?”
“I’ll take you back.”
“You don’t have to. I can—”
“Emma. I said I’d take you.”
Stop it. Stop it, she ordered herself and pulled her nervous fingers apart. “Thanks.”
“Relax. If you’re not ready for the incredibly romantic affair we’re going to have, I can wait. It’s only been eighteen years so far.”
She wasn’t sure whether to be amused or annoyed. “An affair takes two people,” she said lightly. “I’m afraid I’ve sworn off.”
“Like I said, I can wait.” He scooped up his keys. At the jingle of them, Conroy leaped into the air, barking.
“He likes to ride in the car,” Michael explained. “Shut up, Conroy.”
Knowing a true ally, the dog shuffled over to Emma, head low. “Can he come?” she asked as he rested his head against her thigh.
“I’ve got an MG.”
“I don’t mind being crowded.”
“He’ll shed all over you.”
“It’s all right.”
Conroy followed the conversation, one ear pricked. Michael would have sworn the dog snickered. “You win, Conroy.” Michael pointed toward the front door. Sensing victory, Conroy bolted. His waving tail struck Emma’s purse and knocked it from table to floor.
When Michael bent to retrieve it, the clasp gave and the contents spilled out. Before he could apologize, he saw the .38. Emma said nothing as he lifted it, turning it over in his hand. It was top grade, the best automatic of that caliber that Smith and Wesson had to offer. It was glossy as silk and heavy in his hand. No elegant ladies’ gun, this one was mean and for business only. He pulled out the clip, found it full, then snapped it back into place.
“What are you doing with this?”
“I have a license.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
She crouched down to pick up her wallet and compact and brush. “I live in New York, remember?” She said it lightly, while her stomach churned as it always did when she lied. “A lot of women carry guns in Manhattan. For protection.”
He studied the top of her head. “So you’ve had it awhile.”
“Years.”
“That’s interesting, seeing as this model came out about six months ago. From the looks of it, this gun hasn’t been knocking around in your purse more than a couple of days.”
When she stood her whole body was shaking. “If you’re going to interrogate me, shouldn’t you read me my rights?”
“Cut the crap, Emma. You didn’t buy this to scare off a mugger.”
She could feel the skitter of panic, up her back. It made her throat dry and her stomach roil. He was angry, really angry. She could see it in the way
his eyes darkened, in the way he moved when he stepped toward her. “It’s my business. If you’re going to take me to the hotel—”
“First I want to know why you’re carrying this around, why you lied to me, and why you looked so damn scared at the airport this afternoon.”
She didn’t say a word, but watched him, just watched him with dull, resigned eyes. He’d had a dog look at him like that once, Michael remembered. It had crawled onto the grass at the edge of their lawn one afternoon when he’d been about eight. His mother had been afraid it was rabid, but when they’d taken it to the vet, it had turned out the dog had been beaten. Badly enough, often enough, that the vet had had to put it to sleep.
A sick rage worked inside of him as he stepped toward her. She stumbled back.
“What did he do to you?” He wanted to scream it, but his voice hissed out through his teeth.
She only shook her head. Conroy stopped scratching at the door and sat quivering.
“Emma. What the hell did he do to you?”
“I—I have to go.”
“Goddammit, Emma.” When he reached for her arm, she rammed back into the wall. Her eyes weren’t dull now, but glassy with terror.
“Don’t. Please.”
“I won’t touch you. All right?” It was training that kept his voice calm and quiet. He never took his eyes from hers. His expression was controlled now, carefully blank. “I’m not going to hurt you.” Still watching her, he slipped the gun back in her purse and set it aside. “You don’t have to be afraid of me.”
“I’m not.” But she couldn’t stop trembling.
“You’re afraid of him, of Latimer?”
“I don’t want to talk about him.”
“I can help you, Emma.”
She shook her head again. “No, you can’t.”
“I can. Did he threaten you?” When she didn’t answer, he eased a step closer. “Did he hit you?”
“I’m divorcing him. What difference does it make?”
“It makes a hell of a difference. We can get a warrant.”
“No, I don’t want to do that. I want it over. Michael, I can’t talk to you about this.”
He said nothing for a moment. He could all but feel the terror draining out of her and didn’t want to frighten her again. “All right. I know places where you can go and talk to someone else, to other people who know what it’s like.”
Did he really believe there was anyone who knew what it was like? “I don’t need to talk to anyone. I’m not going to have strangers reading about—about all of this over their morning coffee. This isn’t your concern.”
“Do you think that?” he said quietly. “Do you really think that?”
She felt wretchedly ashamed now. In his eyes was something she needed, needed badly if she only had the courage to ask for it. He was only asking for her trust. But she had trusted once before.”
“I know it’s not. This is my problem, and I’m handling it.”
He could see that one nudge too many would cause her to shatter. So he backed off. “All right. I’d just like you to think about it. You don’t have to do this alone.”
“He took all of my self-respect,” she said quietly. “If I don’t do this alone, I’ll never get it back. Please just take me to the hotel. I’m very tired.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
So the bitch figured she could just walk away, Drew thought. She thought she could walk out the door and keep going. He was going to fix her good when he found her. And find her he would. He bitterly regretted that he hadn’t beat her more vigorously before she’d gone to Florida.
He shouldn’t have let her out of his sight, should have known he couldn’t trust her. The only women a man could trust were hookers. They did their job, took the money, and that was that. There was a world of difference between an honest hooker and a whore. And his sweet, delicate-faced wife was a whore, just as his mother had been.
He was going to give her a beating she’d never forget.
Imagine her having the nerve to take off. The fucking gall to transfer her money and cancel the credit. He’d been humiliated at Bijan when the clerk had taken back the cashmere duster Drew had decided to purchase, with the cool comment that his credit card had been canceled.
She was going to pay for that.
Then to have that snotty lawyer serve him with papers. So she wanted a divorce. He’d see her dead first.
The New York lawyer hadn’t been any help. Some bullshit about a professional courtesy to another firm. Mrs. Latimer didn’t want her whereabouts known. Well, he was going to find her whereabouts all right, and he was going to kick ass.
At first he’d been afraid she’d gone to her father. With the benefit coming up and all Drew’s plans to go solo about to bear fruit, he didn’t want someone as influential as Brian McAvoy coming down on him. But then Brian had called about Emma’s old lady dying. Drew was pleased that he’d been able to cover himself so quickly. He’d told Brian that Emma was out for the evening with a couple of her girlfriends. And he was certain he’d had just the right tone of sympathy and concern in his voice when he’d promised to tell Emma the news.
If McAvoy didn’t know where his bitch of a daughter was, then Drew figured none of the other band members knew, either. They were all as thick as bloody thieves. He’d thought of Bev, but he was nearly sure that if Emma had gone to London, her old man would’ve gotten wind of it.
Or maybe they were all playing with him, laughing at him behind his back. If that was the case, then he’d pay her back, with interest.
She’d been gone for over two weeks. He hoped she’d had herself a high flying time because she was going to pay for every hour.
He hunched his shoulders against the brisk wind as he walked. The leather jacket kept out the worst of the early spring chill, but his ears were ringing from the wind. Or maybe it was fury. He liked that idea better and grinned a little as he crossed the street to the loft.
He’d taken the subway, something he found degrading but safer than a cab under the circumstances. He would more than likely have to do something … unpleasant to Marianne. Unpleasant for her, anyway, Drew thought with a laugh. It would be a great pleasure for him.
Emma had lied to him. Marianne had been at the funeral. He’d seen the pictures of them together in the paper. As sure as God made hell, Marianne had been in on the whole thing. She’d know where Emma was hiding. And when he got through with her, she’d be damn delighted to tell him.
He used the key he’d gotten from Emma months before. Inside, he punched in the security code to unlock the elevator. As the doors closed him in, he rubbed the knuckles of one hand against the other. He hoped she was still in bed.
The loft was silent. He moved quietly across the floor and up the stairs with his heart pounding happily. There was disappointment when he saw the empty bed. The sheets were tangled, but cool. The disappointment was so great, he compensated by trashing the loft. It took him nearly an hour to vent his frustration, ripping clothes, breaking glassware, hacking cushion after cushion in the sectional with a knife he’d taken from the kitchen.
He thought of the paintings, stacked up in the studio. Knife in hand, he started up when the phone rang. He stopped, jumping at the sound. He was breathing hard, sweat rolling into his eyes. There was a trickle of blood from his lip where he’d gnawed through while slashing the sofa.
On the fourth ring, the machine picked up.
“Marianne.”
Drew bolted down the steps at the sound of Emma’s voice. He’d nearly yanked up the receiver before he caught himself. “You’re probably still in bed, or up to your elbows in paint, so call me later. Try to make it this morning. I’m going to the beach later to practice my surfing. I can stay up for more than ten seconds. Don’t be jealous, but it’s going to hit ninety in LA. today. Call soon.”
L.A., Drew thought. Turning, he stared at the mural of Emma on the plaster wall.
When Marianne phoned an hour later, Emma w
as on her way out the door. She closed it, locked it again before she answered.
“Hi there.” Marianne’s voice was drowsy and content.
“Hi, yourself. You just getting up? It must be nearly noon in New York.”
“I’m not up yet.” She snuggled back against the pillows. “I’m in bed. The dentist’s bed.”
“Having a tooth capped?”
“Let’s just say that he’s got talents that extend beyond dental hygiene. I called my machine for messages and got yours. So, how are you?”
“I’m doing okay. Really.”
“Glad to hear it. Is Michael going to the beach with you?”
“No, he’s working.”
Marianne wrinkled her nose. If she couldn’t be around to look after Emma, she counted on the cop to do so. She could hear the shower in the next room and wished lazily that her new lover would come back to bed instead of heading off to fight plaque. “Tooth decay or bad guys, I guess a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. Look, I’m thinking of coming out in a couple of weeks.”
“To check up on me?”
“Right. And to finally meet this Michael you’ve been keeping to yourself all these years. Have a good time hanging ten, Emma. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Michael liked being out in the field. He didn’t have any real gripe with paperwork, or the hours it sometimes took talking on the phone, going on door-to-doors. But he liked the action on the streets.
He’d had to ignore a good deal of ribbing in the early years. The captain’s son. Some of it had been good-natured, some of it hadn’t, but he’d weathered it. He’d worked hard for his gold shield.
In the station now he stole a doughnut from a nearby desk, eating it standing up, while paging through the paper an associate had left next to the coffee maker.
He went straight for the comics. After a night like he’d put in, he needed all the laughs he could get. From there, he went looking for sports, turning the page with one hand and pouring coffee with the other.
JANE PALMER DIES OF OVERDOSE
Jane Palmer, forty-six, ex-lover of Devastation’s Brian McAvoy, and mother of his daughter, Emma, was found dead in her London home, apparently a victim of a drug overdose. The body was discovered by Stanley Hitchman late Sunday afternoon.