by Louisa Trent
Emily was the three Cs-complex, clever, and criminal-and that was an irresistible combination to a man bored too long. She was a puzzle he intended to solve. And while he figuring her out, he would keep her safe from harm, for behind those somber gray eyes lurked genuine fear.
His own eyes wide open to the grief he was letting himself in for, he said, "You can start tomorrow. Seven o'clock sharp."
"You won't be sorry, Mr. Gallagher."
Yeah, right! He already was.
CHAPTER FOUR
Head down, Emily hurried along the sandy edges of the shore road, taking little pleasure in the silver-weathered cottages that dotted the dunes, hardly hearing the sea gulls cawing overhead, noticing only as an afterthought the hint of salty sea spray that lingered in the air. She had more pressing concerns on her mind than the sights and smells and impressions of picturesque Cape Cod-like where she would sleep tomorrow. The youth hostel provided both a free breakfast and an inexpensive roof overhead. Unfortunately, only a seven-day stay was allowed and she maxed-out tonight.
Money low, belly on empty, and homeless on Tuesday, Emily didn't know what to do. The hostel's cold cereal breakfast, tepid shower, and narrow army cot seemed like luxury accommodations to her now that she was losing them, and the ten wrinkled dollars in her pocket ruled out the possibility of checking into a motel. Looked like tomorrow night she would be dragging her sleeping bag onto the beach.
Sleeping out in the open under the stars held no romantic allure for her; the prospect terrified her. Waking up cold and damp, picking sand out of her teeth, having to use public restrooms to wash up, were more than inconveniences. Homelessness increased the likelihood of a girl getting raped. Also, there was the potential for the cops hauling her ass in for vagrancy as she had yet to scout down a fake ID. On the move since the night of Mr. Fritz's suicide, she'd had no time to make any street connections.
Compliments of a clothesline-even in Bernard Fritz's exclusive Chestnut Hill neighborhood some folks still hung wash out to dry-she had changed from her cocktail dress into a pair of damp black jeans and a nearly dry black tee shirt. With the expensive, high-couture dress rolled up in a ball under her arm, she had walked a few miles in her designer shoes before hitching a ride to the Copley Square Library.
The BPL felt like home to her. Moving from floor to floor, stack to stack to avoid detection by security, she camped there for two nights. On the morning of her third day on the run, she walked downtown and hocked Mr. Fritz's gift to her-a clunky, antique brooch. Digging into the proceeds from the transaction, she purchased a few essential toiletries. At a thrift shop in the garment district, she traded her cocktail dress for a pair of used work boots, socks, a sleeping bag, and a backpack. That was some expensive dress Mr. Benton had given her to wear for his birthday party! Returning with her booty to the library, she 'borrowed' a pair of scissors from the front desk and hacked off her waist-length blond hair. Too easy to identify. In the basement Girls Room, she shampooed what remained with pink liquid soap from the sink dispenser and dyed it black. Praying Security wouldn't walk in on her naked, she washed up with a brown paper towel, used her brand-new toothbrush, styled her newly shorn hair with the help of some gel, and dressed in her clothesline outfit. Black hair, black clothes, and angst nailed in place, she knew she could pass for a street-kid. She had been there before, and the trip was familiar.
The bus ticket from Boston to the Cape had taken a large chunk out of her resources, but food cost the most. Even limiting herself to one meal a day, money doesn't last long.
Inside a mom and pop variety store Emily counted her change...
Seventy-nine cents. Enough to buy a candy bar without breaking a dollar bill. Great.
Buying the largest bar she could find for the money and clutching it to her chest, she ran back outside, fumbling greedily at the wrapper, her mouth salivating at that first delicious whiff of chocolate.
Collapsing under a tree, she took a teeney-weeny bite.
Even in the shade, milk chocolate melts fast. Self-pitying tears dampened her eyes as caramel goo dripped from the foil. The bar was supposed to last! She had wanted to savor it!
She ended up swallowing the candy down whole and licking her sticky fingers afterwards, hunger pangs still clenching her belly.
Memories of food monopolized her daydreams. Even food she couldn't stand, like the stick-to-your-ribs oatmeal that group homes invariably serve up for breakfast. Weight was dropping off her frame. She was getting skinny everywhere.
Emily's glance dropped to her chest.
She had always been small on top, but what with losing weight, her bust had gone bust. Just as well. Braless, at least she wouldn't bounce...
She wriggled her shoulders.
Okay, she did bounce. But it wasn't horrible.
Normally, she didn't go without. But the cocktail dress she had worn to Mr. Fritz's party came with a built-in bra, which explained her lack of underwear now.
She would just have to live with the bounce. What choice did she have? New bras were expensive, and she was not wearing second-hand underwear.
It's just that ... Steve Gallagher had noticed. He didn't leer, but his gaze had fallen on her unsupported boobs more than once.
Let him look! A certain amount of brashness was necessary for her disguise. She couldn't afford to go maidenly shy about her body now. She was street. She was tough. Casual sex was no big deal...
Whoa-where did that come from? How did she go from letting a guy look to letting a guy shag her? Was she really considering sleeping her way into Steve Gallagher's confidence?
Stumbling wearily to her feet, Emily hoisted the backpack containing all her worldly possessions onto her shoulders and started the long walk back to the hostel.
* * * *
The following day at 7AM sharp, her new boss watched her over the rim of his coffee cup as she made her way up the long, winding driveway.
Steve wasn't real tall, five ten at the most, with a lean but powerful build. His dark hair, as black as her own dyed hair, was worn short in a no-nonsense buzz-cut. She suspected he kept it clipped close to tame a natural tendency towards unruliness-a man as masculine as Steve Gallagher would have no patience for curls, and that was really too bad because a woman might just be tempted to muss them. The half-inch or so of hair he did allow hugged the shape of his skull so tightly that even the ocean breeze couldn't disturb the severe military style. His skin, as dark as hers was pale, showed traces of nice laugh lines at the corners of his warm brown eyes, telling her he must laugh a lot...
He wasn't cracking so much as a smile this morning. At least, not at her. His sensuous mouth, bearing a white scar above the upper lip, looked taut as he took a slow sip of his morning coffee, giving her chance to swallow a mouthful of starvation induced saliva. The cause? His neatly pressed shirt, a delicious shade of lime sherbet-lately, everything reminded her of food. Of course, in his trim-fitting tan work chinos, he would have had her mouth watering anyway. At any rate, the pastel shirt was a good choice for him; the light color softened the hard edges of his face.
He needed something to soften him. The man was hard all over. Would he ride a woman hard in bed?
She sensed the extremely virile Steve Gallagher would dominate a woman during lovemaking, leave her gasping...
The lazy, slouched posture of his was all pose, she decided. She predicted this man was never entirely at ease anywhere. Ready to strike, poised for action at the least provocation...
Under no circumstance must she provoke him.
"Good morning, Mr. Gallagher," she said all-bubbly enthusiasm, forcing her cheek muscles to lift.
He didn't return her smile. "Where's your car?"
"Don't own one," she answered, and shimmied out from under the straps of her backpack as brown eyes hooded and dropped.
Her boobs had bobbed with her shimmying, a small shift her observant boss did not let go unnoticed.
Observant, but not a lecher.
Her employer's gaze quickly lifted from her chest. He took another pull on his morning coffee-God, the aroma was delicious-while she placed the pathetically light bag on the driveway, the crushed clamshells barely disturbed upon impact; the only other item she owned, her sleeping bag, was hidden away beneath the hedge out front.
Last night, awake in her narrow hostel's cot in a room shared with twenty other girls, she thought about Steve Gallagher and how she should proceed. This wasn't a game of cops and robbers. She couldn't afford to slip up, not in front of an observant man like Steve Gallagher. When asked anything personal, she decided she would keep her answers simple. No colorful embellishments. Give as few details as possible. She wasn't very good at lying, and so 'yes' and 'no' replies would be safest.
"We'll work on the Dusenberg's engine this morning," he volunteered. "Ready to get to work?"
She nodded, while under the pulled-low brim of her cap, she examined Steve Gallagher' s hands.
The fingers wrapped around the coffee mug were badly callused and scarred, powerful too, just like his build. The nails weren't manicured, but they were meticulously scrubbed clean. How would those rough hands feel on a woman's skin? On her skin?
She shivered, quickly covered with a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed: "Yes, sir! I can hardly wait to start, sir."
"Call me Steve. When you say, sir, it makes me feel like an antique myself," he said, leading the way into the garage.
She followed, watching every move he made.
After draining his coffee cup, he placed it on a worktable. "It's a long walk, back and forth from town."
"I manage."
"You are staying in town, right?"
At her, "Yes," he rubbed a hand down his clean-shaven jaw. "I could pick you up."
"No thanks. As I say, I manage." She always had.
"Have it your way."
After heading for the Dusenberg, he wheeled around and retraced his steps, reached for his empty coffee cup. "I keep forgetting to clean up after myself."
"From now on, I'll see to the dishes, sir. I mean, Steve.
Ignoring her offer, he went to the sink, washed the cup and dried it, then placed it on a shelf.
"We'll see how things go with the car before you assume your housekeeping tasks." He smiled self-depreciatingly, and the grin didn't make it all the way to his eyes; they remained unaffected. "The problem is, my household staff in Boston and New York have spoiled me. I don't have help on the Cape. Here, I like my privacy."
Hoping to sound like an awed teenager, rather than nosey, she said, "Wow! You must be like a millionaire to own three houses."
He shrugged. "I do okay. Money is important, but it's not the most important thing to me."
"What is?"
"Honesty. You'll find if you're up front with me, I'll be up front with you." He stared deep into her face.
Steve Gallagher wanted in her panties. And she would play the sex card to her best advantage. But keeping a cool head while manipulating his male lust would prove more difficult than she had originally thought. An undeniable current, a line charged with electricity, a hot wire of mutual appreciation, raced back and forth between them. Tension coiled in her belly. He wanted into her panties and she wasn't immune to him either.
Sooner than he, she blinked and looked away.
CHAPTER FIVE
The first day on the job, Steve put his new mechanic through the paces.
After showing Emily the location of everything in the garage, they crawled under the Dusenberg. Side by side under the car, their backs supported on dollies, they discussed what needed to be done.
A summer's worth of restoration is what needed to be done.
Steve had to hand it to Emily-she was a good little mechanic. She changed the oil and didn't falter once.
He did. A bunch of times. When his arm touched her arm, when his shoulder touched her shoulder, when his hip touched her hip. There wasn't much maneuvering room under the chassis, and every time a tool got passed back and forth between them, their fingers ended up colliding. He was keenly aware of every breath Emily took, every time her small breasts rose and fell, every time she swallowed. And he kept picking up her soapy scent. She was tomboyish and kittenish at the same time. What man could resist a sexy pussycat with grease under her nails?
Lunch was always at one o'clock. Sharp. A creature of habit, he would knock off ten minutes early to wash up at the sink in the garage before wandering up to the house to fix himself a sandwich. Maybe open up a can of soup if he was feeling lazy. Eating alone got kind of boring after a while and sometimes he just wanted to chow down and finish up quick so he could get back to work. Loneliness never seemed as bad when he was busy.
Since Emily's tummy had been rumbling for hours, a fact she kept apologizing for, he decided to quit early for lunch. This was a huge shift in the schedule for him, as he was pretty set in his solitary ways.
Under the car, Steve turned to his mechanic, his nose just about touching her nose. "It's noon. Time to eat."
"I'm not hungry."
Yeah right, she wasn't hungry. After adjusting his whole important routine for her empty belly, she pays him back by feeding him a line...
"Suit yourself," he said off-handedly, and rolled out from under, the wheels of the dolly squeaking on the cement floor.
Taking his cell phone ... and the lingering scent of Emily's shampooed hair with him outside ... he called in a take-out order to the local pizza joint. Thirty minutes later, the delivery boy had arrived, been paid, tipped, and left with a smile on his face.
Steve opened the greasy cardboard box and muttered loud enough for his helper to hear, "Aw, man! They got it all wrong. I ordered a small, not a large! And there are two cartons of milk here too. Looks like you'll have to help me eat this, Lee. Wash up at the sink and I'll get out the paper plates."
Steve turned 'round to see if the bait had worked-young people all loved pizza.
Flat on her back, Emily wheeled out from under the Dusenberg. Coming to a graceful cross-legged sit on the dolly, she lifted her chin. "Sure?"
"What do I look like here-an army? I can't eat a large all by myself. Four-five slices and I'm good."
Emily scampered to her feet, raced to the sink, washed up, and skidded to the small table where the pizza box sat, lid open-better to circulate the cheese and tomato aroma.
"Take a seat," he said, tossing the largest slice from the box onto her plate.
He took the chair across from her, their knees bumping under the tabletop. The smallest slice in the box hovered at the brink of his mouth. "I hope you like pepperoni."
With a nod, she dug in.
By the time he opened the milk cartons and popped in the straws, her plate was whistle-clean.
Emily liked pizza. Small thing to know about a person, granted, but he intended to find out all the little things that made her who she was-like maybe she liked to walk along rooftops dressed all in black. Details like that.
"How about another slice," he said quietly.
At her eager nod, he served her up the second largest piece from the box.
"This is delicious," she murmured, demurely licking every last bit of cheese from her fingertips.
And that just made him want to cry. A fully stocked fridge sat up at the house, and here was Emily starving. "Drink the other carton of milk too," he mumbled, all choked-up. "Myself, I can't stand the stuff."
She was so damned thin, nothing but long legs, huge sad eyes, and a cute pair of-
Nope, he wasn't going there. Emily wasn't much more than a kid. Maybe she was twenty. Then again, maybe she was seventeen. However old she was, she was too young for him. What kinds of hell had she gone through these last three weeks since Fritz's suicide?
Steve shuddered at the possibilities.
Emily needed someone to look out for her, watch over her, take care of her, like a strict set of parents. Where the hell were her parents? The girl was too young to be out on her own. Robbing houses was not
the career ladder most moms and dads would choose for a daughter.
"I just don't understand how things get all screwed up," he said, past the lump in his throat.
Emily chewed, swallowed, looked up at him from her pizza. "Pardon?"
Her party manners made him feel even more like a dirty old man. "The messed up pizza order-they must have a new person working the phones."
"Oh..."
Steve got up and poured himself some coffee, pretending not to notice, but not missing how her eyes covetously followed him. Emily needed a caffeine fix; Steve knew the symptoms.
He met her eyes. Their gazes linked and held. "Finish the milk first, and then you can have a cup of coffee. Girls your age need calcium." And Emily needed the calories of whole milk or she would never regain that lost weight.
He waited until she chugged down the second carton before pouring another cup of coffee. After loading it up with cream and sugar, he carried both mugs to the table and sat back down, content to watch her eat, though he was feeling disgruntled that she hadn't called him on the age remark. He threw that in there deliberately, just to see her reaction.
She didn't react. Nor did she volunteer her age. He had to find out her stats soon because even watching her eat was making his dick go hard.
"From now on, I provide lunch," he said after a while. If he force-fed her for a couple of weeks, maybe she wouldn't get sick. She looked on the verge of sick now.
She wiped her lips with a napkin. "About the free lunch-that's very generous, but no thank you. I couldn't possibly impose."
"No imposition," he said, lips quirking at her slip in street-tone. "Frankly, I don't like eating alone. Besides, the quicker we eat lunch, the sooner we can get back to work." Emily liked to work on the car, and so he would use the car as a bribe.