Husband Found

by Martha Shields

  “I know, I know. I just...” Emma sighed.

  “You might as well get paid for—” Sylvia broke off at the distinct sound of uneven footsteps on the stairs.

  Emma and Sylvia froze, listening. When the steps didn’t disappear out the front door, but instead came down the hall, Emma caught her breath, while her mother gave her an “I told you so” look.

  Seconds later, Rafe filled the doorway. His eyes sought hers immediately. In the dark depths she saw uncertainty and hope mixed with a strong dose of determination. She should’ve known he wouldn’t meekly leave just because she told him to. Though she groaned inwardly, she recognized a tiny thrill of pure feminine satisfaction that he was determined to have a place in her life.

  She immediately squelched the feeling.

  “Can we talk?”

  His raspy voice sent chills over her skin. “Rafe, I—”

  “Surely you can wait,” Sylvia said, a trifle too brightly. “We’re about to put supper on the table.”

  “Momma, we don’t need to—”

  “To let this juicy pot roast dry out. Besides—” Sylvia looked at her pointedly “—you have some things you need to ponder awhile. The advantages of certain situations, remember? I figure the hour it’ll take for supper will give you enough time.”

  Emma rolled her eyes at her mother’s less-than-subtle statement.

  Rafe cleared his throat. “Sylvia, Emma and I—”

  “Can go out for coffee and dessert after supper.” Her mother waved a hand toward the back door. “Call Gabe in, will you? And make sure he washes up.”

  Rafe met Emma’s eyes again. With a rueful smile, he shrugged, telling her he recognized her mother’s high-handed manner, but what could they do?

  The silent communication broke through Emma’s defenses as nothing else could. She couldn’t help smiling back.

  Rafe’s face seemed to light up, making it seem as if his eyes caught fire. “After supper, then?”

  She nodded, then quickly picked up the pot roast.

  Supper was not the ordeal Emma had expected it to be. Rafe was as good at getting people to talk as he’d ever been, an important trait for a reporter. When he wasn’t talking to Gabe about baseball, he was asking Sylvia about the antiques lining the walls of every room in the house.

  Emma didn’t say much, just watched him, marveling anew at the miracle—mixed though it was—of having him here, alive.

  Both she and her mother were right. Emma had loved Rafe for so many years, it was impossible to turn off the feelings overnight. And even though she knew he wasn’t the same man she’d loved six years ago, there were moments when that was hard to remember. His voice still made goose bumps dance over her skin; his gaze still trapped her breath in her lungs; his touch still made her knees feel like jelly.

  Which wasn’t good. The possibility of falling in love with him again frightened her so much she completely lost her appetite. How could she let him move into her home, work with him day after day?

  Yet the more she thought about his offer, the more she knew she had to take it. She’d be crazy not to, no matter how uncomfortable having him around would be.

  She’d just have to protect her heart. She could do it if she insisted on keeping their relationship on a strictly business level. She worked with men every day at Harrison Printing and didn’t fall in love with them. This shouldn’t be any different.

  At that moment, he met her gaze across the table. His face softened perceptibly, and he held her eyes a second longer than necessary.

  When he finally looked away, air rushed into Emma’s lungs with a whoosh. Okay, maybe this would be different. She didn’t have a past with the men at work. Hadn’t had a child with them. Keeping her wits about her would be harder, but she could do it. She just had to keep reminding herself of how men tended to take over women’s lives. Maybe if she envisioned a Borg every time she looked at Rafe, it would help.

  She spent several minutes trying with her artist’s mind to make Rafe look like one of the evil creatures on Star Trek The ones that took over entire civilizations, robbing people of their identities as they “assimilated” them into the Borg culture. She tried attaching tubing around his face, replacing his left eye with a small camera lens and even cast a slimy gray hue over his skin.

  “Mom?”

  Gabe’s loud whisper shattered Emma’s vision. She turned to her son. “Hmm?”

  “Why are you staring at Mr. Johnson?”

  Heat stung Emma’s cheeks. When she glanced at Rafe to see him smiling warmly at her, all the Borg paraphernalia vanished with a poof. Rafe was very, very human and very, very male.

  This might be harder than she thought.

  Sylvia insisted Emma and Rafe leave right after supper, so they soon found themselves on the front porch, alone.

  Rafe took out his keys. “Where to?”

  Distracted by his assumption that he’d be the one driving, Emma said, “Max’s?”

  As soon as the name of the small café just off Overton Square left her lips, she wanted to stuff it back in. She hadn’t been to Max’s in years. Six and a half years, to be exact. She and Rafe spent a lot of time there when they’d dated, mostly because there was virtually no danger of running into anyone who knew her parents.

  Dismayed by how easily she’d slipped back into old habits, she barely noticed when Rafe placed a hand at the back of her waist.

  The pressure he applied eased almost immediately, however, as his breath hissed in. “We’ve been there before, haven’t we?”

  The faraway look in his eyes told her he was experiencing another memory. It was the first time she’d actually seen it happen—when she knew what it was. The fact that the memory was triggered by his hand on her back amazed her, and at the same time made chills run down her spine. “Yes.”

  “Several times.”

  “It was our favorite place to meet. It was quiet, the food was good and cheap, and we never knew anyone who came in.” She looked away, embarrassed by her choice, knowing he would assume she’d selected the café for sentimental reasons.

  His hand moved ever so slightly on her back, telling her she was right. She didn’t expect the jolt of heat his caress sent shooting through her. Startled, she pulled away from his touch and started down the steps. “Why don’t we go for a walk instead?”

  He followed. “I’d like to see this place, if you don’t mind.”

  She did mind, but didn’t want to tell him the reasons why. “Do you remember how to get there?”

  “No.”

  She gave him simple directions as he unlocked the passenger door of his truck. He opened it, waited for her to climb onto the bench seat, then closed it. The gentlemanly gesture made memories of her own spring to mind. Rafe used to insist on opening doors and pulling out chairs for her. His consideration had always made her feel feminine, cared for.

  It still did. Damn. Where was women’s lib when she needed it?

  She buckled her seat belt as he climbed behind the steering wheel, buckled in and started the engine.

  Closed in the small space with him suddenly seemed achingly familiar, and unbearably intimate. Though she was looking out the windshield instead of at him, she was acutely aware of every move he made, every breath he took.

  “Has Memphis grown much since I’ve been gone?” he asked as he drove down the street.

  Small talk. How could she make small talk when all she wanted to do was say what needed to be said so she could escape before she did something really stupid—like throw herself into his arms. “By leaps and bounds, but mostly out east where you’re staying. Cordova, Collierville, Germantown. Midtown hasn’t changed very much.”

  “I lived downtown, didn’t I? On Mud Island.”

  “Yes. Your apartment had a wonderful view of the river.” She’d loved his apartment. Loved cooking him supper when she could make excuses not to eat at home. Loved watching the Mississippi River meander past as she stood in the circle of his arms. Loved
making love by the lights of the Tennessee-Arkansas bridge streaming in his window.

  She started to suggest he rent another apartment in that same complex, then remembered her decision.

  Before she could change her mind, she blurted out, “If the offer still stands, I’d like to accept the job working on Southern Yesteryears.”

  He threw a sharp glance in her direction, but took so long to answer, she winced. “You’ve changed your mind.”

  “No,” he said quickly. “I definitely haven’t changed my mind. In fact, I’ve been wondering for the last hour how I was going to talk you into accepting. What made you change yours? My sparkling dinner conversation?”

  “No, I...we need a new roof.”

  “That’s right.” He almost sounded disappointed. “Well, whatever the reason, I’m glad. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  As he turned onto Cooper, she breathed a sigh of mixed anxiety and relief. She’d have to live with the consequences now. She knew he’d never let her go back on her word. But at least the indecision was over.

  “Have you thought any more about renting me a couple of rooms?”

  Emma hesitated, still uncertain about sharing so much of her life with this man. To have him living in the house would—

  “Wait a minute,” she said suddenly.

  He jerked his foot off the gas. “What for?”

  “Sorry, I was thinking out loud. What about the carriage house? There are two large rooms, plus a bathroom, above the garage. They were used by servants when we had them. I was up there just a month ago, checking for leaks. Those rooms are in better shape than most of those in the main house. They’re even furnished. They need to be thoroughly cleaned but I can do that before you—”

  “I’ll get a professional cleaning crew,” he insisted.

  “Then the carriage house is okay?” He’d still be on the premises, but not in the house. Surely she could deal with that.

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “And you’ll still pay for the roof?”

  He smiled. “I’ll still pay for the roof. But I have one more request.”

  She regarded him warily. “What?”

  “I wonder if your mother would cook for me. Nothing special. Just what the family’s eating. I’ll help pay for groceries, of course.” He lifted a rueful brow. “I can’t cook worth a darn.”

  “Yes, I remember,” she murmured.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” She sighed. “I’m sure you can talk my mother into cooking anything for you. She’s on your side, you know.”

  His smile widened. “Is she?”

  “I wouldn’t be so flattered, if I were you. Momma defines the class of old-fashioned Southern women. Any male would suit her, as long as he’s got good teeth and nice manners.”

  “Then I’ll remember to brush my teeth and say, ‘Yes, ma’am.’”

  “I probably shouldn’t have told you,” she grumbled. “No doubt you’ll use it to your advantage.”

  “No doubt.”

  Emma watched him as he concentrated on fitting his full-size truck into the small parking lot of the coffeehouse. “Rafe...”

  “Hmm?”

  “I want you to understand that this arrangement is strictly professional. I need a job, and you need an artist.”

  He glanced at her. “I need a place to stay, and you have a place to rent.”

  She nodded, relieved he understood. “A business arrangement. Nothing more.”

  His brow wrinkled in thought, he killed the engine and released his seat belt. “What about my memories? Is helping me part of this deal?”

  She took her time releasing her own seat belt. “What would I need to do?”

  “Let me touch you,” he said quietly. “That’s what seems to trigger them.”

  Emma swallowed hard and tried to will her pulse to keep an even beat. “What do you mean, touch?”

  “Something like...” He reached across and laced his fingers through hers. “Like this.”

  Emma had forgotten what a sensual experience the simple act of holding hands could be. The feel of his flesh against hers made heat wrap around her heart like a cocoon. Their fingers were meshed together so completely it was hard to tell where her flesh ended and his began. She wanted to draw him closer, to feel his warmth on more than just her hand.

  With an effort she drew her mind away from the contact. “Are you remembering anything?”

  “We used to hold hands a lot, didn’t we? I remember several times—walking into my apartment, waiting on chairs in some office, riding in my car.”

  She pulled in a ragged breath. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”

  “Why?” he demanded softly. “Because you like it as much as I do?”

  That was exactly the reason. “Rafe, we shouldn’t—”

  “The hell we shouldn’t.” He scooted out from under the wheel and lifted her onto his lap. “I’ve wanted to taste you ever since you walked into that conference room.”

  “But I—”

  “Shhh.” He slowly drew a finger down her cheek, his face full of wonder. “How could I have forgotten you? How could I have forgotten this?...”

  Mesmerized by his warm breath against her face and the fire in his coal-dark eyes, Emma watched his lips descend.

  Chapter Five

  When their lips met, memories exploded in Rafe’s head like the grand finale of a July Fourth fireworks extravaganza. He kissed Emma so many times in the space of a few seconds that his head began to reel.

  He held on tighter.

  Then, just as rapidly as they’d come, the memories melted under the relentless heat generated by the friction of his body against hers. The past became irrelevant because suddenly nothing mattered except the woman in his arms.

  The warm flesh pressed against him was real, and a hell of a lot better than any memory could ever be. His blood burned through his veins like wildfire, and the oxygen they shared scorched his lungs.

  Her arms trapped between them, Emma twisted handfuls of his shirt as if trying to pull him closer.

  He saved her the trouble, wrapping his arms around her slender back and deepening the kiss.

  When they came up for air, she whimpered and struggled to free her arms.

  Disappointment doused the highest flames, and he let her draw away.

  But instead of freeing herself, she wrapped her arms around his neck. “Damn you.”

  His heart raced like a printing press at full speed at this sweet evidence of her desire. “What?”

  “You taste the same,” she said on half a sob, then pulled his lips back down to hers. She opened her mouth against his, inviting him in.

  Desire roared through his body as his tongue delved into the sweet recesses of her mouth. He crushed her against him, feeling her breasts push into his chest.

  They groaned in unison. Rafe dropped his hands to her hips and pressed her against the raging length of his desire. It had been so long—forever—since he’d had a woman in his arms.

  Dimly, in the recesses of his mind, he recognized that his control was rapidly slipping away, but it took several minutes to remember why it mattered. Finally he realized what he was doing, and where.

  He pulled away reluctantly.

  Breathing hard, he buried his face in the silk of her hair and tried to bring his libido under control. Her hot breath against his neck didn’t help.

  Gradually oxygen began to clear his mind, and he realized she was rigid in his arms.

  “I’m sorry,” he breathed. “I didn’t intend to let it go so—”

  “Damn you.”

  Emma struggled to free herself, and he let her go. She immediately began fumbling to open the truck door.

  He grabbed her arm. “Where are you going?”

  “Let go of me.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “What’s wrong?” She turned amazed eyes on him. “You kissed me.”

  “And you kissed me.
So? It’s not like we committed treason.”

  Emma looked away from his burning eyes. What she’d just done was treason—treason against her own principles. She’d thrown herself into his arms as quickly as she had when she was nineteen, and she’d loved being there twice as much.

  Panicked by the realization that she was just as attracted to Rafe as she’d ever been, she jerked her arm away. Shoving the truck door open, she fled toward the relative safety of the café.

  She heard his door slam and a Spanish expletive before the restaurant door shut out the sound. She stood just inside, breathing deeply, trying to recover her composure—her distance—before he caught up.

  “Emma? Emma Grey, is that you?”

  Another voice from the past drew her attention to the owner of the café, who moved around the counter toward her.

  A cross between a redneck and a hippie, he looked exactly the same as the last time she’d seen him, with the exception of a few more gray hairs framing his temple and a few extra pounds.

  “Hello, Max.” Her soft smile stiffened when she heard the door open behind her.

  “Well, hot damn, it is you. I haven’t seen you in a coon’s age. And there’s—Hell’s bells, Rafe. You look like you been put through the coffee grinder. What happened?”

  Rafe came up behind her. Placing a hand on her back, he extended his other to meet Max’s. “An assignment gone bad. Nice to see you again.”

  Emma wondered if he remembered Max or was faking it.

  His next words told her. “You still make the best hamburgers in the continental United States?”

  Suddenly she realized why he’d put his hand on her back—so he could remember the café and its owner. Already raw from their wrangling in the truck, she felt used, and pulled away from his touch.

  Max grinned and rubbed the grizzled chin lost in the folds of his neck. “Sure do. Y’all want the old usual?”