TAKE A CHANCE ON ME

by Susan Donovan

  "Were you ever a military man, Tobin?" Beckett asked. "I served during the occupation of Japan—Okinawa to be exact. Communications. It's something what's happening in our world today, wouldn't you say?"

  "Yes, sir, it is." The sofa was quivering under his body. "No military service, sir. I'm an attorney. Is Emma—is she home?"

  "Oh, sure, hell, sorry for my manners. Can't you hear her? She's downstairs banging on those damn drums. She had a date tonight, you know. Another man Velvet-san set her up with. She came home early, so she must not have liked him. The last one she cared for at all was that carpenter—did a great job on the barn stalls, but he's in prison now, did you know that?"

  Thomas's eyes went wide. "Really?"

  Beckett nodded. "I think I should warn you that my girl is probably not in a great mood. She's been down there banging for an hour and she only does that when things are pretty bad."

  Beckett sat forward in his chair and leaned an elbow on his knee. "She's a divorcée, you know, used to be married to a real son of a bitch—had an eye for the ladies and couldn't hold on to a dollar bill to save his soul. A book-smart man, but not good enough for my girl. Never was."

  Thomas blinked and stared at Beckett, then felt himself smiling. This guy was quite entertaining. He could see where Emma got her no-frills approach to life.

  But then—oh, God! The most horrible stench wafted through the room, and it seemed to be coming from Ray, the three-legged dog.

  "You like Monty Python, by any chance?" Beckett asked.

  "Monty Python?" This kept getting weirder and weirder. Thomas was nearly gagging and his eyes began to water from the odor.

  "Yeah, you know—'I fart in your general direction.'" Beckett laughed. "That's old Ray's specialty, and in my opinion, that has got to be the finest film in the history of modern cinema."

  Thomas chuckled, trying not to breathe through his nose. "Sure. Monty Python and the Holy Grail." He cleared his throat and in his best fake French accent he said, "Your mother is a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries!"

  Beckett's eyes looked like shiny buttons ready to pop from his face. He tipped his head back and roared with laughter. "A Python man, are you? That's wonderful. Are you single? Come on—I'll show you to the basement. You want to leave that … that dog up here with us? We'll watch us some Animal Planet."

  Thomas left Hairy on the couch and prayed to God above that he wouldn't piss on anything—he was honoring his pledge to never take Hairy in public in the urine defense system. He followed Beckett to a narrow door just outside the kitchen, where the banging got much louder.

  "She's got her headphones on, so you'll have to walk all the way down the steps, turn to the right, and wave your hands in the air to get her attention." Beckett opened the door, then yelled over the noise. "Don't think she'd hear you even if you screamed at the top of your lungs!"

  Thomas mouthed a thank you before he started down the steep stairs. He held on to a flimsy handrail, ducked his head, and tried to get his eyes to adjust to the dim light. The place was more like a dungeon than a basement, with an uneven concrete floor, sweating stone foundation walls, and a few squat old windows open along the grass line for air. Junk furniture was piled against the walls.

  He followed Beckett's instructions and turned to the right.

  And he saw her.

  Emma sat on a high stool near the far wall with her eyes closed in concentration. She glowed under light thrown off from a crooked old floor lamp. A set of red Ludwig drums was arranged in a semicircle around her on a worn square of olive-green carpet. She looked like she was floating on a little green island in the darkness.

  Her skin was glistening with sweat. Her hair was piled in a messy knot on top of her head. She was wearing a bright blue sports bra and what looked like a pair of men's pajama bottoms cut off above the knee, and her Birkenstock sandals. A pair of oversized headphones covered her ears and she continued to bang the hell out of a snare, two toms, a bass drum, and four cymbals.

  Thomas couldn't move. He could barely breathe.

  Emma's eyes remained tightly closed and she was biting down on her lip and the sweat was pouring down her face—possibly mixed with tears, though it could have been a trick of the light—and every few seconds she'd call out a single word or part of a phrase.

  Thomas was mesmerized. He had no idea what she was playing, but the beat was fast and relentless and seemed to be in perfect sync with the beat of his heart. The beat reminded him of sex.

  She reminded him of sex.

  She suddenly shouted, "'Hello, I've waited here for you—ever long,'" then leaned her head back and rolled her neck around, apparently in ecstasy, alone with the rhythm she was making with her hands and feet and the lyrics and melody only she could hear. After a few moments, Thomas was certain he saw tears.

  Dear God.

  Then she let it rip with a bang-bang-bang-bang-bang—BOOM! Bang-bang-bang-bang-bang—BOOM! Bam … bam … bam … bam—TSING!

  Oh, dear God.

  The sweat and tears were rolling down the hollow of her throat into the deep scoop of her athletic bra, a rivulet forming in the tantalizing valley of her cleavage. Her breasts were so round. So full. Her nipples were hard. She was breathing faster and faster and then she really started to cry.

  It occurred to Thomas that this was not right. He was intruding. What he was witnessing was private—or maybe way beyond private. What he was watching might be some kind of religious experience.

  But his feet were riveted to the sloping floor and his eyes were popping out of his head and he couldn't move, couldn't breathe, because this Emma Jenkins was the most fascinating creature he'd ever seen in his life and this was the most overtly passionate thing he'd ever seen a woman do in his thirty-seven years on the planet—and she wasn't even naked!

  She was wild. She was in a trance. Then she was looking right at him.

  "Aaauuuggghhh!" Emma jumped off her stool and flattened herself against the back wall, pulling the headphone jack from the boom box in the process. The room pounded with head-banger rock music. She dropped the drumsticks. With wild eyes, she flipped off the sound, grabbed a hand towel, and wiped the sweat and tears from her face.

  "What the hell are you doing in my basement?"

  Emma stared at him, horrified, embarrassed, knowing she had to be beet red from the exertion and the shame. For an instant, she even considered that she might be hallucinating; that her fantasies had taken a worrisome new tack into the arena of plain old psychosis. She closed her eyes, then reopened to test her theory—he was still there.

  "Emma. I'm sorry. I tried—"

  "What the hell are you doing in my house?"

  "I came to talk to you. Your dad let me in. I wanted to—"

  "How did you even know where I live?" Then she laughed, wiping more tears. Her legs were shaking. Her chest was on fire from the humiliation. She covered her face with the towel for a brief second and turned away from him. Then she spun back around.

  "What the hell do you want?" She suddenly realized she was gasping for breath and Thomas's eyes were fixed on her heaving chest. She looked down, then hurriedly plastered the hand towel over her sweaty torso. Then she screamed in frustration.

  Nobody had ever seen her play her drums like that. Not Aaron. Not Velvet. Not Leelee. Not Beckett—no one. And definitely not in a sports bra with great big nipples on parade—while crying!

  Emma stared at the man before her and could not remember a time in her life when she had felt more mortified, more violated. Her drums were just for her, her secret escape, her most private way to disappear from the world, from herself, from pain and loneliness.

  "I apologize for intruding. I had no idea—"

  She returned to the stool and let her face fall into her hands and began to rock herself back and forth. The towel slipped to the floor. "Please leave," she said, her voice muffled behind her hands.

  "I'm sorry."

  "Leave."

  "Emma
…"

  She raised her head then, and Thomas was lanced by the combination of horror and sadness in her eyes. She looked like a trapped wild creature.

  "You had no right to watch me," she said evenly, her voice quiet.

  "I didn't mean to."

  Emma didn't want this man to know this much about her. She didn't want him to know anything about her, right? He'd rejected her—then tried to woo her back of course, but still…

  "What do you want, Mr. Tobin?"

  He shifted his feet, not missing the cold way she'd addressed him. He also didn't miss the fact that he couldn't cut a break when it came to this woman, that since the moment he'd laid eyes on her he couldn't do a damn thing right.

  He'd been tongue-tied, awkward, rude, conflicted, and not entirely truthful.

  He'd played with her head. He'd invaded her space. He'd dreamed about her. He'd felt her up in the exam room.

  He'd bitten her.

  Was Pam right? Was he in love? And if so, was this what love did to a man? Is this what had happened to Leo Vasilich?

  "I just want to talk to you for a few minutes."

  She rested her elbows on her knees and glared at him. "What about?"

  Thomas's pulse was hammering under his skin. He felt hot, bewildered. He really didn't want to hurt her or mess with her head again, but what was the best way to go about this? If he just blurted out that he couldn't stop thinking about her, she'd run away.

  If he started off with the fact that he'd lied to her about his job, she'd tell him to get lost.

  Maybe it would be best to start with what had happened with Hairy tonight. Hairy was neutral territory, right? Hairy seemed like the best option.

  "Well, it's Hairy. He—"

  "This is about your dog?" Emma's mouth fell open and she remained silent for a long moment before she could move, breathe, get her mouth to work. Eventually, she snorted with laughter. "Hoo, boy!"

  She jumped up and rooted around on the floor for her pajama top. Her fingers flew angrily down the row of buttons while she cursed under her breath.

  Thomas realized that he'd made a serious strategic error. "No. Wait. Emma. Not all of it. I—"

  "I've already transferred your case." She shook out a sheet of clear plastic to cover the drum set and turned off the light behind her. She strode past him in the dimness.

  "Please, Emma. Wait." Thomas reached for her hand but she jerked away. "Look—I called Aaron Kramer's answering service tonight and they told me I couldn't even talk to him for two weeks and I need help now. It's urgent."

  Emma turned toward him and her lips parted in astonishment. What a bald-faced lie! Aaron hardly had enough patients to keep the lights on, as she well knew. Thomas could've gotten in to see him with ten minutes' notice!

  "I sincerely doubt that," she said, heading up the stairs.

  "It's true, Emma. Why would I lie about that?"

  She'd reached the fourth step. When she turned to face him, she realized the position allowed her to tower over him for a change. It was a refreshing perspective, and it gave her courage. She scowled down at him.

  "I don't know why you lie about anything, Thomas. I just know that you do. You seem to be a consistently dishonest person, and I choose not to spend time with dishonest people."

  Thomas hissed from between clenched teeth and shook his head. "I don't lie, Emma."

  "See, you're doing it again!" Her arms flew up from her sides in a gesture of futility. "It must be pathological. I can ask around about a good—"

  "All right, fine. I didn't come here only because of Hairy, but that is part of it. I really do need your help. But I also need … well…" Thomas raked a hand through his hair and shut his eyes briefly. "Did you like the flowers and stuff?"

  Emma lost her breath for an instant—Thomas had just raised big, gray, sad-puppy eyes to her. She scolded herself. She would not cave to a pair of mournful eyes.

  "I probably should've told you sooner, but yes. That was nice of you. Thanks."

  "Well, I'm here to kind of follow up that." Thomas's voice was scratchy and hesitant. "I needed to apologize in person for what happened the other night. I needed to see you again."

  Emma put her hands on her hips, which reminded her of the unattractive mess she was. She was wearing a pair of Beckett's old seersucker pajamas she'd hacked off with a pair of scissors. Her hair was a disaster, and she was sweating profusely. She must look like the Bride of Chucky.

  "Oh, yeah? What exactly was it that happened the other night, Thomas? I haven't quite been able to figure that one out."

  He nodded and rubbed a hand over his mouth and that's when Emma noticed the bandage.

  "What did you do to yourself, Rugby Boy?" She took a step down and reached out for his hand, which proved to be a huge mistake. The innocent touch sent a jolt through her limbs that sparked and smoldered deep in her pelvis.

  And as she cradled his hand, she realized she didn't have the slightest idea what to do with it. She stared at the muscle and bone, the calluses, the short, square nails, as her blood pounded and her vision blurred.

  What she really wanted to do was kiss his swollen knuckles. Lick his lifeline. Pull each of his fingertips into her mouth and suck on them one by one.

  Horrified, she pushed it away, and his hand smacked with a thud against his thigh.

  "Ow!" Thomas looked surprised. "You should probably stick to dogs and cats, Doc."

  She laughed then, relieved to let go of some of her nervousness, some of her pent-up agitation. Then she watched as very slowly—very deliciously—Thomas smiled at her.

  It was a deadly weapon, that smile of his, and she wondered if he was aware of its firepower. The smile hovered there, bracketed by deep masculine dimples, sexy and sweet, and it silently laid to waste her well-thought-out campaign of avoidance. Every objection she'd had, every perfectly logical reason she'd given herself for forgetting she'd ever met this man now lay bleeding at her feet.

  A smile like that could not possibly lie, could it?

  "God, Thomas. I can't believe you came to my house. Why did you come to my house?"

  He gave his brawny shoulders a shrug and looked up from under a thick fringe of dark honey lashes. "I figured my best shot was to surprise you. You know, just kind of show up on your doorstep."

  …if the right man ever showed up on her doorstep, her heart would know him in an instant…

  "No way in hell," Emma whispered.

  The whole of Thomas's body seemed to sag in defeat. "It was worth a try."

  "No!" Emma reached out and grabbed his bare forearm and the touch was once again electric. She let go immediately. "I didn't mean that … exactly." Her head was spinning. "Look, I'm going to take a quick shower and we can talk, all right? Have Beck get you something to drink. It'll just take a sec—"

  "Emma, I'm not a liar and I'm sorry for leaving you the way I did." Thomas took a step up, bringing him within touching distance again.

  Emma backed up one step, holding on to the railing. "Apology accepted … I guess."

  "I'm sorry for biting you. Velvet told me you were disconcerted."

  Emma raised an eyebrow at that. Disconcerted? Okay, sure. That and lambasted by lust…

  "I don't usually bite women. I don't know what happened. I couldn't stop myself."

  She nodded and swallowed. She was tingling, shaking, pulsing. "It happens."

  Thomas's eyes flew wide. "It's happened to you before?"

  "No. Not exactly. What I mean is … well … there are a variety of triggers for the biting response. Usually it's fear and insecurity."

  He took another step up and she retreated again. She remembered originally thinking that his eyes were cool and calculating—well, baby, something had changed, because now the silver gaze was pure liquid heat, glimmering, alive with determination, desire, and humor.

  It scared the living hell out of her.

  "My problem is that I'm conflicted, Emma."

  She snorted. "No kidding."<
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  "So you've noticed?"

  She nodded. "I've even come up with a name for your disorder. Want to hear it?"

  His mouth quivered at the corners. "Do I have a choice?"

  "It's the Thomas Tobin two-step—pull me close then push me away. Do-si-do. It's a snap to learn but it gets old real quick."

  He smiled again and cocked his head. "I like you, Emma."

  She swallowed. "Okay."

  "A lot."

  Her fingers were starting to go numb. "All right."

  "That's not a lie."

  "Glad to hear it."

  "You make me laugh."

  "Great."

  "And I like your sense of style." He wagged an eyebrow. "But your buttons are crooked."

  Emma looked down to confirm that observation. "How attractive," she mumbled, trying to manipulate the thin old buttons with unsteady fingers. She gave up with a groan.

  "And I really do need your help. Will you help me, Miss Marple?"

  She jerked her head back in sharp surprise and felt a bewildered smile spread across her face. He remembered her little talk about Agatha Christie? Why was that? she wondered.

  "Help with what?" she asked, suddenly a bit more inclined to protect herself. She stepped back again.

  "A couple things, actually." He took another step up.

  "What things?"

  "My dog, for one. I think that ugly little fu—uh, fellow—just might be able to identify a murderer."

  "So you are some kind of cop! I knew it!"

  "I'm a lawyer. That part wasn't a lie. But your instincts were right on. I do specialized work within the criminal justice system—for the state police. It's pretty complicated."

  "Oh, I just bet it is," she said with a snort. It seemed everything about Thomas Tobin was pretty complicated.

  "But I'll tell you all about it."

  "I can't wait. So what else?" She took a step back. "You mean besides Hairy?" Thomas took a step up and pressed close, bringing his body a hairsbreadth from hers. Emma could feel the heat lightning shooting out from him again, but didn't have the wherewithal to move. She'd lost the ability to resist, probably because her bones had turned to overcooked pasta in his heat.