Exposure

by Susan Andersen

  "Uh huh." Plainly, she agreed.

  "Do you know why?"

  Gracie thought about it a minute. "Maman say you was angwy with me 'cause I toad a lie about Miss-us Mackey," she finally replied cautiously.

  "Yeah, I was. But I see now that you were just trying to do what you were instructed to do."

  Gracie removed her thumb and eyed him with a mixture of suspicion and interest. "What's that mean, instwucted?"

  "Coached. Told. You answered the way Nadine—Mrs. Donnelly—told you to answer."

  "Oui!" Gracie's head bobbed in emphatic agreement. Somebody finally understood! Everything had been handled quite satisfactorily as far as she was concerned, and she tilted her head back to beam up at Emma. "Eat now, Maman? I'm hungwy."

  Emma returned the smile and slid to the edge of the couch, preparatory to rising. "We were on our way to grab a burger," she explained, "when I smelled perfume in my car and knew someone had been in it. After I challenged Gracie over the driver's identity and realized we had falsely accused Clare, we came straight out here instead." She climbed to her feet and swung Gracie onto her hip.

  It was over now. All taken care of, the loose ends neatly tied up. The knowledge left her curiously leaden.

  Elvis reached out to halt her, placing a hand on her arm. "I still have a lot of unanswered questions, Emma," he said.

  It was such a little thing, that touch. It wasn't as if he were kissing her or even slinging an arm around her shoulders in a companionable hug; he was simply detaining her. Considering its impact on her, however he might as well have been making love to her, and it nearly broke her heart.

  For she knew what she had to do, and that meant the end of whatever potential lingered between her and Elvis. "I'm sure your questions can wait until after we've eaten, though, can't they?" she managed to say with creditable coolness. How could he argue with hunger? And by the time he expected her back, she and Gracie would have cleaned out their room and traveled miles down the road.

  Clare rose to her feet. "Listen, why don't I fix us some dinner right here?" she suggested. "It won't take a moment to throw something together and I think we could all stand to have something on our stomachs."

  Emma turned startled eyes on her. "Oh, no, chere, really," she started to protest, but Elvis didn't even look in Clare's direction when he overrode Emma to say, "good idea, Clare. Sam, why don't you give her a hand?" His words drew Emma's attention back to him; the sheer intensity of his will effortlessly kept it there.

  Gracie wriggled, wanting to be let down, and Emma used her daughter's action as an excuse to free her arm from Elvis' grip. She stepped back, still aware for several long moments of a lingering warmth where his touch had been. She had to resist a childish urge to rub the spot.

  "Gracie," Elvis suddenly said, still refusing to take his eyes off Emma. "Just how did my mother unlock your momma's car? How did she turn on the ignition?"

  Gracie's look suggested that was a ridiculous question. But she good-naturedly supplied an answer.

  "With a key, of course, silly."

  Chapter 9

  Elvis looked into Gracie's shining little face for a moment. He glanced at Emma, blew out a breath, and turned his attention back to Gracie. "Go tell Clare and Sam I said they need your help fixing supper," he instructed her. Gracie didn't even hesitate; she immediately skipped off to the kitchen to do his bidding.

  Emma opened her mouth to lodge a protest, but before she could utter a word, Elvis had latched onto her upper arm and was towing her into the entry way where they wouldn't be readily visible to the first person to poke a head out the kitchen door. He swung her in a half circle and pushed her without roughness up against the closet door. When he stepped forward, the sheer size of his body more or less guaranteed that she'd stay there. "Did you give her the key?" he demanded in a low voice.

  Emma stared up into the vivid blue eyes boring into hers. It was a legitimate question, her mind assured her. His mother had helped herself to Emma's child, used Emma's car, and had concocted, for no discernible reason, some convoluted plot designed to lay the blame on Clare Mackey. It didn't make a lick of sense, and what made even less sense was the fact that Nadine hadn't even broken into Emma's car; she'd had a key to the darn thing. Of course he was going to ask.

  Then why was it she felt so betrayed? "No." she replied with stiff sarcasm, "I did not supply your mother with a key to my car so she could kidnap my daughter."

  But I bet you have a good idea who did, Elvis thought, and ground his teeth as he stared down into her closed face. Her eyes, big and brown and usually so warm and open, now were shuttered and cold as she returned his gaze. He'd sensed from the day she'd first hit town that she was running away from something, and considering the conversation he'd overheard up in the hallway that very first night, he'd suspected it had to do with her father or ex-father-in-law. But, dammit anyhow, that made about as much sense as his mother out of the blue snatching the kid for no reason he could put a name to. What the hell sort of man would arrange to have his own granddaughter kidnapped?

  That he'd even entertain the question brought him up short. Sweet God Almighty, he'd been a cop his entire adult life; he knew better than most that there were people out there who held absolutely nothing sacred. Too many people. Elvis blew out a frustrated breath dredged from so deep in his lungs it fluttered Emma's streaky blond bangs away from her forehead. "Do you have any enemies, Emma?" he inquired.

  Squeezing the doorknob at her back, she looked him in the eye. "No."

  "Are you wealthy?"

  An involuntary laugh escaped her. "Gawd, no."

  "Then why would anyone want to kidnap Gracie? And why go to such lengths for what was basically just moving her from one location to another?"

  To show me how easily it can be done, Emma immediately surmised. Her chin tilted up. "I don't have the foggiest notion," she replied aloud. "Perhaps the person you should be askin' is your maman."

  "Oh, I plan to. The minute she gets back to town." Dammit to hell, Emma, you're lying. He could feel it in his bones. And with a sudden burst of clarity, he knew what she was planning.

  She planned to take off, to leave Port Flannery behind. Clearly whatever she was running from had caught up to her. Today's episode with Gracie had the feel of a power play to it. Or perhaps it had been an object lesson. Either way, Emma was getting ready to bolt for a brand new hidey-hole.

  He bent forward suddenly, crowding her, his forearms flush against the closet door, his massive chest brushing her breasts. A blue-eyed gaze probed brown from mere inches away; warm breath washed over her lips when he inquired, "Just what are you mixed up in, Emma?"

  Ah, damn. Damn, damn, damn. Emma had a sudden desire to cry. She coveted nothing so much as to beat her breast and just bawl to the heavens. Mon Dieu, what she wouldn't give to unburden herself to this man. Because she truly believed, that out of everyone she knew, Elvis Donnelly was probably the most likely to understand this kind of trouble. Probably the most likely to be willing to offer his help.

  But she knew she didn't dare take a chance on him. As had been amply demonstrated today, Grant's reach was long, his retribution harsh and impossible to predict. The best thing she could do was get the hell out of this little town, which was no longer safe for Gracie, and try to find some place, somewhere, that was.

  She sucked hard on her lower lip when it displayed an undisciplined tendency to tremble, angry with herself when it took longer than it should have to get her emotions under control. "Nothing," she finally said woodenly. "I'm not mixed up in anything." Then, having learned at a young age that a good offense was always the best defense, she firmed up her chin and thrust it pugnaciously up at him. "Wouldn't it be more pertinent to ask what your mother is mixed up in?"

  Elvis gave her a level look. "Probably. But she isn't here— which leaves me, until she gets back, with you and Grade." He shrugged. "So, what the hell. Maybe by working at this backward I can figure out a reason why it happe
ned at all." He considered her for a moment. "Well, I suppose I might have understated that a bit. It doesn't leave me with only the two of you. I've got your car, too, of course."

  "What?" That snapped her to attention in a hurry, and she pushed away from the door so abruptly her breasts flattened against his upper abdomen. He was warm and hard, and she hastily shied away, plastering herself back against the door as she eyed him with sour wariness. "What do you mean, my car? What has that got to do with anything? My car didn't sweet-talk Gracie out of the cafe, Elvis Donnelly; that was strictly your mother's doing."

  "Your car was used during the commission of a crime," he said through gritted teeth. He was sick and tired of having her toss his mother's guilt in his face when he knew there was a helluva lot more to this than met the eye. "And that, my little Cajun queen, means it has now become part of the investigative process." He didn't defend what Nadine had done, not by a long shot. But neither would he stand back and allow Emma to use his mother's culpability as a red herring to avoid telling him what this situation was really all about. And he sure wasn't about to let her come breezing into his town, disrupting its citizens and then waltzing right out again without bothering to impart so much as a hint as to what the hell was going on.

  That standing here with her up against this door was shooting heat through his stomach and giving him a ... Well, never mind. It didn't have a goddam thing to do with his reasons for removing her only means of leaving the island. One was frustration. The other, purely a business decision.

  Emma suddenly thrust a hand through her hair, and Elvis had to jerk his head back to avoid catching an elbow to his jaw. He pushed back from the door and stared down into her indignant face. Chin elevated, shining bangs skinned off her forehead by retaining fingers, she stared back at him.

  "You can't just take away my car," she objected heatedly. "How the heck am I supposed to get around?"

  "It's not like I'm taking it away forever," he retorted coolly. "You'll have it back in a few days." Or a few days after that. Sometime, at any rate, after his mother's return from Memphis. "And I'm sure until then you can make do just fine."

  "That's easy for you to say, Sheriff," she snapped. "You 've got a car at your disposal."

  "For Christ's sake, Emma, you live right in the middle of town; everything you need's within walking distance." Letting his hook slide away from the door panel and drop to his side he roughly scraped his hair off his forehead with his fingers. They stood almost chest to breast, breathing heavily as they stared at each other. The tension crackling between them was nearly palpable. "And, admit it," he demanded, "you haven't even driven the damn thing recently. It's been covered up for the past three or four days."

  "Yeah, but it was right there if I did need it! What do you propose I do if Gracie gets a craving for a Dairy Freeze burger tomorrow, huh? And don't think I'm just spoutin' off some far-fetched hypothesis either, cher, because I promised her one tonight, and by staying here for dinner instead, I'm not following through on my word to her. Kids don't just forget those sorta things, y'know, so what do you suggest I do then, Donnelly, thumb us a ride? It's not exactly in the middle of town."

  His hand and hook thumped down on the door next to her head, and he leaned over her in aggravation. "I'll take you to the fuckin' Dairy Freeze," he snarled. Emotion made his scar stand out in a scarlet slash across his face. "Okay? If Gracie wants a goddam burger, then I'll drive you to the goddam hamburger stand to get her one! Jeez-us, Em!"

  Then he caught himself. Christ, this was professional. He straightened away from her and gave his uniform shirt a neatening tug, as if he could yank his cop persona as firmly into place. "Listen," he said, more moderately if not necessarily truthfully, "I'm not trying to make things inconvenient for you. I just want to find out who's responsible for snatching your daughter. I thought that was what you would want, too." There. Let's see you wiggle out of that one, he thought with a degree of smugness. "And don't tell me again it's my mother," he added hastily when he saw her opening her mouth to reply, "because I sure as hell don't believe she dreamed this up all on her own."

  Emma's mouth snapped closed again. Well, that neatly boxed her in. "Of course I want you to find the person responsible," she said through her teeth. "I don't see what you expect to find in my car, though, since from all reports your mother was the only unauthorized person actually in it today, but, hey, when you're right, you're right. Finding the person responsible is the important thing." The smile she flashed him was sweetly insincere.

  Her way of slipping in the knife at the same time she seemed to be agreeing with him almost made him smile. No two ways about it, she was one exciting woman. "Then I guess we don't have a problem, do we?" he said easily. He watched her straighten away from the door. "I'll need your keys."

  "Right this minute? How do you propose Gracie and I get back to the boarding house?"

  "Good point; someone has to transfer your car to the station anyway, and I suppose that can't be me." This was said with an undertone of wistfulness, since he'd like nothing better than to get his hands on that car. Then his mouth tipped up wryly as he admitted, "It's kinda difficult to drive two cars at once. So, I guess that leaves us with tonight in the parking lot. I'll follow you home, get the keys, and make arrangements to have the car gone over tomorrow."

  "Fine," Emma said stiffly.

  "Good," Elvis said. They stared at each other in tense silence.

  The kitchen door swung open and Sam stuck his head out. "Elvis! Emma!" he hollered. "Where the hell are you two? Get in here; it's time to eat!"

  * * * * *

  Emma was disconcerted to discover how quickly she'd grown accustomed to the quiet nights in Port Flannery. She found it almost unnerving to have to drive through town at a near crawl in order to dodge the throngs of people crisscrossing the main streets. All the islanders were apparently still in town for the fireworks lighting up the sky over the harbor, and Emma was relieved to wheel the Chevy into the back parking lot.

  The department Suburban immediately pulled in behind her and she shot it a dirty look as she climbed out of the driver's seat and circled the car to liberate Gracie from her safety seat. When Elvis slammed his car door and walked up behind her, she ignored him. Pretending he simply didn't exist, she reached inside the car.

  Extending her arms to be picked up, Gracie, once she'd been swung aboard her mother's hip, laid her head on Emma's breast and poked her thumb in her mouth. She stared up at the sky, awaiting another burst of pyrotechnics. "Pwetty," she whispered when a shower of red obliged her by exploding in the sky and falling toward the water. Then her mouth stretched wide in a huge yawn.

  Emma kissed her on the top of the head before fumbling to remove her car key from the key ring. "Why don't you make yourself useful and pop the trunk?" she suggested coolly to Elvis once she'd relinquished it to him. "I need the cover from out of there." When he moved to comply, she took a step to follow but then stopped, looking down at where the lace of her left shoe trailed on the ground beneath the sole of her right. "Damn, my shoelace is untied. Here." She thrust Gracie into Elvis' brawny arms. "Hold her for me, will you?" She stooped just as a shower of blue and yellow burst in the sky. "Oh, look at that one, Gracie."

  Gracie's eyes were at half mast as she lay limply against Elvis' chest and Emma smiled up at her. "Ah, you're a sleepy girl, aren'tcha angel pie?" Starting to overbalance, she went down on one knee and grabbed at the car, her fingers sliding to the underside of the wheel well, thumb gripping the fender.

  "Am not seepy," Gracie protested, forcing her eyes open in a display of faux-alertness.

  "No, of course you're not, bebe," Emma agreed. "Maman was mistaken." To Elvis she said, "Don't just stand there; grab out the cover, oui? "

  Letting loose of the fender, she slid her hand into her shorts' pocket and then quickly retied her shoelace. She rose to her feet, slapped her hands clean, and relieved the sheriff of the cover. "Stay awake just a few seconds longer, Sweetp
ea," she advised Gracie. Then, slamming the trunk, she whipped the cover over the car and tugged it into place with the swift efficiency of long practice. She gave the covered hood a pat and Elvis an unsmiling, level look. "I expect the car back soon," she said, as she reached for Gracie. Packing her daughter on her hip, Emma turned on her sneakered heel and walked away. She didn't bother to say good night.

  As soon as the back door had closed upon her and Gracie, Emma slowed her steps. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the magnetic keyholder she'd retrieved from the Chevy's undercarriage. Sliding back its cover, she smiled grimly to herself. Good. It still contained the spare key.

  * * * * *

  Long after Emma, Gracie, and Elvis had left, Sam and Clare remained within the steamy warmth of their kitchen.

  Not much conversation passed between them, but he helped her clean away the dinner dishes and wipe down counters and appliances. He swept the floor while she started the dishwasher, and then by tacit agreement they took fresh cups of coffee back to the table and sat down.

  "Want to go to town for the fireworks?" he inquired at one point.

  "No." She hesitated uncertainly and then said, "Sam, about earlier . . . I, uh, I really want to thank you."

  "You do?" He eyed her warily. "For what?"

  "For defending me the way you did."

  He snorted. "Yeah, I'm a real knight in shining armor, all right," he agreed bitterly. Studying her in silence for several long heartbeats, he abruptly confessed, "Clare, when I first saw Gracie in our entryway here ... I thought you had done it." Gripping the back of his neck, elbows planted on the table, he raised his eyes to meet hers. "I thought the grief of losing Evan must have finally gotten to be just too much for you and you'd snatched Gracie out from under Emma's nose to—oh, shit, I don't know—compensate, or something."

  One corner of Clare's lips curled up. "So what made you change your mind?"