Exposure

by Susan Andersen

  Emma looked down on her burnt-orange tank top, short, swingy, African-print gray-green, black and khaki skirt, and the twisted fabric and metallic belt that separated them. Ruby had insisted the other day that it was time she had some fun. "You and me are going to have us a girls' night out at the Anchor," she had said. "And in honor of this momentous occasion it's only right that you should break out the serious hardware. Wear a tank top and some short-shorts or something. Leave your bra at home. You've got a figure that most of us would kill for. I can't figure out why you never try to get at least a little extra mileage out of it."

  Well, the bra remained firmly in place, but it was a demicup model constructed of antique gold lace, and Emma had decided what the hell about the rest of it. It was kind of fun to dress trashy and put on a little extra makeup for a change. It had been forever since she'd done anything like this, and she'd enjoyed herself immensely when she was getting ready. But the closer it got to actually leaving Gracie for an evening . . . "Ruby, I'm worried."

  "I know you are, hon, but have a little faith in me, won'tcha? It's going to be fine."

  "It was just five days ago that Gracie was snatched out from under my nose. What if—?"

  "What if's not gonna happen," Ruby assured her firmly. "Mary and I were careful about this. I didn't tell a soul that you and I were going out tonight, and Mary didn't even tell Sue Anne Baker about Gracie spending the night with her. Now that, hon, is not a trivial sacrifice. Sue Anne is her very best friend in the whole wide world, and those two tell each other everything."

  "What about your son?"

  "Denny? He's visiting a friend in Seattle for the weekend; we didn't see the point in mentioning it to him. Now, logistically, did you drive the route I told you to?"

  "Yes."

  "And there was nobody behind you?"

  "No."

  "Well, there you go then, hon. You drive on back to the boarding house now, and I'll come pick you up in about ten minutes. Even if you're still being watched and we're seen together at the Anchor by your watcher, that's not going to lead him to Gracie. Mary gave me her word that if they go outside at all tonight, it will only be in the back yard, and see for yourself." She opened the kitchen door. "It's completely enclosed by that privacy fence." Closing the door again, she turned the deadbolt key. "And see here? She'll also keep the doors locked at all times." Picking up the phone receiver she pointed out the functions she'd keyed into it. "This button is direct-dial to the sheriff's office. This one's to the Anchor. Trust me, Emma." She reached out to tenderly rearrange a wave of streaky blond hair at Emma's temple. "It's going to be all right, and the truth is, honey, you need this. Gracie needs this."

  So it was that Emma found herself walking with Ruby through the front door of the Anchor a short while later.

  The tavern wasn't a citified fern bar for the upwardly mobile; it was an old-fashioned honky-tonk with a parking lot full of pickup trucks, dim lighting, loud conversation, and good western music that provided both background noise and accompaniment for the dancers on the establishment's two small dance floors. Cigarette smoke picked up the colors of the neon beer signs over the bar and hung in a blue haze between the pool table and the green-shaded hanging light suspended above it. This wasn't the place to order a champagne cocktail.

  People greeted Ruby by name, men pulled their shoulders back and sucked their stomachs in as Emma walked by, and Emma's mood elevated like a rocket. This was fun. She'd forgotten how exhilarating a little uncomplicated appreciation could be.

  Ruby was right, she had needed this. There had been too many emotions packed into too short a time, and the responsibility to find a way clear of the mess she was in had been solely hers. Tomorrow the problems would still be there and the responsibility would once again be hers, but for tonight she was going to allow herself an evening away from them . . . and from the ever-demanding accountability of motherhood. She could use a few hours of oblivion and the pursuit of a little relaxation wasn't such a bad objective.

  She was invited to dance before she and Ruby even found a table, and at Ruby's urging, she accepted. When she got back from an energetic two-step to Kim Hill's "Janie's Gone Fishin' " she found Ruby seated with Clare and Sam Mackey at a table next to the smaller dance floor where the line dancers held forth. She greeted everyone, thanked her partner for the dance—for a heavyset man with a beer belly and barrel chest he'd been amazingly light on his feet—and took a seat.

  Brooks and Dunn launched into "Ride 'Em High, Ride 'Em Low," and a new man materialized to ask Emma for a dance. Laughing good-naturedly, she fended him off with a "You have gotta let me get myself situated first, cher," and turning to the waitress who had appeared requested a Jax.

  "Huh?"

  "A bottle of Jax, s 'il vous plait? "

  "It's a brand of long-neck that's popular in the South, Marion," Sam interjected. "Just bring us another pitcher, hey?" Turning to Emma he said, "Jax hasn't made it this far north. You're going to have to make do with a local brew."

  "Whatever," she agreed with a cheerful shrug.

  Clare leaned over the table. "Love your skirt, Emma," she said, raising her voice to be heard over the music. "Are the panties built in?"

  "Oui. This is my dancin' skirt."

  "Let's hope it doesn't start a riot," Sam muttered. Every guy in the joint had probably noticed the tight little panties with the high-cut legs when Gus Moser had twirled her around.

  "What's that, cher?" She leaned closer, cocking an ear. "I'm afraid I couldn't hear you."

  "Never mind. It was nothing important."

  Emma studied him for a moment and then shrugged. "I don't suppose your music ever runs to zydeco, does it?"

  "Afraid not," he said dryly.

  "A little accordion maybe?" she asked hopefully. Sometimes she grew homesick for the Cajun sounds she'd grown up with.

  "Nope. Just your everyday country western."

  "Ah, well. The dancin's pretty much the same, in any case."

  And dance she did, all night long. She waltzed with weathered farmers; she two-stepped with insurance salesmen, accountants, and machinists. A handsome young dentist claimed her for a West Coast Swing to Tanya Tucker's "It's a Little Too Late" and she joined Ruby and Clare in a line dance, doing the tush push to "Mona Lisa." A fine sheen of perspiration glowed on her skin by the time she begged off a dance and collapsed in her seat, picking up her beer and gulping it down before rolling the condensation-dewed side of the glass against her forehead.

  The chair next to her scraped back and a large body dropped into it. Emma took a deep breath, then slowly let it out. Turning in her seat, polite smile in place, she was determined to beg an extra five minutes to catch her breath before starting another round of dancing.

  But it wasn't a new partner, come to demand a dance. It was Elvis Donnelly. He nodded his thanks to the waitress who had set down a clean glass in front of him and reached across the table for the pitcher. Pouring himself a beer, he took a sip, wiped the foam from his upper lip with the back of his prosthesis, and leaned back in his chair to give Emma a thorough once-over. "Heard you were the belle of the ball tonight, Em," he said, seemingly without any apparent opinion on the subject one way or the other. "Thought I'd better come check it out for myself."

  Chapter 13

  He had seduction on his mind. When Sam had called to let him know that Emma was inciting lustful thoughts in a tavern full of the susceptible and suggested that perhaps he might care to join them after work, Elvis had nearly blown a gasket waiting for his shift to end. His patience had run out with twenty minutes still on the clock, and instructing his deputy to take over, he'd raced home, changed his clothes, and shaved, gritting his teeth at the extra time it took to take care around his scar and worrying the whole time that she'd hit it off with some good-looking Saturday-night cowboy before he could get there. If that happened he didn't know what the hell he would do.

  He considered her his.

  Jesus, it was a f
eeling so strong, if he were a dog he'd be pissing circles around her to mark her as his territory and warn off the other hounds. And he could just imagine how well that sort of macho possessive bullshit would go over with Emma. She was a strong and independent woman; it was doubtful she considered herself anybody's property but her own. Nevertheless, he took heart in knowing this much. She wasn't entirely indifferent to him.

  Accustomed as he was to going into Seattle whenever he could no longer fight the need for sex, he'd grown into the habit of discounting the idea of ever having it with anyone here on the island. It had therefore taken quite a while for it to dawn on him that Emma hadn't exactly beat him off with a stick that night up in her room. That she had, in fact, gone a little crazy over nothing more than a little suck on her bottom lip. The truth was she'd been primed and ready . . . until he'd gone and wrecked his own chances of getting lucky by leveling rash accusations at her.

  There was a combustible attraction between them that they couldn't quite bury. Hell, look at that kiss they'd shared, the one that had so upset little Beans. Neither of them had intended it to get out of hand—it just had. So if she was looking for someone to flirt and dance with tonight . . .

  "So, tell me," he demanded, "where'd you stash the kid tonight?"

  She leaned close to eliminate the need to yell. It was highly unlikely that anyone in a position to overhear would have the slightest interest in her answer, but where Gracie's safety was concerned she wasn't taking even the minutest chance. "Mary Kelly's got her," she said beneath the music, the clacking balls on the pool table, the rowdy conversations going on all around them. Scooting closer still, she talked directly into his ear, recounting how Ruby had planned this evening right down to the last detail. He draped his arm over the back of her chair while he listened.

  When she pulled back their faces were only inches apart. They stared into each other's eyes for a moment, and then Elvis moved his mouth to her ear. "So Gracie's spending the entire night with her?"

  His breath, blowing warm across the whorls, scented with toothpaste when it drifted as far as her nose, caused goosebumps to crop up along her entire left side. She nodded, looking up at him.

  "It's good for you to have a night out," he approved in a low, husky voice. Suzy Bogguss started to sing "You Shouldn't Say That to a Stranger," and his fingers lifted off the back of her chair and brushed down her bare arm. "You want to dance?"

  "Oui." They rose to their feet.

  The song was a slow, torchy one, and Elvis pulled her into his arms the minute they reached the dance floor. Slipping his right arm around her waist, he offered up his prosthesis and Emma slid her fingers through the hook, folding them around the clip to maintain a grasp. He then brought it in close to his chest and holding her carefully, started to move. Within moments he had them buried in the middle of the dance floor and was holding her with less caution and more intent. Lifting up his hook, carrying her fingers to his mouth, he kissed her two middle knuckles and then rubbed the backs of all four fingers against his smooth-shaven cheek. He bent his head until his lips were next to her ear. "Let go," he instructed in a low, rough voice and demonstrated his intent by giving the prosthesis a tiny wiggle.

  "I want to feel both your arms around my neck."

  She let go and wrapped both arms around his neck. Her breasts flattened slightly against his chest as his left arm slid around her and pulled her in close to his body. Bending the arm, he aligned his elbow at her waist and his prosthesis rode the shallow groove of her spine, pressing against it firmly to keep her close. His right fingers slid over her hip below her waist and splayed out.

  Tightening her arms in reaction, Emma buried her nose in the little notch at the base of his throat and inhaled. He smelled so good. Normally he smelled of soap and water, of fabric softener and starch. Tonight was no exception, the aromas that she'd grown accustomed to associating with him were ever present. But added to them was a touch of aftershave or cologne, something subtle that was there one moment and gone the next. She rose up on her toes and burrowed her face into the warm skin where his neck curved into his shoulder, seeking out the elusive scent. But it was drifting up from the triangular hollow at the base of his throat where she'd first smelled it, and she parted her lips and pressed a small kiss against the spot. The fan of chest hair that began just below that site tickled her mouth.

  Elvis sucked in a breath. Jesus! Just who the hell was doing the seducing here? He lowered his mouth to her ear. "I want to take you back to my room," he said hoarsely.

  "Mmmm." Her arms tightened and her breasts shifted in a subtle sideways rub against his chest.

  He scrunched his chin into his neck, trying to see her face. "What does that mean, mmmm? Would you go?"

  She raised her head, tilting it back slightly to look into his eyes. Her hair waved softly back from her face, and she smiled dreamily. "Mais oui," she replied in a low, husky voice. But yes.

  "Damn," he breathed. She squeaked at the sudden convulsive clench of his arms around her, and he forced himself to relax his grip. "Sorry," he apologized. "You okay, Em? Can you breathe?"

  She took a tentative breath and, when her ribs held, nodded.

  "Listen," he said urgently, "what do you say we get the hell outta—"

  Suzy's last notes trailed into silence at that moment, and two men instantly materialized beside them, all but elbowing each other in unsubtle attempts to be the first to ask Emma for the next dance. Elvis' immediate impulse was to fend them off, to snap and snarl like a rabid dog, until they retreated with their tails between their legs. Instead, he forced himself to take a step back and leave the field free. Given the way the folks in this town felt about him, it would be much better for Emma if he handled this with a modicum of discretion.

  "Elvis?" she said uncertainly as the crowd began to jostle them apart. She reached for his hand, but although their fingers made contact they slowly slid apart as the crowd leaving the dance floor moved them in separate directions.

  "Thanks for the dance," he said politely. His voice was cool, courteous. His eyes were anything but.

  "I hope you'll save me another."

  "Well, yes, sure. But what about . . . ?" She watched him in confusion as he turned and shouldered his way back to the table. Dammit, Elvis, is that it? Thanks for the dance? Absent-mindedly she took up her position in the two-step with her new partner, moving automatically when the music began.

  Well . . . merde. Merde, merde, merde! What in the name of Glory had happened to "What do you say we get out of here"?

  On the other hand, it was entirely possible he was displaying more sense than she was. The people she cared about had a distressing habit of dying on her. It certainly wouldn't do, for instance, to let Grant's minions know that she was developing deeper feelings for Elvis Donnelly than she had thus far exhibited for anyone else in town. The only possible outcome she could see from that would be placing Elvis' life in jeopardy.

  Yes, surely discretion was the solution. If that was what turning his back on her and walking away had been all about.

  And not that he had simply changed his mind.

  * * * * *

  Sam refilled a glass and passed it to Elvis the minute he dropped into the seat next to his. Scraping his own chair nearer to his friend's, he stubbed out his cigarette, shoved aside the overflowing ashtray in front of him, and said sarcastically, "I thought at the very least we'd get to see a little blood flow.

  Damn, E, when did you turn into such a pussy?"

  Elvis tore his eyes away from the skirt that swirled up around Emma's waist and then flared out again before finally swinging back into place around her thighs. He transferred his scowl to his best friend. "What the hell are you talking about, Mackey?"

  "I'm talking about that sad display out there on the dance floor, man. Jesus, Elvis, I thought you'd be crackin' some heads together, but you just let those two yahoos horn right in on your woman."

  Elvis shrugged, raising the glass to his l
ips, his eyes narrowed as they once again tracked Emma's progress around the floor. "So let 'em have a thrill," he said to Sam without removing his gaze from the floor. "Trust me, it's gonna be a momentary one. When the Anchor shuts down tonight, she's going home with me." Pulling his gaze off the floor, he looked at his friend and then added seriously, "But I'd just as soon the entire town doesn't know and speculate about it, Sam. No sense in wrecking her standing in the community if we don't have to." He looked back at the dance floor in time to see Emma whirled around again. She should never have been let out of her room wearing that skirt. It was too damn incendiary.

  When the music changed, Emma went from one partner's arms into another man's. Sam and Clare got up to dance, and just to be polite Elvis turned to Ruby and asked if she would care to dance. He was caught by surprise when she took him up on his offer.

  "Which floor?" he inquired as he escorted her from the table. "Line?" He tipped his chin toward the tiny floor where line dancing was held. "Or two-step or swing?" He gave her a quick, assessing glance. She'd pick line.

  "Let's see." Ruby gnawed her lip for a second as she considered the logistics. Line dancing would be simpler, of course, for there was no touching. And yet ... "Two-step, I think."

  Again he was surprised, but his expression didn't change. He hadn't given away his feelings on any subject he didn't intend to give them away on since he was seventeen years old. "Good enough. I caution you, though, that we'll have to wing it on any spins instigated off my left hand." It was fair warning, for which he received in return a grin so spontaneous he found himself smiling back at her in sheer reaction.

  "What the hell," she said cheerfully, raising her voice to be heard over the music. "I've seen you move, Sheriff, and at least I know you're light on your feet. Better we fumble a couple spins than my tootsies get trampled." She shrugged good-naturedly as she explained, "Standing on my feet all day every day, I tend to get a tad protective of them."