by Debra Dixon
The hero business was a dangerous one, Gabe decided. The real risk wasn’t the bad guys; it was Emma. He was attracted to her, and that attraction couldn’t go any further. It would only complicate both their lives when she disappeared or when Patrick came to get her.
“Well, Patrick,” Gabe quoted quietly as he thought of his friend, “this is another fine mess you’ve gotten me into.”
At his words, Emma’s soft moan escalated into an urgent plea full of dread and disbelief and helplessness. The sound tore at Gabe’s gut and froze him in place. Whatever she saw in the shadows of sleep was linked to the sadness and desperation that haunted her eyes. He’d stake his life on it. Unable to watch her distress any longer, he reached out to wake her.
Emma screamed before he touched her.
FOUR
“No!”
Emily came awake and bolted upright in bed at the same instant, shuddering and filled with a terror that was too real this time. The dream was always over the minute she screamed, but tonight waking up didn’t make the dream vanish. Just as clearly as if she were trapped in sleep, she could see the blood seeping between her fingers.
Putting her head in her hands, Emily tried to stop the images from coming, tried to push her eyes to the back of her skull, and tried not to hear the horrible fluid sound that Patrick made as he told her to take his wallet and where to go. When she felt a hand touch her shoulder, her heart stopped, and so did her breathing.
All she could think about was escaping, running, but her legs wouldn’t obey. They were caught or tied somehow, trapping her. Jerking away from the attacker, she tried to scream, only a raspy croak came from her throat. A second attempt was no better than the first.
“Whoa, Emma. It’s me. It’s Gabe. No one’s trying to hurt you.” Gabe sat down on the bed and tried to gather her into his arms, but she twisted away from him, evading his comfort and delivering a staggering elbow to his chest as she fought him in a blind panic. He finally settled for holding her wrists so she couldn’t push him away or lash out at him with clenched fists.
When she was spent from the strain of trying to fight him, her long hair swung away from her face, and he could see that she had her eyes tightly closed, as if afraid of what she might see. In a small, terrified voice she pleaded, “Let me go. Please. I won’t tell.”
Gabe felt his jaw tighten and his chest constrict. Her resistance was nothing more than token at this point. The shock of his touch and the fear had drained her.
“Hey, it’s me,” Gabe assured her softly again, loosening his grip on her wrists. “I’m not trying to hurt you. You’re tangled up in the sheet, Emma. That’s all. It’s Gabe. It’s okay.”
Gradually, as his words sank in, Emily stopped struggling. Like a flood, reality washed over her, and she opened her eyes. She was with Gabe, not in an Idaho farmhouse, but in Washington. Safe. For now.
This time when he drew her into his arms Emily didn’t resist. One last shiver slid through her, and she wasn’t sure if it was left over from the dream or created by the warmth of Gabe’s touch as his hand rubbed her back in long strokes that seemed to travel the length of her nerves and back again.
The shirt beneath her cheek was soft and warm and familiar, an anchor she clung to while the dark images that lived in her dreams slowly faded. Her fingers curled and uncurled where they rested against his collarbones, the action an unconscious means of reassuring herself that Gabe was real. Suddenly aware of her position, Emily stiffened and shifted backward, appalled that she’d fallen into his arms twice in less than twelve hours. She wiped beneath her eyes to erase the tears that always came with the dream.
“What—” She cleared her throat. “What time is it?”
Gabe realized her query about the time was only an attempt to shift his attention away from her nightmare. “I think it’s time to tell me about the bad guys.”
Her hand stilled as she caught the satin binding of the blanket. A half-beat later she pulled it toward her, dropping it neatly across her hips to match the sheet she’d untangled. In the same tone that strangers used for meaningless party conversation, she asked, “What bad guys?”
“The ones in your dreams,” he answered, his voice hard, unrelenting. “The ones who make you scream.”
That finally got her full attention. She faced him with the panicked expression of a recovering alcoholic who’d been caught with one hand in the liquor cabinet and a mouth full of incriminating evidence.
“Who’s after you, Emma?” he pressed.
She drew her legs up into a yogalike position, resting her hands in her lap. “It’s an old nightmare. It comes back sometimes, usually when I’m in a strange place.”
Although he wanted to, Gabe didn’t call her a liar. Instead, he reached for her, the pressure on her arm forcing her upper body closer to where he sat on the edge of the bed. His shirt swallowed her small frame, the short sleeves falling below her elbow. Her hair rippled down her sides in loose waves.
“I had an old dream,” she repeated, enunciating each word in a voice so compelling he was almost persuaded to believe her.
Gabe held on to her arm as if he could gauge the truth of her response by the warmth of her skin. “I have a lot of old dreams, and I don’t wake up screaming.”
“Then maybe we just react differently,” she snapped.
“Yeah, we’re different,” Gabe allowed, but he wasn’t talking about dreams.
Emma was silk, and he was flannel. She was elegant; he was common. She was hell-bent on running fast; he was determined to slow her down. He wanted to kiss her; the lady wouldn’t like it.
Emma didn’t want to swap spit or life stories. She wanted a new identity and nothing else. For some reason that made him angry. Too late he realized he’d never let go of her arm. They were too close; there was too much tension.
Then her gaze dropped nervously to his mouth, staring and darting away. He liked the way she looked all swallowed up in his shirt. And, God help him, he loved the way she kept looking at his mouth. Gabe leaned closer, his lips almost on hers.
Emily felt the heat between them. She didn’t pull back or look away, but she didn’t yield either. Why didn’t she just say no? Or draw back?
Because the cold numbness inside her had begun to thaw. His fingers tunneled through her hair until he found skin. The pads of his fingers were rough and warm. The sensations he created made it difficult to think rationally.
While his fingers performed magic, she tried telling herself that her wires were crossed, that she was confusing a very understandable desire for a protector with the plain, old-fashioned sexual kind of desire. But common sense had deserted her light-years earlier. She was already contemplating how his mouth would feel against hers, how the stubble of beard would feel beneath her fingers and on her face.
The worst part of losing the battle with her common sense was that Gabe knew she’d lost. He was one step ahead of her, and he had been all night. He was so sure of himself. So sure of her. Pressure from his fingers adjusted her head a fraction, tilting it as he drew closer.
Just like the man, his kiss was a study in controlled. intensity. His hand on her arm, his fingers against her neck, and his lips on hers, were the only points of contact between them, as if he wouldn’t allow himself more. His tongue tasted her bottom lip, then swept up to lave the bow and traveled back again. He finessed her mouth open without her realizing what he was doing until it was too late. By then she’d already invited him in, and his tongue was twined with hers.
Gabe knew the exact moment Emma let go of her last reservation. He would have known even without the tiny sigh of surrender that caught in her throat. It was the same moment he discovered he was going to have to stop kissing her, because the kiss was more than he bargained for. He hadn’t planned on the fire that caught hold of his soul as Emma welcomed him and his tongue slid home.
A minute earlier the kiss had seemed like a simple way to diffuse the sensual current that kept them warily circl
ing each other. But his clever plan exploded on a soft sigh that spoke of need and uncertainty and unexpected passion. Maintaining any semblance of control once she’d surrendered was impossible. The sound of her sigh triggered a deeper need in him, one that wouldn’t be satisfied with sampling the warm velvet sheath of her mouth. Unfortunately, it also triggered one of the few unbreakable commandments in his moral code—the one about taking advantage of women in trouble.
Reluctantly Gabe drew back, but when she leaned into him to prolong the kiss, he groaned a curse and almost relented. Until he noticed her eyes were still closed. That small symbol of trust stopped him cold.
Emma wasn’t looking for sex; she was looking for a way to forget. Fear changed people, motivated them to grab hold of anything that made them feel alive. Taking her by the shoulders, he set her away from him as gently as he could and then dropped his hands.
A second later she surfaced and opened her eyes. Her parted lips were quickly pressed together, and her eyes widened with what he guessed was embarrassment as reality descended. Wrapping her arms around her midriff, she used body language to shut him out and put distance between them. She retreated into silence without giving him a clue as to what she was thinking. He was about ready to shake some words out of her when she finally spoke.
“I don’t usually— Look, I don’t want—”
“I know,” he said curtly, unaccountably angry that she felt she had to explain.
Holding on to his temper, he got up, walked the few feet to the window, and leaned stiff-armed against the sash. He reminded himself that he had no right to nurse a bruised ego. His role in this mess was to be used and forgotten. A familiar role, and one he ought to be able to play in his sleep.
So why did her stammered rejection sting his pride so damned much?
Staring into the darkness outside, he said, “Let’s just call what happened an icebreaker and forget it.”
He felt rather than saw her jaw drop at his choice of words. Icebreaker was much too mild a term for what had transpired between them. After their kiss the only thing left of the ice was hot water, and they were in it.
“Excuse me!” she said from behind him, her voice tinged with indignation. “But an icebreaker is ‘Do you think it’s going to rain?’ or ‘Have you heard the one about the traveling salesman?’ ”
“Yeah, well, those are boring and overused,” he said without turning.
“They’re supposed to be. Who the hell gave you permission to substitute a kiss?”
“You did.” He smiled into the night, knowing that his answer wouldn’t sit well with Emma. It cut too close to the bone, but it was the truth.
Turning around, he tried to make out her expression. By design or accident her face was outside the path of light spilling from the bathroom. He put one hand in his jeans pocket and raked the other through his hair. Thanks to Patrick, he was walking a slippery tightrope in a pitch-black night without a net. Emma’s nightmare changed his perspective on his role in this mess. He wasn’t a baby-sitter; he was a bodyguard. At least until Patrick could ditch his assignment and get his ass back here to take over.
“Who the hell are you, Emma? And who’s after you? The truth this time, and keep in mind that it’s bad form to lie to a man who’s willing to risk his life for you.”
“I haven’t asked you to risk your life,” she pointed out stiffly. “Whatever you’re doing, you’re doing because you owe Patrick, not me.”
“Dead is dead,” Gabe informed her coldly. “It doesn’t much matter who you died for or why.” He walked back toward the bed. “Face some facts, darlin’. You can run, but you can’t vanish in a puff of smoke with forty-eight cents. I’m flat broke myself, so we’re going to have to build you a new set of paper the hard way, and it’s going to take some time. Time means you stay here. As long as you’re here, that puts me in the line of fire.”
“No one knows I’m here except Patrick. I covered my tracks. No one can find me.”
“You better hope so.” He leaned down to make his next point, to make sure she heard every word. “If your nightmare finds you before you can disappear, he’ll put”—Gabe made a gun out of his thumb and index finger and put it against her temple—“a bullet in your pretty little head.” He paused, and then pulled the trigger. “Bang! And begging him won’t save you.”
Gabe waited for her to tell him that he was exaggerating. She didn’t. He removed his hand and paced a few steps. The deep breath he took was audible in the quiet that had descended on the room like a pall.
“I hate it when I’m right,” he quipped, but there was no humor in his comment. “But since I am, let me point out that right now the only thing between you and his bullet is me. So I’m sure you’ll understand that I’d like to know a little more about the man pulling the trigger!”
For a long time Emily just stared at her hands, which were folded neatly in her lap. Her first impulse had been to tell him everything and ask him to take over since she needed all the help she could get. No matter how much she wanted to believe that she’d covered her tracks, the possibility existed that she hadn’t. They found her at a government safe house. They could find her here.
As long as she stayed, his life was in danger. She didn’t want to be responsible for anyone else’s life.
Throwing off the covers, Emily slid out of bed. She flashed a fair amount of leg and probably a cheek before the back of the shirt drifted down. That was no big deal. Her skating costumes had shown as much or more.
“Thanks for the meal and the shower. But I’m not ready to play show-and-tell, so I’ll get out of here. Out of your way. And then you won’t be in danger.”
Gabe had no intention of letting Emma walk out the door, even if he had to detain her bodily. “You’re not going anywhere.”
Emily faltered at the soft menace in his voice. He was a dark gray shadow by the window, a partially concealed predator daring his prey to make one wrong move, but she refused to be intimidated.
“Hide and watch, Gabriel. I’ve made it this far. I’ll manage somehow.”
“Your clothes are wet, and it’s freezing outside.” He noted the obvious excuses as if she were a simpleton who couldn’t figure out how to use an electric clothes dryer or be trusted with sharp objects.
“Thanks for the weather report. I’ll bundle up.”
Emily found the kitchen light switch by trial and error while he watched from across the room. Simultaneously she flipped on the light and pulled up the washer lid. Despite his threat, he made no move to stop her, but she could feel his disapproval like a third presence in the room.
Frowning, Gabe watched Emma fish out the nun’s habit and some scraps of red lace. This was the woman he’d seen only glimpses of, the one who took her whiskey neat and made no excuses. A good meal and a few hours of sleep before the nightmare had made her spirit immeasurably stronger. Of course almost anything would have been an improvement over the desperate woman who walked into his bar.
Emily tossed her underwear and the dress in the dryer as quickly as she could, and set the dial. “Polyester dries real fast. I ought to be out of your hair in about twenty minutes.”
“I don’t care how fast polyester or even silk underwear dries,” he said as he joined her by the dryer. The red flannel shirt was unbuttoned and hung loose at his sides, the sleeves rolled up a couple of times. His T-shirt hinted at the hard muscles beneath it, and one hand was flattened against his abdomen. The turquoise ring and the silver chain bracelet were back on his hand and wrist.
“Emma, you’re not going anywhere until I’m satisfied.”
“Satisfied about what?” she demanded, trying not to stare at his chest but not wanting to risk eye contact either.
“That you can take care of yourself.”
“I’ve done all right so far.”
“Have you?” he asked with deadly calm. “Because it doesn’t look like it from where I’m standing.”
She glared up at him. “Then maybe you need
to back off.”
Big words for such a small lady, Gabe thought. Although sorely tempted, he didn’t point out that she lacked the muscle to support her mouth. Nor did he mention that she was the one who’d come begging for help in the first place. Instead, he walked to the fridge and grabbed a two-liter Coke bottle. It was the closest thing to caffeine he could get his hands on at the moment, and he needed some time to think.
Without bothering to offer her any, he uncapped the soda, upended the plastic bottle, and chugged the cold liquid, relishing the carbonation burn as it slid down his throat. When he finished, he carefully screwed the cap back on. Still undecided about what to do, he put the soda away and closed the refrigerator. He leaned a forearm against the cool door, hooked an index finger in his front pocket, and studied her. She hadn’t moved from her guard-dog position by the dryer.
“Nope,” he said. “Distance didn’t help a bit. I backed off and you still look like something Wart dragged in and spit out on the rug. Darlin’, you’re definitely on the pale side.”
Stung by his criticism, she said, “People expect nuns to be pale.”
“But you’re not a nun, now, are you? And you’re dead broke. Do you mind telling me how you plan to eat regular if you walk out that door with no credit cards and no money?”
“The same way everyone else does. I’ll get a job.”
“Got a résumé? References? Skills?”
Yeah, I have a million-dollar face, Emily thought, but managed not to say it out loud. Endorsement contracts weren’t going to do her a bit of good when she stopped being Emily Quinn and became someone else.
“That’s what I thought,” Gabe said when she didn’t answer. “No skills. Well, you didn’t look like the handy type.”
“And exactly what is the handy type?”
“Not you. You’re too smooth, too cared for.” He stared at her painted toes and ran his eyes slowly up the length of her legs.
Emily felt uncomfortable even though she’d been looked at by men for most of her life. Skimpy skating costumes left little to the imagination, and she’d gotten over being shy about her body a long time ago, but the way Gabe looked at her was different. It was personal. He wasn’t looking at the skater, he was looking at her. Wherever his gaze lingered she felt warm, touched.