by Debra Dixon
Their willingness to honor his claim to Emma should have erased the vague discontent in his gut, but it didn’t. They weren’t responsible for his unease, Gabe realized. Emma was.
Having to play the role of her possessive ex-husband, having to pass her off as his, only made him more aware that he had no real claim to Emma. No right to protect her beyond his job as a bodyguard. His whole posture was a sham. She wasn’t his. And wanting what he couldn’t have was foolish. He’d learned that lesson all too well.
Marsha Jean was waiting for them beside the bar, and she was loaded for bear. Gabe doubted she believed the love-affair story anymore. “It is so nice to meet you, Mrs. Gabriel! Gabe”—she threw a sour look in his direction—“hasn’t told me one blessed thing about you. So you’ll have to fill in all the blanks!”
“Call me, Emma,” Emily suggested as she hopped up on a stool, forgetting how tight the jeans were. She sucked in a breath as they threatened to cut off the circulation at the bend of her thigh and hip, and at her waist.
“I’m Marsha Jean Petit.” The blond waitress stuck her hand out just as if they’d never met before. “Can he get you a drink?”
“Yeah. A Virgin Mary would be nice.” Emily adjusted her position until the pressure eased up. “I don’t think I can afford the calories in anything alcoholic.”
“Why is it that all the good stuff is bad for us, or causes us so much trouble in the long run?” Marsha Jean asked that question, looking straight at Gabe. “Take men, for example—”
“Marsha Jean,” Gabe warned as his waitress started to climb up on a stool beside Emma. “You have customers.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” she said, and settled onto the stool. “I just gave everybody another round on the house in celebration of Mrs. Gabriel’s return.” Leaning until her shoulder touched Angus’s shoulder, she asked, “You don’t mind if I sit here and talk to Emma?”
“No, ma’am. I actually couldn’t be any happier unless you sat on my lap.”
“See there, Gabe,” Emily said. “The customers are happy. Could I have that drink?”
“I don’t know,” he answered. “Can you pay for it?”
“I will,” Angus and one of the strangers volunteered in unison.
Without saying a word, Gabe turned and focused his attention on the stranger first. He was a pale guy, easy to dismiss as all talk and no action—except for the coolness in his eyes. He didn’t flinch, but he did pick up his drink.
Looking at Emma, he said, “Sorry, ma’am. Maybe the next round.” Then he found an empty table.
Next Gabe considered Angus. He didn’t frown. He didn’t raise an eyebrow. He didn’t glare.
Nevertheless, Angus blanched and stammered, “Sorry, Gabe. I don’t know what came over me.”
“Generosity,” Emily declared as she pivoted toward Gabe and tapped him on the knuckles. “It was a random act of kindness. You do know what that is, don’t you?”
“Yeah.” Gabe nodded, his gaze locked with hers. “It’s like when someone takes in a stray, and feeds it, and cares for it, and keeps it safe from the big bad world.”
“And has it neutered, most likely,” Emily added under her breath.
“It depends,” Gabe said.
“On what?” Marsha Jean asked, entirely missing the undercurrent that surged between her boss and Emily.
“On whether the stray bites the hand that feeds it.”
“Suppose it was just one tiny nip,” Emily whispered, caught up in the heat of his gaze.
“One?”
“Uh-huh. Just one … soft … nip.” Emily put the side of her index finger in her mouth and gently dragged her teeth along the skin to the tip.
“I’ve always believed that one good nip deserves another.”
“Oh, my,” Marsha Jean said as she realized they weren’t talking about strays any longer. “Angus darlin’, dance with me! I feel a hormonal rampage comin’ on. I need an outlet.”
Happy to oblige, Angus did as he was told.
As they left, Emily wanted to call them back, tell them not to leave her. Without them she felt exposed. Any fool knew there was safety in numbers.
“How ’bout that drink?” Gabe asked.
“I can’t pay for it.”
“We’ll think of something,” he promised. “Maybe you could help me behind the bar.”
“Doing what?” she asked suspiciously.
“Whatever needs doing.” He grinned. “Like cutting limes and lemons. Like running the cash register. Nothing hard back here at all.”
“I’ll bet.” But Emily got up anyway. She didn’t mind working for her supper or her drinks. In the process of getting off the stool, she thrust her chest out, unaware of the effect the simple movement had on Gabe.
Once she had joined him behind the bar, it was all Gabe could do not to inspect his hands to see if they were as big as Emma seemed to think. He realized they were when she was trying to learn the cash register and he reached over to show her how to unjam the keys, which resembled manual typewriter keys. Their hands rested side by side for a moment, the edge of their palms touching. Fascinated by the difference, Gabe forgot what he’d been about to show her. Months of experience at operating the cantankerous old cash register evaporated from his brain.
“See. I told you they were big,” Emma told him with great satisfaction.
She surprised him then. She looked up into his face and smiled. No, she grinned. The first one of those he’d seen, and he knew he was fighting a losing battle. He was going to get attached to Emily Quinn, and he wasn’t going to be able to do a damn thing about it. Except watch her walk away when she didn’t need him anymore.
The rest of the evening was like watching a flower unfold as Emma became more confident in her new persona, though she never strayed far from him. He kept one eye on Emma, and one on the pale stranger. But mostly an eye on Emma.
“Emma,” Marsha Jean begged as she grabbed another round of beers for the back booth, “I got my hands full tonight, and the guy over there in the black sweater just signaled for another beer. Take it for me?”
“No problem.” Emily looked up just as the man Marsha Jean indicated was turning away. A feeling of déjà vu swamped her, made her dizzy for a moment, nauseated. Her mind registered his dark hair and the tilt of his head.
Suddenly she was right back in the farmhouse, facing the man with the gun.
EIGHT
When Emma’s hand sagged away from taking the bottle, Gabe steadied her, simultaneously scanning the bar. He checked the pale man, but he was absorbed in his drink. The other stranger had cleared out an hour earlier.
Knowing he’d missed something, Gabe let his gaze track Marsha Jean as she passed through the crowd with a heavy tray of drinks. And that’s when he saw him, an unfamiliar guy in a black sweater. Gabe’s mind raced, trying to assess the damage even though the man ignored them.
Dammit! Who the hell was he and where had he come from? More important, how long had he been there?
Those were questions Gabe shouldn’t have had to ask, and he knew it. He was a fool. He got sidetracked by the obvious and wrapped up in his proprietary feelings for Emma. If he didn’t stay sharp, he’d get them both killed.
Gabe walked her back a few steps, putting himself between her and the rest of the room. He let his free hand stray toward the shelf beneath the register. “Tell me what happened.”
“For a second, I thought …” Her voice faded uncertainly as she continued to stare around his body.
As his fingers inched beneath the towels covering his gun, he asked, “Thought what?”
“He—” She looked up into his eyes, her fear evident, her voice uncertain. “For a second, something about that customer, the one Marsha Jean wanted me to take the beer to … something about the way he turned made me think of what happened, made me think it was him. But now I don’t know. I’m not sure anymore.”
“Thought it was who? The gunman in the farmhouse?” Gabe asked quietly,
and risked another glance at the man.
She nodded. “I just went cold inside when I saw him. And then … nothing.” Words tumbled out of her as she tried to explain her instincts away. “The feeling faded, and now I’m wondering if I imagined the whole thing. Maybe I’m just edgy. Maybe I’m looking for a monster behind every bush because of that rifle shot at Marsha Jean’s.”
“Take a deep breath and calm down.” When she did, he asked, “Did you get a good look at the man who shot the deputy marshal?”
“No. Not full on,” she whispered. “That night when he turned around I was so scared that I couldn’t see anything but the gun, and then I closed my eyes. The next thing I knew he was on the floor. I didn’t look when I walked by him. I couldn’t. I was trying to get to—to the marshal that was shot.”
“Hey, you two lovebirds! We got customers, you know,” Marsha Jean reminded them as she slapped her tray on the bar. “So let’s hop to it!”
“Been waiting on you, darlin’,” Gabe said, forcing himself to sound at ease. He managed to turn around while still shielding Emma and slid the beer toward the end of the bar in a smooth, fluid motion. “Take that to the gentleman with the black sweater. Then check the booth in the back. They haven’t ordered in a while.”
Marsha Jean eyed them thoughtfully. “You trying to get rid of me, boss?”
“How perceptive of you.” He increased the pressure on Emma’s arm, warning her to be quiet. “Now go away.”
Marsha Jean took the beer, but she warned him, “I love secrets. I’ll figure it out. Just you wait.”
As she left, Emily shook her head anxiously. “I don’t like this, Gabe. Marsha Jean suspects something already, and you’re sending her over there?”
“Shh … it’s all right. I think I know what happened—why you thought you knew him and now you’re not sure. Look at him,” Gabe ordered her. “Who does he remind you of?”
Emily stared for a minute as the man took the beer from Marsha Jean and cocked his head back, laughing at something she said. He obviously gave as good as he got, because Marsha Jean appeared flustered for a moment. Then she smiled, a calculating smile as if the man’s credit with her had unexpectedly gone up a notch.
“He reminds me of Patrick,” she said slowly. “Same color hair, same body type, same profile.”
“And that’s why you freaked. You’ve been running on emotional empty for four days, expecting the bad guy to catch you. You saw something familiar, your mind confused the signals, and you scared the hell out of yourself.”
“That sounds so simple,” Emily said, wanting to believe him, but her memory nagged her, reminding her that she had mistaken the gunman for Patrick once already.
But that was the silver gun, and the suit. Wasn’t it? She couldn’t be sure. And she couldn’t explain it to Gabe without telling him about Patrick.
“Believe me. It’s simple. The only woman he wants tonight is Marsha Jean,” Gabe told her, but silently he revised his own timetable, shaving off a day. Better safe than sorry.
Tomorrow was Monday. He’d give Patrick until Tuesday morning. If he didn’t call by then, it wouldn’t matter. He and Emma would be gone.
Gabe was going with her. At least until she was safe. A woman who froze the way she did wasn’t ready to take on the task of protecting herself. If they caught up with her, she’d be dead before she decided what to do.
“But what if next time it is someone after me?” she asked him quietly. “Maybe I should go. I can’t stand the thought that Marsha Jean or anyone else would be in danger because of me. I don’t want anything to happen to her. Or you. Not because of me.”
“Nothing’s going to happen. I’m not going to let it,” Gabe told her firmly, and turned her toward the EMPLOYEES ONLY door. He leaned close to her ear. “Why don’t you call it a night and go upstairs,” he suggested. “It’s almost closing time.”
Emily tried not to let the way Gabe rubbed her shoulders affect her, but it did. He had a way of melting the tension in her muscles and replacing it with heat that was just as devastating to her nerves. Right now he tempted her with the promise that he’d take care of her. The promise was as seductive as his touch. Her heart was only now returning to normal rhythm, and he’d set it off again.
When she hesitated, he added, “I’ve got to stay downstairs and clean up. You’d just be in the way. Go. Feed Wart. Take a shower. Relax.” He tried to massage her shoulders, but she pulled away as if burned.
“All right,” she agreed, and took a deep breath. He wondered if the breath was meant to help her get across the room without running, or because he’d touched her.
Gabe watched as she said a quick good-night to Marsha Jean. Then he eyed the man in the black sweater, making certain that his gaze didn’t linger on Emma. It didn’t. Nevertheless Gabe continued to watch him.
The man left shortly before last call. He was agile on his feet; he had a balance that hinted at training of some sort. That didn’t mean he was after Emma, Gabe reminded himself. Emma’s fright had started his imagination working overtime, but he’d rather be prepared. He couldn’t afford another mistake. The men after Emma didn’t take prisoners, they played for keeps.
When everyone was gone, Marsha Jean put on her coat and started to say good-bye. Instead, she snapped her fingers and told him to hold off locking up while she ran out to her car. She came back in with a pair of figure skates.
“I keep these in my trunk along with Annabelle’s. Since Emily and I wear the same size shoe, I thought I’d leave them here.”
“What for?”
“She might like a chance to glide around Sutter’s Pond without reporters and coaches watching.”
Gabe wasn’t certain she was serious. “Have you lost your mind?”
“Hey, it’s only a couple of miles away, so close she could walk. It’s completely deserted during the week. You know that. And so does she. I told her.”
“Doesn’t matter. She’s not going skating. She’s not going anywhere without me. And I’m not going skating.”
“Well, the skates are here just in case.” Marsha Jean put them on the bar, but she looked like a woman who had something more to say. After a brief pause she spit it out. “You aren’t having an affair, are you? She’s in trouble. I mean real trouble.”
Gabe didn’t see the sense in lying. He nodded.
“You be careful with her, then. From what I saw today, I’d imagine bein’ in her skin is a little like bein’ in a pressure cooker with no release valve. Skating might help.”
“It’s too risky.”
She didn’t argue. She just shrugged and headed for the door. “You be careful with you too. I’ve gotten kind of used to having you around.”
“I’m always careful.” Except tonight, his conscience added.
Gabe locked the door behind her, checked it twice, and began to clean up. He took his time polishing the bar. He wasn’t certain he could sit and listen to Emma take a shower without losing his mind.
They might not be having an affair, but he’d gotten all tangled up in the woman somehow. She had him thinking stupid, and that was a dangerous way to think.
Never in his life had he felt so possessive of a woman, as if it were his job to protect her from everything in the world that might hurt her. Patrick wasn’t the only SEAL with a thing for scared strays.
Takes one to know one. That’s what he’d been all his life—a stray that no one adopted.
He stared at his big hands and admitted the spitfire who’d come out of Marsha Jean’s Clairol bottle would be a handful, even for him. Tonight for the first time he’d seen the energy that had taken her to so many world titles. That energy was as seductive as her softness had been. And then right before she went upstairs, a little of the old Emma—the uncertain one, the shy one—crept back into the new Emma.
They were going to have to come to an understanding about the chemistry between them. Otherwise they’d be walking on eggshells, and Gabe didn’t want to walk
on eggshells.
Uncertain which Emma waited for him in his apartment, he climbed the stairs. When he looked at the place, he realized she’d been cleaning again. No question about that. The coffee table actually resembled a coffee table instead of a lost and found department.
Wart meowed a lazy greeting, and Emma stepped out of the kitchen. The movement caught his eye and his sense of the absurd. Gabe laughed outright, the tension inside him snapping.
“Pajamas with feet?” he queried when his spontaneous outburst subsided.
“I was lucky Marsha Jean found any at all,” she informed him primly, and smoothed the blue and white checked flannel. “They happen to be quite trendy and practical.”
“Yeah,” he agreed. “If you’re four years old and keep losing your slippers. Or if you’re trying to run off the man in your life.”
Gabe’s amusement died as Emma averted her gaze, and he realized that he’d stumbled on the truth with his wisecrack. Emma’s pajamas were a no-trespassing sign. He got the message loud and clear. The charming Emma Gabriel, ex-wife with the ready smile, was nothing more than a character in a play.
After all, she was used to performing. Wasn’t that what figure skating was? A performance sport?
Wise up, Gabe. The woman cozied up and hung around you tonight because she was scared and you were handy.
But even given her desperate circumstances, the classy Emily Quinn wouldn’t waste her time on a flat-broke, ex–Navy SEAL with no prospects beyond bartending. He was useful and nothing more. Silk and flannel, he reminded himself. Cut from a different cloth.
Even when she was the one in flannel.
Carefully controlling his voice, he asked, “Did Marsha Jean find anything normal in the rummage bin?”
As a matter of fact she had, but Emily wasn’t volunteering that information. She didn’t intend to wear the satin nightshirt because it was cut down to her belly button. Afraid he’d know she was lying if she didn’t meet his eyes, she lifted her chin to answer, and was caught off guard by the anger smoldering in Gabe’s dark gaze.
Nothing in his voice had prepared her for the way he looked at her. This was the intense man who had sized her up and dismissed her that first night in the bar. Gabe was the kind of man who could be angry at the world and never waste a breath on complaint. He kept so much inside, and right now he was unhappy with her.