by Debra Dixon
She was alone with Gabe, and they both knew what was about to happen.
The sound of her quarter clinked loudly as it hit the coin bin. Blindly she pushed a couple of numbers. Anything was better than the silence. A second later, Patsy Cline began to sing Crazy.
Horrified, Emily realized the song was perfect. She was certainly crazy for falling in love, and that’s what she was afraid had happened. How could she have let herself fall for a man who would never allow himself to love her back?
Gabe crossed his arms and leaned against one of the support posts along the edge of the small dance floor, unwilling to let the moment slip away. They’d reached the point of no return a long time ago, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that tonight would be all they’d have. All he’d have.
They’d been lucky, but it wouldn’t last.
Since they’d been to the cemetery, he’d known why Emma was fighting the bond growing between them. She was afraid of letting someone get close enough to control her life again. He hadn’t been looking to get emotionally attached to a woman who was going to leave. And he sure as hell hadn’t been looking to fall in love with a woman who lied to him rather than trusted him.
Like you have a choice in the matter?
When Emma turned, the lyrics of the song had as much impact on him as the apprehension on her face. He saw something in her eyes that shouldn’t have been there. Desire, but not passion, something else, something he recognized—a longing for what she couldn’t have. That was an emotion he understood all too well.
Nervously, she put her hands behind her, holding on to the jukebox as she inspected the beat-up cowboy boots on her feet. “We had a good night.”
“Not yet.”
Emily’s head snapped up. How could the man’s voice tie her stomach in knots and stop her heart? She’d never felt like this before—not even the first time. All of her instincts told her that falling into bed with Gabe was meant to be. They were about to say something with their bodies that they couldn’t or wouldn’t say with words. Nothing would be the same afterward. If making love was a mistake, there would be no correcting it, no way to turn back the clock.
“Take off the sweater, Emma.”
Heat flashed through her like lightning, restarting her heart and stopping her breathing. Slowly, not to tease him, but because her world had suddenly developed a glitch that made everything move in slow motion, Emily pulled the sweater over her head and tossed it into a chair. She ran her fingers through her hair to straighten it. Then she put her hands on her hips, fingers to the back and thumbs on her waist as she took a deep breath and forced herself to meet his gaze.
Desire was evident in the muscle that tensed in his jaw, in the half-closed eyes, and the way he shifted his feet as if his jeans were suddenly uncomfortable. Emily felt immeasurably better. She wasn’t the only one on the hot seat.
Gabe allowed himself to enjoy the sight of Emma’s breasts as they strained the thin cotton, the tip of one nipple clearly visible in a shaft of light from outside; the other hidden by a shadow. Shoving away from the support, Gabe went to her, wondering how so much woman could be packed into such a small frame. She was all curves and softness, not a bone in sight.
Without a word he reached out to trace one of those curves, beginning with her shoulder and following the slope upward and around to her collarbone, down the center of her chest. As her breathing quickened, his fingers found the valley between the plump mounds that rose and fell in cadence each time she dragged in air. He let his thumb brush across the pebbled nipple as he tested the weight of her breast, lifting it, filling his hand.
Gabe silenced any second thoughts with his mouth, kissing her deeply. Soon her hands were as busy as his tongue. She found the buttons of his shirt and undid them, pulled his undershirt out of his jeans, and slid her hands over his belly, scraping his skin with her nails. When she unzipped his pants, Gabe dragged her hands away from danger.
“Upstairs,” he said heavily.
“No.”
That one husky word was enough to make his arousal throb and send need surging through him. Cupping her face, he couldn’t resist kissing her before he murmured, “The bed is upstairs.”
“I don’t want soft.” Her hands had found their way into his pants again, spreading the front and freeing him.
Caught between Emma’s needs and his own, Gabe held on to the thread of sanity long enough to grab her arm and pull her into a dark corner, away from the door. She reached behind her and unfastened her skirt, giving her hips a little shimmy to encourage it to slide to the floor. Gabe swore and lifted her onto the booth table as she put her arms around his neck.
Gently he took her hands away and laid her back. He insinuated himself between her legs, but forced himself to wait, to enjoy the sight of Emma in those damnable red panties she fished out of the dryer every morning. All she had left of respectability was a little scrap of a T-shirt, a pair of cowboy boots, and red silk undies that were going to tear after the first good tug.
Emily watched as he shrugged out of his shirt, flinging it roughly behind him. There was nothing demure or elegant about the fire between them. She hooked the heel of her boot around his hip, silently asking for what she wanted. The pulse between her legs created an ache that could be satisfied only one way.
When he flung his T-shirt away too, she wet her lips. She could feel his heat through the wet silk of her panties, feel his hardness as he teased her, pulling her hips toward him, promising everything and yet delivering nothing except sweet torment. He pushed up her shirt, exposing her breasts to his hungry gaze. He cupped them and plucked at the sensitive nipples, finally bending over to taste them when she arched her back, offering herself.
He seemed to have all the patience in the world, making her grit her teeth against a moan, and then suddenly, as she wove her fingers into his hair and squirmed beneath his touch, she realized that Gabe wanted to force a moan from her. And he fought dirty. As the motion of his tongue and mouth pulled sensation after sensation through her, his hand moved between them, caressing her intimately, stroking the hidden nub and sending devastating little eddies of passion swirling outward. When he grabbed hold of her panties and ripped them off in one motion, she gave up, and the moan came out as his name, an urgent plea.
He sheathed himself and drove into her, forcing a ragged sigh of relief from her. Each time he withdrew she found herself trying to hold on, trying to keep him inside. It was her turn to force a groan from him, to feel the tension as nature took control from both of them, setting the hard, fast rhythm that caught them both off guard and unleashed a shuddering climax that blazed through their souls and left them spent. Breathless.
Gabe recovered first, at least enough to know that he’d made a mistake pushing Emma to the edge of her sensuality. He’d caught himself in the trap. There had been no veneer of civilization between them. No meaningless endearments to hide behind. Just the stark reality that they were made for each other. Pieces of the same soul.
And for the first time Gabe admitted to himself that he had it backward. Maybe Emma didn’t need him as much as he needed her. He wasn’t sure he could let her go, but the hell of it was he didn’t have a choice. She didn’t belong to him. No one ever had. Not for long.
She was using him; he was just a port in the storm.
The pattern of being forgotten was a familiar one in his life. It had started long before he arrived at the orphanage. At eighteen he had joined the navy because he thought it was a chance to break the pattern. To have something real. But in the navy, just like in the orphanage, once the emergency was over, he had been forgotten until the next disaster, until he was needed.
Well, he was needed now. She was his now. He was overdue for a change of luck. Scooping Emma up, Gabe carried her upstairs and made love to her again. This time she chose the pool table. Neither of them asked for promises, and neither of them offered any.
Later, finally in bed, Emily lay in his arms, lazily nuzzling he
r face against his chest, wishing she could always feel this safe. That she could hide on a mountain-top with Gabe and not have to worry about the world or who she really was. When she was in his arms, she felt found instead of lost, real instead of make-believe.
“Dammit!” Gabe swore, and got up. “I left the bar coffee on. If I don’t turn it off, the whole place will burn down. Hell, I’d better check everything again.” He looked pointedly at her after he pulled on some jeans. “I was distracted.”
They both jumped as the phone rang. Emily pulled on Gabe’s shirt as he reached for it. “Hello? Marsha Jean! Why in hell are you calling this time of—”
Gabe’s exasperation faded. His eyes caught and held Emily’s as he asked, “What kind of questions?”
THIRTEEN
A prickle of fear touched the base of Emily’s neck and slithered its way down her arms. She didn’t know which she hated worse, the questions he asked or the silence as he listened to the answers.
“No!” Gabe said quickly into the phone. “You did the right thing. What was he doing at Lyon’s? Did he leave when you did? How long ago was that?” He checked his watch. “Okay, then consider me warned. And as of now you’re on paid vacation. I don’t want you back at the bar until I call you. You just sit tight.… No. I don’t want you around here, you understand?… And I am always careful.”
When Gabe hung up the receiver, she could see his mind working, turning over the problem as he filled her in. “Some guy just scared the hell out of Marsha Jean. She stopped to pick up some milk at Lyon’s In-’n-Out. The guy was in the back using the pay phone. He got off when she came in, almost as if he’d been waiting for her. Started talking to her and then asked questions about the bar and about you.”
“And what’s the bad news?” Emily joked weakly, feeling the panic began to stir in her stomach.
“She thinks she saw this guy in the bar last night, the night ‘Emma’ arrived.”
Emily realized too late that she’d told Gabe everything except one last detail, so she confessed her final secret. “In the farmhouse … when I came down the stairs, I got confused for a minute. It was dark. I was already scared. There were two men, one standing over the other. Just for a second I thought the killer was Patrick.”
At first she thought she was going to have to spell it out, but then she saw understanding dawn in his eyes, followed swiftly by fury. “The man who killed Patrick sat in my bar, drinking my liquor. I had him cold, and you let him walk away?”
“Gabe, I—I was confused. You talked me out of it! I thought maybe—”
“You thought wrong. If you’d told me about mistaking the killer for Patrick, we wouldn’t be in this mess. If you’d told me about Patrick, we wouldn’t be in this mess. If you’d shot the marshal when you had the chance, we wouldn’t be in this mess. So do us both a favor, and stop thinking.”
He took one step away from her and turned back suddenly. “Get dressed. We’re leaving. Before the snow gets any worse.”
Gabe issued the order as if she were a soldier and not the woman he’d made love with. Emily didn’t argue, because “Gabe” was gone. The cold man giving orders was Archangel, and she didn’t want to call down his wrath on her head any more than she already had. He was in no mood to listen to excuses or apologies. Besides, she was good at letting other people take control. It was what she did best, she thought bitterly. That, and keeping secrets.
While she dressed, Gabe checked his Beretta. The 9mm was the only gun he kept at the bar. Everything else was at the cabin. That would be their first stop. He needed more firepower. Patrick had tried it with one gun, and Patrick was dead.
He grabbed a couple of clips from the drawer by the bed and his coat. “Let’s go.”
“Where?” Emily asked as she followed him down the stairs and through the bar, figuring a request for information didn’t come under the heading of argument.
“Away from here,” came his curt reply.
The bar was dark, and Gabe left it that way. Before they’d crossed halfway to the door, the flicker of headlights raked the front of the bar, warming the bottom edge of the high windows. A split second later the lights winked out. Gabe halted and tilted his head, listening for something.
Emily held perfectly still, afraid to breathe and hoping her imagination was creating monsters where there were none. Then she heard it too—the sound of a car creeping into the parking lot. The tire chains chinked faintly as the car rolled over packed snow. But for Emily the most terrifying noise was the muffled creak of the cold metal as the car door was opened.
“Steady,” Gabe whispered. He was already moving her toward the back when they heard the first lock being jimmied open. A few more seconds and the guy would be in.
Despite the urgency, Gabe moved carefully through the stockroom to the rear door. His gut wanted to stay and take the guy out, but his brain knew his job was to avoid any confrontation until he could get Emma away. Until he could at least put a gun in her hand and give her a chance to protect herself. Now was not the time or the place.
He cracked the back door and waited to see if the guy had a partner. When no one came around the corner, he stepped out and pulled Emma with him. Snow was coming down with a vengeance. Gabe swore beneath his breath. They weren’t going to get far in this.
“Let’s go,” he mouthed at Emma.
It wouldn’t take the man long to discover they weren’t upstairs asleep. They had maybe three minutes to get around to the front and gone before the shooting started. They paused again at the corner of the bar to check for a second man. The parking lot was empty.
“Now,” Gabe whispered.
They sprinted for the truck. Gabe had to grab Emma as she tried to go around to the passenger side. The doors were locked, and he didn’t have time to unlock them both. Cursing he fumbled with the key.
“Hurry,” Emily whispered despite her promise to keep silent. Her fingers itched to snatch the keys away from him. She tried not to crowd him, but she couldn’t help it. Her hand clung to his arm as she looked over his back to the bar. Any moment she expected Bookman or the marshal to come through that door and kill them.
The key slid smoothly in the second try, and Gabe shoved her inside. “Get in the truck and stay down on the floor.”
A second later Gabe was inside. He pitched the Beretta on the seat and rammed the key home in the ignition. He didn’t bother to shut the door or back up. He pushed in the clutch and let the truck roll backward before he started it. Then he shoved it in gear and hit the gas.
The sickening sound of fractured metal told him that he hadn’t quite cleared the mailbox when he turned, but he didn’t slow down until he was sure the heavy snow had obscured their tailgate. Gabe flipped on the headlights. “You can get up.”
Slowly, Emily unfolded herself from her fetal position on the floorboard. Her hands were still shaky, and she was afraid to move the gun. Gabe noticed and moved it for her, placing it on the dash.
“Maybe it was Sawyer,” she whispered as she leaned back against the seat. Her heart was still in her throat. “Maybe he graduated from rocks.”
“No.” Gabe thought about Marsha Jean and the questions. “It’s not Sawyer.”
“Let’s go to the police,” she said suddenly. “Maybe it’s time.”
“And tell them what? We think a U.S. deputy marshal is out there trying to kill us and that the marshal’s office can’t be trusted?”
“Willis would believe us.”
“And what if he does?” Gabe shot back sharply. His attention was riveted to the road, which disappeared into an angry wall of white. Visibility was less than fifteen feet. “You’ll be right back in the hands of the system that couldn’t protect you to begin with. What kind of sense does that make?”
“But I’ve seen him now. I can identify him.”
“Think, Emma. If they can bribe one agent, don’t you think they can get to another one? Or two? Or however many it takes? They wouldn’t let you testify agai
nst Bookman and they aren’t going to let you testify against this marshal. He can burn them just as badly as Bookman could’ve.”
“Then what are we going to do? We can’t go to the police. We can’t go to Marsha Jean’s. And we can’t drive in this storm. Not for long. The roads are probably closed.”
“We’re going to the cabin. That’ll buy us some time.”
The tone of his voice set warning sirens off in her head. “You mean enough time for the storm to be over so we can get out of here, right?”
“No. He won’t wait that long, but we’ll have enough time to prepare.”
“Prepare for what? He can’t follow us in this weather.”
“It’ll slow him down, but he’ll come after us all the same. He has to. We’re loose ends, and he’s a tidy guy.”
“He can’t follow us in this weather!” Emily repeated. “No one could. How is he going to find the cabin?”
“Oh, he can find it. He screwed up with Patrick. This time he did his homework. I guarantee it. I bet he knew all about the cabin before he ever showed up in the bar. But he’s still making mistakes. He figured Marsha Jean for dumb, and he picked the wrong night. The storm isn’t going to do him any favors. He’ll have to wait for it to let up, and by then I’ll be ready.”
“For what?” Emily asked, although she knew the answer. Gabe wanted revenge enough to turn them both into bait.
“I can take him at the cabin. It’s my playground.”
“What are the rules in this little game?”
“If I kill him, I win.”
“And if he kills you?”
Gabe didn’t answer, his eyes on the road and the worsening snow. Emily shivered, but it had nothing to do with the cold outside.