She couldn’t be in love with him because she hardly knew him. It was a ridiculous notion.
She couldn’t be in love with him because if she were, she wouldn’t be able to sit here beside him so coolly and calmly and rationalize her feelings for him. Not Emily. She knew herself too well. If she were in love with him, she would probably be doing something stupid, like begging him to elope with her.
No, she wasn’t in love with him, Emily thought as she studied Matthew’s silent profile. He was dressed in a dark double-breasted suit, white cotton shirt and a dignified striped tie. She almost hadn’t recognized him when he’d come down the stairs earlier, and then she’d tried to tell herself it was impossible that he looked even more handsome in a suit. She’d decided the first moment she laid eyes on him that he was at least a ten in his leather jacket and jeans. How could he look any better?
Matthew pulled her VW into the parking lot, killed the engine, and turned to her. His light gray eyes swept her with a smoldering look of approval. She was wearing a short black dress, complete with black stockings and black pumps. Emily had never thought black was her color, but Matthew’s eyes told her otherwise.
She saw his gaze linger on her legs, and her heart thudded against her chest. Her mouth went dry and her stomach fluttered with awareness.
So much for cool and calm.
“Ready to go in?” he asked, lifting his gaze to meet hers. There was something warm and dark in his eyes. Something that looked like desire.
Emily tried to remind herself they were here for a funeral. She should conduct herself accordingly. But her hands were trembling as she fumbled with the door handle.
Matthew reached across her and opened the door. His arm skimmed her breast, and something like an electrical shock passed through Emily. She longed to have him touch her again, ached for more than a brief, accidental contact.
She wanted him to pull her into his arms and kiss her as he’d kissed her that night in the kitchen, when her whole being had been turned inside out. She wanted him to touch her all over, make her burn with desire for him. She wanted—
“Emily? You okay?”
His words broke into her fantasy, shattering the titillating images her mind had conjured up. Her face flamed with color as she glanced at him.
“I’m fine,” she said curtly, slipping from the car. But the moment he took her arm to usher her into the building, the images began to build again. His very nearness became an exquisite torment.
The funeral, however, brought her crashing back to earth, and made Emily realize, as funerals usually did, how fleeting life can be. Even though Miss Rosabel had lived a long and seemingly content life, Emily couldn’t help wondering if the old woman had been ready to die. If her time had really come, or if someone had cruelly snuffed out what remaining months or years she might have had.
The only people Emily recognized at the somber gathering—other than Matthew—were Thelma Dickerson from the nursing home and Nella.
Nella, also dressed in black, sat in the front row with her head bowed, obviously overcome by grief. She looked up when Matthew and Emily walked in, nodded, then dropped her gaze back to her lap. Emily couldn’t help wondering what Nella must be feeling, considering her estrangement from her aunt. The guilt must be unbearable, and it made Emily think about her own situation with Stuart. Would she one day be filled with bitter regrets?
After the short ceremony, she and Matthew walked out into the brilliant fall sunshine. He tugged at his tie, loosening the knot and unbuttoning the top button of his shirt.
“I wanted to talk to Nella,” Emily said, gazing around. “But I don’t see her anywhere.”
“She made a beeline out of the chapel as soon as the service was over,” Matthew said. “I wonder what her hurry was.”
“I think she was just overcome with grief,” Emily said. “And guilt. I told you about her relationship with Miss Rosabel.”
Matthew nodded. “Well,” he said. “I don’t suppose we accomplished much today other than paying our last respects.”
“I’m glad we came, though,” Emily said. “It’s always better to say goodbye.”
There was a haunted look in Matthew’s gray eyes that tore at Emily’s heart. She wondered what he was thinking. Wondered if there had been someone in his life he hadn’t been able to say goodbye to.
Because I killed her.
The memory of his tormented words was like cold water to Emily’s senses, reminding her once again how very little she knew about the man who stood beside her.
He turned to her, his gaze sweeping over her again, making her shiver. “I have to go now,” he said. “I’ll drop you back at the inn and get my bike.”
“Fine.”
“I’ll try to be back before four. But if I’m not, I want you to wait for me.”
“Why? Cora Mae’s an old woman, Matthew. Surely you can’t think she’d do me any harm. All I want to do is ask her a few questions.”
“Just promise me you won’t do anything impulsive, Emily. Promise you’ll wait for me. We’ll go see her together.”
Emily bristled at his imperious tone. If he really cared, he’d go with her right now, she thought. Or at the very least, he’d tell her where—or who—he was hurrying off to.
She lifted her chin, annoyed with herself for her feelings of possessiveness. Feelings she had no right to be feeling. “I promise I won’t do anything impulsive,” she said.
BUT PATIENCE HAD never been one of Emily’s virtues, and as the hour hand on her mantel clock crept past three and edged toward four, she became more and more edgy. Where in the world was Matthew? Did he think she had nothing better to do than sit around and wait for him?
Which was exactly what she had been doing ever since they’d returned from the funeral and Matthew had hopped on his bike and driven off. Emily’s imagination had gone wild, conjuring up all sorts of possibilities. He was with a woman. A beautiful, thin, irresistible woman. Emily just knew it.
And as the day wore on, she became even more certain. If Matthew hadn’t been going to see a woman, then why was he keeping his whereabouts a secret?
Her visit to the sheriff’s office right after Matthew left had been just as frustrating. She’d gone to report the fire last night, but Sheriff Willis had been his usual helpful self, inviting Emily to file a report which she was sure he would toss in the trash as soon as she left his office. She hadn’t even bothered, remembering Miss Rosabel’s assertion that the sheriff had been in “up to his eyebrows” with the Avengers.
When the clock chimed four, Emily decided she’d waited long enough. She was not going to wait one minute longer for Matthew. Why should she? She was a grown woman, perfectly capable of asking Cora Mae Hicks a few questions. What harm could there be in that?
Emily left the inn and marched across the street to knock on Cora Mae’s door, which stood ajar and swung inward when Emily gave it a little push. She stuck her head inside and called, “Cora Mae? You here?”
No response, but somewhere in the house Emily heard a television. She stepped across the threshold. It wasn’t like she was trespassing in a private home or anything, she reasoned. Cora Mae ran a business, same as Emily did. She never locked the front door of the Other Side of Paradise Inn. There’d never been a reason to. Until now.
“Cora Mae?”
Emily gazed around, her curiosity getting the better of her. The house was larger than hers and surprisingly charming. The perpetual air of gloom the house wore outside had been subdued within by the clever use of rugs and throw pillows, baskets of chrysanthemums and beautiful hand-painted pottery.
Cora Mae certainly had the touch, Emily noted in surprise, taking in the smallest detail with an innkeeper’s critical eye. No wonder the This Side of Paradise Inn had been the premier bed-and-breakfast in town for over twenty-five years.
But as Emily walked slowly through the house, she began to get a funny feeling that something was wrong. In the offseason, Cora Mae was complete
ly alone in her big old house. And she was getting on in years. What if something had happened to her, a heart attack or a stroke or something?
As she went out into the kitchen, Emily’s fears seemed justified when she saw that a plate of food and a glass of milk, still cold, sat waiting on the dinette and the cellar door was standing open. She called down into the darkness, but there was still no answer. Everything was ominously silent.
By now, Emily was almost sure something bad had happened. Cora Mae might have fallen down the cellar stairs and been badly injured. She might be lying down there now, bleeding and unconscious. As Emily considered her options, she decided the best thing to do was go down and investigate the situation herself.
Finding a string pull, Emily turned on the light, then made her way down the steps. The bare bulb dimly illuminated the cellar, and there was just one small window that let in only a glimmer of faded sunlight. One wall contained shelves of tools and equipment, but the rest of the space was crowded with shelves of canned fruits and vegetables, household solvents and gardening chemicals—some of which had been stored in jars and cans with handwritten labels.
A fire marshal would have a field day in here, Emily thought, gazing at the assortment of flammable products. If Cora Mae had wanted to make a homemade hand grenade herself, she certainly had the ingredients readily available.
The stairs creaked behind her, and Emily whirled toward the sound just as the light in the basement went out, plunging her into darkness.
“Cora Mae?”
No answer.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs.
Fear froze Emily’s blood. “Who’s there?” she called out.
Emily backed away, searching for a place to hide. She stumbled over something lying on the floor—a shovel, she thought—and before she could regain her balance, a figure flew down the steps and shoved her backward. The momentum knocked Emily off her feet, and she fell with a bang against a shelf of cleaning solvents. Glass shattered against the concrete floor. Then footsteps clattered back up the stairs, and the door at the top slammed shut.
Instantly, a noxious odor permeated the air, tearing Emily’s eyes. She had no idea what kind of chemicals Cora Mae had kept stored in the containers, but Emily suspected they could be dangerous. Maybe even deadly.
Coughing and trying to quiet her racing heart, she pulled the ruffle at the neck of her cotton dress up over her mouth and nose and, using the window to guide her, made her way back up the stairs. The door at the top was locked from the outside. Panic exploded inside her as she rattled the knob and banged her fist against the door.
“Cora Mae! Open the door! It’s me, Emily!”
There was no answer, and the fumes inside the tightly closed cellar were growing thicker, stronger, deadlier. Emily struggled for breath. She stumbled back down the stairs, looking about frantically for another way out.
“Help!” she tried to scream up at the window, but it only came out as a hoarse croak. “Someone help me!”
Still coughing and gagging, Emily began to push with all her might on one of the shelves. Fruit jars crashed to the floor, but she paid them no mind. Finally, she managed to get the shelf positioned under the window. Forcing herself to remain calm, she located the shovel on the floor and hurried back to the window.
By that time, less than a minute or two had passed, but it felt like hours. Emily’s head was spinning even more crazily, and for a moment she doubted her ability to haul the shovel up onto the shelf. Trying to will away the dizziness, she managed to climb the shelf and bang the blade against the window. The glass shattered, and a rush of cold air poured in.
With a cry of triumph, Emily threw down the shovel. Gulping the sweet, clean air, unmindful of the cuts and scraps she received on her hands, she pulled herself up and shimmied through the small opening to collapse on the ground.
Blue sky and sunshine had never looked so good. Emily took one long look, one deep breath, and then everything around her faded to black.
ALMOST BY INSTINCT Matthew found Emily, lying unconscious near the broken basement window. The print dress she wore was splotched with blood from the cuts on her hands, and her face looked deathly pale. Matthew knelt and felt for her pulse, then listened to her heart, prepared to give CPR if necessary. But she was breathing. Thank God, he hadn’t found her too late.
He remembered what Emily had said the night before, during the fire, about the town not having 911 emergency service. He had no idea whether there was even a doctor in this godforsaken place.
Not knowing what else to do, Matthew picked Emily up—she was so light!—and strode around Cora Mae’s house, across the street and up the steps to the Other Side of Paradise Inn.
Mrs. DeVere was sitting in the garden alcove, all alone, when Matthew burst through the front door carrying Emily. The psychic jumped up and hurried across the room toward him, the lavender caftan she wore billowing around her legs like a parachute.
“What happened?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Matthew told her. “She’s unconscious. We need to get a doctor over here right away.”
“I’ll go next door,” Mrs. DeVere said, heading for the front door. “They’ll know how to get hold of the town doctor.”
Matthew laid Emily on the sofa and covered her with the crocheted afghan draped across the back. Then he elevated her legs and monitored her breathing and pulse, treating her for possible shock. The cuts on her hand were minor, the least of his worries right now.
Where the hell was the doctor?
This was all Matthew’s fault. He shouldn’t have been late. He should have known it was just like Emily to throw caution to the winds and go without him. Her impulsiveness was one of the things he found so endearing about her. But there were other things, so many things he couldn’t have begun to count them.
He gazed down at her, and a wave of tenderness washed over him. Gently, he smoothed away the dark hair from her forehead, then ran his finger along the contour of her jawline. He hadn’t expected to ever feel this way again. He wasn’t sure he’d ever felt precisely this way. Emily was like no woman he’d ever known before. She was so sweet and warm and trusting…
And he’d let her down. The last time he’d failed someone the result had been tragic. He couldn’t let that happen again. Not with Emily. Because if anything happened to her, Matthew knew he would never be able to live with himself.
EMILY SIGHED IMPATIENTLY as Dr. Sheldon took his time listening to her heart. Finally he removed the stethoscope from his ears and made his pronouncement. “She’ll be fine. All her vital signs are stable. In a day or two, she’ll be good as new.”
Stuart had come in shortly after the doctor arrived, and now he and Matthew stood at opposite ends of the couch, gazing down at Emily worriedly.
Matthew said, “Are you sure she shouldn’t go to the hospital?”
“Nothing more we could do for her there,” Dr. Sheldon assured him. “Just make sure she gets plenty of rest.”
“She’ll come and stay with Caroline and me,” Stuart said. “We’ll keep a close eye on her.”
“That might not be a bad idea,” the doctor agreed.
Emily hated the way they were all talking about her as if she weren’t even there. She’d been unconsciousness for only a minute or two, but they were all acting as if she had been at death’s door.
She pushed the afghan away and sat up on the couch. “I have no intention of going home with you, Stuart,” she said. Then, turning to Matthew, she went on, “Or of going to the hospital with you. There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m perfectly fine.”
“You’re not fine,” Matthew said. “When I think what might have happened—”
“Don’t.” Emily reached for his hand. His fingers closed around hers, warmly, protectively, making Emily’s heart race. “This wasn’t your fault,” she said. “I don’t want you blaming yourself.”
“I’m finding it hard not to,” he said, his eyes dark and fathomless, regardi
ng her with an intensity that stole Emily’s breath away. She couldn’t stop looking at him.
Was this what being at death’s door did to one’s senses? Emily thought in wonder. If so, perhaps the risk had been worthwhile.
Stuart, who was standing at the end of the couch, frowned, his gaze going from Emily to Matthew and then back again, clearly not liking what he was seeing. Or hearing. His voice sounded strained when he said, “How do you really feel, Emily?”
“My head hurts,” she admitted, finally able to tear her gaze away from Matthew’s.
“I’ll give you something for that,” Dr. Sheldon said. He placed a small vial of capsules on the coffee table. “Just follow the directions. You’ll feel better in a few hours.”
He got up, packed his bag and started for the door. Stuart said, almost reluctantly, “I’ll see you out.”
When they’d disappeared out the front door, Emily turned back to Matthew. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of them, or in front of Mrs. DeVere before the doctor got here, but I think it was Cora Mae who pushed me into that shelf and locked me in her basement. She knew those chemicals were there. Who else could it have been?”
“That’s what I’ve been wondering,” Matthew said, his expression grave.
“That old woman tried to fumigate me, Matthew. She’s got enough chemicals and cleaning solvents in her basement to blow up half of Paradise. You should see what all she’s got down there.” Their eyes met again, and she knew Matthew was thinking, just as she was, about the Molotov cocktail someone had thrown through her window last evening.
But neither of them said anything, because just then Stuart came back into the room. “What the hell’s been going on around here?” he demanded, loosening his tie. “I dropped by here to invite you to dinner tonight, and I find the place looking like a war zone and you out cold on the couch.” His gaze shot to Matthew. “Would one of you mind filling me in on a few details?”
“Someone threw a Molotov cocktail through Emily’s window last night,” Matthew said bluntly. “They deliberately set the place on fire.”
Amanda Stevens Bestseller Collection: Stranger In Paradise/A Baby's Cry Page 14