"Is he my son?" His eyes lifted, pinned hers. "Is Chris mine, Emma?"
"No!" Her denial echoed in the room, making his eyes narrow as if he were dissecting her, seeing hidden things.
"No," she repeated. "Chris is—he's mine. He's Paul's."
"You always were a rotten liar."
"I'm not lying!" Her heart pounded harder with each word.
"Then why the reaction? Screaming denials."
"I didn't scream. I just—"
She broke off at an angry motion from Gray.
"If he were mine, you wouldn't tell me, would you?"
"For heaven's sake, Gray! Just help me find him!"
"Is he mine?"
"No. I told you."
"You're lying."
"My son's missing." She swallowed again and felt nausea. "Tell me what you want me to say and I'll say it. I'll do anything to get him back."
His head came up and his eyes narrowed.
"Stop behaving like a damned predator! I wouldn't have come if I'd known you hated me." She grabbed the back of the chair near the hearth, steadied herself and forced her voice cold. "That's not true. I would have come if you were the devil himself. I don't care what you believe. I need your help. Please help me find Chris!"
He stood very still, staring at something on that table. A muscle jerked in his jaw.
"Yes, of course I'll help. I have no choice, do I?"
* * *
She's married. They have a child. Dr. Jennings had sounded so smug as he delivered that news to Gray.
I love you, she'd vowed, but Gray had known her love would burn out. Yet he'd dreamed those words on her lips again and again, and in the end he had come back for her, only to learn she'd married Paul. While she haunted Gray's dreams, Emma had been wearing Paul's ring, caring for Paul's child. Gray's friend and his girl—but the girl had been playing at love and the friend hadn't lasted the distance. And why should he? In truth, Gray had taken Emma from Paul in the first place.
Back then, he'd awakened often enough cursing himself for a fool, but he'd never once awakened and wondered if she'd given birth to his child and passed it off as Paul's.
The boy's name was Chris. He was seventeen years old.
Emma, young and desirable, passionate and reckless, unwilling to listen to reason or caution. Emma, all warm moistness driving him beyond madness, vowing love and giving herself, punctuated with crazy promises.
It was dark outside, shadows and peace out there, but the window showed only the reflection of his living room and Emma watching him. He remembered how her eyes changed color with her breathing. From her stance, he knew they would be gray and clouded with worry now.
Was she lying about her son's parentage? Had she come because Paul was dead and Gray was the boy's natural father? Or simply because Gray lived in the area and had his own plane? Emma had never had the patience to sit back and wait for life to come to her. Waiting for the Coast Guard and Rescue Coordination Center wouldn't be in character.
Paul was dead.
Gray felt a familiar tangle of emotions at the thought of the man who had once been his friend. He had rationalized his way through feelings of jealousy and betrayal. He'd told himself the simple truth again and again: that he'd always known Emma's dream of becoming a surgeon would win out over her declarations of love. But he hadn't expected to lose her to another man. He'd been enraged when he learned she'd sacrificed her dreams for Paul.
"When was the boy last seen?"
He heard Emma let out a breath of relief. "Chris called me from Klemtu, an Indian village south of Butedale."
His face felt rigid and hard. "When was he in Klemtu?"
Whose child is he, Emma?
"August the second." A shudder flowed visibly over her body. "Chris and Jordy planned to be in Prince Rupert on the ninth. Chris promised he'd call by the twelfth at the latest. Gray, Chris is not your son. I would have told you if—"
"Two kayaks or one?"
"Two." She pushed back a strand of hair, tension in her face, lies in her eyes.
"When did RCC start the search?"
"RCC?"
"Rescue Coordination Center."
"Thursday morning."
She chewed her lip, watching him warily. She still had the smooth soft skin that made a man's flesh restless just looking. His hands clenched into fists as he saw her eyes flex from cloudy gray to blue.
He remembered once, he'd seen her eyes turn a pure blazing green. She was a woman now, not a girl, but he knew her in a strange haunting way, could see her eyes weren't clear, not direct as they had once been. She was hiding something and there was only one thing it could be.
A seventeen-year-old son named Chris.
"There would have been a notice to mariners," he said, fighting clear of the memories. "Any reports of sightings?"
She shivered again as if the warmth of the room couldn't get through her clothes. "Two kayaks were spotted in the southern end of Grenville Channel two days ago, but they can't be sure if it was Chris and Jordy. They've got rescue helicopters searching the inland passage and Coast Guard boats watching out. They said if the boys deviated from their plan, if they're not where they should be, or if they're on shore hidden by the tree cover..."
"Yes." He knew the realities of search and rescue over hundreds of miles of unpopulated mountainous coast, long twisted fjords, and channels with so many inlets they couldn't all have names. An army could search and find nothing. There were too many passages the boys might have chosen for a detour, too many inlets.
"They were sticking to the Inside Passage?"
"Yes."
Deep channels between mountains, the shoreline a tangle of rain forest. A man could fly overhead dozens of times and see nothing but trees and more trees.
Gray could think of a dozen reasons why two kayakers might be three days overdue. They could have decided to spend a few extra days fishing. They could have given in to an impulse to climb a mountain to see what was at the top. On the other hand, they could have drowned or died of exposure. They might even have tangled with a moody grizzly or a wounded cougar.
A waste of time speculating, and Emma had been speculating far too much.
"Gray, when they put out a notice to mariners, do people actually listen?"
"You can be sure every fisherman with a radio is keeping his eyes open for those kayaks, as well as every seaplane and helicopter pilot. I'd have heard it myself if I'd been here."
He saw her throat flex as if she'd gulped back the temptation to tears.
"Emma, you have to realize—"
"You have to find them. Somehow."
He wanted to promise her that he would find the boy for her, but he knew there could be no promises. Once he would have comforted her with his touch, taking her in his arms. Now he jerked his head toward the stairs behind him.
"We'll start at first light. You can have the back bedroom. Upstairs."
"What time does the sun rise?"
"About five-thirty." He stepped away to avoid touching her as she passed him on her way to the stairs. With Emma sleeping in his house, he'd be lucky if he got any sleep at all tonight.
"Gray?"
She was going to deny it again, tell him that the boy was Paul's son. He felt a flash of fury and clamped it down.
"What?"
"Do you have a telephone?"
"No."
"My cell phone doesn't work here."
"Try in the morning just after we take off. We'll be line of sight to the Prince Rupert transmitter."
He stopped himself from asking whom she wanted to call. Were there other children? Or did she have a new man in her life, a replacement for Paul?
It was none of his damned business. She was none of his business.
"Thank you," she said huskily. "I knew you'd help."
He couldn't bring himself to tell her that searching for two kayaks missing between Klemtu and Prince Rupert would be like looking for a grain of sand in the ocean.
A strange room, strange bed. A strange part of the world with the wilds outside and a dangerous man across the corridor. He'd brought her case up to his guest bedroom and made no response at all when she wished him good night.
Yesterday she'd been in surgery working on a three-year-old boy who'd run in front of a speeding car. As she reached for the scalpel, she'd prayed she could make the child whole again. She'd forced the knowledge of Chris's disappearance into a sealed room in her mind so that she could give the injured child everything she had.
Now she was in Gray's world and she realized she'd never really understood him, although some blind part of her had trusted him from the beginning.
She believed he would find her son for her.
Once Chris was safe, she would return to her own world, back to her home and her medical practice, healing broken children and looking forward to weekend visits from Chris, who was immersed in his studies.
She would not dream about Gray.
She was awake when she heard his footsteps on the stairs. A door opened downstairs, a dog barked, and then Gray's low rumble silenced the animal. Later, she heard his footsteps and the unmistakable sound of the dog's paws on the hardwood stairs.
It seemed that Chico spent his nights inside with Gray.
Her son Chris had always wanted a dog. It had been impractical in the city, but she'd managed a cat that Chris named Marmalade because of the color of its fur.
When Emma heard the click of paws on the floor outside her room, she stopped breathing. When the dog's paws stopped too, she knew Gray stood outside her door his dog. What if he opened the door? What if he came into this room and said the words he'd said all those years ago under a streetlight: I want you?
Not now, after all these years. She had another life, a man she cared about and planned to marry. Gray probably had a woman in his life too, perhaps someone who lived in the nearby city of Prince Rupert.
Once she had Chris back, she would forget Gray MacKenzie and concentrate on building a life with Alex.
Gray gave a low-voiced command and the footsteps moved away. The dog must sleep in the front bedroom with Gray.
She hadn't seen Chiko yet, but when she did she would recognize him from the magazine picture. Gray with a golden-colored dog of no specific breed, a dog with adoring eyes fixed on its master—well trained. Any dog that belonged to Graham MacKenzie would be well trained.
Gray always made sure he was the one in control.
He was the one person in the world who could help her find Chris.
She'd held on to the conviction that if Chris were terribly hurt, she would sense his pain with the instinct that had been with mothers through all history. Somehow she'd know.
What if she was wrong? What if he hadn't called because he'd never be able to talk to her again? What if—
No.
She had to believe that her baby was alive and well, that she'd find him with Gray's help. Her baby. It seemed such a little time since Chris was an infant. He'd grown up fast. Last year he'd left the home she'd made for him, moving into a university dormitory for his freshman year. He'd become strong and confident, and she ached with both pride and love for her son.
She turned restlessly and pushed the pillow into place. She had to sleep, must be alert tomorrow.
We'll leave at first light. That meant she would be flying with Gray, searching for Chris. She'd been prepared to fight for her right to go, but she should have known better. Gray had never tried to shelter and protect her. When she talked about her dreams he'd never mentioned the problems a woman might encounter trying to make it in the medical world. He'd never thrown her childhood illness up at her—except once.
He'd given her heartbreak, but he'd been the one person who never questioned her ability to be whatever she decided to be. Despite that, he had refused to believe that she loved him.
He'd been right. When it came to the test, she hadn't had the courage to follow him off the edge of the world.
She closed her eyes and concentrated on her breath. She was practiced at coaxing her body relax to control the tension of her mind. She'd had to learn to control the strong emotions that threatened her calm. She'd done it every night before surgery, for every child she'd operated on. Worry was the enemy of a steady hand, the enemy of sleep and a clear mind.
She breathed deeply and counted slowly back from a hundred, visualizing each number written in big letters on her mind, slowly rubbing out ninety-nine before she put up ninety-eight. For years she'd used this technique and it was almost guaranteed to put her to sleep before she got to ninety.
She erased ninety-four slowly and the rhythm was a sleepy thing. She let the numbers on the imaginary blackboard go. Ninety-four... autumn with the chill of winter coming and the telephone silent. Her final year of high school. College next.
The phone didn't ring all through October and November.
Ninety-four. Had she rubbed out ninety-four yet?
She ran into Gray in the department store while Christmas shopping. She'd just bought the perfect present for her mother and was hurrying toward the exit, dashing between perfumes and jewelry.
She gasped as she saw him. She didn't know if she actually ran into him, but he gripped her arms as if to stop her.
She wore her blue winter coat. Gray was massive in a khaki parka. His hair was red, not the black she'd imagined during that shadowed drive home, copper hair filled with strong waves and a frosting of snow from outside. His eyes were the blue of the ocean on a stormy day. She'd only seen him in lights from cars and streetlights. He was almost a stranger.
I want you. She'd dreamed his words again and again. She had refused every date Paul asked her on since the end of September, hadn't gone out with anyone at all, waiting.
"Emma."
That was all he said, standing among the Christmas shoppers with his hands locked on her arms. She saw herself in his eyes, not really a reflection, but she stared into them and knew he was aware of all the feelings she'd been trying to deny.
When he released her, she stumbled a bit.
"I—are you busy?" she whispered. "Tonight?"
"Are you asking for a date?" His eyes dropped to her lips. "Your father wouldn't approve."
"I won't tell him." Her throat felt as if she'd been fighting a cold and everything inside were scratchy. "If you go out with me, I won't tell him."
Someone pushed past. Christmas shoppers. Gray put out a hand to steady her. She'd forgotten the store, the people. His eyes were the only reality.
"What will you do when he finds out, Emma?"
Graham MacKenzie was a dangerous boy.
She went out with him anyway.
* * *
Emma woke suddenly to dark all around and the echo of Gray's voice on the surface of her mind, as if she couldn't keep him out. All these years, and he'd been the one she dreamed about.
She lay on her stomach, the pillow crammed between her face and her arm. She turned her head and the darkness seemed complete, just a faint difference where the window looked out on blackness.
A light knock on her bedroom door.
"Emma?" Gray's voice.
Would he open the door and come in? Had he dreamed of her? Would he come to this bed where she lay tousled with memories, his hand settling on her shoulder, his eyes on her lips?
She'd come apart the first time he kissed her. She'd lost herself, hadn't even struggled to stay afloat.
"Emma?"
She must get clothes on and starve her imagination. The last thing she wanted or needed in her life was a wild man like Gray MacKenzie.
"Yes? What?"
"Five o'clock," he said. "Time to get up."
"I'm awake. I'll be down in a minute."
His footsteps receded—the sound of shoes, not bare feet. He was dressed, armored, but he hadn't needed to open the door to send her imagination reeling. She had always needed more of him than he needed or wanted of her. He might have said
he wanted her that first night, but she'd been the one who had asked him out, desperate for him in the middle of Christmas shoppers and perfumes.
She had to remember who she was and where she was, had to remember she was a woman of thirty-seven, engaged to marry a man she liked and respected. Had to remember that Gray was a teenage fantasy, not reality.
She was here for Chris. Grey was simply the tool she needed to find her son.
She switched on the bedside light and sat up.
Sounds downstairs. Gray and Chico.
He lived alone here. She supposed that was how he wanted his life. He'd never wanted to need anyone. She wondered if he ever felt lonely.
She had to get dressed, get out to the plane with Gray.
If they started flying at first light, how long would it take to find Chris?
She rummaged in her bag for jeans and the sweatshirt she'd brought. It had been hot yesterday, then unexpectedly chilly as the sun set. Today was likely to be the same. She dressed in a light blouse and pulled the sweatshirt over it. Then socks and track shoes. Last night she'd been wearing a tailored business suit. She hoped she would feel less vulnerable today in denim and sneakers.
She went into the big bathroom to brush her teeth and put her contact lenses in. She looked at the empty whirlpool bathtub regretfully. Too bad she hadn't thought to ask if he minded her having a bath last night, but there wasn't time now.
Afterward—after they found Chris—they might come back here and maybe she'd have a long soak in that tub before she headed home. She'd always wanted one herself, hadn't dreamed that her first chance at a private whirlpool bath would happen in Gray's wilderness home.
Afterward...
She stared at herself in the mirror, Gray in her mind and the familiar seductive yearning inside. In the mirror she could see the girl looking back at her, the girl she had been when she first met him. Long blond hair tousled around her shoulders, her eyes wide and lost, her lips...
It had been February before he kissed her. Her father had found out she was seeing Gray and grounded her early in January. She'd been terrified he would dump her, but every weekday he had picked her up for lunch with his car outside the school. He would drive her to the top of Connaught Hill where they got out and walked in the park and talked.
If You Loved Me Page 5