by Julie Miller
Emma tucked his jacket through the crook of her arm, turned, and barreled into a pint-sized dynamo in a pink flannel nightgown. She snatched Kerry by the shoulders to keep from knocking her to the floor. "Sweetie, you're supposed to be in bed. I said I'd come up."
Without conscious thought, she positioned herself between her guest and her daughter, blocking him from view. But Kerry peeked around her mother and smiled as if she'd spotted Santa Claus. "Faith wants him to r-read us a story."
"Kerry Doreen—“
"Please." The pitifully long wail almost negated the irresistible wish in Kerry's bright blue eyes.
But using the tools at her disposal, she stepped aside, giving her daughter a clear view of the tall, lean man in a black ribbed sweater and jeans. Hopefully, Gallagher would take the hint and say something to end the little crush Kerry seemed to have on her rescuer. And surely even he possessed enough class to let her down kindly.
He hooked his thumbs into his front pockets and shrugged his shoulders. "Sorry, punkin. I don't know how to read stories."
Emma flashed him a smile of thanks, but his focus dropped to the waist-high girl who frowned up at him. "Y-you can't read?" She tugged on her mother's hand. "Then I n-need t-to read to him, so he can go to s-s-sleep."
Seven-year-old compassion stumped both adults.
Gallagher found his voice first. "I can read. I read a lot, in fact. I just don't know how to read to, um, little girls."
Kerry's bottom lip pouted outward along with a sigh of relief. She took his hand and pulled him toward the sofa. "It's oh-k-kay, I'll show you."
Held captive, he glanced over his shoulder, a look of distress widening his eyes. He mouthed the words, "I can't," to her mother. But Kerry sat him down, turned on the reading lamp, planted Angelica on his lap, and covered his legs with the lavender blanket, all the while giving instructions like a patient schoolteacher.
If she noticed the awkward confusion of either adult, she paid no attention.
"I'll, um, put on some coffee. Decaf," Emma added, as if the most amazing idea had come to her. In actuality, she'd never been at such a loss to explain Kerry's instant allegiance to Drew Gallagher. "Since it's so late," she explained to no one. The other two had already tuned her out—her daughter from excitement and purpose, and Gallagher…
A slight smile tilted the corners of her mouth. The man had faced down a kidnapper with a gun, Brodie Maxwell when his temper was riled, and herself in prime defensive mode. Yet she'd never seen this burnished man of mystery with such a look of consternation on his face as when Kerry climbed up into his lap and snuggled beneath the blanket with him.
Tamping down her natural instinct to protect her daughter from any slight or rejection, Emma slipped from the room. Kerry's unique combination of intellectual curiosity and her struggle to express herself clearly required a great deal of patience. Some adults, like the guide at the museum yesterday, patronized her. They listened and nodded their heads without really hearing what she had to say.
But Emma gave Gallagher credit. Patience seemed to be one virtue he had in abundant supply. And though he claimed ineptitude at dealing with children, she placed a shaky trust in him to protect her precious girl.
Staying occupied, she prepped the coffee and tidied up the kitchen. More than fifteen minutes passed before her daughter’s silence registered. Sudden alarm blended with the guilt of dropping her guard and propelled her out of the kitchen at a run.
The even cadence of Gallagher's raspy voice had taken over from the halting rhythm of Kerry's reading as he learned the lesson that the main requirement in reading a book to a child was simply an interest in spending time with the child. The mesmerizing sound had lulled Emma into thinking she'd left her daughter in safe hands.
Emma skidded on the polished oak floor and stumbled to an embarrassing stop on the navy-and-mauve area rug that covered most of the floor in the study. She breathed in deeply through her nose so as not to further disturb the angelic picture of Kerry's dark head snoring softly beneath Drew Gallagher's chin.
He rested one hand on her back and clutched the book in the other. His green eyes looked disoriented through the lenses of his glasses. "I didn't know if you wanted me to let her sleep, or if it was okay to wake her by moving."
Emma's distress ebbed as her breathing caught and jump-started again at the evocative contrast of his blond head so close to Kerry's dark one. Kerry's long hair had snagged on the nubby wool of his sweater and fanned out across his shoulder. She seemed so tiny and delicate, curled against his chest and torso, cradled awkwardly yet with infinite care in the crook of his arm.
Gallagher slipped into so many roles so easily, it seemed. Although this had been an unexpected challenge, he'd pulled off storytelling with expert ease. Emma wondered what other parts he could play with the same finesse. She felt heat in her cheeks, wondering what role, if any, he might play with her beyond tonight. Thankfully, the lone lamp that was on kept her reaction to this softer side of Drew hidden in the shadows.
"Looks like you handled story time just fine." She seized the opportunity to make an exit, needing time to bury those unwanted speculations about her guest. "I'll get her up to bed."
She reached for her daughter as Drew stood and started to hand her over. Kerry mumbled something in her sleep about a princess and rolled into a ball, seeking the warmth that had abandoned her.
"She's dead weight," he whispered. "Let me carry her."
Emma tucked Angelica into Kerry's arms and caressed the crown of her head, gently shushing her when she blinked unfocused eyes at her. "It's all right, sweetie. We're taking you to bed."
"'Kay. G'night."
Once more, Gallagher moved with silent footfalls behind her. Emma peeked over her shoulder going up the stairs, and she marveled at his sinewy strength and his handling of her little girl with such gentleness and respect.
She glided into Kerry's room and turned the lamp beside the bed to its lowest wattage, bathing the room in a gentle glow. She straightened the covers and then folded them back. Gallagher leaned in front of her, placing Kerry on the bed. Inches away, right at eye-level, the knit of Drew's sweater strained with the jut of his shoulder. In one fluid movement, the tension there eased and he straightened.
Graceful strength.
An unbidden image of his arms closing around her with that same controlled power quickened Emma's pulse. The last time she'd been held by a man with any purpose beyond a fond greeting or farewell had been the morning Jonathan left. He'd kissed her for an embarrassing length of time, loving to make her blush, drawing her in close, holding her tightly, securely, tenderly.
That was her last embrace.
She missed being held. She missed being able to surrender her strength.
Drew Gallagher made her want to surrender.
Traitor! The accusation drummed in her head and branded her heart with a capital T. Shocked by her disloyal turn of thought, Emma darted to the opposite side of the bed.
She tucked the comforter around Kerry, kissed her forehead and fled out the door without another glance at her dangerous guest. In a way, by inviting him into her home and allowing him to spend time with them, she'd made the subconscious decision that health-wise, virtue-wise, he wasn't a dangerous man—not to little girls, at least.
But he rattled Emma's sense of composure. He made her think things she had no right thinking. She hadn't wanted a man since Jonathan.
She wanted this one.
As she reached the kitchen, five long fingers wrapped around her elbow and pulled her up short. "Whoa. Did I do something wrong?" His voice held a note of accusation.
My God. She hadn't heard him coming, hadn't suspected he would come after her. Emma squared her shoulders and turned. She bit the inside seam of her lips to keep her confusion from spilling out. "Nothing's wrong."
The clench of her jaw made her lie obvious. A hard glint replaced the fuzzy focus behind his glasses. He released her arm but moved no further. "Maybe
I've overstayed my welcome."
"No." Her cowardly attempt to escape her own thoughts had sent him back into that chilling isolation of his own. He didn't understand. She couldn't explain her sudden need to throw up the iron walls that protected her so well. She couldn't be interested in this man. She shouldn't care that she had hurt him by living up to his expectation that she wouldn't trust him.
And she would not let reawakened hormones stop her from conducting business. "I want to know what you found out about Stan Begosian. Why you think it would be of interest to me."
His cat eyes studied her face, the eyes of a caged predator deciding whether to obey its keeper or seize the chance to escape.
She stood straight and still beneath his scrutiny.
At last he shrugged and stepped away, breaking the tension that had sucked the usable air from the room. "All right. Business it is. We won't make mention of whatever just happened here."
Emma's chest heaved in a cleansing breath, glad for the reprieve. "Business," she repeated with gratitude. "Here." Forcing herself to behave normally, she crossed to the counter and poured coffee into the two mugs she'd set out earlier. She held one out to Drew. "Black, right?"
"Right."
He took the mug and their fingers touched, burning her from the inside out. Remembering the way a man liked to drink his coffee was simply a matter of good memory and polite etiquette, she reminded herself. It was a tactic she often used with clients and co-workers. So why couldn't she calm those intimate little stirrings at the pit of her stomach?
She snatched her hand away and reached for her own mug. "We'd better get started. It's ten o'clock."
"Lead on, Macduff."
His quote surprised her. Maybe he hated the strain between them as much as she did. A touch of sarcasm might be the right antidote for the tension that assailed them. "Well, at least you're not calling me Lady Macbeth."
"Not yet."
Emma spun around, a cutting remark poised on the tip of her tongue. But the hint of humor quirking the corner of his mouth stole her need to even the score.
Emma pressed her lips together to keep from sharing his smile. Most men respected her business acumen. They played hardball, or they walked a wide berth around a woman who controlled as much money and power as she did at LadyTech.
They didn't tease her.
They didn't make her feel soft and silly and feminine.
They weren't supposed to, at any rate. She'd have to send Drew a memo on those rules. She'd better send a copy to herself, too.
She turned, fighting her treacherous longings by pretending they didn't exist.
Drew's husky laughter tormented her conscience all the way into the study.
* * *
Drew's mood darkened as the hour passed. He’d read the disk from Begosian while Emma pored over the file from the D.A.'s office. The Journal of James Moriarty proved to be enlightening, if not entertaining, reading.
The fictional account of Sherlock Holmes's nemesis chronicled an amazing tale of the villain's rebirth. The disclaimer on the first page said the author had chosen that name after reading a collection of short stories and discovering a unique affinity for the brilliant-minded character.
Maybe the length of the day made him edgy and suspicious, but the similarity to his own rebirth from the pages of fiction rang an eerie bell in Drew's limited memory. The sporadic journal began exactly five years ago—the length of time Emma said her husband had been missing.
The length of his own memory.
He pushed his fingers up under his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes.
"Pretty dull stuff, huh?" Emma's throaty voice settled over his nerves like a soothing caress. His body woke to the sound with a healthy response that overrode his train of thought.
Here in her own home, she'd lost her executive veneer. She wore her hair down, a cascade of deep brown velvet that looked as fine and soft as Kerry's. In her jeans and those silly fuzzy slippers, curled up on the sofa studying the report, she reminded him of a college coed.
Drew wondered if she'd slip back into her prickly armor if he moved over to the empty space beside her. Probably. Without knowing how, he'd pushed one of her defensive buttons earlier, making her run from Kerry's room. By the time he'd reached her, she had put those fortresses firmly back in place. Emma protected some very deep secrets behind those smoky eyes. As long as he treaded lightly around anything personal, she dropped her guard and revealed a keen intuition and sharp wit. He liked her all soft and open like that.
Maybe he liked her a little too much.
Still, this relaxed companionship seemed a decent trade for burying his desire to discover whether those sable tresses felt as soft to the touch as they looked.
He removed his glasses and leaned back in the chair. "It's not Begosian's style to be so literary. He's more of a picture-book kind of guy."
"So you think he's just a messenger for one of the names in this address book?"
He ran through the list of underworld cronies that had shown up on the papers in Stan Begosian's file cabinet. "Chi Garibaldi works for an outfit out of New York City. Natalie Maples used to be the mistress of a drug king out of New Orleans. Billy Kramer has a Detroit connection."
"Stan Begosian seems to be just local bad news. What would they want with him?"
"What do they want with you?" he corrected. "Any idea why criminals from all parts of the country might want to contact you?"
The shrewd intellect in her eyes dimmed. He said nothing further, waiting as she set the file on the coffee table and pulled her knees up to her chin, hugging herself in a classic defensive posture. "My husband ran a task force that targeted the influx of crime into the United States. Arms dealers, drug trafficking, information exchanges. His team tackled whatever the government wanted them to."
"Military?"
She shook her head. "Jonathan and his men trained in Marine Intelligence. But he started his own company when he retired from the Corps. His men were former operatives working freelance for him. I think they could do more that way."
"With fewer questions asked."
The lost expression he'd seen on her face at LadyTech seeped into her features, aging her youthful face. Drew gripped the corner of the desk to keep from going to her, knowing it wasn't his place to offer her comfort. Nor, he suspected, would such a gesture be welcomed, coming from him. But he'd yet to see her back down from a tough situation, and whatever painful memory she dealt with now met the same resilient strength.
She rewarded his patience with an unexpected revelation. "Jonathan disappeared on his last assignment. The government wrote him off, claimed they knew nothing of his activities. The military said their hands were tied with security issues." Her wistful smile told him she had tapped into a bittersweet memory. "He just wanted to get rid of the bad guys. Make the world a better place for his little girl."
A deep breath shuddered through her. Drew ignored his own advice of caution and crossed to the sofa. She didn't protest when he unclenched her fingers from her knee. Her skin felt as if she'd just come in from the cold. Tracing the delicate length of each finger, he rubbed her hand between both of his, instilling warmth through the soft friction.
"I can see why he'd want to." He encouraged her with a compliment. "Kerry's a treasure."
Emma nodded. She hid the sheen of tears in her eyes by studying his hands at work. "All I've been able to find out is that Jonathan was after an arms dealer code-named the Chameleon. According to his men, Jonathan was the only one to see his face. They can't even trace him through fingerprints. I don't know if the Chameleon's on that list or not. I don't even know if he's a man. Jonathan didn't share many details about his work. He said it was a way to protect us."
"Sounds smart." A grudging respect blossomed alongside a bud of jealousy inside him.
"His point man, Hawk Echohawk, told me Jonathan was in pursuit of the Chameleon when they both disappeared. He heard an explosion…" Emma turned her hand and la
tched onto Drew’s. "I know he's not dead. They found no trace of either one."
Drew gripped her hand with the same strength with which she clung to him. "Em," he said gently. "Sometimes with an explosion—"
"Don't tell me scientific facts." Her head shot up and she shook the hair back from her face. "I've heard them all. Vaporization if you're too close to the impact. The incredible rate of jungle growth that can hide a body in a matter of days. It's not true. None of that was the case." She thumped her chest. "I know it in here. If Jonathan were dead, I'd know it." Her fingers curled into a defiant fist. "I know it makes no sense. I have no proof. But I know he's not dead."
Drew didn't even consider the idea that Jonathan Ramsey didn't want to come home, that he had staged his own death and left his family behind. No man, certainly not one who possessed the degree of honor that Colonel Ramsey commanded, would abandon this beautiful woman and their delightful little girl.
He reached out and tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. The velvety softness stayed with his fingers when he pulled away. "What incredible faith you have."
Drew had never believed in anything to the degree that this woman believed in her husband.
A foreign impulse swelled in his gut. He was on his feet, and the offer was out of his mouth before he could consider the wisdom of getting involved with another man's wife.
"Let me talk to Begosian. If there's a connection to organized crime, the D.A. would want to know about it, anyway."
Emma swiped her fingers across her eyes, drying her tears. She stood and followed him to the desk. "You're going to help me?"
"Sir, may I help you?" Her voice rang clear and true in his mind, an elusive memory he couldn't quite remember.
Maybe spending extended time with Emma would be more than pleasurable. Maybe by helping her find answers, he'd find a few of his own.
"Drew?"
He'd never felt so connected to the name he'd chosen as he did now, hearing it from her lips. Skepticism turned to hope when he met her gaze, making him feel a glimmer of the hero her husband must have been. Or rather, the hero he still was.