by Julie Miller
In a heartbeat, the electric charge of danger mutated into the sensation of heated awareness. Had he stood this close to her last night? Was that why her scent seemed so familiar, why having her molded so snugly against him felt so right? "Your job is to stay in the background…so I don't worry about you."
Did that husky tremor echo from his own voice?
Her fingers dug into the suede collar of his jacket. The heels of her palms pushed against his chest, yet her clinging hands wouldn't let go. "I thought you were in trouble. I wanted to help." A shrug of uncertainty belied the ice in her voice. This instinctive physical and emotional attachment might not be one-sided, after all. "This is my investigation as much as yours. I have every right to be here."
He allowed her to put a few inches of distance between them, as confused by the mixed message of cold words and caring hands as she was. But he refused to release her entirely. "Not when it puts you in the line of fire," he said. He slipped his hands up to cup her face, smoothing back the tendrils of her long, dark hair. "Damn it, Em, I can take care of myself. You don't have to worry about me."
"But I do." Even in the shadowy absence of light, he imagined he could see her lush mouth trembling with the realization of what she had admitted. Those three words surprised, humbled, and touched him deep in a heart that had forgotten how to feel such things.
"Ah, Em." As if she could see in the dim recesses of the storage room, she moved her hand to his face and brushed the tips of her gloved fingers across his lips. The softness of the expensive leather made him wish for the softer touch of her skin. Her tender quest to touch, to explore, to comfort, eased a wounded place inside him. Her gentle petting teased the empty corners of his mind with a long-sought-for memory, a caring welcome that he had never known. Her concern, albeit misplaced, her healing touch, albeit unearned, reached deep into his heart, deeper into his soul and made him wish. Made him hope. Made him want something that shouldn't be his, something that rightfully belonged to another man.
But he wished, hoped for, and wanted Emma all the same.
Forgetting their purpose, forgetting their location, Drew caught the tip of her glove between his teeth and gave a gentle tug. He heard the whisper of the cashmere lining sliding against her skin. He closed his eyes to savor the sound like a caress to his ears. When her hand was freed, he pocketed her glove and pressed a kiss to her palm. She cupped his chin and rubbed her hand along the prickly stubble of his beard. The ragged catch in her breath vibrated through him. Without light to see her by, she was scent and sound, a feast for the senses.
And Drew was a hungry man.
His thighs crowded closer to hers, pinning her to the wall. Her hand rasped along his jaw until her long fingers tunneled into his hair, holding him close, welcoming him in a way he had longed for throughout five lonely years. He angled his mouth and grazed her cheek, supping the smooth dent of a dimple as he blazed a trail of touch and taste in search of her mouth.
"Drew." Her voice was a frantic plea—to stop this madness or to claim her, he couldn't tell which. He barely understood his own need to touch her, hold her, make her his own. He opened his mouth over hers, ready to taste her. Their breaths mingled. His senses quivered in anticipation—
A loud crash rattled the wall behind Emma. Drew felt the quake through her body an instant before he identified the sound of a door slamming in the next room. He cursed under his breath, his whole body protesting the intrusion on the stolen moment. He silenced her with a finger over her lips and attuned his hearing to the raised voices on the other side of the wall. She, too, went still, except for the rapid rise and fall of her chest brushing against his as she struggled to find her breath.
She wrapped her fingers around his hand and pulled it from her mouth, giving a quick nod to assure him she knew she must be silent.
Drew damned himself a thousand times over for putting her into this mess. But the tight grip she kept on his hand was the only outward sign to betray her fear. He squeezed her fingers in silent reassurance, ignoring the need still pounding through his body, and concentrating on the conversation in the office next door.
"What do you mean he spotted you?" An unknown voice snapped deep and clear through the thin walls. "I gave you a simple job. We can't afford another screw-up."
Drew felt Emma flinch at the harsh reprimand. He turned his thumb into her bare palm and massaged the tender skin there, urging her to stay calm.
He identified a second voice, shaky with fear and apology, as Stan Begosian's. "I couldn't get to her. He was there."
Drew assumed that he was the blockade in question. He felt the strain of a prolonged quiet as Emma dug her fingers into the sleeve of his jacket, crushing the leather in her fist. She pressed herself along his arm and placed her lips at his ear. The stirring of her breath along the sensitive shell whipped through him like a gunshot, distracting him from the conversation next door. In an instant, he breathed easier, with a touch of regret, when he realized she wanted to whisper to him.
"I've heard that voice before."
"Who is it?"
"I'm not sure. It's too muffled through the wall. But the intonation, the rhythm of it, sounds familiar."
He angled his head, grazing his lips across her cheek as he sought her ear to whisper in return. "Think hard. If you recognize him, we might discover Moriarty sooner than you think."
Something thunked next door. Maybe the sound of bumping into a piece of furniture. Accidentally? Or was someone shoved?
Drew pressed his ear to the wall.
"He's with her all the time." Drew heard Stan's familiar whine. "Like she hired him. Maybe they're onto us. I could fly there myself. Send back some other clue for you to use."
Just what exactly was Stan up to now? Drew wondered.
"No, you idiot. That's not how the plan works." The voice of authority resonated with patronizing kindness. Drew wondered if Stan could hear the subtle threat woven into the bland tone. "I have other people in place who can do this job if you can't."
"She got the disk like you asked."
"With that private eye's help, not yours. Without the message, it's just a piece of the puzzle. A game without directions. I don't suppose she'll listen to any explanation from you now."
There was a silence, and then Begosian spoke again. "So I won't get paid?"
"Did you say anything to her?"
"I can't even pronounce that place. How am I gonna tell Ms. Ramsey where it is? I failed geology in high school."
"The term is geography." A chair slid across the floor, and the wood creaked with the weight of a large man. Drew interpreted the beeping sound that followed as the punch of numbers on a phone. His instincts warned him that Stan should get out now. But sometimes a cockroach got caught in a trap.
"Aw, hell," Drew muttered, breaking his own silence and releasing himself from Emma's grip. He moved to the curtained doorway and hovered there, torn between the hunch that his best lead was about to be terminated and the responsibility to protect her from this grim side of life.
"Should we try to do something?" Her question was equally quiet. He wasn't surprised to feel the heat of her body as she crept up beside him. Whatever fear she had felt before receded behind her overriding desire to find out the truth.
"If I asked you to stay put, would you listen?" He asked the question, already suspecting her answer.
"You're not leaving me alone this time." Her hushed determination made him smile.
Two sets of footsteps in the hallway propelled Drew back into the corner of the storage room, pushing Emma safely behind him. Without thinking, he'd made his decision. She came first. The job, her answers, and everything else landed a distant second. The newcomers stopped at the office door and entered.
The man in charge next door greeted them with a perfunctory recitation of names. "Roylott. Jackson. Why don't you give Mr. Begosian a ride home, like we discussed earlier."
"Don't bother," said Stan. "I got my car outside."
/> "It's no trouble. I'll have Jackson drive you in the limo."
"Yes, sir."
Drew strained to hear a name for the man giving the orders. A shuffling sound, maybe a halfhearted struggle on Stan's part, was the only response he heard.
Drew felt Emma squeeze his arm. But she kept her urgent voice hushed. "He's getting away."
Did she have any clue that Begosian might not be escaping at all? He freed himself from her fingers and slipped into the hallway. If luck was with him, he'd catch a name or face so that he could track Begosian's contact. He snuck up to the black curtain and peered through, but luck had abandoned him. He caught a glimpse of two well-dressed male backsides. One man had a good grip on Stan, and they all disappeared through another curtain at the far end of the hall.
A crashing sound, followed by the tinkling of shattered glass and Emma's startled yelp, spun him around. "Em?"
An open box lay at her feet. A puddle was already spreading on the floor around her. He smelled the tang of whiskey. She met his surprise with a frantic whisper. "I just wanted to get a look at the man with the voice. See if I knew him. I tripped. I didn't mean—"
"Who's there?" A sharp voice and hurried feet homed in on their hiding place. With a fateful destiny closing in on them and nowhere to run, Drew reached for Emma. Ignoring the opposing tug of her arm, he pulled harder and heard the crunch of glass beneath her boots as she toppled off balance and collided against his chest.
Still raw from their earlier embrace, Drew cinched his arms around her to still her struggles, and ignored both the stab of frustrated heat deep in his gut and the fist of guilt squeezing around his heart.
He brushed a cascade of hair off her face and caught it at her nape, holding her firmly in his grasp. He bent his head to the startled sigh that puffed between her lips. "You can call me every kind of bastard in the morning, but work with me here, okay?"
"What are you—"
He covered her mouth with his, driving the protest back down her throat. He tipped her head back and let his hair fall around their faces, shielding her startled blue eyes from view just as the curtain whisked to one side and light flooded the hallway.
Drew squinted against the sudden glare and pulled Emma tight, smoothing his hands up and down her back. He traced her long contours through the bulk of her coat, learning her shape and appreciating each curve and hollow he came in contact with.
And Emma was a quick study. She joined the charade, going slack and sinking into him. She wound her arms around his neck, further hiding their faces from the speculative eyes of their surprise visitor.
The feral moan that whimpered deep in her throat diverted him from the purpose of this kiss. He tore his mouth from hers and laved his way down her swanlike neck to that warm, pulsing spot at the curve of her throat where the siren's call hummed. Her fingers entwined in his hair, clutching at him, guiding his lips toward that sensitive spot that made her tremble in his arms, then driving his mouth back to hers. Her lips opened beneath his, pliant and seeking. She tasted familiar and perfect, and oh, so right. He thrilled to the exploration of her tongue running along the arc of his teeth and tasting the tender inside of his lip. He was at once tutor and tutored, unknown to any subject save the taste and feel of this wild and wonderful Emma.
He skidded his hand over the swell of her hip to the juncture of her thigh. He cupped her bottom when she bent her knee and rubbed one long, elegant leg against his. The friction of wool against denim, of feminine softness against hard male need, shook him to the very core.
He was still reeling from the impact of their incendiary passion when a foreign hand clamped down on his shoulder. It took every bit of Drew's considerable willpower not to turn and lash out at the offending interruption. For a moment out of time, he had forgotten their audience, their precarious position. He'd forgotten that this was an act. For Emma, at least. At some point in the dangerous charade he had left any assumed persona behind and succumbed to the need to be wanted by this woman, to want her. He'd forgotten Drew Gallagher and answered her kiss as the man he once was, the man buried deep inside, the man he had lost in an unknown accident five years in the past.
The man he might never be again.
"Hey, buddy. We call it Lucky's because of the gambling. Behind the bar is off limits to customers. You either get some out front, or you take her home." Drew straightened beneath the hand on his shoulder and pulled away from Emma, catching her hair and letting it fall across her cheek to mask her face.
But his gaze never left hers. He never once blinked, fearing he had misread the openness in her expression, the glaze of passion that darkened her eyes to a clear, deep blue. Had she been putting on a show to cover their presence in the back hallway? Or had she, too, gotten lost in the moment?
He trailed his fingers down her arm and squeezed her hand before pulling away, transmitting his mute apology.
"C'mon, pal."
He didn't protest when the big man pulled his hand away from Emma. A look of sadness transformed her features, closing her off as if a door had slammed in his face. Drew rallied his common sense and remembered their purpose at the club.
He pulled her beneath the crook of his arm and turned her face into his shoulder, hiding her from both the man he assumed to be a personal bodyguard and anyone else they might encounter. To his knowledge, only Stan Begosian would recognize either of them, but Drew thought it wise to conceal Em's face as they walked past the office next door.
She wrapped her arm around his waist and stayed close, prolonging the pretense of being an amorous couple. She seemed amazingly adept at separating real feelings and actions from ones put on for show. The skill didn't sit well with Drew. A woman like Emma shouldn't possess that kind of expertise, the same ability that he'd picked up from years of keeping to himself and working undercover.
Was losing a husband and going on with her life alone motivation enough to learn to shift so quickly from an honest expression of emotion to a false facade? Or had something more happened to this tall, strong beauty to make her so cool-headed and clever?
He glanced through the open office door and disguised his frustrated sigh on a whispered word of encouragement. The room stood empty, and the nameplate bore only a title: Manager.
"What'll it be, pal?" the man asked, pushing Drew and Emma into the bar.
Keeping her head bowed, Emma looked at the twisting bodies on the dance floor. A tremor rippled through her, and she settled more heavily against him. "Take me home."
"Whatever you say."
Two steps into the crowd and Drew stopped at a tap on his arm. Angling Emma from view, he turned to the bouncer in the fine-cut wool suit who had discovered them. The man's acne-scarred face creased in a rueful smile. "Hey, sorry about the bad luck, man, but rules are rules. The boss doesn't like surprises in the back room. Good luck."
Drew refused to acknowledge the leering wink. "I'll try to keep it in my pants next time."
He turned to move on, but the big hand closed around his elbow. "Say, don't I know you? You look familiar."
Emma stiffened at Drew's side. He gave her shoulder a reassuring rub, but kept any alarm out of his expression. "I don't think so. I'm new in town."
"Yeah? I'm from out of town myself, but I never forget a face. It'll come to me sooner or later."
"What's your name?" Drew forced the iron from his voice. "Maybe it will jog my memory."
"Clayton Roylott."
He shook the man's hand without revealing his own name. "Clayton," he repeated. "If I think of where we met, I'll give you a call. You have a card?"
"Nah. But you can reach me here at the club. They'll know where to find me if I'm not around."
"I’ll do that. Well…" Drew inclined his head toward Emma, and Clayton interpreted the message as he intended.
"Say no more. Hope I didn't spoil the mood."
Drew nodded his farewell and guided Emma through the crowd and out the door. Once beyond the line of customers, she s
hoved him away and sucked in a huge breath of reviving air. He inhaled the brisk January night and let the cold work its way through his own overheated body. She unlocked the passenger door of his truck and handed him the key, refusing his assistance. He stewed in the silence of his guilt, matching her chilly demeanor until he drove the truck into the outskirts of her Mission Hills neighborhood.
He couldn't let their evening end like this. He'd invited her out on business, hoped for a relaxing evening in her sweet company. But somehow events had gotten way out of hand. He'd chosen the worst possible restaurant to wine and dine her. Discovered she didn't like the wine part. Chased Begosian. Eavesdropped on a dangerous conversation.
Kissed her.
And he'd driven for twenty minutes with little on his mind but the inexplicable desire to kiss her again.
Not for show. Not for an audience.
For himself.
But he let his consideration focus on her needs. "I never fed you dinner tonight. Want me to drive through somewhere and get you a hamburger?"
"I'm not hungry." Her voice rang with the steel ramrod that stiffened her spine. "What do you think they're going to do to Stan?"
All business. Maybe she was even better than he at turning off unwanted emotions. Fine. He'd give her the security of sticking to business. For now. "I'm sure it'll be nothing good."
He turned onto a side street. She stared straight ahead. "What do you think he was supposed to tell me?"
Drew shrugged. "The boss mentioned geography. Stan offered to fly somewhere. Makes me think it's nothing local, or Stan would recognize the name. Where was your husband last seen?"
"Isla Tenebrosa. It's a small country in the Caribbean."
Her matter-of-fact answer stabbed him like a knife in the gut. A very sharp, very jagged knife from his past. He grunted in pain, as if the wound were physical instead of mental. His vision swirled out of focus and he stomped on the brake. He spun off onto the gravel shoulder and killed the engine, too overcome to drive another inch. He wrapped his arms around the steering wheel and rested his forehead on his wrist, willing the dizziness to pass.