by Julie Miller
Had Ramsey told his friends his claim? That he, Drew Gallagher, was the Chameleon? No. If Hawk thought that Drew was responsible for gun-running and murder, he wouldn't be sitting down now for a chat. Drew shrugged this meeting off as coincidental. "I work undercover a lot. It's easy to get that impression."
The Indian's stoic silence told him that story didn't fly.
Fine. "How do you know Andrew Gallagher's not my real name?"
Hawk's expression changed into something that might be an amused smile. He got up and sorted through the dirty dishes in the sink and picked up the coffee pot. Once he’d filled it with water and had that started, he disappeared into the bathroom and emerged moments later. He tossed Drew a towel and took off his coat. "Sober yourself up," said Hawk. "I want to hire you."
"To do what?"
"I want you to run a background check on someone."
Drew couldn't believe this. This man should be his enemy, not his employer. He should be offering a choice of punishment instead of coffee and work. "Who do you want me to investigate?"
"You."
* * *
"So, will you file charges against Moriarty?" asked Jonathan, fixing his tie in front of the full-length mirror.
Emma hooked her pearl-and-onyx earrings through her ears and tried not to think what a weird conversation he had started as they put on the finishing touches to go on their date. But at least he was talking to her. "I already have. Against Wyatt Carlisle, too."
"Any idea what this Moriarty looks like?"
Emma nearly laughed. First he promised her wine and roses—now he grilled her about LadyTech instead of romance. "Drew had this crazy idea that you were Moriarty."
"Did he, now?" Apparently this topic bothered him a great deal, because he suddenly appeared beside her in the dresser mirror. And she saw no trace of humor in his expression. "Just how well do you know this Gallagher? You seem to trust him with an awful lot of personal business."
Emma frowned. The need to defend Drew from the implied accusation swelled inside her. "He's a good man. He came through for me when no one else could or would."
"You have feelings for him, don't you?"
Only then did it register that she had taken another man's side against her husband. She tried to play down the urgency of her defense with a more rational argument. "He's a friend. To Kerry and me. He saved your life. You should be grateful to him, too."
"Are you certain it's just gratitude you feel?"
She turned to face the real man instead of the reflection. She adjusted his tie needlessly, straightened his collar, and allowed her hands to linger on his chest. Avoiding the subject meant avoiding a deeper inspection of her own feelings for Drew. "Look. Can we just go to dinner? We need time together, you and me. Let's forget everything else and concentrate on tonight."
She felt the scrutiny of his wary blue eyes. And since she wanted this reunion to work, needed it to work, she lifted her face to meet that gaze. She let her loyalty to him shine through, telling him better than with words that he was the man she loved. Stretching on tiptoe, she pressed her lips to his, offering a gentle kiss, a promise of things to come.
In the instant it took to close her eyes, she felt the tension in him leave. Then his hands cupped her shoulders and he deepened the kiss. She obliged him by encircling his neck and running her fingers into his hair. He slid his hands down her back to her waist and pulled her flush against him.
He abandoned her mouth and kissed a trail along her jaw to her ear. "I told you we didn't need dinner tonight," he whispered before taking a nip at her earlobe. Her earring clicked against his teeth, and she stiffened, hearing the almost inaudible sound like a clang in her ear.
Emma schooled herself not to pull away, but she dragged her hands back down to his chest, wedging a bit of breathing space between them. "But I'm hungry." She whispered the soft protest, seeking an understandable excuse to put him off.
His roaming hands swept to her shoulders once more, pushing aside the spaghetti straps of her black dress, and tasting the uncovered spot with his lips and tongue. "I'm hungry, too." His tone held a very different meaning. "Sweetheart… I’ve been without you for so long.”
Emma squirmed in his embrace. If he wanted to arouse her, why didn't he do or say any of the things he knew she liked? As she tilted her shoulder away from his lips, she asked, "Why don't you call me `lady' anymore?"
"What?" He took advantage of her position and dipped his mouth to kiss the swell of her breast, revealed by the fallen strap. Her breath came in rapid pants as she fought off the unconscious panic he created by kissing his way along the vee of her neckline toward the shadowy cleft between her breasts.
"You used to always call me 'lady.' It was a pet name." She laughed, hearing it sound a bit forced in her own ears. "Despite where I came from, you always said I had class, that you'd never think of me as anything but a lady."
"Do you have to talk so much?" Backing up his words, he raised his head and claimed her mouth in a fiercely possessive kiss. The sound in her ear intensified as alarm rang throughout her entire body.
She braced her feet and pushed against his chest, turning her head away when his hold on her tightened. "You remember that, don't you?"
"Enough talk already. Kiss me."
She heard nothing gentle or pleading in his command. Felt nothing gentle or seductive in his touch as he tightened his grip and lifted her off the floor. She twisted and kicked, uncaring that this was her husband she was hurting. He carried her to the bed. Her foot tangled between his legs, and he fell with her, landing on top and trapping her.
"Stop it, Jonathan," she hissed. “I’m not ready for this.” She stabbed at his face with her fingers as he nipped at her shoulder and rolled his hips over hers. "Get off me!"
He shifted slightly, palmed her breast. He grabbed the neckline of her dress and started to pull. But the change in balance freed her whole arm. "Jonathan!"
She smashed his nose with the heel of her palm, just the way he had taught her to defend herself all those years ago. His head snapped back. He scrambled to his knees on the bed, holding his face in both hands and screaming an awful string of curses.
Emma tried to roll away from him, but his knee anchored the hem of her dress. She sat up and yanked at the binding material. She felt it give, heard a rip and a pop, and she was free.
Almost.
Jonathan grabbed her by the chin, folded his palm around her jaw, and jerked her face up to his. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Emma shoved at his chest and pushed him away. He stumbled off the bed on one side, and she crawled off the other. "I asked you to stop."
"I'm your husband."
"No, you're not!" She pulled her straps back on to her shoulders and straightened her skirt. "The man I married would never behave this way. I don't know you anymore. You're not like the man I fell in love with. You've changed."
"You don’t think five years in captivity would do that to a man?" he challenged. The growl in his voice was still menacing despite the grip he kept on his nose. "It's that Gallagher, isn't it? He's not a friend of yours. He was your lover, wasn't he?"
"No! I've always been faithful to you." She clenched her fists in front of her, cursing fate and chameleons and the passage of time. "You're the only man I've ever been with."
"You may be a knockout package on stilts, sweetheart, but as far as I'm concerned, you're a cold fish. So much for a warm welcome home." He turned to the mirror to inspect the damage to his face.
"How dare you." She rounded the bed, advancing on him with the strength of righteous indignation to guide her. She tugged on his sleeve, jerked hard to get him to face her. "First you reject your daughter, then you treat me like nothing more than a sex object."
"Oh, no, I value your business expertise, too."
His callous response twisted her heart like a corkscrew. She released him and crossed her arms in front of her, shielding herself from another crippling attack o
n everything she'd believed in for so long. "What about love, Jonathan? I love you. I have always loved you."
He slid his gaze over her body in a way that made her sick to her stomach. "Then prove it."
Anger gave her strength. "Get out. Pack your things and go to a hotel."
"No. I'll move into the guest bedroom. But I'm not moving out. I know my rights."
* * *
Drew studied the thick file on the table in front of him and took another sip from his bottle of water. The ache in his head had dulled to a tolerable level. He even relished the telltale signs of eye strain as at least a productive abuse of his body.
He'd taken Hawk Echohawk's challenge at face value, and had resurrected his investigation into his own past. Without revealing how much he knew, Hawk had said he'd guessed Drew suffered from amnesia. Drew hadn't questioned the Indian's perception. Something about those midnight-dark eyes made him think Hawk could see things that most men couldn't.
He flipped the page and read yet another of Kel Murphy's accounts of crimes attributed to the unidentified Chameleon. Stealing guns and other types of weaponry and selling them to the highest international bidder—that seemed to be his mainstay. The man who had escaped any photo, fingerprints, or artist's rendering had also dabbled in the drug trade. And along with his marketing of munitions, he was credited for conveying a sensitive secret or two from government to government. The man supplied revolutions and, according to Kel and Hawk, incited a few himself in order to make a profit.
Drew closed the file and sank back in his chair. And he might be this Chameleon.
The name Cam, remembered by Clayton Roylott, was close enough to Chameleon to be an identification.
Jonathan Ramsey said he was a match.
But Hawk had shared two very interesting pieces of information with Drew. First, he assured Drew that he didn't believe he could be the Chameleon.
Hawk had said he would be able to sense underlying criminal motives, a past history in Drew, which he did not. And second, those very traits Hawk said were missing in Drew he'd found in someone else.
Jonathan Ramsey.
"You don't trust your commanding officer? Your friend?" Drew had challenged him.
Hawk would not be baited. "Do your job, Mr. Gallagher. Anyone with a connection to Isla Tenebrosa during the same time frame we were there is too big a coincidence to ignore."
"You think my history can explain anything?"
"I want to know why you were in Tenebrosa, and what happened to you there."
Drew rose to his feet and cleaned up the remains of his takeout dinner. "What happened?" His sharp laugh reflected little humor and a great deal of frustration. "I almost died is what happened."
Not for the first time, he wondered if he'd have been better off if he had died. He was a man without a memory, a man without a clue, a man without a past.
And a man without much of a future if he couldn't prove that he wasn't the Chameleon.
He'd sent his fingerprints to Kel Murphy for an international check, suspecting they'd come back unidentified as they had in the past. The natives in Tenebrosa either didn't know him or wouldn't admit to it. How the hell was he supposed to help Hawk or Jonathan or anybody else when he couldn't even help himself?
Where was that voice in his head to guide him now?
Drew peeled off his shirt and kicked off his shoes and walked over to his workout mat. Running through his kata would help clear his mind, empty it of the nightmares that plagued his sleep. At least he could rest in oblivion until the physical exhaustion wore off. After that, sweet dreams were up for grabs.
He pushed open the windows, took his position, and bowed.
Halfway through the second set, he heard a knock at the door. With his left arm extended and his right hand fisted at his chest, he paused. The intrusion sifted through his consciousness, canceling out the peace he had not quite attained. Ignoring the second knock, he exhaled deeply, returned to his original position, and bowed again.
He slipped the dead bolt open before the third knock. "How the hell do you expect me to find what you want in one day…?” His temper evaporated at the unexpected visitor. "Emma."
The first thing he noticed were the deep lines of stress that grooved the pale skin beside her eyes. The second thing he noticed were the tiny bruises at either side of her jaw. Five bruises. In the shape and scope of a man's fingers.
A white-hot poker of protective rage burned through him at the knowledge she'd been hurt. "Son of a—"
"Drew." Keeping a tight rein on a ragged sob, she stepped forward, buried her face in his neck, and burst into tears.
With one arm shielding her, he guided her inside the apartment and locked the door behind her. Then he turned and surrounded her in his embrace. He tunneled his fingers into her hair and rubbed his cheek against hers.
"What happened? Are you all right? Kerry?"
"She's with BJ tonight." He felt a hot tear scorch his skin as it cooled from his workout. "Just hold me, Drew. Hold me tight. Kiss me." She lifted her mouth in an irresistible temptation, asking for what he was so willing to give. "Kiss me."
He looked into her clear blue eyes, saw the need etched there, felt an answering need inside himself to give all she asked for and more. He angled her face and claimed her lips, gently at first, seeking the conscious acknowledgment of her request.
She opened beneath him, and he seized the offer, deepening the kiss. She moaned in her throat, tunneled her fingers into his hair, anchored herself to his probing mouth.
Drew swept her away into a world of his making. A world of security. A world of trust.
The world of his love.
Chapter Thirteen
Emma gloried in the possessive claim of Drew's mouth on hers. He tasted familiar and intoxicating. She felt no fear in the needy exploration of his hands on her back, her bottom, and tangled in the length of her hair. She knew no hesitation when he pushed her coat off her shoulders, dipped his arm behind her knees, and scooped her up against his chest.
Her pain and powerlessness vanished in the instant her fingers touched the damaged skin on his shoulder. He was such a unique man. Lonely. Just. Brave. Jonathan's suffering had changed him into a man she didn't know, a man she could no longer trust. Drew bore his suffering with dignity. He wore it like a badge of honor, evidence of his strength, proof of his ability to endure.
He wore his scars on his skin. They hadn't touched his soul.
She hugged her arms around him and pressed a kiss to that fearful mark on his shoulder. He carried her to his bed and laid her down with urgent care. He knelt beside her, holding back, skimming her body with a look of cherished adoration.
He made her feel so different than Jonathan did. With Drew she could be strong. Proud of her strength. She could be equal. As she'd been with the old Jonathan.
Her body thrummed with the anticipatory thrill of promise shining in his eyes. She had been primed for this moment since the night he'd kissed her at Lucky's. Then, she had consciously denied the need he aroused in her. Tonight she accepted it, and gave that need free rein.
She reached for him, and he came to her with willing haste. He lay half on top, half beside her. The unyielding strength of his muscled chest butted against the softer contours of her arm and breast. One lean, powerful thigh pinned her legs, and she felt his heat rising against her hip.
He brushed his fingers across her cheek in that loving way of his, then traced the path with his warm, firm mouth. He drew his thumb down the line of her throat, and she arched her neck, giving greater access to his lips and tongue which followed the pattern of his hand.
He found that bundle of nerves in the hollow of her throat and then kissed her with exquisite thoroughness. A muscle clenched low in her belly. "Yes," she moaned, seeking the mindless pleasure he could provide. "Like that."
"Ah, Emma." His husky words rasped against her skin. "You're so beautiful. So damn beautiful."
He moved over the top of he
r, and she took his weight, losing herself in the differences between them. She demanded and he gave. She clutched his shoulders, dragged her fingertips down his back. She felt the hitch in his breath as her nails found a sensitive spot near the base of his spine. She felt powerful. Sexy. An equal partner in this embrace.
His shoulder flexed against her breast, hard male against soft female. The tiny shock kindled a flame that he stoked into a blazing wildfire when he caught her knee and bent her leg beside his hip. He glided his hand along the length of her thigh. The whisper of silk and callused palm opened a wealth of sensation in every pore. As he pushed aside her dress and slip, and neared that most sensitive part of her, she clenched her legs together, adjusting to the corkscrew of sensation spiraling down to her core.
His hand closed over her an instant before his mouth closed on her breast. He pressed his palm against her, and she cried out on that long-held breath. She clutched him to her as the heat of his tongue stroked her through the knotted caress of shantung silk.
She stretched beneath him, seeking relief from the pressure building inside her. She felt his need press into her thigh. Her belly tightened another notch, and the fire neared its flash point. She dipped her long fingers inside the waist of his pants and felt the sheen of sweat and powerful muscle as she grasped his buttocks. "Drew," she pleaded, wanting more, wanting all of him.
He slid his hand up under her dress to the waistband of her hose and pulled. She lifted her hips, struggling with him to free herself to the promise of skin on skin, and so much more. Feeling the rasp of his palms along her legs, all the way down to the tips of her toes, he peeled off the hose and tossed them aside. Before she could analyze her pounding heartbeat, before she could second-guess her wary catch of breath, he was on top of her again, running his hand along the inside of her thigh, spreading her legs, reaching higher. She sank her fingers into his hair and tugged his mouth back to hers.
She hadn't felt this free, this out of control in years. Jonathan hadn't made her feel this way, not this new Jonathan, at any rate. She shouldn’t be doing this. She was cheating on her husband. The thought escaped, but she denied it. Her fingers gathered the silky tendrils of Drew’s hair in a bunch.