by Julie Miller
"I hope the sofa's okay," he said when Emma straightened and turned to him. "She was asleep on it before I could get the bed made."
"She's fine." Emma's fatigue haunted the husky timbre of her voice. "I don't know how to thank you. When I saw that she'd run away…”
Drew ushered her into the kitchen and to the waiting cups of coffee they always seemed to share. "She's a resourceful kid. Showed my card to the taxi driver and told him to drive her home to her dad's place. It must have cost a small fortune."
"She inherited her mother's business sense. I'm sure she had quite a stash in her piggy bank." She sat down, but instead of picking up the coffee, she rubbed her hands along her upper arms, hugging herself. "Did she say why she ran away? I think she overheard Jonathan and me fighting."
He didn't like the sound of that. But then, he didn't have the right to care one way or another. "She said something about a plan. I got the idea she and Faith cooked it up."
"Great. Anything could have happened to her. She's only seven years old. She’s been through so much already. I suppose she said that Faith promised to protect her." She shoved her fingers into her hair and captured it in a fist at her nape. The frustrated movement bared the sculpted grace of her chin and the fading bruises marking her there. Drew swallowed hard and turned to the counter. This was hardly the time for either his hormones or his anger to kick into overdrive.
"Faith's always with her except when Kerry's asleep," he said.
"She told you that?"
"Yeah." He set his cup in the sink and shoved his hands into his pockets. He knew nothing about parenting, but sensed that Emma needed to know every detail possible in order to deal with Kerry's behavior. He swallowed his pride and his dreams and shared the information he'd gleaned from Kerry. "She's got this idea that you and I are supposed to be together. I know that's crazy. She seemed to think that you'd go wherever she was." He glanced over his shoulder at Emma, gauging her reaction. "So she came here."
He watched her stand. Even that simple action was a thing of beauty. Proud posture, long-limbed grace. "Is it really such a crazy idea?"
Her question surprised him. "Emma…” He wanted to warn her away from dangerous territory with words, but his vocabulary momentarily escaped him.
That left him only one other option. Escaping his thoughts with a gut-deep sigh, he left the kitchen and headed for the front door. With her long legs, she quickly caught up to him as he slipped into his jacket.
"Where are you going?"
The jacket felt hot. She was dressed simply, in jeans and an oversized sweater that masked her long, lithe figure. But his heart still thumped in his chest. It was a silly little fantasy, the one steaming his thoughts right then. He and Emma alone together for the night. Her guard eroded by relief over Kerry's safety. Her apparent willingness to overlook his transgressions was a balm—and a heady aphrodisiac—to his battered soul.
"There's only one bed, Emma."
She moved behind him and tugged at the shoulders of his jacket. "I'm not putting you out of your own home."
He shrugged the leather out of her hands and pulled it back on. "This is too cozy for me. I don't begrudge you the security of staying with Kerry tonight, but don't ask me to be nobler than I am. If you're sleeping in my bed, I can't."
And then she did the most incredible thing. She hugged him from behind. Her arms came around his waist and she laid her cheek against his shoulder. Drew's breath caught on a ragged gasp as she pressed herself close in a gesture of healing and forgiveness.
"Don't go," she said simply.
He tried to do the right thing. He tried to disentangle himself and walk away. But when his hands touched hers, they stayed. He tipped his head back and inhaled the fresh scent of her hair. In his musty world of darkness and half-truths, the smell and feel of Emma breathed a bit of life into his tortured soul.
His arms resting over hers belied his words. "I can't stay. I want you in ways you're not prepared to handle right now." She trembled behind him, and he felt the same ripple of awareness shimmy down his spine. "You're not a one-night stand, Emma. You need the kind of trust you can't find in your heart for a man like me. And right now, I can't prove to you that I'm anything more than—"
"I know what Jonathan said. I don't believe it." Her arms tightened around him, and he felt the tips of her breasts brand him through the layers of clothing between them.
He craved her support, but he didn't buy her words. "Lady, you have no proof."
"Maybe I don't need any."
Drew finally found the strength to extricate himself from her arms, but he couldn't quite release her entirely. He captured her hands when he turned around and admonished her. "You're smarter than that."
Her gaze settled on his mouth. "I don't feel very smart these days."
The longing in her eyes matched the need inside him. His lips parted as he felt her visual caress like a stroke of her tongue. Suddenly the jacket he wore was way too hot. Without taking his gaze from her tightly compressed lips, he unhooked the zipper and shed the leather garment to his feet.
He moved slowly, savoring these moments of trust and desire, holding back lest his powerful need frighten her away. He framed her jaw between his hands, and took a moment to admire the smooth, cool perfection of her skin before dipping his head and pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth.
"You handle anything that comes your way with class—“He kissed her again at the opposite corner, "dignity—” he ran his tongue along the seam of her lips, coaxing them to open, "—and determination."
On a heavy sigh that sank deep into Drew's soul, Emma opened for him. He moved his mouth over hers, tasting her warmth, drinking her in like a reviving balm pouring over faded dreams and distant hopes. She spread her hands flat against his chest, dug her fingertips into his shoulders, and pulled herself closer.
She angled her lips, sampling all the ways their mouths could come together, teasing him with each discovery of something new.
Drew kneaded his hands down her arms and across her back. He found the hem of her sweater and worked his way underneath. At the first touch of bare skin, he gasped into her mouth. He moved his hands up her back, spanning the elegant expanse of skin and muscle. A groan lodged somewhere inside his chest when his trailing hands discovered she wore no bra.
He worked his hands to the front, reaching up and finding the small, proud peaks of her breasts. He brushed his thumbs across the knotted tips, heard her breath catch. The purring in her throat drew his lips to that spot. He boldly palmed her breasts and relished the reflexive clench of her hips against his thigh.
She was explosive beneath his hands and mouth, primed tinder waiting for a spark. The heat rose within him, flint and stone coming together to create a miraculous flame.
She skidded her hands down his flanks and around his back, dropping down to grab and squeeze his buttocks through his jeans.
The heat inside him pulsed to his groin.
"Touch me, lady," he begged her, his voice a gruff rasp in his throat.
Of one accord, he lifted her sweater and she pulled off his sweatshirt. Freed of the cumbersome garments, he pulled her back into his arms and claimed her mouth, branding her with the same intensity with which her breasts singed his hard chest.
Her hands clutched at his back. He felt the erotic dig of short nails along his spine. When she found that indentation at the base and dragged her fingers across it, he stretched against her with a keening cry.
"Emma." He pleaded and warned her all at the same time. He was near the limit of his endurance, ready to explode, yet something about standing just inside his front door didn't seem right.
This was Emma. His lady. The woman he loved.
He could barely speak through his deep, rapid breaths, could barely concentrate with the wandering exploration of her hands. Still, he summoned what was left of his will and snatched her wrists. He spread her palms flat on his chest and trapped her bewitching fingers there. He
looked into her eyes, made sure the fog of passion had cleared enough for her to listen.
"We're standing in the middle of my living room. Kerry might wake up."
Courageous even in this, she never looked away from his searching gaze. Her cheeks blushed a becoming shade of pink, but she never looked away.
"I don't want to stop. The only time I feel whole and safe and happy is when I lose myself in you." She glanced around his bare apartment, probably seeing the lack of enclosed spaces with the same dismay he did. But then an idea lit up her eyes and she backed away, catching his hand in hers and drawing him along. He followed her willingly, a moth drawn to a beautiful flame.
She led him straight into the bathroom. Hardly the romantic rendezvous he had envisioned, but one that grew decidedly more alluring when she bent over the tub and ran the water for the shower. Drew kept his gaze on the never-ending curve of legs and derriere snugged in soft denim while he fumbled to lock the door behind him.
She turned and unsnapped her jeans. Drew followed the movement of her hand downward as she unzipped them. "Don't be noble, Drew. This is what I want."
"You're sure?" he asked one more time, preferring to live with the pain of stopping now than with the regret of wishing they had stopped. "God, lady, be sure."
She stepped out of her boots, jeans, and panties and walked toward him, a tall, proud, beautiful Amazon. He bucked beneath the brush of her fingers on his stomach when she reached for the snap of his jeans. "I'm sure."
With their clothing cast aside and the sound of water to mask their uneven breathing and ragged sighs, they stepped into the shower and became a twisting union of seeking hands and mouths, anxious to touch, eager to explore, yearning to give, and helpless to take.
He supped at her throat and suckled her breast. She kissed his scars and brushed her hand along his aching shaft. The water slicked over their skin, caressing every cell with an urgent heat. Their lips met, their tongues mingled, their bodies flinched with a raging need.
He lifted her and drove her back against the tile wall, sinking into her with unleashed freedom. She parted eagerly for him—warm and wet, hot and welcoming. He braced a palm against the cool tile beside her head, gripped her thigh with a convulsive need and buried his lips against her throat as she tipped her head back and cried out his name. Those long, long legs of hers wrapped around his hips, hooked at the ankles and pulled him impossibly closer.
"Oh, God, Drew. Now, please. Now."
Drew plunged inside her once. A second time. And then again. And then the spark struck the fuse and he carried them, together, into an explosion of love and passion. The tremors of her release gripped him tight and he poured himself out inside her. It was a single moment, uniquely carved out of time, without a past or a future—a single moment, perfect in every way.
Because in that moment, Drew understood what the voice in his head had been trying to say. Believe with your heart.
He had no way in hell to prove it, no plausible reason to explain why, but Drew remembered everything.
* * *
Emma woke the next morning to the sound of rich male laughter blended with the delighted giggles of a rested and rambunctious little girl. The pleasant ache in her body, celibate for five years and unused to the demands of a healthy man and her own reckless needs, tempted her to stay in the warm cocoon of Drew's bed.
Their joining last night had been wild, desperate, and so full of chained-up need that she blushed even now. She hadn't realized she could be so uninhibited, daring enough to take charge when Drew had given her the opportunity to stop. The sheer joy and mindless release she'd experienced seemed almost… sinful.
She rolled onto her side and curled into a ball in a useless attempt to shield herself from her own thoughts. What had she done? Legally, she was still a married woman. She had never made love to any man besides her husband.
Yet she had given herself willingly, determinedly, to Drew.
In the chaos that had followed Jonathan's return, she’d sought the one haven that felt right to her. Drew's doubts about his past, his doubts about his own character, had spoken to that womanly part of her that possessed the unique power to heal a man. Even if only for a few stolen moments.
But could he give her the one thing she needed most? The security of a loving heart?
Or were these moments of time and place the only security fate would allow?
A fake growling noise and Kerry's high-pitched squeal brought Emma back to reality and the responsibilities at hand. She sat up in bed and noticed that the sweater and jeans she had left strewn about Drew's apartment had been folded and placed at the foot of the bed for her.
She made quick use of the considerate gesture. She freshened up and dressed, then tiptoed into the main room in her stockinged feet. Her good morning died in her throat at the amazing scene before her.
The morning sun, made brighter by the snow outside, shone in through the windows, reflecting off the bronzed glory of Drew's chest and golden mane of hair. He wore nothing but a pair of black cotton pants, such as martial artists wore. His body moved in a ballet of controlled precision—extended arms, clenched fists, the bunching of muscles across his back, the flex of powerful thighs.
Emma made a conscious effort to close her gaping mouth.
What made the scene even more amazing was the sight of the dark-haired girl, who stood no higher than Drew's waist, mimicking the moves beside him.
When Drew turned to his left and kicked, Kerry turned, too. But her leg didn't reach the hanging bag. Without breaking his rhythm, Drew swung her up into his arms and she smacked the bag with her foot, hitting a joy button that released another stream of laughter.
When Drew set Kerry down, he saw Emma. She took a half-step back, feeling the discomfort of being caught spying. But Drew's strange eyes glowed with a warm welcome. He crossed the mat with a purposeful stride and dipped his head to kiss her fully, possessively, and not nearly long enough, on the mouth. "Good morning, lady."
He'd touched her only with his mouth, but she stood paralyzed, stunned by the instant and intense flowering she felt deep inside her belly. "Good morning," she finally managed to answer on a breathless whisper.
"Mom!" Kerry ran over, breathless with excitement, and Emma knelt to wrap her in a hug. "Drew's teaching me how to do the ka-ka, like he does."
"That's kata, pistol." Kerry lifted her face, beaming at her new teacher. Emma made note of the mutual adoration as she straightened.
"Have either of you eaten breakfast?" she asked, and then shook off their exaggerated groans with a smile of her own. "Exercise is good, but you have to eat, too."
"Mom." Kerry tugged at Emma's hand for her full attention. "The best part is kicking the bag. You can hit it with your fist, too. But the best part is jumping up and swinging around…”
Kerry ran off to demonstrate.
Drew picked up a towel and draped it around his neck, using the end to dab the sweat at his forehead and temples. "Help yourself to whatever's in the kitchen. I'm gonna jump in the shower. Sadly, I’d better do this one on my own."
Her cheeks warmed at the meaningful drop of pitch in his voice. But she made no comment. Another observation of sound had snagged her attention.
"Kerry’s not stuttering," Emma said.
Drew angled his body to look over his shoulder and see the same miracle she did. "Has that happened before?"
"No. She's stuttered ever since we learned her father wasn't coming home. But today…”
While she stared in mute wonder, Drew bristled beside her. She saw his body language go through a subtle change, from her daughter's confident, playful hero back to the closed-off loner she had always known him to be. He gently brushed his fingers across her cheek, tucking her hair behind her ear. "Her father's coming back to her, Em, I promise."
She frowned. "What are you talking about? He did come home, and it was a disaster." She turned her head and pressed a quick kiss into his palm before he pulled his hand
away. "I'm grateful to you for all you did to find and rescue Jonathan. But you can't work miracles, Drew. Don't make promises you can't keep."
He splayed his hands at his hips and shook his head, looking everywhere in the room but at her. When he did finally recapture her gaze, she saw a look of cold-blooded determination. "Don't give up hope yet, Emma. I promise to make things right for you."
"Drew…"
She didn't want those kinds of promises from him. But he left her before she could explain.
Last night had been grand and glorious. She wasn't prudish enough to pretend she hadn't enjoyed being with him. She wasn't dishonest enough to pretend she hadn't needed every minute of it. But she was smart enough to draw the line at blind devotion to duty, or whatever seeds of guilt still plagued Drew enough to make him promise such impossible things.
Emma and Kerry had cereal and juice while Drew showered. When he walked into the kitchen for a slice of toast and a cup of coffee, she noticed a different kind of confidence in his stride, the look of a man who was comfortable in his own skin.
With the toast wedged between his teeth, he went to the closet and unlocked his gun and holster. He slipped it over his shoulders and strapped it into place. Next he pulled on his bomber jacket and zipped it up. The methodical straightening of his cuffs and collar reminded her of the old Jonathan putting on his uniform and going out to do battle.
She left Kerry at the table, scooping rings of cereal onto her spoon. "Drew?" The absolute purposefulness of his actions made her edgy. The comforting smells of leather and his spicy fresh shower gel calmed her a bit. But she still found his actions suspicious. "Where are you going?"
"To find out the truth, once and for all."
"What truth?"
He reached out and cupped her cheek. The poignant look in his eyes made her worry about whatever emotions roiled within him. "You never gave up on Jonathan, did you?" he asked.