She moaned as he kissed her even more fiercely, one hand slipping beneath the hem of her sweater, past her ribs, to her breasts. He explored the tautness of her nipple, his thumb caressing the aching bud through the silk and lace of her bra, until the sensation, the need, was almost unbearable. Lower still, she felt the answering hardness of his body. And knew he was aching, he was wanting, as much as she. Just as she knew, as he slowly, reluctantly, lifted his lips from hers, that this was not where it would happen, when he made love to her for the first time. Joe wanted it to be special. Just as she did. Smiling, he took her into his arms again and kissed her thoroughly, all over again.
By the time the sexy, tender, romantic kiss came to a halt, Emma realized the impossible was happening. Reservations be damned. She was falling in love with Joe Hart all over again.
And he knew it.
JOE SWORE AS HE PULLED INTO the driveway of their home.
“What?” Emma turned to him. It had been such a lovely-low-key evening, she hated to ruin it. But he looked irritated about something.
Joe scowled. “I was going to go to the supermarket and get some stuff for breakfast tomorrow and I forgot. Now that I’m working out again I need to start eating better.”
“You want me to go with you?” Emma glanced at her watch, saw it was only eleven. “The grocery on Main Street is open until midnight.”
“Nah. I’ll go.” Joe waved off her offer to help, then looked deep into her eyes. “Anything you want while I’m there?” he asked cheerfully.
Emma nodded, even as she thought about how nice it was to have someone watching over her, or how easily she could get used to such tender loving care. “Lowfat yogurt with fruit in it.”
Joe made a face and regarded her skeptically. “You really eat that?”
“For breakfast, every morning,” Emma affirmed, laughing at the expression on his face. At least she had when she was living alone. “It’s good for you,” she persisted, even though she could see he wasn’t buying it.
“Yeah. I’ll keep to my scrambled eggs and whole-wheat toast, if you don’t mind.”
Emma shook her head. There were still a lot of differences between them. But somehow she didn’t mind. “Whatever floats your boat.”
He laughed at the corny adage. Leaned over and pressed a light kiss to her brow. “I won’t be long.”
Emma slipped out of the car. She didn’t want to think about what was going to happen next. What she wanted to happen next. “Take your time,” she advised.
She needed to think about this.
Did she want to make love tonight? Emma asked herself as she headed for the door. She knew he did. But was she ready to take such a big step after waiting years for the right man, the right time?
Behind her, Joe waited, car idling in the drive, until she had unlocked the door, hit the light switches and stepped safely inside. She turned and waved, and he drove off.
The house was blissfully quiet. And at first, as Emma walked into the kitchen, stepping around boxes stacked here and there, she noticed nothing amiss. It was only when she walked into the family room to see how much progress—if any—Joe had actually made putting things in order that she did a double take.
Chapter Nine
“I thought you were kidding me about unpacking some of the boxes,” Emma drawled when Joe returned from the store, groceries in tow. Already in a pair of azure-blue satin pajamas, she was in the kitchen having a glass of milk.
“What are you talking about?” Joe asked, trying hard—and failing mightily—not to notice how unbelievably pretty she looked in the Orient-inspired nightclothes. The tunic top was sleeveless, high-collared and had a keyhole opening with a cloth-covered button at her collarbone that showed just a hint of cleavage. The pants were snug around her hips, showing off the flatness of her abdomen and the enticing curve of her derriere, then flared out nicely at the thigh and ending just above her slender ankles. She didn’t seem to be wearing a bra. The thought of slipping his hand beneath her top and touching her, without encumbrance, was unbearably exciting. She had brushed her dark wavy hair and pinned it loosely to the back of her head in a way that had him wanting to take it back down. And as if that alone wasn’t enough to turn him on completely, she’d just had a bath. He could see that, from her flushed cheeks and the damp hair curling at the nape of her neck. And she smelled so good, like soap and perfume and woman. All woman.
Testosterone flooded his system.
To hell with putting away the groceries. Joe wanted to sweep her up in his arms and head for the bedroom. Now.
Emma, however, wasn’t thinking the same way. Oblivious to the lusty nature of his thoughts, Emma gestured toward the family room that had been filled with boxes just that morning.
Joe shook his head and, recalling his responsibility to take care of his wife emotionally as well as physically, struggled to follow the laid-back conversation she was trying without much success to have with him.
“I can’t believe how much you accomplished today,” Emma said.
Belatedly, Joe looked where she was pointing and realized there were only three left of the dozen or so cartons that had been stacked around the room. Which was strange.
“Tell me you didn’t move those all by yourself,” he said.
Emma’s dark brows knit together. “I thought you moved them out of here,” she said, perplexed.
Joe slowly set the grocery sacks onto the kitchen counter. His pulse jumping, he strode past her, toward the glass-fronted trophy cabinet. It was as empty, as it had been the last time he had seen it. A feeling of dread spiraled through him. “Where’s the hockey memorabilia?”
“That’s what I’m trying to ask you.” Emma paused. She looked up at him, some of the pink leaving her cheeks. “You’re telling me you didn’t put it elsewhere?” she ascertained slowly.
“No,” Joe said. He hadn’t.
“Then where could it be?” Emma asked plaintively.
Good question. And one they were unable to answer, even when Joe’s brother, Mac, showed up to make a police report.
“Anything else missing?” Mac asked, pad and pen in hand. As was typical when he was on duty and wearing his Holly Springs sheriff’s uniform, he was all business.
Emma came back down the stairs. She looked upset. “My jewelry box,” Emma said.
Mac pushed back the brim of his hat. “Was there anything valuable in that?”
Emma nodded glumly, as she moved to stand next to Joe. She tucked her hand in his. “Sapphire earrings. An emerald ring. A garnet necklace. Plus several gold chains and a hammered silver necklace.”
Mac kept writing. “Any of it insured?” he asked briskly.
“All of it,” Emma said, moving a little closer to Joe. Feeling unbelievably protective—and stupid and foolish—for letting Emma possibly walk in on the end of a home burglary, he wrapped his arm around her waist and held her tight.
Mac turned to Joe. Joe’s protectiveness toward his wife did not go unnoticed. “What about the memorabilia?” Mac asked.
Feeling guiltier than ever, Joe admitted reluctantly, “I never got around to it.” And he knew that his home-owner’s insurance wouldn’t cover it—the value of the memorabilia required a special rider to the policy and an additional fee.
Mac shook his head in wordless censure.
That swiftly, Joe was reduced to the reckless baby brother once again. At least in his ultra-responsible eldest brother’s eyes. And this time, Joe thought, the perennial do-gooding Mac would be right.
“I can’t believe someone came in here and took it all,” Joe muttered beneath his breath, knowing full well he had no one to blame for this but himself. If he hadn’t been so set on arranging a date to romance Emma that evening, he would have been home to thwart the burglary.
“Any idea how—or when—they got in?” Emma asked, pacing back and forth nervously.
Mac looked to Joe.
“I was here from four until six this afternoon. Everythin
g was as it should have been then. As for how they got in—”
One of Mac’s deputies sauntered in. “Through the garage, apparently. One of your neighbors saw a white panel van—the kind workmen use—with a ladder on the top, pull up in front of the house around six-thirty this evening. She thinks but isn’t sure that there were two men in it. Wearing some sort of white painters’ coveralls and caps. She didn’t pay much attention. She was making dinner at the time. And she figured you were just having some work done on the house, you just moving in and all. But she said they used some sort of electronic device to open the garage door, backed the vehicle in and let themselves into the house.”
“I haven’t been locking the door from the garage to the family room,” Joe said. Which was something else to feel guilty about.
“Then I suggest you start,” Mac said. He looked back at his deputy. “How long were they here? Did the neighbor say?”
“She indicated it couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes because the next time she went to the window they were gone and the garage door was shut again.”
“Which means they came in, took the memorabilia and the jewelry and got out,” Emma murmured, clearly upset.
Mac pulled a couple of typed pages off his clipboard. He handed one set to Emma, another to Joe. “Fill these out for me and then drop them by the sheriff’s office tomorrow.”
Joe scanned the pages, surprised by the intrusive nature of the questions. He frowned. “Why do you want to know where I get my hair cut and take my dry cleaning? What does any of that have to do with what happened here tonight?”
“Professional burglars—like the ones that hit this place tonight—usually have contacts in the area they operate who tell them when people are going to be on vacation or out of the house. They also know where the most valuable belongings are likely to be, in any given community. So, chances are, this was orchestrated by someone one of you knows, at least vaguely.”
“How will you figure it out?” Emma asked.
“By comparing your questionnaires with the surveys given to us by other recent robbery victims. Chances are, they all have something in common. It’s up to us to figure out what that is and work from there.”
“Oh,” Emma said.
“In the meantime—” Mac continued.
Joe held up a hand. He knew what Mac was going to say. “I’m going to get a security system installed, right away,” he promised. He didn’t care how or why this marriage had “resumed.” His job as Emma’s husband was to protect her. From this moment on, he was damn well going to do it.
EMMA AND JOE FILLED OUT their sheriff’s department robbery victim worksheets, then headed to bed. Emma in the guest room, Joe the master bedroom. Once again, Emma thought, depressed, it was business as usual in their marriage-in-name-only. Joe had even turned the central AC on, instead of leaving the windows open as he had the previous night, but Emma couldn’t sleep. Every noise, every little movement outside her bedroom window and in other parts of the house had her starting in fear. Finally, she got up, turned on her bedroom light and wandered downstairs to the kitchen. Joe followed soon after.
“What is it?” he asked, coming over to stand next to Emma.
Emma shut the refrigerator door, feeling more restless than ever. More disappointed. Their evening together had started out so promising. She had hoped the romantic mood that had existed at the practice arena could be continued at home. Indefinitely. The robbery and the visit from the sheriff’s department and Joe’s obvious guilt—about not seeing her safely all the way inside the house—had taken care of that.
He was grim. Withdrawn. Cranky. And so was she.
She sighed, looked over at him, wondered if their timing would ever be right. “I can’t sleep.”
Joe leaned against the counter. He was clad in a pair of gray boxer briefs that rode just below his navel and delineated the muscles in his thighs, the flatness of his abdomen, the abundant nature of his sex. The desire that had been simmering inside her ever since their earlier kisses went straight to boil. She wondered what it would feel like if Joe held her against him now. With so little in the way of clothing between them…
“Me, neither,” he said.
Silence fell between them. Emma wondered what Joe would do if she initiated that first kiss. Would he be shocked?
Joe folded his arms across his chest and looked over at her calmly. “There’s no chance the burglars will come back,” he soothed her calmly. “This was a very targeted hit. And they already got what they wanted.”
Emma nodded and averted her eyes from the solidly delineated muscles of his upper body. His skin looked so smooth. She knew it would be warm to the touch. She was glad he hadn’t shaved his chest. She liked the mat of dark brown curls, a shade or two darker than his hair, spreading across his pecs, then arrowing downward and disappearing into the top of his boxer briefs.
“So you don’t have to worry,” Joe continued to reassure her as he looked deep into her eyes.
“I know.” Unless, Emma thought, you decide never ever to kiss me again. Unless you decide our kissing and fooling around was what got us into this mess…
Joe edged closer. He had showered before hitting the sheets, too, and he smelled of soap and the unique masculine scent of his skin and hair that was more arousing and enticing than any cologne. He looked down at her intently, the growth of beard on his face giving him a ruggedly sexy look. “Then?”
“I’m still jumpy.” Emma shivered, though the air was not overly cool, and edged closer to Joe. It was foolish, she knew, but she wanted—needed—his protection. Emma tilted her head back, looked up into his face. “Why can’t you sleep?” Emma asked, just as curiously. He didn’t look anxious. Not in the slightest. Just ticked off that their place had been broken into and that there was no insurance on the memorabilia.
For a moment, she thought he wasn’t going to answer. Finally, he frowned and said with a certain weary sadness that tore at her soul, “I’m not ever going to be able to replace the memorabilia. If it were just—” He stopped, didn’t go on.
Compassion welling up inside her, Emma touched his arm. “What?” she demanded. Now was not the time for him to shut down on her.
Joe shrugged. His handsome features tightened with regret. “If it were just stuff that I had purchased—say for an investment, it would be one thing. But the stuff that belonged to Gordie Howe, for instance, was given to me by my dad when I was six. It was the last present I had from him before he died.” Joe’s jaw hardened. Moisture glistened in his eyes.
Emma felt her throat closing up, too.
Joe shook off the momentary weakness. Straightened. Moved away. “It’s all my fault,” he muttered guiltily. “I’ve been warned, countless times, not to leave the stuff lying around. I should have rented a vault or something.”
Emma touched his hand. “Why didn’t you?”
He was quiet for a moment, then said, almost reverently, “Because I always felt what was the point of having it if I couldn’t look at it whenever I wanted?”
Emma understood. “That’s the reason I left my jewelry in the case,” Emma said as she linked fingers with him. “I know it would have been wiser to put it in a safety deposit box at a bank and only get it out when I had a special occasion and wanted to wear it. But that always seemed like so much trouble.”
Joe’s mouth curved wryly. He lifted her hand to his lips, kissed the back of it, then let it go, as gently as he had taken it. “Guess we learned something, didn’t we?” He ambled over to the empty display cases, stood looking at them.
Feeling the need to comfort him, even if he didn’t particularly want to be comforted, Emma walked over to join him. She touched his arm, felt the curve of his bicep tense beneath her fingertips. “Mac will find the stuff,” she promised gently.
Joe’s shoulders tensed even more. “He’s a good sheriff. Always has been.” He turned to look at her with hard eyes. “But I don’t think any of my memorabilia will be sho
wing up at the local flea market.”
“You never know,” Emma said stubbornly. “Sometimes thieves are foolish. They run ads in the newspaper. Or take things to local pawn shops.” Joe looked unconvinced. Emma persisted in trying to lighten the mood, engender some hope. “Come on. How many authentic Gordie Howe’s practice jerseys can there be? If someone advertises the one your dad gave you is for sale, someone will know. All we have to do is put the word out and go from there.”
Joe nodded, and though he still looked unconvinced that her plan would accomplish much of anything, said nothing more on the subject. He sighed, looked over at the shark-shaped clock above the mantel. It was as hideous as everything else he owned in terms of room accessories, and she knew he had put it there shortly after moving in just to get her goat. And it had annoyed her—then. Now it just seemed so much like Joe it made her smile.
But Joe wasn’t smiling.
“It’s late,” he ordered in a voice that brooked no dissent. “We both have to work tomorrow. We better try and get some sleep.”
No one had told Emma when to go to bed since…since their wedding night. And look how that had turned out. “You go ahead,” Emma said, gesturing toward the front of the house and the stairs. “I think I’ll stay up awhile.”
Joe edged closer, ignoring her advice as deliberately as she had ignored his. Eyes narrowed, he scanned her face. “You’re still afraid to sleep alone, aren’t you?”
Maybe, Emma thought defensively, as he sifted a hand through the tousled length of her dark brown hair. “Why does it matter?” she asked, glad she had taken out the pins before she’d gone to bed.
Joe rubbed the silky strands between his fingertips and thumb. “Because you’re my wife,” he said in a soft voice that had desire welling up inside her all over again. “And it’s my job to comfort you.”
There was only one kind of comfort Emma wanted. And it wasn’t the sexless hug he seemed suddenly prone to give her.
The Virgin's Secret Marriage Page 13