Strangers When We Meet

by Marisa Carroll

  On the other hand, if he woke her now, she’d probably hightail it out of his apartment as though she’d been shot from a gun, and he wouldn’t have to worry about her seeing Heather’s abandoned belongings. He didn’t like either scenario. Almost any amount of pain was worth keeping Emma right where she was. In his arms. He’d make everything right in the morning. And then they would make love again. And again.

  God, he had never come like that before. He’d thought for a moment he’d burst a blood vessel, or at least a few stitches. Making love to Emma was just as fantastic as he’d dreamed it would be. The mind boggled at what it would be like when he could pull his own weight in the business. He smiled, but the smile soon gave way to a frown.

  There he was, thinking with his balls, not his brain. Definitely not his heart. She hadn’t been ready for this, not really. Even the fact that she was on the pill had played into the equation. He hadn’t had to worry about protecting her, he’d only had to feel, and that meant taking what he wanted most in the world. Big mistake.

  She was too tired and on edge, unsure of what was between them. He’d known that all week, but he couldn’t get his pain- and drug-fogged mind to come up with the right plan of action. He had the horrible suspicion that if he’d told her he loved her, as he had up on the mountain, as he’d tried to moments before, she would have nodded, patted his hand and called the nurse to come and give him another pain shot.

  But surely after what had just happened between them, she wouldn’t react that way. Not if she was awake and rational when he told her what was in his heart.

  He loved her. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.

  But it would be to his disadvantage to forget she’d been badly hurt by an unfaithful lover—made leery by a false case of love at first sight. She wasn’t going to be that easily convinced. Her edginess and wary demeanor all the days he’d been in the hospital proved that.

  Hell, he didn’t even know for sure if she’d sent Tubb packing for good, although he’d bet his last dollar she had. Emma would never give herself to one man if she still felt obligated to another. He held on to that certainty as a tidal wave of fatigue broke over him, sending his thoughts whirling into the void. He clung to the last one he could remember.

  Tonight, in the darkness she’d been his, heart and soul.

  Tomorrow, in the light of day, he hoped and prayed it would be the same.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  IT WAS VERY EARLY when Emma awakened. Blake was still asleep, his forehead wrinkled in a frown. He had held her through the night, though it must have been uncomfortable for him. She wiggled out from under the throw, careful not to wake him before she could find her clothes.

  She didn’t want him to see her naked this morning. She didn’t want to make love to him again, not until she could straighten out all the conflicting arguments in her mind. Last night she must have been a little crazy. With love, or merely with lust? Had there really been fantasies dancing in her head of home and hearth and babies? Had Blake told her once more he loved her as she dropped off to sleep, or had she only dreamed it? The doubts were back full force with the dawn, and her stomach roiled with the force of her uncertainty.

  The room was still in shadow. She groped around on the floor and found her sweater. Her bra was nowhere to be seen. Holding the sweater in front of her, she looked up to find Blake’s eyes on her. “Oh,” she said, feeling as dense as the word she had uttered. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

  “Why not? So you could leave without talking about what happened last night?” He sat up, the throw falling to his waist.

  Emma rocked back on her heels, clutching the sweater to her like a shield. “No. Of course not.” But she felt her face flame. That’s precisely what she’d hoped to be able to do. She needed time to herself to sort things out. She couldn’t think straight with Blake naked beside her. “I need my clothes.” With a shaking hand she pushed her hair back. “I...I can’t find my bra.”

  “It’s here,” he said, pulling it out from behind a cushion. She snatched it from his hand, refusing to meet his eyes.

  “Is there somewhere I can dress?” She wasn’t going to crouch there, eyes downcast like a harem girl. She lifted her chin defiantly. She had to be strong. She had to do what was right for her.

  “The guest bathroom is the second door on the left down the hall.”

  He had guessed how badly she wanted to shower, to wash the scent of their lovemaking off her skin. Maybe that’s what was making her so dizzy and confused, that constant reminder of how it felt to be in his arms, to have him deep inside her, to be joined so completely. Yes, a shower would restore her sanity.

  She looked over her shoulder. If she was as strong as she wanted to be, she’d get up and walk across the room just as she was, but that only brought to mind a vision of Heather coming naked into this very room to meet Daryl.

  “Hand me Clint’s sweats, and you can have the throw,” Blake said, swinging his legs gingerly over the side of the couch.

  She grabbed the much-washed cotton pants and handed them over, averting her eyes as he pulled them on. The throw dropped in her lap. She wrapped it around herself, snatched up her panties and slacks and rose awkwardly to her feet. She was stiff and a little sore in unaccustomed places, and she felt her color heighten as she hurried across the room, away from the man who had turned her world upside down in less than a week. He didn’t try to stop her.

  The guest bathroom was small and old-fashioned, with a pedestal sink and the claw-foot tub she’d imagined. It had a black and white tile floor in tiny hexagon shapes, which had to be original to the building. She wondered if Blake’s bathroom had the same kind of high-sided tub, then began to worry about him getting in and out of it with his limited mobility. What if he slipped and fell?

  Emma hurried through her shower, goaded by visions of Blake unconscious on the bathroom floor. There were a comb and brush on a shelf above the sink, and several toothbrushes, still in packaging, in the mirrored vanity. She made use of all three and pulled on her clothes. She was beginning to feel a little more in control, but she was still worried about Blake’s condition. She opened the door and stuck her head into the hallway. She could hear water running in the room next door. The bathrooms were evidently back to back. She would knock and ask if he was okay. She might be in control, but when she’d made certain he was all right, she was going to turn tail and run.

  She had her hand raised to knock when he spoke from behind her. “I’m not in there.”

  She spun so quickly she had to grab the door frame to steady herself. “I heard water running. I wanted to make sure you were all right.” Clint’s old pants rode low on his hips and clung to him like a second skin. She wasn’t going to let his near nakedness throw her. Wasn’t going to reach out and run her fingers over the line of his collarbone or let her lips follow the path her fingers were itching to explore.

  “I had to go into the kitchen to get this.”

  This was a roll of plastic film, the stuff you put on top of leftovers and casserole dishes, the better to see how disgusting they’d become when you dug them out of the refrigerator two weeks later. “Why do you need that?”

  “Can’t get the dressing wet.”

  “Oh, of course.”

  “There’s juice and bagels in the kitchen. And there’s coffee if you want it. No tea, I’m afraid.”

  She shook her head. “I’m fine.”

  “You should be starving. We never got around to eating the soup you fixed last night.” His hand was shaking as he fumbled with the ends of the wrap, trying to pull it off the roll without wrinkling it.

  “Here, let me do that.” It gave her an excuse to touch him one more time. She took the roll of film and smoothed a piece over the dressing. A dark bruise spread out below it, testimony to the damage done to flesh and muscle. H
e sucked in his breath at her touch, and his sex stirred and hardened beneath the thin cotton sweats. Emma forced herself not to notice. “Am I hurting you?”

  He pulled her into his arms. “Emma, don’t be so obtuse. You know I want you. You want me, too.”

  She ignored him, ignored the clamor of her senses, the very real evidence of the truth of his words. Instead she stuck to her Florence Nightingale impersonation. “There. That should keep it dry. Should I tape it, do you think? Just to be sure? Do you have any bandage tape in the bathroom?” She was babbling and she knew it. She pushed open the bathroom door. As an escape route it left a lot to be desired, but she was desperate to get away from the tantalizing heat and hardness of him.

  Opening the door was a mistake. The room was twice as big as the guest bath, and the claw-foot tub had been replaced with a huge whirlpool bath. A glass-walled walk-in shower sent billows of steam toward the high ceiling. It was warm and inviting and Emma felt shivers up and down her spine.

  Evidence of more than one person making use of the room was everywhere. Blake’s toiletries resided on a glass shelf above the commode, but more feminine touches were visible here and there. Bottles of scent and bath gels in a rainbow of colors, sponges and makeup brushes in a basket near the sink. Another comb and brush sat beside his aftershave, but they weren’t brand new, placed there by a thoughtful host for the use of a guest. These were Heather’s things. Heather’s silvery blond hair caught in the bristles. Heather’s silk robe on a hook by the shower.

  “Emma, come back here,” Blake ordered. He was standing in the doorway, his face a dark, unreadable mask. She could see him clearly reflected in the large mirrored cabinet above the twin sinks. That’s where she would find the tape, she thought, clinging to her errand of mercy and the tatters of her composure with all her might. She knew she would find even more intimate details of his life with Heather once she opened that door, but she couldn’t stop herself.

  “Tape. Do you keep tape in here? Even adhesive bandages would do if you don’t stay in the shower for a long time.”

  She saw him moving toward her, hand outstretched as she swung open the cabinet door. There wasn’t any tape, or even many objects on the shelf. Two toothbrushes, two brands of toothpaste, antacid and first aid cream. And a container of birth-control pills.

  Heather’s birth-control pills.

  She slammed the door shut, rattling the glass. She felt as though she’d been kicked in the stomach. Too soon. Too soon. Why couldn’t she have taken her own advice?

  Blake reached out and grabbed her arm, spinning her to face him. “I love you, Emma.” He didn’t sound conflicted. He sounded as sure and certain as he always did. He sounded as if he meant it.

  But it didn’t help. She searched his face. He wasn’t himself. He was pale and haggard, and the pain lines were back, deeper than ever. “Blake, don’t. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “I know exactly what I’m saying. I’m not half-conscious. I’m not half-zonked on pain meds. I love you.”

  “And barely a week ago you found the woman you thought you loved, naked with the man I thought I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. Listen to how crazy that sounds. You haven’t even had time to move her birth control pills out of your medicine cabinet.” One week. Had it truly been only that long? It seemed half a lifetime. She felt herself spinning out of control. Even though she’d thought she’d fallen in love with Daryl at first sight, she hadn’t considered sleeping with him for weeks after that. Now she could barely take two breaths without remembering what it felt like to be in Blake’s arms. One week. She was losing her mind. She had to leave, to get away, or she was going to start crying. Then Blake would gentle his grip and take her in his arms, and she would be lost all over again.

  His jaw tensed, and his hold was anything but gentle. She bit her lip to keep from crying out in pain. “Okay, you’ve got me there. But I didn’t love Heather. Not the way I should have. Finding her with Tubb only brought a quick end to a relationship that was already dead. You’ve got to believe me, Emma.”

  “Okay. Maybe you didn’t love her. But you tried to make yourself believe you did. What proof do I have that your heart isn’t pulling the same trick on you with me?”

  “I love you.” This time his tone was implacable. His green-gold eyes held hers with the same strength as his hands on her arms. “I love you. And you love me.”

  She couldn’t be as sure as he was. She had to get away from this clawing need for him that warred with her doubts until she could sort through all her conflicting emotions. “No,” she said. “I don’t know that at all.”

  * * *

  BLAKE DIDN’T TRY to follow Emma when she broke from his arms and ran blindly down the hallway, but it took every last ounce of his remaining strength to keep from doing just that.

  This wasn’t the hill he wanted to die on. He knew damned well he could bring her back to him, maybe even talk her out of enough of her doubts to get her to lie beside him on his big empty bed. But he wasn’t going to risk the happiness of the next fifty years of his life on one more incredible session of lovemaking.

  Emma was spooked. And she probably had every right to be. Hell, how many sane, intelligent women would believe what he’d just told her? It was too soon. She loved him. He wouldn’t let any of the doubts that were so obviously tormenting her get a foothold in his thoughts. It didn’t make any difference that they’d met each other at just about the worst moment in both their lives. What had happened was love at first sight, and sooner or later she was going to have to admit it to herself.

  Emma, marshmallow-soft, romantic at heart, who had talked herself into believing that a fast-cooling case of the hots for a loser like Tubb was the real McCoy, was going to have to admit she’d fooled herself.

  But what they’d found together was the real McCoy.

  Love at first sight.

  Love for the rest of his life.

  And hers.

  But he couldn’t bully her into accepting that love any more than he could force her to stay with him today.

  He wasn’t going to storm the beach and get himself blown out of the water.

  Besides, he was just too damned weak to follow her to her apartment, lugging a couple dozen roses and ten pounds of candy, and throw himself on his knees and beg her to marry him.

  This was going to be a long campaign. And he was going to have to be at his best to win it. Food. Rest. Then recon. He didn’t even know where Emma lived, or her phone number. But he would get them both. He’d start with her granddad. The old devil dog was shrewd and protective, but Blake would talk him around. He didn’t have any choice. By the time the weekend was over, he’d be ready to go on the offensive.

  Blake caught sight of himself in the mirror. He wouldn’t be surprised if the grim, determined look on his face hadn’t helped scare Emma off. If it hadn’t, hearing some of his thoughts of the last five minutes spoken aloud would have. It was funny how you returned to your roots when the going got tough.

  He didn’t mean the values his gentle, make-love-not-war parents had tried to drum into his head, but the tenets of his stint in the Corps. He was ready to go to war with Emma’s doubts. And he intended to win.

  * * *

  “OKAY. I’ve had it,” Armand said, closing the door to the studio very deliberately behind him. “This is the third night in a row you’ve let this Blake guy hang out there to twist in the wind. I wouldn’t have put him on the board if I didn’t think he’d be a good call.”

  Emma had known this was coming, but she still dreaded telling Armand why she had no intention of taking calls from any guy named Blake, even if he was some perfectly innocent computer programmer and not one inactive Marine trying to get onto her show—and into her head.

  “I just ran out of time,” she lied.

  “Three nights
in a row?”

  “All right. I have a bad feeling about this guy. I don’t want to talk to him tonight or any other night.”

  Armand leaned forward, hands planted firmly on the console. “Are you telling me you don’t trust my judgment in screening callers anymore?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Well, you’d never know it from the way you’ve been acting. Three shows and hardly two dozen calls with any substance to them. How long do you think your audience is going to sit still while you read self-help book reviews and take instant polls on designing a memorial to singles across the country? And where the hell did you come up with the harebrained idea of starting a single by choice support group? You’re supposed to be the guru of couples, for God’s sake. Are you getting cold feet? Are you trying to sabotage the syndication deal?”

  “I want the syndication deal as much as you do.”

  “You sure don’t act like it.”

  He stomped over to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of beer. It had been in there for months, maybe even since the station Christmas party the year before. It was a measure of Armand’s agitation that he went looking for it at all. After popping the top, he took a swig, then settled his hip against the console, crossed his arms and fixed her with a penetrating stare. “I want to know what the hell is going on with you. And I want to know it now. It’s my future you’re trying to flush down the tubes as much as yours.”

  Lord, this was all she needed. An argument with her best friend and partner. She was going to have to break down and tell him the truth. He was already upset enough over her arbitrary decision to postpone negotiations on the syndication deal for a week without trying to make up any more evasive, half-baked excuses for her behavior.