by Nora Roberts
“Smooth.” With a laugh, she pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Michael, you can’t carry me through the airport.”
“There’s no law against it. I checked. I guess you’ve got luggage.”
“Yes, I do.”
“You want to pick it up now?”
She answered his grin, then settled back to enjoy the ride. “Not particularly.”
TWO HOURS LATER they were in her bed, sharing a bowl of ice cream.
“I’d never developed the habit of eating in bed before I met you.” Emma scooped out a spoonful and offered it. “Marianne and I used to hoard Hershey bars in our room at school. Sometimes we’d sneak them into bed after lights out, but that was as decadent as it got.”
“I always figured girls snuck guys into their room after lights out.”
“No. Just chocolate.” She slid thé ice cream into her mouth and closed her eyes. “We only dreamed about boys. We talked about sex all the time, looking up with envy to any of the girls who claimed to have lived through the experience.” She opened her eyes and smiled at him. “It’s better than I imagined it would be.” She offered him another spoonful and the strap of the tank top she wore slithered off her shoulder.
Reaching out, Michael toyed with it. “If you let me move in, we could practice a lot more.”
He was looking at her, waiting. Wanting an answer, Emma thought. And she didn’t know which one to give him. “I haven’t decided whether I’m going to keep this house or look for another one.” That was true enough, but they both knew it was an evasion rather than an answer. “I need studio space, and a darkroom. I think I’d like to find a place where I could have it all.”
“Here, in L.A.?”
“Yes.” She thought of New York. It would never be her home again. “I’d like to try to start here.”
“Good.”
She set the bowl aside, certain he didn’t know what she meant by starting. “I need to concentrate on getting ready for another show. I have a number of contacts out here, and I think if we could tie it in with the book—”
“What book?”
She smoothed the sheets and took a deep breath. “Mine. I sold it about eighteen months ago. On Devastation. Early photographs from when I was a child up to the last tour I went on with Da. It’s been delayed a couple of times because … because of what happened. But it’s due to come out in about six months.” She glanced toward the window. The wind had picked up from the sea and brought with it a rush of rain. “I have an idea for another one. The publisher seems to be interested.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Before she could make an excuse, he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her, long and hard. “All we have is a bottle of mineral water to celebrate with. Uh-oh.”
She’d nearly relaxed, and now braced again. “What?”
“My mother’s going to kill me if you don’t give her first dibs on autographing sessions.”
And that was it? she thought, staring at him. No demands, no questions, no criticisms. “I…the publisher wants me to tour. It’s going to mean a lot of traveling for a few weeks.”
“Do I get to watch you on Donahue?”
“I—I don’t know. They’re setting stuff up. I told them I’d be available for anything they wanted during the month of publication.”
It was her tone that had him lifting a brow. “Is this a test, Emma? Are you waiting for me to grow fangs because you’re telling me you’ve got a life?”
“Maybe.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.” He started to rise, but she laid a hand on his arm.
“Don’t. If it’s not fair, I’m sorry. It’s not always easy to be fair.” She dragged both hands through her hair. “I know better than to make comparisons, but I can’t help making them.”
“Work on it,” he suggested flatly, then reached over for his cigarettes.
“Dammit, Michael, he’s all I have to compare. I never lived with another man, I never slept with another man. You want me to pretend that that part of my life never happened. That I never let myself be used or hurt. I’m supposed to forget and pick up and go on so that you can take care of me. Every man who’s ever been important to me has wanted to take over because I’m too weak or stupid or defenseless to make the right choices.”
“Hold on.”
But she was scrambling out of bed to pace the room. “All of my life I’ve been tucked into corners, all for my own good. My father wanted me to forget about Darren, not to dwell on it, not to think of it. I wasn’t supposed to worry about what he was doing to his own life, either. Then Drew was going to take care of it all. I was too naïve to handle my finances, my friends, my work. And I was so bloody used to being pointed in a direction, I just went. Now I’m supposed to forget all of that, just forget it, and let you click into place so I’m protected again.”
“Is that why you think I’m here?”
She turned back. “Isn’t it?”
“Maybe that’s part of it.” He blew out smoke, then deliberately crushed out his cigarette. “It’s hard to be in love with someone and not want to protect them. But let’s just back up, okay? I don’t want you to forget about what happened between you and Latimer. I want you to be able to live with it, but I hope to Christ you never forget it.”
“I won’t.”
“Neither will I.” He stood then to cross to her. Outside the rain was whipped by the wind, battering windows. “I’ll remember everything he did to you. And there’ll be times when I’ll wish he was still alive so I could kill him myself. But I’ll also remember that you pulled yourself out of it. You took a stand, and you survived. Weak?” He lifted a fingertip to trace the faint scar under her jawline. “Do you really believe I think you’re weak? I saw what he did to you that day. I’ll always be able to see it. You didn’t let him plow you under, Emma.”
“No, and I won’t let anyone take control of my life again.”
“I’m not your father.” He spit out the words as he gripped her shoulders. “And I’m not Latimer. I don’t want to control your life, I just want to be part of it.”
“I don’t know what I want.” She lifted her hands to cover his. “I keep coming back to you, and it’s frightening because I can’t stop. I don’t want to need you this way.”
“Dammit, Emma—” When the phone rang, he swore again.
“It’s for you,” she said, holding out the receiver.
“Yeah?” He picked up his cigarettes, then paused. “Where? Twenty minutes,” he said and hung up. “I’ve got to go.” He was already pulling on his jeans.
She only nodded. Someone was dead. She could see it on his face.
“We’re not finished here, Emma.”
“No.”
He shouldered on his gun. ’I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Michael.” She didn’t know what she wanted to say. Instead, she went with instinct and put her arms around him. “Goodbye.”
She couldn’t settle once he’d gone. The rain was coming in sheets now. She could barely see the ocean through it, but she could hear the waves crashing. She found it soothing, the gray light, the sound of water. It was cool enough to start a fire from the stack of split oak in the woodbox. Once it was blazing, she called the airport to arrange for her luggage to be delivered.
It occurred to her that it was the first time she was completely alone in the house, a house she was considering making her own. After brewing tea, she wandered through it, sipping. If she did buy it, remodeling would be essential. There was a room off the kitchen that could be enlarged for a studio. The light was good. Or was, she thought, when there was sun.
There were three bedrooms upstairs, all large and lofty. An impractical amount of space perhaps, but she liked having it. She could make it her own. Thoughtful, she glanced at her watch. It would be worth a call to the real estate agent. Before she could pick up the phone, it rang.
“Emma?”
“Da.” She sat on the arm of the sofa.
“I ju
st wanted to see if you’d gotten there.”
“Everything’s fine. How are you?”
“A little crazed at the moment. We’re recording. We’ll be breaking off to come out to the Coast.”
“Da, I told you, I’m fine. It really isn’t necessary for you to come all this way.”
“I’d like to see you for myself, plus we’re up for three Grammys.”
She broke off her objections. “Of course. Congratulations.”
“We figured we’d show up in force. You’ll come along, won’t you?”
“I’d love to.”
“I thought you might like to ask Michael. Pete’s arranging the tickets.”
“I will.” She remembered the way he’d looked when he’d strapped on his gun. “He may be busy.”
“Check it out. We’ll be coming in at the end of the week for rehearsals. Pete got a request for you to be one of the presenters. He asked me to pass it along.”
“I don’t know.”
“It would mean a lot to me, Emma, having you make the announcement if Johnno and I cop song of the year.”
She smiled. “And if you don’t, I can read your names anyway.”
“That’s the way. You’ll take care of yourself, won’t you?”
“Yes, and that’s something I wanted to speak to you about.” She shifted the phone to her other ear. “Da, I don’t want the bodyguard. I fully intend to take care of myself, so call him off.”
“What bodyguard?”
“The one you hired before I left London.”
“I didn’t hire anyone, Emma.”
“Look I—” She broke off. He often hid things from her, but he never lied. “You didn’t arrange for someone to follow me, look out for me?”
“No. It didn’t occur to me that you’d need it. Has someone been bothering you? I can break off earlier and come out—”
“No.” Sighing, she pressed her fingers to her eyes. “No one’s been bothering me. Marianne was right, it’s just paranoia. I guess I haven’t gotten used to coming and going as I choose, but I intend to.” To prove it, she made her decision quickly. “Tell Pete I’d be delighted to be a presenter at the Grammys. In fact, I’ll start hunting up a dress tomorrow.”
“Someone will contact you about the rehearsals. Keep a night free. Bev and I would like to take you and Michael out to dinner.”
“I’ll ask him. He’s…Da,” she said on impulse. “What is it that makes you so comfortable with Michael?”
“He’s steady as a rock. And he loves you as much as I do. He’ll make you happy. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
“I know. I love you, Da. I’ll see you soon.”
Maybe it was just that easy, she thought as she hung up the phone. She had a man who loved her, and who could make her happy. She’d never doubted Michael’s feelings, or her own. The doubts came from whether she would be able to give anything back.
Bundling into a slicker, she raced into the rain. The least she could give Michael when he returned was a hot meal.
She enjoyed pushing the cart up and down the aisles of the market, choosing this, selecting that. By the time she checked out, she had three bags loaded. Drenched, she settled back into the car. It was only three, but she had to turn on her lights to cut the gloom. Jet lag had set in, but the fatigue was almost pleasant, and suited to the rain.
The road was all but deserted. Other shoppers had planned more carefully, or were waiting for the storm to pass. Perhaps that was why she noticed the car behind her, turning where she turned, always keeping two lengths behind. Turning up the radio, she struggled to ignore it.
Paranoia, she told herself.
But her eyes kept flicking to the rearview mirror, and she could see the twin headlights glowing steadily behind her. Emma increased her speed, a little more than safety allowed on the slick roads. The headlights paced her. She eased off the gas. The trailing car slowed. Catching her lip between her teeth, she swerved into an abrupt left turn. Her car físhtailed, skidded. Behind her, the car swung left, then slid across the road.
Fighting for control, Emma punched the gas and managed to pull her car out of the skid. On a burst of speed, she turned toward home, praying the few moments’ lead was all she would need.
She had her fingers around the door handle before she hit the brakes. She wanted to get inside, to safety. Whether it was her imagination or not, she didn’t want to be caught outside and defenseless if the other car cruised up. Leaving the groceries, she sprinted out of the car. Then screamed when a hand clamped on her arm.
“Lady!” The young driver jumped back and nearly overbalanced into a puddle. “Jeeze, get a grip.”
“What do you want?”
The rain was dripping off a cap onto a blunt, freckled nose. She couldn’t see his eyes. “This your house?”
She had her keys, balled in her hand. Emma wondered if she could use them as a weapon. “Why?”
“I got three pieces of luggage, American flight number 457 from New York, for Emma McAvoy.”
Her luggage. Emma nearly laughed as she ran a hand over her face. “I’m sorry. You startled me. You were behind me when I left the market, and I guess I got spooked.”
“I’ve been waiting here for the last ten minutes,” he corrected and shoved a clipboard at her. “Want to sign, please?”
“But—” She looked over in time to see a car drive slowly toward the house. The figure behind the wheel was lost in the sheeting rain and shadows as it cruised down the street. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “Would you mind waiting until I get the groceries in?”
“Look, lady, I’ve got other stops to make.”
She pulled a twenty out of her purse. “Please.” Without waiting for his agreement, she went back to her car to unload.
Inside she double-checked all the locks. With the fire, the lights, the warmth, she’d all but convinced herself that she’d made a mistake. When she didn’t see the car reappear during the next twenty minutes, she was almost sure of it.
Cooking relaxed her. She liked the scents she created, the low murmur of music. As the hour grew later, the gray simply deepened. There was no twilight, just the steady fall of rain. At ease again, she decided to go upstairs and unpack.
The sound of a car swishing through the rain outside had panic streaking up her spine again. She stood frozen at the base of the stairs, staring out the wide, dark window. It hadn’t occurred to her until that moment how exposed she was, with all the lights burning. She could hear a brake set, a door slam.
She was on tie way to the phone when she heard the footsteps in front of the door. Without hesitating, she ran to the fireplace and grabbed the brass poker. The knock had her grip tightening.
She was alone. He knew she was alone, Emma thought frantically, because she’d been foolish enough to wander through the house with the lights burning and the shades drawn up. She inched her way toward the phone. She would call for help. If it didn’t get there in time, she would help herself.
Her heart tattooed against her chest as she lifted the receiver.
“Emma! I’m drowning out here.”
“Michael?” The phone slipped out of her fingers and fell to the floor. She let the poker drop as well as she rushed to the door. Her fingers weren’t steady as she fumbled with locks. She could hear him swearing. By the time she pulled open the door and threw her arms around him, she was laughing.
“Sorry, I don’t get the joke.”
“No, I’m sorry. It was just that I—” But when she drew back, she saw something in his eyes she hadn’t seen before. Despair. “Here, let me help you. You’re soaked through.” She helped him peel off his jacket. “I’ve got some tea. I wish I’d thought of brandy, but there’s probably a bottle of whiskey somewhere.” She nudged him over by the fire, then went into the kitchen. Moments later, she returned with a cup. He hadn’t moved, she noted. He just stood there, looking down at the flames.
“It’s a nice Irish tea, heavy on the Irish.” She
handed it to him.
“Thanks.” He sipped, grimaced, then downed it.
“You should get out of those wet clothes.”
“In a minute.”
She started to speak again, then changed her mind and went quietly upstairs. When she came back, she simply took his hand. “Come on. I’m running you a bath.”
He couldn’t find the energy to argue. “Do I get bubbles?”
“All you want. Go ahead.” She gestured toward the door. “Relax.