Hot As Sin (18 page)

“Yes, he did.” A coldness settled around Emily’s heart and in her stomach. She and Gabe were both at fault for this, and she was as much to blame as Gabe for trying to control the situation. Maybe more so.

“How could he have known?”

“He knew.”

Despite the distance between them, Gabe saw the glitter of unshed tears, heard the regret in her words. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. “Emma, that doesn’t answer my question.” Very slowly, very carefully, he repeated, “How could he have known?”

“I’m so sorry, Gabe,” she whispered, and paused, pressing her lips together the way people did when they
didn’t want to cry. Her chin quivered and one fat tear slid down her cheek and rolled off her jaw.

For the first time in his life Gabe’s knees actually buckled. He put his hands on the table to steady himself, her silence killing him. He didn’t yell, but his words blasted her nonetheless. “
How could he know?
”

“Because he gave me the dog tag before he died!” she shouted, losing the battle with her tears, hating him for making her say it like this, hating herself all over again for having left Patrick. “Do you get it now, Gabe? I left him alone in that farmhouse. With no one to hold his hand or tell him it was going to be all right. I was too much of a coward to stay. He sent me here because I had nowhere else to go, and he was dying.”

Gabe sucked in a breath and let it out slowly as he rocked back and forth over the pool table, trying to control the pain that burned its way to the spot in his soul where he kept his feelings for Patrick. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be. Not Patrick. Not this way. And then the iron grip he normally had on his emotions deserted him as he realized that the funeral had come and gone, and he hadn’t been there to say good-bye.

Picking up the eight ball, he tested its weight and flung it at the wall, not caring that Emily flinched and ducked. Plaster cracked and shattered under the impact, dusting the floor with white powder. The ball hit the floor hard with a deadened thump and rolled to a stop beside Wart, who lay on the scattered papers, his ears flattened.

Without another word Gabe walked away and stared out the window at the light snow drifting down.

Frightened more of the silence than of his anger,
Emily wrapped her arms around her midriff, uncertain what to say, wishing she could change what had happened. The pain on Gabe’s face was almost more than she could bear, especially now that she knew him, knew his past. Patrick had been his brother.
Chosen
, not blood, but family all the same. She understood that now, but it was too late to undo the damage.

“I was afraid you’d want revenge,” she explained softly, knowing something had to be said. “I was afraid you’d use me as bait to get it.”

Gabe didn’t turn away from the window. “So you used me instead.”

“I didn’t have a choice!”

“Everyone has a choice, Emma.”

“Two days ago I didn’t know you any more than you knew me. I had no way of telling whether you’d honor a promise to a dead man. I was terrified. For God’s sake, someone was trying to kill me!
I didn’t know you
. You were just a name, somewhere to run.”

When Gabe finally looked at her, a fresh wave of loss swamped him. He could count the people he cared about on two fingers. One of them was dead, and the other was explaining in great detail what he already knew. She saw him as a protector, someone to get her through the crisis. Someone to leave behind when it was all over.

He was going to lose her, and that hurt. He cared about Emma. Not as a protector, but from somewhere deep inside, and he hated it. Because to her he was just somewhere to run.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she said in a rush.

“Sure you did.” His smile was cold and his eyes hot.
“You meant it exactly like that. And you’re right. My job is to stand between you and the bad guys and catch the bullets.”

“Maybe at first, but it’s not like that anymore. I—”

“I don’t want to hear it, and I don’t have time to argue with you.”

“Gabe—”

He cut her off again. “If the killer is a deputy marshal, he has access to everything. He’s looking at everything, picking apart every detail. He’ll figure the fax out eventually. Patrick’s dead and you’re missing.” His voice got louder with every word. “That damned fax might as well be a map of Washington with a great big arrow pointing here!”

“I didn’t send it!” she yelled back. “You did!”

The accusation hung in the air between them.

“Go away, Emma,” he said when he had control of himself again. “Just get the hell away from me for a while and let me think. I’ve got a lot to do before tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“We’re leaving.” He didn’t make any attempt to break the news to her gently. He didn’t care anymore. “We’d leave now, but it would cause too much talk if the bar were closed tonight. They’d start looking for us. If we leave tomorrow morning, we’ll be gone a good twelve hours before anyone knows we’ve left.”

“We? You’d go with me?”

“Until you’re safe. And let’s get one thing straight. I owe Patrick, not you.”

Emily didn’t argue; she couldn’t. There wasn’t much fight left inside her. Intending to leave him alone so he
could grieve for Patrick in private, she walked toward the stairs. But something made her pause before she went down. Over her shoulder she said, “Let’s keep
everything
straight. I owe Patrick
and
you. Whether you like it or not.”

She didn’t expect a response, and she didn’t wait for one. She just wanted to get away from Gabe as much he wanted her away. All the pressure of the past five days concentrated at the center of her chest, crushing the air out of her lungs. The world was closing in, taking away what little freedom she had.

Gabe was wrong about everyone having choices. She didn’t. People didn’t think when they ran. They just ran until someone stopped them or until they couldn’t run anymore.

Right now she felt trapped in some violent chess game. Not a pawn, but a worthless queen who watched from her ivory tower while the real pawns—like Patrick—sacrificed themselves for her. They died, and she was responsible.

Telling Gabe should have erased some of the guilt she carried around, but it hadn’t. The pain in his eyes—that one moment of denial before acceptance—had been almost more than she could stand. Then there were all the questions he didn’t ask—ones that would have hurt too much to answer. Eventually he’d ask about Patrick’s last words. And she’d have to relive it.

Emily wandered through the quiet bar, wanting to scream, wanting to push out all the anger and fear and hurt that had accumulated inside her. It was too much to carry around. Way too much. Her hands curled into fists as she realized that what she really wanted to do
was have Gabe put his arms around her and tell her that everything would be okay. She wanted his strength so badly, she ached.

Knowing she had to do something to release the tension, she decided to take a walk. She couldn’t stand the waiting anymore. Yeah, a walk would be good, she told herself. Right now it didn’t matter that a walk was dangerous, that somebody might be out there. Anything would be better than waiting. Somehow she couldn’t manage to care that someone wanted to kill her. Nothing could be worse than the betrayal she saw in Gabe’s eyes, or the guilt in her own heart for leaving Patrick.

Emily grabbed Gabe’s coat, which was thrown over the bar, and then she saw the skates. The decision was easy. Really no decision at all. There would be no one to watch her, no one to judge her. There would be only the ice and Emily Quinn.

Ice was the one thing in her life she could control.

Gabe leaned against the pool table for a long time after Emma went downstairs. Finally he picked up the eight ball, rubbing his thumb over the surface. With a smooth motion he put some spin on it and sent it gliding across the green felt. The ball curved as though guided by a targeting computer and slid gracefully into the far corner pocket.

“We were pretty good at pool, buddy.” Patrick wasn’t in the room, but it didn’t matter. “And gin. We were good at that game, too, as I recall. Good at both of ’em.” Gabe smiled. “Until we tried
drinking
gin and
playing pool. That combination didn’t work out too well.”

Gabe frowned. Emma didn’t work out too well either. She’d already gotten Patrick killed and was doing her level best to destroy him or at least the part he guarded most carefully—his heart. Angrily he sent another ball spinning into a pocket.

When had she stolen past his defenses? What was it about her that made him want what he couldn’t have? Why her and not the other women he’d known? Even now, despite the anger and loss, he felt a need to grab hold of her, as if holding her would make some of the pain at Patrick’s death go away. When his arms were around her, Emma created an anchor for his soul.

And he hated that.

As much as he needed to blame her for his vulnerability, Emma wasn’t responsible, not entirely. The six-year-old boy inside him deserved most of the credit. That boy had spent his life trying to earn love with one outrageous deed after another.

He’d gotten attached to Emma because old habits were hard to break. She had needed him; he volunteered to be the hero. The reality was you couldn’t make someone love you. You couldn’t control love. You weren’t loved because you were worthy.

Thank God, he realized that before he made the mistake of falling all the way in love with her. If he kept his distance, he’d be fine. Unfortunately, keeping his distance required controlling his emotions. How could he do that, when the anger was still there, right on the surface?

Beneath the anger was another layer of emotion, one
that was also hot and intense. And just as dangerous. No, the second emotion was
more
dangerous. Anger he could control. Passion had no master.

Wart rubbed against his leg, offering support. Gabe hunkered down and let his fingers sink into the cat’s fur. “What the hell are we going to do?” Wart purred loudly. “Yeah, I know. Do the job. Stop wanting. Stop feeling. I know the drill. I just don’t know if I can do it this time.”

The bar was empty when he walked down. He called her name, surprised that she wasn’t visible. When she didn’t answer, he quickly checked the back and the rest room. Coming up empty forced a curse from him. And so did the fact that his coat was gone.

No, he told himself, refusing to consider the obvious. She didn’t take off. She didn’t run. She wasn’t that stupid.

But she was that scared
. Scared people did stupid things all the time. Add to the fear the fact that they’d both been hurt and angry and ready to explode.

Then Gabe noticed the skates were gone too.

“You wouldn’t,” he whispered. But he knew she had. Marsha Jean had planted that seed well. The pond was an easy walk. A couple of miles. Deserted, shielded from the road by trees.

Gabe hit the door at a dead run, not bothering to grab another coat. He didn’t plan to be gone long, just long enough to throw Emma into the truck and drag her back to where he could protect her. Despite his whispered encouragement, the engine decided to play hard to get all of a sudden. On the fourth crank and the first threat, it finally roared to life. Gabe kicked it into
reverse and engaged the heater, cursing Emma with every breath.

He didn’t know how long she’d been gone. Anything could happen. The damned ice on the lake could crack. That ankle could give out; she could fall. A trip to the hospital would be disastrous at this point. The worst-case scenario was that they’d been found already. That someone had been watching, waiting for an opportunity to dispose of her quietly and without witnesses.

That possibility was too real. Gabe refused to consider it. It didn’t matter anyway. When he got his hands on her he was going to kill her. Or do something else equally foolish.

The truck flew down the road, skidding as he hit the brakes to make the sharp turnoff for the pond. It was a couple of hundred yards back from the road. The place was as deserted as Marsha Jean promised. Not a vehicle or a house in sight. Twenty or thirty trees dotted the bank around a small amoeba-shaped pond. An indistinct path wound its way down the slope into the trees.

Gabe shut off the engine and scanned the area, finding what he looked for almost immediately. Emma sat on a fallen log at the edge of the pond. She’d already shed his coat and was lacing up the skates, oblivious of his arrival. And just as oblivious of anyone else’s approach. Relief suddenly took a backseat to anger. How did the woman expect to stay alive if she kept making herself a target?

Grimly Gabe slipped out of the truck, about to yell. As soon as she took the ice, his words evaporated under the weight of her need. Every ounce of concentration she had was centered downward. She had ignored her
own safety and slogged two miles in snow to get to this pond. Gabe didn’t know what the ice could give her, but he knew he couldn’t stop her. Not yet.

He checked the road a second time, and then reached for the blanket beneath the seat. He wrapped it around his shoulders and waited for his first real glimpse of Emily Quinn. Shaking his head, he realized she was more cautious on the ice than off. She inspected every inch of the surface—despite Marsha Jean’s assurances that it was rock solid.

Once she was comfortable, she adjusted to the feel of the ice quickly, executing showy little turns and skating backward. Gabe kept one eye on the road and one on her. He knew the faded black stretch pants covered the pair of longjohns he’d lent her that morning. His yellow sweater was layered over a couple of T-shirts for warmth. She had on his gloves, and he found that small intimacy sexier than he could explain.

God, she was graceful, he thought as he watched her. Every movement perfected by a lifetime of practice. Even in hand-me-down clothes and borrowed skates she etched poetry into the ice. Several times she performed bits of complicated, obviously choreographed routines, gathering speed, and building up to something. But then she’d just stop. Unexpectedly sad for her, Gabe realized she couldn’t finish the routines because she couldn’t jump. He wondered what she’d been like before the accident.