Hot As Sin (7 page)

“Who the hell are you, Emma? And who’s after you? The truth this time, and keep in mind that it’s bad form to lie to a man who’s willing to risk his life for you.”

“I haven’t asked you to risk your life,” she pointed out stiffly. “Whatever you’re doing, you’re doing because you owe Patrick, not me.”

“Dead is dead,” Gabe informed her coldly. “It doesn’t much matter who you died for or why.” He walked back toward the bed. “Face some facts, darlin’. You can run, but you can’t vanish in a puff of smoke with forty-eight cents. I’m flat broke myself, so we’re going to have to build you a new set of paper the hard way, and it’s going to take some time. Time means you stay here. As long as you’re here, that puts me in the line of fire.”

“No one knows I’m here except Patrick. I covered my tracks. No one can find me.”

“You better hope so.” He leaned down to make his next point, to make sure she heard every word. “
If
your nightmare finds you before you can disappear, he’ll put”—Gabe made a gun out of his thumb and index finger and put it against her temple—“a bullet in your pretty little head.” He paused, and then pulled the trigger. “
Bang!
And begging him won’t save you.”

Gabe waited for her to tell him that he was exaggerating. She didn’t. He removed his hand and paced a few
steps. The deep breath he took was audible in the quiet that had descended on the room like a pall.

“I hate it when I’m right,” he quipped, but there was no humor in his comment. “But since I am, let me point out that right now the only thing between you and his bullet is me. So I’m sure you’ll understand that I’d like to know a little more about the man pulling the trigger!”

For a long time Emily just stared at her hands, which were folded neatly in her lap. Her first impulse had been to tell him everything and ask him to take over since she needed all the help she could get. No matter how much she wanted to believe that she’d covered her tracks, the possibility existed that she hadn’t. They found her at a government safe house. They could find her here.

As long as she stayed, his life was in danger. She didn’t want to be responsible for anyone else’s life.

Throwing off the covers, Emily slid out of bed. She flashed a fair amount of leg and probably a cheek before the back of the shirt drifted down. That was no big deal. Her skating costumes had shown as much or more.

“Thanks for the meal and the shower. But I’m not ready to play show-and-tell, so I’ll get out of here. Out of your way. And then you won’t be in danger.”

Gabe had no intention of letting Emma walk out the door, even if he had to detain her bodily. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Emily faltered at the soft menace in his voice. He was a dark gray shadow by the window, a partially concealed predator daring his prey to make one wrong move, but she refused to be intimidated.

“Hide and watch, Gabriel. I’ve made it this far. I’ll manage somehow.”

“Your clothes are wet, and it’s freezing outside.” He noted the obvious excuses as if she were a simpleton who couldn’t figure out how to use an electric clothes dryer or be trusted with sharp objects.

“Thanks for the weather report. I’ll bundle up.”

Emily found the kitchen light switch by trial and error while he watched from across the room. Simultaneously she flipped on the light and pulled up the washer lid. Despite his threat, he made no move to stop her, but she could feel his disapproval like a third presence in the room.

Frowning, Gabe watched Emma fish out the nun’s habit and some scraps of red lace. This was the woman he’d seen only glimpses of, the one who took her whiskey neat and made no excuses. A good meal and a few hours of sleep before the nightmare had made her spirit immeasurably stronger. Of course almost anything would have been an improvement over the desperate woman who walked into his bar.

Emily tossed her underwear and the dress in the dryer as quickly as she could, and set the dial. “Polyester dries real fast. I ought to be out of your hair in about twenty minutes.”

“I don’t care how fast polyester or even silk underwear dries,” he said as he joined her by the dryer. The red flannel shirt was unbuttoned and hung loose at his sides, the sleeves rolled up a couple of times. His T-shirt hinted at the hard muscles beneath it, and one hand was flattened against his abdomen. The turquoise ring and
the silver chain bracelet were back on his hand and wrist.

“Emma, you’re not going anywhere until I’m satisfied.”

“Satisfied about what?” she demanded, trying not to stare at his chest but not wanting to risk eye contact either.

“That you can take care of yourself.”

“I’ve done all right so far.”

“Have you?” he asked with deadly calm. “Because it doesn’t look like it from where I’m standing.”

She glared up at him. “Then maybe you need to back off.”

Big words for such a small lady, Gabe thought. Although sorely tempted, he didn’t point out that she lacked the muscle to support her mouth. Nor did he mention that she was the one who’d come begging for help in the first place. Instead, he walked to the fridge and grabbed a two-liter Coke bottle. It was the closest thing to caffeine he could get his hands on at the moment, and he needed some time to think.

Without bothering to offer her any, he uncapped the soda, upended the plastic bottle, and chugged the cold liquid, relishing the carbonation burn as it slid down his throat. When he finished, he carefully screwed the cap back on. Still undecided about what to do, he put the soda away and closed the refrigerator. He leaned a forearm against the cool door, hooked an index finger in his front pocket, and studied her. She hadn’t moved from her guard-dog position by the dryer.

“Nope,” he said. “Distance didn’t help a bit. I backed off and you still look like something Wart
dragged in and spit out on the rug. Darlin’, you’re definitely on the pale side.”

Stung by his criticism, she said, “People
expect
nuns to be pale.”

“But you’re not a nun, now, are you? And you’re dead broke. Do you mind telling me how you plan to eat regular if you walk out that door with no credit cards and no money?”

“The same way everyone else does. I’ll get a job.”

“Got a résumé? References? Skills?”

Yeah, I have a million-dollar face
, Emily thought, but managed not to say it out loud. Endorsement contracts weren’t going to do her a bit of good when she stopped being Emily Quinn and became someone else.

“That’s what I thought,” Gabe said when she didn’t answer. “No skills. Well, you didn’t look like the handy type.”

“And exactly what is the handy type?”

“Not you. You’re too smooth, too cared for.” He stared at her painted toes and ran his eyes slowly up the length of her legs.

Emily felt uncomfortable even though she’d been looked at by men for most of her life. Skimpy skating costumes left little to the imagination, and she’d gotten over being shy about her body a long time ago, but the way Gabe looked at her was different. It was personal. He wasn’t looking at the skater, he was looking at her. Wherever his gaze lingered she felt warm, touched.

“When I thought you were a nun,” he said, “the way you looked fooled me. I thought you had this delicate, nunlike quality about you. But that was before I got a good look at your body.”

To her chagrin, she felt her nipples harden as his inspection stopped just below her shoulders. She clenched her teeth to keep from fidgeting. Good Lord! How could he do this to her from across the room?

“Emma darlin’, you look like you’ve spent more time in the gym than you have on the job.”

An indignant huff escaped her. He’d handed her a compliment and a complaint in the same breath. “I like to keep in shape.”

He shifted to lean against the counter instead of the refrigerator and folded his arms. “Okay, so you work out. Have you ever worked?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact, I have,” she snapped. Ice skating was hard, grueling even. But his insinuation that she might be lazy wasn’t the reason for her anger. Emily was angry because he could make her body respond without touching her, without asking her permission. Although she shouldn’t be surprised. This was just one more area of her life over which she didn’t have control.

“Maybe you’ve worked,” he allowed. “But do you know what it’s like to be the least important employee in the company? To clean toilets? Punch a clock? To have someone telling you what to do every minute? Because that’s the only kind of job you can get without references.”

Emily almost laughed, and a bitter smile lingered on her lips. Without realizing it, he’d stumbled on the two things she knew better than anything else—hard work and letting someone else run her life. She’d worked with blisters and bruises, sore tendons and muscle pulls. She’d worked twelve-hour days, seven days a week, fifty-two
weeks a year. And every second she had someone telling her how she could do it better.

“Do you think you can do that, Emma?”

“Oh, I think I can manage. I’ve had people telling me when to breathe for twenty years.” She resented his attitude, so much that she didn’t stop to censor her words as she set him straight. “Punching a clock is no different from having to be at a rink at five in the morning, and I can’t imagine a boss any harder to please than my coaches were.”

“Coaches?” Gabe pushed away from the counter, suddenly interested. “Rink?”

Emily caught her breath at her mistake, and the sound of her distress only made her slip more glaring. She could see the wheels turning in Gabe’s mind.

“Twenty years is more than a job,” Gabe said slowly. “In the navy it’s a career. You must have started young and been pretty good to have lasted so long at … skating, was it?”

“Excuse me.” Like a coward, Emily headed for the bathroom and shut the door on his questions.

Left standing alone in the kitchen after Emma’s vanishing act, Gabe resisted the urge to haul her out of the bathroom. Instead, he walked to the living room area and sank down in the chair that faced the bathroom. While he waited for Emma’s reappearance, he searched his mind for the information he wanted.

The closest he got to sports was pool—eight ball, to be precise. Simple rules. One man, one stick, and sink the eight ball last. A simple game and one he understood, unlike ice skating, about which he didn’t have a clue.

He shut his eyes and concentrated. The only names he had a prayer of remembering were Olympic gold medalists. If she hadn’t won a gold, it was pretty hopeless. On the other hand, if she hadn’t won a gold, she wouldn’t be famo—

Gabe’s eyes snapped open. Not Emma.
Emily. Emily Quinn
.

The only thing he could recall about her was that she had a bunch of world championships and had never won an Olympic gold medal. “Always a bridesmaid, never a bride” was how Skeeter Daniel put it.

Some sailors chose
Playboy
models, but not Skeeter. He was an odd little fellow from Minnesota—an expert marksman and jumper who had a real talent for blowing up things. He followed ice skating in general, and Emily Quinn in particular. Thank God for Skeeter, Gabe thought, otherwise he never would have matched Emily Quinn with Emma’s face.

And if he figured it out, then someone else sure as hell would, he reminded himself grimly. Even in a tiny speck of a town like this one.
They might have already
.

Dredging up memories, he tried to compare the woman in his bathroom with Emily-the-Ice-Princess. He remembered looking at the cover of a
Sports Illustrated
that Skeeter had lying around, but there wasn’t the connection to her that he felt tonight.

Because she didn’t need you then
.

As much as he hated it, being needed was a drug to him, an addiction that had been nurtured by repetition over the years. He was addicted to the instant connection forged between people in crisis. Even though he
knew all too well that the bond would fade, and he’d be forgotten once the crisis was over.

Somehow, explaining away his attraction to Emma as a conditioned response felt safer than admitting the woman got to him on a more basic level.

While Gabe sat waiting, dawn came sneaking into the room like a coward. Gabe hated dawn and dusk. Too many shades of gray. He liked his world black or white. That’s what bothered him about Emma. She had too many shades of gray.

When his bathroom door finally opened, Emma walked into the room wearing the pair of jogging pants he had hanging on the back of the door. They puddled on top of her feet and she held the edge of the waist as if she weren’t sure the drawstring was tight enough. She didn’t look like much of a threat to anyone.
What on earth have you done to get yourself into this mess, Emma?

“I was cold.” She tugged on the pants. “Hope you don’t mind.”

He tilted his head toward the other chair. “I mind a lot. But not about the pants. Take a load off,
Miss Quinn
. Or should that be Mrs.?”

She blanched at the sound of her last name, but sat down. “No.”

“Good.” Gabe leaned up in the chair and braced his elbows on his knees. He clasped his hands together and gave her a look that brooked no refusal. He was done playing games. “Tell me.”

“Where do you want me to start?” Emily asked.

“Let’s start with how you know Patrick.”

She tried not to tense up, but he began with the question she was least prepared to answer. She forced herself to meet his gaze and not look away while she told as much of the truth as possible. “He was assigned to me for a while.”

“You’re a witness.” It was a statement, not a question. He could have been conducting a military debriefing for all the emotion he showed in his face.

“Not anymore.”

“But you were.”

“Yeah. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’m in this mess because I saw a man put a gun in a trash can.”

“Explain.”

“It’s like corroborating evidence. I didn’t see him pull the trigger, but I can place him at the scene with the murder weapon in his hand. Afterward the marshals
said it was one in a million. The hit man had one of those plastic guns you can get through X ray. The marshals told me the hit was supposed to be done in the men’s room; seems the victim
always
made a detour into the bathroom before boarding a plane.”