Make Mine a Marine (57 page)

"Em…" Her shortened name in that raspy baritone did funny things to her feminine psyche. Like wish she'd stopped to put on regular shoes with her jeans and sweater instead of fuzzy blue slippers.

"C'mon," she insisted. With wary obedience, he slipped off his gloves and jacket and placed them in her free hand. "If your boots are wet, take them off and leave them on the front rug."

He obeyed her second command with a little less reluctance. When he traipsed down the hall behind her, she noted how very silent his movements were. She wouldn't have known he was there, except for the uncanny awareness she had of his presence.

"You can wait in here." She went into the study and set the folder on her desk. "Make yourself comfortable. I need to check on Kerry. Then I'll be back."

She watched the slow movement of his mouth as he formed words that seemed unfamiliar to those flat, male lips. "Thank you."

Emma tucked his jacket through the crook of her arm, turned, and barreled into a pint-sized dynamo in a pink flannel nightgown. She snatched Kerry by the shoulders to keep from knocking her to the floor. "Sweetie, you're supposed to be in bed. I said I'd come up."

Without conscious thought, she positioned herself between her guest and her daughter, blocking him from view. But Kerry peeked around her mother and smiled as if she'd spotted Santa Claus. "Faith wants him to r-read us a story."

"Kerry Doreen—“

"Please." The pitifully long wail almost negated the irresistible wish in Kerry's bright blue eyes.

But using the tools at her disposal, she stepped aside, giving her daughter a clear view of the tall, lean man in a black ribbed sweater and jeans. Hopefully, Gallagher would take the hint and say something to end the little crush Kerry seemed to have on her rescuer. And surely even he possessed enough class to let her down kindly.

He hooked his thumbs into his front pockets and shrugged his shoulders. "Sorry, punkin. I don't know how to read stories."

Emma flashed him a smile of thanks, but his focus dropped to the waist-high girl who frowned up at him. "Y-you can't read?" She tugged on her mother's hand. "Then I n-need t-to read to him, so he can go to s-s-sleep."

Seven-year-old compassion stumped both adults.

Gallagher found his voice first. "I can read. I read a lot, in fact. I just don't know how to read to, um, little girls."

Kerry's bottom lip pouted outward along with a sigh of relief. She took his hand and pulled him toward the sofa. "It's oh-k-kay, I'll show you."

Held captive, he glanced over his shoulder, a look of distress widening his eyes. He mouthed the words, "I can't," to her mother. But Kerry sat him down, turned on the reading lamp, planted Angelica on his lap, and covered his legs with the lavender blanket, all the while giving instructions like a patient schoolteacher.

If she noticed the awkward confusion of either adult, she paid no attention.

"I'll, um, put on some coffee. Decaf," Emma added, as if the most amazing idea had come to her. In actuality, she'd never been at such a loss to explain Kerry's instant allegiance to Drew Gallagher.  "Since it's so late," she explained to no one. The other two had already tuned her out—her daughter from excitement and purpose, and Gallagher…

A slight smile tilted the corners of her mouth. The man had faced down a kidnapper with a gun, Brodie Maxwell when his temper was riled, and herself in prime defensive mode. Yet she'd never seen this burnished man of mystery with such a look of consternation on his face as when Kerry climbed up into his lap and snuggled beneath the blanket with him.

Tamping down her natural instinct to protect her daughter from any slight or rejection, Emma slipped from the room. Kerry's unique combination of intellectual curiosity and her struggle to express herself clearly required a great deal of patience. Some adults, like the guide at the museum yesterday, patronized her. They listened and nodded their heads without really hearing what she had to say.

But Emma gave Gallagher credit. Patience seemed to be one virtue he had in abundant supply. And though he claimed ineptitude at dealing with children, she placed a shaky trust in him to protect her precious girl.

Staying occupied, she prepped the coffee and tidied up the kitchen. More than fifteen minutes passed before her daughter’s silence registered. Sudden alarm blended with the guilt of dropping her guard and propelled her out of the kitchen at a run.

The even cadence of Gallagher's raspy voice had taken over from the halting rhythm of Kerry's reading as he learned the lesson that the main requirement in reading a book to a child was simply an interest in spending time with the child. The mesmerizing sound had lulled Emma into thinking she'd left her daughter in safe hands.

Emma skidded on the polished oak floor and stumbled to an embarrassing stop on the navy-and-mauve area rug that covered most of the floor in the study. She breathed in deeply through her nose so as not to further disturb the angelic picture of Kerry's dark head snoring softly beneath Drew Gallagher's chin.

He rested one hand on her back and clutched the book in the other. His green eyes looked disoriented through the lenses of his glasses. "I didn't know if you wanted me to let her sleep, or if it was okay to wake her by moving."

Emma's distress ebbed as her breathing caught and jump-started again at the evocative contrast of his blond head so close to Kerry's dark one. Kerry's long hair had snagged on the nubby wool of his sweater and fanned out across his shoulder. She seemed so tiny and delicate, curled against his chest and torso, cradled awkwardly yet with infinite care in the crook of his arm.

Gallagher slipped into so many roles so easily, it seemed. Although this had been an unexpected challenge, he'd pulled off storytelling with expert ease. Emma wondered what other parts he could play with the same finesse. She felt heat in her cheeks, wondering what role, if any, he might play with her beyond tonight. Thankfully, the lone lamp that was on kept her reaction to this softer side of Drew hidden in the shadows.

"Looks like you handled story time just fine." She seized the opportunity to make an exit, needing time to bury those unwanted speculations about her guest. "I'll get her up to bed."

She reached for her daughter as Drew stood and started to hand her over. Kerry mumbled something in her sleep about a princess and rolled into a ball, seeking the warmth that had abandoned her.

"She's dead weight," he whispered. "Let me carry her."

Emma tucked Angelica into Kerry's arms and caressed the crown of her head, gently shushing her when she blinked unfocused eyes at her. "It's all right, sweetie. We're taking you to bed."

"'Kay. G'night."

Once more, Gallagher moved with silent footfalls behind her. Emma peeked over her shoulder going up the stairs, and she marveled at his sinewy strength and his handling of her little girl with such gentleness and respect.

She glided into Kerry's room and turned the lamp beside the bed to its lowest wattage, bathing the room in a gentle glow. She straightened the covers and then folded them back. Gallagher leaned in front of her, placing Kerry on the bed. Inches away, right at eye-level, the knit of Drew's sweater strained with the jut of his shoulder. In one fluid movement, the tension there eased and he straightened.

Graceful strength.

An unbidden image of his arms closing around her with that same controlled power quickened Emma's pulse. The last time she'd been held by a man with any purpose beyond a fond greeting or farewell had been the morning Jonathan left. He'd kissed her for an embarrassing length of time, loving to make her blush, drawing her in close, holding her tightly, securely, tenderly.

That was her last embrace.

She missed being held. She missed being able to surrender her strength.

Drew Gallagher made her want to surrender.

Traitor!
The accusation drummed in her head and branded her heart with a capital T. Shocked by her disloyal turn of thought, Emma darted to the opposite side of the bed.

She tucked the comforter around Kerry, kissed her forehead and fled out the door without another glance at her dangerous guest. In a way, by inviting him into her home and allowing him to spend time with them, she'd made the subconscious decision that health-wise, virtue-wise, he wasn't a dangerous man—not to little girls, at least.

But he rattled Emma's sense of composure. He made her think things she had no right thinking. She hadn't wanted a man since Jonathan.

She wanted this one.

As she reached the kitchen, five long fingers wrapped around her elbow and pulled her up short. "Whoa. Did I do something wrong?" His voice held a note of accusation.

My God. She hadn't heard him coming, hadn't suspected he would come after her. Emma squared her shoulders and turned. She bit the inside seam of her lips to keep her confusion from spilling out. "Nothing's wrong."

The clench of her jaw made her lie obvious. A hard glint replaced the fuzzy focus behind his glasses. He released her arm but moved no further.   "Maybe I've overstayed my welcome."

"No." Her cowardly attempt to escape her own thoughts had sent him back into that chilling isolation of his own. He didn't understand. She couldn't explain her sudden need to throw up the iron walls that protected her so well. She couldn't be interested in this man. She shouldn't care that she had hurt him by living up to his expectation that she wouldn't trust him.

And she would not let reawakened hormones stop her from conducting business. "I want to know what you found out about Stan Begosian. Why you think it would be of interest to me."

His cat eyes studied her face, the eyes of a caged predator deciding whether to obey its keeper or seize the chance to escape.

She stood straight and still beneath his scrutiny.

At last he shrugged and stepped away, breaking the tension that had sucked the usable air from the room. "All right. Business it is. We won't make mention of whatever just happened here."

Emma's chest heaved in a cleansing breath, glad for the reprieve. "Business," she repeated with gratitude. "Here." Forcing herself to behave normally, she crossed to the counter and poured coffee into the two mugs she'd set out earlier. She held one out to Drew. "Black, right?"

"Right."

He took the mug and their fingers touched, burning her from the inside out. Remembering the way a man liked to drink his coffee was simply a matter of good memory and polite etiquette, she reminded herself. It was a tactic she often used with clients and co-workers. So why couldn't she calm those intimate little stirrings at the pit of her stomach?

She snatched her hand away and reached for her own mug. "We'd better get started. It's ten o'clock."

"Lead on, Macduff."

His quote surprised her. Maybe he hated the strain between them as much as she did. A touch of sarcasm might be the right antidote for the tension that assailed them. "Well, at least you're not calling me Lady Macbeth."

"Not yet."

Emma spun around, a cutting remark poised on the tip of her tongue. But the hint of humor quirking the corner of his mouth stole her need to even the score.

Emma pressed her lips together to keep from sharing his smile. Most men respected her business acumen. They played hardball, or they walked a wide berth around a woman who controlled as much money and power as she did at LadyTech.

They didn't tease her.

They didn't make her feel soft and silly and feminine.

They weren't supposed to, at any rate. She'd have to send Drew a memo on those rules. She'd better send a copy to herself, too.

She turned, fighting her treacherous longings by pretending they didn't exist.

Drew's husky laughter tormented her conscience all the way into the study.

* * *

Drew's mood darkened as the hour passed. He’d read the disk from Begosian while Emma pored over the file from the D.A.'s office. The Journal of James Moriarty proved to be enlightening, if not entertaining, reading.

The fictional account of Sherlock Holmes's nemesis chronicled an amazing tale of the villain's rebirth. The disclaimer on the first page said the author had chosen that name after reading a collection of short stories and discovering a unique affinity for the brilliant-minded character.

Maybe the length of the day made him edgy and suspicious, but the similarity to his own rebirth from the pages of fiction rang an eerie bell in Drew's limited memory. The sporadic journal began exactly five years ago—the length of time Emma said her husband had been missing.

The length of his own memory.

He pushed his fingers up under his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes.

"Pretty dull stuff, huh?" Emma's throaty voice settled over his nerves like a soothing caress. His body woke to the sound with a healthy response that overrode his train of thought.

Here in her own home, she'd lost her executive veneer. She wore her hair down, a cascade of deep brown velvet that looked as fine and soft as Kerry's. In her jeans and those silly fuzzy slippers, curled up on the sofa studying the report, she reminded him of a college coed.