Make Mine a Marine (60 page)

"I always do."

Drew crunched the truck into gear. "Buckle it now!"

* * *

Emma obeyed the steel in his command without immediately understanding the urgency. The squeal of tires grabbing for traction on the wet pavement caught her attention an instant before Drew stomped his foot on the accelerator and she slammed back into the seat.

The black vinyl headrest saved her from a nasty case of whiplash. "What…?"

A faded brown Chrysler sped out of the parking lot, cut in front of another car and skipped into the second lane of traffic. Drew spun his truck in two opposite ninety-degree angles, tossing her first into his shoulder, then back against the door. He ignored the clear path of the exit ramp and jumped his truck over the decorative berm that surrounded the restaurant's grounds.

"Hold on."

"Drew!" She gripped the dashboard and shoved her hand above her head to brace herself against the teeth-jarring ride.

"That little weasel," Drew muttered to himself.

Ignoring the whining echo of numerous car horns, he, too, cut across traffic and fell in behind the brown car at a climbing speed already well beyond the thirty-five m.p.h. limit.

He wove in and out of the two northbound lanes of traffic, bounced over an alley curb and closed in on his prey. Since Drew came up with no answer to her unspoken question, Emma tried to put herself into his position. She traced the line of his unblinking gaze and zeroed in on the object of his pursuit.

What she saw shifted her bewilderment from Drew to the driver of the Chrysler. "I saw that car this morning. Behind me in traffic."

"Figures."

She dropped her grip on the ceiling, her body adjusting to the pitch and roll of the wild ride. "Who is it? Why are you chasing him?"

"Our friend Begosian. We're being spied on, lady." She snapped her attention to the thin slash of his mouth. The endearment sounded foreign in his voice. But the shock of hearing it stabbed a little less painfully this time. He clenched his face in a disgusted frown and cursed. "Sorry. Emma."

That he would correct himself to spare her pain eased a hurtful place inside. It was a tiny gesture, but its sheltering concern penetrated her defensive reserve, warming her like a hug. It was a silly coincidence to hold against him, anyway. How could he possibly know what Jonathan had called her?

"It's all right." She climbed out of her righteous shell and joined the chase. She untucked her shoulder from its harness and reached across his lap to find his seat belt. With her cheek pressed to his side, she felt the rapid intake of breath that expanded his rib cage. She inhaled the rich scent of leather and Drew, and knew a sudden strength, an energizing rightness to working side by side with this man. She sat up straight and pulled the belt across his legs and chest and buckled him in. "Don't lose him."

He threw her a quick, questioning look, and she spread her lips into a wry grin. "Can't help it. I'm a mom."

His answering smile gleamed with pride. "You're a trooper." All at once he jerked the steering wheel to the left. Emma leaned to the right to counterbalance the sensation of spinning on two wheels. "Whoa. Hold on!" he warned.

"Where's he going?"

Drew glanced to the side. "Ritzy part of town." Emma clutched her armrest and squeezed nervously. "There are a lot of pedestrians here."

"And even more places to hide." Drew jammed on the brake and cursed. His arm shot out, catching her in the stomach and saving her from crashing into the dashboard. "Move it!" he yelled through the windshield.

A red sports car sat perpendicular in front of the truck, having screeched to a halt inches away from a horrible wreck. The driver traded mute insults with Drew through his closed window. Emma sent up a quick prayer of thanks that no one had been hurt, then followed with an equally brief request for Begosian to run out of gas or drop a carburetor as she watched his sedan turn a corner and disappear from sight.

"Don't panic yet." Drew's voice returned to its low-pitched rasp. "That's a dead-end street. He's got to turn into a parking garage or pull into a nightclub at the end of the block."

"You're sure?"

The red car zipped into the flow of cars and Drew followed at a much safer speed. "Watch on your side," he directed, pulling into the parking garage to search for Stan's car.

"I don't see him."

When they exited back onto the street, Drew pulled into a parking space beside a gambling club with a garish neon sign that said
Lucky’s
. "Stay put," Drew commanded, setting the parking brake but leaving the engine running. He unzipped his jacket and reached inside. Despite the heater, Emma shivered when she glimpsed the shiny silver color of his gun.

"What are you going to do?"

He turned to her and squeezed her hand, kneading warmth into her fingers with his and dispelling the chill in her heart with the rasp of his voice "Since I don't see him climbing any rooftops, I'm assuming he went in there."

She looked at the crowd of people standing in line outside the spotlighted double doors, waiting to get in. "How will you find him in that mess?"

He brushed a tendril of hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear. The soft fingertips of his leather glove caressed her cheek, calmed her, and left a trail of unexpected warmth in their wake. "He thinks like a cockroach. I can think the same way.”

"What if he sees you first?"

"He won't."

A blast of cold air broke the spell that had her believing his confident words. But he was gone before she could voice her resurging doubts. She watched as his distinctive golden head merged with the line of patrons. Since he was a bit taller than most of them, she could still see him when he passed through to the other side. She watched his fluid progress until he disappeared around the corner of the building. A side door? she wondered. Think like a cockroach. Avoid the light and slink into the darkness.

She half praised him, half worried when she decided he must have a set of lock-picking tools on him. He'd be just fine, she told herself. She'd read that cockroaches had the survival skills necessary to survive a nuclear holocaust. Drew could survive this.

She gasped aloud when she saw one of the big, beefy bouncers leave his position at the front door and trail along the brick wall, following Drew's path. Her eyes widened to a painful circumference. Did roaches know when a trap had been set? How could she warn him? What should she do?

"Make it up as I go," she chided herself. She hid her purse beneath the seat, turned off the engine, and pocketed Drew's keys. She locked the truck behind her, draped her scarf over her ears, and plunged into the crowd.

Flying by the seat of her pants was not her style. She liked to plan. Even better, she liked to make a backup plan. She needed predictability. She craved security.

She peeked around the corner and saw nothing but darkness. The streetlight illuminated just the top floors of the building back here, enough to reveal that the brass lamp above the side door had burned out. She squinted into the dim shadows, searching for a sign of Drew or the bouncer.

"Hey!" The gruff voice came from the side, not ahead of her. Emma took advantage of the darkness and ducked into the shadows as the brawny security man shouted, not at her but at a cherubic-faced teenage girl trying not to be noticed from her place in line. The bouncer grabbed the girl by the arm and walked her to the curb. "Does your mama know where you are?" She shook her head. He whistled for a cab. "You gotta be twenty-one to get in here, babe. Go home."

A gloved hand clamped onto Emma's shoulder and dragged her back into the alley. A second hand muffled her startled yelp. She quickly recognized Drew's familiar scent and ceased to struggle, but his grip held firm. He half dragged, half carried her back through the propped side doorway.

Inside, a cacophony of music and the louder drone of conversation assaulted her ears. Her eyes adjusted to the light, and she could see they were in a storage area sectioned off by plywood walls and black curtains.

Drew kicked out the doorstop, pushed open the door, and pulled her into a partitioned cubby filled with crated bottles of liquor. He released her to pull the curtain shut behind them.

"Did you see the bouncer?" she whispered, giving voice to her concern. "I thought he spotted you. I thought I could distract him. That girl did instead. I hope she's okay."

Drew wrapped his hands around her shoulders and flattened her against the wall. His eyes glowed with an unearthly light through the lenses of his glasses, and she fell silent. The energy of his rage quaked through her bones.

"Damn it, Em. When I tell you to stay put, stay put."

Chapter
Five

Drew pressed Emma's shoulders into the wall, angry with her for failing to follow a simple direction and trust his judgment. Angry with himself for the swell of fear that had crashed through him when he saw her slender form silhouetted at the front of the alley. She wasn't waiting, snug and safe, half a block away. She was broadcasting his intention, and putting herself in the unwelcome position of breaking the law right along with him.

"The whole idea is for you to pay me to do the work." He whispered the terse reminder beside her ear. The scruff of his beard caught in her hair. He twisted his jaw to free himself, pulling the strands across his face, tangling him in their silken bonds and filling his nose with the unique scent of her. The soft jolt of spice and damp January air dissipated his anger like a gentle slap in the face.

In a heartbeat, the electric charge of danger mutated into the sensation of heated awareness. Had he stood this close to her last night? Was that why her scent seemed so familiar, why having her molded so snugly against him felt so right? "Your job is to stay in the background…so I don't worry about you."

Did that husky tremor echo from his own voice?

Her fingers dug into the suede collar of his jacket. The heels of her palms pushed against his chest, yet her clinging hands wouldn't let go. "I thought you were in trouble. I wanted to help." A shrug of uncertainty belied the ice in her voice. This instinctive physical and emotional attachment might not be one-sided, after all. "This is my investigation as much as yours. I have every right to be here."

He allowed her to put a few inches of distance between them, as confused by the mixed message of cold words and caring hands as she was. But he refused to release her entirely. "Not when it puts you in the line of fire," he said. He slipped his hands up to cup her face, smoothing back the tendrils of her long, dark hair. "Damn it, Em, I can take care of myself. You don't have to worry about me."

"But I do." Even in the shadowy absence of light, he imagined he could see her lush mouth trembling with the realization of what she had admitted. Those three words surprised, humbled, and touched him deep in a heart that had forgotten how to feel such things.

"Ah, Em." As if she could see in the dim recesses of the storage room, she moved her hand to his face and brushed the tips of her gloved fingers across his lips. The softness of the expensive leather made him wish for the softer touch of her skin. Her tender quest to touch, to explore, to comfort, eased a wounded place inside him. Her gentle petting teased the empty corners of his mind with a long-sought-for memory, a caring welcome that he had never known. Her concern, albeit misplaced, her healing touch, albeit unearned, reached deep into his heart, deeper into his soul and made him wish. Made him hope. Made him want something that shouldn't be his, something that rightfully belonged to another man.

But he wished, hoped for, and wanted Emma all the same.

Forgetting their purpose, forgetting their location, Drew caught the tip of her glove between his teeth and gave a gentle tug. He heard the whisper of the cashmere lining sliding against her skin. He closed his eyes to savor the sound like a caress to his ears. When her hand was freed, he pocketed her glove and pressed a kiss to her palm. She cupped his chin and rubbed her hand along the prickly stubble of his beard. The ragged catch in her breath vibrated through him. Without light to see her by, she was scent and sound, a feast for the senses.

And Drew was a hungry man.

His thighs crowded closer to hers, pinning her to the wall. Her hand rasped along his jaw until her long fingers tunneled into his hair, holding him close, welcoming him in a way he had longed for throughout five lonely years. He angled his mouth and grazed her cheek, supping the smooth dent of a dimple as he blazed a trail of touch and taste in search of her mouth.

"Drew." Her voice was a frantic plea—to stop this madness or to claim her, he couldn't tell which. He barely understood his own need to touch her, hold her, make her his own. He opened his mouth over hers, ready to taste her. Their breaths mingled. His senses quivered in anticipation—

A loud crash rattled the wall behind Emma. Drew felt the quake through her body an instant before he identified the sound of a door slamming in the next room. He cursed under his breath, his whole body protesting the intrusion on the stolen moment. He silenced her with a finger over her lips and attuned his hearing to the raised voices on the other side of the wall. She, too, went still, except for the rapid rise and fall of her chest brushing against his as she struggled to find her breath.

She wrapped her fingers around his hand and pulled it from her mouth, giving a quick nod to assure him she knew she must be silent.

Drew damned himself a thousand times over for putting her into this mess. But the tight grip she kept on his hand was the only outward sign to betray her fear. He squeezed her fingers in silent reassurance, ignoring the need still pounding through his body, and concentrating on the conversation in the office next door.

"What do you mean he spotted you?" An unknown voice snapped deep and clear through the thin walls. "I gave you a simple job. We can't afford another screw-up."

Drew felt Emma flinch at the harsh reprimand. He turned his thumb into her bare palm and massaged the tender skin there, urging her to stay calm.

He identified a second voice, shaky with fear and apology, as Stan Begosian's. "I couldn't get to her. He was there."

Drew assumed that
he
was the blockade in question. He felt the strain of a prolonged quiet as Emma dug her fingers into the sleeve of his jacket, crushing the leather in her fist.  She pressed herself along his arm and placed her lips at his ear. The stirring of her breath along the sensitive shell whipped through him like a gunshot, distracting him from the conversation next door. In an instant, he breathed easier, with a touch of regret, when he realized she wanted to whisper to him.

"I've heard that voice before."

"Who is it?"

"I'm not sure. It's too muffled through the wall. But the intonation, the rhythm of it, sounds familiar."

He angled his head, grazing his lips across her cheek as he sought her ear to whisper in return. "Think hard. If you recognize him, we might discover Moriarty sooner than you think."

Something thunked next door. Maybe the sound of bumping into a piece of furniture. Accidentally? Or was someone shoved?

Drew pressed his ear to the wall.

"He's with her all the time." Drew heard Stan's familiar whine. "Like she hired him. Maybe they're onto us. I could fly there myself. Send back some other clue for you to use."

Just what exactly was Stan up to now? Drew wondered.

"No, you idiot. That's not how the plan works." The voice of authority resonated with patronizing kindness. Drew wondered if Stan could hear the subtle threat woven into the bland tone. "I have other people in place who can do this job if you can't."

"She got the disk like you asked."

"With that private eye's help, not yours. Without the message, it's just a piece of the puzzle. A game without directions. I don't suppose she'll listen to any explanation from you now."

There was a silence, and then Begosian spoke again.  "So I won't get paid?"

"Did you say anything to her?"

"I can't even pronounce that place. How am I gonna tell Ms. Ramsey where it is? I failed geology in high school."

"The term is geography." A chair slid across the floor, and the wood creaked with the weight of a large man. Drew interpreted the beeping sound that followed as the punch of numbers on a phone. His instincts warned him that Stan should get out now. But sometimes a cockroach got caught in a trap.

"Aw, hell," Drew muttered, breaking his own silence and releasing himself from Emma's grip. He moved to the curtained doorway and hovered there, torn between the hunch that his best lead was about to be terminated and the responsibility to protect her from this grim side of life.

"Should we try to do something?" Her question was equally quiet. He wasn't surprised to feel the heat of her body as she crept up beside him. Whatever fear she had felt before receded behind her overriding desire to find out the truth.

"If I asked you to stay put, would you listen?" He asked the question, already suspecting her answer.

"You're not leaving me alone this time."  Her hushed determination made him smile.

Two sets of footsteps in the hallway propelled Drew back into the corner of the storage room, pushing Emma safely behind him. Without thinking, he'd made his decision. She came first. The job, her answers, and everything else landed a distant second. The newcomers stopped at the office door and entered.

The man in charge next door greeted them with a perfunctory recitation of names. "Roylott. Jackson. Why don't you give Mr. Begosian a ride home, like we discussed earlier."

"Don't bother," said Stan. "I got my car outside."

"It's no trouble. I'll have Jackson drive you in the limo."

"Yes, sir."

Drew strained to hear a name for the man giving the orders. A shuffling sound, maybe a halfhearted struggle on Stan's part, was the only response he heard.

Drew felt Emma squeeze his arm. But she kept her urgent voice hushed. "He's getting away."

Did she have any clue that Begosian might not be escaping at all? He freed himself from her fingers and slipped into the hallway. If luck was with him, he'd catch a name or face so that he could track Begosian's contact. He snuck up to the black curtain and peered through, but luck had abandoned him. He caught a glimpse of two well-dressed male backsides.  One man had a good grip on Stan, and they all disappeared through another curtain at the far end of the hall.

A crashing sound, followed by the tinkling of shattered glass and Emma's startled yelp, spun him around. "Em?"

An open box lay at her feet.  A puddle was already spreading on the floor around her. He smelled the tang of whiskey. She met his surprise with a frantic whisper. "I just wanted to get a look at the man with the voice. See if I knew him. I tripped. I didn't mean—"

"Who's there?" A sharp voice and hurried feet homed in on their hiding place. With a fateful destiny closing in on them and nowhere to run, Drew reached for Emma. Ignoring the opposing tug of her arm, he pulled harder and heard the crunch of glass beneath her boots as she toppled off balance and collided against his chest.

Still raw from their earlier embrace, Drew cinched his arms around her to still her struggles, and ignored both the stab of frustrated heat deep in his gut and the fist of guilt squeezing around his heart.

He brushed a cascade of hair off her face and caught it at her nape, holding her firmly in his grasp. He bent his head to the startled sigh that puffed between her lips. "You can call me every kind of bastard in the morning, but work with me here, okay?"

"What are you—"

He covered her mouth with his, driving the protest back down her throat. He tipped her head back and let his hair fall around their faces, shielding her startled blue eyes from view just as the curtain whisked to one side and light flooded the hallway.

Drew squinted against the sudden glare and pulled Emma tight, smoothing his hands up and down her back. He traced her long contours through the bulk of her coat, learning her shape and appreciating each curve and hollow he came in contact with.

And Emma was a quick study. She joined the charade, going slack and sinking into him. She wound her arms around his neck, further hiding their faces from the speculative eyes of their surprise visitor.

The feral moan that whimpered deep in her throat diverted him from the purpose of this kiss. He tore his mouth from hers and laved his way down her swanlike neck to that warm, pulsing spot at the curve of her throat where the siren's call hummed. Her fingers entwined in his hair, clutching at him, guiding his lips toward that sensitive spot that made her tremble in his arms, then driving his mouth back to hers. Her lips opened beneath his, pliant and seeking. She tasted familiar and perfect, and oh, so right. He thrilled to the exploration of her tongue running along the arc of his teeth and tasting the tender inside of his lip. He was at once tutor and tutored, unknown to any subject save the taste and feel of this wild and wonderful Emma.

He skidded his hand over the swell of her hip to the juncture of her thigh. He cupped her bottom when she bent her knee and rubbed one long, elegant leg against his. The friction of wool against denim, of feminine softness against hard male need, shook him to the very core.

He was still reeling from the impact of their incendiary passion when a foreign hand clamped down on his shoulder. It took every bit of Drew's considerable willpower not to turn and lash out at the offending interruption. For a moment out of time, he had forgotten their audience, their precarious position. He'd forgotten that this was an act. For Emma, at least. At some point in the dangerous charade he had left any assumed persona behind and succumbed to the need to be wanted by this woman, to want her. He'd forgotten Drew Gallagher and answered her kiss as the man he once was, the man buried deep inside, the man he had lost in an unknown accident five years in the past.

The man he might never be again.