Make Mine a Marine (61 page)

"Hey, buddy. We call it Lucky's because of the gambling. Behind the bar is off limits to customers. You either get some out front, or you take her home." Drew straightened beneath the hand on his shoulder and pulled away from Emma, catching her hair and letting it fall across her cheek to mask her face.

But his gaze never left hers. He never once blinked, fearing he had misread the openness in her expression, the glaze of passion that darkened her eyes to a clear, deep blue. Had she been putting on a show to cover their presence in the back hallway? Or had she, too, gotten lost in the moment?

He trailed his fingers down her arm and squeezed her hand before pulling away, transmitting his mute apology.

"C'mon, pal."

He didn't protest when the big man pulled his hand away from Emma. A look of sadness transformed her features, closing her off as if a door had slammed in his face. Drew rallied his common sense and remembered their purpose at the club.

He pulled her beneath the crook of his arm and turned her face into his shoulder, hiding her from both the man he assumed to be a personal bodyguard and anyone else they might encounter. To his knowledge, only Stan Begosian would recognize either of them, but Drew thought it wise to conceal Em's face as they walked past the office next door.

She wrapped her arm around his waist and stayed close, prolonging the pretense of being an amorous couple. She seemed amazingly adept at separating real feelings and actions from ones put on for show. The skill didn't sit well with Drew. A woman like Emma shouldn't possess that kind of expertise, the same ability that he'd picked up from years of keeping to himself and working undercover.

Was losing a husband and going on with her life alone motivation enough to learn to shift so quickly from an honest expression of emotion to a false facade? Or had something more happened to this tall, strong beauty to make her so cool-headed and clever?

He glanced through the open office door and disguised his frustrated sigh on a whispered word of encouragement. The room stood empty, and the nameplate bore only a title: Manager.

"What'll it be, pal?" the man asked, pushing Drew and Emma into the bar.

Keeping her head bowed, Emma looked at the twisting bodies on the dance floor. A tremor rippled through her, and she settled more heavily against him. "Take me home."

"Whatever you say."

Two steps into the crowd and Drew stopped at a tap on his arm. Angling Emma from view, he turned to the bouncer in the fine-cut wool suit who had discovered them. The man's acne-scarred face creased in a rueful smile. "Hey, sorry about the bad luck, man, but rules are rules. The boss doesn't like surprises in the back room. Good luck."

Drew refused to acknowledge the leering wink.  "I'll try to keep it in my pants next time."

He turned to move on, but the big hand closed around his elbow. "Say, don't I know you? You look familiar."

Emma stiffened at Drew's side. He gave her shoulder a reassuring rub, but kept any alarm out of his expression. "I don't think so. I'm new in town."

"Yeah? I'm from out of town myself, but I never forget a face. It'll come to me sooner or later."

"What's your name?" Drew forced the iron from his voice. "Maybe it will jog my memory."

"Clayton Roylott."

He shook the man's hand without revealing his own name. "Clayton," he repeated. "If I think of where we met, I'll give you a call. You have a card?"

"Nah. But you can reach me here at the club. They'll know where to find me if I'm not around."

"I’ll do that. Well…" Drew inclined his head toward Emma, and Clayton interpreted the message as he intended.

"Say no more. Hope I didn't spoil the mood."

Drew nodded his farewell and guided Emma through the crowd and out the door. Once beyond the line of customers, she shoved him away and sucked in a huge breath of reviving air. He inhaled the brisk January night and let the cold work its way through his own overheated body. She unlocked the passenger door of his truck and handed him the key, refusing his assistance. He stewed in the silence of his guilt, matching her chilly demeanor until he drove the truck into the outskirts of her Mission Hills neighborhood.

He couldn't let their evening end like this. He'd invited her out on business, hoped for a relaxing evening in her sweet company. But somehow events had gotten way out of hand. He'd chosen the worst possible restaurant to wine and dine her. Discovered she didn't like the wine part. Chased Begosian. Eavesdropped on a dangerous conversation.

Kissed her.

And he'd driven for twenty minutes with little on his mind but the inexplicable desire to kiss her again.

Not for show. Not for an audience.

For himself.

But he let his consideration focus on her needs. "I never fed you dinner tonight. Want me to drive through somewhere and get you a hamburger?"

"I'm not hungry." Her voice rang with the steel ramrod that stiffened her spine. "What do you think they're going to do to Stan?"

All business. Maybe she was even better than he at turning off unwanted emotions. Fine. He'd give her the security of sticking to business. For now. "I'm sure it'll be nothing good."

He turned onto a side street. She stared straight ahead. "What do you think he was supposed to tell me?"

Drew shrugged. "The boss mentioned geography. Stan offered to fly somewhere. Makes me think it's nothing local, or Stan would recognize the name. Where was your husband last seen?"

"Isla Tenebrosa. It's a small country in the Caribbean."

Her matter-of-fact answer stabbed him like a knife in the gut. A very sharp, very jagged knife from his past. He grunted in pain, as if the wound were physical instead of mental. His vision swirled out of focus and he stomped on the brake. He spun off onto the gravel shoulder and killed the engine, too overcome to drive another inch. He wrapped his arms around the steering wheel and rested his forehead on his wrist, willing the dizziness to pass.

Don't fight it. Listen. Listen with your heart, not your head.

"Stop saying that!" he snapped at the soft voice that played games inside his mind.

"I didn't say anything." A different voice, equally soft but tinged with a deeper, huskier pitch, spoke beside him. Emma's voice.

He dared to open his eyes and saw her backed against the far door. She still sat straight, but a hesitant frown grooved the worry lines beside her eyes. He couldn't quite find it within himself to ease her concern. The coincidence was too perfect, too frightening to ignore. "You said Tenebrosa?"

"It's an island nation east of the Yucatan Peninsula of Mexico."

"I know where Tenebrosa is."

"Most people haven't heard of it. That was the target of Jonathan's last mission. It's a perfect place for illegal activities since it doesn't draw much attention to itself. It has few allies and little strategic importance."

"You've got the travelogue memorized." Her recitation wasn't too different from what he'd learned in the research he'd done on the island.

"Have you been there?" Her innocent question brought haunting memories flooding back.

Drew's first conscious recollection was waking up in a hospital on Tenebrosa. He'd been full of tubes and needles, and bandaged from his neck to his hips and down most of his right arm. He'd ridden in an ambulance to an airstrip and flown on to Mexico City, where the skin grafts and stitching had continued in a more sterile environment. He'd gone back to the island after that first year, searching for a familiar face, a business person in town who recognized him, a place he felt at home.

He found nothing.

He remembered nothing

He only knew that his life had started over again five years ago.

On Tenebrosa.

"Drew? Have you been to Tenebrosa?" He heard Emma's insistent voice like a distant echo. "Can you tell me anything about that place?"

Drew ignored the careening abyss of his memories. He ignored the cautious mix of curiosity and concern on Emma's face.

"Nothing you don't already know." The abruptness, of his response silenced her. He started the truck and drove her to her house, seizing on the one aspect of his life that made any sense. His work.

"I'll check out Clayton Roylott.  Maybe I can get some names from him."

Emma's hand hovered at the door handle. She probably couldn't wait to get back to her normal suburban life, and as far away from him as she could get. He didn't blame her. He couldn't count the number of times he'd wanted to get away from his life himself.

"You never told me how James Moriarty is a threat to LadyTech." Now her hesitation made sense. She was responsible to her friends and company, and determined to find the truth. Two qualities he couldn't help but admire.

"He paid Begosian ten thousand dollars to buy stock in your company under the name John Clay a few days before he assaulted you at the Nelson Gallery. Any idea why?"

She thought for a moment. "It would be an easy way, and a legal one, to get a report on the company without raising any suspicions. If this Moriarty's trying to get into LadyTech, it's a good place to start. Or if he purchased stock under an alias, he may be trying to buy up a controlling share."

"You might be on to something."

"It's impossible to do, though. Jas, BJ, and I retained fifty-one percent before we put it on the open market."

"Moriarty may not know that."

She nodded. "I'll watch the reports. See if any other big buys come up. Anything else?"

With the variety of hells he'd endured this evening, one golden piece of heaven remained foremost in his mind. "Was it really so horrible that I kissed you?"

The light from her front porch cast a shimmering glow across her alabaster cheek, capturing her down-turned eyes in a smoky shadow. "No."

Her husky admission settled deep inside him, giving comfort to a soul that knew so little of her honest brand of kindness. She swallowed, drawing his gaze like a magnet to the graceful arch of her throat. "I understand that you wanted to hide our identities tonight," she said. "We were caught where we shouldn't have been. I even understand, and take responsibility for that kiss getting out of hand. I wanted
… I haven't been held that way for a long time. But…"

She held up her left hand and twisted it so the light reflected off the wedding band on her third finger. "This is why it can't happen again."

He hardened his gaze on the unnecessary reminder of all that stood between them.

Drew leaned back on his side of the truck cab, physically and emotionally pulling away from the temptation before him. He couldn't give her what she didn't want. And he didn't want what she wouldn't give willingly. "It won't happen again. You leave the dirty work to me, Mrs. Ramsey." He emphasized her married title, knowing he was just the means to an end for her, and could never be anything more to this particular woman. "I promise to mind my manners better."

She curled her fingers into her palm. "I'll try to stay out of your way and let you work. But call me if you find out anything. I'll leave a pass at the front desk so you can come into the office on Monday without Brodie breathing down your neck."

Drew dredged up a rusty laugh. "Be sure to tell him I'm working for you. I don't see me going one-on-one with him and coming out in very good shape."

"I have a feeling you're the kind of man who always lands on his feet."

The hint of a smile curved the corners of her mouth. Any compliment from Emma warmed and strengthened him like high praise. But since the smile never reached her eyes, Drew tamped down on his ego's immediate reaction. He traded an observation with her instead. "You're pretty resilient yourself."

Her eyes widened like the huge buttons on the front of her coat. "Jonathan taught me how to be that way. He saved my life in more ways than I can count."

Despite his growing jealousy, Drew was grateful to Emma's missing husband.

"Find him, Drew. I owe you a debt because you rescued my daughter and you rescued me. But I owe my husband a debt, too. Find him soon."

Emma slipped out of the car and hurried to the front door. She unlocked it and disappeared inside before he made any attempt to move.
I owe you a debt.
He supposed that was as close to an admission of gratitude as he would ever get from her. He had no right to hope that she might, one day, feel something more. No right to wish that some woman, equally gentle and strong and bright and beautiful, would have the same kind of faith in him.

He slid the truck into gear and left the light of Emma's home to return to his world of darkness. Jonathan Ramsey had better be one hell of a guy to deserve Emma's loyalty.

To deserve Emma, period.

* * *

Faith tucked the covers around her young charge and the hand-sewn doll cradled so lovingly in her arms. The doll was a tiny replica of Kerry herself with brown yarn hair and embroidered blue eyes.

"Oh, dear." She sat on the edge of the bed, her gaze focused on an unseen point in the distance until Kerry tugged on her sleeve and captured her attention. "What is it?"