Make Mine a Marine (67 page)

Maybe he hadn't.

Drew said he had no family now. Had they been the price he'd paid to do his job?

She squeezed her eyes shut when Clayton nuzzled her ear. "Let's take this into my office."

"The back room?"
Yes
, she told herself. She needed to see what was in that back room. Surely, she could find a heavy object to knock him senseless with if things got any further out of hand.

"Come with me." He kissed her cheek before pulling back, and Emma tried to smile.

"Mind if I cut in?"

A wave of cleansing relief washed over her at the distinct rasp of Drew's voice.

"Yeah." Clayton stepped back to face the man who had moved, unnoticed, behind him. "We have business we're going to discuss."

"No. I don't think you do."

Tall and lean, dressed in black from neck to toe, with hair slicked back into that all-business ponytail, and gemlike eyes set on maximum intimidation, Drew Gallagher was her dark knight in shining armor.

Roylott shifted back and forth on his feet as the depth of Drew's displeasure registered. Silently cheering, Emma made no protest when Roylott took her arm and pushed her toward Drew. "I didn't realize you were here. I was just keeping her company. Hey, anything you want from the bar is on me."

"Thanks." She heard no real gratitude in Drew's response. The possessive note in his voice left no room for further conversation. Roylott nodded and slipped away into the crowd.

When he was out of earshot, Emma let out the breath she'd been holding and threw her arms around Drew's neck, at the moment more relieved to see him and escape Roylott's degrading touch than she was to receive any new clues about Moriarty.

"Thank God," she whispered, pressing her face to his neck and clinging to him as if he were an anchor. "Thank God you came."

Drew wrapped his arms around her, shielding her from all the Roylotts of the world. She felt a shudder ripple through him before he eased a little space between them, took her hand, and resumed the dance. That tiny revelation of suppressed emotion thrilled her, touched her heart. He'd been scared for her. What he couldn't let the cockroaches of the world see, he shared with her. Emma changed her grip so that she was holding him, reassuring him of her safety. "I'm all right, Drew."

"You just don't listen, do you. No matter what I say, you're determined to get yourself into the middle of this mess." He fanned his fingers at the small of her back and held her close, his thighs brushing against hers with each step. Roylott had held her closer than this, but with Drew's gentle touch she felt cherished. With his mouth bent close to her ear, she felt safe.

She closed her eyes and savored the fluid movement of a man and woman who fit together as perfectly as anyone she'd ever known.

"Okay. We're going to dance our way over to your table, grab your purse, and I'm taking you home." The curt command was hardly the sweet nothing she had expected to hear.

Emma leaned back against his arm, confused by the conflicting message of his touch and voice. "No, you're not. I'm glad you rescued me from his groping hands, but Clayton likes me. He's willing to talk. He said he works for Moriarty."

"Emma." He pulled her closer as another couple spun past within earshot. "You can take that man all the way to your bed, and he's still not going to tell you what you want to know. He doesn't have the answer."

"What? How dare you!" She pushed at his chest, angry at his words, angry that he might be right, angry at herself for not knowing the rules of the game. But Drew's arm didn't budge.

His tone, however, softened into a gentle apology. "I'm sorry. That was out of line. It's a hard way of telling you the truth."

Emma's rebellion faded with the admission. "I guess I didn't really believe you when you talked about these men. If they want LadyTech, they won't give up easily."

"If Moriarty wants you, he won't give that up easily, either."

She nodded and allowed Drew to steer their path toward the table. "So you don't think Clayton knows who Moriarty is?"

"Not his real identity. But I think I might."

"Really?" Emma stopped, a frisson of anticipation boosting her hope. Drew barreled into her, but he quickly caught her in his arms and kept them from falling.

The corners of his mouth eased into a smile, as if he knew what this information could mean to her.

"I went through the files in the back office. Yes, you distracting Roylott bought me some uninterrupted time to do the job right." His praise made the creepy memory of Clayton's touch recede. "You want to guess how many times the name James Moriarty comes up? I pulled four good sets of fingerprints. I'll run them through the D.A.'s office. We'll find his identity that way. Until then, I don't want to speculate and raise your hopes. I want you out of here. Now."

"You know who belongs to the voice I recognized?"

Drew frowned. His hands tightened once, twice, on her shoulders.

His sudden hesitation worried her.  "What are you afraid to say to me?" she asked.

"Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch."

Drew and Emma both froze at the laughing expletive. Clayton had returned, his face wreathed in good humor. He slapped Drew on the shoulder. "I figured out where I know you from."

Drew turned slightly, angling his shoulder between her and Clayton. "I don't think—"

"Sure. We worked a couple of jobs together down in Miami. Seven, eight years ago. Your hair's different, and we both have a few more wrinkles. No wonder I didn't recognize you."

When Drew didn't respond, Emma jumped in. "I didn't know you'd been to Miami."

Drew's silence didn't bother Clayton. "Yeah, Cam and I hung out together for about a year. Well, I worked for him, of course." He put his hands up in surrender, and the sincerity of his apology made her believe that the two men really did know each other. "Sorry about before. If I had known she was yours… I mean, I thought she was for hire. Stupid mistake, of course."

For hire? Her concern gave way to indignation. "You thought... I was a… prostitute?"

"No. No, absolutely not." His dark eyes darted from her to Drew. "Poor choice of words on my part." She realized he was apologizing to Drew for the insult, not to her. He was apologizing for insulting Drew's woman. Smooth charm cast aside, the man was groveling for Drew's forgiveness.

Emma felt the blood rush down to her toes, making her light-headed. My God. Clayton thought Drew was some kind of criminal. More than that, that he was someone of importance in the criminal world.

Just what type of work had Drew done when he was bumming around the country, as he'd told her, before coming to Kansas City? She prayed it had been an undercover assignment of some kind. She prayed she hadn't pinned her hopes on the very kind of man her husband had tried to eliminate.

What was the name Clayton had used? "Cam?" she asked, stepping to his side and looking into his face to prompt Drew out of his continuing silence.

"Oh, sure," Drew said to Roylott. "Clayton. You were using a different name down there, right?"

She could tell he was lying. Drew didn't remember a thing. His eyes had lost their sharp focus. Their usual cat-eye gleam had dimmed.

Clayton nodded, as if discovering an old friend at a class reunion. "Scotty. Everybody called me Scotty. Roylott's a name out of a book. Thought I'd go literary."

"A Sherlock Holmes book?" Some of the glint returned. Drew was skipping over whatever had just transpired. This was the sly detective, following a lead on his investigation. "Is that your idea or your boss's?"

"His."

"This guy you're working for now. Is he around? I might have a deal for him." Emma marveled at Drew's smooth transition from caring defender to confused man to clever criminal. Which one was the real Drew?

Roylott shook his head.  "He had some business to take care of. Flew out of the country this morning. You can work with me, if you want. The boss is always looking for good help."

Drew closed his hand around Emma's elbow. "Maybe later. Let me get the lady home first."

Emma pulled free, more than curious about Drew's past. She had quickly discovered that the easiest way to lie was to tell a half-truth. "Nonsense. You know I've been running my own business for years. You can talk in front of me."

"And you know how I feel about mixing work and pleasure." He gave her a look that mocked her own determination. This was not a battle she could win.  Yet. "I'll get your purse and coat."

She conceded the skirmish but not the victory. In the short time that Drew was gone, she tugged on Clayton's sleeve. With Drew's territorial rights protecting her, she no longer feared his advances. "So you knew Cam down in Miami?"

"Yeah. We met on a job. But he never stays in one place too long, if you know what I mean."

Emma had no idea. But she smiled anyway, pretending to agree, bluffing her way through this conversation. "Tell me about it."

Clayton puffed out his chest and nodded in admiration. "He's a mystery man, that one. He insisted we all use nicknames."

Was this her chance? She pressed her lips together, stalling the impulse to shake more useful information out of him. "What nickname was he using then?"

"Like I said, he didn't stay around too long."

Damn the dolt! He'd been well trained in giving ambiguous answers. "But you're sure you knew him?"

"Oh, yeah. When you're the best in the business, nobody forgets you."

* * *

Drew unlocked the door to his apartment and pushed it open for Emma. The arctic chill in her voice when he'd helped her with her coat at Lucky's warned him that something had changed between them. When she'd said, "I want to go someplace private where we can talk," he'd agreed. He was primed to go head to head with Miss Cool, Calm and Collected.

"Of all the fool stunts, Emma." He locked the door and hung their coats on the coat rack. If she, for one instant, thought he'd been glad to see her endangering that beautiful swan neck of hers by flouting common sense and going to Lucky's—even flirting with a known racketeer like Clayton Roylott—he intended to change her way of thinking.  “Do you have any idea the trouble you could have gotten into if I hadn’t shown up tonight?”

She rubbed her arms as if the apartment chilled her. Maybe, he thought ironically, she had created that chill herself. "Let's talk about being a fool." She turned on him. "Is that what you think I am? A fool? Are you and Roylott working on some con to get my money?"

Her attack shook some of the wind from his anger. He had no grounds to defend himself. The idea that Roylott had known him in Miami, seven or eight years ago, before the accident, ate a fearful hole in his gut. Obviously, Emma didn't like hearing about that possibility, either.

While it might explain his affinity for the kind of work he did, he didn't like it. For five years he'd worried that he'd left a family behind, had hurt good friends, had left a job unfinished.

He hadn't considered that he'd left a life of organized crime.

He pulled off the band that held his hair in place and shoved his fingers through the length of it, massaging the base of his skull, trying to ease the tension he felt. He stuffed the band into his pocket and strolled into the kitchen, just now giving thought to the appearance of his place. He wasn't much for keeping house, but then there wasn't much house to keep. His bed was made, the dishes were clean. But the bare brick walls and scarcity of furniture that had once made the openness so appealing to him now echoed with an embarrassing loneliness. The brutal barrenness revealed a lack of a past or connection to anything or anyone of importance.

Could he explain his amnesia to Emma? Or would she see it, like Roylott's reference to this ‘Cam’ in Miami, as just another lie?

"Make yourself at home." He offered the invitation by rote. "I'll put some coffee on."

Emma, despite the frostbite of her temperament, looked soft and stunning. Her dress clung to each long curve of her body and stopped short a couple of inches above her knees, revealing a long stretch of knee and calf, and her delicate ankles were set off to sexy perfection by the tall heels she wore. No wonder Roylott hadn’t been able to keep his hands to himself. It required every bit of Drew's considerable willpower to respect the walls she'd thrown up between them.

Just looking at her, he wanted her. But he would not break Emma's rules. At the moment, winning back the trust he had lost seemed much more important than staking any possessive claim on her body.

Drew flipped the switch on the coffeemaker and settled onto the sofa. He rehearsed all the ways he could explain his loss of memory. But each beginning sounded irrational or insane. He bought himself some time by watching Emma's silent inspection of his things and waited for her to speak first. She tested the spongy strength of his exercise mat with her toe, even punched his kick bag once. But when she got to his overflowing bookshelf, she stopped to explore, fingering her way through textbooks and fiction titles.

Too late, Drew realized the discovery she had made.

She pulled a dog-eared paperback from the shelf and turned, brandishing it before her like judgment itself. "What kind of sick game are you playing?"