True Lies (9 page)

“My apartment in Chicago’s the same way,” Bruce said. “Only my bookshelves overflowed onto the floor a few years ago.”

“I think we have a lot in common.”

He hesitated. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. Go on. You were telling me about what happened today.”

She turned her face toward the window and looked over the lake. “I've always tried to smooth things over for my brother. It’s second nature to me to pull him out of one scrape after another. But this time he’s mixed up in something deadly serious, and I'm not sure if either of us can handle it.”

“What’s the problem?”

“He’s been lying to me. Not that the fact that he lied is such a big surprise—he’s been pulling my strings for years. But now he’s in serious trouble with some very nasty people.”

“Is he into something illegal?”

She flinched. “I don’t have much respect for legalities, Bruce. It’s like my basic loathing for the police.”

He was silent for a moment. “I remember. You said you hated cops.”

“My family was destroyed by the police and our justice system. I know what my father did was wrong, but he paid for his mistake. He gave the money back, he served his time in prison, but that wasn’t enough. The law had to take it all. His self-respect, his reputation and his future were ruined the moment he was convicted. The press considered it open season on the entire Duprey family. My mother couldn’t live with the scandal. She retreated into her own private cocoon, getting more and more dependent on the tranquilizers the doctors prescribed. I tried to help her. I pushed her into one rehab program after another, but she chose to escape permanently.” Emma broke off and swallowed hard before she went on. “She didn’t even leave a note. Her suicide killed my father, but it took him two more years to die. He became an alcoholic the day he left prison.”

“I'm sorry, Emma.”

“Simon and I are all that’s left.”

“But if your brother is in trouble, maybe it would be best to go to the police.”

“No. I can’t. That’s out of the question.”

“Maybe you should reconsider.” Bruce pushed himself up from the table, awkwardly knocking his chair backward. He grabbed it before it could topple over and moved to her side. With a hesitant, tentative motion, he placed his hand on her shoulder. “I’d like to help you, Emma.”

She reached up and covered his hand with hers. “You have. You held me while I cried. Did you know that I'm twenty-eight years old, and no one has ever done that before?”

His grip tightened. He exhaled harshly, his breath stirring her hair. “I have no business taking advantage of you this way.”

“You're not doing anything that I don’t want you to do.” Still holding his hand, she rose from her chair and turned to face him.

He ducked his head, raising his free hand to scratch his beard. “Maybe I could help you with your brother. I've done work for all kinds of people. I remember the name of one man who had some sort of job in the justice department, a guy by the name of Jones. If Simon is mixed up in something illegal and he wants out, you could call this guy and say you were a friend of mine. I bet he would help you.”

“You're a truly kind man, Bruce,” she murmured.

“No, I'm not.”

She was startled by the vehemence of his denial. Stepping closer, she angled her head so that she could look into his face. “Yes, you are. You're also very handsome.”

“Emma, I don’t want to take advant—”

“Oh, stop it.” She shook off his grip and raised her hands to frame his face. “You are. I saw it from the start. You have a handsome nose, and a broad forehead and strong, thick eyebrows and beautiful, long eyelashes and your beard can’t completely cover those sexy hollows beneath your cheekbones.”

“Sexy?” he said, his voice unsteady. “Me? Heck, how can you say that? I know what I look like.”

She slid her fingers into his hair, feeling the soft curls caress her skin. “How can you want to cover this gorgeous hair with a hat?”

He caught her wrists and brought her hands between them. “Emma, don’t. Please. I don’t want you to hate me.”

“Hate you?” She looked into his eyes. His plain brown gaze was sparkling with vulnerability. “Whatever hang-up you have about your appearance, I don’t hate you, Bruce. I think, given enough time, I might even grow to—”

“Don’t say any more!”

She stared at him, hurt beginning to replace the warmth she had been feeling. “What’s wrong?”

“This thing that’s happening between us is impossible. It shouldn’t have started. It can’t go anywhere. So please, don’t say anything you're going to regret later.”

Her arms dropped to her sides and she took a step away from him. Of course, he was right, but that didn’t stop her from wanting to kiss him again. “I'm making a fool of myself,” she said finally.

He swore suddenly and viciously in language that she never would have suspected the gentle accountant would know. In a heartbeat he closed the distance she had put between them and caught her chin in his hand. He looked at her for a long minute while a muscle twitched in his cheek. “I think the situation is making fools out of both of us,” he said cryptically.

“Bruce, I—”

He moved his forefinger over her lips. “I'm leaving Bethel Corners this afternoon.”

She had only known him for three days. The disappointment she was feeling shouldn’t be this deep. “I thought you wanted me to take you up one last time.”

“What I want has very little to do with this. You have a way of making me forget about my job, but I won’t let myself. I have to go back to work.”

“You said you had a few more days.”

“My vacation is over. I really have no choice, I have to leave. As much as I want to stay here and get to know you better, I can’t.” He traced the outline of her mouth as if committing it to memory. “I can’t. My job has to come first, Emma. It’s all I have in my life.”

She was struck by the stark loneliness of his statement. “Why is that, Bruce?”

“What?”

“Your job is your life. Why? What happened to you that made you want to hide yourself like this?”

Indecision flickered across his face and for an instant he seemed about to answer. Instead, he slipped his hand around to her nape and held her head steady while he touched his lips to hers in a quick, light kiss. He drew back, his eyes filled with regret.

“Bruce?”

“I want you to promise that you'll call my friend to help you with your brother.”

“I don’t know.”

He kissed her again, his mouth pressing harder until her lips parted. His tongue slid inside, a short, breathtaking plunge that lasted less than a second. Then he was nibbling at her lower lip in tiny, teasing tastes. “Say you will, Emma. Give the law another chance.”

She closed her eyes and homed in on the pleasure he gave her, tilting her head so their mouths could mesh more closely. With a simple kiss he was doing things to her that she’d never felt before. She yearned for him. The tingling awareness that he’d inspired with no more than a touch had been merely an overture to this. The kiss after her tears had been an emotional reaction. This was so much more. It stirred long-forgotten dreams of having someone who would be there to hold her the next time she cried.

She raised her arms to his shoulders, but he caught her wrists and roughly broke off the kiss.

“I have to go.” His voice was deep, and as unsteady as his breathing.

“Are you coming back?”

The silence stretched out while he drew into himself. His expression became shuttered, his features slackened, and the slouch of his shoulders seemed to intensify. She had seen him do it many times before, so she shouldn’t have been annoyed. Yet she was. And she was confused, and frustrated.

He released her and took a stumbling step away. “No. I'm sorry, Emma. It would be best for both of us if we didn’t see each other again.”

She fought against the urge to reach out to him. She knew he was right. He was just passing through, wasn’t he? Last night, as she had stood on her dock and listened to the lonely cry of the loon, she had known that whatever feelings she might have for Bruce could have no future. But the solitude she felt was worse now that she’d had someone to share it with for a brief time.

Bruce glanced around the room, then picked up a pen from on top of her desk and wrote something out on the back of an empty envelope. “This is the number of the man I told you about,” he said, placing the envelope beside her phone. “Call him, okay?”

“I'll think about it.”

“Say you'll do it, Emma.”

“I won’t lie to you, Bruce. I'll think about it, that’s all.”

He fidgeted with the pen, turning it over and over in his fingers. “Is there some other reason you don’t want to go to the police, something besides the suffering your family went through when your father was arrested?”

“I won’t betray my brother. It’s my fault he’s in this trouble to begin with.”

His fingers tightened over the pen. “What?”

“It’s my fault. I was the one who encouraged him. I thought I was helping, but I should have known it would backfire.”

“What do you mean? Are you saying that you're involved in Simon’s problems, too?”

Should she open up to him again? Share her conflicting feelings about her brother, the guilt and the responsibility? Bruce was leaving. The comfort she’d found with him was only temporary. She shook her head. “I think I've said enough. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the kindness you've shown me—”

The pen dropped to the floor. Bruce swore sharply and stooped to pick it up, then slammed it on the ledge of the desk. He pulled his sunglasses from a pocket of his jacket and scuffed his way to the door. “I have to leave.”

“Yes. You told me.”

He fumbled with the doorknob for a moment. “Take care of yourself, Emma.”

She felt her lower lip quiver. Ruthlessly she pressed her nails into her palms. She didn’t offer her hand. Touching him again would only make this worse.

Bruce opened the door and stepped outside without looking back. It was the most difficult thing he could remember having to do, but somehow he managed to keep his shoulders hunched and his head down as he crossed the hill to his van. His body strained against the awkward shuffle. He longed to run, but he wasn’t sure he knew where he would go. He wanted answers, but he didn’t know if he had the courage to ask the questions.

It had been a risk to give her Xavier’s number, but it was a calculated one. If she was innocent, it gave her an option. If she was guilty, it hadn’t blown his cover. If. If. He still didn’t know, he still couldn’t be sure. Yet Bruce knew that if he had stayed in that cabin one more minute, he would have blown not only his cover but his investigation. So he buried his feelings in his duty, ground the van’s abused gears and drove jerkily down the bumpy driveway until he was sure he was out of sight.

He pulled to a stop on the far side of Emma’s mailbox, his knuckles white where he clutched the wheel. A stocky man behind a surveyor’s tripod waved. Bruce watched critically as the man motioned to his partner to stay put while he crossed the ditch toward the van. Xavier had arranged the increased surveillance with his usual efficiency, but the road crew pose was hardly original.

“You've gained some weight, Prentice.”

Bruce scowled. “Any word yet, O'Hara?”

“I just heard from Epstein. Duprey’s passed the turnoff to Millinocket and is still heading south on I-95.” The phony surveyor tugged at his fluorescent vest, centering the large X over his chest. “We're packing it in here. One of the neighbors has already been by to ask what we're doing.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Same as always. I said the county sends us out to measure things without telling us why, and that I'm just a working guy doing his job. He bought it.”

“Don’t get too cute.”

O'Hara frowned. “I know what I'm doing, Prentice. What about you? Any luck with the sister?”

“I don’t know.”

At the barely suppressed violence in Bruce’s tone, O'Hara jerked back. “What’s eating you, Prentice?”

“Nothing.”

“If you've got a problem here, better tell Xavier before—”

“I'll handle it,” he snapped.

“Take it easy. We're making progress.”

“Not fast enough,” Bruce muttered, jamming the van into gear. He felt like punching something. Instead, he gunned the engine and channeled his frustration into seeing how fast he could navigate over the winding dirt road to Bethel Corners. He barely slowed down as he passed through town, almost hoping that Sheriff Haskin would pull him over. He needed a fight, an outlet, anything to keep him from turning around and going back to Emma.

But that was impossible. There was no longer even a whiff of objectivity attached to his relationship with her. What he had said before he’d left her had been the stark truth. With him, his job had to come first, it was all he had in his life. And if he went back to Emma again, it wouldn’t be as a cop.

Bruce automatically locked the door and drew the curtains when he reached the motel. He didn’t pause to check in with Xavier. There was something he needed to do first. He walked directly to the bathroom, braced his hands against the edge of the sink, and stared straight into the mirror.

Emma had called him handsome. She’d run her fingers through his hair and over his beard, and she’d looked at him as a woman looks at a man she wants.

Swearing under his breath, he leaned over and touched a finger to each eyeball in turn. His face twisted with revulsion as he stared at the brown contact lenses that wobbled on his fingertips. He raised his gaze to the man in the mirror, focusing on the vibrant color that shone from beneath his dark brows. The blue of his irises ranged from deep indigo around the rim to pale cerulean near the center. Surrounded by his long, dark brown lashes, the effect of the color was startling and memorable, one of the reasons why he usually tried to mask it.

Would Emma still want him if his eyes no longer looked like mud?

He shrugged off the baggy coat and flung it through the bathroom doorway. The loose shirt followed. With a vicious tug, he ripped the tape from his ribs and pulled the padding from his stomach. He watched his reflection straighten. Muscles stretched and rippled beneath firm skin as he rolled his shoulders. Would she have wanted him if her hand had discovered the breadth of his shoulders, or if her fingers had felt the rock hard swells of his biceps? He flexed his arm, watching the play of controlled power, then ran his hand over the crisp mat of hair on his chest to the washboard hardness of his abdomen. It was nothing but male vanity to wish that he had chosen a different persona, and that Emma could have known there wasn’t an ounce of fat on his body.