What He Didn't Say (2 page)

Holt led her up the steps, opened the door and urged her inside. She blinked until her vision adjusted. The living-dining room area buzzed with activity. Some people sat on tan leather benches at laptops stationed around a long table, while others stood talking on phones or radios. Several TVs were mounted on walls with flashing pictures of the bridge and exhibition stands. Now she knew why the event had gone with military-like precision. Holt had left nothing to chance.

Although a few individuals, particularly women, looked at her with curiosity, most kept focused on the task at hand. A well-trained crew, she thought.

Holt weaved a path toward the rear and slid open a door. Incredibly, a king-size bed with a black-and-tan silk spread dominated the bedroom. A black entertainment unit along the opposite wall contained yet another large TV, along with
stereo equipment and high-tech video game remotes. A modernistic chrome-and-glass chandelier glittered to life when he flipped the switch. The interior designer had certainly decorated to masculine tastes, Emma-Lee wryly thought as she spied a well-stocked minibar with a champagne bucket on top. A man bent on seduction wouldn't have to leave the room.

“Nice motor home, Holt.”

He shook his head. “It's not mine. A loaner from a friend.” He walked along the narrow pass-through to the left of the bed.

“Even comes with two complete bathrooms, so why don't you use this one.” He opened a door. “There are plenty of towels and a robe you can use until Ted returns with your bag.”

“Thank you.”

When he continued to hold the door, she scooted past him, her body brushing against his. Despite her better sense, she looked up. His face was close, so close that if she stood on her toes she could kiss him…

His nostrils flared as if he could read her thoughts, and he braced his hands on either side of her, effectively trapping her against the door.

“Are you going to need help getting out of the jumpsuit? The zipper's been soaked.”

Laughing, she put her hands against his chest and shoved. “I can manage just fine.”

He let his hands drop and stepped back. “Call if you change your mind.”

With a sweet smile she closed the door in his face without replying. Then she sagged against it.

Ohmigod. What a close call. With one searing glance he could turn a woman's brains to mush.

Shaking her head, she straightened, let the soggy
blanket drop to the floor, and grabbed the zipper tab on her jumpsuit.

And tugged. Nothing. She jerked again. The darn thing wouldn't budge. Sighing, she turned and tapped her forehead against the door.

“Emma-Lee?” Holt's voice sounded dangerously close on the other side. “Are you all right?”

No way would she open the door, let alone concede he had been right. “I'm fine!” she called out. “I rapped my elbow, that's all.”

She flipped the lock on the door and gazed around the bathroom. There. Liquid soap. She pumped a glob onto her fingers and worked the slimy stuff over the zipper. She almost cried with relief when the tab pulled down without further resistance.

Five minutes later, after a steamy shower, Emma-Lee felt like a new woman. She slipped into a plush, white cotton robe and opened the door. Her breath froze in her lungs.

On the opposite side dressed only in worn jeans, Holt stood pulling on a black V-neck sweater. Tanned skin stretched tightly over his rib cage. Oh, yeah. She had been right about his having a toned physique.

His head popped through the opening, and he spotted her at once. As he drew the sweater down, he gave her a slow smile.

“I see you managed without me, what a shame.”

“Yes.” She drew the robe close around her throat in a protective gesture.

He ran his fingers through his damp hair. “Your bag's on the bed. I'll leave you to change.” With a last look, he left the room.

Emma-Lee hummed as she opened the bag and took out her change of clothes. Something sharp pricked her finger,
and she froze as she starred at the pink-ribbon pin attached to the shirt.

Guilt sliced through Emma-Lee's elation. Here she was again, having a great time and flirting with a good-looking man while her friend was probably still puking from her chemo session yesterday.

So much for her grandiose decision to get serious with her life after Sandy had given her the tearful news that the cancer she had battled during their college days had returned.

Cancer was so unfair. Sandy had so much to live for, a husband, baby and career, while Emma-Lee hadn't accomplished anything with her life…

Stop it.
Emma-Lee drew in a long, deep breath. There's nothing you can do about cancer's capriciousness. All you do is offer support. Sandy would beat this recurrence; she had to.

She would grab a quick meal with her BASE jumping friends and the NASCAR fans she had met here as she promised before heading up to her room. Then she would call Sandy and give her a full-blown account of the day.

Emma-Lee repacked the bag with her wet clothes and slung it over her shoulder. She slid open the door and spotted Holt at the front, speaking with Ted. All the other people were gone. He had put on a battered leather jacket, and his hair was mussed as if he had been outside. She made her way to them.

“Ted, you're a lifesaver. Thank you for getting my bag.”

“You're welcome, ma'am. Here are your keys.” He grinned and then left.

Left alone, Holt faced her. His gaze leisurely skimmed her from top to bottom, and her face warmed under the potent survey.

“I…wanted to…” She halted, swallowed and started again. “Thank you for everything. I'll get out of your way.”

He lifted a shoulder. “No hurry. As you can see, we're actually wrapping up. The auction's about over. I should be the one thanking you for all the donations you brought from Double S Racing. Can I buy you dinner?”

More time with him. The idea was alluring, but she had given her word and then there was Sandy. Emma-Lee shook her head.

“Sorry, but I promised my friends I would meet them at the hotel's restaurant before I head home.”

He stiffened as if he was drawing back into himself, but he said nothing further. Instead, he reached around her to open the door. She went through it, hunching her shoulders against the wind. He followed her down the steps.

He walked over to the black truck next to the motor home and opened the door. After she slid inside, he shut the door and got in the driver's side and started the engine. The drive up what passed for a winding road to the bridge was spent in silence. Since Holt appeared to be deep in thought, Emma-Lee occupied herself with watching the amazing vista. At the top of the gorge Holt took the side road leading to the Cliffhanger Lodge and stopped before the entrance.

She opened her mouth to say goodbye but instead blurted, “You're welcome to join us for dinner. Combine a bunch of BASE jumpers with NASCAR fans, it should be a wild time.”

Although his expression lightened, he shook his head. “Sorry, but I'm not much into big groups.”

The sharp cut of disappointment surprised her. “Oh, okay. It was a pleasure meeting you.” She held out her hand.

With a quick move that surprised her, Holt lifted her hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to the palm. Her skin tingled as little pulses of excitement danced over it. As his lips lingered, an intense awareness that was almost painful jolted her. Of their own volition her fingers curled.

Before she could collect her thoughts, he released her hand. She pulled it back to safety and wrapped her arm around her middle. He sat staring at her with narrowed eyes as if he was trying to analyze a puzzle.

Aware she was way over her head, Emma-Lee drew in a shuddering breath and struggled for a nonchalant tone. Little had she realized when she had wondered what it would be like to shake his self-possession that she would be playing with fire. If she wasn't careful, she could get singed.

“What was that about?”

A slow, dangerous smile curved his mouth. “At the river I didn't know whether to toss you back into the water or kiss you.”

Huh. Right now she was edgy enough to dunk him all over again, but she unbuckled her safety belt, opened the door and got out.

“Emma-Lee.”

She looked over her shoulder at Holt. He sat silhouetted against the deepening twilight, but she saw the flash of his grin.

“I'm glad I caught you.”

C
ONSTRUCTED OF TIMBER
and glass, and perched on a cliff, the Cliffhanger Lodge had a sweeping deck with a killer view of the New River Gorge. Every room had been taken for the weekend by either the event's staff or participants. Now that the jump was over, partying was the order of the night.

Holt stood outside the lodge's glass-walled restaurant, watching the well-lit scene before him. At a wood table in the corner, Emma-Lee sat smiling amid a large group of people, mainly male admirers.

How he ended up here, he wasn't sure. After all, with the jumping over, all that remained was the partying. He'd completed the last pass to make sure all the exhibition booths had closed and checked in with the local authorities. And what he'd told Emma-Lee was true. He didn't gravitate to big groups. But rather than getting in his car and heading to the airport, he found himself here.

He still had time to make it back to Atlanta and catch a late-night dinner with Marguerite, his latest female acquaintance. She wouldn't care about the hour he showed up. An aspiring model, she liked his connections and they suited each other in the physical department. More important, she fit in well with his lifestyle: companionship with no emotional ties.

Pulling out his state-of-the-art smartphone, he checked his messages. One was from Marguerite asking if she should expect him. The restaurant's door swung open, and warmth and laughter came rushing toward him as a couple walked out
arm in arm. At the large table, a man sitting next to Emma-Lee draped an arm around the back of her chair. Whatever he said caused her to laugh. The man rose and headed toward the bar.

Holt texted a one-word response—no—put away the device and walked inside. Several people recognizing him gave a shout-out. Emma-Lee looked over and he held her gaze as he approached the table. He finessed the chair next to her as its former occupant approached with two beers in hand.

“Hey, buddy, that's my—” The man, one of the town's chamber of commerce members that Holt had dealt with, halted. “Holt.”

“Hi, Burt.” Holt indicated the table. “If you could flag down a waiter, I'd be happy to buy a round for everyone here.”

Although Burt wore an irritated expression, the rest of the group broke out in cheers.

As Emma-Lee took her foaming mug from Burt, she said, “Let me introduce you.”

Without a glitch, not only did she announce everyone's name, but also gave him an identification tag as to why they were here. A Florida couple had made the trip because the husband's mother had cancer. Another from a neighboring West Virginia town had come for a chance at NASCAR memorabilia. The man proudly displayed a pair of tickets for the Richmond race while his wife tipped her Linc Shepherd cap.

“Emma-Lee said she would get us his autograph.”

“You bet,” Emma-Lee assured them.

“This is his year to take the NASCAR Sprint Cup Series,” added the husband.

“No way. Bart Branch's going to take it.” A man sitting across from him leaned forward.

“In your dreams. It's Jeb Stallworth's all the way,” an
nounced another man. A vigorous debate erupted around the table.

Feeling like a fish out of water, Holt leaned back and contented himself by watching Emma-Lee's animated expressions as she followed the discussion.

She threw a puzzled glance in his direction. “What?”

He lifted a shoulder. “You look right at home here.”

She sipped her beer. “It reminds me of a very upscale Maudie's with all the warmth and home cooking.”

“Who's Maudie?”

Laughing, Emma-Lee set down the mug. “Not who. What. Maudie's Down Home Diner in Mooresville, North Carolina, where I live. It's the racing crowd's secret place where everyone hangs out. I end up eating there most nights.”

“Why NASCAR?”

A burst of raucous laughter came from the next table. Emma-Lee frowned. “Sorry, I didn't hear what you said.”

Holt leaned closer to her. “Want to go outside for air?”

She regarded him for a minute before nodding. He snagged a passing waitress, handed her money for the table's tab plus a generous tip and then rose. Emma-Lee followed suit, wishing everyone a safe trip if she didn't see them again.

Outside they headed in mutual accord toward the side facing the bridge. The cold front had swept in, bringing a decided nip to the spring night. A quarter moon hung high in the sky blazing with stars.

“Lovely night,” Emma-Lee commented.

Great. He sucked royally at small talk. “Inside I asked why you're working for NASCAR. For a race car owner.”

Her lips quirked. “More than an owner of a race car. Gil Sizemore has four teams.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes, I do.” She kicked a small pebble, sending it skittering across the pavement.

“I grew up around racing. My parents are total gearheads. They still drive their mobile home to every race they can. Then my sisters Tara and Mallory married into NASCAR.”

The surname clicked. “Dalton. Of course. Your sisters are the author Tara Dalton and the actress Mallory Dalton.”

“Yes.” She lifted a shoulder. “Through them I met Gil at a race. I was at loose ends, needed a change, and he offered me a job as his personal assistant. Little did I know that I was getting myself on the hook for being on call twenty-four hours a day.”

Although Holt never mixed business with pleasure, he knew other men who did. An unexpected shaft of jealousy speared through him. “Is he your boyfriend?”

Emma-Lee halted and fisted her hands on her hips. “Excuse me?”

“I thought because you're together—”

She stabbed her finger into his chest. “I play guard dog to his office, answer phones, deal with correspondence, run errands, and when I attend races, help out wherever needed, but the job description does not…”

She poked again for emphasis. “Does not include being his girlfriend. Clear?”

Holt grabbed her hand before she could inflict any more damage. “Clear.”

Although she tugged to get free, he held on to her hand and leaned against the railing. Her eyes were dark as she regarded him.

“What about you? Any attachments?”

“Nothing ever permanent.” Before she could press him further, he said, “Tell me more about NASCAR.”

He might as well get more information from someone actually working in that world, not to mention beautiful and definitely entertaining. After all, Stan Preston was on the
outside looking in and might not have the most accurate perspective.

“You don't follow it?”

“Not until recently. I haven't even attended a race yet.”

“Richmond's coming up next weekend. Would you like to go? I might be able to get you a pass to the garage and pit road.”

As simple as that, his opportunity to study close at hand the inner dynamics of a race team fell into his lap. He could make up his mind about sponsoring Preston's venture and see Emma-Lee again under casual circumstances. No ties, no expectations. Just the way he preferred.

“I'd like that, but only if you're going to be there.”

She flashed a smile. “You're in luck. Although the higher administrative types run the show at the race, my boss needs me there to help out.”

“Then we have a deal.”

When she shook his hand he was still holding hers, with reluctance he released her. She moved to stand by him at the railing and together they stood looking at the vista. Here and there lights dusted the valley, but below the abyss was dark and still as death.

Darkness could hide a multitude of emotions and fears. Ever since his mother's death, he'd been hell-bent at pushing at life's limits, by racing, jumping or skiing. However, there was a fine line between the temporary oblivion an adrenaline rush brought and a death wish. Some days he didn't know if he cared about the difference.

“Why did you jump today?” he asked in a quiet tone. This was the answer he really sought from her.

She stared down at the void. “Why does anyone jump? For the thrill of it.”

“I don't buy that. I know that you met the number of jumps as a parachutist in order to qualify to BASE jump, so
obviously you're an experienced jumper. But you could have stayed in your safe little office at Mooresville and sent me everything. Instead, you threw yourself into this fundraiser today. Why?”

The night cast deep shadows across her face when she turned. “I know someone battling cancer. My best friend from college.”

“You could have made a donation. Helped with the stands. Why take the risk?”

“Because of the guilt that I'm alive and healthy,” she whispered.

He'd been racing from that guilt trip ever since his mother died. Emma-Lee's confirmation of what he felt every time he jumped ripped free his own response. “Exactly.”

Suddenly needing to explore further the taste of her skin he'd gotten from kissing her palm earlier, he lowered his head.

From the other side of the veranda, spotlights blazed, music blared and the Black Eyed Peas were singing “Boom Boom Pow.” Emma-Lee started. “What's that?”

Holt gave her a rueful smile. “That would be the portable vertical wind tunnel.”

“Oh, wow!” She clapped her hands with excitement. “A wind tunnel that allows you to float in the air? Can we try it?”

As people spilled onto the veranda, any hope he had of a kiss and maybe more evaporated. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “Since I'm the one who rented it, you can be the first.”

Note to self for next year's event: arrange for the wind tunnel to run only during the day. A mere mortal man apparently couldn't compete for a kiss in the shadows of the night against the thrill of flying, not when it came to a woman like Emma-Lee.

 

E
ARLY
S
UNDAY MORNING
Holt leaned against a column hewn from timber in the glass-enclosed lobby of the Cliffhanger Lodge. Even he would have to admit for once in his life he was dawdling. There were a lot of things he could be doing, from checking messages to reading reports; instead, he was simply waiting.

Banners and signs about the charity event still decorated the lobby. Around him trickles of guests headed either into the restaurant for breakfast or stood in line to check out. Conversation still buzzed about the BASE jump and the partying afterward.

“Man, did you see that trio who did the synchronized flips?… The wind tunnel rocked last night… I won a Rafael O'Bryan T-shirt.”

Smiling, Holt shifted as he glanced at his watch. His assistant, Ted, was still in the restaurant, running the thank-you breakfast for the volunteers. One benefit of having his own jet, it would take off whenever he was ready to leave.

And go where? Back to another empty hotel room?

Well, wasn't that a self-pitying thought?

Irritated with himself, he straightened and moved away from the column. He was living the life he wanted, with no ties, able to pick up and go wherever his next venture took him. The restless mood plaguing him since he had left Emma-Lee last night was only a symptom of the letdown from the adrenaline rush after pulling off the fundraiser in his mother's memory. Come tomorrow, he'd be wrapped up in meetings for his new computer venture.

His phone rang, momentarily giving him a welcome respite from his strange mood, until he saw the caller identification.

“Hello, Dad.” He moved away from a group of laughing women. Concern pricked him as he could count on one hand the number of times either he or Sam Forrester would actually
call the other during the year—Thanksgiving, Christmas and each other's birthdays. “What's wrong?”

“Why does anything have to be wrong, son?” Sam's voice held a familiar note of perplexed exasperation. His father had often sounded that way in dealing with a son he didn't understand and a reality he hadn't wanted.

“I'm calling because I saw you on the news last night.”

Holt blinked. Since when had his father ever emerged from his academia cocoon long enough to watch television? Did he even own a set?

Sam Forrester continued, “The reporter indicated the event drew in a large crowd.”

“Yes, it went very well.” He walked to a point in the lobby where he could keep an eye on both the outside and the bank of elevators.

“You named it in your mother's honor.”

If Sam had read one of the e-mails he had sent when he had first conceived of the event… Holt rolled his shoulders to ease the building tension. “That's right.”

“Amanda would have been proud of you, Holt.”

And what about you, Dad?
He wanted to ask but knew it was pointless. After all, no matter how many times he had brought home straight A's on his report card or scholastic awards, Sam had always reacted as if such accomplishments were expected. The word praise wasn't in his vocabulary.

“Thanks, Dad.” Out of the corner of his eye he spotted an elevator opening. Emma-Lee, carrying her bag, exited with several others. A man said something to her and she laughed, the warm, silky sound rippling along his nerve endings.

She was leaving. Suddenly, Holt realized that he had to spend more time with her. Today. He didn't want to wait until next weekend. He needed to come up with a plan and quick.
He knew her car was here, so he couldn't offer Emma-Lee a lift home. However…

As an idea formed, his mouth kicked up at the corner. The jet would go wherever he needed it to.

“Dad, I'm sorry, but I have to go. Something's come up.”

“But—” There was a second of silence. “Sure, son. I know you're a busy man.”

Rather than hitting the disconnect button, Holt hesitated. His father sounded weary. “Dad, you okay?”

“I'm fine. I'll speak with you later.”

“Sure thing. I'll e-mail you when I get back to Atlanta.”

“Bye, Holt.”