by Cox, Suzanne
“You… You don’t have any hair.”
No one even tried to hide their amusement. Probably, this wasn’t her best moment. Even Jackson Cooper grinned. He rubbed his hand over what appeared to be the beginnings of a five o’clock shadow…on his head.
Matt took his seat, watching the two of them.
“Ms. Leblanc and I met already. I’ll tell you about it later,” Jackson said to Matt.
Someone in the room coughed a little too loudly while Emalea tried not to bang her head against the table. She’d taken the motorcycle of a former FBI agent. Could it get any worse? He should have given her a hint as to who he was. Matt continued his introduction of Jackson Cooper, who would be the SAR team’s official contact at the sheriff’s office, but Emalea barely heard because she was starting to seethe. This only proved her point. Jackson Cooper was not a man to be trusted. But then what men could you trust? In her mind’s eye, the man in front of her morphed into some of her most horrific memories. He could snap her in half if he wanted. Her fist gripped the wooden arms of the chair, while her throat constricted. She couldn’t seem to get enough air.
Stop! Loosening her grip on the chair, oxygen filtered into her lungs as she took a slow calming breath, forcing the panic to subside, while the others carried on a meeting oblivious to her emotional state. This man, a stranger, wasn’t her father or Jean Pierre. There was no relationship to bind her to him and she certainly didn’t have to depend on him for anything. He was just another employee of the sheriff’s office. She only had to work with him occasionally. As soon as she returned the motorcycle, she’d never have to see him again, except officially and around town. A groan rose in her throat but she squelched it.
FIVE, FOUR, THREE STEPS then she’d be at her truck. Almost there, almost ready to reach for the door handle. Then fingers wrapped around her arm and she couldn’t ignore the shouted “Hey, Emalea,” anymore.
She spun around, twisting the offending fingers loose. “What? If it’s about your bike, I’m on my way to take it to Mick right now. I only did it as a joke.”
Jackson Cooper paused for a moment with his mouth half-open. “I was actually going to say that I hoped we could work together without too many hard feelings. I know we’ve had a rough start, but life will be a lot easier if we aren’t at each other’s throats all the time.”
“I’m not the kind of person to be at anyone’s throat.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “Really?”
“Really,” she replied, trying to unclench her teeth.
He was quiet for a moment and Emalea was more than a little afraid of what he might be thinking. His fingers moved to stroke the goatee around his mouth, and muscles in his forearm undulated. Standing this close, Jackson Cooper was discomfiting. Her own fingers itched to grab the door handle of her truck and escape.
“If you’re really planning on giving my bike back, I’m sure we can work something out so neither one of us has to go to the bar.”
Emalea’s head bobbed slightly but she was only half listening. How did his T-shirt fit him like a second skin without being completely indecent? That gave him such an unfair advantage over women. He could do or say anything and a woman might never really hear it because she’d be so fascinated by his body. Some women, but not her; she wasn’t into that.
“So, what do you think? Will that work for you?”
The sun caught the gold flecks in his eyes that she hadn’t noticed before. “Mmm… Yeah, that’s fine.”
He seemed to relax and she thought he might smile.
“Do you need directions?”
The last rays of the evening light began to feel a little warm on the back of her head. Wait, what had she agreed to?
“Directions for what?”
He frowned.
“Directions to the house I’m renting from Matt. If you really don’t mind bringing the bike there, I’ll be glad to drive you back home.”
The keys in her pocket bit into her hand as she clamped her fingers around them. Is that what she had agreed to do? She chewed at her bottom lip. Time alone with Jackson Cooper, not exactly what she’d been planning for the evening. But taking the bike to his house would be much easier since the only house Matt had to rent wasn’t that far from hers. She could handle it, didn’t want to, but she could.
“I know the way.” She opened the door of the truck and slid behind the wheel. As she tried to pull the door closed, she felt resistance. Jackson held the door, peering in at her as if she had grown a second head.
“What?”
“Tell me this isn’t your truck.”
Typical stupid male reaction. Just because it wasn’t a girlie ride, except for the glossy pearl-white paint job. “Of course it’s mine.”
He stepped back, pulling the door open wider. “A 1968 Ford step side in mint condition. That’s unbelievable.”
“It’s a sixty-six.”
He stared at her in amazement. “How do you get all this specialty stuff? I mean, the custom motorcycle, this truck. Are you a collector, or just really rich?”
She had to laugh then. “I’m really spoiled.”
Jackson tilted his head to one side, giving her a questioning look.
“My uncle John is a master mechanic. He rebuilt my motorcycle when I bought it secondhand. This truck—” she skimmed her fingers around the smooth steering wheel “—he found rusting in a field. He and I worked on it for a few years before we got it to this point.”
“I’d like to meet your uncle.”
Her heart skipped a beat as panic hit her. All she needed was for Jackson Cooper to talk to Uncle John. How long would the conversation go before he uncovered her story? What would he think? With her past, he’d wonder how she was allowed to counsel anyone. His first trip would likely be to the sheriff’s office to dig up the old files and there he’d find her whole ignoble past. But why should she care what this guy thought?
“I’ll see you in an hour.” Yanking the door out of his hand, she slammed it shut. She could have made it home and back to his house in less time, but what was the sense in rushing? When she got to his house, she could mention an early appointment that she didn’t actually have, then he’d have to bring her right home. Of course, she was sure he’d be more than happy to get rid of her just as quickly.
CHAPTER THREE
THE LOUD RUMBLING of a Harley broke the silence. A smile tried to work its way onto Jackson’s face, but he managed to battle it down in favor of a more nonchalant expression. A woman who drove a truck like Emalea’s and rode a custom Harley was something of a mystery to him. One he couldn’t afford to ponder, no matter how badly he wanted to, or at least that’s what he kept telling himself when he bothered to listen.
From the front porch, he watched her come up the driveway. A tightening below his belt called to his attention the fact that parts he’d thought were dormant had suddenly decided to make themselves known. Even though, when he’d first seen her, he’d imagined he could have a fling with a wild biker girl, that idea hadn’t survived long. Besides, Emalea wasn’t exactly a wild biker girl looking for a fling. She didn’t seem to be looking for anything, which was good because he had nothing to offer.
“Hi!” She stopped at the bottom of the porch steps, the corners of her mouth lifted slightly skyward. She’d changed into jeans with a bright red T-shirt.
He fumbled for a moment over what to say next. “I, uh, have some sweet tea if you’d like a glass before I take you home.” He sometimes wondered at his own stupidity. He didn’t know why he’d asked such a thing. She only raised an eyebrow.
“What does someone from Chicago know about sweet tea? I thought you’d only know two kinds of tea, hot and cold.”
He rocked back on his feet. “I’m originally from Arkansas so I know exactly how to put the sugar in the tea when I make it.”
Her laugh was low and soft, not what he expected, but it made him eager to hear more.
“Tea would be good. But I can�
�t stay. I’ve got an early appointment in the morning.”
He started toward the door. Just a quick drink, then they would leave. “If you’ll come in for a minute, I’ll get my keys, while we have some tea.”
The polite thing would have been to ask if she wanted to join him for dinner. But she’d already said she had to get back home, so he wasn’t being completely inhospitable. He should have been angry with her after yesterday, instead of wondering if he was being a good host. Somehow the whole thing only made him want to grin. A good sign that he’d put all his pent-up anger behind him. He placed her glass of tea on the bar while he admired the way loose strands from her ponytail framed her face. His fingers itched to pull the elastic band off to see how far her hair fell down her back.
He poured tea in his own glass while giving himself a mental butt kicking. He’d known this woman for less than forty-eight hours. In two years he’d never been tempted to cross the line he’d drawn in the sand. He certainly wasn’t going to start now.
“So how does an Arkansas boy, turned Chicago dweller, end up in Cypress Landing, Louisiana?”
He smiled—though he imagined it looked a little forced—while he made a decision only to give her the basics. She didn’t need to know how rough the road was that had brought him here.
“When I first started at the FBI I worked on missing children cases. I came here to help with a string of abductions that were happening.”
“Of course, I remember you. Or at least I remember FBI agents being here. I was new in SAR back then, and I didn’t work on those cases. I guess I never met you.”
“You might have. I had hair back then and no goatee. Right after that I made a move from missing children to working organized crime.” He didn’t mention that after his daughter had been born he couldn’t take seeing what often happened to children who were abducted. “Anyway, I worked organized crime a couple of years then decided to leave the FBI. Matt and I had become friends when I was here and he offered me a job. I really liked the town and I didn’t want to go back to Arkansas.” That would have been too much like hiding, and he didn’t want to have any slipups with his self-control in his own hometown. “So, here I am.”
She nodded, and he tried to let go of the breath he felt like he’d been holding. Obviously, the flimsy story made sense to her.
The phone rang, startling Emalea. She’d been trying to remember Jackson being in Cypress Landing, but that had been years ago. He stepped to the counter to get the phone, while she continued to sip her iced tea. So far so good. He hadn’t made any references to yesterday. As a matter of fact, he was being absolutely cordial. Kind of odd after the way she’d behaved at the bar.
Standing in the kitchen with him while he was on the phone almost felt like eavesdropping, so she wandered through a wide archway into the next room and paused in front of a small mahogany table with several pictures on it. In the other room Jackson ended the conversation and she heard drawers opening and closing.
“I’ll be ready in a minute,” he shouted. “I need to find a phone number and make a quick call.”
Emalea didn’t respond but stood staring at the pictures in front of her. The first silver frame held a photo of Jackson with two men and a younger girl. The resemblance was too strong for them to be anyone other than his brothers and sister. A wistful smile drifted along her lips. Two more pictures framed in silver caught her eye.
“Do you know where the SAR training will be held?”
Emalea jumped at the question. He hadn’t looked up from the drawer he was digging in. She continued to stand by the table. “I’m not sure.”
He must not have thought her mumbled response unusual, because he continued plundering in the drawer. She lifted the pictures from the table. One was Jackson with a beautiful blond woman and an equally beautiful blond little girl. The other was of the woman and the girl alone.
Her breath caught in her throat. She’d never considered that he might be married. Not that it mattered to her, but why weren’t they here? Maybe they were coming after he got settled.
She glanced back toward him. “Is this your family?” No reason to beat around the bush; if the guy was married or divorced or whatever, he ought to let someone know.
Jackson, half smiling, turned to answer, but froze at the sight of the pictures in her hand. An array of emotions contorted his face, making Emalea regret the question. He strode to the sink—his back to her—and stopped to grasp the edge of the counter.
Returning the pictures to the table, she went in to the kitchen, immediately noticing his white-knuckle grip. Tread carefully, she cautioned herself, this might be a subject that makes him angry. She didn’t want to make him angry with her, not while they were alone at his house. Although this time, her usual flash of fear was absent. The sickly mask of stone that had settled onto him concerned her more.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“Of course you did. But it’s okay. They died, back in Chicago two years ago, car accident.” He slowly relaxed his grip.
“I’m truly sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t mean to bring up a bad memory.”
He nodded, still gazing out the window as though he might see something in the darkening sky. “You’re lucky if you haven’t had to deal with losing someone in your family.”
“My mother was killed in an accident when I was twelve.” Emalea fought the urge to slap her hand over her mouth. Why in heaven’s name had she said that? He didn’t need to know about her past. An accident? What a stretch.
“I’m sorry for your loss. Were you not able to stay with your dad? Is that why you went to live with your aunt and uncle?”
She wondered if she could say she had to go to the bathroom, then just never answer his question. “My dad was… Well he wasn’t around after my mom died.”
Jackson didn’t respond, seemingly satisfied with her rough interpretation of the truth. His fingers tapped absently on the counter.
“It’s still not like losing your wife and child, though. I’m sorry.”
He was quiet and she thought the conversation had ended.
“It should never have happened. It was my fault.”
The words were spoken so softly Emalea wasn’t sure if she’d actually heard them. If she considered what he said through the filter of her own past, she’d run out the door. But she didn’t even feel the fear that had once resided constantly inside her. Even though he appeared physically capable of doing whatever he wanted, he didn’t seem to have that spark of pure meanness that could make men dangerous. He didn’t notice that she stared at him, and she was glad because she couldn’t stop. She realized she desperately wanted Jackson not to be like other men she’d known.
“I guess I better get you home.” He stepped away from the sink, grabbing a set of keys from the bar. “You want to go in my truck or on the motorcycle?”
“Truck,” she responded quickly. An image of being on the motorcycle with her arms wrapped around him was too much.
“What about the phone call you needed to make?”
He shook his head. “It can wait.”
CLASSIC ROCK MUSIC HID the fact they weren’t talking. She had only spoken to give him directions, and Jackson easily found her small house at the end of a short driveway. Huge live oak branches hung low in her yard. The whole scene sent waves of peacefulness washing over him.
“Live here by yourself?”
“Yeah, my aunt and uncle live just around the corner from their shop in town but I like it here.”
He rubbed his hand across the dashboard. “It’s been quite a change for me from the city. I’m enjoying the solitude, most of the time anyway. I appreciate your bringing the bike and having tea with me.”
It was true, even though he’d had to speak of his family. Something he was always loath to do, though what had he expected when with the pictures were sitting in plain sight? Normally, he was able to discuss the horror of two years ago without all the emotional upheaval he’d felt tonig
ht. He should have told her the whole story. But what was the point?
She was out of the truck, waving goodbye before he realized she had opened the door.
“Umm. Thanks for the ride, and no hard feelings about the motorcycle thing, right?”
“None at all. I said so earlier, remember. Everybody has to let their bad side loose once in a while.” He smiled but she appeared to be less than congenial. She seemed…well, scared. There was no other word for the way her eyes rounded and her breath seemed to come in gasps. He’d seen plenty of people afraid—he’d been the cause of it many times—but he certainly hadn’t expected to see this woman afraid of anything. The worst thing was he didn’t know what had caused that expression.
She was on her front porch and in the house before he could say anything else. Stepping on the accelerator, he headed toward the highway. He hadn’t really had a good chance to tell her how his family had died, had he? But then again, why bother? It wasn’t like he was going to be asking her to dinner or spending long hours cuddling on the sofa with her, although just the thought of it made him want to give it a try. He shook his head. No way. He’d have to help with the search-and-rescue team, it was part of his job, but helping didn’t mean getting involved with Emalea.
He wasn’t going to have a relationship with a woman again. Being a magnet for death and destruction wasn’t conducive to happily ever after. That’s what he was, a death magnet. The loss of Christa and Connor had proved that.
The charred ruins of Christa’s car hung in his memory like the black smoke that had poured from the wreckage. Just another job for one of the men hired by the Mafia family he’d gone undercover to investigate. That assignment had ended his world and sent him, two years later, to live in this small town, far from the greedy fingers of organized crime. He’d never again let himself have so much to lose.
THE BEEPER IN EMALEA’S PURSE hummed as she finished her notes on Kent’s session. Her last for the day, thank goodness. Something was bothering the boy. Though he’d been gone for nearly an hour, she was still struggling with the feeling. Hints of violence at home had Emalea doing a very personal check. She didn’t want to miss any abuse that should be reported, nor did she want to read something into the situation because of her own experiences. Another session, then maybe he’d begin to trust her more. All she really wanted to do now was go home and soak in the tub for, oh, maybe an hour.
