by Louisa Trent
She had to tell him how sorry she was for involving him in her screwed-up life!
No! An apology wasn't enough. She should leave, go away, not trap him in her troubles. "Steve, I think I should leave..."
"Tired, baby?"
"No, it's not that." She returned the jeweler's box, unopened, to the table. "Will you excuse me?"
Emily rose shakily to her feet. She would hitch a ride off the Cape tonight, cross the bridge, and go as far north as the driver was willing to drive her. "I just need to go."
Something hard flickered behind Steve Gallagher's eyes, a hardness she had never witnessed before.
He stood in her way, blocking her exit from the room. "Open the box," he ordered, his tone leaving no room for debate.
After undoing the fastener, she cracked the satin lid.
Hot tears burned her eyes. "A diamond necklace?"
"I'll put it on you." A gentlemanly hand under her elbow Steve escorted her to the middle of the room. "Turn around, Angel."
She did, shivering as he placed the cold stones against her hot skin.
Knowing she should go, but unable to leave, Emily stood still as Steve walked around her in a small circle.
He must have paid a fortune for the sparkling diamonds, yet he didn't spare a glance for what his money bought.
No! That wasn't true. After all, his heavy-lidded gaze never lifted from the center of her body. Steve Gallagher had paid for her the same as he had paid for the diamond necklace. There was no use pretending otherwise.
"What's your fancy tonight?" she asked, determined to give Steve his money's worth.
* * * *
Generally speaking, Steve liked diamonds, and he liked giving gifts to women, which is why after seeing the necklace showcased in the jeweler's building, he had to buy the string of rocks for Emily.
No necklace could compete with Emily's unadorned beauty. Frankly, the jewels at her throat paled in comparison to the sheen of perspiration beaded on her translucent skin in the moonlit softness of his bedroom.
Dropping his jaw, he licked the moisture that trickled down the elegant curve of Emily's backbone.
"You're beautiful," he murmured for the second time that night.
And she was beautiful, very beautiful, rounded over the footboard of his bed.
When she had asked him his fancy, her gray eyes cool and distant, rage had filled him-the rage not directed at her, but at his own refusal to accept this relationship for what it was.
Emily had their relationship right; he was the one who had it all wrong. After giving her the diamonds, she expected he would want something from her. Made sense, from her perspective. And it should have made sense from his perspective, too. Only, he wasn't thinking reciprocation when selecting the diamonds. All he thought about was how alive those cold stones would look next to her warm skin. And so, he told her: "My fancy is you. Just you."
Her silvery dress slipped to the floor; she left on the heels. "How about having me, just me, on the love seat?" She giggled.
Finding the irony, but not the humor in that particular stick of furniture, he said a polite, "No thank you."
"The bed then. It will make a change from the a sleeping bag."
He followed her into his bedroom, his eyes never leaving the sexy sway of her bare bottom, exaggerated because of the high-heeled shoes.
She toppled drunkenly over the footboard at the end of the bed. "How's this?" she slurred, face nose-down in the coverlet.
It was pretty awful. And not exactly the candlelit ending to the romantic evening he had planned.
"Fine," he grumbled, but gratitude sex was not what he wanted. Steve wanted Emily in his bedroom because somewhere in her larcenous soul she had genuine feelings for him.
She laughed gaily. "Do I get a choice in lubes? If I do, make mine peppermint."
There was a titillation factor to anal, the lure of the forbidden, a fascination with the dark side of sex, a mind trip into power and powerlessness. In the best possible scenario, anal is a gift, a wordless statement of trust a woman gives a man.
Hidden deep in the back of his closet was a slightly dusty cabinet left over from those days of promiscuity after his wife's death. He kept a similar cabinet in New York and an even larger one in his Boston condo. Within the open-out doors of all three cabinets was a wide assortment of sex toys, including every possible device, from mint lubes to clitoris clamps. At one time in his life, he had used them all.
Steve wasn't using any of them on Emily.
Not until he said his piece.
He didn't undress. A man doesn't want his piece hanging out when he's saying his piece-it clouds the whole issue.
He caressed her spine. "You're perfect," he said, and his cock agreed.
"And I thought I had too much champagne. Steve, I'm as imperfect as they come, and you don't have to say nice things to get sex. You're already paying me a fortune."
He took a deep breath. This was it. This is where he bared his heart and said his piece. It would have been nicer to say it to her face, rather than give his speech while she was bottoms-up over the bed, but sometimes life just doesn't work out so neatly.
He began slow, taking his time, trying to get the words right. "I gave you the damn necklace because I wanted to give you the damn necklace. I'm loaded, angel, and apart from family I've got no one to spend the money on. Not a wife. Not kids. So I bought you the diamonds."
He paused. This part would give her the advantage; this is where he would fly his vulnerability like a flag of surrender. To tell her took a leap of faith, a jump into trust, a stumble into hope. She could easily use this information to her own ends. He said he would bleed for her and this was it. Hell, he was about to rip open a vein and let it gush.
He wiped a shaky hand over his eyes. "Angel, I'm not paying you for sex. I can get a fuck anywhere. I'm paying you to stick around because even when I'm in a roomful of people I'm damn lonely, and I don't feel lonely when I'm with you. If sex doesn't come with the deal, it will tie my dick in knots, but I will still want your company."
Silence. He was met with absolute silence.
"Emily," he said, speaking her name for the very first time. "Did you hear me? I don't care what you've done. I don't care about The Cuzin. I just want you."
A snore rose from the bed.
His angel was skunk drunk.
With a sigh, Steve moved Emily to a more comfortable position on the bed, covered her over with the coverlet so she wouldn't pick up a draft and catch a cold, and went back downstairs, collapsing, head in hands, on the loveseat.
Finally finding the humor in the situation, he laughed himself to sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Steve's waterfront condo came with panoramic views of Boston Harbor on one side and the impressive cityscape on the other. Sunlight poured in through the expansive windows, it was the start of a brand-new day, she had a wad of cash to spend any way she chose, and Emily had never felt so down...
Soon after their arrival at the condo, Steve informed her that a business obligation required his immediate attention and he would be gone at least a week, maybe more.
She doubted his business obligation was the whole truth.
Steve was visibly restless. Like a wild animal suddenly caged, he tensed whenever she spoke or came near; he looked almost hunted. She suspected the change in him had something to do with the diamond necklace. Had she angered him? Said something wrong? Done something wrong? It had to be something! He didn't sleep with her the night before; he left her alone in the bed. His bed. The one he had invited her into on more than one occasion, the one she had always refused to share with him. Knowing he wanted her to sleep with him in his enormous bedroom in his huge bed, she had decided to give up the independence of the loft and finally move into the big house at the end of the drive with him. Giving up her independence was to have been her gift to him. Though her independence didn't cost what the diamond necklace had cost Steve, her freedom was pricele
ss to her. But drunk on champagne, she must have somehow screwed up on giving her gift to him...
To be honest, anger had played a part in the screw-up. The diamonds again. Steve was paying her for sex in a straight business proposition, which hurt her pride but which she had finally come to terms with, and then he went and bought her jewelry. The gesture made her feel bad about herself all over again, just when she had started to bounce back from feeling terrible...
She should have said something to Steve about the diamonds, explained why the gift had pissed her off while touching her at the same time.
Oh, it was all so confused in her head! She didn't want to take money from Steve for sex but she couldn't afford not to. Only a sentimental chump would refuse to take the cash, and she was hard as nails, used to putting Number One first. She wasn't like those bathing beauties Steve played around with in his swimming pool!
She never thought she would say this to herself, but she had issues. Real conflicts that centered on self-respect.
When the door closed behind Steve, those issues and conflicts went right out the window. Her whole world turned to black, and she realized then that she was only fooling herself. She was in love with Steve Gallagher. He didn't have to pay her for sex! She would have given him whatever he wanted for free. To her, this was a love affair, not a business transaction. They were in the middle of a lovely, if temporary, union of the hearts. She couldn't view their relationship as anything less. An arbitrary date on the calendar didn't lessen her love for him.
He didn't love her back.
And she had absolutely no right to feel disappointed that Steve wouldn't give her more than diamonds. From the very beginning, he had been frank and honest with her. About everything.
All for the best that he felt nothing for her. Who knew where she would be in a few months anyway? She was still on the run, after all. It was her own fault that she had broken the first rule of temporary by falling in love with Steve.
She would just have to live in the moment. They had until Labor Day. This was only a brief separation. He hadn't left her for good. He hadn't walked out on her. Steve was coming back to her. While he was away, she would just have to keep busy to make the hours of waiting for his return go faster. Occupied, she wouldn't miss him as much. One trip she would make was to a Boston pawnshop to retrieve Bernard Fritz's gift. And then, and then...
She had no idea what she would do with herself then.
Clean, she supposed. Though, Steve had maid service and his condo was immaculate. Gosh, already she was bored!
Bored, but safe. Steve's Boston condo came with twenty-four hour surveillance. She was as secure here as she would be in jail cell. Now there was a pleasant thought...
Emily nearly shed her skin when the private elevator to Steve's penthouse condo opened and Ronnie Thomas emerged, yawning hugely as she bee-lined it for the refrigerator. "Word up! But you are jumpy this morning, girl!"
"I wasn't expecting you," Emily said, still badly shaken.
"Guess Steve didn't tell you I have a key to the private elevator." Ronnie poured and drained the contents of a small glass of OJ. "I went out clubbing last night with some friends and I'm one suffering bitch today." She lowered her voice. "Just our little secret. Don't tell on me to Steve's brother, Greg. Okay? He wouldn't approve, no how, no way."
Emily got a grip. "Other than treating your hangover, what are you doing here?"
"While your man is out of town, we girls are doing some shopping and beautifying. You'll be on Steve's arm at social occasions this summer, and your look needs some upscaling. The punk look just won't cut it in the circles Steve travels, my dear. We'll get you started at a hairdressing salon on Newberry Street. Maxwell's. Do you know him?"
"No..."
"Well, I do. Intimately. He does me." She laughed. "Actually, he does my hair and we chat. Maxwell loves, loves, loves women, but he dates men. You know how that goes. Anyway, Steve says he wants you to go to a mellow blonde, and try on a more sophisticated look. You've got great bones, honey, gray eyes, and a thin shape-it's nothing short of criminal the way you're not making the most of them."
Ronnie tapped her shoe's stiletto heel on the kitchen floor. "With all of us pitching in, we'll get you up to speed. When Steve returns in three weeks, he won't hardly recognize you."
"Three weeks? He told me he would only be gone one week."
"Change of plans, honey. He called me from the airport."
"He's flying?" Emily frowned. "Where is he going?"
"Sorry, no can tell. I'm under strict orders not to bore you with business."
"But I want to know!"
Ronnie shook her head. "Water torture wouldn't get it out of me so don't even try. And you can get that grumpy look off your face, right now. Steve's not with another woman, if that's what you're thinking. The man's not like that. Business is just taking longer than he anticipated, that's all. He'll be back by month's end. And I'll keep you company every day, just see if I don't."
"I don't need a babysitter, Ronnie."
"And you ain't got one, sugar. It's only that, your man is for sure the over-protective type. He's like that with all women. Greg is the same. And honey, believe me, I can take care of myself, and I'm still lapping it up. Enjoy it while it lasts, cuz it won't last long. "
Emily plucked at the faded sleeve of her black jersey. "I know. Steve's has so many women in his life..." She couldn't compete with that pool of naked bathing beauties.
"None that mean anything." Ronnie walked to the window and looked out over the harbor. "Steve's a real honorable man, but he's not the marrying kind."
"He was married once before..."
"That's right. And he still adores her. Woman to woman, Steve will never marry you, if that's what you're looking for. Settle for an ostentatious diamond ring, forget the plain gold wedding band."
"Thanks for the insight, Ronnie, but I'm operating under no delusions. Steve has let me know, in no uncertain terms, that his only interest in me is as his summer playmate. And that's fine with me. I'm not looking for permanent either."
"Good attitude. And you could do a lot worse than Steve for a summer fling. The man is generous to a fault, honest as the day is long, and if you ever need a friend, he's the guy you want in your corner. He's forgiving and slow to anger too. I wish I could be like that, but I'm not. You break Steve's heart, hon, and you answer to me, and I'm one bitch you don't ever want to go to the mat with. Un-un."
"Take off your boxing gloves, Ronnie. Come September, I'll only be a distant memory to Steve."
Ronnie offered up her most charming, if brittle smile. Then, the smile straightened and for the first time Emily saw the pain behind the glamour Ronnie projected. "Get dressed, sugar. Time to go shopping. Sometimes looking good as we say goodbye to a man is the only revenge we women have."
* * * *
The chance to give Ronnie the slip didn't present itself for a full week. As the window of opportunity was small, Emily hurried to the Tremont Street pawnshop across from Boston Common, returning to the condo just in time for another grueling day of pampering.
For safekeeping, Emily tucked Mr. Fritz's gift under the high neckline of her new blue silk dress. The antique locket was large, and if Ronnie saw it, she would start asking questions, questions Emily didn't want to answer.
Bernard Fritz had used her. He had taken advantage of her trust in him, had set her up to take the fall in a criminal art ring, but the art dealer had also been a father-figure in her life for two years and she couldn't bring herself to leave the antique brooch in a pawn shop. Why had Mr. Fritz given her such an expensive gift? Was it a bribe to get her to carry a stolen painting past customs?
Upon reflection, the clunky necklace was ... well ... kind of ugly. Hardly an inducement to get her to break the law. So why? Why had Mr. Fritz given it to her, when he had never before given her a gift?
The timing of the gift made absolutely no sense!
There was no time to consider th
e timing of Bernard Fritz's gift then because the elevator door had opened and Ronnie was marching into Steve's condo like she owned the place.
Emily turned to greet Steve's business partner. "I'm ready."
Ronnie propped open one blood-shot eye. "Glad you are. I just hauled my derriere out of bed, girl. Went clubbing again last night."
"Why?"
"I'm slow leaving the gates this morning. Why what?"
"Why go clubbing since you obviously don't enjoy it?"
Ronnie shook her head. "Hell, I don't know. To prove to myself I still could, I suppose. That Greg Gallagher has been moving in on me, telling me to stop my partying ways, to settle down. I don't know if I'm ready for what he wants." She yawned. "Girl, I could use me some coffee, the thick as mud kind Steve and I used to drink when we worked the graveyard shift at FBI headquarters."
Emily's insides clenched. "You and Steve worked for the FBI?"
"Un-huh. Years ago." Ronnie was coming awake now and Emily read indecision on her face. "Maybe I shouldn't have said anything to you about that. Steve and I usually keep our career ladders confidential. Though, for the life of me, I don't understand why. It's not like we're working undercover anymore; we're reputable art insurance investigators. Got our own business cards and everything."
"Not to worry," Emily lied. "Steve already told me everything. Tell me, do you like working in missing art? It sounds sort of ... well ... dull to me."
"Dull? Hell, no! It's an exciting field, and lucrative. Have you heard of Study in Light by Paul Cuzin? That's the case we're working on now."
An attack of nausea had Emily clutching her belly. "I don't know anything about art. I'm a mechanic, remember?"
"Well, Steve's been trying to trace this woman. Emily Parker. She's a suspect in the case. I compiled a dossier on her. Interesting stuff."
