A TEMPTING ENGAGEMENT

by Bronwyn Jameson

  "No worries," he'd drawled while her eyes clouded with skepticism. She knew his need-to-know nature needed to know, even if she didn't understand how much that night plagued his mind and body. But that wariness in her eyes … that had kept him to his promise these past ten days. Hands on hips, he stopped pacing and blew out a ragged breath.

  Hell, some of those days he'd ached with the effort of "forgetting," although mostly it wasn't so difficult – they had the perfect, ever-present chaperone in Joshua with his games and television and chatter. But then a seemingly casual remark would resonate with hidden meaning or a casual brushing of limbs or the scent of her freshly bathed skin would catapult him to a different level of awareness: Emily, the woman.

  In his house, naked in his shower, asleep between her pristine sheets in the bedroom down the hall.

  Sucking in a breath, he felt the bite of winter air in his nostrils, in his lungs, sharp with the edge of citrus but not nearly sharp enough to shut out the hot ache of sexual frustration. His constant companion. Before he started howling at the moon, he hurdled the verandah rail and cut across the lawn. A long hike through the brittle, winter night might not cool his blood, but it would clear his head enough to remember his final rejoinder in that negotiation battle.

  "No worries," he'd drawled as her eyes clouded with skepticism. "Seeing as this is a business relationship and I have a duty of care as your employer, it wouldn't be appropriate to ever mention you'd been in my bed. Would it?"

  Forty-five minutes later the glow of light caught his attention as he crested the last rolling rise and the old homestead came into view. A punch of fear, low in his gut, set him running flat out.

  Sitting room window, he told himself. No need to overreact. She likely couldn't sleep.

  Mitch forced himself to get a grip – he didn't want to scare the bejesus out of Emily by bursting into the house like a madman – but he could have saved himself the effort of slowing down. In the empty room a circular pool of lamplight revealed a magazine set aside and a glass on the side table. The rest of the house sat in darkness, enveloped in the heavy silence of sleep.

  "Emily?"

  Pausing outside her bedroom, he tapped lightly on the door, willing her to answer. He sure as hell did not want to open that door, to see her in her bed, to carry that image—

  "Mitch."

  At the soft sound of his name, he whirled around, saw her three doors down – outside Joshua's room – and was beside her in less than a second.

  "Is he all right? What's happened?"

  With a finger to her lips, she shushed his questions. "Bad dream," she whispered. "But he's gone back to sleep."

  Mitch needed to see for himself. In the shadows of the night-light Joshua slept soundly, his fair hair mussed as if by her hand. Both arms hugged a teddy bear he'd never seen before. A scruffy bear, he noticed as he bent down to kiss his son's brow, its shaggy coat threadbare in places, battle-scarred in others, probably from years gripped in small arms. Including Emily's?

  He straightened and met her eyes. "Looks like your bear's been through the wars."

  "That's his job," she said with soft sincerity. "Fighting night-fear battles."

  For a second Mitch stood speechless, blown away, and then he shook his head. Of course Emily would produce the perfect solution for Joshua's night fears – not just a comforting companion, but one who fought the demons and bore the battle scars to prove it.

  "Does he have a name?" he asked, guiding her from the room.

  "Bruiser." The hint of a smile touched her lips as she pulled the door to behind them. "Thus dubbed around fifteen minutes ago. I thought it suited a lean, mean fighting machine better than his previous Bruce name."

  In the hallway he turned her around to face him, but dropped his hands when her eyes widened warily. "Was he frightened?"

  "Disoriented mostly."

  "It's been a lot for him, to deal with, all the changes, even before that latest misadventure."

  She bit her lip, then pushed a long tress of silvery hair back over her shoulder with one hand, revealing a tangible reminder of that misadventure. A scratch from the spiky undergrowth traced the line of her throat and disappeared beneath the neckline of her thick robe.

  Mitch had seen the mark most every day, along with shallower, now-healed pricks on her hands. But prior knowledge did not stop the violent jolt of reaction deep in his gut – every day – or the sudden itch to lift his hand and trace the scar its full length.

  He shoved both hands in his pockets, away from temptation, and noticed her fidgety shift of weight from one foot to the other. Nervous. Of standing here with him in the near darkness? Given the itch in his fingers, she had cause.

  "He used to wake often," he said quietly, forcing himself to relax against the wall at her side and hoping she might do the same. Relax for a while, forget their tensions and his rogue intentions. "He went through a stage of bad dreams, crying in his sleep, clinging."

  "Afraid you might leave, too."

  Yeah, Emily would understand. She'd been in that same place, shifted and shuffled around right through her childhood, and it made her own flight from his apartment that much harder to understand. But he'd promised not to bring it up, not to question, and that agreement was eating holes in his psyche. He buried his hands deeper in his pockets and cleared his throat. "Thank you for being here, for tonight."

  Being Emily, she shifted uncomfortably, a little hitch of one shoulder, and he felt the brush of her robe against his sleeve and hip, felt a reactive warmth wash through him.

  "Well, night fears are my specialty," she said finally, and although she dipped her head so her hair slid forward to obscure her face, he pictured a wry half smile on her lips. He liked the image, liked the new teasing tone.

  "Yeah?" Leaning closer, he nudged her with his shoulder. "You have another lean, mean, fighting-machine bear for my night fears?"

  With one finger she slowly threaded that silky fall of hair back behind her ear. In the shadows her eyes looked dark and troubled.

  Night fears are my specialty. Damn.

  Already he could sense her withdrawal, and he struggled for a way to wipe that contrite why-did-he-say-that expression from her face. To keep her here in the dark, talking, almost companionable.

  "Were you having trouble sleeping?" he asked, remembering the scene in the sitting room. "It looked like you'd been up reading, before Joshua woke."

  "I was watching television, actually." She darted him an edgy look. "I hope you don't mind."

  "Why would I mind?"

  "I know you work some nights." She paused, seemingly intent on studying her toes. Bare, he noticed, nails painted a pearly pink that reminded him of her bare skin. "I didn't want to disturb you."

  "Hell, Emily, your being here dis—" He cut himself off abruptly. Still thinking about her bare skin, he'd almost revealed that her very presence disturbed him, asleep or awake, that even the sight of her bare toes turned him on. He expelled a harsh breath before trying again. "It's not you that's disrupting my writing."

  Head bowed, face hidden, she didn't reply. He lifted a hand, intent on tucking her hair back, but at his touch she jolted upright, and the sleek strands slid over his wrist, shockingly cool, seductively soft.

  "I should go back to bed," she said in a breathy rush.

  And he should let her, except – damn it – he didn't want her gone. He wanted to preserve this mood, this strange edgy intimacy. He'd avoided being alone with her, and now he needed her company. Not quite the old Emily with her quiet, easy manner, but still easy to talk to, to be with….

  He straightened off the wall and took a gamble on the changed Emily. "Don't you want to satisfy your curiosity?"

  Wariness darkened her shadowy eyes … wariness and a puzzled sense of curiosity.

  Mitch smiled with no small measure of satisfaction. Then winked. "Join me in the kitchen for hot chocolate, and I'll tell you what it is you're curious about."

  * * *
/>   Chapter 5

  «^»

  After the concentrated, darkened intimacy of the hallway, Emily found some respite in the brightly lit kitchen and the fact that Mitch was now one island bench and half a room away. Seated on a stool at said bench, she watched him with a fascination that totally eclipsed her curiosity.

  He moved with such economy – an almost fluid grace that elevated the mundane art of hot-chocolate preparation to an artistic plane. A thing of beauty. The way his long fingers embraced the mugs, the smooth shoulder-nudge that closed the pantry door, the intense focus on his face as he measured out the powdered chocolate. Heck, she even loved the way his sweater shifted with the play of muscles in his shoulders and back.

  Her gaze continued down. Jeans, not too tight – and she wasn't allowing herself to look too hard, uh-uh – and his old walking shoes. Walking? She sat up straighter on the stool. Now she was totally busting with curiosity.

  "Were you out walking?"

  Obviously surprised, he cut her a quick glance, his eyes glittering gray-green in the fluorescent light.

  "You would have heard Joshua, from your office, if that's where you were. I just realized," she finished lamely as the microwave peeped. Bingo. You've got it.

  He poured the hot milk before he looked up again. "Yeah, I was taking a walk."

  "At 2:00 a.m.?"

  With a lopsided grin – the one that always caused Emily's heart to loop the loop – he deposited the filled mugs on the bench. "But that's not what you're curious about."

  Emily blinked. "It's not?"

  "You want to know what's disrupting my writing."

  Yup, she was curious about that comment. Turning superciliously, she tilted her head so she could watch him stroll around the bench. He's going to sit next to me. Her heart skipped a beat, restarted with a new vigor. Goodbye respite.

  When he slid onto the stool next to hers, their knees bumped. Emily steeled herself not to jump, wriggle or fan the sudden heat that suffused her body and crept into her face. Act cool, Emily Jane. Cool, yet friendly. Because this night, this sharing, constituted a quantum leap in their … relationship. For want of a better word.

  "Is this your foreign correspondent book?"

  Mug halfway to his mouth, he paused and stared.

  "Chantal mentioned it," she admitted. Then, when he continued to stare— "We weren't talking about you or anything. She was telling Quade, and I happened to overhear. It will be a fabulous book, Mitch."

  "Yeah, well, it's not looking so fabulous from this side of the pages."

  "Why ever not?" She knew the work he'd done in the field, the awards he'd won, before taking a studio job with fixed hours. Because he'd wanted to save his marriage. Right now he was frowning into his hot chocolate. "You must have so much material."

  "Lack of material isn't a problem. It's getting it all together, how I want it, and making the publisher's deadline."

  "What happens if you don't?"

  His eyes snapped up. "That's not an option."

  "Because you have a contract?"

  "Yes."

  Emily frowned at the vehemence of his answer, not understanding. "If you need the money so badly, why were you threatening to throw houses and cars my way?"

  "It's not the money, Em." Determination burned in his eyes. "It's about doing what I said I'd do, about honoring that commitment, about getting this one thing in my life right."

  Ahh. Understanding beckoned, like a glimmer of light beneath a lifting fog. Carefully she put down her drink. He believed he'd failed as a husband, as a father, as her employer. Mitch Goodwin who didn't have a clue how to handle failure because he'd always known nothing but success. Emily didn't know whether to hug him or shake him.

  "Don't you think," she began carefully, "that a book you're not happy with would be a worse kind of failure? Like failing yourself and your standards?"

  "Yeah, and that thought's not helping the block."

  "Maybe you need to cut yourself some slack."

  "Maybe I need to sort out the other stuff in my life so I can focus on the book." With a rough bark of laughter, he dragged his fingers through his hair, shook his head. "Which you've already done, with Joshua, with the whole household organization thing."

  Absurdly flattered, she couldn't help smiling. "Along with night fears, sorting stuff is one of my specialties. What else needs sorting?"

  Heat sparked in his eyes, sudden and startling. Emily's stomach tightened. Her pulse quickened. But then he looked away, studied his mug for a long second, and she didn't know whether to be relieved that he'd reined in that random thought or disappointed. "Annabelle's parents contacted me, about Joshua," he said finally. "Through their lawyer."

  Emily gaped. "Surely they're not contesting custody?"

  "They want regular visitation."

  Oh. Emily traced a slow finger around the rim of her mug, and when she looked up he was eyeing her narrowly. "You don't have an opinion?"

  "Well, yes," Emily said cautiously, "but it may not be the one you want to hear."

  One corner of his mouth twisted, but he made a give-it-to-me gesture with one hand.

  "Well, I think they have a right and so does Joshua. I know what it's like not to have family contact, and if I knew that was because someone blocked the process…" What would she do? A hypothetical she didn't bother answering because the only thing that stopped her parents from visits was their own lack of parental affection. Luckily she'd had her Gramps. "Keeping grandparents from seeing their grandchild is wrong, Mitch."

  "I'm not stopping them," he said tersely. "All they need to do is pick up the phone, personally, not through a law office."

  "Have you picked up the phone, Mitch?" No, she could see the answer in his expression and she shook her head. "You always used to be the first to take a step like that, to make things happen."

  Grim-faced, he looked away. "Yeah, I used to do a lot of things. Past tense."

  Used to, before Annabelle left. An old resentment sliced through Emily, one she hadn't allowed herself to acknowledge in a long, long time. A sharp, bitter antipathy toward the woman whose memory stopped him from doing those things. The ex-wife who had taken and taken and tossed it all back in his face. And, worse, deeper, sharper, flared her anger at Mitch for being too stubborn or, yes, probably still hurting too much, to move forward. To do a simple little thing such as holding out a conciliatory hand to Joshua's grandparents.

  "Maybe it's time you stopped blaming yourself for what happened," she said, her voice stronger, more strident than she'd intended. "The Blaineys have been hurting – are still hurting – just as much as you. Make it easy on them and Joshua and yourself. Call them."

  * * *

  "Blaineys' Snowhawk Lodge." Mitch stared at the Yellow Pages listing on his monitor. There. He had the number, his last excuse nixed. All he had to do was dial, make the arrangements. Maybe he wouldn't even have to meet with them and see the grief in their eyes, the condemnation, the disappointment. He hadn't been able to make her happy or even keep her content, their precious only daughter, and God knows he had tried. Right up until the end.

  Pick up the phone, make the call. If not for Joshua, or his ex-in-laws, he needed to do it for himself, anything to erase the memory of Emily's expression as she told him – basically – to get over himself. He had always valued her opinion, had hated her recent circumspection around him, but last night he'd discovered something that struck much deeper. Emily Warner's disappointment. Something else to keep him awake nights.

  With a disgusted snort, he rocked forward in his chair and reached for the phone …just as his screen-saver activated, obliterating the number. Before he could do more than curse, once, succinctly, he heard activity outside. Voices, indistinct, indiscernible. A door opening and closing. He didn't hear footsteps in the carpeted hallway but sensed them, and he counted the seconds until his office door swung open. First guess: his little sister.

  "Ah, the writer hermit in his cave."


  Yup, Chantal, wearing a maternity tent and a worried scowl.

  "Why don't you come in, sis." He scowled right back at her as she plopped down in the office's second chair. "And make yourself at home."

  "I would if you had some decent furniture in here. This chair is the pits."

  Exactly. Visitor discouragement. He gestured at this visitor's heavily pregnant belly. "Did you waddle down here or drive?"

  "I wish! Waddling from one room to the next is my limit, and I don't fit behind the wheel anymore. Quade drove me. He's somewhere out there." A casual wave indicated the garden beyond his window. "Practicing his daddy skills on Joshua."

  Banished so his wife could practice her nagging skills on him. Wonderful. Mitch set his expression to implacable and rocked back in his own very comfortable chair.

  "We've been to Cliffton for my checkup and decided to drop in on our way past. Seeing as you never bother returning my calls. And, yes, I am well, thanks for asking."

  "Emily keeps me informed."

  "So, you do come out of the cave occasionally?"

  He bared his teeth. "Only to feed."

  Chantal didn't even roll her eyes let alone laugh. Obviously she was more pissed off than he'd thought. "That would be the food Emily prepares, I presume?"

  "Your point?"

  "My point?" Swift fury flared in her eyes. "When did Emily last have a meal cooked for her. Or a night off?"

  Mitch bridled. "She has Sundays off. I offered more—"

  "So she could sit in her room? Or maybe walk the twelve miles to town?"

  The driving lessons. That's what this was about.

  "You haven't even started yet, have you? Dammit, Mitch, you said you would teach her!"

  Jaw clenched, he rose to his feet and stared out the window. Yes, he'd said he would teach her, and he intended to keep his word, except he'd been busy. Preoccupied with the book's lack of progress, with the Blaineys, with last-minute changes to his scripts for a documentary series going into production next month.