Emily And The Stranger

by Beverly Barton

  The stranger turned and smiled at her, his searing blue eyes focusing on her face. When she felt the warmth of a blush creeping into her cheeks, she abruptly looked down, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

  Was she blushing? Mitch wondered. He couldn’t believe it. As a general rule, modern women didn’t blush. Hell, was it possible that Emily felt the attraction between them as strongly as he did? Was that what was bothering her?

  “My Hannah character was based on a real person,” Emily said in an effort to distract herself from concentrating so intensely on her neighbor’s obvious physical attributes. She took a sip from the chilled bottle of juice before she picked up her sketch pad.

  “Is that right?” Following her lead, Mitch put his bottle to his lips and took a giant sip. Much to his surprise, he found the fruity liquid quite refreshing.

  “My grandmother’s name was Hannah. She spent many happy days of her childhood in that house.” Turning, Emily pointed to the white clapboard cottage nestled on a grassy knoll above the beach. “When I was a little girl and came here in the summer, Grammy used to tell me the most wonderful stories about vacations at the cottage when she was growing up.”

  Mitch set the bottle of juice between his legs. He knew very little about Emily Jordan. Only what Zed had been able to find out from various sources. After her husband’s death in the fire, she’d had eight surgeries on her back. Until recently, she had lived in Mobile with her husband’s uncle, Fowler Jordan, the respected head of a prestigious accounting firm. Then a few months ago, she’d moved into the beachfront cottage on Scenic Highway 98 that she had inherited from her grandmother. And with a partner, she had opened an art supply store called the Paint Box in the nearby town of Fairhope.

  “You were close to your grandmother?” Mitch asked.

  “My grandmother raised me. At least for the most part.” Emily had loved Hannah McLain more dearly than either of her own parents. “My father was killed in an accident when I was twelve, and my mother remarried shortly afterward. I chose to live with Grammy.”

  “How long have you lived in your grandmother’s cottage?”

  “For a couple of months. But this—” she spread out her arms in a loving gesture as if she could encompass the house, the beach, the bay and the sky in her arms “—has always seemed like home to me for as long as I can remember.”

  “I’ve never felt like that about a place. I haven’t had a real home since I was a kid.” He leaned back, propping himself up with his elbows. “I’ve spent the last five years bumming around the country.”

  “And before that?” She looked at him and couldn’t help noticing that his eyes were the coldest, palest blue she’d ever seen.

  He didn’t reply at first, only stared at her. He was incredibly good-looking and almost too masculine. His height and powerful build gave him an air of rugged strength. His clothes fit his body with a snug casualness, his shirt outlining every welldeveloped muscle in his chest and shoulders. For some odd reason, Emily had the strangest urge to reach out and run her hands over his broad shoulders.

  “Before I started bumming around, I had a steady job.” He didn’t want to tell this woman anything about his past—not yet. She probably held him responsible for her husband’s death; and he didn’t blame her. Even if when he told her who he was she didn’t run away, how would he ever be able to convince her of his innocence, when in his very soul he felt guilty?

  Emily flipped over a page in her pad, picked up her charcoal and began drawing.

  “Do you live alone?” he asked, trying to think of something to say to keep himself from taking her face in his hands and bringing her mouth close enough to kiss. Dear God, she was a sweet temptation, a temptation to which he could never surrender.

  “Yes.” She knew by the way he was looking at her that he wanted to kiss her, and oddly enough the thought of his lips on hers didn’t frighten her. “You’re living alone, too, aren’t you?”

  “Quite alone.”

  “No family? Wife? Children?”

  “No.” He finished the last drops of apple juice and set the empty bottle next to the cooler.

  “You must get lonely.” She instinctively felt that this man was unbearably lonely.

  “What about you—are you lonely? Or is there someone in your life?” He wanted her to say that she wasn’t lonely, that she was happy and her life was good.

  “There isn’t a special man, if that’s what you’re asking, but my life is filled with people. A special uncle, a dear friend and my art students.”

  “You’re a teacher?”

  “An art teacher,” she said. “I own an art supply store in Fairhope. And I teach art classes. Mostly to children, but I do have some adult pupils.”

  “You must like children if you can endure teaching them.”

  “I love children.” If only she hadn’t lost her baby the night Stuart died, her child would be nearly five years old. “Don’t you like children?”

  “Kids don’t fit into my life in any way.” He’d grown up in a household overrun with children—crying, fighting, hungry brothers and sisters with bare feet and hand-me-down clothes and Mississippi red clay under their fingernails.

  “You don’t plan to have children of your own someday?” She didn’t think about how personal the question was until she’d already blurted out. “Oh, forgive me for asking. It’s certainly none of my business.”

  “No, I don’t plan to have any children. I helped raise several younger brothers and sisters. That pretty much got the fathering instinct out of my system.” When he’d been climbing the ladder of success and he and Randy had been raking in the big bucks, Mitch had helped his younger siblings. Now he was doing good just taking care of himself. He didn’t have anything to offer a woman, let alone anything to give a child.

  “I was an only child.” Emily lay back and stretched out on the quilt, then looked up at Mitch. “I’ve always wanted children.”

  “Then I hope someday you have them.” From out of nowhere the thought of this lovely woman’s very pregnant body drifted into his mind. She would look beautiful all round and full, her feminine form nurturing a child. His child. “Damn!” Mitch sat up quickly, cursing himself for a fool.

  “What?” She’d heard his outburst, but had no idea what had prompted it.

  Deliberately he turned away—to avoid her searching gaze. Reaching out, he punched the Play button on her cassette player. A somewhat somber tune began, an elegant blend of strings and brass. Very gradually the music built, then dropped away, only to rebuild again and again. “Classical music, huh?”

  “Yes.” Instantly she realized he was fighting to control his emotions, and she knew instinctively that it wasn’t something he had to do often. “That’s Tchaikovsky’s Symphony no. 5 playing.”

  “I don’t know anything about that kind of music. I prefer good old rock ‘n’ roll or some hot jazz.” He clinked the side of the empty juice bottle with his fingernail.

  “I love all types of music, but I must admit I’m a sucker for classical.” She watched the way he kept fiddling with his empty bottle, his hands nervously caressing the glass surface. “Grammy’s influence. She used to take me to concerts when I was a child. And the ballet. And the opera.”

  “My old man listened to the Grand Ole Opry when I was a kid.” Mitch supposed that was why, to this day, he couldn’t stand country music. “We weren’t very cultured, to say the least.”

  “Culture isn’t everything,” Emily said. “I think honesty and integrity and compassion are far more important.”

  He couldn’t resist turning toward her, his gaze traveling the length of her slender body. For five years this one woman had haunted his dreams, had tormented him day and night. When he returned to the Gulf, he had wanted to meet Emily, to make sure she was fully recovered from the tragedy his construction firm had caused. That’s all he had wanted. Just to check on her. Make sure she was all right. To see if he could do anything to help her.

  But
now, after meeting her, all he could think about was what it would be like to make love to her.

  He looked at her with such undisguised longing in his eyes that Emily wanted to weep. What would this devastatingly handsome man think of her if he could see her scars? Would he be repulsed? Would he cringe at the sight of her imperfect back covered with disfigured flesh that could never be restored to its former perfection?

  Lured by the undeniable attraction that pulsated between them, Mitch found himself reaching out to touch the locket that hung from a thin chain around her neck. His big finger circled the round gold pendant. “Lady, are you what you appear to be, or are you some illusion I’ve dreamed up?”

  Her breath caught in her throat when his hand accidently brushed against her breast as he continued fondling her necklace. “And just what—what do I appear to be?”

  “A very beautiful, very delicate, very sensitive lady.” He wanted to pull her into his arms, to see if she would melt against him. She gazed at him as if nothing would please her more.

  Emily eased away from him, but smiled as she stroked the gold chain about her neck. Only moments before, his fingers had caressed the thin metal, and she could almost feel his touch. She had never met anyone like this man, had never reacted so strongly to another man’s look or touch or the sound of his voice.

  “I think you could be a dangerous man,” Emily said, admitting that he posed a threat to her self-control. Had she been wrong about him? Was it possible that he was her mystery man? Had he been the one who called “just to hear her voice”? Was he the one who had quoted Shelley and Byron in the love letter? “Any woman would be a fool to trust you too quickly.”

  “Did your Grammy teach you to be wary of strangers? If she did, she was a smart lady.” Mitch sat beside her, unmoving, but within his own mind, he withdrew from her. “You’re right. I can be dangerous.”

  Dear God, sweet Emily, I’m the most dangerous man you know.

  “My grandmother taught me to trust my instincts where people are concerned.”

  “What are your instincts telling you right now?”

  Swallowing, Emily held back the first response that came to mind. She’d nearly said her instincts were telling her that she should give herself to him, that she was meant to belong to him. Lord help her, had she lost her mind? “My instincts are telling me to be very careful where you’re concerned.”

  When she gazed up at him, she was shocked by the look of pure lust she saw in his eyes. This man wanted her. The thought sent pinpricks of excitement rushing through her. She couldn’t let this happen. She had no idea who he was. He was a stranger. She didn’t even know his name.

  Mitch told himself to get up and walk away. The last thing he needed was a relationship with a woman who would feel only hatred for him if she knew his name. He was having a difficult enough time trying to rebuild a life that his own stupidity had destroyed, without succumbing totally to his desperate need for Emily’s forgiveness.

  Mitch lowered his body onto the quilt, lying down beside her, propping himself up on one elbow. Run, you damned fool. Run now! he told himself.

  Emily drew in a deep breath. This man was a stranger, perhaps a dangerous stranger. Why didn’t she tell him to go away? Why didn’t she gather up her belongings and return to her cottage? Staying here, so close to him, was bound to lead to trouble. As ridiculous as the notion was, she wanted him to kiss her...this man she didn’t know. She longed to feel his lips on hers.

  He leaned toward her, his face so close that she tasted his breath. “I—I don’t think this is such a good idea,” she said. “We’re strangers.”

  “Are you always so friendly to strangers on the beach?” he asked, somehow knowing she had never reacted this way to any other man.

  “No,” she admitted, closing her eyes, wanting to escape the nearness of his body, the smell of his musky aftershave, the feel of his breath mingling with hers. “Strangers don’t usually intrude on my privacy.”

  “Why didn’t you ask me to leave when I first approached you?”

  “Because I... You’re my neighbor. I didn’t want to be unfriendly.”

  “I’ve been watching you for weeks now,” Mitch told her. “I’m no good for you, pretty lady, but I couldn’t stop myself from coming out here to meet you.”

  He’d been watching her? Emily’s heart skipped a beat. All the while she’d been spying on his privacy, he’d been doing the same thing. “I’ve watched you, too, and wondered about you.”

  “You’re as lonely as I am, aren’t you?” Why would a woman with so much charm and beauty and intelligence not have a man in her life? Mitch wondered. It didn’t make sense. Was it possible that she was still in love with her dead husband?

  “Yes, I’m lonely. My husband died five years ago, and there’s been no one....” And there never can be anyone, she told herself. No man would want such an imperfect woman.

  “I’m sorry about your husband. I lost someone about five years ago, too.” Had he ever really loved Loni? he wondered, or had she just been a part of his big plans to get rich, to be important, to once and for all prove to himself and everyone else that there wasn’t any Mississippi red clay left under his fingernails?

  “She died?” Emily asked.

  “No.” Mitch chuckled, admitting to himself that losing Loni wasn’t the worst thing that had happened to him. “My fiancée ran off with my former business partner.”

  “Oh.” His business partner? How could that be? She’d assumed he was a manual laborer—had he once owned his own business?

  “I think it’s about time we introduce ourselves, pretty lady, don’t you?” He held out his hand. “I’m Ray Mitchell. My friends call me ‘Mitch.’” He gave her the same name he had decided to use at work. He’d chosen it hoping that if he’d ever worked with any of the laborers in the past, no one would recognize him.

  His common sense told him he was a fool to lie to Emily, to hide his true identity from her. But his heart told him that there would be time enough to tell Emily who he really was. Later. When they knew each other better.

  Watching the play of emotions on Mitch’s face, Emily wondered what he was thinking. He was a million miles away. Somewhere she couldn’t reach him. Someplace he obviously didn’t want to be.

  She touched his arm. He turned to her. “I’m Emily Jordan.”

  Emily. He repeated the name in his mind as he had done countless times in the past. The name suited her. Old-fashioned and ladylike. “Would you go out to dinner with me sometime, Emily?”

  She wanted to say yes, to scream her acceptance, but she couldn’t. It was obvious that Ray Mitchell was the kind of man who would expect a physical relationship. She could never offer him her body. Her scarred, imperfect, ugly body.

  “If you’re looking for a friend...someone to ease the loneliness, then...well, I’d like to be your friend,” she said.

  “I need a friend.” I need for you to be my friend

  Emily wanted to touch Mitch, to run her fingers down his craggy, beard-stubbled face. There was so much pain in his eyes, so much loneliness. Perhaps that was why fate had thrown them together. Perhaps she could ease Mitch’s pain and end his loneliness, and he could do the same for her.

  She had lost so much, suffered so greatly, that she often wondered why she’d been severely punished for sins she’d never known she committed. She and Stuart had been so happy in their new apartment at Ocean Breeze. She’d been five months pregnant and they had already begun decorating a nursery for their baby boy. And then their apartment building had collapsed. Fire had broken out, spreading quickly throughout the expensive, newly constructed complex. She and Stuart had been trapped. Stuart had died. And when she’d awakened to learn of his death and the loss of their child, she had wished she’d died with them.

  But she’d lived to suffer endless agony as her severely burned back healed, and then more pain when she endured eight operations on her seared flesh.

  Emily had lost her husband,
her child and any hopes of ever loving and being loved again. And all because an unscrupulous construction firm had been more interested in saving money than in people’s safety. Even though she’d been too ill to go to court, to face the monsters responsible for the destruction of her life, she would never forget their names. Randall D. Styles and M. R. Hayden.

  “Are you all right, Emily?” Mitch asked.

  “Sorry. I was just remembering...things I’ll never be able to forget.”

  “Yeah. I understand. I have a few demons chasing me, too.”

  Emily smiled at Mitch, accepting him into her life, telling herself that he needed her friendship as much as she needed his. “Why don’t you stop by the Paint Box tomorrow after work. We can pick up some fresh seafood and a bottle of wine. I can cook dinner for us at my house.”

  “Pretty lady, you’ve got yourself a deal.”

  Chapter 4

  The morning had been hectic for both Emily and Nikki. Emily taught classes for senior citizens on Monday mornings, and today she’d also tried to help Nikki with the inventory. Her partner had been tied up with the distributor who provided the store with their art books, and with a disgruntled customer, Mrs. Hendricks, who came by at least once a week to complain.

  Emily checked her small diamond-studded gold watch, the last birthday gift Grammy had given her. Twelve forty-five. Emily noted the number of children’s watercolor sets on the shelf, recorded it on the inventory sheet, then slipped her pencil into the breast pocket of her yellow, paint-smeared smock. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that she’d skipped breakfast this morning, something she often did when she overslept and had to make a mad dash to arrive at the store on time.

  This morning she’d overslept by nearly two hours, and arrived for work thirty minutes late. She’d been unable to go to sleep last night. Her mind had been filled with Mitch. Mitch with the sexy, ice-blue eyes. Mitch with the Viking-warrior body and golden hair. Mitch who had brought to life the sexual urges she’d laid to rest with her husband.

  And tonight she was cooking dinner for him. He’d said he’d drop by the store, pick her up, help her shop, then run home for a shower before supper. All morning she’d kept picturing Mitch in the shower, rivulets of warm water caressing his big, hard body. Emily ached with wanting, and that was something she hadn’t experienced since Stuart’s death.