Emily And The Stranger

by Beverly Barton

  “You have my promise,” Mitch told her.

  The intoxicatingly bluesy warmth of Stan Getz’s “Who Would Care?” permeated the house, the saxophone’s mellow tone weaving a sexy magic spell. Mitch had brought over a couple of his favorite jazz CDs, borrowed from Zed Banning’s collection. He’d told Emily that they were mood music.

  Mitch gazed into her warm brown eyes and saw the gentle softening of her expression, the easing of the tension he sensed had dominated her from the moment he’d returned to her cottage tonight.

  Was the emotion in her eyes concern or something more? Dear God, he had no right to want it to be something more. But he did.

  He held her hand securely, his gaze focused on her beautiful face. She didn’t try to remove her hand from his, where it rested on the pristine white tablecloth.

  Emily felt a nervous excitement spiral through her body when he continued staring at her with such absolute intensity. “Perhaps we should enjoy our dinner.” She pulled her hand away from his, then removed the silver covers from one chafing dish and then another. “You said you liked clam linguine.”

  “I do.”

  He watched while she spooned the linguine onto their plates, then covered it with the cheesy clam sauce. She was very adept with her hands, every move deliberate, practiced.

  “Should I pour the wine?” he asked, and when she nodded affirmatively, he uncorked the bottle and tilted it over her crystal glass. “I wasn’t sure whether or not an old-fashioned lady like you would drink.”

  Emily couldn’t stop herself from laughing at his comment. “On the contrary, old-fashioned ladies greatly enjoy wine with their meals. My grandmother even preferred a shot of straight whiskey from time to time.”

  “Then she was nothing like the God-fearing, churchgoing ladies in Sutra, Mississippi, where I grew up. Ladies there never drank anything stronger than coffee.”

  “So that’s where you got all your strange notions about old-fashioned ladies, huh? Sutra, Mississippi?”

  “And you got all of your old-fashioned notions from your grandmother. Obviously a very different source.”

  Emily tasted the clam linguine. “Delicious, if I do say so myself.” She sipped the wine. “Quite good.”

  During the course of their meal, Mitch and Emily’s conversation turned mundane, each intently aware of the other in a disturbing way.

  Mitch wasn’t sure where this evening would lead.

  Emily tried to convince herself that she shouldn’t see Mitch again.

  He couldn’t seem to think of anything except what it would be like to make love to her.

  She prayed that her common sense would overrule the sensual emotions warming inside her, heated by every look he gave her.

  “Do you want some of that pecan pie we picked up at the bakery?” Mitch asked.

  “I couldn’t possibly eat another bite right now,” Emily said. “But you go right ahead and indulge, if you want.”

  Mitch stood up quickly, tossed his linen napkin on the table and waved his hand toward the living room. “I’d rather take you outside on the porch and look at the stars.”

  Emily’s heart raced wildly. Her breath caught in her throat. Hesitantly, she allowed Mitch to assist her to her feet. When she felt his hard, strong arm circle her waist, she shivered, a combination of fear and desire rippling over her nerve endings.

  Without a word, she followed him out of the dining room, through the living room and onto the front porch. Overhead the night sky shimmered with a bevy of twinkling stars and a threequarter moon spread a golden glow over the bay. From inside the cottage, the soft strains of the George Shearing Quartet’s rendition of “Isn’t It Romantic?” drifted out and mingled with the spring breeze and the lulling melody of the Gulf waters caressing the shore.

  They stood on the porch, gazing at the bay, while the warm night wind stroked their bodies. Mitch let his hand drop from Emily’s waist to her hip. She leaned into his side, cuddling her head against his shoulder.

  “You’re very beautiful in the moonlight.” Mitch reached out, fingering a strand of her dark hair where the gentle breeze had curled it about her face.

  Emily wondered how many times he’d used that same line, and how many women had believed him. She desperately wanted to believe him, to believe that she was special to him. But she didn’t dare. He might think she was beautiful right now, but what would he think if he could see her scars?

  But neither fear nor common sense could stop Emily from responding. It had been such a long time since she had allowed herself to get this close to a man, and it felt good. It felt like sheer heaven to be held, to be told she was beautiful.

  “Tell me about yourself,” Emily said, glancing up at him.

  He looked down at her uplifted face and wanted nothing more at that precise moment than to kiss her. “What do you want to know?”

  “Tell me about your life, about who Ray Mitchell is.”

  He hesitated, gazing longingly at her. God, how he wanted this woman! “Dance with me.” The words were a command, not a request.

  Before she could reply, he turned her against him and pulled her into his embrace. The music from inside enveloped them in its sultry, sweet cry, the mellow expertise of Shearing at the piano. “None but the Lonely Heart” filled the two listeners with an intensity of emotions neither could deny.

  Loneliness had become a way of life for Mitch. He couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t been lonely. Even when Loni had lived with him. And even as a child in a full house, he had felt a sense of loneliness so great at times that he had choked on the tears his youthful masculinity never would have allowed him to shed.

  “My father was a drunk and a gambler.” Mitch’s tone was so steady and unemotional that its very calmness made the words a declaration. “He tried to farm, but he failed at that, the way he had everything else in his life. He kept waiting for his luck to change, but he never did a damn thing to help himself.”

  Emily sighed. “My memories of my father are of a big, handsome man who was always smiling, laughing, enjoying life. My mother was a great deal younger and I think she married him mostly for his money.”

  Emily knew for a fact that her mother hadn’t had any qualms about allowing her only child to live with her grandmother once she herself had received her share of Burke McLain’s legacy.

  Mitch ran his hand up and down Emily’s back, then rested it just below her waist. With his other hand, he held her fragile fingers in a gentle grasp.

  “My mother didn’t give a damn about money,” he said. “She believed that the best things in life were free, that money wasn’t necessary for happiness.”

  “Then how on earth did she raise such a cynical son?” Emily could smell the faint fragrance of Mitch’s spicy aftershave, a scent so subtle that it blended perfectly with the raw, powerful scent of manliness that emanated from him.

  “You know the old saying about actions speaking louder than words. Well, my mother’s unconcern about material things kept me and my two brothers and two sisters in ragged clothes and with hungry bellies most of our childhoods.”

  A cold shiver sliced through Emily at the thought of Mitch as a boy, perhaps hungry and cold and lonely...so lonely. Somehow she felt that little boy’s loneliness as strongly as she could feel the man who held her in his arms.

  “Mitch—”

  Placing the tip of his index finger over her lips, he stilled their swaying bodies. “Hush. We made a bargain. Remember? No pity. So, don’t feel sorry for me. That isn’t why I told you about my childhood. I just... I don’t usually bore my dates with stories about my white-trash upbringing.”

  “You didn’t bore me.” Tears gathered in Emily’s eyes. She wished them away, but they stayed.

  Mitch saw her tears. His body tensed. “Dammit, Emily, don’t cry for me!”

  But Emily couldn’t help feeling for him. She had been raised in the lap of luxury, with every material possession at her fingertips. Yet she had been a lonel
y little girl after her father died and her mother deserted her. If it hadn’t been for her grandmother, she might be as bitter as Mitch was.

  “What do you want from me, Mitch?”

  “I want to make love to you,” he said truthfully.

  “Oh.”

  When he pulled her tightly against him, she could feel the evidence of his desire. Flushed and trembling, she succumbed to the temptation of his nearness when he lowered his head and claimed her lips, tentatively at first, and then with a wild abandon that took her breath away.

  He held her close. She lifted her arms to circle his neck, her fingers threading through his thick, blond hair. With unerring accuracy, his tongue delved into her mouth, seeking and finding every soft, vulnerable spot. His exploration of her mouth continued while he caressed her, allowing his hands to roam up and down her arms, then her back and finally her hips. He clutched her buttocks, drawing her hard against his arousal, rubbing her seductively into the pulsating warmth of his body.

  “I ache with wanting you.” His ragged-edged voice proclaimed the precarious hold he had over his emotions. “Since we first met on the beach, I’ve thought of little else but easing your clothes from your body and running my hands over every beautiful inch of you.”

  Emily froze in his arms. “Please, Mitch, you mustn’t say such things to me.”

  His whispered seduction claimed her heart, but her rational mind reminded her that this man would be repulsed by the sight of her not-so-beautiful body. He had no way of knowing that ugly scars covered her back. She tried to pull away from him, but he restrained her.

  “Why shouldn’t I say such things to you? I want you to know how I feel. You make me crazy, pretty lady.” Crazy to be inside you.

  “Please let me go.” Emily tried again to free herself of his hold, but he refused to release her.

  “Give me a chance. Give us a chance.” He brought her hand to his lips, kissing the top of her fingers. “Don’t try to deny that you feel what’s happening between us just as strongly as I do.”

  Emily submitted momentarily, laying her head on his chest. Loving the hard, hot comfort of his big body, she listened to the savage beat of his heart. “I feel the attraction between us, but I can’t... I’m not going to give in to what I feel. I thought you understood that all I can offer you is my friendship.”

  Mitch dropped his hands from her body. He hated himself when he looked into her bourbon-brown eyes and saw the truth staring back at him. Emily was scared.

  “I’m sorry.” He cupped her chin in his hand. “Don’t be afraid of me, Emily. I would never hurt you. I pushed a little too hard tonight, went a little too fast. I’ll slow down. We’ll move at your pace.”

  Dear God, he was an idiot. He hadn’t meant to confess how much he wanted her, how desperately he longed to make love to her. Their first date should have been less intense.

  “Mitch, I... Please don’t expect—”

  “I expect you to forgive me for wanting more than you’re ready to give.” Leaning down, he kissed her on the forehead. “There hasn’t been anyone, has there, since your husband died?”

  “No. There hasn’t been anyone.” And there never will be. The tears that fell from her eyes came from self-pity, from the depths of her soul, which had endured so much to survive despite her heart’s desire to die.

  Mitch couldn’t bear to see her upset, to know that she still felt her husband’s loss so intensely. “Don’t cry, Emily. Smile for me. Tell me that you forgive me. Tell me you’ll be my friend.”

  Emily swallowed hard. Mitch wiped away her tears with his fingertips. She looked at him and smiled.

  “There’s nothing to forgive.” More than anything she wanted to tell him the truth, to explain why she’d turned away from him, why she was afraid to become his lover. “I want us to be friends, Mitch. I want that very much.”

  Chapter 6

  “This isn’t turning out the way I’d thought it would,” Mitch said. “All I had planned on doing was making sure she was all right and seeing if I could do something—anything—to help her.”

  Zed Banning glanced down into the glass of bourbon he held, grunted, then lifted the liquor to his lips and took a sip. “I tried to warn you. I told you to stay away from her, but you wouldn’t listen to me. Then I told you to tell her who you are, but you didn’t do that, either.” Zed slammed the glass down on the coffee table, sloshing the contents up to the rim. “You’re obsessed with Emily Jordan. You have been for the past five years. And now that you’ve met her, you’re more obsessed with her than ever.”

  Mitch paced the floor in Zed’s condo living room. He felt like a trapped animal. Trapped by his own unwanted emotions. Trapped by his desire for a woman he had no right to claim. “She’s not like any woman I’ve ever known. She’s so honest and—”

  “Ladies never were your type, Mitch.” Zed dropped his big body down into a plush navy leather chair.

  “It’s more than that.” Stopping dead still, Mitch glanced at Zed and saw the concern in his old friend’s eyes. “I’m about as confused as a man can get. I want to help Emily. I’d like to make everything up to her, to see that nothing bad ever happens to her again. But at the same time, I want her more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.” Mitch raked his fingers through his hair and groaned a vulgar curse. “Go ahead and tell me I’m crazy. Tell me that I’ve screwed up again, that I’ve gone and painted myself into a corner.”

  “There’s only one way out of this, only one decent thing to do.”

  “Tell Emily who I am.”

  “You’ve been seeing her for a couple of weeks now, and from what you’ve told me, things are getting pretty serious.” Zed lifted one leg, crossing it over his other knee, then he reared back in the chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “If you’re not honest with her soon, you’re going to wind up breaking her heart, and you’ve already got more than enough guilt to deal with.”

  “I didn’t plan on getting involved with her.” Mitch walked behind the bar, reached into the liquor cabinet beneath and brought out the bottle of bourbon. “Not romantically involved. But I swear, Zed, if you ever saw her...if you ever talked to her...touched her...”

  “Are you in love with her?”

  Mitch laughed, the sound edged with pain. “Hell, I don’t know the first thing about love. I wouldn’t know it if it jumped up and bit me on the ass. But I know a lot about lust, about wanting a woman until you hurt with the wanting.”

  “So you just want to sleep with Emily, is that it?”

  “No! Yes! Dammit, Zed, I told you that I’m confused. I feel so many different things when it comes to Emily that I can’t straighten out all my emotions.” Mitch gripped the bourbon bottle with white-knuckled tension.

  “Maybe part of the confusion is that you know you’ve lied to her and that when she finds out the truth, anything can happen. She might hate you. She might forgive you. Hell, for all you know, she might already be in love with you. But one thing’s for certain—you’re going to wind up hurting her, whether you tell her the truth tonight or tomorrow or next month.”

  Mitch poured the whiskey into a glass, recapped the bottle and shoved it aside. He lifted the glass, saluted Zed with it and then downed the bourbon. It blazed a trail down his throat and hit his stomach like a hot coal.

  He caught Zed glaring at him and knew his friend was concerned about his drinking. “Don’t worry. This is my first drink tonight and it’ll be my last. I’ve found out that drinking myself senseless doesn’t solve my problems.”

  “I’m glad you’ve made one right decision since coming back to the Gulf. I was beginning to wonder if you were incapable of learning from your mistakes.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve learned something else, too. Something I should have learned five years ago.” Mitch took a deep, cleansing breath. “When you give me advice, I should take it. If I’d listened to you, I would have told Emily that I was M. R. Hayden the day I introduced myself to her on the beac
h.”

  “Better late than never.” Zed glanced down at his gold Rolex. “It’s only eight o’clock. You can be in Point Clear in forty-five minutes. Tell her tonight.”

  “She’s not at home tonight. She’s having dinner with her uncle here in Mobile. At his house. She’s very fond of Fowler Jordan. She told me that he kept her alive when she wanted to die, after her husband’s death....” Mitch’s voice trailed off. He couldn’t bear to think about how much Emily had lost because of Styles and Hayden. “Emily said that Jordan wouldn’t let her give up. She thinks she owes him her life.” -

  “From what I’ve heard, she gave him five years of her life.”

  “And he gave her five years of his.”

  Zed lifted his arms up and behind his head, leaning back into the soft, thick cushion. “I don’t know Jordan personally, but we do have several friends and associates in common. And they say that Jordan is more than devoted to Emily. They say...” Zed hesitated, focusing his attention directly on Mitch “They say he’s obsessed with her, and that when she moved out of his house, he was distraught. It seems Jordan had picked out a new mate for Emily, someone he knew he could control. Someone willing to take his nephew Stuart’s place not only in Jordan’s accounting firm, but in his home, as Emily’s husband.”

  “Sounds like Jordan didn’t intend to lose a niece when she remarried—he just planned on gaining an obedient replacement nephew.”

  “Be prepared for Jordan’s wrath when he finds out about you,” Zed warned. “Make no mistake about it Jordan hates M. R. Hayden, and he’ll do his damnedest to make sure Emily never forgives you.”

  Mitch stared at the whiskey bottle, badly wanting another drink. He was in an untenable position and he had no one to blame but himself. He had walked into this relationship with Emily Jordan with his eyes wide open, knowing full well he had no right to keep his identity from her. He had unintentionally helped ruin her life five years ago. But this time his common sense had told him that he was going to hurt Emily if he lied to her, and still he had gone with his gut emotions—his damn male desires—and pursued Emily like a lover.