Emily And The Stranger

by Beverly Barton

  Both Charles and Fowler turned sharply, concern on their faces when they looked at Emily. Then simultaneously, they glared at Mitch.

  Fowler opened his arms and walked toward Emily. “Nikki tells me that Rod Simmons has been arrested, that he’s the one who has been harassing you all these weeks.”

  Emily went into her uncle’s arms, allowing him to hug her. She returned the gesture, then pulled free. Charles hovered nearby. Mitch stayed by the door.

  “Rod confessed to having made the phone calls and to having written the letters, but that’s all.”

  “After all he’s done, you aren’t seriously thinking about paying that boy’s bail, are you?” Charles asked.

  “It’s none of your business what I do,” Emily told him. “But if you must know, then yes, I am.”

  “My dear Emily.” Fowler shook his head sadly.

  “What are you two doing here anyway?” Emily looked pointedly at her uncle, then focused her stare on his young protégé.

  “Well, Charles and I decided this would be a perfect evening to take the Black Pearl out for a trip down to the Gulf,” Fowler explained. “And I’d hoped you might join us. I had Mrs. McMurphy pack us a picnic dinner before she left this evening.”

  “You should have called first,” Emily said as she glanced over her shoulder at a glowering Mitch. “I have other plans.”

  “With Hayden?” Charles demanded.

  “Yes,” Emily said.

  “Then bring Mr. Hayden along, my dear.” The corners of Fowler’s mouth curved into an almost smile.

  “Fowler, you can’t mean—” Charles said.

  “If you’re determined to see Mr. Hayden, despite my reservations, then I see no alternative but for me to try to make the best of it.” Fowler forced his lips into a wider smile.

  “Don’t do me any favors, Jordan,” Mitch said.

  “Mitch, if Uncle Fowler is willing to try, then—”

  Mitch opened the door and walked out so quickly that the door slammed shut before Emily realized what had happened.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t go sailing with you and Charles this evening,” Emily said. “It was a lovely idea, but I don’t think Mitch wants to go. Besides, I heard it might rain.”

  Without looking back, Emily rushed out the door and down the sidewalk. She caught up with Mitch half a block away, in front of the Fairhope Single Tax Corporation offices.

  “Wait, Mitch, please.” She grabbed his arm.

  He halted, but didn’t turn around. “Why aren’t you getting ready to go sailing on your uncle’s yacht?”

  “Because you and I had plans to spend the evening together, and you made it perfectly clear that you didn’t want to share me with Uncle Fowler and Charles.”

  Mitch turned, slowly, hesitantly, and slipped his hand around Emily’s neck, drawing her toward him. “I’m sorry I acted the way I did. I had no right to—”

  Emily placed her index finger over his lips. “Shhh. You don’t have to say another word. I understand that you think Charles might be behind the break-ins and I realize you know Uncle Fowler hates you. I wasn’t thinking when I said what I did. I simply reacted to Uncle Fowler’s overture.”

  Mitch tightened his hold on Emily, bringing her closer and closer. He lowered his head; she lifted hers. And their lips met in a hot, ravenous kiss.

  Raising his head, Mitch smiled. “Let’s get off the street. If we don’t, we’re going to make a public spectacle of ourselves.”

  “Let’s go home,” she said breathlessly, her heart drumming loudly in her ears. “To my house. The repairs are finished and the security system was put in today. We can have a late supper and then sit out on the porch and watch the stars.”

  There was nothing Mitch wanted more than to “go home” with Emily. Go home with her and stay forever. But unless he could convince her that his feelings for her were real, the kind that lasted a lifetime, there would be no forever for them.

  The rain came in windy torrents, drenching Emily and Mitch when they made a mad dash from her car to the house. He had driven like a maniac down Mobile Street, past the Grand Hotel and onto Scenic Highway 98. The heat inside him rose higher and higher with each glance in Emily’s direction. All he could think about was making love to her, to laying claim to her body and making her his. But she wasn’t his. She might never really belong to him.

  Emily punched in the security code, then waited for Mitch to unlock the door. The rain had soaked her pale-pink cotton dress, making it almost transparent. He could see the outline of her body through the sheer material. The curve of her hips. The ripe swell of her breasts, her aureoles visible through her bra, their tips pebble hard. And the dark V at the junction between her legs that beckoned him to explore the hidden riches inside.

  Mitch grabbed Emily around the waist, turning her into his arms. She tried to wriggle away from him, but he pulled her close, their wet bodies pressing together.

  She looked up into his face and smiled. Mitch eased her back against the wall, nudging his knee between her legs.

  Before she could speak, he nibbled at her lips. Sighing, she flung her head back to expose her neck. He kissed the soft, smooth flesh, then licked a zigzag pattern from her chin to the top button on her dress. Emily shivered.

  Mitch undid the first button. Emily laid her hands on his chest. He undid the second button. She unbuckled his belt. He undid the third button. She unzipped his jeans. He undid the fourth button. She slid her hand inside his jeans and searched for the opening in his briefs. He unsnapped the front closure of her bra, exposing her breasts to his hungry mouth.

  He feasted on her breasts, taking his time with each one. Emily writhed against him. When her hand covered his sex, he moaned deep in his throat, then thrust his hand up and under her dress. She moved her hand back and forth, eliciting another moan from Mitch, as his arousal grew harder and larger.

  He jerked her panties down over her legs. When they dropped to her ankles, she kicked them aside. While she caressed him, he eased two fingers up inside her and thought he’d explode on the spot when he found her dripping with need

  The rain blew onto the porch, misting their heated bodies. Mitch lifted Emily, bracing her against the wall, then drove into her, embedding himself fully.

  Emily clung to him, whimpering, pleading softly for him to end the torment and give her release. Cupping her hips in his big hands, he set the rhythm for their bodies as they mated on the front porch of Emily’s cottage. At twilight. In the middle of a summer rainstorm.

  Fast and furious, with a scorching passion, Mitch took her with savage pleasure. In those moments of pure, animalistic sex, she was his, completely. There was no past, no future, only the present.

  She cried out her fulfillment. He captured the cry with a tongue-thrusting kiss. And her release triggered his, erupting inside him with earth-shattering spasms.

  They clung to each other for several minutes, their breathing labored, their bodies overly sensitive, as fragmented shudders rippled inside them.

  “I couldn’t wait,” he said in a husky voice, a voice still controlled by a desire only momentarily sated. “I didn’t mean to take you out here on the porch like this.” He pulled her bra together and fumbled with the hook.

  Emily grabbed his hands, lifted them to her lips and kissed him. “No one could see us. And don’t apologize. Couldn’t you tell how badly I wanted you?”

  “I could tell. These feelings between us are pretty strong, aren’t they? Stronger than anything I’ve ever known.”

  She put her arms around him and laid her head on his chest. “I’ve never felt such a powerful desire.”

  “More than desire, Emily. Much more than desire.”

  He detected the slight frown forming on her lips and knew she was wondering if she could believe him. What the hell was it going to take to convince her?

  “Now I’m the one who’s sorry,” she said. “I ruined the moment, didn’t I? You knew what I was thinking.”

&nbs
p; “You didn’t ruin anything, pretty lady.” He kissed the top of her head. “You can’t help the way you feel. I understand. It’s just that there’s nothing I can do to make you believe me... Nothing I can do to make things right between us.”

  Chapter 17

  Sweat trickled off Mitch’s forehead, ran down his face and dripped off his chin. Perspiration dampened his white T-shirt, sticking it to his chest like a soggy glue. He removed his yellow safety helmet, ran his fingers through his wet hair and stood there wishing he had a cold beer.

  He had missed half a day’s work yesterday taking Emily to Bay Minette to get Rod Simmons out of jail on bond. He’d never known anyone with a heart as big as Emily’s. She was the type of woman who would go out of her way to help a stranger. For her friends, she’d do just about anything. And despite what Rod had done, Emily still considered him a friend.

  And what would Emily do for the man she loved? For starters, she had forgiven him. She had mended his broken life, given him a reason to live and taught him the true meaning of love. But the one thing she couldn’t do for him was believe him when he told her he loved her.

  “Hey, Mitchell,” Earl Tatum, Mitch’s foreman, called out to him.

  “Yeah?”

  “A guy named Rod Simmons left a message for you. He wants you to stop by his apartment when you get off from work—” Tatum scanned a ripped piece of notepaper he held in his hand “—number A-7, Greenbriar Apartments.”

  “Did he say anything else?”

  “Yeah. That’s why I’m delivering the message myself instead of sending it by one of the men,” Tatum told Mitch. “This Simmons guy said to tell you that he’s found out who was behind the break-ins at Emily Jordan’s house and he thinks you two ought to talk.”

  Mitch mumbled a crude curse. Simmons had found out who had hired the teenagers to break into Emily’s house? How the hell had he found out? Unless he’d been the one responsible. Maybe that was it. Maybe Simmons wanted to confess.

  “Thanks, Earl.”

  Mitch checked his wristwatch. Four o’clock. He wondered what Earl Tatum would think if he asked to get off early today after taking off all of yesterday morning. He needed to talk to Rod Simmons as soon as possible and get to the bottom of this new development. Could it be that Simmons actually wanted to confess to him? Or had someone else made the call? If that was the case, then this could be a setup.

  “Hey, Earl, what’s the chance of my leaving early?” Mitch asked.

  Earl Tatum frowned, wrinkling his weathered forehead and deepening the lines around his eyes. “Go on. Get out of here.”

  Grinning at his foreman, Mitch waved goodbye. Before going to Simmons’s apartment, he had to make one small detour. He needed a weapon. Just in case. And he knew just where to get a gun.

  Emily left Nikki in charge of the Paint Box, as she customarily did when she taught classes away from the store. Teaching. a watercolor class for kids, ages eight to fifteen, at the Fine Arts Museum of the South in Langan Park in Mobile, was a work of love for Emily. Hannah McLain had been a benefactor of the museum, donating a thousand dollars annually, and Emily herself was an associate, donating two hundred and fifty each year.

  The children were set up with their Pentel watercolor kits, their medium-sized brushes and real watercolor paper. Emily insisted no substitutes be used. The class consisted of twelve boys and girls of various ages.

  She had seen genuine potential in two of the students, espycially a thirteen-year-old girl named Kristy Springer.

  Emily stood beside Kristy’s easel, watching while the young girl studied the painting she’d begun in class two weeks ago.

  “You’re trying too hard to capture every detail,” Emily said. “Remember what I told you during the first lesson about choosing the particular qualities that you’re most interested in.”

  “I love the colors, Ms. Jordan.” Kristy frowned at her creation, then glanced up at Emily. “I want to capture all those bright, glowing colors.”

  “Then forget detail. Work the subject broadly. You started out well by working wet-in-wet. Now add crisp definition where it’s needed. That way you’ll have a combination of soft and hard edges.”

  A hand went up across the room, near the entrance doorway. Nodding to the student, Emily noticed the door opening and wondered who would be interrupting her class.

  “I’ll check back with you in a few minutes,” Emily told Kristy. “Keith needs my immediate attention.”

  When Emily glanced over at Keith, she saw Brenda Harden, one of the museum’s secretaries, motion to her. Emily walked between the rows of easels and eager students, making her way as quickly as possible to Brenda.

  “Is something wrong?” Emily asked.

  “You have a phone call,” Brenda said. “I wouldn’t have disturbed you, but he said it was an emergency.”

  “I’ll be right there.” Emily turned back to her class. “Y’all continue working. I’ll be back in just a few minutes.”

  She rushed out of the classroom, down the hall and into Brenda’s office. She lifted the receiver off the desk and put it to her ear.

  “Yes, hello. This is Emily Jordan.” She took several deep breaths, praying this wasn’t bad news.

  “Emily.” She didn’t recognize the voice, but it had the same muffled quality as the voice of her secret admirer. But that wasn’t possible. Rod would never make another “mystery” call to her again.

  “Yes.” Her heartbeat accelerated.

  “Rod Simmons has confessed to hiring those boys to break into your house. He called Mitchell Hayden and admitted it to him. Now Hayden is on his way to Simmons’s apartment.”

  A slight hesitation. An odd little snicker.

  “If I were you, I’d stop Hayden before he harms Simmons. You wouldn’t want to see your lover in prison for murder, would you?”

  “Who is this?” Emily demanded. “How do you know—”

  The dial tone hummed in Emily’s ear.

  “Emily, what’s wrong?” Brenda asked.

  “I need to make a phone call and check on something” was Emily’s only reply.

  With tense fingers, she quickly punched the numbers.

  “Banning Construction,” the man answered.

  “I need to speak to Mitch Hay—to Ray Mitchell, immediately. It’s an emergency.”

  “I’m sorry, lady, but Mitch isn’t here. He had to take off early this afternoon on some personal business.”

  Emily’s heart caught in her throat. “Do you...do you know where he went?”

  “No, ma’am, can’t say that I do.”

  “Thank you.” Emily hung up the phone. There was only one thing she could do. She had to find Mitch—find him and stop him before he saw Rod.

  Mitch dismounted, hung his helmet on the Harley and scanned the first-floor apartment doors. Opening one saddlebag, he removed the 9 mm he had “borrowed” from Zed’s apartment. It had been fairly simple to get in, using the key Zed had given him when he’d stayed there the first couple of weeks he’d been in the Gulf area. He had no intention of using the weapon he’d taken from Zed’s gun collection, but he wasn’t fool enough to walk in unarmed on a man who claimed he knew who was responsible for the break-ins at Emily’s house. The same man who had confessed that he’d been Emily’s secret admirer. For all Mitch knew, this could be a setup. Maybe Rod Simmons was behind everything. Maybe he’d asked to see Mitch, intending to eliminate his competition. Mitch shoved the handgun’s muzzle under the waistband of his jeans, the grip resting against his side.

  The late-afternoon sunshine hit the west side of the Greenbriar Apartments’ pastel-pink exterior wall. Heat waves shimmered near the surface. A black-lettered sign hung from the metal hinges outside the manager’s office. This was a no-frills building, but it seemed neat and clean.

  Glancing around, checking things out, Mitch marched along down the sidewalk in front of the ground-level apartments, then stopped outside the door of number A-7. The curtains were drawn.
Cursing under his breath, he held his shaky hands out in front of him.

  His gut instincts warned him to be careful. Something didn’t feel right about this. But what could happen? A kid like Rod Simmons was no match for him, even if the boy had a weapon.

  Clenching his teeth so tightly his jaws ached, Mitch drew in a deep breath, then released it slowly. He grasped the knob with one hand and knocked on the door with his other. He swung the door open a few inches.

  “Simmons?” Mitch glanced inside the dark room. The sunlight spread a streak of illumination across the living-room floor. “Simmons? You here?”

  Mitch took a tentative step inside. Hell, where was Simmons? Mitch checked the small kitchen. Empty. Then he entered the bedroom. No one was there. But from the rumpled bedsheets, scattered beer bottles and clutter of open books on the floor, Mitch surmised that someone had been there earlier.

  He walked farther inside the room, flipped on a lamp and glanced around, taking note of everything from floor to ceiling. Smoke spiraled up from a cigarette lying in the ashtray. A bumping thud hit the bathroom door.

  “Simmons, is that you?”

  A tight knot formed in Mitch’s stomach. Slowly, cautiously, he walked silently toward the closed bathroom door. Easing the 9 mm from the waistband of his jeans, he grabbed the doorknob and flung open the bathroom door.

  Rod Simmons lay on the floor, bound and gagged with thick, gray duct tape. Thrashing about on the floor and groaning, he stared up at Mitch with pleading eyes.

  What the hell! Suddenly Mitch heard a sound at his back. He half turned, then felt the weight of something heavy crash down on his head.

  Emily slammed on her brakes, rocking her LeSabre to a screeching halt. She jumped out, left the door open and ran into the Paint Box. Breathless, her hands trembling, her heart racing, she visually searched the shop.

  Nikki stood on a stepladder, placing a wooden carving done by a local artisan on a shelf with several other sculptures. With his arms crossed over his chest, Zed Banning leaned against the wall a few feet away, watching Nikki.