Exposure

by Susan Andersen

  Gracie's eyes slid shut.

  Then they opened, and heavy-lidded, stared up into Emma's. "Is Elbis gonna be my daddy, Maman?"

  Emma's heart contracted. "I don't know, angel pie," she said softly. But I hope so. Ah, Dieu, I do hope so.

  "I'd yike him to be."

  "I know you would, ange." Emma kissed her daughter's brow, careful of the stitches. "But it's not your decision to make. He's a grown man, Gracie. This is somethin' he has to make up his own mind about."

  "Him's not ugly," Gracie murmured, and Emma knew out of fatigue Gracie was mixing and matching snatches of last night's conversation into whatever tonight's thought processes might be. Gracie's eyelids slid shut again.

  "No," Emma agreed, kissing her child's eyebrow. "He's not ugly. Elvis Donnelly is a beautiful man."

  * * * * *

  The first thing Elvis saw when he pulled into the driveway at nine o'clock the following morning was Gracie riding her tricycle in circles on the apron of cement that fronted the garage. She jumped off and raced over to the Suburban to meet him. "Hi, Elbis!" she called. "I be widin' my twike!"

  "Yeah, I saw that," he replied, climbing out of the vehicle and bending down to scoop her up. She threw her arms around his neck in a hug, and he closed his eyes for a moment, breathing in her little-girl smell. "Where's your momma?"

  "In the gawage."

  "Let's go see her." He carried her toward the open bay door, but Gracie started wriggling to be let down as soon as they reached the apron.

  "Watch me," she cried as she climbed onto the trike.

  Peddling hell for leather, she propelled the little tricycle into the garage. "Watch me, Elbis, watch me!"

  Elvis ambled along in her wake. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimness inside after the brilliant sunshine, but he soon spotted Emma crouched down next to her car, masking off the chrome. "Hey," he greeted her. "What are you up to? You gonna paint the car?"

  "Yes." Emma looked up at him. "I'm afraid it's goin' to be necessary."

  " 'Cuz a bad pooson wighted on it," Gracie interrupted, anxious to be included in the conversation. She peddled up to the passenger door. Spelling out random letters that she recognized, she turned to squint up at her mother. "What does that wooed say, Maman?"

  "Never you mind, Grace Melina. Why don't you show Elvis how you can turn your trike around without even getting off it."

  Gracie was happy to oblige, and Emma soon turned back to Elvis.

  "So you're going to have to paint it, huh?" he asked her again.

  "Oui. The paint thinner didn't work." She indicated a spot where she'd tried it. "I'm sandin' by hand until I can find someplace that'll rent me a DA sander." She studied him closely. "You look exhausted," she said. "Any luck?"

  "No." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Which isn't altogether surprising. We figured the chances of him showing himself again last night were pretty slim. It was just the night before that when he injured Gracie, and he'd have to be a fool to try anything else so soon." He rolled his shoulders. "Still. It was worth a shot. George is keeping an eye on things today. I'll catch a few Z's and go back tonight." He looked around him. "So, the garage is all right for the stuff you wanna do then?"

  "Yes. I love having a place to work. Thank you." She straightened to her full height to give him a brief kiss. "Go to bed," she commanded, tilting her head back to examine his face. "You look absolutely pooped. Go on now." She gave him a small shove toward the door. "I'll try to keep Gracie out of your hair while you sleep."

  * * * * *

  A few hours later, however, when her daughter was temporarily bored with the tricycle and the swing and Emma was occupied in the garage, Gracie slipped into the front bedroom and climbed up on the bed. Elvis was sprawled out on his side, facing her. "Elbis!" she whispered loudly. "You 'wake, Elbis?"

  There was no answer, just the sound of his deep breathing. Gracie patted her hand over his scarred cheek to no response. Thumbing up his eyelid only made him mumble and jerk his hook. She blew a raspberry beneath the angle of his jaw. He continued to sleep.

  Finally, with a long-suffering sigh, she turned around, slid her bottom onto the spread next to his abdomen, and settled back against him. Casually, she dug her elbow into his stomach. 'How come you don't wake up?" She tricd the elbow gambit several more times. Getting no more response than a soft grunt and a mutter, she popped her thumb into her mouth to think about it awhile.

  * * * * *

  Some time later, Elvis slowly swam to the surface of consciousness, heavy waves of fatigue still rolling over him and threatening to pull him back under. There was a warmth against his stomach and the inside of his forearm, which he couldn't quite identify; and a singsong little voice seemed to be keeping time with the feather-light touches just above his prosthesis.

  " 'Long came the wain and washed the spidoo out! Up came the sun and dwied up all the wain." Deep yawn. "And itsy bitsy spi-doo went up the spout again."

  One corner of Elvis' mouth tipped up. It was Beans. His arm tightened around her fractionally and he started to sink back into slumber, but her voice pulled him back once again. "Jesus loves me, this I know," she warbled. "Fo' the Bible tells me so." Deeper, longer yawn. When it trailed off she resumed, but in conversational tones this time instead of song. "My daddy's name is Elbis Don'lee," she murmured. "He has a hook and a scaw. I have a scaw, too." She snuggled in closer to Elvis, whose heartbeat was escalating and beginning to push back the black waves of fatigue, and when next she spoke he could tell it was around her thumb. "My daddy's bigoo 'n' yo' daddy."

  Ah, Christ. He felt warmth spread out from his chest and his gut to his furthest extremities. His heart seemed squeezed—and the backs of his eyes burned in a way they hadn't since he was a little kid.

  Damn. Ah, dammit, Gracie. Damn.

  * * * * *

  "You think we should what? " Emma almost dropped the plate she was handing him to dry.

  "Get married." Elvis rescued the plate and set it on the counter, tossing the dishtowel on top of it. He reached out his hand then and ran it down Emma's arm, encircling her wrist with his fingers. Tugging, he pulled her a step nearer. "I think we should get married."

  Emma's heart began to thump in her chest. "Where on earth did this come from? I mean, you've never mentioned—"

  "It's a good idea, Em," he said insistently. "Your reputation is going to be destroyed the minute word gets out about this arrangement we've currently got goin'. Besides, Gracie needs a daddy."

  "Hold it." She held up her free hand like a traffic cop. "Just hold it right there; let's back up a step here. Gracie said something to you, didn't she, cher? " Emma demanded suspiciously. He simply looked at her with a blank expression, but she could read the truth in his eyes. "I knew it! Dammit, I knew it the moment I tracked her down to our bedroom." She rammed her fingers through her hair. "I told that child she had to let you make up your own mind."

  "She didn't actually say anything to me, Em," he hurried to explain. Rubbing his thumb up and down the faint blue veins on her inner wrist, he added insistently in the face of Emma's skeptical expression, "She didn't. She was just talking to herself when I woke up."

  Emma jerked her wrist away. "Well, thank you, Elvis," she said, as reasonably as she could. "Thank you for the offer, but ... no thank you." It was ridiculous to feel hurt, but darn it, she had kind of hoped if the day ever came when Elvis Donnelly asked her to make this relationship between them a permanent one, it would be for the usual reasons.

  "Whataya mean, thanks but no thanks? Why the hell not?" He hadn't considered that she'd refuse him and was patently unprepared for it. He took a giant step forward, towering over her with his bulk and height.

  It was an instinctual move, not something he gave conscious thought to. But dammit, she couldn't say no; his gut rebelled at the very idea, and he found himself crowding her even more. If he had to use a few intimidation tactics to make her see that marriage was the right move for them to make,
the logical next step, then so be it. This was more than important, dammit; it was vital.

  A second later his cognitive processes kicked in. He thought about what he was doing and started to step away. Ah, hell, who was he trying to kid anyhow? The Devil himself probably couldn't intimidate Emma Sands into doing what she didn't want to do.

  Her chin shot up the instant before he followed through on his good intentions. Oh, perfect, she thought bitterly. This was just dandy. Never in a million years would she have expected Elvis to resort to physical coercion, yet here he was looming over her. Was this what they'd taught him in cop school? Or maybe it wasn't a police thing at all; maybe it was simply one of those testosterone-driven instinctive reactions. Macho Man Subdues the Little Woman. Well, whatever its origins, she recognized the aggressive posturing. She hadn't fallen in with his plans, so pow! Instant reversion to Dominator Dan. "I'll tell you why not," she snarled, disillusioned and incensed past discretion. Shoving him back, she wrapped her arms around herself and faced him belligerently. "Because I don't want to be wed to 'save my reputation.'

  "That's not—"

  "Don't do me any favors, okay, Donnelly? I don't need a mercy wedding, and I sure as hell don't want to be married because my bebe pressured some poor unsuspecting schmuck—"

  "Wait a minute, wait a minute! I think we're talking at cross purposes here. Sweet God Almighty, you've got it all wrong, Em."

  "Ah, oui, well, there's a surprise. The woman is always wrong, is she not?"

  He made a frustrated noise deep in his throat and reached out for her, but it stopped him cold when she flinched and drew away. His arms dropped to his sides. How the hell had it degenerated to this?

  "Dammit, Emma," he said desperately, "that's not what I meant at all." A muscle ticked in his jaw.

  "My God, you gotta know you've been ripping my guts to shreds since practically the first day we met." Seeing her open her mouth to, no doubt, express in her inimitable scathing style her objections to those words also, he held up his hand. "No, let me finish here. I've somehow screwed this all up, used all the wrong words, but can you honestly see me shackling myself to someone for life over your interpretation of my intentions?" Shaking his head in amazement, he laughed, a low rumbling expulsion of pent-up oxygen expressing ironic disbelief more than amusement. "Emma, my idea of heaven is being married to you, being a daddy to your kid. Hell. having her be my kid, too. And when I think of maybe planting another kid in here someday . . ." His fingers, warm and hard, reached out to rub her stomach. "God."

  He pulled his hand away but stared down at her, blue eyes blazing. "I can understand how you might not want to tie yourself down to me or to this little nowhere town. But I love you—you know I love you. How could you possibly think I'd want to marry you out of some sense of responsibility? I mean, come on, Em, a mercy wedding?" He'd been too busy defending his position at the time to get indignant, but it pissed him off in retrospect.

  Heat unfurled in Emma's midsection. Her eyes grew soft. "Well, my thinkin' that might have somethin' to do with the fact that's all you bothered to mention, I suppose," she murmured. It was only a misunderstanding, thank the bon Dieu. She raised a hand to softly stroke his face from cheekbone to scar to rigid jaw.

  But he obviously wasn't buying it. He stood in front of her stiffly, holding himself still while frustration emanated from him in waves, and she considered for a moment his history, his past relationships with the people in his life. "Then again," she said slowly, looping both arms around his neck. "Maybe I just wasn't trustin' enough."

  His eyes, vividly blue, skimmed every feature on her face, and slowly, so slowly, his white teeth emerged in a smile of blinding brilliance. "Yeah?"

  "Oh, out I jumped to conclusions because it hurt my feelin's to be told we should marry to save my good name or because Grace Melina couldn't keep her little oar out of the water."

  "Hey, those are both good, solid reasons," Elvis insisted, sliding his arms around her and squeezing.

  "I don't wanna have to knock people's heads together if they badmouth you, Emma. And Beans just breaks my heart; I want to take care of her so bad. I didn't know it was possible to feel this way, Em."

  He lowered his forehead against hers and rolled it back and forth. Then he gave her a quick, fierce kiss and straightened up again. He grinned. "But you're absolutely right, doll; just loving each other is a better reason. Much better. Hell, it's a beaut. So, we are getting married, right?"

  "Oui," she said. "You said we oughtta. I heard it; it's a verbal invitation, and I'm not lettin' you back out of it, cher." Arms tightening around his neck, she smirked up at him. "And if the thought of squirmin' out of it somewhere down the road has wriggled across your mind, you can just forget it. I don't believe in divorce—at least not for myself."

  Elvis whooped and tightened his prosthesis around her waist. Picking her up he whirled her around.

  They bumped against the table and chairs in the tiny enclosure, sending them rattling, and he stopped revolving to bury his face in the curve of her neck.

  The screen door slammed behind Gracie as she came running in from outside. "What?" she squealed, little feet planted and sturdy little torso bobbing in place as she sensed the excitement. "What Mommy? What. Elbis? What so funny?"

  Elvis pulled his face out of Emma's neck and grinned down at her daughter. Soon to be his daughter. He threw back his head and laughed, then swooped down to scoop her up. "Ah, Gracie girl," he said, holding his woman and child. He gave them both a fierce hug. "Have we got news for you, kid."

  * * * * *

  They'd only meant to kiss and maybe pet a little before Elvis had to leave to go back on his stakeout. But Gracie was sleeping soundly and they were pumped up with the excitement of their wedding plans. One thing led to another, and before they quite knew what was happening, Elvis' jeans were down around his ankles, Emma's shorts and panties were on the floor, her sleeveless blouse was hanging open, and she was kneeling astride him in the big overstuffed chair, gripping his broad, khaki-covered shoulders in both hands. Her head thrown back, feeling his mouth on her breasts, she strove to meet each aggressive upward thrust with a fierce downward hip movement of her own.

  They collapsed into each other in the wake of shuddering, teeth-gritting climaxes, their breaths rasping loudly in the post-twilight hush of the evening.

  "Dieu," Emma panted, rolling her forehead back and forth against the curve of his neck while her arms clung to his shoulders to hold him tightly. "Mon Dieu, Elvis."

  His arms tightened around her. "You can say that again." He blew out a gusty breath. "Maybe we should look into life insurance, doll. Much more of this and they'll be carting me outta here in a body bag."

  She stiffened, and his arms immediately clenched around her in remorse. "Ah, shit; I'm sorry, Em," he whispered. He tangled his hook in her hair and tilted her head back until he could see into her eyes.

  "I'm sorry." Bringing up his free hand, he stroked his fingers down her cheek. "That was incredibly insensitive—it was my exhaustion speaking, not my brain. Nothing's gonna happen to me, baby; not like it did to Charlie. I promise you that."

  "Something could, though." It was her worst fear. "Something so easily could if Grant finds out about you."

  He simply looked at her for a moment, chewing thoughtfully on his bottom lip. "That kinda brings up something I've been thinkin' about lately," he finally said. "Emma, we can't hide in the shadows for the rest of our lives, sneaking around to keep Woodard from learning what we're up to. We've got to put some thought into what should be done if he does put in an appearance someday."

  All warmth fled her expression. "For instance?" she demanded stiffly.

  "For instance," he said, looking her straight in the eye, "I think you should have a talk with Gracie. Sweetheart, if you don't warn her about Grant Woodard she's going to run to the man with both her little arms wide open."

  Some of the starch left Emma's backbone. "I know," she admitted unha
ppily. "I've thought of that, myself. But, cher, how do I go about doing that? How does one tell a three-year-old girl that her adored Grandpapa is, at the very least, a voyeur?"

  "I don't think you have to go into detail, Em," he said gently. "Just—I don't know—tell her Grandpa did something bad and she's not to go to him if he comes around. That she's to inform you immediately if she sees him."

  "You're right. I know you're right," she agreed. "It's just . . . difficult, Elvis."

  "I know it is, Em. But I really think it should be done.”

  “Oui. So do I. I'll take care of it tomorrow."

  And she fully meant to do so. She simply didn't count on something else coming up that would drive it out of her mind.

  Chapter 18

  Woodard's man Conroy regarded the pay phone as if it might at any moment grow fangs to sink into his throat. Damn, fuck, shit. This was one call he'd give a hell of a lot not to have to make, and for one reckless moment he seriously considered lighting out for parts unknown. Hell, why not? Why not simply take off and just continue on until he'd put himself beyond Grant Woodard's reach?

  Because he didn't know where that was.

  Finally, he took a deep breath, reached for the receiver, and punched in the numbers. Much too quickly the call went through. "Woodard," Grant said crisply.

  "Conroy here, sir." Conroy cleared his throat. "I, uh, seem to have lost Emma and the baby."

  There was a moment of charged silence. Then deadly quiet. Finally, "What do you mean, you lost them?"

  "They're no longer in their room, sir. It's been cleared out." He hesitated before adding, "The odd part is ... no one but me seems to realize they're gone. Emma's car is still out back, and I think the folks around here believe she's still livin' upstairs."