by Brenda Novak
Could there be better news already? “Why do you need to know where I am?”
“I think she called again last night.”
“Then the question is, where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
“What?”
“I—I missed her call.”
“How?” He tossed his towel aside, onto the floor.
“I couldn’t bear to talk to her. She hung up without leaving a message, but the number she was calling from came up on my caller ID,” Rosa added quickly. “Maybe you can call her, convince her to come back to you.”
The area code should tell him something, at least. And maybe he could reach her. Telephone contact was preferable to no contact at all. He’d been dying to speak to her ever since she’d left. What did she think she was doing? Did she really believe this would improve matters between them? Now he’d never be able to trust her again. She’d stolen from him, turned his own hired help against him, lied to him….
Closing his eyes, he took a cleansing breath. “What’s the number?”
Rosa gave it to him, and he quickly jotted it down.
“How—How’s my sister?” Rosa ventured.
“You’ll find out soon enough,” he snapped, and ended the call. Once he found Vanessa and the son of a bitch she was with, Rosa wouldn’t matter anymore.
The buttons beeped loudly in his ear as he punched in the number he’d written down.
“Good morning. Thank you for calling Hilton Salt Lake City. This is Trina. How may I direct your call?”
The Hilton? Rage rose inside Manuel like a great tidal wave. She was staying at a hotel, a nice hotel, a high-rise. Which meant that whoever she was with probably wasn’t some trucker. Most truckers didn’t pull into a fancy hotel. They slept in the cab of their trucks or rented an economy motel.
“Where, exactly, are you located?” he asked.
“We’re at twenty-five fifty-five South West Temple.”
“Can you give me directions?”
“Let me transfer you to our concierge. I’m sure she can help you.”
Elevator music played in the background. Unable to sit still, he began to pace. Where did Vanessa meet her companion? Were they making love right now? Was she laughing at Manuel as she drew another man inside her?
“This is Megan. What can I do for you today?”
“I need you to tell me how to get to the hotel. I’m coming east on I-80.”
“No problem, sir.”
Manuel scribbled down the directions, which were simple enough, then tossed the pen aside. He shouldn’t have stopped last night. If only he hadn’t started second-guessing himself. “How long a drive is it?” he asked before the concierge could hang up.
“About two hours.”
Two. He felt fairly certain that if he hurried, he could cut that down to one and a half.
PRESTON SCOWLED at his wet toothbrush. There were a lot of things he was willing to share with Max and Emma, but his toothbrush wasn’t one of them. Not because he was worried about germs. Well, maybe he was worried about Max’s germs. There was no telling what a boy his age might put in his mouth. But with Emma it was the intimacy of sharing such a personal article that bothered him. They needed to safeguard the barriers between them, not pull them down.
He thought of calling her into the bathroom to tell her so, but when he saw her swimsuit hanging on the towel rack, he didn’t have the heart. She’d had to use his toothbrush. She didn’t have one of her own. She didn’t even have underwear.
Cursing the night he’d stopped at the Cozy Comfort Bungalows, he brushed his own teeth—and tried to pretend he didn’t actually like the idea that his toothbrush had been inside Emma’s mouth.
“Are you ready to go?” he called into the kitchen as he packed his things.
“I was hoping to give Max a bath before we left. Do you think we have time?” she called back.
He was anxious to get on the road, to get to Vince. But he supposed an hour wasn’t going to make much difference. He could do some work, catch up on his e-mail, make a few phone calls while he waited for Max. Or he could leave the room, and pick up the items Max and Emma needed so they wouldn’t have to stop later.
Grabbing his wallet from the dresser, he walked into the kitchen, where Emma was examining a sheet of paper.
“What’s that?” he asked.
She immediately folded it and stuck it in her purse. “Nothing important. Should I draw the bath or wait until later?”
“Go ahead and bathe the beast. I’m going out for a bit. I’ll be back soon.”
“What did you call me?” Max asked, tearing his attention away from the picture he was coloring.
Preston smiled. He didn’t know why he’d suddenly come up with that nickname. Except, with Max’s stocky build and fearless approach to all the shots he put in his stomach, it seemed to fit. “Beast.”
Max wrinkled his nose. “That means animal.”
“Nicknames aren’t literal.”
“What does ‘literal’ mean?”
“You’re big and strong and brave like a beast, aren’t you?”
“Yeah…”
“So why not call you Beast?”
Max seemed to consider the suggestion. “Okay!” he said, and the way his chest swelled with pride made Preston laugh.
“The male ego in action,” Emma murmured. “It starts young.” But she was wearing a faint smile and Preston grinned back at her.
“That ought to keep him tough, poor kid,” he muttered. “How’s he doing?”
She seemed startled by the question. “Fine.”
“Have you tested him since breakfast?”
“No. Unless we have some reason to believe he’s too high or too low, we only test at mealtimes, before bed and during the night.”
After the incident at the pool, Preston couldn’t help watching Max with a certain fearful expectation, wondering whether he might have another insulin reaction. “How often does he go low?”
“It can happen anytime, unless we’re careful.”
Great. Preston shook his head as he scooped his keys off the counter. He had to pick up a woman whose kid could keel over at any moment.
“But it doesn’t happen very often,” she added.
Thank God. “I’m going shopping. What do you want me to get?”
“I need a toothbrush.”
He gave her a meaningful glance. “That much I know.”
She blushed. “Sorry. I looked for one at the little grocery store this morning, but they didn’t carry them. And I rinsed yours with hot water when I was done,” she offered in a conciliatory tone.
His gaze dropped to her full, soft lips. With a bit of encouragement, he’d show her how little the hygiene issue really bothered him. But he knew that wouldn’t be good for her. Their futures were too uncertain. “I’ll get you each one,” he said. “What else?”
“I’m dying for some underwear. I guess I could get that later, but maybe you wouldn’t be too embarrassed to pick up a hairbrush, some hair gel, mascara and lip gloss? I feel like I’ve been camping in the wilderness for a week.”
He cocked a wary eyebrow at her. “You want me to buy lip gloss?”
“You’re right,” she admitted. “It’s something I can do without. I just—”
“You look great the way you are.”
She straightened as though the compliment took her by surprise. But he didn’t know why it would. With her long, silky hair, golden skin and big blue eyes, she didn’t need any enhancements.
She did need underwear, though. Knowing she wasn’t wearing any was proving more than a little distracting.
He cleared his throat. “What about snacks for the car?”
She seemed as eager as he was to take the conversation in a different direction. “We could always use snacks. Max is supposed to have them mid-morning, mid-afternoon, and between dinnertime and bedtime.”
“What should I buy?”
“Fruit. Power bar
s. Small packages of crackers and cheese. Baby carrots. Anything around twenty-two grams of carbohydrates per serving.”
“It has to be that specific?”
“Following a tight meal plan helps control his blood sugar.”
He remembered telling her a couple of doughnuts weren’t going to kill Max and felt a flicker of resentment that she hadn’t been honest with him then. Unfortunately, it wasn’t quite enough resentment to make him stop thinking about her lack of underwear.
“I know what happens when he goes low. What happens when he goes too high?”
Max piped up with the answer. “My eyes get all blurry, and I feel like I’m gonna throw up.” Doubling his fists, he began to shadowbox. “Sometimes I want to break something!”
Preston looked to Emma for an explanation.
“He never hurts anything,” she said. “It’s just that blood sugar affects mood. Whenever he gets a dark glower on his face or talks aggressively, I know he needs to be tested.”
Diabetes affected every aspect of his life, and Emma’s, too, because of the constant care.
“How do you spell your name?” Max asked, his hand poised to write at the top of his picture.
Preston spelled his name slowly and watched as Max did his best to form the letters. The crooked result touched a painful spot deep in Preston’s chest. At the same time, it made him smile.
“This is for you,” Max announced.
Remembering the pictures Dallas had colored for him, Preston briefly closed his eyes. He’d never expected to get another picture of a red and black Bugs Bunny. But he forced himself to walk over and give Max’s gift the attention it deserved. “It’s nice,” he said, and squeezed his shoulder.
The way Max beamed with pleasure made the effort worthwhile.
“I’ll be back soon,” he told Emma, starting for the door.
She grabbed her purse and followed him. “Here’s twenty bucks. If the total comes to more than that—”
He held up a hand. “I’ve got it covered.” Such minor expenses meant nothing to him. He just wanted to deliver Max and Emma safely to Iowa—and to know they’d remain safe when he drove away. “I’ll put out the Do Not Disturb sign. I doubt You-Know-Who is even in Salt Lake, but just in case, don’t open the door to anybody.”
PRESTON STOOD in the cosmetics aisle of Smith’s Grocery and scratched his head. He’d already collected toothbrushes, toothpaste, deodorant, face wash, a pair of flip-flops he thought would be more comfortable for Emma than the stiff leather sandals she was wearing now, a Jazz Basketball T-shirt—also for Emma, because he was out of clean laundry to lend her—and a whole basketful of snacks. But he couldn’t figure out what kind of makeup to buy. Picking up a tube of mascara had sounded simple enough. Until he saw that there were at least ten different kinds. Pink with a green lid. Black. White. Brown. Gray. One called Brownish-black, one called Very Black, one called Blue…
Blue? Maybe it was some sort of code word women understood but men didn’t, because he didn’t think he’d ever seen a woman wearing blue mascara. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.
He wished he’d brought his cell phone so he could call Emma. But he’d left it charging at the hotel.
With a helpless glance at the cosmetics, he decided to leave. He had to visit a department store to get Emma and Max some underwear. Maybe he’d be able to find a salesgirl who could help him with cosmetics, as well.
CROSSROADS MALL, which was only a few blocks from the hotel, was already packed with back-to-school shoppers.
Preston skirted a group of teenagers with spiky hair, tattoos and black lipstick standing in front of a skater shop, carelessly blocking traffic, to find the directory near the escalators. The smell of fresh-baked cinnamon rolls drifted up from the food court one floor below as he scanned the list of stores.
Nordstrom. Perfect. They’d have underwear.
He headed toward the mall’s anchor store. But when he spotted a small, elegant lingerie shop along the way, he hesitated. Racks and racks of bustiers, lacy bras with matching bikini underwear, thongs, transparent nightgowns and silk robes lined the walls and display tables.
“Hi, there. Can I help you?” An attractive young woman hovered at the entrance.
“I don’t think so.” This place went well beyond basic underwear….
“We have a sale on right now,” she said, her voice enticing. “Buy two bras and get a third for free.”
How many bras would Emma need? With the sale, he might as well shop here—and get more than one or two.
“Sounds good,” he said. “I’ll buy four.”
“That was easy.”
She laughed and waved him into the store. “I’m Felicia. And I’m sure we can find something you’ll appreciate.”
Something he would appreciate? He wasn’t here to buy something he’d appreciate. At least in the way this salesgirl meant it. “Just a bunch of basic bras and panties will be fine,” he told her.
“You’re buying lingerie and you don’t want it to be pretty?”
He didn’t want knowing what Emma was wearing under her clothes to drive him crazy. On the other hand, it did seem rather wasteful, even rude, to buy her something ugly on purpose. Especially when he saw so many things here that would look beautiful on her.
“Okay,” he relented. “Something pretty, but nothing too…bare.” Or he’d drive himself crazy and come across like a lech when he gave them to her.
Felicia guided him around a rack of robes to a whole section of bras and underwear. “First of all, what colors do you like?”
He studied the mannequins on display. “White.” With Emma’s tan, white was the obvious choice. “And black,” he added, thinking black would be almost as sexy.
“So we’ll go with four white bras, and then you can get two black ones free. Okay?”
He nodded.
“Now let’s check out the different styles we have available.”
She presented him with several kinds. “This one has an underwire to lift and support.” She motioned to show how it lifted, and Preston pictured Emma’s breasts. The way they filled out her swimming-suit top. The way they curved and swayed ever so gently beneath his T-shirt….
The vision caused a physical reaction he’d rather not have in public. He shoved his hands into his pockets in an attempt to camouflage it.
“This other one snaps in front,” Felicia went on, thankfully oblivious. “Then there’s the contouring one. It has a little padding, in case your wife or lady friend would like something to make her look a little fuller.”
Emma didn’t need any padding. Personally, he liked the sheer bra with the underwire. “Let’s go with the first one.”
“Maybe you should get a few of these and then a few of the one that hooks in front.”
Sounded reasonable. “Fine.”
“Good. What size?”
He knew he could cup his hand to show her exactly how big Emma was. He’d definitely noticed. But he thought that might be too crude. He tried to translate what he’d seen of Emma to what he remembered from when he was married. Christy had been a “C.” Which would make Emma…
“A small ‘D’,” he said.
The salesgirl laughed. “A ‘D’ isn’t small. Are you sure?”
“She’s bigger than a ‘C.’ But she’s not very big around the ribs.”
“So you think maybe a thirty-four?”
He hoped that was close enough. “Yeah.”
“Now for the underwear.”
Preston was already feeling a little warm. And he got a whole lot warmer when she brought over a handful of thongs. One had white lace edges. Another had metal heart cutouts right where the strings attached to the scrap of fabric in front. A sheer black pair especially appealed to him.
Somehow, he hadn’t imagined this turning into such an erotic experience.
“Maybe I should go with a more conservative style,” he said.
The salesgirl obviously didn’t like this response.
“Then she’ll have underwear lines.”
“So? At least she’ll have underwear. These are…”
“What everyone’s wearing,” she finished.
He tried, unsuccessfully, not to paint a mental picture of Emma standing before him, wearing the black thong while he kissed her neck, her breasts, her stomach…. “Aren’t they uncomfortable?” he asked in an attempt to refocus.
“You get used to it,” she said with a shrug.
“Why bother?”
Her lips curved into a suggestive smile and her voice dropped. “Because, deep down, it’s every woman’s wish that someday she’ll have a man just like you looking at her with the stunned, slack-jawed expression you had on your face when I handed you the first pair.”
When he was imagining Emma…He couldn’t even conceal his interest in her from a stranger.
He tossed the underwear back on the counter. “Give me something my mother would wear.”
Her lip came out in a pout. “Really? You only live once.”
What she didn’t realize was that he hadn’t been living at all. Not for two years. If he saw so much as a hint of Emma in any of this thonglike underwear, there wouldn’t be a shower cold enough to help him. Besides, he was the one paying for this stuff. That entitled him to get the ones he wanted…er…the ones he didn’t want, right?
Wait…why was he buying something he didn’t want?
“You look confused,” the salesgirl said.
He scowled. What was he doing trying to pick out women’s panties? He should leave it up to the salesgirl. She obviously regarded herself as quite the expert.
“Fine,” he said. “Give me the bras, and several pairs of whatever underwear you think she’d like best, in a size small. And find me a robe.”
“What kind of robe?”
He waved her question away. “I don’t even want to know.”
Her eyes brightened at this newfound trust. “Anything else?”
“Something for her to sleep in, also in a size small. Preferably something that covers her from head to toe.”
“What did you say?” she asked when the last of his words faded away.
“I said to get her a nightgown. Nothing too revealing because we’ve got a kid with us. And throw in one of those bottles of perfume I passed by the entrance.”
