The whisper of the zipper being pulled back sounded loud in the ensuing silence. It must have attracted Moonshine's curiosity, for the cat meandered into the living and sat next to Garrett's feet. While the feline seemed to be occupied with licking the thick, ivory colored fur on his belly, the cat's big blue eyes never strayed from Garrett.
For that matter, neither did Murphy's.
Garrett was rummaging around inside the duffel bag. Judging by the frown creasing his brow, he wasn't having much luck. Mumbling something under his breath, he dug more deeply into the bag.
Murphy heard the faint crinkle of bills being shuffled around, and the delicate tink of jewelry knocking together.
She was aware of the exact second Garrett found whatever it was he searched for. It was when the furrow between his brows ironed out, and the corners of his lips tipped up in the smile that, without fail, had an unnerving affect on both her heartbeat and respiration.
Her breath clogged in her throat when she saw the piece of jewelry he pulled out of the bag. If she'd been able to string more than one coherent thought together, she might have grinned when Moonshine meowed; to Murphy's ears, it was the feline equivalent of a gasp of appreciation.
“These belonged to my great-grandmother,” Garrett said, handing the single string of pears to Murphy. “Harold Thayer, my great-grandfather, gave them to her on the day they were married. Helen, my great-grandmother, passed them down to my grandmother on her wedding day.”
Murphy's fingers shook when she took the string of pearls, her touch reverent. She ran the tip of her index finger over each bead. The clasp was studded with a half dozen, unpretentious-sized diamonds; the gems winked in the muted light of dusk. Age had discolored the pearls, but a good polishing would restore their luster.
A pool of emotion swirled in Murphy's stomach, and she felt her eyes water. Oh, how she would love to have something like this. A watch, earrings, anything to pass down to her own children—when she had some; or Tom's, if she didn't—the way this necklace would pass down from generation to generation of Thayers.
There was nothing, of course. Heirlooms were born of memories, and she had none, fond or otherwise, of Shirley McKenna.
“It's beautiful,” she whispered finally.
“You like it?”
Her gaze lifted, locking with Garrett's. Was it her imagination, or did she detect an edge of apprehension in his tone? “Like it? I love it. I know I only spoke to Elise once—on the phone, and briefly at that—but I think she's going to love it, too. Does she have a daughter to pass it down to?”
“Two,” Garrett acknowledged. “But Elise won't be passing this necklace down to either of them.”
“She won't?”
“No.”
Feeling suddenly self-conscious, Murphy tucked her legs beneath her and tugged the hem of Garrett's shirt down over her knees. “Then you're going to give it to one of your other sisters?”
“No.”
Lord, but there were times when this man could be so exasperating. Sometimes getting information from him was like pulling teeth! Or worse. Murphy suppressed the urge to reach down his throat and yank out the explanation she suddenly found herself extremely curious to hear.
Noticing the faint glint of amusement in his eyes—subtle, but undeniably there—she realized he was baiting her. Her lips pursed, and her green eyes narrowed as she handed the necklace back to him. Smiling oh, so sweetly, she said, “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Soda?”
He laughed, and Murphy knew she hadn't fooled him for a minute. Not surprising, really. In the short time they'd known each other, Garrett had come to know her amazingly well. Better, she thought, than she sometimes knew herself.
“I want you to have this necklace, Murphy,” Garrett said suddenly, softly. “It's my way of saying ‘thank you'.”
Murphy had been in the process of swallowing. His words—no, the emotions they set roiling inside of her—made her choke.
Chapter 13
Murphy's Law #13: Murphy's Law doesn't always apply…
IT TOOK GARRETT three raps on her back before Murphy caught her breath again. No, that wasn't quite true. Her respiration was never normal when Garrett Thayer was around; it was a malady made worse when he offered her a piece of jewelry that's sentimental value alone made it priceless.
“Thank you,” she said finally, and more than a little stiffly, “but I can't accept it.”
“You can't?” The way his eyes widened suggested it had never occurred to Garrett she might refuse. “Well, why the hell not?”
“Well, why the hell should I?” she countered, just as sharply. Sucking in a long, deep breath, she elaborated, “Garrett, I helped you because I wanted to. Because I couldn't have lived with myself if I'd done anything less. I did not do it hoping for a reward.”
It was Garrett's turn to suck in a few steadying breaths. The enforced calmness of his tone, however, was edged with frustration. “Believe me, I already know that. If I thought a reward was why you came back for me…” Sighing, he plowed the fingers of his free hand through his sleep-tousled, sandy hair. The pearls were draped loosely between the index finger and thumb of his other hand, as though he wasn't quite sure what to do with the necklace now that she'd refused it. “None of that's important. The point is, you did come back for me. Damn it, Murphy, you saved my life! Isn't it only natural I'd want to thank you for that?!”
“You already thanked me.”
Her words took some steam out of his irritation. “I did?”
“Don't you remember? Back in Greenville? Just before the ambulance came, and Stephen and I left?”
“I offered you the necklace then?” He shook his head, confused. “I'm sorry, sweetheart, but I don't remember that. Maybe it was the drugs the doctor gave me, but—”
“You didn't.”
“Didn't what? Didn't thank you?”
“No, you didn't offer me the necklace then.”
Garrett scowled, even more confused. “But you just said—”
“That you thanked me,” she reminded him. “And you did.”
“I did,” Garrett echoed flatly, his gaze meeting hers. His blue eyes darkened thoughtfully when he squinted. “How?”
As she did too often when Garrett Thayer was around, Murphy threw caution to the wind and reacted on instinct. The sofa cushions crunched under her knees when she set the sheets, comforter, and paper bag on the floor, then leaned toward Garrett. She pillowed her open palms on his warm, naked chest.
Their gazes still locked, Murphy brushed her lips against his—softly, lightly. Her heartbeat stammered. Against his mouth, she rasped, “‘Thank you for coming back for me, Murphy', you said.” She eased back slightly. The feel of his mouth was always a breathtaking sensation; she couldn't surrender it willingly. “Do you remember now? You said ‘thank you.’ That's all I need.”
Garrett's hand rose, his fingers tunneling through her hair, holding Murphy steady, as though he was afraid she would pull away. His breath felt warm against her mouth as he replied, just as huskily, “I remember. I never forgot. Sweetheart, there's not a whole lot about you that I could forget. God knows I've tried.”
“I couldn't forget you either,” she sighed. “I've tried, too. Probably twice as hard.”
“Not possible.” His lips still pressed lightly to hers, Murphy felt Garrett grin. “And I don't want you to forget me. Not now. Not ever.”
“I won't,” she whispered. Several times in the last few weeks thoughts of Garrett, memories of his strength and determination to never give up, no matter how bad the odds were stacked against them, had been the only thing to augment her resolve, which at times would otherwise have wavered.
“Sweetheart?” Garrett said thickly.
His eyes had darkened to a brilliant shade of blue. Murphy lost herself in them. “Yes?”
“You're kneeling on my bad leg.”
Her eyes widened and a blush warmed her cheeks. So intent had she been with the f
eel of his mouth on hers, the intoxicating way his spicy male scent flooded her senses, she hadn't noticed that when she'd leaned toward him, her knee had come down directly on his outer right thigh. While she'd seen for herself that his wound was well on its way to healing, it had only been three weeks, it must still be sore.
Straightening, she mumbled an embarrassed apology and slid to her side of the couch. The two feet of lightly flowered upholstery separating Garrett's hip from hers—neither of which were clad in much—felt like it extended for an eternity.
Her attention shifted, focusing on a speck of something on the floor near the entertainment center. She frowned, pulling it into focus. It was an allergy capsules.
She remembered now that Garrett had never taken the two she'd placed on the tray for him. Why not? In fact, now that she thought about it, when Moonshine had tackled him in the hallway, and again when Garrett had shooed the cat out of the bedroom, were the only times she remembered him sneezing or sniffling since entering her apartment. For a man allergic to cats, that was peculiar.
Murphy glanced up, only to see Garrett watching her intently. The smile that curled over his lips reached his eyes, making the irises shimmered an arresting shade of midnight blue in the glow of dusky sunlight.
“I thought you were allergic to cats,” she said, and noticed that Moonshine, still sitting at Garrett's feet, cocked his head as though he was also interested in an explanation.
“I am.”
As explanations went, that one was lacking. Murphy decided to probe a bit deeper. “Then why aren't you sneezing? Why aren't your eyes more red and watery? Why are you—?”
“Trying to make inane conversation?” Garrett asked, cutting her short. “And I'm talking about you, sweetheart, not me.”
Murphy frowned. “I'm not.”
“Aren't you?”
“No, I…” What had she been trying to do? Damned if she knew! The second her gaze met Garrett's, Murphy's train of thought scattered like dust. “I-I was just concerned, is all.”
“No need to be. The problem's been taken care of.” Garrett hesitated, sighed. “Well, no, that's not exactly true. Let's just say the problem is being taken care of.”
“How vague.”
His sandy eyebrows rose and fell. “I know. Purposely vague. I've got an ulterior motive.”
“You do?” she asked cautiously.
Garrett nodded. His silence made it clear he'd no intention of sharing whatever that motive was.
Was he waiting for her to prod him? Although she'd rather pretend she didn't care, Murphy knew she did. “Okay, I give up. What's the deal? And there is a deal in there somewhere,” she added before he could say anything. “I can tell by that glint in your eyes. You want something from me, don't you, Garrett Thayer?”
Garrett's gaze raked her from head to toe. The glint in his eyes said he liked seeing her body wrapped in one of his shirts. By the time their gazes again locked, the blood pumping hot and fast through Murphy's veins was tingling.
His voice, when it came, was low and husky. “Oh yeah, I want something from you. In fact, I want…” he sucked in a sharp breath, paused. It was clear when he continued that what he said wasn't what he'd originally planned. “I want to know what happened with your job. Did you quit?”
“Why do you want to know?” Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“My turn to be concerned,” he said, repeating her earlier words, his soft tone echoing the same sentiment.
Murphy felt a thrill washed over her. This time, instead of trying to analyze her reaction, she accepted it. In her whole life, the only person who'd ever been truly been concerned about her was Tom. It was a foreign yet wonderful feeling to have Garrett express the same emotion. It was also a bit frightening. “I showed up at my office on the Monday morning after they took you to Bangor, if that's what you're asking.”
“That's not what I was asking, and you damn well know it.” His expression tightened with impatience, but he seemed able to reign the emotion in quickly. “All right, sweetheart, I'll rephrase the question. When you showed up for work that Monday, was it to hand in your resignation? Tell me that, I'll tell you why I'm not sneezing.”
Murphy hesitated for only a beat before nodding. Inwardly, she groaned. When had she come to know this man as well as he'd come to know her? She couldn't pinpoint a precise time, but the evolution must have occurred at some point…because she'd an uneasy feeling she knew exactly what Garrett's next question was going to be. And she was right.
“So you did? Turn in your resignation, that is?”
“I don't see why it matters.”
“It does.” Garrett reached out, and the tip of his index finger traced the delicate line of her jaw. “Everything about you matters to me. Haven't you figured that out yet?”
“Because I saved your life?”
“That's part of the reason. But not a very big part.”
“Because we made love?”
“That's another part. Maybe bigger. And you're changing the subject again. Don't think I haven't noticed. Tell me. Did you quit your job?” His tone suggested that, this time, he expected an answer.
And he got one. It just wasn't the verbal one he'd been expecting.
The hem of Garrett's shirt rustled around Murphy's thighs as she stood and walked over to the table where she kept the phone; it was a small piece of furniture, with a solitary drawer. She pulled open the drawer and, moving the telephone books stored inside it, withdrew a crumpled piece of paper that, for the life of her, she wasn't sure why she'd kept.
Returning to the sofa, she handed the paper to Garrett.
It crinkled when he took it and very slowly unfolded the much-creased sheet of parchment. Lifting his feet from the coffee table, he planted them on the floor, and started at the paper for a long time. Finally, his gaze lifted.
A mixture of equal parts pride and admiration was etched in his features when he asked, “What changed your mind?”
“You did.”
Garrett looked surprised. “Me? How?”
“I typed that"—she nodded to the resignation he held pinched between his index fingers and thumbs—"Friday, the day after I got home. When I walked into the office Monday morning, I intended to hand it to Mr. Kratzski, my boss.”
“But you didn't,” he said when she hesitated.
She picked nervously at one of the buttons on his shirt. “No, I didn't.”
“Why?”
“Like I said, because of you.” Shaking her head, Murphy wondered if she could ever make Garrett understand. “I remembered the way you kept insisting we were going to get out of that car, out of that blizzard, when there was no hope of it ever happening.” She again sat on the opposite end of the couch. He reached out, opened his hand; her cheek nuzzled perfectly into the warm, rough cradle of his palm. “I remembered your strength, your determination, your refusal to quit, even when the deck was so strongly stacked against us.
Murphy sighed, her voice growing hoarse. “I admired you so much for that, Garrett. The memory haunted me. Finally, I realized that if you couldn't say ‘quit’ even when you didn't have a snowball's chance of winning, why should I?” She shrugged awkwardly. “When it came time to give my resignation to Mr. Kratzski, I thought of you…and didn't. Instead, I folded it up and put it in my purse, then went to my office, got behind my desk, and forced myself to get back to work.”
Murphy shuddered when Garrett took her hand and brought it to lips. His mouth pressed a warm, reassuring kiss in the center of her palm. Her voice took a ragged turn. “It was difficult at first. To go back to work, I mean. I won't lie. But I kept remembering something you'd said to me, just before you left for the hospital in Bangor, and somewhere along the line I started to believe it.”
“What did I say?” His lips feathered her skin as he spoke. His breaths washed hotly over her palm and wrist, making her tremble.
“Y-you told me that Murphy's Law has to change sometime.”
His gr
in had a devastating affect on her already spiraling senses. “I'm proud of you, sweetheart,” he said, straightening. The respectful edge to his tone reinforced the words.
“You know what?”
Garrett shook his head.
“I'm proud of me, too.” Murphy smiled and felt oh, so wonderfully warm inside when he returned the gesture.
“Come here, lady. I want to hug you.”
“No, your leg,” she reminded him.
“What leg?” he countered, his blue eyes sparkling.
“I don't want to hurt you.”
“Sweetheart,” he said, his tone equally serious, “you were crawling all over me a couple of hours ago. Don't kneel on me, and we'll be all set. Now get over here, woman, before I make a citizen's arrest.”
“You can't. You're a cop. All your arrests are legal.”
“I'm also off-duty and out-of-state, which means…damn it, Murphy, get over here before I come over there! You don't want me putting a strain on my leg, do you?”
Garrett's voice had been teasing. So was Murphy's answer. “That's blackmail. Besides, you said yourself that it's fine so long as I don't kneel on it.”
“Yup,” Garrett answered with a cocky grin, “I did. I must have had a relapse. So what's it going to be? Are you coming over here, or am I—?”
Before he could complete the sentence, Murphy scooted closer to his end of the sofa. If there was a sensation more wondrous than being enfolded in Garrett Thayer's embrace, or cushioning her cheek against the hard, warm, sculpted plane of his chest, she didn't want to know what it was. The rhythm of his heart, drumming steadily in her ear, was the sweetest of music.
“Murphy?” Garrett had pillowed his chin atop her head, and the warmth of his breath seared her scalp as he spoke.
“Yes?”
“Promise you won't think what I'm going to say sounds stupid, okay?”
“How will I know unless you say it?” Murphy asked. A dreamy feeling crept over her; it was getting more and more difficult to concentrate on anything but wanting this single moment, spent nestled in the security of his embrace, to stretch out for…yes, she wanted it to stretch out for the rest of her life.
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