Nowhere to Run

by Suzanne Brockmann

  Jim rested his elbow out the open car window as she pulled on to the main road. “I’ll say something like ‘I didn’t get out much when I was living in Denver—not on a teaching assistant’s salary.’”

  She shot him a skeptical look, and he said, “I’ll also do some research. I’ll look at city maps, memorize street names, learn the addresses of major attractions…and restaurants.”

  Emily glanced at him again.

  “I’ve gone undercover before,” he said, “with much less preparation. I guess I’m just a good liar.”

  She didn’t say a word.

  “Take a left up here on Ocean Ave.,” Jim said. “You know, I was surprised you live so far from the beach. I thought for sure you’d be within a block or two of the water.”

  “The only way I could afford to live near the beach was with a roommate,” Emily said. “And after all those years of college roommates, I really wanted to live alone.”

  “I remember you wanted to live in a house on the beach,” Jim said. “You wanted to be able to roll out of bed, open the blinds and have the ocean be right there, in your face.”

  Emily laughed, despite her growing discomfort at the easy familiarity of Jim’s words. “Yeah, right. Last hurricane season, there was a time or two when the people who owned beachfront property actually had the ocean in their faces. Literally.”

  He was watching her, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “You don’t really expect me to believe you’d be scared away from the beach by a little bad weather.”

  “No,” she admitted. “It was purely a financial decision. If I could afford to live by myself in a place that’s on the beach, I would. But, unfortunately, I can’t handle a higher rent with my current salary.”

  “When did you decide to become a teacher?” Jim asked. “You took all those computer courses your freshman year. Weren’t you majoring in computer science and business?”

  She glanced at him. “Is this more research?”

  He was silent for a moment, looking out the window at the rows of fancy condominiums that lined Ocean Avenue. “Yes, I need to know more about you,” he finally said, “but no, that wasn’t why I asked.” He pointed to the public beach’s parking lot. “Park here. We can walk to the lunch place.”

  Emily put on her right blinker and moved carefully into the right lane. Just as carefully, she said, “I’d prefer to continue the type of interview we’ve been using to give you the information you need to know about my personal life. I’m not comfortable pretending we’re old friends chatting and catching up on the past seven years.”

  She pulled into the parking lot and drove down a long row of cars, looking for an empty space.

  “So, what you’re saying is, after I get the information I need from you in order to pull off masquerading as your brother, you don’t want us to have any other conversations,” Jim said. “Is that it?”

  Emily glanced at him. His mouth was tight, and he used his left hand to rake his hair back from his face. He wasn’t pouting, but maybe if she pushed him, he would start. And she found grown men who pouted extremely unattractive…

  “Yes,” she replied. “That’s what I’m saying.”

  Ahead of her, a car pulled out of a spot, and she quickly zipped into it. She switched off the motor, took the key from the ignition and turned to look at Jim.

  To her surprise, he wasn’t pouting. Instead, there was very genuine regret in his eyes, and a resigned sadness on his face.

  “I’m sorry, Emily,” he said quietly. “I’ll do my best to respect your wishes.”

  He smiled at her then—a small, bittersweet smile. Emily could have sworn she saw a sudden glimmer of moisture in his eyes, but he turned away before she got a closer look. He opened the door and hauled his large frame out of the tiny car.

  Emily followed him to the lunch stand, where they waited for their sandwich order in subdued silence.

  Why couldn’t he have pouted? Why couldn’t he have been a baby, or acted rudely, or…She would have preferred anything to the honest, humble regret she’d seen in his eyes.

  “Let’s find a picnic table in the shade,” Jim said, leading her toward the beach.

  Heat waves shimmered over the wide expanse of fine white sand and even over the deep blue-green of the Gulf waters. Emily sat down across from Jim on the bench of a wooden picnic table aged silver-gray by the sun, the wind and the salt air.

  She still wasn’t hungry, but she unwrapped the chicken sandwich Jim had bought her and took a bite.

  “Great stuff, isn’t it?” he asked.

  Emily nodded. Surprisingly, it was.

  “Ready for more questions?” he asked, getting out his little notebook, making their conversation official.

  He’d put sunglasses on, and she couldn’t see his eyes. She nodded again. “Fire away.”

  “I pretty much know all the basics,” Jim said. “You know, like the year you were born, your middle name, your birthday—”

  “You remember my birthday?” Emily was surprised. “And my middle name?”

  “October seventeenth, and Sara.” Jim smiled. “God, you know, I even remember the name of your favorite elementary school teacher. Mrs. Reiner, fourth grade, right? You used to talk about her all the time.”

  Emily was staring at him, her sandwich temporarily forgotten. She was frowning, her delicate eyebrows wrinkled in disbelief, her usually clear gaze cloudy with uncertainty.

  It was the first real, heartfelt look she’d given him. It was the first glimpse he’d had past her cool, controlled front. And it was a front, he realized suddenly. It had to be a front, or he wouldn’t be able to see past it, right?

  “How can you remember that?” she asked, her tone incredulous. “After all this time?”

  “Because I was crazy about you,” Jim said. He knew as soon as the words were out of his mouth that it was something he shouldn’t have said. His habit of saying what was on his mind, of laying his thoughts and feelings out on the table, had gotten him into trouble before, and he knew right away that this wasn’t going to be an exception.

  His uncensored comments often got uncensored reactions, but Emily just stared silently at him.

  He knew he was in trouble, though. He knew that his words were worthless in her eyes. And there was no way on earth he could back what he’d just said with any proof or evidence. In fact, the very way he’d broken up with Emily seemed proof that he hadn’t cared about her in the least.

  Jim looked down at his sandwich, sitting on top of its white paper wrapper. Suddenly he wasn’t feeling very hungry.

  But when he glanced up at Emily again, she was smiling. It was one of those private smiles, though, one where the joke was on him. The uncertainty in her eyes was gone, replaced by confidence and determination.

  Her smile disappeared, and her gaze became positively steely as she looked him straight in the eye and said, “You are so full of crap. Don’t you dare try to whitewash the past. I know exactly how you felt about me.” Her voice was quiet, but her even tone left no doubt that she meant business. “If you insist on continuing to insult my intelligence with further ridiculous interpretations of our…sordid little affair, I’ll be forced to go over your head, Detective. I won’t hesitate to issue a complaint to Lieutenant Bell.”

  Sordid little affair. Jim’s relationship with Emily had been the greatest, most treasured love affair of his life. Hearing her refer to that time as nothing but a sordid little affair was a slap in the face.

  But what could he say? If he stood up and shouted at her the way he wanted to, shouted that he had loved her, damn it, where would that get him? She wouldn’t believe him, and he’d be off the case—as fast as Lieutenant Bell could say the words “Keegan, get your butt into my office.”

  Without his participation, the investigation would be postponed and Delmore would be free to continue shipping kilos of cocaine into Florida. Then Emily would have even more reason to dislike him.

  And Jim knew with a s
udden, startling clarity that he didn’t want Emily to dislike him. He didn’t know what the hell he did want, but he knew for damn sure that he didn’t want that.

  So he didn’t shout. He didn’t tell her she was wrong. He didn’t say anything at all. He simply took off his sunglasses, rested his elbows on the picnic table and tried to relieve the ache that was starting to build up inside his head by pressing his forehead against the heels of his hands. He could hear the seconds ticking by on his watch as they sat in silence, neither of them moving.

  After many, many of those seconds had gone by, Jim looked up, running his hands down his face. He rested his chin on his thumbs and his lips against his fingers as he looked across the table at Emily.

  She was staring out at the ocean, her eyes soft and unfocused. He nervously cleared his throat, and her gaze flickered toward him before returning to the distant horizon.

  “Emily,” he said. He cleared his throat again, but it didn’t make his voice any less husky. “I’m sorry. Can we…maybe…start over, here?”

  She looked at him dead-on. Her expression was so chilly, he could’ve gotten frostbite.

  “Start over?” she said. “I intend to start over. After Alex is in jail and you’re out of my apartment, after I don’t have to see either of you ever again, I’m going to start over. Definitely in a different city, maybe even in a different state.”

  “That’s not what I meant—”

  “I know what you meant. And the answer is no. Next question, Detective.”

  Jim stared at her, shocked by the hard edge to her words and the equally hard set to her usually soft mouth. This was a side of Emily he’d never seen before. It was a side he suspected hadn’t existed back when she was only eighteen years old, back before her contact with men like Alexander Delmore had jaded her. Men like Delmore, and—yeah, who was he kidding?—men like him.

  He’d left her because he thought the short-term hurt would be better than the pain he would cause her in the long run. He’d felt he didn’t deserve the happiness he found with her, and he’d thought he would poison her if they stayed together. Instead, he’d managed to poison her by leaving.

  But then he saw her lower lip tremble. Her eyes filled suddenly with tears that she couldn’t control. She said one choice word, one he’d never heard her say before, as she turned her head away, trying to hide her tears from him. But it was too late. He’d already seen.

  Jim reached for her, across the table. But she jumped back, away from him.

  She tripped over the piece of wood that connected the bench to the table and went sprawling in the soft sand. Jim was up in a flash, but she was faster. She scrambled to her feet and started running down the deserted beach.

  “Emily, wait!” Jim said, but she didn’t stop.

  Damn, she’d left her purse on the table. Jim dashed back for it, tucked it securely under his arm and went after her.

  She had one hell of a head start, but his legs were longer, and he was used to running distances. Still, he had to work hard to catch her.

  “Emily, stop!” he said, but she didn’t, so he grabbed her arm.

  “Leave me alone!” She struggled to get away, but he tightened his grip.

  She swung angrily at him, but her aim was off and her fist bounced ineffectually off his shoulder. Jim knew the blow had hurt her hand more than it had hurt him.

  She was crying—thick, hot, angry tears. She wiped at them as if she were trying to make them go away, but they wouldn’t stop. She struck out at him again, and he pulled her in tightly to his chest.

  “Emily, come on. Please…”

  Emily felt the fight draining from her as soon as his arms went around her. She couldn’t stop crying. Sobs racked her body, and she wanted nothing more than to lean against Jim’s warm solidness.

  If she closed her eyes, she could pretend she’d somehow gone back in time to when she was eighteen. She could pretend that he really had loved her, and—

  His fingers trailed lightly through her hair, and she felt the familiar surge of sexual heat she had always felt when he touched her that way. It was his gentleness, his tenderness, that had turned her on—that obviously still turned her on.

  Brother, what was wrong with her? How could she think of Jim Keegan this way? How could she allow herself to be attracted to him now, when she knew the kind of man he really was?

  With her last bit of strength and her last scrap of fight, Emily pushed herself away from him.

  But she couldn’t break free. His arms just tightened around her. Angrily she lifted her tear-streaked face toward his. His face, his mouth, were mere inches from hers. And as she looked up into his eyes, she saw the deep blue of his irises nearly swallowed by the widening expanse of his pupils as he looked into her eyes. She knew without a doubt that he was going to kiss her. Her anger was transformed instantly into fear. Fear, and something else. Something far more disturbing.

  “Emily,” he whispered, leaning down toward her.

  “Don’t,” she whispered, and he froze, leaving less than an inch between his lips and hers. “Please, if you have even a shred of decency left…”

  Jim released her immediately. God, what was he doing? What had he been thinking? Apparently holding her in his arms that way had knocked all sense clear out of him.

  She stared at him, her eyes big and accusing. She had stopped crying, but her face was still wet, and one last tear hung on her lower lashes. Though he knew damn well that he shouldn’t, Jim couldn’t resist reaching out and, with one knuckle, gently brushing that tear away.

  Emily flinched as if his touch had burned her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Don’t touch me,” she said. “Don’t ever touch me.”

  Jim looked down at the sand, out at the ocean, up at the sky, and finally at Emily. “Emily,” he said huskily, “I’ve got to confess—it’s hard not to. I can’t seem to stay away from you.”

  “You had no problem seven years ago,” she said, and walked away.

  What could he say to that? Silently he followed her back to the car.

  CHAPTER SIX

  JIM WAS PACING. He moved from the front door to the sliding glass door that led to Emily’s tiny deck. He moved back to the small dining table, lingered there for a moment, then went back to the front door. Then he went to the sliding glass door….

  Emily brought her eyes and her attention back to the slim Hispanic man sitting across from her on the couch.

  “I will be in the room,” Detective Salazar was saying in his soft, charming accent, “or at least somewhere in the country club, the entire time you and Mr. Delmore are there.”

  Emily nodded.

  “If you have a problem, Emily…” Jim said, speaking for the first time in nearly twenty minutes. Both Emily and Salazar looked up at him. “Any problem at all, find Phil. He’ll get you out of there.”

  “What kind of problem could I possibly have?” Emily asked, crossing her legs as she coolly gazed up at Jim. “It’s a society dinner. I seriously doubt Alex intends to perform any illegal acts in front of the gossip columnists from the local newspapers.”

  Jim pushed his hands into the front pockets of his pants and leaned his back against the wall, finally standing still. “You’re right. He probably won’t,” he agreed. “But this is a man you suspect is a felon. You’re going to spend hours with him, pretending that you don’t know how he really makes his money. That’s not always easy. If you find that you can’t do it, if you get overwhelmed, if you get scared—”

  “I’m not scared,” Emily said, raising her chin in defiance. But what was she defying? His words, or their underlying kindness? Or maybe it was the quiet gentleness of his voice…

  “Well, that’s good,” Salazar said, smiling at her. “Now, your goal tonight is not to get any information from Mr. Delmore. You’re gonna leave the information gathering to my buddy Diego, all right?”

  Diego. James. Emily’s gaze flicked over to where Jim was still leaning
against the wall. He was watching her, and she quickly looked back at Detective Salazar. “All right,” she said.

  “Your goal is for you and your ‘brother’—” Salazar gestured toward Jim with his head “—to get invited along on one of Mr. Delmore’s floating weekend parties. That shouldn’t be too hard. It also couldn’t hurt for the two of you to get an invitation to Mr. Delmore’s home. The investigating we’ve done shows that Alexander Delmore does most of his business either at home or on board his yacht—” His eyebrows drew together, and a look of concern crossed his face. “Is there some kind of problem? You don’t look happy.”

  Emily wasn’t happy. “My relationship with Alex is kind of…odd,” she said. “He’s told me on more than one occasion that one of the reasons he likes dating me is that I never pressure him for anything. I’ve never asked him when I’ll see him again, I’ve never asked him for anything. He’s told me that in that respect I’m different from the other women he’s gone out with.”

  Jim stared down at his cowboy boots, listening to Emily talk about her relationship with Delmore. She might as well have been describing their relationship, seven years ago. Because she hadn’t pressured him for anything, either, not even his attention. That was what had drawn him to her when they first met—after the initial shock of physical attraction, anyway. She’d been so low-key, so laid-back, so cool and collected. If she had dangled her body at him like bait, if she’d sent him long, meaningful looks and body-language telegrams the way most of the other college girls had, he would never have given her a second glance. Well, he might have given her a second glance, but he wouldn’t have become so intrigued by her.

  Even after they’d been dating for months, Emily had never assumed anything. She’d never demanded anything from him. Or had she? He could still picture her, that Saturday morning she’d come by bus all the way out to his apartment because he hadn’t returned any of her phone calls. He’d been home from the hospital for only a few weeks, and she’d been worried about him. Still, even then, she hadn’t demanded anything from him—except maybe the peace of mind of knowing he was all right.