True Lies

by Ingrid Weaver

“Aw, you don’t mean that. I'll fix that damage and—”

  “No.” She looked at the scrape mark again, outrage giving her the strength that she’d lacked before. “No more. I've given everything I could to you for ten years, but no more.”

  For the first time, his face lost its charming smile. He looked worried. “Emma, I apologized. I'll get it fixed. But I really need to use it again this week. I've made commitments.”

  She shook her head from side to side in a slow negative. “Make some other arrangements for your prospecting. I'm through letting you use me this way.”

  “You don’t know what you're saying. I have to make one more run, that’s all. Then I'll be finished.”

  “Run?”

  “Emma.” He grabbed her hands, squeezing painfully. “Listen to me. When I say I've made commitments, I mean real, serious commitments. This isn’t just a job, this is life or death.”

  “How can looking for a copper mine be a matter of life or death?”

  “I'm in debt, Emma,” he said desperately. “Real, serious debt. I'm doing this to work it off, but if I stop now, they'll kill me.”

  “What?”

  “I had a bad streak at cards. It was only supposed to be a friendly poker game, and I kept thinking my luck would turn. I didn’t know what kind of people they were. Oh, Emma, you've got to help me. Let me do this last run and then I'll have paid it off.”

  A coldness crept over her, a familiar coldness replacing her anger. They’d been through this before, so many times. She thought he had changed. “You're not prospecting. You never were.”

  “I really do want you to be proud of me, Emma. I tried—”

  “What are you into this time, Simon? What are you doing? Why do you keep calling it a run?”

  “These people I owe money to, they need to bring their product into the country without attracting any attention, so I pick it up at night in the St. Lawrence and bring it—”

  She grasped his arms and shook him. “Simon, what have you done?”

  “I haven’t touched the stuff. I just take it to their warehouse in these sample crates and—”

  “Simon!”

  He inhaled shakily, hanging his head. “It’s cocaine, Emma.”

  As quickly as she had seized him, she released her grip and stepped backward. Revulsion slithered through her body. “My plane? You were using my plane, and my dock and my property to bring that...that filth into the country?” Her stomach turned over. She battled the urge to be sick. “No. Oh, dear God, no.”

  “Just one more time, Emma. Then I'll quit. I promise.”

  She turned her head to look at the open tailgate of the Wagoneer, then ran forward and ripped the lid off the nearest crate. She didn’t want to believe it. Digging desperately through the broken rocks on the surface, she kept going until her fingers touched something smooth. It was a rectangular package the length of her forearm, wrapped tightly in thick brown paper. She sank her nails into the end and tore it open. There was plastic under the paper. And white powder under the plastic.

  “No,” she repeated, as if saying it enough times would make what she was seeing untrue. He had lied to her all his life. Why couldn’t he have lied about this, too? The trouble he’d gotten into as a kid, the vandalism, the joyriding, the petty theft, all that she’d been able to smooth over for him. But this? What could she do this time? With a sob, she wrestled the crate into her arms.

  “Emma,” Simon said, hurrying to her side. “What are you doing?”

  Clenching her jaw, she carried the crate to the end of the dock.

  “Oh, my God, no!” he cried, catching up to her just before she could heave the box into the lake. “No, don’t destroy it. They'll kill me. Emma, please!”

  She hadn’t known she could feel such rage. It rose like a red mist in her brain. “Drugs! After our mother killed herself with drugs. After I ruined what was left of my reputation to give you another chance. After I moved here for some peace, you bring this to my very door!”

  “Help me, Emma. Please. I don’t know what to do, I don’t know how to get out of this. Can’t you see that I have to do what they say?” He struggled to pull the crate out of her grasp. “Please, Emma. I'm in too deep to stop now.”

  “You have to stop. You have to turn yourself in.”

  “Go the police? Trust them? If the mob doesn’t kill me, prison will. Don’t you remember what happened to our father? He was a broken man by the time he got out. He couldn’t survive. Don’t do the same thing to me.”

  At the painful memories his words evoked, her arms went slack. She released her grip on the crate.

  Simon carried it away and stored it with the rest, then closed the tailgate and got in the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut.

  The noise made her whip around. She strode forward and clutched the driver’s door at the open window. “No more, Simon. it stops now. You tell them that.”

  He inhaled shakily. Tears glistened in his eyes. “I'm so scared, Emma. And ashamed. Please, can you ever forgive me?”

  She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Emotions had thickened her throat.

  “Emma. Please.” He wiped his eyes with the backs of his knuckles, the same way he used to as a child. “I'm begging you. Don’t send me to prison. I couldn’t survive it. We're all that’s left of the family, don’t turn in your own brother.”

  What else could she do? Oh, Lord, what could she do?

  This was her brother, the child she had coddled and sheltered. The people who owned those drugs would kill him if he didn’t deliver. They would probably kill him if he sought help from the police. Or if they didn’t, then prison would finish the job, just as it had with their father. She had to decide, to choose between her brother and the law.

  The law. Since when had she felt any obligation to the law? But how could she make him stop this unthinkable thing he was doing without betraying him?

  Simon’s chin trembled. “I owe them a lot of money, Emma.”

  “And I've got a lot of money. I'll bail you out. As always. I'll pay your debt to get you out of this, but it stops now. You tell them to find someone else, because you're not doing this again, for any reason.”

  “But how—”

  “It stops now,” she repeated. “Call me after you tell them. I'll arrange to get them the money.”

  He reached through the open window and squeezed her hand. “I love you, sis.”

  Right now, she couldn’t bear the thought of him touching her. She raised her palms and backed away. “Get off my property. Just get out of my sight before I change my mind.”

  Simon knew he had pushed her beyond her limit. He didn’t say another word. He started his engine and drove over the hill.

  She watched him disappear along with his obscene cargo, then stood with her fists clenched in frustration for long, agonizing minutes while she wished she could have thrown every one of those crates into the lake. She would pay Simon’s debt, and get him out of this situation. But then she would make sure the police knew exactly where to find and destroy those drugs. Not for the sake of the law, but for the sake of the victims.

  Numbly, she turned to walk back to her plane. Kneeling on the edge of the dock, she stretched out to touch the scraped pontoon. It was scarred, now. Tainted. It would never be the same. This lake and this cabin would never be the same, either. And she had thought she had achieved a measure of peace.

  It was her fault. She was the one who had formed Simon into the man he was. Where had she gone wrong? What could she have done differently? Was she wrong to have let Simon go? Should she have made him face up to what he had done and take the consequences? Was her coddling responsible for the way he had turned out?

  Water lapped against the dock. A gull screeched overhead and a squirrel launched into a raucous, chattering scold. The familiar noises seemed cruelly magnified, scraping across her raw nerves. She pulled her hand back from the plane and drew her knees to her chest, feeling the urge to scream.

&nbs
p; “Emma?” The voice was soft and deep, moving over her like a gentle caress.

  “Bruce?” She twisted around.

  He was walking toward her, his familiar shuffling gait making scraping noises on the dock, his shoulders hunched inside his baggy coat. He tilted his head and the shadow from his cap brim slid over his sunglasses to shade his features. “Is something wrong?”

  Something wrong? Hysterical laughter threatened to burst from the lump in her throat. She shook her head quickly. Why was he here? She felt brittle enough to shatter. On top of everything Simon had dumped on her, she couldn’t handle the puzzle this man presented.

  He stopped when he stood beside her. “I'm sorry for dropping in like this, but there was no answer when I called and...” He paused. “You're crying.”

  She dragged the back of her hand across her eyes and turned away from him.

  “Emma? What’s the matter?”

  Shaking her head again, she wrapped her arms around her legs and pressed her face to her knees. No one had ever seen her cry, no matter what. “This isn’t a good time, Bruce,” she managed. “I'll...” She swallowed hard. “I'll call you later.”

  Instead of leaving, he squatted down beside her. “Aw, heck. I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do to help? Not that I'm much good at fixing things. I always seem to barge in on people when they’d rather be alone and— Heck, what happened to your plane?”

  A fresh spurt of tears gushed against the denim that covered her knees. “It’s scraped.”

  The boards of the dock vibrated as he sat down heavily. “No wonder you're upset. You love that plane, don’t you? I could tell by the way you look when you fly it. It can be repaired, can’t it?”

  She could fix it, but it would never be the same.

  “Emma? Can I get you a glass of water or something?”

  A sob hiccuped past her lips. She tried to stop it, but it was out before she had a chance. His kindness was threatening to be the final blow to her self-control.

  A stud from the open front of his coat scraped along the dock as he moved closer. His warmth flowed out to her even before he lifted his hand to her back. It was no more than a whisper of contact. “Do you want to tell me about what happened?”

  It was tempting, that offer to share. She couldn’t, though. For too long she’d had no one but herself to rely on. She had been the one to find solutions.

  He shifted his legs, twisting so that he could slip his arm around her. His touch was tentative, his long fingers resting gently on her shoulder.

  She didn’t uncurl from the defensive ball she’d wrapped herself in. Instead, she tightened her grasp on her legs, keeping her eyes pressed stubbornly to her knees. She was so stiff the muscles in her back were cramping. Oh, to let go and trust someone for once in her life. She’d never been able to in the past. Not her parents, not the man who had said that he loved her. She couldn’t even trust her own brother anymore.

  “I know it isn’t any of my business, but you might feel better if you talked about it.”

  “I can’t,” she whispered.

  He was silent for a while. “Is it your brother? Was he the one who damaged your plane?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “I think he passed me on the road. He was driving pretty fast. Did you two have an argument?”

  An argument? If only it were that simple.

  At her continued silence, he sighed. “Okay. You don’t have to answer anything if you don’t want to. But if you want to cry, go ahead. I promise I won’t look.”

  That did it. Helpless to stop them now, Emma felt the tears scald her cheeks. With a muffled groan, she turned to press her face against Bruce’s neck.

  “Shh. It’s okay, Emma.” He rubbed her back in soothing circles. “It'll be all right.”

  No, it wouldn’t be all right, but surrounded by Bruce’s gentle strength like this, she could pretend for a while, couldn’t she? She rubbed her cheek against the coarse fabric of his jacket. His beard tickled her forehead and she nuzzled closer, her nose touching the skin of his throat.

  God, he smelled good. It was the same as the night before, that clean tang of soap overlying the unique scent of masculinity. She inhaled shakily, her tears trickling into his collar.

  He raised his hand to her head, tangling his fingers in her hair. “Emma?”

  She didn’t want to move. Instead of answering, she brushed her lips over his neck.

  “Emma, you're upset. You don’t know what you're doing.”

  No, he was wrong. She knew exactly what she was doing. She kissed him again, sliding her mouth downward to the place where the pulse beat at the base of his throat. His taste was as unique as his scent. And she wanted to taste more, because she didn’t want to cry.

  His fingers tightened, tipping her head back. “I can’t do this to you,” he said hoarsely.

  It was Bruce’s voice, but not his voice. Opening her eyes, she looked up at him. Where was the man who had made her laugh, who had shared his chocolate cheesecake, who had worn that ugly tie? Where was the stranger who had made her quiver with the mere brush of his hand on her cheek? Which one was he now? She frowned at his dark glasses and baseball cap, suddenly impatient. Lifting her hand quickly, she grasped the brim of his cap and flipped it off.

  He jerked. His hair gleamed in the sunlight. The beautiful, pale-streaked locks stirred softly in the breeze from the lake. A loose curl flopped over his forehead. “What are you doing?”

  Recklessly, she grabbed his glasses and dropped them to the dock behind him. They struck the boards with a clatter that echoed through her head. Now the only shadows on his face were the subtle contours of his lean cheeks. Through vision still blurred by her tears, she saw his chameleon features harden into chiseled handsomeness.

  Like a leaf caught helplessly in a high wind, her need for comfort flipped over to another side of need altogether. Her emotions were too raw to control. Fingers trembling, she traced his face, learning the taut texture of his skin and the bristling coarseness of his beard. Her thumb touched the edge of his mouth. She felt him shudder.

  “Emma,” he whispered. “No.”

  “Kiss me, Bruce.”

  His eyes glowed with an intensity that made her lungs heave. He moved with the swiftness of a coiled spring that had suddenly been released as he rose to his knees beside her and fastened his hands on her shoulders.

  “Kiss m—”

  There was no need for her to ask a second time. His mouth covered hers with a solid sureness that stole her breath.

  This was what she needed, she thought as she tipped her head back and felt the firmness of his lips. Later she would worry about the sheer madness of this moment, but right now she wanted to lose herself in this simple, basic contact of flesh on flesh. What he looked like, where they were, and what she would have to do tomorrow could be forgotten as long as he was giving her this kiss.

  Sweet, Bruce thought as he closed his eyes and tasted her lips. Not the cloying sweetness of sugared candy, but the rich flavor of a full-bodied wine. And just as dangerously intoxicating.

  What was he doing? What the hell was he doing? Prendergast might have sat beside her and offered his comfort, but that persona never would have folded her in a tender embrace. And he sure wouldn’t be kissing her. Kissing her wasn’t going to get him any of the answers he wanted. It wouldn’t help him wrap up this case any sooner. It was insane.

  But Prendergast’s hat and sunglasses lay discarded on the rough wood of the dock. She had yanked them off and thrown them away, turning the tables on him, probing his secrets with the lethal swiftness that he had hoped to use on her own.

  Her fingers fluttered over his cheek and slid upward to thrust into his hair, and a soft sound of satisfaction rose from her throat.

  Bruce parted his lips and took the sound into his mouth. He was glad that she’d knocked off his hat and that she found pleasure in touching his hair. He was glad that he hadn’t bothered to pad his cheeks with gauze today and t
hat she liked what her fingers had traced. The cop in him should be worried about losing the props of his disguise, but the man in him rejoiced. Increasing the pressure of the kiss, he cradled her face in his palms.

  She returned everything he gave her. When his tongue traced the seam of her lips, she opened them readily. Unable to stop himself, he plunged into her warmth and his senses reeled. Had he thought she tasted like wine? She was nectar, a pungent, heady mixture of sensuality and strength.

  If her mouth tasted like this, what would the rest of her be like? What would it feel like to graze his lips down her throat and part the loose blouse that molded her curves? How would her breasts weigh in his palms, and how would they look if he bared them to the sunlight and the gentle breeze?

  The primitiveness of his response startled him. His hands tightened on her cheeks as his entire body trembled with tension. He wanted her. In broad daylight, on these rough wooden boards, beside the plane that had probably been filled with cocaine an hour ago.

  Cocaine smuggled into the country by her brother.

  Or maybe even by her.

  Sanity belatedly filtered through the desire that dulled his brain. She had lied to the sheriff last night. She was Emmaline Duprey, she had been arrested for assault. He was supposed to establish a useful friendship with the woman, not seduce her. And he wasn’t even sure which one of them was being seduced.

  Her fingers slid through his hair and curled around the back of his neck.

  He lifted a hand to catch her wrist before she could learn the broadness of his shoulders.

  She nipped at his lower lip and moved her free hand to his arm.

  Letting go of her face, he grabbed her other wrist before she could feel the hard muscle beneath his loose sleeve.

  Close. He couldn’t believe how close he had just come. Ruthlessly he attempted to rein in the desire that shook him. Emma pulled against his grip on her wrists, but he held her firmly, bringing her hands between them. He tried to ease his mouth from hers.

  With a whimper, she followed him as he withdrew. She shifted to her knees and leaned toward him, refusing to let him end the kiss.

  He didn’t waste energy on cataloging all the “if only’s.” There was no changing the cruel and ironic reality of their situation by wishful thinking. Somehow he found the strength to wrench his mouth free.