Make Mine a Marine

by Julie Miller

  Drew slowed his pace, less worried about exposing Moriarty and saving LadyTech from a potential loss than about a problem that hit him much closer to home. Some problems required patience and savvy and days of investigation. Others required immediate action, like protecting himself when Brodie Maxwell had cut off his windpipe, or scum like Wyatt Carlisle were allowed to walk the planet.

  He'd seen Forsythe's locked briefcase in one of the guest offices which Emma's visitors were using as their base away from home. Drew needed answers.

  And the best way to get an answer was to go straight to the horse's mouth.

  Chapter Eight

  Drew sat in the dark room and rested his body. He propped his legs up on the desk and leaned back in the chair, studying the outline of his shoes. He'd picked the lock on Forsythe's briefcase and found about what he expected—documents full of legalese, a report on LadyTech, and—not too surprising—a cashier's check from one James Moriarty.

  At first, the check, made out to Consolidated Technologies, gave Drew a charge of adrenaline. The pieces to this disconnected map were beginning to fall into place. And all roads led to Emma and LadyTech.

  But Drew's victory was short-lived. Leaving the check and locking the briefcase behind him, he sat down to think. What kind of lawyer carried around proof that the company he worked for wasn't on the up-and-up? His impression of Daniel Forsythe was of a sharp legal counsel, way too smart to bring such evidence on the site of the company with which he was negotiating a deal.

  Drew might be good at his job, but this was too easy. Relying on the telltale clench of his stomach, he suspected that this was some kind of setup. Bread crumbs through a forest of mystery and danger leading him right where someone wanted him to go.

  Wyatt Carlisle was a different story. He reminded Drew of Stan Begosian. Though different in size and shape, the man was a weasely, two-bit crook. They both had weaknesses which a tougher criminal like Moriarty could exploit. Just as they, in turn, exploited their own victims.

  A rustling sound in the hall diverted him from his thoughts. Drew's focus zeroed in on the doorknob as it turned. The light snapped on, the door opened, and Drew enjoyed a rush of satisfaction at the startled look on Wyatt Carlisle's face.

  "What are you doing in here?" he asked.

  Drew entertained himself by watching Carlisle adjust his tie and the sleeves of his jacket, then fiddle with his collar and go back to the tie again. Now this was a moment worth savoring, seeing Mr. Cheese-puff squirm.

  "You like Emma Ramsey, don't you, Carlisle?" Drew inspected his fingernails, as if discussing nothing more important than the weather.

  Wyatt huffed over to the desk and stood on the opposite side. "I get it. You're the guy she's doin'. I didn't mean anything by that stuff in the break room. It's just guy talk. You know."

  When Carlisle's prattling ran out of steam, Drew finally stood. Even in a relaxed stance, he towered over the other man. He didn't raise his voice or make a fist or even lean toward him. He touched the frame of his glasses with his index finger, straightening them on his nose and drawing Wyatt's attention to Drew's narrowed eyes.

  "The next time you feel the need to share your crude fantasies about Emma"—the pudgy man caught his breath and stepped back, as if Drew had threatened to beat the snot out of him—"don't."

  Wyatt sputtered, searching for a snappy comeback, searching for anything to say, looking like the fool he was. Drew walked to the door. When he heard the unguarded sigh of relief behind him, Drew turned. "Oh, and Carlisle? Tell Moriarty I'm onto him."

  Carlisle's visible flinch, and the drain of color from his pasty face, were the only proof Drew needed to know he was on the right trail.

  * * *

  Emma cursed, calling herself every name she'd ever heard her father use, after lying to BJ and sneaking out of the restaurant where they'd gone for an impromptu moms' night out. She was no fool. She knew she'd been invited out to keep her occupied while Drew returned to Lucky's to check out Clayton Roylott and his cronies.

  By the time BJ would figure out the deception, the taxi Emma had called from the restroom would have taken her several blocks away. By the time BJ could get to the house and relieve Brodie of babysitting duties to come after her, she'd be just a nameless patron blending in at Lucky's.

  She cursed again, more gently this time, alternately blaming and loving Drew's failed attempt to keep her away from a potentially risky situation. It was a risk she was willing to take if it meant finding a link to Jonathan.

  With the smaller Monday night crowd, she had no trouble getting in and finding a secluded booth in a corner where she could watch the people corning in the front door as well as the curtain behind the bar that masked the hallway leading to the back rooms.

  As she waited for her diet soda to arrive, she studied the growing crowd. The dance floor was smaller than she remembered. Maybe that was just an illusion brought on by her need to simply get out of there last Saturday night, and get away from Drew and all the frightening things he made her feel.

  She looked for the distinctive shade of his blond hair, but didn't see it. From her position, she could only see the first two tables at the entrance to the gambling area. No Drew there, either. She supposed she could take a walk and explore further, but she had a hunch that anything interesting would happen behind that black curtain.

  A polite waiter brought her drink and waited for her to taste it before taking her money and leaving. Emma took another sip and checked out the rest of the staff in their white shirts and black vests and arm bands. Each of them looked too young to have been the man she'd heard the other night.

  Maybe he was someone she'd done business with herself. But none of the clients she could think of had a bar listed in his portfolio. And if that man was simply a customer with back-room privileges, she'd have no way to connect him to Lucky's.

  What could she do to find out the man's name? Or get a look at his face? There must be something more productive than just sitting here and waiting for the right man to walk by. What would Drew do in this situation?

  He'd take action, Em decided. He'd make something happen. She could make something happen, too. If she could just get into those back offices.

  "You by yourself tonight?" A gray double-breasted suit appeared in her side vision a moment before she felt the light touch on her shoulder.

  Startled from her thoughts, Emma's hand shook, and soda sloshed over the sides of the glass. She mopped the spill with the beverage napkin, but it was too soaked to dry her fingers. She set down her glass and fumbled for a tissue in her purse.

  "Here. Allow me." A crisp, white handkerchief dangled before her eyes. She followed the line of the man's arm up and looked into the face of Clayton Roylott.

  A shimmer of fear moved through her, followed by a stronger feeling of opportunity presenting itself. She couldn't immediately tell if he recognized her or not, but the gleam of appreciation in his eyes was unmistakable. If he remembered her and considered her trouble, he didn't care. While Emma swallowed her distaste at the realization that she could use her feminine attributes to get what she wanted, she silently applauded her foresight to wear her hair down and dress in the clingy cream-colored sweater dress that hugged her body like a second skin.

  "Thank you." She accepted his handkerchief and wiped her hand, making herself smile when he slipped into the seat on the opposite side of the booth. She held up the cola-stained cloth. "I hope I haven't ruined it."

  "Cloth is cheap. Coming to a beautiful woman's aid is priceless. Keep it." Despite his pockmarked face and oily line, he was a compelling man, olive complected with large brown eyes and jet-black hair. He wore it short, with nary a lock out of place. How could a woman be tempted to touch that hair-sprayed coiffure? Her fingers suddenly burned at the memory of burying themselves in Drew's silky mane. She made a fist in her lap, trying to dispel the disturbing sensation and ignore the comparison. She needed to stay in the moment, to stay in character.

>   Act interested, she advised herself. "It's nice to see that chivalry isn't dead."

  He beamed with pleasure and extended his hand across the table. "Clayton Roylott. We met Saturday, but I didn't catch your name."

  So he did remember her. "Emma…" She nearly said Ramsey and almost choked at the blunder. Real smooth, she chided herself. If he knew the men who worked with Stan Begosian, he would surely know her name But she froze the slight smile on her face, and doctored her maiden name to cover the slip. "Emily Kane."

  He held her hand longer than necessary. When she pulled away, he leaned back and asked if she wanted another drink. She turned down his offer and waited while he ordered a neat scotch from a passing waitress whom he called by name, without ever taking his eyes from her. Emma crossed her legs one way, then the other, hiding her desire to squirm beneath his never-ending scrutiny. If he remembered her, he must remember Drew as well. Their little performance in the hallway should have clued him in that she belonged to another man. But Roylott's interest indicated it didn't make any difference to him.

  "So what brings you to Lucky's?" he asked, as the waitress hurried away to fill his order.

  Emma tried to think of the right questions to ask to elicit information about the man’s boss, the man who had threatened Begosian. But until the right idea came, she'd simply have to play along. "I'm looking for someone."

  "Me, I hope."

  How could she do this without arousing his suspicions? She saw a woman at the next table tracing her finger around the rim of her glass. Emma picked up her glass and copied the absentminded stroking. Roylott's attention shifted to the glass, away from her face. He'd be less apt to catch her in a lie if he didn't focus on her eyes.

  "Meeting you again is a pleasant surprise, and maybe you can help me," she said.

  His attention moved to the cleavage behind the glass. "You know how I feel about damsels in distress."

  She willed herself not to empty her churning stomach. Keep it cool, Emma. That's what you do best. "Do you work here, Mr. Roylott?"

  "Clayton. It's more like I work out of here. I use it as a base in the Midwest." Male braggadocio kicked in when he started talking about his job success. "I have business in a lot of cities across the country."

  Emma calmed herself a bit. Other than the leering fascination in his eyes, this wasn't all that different from a business meeting. "What kind of work do you do?"

  "Now, do you really want to talk business?"

  She set down her drink and leaned toward him. "I'm fascinated by it."

  He tossed a ten dollar bill onto the table as he stood, and reached for her hand. "Then let's talk on the dance floor."

  After a moment’s hesitation, Emma linked her fingers with his and let him pull her to her feet. “All right.”

  Now Emma was cursing her choice of clothes. Clayton held her close enough for her to feel the imprint of his jacket buttons. The palm of his right hand slipped farther down her back with each new measure of the slow dance tune. Before the song reached the coda, his hand was at her hip with his fingers spread toward her bottom.

  She tried to keep from bolting by focusing on the busy bartenders behind them. By focusing on what the boss's voice had sounded like. By focusing on Jonathan's image. But nothing seemed to dispel the crawling sense of discomfort that crept across her skin. Forgetting the importance of staying in character, Emma grabbed his wandering hand and returned it to the small of her back. At his grunt of displeasure, she reminded him, "You said we'd talk business, remember?"

  As if to punish her for denying his hand open range privileges, he tightened his arm at her waist and pulled her even closer, lifting her onto her toes so that her face was level with his. "I have lots of money and lots of power. That's all you need to know."

  Images of her father's controlling anger sprang to mind, and Emma instinctively pushed against him. "I was more interested in who you work for." He pressed his forehead to hers, and for one God-awful moment she thought he might kiss her. Instead, he drilled his gaze into hers, and Emma went stone cold still. Only now, looking into Clayton's eyes, did she truly understand what Drew had meant when he'd said these men were criminals.

  Fear and common sense and the memories of surviving her father's wrath made her suddenly compliant. She dropped her gaze to his chin. "That is, if you don't mind me asking."

  That's better. She got the message as clearly as if he'd spoken the words out loud. Her meek request seemed to calm Clayton's anger. She showed no outward reaction this time when he moved his hand down to her rear and swayed to the music once more. "His name's Moriarty. It's not his real name. But that's all you need to know. Other than the fact I make real good money with him."

  Moriarty? He knew the man behind the journal and the stock buys and Stan Begosian's stalking terror? She needed a real name, a face to go with the information. But she wasn't sure how much longer she could play this part and let Clayton paw her.

  "I'd like to meet this man of opportunity."

  "Tonight, all you need is me, babe."

  How could Drew do this kind of work? How could he subvert his tastes and values and feelings and play along with the bad guys without destroying himself? What kind of job had she asked him to do for her? Shrinking inside at only one night of working undercover, she could barely understand what kind of character and dedication it required of a man to mix it up with these lowlifes like Drew did. How could he become like these people and still walk away a hero? How could he play such a part and come out unscathed?

  Maybe he hadn't.

  Drew said he had no family now. Had they been the price he'd paid to do his job?

  She squeezed her eyes shut when Clayton nuzzled her ear. "Let's take this into my office."

  "The back room?" Yes, she told herself. She needed to see what was in that back room. Surely, she could find a heavy object to knock him senseless with if things got any further out of hand.

  "Come with me." He kissed her cheek before pulling back, and Emma tried to smile.

  "Mind if I cut in?"

  A wave of cleansing relief washed over her at the distinct rasp of Drew's voice.

  "Yeah." Clayton stepped back to face the man who had moved, unnoticed, behind him. "We have business we're going to discuss."

  "No. I don't think you do."

  Tall and lean, dressed in black from neck to toe, with hair slicked back into that all-business ponytail, and gemlike eyes set on maximum intimidation, Drew Gallagher was her dark knight in shining armor.

  Roylott shifted back and forth on his feet as the depth of Drew's displeasure registered. Silently cheering, Emma made no protest when Roylott took her arm and pushed her toward Drew. "I didn't realize you were here. I was just keeping her company. Hey, anything you want from the bar is on me."

  "Thanks." She heard no real gratitude in Drew's response. The possessive note in his voice left no room for further conversation. Roylott nodded and slipped away into the crowd.

  When he was out of earshot, Emma let out the breath she'd been holding and threw her arms around Drew's neck, at the moment more relieved to see him and escape Roylott's degrading touch than she was to receive any new clues about Moriarty.

  "Thank God," she whispered, pressing her face to his neck and clinging to him as if he were an anchor. "Thank God you came."

  Drew wrapped his arms around her, shielding her from all the Roylotts of the world. She felt a shudder ripple through him before he eased a little space between them, took her hand, and resumed the dance. That tiny revelation of suppressed emotion thrilled her, touched her heart. He'd been scared for her. What he couldn't let the cockroaches of the world see, he shared with her. Emma changed her grip so that she was holding him, reassuring him of her safety. "I'm all right, Drew."

  "You just don't listen, do you. No matter what I say, you're determined to get yourself into the middle of this mess." He fanned his fingers at the small of her back and held her close, his thighs brushing against hers with e
ach step. Roylott had held her closer than this, but with Drew's gentle touch she felt cherished. With his mouth bent close to her ear, she felt safe.

  She closed her eyes and savored the fluid movement of a man and woman who fit together as perfectly as anyone she'd ever known.

  "Okay. We're going to dance our way over to your table, grab your purse, and I'm taking you home." The curt command was hardly the sweet nothing she had expected to hear.

  Emma leaned back against his arm, confused by the conflicting message of his touch and voice. "No, you're not. I'm glad you rescued me from his groping hands, but Clayton likes me. He's willing to talk. He said he works for Moriarty."

  "Emma." He pulled her closer as another couple spun past within earshot. "You can take that man all the way to your bed, and he's still not going to tell you what you want to know. He doesn't have the answer."

  "What? How dare you!" She pushed at his chest, angry at his words, angry that he might be right, angry at herself for not knowing the rules of the game. But Drew's arm didn't budge.

  His tone, however, softened into a gentle apology. "I'm sorry. That was out of line. It's a hard way of telling you the truth."

  Emma's rebellion faded with the admission. "I guess I didn't really believe you when you talked about these men. If they want LadyTech, they won't give up easily."

  "If Moriarty wants you, he won't give that up easily, either."

  She nodded and allowed Drew to steer their path toward the table. "So you don't think Clayton knows who Moriarty is?"

  "Not his real identity. But I think I might."

  "Really?" Emma stopped, a frisson of anticipation boosting her hope. Drew barreled into her, but he quickly caught her in his arms and kept them from falling.

  The corners of his mouth eased into a smile, as if he knew what this information could mean to her.