by Julie Miller
She slipped quietly out of the room and pulled the door shut. Drew stood outside his own room, an expectant look on his face. "She okay?" he asked.
Emma nodded. "Perfect."
Standing in the shadowed hallway, dressed in her silk pajamas and quilted robe, with fuzzy blue slippers warming her toes, she felt an intimate connection to Drew. Maybe it was the shared concern over Kerry's welfare. Maybe it was her tired brain reacting to the sight of his well-worn jeans hugging muscled thighs and lean hips. Maybe it was the aching hole in her heart that wanted to accept his care and concern, and recapture the absolute trust she'd had in him earlier in the day.
But she couldn't talk about those things. She couldn't share those feelings with Drew. So she fell back on the one topic that had never failed her. "I've studied every number in the Consolidated proposal. I've decided to reject Wyatt Carlisle's offer."
Drew seemed to take the abrupt change of topic in stride. "Good. The man crawled out of a swamp. You're better off without him."
His succinct appraisal of Carlisle triggered a smile. His agreement with her assessment reinforced her confidence in her decision. "Did you see those eyebrows of his?" she asked, slipping into a normal conversation that relaxed her, reassured her. She hadn’t shared this kind of simple, silly conversation with a man in years. "They reminded me of fuzzy caterpillars. I sat there talking buyout all day long, and all I could think of was, when are those eyebrows going to get up and crawl across his face?"
Drew's answering smile glinted in the dim light. "You amaze me, Emma. You have a lot on your plate, but you handle it all with style and class." His smile disappeared. He hooked his fingers into the front pockets of his jeans and studied the floor for a moment before looking at her. "I'm sorry if I said anything tonight that made you uncomfortable. I don't want to add to your burden."
"You didn't." She expressed her remorse with a sigh. In an instant, the facade of their shared moment of congenial companionship dropped to reveal the strain between them. "You had to be honest. I appreciate that."
"I just want you to know that I'll do everything in my power to help you." He straightened up, coming to attention with lithe, controlled grace. "Then I'll walk away. There won't be any trouble when your husband comes home."
She should have liked the sound of that, when your husband comes home. Drew said the words as if it was only a matter of time before they came true. She hugged her arms across her stomach, easing the sudden sorrow she felt. Drew would leave her. As soon as Jonathan returned, this new friend would be lost to her forever.
"Did I ruin your case by talking to Roylott tonight?"
"No. Moriarty's smart. He knows we know about the buyouts. We may even have forced him to show his hand sooner than he wanted."
"Make him go to Plan C, huh?"
"Yeah. Keep him off balance so we have some advantage." He turned his wrist and pushed a button on his watch. "It’s almost three in the morning."
Emma nodded. Even his simple declaration of the time sounded like a goodbye. "Thank you for taking care of Kerry."
"My pleasure." Drew's soft voice blended with the night. Its low-pitched rasp caressed her ears and brought goose bumps to her skin.
She fought the good fight of mind over body, told herself it was pointless to react to him this way. Pointless to wish he wasn't standing so far away. Pointless to imagine he'd really meant it when he said he was falling in love with her.
Because, despite her loyalty to Jonathan, despite her suspicions about Drew's past, she was falling in love with him, too.
"Good night." She broke the eye contact between them, embarrassed to realize that she'd been staring.
" 'Night, Em."
She heard the door to his room click shut and settled into her bed for the night. But sleep was an elusive thing. For years she had despaired of ever finding a man, ever allowing herself to drop her guard enough to let one close to her heart. Then she'd met Jonathan.
And now she knew Drew Gallagher.
As she drifted toward sleep, feelings of betrayal mixed with longings to be held and loved and comforted. Guilt at her growing feelings for Drew warred with guilt at denying his feelings for her.
Two good men. Very different, yet stirring so many of the same needs and desires in her.
Yes. A quiet voice whispered its way into her half-dozing mind.
Emma opened her eyes, expecting to see Kerry standing at her bedside, wanting to crawl in beside her. But there was no little girl with nightmares or cold feet. She squinted into the darkness, but sensed no one there. With a tired sigh, she rolled over and tried once more to find sleep.
Listen to your heart. She heard the voice again. More of an imprint on her subconscious mind.
"My heart loves Jonathan," she mumbled to herself, telling her subconscious to shut up and go to sleep.
No. That's your head talking. Listen. The dream voice stopped abruptly. I have to go to him now. He needs me. He needs you, too.
"What?" Emma sat up in bed. She pushed her hair back from her face, wondering who had spoken to her, only half remembering the strange argument from her dreams.
"Stand fast!"
"Huh?" Emma snapped her eyes open, instantly and fully awake. Who had spoken? Was it Kerry?
"No!"
Drew's deep-pitched moan reverberated through the still house, striking her heart with a chilling sense of fear and foreboding.
When he cried out a third time, she stepped into her slippers and hurried down the hall, pulling on her robe.
"Drew?"
"You bastard!" He wailed like a man in pain. She ran past Kerry's closed door and pushed open Drew's.
"Drew?" she called to him in a sharp whisper.
"We'll both die."
She stubbed her toe on the corner of the bed, feeling her way to the lamp on the table beside him. Her curse at the throbbing pain died in her throat when she flipped on the light. Drew lay on his stomach, thrashing in his sleep. The covers had twisted around his legs. A pillow that should have lain beneath his head had been pummeled and tossed aside.
"Stop saying that." His voice broke on a strangled moan.
Emma bit her lip, wondering what kind of demon possessed him. "Drew." She said his name quietly, hoping he could hear. "Drew." She said his name a bit louder. She touched his bare shoulder. The fever in his skin seared her fingertips and she snatched them back.
He'd said he had dreams. But she never imagined he meant horrific nightmares that sounded like torture to her ears. "Damn it, Drew, wake up!"
She pushed past her shock and concern and grabbed his shoulder again. She shook him. Hard. She dove on top of the bed, ducking as his arm flew out, striking out at her or the image in his dream, or maybe both. He rolled over and sat up. His eyes opened but were glazed over with a wild look of madness. He dropped his jaw open and sucked in huge gulps of air.
"Drew?" Lying flat on the mattress in case he lashed out again, Emma studied him. His chest rose and fell in a rapid rhythm. His skin glistened with sweat. She reached out and grazed her fingers along his flank. "Are you all right?"
"Get out." His terse whisper was more of a vibration than a sound.
She climbed up on her hands and knees, trying to make eye contact. "You were having a nightmare."
"I said get out!"
She scrambled back on her haunches, avoiding the sudden movement of his shoulder as he turned on her. A brief memory of her father's harsh commands made her hug her arms around herself. But she cried out for a different reason altogether.
The lamp light revealed a shiny pattern of scars that mottled his torso and disappeared beneath the furry patch of golden hair at the center of his chest. The blotches of scar tissue curved up over his right shoulder, and veed beneath the waistband of his black pants. "Oh, my God. Drew."
In a heartbeat the rage left him. "Em, I'm sorry."
He rolled off the opposite side of the bed quicker than she could catch a steadying breath. By the time s
he got to her feet, he was halfway down the stairs. She leaned over the railing and watched him disappear into the kitchen. The back door opened and closed.
Barefoot, bare-chested, he'd gone out into the wintry night.
God, how he must have suffered both physical pain and mental anguish, according to those scars. And yet he'd survived. He'd pieced together a life for himself and kept going. And somewhere along his hellish journey, he’d found time to rescue little girls and make big girls turn to him for safety and support.
Giving him time to work through his nightmare, giving herself time to decide what to do, she checked on Kerry. Then she returned to pull the blanket from his bed and went down the stairs after him.
After slipping her coat over her shoulders, Emma followed him outside onto the back porch. He stood like an ancient Eastern warrior, his legs braced apart, hands fisted at his hips, eyes tipped up to the fading light of the moon.
His long hair caught on the breeze and danced around his chiseled jaw. He held himself with such strength, such heartbreaking, solitary strength.
She inhaled the crisp air and caught the scent of him. Strong, yes, but still very human. "It's not even thirty degrees outside tonight."
His face showed no reaction. "I didn't scare Kerry, did I?"
Emma gentled her voice, wanting him to hear her strength and reassurance even if he would not see it. "No. She's sound asleep."
"I'm sorry I woke you." Again he put someone else’s needs before his own.
"I'm glad you did."
"Why?" He gave a derisive laugh and glanced over his shoulder, finally looking at her and revealing the deep lines of fatigue and regret at his eyes and mouth. "So you could share my nightmare? Don't you have enough bad memories without adding mine on top?"
She simply smiled and let his self-loathing run its course. "Here." She draped the blanket around his shoulders. She arched an eyebrow when he started to shrug it off. "Humor me."
She moved behind him and held the blanket there herself. He flinched at her touch, but didn't pull away. Standing as tall as his shoulder, she turned her head and leaned into him, resting her cheek against his back. He held himself rigid beneath her embrace. As if he had no right to accept her comfort.
She apologized for making him think that way.
She stepped closer, aligning her body to his, exchanging warmth, trading understanding. They stood together in silence for several minutes until he shuddered. It started at his shoulders, moved down through his back and into his legs. In that instant, he relaxed his guard, and she wound her arms around his shoulders, hugging him from behind.
Now that she had broken through the distance that separated them, she dared to smile. "You'll catch cold out here. Come inside."
He laid his hand over hers near the base of his throat. "No, it feels good. Seems like I can never wake up enough to make the nightmare go away."
"The one I'm in?"
"Oh, lady, there's nothing nightmarish about you in my dreams." He pulled her hands away and turned, his voice and expression immediately contrite. "Sorry. Seems to be a habit I can't break."
Emma noticed he still held her hands. Elegant muscle and sinewed strength. She liked the feel of his hands, a rasp of sensation across her softer skin. The same way his husky voice emphasized the differences between them. She was actually getting used to the sound of "lady" in that deep, gravelly timbre.
She looked up into his eyes and smiled. "You have enough to think about. As long as you're not calling me ‘Iron Maiden’, I don't mind. Not really."
He reached up and stroked her cheek, the essence of a smile on his face. "You are one class act. A real lady every step of the way. Just because you're tenacious and have crackerjack business sense doesn't mean you're not sexy and pretty and…" He dropped his hand and looked away, retreating from the unspoken territory where she'd asked him not to trespass.
His compliment warmed her all the same. She crossed her arms and looked at him with amused suspicion. "Are you the reason Wyatt Carlisle shaped up after lunch?"
"He minded his manners then, didn't he?"
"Yes. But I'm still not buying his company. I made that decision even before you told me about Moriarty's check. I prefer to do business with a man of integrity."
"Good. I don't want you messing with the likes of Carlisle."
Their shared smiles lightened the atmosphere surrounding them. The eerie quality that made his eyes gleam like emeralds returned, reassuring her that he had recovered from the terror of his dreams.
Maybe now it was safe to ask. "What happened to you? How did you get burned?"
He shrugged, as if having cheated death was no big deal. "I don't remember. The doctors said the pattern of damaged tissue and the severity of the burns indicate an explosion. They said it was a miracle I survived. Shrapnel that close to the heart should have killed me."
It would be a tragedy if anything happened to this man's big, open heart. Though his methods might be a bit nontraditional, he felt things and expressed his caring in ways she was only beginning to understand. "Well, I for one am glad you survived. And I can think of at least one other lady who's glad you're here, too."
Drew smiled like a doting uncle. And she knew he would be fine. "Kerry's a pistol, all right."
The distant chime of the doorbell interrupted their rare camaraderie. Drew opened the French doors and followed Emma inside. He shed the blanket and quickened his pace, reaching the door first and peeking through the peephole. The wary set of his shoulders eased a fraction as he turned to her.
"It's Maxwell. What does he want at this time of night?"
With a frown of curiosity, she stepped around him and opened the door. Brodie's gray gaze settled on her, then moved beyond her, turning to ice as he took in the half-dressed Drew.
"What's wrong?" She asked the question before Brodie could make any comment that would force her to defend Drew.
He stepped inside without shutting the door. "Stan Begosian's body has turned up. He's parked in a car outside LadyTech."
"His body? Oh, my God." She felt the strengthening grip of Drew's hand on her shoulder. "Won't the police take care of it?"
Brodie nodded. "They're already there. I brought BJ with me. She'll stay with Kerry." He paused a moment, frightening her more than she cared to admit. His glance included Drew. "But I think you'd both better come see this."
Chapter Ten
Help me, Emma.
I tried to reach you in the only way I can. By computer. I smuggled a disk out with some of Moriarty's files. But he's discovered my trick. I've been a prisoner for too long, forced to work for a man I despise.
Please help me.
That handwritten note in Jonathan's strong, familiar scrawl was stapled to another message, neatly typed and much more ominous.
My dear Mrs. Ramsey:
I have valued your husband's assistance these past few years. But I find him harder to control by the day. For the lion's share of LadyTech, Mrs. Ramsey, I'll send him home in one fairly healthy piece.
If not, I'll send him home in pieces.
Await my call on February 1st.
James Moriarty
For the umpteenth time that day, Emma reread the ransom note that had been pinned to poor Stan Begosian's coat.
"Three days?" With the plastic-sheathed paper already dusted and devoid of fingerprints, she crumpled it in her fist and tossed it onto her desk. The chestnut-haired man sitting there, Kelton Murphy, unfolded the note and smoothed it out flat. She raked her fingers through her hair, nearly mindless with frustration. "Why wait three days?"
Although it had been a rhetorical question, Kel answered her, anyway. "He knows it takes a while to arrange a stock transfer. He's giving you time to meet his demands."
"I can't change that much stock through normal channels in three days." She paced to the window and looked outside, feeling like a caged guard dog, wanting to lash out to protect what was her own, and going mad because she couldn't
. "He might as well have demanded it on the spot, and not given us any time to help Jonathan."
She sucked in her breath and cringed at her ashen reflection in the window. "I didn't mean that."
Brodie crossed the room and squeezed her arm in a show of support. "We know, Em. Remember, Jas and BJ have agreed to turn over whatever part of their stock is necessary to give you fifty-one percent. All we need is a legal document to bind the transfer. If Moriarty wants real stock certificates, he'll just have to wait."
"You're not really going to pay that bastard's ransom, are you?" A third man, Rafe Del Rio, with dark brown hair and mischievous eyes, rolled to his feet from the nearest loveseat. "He stole five years of your life, and the best man I ever served with. If anything, he owes you."
A fourth man, a big, broad-shouldered Native American named Hawk Echohawk, stood quietly to one side. "Emma, are you sure this ransom note is legitimate?" he asked.
She turned slowly, studying each of her guests as her gaze passed by. These were the men Jonathan had served with. His hand-picked team of experts. His closest friends.
They were quite possibly the only people in the world who could truly understand what losing Jonathan felt like to her. She had no desire to give them false hope, but then she believed with all her heart that Drew Gallagher had made this happen. He'd done his homework. He'd butted heads. His closing in on James Moriarty was what had made this happen.
"It's legit."
If poor, misguided Stan hadn't been sacrificed as the bearer of Moriarty's message, she had no doubt that the criminal would have contacted her in another way. Through the club at Lucky's. Or through Wyatt Carlisle.
Kel Murphy, as usual, regrouped and kept them all on track. "So what is it you want us to do?" he asked.
Area law enforcement, in coordination with Interpol, had tapped her phones at home and work, and set up a system to monitor her cell phone. Their aim was to trace the kidnapper back to his international lair and put him out of commission without giving him anything he wanted. Emma didn't like the idea of gambling with her husband's life. She didn't like gambling with her friends' futures, either. "I don't want Jas and BJ to sacrifice what they've worked so hard for."
