Dirty Secrets (4 page)

Chapter 4

St. Pete Beach, Saturday, February 27, 6:45 p.m.

Emma shivered. It had been a beautiful day, the warmth welcome after the snow in Cincinnati. But the air cooled quickly as she watched the sun set from the wide balcony outside Crabby Bill’s bar. She pulled on the jacket that went with the dress she’d agonized over for hours. Was it too dressy? She didn’t want to look too dressy. She didn’t want him to get the idea that she’d come to take him up on his seventeen-year-old offer. Was it too casual? She didn’t want that either, didn’t want him to think that this apology was something she just did because she had nothing better to do.

Emma drew a breath and huffed it out on a laugh. She was compulsing, as usual. He’d probably come in khaki pants and a polo shirt like everybody else here. They’d have a relaxed dinner, she’d humble herself in apology, then she’d go home to Cincinnati, her conscience appeased. He’d return to the life he’d built here. He was divorced with a daughter. That’s all she knew. That’s all she’d allowed the PI to tell her.

“Emma?” said a voice she’d recognize if she lived to be a hundred.

It was him. Slowly turning, she caught her first glimpse of him and was glad she’d worn the dress, because he stood behind her in a dark suit with a garishly bright orange tie with green palm trees. She braced her back against the balcony railing and herself for whatever reaction she’d see in his face, praying it wouldn’t be hostility or disdain. She lifted her gaze higher until she’d locked on those blue eyes she remembered so well. When he was young, they’d flash with anger, crinkle with humor, widen with surprise when he learned something new. Now, tiny crow’s feet marked the corners, but the color was still that same vibrant blue. They stared at one another, then the crow’s feet became crinkles as the corners of his mouth tipped up in welcome.

“You look the same,” he said and she rolled her eyes.

“I do not.” She studied him as fully as she dared without giving him the wrong idea. “Neither do you. Your curls are all gone.”

He brushed his large hand over his dark close-cut hair self-consciously. “Curls work better on kids.” He came a few steps closer and took a lock of her hair between his thumb and forefinger. “You’re a lot blonder,” he said teasingly, his mouth still bent in that little smile, and the air seemed suddenly thicker.

She made herself chuckle. “Without chemicals, life itself would be impossible,” she said, quoting their old chemistry teacher, then drew in a surprised breath when he grinned. As a young boy he’d been cute, lanky. Awkward. As a grown man he was no longer lanky, but filled out and muscular. Very attractive. But when he grinned . . . Her heart resumed, at a less than steady beat. Dear Lord, that smile was potent. Or perhaps it was the waves and the palm trees and the lanterns bobbing in the warm gulf breeze.
Or perhaps it’s just the pathetic wishing of a lonely woman
. Maybe Kate was right and she never should have come. Recovering, she tapped her temples. “You’ve acquired some new colors yourself.”

He lifted a broad shoulder. “Gray hair is distinguished on men.”

“Which is so blatantly unfair.”

His chuckle was deep and rich. It was his turn to inspect and he did so with a careful precision that sent her pulse scrambling anew. “Your glasses are gone.”

“Contacts,” she said with a grimace. “Still blind as a bat without them.”

He tilted his head to one side. “And you’re taller.”

“Heels, I’m afraid.”

He was quiet a moment, then his shoulders settled as if he’d been holding them rigid. “It’s good to see you again, Emma.”

“It’s . . .” She cleared her throat. “It’s good to see you, too.”

“I thought we could meet here because it’s easy to find, but you’re dressed for something nicer, I think.”

She smiled up at him. “So are you. But is the food good?”

“Best seafood platter on the beach.”

“And is Bill really crabby?”

He grinned again and her heart thumped. “Nah. Last time I was here it was some couple’s fiftieth anniversary and he treated the whole place to free beer.”

“Now that’s a glowing endorsement,” Emma laughed. “We’re here, Christopher. Let’s just stay here. I didn’t come for the food or the ambiance, anyway.”

He sobered at that. “Why did you come, Emma? And why the detective?”

Emma sobered as well. “Let’s go grab a seat and get a drink. I may need one.”

And with that she started down the stairs from the bar to the restaurant, leaving him to stare. At the swing of the blonder hair that fit her so well. At the rear of the black dress she wore, which fit even better. He used to love watching Emma taking her turn at the blackboard in high school, the way her round rear sashayed as she conjugated Spanish verbs. She’d only improved with age. He caught up with her and neither said a word as the waitress found them seats and took their drink order.

She wasn’t looking at him now, her eyes fixed on the menu. He took the opportunity to study her the way he’d really wanted to. If anything, she was curvier than she’d been in high school. Regardless, the impact on his body had been exactly the same. One look at those big brown eyes and big round breasts and he’d been rock hard. Her face was the same, no matter what she’d said. Not a single wrinkle marred the skin he’d so often dreamed of caressing. He still did.

The waitress came back with two ice-cold mugs of beer. “You ready to order?”

Emma looked up at her with a smile. “I hear you have the best seafood platter on the beach.”

“We do.”

“That’s what I’ll have then.”

Christopher handed the waitress his menu. “Make that two.” When the waitress was gone, he grabbed his courage and reached across the table and squeezed Emma’s hand. “Now, we’re sitting down and you have your drink. Talk to me, Emma.”

She drew a very deep breath and huffed it upward, sending her bangs flying. “I got married in college,” she said, looking away.

He felt an instant and searing jealousy for the lucky man. “I know.”

“His name was Will Townsend. He was a good man. One of the best I’ve ever known.” She swallowed hard and pursed her lips, still looking away. “A little over a year ago I was in New York on business and I got a phone call. Will had been shot in a convenience store robbery about five miles from where we lived in Cincinnati. He . . . he died on the operating table. Before I was able to get home.”

He still held her hand and squeezed again. Gently. “I’m so sorry, Emma.”

“Thank you. Anyway, I was terribly foolish and cowardly and avoided my house. My job required I travel, but I traveled a lot more than I needed to. I just couldn’t go home and face his things. But to make a long story short, last weekend I did. I was in the attic packing his books to give to charity when my friend found my old yearbook.” From her purse she pulled out a single piece of folded paper and his heart started galloping in his chest. “This fell out.” She looked up at him, finally meeting his eyes, hers full of honest anguish. “I never saw it, Christopher. I never knew. I’m so sorry.”

He took the paper. Carefully unfolded it. Reread the words he’d agonized over so many years ago, a thousand thoughts struggling for center stage in his mind.
She’d never read it.
She was telling the bitter truth, of that there was no question. She hadn’t rejected him, blown him off like he was nothing.

She’d never read it
. But what might have been if she had?

She cleared her throat and he looked up, met her eyes once more. “When I saw the letter, I knew I had to make things right. My best friend was with me at the time and made me promise to make sure you weren’t married or engaged or anything, because an old friend, even a platonic one, could wreak havoc on an existing relationship. That’s why I hired the detective. I wanted to make sure you knew the truth in a way that didn’t jeopardize the life you’d built for yourself.”

Without her. The life he’d built without her. Because she’d never read his letter.

He moistened his dry lips. Screwed up the courage to pose the question that screamed to be answered. “And if you’d seen it, Emma? What would you have done?”

She blinked once. Twice. “I don’t know how things would have turned out, Christopher. We can never know, after all. But I know I cared about you. And I wondered . . .” She dropped her eyes to the tablecloth, her cheeks heating in a blush. “I don’t know what I would have said.” She lifted her gaze bravely, pinning him. “But I would have said something. I thought when you dropped our class . . .” She shrugged, shyly now, and looked away. “I thought you didn’t want to be around me anymore.”

His mind had wiped completely blank and he wasn’t sure he’d ever breathe again. “Emma.” It was the only word that his brain would provide. The only one that mattered. She’d wanted him too.
She wanted me
.

Maybe . . . just maybe she still did. Or would again. Either way, this was a chance people didn’t get every day. To go back and correct a cruel twist of fate. He’d let her slip through his fingers once. But smart men didn’t make the same mistake twice and Christopher Walker was a very smart man.

“Emma.” He reached across the table and took both her hands in his. They were cold, her hands, and trembling. She was here.
She came to me
. What courage it must have taken to come, to say she was sorry for something she’d never even known she’d done. To admit that she really had cared, that was even braver. “Please look at me.” He waited until she did so, dragging her eyes upward until they met his probing gaze. “I left that class because I couldn’t stand sitting next to you every day knowing I’d never have you. I know I said in my letter that friendship would be enough, but I found out that wasn’t true. If I’d known, if I’d had any inkling you felt the same way . . .” He let the thought trail, squeezing her hands, hard.

And watched her eyes widen. Change. Sorrow and apology became awareness. And heat. Her cheeks grew rosier still as her lips parted, just a hair. And it took everything he had to stay in his chair, not to leap across the table and crush her in his arms and kiss those lips the way he’d dreamed countless times.

“Two seafood platters,” the waitress announced and two large plates were unceremoniously deposited in front of them.

Their hands jerked apart with a jolt, a shiver racing down Emma’s spine. Dear Lord, it had taken every ounce of discipline she possessed not to leap across the table and kiss him. She hadn’t experienced any kind of desire in more than a year.
But I still can,
she thought. After a year of lonely solitude, she felt like a woman again. And how could she not, sitting across the table from a gorgeous man with broad shoulders and eyes so blue she could drown in them. That’s how she’d felt, like she was drowning. There’d been a moment of panic, but it quickly became thrill as she let herself wonder what it would be like to be held by those strong arms. From the look on his face, he’d been wondering the same thing.

Their food had arrived at a fortuitous moment. They were flying on memories of adolescent desire and the high of healing a painful misunderstanding. Time to step back. To be an adult. “Tell me about yourself, Christopher.”

His tanned cheeks stained with a dark flush as he visibly got control of himself and lifted a dark brow. “Your PI didn’t tell you?”

“Only that you’re not married and you have a daughter. That’s all I wanted to know.”

“I’m divorced,” he said, then smiled warmly. “My daughter’s name is Megan. She’s thirteen and the best thing that ever happened to me.” And she listened as he talked about Megan, his obvious love for his daughter warming Emma’s heart.
He’s a good father,
she thought.
I knew he would be
. He talked about his teaching and the University and his grad students, a shadow crossing his face as he told her about the student who had recently died. Who the police thought might have been murdered. He hadn’t accepted it yet, that his friend could have been killed, and she understood that, too.

“I’m sorry, Christopher,” she said simply. “I know how hard it is to lose someone you care about.”

“I guess you do,” he murmured. “I’m the one who should be sorry. I didn’t mean to depress you with my problems.” He resettled himself in his chair, pushing aside his empty plate. “Tell me about Emma. Your PI said you were Dr. Townsend.”

“I got my Ph.D. in psychology,” she said and he blinked in surprise.

“Really? I always thought you’d major in chemistry like I did. We used to have such good times in that class and you always had the best grades.”

“Second to yours,” she replied, smiling at the memory. “I did major in chemistry. I’d planned to be a doctor but I did some volunteering at the local hospital and found I was more interested in the people’s emotions than in their anatomy and physiology.”

“So you switched majors?”

“No. I was almost done with the chemistry degree. It didn’t make sense to abandon it, so I just added psychology as a second major. After I got my doctorate I started a private practice focused on grief counseling. Now I travel, lecturing.”

“Grief counseling,” he said thoughtfully. “We’ve heard a lot about that in the last week. The University’s counselors have met with all of us. They left me with a list of support groups and this book they said was the latest rage in coping with grief.”

“Did it help?”

He grimaced, thinking of the session with the University shrinks. He didn’t put much stock in therapists, but he wouldn’t say that to Emma. He did, however, put even less stock in books. “I’m not much on those self-help books. How to diet. How to quit smoking. How to find your inner child, for God’s sake. I’ll miss Darrell like hell, but I can’t see how any book can help me any more than just the good old-fashioned passage of time. And work. I keep busy. It helps more than any book.”

Emma tilted her head. “Do you remember the title of the book?”

“Baby something. No, that’s not it. Bite . . .
Bite-Sized
. Why, have you heard of it?”

Her lips twitched. “Kind of. I wrote it.”

Christopher’s jaw dropped and he felt his cheeks go hot. “Oh, hell.” But she was chuckling good-naturedly so he did the same. “Open mouth, extract foot.”