Emily and the Stranger (26 page)

"I wouldn't call your fear of the dark irrational," Nikki said. "Didn't your psychiatrist tell you that fear of the dark was a common problem for people who'd lived through fires after being trapped in all that pitch-black darkness caused by the smoke?"

Emily set down her tea beside Nikki's on the table. She ran her fingers up and down the frosted surface, making streaks on the glass. "I faced the darkness outside when I went through my window. I was afraid, but I knew I didn't have any choice. Mitch said that I'd been very brave."

"Mitch is right. It took a lot of courage for you to leave your only source of light."

"I don't know what I'd have done without Mitch. He came charging to my rescue the minute I called him." Releasing her tea glass, Emily leaned back on the sofa and faced Nikki. "I shudder to think what might have happened if those boys had cut the phone wires a minute sooner."

"You'd have made it to Mitch."

"Yes, I think I would have. I knew that if only I could get to Mitch, everything would be all right." Emily wiped her hands across the top of her thighs, then bunched up the soft lavender cotton material of her slacks, playing nervously with its softness between her thumb and forefinger. "I've tried to be strong. All these years since … I had to be strong. Uncle Fowler kept telling me to be strong. And I was. For Uncle Fowler's sake at first, and then for my own sake. I had to be strong to survive."

Nikki placed her hand on Emily's shoulder. "What are you trying to say?"

"I suppose I'm asking you if it's all right for me not to be so strong right now, if it's all right for me to lean on Mitch, to be thankful for his protection."

"Oh, dammit, Em, I'm the wrong person to ask about leaning on a man, about being thankful to some man for protecting you."

"Put aside your liberal feminist thinking for just one minute and answer me truthfully. If you were in my position, would you want a man like Mitch Hayden to take care of you?"

Nikki frowned, crinkling her freckled, slightly sunburned nose. "The question isn't fair."

"Confess," Emily said. "Not for your sake, but for mine."

"Okay. But if what I'm about to say ever leaves this room, I'll deny every word."

Emily laughed. "I'll never tell a living soul."

"If I were in your situation, yes, I'd want a man just like Mitch Hayden to take care of me. I'd want to know that he'd put his life on the line for me, that he'd stand between me and whoever was threatening my life." Glancing around the room, Nikki tapped her fingers on her knees. "That doesn't mean I wouldn't be trying to take care of myself, and if it came to a showdown, I'd be right there, fighting for myself. It's just that I think it would be kind of nice to know I wasn't facing the big, bad world all alone."

"Mitch told Uncle Fowler that if anyone came after me, they'd have to go through him first."

"I'd say the guy's in love with you."

"I wish I could believe that." Emily sighed, afraid that her doubts and fears would keep Mitch and her apart.

Was that what the future held for them? Doubt and uncertainty? Even if Mitch told her he loved her, could she believe him? He'd do anything to make her happy, wouldn't he? Even lie to her.

* * *

Mitch waited in the foyer while the housekeeper went to inform Mr.
Jordan
that he had a visitor.

So this was where Emily had spent the past five years, surrounded by wealth and a proud heritage. He couldn't begin to imagine what it would be like belonging to a prestigious family such as the Mobile McLains or
Jordans
. He'd been one of those Hayden kids who lived in a shack and wore hand-me-down clothes. He could well remember folks in Sutra,
Mississippi
, looking down their noses at Johnny Ray and Judy Hayden's passel of kids. Pity and charity. God, how he hated both.

And Emily thought all he felt for her was pity, that his feelings for her were born out of guilt. Hell, she was right, up to a point. He did feel guilty about the part he'd played in destroying her life; he'd probably always feel guilty. And maybe there was an element of pity in his feelings, a deep heartfelt sympathy for what she'd endured. But there was so much more to his feelings than pity and guilt. He cared for Emily Jordan in a way he'd never cared for another human being. And last night, he had wanted her more than he'd ever wanted another woman.

But would she believe him if he told her? Even if he swore on a stack of Bibles as high as Fowler
Jordan
's two-story house?

He knew he didn't deserve her, knew that she was far too good for him, but that didn't change the way he felt about her. He didn't have much to offer a woman, but he could and would offer Emily all that he had. And if she accepted him, he'd find a way to give her everything she wanted.

"Mr.
Jordan
will see you now," the short, plump, middle-aged housekeeper said. "This way, please."

She led Mitch into what he assumed was the front parlor, a room filled with priceless antiques.

"What are you doing here, Hayden?" Fowler
Jordan
, looking every minute of his fifty-six years, rested one hand on the back of a Chippendale chair and the other in the pocket of his silk robe. "You must know that you aren't welcome in this house."

"I'm here because I think you and I should join forces to protect Emily. The last thing she needs right now is to have to choose between you and me." Staring directly at Fowler Jordan, Mitch saw the bitter hatred etched on the man's face.

"You may have convinced my niece that you're innocent of any wrongdoing, that you had no part in my nephew's death, but you won't convince me. I know your type. Money-hungry trash who will do anything, use anyone, to get what he wants. A man with any conscience at all would never insinuate himself into the life of the widow of the man he'd murdered!"

"Look,
Jordan
, I've spent the past five years wallowing in guilt. You can't say anything to me that I haven't said to myself. But the bottom line is that I didn't murder anyone. I made some stupid mistakes. Mistakes I'll have to live with for the rest of my life. But Emily has forgiven me. She understands that I—"

"She isn't thinking straight." Fowler glared menacingly at Mitch. "The girl's a romantic. Always has been. Her grandmother raised her to want a husband and children. That's what Emily wants and needs. You can't offer her marriage and children. Charles Tolbert can."

"What makes you think I can't offer Emily marriage and children?"

Fowler's eyes bulged, making them look even larger through the bifocal lenses of his glasses. "I forbid it! Don't even think about the possibility. Believe me, Hayden, I'll find a way to stop you."

"I had hoped you and I could reach a compromise. For Emily's sake." Mitch shook his head, almost feeling sorry for Fowler Jordan. The poor man was as obsessed with Emily as he himself had been for the past five years. Only,
Jordan
's obsession was the controlling kind. Obviously, he thought he had the right to plan the rest of Emily's life.

"If you actually care about Emily, stay away from her." Fowler spoke quickly, his voice loud and quivering. "She would never marry someone I couldn't accept. And believe me, I could never accept you!"

"I'm sorry you feel that way."

Mitch turned and walked out of the parlor, knowing he hadn't heard the last from Stuart Jordan's uncle.

Chapter 15

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T
he picnic had been Mitch's idea. He'd even prepared the pimento cheese sandwiches and carrot sticks himself. The apple juice and Vivaldi had been Emily's suggestions. They'd spread an old quilt out on the beach in the late afternoon, positioning Emily's huge beach umbrella to protect them from the warm June sunshine.

Mitch had thrown on a pair of cutoff jeans and cotton T-shirt, while Emily had dressed in baggy red shorts and a matching red-and-white striped top. They'd both opted to go barefoot, loving the feel of the damp, coarse sand under their feet.

Mitch lifted the juice bottle to his lips, sipping the cool liquid as he watched Emily working away busily on the charcoal sketch she had begun before they'd eaten. The blaring of trumpets and the forceful rush of violins blended with the call of seagulls and the song of the bay waters.

Lowering the juice bottle from his mouth, Mitch nodded toward the tape player beside the picnic basket. "What's that playing now? I must not have any taste for the finer things, because I'm afraid it sounds like a lot of racket to me."

Glancing over the top of her sketch pad, Emily smiled at Mitch. "Vivaldi's Concerto for Two Trumpets in C—"

"Sorry I asked." He shook his head. "I should have brought along one of my tapes."

Reaching out to the tape player, Emily switched off the music. "There, is that better? I'm afraid I think hard rock is a lot of noise, but we can probably compromise on cool jazz."

"We were raised in two different worlds, weren't we?" Mitch knew their individual tastes in music weren't the only differences stemming from their totally opposite backgrounds.

"What was it like growing up in Sutra,
Mississippi
?" Emily watched Mitch carefully, then she looked down as she continued sketching his handsome face. She didn't think he'd realized he was her subject.

"If I hadn't been the son of a lazy gambler who tried to make a living farming and a mother burdened with five kids, I might have enjoyed growing up in Sutra." Mitch picked up a carrot stick from a paper plate sitting in front of him. "We were what folks called white trash. I never owned a new pair of pants or a decent shirt until I went into the marines."

"Is that why getting rich was so important to you?" Emily studied the proportions of Mitch's nose and cheekbones. He had such a strong face, his features undeniably masculine.

"Being poor is a great incentive to get rich." He tapped the end of the carrot against his bottom teeth, then broke the stick in half. "I was hungry for money, and I desperately wanted to escape my childhood. I hated taking charity, and I swore that once I got away from home, I'd never allow anyone to pity me again."

"Tell me about Randy Styles and Loni." If she and Mitch were ever going to come to terms with the past, they'd have to face it—all of it.

"You don't want to know about them." The last thing on earth he wanted to discuss with Emily was his former partner and his ex-fiancée.

Emily shaded in the hollows of Mitch's face and neck, then closed her eight-by-six-inch sketchbook and laid her charcoal pencil on top. "Yes, I do. It will help me understand the person you were then, and the person you are now."

Mitch jumped up from the quilt, knocking over his empty juice bottle. Stretching, he gazed up at the clear blue sky. "Hey, I thought we came on this picnic to relax and enjoy ourselves, to get away from our problems."

"That's the reason you said we should have a picnic." Emily stood up beside Mitch and reached out to touch his back. "Did you love Loni a great deal?"

Mitch looked out at the bay, the blue-gray waters, the soft, rippling tide. "I thought I was in love with her. I was twenty-seven when we met. I wasn't a kid. I'd known a few women before her. But I wasn't mature enough to see through her act."

"How do you feel about her now?" Dropping her hand from Mitch's back, Emily stepped away from him, her gaze riveted to the bay.

"I don't feel much of anything. Regret that I didn't realize she was using me, and that's about it." He kicked the sand with the tips of his toes.

Relief spread through Emily, starting slowly in her chest and extending outward, upward and downward. She hadn't wanted to be jealous of Mitch's past relationship with Loni, but she had been.

"How do you feel about your husband? About Stuart?" Mitch asked, keeping his gaze focused on the bay.

An involuntary shiver rippled over her. How did she feel about Stuart? She had loved him. She had married him. And she had carried his child. "I loved Stuart dearly. He was a wonderful man. But Stuart's gone. He hasn't been a part of my life, except in my memories, for over five years."

"If I could change things…" Mitch left the sentence unfinished. He'd already said all there was to say.

Emily turned to him then, nodding, telling him silently that she knew what he meant, that she understood his regrets.

"Why don't we take a walk?" Emily held out her hand.

Mitch accepted, clasping her hand in his. They walked together up the beach, past Mitch's rental cottage, then turned around and walked in the opposite direction until they returned to where their quilt and picnic leftovers lay. They didn't talk during their walk, only held hands and occasionally exchanged a smile or a knowing glance.

"Come on. Sit back down." Emily dropped to her knees. "I want to finish my sketch while there's still some light."

"There's plenty of time for that." Mitch grabbed her arms, pulling her onto her feet. He had to do something to change the somber mood, to bring a smile to Emily's face. The past stood between them. Maybe it always would. But discussing it didn't do anything but make them both sad. And they'd both had enough sadness to last a lifetime. "Let's go for a swim."