Authors: Nora Roberts
A big gray chair looked cushy enough to sleep in. The couch was long and low, inviting afternoon naps. He’d tossed an Indian blanket in gray and red stripes on the floor as a throw rug—and as a sop to Conroy. Vertical blinds let in slashes of sunlight.
“I’d imagined you in one of those slick condos near the beach. Oh,
Marianne’s Legs”
Delighted, she walked over to the print he’d hung over the couch.
“I picked that up the night of your show.”
Emma glanced over her shoulder, one brow lifted. “Why?”
“Why did I buy it?” Thoughtful, Michael tucked his thumbs in his pockets. “I liked it. If you want me to start talking shadows and texture, forget it. The fact is, it’s a great pair of legs, shot with a great deal of wit.”
“I like your opinion a lot more than a discussion on texture.” She turned back, smiling. It had taken them hours to set this shot. Not that it had been so difficult really. They just hadn’t been able to agree on the shoes.
It showed Marianne’s legs, crossed elegantly at the knee, with a ladylike flounce of hem sliding across them. They’d finally decided on plain black Chucks for her feet.
“You didn’t have to buy this. I know the outrageous price Runyun set. I owed you at least a print.”
“You gave me one once already.”
She remembered the picture she’d taken of him with her father. “But I wasn’t a professional then.”
“I imagine an early McAvoy would be worth a tidy sum if I ever wanted to sell it.” He felt her quick, instinctive jerk when he touched her arm. Gun-shy, he thought automatically. It was natural enough for a woman to be gun-shy right after the breakup of a marriage. “Let’s go into the kitchen. I was just getting started on dinner.”
The dog followed them in, resting his head adoringly on Emma’s foot when she sat at the table. Michael poured wine in
glasses he’d borrowed from his neighbor. He turned on the radio, low. Emma recognized Nat King Cole’s creamy voice as she idly scratched Conroy’s head with her other foot.
“How long have you lived here?”
“Nearly four years.” He was glad to have company in the kitchen, a rarity for him unless he counted Conroy. He had fresh vegetables lined up on the counter. Puzzling over them, Michael wished he’d asked his neighbor for a recipe for tossed salad. He remembered to wash the lettuce, then taking up the neighbor’s carving knife, prepared to chop it up.
“What are you doing?” Emma asked.
“Making salad.” Because of the way she was looking at him, he paused with the knife over the head of romaine. “Maybe you don’t like salad.”
“I’d rather eat a hot-fudge sundae, but I like it well enough.” She rose to inspect the vegetables. She counted four fat tomatoes, slightly underripe, a half-dozen peppers of every color and description, leeks, mushrooms, a gourd of some kind, a full head of cauliflower, and a bunch of carrots. “There’s certainly enough of everything,” she decided.
“I always make a lot,” he improvised. “Conroy’s a fiend for salad.”
“I see.” Emma smiled, then took the knife from him and set it aside. “Why don’t you let me do this, while you deal with the steaks?”
“You cook?”
“Yes.” Laughing, she began to tear the lettuce leaves. “Do you?”
“No.” She smelled like wildflowers, fresh and delicate. He had to fight back an urge to press his lips to her throat. When he smoothed her hair behind her back, she lifted her head, eyes wary. “I never imagined you cooking.”
“I like to.”
He was standing close, but not so close that she felt afraid. As she scrubbed a green pepper she realized she wasn’t afraid around him. Uneasy perhaps, but not afraid.
“You’re good at this.”
“I took top honors in vegetable chopping five years running.” She brushed him away. “Go start the grill.”
Later, she carried the salad out to a round wooden table beside a pathetic bed of petunias. A critical glance told her he
was handling the steaks well enough, so she went back in. Emma wasn’t sure what to make of the giant package of paper plates in the cupboard. A further search unearthed a trio of empty beer bottles, a drawer full of ketchup and mustard packets, and a mother lode of Chef Boyardee pasta meals in a can. She checked the dishwasher, discovered that was where he stored his laundry, and wondered if he had a clothes hamper somewhere full of dishes and flatware.
She found them in the microwave—two pretty china plates with baby roses painted around the edges, matching bowls, and a pair of steak knives and forks.
By the time he’d grilled the steaks, she had the table set as best she could.
“I couldn’t find any salad dressing,” she told him.
“Salad dressing. Right.” He set the steaks down. Now that she was here, looking so right, so simply right smiling at him with one hand resting on the dog’s head, he thought it was foolish to try to pretend he knew what he was doing with the meal.
If they were to get to know each other, really get to know each other this time around, she might as well see what she was getting into from the first.
“Make sure Conroy doesn’t get any idea about these,” he said, then walked to the chain-link fence and swung over. He was back in a few moments with a bottle of Wishbone and a fat blue candle. “Mrs. Petrowski says hello.”
With a laugh, Emma glanced over and saw a woman leaning out of the back door of the house next door. Because it seemed natural, she waved before she turned back to Michael.
“Her dishes?”
“Yeah.”
“They’re very nice.”
“I wanted to do better than a burger on the beach this time around.”
Cautious, she passed him the salad. “I’m glad you asked me to come. We didn’t have much of a chance to talk when you came to New York. I’m sorry I didn’t have a chance to show you around.”
“Next time,” he said and cut into his steak.
They lingered over the meal until twilight. She’d forgotten what it was like to talk about unimportant things, to laugh over
dinner with music in the background and a candle flickering. The dog, sated with half of Emma’s steak, snored by her feet. Nerves, strung tight for months, smoothed out.
He could see the change. It was a gradual, almost a muscle-by-muscle relaxation. She never spoke of her marriage, or the separation. He found it odd. He had friends, both male and female, who had gone through divorces. During the process, and long afterward, it had been their favorite topic of conversation.
When Rosemary Clooney’s seductive voice drifted from the radio, he rose and pulled Emma to her feet. “The old ones are the best to dance to,” he said when she took a step in retreat.
“I really don’t—”
“And it’d give Mrs. Petrowski such a thrill.” Gently, drew her closer, forcing himself to keep the embrace friendly and undemanding.
Emma moved with him automatically as Clooney crooned out “Tenderly.” Closing her eyes, she concentrated on staying relaxed, on ignoring the emotions that were creeping into her. She didn’t want to feel anything, unless it was peace.
There was only a flutter of a breeze now as they danced across the grass. The shadows were long. When she opened her eyes on a long, careful breath, she could see the sky in the west glowing in sunset.
“When I was waiting for you to come, I figured out that we’ve known each other about eighteen years.” He brushed a finger over the back of her hand. She didn’t jerk away this time, but there was a moment of stillness. “Eighteen years,” he repeated. “Even though I can count the days I’ve spent with you on one hand.”
“You didn’t pay any attention to me the first time we met.” She forgot to be nervous when she smiled up at him. “You were too busy being dazzled by Devastation.”
“Eleven-year-old boys can’t notice girls. Those particular optic nerves don’t develop until the age of thirteen, twelve in some precocious cases.”
Chuckling, she didn’t object when he brought her a few inches closer. “I read that somewhere. It’s fully developed when the young male anticipates the arrival of
Sports Illustrated’s
swim-suit issue as much as he anticipates the football preview.” When Michael grinned, she lifted a brow. “It was your loss. I had quite a crush on you.”
“Did you?” He skimmed his fingers up her back to toy with the ends of her hair.
“Absolutely. Your father had told me about how you’d roller-skated off the roof. I wanted to ask you how it felt.”
“Before or after I regained consciousness?”
“In flight.”
“I guess I was up for about three seconds. It was the best three seconds of my life.”
It was exactly what she’d hoped he’d say. “Do your parents still live in that same house?”
“Yeah. You couldn’t get them out with a howitzer.”
“It’s nice,” she mused. “To have a place like that, a place that’s always home. I felt that way about the loft.”
“Is that where you’re going to live when you go back?”
“I don’t know.” The haunted look came back into her eyes, and lingered. “I may not go back.”
He thought she must have loved her husband very much to be so hurt the marriage was over. “There are some nice places along the beach. I remember you like the water.”
“Yes, I do.”
He wanted to see her smile again. “Do you still want to learn how to surf?”
She did smile, but it was wistful. “I haven’t thought about it in years.”
“I have Sunday off. I’ll give you a lesson.”
She glanced up. There was a challenge in his eyes, just enough of one to hook her. “All right.”
He brushed a kiss at her temple in a gesture so easy, she was hardly aware of it. “You know, Emma, when I told you I was sorry about you and your husband…”He brought her hand to his lips. “I lied.”
She retreated instantly. Turning, she began to gather the dishes. “I’ll help you wash up.”
He stepped back to the table, putting a hand over both of hers. “It doesn’t come as that much of a surprise, does it?”
She made herself look at him. The light was pearly with dusk. Behind him, the eastern sky was deep, deep blue. His eyes were on hers, very direct, a little impatient. “No.” She turned and took the dishes inside.
Though it cost him, he didn’t press. She was vulnerable, he
reminded himself. A person was bound to be just after the breakup of a marriage. So he’d give her time, as much as he could stand.
She didn’t relax again. Couldn’t. What kind of a woman was she to be drawn to one man so soon after she’d left another? She didn’t want to think about it. Her mind was made up. She would never become involved again. She would never allow herself to be trapped by love, by marriage. Now she only wanted to go back to her hotel, to lock the doors and feel safe for a few hours.
“It’s getting late. I really should get back. Can I call a cab?”
“I’ll take you back.”
“You don’t have to. I can—”
“Emma. I said I’d take you.”
Stop it. Stop it, she ordered herself and pulled her nervous fingers apart. “Thanks.”
“Relax. If you’re not ready for the incredibly romantic affair we’re going to have, I can wait. It’s only been eighteen years so far.”
She wasn’t sure whether to be amused or annoyed. “An affair takes two people,” she said lightly. “I’m afraid I’ve sworn off.”
“Like I said, I can wait.” He scooped up his keys. At the jingle of them, Conroy leaped into the air, barking.
“He likes to ride in the car,” Michael explained. “Shut up, Conroy.”
Knowing a true ally, the dog shuffled over to Emma, head low. “Can he come?” she asked as he rested his head against her thigh.
“I’ve got an MG.”
“I don’t mind being crowded.”
“He’ll shed all over you.”
“It’s all right.”
Conroy followed the conversation, one ear pricked. Michael would have sworn the dog snickered. “You win, Conroy.” Michael pointed toward the front door. Sensing victory, Conroy bolted. His waving tail struck Emma’s purse and knocked it from table to floor.
When Michael bent to retrieve it, the clasp gave and the contents spilled out. Before he could apologize, he saw the .38. Emma said nothing as he lifted it, turning it over in his hand. It
was top grade, the best automatic of that caliber that Smith and Wesson had to offer. It was glossy as silk and heavy in his hand. No elegant ladies’ gun, this one was mean and for business only. He pulled out the clip, found it full, then snapped it back into place.
“What are you doing with this?”
“I have a license.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
She crouched down to pick up her wallet and compact and brush. “I live in New York, remember?” She said it lightly, while her stomach churned as it always did when she lied. “A lot of women carry guns in Manhattan. For protection.”
He studied the top of her head. “So you’ve had it awhile.”
“Years.”
“That’s interesting, seeing as this model came out about six months ago. From the looks of it, this gun hasn’t been knocking around in your purse more than a couple of days.”
When she stood her whole body was shaking. “If you’re going to interrogate me, shouldn’t you read me my rights?”
“Cut the crap, Emma. You didn’t buy this to scare off a mugger.”
She could feel the skitter of panic, up her back. It made her throat dry and her stomach roil. He was angry, really angry. She could see it in the way his eyes darkened, in the way he moved when he stepped toward her. “It’s my business. If you’re going to take me to the hotel—”
“First I want to know why you’re carrying this around, why you lied to me, and why you looked so damn scared at the airport this afternoon.”
She didn’t say a word, but watched him, just watched him with dull, resigned eyes. He’d had a dog look at him like that once, Michael remembered. It had crawled onto the grass at the edge of their lawn one afternoon when he’d been about eight. His mother had been afraid it was rabid, but when they’d taken it to the vet, it had turned out the dog had been beaten. Badly enough, often enough, that the vet had had to put it to sleep.
A sick rage worked inside of him as he stepped toward her. She stumbled back.
“What did he do to you?” He wanted to scream it, but his voice hissed out through his teeth.
She only shook her head. Conroy stopped scratching at the door and sat quivering.