“Did anything happen to you in a crowd?”
“Not
one
thing, no,” he answered absently, trying to spot whatever had drawn his attention. He turned his head to see whatever it was more clearly.
Holy shit.
What had caught his eye was a rope twitching against the side of the house. Attached to the rope, a small figure dangled beneath a second floor window.
Casually, before Emmie could ask him what he was looking at, he tucked an arm around her shoulders and turned her toward the door to the veranda. “Let’s walk outside for a minute, okay?”
“Of course,” Emmie agreed. Caleb’s behavior had been different in a way she couldn’t put her finger on from the moment they had entered the Calhoun house. “Tell me, did you have this problem with the crowds at Pickett’s wedding?”
From the veranda, steps led down to a slate-paved patio in back of the house. Realizing he wasn’t listening to her, Emmie followed the direction of Caleb’s gaze. “Oh, my God! That’s Victoria Calhoun!” she told Caleb. “Vicky, what on earth are you doing?”
“Going out the window,” replied the jeans-clad figure. “I do it all the time. But I can’t…” Vicky swallowed a small sob. “Today, I can’t make the swing over to the porch.” She sounded more upset over her unaccustomed failure than panicked. The small bathroom window was actually only ten feet or so above the veranda roof and maybe four feet to the side. Emmie could see that anyone with climbing skills-and intrepid enough-would think it possible to reach. Unfortunately, directly below the little girl was a three-story drop to the flagstone-paved patio.
“Vicky, what’s the rope anchored to?” Caleb’s voice was pitched to carry without being loud. He remained calm-as if a dangling child merited only mild curiosity.
“The radiator in my bathroom. I go out that window because it’s closer to the porch.”
“Okay, good. That’s real good,” he told the child as he stripped off shoes and socks. “The window on your left-is that your bedroom window?” She was actually closer to it than to the porch, and since it was larger and longer than the bathroom window, she was almost level with it.
Caleb thrust his shoes and socks into Emmie’s hands. “Go upstairs and open her bedroom window. I’m going to climb up and move her over to it.”
“You’re going to scale that?”
“Um- hmm.” The wall wasn’t flat or smooth. From a distance the limestone fa?ade of the house almost looked like basket weave. The stones had been carved into roughly convex surfaces, which offered handholds and footholds. Coming down aided by a rope would be easy. Going up without a rope or equipment would be harder, but he could do it. Do-Lord stripped his sport coat off and handed that to Emmie as well. “Go!”
Emmie couldn’t believe he intended to climb up a wall. Still, despite her curiosity about how he would do it, she reacted instantly to the note of command in his voice.
With his jacket draped over the shoes she raced back to the veranda door. The warmth and babble of the crowded room when she slipped inside was shocking for its sheer normalcy. Briefly, she wondered if she should find one of the security guards and tell them what was going on. But she had a conviction that if Caleb had wanted her to do that, he would have told her to.
She made her way across the room, trying not to catch the eye of several people she recognized. Being invisible had its uses, she was thinking smugly, when her path was blocked by a man in a three-piece suit.
The cut of the deep navy pinstripe suit was good, the touches of maroon in the tie discreet, and if the outfit seemed a little stuffy and made him look older than his years, well, Blount had always had ambitions to switch to the administration side of the university. Looked like he had decided to dress the part of a senior dean.
“Emmie…” Blount’s eyes swept her up and down. “Emmie Caddington, is that you?” To her surprise he held out his arms in welcome.
Emmie sidestepped his hug, but while she tried to think of an excuse to get away from him, he continued talking about people he had seen and spoken to as if she had answered him.
The man loved the sound of his own voice, and now that she thought about it, his habit of talking through everything had irritated her back when they were what, dating? No. Though they had eaten together frequently and spent evenings together, he had never asked her out on a date. A couple? No. Believing they were a couple and assuming a social invitation to one included the other was her mistake.
To be fair, she had preferred not to go out, and if they ran into others, she had stayed in the background. But appearances at certain faculty functions were required. Learning he intended to escort another woman to a function
she
couldn’t possibly avoid had been the first shock. The second had been his surprise that she had expected to attend with him.
God, she’d felt stupid. When another faculty member suddenly had to drop out, she’d accepted the trip with the students so that it would be a good, long time before she had to run into Blount again. Now, as he mentioned this or that person he’d talked to, she realized how much she had depended on him to manage social situations.
How easy it was for her to say nothing because he could say everything.
For instance, right now, if she had the right kind of social graces, she’d be able think up a lie to get away from him, but she didn’t. She couldn’t. Instead she backed away from him while he nattered away.
“I thought I saw you earlier, but it looked like you were with some guy,” Blount said. Looking slightly puzzled, he swept his eyes over her again. She could see him take in her new hair, new dress, and new shoes.
Suddenly, being trapped by him wasn’t uncomfortable, it was funny. “And you knew that couldn’t be me, right?”
He stammered, “No, of course not.” But extra ruddiness in his cheeks made her think she’d nailed it. “I just didn’t think-if you were with someone-I should interrupt you.”
“Well, you were right the first time. I am with someone.” God, it felt good to say that. Call her shallow, but it felt especially good to say it to the ponderously self-important Blount. Caleb was someone who held her hand as they walked down the street, unlike Blount who had never touched her unless he wanted sex. Someone who had no need of padding for his shoulders or a vest to disguise a thickening waistline. Someone who hadn’t blinked at the mention of commitment. “You’ll have to excuse me. He’s waiting.”
Blount’s eyes searched the thinning crowd. “Where?” he challenged.
He didn’t believe her. Why hadn’t she noticed before that he didn’t respect her? That he had often made her defend the blandest observation. Why hadn’t she seen that he thought his presence conferred importance on her, and she should be grateful? Whatever lingering traces of attachment to Blount she might have felt dropped away. Any wisps of yearning for the intellectual partnership they might have had vanished like vapor in strong sunlight.
She giggled, then giggled harder at the look of confused affront he gave her for daring to laugh at his challenge. Her inner imp made her give him a saucy wink. “Upstairs.”
Still giggling at his stunned look, she waggled her fingers bye and walked away.
The broad entry hall, by the time she reached it, had only a small knot of people at the door and was free of official minions. The crowd for the open house had peaked and was dwindling now. Emmie made for the staircase. The barrier of the wine velvet rope was more psychological than physical. Without hesitation and with her inner imp cheering, she calmly unhooked it, stepped through, and hooked it behind her.
Chapter 22
“Okay, Vicky, I’m coming up. You’re doing just fine. I’ll be there in a minute and help you in the window. No, don’t try to watch me,” Caleb said when the little girl craned her head to locate the sound of his voice. “I’m here,” Do-Lord made his voice low and crooning. “I’m right beside you. I’m going to put my arm over you. What kind of knot did you use to secure the anchor?”
“A figure of eight.”
If she tied it correctly, it would easily hold both of their weights. “Okay, then I’m going to reach around you and take hold of the rope. It might bounce a little, but I’ve got you. I’m not going to let you fall.
“You’re doing great,” he said when he had one hand on the rope and her little body pressed between him and the limestone. “I’m going to bring my knees up and make a lap. Let your thighs sit on my thighs. That way we can move together. Now we need to go down about a foot.”
When he felt her weight against his thighs, he said, “I’m going to let us down now. Ready?”
“I can’t let go,” she said in a small voice, for the first time truly frightened.
“That’s all right. You don’t have to. Just let the rope slide through your hands.”
“I mean my fingers-they won’t move. I can’t move my hands.”
“Okay, in that case, we won’t go down, we’ll go up.” The first necessity was to take every bit of strain from her arms and shoulders. The problem was equal parts spasm of abused muscles and fear. Even if she could work against the spasm, the most primitive part of her brain wouldn’t let go while she felt like she was dangling.
He grasped the rope and pulled until her hands were below the level of her shoulders. He now supported one hundred percent of her weight. It wasn’t much, seventy pounds or so. “Is that better?”
Inside the safety cage he’d made of his arms and legs he felt her draw in a deep, shuddering breath. The worst part about dangling for long periods was that a person couldn’t breathe well in that position, which increased anxiety and fatigue. She relaxed against his chest. “How are we going to get down?” she asked at last.
“Don’t worry. We’ll get down. I promise. Just let yourself rest a minute.” He closed one hand over hers, and rather than attempting to pry her fingers away from the rope, stroked firmly from her wrist to her fingertips, encouraging the muscles to lengthen. He felt her pinkie relax first, then her ring finger.
Her whole body settled against his as the security of the human cage he had made around her penetrated her fear. Now was the time to move.
“Emmie, you there?”
“I’m here.” Emmie leaned out the window as far as was safe, but they were beyond her line of sight. She’d thrown the window open in time to hear Caleb say, “Then we’ll go up,” but she couldn’t hear what Vicky had said. It seemed like they’d been “up” a long time, but probably it was less than a minute.
Though she couldn’t see them, Emmie had been hanging onto the sound of Caleb’s voice. From the first time she met him she’d been captured by his voice, it’s flexibility and latent strength. Now as she listened to him reassuring the child, she heard the full power of his voice unleashed. Not harsh or loud, it was pitched to soothe, to reassure, and to instill confidence. Gentle, tender, almost lighthearted, yet earnest, she knew he meant with every fiber of his being exactly what he said. He was master of this situation, and Vicky was completely safe.
She wondered if this voice was yet another mask, or belonged to the man behind the mask.
“Okay, Emmie,” Caleb’s voice floated from above her. “Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to lower us. When we’re level with your window, I’m going to work us over to it. Vicky’s going to hold out her arm, and you’re going to catch it and pull her in head first.” His words in his easygoing drawl were backed up by will so focused and implacable, she could feel in her bones the inevitability that she would do what he said. “Do you understand?”
“All right, Little Bit,” he spoke to Vicky again, “we’re going down. One leg down. That’s right. Move with me. There are plenty of good footholds. You’ve got it. You’re doing great. It’s no more than two or three steps.” Through every movement he talked to Vicky in the same calm, confident voice.
There were rough scrabbling and scuffing sounds, then they came into view, and the sight snagged at Emmie’s heart. He had Vicky enveloped in his strength, and moving as if they were one, he kept her back, the backs of her legs and arms in contact with his front.
When he saw Emmie leaning out the window, Caleb’s teeth flashed white in a rather fierce-looking smile. “Good girl, Emmie. I want you to keep your weight inside the window though. When you catch Vicky’s arm, I just want you to add momentum, understand?”
Emmie drew back. The window’s wide aperture was filled with man and child. Before she could react, he ordered, “Put your arm out, Vicky, now.”
At the same moment that the little girl reached out, he grasped the waistband of her jeans and thrust her forward. It was a tour de force of strength, coordination, and timing. Almost reflexively, Emmie grabbed the child’s outstretched hand and tugged. Vicky tumbled into the room, while Emmie stumbled backwards to avoid being bowled over.
“Out of the way. I’m coming in.”
Vicky scrambled to her feet and out of his way. Caleb hooked his hands on the sash above his head and in a smooth pull-up and tuck worthy of a gold medalist, sent his feet and legs through the aperture. With a perfectly timed release, he stuck the landing.
Vicky, her face so white each freckle across her cheeks stood out, grabbed his arm as soon as he was in the room. “Don’t tell. Please don’t tell,” she pleaded.
Without answering her Caleb lowered the window and locked it, then stalked,
prowled,
with the fluid, deliberate, dangerous tread of a big cat, which could be contained but never tamed, to the deep wing chair near the door. Emmie had thrown his shoes and socks there as soon as she entered the room. Grim vertical creases bracketed his mouth. His silence was more shocking to Emmie than yelling would have been. He’d been so confident, so secure in his ability to scale the side of a house, so jaunty as he supported his own weight with one arm, Emmie hadn’t realized how scared he was. But now the extreme control of every movement told of the iron clamp he had on his feelings.