Take a Chance on Me (110 page)

He felt one side of his mouth twitch and knew he couldn't stop himself. "I'm always hungry, Emma," he said in that dead man's voice.

Emma dragged her eyes all over him—that golden-boy face with the broken nose, the big shoulders, the sexy mouth…

"Nice place," she said.

"My favorite," he said.

They were surrounded by laughter, the squawk of sea gulls, the clatter of dishes, and the crack of mallets on crab shells. They were festive sounds—summer sounds—nearly ready to be packed away for the winter season. She took a deep breath and savored it.

The deck snuggled up to a little man-made beach along Bayside Landing. At least thirty people were crammed onto picnic tables on the deck and another fifteen sat at dining tables on the narrow strip of sand, under umbrellas, surrounded by transplanted palm trees and did torches. The combination of a legitimately pretty setting and tacky décor was pure Baltimore , and it made her smile.

Glancing around, she noticed the word Tobin scrawled in pencil at the edge of their paper-covered table.

Thomas must have called ahead and reserved this table and now there she was, with him, in public, with his name in big letters for the world to see. And it made her feel special.

Why was that? She was fiercely attached to her own last name and never took Aaron's when they married. In fact, she'd never even considered hyphenating it—Emma Jenkins-Kramer just never sounded right to her.

But Emma Jenkins-Tobin? Now that had a nice cadence to it. Familiar, even. Like she'd heard it all her life.

Emma sucked in a mouthful of air and started to cough. Thomas offered her a bottle of Corona , a lime wedge perched on the lip of the glass.

"Here. Shall we make a toast?" He tapped her bottle with his own. "To smart consultants."

"To Hairy."

Thomas nodded, raising his bottle again. "To Hairy the Strange Little Dog. If it weren't for him, I'd be sleeping alone every night."

He tipped back his beer, and Emma watched Thomas's lips kiss the glass rim of the bottle, his tongue press into the round opening, his throat muscles ripple as he gulped.

How long had it been since the completely outrageous kiss on her porch? A couple weeks. Or a nanosecond. Or several lifetimes ago. The truth was, she'd forgotten how time worked.

"I called ahead and placed our order. I hope you don't mind."

Emma was relieved to talk—it kept her brain busy. "Let me guess—crabs?"

All around them was the evidence of serious crab consumption—tables heaped with piles of shells, buckets on the deck floor overflowing with shells, bowls of drawn butter, empty beer pitchers or bottles, and only an occasional basket of rolls or bowl of coleslaw or corn. This place was for genuine crab connoisseurs only.

"Yep. Crabs." He quickly looked away.

Emma sighed. It appeared Thomas wasn't going to say anything about the dress. The window of opportunity to mention her appearance had just closed, and he sat there, not saying anything about how she looked, not even able to hold her gaze.

It wouldn't have taken much. A simple "You look pretty tonight," or "That's a nice dress," and she'd have already vaulted over the table and crushed his body in an upper-thigh death grip.

But he didn't say a thing. And that said it all, didn't it? Their waitress arrived with a huge platter of hard-shell crabs. "Two dozen large," she said, lowering it onto the center of the picnic table. Another waitress followed close behind with butter, coleslaw, and soft, white rolls. "Anything else?"

"Thanks. I think we're all set," Thomas said with a friendly nod.

Emma's eyes flew to the waitress—it was pure female instinct. She was a pretty redhead no more than nineteen, and she was flirting outrageously with Thomas. Apparently, it didn't bother her that Thomas was nearly old enough to be her father—the little Jezebel! Emma watched the girl give Thomas a playful smile.

"Let me know if I can do anything else for you."

Emma snorted. Right. It was all she could do to keep her next thought to herself. Over my dead body, cupcake. But then the waitress turned, swinging her slim hips all the way back to the kitchen.

The jealousy thumped Emma right in the center of her chest. She froze, surprised by the force of it. But then, of course women would find Thomas attractive—didn't she remember her initial response to him? She nearly had to be hosed down!

And really, so what if women flirted with him? She and Thomas were just friendly colleagues, correct?

Nothing more. She had no claim on him. She had no expectations.

So she was wearing the infamous blue dress for him? So she was plotting to scratch out the eyes of a teenager for him?

She was even wearing clip-on earrings for him! She was thinking about hyphenating for him! She was falling in love with him!

Emma dropped her head in her hand and rubbed her forehead. "I'm in serious trouble," she said out loud.

Thomas laughed softly. Emma raised her eyes to him, certain that he'd just witnessed her painful journey to self-awareness. But he wasn't even looking at her.

"Yeah, it's a thing of beauty, isn't it?" He stared at the red mountain of steaming crabs, oblivious to all else. Then he peeked over the platter and shot her a grin.

She smiled back. She straightened up. "So how many of those can you eat, Rugby Boy?"

"I could eat 'em all." He wiggled his scarred eyebrow and the semicolon danced. "But I suppose I'll save a few for you."

They spent the next hour eating crabs, telling stories, and laughing. Thomas talked more tonight about himself than he ever had—probably because he no longer had anything to hide from her.

He talked about some of his cases. He talked about his childhood—how his mother had left when he was ten, never to be seen again. "She's been married several times since. She was in Italy last we knew, about ten years ago."

"I'm sorry," Emma said.

"Yeah, well, it was a rough lesson," was his only comment.

Then he talked about how he'd introduced Rollo to Pam one spring break and it was love at first sight.

When he talked about Petey and Jack, his eyes sparkled.

Though the conversation was enjoyable, she was shocked by the way Thomas ate—the quick, methodical dismantling of the crustaceans, the well-placed whack of the mallet, rapid-fire sleight-of-hand movements followed by fast transfers to his mouth, then bam! An entire creature had been picked apart, licked clean, and its remains tossed to the heap of shells at the other end of the table—all while talking.

What Thomas told her next explained his skill—his grandfather was an Eastern Shore waterman, and he used to take him out on the crab boat as a kid, when Chesapeake crabs were plentiful.

"I checked with the owner here tonight—half of these pups aren't local—they're flown in from Texas and Louisiana ." Thomas dipped a claw into the drawn butter and popped it in his mouth, scraping it clean. "Did you know the price is up to sixty-five dollars a dozen for good-sized hard-shells these days? I remember my granddad used to get half that much for an entire bushel."

Emma's breath caught—he was spending close to one hundred and fifty dollars on crabs tonight?

Thomas noticed her worry and waved it away as he threw another carcass on the pile. "It's worth it to me.

This is a special occasion. I can afford it."

"The state police must pay better than I realized."

He hummed thoughtfully as he chewed. "I make enough to get by, but I also got extra help along the way.

My dad was a big-shot corporate attorney and he left me and Pam a nice chunk of change when he passed away. Money's not a problem for me."

Emma looked up in surprise, then smiled wistfully. "Now that's something I look forward to hearing myself say someday."

Thomas remained quiet for a few moments, letting the guilt wash over him—again. He should have told her that he paid her consulting fee. But she wouldn't have wanted that, right? She wouldn't have agreed to work with him, right? She wouldn't have had any reason to spend time with him.

He couldn't keep putting this off. He had to come clean—about everything.

"Emma, I—"

"Thanks again for snagging the contract for me, Thomas. I'm sure it wasn't easy and you probably got a lot of ribbing about it. I wish… " Emma stopped and stared down at the dinner roll in her fingers. "I really needed the money—my practice needed it."

Thomas shook his head and began to say something but Emma jumped in again. "Aaron wasn't the most responsible person in the world. Money was a constant struggle with us and he had some personal problems that got us into trouble. But it was my fault too, for letting him get away with it."

Thomas answered her in a soft voice. "Beckett told me."

Her head snapped up and she blinked. "He did? When? What did he tell you?"

Thomas shrugged. "The first night I came to your house. He told me, and I quote, 'Aaron had an eye for the ladies and couldn't hold on to a dollar to save his soul. He wasn't good enough for my girl. Never was.'"

Emma snorted and took another sip of beer. "That about sums it up, unfortunately."

Thomas waited for a few more details, but they didn't come. He had to smile—the only human being in the world he wouldn't mind opening up to him about a failed relationship wasn't interested in doing so.

"You're a very private person, aren't you, Emma?"

She tipped her head. "Not really. Not with the people I'm close to—the people I love."

That sentence shot him through with pain—she didn't love him. But hold on. Of course she didn't love him! They'd only known each other a couple weeks! And yes, he was extremely attracted to her, but he didn't exactly want her to love him, did he? He didn't want any woman to love him!

Did he?

"Thomas, do you remember that night on my porch when we kissed?" Emma stared down at the brown paper tablecloth and her voice was barely more than a whisper.

"Only every other second."

Her breath was coming fast and her pulse was kicking hard and all she could think was that he didn't say anything about her dress. He didn't say anything! It was obvious that whatever was happening was a bit one-sided—he might not mind taking her to bed a few times, but he didn't like her enough to notice she'd gone to extreme lengths to look nice tonight. He didn't like her enough to be courteous. Respectful. Appreciative.

She had to remind herself that this was not the type of man she wanted in her life—even for a few nights.

She deserved more, and though she'd convinced herself that Thomas was more, she had to admit she may have been wrong.

She needed to take charge of this situation, take care of herself. If she didn't, who would?

"When I said this wasn't the right time, I meant that in a couple ways." She bit her bottom lip with nervousness. "It's not just Leelee."

When she brought her soft blue eyes level with his, Thomas nearly moaned with longing.

"I just signed my divorce papers, Thomas. I just got out of an extremely bad situation, and I'm not exactly at my best—I'm kind of exhausted, actually." She let her elbow rest on the edge of the table and cupped her chin in her hand, looking at him. "It took me a long time to realize that I wasn't responsible for Aaron. It took everything I had to get out of that relationship. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Sure I do." He cracked another claw. "You're scared."

Emma sighed and shook her head. "I'm saying I need to be very careful. I'm trying to decide if I'm ready to get involved with anyone—with you—beyond being friendly business partners. I'm not convinced that you're the right kind of man for me."

She sat back and said nothing more.

Thomas's movements had slowed considerably. He used a napkin to wipe the streaks of red spices and butter from his fingers and grabbed for his bottle of beer. He took a long, slow drag, and let his eyes wander from that lovely, confused face to that dress again. Damn, he shouldn't have done that!

How ironic. She'd just told him he wasn't her type and he'd picked that particular moment to nearly explode in his chinos just from looking at her. All that thick, gleaming hair, that succulent cleavage, those ripe, red lips slippery with butter.

Never in his life had he known a woman as fun, appealing, smart, delicious—oh, Jesus, as fuckable—as Miss Marple over there, and all he wanted was to clear off the tabletop with one violent sweep of his forearm, lay her down on the butcher paper, and let his tongue slip over every goddamn inch of that farmgirl skin. He wanted to stretch his body over hers, feel her wrap around him, hear her scream his name.

He wanted … her.

Thomas put down the beer bottle and looked her right in the eye. He'd heard her words clear enough. And as he studied her, observed her body language, he heard that, too. And the actions were speaking much louder than the words.

The sexual heat gathered around them as fast as the twilight, and it pushed against his chest, against his cock, and into his brain.

Yes, her words said, "I'm not sure." But the soft pleading in her eyes, the way she'd been jealous of the waitress, the seductive pout of her lips, her quick breathing, that fucking dress!—all of it screamed, "Put your hands on me—now!"

Thomas didn't know what to do. He could hardly breathe.

So he started in on another crab.

Emma simply stared at him. Her lips were on fire. She didn't know if it was the beer, the heavy-handed dose of Old Bay spice on the crabs, or just plain sexual greed, but her lips felt unbearably sensitive and swollen and a liquid fire was rushing through her veins.

She watched Thomas as he ate—consumed was more like it. His mouth and chin were smeared slick with butter. He was an eating machine—evenly paced in his movements, denuding one helpless creature after another. It was a kind of lusty, barbaric dance that made her dizzy.