Take a Chance on Me (25 page)

At that pronouncement, Thomas laughed outright, a sound that shocked him as much as it did Emma. He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed like that. It was so loud it woke up Hairy, and the dog's pointy little face popped up over the edge of the table and he yawned.

"That's exactly right, Emma. I'm a hired gun."

She frowned at him. "God, that sounds perfectly awful. No wonder you're so grumpy. I'd be in a bad mood too if I had to do that for a living."

Thomas rubbed a hand over his mouth to wipe away his smile. "Yeah, I guess I'm a little rusty at being the life of the party. My best friend tells me that I've been about as much fun as nail fungus lately."

She laughed, reaching across the table to touch Thomas's fingers where they clasped his coffee cup. She stroked him.

Thomas stopped breathing. He stared down at his fingers under hers, his flesh changed yet unchanged, jumping from the contact yet perfectly still. He hadn't wanted her to do that, had he? He hadn't somehow asked her to touch him using some kind of damned indirect communication, had he?

Emma probably touched everyone—the old woman in the waiting room for instance—and it didn't mean anything special. He raised his eyes from their fingers to her face, and he nearly groaned at the tenderness in her expression. She couldn't possibly know how long he'd gone without this. She couldn't possibly know how much he wanted her.

Dear God—he wanted her.

Emma pulled her hand away and leaned back again, meeting his steady gaze. Her face was the loveliest thing he'd ever seen. He really needed to get the hell out of this restaurant.

"Nail fungus?" Her smile was full of mischief. "You do know there's a cure for that, don't you?"

Oh, God. Hell, yeah. He knew exactly what would cure him.

"So what's the whole story of how you ended up with Hairy?" she asked. "I'm just dying to know about the 'flamboyant' guy and why he gave you his dog."

Thomas cringed and finished off his coffee with one big gulp, looking around for the waitress. She was perched on a red vinyl stool at the empty lunch counter, her nose in a romance novel. "He was a friend," he answered, willing the waitress to look his way. She didn't. "He died and I took Hairy."

"And do you plan to keep him?"

When Thomas turned back to her, Emma was waiting for him. Her gaze was direct—no judgment, no criticism, just curiosity.

"I can help you find a home for him if that's what you want to do," she said.

Thomas stared at the top half of Hairy's face, now visible over the edge of the tabletop. The dog's perfectly round eyeballs looked as if they could pop from his bony skull at any, moment. But at least he wasn't wheezing anymore. Emma had been right about that—it was the cigar smoke. Back at VetMed, Hairy got a steroid shot and Thomas got a lecture about smoking cigars around the dog and a hundred and twenty-five bucks later they were merrily on their way.

"… because I know a nice woman in Richmond who might be willing to… "

Thomas was halfway listening to Emma, halfway looking at her breasts under the sweatshirt, halfway noticing how he was more than halfway hard just sitting across the table from her, wondering what the hell he was going to do with Hairy.

The dog was a train wreck. A disaster. And he didn't even like dogs, let alone ugly, shrimpy, psychologically challenged ones. And now he couldn't even smoke his Cohibas in his own damn house because the dog had respiratory problems?

What was happening to him? What was happening to his life? Why the hell was he even thinking about getting this woman into his bed when there was probably an eighty percent chance that she had some fatal personality flaw and about a hundred percent chance that she'd leave him as soon as she learned about what Nina so lovingly called his "defect"?

Your basic guaranteed catastrophe, right there.

And it was all Hairy's fault. If it weren't for Hairy, he wouldn't be sitting there in the middle of the night with Emma Jenkins, trying not to like her.

He wouldn't be looking at her sensual, soft body parts, trying to figure out how he could touch them.

He wouldn't have to be the heartless bastard who forces an orphaned puppy to live with strangers!

Damn the little mutant.

"I suppose it wouldn't hurt to see if there's someone interested," Thomas said with a shrug. "They'd be nice people, though, right? People who'd take good care of him?"

Emma smiled at him again. "Sure, Thomas," she said.

* * *

First off, Emma had never seen a paper-pusher built like Thomas Tobin. He might be pushing stuff around, but she was certain it was heavy stuff like punching bags and barbells and bad guys, not departmental memos.

The man had "law and order" written all over him.

And the story about the way he acquired Hairy? She knew he was leaving out a few crucial details—like how exactly the guy died and why Thomas felt obligated to take the dog home. Emma knew a massive load of guilt when she saw it.

And now Thomas was talking about his rugby team, and she used the excuse just to admire the loose curls of his short hair, the dark blond scruff along his jawline and up his cheeks, the smooth, golden skin below his eyes.

She'd grown accustomed to his appearance in the last three hours or so, enough that her blood wasn't beating against the back of her eyes like it did at first. Enough that she could breathe normally.

Biological imperatives aside, she was actually beginning to like the man—despite his best efforts. She liked that he was kind to a frightened little dog. She liked his rusty sense of humor.

And she was intrigued by how he tried to hide his smiles, as if joy was something he didn't want to succumb to in public.

She kept thinking about the other day in the exam room, when it felt like he was pulling her toward him and pushing her away at the same time. He was doing it again tonight. She could see him struggle with it when she held his gaze, and especially when she'd touched him.

No, Thomas Tobin wasn't a dullard, despite her first impression. But he was indecisive, conflicted—

hardly an ideal psychological profile for whatever kind of cop he might be.

Emma wondered if it was just women who made him nervous. That seemed unlikely—a man as good-looking as Thomas surely had to develop razor-sharp instincts around the opposite sex simply to survive.

Maybe something had happened recently that made him question those instincts.

Emma sat hack to ponder these questions and enjoy the view.

"I'm getting kind of old for the game, really. Rollo and I are the senior citizens of our team." Thomas shook his head. "It used to be I was sore for the first half of every Sunday—now it takes me until Wednesday to recover, just in time to show up for practice."

"So why do you still play?"

The corner of Thomas's mouth twitched and he rolled the empty coffee cup between his palms. "I spend a lot of hours behind a desk, so I crave the physicality of the sport. I love hitting and getting hit, how it makes me feel alive. The game takes everything out of me, makes everything else disappear. It always has."

"Have you been hurt a lot?"

His eyes sparkled. "I've been beaten to a pulp more times than a redheaded stepchild, so after nineteen years there's nothing left to lose—believe me. I plan to play until they drag me off the pitch in a body bag."

Emma felt her eyes go wide.

"See this?" Thomas pointed to the semicolon above his right eyebrow. "Stitches here twice—damaged some nerves—you might see me squint every once in a while. My nose has been broken twice. I've had knee surgery, dislocated shoulders, other things. See my hands?" He spread his fingers out on the tabletop.

"The only time I can lay them flat or make a tight fist is in the off season. The rest of the time they're too busted up."

Emma saw a few swollen knuckles and two digits that veered off in strange angles. He actually seemed proud of all this.

"It sounds like a lovely hobby."

He cocked a golden eyebrow in amusement. "Flower arranging is a hobby. Rugby is one of the top four reasons to live."

Emma didn't miss the gleam in his eye. "I'd love to hear about the other three," she said.

Thomas abruptly looked away, and Emma watched him struggle with his response just as the waitress came by to offer more coffee. They both declined.

"I should probably get going," Thomas said, reaching for the check.

"This was nice. Thank you." Emma tried to hide her disappointment that their get-together was over. "It's been a while since I've been out all night." She noticed that Thomas didn't respond to that. "I'm kind of a night owl anyway. Insomnia sometimes."

"Really?" Thomas raised his eyes as he counted out bills. "What do you do when you can't sleep?"

Emma chuckled, recalling her lurid behavior earlier that night. "I mostly sit on the front porch with Ray and listen to the crickets and tree frogs."

Thomas's hands froze and a frown marred his smooth forehead. He kept his eyes away from hers. "So Ray is the guy you're seeing these days?"

Emma nearly snorted with laughter, but stopped herself out of respect for the pained look on Thomas's face. He really did like her! It wasn't just her imagination!

"Ray's an old, blind, three-legged Shepherd cross with a flatulence problem."

He did it again, Emma saw—he rubbed his mouth with one of his big hands to hide his smile.

"You know, I won't be offended if you let your guard down every once in a while, Thomas. You've got a killer smile."

He shot up from the booth and threw down a tip, then crossed his arms over his chest and looked around nervously. It seemed to Emma that it took everything the man had not to bolt through the door without her.

Once in the parking lot, Thomas jerked toward her, his face stern. He stuck out his hands. "I should probably take Hairy now."

"Oh! Sure." Emma unrolled the sweatshirt from around the sleeping dog and leaned closer to Thomas for the transfer. He reached in, accidentally pressing his hands on top of hers, his skin hot and rough.

"Would you go out on a real date with me, Thomas?" The question spilled from Emma without the tiniest bit of forethought, and she closed her eyes in embarrassment. She felt him reach under her hands to find Hairy, then pull away.

When she opened her eyes, he was staring at her, absolutely stricken.

Her heart fell to her feet. "Thomas?"

He was suddenly on her, cupping her face in one of his hands, rubbing his scratchy cheek against her smooth one. He ran his fingers through her hair and down the side of her neck, and pressed his body close to hers, Hairy squished between them.

Emma's heart pounded. She had to lock her knees to remain standing. What was happening?

Then Thomas put his lips against her ear and … oh, God! He flicked his tongue into the tender hollow underneath, then bit down sharply on her earlobe just before he whispered, "I can't, Emma. I'm not the man for the job. I'm so sorry."

Thomas stepped back, tucked Hairy into the crook of his arm, and jogged off toward his shiny, yuppie car, leaving her blinking in disbelief.

Her body buzzed with shame and surprise and the sizzling rush left behind by his touch, his tongue, his teeth, his voice. It suddenly dawned on her that Thomas Tobin's rejection was hotter than all the actual dates she'd had in the last year—combined!

Tears stung her eyes. She didn't understand! She could have sworn … but he seemed … he said …

Talk about words and actions being in direct conflict! Talk about abnormal men!

As the car pulled away, Emma watched Hairy jump up and press his little face to the glass as if to say goodbye. As the car turned, she got a look at the bumper sticker on the rear fender, illuminated by the first light of dawn: Life Sucks. Then You Die.

* * *

Uh-oh.

I'm no expert, but I'm pretty sure you're an idiot when it comes to females. Why did you leave Soft Hands? Why did you rub up against her like that and then make her cry?