It was al the notice she needed. Robbie was home and she wasn't on cal. The answering machine could handle her cals for the night.
She flipped the switch to silence the telephone's ringer. Upstairs, she silenced her bedroom extension. Her day was over. Emily Jordan was going to bed.
Half an hour later, she emerged from a hot shower feeling exhausted, but once again somewhat in control of her life. She hit the bed, and within minutes was sound asleep.
It was nearly noon before Emily worked up the nerve to cal Eric and tel him she'd prefer that he drop her car off and pick his up at the hospital. She wasn't keen on getting an earful about not the hospital. She wasn't keen on getting an earful about not answering her phone, especialy since Eric's third and last message had been quite blunt.
Damn it, Emily. Where the hell are you?
Rather than bother Robbie for the number, she'd taken it off of her caler ID. As she dialed it now, she reminded herself she didn't owe Eric Cameron any apologies or explanations. She wasn't the one who had disappeared with a car that wasn't hers.
She frowned as Miranda Manzelrod's voice told her they were sorry they couldn't come to the phone right now, but—
Emily slammed down the receiver, feeling as if she'd been slapped with a wet towel. He'd spent the night at another woman's house and had the nerve to ask her where she'd been?
Her day nose-dived after that. By the three o'clock staff meeting she could hardly move. Her skating muscles were letting her know how much they resented having been pressed into service. By the time she limped to Eric's Porsche at four-thirty, half an hour late, she had a throbbing headache and was ready to catch a plane to the nearest deserted island.
An hour later, Anna Hamilton Caldwel, Robbie's regular sitter and Emily's savior on earth, was stil clucking about Emily's inability to do justice to her chicken cacciatore. Meanwhile Robbie was upstairs trashing his room, colecting materials for the science project he was doing with Glen Simms. Anna had volunteered to project he was doing with Glen Simms. Anna had volunteered to drop Robbie off at Glen's on her way to meet Augustus for dinner.
Emily hoped they'd be gone by the time Eric arrived, so she could tel him what she thought of him without an audience.
"Mom, do you know where my scissors are?"
Emily sighed and went upstairs. She'd just bundled Robbie up against the February cold and kissed him goodbye when Eric puled into the driveway, fifteen minutes early. So much for a private conversation. She snatched her parka from the hal closet and folowed Robbie and Anna into the moonlit yard.
Eric grinned at the unexpected welcoming committee that tumbled out of the brightly lit two-story house, and rounded the hood of the Suburban to meet them on the sidewalk. “Going somewhere, Sport?"
Robbie held up a Dayton's shopping bag ful of cardboard, string, construction paper and aluminum foil. “Me and Glen are going to work on our science project. We're making a rocket ship."
Eric puled out an empty paper towel rol and examined it under the gaslight's glow. “These for the boosters?"
Robbie nodded vigorously. “And then we have to present it to the whole class."
Eric grinned and returned the cardboard rol to the bag. “Good for you. I can't wait to see it, myself.” He offered a hand to Anna. “You you. I can't wait to see it, myself.” He offered a hand to Anna. “You must be Nanna."
She smiled. “It's Anna, unless you're eight years old and I've been taking care of you since before you were born."
Eric laughed, liking her immediately. “Robbie's spoken of you often.
I'm pleased to meet you, Anna."
"The feeling's mutual, Mr. Cameron."
"Please, cal me Eric.” He turned to Emily, who stood apart from the group, hands deep in her parka pockets. She looked like she'd had another rough day at the hospital. He wished he had time to ask her about it. Instead he offered an empathetic smile. “Hi."
"Hi.” Her voice held al the warmth of an outdoor ice rink at dawn.
Eric braced himself. Miranda had most likely been right about Emily thinking he had something cooking with Miranda. Why else would Emily have chosen to ignore his cals last night?
Anna stepped into the chil between them. “We'd better get going, Robbie, or Glen wil wonder if you're coming.” She smiled at Eric again. “Good luck against Toronto tonight."
"Wil you be at the game?"
"Wouldn't miss it. We've got season tickets in the lower gold section, right behind the penalty box."
"I'l look for you."
"Hopefuly not from inside the box,” she teased.
"I'l second that."
Acutely aware that Emily stood behind him in frozen silence, Eric watched Anna hustle Robbie across the street and into a late model Cadilac parked two doors down. He returned their waves as they drove by, and muled over the irony of Emily's sitter driving a Caddy while Emily drove a clunker, and a behemoth at that. He turned and found her watching the Caddy's tailights disappear, a softness in her features that hadn't been there earlier.
"She seems like a very special woman."
"She is."
Craving her nearness, he stepped closer. “She's been taking care of Robbie since before he was born?"
"Yes."
The crisp night air sharpened his awareness of her subtle scent.
White Linen. He smiled and thought of the tiny bottle on his nightstand. “It sounds like an interesting story."
She glanced at him, her expression flat. “Trust me. It isn't."
"I'd like to hear it sometime, anyway."
"I don't think so, Eric. Here.” She held out his keys.
Here? That was it? She wasn't even going to ask him about Miranda, or why he'd taken so long to return her car? So she was back to condemning him out of hand. Great. He took the keys from her and inclined his head toward the Porsche. “Any problems with it?” She must have parked it on the street to keep the driveway open for the Suburban. When he'd cruised by in Bil's truck at midnight, his Boxter had been nestled close to the house.
Her smile was rueful. “No, it drove like a dream."
"It ought to, after what I just spent on repairs."
"Don't remind me. Most of my tax refund is going toward making sure that one lasts a little longer."
He looked at the Suburban, then at Emily. “Why do you need such a big car, Emily?"
She looked at him, not answering. Finaly she said, “I just do."
Okay. So the subject was off limits. But since her finances were apparently on the tight side—she was probably stil paying off her medical school loans—he decided not to mention the new exhaust system, or that he'd had the mechanic fix anything else on the Suburban that looked like it was about to break. Between that and the tune-up, Emily's Subway should last at least another six months the tune-up, Emily's Subway should last at least another six months before she'd need to dip into that tax refund.
He returned his gaze to the Suburban and congratulated himself on his restraint. He'd wanted to get her new tires, but knew that would be a dead giveaway. He hoped she wasn't the kind of woman who paid attention to what was under the hood of her car. Or the chassis. Good thing it was dark out or she might've spotted the new tailpipe. In a day or two the city's soot and slush would take care of that.
"Why wouldn't you answer the phone last night?” he asked.
Again, she said nothing at first, then offered a deliberate, “I was sleeping."
He looked over at her, to find her eyes clear and steady. “Do you usualy ignore the telephone when you're in bed?"
"When I'm sleeping, yes."
"What if the hospital cals?"
"I have a pager. If the hospital cals, I cal them back."
Her deliberate coolness irritated him. That, and the fact that they were having this inane conversation in frigid darkness, when they could be inside, warm and cozy. Eric marshaled his patience and tried again. “Do they cal often?"
"Often enough."
She'd closed up tighter than a manager negotiating a trade. He cut to the chase. “What happened last night, Emily?"
Her cool slipped into incredulity. “You're asking me?"
"Of course I'm asking you! You're the one who wouldn't answer the phone!"
Again she said nothing, and he realized she wouldn't. There were times when her stubbornness made him want to bang his head in frustration. “Emily?” he asked with quiet deliberation, “Is it possible you're jealous?"
"Of course not! What's between you and Dr. Manzelrod is your business."
Eric grinned. He was on to her now. “Then what's bothering you?"
Her mouth opened twice before she spoke. “I expected you to return my car sooner, that's al.” She held out a palm, her emotions once again in check. “Now, may I have my keys?"
"I'l trade you. The keys for a cup of coffee. Inside."
"Forget it."
"Why? Are you afraid to be alone with me?"
"Don't you have a game to go to?"
He nodded and moved closer, watching her eyes darken as he did.
“I have to be at the arena, suited up, in less than an hour. Which means I've got ten minutes, max, before I have to make tracks. Ten minutes, Emily. What could happen in ten minutes?"
She met his gaze for the longest moment, her own quietly searching, then closed her eyes and sighed, as if exhausted. “Would you just leave, Eric? Take your car and go? Please?"
He saw what it cost her to say please, and didn't like the way it made him feel. But more was at stake here than transitory feelings.
Something was happening between them. Something he wasn't about to ignore—and he wasn't about to let her ignore it either.
"After I kiss you."
She stepped back as if he were going to steal one right there in the driveway. “No."
"This isn't an impulse, Emily,” he said, forcing himself to stay put when his instincts led him to folow her. It's something I've thought about almost constantly since we met. To be honest, I want to do a lot more than just kiss you, but—"
Shaking her head, she backed up another step and lifted a hand.
“No."
Before she could turn away, Eric slowly, deliberately and carefuly stepped forward. Just as carefuly he reached up and gently wrapped his fingers around her upheld hand. He wanted her to see him coming. If she resisted at al, he'd release her and leave immediately.
His heart thudded hard as she went perfectly stil.
Slowly, he drew her hand to his chest. “As I was saying, I'd like to do a whole lot more than kiss you, but it's kind of hard to make love to a woman who's always pushing you away."
She looked up at him, clearly confused. Eric took heart. Confusion beat rejection any day of the week. “Please don't push me away any more, Emily. I won't hurt you. I swear it.” He splayed her palm across his heart, pounding inside his open jacket. “Can't you feel what you do to me?"
"Eric, no,” she whispered, but this time it was almost a plea. “I can't."
"Of course you can. You can do anything you put your mind to."
"Not this time,” she said.
He ventured a smal smile. “Does that mean you're a little bit interested?"
"Eric, you wouldn't understand."
"Eric, you wouldn't understand."
"Try me."
"I can't.” She stepped back and broke the connection.
"Okay,” he said, mentaly scrambling for the rebound. “No kiss, but how about a peek inside? I realy don't have time for anything more, Emily."
She looked bewildered by his request. “Why?"
"I'm curious about you. Fascinated by you is more like it."
Slowly, she shook her head. His hopes sank. “There's not that much to see, Eric. We live a very ordinary life."
"That's part of the fascination."
Emily just looked at him. She didn't know what else to do. She'd never known a man like Eric Cameron. Her protests and rejections didn't seem to faze him at al. And when he pressed her, it was with the caution of one approaching a startled animal. He seemed to have some sort of instinct that told him what she needed from him.
The idea fascinated her as much as he claimed to be fascinated by her. How did he get to be so sensitive to a woman's needs?
"Al right then,” she said slowly, not at al sure she was doing the right thing. “I'l give you the five-minute tour."
He smiled, and she could tel it was genuine. “Thank you."
He smiled, and she could tel it was genuine. “Thank you."
They entered the house and she moved to the right. “The living room,” she said, waving an arm to encompass her comfortable green couch, coffee table, pair of matching chairs, ancient console television and the piano on the far wal. Looking it over, she was grateful for Anna's penchant for good housekeeping. She took off her parka and hung it in the hal closet while Eric crossed the room to stand in front of the piano. His hands in his black leather jacket pockets, he studied the pewter-framed photos on top of the old upright. Lined up like trophies were pictures of Robbie in first, second and third grades.
"That's me, graduating from med school,” she said, coming to stand beside him. “And that's two months later, when Robbie was born.
That one was in front of Anna's house in St. Paul,” she said of a shot of Robbie as a toddler playing with building blocks on the porch of a huge Victorian.
"You're very photogenic,” Eric said quietly.
"Thank you."
"Do you play?"
"Anna does. The piano is hers."
"Why doesn't she keep it at her house?"
"She already has one there. This one was hers before she