Against the background of dark, towering evergreens, Emma’s flowing white shirt and pale face made her look like a nymph that had just stepped out of the woods. The camera had captured the delicate features beneath the broad hat brim and Bruce found himself staring, entranced.
He had seen beautiful women before, had worked closely with a number of them. What was it about this one that made her so special? What had happened on her doorstep when they had parted? It had been nothing but a handshake, a polite, impersonal way to seal a business arrangement. It had held him rooted to the spot the instant her skin had touched his.
That was twice in one day. In the short time he had been with Emma, she had managed to get past his persona twice. What was the matter with him?
Maybe the strain of the continual undercover jobs was beginning to take its toll. Xavier Jones, his contact at the task force headquarters, had been trying to convince him for months now to take a vacation. Maybe Bruce Prentice wanted to be like Bruce Prendergast and have nothing to worry about other than lounging in a canoe all day with a fishing rod in his hand. If fatigue was responsible for those inexcusable slips he had made today, then perhaps after this operation was wrapped up he should think seriously about using some of that time off that he had coming to him.
He pushed his glasses up his nose and leaned closer to the photograph of Emma. He’d taken out his contacts and stripped down to his shorts as soon as he’d locked the door behind him for the night. She didn’t know what color his eyes were, or what his true size and shape was, or what the contours of his face looked like. Yet she had flushed when he had held her hand. He’d seen her eyes widen, and felt the tremor in her fingers, and he’d known that she must have been experiencing at least a hint of the mindless pull that had raged through his body. It was crazy. It was unbelievable.
It was damned inconvenient and wouldn’t happen again.
The background check that he’d initiated this morning was far from complete, and the preliminary findings were too sparse to either condemn or exonerate. He had learned that her cabin and the ten acres that surrounded it were mortgage-free and her property tax was always paid on time. Her plane was her own, her license was a recreational one, as she had said, complete with the extra provision to allow her to fly a float plane. He’d had no more than a brief glance at the pile of envelopes that he’d deliberately knocked off her desk, but it had been enough to note the return addresses. Her sole visible means of support were the occasional fishing charters she flew, so what business would she have with the managers of seven banks from here to Connecticut?
Handling the damp print carefully, Bruce unclipped it from the string and carried it to the bed in the other room. The springs creaked as he lithely settled himself cross-legged in the center of the mattress, propped his elbows on his knees, steepled his fingers and studied Emma’s image.
Even in this cheap motel room, with the yellow glare from the overhead fixture and the stale traces of a previous occupant’s cigarette smoke, Bruce merely had to look at her face and he felt as if he were back on that hillside with the pine-scented breeze. And even though the image in front of him was black and white, he could feel the impact of her clear blue gaze.
He leaned closer, pleased to see that his trusty old camera had captured the smattering of freckles and the delicate indentation in the center of her chin. No more than a few stray wisps of hair were visible against her cheeks. A hint of a smile softened his mouth as he remembered how the deep brown strands shone with auburn highlights, and how the locks she had tucked behind her ears had swung loose when she had leaned over the table to show him the map, and how that loose white blouse had gaped....
His smile dissolved before it could develop. He was a professional; he never let himself get personally involved when he was working on a case. But he couldn’t remember experiencing such an overwhelming sense of connection with anyone before. His instinct, his gut and the odd tingling from his subconscious that had never led him wrong in the past all shouted at him that she couldn’t be guilty. He would need to be more cautious than ever. The stakes in this game, and the penalty for an error, were too high to let his feelings color his judgment.
He moved his hand to the photograph, holding his fingertips a breath away from her lips. Innocent bystander, or clever criminal? “What kind of woman are you, Emma Cassidy?”
Chapter 2
T
he morning started too early, with the shrill of the telephone and another argument with Simon. Emma raked stiff fingers through her hair and hooked the phone with her other hand, pacing as far as the side window as she tried to hold on to her patience. “No, Simon. The last time I let you borrow it, you left the tanks empty.”
“I said I was sorry. Please, Emma. Plee—eease?”
It was the same drawn out whine that he’d perfected during his childhood when he wanted to wheedle something out of his big sister. Despite her firm intentions, she felt herself soften. “You know how important the log is. Even if you didn’t want to take the trouble to record it in the book, you could have at least left a note on the window. That’s what I keep that grease pencil in the cockpit for.”
“I won’t forget again, I promise. Scout’s honor. Hope to die. But I really, really need to get to that lake. The assay results on my last samples were encouraging. This might be the break I was looking for.”
“Not today, Simon. I have a customer.”
“Another fisherman?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I don’t understand why you persist in that penny-ante stuff. I know you started out flying those charters so the locals wouldn’t wonder where your money was coming from, but you've been there three years, so your cover is solid enough. You don’t have to continue the farce about needing the work.”
“I like to fly. I like to fish. I consider it a vacation.”
“Listen, Emma, I was counting on you. If I wait until tomorrow, another prospector might have already staked the claim.”
“If it’s that important, why don’t you find another plane? There are plenty of pilots for hire in Bangor. Surely you've still got enough money left from last quarter’s dividends to allow you—”
“I don’t want anyone else to know where I'm going. Not until I've got this sewn up.”
“I can understand that, but—”
“You're not going to change your mind, are you?” His voice had switched from wheedling to sulky. “I thought you wanted to help me. You said I could count on you.”
“Not today, Simon.”
There was a pause. “Tomorrow? I promise I'll top off the fuel and fill in the log like a good boy.”
She had to fight against the urge to give him what he wanted. He was a twenty-three-year-old man, not the bewildered child that she’d protected and coddled ten years ago.
“Emma? You still there?”
She rubbed her face briskly. “I've got to go.”
“Wait! This is really important.”
His sporadic efforts at prospecting were really important. That’s what he’d said about the candy factory, the hat store and the mail-order perfume business. She clenched her jaw, hating the weakness that had her on the verge of giving in to her brother. “Call me tonight after I get back. We can talk about it then.”
“You're a peach, Emma. Thanks.”
“Right,” she said, but the dial tone was already humming in her ear. Sighing, she replaced the receiver and carried the phone back to the desk.
How could she simply turn off ten years of mothering? Simon was old enough to take charge of his own life and support himself—God knows, she had done all that and more when she had been younger than he was now—but she still felt responsible for him. Oh, he knew perfectly well how to pull her strings. For his own good, she had been trying to wean him away from her support to force him to grow up and stand on his own feet. Was she being too harsh? The nightmare of their youth had affected Simon far deeper than her, perhaps because she’d been too busy trying to hold the family together. She hadn’t had the chance to indulge in helplessness or self-pity or dependence.
No, she wouldn’t let herself criticize her brother. He had his faults, but basically he was a loving, warm person. Once he gained some self-confidence and learned to take responsibility for his actions, things would be different. Maybe his new interest in prospecting would put him on the right track. Perhaps she shouldn’t have refused him outright. She might have worked out a way to help...
“Oh, just stop it,” she muttered to herself. She strode to the corner that served as her kitchen and snatched the coffeepot off the stove. Pouring herself another cup, she tried to focus her energy on the day ahead.
Simon had been right about her not needing the money from these tourist fishing charters. But there was so much more to life than money. She loved to fly and she welcomed the excuse to spend a day fishing. Above all, she still got a kick out of the pocket change that she didn’t declare on her tax return—after what she and her family had endured in the name of law and justice, she had little respect for rules.
A beam of light swept across the front of the bookshelves. Emma twisted around in time to see Bruce’s van bump past the crest of the hill and pull to a jerky stop in front of her garage. Gears ground loudly in the predawn hush before the engine shuddered to silence.
He drove as awkwardly as he walked.
She hadn’t forgotten the strange reaction that had followed his touch. How could she? Yesterday she had tried to convince herself that the momentary awareness had to have been a fluke. Or an hallucination. But there was no denying the flutter in her stomach as she heard the loud creak of the van’s door.
A thud, followed by a metallic clatter heralded Bruce’s arrival at her front step. She paused to fortify herself with a gulp of scalding coffee before she went to answer his timid knock.
“Hi,” Bruce said, moving well back from the doorway. He ducked his head, glancing at the pile of gear at his feet. “I hope I'm not too early.”
She scrutinized his slouched form. There was nothing in the least appealing about his appearance today. If anything, his baseball cap was grimier, his coat was baggier and his shoulders more rounded. She waited until he raised his eyes. Instead of glowing with intensity, his gaze slid harmlessly off hers as he ducked his head again to fumble with his camera.
Could the flash of masculine strength that had surprised her yesterday have been a figment of her imagination? She sipped another mouthful of her coffee. The awkward, sloppy man in front of her definitely wouldn’t be the type to inspire a woman’s attention. And yet...there was something about him. She could sense it now, as if touching him yesterday had triggered some weird undercurrent. She felt it, the way steel senses a magnet.
“Sorry about the mess here,” he said, stooping over to retrieve the contents of his tackle box. “I, uh, tripped over the step somehow.”
Emma studied the hard profile that was etched against the pearly dawn. His nose was long and narrow, with a subtle bump in the center. Like the jaw that she could barely glimpse beneath that awful beard, his nose looked boldly masculine. Even with the extra weight he carried, his features, what she could see of them, were well-defined. If it wasn’t for his poor posture and the vacant, ingratiating expression he wore, he would look entirely different.
Curiosity stirred. And interest, simple feminine interest. Thoughtfully, she stole another glance at Bruce’s profile before she picked up the lunch she had packed and led the way to the dock.
* * *
The plane roared across the lake, its pontoons throwing up twin tails of glittering spray. There was still plenty of flat water to spare when the nose tipped upward and they became airborne. Bruce was impressed. He had flown in a large variety of aircraft with pilots of widely varying competency, so he could tell immediately that he was in the hands of a natural. Emma continued the easy climb until they were well above the trees. Dipping one wing, she banked in a wide turn before leveling off and easing back on the throttle.
This was a single engine Cessna, nothing fancy, just a reliable little plane. Xavier had filled him in on the specifications and capabilities late last night, and the information supported his original suspicions. The plane was fully capable of the round trip from here to the St. Lawrence. Yes, the plane was capable of playing a vital role in the pipeline. But was the pilot?
She was dressed much the same as yesterday, with her well broken-in boots laced over her ankles and a pair of dark blue denims molding snugly to her legs. She’d thrown a red-and-black plaid jacket over her loose blouse and had crammed that wide-brimmed black hat over her luxurious hair, but the clothes didn’t diminish her femininity. Or the renewed pull he’d felt the moment he’d seen her.
Although Bruce had resolved not to let his personal feelings become any more involved in this case, he hadn’t been able to prevent that sudden stab of pleasure he’d experienced when his chief suspect had opened her door this morning. The mist had been curling off the lake like a silent embrace, the lonely dawn calls of a pair of loons had warbled in the distance. Silhouetted by the soft glow of the cabin light, Emma had appeared warm and too damn welcoming.
He’d stared at her photograph for hours last night, trying to discern the woman behind the beautiful face. But that was something the film couldn’t show him. Even in the all-too-distracting flesh, she kept her thoughts hidden. When he’d deliberately dropped his fishing gear on her doorstep and had stood there looking like a pathetic klutz, he hadn’t seen derision or ridicule or pity in her gaze. She’d been studying him, as if she were trying to see the man beneath the baggy clothes.
From the corner of his eye he watched her. She was a seat-of-the-pants flyer, using her instruments merely to confirm what she already knew through other cues, like the feel of the controls and the level of noise. The cool, clear day was ideal for flying. She handled the controls with a gentle touch, using subtle nudges of her hands and feet to make the steady flight seem effortless. Dark aviator sunglasses hid her eyes, but she made no effort to hide the expression of sheer enjoyment on her face. Obviously, she loved to fly.