At the Edge (7 page)

NINE

FIVE WEEKS LATER

T
here was nothing remarkable at all about the place except that it was the favorite hangout of some of the world's most remarkable men.

Or so she'd heard.

Emma pulled into the parking lot crammed with trucks and SUVs and searched the rows until she passed—and almost missed—the perfect space for her tiny rental car. Maybe it was a sign.

She backed into the spot and checked out the enormous pickups on either side of her and decided, yes, it was. She was supposed to be here. Even though
here
was way the hell out of her comfort zone. But if there was anything she'd learned about life over the past two years, it was that comfort had nothing to do with it. Comfort was overrated, really, as a reason to do or not do anything. And her objective tonight was far too important for her to give comfort a thought.

Emma got out of her car, careful not to ding the truck beside her, and crossed the parking lot. Her heels made little crunching noises on the gravel, but the sound was drowned out as she neared the door to O'Malley's Pub.

Emma had spent some long evenings at a pub in Seattle. But it was the type of place with dark wooden paneling and fox-hunting pictures on the walls, the sort of place well-heeled attorneys went to drink twelve-year-old Scotch after winning a big case.

Emma eyed the neon beer signs in the window as she reached the entrance. Her hand hesitated on the handle. She squared her shoulders, then pulled open the door and found herself confronted by a pair of boobs that defied gravity. They were spilling out of a thin pink tank top, and their owner was a long-legged blonde in cutoff shorts. She was being ushered out the door by a man with a buzz haircut and a smug grin on his face.

“Ma'am.” He nodded at Emma and held the door for her, too, and she felt a flutter of nerves as she stepped inside.

The bar practically vibrated with music and testosterone. Everywhere she looked she saw jacked-up military men and their smiling admirers. Emma stepped out of the traffic flow and craned her neck to look around, studying the faces and the bodies.

She sighed with dismay. What had she thought? That she'd just waltz in here and find him? Nothing about this week had been easy, so why should tonight be any better?

She glanced around the room to get her bearings. Throngs of people surrounded the main bar. A row of booths lined the far wall. A loud whoop went up from a room in back where she glimpsed a cluster of men crowded around a dartboard.

Emma squeezed her way through all the hot male bodies that created a cloud of pheromone-infused humidity. She ignored the mildly curious looks as she elbowed her way through the crowd to the bar. Behind the counter, two bartenders were busy pulling taps and mixing drinks.

The couple in front of Emma vacated their stools, and she pounced on one. She didn't see a good place for her purse, so she rested it on her lap.

Emma's gaze landed on the female bartender. She wore a low-cut black T-shirt, along with a short black apron that was longer than her frayed cutoffs. Her hands were busily clearing empties as her gaze scanned the customers. She was both pretty and observant, and Emma pinned her hopes on her immediately.

Icy liquid drizzled down Emma's shirt. She gave a startled yelp and glanced up to see an oversized man lifting a pair of beers over her head.

“Sorry, my bad.” He gave her a crooked smile as he eyed her now-transparent white blouse. Emma bit back a curse and turned away from him. The bartender was watching her now and shot the customer a reproachful look as she handed Emma a stack of napkins.

“What can I get you?” she yelled over the din.

“Um . . .” Emma glanced at the taps. In the Philippines, she'd grown accustomed to San Miguel, but she'd never seen it in the States. “Corona, please.”

The woman grabbed a bottle from a bin of ice and popped off the top, then tucked a wedge of lime into the neck. She slid a coaster in front of Emma and placed the beer on top.

“I'm looking for someone,” Emma said. “Ryan Owen. Have you seen him tonight?” The bartender leaned closer and cupped a hand around her ear. “Lieutenant Ryan Owen?” Emma tried again.

Recognition flickered. And something else, too. The corner of the woman's mouth lifted, and she nodded toward the back.

Emma turned her attention to the room filled with pool tables. A loud
crack
split the air, and several muscle-bound bodies shifted around a table.

Emma's breath caught.

She'd thought he looked intimidating in the jungle, armed to the teeth and covered in greasepaint. But he looked even more dangerous in his natural habitat—a rowdy bar, surrounded by overly made-up, underdressed women. Even from a distance, Emma could see that every female in his vicinity was riveted by the sight of his wide shoulders and narrow hips as he pressed against the pool table and leaned over for a shot.

“Hey, hey! It's Emma.”

She turned to see a huge man grinning down at her. He had sun-streaked brown hair and bulging arms that strained the sleeves of his T-shirt. She hardly recognized his face without paint, but she knew his voice.

“Jake Heath,” he said, offering her a handshake and a wider smile.

She accepted his firm grip and felt a flurry of nerves in her stomach. The last time she'd seen him, she'd been flat on a gurney on the tarmac of Clark Air Base.

“Fancy meeting you here.” He stepped closer and leaned against the bar, deftly blocking a similar move by a man who was at least half a foot taller.

“I'm visiting town . . .” Her voice trailed off as she cast another look at the pool table.

“Oh, yeah? Family?” Jake smiled again, and she noticed the ocean-blue eyes for the first time.

She hadn't really registered them before, but she'd been a little preoccupied. She remembered his voice, though, and the easygoing tone he'd used to soothe her as he'd bandaged her ankle and tended her cuts.

He lifted an eyebrow, and she realized she hadn't answered his question.

“No. Friends,” she said, and it was pretty much true. She'd spent the day at the office of a congressman who'd gone to college with her father. He might loosely be considered a friend of her family.

Jake was still watching her with that smile. For some reason, he seemed delighted to see her, and she felt a warm blush creep over her face.

She sipped her beer and glanced around.

“How's the ankle?”

She glanced down. “All better.”

His eyebrows tipped up.

“Almost completely. Still no jogging on it.”

Ha. Like that was a hardship.

Jake smiled as if he caught the joke, and she wanted to feel offended, but she couldn't, not with those blue eyes twinkling down at her. He had the sort of looks that made women swoon, and Emma noticed a few resentful gazes aimed in her direction.

“So how long you in town?” Jake tipped back his beer.

“I'm not sure.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, what's on the itinerary?”

“Itinerary?”

“You want to see the sights, don't you? I could show you around. Make sure you don't miss anything good.”

Emma nodded. “Thanks, but—” She felt a warm tingle in her chest and glanced across the bar.

Ryan's gaze locked on hers, and Emma's heart lurched. The tingle became hotter and spread from her chest to the tips of her toes. Still watching her, he took a pair of beers off the bar and handed one to someone beside him.

She was tall and blond and pretty. Emma could only see her from the side, but she had toned, tanned arms, and her hand rested against Ryan's chest as she leaned close and whispered something in his ear.

Emma looked away. Her throat felt tight. And she was struck by what a truly bad idea this was. She should have waited for him at home.

“But . . . what? You don't need a guide?” Jake smiled and shook his head. “See, that's where you're wrong, Emma. Trust me on this. San Diego's one of those cities where you need a local to truly appreciate it.”

She studied Jake's face but didn't grasp what he was saying. She was thinking about how she was going to duck out of here. And how she was going to have to change her travel plans now, because it looked like Ryan was tied up for the night, and if she was going to catch him at home, it was going to have to be tomorrow, probably no earlier than mid-morning.

Jake arched his eyebrows.

Damn it, he'd asked her a question.

“I'm sorry. What?” She leaned closer as if she hadn't heard him.

Jake's gaze darted over her shoulder. She got a warm tickle on the back of her neck and turned around.

Her stomach dropped as she stared up into those intense green eyes she'd been thinking of for weeks. Ryan leaned a hand on the bar and gazed down at her.

“What are you doing here?”

Emma's stomach clenched. She studied his tight jaw and his furrowed forehead. He had thick, dark brows, she saw now, brows that went perfectly with all that thick, dark hair that curled slightly at the nape of his neck. How did these two get away with hair like that when everyone else in this place had military cuts?

He leaned closer, and she caught his scent, that musky male smell she'd been trying to conjure up for weeks.

“Well?” His voice had an edge, and her stomach clenched tighter. Of all the reactions she'd considered—surprise, annoyance, maybe even
gladness
at seeing her—she hadn't expected hostility.

She forced a smile and quickly turned it on Jake. “I was just telling Jake here, I'm in town visiting friends.”

“I offered to take her sightseeing.” Jake reached out and patted her arm. “I'm free all day tomorrow, Emma. You name the time.”

She glanced at Ryan, who was shooting Jake a look that went way beyond hostile—although Jake didn't seem to mind. He winked at Emma and took a swig of beer.

Ryan eased closer until he was towering over her. “What are you doing
here
? At O'Malley's?”

Time to come clean. She took a deep breath. “I was looking for you, actually.” She forced herself to smile up at him. “You have a minute to talk?”

He gazed down at her for a long moment. Then he looked at his teammate, and something passed between them, some meaningful exchange that went straight over Emma's head.

“Not here.” Ryan clamped his hand over hers. “Come on.”

———

She trailed behind him as he towed her toward the exit.

“Ryan, wait.”

He ignored her and pushed through the door.

“Ryan, I haven't paid for my drink.”

“Jake will cover it.”

He pulled her down the sidewalk until they were out of the flow of traffic. She looked at the ocean across the highway. It was much cooler out here, and she pulled her blouse away from her body to vent it, giving Ryan a whiff of beer and a glimpse of cream-colored lace. He swallowed a curse.

“You shouldn't go in there dressed like that.”

Confusion flitted over her face as she gazed up at him with those chocolate-brown eyes. “Dressed like what?”

He nodded at her shirt. “Like that.”

She laughed. “What, you mean in actual clothes?”

Those were not just clothes, not by O'Malley's standards. She wore a gray pinstriped skirt that went to her knees. It was tight and straight, and Ryan's sisters would definitely have a specific word for it, but damned if he knew what it was. Her shoes he knew. Kitten heels. He'd heard that once, and it had stuck in his head.

And he was staring at her legs now—smooth and silky-looking. She might be wearing panty hose, but he'd have to touch her legs to find out, which was definitely not happening. He snapped his gaze back to her face, but she wasn't looking at him. She was casting nervous glances at the parking lot.

Ryan went on alert. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said, obviously lying. One more glance at the parking lot, and she hooked her purse on her shoulder. “Listen, there are a couple of things I need to talk to you about. Can we go somewhere quieter?”

My place.

The words jumped into his head. But that also was not happening. He didn't trust himself anywhere near his apartment with her. And anyway, it wasn't exactly Park Avenue. More like Baltic.

They could go to her hotel to talk. But again, bad idea. Even the hotel bar would be way too close to temptation.

God damn it, he wanted her. Every urge he'd been struggling to ignore for weeks now was back again, stronger than ever, and it was all he could do not to reach out and drag her against him.

“Could we walk on the beach?” she asked.

He instantly relaxed. The beach he could handle.

They crossed the highway without talking. When they hit the sand, she slipped off her kitten heels and hooked her fingers through the little straps at the back.

He noticed her hair, too. It was smooth and wavy now, nothing at all like the wild curls he remembered from before.

“Why are you all dressed up?” he asked.

She shot him a look as they trudged across the sand. “I spent the afternoon in Patrick Harrick's office.”

The name rang a bell. “The congressman from Laguna Beach,” Ryan said. He'd pulled that out of his ass. Ryan didn't keep up with politics or politicians.

Or politicians' daughters.

“Huntington Beach,” she corrected. “But yeah, he's from Orange County. He's on the House Intelligence Committee, actually.” She stopped and turned to face him. “They're pulling together a report on Renee Conner's plane crash.”

Shit.

Ryan should have seen this coming. He should have seen it the moment he'd spied her sitting next to Jake at the bar. But something strange had come over him, a powerful surge of protectiveness, and his only thought had been to get her out of there.

“You're aware of the investigation, right?” She brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes.