Exposure (13 page)

Long after Emma, Gracie, and Elvis had left, Sam and Clare remained within the steamy warmth of their kitchen.

Not much conversation passed between them, but he helped her clean away the dinner dishes and wipe down counters and appliances. He swept the floor while she started the dishwasher, and then by tacit agreement they took fresh cups of coffee back to the table and sat down.

"Want to go to town for the fireworks?" he inquired at one point.

"No." She hesitated uncertainly and then said, "Sam, about earlier . . . I, uh, I really want to thank you."

"You do?" He eyed her warily. "For what?"

"For defending me the way you did."

He snorted. "Yeah, I'm a real knight in shining armor, all right," he agreed bitterly. Studying her in silence for several long heartbeats, he abruptly confessed, "Clare, when I first saw Gracie in our entryway here ... I thought you had done it." Gripping the back of his neck, elbows planted on the table, he raised his eyes to meet hers. "I thought the grief of losing Evan must have finally gotten to be just too much for you and you'd snatched Gracie out from under Emma's nose to—oh, shit, I don't know—compensate, or something."

One corner of Clare's lips curled up. "So what made you change your mind?"

He opened his mouth to reply, but then closed it again, studying her uncertainly. "You aren't mad?"

"No. Not really. I mean, it's not exactly a big surprise, Sam. I knew the minute I told you Emma had dropped Gracie off that you thought I'd gone crazy, and I won't deny it, it hurt." She gripped her coffee cup in both hands and stared at him. "But you came through for me. When it came right down to the wire, you threw yourself into my corner and, God, you were somethin' to behold, Sam Mackey. You were like that boy I used to lust after from afar, the one who told this town that Elvis Donnelly was his friend and they could just go screw themselves if they didn't like it."

She looked at him sitting across the table from her. Kiss me, Sam; hold me, she silently yearned. It's been so long.

That boy I used to lust after. He heard the echo of her words in his mind, and it was all he could do to remain in his seat. He wanted to dive across the table and bear her down onto the floor. He wanted to love her—hard, soft, anyway she wanted—until they were both too weak to move. God, it had been so long. Just that one time since Evan had died, and then it had been too much like making love to a zombie for his peace of mind. He'd hesitated to impose himself on her ever since.

He knew what he wanted to do. What he itched to do. But he was gun-shy. So he gripped the edge of the seat and then sat on his hands for good measure to keep them from reaching for her. But he could still talk. He told her what had made him understand that she hadn't had anything to do with Gracie Sands' kidnapping.

And for practically the first time in a year, they carried on a genuine conversation concerning their son.

Emma lowered her sleeping daughter into the safety seat, buckled her in securely, and closed the passenger door with a soft click. She ran around the trunk and slid into the driver's seat. Coasting down the slight incline, she started up the car at the last minute and pulled out of the parking lot. They had just enough time to catch the last ferry.

It had been a near thing. Luckily, Gracie had fallen asleep immediately and without a fuss, which had probably been the deciding factor between making a clean getaway or being stopped dead in their tracks. When too much emotion packed Gracie's day it was always a tossup whether she'd simply crash without a whimper when it came time to go to bed or turn into the Child from Hell. Overexhaustion had been known to turn her into a loud, cranky, and entirely unreasonable little girl. Emma gave a sigh of relief that tonight hadn't resulted in such behavior.

As it was, Emma had propped her up in bed with a picture book while she'd swiftly gathered together their belongings. Within moments Gracie's head had begun drooping toward her sturdy little chest. She'd jerked it upright once or twice, but it hadn't taken long before she was out for the count. Emma had then twitched the book away, slid her daughter down flat on the mattress, and sprung into action.

She hadn't realized before she'd begun to pack just how at home they'd become in the past couple of weeks. Their belongings, spread out all over the room, had developed their own little niches. Gracie's books and sand pail belonged on the window sill; Emma's toiletries sprawled across the top of the highboy; her favorite fringed scarf decorated the night stand. She'd stowed their possessions away one suitcase at a time, placing each bag next to the door. Everything that hadn't fit neatly within the cases or into the few cardboard boxes she'd saved had been stacked alongside.

She hadn't dared remove the cover from the car and leave the trunk open while she made trips between room and car, so once everything was assembled by the door, she'd made several trips out to the back lot where she'd heaped all of it in the shadowy lee of the dumpster. When everything was transported from the room, she'd whipped off the car cover and rapidly packed the car. Closing up the trunk, tossing the cover back over the car, she'd stolen up the back stairs one last time to leave a note for Ruby, make sure nothing had been left behind, and gather up her sleeping baby and purse.

So now they were almost home free. Approaching the top of the hill that led down to the ferry docks, Emma was aware of headlights coming up fast behind her. They were high and bright like those of a truck or a van that sat taller off the ground than her Chevy, but aside from being conscious of the vehicle's rapid approach, she didn't think too much about it, merely assumed that it was someone like herself in a hurry to catch the last boat off the island.

Although she was pleased in a dour sort of way to have pulled off her departure from Port Flannery in the face of Elvis' obvious belief that he had her all snugly corralled, she wasn't, in all honesty, very happy about the way she was sneaking off. It made her feel almost . . . criminal somehow ... as if she were some lowlife rent-jumper disappearing one step ahead of the landlord. Given broader options than she'd had, she would have done it differently. Stood toe to toe with Elvis Donnelly and argued about the constitutionality of impounding her car. Walked away in broad daylight. Something.

Deliberately blinking away the stinging sensation that prickled the backs of her eyes, she told herself it was caused by the glare of that damn car coming up so fast behind her. But dammit, she could have made a life for herself here. A good life for Gracie. It was a funny thing to imagine, that, for she certainly never would have pictured herself being content in a place this size. Nevertheless, it would have been kind of nice to have stuck around; it really would.

She was nothing if not a realist, though, and she'd known the futility of that fantasy the moment she'd understood Grant was the engineer behind Gracie's disappearance this afternoon. It was overkill, she reflected bitterly, to have stolen the tapes right out of her room as well.

She squinted as the car behind her moved right up on her bumper, its headlights reflecting blindingly in both her rearview and sideview mirrors. "Dieu, will y'all just go around? " she snarled under her breath and stepped on the gas a bit to shake the car off her tail.

Damn Grant, anyhow. She had no excuse, of course, for being surprised at his thoroughness. Having observed him in business deals over the years, she had known he could be ruthless. But in no way had that prepared her for the kick of terror she'd experienced when she'd gone to retrieve the tapes off the closet shelf and discovered they were missing.

The car behind her roared up on her tail once again, and Emma took her foot off the gas, hoping if she slowed down enough the clown would tire of his silly game and go around her. Instead, blue lights suddenly swirled from the vehicle's roof and a single whoop of a siren sounded and then moaned off into silence. Emma's heart sank to the soles of her feet.

"Merde!" she whispered.

Elvis climbed out of the Suburban and slammed the door behind him. Gravel crunched beneath his boots as he covered the short distance to Emma's Chevy. Stopping by the driver's door, he waited for her to roll down the window and then shined his flashlight into the interior of the car.

Emma merely narrowed her eyes against the glare when the light passed over her face, but she smacked his hand down when it passed over Gracie's. "Get that light out of her face."

"Get out of the car, Em.'"

He stood back, barely allowing enough room for her to open the door and climb out, and the moment she had, he whirled her around to face the car. With a hand on the back of her neck, he bent her forward. Catching herself on the hood of the car, Emma braced her hands and locked her elbows. Elvis kicked her ankles wide of each other and stooped down to run his hand and hook around her waist and down her hips to her ankles. Then he patted down her inner legs from ankle to thigh, and briskly ran his fingers along the crotch seam of her jeans from the waist band in front to the waist band in back.

"Can't buy yourself a thrill these days, cher?" Emma asked through her teeth. The incongruous flicker of relief she'd experienced upon seeing his face at the car window expired without a whimper beneath a deluge of ice-cold anger.

His response was fierce and to the point. "Shut up, Emma," he advised tersely.

Her head whipped around. "I will not shut up!" she said furiously. She remained in the assumed position, but craned her neck in order to see into his face as he rose to his feet and imperturbably continued frisking her. "This isn't necessary and you damn well know it. Here!" She grabbed the fingers that were skimming the side of her breast on their trip from waist to armpit and pulled them around to cover the breast's full thrust. "You're so hard up for a feel, let's give you a taste of the real thing. I imagine your sex life's been mighty barren lately."

Elvis already felt like a betrayed husband with a runaway wife, and though he'd been hanging onto his temper for all he was worth, his grip was alarmingly tenuous. When he'd pulled into Ruby's back lot after a post-fireworks check of the town and had seen that Emma's car was missing, more than a decade's worth of professionalism had gone up in smoke. He hadn't given the matter a lot of weighty, legal consideration; he'd simply reacted instinctually, heading hell-for-leather for the ferry dock. Her mockery now was the shove that destroyed the last tiny vestige of professional detachment he'd managed to maintain.

Her breast was warm and resilient beneath his palm, and his fingers curled to keep it firmly in his grasp when he whirled her around to face him. Stepping between her spread thighs, he backed her against the Suburban, his arm wrapped around her waist, prosthesis at the small of her back as he pulled her in to him. The scar jumped in his cheek as he bent his head until their mouths were millimeters apart.

"Be damn careful what you offer," he advised, his breath hot against her lips, his eyes an electric blue as they bore into hers, "because you're right, sweetheart, my sex life has been nonexistent for a long time now, and I might just be tempted to take you up on it," His hand massaged her breast as he spoke, fingers sinking into the fullness, palm pressing and then cupping the abundant curves, fingers then tightening to pull and reshape before his palm flattened against her once again. "You've already played me like a fiddle once tonight," he said. "You wanna add whoring to your repertoire, hey, that's just fine with me. I could sure use the relief."

She gripped his wrist to pull his hand away, feeling hot and flushed. For just an instant the muscles and sinews beneath her fingers tensed, resisting the pressure she exerted; then they relaxed and he allowed his hand to be removed. To the very last instant, however, his fingers and thumb maintained an insolent contact, catching at her nipple and giving it a gentle tug as his hand was pulled away. Emma was sorely tempted to snarl a warning about keeping his hands to himself, but she sucked in her lower lip to hold back the urge. She wouldn't give him the opportunity to remind her that she had started this.

Holding his wrist, she thrust his hand away and her chin up. "I didn't offer to make your wildest dreams come true, Sheriff," she said coolly. "I merely gave you a taste of the cheap thrill you were anglin' for."

"Cheap thrill, my ass. I was doing my job."

"Oh, the hell you were!" Neither one of them realized how close they remained standing. Still gripping his arm, holding it off to their sides, Emma stood toe to toe with him. "I'm not a criminal and y'all know it! You also know I don't have any weapons concealed on my body, so the only possible reason you could've had for pattin' me down like that was to give yourself an opportunity to grab a feel! And just what is that supposed to mean, I played you like a fiddle?"

"Right, like you don't know." He muttered an obscenity then glared down at her. "Please. Do me the favor of not insulting my intelligence at least that much, okay?" His jaw muscles tightened at the stony stare that was her only response, and he recited tersely, "Let's see, there was the loose shoelace and Baby Beans thrust into my arms. Then— oh, and I thought this was a masterpiece—directing our attention to the fireworks and my attention to Gracie's sleepiness. But, let me guess, it must have been the save from that artful little stagger when you stooped down to tie your shoe that copped you the extra key to your car, am I right?"

Emma merely raised both eyebrows at him, and he grimaced. "I gotta hand it to you; doll, you're good. You shoulda just left your stuff behind and caught the earlier ferry, though." He indicated the two of them standing in the dark at the side of the road. "This is what happens to little girls who think they can have it all."

As if to underscore his words the ferry sounded its deep throated horn, one long and two short blasts, as it pulled away from the dock. "No!" Emma wailed in dismay, swinging toward the sound. She watched its retreat from the island and then swung back to Elvis. "Damn you." she said fiercely.

"Damn you to hell, Donnelly. You don't know what you've done."

For the first time since he'd realized what a fool she'd made of him, Elvis' anger faded. Soberly, he studied her expression by the light of the moon and found it haunted. "Then why don't you explain it to me," he suggested gently.

Even as he watched, her expression hardened. "There's nothing to tell," she insisted stubbornly. She gave him a probing look, tilted her chin high, and added, "You may have delayed my departure for tonight, but I've done nothing to break the law and you know it. You can't hold me here indefinitely."

"Ah, now, that's where you're wrong," he disagreed with a smooth lack of aggression. "I can come up with at least enough to hold you for a week. I think that should be sufficient, don't you? By then my mother will be back, and once she is, make no mistake. I will get to the bottom of this."

"Why, Elvis?" she demanded desperately. "To satisfy your own morbid curiosity? Gracie and I were the victims here, not the villains. It can't be constitutional to trump up charges to detain me."

She was right, and for the first time in his law-enforcement career he really didn't give a damn that he might be bending a law to suit his own purpose. With or without her permission, he was going to discover what was threatening her. Shrugging, he looked her squarely in the eyes. "So sue me."

It shocked him right down to his bootheels when she started to cry.

He'd expected her to snap and snarl. He fully intended to get his own way in the long run, of course, but he'd anticipated an exhilarating verbal skirmish or two before she caved in. Instead she broke down in tears and regarded him with huge brown eyes full of abject misery. "Who'll take care of Gracie?" she sobbed. "Who will keep her safe?"

"Huh?"

"If I'm in jail, who's gonna take care of my bebe? She'll be scared, Elvis. We've never been separated before."

"You're not going to be in jail," he said blankly.

"But you said—"

"I said I could hold you. Jesus, Em, I meant on the island here, not in a jail cell. What do you take me for?" He shook his head rapidly. "No, never mind; I'd rather you didn't answer that." He felt like a worm. For my next trick, folks, watch me pull the wings off a dragonfly.

Emma rubbed her eyes. Dieu, she was so tired all of a sudden. She looked up at Elvis apathetically.

"Can I go home now?" she asked with uncharacteristic meekness.

"Yeah." He studied her in concern. "You gonna be okay to drive?"

She nodded.

"Okay, then. Drive carefully, huh? I'll be right behind you."

He'd meant it as a reassurance but could only wince when she muttered, "Of course you will."