Exposure (14 page)

It wasn't until she reached their room, with Gracie weighty in sleep against her chest and Elvis carrying the suitcase she thought she recalled having packed their toiletries in, that Emma remembered she had sealed the room key into the envelope that contained the note she'd written for Ruby. It wouldn't have been a problem except she'd automatically locked the door behind her. Head bowing, her forehead hit the door panel with a small thunk. "Merde."

She could have sworn then she felt something cool and metallic touch her exposed nape, but if so it was a touch so brief and light she couldn't be absolutely positive she wasn't imagining it, "What?" Elvis inquired in that polite but remote way he so often used. "What is it?"

Wearily she told him. There was a hesitation, a rustle as he transferred the bag from his hand to his hook; then his hand, warm and rough-skinned, slid beneath her elbow. "Come with me." He led her across the hall and down a couple of doors. Digging his keys out of his Levi's pocket, he opened the door. He stood back to allow her to precede him into the room, then followed her in and turned on the floor lamp.

"You and Gracie can have the bed," he offered impersonally. "I'll sleep on the floor."

She was too tired for polite protestations. "Merci," she said and eased Gracie off her shoulder and onto the bed under hastily flipped-back covers. Watching her daughter turn onto her stomach and draw her knees up under her stomach, Emma unzipped the suitcase Elvis had set on the chair and withdrew a white satin nightgown and her toothbrush and toothpaste. Looking at the slinkiness of the night apparel in her hand, she glanced warily at Elvis' back. He was standing at the window, forearms braced on the casings, contemplating either the darkened harbor or the distant lights of the mainland. She rummaged through the conglomeration of items she'd stuffed into the luggage during her rushed packing and pulled out her old leather jacket. "I'll be right back," she said. Elvis didn't turn around.

Her suitcase was on the floor, and he was sitting in the chair with his long legs sprawled out in front of him when she returned. He spared her one brief glance, then reached up to turn off the lamp. Grateful for his consideration, Emma dropped her jacket on the floor and climbed under the blankets with her daughter.

She had noticed the pallet he'd made on the floor by the window, but as far as she could tell he didn't stir from his place in the chair. At least not during the several long moments that she remained awake.

The bed bounced and dipped beneath her. Little fingers pried up her right eyelid. "Mommy, Mommy, you awake? It's all sunshiny out and you and me seeped in Shewiff Elbis' bed!"

"Gracie!" Elvis' voice was a low rumbling command. The bed dipped further as he planted his knee on the mattress, and then it leveled out again and Emma's gritty eyelid fell closed as he stood up, taking Gracie with him. "You let your momma sleep," he said sternly.

"But I haffa go potty."

"I'll take you to the bathroom. Just let me make myself a cup of coffee and grab a shirt."

"I haffa go now!"

"Okay, okay, keep your shirt on. We're outta here."

"Don't gots a shoot," Emma heard Gracie say as the door closed behind them. "These aw my jammies."

Emma opened her eyes and pushed up on one elbow.

Yawning, she squinted against the brilliant light pouring through the window. So they did get sunshine in this part of the world after all, huh? She had begun to wonder.

She climbed out of bed and pulled on her leather jacket. Having heard the word "coffee," and spotting an electric coffeemaker on the bookshelf across the room, she was drawn to it as naturally as a nursing infant to its mother's breast. There was a gallon-sized bottle of distilled water on the floor and in the small, college dorm-sized refrigerator she found a half pound of Starbucks ground Sulawesi. Emma measured out the coffee and poured water into the reservoir, popping down the on switch. Within moments it began bubbling and hissing, and the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee filled the room.

She was rummaging through her suitcase for something to wear when the door opened. Damn. She had hoped for a few more moments of privacy. But on looking up to see Gracie race into the room, she had to smile as she always did at her daughter's irrepressible enthusiasm. Elvis followed more slowly in Gracie's wake and Emma's smile faltered, all the moisture leaving her mouth. His only attire consisted of a ragged pair of cut-off sweatpants, riding low on his hips, and the leather straps that secured his prosthesis to his arm.

Gracie launched herself at her mother. "Maman, you up!"

Emma lifted her into her arms, cuddling her and accepting her sloppy good-morning kiss, kissing her in return, but Emma's eyes never left Elvis, seemingly glued on him. Dressed, he was a huge man. Nearly naked, with those shoulders, those thighs and calves, Dieu, that chest, with its fan of jet hair thinning out to arrow down the rigid muscles of his stomach and disappear under the low-slung waistband of his sweats, he was enormous. And so—God, so, so ...

She shook her head helplessly. So.

"Mornin'," he rumbled. He headed for the closet and pulled a long-sleeved denim shirt off a hanger. "Ah, I see you made coffee," he said. "Thanks. I'm not good for much before my first cup." When she failed to respond and simply stared at him, he added uncertainly, "It sure smells great."

"Yeah." She shook herself free of the spell. "I, um, I'm just going to go get dressed." She set Gracie down with a little pat on the rear and edged toward the door, grateful when he shrugged on the shirt. Even if he didn't bother to button it up, it nevertheless covered most of him. Maybe luck would be on her side for once and he'd be all buttoned down in his uniform by the time she got back.

"I saw Shewiff Elbis' penis, Mommy," Gracie announced brightly. "It's weally big, like that hoesie's we sawed that time, you bemember?"

Shock stopped Emma in her tracks. Agonized betrayal in her eyes, she whipped her head around to stare at Elvis, her mouth forming the word "No." Even as she watched, a dull red climbed up his strong throat and spread across his face. His scar twitched. Shaking his head, he stammered, "Emma, it's not ... I had to take a ... Jesus, don't look at me like that; it's not what it must sound like. I swear to you."

Gracie's voice overrode his. "It's way biggoo than Gwandpapa's."

Emma stilled. Everything inside her went cold. Ah, Dieu, no. Please, please, no. She turned very slowly toward her daughter. "When did you see Grandpapa's penis, Grace Melina?" she asked in a carefully neutral voice.

"Dunno." Gracie shrugged. "Seen it a couple a times."

Emma licked her dry lips. "And what, um, was he doin' when you saw it, cherie?"

Gracie gave her a brilliant smile. "Same thing as Elbis, silly. Goin' potty." Something struck her funny then, and a giggly laugh tickled her throat and burst free. "But Gwandpapa didn't go as long, Mommy. Shewiff Elbis, he wented and wented fo-evoo!"

The sound that escaped Emma's throat then was a high-pitched little whimper of relief. A choked gurgle of laughter that was too close to hysteria for comfort. Tears filled her eyes, and hugging herself, she whirled to face the window.

"Let's get you dressed, Gracie," Elvis suggested in his quiet, authoritative way. "You wanna come over here and show me what sort of stuff you like to wear?"

" 'Kay." She skipped over to the open suitcase. "I wanna wear shoats today."

"Shorts, huh? Yeah, all right; I guess summer's finally arrived. What do you think of these yellow ones?"

"Pwetty!" She scrambled through the suitcase. "And this is my T-shoot goes with it—see the lellow flowers? Haffa have panties, too. And socks." She dug some more. "I yike these wuffled ones."

"Yeah, I like those, too. Okay, that looks like the list. Come on over here." He spread her choices out on the end of the bed and patted the mattress where he wanted her to climb up. "Now keep in mind that I'm not very good at this, kid, so you're probably gonna have to help me. What do you call this big purple guy on your pajamas?"

"That's Bawney."

"Yeah? Well, let's get rid of him; whataya say?"

He was sweating by the time they were finished. Gracie could be helpful, but unfortunately it was a helpfulness that tended to last for only seconds. Then something would catch her eye and she'd try to roll, walk, or wander toward it, even if they were right in the midst of donning one of the various items needed to attire her. He wiped his forearm across his forehead when he finally straightened. Gracie scampered off the bed.

"Here," said a soft voice behind him. He turned to see Emma in her bare feet, wearing a satin nightie and the heavy unzipped leather jacket she had donned. She was extending a cup of coffee. An involuntary smile tried to tug up the corner of his mouth. She probably thought the jacket was a real effective cover-up. And it was, as far as not revealing her body went. But mostly the contrast of bulky, scuffed leather only served to stress the femininity of the slippery nightwear beneath it. And the body beneath that.

He took the cup. "Thanks."

"Thank you," she said. "For . . ." She tipped her head toward Gracie, who had climbed up onto the wide window sill and was kneeling with her nose pressed to the glass as she checked out the harbor view from Elvis' side of the building.

"Man." Shaking his head, he gave Emma one of his rare smiles. "My respect for motherhood just shot up a hundredfold. Who woulda thought dressing one little kid could be so much work?"

Emma gave him a look. "Yeah. Especially when you don't make her pitch in and help."

"What do you mean?"

"You're a pushover, Donnelly. At least where my petite ange is concerned. Gracie knows how to dress herself. You have to ride herd to keep her at it, and she requires help with buttons and zippers occasionally, but what she needs more than anything is strict supervision. You let her ride roughshod all over you."

He stared at her openmouthed for a moment, then killed off his coffee with a few deep swallows.

"Well, shit," he finally said.

"Yeah." Emma's mouth tilted up in a faint, ironic smile. "Welcome to the wonderful world of parenting."

"Emma . . ." He shifted in discomfort. "Look, I'm sorry about letting Gracie see my coc—er, that is, my uh . . ." Oh, man, he couldn't believe he was blushing. "Penis." He coughed. "I guess I didn't think it through. I had my morning hard . . . ahh ... I just had to go, you know? And after the ease with which she got taken away yesterday, I didn't think leaving her standing out in the hall while I, uh, took a leak was a good idea."

He was so patently uncomfortable that Emma couldn't help but take pity on him. "It's okay, Elvis," she said gently. "I didn't really believe—"

Try as he did to repress it, his expression nevertheless practically screamed bullshit, and she confessed, "Well, okay, for just a minute I did believe, I suppose; but not your basic way-down-deep-inside believe believe . . . not really. Ah, Dieu," she sighed, shoving her fingers through her sleep-rumpled hair and hunching a shoulder. She peered up at him. "I'm mangling this. What I'm trying to say is, peeing in front of her isn't a crime. Most little girls Gracie's age probably go in and out of the bathroom all the time when their daddies are in there. But that's the thing, cher; that's why it's all such a big deal to her. Her daddy died before she was born, and she hasn't been exposed to very many men. Frankly, I didn't think she'd been exposed to any—not in the sense of seeing their private parts up close and personal. I know she tends to get a little fixated on male equipment when she does catch a glimpse, which is why she's still talkin' about a stallion's penis we once saw when we were picnicking."

Elvis looked down at her thoughtfully. "Yeah, that explains Gracie, all right. And it's decent of you to let me off the hook."

Emma almost smiled. Yes, it was fairly decent; she was rather amazed at herself. Remarkably, after all the fuss she'd gone through trying to get them out of town last night, it actually felt safe to be with Elvis in his room this morning. Safe for her, and more importantly, safe for Gracie. No one would ever think to come looking for them in the sheriff's room. And if someone should do so, she had faith that he would keep them from harm—at least for this one morning while they had the added protection of being under his roof.

Elvis wasn't like most people; he didn't simply accept matters at face value. He dug for deeper reasons. And that was good, that was necessary in a situation like hers. Look at his rationale for not shoving Gracie out into the hallway to wait while he used the facilities. He had obviously been thinking like a cop.

Which, she discovered in the next heartbeat, could be a detriment as well as an advantage.

"What I don't understand," he was saying, his eyes on her as he slowly rolled his shirtsleeves up over first one forearm then the other, "is why you automatically assumed the worst. You thought I had exposed myself to her." The expression in his blue eyes pinned her in place. "We both know you did, and what I'd like to know is ... why is that, Em? Is it because someone has flashed her? Or"—he blanched at the thought—"oh, Jesus, not assaulted her?" Not that. Please, not that. He wasn't sure he could be responsible for keeping his hands off such a person!

"N-No!" she stammered. "Of course not."

Elvis recognized the ring of truth and relief washed through him. He nevertheless knew he was on the right track and pressed on relentlessly. "But you were afraid if you stuck around New Orleans someone might try to, am I right?"

"Don't be ridiculous." She stood up straight and tall, chin thrust up at him.

"I don't think I'm being ridiculous. Who was it?"

She gave him a blank stare.

"Who was it, Em?" He leaned down close and suggested quietly, "Gracie's grandfather, perhaps?"

"Oh, Gawd."

"Tell me, Emma."

Her chin jacked up yet a few notches higher, and even as he watched, her expression locked up tight.

She stood in front of him as if someone had rammed an iron rod up her spine, a mulish slant to her normally soft mouth.

Curling his fingers around the zipper placket of her jacket, he pulled her a little nearer. Slowly he slid his hand up and down the leather, feeling it slide along the tunnel formed by his loose grip. Feeling the satin of her nightgown brush against the backs of his fingers. He bent his head until their noses were a mere inch away. "Tell me," he commanded intensely.

Her posture wilted. Bottom lip trembling, she sucked it into her mouth and bit down hard while her brown eyes evaluated him. A moment later, the reddened lip slid free of the white teeth gripping it.

"Yes," she whispered. "All right. I'll tell you." Her chin came up then. "But, Elvis, you've gotta promise me something in return. If I tell you, you've got to promise to let me and Gracie go then."