Exposure (17 page)

"You've never forgiven me for not saving Evan, have you?" Sam asked out of the blue one evening.

Clare looked up in shock. They had been sitting in the living room, companionably she'd thought, she reading, he staring out the window at the view while he listened to Clint Black sing that the lights were on but nobody was home. It caught her flatfooted, to be suddenly hit with this.

"That's not true," she said in distress. "I know there was nothing you could have done to prevent him from dying!" She could still hear him yelling at Evan to stay away from the edge of the cliff, to get back. She could still see him running flat-out to intercept their son before Evan could reach the unfenced edge; could hear his howl of rage and despair as the undermined ground gave way beneath Evan's slight weight; could picture his futile dive for the body that tumbled out of sight over the edge.

"Intellectually, maybe," Sam said. He tore his gaze away from the view and turned to face her, his eyes moody. He hadn't intended to have this conversation. But they'd been sitting there for the past hour like two distant relatives, amiable enough but basically apart, and it had just sort of burst out of him. It was a subject that had haunted him for over a year. "Emotionally though . . ." He let it trail off and shrugged. "It's doubtful you've accepted it emotionally."

"That's bullshit, Sam. Complete and utter bullshit."

"Is it? Then why the hell did you lock me out?" He looked at her fiercely. "Huh? Why did you turn away from me during the one time I needed you most? During the one time when I needed you to need me? "

"God, Sammy, why not ask a blind woman to describe the nuances and shades of a Monet painting?" She pulled her knee up on the couch cushion as she swiveled to face him. "How am I supposed to explain what I don't even understand myself?" she demanded. Nevertheless, she made the attempt.

"It hurt to be touched by anyone, Sam. God"—her fist clenched on her thigh—"it hurt so bad. When Evan died it was like someone had skinned me alive. They left me breathing, but every single inch of me was one big exposed nerve ending that screamed in agony at the slightest contact. I couldn't live with that kind of torment, so I grew a shell. A nice, thick, foam-rubber outer covering that cushioned the pain and layered it with numbness."

She reached out a hesitant hand to brush a lock of hair from his forehead. "But I never meant to add to your grief," she said in a low voice. "I simply didn't consider your suffering; I was too busy staying attuned to my own. It was selfish, Sam, selfish, plain and simple, and I'm sorry." More than anything she longed to be pulled into his arms and held by him, but he made no move to reach for her and she felt she had forfeited any rights to make demands on him in this marriage. Girding herself to make the first move anyway, she was just straightening in her seat to offer a hug when he surged to his feet.

Sam shook a cigarette out of the pack on the coffee table and struck a match. Lighting up, he paced restlessly to the fireplace and tossed the spent match into the grate. "Are you as tired of these four walls as I am?" he demanded, coming back to stare down at her where she still sat looking up at him from the couch. He had to get them moving before he did something that she was clearly not ready for. "Let's go honky-tonkin'," he demanded. At least at the Anchor he'd have a legitimate excuse to hold her in his arms.

Clare stared up at him. Cigarette clamped between his teeth and blue smoke curling up from its tip to screen his narrowed eyes, she couldn't tell what he was thinking as he returned her look. But she liked the idea of going dancing with him. Anything to bring a little physical contact back into this marriage.

She rose to her feet.

"That sounds like fun. Let me just go get changed."

"Fun," Emma muttered to herself. "Fun. I don't even know what that word means anymore." She lifted up Gracie to let her press the doorbell. Setting her back on her feet, she barely straightened before the door opened. "I don't know about this, Ruby," she said uncertainly to the woman standing before her. "I'm not sure this is such a hot idea."

"It's a great idea." Ruby ushered Emma and Gracie into her house and closed the door behind them.

"It's exactly what the doctor ordered—for both of you." She turned to Gracie. "Hiya, kiddo."

"Hi, Miss Wuby! I gots my jammies."

"Good girl. Why don't you put your bag down over there on the couch, honey. Mary's been looking forward to having a pajama party with you ever since I mentioned it, haven't you, hon?" she inquired of her daughter, who had walked into the living room.

"You betcha. Hi, Emma. You look really pretty. Hiya, squirt." Mary squatted down in front of Gracie. "We're going to make a pizza tonight, and I rented us a couple a Disney flicks to watch. Or I've still got my old doll collection, if you wanna play with those." She looked up at Emma. "You just go on out and have a good time with my mom. I'll take real good care of the squirt here."

"Oh, chere, I don't know . . ."

Ruby made a disgusted noise deep in her throat and snagged Emma's arm. She dragged her into the kitchen and swung her around until Emma was up against the counter. "Now, stop that," she commanded. "Here. Have a beer. Try to lighten up." Stepping back, she looked Emma over assessingly and nodded with approval. "At least you paid attention when I suggested what to wear. You look great."

Emma looked down on her burnt-orange tank top, short, swingy, African-print gray-green, black and khaki skirt, and the twisted fabric and metallic belt that separated them. Ruby had insisted the other day that it was time she had some fun. "You and me are going to have us a girls' night out at the Anchor," she had said. "And in honor of this momentous occasion it's only right that you should break out the serious hardware. Wear a tank top and some short-shorts or something. Leave your bra at home. You've got a figure that most of us would kill for. I can't figure out why you never try to get at least a little extra mileage out of it."

Well, the bra remained firmly in place, but it was a demicup model constructed of antique gold lace, and Emma had decided what the hell about the rest of it. It was kind of fun to dress trashy and put on a little extra makeup for a change. It had been forever since she'd done anything like this, and she'd enjoyed herself immensely when she was getting ready. But the closer it got to actually leaving Gracie for an evening . . . "Ruby, I'm worried."

"I know you are, hon, but have a little faith in me, won'tcha? It's going to be fine."

"It was just five days ago that Gracie was snatched out from under my nose. What if—?"

"What if's not gonna happen," Ruby assured her firmly. "Mary and I were careful about this. I didn't tell a soul that you and I were going out tonight, and Mary didn't even tell Sue Anne Baker about Gracie spending the night with her. Now that, hon, is not a trivial sacrifice. Sue Anne is her very best friend in the whole wide world, and those two tell each other everything."

"What about your son?"

"Denny? He's visiting a friend in Seattle for the weekend; we didn't see the point in mentioning it to him. Now, logistically, did you drive the route I told you to?"

"Yes."

"And there was nobody behind you?"

"No."

"Well, there you go then, hon. You drive on back to the boarding house now, and I'll come pick you up in about ten minutes. Even if you're still being watched and we're seen together at the Anchor by your watcher, that's not going to lead him to Gracie. Mary gave me her word that if they go outside at all tonight, it will only be in the back yard, and see for yourself." She opened the kitchen door. "It's completely enclosed by that privacy fence." Closing the door again, she turned the deadbolt key. "And see here? She'll also keep the doors locked at all times." Picking up the phone receiver she pointed out the functions she'd keyed into it. "This button is direct-dial to the sheriff's office. This one's to the Anchor. Trust me, Emma." She reached out to tenderly rearrange a wave of streaky blond hair at Emma's temple. "It's going to be all right, and the truth is, honey, you need this. Gracie needs this."

So it was that Emma found herself walking with Ruby through the front door of the Anchor a short while later.

The tavern wasn't a citified fern bar for the upwardly mobile; it was an old-fashioned honky-tonk with a parking lot full of pickup trucks, dim lighting, loud conversation, and good western music that provided both background noise and accompaniment for the dancers on the establishment's two small dance floors. Cigarette smoke picked up the colors of the neon beer signs over the bar and hung in a blue haze between the pool table and the green-shaded hanging light suspended above it. This wasn't the place to order a champagne cocktail.

People greeted Ruby by name, men pulled their shoulders back and sucked their stomachs in as Emma walked by, and Emma's mood elevated like a rocket. This was fun. She'd forgotten how exhilarating a little uncomplicated appreciation could be.

Ruby was right, she had needed this. There had been too many emotions packed into too short a time, and the responsibility to find a way clear of the mess she was in had been solely hers. Tomorrow the problems would still be there and the responsibility would once again be hers, but for tonight she was going to allow herself an evening away from them . . . and from the ever-demanding accountability of motherhood. She could use a few hours of oblivion and the pursuit of a little relaxation wasn't such a bad objective.

She was invited to dance before she and Ruby even found a table, and at Ruby's urging, she accepted. When she got back from an energetic two-step to Kim Hill's "Janie's Gone Fishin' " she found Ruby seated with Clare and Sam Mackey at a table next to the smaller dance floor where the line dancers held forth. She greeted everyone, thanked her partner for the dance—for a heavyset man with a beer belly and barrel chest he'd been amazingly light on his feet—and took a seat.

Brooks and Dunn launched into "Ride 'Em High, Ride 'Em Low," and a new man materialized to ask Emma for a dance. Laughing good-naturedly, she fended him off with a "You have gotta let me get myself situated first, cher," and turning to the waitress who had appeared requested a Jax.

"Huh?"

"A bottle of Jax, s 'il vous plait? "

"It's a brand of long-neck that's popular in the South, Marion," Sam interjected. "Just bring us another pitcher, hey?" Turning to Emma he said, "Jax hasn't made it this far north. You're going to have to make do with a local brew."

"Whatever," she agreed with a cheerful shrug.

Clare leaned over the table. "Love your skirt, Emma," she said, raising her voice to be heard over the music. "Are the panties built in?"

"Oui. This is my dancin' skirt."

"Let's hope it doesn't start a riot," Sam muttered. Every guy in the joint had probably noticed the tight little panties with the high-cut legs when Gus Moser had twirled her around.

"What's that, cher?" She leaned closer, cocking an ear. "I'm afraid I couldn't hear you."

"Never mind. It was nothing important."

Emma studied him for a moment and then shrugged. "I don't suppose your music ever runs to zydeco, does it?"

"Afraid not," he said dryly.

"A little accordion maybe?" she asked hopefully. Sometimes she grew homesick for the Cajun sounds she'd grown up with.

"Nope. Just your everyday country western."

"Ah, well. The dancin's pretty much the same, in any case."

And dance she did, all night long. She waltzed with weathered farmers; she two-stepped with insurance salesmen, accountants, and machinists. A handsome young dentist claimed her for a West Coast Swing to Tanya Tucker's "It's a Little Too Late" and she joined Ruby and Clare in a line dance, doing the tush push to "Mona Lisa." A fine sheen of perspiration glowed on her skin by the time she begged off a dance and collapsed in her seat, picking up her beer and gulping it down before rolling the condensation-dewed side of the glass against her forehead.

The chair next to her scraped back and a large body dropped into it. Emma took a deep breath, then slowly let it out. Turning in her seat, polite smile in place, she was determined to beg an extra five minutes to catch her breath before starting another round of dancing.

But it wasn't a new partner, come to demand a dance. It was Elvis Donnelly. He nodded his thanks to the waitress who had set down a clean glass in front of him and reached across the table for the pitcher. Pouring himself a beer, he took a sip, wiped the foam from his upper lip with the back of his prosthesis, and leaned back in his chair to give Emma a thorough once-over. "Heard you were the belle of the ball tonight, Em," he said, seemingly without any apparent opinion on the subject one way or the other. "Thought I'd better come check it out for myself."

He had seduction on his mind. When Sam had called to let him know that Emma was inciting lustful thoughts in a tavern full of the susceptible and suggested that perhaps he might care to join them after work, Elvis had nearly blown a gasket waiting for his shift to end. His patience had run out with twenty minutes still on the clock, and instructing his deputy to take over, he'd raced home, changed his clothes, and shaved, gritting his teeth at the extra time it took to take care around his scar and worrying the whole time that she'd hit it off with some good-looking Saturday-night cowboy before he could get there. If that happened he didn't know what the hell he would do.

He considered her his.

Jesus, it was a feeling so strong, if he were a dog he'd be pissing circles around her to mark her as his territory and warn off the other hounds. And he could just imagine how well that sort of macho possessive bullshit would go over with Emma. She was a strong and independent woman; it was doubtful she considered herself anybody's property but her own. Nevertheless, he took heart in knowing this much. She wasn't entirely indifferent to him.

Accustomed as he was to going into Seattle whenever he could no longer fight the need for sex, he'd grown into the habit of discounting the idea of ever having it with anyone here on the island. It had therefore taken quite a while for it to dawn on him that Emma hadn't exactly beat him off with a stick that night up in her room. That she had, in fact, gone a little crazy over nothing more than a little suck on her bottom lip. The truth was she'd been primed and ready . . . until he'd gone and wrecked his own chances of getting lucky by leveling rash accusations at her.

There was a combustible attraction between them that they couldn't quite bury. Hell, look at that kiss they'd shared, the one that had so upset little Beans. Neither of them had intended it to get out of hand—it just had. So if she was looking for someone to flirt and dance with tonight . . .

"So, tell me," he demanded, "where'd you stash the kid tonight?"

She leaned close to eliminate the need to yell. It was highly unlikely that anyone in a position to overhear would have the slightest interest in her answer, but where Gracie's safety was concerned she wasn't taking even the minutest chance. "Mary Kelly's got her," she said beneath the music, the clacking balls on the pool table, the rowdy conversations going on all around them. Scooting closer still, she talked directly into his ear, recounting how Ruby had planned this evening right down to the last detail. He draped his arm over the back of her chair while he listened.

When she pulled back their faces were only inches apart. They stared into each other's eyes for a moment, and then Elvis moved his mouth to her ear. "So Gracie's spending the entire night with her?"

His breath, blowing warm across the whorls, scented with toothpaste when it drifted as far as her nose, caused goosebumps to crop up along her entire left side. She nodded, looking up at him.

"It's good for you to have a night out," he approved in a low, husky voice. Suzy Bogguss started to sing "You Shouldn't Say That to a Stranger," and his fingers lifted off the back of her chair and brushed down her bare arm. "You want to dance?"

"Oui." They rose to their feet.

The song was a slow, torchy one, and Elvis pulled her into his arms the minute they reached the dance floor. Slipping his right arm around her waist, he offered up his prosthesis and Emma slid her fingers through the hook, folding them around the clip to maintain a grasp. He then brought it in close to his chest and holding her carefully, started to move. Within moments he had them buried in the middle of the dance floor and was holding her with less caution and more intent. Lifting up his hook, carrying her fingers to his mouth, he kissed her two middle knuckles and then rubbed the backs of all four fingers against his smooth-shaven cheek. He bent his head until his lips were next to her ear. "Let go," he instructed in a low, rough voice and demonstrated his intent by giving the prosthesis a tiny wiggle.

"I want to feel both your arms around my neck."

She let go and wrapped both arms around his neck. Her breasts flattened slightly against his chest as his left arm slid around her and pulled her in close to his body. Bending the arm, he aligned his elbow at her waist and his prosthesis rode the shallow groove of her spine, pressing against it firmly to keep her close. His right fingers slid over her hip below her waist and splayed out.

Tightening her arms in reaction, Emma buried her nose in the little notch at the base of his throat and inhaled. He smelled so good. Normally he smelled of soap and water, of fabric softener and starch. Tonight was no exception, the aromas that she'd grown accustomed to associating with him were ever present. But added to them was a touch of aftershave or cologne, something subtle that was there one moment and gone the next. She rose up on her toes and burrowed her face into the warm skin where his neck curved into his shoulder, seeking out the elusive scent. But it was drifting up from the triangular hollow at the base of his throat where she'd first smelled it, and she parted her lips and pressed a small kiss against the spot. The fan of chest hair that began just below that site tickled her mouth.

Elvis sucked in a breath. Jesus! Just who the hell was doing the seducing here? He lowered his mouth to her ear. "I want to take you back to my room," he said hoarsely.

"Mmmm." Her arms tightened and her breasts shifted in a subtle sideways rub against his chest.

He scrunched his chin into his neck, trying to see her face. "What does that mean, mmmm? Would you go?"

She raised her head, tilting it back slightly to look into his eyes. Her hair waved softly back from her face, and she smiled dreamily. "Mais oui," she replied in a low, husky voice. But yes.

"Damn," he breathed. She squeaked at the sudden convulsive clench of his arms around her, and he forced himself to relax his grip. "Sorry," he apologized. "You okay, Em? Can you breathe?"

She took a tentative breath and, when her ribs held, nodded.

"Listen," he said urgently, "what do you say we get the hell outta—"

Suzy's last notes trailed into silence at that moment, and two men instantly materialized beside them, all but elbowing each other in unsubtle attempts to be the first to ask Emma for the next dance. Elvis' immediate impulse was to fend them off, to snap and snarl like a rabid dog, until they retreated with their tails between their legs. Instead, he forced himself to take a step back and leave the field free. Given the way the folks in this town felt about him, it would be much better for Emma if he handled this with a modicum of discretion.

"Elvis?" she said uncertainly as the crowd began to jostle them apart. She reached for his hand, but although their fingers made contact they slowly slid apart as the crowd leaving the dance floor moved them in separate directions.

"Thanks for the dance," he said politely. His voice was cool, courteous. His eyes were anything but.

"I hope you'll save me another."

"Well, yes, sure. But what about . . . ?" She watched him in confusion as he turned and shouldered his way back to the table. Dammit, Elvis, is that it? Thanks for the dance? Absent-mindedly she took up her position in the two-step with her new partner, moving automatically when the music began.

Well . . . merde. Merde, merde, merde! What in the name of Glory had happened to "What do you say we get out of here"?

On the other hand, it was entirely possible he was displaying more sense than she was. The people she cared about had a distressing habit of dying on her. It certainly wouldn't do, for instance, to let Grant's minions know that she was developing deeper feelings for Elvis Donnelly than she had thus far exhibited for anyone else in town. The only possible outcome she could see from that would be placing Elvis' life in jeopardy.

Yes, surely discretion was the solution. If that was what turning his back on her and walking away had been all about.

And not that he had simply changed his mind.