Exposure (19 page)

"Well, I've certainly learned my lesson, cher," Emma muttered drowsily the following morning when she was awakened out of a sound sleep by the scratch of Elvis' beard against the vulnerable skin of her nape as he kissed her neck. "Honest. That was the last time I issue you a challenge."

There was no question that he took his dares seriously— how many times had it been last night, anyway? She'd lost count, but every time he had piously claimed he was just trying to get it right, and damn, he was sorry, ma'am, but he was such a slow learner.

Not that she had a complaint, mind you; it had been . . . it had been so ...

Dieu. Words failed her.

Still . . .

With regret, she shoved away his encroaching hand, moved her hips away from the erection prodding her rear. "I'm sore, Elvis. I don't think I can. . . ."

"Shhh," he crooned and slithered down beneath the covers, mouth and fingers staying in contact with some portion of her anatomy the entire way. The covers rustled furiously for a moment, and she was rolled onto her back. Feeling his mouth press gently against her inner thigh, she kicked back the blanket to see what he was up to. He'd shouldered her knees apart to crawl between them, and was in the midst of pressing another kiss into the opposite thigh when she uncovered him.

His hand settled on her stomach, fingers spread, his thumb a mere fraction of an inch from the luxurious little triangle of golden brown hair, and he looked up at her, his electric blue eyes aglow. "This time's just for you, Em," he promised.

Ah, Dieu, she was in trouble. She was in big, big trouble.

How was she not supposed to fall in love with this man?

And yet to do so could very well prove fatal—to him. Being the object of her love had been the death of too many people in her life already.

It didn't take long to discover, however, that when it came to convincing Elvis a public association with her could be hazardous to his health, she might as well save her breath. He declined to be protected, and she really didn't know why that came as a surprise to her. The man had a will of steel and was stubborn as a goat. The way he refused to let her do anything to alleviate the pain of his unattended arousal probably should have been her first clue.

"I'll be okay," he insisted for the third time as he intercepted her reaching hand and firmly returned it to the mattress by her side.

"You're hurtin' and you don't have to be." She didn't understand this refusal to let her relieve an obvious ache. He'd left her so replete she felt nearly boneless, and the man was buck naked, for heaven's sake; it wasn't as if she couldn't see how accomplishing that had affected him. "So I'm a little uncomfortable,” she said with a shrug. "Big deal. There are other ways of takin' care of you." Her voice dropped several octaves. "Let me kiss it better, cher."

He groaned, so tempted. But he didn't take her up on her offer. It had to do with the twist he'd gotten in his gut when he'd heard her say she was sore. It had to do with the instant determination her words had produced, a resolve to deny himself as an atonement for going overboard last night.

He rolled resolutely to his feet. "No," he said firmly, standing at the side of the bed and staring down at her.

Sexual frustration burned in the depths of his blue eyes. But it battled for supremacy with the satisfaction he got when he took in her satiated sprawl across the sheets. "Next time, though, we're doing this in your room. We wrecked my bed."

"Um, about that, cher; about the next time . . ." She sat up, reaching for the sheet and wrapping it around her. Tucking the ends in between her breasts, she bit her bottom lip as she looked up at him.

Elvis had reached to pick up his prosthesis, but stilled at the uncertainty in her voice. "Don't even think this was a one-night stand," he warned her. His expression was grim as he strapped on the hook. When the task was complete, he raised his eyes to pin her in place.

Emma shifted. "Don't look at me like that, Elvis," she said. "This isn't exactly the way I'd choose to handle matters, but there are some very real obstacles we have to take into consideration."

Something dark and disappointed stirred in the depths of his eyes. Then it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, glossed over by a patina of indifference. "Yeah, I know," he agreed neutrally. "Having it widely known that you're my lover, for instance. That can be the kiss of death to any reputation in this town." He reached for his pants, thinking with dark humor that being rejected had at least caused his raging hard-on to subside.

Emma almost let it pass. Good enough, if that was what he wanted to think. Let him assume whatever the hell he wanted; instinctively, she understood it would cut through all the arguments, that his stiff-necked pride, which refused to acknowledge his fellow islanders' low opinion of him, would never allow him to ask better of her. To demand better, as anyone else might. Elvis would simply accept it as perfectly natural that she didn't want the hassle of being associated with him, and she would be spared a fight.

It was for the best.

It was safest for him.

And damn him for a pig-headed pain in the posterior, she couldn't do it.

"Screw my reputation," she snapped, kicking the trailing sheet out of her way as she climbed to her feet. It was the disillusionment she had glimpsed in his eyes that got to her in the end. For just an instant he had expected better of her, and it had cost him something to think she was just like all the other small minds in this little town. "You big jerk, you don't know me at all if you believe that."

"Oh, yeah?" That he cared so much infuriated him and he bent his head to scowl down at her. "Then just what the hell are all these 'big obstacles' you're nattering on about?"

She snapped erect. "I don't natter, Donnelly; I speak clearly and concisely. And my primary goal here is to keep Gracie safe and you from being picked off like a duck in a shootin' gallery."

"Picked off. . . ?" He stared at her in amazement. "Me? You're worried about me?"

"Yes, I'm worried about you! People I lo—urn, people who get close to me die, Elvis! It's a fact of my life."

How about that? She was worried about him. For a minute, he didn't know how to respond. No one had ever worried about him much, except maybe for Sam during those angry teenage years and right after the explosion when he was mad at the world and depressed. Come to think of it, though, she had said something like this last night. He'd been so busy at that moment dodging his own need for her approval, it had passed him by. Huh. He'd be damned. She was worried about him.

It embarrassed him in a way. And it was kind of insulting, wasn't it, that she didn't think he could take care of himself? Hell, he'd been doing it all his life.

Mostly, though, it felt good. Damn. It felt real good. Emma cared enough about him to worry.

"So, big deal, we'll be discreet," he said. "That's probably a good idea anyhow, 'cause like I was saying before, having it known that you're my lover won't do a thing for your reputation. And before you start an argument about that, too," he forged on when he saw her open her mouth to respond, "I worry about it even if you don't."

"Well, it's a moronic thing to worry over. We've got real problems, Elvis, without wastin' our time on picayune stuff like that. I have a three-year-old daughter."

He looked at her as if she'd lost her mind. "Gracie's a problem?"

"Gracie is the love of my life." Emma stared up at him. "But discretion isn't exactly a word in her vocabulary, cher. Now, Grant's goon has already amply demonstrated that he can get into my room, so there is no way on God's green earth that I will leave her unattended while I slip down the hall to roll around in the sheets with you."

"Sure, I can understand that. So I'll come to your room after she's gone to sleep for the night."

"That sounds real dandy ... in theory. Trouble is, if you sleep in my room, Gracie's goin' to know it. I mean, we can probably prevent her from catchin' us in the actual act. I'm not quite sure how we'll do that, cher, given she and I share a bed and—face it—the room itself is not that big, but we could give it our best shot, for sure. What I don't think we can do is prevent her from knowin' you are spendin' time in my bed." Emma grabbed at her slipping percale toga. "And what Grace Melina knows, Elvis, so knows the world."

Elvis looked down at her for a moment. Then one of his massive shoulders inched up in a dismissive shrug. "So what?"

"What do you mean, so what? Haven't you listened to a word I've said?"

"Yeah, I've listened, and I thought you said you don't give a rip if the people in this town know you're sleeping with me. Are you changing your mind now that it actually comes right down to it?"

"Arrgh!" The sheet slithered to the floor when she raised both fists to thunk him one in the chest. "You are dumb as a brick! Watch my lips, Donnelly. I ... don't . . . care . . . what they think. You got that?"

"So what's the prob—"

"How long do you imagine it will take any spy of Grant's to catch on to the fact that you mean something to me?" she demanded. "Huh? And how much longer after that before some sort of 'accident' is arranged?" Her voice grew very quiet. "Then just like everyone else in this world I've ever cared about, you'll be dead."

"No," Elvis said firmly. "That's not going to happen." He bent and picked up the sheet, shaking it out and very gently settling it around her back. Gripping the folds in his fist and hook, he drew her forward until they stood breast to chest. "This is not New Orleans, Emma. This is a very small town where it's difficult for a stranger to walk undetected down the street minding his own business, let alone skulk around in the shadows arranging accidents. Trust me on this one: it's just plain easier to perpetrate an act of violence in a big city. It's more impersonal. There are crowds to blend into, there's heavy traffic that can be utilized for one's own purpose."

"That doesn't mean it can't be done in a small town."

True. If one is determined enough, anything can be arranged anywhere. "No, I suppose not. But damned if I'm going to structure my life around the possibility. I'm a trained law-enforcement officer. Not some redneck smalltown sheriff who dabbles in the law in order to feel powerful but a fully educated, fully trained cop. You might not believe this, but I'm extremely good at my job. I'm a professional."

"And that makes you bulletproof?"

"No, baby, that makes me a less likely target. Think about it. You yourself have told me Woodard doesn't resort to sniper tactics; his method of operation is to arrange 'accidents' that catch his victims by surprise. Well, that's a helluva lot easier to do to the average, unsuspecting citizen than it is to do to a cop. We're a suspicious lot by nature. And we're alert to the atmosphere and activities around us. Not to mention that most criminals are hesitant to start something with us, because they know it's bound to bring them more grief than they can handle." He looked down at her. "Resign yourself. You opened the door, sweetheart, and I'm not letting you close it now. One way or another, I'm going to be in your life and Gracie girl's."

He bent his head and gave her a quick, hard kiss. Then he set her back at arm's length. "You'd better get dressed and go get Beans."

"I'm not finished, cher . . ."

"Yeah, well, sorry, Em. If you still want to argue we're gonna have to postpone it until later. I've got work to do."

Elvis was at his mother's house within thirty minutes of her arrival. As he had told Emma, Flannery Island was a place where everyone was apprised of everyone else's business, and when he was in need of specific information he could generally lay his hands on it fairly quickly. He'd put the word out that he wanted to know the instant his mother was sighted on the island. It took not quite twelve minutes from the time she drove off the ferry until the information reached him.

The back screen door creaked open when he let himself in and then slapped shut behind him with the smack of wood hitting wood. "Mom," he called. "You in here?"

"Elvis?" Her voice came from the bedroom, and it went high with surprise on the first vowel of his name. He heard the tap of her heels against the hallway floor and turned to observe her as she appeared in the kitchen doorway. One look at her expression and a faintly held hope, which he'd recognized as ludicrous but which he'd nevertheless safeguarded in a hidden corner of his heart, died an unsung death.

"How nice to see you," Nadine said in a strained voice. She came forward to peck a kiss on his jaw.

"Um, you want a cup of coffee? It will only take me a minute to make a pot. I'm afraid that's all I can offer you; I just got home half an hour ago." She looked at her son, so big and stern, regarding her without a speck of warmth or affection in his intensely blue eyes, and began to speak even more rapidly. "Memphis is a steambath this time of year, of course, but, oh! Graceland was—"

"You're under arrest for the kidnapping of Gracie Sands, Mom," Elvis said, interrupting her. He shoved away from the counter he'd been leaning against and stepped forward. "You have the right to remain—"

"What?" Stunned, she blinked up at him.

"—silent." He pulled out his handcuffs and turned her away from him, reaching out to gently pul! her arms behind her back. "If you give up this right, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of—"

"Elvis! Are you crazy?"

"Are, you, Mom?" He whirled her back. His professionally stern demeanor had vanished, leaving fury and betrayal in its wake.

Nadine couldn't bear to face him; she had to turn away. She knew that expression; it brought back memories of the way he used to look at her when she'd locked him out of the house back when he was a teenager and he'd known it was because she'd been turning a trick. It brought back the debilitating guilt.

"Kidnapping is a fucking federal offense!" he snarled. Handcuffs dangling from his hook, he gripped her upper arm with his good hand and gave her a shake. "What the hell did you think you were doing?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," she replied without conviction.

His face abruptly regained its professional mask, all expression wiped clean. "Fine," he agreed coolly.

"In that case you have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, one will be provided. ..." He turned her around again as he recited the Miranda warning and slipped a handcuff over her right wrist.

It clicked into place.

OhmyGod, ohmyGod, he was serious. "It was a joke!" she said frantically, craning to see him over her shoulder. "For God's sake, Elvis, it was just a joke!"

Once again she was whirled back, this time with such force the cuff not attached to her wrist swung around on its short chain to smack her on the thigh. "A joke?" he thundered. "I was with the mother all that day, Nadine. She didn't seem to think it was so goddamn funny that her baby had vanished into thin air. She was fuckin' frantic." He stared down at her in disbelief. "A joke, my ass! Christ, I don't believe you. Emma cried, Mom. She cried, and she shook, and her hands were so damn cold you woulda thought it was the middle of goddamn December."

Nadine's knuckles mashed her lips against her teeth. A moan escaped anyway.

"The Mackeys weren't thrilled either," he continued relentlessly. "There's no accounting for some people's sense of humor, of course, but they just didn't seem to find it amusing to have Clare accused of snatching a toddler out of the cafe to replace her dead son. It made her appear to be some sort of psycho. I don't believe she enjoyed that, and I know she didn't like being called a liar."

He watched without satisfaction as the color leached out of his mother's face. "Oh, and little Gracie?" he said. "I don't think she caught the humor in having her butt blistered. That was her punishment for telling a lie— Well, that and being terrorized and called a bunch of names by Sam." Elvis shrugged. "Maybe you can explain to her that it was just a joke. Oh, but that's right. I don't think she wants to be your friend anymore. Far as she's concerned, Nadine, you ain't nuthin' but a hound dawg."

"Oh, Gawd, Elvis, I didn't plan for it to get so out of..."

"You didn't plan this, period. How much were you paid?"

"What? Paid? Elvis, honey," she insisted weakly, "you've got it all wrong."

"How much, Nadine? If you think you're going to convince me you planned this all by yourself, you can save your breath. You're not that smart."

"Why, Elvis Aaron! What a thing for a son to say about his moth—" She swallowed the rest of her words when he abruptly bent down and thrust his face next to hers.

"Don't screw with me, Nadine," he said softly, spacing his words with forced patience. "If you were the least bit intelligent, you'd comprehend just how much trouble you're in. You want to claim credit for the entire scam? Fine. Then you, and you alone, will go down for it. This wasn't a prank. Mother. Get that through your head. It was a carefully thought-out, particularly vicious act of psychological warfare aimed at Emma Sands. Believe me, there is not one goddamn thing about it that's the least bit amusing." He pulled his head back a fraction, just enough for Nadine to see the flinty resolve in his eyes. "I'm going to ask you one last time. How much were you paid?"

"Twenty-five hundred dollars," she said sulkily. "And first-class tickets on a later flight to Memphis for both MarySue and me." She resented the way Elvis was treating her. Simultaneously, on a deeper level, she was horrified by the consequences of her actions that day. She had never dreamed—

She looked her son in the eyes and told him truthfully, "It seemed a harmless enough way to make that much money."

Jesus, Elvis marveled, it's a damn wonder I have any values at all. "Sit down, Mom," he said wearily. "You and I have got a lot of talking to do."