One Kiss More (3 page)

And that was a huge fucking problem.

Emma fought the disappointment that settled on her like a black cloud when she answered her door to find two deputy U.S. marshals—neither of which were Landon McCabe—waiting to escort her to their office for an interview. And how pathetic was she that even though she should hate him right down to his trendy leather loafers, she still wanted to see him? Pretty damned sad.

“Miss Ruiz, I’m Deputy U.S. Marshal Ethan Morgan, this is Deputy Kevin Courtney. I believe Deputy McCabe mentioned we’d be by?”

Emma eyed the two marshals, cocking her head to the side as though trying to recall if she had, in fact, been visited by McCabe, and took a moment to size them up. Morgan was cute enough, with bright green eyes and short-clipped, russet hair. His partner wasn’t too bad, either, though maybe a little rougher around the edges. What was it with law enforcement guys, anyway? Did they all get their hair cut at the same salon?
U.S. marshal special, please
. But neither of them appealed to her the way that blond, snarky pain in the ass McCabe did.

“Am I under arrest?” she asked.

Morgan smiled. He was definitely cuter when he smiled. “No, ma’am. We just want to ask you a few questions.”

Ma’am? For the love of all that was holy, she was barely twenty-four. Didn’t these guys know that the fastest way to insult a woman was to call her
ma’am
? Emma leaned against the door frame and positioned her hand at her hip. “Can’t we talk here, then? I don’t have any more to say to you two gentlemen than I did to Deputy McCabe this morning.”

Morgan’s eyes hardened. Emma wondered if he liked playing good cop or bad cop. “Regardless, I’m going to have to insist that you come with us.”

“Or . . . ?” She let the word dangle, daring him to throw down.

“Or I’ll consider you hostile.
Then
you’ll be under arrest, Miss Ruiz.”

Oh, he totally liked to be the bad cop. “All right. But give me a minute. I’m not really dressed to go out.”

Morgan gave her a tight smile. “You don’t mind if we wait inside?”

Deputy Bad Cop was looking for an excuse to snoop around. Or was totally paranoid. What did he think she was going to do? It wasn’t as if her apartment had a back door. The only other escape route was to jump off the balcony, and Emma wasn’t planning any daredevil stunts quite yet. “Of course,” she said, every word dripping with honey. “Make yourselves at home. Watch TV. Raid the fridge. I won’t be too long.” She turned, leaving the door wide open, and stalked through her living room without a glance back. Once inside her bedroom, she closed the door behind her and collapsed on the bed. She hoped they liked mindless morning TV, because she wasn’t even close to being ready to leave with them.

Emma stared up at the ceiling and took a deep, cleansing breath. And then another. Nervous energy skittered through her limbs as her heart pounded in her chest. “I can do this, I can do this, I can do this. . . .” She repeated the mantra over and over again, psyching herself up for what she had to do. Cesar had made it perfectly clear what was expected of her, not to mention what was at stake if she failed to deliver.

If the only thing she had to contend with in the interview room was Deputy Bad Cop and his less interesting partner, Emma was pretty sure she’d be fine. But if they brought McCabe in on her interrogation, she doubted she’d be able to keep it together and her dad’s life depended on her maintaining a level head.

“Miss Ruiz?” Deputy Morgan’s voice came on the heels of a knock at her door. “You need to get moving.”

A not-so-subtle reminder that he’d arrest her ass if she didn’t get it in gear. The media was already going to have a field day with her, and they’d crucify her if they saw her looking anything less than perfect. So, she pushed herself off the bed and headed for the bathroom. “Almost ready,” she called. “Give me ten minutes.”

“I’ll give you five,” Morgan replied. “And not a minute more.”

The media circus camped outside of her building was no less than Emma expected. And though they’d avoided the bulk of reporters by leaving via the underground parking garage, another crowd of gawkers was waiting for her at the federal building. Which piqued her interest, since no one should have known where she was headed. A leak in the Marshals office, maybe? It was something to consider. When she was younger, she’d reveled in the attention, posing for the cameras as she hopped from one nightclub to another. With her father in prison, she’d used the party scene and crowds of people to banish the bone-deep loneliness and depression that had threatened to lay her low.

“Emma, Emma!” Several reporters shouted her name, and questions that ranged from, “Do you know where your father is?” and “Are you under arrest?” to “Who are you wearing?” assaulted her ears. In the confusion, she could do nothing but allow Deputy Morgan to help her out of the car and escort her into the building. For once, Emma wished for quiet anonymity. Couldn’t these guys find someone more exciting to follow around? Wasn’t Lady Gaga in town this weekend for a concert or something? Emma wasn’t even that interesting, for shit’s sake. And seriously,
Who are you wearing?
What was wrong with people?

Conversation was nonexistent as Emma checked in as a visitor at the front desk and was issued a temporary ID badge while her purse went through a scanner. She walked through the metal detector, glad she wasn’t wearing anything that would set off an alarm. The last thing she needed was a full-body search. Especially with the paparazzi outside doing their best to get a glimpse of her.

“This way, Miss Ruiz.”

The sound of Deputy Morgan’s voice woke her from her stupor, and she followed him to a set of elevators. For the most part, the ride to the seventh floor was just a notch below excruciatingly uncomfortable. Right now they were treating her with a modicum of respect and professionalism. But once they stepped into that interview room, she knew without a doubt that the gloves would come off.

When the elevator doors finally slid open, Emma released the breath she’d been holding—and then choked on the intake as she came face-to-face with McCabe. “No cuffs?” he teased as she stepped out into the hallway.

“I’m cooperative, Deputy McCabe,” she replied as though offended. She followed Deputies Morgan and Courtney out of the elevator and McCabe fell in step beside her as they made their way down the hall. “I even got all dressed up for you.”

Since she was sixteen, Emma had used flirting as a shield. Worn sweet smiles like a suit of armor, and perfected the art of steamy stares to black-belt level. She never felt as if she could truly be herself, and so she’d developed her femme fatale persona, an alter ego to hide behind when it was too hard to be the real Emma, the girl who liked to lounge around in sweats and watch football on Sundays. The woman who preferred peace and quiet, and would rather spend the evening writing code or working on developing a high-functioning website than tossing back drinks and shaking her ass on the dance floor. The duality of it all wore her down. But she guarded that secret part of her with the fierceness of a pit bull. She trusted very few people—less than a handful—and not even Landon McCabe was worthy of anything more than the façade.

His gaze swept the length of her body, from her knee-high stiletto boots, up her thighs clad in clingy denim, and the short leather jacket covering her black silk tank top. A momentary flare of heat sparked in the depths of his blue eyes, but he quickly recovered, replacing the expression with disinterest. “I’m interested in one thing and one thing only, Emma: finding your father before he gets himself into any more trouble.” He turned his attention to Deputy Morgan and said, “Ethan, where would you like to do this?”

Morgan and Courtney continued on ahead of them, and Morgan answered, “There’s an interview room two doors down to our right. We’ll use that one.”

Without a word—or a second glance—McCabe caught up with the other two deputies and led the way down the hall. Crap. Okay, so maybe she hadn’t been able to dazzle him on her first attempt, but she was still in field goal range and, as far as Emma was concerned, had another down to go. Her flirty behavior was nothing more than an artfully planned defense. A sleight of hand meant to distract. To deflect scrutiny. Flirting was all about showing interest. As a general rule, people enjoyed attention—it was human nature. By giving attention, she was taking it away from herself. And most people didn’t even realize they were being maneuvered. The question was, would she be able to pull one over on McCabe and his cronies?

Or would they see right through her act?

Chapter Three

How in the hell could Landon possibly be expected to concentrate while cooped up with Emma in a room the size of a closet? Her scent enveloped him, a cloud of vanilla and honeysuckle that dulled his mind and heated his blood.
I even got all dressed up for you.
Jesus. His mouth had gone dry at her seductive tone even though he knew she was playing him, trying to draw his focus and scramble his thoughts. Well, it fucking worked. Putting one foot in front of the other was damned near impossible when all he wanted to do was turn around and drink in the sight of her in those ridiculously tight jeans and that black leather jacket that just barely skimmed her waistband, hugging every curve.

That outfit, coupled with the wild curls of her dark hair and smoky eyes, made Emma look like sin that was worth going to hell for. And right about now, Landon could feel the flames licking at his skin.
Do
not
let her get the upper hand here. So what if she’s gorgeous? You’re in charge here, not her
. Yeah, right. As though that little bit of self-coaching were going to do anything about the blood that was slowly draining from his brain and venturing south.

As a professional courtesy, Morgan and his partner hung back, allowing Landon to run point. They flanked him on either side of a rectangular table, all three of them facing Emma. If that wasn’t intimidating, he didn’t know what was. If they played this right, they’d have her singing whatever song they wanted by the time this interview was over and he’d have Javier Ruiz in custody before dinner.
Great. Awesome. Fan-freaking-tastic
. The sooner he could get away from Emma and her intoxicating, adrenaline-spiking presence, the better.

“All right, let’s get to it.” There was no point in wasting time on pleasantries. “When was the last time you spoke with your father, Emma?”

“Hmm . . .” Emma tilted her head to one side, exposing the long column of her neck. Landon swallowed and reached for the carafe of water and one of the glasses that had been left on the table. She shrugged out of her jacket, revealing a flimsy top, the fabric soft and clingy, exposing the curves of her breasts. Had someone turned the heat up? He could barely take a breath it was so damned stifling. “I try to visit him at least twice a month. More if I’m able. You can check the records at the prison to corroborate, but I have nothing to hide. The last time I spoke to him was two weeks ago. On June seventh. I drove up to Sheridan to see him.”

She’d spoken to her father eight days before his escape. The timing could certainly put her in a position to be considered an accessory. “And where were you last week on the morning of June fifteenth? The day that your father escaped federal custody?” Landon swallowed down half a glass of water, allowing the liquid to quench the heat of Emma’s dark gaze. A surge of adrenaline coursed through his veins, the high miraculously steering his focus. He wasn’t some twenty-four-year-old rookie anymore. He refused to let Emma get one over on him.

“I was with Tyson Kennedy that night,” she replied. “From about . . .” She pulled her bottom lip in between her straight, white teeth, as her eyes gazed high and to the left—an indication that her story might be fabricated. “Eight in the evening until two or three the next morning. We visited several clubs downtown. I’m sure if you asked around you could find two or three people who saw us out that night.”

“We’ll check it out,” Morgan replied from his right side. “We’ll need the names of those clubs, Emma.”

“Oh, sure,” she all but purred. “The War Room, Sixty-Nine . . .” Emma paused, and this time her gaze was focused squarely on Morgan. Her time frame might be fabricated, but the clubs she’d been to weren’t. “Oh, and a hot little dive bar in Belltown called The Pit. I remember because the bartender there, Levi, is
hot
.”

Morgan scribbled the names on a notepad and reclined back in his chair as Landon asked, “And what about the week since your father’s escape? Has he called, dropped by, sent you any e-mails? Had any contact whatsoever with you?”

Emma rolled her eyes and let out a derisive snort. “You know what your problem is, McCabe?” No, but he was pretty sure she was about to tell him. “You always jump to conclusions. You’ve got that self-righteous cop attitude down pat, and because you have the so-called
law
on your side, you fail to look past the obvious answer to any question.”

“Spoken like someone who’s
breaking
the law,” Landon remarked. Truth be told, he had no idea what she was talking about. There were no obvious answers where Javier’s escape was concerned. If there had been, he’d be in custody right now. “But since you’re so keen to enlighten me on my shortcomings, tell me, Emma, what is the obvious answer I’m missing?”