Chapter 12
YOU ARE GOING TO GO,” EMILY SAID, HER VOICE ANGRY and disbelieving at the same time. “You are going out to a pool hall with those men, drinking to all hours of the night and doing heaven knows what else. And those men know who you are!”
Michael was calmly shaving, his shirt off, wearing only his trousers, his hair still damp from his shower; he didn’t bother to look at Emily or respond to her anger.
“Are you going to answer me?” she demanded.
“They have no idea who I am. Not who I actually am,” he said, wiping the rest of the soap from his face, then inspecting himself for cuts. He wasn’t used to handling a razor blade.
“They know who the world thinks you are and that’s the same thing.”
“Do you know where that brown shirt is?” Michael asked, looking through Emily’s closet. “Or maybe I should wear the green one.”
“Wear one that goes well with blood,” she muttered, leaning against the doorjamb, her arms tight across her chest.
As Michael went past her, the brown shirt in his hands, he kissed her cheek. “I had a good time today, too, and I’ll miss you tonight, too.”
“I won’t miss you,” she said. “That’s an absurd idea. I’ve spent so much time with you over the last week that I’m looking forward to time alone. I have several books I want to read.”
Michael didn’t respond but the little smile he was wearing said everything. Damn him, she thought, but they had had a wonderful day together. She had loved showing him her tiny town and introducing him to people. Most of the men were home for the weekend and he’d stopped by each house and chatted so easily with the people that it seemed that he’d lived in Greenbriar all his life.
And everywhere they went people liked him. They were invited inside houses for tea and coffee and lemonade. As they sat on the porch of the Keller house, Emily said, “Someday I’d like to have a house like this. I want a big porch and a green lawn and a swing set.”
“Not me,” Michael said, making her look at him in surprise. Then she turned away. What did it matter to her what he did or did not like?
“I’d like to have the Madison house. I’m used to big spaces and that’s a big house. And I’d want at least six children.”
“Your poor wife,” Emily said, watching him.
“I don’t think anyone would pity my wife,” he said under his breath in such a way that little chills ran up Emily’s spine.
The next minute Mrs. Keller brought out lemonade and cake and nothing more was said of what either of them would want if things were different.
Irene wasn’t home from the city yet, if she was going to come, so they didn’t get to meet her. And only one bad thing happened. At the Brandons’ house, Mr. Brandon, a lawyer, stared at Michael and said, “Didn’t I see you on TV?”
Emily was suddenly too frightened to say a word, but Michael smiled and said, “My picture was shown, yes.”
Mr. Brandon was obviously searching his brain for what he remembered. “Weren’t you accused of being a Mafia hit man, then dragged to jail by the FBI? And weren’t you shot?”
“I was,” Michael said cheerfully. “Shot to death. But Emily found me, used a pair of pliers to pull the bullet out of my head and I’ve been her faithful slave ever since.”
Emily was sure she was going to faint but Mr. Brandon, after an initial moment of shock, started laughing, slapped Michael on the back and invited him to spend that evening out with the boys at the local pool-hall-cum-beer-joint. And that’s where Michael was getting dressed to go now.
And Emily wasn’t invited to go with him.
“So, how do I look?”
Much, much too good, Emily thought but would rather her hair fall out than tell him so. “Fine,” she said stiffly, “and I hope you have a lovely evening.”
Michael just laughed, kissed her cheek again, then ran out the door—and Emily was left alone for the first time in days.
With Michael gone, the apartment seemed too big, too empty and altogether unwelcoming. “This is absurd,” she muttered, as she folded and hung up his clothes that he always left strewn where they lay. She was used to spending the days alone, and even most weekends, so why did she think she needed a man she hardly knew to entertain her?
With new resolve, she pulled a novel from a stack that had been sitting there untouched for a whole week and tried to focus her mind enough to read. When that didn’t happen, she cleaned out the refrigerator. Then she vacuumed the entire apartment and made a casserole—which she froze because there wasn’t room for it in the refrigerator what with all that the women of Greenbriar had brought for Michael. After that she changed the sheets on her bed and put them into the tiny stack washing machine in the kitchen. Then she ironed the new shirts she and Michael had bought for him that morning.
By then it was 1:00 A.M., yet there was no sign of Michael’s return. She looked up the number of the pool hall in the phone book but managed to prevent herself from calling. He was an angel, so what could happen to him?
But of course he wasn’t an angel, she told herself. He was just…just…well, she didn’t know what he was exactly, except that he was helpless. She’d had to show him how to tie his shoelaces because he couldn’t figure out how to make a bow.
At 2:30 A.M., she heard a car pull up by the stairs. Frantically, she ran around the apartment and turned off the lights, then ran to her bedroom, planning to pretend to be asleep and therefore unaware whether he was or was not there.
But a dead person couldn’t have slept through Michael’s entry into her apartment. He was singing off-key to something about his heart being broken by a two-timin’ woman, and he crashed over every chair, table and bookcase in the room.
Emily got out of bed, turned on the dining room light and glared at him as Michael grinned back at her. “You’re drunk,” she said tightly.
“That I am and look at this, Emily my love.” From his pocket, he took out a wad of dollar bills that even across the room looked beer-stained. “I won this.”
She dropped her arms and her jaw. “You were gambling?” she whispered. And when he nodded, she said, “What would Adrian say?”
“Sod Adrian,” Michael said, grinning. “That’s my new curse word. I heard lots of them tonight. Want to hear more?”
“No, thank you.”
“What makes a word good or bad?” he asked seriously as he pulled wadded-up money from every pocket. “And why is a word bad in one country and not in another? And why are you so very pretty?”
Losing her prim look, Emily shook her head. “You are going to have a beauty of a hangover in the morning so you’d better get to bed and get what rest you can.” Walking toward him, she put her arm around his waist to help him walk to her bedroom. It was no use trying to get him to the couch because she was sure he’d fall off.
Companionably, Michael put his arm around her shoulders. “We had pizza, Emily. You didn’t tell me about pizza. And we watched…ah….” He made a gesture of throwing that almost sent him sprawling.
“Football.”
“Right. Football. And we saw two men hitting each other.”
“Boxing,” she said, pushing him to sit on the bed, then she knelt to take off his shoes. “And how did you win all that money? By looking ahead and seeing who was going to win the matches?”
He had his hand on her shoulder to steady himself. “That was the oddest thing, Emily. I knew who was going to win every game. I even knew what punch was coming when, but it didn’t matter. And the second time we watched the match on…on….”
“Videotape.”
“Yes, on video, everyone else in the place knew what was coming, but no one cared. We still liked it just as much the second and even the third time. Isn’t that odd?”
“You have just stated one of the great mysteries of all time, something that puzzles every woman on this earth. If you find out the answer, do tell me. Now lift up.”
Obligingly, Michael half stood so Emily
could help him remove his trousers. “I’ll do that, Emily,” he said with great solemnity. “I’ll do anything you want. There were lots of women there but none of them had a spirit like yours. Yours is so clean and shining, yet so warm and loving at the same time.”
When Emily had removed his shirt, she pushed him back onto the bed and pulled the light covers over him. “It’s late and you should go to sleep now.”
But as she reached to turn off the light, he caught her wrist. “Emily, I have never had a better time in my life than I’ve had with you this last week. I have enjoyed every minute of your company. I would give my life to protect you from any harm.”
She pulled her wrist from his grasp, turned out the light, then, sitting on the edge of the bed, she looked at him for a moment. His eyes were closed and she thought he had gone to sleep so she reached out and touched his forehead, then smoothed back the hair at his temples. When he left would he take away her memory of him?
He looked so sweet lying there, his eyes closed, only the moonlight from the window illuminating his dark, handsome features. Feeling like a mother with her child, she bent forward to kiss his forehead.
But Michael twisted and pulled her lips to his, and he proved that kissing was instinct. His hand sliding to the back of her neck, he turned her head so it was slanted to his, then he opened his mouth over hers and kissed her deeply and thoroughly, his lips covering hers as though he meant to devour her.
For Emily, all thought was impossible as she felt his big, strong body through the sheets, felt his thighs against hers, felt the strength and the heat of him.
“Emily,” he said as he pulled away from her mouth and his lips descended onto her neck.
Somehow, Emily managed to retain her sanity. Or at least retained a sense of who she was, who he was and where she should be, which was not cavorting in bed with this man she had known such a short time.
With great effort and the use of some strength, she pushed against his chest and freed herself. “No,” she managed to say, but her voice was weak.
Michael didn’t try to pull her back to him, but the look in his eyes was almost enough to break her resolve. There was such yearning in his look, such longing, that she almost fell against him.
But, somehow, she got to her feet. “I better let you get some sleep,” she said in a voice that broke in the middle. She cleared her throat. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Before he could say a word, before she had to look at those eyes of his for one more second, she turned and fled the room.
The sun hadn’t been up very long when Emily was sitting on the railing of the little deck outside her apartment, sipping a cup of tea. She’d left the door open in case she heard anything from Michael, but it was unlikely that after the night he’d spent he’d rouse before noon. Besides, she was glad for this time alone as she needed to think about what was happening between her and this man she hardly knew.
Maybe he didn’t know it (or maybe he did with his powers of perception) but last night she had made a fool of herself. What did it matter to her if this man went out with other people? What was it her business if he showed himself around town? Or if every single woman and half the married ones in town courted him?
Actually, none of it was her business. What was her business was—
Suddenly she heard a shout from inside the apartment, followed by a crash, then what sounded like a body hitting the floor.
“What are you—” came a man’s voice.
“Just who the hell are you? And what are you doing here?” another voice shouted in return.
Outside, Emily’s eyes widened until they were the size of oranges, for she knew exactly what was happening. “Donald,” she gasped, dropping her mug of tea as she started running.
In the bedroom, a nearly nude Michael was on the floor, looking up at Donald, who was glaring down at him with clenched fists. From what Emily could see Donald was about to attack.
With a motion that could only be described as a leap, she put herself between the two men, standing protectively over Michael, who, from the look of him, was learning the definition of “hangover.” “Donald,” she said in her sweetest, most pleading voice, “let’s go into the living room and I can explain everything.”
“Get out of my way, Emily,” Donald said through clenched teeth. “I’m going to kill him.”
Michael put his hand to his head. “I think this body may die of its own accord,” he whispered.
“Please, Donald,” Emily said, her hand on his arm. “Let’s go in the other room and I will explain.”
It took Donald a moment to control his anger enough that he could focus on Emily. “You want me to leave him alone here? In your bedroom?”
“It’s where my clothes are,” Michael said, his voice innocent, but Emily glared at him as she knew very well that he meant to push Donald’s anger.
Donald made a lunge for Michael, who was trying to untangle himself from the covers that were wound about him, but Emily threw her body onto Donald’s, her hands pressing into his chest. “Please,” she begged. She could feel his heart pounding under her hands.
By the time Donald was able to hear Emily, Michael had freed himself and was standing behind her and that was when she felt some of the rigidity leave Donald’s body. Donald may be angry, but he was no fool, for Michael was a great deal larger than he was. For all that Donald was as beautiful as any model, he was short, and even hours in the gym couldn’t put the bulk on him that Michael naturally carried. Besides, Michael’s dark hair and eyes and the stubble of black whiskers now on his chin and jaws made him look like the underworld gangster that he was accused of being.
“Come on,” Emily urged, pushing Donald away from Michael and toward the living room.
With reluctance, Donald allowed himself to be pushed from the room. As Emily shut the door she glared at Michael, standing there in the early morning light in just his tiny undershorts. “Get dressed,” she hissed. “And don’t come out until I tell you you can.”
Smiling, obviously not upset at all, Michael winked at her just before she firmly closed the door.
“Everything,” Donald said as soon as she was in the living room. “I want to know every word of why that…that….” Abruptly, he looked at her, his face a reflection of the horror he was feeling. “He’s the man on the news, isn’t he?” Donald said, his voice so low she could hardly hear him. In the next instant, he had the telephone in his hand.
“What are you doing?” she gasped.
“What you should have done a week ago. I’m calling the FBI. We’ll tell them that he held you hostage and I’ll back you up. I’ll say—What the hell are you doing?” He half shouted the last because Emily had unplugged the phone from the wall.
“You can’t call anyone,” she said. “You have to listen to me and let me explain.”
“You are going to explain why it’s all right for you to harbor a man who is on the FBI’s most-wanted list? No, don’t tell me. Let me guess. He’s told you some cock-and-bull story about how he’s innocent and he’s been framed and no one understands him and—”
“No, no, no!” she said, then tried to calm herself enough that she could come up with a great whopping lie that would make Donald believe she should hide a wanted man.
Donald had his arms folded across his chest. “All right, Emily, I’m listening. But wait, before you start telling me what I’m sure is going to be the most fantastic story I’ve ever heard, I want to know why you didn’t think to get him out of your bed before I got here.”
Trying to calm herself, she sat down. “I didn’t know you were coming,” she said honestly, her mind fully occupied with making up a story to explain Michael’s presence in her apartment. A story other than the truth, that is.
Donald didn’t say a word but got up and went to her answering machine and pushed the play button. “Hi, honey, really sorry I won’t be there on Friday but, as I’m sure you’ve seen on the news, the assassination attempt is t
aking all my time. I should be back Saturday night. Love ya.” The next message was also from Donald. “Sorry, muffin, but I’m not going to be able to make it tonight. I haven’t slept in two days, but I’ll be there early Sunday for sure. Why don’t you snuggle in bed and wait for me? I’ll make it worth your while.”
There was a third message on the machine, a woman’s voice. “Emily, dear, this is Julia Waters and I just called to invite Michael to dinner on Sunday night. I do hope he can come. Oh, and if you’re not busy, we’d love to have you, too.”
During the last message, Donald looked at Emily in disbelief. “Other people in town know about him?” he asked, aghast. “They have seen him? Seen you with this criminal? Do you know the penalties for harboring such a man as him?”
“He’s not who he seems to be,” Emily said softly, still unable to think of a reason to give Donald for why she was helping Michael. Now Donald was standing, while she was sitting, and he was towering over her. Maybe he seemed small next to Michael, but to her he seemed the size of a building.
“You didn’t play these messages, did you?” Donald asked quietly. “That’s why he was in your bed, wasn’t it? Or maybe you spent the night in bed with him and you didn’t care whether I found him with you or not.”
“No!” she said sharply, her head coming up. “He came home drunk last night so I put him to bed in my room. I slept on the couch. We are not lovers.”
“And how am I supposed to believe that? You’ve lied to me about everything else, so why not that?”
Emily knew she should stand up to him. As Irene kept telling her, she was too often a doormat, but she felt guilty because, well, she had completely forgotten Donald over the last few days. Yesterday, oddly enough, not one person had asked about him. Turning her head to the side, she glanced toward the bedroom door. She wouldn’t put it past Michael to have performed some sort of black magic to keep her from thinking of Donald, keep other people from mentioning him. Did Michael have the ability to do that?
“Well,” Donald said, pulling her attention back to him. “I’m waiting.”