Her smile widened, and Thomas thought about running his tongue over that tiny overlap of her two front teeth, sucking that ripe lower lip of hers into his mouth.
"But someone who didn't know anything about dogs wouldn't have cared one way or the other if a dog witnessed the murder. So the question is, was Hairy able to stay quiet?"
Emma pointed under the table. "Did he hide under here, silent as a mouse, watching the whole thing, waiting for the bad guy to leave?"
Thomas watched Emma continue to search through the kitchen, peering close but not touching any of the surfaces already dusted in lime-green fingerprint powder. She leaned into the pantry and came out frowning and pointing.
Thomas looked in. "Sure. You can pick it up."
Emma held out a small bag of dog food and grinned. "Now this is good dog food, Rugby Boy. Expensive, but well worth it for the quality protein."
He nodded. "Hand it over, Doc."
"We can take it?"
"Slick doesn't need it where he is, that's for sure."
Thomas tucked the unopened bag under his arm and then reached out as Emma shoved a set of small bowls in his hands, both emblazoned with the name Hairy.
"I wondered how you knew his name," she said, giving him a friendly pat on the shoulder.
He then followed Emma as she walked through the rest of the apartment. She stopped briefly in the living room, pointing out a little dog bed in the corner of the couch, and Thomas grabbed that, too.
She looked briefly in the bathroom and laughed when she found a plastic caddy filled with dog grooming supplies. "Again, nothing but the best." She handed it to him with a smile and Thomas realized he was running out of hands, and that against his better judgment, he was going to be removing things from a crime scene.
Also against his better judgment, he was contemplating a relationship with a woman.
Emma reached the bedroom and stopped dead. She stared at the king-sized bed covered in zebra-stripe satin and piled high with red pillows. Then she examined the floor-to-ceiling black lacquer entertainment center on the opposite wall.
"Holy moley." She bent down to peruse the video and DVD titles. "You weren't kidding that this guy was a bit on the flamboyant side."
She straightened up, put her hands on those lovely hips he'd just been staring at, and Thomas watched her face light up as she surveyed Slick's CD collection. "Wow. All disco. All the time. This guy knew how to get down."
Thomas heard himself chuckle, and it reminded him that Emma was the sweetest, funniest, most interesting woman he'd ever been around. He liked her so much. He enjoyed her company. He wanted to get his hands under her shirt so badly that his knuckles ached.
She went to the closet next. The louvered doors were already opened, also sprinkled with powder. She tamed quickly to ask him a question about what she could and could not touch when her braid went flying over her shoulder, and Thomas responded as reliably as one of Pavlov's dogs. Everything below the waist perked up and was raring to go.
"Sure. Go ahead," he heard himself saying, then nearly hyperventilated when she got down on her hands and knees and pulled out two boxes from the back of the closet.
Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah, his maid chanted, because Emma's ass swayed a little when she reached, and swayed a little more when she scooted backward, and then got all packed nice and tight in her pants when she sat back on her heels.
Dear God, he wanted to clutch her hips and take her from behind. He wanted to open her up like a new Wal-Mart.
"Thomas?"
Emma swiveled at the waist to talk to him, her face alive with laughter and surprise. "Did you look in these boxes?" She suddenly frowned. "Is something wrong?"
What was wrong was that they hadn't talked about what happened on the porch the other night. What was wrong was that Thomas was going to lose his mind if he didn't resolve all the unanswered questions about Emma Jenkins and what he was doing paying for her consulting work, staring at her spectacular ass, needing to be in her presence.
A lot of things were wrong.
"Not a thing," he said, lowering the dog food bag over the decidedly unpleated front of his trousers. "Find something interesting?"
"Ooh, yeah. Check this out." She pulled a box across the carpet and with dainty fingers held up a tiny blue sequined garment, then a matching headband with a jaunty peacock feather. "Nice, huh?"
Thomas blinked. Oh, that box.
Next, Emma held up a silver lamé jumpsuit with a rhinestone collar, then the green leprechaun ensemble. Emma put everything back in the box and cast him a sly glance. "You know, Tobin, unless Hairy had more than one St. Patrick's Day costume, I think you've already seen this stuff. Am I right?"
Thomas cleared his throat. "Yes, I did. I thought it would be fun for you to find."
Emma shook her head and got back on all fours to shove the box into the closet. Thomas gritted his teeth.
"Huh." She stood up, hands on hips, and frowned. "Has Hairy demonstrated any kind of special skills?"
"Skills?" Like falling in love with my underwear?
"Yeah, like jumping through hoops or standing up on his hind legs or spinning or flipping or anything? Things a circus dog would do?"
"Hairy? My Hairy is a circus dog?"
"I have no idea," Emma said, laughing. "But he sure does something that requires a festive wardrobe."
"Yeah. So did Slick. Remember the sailor suit I told you about? The one Hairy was wearing when I found him?"
Emma nodded, a cute little divot forming between her eyes.
"Well, I guess I failed to mention that Slick was wearing a matching outfit when he died. Little sailor cap and all."
Emma crossed her arms up under her breasts, stretched one leg out to the side and tapped her toe. "Anything else you need to tell me?"
Several things, actually, he thought. "Nope," he said.
Emma pursed her lips and squinted at him, maintaining her impatient schoolmarm posture. She looked unbearably sweet, he thought.
"You better not be shitting me, Tobin." Her voice was decidedly unsweetened.
"I hear you." I'm a dead man when she finds out the check I gave her is my money.
He watched Emma march back to the entertainment center and peer at the CD player. She hit the ON button, then pushed PLAY, and suddenly the whole apartment came alive with the throbbing disco beat of the Village People's "In the Navy."
If it weren't for the sight of Emma's laughing face, her lovely hips rocking back and forth, and her sweet voice singing "'Where can you find pleasure, search the world for treasure…?'" Thomas would've been certain that he'd died and taken the express elevator to his own personal hell.
* * *
Chapter 12
Shake Your Groove Thing
« ^ »
"Oh, for God's sake—disco dancing dogs?"
While Emma laughed, Thomas couldn't help but stare at her over in the passenger seat of his Audi. She looked exceptionally pretty in the sunshine, those streaks of burgundy and gold dancing in the lustrous pleat of her dark braid. The rosy cheeks. The shining blue eyes.
She looked like a freaking Ivory soap commercial.
Not that that was a bad thing. In fact, it conjured up a real pleasant image—Emma all wet and pink in a steamy shower, where he'd volunteer to lather her up—but good.
"No joke," she said. "There are a couple groups that hold regional and national dance competitions. Everybody wears elaborate costumes and does difficult routines—and it's not just disco, we're talking country line dancing, hip-hop, Riverdance stuff. You name it."
Thomas shook his head and briefly shut his eyes. "How has this been allowed to happen in our country?"
Emma let loose with a loud guffaw, and Thomas glanced over in time to see the way she threw back her head, the feminine line of her jaw, the sweet pale throat, the succulent little earlobe he'd once held between his teeth. He licked his lips.
"Well, Thomas, you're the guy who says people are capa
ble of anything."
She turned toward him and her eyes crinkled up with amusement. "This is just another unusual thing that human beings do in their spare time—they dance with their dogs. You got to admit that it's harmless enough. And I figure if we find the group Scott Slick belonged to, it might give you a lead in what happened to him, right?"
It was possible, so he nodded. "You ever seen one of these dance competitions?"
"Yup, a couple. They're lots of fun."
"I'll take your word for it."
She laughed again. "I'll make a few calls this afternoon, see what I can find. Are you free tonight? Can we try a few things with Hairy this evening?"
"I'm free until about ten-thirty. I've got to work tonight."
"What are you working on?"
As Thomas glanced at those blue eyes brimming with curiosity and intellect, he thought maybe the real attraction of Emma wasn't the physical at all. It was her mind. Her sense of humor. Her innate kindness. All wrapped up in that modest, soft-smelling beauty.
How was a man supposed to defend himself against all that? Why would he even want to?
"The team is starting a new campaign tonight. Some guy in Hancock asked around about getting rid of his ex-wife—a pretty common situation—and we're … well, I'm meeting him at midnight for a drink. We're going to talk things over."
Emma bit down on her bottom lip, briefly checking the interstate traffic before she turned to face Thomas. She was frowning.
"What happens during one of these things? What exactly do you do?"
Thomas gave her a gentle smile and shook his head. "Not very many people know the specifics of what I do, so I'm trusting you to keep it to yourself. All right?"
Her nod was so enthusiastic that it made Thomas laugh.
"You're an exceptionally trustworthy person, aren't you, Dr. Jenkins?"
"Absolutely."
"No, I mean it. Look at yourself." He extended a hand toward her and grinned. "You spend your life taking care of needy living things. You've accepted your friend's kid as your own. You keep your dad from getting lonely. You pay your bills. You don't suffer fools and don't lie. You're an exceptional person."
She leaned away and studied him. "I try to be decent, if that's what you're getting at—but that doesn't make me exceptional."
"If you say so." Thomas loved the way Emma blushed.
"So what's going to happen tonight?"
Thomas put his eyes on the road. "The guy asked a hooker if she knew anyone who'd do the job. She called the local police, who called us. We've already interviewed her. So when I show up tonight, the guy will think I'm the hit man from Killers 'R' Us."
"Ah, yes. Your consulting firm."
Thomas laughed. "Right."
"Where are you meeting him?"
"Some hole-in-the-wall tavern. The team's never used the place before, so my people have been up there for the last few days doing background—interviewing the employees, checking all the exits, figuring out where everyone will be stationed."
Emma frowned. "Is he dangerous?"
Thomas tipped his head thoughtfully. "You never know. Most people who go looking for someone to do their dirty work don't carry guns. But every once in a while…"
Emma drew in a sharp breath.
"We take care of each other, Emma." He smiled at her, pleased that she worried about him. Another excellent development.
"So what will you say to him?"
"I'll get him to give me the name of the target, the specifics of what he wants done, ask for a down payment of some sort, and arrange the next meeting. We always try for two meetings—it shows clear intent. And we'll be recording everything on video and audio."
Emma's eyes widened. "You go in wired? Like on TV?"
"Absolutely. A camera inside my shirt button. A microphone inside my ball cap. Two guys in a communications van outside. At least four backup people inside the tavern—and everybody can hear everything."
"Hmm," Emma said, brushing a finger over her lips. "But how come you do the actual undercover work when you're not a cop?"
He caught her eye and couldn't help but smile at her. Right then he realized he'd smiled more in the last two hours than he had in the last two years.
"It's a team effort, so at the beginning I made a point of knowing firsthand how all the jobs were done—background preparation, remote electronic surveillance, backup, and playing the role of the hit man. It went so well the first time that I did another and another and pretty soon everyone on the team realized that, for some damn reason, people like to chat with me about murder. I'm a good listener, I suppose."
Thomas felt the heat of Emma's eyes all along the length of his body, from his shoes to his hairline. He didn't dare look at her.
"I think it's because you look the part," she said softly. "At first you look kind of dangerous—the bump on your nose, the squint, the scar, the fact that you don't smile too much … the fact that you're so … uh … big."
The air inside the car felt too heavy, too warm, while Thomas waited for her to finish her observation.
"But your eyes can be very expressive when you let them, Thomas—understanding even. I bet you reel people in with your eyes. Like you've done with me."
Oh, yeah, there is a God!
He stole a glance her way, expecting to see her usual smile, but was greeted by eyes sharp with fear.
"What happened on my porch was kind of a fluke, Thomas. It was too much, too fast, and for the time being I can't be anything more than your friend and co-worker. Let's focus on helping Hairy and getting to the bottom of Slick's murder. Okay?"
Shit. It was not okay. Not at all. It was a mess.
Thomas was ready to risk getting involved with her. He wanted her. He wanted to be with her in bed and out of it. It amazed him. Thrilled him. Made him feel alive.
"How long is a 'time being,' Emma?" He reached out across the gearshift to find her hand, so warm and silky and petite in his own. With a rush of hot relief, be felt her fingers wrap around his.
"I'm not sure," she whispered. "It depends on a few things—Leelee, mostly. She's been through the wringer, and I can't do anything that would make her feel her place with me is threatened right now. Can you understand that?"
"Sure." Thomas kept his hand on hers as long as he could, but he had to let go as he shifted down at the exit.
"Thank you." She straightened in the seat, folded her hands in her lap, and whispered, "But that doesn't mean I didn't like it, Thomas."
His head spun around faster than Michelle Kwan doing a triple-axle. "Yeah. I noticed how much you liked it."
The flush that raced up her throat to her cheeks was too adorable to believe. Just then they pulled into the Wit's End parking lot.
The shy smile Emma offered put a vise grip on his insides. "Why don't you and Hairy come over to the house for dinner tonight and we can set up a few tests afterward, maybe shake our booties a bit before you have to work?"
Thomas nodded, completely amenable to a bit of bootie shaking as long as it was Emma doing the shaking. But he'd already figured out the real purpose of the get-together.
"Is this 'meet the potential new boyfriend night' at the Jenkins house?"
When they'd both stopped laughing, Emma touched his hand again and gave it a friendly squeeze. "I should probably warn you that Leelee's not an easy crowd to work. Don't expect much of a welcome."
Thomas nodded, bringing her hand to his lips. He planted a soft kiss on her knuckles. "I'll just be my charming self, then."
Emma got out of the car and leaned in the open window.
"It wouldn't hurt if you dress extra sharp tonight, Rugby Boy. Do you own a white polyester bell-bottomed suit by any chance?"
* * *
Thomas the Tongue was about five minutes early, Leelee noted from, her bedroom window. How completely pathetic. But she had to admit that he drove a truly superior car with a bumper sticker that made her laugh. So maybe she could stand him for one night. r />
Then he unfolded himself from the front seat, and he looked like he was twelve feet tall.
In his hands was a bouquet of flowers—daisies, maybe—tied with a long yellow ribbon. God. The poor man needed some remedial assistance in the gift idea department. Besides, they looked too little-girly for Emma. Those red roses had been more her speed.
He was dressed nice for a Baltimore guy—a pair of black slacks and a dark eggplant shirt that looked silky and expensive. He looked urban cool, even, though she didn't know why he bothered out here in Tractor World.
She was about to turn from the window when she saw something skitter out of the car onto the gravel—Hairy! Emma had told her all about the dog's disco dancing career and it was the coolest thing she'd ever heard! And he was here!
All right!
Leelee ran down the front stairs just in time to answer the doorbell, mad at herself because she was still second-guessing her overall plan for the evening. There had been so many possible ways to scare him off.
The punk-skank plan had been her first choice. She could've dyed her hair blue, stuck temporary tattoos up and down her arms, and put in a fake nose ring. But Emma and Beckett would have just laughed their butts off, ruining the effect, so she scratched that.
There was the silent-treatment option, where she could've given him surly looks and refused to speak to him while smiling at everyone else. But Emma would've been seriously hacked off if she did that, and she preferred to avoid another lecture about respect.
She even considered the needy-orphan routine, where she'd hang on him and thank him for agreeing to be her daddy. She figured that would get him running out the door the fastest, but it was the one gag she didn't have the cojones to pull off.
That left her with being herself. Totally lame-o, she knew, but it was too late to do anything about it. She was already at the door, wearing her low-rise Mudd jeans, her Dr. Martens, and an Old Navy stretch top with a big purple butterfly appliqué. Her hair was up in a clip. Her hand was on the old brass doorknob. She opened the door.