Thomas really couldn't say he minded. Since the night Pam hauled the old lady over his threshold, she'd stopped by quite a few times with food. Her tuna casserole tasted like a scoop of ocean bottom, but he had to admit he was getting addicted to her brown, bubbling fruit cobblers. They were delicious with ice cream.
Watching Mrs. Q flirt shamelessly with Beckett tonight, Thomas realized the old lady was probably just lonely. He didn't wish loneliness on anyone. God knew he'd had his share of it.
Thomas flipped the steaks, amazed at the way his house and yard literally thumped with life around him. Leelee had brought along some of Slick's disco CDs, and the kids and Hairy were dancing in the living room. He listened to the roars of adult laughter pouring out the kitchen window and smiled wistfully—damned if his own loneliness hadn't ended the day he'd acquired a six-pound mutant dog.
"Hey, Rugby Boy."
He spun around, the grill tongs snapping in the air in surprise.
"Hey—watch those things!" Emma's entire face lit up when she laughed. And Thomas corrected himself—his loneliness had ended the day he'd met this woman.
"Thanks for having us today—it's been so much fun."
In his mind, the idea of having Emma included a bit more than a rugby match and a steak. "You're very welcome," he said. "So what did you think of the match?"
Emma's eyes widened. "Nice hobby. It makes ice hockey look like high tea."
He snapped the tongs close to her nose and she twisted away in playful horror. "Watch it, Thomas. I might bite back this time."
He smiled at her, and in his mind he let it all play out: the hell with waiting. He would grab her around the waist and pull her up against the front of his body and say to her, "No more playing around, baby. You were made for this."
The idea punched the air right out of Thomas's lungs. There was no gravity anymore. There was only the imagined press of her soft, warm body and that wild, roaring vortex of desire.
He stared at her.
She stared back.
Then he imagined that she'd raise her sweet arms around his neck and close her eyes and offer him those plump, parted lips to suck and crush.
Dimly, Thomas heard the barbecue tongs clatter to the cement.
It would be hot, hot, hot, and Thomas would know it was the wrong place at the wrong time in front of just about all of the wrong people he could imagine, but he wouldn't give a flip because he'd be getting what he wanted, what he so desperately needed: Emma—warm, willing, wonderful Emma.
And he'd grab onto that ass of hers, and she'd wriggle and push up against him like she had on the porch—
"Uncle T! Uncle T!" A little hand yanked on his pants pocket and the daydream was over. He looked down into Petey's excited face, then to the breathless woman a few feet beyond his reach, and started to laugh.
No, he didn't want to go back to lonely. But he sure as hell was looking forward to being alone with Emma.
* * *
Chapter 14
Ring My Bell
« ^ »
"You're on fire, girl."
Velvet stepped back, tapped a finger on her cheek, and made one last inspection of Emma's ensemble. She wore the short and clingy blue dress with the little ruffle, the strappy sandals, and a pair of funky clip-on earrings Velvet had borrowed from Obaasan. She'd even convinced Emma to wear a bit of lip gloss tonight, a warm rose shade that accentuated her mouth.
The man was toast.
"He's going to slobber all over you."
Emma laughed. "Please. I get slobbered on all day, every day. I'm going for something out of the ordinary, here. Jaw-dropping shock, maybe."
Velvet nodded. "I hope his heart's strong. That's all I got to say."
Emma turned back to the full-length mirror on the inside of her office door. It was really here—the Night of the Blue Dress, the night she never thought would arrive. And with a minor adjustment of her cleavage, she smiled at herself and caught Velvet's eye in the mirror.
"Here goes nothing."
"Another man falls."
"But what if he doesn't?" Emma twirled on her two-inch heels, feeling elegant and feminine in the split second before she started to totter. Velvet grabbed her elbow.
"I mean, what if I'm imagining all this? What if he's really not as interested as I am? He's been so … reserved lately. Polite. He hasn't even tried to kiss me one single time since that night on the porch. He just stares at me."
"Because you asked him to wait, didn't you?"
"True…"
"So the man's respected your wishes. This is a good thing, Emma, not a bad thing."
"I guess. But what if he's cooled off since then?"
"Then he's about to warm up." Velvet reached over to fluff Emma's hair. "You're hot tonight. Sexy. Fabulous."
Emma scrunched her nose and peeked at the mirror again. "You know what? Maybe you're right. If those words have ever applied to me, it would be tonight."
She giggled at her reflection and turned to examine her behind. "I think I'm at my peak. Tonight. In this dress. I've never looked this good in my life and probably never will again. This is it—the zenith of Emma Jenkins. I hope you feel honored to witness it."
Velvet groaned.
"No. I'm completely serious." She put her hands on her hips. "I'm thirty-four. From what I understand, it's all downhill from here."
She turned—no wobble this time—and grabbed her little black purse. "I'm off. It's now or never. Wish me luck."
Velvet shook her head. "You don't need it, hon."
* * *
The hostess led Emma to the outdoor dining deck and instantly her eyes found Thomas.
He sat at a picnic table near the railing, looking out over the water, two bottles of beer already centered on the brown butcher-paper tablecloth in front of him. He wore a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, a pair of khaki pants, and brown leather loafers with no socks.
His long legs stretched out lazily under the table. His wide shoulders hung relaxed. He leaned on his forearms, the tendons and muscles in his neck exposed. It made him look vulnerable somehow, big and masculine but human all the same. It made her smile.
He turned to her.
A sharp "Ring, bing, bing, bing!" sliced through her brain. And she knew it was the sound of hitting the jackpot—like when the Price Is Right Showcase contestant won the car, the trip, and the twenty-five grand in one fell swoop.
A flash of surprise seemed to widen Thomas's eyes, but he instantly replaced it with a cool, unruffled gaze. He was quite capable of keeping his face unreadable when he wanted to.
He stood up.
She moved closer, the awareness intensifying with each step. It poured over her, hot and sizzling, leaving the tiniest suggestion of fear in its wake. The friendly little bells had been drowned out by the roar of her own blood.
She couldn't remember the last time she was this nervous, this self-conscious—this revved up—and tried to focus on placing one sandaled foot in front of the other in as ladylike a manner as possible. Thomas's eyes didn't stray from her face, but she was certain that other people were staring at her from head to toe, whispering things like "Did you get a load of that fleshy woman in an obscene blue dress?"
Emma suddenly feared the worst: a side seam was about to split open; her boobs were about to pop from the neckline like champagne corks on New Year's Eve. She couldn't do this.
Oh. But she already was, wasn't she?
Thomas's face remained perfectly inscrutable, though Emma thought he might have flexed his jaw. There was no smile. No mouth opening with shock. No drool. Nothing.
Her heart sank. She must have been overly optimistic. Maybe she looked so bad that he was embarrassed for her, embarrassed to be seen in public with her.
She reached the table, and Thomas cupped her bare elbow with a wide, warm palm.
"Hey, Emma."
He guided her down as she tried to fold and twist her tightly sheathed body o
nto the bench, which was no small feat. By the time she was seated, she was breathless, rattled, perspiring, and feeling horribly overdressed—or underdressed, depending on how she decided to look at it.
Why hadn't she worn the simple black outfit she'd chosen for her date with Mr. Traffic Court
—comfortable, modest, dark enough that she'd simply faded into the background?
She closed her eyes in mortification. Why in God's name did I wear this dress?
Why the hell did she wear that dress? Thomas wondered.
Did she want to see him weep like a helpless infant? Did she want to see him die an agonizing death? Was she subjecting him to some strange, convoluted female test that he was predestined to fail?
Or had she changed her mind? Oh man, was she chucking the "time being" crap and hitting on him? Because it was inconceivable that she didn't know what she was doing to him—and every other man in the place—in that dress.
It had taken every ounce of strength to remain standing when she'd walked across the deck to their table, all her good parts on display all at the same time—the slender neck and creamy shoulders, those unbelievable breasts, those juicy hips, thighs, legs…
He swallowed—hard. What was he supposed to say? What was he supposed to do?
Thomas felt a trickle of sweat run down the center of his spine.
He tried not to stare at her, but he was weak—always so weak in her presence—no different from any other schlub under the spell of a beautiful woman.
So while Emma got comfortable and glanced around, he stared at her, unable to form words, aware that he must look like one of those old Looney Tunes characters who transforms into a wolf with one peek at a gorgeous dame, his long, red tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth, his eyeballs shooting straight out from their sockets, then snapping back, all to the sound of "AH-OOO-GAH!"
She looked at him.
He was a dead man.
From the grave, in a raspy groan, he asked, "Hungry?"
"Yes, I am. How about you?"
He felt one side of his mouth twitch and knew he couldn't stop himself. "I'm always hungry, Emma," he said in that dead man's voice.
Emma dragged her eyes all over him—that golden-boy face with the broken nose, the big shoulders, the sexy mouth…
"Nice place," she said.
"My favorite," he said.
They were surrounded by laughter, the squawk of sea gulls, the clatter of dishes, and the crack of mallets on crab shells. They were festive sounds—summer sounds—nearly ready to be packed away for the winter season. She took a deep breath and savored it.
The deck snuggled up to a little man-made beach along Bayside Landing. At least thirty people were crammed onto picnic tables on the deck and another fifteen sat at dining tables on the narrow strip of sand, under umbrellas, surrounded by transplanted palm trees and did torches. The combination of a legitimately pretty setting and tacky décor was pure Baltimore, and it made her smile.
Glancing around, she noticed the word Tobin scrawled in pencil at the edge of their paper-covered table. Thomas must have called ahead and reserved this table and now there she was, with him, in public, with his name in big letters for the world to see. And it made her feel special.
Why was that? She was fiercely attached to her own last name and never took Aaron's when they married. In fact, she'd never even considered hyphenating it—Emma Jenkins-Kramer just never sounded right to her.
But Emma Jenkins-Tobin? Now that had a nice cadence to it. Familiar, even. Like she'd heard it all her life.
Emma sucked in a mouthful of air and started to cough. Thomas offered her a bottle of Corona, a lime wedge perched on the lip of the glass.
"Here. Shall we make a toast?" He tapped her bottle with his own. "To smart consultants."
"To Hairy."
Thomas nodded, raising his bottle again. "To Hairy the Strange Little Dog. If it weren't for him, I'd be sleeping alone every night."
He tipped back his beer, and Emma watched Thomas's lips kiss the glass rim of the bottle, his tongue press into the round opening, his throat muscles ripple as he gulped.
How long had it been since the completely outrageous kiss on her porch? A couple weeks. Or a nanosecond. Or several lifetimes ago. The truth was, she'd forgotten how time worked.
"I called ahead and placed our order. I hope you don't mind."
Emma was relieved to talk—it kept her brain busy. "Let me guess—crabs?"
All around them was the evidence of serious crab consumption—tables heaped with piles of shells, buckets on the deck floor overflowing with shells, bowls of drawn butter, empty beer pitchers or bottles, and only an occasional basket of rolls or bowl of coleslaw or corn. This place was for genuine crab connoisseurs only.
"Yep. Crabs." He quickly looked away.
Emma sighed. It appeared Thomas wasn't going to say anything about the dress. The window of opportunity to mention her appearance had just closed, and he sat there, not saying anything about how she looked, not even able to hold her gaze.
It wouldn't have taken much. A simple "You look pretty tonight," or "That's a nice dress," and she'd have already vaulted over the table and crushed his body in an upper-thigh death grip.
But he didn't say a thing. And that said it all, didn't it? Their waitress arrived with a huge platter of hard-shell crabs. "Two dozen large," she said, lowering it onto the center of the picnic table. Another waitress followed close behind with butter, coleslaw, and soft, white rolls. "Anything else?"
"Thanks. I think we're all set," Thomas said with a friendly nod.
Emma's eyes flew to the waitress—it was pure female instinct. She was a pretty redhead no more than nineteen, and she was flirting outrageously with Thomas. Apparently, it didn't bother her that Thomas was nearly old enough to be her father—the little Jezebel! Emma watched the girl give Thomas a playful smile. "Let me know if I can do anything else for you."
Emma snorted. Right. It was all she could do to keep her next thought to herself. Over my dead body, cupcake. But then the waitress turned, swinging her slim hips all the way back to the kitchen.
The jealousy thumped Emma right in the center of her chest. She froze, surprised by the force of it. But then, of course women would find Thomas attractive—didn't she remember her initial response to him? She nearly had to be hosed down!
And really, so what if women flirted with him? She and Thomas were just friendly colleagues, correct? Nothing more. She had no claim on him. She had no expectations.
So she was wearing the infamous blue dress for him? So she was plotting to scratch out the eyes of a teenager for him?
She was even wearing clip-on earrings for him! She was thinking about hyphenating for him! She was falling in love with him!
Emma dropped her head in her hand and rubbed her forehead. "I'm in serious trouble," she said out loud.
Thomas laughed softly. Emma raised her eyes to him, certain that he'd just witnessed her painful journey to self-awareness. But he wasn't even looking at her.
"Yeah, it's a thing of beauty, isn't it?" He stared at the red mountain of steaming crabs, oblivious to all else. Then he peeked over the platter and shot her a grin.
She smiled back. She straightened up. "So how many of those can you eat, Rugby Boy?"
"I could eat 'em all." He wiggled his scarred eyebrow and the semicolon danced. "But I suppose I'll save a few for you."
They spent the next hour eating crabs, telling stories, and laughing. Thomas talked more tonight about himself than he ever had—probably because he no longer had anything to hide from her.
He talked about some of his cases. He talked about his childhood—how his mother had left when he was ten, never to be seen again. "She's been married several times since. She was in Italy last we knew, about ten years ago."
"I'm sorry," Emma said.
"Yeah, well, it was a rough lesson," was his only comment.
Then he talked about how he'd introduced Rollo to Pam o
ne spring break and it was love at first sight. When he talked about Petey and Jack, his eyes sparkled.
Though the conversation was enjoyable, she was shocked by the way Thomas ate—the quick, methodical dismantling of the crustaceans, the well-placed whack of the mallet, rapid-fire sleight-of-hand movements followed by fast transfers to his mouth, then bam! An entire creature had been picked apart, licked clean, and its remains tossed to the heap of shells at the other end of the table—all while talking.
What Thomas told her next explained his skill—his grandfather was an Eastern Shore waterman, and he used to take him out on the crab boat as a kid, when Chesapeake crabs were plentiful.
"I checked with the owner here tonight—half of these pups aren't local—they're flown in from Texas and Louisiana." Thomas dipped a claw into the drawn butter and popped it in his mouth, scraping it clean. "Did you know the price is up to sixty-five dollars a dozen for good-sized hard-shells these days? I remember my granddad used to get half that much for an entire bushel."
Emma's breath caught—he was spending close to one hundred and fifty dollars on crabs tonight?
Thomas noticed her worry and waved it away as he threw another carcass on the pile. "It's worth it to me. This is a special occasion. I can afford it."
"The state police must pay better than I realized."
He hummed thoughtfully as he chewed. "I make enough to get by, but I also got extra help along the way. My dad was a big-shot corporate attorney and he left me and Pam a nice chunk of change when he passed away. Money's not a problem for me."
Emma looked up in surprise, then smiled wistfully. "Now that's something I look forward to hearing myself say someday."
Thomas remained quiet for a few moments, letting the guilt wash over him—again. He should have told her that he paid her consulting fee. But she wouldn't have wanted that, right? She wouldn't have agreed to work with him, right? She wouldn't have had any reason to spend time with him.
He couldn't keep putting this off. He had to come clean—about everything.
"Emma, I—"