It wasn't even her job to try.
"Emma?"
She turned to see Leelee at the screen door of the old brick house. The diffuse yellow lamplight glowed around the girl's blond head, making her look like an angel in a halo of golden curls. Emma's heart melted with tenderness.
"Hey, sweetie. Want me to tuck you in again? Is Pops asleep?"
"Beckett nodded off in front of the TV, as usual," Leelee said, her voice groggy. "Monty Python probably."
Emma walked Leelee up the stairs, letting her arm slip around the girl's thin shoulders, feeling the brush of curls against her wrist.
Leelee looked so much like her mother—lean, long, and lovely. She had Becca's soft brown eyes, too. She also had her mother's biting intelligence and husky laugh.
They reached the top landing and Emma hugged Leelee tight against her, thinking that it was now her job to make sure the daughter didn't make the same mistakes the mother was famous for. Her best friend had certainly left her with a big challenge when she'd left her this twelve-year-old girl.
Emma led Leelee to her room, tucked the lightweight blanket under her chin, and smoothed back a pale curl from her brow. Under Leelee's watchful gaze, Emma leaned down and pressed her lips softly to her forehead.
"Sleep tight."
"I'll try."
"Are you nervous about tomorrow? Is that what's keeping you up?"
Leelee rolled her eyes. "Not hardly. It's all kind of anticlimactic, really."
Emma crossed her arms over her chest and looked down on Leelee's face. "You don't have to compete in the geography bee, you know."
"I said I would. So I will." The girl shrugged. "It's no big deal. I'll be the star of their geek and freak show if they want me to."
Emma sat on the edge of the bed and reached for one of Leelee's narrow hands. The girl was the oddest combination of innocent child and world-weary adult, and Emma knew she had Becca to thank for that. What she didn't know were the details—Leelee didn't want to talk about her life in Los Angeles, leaving Emma to wonder if it was not as bad as she feared or worse than she ever imagined.
"Is there something else on your mind, then?"
Leelee shook her head on the pillow.
"I'm proud of you, sweetie. And I love you. I've loved you since the day you were born—the minute you were born."
Leelee studied Emma from half-closed eyes. "Was it gross—being Mom's coach?"
Emma chuckled. "No, it was beautiful. It was magic. Not gross at all."
"That's because you're used to blood and guts." Leelee's nose scrunched up. "I bet my mom screamed like a maniac—total NC-17 kind of stuff."
"True. But it was still the most wonderful thing I'd ever seen." Emma patted her hand and stood up, stretching.
"Hey, Em?"
"Mmm?"
"I … nothing."
Emma felt the corner of her mouth hitch up. "Sounds like something to me."
"Just good night."
"Good night, Elizabeth Weaverton, girl wonder."
After one more touch of her hand to Leelee's head, Emma closed the heavy oak door and stood a moment alone in the upstairs hallway. To her left she could see her father sprawled across his bed, snoring happily, his body lit by the flickering blue light of the TV screen.
At the other end of the hall was her bedroom. She could see in through the open door to the big double bed of her girlhood and the familiar wallpaper of tiny yellow flowers. Emma remembered the summer she and her mother picked out the wallpaper pattern. She'd been thirteen, just a little older than Leelee was now.
Emma's mother had been dead by the spring.
She gripped her elbows and hugged herself tight, thinking that life had a habit of sneaking up on you. Here she was, back in that old bed surrounded by that old wallpaper, a divorced thirty-something raising her friend's child in her dad's house.
Never in a million years could she have predicted this.
She felt Ray nudge the back of her knee.
"All right, old boy."
Emma turned off her father's television, kissed his cheek, then headed down the back stairway to the kitchen. She poured herself a glass of iced tea before returning to the porch rocker.
Ray bumped her leg again, looking for attention, and she laughed. For a woman without a love life, she certainly felt needed in this world.
Emma let her gaze travel about two hundred yards over to the Weaverton place—now the residence of a nice young couple and their little boy—a small white clapboard farmhouse partially hidden by a line of windblown pines. How many nights just like this one had she and Becca met in those trees to plot out their lives?
They hadn't been too good at predicting the future.
Emma pushed against the railing with her big toe and started the rocker moving again, and Ray let his three-legged, blind carcass fold onto the pine-board floor with a heavy sigh. He had the right idea—it was late.
The groan of the rocker sounded like breathing. In accompaniment, she filled her lungs with warm, wet air and let it out slowly. She put down her iced tea and let her hands stroke the soft skin of her upper arms. She let her fingers brush up her neck and across her shoulders and down the front of her loose, thin cotton gown.
She had a perfectly normal body. A strong body. A bit on the ample side—just like her mother and exactly the opposite of Becca—but what else was new? Emma had never been sleek enough or tall enough or thin enough to be considered chic, as Aaron often pointed out.
Her fingers roamed down her softly rounded belly to her thighs and back up along her sides.
Many women her age had already had a kid or two, their bodies stretched by babies that had grown inside them. What did she have? No stretch marks and a career she loved.
Her touch moved to her breasts.
Many women her age had nursed a baby. They knew what it was like to bring life into the world and sustain it with the magic of their own flesh. What was her contribution? Emma had thought about this often enough, and she always came back to this truth: When a pet became a behavior problem, it was often a death sentence, and she used her heart and mind to give living creatures another chance.
That was her gift to the world.
She laid her head against the rocker and sighed, as her hair swept down around her shoulders and brushed against bare skin. She felt the tips of her breasts rise to hard little peaks beneath her light touch, just as nature intended, the flesh blissfully unaware that it was her own lonely hand that strayed there and not the soft, seeking mouth of an infant.
Or the hot, demanding mouth of a lover.
She moved her hands to the softness of her thighs and pushed the nightgown up and away, letting her thoughts stray to the way Aaron once touched her—but a lethal stab of sorrow and anger came with the remembered pleasure.
So as she allowed her left hand to roam up her thigh, she let her imagination veer off toward Thomas Tobin. She remembered the heat of his skin under the cuff of his dress shirt, the flash of longing in his eyes, the way he almost smiled at her, maybe even almost kissed her…
God, how she'd lied to Velvet! Of course she was attracted to him—what woman with a pulse wouldn't be? His eyes were electric. His mouth was stern but sensuous and bracketed by impossibly sexy dimples. He was built out of solid rock.
In Emma's rational mind, she knew Thomas Tobin was too perfect a physical specimen for a woman like her, but this was her fantasy, and by God she was allowed to go ahead and remember how he'd intrigued her, revved her up, how he'd given her goosebumps.
She wondered what made him so damn grumpy. She wondered what he looked like naked.
The thought startled her, but she forged ahead, giggling quietly, trying to imagine what all that hot muscle would feel like under the flat of her palms, what it would feel like to have a man his size press his hard weight into her, wrap his arms around her waist, take her.
She breathed deep, then exhaled slowly.
Her reaction to Thomas Tobin w
as perfectly understandable—he was just different, that was all. Aaron was slim and wiry and dark and for most of her adult life that's what Emma equated with sex—Aaron's whipcord body, his efficient, medium-sized package of maleness, his quick, light movements and charming smile.
Of course that's why Thomas Tobin fascinated her so. He was everything Aaron was not. He was golden and broad and brooding and looked like he could pick her up, toss her over one shoulder, and carry her away to his cave, where he'd ignore her feeble protests, pin her against the nearest flat surface and…
Whoa! Emma shot up out of the rocking chair like she'd been launched from a catapult, the cotton gown falling below her knees.
What time was it? Who in God's name would be calling her at this hour? What the hell was she doing nearly grooming the poodle on the front porch?
What if Leelee had seen her? What kind of example was she setting? Hadn't the poor kid seen enough?
Emma grabbed the portable phone in the hallway and took it back outside where she wouldn't wake anyone.
"Hello?" She was aware she sounded out of breath and somewhat annoyed.
"Dr. Jenkins. I'm very sorry to disturb you so late, but—"
And before she could stop herself, she heard the words slide out of her mouth: "Well, hello there, Thomas Tobin."
Emma winced, aware that she'd just committed a major error. Was there any logical, work-related reason why she'd remember the sound of his voice?
No.
Was there any reason for her to say his name like that, in a sigh and a whisper, unless she'd just been rubbing her hand along the inside of her left thigh while picturing him in a Conan the Barbarian loincloth?
No. And he'd know that immediately. And she could just see him on the other end of the line, one eye narrowed, his mouth drawn in a severe line of displeasure.
So when she heard him laugh—granted it was just a short spurt—she was shocked.
"You got ESP or something?"
Emma forced herself to take advantage of the opening. "As a matter of fact, Mr. Tobin, in a way, I do. It just so happens that I was dreaming about your dog … uh…"
"You were dreaming about Hairy?"
"That's right. Hairy."
After a pause, Thomas said, "Do you dream about weird little dogs a lot, Dr. Jenkins?"
Only when they're owned by stud puppies like you…
"It's very common for vets to have work-related dreams," she said, trying hard to sound authoritative. "It's an outlet for stress. Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Tobin? Is there something wrong with Hairy?"
It suddenly occurred to her that he couldn't possibly know her home number. It was unlisted and she only gave patients her answering service number—for precisely this reason.
"And how in the world did you get my home number?"
"Oh. Under the circumstances, I didn't think you'd mind that I … uh … had a friend find your number."
What kind of friend had access to unpublished numbers in the middle of the night? What were the circumstances? Emma was waiting.
"It's Hairy. He's been having trouble breathing for a couple hours now and I'm not exactly sure how serious it is or what I should do, but it seems to be getting worse."
Emma straightened to attention. It was possible the dog was having a reaction to the medications she'd prescribed—not likely, but always possible. "Describe his breathing right now, Mr. Tobin, and tell me exactly when and how it started."
Emma listened to Thomas's description of a night of cards and cigars and she found herself relaxing. "Who is your primary veterinarian again?"
"I don't have one."
"What? Well, I'm a behaviorist, Mr. Tobin, and I'm not usually on call for this kind of thing, but I agree that the dog is probably having a reaction to the smoke and it could be serious. Where do you live?"
"Federal Hill. Baltimore."
That was a good half-hour away. "There's a twenty-four-hour emergency clinic in Catonsville called VetMed. You should go right away, and be sure to keep an eye on him during the drive."
"Thank you."
"Take his medications along to show the vet, all right? I'll call ahead and meet you there."
Silence.
"Mr. Tobin?"
Thomas cleared his throat. "You're meeting us there? Why would you do that?"
That was a good question. How many times had she gone out to see a patient in the middle of the night since she and Aaron opened the practice? Exactly once: when Adolph the St. Bernard attacked his owner while she made herself a midnight snack of ham on rye.
"Hairy is my patient," she said.
More silence. "Please call me Thomas, and that's very nice of you, Dr. Jenkins."
"It's Emma, remember?"
When he finally responded, it sounded like he was in severe pain.
"All right—Emma."
* * *
Aaron Kramer sipped his whiskey and peered into the darkness of the hick bar. Even without the small changes he'd made to his appearance he would be nobody out here. Nothing. He was blissfully invisible—more than a hundred miles from home and a million miles away from his life.
Could he risk thinking that he was safe? Could he really believe that he'd gotten away with it? Could it really be that for once in his fucking life he'd gotten lucky?
It had been twelve days now since he'd killed that weasel, and the police had yet to come smashing in his door. Of all the times in his life when he'd needed luck to be on his side, this was it.
He'd take it.
The truth was, Aaron wasn't comfortable thinking of himself as a killer. It went against everything he thought he was. Sure, he had a few bad habits, but he'd never killed anyone. Scott Slick changed all that. The little faggot had gone too far.
Aaron looked around him—this place would be perfect for his purposes, if the time came. He didn't want to have to do it—and he hoped to God he wouldn't have to—but he was ready just in case.
He wasn't a stupid man, but when he lost big, he could get so angry that he couldn't think straight. If Slick had only been willing to listen to him, it wouldn't have happened. But Slick had laughed at him, told him it was out of his hands now, and Aaron got so pissed off that he reached around, grabbed the first thing he could get his hands on, and hit that little pecker in the head with it—blood everywhere, all over his new Reeboks and down the front of his shirt.
He'd had to drive out to the boonies and start a fire at the edge of a farm field, where he burned everything to a crisp.
And he'd just paid a hundred bucks for those shoes! He drained the drink and thought about leaving. He had a long drive and he'd had a lot to drink.
But the woman at the bar was still looking at him, still grinning at him, still sticking her boobs in his direction.
Why the hell not?
He got up and walked toward her. It's not like he was married anymore. Not that that had ever stopped him.
* * *
Chapter 3
Heart of Glass
« ^ »
If Emma had been alarmed at the sight of Thomas Tobin in a suit, then how could she describe what she was feeling now, seeing him sprawled out in a waiting room chair with disheveled hair, unshaven face, and worried eyes, his powerful legs sticking out of a pair of loose shorts, his broad shoulders and chest draped in a washed-out rugby shirt ripped at the elbows and splayed open at the collar?
Stunned was a good word. Like a doe in the high beams. Like a dieter looking into The Cheesecake Factory display case. Like the love-starved woman she was, looking at the most delectable serving of man she'd ever seen.
Thomas raised his eyes to the door. He scrambled to his feet, tucked Hairy into the crook of his arm like a football, and waited for her to reach him.
The journey across the waiting room played havoc with Emma's sympathetic nervous system. Her mouth went so dry she was afraid she'd dehydrate while her hands were so wet she had to wipe them on her sweatshirt.
She came to a stop and slowly raised her chin. Thomas hovered over her, his blond head lowered, his eyes wary and waiting. "Hey, Emma," he said in a husky whisper.
A bolt of hot lust spiked Emma to the floor through the cork soles of her Birkenstocks. Just a simple two-word greeting in that raspy male voice and she was toast. A goner.
Hairy began to squirm.
"He's got to pee." Thomas began to walk away but suddenly turned and peered at Emma, like a man double-checking the door lock before leaving on vacation. He narrowed one eye. "I'll be back."
Emma wheeled around to watch the Terminator stride out the door, noticing how long his legs were, how much taller he was than her, how much bigger, and how if she wanted to she could reach her arms straight out and they'd be the perfect height to grab on to his tight butt.
She blinked hard and shuddered. What was she—insane? Why the hell did she drive out here—to torture herself? She must be ovulating.
"Your boyfriend's been real worried about his little dog."
Emma spun back the other way. She hadn't noticed there was anyone else in this room, in the world! But an older couple sat on a pair of yellow vinyl chairs just a few feet away, and the woman smiled sadly at her.
"My boyfriend?" Emma was trying to force the haze from her brain. It was one in the morning. She was tired. She was crazy. She was ovulating—how was she supposed to carry on a conversation?
"I'm sorry. Your husband, then?" The woman produced a brave smile and Emma could see she'd been crying. The man had been crying, too.
Emma sank down into the chair next to her. "Actually, I'm the little dog's vet. I'm here to—" She stopped, unsure how to finish and aware it wasn't important anyway. She reached for the older woman's hand, thin and dry in her own. "Why are you here tonight?"
The woman's chin began to crumple and her lower lip trembled. "Leonora—she's our Shih Tzu—didn't come in from the backyard after Letterman."
"I knew right then…" The man lowered his eyes and shook his head. "She always comes in after Letterman."