TAKE A CHANCE ON ME

  What was happening to him? What was happening to his life? Why the hell was he even thinking about getting this woman into his bed when there was probably an eighty percent chance that she had some fatal personality flaw and about a hundred percent chance that she'd leave him as soon as she learned about what Nina so lovingly called his "defect"?

  Your basic guaranteed catastrophe, right there.

  And it was all Hairy's fault. If it weren't for Hairy, he wouldn't be sitting there in the middle of the night with Emma Jenkins, trying not to like her.

  He wouldn't be looking at her sensual, soft body parts, trying to figure out how he could touch them.

  He wouldn't have to be the heartless bastard who forces an orphaned puppy to live with strangers!

  Damn the little mutant.

  "I suppose it wouldn't hurt to see if there's someone interested," Thomas said with a shrug. "They'd be nice people, though, right? People who'd take good care of him?"

  Emma smiled at him again. "Sure, Thomas," she said.

  * * *

  First off, Emma had never seen a paper-pusher built like Thomas Tobin. He might be pushing stuff around, but she was certain it was heavy stuff like punching bags and barbells and bad guys, not departmental memos.

  The man had "law and order" written all over him.

  And the story about the way he acquired Hairy? She knew he was leaving out a few crucial details—like how exactly the guy died and why Thomas felt obligated to take the dog home. Emma knew a massive load of guilt when she saw it.

  And now Thomas was talking about his rugby team, and she used the excuse just to admire the loose curls of his short hair, the dark blond scruff along his jawline and up his cheeks, the smooth, golden skin below his eyes.

  She'd grown accustomed to his appearance in the last three hours or so, enough that her blood wasn't beating against the back of her eyes like it did at first. Enough that she could breathe normally.

  Biological imperatives aside, she was actually beginning to like the man—despite his best efforts. She liked that he was kind to a frightened little dog. She liked his rusty sense of humor.

  And she was intrigued by how he tried to hide his smiles, as if joy was something he didn't want to succumb to in public.

  She kept thinking about the other day in the exam room, when it felt like he was pulling her toward him and pushing her away at the same time. He was doing it again tonight. She could see him struggle with it when she held his gaze, and especially when she'd touched him.

  No, Thomas Tobin wasn't a dullard, despite her first impression. But he was indecisive, conflicted—hardly an ideal psychological profile for whatever kind of cop he might be.

  Emma wondered if it was just women who made him nervous. That seemed unlikely—a man as good-looking as Thomas surely had to develop razor-sharp instincts around the opposite sex simply to survive.

  Maybe something had happened recently that made him question those instincts.

  Emma sat hack to ponder these questions and enjoy the view.

  "I'm getting kind of old for the game, really. Rollo and I are the senior citizens of our team." Thomas shook his head. "It used to be I was sore for the first half of every Sunday—now it takes me until Wednesday to recover, just in time to show up for practice."

  "So why do you still play?"

  The corner of Thomas's mouth twitched and he rolled the empty coffee cup between his palms. "I spend a lot of hours behind a desk, so I crave the physicality of the sport. I love hitting and getting hit, how it makes me feel alive. The game takes everything out of me, makes everything else disappear. It always has."

  "Have you been hurt a lot?"

  His eyes sparkled. "I've been beaten to a pulp more times than a redheaded stepchild, so after nineteen years there's nothing left to lose—believe me. I plan to play until they drag me off the pitch in a body bag."

  Emma felt her eyes go wide.

  "See this?" Thomas pointed to the semicolon above his right eyebrow. "Stitches here twice—damaged some nerves—you might see me squint every once in a while. My nose has been broken twice. I've had knee surgery, dislocated shoulders, other things. See my hands?" He spread his fingers out on the tabletop.

  "The only time I can lay them flat or make a tight fist is in the off season. The rest of the time they're too busted up."

  Emma saw a few swollen knuckles and two digits that veered off in strange angles. He actually seemed proud of all this.

  "It sounds like a lovely hobby."

  He cocked a golden eyebrow in amusement. "Flower arranging is a hobby. Rugby is one of the top four reasons to live."

  Emma didn't miss the gleam in his eye. "I'd love to hear about the other three," she said.

  Thomas abruptly looked away, and Emma watched him struggle with his response just as the waitress came by to offer more coffee. They both declined.

  "I should probably get going," Thomas said, reaching for the check.

  "This was nice. Thank you." Emma tried to hide her disappointment that their get-together was over. "It's been a while since I've been out all night." She noticed that Thomas didn't respond to that. "I'm kind of a night owl anyway. Insomnia sometimes."

  "Really?" Thomas raised his eyes as he counted out bills. "What do you do when you can't sleep?"

  Emma chuckled, recalling her lurid behavior earlier that night. "I mostly sit on the front porch with Ray and listen to the crickets and tree frogs."

  Thomas's hands froze and a frown marred his smooth forehead. He kept his eyes away from hers. "So Ray is the guy you're seeing these days?"

  Emma nearly snorted with laughter, but stopped herself out of respect for the pained look on Thomas's face. He really did like her! It wasn't just her imagination!

  "Ray's an old, blind, three-legged Shepherd cross with a flatulence problem."

  He did it again, Emma saw—he rubbed his mouth with one of his big hands to hide his smile.

  "You know, I won't be offended if you let your guard down every once in a while, Thomas. You've got a killer smile."

  He shot up from the booth and threw down a tip, then crossed his arms over his chest and looked around nervously. It seemed to Emma that it took everything the man had not to bolt through the door without her.

  Once in the parking lot, Thomas jerked toward her, his face stern. He stuck out his hands. "I should probably take Hairy now."

  "Oh! Sure." Emma unrolled the sweatshirt from around the sleeping dog and leaned closer to Thomas for the transfer. He reached in, accidentally pressing his hands on top of hers, his skin hot and rough.

  "Would you go out on a real date with me, Thomas?" The question spilled from Emma without the tiniest bit of forethought, and she closed her eyes in embarrassment. She felt him reach under her hands to find Hairy, then pull away.

  When she opened her eyes, he was staring at her, absolutely stricken.

  Her heart fell to her feet. "Thomas?"

  He was suddenly on her, cupping her face in one of his hands, rubbing his scratchy cheek against her smooth one. He ran his fingers through her hair and down the side of her neck, and pressed his body close to hers, Hairy squished between them.

  Emma's heart pounded. She had to lock her knees to remain standing. What was happening?

  Then Thomas put his lips against her ear and … oh, God! He flicked his tongue into the tender hollow underneath, then bit down sharply on her earlobe just before he whispered, "I can't, Emma. I'm not the man for the job. I'm so sorry."

  Thomas stepped back, tucked Hairy into the crook of his arm, and jogged off toward his shiny, yuppie car, leaving her blinking in disbelief.

  Her body buzzed with shame and surprise and the sizzling rush left behind by his touch, his tongue, his teeth, his voice. It suddenly dawned on her that Thomas Tobin's rejection was hotter than all the actual dates she'd had in the last year—combined!

  Tears stung her eyes. She didn't understand! She could have sworn … but he seemed … he said…
>
  Talk about words and actions being in direct conflict! Talk about abnormal men!

  As the car pulled away, Emma watched Hairy jump up and press his little face to the glass as if to say goodbye. As the car turned, she got a look at the bumper sticker on the rear fender, illuminated by the first light of dawn: Life Sucks. Then You Die.

  * * *

  Uh-oh.

  I'm no expert, but I'm pretty sure you're an idiot when it comes to females. Why did you leave Soft Hands? Why did you rub up against her like that and then make her cry?

  Turn around, Big Alpha! Turn around and go back! She's wonderful! She likes you! What's wrong with you?

  Humans can be such fools.

  Oh, quit your complaining. Yeah, I just pushed aside the towel and peed all over your precious car seat—and I did it on purpose.

  Serves you right.

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  The Love I Lost

  « ^ »

  The Volga. The Volga. The Russian river that empties into the Caspian Sea is the Volga, you total flat-liner.

  "The Danube?"

  Augh!

  "I'm sorry. That answer is incorrect. The question now goes to number forty-seven for the grand prize. Would you like me to repeat the—"

  Leelee jumped from her folding chair and headed toward the microphone before the man had to waste any more of everyone's time. "The answer is the Volga River," she said softly, then returned to her seat.

  As the last remaining geography bee contestant on stage. Leelee gazed out into the audience and tried to look ecstatic. Beckett was on his feet whistling like he did for all her correct answers, unfortunately. Emma clapped and smiled that great big smile of hers.

  Leelee sighed. Maybe she should have intentionally missed that no-brainer question just to add a little excitement to this godforsaken stretch of nothingness they called Carroll County, Maryland, where the most thrilling thing she'd seen in a year was the girl fight at the tractor pull last night. Those lovely ladies had more tattoos per square inch of flesh than teeth in their heads. Plus, she'd enjoyed the interesting colloquialisms, like when the skinny one called the big one an "ass-faced heifer."

  God, she missed L.A.! God, she missed her friends and the smog and the noise and the variety of people and the energy that made her feel connected to something special.

  God, she missed her mom. Craziness and all.

  Leelee caught Emma's eyes and couldn't help but smile as her maternal figure gave a little wave and winked at her. Emma was cool—maybe the coolest woman Leelee had ever known. She was smart and pretty and responsible and had her own business and it was so awesome that she'd finally gotten rid of lame-o Aaron!

  But why did Emma have to live here? Why couldn't they move somewhere halfway decent like Baltimore or D.C., even? For some reason, Emma had it in her head that this was where Leelee belonged, because it was where her mother was raised.

  Like growing up here made Rebecca Weaverton a great person or something? Like that happened?

  She looked down at Emma and Beckett and the most bizarre thing occurred to her: She was looking at her family. Well, her family in the way that Velveeta was cheese and AstroTurf was grass, but the only family she had now. The truth of that made her throat close up and her stomach flip.

  "Number forty-seven, that is the correct answer! Congratulations!" Leelee heard the judge's voice get all excited and she knew she was going to have to stand. "This year's Carroll County Middle School Geography Bee Challenge Cup goes to Elizabeth Weaverton, a twelve-year-old from South Carroll Middle! Congratulations, Elizabeth!"

  She rose to a sputtering of applause—hey, she knew the parents in the audience weren't exactly thrilled that she'd made their offspring look like total retards. She accepted the lovely plastic marbleized trophy topped with a fake brass globe and thought about what a joke she was. She was too skinny and too smart and had seen way too much of the real world for any of the hayseeds around here to like her. They thought she was a mutant.

  God, she hated it here.

  Leelee plastered a smile on her face and waved stiffly as a yellow polyester sash came down over her head and a grocery-store bouquet of flowers appeared in her free hand. She stood patiently while a few pictures were taken, noticing how through it all Emma and Beckett never took their eyes from her.

  "Thata girl, Lee!" Beckett hollered as she descended the stage steps.

  "Congratulations, sweetie!" Emma threw her arms around Leelee and squeezed, and Leelee closed her eyes and let herself float in Emma's embrace. She always smelled wholesome, down-to-earth, like baby powder and sunflowers—something too simple and too real to be found in any Rodeo Drive

  boutique.

  "Not much of a challenge for you, eh, kid?"

  "I guess not." Leelee shrugged and looked up into Emma's pretty blue eyes. Her mother had had brown eyes, but lately that was about the only thing Leelee could still remember about her. She couldn't feel the exact pressure of her mom's touch, or recall the smell of her hair. It had only been a year and it was fading away. How long would it be before she'd remember nothing at all?

  It was Beckett's turn to hug her. "We were thinking of heading over to the Waffle House to get us some lunch. Wha'dya say?"

  "That totally rocks, Beck."

  Leelee never cried—God knows Becca had always produced enough melodrama for several households, so why bother? She didn't cry the time they got evicted from the best apartment they ever managed to get. Not when she had to transfer schools three times in fifth grade. Not when her mom got herself killed riding in some second-rate TV actor's car.

  Leelee didn't even cry the day she got her butt dragged cross-country to live here in Soybean World.

  What would crying accomplish? What had it ever accomplished for her mom? Nothing, that's what.

  So it was a total shock to realize that she'd apparently picked right then to start. What was so overwhelming about walking out of the community college auditorium between Emma and Beckett, holding her trophy, heading out to the Waffle House?

  The food there wasn't that bad.

  So why cry now?

  It felt weird the way the water trickled hot down her cheeks. She could taste her own tears as they pooled in the corner of her mouth—saltier than she imagined, like the Pacific Ocean off Malibu.

  The real bad part was now that it had started, she was pretty sure it was never going to stop. Her knees felt shaky and her stomach felt heavy, like it had fallen too low in her belly. She thought she might choke. Or hurl. All she knew was she had to get away. Get away from everyone, everything…

  The next thing she knew she was in the middle of the parking lot, on her hands and knees, feeling the burn and sting of gravel under her palms and the skin of her knees. She was shaking. She couldn't stop sobbing. She'd dropped the trophy and it lay broken a few feet in front of her. The ugly flowers were spilled in an arc around her.

  Then she heard a high-pitched scream—several long seconds of piercing sound coming out of her that she hadn't even known she could produce. Somewhere in the back of her head she knew it was the sound of not being able to stuff it down anymore.

  "Oh, sweetie…" Leelee felt Emma's arms go around her and lift her to her feet. She gave in. She let Emma protect her, hide her, stroke her hair and mumble soft words that she couldn't really hear because of the buzzing in her own ears. Then Leelee sensed that Emma was leading her to the Montero, getting her buckled in the back seat and sitting next to her.

  Leelee sobbed and sobbed as Beckett drove them home. After what seemed like forever, she looked up into Emma's face and was greeted with a handful of Kleenex and a smile she couldn't quite read.

  "I'm sorry for acting like a complete diva." She wiped off her face and blew her nose.

  "Oh, honey, there's nothing to be sorry about."

  "I don't know what happened."

  "I do."

  Leelee took a quick gulp of air and shook her head.

&n
bsp; "You're bleeding, Lee."

  She brushed off her knees with annoyance. Her stomach hurt something fierce but she tried not to cry anymore. "It's okay. It's nothing. Just a scrape."

  She felt Emma's fingers come under her chin and lift up her face. "Not there, sweetheart." Emma's voice was low enough that Beckett wouldn't hear. "You've just started your period."

  * * *

  Thomas could feel the caffeine kicking his brain into overdrive, yet it wasn't quite enough to burn off the fog of the all-nighter. And no amount of coffee would ever mask the truth that he'd behaved like a complete jerk.

  He'd been such a jerk to Emma Jenkins.

  And she didn't deserve it. That was the hell of it—she didn't deserve to be hurt. In fact, she may have been the first legitimately decent, nice—even special—person Thomas had met in a very long time.

  And he'd been an idiot. A jerk. An ass.

  Thomas sat at the conference table and watched the rest of the team straggle in. He could hear Stephano out in the hallway, his machine-gun laugh ricocheting down the uncarpeted hallways of the second floor of the Maryland State Police Headquarters. Paulie Fletcher was already at the other end of the table, clutching a cell phone to his cheek, apologizing profusely to his wife.

  Thomas knew these Saturday morning get-togethers interfered with ballet recitals, peewee football games, and lawn mowing duties. He grinned to himself with smug satisfaction—as the only unmarried member of the team, he never had to worry about someone else crimping his style, making demands on his time. Not him.

  Besides, they only had to suffer through these meetings a few times a year—before quarterly report deadlines and whenever there was a sudden spurt of new cases. September was often one of those times. It made sense, in a sick sort of way. The summer was officially over. People weren't distracted by barbecues, vacations, and weekends down at the ocean. It was a good time to start taking care of those bothersome loose ends they'd been putting off—like murdering friends and family.

  Thomas looked up as Regina Massey strolled in, the homicide detective assigned to the Scott Slick case. Regina was a fifty-something grandmother who didn't look—or act—her age. What she looked and acted like was the movie star Pam Grier—all sexy, street-smart, black alpha female. Reg didn't take shit from anybody. That's how she'd made it in a predominantly white-male line of work.