Lost Angel

Lost Angel

Louisa Trent

Published 2004

ISBN 1-931761-91-4

Published by Liquid Silver Books, imprint of Atlantic Bridge Publishing, 6280 Crittenden Ave, Indianapolis, Indiana. Copyright © 2004, Louisa Trent. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Manufactured in the United States of America

Liquid Silver Books http://www.liquidsilverbooks.com

Email: [email protected]

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

PROLOGUE

Steven Gallagher of Gallagher Investigative Services fondled a pair of female attributes, the jutting proportions of which just about blew his mind. Not for the life of him could he recall the last time he'd had the pleasure of a bare naked lady's company, much less had his hand on her... "Teetzees," supplied Maurice Pentegrine, of the Raleigh, North Carolina Fortune 500 Pentegrines.

Well, hell, yeah. Juggle a few letters, and that pretty much said it all. But how come a straight-up guy like Maury had zeroed in on Steve's fantasizing? "Yes, indeed," his client droned on. "Teetzees is worth a small fortune." "You don't say," Steve replied, whimsically juggling the diminutive jade figurine in his palm to the slow beat of his client's snooze-producing monotone. For the past thirty minutes Steve had listened to the history behind each and every invaluable object d'art in Maury's library, all one hundred forty-five pieces, and he was zoning out from sheer boredom. If not for the distraction of Teetzees' amazing green chest he would've snored his way to dreamland a half-hour ago. And who'da thunk a fly-right sort of fella like Maury for collecting the smutty stuff, anyway? You just never knew in this business, Steve mused, blocking a yawn with the back of one hand while bouncing Teetzees in the other. "Uh ... uh ... careful there." Maury looked a little worried. "That statuette is the centerpiece of my fifteenth-century erotica collection. Rub her ... uh ... bosom and your love life is certain to improve." "No kidding?" Steve replied, rubbing away. But casually. "Oh, my. I would never joke about a fertility goddess. The Mesopotamians believed that he who rubs Teetzees ... er ... um ... breasts will produce progeny within the next year." Who was Steve to argue with the Mesopotamians? Off came his thumb from Teetzees' fine rack. And then, before he did something seriously dumb, like accidentally dropping the voluptuous little beauty on her well-worn hooters-Maury wouldn't like that-the three-inch statue went back on the shelf where she belonged. As the saying goes, beauty is all in the eye of the beholder. One man's idea of invaluable art is another man's idea of the kind of hard-core porn you wouldn't want your mama to discover should she happen to drop by for a sneak visit. But hey, to each his own kink. And what did he know anyway? Married to his childhood sweetheart at the tender age of nineteen, Steve had no need for naughty knick-knacks to get his motor running; his engine had been fully cranked, morning, noon, and night... For one idyllic year. Twelve months, that's how long the honeymoon lasted. Widowed at twenty, in a sad mood ever since. 'Time heals all wounds,' the well-meaning told him. Nice sentiment. No dice. Almost two decades later, his wife's death still ached like a raw wound. Steve didn't like to think about that ache, much less talk about it. After Jen's death, he went a little crazy... A little crazy? Shit, he went berserk. Almost tore himself apart. Booze. Broads. Bad habits. If not for his family's quiet support, for always being there for him, he probably would have succeeded in ripping out his own heart.

Right there and then, as Maury continued his never-ending monologue, Steve decided not to return to his New York City office. He would fly into Logan instead. No point keeping a vacation house on Cape Cod if he never took a vacation. He'd snag some R&R in his Falmouth retreat, that's what he'd do. Spend some time with his family. He missed them... Maury's soliloquy cut into Steve's plan making. "Now, over here, we have some fine, albeit eclectic, examples of pre-Columbian phalluses. Notice the intricate leather tooling." Aw, man. He was not admiring a bunch of ancient dildos! In his line of work, he came face to face with plenty enough phony old pricks as it was. Before those ten-inch examples of wishful thinking got thrust at him, Steve interrupted Maury's spiel. "Your erotica collection is just nifty, but could we maybe get back to the business at hand? You know, the robbery? You say you heard nothing during the break-in?" "Not a sound. The wife and I were upstairs in our bedroom. We slept through the entire incident." Steve stuffed the pockets of his trench coat with his hands. "And you first noticed The Cuzin was missing, when?" "We didn't realize the house had been burglarized until the following morning. None of the alarms sounded." Steve nodded. "This job has all the markings of a professional art ring. The thieves came over the roof, then down and in through that bay window." "H-how do you know?" Maury stammered. Steve gestured to a gargantuan rubber tree on the sill. "The bottom leaf on that plant is crushed." Maury rushed to the clay pot. "They stepped on the Ficus elastica?" "Looks like it. Note the caked mud." Steve's crime scene analysis took a detour out the window. "Your lawn is real thick and green. You must have one of those underground sprinkler systems, huh?" "It's on a timer," said the dazed Maury. "Rain or shine, the lawns are automatically watered every night between the hours of two and four." "A sprinkler serves as a noise barrier. You know, like the sound of a shower running. A steady spray of water will muffle unfamiliar sounds. Could be why you didn't hear the break-in. These thieves knew exactly what they were doing, all right." Steve frowned. "And you're sure nothing else is missing?" "Only Cuzin's Study in Light." Maury turned to the rectangular faded spot on the wallpaper. "My wife is devastated. She loved that painting. The blue background exactly matched the fabric on the curtains." "Tough break about the décor," Steve said dryly. Wandering to a corner curio cabinet, he glanced at the display behind the glass. "You collect antique car memorabilia?" "Yes." Maury's half-smile was sheepish.

Steve faced his client. "Did you recently remove something from this rear shelf?" "W-why no." "Sure about that? There's a small oval area free of dust." Maury raced to the cabinet. "My angel! She's gone!" "Angel?" "A brass hood ornament," Maury explained. "The angel once graced a Dusenberg." Now they were getting somewhere. Unless Steve was very much mistaken, this was his first lead on the case. "Circa 1930, Model J?" "Why, yes. How did you know?" "Lucky guess." In Steve's humble opinion, the Dusenberg was one of the grand dames of the road. For good luck, the original owner of one of the cars-a notorious bootlegger during prohibition-commissioned an artist to create a sculptural interpretation of a Botticelli angel. That angel hood ornament was something else! But the angel was worthless without the car. So ... why'd the thief bother snatching her? There were valuable things in this house, in this room-why swipe the angel? Because this was no ordinary thief, Steve concluded. This thief had a soft spot for antique cars, probably owned one or two, maybe even a 1930 Dusenberg, Model J. Trace the current ownership of that bootlegger's car, and he just might find a brass angel... And maybe someone who knew a little something more than he should have about Cuzin's Study in Light. Solid.

CHAPTER ONE

The meeting was good to go for ten PM sharp. Though an easy hour commute from his condo in Boston, Steve allowed himself plenty of extra time for some pre-appointment snooping, arriving gauchely early at the posh Chestnut Hill address of internationally respected art dealer, Bernard Fritz. A ten-foot fence surrounded Fritz's upscale property, the wrought-iron spires Neoclassic in style, the decorative points hard-wired with some fairly nasty electrodes. Since a similar fence had once turned him blue in the face, Steve made a mental note to avoid the voltage that evening.

Steve's trained glance took in the premises before him in one panoramic swoop, and he didn't like what he saw. His glamorous security expert, Ronnie Thomas, had brought him up to speed on the various hi-tech surveillance devices he should expect to encounter on the estate, so he knew going in that maneuverability would be tight. But Fritz's security wasn't tight; the art dealer's security hinted of guilty paranoia... Case in point: A pair of butt-ugly stone lions flanking the estate's front gate. Slowing the 'Vette to a crawl, Steve took a closer peek at the roaring kitty on the driver's side. Just like he thought, a video cam had been stuffed down the cat's throat. Tacky. Tacky. Tacky. Still ... since Steve had never yet met a pussy he didn't like, he smiled as he drove past. "The name's Gallagher," he told the guard at a quaint ivy-covered carriage house. The sentry, an efficient sort, first checked his name off the guest roster, then checked him over. Steve showed some teeth. For the effort, the gatekeeper waved him ahead, no questions asked. So far, so good. Not that Steve had expected to be given a hard time at the gate. If the reason for his visit was a stretch of the truth, the invitation itself was strictly legit. And not that Steve was overly concerned with legalese, anyway, his philosophy being to operate within the spirit of the law, if not exactly the paperwork. Steve had chatted a long time on the phone with Fritz's assistant, Emily Parker. About antique cars, mostly. For a girl, she knew her automotive stuff. During the course of the conversation, he hadn't exactly screamed his occupation at her and, at least to his way of thinking, this made them even because she hadn't exactly asked. He led her to believe he was just another run-of-the-mill wealthy car buff, which he was-when not investigating stolen artwork. So he didn't have to lie to her to get his foot in the door, something he found himself remarkably reluctant to do. Hard to lie to a fellow grease monkey with a voice suited to phone sex. Of her own accord, Emily breathily confirmed that Bernard Fritz owned a 1930 Dusenberg, Model J. She also volunteered that the antique was housed in the estate's Chestnut Hill garage. As soon as that information was nailed, Steve made his ten o'clock appointment to talk cars with Fritz during his birthday celebration-at Emily's suggestion. 'Course, with a suggestive voice like hers, provocative vocal cords that almost had him coming at the mention of lube, he would have agreed to just about anything... And probably would have, but for this case he was working on. If Steve's hunch was correct, and he was pretty damn sure it was, he would find a certain brass angel with her celestial wings spread over the Dusenberg's hood. This little coup would tie Fritz, at least circumstantially, to a multi-billion dollar thievery ring that had plagued police organizations on both sides of the Atlantic for decades. Cool. In front of the white-pillared mansion-Tara with a New England sensibility-Steve stepped out of the 'Vette, stuck his hands in the pockets of his tux jacket, and took a lazy look around. While casing the joint up close, sounds of party merriment spilled out the mansion's open patio

doors-clinking glasses, a near feverish pitch of witty conversation, rising bubbles of champagne-induced laughter. Party guests schmoozed outside on the rolling green lawns, meeting and greeting others, generally getting themselves noticed at the society event of the year. Whoa, yeah. Fritz's birthday party was the happ'ning place to be. And wasn't Steve just lovin' spending his evening rubbing shoulders with the rich and the famous ... and the crooked as hell. As soon as opportunity introduced itself, he would ditch the party scene and head for Fritz's garage. Opportunity came a'knocking when up at the house a mean jazz pianist started thumping out a 1940's Big Band classic. Through the open patio doors, Steve saw a Black dude join the ivory tickler. Stepping up to the mike, the trumpeter put his beautiful full lips on his horn and blew his soul out through the mouthpiece. Like the annual wedding-gown-sale-dash at Filene's basement-the one his marriage-minded sisters always ragged on about-the schmoozing guests out on the lawns raced for the house, everybody wanting to big-ear the set. Time to hustle. "Wait a minute, sir!" Damn! Turning his back around, Steve encountered a burly valet, a holstered shoulder weapon ruining the smooth line of one heck of a snazzy red car-parking jacket. "Yeah, pal?" Steve inquired, keeping things friendly. "Your car keys, sir," his new amigo said, nose in the air like he had just caught the whiff of a very bad smell. As the guy in the cheesy red threads was sniffing in his direction, Steve took offense. But, like any law-abiding citizen, he tunneled his tux pocket for said car key. Once found, he dangled the ring from the end of his muscled fisherman's arm; he wasn't turning over the keys to his particular kingdom ... just ... yet. "Careful with the wheels," Steve apprised the attendant. "I don't give two shits how you treat your baby, but mine's the temperamental type. She doesn't like rough handling. Use a gentle hand on the gears, capeche?" The valet's reply was a surly sneer and an upwardly mobile reach for the bulge in his bolero. Here we go... On the one hand, Steve wasn't looking for trouble. Not to mention that nothing but nothing stains satin tux lapels worse than oozing valet blood. Besides which, a mangled valet body would prove embarrassing, as well as unprofessional, and a real drag at a birthday party. On the other hand, Steve loved that '69 Corvette. And if his honey's side pipes came back dented, or heaven forbid, the finish got scratched or pitted, or even smudged by a careless set of paws, oh boy, guaranteed, there would be some unpleasant consequences... Steve took a deep breath to mellow-out. He tended to be a hothead when it came to things he cared about. His mother, bless her heart, had an old-fashioned adage to meet just about every social situation. She

would drag them suckers out of mothballs from time to time whenever the occasion called for it, and sometimes even when it didn't. The one that covered the faux pas he had almost committed had something to with catching flies with honey, not vinegar. That was his mom. God, he loved that woman. Now him, he stepped on bugs. But he always listened to his mama. "Dude, you any relation to Stallone?" Mrs. Gallagher's eldest son asked sweetly. The valet's upper lip curled into a cocky grin. "So happens, I've been told there's a slight resemblance." Gotcha! Move in with the swatter. "You've been told right, my man." Steve handed over the keys, his own cocky grin cold enough to freeze Seagram's. "Treat the 'Vette right, Sly. No sense us both bawling our eyes out come pickup time, right?" "Yes, sir," the valet replied, bad attitude gone bye-bye. Smooth as butter, he keyed the ignition and cruised the Daytona-yellow roadster nice and easy to the back of the estate. Manly pissin' contest thus concluded, all nonchalant-like, Steve tooled across the manicured lawns for the garage. He had an angel to locate. Steve's nonchalance ended upon spying the 1930 Dusenberg Model J. Just like he thought, the car, a shiny fire-engine-red beauty, sported a one-of-a-kind brass hood ornament. Removing his matchbook-sized camera from his pocket, Steve aimed the telescopic lens at the evidence... Just as someone entered the garage. Always but always, Steve went for earthy, statuesque brunettes. Dark-haired ladies with chests out to there and legs that didn't know when to quit. Ballsy chicks not afraid to flaunt their assets. This woman had the legs, all right. But she was... What was that snobby word his sisters used all the time? Ethereal? Yeah, ethereal. This woman was all that. Head to foot delicate. Fine-boned, despite her taller than average height. Pale skin. Light blond hair, done up in a braid in back. Dressed in a little black number that showed absolutely nothing. No T&A, whatsoever. Nope, the lady was definitely not his type. Plus, she was crying and looking kind of lost. Steve avoided lost-looking, tearful ladies like he avoided the clap. But when she sniffed back the tears, popped the Dusenberg's hood, and hefted a wrench, his heart started pounding. And then when she said aloud "Chill, Emily. Get a grip." and began diddling around underneath, what could he say? She had him at the first calibration. Steve started snapping pictures of Emily Parker, the soft-spoken lady he had spoken to on the phone about cars. Positively, he had found himself a lost angel and it was not the brass ornament riding the Dusenberg's hood.

CHAPTER TWO

Emily Parker smoothed a hand over the Dusenberg's rear bumper. The antique needed work, but she was still drivable. In fact, as a special treat, Mr. Fritz had promised to chauffeur her to Logan Airport in the car tonight. Herself, she couldn't drive, but thanks to time served in a girl's residential school-sent there compliments of the juvenile justice system-she could overhaul a transmission with her eyes closed. Her best thinking was done with a wrench in her hand. Emily clung to her tool like a drowning victim clings to a lifeline. There was so much to think about. Three years ago, Mr. Fritz had hired her as his personal assistant, her first professional position after graduating from community college. Though she had no experience, he had placed his faith in her-this after admitting during the job interview to a past involving a succession of unsuccessful foster home placements and petty thefts that had finally landed her in juvie hall. Knowing all of it, Mr. Fritz had taken a chance on her, hired her anyway, mentored her ... treated her like a daughter. And because he trusted her abilities, she had loved him like the father she never had. Under his tutelage, she had gained self-confidence, pride, that intangible something all the social workers called self-esteem. But beneath her newfound pride, there beat a large dose of terror. Why had he done it? Why had Mr. Fritz stuck his neck out for her like that? An hour ago, all the pieces fell in place. Like everyone else who had ever been nice to her, Mr. Fritz had an ulterior motive for his kindness. "She owed him," he said. "And now was her opportunity to reciprocate." To owe someone was a concept she understood. He wanted payback from her. Oh, not sex. She could've handled a demand for sex. But Mr. Fritz wanted something other than a BJ from her. Sixty short minutes ago, her job description and duties had radically shifted. Her opinion of her boss had shifted too. He was not the man she thought he was. But because of her affectionate feelings for him, regardless of the unquestionable illegality of his request, refusing him didn't come easily. She had stalled. Put him off. Told him she needed time to think. It was all so sudden... That last bit was true. The rest was pure fabrication. She had already made up her mind to refuse, but Bernard Fritz's deception had thrown her through a loop. She never saw it coming. Yes, her boss was a perfectionist. Yes, he could be difficult, demanding at times. But there had never been signs of improprieties, of anything unethical in his business practices... Until tonight. What kind of man was Mr. Fritz really? There were guards everywhere, a small army of security all on Bernard Fritz's payroll. Thinking they were simply there to protect her slightly paranoid boss, she had never given them much thought before. Knowing what she knew now, they frightened her. Would they prevent her from leaving when she turned

in her resignation? Surely, Mr. Fritz wouldn't allow her to skip merrily through the front gates, not after refusing to sneak an undeclared painting through French customs for him. She didn't care that he said it wasn't smuggling. That hiding the painting was merely a convenience. That he certainly didn't intend to defraud anyone of anything. That she owed him... She didn't owe him 8-to-10, without the possibility of parole. After his last appointment tonight, she would tell Mr. Fritz she wanted no part of carrying undeclared artwork on a flight to Paris. She might have served time as a juvenile delinquent, but she was nobody's patsy. Under the hood of the Dusenberg, Emily twisted the wrench faster and faster, her thoughts following suit. Gosh, she was scared.

****

"Mr. Fritz?" Emily said, knocking on the paneled office door. When her boss didn't answer, she rapped again. "It's Emily, Mr. Fritz. May I come in?" Still no answer. She turned the doorknob, apologetically entering the room. "I'm sorry to interrupt..." It's amazing how quickly the human mind processes information. In the flash of a glance, in the space of one nanosecond, she absorbed the scene before her, swiftly concluding there would be no emotion-charged blowout scene with her employer that evening. Bernard Fritz was dead. The man she had once loved like a father was now a corpse slumped ignobly behind a mahogany desk; a bent body drooped in a burgundy leather wing-backed chair. Walnut walls showcased an extensive collection of paintings behind him. Emily had always secretly thought the vain Mr. Fritz showed off more than paintings on that dark wall; the polished wood also created the perfect foil for his white mane of hair. A splattering of crimson had forever ruined the paneling, as well as that regal white hair. In a concise manner, her mind registered the details: A hole-from a bullet?-centered Bernard Fritz's forehead. The impact of the projectile's entry had caused the skull to be driven backwards at an unnatural angle against the chair, the force of its exit, through flesh and bone and burgundy leather, splintering the paneling. A gun dangled from his lifeless right hand. Suicide? A scream built inside her, a frenzied wail needing release. Her mouth opened... Nothing emerged. Too many years spent holding back, keeping it all inside, prevented an uncontrolled

outcry now. "Mr. Fritz?" she whispered instead. Rushing across the thick royal blue carpet she fell to her knees at his side. Touched his face. Cool. Felt for a pulse. Nothing. And still said softly, "Mr. Fritz?" as though he could hear. A million questions crossed her mind, why being the uppermost one. Why had her boss taken his own life during his birthday party? Emily assessed her employer's desktop for some clue ... a note ... anything ... to explain. A blue velvet box rested on the leather-bound blotter. A small card, bearing her name, was propped beside it. A gift from Mr. Fritz? The tears began to well. Beating back the sharpness of grief, Emily coolly returned to her examination of the mahogany desktop. One of her administrative tasks was to organize her boss' busy schedule. Mr. Fritz had been obsessed about not writing directly on the neatly lined white pages of his calendar, insisting instead that she write the name, address and phone number of each appointment on yellow sticky strips, which she then pressed in place, chronologically, on the still pristine daily page of his journal. It was Mr. Fritz's habit to check off each appointment on the yellow sticky label, still left in place for future reference. The yellow strip for his ten PM appointment--his last meeting of the day--was missing. She knew that time slot was filled, having arranged the appointment herself for a Mr. Steve Gallagher, an antique car enthusiast. Emily checked her wristwatch. Ten-thirty-five. The yellow sticky label would confirm whether or not Steve Gallagher had kept the appointment. Scrounging around in the wastepaper basket, she found the narrow piece of paper with Steve Gallagher's name on it. There was a checkmark beside it. Why had Mr. Fritz discarded the label when he had never done so before? For safekeeping, she pocketed the yellow label. She was sliding the small jewelry box and the gift card bearing her name beside it in her pocket when the room was thrown into darkness. "Don't turn around!" a grainy voice said. "I've got a gun aimed at the back of your head." "There's been an emergency here," she said faced away. "My boss ... Bernard Fritz is..." She couldn't say the word. "Please! Switch the lights back on!" "Never mind the lights." The door lock made a metal clink in the quiet room as the unseen man turned the catch.

"What do you want?" she asked. "The painting. Hand it over. I know you've got it." Dazed, her gaze fixed on the gilded frames hanging high above her dead employer's head. Bernard Fritz had so prized his paintings! "Take what you want. Just let me call an ambulance for this man..." "Don't play dumb, blondie. You know your boss is deader than a doornail." "You killed him!" "I didn't have to. He was already dead when I arrived. Now, I ain't here for the paintings on any of the friggin' walls. I want The Cuzin. It's in this house somewhere. You're Fritz's assistant, you gotta know where it is." The Cuzin? Was that the painting Mr. Fritz had wanted her to sneak past French customs? In the darkness, she reached for Mr. Fritz's desk phone. How long could three digits possibly take to punch in? Faster than a speeding bullet? In case her fingers weren't quick enough on the buttons, Emily bent her knees and got ready to dive behind the solid mahogany desk. He laughed. "Call the cops, girlie, and hang yourself." Her reaching hand stilled, her knees straightened. "What do you mean?" "Bernard Fritz was head honcho of a thriving art thieving ring. And you're his assistant. Figure it out." Stunned, she stammered, "I ... I know not ... nothing about any of that..." "Oh, yeah? Your signature appears on all the invoices. You went to Europe all the time for him on business. You carried artwork with you. The cops will think you were heavy into the operation. " "I was his courier! I'm no cat-thief!" But she did have a juvenile record for theft... The man behind her laughed again. "Then, be my guest. Call the cops. You'll only implicate yourself, and I'll go on with impunity. Damn! I just love that word. Impunity. Sort of rolls off the tongue, don't it?" He guffawed. "You've been set up, blondie! Come clean or get dirtied. Your choice." What had she gotten herself into with this job? "Oh my God..." "The wheels are turnin', ain't they? You know I'm right. Now quit the theatrics. Tell me where that painting is stashed or you might just get hurt." A party was in progress, the house unbearably noisy. A band played downstairs, champagne corks

popped at regular intervals. Mr. Fritz had already fired one shot into his brain and no one had heard. Who would distinguish the sound of a second shot from the opening of a bottle of bubbly? A scream from raucous laughter? A frightened woman's high-pitched cry from a trumpet's shrill note? And the celebratory fireworks she had ordered to culminate the festivities were scheduled to go off any moment-no one would hear a blessed thing when they began. Her innocence had ended long ago. She knew the score. Staying alive--staying out of jail--had nothing to do with facing the music and protesting her innocence to the cops and everything to do with ducking the heat as fireworks fell all around her. She needed a way out of this, an escape route. There were two doors in the office: One led to the hallway, now locked, and one would take her to the rooftop garden. The room was pitch-black, she was fast on her feet, and if she crouched low, she would most likely make the patio door before a bullet hit. But that still left a bone-breaking leap from the roof. She could risk it... Or, she could shoot the gunman. Bernard Fritz's lifeless hand still clutched the suicide weapon. All she need do was move, just an inch, and she would have the gun in her grasp. She moved. Half-inch. Three-quarters. At the inch mark, she reached. The gun slipped from Bernard Fritz's lifeless fingers and clattered onto the floor before she ever touched it. The glancing blow to the back of her head took her by surprise. She stumbled, listed to one side. To prevent herself from falling flat-out across the mahogany desk, her elbows came down on the green blotter, right next to a weighty ashtray. Grabbing it, she spun to face the gunman. In the room's spare light, the gunman's face was far from clear, but what she could see appeared disgustingly ordinary. Nondescript. Short blah hair. Eyes of indeterminate color. Average height. He was so normal looking. Your average normal thief/potential killer... Adrenaline racing, she raised her arm, aimed, and pitched the ashtray, hitting the average-looking gunman squarely on the bridge of his ordinary-looking nose. While he grabbed at the stream of blood, she ran for the patio doors, scrambling out and over the balcony railing, hesitating for only a split second on the edge of the roof, toes pointed at the gutter before leaping out into the air, a free-fall into nothingness. The fireworks started on the way down. The dazzling explosions lit up the night sky as she dropped to the ground. She had always been agile, but it was a long fall followed by a hard landing that sent her sprawling into the grass. A jolt of pain shot up her leg, waking her up to the reality of her situation: The Cuzin was a priceless masterpiece while her life wasn't worth the price of a paint-by-number set. And that horrible creep was right-she couldn't go to the police. She knew the ins and outs of The Fritz Art Dealership. She had been to Europe many times as Mr. Fritz's transport, signed all sorts of forms as his courier, spoken to all kinds of art dealers and patrons-or thieves, she didn't know which any more-photographed numerous private art collections... Oh, no! Those were wide-angled photos she had taken. Of house interiors. Houses that for all she knew

were later robbed. And then Emily knew-Bernard Fritz had hired her specifically because she was alone in the world, had no money, and was weighed down by her juvenile criminal record. Mr. Fritz had handpicked picked her because of her vulnerability, not because of her 4.0 GPA in Art History. How stupid could she get? 'Trust no one' had always been her mantra. The one time she let down her guards, and look at what happened-she had gotten royally screwed. Well, she had learned her lesson but good. She would never place her faith in anyone else ever again. She would tell no one about The Cuzin, not the cops, not anyone else. That painting was her life insurance policy, her stay-out-of-jail card. And she needed to find it before the gunman and his pack of art thief friends found her. Luckily, she had been on her own most of her life, and when it came to escaping a bad situation, she was an expert. As the fireworks continued uninterrupted behind her, Emily slipped easily past the guard at the gate and ran off into the night.

CHAPTER THREE

Steve Gallagher's sensitive ear canals shuddered at the grating scrape of stilettos on concrete. With bone-deep reluctance he turned his attention away from the hole he was plugging in the antique's radiator and grimaced as his partner, Ronnie Thomas, strutted her stuff across the garage floor, her needle-thin heels sparking like flint. "I thought our meeting was for tonight, Ron?" "It is, sugar. I'm just dropping by to see how you're doing all on your own. I wanted to make sure you didn't starve or anything before you hired on a housekeeper." "A man who likes to cook never starves." "So cook. But wash dishes and do laundry? Un-un, sugar. You don't want to do that," Ronnie said, her lush body moving in on him, her fingers playing with his earlobe, the humidity from her moist breath making his hair curl tight. "And that's why I'm placing a call to Mollie Maids. They're that temp agency I told you about..." "Nothing doing, Ron. I don't want a maid." "You might not want one but you surely do need one. And it's my job to make sure you get what you need." What he needed was some peace and quiet. Unfortunately, Ronnie was like an exclamation point at an amusement park-appropriate for the roller coaster, not so appropriate when it came to the merry-go-round. These days, Steve considered himself a kiddie-ride, and that's where he wanted his excitement level kept Steve moved away, shooting his associate a 'do not follow' glance. Ronnie glared right back, a tawny tigress ready to pounce. Too bad she had her sights set on him. It wasn't happ'ning. He liked Ron too much, and they had been business partners too long, to louse up

their friendship with a day at the fun park. Misguided hormones would not wreck their working relationship, especially not now, when he needed her professional expertise more than ever. If he needed some computer hacking done, he went to Ron. Ditto for breaking electronic codes. And if it were only a question of overriding an alarm system, Ronnie Thomas was the girl for the job. She was mighty good at tracing paper trails too. Ron was the best all-round security buster and information gatherer he knew of, bar none, which is why he had put her to work tracing Emily Parker. But man, some days she was just too much to take... Like today. She was sneaking up on him again, an attack from the side this time. As if her queen of the jungle perfume didn't give her approach away. When would she pack up her gaming tent and take her lust safari elsewhere? Dragging himself away from the car, he scrounged around a pile of junk he kept neatly stacked in the far corner of the garage. "Here," he said, handing Ron the "HELP WANTED" sign he had used ten summers back when he needed a jack-of-all trades to do small jobs around the place, like cut the lawn and clean the gutters. "On your way out, stick this in that planter at the end of the drive. A college kid in need of some extra summer cash will see it, and ring my bell. That's as far as I'm wiling to go in terms of hiring on help." Ronnie sneered at the sign. "Sometimes, Steve Gallagher, you're as stubborn as a mule." She grabbed the wooden stake from his hand. "Just so you know, if this doesn't work, I'm calling Mollie Maids." "It's a deal." Steve walked back to the Dusenberg. In a week, maybe less, Ron would forget all about the maid and get on his case about something else. "Steve, honey, what's with your fixation on this dirty old car?" Ronnie purred into his ear as she came up behind him. He scooted away from her pouty mouth. "This isn't just any old car. This happens to be a 1930 Dusenberg, Model J. The one Franco Perilli, the bootlegger, owned." "The one you were so hot for because of the stolen brass angel hood ornament?" "One and the same. Hazel eyes narrowed. "I still don't get the angel's connection to The Cuzin." "That's because the connection is purely circumstantial. When I interviewed our client, Maurice Pentegrine, he mentioned that a brass angel was lifted from his curio cabinet the same night The Cuzin was heisted from his wall." "That connection isn't circumstantial, lover, it's non-existent." Patience had never been Ron's strong suit, and they had never been lovers. "That's only part of the connection. Here's the remaining fifty-percent: Seeing that the ornament is worthless without the car, its only monetary value being in the eye of a collector, I figured only a die-hard auto buff would've wanted it."

"And your point is...?" "You know how a burglar operates as well as I do, Ron. A cat-thief engaged in the stealing of art is a savvy animal. He knows enough to get in and get out of a mark's house real quick. A second-story man does not take a detour to a curio shelf and help himself to an obscure hood ornament ... unless, of course, maybe that burglar owns, or knows someone who owns, antique cars. Maybe even the 1930 Dusenberg that angel originally belonged on." Ron nodded. "And Fritz, the now deceased art dealer, owned a 1930 Dusenberg." "Precisely." "I still don't understand why you had to buy the old heap," Ronnie groused. "The car's just a bunch of old rusted nuts and bolts. You could've just bought the angel." "That would've looked suspicious. Besides, the car's much more than rusty nuts and bolts. She's a classy lady fallen on bad times." Steve ran his hand over the car's sleek hood. "I've always been a sucker for hard-luck stories and when I saw the Dusenberg on the block at Bernard Fritz's estate sale, I couldn't resist her. I'll get her fixed up and take her out for Sunday morning rides. It'll be great." Before the car even went on the block, Steve scheduled a private pre-auction viewing of the antique. While the auctioneer looked away, he unscrewed the stolen angel from the hood, replacing her with a counterfeit look-alike. Because if anyone-like the cops, for instance-got wind that the angel on Fritz's car was hot, tongues would start flapping all over the place. He would never find Emily Parker if there were the least bit of doubt cast on the honesty of her employer; she would go so far underground, only the moles would find her. He wasn't about to let that happen. On the night of his death, Fritz had admitted to squat during their ten o'clock meeting, and so Steve still had no concrete proof that the guy was guilty of anything, except being one real smart operator. The angel was a lead, but in terms of evidence, she meant very little. In fact, when Steve put the question of the ornament to him, Fritz neatly covered his ass by saying the angel was a gift from a friend, purchased at a Saturday morning flea sale, that neither he nor his friend realized it was stolen, and of course he would return the hood decoration to its rightful owner. What did Emily Parker know? Steve wondered. Was she involved in her employer's secret life of crime? More importantly, did she know the location of The Cuzin? Lots of questions, lots of speculation, lots of theories, absolutely no proof. To get answers, his hunch told him he needed to find Emily Parker. "Why do I get the feeling you're not telling me something, Steve," Ronnie grumbled, and took a step closer. "You've never kept secrets from me before on a case. Why now?" He folded arms across his chest. "Down, Ron. My whip is up at the house." Ronnie's nostrils flared. "Whip? Now that sounds like so much fun." Ron and her S&M tendencies, Steve thought with a sigh. He had been known to indulge in that scene too, but his partner would have to find herself another master, because he wasn't going there, not with her.

Steve grabbed a rag, wiped his greasy hands on it, and then slyly brandished it in front of his fastidious partner. "Uh ... you might not want to get too close, Ron. I could use a shower." The possibility of her Donna Karan suit getting messed stopped Ron dead in her high-heel tracks. Nose wrinkled, she waved a red-manicured hand before her nose. "Yeeew! A rose, you are not, honey." Steve hid a grin. His partner's amorous feelings for him were on the fluff side of superficial. When would she finally wake up and realize it? "S-t-e-v-e!" Four skinny inches of high-heel seduction scraped concrete, the sound worse than fingernails on a blackboard. A shiver was shaken out of him. "Do you have to do that?" "I do, if I want to get your attention! Can't you get someone else to do all this dirty automotive work for you? A mechanic or something?" "I happen to like doing all this dirty work," he said, and then quickly changed the subject before his business partner did the concrete scrape thing again. "By the way, any paper trail yet on Bernard Fritz's missing assistant?" Ronnie brushed a microscopic speck from her raw silk suit. "I'm all over it, sugar, but so far it looks like the girl disappeared into that hole in the ozone." "What about the airlines?" "I checked, specifically all European departures. There's no indication Parker ever left the country. But she's involved in this stolen painting somewhere. She was probably doing the transport... "Maybe." With an amazingly feminine snort, Ron replied, "Of course, she was involved, sugar." "Maybe." Ducking his head under the antique's hood, he got back to work. "Humpf! I guess I know when I'm being ignored. See you tonight, sugar." Still under the relative safety of the Dusenberg's hood, Steve waved off his miffed partner. Bernard Fritz didn't confess to any wrongdoing during their ten o'clock appointment. He didn't admit to any knowledge of the stolen Cuzin, either. But Steve read fear in the art dealer's eyes. That cornered look prompted Steve to offer him a deal: the whereabouts of The Cuzin in exchange for twenty-four hours lead time, during which Fritz could get his act together with a lawyer before Steve went public with what he knew. Pure bluff. Steve's evidence wasn't worth diddly, and he had no intention of going public; his client had demanded complete privacy. But as long as there was even an outside chance of getting his client's painting returned on the QT, Steve had to go for it. Had there been something else going down with Fritz? Something internal to his organization that Steve was unaware of? Had his band of thieves turned cutthroat, and with pressure from outside and in, Fritz

knew his time had run out? Had he known it was too late for deals? Is that why he had taken his own life? In hindsight, it seemed that way to Steve. Fritz was under medical care for depression, the gun beside the body belonged to the art dealer, as did the prints on the weapon. The preponderance of proof pointed to suicide as the cause of death. Emily Parker was nowhere to be found, but she wasn't under any criminal suspicion for anything. The cops did want to question her about her boss' suicide, but it was all pretty standard procedure, done strictly by the numbers, the preponderance of proof pointing to a self-inflicted gun wound with depression as the underlying motivation. Steve kept his suspicions of Fritz's involvement in illegalities to himself. Since Emily wasn't around to say she had arranged his ten o'clock meeting with Fritz, and as there were no witnesses to it, Steve kept his mouth closed about that too. The way things stood now, he could bide his time and look for Emily and The Cuzin on his own, without any pesky interference from the DA's office... "Excuse me. I'm here about the Help Wanted sign out front." At the sound of that familiar female voice, Steve whipped his dark head out from under the hood of the Dusenberg. That soft, lyrical rhythm-those dulcet tones-the slightly breathless manner of speaking-all haunted his dreams at night. Emily Parker, the ethereal lady from Fritz's garage, the could-be thief he had been searching for, the car-savvy woman he had spoken to at some length on the phone, now stood in the middle of his garage. He would know her anywhere, despite the disguise. What the hell was she doing here in Cape Cod, her gray eyes scrutinizing him? And, man, but he hoped like hell that was a black wig under her beat-up baseball cap... "I just happened to be walking by and noticed the posting," she offered. Yeah, right! She just happened to be walking by! The world wasn't that small, and coincidence didn't cover this visit. But Steve nodded, everything cool. "My partner strongly suggested I get some summer help. And I suppose she's right-the house is the pits," he said, giving himself chance to adjust, to come to grips with this new twist in the case. "So I asked her to stick the sign in the planter." "Well, it worked." A slender hand was extended to him. "Lee Packet." "Steve Gallagher," he said. He gave her palm a brisk shake and then let go, the pleasurable sensation of cool fingers on his hot flesh startling him. "Pleased to meet you, Lee." "I think I should tell you-I do housework, but I don't cook." Visibly holding her breath, his job applicant dropped her gaze to the garage's oil-stained floor. Steve used the opportunity to sneak a look-see under the brim of the grimy baseball cap. Ah, but Emily is a pretty one--despite the ton of glop plastered on her skin, despite the black raccoon

circle painted around her eyes, despite what he now realized was not a wig but a bad dye job. He knew the thick makeup hid pearl-skin, the perfect canvas for gray eyes that even from a distance had immediately reminded him of Falmouth Harbor on a raw and rainy day, the kind of quiet, tourist-free day he loved the best. He had taken plenty of pictures of her that night inside Fritz's garage and he had memorized each one, committed each variation of expression to memory, from tearful to determined; each graceful sway of her slender body was etched in his mind. And wasn't she smart, Steve thought in admiration, to select an alias so close to her real name. That way, she wouldn't ever get caught with a vacant look on her face when somebody addressed her. "Well, Lee, as it just so happens, cooking isn't part of the job description," he said, putting her out of her misery before she turned blue from holding her breath. "I'm fairly creative in the kitchen. I just don't like cleaning up the mess afterwards. Ten bucks per. Think it over." To put her at ease, he picked up his tool, and returned to his tinkering under the hood. The strategy worked. Breezy as a puff of warm summer air fanning across a sandbar, she sidled up close, coming to a stop directly behind him. Steve looked over his shoulder at her. "Can you see all right? I wouldn't want to get in your way or anything." "I can see just fine." "Glad to hear it," he said dryly. Emily Parker was graceful enough to moonlight as a cat-thief. Savvy enough to trace him to the Cape. Cunning enough to use an alias. And enough of an actress to do a fairly decent job posing as an applicant for a summer job, all while wearing an outfit she had to have pulled straight out of a dumpster. She had gone through an awful lot of work to find him and disguise herself. Why? Surer than a stray mutt doing his business in a bed of prized roses, Emily's visit had a reason behind it, and he meant to find out what that reason was. "Stop!" the little fraud cried. "You'll break the stem off the bolt if you keep tightening it like that." His eyes crinkled up at her. "Ya think?" Her palm reverently smoothed the Dusenberg's dented grill. "She's in fragile condition; you'll need to take care with her." Oh, he planned on taking care ... with Emily. Because she was looking fragile, just like the car. Moseying on over to the driver's side, Emily looked under the chassis, the threadbare denim of her jeans molding her raised rear end. She had no damned business bending over like that, not in worn jeans! He was thirty-eight, not quite old enough for a dirty old man classification. Yet. Though, that was the way he felt looking. In that god-awful outfit, with that god-awful make-up, Emily looked like a barely pubescent Lolita. For crissakes, he had a sixteen year-old niece who, in the midst of a hormonal surge, looked and dressed the same way. How old was Emily, anyway? At Fritz's party, wearing little in the way of make-up and dressed sophisticated, she had looked young, but not this young. He thought she was early twenties, maybe twenty-seven or

eight. Now, she looked barely legal. Did he ever need that dossier Ronnie was working up on Emily! The first thing he was checking was her DOB. "There's a little corrosion near the tie rods," she said, righting herself. "Other than that, the car's a beauty." He would have to respectfully disagree-Emily of the sad, gray, stay-away-from-me eyes was the real beauty in this garage. Even with the heavy-handed application of make-up, even with the ugly disguise and defiant attitude, she was getting to him. His gaze lowered. Looked like Emily Parker had forgotten to hook on a bra. Graceful posture, a clingy black tee-shirt and a pert jiggle made the oversight a little too clear for his comfort level. Shit! Emily was one complication he didn't need in his life. If he wanted jiggles, he could get jiggles anywhere. No reason at all why he should go around with hurting nuts. He was a wealthy man. He was also as cynical as hell. And because he was both, he knew he had his pick of beautiful women, all sizes, all shapes. He didn't need to get emotionally involved to get laid. All he had to do was pick up the phone, and order in. A gorgeous girl would come calling at his door in less than an hour, credit card machine in tow, time clock running. If he didn't want a call girl, he could hit the private club circuit, and do the one-night-stand routine. After his wife's death eighteen years ago, he did both. He partied hard and often. Fortunately, it didn't take him any too long to figure out that fast food, like fast sex, satisfied in the moment but was not too healthy in the long run. So he quit. Everything. No sex. Total abstinence. For years. And he didn't miss it. So lusting after Emily Parker came as a big surprise. "I bought the car at an estate auction," Steve offered, reluctantly tearing his gaze away from the sharp points under Emily's black tee-shirt. "Lucky break for me, not so lucky for the former owner. He blew his head off." Emily's cosmetically darkened complexion bleached out. He pushed. "Yeah, it happened during his birthday party at his Chestnut Hill estate. Pretty gruesome scene, or so I'm told. Supposedly, the blood splattered everywhere. Quite the mess for the clean-up crew." With a strangled sound, his prospective employee swayed on her feet. Nice move, Gallagher. He had wanted to gauge Emily's reaction to Bernard Fritz's suicide, not make her faint. Cursing under his breath, Steve made a grab for her before she keeled. By the harsh glare of the overhead bulb, he noted the unmistakable signs of tension on her face: the blue smudges of fatigue under the eyes; the pinched look to the mouth; the knotted vein beating at the temple; the weight loss in a woman already too thin. In the future, he would keep Emily's vulnerability in mind. "You okay?" he asked.

"I... I'm fine, really." He let her go. Still pale, but standing on her own two feet now, Emily whispered, "I'm sorry to hear the owner died, but at least the car found its way into good hands. I hate seeing antiques neglected. This car is fascinating." "Yeah, she is fascinating." And he wasn't talking about the Dusenberg. Steve scratched a drop of motor oil from his jaw. "Did I mention I'm only looking for part-time help? The most I can offer you is ten-fifteen hours per week," he said, testing the waters, trying to get a hint as to what she wanted from him. "Oh..." That one syllable revealed a lot. Sounded to him like Emily wanted them to get close... Steve held out a carrot. "Suppose, additionally, I offered you part-time hours in the garage as my helper?" "You would let me work on the Dusenberg!" She gasped, feet leaving the garage's cement floor, definite jiggling action happening under her black tee-shirt as she jumped up and down. "When do I start?" Everything else about her was phony, but that enthusiasm wasn't faked. With a chuckle, he said, "Wait a minute! Not so fast. I'm talking a position as a first class grease monkey here. That's a big job and I need to know you can handle the responsibility, that you're not just a girl with enough car smarts to be dangerous." Her lips, outlined in brownish-purple and filled in with chalky-pink, broke into a radiant smile. "Step aside." Her shapely arms flexed. "I'll finish what you've started." "Take it easy," he warned. "I would never treat this car less than easy." "I meant ... take it easy with your knuckles," he said, terrified she might get hurt. "I just scraped two of mine." Two elegant hands were held out in front of him. "Count 'em. Ten fingers. No scars. I've been working on cars since I was old enough to pop a hood, and I've never had an accident." He swallowed, as his cock woke up from a long winter's nap. "Your hands are ... tiny." "That's an advantage. They can squeeze into places your hands are too big to fit." She grabbed his wrist. "Feel the strength in my fingers?" Oh, mama! Did he ever. The handshake was bad enough, now this. Her fingers weren't even wrapped around his dick and he had a hard-on. "Nice," he rasped.

Her touch fell away. "Now watch me." Dirty old man classification or not, he had no intention of taking his eyes off her. As it turned out, she replaced the bolt faster than he could've done. Impressed with her expertise and driven to know her age, he said, "You got papers?" "I didn't think temp jobs required references." She squirmed. He picked up a tool, tapped the red plastic handle against his palm, not liking how cornered she looked, how trapped, how skittish. Pushed too hard, she would take off and he might lose her for good. Steve didn't know what Emily was doing here, why she had come to him, but he was not losing her. "You'll need an employment history and references anyplace you work," he said softly. "Employers need to know certain stuff, like the job applicant's age for instance." Slender shoulders sagged. Blue smudges under gray eyes got bluer. A tummy rumbled. Emily was a walking, talking, invitation for disaster. If he didn't do something about her, a less scrupulous guy would. "Forget the formalities," he said. "You're hired." "Really?" "Yep. You're one persuasive job applicant." "I am?" He nodded. There was nothing more persuasive than aching balls. And not to wax sentimental, he had to do something. This was not the same as letting her make a fool of him. Emily definitely wanted something from him. He wanted something from her too. And it had nothing to do with The Cuzin. He wanted to fuck Emily Parker. Not because she was beautiful, though she was decidedly beautiful. He lusted after her not because she had a cute body, though she most decidedly did have a cute body. But to say his need was only physical, to compartmentalize it like that, was taking the easy way out. The truth was, he was attracted to Emily's guts, turned on by her sheer unmitigated gall, intrigued by her gritty determination. The nerve of her! Walking in here, thinking she could take him for a ride! Nobody duped Steve Gallagher and got away with it! Emily was the three Cs-complex, clever, and criminal-and that was an irresistible combination to a man bored too long. She was a puzzle he intended to solve. And while he figuring her out, he would keep her safe from harm, for behind those somber gray eyes lurked genuine fear. His own eyes wide open to the grief he was letting himself in for, he said, "You can start tomorrow. Seven o'clock sharp." "You won't be sorry, Mr. Gallagher." Yeah, right! He already was.

CHAPTER FOUR

Head down, Emily hurried along the sandy edges of the shore road, taking little pleasure in the silver-weathered cottages that dotted the dunes, hardly hearing the sea gulls cawing overhead, noticing only as an afterthought the hint of salty sea spray that lingered in the air. She had more pressing concerns on her mind than the sights and smells and impressions of picturesque Cape Cod-like where she would sleep tomorrow. The youth hostel provided both a free breakfast and an inexpensive roof overhead. Unfortunately, only a seven-day stay was allowed and she maxed-out tonight. Money low, belly on empty, and homeless on Tuesday, Emily didn't know what to do. The hostel's cold cereal breakfast, tepid shower, and narrow army cot seemed like luxury accommodations to her now that she was losing them, and the ten wrinkled dollars in her pocket ruled out the possibility of checking into a motel. Looked like tomorrow night she would be dragging her sleeping bag onto the beach. Sleeping out in the open under the stars held no romantic allure for her; the prospect terrified her. Waking up cold and damp, picking sand out of her teeth, having to use public restrooms to wash up, were more than inconveniences. Homelessness increased the likelihood of a girl getting raped. Also, there was the potential for the cops hauling her ass in for vagrancy as she had yet to scout down a fake ID. On the move since the night of Mr. Fritz's suicide, she'd had no time to make any street connections. Compliments of a clothesline-even in Bernard Fritz's exclusive Chestnut Hill neighborhood some folks still hung wash out to dry-she had changed from her cocktail dress into a pair of damp black jeans and a nearly dry black tee shirt. With the expensive, high-couture dress rolled up in a ball under her arm, she had walked a few miles in her designer shoes before hitching a ride to the Copley Square Library. The BPL felt like home to her. Moving from floor to floor, stack to stack to avoid detection by security, she camped there for two nights. On the morning of her third day on the run, she walked downtown and hocked Mr. Fritz's gift to her-a clunky, antique brooch. Digging into the proceeds from the transaction, she purchased a few essential toiletries. At a thrift shop in the garment district, she traded her cocktail dress for a pair of used work boots, socks, a sleeping bag, and a backpack. That was some expensive dress Mr. Benton had given her to wear for his birthday party! Returning with her booty to the library, she 'borrowed' a pair of scissors from the front desk and hacked off her waist-length blond hair. Too easy to identify. In the basement Girls Room, she shampooed what remained with pink liquid soap from the sink dispenser and dyed it black. Praying Security wouldn't walk in on her naked, she washed up with a brown paper towel, used her brand-new toothbrush, styled her newly shorn hair with the help of some gel, and dressed in her clothesline outfit. Black hair, black clothes, and angst nailed in place, she knew she could pass for a street-kid. She had been there before, and the trip was familiar. The bus ticket from Boston to the Cape had taken a large chunk out of her resources, but food cost the most. Even limiting herself to one meal a day, money doesn't last long. Inside a mom and pop variety store Emily counted her change... Seventy-nine cents. Enough to buy a candy bar without breaking a dollar bill. Great. Buying the largest bar she could find for the money and clutching it to her chest, she ran back outside,

fumbling greedily at the wrapper, her mouth salivating at that first delicious whiff of chocolate. Collapsing under a tree, she took a teeney-weeny bite. Even in the shade, milk chocolate melts fast. Self-pitying tears dampened her eyes as caramel goo dripped from the foil. The bar was supposed to last! She had wanted to savor it! She ended up swallowing the candy down whole and licking her sticky fingers afterwards, hunger pangs still clenching her belly. Memories of food monopolized her daydreams. Even food she couldn't stand, like the stick-to-your-ribs oatmeal that group homes invariably serve up for breakfast. Weight was dropping off her frame. She was getting skinny everywhere. Emily's glance dropped to her chest. She had always been small on top, but what with losing weight, her bust had gone bust. Just as well. Braless, at least she wouldn't bounce... She wriggled her shoulders. Okay, she did bounce. But it wasn't horrible. Normally, she didn't go without. But the cocktail dress she had worn to Mr. Fritz's party came with a built-in bra, which explained her lack of underwear now. She would just have to live with the bounce. What choice did she have? New bras were expensive, and she was not wearing second-hand underwear. It's just that ... Steve Gallagher had noticed. He didn't leer, but his gaze had fallen on her unsupported boobs more than once. Let him look! A certain amount of brashness was necessary for her disguise. She couldn't afford to go maidenly shy about her body now. She was street. She was tough. Casual sex was no big deal... Whoa-where did that come from? How did she go from letting a guy look to letting a guy shag her? Was she really considering sleeping her way into Steve Gallagher's confidence? Stumbling wearily to her feet, Emily hoisted the backpack containing all her worldly possessions onto her shoulders and started the long walk back to the hostel.

****

The following day at 7AM sharp, her new boss watched her over the rim of his coffee cup as she made her way up the long, winding driveway. Steve wasn't real tall, five ten at the most, with a lean but powerful build. His dark hair, as black as her own dyed hair, was worn short in a no-nonsense buzz-cut. She suspected he kept it clipped close to tame a natural tendency towards unruliness-a man as masculine as Steve Gallagher would have no

patience for curls, and that was really too bad because a woman might just be tempted to muss them. The half-inch or so of hair he did allow hugged the shape of his skull so tightly that even the ocean breeze couldn't disturb the severe military style. His skin, as dark as hers was pale, showed traces of nice laugh lines at the corners of his warm brown eyes, telling her he must laugh a lot... He wasn't cracking so much as a smile this morning. At least, not at her. His sensuous mouth, bearing a white scar above the upper lip, looked taut as he took a slow sip of his morning coffee, giving her chance to swallow a mouthful of starvation induced saliva. The cause? His neatly pressed shirt, a delicious shade of lime sherbet-lately, everything reminded her of food. Of course, in his trim-fitting tan work chinos, he would have had her mouth watering anyway. At any rate, the pastel shirt was a good choice for him; the light color softened the hard edges of his face. He needed something to soften him. The man was hard all over. Would he ride a woman hard in bed? She sensed the extremely virile Steve Gallagher would dominate a woman during lovemaking, leave her gasping... The lazy, slouched posture of his was all pose, she decided. She predicted this man was never entirely at ease anywhere. Ready to strike, poised for action at the least provocation... Under no circumstance must she provoke him. "Good morning, Mr. Gallagher," she said all-bubbly enthusiasm, forcing her cheek muscles to lift. He didn't return her smile. "Where's your car?" "Don't own one," she answered, and shimmied out from under the straps of her backpack as brown eyes hooded and dropped. Her boobs had bobbed with her shimmying, a small shift her observant boss did not let go unnoticed. Observant, but not a lecher. Her employer's gaze quickly lifted from her chest. He took another pull on his morning coffee-God, the aroma was delicious-while she placed the pathetically light bag on the driveway, the crushed clamshells barely disturbed upon impact; the only other item she owned, her sleeping bag, was hidden away beneath the hedge out front. Last night, awake in her narrow hostel's cot in a room shared with twenty other girls, she thought about Steve Gallagher and how she should proceed. This wasn't a game of cops and robbers. She couldn't afford to slip up, not in front of an observant man like Steve Gallagher. When asked anything personal, she decided she would keep her answers simple. No colorful embellishments. Give as few details as possible. She wasn't very good at lying, and so 'yes' and 'no' replies would be safest. "We'll work on the Dusenberg's engine this morning," he volunteered. "Ready to get to work?" She nodded, while under the pulled-low brim of her cap, she examined Steve Gallagher' s hands. The fingers wrapped around the coffee mug were badly callused and scarred, powerful too, just like his build. The nails weren't manicured, but they were meticulously scrubbed clean. How would those rough hands feel on a woman's skin? On her skin?

She shivered, quickly covered with a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed: "Yes, sir! I can hardly wait to start, sir." "Call me Steve. When you say, sir, it makes me feel like an antique myself," he said, leading the way into the garage. She followed, watching every move he made. After draining his coffee cup, he placed it on a worktable. "It's a long walk, back and forth from town." "I manage." "You are staying in town, right?" At her, "Yes," he rubbed a hand down his clean-shaven jaw. "I could pick you up." "No thanks. As I say, I manage." She always had. "Have it your way." After heading for the Dusenberg, he wheeled around and retraced his steps, reached for his empty coffee cup. "I keep forgetting to clean up after myself." "From now on, I'll see to the dishes, sir. I mean, Steve. Ignoring her offer, he went to the sink, washed the cup and dried it, then placed it on a shelf. "We'll see how things go with the car before you assume your housekeeping tasks." He smiled self-depreciatingly, and the grin didn't make it all the way to his eyes; they remained unaffected. "The problem is, my household staff in Boston and New York have spoiled me. I don't have help on the Cape. Here, I like my privacy." Hoping to sound like an awed teenager, rather than nosey, she said, "Wow! You must be like a millionaire to own three houses." He shrugged. "I do okay. Money is important, but it's not the most important thing to me." "What is?" "Honesty. You'll find if you're up front with me, I'll be up front with you." He stared deep into her face. Steve Gallagher wanted in her panties. And she would play the sex card to her best advantage. But keeping a cool head while manipulating his male lust would prove more difficult than she had originally thought. An undeniable current, a line charged with electricity, a hot wire of mutual appreciation, raced back and forth between them. Tension coiled in her belly. He wanted into her panties and she wasn't immune to him either. Sooner than he, she blinked and looked away.

CHAPTER FIVE

The first day on the job, Steve put his new mechanic through the paces. After showing Emily the location of everything in the garage, they crawled under the Dusenberg. Side by side under the car, their backs supported on dollies, they discussed what needed to be done. A summer's worth of restoration is what needed to be done. Steve had to hand it to Emily-she was a good little mechanic. She changed the oil and didn't falter once. He did. A bunch of times. When his arm touched her arm, when his shoulder touched her shoulder, when his hip touched her hip. There wasn't much maneuvering room under the chassis, and every time a tool got passed back and forth between them, their fingers ended up colliding. He was keenly aware of every breath Emily took, every time her small breasts rose and fell, every time she swallowed. And he kept picking up her soapy scent. She was tomboyish and kittenish at the same time. What man could resist a sexy pussycat with grease under her nails? Lunch was always at one o'clock. Sharp. A creature of habit, he would knock off ten minutes early to wash up at the sink in the garage before wandering up to the house to fix himself a sandwich. Maybe open up a can of soup if he was feeling lazy. Eating alone got kind of boring after a while and sometimes he just wanted to chow down and finish up quick so he could get back to work. Loneliness never seemed as bad when he was busy. Since Emily's tummy had been rumbling for hours, a fact she kept apologizing for, he decided to quit early for lunch. This was a huge shift in the schedule for him, as he was pretty set in his solitary ways. Under the car, Steve turned to his mechanic, his nose just about touching her nose. "It's noon. Time to eat." "I'm not hungry." Yeah right, she wasn't hungry. After adjusting his whole important routine for her empty belly, she pays him back by feeding him a line... "Suit yourself," he said off-handedly, and rolled out from under, the wheels of the dolly squeaking on the cement floor. Taking his cell phone ... and the lingering scent of Emily's shampooed hair with him outside ... he called in a take-out order to the local pizza joint. Thirty minutes later, the delivery boy had arrived, been paid, tipped, and left with a smile on his face. Steve opened the greasy cardboard box and muttered loud enough for his helper to hear, "Aw, man! They got it all wrong. I ordered a small, not a large! And there are two cartons of milk here too. Looks like you'll have to help me eat this, Lee. Wash up at the sink and I'll get out the paper plates." Steve turned 'round to see if the bait had worked-young people all loved pizza.

Flat on her back, Emily wheeled out from under the Dusenberg. Coming to a graceful cross-legged sit on the dolly, she lifted her chin. "Sure?" "What do I look like here-an army? I can't eat a large all by myself. Four-five slices and I'm good." Emily scampered to her feet, raced to the sink, washed up, and skidded to the small table where the pizza box sat, lid open-better to circulate the cheese and tomato aroma. "Take a seat," he said, tossing the largest slice from the box onto her plate. He took the chair across from her, their knees bumping under the tabletop. The smallest slice in the box hovered at the brink of his mouth. "I hope you like pepperoni." With a nod, she dug in. By the time he opened the milk cartons and popped in the straws, her plate was whistle-clean. Emily liked pizza. Small thing to know about a person, granted, but he intended to find out all the little things that made her who she was-like maybe she liked to walk along rooftops dressed all in black. Details like that. "How about another slice," he said quietly. At her eager nod, he served her up the second largest piece from the box. "This is delicious," she murmured, demurely licking every last bit of cheese from her fingertips. And that just made him want to cry. A fully stocked fridge sat up at the house, and here was Emily starving. "Drink the other carton of milk too," he mumbled, all choked-up. "Myself, I can't stand the stuff." She was so damned thin, nothing but long legs, huge sad eyes, and a cute pair ofNope, he wasn't going there. Emily wasn't much more than a kid. Maybe she was twenty. Then again, maybe she was seventeen. However old she was, she was too young for him. What kinds of hell had she gone through these last three weeks since Fritz's suicide? Steve shuddered at the possibilities. Emily needed someone to look out for her, watch over her, take care of her, like a strict set of parents. Where the hell were her parents? The girl was too young to be out on her own. Robbing houses was not the career ladder most moms and dads would choose for a daughter. "I just don't understand how things get all screwed up," he said, past the lump in his throat. Emily chewed, swallowed, looked up at him from her pizza. "Pardon?" Her party manners made him feel even more like a dirty old man. "The messed up pizza order-they must have a new person working the phones." "Oh..."

Steve got up and poured himself some coffee, pretending not to notice, but not missing how her eyes covetously followed him. Emily needed a caffeine fix; Steve knew the symptoms. He met her eyes. Their gazes linked and held. "Finish the milk first, and then you can have a cup of coffee. Girls your age need calcium." And Emily needed the calories of whole milk or she would never regain that lost weight. He waited until she chugged down the second carton before pouring another cup of coffee. After loading it up with cream and sugar, he carried both mugs to the table and sat back down, content to watch her eat, though he was feeling disgruntled that she hadn't called him on the age remark. He threw that in there deliberately, just to see her reaction. She didn't react. Nor did she volunteer her age. He had to find out her stats soon because even watching her eat was making his dick go hard. "From now on, I provide lunch," he said after a while. If he force-fed her for a couple of weeks, maybe she wouldn't get sick. She looked on the verge of sick now. She wiped her lips with a napkin. "About the free lunch-that's very generous, but no thank you. I couldn't possibly impose." "No imposition," he said, lips quirking at her slip in street-tone. "Frankly, I don't like eating alone. Besides, the quicker we eat lunch, the sooner we can get back to work." Emily liked to work on the car, and so he would use the car as a bribe. She eyed the pizza box from under the brim of her grimy baseball cap. "Do you want that last slice?" "No. Go ahead." She grabbed and gobbled. When was the last time she'd had something hot in her belly? "How about that coffee now?" he asked, blaming the java steam for his misty eyes. At her polite, "Yes. Please," he pushed the dark roasted blend he preferred across the tabletop. Only hers was more cream than caffeine. He didn't approve of young girls drinking coffee. Before Steve could take a gulp from his own cup, high heels grating on the cement floor had him looking up again. Ronnie. If that woman didn't have the worst possible timing... "Who's your little friend, Steve?" his partner asked. Little? Steve's heart sank. So... Ronnie thought Emily was a kid too. But she had to be at least eighteen, didn't she? Anything younger was jailbait...

Feeling like a damned cradle robber, he shuffled to his feet, standing to perform the intros. "This is my new mechanic, Lee Packet." He looked at Emily reassuringly. "Lee, I would like you to meet my business partner, Miss Thomas." Like a schoolgirl, his mechanic jumped out of her seat, hand extended. "How do you do, Miss Thomas?" Ronnie winced. "Ever hear of soap, honey?" Emily looked down at her stained palm. "Oh ... sorry. " She put the offending hand behind her back. "I scrubbed, but oil stains are hard to remove." Over his mechanic's head, Steve shot Ronnie a menacing message. A warning she answered with a toss of her lion's mane and a narrowing of her hazel-green eyes. "That's okay, dear. You needn't apologize." Ronnie turned to him. "You didn't tell me you had hired anyone to help with the car, Steve." "I didn't know I had to." "But you usually tell me everything, lover," Ronnie replied, voice tight. "I must say, I just think it's too cute that your new little ... uh ... helper is a young girl." Young? Steve coughed back his rising discomfort. "Lee's a pro. She could probably teach me a few things." "I don't doubt it," Ronnie said with a saccharine smile. That did it! Ron and he had to get some things straight. Steve spoke directly to his mechanic. "Why don't we quit early today? I need to speak with Miss Thomas. In private. I'll see you tomorrow." Emily politely bobbed her head at Ronnie. "Nice meeting you, Miss Thomas," she said. Grabbing her backpack, she headed for the side door. Before he could stop her, Ronnie hurried after her. "Hold up, dear!" They talked outside the door. Or, Ronnie talked. Emily's mouth wasn't moving. He wished he knew what his partner was laying on his mechanic, but the buzz of the ventilation fan spinning overhead prevented him from eavesdropping. He could tell Ronnie was using her usual shoot-to-kill style because storm clouds had moved over Emily's features. The one-sided conversation concluded with Ronnie giving Emily a dismissive nod. Steve folded his arms over his chest as Ronnie wiggled her hips back across the garage, her high heels setting off sparks on the cement floor with each step. "Well?" he said, and none too happily.

"Well what?" "Don't do coy with me, Ron. What the hell was that about? And do not tell me girl talk." "Oh that! I told your new charity case to come to work suitably dressed tomorrow." Steve shoved his hands in his pockets. It was either that or strangle his partner. "Lee Packet is not my new charity case." "This is me, Ronnie, remember? I know you. You're forever taking in strays, doling out handouts." "I didn't give her a handout. I gave her a job. And where do you get off telling my employee how to dress! This is a garage, not the yacht club. I don't expect her to come to work wearing chiffon and pearls." "Going without underwear is vulgar and distracting and inappropriate in the workplace. You're her employer, she's your employee, and this garage is her place of employment. The hussy needed to be told to strap on a bra." His gut twisted at what had to have been Emily's humiliation. "Tell me you didn't say that to her!" "Someone had to. You never would." "Ronnie, back off. Okay? She's just a kid." "Goodness! Aren't we protective? Better wake up, Steve! Before that ... that gold-digging teenager rakes you over the coals." Teenager? Steve's heart clutched. Then stalled. "She's in trouble, Ron. I'm giving her a way to make some cash. No, gold-digger spends her day working on her back." "Oh, really? I would've said that's exactly how a gold-digger spends her day." "I meant on her back, under a car, working on an engine," he said, his arousal over the image of Emily on her back anywhere filling him with self-disgust. "Make sure the car engine is all she works on. If she gets her grubby hands on you, her fingers will end up in your wallet." "Partner, you've got way too much class for this trash talk." "I'm sorry if I offend your sensibilities, darling, but a man in your position can't be too careful. Who will look after your interests if I don't?" "You're crossing the line here..." "You're a wealthy man, Steve. At least make sure you stock up on condoms. You don't want to be a daddy in nine months."

"Enough!" he roared, because at the age of thirty-eight the thought of fatherhood was surprisingly appealing. Ronnie's mouth gaped. "I don't believe this! You are attracted to her! But she's not your type, darling!" No, Emily was not his type. And that was the only thing Ronnie said that made sense. Once, he'd had the same kind of solid marriage as his parents. Once, he'd had a woman to whom hearth and home and family came first, a relationship where the love was deep and enduring. Once, his wife had more than satisfied the heat in his loins. Once, he thought their happiness would carry them through to old age. It hadn't worked out that way, and Steve knew he just wasn't strong enough to put himself through that kind of grief again. He would never remarry, never have a new wife, never have kids. "A successful man like yourself, Steve, needs a certain kind of woman at his side. A poised lady comfortable in social situations, who possesses the ability to mingle with our extremely wealthy clientele..." "Someone who's as shallow as a Cape Cod cranberry bog during a summer drought." "What? You think your mechanic isn't shallow because she has grease under her fingernails? Don't fool yourself!" He wasn't. But he knew Emily wasn't a gold-digger. He only wished she was! A gold-digger, he could handle. A gold-digger, he understood. He didn't understand Emily. He didn't understand what she was doing here. He didn't understand how a girl like her got herself involved in an art ring. His attraction to Emily threw a wrench in this case, but right or wrong, the attraction was there and it was real. He had to let his partner know, without giving away the real background of his mechanic, that Emily was off limits to her cat claws. "Ronnie, you and I go to restaurants and parties and art gallery openings with each other because it's easier than finding a date. We have fun. We have laughs. We're a habit. We're friends," he stressed. A flicker of hurt sped across his partner's green eyes. Just as quickly, it was covered. "We are friends, Steve, and that's why I won't stand by while some car-fixing slut takes advantage of you!" "Slut, Ron? That girl's no slut. And no one takes advantage of me. You know that." The situation was getting out of hand. He didn't want to dignify Ronnie's comments, but he felt compelled say something in Emily's defense. Now he was stuck in an adversarial position with Ronnie, a woman whose opinion he respected, who had been his partner and friend for years. And why? Because he was sticking up for a girl who, for all he knew, might very well be promiscuous as well as larcenous. On top of that, try as he might, he couldn't stop his disrespectful thoughts about that girl, masturbatory fantasies in which various parts of her anatomy played a prominent role. His daydreams didn't much care about morality or ethics; his cock sure as hell didn't care that Emily might very well be an under-aged thief involved in a case he was working on. In his carnal imaginings, Emily was his... "But I had this whole summer planned!" Ron cut into his wayward musings to grouse. "There's the Miller's yacht party over the Fourth, and the excursion to the Vineyard, and rounds of golf at the club in Hyannis. These are important business contacts for both of us! I'm depending on you to escort me!"

Ronnie's peevishness hid hurt feelings, so Steve trod carefully, lest he hurt her feelings even more. "I'll make some of those dates, but not all of them. I've missed my family. I intend to see a lot of them this summer. And as to our clients, I'm supposed to be on vacation." "I know you, Steve. Family barbecues and movies in Falmouth center on Saturday night will yawn you right out. In a few weeks, you'll be itchin' to get back to your condo in New York City, to all those nights out on the town." Ah, those nights on the town! Talk about a yawn. One superficial conversation on top of another, talking with trendy people about trendy subjects he didn't give two shits about. He loved his job and so he would return to New York-Ronnie was right on that score-but he was tired of glitz. "Why don't you tell me what you have planned for our date tonight?" he asked, feigning interest he didn't feel. As Ronnie animatedly related the agenda of yet another public relations evening, his glazed eyes drifted to the garage door. He hoped Emily was staying someplace safe tonight. He hoped she had something hot to eat. He hoped she didn't get sick. She was so damned pale...

CHAPTER SIX

The next morning, just like the day before, Steve Gallagher waited for her at the garage door. Today, though, it wasn't a coffee cup he held in his hands. "Here. Change into this," he mumbled, and placed something gray and bulky in her arms. Emily smoothed a hand over the rough fabric. "What is it?" "Coveralls. To protect your clothes." "Protect my ... my c-clothes?" she sputtered, following him into the garage. He slammed the door down after them. "That's what I said. Coveralls. To protect your clothes" Was he nuts or clueless? She wore the same stolen black jeans and faded tee-shirt as the day before. What was she supposed to protect? Then, Emily remembered her discussion with Steve's partner. She crossed her arms over the real reasons why Steve Gallagher wanted her to wear a coverall. "Fuck! Miss Thomas must've told you about our conversation." "No, she didn't tell me-I asked. And watch the language." Her boss rubbed the back of his neck. "Ronnie means well. She's just looking out for your welfare. And I think, for all concerned, that overalls aren't such a bad idea. See? I'm wearing 'em."

She took a forward step. "Are you also wearing a bra?" "About that ... don't let Miss Thomas' comments get to you. Try not to take them personally, you know? It's not like I don't know you have ... uh ... breasts." His eyes narrowed on her chest before darting away. Her mouth twisted. "I think we should just get this over with. Right here. Right now. " Bring on the brazen babe act... Reaching for the hem of her tee shirt, she whipped the faded black jersey off over her head. "There!" she said boldly, standing bare-breasted before Steve. "Now wondering how my boobs look won't interfere in our working relationship." "This sort of behavior is not appropriate, young lady. And I don't think I've done anything to deserve it." "Well, boo-hoo. Poor you. Cry me a river, why don't you?" Her bratty behavior was teenage angst at its worst. And she was about to go one step further, carry it to the next repulsive level, when her nipples hardened and she wimped out. She just wanted to die. Still, to cover her embarrassment, she brazenly offered, "Want me to drop the jeans so you can get a look at my cunt too?" Why, Steve Gallagher was actually blushing. That made two of them, though her blush was on the inside where it wouldn't show. To be fair, Steve wasn't a perv. He wasn't ogling her; in fact, at her suggestion to drop her pants, his eyes had lifted swiftly to her face. And not because he didn't want her. He wanted her; a woman could always tell. "Don't use coarse language," he said quietly. "I don't like it." It took all her courage to put modesty aside and place her hands on her hips, hussy-style. "What a prude..." "I'm no prude, but there's no need for a gutter mouth. " "Miss Thomas doesn't approve of you hiring me. Your partner believes I'm after your money. Because I need this job, I didn't say anything. But it got my ass to be called a gold-digger and take it!" "Then, don't take it," he said calmly. "Fuck." She hit her forehead with the heel of her palm with enough force to make her bare boobs bob. "Why the hell didn't I think of that?" "What I say about the language? You drop the 'F' bomb one more time and you'll be looking down the end of a bath size bar of soap. " "Sorry. Didn't realize I was talking to Sister Stephanie here." She brushed a finger over a nipple, flicking a

tiny spot of black tee-shirt fuzz from the hardened end. She couldn't remember her nipples ever getting this hard and huge before. Steve's mouth straightened. When he opened his lips again, he said softly, maybe a little too softly, "If Ronnie puts her nose in your business, tell her to back off. And that goes for me too. If I do something or say something you think is unfair, call me on it. You won't lose your job over a difference of opinion. Just keep in mind that no one will walk over you if you refuse to lie down." "Jeez, didn't I once read that on the back of a teabag?" The already hard lines of Steve's face went to stone. "I'm trying to help you..." Like the belligerent teenager she attempted to portray, she said, "You talk a good game, but I don't believe your bogus rap for a minute. All women get down for men. It's just the way it is. So ... do I drop my jeans or drop to my knees?" Steve went very still. "Keep this up, young lady, and the only dropping you'll do will be over my knees for a spanking." "Hey, I have no problem with foreplay. Whatever does it for you..." "Foreplay." He coughed, his tanned complexion turned ruddy, but his voice never escalated. "Change into that overall. Please." She was here to investigate Steve Gallagher's knowledge of a stolen painting. She wasn't about to go all soft and dreamy-eyed because of a sentimental spiel about self-respect. She wasn't about to be taken in by his brand of kindness. Bad enough her knees turned to jelly whenever she was around him; she wasn't letting him turn her mind to jelly too. She squared her shoulders, ready to do battle. "Get the fuck out of my face, Steven Gallagher." "Change-into-the overall," he said. "And while you're at it, remove the hat so I can see your face when I speak to you." She changed tactics, played it teenage-sweet. "Okay-dokay. Anything you say, boss." Her fingers went to the snap on her jeans. A pull, and the metal fastener popped open. She was yanking the zipper down its tracks when Steve Gallagher went ballistic. "No!" She thought perhaps the gentleman protesteth too much. She smiled. "You don't want it here? Fine. Just give me a minute to get my panties down and you can fuck me wherever and however you like. I bet you're an anal man, huh?" She winked. "I can always tell with a guy. And that's fine with me. It's all good. I give good anal." "You keep your anal in your jeans. Take the coveralls and change up those stairs," he blazed at her. "Don't stroke out over it, sir. You don't want to admit to your dominant side-that's cool. We'll do this your way."

This was only a role she was playing, Emily repeated to herself. She would not give into the urge to cover her chest. Besides, on the French Riviera women wore a lot less than what she wore now. "Be right back," she said teenager-flip, and sashayed bare-breasted away. A shrill whistle caught her up at the top of the stairs. "Hey, Miz Mechanic!" As she opened the door on the landing, she turned back. "Yes?" Steve washed his hands over his face. "Sometimes Ron ... Miss Thomas says things she shouldn't say, hurtful things she doesn't really mean, and I don't want you to feel bad because of them. Underneath, Ronnie has a good heart. The only reason I suggested the overall was to save you some quarters at the Laundromat. I don't care what you wear or what you don't wear to work. All I'm interested in is getting the job done, and getting it done right." He shook his head. "I'm wringing my partner's neck the next time I see her for putting me in this position. Now this discussion is over! Got that?" "Got it," she answered, turning 'round again. Once the door was closed behind her, arms crossed over her naked boobs, she collapsed. Where had she gotten the nerve to do what she had just done? Desperation, she decided, looking around. The loft was large, but it was a bare bones sort of space with the skeleton showing: rough studs and plywood walls and ceiling beams all remained exposed, the attic to the garage unfinished and unfurnished. But yellow ribbons of sunlight streamed in through the skylights in the roof, dressing up the empty shell, lending the storage area promise. Every morning on the way to work, Emily passed a used furniture store. Every morning, she stopped for a minute or two to admire a bed and chair in the window. Those two pieces would transform this unused space into a charming one-room apartment. The brass bed needed polishing, and the over-stuffed upholstery on the chair was a little ratty, but so what? She didn't need much to make a home. Well, maybe a plant to water... Silly daydreams! She had never belonged anywhere... Everyone has a home, somewhere. Everyone has a place to return to. For a lucky few, there was someone special waiting-parents, siblings, a friend ... a lover. Someone to come looking if you weren't back at the expected time and day. No one but state social workers had ever come looking for her. No one, who wasn't paid to, had ever cared if she went missing. If she dropped off the edge of the earth tomorrow, no one would miss her. That was some sad commentary.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The night before, Steve had tossed and turned in the sack. Finally, hours before dawn, he gave up on

trying to sleep, got out of bed and paced the floor, enumerating the sickening possibilities of what could happen to a young woman, alone and desperate and on the run. When he caught sight of Emily making her way up the drive this morning, relief had poured over him. That relief was short-lived. Emily might take off again. Over a goddamned stupid coverall. His reason for wanting her to wear the idiotic thing had nothing to do with Ronnie's catty observations or with him wanting to save her coins washing her ragbag clothes. He had made the suggestion in hopes that by covering her up from chin to ankles Emily would somehow look less beautiful. He needed her to look less beautiful. For the sake of his sanity, she needed to look like a grease-monkey kid. For years, he had lived as a monk, and now a possible teenaged thief was testing his self-control. Where did she get off pulling an outrageous stunt like that? Taking off her tee-shirt in front of him! Asking him if she should drop her pants or drop to her knees! What the hell kind of bratty crap was that? What if he had taken her up on her offer? What would she have done then? Steve blanched. Christ! Suppose ... suppose ... she had let him? Suppose he had let her? That couldn't happen! She was a baby. And he wanted her anyway. Here he was lusting over a young woman he was investigating. Here he was harboring a young woman he might soon be giving up for legal prosecution. He should be jailed. He would be jailed if she were underage. "I took off the cap and the coverall fits," Emily called down to him as she descended the stairs. Steve looked up. No, the coverall did not fit. The hideous thing hung huge on her. And she looked beautiful anyway, especially now that he could see her face. His scheme hadn't worked. Nothing he did seemed to work His throat tightening, his balls hurting, Steve raced for the car; the Dusenberg would play chaperone between Emily and his erection. "Let's get to work," he said over the raised hood. "I can't wait! I thought about this car all night." Finally, a statement falling from her lush mouth he could actually believe! Everything inside him wanted to call her on her previous lack of honesty, to have it out with her, there and then. And he couldn't, because though Emily looked beautiful, it was a transparent, fragile beauty. She was so thin a sea breeze could blow her away. She was not falling sick! He had already stood by helplessly while one young woman sickened and died, and he was fucking not doing it again! He cleared the gruffness from his throat. "We're ready to put the new engine in today. My younger

brother, Greg, is stopping by to give us a hand." Emily angled her chin at him. "What the frig! Giving you a hand is what you're paying me to do!" What part of her routine was an act and what part was the real Emily Parker? Steve wished he knew. It would help clarify a lot. "You're doing a real fine job in the garage, but that engine is too heavy for just the two of us to lift." She dug in her heels. "I don't want you making allowances for me." "I'm not. I expect you to do the same work I do, get smeared with grit and oil, and not complain. You'll get the same two coffee breaks and thirty minutes for lunch, and you'll take the same safety precautions I take. That includes three sets of hands on a motor installation. Now if we understand each other, toss me over that socket wrench." She tossed. He caught. "Thanks." "I was wondering ... uh ... about the Dusenberg ... why the interest?" Uh-oh. Here we go. Emily was getting chummy, nosing around for information. "Cars are a hobby of mine. I drive a re-conditioned 'Vette, and I've always wanted an antique. The price on the Dusenberg was right, and I figured, what the hell? Go for it." Emily's expressive eyes showed such a keen interest that Steve threw her a bone. "As I already told you, I was a guest at Fritz's birthday masquerade party the night he committed suicide. That's where I first saw the car. I was there to locate a hood ornament. An angel..." Emily dropped the screwdriver in her hand. "Sorry," she whispered. Steve bent and retrieved the tool. Returning it to Emily's palm, he continued. "Turned out, Fritz didn't have the angel. He was an interesting guy, and ordinarily, I would've stayed and talked with him about cars during our appointment but there was someone I was anxious to meet afterwards. A blonde in a black cocktail dress. I saw her hurrying out of Fritz's garage looking real upset." Emily swayed. He reached for her elbow, held her upright. "You okay?" "I'm fine," she said, eyes closing. She leaned into him. Not sexually, not as a come-on; like a scared and tired kid in need of support. Emily had rock-bottomed, her weariness taking the bite out of her brittleness. Not even her essential toughness could stiffen her spine now. What was he going to do with her? He thought about Emily all last night. Lustfully. Tenderly. Protectively. To hell with The Cuzin. He was telling her he knew who she really was, so she could just drop the punk act. She was a baby involved in

adult criminology, and she was accepting his help to extricate herself from this jam she was in whether she wanted to or not. As naturally as the sun comes up over Falmouth Harbor in the morning, Steve put his arms around her. "Listen, about the..." "Hey, bro! Who's the hot babe in the grease monkey suit?" Damn! Why did every person in his life have a lousy sense of timing? Moving away from Emily, Steve made the introductions. "Lee Packet, this is my kid brother, Gregory Gallagher." "How do you do?" Emily said. Greg flashed her his puppy dog grin, the one that made all the sweet young things swoon. "I do fine." Steve growled at his too-good-looking-for-his-own-good brother, "About time you got your worthless butt over here." "What the dick! I'm here, ain't I? I wouldn't miss out on working on this fine set of wheels." Steve cast a disapproving frown at his kid brother; Gallagher men were not crude in front of ladies. Greg's expression turned confused. "Huh? Why the look? All I'm saying is that car is one dope-ass sight, bro. You get cool points for buying it." Emily gave Greg a palm-pounding high-five. Greg's face split in a boyish grin. "I'm glad you too can appreciate how fuckin' awesome this car is, Lee-girl." "Enough with the language," older brother warned younger. "Oops." Greg's face turned red. "I apologize, Lee." Emily tilted her head at the two men. "Are you guys ... like from this century?" Greg laughed. "Our parents are kinda strict, and big brother Steve here is a real stickler for gentlemanly decorum." He winked at Emily. "But honestly, gorgeous," he drawled, "had I known you were here, I would've been on time." Though their bodies no longer touched, they stood close enough for Steve to know the exact moment when Emily's muscles went rigid. Strange her tenseness, when less than ten minutes before she had brazenly strutted her stuff. Any experienced woman could see his younger brother was no wolf; Greg had chivalry stamped on his forehead. So why was Emily on guard? Couldn't she tell Greg was all charm, no harm? When Emily moved closer to his side-did she even realize that she had?-Steve stepped in. "Hey, Greg, no flirting with my employee..."

"Who's flirting?" Greg said innocently. "You." "Okay, I'm busted. Sorry, Lee," he said, voice sincere. Then, good-naturedly, "Tell your boss to go easy on me today. I've been up since dawn pulling lobster traps. He's lucky to have my help, regardless of what time I poke my pretty face inside his garage." With a toss of her head, Emily snorted, "Tell this hard-ass anything? I don't think so." Greg's smile broadened. "Hullo! Here's a girl who can make herself understood. Bro, keep this one around." "Oh, I plan to," Steve replied.

****

Two hours later, the new engine was installed in the Dusenberg, and his brother and his mechanic had become fast friends, tight in a way that excluded him. Theirs was the kind of instant rapport that comes of being the same age. Greg and Emily talked the current music scene, with references to pop culture Steve just didn't get. Feeling as old as the Dusenberg, Steve stepped back and admired their joint effort. "That engine is a work of art. A mechanical sculpture. It belongs atop a pedestal in the Guggenheim." "Gugen-whogen?" asked Greg, thumbing the grease from his chin. "It's a contemporary art museum in New York City," Emily supplied off-handedly. "Although I prefer the Impressionist period myself. I practically live at the Isabella Stuart Gardner Museum. It was a tragedy when those five Degas were stolen..." Her animated expression going flat, Emily stopped mid-sentence. Greg's face registered astonishment; Steve hoped his own mug didn't reflect similar surprise. His mechanic sounded curiously mature, not at all like an eighteen year-old kid. "Hey, Miss Righteous Mechanic, how come you know all this high-brow stuff?" Greg asked. After working with Fritz in the art field, and Steve used the word 'working' euphemistically, naturally Emily knew her way around museums, as did he. In 1990, the tall brick walls of the Isabella Stuart Gardner Museum had been scaled, the security breach leading to the disappearance of twelve art pieces, a loss totaling 200 million dollars. Three Rembrandts, a Vermeer, a Manet, and five Degas were snatched. It had been his honor to do some consulting on the frustrating case... Steve said, more to himself than to Emily or Greg, "When a thief steals the work of the Masters all of us are diminished in some way." Emily frowned. "You're interested in art, Steve?" After sending Greg a covert brotherly message, he replied evasively, "I know what I like."

"Speaking of which-how's about I bust us up some jams?" Greg asked, turning on the CD player. "I'm in the mood for some ambient grooves." As the craggy voice of Bono filled the garage, Greg swept Emily into his arms. His kid brother had always been outgoing. High School class president. Valedictorian. He had what it took to succeed in any career. But all Greg had ever wanted to be was a fisherman, just like their old man. Making a living from the sea was a thing of the past! And besides, his brother was as smart as a whip! So Steve had forced college down his brother's throat, financing the tuition, just as he had with his other, less resistant siblings. His folks were proud, but they wanted the best for their kids, and knowing there was no way they could bankroll a college degree, they accepted Steve's help. Greg hadn't seen things quite the same way. For a time, tension had ruined their close bond. Not a major rift, but hurtful all the same. Greg put his big brother on notice that he was a man, not a boy, and once he graduated college, Steve's interference in his life ended. While the happy-go-lucky Greg twirled Emily around the garage floor, Steve realized that, yeah, his baby brother really was a man. And yeah, he was entitled to his own life, entitled to make his own mistakes, entitled to find his own road to happiness... ...so long as that happy road didn't include his current dance partner. Steve tapped his younger sibling on the shoulder. "I'm cutting in." When Greg stepped away, Steve pulled Emily gently into his arms, U2 now crooning a slow romantic ballad in the background. It was tough resisting the urge to crush Emily to him, to hold her loosely while he glided her across the garage's cement floor. "You move like a ballerina." He dropped his jaw to whisper in her ear. "You must've taken years of dance lessons as a kid." "Doesn't every spoiled little princess?" Despite her snappy comeback, Emily looked upset and trying hard not to show it. Another piece of the puzzle fell into place with a clunk, only Steve didn't like the picture those pieces were making. Emily Parker was no spoiled little princess; her background was far from indulged. When the song ended, Steve reluctantly loosened his hold on her. "Thank you for the dance," he said formally, and switched off the CD player. "Let's break for lunch, guys. There's plenty to eat up at the house." Steve turned to his brother. "You're sticking around for a sandwich, right Greg?" "Don't mind if I do. I'm so hungry, even lobster would look good." The two men laughed. "What's so funny?" Emily asked.

Steve explained: "Fishermen and their families don't eat lobster unless times are tough and there's nothing else. Since times are always tough, lobster quickly loses its appeal. Personally, peanut butter and jelly gets my vote over lobster any day." Greg grinned. "How about it, Lee? Can you join us for lunch up at the house?" "No thanks," she said, primly. "I ... I'm watching my figure." "Allow me to do that for you," Greg parlayed. Emily rolled her eyes. "Another time. Okay?" She was sweeping the garage floor when they left.

CHAPTER EIGHT

With the first of many five-percent commissions on re-claimed artwork, Steve had purchased the rambling circa-1875 sea captain's house set on an acre of sandy waterfront. He paid cash, and never once regretted it. His condo in a trendy New York building overlooking Central Park was where he lived, the Boston condo was strictly for entertainment purposes, but the cottage on the Cape owned his heart. The elder Gallagher opened the screen door for the younger. "I'm glad you could stay," Steve said, clapping Greg on the shoulder. "And by the way, thanks for all the help today. We couldn't have managed without you." "As to the thanks-don't mention it. But what's up with hiring the girl mechanic?" "Nothing's up. The girl mechanic happens to be damned good." Greg's dark eyes twinkled. "I just bet she is." Steve threw his younger brother a friendly punch. "Man, I'm not blind. I saw the way you looked at Lee. And she was in your arms when I arrived." Steve ignored the taunt and went to the fridge to hunt down sandwich building material. "Ham and cheese okay?" "Straight up, dog." "I'll take that as an affirmative," Steve said dryly, shutting one side of the double hung door. Greg leaned his elbows back on the granite counter and crossed his high tops at the ankles. "Lee-girl sure is a looker." Steve stepped over the pair of monster-feet on his way to the loaf of bread. "Her looks are not why I

hired her." Untwisting the tie on the plastic bag, he threw eight slices of bread on the board, covering four of them with a quarter inch of ham and Swiss cheese. "Mayo or mustard?" "Mustard. C'mon, man. This is your brother talking. You gotta agree she's fine." "I'm not discussing this, Greg." Steve lathered the tops with mustard, slapped the waiting ham and cheese onto the bottoms and sliced the construction into halves. "Pickles?" "Sweet or sour?" "Sour." "Hold 'em. Sour pickles taste like ass." "You certainly have a way with words..." Chuckling, Greg stroked his Gallagher-lean jaw. "See, now that sort of old-world snobbery is why you don't have a chance in hell of getting to first base with your new employee, not with a young, silver-tongued stud like me around. Lee and me, we're what you call simpatico, being that we're contemps and all." Steve flopped the four sandwiches onto plates. Stepping over his brother's big feet again, he stopped at the fridge for cans of cola. These he tossed to Greg before juggling their lunch and a bag of chips to the table where he took a seat. "Would you cut it out?" "Cut what out, man?" Greg hunkered down on his chair and flipped chips from the bag into his mouth. "You know what." "No, I don't. What? Spell it for me." "Cut the wise-ass posturing, for one. And enough with razzing me about my age, already. I'm not all that old. And for your information, I hired Lee Packet because she knows her stuff, not because I was thinking homeruns. Did you notice how she took charge when we were fumbling around under the hood for the alternator?" "Yeah, I noticed," Greg said around a mouthful of sandwich. "Only I'm not buying you hired her due solely to her mechanical genius. What gives?" "Nothing." "Guess I'll have to charm the real deal out of the lady..." "You keep your charm away from her! Understand?" "I don't know. She's awfully sweet. Nice chassis. A rear end that could compete with J-Lo. The headlights are right up front and high where they should be too. Mmm-mmm-mmm..." "Gregory, don't make me tell Ma on you."

"No! No! Not that!" Greg hid his grin inside his raised can of soda. "I'll behave. Promise. Just don't tell Ma!" He took a long swallow, then crushed the can in his fist. "Speaking of Ma-you're to come to supper next weekend. 'Bring a date', Mrs. G says." Steve grimaced. "Mrs. G always says that." "It's a barbecue. With Ma's famous Buffalo wings. Ribs too. They're my favorite, so you better not screw up. Bring a damned date." "Who you bringing?" "Ronnie," Greg mumbled. Steve peeled the surprise from his voice. "Ronnie." He nodded. "Good. Ma likes Ron. She'll be glad to see her again." "I invited her because you keep saying Ron and you are just friends." Greg's tone was defensive. "We are." "And you don't sleep with her, right?" Steve pointed an oil-stained finger at his brother's nose. "Don't go there." For an outgoing guy, Greg's look was awfully bashful. "I need to know, Steven." At the absence of glib on his brother's face, Steve broke his own firm rule about never discussing his love life, or the lack thereof, with his family. "I've never been involved that way with Ronnie." Greg examined his tightly knotted fingers. "Thanks. That's what I had to hear. The last thing I want to do is move in on territory already staked." His grip loosened. "I like her. A lot." "She's a few years older than you..." "Only a few. Besides, the way I look at it, Ronnie's insecurities actually make her act younger." His brother's sensitivity floored him, and all Steve could say was: "I think you may be right." "I know I am. And I'll tell something else I'm right about-you want Ma off your back, bring a date to the barbecue. You'll put a smile on the cook's face and we won't have to listen to the 'When are you bringing home a nice girl?' speech again." "For the sake of family harmony, maybe I will."

****

After waving off Greg's dented pickup from the kitchen door, Steve fixed a brown bag lunch for his new employee-two hefty sandwiches, an apple and a bunch of cookies. What wouldn't fit in the bag was

crammed into the pockets of his overalls. A quart of ice-cold milk from the fridge in hand, he jogged back to the garage to Emily. "Why aren't you taking a break?" he asked, placing the bag on the table and emptying out his pockets. She didn't look up from pushing the industrial sized broom. "I took a break. Now I'm back to work. You pay by the hour, right?" Steve didn't bother to argue; he went and got her instead. Ungluing her grip from the broom handle, he walked her to the card table where her lunch awaited. "Eat. Drink. Relax." "I told you, I'm watching my figure." "And I told you, lunch comes with the job!" He pressed her into the chair, poured her a glass of the milk. "Chocolate syrup?" She eyed the flavoring like it was her next score. "I'm not a little kid." Debatable point. "Syrup?" he repeated. She licked her lips. "Two squirts. Please." "I like the manners. Keep them up and I may not have to wash out your mouth with that bar of soap after all." With a smirk, Emily picked up the glass and downed the contents. Hunger overruling pride, she unwrapped the sandwich and attacked. When there was nothing left on the plastic wrap but mustard, he reached into the bag and tossed over the second sandwich. "I couldn't possibly," she demurred, her street talk lapsing. "Humor me." She eyed the sandwich, then him. "Turning it down might be construed as rude..." "The very height of impoliteness," he concurred. "Wasteful too. Think of all the starving mechanics in the world." He timed her. The second sandwich was gone in under a minute. Satisfied with the rosy glow in her cheeks, he said, "I can't have a mechanic too weak to lift a wrench. Everyday-you, me, and a bag of sandwiches. Got it?" "Does bullying come naturally to you?" "I pretty much have to work at it."

"I'm so relieved. One doesn't like to believe these character traits are inbred." His grin broke out of captivity. Emily's tough talk kept cutting in and out like static on a cell phone. "I had younger sibs and a working mom. Early on, I got plenty of supervisory practice." Steve reached for his wallet, pulled out some bills, plunked them on the table. "An advance on your pay." She pushed the cash back at him. "Bring me your lunches and I'll eat them, but I won't take money from you 'til payday." No woman had ever before turned him down when he had cash in his hand. He offers cash to a thief, and gets rejected. Something was wrong with this picture. "I think you're in trouble. I know you're scared. I want to know why." "Mr. Gallagher, you have an overactive imagination. I am neither in trouble nor frightened." She rose to her feet. "Could we please get back to work?"

CHAPTER NINE

By week's end, they had a routine going. His mechanic always arrived at the garage first. How she walked up the drive without him seeing her was anybody's guess, but she always managed somehow. They would work together, shoulder to shoulder, all morning, not saying much, and then break for lunch and superficial small talk at noon. Emily never revealed anything about herself during these 'gab sessions' but she pumped him plenty. He fed her a few little tasty tidbits, just to keep her interested, but essentially told her nothing, and wouldn't, not until he knew why she had come to him and what she wanted. Their afternoons were a repeat of the morning. Emily never watched the clock, never seemed in any particular hurry to leave at the end of the day. Swell with him. For sure, he was in no hurry to see her go. On Friday, payday, he handed her a check. "I would prefer cash, please," she said politely. Why hadn't he thought of that?! Checks were hard to cash, left a paper trail; liquidity was much easier for a woman on the run. He opened his wallet, counted out the agreed upon amount. "Thank you," she said, pocketing it without bothering to count the bills. "I can't wait to get started on the installation of that new drive shaft this afternoon." Her eyes lit up, her breath got choppy; she looked and sounded like a woman in sexual heat. It had nothing to do with him. A new drive shaft-oh, the way to a woman's heart... Coming in a distant second to an auto part tickled his funny bone-though, if the truth be known, his own drive shaft could've used some tickling. At any rate, both car repairs and his raging testosterone would

have to wait. It was the end of the workweek and the start of a beautiful Cape Cod weekend and he wanted to play hooky. With Emily. His mechanic could use a little sunshine and sea air. She was too tense. Always looking over her shoulder, watching every word she uttered. The stress couldn't be good for her heart... "We're knocking off early," he told her. Fair brows, that didn't come anywhere close to matching the black shoe-polish tone of her hair, lifted. "Oh?" "Yep. You're my little buddy for the day." "Excuse me?" The scowl she was sending his way looked real, which meant she was steamed, which meant he had gotten under her skin. The ability to read her expression was a huge breakthrough; Emily was one guarded young lady. "I'm on vacation this summer," he explained. "And I thought maybe you and I could hang out. You know, have some fun." Her cute nose wrinkled. "Fun? I'm getting paid to work on your car, not act as your little playmate." Good for her! Emily had her pride. He heartily approved of her putting him in his place. That didn't mean he was staying there. He intended to stick to Emily like glue. Otherwise, he would never find The Cuzin. Or earn his five percent retriever's fee off the top of the appraised value of the painting. Not exactly chump change. Emily was his only lead, and he wasn't about to let her slip through his fingers. "Aw c'mon," he coaxed. "Haven't you heard? All work and no play makes a grease monkey cranky. We deserve some hooky time. Whatd'ya say?" She rubbed a splotch of oil on her wrist. "I don't do hooky." Steve removed his coverall and hung it up on a utility hook on the wall. "Couldn't you use another friend in your life? Can't have too many friends, right?" He didn't wait for an answer. Grabbing her slim hand, he pulled her along after him. "Wait a minute." The rubber soles of her ugly work boots braked on the garage floor. "Where are you taking me?" "Up to the house." "I'm not sleeping with you." He batted his lashes. "Why, I'm positively shocked you would bring up sex so early in our acquaintance."

"Oh, you can tease me all you want." Her chin went stubborn. "But you asked me up to the house and I know what that means. And ... and I think it's only fair to tell you that I'm not having sex with you this afternoon." Steve's long stride stopped. Emily plowed into him. After steadying her, he kept his hands on her slender shoulders and looked down into her not-so composed features. His cock was straight-up and eager, but even if it killed him, he would be mature about this. "Who asked you to sleep with me?" She blushed. "You did! Just now." "I'm sorry you misunderstood. Because I agree with you: I think we should wait too..." "That's not what I said. I never said we should wait!" "Then, you do want to have sex this afternoon? Well, sorry to disappoint, but I really do think today is too soon for us." Her mouth gaped. "I never said..." Emily, for all her gritty street talk, was no dirty street fighter. Unlike him. Steve Gallagher fought dirty and he always fought to win. Giving her a little push, he cajoled, "I've got this great porch overlooking the water. You'll love it." "But I never implied, not in any way, that I would sleep with you, now, tomorrow-ever!" "Relax! All I want to do is drink a nice glass of ice tea and gaze at the ocean. You can just sit there and listen while I do all the talking. You know how men love to talk about themselves. Think of all the interesting information you'll learn about me." Her fair brow quirked. His dark one followed. "So ... what d'ya say?" Emily worried her bottom lip. Then, her lips lifted in a flirty smile. "I would just love to hear all about you, Steve." If his ego needed stroking, her interest would've been flattering. Only, his ego needed no boost. And he wasn't flattered. But he was amused. She wanted him to talk? He would talk until her ears burned, and say nothing. And maybe when she found out how uninteresting he really was, her defenses would lower and he would learn how much she knew about the missing painting. It was worth a shot.

When he held out his hand, she took it. "Now to the story of my spectacular life." He fluttered his lashes some more. "My, wherever shall I start?"

****

"...so, even though my father's great aunt Helen wanted me called George, after her father, in her fifth month of pregnancy, my mother finally decided on naming me Steve, after an unmarried uncle on my father's side. Now my Uncle Steven was the middle son of..." Steve paused in his narrative: "I hope I'm not boring you?" "Not at all," Emily replied, smothering a yawn. "I'm fascinated. Really." Steve's monologue had lasted nearly an hour, and though she was now familiar with every branch of the Gallagher family tree, she had learned absolutely nothing about him. Dark eyes twinkled at her. "All this talking has made me thirsty. I could use that drink of iced tea right about now. How 'bout you?" "Iced tea sounds absolutely wonderful." She jumped out of her chair. "I'll make it!" "Geez, that's so sweet..." This was her chance to get inside Steve's house and do some fast snooping, and she was not letting it slip away. "You stay right here and relax, and I'll carry it back out. While I'm gone, think up some more fascinating anecdotes to tell me about your family." Thankfully, Steve didn't get up. "The kitchen is straight through there," he said, pointing. "Make yourself to home." "It might take a while..." "No hurry. Kettle's on the stove, ice is in the freezer, tea bags are in a blue flowered canister on the counter, glasses are over the sink. The mint is growing in a clay pot on the windowsill." With a lazy grace, he propped his feet up on the seat of the old-fashioned gliding swing she had just vacated. "When you come out, I'll start in where we left off. The story of my mama's ride to the maternity ward in my old man's pickup truck is a real hoot. Wait 'till you hear it! Cracks me up every time. Takes a bit of telling though. But we've got the rest of the day, right?" She backed up to the screen door, hand groping the knob. "Right, but I think I should ... you know ... like go make us that iced tea now. As soon as the screen slapped closed behind her, Emily flew. Inside a homey, knotty pine kitchen that positively oozed Cape Cod charm, she skidded to a stop before the stove, plopped the kettle on the lit burner, and then started checking out the first floor for Steve

Gallagher's office. There was no office on the first floor. Taking the plush carpeted stairs two at a time to the second floor, she quickly located Steve's bedroom at the end of the hall. The door was open, and she stepped inside the large, rather ordinary room. There was a dressing room/bath off to the right, which connected to a smaller room. The site of a future nursery, she suspected, peeking in. Aha! A computer flanked the far corner. Making a beeline for it, she discovered the PC was turned on, and lucky for her, not password protected. Second doubts assailed her. What if Steve caught her? How would she explain going from tea making to computer hacking? Only one excuse came to mind. Whipping the shoelaces from the eyelets of her work boots, she stepped out of them. Next, she removed her heavy socks. Her hands went to her coverall... ...and hesitated. She mustn't weaken now! With trembling fingers, she undid the snaps. If she heard footsteps outside, it would take less than five seconds to exit the computer screen, race through the dressing room to the master suite, and drape herself decoratively over the bed. When Steve appeared at the door, she would tell him she had decided to have sex with him after all. And then what? Emily wouldn't allow herself to think that far ahead. Taking a seat at the desk, she went to Steve's documents and opened them, one by one.

CHAPTER TEN

"There you are!" Twisting on the seat, Emily looked up from her snooping. Steve Gallagher, the man she was investigating for his possible connection to art theft, leaned against the doorframe, hands in pockets. Damn those cushy carpeted stairs! She had never heard him approach. Closing out the document, Emily laughed, said brightly, "Yup, here I am all right!"

"The jig is up," he said. "I know what you've been up to." She blinked. "You do?" "Sure. You got tired of waiting for me and decided on a quick game of solitaire to pass the time?" It was the perfect excuse for being on his PC, and he had unwittingly handed it to her. "Exactly!" Rising from the chair, she undulated her way across the room to the doorway. Scared to death, but vamping it up, she placed her hands on the wide cut of his shoulders. "I thought you would never get here." Lifting to tip toes, she kissed his cheek His eyes hooded. "You should have given me a hint, angel." "Angel," she purred. "How sweet. But most men prefer a she-devil in bed." "I'm not most men." She wouldn't know; she had learned nothing in her snooping and she still knew nothing about him. It was awkward, leading a man to his own bed. Emily couldn't help but look back over her shoulder to make sure he followed her. How uncool was that? Steve was following her, an amused tilt to his lips. She gave him what she hoped passed for a sexy smile in return. At the footboard, Steve took a detour. Going to the nightstand, he pulled a row of foiled packets out of the top drawer and tossed them on the bed. He raised a brow. "Think that will do us?" "For now," she replied, accepting and raising the challenge, while her heart just about exploded in her chest. Under the coverall, she was naked. Well, apart from her panties, the elastic of which was stretched from repeated washings, the bud roses faded to dull orange spots, she was naked. An embarrassed flush suffused her face with warmth. Steve would expect fancy silk lingerie, not faded cotton undies. Wait a minute! Was she really going through with this? Would she really use sex to cover her computer break-in? She had been prepared to lend an air of authenticity to this staged seduction ... up to a hitherto undefined point. That point needed defining now. It was her own moral search, yet she glanced up into Steve Gallagher's face for guidance.

His shuttered gaze offered none. What had she expected? Her boss was a closed book. She hadn't found anything on his PC. She couldn't read his expression. Even when he related the story of his life, he hadn't said a blessed thing. He still wasn't revealing anything about himself. He was watching her, though. Waiting for her to make the first move. She had already kissed him on the cheek. Didn't he know that was the first move? Evidently not. During the peck on his cheek, his hands had remained pocketed. He hadn't touched her, hadn't done anything to take charge. What was she supposed to do now? Get naked and get into bed? Steve was an imposing sight. He was physically powerful, built like a boxer, with those large, rough-looking hands. He stirred her. There was no sense pretending he didn't. But when she thought about that big bed and those big, hard hands stroking down her body, apprehension made her go tense. She had lost her virginity at the age of thirteen. After all these years, she still wasn't completely sure in her own mind exactly what had occurred. Regardless of what had happened or hadn't happened, the result was, she hadn't had sex since. The thought of going to bed with Steve now sent a tingly pleasure from her peaked nipples to her pussy. She wanted Steve, but using sex as an alibi for snooping just wasn't right. She didn't want her second sexual experience to be about one person using another, about one person taking advantage of another. "Steve," she whispered, "about my sleeping with you..." "Didn't I tell you? The girl's nothing but a manipulative gold-digger!" Ronnie Thomas stood at the door.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

His partner, timing as bad as usual, flounced into the room, head and finger both wagging. "My dainty foot your mechanic is in the house making iced tea! This is an ambush! A set-up! Where's the hidden video cam, honey?" "Vid-video cam?" "You heard me. Every slut intent on blackmail needs a few compromising, digitally enhanced porn shots. Where's your equipment? And I'm not talking your female gear either, cuz honey, from what I can see of what you got, it ain't no kind of special." "Calm down, Ron." Steve adroitly placed himself between the two women. A risky place because fat chance his partner was calming down, not when her finger was moving back and forth like a windshield wiper during a flash-flood downpour. "Look at her!" His partner's blood-red fingernail air-stabbed at Emily. "Miss Shameless, spilling out of

that coverall!" "Ronnie! Stop! You don't understand. Let's go outside and I'll explain." "Oh, I understand. And I'm not stopping! You're the one who needs to stop, being such a bleeding heart nice guy. Fire that conniving bitch before I make war on her gold-digger's ass!" Emily backed up to the bed, the back of her knees hitting the frame. "This has nothing to do with you, Miss Thomas," she said quietly. "This is between Steve and myself. I suggest you leave." "Who do you think you are, telling me to leave? You're the one who's leaving." When Ronnie made to move past him, he grabbed her. "That's enough. This isn't how it looks." Except, it was how it looked... Ronnie was wrong about this being a gold-digger's setup for blackmail sex, but his partner was right-on about this being a staged scene. He had caught Emily breaking into his computer files, and, to distract him, she had issued him a clear sexual invitation. The gutsy way Emily handled herself in a tight situation left him both impressed and exasperated. Would she have gone through with it, slept with him, to get what she was after? He wanted her, but not that way. When all was said and done, she was still only a kid trying to play with the big boys. But man, this drama was just too much to take. His wife's death had put his heart through the wringer, squeezed every emotion out of that organ and then hung his tears out to dry. He needed Emily like he needed his veins ripped open. Dammit! She was not his problem! Then Steve looked at Emily's face, really looked at it, and he understood. She had felt cornered. That was the reason she had offered him her body. Sex is the last resort of a woman with nothing left to lose. How could Emily think so little of herself? "It's okay, sweetheart," Steve said, giving her a way out. Again. "Our little secret is out in the open now and we'll just have to make the best of it." Ronnie put her hands on her hips. "What little secret?" Steve ignored his partner. When he lowered his head, all his attention was fixed on Emily. The kiss started off as a brief slide of his lips over hers, a way to get his partner to lay off Emily so he could deal with the little snoop his own way, but when his mouth brushed her mouth, the kiss turned wet and hot and wild. Very, very, private. This, despite their audience, this despite his real concern over Emily's age. His tongue was in Emily's mouth, and his cock was wanting out of his jeans and into her too. The kiss was sublimated sex, a substitution for the real deal. And, apart from the kiss, he wasn't touching her. Too afraid to. His control was pretty nearly shot, and if he touched Emily, he would rip off that ugly overall and throw her on the bed, take her in whatever position she happened to land, regardless that

they weren't alone in the room, regardless that she might very well be eighteen. Or, Christ help him, even younger. To feel her tight wetness clasp around him, his cock driving into her heat, was all he could think about, because man, the lady wasn't faking the kiss. The seduction was staged, but hell, the kiss was the genuine article. After Jen's death, he had gone to bed with too many women not to know when a female's response was an act. This was no performance. This was no act. The woman kissing him back meant business. He could taste the rawness of her passion, her unbridled sexuality. She was liking his mouth on her mouth. Liking it so much, she cradled his cock against her belly, making sweet needful murmurings deep in her throat. She was as lost in the moment as was he; she was not tempering her response, not holding anything back, not keeping something for herself. She was his for the asking. Wasn't this just a fine fucking kettle of fish? Steve broke it off. "No, angel," he whispered, breathing rough but not frantic, still in control. Barely. Eyes closed, she reached for him again. He restrained her wrists. "I said, no." "No?" she said weakly, longingly, her hunger matching his own. "We can't," he said gently, no stranger to frustration himself. "We have company." He motioned to Ronnie. "Ice water, anyone?" Their audience asked, fanning herself. "I could use a pitcher, myself." Steve wrapped an arm around Emily's shoulders-she was shaking. He wasn't any too steady himself. What had just happened? "Uh ... in case you haven't caught on yet, Lee and I are ... uh ... dating." He said pointedly, "That's why, Ron, I specifically asked you to wait downstairs!" "Don't go all angry on me, sugar," Ron coaxed. "How was I to know you two were an item? Please forgive me, Lee, for barging in on you lovebirds and for those hateful things I said. Can we be friends?" "I ... I'd like that," Emily answered. "You're a very loyal person, Ronnie, and I know you were just trying to protect Steve's interests." "Thank you, Lee." Class all the way, his partner held out her hand. After the two females shook on it, Ronnie turned to him. "The reason I dropped by today was to tell you Greg asked me over to your folk's house for a barbecue. And I ... well I've ... decided to accept his invitation." "We'll be there too." Steve squeezed Emily's shoulder, and then propelled his partner out the door before Emily collapsed. Outside, on the back porch, Steve got right to the point. "What's up? This isn't really a social call..." A much-subdued Ronnie said, "No, it's not. I found out some information on Emily Parker. I thought you should take a look at it..."

Steve snapped to full alert. "Oh, yeah? What'd'ya dig up?" "According to my sources, that waif's got no relatives. She's been in and out of state care half her life. The other half she's been on the streets, most likely hustling to make ends meet." Ron took a folder out of the satchel slung over her shoulder and passed it to him. "Here. Read it for yourself. It's all there. The whole bad-girl tale." First thing, Steve checked Emily's DOB. Twenty-two. Young, but not a kid. No need to feel twisted and depraved for having the hots over a teenager. He skimmed the rest of the report. It was bad. Worse than he had expected. Father unknown. Young Emily had cared for her alcoholic mother, not the other way around, until her only parent's early death of cirrhosis. No relatives to take her in. A history of foster home placements that didn't work out ... runaway at thirteen years old. And Ronnie was right: Emily had most likely prostituted to survive. She hadn't been placed in a residential treatment school until she turned fifteen, which meant she had been on the streets for two years. What other way did a young girl have to make money but to sell her body? Ronnie continued: "You'll see if you skim my report that Emily Parker has a juvie record for breaking and entering. She's an expert at busting out and breaking in. No placement could keep her, not until that last school, which was a secure facility. I'm talking keyed-in residential treatment. My opinion is that she could've slipped out of there too, despite the lock-up, if she had wanted to, but there was a reason for her to stay. If that waif is on the run now, Steve, nobody will find her." With a sigh, Steve closed the folder. Everything in the dossier pointed to Emily's involvement in the theft of The Cuzin. What was he supposed to do now, think now? He couldn't condemn her. What the hell did he know about her life, about what she'd been through, what drove her to steal? He'd been fortunate in his parents. The Gallaghers were one big loud and loving family. He'd done a man's work at a young age, but he knew nothing about surviving on the mean streets. He had no clue how she made it from one day to the next. But despite all the shit going down in her life, she had gone to community college on a full scholarship, supporting herself with a variety of odd jobs, graduating with honors in what else but Art History. Then, Fritz had hired her. She must have succumbed to the allure of easy money, and that's why she returned to stealing. There was no other explanation. She had been doing so well, getting herself straight. He wanted to help get her back on the right path. "Ronnie, I want you to drop your investigation into Emily Parker. Here on out, The Cuzin case is all mine." "May I ask why?" Steve carefully weighed his words. "I've decided to work the case from a new angle. Emily Parker will never come up for air if too many people start asking questions about her. Henceforth, this is strictly a one-man operation. Don't worry the percentage. You'll get your cut of the finder's fee when the painting

is found." And with that, Steve left a slack-jawed Ronnie standing on the porch, and walked back inside the house. He wanted Emily. Knowing she was a thief, he wanted her anyway. But he wasn't about to let himself be used. Steve went to the sink, splashed some cold water on his hot face. Once he was cooler, he went over once the precautions he had in place against discovery. His business was protected. In anticipation of Emily making a move, he had removed all relevant information about himself, the nature of his work, and The Cuzin from his computer files. Nor would she find out what he did for a living through normal means, as Gallagher Investigative Services wasn't exactly listed in the Yellow Pages or, for that matter, anywhere else; all his jobs came through very private referrals. Easy to protect his business, harder to protect his heart. Steve climbed the stairs and knocked on the door to his bedroom. At Emily's soft "Come in," he crossed the room to where she stood in front of his bed. Her coverall was still undone to the waist, revealing small white breasts that lifted and fell too rapidly. She didn't try to cover up. Lord, was she still trying to seduce him? Ignoring the need in his loins, he lifted her pretty chin with a finger, forcing her to make eye contact. "You okay?" "I'm fine," she answered, her gaze going to the condoms on the bed. "We're not using those today." He zipped her up to the chin, and then fingered a strand of ragged black hair that feathered her high-cheekbone. Emily had to be in some kind of trouble to butcher her beautiful long hair, to dye it shoe-polish black, and the trouble had to be damned serious. The life or death kind of serious. What the hell had she done? Suddenly, he was glad she had altered her appearance. Hair would grow back. Dye would wash out. Those changes were cosmetic and temporary. Death was permanent, and that's what she faced if Emily thought she could double-deal Fritz's art ring. There was not a doubt in his mind that if the other thieves caught her, the results would be deadly. But why come to him? It had to have something to do with his ten o'clock meeting with Fritz, the one that she had arranged over the phone. Did she think he knew something about the location of The Cuzin? Is that what this was all about? Did she think he was in on the theft? When his knuckles accidentally brushed against Emily's soft skin, Steve felt his dick tighten. He was not unaffected by her closeness, not nearly as in control as he would like to believe. For a dark period in his life, he had slept with a different woman every day of the week, sometimes more than one a day, sometimes more than one at the same time. He wasn't proud of it. He had had some stuff to work

through after his wife's death, and sex had been part of that stuff. Jen's death had done a number on his head. Young and angry, he had taken women indiscriminately, heedlessly. Sex had been his self-medication and his addiction; no different than how some suffering bastards turn to the bottle or dope... He wished there hadn't been so many women, so many meaningless encounters. But he couldn't change his past, any more than Emily could change hers. "I'm sorry about that scene with Ronnie," he said quietly. "She dropped by while I was out on the porch. I told her you were inside making ice tea, and that I would go see what was taking you so long. She followed me up the stairs. I apologize for having unwittingly caused you embarrassment." "It wasn't supposed to happen like this, you know?" she asked, staring at his mouth, leaning towards his mouth. "Not now. Now when I... " The flow of words dried up. "This is not working out the way I planned," she finished. "Can you tell me what those plans are, angel?" She looked away. "No I ... I can't." Drawing her close, he gathered her to his chest. She felt so small and fragile in his arms. Vulnerable, but not innocent; Emily wasn't innocent by a long shot. Not sexually, not legally. He had to face the facts-Emily was a prostitute and a thief. What was worse, he couldn't trust her. She would use him, and then she would take off into the night after getting what she wanted. Emily would break his heart. "It's all right," he soothed. "Maybe you'll tell me some other time." Needing to get away from the bed with the condoms littering the top, needing to get away from the seduction of her soft body, Steve put Emily away from him. "Let's go downstairs now. I'll make us that ice tea." An easy quiet fell between them while they drank their tea, gliding back and forth on the swing, looking at the ocean like neither of them had a care in the world. "Ronnie likes you," Emily finally tossed out for discussion. Not exactly a subject he had expected to chat about this late summer afternoon, not what he would have liked to talk about, but hey, he worked with whatever was at hand. Chuckling, he played along. "Likes me? What's this? High school?" "I'm just curious about you two, is all." Steve sighed. He had met Ronnie in an FBI unit dedicated to the investigation of fraudulent art. When he became disenchanted with the Bureau and walked away, Ronnie came with him. Happily, art investigation is art investigation, and the techniques were fully translatable to the private sector. In short order, he founded Gallagher Investigation Agency. Ronnie and he worked strictly on contract. With a solid reputation established, and with a lot of phony and stolen artwork out there, they now had the freedom to pick and choose their cases, both in Europe and in the States. He couldn't tell Emily any of that...

"Okay. Here's the deal. I ... uh ... like Ron too. As a friend. Now my brother, Greg, that's a different scene altogether. He has it bad for Ronnie. But up until today, she wouldn't give him the time of day. It was only after she saw you in my bedroom that she decided to go with him to my folks' place." "Aha!" She nodded, wisely. "You're playing matchmaker. Do you think it will work?" "I hope so. Ronnie is a great lady, with a great big huge heart. But sometimes, she gets fixated on things she can't have. I'm one of those things. I want to see her happy. And Greg could make her happy-if I removed myself from the equation. Does that sound like I'm being a cocky as ... uh ... butt?" "No. Honest." He wanted more than anything to be honest with her. He couldn't, and so instead, Steve placed Emily's legs up on the swing seat beside him, drew off her unlaced boots, and began absently massaging her feet. He used to do the same thing for his wife. "I kissed you in front of Ronnie for several reasons. One, so there wouldn't be any gossip about us getting back to my family. They would start in with a million questions and that would spoil our time together this summer. Two, I wanted to make it clear to my partner that you hadn't schemed to get me alone in my bedroom so she would stop stalking me like a lion after raw meat. Okay with that so far?" Her lashes dropped. "I'm okay with that. As long as you understand, Steve, that I'm not after your money." "I know you aren't, angel." That would be too easy. He took a deep breath. "Number three: I kissed you because I wanted to kiss you." Her eyes went wide. "You did?" "Yep. And you know something else? My family will love you. When I take you to that barbecue with me as my date, they'll eat you up like cotton candy." "But Steve, we're not dating. That was just a story, something you told Ronnie to save my ... well ... I guess my reputation. I don't want to hurt your parents by pretending to be someone I'm not, someone you would actually see socially." "Who says we would be pretending? Who says I'm not interested in seeing you socially?" "You're rich and I'm only a ... uh ... a mechanic. That speaks for itself." He had to hand it to her; she was good. Emily's face was so serious, so earnest, it was hard to believe that she was putting him on. "I wasn't born wealthy." Far from it. And inside he was the same hungry dock tough who had hauled lobster traps in the morning for his family's business, taken tourists out deep-sea fishing in the afternoon, and tended bar at night in swanky restaurants he couldn't afford to frequent. Yeah, he owned a big house in Falmouth now, a

condo in Boston and one in New York, too, and he dined out at any ritzy restaurant he so desired. These days, he fished for pleasure-or maybe because it was in his blood-from his own cabin cruiser. In a twisted and bizarre way, he owed the tragedy of his wife' death for his success. After Jen died, he had used work as an anesthesia to dull the pain. But no amount of financial gain could make up for the loss of the girl he had loved since he had been old enough to get a hard-on. He still saw nothing but blackness when he thought about his wife's illness. Every time he thought of the unfairness, the injustice of her dying so young, he still got angry. He had yet to work through the rage, and come out on the other side. He was in the dead zone when it came to the loss of his only love... When a boy does a man's work from an early age, when he works the docks, he grows up fast. He was a man at sixteen. But it wasn't until his wedding night that he gave his virginity to his equally virginal bride. Childhood sweethearts, they had made a pact to save themselves for each other. Both of them so damned innocent! And dirt-poor. And young. He had had no prospects beyond fishing off his family's boat. Looking back on it, the poverty hadn't mattered, but leaving Jen alone for weeks at a time while he tried to make a living had mattered a lot. Not that she ever complained. Still, she must have been so lonely... Jen had understood him from the skin in. He had known her the same way. They both wanted the same things out of life. Like having a family. He had loved Jen with every last atom of his body, but his love hadn't been enough to keep her alive when she collapsed one day of a congenital heart abnormality. Jen had been a delicate kid, sickly, her pale thinness and chronic tiredness due to her heart problem. He had always been gentle with her, especially in bed; there had been no marathon, all-night sex binges; no adventurous sex at all with his wife. He had loved her, and they had made gentle love, and that had been enough. If some nights she was too tired for even a gentle lovemaking, and he had needed more than tenderly holding her, he had swallowed that need so as not to hurt his sensitive bride's feelings... It would be easier telling Emily that he was an art investigator than telling her about his wife's abbreviated life. That curve he'd been thrown when he was twenty was a turning point for him, but the impetus for the change, Jen's death, had made him go numb inside. He knew he had nothing to bring to the table in a relationship, nothing to offer. Except sex. And he had learned the hands-on way that meaningless sex was no good either. It only left him feeling emptier than before. And yet ... and yet ... he wanted Emily like some wealthy men want a priceless masterpiece. "Listen, angel-I'm attracted to you. Remember that less than veiled reference of mine about wanting to sleep with you?" "Yes." Steve ran a hand through his crisp hair. "Well, I still do want to sleep with you. But I'm not rushing you into bed." "I'm touched by your nobility," she said, and laughed. Cat and mouse. That's what they were doing. Neither of them admitting to anything. Neither of them talking about the implications of that earth-shattering kiss. Weren't they a cunning pair? "Angel, I know you're on the run..." Her gray eyes went huge. "What on earth gave you that idea?"

He held up a hand. "I know the signs, okay?" he said briefly, so as not to crowd her. "And I'm willing to help, but I'm not willing to be used. You want to talk? I'm here. You want to have some good times? I'm here for that too. You want to use me? Find yourself some other sucker." "Okay." Okay? What the hell kind of a way was that for her to answer? Was she taking him up on his offer or was she planning to pack up her stuff and thumb her way out of town? At least she didn't lie, he supposed. At least she didn't go all-innocent on him; he couldn't have stomached that sort of basic dishonesty. "Steve," she began, head angled to one side, "do you normally bring women whom you see casually, home to meet your parents?" "Hell, no," he said, giving himself away before he realized what he was doing. In those early, post-Jen's-death years, when he had 'dated', most of the women had been on the clock or party girls; he couldn't have brought them home to his folks! He would never disrespect his parents like that... "Don't you see?" she asked, earnestly. "If you bring me home to your folks, they'll get the wrong idea as to your intentions." "My intentions are for some fun in the sun this summer. An affair. A fling. What's wrong with that?" "What's wrong with that is, if you take me to your parents' place, I would have to pretend I'm something I'm not, that we're something we're not. I can't lie like that." "I don't want you to feel uncomfortable. It's just that ... I plan on seeing my family a lot this summer and I would like you to accompany me. I'm close to them. I want to fit in some no-hassle time with them before I return to my job in New York this fall." Emily sat up straighter in the glider. "Your job? In New York?" He scratched his ear. "Yeah. My job. In New York. You didn't think I was a playboy all the time, did you?" He gave the swing a push off with his toe. "Stick with me, angel, and I'll bore you silly with my New York stories." "As long as I wouldn't have to lie about us to your parents, you've got yourself a deal." She stretched out a palm to him. They shook hands on the affair. Then they went quiet again, both content to look out onto the water. The tide was slowly coming in. Easy waves moved across the sandbar. The motion of the ocean when combined with the motion of the swing and his foot massage had a lulling effect on the secretive young woman at his side. Soon, her eyes drifted closed. This could mean only one thing...

Emily was beginning to trust him. Yep, he had the art thief right where he wanted her, Steve thought, his own insomniac's gaze never leaving her face.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The following week, by mutual, but unspoken agreement, neither of them mentioned the kiss. Or their discussion after the kiss. And that was fine with Emily, because she wasn't feeling very proud of herself. She had set Steve up. Oh, not for the reasons Ronnie outlined, but what difference did that make? The end result was the same. She wasn't a mechanic; she was a phony, a nothing, a big fat zero. No, worse than zero. She was a negative number, a foster kid with a juvenile record. What respectable guy would want to bring her home to meet his parents? Was Steve respectable? Caught red-handed while trying to get the goods on him, he hadn't read any nefarious purpose in her being in his bedroom, on his PC. If he were guilty of criminal activity, would he have taken her seduction at face value? Wouldn't he instead have considered her behavior suspicious? Would a criminal have come to her rescue so that his partner wouldn't think badly of her? The way he had rescued her had been nothing less than chivalrous. That kiss! That devastating, gentlemanly kiss. As his hard lips took hers, she forgot they had an audience, forgot she was in his bedroom to spy on him, forgot everything but want, but need. Opening her mouth to him, actually encouraging him to deepen the contact, she had kissed him back, melting into his arms, bringing her body closer to his body, surrendering to her traitorous hormones. Oh God! She had to find out what kind of man Steve was! Going back and forth like this was making her crazy! Was he a wealthy playboy out for a good time, slumming with his mechanic to ease his vacation boredom? Or, was he a devious criminal who might kill her should he learn her true identity? He had made it plain that he was returning to New York at the end of the summer, to his high-powered life in the city, doing whatever he did for a living. What was that? What did he do for a living? She knew all about his pre-teen years, but did she have a clear and concise idea of what his career was? No way! He was remarkably tight-lipped about his business, about anything personal. It was almost as though he was deliberately trying to keep her in the dark about his occupation. He certainly wasn't keeping her in the dark about his plans for her. Steve wanted some summer fun. Translation-sex. Intimacy would certainly provide a means of staying close to him. As of right now, Steve was still her only lead. She had to find out what he knew about The Cuzin! Thanks to her disguise, Steve considered her a runaway kid with some mechanical skills, no threat to him whatsoever. That's what she wanted him to think. As the saying goes, it takes a thief to catch a thief, and if Steve had played a role in art theft, a former thief like herself should be able to find him out. She had no intention of spending the rest of her life running scared, looking over her shoulder. Before she could go to

the cops, she needed solid proof. But could she do it? Could she cold-heartedly sleep with a possible criminal in order to take back her own life? Emily touched her lips. Her mouth seared in memory of their kiss, for all that it had been more tender than bruising. She knew then that if she slept with Steve, there would be nothing cold-hearted about it.

****

"Payday," her boss announced the following Friday. "Thank you." Emily stuffed the cash in her back pocket without counting it; Steve might be a thief, but he would never cheat on her wages. "I can't believe I've been here two weeks already. The time just flew by!" She smiled. "What's up for this afternoon?" "Listen, about that. Greg had an appointment in Wood's Hole, so I promised to pull lobster traps for him. Your workweek is officially over. See you Monday." He turned away. Wiping her hands on a rag, she called: "Need help?" He turned back, his handsome jaw tilted to her. "With the lobsters?" "What else?" "Yeah, actually, I could use an extra set of hands." He looked up at her bashfully. "Know anything about hauling traps?" Her smile broadened. "Not a fuckin' thing." "Watch the mouth," he growled, and then smiled too. "Ever been on a lobster boat?" "Nope." He nodded. "You'll get plenty wet. I'll drive you back to your place to pick up your bathing suit..." "Don't own one." Another nod. "I keep extras for guests. Come up to the house and pick one out." She didn't argue. Trying on bathing suits up at the house offered the perfect excuse to do some more investigating. "Sounds like a plan." It did, at least until she got a load of the suits hanging up in Steve's guestroom closet. All bikinis. With bra cups large enough to accommodate a showgirl and itsy-bitsy sized thong bottoms that couldn't possibly accommodate any normal-sized woman. She, who hadn't worn a bathing suit in years and then only a one-piece, picked out the most modest one she could find. After tying the strings in place, she glanced in the mirror.

And shrieked. Not loud enough to warrant the thunderous rap on the door. "Okay in there?" Steve asked, anxiously. She shook her head at her near naked reflection. "I don't think so." "That does it! I'm coming in." "No! Wait. I'm okay." Cracking the door, she stuck her neck out; her body remained safely inside the room. "See?" "The door looks good on you," Steve offered dryly. Feeling like an idiot, she confided, "The suits are a little revealing." Steve didn't say anything crass. Though, he could've, considering the partial strip tease she had already put on for his benefit. He just nodded again. "Cover-ups are in the next closet over." Slamming the door in his face, she raced for the sliding door. The cover-ups were all lace, all sexy, all black, all shouting horribly expensive. And Steve had a closet filled with them, kept on hand just in case a female guest should happen to require one for the short trip from the house to the pool. What a waste of good money! The decadent life style the black, sexy, expensive cover-ups represented was totally alien to her. She had earned her bargain-store wardrobe through hard work, and up until she figured out why Mr. Fritz had really hired her, she had been proud of her accomplishments. That she was now unemployed, on the run, everything she had worked hard for gone, including her reputation, filled her with a raging resentment. She had never before felt so bitter or so defeated by circumstances. And it was all her own fault. She had been stupid to trust Mr. Fritz, stupid to believe that someone rich like that would place his faith in someone poor like her, would give her a break without looking for something in return. What an idiot! Never again would she trust another wealthy man; she particularly would not trust Steven Gallagher, regardless of that kiss. Going to bed with him to obtain information was one thing; falling for him was something else. Only a fool would fall for a man with a closet filled with sexy black lace cover-ups. Pep talk concluded, she randomly chose one. "I'm ready," she said, stepping out into the hallway. "Lace looks much better than the door," Steve said, and didn't leer at all. "There must have been twenty brand-new, unused suits and cover-ups, tags still attached, hanging in that closet. I guess most of those guests of yours never got around to taking a dunk in the pool, huh?" "Most didn't bother wearing anything." Her mouth opened, closed. "You're not talking about impromptu barbecue gatherings with friends and family, kiddies in tow, for a Sunday afternoon of wholesome pool volleyball are you?"

"No." "Plural female guests?" "That's right." "I see," she replied, tight lipped and disapproving. Steve Gallagher was an attractive man. He was also single and wealthy. Of course, there were women. He most likely kept a well-stocked harem. Promiscuity was contrary to everything she respected. Steve Gallagher had failed to live up to her high standards, and because he didn't pass her litmus test, he dropped a notch in her regard. Too much sex with too many different women didn't make him a thief, but it did make him indiscriminate and over-indulged, and those characteristics sent up her wary radar. "Shall we go?" he asked. "Or do you need more time?" She could've used more time to investigate, but suddenly she didn't want to discover anything more about Steve Gallagher.

****

The afternoon was warm and sunny, and it didn't take Emily long to get her sea legs and forget her real purpose for being with Steve. Anchored in clear view of the coastline, Steve got down to business pulling up wooden traps weighed with ballast. He put her to work sorting and weighing the lobsters that were inside. Re-baiting the traps with herring was easy, but pegging lobster claws was a tricky operation. After trying and failing an embarrassing amount of times, Steve stopped what he was doing to show her how. She had already removed her lace cover-up, as the bell-sleeves kept getting caught in the ropes, and when Steve stepped behind her, she went a little breathless. "You'll need to inhale sometime, angel." "I was thinking that same thing myself," she replied. She did not look over her shoulder at him. Steve may have chuckled then. He wasn't given to much gaiety around her, so she couldn't be absolutely sure... But wait. There it was again. A rumble deep in his chest. A very nice rumble, actually. Warm. Male. An easy-going sound of enjoyment. Steve was considerate with her, infinitely polite, but never was he easy going. He usually seemed tightly wound, on a short rein. He did it again. A freer laugh this time. Must be the surroundings. The water. The old lobster boat. Steve was in his element. Braced for the full impact of a relaxed Steve, Emily gave into temptation and looked over her shoulder.

Dark, crinkled eyes were narrowed on some far-off spot on the horizon. Steve was a natural sailor. "Do you ever miss it?" His jaw tilted to her. "Miss what?" "Fishing. You're not only the son of a fisherman, you fished for a living once too. I can tell." "Long time ago. I was only a kid." "You didn't answer my question," she insisted. "Do you miss it?" "Yeah, I miss it. I loved being out on the water. The freedom. The way you can see almost forever with nothing, no buildings, getting in your way. I loved the stormy seas the best. The way an ordinary man gets to test himself against the forces of nature. But the way of life is dying. And there's no money in it. I needed to make money. I needed to prove that I could make something of myself, that I wasn't just a..." He stopped, restarted. "It's easy to wax nostalgic once you've been away from something for a while. The reality is, fishing is hard work and more often than not, you've got nothing to show for it at the end of the week but more blisters on your hands..." "I like your hands," she interjected. "I noticed them right away when we met. I like that they look like you've worked with them." "I like your hands too, and I don't want the lobsters getting 'em. Hold the pegs like this. Otherwise the claws might pinch your fingers." His muscled arms circled her waist as he showed her how to band the lobster claws together. In a bikini that was more illusion than substance, his heat was as warming as the sun, the realization of her vulnerability to Steve coming as quite a shock. They had kissed in his bedroom and they had danced in his garage. Both times others-Greg and Ronnie, namely-had provided them the safety of an audience. There was no chaperoning presence this time. She was almost naked. He wore swim trunks, no shirt. They were as close as lovers, and there was no one around for miles. The boat shifted, bobbing on a wave, and Steve bumped her. Harmless really, except for the hard ridge of his erection imprinting her nearly bare bottom. She went very still. Lusting after him, but knowing it wasn't right to lust after him, knowing how dangerous a hormonal tumble in bed could be to a woman like her, and not only because of her tenuous situation. "Sorry," he grumbled. "I didn't mean for it to be so obvious." He moved away. "End of lesson. Just be careful." Too late for that particular warning, she decided. Emily picked up a lobster, as Steve had shown her, and finished pegging the claws. Steve was aroused; he didn't try to hide it. She was attracted to him; her lust was also readily apparent. He had to have known when they kissed that she was not averse to having sex with him. But visions of naked ladies swimming in his pool kept dancing in her head, making her wary.

And there was something else too, something else that made her cautious. She suspected there was more to Steve than what was on the surface. There was a rough quality about him, his speech, the way he held himself, the way he moved. Although he had always behaved like a perfect gentleman with her, there was a hard edge to him that nice manners couldn't hide. That hard edge made her apprehensive, even frightened. He might very well be a criminal... Emily reminded herself that she had invited herself on this boat, not the other way around. And though Steve was aroused, he had made no pass at her, even apologizing for a reaction beyond his control. How many men would do that? Not many, proving Steve was no masher. There was no need. With his virile looks, he could get any woman he wanted. Why on earth did he want her? Probably because she had made herself so readily available, proven she was easy, having thrown herself at him in his bedroom. To outdistance herself from that humiliation, Emily got back to work. Not too long later, the lobsters were nicely pegged, and because of Steve's instructions, her hands were unscathed. Not so the rest of her. A gentle touch on her shoulder caused her to flinch. "Ouch," she gasped. "That hurt?" "No ... yes ... some." "You've got dark hair, but a fair complexion. It's an unusual combination, and an invitation for sunburn." At Steve's astute observation she decided some fast-talking was in order. Nothing too inventive as both men and women colored their hair these days. It was the style. A fashion statement. And no big deal. "It's a dye job," she said breezily. "My natural color is an in-between shade, not quite black but deeper than brown. It's sort of mousy, I guess. That's why I decided to dye it, you know, to even out the tone." "Really? Dark brown? Considering your complexion, I would have taken you for a natural blonde." She forced out a laugh. "Is there such a thing? I mean, men often don't know the difference between bottle blond and real blond." "There's one sure way for a man to tell." There was no misunderstanding his meaning. And she was taken aback because Steve was never crude. In fact, she would have called him an old-fashioned man, conscious to the point of absurdity of what he perceived as a lady's refined sensibilities. They worked side by side in the garage, and his fingers were always getting nicked yet he rarely swore. And even when he did, it was only a mild cuss word, after which he generally apologized... She had the distinct feeling she had just been issued a subtle warning, or at the very least, she had been placed on notice-if Steve found out she had lied about something as silly as her real hair color, he would wonder what else she had lied about.

Was Steve onto her? She had walked right into a possible viper's den, thinking she could outwit his venom. Had the viper always known who she was? Had he been toying with her, stringing her along, before striking? When Steve took her hand and started walking in a determined fashion toward the other side of the boat, her fear escalated. Did he mean to throw her overboard? "Where are you taking me?" "Geez, aren't you the suspicious one. I'm only getting the sun block." He removed a small bottle from a built-in medicine cabinet. "Turn around." Faced the other way, she wouldn't be able to keep her eye on him, but what choice did she have but to do as instructed? No choice. She turned. "This lotion will feel cold on your skin," he offered. A cooling glob of gel was squirted on her shoulder. Okay, maybe she had overreacted. Maybe he didn't intend to murder her. Maybe, after all, he was just a wealthy playboy trying to seduce her in an isolated spot out on the ocean where the only escape was a daunting swim to shore. Not exactly the honorable actions of a knight in shining armor, but not the motivations of a criminal either. Maybe Steve was just a spoiled guy out to get what he could... What was she thinking? Her only explanation was that fear and paranoia had taken control of her mind. Seduce? Where was the need for seduction here? She had already agreed to a summer of fun, to an affair, to sex! Steve was simply taking her up on the deal they had already shaken hands on. Hands. Wonderful, soothing, capable hands moved to the tops of her shoulders where they made small, circular sweeps that excited her nerve endings. His palms, slick with the oil, started at her nape and slid down her spine. He paused at the skinny bra fastener in the middle of her back. Foreplay. A well-versed man's sexual technique. She was standing in front of him, practically naked, and burning up too and not entirely from the sun. By the time he undid her bikini, her breasts had started to ache. She crossed her arms over them, over the hardened nipples, finding some relief in the pressure. "I'm a little confused. Is this where I accidentally on purpose drop my top?" "That's entirely up to you." "But you're the expert. The boat. The lotion. The whole big romantic production..." "I've never taken a woman out on a boat with me before. Besides, this is an old lobster tub, not nearly

stylin' enough for romance. If I had wanted to get you in bed on the ocean today, I would have taken you out on my yacht. Now that's comfortable. All I'm out to do is protect your sensitive skin." No sun block ever made could protect her from what she needed protecting from... As Steve's large hands coated her lower back, the urge to give into her own wanton impulses cruelly tempted her. She fought that force within her, pushed it back with all her strength, tried to smother it with reason, with logic, with every bitter lesson that life had ever taught her, including her most recent refresher course with Mr. Fritz. Do not trust anyone! "Trust me, angel. I'm not going to hurt you, and I won't let anyone else hurt you either." God, but she wanted to trust him. She had been on her own for so many years, believing in no one but herself, depending upon no one but herself. She never knew her father, and her alcoholic mother had loved her but hadn't been able to care for her. There were no relatives, and so when her mother died of cirrhosis of the liver, the state had stepped in. Missing her mother, hating living with strangers, she ran away from the foster home placements, becoming one of the many runaways on the streets, a cast off, a throwaway kid, just another statistic flushed down the toilet. And so she had learned to be tough, to look out for Number One-no one was flushing her anywhere. Putting her best interests first was how she had survived. Steve said quietly. "No expectations, no pressure. Let's just have a good time. I'm not jumping you on the sneak, if that's what you think." No, he never would. Steve would never trick her or coerce her into having sex with him; he would make sure her eyes were wide open first. Callused hands, which should have felt hard on her skin, were instead whisper-soft when he turned her around to face him. "I'm not a saint, angel. There was a period in my life where I didn't care much about anything, including myself. I partied pretty hard, and those parties included sex. Lots of sex. To fill the hole inside me." A woman, she thought. Somewhere in his life there had been one woman who had mattered, one woman whom he had loved. The relationship was over, and that's why Steve had a hole inside him. "Have you worked her out of your system?" she asked. "You're just not letting me off the hook here, are you?" He sighed. "I don't know," he said, glumly. "Some days are rough. Other days are rougher." "I'm sorry she hurt you, Steve." "She didn't; circumstances did. Can't get through life without getting hurt," he said with a shrug. "I'm thirty-eight years old and I come with an assortment of dents and bruises." Forgetting her fear ... forgetting her hold on her bathing suit top too ... she turned and touched his face. "Regardless of the hows and whys, I'm sorry for your pain." With an arch of his jaw, he kissed her palm. "And I'm glad you came out with me on the water today. I enjoy your company."

An explicit undercurrent raced back and forth between them, the same kind of expectancy that flooded her senses every time they were together. Hooded eyes surveyed her bared breasts, the thrusting pink nipples of which were perfectly aligned to his tanned chest. "Go topless if you want, but these cuties need protection," he whispered roguishly. Oh, mercy. This was it. Showdown time. This was where he would lay on the charm, put the moves on her. To save her virtue, she could jump over the side and swim for shore. But since she couldn't swim, she would most likely drown before her toes touched down on sand dunes. She didn't want to end up a bloated and half-naked corpse, washed up on somebody's beach blanket, especially since, practically speaking, she had very little virtue left to save. Apart from that, she had agreed to this with a shake of hands. Speaking of hands, she loved his, and when Steve reapplied oil to his palms, she just about came-only an expression that, as she had never actually experienced an orgasm at anyone hands including her own. "May I?" Steve asked She nodded, too aroused to speak. His hands smoothed over her small breasts, coating her cuties, hardened peaks and all. Her flesh was so hungry! In anguish, her thighs clenched against the gnawing sensation inside her. Oh, she needed this! It was surprising how much she needed this. Because of her less than romantic introduction to sex, she had assumed that letting go with a man would prove difficult the second time around. But there no replay in her mind of the loss of her virginity, no uncertainty about what this was. Because this was Steve. He fed her need, but he didn't seduce. He teased her sexually, but he didn't trick. He had been upfront about wanting some fun, about being in the market for a no-hard-feelings-at the-end, summer affair. There was honesty in that. And realistically, temporary was all she had to offer too. And wasn't it nice, she thought with a sigh, that she was reaping the rewards of his vast sexual experience, for cars were so obviously not Steve's only passion! If he was knowledgeable of auto bodies, he was a connoisseur when it came to the working of female bodies. As he rubbed sunscreen onto her tummy, a finger dipping into her bellybutton, Emily realized she wanted his hand lower, between her thighs lower; suddenly, she wanted his fingers inside her. So he frolicked with naked women in his pool and so she didn't approve-they weren't talking love here; they were about lust. Flinging her arms over Steve's wide shoulders, she went for it, giving into her need.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Ordinarily, a close encounter with a set of cuties didn't turn him into a crazed animal, so Steve figured he could handle bringing Emily closer, just close enough so that the tips of her breasts brushed his bare chest when she exhaled. Now that her distended nipples actually grazed his pecs, he realized his mistake. He

was playing with fire, and no way could he handle the heat of Emily. She was burning him up, setting him ablaze. A pained growl rose in Steve's throat. Like he was some wild hairy beast, the mating instinct held him in its grip. Was it because it had been too long, because during his sexual abstinence he had forgotten the unique lushness, the soft silkiness that was woman? Or, did it go deeper? Whatever the cause, the reason, the justification he gave himself, his hard-on wasn't going away. Pain wracked him, almost brought him to his knees. Was this the fun in the sun he had outlined for Emily? This didn't feel like a good time to him. Already semi-erect-his condition for days-his cock now lanced against her belly and his aching balls, hung low and swollen, sought the comfort of her cleft. Not being inside her hurt. But the pain of holding her close-but not nearly close enough-wasn't enough to keep him away. Like a masochist loves the whip, two hands tightening at her waist, he brought her nearer still. "Shall I take off the thong?" she asked breathlessly. "It's up to you," Steve replied, jaw tense, teeth gritted, fingers kneading her mostly exposed rump. He hadn't planned on this happening, hadn't even really wanted this to happen, not on a lobster boat. But plainly, Emily needed some sweet loving. Something had to be done. Years before he had walked away from sex and never looked back but he couldn't walk away from Emily now, because with her, it wasn't about taking, it was about giving. He wanted to give her everything. "It is up to me, Big Boy," she said, and lowered the bottom of her bikini to the deck. It was a good quip, delivered with just the right amount of punk attitude. But the witty remark didn't wash with him. Emily was about to let him inside her body but she might just as well have been wearing a suit of armor for all the intimacy she allowed. Cleverness could only mask so much. He saw through her defenses, and what he saw was everything he had never been exposed to. It made him sick what he saw, and still he couldn't back off and run like hell before he got too involved; too late for that, he was already involved. Keeping his gaze fixed on her gray eyes, he slid his hand down between her legs, to that most private area of a woman's body. And met smooth skin. "No pubic hair," said keeping all inflection from his voice. "Any reason why?" He whispered the question in her ear, his lips nuzzling the lobe. "Just like a man. Bitchin' already, and we haven't even fucked." "I'm not complaining," he answered, keeping his voice mild. "Some types get off on it," she said, her tone tough and belligerent, her fragile hands knotted around his neck. "Some guys like the ingénue look. You know, so they can do the daddy routine. Dole out spankings along with the lollypops. You gonna spank my bottom, Stevie? Or do you just want me to lick your lollypop?"

"Neither." His color rose. "And I don't go for young girls." "Oh, no?" She gave a toss to her black hair. "If you say so..." "Early twenties is as young as I go, and even that is pushing propriety. " "Propriety. Now there's a dated idea! But I bet you like seeing everything at once, don't you? Since my cunt is bald, there won't be any surprises. I don't think you're the sort who likes surprises. What's your pleasure? You want me to jerk you off with my hand? Or do you want me to go down on you? You said you wanted sex-does giving head count as sex anymore?" He wasn't anybody's idea of a maiden aunt, and what was spewing forth from her mouth wasn't anything he hadn't heard a million times before, or said the same amount of times himself, but he talked gutter strictly with the guys. Or to himself. Never in polite company. The garbage she was spewing forth made him sick to his stomach because he didn't think it was totally an act. Some, yeah. Not all. Deep down, Emily was angry. He knew how that went. His wife's death had angered him pretty good. But he was a male, raised on the docks, and his rage didn't seem quite so obscene. He would do anything to take her anger away, to soothe her hurt, to make it all better. Sex on a fish-stinking lobster boat was not going to cut it. Emily needed a leisured loving, not a fast fuck. "There's no reason to talk street with me. You're safe, okay? And as to my pleasure ... well ... my pleasure is to make you scream." Her gaze dipped to the decent-sized bulge in his denim shorts. "You think you can?" Good thing at thirty-eight he had been around the block a few times or he would've been deeply offended. "I know I can. But pleasuring you is all I intend to do. Nothing more. Does the thought of pleasure scare you, angel?" Sad gray eyes darted over the side. Christ! Was she thinking about throwing herself overboard? Did a woman on the run since childhood know how to swim? His heart pounded as adrenaline pumped. Had he misread the signs? Did she want this or not? "I'm up for it," she answered. "Spell it out, angel, so I'll know. Tell me what you're up for." Her look was fierce; her voice was strident, militant, not giving an inch. "I need sex, Steve." Not him-sex. "Then open your legs and I'll give you what you need," he said quietly. Emily spread her thighs, her breasts moving shallowly as she tried to control her breathing. Never had he come across anyone as determined as Emily to put on a show of bravado. He wished she understood there was no reason to act when she was with him.

He felt Emily's wince when he slipped an oiled finger up inside her. She wasn't a virgin. Neither was she a hustler; her vagina, as dry as the sea is wet, protested his careful entry. A one finger digital penetration was almost too much. Two would have caused her discomfort. He concentrated on romancing her clit. "Just relax, angel." To get her to do that, he took her mouth, courting her lips until they opened for him and his tongue was inside. After almost losing it in his bedroom, with an audience no less, he had to stay cool. One of them had to maintain control, stay rational. Tough to do, because when Emily kissed, she kissed with everything she had. And just like before, the kiss was no act. She was purring, pulling him closer, generally making him want to forget everything but sinking into her. Emily was now slick, dripping with excitement, a reservoir of wet heat. But, unaccountably, her legs had also started to close. Why did she resist what he offered? He broke the kiss, pulling away from her clinging mouth. "No, angel. Keep your legs apart." Steadying her with one hand, his other hand still on her slit, he hooked a toe to a crate and dragged it over. "Your foot goes up on top of this." She hesitated. "With your foot raised, your pussy will be wide open," he explained, his language frank and honest. "If that makes you uncomfortable, we'll stop right now..." "I don't want to stop," she said. Her small breasts shifting, the little bounce driving him closer and closer to the edge of control, she raised her leg, placing her foot high atop the crate. Her pretty pink flesh, moist and pouty, was so open he could see drops of dew dotting the folds, and his confidence nose-dived. He didn't know if he had enough restraint to give her what she needed, because never had he wanted a woman as badly as he wanted this woman. Sucking up his own desperation, he gave himself over to pleasuring Emily. And learned the concept of pleasure was not hardwired the same way in her head as it was in her body. Her body was on an all-systems go, and in a big way. But, man, her brain was on an all-alert shut down; she fought the climax, tooth and nail. Until it started to happen. Then her body took over. He could feel the exact moment her inhibitions let go. Writhing and whimpering, she flung her arms around his neck in a chokehold. "Steve!" she said, squirming, her pelvis lifting to accept deeper strokes. "Steve!" "Shh," he crooned. "It's all right, angel. I'm here. You're safe. I swear, I'll never hurt you or let anyone else hurt you. You can trust me." Emily was a screamer, which was the kind of standing 'O' a man could definitely appreciate. Afterwards, all embarrassed by her outburst, she hid her face in his shoulder.

"No one heard," he reassured her. "We're out on the water." He cuddled his lost angel in his arms, her body all soft and sweet, tears of release puddling his chest as her tension gave way. But when he picked up the scent of her musk clinging to his wet fingertips, liking that perfume just a little too much for his peace of mind, he put her away from him. Scooping her fallen bikini from the deck, he handed both tiny pieces to her. "Better put this back on," he said, turning his back, busying himself with the lobster traps while she got herself together, his eyes on the water, manfully resisting the urge to swim for shore. He had it bad and this was not good.

****

With two weeks worth of pay burning a hole in the back pocket of her faded black jeans, Emily walked to town, a good forty-five minute trip on foot along a narrow and winding two-lane road. No sidewalks. But plenty of speeding tourists searching for the perfect Cape Cod 'ye olde gift shoppe.' Steve, a native Cape Codder, shook his head over those vacationers, telling her that real Cape people-year-'rounders like his parents-didn't venture out on the weekend, even to go food shopping, because of the traffic congestion. As Emily kept well to the side, it did seem to her that cars drove awfully fast, considering the sharp twists and curves in the road. According to Steve, the same vacationers who drove so recklessly were also responsible for jacking up the cost of rental units, to the degree that folks who worked on the Cape, especially in service industries, could no longer afford to live on the Cape. Emily was one of those unfortunates. Steve paid her an excellent wage, but after looking at real estate ads in the local paper, she had given up on the idea of finding affordable housing. Even a room in a boardinghouse was well beyond her means, what with a security deposit and one-month's rent in advance. That's if she could even find a place at all; summer was peak tourist season and accommodations were scarce to non-existent. So ... rather than hope for a housing miracle, she decided to spend a little money she had saved for housing she most likely wouldn't find or afford and treat herself to a new outfit for Steve's family barbecue. Something nice, but not so nice that it would wreck her budget; there was still a locket in a Boston pawnshop waiting for her to rescue. The antique piece of jewelry was her last connection to Mr. Fritz, and she was determined to get it back. Even a present from a man out to use her had sentimental meaning for her. There it was, pathetic, but true. After deducting the cost of a round-trip bus fare to Boston, food and miscellaneous necessities, by her calculations she had enough money to claim the pawn ticket with an extra forty dollars left over to spend-if she gave up on the idea of housing. A fortune! In a small consignment store on Main Street, Emily smiled at the elderly lady at the register as she headed for the rack of dresses along the back wall, flipping through the hangers for something pretty and affordable. In no time at all, she had selected a summery cotton sundress in a lovely shave of lavender, just right for a family barbecue. Steve wore lots of pastel colors-would he like her in this soft shade of purple? She rarely wore dresses, but she sensed that Steve liked feminine women, and she wanted to please

him... He had certainly pleased her. Strange, that he hadn't pressured her for sex on the lobster boat. Sex was all a man wanted from a woman, and Steve had been clear that sex was all he wanted from her. And she had shown she was willing. More than willing. She had whipped off her bikini quickly enough. She had come fast enough too. She had wanted to reciprocate, but he wouldn't let her... After purchasing the dress she hoped would please Steve, she headed for the Cape Cod Bargaineer where she soon discovered, after sifting through the half-price lingerie bins, that on her tight budget she couldn't afford even the marked down bargains. She needed a slip, a bra, panties, and shoes, but couldn't afford all four items. Providing she didn't jump around a lot, she supposed she could go braless a little while longer; the lavender dress was one of those gauzy, flowing numbers in fashion a few summers back and not at all clingy. If she didn't stand with the sun at her back, no one should see through it, so she supposed she could nix the slip too. And she still had her faded rose panties; she would just to continue to wash them out every night. Shoes, however, were an absolute necessity; her old work boots would look clunky with the dress. But regular shoes were not an option, not even the cheap ones. In the bathing suit department, she found a pair of rubber beach flip-flops-purple to go with the dress. Overjoyed with her discovery, she paid for them, and with shopping bag under her arm, started the long walk back to the garage. She was scheduled to work at noon that day. Her back to the traffic flow, daydreaming about the pretty lavender dress ... and Steve ... she didn't hear the oncoming car until it was right on top of her. As the tires squealed, her reflexes kicked in, and she dove, headfirst, onto the soft sandy shoulder, rolling down the slope into an off-road ditch. Facedown in a puddle off run-off water, she never even caught a glimpse of the speeding car that had come within inches of hitting her.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Scowling, Steve paced the white clamshell drive out in front of the garage. Emily was late for work, and she was never late for work. Had she taken off? Decided to split after what had happened on the lobster boat? She had been real quiet on their return to shore. He didn't push. Without her having to tell him, he understood the reason for her silence; Emily had never gotten off before. A thing like that meant something to a woman. To a man too. At least, it did to him. He had never made it happen for Jen. Shy about sex, fragile too, and with him an inexperienced lover gone from home much of the time, there hadn't been much experimentation to find out what would do it for her. He had never made his wife scream as he had made Emily scream. No! He wouldn't think about his wife now. Not in the same context with a thief and a liar and a woman

who liked sex. Emily had liked it. He knew damned well that she had. But maybe liking it with him was not part of her plans. It wasn't exactly on his itinerary either. Yesterday just sort of happened. He didn't set out to get Emily naked. His intention had never been to use sex to get inside her brain about The Cuzin. But as Steve paced his driveway, he admitted to himself that he had hoped good sex might get Emily to stick around, to tie her to him. And pleasuring her was no chore. Emily was one lusty lady. Receptive. Responsive. Adventurous. Steve grinned in memory. Emily, naked under the sky, out on the water, had been a major turn on. Her spontaneity, her lack of guile and inhibitions had excited him. Fucking her would be something else. And his anticipation had nothing to do with it being too long for him. When Steve finally spied Emily walking up the lane, he pulled on his laid-back posturing and stayed put right where he was. He would not race to her, not indicate in any way just how frantic he had been over her. Nothing would drive her away faster. "What's up?" he asked easily. "Pardon?" she asked in return, her clamshell-crunching work boots eating up the distance between them. He didn't touch her. Too tense. Too scared. Too worried she would bolt. "You always beat me to the garage," he explained. "Today, you're late. I thought maybe you were playing hooky." "I'm sorry. Something came up." " 'Something came up' is not an excuse!" The stress was getting to him and he was losing it. "I told you, work starts at noon today and it's after one o'clock." "And I told you, something came up!" "It isn't like you to be late." "So dock my pay if you're pissed." She dropped the bag she was holding. "Listen, having your hand on my twat doesn't give you any rights over me." His mouth opened, snapped closed, opened again. "You keep up the dirty street talk and I'll haul you over my knee and spank some manners into you." "Yeah, and you would like that, wouldn't you?" "Yes, I would. And so would you. You could use some discipline, and guaranteed, you would enjoy mine." Waves of molten arousal rolled over him, unspeakably primitive S&M fantasies setting his teeth on edge. After his wife's death, he got into the BDSM scene and quickly discovered that sexual domination came naturally to him; mastery was part of his temperament. It was just the way it was. He never insisted on D/S sex, unless the woman needed dominance to come. Some women did. Then, he would happily

oblige. Sure as hell, this succulent piece needed someone to take charge of her, someone to master her, someone to keep her from her larcenous ways. Better he keep Emily in line than the state's judicial system... "Now on, I pick you up at your place." "No!" At her defiance, the frown he had kept at bay broke across Steve's face. He was at the end of his patience with her. "Listen..." he began. Then stopped. Emily's black jeans, the same ones she wore everyday, were wet and mud splattered. A rip slashed the pant leg. "What the hell happened to you?" he roared, his laid-back posturing a thing of the past. "I went shopping in town and I ... I fell on the walk back." "You fell?" Anchoring his hands on her shoulders, he turned her around. "You've got mud all over you, shoulders to ankles, and it's not from any fall! What really happened to you?" "I tripped over my own two feet. When I fell, I rolled in some mud. Clumsy, huh?" "You're never clumsy. You're the most graceful woman I've ever seen." "Well, thanks for the compliment but that's what happened." She patted some dried mud from her rear end, her fingers brushing her back pocket, brushing her pocket again, wildly brushing her pocket. What was up with her pocket? Suddenly, Emily clutched at her middle. Steve grabbed her before she toppled. "Are you hurt?" "J-just a l-little s-s-shaken." Her perfect white teeth violently chattered. "I c-could use a bath." She plucked at the ripped denim over her knee. "And a needle and thread. My jeans need to be s-sewn." "I can scrounge one up. I'll throw your things in the washer while you're in the tub up at the house. How's that?" "Thank you," she said weakly. "Don't mention it." He tucked her into his side. "C'mon. You'll feel better after you soak." One step, and Emily covered her mouth. Pushing away from him, she raced for the back of the garage. Steve went after her, finding her doubled over the bushes. "Dry heaves are the worst," he said, coming up behind her and supporting her once more. "It's always better to have something in your belly to upchuck than to vomit nothing but fear." When she was done gagging, he wiped her mouth with the corner of his loose shirt. "Feeling better now?"

Moaning, she shook her head; a tear rolled down her face. Without saying another word, Steve picked Emily up in his arms and carried her up the clamshell driveway to the house, to his second-floor bedroom. Guessing his destination, she lifted her lolled head. "I'm filthy, Steve. Don't put me in the bed-the clean sheets." "Fu-get the sheets." He kept walking to the bed. This brought on another siege of weepiness. Giving in, he took her to the connecting bath, dropped the toilet lid and sat her down on top. "After your bath, it's the bed for you. No arguments." Swearing under his breath because he felt so damned useless, he turned on the faucet in the tub. While that ran hot, he went to the sink, turned on the cold tap and wet a washcloth. "Still nauseous?" he asked, wiping her pale face. "A little. It comes and goes." "Need help getting undressed?" Another dejected head shake. "I can manage on my own." "Call if you can't," he said, and left her there slouched on the commode. He gave Emily thirty minutes to soak her muscles in the hot tub before knocking on the door. "I'm coming in," he called. "Oh, no, you're not! I'm taking a bath!" "So?" "So? So I'm n-n-naked," she sputtered. "Figured as much," he said, happy to hear the fight back in her voice, and turned the knob. The door was unlocked, which meant she trusted him-at least enough not to lock herself inside. Ignoring her scowl, Steve ambled to the medicine cabinet and removed the First-Aid Kit. Giving her time to adjust to having her privacy invaded, he delayed the inevitable confrontation. When he eventually walked back to the tub, he smiled into her flushed face. "My, isn't this cozy?" Knees bent up, Emily held a washcloth modestly to her chest. Her rigid posture told him she was hurting. "Any difficulty breathing?" he asked, getting down to business straightaway. "No. Now get the hell out." "Any sharp pain anywhere?" "Yeah, my ass," she grumbled. "As soon as the door slams behind yours, it'll be gone. Now if you'll

excuse me..." "Why? You going somewhere?" He moved in for a closer look. "There's a lot of bruising on your back." He dropped to his knees next to the tub. "Is it just your left arm and knee, or are your ribs aching too?" "How did you know about my arm?" she snapped. "You're favoring it. Also, you winced just now when you crooked your elbow to pitch the bar of soap at me. When you thought better of it, that told me your ribs might be involved." "It's only a bruise on my arm and a cut on my knee. There's nothing wrong with my ribs. I didn't throw the soap because on second thought it seemed rather juvenile." "Glad to hear we're being mature about this." He reached for her. "I'll help you stand." "I'm not standing up, naked, in this tub while you're here!" He had a feeling she would say that, so he had his argument already prepared. "I saw you naked on the boat," he said reasonably, patiently, thinking she looked real cute when her temper was spiking, but knowing enough to keep his mouth shut about that. "This is different. I looked hot on the boat. I'm not looking so hot now." "Angel, you're so hot the bath water is sending up steam." She glared at him. He tried to trick her out. "How's this? I'll shut my eyes and just feel around for injuries." "No fuckin' way!" "Stop with the language," he warned and leaned forward, his intention to lift her under the arms. She squealed, wet body squirming, face turning bright pink. The blush stunned him-who knew tough-cookie Emily could blush? He shifted into bluff mode. "Fine. I'll take you to the hospital for x-rays." "No hospital! I can't go to an emergency room! I told you, I'm a little bruised, that's all." Emily didn't want any record-keeping done on her. "All I want to do is make sure your ribs are okay, angel. You're yelling at me like a fishwife, so you're obviously not having any difficulty breathing. That's an excellent sign, but I need to make sure you don't need a doctor." He backed off. Emily was wearing that cornered look again. If he rushed her, and she fought him, an abrupt move might make her injuries worse. "Can you stand up by yourself?"

Her bottom lip trembled. "No." A tear rolled down her face. "I tried before you barged in on me but I was too stiff." "What was your game plan? Staying in the tub 'till you pruned?" he asked as he picked her up in his arms. After setting her feet on the bathroom's tile floor, he checked her out. "It looks worse than it is," she told him. "I sure hope so." She had to be sore as hell. Purple and yellow ribbons decorated her back like the grandstands at a high school pep rally. But he couldn't see any breaks in the skin, except at her knee. He placed the ice pack he'd brought with him around her arm to reduce the swelling and fastened the velcro to keep it in place. Then, hunkering down in front of her, he examined the cut on her knee. It wasn't too bad. Not serious, anyway. After painting the abrasion with a little antiseptic, he straightened up. Keeping it matter-of-fact, he felt her ribs. "No ballroom dancing for a while." "Do not make me laugh, dickhead." Chuckling, he probed for give in the bones. "Any discomfort?" "N-no." She paused. "How do you know how to do this? What to look for?" "I was in the service." And because of additional medical training received while in the FBI, he could tell her injuries weren't from any simple fall. Emily wasn't coming clean with him. So, what else was new? "Is there anything else you need to tell me about your fall?" he coaxed. "There's nothing more to tell. I tripped over my own two feet." Yeah, right. Defeated, Steve reached for his robe kept behind the door, put it around her, then stooped to pick up her clothes. The jeans and jersey were ripped and filthy. The thought of her wearing them again was almost unbearable. He wanted to buy her pretty clothes, keep her safe, take care of her, and if he opened his mouth and told her so, she would be off and running. He helped her to his bed. "I need to go out. While I'm gone, take a nap." "What about work?" He gave her the evil eye.

"Fine," she snipped, and faced away. "No work. I'll make up the time tomorrow." "Tomorrow is Sunday. I don't work on Sunday." "They're only bruises, Steve. I'll be up to it." "No work 'till Monday. You need bed rest." "When you suggested us having summer fun, bet you didn't mean playing doctor, did you?" "Actually, apart from your bumps and bruises, I haven't had this much fun in years." Turning on his heel, he left his bedroom, closing the door softly behind him. He didn't want to leave Emily alone, but time was of the essence. Evidence disappears with each tick of the clock, especially evidence left out of doors. If he didn't retrace her steps to Falmouth center right away, he might as well forget finding anything. After throwing the pile of pitiful clothes in the washer, Steve walked to town, following the same route Emily must have taken, scouring every inch of road and coming up empty. Upon returning home, first thing Steve did was check his patient. His bedroom was empty, the made-up bed vacant, his robe neatly folded on a chair. He raced for the laundry room. No clothes. Raking his hands through his buzzed hair, Steve slumped against the wall. Emily was gone.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Emily fought down panic. Her cash was gone. She had first noticed her pocket's flatness at Steve's garage. The folded envelope must have fallen out somewhere on her way back from town, maybe when she tumbled down the embankment into the muddy ditch. All the money she had in the world, lost. She could have lost so much more, like her life, for instance. Her stomach clutched again at the memory of how narrowly she had avoided becoming a hit and run fatality.

Arms wrapped around her middle, she tried to stop the shakes. If she hadn't heard the tires squealing in the sand, she might very well be an unclaimed Jane Doe lying in the morgue right now. Instead, she was here. Hurting, but all in one piece. For that she was thankful... But what would she do now that she was destitute? Her hip throbbing, Emily climbed the stairs to the loft over the garage slowly. She would need to rest for the remainder of the weekend to be fit for work Monday morning. It could be worse. At least she had someplace to recuperate... She hadn't meant to take up residency over Steve's garage. Squatting in the loft happened accidentally. One day, Steve told her she could use the sink upstairs to wash up in rather than make do with the tiny sink downstairs in the garage. Up to her elbows in crank oil, she had gratefully accepted the offer. Then, one morning, after having slept out on the dunes the night before and nearly desperate to remove the salt and sand that clung to her hair before starting work, she had made use of the loft's shower. When hot water poured down from the showerhead, she had blubbered like a baby. It felt so wonderful being clean! Like an addict, she couldn't give up the hot water and soap. Thereafter, at every available opportunity-usually when Steve told her he would be gone from the garage for an extended period of time-she would strip off and hop under the spray. One night, it had started to rain. In torrents. Miserable out on the dunes in her wet sleeping bag, she rolled all her gear into a sodden lump and snuck back inside the garage-Steve never bothered to lock the side door. After showering and washing her clothes, she just couldn't force herself to trudge back outside again and face the storm. She had fallen asleep on the loft's plywood floor. No bedding, as her sopping sleeping bag was hung up to dry from the rafters. Even with nothing but hard wood underneath her, it was the best sleep she'd had in weeks. She pretended the loft belonged to her. She knew it was wrong, almost like stealing, but caught up in the fantasy, she had returned to the garage the next night. And the night after that, hiding her sleeping bag in a corner under the eaves each morning, promising herself she would leave after just one more night... Eventually, she had stopped lying to herself and started weaving plans for redecorating her new digs. The brass bed and chair she coveted at a furniture consignment store would go in the middle of the huge space to make it seem less empty, she decided. A trunk for her clothes would go at the foot of the bed. Inexpensive throw rugs would decorate the rough plywood floors. The garage downstairs had electricity, but the loft wasn't wired, so she could forget about lamps. She would miss reading at night, but it was just as well as Steve might look over and see a light... So many plans! Her lack of money prevented her from carrying through on her redecorating, but the loft still provided all the basic creature comforts. She made use of the table and chairs and hotplate downstairs in the garage, while upstairs, the floor served as her bed. And the shower was the best comfort of all! Bending gingerly, Emily pulled her sleeping bag out from under the eaves. Careful not to tip over her stash of food-a jar of peanut butter, a loaf of bread not quite moldy enough to discard, and a few cans of warm soda-she crawled inside the bedding and fell asleep

****

On Monday, Steve wasn't waiting for her to arrive at the garage door like he usually did; he paced outside on his private lane. Running to meet her, he carefully removed her backpack from her shoulders with a gruff: "You shouldn't be carrying anything heavy." She had left the garage at dawn. Too achy to go far, she had gone down to the beach, waiting there on the dunes for hours before retracing her steps to the house. This morning, of all mornings, she wanted to make sure Steve didn't catch her creeping down the stairs from the garage. Still feeling shaky, she just couldn't deal with his questions, couldn't fend him off with a flip answer as she usually did. She wasn't feeling any too flip today; in fact, today she felt like shit. Steve placed his hand lightly under her arm. "How are you?" "Better than you by the looks of things." Steve's eyes were sunken. An insomniac's pallor turned his tan to an unhealthy shade of sleepless gray. There was a new tightness around his ordinarily sensual mouth. He wore rumpled jeans too, and Steve was always fastidious about his clothes. To make everything appear normal, she forced her lips to lift, forced a stab at her usual punk-sarcasm. "Hot date?" "Oh, yeah. Real hot. Because, hell, I'm pretty damned callous, and it didn't bother me at all that you were all banged up on Saturday. After you walked out on me, without a word about where you were going, why I had me a regular orgy here for the rest of the weekend. Naked women everywhere," he muttered. "I didn't get much rest at all." "Steve-I'm sorry. I know you were worried about me. I shouldn't have said that." "Did I do something to deserve this low opinion you have of me?" "I don't have a low opinion of you..." "Save it," he said, walking with her to the entrance to the garage. "Keep all your damn secrets, but I need you to tell me where you're living." Once inside the garage, she headed for the Dusenberg. "Why?" He took her overalls down from the overhead shelf so she wouldn't need to stretch and handed them to her. "Because I asked, that's why." "The place I'm staying is a run-down dump. I'll be moving shortly. Why don't I tell you my address then?" "You are not staying in a run-down dump, goddammit!" shouted the man who never lost his temper. "On-season rentals for nice places in Falmouth are expensive," she said, meek and intimidated, and yes, aroused too even though her body felt beat-up. Steve seemed so ... dominant.

"I'll give you the money... "No thank you. I don't take money I haven't earned." Not since she was thirteen and on the streets... He shook his head. "I won't have you living in a dump, and I won't have you walking everyday back and forth from that dump to work." He stroked a slow hand down her cheek, and she shivered. Fear. Excitement. Lust. All played an equal part in her trembling. "Here on out I'm taking care of you, angel. I'll make you an agreement..." "What kind of agreement?" "I'll keep you, provide for you. In exchange, you'll sleep with me whenever I say. Believe me, you'll earn every cent I spend on you." "I'll earn it on my back," she muttered under her breath. He chuckled. "Back. Belly. Knees. On your head if I tell you I want it that way." She was broke and hungry, hurting. Scared too. Of getting caught by a thief/gunman who was after a painting she knew nothing about. The day before yesterday, she had almost been a hit and run fatality. An accident? Or a threat on her life? The gunman from Mr. Fritz's office could have tracked her to the Cape. He could have been the driver behind the wheel of that unseen speeding vehicle. She didn't know. She didn't know whom she could trust... Trust no one! Her mind instructed. Her body instructed her otherwise; her body trusted this man. Her body called out to Steve Gallagher. She had never felt so weak or restless or scared or needy, so willing to give into the physical demands she had clamped down on years before. What Steve suggested was a give and take business proposition, one hand washing the other. It wasn't romance, but neither was it sneaky. She hated sneaky! A clean and straightforward deal is what he proposed, the same deal they had already shaken on, only now Steve had added a financial provision to the agreement. And she was flat broke desperate. Emily unsnapped the top of her jeans. "What do you think you're doing?" Steve asked. "I'm taking off my clothes so you can fuck me." He stopped her. "I'll tell you when and where I want it, and I'm telling you right now I won't want it until your bruises are healed. Let's get to work." After that, Steve didn't talk much for the rest of the day.

****

Steve's mother was a plump, smiling woman who wore every wrinkle on her tanned face with pride. His father was tall and spare, but his wiry body didn't hide his lean-muscled strength. He looked every bit the fisherman, from the crinkles around his good-humored dark eyes to his practical, no-nonsense view of life. Mr. Gallagher clapped his son on the back. "You've made your mama happy today, son." The usually self-confident Steve bashfully leaned down to give his mother a smooch on the cheek before stepping into his father's manly hug. My, the Gallagher clan was a demonstrative lot! Emily wasn't used to such open displays of affection. When all the smooches and hugs and claps were finished, and Steve had performed the introductions all around, Emily had finally caught her breath in the whirlwind of conversation, she said, "May I set the picnic table?" "How nice of you to offer, dear," the iron-haired ... and iron-fisted ... matriarch of the family beamed. "And yes, you may. I always say, many hands make light work." "I couldn't agree more," Emily replied as she began the enormous project of finding enough room for all the paper plates on the huge picnic table. "The children sit on the grass or on the smaller table over there under that shade tree," Steve's mother explained. "This large table is reserved for the adults who have children who can feed themselves. There's always someone breast-feeding a baby, or overseeing a toddler, and so we all pitch in with the little ones." Mrs. Gallagher chuckled, just like her son. "The holidays present a challenge." Before she could stop herself, Emily heard herself saying, "It must be nice to have such a large family." "It's wonderful," Mrs. Gallagher agreed. "Steve keeps pestering me to sell this place so he can buy one of those mansions near his as a family compound, but I have so many happy memories of this old cottage that I don't want to leave." Steve sauntered over at the tail-end of the conversation. "Mama, if you don't want to move, why don't you let me add a wing onto this place? The way the Gallaghers produce grandkids for you, the extra space will come in handy." Mrs. Gallagher gave her son a cagey look over her bifocals. "Is that your male way of telling me you and Lee are about to add to the count? Shall I start arranging a baby shower?" Steve's look was comical, a mixture of embarrassment and something else, something Emily couldn't quite put her finger on. "Uh," he stammered, "don't order the party favors just yet, Mama. Lee and I are just real good friends." When Steve's mother dimpled, and opened her arms, Emily had no choice but to step into the embrace. "I couldn't be happier, Lee, you and my son are such ... good friends."

Steve's family was a warm and loving bunch, and typical of close-knit families, they liked to tease. The sly comments about the suddenness of their hooking-up never ended. Were they accepted as a couple? Emily refused to lie, but neither would she put a damper on how happy everyone seemed for Steve. The Gallaghers would find out soon enough she was just another someone passing through the revolving doors of Steve's bedroom. Steve's sister, Adele, took her aside. "My brother had a rough time after his wife's death. Because Steve is Steve, he never said anything, but we didn't think he would ever get over Jen. He was so much in love with her, you see. When she died, Steve just fell apart. That was eighteen years ago and he's been alone ever since. I'm so glad he's not alone any longer." Adele's glance darted away. "Is that my Brian floating his robot in the punch bowl? Wait 'til I get my hands on that kid. Gotta go, Lee..." And Adele was off and running. Married ... wife's death ... eighteen years ago... Emily mulled over Adele's disclosures. The revelations did make sense-Jen was the woman Steve had loved, whose death had created the unhealed hole in his heart. "Lost in thought?" Emily looked up into the handsome face of Steve's youngest brother, Greg. "I was just thinking how much I like your family." "I dig them too." He nodded to Ronnie who was trying to throw a football across the lawn to a pint-sized receiver. "My date isn't used to a big brood of kids. I'm trying to break her in easy to the Gallagher breeding habits." Emily leaned forward. "Now tell me again ... who's married to whom? And which children belong to what parent? It's a little daunting keeping track of everyone." Greg threw back his head and laughed, a move so reminiscent of his elder brother that Emily's tummy did excited little cartwheels; the Gallagher men were such a handsome lot! By the time Greg finished explaining the family dynamics, and she had all the names and relationships memorized, Steve had sauntered over. "Has my brother been bending your ear?" "Of course not! Greg was simply relating the branches of your family tree to me." Steve's arm went possessively around her waist. "Thanks for entertaining my woman while I was busy, Greg." "My pleasure." "Speaking of which ... Ronnie's looking in your direction, kid, and she looks positively starved for a little pleasure." "Starved for pl-pleasure." Greg whipped his head around. "Really?" At his big brother's nod, Greg was off, rushing towards the voluptuous Ronnie.

Steve took her hand. "Let's take a walk down to the beach, look at the boats. I love my family but they can be a mite overwhelming at times." "I'm not overwhelmed..." He sighed. "Maybe I just need to be alone with you, have you all to myself for a few minutes, okay?" His hand tightened on hers. "Okay." Steve couldn't possibly be involved in anything shady or crooked. Any man born and raised in this warm and loving family had to be as straight as an arrow. So what, he was a playboy looking for sex? She could handle that! It was only sex, after all. And at the end of the summer when he returned to New York to do whatever it was he did for a living, she would have earned a nest egg. With financial security, she would change her identity and begin over again, somewhere else. It wouldn't be the first time a girl had financed her future on her back. Only the first time for her... Putting the dent in her self-respect aside, Emily offered Steve up a sunny smile. "Your family adores you, Steve." "Goes both ways." He tugged on her hand, leading her down to the beach. "They want me happy, you know how it goes. I'm the oldest son, I carry my father's name, and as you could probably tell, my folks are greedy for more grandchildren. It's not enough they've got twenty already. That reminds me, I hope you're not upset about what my mother said, you know, about the baby shower..." "I'm not upset." "They're always after me to reproduce. So far, I've managed to resist. During some moments of weakness I've almost given in, just to make them happy. But I always come to my senses before I make some woman miserable. Producing more Gallagher progeny is not sufficient reason to marry." "I respect your honesty," Emily said, hoping he would tell her more about himself, this time out of genuine interest, not because she sought information from him. "And Steve, I would like to be honest with you too. At least as much as I can be honest." "I hope you know you can trust me..." She looked up into his warm, brown eyes. "I think I can trust you, and that's why I need to tell you, I'm not who you think I am. My name isn't really Lee Packet. I can't tell you my real name, but suffice it to say that I'm in trouble. Serious trouble. I don't want to drag you into my problems, but I can't go on deceiving you. Your family is so nice. I don't want to deceive them either. I'm not entirely sure they fell for us as a couple..." "Whatever you need, whatever resources, they're yours. Just say the word. As to my family, I think some necking down by the water might remove any lingering doubts they might have about the nature of our relationship. You did pop up out of the blue, and I want to put their fears to rest." "Fears?" He thumbed his chin, looked oddly embarrassed. "Listen, before you and Ronnie became friends, she said something to my folks."

"About my being a gold-digger, you mean?" "Yeah. That. My old man just had a heart-to-heart with me. 'Lee is a nice girl,' he says. 'And we're thrilled for you, son, regardless of what Ronnie thinks'. My mother put him up to it, naturally. I explained that Ronnie had it all wrong. That Ronnie's warning was just one big misunderstanding, but you know parents-they worry." Steve's warm and loving parents worried because of her? That's precisely what she wanted to avoid! "Steve, I shouldn't have come here today with you. It was selfish of me. This situation is just too complicated. I should leave." Breaking free of him, she turned to go. "Just say I have a headache..." Steve applied pressure to her arm. "Nothing doing. You're not going anywhere." "But to deceive your parents like this. They're so dear! I hate lying to them." "It's not a lie. We are having an affair." "Not a real affair. Not a love affair. This is a business relationship. That's different. I'll do whatever you want, but..." "Good," he said, giving her arm a little squeeze. "What I want to do is make-out on the beach. The Gallagher men are a hot-blooded crew. A little session on the beach will go a long way to prove to my family that we're in deep, mutual heat. " Emily examined her new purple flip-flops, patted her second-hand dress. What clothes will do for a woman! She was hardly a clotheshorse, but she had longed to wear something different from the same dreary tee-shirt and jeans. For the first time in weeks, she actually felt pretty. The way Steve looked at her also helped. Raising her eyes, Emily smiled at Steve. "If making out will set your family's minds to rest..." "It will," Steve said, stopping at a small cottage near the water, away from the Gallagher's gathering but close enough for everyone on the lawn to see them. He gave her a huge wink, placed his hands on her shoulders, and kissed her cheek. She giggled. His jaw lifted. "What's so funny?" "I've never made-out before." His jaw lowering once more, he kissed her throat. "No?" She hiked her chin to give him better access. "No." Foreplay had not preceded her first and only sexual encounter. At least, not as far as she knew. She was a virgin to making out. "Open your mouth for me," he whispered. "Let me in."

When she did, their tongues met. Emily swayed into the kiss, feeling the heat of Steve's firm lips all the way down to her pussy. Her wet pussy. That's what foreplay did for a girl. At least, that's what Steve's foreplay did for her. "I have to take a business trip," he murmured, lifting his head. "While I'm gone, you'll stay in my Boston condo." "Are you sure, Steve? I could stay on the Cape and work on the car." "I won't leave you alone here. The security in my Boston condo is impenetrable, and since you say you're in trouble, that's the kind of setup you need. Besides, while I'm gone, there'll be places in Boston you can shop." The pawnshop where she had hawked Leonard Fritz's gift was in Boston. She would have another paycheck by then, but it wouldn't be enough to get the brooch back. For sentimental reasons, she wanted the return of that present. "I would rather have money than a shopping spree," she said in a small voice. "For the sex, I mean. I would prefer cash to clothes." His eyes narrowed. "I don't like it when you say things that make you sound like a hooker." "I am taking money for sex," she insisted, the glow from being in Steve's company and having his full attention directed at her dimming a bit. "That is what a hooker does." Hooker. The word was out of its bag. Steve didn't like her sounding like a hooker. But he was the one who had brought up the nature of their agreement. He had only spoken his thoughts aloud. And his thoughts were undeniable. She was his paid pussy for the summer. He had lost the wife he loved, he needed sex, and so he had procured it. "I'll try not to sound like a hooker in front of your family. I promise to watch my language," she said quietly. The bad language was part of her act. Normally, her speech was no cruder than any person in her age group, maybe even less so. And in her capacity as Mr. Fritz's assistant, her manner of speaking had always been professional. A good thing too, because her professional telephone manner is why Steve hadn't connected her to her former employer or to the person he had spoken to on the phone. They'd had a lengthy conversation, which she had really enjoyed. Steve didn't relate foul-mouthed Lee Packet to that poised woman on the other end of the telephone line. He dragged his knuckles down her cheek. "What are you thinking about, angel?" "That you never talk about her, about your wife." "Jen was a long time ago. We had been married for not quite a year. I was twenty when she died. Now, it's like it never happened. I forget I was ever married." Another pause, longer this time. "Aw, hell. Who am I kidding? My Jen's death just about ripped me in two."

He looked away. "I've tried to move on. I started all over again after Jen's death, made myself over, but still... Listen, I don't want to talk about this." There were things in her life she wanted to forget too, so she understood Steve's reluctance to bring the pain to the surface. She also understood his need to reinvent himself; in essence, she had done the same thing. Sometimes a person needs a new beginning to get it right. Sometimes pain is the catalyst. And Steve wasn't paying her to listen-that isn't what they were about. What they were about was sex Steve led her to a small cottage near the edge of the water. "This is where my folks lived when they were first married. Just two rooms-a bedroom and kitchen. It's used as a guesthouse when there's an overflow of company up at the house. It's empty this weekend." Steve opened the pink door, drawing her in after him. Emily spun around, taking in the two tiny rooms. Everything that could be stenciled with hearts and flowers was stenciled with hearts and flowers, including the canopied bed in the middle of the floor. "It's so tiny, just like a dollhouse." He ran his thumb over her bottom lip. "The furniture isn't dollhouse size." She looked over at the bed. "Won't your family think...?" "My family will think what I want them to think, which is I couldn't wait to get you alone." He touched her chin with his thumb. "You're so damned pretty." His dark eyes never leaving her face, Steve brought her into his arms. Then, everything went out of focus as he rubbed his lips against her lips, back and forth, until her mouth opened to him, until her tongue stroked his tongue, until she needed more than a kiss. "I'm dying to touch you again," he said, his nose stroking her nose, his mouth within a breath of her own. While he stroked her small breasts, his fingertips moving back and forth across the jutting nipples, Emily closed her eyes, allowing herself permission to feel those stroking fingertips. And she knew then, as passion flared hot and insistent, that sleeping with Steve would never be just a simple business agreement. And it could never be anything more. An "Mmm" escaped her slightly parted mouth as an ache that started at the tip of each breast found its way to her loins where it intensified to need, wet and hot and greedy. On the lobster boat, he had brought her to climax with his hand. Her very first climax. She wanted him to touch her like that again, to pleasure her again. She wanted to pleasure him the same way. Why wouldn't he let her? When Steve cupped her breasts, one in each hand, the aching need inside her exploded. Emily gasped, her resolve not to fall in love with Steve Gallagher turning to mush. His hands were roving now, over her back. He drew the gauzy lavender dress upwards with one hand while the other tunneled under her dress, up the back of her leg to her thigh. He stopped when he came to her bare bottom. "You're not wearing underpants."

She couldn't afford a bra, and after washing out her panties every night in the sink, the elastic had finally given way, her single pair of briefs falling apart. She wouldn't tell him that though. She had her pride. "No, I'm not wearing underpants." "No bra either." "I'm sure you already knew that." His hands had just been all over her breasts. "You're naked under the dress." "Yes," she agreed. "Sexy," he growled. "So damned sexy." And then he was kissing her again, his tongue stroking the interior of her mouth again, and she understood what real want was all about. He pulled away. "Take off the dress and get on the bed." On the bed. As on top, alone. Not under the sheets, together. Steve was a man who knew what he wanted, sexually. She was a woman without much experience. Certainly not the kind of worldly experience that would satisfy a sexually sophisticated man like Steve. And the little cottage, well it was an adorable little dollhouse, but not very private, especially since both drapes and shades were open. Anyone, a passerby on the beach, a member of his family ... a gunman out to kill her ... could look inside the windows and see them. But she couldn't tell him any of that. She couldn't involve him any more in her problems than he was already, for to do so was to endanger him. Better he know as little as possible. After all, Steve Gallagher was only a bystander in the wreck of her life.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

"You have an athletic body," Steve told Emily. "A dancer's natural grace. I enjoy seeing you nude." There was more to this than sex, more at stake than just The Cuzin. He needed Emily to trust him, to come to him with her secrets. That meant stripping her naked and building her back up, the construction under the guiding hand of his tutelage. Emily was a young woman in need of a sense of security in her life, some limits set. Steve knew he could give her both. For all that she was twenty-two and had been on her own for most of her life, for all that she could survive on the mean streets, there was still a lot of the little girl in her. She wasn't a virgin, but she was too unsure about sex for her to have slept with a lot of guys. No way had she ever been a hooker. She was still much too bashful about her body to have prostituted, though she tried very hard to disguise that shyness in her tough babe routine. The act didn't wash with him. "Take off the dress," he repeated. Firmly. "At the window," he added.

Emily hesitated before gliding gracefully to the floor to ceiling window. He could tell she didn't want to strip down in the full glare of light, but it was necessary. Emily wasn't wearing underwear. He had known that immediately upon seeing her today. But now that the sun was behind her, her lack of underwear was very apparent. Her nipples were enormous and hard; they poked through the lavender gauzy stuff of the cheap dress she wore. The dress was second-hand, of course, and he wanted it off her. She started to pull the dress off over her head. "No," he ordered. "Turn around and face the glass." Regardless of her cute blush, he wasn't about to relent. Emily had to give him her full trust, her total confidence. She needed to understand that his dominance assured her safety. He watched while she drew the dress over her head and tossed it on the floor. Nude, she stood looking out onto the beach, slender arms crossed protectively over her bared breasts. "Hands at your sides," he directed. With a nod, she uncovered herself. He sighed. She was such a pretty thief, and considering the circle she ran in, Steve was surprised that this, that a man taking charge of her, hadn't happened before now. "Is there anyone out there on the beach?" Steve asked. "A huge man walking an even huger dog. A Great Dane, I think. Oh, God, Steve he's walking in this direction. He's at the breakers now." Good. If he was at the breakers, even if he jogged the rest of the way down the beach, they had at least two full minutes of privacy before the guy with the dog came close enough to see inside the window. Not a lot of time for this, Emily's first lesson in submission, but enough. "Touch your breasts," he ordered. Her hands, both of them, went to her tits. Emily had the prettiest little tits. He wouldn't change them for all the fake cleavage in the world. "Fondle the nipples." Her fingers caressed the hard points, not expertly, not enough to tease a watching man, but satisfactorily. He would teach her later how he wanted it done. Steve counted off thirty seconds. "Open your legs." "But Steve-the man with the dog is coming this way." Her voice contained horror. "Do it," he said calmly, though inside he was churning. Would Emily trust him enough to do this? Her thighs split.

He pushed for more. "Place the heel of your foot up on the sill." Lowering her chin, she did as instructed. Balanced on one shapely leg, she spread herself. She was crying. Not a lot, just a little. She would cry more before he was finished. He didn't let up. "A finger goes inside." Weeping softly, she inserted a finger between the lips of her sex. "Nice and deep," he said, firmly. "All the way up." When her digit was in, all the way in-he could see her reflection in the glass-he said, "Masturbate. " He timed her. At ninety seconds, she was in the throes of pre-climax, uncaring about anything but encroaching pleasure, oblivious to the dog walker outside. Steve walked to the window. "Stop," he said. "B-but I'm so close," Emily sobbed in frustration. "I'll give you what you need in a minute," he said, and placed Emily behind him. As the dog-walker passed by the window, he would see only a threatening-looking mug silhouetted in the glass. One glimpse, and the man fled, dragging his yelping attack dog with him. "Funny, I often have that impact on people." Steve shrugged. "But if that man didn't take off, if he knew you were here, came to the door, tried to get in, tried to get at you, I would have taken care of him. Whatever the reason, whatever the provocation, no one will harm you when you're with me. I give you my word. Do you believe me?" "I believe you." She sobbed harder. "If a man, any man, puts his hand on you while you're with me, he'll bring back an empty sleeve. Do you believe me?" Her shoulders heaved. "I believe you." "I can protect you." "I believe you." "Good. Now get on the bed, and know that if I ever find the muthafucka you're so frightened of, he'll regret the day he was born." A look ... relief ... gratitude ... fear ... tightened her features for a split second, and then the look disappeared, her expression once again back to normal. Without saying anything, Emily backed up to the bed and reclined on the homey quilt. He reached out and opened her legs. All the way. He took his time looking. Then, one hand on each knee, he tenderly bent Emily's long legs back to her

belly. "I want to see it all," he told her. Allowing her no place to hide, no modesty, he carefully stuffed a plump pillow beneath Emily's buttocks to lift her hips higher. In the open and raised position, she could keep no secrets from him-at least not the anatomical kind. His hand came down on the protuberance formed by the pubic bones, his thumb stroking lower into the genitals. Emily's cunt. Her pretty pink cunt, as delicate as a rose, the petals just as tight. "We're not having sex yet. My fly stays zipped. But I want you to know in advance that my meat is hung like any man's meat is hung. I'm not huge, but I am thick. Kind of heavy. The head is ... well ... it's smaller than your standard-sized doorknob but not by much. It's a big swallow and can take a woman by surprise the first few times." He ran his finger around Emily's opening. "I've never used my cock as a weapon, never used my cock in anger, never fucked a woman to cause her pain deliberately, never put it to a woman unless the woman either wanted it, or was being well paid to take it. Why the hell would I want to? Why the hell would any man want to?" To make Emily feel more secure, he had to fuck her as soon as possible. She was running scared, and he needed her to run to him, not away from him. He walked a fine line between doing that and rushing her. If Emily felt cornered, she would split. His voice was thick, hoarse, a strangled grate of a whisper. "This is beautiful." His finger dipped into the pink slit before him, the cunt spread open and pillow-raised. Her back arched up off the bed, her tits pointing, her hands fisting the quilt. She purred as he began the strokes. Inexperienced, but willing-that was Emily. The tears had dried on her face, and she was more than letting him; she was urging him on. First though, he had to give her some ground rules. "I'll want it when and where I want it. Understand?" "Yes, Steve." "Since you work at the garage, that shouldn't be a problem during the day. We'll work out the nights as we go. Any objections so far?" "No," she groaned, mouth agape. "Good. Now, about this." He put his free hand on her bare mons. "Let it grow back. I don't like it bare. I particularly don't like it shaved. My guess is you couldn't afford a wax job, right?" "Yes. But..." "No argument. I want to be able to run my fingers through your pelt."

"Yes, Steve." "Good. Now as to the kinds of sex I want-the answer is everything. I don't like ordering a la carte. I want the full menu. Any problems with anything so far?" "No." "Great." He withdrew his finger from her cunt and skimmed it slowly along the crack in her ass. She jumped. He smiled. For all her big talk, when it came to sex Emily was a bit of a prude. He wasn't. His dick clamoring for a piece of the action, he circled the little hole. Christ, he couldn't wait for that seductive dimple to belong to him. When he paid, he always insisted on anal. Mostly anal, as a matter of fact. With anal, there was no comparison to the innocent lovemaking he had shared with his wife. Sweat broke out on his brow. It was not easy to wait, but he had to; earning Emily's trust would take some time. "This is on the menu too." The tip of his pinkie finger rimmed the ring. "I happen to enjoy anal, and since you already said you give it, that shouldn't present a problem, right?" "No problem whatsoever," she said, her muscles clenched tight. "Relax, angel. I'm just checking you out. See how you're made. Okay?" He quick slipped just the tip of his pinkie finger inside. Emily's lashes fluttered like crazy. "Like it?" "Yes," she said on a sigh. "Yeah, some women really do. I think you'll be one of them." He was trembling when he withdrew his finger, wanting her so bad his teeth rattled. And forget about his dick, that poor bastard was really suffering. "That's it," he said, keeping everything cool, everything businesslike when what he wanted to do was throw himself down on top of her, mount her any way he could, and go at her like an animal. His stiff cock felt about ready to break in two. "I think we've covered all bases, except for money. Though, I'm so good in bed you might want to pay me." "Dream on, Gallagher." Humor was good. Humor helped dissipate sexual tension. Steve chuckled at Emily's sarcasm.

It didn't help. He was dying here, inch by inch. He needed to be put out of his misery. A hand-job. Five fingers working his meat. A harsh fist doing him good and hard. That would help take some of the edge off. His own hand, not hers; no way was he having Emily jerk him off. As soon as he took care of her needs, he would go take care of himself. He quickly named the amount he would pay her and she quickly agreed. To get what he wanted, he always paid well, and this time was no exception. He intended to be very generous to Emily, take real good care of her, compensate her well above a hooker's going rate. He preferred it that way. Pay generously for the sex, and the headaches are eliminated. No whore complains of having a migraine; no man who opens his wallet wide ever listens to recriminations when it's over. Cash for cunt-that's how Steve liked it. Pay as you go. "And Angel, you'll get a clothing allowance too. I don't want you wearing jeans and a tee-shirt every day." He cupped her small tits. "Don't bother buying a bra. I'll want to play with these cuties whenever I like. As to panties-you can slip on a pair from time to time, as long as you ask me beforehand. Understand?" "Yes." He bent over and kissed her lips. Smiling into her eyes, he whispered, "You're real agreeable all of a sudden." "I understand tit for tat," she said. "Speaking of which..." Lowering his head, he curled his tongue around an elongated nipple, gave her some sucking action. She gasped. "You don't have to do this, Steve." "Do what?" he asked in between licks. "Take your time. You know, foreplay." "I happen to like foreplay," he answered, his cock crying pre-cum tears into his boxers. "There are things I want to do to you, places I want to taste. Like the cleft between your legs." He gazed at her shaven mons, then mouthed and kissed and licked his way down Emily's slender body to that destination. When she bucked, he growled, "Hold still," and continued on his way, loitering at her belly button to

tongue the small indentation. Moving ever southerly, he rubbed his face back and forth over her bare pussy. Almost drunkenly, intoxicated on the elixir of Emily, he slurred, "You know what I want..." "Yes." Was there uncertainty registered in that single syllable, in the slow way she had agreed? Hadn't she ever had a man do her before? Given her some cunnilingus?" He didn't think so. And that gave him one huge moment of pause. How many other guys had Emily been with? Couldn't have been many, he decided, if none had ever gone down on her. What man seeing what he was seeing wouldn't want to go down on Emily? Delving a lover's past sexual history is something a gentleman just doesn't do, but as Steve tenderly fingered the pretty pink slit, he watched Emily's expressive face for clues as to the extent of her experience. Experience limited, he decided, puzzled by the implication. His confusion took a back seat to awe when, after gently rubbing her clit, Emily started to go off. "I'm putting my lips right here," he said, not asking for permission. Telling her. "I'll press my mouth right into your pussy lips. And then, here on the clit." He delicately probed the plump bud at the top of her sex. "You're real hot and silky inside, and I'll get my tongue up there in your pussy as far as it will go so I can taste the sweetest part of your honey." He pulled his attention away from paradise and looked up into her face. Emily's cheeks were all flushed and rosy. Lordy! But she was angelic ... even with her gutter mouth. He dropped his head and licked along the inside of her thighs. She was having a hard time tolerating the strokes the closer he got to her creamy core. "Steve," she moaned, squirming and panting, alternately pushing him away and dragging him closer, her hands clasping his head, her fingers entwined in his springy curls. He kept on doing what he was doing, nice and easy, and when she relaxed a bit he sent his tongue straight to heaven. Man, she was sex sugar in his mouth, warm liquid carnality dripping down his throat. His tongue went at her like a fast moving hummingbird, getting as much of her nectar onto his taste buds as he could. When tasting her was no longer enough, he rubbed his face into her lush honey pot and breathed her in, kissing her outer folds, then the inner, all the time inhaling her scent into his nostrils, swallowing the essence that was Emily. When he licked the clit, she heaved off the bed. Pulling at his hair now, she very nearly scalped him, the sound of her pleasure more than compensating for any bald spot she might leave. "Yes," she cried, the affirmation exploding the quiet of the room. "Oh, yes, yes, Steve," she screamed, as

orgasm overtook her.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

That night, Steve dropped Emily off in the center of town. Leaving her there, alone and in the dark, was one of the hardest things he had ever had to do. Not knowing where she lived, he let her walk away. In the cottage, he had set down rules for Emily just as he set rules for any business deal, keeping everything low-key. But he felt neither low key nor business-like as he watched her get into her clothes after making her scream. He could not take his eyes off her. He had never felt so shaky, so unsure, so possessive of a woman, any woman and this included his wife, as he did with Emily. He told himself he needed to separate sex from emotion, keep love and lust apart, erect a barricade between the thrust of his cock and the beat of his heart so he could walk away from her when their affair was finished. The one thing he could not do was leave himself open to the kind of hurt he had gone through-was still going through-after Jen left him alone in this world. He was prepared to bleed for Emily; he was not prepared to grieve for her after she was gone from his life. And still, as he watched her dress, watched transfixed as she pulled that cheap dress up over those beautifully perfect breasts, he knew he was letting himself in for all kinds of grief when he said, "You're moving in with me." Emily went still. She was also wearing her obstinate look. Fearing he would lose her altogether, Steve had compromised. "Monday after work," he said amicably. "Or the deal is off. Your choice." It was the last compromise he would make. To make her feel safe, she had to understand that she could depend on his male strength, the hardness of his determination ... his total authority. She had to know that no matter what had come before, for the length of their arrangement, she belonged to him and he would protect her. "Monday after work it is," she agreed. And because of that last compromise, he now he sat brooding in the driver's seat of his truck while Emily walked away. He could tag her easily enough... He decided against following her, as he had decided against following her every fucking night since her arrival. Emily was street smart. As a kid, she had evaded the authorities for years. He was damn good at his job, but he was human and there was always the possibility of discovery. Always the slim chance she would know he was trailing her.

Steve wouldn't risk it. His nerves jammed up when he even thought of losing her. The ball was in Emily's court; it was up to her to come back to him. Two sleepless nights stretched out ahead of him until he knew if she would.

****

Funny, how the little things got to her. She had a past she wanted to forget, a confusing present, an uncertain future, yet that Sunday afternoon with only two dollars to her name-spare change scrounged from the bottom of her backpack-Emily found herself walking back to town again. To buy a bath towel, of all things. The night before, she had tossed and turned inside her sleeping bag, unable to sleep for thinking of Steve. She remembered every detail of their time in that dollhouse cottage, only to have her memory seize up like an engine without oil, the pleasure of his caresses too much to absorb, too much to analyze ... just too much. Her memory had played tricks on her before. There were times when she doubted her recollection, times when stress played havoc with the details of an occurrence, like when she was thirteen. At thirteen, she may have been raped. May have been because the circumstances were not too clear in her memory. She had never really been sure if the boy had taken her against her will or not. In her heart of hearts, she knew she hadn't given her expressed consent, but there had been no violence, no force during the act. But had she said no? She almost wished there had been an assault, for at least then she would have been clear in her mind that she hadn't asked for it. The truth was, she had liked the boy. He was several years older than she-eighteen or nineteen. In fact, she'd had a crush on the boy. He was handsome and nice, had paid her attention, and she had been so lonely, so needy, so starved for affection... It happened in a foster home placement. One evening, when the boy's parents-her foster parents-were out, they had raided the liquor cabinet. She was no angel as a kid. In fact she had been pretty wild, acting out plenty after her mother's death. Stupid behavior, like raiding a liquor cabinet in a foster home, was part of her road to self-destruction. After sucking on the bottle, the boy just seemed so charming, so irresistible. His flattery had gone right to her head. So had the vodka. She had fallen into a drunken stupor, much as her mother used to do after bringing home some barfly to their apartment. There was no kissing, no fondling, no preliminary petting with the boy, nothing to give her warning as to his intentions. One minute she was aware of what was going on, the next minute she was out like a light. She came to in her own bed, her jeans around her spread ankles, the boy between her legs. He was already ramming to get inside. The penetration hurt. It had hurt quite a lot. At thirteen, she'd had a couple of periods, and she was almost fully developed, still her body wasn't ready for sex. Her mind certainly wasn't ready for sex. Because of her mother's death and her own peaking hormones, her emotions were up and down, her

feelings all over the place. The boy, drunk too, hadn't deliberately hurt her. She was sure of that. But he was randy and impatient. It was over in a matter of two or three minutes, her virginity gone. That very night she ran away. Again. She had to. If she stayed, she knew the boy would come to her bed again ... and she would let him. And the next time, there would be no excuse for her behavior. That's how desperate she was to have someone in her life, to have someone to love. Ironically, her mother had come to her rescue. Reaching right out from the grave, she had saved her daughter, as she had not been able to save herself in life. Her mom was everything to her. This didn't mean Emily wanted to be like her. The thought of becoming an alcoholic, of having an unplanned child she might neglect as she herself had been neglected, stopped her from ever drinking again, stopped her from having sex again too. A decent life, that's what Emily strove for. She wanted to be proud of herself. She couldn't live up to her own high expectations if she was drinking and drugging and fucking all over the place. Emily never told anyone about that night of drunken sex, or about her confusion about whether or not it had been rape. What was the point? There had been no assault and she had liked the boy. Why get him into trouble? Besides, she was only a foster kid, the illegitimate child of a dead alcoholic. Who would've believed her? She had a history as a run away. The state already had her tagged as 'incorrigible.' Vowing she would rather die than get sent to yet another foster family that wasn't a family at all, she got involved in petty crime, shoplifting mostly. Clothes. Food. Small electronics that she could later sell. She did that for two years until she was caught, arrested, sent to a corrective group home. It was okay there. The place was clean, the staff meant well; they gave her some head therapy for her anger and three square meals a day. At the facility, she had finished her education, learned automotive skills, and fallen in love with art. Got her pride back too. She did all right. Though, since her mother's death, she missed someone needing her. Steve needed her. He didn't know he did, but she could tell. He liked being with her. She knew he was lonely, knew he wanted her. On her side, it wasn't about the money. Sure, she needed money to survive, but she had feelings for Steve. Painful feelings. Hopeful feelings. She was tough, and she was willing to risk a little hurt to have some happiness, even if it was only for a little while. She didn't think Steve had felt anything for a very long time, since probably the loss of his wife. Maybe he would risk feeling something for her too. At least, for the rest of the summer... That's why the quest to buy a bath towel. For just this one summer, she would stay put, nest like a bird. She didn't need much to make a home. Her own towel was as good a place as any to start. At the Bargaineer, she picked over a stack of 'seconds'. Smoothing a palm over a plush cotton terry, ignoring the slight imperfection in the nap, she was imagining how nice the shade of pink would look in the loft's rose-tiled bath when a sixth sense made her look up from the stack. A man strolled along the sidewalk, directly outside the store window. He looked so ordinary!

Nondescript. Short brown hair. Brown eyes. Average height. Average looking. Casually dressed like any vacationing Cape Cod tourist, obligatory camera slung over his shoulder. Her heart clutched. Was that the gunman from Mr. Fritz's office? Had he found her? She didn't know, couldn't tell. Mr. Fritz's office had been dark that night. The darkness obscured the gunman's face-her face too. Had he even gotten a good look at her? And she looked nothing at all like her former self. The generic street clothes ... the much shorter, dyed black hair ... the heavy make-up ... had all altered her appearance. She was tired. Frightened. Nervous about her fledging relationship with Steve. Wanting to stay, but wanting to bolt too. Maybe looking for an excuse, any excuse to take off. Her mind might be playing tricks on her... Pretending to examine washcloths on the bottom shelf, Emily ducked behind the bin, peaking out onto the sidewalk from behind her barrier. When the coast was clear outside, she left by the back door, racing through the woods behind the store, taking a well-trod path that ran parallel to the road and which must certainly take her back to Steve's private beach lane. Looking over her shoulder one last time, Emily entered the unlocked side door to the garage. Trembling uncontrollably, she climbed the stairs to the second floor loft area, stumbled into the bathroom and was promptly sick in the toilet. Filthy from her journey through the woods, clammy with the perspiration of fear, the smell of her recent bout of anxiety-produced nausea clinging to her, she brushed her teeth, then showered, air-drying as usual afterwards-she never had bought the bath towel. Still damp, she pulled a clean man's tee-shirt over her head. Steve's. He had given her a bunch of white undershirts he said he never wore any more, telling her to use them for clean-up rags. Clean-up rags! They were practically brand-new, not a thing wrong with them. They got added to her motley collection of belongings. Feeling much better now that she was clean, the soft cotton undershirt comfortable next to her skin, Emily left the dark bathroom. And padded straight into a pair of muscled arms. The gunman! He must have followed her back to the garage. How silly to believe her disguise had altered her appearance! How silly to believe she was safe. Thieves were dangerous people. They wouldn't stop looking for her until they found The Cuzin. She would never be safe again. Regaining her balance, Emily pushed off against a hard, muscled, naked chest. And got nowhere. Strong arms had closed around her waist, preventing escape. But not movement. Her knee rocketed up, aiming for the gunman's groin. To avoid having his balls stuffed down his throat, he let her go, and Emily darted for the door.

Quick as lightening, footwork boxer-smooth, the gunman loped after her, catching her mid-sprint. Two heavy hands fell on her shoulders, anchoring her in place. Not hurtfully. Insistently. As one would do with a recalcitrant child. She lunged, kicked out, scored a hit to his shins. A pained grunt, and she was released. She tripped over the bedding on the way to the door, falling, belly-down, onto the quilted top of her sleeping bag. He came down over her, on top of her sprawled body. She wiggled, squirmed, tried to buck him off, succeeding only in baring her buttocks to him as the soft cotton tee-shirt crept up over her hips to her waist. Rocking onto all fours, she started crawling away on hands and knees. "Please let me go," she cried, panting, out of breath, cringing as a big, work-roughened palm made contact with her naked bottom before moving upwards. The soft cotton tee-shirt was dragged up to her shoulders, her body bared to him. A hand under her rib cage, capturing a wildly swinging breast, the fingers stroking the nipple. "Let me go," she said, hanging onto control by a thread. "I don't have what you want." "Angel, you've got everything I want." "Steve!" "What?" he growled into her ear. "You expected someone else?" Yes! A gunman. She had never been so scared. Arching her back, Emily frantically pushed her bared hips back against the rock-solid security of Steve. Only his lovemaking would make her feel safe! "Fuck me, Steve," she sobbed. "Please fuck me. Fuck me hard!"

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Around eight o'clock that night, remembering he hadn't set the timer on the garage coffeemaker for the next morning, Steve stepped into a pair of jeans and hotfooted it for the garage. As he measured out the deep roasted beans-his mechanic's favorite blend--he tried to stay optimistic about Emily actually showing up to have a cup. It didn't work. Feeling down in the dumps about the whole Emily thing, he heard the water running upstairs in the shower. It wasn't the first time a vagrant had wandered up from the dunes and decided to make himself at home in the loft.

Steve pocketed a pen flashlight and dragged his weary ass up the stairs; he would let the beach bum finish his shower, slip him a few bucks, and then tell him adios. At the threshold to the bathroom, a near-naked lady launched herself at him. Emily. He knew the scent of her shampoo, the soft give to her body, the shallow way she sometimes breathed. He just knew her. Even in the dark. What was she doing in his loft at this hour of the night? And what was with her desperation to get away from him? As she pushed her way past, running for the door, he knew he would do anything, everything in his power to make her stay, including shoving her rolled up sleeping bag under her feet to trip her. She fell. He did too, holding her back as she fought him. As soon as he had the chance to speak, Emily's escape mode changed to a lovemaking frame of mind. What the hell was up with her? He didn't know, but he was committed to do whatever it took to keep her from leaving. He would've petted and soothed and stroked Emily again, until she climaxed under his hand, but gentle wasn't what the lady wanted, what she needed. Her body vibrated with unspent tension. Petting and gentling wouldn't do it for her, not this time. Steve unsnapped, yanked the fly, pushed the jeans down over his ass. Nothing civilized about it, nothing refined, nothing genteel. Emily was scared about something, and that something wasn't him, not the way her bottom courted his cock, not the way she invited the thick head of his cock to slip inside. "Fuck me, Steve," she panted. "Fuck me hard." Nope. Definitely wasn't him she feared. But having already pinky-investigated that little hole, he knew this was not the time for anal, not with Emily's tensed muscles. "Not that way. Cunt fucking," he said, keeping things honest if not exactly romantic. "Okay, okay. Just do it. Please do it." "I'm putting it to you now," he told her in the dark loft, hoping to allay her fears. He started easing into the slit, his throat arching and working, swallowing hard, as the tight warmth of Emily's pussy enveloped him. "Yes, yes, yes," she screamed, clawing at the floor. It had taken him years to make a return to this sweet female place, and he wanted to absorb the sensation slowly, luxuriate in the moist silky passage like a weary traveler might, take his time relearning the mysteries, instead of rushing to know everything at once. But levering her hips, Emily forced the issue. "P-l-e-a-s-e, Steve. Please. Hard!" He drove forward, and started pumping.

He owned a big house, a huge cushy bed, and they were doing it on the floor of the unfinished loft above his garage. What they hell were they doing here? "Forget about taking off," he growled, rearing back and giving it to her hard like she asked. "If you run, I'll hunt you down until I find you." "Please, Steve, please," she moaned. "M-o-r-e!" "You want more? Act like you want more!" Her bottom went up in the air, her spine slid low, and holding onto her like a vice, his arms clamped around her hips, he jack-hammered her fast, the strokes straight up and in, no compromising, no allowance made for her tightness. Her interior muscles clenched around him as he strained, plummeting her silky soft folds, time and time again, until he felt her tension crack, then break, then shatter, then drain, and she screamed his name into the darkness. He didn't come. Withholding his stamina for the next go-round that was sure to follow, he waited, strung-out, his balls begging for release. He had a strong feeling Emily wasn't done with his cock yet. In her frenzy, she seemed unaware that there was even a flesh and blood man attached to the hard rod inside her. And that was okay. He understood. This bout of coupling wasn't about lovemaking; it was about getting the knot of tension inside Emily to let go. Yeah, she was using him, but he could handle the use as long as he didn't get sentimental, kept the sex emotionless; they were just two starved bodies going at it on the floor. His cock-her tool-was still painfully engorged when he started to withdraw. She cried out. "Don't." Tightening his hold on her hips, he shoved himself back in. "I won't, not until you've taken all you can take," he promised, and began driving again. "Deeper," she wailed, moving fretfully, spastically. "Get up!" "What? No!" He pulled her up, until she was on her knees before him. With his arms clamped around her waist, he rammed her from the back, his dick pinning her so she couldn't move, his balls smashed to her ass, a sex wall she couldn't escape even if she wanted to. When she convulsed a second time, he still didn't stop. He kept at her, doing her hard, the way she wanted, the way she needed, until she screamed again, then again, then again, until finally, her voice hoarsened to a whimper, and her body went limp in his arms. And he came and came and couldn't stop coming. Only after pulling out his deflated wet cock did he realize there was nothing to dispose of; he wasn't wearing a condom. Gallagher men did not have unprotected sex, unless it took place in the marital bed. How many times had

his old man preached that at him? Along with, 'You make a girl pregnant, you make that girl your wife.' There were early babies born into the Gallagher clan, but there were no babies that didn't have a married mom and dad leaving the hospital together. With a sigh for his irresponsibility, Steve folded Emily into his arms, and let her cry it out. While heaving sobs wracked her body, he rubbed his big palm over her back and bottom. "There's nothing you can't tell me, Angel. Nothing you can say that will make me blush. Nothing you can ask me for sexually that I won't give you." And for his heartfelt declaration all he got from her was: "Gotta go." "You're not going anywhere," he shouted when she pulled away, ready to leave. He yanked the thing she had on over her head. Naked, she couldn't take off on him. "You're staying here with me. You're letting me take care of you. We made an agreement and you're living up to your end of it." He pushed her onto her back, spread her legs wide, and mounted her. "You don't know who you're dealing with. If you make a deal with me, you keep it." She slapped at him. "No, Steve..." Grabbing her wrists, he pulled her hands over her head. She whimpered, struggled. This was a make or break moment; this is when he either threw his hands up in the air and let her have her way or instilled in her a respect for his abilities as a man. She had to learn that he could keep her safe ... despite herself. This was when things got dirty, when the sex stood for something else, when she understood that she could depend on his dominance for her survival, that she could trust him to keep her safe-except from him. But by insisting on sex that she didn't want, that she was clearly saying no to, he would cross that line a man should never, ever cross. This was rape. He couldn't clean it up and make it something pretty. Bigger and harder and tougher than she was, he had chosen to overpower her resistance to get what he wanted. Not sex. That wasn't what he wanted now. What he strove for was her submission to his authority. Emily was still wet with his ejaculated semen, so the entry was easy. "I own your cunt for the summer, Angel," he told her, hiking up her knees, holding her open, getting his dick all the way into her as she fought like a tigress to keep him out. "As long as you do everything I say, you'll be safe. Disobey me, and you'll pay the price. Now hold still." He started driving hard, pushing them both to the limit, keeping his cock up inside her, no matter that her body tried to shut him out. When the fight went out of her, he let go her wrists and gentled the rape. Not a lot. Just enough so she wouldn't dry out during what he knew would be a long sexual siege. He lost count of how many times Emily came, how many times she begged him to end it. He didn't end it, not when his cock felt like it had a match lit to it, not when she started to cry.

"Once more," he soothed, kissing her tears away. "And I'll stop, let you rest for a while." After her climax, he put his hurting cock away, pulled his jeans up over his ass, every muscle protesting the hard floor and the unaccustomed violence of the sex. "You okay?" "I gotta go." "Give it up, Angel. You're not running. I'll tie you up if I need to..." "Steve, you misunderstand. I gotta go pee. I'll wet my pants if you don't let me." She wasn't wearing pants, but this was not the time to argue the fine details. Feeling like a complete ass, he helped her up. Just in case Emily was fibbing, and she really had escape in mind, he followed her into the bathroom. "It's dark," she squeaked. He took the forgotten flash out of his pocket, switched it on, and set it on the sink. She didn't ask for privacy. Just as well, he wasn't giving her any. Standing guard, he watched while Emily perched herself atop the toilet and tinkled. Afterwards, she darted for the tub. He intercepted her. "No shower." His palm cradled her pussy. "Leave it sticky." New experience, a woman wearing his semen. Because of his concerns for Jen's health, even though they both wanted a family, with his wife he had always worn a condom. He liked his cum on Emily. Liked it a lot. In fact, the sight of her covered with his cum drove him wild. She opened her legs, her chin dropping. "Do you need it again?" he whispered. Emily gave a meek nod. "My cock? Or will finger-fucking do it for you?" "Your cock." She spoke low, ashamed of the need. Against the pink tile bathroom wall, she spread herself, her splayed body flashlight lit. "Please?" she pleaded. "Could you do me ... deep?" He swallowed. The deepest fit was rear entry. But selfishly, he wanted to see her face in the light from the flash as she came. "Over there," he told her, motioning to the sink. He helped position her how he wanted, hands braced on the rim of the basin, facing the mirror so he could see her face when it happened for her.

He unzipped, got it out. "Bend over," he said tersely. She rounded. "More," he commanded, and when she did, made the connection, pushing in with both hands encircling her waist, making the deepest fit. "Look up into the mirror," he ordered, after some deep strokes, when her taut body told him she was almost at the point where she would start to crest. Slack-jawed, she looked back at him in the glass, her gray eyes no longer distant as they met his. "You're beautiful with your face washed clean. Beautiful naked," he grunted, pushed up higher still. "Beautiful with my cock inside you." She licked her lower lip, her lids heavy, her small tits bouncing as he pulled back and jammed her. Her back arched. "Mmm." "Feel good?" "So good," she murmured, her bottom tilting, wiggling against his mat of pubic hair. He knew what she needed. "If you want, I can give you a finger in there." At her shy nod, he slipped a hand to her buttock. "You like it all the way in, or just to the knuckle?" Her tongue wet her lip again. "All the way." He figured as much; Emily was not a lady of half measures. He used his middle finger, finding the hole and pushing it up and in. She groaned. "Oh, yes-Steve-oh, yes." He moved his finger and his cock at the same time. She grabbed her tit, pressed the heel of her palm against the small mound. "Let me do it," he said, pushing her hand aside. Using the thumb and finger of his free hand, he pinched the nipple. "Ever been clamped?" he asked, driving in another stroke, his finger and cock working her in unison, pinching her nipple at the same time. "Un-un." Her head fell back against his shoulder. He nodded. He thought as much. When it came to sexual pleasure, his angel was just a baby.

And then, lost to her body, he started hammering her from behind, his balls slapping her buttocks, his eyes never leaving her face as he brought her to fulfillment, once again keeping his own climax in reserve should she need an erect cock inside her again. "So beautiful." After her scream, Steve picked Emily up in his arms and carried her back to the sleeping bag. After unrolling it, he placed her on top of the quilted cover, collapsing on the hard plywood floor beside her, one arm flung over her, not to keep her warm but to ensure she didn't leave him. "Sleep now," he rasped. Exhausted, Steve waited for Emily's steady breathing, then surrendered to oblivion for the first time in weeks.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Through one open eye, Emily saw Steve standing at the loft window, looking out. He looked so tough, so male, so able-bodied. She knew firsthand his appearance didn't lie, and for the first time in her whole miserable life, she felt safe. He made her feel safe. His confidence. Self-assurance. Arrogance. All those authoritative personality traits contributed to her impression of well-being. Her lover also had a sense of humor. Compassion. And the uncanny ability of making her feel like she were the only one, as though she had his full, undivided attention, one hundred percent of the time. That was quite a knack considering how many naked women he entertained in his swimming pool. Take a number, Emily, and get in line at the diving board... She now belonged to Steve Gallagher's synchronized swim team. That membership filled her with disappointment. She had tried so hard to stand on her own two feet, to forego sex in favor of independence. And now look at what she had done! Steve was paying for the use of her body. Where was the self-respect in that? Despite her rocky past, she still believed in exclusivity, in monogamy, in marriage ... in children raised in a two-parent home. Maybe Steve had once believed in those things too, before he lost his wife, but she didn't think he believed in them any more. And that was neither here nor there. In the here and now, they fulfilled one another's needs. Fulfilling mutual needs was what a business deal was all about. As long as each individual got what they wanted, both the payer and the payee, then everyone was happy and the deal ran smoothly. Only when one person's expectations went unsatisfied did the deal run amuck. Steve wanted a good time with no emotional strings; she needed money and someplace safe to hide out. As long as they met their contractual obligations, their business deal would succeed. Time for her to hold up her end of the arrangement. Emily stretched on top of the sleeping bag. "Hi there," she called. Steve turned to face her, his eyes lowering to the juncture of her body. "Hi yourself." My, but Steve was a remarkable man. In his snug-fitting jeans, there was no hiding that prominent bulge. With an erection that size, no wonder it took a pool of naked bathing beauties to satisfy him. The

responsibility for that satisfaction now fell to her. Rather a daunting challenge when a girl's pussy is sore, she thought, eyes widening over the length and breadth of his cock. The man was positively huge, and ready to go again. "Yeah, I know," he said, following the direction of her gaze. "I'm at full throttle. I'm not usually this starved for it." She sat up, not bothering to hug the unzipped sleeping bag to her bare breasts, though the unfiltered light pouring in the window made her feel even more naked. "I don't mind. It's all covered under the warranty. Shall I go to you? Or are you coming back to the sleeping bag?" When Steve threw back his head and laughed, saying, "How 'bout breakfast first?" Emily realized all over again how easily she could fall in love with this man, and what a terrible mistake it would be if she did. Eyes still crinkled, Steve said, "Besides, I think we need to talk." Uh-oh. She tilted her chin. A wrench had just been thrown in the works and she needed to pull it back out. "Steve, I have a condition to make before we can continue." "I'm listening." "Don't try to find out any more about me than what I've already told you. If you do, I'll have to leave." His eyes narrowed. Steve was angry. Very, very angry. He was not the easy-going, laid back guy he would have others believe. Her temporary lover was intense, compelling, and she knew she had yet to experience the full dominance of his personality. Or, feel the full force of his lovemaking. There had been one occasion last night when he had held her hands above her head and forced her to take him-he'd given her a taste of that dominance then. Strangely, rather than frighten her, his male power had calmed her. She didn't understand why, but it did. "Agreed," he said finally. Despite the calm control of his tone, she knew he had just made her a huge concession. "Thank you," she said, and going for broke pushed. "And Steve, about my moving in with you-I know you want me to, but I would prefer to stay here in this loft. I like it here. The garage makes me feel safe." He left the window and stalked to her. "Being in my bed will make you feel safe..." "Please Steve. I'll do everything else you tell me to do, everything you say, but I want to stay here. I promise I won't run." Now that she was certain Steve hadn't had anything to do with murder and art theft, she didn't want to drag him further into her troubles. Bad enough she was deceiving him; she didn't want to put him in jeopardy too. Her near miss with a hit-and-run driver may not have been an accident. The guy with the camera she saw yesterday in town may very well have been the gunman from Mr. Fritz's library. Her nerves were on edge, and she just didn't know anymore. Emily rose to her knees. "Please Steve? Just make me those two concessions and anything else you want is okay. I won't fight you or argue with you or anything else. Any kind of sex is fine with me. You

mentioned tying me up-bondage is okay too. So is pain. You want a three-way, I can do that too. Anything. Okay, Steve?" When he still didn't say anything, she split her thighs, offering him up her full submission, something she thought she would never do for anyone. "Please?" She begged now, and knew that still wouldn't be enough. From her kneeling position, she drew a finger down the length of his denim-encased erection. "If you want, I can take care of this before we start our day at work." He raised a brow. "As much as I obviously want you again, I'm not a complete dog." "You're no dog at all, Steve Gallagher." "After the way I worked you over last night, your cunt has to be tender." "I liked it," she said softly suddenly shy because the gentleman Steve had become remarkably frank. "I liked all of it. And now I would like to show you my appreciation for letting me work the fright out of my system on you." "Don't mention..." he started to stay, but Steve stopped saying anything when she ran his zipper down its tracks and took him in hand. "I want you to know, it doesn't have to be a pussy fuck today," she whispered. "It can be anal..." "BDSM, a threesome, and now you're making me a gift of your ass-all before breakfast?" Steve's use of stronger language, sexual language, thrilled her. But now that the pretense of sex was turning into the reality of sex, she was also feeling a lot inadequate. She'd had one two-minute intro to sex when she was only a kid, while Steve was a sexual sophisticate. He had been a bull last night, but could she satisfy him this morning? She had to! "I can give you what you need, Steve," she said, and licked the gushing pre-come from the blunt top of his cock before opening her lips. "No," Steve said, pulling back. "Why?" she asked, looking up at him from her knees. "Don't you like it?" "Yeah, I like it. Hell, I love it. Every man wants a woman who gives head." She opened her thighs wide. "You need it. I can tell you're hurting." She touched her breasts, played her fingers seductively over the erect tips. "Let me take the hurt away." "When's your period due?" Birth control! She had never given it a thought. How careless not to consider pregnancy. He must have read her face because he said, "Not on the pill, huh?" She had no choice but to tell him some of her background. "Despite what you might think, despite what I

led you to believe, I'm not promiscuous. I was never a hooker, Steve," she said with pride. "I've done a lot of stuff, but I've never sold my body." "And I've never gone in without a rubber. I'm clean." Steve cupped her breast, thumbing the nipple back and forth. At his touch, a few drops of moisture dribbled down her open legs. "That's nice," he said, staring at her body's lubricant. "Give me a taste." The directive was so intimate, that she went breathless as she took some of the moisture onto the tip of her finger and offered it up to Steve. He sucked her finger, slowly, deeply. "Mmm," he said finally, returning her finger to her with the curt instruction: "Put that back where it was. I'll be asking for another taste in a minute." Emily separated her pussy with a finger and left it there inside. "Push it deeper, " he said gruffly. She did. But more swollen than she thought, she winced at the digital penetration. "That's enough," he said. She heard him take a breath. "I'll want you examined. I have a doctor friend on the Cape. He'll give you a general physical and do a gyn exam too, put you on something for birth control. I'll discuss it with him during your exam." She'd had only one prior female exam, but she remembered it well. Apart from a flimsy paper covering she'd been naked, and her feet had been up in stirrups. The idea of Steve in the room with the doctor during a breast exam, both of them peering inside her vagina at the same time, was just about the most horrifying prospect she could imagine. "I'll go alone," she said in a very small voice. "No. I'll go with you. As I say, the doc is a good friend of mine. I'll want to be there when he checks you out, make sure you're gaining back the lost weight." She nodded, knowing she could no longer push him. "All right." Leaning over, he kissed her hard. "No need for embarrassment, angel. It's not like I'm a kid with his first girl. I just need to see with my own eyes that you're healthy," he said against her lips. "The doc will understand." Straightening, Steve thumbed her mouth, then, gripping his arousal at the base, skimmed the enormous head across her lips. Emily opened to him, tasted him, petting him as he had petted her. It was remarkable how powerful she felt, while naked and kneeling at a man's feet. His hands clamped on her shoulders. "So good." He grunted. "So fucking good."

She tried not to giggle, both at the feathery brush of his pubic hair against her nose and at the ridiculousness of what she was doing. Sex with Steve was funny and erotic and sublime. And well compensated. She never thought she would ever accept money for sex, but what choice did she have but to swallow her pride as she swallowed him? It was only sex, only sex, only sex, she thought kissing the top of his cock and liking the musty scent, liking all of it, even her own submissiveness. Who would have thought she would get off on a guy taking charge? But his dominance did excite her. Such a relief to let go for a while, to have someone take care of her for a change. He didn't push it all the way in; he let her grow accustomed to the fullness in her mouth by small degrees. At least, at first. Then groaning, his cock touched the back of her throat. She gagged. "Just relax," he soothed, holding himself still, not moving yet, waiting until her choking reflex had settled down. "Start to masturbate now," he said tightly. "Go at it gently. You're sore." She could do this, she could handle this! It was only sex. She pushed two fingers up into her tender pussy and jerked them in and out. "I said gently, dammit! Do as you're told." His authoritative tone alone was enough to make her come, but the fact that he cared about her well-being touched her soul as well as her body. She began to pleasure herself, really pleasure herself, as she pleasured him, shuddering as she neared completion, her mouth milking him as her internal muscles spasmed. They were both so close to climax! "I-need-two-deep-thrusts," he wheezed with a harsh moan. "Okay?" She nodded her answer. "You're so ... damned ... tough," he praised and did it, thrusting into her mouth. Once. Twice. Not brutally, not punishingly, just as much as he needed to go off. She came with him, swallowing convulsively as his shot of cum washed down her throat. Exhilarated over her daring, bashful because she liked it, proud that she had satisfied him, shamed because she was accepting money for something she would have done for free ... so many conflicting feelings caused her to drop her eyes to the floor. Unlike her, Steve suffered no mixed emotions. After putting his cock away, he pulled her to her feet, took her chin in hand, forcing her to make eye contact. "Thank you. You didn't have to do that, but I'm

real grateful you did." "You're welcome," she said primly, not knowing what else to say under the circumstances. He laughed and kissed her cheek. "Can I give you a tip?" "It's all part of the service, sir. No gratuity necessary..." He snorted, smacked her bottom. "Wise ass. That's not the kind of tip I mean." He ruffled her choppy black hair. "You know, Angel, when it comes to disguises, sometimes less is more." "Pardon?" "The contrast between the dark hair and your skin tone is too extreme. It gives you away. Rather than creating a camouflage, the black hair dye draws attention to you." "I'm not wearing a disguise..." He held up his hand. "I won't ask, but no more lies." He fingered a jaggedly-cut strand. "While we're in Boston, I want you to see a hairdresser. Have a good cut and lose the ink-black dye. Maybe go to a dark shade of blond. And ditch the heavy-handed make-up. I don't like it." "Steve, you're paying to fuck me, not ride my ass." She grinned. "Unless, we're doing anal." "And I don't like the coarse language either." Her hands went to her hips. "You've recently let go of some choice words yourself." "For which I apologize. In the heat of the moment, I sometimes forget my manners. In the future, I'll take more care." "You don't have to, Steve. Not with me." His hand went between her legs. "Your cunt is so pretty." He turned bright red. "I'm sorry. That was coarse. But I don't mean it coarse; when I think it, when I say it, I'm thinking poetry." "Oh, Steve..." "And about my paying to fuck you... I'm a wealthy man. Why shouldn't I give you money for what I want? Why should you give it to me for free? Business is business, and I always pay as I go. You'll get no judgmental morality crap from me about taking money for it." Nice words. But would a decent man marry a girl who had sold her body? Would he choose such a girl as a mother for his children? Regardless of his well-meaning lip service, she knew a man like Steve couldn't possibly respect a woman who accepted money for sex. Her eyes started to fill. There had been times in the past, on the verge of starvation, when she had considered prostitution, but she had never gone through with it. Nor had she let a man take care of her in a sugar-daddy sort of way, though she'd had offers for just such an arrangement. Why now? Why had she finally agreed to get by on sex now? She was no worse off now than before. Maybe she had never had a gunman on her tail before, but there had been bad times, and still she hadn't done it for money.

She was doing it for money now. To disguise the breakdown in her pride, her hand went to her shaggy hair. "My hair is a mess because I haven't been able to do touch-ups here in the loft," she said, pulling on a blond-rooted strand. "How long have you been staying here?" "I was sleeping on the beach," she confessed under the duress of Steve's worried look-what was it about him that turned her into a spineless idiot? "But it was cold down by the water. Scary too. So I took up residence in your loft soon after I came to work for you. Take the rent out the money you intend to pay me." "I don't want rent! I only wish you had told me all this sooner. Anything could have happened to you. Next time, you fucking tell me if you need something!" Her pride returned with a vengeance. "I've been managing without your help for weeks..." "Oh, yeah? I can see how you've managed. Your shape is straight up and down," he exploded. "You've lost weight, gotten along by not eating. Well, you're not managing that way any more. I don't fuck boys." He palmed the small bump her breast made on her chest. "I like big tits, so I'll want these to fill out. Same goes for your ass. From now on, you play this my way, and that means, I'm taking care of you." "As long as you let me take care of my end of things." Steve was a virile man. Even after giving him head, he was erect again, the head of his penis butting her belly. Shrugging off his caressing hand, she turned away. Got down on the sleeping bag, all-fours. Lifted her bottom for him. There was no mistaking what she offered. "C'mon, Steve. You know you want it." "No more today. Get dressed. We have a car that needs working on." Smiling, she looked around her shoulder at him. "No?" "No." But his palm rubbed her raised posterior, the thumb sinking low between her bottom cheeks. He wanted it, all right. His voice was hoarse when he said, "And no shower. I want the scent of my cum on you all day." With that, his hand dropped away and Steve Gallagher slammed out the door.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Steve stumbled up the driveway to his house, his cock sore from the unaccustomed protracted sex, each

step searing him. In the loft above his garage, Emily had used him for sex. He understood. After his wife's death, he'd done the same thing. He was a big boy, and he didn't take her lust personally. Emily didn't really want him per se; he was only her any port in a storm. Afraid for weeks, angry too, and that was probably for most of her life, Emily's body screeched for a release valve, any release valve. Christ, did he know how that went! Who needed a 'script for Prozac when sex could be taken right before bedtime? Yep, he understood all about self-medicating. Last night, Steve thought he had it all figured out. As long as he controlled the sex, slowed it down, made it fun and recreational, he figured no one would get hurt when it ended. But as he dragged his ass up the driveway, his nuts stinging, he realized he figured wrong. Slow and fun and recreational sex didn't apply to Emily. With Emily, there was no taming the beast-the big bad beast had broken through its civilized chains. With Emily, the sex was wild and animal and hot and sweaty. This, after years of abstinence. Man, he was one hurting hombre He had lost control with Emily. No holding back, no condom, and very little finesse. And he wanted her again, despite his searing meat. When Emily got down for him, sinking onto her knees with the morning light streaming in the room, looking provocative and bold and submissive, all at the same time, he went weak in his own knees. He didn't want her giving him head out of gratitude. He didn't want her on her knees because she felt like she owed him. He didn't want her to do it because he was paying. But the truth was, he was paying for it. And he would continue to pay for it because paying Emily for sex allowed him to hang onto his heart. Naked and sleep-tousled, sticky between the thighs with his cum, she was the one with all the power, the one really calling the shots. She could take off at any time, and that made him so scared he could hardly sleep knowing the only thing holding her was her need for money and safe harbor. And wasn't that a two-way bitch? Right now, in trouble and broke, she stayed. As soon as she had money in her pocket and the heat was off, Emily would leave. And he would ensure she both had money and the heat was off her, thus fulfilling his own prophecy. What had triggered that episode last night? What had happened during the day to cause her hysteria? A little fright was understandable, even reasonable, considering he caught her in a vulnerable moment, but her reaction was way over the top. She had needed sex so badly to get over her fear, she had vibrated with the need. In his bedroom, Steve immediately went to the nightstand. He opened the top drawer, checked the placement of his weapon, his gaze stumbling over the box of recently purchased condoms. He shut the drawer; the box remained untouched inside.

No condoms with Emily, he decided. Skin to skin, man to woman, mating. It felt too good to give it up. Naked sex was their only truth. He would just need to be more careful until he got her on birth control, Steve resolved, stepping into the shower.

****

Two days later, Steve faced his ace mechanic over the breakfast table. Since Emily wouldn't stay with him up at the house, he had spent the nights sleepless in the garage, and so not only was he horny, he was a mite cranky too Good thing for the Dusenberg's plush interior; he was getting too old for stakeouts on cold garage floors. Naturally, Emily had no clue he had camped there, his guard duty being strictly confidential. Something had happened to frighten her, and since she wasn't talking about it, he wasn't taking any chances. When would she open up and tell him what the hell was going down? "Eat your French toast," he grumbled, pouring on additional syrup. "I'll get fat." "I want you fat. Eat!" "Yes, sir," she said, digging into the breakfast he had prepared. Emily wore a man's white cotton tee-shirt. That was it. That was all she wore. Ronnie had called Emily Parker a 'waif', and after looking up the word in the dictionary, Steve had to say the definition applied. Emily did look like 'an abandoned young animal or an orphaned child.' He didn't like the description. The abandoned part was okay, as long as it was sexual abandonment. The animal part was okay too, as long it applied to bed. But the image of Emily on her own, an orphaned kid, stuck in his craw. Emily was not on her own, not any more. She had him now. At least she did for the summer. And after that? Steve's fork pushed the French toast around his plate, his appetite departing with the question. No reason he should feel guilty about Emily. She was twenty-two years old. That was no kid. And he hadn't been her first. She said she had never whored on the streets, and he believed her, but she wasn't a virgin either. Inexperienced, yes, but not an innocent. Besides, she had agreed to his terms, money and all. No reason to feel guilty there. And he would never abandon her; when the summer ended and he returned to New York, he planned on keeping in touch. If there was anything else he could ever do for her, anything she needed, all she had to do was say the word. And come September, if he still hadn't resolved The Cuzin case, he would make alternative arrangements for her. He was no cad; he would never turn his back on her; never just cut her loose. Never! His semen had been inside her; that meant something to Steve. "You and me-we're playing hooky today," he muttered.

Emily didn't look up from her plate. "It's your dime." Steve thought he took that slap in the face rather well. "As I recall, I'm paying you more than a dime." "Touché," she replied, her gray eyes growing distant again. He would not feel bad. She could have at least pretended she was here with him because she liked him, maybe felt a little affection. But no. Emily was lying to him about everything else, but when it came to the monetary part of their arrangement she was the bleeding edge of honesty. But he was a big boy, and he could handle Emily's code of honor. "I'm taking you to the beach for a picnic and a swim." "Okay. I'll wear the bikini I wore lobstering." "Did I tell you to wear a swimsuit, Angel?" he said belligerently. "No..." "Then don't make assumptions." Emily's fork dropped to the table. "Fuck off, Gallagher. I don't shake my ass because you tell me to. You don't own me..." Funny thing about Emily's memory, she had these convenient lapses whenever it suited her. Well, this particular lapse didn't suit him. "For the summer, I do own you. That's our deal. The one you agreed to. Another thing, I told you no foul language. If you want to talk dirty in bed, that's fine. Outside of bed, I expect you to conduct yourself like a lady." "Don't yell at me because you've got a hair across your ass. If you need to get laid, say so. No need to turn into a prick because your balls hurt." Steve placed his fork carefully beside his plate. "Soap or a spanking?" he asked politely. "You're just bitchin' at me because you've got a hard-on the size of Texas and you won't let me take care of it for you." She crossed her arms under her tits, shelving the small mounds until they plumped up and out. "I'm an adult. I can damn well swear if I want to damn well swear." "When you start acting like a woman, not a little girl, I'll start treating you like an adult, not a child." Steve dropped his napkin over the bulge under his zipper. "I've warned you repeatedly about the swearing. I don't like it and I won't tolerate it." Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. "And go wash off that makeup. You look like a whore." "I am a whore. When are you letting me do what you're paying me to do?" She cocked a brow at him. "How about right now, Steve, hmm? You keep mentioning a spanking-how about we do that?" "Keep this line of conversation up, and I just might," he warned.

A warning she ignored. "How heavy into S&M are you? I mean-are we talking a few stripes on my ass with a leather belt, or are we talking whips and chains? You into mild mastery with silk cords and velvet ropes or do you bring on the heavy artillery, go in for clamps and dog collars? Don't get me wrong-it's all covered under our agreement. I'm just curious about what sorts of deviant sexual practices to expect." "This has nothing to do with sex, deviant or otherwise," he blustered, feeling his cock go wrench-hard. She was getting a rise out of him, and in more ways than one. "Oh, I think it does. And that's cool. Whatever tents your boxers." Shit! His erection was tenting his boxers. The extent of her power over him was humiliating. He was crazy with lust. Sex had never been this wild before for him, this intense. With Jen, the lovemaking had been innocent and sweet. His wife had been a good girl. Hadn't sworn, drank, worn makeup, or come to the breakfast without a robe and nightie. His bride had known nothing about S&M, and would have been scandalized if she had known. Not Emily. Nothing scandalized his lost angel. Steve pushed the card table aside. "Hike up that undershirt you've got on." "Sure thing." Emily pulled the soft white cotton tee-shirt to her tiny waist. "Put your heels on the chair and spread your legs." "Why didn't you just say you wanted to see my cunt?" "Do-not-use-that-word." With a roll of gray eyes, Emily did as she was told. "I'm sorry. I forgot we weren't in the bedroom. You've got some fuckin' arbitrary rules, you know that, Steve? It's difficult keeping track of 'em all." Her cunt was wet, beautifully wet and he was spike-hard. He patted his lap. "Ten spanks." Emily rose from the chair in one graceful move. Her body as supple as a cat thief, she draped herself over his erection, her bare ass raised. His arm lifted. His palm came down... Softly. Gently. A delicate, reverent, worshipful caress. The skin on Emily's bottom was smooth and satiny. He sighed at the heart-shaped prettiness of her. "Is it too soon?" he asked, hoped ... pleaded ... begged, tenderly circling the lips of her pussy with his middle finger, knowing the mastering was all on her side. "Should I wait?" "You wait, and I'll turn you over my knee." Emily was such a tough little thing!

He levered her up off his lap so he could unzip. "Take off the damn undershirt," he rasped. "Now, we're talking." The white cotton was whipped off over her head. He crooked a finger. "C'mere." He took her onto his lap again. This time, straddling him, face to face. "Hurry!" she ordered. "Come down on top of it carefully. And only take as much as you can comfortably. You're still swollen." "Fuck careful. I want it all." Steve closed his eyes, rapture taking hold, as his greedy angel took all of his engorged cock, every last inch.

****

Emily looked pretty, softly feminine, in the same gauzy lavender dress she had worn to his family's barbecue. Unable to resist temptation, Steve one-handed the steering wheel and pulled Emily closer to him on the truck's front seat. Her breast disappeared under his palm, reminding him once again of her dainty proportions, her fragility ... of how he should let her recover before taking her again. Only he couldn't wait. And that wasn't like him. Christ sakes, it was only two hours since the last time! He couldn't forget how wet and silky she'd been in the garage. Or how he'd pumped fast, and thrust hard, to assuage the torment of wanting her. And how when he had exploded inside her, everything else, like taking precautions against pregnancy, faded to nothingness. Inside her, he lost himself to everything except carnal sensation. He didn't want this. Fucking, yes. Good-time sex, hell yeah. Explosive sex, obsessive sex, addictive sex-no thanks! "Unbutton the dress," he whispered, his vocal cords so tight he could scarcely get the words out. She started working the buttons. "All the way?" "Yeah. All the way. And you better not be wearing underpants. I told your no panties unless you ask permission first." "I'm not wearing panties, Steve. I'm naked under the dress." The lavender gauze gaped down the front, and pink-tipped tits popped out, then a concave belly, but her lap remained covered. "Your cunt-I can't see your cunt," he said, about to explode in frustration. As cars whizzed by on the narrow Cape Cod road, Emily parted the dress over her thighs

Not enough. It wasn't nearly fucking enough! "Separate your legs so I can see it." The order was as coarse as sandpaper. When she parted her thighs, he lost it. "Take off the damn dress," he barked. He was whacked. Totally whacked. And he couldn't help it. Her dress came off, and Emily sat naked in the front seat of his truck, her thighs open. One-handing the steering wheel, he cupped her tits, groped her belly, his fingers spreading the lips of her sex. "Fuck!" he growled, and yanked on the steering wheel, pulling the truck off road. "Get your feet up on the seat! Do it. Now!" Her shoes dropped, her heels came up, his fingers pushed inside. "Please, Steve," she panted, squirming on the seat, lifting her pelvis toward his questing fingers, letting him do whatever he wanted, both of them out of their heads in lust. "Oh, God, please, please, please." "There's a private spot up ahead. No one will bother us." Down the narrow deserted dirt road, he braked, parking the truck under a tree. Without saying a word, his mouth came down hard on her mouth as he moved to the center of the seat, hauling her naked, squirming body over him, her thighs parted over his lap. "Tell me if it gets to be too much," he said low against her clinging mouth, his fingers inside her, his thumb rubbing the clit. She bucked in his arms. "Oh, yes," she said frantically, clawing at his shoulders, bringing bring him closer, riding his lap while they kissed. They kissed until their mouths bruised from the kissing, and then they were too far into it to kiss any more. Emily was writhing, making incoherent little sex sounds; he was about to come in his jeans. His finger feathered the erotic crevice between two halves of a very seductive whole. He circled the dainty puckered opening. Emily's lids went heavy with honest passion. Steve thought of all the debauchery in his past, all the women whose faces he couldn't remember, whose names he had never bothered to get. He had done it all. With one woman. With two. With more, taking turns. This is all this was, just a return to sexual activity after a few years of abstinence. This was not about needing every part of Emily that she would let him have, every truth she would willingly give him. Steve settled Emily back into her own seat, and while the roar of lust thundered in his loins, grabbed the blanket he had packed for the picnic, and threw himself out of the truck.

He was a wealthy and sexually experienced man, with a huge luxury house that included a huge luxurious bedroom that included a huge pack of brand-new condoms, the luxury kind. Yet, the most erotic moments of his life had been spent on top of a narrow, army-navy store sleeping bag on a bare plywood floor in an unfinished loft, in a garage, and now here in a beat-up truck. But it was only lust. And lust was temporary in nature. Lust only lasted so long before it burned itself out. Love was different. Love lasts forever. Love is what he'd had with Jen, his beautiful wife, the fragile woman he had married and still loved beyond the grave. Steve opened the tailgate, spreading the blanket double thick on top to cushion the metal, then went and got Emily. He carried her to the back of the truck, bending her belly down over the tailgate. "Open your legs," he said, and unzipped. This time, he would master the need, the ache, the terrible want. He would prove to himself that this was just sex. He entered her swiftly, completely, driving up into her wet heat, back to front, going deep, pumping fast, shouting his throat hoarse, crying out, over and over. And Emily came again and again and again. For him. With him. How would he ever let her go come September?

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

As they walked naked, side-by-side down the beach-rose lined path to the ocean, Emily felt Steve's gaze, as hot as the sun, on her flesh. Was he thinking about their torrid lovemaking of a few short minutes ago? Rounded on her belly over the truck's tailgate, out in the open, completely nude, Steve had held her in his sexual spell. She simply didn't care who might walk by and see them. Shuddering and shaking behind her, he had withdrawn from her vagina at the last minute, climaxing against her buttocks in a hot, wet spurt, an eruption of fluids seeming to have no end. She understood why he pulled out, and though she appreciated his safeguarding her against pregnancy, she wondered why he hadn't worn a condom instead... "I'm keeping you naked all day." Steve's palm smoothed over her bottom. "I brought sunscreen, and there are shade trees where we'll picnic. Don't worry, I'll make sure you don't get burned." She wasn't worried. Not even a little. She knew Steve would look out for her. After being on her own for years, it was wonderful letting go, having someone else take charge of things for a change. This was the happiest she had ever been in her life. But like all things, the happiness came with a price tag. Her self-respect had taken a hit. She wasn't feeling so good about herself. The money. She didn't want to take money from Steve for sex. "Take a deep breath," the man at her side ordered. She inhaled deeply, as directed.

"Smell the ocean in the air?" he asked. Nodding, she smiled. "I love the sea. The Cape is a wonderful place to live, even with all the tourists. Thank you for taking me here today." As they neared the water, Steve kept her close to his side, one hand resting on her lower back, work-hardened fingers riding the first swell of her buttocks; his other hand held the picnic basket and blanket. "Only townies come here," he offered. "This stretch of shoreline is pretty secluded." Naked singles and couples walked along the water's edge, collecting shells, watching gulls playing, enjoying the sun without the hindrance of clothes. "Nudists have used this beach for years. I always wanted to take Jen here, but she was too modest to get naked out of doors. When we got married, I figured she would lose her shyness quick enough. But I was gone a lot from home. Fishing for weeks at a time. Anyway, we never did come here. Now you, you're a nudist at heart, aren't you?" Emily had always considered herself reasonably modest, but with Steve, nudity felt so natural, she just didn't feel shy. She shrugged. "I'm not uncomfortable naked." Steve placed the blanket and basket under a shade tree. "Glad to hear that. I'll take you down to the water now," he said, slinging an arm around her shoulders. They walked naked into the water together, splashing and touching and kissing their way to a sandbar that was not too terribly far from shore, where the water was shallow enough to be sun-warmed and where a non-swimmer like herself needn't be afraid. She wasn't frightened of anything when she was with Steve. "The salt water should help the soreness," he said against her lips. "Soreness?" His hand moved to her pussy, and she immediately opened to him. "Soreness here," he said, a large finger gently penetrated her. "Are you too swollen to take me again?" Emily looked around. "We'll be seen, Steve." "Do you mind? I'll wait if you insist..." But Steve didn't want to wait; Steve wanted to make love at the edge of the sun-warmed ocean. "I don't mind Steve. You don't have to wait." Desire making her dizzy, she sank with Steve into the shallow waves. As he came over her, his smiling face blocking the sun, there was only Steve. Only this. She was about to come again, about to scream her release, and in wordless abandonment, she gave herself to him completely, knowing Steve only wanted fun from her.

What would he do if she also gave him her love?

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

"I'm taking you out tonight, Angel. Someplace nice, where I can show you off," Steve told her while he tried to pry loose the spare tire from its locked compartment in the Dusenberg. "Man, I give up!" declared the normally patient Steve. "Who knew I wouldn't get the blasted key for this compartment when I bought the car?" Apart from their picnic on the secluded beach, they hadn't left the garage in the last two days. Between longer and longer sessions of lovemaking, they worked on the antique car. Their time together had been very special, very private, just the two of them... That's the way she wanted it kept. For all she knew, there was a gunman in town looking for her. "If you don't mind, I'd rather stay in tonight." She couldn't say more or he would become suspicious. The only way to keep Steve out of her troubles was to keep him in the dark. Steve nodded. "Okay, but no pizza. I'll do the cooking and we'll eat up at the house," he said, closing the Dusenberg's hood. "That's enough aggravation for today. I'll have a locksmith make another key for that compartment when we return from Boston." She frowned. "When do we leave for Boston?" "First thing tomorrow morning." Steve wiped his hands on a rag. "I bought you a gift. I left it upstairs in the loft on the sneak. Meet me up at the house..." He checked his watch. "...in an hour. I should have dinner ready by then." He bent, kissed her cheek, then left the garage. The presents in her life had been few and far between. And because any gift from Steve would be a precious reminder of their time spent together this summer, she raced upstairs. A shopping bag from an exclusive dress store in downtown Falmouth waited for her on top of her sleeping bag. "WEAR ME," commanded a note taped to the handle. Biting her lip, Emily hugged the fancy red bag to her, and without looking inside, hurried to shower.

****

"Dinner was delicious. You're a wonderful cook, Steve." "It was only steak on the grill, baked potatoes, and salad," he said modestly, escorting her from the dining room into the living room. "You look beautiful tonight," he whispered into her ear as he led her to the sofa.

She wore Steve's gift-a slinky silver dress that looked and fit like a slip, and slid like water over her body when she moved. She wore nothing underneath, because she had nothing to wear. On her feet were silver sandals with impossibly skinny, impossibly high heels. Just like a man to pick the most impossibly uncomfortable shoes in the store, she thought, trying not to totter. "Champagne and strawberries for dessert," Steve apprised her, removing the frosty bottle from its silver bucket. After the cork was popped, Steve filled her glass to the brim. Because of her mother's alcoholism, Emily didn't drink. But when Steve took a seat beside her on the leather sofa and raised his fluted glass to hers, saying, "Here's to you, Angel," she had no choice but to join him. Strawberries and champagne! How had a former juvenile delinquent ended up here, in this lovely Cape Cod home, with this handsome man? Emily wondered, giggling, as the bubbles from her second glass of champagne tickled her nose. It was the most wonderful evening of her life, a fantasy evening filled with good food, and good conversation, and the lingering and admiring looks of a man she knew she loved. Steve took a jewelry box from his pocket. With a slow motion curiosity, a removed fascination, she watched as the smoky-blue satin box inched towards her across the coffee table. "That's for you, Angel." Another gift! Two in one day! Clumsy from the champagne, the jewelry box slipped through her fingers to land in the lap of her mercury-silver dress. Mercury is poisonous, Emily thought, the smoky-blue satin box mesmerizing her as it balanced precariously on her slinky silver dress. People chose their own poisons, like drinking or gambling. Was she Steve's poison? Would she bring trouble down on his head? Would he regret the day she had walked into his Cape Cod garage? She had to tell him how sorry she was for involving him in her screwed-up life! No! An apology wasn't enough. She should leave, go away, not trap him in her troubles. "Steve, I think I should leave..." "Tired, baby?" "No, it's not that." She returned the jeweler's box, unopened, to the table. "Will you excuse me?" Emily rose shakily to her feet. She would hitch a ride off the Cape tonight, cross the bridge, and go as far north as the driver was willing to drive her. "I just need to go." Something hard flickered behind Steve Gallagher's eyes, a hardness she had never witnessed before. He stood in her way, blocking her exit from the room. "Open the box," he ordered, his tone leaving no room for debate.

After undoing the fastener, she cracked the satin lid. Hot tears burned her eyes. "A diamond necklace?" "I'll put it on you." A gentlemanly hand under her elbow Steve escorted her to the middle of the room. "Turn around, Angel." She did, shivering as he placed the cold stones against her hot skin. Knowing she should go, but unable to leave, Emily stood still as Steve walked around her in a small circle. He must have paid a fortune for the sparkling diamonds, yet he didn't spare a glance for what his money bought. No! That wasn't true. After all, his heavy-lidded gaze never lifted from the center of her body. Steve Gallagher had paid for her the same as he had paid for the diamond necklace. There was no use pretending otherwise. "What's your fancy tonight?" she asked, determined to give Steve his money's worth.

****

Generally speaking, Steve liked diamonds, and he liked giving gifts to women, which is why after seeing the necklace showcased in the jeweler's building, he had to buy the string of rocks for Emily. No necklace could compete with Emily's unadorned beauty. Frankly, the jewels at her throat paled in comparison to the sheen of perspiration beaded on her translucent skin in the moonlit softness of his bedroom. Dropping his jaw, he licked the moisture that trickled down the elegant curve of Emily's backbone. "You're beautiful," he murmured for the second time that night. And she was beautiful, very beautiful, rounded over the footboard of his bed. When she had asked him his fancy, her gray eyes cool and distant, rage had filled him-the rage not directed at her, but at his own refusal to accept this relationship for what it was. Emily had their relationship right; he was the one who had it all wrong. After giving her the diamonds, she expected he would want something from her. Made sense, from her perspective. And it should have made sense from his perspective, too. Only, he wasn't thinking reciprocation when selecting the diamonds. All he thought about was how alive those cold stones would look next to her warm skin. And so, he told her: "My fancy is you. Just you." Her silvery dress slipped to the floor; she left on the heels. "How about having me, just me, on the love seat?" She giggled.

Finding the irony, but not the humor in that particular stick of furniture, he said a polite, "No thank you." "The bed then. It will make a change from the a sleeping bag." He followed her into his bedroom, his eyes never leaving the sexy sway of her bare bottom, exaggerated because of the high-heeled shoes. She toppled drunkenly over the footboard at the end of the bed. "How's this?" she slurred, face nose-down in the coverlet. It was pretty awful. And not exactly the candlelit ending to the romantic evening he had planned. "Fine," he grumbled, but gratitude sex was not what he wanted. Steve wanted Emily in his bedroom because somewhere in her larcenous soul she had genuine feelings for him. She laughed gaily. "Do I get a choice in lubes? If I do, make mine peppermint." There was a titillation factor to anal, the lure of the forbidden, a fascination with the dark side of sex, a mind trip into power and powerlessness. In the best possible scenario, anal is a gift, a wordless statement of trust a woman gives a man. Hidden deep in the back of his closet was a slightly dusty cabinet left over from those days of promiscuity after his wife's death. He kept a similar cabinet in New York and an even larger one in his Boston condo. Within the open-out doors of all three cabinets was a wide assortment of sex toys, including every possible device, from mint lubes to clitoris clamps. At one time in his life, he had used them all. Steve wasn't using any of them on Emily. Not until he said his piece. He didn't undress. A man doesn't want his piece hanging out when he's saying his piece-it clouds the whole issue. He caressed her spine. "You're perfect," he said, and his cock agreed. "And I thought I had too much champagne. Steve, I'm as imperfect as they come, and you don't have to say nice things to get sex. You're already paying me a fortune." He took a deep breath. This was it. This is where he bared his heart and said his piece. It would have been nicer to say it to her face, rather than give his speech while she was bottoms-up over the bed, but sometimes life just doesn't work out so neatly. He began slow, taking his time, trying to get the words right. "I gave you the damn necklace because I wanted to give you the damn necklace. I'm loaded, angel, and apart from family I've got no one to spend the money on. Not a wife. Not kids. So I bought you the diamonds." He paused. This part would give her the advantage; this is where he would fly his vulnerability like a flag of surrender. To tell her took a leap of faith, a jump into trust, a stumble into hope. She could easily use this information to her own ends. He said he would bleed for her and this was it. Hell, he was about to rip open a vein and let it gush.

He wiped a shaky hand over his eyes. "Angel, I'm not paying you for sex. I can get a fuck anywhere. I'm paying you to stick around because even when I'm in a roomful of people I'm damn lonely, and I don't feel lonely when I'm with you. If sex doesn't come with the deal, it will tie my dick in knots, but I will still want your company." Silence. He was met with absolute silence. "Emily," he said, speaking her name for the very first time. "Did you hear me? I don't care what you've done. I don't care about The Cuzin. I just want you." A snore rose from the bed. His angel was skunk drunk. With a sigh, Steve moved Emily to a more comfortable position on the bed, covered her over with the coverlet so she wouldn't pick up a draft and catch a cold, and went back downstairs, collapsing, head in hands, on the loveseat. Finally finding the humor in the situation, he laughed himself to sleep.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Steve's waterfront condo came with panoramic views of Boston Harbor on one side and the impressive cityscape on the other. Sunlight poured in through the expansive windows, it was the start of a brand-new day, she had a wad of cash to spend any way she chose, and Emily had never felt so down... Soon after their arrival at the condo, Steve informed her that a business obligation required his immediate attention and he would be gone at least a week, maybe more. She doubted his business obligation was the whole truth. Steve was visibly restless. Like a wild animal suddenly caged, he tensed whenever she spoke or came near; he looked almost hunted. She suspected the change in him had something to do with the diamond necklace. Had she angered him? Said something wrong? Done something wrong? It had to be something! He didn't sleep with her the night before; he left her alone in the bed. His bed. The one he had invited her into on more than one occasion, the one she had always refused to share with him. Knowing he wanted her to sleep with him in his enormous bedroom in his huge bed, she had decided to give up the independence of the loft and finally move into the big house at the end of the drive with him. Giving up her independence was to have been her gift to him. Though her independence didn't cost what the diamond necklace had cost Steve, her freedom was priceless to her. But drunk on champagne, she must have somehow screwed up on giving her gift to him... To be honest, anger had played a part in the screw-up. The diamonds again. Steve was paying her for sex in a straight business proposition, which hurt her pride but which she had finally come to terms with, and then he went and bought her jewelry. The gesture made her feel bad about herself all over again, just when she had started to bounce back from feeling terrible...

She should have said something to Steve about the diamonds, explained why the gift had pissed her off while touching her at the same time. Oh, it was all so confused in her head! She didn't want to take money from Steve for sex but she couldn't afford not to. Only a sentimental chump would refuse to take the cash, and she was hard as nails, used to putting Number One first. She wasn't like those bathing beauties Steve played around with in his swimming pool! She never thought she would say this to herself, but she had issues. Real conflicts that centered on self-respect. When the door closed behind Steve, those issues and conflicts went right out the window. Her whole world turned to black, and she realized then that she was only fooling herself. She was in love with Steve Gallagher. He didn't have to pay her for sex! She would have given him whatever he wanted for free. To her, this was a love affair, not a business transaction. They were in the middle of a lovely, if temporary, union of the hearts. She couldn't view their relationship as anything less. An arbitrary date on the calendar didn't lessen her love for him. He didn't love her back. And she had absolutely no right to feel disappointed that Steve wouldn't give her more than diamonds. From the very beginning, he had been frank and honest with her. About everything. All for the best that he felt nothing for her. Who knew where she would be in a few months anyway? She was still on the run, after all. It was her own fault that she had broken the first rule of temporary by falling in love with Steve. She would just have to live in the moment. They had until Labor Day. This was only a brief separation. He hadn't left her for good. He hadn't walked out on her. Steve was coming back to her. While he was away, she would just have to keep busy to make the hours of waiting for his return go faster. Occupied, she wouldn't miss him as much. One trip she would make was to a Boston pawnshop to retrieve Bernard Fritz's gift. And then, and then... She had no idea what she would do with herself then. Clean, she supposed. Though, Steve had maid service and his condo was immaculate. Gosh, already she was bored! Bored, but safe. Steve's Boston condo came with twenty-four hour surveillance. She was as secure here as she would be in jail cell. Now there was a pleasant thought... Emily nearly shed her skin when the private elevator to Steve's penthouse condo opened and Ronnie Thomas emerged, yawning hugely as she bee-lined it for the refrigerator. "Word up! But you are jumpy this morning, girl!" "I wasn't expecting you," Emily said, still badly shaken. "Guess Steve didn't tell you I have a key to the private elevator." Ronnie poured and drained the contents of a small glass of OJ. "I went out clubbing last night with some friends and I'm one suffering bitch today." She lowered her voice. "Just our little secret. Don't tell on me to Steve's brother, Greg. Okay? He wouldn't approve, no how, no way."

Emily got a grip. "Other than treating your hangover, what are you doing here?" "While your man is out of town, we girls are doing some shopping and beautifying. You'll be on Steve's arm at social occasions this summer, and your look needs some upscaling. The punk look just won't cut it in the circles Steve travels, my dear. We'll get you started at a hairdressing salon on Newberry Street. Maxwell's. Do you know him?" "No..." "Well, I do. Intimately. He does me." She laughed. "Actually, he does my hair and we chat. Maxwell loves, loves, loves women, but he dates men. You know how that goes. Anyway, Steve says he wants you to go to a mellow blonde, and try on a more sophisticated look. You've got great bones, honey, gray eyes, and a thin shape-it's nothing short of criminal the way you're not making the most of them." Ronnie tapped her shoe's stiletto heel on the kitchen floor. "With all of us pitching in, we'll get you up to speed. When Steve returns in three weeks, he won't hardly recognize you." "Three weeks? He told me he would only be gone one week." "Change of plans, honey. He called me from the airport." "He's flying?" Emily frowned. "Where is he going?" "Sorry, no can tell. I'm under strict orders not to bore you with business." "But I want to know!" Ronnie shook her head. "Water torture wouldn't get it out of me so don't even try. And you can get that grumpy look off your face, right now. Steve's not with another woman, if that's what you're thinking. The man's not like that. Business is just taking longer than he anticipated, that's all. He'll be back by month's end. And I'll keep you company every day, just see if I don't." "I don't need a babysitter, Ronnie." "And you ain't got one, sugar. It's only that, your man is for sure the over-protective type. He's like that with all women. Greg is the same. And honey, believe me, I can take care of myself, and I'm still lapping it up. Enjoy it while it lasts, cuz it won't last long. " Emily plucked at the faded sleeve of her black jersey. "I know. Steve's has so many women in his life..." She couldn't compete with that pool of naked bathing beauties. "None that mean anything." Ronnie walked to the window and looked out over the harbor. "Steve's a real honorable man, but he's not the marrying kind." "He was married once before..." "That's right. And he still adores her. Woman to woman, Steve will never marry you, if that's what you're looking for. Settle for an ostentatious diamond ring, forget the plain gold wedding band." "Thanks for the insight, Ronnie, but I'm operating under no delusions. Steve has let me know, in no

uncertain terms, that his only interest in me is as his summer playmate. And that's fine with me. I'm not looking for permanent either." "Good attitude. And you could do a lot worse than Steve for a summer fling. The man is generous to a fault, honest as the day is long, and if you ever need a friend, he's the guy you want in your corner. He's forgiving and slow to anger too. I wish I could be like that, but I'm not. You break Steve's heart, hon, and you answer to me, and I'm one bitch you don't ever want to go to the mat with. Un-un." "Take off your boxing gloves, Ronnie. Come September, I'll only be a distant memory to Steve." Ronnie offered up her most charming, if brittle smile. Then, the smile straightened and for the first time Emily saw the pain behind the glamour Ronnie projected. "Get dressed, sugar. Time to go shopping. Sometimes looking good as we say goodbye to a man is the only revenge we women have."

****

The chance to give Ronnie the slip didn't present itself for a full week. As the window of opportunity was small, Emily hurried to the Tremont Street pawnshop across from Boston Common, returning to the condo just in time for another grueling day of pampering. For safekeeping, Emily tucked Mr. Fritz's gift under the high neckline of her new blue silk dress. The antique locket was large, and if Ronnie saw it, she would start asking questions, questions Emily didn't want to answer. Bernard Fritz had used her. He had taken advantage of her trust in him, had set her up to take the fall in a criminal art ring, but the art dealer had also been a father-figure in her life for two years and she couldn't bring herself to leave the antique brooch in a pawn shop. Why had Mr. Fritz given her such an expensive gift? Was it a bribe to get her to carry a stolen painting past customs? Upon reflection, the clunky necklace was ... well ... kind of ugly. Hardly an inducement to get her to break the law. So why? Why had Mr. Fritz given it to her, when he had never before given her a gift? The timing of the gift made absolutely no sense! There was no time to consider the timing of Bernard Fritz's gift then because the elevator door had opened and Ronnie was marching into Steve's condo like she owned the place. Emily turned to greet Steve's business partner. "I'm ready." Ronnie propped open one blood-shot eye. "Glad you are. I just hauled my derriere out of bed, girl. Went clubbing again last night." "Why?" "I'm slow leaving the gates this morning. Why what?" "Why go clubbing since you obviously don't enjoy it?" Ronnie shook her head. "Hell, I don't know. To prove to myself I still could, I suppose. That Greg

Gallagher has been moving in on me, telling me to stop my partying ways, to settle down. I don't know if I'm ready for what he wants." She yawned. "Girl, I could use me some coffee, the thick as mud kind Steve and I used to drink when we worked the graveyard shift at FBI headquarters." Emily's insides clenched. "You and Steve worked for the FBI?" "Un-huh. Years ago." Ronnie was coming awake now and Emily read indecision on her face. "Maybe I shouldn't have said anything to you about that. Steve and I usually keep our career ladders confidential. Though, for the life of me, I don't understand why. It's not like we're working undercover anymore; we're reputable art insurance investigators. Got our own business cards and everything." "Not to worry," Emily lied. "Steve already told me everything. Tell me, do you like working in missing art? It sounds sort of ... well ... dull to me." "Dull? Hell, no! It's an exciting field, and lucrative. Have you heard of Study in Light by Paul Cuzin? That's the case we're working on now." An attack of nausea had Emily clutching her belly. "I don't know anything about art. I'm a mechanic, remember?" "Well, Steve's been trying to trace this woman. Emily Parker. She's a suspect in the case. I compiled a dossier on her. Interesting stuff." "A dossier?" "A case history on a person. It makes it easier to trace a suspect if you know how he or she thinks." "Will you excuse me? I forgot to ... to ... spritz myself with that new perfume we bought yesterday " Emily rushed for Steve's bedroom, collapsing against the door as soon as she closed it. Did Steve know who she was? Did he know Lee Packet was really Emily Parker? Ronnie obviously didn't know, but Steve could have figured it out, despite the disguise. Of course, he knew! He had to know! He was playing with her, toying with her, stringing her along with this summer romance thing. But why? To what end? There was only one possible reason: He was only keeping her around to see what she knew about The Cuzin.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

At midnight, with rain coming down in sheets, Steve flew back into Logan Airport exactly one month to the day after leaving town, dog tired and wolfishly hungry for the woman who waited for him back at his waterfront condo.

After collecting his luggage, he raced out the terminal's door. Rain splashing down on him in wind-driven torrents, he flagged a parked Yellow Taxi, telling the driver an extra large tip was in it for him if the trip was made in twenty minutes or less. The taxi's windshield wipers dealing with the wet deluge, the cabbie dealing with his hydroplaning vehicle, Steve sat forward in the seat, not dealing so swell at all with the ache in his balls. Wanting to keep his arrival a surprise, he hadn't called ahead which meant Emily would most likely be asleep. In his bed. Without him. She should have been sleeping with him! They should have been making love in France. Paris was the world's most romantic city, made for lovers. But because of The Cuzin he had traveled there alone. He would never again allow his work to come between them. Study in Light might be a masterpiece, but it was still only paint on canvas. Had Emily missed him in that big empty bed as much he had missed her? Had she thought about him at all? Every night in Paris, he had thrashed the bedcovers, wrapped in carnal dreams. Of Emily. All his dreams were of Emily. Sex was a big part of those dreams, but sex wasn't the only part. He genuinely liked Emily Parker, a companionable, buddy kind of liking. The kind of liking that came from shared interests. They were on the same wavelengths in a lot of different areas, the stuff that really mattered, family stuff, a sense of responsibility, work ethic. Because of the early loss of her mother, because she graduated from the school of hard knocks, Emily knew life wasn't a free ride. And at his family barbecue, she had been great with his nieces and nephews. He could easily picture her with a houseful of noisy, happy, messy, kids... Whoa! How'd he go from thoughts of getting laid to thoughts of having kids? A man needed a wife to have a family. Family ... love ... marriage-that part of him was dead, destroyed. Twisted into a bitter knot and discarded. After walking away from the cemetery that dark day after his wife's burial, he had used what remained inside him into making something of himself, into pulling himself up. All his raw anger went into his career. Grief was the driving force behind the establishment of Gallagher Investigative Services. Anger came in handy for keeping him on his toes in a cutthroat business, but anger also corrodes. There was nothing soft, nothing sweet, nothing left over for a woman. Especially, for a woman like Emily. They'd had erotic sex, but what would ordinary sex be like with her? Wake-up sex, for instance, when they would cuddle first and slip sleepily into doing it? Damned hot, is what it would be, wake-up sex or not. Anything done with Emily would be hot, Steve conceded, his fantasies working him up, his hard-on making the remainder of the cab ride uncomfortable. Too late to get any tonight, Emily would be sleeping. He had meant to catch an earlier flight but a lead at the last minute had sent him roaming the French countryside. For nothing. Another dead-end. Another fool's errand. He had the distinctive feeling The Cuzin had never left the States.

It made sense. If Emily was the courier, and she hadn't used those airline tickets, the painting had to be someplace local, close enough for a fast retrieval. From the very beginning, he had suspected this was the case, but he had to check out every possible avenue. Running up against brick walls made his job frustrating, and it wasted invaluable time. Where was the damned painting? It didn't have legs; where had Fritz stashed it? Someplace dry, but with enough humidity in the air so the oils wouldn't crack. Most likely rolled, but not rolled too tight. Maybe not rolled at all, maybe hidden behind another painting... Emily sure as hell didn't have a clue to the painting on her. She had arrived with only the clothes on her back, a backpack, and a sleeping bag. He had checked her stuff-Emily had nothing. He wanted to give her everything. Most of all, he wanted to give her the truth. Tomorrow, he would tell Emily where he had been and why. He was tired of the secrets, tired of the evasions. He wanted honesty between them, at least on his side of the equation. He hoped the truth wouldn't drive her away. He hoped she would finally open up to him and give him her trust. The taxi pulled up to the curb. After handing the driver the fee and the promised mega-tip, Steve raced inside the building. When his private penthouse elevator opened inside the foyer, it was none too soon. His luggage dropped from his hand and he was inside his bedroom in a fierce beat of his heart Emily stood before the open patio doors, her face in profile, heedless of the stormy weather blowing in on her. Her white nightgown, transparently wet from the windblown rain, clung to her slender body. She turned, opened her arms, no questions asked, no reproaches given for his unexplained absence. "I missed you," was all she said. Too choked up to speak, Steve closed the distance between them. Sweeping her up into his arms, he moaned against her neck, then took her lips, sealing their mouths. They fell backwards through the open doors, ending up on the patio in the eye of the storm, Emily straining against him, her white nightgown plastered to her skin, her arms wrapped tight around him, bringing him closer, mouthing his jaw while rain pelted them, the water steaming against the heat of their lust warmed skin. He tugged at the elasticized neckline of her nightgown to get at her breasts; she went for his fly to get at his cock, both simultaneously capturing their intended quarries. Christ, her hand felt good! He wanted her to feel good too. When she reached into the gape of his dark trousers and cupped his balls, he felt better than good. "You don't need this," he said gruffly, and peeled the wet cotton off her shoulders, leaving it settled around her waist. "You don't need this," he said more determinedly, and yanked the nightgown lower so her concave belly was exposed. "You don't fucking need this," he raged, and his fingers dug into the nightgown, tearing it the rest of the way down her body, leaving her naked in the rain. His hands were moving, touching, exploring ... grasping. He couldn't get close enough, couldn't get near enough. He sank to his knees, bringing her with him, his mouth eating her mouth, his tongue pushing to her throat. They stayed like that in the rain, kissing in the rain, touching each other in the rain as though they were both of them starved, until he finally picked her up in his arms, her feet leaving the patio deck, her legs opening and circling his hips. He plunged up into her outside in the rain, his throat working convulsively at the painful pleasure of being inside her body again. Then he was moving in time to the thunder, each stroke as elemental as the weather, each thrust as untamed as the lightning ripping across the sky. And Emily was answering the wildness around them, the wildness within him, answering it and

adding to it with her own wildness, gasping, screaming, her leg muscles clenching as she climaxed. He followed, letting his orgasm take charge, not caring about anything but this, this one moment, when time stopped and there was only Emily. And fucking. Fucking Emily. Both hands filled with her bottom cheeks, he walked her back into the room, to the bed, and still inside her, started moving again, a little slower this time, but deeper, much deeper. "Too much?" he asked, watching an expression he couldn't define move across her face. "It's never too much," she whispered, her expression open and radiant, misty from the rain. She was beautiful and his and he had been gone much too long for a tempered penetration. There were days of sensation he needed to make up for, weeks of pent-up arousal calling for release. He needed this, sex, more than he needed to sleep, more than he needed to tell her where he had been and why. "Don't let me hurt you," he pleaded, pushing her legs higher, over his shoulders, grinding his cock into her, welding himself to her, their bodies meshing, fusing as one, so deep inside her he could touch her womb. "Tell me to quit if I get too forceful." He did, but she didn't, so he continued. Hard. Driving up into her body, unable to stop the pounding fury of the fuck. Even after the second climax, breathing hard, heart pounding, the urgency wouldn't stop. It wouldn't stop. Switching on the nightstand lamp, he knelt on the bed before Emily's open legs, his sleepless eyes burning on her cunt. "Your pelt has grown back," he panted, combing his fingers through the fair curls that looked so pretty against her nearly translucent skin. Her beauty affected him so that he had to look away. "I need it again," he whispered. "I need you too," she said on a sigh. He didn't analyze why her statement seemed truer than his. Taking hold of her ankles, he spread her legs wide, and watched his cock slide in. He moved in and out of her perfect body, his thrusts a little more controlled ... until her internal muscles milked him. He groaned. "When you do that, I can't ... you know ... I can't..." The thought went incomplete because Emily, the little sexy imp, was grinning up at him. "Too much?" she asked, the smile on her face, ear to ear. "You can quit if I get too forceful. Don't let me hurt you." Too late for that warning. Much too late. He had known all along that for Emily he was prepared to bleed. No pride left, he said, "I can't quit. Even if it kills me, I can't stop. You're like drug to me." He was feeling everything too profoundly. This wasn't sex; this was mating. And it hurt. The pain was his own damn fault. He went into this with his eyes wide open. There was no one to blame

but himself. The realization that he couldn't let her go exploded in a hot and wet culmination that left him devastated. He would never walk away from this woman. Emily was in his heart, and he didn't have the strength to save himself. "Again," he begged. In answer, she reached up and touched his face. He had only just ejaculated, and so he knew it would take him a while to come, and he was glad because it meant he would need to stay in her body longer to climax. His back dripped sweat; beads of moisture rolled into the crack of his pumping ass. His arms trembled. His cock was sore. Emily's skin was damp with perspiration too, and her soft whimpers told him her passage was getting tender from too much sex in too short a time. Twenty minutes? An hour? He didn't know how long he went at it. "Please, Angel, a little longer," he pleaded when she started to cry. He kissed the salt of her pain from her lips. "Just a little while longer and I swear I'll let you rest." But he lied. He didn't let her rest. Shamed by the excess, but unable to stop his hunger for her, he flipped her over onto her belly and went into her back to front, letting the pillow capture her tears. He was crying now too. When was the last time he had shed a tear? He couldn't remember ever giving into the raw need to let go, to surrender, to hand himself over, weakness and all, dark desire and all, to another person. An hour later they left the safe harbor of the bed and went outside again in the rain; the wild elements of the night suited his mood. "I want you," she said. He felt himself blanch. He wanted it too, but the memory of her whimpers still rung like a bell of accusation in his ears. "No! Your pussy is sore..." She turned and faced the terrace wall, stuck her bottom out. "This way," she said, her hands going to her buttocks and opening herself up for him. Anal. His twitching cock jumped with joy. Too far gone to be a gentleman, he cut through the romance and asked for the truth. "Are you sure you can you take it in the ass?" "Yes." "All the way up?" he checked, just to make sure, because he couldn't swear to stop if she couldn't. And he needed it, wanted it, had to have it, all the way up. "All the way in, Steve. I'm a tough chick. Remember?"

Not willing to leave her, even to go get the essentials, he lubed her with pre-cum. He wanted to say, 'I'll be careful,' but he could make no promises, and he wouldn't lie. Not now. As wet drops of rain cooled his overheated skin, he gave it to her, a nudge, the start of the entry. The water streaming down his back felt good, felt cleansing, as he penetrated her buttocks. She gasped as the head rimmed and buried itself that first little bit. "Steve?" she questioned, going up on her toes to escape the inevitable. "Don't fight it," he said, making no move to withdraw. He kissed her mouth coaxingly, as he went in deeper, loving it, loving everything about it, loving it so much, he stepped to one side to watch his cock there, between her round, perfect bottom cheeks, the head buried that first little bit. No other man had ever done this to Emily. Pride filled him as he filled her. She was giving this to him when she hadn't given it to anyone else, giving him her trust along with her ass. Her ass. Emily was giving him her ass. He cleared the emotion from his throat. "Exhale, then relax and just let me," he said, talking her through the mechanics of anal. She did. Letting go of a breath, her muscles surrendered to the unaccustomed penetration, and he was in. Though not all the way. He wanted all the way. "Just a little deeper, just let me get it in a little deeper, " he urged. "You feel so good," he crooned and pushed, her lush body accepting the invasion and sucking him in. He had all to do not to cheer, to holler, to boast his ownership of Emily's ass across the city rooftops. "Cunt too," he demanded, way past the niceties of politeness. "Take it," she moaned, moving away from the wall so he could get at it, giving her body over completely to him, letting him have everything. Like a bad case of greed, he took all she offered. Every inch she offered, every scream she offered, until she had nothing left to give. And still he kept driving up into her body. Pounding up into her body, his testicles melding to her buttocks, one big hand squeezing a breast, the other parting the tender lips of her sex and rubbing her swollen clit as he thrust into her ass again and again. His mouth opened on the side of her neck, and he bit the silky skin there. "Stay with me, stay with me, stay with me," he groaned, and heaved and exploded, his cum gushing out of her ass when he eventually withdrew, the ejaculate dripping down the backs of her legs, rain washed away. He took her back inside his room again, spooning her wet body to his wet body under the bedcovers, his sore loins nestled to her bruised bottom. "Sleep now, Angel," he spoke low into her ear, holding her, listening to the soft fall of rain that continued unabated outside.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

By morning, the storm had ended. Muted sunlight painted the walls of his bedroom in a palette of golds. Unbelievably, Emily was in bed with him, sleeping on her side faced away, the cool white sheet low on her shapely warm hip, his palm tattooing her softness, imprinting her with each of his hungry fingertips while she dreamt on. What did Emily dream of when she slept? Did she see Bernard Fritz's ruined face, the top of his skull blown off? Did she fight off pursuing art thieves? Did she envision the money she would get from fencing a stolen painting? Her sleep certainly wasn't peaceful. Crying out, her head had thrashed back and forth on the pillow during the night. And he could do nothing more than hold her, comfort her, soothe her with his body in the darkness, telling her everything would be all right, that he would make everything all right. He hadn't slept at all. Too keyed up. Knowing they had to talk, but too worried about what he would say, Steve couldn't close his eyes. He wouldn't lose her, not now. He would lay his cards on the table, get things out in the open. He was tired of the lies. Tired of the games. He wanted her to realize she could trust him, and that he would be there for her, no matter what she was involved in. He would start by saying he understood there were mitigating circumstances and that he didn't condemn her for anything she had done. He would go on and say that in the same position he might have done the same thing. Steve eased away from Emily, and like a lovesick bull, wandered around the bedroom. Needing to touch something that she had worn close to her skin, to inhale the fragrance of Emily clinging to the fabric, he searched her bureau. Way in the back of the bottom drawer, concealed within a pile of neatly folded nightgowns, he found an antique necklace. Before even picking it up and holding it in his hand, he understood what the antique pendant was and why Emily kept it hidden. The large, oval shaped locket was really not a necklace at all; in actuality, it was a key holder. A wealthy lady in a bygone era would wear the pendant, not around her neck, but around her waist. Inside, for safekeeping, she would keep the key to a chest where all her valuables were stored... Fingers trembling, Steve pressed the secret spring at the back of the locket. The front plate of the pendant creaked open and a smallish key fell into his sweating palm. He knew immediately the key would fit the lock in the Dusenberg, the one he hadn't been able to open. He also knew inside the storage compartment he wouldn't find a jack for changing a flat tire, but The Cuzin. Steve looked over at the slumbering Emily. When had she planned on making her move, of retrieving The Cuzin and taking off? And how big a patsy was he, anyway? Wrecked, choking on her deception, trembling at her falseness, Steve stumbled to the kitchen to put on a

pot of coffee. A few minutes later, preparations for breakfast well underway, a shy "Hi," had him looking up to see Emily standing bashfully in the kitchen doorway. Steve flipped the omelets in the pan. "Hi yourself," he replied, like nothing was wrong when everything was wrong, when nothing would ever be right again. Emily had used him. "Coffee's all made." Emily moved a little slowly this morning, a little carefully, he noticed. She was a little pale too. Not enough sleep, he decided, taking in Emily's bed-tousled appearance, taking in the blue silk robe she wore, taking it all in. Christ, she was a thief, a liar and a cheat, and he still wanted her. He gave her an easy smile, though he didn't feel much like smiling and he wasn't at ease. Too tense. Too angry that her deception made a mockery of the naked passion they had shared the night before. He could forgive her a lot of things, but he couldn't forgive her for that. How could she have trusted him with her body, withholding nothing, and not trust him enough to come clean about the painting? Her double-dealing hurt, but he hid his hurt in small talk. "I didn't have chance to tell you last night-I like your new hair color, Angel." She fingered the softer, honey-blond strands. "Better than black, huh?" "Way better. It's still darker than your true color, right?" "Yes. My natural hair is almost white." Emily was a beautiful fair-haired angel, but she was not anywhere as innocent as her looks would have him believe. "I want you to take a nap today. You're looking a little drawn." Unlike an angel, his thief-lover was made of flesh and blood; he would not have her fall ill. "I'm fine, Steve. Really." "You'll do as you're told," he said, shutting off the range and moving the omelets to a warming plate. While Emily poured orange juice into two glasses, he made four slices of oatmeal toast. When the toaster popped, he buttered the slices and brought breakfast to the table. Emily settled into the chair he held out for her; he took a seat directly across. "Eat," he said tersely, his own omelet going untouched as in silence he watched her dainty nibbling, his thoughts occupied on things other than food. During the black period after Jen's death, he had fucked plenty of women. When you're paying, nothing is taboo except a show of emotion. His caring had never extended past his wallet. Before finding the key pendant this morning, he would have given Emily just about anything she asked for, including what was left inside him emotionally. But in a final twist of irony, Emily wasn't interested in emotional involvement; she only wanted a painted canvas from him. After breakfast, Emily started clearing the table. He rose from his chair, stalked to her, took the plates from her hand. Time to get things out in the open, time to clear the air.

"Dishes can wait." Reaching into his pocket, he dropped the open locket into the palm of her hand. "Recognize that?" he said. "Fucking your luscious ass was well worth the price I paid for the diamonds, but anal ain't worth the price of The Cuzin." Emily winced, but she didn't back away. "Steve, I don't understand. What do you mean?" "While you slept in this morning, I found that key pendant amongst your pretty new undies." "You searched my things?" she asked, disbelief registered in her voice. He dragged a ragged breath into his lungs. It had been so warm inside her, but now he was cold, dead cold. How could he have allowed her to play him for a fool? "I was in Paris. I didn't want to go. I didn't want to leave you. Every minute I was there, I kept thinking how nice it would be if you were there with me. But I couldn't take you because I was there for my job. I'm an art insurance investigator, Emily." "You do know," she said, barely meeting his eyes. "From that first day you showed up at my garage, I knew who you were. In fact, I had been searching for you and a stolen painting. As it turns out, you found me. Now, thanks to this key locket, I have the painting too." She shook her head. "I don't understand..." "What a little actress you are! You know damned well The Cuzin is in the Dusenberg. " "You must believe me, Steve, I didn't know The Cuzin's location. That's why I came to Falmouth. To find you. To determine what you knew about the painting." "And the sex? Was that your way of getting information from me, Emily?" "No." Her eyes spilled over. "I was broke. I needed the money. And so I whored for it..." "Your ass is too tight for whoring. We'll have to work on that today." With a little gasp, Emily turned away. He pulled her back, grabbed her arm, shook her. Hard. "Look at me when I speak to you!" Gray eyes turned cold. The rainstorm last night had nothing on the storm brewing in Emily's gaze. "I was never involved in Mr. Fritz's stolen art ring." "You have a juvenile arrest record for theft," he said righteously. "Yes, as a scared kid, I stole to stay alive. It was either that or hustling. I'm not proud of what I did, but I'm no art thief. Mr. Fritz asked me to smuggle a painting into Paris for him. I was about to refuse the night he died. Bernard Fritz framed me. He made it look as though I knew everything about his business, that I was involved in criminal activity, when I never was. I was stupid and gullible, but those were my

only crimes." "Why didn't you go to the police?" "With a juvenile record! Who would've believed me?" Her laugh was harsh. "When the gunman threatened me..." "Hold on! Gunman?" "He wanted the painting. That's when I ran. Since you were the last person to see Mr. Fritz alive, I thought you were involved." She tilted her head. "If you suspected Mr. Fritz's criminal activities, why didn't you go to the police?" "Because I wanted The Cuzin, and I knew I would lose the painting for good if I went public about Fritz. That's why I bought the car. The angel on the hood was hot. The only way I could return the hood ornament to my client, and keep the whole thing quiet, was to buy the antique." "You spare no expense for your job." He shrugged. "Everything is billable. The car is just another work-related expense." "Am I a billable expense too?" "No. You're a luxury I can't afford, but I want you anyway." She asked with surprising dignity: "Will you turn me over to the authorities?" "Not if we can work out a deal." Her voice turned skeptical. "What kind of deal?" "I'll return the painting to my client, collect my commission, and get the word out on the streets that The Cuzin is back safe and sound with its owner. That way, the heat will be off you, and there'll be no interference from the police-which my client wants to avoid. I'm returning to Falmouth tomorrow and when I do, you're coming with me until I'm sure all of this has blown over. That's the deal, the only deal I'm prepared to offer you." "Please believe me, I didn't know where the painting was hidden." Another lie. How dare she stand there, poised and unapologetic, even as she lied through her teeth? Her dignified attitude infuriated him. He was the injured party here, not her! She had played him for a fool, and now that she knew he was on to her, if he didn't show her that he meant business, she would take off, run again. She would end up on the streets and who knew what would happen to her then. "Take off that robe," he snapped. The robe was quickly discarded. To his mind, this spoke to her guilt: Emily would do anything to avoid criminal prosecution. One of Emily's nipples wore an angry-looking abrasion, the result of a love bite turned wild. Last night he had been half out of his mind for her. Today was different. Today, he was totally crazed.

"Open your legs," he said, giving into the madness. She parted her thighs. "Wider," he demanded. Needing to have a part of himself inside her, his middle finger breached the vee of her legs and entered that female slit he couldn't force himself to give up. He couldn't give it up! "Know this," he vowed, his heart searing, "if you run off, I'll come after you. I'll hunt you down like an animal until I find you. And I will find you. Do you hear me? I will find you." "I hear you, Steve." His finger jerked in and out of her. "This thing between us isn't over until I say it's over." "I won't run, Steve," she spoke to the floor, so that he couldn't read the expression in her gray eyes. "Look at me, dammit!" When she did, he told her the truth, no more lies. "I wanted you from the moment I saw you in Fritz's garage. My wanting you had nothing to do with the painting." He didn't ask if she was sore; he knew she was sore. It didn't matter. He would have Emily again. And to avoid criminal prosecution, she would let him. She writhed as she let him. "I know you believe I used you, but I didn't, at least no more than you used me. I swear I knew nothing about the painting." And sap that he was, he wanted to believe her, wanted to trust her, despite everything. Withdrawing his touch from the hot clasp of Emily's body, he pulled the tie from her discarded robe and used it to loop her wrists together. "When we're back in Falmouth, I'll release you. Not here. And don't worry-I have no intention of hurting you." She licked her full lips. "Not even if I beg?" And he knew, even as it sickened him, that if it took pain to make her stay, he would hurt her. "Please, Steve?" "Please Steve, what?" "Please, Steve, take me to bed." "Not very convincing." Backing up to the bulge in his trousers, she rubbed her bottom up and down the hard length of his erection. "Oh, God, please. Steve, please. I need you so. I'll do anything..."

"Anything?" "Anything!" "Start by admitting you're a cat thief." "I can't, because I'm not," she cried hotly, looking over her shoulder at him, her bottom bumping and grinding his cock, her small tits bouncing. "But I'll do anything else. Even play this stupid bondage game." It was an offer too good to refuse. If she was game, so was he. Hell, he had to do something to work her out of his system. He had all day and night to do it. Without saying another word, Steve gave Emily's silk tie a firm tug and led his bound angel back into the bedroom. He had a cabinet filled with sex toys he hadn't used in years. He intended to use every one of them on Emily.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

"Tell me again why we're doing this," Greg said to Steve as they carried the bed up the narrow flight of stairs to the loft. "Emily wants her own digs above the garage and she needs a bed. That's why," he told his younger brother. "And lift your damn end higher. She'll be broken-hearted if we scratch the brass finish." "Scratch the brass finish! Bro! Look at what we're lugging here. Who says this piece of junk is real brass anyway? This bed is no prize, believe me. No wonder your girl was able to talk the owner of the used furniture store down on the price. Look at these dents..." His girl. Damn! That sounded good. And it was so far from the truth Steve wanted to bawl; Emily was only with him because he told her if she skipped out, he would come after her. The Cuzin was back with its rightful owner, but getting the word out on the street took longer. He couldn't exactly place an ad in the New York Times. Until his contacts made the right connections, Emily was stuck with him. Steve offered his brother a grin. "Yeah, my mechanic was really somethin' today wasn't she?" "Priceless. I tell you, she had that guy whipped! I nearly split a gut laughing when she went toe to toe with that used furniture dude, haggling over the price." "I slipped the store owner a fifty on the sly to make up the difference-don't tell Emily." Greg laughed. "Why is she so hot for this bed, I wonder?" "I dunno," Steve said, hefting the headboard around the corner to the landing. "But this is the bed she wants, so this is the bed she gets."

"Women." Greg snorted, pushing open the door and carrying his end inside. "Who can understand what they really want?" "Uh-oh! Is Ronnie giving you a hard time?" "She won't admit we could have a good thing going between us. The age difference, you know?" "You'll work it out," Steve said. "Give it time." He motioned with his jaw to the wall. "Let's put the headboard over there for now and go get the mattress." "Ma sent over some new sheets. Nothing fancy, she says. Tell Emily they're a housewarming gift and she'll be by later to help hang those curtains Denise wants her to have." Steve juggled the dented bedpost to the floor. "Curtains? In the garage?" "I saw 'em. They've got frills. Lots and lots of frills." Greg set his end of the bed down on the floor. "I think Ma approves of Emily not moving in with you." His brother hitched his baritone up a few notes and added a falsetto. 'Steve will never buy the book if he can take it out of the library for free'. That's what Ma says." "What!" Steve roared. "You heard me. 'Emily's an old-fashioned girl', Ma says. 'And your playboy brother better respect that and treat her right.' " "I didn't know Ma kept track of my ... er ... reading habits." "You'd be surprised at what that woman keeps tract of. But you'll be happy to know, I always stick up for you. I tell her, 'Ma, Steve's just checking out those books.' 'What is he, one of those speed-readers?' she says. And I say, 'Ma, you can't blame a man for skimming a best-seller at the library to see if it's any good before he takes it home.' I catch a lot of flack for that, I tell you." "Just to keep the record straight, you can tell Ma I don't go to the library anymore. Until I met Emily, my ... er ... library card went unused. For the last five, maybe six years, I gave up on reading, altogether. I never even touched a book. I've got a lot of reading to catch up on." "You tell her, bro. I'm not comfortable talking books with Ma." "And I am?" "You've got plenty of rooms up at the house. If you ask me, this whole business is ridiculous..." Greg thought his big brother was nuts, and didn't mind telling him so. Hell, Steve agreed with Greg's assessment; he was nuts to let Emily live by herself in an unfinished storage area when he was rolling around alone in his big house and suffering insomnia as a result of worrying about her, this after having the garage wired for security, top to bottom. He wanted Emily with him, in his bed, where he could take care of her, but he had made her a promise, and he kept his word, like it or not. After Jen died, he had come undone. Putting himself back together had taken time. The good values his family had instilled in him had gotten tossed, and risky, self-destructive behaviors had taken their place. Looking back on that period of his life, he realized that sometimes things have to be torn down before

they can be rebuilt. And sometimes the process is a painful one. Though he would've done anything so that Emily wouldn't have to face that kind of pain, he knew she had to travel that road to get to a better place And so, even though it cost him sleep, he would make sure Emily had everything she needed to put herself back together on the straight and narrow, the loft being one of those things. The thing was, to give her a second chance... Every night since their return, Emily had worked on fixing up the loft. She didn't want him to help, but she did let him drag her away to eat. They sat on the porch after dinner, not talking much, looking out at the ocean. It was enough. Afterwards, he would walk her back to the garage and they would kiss goodnight at the top of the stairs to the loft. One kiss. Closed-mouthed. Even as a teenager, he had never kissed like that. God, it was sweet... Steve whacked his brother on the arm. "C'mon, Greg. Let's get that mattress."

****

The loft looked cozy, if Emily did say so herself. After polishing the bed, the brass positively gleamed. Who cared about a few little dents when sunlight streamed down from the skylights setting the metal on fire? The bed was enormous too; it took up the whole middle of the room. In front of it, covering a large expanse of plywood floor was a blue Oriental rug she had picked up for a song at an estate sale down the street. The sheets Mrs. Gallagher had given her as a housewarming gift matched the rug exactly, as did the curtains Steve's sister Denise brought over. She owned an easy chair too, with plump if faded cushions. Since Steve had the loft wired for electricity, she now had someplace comfortable to curl up in while she read. She couldn't wait to show off all that she had done to Steve when he came over for dinner tonight... Emily glanced at the wall clock. Her dinner companion was due to arrive any minute. She wasn't much of a cook, and she was a little nervous about the meal. There was no kitchen in the loft, but she had made do with the single burner hotplate in the garage. They weren't having anything elaborate, only stew. Stew was a one-pot dish, a good thing because one pot was all she owned. Stew wasn't fancy haute cuisine by any means, but she had tried to make it tasty. Water and meat went in the pot first, along with an onion and seasonings-lots of seasonings-and simmered. After peeling and slicing and dicing vegetables over the sink in the garage, she had added them to the pot too. She hoped she did everything right, as she didn't have a recipe or anything to go by. The cooking onions and turnip and carrots certainly smelled like stew... Emily glanced into the pot. The contents didn't look like any stew she had ever seen. The brown liquid was kind of thin, like a broth. Frothy too. Wasn't stew supposed to be hearty and thick? While she was hovering over the hotplate, stirring the pot, Steve knocked at the side door to the garage. Dropping the wooden spoon, Emily smoothed her hands over her new dress, bought and paid for herself, with her own earned money. That was important to her. Which was why she had returned Steve's

diamond jewelry and paid him back the money he had given her. She didn't want his gifts; she wanted his love. She would accept nothing less. To prove she deserved his love, that she was worthy of his respect, she paid rent and utilities on the loft. On time. She was very proud of that. She was proud of her job at the art gallery too. She loved working there... Another tap on the door. God, she was nervous. Finally, she bucked up her courage and called, "Come in." Steve made a straight line for the hotplate. "Smells good, angel." "It's stew," she said optimistically. "As long as it's not lobster stew, I'll eat it," he replied, eyes crinkling. Steve joked with her a lot lately. He was laughing more with her too. But he wasn't sleeping with her, not since Boston... Her nipples hardened in memory. Who knew an independent woman like her would like bondage so much? She did like it. She had liked everything. "I hope the stew is edible," she said, optimism fading, uncertainly rising. "I didn't have a recipe to follow, and it looks distinctly-I don't know-unstew-like, I guess. I think maybe I did something wrong, screwed it up somehow." "Naw," he said, without even looking in the pot. "It will taste delicious." "Thank you for your faith in me, but I don't know if it's entirely justified." She picked up the spoon, stirred some more. "Why is it so watery?" "It just needs to be thickened," he said, glancing not into the pot, but into her face. "Thickened?" "You know, with flour." No, she didn't know! "Oh..." She had gone food shopping that day, and just for the thrill of showing off at the register, bought a small bag of flour, never expecting to actually use it for anything. She went to the metal cabinet over the sink that Steve had cleaned out for her to use for cooking supplies-she had cooking supplies!-and returned with the flour and a measuring cup. "Walk me through this," she said, opening the bag. "How much do I add to the stew to thicken it?" "About a quarter cup should do it. Mix it with water first." He tossed her a fork. "For the lumps." Lumps? Who knew? But it sounded easy enough.

"This reminds me of school paste," she said conversationally, as she ladled in the thickener. Immediately, the stew started to bubble and look stew-like. "Man, I love good home-cooking. Nothing beats it, not the finest restaurants in the world." Emotions, complicated and painful, bubbled inside her just like the stew bubbling on the stove. Eyes burning with unshed tears she whipped the spoon around the pot at a breakneck speed. She loved Steve, though it was a hopeless, sad love. Boiling stew spilled over the sides, onto her hands. The wooden spoon was lifted from her grasp. The hot plate was turned off. She was rushed to the sink, her hands held under cold water. An alarmed voice asked: "Are you okay?" She had no answer. Was she okay? She pushed away from the sink, but not away from Steve. "Hold me?" she whispered, hardly recognizing her own voice; it was as choppy as the stormy seas on the Cape beaches she had come to love. Strong arms folded around her. "You're in the clear, Emily. I got the word out that The Cuzin is back with its rightful owner, so your associates will give up on you." No longer able to fight them back, tears squeezed from the corners of her eyes and washed hotly down her cheeks. She couldn't seem to stop them. They poured out of her as she shuddered and shook. "Why won't you believe me?" she cried. "I wasn't Mr. Fritz's accomplice! I wasn't using you to get to the painting!" Steve continued to hold her in his arms, but said nothing in reply. Emily needed him to say something soon. She'd gone for a medical check-up, without Steve, and the doctor told her she was mildly anemic and underweight ... and six weeks pregnant. Emily didn't tell Steve. If she did, Steve would ask her to marry him ... for all the wrong reasons. She would never marry a man who couldn't or wouldn't admit he loved her. And Steve Gallagher did love her. Maybe not as much as he had loved his Jen, but he did love her. She wanted this baby with all of her heart, and after having been on her own most of her life, she knew she could have this baby, raise this baby, all by herself. Steve needn't know he had fathered a child with a woman he considered a liar and a thief. Steve would return to New York in September, one month away. He had until then to see the truth.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The truck was all packed and waiting in the driveway. The house was locked, but Steve didn't close it down tight at the end of the season like he usually did ... just in case. Blizzards on the Cape could be brutal during the winter months, and so he had given Emily the key to the house in case the garage lost heat or lights or got flooded or she just got tired of living above a garage. When he had explained the rough weather to his tenant, she said the way the ocean changed according to the season was what she liked best about living on the Cape. Steve agreed. Still, the garage was no place for a lone woman during a nor'easter; knowing she could go up to the house eased his mind. Besides, he hated to see all those bedrooms go empty... There was nothing left to do, Steve thought, looking around the front porch for some excuse to stay. The lawn furniture, gas grill, and croquet set were all stored away. The boat was in dry dock; the pool had been winterized and covered. He had already said his good-byes to his family. There was only one more goodbye left to say. Emily stood in front of the garage. Her hair was longer now and lighter. Blue smudges no longer shadowed her gray eyes. She had even gained a little weight in all the right places, though this was unsupported speculation on his part since he hadn't seen her naked since Boston. Which is the how the situation needed to remain, which is why he needed to leave. He had this strange sensation he had let Emily down, failed her when she needed him the most. Actually, he felt like a first-class prick. He didn't know how or why he should feel this way, because as far as he knew he had done everything he could for her, covered all the bases. Shit! Too late now, and what did it matter anyway? He was leaving, and she was better off without him. Emily deserved a man with a heart. He didn't have one of those. He touched her arm-he was always on the lookout for a reason to touch her somewhere. "Are you sure you'll be all right here on your own, Angel?" "Stop worrying! I'll be fine. I love my little apartment. It's the first real home I've ever had since ... well ... forever. He nodded, sad for her, sad for him. Christ, he was making a mess of things! He stooped and kissed her cheek. "So ... anyway ... I'm coming home for Christmas, so I guess I'll see you then." She wiped at her eye and smiled, but said nothing. Why didn't she say: 'Yeah, Steve. Catch you then.' He wondered. Well, it wasn't his business. She wasn't his business. Not any more. They'd had a summer fling, some laughs, now it was over. She had a roof over her head, an art gallery job she loved; she was completely self-sufficient. Hell, she even had a driver's license now and her own set of wheels-a second-hand shitbox she was overhauling in the garage. She didn't need him for anything.

"You've got my cell number, and the business and residential phone numbers in New York. Feel free to call any time..." Emily shook her head, smile still in place. The light dawned. Emily wasn't calling him! Not about anything. She stood on her own two feet and solved her own problems. Once he said goodbye, he wouldn't see or hear from her again. Not for three months. Three whole months without Emily. "Okay, then," he said, uneasily. "Well, I guess I'll take off now. You know how it is. Cape Cod traffic is a pain in the butt..." He backed up. Waved. Turned. Walked briskly to the truck, got inside, and gunned it. He made it to the end of the driveway. Hell, it was a long driveway. As shaky as he was feeling, he did good to make it that far. Jumping out-throwing the truck in reverse would've taken too long-he ran back to her, shouting like an idiot, "Fuckin' marry me!" before he even reached her. Not very romantic, but the sentiment was heart-felt, and fear-driven. "Why?" she asked. Now, this question stumped him. "Because I love you?" Emily was one tough lady, and so she just tilted her jaw and stared him down. "Gallagher, are you asking me or are you telling me?" "Both," he said, playing it safe. "I'm telling you I love you and I'm asking you if that's okay." She smirked. "You'll have to do better than that dumbass marriage proposal or you don't stand a chance." He was slow about some things, but pretty quick about others. Right there, on the white clamshell drive, he dropped to his knees. "Forgive me, Angel. No way could you have had anything to do with The Cuzin heist. No way could you have known the painting was hidden in the Dusenberg. You're innocent," he said stoutly. "Damn straight I'm innocent, and I've got a dated pawnshop ticket for Mr. Fritz's gift to prove it." "You hocked the key pendant?" She nodded. "Would I have done that if I knew where the painting was?" He frowned. "Guess not..." His frown deepened. "Why didn't you show me the ticket?" She put her hands on her hips. "Because I wanted you to believe me without proof, based on nothing but my word."

His mouth gaped. "That was damned tricky..." Gray eyes narrowed. "So-you didn't think for a minute I was innocent, did you?" "Well, not for definite." "What the hell was the proposal based on if you didn't know for definite I was innocent?" A good sailor can always find his way home, even on a foggy day. "Strictly love. Totally love. Nothing but love," he declared, more confident than he had ever been about anything. And for a cocky guy like him, that was saying a mouthful. "I love you, Emily Parker. And not only do I love you, I happen to admire your abilities. If you had really stolen that painting, there's no doubt in my mind that you would've gotten away with it. You would've gotten to France, clear sailing. Instead, you came here to clear your name. You're one resourceful lady." "Yeah, I am. And don't you ever forget it." His confidence faded. "I love you," he said weakly. "It scares me sometimes how much I love you. I'm so afraid of losing you..." She dropped to her knees too. "Oh, Gallagher. You won't lose me. I'm here to stay. I'll never run again, because now I have someone to stay for. I love you, Steve." Emily patted her tummy. "This baby wants to live near the ocean, just like his daddy." "B-baby?" "We're due in April," she said, snuggling close in his arms. "And yes, I'll marry you. If I didn't, the Gallagher clan would make you eat lobster."

THE END

About the Author:

Louisa Trent is happiest writing and so she writes all the time, even when the veggies are in need of peeling and the dust bunnies are in need of vacuuming. When she was far too young to contemplate anything as serious as marriage, she snatched up a boy with a sense of humor and led him right to the altar. Somewhere along the way, she picked up a couple of academic degrees which she uses each and every day, though certainly not in the way she intended to use them. Blessed with three funny sons and a husband who still makes her giggle, she lives in a quaint New England town in a messy home surrounded by flowers and laughter. Visit Louisa's website at: http://www.louisatrent.com

Email Louisa at: [email protected]

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Weekend Games -- Chris Tanglen

Destiny's Magick -- Rae Morgan

Love Lessons -- Vanessa Hart

Portal -- Sydney Morgann

Bittersweet -- Louisa Trent

Business or Pleasure...or Both? -- Rae Morgan and Jasmine Haynes

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