Hot As Sin (8 page)

“But this time he didn’t make that pit stop.”

“No, he went straight to the gate and sat off in a corner. And that’s where he quietly died, with his baseball cap pulled over his eyes like he was trying to sleep.”

“I assume the hit man used a silencer?”

“They said so. I didn’t hear the shot. I looked up and saw a man put what looked like a gun in the trash can. It took a couple of seconds to register. Someone hollered that a guy had been shot and then it clicked. I yelled, ‘He did it! He had a gun!’ in the middle of the Los Angeles airport.

“Everyone hit the deck when they heard ‘gun,’ but some young Nebraska-corn-fed security giant with more guts than brains was standing right next to him when I pointed. He tackled the guy, wrestled him to the ground, and sat on him. Between the two of us, we managed to blunder our way into apprehending a bona fide wiseguy—Joseph Bookman. It was one of those freak accidents. A split second in time.”

He pondered that for a moment, made calculations in his head, and asked, “When was this?”

“Three months ago.”

“This wouldn’t have gone to trial already.”

“No.” She shifted uneasily in her chair. She knew where he was going with this.

“That means you haven’t testified yet, Emma.”

“I’m not going to testify. I’m not cooperating any longer.”

“It doesn’t work that way. You don’t just ‘decide’ not to cooperate.”

Emily bit her tongue on the truth and told a half-truth in its place. “The price for their protection is too high. They want me to have plastic surgery to change my face.”

Expelling a displeased breath, Gabe said, “Silly me. I was hoping I had exaggerated your celebrity.”

Shaking her head, she said, “The commercial started about three months ago. The marshals said in five years it might not be a problem, but right now they wouldn’t guarantee my safety unless I had the surgery.”

“Whoa. Go back. What commercial?”

“I forgot. You’re the man who doesn’t open his newspapers and doesn’t have a television.” Emily paused. “You don’t even have one in the bar?”

“Nope. Wasn’t one there when I bought the place. No money for it since then.”

“Well, if you had one, you’d have seen the commercial for the mascara—it’s a great close-up of this face—and you’d also know that for the last year every sports program and news tabloid wanted to relive the end of my career. They explained in excruciating detail their version of why I never got the gold medal. If I didn’t give them a story or if they thought my story was too dull, they made one up.

“For the record, I didn’t retire because of a nervous breakdown after my parents’ death. I didn’t retire because my coach was sexually harassing me. I didn’t retire
because I was too old. I am not bulimic, have not had a sex change, and I did not retire to have Elvis’s baby.”

Gabe had to fight a smile. “Was it really that bad?”

“Close.” He detected a hint of sadness in her voice as she continued. “Most of them went with the sympathy angle on my parents’ death. Hank and Rosalie were older than you’d think. I didn’t come along until they had retired from skating and performing. They went in their sleep, one right after the other.”

She pulled up her pants leg and pointed out the fading surgery scars.

“Car accident. The real truth behind my retirement is that the ankle just never healed. It’s the nerve damage. I can’t feel the ice well enough to take off or land the jumps anymore. Emily Quinn, the American ice princess, retired because her foot won’t do what she tells it to sometimes.” She shrugged. “But Emily still has a really high recognition rating with the average television viewer and a whole fistful of endorsement contracts.”

She let the fleece material drop back down over her ankle and drew her legs up. Wrapping her arms around them, she stared down at nothing in particular. “Before my retirement there was the shock of my parents’ unexpected death. That made the news because we were supposed to be the founding of a dynasty. They were pairs skaters—silver medalists—which is pretty damn good for an American pair. They were supposed to be around when I brought home the gold. There’s another Kodak moment shot to hell.”

Looking up at him, she said, “I’ve decided that instant
camera moments are good only for reminding us of what is gone and will never come again.”

“Pretty cynical.”

“Blame it on the year. It’s been a nail-biter from day one. Before my parents died, there was the car accident that screwed up my ankle.”

“And then you ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Yeah, I finally had financial security and no place to be at five in the morning. And then I cause the arrest of a very nasty man whose associates would like to see me dead.”

“So, why not change your face and start over? The endorsement contracts? Do you need the money?”

She got quiet, and unfolded her legs as Wart meowed and jumped onto the arm of her chair. He straddled it like a doily with his legs dangling lifelessly over each side. She stroked him behind the ears for a minute and then said, “No.”

“So, why?” he pressured her.

Emily looked up from the cat and met his gaze. “I don’t want to change my face because it’s the only thing I have left that’s truly mine. The only family album I have, the only momento of the past, is the one I see when I look in the mirror.”

Emotions Gabe didn’t want to face welled up inside him. His mirror had been his family album for a long time too. He wasn’t sure which was worse—having your security ripped away when you were six or having your world explode when you were grown. Dealing with Emma objectively was difficult enough without empathy getting in the way and sidetracking him.

Unable to sit still any longer, Gabe stood up, hoping physical action could help him shake off even older, less charming memories that threatened to surface. He grabbed some wood to replenish the stove and shoved it in harder than necessary. While he worked at rebuilding the fire, he kept after the part of her story that bothered him.

“Why not cut your hair or color it? Or both? Why not use colored contact lenses? When there were so many other options, why would the government let you walk away?”

The door of the cast iron wood stove clanked shut as he swung around to face her and answered his own question. “They wouldn’t. Which means Patrick’s career is on the line because he let you walk away.” She saw something like guilt shadow Gabe’s expression, but it turned to anger too quickly to be sure. “You kiss him too, Emma? Did you make him promises with that body of yours to get what you wanted?”

“It wasn’t like that.” Emily couldn’t stand the way he was looking at her, as if she’d done something terrible.
Which she had
. Shaking off the memories, she got up, inexplicably drawn to the pool table. “You don’t understand. We were close, that’s all.”

“Darlin’,” he whispered, joining her by the table and leaning close to her ear, “you don’t have to tell me how close … how
intimate
two people can get if they’re thrown into a dangerous situation. I think I had that all figured out when you kissed me. I just want to know if you kissed Patrick.”

When he pulled back, her shoulders did a little dance as a shiver hit her unexpectedly. She brushed the
backs of her fingers across her ear, trying to rub away an unsettling sensation left by the feel of his breath and lips against her skin. “I didn’t kiss Patrick.” She leveled a cold gaze at him. “And I didn’t kiss you.”

“I could have sworn that was a kiss.”

Narrowing her eyes, Emily warned him not to push it. “That kiss was your idea, not mine. You listen carefully, because I’m going to say this only one last time. Patrick was my friend. Nothing more.”

When she pushed away from the pool table, Gabe stopped her with a question, all the teasing gone from his voice. “Then why did he give you the dog tag?”

“He was reassigned,” Emily lied, forcing out the words as they stuck in her throat. She spun the pretty web of half-truths she’d rehearsed in the bathroom. “But he knew how afraid and alone I was, so when he … when he found out he wouldn’t be around to protect me anymore, he gave me the dog tag and told me where I could find you if I needed someone.”

“Let me get this straight.” Gabe drew her closer, locking his gaze with hers. “He gave you the dog tag because he got pulled off your detail for this other assignment? Sort of like insurance to make you feel better until he got back?”

“Yeah, that’s why he gave it to me. Just in case something went wrong.”

Oh, hell
, thought Gabe as he leaned back on the edge of the pool table, suddenly tired. This was finally beginning to make a wicked sort of sense. And none of it good news.

His buddy had parted with the tag so easily because he never thought Emily would actually use it! Good old
Patrick loved grand gestures. Probably figured he’d get the dog tag back soon enough with no harm done, and look like a fine fellow in the process. Only something bad happened in the meantime, and now Gabe was left to pick up the pieces until Patrick surfaced. “So, what went wrong, Emma?”

“No. You can’t have it. My finger is still on the card. I’ve changed my mind.” Emily pleaded desperately with Patrick, who answered with a sinful grin and a shake of his head
.

“Baby, as soon as it touched the discard stack, it belonged to me.”

He didn’t give her any breaks. Not when they played cards. He played cut-throat gin for a penny a point. So far she owed him twenty-three dollars and seventy-one cents
.

“Fine.” She let go of the card and motioned for him to take it. “I’m going to beat you in a second or two anyway.”

“Now, there’s an empty threat if I ever heard one.” He perused his cards. “Unless you got Danny-boy peeking at my cards through the window and giving you hand signals.” He grabbed his radio even though no one could possibly see through the drawn shades. “Dano, are you working for the enemy? You telling this woman about my cards?”

The silence erased all Patrick’s good-natured humor. He keyed the radio again.…

“What went wrong?” Gabe repeated, forcing her to look at him.

Emily knew the answer to that question would be the biggest lie of all. What made the lies worse for her
was that she’d somehow ended up standing in Gabe’s arms, in the cradle of his thighs. She was drawing the strength to lie
to
him
from
him. Her clasped hands were centered on his chest, as if this were the most natural posture for a conversation between strangers.

But she didn’t pull back. If she had to relive that night, she couldn’t think of a better place to do it than in the safety of Gabe’s arms. She forced herself to tell as much of the truth as possible, changing the names and omitting her last conversation with Patrick—the one about finding Gabe. Even as she told the carefully edited version, the original played in her mind in living color. Just as real as it had been four days before.

As the story unraveled, Gabe’s mind reeled with the implication of what she said. Two deputy marshals had been killed, but that wasn’t the worst of it. A
marshal
had been involved in the attempt on Emma’s life. Some very angry, very clever, very connected people wanted her dead.

Getting rid of the witness would keep Bookman from making a deal with the feds. Emma was the first domino in a chain that could bring down some heavy duty crime figures. Everybody would be coming after her. The marshals and the bad guys.

No matter how cleverly she thought she’d covered her tracks, she was an amateur. They’d be coming. The only question was how long before they got here, and if he’d be ready for them.

Thank God he’d routed that damned fax through New York. That would buy him some time if the feds got suspicious about the letter, a week at least. Patrick should be in contact long before then. Maybe between
the two of them they could sort through this mess. In the meantime he’d have to make plans to get Emma out.

Unfortunately she was in no condition emotionally to go anywhere. She needed some time to deal with everything that had happened, and he wasn’t sure he could give her time.

He heard not only the terror in her voice, but also the guilt at leaving an officer she barely knew to die. Underlining it all was a courage she would never recognize. But the truth was only pure guts had gotten her this far.

“I couldn’t stay,” she told him, apologizing to him again for failing—almost as if she’d failed him personally. “I couldn’t stay. I tried. I did. I’m so sorry. I picked up the gun, but I couldn’t do it, and there was so much blood, and—”

“And it’s all right,” Gabe told her softly as she struggled with the guilt. He could see it in her eyes.

Emma fought so hard for control, but the price was just as high as letting go of the emotions. He understood where all the tears in the bar had come from last night. She’d been saving them up, afraid to shed them until she was safe.

“You don’t need to justify anything. You did the best you could, darlin’. The best anyone could have.”

“
No!
” A tear fought past her defenses and slid into the corner of her mouth. Her tongue wiped it off instantly, erasing it as if she had no right to cry. Her knuckles were white and her hands clenched so hard, the pressure dug them into his chest. “No, what I did was leave the man who saved my life alone to die.”

“Emma.” He shook her gently by the shoulders. “He knew the risk when he took the job.”

“Did he know that I’d take his keys, and get in
his
car, and drive away while he lay on the floor and quietly bled to death on cheap beige carpeting? In the dark, with no one to hold his hand or close his eyes?” She looked up at him, regret written all over her face and unshed tears glittering in her eyes, but she was angry too. Her hands had curled into fists clutching his T-shirt. “Do you think he knew
that
when he signed on?”

“I think he knows he did a damn good job. You’re still alive, and as far as I’m concerned, that’s all that matters.”

“Is it?” she asked softly, full of doubt, tears streaking down her cheeks one after the other. Slowly she let go of his shirt and smoothed the wrinkles from the fabric.