Now That You're Here. Lynnette Kent
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gazed at him, disbelief written in the lines between her eyebrows. “Does this happen often?”
“It’s a tough neighborhood,” Havers said. “We’re taking your word for what happened, Mr. Falcon, mostly because we ran you through the computer and found out you’re an ex-cop.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“You’ll want to be available in case we have more questions.”
Jimmy shrugged. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Havers nodded. “Thanks for the help.”
In another few minutes, the cruisers took off and the sight-seers went back to their regular business, whatever it was. Jimmy put a hand to Emma’s jaw. Under smooth skin, the muscles were tight. “Let me take you to your hotel.” With a sigh, she slipped past him into the seat, and he caught a whisper of that new scent—some kind of flower he didn’t recognize, but wanted more of. While he buckled his seat belt, her fingers stroked the curve of the dash, her skin pale against the black leather and dark wood.
He blew out a short tense breath. “Where are you staying?”
She directed him to a hotel in a better part of town, near City Park. When he pulled to a stop at the entrance, neither of them moved or spoke for a measurable time. They turned to look at each other at the same instant.
Jimmy breathed in that perfume and said the first thing that came to mind. “That was some summer, twenty years ago. Every time I think about it, I have to smile. Nothing bad about goodbye, nothing to regret. The end was there in the beginning—you left for school in England and I…got on with life.”
Emma nodded, and the corners of her mouth curved up. “It does seem strange to think that we didn’t break up or get bored. So few relationships end painlessly.” Regret claimed her face again.
“I figured you’d be married by now, with a couple of kids in boarding school.”
“Boarding school is the last place I’d send my children. If I had any.”
He reached out, stroked his knuckles down her cheek, touched by the note of sadness in her voice. The pad of his thumb lingered at the corner of her mouth, waiting to test texture and shape. A kiss was not a good idea. They hardly knew each other anymore.
But her soft lips tempted him, and he was losing the battle with good sense. If either of them even breathed…
Faster than he’d have believed possible, Emma had the door open and was standing on the sidewalk. “Good night. Be careful.”
He fumbled to get out of the car. “I’ll walk you to your door.”
“No.” She put up a hand for emphasis. “I can get to my door by myself. Thanks for the ride, Jimmy. I’ll look forward to dinner tomorrow.” In a second or two she was on the other side of the glass door and lost in the lobby’s shadows.
Jimmy dropped back into the driver’s seat, then regretted it as his hip howled in protest. A vulgar word escaped his control. That fight tonight, even as little as he’d done, had aggravated his wrecked muscles.
He drove to his place slowly, thinking. The next week would be interesting. He’d never imagined seeing Emma again, especially once her letters had stopped coming. You could track down anybody on the Internet nowadays—that was how she’d found him. But he hadn’t thought about looking for her. Their time together was in the past.
Or was it? There was still a current between them, part memory, part brand-new attraction. Jimmy hadn’t followed an impulse in years, didn’t believe in them anymore. He had his life set up the way he liked it. Why invite change?
Then he thought of Emma’s blue eyes, her easy laugh, her lush curves. He remembered how she’d challenged him, taught him, loved him that summer. And the irrepressible question occurred to him.
Why not?
TIRED AS SHE WAS, Emma spent two restless hours trying to get to sleep before finally giving in and switching on the lamp again.
Her mind seemed to bounce from one problem to the next, without finding a solution and without settling down. She thought of those boys—Harlow was the Texan, she gathered, and Tomas the Indian—spending the night in detention. Horrible possibilities assailed her; American jails had a reputation for danger, even violence, from the people in charge. The officers had come close to assaulting the boys tonight. What would happen when there were no civilian witnesses?
Forcing herself to think of something else only brought her to Jimmy. Jimmy Falcon, whom she’d expected to know as easily, as intimately, as if they’d been together yesterday.
Even after twenty years, she remembered the beginning as clearly as she remembered yesterday. She’d been visiting her dad, at work on the Sioux reservation in South Dakota, before starting her studies at Oxford in October. Taking refuge from the fierce flatlands sun, she’d opened the door to a reservation trading post and been nearly knocked over by a young man—Jimmy—trying to sneak two bottles of beer without paying for them. The owner of the shop had grabbed him and threatened to call the police, but let him go when Emma laid down the cash.
Outside, Jimmy handed over one of the bottles. “You paid for it,” he said with that completely engaging grin. “Let’s go for a ride.” He gestured at his beat-up truck.
They ran wild together that summer, while her dad spent meticulous hours recording stories and language. Jimmy took her to the mountains, to the rodeo, to the Badlands of South Dakota. More often than not, Emma paid for the truck’s gas, the food, the tickets. If Jimmy showed up with money, she learned not to ask how he got it. Gambling was an answer she accepted, but stealing made her nervous. As long as she didn’t know which route to wealth he’d taken, she could simply share and enjoy.
He’d made love to her for the first time in the mountains at midnight. She relived the moment now—cold air and the heat of his body against hers, the taste of whiskey on his mouth, the clean scent of his skin, the rasp of his tongue, the only sounds that of their heavy breathing, and of her own pounding heart.
Oh, God. Emma left the bed and opened the mini-fridge, pulled out a can of ginger ale and pressed it against her cheeks, her forehead, her breastbone. This was the reason she’d kept the memory of Jimmy at the back of her mind all these years. It was almost too vivid to endure.
The man’s magnetism had only intensified with time. He would have kissed her tonight. With the smallest movement, she could have joined her lips to his. A kiss for old times’ sake—what would be the harm?
Turning off the lamp, she opened the curtains and stared into the city street—quieter here than outside The Indigo, nearly empty. No homeless boys to foolishly worry about.
Kissing Jimmy would be foolish, as well. They weren’t so young now, so eager for experience, so confident of the future ahead of them. A relationship of any depth would complicate their lives, perhaps beyond possibility of resolution.
And Emma had too many complications already. Making a life without her dad’s wry, loving support would be hard enough. The loss of one’s employment ranked very high on the list of significant life changes, and within the last six months she’d lost not just a teaching position, but her entire career as a research historian. She’d lost a fiancé too, though she hardly regretted the fact—Eric Jeffries had simply used their relationship to further his own interests. Still, the knowledge that he hadn’t really loved her hurt. As did her inner recording of things he’d said…
The bedside clock relentlessly counted the hours as she lay there, trying to sleep. She saw four-thirty, then five…and finally fell into an exhausted slumber just as the sun was coming up.
ON WEDNESDAY Jimmy stepped into the club and took off his sunglasses, relieved to be in the air-conditioned shadows after Denver’s summertime heat.
“Tiffany? Tiff?”
His bartender came out of the kitchen. “Hey, Jimmy.”