Читать книгу The Reckoning - Christie Ridgway - Страница 8

Linda discovered that the hallways of the rehab facility weren’t wide enough when Emmett Jamison was walking by her side. He seemed so big, so male, in his casual slacks and open-throated dress shirt. It wasn’t as if he tried to crowd her, but he just seemed to be so close, so there, as she led the way toward her room.

He was loud, too. Not in the usual sense—as a matter of fact, he didn’t even make an attempt at small talk—but the quiet way he moved, the confident aura attached to him made his very presence noisy. There was no way to ignore someone like that.

She couldn’t wait to get rid of him.

“You didn’t say why you wanted to meet with me,” she ventured. If she hadn’t been so surprised and confused when he’d called the day before, she would have insisted on finding out the reason then.

“I didn’t?” His expression remained unreadable as he glanced into one of the rehab classrooms. Three of the center’s clients sat at different tables, one working on a computer game, another inserting pegs in a pegboard, another putting together a simple puzzle. “Is that the kind of thing you’ve been doing the past year?” he asked.

“Yes,” Linda answered. There was no point in pretending otherwise. “Computer games and puzzles to improve dexterity and memory and focus. And then there have been sessions of physical therapy, speech therapy and occupational therapy. In many respects—most, maybe—I was like a child when I came here. There was a lot I had to relearn.”

“But now you’re… What would you call it? Up to speed? Cured?”

Anxiety washed over Linda again like a cold sweat. “I’ll never be cured,” she admitted. It was the hard truth that the rehab center tried to make the head-injured understand. “I’m a different person now than I was before the car accident.”

But exactly who was that new person? The question was only exacerbated by the decade that she’d lost. With her past nearly as hazy as her future, she continued to struggle with developing her identity—even believing that she could. Leaving the rehab center, she worried, would only make that problem more overwhelming.

More frightening.

Finding Nancy and Dean Armstrong already waiting in the small sitting area of her room didn’t ease the feeling. They were wonderful, generous people who had always cared for Ricky and her, including visiting her regularly during her rehab and taking her out on day trips around the area and to their San Antonio home. But seeing them today only served to remind her that soon, so soon, she would be moving into their household and she would be expected to not only begin making a life for herself, but begin making herself into a mother for her son.

“Nancy, Dean. It’s good to see you.” Linda exchanged brief hugs with them.

“I brought more pictures.” Nancy pressed a packet of snapshots into her hand. “Soccer photos and some from the field trip I chaperoned last week.”

Linda’s fingers tightened on the pictures. The Armstrongs were so conscientious about integrating her into Ricky’s life. They shared photos and stories and the boy’s company at every opportunity. It wasn’t their fault she had trouble accepting herself as a mother.

Ducking the thought, she gestured toward her companion. “And do you two know Emmett Jamison?”

They apparently did, which puzzled Linda even more. So with everyone seated, she decided to get the situation straightened out. “Mr. Jamison—”

“Emmett,” he corrected.

“Emmett, then. What can I—” she looked at the older couple “—what can we do for you?”

On the love seat across from the straight chairs that she and Emmett were seated upon, Nancy and Dean exchanged glances. The big, bad wolf kept his gaze trained on her. “It’s what I can do for you.”

She did not like the way he said the words. She did not. “But I don’t need anything.”

Emmett’s gaze flicked toward Nancy and Dean. “You’ll be leaving the rehab facility shortly. I want to be a help to you.”

Was he offering his services as a mover? That was the only thing that made any sense. “I’m going to be living at the Armstrongs’ house, and I have very little to bring with me there from here. Some clothes, a few books, that’s all.”

He didn’t answer right away, leaving a silence to well in the room. Her stomach gave a nervous jump, and she withdrew the photos from their envelope to give her fingers something to do. The glossy images fanned across her lap.

“I promised Ryan,” the man said.

She frowned. “Promised him what?”

“That I’d look after you. That I’d do what I could to make things easier for you.” He finally looked away from her face. “I’ve made a couple of promises, and I intend to keep them.”

Oh-kay. “That was very…nice of Ryan, and typical of him to be worried about me, but I don’t need to be looked after. I don’t need anyone to make things easier.” Well, of course she did, but she doubted there was a person in the universe who could make her feel like a real mother and a complete woman instead of the jumble of unconnected puzzle pieces she regarded as herself.

“More convenient then,” he put in. “I could make things more convenient for you.”

Uncertain how to reject his offer, she looked over at the Armstrongs in mute appeal. It was then she read the worried expression on Nancy’s face. “What is it?” she asked. “What aren’t you telling me?”

The older woman sighed. “I think we’re all confusing you, Linda, and we certainly don’t mean to do that. It’s just that we came up with a new plan that we thought might work out better for you.”

“A new plan? A new plan that involves him?” She pointed at Emmett. “Now I really am confused.”

Dean cleared his throat. “When Emmett contacted us about his promise to Ryan, we thought his offer was a timely one. It presents an opportunity for you to gain a greater degree of independence than you could find if you simply moved into our home. You know your counselors weren’t sure that was such a good idea.”

Linda swallowed. She knew full well that the counselors at the rehab facility weren’t one hundred percent behind her move to the Armstrongs’. The couple had household help—a housekeeper, a cook. With all that available assistance, there was a worry that Linda might not get enough practice at the life skills she’d been working so hard on during the past year.

“You think I shouldn’t move in with you?” Her voice came out almost a whisper. If the Armstrongs cut her loose, could she put the pieces of herself together? Could she take care of Ricky and forge together a Linda Faraday?

“No, no, Linda. We want you with us,” Nancy hastened to say. “What we’re proposing is that you move into the guest house beyond the pool. It has three bedrooms, a bath-and-a-half, a full kitchen. There, you’d have the chance to take care of yourself, from grocery shopping to cooking. Emmett could stay in one of the other bedrooms, as a…a backup, say, for the first few weeks.”

Linda rubbed her forehead and the throbbing beginning to grow there. Changes—of plans, of routines, even of the faces that surrounded her—could throw her off. Adapting to new ideas and situations was one of those life skills that she was supposed to work on as she moved into her new life.

She looked down, her gaze landing on the photos in her lap. A dozen or so pictures of kids, one in particular. She was so disconcerted, it took her a moment to realize what she was seeing. Whom.

Ricky. Of course, Ricky. Moving down the soccer field. With his arm around two other boys. Pointing at some out-of-focus exhibit in a museum. Not just some anonymous little boy, but Ricky. Ricky, her son.

Dean must have noticed the direction of her gaze. “While you’re getting your bearings in the guest house, he would remain in his own room in our home, Linda, but visit with you as often as he likes, of course. It could be the best of both worlds.”

The best of both worlds. The phrase stuck in her head. The best of both worlds. The best.

The best part of the whole idea of moving into the guest house, the most tempting part, was that it would allow her more distance and more time. More distance from her scariest fear. More time, she thought, shame and relief intertwining, to not be Ricky’s mother.

Her mind made up, she didn’t bother glancing over at Emmett again. It wasn’t noble, it wasn’t brave, but it was the truth. She would even put up with the big, bad wolf if he’d get between her and the big, bad world of being a mother to her child.

Today is Friday, May 8.

YOU HAVE MOVED.

You live in the Armstrongs’ guest house now. Bathroom is across the hall.

If it’s morning, get up, shower, dress.

The few lines in her notebook cut through the anxiety of awakening in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room. Her mind easy again, she watched the play of sunlight over the yellow-and-violet wallpapered walls. She’d moved her belongings into the pretty little room the afternoon before, and then, worn out by the excitement and the change of scenery, had put on her nightwear, stretched out on the bed and promptly fallen asleep. Luckily, she’d remembered to pencil in the next day’s pertinent info before heading for dreamland at the early hour of 6:00 p.m.

Her stomach growled, a reminder that she hadn’t eaten since yesterday’s lunch. Food would wait, though.

If it’s morning, get up, shower, dress.

She found it simpler to follow the instructions in her notebook. Improvisation could lead to disaster, like the time she’d ignored the direction to dress before her morning appointment. She’d showed up for a meeting with one of Ryan Fortune’s attorneys in baby doll pajamas. Lucky for her, it had been in a conference room at the rehab center, rather than a downtown San Antonio law office.

Climbing out of bed, she noted she was wearing those very same baby dolls. Nancy had picked them out, as she’d picked out most of Linda’s limited wardrobe. These were a pale peach, thin cotton. Little shorts barely covered her rear, while the top was sleeveless, with tiny pintucks on the bodice. She made a face at her reflected image in the mirror over the dresser on the other side of the room. Her body was still too thin, and the childish pajamas made her look twelve instead of thirty-three.

In addition to having the figure of a preteen, the years she’d been semiconscious didn’t show on her skin. She had the complexion of a twenty-something, and she supposed she should be grateful for that.

Her stomach growled again.

Shower, dress, she reminded herself again. Bathroom is across the hall.

As she pushed open the bedroom door, the door across the hall—the bathroom door—opened.

A man stood before her.

Her mouth dropped, but no sound came out. He was big. Big and naked, except for a pale green towel wrapped low on his hips. Damp, curling hair was scattered across his wide chest and more of the stuff created a thin line between rippling abdominal muscles. As she stared, steam curled out from behind him. He looked like an erotic genie emerging from a bathroom-size bottle.

Too late, she crossed her arms over the thin cotton that covered her breasts.

Not that he was looking at them. Instead, he was studying her face, his body perfectly still, as if she were a wild animal he was trying not to startle.

“Good morning,” he said softly. “I thought you were still asleep.”

She took a step back.

He went even stiller, if that was possible. “I’m Emmett, do you remember?”

“Of course I remember,” she scoffed, taking another step back into the bedroom. Then she slammed the door shut between them.

She did remember who he was. But in the confusion of the move, she’d forgotten something else. She reached for her pencil and her notebook and sat down on the edge of the mattress. There, she scratched out some lines she’d written and wrote some new ones.

YOU HAVE MOVED.

You live in the Armstrongs’ guest house now WITH EMMETT JAMISON. Bathroom is across the hall AND REALIZE THAT HE MIGHT BE IN THERE AHEAD OF YOU.

If it’s morning, get up, shower, dress.

DON’T FORGET TO WEAR A ROBE.

Her turn in the shower gave her time to reabsorb the fact that she had a housemate. The small tiled enclosure retained a masculine scent that she found not unpleasant, and she was happy to see that he hadn’t rearranged the various bottles that she’d set upon the high window ledge.

After adjusting the spray and getting inside—making sure she was properly naked—she removed the red cap of the shampoo, the blue cap of the conditioner and the yellow cap of the finishing rinse. As she completed using each one, she’d replace the cap. That way, by the shower’s end, she’d be certain she’d completed her hair routine and not emerge with a head of soapsuds as she’d done a time or two before.

The little ritual freed her concentration to focus on Emmett again. He was going to act as her net for her first four weeks of living in the Armstrongs’ guest house. If she “fell” in any way, he was supposed to be there to catch her. To that end, she’d given him permission to talk to her rehab counselors about what to expect during this transition period. It was embarrassing, but she’d had plenty of practice dealing with embarrassment in the last months.

It wasn’t as if he was really a man. Not to her, anyway. To her he was a tool, that was all. While they lived together, she’d consider him like…another appliance. Blow-dryer, toaster, Emmett Jamison. An appliance that appeared incredibly sexy when he was half-naked, sure, but an appliance all the same.

It wasn’t as if he appeared impressed with, or even aware of, her femaleness, which only made it simpler to overlook the fact that he was a living, breathing, very attractive male specimen. It made it easier to face him, too, when she found him in the kitchen after she’d finished her shower and changed into a pair of jeans, T-shirt and running shoes.

“Coffee?” he offered, standing beside the countertop, a glass carafe in his hand.

Appliance, all right, she thought, suppressing a smile. She took the mug he held out to her with a murmured thanks. Then they both sat down at the small kitchen table. He pulled a section of the newspaper toward him at the same time that he pushed a heaping basket of fruit toward her.

She took a banana as he proceeded to read. Yes, her very own vending machine, one that dispensed coffee and fruit at convenient intervals. She could get used to this.

Then she thought with an interior grimace, she was used to this. One of the reasons she was supposed to live independently was to learn to do for herself. To that end, she pushed back her chair to top off her coffee mug. Then she took the few steps across the room to refill Emmett’s.

He looked up. “Thank you.”

Not one appliance she’d ever been acquainted with had eyes as green as bottle glass. Nor those inky lashes that looked as soft as the matching dark hair on his head. Without thinking, she put out her hand and ran her palm over the tickly, upstanding brush.

He froze.

Too late, she snatched back her hand. Heat burned her face. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

Those lashes dropped over his green eyes. “Don’t worry about it.” He turned the page of the newspaper, seemingly fascinated by a full-size ad for the grand opening of a quilting store.

“I just wanted to feel your hair,” she said, trying to explain the unwarranted action. Her face burned hotter. “I mean, I—”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said again. Calmly.

At the rehab center, the counselors and therapists very likely told him that sometimes brain-injured people did inappropriate things because their injuries affected their impulse controls. She’d heard about it from her counselors and witnessed it herself among other patients. Before now, she’d never personally shown that particular symptom.

Linda slipped into her seat and slunk low in her chair, willing her embarrassment away. It was no big deal, she told herself. Not when he was a mere helper, like a toaster, like a vending machine.

He was still staring at the quilting store ad. And she could smell him now, too. Over the scent of the coffee beans she caught that tangy, masculine fragrance that she’d inhaled in the shower. Appliance? Nice try, Linda, but he was all too obviously a man, not a machine.

A man who had willingly given up four weeks of his personal life to live with her.

Why? For the first time, the question blazed to life in her mind. She straightened in her chair.

It should have made her wonder before, she realized, that day at the rehab center. But brain-injured people were often self-centered. As they struggled to recover what skills they could and to learn coping mechanisms for those they’d never regain, their focus was inward, their energy directed toward themselves. That day when he’d volunteered to stay here with her in the guest house, she hadn’t really stopped to consider what the situation meant to him.

It had to be a sign of the progress she’d made that she was suddenly, unquenchably curious about the man seated across the table from her.

It might even explain her fixation on his scent and her odd compunction to explore the texture of his hair.

“Emmett?”

He grunted; then, when she didn’t continue, he looked up.

God, those green eyes were incredible. She almost lost her train of thought. “Why are you here?” she asked.

His eyebrows lifted. “You don’t remember?”

She shook her head. “You never said, not really. You mentioned a promise, actually two promises, that you’d made, but not why you’d made them.”

He took a moment to wrap his hand around his coffee mug and take a deep drink. “Ryan was a not-so-distant relative of mine. We became close during the last few months of his life. When he asked me to do something for him—which meant promising to help you—I couldn’t say no.”

She frowned. There was more, she was sure of it. “Are you from around here?”

He shrugged. “Not really. I’ve not lived in Texas for a long time. My last permanent address was Sacramento, California. I was assigned to the FBI field office there. But I’ve been on personal leave from the Bureau for the last several months.”

In her long-ago life, she’d been a government agent herself. It was part of that muzzy past of hers, and another of those jagged-edged pieces that she was trying to integrate into some sort of current identity. But as distant as those memories were, she didn’t think an agent taking personal leave for several months was a usual thing. For some reason, she hesitated to voice the question.

“Why would Ryan choose you to make such a promise?” she asked instead. “And why couldn’t you say no?”

He waited a beat, staring down into his coffee. Then he looked back up, straight into her eyes. “I don’t know why he chose me, but the reason I couldn’t say no was because of the hell my brother put him through in those last weeks of his life. The man known as Jason Wilkes, the man who has murdered four people and the man who kidnapped Lily Fortune in February, is my brother.”

The bleak expression in his eyes and the raspy note in his voice told her more. Told her more than she wanted to know. It made clear that it was no machine across the table from her. No, she couldn’t dismiss him that easily. For the next four weeks, she’d be sharing close quarters with a living, breathing, feeling man.

Emmett knew he had to be gentle with Linda, but then he’d gone ahead and put her in startled-doe mode twice during their first morning together. Once, when he’d surprised her in the hall outside the bathroom; the second time, when he’d told her about Jason.

He was still trying to apologize for it later that morning as he drove her to the grocery store. “Look, I’m really sorry about springing that information about my brother on you.”

She waved her free hand as she scribbled another item on her grocery list in her lap. “You didn’t spring anything on me. I knew about Lily, of course, and have heard mention about the other crimes. I just didn’t know of the connection with you.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

“Will you stop that? I’m not some fragile flower, Emmett, that you’re duty-bound to shield from the sun and wind. I’m supposed to be getting used to the world, remember?”

But, damn it, he knew the world was full of fragile flowers and the deadly forces out to do them in. The Jessica Chandler case had proved that to him beyond all doubt. The evil done by his brother Jason only underscored it.

Still, Linda could be as stubborn as she was fragile. Once inside the store, she insisted on pushing the cart, her grocery list clutched in one hand. “I can handle this,” she told him, wrestling with the cart’s wobbly wheels. “Do me a favor and keep your distance.”

So he trailed her, never losing sight of her blue jeans and the wave of blond hair that fluttered down her back. She was thin, but with a few more pounds she’d be rounded in all the right places, he decided. And despite her slenderness, her breasts were full. He’d noticed them beneath the transparent cotton of those girlie pajamas she’d been wearing that morning—and then immediately felt guilty for it.

But the young man standing nearby and stocking the breakfast cereal didn’t seem to suffer the same pangs of conscience. Emmett watched his bold gaze flick over Linda, checking off face, breasts, legs, then wander back to linger on her chest.

Forgetting her admonition, Emmett strolled up behind her. “Everything okay, honey?” he asked, shooting a warning look at the cocky kid and placing a hand on Linda’s shoulder.

She jumped. “What?”

He soothed her with a gentle stroke of his palm. “Everything okay?”

“I…sure. What…?” A flush tinged the fair skin of her cheeks.

Emmett smiled when the stock boy took the hint and returned to his work. “The what is that pimple-faced Lothario who was leering at you a second ago.” Beneath his hand, her arm felt warm and her bones delicate.

Her gaze jumped to the kid, then back to his face. “No,” she said. “I’m old enough to be his mother.”

He laughed and couldn’t stop himself from stroking her arm. “Not a chance.” There was nothing the least bit matronly about the soft mouth, the gleaming length of blond hair, those breasts that didn’t show much beneath the T-shirt she wore but that he could remember so well from the morning—

He dropped his hand with a silent curse at himself. He was supposed to be Linda’s protector, not another lecher like the damn kid up the aisle. “Go on ahead with your shopping.”

Another wide-eyed glance, and then she turned away from him to push the cart onward. In the next aisle she paused again, staring at the array of soup cans and sauce jars. Emmett kept his distance, staying several paces behind as she moved on to the bread and rolls, and then the produce section.

It was when she’d lingered there for several frozen minutes that he realized there was nothing in the bottom of the cart. Nothing. Not one item had made it from the shelves into her basket. In that same instant, she started pushing the cart again, moving in rapid strides down the aisle and then out the doors of the store. In her wake, her shopping list fluttered to the blacktop parking lot. He swooped it up, then broke into a jog, catching up with her just as she shoved the cart into a corral of others.

“Linda?”

She whirled, staring at him as if it were the first time she’d seen him. In her wide eyes he saw the unmistakable sheen of tears. Her lower lip trembled.

“Are you all right?” he asked. Stupid question. She wasn’t all right. She looked frightened and upset and he didn’t know what she needed or how to help her. Without knowing what else to do, he offered her the page of lined paper with its neat column of items. “You dropped this.”

Her fingers drew the list from his. “There’s so many choices,” she whispered, staring down at it. “I wrote cornflakes, but there is more than one brand and then so many other kinds of flakes that I couldn’t make up my mind which box I wanted. And bread. Wheat bread, white bread, butter-top, multigrain…”

Her voice trailed off as a single tear tracked down her cheek.

She was killing him. Killing him. “It’s okay. We’ll figure it out.” He should have taken her to a smaller store her first time, he thought. A mom-and-pop place where she wouldn’t be overwhelmed. “We’ll go home now and figure it out later.”

“No.” Her spine straightened and she lifted her chin, the wet trail of that tear still evident. “No, I can do it.”

And damn if she didn’t. With that stem of hers stiffened, his fragile flower took herself back into the grocery store. This time he stayed by her side, directing the cart through the aisles and limiting her selections to one or two when she seemed confused or uncertain. They made it back to the car thirty-five minutes later, both of them, he figured, exhausted.

But she still helped load the bags into the back of his truck. Then, as he approached the passenger’s door to unlock it for her, he caught sight of her tired, yet elated grin.

“What?” he asked, but he was almost smiling himself, infected by the sense of accomplishment he could see she was feeling. “Pretty proud of yourself, huh?”

She nodded, her grin widening. “Pretty proud of myself, huh. I know it might seem like a small thing to you, but—”

He put his hand over her mouth. “It’s no small thing, I know.” The warmth of her lips moved against his fingers, and shafts of heat raced across his skin and down his back. He thought of her in those flimsy pajamas again and had to step away.

He looked down at his still-tingling hand. “Did you say something?”

She closed the gap between them. “I said thank you.” And as if it were the most natural thing in the world, Linda Faraday went into his arms.

Technically, he supposed she hugged him, but because his hands closed around her slender back, she was against him, warm and secure within the circle of his body.

It was innocent gratitude on her part, that never-say-die protective instinct on his.

Except that when he breathed in the golden-sunshine scent of her hair, when he felt her heartbeat through his palms, it was more than protection that rose within him.

It was lust, and it was only going to complicate everything.