Читать книгу Now That You're Here - Lynnette Kent - Страница 10

JIMMY HADN’T FAILED to notice that Emma was keeping to her promise, as far as their working together was concerned. She spoke and laughed with him if he came into the kitchen, said a friendly good-night when he walked her out to the cab he made sure was waiting when the club closed. Just as she’d predicted, they had developed a polite, uninvolved employer-employee relationship.

Too bad he had to work so damn hard to keep it that way.

Sunday night’s crowd was thin and not very hungry. Jimmy leaned back against the bar a little after midnight, listening to the music, thinking about closing up early. Then Emma stepped up beside him.

“This band is quite good.”

He nodded, trying not to take too deep a breath, needing to avoid getting caught by that scent she used. “There’s a recording contract in the near future. Another year, and they’ll be too busy to play here.”

“You had something to do with that, I think.”

“I made a phone call. The music did the rest.”

She glanced at him, moved a step closer. “You must know some very influential people in the recording business.”

Easing back, he shrugged. “I played drums for a year or so with a band that wasn’t very good. After we broke up, one of the guys went back to the family business…which happens to be producing and recording. I let him know when something sounds good, he comes out from L.A. and we have a few drinks together while he listens. Not a big deal.”

The band moved into a slow number, showcasing the piano’s heavy chords and the sax’s sweet wail. Two couples at a nearby table got up to dance. Emma stirred, swayed slightly to the beat.

No. Jimmy threw himself a mental punch. The last thing you want to do is dance. Get a drink, tell a joke. Just walk off.

But he found himself looking at her when she turned his way. “Want to dance, Emma?” As soon as the words were out, he cursed himself for a fool.

She stared at him with caution in her eyes. Damned if he did or if he didn’t at this point, Jimmy grinned. “No strings. Just a friendly employer-employee conference…out on the floor.”

“Will it bother your hip?”

He took her hand and pulled her with him onto the small parquet square in front of the stage. “No.” Only a minor lie. He could handle anything from Emma Garrett except pity. “Let’s dance.”

Graceful they weren’t. His stiff hip threw their rhythm off. After one brush with Emma’s knees and thighs and breasts, Jimmy kept air between their bodies. His reaction to her softness was an echo of urges twenty years past.

And yet…completely in the present. Emma at eighteen had been a tall, thin, pale-skinned girl with unruly red hair, totally different from anyone he’d ever known. That uniqueness alone had been fascinating.

Emma at thirty-eight was a full-bodied temptress whose creamy skin and gold-red hair glowed, even under the harsh fluorescent lights in the kitchen. He’d met enough women in the past twenty years to make comparisons—she was still unique. And still fascinating.

Holding her away from him allowed them to talk. Jimmy went with the flow of his thoughts. “So what’s happened to you in two decades, Emma? You got your degree. And then?”

“Another degree. And another. Academic life is addictive.”

“If you say so.” High school had been more than he could take, though he’d stayed in long enough to graduate. Because Emma had wanted him to. “What’d you study?”

“History—British colonial history, actually, with an emphasis on relations between the Crown and the indigenous peoples of America.”

“Indians, you mean?” He grinned at her raised eyebrow. “I don’t have to be politically correct. You said you taught college. In England?”

“At Cambridge, yes, then Edinburgh and Toronto. I spent two years at Harvard on a fellowship.”

That hit him in the chest. “I’ve got a Harvard professor cooking in my kitchen?”

She looked away, toward the band. “An ex-professor.” Her freckles darkened over a sweet rose blush. “I…um…was sacked about six months ago. Dismissed.” The rose deepened to a splotched red.

His mind took a second to catch up. “You mean fired?” Emma nodded. “Why?”

With a soft glissando on the piano, the music ended. The bandleader said good-night, and the couples around them began to leave. Emma stepped back, needing to get away. Needing to avoid Jimmy’s very reasonable, completely unanswerable question.

He kept hold of her arms, drawing her close again. “Why did you get fired, Emma? Too many parties? You couldn’t get up in time for your eight-o’clock classes?”

Without looking at him, she pushed against his chest, against the solid muscles under a deceptively soft black shirt. His hands retained their strong grip on her elbows.

“I wrote a paper,” she said softly, desperately. “Had it accepted for publication in a major journal, was getting ready to be promoted to department head at an exclusive New England school. Just before I was to present the findings at a conference, the truth came out.”

“Truth?”

“The central conclusions of my paper, the most important parts of the entire project, were based on a recently recovered set of letters, written from the colonies to England in the eighteenth century. I’d been reading for information about native cooperation with the English, but I discovered a remarkable peripheral thread.”

“Yeah?”

“The letters revealed a traitor on the English military staff during the French and Indian war. The spy kept the opposing armies apprised of the movements of English troops. The fact that he was connected to some very highly placed figures in the governments of England and France widened the conspiracy. Or so I thought. The truly vital letters were found to be…to be…” She dragged in a breath. “Forged.”

After a few moments of silence, Jimmy’s hands softened. “Who did it?”

She threw her head back to stare at him. “The presumption is that I did, of course.”

His grin was cynical, knowing. “Sure. But who really did the forging?”

Now she couldn’t look at him at all. “That’s the truly pitiful part. The forgery was discovered by Eric Jeffries, my…my colleague on th-the project. And…” Her voice did not want to work. “And my fiancé.”

Jimmy muttered something under his breath.

When she pulled this time, he let her go. “It doesn’t really matter who forged the letters. As a historian, I should have been certain of the evidence and its provenance. I didn’t check deeply enough, and for that mistake alone I deserved to lose my post.”

He followed her into the kitchen. “Everybody makes a mistake once in a while. Some of us make more than one.”

Emma stood at the sink, staring down at the marred stainless steel. “Better not to do it when there is…are people standing at your shoulder, ready to take your place. I doubt I’ll ever be accepted as a serious historian again.”

“You think Jeffries planted the letters? So he could get the glory?”

“I…yes.”

Jimmy’s warm hands closed on her shoulders and turned her around. Unwillingly she looked into his lean dark face, into eyes as black as the night sky over the desert.

“You might have lost one round, Emma.” His thumbs stroked across her collarbones just above the neck of her shirt. “But you’re not a loser. Give yourself some time. You’ll be back where you belong.”

The touch of his skin, light as it was, set her to trembling. Emma looked at his mouth, remembered his flavor as if they’d kissed only yesterday. Did he still taste the same?

His thumbs stilled. The pressure of his fingers on her shoulders increased, drawing her forward. Emma closed her eyes, waiting.

Not for long. Jimmy touched her mouth with his, softly, asking permission. She parted her lips, granting it. She expected to be swept away. She wanted to be swept away.

But the kiss stayed well within the boundaries of control. Touching, parting, touching again—a sweet torment that brought tears to her eyes and need into her chest. She had no defense against gentleness.

Jimmy drew back, leaned in again to press kisses on her eyelids, her forehead. “You still taste like strawberries,” he said softly. Then he let her go and stepped away. “I’ll make sure the cab is waiting.” Before she could gather her thoughts together, he had left the kitchen.

She managed a calm goodbye as he held the door of the cab for her. She kept herself together during the ride across town, the wait for the elevator and the ride up with two tired-looking men. Emma didn’t react at all until she was safe behind the door to her private room.

There, she set free her self-disgust. “Haven’t you learned anything?” She yanked the band out of her hair and jerked a brush through the tangles. “Throwing yourself at the man like…like a lovesick undergraduate. Surely you know better by now.”

Even before the debacle that ended her research career, Emma’s experience in academia had taught her more than historical facts. Over years of competition with male scholars and teachers, she had come to see herself in a realistic light. Her brain was formidable, her talents varied and useful.

But as a woman she lacked the spark to ignite men’s hearts. Eric had as much told her so when he broke the engagement. “Thanks for the leg-up, Emma,” he’d taunted. “I knew if I played you right, you’d believe me when I said those letters were authentic. What I do for my career…” He sighed. “Now, of course, there’s no need for me to marry you. Amazons just aren’t my type.”

She wasn’t anyone’s type, apparently. That summer with Jimmy, they’d both been young, ready to learn the ways of love. Adolescent hormones and natural curiosity created a powerful chemistry. Only a fool would expect the reaction to last twenty years. Or to survive the twenty pounds she’d gained, the lines at the corners of her eyes, the awkwardness of being too tall, which she’d never managed to conquer.

Jimmy’s charm, his charisma, were as natural to him as breathing. But Emma knew better than to believe the fantasy. Cinderella she was not. When Jimmy was kind, when he was flattering, she would simply have to keep her head. He’d given her a job, given her a means to start over with her life.

How much more could she reasonably ask?

Turning off the bedside lamp, she burrowed under the sheet, arms folded tight against her chest, and acknowledged the answer to her own question.

Not nearly as much as I could want.

EVEN ON SUNDAY, the late-night streets weren’t deserted. Long after Emma had left, Jimmy set the club’s alarm, stepped out the front door and locked it, then turned to assess the situation. The cops patrolled fairly often until about midnight. After that, the pretense at control disappeared, and the street people reclaimed their territory. For a few hours, anyway.

Tonight’s cast of characters included a couple of prostitutes stationed on a corner across from the club and their pimp in his gold Mercedes parked nearby, plus the usual assortment of addicts and dealers, the homeless and the helpless.

Jimmy shook his head. He’d once seen himself as someone who could help these people solve their problems. Now he just figured they all had a right to go to hell their own way.

As he approached the Jag in its usual spot, a trio of shadows separated from the nearby wall. Talking about lost causes…

“Hey there, Mr. Falcon. Great wheels.” The Texas drawl identified Harlow.

“Thanks.” Jimmy leaned back against the front fender. “After that mix-up the other night, I didn’t expect to see you guys around here so soon. Doesn’t look like the neighborhood’s too safe, where you’re concerned.”

“We go anywhere we want to.” Tomas, part Mexican, part Indian, and all mouth, ran a hand over the roof of the Jag. “Nobody’s telling us where we can and can’t hang out.”

“If you say so.”

“Business doin’ good, Mr. Falcon?” The smoke from Harlow’s cigarette drifted on the late-night breeze.

“Same as usual.”

“Been catching some great smells coming out that back door this week. You got a new cook?”

Every hair on his body stood on end. Jimmy forced himself not to move. “That’s right.” These three weren’t the violent threat some folks pictured when they thought about heroin addicts—only boys who had nowhere else to go and nobody who cared. That was why he’d once thought he had a chance to get them off the streets, out of this lousy life.

But the drug had defeated him in the battle for their souls. He wasn’t afraid of them, but he didn’t want them hassling Emma. Just one more reason he never should have hired her.

Harlow wasn’t going to let the subject drop. “You’re gettin’ real uptown for a dirty little hole in the wall. Next thing we know, you’ll be paintin’ the place.”

“Don’t worry—I don’t expect to get an award from the Denver beautification committee anytime soon.”

“Glad to hear it. Those types like to think our types live somewhere else, you know?” Harlow straightened away from the lamppost. He sounded almost…regretful.

But Jimmy had let that easy regret fake him out before. Harlow was a master con artist. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, it’s been a long day.” He wouldn’t open the car door until they left. And all of them knew it.

“That it has.” Ryan, the smallest of the bunch, was thin to the point of disappearing. The hunger in his eyes was not for food. “Man with a car like this must carry some extra change. Whaddaya say, Mr. F.? How about a loan?”

“I could manage fifty cents for some gum.”

Tomas barked a laugh. “Piss on that. As if gum wasn’t eighty freakin’ cents these days. Gimme a break, man.”

Despite his size, he moved fast. Jimmy looked up into the swarthy, sweating face just inches from his own. If Harlow was the brains of the group, Tomas was the muscle. And he had a bad temper. “Get out of my way.”

“I’m tellin’ you, man—”

Harlow put a hand on Tomas’s shoulder and jerked him backward, away from Jimmy. “Chill, Tommy. We’re not gonna shake down Mr. Falcon. He’s one of the good guys.”

“Like hell he is.”

“Harlow…” Ryan’s voice had started to shake. In the few minutes of the conversation, his skin had paled and his eyes had clouded.

“Yeah, Ry. I’m coming.” Harlow shrugged and gave Jimmy a conciliatory grin. “Sorry for the trouble, Mr. Falcon. We’ll let you get home and get some sleep.”

“Thanks.” Jimmy didn’t move until Harlow and friends started down the sidewalk toward the part of town where drugs were easier to score than ice-cream cones. Then, through the windshield, he watched until the three boys blended into the night. He reminded himself once again that he had tried with them. And failed.

Headed across town to his apartment, he turned on the seat warmer to ease the ache in his hip. He hadn’t been keeping up with therapy the past few months, so a ten-minute dance had set up cramps in his shredded muscles. Small price to pay, though, for a chance to hold Emma in his arms.

But he shouldn’t have kissed her. He’d known it ahead of time and ignored the knowledge. The very first time he’d ever dared, she’d just eaten a strawberry, brought back from Denver to the rez by her impractical, nearsighted, absentminded father. Jimmy had never tasted strawberries—they didn’t thrive in the arid canyonlands he’d grown up in. But that summer with Emma, he’d learned to crave the sweet, seedy fruit. Anytime since, when he’d allowed himself the indulgence of that special berry, he had thought of one special woman-child. And smiled.

He wasn’t smiling now. He was trying to figure out how to keep control so that tonight’s mistake didn’t happen again. The easiest option was to fire Emma. Get her out of the club, out of his life.

Yeah, right. Kick her when she was already down. He couldn’t do that to any woman.

Especially not to Emma.

He’d have to make himself scarce. Tiffany had worked for him long enough to know the liquor reps, the standing orders, the combination to the safe and where he kept the spare keys. She would handle the daily management duties as well as he could. Especially if he raised her pay.

That left only the nights—when the club was packed and Emma worked her magic in the kitchen. He’d stay out of her way, but he’d be sure to hang around. Harlow and his gang could not be allowed to hustle Emma. Unless something deep inside her had changed—and he could tell from her eyes that it hadn’t—she’d have no problem throwing money into the bottomless well where these boys lived with their habit.

She would try to help them and, most likely, fail. Jimmy didn’t want her hurt that way, didn’t want to see the disillusionment in her eyes when she realized she’d only been a mark. Emma put her whole heart into everything she did. She’d done it the summer they spent together, and she was doing it now, just cooking up sandwiches in his club.

Somehow he was going to have to keep Emma from getting burned. By these boys…

And by his own fierce, out-of-line desire.

“JIMMY HASN’T BEEN HERE very often during this last week.” Late Thursday morning, Emma sat down on a wobbly bar stool to watch Tiffany stack glassware.

“Nope. He said he was taking some days off.”

“Did he say why?” Emma didn’t really need to ask. Jimmy was avoiding her, embarrassed at being pressured into that kiss.

Tiffany shook her head. “He’s done it before. I think he goes for weeks without sleeping more than a couple of hours a night, and then crashes and sleeps for about a month.”

“That doesn’t sound like much of a life.” Why would an accomplished and charming man live such a sterile existence?”

“I guess that’s the way he wants it.”

Emma surrendered to her curiosity. “Has he always lived alone?”

“As long as I’ve known him.”

Something loosened inside Emma’s chest that she tried very hard to ignore.

“Of course, that doesn’t mean he’s a monk.” Tiffany’s smile was wicked. “There have been quite a few women in his life over the years.”

“I’m sure.” Her chest had tightened up again. She decided to change the subject. “How long have you known Jimmy?”

The bartender pondered. “I worked here for a couple of years before I got married. After the divorce I came back. So I guess that’s maybe five or six years.”

“Has Jimmy met your current…er…boyfriend?”

“Nope. No reason to. Brad’s not into jazz.” She grinned.

“But he likes the tips I get, so he doesn’t mind me working.”

“Does Brad work?”

“Off and on. He does demolition—taking down old buildings and stuff like that—but it’s kind of an unsteady job market unless you run your own company. Which is okay with Brad, because he doesn’t like life too predictable, anyway.”

“Ah.” If Tiffany didn’t mind supporting a slacker, who was Emma to protest? She propped her chin in her hands. “Well, if Jimmy isn’t here, he can’t very well know what’s going on, can he?”

Tiffany shot her a suspicious glance. “What’s going on?”

The idea had occurred to her in the cab on the way home last night. “Suppose I changed the menu. He wouldn’t realize until sometime during the evening. And by then, he’d see how much the customers enjoyed something new.”

“Emma Garrett, you are nuts.” The bartender shook her head. “Jimmy would kill you for something like that. He’d kill me, too, for letting you.”

“But you know I’m right. Just think what this place could be with the right food, new furniture, paint—”

“Whoa! Furniture?” Tiffany backed into the counter opposite the bar, her hands held up as if to ward off danger. “Not another word. I want to be able to tell Jimmy I didn’t know a thing about it!”

Before noon, Emma had ordered a minimum of dishware from a local shop and billed it to her credit card, along with knives, forks and spoons. If the idea failed, she wouldn’t want Jimmy to bear the loss. Her savings could stand the damage. And though there would be more dirty dishes to deal with, the club’s dishwashing machine functioned well enough to make the gamble worthwhile.

From their grocer, she requested the usual supplies for sandwiches, but added mixed greens for salads, goat cheese and French bread. And chicken breasts—they were on special and would be easy to marinate and serve with sauce.

The woman on the other end of the line took the order without comment. After a moment’s silence, she said, “Now where did you tell me this was for?”

“The Indigo.”

“Jimmy’s place?”

“That’s right.”

“Did Jimmy die?”

“Of course not. Why do you ask?”

The woman clucked her tongue. “He’s the last guy in town I’d expect to serve fancy salads. I might have to show up tonight just to see that for myself!”

Emma prepped food for several hours, then went back to the hotel to change. When she returned at four, she noticed a young man leaning against the corner of the building, next to the alley. As she crossed the street, he turned. Harlow.

He threw away his cigarette and came toward her at an easy walk. “Hey, Emma. How are you this afternoon?”

“Well, thank you. I must say, you disappeared rather quickly last week.”

His grin could melt sugar. “I make it a point to leave fast. Never can tell what you’ll get blamed for if you hang around too long.”

She pushed open the front door to The Indigo. “Would you like to come in?”

He glanced up and down the empty street. “Sure. For a minute, anyway.”

As they stepped inside, Tiffany emerged from the back hallway. “Hey, Harlow. How’s it going?”

“Good. What’s Brad doing these days?”

Tiffany hesitated. “Uh…not much. He’s between jobs.”

Harlow laughed. “Me, too.”

The front door opened again. Emma saw the boy freeze, then turn slowly to face the newcomer. She wondered what he expected Jimmy to do to him.

But a heavyset man stepped inside, not Jimmy. “I got a food delivery. Where do you want it?”

“In the alley, please. Tiffany, would you unlock the door?”

In fifteen minutes, with Harlow helping, the boxes of groceries sat on the kitchen table. Emma surveyed what she’d done with a sudden tremor of doubt. This was a lot of food. If it didn’t sell…

Nonsense. “I should get those chicken breasts in the marinade.”

Somehow Harlow became the unofficial kitchen boy, stowing the supplies where she directed. The new dishes were delivered, and he put those away, as well, after she washed them. He worked efficiently, always whistling a tune underneath his breath. Soon enough, the kitchen was back to normal, except for a large bowl of salad greens soaking in cold water.

The daylight in the alley had nearly disappeared. “I’d better be going,” Harlow said. “Mr. Falcon’ll show up soon.”

Emma put her hand on the thin bones of his arm. “Let me make you something to eat first.”

“That’s okay. I’m good to go.”

“But you’ve done a great deal of work this afternoon. Please, it’s the least I can do.”

He shook his head. “I’d like to, Emma. Your cooking is the best. But I don’t want to be here when the boss comes in. That’ll be bad for you and me. I can take it, but you shouldn’t have to.”

“Well, then, at least let me pay you. I won’t feel right if I don’t.”

Again, that sweet grin. “I wouldn’t want you feeling bad. Just a couple of bucks for a burger is plenty.”

He’d worked for two hours. She gave him forty dollars—twice what she got paid, but her savings would make up the difference. In any event, she hadn’t taken this job for the money. “Have a really good meal tonight. Vegetables, too.”

“Yes, ma’am!” He saluted her from the door to the alley. His smile faded and his expression turned somber. “You’re something special. Thanks.”

Emma stared out the screen door for several minutes after he disappeared. Jimmy had warned her about Harlow, and his friend. But the boy she’d seen today seemed neither desperate nor dangerous. Just in need of help. Almost eager, in fact, to be helped. Perhaps he wanted to change his life and didn’t know quite how to begin. Or how to ask.

“If we wait until we’re asked to help,” her mother had said more than once, “many good people with too much pride will be lost.” Not long after Emma turned fifteen, Naomi Garrett had given her life for those good people—a victim of dengue fever, contracted while nursing the critically ill. Emma’s dad had suffered recurrent malaria attacks for years, thanks to his work in Africa studying tribal dialects. Between them, they’d left her a very big example to live up to.

If anything positive were to come out of the end of her university career, Emma thought it might be the chance to provide the kind of help her parents had modeled for her. At least, she could try.

She smiled ruefully, thinking of her father’s jokes about Emma-Knows-Best. Perhaps her penchant for meddling in other people’s affairs could finally be turned to good use.

THE MUSIC WAS HOT and heavy by the time Jimmy showed up at the club. He made his way down the bar, greeting regulars with a handshake, checking out the room in general. An okay crowd for a Thursday night. Big enough to keep him occupied somewhere besides the kitchen.

Tiffany brought him a whiskey as he leaned against the end of the bar. Darren whizzed by, carrying a loaded tray on his shoulder. “Upper-body strength,” he muttered. “I shoulda been lifting weights.”

The comment didn’t make sense until a break between sets, when Jimmy heard the clatter of dishes at a nearby table, the ping of knives and forks. The next time Darren came by, Jimmy stopped him.

“What’s the deal with the food?”

The server shrugged. “Emma said to mention salads and lemon chicken when I took the orders. We got more people ordering that now than sandwiches.” He shifted under the weight of the tray. “I gotta dump this, boss, or drop it.”

Jimmy waved him away. When Tiffany worked her way down to him again, he called her over. “Emma changed the menu?”

The bartender avoided his eyes. “Yeah. The customers seem to like the variety.”

“You didn’t think I might want to know about this?”

She shrugged. “I didn’t want to get between you and Emma.”

Guilt grabbed him by the throat. He drummed a quick rhythm pattern on the bar. “You’re right, Tiff. I’m a jerk for blaming you. There’s only one person I should be talking to about this.”

In the kitchen, Emma looked up from a plate of salad as he stepped through the door and let it swing shut behind him. “Hullo, Jimmy. How are you tonight?”

“Surprised. What are you doing, Emma?”

She met his gaze straight on. “I wanted to show you how successful a different menu could be. I think the customers are enjoying the wider selection of food.”

Brains and beauty and guts. A powerful combination. The recognition expanded his irritation. “What’s the profit margin on those salads?”

“The same as the sandwiches. I don’t want you to lose money.”

He leaned against the door frame to rest his hip. “Does that include the plates and silverware?”

Her face and throat flooded with red. “Um…no.”

“Right.” Hands in his pockets, he tried to figure out the real point here. A power struggle between them? Maybe. Emma was a woman used to running a classroom, a career. But he’d established his own life, ran his club to meet his own standards. He didn’t like having decisions taken out of his hands, even by Emma Garrett.

“I meant this for the best, Jimmy.”

“I’m sure you did.” He sighed. Staying mad at Emma for any length of time had been impossible when they were kids, something between them that didn’t seem to have changed. “The money doesn’t really matter a damn.”

“I know.”

“But if I wanted this place to be something different, it would be.”

“The question is, why wouldn’t you want it?”

“Because…” He shook his head. “That doesn’t matter, either. No more surprises, Emma, okay? At least talk to me first.”

“I did talk to you.”

“And then you ignored what I said.”

“I was right—the customers like a more sophisticated menu.”

“You were. You will be again.” Jimmy straightened. “In fact, you might just be right about everything one hundred percent of the time. But this is my place and what I say goes. Clear?”

Emma lifted her chin. “Yes, sir. Perfectly clear.”

“Thanks. You can keep the salads and the chicken. And the dishes. But that’s as far as we go.”

A minute later, behind the closed door of his office, Jimmy aimed a pencil and sent it flying, straight as an arrow, toward the opposite wall.

Emma was shaking up his world again. Only he wasn’t seventeen anymore. He hadn’t believed in happy-ever-afters since he was eight years old.

And he really hated being tempted to change his mind.