Miss Emmaline And The Archangel Part 9

"d.a.m.n it, woman, are you always wise? Always cautious and careful and proper?"

Her lower lip quivered, just a little. "No. I certainly wasn't being proper or wise or cautious when I ... when you ... when we..." Oh, Lord, Emma, how could you bring that up? But her chest ached beneath a great weight, a weight compounded of unmet desires and loneliness. Of a feeling that even this man who had swept her halfway to the stars could see only an uptight old maid. Of a feeling that life had conspired to deprive her of everything that mattered, that this man scorned the walls she had needed to build to protect herself.

"Oh, h.e.l.l." Gage looked quickly away and then moved so swiftly that she nearly jumped. Reaching out, he captured both her hands and held them tightly. "I'm sorry, Emma. Really. Talking about the past turns me into a b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Besides, I don't know how to deal with a woman like you."

"Like me?" Her lip quivered even more perceptibly. "What's so unusual about me? I'm just a woman like any other."

"No, you're not. d.a.m.n it, lady, I was raised on the streets like a wild dog. My mother was hooked on heroin by the time I was five, and my dad was knifed to death in a fight when I was six. n.o.body ever taught me a d.a.m.n thing, and all I ever learned I got out of books, once I could read. The army taught me table manners and how to keep clean, how to fight back with something besides a knife and a broken bottle. They sent me to school and taught me I could be something besides a punk. Then I joined the DEA and went back on the streets. I know about hookers and runaways and junkies, and about the hopeless ones who keep trying to avoid the muck, but I don't know a d.a.m.n thing about satin and lace and churchgoing ladies."

"So because I haven't lived on the streets, I'm a different species?"

Her eyes were sparking angrily at him, and he was almost relieved to see it. It was a vast improvement over the quivering lip. "I didn't say that. I just mean I don't know exactly how to talk to a lady like you. I'm rough and blunt, and sometimes I'm coa.r.s.e."

"You've done just fine so far, Gage Dalton."

"Good. Then maybe you'll get around to telling me what it was you remembered today. And what exactly it is that you're so afraid of remembering."

Emma's hands tightened in his. "You really think I'm going to remember it all?"

"That's what usually happens, they tell me."

"I don't want to." Her voice was thin, uncertain, totally unlike the Miss Emma who had most of the males in the county terrorized. "I don't see why I need to remember it. It was years ago, and apart from a few small fears, it doesn't affect me at all any longer." Except for one small but essential biological lack. What would Gage think of that? she wondered, and then told herself it didn't matter in the least, because it would never become an issue.

"Maybe you don't need to remember it, but if you remembered something today, then you're probably going to remember everything."

Emma tugged her hands from his, telling herself that, yes, his skin was warm and dry and callused from hard work, and that she would probably cheerfully fling her virtue away if he wanted to put those hands on her flesh, but that she really didn't need anyone to hold her hand. She had coped this far, and she could continue to cope. She had her pride, after all.

"What did you remember, Emma?"

"Nothing, really." She looked down at her mug. "It was-I was walking back to the dorm from the campus library. It was late at night, cold, snowing like it was tonight. I'm not sure how I know it was right before ... it happened. I just know."

Gage nodded. "You just know, Emma. The rest of the memories are there, but you can't reach them. It's all in context, though. Your unconscious mind knows exactly what comes next."

Emma nodded and lifted her gaze to his. "I knew. You're right. Standing out there in that parking lot tonight, I knew exactly what would come next."

She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling cold and wis.h.i.+ng she were a small child who could crawl into a parent's lap and find all the comfort she needed in a hug. That kind of comfort had vanished from her life when her mother died. Besides, she told herself sternly, adult problems couldn't be handled so simply.

All the hugs in the world couldn't comfort her now.

"Talk to me, Emma," Gage said softly. "What do you know about what happened to you?" The weight in her chest grew crus.h.i.+ng. She drew a ragged breath, and then another, and wondered if she could even make herself say the words."Th-they told me he grabbed me when I was walking back to the dorm. They f- found a lead pipe with my blood and hair on it beside the sidewalk, so they thinkhe must have stunned me by hitting me over the head once or twice."Gage muttered an oath. "No prints?"Emma inhaled deeply, slowly, battling for calm and control. "No. It was winter.

He was wearing gloves."

Gage froze, struck by the way she had said that. "You remember that, don't you?"he asked softly.Emma looked startled. "I-I guess I do. I see leather gloves. Black leather. Big hands. I don't know how I know that.""It's all right, don't worry about it. What else do you know?""That he was-that he-oh, G.o.d, Gage, I can't!"He reached out, capturing her hands again, squeezing them rea.s.suringly. "It's all right, Emma. It's okay. You're safe now."

"I've never told anyone about it! Never. Even if I can't remember it, it's awful to even say it, to talk about it... I don't think-"

"Did he rape you?" He didn't really want to be so blunt, but he had to know what she would be facing when the time came, and if he let Emma back off now, he would never find out. If she couldn't tell him, he'd ask outright.

Emma gasped. "No!" She tried to jerk her hands free, but he wouldn't let go. His expression was fixed, hard, not at all rea.s.suring.

"Did he torture you?"

Emma stiffened and grew utterly still. Expression vanished from her face, leaving her to look as if she had been carved from palest marble. "Yes." It was a mere breath of sound.

Gage recognized what was happening, because it had happened to him countless times. Something in her had drawn back from all the uncomfortable, painful feelings. She had distanced herself.

"How badly did he injure you, apart from the coma?"

"Badly enough," Emma said tonelessly. "He left me for dead in one of those large trash bins. Somebody saw something and was suspicious and called the police. They found me before I froze or bled to death."

Gage muttered a string of curses, one after another, quietly but emphatically. Rising, he limped around the table and drew Emma up from her chair and into his arms. There was more here, he thought, as he held her close and offered what little comfort he could. Something had happened that she hadn't told him, something that was keeping this fresher in her mind than it should be when she couldn't even remember what had been done to her. Something was keeping her raw.

He thought of taking her into the living room because it was a cozier environment than the kitchen and might help soothe her, but then he remembered the undecorated Christmas tree. It wouldn't soothe him to sit in there. That left the library or study or whatever the h.e.l.l Emma called it, with its ceiling-to-floor books, big old desk and leather sofa. Emma would probably feel comfortable there, and as long as he didn't have to deal with Christmas, too, Gage didn't give a d.a.m.n.

"Go on into the study," he told Emma as he released her. "I'll bring the brandy."

Numbly, Emma obeyed. The calm that filled her was not natural, and in some detached fas.h.i.+on, she knew it. It was the calm of m.u.f.fling barriers slammed into place to prevent emotional overload. Even the urge to run, to somehow escape, was silenced.

Gage joined her on the sofa with the brandy bottle and, two snifters. "Here," he said, thrusting a filled snifter toward her. "Take it like medicine. You can sip the next one."

She tilted her head, studying him dispa.s.sionately. "I never get drunk."

"Tonight you're getting sloshed."

"Why?"

"Because if we're both lucky, you'll go to sleep and stay that way until morning.

Frankly, Emma m'dear, I've had enough emotional turmoil for one day. If I can postpone the next round for a little while, I will."

She studied him solemnly and opened her mouth to ask what had made him weep earlier, but bit back the words before they escaped. Instead she tossed off the brandy and then held her gla.s.s out for more. He was right, she thought. They would both be better off if she could just knock herself out. Neither one of them wanted to handle any more.

"Slowly now," he cautioned her when he had refilled the snifter. "I don't want to give you a hangover."

"What the h.e.l.l difference does it make?" Emma asked, and then clapped a horrified hand over her mouth. She never talked like that!

Gage astonished her by laughing. Honestly, truly laughing. "You're cute when you forget yourself, Emma. You ought to do it more often."

She said nothing, afraid she would only dig a deeper hole for herself. Waiting for the embarra.s.sed blush to fade from her cheeks, she watched Gage ease himself into a more comfortable position on the couch. His every movement spoke of caution, as if the slightest wrong move could cause him severe pain.

"I can bring the Kennedy rocker in here, if you like," she offered. Comprehension was a little late in coming, but she suddenly understood that Gage had a problem with Christmas. Nothing else could explain his reaction to the living room last night, his tears before the tree this morning, and his desire to sit in here this evening.

"No, it's all right," he a.s.sured her. "It just takes me a little time to settle, that's all."

Emma leaned her head back against the couch and watched him without a thought for how rude it was to stare. He didn't seem to notice, anyway. His eyes roamed the bookshelves, and from time to time he s.h.i.+fted restlessly, as if he couldn't quite get comfortable.

So he had been raised on the streets. Like a wild dog, he had said. She couldn't imagine it. She could, however, imagine how defiant and angry he must have been. What had happened, she wondered, to turn him into this mature, contained man? If he had ever been a punk, no sign of it remained, except possibly in his preference for black leather.

"What's it like, working undercover?" she heard herself ask.

Slowly, Gage turned his head and looked at her. "Terrifying. Exciting. Boring.

And sometimes it's the biggest ego trip on earth."

"What exactly did you do? Make buys on street corners?"

Gage shook his head. "Sometimes. The last few years, I infiltrated the bigger drug organizations. I wasn't interested in the street pushers then."

"How did you do that? I mean, I wouldn't know where to begin to look for a street pusher, let alone one of the big guys."

"It's easy when DEA backs you up. I'd just move into an area and start my own drug operation. I'd start really small and grow just fast enough to be noticed. After a while, I'd appear to be infringing on the big guy's territory, and his thugs would pay me a little visit. I'd be cooperative enough to let them know I'd be willing to discuss business, but that I wasn't going to be frightened away." A simple, clear explanation of what was, in reality, a complex, dangerous game of emotional and psychological chess. A game that in an instant could turn violent and b.l.o.o.d.y.

Emma shook her head. "I can't imagine doing anything that nerve-racking. How did you ever stand the tension?"

Gage sighed. This woman was going to pry every one of his most personal secrets from him, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to lie. He'd lived in the shadows of half-truths for too d.a.m.n long. "I'd think about my brother. He OD'd a couple of weeks after our father died. Cort was eight."

"Eight? Your brother was only eight?" Emma was appalled beyond words. She was aware such things happened, of course, but they happened elsewhere, to people she didn't know. Until this very instant, such things had seemed distant, like a war in another country.

"You're very fortunate here in Conard County," Gage remarked. He took another sip of brandy and s.h.i.+fted yet again as the hot poker in his back took another jab at him. "Drugs are becoming a problem in even the smallest towns."

"I've heard. I think we need to thank Sheriff Tate that it isn't a big problem here. He started that drug-education program in the schools ten years ago, even at the kindergarten level. May I have some more brandy?"

Gage glanced at her empty gla.s.s, and one corner of his mouth lifted. "Lady, it's your bottle. You can have as much as you want." He poured a generous amount into her gla.s.s.

"It's relaxing me," she admitted.

Right to sleep, Gage hoped. All afternoon he'd cursed his carelessness with Emma. She was about as s.e.xually innocent as a woman could be, and there was no getting around the fact that he'd taken advantage of her innocence. Carried away on new feelings, she hadn't even begun to realize her danger or how much at his mercy she had been. Gage had enough experience to know, though. He hadn't even unb.u.t.toned her blouse, yet she'd been within moments of giving him any d.a.m.n thing he wanted.

That unexpected responsiveness had haunted him all afternoon, making him feel both guilty and hungry. He didn't like to think of himself as a seducer of innocent women. All his experience had been with women who knew the score and how to handle both their emotions and their bodies. Even his wife...

He cut that thought off before it could blossom into pain. It wasn't to the point, anyway. The point was, he had no business taking advantage of Emmaline Conard.

But, he admitted, he sure would like to. The woman was like tinder, ready to burst into flame. She made him eager and nervous and h.o.r.n.y as h.e.l.l just by walking into the room. Now he was plagued with the knowledge of her responsiveness, the way she arched toward him and begged with her body for more. Now he knew that kissing her was incendiary, that her breast was made to fit his hand, and that in a mere five minutes he could probably have her naked and writhing beneath him.

d.a.m.n!

Slowly he turned to look at her again and found her snuggled into her corner of the leather couch, her head lolling back, eyes closed, stockinged feet tucked beneath her. Something in him ached, and he wished he could reach out. Just to hold her, he told himself. Just to hold her.

How the h.e.l.l had a woman like her escaped marriage? Why did such a pa.s.sionate woman avoid men? He couldn't believe all the cowboys around here were dead blind, so Miss Emma herself had to be the sole cause of her unattached state. And there had to be a d.a.m.n good reason for that.

"I'm scared," Emma said abruptly. She set her empty snifter down sharply.

Enough booze for now, Gage thought. "Scared of what?"

"Of remembering. Of going to sleep."

"Sleep? Why sleep?"

"I keep having nightmares. Terrible, terrible dreams."

Gage could have told her that was part of it, but he forgot what he meant to saywhen Emma suddenly crawled down the couch and curled up against his side,trying to burrow into him. Without a thought for the consequences, he wound hisarm around her slender shoulders and pulled her as close as he could get her.

"There's a dagger," Emma said shakily. "Like the one in the picture I got in themail. You remember?"

"I remember." He tensed, sensing importance in this.

"I keep seeing it in my dreams, only it's golden, and there's a big, bloodred rubyin the pommel." She gave an unhappy little laugh. "I even see it when I'm awake,out of the corner of my eye. I keep jumping, expecting it to stab me. I'm losing mymind!"

"No ... no ... you're perfectly sane, Emma, I swear." And tomorrow morning, firstthing, he was going to call Brian about that d.a.m.n photo. He was beginning tothink that there was more to it than mere fund-raising. "Does it hurt you in yourdreams?"

"No..." She sighed. "I always wake up before it hits me. Sometimes I wake upscreaming. I've been afraid that you heard me."

"No, I never heard you. Maybe you only think you scream."

"Maybe. I hate it, Gage. It's happening every night, and I just wish it would stop!I sleep with the lights on, and it's getting harder and harder to fall asleep, becauseI know it will happen again."

He hugged her and brushed a comforting kiss on the top of her head. Then,d.a.m.ning himself for a fool, he brought his other arm up and released herbarrette. Time to distract her, he told himself.

"I love your hair, Red," he said gruffly. "It's almost alive."

She sighed. "I hate it. I've never been able to style it or make it behave."

"It's beautiful just the way it is." Slowly, gently, he fluffed it. "It looks like livingfire, and it feels so soft." Gently he stroked it, and from time to time his fingersbrushed the delicate, satiny skin of her neck. When they did, she sighed, and hisgroin tightened.

Playing with fire, he thought, and kept right on doing it. h.e.l.l's own archangel was

accustomed to flying close to the flame, he thought wryly. He'd certainly done it often enough.

Emma was completely lost in the pleasure of being held by Gage. At the moment she didn't care that tomorrow she would be embarra.s.sed by the way she had crawled into his arms. Just now, all that mattered was that he held her and stroked her and made her feel safe and welcome.

Beneath her cheek, his chest was hard and his heart beat strongly. He was warm, and he smelled wonderful, of soap and of something deeper, darker. Something exotic and erotic. Something that made her want to turn her face into him and nuzzle him, something that made her want to climb into his lap and press herself to him in ways she could barely imagine.