Hot As Sin (12 page)

One of the guys in the crowd yelled, “If he’s not, I sure as hell am, baby doll!”

Even Angus cheered up long enough to agree with that sentiment, pounding his bottle on the bar. “I’ll buy you a beer to prove it! Barkeep! A beer for the lady!”

A second later Emma had her pick of drink offers. But Angus’s offer to take her for a river ride she wouldn’t forget was the last straw. Gabe decided there was only one way to put a stop to this infantile innuendo and macho posturing. So he walked right up to her, grabbed her around the waist, and kissed her in front of God and everybody.

Emily’s world tilted and all of her carefully rehearsed lines went sliding off into oblivion. She’d expected an awkward family-reunion-style peck on the cheek, but not this. As always, the first touch of his lips and breach of his tongue brought the flutter of panic, excitement, and pleasure that started deep in her belly. Her arms went around his neck of their own volition,
and then she felt herself lifted up as Gabe caught her to his chest. Almost before he’d begun, he stopped, but the stunned silence around them was witness to the fact that this had been no ordinary kiss.

The wolf whistles and catcalls started as he set her on her feet.

“All right, Gabe!”

“The iceman cracketh!”

The last comment jolted Emily back to reality. This intense kiss in the middle of a crowded room was totally out of character for the man who never revealed himself or lost control. Amid the commotion she whispered, “What was
that
all about?”

“Change of plans,” he told her as he bent over to retrieve her parka from the floor. Somehow during the kiss, Emily had lost her grip on it as well as reality.

“Thanks for the warning! What are we supposed to be now?” she inquired politely as he handed it to her. “Kissing cousins?”

“A shame Marsha Jean didn’t make over your mouth,” he observed congenially, and turned to the crowd. Gabe dropped an arm protectively over her shoulders. “All you boys can put your water pistols back in your pockets. This is Emma Gabriel, my ex-wife. As you can see, we’ve had some trouble getting used to the ‘ex’ part.”

“Actually, it was the marriage part that we had trouble getting used to,” Emily volunteered, getting into the spirit of the moment. Gabe was not impressed with her help.

He picked up her suitcase and circled her waist, cinching her close, possessively. If he’d had the words
“property of Christian Gabriel” tattooed across her forehead, his message couldn’t have been clearer. For the slow learners, he added, “Maybe if we keep practicing we’ll figure out how to do this relationship thing right. Now, if you’ll excuse us, I’ll get her settled in.
Upstairs
. Marsha Jean! You’ve got some dry customers over here.”

The way he hauled her around through the crowd toward the stairwell door, Emily decided he had more than enough upper-body strength to have been a pairs skater. However, he rated a big fat zero in the grace department. For the sake of the plan she smiled and simpered and generally let him have his Neanderthal moment until the E
MPLOYEES
O
NLY
door closed behind them.

When they were alone in the dark, she elbowed him as hard as she could and was rewarded with an “Uff.” Turning on him, she kept her voice down but the anger was obvious nonetheless. “What the hell do you think you are doing, telling everyone that I’m Emma
Gabriel
?”

“I’m doing you a favor. Being my ex-wife will keep the boys from getting any ideas about getting cozy.” He set the suitcase down on the first stair.

She gaped at him and pulled her sweater down to cover the waistband of her jeans. “What business is it of yours who I get cozy with
anyway?
It’s not like I’m really your ex-wife! And that’s another problem! How many ex–Mrs. Gabriels are there? Seeing as how I’ve been
married
to you, I should at least know which number wife I am.”

“You’re it.”

“Really?” she asked, startled. Somehow she had expected Gabe to have a real ex-wife or wives. Like Patrick, who had spoken fondly and with regret about his two failed marriages, both shipwrecked by the demands of his navy career and the long separations.

“Really,” he repeated. “You’re it. So calm down. This little alteration in the plan was necessary because you and Marsha Jean got carried away. Tonight’s experiment was to see if we could pass you off in a safe setting. Now, how long do you think it would take before one of those lumberjacks recognized you while he was hanging all over you, looking into those damned green eyes, listening to you talk, trying to get a date?”

Emily backed up a step, surprised that he knew her eyes were green. The stairwell was too dark for him to see the color, which meant he’d noticed and remembered. Before she let herself get too warm and fuzzy, she reminded herself that Gabe was trained to be observant.

Back on the attack, she said, “Gabe, you were the one who said to forget the glasses.”

“That’s because it’s obvious they don’t belong to you. They’re too big for your face, and you squint in them. You’re supposed to look normal. The whole point of this charade was for you
not
to call attention to yourself.”

“And I thought the whole point of this little charade of ours was for me to interact with people and see if your customers would recognize me! Well, so far—in the five seconds you gave them to look at me—they haven’t!”

He didn’t argue, but disapproval leaked from every pore in his body, filling the air around her.

“Okay, Gabe. Out with it. You’ve got something you want to say, so just say it, and we can get back to the bar before Marsha Jean sends a search party.”

Silence reigned as Gabe struggled with a response. “I don’t like it.”

“Don’t like what?” she asked instantly, assuming the worst. “Is someone out there?”

“No.”

In a rush she let out the breath she’d been holding. “Then what?”

“I don’t like it. That’s all. I don’t like the way you look. I don’t like the way they look at you.”

Exasperation began to get the best of her, and she had to struggle to keep her voice low so she couldn’t be heard in the bar. The customers thought they were upstairs putting away her things or— Emily didn’t want to contemplate what people thought she and Gabe were doing.

Dragging herself back to the conversation, she reminded him, “This whole game was
your
idea. If you will recall, I was happy with the nun’s habit!”

“You were supposed to be my
mousy
little cousin from Indiana.”

“Right. Old clothes, tacky makeup, and a bad haircut. We did our part. I don’t look like me. Not at first glance. I’ve never worn a pair of blue jeans with a hole in them in my life. When I can afford colored contact lenses, it’ll be even better.”

“You look like you were poured into those jeans.”

“That’s because I was! I had to lie down on the bed to zip the damned things up. They must be a boy’s cut
’cause all of me doesn’t fit in here the way it’s supposed to.”

Gabe didn’t need to have that particular fact pointed out. “Surely you could at least have found a sweater the right size!”

Emily snorted. “Look, Gabe. I didn’t pick out these clothes. You’re the one who told Marsha Jean how small I was, while I sat right in your living room telling her that I was bigger than I looked.
If you get my drift
. But neither of you bothered to listen to me. I guess you thought I was being falsely modest. Or maybe you thought
you
knew best because you’d handled the merchandise! So now we’re both stuck with these clothes.”

Grabbing the doorknob, Emma gave him one last point to ponder before she pulled it open. “Have you taken a look at the size of your hands lately? They’d make almost anything look small. I think you need a new yardstick, buddy. And I need a drink. I’ve had one helluva day.”

With that parting shot, she walked back into the smoky bar and left Gabe wondering if he’d created a monster. He followed her out, trying to ignore the sway in her nicely rounded hips. Unfortunately, Gabe felt compelled to single out a few of his patrons for stern looks when their eyes strayed to Emma’s chest for too long.

Since the previous night’s fight had obviously made the town’s gossip hotline, none of them seemed willing to risk his displeasure or a confrontation. The offending parties became suddenly engrossed in the labels of their beer bottles or in lighting cigarettes. A couple of them
even had the good sense to get up and move in the other direction.

Their willingness to honor his claim to Emma should have erased the vague discontent in his gut, but it didn’t. They weren’t responsible for his unease, Gabe realized. Emma was.

Having to play the role of her possessive ex-husband, having to pass her off as his, only made him more aware that he had no real claim to Emma. No right to protect her beyond his job as a bodyguard. His whole posture was a sham. She wasn’t his. And wanting what he couldn’t have was foolish. He’d learned that lesson all too well.

Marsha Jean was waiting for them beside the bar, and she was loaded for bear. Gabe doubted she believed the love-affair story anymore. “It is so nice to meet you, Mrs. Gabriel! Gabe”—she threw a sour look in his direction—“hasn’t told me one blessed thing about you. So you’ll have to fill in all the blanks!”

“Call me, Emma,” Emily suggested as she hopped up on a stool, forgetting how tight the jeans were. She sucked in a breath as they threatened to cut off the circulation at the bend of her thigh and hip, and at her waist.

“I’m Marsha Jean Petit.” The blond waitress stuck her hand out just as if they’d never met before. “Can he get you a drink?”

“Yeah. A Virgin Mary would be nice.” Emily adjusted her position until the pressure eased up. “I don’t think I can afford the calories in anything alcoholic.”

“Why is it that all the good stuff is bad for us, or causes us so much trouble in the long run?” Marsha
Jean asked that question, looking straight at Gabe. “Take men, for example—”

“Marsha Jean,” Gabe warned as his waitress started to climb up on a stool beside Emma. “You have customers.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said, and settled onto the stool. “I just gave everybody another round on the house in celebration of Mrs. Gabriel’s return.” Leaning until her shoulder touched Angus’s shoulder, she asked, “You don’t mind if I sit here and talk to Emma?”

“No, ma’am. I actually couldn’t be any happier unless you sat on my lap.”

“See there, Gabe,” Emily said. “The customers are happy. Could I have that drink?”

“I don’t know,” he answered. “Can you pay for it?”

“I will,” Angus and one of the strangers volunteered in unison.

Without saying a word, Gabe turned and focused his attention on the stranger first. He was a pale guy, easy to dismiss as all talk and no action—except for the coolness in his eyes. He didn’t flinch, but he did pick up his drink.

Looking at Emma, he said, “Sorry, ma’am. Maybe the next round.” Then he found an empty table.

Next Gabe considered Angus. He didn’t frown. He didn’t raise an eyebrow. He didn’t glare.

Nevertheless, Angus blanched and stammered, “Sorry, Gabe. I don’t know what came over me.”

“Generosity,” Emily declared as she pivoted toward Gabe and tapped him on the knuckles. “It was a random act of kindness. You do know what that is, don’t you?”

“Yeah.” Gabe nodded, his gaze locked with hers.
“It’s like when someone takes in a stray, and feeds it, and cares for it, and keeps it safe from the big bad world.”

“And has it neutered, most likely,” Emily added under her breath.

“It depends,” Gabe said.

“On what?” Marsha Jean asked, entirely missing the undercurrent that surged between her boss and Emily.

“On whether the stray bites the hand that feeds it.”

“Suppose it was just one tiny nip,” Emily whispered, caught up in the heat of his gaze.

“One?”

“Uh-huh. Just one … soft … nip.” Emily put the side of her index finger in her mouth and gently dragged her teeth along the skin to the tip.

“I’ve always believed that one good nip deserves another.”

“Oh, my,” Marsha Jean said as she realized they weren’t talking about strays any longer. “Angus darlin’, dance with me! I feel a hormonal rampage comin’ on. I need an outlet.”

Happy to oblige, Angus did as he was told.

As they left, Emily wanted to call them back, tell them not to leave her. Without them she felt exposed. Any fool knew there was safety in numbers.

“How ’bout that drink?” Gabe asked.

“I can’t pay for it.”

“We’ll think of something,” he promised. “Maybe you could help me behind the bar.”

“Doing what?” she asked suspiciously.

“Whatever needs doing.” He grinned. “Like cutting
limes and lemons. Like running the cash register. Nothing hard back here at all.”

“I’ll bet.” But Emily got up anyway. She didn’t mind working for her supper or her drinks. In the process of getting off the stool, she thrust her chest out, unaware of the effect the simple movement had on Gabe.

Once she had joined him behind the bar, it was all Gabe could do not to inspect his hands to see if they were as big as Emma seemed to think. He realized they were when she was trying to learn the cash register and he reached over to show her how to unjam the keys, which resembled manual typewriter keys. Their hands rested side by side for a moment, the edge of their palms touching. Fascinated by the difference, Gabe forgot what he’d been about to show her. Months of experience at operating the cantankerous old cash register evaporated from his brain.

“See. I told you they were big,” Emma told him with great satisfaction.

She surprised him then. She looked up into his face and smiled. No, she grinned. The first one of those he’d seen, and he knew he was fighting a losing battle. He was going to get attached to Emily Quinn, and he wasn’t going to be able to do a damn thing about it. Except watch her walk away when she didn’t need him anymore.

The rest of the evening was like watching a flower unfold as Emma became more confident in her new persona, though she never strayed far from him. He kept one eye on Emma, and one on the pale stranger. But mostly an eye on Emma.