If You Loved Me (5 page)

She tripped on something at the side of the house, walked on more carefully in the fading light. The last thing she needed was to break an ankle. She hoped to God Chris or Jordy hadn't broken an ankle. Both boys had taken first aid courses: They knew enough to immobilize a fracture, and then go for help. Chris could put Jordy in the second kayak, then he could tow it. It would be slow, but—

She was behaving like one of her own patient's parents sitting in the waiting room, imagining a world of horrors. For all she knew, some fisherman or seaplane pilot might already have found the boys. The Coast Guard could have called, but the cell phone number she'd given wouldn't work because she was stuck on Gray's island with a
no service
message permanently etched on her cell phone display.

Damn, if only she could check her messages! It would be the ultimate irony if Chris was found and safe while Emma was stranded here on Stephens Island waiting for Gray. She should have known he would live somewhere cell phones didn't work.

She pushed her back against Gray's front door and crossed her arms, staring at the shadowy shape of the seaplane down on the water. It was silly to pretend he would come now. The sun was gone. Gray might not have taken the plane, but he was surely gone. She was stuck here alone at least until daylight.

Behind her, something crashed in the bushes.

Emma spun around with her hand raised.

Nothing.

Then a shadow moved in front of her and she gasped and swung the stick at the black predator lunging toward her.

It was like hitting a wall. Something grasped her wrist, the wood went tumbling, and her chest crashed into a solid, unyielding body. Fingers closed hard around her wrist and everything turned breathless. The thin fabric of her jacket was crushed under his fingers, her breasts hard against his chest.

His breath became hers. His hand dug into her shoulder. He was bigger than she remembered, harder.

"Gray?"

* * *

Gray MacKenzie was five minutes from home when Chico went crashing ahead through the bushes. He whistled sharply and Chico froze, then came dashing back and ducked into position. The mongrel whimpered once and stared mournfully at his master. Gray dropped a hand to his head.

"Good dog. Now quiet."

For the past hour he had been fantasizing about a hot meal and a shower before he started developing the film he'd brought back. Mama and the two cubs he'd found on the western slope of Mt. Stephens were prime grizzlies, exactly what he needed to finish up the Cathay project.

What he did
not
need was another damned reporter crawling around the house. Ever since that magazine article last month, reporters and television journalists had plagued his wilderness retreat. He'd been furious when the editor of the environmental magazine gave the location of his home in the published article.

Chico whimpered again.

"Right," murmured Gray. "If it's a reporter, Chico, I'll feed him to you."

The dog looked up as if asking a question.

"Let's find out."

Gray stopped where the game trail curved toward the point. A hundred yards ahead, the moon's reflection sheared off the painted wing of his seaplane. He made out the silhouette of the wharf itself and a hint of darkness that was his speedboat. No sign of any strange boat or plane. Whoever Chico scented must have walked in from another bay.

Probably some shipwrecked fool. Last month Gray had been wakened at four one morning by a lost adventurer from the interior of British Columbia. The fool had been cruising around the coast in a rented trawler with only a road map as his guide. Gray had spent half the day feeding the idiot and showing him how to get back to civilization without hitting any rocks or getting lost again.

He was in no mood for idiots tonight. He'd been fighting memories all day. If it was a mariner in distress, Gray would send him around to the camp. If it was a reporter, he'd set Chico on him. In theory Gray had nothing against reporters, but he'd had his fill.

He reached for the flashlight on his belt and shielded the light as he switched it on.

"Quiet, Chico," he commanded softly. His house was just around the next turn.

He stepped out of the bushes and saw a shadow on the back porch. He approached the suitcase slowly and reached down to test the dark bag's weight. Heavy enough that its owner might plan on staying. Not a reporter.

This expensive leather thing was more likely to belong to a style-conscious woman. Someone like Samantha.

He reached down and caught the tag dangling from the zip. If Sam was here, it was bad news. It meant something was wrong in her life, maybe her marriage. He hoped to hell it wasn't that. Gray had spent too many uncomfortable days wrestling with his conscience over Samantha, both before and after the divorce. A man had no right marrying a woman just because her eyes reminded him of an old lover.

He'd felt better about Sam since she married George. Then, when Sam and George started having kids, he'd decided that whatever hurt he'd given her was firmly in the past. But if she was here now—

Gray turned the tag and caught the name printed there in his flashlight beam.

Emma Garrett.

Chico moved silently to his side.

He put a hand on the dog's head. All day he'd fought the old restlessness, wanting to hop into the plane and take off as if there were somewhere important he had to be. As if he were back in college, slipping out to lunch early to be waiting when she arrived.

She'd been Emma Jennings when he met her, Paul's girl.

Emma in Paul Garrett's car. He should have tossed Paul his keys that night, should have done anything to keep his distance from the girl with the long blonde hair and the marvelous legs. He didn't have to close his eyes to remember her hair swinging as she hurried away from him, rushing back to class, her long legs rhythmic and innocently seductive. He'd watched her leave often enough. Each time he'd fought the desire to chase after her, to trap her, to hold back the inevitable end.

He'd always known it would end badly.

He shoved his flashlight back into the loop on his belt and fought the memory that always accompanied dreams of Emma, her eyes filled with tears and regret as if she would grieve forever.

In fact, she'd recovered within a month.

When he found out what she'd done, he'd almost gone after her despite the wedding ring. Luckily he'd clung to sanity and walked away from even the sound of her name on her father's lips. The last damned thing he needed was Emma twisting his life into regrets.

A faint thump sounded from the front of the house.

Chico stirred.

"Stay!" Gray's command was a quiet hiss. The dog subsided.

Gray glided silently along the side of the house to the front porch, saw motion as he came around the corner. In silhouette, he saw her hair lying close against her head.

She'd cut her hair.

He fought back a vivid memory of his hands tangled in the sleek softness of her long waves. Then she moved, something held high in one hand, and he could almost smell her fear. He realized that with the light gone he could have been anyone, anything. His lips parted to speak her name, but she swung her weapon before he could speak.

He moved swiftly, catching her wrist with one hand. He felt his possession of her flesh with a shock and ordered himself to let her go, to release her, but his grip tightened. He pulled her into him. She came up short against him with a thump as the piece of wood in her hand went crashing down the veranda steps to the ground.

"Gray?"

He curled his fingers around her shoulder and felt her tremble as if she knew him by touch. His body responded, images flashing in his mind.

Emma, naked and breathless, his sheets tangled around her.

Did Emma wake from dreams about Graham MacKenzie only to find herself in her husband's arms?

"Why the weapon?" he demanded harshly.

* * *

Emma pulled experimentally against Gray's grip.

"You came at me with a block of wood," he growled.

His voice had grown deeper over the years. The touch of gravel in his words made her shiver. It was dark, and she was frightened by this stranger who smelled so familiar.

"It's Emma," she gasped. "Let go of me, Gray."

He released her and she backed up against his front door. At least that was new, she thought hysterically, begging Gray to let her go.

His shadow loomed between her and the world. She could hear his breathing, strong and steady. She had to get her balance. After four days worrying about Chris and Jordy, she hadn't been prepared to slam hard against Gray's chest.

"I heard sounds," she said. "You weren't here. I was going to break a window to get inside. I got a piece of—"

He stepped close and she jerked away.

"It's not locked," he said, reaching for the knob.

The door swung open. For a moment neither of them moved.

How could she have been so stupid? She'd assumed the door would be locked, hadn't even tried the knob. She touched his arm, then yanked her hand back as if from an electric shock.

He growled, "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I—I need help."

"How did you get here?"

She gestured toward the water. "Seaplane."

"Hmm." He stepped inside and left the door open behind him. It was the best invitation she was likely to get.

He turned on a small light that was just enough to show her the way. She walked carefully down a shadowy corridor. On one side, stairs and a wooden banister led upward. On the other, glass doors stood invitingly open to an unlit living room.

A light came on at the back of the house just as Emma heard a sound that couldn't have been made by Gray. She hurried toward the light. A kitchen. He was doing something to the stove.

A muscle jerked in his jaw as he locked his gaze with hers.

"Whatever the hell you want, it will have to wait until I've had a meal and a shower."

"All right," she agreed, knowing she had no choice. There was no way to search for Chris until morning came, and this wasn't the Gray she remembered.

He'd been twenty-one the last time she saw him. Now he was a mature man. Bigger, more dangerous, and right now in this kitchen there was just enough light to see he was glaring at her as if none of his memories were good.

"If you want me to listen sympathetically," he said, "you'll get busy and cook me something to eat."

He wanted her to react with anger, she realized.

"Sympathetically?"

"You said you wanted help. You're in trouble, aren't you? Why else would you come?"

What had happened to the Gray she remembered, the boy who cared about things so passionately, who cared about her?

"Go have your shower. I'll cook."

Surprise flashed in his eyes and she felt a bitter flare of victory. Gray MacKenzie wasn't the only one who had changed. She wasn't the impulsive Emma Jennings he remembered. She'd grown up, learned patience and caution.

"Did you come to dig up dead memories, Emma?"

"I came for help." She hadn't realized how difficult it would be, this stiff conversation between two people who'd once cared about each other. "We'll eat first, then I'll tell you about it. What do you want for dinner?"

"Whatever you find in the fridge."

She felt a lurch of nausea as she opened the refrigerator door. She heard a door slam and the breath went out of her lungs.

He'd stepped outside but she could still feel his presence, could still smell the pine and cedar wilderness on his clothes.

Two days ago she'd looked at that magazine picture and felt a painful shaft of recognition and of trust. She'd been certain Gray would help her, and she'd needed the strength that was so much a part of the Graham MacKenzie she remembered.

Everything had changed. It was as if he had grown a hard wall of granite around himself, a wall she could never penetrate. His copper hair had always been unruly. It still waved strongly back from his face. But it was in his eyes that Gray showed emotion, and she'd seen only impatience, anger, and cynicism.

He had been wearing leather and denim the first time she met him—a tough young man, fascinating and sexy, the kind of man any girl's father would want a hundred miles away from his daughter. But back then he'd cared about her.

He didn't care now.

She didn't care either, although the memories were unexpectedly powerful.

Perhaps any woman would feel unsettled thinking of her first lover. For a moment out there on his front veranda, he'd remembered, too. His arms had held her tightly and she'd felt his body's swift reaction.

Gray had always had sex appeal, but she was a mature woman now, not a girl hungry for life. She'd come for help to get her son back, not to resurrect a lost love. She didn't need a lover. After all, she had Alex, who was a thousand times more suited to Dr. Emma Garrett than a boy she'd loved too wildly when she was a teenager.

The feelings that had burned when Gray touched her were nothing but a reflex. When he touched her, she'd felt the old sweet panic for a moment, but she was too sensible to be ruled by her hormones!

He'd always been able to throw her off balance, but this time would be different. It wasn't about love or sex this time, it was about Chris.

The refrigerator held a dozen eggs and four bottles of salad dressing, but not much else. She yanked open the door to the freezer compartment just as the room flooded with brilliant light. She yelped and bit her lip to cut off the sound.

This was ridiculous, yelping because the lights had come on. He must have gone outside to start an electric generator.

She heard a thump, then the sound of a dog barking. Gray's dog.

She rummaged in the freezer. Pizza, sirloin steak, rump roast, a loaf of bread. Behind her the kitchen door opened and she jerked away from the fridge. She felt the cool air from outside.

"You can have pizza in twenty minutes," she told him. "Otherwise it'll take a while to thaw something."

"If you want steak, you can defrost it in the microwave. But pizza's okay with me." His brilliant blue eyes hadn't changed. Nor had his love for pizza, it seemed.