If You Loved Me (6 page)

"I'll have pepperoni," he said.

"Right," she agreed. "Pepperoni."

He was still standing on the mat by the door, still wearing the leather jacket that looked as if it had been tailored for his shoulders, still watching her as if she were a dangerous animal.

"It's a gas stove?"

"Yes, gas."

"It must be a gas fridge, too. Everything's frozen in the freezer, but there was no power until you—"

"It's gas."

They were talking to each other so warily. If she wanted him to help her, she'd have to do better.

"Is there a pilot light on this oven? How do I light it?"

"Hold the knob in while you turn on the oven."

Aware of his gaze, she fumbled as she lit the oven. "Are you going to watch me all through this cooking process?"

His gaze slipped down over the shape of her jacket and slacks, then stopped at her city shoes. "I've seen a lot more of you than you're showing at the moment."

Heat crawled up her throat, but she met his impenetrable blue eyes steadily. "I came because I need your help. If listening to you taunt me is part of the price, I'll pay." She saw surprise in his eyes. "Are you trying to punish me for not being who you wanted me to be? Because I wouldn't come with you? Surely that doesn't matter now."

He shrugged; his eyes remained cold. "It didn't matter then, either. You went with Paul fast enough, gave up
your
dreams and had his baby."

"I married Paul because—"

"Forget it. It's history. I'm going up to have a shower."

She heard his footsteps on the stairs, then sounds overhead. His bedroom must be up there, and the bath. She closed her eyes when the sound of water came.

Chris was all right. She had to believe that, just as she had no choice but to believe that the man upstairs would help find her son, even if he was still angry that she hadn't been able to do what he asked eighteen years ago.

If you loved me, you'd come.

He'd probably been right. She hadn't really loved him. It had been youth, infatuation, but surely enough years had gone by that he'd forgive her now, that he'd help her.

She gripped the handle of the oven door and felt a wave of the old dizziness. He must be in the shower now, standing under the stream of water. His copper curls would be darkly tamed by moisture. Rivulets of water would be streaming down his body, tangling in the hairs on his chest, sparkling little prisms where the light caught moisture in the curls. His arm would be bent so that the muscles bulged as he rubbed soap over his bronzed flesh.

She shuddered, and it was real... her fingers tracing the bulge of his biceps as warmth grew deep inside her body. He'd been muscular the last time she touched him, but he felt stronger now, harder and tougher. With water touching everywhere, he would... she would...

No!

People did crazy things in times of crisis, got swept away by emotion that wasn't real. Reality was her home and her practice, Chris at the university, and Alex asking her to marry him.

She tore the cardboard off the frozen pizza and yanked the oven door open. She was off balance, worrying about Chris, not quite sane. By the time Gray came back downstairs, she'd be in control again and she'd persuade him to help in the search.

* * *

Gray closed his eyes and let the ice water run down his shoulders, freezing the memories. She wasn't his woman, not anymore, but just moments ago, watching her in his kitchen, he'd seen a flash of pain in the blue-gray of her wide eyes before she masked it, as if he'd hurt her with his impatient words.

She hadn't cut her hair after all. It was twisted up in a knot at the back of her head, a few strands escaping. If he had reached over and pulled the pins out, the whole golden mass would have tumbled down over her shoulders, turning Emma soft and vulnerable. With the feel of her hair in his hands, he would—

He wouldn't do a damned thing! He'd lost Emma a hell of a long time ago. There'd never really been a chance, but looking at her tonight, feeling her body against his out there on the front porch, for one crazy instant he'd felt his heart lurch because she was so soft in his arms, because she'd come to him.

If he'd done things differently, he could have won her all those years ago, but it would still have been a disaster. Emma needed all life could give her, and Gray was his father's son.

He turned the icy water off and stood with his hands flat against the wall of the shower. No sounds, just the water draining. He could sense Emma downstairs, the same way he knew when a grizzly was near.

She'd grown an arresting layer of calm over those passions, gained an air of confidence to erase her old insecurities. Despite the differences, he'd recognized the old Emma flashing through in a way he found more disconcerting than simply facing the girl he remembered.

Cool on the outside, heat flashing through, her long waves caught in a trap of hairpins. She seemed stronger, an impression given by her eyes and the way she moved when she walked. Yet he'd felt her gasp as his arms trapped her against his body, as if she were the same innocent, sensual creature he remembered.

She'd come to him for help, and the Emma he remembered was passionately determined when she wanted something. She didn't give up, and she had a knack for finding his weak spots.

He'd talk to her, offer her his spare room for the night.

In the morning, he would send her away.

Chapter 3

Emma prowled restlessly as she waited for Gray to return. The shower sounds had stopped a few minutes ago. He would be naked now, toweling himself dry, barefoot as he went from the shower to his bedroom for clothes. Did he have a towel wrapped around his waist?

Stop it!

She and Alex hadn't made love yet. She'd been avoiding it, she supposed, thinking of them as friends until he suggested marriage, and Alex hadn't pushed. If his beeper hadn't gone off Wednesday night, would they have made love after she'd agreed to marry him? Maybe not, because she'd already been so worried about Chris. But once Chris was safe, when she got back home, then they would.

She hadn't had a naked man in her house since Paul's death, and even then—

Abstinence, that's what was wrong with her. Abstinence with worry added. It could be any naked man showering upstairs and she'd be off balance.

She opened a door beside the closet, smelled chemicals, and groped until she found a switch. His darkroom. She stepped into it.

Gray had always been fascinated by what a camera could do. She knew little scraps about photography, things he'd taught her. She recognized the enlarger and the trays for chemical solutions. On the rack where he dried prints, she saw a picture of a young black bear with its front paws stretched up against a tree. His head was turned, eyes staring into the camera lens.

Only a picture, but the pounding of her heart told her the bear could come through the paper and breathe life.

"Snooping, Emma?"

She gasped at Gray's voice. He'd come down the stairs so silently, like one of those wildcats he took pictures of.

"Why do you leave your house unlocked?" Mercifully, her voice sounded steady and calm.

The air moved as he stepped back from her.

"If someone turns up needing food and shelter," he said with a shrug, "they'll get in anyway. They'll get a block of wood and smash the window, just the way you planned to."

"You haven't had any vandalism?"

She turned slowly and saw him watching her with inscrutable eyes. He was all walls and barriers, his emotions hidden inside. She'd always had to read his emotions with her intuition. Maybe she'd made mistakes, imagining that he felt the things she needed him to feel.

"No vandalism so far, but I do lock this room. I opened it before I went upstairs."

She was snooping, prying into his secret places. She knew she should apologize, but couldn't form the words. When he gestured behind her, she couldn't untangle her gaze from his eyes.

"Lost your glasses?" he demanded harshly.

"I—contact lenses."

She lifted her hand and found a strand of hair floating around her cheek, tucked it into the knot at the back of her head. He stood between her and the door, watching her.

She swallowed and said, "I think the pizza's ready."

"I thought you'd cut your hair." His voice sounded odd, strained.

"It's too fine to wear short. It flies all over."

Was she insane, talking about the problem of managing fine hair when she hadn't seen him in eighteen years; when he looked as if he wished she'd stayed away another eighteen?

"I need your help, Gray."

"After we eat."

"Right," she agreed, pushing her sudden anger down. "After we eat."

She followed him into the kitchen. When he opened the cupboard and lifted out two plates, she went to the oven, picked up a potholder, and opened the door on the heat. Anger still stirred stubbornly in the pit of her stomach. She forced it down. She would play his game. Dinner first, then he'd listen.

He watched as she cut the pizza. Did he expect her hand to tremble? Years of training had given her the ability to hold a scalpel or a knife, moving her hand steadily despite any storm of emotion churning inside.

She put a piece on his plate and cut a second for herself. Eighteen years ago she would have pushed at his silence. Now she ate, biding her time. There was no way to search for Chris in the dark, no point pushing Gray into talking before he was ready. She would eat, and wait.

She'd been forcing herself to eat all week. As a doctor, she knew she needed fuel for the moment when an emergency would demand her reserves. She prayed the emergency wouldn't be Chris.

As she ate, she watched Gray's hands, strong and tough and steady. She kept her eyes away from his face, determined she wouldn't be caught staring at him again, searching his eyes as if she were seventeen and he had just told her he wanted her but wasn't doing anything about it unless she stopped seeing Paul.

He pushed his plate away and stood up.

"I'll feed Chico. If you make coffee, we can talk in the living room."

She found coffee and filters in a cupboard over the stove. When the coffee finished dripping, she found a tray in a lower cupboard, poured two steaming cups of coffee, and added a pitcher of cream from the fridge and a sugar bowl from the cupboard beside the stove. Then she carried the tray into the living room and set it down carefully on a big coffee table.

When Gray had demanded she follow him to the end of the world and live with him in a cabin in the bush, she'd visualized coal oil lamps and a woodstove for heat, not this comfortable home with electric conveniences and the wilds all around. She stared at the dark window and knew it wouldn't have made any difference. She could never have lived out here in the wilds, away from everything she knew.

She picked up a steaming mug from the tray and curled her hands around its warmth, although she knew her inner chill wasn't from cold.

Gray entered the room silently. Was that something he'd learned prospecting in the bushes with his father, or simply a natural grace he'd been born with? He walked to the coffee table, added sugar and milk to his cup of coffee, picked up the cup and lifted it to his lips. They were both standing, watching each other warily.

"You used to take your coffee black," she said.

"Why are you here?"

She tightened her fingers on the mug. "My son is missing. He was kayaking north on the Inside Passage from Port Hardy to Prince Rupert with a friend. They're three days overdue."

His eyes narrowed to slits. "What do you want from me?"

"I want you to find Chris." She bit her lip and tried to know what was in his voice. "I've talked to the Coast Guard so many times this week, and the Rescue Coordination Center." She'd managed not to cry once in the last few days, but tears threatened now. "There's a search, but there's a lot of coastline, too much coastline. It's hard to spot anyone on the shore or in the water."

"And you came to me because—?"

"You have a plane. You know the area. I'll pay for your fuel. I'll—I shouldn't have let him go on this trip. He's only seventeen."

She'd come up here without even thinking what she'd do if he wasn't willing to help her. Somehow, she'd thought he'd simply... take over. Find Chris for her.

Gray crammed his hands into his pockets. "Where's Paul?"

"Paul died three years ago."

"I didn't—how?"

"He was on his way to the airport to catch a plane to Toronto. A truck hit his taxi." She'd been at the hospital when they brought him in, hadn't known until she came out of surgery.

"I'm sorry."

She tried to read the tone of his voice and couldn't.

She turned her head, saw him staring at the coffee table, felt her breath bunch up in her chest.

"I saw a magazine article about you. You could help me find Chris with your seaplane."

"Is he my son?" His eyes lifted, pinned hers. "Is Chris mine, Emma?"

"No!" Her denial echoed in the room, making his eyes narrow as if he were dissecting her, seeing hidden things.