Make Mine a Marine (59 page)

Emma frowned in surprise. “You mean he's a real person?"

"The name's an alias for a real person. The dates in the journal correspond with crimes that have been committed in New York, New Orleans, and Detroit."

"The places on Begosian's phone bill?"

"Yeah." Instead of enlightening her, his answer only added more confusion to the mystery. "Can I make a copy of that disk? The D.A.'s allowing me a few liberties, as long as I keep him apprised of whatever I find in my investigation."

"If it'll help." His long silences leaped the cell connection and echoed inside the van. Fewer than twelve hours had passed since he'd left her home the night before. How much work could a man get done between midnight and ten in the morning? Despite her intention to keep their relationship that of employer and employee, she couldn't help but comment. "You sound tired."

"I had a long night."

"Is something wrong?" A car horn blared behind her, alerting her to the green light. She eyeballed the red Suburban in her rearview mirror and thought a choice curse at the driver she couldn't see. The vehicle darted around her once she cleared the intersection. She pressed on the accelerator to keep the brown sedan that pulled in behind her from passing her as well.

"Em? You still there?"

Distracted by the onslaught of Saturday morning traffic, she found it easier to separate herself from her concern over Drew's sleeping habits. "Sorry. The light changed."

"Look, I need to catch a few hours of sleep. Can you meet me for dinner?”

The offer caught her off guard. "I don't know."

She never went out on weekends. She reserved that time for Kerry. She rarely missed any breakfast or dinner with her daughter. The few times she deigned to meet a man outside the office, there were usually hundreds of thousands of dollars and contracts or labor demands involved. She never went out on a…date.

As if he could read her mind through the hesitancy in her voice, Drew pushed her for a response. "It's just business, Em. I found out a few things. It's a little complicated to get into over the phone."

An absurd rush of disappointment deflated her ego. "Do you want to come over to the house?"

"I don't think so. We need to talk, and I don't want any distractions."

"All right." She eyed the precious cargo in the back seat. "I'll get a sitter."

"Fine. I'll pick you up at six-thirty."

"I'll be ready." It didn't please her to discover that she regretted slipping into her business-as-usual mode with Drew. "Anything else?"

"Your friend Maxwell work on the weekends?"

Another request from left field. Another reason to worry, she suspected. "No. But he would if I asked."

"Good. Tell him to beef up security at LadyTech."

"Why?" Every defensive hackle rose to the fore.

"I think someone is trying to infiltrate your company."

"Do you have a name? Who?"

"James Moriarty."

* * *

Drew guided Emma into the little out-of-the-way steakhouse and hung his jacket on a brass hook just inside the door. He didn't argue when she said she wanted to keep her coat. Her conversation had dwindled down to the square set of her shoulders and a few perfunctory yes’s and no’s.

Once at their table, she sat straight as a pillar, with her purse in her lap, and darted sidelong glances at the passing patrons and railroad-themed decor. Was the place not classy enough to meet her standards?

She'd chosen to wear casual gray slacks and a sweater instead of something more formal. Even dressed-down, she carried herself with an understated elegance that garnered intrigued glances. He'd hoped to keep things low-key so they could talk. He didn't want to worry about using the right fork or whether his black sweater passed a certain dress code.

Maybe
he
wasn't up to her standards. He'd been touched by her concern over the phone that morning.  Paying visits to ratty neighborhoods wasn't a new thing for him, but having someone worry about getting in late was. A four-hour nap had left him feeling refreshed enough to be able to match wits with Emma. Bantering or business-themed, time spent in her company was quickly becoming an addictive thing.

He liked the challenge of her shrewd mind, and was fascinated by the duality of her character. She was at once killer corporate executive and caring, compassionate nurturer. Her appearance even reflected that contrast, with her tall, strong body and those incredible legs. He closed his eyes for a moment to picture the long, sexy curves hidden beneath the tailored wool flannel she wore. He opened his eyes and looked across the table into the gentle sweetness of her freckled face. She could get a man hotter than an August afternoon, or bring out every primal, protective urge he possessed, depending on which personality she emphasized.

Drew had hoped for the sweet-faced mother tonight. Instead, he realized a tad late, Ms. Tall-Dark-and-Dangerous-to-His-Libido had climbed into the car at six-thirty on the dot.

Fine. He could do cool and impersonal, too. He opened his menu and pretended an interest in the memorized list of items. The first words at the table came from the forty-something waitress with bleached blond hair.

"Gallagher!" She punched his shoulder and cheered him with a smile. "Haven't seen you in ages. How are you gettin' along?"

He folded his menu and smiled. "Fine, thanks, Jody."

She picked up his hand and pinched the skin between his thumb and forefinger. The clicking of her tongue carried to the next table, but he didn't mind. "I don't think so. You get leaner and meaner every time I see you. You eatin' enough red meat?"

He twisted his mouth to keep the grin from spreading. "I'm counting on you to fatten me up."

Jody saluted him with two fingers to her brow, and Drew knew an unexpected satisfaction in seeing her accept the good-hearted mission. People should have a purpose, he thought. They always felt better about themselves and did better work if they understood their purpose.

Every man has his job. And every job is important.

He heard the words in his mind. Heard them in his own voice. No, another man's voice. But
he
spoke the words. He glimpsed a snapshot memory of another place and another time. Papers, maps spread before him.

Drew flattened his palms on the table and leaned forward, snatching at the papers, snatching at the dream.

He opened his eyes and saw the gold napkin clutched in his fist. He didn't understand where he was, or what it meant.

"Drew?" Emma's cool fingers touched his fisted hand. "Is something wrong?"

He blinked and looked up. Tiny lines grooved beside her eyes as she frowned. Drew captured her hand in his, grounding himself in the reality of her touch, focusing on the careworn hints of time and caring and sadness in her beautiful face.

"Don't be sad, lady," he reassured her. He hated when she looked so sad. He never wanted to be one of the things that deepened the lines beside her eyes.

"What?" Emma jerked her hand away, and the temporary warmth that had shaded her eyes vanished in a cold snap. "What did you say?"

Drew shook his head, stymied by his own confusion. He was a man without a memory, wasn’t he? So how the hell did the past and present get so screwed up in his mind?

He settled back in his chair and seized the first logical excuse that popped into his head. "Guess I'm more tired than I thought."

Although Emma had seemed to express genuine concern a moment earlier, the way she now squirmed in her seat without taking her wary gaze off him didn't bode well for a relaxing dinner.

"You sure you're all right, Mr. Gallagher?" Consumed with his fractured memory and easing Emma's trepidation, he'd forgotten Jody's presence at the table.

"Yeah." He shrugged off her concern and ordered a beer. "Whatever you have on tap."

"Right." He'd ruined her exuberance with his inexplicable behavior, but she seemed to take it in stride better than Emma. "How about you, ma'am?"

"Coffee." Her pinched look eased for the waitress's benefit. "And ice water, please."

"Coming right up."

With Jody's departure, Emma caught her bottom lip between her teeth again. Drew recognized the subtle habit. A clear sign of distress.

"Is it all right if I have a drink?" he asked. "I may be on your payroll now, but dinner's on me."

"I'm not worried about the money."

He clasped his hands together on the tabletop. "What are you worried about?"

Her hot gaze snapped to his, then just as quickly froze over. "I don't drink."

"Does it bother you that I do?"

"Your habits are no concern of mine. But if you have more than that one beer before we're done, I'm driving."

He wasn't sure how to explain his opinion about drinking. He'd forgotten enough of his life already; it made no sense to indulge a behavior that might make him forget more. "I don't plan to get drunk."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"You gonna tell me why?"

"Are you going to tell me why you called me
lady
?"

Drew backed off, wondering if maybe she was as addled in the head as he. "Isn't it obvious? You've got a lot of class. Of course I'm going to call you a lady."

She clutched her purse like a shield and leaned forward. "Not
a
lady.
Lady
. A nickname. You called me
lady
."

"You want me to call you Legs or Honey?"

"My husband called me Lady."

A long swallow of that cold beer sounded pretty damn good right about now. Maybe he'd just dive in head first. But the desire to make a hasty apology faded with the return of her defensive posture.

"Em, you've been on edge since I pulled into the parking lot. I understand you may not want to socialize with me. But this is a respectable enough place to conduct business. Your nose was out of joint long before I let the lady thing slip. Why?"

Glints of light shimmered in her hair at the quick shake of her head. "Why did you choose this place? Did you talk to Jas or BJ?"

"No. I discovered it a couple years back. Driving around town. I just ended up here. It felt…comfortable, when I walked in. I eat here once or twice a month now. The food's good. Simple. Plenty of it." He refused to justify himself further. "Do you always answer personal questions with another question?"

"Jonathan proposed to me here."

Her statement hung in the air like the final count of a boxing match.

Drew's shoulders sank with the depth of his sigh. He raked his fingers through his hair, shaking loose the tension from his scalp. "Why didn't you say something? There are hundreds of places to eat in Kansas City."

"I didn't think it would matter. But it does. I don't think I should be here with you." Her words tumbled all together. "I'm sorry. I know that sounds terribly rude. All the memories—I thought I could handle it, but…I can't."

In a flash of insight, Drew realized that the sadness that hung about her was a perpetual thing. For a brief moment, he'd been a cause of it. But his confusion passed and left him with a clear-minded purpose. He could do something to ease the load of worry and responsibility she carried so nobly. He didn't have the background to offer compassion.  He didn't have the trust to offer a friendly ear. But he did have the ability to take action, the means to provide information, and the instincts to protect her and the things she cared about.

Drew pulled two bills from his wallet and tossed them on the table. Issuing a silent invitation, he grabbed his jacket and escorted her out the door.

A blast of wind hit them, and Drew shifted to Emma's right side. He placed a guiding hand at the small of her back and shielded her from the force of the frigid air. In silent agreement, they quickened their pace along the sidewalk, then cut across an open lane to reach his black pickup truck.

With the best of P. I. Gallagher's habits ingrained in him, Drew scanned the parking lot for oncoming cars, unwelcome guests, and anything else that might look suspicious. He unlocked the passenger door first and held it open for Emma.

Before he could shut the door, she reached out and clasped his forearm. "I'm sorry. Please don't take this personally."

Her soft touch sensitized his skin through layers of leather and wool. Her gentle voice eased his guilt. Deep inside, her simple gesture took away the harm of his unintentional mistake. The raw, empty wound inside him ached with the need to be healed by this woman.

But he looked past her through the driver-side window without acknowledging the effect she had on him.

Two cars down. Tweed coat. Brown sedan. Dark, beady eyes looked away when Stan Begosian realized that Drew had him in his sights.

Drew pushed Emma into the truck and slammed the door. A car engine turned over as he raced around the hood and climbed in.

"What are you doing?" Emma gasped at his rudeness.

"Buckle your seat belt." He turned the key in the ignition. Begosian's brown sedan lurched out of its parking space.