Thin Ice (10 page)

"I see. Wel, ma'am,” he said, scratching the back of his neck, “I'm not licensed to sel to anyone but retailers and guys in the business, so ... tel you what. I'l sel you the equipment, but you'l have to let Eric pay for it."

"Oh, no. I couldn't—"

"Al you have to do is write him the check instead of me. I'l put the order in his name and..."

"Is there a problem?” Eric asked, coming up behind Emily.

"Lady wants to settle up."

"So what's the—oh, right. Sorry about that. I wasn't thinking."

"I told her she could write you a check to cover it."

"Sure."

Emily relaxed as she realized she wouldn't have to argue with Eric over the bil. Sam went behind the counter to prepare an invoice.

“What about the rest of the stuff?” he asked. You ready to take delivery now?"

"No. I'l have to come back for it."

"No. I'l have to come back for it."

Sam sent him a strange look. “You been on my case for three weeks now, asking when it's coming in, and now you got time to spare?"

"Is there something I can help with?” Emily asked, handing Eric a check for nearly five hundred dolars.

He folded it in half and tucked it into his back pocket without even looking at it. Emily wished she could be so casual about money.

She would miss that five hundred dolars.

"Not unless you've got a portable U-Haul in your purse,” he said.

"I've got the Subway."

"The Subway?"

"My Suburban. Robbie and I named it the Subway one day because it seemed big enough to be a subway car and—oh, never mind. I guess you had to be there,” she ended in embarrassment.

"At least take the bals off my hands. I've got another shipment coming in tomorrow. Don't know where I'm going to put it al."

Eric looked at Emily. “You sure you don't mind?"

Half an hour later, the Subway was packed with bals. Footbals, basketbals, voleybals, basebals. Some were deflated, which Sam explained was because the buyer often didn't know how long it explained was because the buyer often didn't know how long it would be before the bals were put into service.

"Jeez, Mom, there must be a milion of them in there,” Robbie said as Eric and Sam closed the door on her puzzling cargo.

"More like a hundred,” Emily murmured.

"What's he gonna do with them al?"

"Good question.” There wasn't a hockey puck in the bunch.

"That ought to make Miranda a happy woman,” Sam said, bracing his hands on his hips as he studied the packed Suburban.

"Miranda?” Emily echoed in surprise.

Eric smiled at her across the roof of her vehicle. “I'm donating some stuff to the school. No big deal."

No big deal? Emily didn't think Miranda would agree. In fact, the woman would probably be downright ecstatic. What school administrator wouldn't be? “Does she know about this?"

"Been waiting with bated breath for the stuff for weeks,” Sam said.

Emily recaled overhearing Robbie's principal saying “at least let me treat you to dinner” that day at the school. She must have been talking about this. About Eric's donation. And this would be her chance to repay him. Emily tried her best not to speculate on how chance to repay him. Emily tried her best not to speculate on how grateful the woman might be for a boatload of free sports equipment. What was between Eric Cameron and Miranda Manzelrod was their business. Determinedly, she headed for the driver's seat.

Then let's not keep her waiting any longer, shal we?” Good grief.

Was that peevishness in her voice?

"Uh, Emily, hold up a minute.” Eric rounded the hood of her car, looking concerned. “We packed the bals pretty high."

She looked into the back of the Suburban and realized she wouldn't be able to see a thing in her rear view mirror. Great. Just what she needed to fuel her traffic anxieties.

"Why don't you let me drive? In fact, why don't you and Robbie take my car home? I'l cal Miranda and deliver the goods, then swing by your place later to switch cars."

Emily stood there, not knowing what to say. If she declined driving his car, she'd be stuck delivering the bals with him. She didn't realy care to witness the tal blonde's gratitude at receiving such a generous gift. But if she drove his car...

"You don't know where I live."

"Is your address on your check?"

"Sure, but—"

"Sure, but—"

Eric smiled, and she lost her train of thought. “I'l just get the city map out of my glove compartment and we'l be al set."

Emily stood there, unable to think of any kind of reasonable argument. What she wouldn't give to have that kind of warm, easy smile and instant confidence. Looking up at him, she recaled the moment in the ice rink when he'd told her, “You can handle anything.” No way was she going to let him in on her traffic anxieties after that. She'd bet Miranda Manzelrod wouldn't have any trouble driving his car.

She looked over at it. It was so dark, so sleek, so shiny, so ... so smal. She swalowed, hard. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. It was Sunday afternoon. Traffic would be light.

Besides, it was only for a few minutes. Less than thirty.

She'd be al right. She had to be.

She took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. “Sure,” she said, her smile determined. “Give me the keys."

Chapter Eight

Feeling as if he'd just scored a particularly sweet goal, Eric watched his car glide out of sight, then pumped his arm in victory.

"Yes!"

"Yes!"

He reached into his hip pocket, puled out Emily's check, unfolded it and broke into a wide grin.

Hot damn. He had her address and her phone number.

Eric couldn't believe his luck. In less than two hours, he'd be knocking on Dr. Emily Jordan's front door. Al he had to do was run by Bil and Miranda's, pick up a key to the school, unload the stuff, then motor on over to Emily's.

Stil grinning, he climbed behind the wheel of her Suburban, slid the seat back and fired up the engine. Cautiously he clunked through the industrial park, trying to be as careful as he'd noticed Emily being—with both her car on the way in and his on the way out—to avoid as many potholes as he could. He had to admit it had been a heck of a lot easier to maneuver his Boxter through the sea of craters than he was managing to move Emily's tank through them.

But he seemed to be doing al right.

Suddenly he picked up Emily's scent. He looked around and spied a smal clear bottle of perfume wedged into the crease of the seat beside him. He fished it out and glanced at the label.

White Linen. He'd never heard of it, but it sounded like something Emily would wear. Clean and classy.

He smiled, remembering how she'd blushed bright red when he'd caught her checking him out. She'd touched him in so many ways caught her checking him out. She'd touched him in so many ways that afternoon, each of them more precious than the next. Emily, looking to him for reassurance. Emily, her brow furrowed in concentration as she learned how to skate. Emily, her eyes ful of excitement as she mastered her balance. Emily, on fire with the spark of an idea.

Emily, her big green eyes glistening with motherlove.

Emily, finaly noticing him as a man.

The memory of it jolted him al over again. His smile broadened as he hit the gas. He couldn't wait to see her again.

Suddenly the Suburban dropped into a pothole the size of Canada.

Swearing sharply, Eric unsuccessfuly swerved to avoid a second huge hole, then a third, only to hear the gut-wrenching sound of tearing metal. Blindly he hit the brakes, but as the vehicle rocked to a lopsided halt he knew it was too late. He'd lost his focus, and now he'd messed up Emily's car.

With a sick, sinking feeling, he got out to assess the damage.

Sonofabitch. He'd ripped a big hole in the exhaust system.

* * * *

By nine o'clock, Emily didn't know whether to cal the police, the hospitals, Miranda Manzelrod or a therapist. For the dozenth time since Robbie had gone to bed, after staling for al he was worth in since Robbie had gone to bed, after staling for al he was worth in the hopes of seeing Eric again, she peered past her living room drapes, hoping to see her Suburban puling into her driveway. But al she saw was Eric Cameron's black Porsche, gleaming darkly in the glow of her gaslight.

Where was he? Why hadn't he caled? Her mind was hip-deep in imagining increasingly catastrophic scenarios when the telephone startled her. She almost tripped in her hurry to answer it.

"Emily?"

Her heart took flight. “Eric? Are you al right?"

"Uh, yeah. But I'm afraid I have some bad news for you."

"Is my car al right?"

"Your car? Uh, sure ... Nothing to worry about."

"And you're okay?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm fine, too."

Emily frowned. He didn't sound fine. He sounded uncomfortable.

Exhausted. Almost ... guilty? “Then what's wrong? Why aren't you here?"

"That's the problem. Believe me, I wish I was there, but ... wel, I ran into some trouble with ... with delivering the equipment ...

ran into some trouble with ... with delivering the equipment ...

and..."

"Eric?” Emily heard Miranda Manzelrod's voice in the background.

“Oh, there you are. What are you doing hiding in the bedroom? Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were on the phone."

"It's al right,” Eric said. “I'l only be a minute."

"Dinner's almost ready."

"Thanks. I'l be right down."

"You were saying?” Emily prompted—and quite politely, she thought, considering. No wonder he sounded so uncomfortable and exhausted. Poor things. They hadn't even had time for dinner.

"Right. Yeah.” Eric seemed to have trouble coming up with complete sentences for her. He sighed wearily and she thought she heard the sound of a chair creaking, or maybe a bed. “I uh, hope you don't mind, but I won't be able to get over there tonight."

Emily's voice dropped several degrees. “I see."

"I'm sorry, Emily."

Trouble with the equipment indeed. “When are you bringing my car back?"

He hesitated, then exhaled sharply. “Tomorrow night, around six, if that's okay with you."

that's okay with you."

Emily said nothing, furious.

"You're welcome to drive my car to work."

"I need my car, Eric.” Driving his hadn't been nearly as unpleasant an experience as she'd thought it would be, but that didn't mean she cared to repeat it.

"I know, but I can't bring it back tonight. Seriously. I'm realy sorry to put you out like this, but—"

"You're kidding, right?"

"No, I'm not. I won't be able to get it back to you before tomorrow evening."

"And why not?"

"Because ... because I have some things I need to take care of, first."

Like having dinner with Miranda Manzelrod? She wouldn't say it. She wouldn't humiliate herself that way. “Fine, then. I'l see you tomorrow."

"Wait. You might need my number if something comes up."

"Doesn't Robbie have it?"

"Oh, right. I forgot about that. Um...” He paused, seemed to be considering something. Emily waited, letting him stew. “Wel, I'd better get going,” he finaly said. “Miranda's got supper waiting."

Emily stared at the receiver, incredulous. Did the man intend to rub her nose in it, or was he simply clueless?

"I'l see you tomorrow, okay?"

Over my dead body, Emily wanted to say. “Fine."

"And Emily?"

What now? “What?” she snapped.

"I'm realy sorry about this."

* * * *

"She's pissed."

"Oh, so that was Emily you were talking to.” Miranda smiled and puled a pork roast out of the oven. She set it on the stove as her husband, Bil Saunders, emerged from the wine celar, bottle in hand. Given the two men's erratic work schedule, late evening meals were nothing unusual in the Saunders household.

Miranda scooped mashed potatoes into a bowl. “Which is she more upset about—your waiting so long to cal her, or her car?"

more upset about—your waiting so long to cal her, or her car?"

"I didn't tel her about the Suburban."

Miranda paused in mid-movement. “Why not?"

"I just couldn't, Miranda, okay? I mean, the woman was nice enough to loan me her car, and I tore it up."

"So what did you tel her?"

"That I got tied up here, and I'd bring it back tomorrow evening. By then I ought to have found someone who can replace the exhaust system for me."

Miranda set the bowl of potatoes down slowly. “Eric? Do you realize what she's probably thinking right now?"

"Yeah, that I'm a jerk."

"More than that, Mr. Cameron. She probably thinks you're sleeping with me."

* * * *

Furious, Emily flipped off her front porch light. Eric Cameron wouldn't be stopping by tonight ... or any other night if she could help it. Tomorrow she'd cal the creep and tel him to meet her in the hospital parking lot after work to exchange cars. She didn't want him anywhere near her home. Anywhere near her.

Better yet, maybe she'd just leave the keys for him to pick up at the front desk, and ask him to do the same.

"Jerk,” she muttered, returning to the kitchen to colect the tax forms that littered the kitchen table and stuff them into an accordion file folder labeled “The Jordan Foundation.” She'd have to get her tax information ready for her accountant some other night. Her concentration was shot for tonight.

The phone rang as she snapped the elastic band around the accordion folder. She checked her caler ID. She didn't recognize the number so she let the answering machine take it.

"Emily. It's Eric. I think we need to talk. We may have gotten our wires crossed and ... oh, hel. I'l cal back later."