Thin Ice (28 page)

At some point, Eric must have moved her overnight bag, which he'd dropped immediately upon entering the apartment, to the bathroom.

He'd set her bag on the counter, beside clean towels and a washcloth. She smiled at his thoughtfulness, freshened up, then slipped on her sleep shirt, shivering against the cold morning air.

As she returned her brush to her bag, she spotted Eric's shaving kit, packed for travel. Sadness squeezed her heart. He was leaving for St. Louis today.

Helo? Was that a bottle of White Linen peeking out behind the shaving cream? It was. More than that, it was her bottle of White Linen. The bottle she'd given up looking for weeks ago.

What was Eric doing with it? Intending to ask, she left the bathroom. Eric was stil rooting around in the kitchen, so she checked out his apartment. Al she'd seen so far was the bed. Not checked out his apartment. Al she'd seen so far was the bed. Not that she minded. She loved the sight of Eric, bathed in candlelight, his eyes dark and depthless as they moved in a slow, sensual rhythm that gave a whole new meaning to the concept of delayed gratification.

But there was something to be said for hot and heavy, too. She grinned at the trail of discarded clothing from the front door to the bed, then shook her head and chuckled. Al that money she'd spent and he'd tossed her dress and matching lingerie aside as if it were gift-wrapping on Christmas morning.

The apartment was smaler than she'd expected, with only three rooms, the largest a combination living, dining, and bedroom. The soft pink and gray light that filtered through the horizontal mini-blinds provided the only hint of color in the room; everything else appeared to be in basic beige.

So Eric wasn't a man to give a lot of thought to interior decorating.

The nondescript dining room set and living room couch and chairs in front of the entertainment center gave the impression they'd been bought sight unseen. The wals were bare. The only clues about the man who lived here were the huge, state-of-the-art plasma television and stereo system, an extensive CD colection—

surprisingly heavy on the classical side—and the brass music stand and celo propped in the corner by the window.

Emily blinked. A cello?

She padded over to investigate. The sheet music was wel worn, She padded over to investigate. The sheet music was wel worn, with penciled notes written in the margins. The handwriting was dainty and feminine, not anything like the casual scrawl Emily knew to be Eric's. So who did the celo belong to?

"I'm sorry, Doctor, but you're not alowed to wear that pained expression until you've heard me play."

"This is yours?” She looked up to see Eric watching her, wearing nothing but a smile. Her confusion faded as she feasted her eyes on the sight, and knew she'd never tire of looking at him. Or of wanting to drag him off to bed. “Would you play for me?"

"Sometime. But not now. My neighbors and I have a deal. I don't play my music between the hours of ten and ten and they don't play theirs.” His smile twisted into a grimace. “I'm afraid their tastes run along the lines of AC/DC and Twisted Sister played at top volume.” He stepped closer. “What's that?"

She held out the perfume. “I believe this is mine."

"Wrong.” He lifted it from her palm and grinned. “It used to be yours. Now it's mine."

She lifted an eyebrow. “You've taken to wearing White Linen on the ice?"

He grinned. “No, but it might be an idea worth looking into. Can you imagine how surprised the Blues would be if we showed up smeling like a department store perfume counter? They wouldn't know whether to hit us or kiss us."

Emily's answering smile faded as the sun burst over the horizon and filed the room with soft, golden light. Eric stiled, realizing she was seeing his body for the first time without her vision clouded by need or lust. Dread filed him as her sharp doctor's gaze took in the bruises on his body not yet healed from Wednesday night's game.

Silently he cursed his impatience and greed. He should have taken her home after the banquet, made love to her there, then slipped away before she awoke. During the regular season he sometimes went for weeks without sprouting more than a minor bruise or two here and there. But the playoff games were more physical than most. More was at stake.

And it showed.

Faced with his twenty-two year colection of battle scars, her eyes went dark with an emotion Eric couldn't define. It was al he could do not to pul her into his arms and make them darken with passion instead, make her forget what she saw.

But distracting her wouldn't solve anything. Afterward the scars would stil be there, silent testimonials to the fact that her lover used his body as both weapon and shield in his work.

Emily was a healer. Pain was a given in Eric's profession. Would his lover be able to separate in her mind what she saw at the shelter and in the ER from what she saw on him? Would she be able to and in the ER from what she saw on him? Would she be able to accept his wilingness to subject his body to such abuse?

An eternity passed before she lifted troubled eyes to his. Terror gripped Eric's heart. If she rejected him now...

Her eyes softened as she stepped forward. With heartbreaking tenderness, she bent her head. Ever so gently, she blessed each of his physical imperfections with a healing kiss.

Eric closed his eyes and gave thanks to God for this woman he knew he would love for the rest of his life.

"Eric, am I missing something here?” Emily asked as they enjoyed the snack he'd made while she explored his apartment. She wore an old T-shirt of his and sat cross-legged in the middle of his bed while he sat propped up against pilows with the sheet puled up to his waist, the plate of fruit and cheese between them.

He arched an eyebrow, treated her to one of his blood-warming head-to-toe looks. “I'd say you've got al the right parts in al the right places."

She blushed, going warm al over. “I'm serious."

He grinned. “So am I.

"I mean it. I'm curious. Why do you live here? In this apartment?

With neighbors you have to negotiate quiet hours with?"

"Where would you prefer that I live?"

Loaded question, that. One she was nowhere near ready to answer.

“Wherever you want to, of course, but—” She looked around the apartment, unsure how to put it. “I don't mean to offend you, but this isn't a home, Eric. It's a ... a stopping point. From what I can see, the only piece of furniture that gets any regular use is the bed."

"A man's got to sleep somewhere."

"Yes, but he's also got to have someplace he can cal his own.

Someplace to come home to.” He'd told her earlier when she'd asked if he'd personaly picked out the furniture, the only pieces that belonged to him were the television, stereo system and the bed. The rest were rented. She found it strange that a man who made the kind of money he did had so few personal possessions, but short of baldly asking him what he did with his money...

"I have a home, Emily,” he said quietly. “It just isn't here."

"Oh.” Emily could have kicked herself. Why hadn't she left wel enough alone?

"I have a house just outside of Barton—Minnesota. Where I grew up."

Her relief was almost palpable. At least it was in the same state.

“And that's where you'l go when the season ends."

"That's the plan, yes."

"That's the plan, yes."

Emily remembered how knowing he would be leaving in a few months had softened her initial resistance to Eric. How she'd thought what harm could it do to let him into her son's life for a little while. Now she regretted her shortsightedness.

Eric resumed eating and fel into his own thoughtful silence. It occurred to Emily that she knew almost nothing about Eric's life before he'd come to Minneapolis. Most of that, she knew, was her fault. She'd been so determined to keep her secrets she'd avoided asking him about his past. Her relationship with Ryan had been totaly different, filed with al kinds of sharing—at least on her part.

She hadn't been able to keep a single secret from him—and he hadn't wanted her to.

She'd falen in love with Ryan because he was so different from anyone she'd ever known. Wealthy, sophisticated, charming. At his encouragement, she'd told him everything about her minefield of a childhood, naively assuming he wanted to know because he cared, because they were faling in love.

Instead he'd turned her trust against her, used her deepest hopes, fears and dreams to control her.

She hadn't made that mistake this time. She'd falen in love with Eric not knowing or caring what had come before. If the look in his eyes when they made love was any indication, he cared for her, too.

True, he'd told her he loved her, but only once, and in the heat of True, he'd told her he loved her, but only once, and in the heat of the moment at that.

With a pang of disappointment, Emily realized that deep down she'd hoped he would tel her again tonight.

But he hadn't. And now, looking around his pit stop of an apartment, she knew why.

Eric Cameron was just passing through.

Despite the cheery late-morning sunshine that surrounded her, Emily sat alone in her kitchen, feeling lost and left behind. Eric had kissed her goodbye and left to catch his plane over an hour ago. Robbie had barreled into the house ten minutes later, given her a huge smacking kiss, then wheedled ten dolars out of her to go to a matinee movie at the mal with Glen and his mom.

With unexpected time on her hands, she'd wandered into the kitchen to pour herself a cup of coffee, then debated whether to read the Sunday paper in bed. But the idea of doing so alone suddenly held no appeal, so for the past twenty minutes she'd simply sat at the kitchen table, and wondered how long it would take for this listless, empty feeling inside her to pass.

Five days was her guess. Until Eric returned.

Lord, what a mess. How could she have been so foolish as to fal in love with the man, knowing he was leaving? True, he'd be back in the fal, but that didn't mean they'd stil see each other. Then again, maybe he wouldn't return to play for the Saints. His contract was up at the end of the season. Come fal, he could be playing just about anywhere in North America—or Europe.

The telephone rang, saving her from wholesale misery. “Helo?"

"Helo, ma'am, this is Carmen Martinez with the Star Tribune. I'm trying to reach Dr. Emily Jordan."

Emily paused. They'd never met, but Carmen Martinez was a respected features writer for the Tribune. “This is she."

"Oh, good. I'm glad I caught you. Do you have a few minutes? I'd like to talk to you about an idea I have for an article on domestic violence."

Emily's fingers tightened on the phone. “Excuse me?"

"I understand you volunteer your medical services at Harmony House."

Her heartbeat slowly returned to normal. “Wel, yes, but I'm not at liberty to discuss the details of my cases."

"That's not what I'm looking for. Have you by any chance read any of the articles in my five-part series about battered women this of the articles in my five-part series about battered women this week?"

Emily looked at the newspaper on the kitchen table and saw today's article featured on the “Inside” banner across the top of the page.

Chances were she wouldn't have read it. She tended to avoid journalists’ reports on the subject, having decided that no one who hadn't been there could adequately describe the humiliation and degradation battered women suffered.

"I'm afraid I haven't."

"I'd like you to do me a favor and read the first three."

"And then?"

"I'd appreciate your perspective on the subject for a sixth article."

"Ms. Martinez. I'm not sure I feel qualified to—"

"Please, Dr. Jordan. Don't say anything until you've read the articles. I can have copies sent to your office first thing in the morning."

Emily realized she was letting her personal fears and prejudices cloud her thinking. Of course she was qualified to speak on the subject. Hadn't she spent hours doing that just the night before?

“No, that won't be necessary. I can dig them out of the recycling bag."

"May I cal you in the morning to discuss setting up an interview?

"May I cal you in the morning to discuss setting up an interview?

I'm sorry to put you on the spot like this, but to add a sixth article to the series, we'l have to move fast. The fifth is scheduled to run Tuesday and my editor won't run a sixth if I can't have it ready for Wednesday's edition."

"Of course. Around eight. Cal me at the hospital. Minneapolis General. The emergency room."

"Great. Until then."

"Wait. Where did you get my name and number?"

"I got your name from a woman you spoke with at last night's United Hope banquet. I caled the hospital, and a Dr. Caldwel gave me your home number after I explained what I wanted to do."

"I see,” Emily said, not sure she appreciated having her cover blown like that. She did what she did at the shelter for herself and the other women there, not for recognition of any kind.

She decided to sort things out with Augustus later and fished the newspaper sections with Carmen Martinez’ articles out of the recycling bag. Back in the kitchen, she read the three articles twice over, impressed. The woman had presented her report on domestic violence in the metropolitan area with admirable insight and sensitivity, not the lurid sensationalism Emily had come to expect from such exposés.