True Lies (8 page)

“Bruce?” She twisted around.

He was walking toward her, his familiar shuffling gait making scraping noises on the dock, his shoulders hunched inside his baggy coat. He tilted his head and the shadow from his cap brim slid over his sunglasses to shade his features. “Is something wrong?”

Something wrong? Hysterical laughter threatened to burst from the lump in her throat. She shook her head quickly. Why was he here? She felt brittle enough to shatter. On top of everything Simon had dumped on her, she couldn’t handle the puzzle this man presented.

He stopped when he stood beside her. “I'm sorry for dropping in like this, but there was no answer when I called and...” He paused. “You're crying.”

She dragged the back of her hand across her eyes and turned away from him.

“Emma? What’s the matter?”

Shaking her head again, she wrapped her arms around her legs and pressed her face to her knees. No one had ever seen her cry, no matter what. “This isn’t a good time, Bruce,” she managed. “I'll...” She swallowed hard. “I'll call you later.”

Instead of leaving, he squatted down beside her. “Aw, heck. I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do to help? Not that I'm much good at fixing things. I always seem to barge in on people when they’d rather be alone and— Heck, what happened to your plane?”

A fresh spurt of tears gushed against the denim that covered her knees. “It’s scraped.”

The boards of the dock vibrated as he sat down heavily. “No wonder you're upset. You love that plane, don’t you? I could tell by the way you look when you fly it. It can be repaired, can’t it?”

She could fix it, but it would never be the same.

“Emma? Can I get you a glass of water or something?”

A sob hiccuped past her lips. She tried to stop it, but it was out before she had a chance. His kindness was threatening to be the final blow to her self-control.

A stud from the open front of his coat scraped along the dock as he moved closer. His warmth flowed out to her even before he lifted his hand to her back. It was no more than a whisper of contact. “Do you want to tell me about what happened?”

It was tempting, that offer to share. She couldn’t, though. For too long she’d had no one but herself to rely on. She had been the one to find solutions.

He shifted his legs, twisting so that he could slip his arm around her. His touch was tentative, his long fingers resting gently on her shoulder.

She didn’t uncurl from the defensive ball she’d wrapped herself in. Instead, she tightened her grasp on her legs, keeping her eyes pressed stubbornly to her knees. She was so stiff the muscles in her back were cramping. Oh, to let go and trust someone for once in her life. She’d never been able to in the past. Not her parents, not the man who had said that he loved her. She couldn’t even trust her own brother anymore.

“I know it isn’t any of my business, but you might feel better if you talked about it.”

“I can’t,” she whispered.

He was silent for a while. “Is it your brother? Was he the one who damaged your plane?”

She didn’t answer.

“I think he passed me on the road. He was driving pretty fast. Did you two have an argument?”

An argument? If only it were that simple.

At her continued silence, he sighed. “Okay. You don’t have to answer anything if you don’t want to. But if you want to cry, go ahead. I promise I won’t look.”

That did it. Helpless to stop them now, Emma felt the tears scald her cheeks. With a muffled groan, she turned to press her face against Bruce’s neck.

“Shh. It’s okay, Emma.” He rubbed her back in soothing circles. “It'll be all right.”

No, it wouldn’t be all right, but surrounded by Bruce’s gentle strength like this, she could pretend for a while, couldn’t she? She rubbed her cheek against the coarse fabric of his jacket. His beard tickled her forehead and she nuzzled closer, her nose touching the skin of his throat.

God, he smelled good. It was the same as the night before, that clean tang of soap overlying the unique scent of masculinity. She inhaled shakily, her tears trickling into his collar.

He raised his hand to her head, tangling his fingers in her hair. “Emma?”

She didn’t want to move. Instead of answering, she brushed her lips over his neck.

“Emma, you're upset. You don’t know what you're doing.”

No, he was wrong. She knew exactly what she was doing. She kissed him again, sliding her mouth downward to the place where the pulse beat at the base of his throat. His taste was as unique as his scent. And she wanted to taste more, because she didn’t want to cry.

His fingers tightened, tipping her head back. “I can’t do this to you,” he said hoarsely.

It was Bruce’s voice, but not his voice. Opening her eyes, she looked up at him. Where was the man who had made her laugh, who had shared his chocolate cheesecake, who had worn that ugly tie? Where was the stranger who had made her quiver with the mere brush of his hand on her cheek? Which one was he now? She frowned at his dark glasses and baseball cap, suddenly impatient. Lifting her hand quickly, she grasped the brim of his cap and flipped it off.

He jerked. His hair gleamed in the sunlight. The beautiful, pale-streaked locks stirred softly in the breeze from the lake. A loose curl flopped over his forehead. “What are you doing?”

Recklessly, she grabbed his glasses and dropped them to the dock behind him. They struck the boards with a clatter that echoed through her head. Now the only shadows on his face were the subtle contours of his lean cheeks. Through vision still blurred by her tears, she saw his chameleon features harden into chiseled handsomeness.

Like a leaf caught helplessly in a high wind, her need for comfort flipped over to another side of need altogether. Her emotions were too raw to control. Fingers trembling, she traced his face, learning the taut texture of his skin and the bristling coarseness of his beard. Her thumb touched the edge of his mouth. She felt him shudder.

“Emma,” he whispered. “No.”

“Kiss me, Bruce.”

His eyes glowed with an intensity that made her lungs heave. He moved with the swiftness of a coiled spring that had suddenly been released as he rose to his knees beside her and fastened his hands on her shoulders.

“Kiss m—”

There was no need for her to ask a second time. His mouth covered hers with a solid sureness that stole her breath.

This was what she needed, she thought as she tipped her head back and felt the firmness of his lips. Later she would worry about the sheer madness of this moment, but right now she wanted to lose herself in this simple, basic contact of flesh on flesh. What he looked like, where they were, and what she would have to do tomorrow could be forgotten as long as he was giving her this kiss.

Sweet, Bruce thought as he closed his eyes and tasted her lips. Not the cloying sweetness of sugared candy, but the rich flavor of a full-bodied wine. And just as dangerously intoxicating.

What was he doing? What the
hell
was he doing? Prendergast might have sat beside her and offered his comfort, but that persona never would have folded her in a tender embrace. And he sure wouldn’t be kissing her. Kissing her wasn’t going to get him any of the answers he wanted. It wouldn’t help him wrap up this case any sooner. It was insane.

But Prendergast’s hat and sunglasses lay discarded on the rough wood of the dock. She had yanked them off and thrown them away, turning the tables on him, probing his secrets with the lethal swiftness that he had hoped to use on her own.

Her fingers fluttered over his cheek and slid upward to thrust into his hair, and a soft sound of satisfaction rose from her throat.

Bruce parted his lips and took the sound into his mouth. He was glad that she’d knocked off his hat and that she found pleasure in touching his hair. He was glad that he hadn’t bothered to pad his cheeks with gauze today and that she liked what her fingers had traced. The cop in him should be worried about losing the props of his disguise, but the man in him rejoiced. Increasing the pressure of the kiss, he cradled her face in his palms.

She returned everything he gave her. When his tongue traced the seam of her lips, she opened them readily. Unable to stop himself, he plunged into her warmth and his senses reeled. Had he thought she tasted like wine? She was nectar, a pungent, heady mixture of sensuality and strength.

If her mouth tasted like this, what would the rest of her be like? What would it feel like to graze his lips down her throat and part the loose blouse that molded her curves? How would her breasts weigh in his palms, and how would they look if he bared them to the sunlight and the gentle breeze?

The primitiveness of his response startled him. His hands tightened on her cheeks as his entire body trembled with tension. He wanted her. In broad daylight, on these rough wooden boards, beside the plane that had probably been filled with cocaine an hour ago.

Cocaine smuggled into the country by her brother.

Or maybe even by her.

Sanity belatedly filtered through the desire that dulled his brain. She had lied to the sheriff last night. She was Emmaline Duprey, she had been arrested for assault. He was supposed to establish a useful friendship with the woman, not seduce her. And he wasn’t even sure which one of them was being seduced.

Her fingers slid through his hair and curled around the back of his neck.

He lifted a hand to catch her wrist before she could learn the broadness of his shoulders.

She nipped at his lower lip and moved her free hand to his arm.

Letting go of her face, he grabbed her other wrist before she could feel the hard muscle beneath his loose sleeve.

Close. He couldn’t believe how close he had just come. Ruthlessly he attempted to rein in the desire that shook him. Emma pulled against his grip on her wrists, but he held her firmly, bringing her hands between them. He tried to ease his mouth from hers.

With a whimper, she followed him as he withdrew. She shifted to her knees and leaned toward him, refusing to let him end the kiss.

He didn’t waste energy on cataloging all the “if only’s.” There was no changing the cruel and ironic reality of their situation by wishful thinking. Somehow he found the strength to wrench his mouth free.

They were both struggling for air as much as for control. The sound of their ragged breathing was as loud as the pulse that hammered in his ears. He leaned his forehead against hers and lowered her hands to her lap.

She didn’t move away, and she didn’t try to lean closer. She stayed where she was, her entire body quaking with reaction. “Oh, my God,” she said, her voice breaking.

“I'm sorry, Emma.” He stroked the backs of her hands with his thumbs. “I'm sorry, I took unfair advantage of the situation.”

Her forehead rolled against his as she shook her head. “Don’t be sorry, Bruce.”

“I acted unforgivably. You were upset, and I—”

“I asked you to kiss me. Please, don’t be sorry.”

It wasn’t the kiss that he regretted. It was who they were, and all the reasons why they had to stop. Clenching his jaw, he released her hands and swiveled away from her. He stretched his arm to pick up his sunglasses, then pushed himself awkwardly to his feet. His hat was nowhere in sight.

“It blew into the lake,” she said.

“What?”

“Your baseball cap.” She sat back on her heels and rubbed a hand over her face.

He fitted his sunglasses over the bump on his nose and raked his fingers through his hair distractedly, trying to salvage what was left of his Prendergast persona. He dipped his head, slouched his shoulders and shuffled to the end of the dock. A dark crescent bobbed on the ripples twenty feet from the back of the plane. His hat was sinking beneath the water.

“It was Simon who put the scratch on the pontoon,” she said. “And we did have a terrible argument before he left.”

The freely volunteered information hit him like a blow to the gut. She hadn’t wanted to tell him before. But now that he’d held her, and kissed her, she was willing to take him into her confidence. Rather than being the disaster he’d feared, his slip out of character might work to his advantage. He’d be able to use her.

He should have been pleased.

Instead, he felt as if the splendor of their spontaneous embrace had just been irrevocably sullied.

And for the first time in his life, Bruce wished that he wasn’t a cop.

Chapter 5

“M
y full name is Emmaline Cassidy Duprey.” Emma propped her elbows on the edge of the table and sighed shakily before dropping her chin into her hands. She had thought this would be difficult, but it wasn’t. It felt wonderful to be able to share this with someone. No, not just someone, with Bruce.

He sat at the opposite end of the small table where they’d looked at her maps three days ago—was it only three days ago? He leaned his forehead on his hand in a way that partly shielded his face, but he could no longer hide himself from her. She had kissed him. She had tasted the man, not the outward appearance, and she had felt something precious begin to grow.

“I head an investment group and occasionally act as a management consultant, but I changed my name three years ago and moved here to escape what I decided was an intolerable situation,” she continued. “I still have an embarrassing amount of wealth, so I apologize for taking your money for that fishing trip the other day.”

“You don’t have to tell me this,” he said quietly. “We all have good reasons for the masquerades we choose to employ.”

The sunlight sparkled through the window, casting a pattern of bars on the table between them. She knew she didn’t have to tell him anything, but she wanted to. It was the same instinctive urge to reach out to him that she’d felt when she’d sat on the dock and let her tears fall on the skin of his throat. So she told him about her childhood, how alone she’d felt when her father had been sent to prison, and how she had found herself responsible for raising her brother. Throughout it all, he sat motionless and listened without saying a word.

“The damage Simon did to my plane hurts more than it should,” she said. “I brought that Cessna with me when I moved here, outfitted it with pontoons and amended my pilot’s license. It’s my own form of escape therapy, I suppose, just like those books that take up two walls of this cabin.”