Heatwave (8 page)

Her eyes rounded in surprise as she absorbed his statement. “So,” she said thoughtfully, “this has nothing to do with
you
getting hurt, but it’s about you hurting someone else?”

He’d stunned her. Hell, he’d shocked himself by verbalizing the truth. The anger he’d been nursing started to ebb. “I refuse to be responsible for that kind of pain,” he said in a softer tone.

She let out a long, even breath, tucked her hands into the front pockets of her olive-green walking shorts and rocked back on her heels. “You know what?” she said after a few moments of blessed silence. “I love you, Drew. You’re my oldest and closest friend, but you’re a moron.”

He turned to look down at her. “Excuse me?” He expected one of her smiles, but instead found her glaring at him, her expression grim.

“You heard me.”

“Now, wait just a minute—”

She put up her hand, effectively stilling his argument to the contrary. “You’re an idiot. No wonder you’re afraid of Emily. She’s smarter than you.”

“Are you finished yet?” he groused at her. He’d certainly had more than enough of Tilly’s brand of psychoanalysis for one night.

Her expression held tempered disgust. She walked away from him, but stopped and spun around to face him once she reached the door. “You cannot control how someone loves you.” She flung the words at him. They landed like blunt weapons against his conscience. “It simply is
not
your responsibility. And you’d better
figure that out in a hurry before you compound your idiocy by letting Emily Dugan slip through your fingers.”

“What makes you think I care one way or another?” He didn’t, he tried to tell himself, but the words were too false and hollow to be anything but another emotional avoidance tactic.

A wry smile curved Tilly’s mouth. “Denial,” she said with a hefty dose of smugness that managed to spike his irritation again. “And if you didn’t care, then we wouldn’t be arguing, now would we?”

He looked away and downed the last of his soda. Because he didn’t want to face the truth in Tilly’s eyes? Or because he feared facing another kind of truth? The kind that forced the seam of his heart to open ever so slightly, just enough for someone to sneak inside when he wasn’t looking.

Someone like Emily, with her big brown eyes, sassy mouth and a body worthy of worship.

Which could only mean one thing…she already meant more to him than he was prepared to accept.

Maybe
, he admitted silently as his cell phone vibrated in his pocket.
Maybe
.

He slipped the cell from his hip pocket, and checked the caller ID. The LCD display indicated an out-of-area caller, which could mean just about anything. Since he was off duty, he considered ignoring the call and allowing his voice mail to collect the message, then quickly decided against it in case it was Emily.

Tilly disappeared into the house, allowing him privacy. “Yeah?” he barked into the phone, his emotions
still raw thanks to Tilly’s unique ability to make him look hard at himself.

“Drew?”

The relief in Emily’s sweet voice put his protective instincts on alert and had his heart thudding. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Well, not nothing, exactly.” She sighed heavily, then continued in a rush. “I’m lost. Not lost really. I know where I am. I took the wrong bus transfer. I’m not in a very good neighborhood.”

Alarm skidded along his spine, effectively extinguishing the anger and frustration he’d been harboring only moments ago. “Where are you?”

“Grauman’s Chinese Theatre.” She let out another exasperated breath. “It’s Sunday and the buses stop running early. I’m sorry to call you like this, but I didn’t know what else to do.”

Hollywood Boulevard after dark could be quite the interesting locale, filled to overflowing with a colorful cast of characters, from tourists to local street people, but it was no place for a woman to find herself alone at night.

He mentally calculated the distance from Santa Monica and factored in traffic. “Give me thirty minutes.”

Her relief was palpable. “Thank you. I’ll be in the outdoor complex. No way am I’m going to hang out near the curb again.”

He frowned. “The curb?”

“I was hoping to hail a cab and ended up with a
proposition from a fat bald guy looking for a good time instead,” she said, her voice tinged with humor.

Despite his concern for her safety, he still chuckled at her wit. “I’m on my way, sweetheart,” he said, already heading for the house to say his goodbyes.

“Thank you,” she said again, then disconnected the call.

As he slipped the phone back into his pocket, he wondered if a guy could suffer saddle sores from riding an imaginary white stallion.

A
S DARKNESS
settled over the city, Emily watched in amusement as the streets of Tinseltown transformed into a virtual wonderland in their own right. An eclectic mix of street performers pandered for cash from soft-hearted tourists, while curious passersby gawked and stared in awe or stunned disbelief at the local color that ranged from twenty-dollar hookers to uniformed cops walking a beat in hopes of maintaining order.

Although the presence of street people had been toned down somewhat since the construction of the new Hollywood and Highland project, the night life on Hollywood Boulevard still ranged from the innocent to the illicit, from garish to glitz, all within a matter of a few feet.

More wilted than the dried-out begonias in Grandy’s planter, Emily slumped against the wall beneath the ornate copper roof of the theater, near the concrete slab of Liz Taylor’s footprints, to wait for Drew. She’d hated having to call him, especially after she’d made a point of informing him she’d have no trouble negotiating L.A.’s Transit District. She wouldn’t have had a problem, either, if she’d been paying attention instead of daydreaming about him in the first place. The only reason she’d gotten off the bus near Grauman’s Chinese
Theatre had been because of the familiarity of the historic Hollywood landmark.

She’d left the house that morning to spend the day with her grandmother, armed with a mystery novel, a bottle of water and a lightweight sweater to ward off the chill from the hospital’s air-conditioning unit. Now, her feet ached—thanks to a new pair of sandals she hadn’t thought to properly break in before hoofing it around Southern California—and her denim-blue sleeveless blouse and supposedly loose-fitting carpenter jeans clung to her sweat-moistened skin, adding to her discomfort. The fact she hadn’t slept more than a few hours did little to improve her mood.

She blamed herself for her aching feet, faulted the weather for the sticky clothes and cursed Drew for her lack of sleep.

Under normal circumstances, she was a relatively deep sleeper and rarely, if ever, had difficulty falling asleep. But last night, whenever she’d closed her eyes, her imagination had fired up and burned hot, making slumber all but impossible.

Well, not exactly her imagination, she silently corrected. More like a continuous replay of that toe-curling, breath-stealing, promise-of-heaven kiss. It hadn’t taken much for her to recall the erotic sensation of his hands gliding over her body, either. Nor had it helped matters that even now she could still feel the texture of his skin on her fingertips. And how could she possibly forget the intense electricity charging through her body when he’d pulled her so close that all that had separated them were the clothes she’d have
willingly shed. If he hadn’t come to his senses first, of course.

A blushing virgin she was not. Her list of former lovers might not rival those of some of her friends, but she’d had her fair share, even if they were dumb choices. What bothered her, however, was her inability to recall ever being swept so close to the edge by nothing more than a toe-curling, breath-stealing, promise-of-heaven kiss.

The man definitely had cornered the market in that regard, too. Just the thought of his seductive mouth made her sigh and had gooseflesh prickling her skin, despite triple-digit temperatures.

She didn’t want to think about his awesome foot-massage skills any more than she cared to be reminded of her behavior, but doing either was equally hopeless. She’d never had a foot massage before. Unless the porn-film guy’s totally bizarre foot-licking fetish counted.

Even with the creepy glimmer of her pitiful sexual history, she clearly understood she’d already become a willing victim to Drew’s sensual spell. How could she not when the man kissed her like he’d meant it,
and
gave her a foot massage in the bargain?

Drew was such bad news for her. Didn’t she have enough problems and life-altering decisions ahead of her without compounding matters by becoming involved with the guy? Not just any guy, either, but one who had dozens of women throwing themselves at him, or leaving messages on his cell phone voice mail. Thirteen of them, in fact.

Okay, so she’d
literally
fallen at his feet. That hardly meant she hoped to be the latest entry in his little black book.

A pair of women wearing too much makeup and outlandish big-hair wigs strolled past in five-inch platform heels and miniskirts that defied modesty. Emily picked up her backpack and slung it over her shoulder, moving deeper into the forecourt near Natalie Wood’s and Jane Wyman’s tiles.

Did Drew use a star system? she wondered. Or did he utilize some other method of categorizing the legions of females clamoring for his attention. “Probably,” she muttered to herself, wondering if he used one star for the girls who always said no. Two stars probably indicated a woman suitable to accompany him to a company or family function.

She’d always thought of herself as a two-star kind of woman. Until last night. Maybe she’d qualify as a three-star mama, in a league with those for-a-good-time-call types. Or perhaps she’d sprung right to the top. Emily Dugan: four stars. Fast. Easy. A home run every time at bat.

She frowned. Definitely four stars. They hadn’t actually made love, but if Drew hadn’t stopped them, she’d have been cheering him on as he slammed that sucker over the fence and out of the park.

She kept her eye on the traffic, searching for Drew’s big black SUV. Faulting her hormones for her outrageous behavior was as good an excuse as any, she supposed. Or maybe she’d plastered herself all over him
like a sex-starved feline because she hadn’t been laid in weeks. Eight of them to be exact.

That thought hardly elevated her mood. Not when she could no longer deny the truth. Try as she might, not a single, solitary excuse existed capable of chasing away the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach that her reaction to Drew stemmed from her being severely attracted to him. To further complicate her already complicated life, she couldn’t help but believe that Drew just might be the genuine article. A living, breathing sexier-than-any-man-had-a-right-to-be nice guy.

Even her customary cynical conviction that given time, he would turn out to be one more in a long line of bad choices, failed to alleviate her suspicions about Drew’s character.

As she’d told her grandmother today during their visit, life never turned out the way you thought it should. Her five-year plan had been shot to hell by corporate downsizing, an unfaithful live-in lover and an unexpected pregnancy.

Maybe it was just that her life wasn’t supposed to turn out the way she’d hoped. There had to be a universal rule on that very subject, probably etched in stone and definitely written into the fine print of her own personal karma account. An account grossly over-drawn.

Just as she considered playing tourist by comparing the size of her feet to Jane Wyman’s, Drew entered her line of vision. Her heart lifted considerably as he walked purposely toward her. She told herself she was
too exhausted to care, that she was merely thrilled to see him so he could escort her exhausted body home and nothing more.

The lie fell far short of convincing. Her happiness stemmed from one source—the sight of Drew excited her, period.

His forehead creased and concern lit his eyes. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” she said, smiling up at him. She slung her backpack higher on her shoulder. “Tired, but fine.”
Now that you’re here
, she silently added.

He took the backpack from her. “Let’s get you home,” he said gently, lacing his fingers with hers.

The acceleration of her pulse hardly surprised her. The comforting warmth of his hand clasping hers no longer confused her. She couldn’t fault hormonal imbalance for her physical and emotional reactions to Drew. No, the blame lay in an irresistible attraction to him, in the electrifying chemistry that sizzled between them and in an overwhelming desire for a sweet-talking charmer who’d no doubt break her heart if she gave him half a chance.

Only one question remained: exactly how far was she prepared to go in exploring all that attraction, chemistry and desire?

Easy
, she thought.
Straight to heaven and back again
.

T
HREE DAYS LATER
, Drew hadn’t unearthed a single lead in regard to the capture of the Norris Culinary Academy arsonist. He’d casually spoken to Margo and Rita, the only instructors employed during the late-summer
session. Given the circumstances, he’d exercised caution so neither of them would become suspicious of his questions, but so far, neither woman had exhibited anything but the appropriate level of concern for Velma and the general safety of everyone at the school.

Monday night after his classes, he’d taken home copies of the files Emily had provided him, studied past and present employee and student records, and found nothing to raise a single red flag. He’d even recruited the assistance of Dave Byrd, another fire cop, to conduct physical interviews of the surrounding business owners, but the task hadn’t turned up a shred of new evidence. To date, not even the crime lab had managed to garner a single lead.

Unless Drew wanted to blow his “cover,” Dave would have to be the one to officially interrogate the other two instructors. Somehow, he’d figure a way to be present for those meetings.

Since the garage fire, there’d been no further incidents, but Drew still didn’t like the idea of Emily being alone with the firebug at large. In his experience, since either Velma or the school seemed to be the prime target, he knew it would only be a matter of time before the arsonist struck again.

He stowed the last of the equipment and utensils from his Wednesday-evening class, shut down the classroom, then walked down the deserted corridor toward Velma’s office where Emily waited for him. It’d take a team of Clydesdales to drag it out of him, but he actually enjoyed teaching something other than basic
arson detection. His two classes were small, the students responsive and it didn’t interfere with his job. Of course, there was the Emily factor to consider, a definite added bonus.

Since the night of his argument with Tilly, he’d become aware of a shift in his relationship with Emily. Not that they actually
had
a relationship, at least not in the “lover” sense, although the chemistry between them was all but combustible and increasingly impossible to ignore. His interest in a woman had finally extended beyond sexual into foreign territory—friendship.

Not once had he so much as kissed Emily in the last few days. That didn’t mean the need burning inside him to taste her lips again had subsided, or that they hadn’t come dangerously close. In fact, just the opposite. She had him twisted in knots with wanting her, but as he’d admitted to Tilly, Emily
was
different from the other women in his life. Taking the time to learn more about her had been a novel concept, but one he found himself enjoying. So much he’d turned down a couple of dinner invitations. His relationship with Emily would eventually move to the next inevitable level. In the meantime, he’d been the perfect, if frustrated, gentleman.

Moving slowly had its advantages, he realized, but the confusion and desire in her eyes whenever he backed off was nothing short of pure torture, and it was killing him.

He’d made a decision. Tonight he planned to take the first step toward that inevitable level.

As he neared Velma’s office, the sound of Emily’s voice reached him, and she sounded none too happy. Curious, he approached the room, stopping in the open doorway. With the cordless phone pressed against her ear, she paced the length in front of Velma’s desk, her expression filled with anger.

The flowing skirt and cotton blouse she’d been wearing when he’d arrived had been exchanged for a pair of denim shorts and a white T-shirt with a red slash emblazoned across the front that made it look as if she’d run into a paint brush. Her flip-flop sandals slapped against the asphalt tile as she paced.

She stopped when she saw him and waved him into the room. “No, I’m staying in California,” she said into the phone.

He propped his backside on the edge of the desk. The revelation of her decision to relocate hardly came as a surprise. Just last night she’d told him about a promising interview she’d had scheduled for that morning with an advertising firm in Venice Beach. Two days ago, she’d contacted an executive search firm in hopes of landing piecework, which would provide her with income and allow her the time necessary to oversee the running of the culinary academy until her grandmother recovered from her injuries.

She clenched and unclenched her fist. “Yes, I do have a job, not that it’s your business any longer.”

The temp agency had called her in a matter of hours with the name of a firm looking for someone to handle their overflow advertising on project-by-project basis.
From Emily’s end of the conversation, it sounded to him as if she’d been offered the position.

Fire blazed in her eyes suddenly. “Of course I’m keeping the baby!”

Curiosity fled and was replaced by discomfort that increased by the second as he realized exactly whom she was speaking to—none other than the father of her baby. Not wanting to further intrude on a very private conversation, he stood to leave. Emily nailed him with her heated gaze and pointed her finger at him to stay, all but daring him to attempt an escape.

“I didn’t call to argue with you.” The heat in her voice matched the fury simmering in her eyes. “I’m having a baby. It’s yours. Foolish me, I figured you’d want to know about it.”

She pulled a handful of pens from the cup holder on the desk, then brutally jammed them back inside. “Of course I’m sure.
I
wasn’t the one screwing around, remember?”

Her mouth tightened into a grim line as she listened to whatever line her ex fed her. She made that huffing sound which usually indicated her displeasure.

“Do you have a clue how narcissistic you sound? Not everything is about you, Charlie. This is about a baby.” Her voice rose with each subsequent word. “A baby you and I created.”