Public Secrets (51 page)

The road was all but deserted. Other shoppers had planned more carefully, or were waiting for the storm to pass. Perhaps that was why she noticed the car behind her, turning where she turned, always keeping two lengths behind. Turning up the radio, she struggled to ignore it.

Paranoia, she told herself.

But her eyes kept flicking to the rearview mirror, and she could see the twin headlights glowing steadily behind her. Emma increased her speed, a little more than safety allowed on the slick roads. The headlights paced her. She eased off the gas. The trailing car slowed. Catching her lip between her teeth, she swerved into an abrupt left turn. Her car físhtailed, skidded. Behind her, the car swung left, then slid across the road.

Fighting for control, Emma punched the gas and managed to pull her car out of the skid. On a burst of speed, she turned toward home, praying the few moments’ lead was all she would need.

She had her fingers around the door handle before she hit the brakes. She wanted to get inside, to safety. Whether it was her imagination or not, she didn’t want to be caught outside and defenseless if the other car cruised up. Leaving the groceries, she sprinted out of the car. Then screamed when a hand clamped on her arm.

“Lady!” The young driver jumped back and nearly overbalanced into a puddle. “Jeeze, get a grip.”

“What do you want?”

The rain was dripping off a cap onto a blunt, freckled nose. She couldn’t see his eyes. “This your house?”

She had her keys, balled in her hand. Emma wondered if she could use them as a weapon. “Why?”

“I got three pieces of luggage, American flight number 457 from New York, for Emma McAvoy.”

Her luggage. Emma nearly laughed as she ran a hand over her face. “I’m sorry. You startled me. You were behind me when I left the market, and I guess I got spooked.”

“I’ve been waiting here for the last ten minutes,” he corrected and shoved a clipboard at her. “Want to sign, please?”

“But—” She looked over in time to see a car drive slowly toward the house. The figure behind the wheel was lost in the sheeting rain and shadows as it cruised down the street. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “Would you mind waiting until I get the groceries in?”

“Look, lady, I’ve got other stops to make.”

She pulled a twenty out of her purse. “Please.” Without waiting for his agreement, she went back to her car to unload.

Inside she double-checked all the locks. With the fire, the lights, the warmth, she’d all but convinced herself that she’d made a mistake. When she didn’t see the car reappear during the next twenty minutes, she was almost sure of it.

Cooking relaxed her. She liked the scents she created, the low murmur of music. As the hour grew later, the gray simply deepened. There was no twilight, just the steady fall of rain. At ease again, she decided to go upstairs and unpack.

The sound of a car swishing through the rain outside had panic streaking up her spine again. She stood frozen at the base of the stairs, staring out the wide, dark window. It hadn’t occurred to her until that moment how exposed she was, with all the lights burning. She could hear a brake set, a door slam.

She was on tie way to the phone when she heard the footsteps in front of the door. Without hesitating, she ran to the fireplace and grabbed the brass poker. The knock had her grip tightening.

She was alone. He knew she was alone, Emma thought frantically, because she’d been foolish enough to wander through the house with the lights burning and the shades drawn up. She inched her way toward the phone. She would call for help. If it didn’t get there in time, she would help herself.

Her heart tattooed against her chest as she lifted the receiver.

“Emma! I’m drowning out here.”

“Michael?” The phone slipped out of her fingers and fell to the floor. She let the poker drop as well as she rushed to the
door. Her fingers weren’t steady as she fumbled with locks. She could hear him swearing. By the time she pulled open the door and threw her arms around him, she was laughing.

“Sorry, I don’t get the joke.”

“No, I’m sorry. It was just that I—” But when she drew back, she saw something in his eyes she hadn’t seen before. Despair. “Here, let me help you. You’re soaked through.” She helped him peel off his jacket. “I’ve got some tea. I wish I’d thought of brandy, but there’s probably a bottle of whiskey somewhere.” She nudged him over by the fire, then went into the kitchen. Moments later, she returned with a cup. He hadn’t moved, she noted. He just stood there, looking down at the flames.

“It’s a nice Irish tea, heavy on the Irish.” She handed it to him.

“Thanks.” He sipped, grimaced, then downed it.

“You should get out of those wet clothes.”

“In a minute.”

She started to speak again, then changed her mind and went quietly upstairs. When she came back, she simply took his hand. “Come on. I’m running you a bath.”

He couldn’t find the energy to argue. “Do I get bubbles?”

“All you want. Go ahead.” She gestured toward the door. “Relax. I’ll get you some more tea.”

He pulled off his shirt and let it fall with a wet splat to the floor. “Make it straight Irish this time. Two fingers, no ice.”

She hesitated while he unsnapped his pants. She had to stop looking for ghosts in bottles, as well. Not everyone who wanted a drink wanted to get drunk. “All right.”

When she came back, the water had stopped running. She paused at the door, then feeling foolish, set the glass on the table by the bed. Though they were lovers, she couldn’t see herself waltzing in while he was bathing. Whether it was a matter of intimacy or privacy, she couldn’t cross the line. She sat on the window seat, watched the rain and waited.

With a towel slung low on his hips, he stepped out. The light was behind him and she could clearly see the tension and withdrawal in his face.

“I started dinner.”

He nodded, but only picked up the glass. He thought he
could hold the whiskey down. Food was another matter. “Why don’t you go ahead?”

“I can wait.” She wanted to go to him, take his hand, smooth the lines away from his brow. But he was brooding into the glass as if she weren’t even there. Rising, she walked into the bath to tidy the wet clothes and towels.

“You don’t have to pick up after me.” He was standing in the doorway now. An anger, deep and raw, came through in both his voice and his eyes. “I don’t need a mother.” I just—

“Latimer wanted to be waited on, Emma. It’s not my style.”

“Fine.” Her own temper rose up to meet his. She let his shirt fall to the floor again. “Pick it up yourself then, not everyone likes to live in a sty.”

He snatched up the shirt and hurled it into the tub. Emma retreated two steps before she could stop herself. “Don’t look at me like that.” He whirled on her, furious with her, himself, with everything. “Don’t ever look at me like that. I can get pissed off at you without throwing a punch.”

She started to check the venom that burned her tongue, but it poured out. “I’m not afraid you’ll hit me. No one will ever hit me again and walk away. I’m through being victimized by anyone. That includes you. If you want to sulk, then go ahead and sulk. If you want to fight, fine. I’ll fight, but I’m going to know what I’m fighting about. If you’re acting like this because I won’t do what you want, be what you want, and say what you want, then tough. Shouting isn’t going to change my mind.”

He held up a hand before she could storm by. Not to block her, but to ask her to wait. The subtle difference was enough to make her hold back the next burst of temper.

“It has nothing to do with you,” he said quietly. “Nothing at all. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come back here tonight.” He looked down at his wet clothes. “Look, can we throw these in the dryer or something so I can get them back on and get the hell out of here?”

It was there again, she noted. Not just anger, but a deep, dark despair. “What is it, Michael?”

“I told you it has nothing to do with you.”

“Let’s sit down.”

“Back off, Emma.”

He turned away and walked back into the bedroom. He’d
been wrong, he decided as he put the whiskey aside. He couldn’t keep that down, either.

“Oh, I see. You want to be a part of my life, but I’m not to be a part of yours.”

“Not this part.”

“You can’t section off pieces of yourself and tuck them away. I know.” She moved to him, touched a hand to his arm. Until that moment, she hadn’t realized how much she loved him. With a kind of wonder it came to her that the need wasn’t all hers after all. “Talk to me, Michael. Please.”

“It was kids,” he murmured. “Jesus, babies. He just walked over to the playground at recess and let loose.” Michael had to sit. Groping his way to the bed, he sat on the edge, pushing the heels of his hands into his eyes. He could still see it. What terrified him was that he knew he always would.

Bewildered, Emma sat beside him, rubbing a hand over his shoulder to try to ease the tension from the muscles bunched there. “I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I. We found out who he was. He’d had a history of mental illness. Been in and out of institutions all his life. Turns out he went to that school, that same school, through first and second grades before they put him away the first time. We’ll find out more, for what it’s worth.”

“Who? Who are you talking about?”

“Just a loser. Some sick, pitiful loser who got his hands on a forty-five automatic.”

And she began to see. A sickness welled up to her throat. “Oh my God.”

“He drove to the school. Walked right up to the playground. Kids were playing ball and jumping rope. It hadn’t started to rain
yet
. So he opened up. Six kids are dead. Twenty more are hospitalized. They won’t all make it.”

“Oh, Michael.” She put her arms around him, rested her cheek against his.

“Then he just walked away. By the time the black and whites got there, he was gone. When McCarthy and I drove up—” But he couldn’t describe it, not to her. Not even to himself. “We got a make on the car and found it a couple of blocks away. He was right there, eating lunch in the park. Just sitting on a bench in the fucking park eating a sandwich in the rain. He didn’t even bother to run when we moved in. He picked up the gun and
stuck the barrel in his mouth. So we’ll never know why. We’ll never even know why.”

“I’m sorry.” She could think of nothing else to say. “I’m so sorry.”

“We’re supposed to make a difference. Goddammit, we’re supposed to make a difference. Six kids dead, and there’s nothing you can do. You couldn’t stop it, and you couldn’t fix it. All you can do is walk away and try to convince yourself that there was nothing you could do.”

“But you don’t walk away,” she murmured. “That’s why you make a difference. Michael.” She drew away, to study his face. “You couldn’t have stopped this. I won’t tell you you shouldn’t grieve over something you couldn’t prevent, because that makes you who you are.”

“You never get used to it.” He dropped his brow on hers. “I used to wonder why my father would come home sometimes and close himself off. When he did, I’d hear him and my mother talking after I went to bed. For hours.”

“You can talk to me.”

He pulled her close. She was so warm, so soft. “I need you, Emma. I wasn’t going to come back here with this. I needed to hold on to something.”

“This time, you hold on to me.” She lifted her mouth to his. His response was so strong, almost desperate, that she no longer tried to soothe. If he needed to burn out despair in passion, she was there for him.

She took control as she hadn’t known she could, pulling him down with her, letting her hands excite, her mouth demand. He had always loved her before, gently, patiently. There was no room for that now, and no need. If his passion was dark, hers could equal it. If his desire was urgent, she would match it.

This time she would chase away his demons.

She rolled with him, over him, dragging the towel aside, giving herself the pleasure of driving him, feeling his body tremble and heat and tense as she raced over it. No hesitation, no fears, no doubts. To pleasure herself as much as him, she stroked with fingertips, slow circles, teasing lines.

The lamplight glowed over his skin, tempting her to taste with quick flicks of her tongue, with long strokes of her lips.

Power, just discovered, rocked through her like thunder.

He felt himself pulse, wherever she touched him. Though his
hands weren’t idle, she shifted away. Wait, she seemed to tell him. Let me show you. Let me love you. Linking her hands with his, she slithered down his body, her mouth burning frantic arrows of pleasure into his flesh.

He could hear the patter of rain on the glass, feel the sheet heat under his back. In the slanted light he saw her, long, pale hair streaming down her shoulders. Her eyes dark, depthless as they met his.

Rearing up, he dragged her close until they were thigh to thigh. With the need pumping through him, he tugged at buttons, wanting to see her, desperate to feel her.

Her teeth nipped into his shoulder as he ripped her blouse. Here was a violence she could understand, and relish. Savage without brutality. And the turbulence in him was a storm within her. Equal. Interchangeable. She found that love and lust could tangle gloriously.

As he tore at her clothes, her low-throated moan had nothing to do with surrender. How could she have known that all of her life she had waited to be wanted this way? Desperately, exclusively, heedlessly. Nor had she known that she had waited to feel this same wild recklessness.

He wasn’t gentle now, and she reveled in the furor. He wasn’t controlled, and she pushed him further to the edge. When his fingers dug into her hips, she knew he wasn’t thinking of her as frail and fragile and in need of defending. When her name tore from between his lips, the need was there, for her. And only for her.

She rolled over him, arching her back with both triumph and release as she took him into her. The first stunning climax ripped through her, but didn’t weaken. It was his hands that slid from her, that groped blindly for hers. With their fingers linked, she set the pace, fast and frantic.