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  He checked the road a second time, and then reached for the blanket beneath the seat. He wrapped it around his shoulders and waited for his first real glimpse of Emily Quinn. Shaking his head, he realized she was more cautious on the ice than off. She inspected every inch of the surface—despite Marsha Jean’s assurances that it was rock solid.

  Once she was comfortable, she adjusted to the feel of the ice quickly, executing showy little turns and skating backward. Gabe kept one eye on the road and one on her. He knew the faded black stretch pants covered the pair of longjohns he’d lent her that morning. His yellow sweater was layered over a couple of T-shirts for warmth. She had on his gloves, and he found that small intimacy sexier than he could explain.

  God, she was graceful, he thought as he watched her. Every movement perfected by a lifetime of practice. Even in hand-me-down clothes and borrowed skates she etched poetry into the ice. Several times she performed bits of complicated, obviously choreographed routines, gathering speed, and building up to something. But then she’d just stop. Unexpectedly sad for her, Gabe realized she couldn’t finish the routines because she couldn’t jump. He wondered what she’d been like before the accident.

  As he watched her pick up speed again, he tried to remember which ankle she’d injured, but he couldn’t tell. Even when she attempted the impossible. Stunned, Gabe watched Emma launch herself into the air. The whole stunt was over before he had time to rush down to the ice and pick up the pieces when she fell.

  But she didn’t fall after the jump. She didn’t stumble. She didn’t even miss a beat. A second later she completed another jump. This time she hung effortlessly in the air, her body rotating twice. When she landed without a wobble, he understood why sports writers assumed the gold medal was hers for the taking.

  Gabe tried to make sense out of the unbelievable. Emma shouldn’t have been able to jump at all with a bad ankle. “I can’t feel the ice.” Her exact words.

  The first jump, the one that looked simple, might have been explained as her need to try something easy, just to see if she could do it. But he didn’t have to be a skating expert to know that the second jump was beyond the average skater’s ability. And he didn’t like the implication.

  Gabe closed his eyes against the truth. Not that it did any good. The truth simply rerouted itself and formed a knot of uncertainty in his gut. If there wasn’t anything wrong with Emma’s ankle, then she’d used the injury as an excuse to walk away from the dream she said was never hers. How many more dreams would she walk away from before she found one she cared enough to fight for?

  You don’t know for sure that she walked away from this one.

  A bitter sigh slipped out. No, he didn’t know for certain. But if she did, Emma was running from more than a gunman. She was running from a past she didn’t like to a future that had no name, certainly not his.

  If he needed any more proof that she was using him, he’d found it. The lady was a world-class liar. Literally. She’d fooled the whole world. Fooling one retired SEAL must have been a piece of cake for her. The vulnerable act. The tears. She was good. Real good. And smart enough to know that he’d try harder to save her if he fell in love with her.

  Well, he was through being used.

  He walked down to the pond while she stroked leisurely across the ice, occasionally tossing in fancy footwork. When he reached the bank, he traded the blanket for his coat and waited for Emma to see him. If a person could stutter on skates, that’s what she did. For several moments he thought she might turn and stroke the other way. She didn’t; she squared her shoulders.

  As she got closer, he could see her cheeks were red and so was the tip of her nose. Everything about her seemed more alive. That vitality simultaneously knocked his heart into next week and infuriated him. The contrast was too painful.

  “How does it feel to be alive when Patrick is dead?”

  TWELVE

  In one staggering instant all the peace Emily had found on the ice faded.

  Anger she expected—because she’d left without even a note. Hate she could have understood—because Patrick’s death was a secret she shouldn’t have kept. But his cruelty was intolerable. No matter how much pain he was in or how much he wanted to fight, he didn’t have the right to inflict this kind of guilt. She did a fine job of that all by herself.

  She backed away, trying not to give him the confrontation he so desperately wanted. “Don’t do this.”

  “Don’t do what? Don’t protect you?” Gabe reached out and snagged her arm before she went too far. He hauled her up onto the bank, fingers digging into tender flesh. “Don’t point out that you make a really easy target for someone who wants to kill you?”

  “This isn’t about protecting me,” she told him coldly.

  “It sure as hell is, baby.” The intensity was back in his eyes, and so was the heat it generated within her. “Because if I don’t keep you safe, Patrick will have died for nothing. Or doesn’t that matter to you?”

  For a few moments they stood, gazes locked. She waited for an apology that never came. Finally, she pried his fingers loose and pushed past him to undo the skates.

  “I can’t even believe you have to ask.” Emily sat down and attacked her laces with all the anger she refused to let show in her voice. “You weren’t there, Gabe. I was. I’d give anything in the world to change what happened that night. But I can’t. And neither can you.”

  Her hands were shaking by the time she finished. Gabe said nothing, watching her like a biased judge with his mind made up. She refused to care about his reaction. Skates off and shoes on, she stood up. She didn’t falter as she faced him.

  “I’m sorry if I worried you. I’m sorry for being stupid. I’m sorry for needing your help. I’m sorry for lying to you. And if you can’t forgive me, then fine—I’ll be sorry for that too. But don’t you ever ask me if I care about Patrick. I know exactly why he died. I have to carry that inside me every day. I don’t need to hear it from you too.”

  “Of course not. You’ve already gotten what you need from me, haven’t you?”

  “How could I have?” she scoffed. “There’s not a compassionate bone in your body. Why is that, Gabe? Are you afraid you might slip up and feel something real? Something you can’t control? Now, wouldn’t that be a cryin’ shame?”

  She slung the skates over her shoulder and headed for the truck. When they were halfway home, it occurred to her to wonder how long Gabe had watched her skate.

  After the fiasco at the pond, conversation had become a mine field of emotions. Gabe made plans, and Emily agreed to them. Other than that she stayed out of his way.

  What else could she do? Fate conspired so that she had very little choice. It was snowing and cold. She had no car, no money, and if she were honest, no desire to leave Gabe’s protection. He was a hard man who dealt in hard solutions. Right now she needed hard solutions in her life.

  Complicating everything was the sensual current that flowed between them. It wouldn’t go away—despite the danger, despite the unresolved issues between them. Maybe it was Patrick playing one last cosmic practical joke on Gabe. Maybe it was simply that the energy made them feel alive. Whatever the reason, they got to each other in a way that defied common sense. The awkward silences only made the strain worse.

  Gabe had finally gone down to the bar early and taken the tension with him. Unfortunately, the reprieve was over, and now it was time for the ex–Mrs. Gabriel to take another stab at fooling all of the people all of the time. Including Gabe.

  Emily stared at the bathroom mirror and decided that “Emma” was the only positive element in this whole disaster. It was past time for her to start redefining herself, because Emily Quinn had never existed except in her parents’ imaginations.

  The former ice princess certainly wouldn’t have been caught dead in this low-rent blue-jean miniskirt and cowboy boots. Or in the little white “muscle T” she wore beneath an oversize cotton sweater. It might have been a rich forest green
at one time, but it was faded now.

  The neckline kept slipping as she walked down the steps to the bar. Emily stopped and fussed with it to give herself an excuse to avoid Gabe a little bit longer. The limits of their relationship would change when she entered the bar. As Emma Gabriel it was her job to tease Gabe, to act like the ex-wife leading him on a merry chase. Walking out there would be like taking the first drink out of a potent bottle of scotch.

  She took a deep breath and opened the door.

  The angle was different, but the situation felt like a replay of that first night. She was still looking for a man, but this time she knew it was Gabe. And she knew he wanted her out of his bar and out of his life as quickly as possible.

  He had one hand on his hip, the other planted on the bar. Behind him were the rows of liquor bottles and the antique cash register. For a second Emily found herself wishing that she’d told him everything immediately.

  Hindsight was always so cuttingly precise. And worthless.

  The Monday-night crowd was even bigger than the Saturday-night crowd. Emily wove her way through the chairs, trying not to let the incredible number of strangers make her anxious. Her hands were already fisted at her sides before she found a familiar face. She forced herself to smile at Angus Deady. He nodded, but he seemed to have transferred his interest to Marsha Jean. The waitress’s T-shirt sported a Medic Alert emblem and instructions IF UNCONSCIOUS, ADMINISTER CHOCOLATE.

  Slipping behind the bar, Emily whispered, “It’s snowing. Why are they all here?”

  “You’re good for business, Emma.” Gabe ran his eyes over her, taking in the fact that she had appropriated his favorite cotton sweater. He didn’t object, since it hid a great deal he wanted hidden tonight. He’d let himself get distracted the night before, let someone slip by him. That wasn’t going to happen tonight. Or ever again. “They’ve come to see the woman who divorced me.”

  Stunned, she cast a glance over the room again. The crowd was mostly men, but there were a lot of women. She had overlooked them the first time, because women weren’t a threat. Now she wasn’t so sure.

  The ladies might not be carrying weapons, but none of them looked particularly pleased with her. Emily almost laughed. The ice princess might not be the news du jour in this town, but Emma Gabriel sure was.

  Well, since everyone was so interested in her relationship with Gabe, she’d give them a hint. Wasn’t that her job? To convince them that Gabe and Emma were an item? She turned back to the man and tiptoed her fingers provocatively up his chest.

  “I hope I’m not cramping your style, dear,” she said in her best blond-sexpot-ex-wife voice.

  Gabe caught her wrist, not because he minded the message she sent to the other women, but because he’d spent all day trying to deal with his feelings for her, trying to shove them into a dark corner, where they could be forgotten. Her touch brought everything rushing back. “Put your claws back in, sweet cheeks. I’ve been faithful to the memory of what we had.”

  “We didn’t have that much,” she shot back, irritated that he’d removed her hand. There was nothing like playing to a full house, and the guys at the bar were straining to hear. “Just those two nights in Vegas, and that was so long ago. And of course that first night you couldn’t— Well, you know.”

  Several of the guys choked on their drinks, spewing liquor onto the bar. Gabe clenched his jaw, and when he relaxed she knew she was in trouble. Her first clue was the wicked smile on his face.

  “No, I couldn’t,” he said regretfully, “but you’ve lost a lot of weight since then. I believe I could carry you across the threshold now.”

  Emily managed to hold on to her gasp, barely. He was good, but not good enough. Okay, the gloves were off. Before the night was over, Gabe was going to crawl. Under control once more, she flapped the front of her sweater, making sure Gabe got a good glimpse down the front of it. Shouldn’t be a problem considering his height.

  “Is it hot in here?” she asked as Marsha Jean came up with a drink order, but answered her own question. “It is hot in here. This sweater has to go.”

  “No!” The word was a command from Gabe.

  “Ah, look at that—a lovers’ spat,” Marsha Jean commented. “How sweet.”

  Gabe ignored her jibe, but lowered his voice as he uncapped two beers. “You take that sweater off, and I’m locking you upstairs. You understand?”

  “Honey,” Marsha Jean said as she took the bottles, “we don’t need a bar fight tonight.”

  “What makes you think there’d be a fight?” Emma asked.

  Marsha Jean laughed. “You mean besides the fact that just looking at you is punishable by death? The bartender here being the executioner, of course.”

  Gabe glared at his waitress. When she retreated, he turned his attention to Emma. “About three seconds after the men in here see that flimsy red bra of yours showing through that white T-shirt, all hell’s going to break loose.”

  “No problem, then,” Emily told him maliciously, and crooked her finger to bring him closer. Whispering, she explained, “Because I’m not wearing a bra.”

  She followed Marsha Jean to an empty table that needed busing.

  “Emma Gabriel, you are bad,” Marsha Jean told her as she plucked a glass from the table and wiped off the circle of water. “But you better be careful. I’ve never seen Gabe like this. There’s something hot and dark inside that man. I’m not so sure you should be stirrin’ him up right now.”

  “Too late.”

  Emily put the tray down and planted her palms firmly on the table as if she were declaring war. Looking back over her shoulder, she caught Gabe staring at her backside, especially where the little slit threatened to expose too much. She turned back to the waitress. “As you would say, I’ve done put my spoon in the wrong pan.”

  “Well, could you at least stop stirring long enough to give me some help out here?” She lowered her voice. “Everybody wants details. I deserve a medal or something for keeping this quiet. I’ve been cool. I’ve been clever, but all this on-the-spot prevaricating is slowing me down at every table. It flat out takes too long. I figure they’ll be too polite to ask you.”

  “I wouldn’t bet on it,” Emily said softly, and decided that Marsha Jean deserved more than a Purple Heart. Not many people could be trusted to keep a secret this juicy. Most people would have accidentally on purpose dropped little hints here and there. But not Marsha Jean. Emily wondered how many men bothered to look past her flamboyant exterior to the kind, generous woman inside.

  “If they’re insensitive enough to ask you questions,” Marsha Jean told her, “spill a drink in their lap. That’s what I do.”

  “Got any other tricks and tips?” Emily asked.

  “None that God doesn’t include in every woman’s option package.”

  The rest of the evening Emily, aka Emma, walked a fine line. Every offhanded comment, every lie, had to match the one she told before. Each time she delivered a drink, she judged the man against a fuzzy memory. Every time someone walked in, her heart pounded a little until she was sure.

  By closing time she had ruled out everyone, even the guy in the back who refused to look up. She’d also acquired an apron that was more like a wide white pocket, a good ear for drink orders, and Gabe’s attention.

  “Last call!” Gabe shouted for the benefit of the few remaining customers. It was a quarter to midnight. The crowd had begun to thin early, mostly because the snow had picked up steadily.

  “So soon?” Emily asked facetiously as she climbed up on a stool. “What if I haven’t made up my mind who I want?”

  As if he hadn’t heard her outrageous question, Gabe gave a White Russian a lazy stir and handed it off to Marsha Jean, who was clearly torn between staying to hear his reaction or collecting a tip. The tip won. When he was alone with Emma, he kept his voice low, just loud enough that she could hear.

  “Darlin’, you know who you want. You’ve made that real clear all night. You just don’t kn
ow what you want. So I’ll help you out. What you want”—he leaned a forearm on the bar and then casually traced the white strap that showed at the edge of her sweater—“is me inside you. Consider this a warning, Emma, you got my attention. I don’t have to like you to want you. And if you keep playing this game, I’m going to do something about it.”

  “I’m playing the part you assigned me,” she reminded him in a whisper. She couldn’t pull back because he still had a finger in the neckline of her sweater.

  “You’re playing at being a bad girl. But that’s okay. I like bad girls. They take what they want because it makes ’em feel alive.”

  He straightened up, satisfied with the effect of his words. Her breathing had quickened and her green eyes were wide. Leaning back against the cash register, he crossed his arms. “I’ll tell you one more thing. I also like good girls who play at being bad. ’Cause when they’re bad, it’s just for me.”

  For Emily it was as though Gabe opened up her soul and dragged out another dirty secret. Her whole life had been spent in the spotlight—squeaky-clean Emily Quinn, who never kissed on the first date and who lost her virginity on the pristine sheets of a bed in a Canadian hotel and never broke a sweat. Sex didn’t scare her. But making love to Gabe did. She couldn’t imagine holding anything back.

  Because of him, the bad girl she’d kept hidden for so long wanted to come out and play.

  “I’ve got to help Marsha Jean.” She scrambled off the stool, not caring how transparent her excuse was. Unfortunately, Marsha Jean had absolutely everything under control.

  Unwilling to go back to the bar and face Gabe, Emily fished in her apron for a quarter and surveyed the jukebox selections. Not a single soul had come close to recognizing her tonight, and the guy that scared her last night hadn’t come back. Both those accomplishments should be worth celebrating with a song. Surely Gabe had something appropriate on this thing.

  While Gabe shooed the last of the stragglers and Marsha Jean out, Emily tried to focus on the list of titles, but her brain was too preoccupied to make much sense of the words. They finally blurred as she heard the door close and the locks snap into place. Emily’s heart thudded sickeningly in her chest. One by one the lights went out. The only illumination left was the glow of the jukebox and whatever light filtered through the small, high windows from the floodlights outside.