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  Emma’s shapeless gray dress had been replaced by his shirt. She leaned into the washer, rearranging something, and the bottom edge of the shirt crept up, showing an increasing amount of smooth, creamy, well-exercised thigh. For such a small woman, she had way too much leg, he decided.

  As his gaze traveled upward, he felt his mouth go dry. Despite being oversize, the knit shirt molded itself to her body as she stretched, outlining the curve of her hips and rump. Every swell, every valley. Innocent Emma wasn’t wearing a damn thing under that shirt! His body reacted with an involuntary tightening and a little rush of satisfaction—an intuitive acknowledgment from his hormones that the chase was on whether he wanted it to be or not.

  When she finished sprinkling in the powder and closed the lid, Gabe made himself turn back to the stove, as much to hide his body’s reaction as to give her privacy. “The permanent-press cycle doesn’t work, so you’ll have to use the other one.”

  The dial protested as she cranked it around and pushed it in to start the water. “That’s all right. You could beat this habit on a rock, and it wouldn’t make any difference. Polyester is made to last.”

  “Like your vows,” Gabe commented, unable to resist. But he spared her having to lie by asking, “What’ll you have? Chicken noodle warmed up straight from the can? Or tomato soup, which I confess to doctoring with my own secret ingredients?”

  Still facing away from him, she pulled off the towel and let her long, wet hair fall down her back as she shook her head gently. “Chicken noodle, please.”

  Gabe ladled the soup into a black stoneware bowl and added crackers to the plate beneath her bowl. When she stepped up beside him she held the towel in front of her with one hand, like a limp shield. With the other, she self-consciously raked her fingers through her hair to tame it into some semblance of order while it dried. Everything about her was fresh and new and vulnerable.

  For a split second Gabe got lost in the details of the woman. In the bar she had been weary and shapeless with only her eyes and mouth hinting at her sensuality. After her shower she had remembered to put the big glasses back on, but they couldn’t hide the color in her cheeks or the smoothness of her skin. The shirt was open at the neck, and he could see the sheen of moisture that still clung to the hollow of her throat.

  “You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble,” she said in that soft I-don’t-want-to-cause-any-problems voice of hers.

  Too late for that now, he thought as he found a spoon and slipped it into her bowl.

  “I was hungry too.” He lifted the plate and handed it to her, caught off guard for a moment. When she smiled at him, it wasn’t a sensual pleasure, but a comfortable pleasure, warm and inviting. Surprising himself as much as Emma, he confessed an unfamiliar longing. “For once I won’t have to eat alone.”

  At his words, he thought he saw a tiny spark of empathy flare to life in her eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. She swung away from him toward the couch and the newly cleared coffee table. “Company is always nice.”

  “You’re probably used to it.” He picked up his own dishes and followed.

  “Not really.”

  “Oh?” Gabe smiled. Tripping her up was going to be like taking pistol practice with a bazooka. As easy as one, two, boom. “I thought nuns did most things in a community … as a group.”

  When her back stiffened, Gabe counted his comment as a direct hit. Funny thing though—he discovered he was rooting for her to make the game interesting. You be careful, darlin’. Don’t dig a deeper hole.

  Before answering, Emma managed a graceful maneuver that ended with her sitting on the couch and the towel draped modestly across her legs like a tablecloth. The plate rested on her knees, and she stirred the soup, blowing a bit to cool it. More like stalling for time, Gabe decided.

  She raised her head. “We nourish our souls as well as our bodies during meals. For my order, dinner is a time of silent reflection.”

  Gabe felt like applauding, but refrained. “Oh, I see. Well then, do you mind if we talk? Will you break a rule if we do?”

  “N-no. I’m not at the convent. We could skip a custom or two, with no harm done.”

  “Surely you’re not going to skip the blessing?” he asked, biting the inside of his jaw to keep from laughing at the evil look she shot him before she managed to recover.

  “Of course not.” Emma muddled through a vague sign of the cross and clasped her hands for a quick prayer, obviously determined to brazen out her charade.

  At the end of her generic blessing Gabe intoned, “Amen.”

  “Amen,” she echoed softly, and dug into her soup with a vengeance.

  Good strategy, he decided, since she couldn’t say anything wrong with a mouth full of food. He took a few bites of his own while he studied her, puzzled at her haste. If soup was a strategy, then she should be eating slowly, dragging out the chewing and swallowing process. But she wasn’t; she was hungry.

  Angry with Patrick for not looking after her better, he asked, “How long since you’ve eaten? Exactly?”

  Her spoon stopped mid-trip, dripping translucent yellow broth back into the bowl. The spoon inched toward her mouth, as if she considered finishing the bite first. Then she sighed and set it back in the bowl.

  When her chin came up, Gabe chided gently, “Careful, Emma. Fibbing is a waste of time, not to mention a sin.”

  Emily wet her lips and then wished she hadn’t broadcast her nervousness. The way he looked at her made her feel as if she were wearing her soul on the outside. She wondered how many young sailors had spilled their guts when confronted with that relentless gaze and a large chunk of oppressive silence.

  “Three days,” she finally admitted.

  “Three days!”

  “I was fasting,” Emily improvised.

  Gabe set his bowl on the coffee table and leaned forward. His gaze sharpened, warning her to be careful. She got the distinct impression he was closing in for the kill. “How much money do you have?”

  “Enough,” she lied. “Not that more money wouldn’t give me peace of mind. If you want to help, I’d be happy to work in exchange—”

  “Sorry, Emma. You heard Marsha Jean. I’m all tapped out at the moment. I can barely pay the employees I have.”

  “I see,” Emily said. His answer meant she’d have to pawn the lipstick case. It was solid gold, a gift from her grandfather. Dredging up a peaceful nunlike smile, she said, “God will provide.”

  “If you’re waiting for God to provide, Sister, then He better start providing pronto.” He settled back in his chair and drilled her with a satisfied look. “Forty-eight cents isn’t enough to buy an instant cup of coffee, much less an instant new life.”

  Violation was the first emotion to surface, sharp and hot and intense. “You went through my purse when I was in the shower?”

  “Of course not. I went through your purse when you were in the bathroom downstairs. Emma, think for a minute. You’re in my house. I’d be a fool not to check you out. And Patrick wouldn’t have sent you here if I were a fool. Do you trust him?”

  “Yes.” There was still anger in her voice.

  “Then trust me. I owe him my life. I can’t think of much I wouldn’t do if he asked. That’s what this dog tag is about. That’s why there’s a hole in it. Because he took a bullet that was meant for me.”

  Gabe laughed hollowly, the sound more a huff than a true laugh. “Sounds so easy when I say it like that, doesn’t it? ‘Took a bullet.’ Well, there is nothing easy about it.”

  No, there isn’t, Emily echoed silently as she closed her eyes and wished she could forget.

  “The bullet drilled a hole in his dog tag and nicked his lung.” He rubbed a spot on his chest, just to the right of his sternum, as if he could feel the impact, and then dropped his hand. “He almost bled to death before we could get him to the extraction site and on the chopper.”

  Gabe shifted uncomfortably in the chair. “Patrick never complained thoug
h. He thought bleeding to death was a fair trade since the alternative had been to let the bullet ventilate my head. I’ll spare you the sad, sorry history of my life, but suffice it to say that Patrick is about the only person who ever thought my life worth saving. Most everyone else, including the navy—especially the navy—thought I was expendable or just plain not worth the effort.”

  “But your family—”

  “Darlin’, I grew up in an orphanage. I don’t have any family.”

  Except maybe a dead man, Emily thought, and wished she didn’t care that Gabe was alone now that Patrick was dead.

  Silence surrounded them, filled the space between them until there was only awkwardness. Gabe couldn’t stand the quiet. He picked up his dishes and took them to the kitchen.

  When he returned, Emma was staring at her empty bowl, lost in thought. As gently as he could, he reached over and picked up her plate, accidentally pulling the towel with it. She didn’t bother to tug the shirt lower or grab the towel for modesty. Instead, she raised her eyes to his. Even through the glasses they were suspiciously shiny, as if they were about to drop tears.

  “Ah, hell,” he swore softly as he pushed the coffee table out of the way and set her dishes on it. Without taking his gaze from hers, he pulled her to her feet. “You can trust me, Emma.”

  Emily was keenly aware of the sincerity in Gabe’s promise. He stood over her, not threateningly close, but close enough that she had to tilt her head back. His dark eyes never wavered from hers, silently urging her to believe him.

  Everything decent inside her rebelled against the secret she kept, urging her to tell him the truth. He deserved to know that his only family was dead. Keeping it from him was the worst kind of deceit. But after hearing him talk about Patrick, she was also more certain than ever that the warrior in Gabe would want revenge.

  If she told him how Patrick died, he’d move heaven and earth to get justice. He might even use her as bait to get it. That thought hardened her resolve, but his hand was still at her elbow, his thumb rubbing her arm in reassurance.

  In a fuzzy second, what was between them changed from an issue of trust to an issue of elemental attraction. The contact of his thumb against her skin as he slipped it beneath the edge of her shirt-sleeve made her aware of the current arcing between them. And of the fact that she wore nothing beneath the knit shirt except skin.

  With a simple touch he had opened Pandora’s box, and all her pent-up hormones had come rushing out to play. Adrenaline that had nothing to do with fear began to set the pace for her pulse. In an unexplained phenomenon the room closed in around her, pushing her toward him, and the floor seemed to tilt, making her unsteady on her feet. As she braced for the inevitable contact, Emily placed her hand against his chest.

  Right until the moment she touched him, Gabe thought he was in control. The quicksilver surge of desire that spiked through him was ample proof that he wasn’t. He used every mental control technique he knew to keep his hands to himself and his lips off hers. He wanted to kiss Emma, but he had this unfortunate rule about taking advantage of half-starved women in trouble. He didn’t. No matter how much he wanted to.

  Sidestepping without letting go of her arm, he ordered huskily, “Come on. That’s it for tonight. It’s lights-out for you.” Almost before she opened her mouth to object, he cut her off roughly. “Don’t argue with me, Emma. I’m not in the mood. You’re sleeping in the bed, and I’ll take the couch. Got it?”

  She nodded. His tone hadn’t left her much choice as he hustled her across the room.

  “Good. Tomorrow we can arm-wrestle for the bed if that will make you happy.”

  Gabe turned down the bed, held the covers, and waited for her to slip beneath the sheet and blankets. Never looking him in the eye, Emma sank down on the bed, simultaneously taking the covers from him and whisking her legs from view. But not fast enough to keep his attention from getting all tangled up with the tan legs that he’d tried to ignore for the past twenty minutes. Emma’s toenails were a pale shimmery pink.

  Dragging his mind back from a train of thought that would only complicate his life further, Gabe reached toward her to slip her glasses off so she could lie down.

  “No!” Emma’s hand flew up to stop him. “I’ll do it.”

  Slowly she took them off herself and put them behind her on the bookshelf. Gabe noticed how she let her hair fall forward and kept her face angled away from him. He’d already seen her without the glasses. So why hide now?

  He leaned across her to dislodge the cat and retrieve the second pillow. As he dragged it toward him, he made a mental note to work on the question. Gabe stood up and switched off the lamp on top of the bookcase headboard.

  “Good night … Emma,” he said, and picked up the spare velour blanket from the foot of the bed.

  “Good night,” Emily whispered as she snuggled down into the covers, turning so that she faced the closet. It was still open, a black gaping hole in the room.

  Without raising her head she listened for Gabe’s movements. First he fiddled with the wood stove. When the lights went out, she heard the sound of boots hitting the floor, and the whisper of a belt being pulled through trouser loops. The blanket snapped as he unfurled it, and the couch groaned under his weight. He punched the pillow twice.

  And when he was finally settled, the real night began. Her two familiar enemies—silence and the darkness—began to smother her. Slowly she counted to ten as she breathed in and out, hoping the routine would stop her heart from racing.

  She had to act normal. Breathe in. The dark was the worst. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.…

  When she couldn’t stand it anymore, she sat up. “Gabe?”

  “Hmm,” he said, half asleep.

  “Do you mind if we leave the bathroom light on?” She added a lie because she was afraid her request sounded silly. “In case I have to get up in the middle of the night.”

  “No,” his voice was raspy. “I don’t mind.”

  “Thank you.”

  Gabe opened his eyes and frowned at the ceiling. Her reply was more like a huge sigh of relief than a polite response. Something was wrong. Rising up quietly on his elbow, Gabe noticed that not only did she turn on the bathroom light, she carefully closed the closet door and began checking the windows by the bed. If she could have gotten to the door downstairs without risking his attention, Gabe was sure she would have checked it too.

  When she paused at the second window, he eased himself to a sitting position, clasping his arms around his drawn-up knees. “Something wrong, Emma?”

  She jumped with a startled exclamation and whirled toward him. “No. No, everything’s fine.”

  “The windows are locked, Emma. And so are the doors. I checked ’em twice.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t worried about that,” she lied. “I was just noticing how dark it is away from the city.”

  “What city is that?”

  “Any city.” She dragged her shirt down in the back as if he could not only see in the dark but behind her as well.

  “Let’s see. No specific city. No specific convent. No specific past. I’ll bet you even have generic fingerprints.”

  Emma didn’t rise to the bait. She crawled back into the bed and scooted under the covers. “I’ve already explained everything I can, Gabe.”

  “Funny. I don’t recall any explanations.” Gabe lay back down and stared at the ceiling. “And so far I haven’t seen any sign of trust.”

  A long time later, so softly he could barely hear her, Emma whispered, “I’m not really a nun.”

  “I know.” Gabe closed his eyes and said, “Now go to sleep.”

  Instinct woke him.

  Gabe opened his eyes to blackness and waited for his senses to talk to him. A second later they did. The rustle of sheets betrayed Emma as she wrestled with the night.

  Part of him wanted to pretend he had never heard the troubled sound and go back to sleep. But another part of him was drawn to Emma by the need to r
eassure her. By the time Gabe shook his legs free of the blanket, Emma’s first soft moan reached his ears.

  He swore silently at the way he kept jumping right back into all the old habits tonight. Well, he scoffed as he maneuvered quietly around the couch, why the hell should he change now?

  Most of his life had been spent rushing in where angels feared to tread. His career as a troublemaker at the orphanage had been long and distinguished. Being a Navy SEAL had simply been a more mature way of saying “Hey, look at me. I’m clever. I deserve your attention.”

  As he approached the bed, Gabe felt the quickening of his pulse. His instincts told him that Emma and danger were a package deal. Despite all his talk of being retired, Gabe was hooked on the rush he got from teetering on the edge, pushing his ability to control a bad situation. He liked taking the point, being responsible. It was the one troublesome character flaw he’d picked up at the orphanage and that the navy had encouraged.

  You’re a fool, Gabe told himself, looking down at Emma. She’d gone quiet for a moment. You were a fool at eighteen and you’re a fool now. Always wanting what you can’t have.

  At eighteen he’d fooled himself into thinking he could make a place for himself in the navy. He’d fought and clawed his way into officer country, only to find out he didn’t have the secret decoder ring, the one given to every graduate of the Naval Academy. Without that class ring he would always be an “untouchable,” an expendable junior officer.

  Christian Gabriel was very good at killing terrorists, but not flagship material. He was a SEAL, a snake-eater. Therefore, no Pentagon staff assignment. No war college. No stars in his future.

  So he took their early-out money and walked away. He swore that the world would have to get along without him. Swore he was through jumping through hoops for crumbs. And then Patrick sent Emma, who needed a hero, even in her sleep.

  She was growing restless again. Even in the scant light provided by the bathroom, he could see worry furrowing her brow as she battled invisible demons. He didn’t like having to stand idly by while Emma suffered, but waking her up might scare her more.