Dirty Secrets Page 6

  She was afraid her heart wasn’t too far behind. Still she cleared her throat. “You . . . you could be right. You probably are right.”

  He lifted a brow.

  “Okay, Christopher, you’re right,” she said with no small irritation. “But for now . . . I want to slow it down. When and if we do . . .”

  “Make love,” he purred and her insides felt like they were turning inside out.

  “When and if—”

  “When, Emma. Not if.”

  She sighed. “Christopher.” Then he grinned and made her laugh before she sobered again. “If we make love I want it to be for the right reason,” she said softly. “Because it’s the right time, not because we’re two people trying to recapture the past.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  She sighed. “I don’t know. But regardless, Christopher, to risk sounding trite, I’m not that kind of girl.”

  He sat up at that and pulled her so she sat next to him. “I know you’re not. You never were. That’s one of the things I loved about you then, Emma.” He shoved his fingers through his short hair. “I should really apologize. But I still don’t want to.”

  “Then don’t. I feel . . . incredibly flattered.”

  “You should,” he said grumpily. “I’ve waited for you more than half my life.”

  “You didn’t wait,” she pointed out. “You got married, too.”

  A frown shadowed his eyes. “Not well.”

  “I’m sorry, Christopher. I wish your marriage could have been like mine.”

  He lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. “It takes two to tango. I made mistakes, too. I worked a lot early on. We were college kids up in Michigan and I was working two part-time jobs and going to school at the same time. Then when Megan was born I had just started grad school, still working two part-time jobs.”

  “Then after?”

  He grimaced. “I worked for a chemical company for a few years, but I hated it. Mona was moving up the ladder in her company and they offered her a promotion. She could choose one of three cities and our best friend from college had already moved down here so we picked St. Pete. My friend was a physics professor at the University and loved it, and I missed academia. I got a position as an assistant professor. I could finally slow down and be a father to Megan. That was seven years ago.”

  “And your wife?”

  He stared out at the water, his jaw tightening. “Mona got busier and busier with her career. Started traveling around the world and she’d be gone for weeks at a time.”

  “Weeks? That must have been hard on your daughter. And you.”

  His laugh was harsh. “You could say that. Megan would cry at night, missing her. When Mona would come home, she’d be more and more distant. One day, she said her company wanted her to take a job in South America and she’d accepted it.”

  “Without discussing it with you?” Emma asked, startled. “Will never would—” She broke it off abruptly. “I’m sorry. That was thoughtless of me.”

  “What, that your husband never would have made a major life decision without discussing it with you? Don’t be sorry. I think that’s how normal couples do things. I’m not sure Mona and I ever were normal. Anyway, I didn’t want to uproot Megan, or myself, if I’m honest. We fought about it and she said I was a selfish bastard and I could go with her or she’d leave us. The next time I saw Mona she was sitting on the other side of the table in the divorce attorney’s office.”

  “And Megan?”

  “She was devastated. Mostly because Mona never even contested my sole custody petition.”

  “Poor little girl,” Emma murmured. “She must have felt so rejected.”

  “She was rejected,” Christopher said bitterly. “I’d already accepted that things were coming to that, but Megan was just a little girl. It broke my heart to see her holding out hope that her mother would actually want her. Mona sees her whenever she comes back to the States on a business trip, but only when it’s convenient. Megan hasn’t seen her mother in almost a year.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Me, too.” He let out a sigh. “But I don’t want to talk about Mona any more. I want to talk about you. There are still so many things I want to know.”

  “Okay. What do you want to know?”

  He was quiet for few moments. “Why did you wait a whole year before dealing with your husband’s things?”

  Emma huffed a surprised laugh. “You cut right to the chase, don’t you? Gosh.” She blew out a breath, sending her bangs dancing. “I was afraid.”

  “Of what?”

  Emma fixed her gaze on the gentle waves, remembering exactly what. “A few years before Will died, I was on an airplane, coming home from some conference. Sitting next to me was this old woman, crying. I asked her what was wrong and she told me that she was on her way home to Wisconsin. That her husband of forty-seven years had died the year before and her sister had come to help her with the funeral. After the funeral, her sister invited her to her condo in Florida for a few days, to rest. On the flight to her sister’s, the woman broke her hip and was forced to stay with her sister until she could move on her own, almost a year later.

  “I’ll never forget how she cried. She said her husband’s shoes would still be in their foyer and his coat on the kitchen chair. She said going home after a year was like he’d died all over again. She had me crying so hard with her that the flight attendant thought she was my grandmother.”

  Christopher was touched. Emma had always had such a tender heart. He’d always loved that about her. “You remembered that when your husband died.”

  “Yeah. I was in New York when Will was killed. My book had just come out and hit the bestseller lists and I’d done a short interview on one of the TV morning shows. I was on top of the world and when I got home, Will and I were going out to celebrate. Instead, I got home just in time to sign the organ donor releases. My friend Kate took me home and I thought about that old woman as I was walking up to my front door. I couldn’t go in. Couldn’t stand to see his shoes in the foyer. I slept at Kate’s that night. Eventually I did go inside the house, but it was so hard.” She shrugged uncomfortably. “The next week, I got an invitation to lecture about the book, so I went away again. The next time I came home it was harder to go in and I stayed an even shorter time. Suddenly a year had passed and I realized what a coward I’d been.”

  Christopher hated to hear her beat herself up. “Maybe you knew too much, Emma. Listening to all those grieving people in your practice all those years, maybe you knew how hard the road to acceptance was going to be. Sometimes knowing how long the road is makes it harder to take the first step.”

  “Or the first bite,” Emma murmured. “That’s very wise, Christopher.” She looked up at him, admiration in her eyes, and his heart stumbled. “Thank you.”

  His chest was tight, pressured. His groin even more so. He wanted her with every fiber of his being and if he didn’t move now, he’d never be able to give her the space and time she’d asked for. Abruptly he stood up. “We should be going now.” He pulled her to her feet, ignoring her surprised squeak. Gathered his coat and her shoes and started back toward the restaurant and his car.

  “Christopher!” He stopped and looked back. She stood there, hands on her hips. Her very curvy hips. His mouth watered as it always had. “What’s wrong with you?”

  He hesitated, then in three long strides was standing in front of her. His coat and her shoes were back on the sand and his arms were around her and his mouth was crushing hers. And she was kissing him back, frantically, as if she’d never get enough. Her arms lifted around his neck, her breasts pressed into his chest and he knew this was the dream he’d had every miserable night of his adolescent life. And longer.

  She was on her toes, leaning up into him. Then her round, curvy ass was filling his hands and he lifted her off her
feet, needing to feel her against him. Needing her to feel how much he wanted her. Her wild little whimpers of pleasure drove him insane and he ground himself into her softness, rubbing her up and down his rock hard, aching length. Torturing them both. He could have her here. Right here. Right now.

  But they were on a public beach. His sanity returned with a slam and with it a healthy dose of guilt. He’d promised to give her time. He released her, sliding her down his body until her toes made purchase with the sand. Then let her go, turning to the water, his lungs working like a bellows. She should be angry with him. Maybe even slap his face. Instead, she rested her forehead against his upper arm and sighed.

  “I think you’re right,” she said. “We should be going now.”

  * * *

  They walked back to the restaurant in half the time it had taken them to walk the beach. Earlier they’d been strolling and chatting. Now they were power walking and silent. His car stood nearly alone in Crabby Bill’s parking lot.

  “Where’s your car?” he asked.

  “I took a cab,” she said. “I’ll take one now. You can go home. Megan will be waiting for you.”

  “Megan’s at her friend’s pajama party and I’m not going to let you take a cab. I’ll drive you to the hotel.” When she hesitated he rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to attack you in the car. Get in, Emma.” He pulled out of the parking lot and looked over at her. She was looking out the window, her lower lip pulled between her teeth. “Where are you staying?”

  “The Don CeSar,” she murmured.

  No other words were exchanged until he pulled in front of the St. Pete landmark hotel where uniformed doormen waited to assist the guests. “Not yet,” Christopher barked when one of them tried to open her door. He gentled his voice. “Emma. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have kissed you like that when I promised to give you time.”

  Her smile was rueful. “I wanted it as much as you did, Christopher. Which is why I can’t ask you to come up.”

  He ignored the spear of disappointment. “I understand. Can I see you tomorrow?”

  Her smile faltered. “My flight leaves at seven thirty in the morning.”

  His heart stopped. “You’re leaving? You can’t.”

  “I didn’t plan to stay, Christopher. I’d planned to come, say my piece, and leave.”

  He gritted his teeth. “Emma, I just got you back after seventeen fucking years. You’re not leaving me again.”

  She sighed. “Tonight was so much more than I ever expected. You’re so much more than I expected.” She took his hand and squeezed it. “I need to cool down. So do you. Let me go home and sort this out in my mind. I’ll come back. I promise.” She leaned over and kissed him quickly on the lips. “Thank you, Christopher Walker. For making me feel alive again.” Then she was gone before he could say good-bye.

  Chapter 5

  Cincinnati, Sunday, February 28, 9:00 a.m.

  Emma stood on the airport escalator, her palm vibrating as she gripped the heavy black rubber handrail. What a difference a week made. No longer did she dread the airport, the city. The house.

  She still felt a sharp pang of loss when she glanced up to the place where Will had always waited with a single red rose. But it wasn’t as sharp, and the realization was a comfort in and of itself. The next time she came through it would be a little less sharp still. Until one day she’d be able to look up with a smile and think, that’s where Will used to wait for me. Christopher had been right. She’d known the road to acceptance all along, she’d just been overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of the trip.

  She glanced down at the handful of wildflowers she’d gripped all the way from Florida with a wistful smile. He’d been waiting for her in the lobby of her hotel this morning at six a.m., the wildflowers in his hand, and her heart had jumped for joy even as her mind screamed caution. He couldn’t let her go without saying good-bye, he’d said, so sweetly. Plus, she hadn’t given him her address and phone number. So he’d come back, early, and waited for her to come down.

  Then driven her to the airport where he’d said his good-bye, a lusty kiss with his tongue in her mouth and his hand in her hair. Then he’d pressed a heavy manila envelope into her hand that wasn’t grasping the remaining life out of the wildflowers he’d picked in his own garden. “Read it when you’re alone,” he whispered, then kissed her again, leaving her knees weak and her heart racing.

  She hadn’t read it yet. She would when she got home. Anxious to get there, she sailed past the poor souls that had checked luggage, her overnight bag over her shoulder, to where Kate waited outside with her car.

  “Well, how did it go?” she asked when Emma hopped in.

  Emma slanted her a wary look. “Fine.”

  Kate’s lips twitched. “Nice flowers.”

  Emma chuckled. “Drive me home and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  * * *

  St. Pete, Sunday, February 28, 9:15 a.m.

  The lights were on in the lab and the yellow police tape no longer blocked the door. Pulling on a pair of protective goggles, Christopher ran his key card through the slot and pushed the door open, finding all three of his students hard at work putting the lab back to rights. “I guess Harris called you guys, too.” He’d found the detective’s message on his home answering machine when he’d returned from taking Emma to the airport.

  Ian looked up from the gas chromatograph he was recalibrating, his eyes narrowed behind his goggles. “He did. He also said we’re still not to consider leavin’ town.”

  “He said we should stay available to answer any questions,” Nate corrected mildly.

  “It’s the same thing,” Ian insisted. “Especially since that damned detective has been doggin’ our every damn move. He’s going to get me deported.”

  “He can’t do that,” Nate sighed, as if Ian’s concern had been voiced once too often.

  “Well, I’m just glad to be getting back to work,” Tanya said quietly. “I’ve been going nuts with all that time to think.”

  They all went still for a moment, all eyes drifting to the table where Darrell had worked. Christopher sighed. “It’s never going to be the same.” Then he straightened. “But we do have a deadline. Sutton at the USDA is waiting for our next report. When can we have it done?”

  The three students looked at one another. “It’ll take us at least a week to do the samples that Darrell was working on,” Tanya said. “On top of our own work.”

  “And another week to redo the samples that got destroyed in the break-in last month,” Ian added. “Perhaps another three to four weeks, Professor. Will they give us that much time?”

  “I hope so. I know they were hoping to start testing the new methods in their own labs by spring.”

  “Suppose you all tell me about these new methods.”

  They turned as one. Detective Harris stood in the door, holding Darrell’s key card in his hand. Under one arm he carried the notebook Darrell had been using the night he was killed. Nate just sighed. Ian scowled. Tanya looked rattled.

  Christopher frowned. “Harris. If you’re going to come in here you have to wear goggles.” He gave him a pair. “I thought you’d cleared us to get back to work.”

  Harris put the goggles on without argument. “I did. I was hoping you’d all rush back here, because I wanted to talk to you all together. I need to know more about the work you’re doing here.”

  Christopher shrugged, puzzled. “It’s no government secret, Detective. We’re working on some new ways to test for soil contaminants. Soil gets tested as part of environmental maintenance around factories and in construction sites before building permits can be issued. Private labs all over the country do this testing, but if they’re certified labs, they use standardized methods blessed by the USDA.”

  “These are the same methods you’re working on,” Harris said.

  “Improved methods,�
�� Christopher clarified. “Ways to do the testing faster, but with equal or better accuracy. Part of proving our new methods are just as accurate as the old methods is by testing samples side by side with old and new methods. We’ve gathered soil samples from all over the state, sandy, peat, rocky—all different soil compositions. Now it’s just a matter of testing and recording data and cranking out the comparisons, old to new. It’s not rocket science. Really.”

  Harris nodded. “And you record all your data where?”

  Ian tapped his hardbound notebook. “First in these, then into the computer. That’s how we do all the statistical comparisons. With the computer.”

  “Can you show me your notebooks?”

  More puzzled, each of them did so, watching as Harris leafed through each page. “And when you’re done with one notebook,” he asked, “what do you do with it?”

  “They’re official records,” Christopher said. “They can be used in court or for patents, that kind of thing, so we want to ensure we keep the data safe. When one notebook is finished, it’s sent to the University library to be copied. We used to microfiche in the old days, but now they put the copies on a CD. Then the library returns the notebooks and a CD to us so we can reference them as needed.”

  “Why are you asking all these questions about our notebooks?” Ian asked.

  Harris pointed at the bookshelf that sagged with old notebooks. “Can I see the book Darrell Roberts was working in before this one?” he asked, ignoring Ian’s question.

  Annoyed, Ian pulled out Darrell’s last finished notebook. “This is it.”

  “Put it on the table,” Harris directed, then put Darrell’s unfinished notebook beside it. He flipped through the older book, then opened the newer one.