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She moved her shoulders and looked miserably into the gla.s.s. "You're too
beautiful to be a jerk, Emma." He shoved the pillows into place and
pulled her back beside him. "Tell me about it."
When she'd finished, he continued to stare into middle distance. She was
calm now. He could feel it in each easy breath she took. He was wired
tight.
"The letter probably set it off," she murmured. "I used to pray that
the nightmares would stop. Now I don't want them to. I want to see. I
want to get through the door and see."
He turned his head to press his lips to her hair. "Do you trust me?"
His arm was firm around her, not holding her down. Just holding her.
"Yes."
"I'm going to do everything I can to find out who's responsible for your
brother's death."
"It was so long ago."
"I've got some ideas. Let me see if I can put them together."
She rested against him, wis.h.i.+ng she could go on forever beside him, her
head cus.h.i.+oned on his shoulder. "I know I said I'd go back with
you if you wanted. But I need to stay. I have to talk to Katherine. I
need a few weeks."
He said nothing for a moment, adjusting himself to the idea of being
without her. "While you're here, think about whether you could handle
being married to a cop." He turned her face up to his. "Think about it
hard, will you?"
"Yes." She slid her arms around him. "Make love with me, Michael."
THE CLUB WAS NOISY, filled with young bodies stuffed into tight jeans.
Snug, short skirts barely covered the hips of long-legged girls. The
music was hard and loud, the liquor watered. But the club was packed,
the dance floor jammed. Colored lights whirled, distorting faces.
Couples standing hip to hip had to shout to communicate. Drugs and money
exchanged hands as casually as phone numbers.
It wasn't what he was used to. It certainly wasn't what he preferred.
But he had come. He squeezed into a small corner table and ordered a
Scotch.
"If you'd wanted to talk, you could have picked a better spot."
His companion grinned and downed a whiskey. "What better place for
secrets than in public?" He lit a cigarette with a monogtammed gold
lighter. "The grapevine has it that Jane slipped something by you.
"I know about the letter."
"You know, and didn't think it was worth mentioning?"
"That's right."
"It won't do to forget that what concerns you concerns me."
"The letter only implicates Jane, not you, or me. Since she's dead, it
hardly matters." He paused, waiting until the waitress had set down his
drink. "There's something else that may be more pressing. Emma's
having troubling dreams."
The man laughed and blew smoke between his teeth. "Emma's dreams don't
bother me."
"They should. Since they concern us both. She's in therapy, with the
psychiatrist who treated Stevie Nimmons." After sampling the Scotch, he
