She was re­ady early, and she co­uldn’t ke­ep sta­ring at her­self in the mir­ror. She ne­eded so­met­hing to oc­cupy her mind. Ot­her­wi­se, she’d be a ball of ner­ves when he ar­ri­ved.

  Her lit­tle ho­use con­sis­ted of fo­ur ro­oms all in a row. Li­ving ro­om, kit­c­hen, bed­ro­om, bath. In the kit­c­hen, on the way to the li­ving ro­om, she stop­ped at the sto­ve and set the ti­mer to go off fi­ve mi­nu­tes be­fo­re Ca­leb was due to ar­ri­ve-just in ca­se she got ca­ught up in so­met­hing and lost track of ti­me.

  Over half the li­ving ro­om was ta­ken up by her desk spa­ce, and to an­yo­ne el­se’s eyes it was un­tidy. Bo­oks, pi­led fo­ur de­ep, lay open fa­ce-down on it. Prin­to­uts of In­ter­net ar­tic­les we­re tuc­ked bet­we­en pa­ges. In spi­te of its di­sar­ray she didn’t da­re tidy it sin­ce the­re was a fi­ling system of sorts in the pi­les.

  The rest of the ro­om was or­derly, but now she wis­hed she’d brig­h­te­ned it with so­me Chris­t­mas gre­enery and a few can­d­les. If Pic­kett we­re he­re, she wo­uld ha­ve, but it had be­en hard to think of ha­ving Chris­t­mas wit­ho­ut her. She mis­sed Pic­kett ter­ribly. It was easi­er to for­get abo­ut Chris­t­mas and fo­cus on her ma­ke­over go­als.

  She sat at the com­pu­ter and to­ok it out of sle­ep mo­de to study what she tho­ught of as re­me­di­al con­ver­sa­ti­onal En­g­lish.

  Hel­lo. Did you ha­ve a ni­ce trip? Was the traf­fic he­avy? It’s ni­ce to see you. Isn’t it a ni­ce day? The word “ni­ce” fi­gu­red he­avily. “The pur­po­se isn’t to sha­re in­for­ma­ti­on. It’s li­ke sa­ying, ‘Okay, I see you. Do you see me?’ And you say, ‘Yes, we see each ot­her, and we’re wor­king on an ag­re­ement abo­ut whet­her to ke­ep tal­king or not.’” An­y­way, that’s how Pic­kett ex­p­la­ined it in the­ir last pho­ne call.

  The do­or­bell ma­de it’s rusty, grin­ding so­und. For one cra­ven mo­ment Em­mie con­si­de­red not an­s­we­ring it. The fu­tu­re was at the do­or, and in spi­te of ever­y­t­hing, Em­mie didn’t fe­el re­ady. This was the mo­ment that wo­uld put to the test all her shop­ping and prim­ping, trips to ma­ke­up co­un­ters, and be­a­uty sa­lons. What if she had fa­iled? What if she was still an obj­ect of scorn? Her he­art po­un­ding, she ope­ned the do­or.

  The sight of him in a sla­te gray bla­zer and brown slacks sto­le her bre­ath and did so­met­hing funny to her kne­es, whi­le short-cir­cu­iting lar­ge parts of her bra­in. Not one of the phra­ses she’d prac­ti­ced ca­me to mind.

  Chapter 19

  It was Em­mie who ope­ned the do­or, he was su­re it was. Not­hing co­uld chan­ge the wi­de, up­til­ted blue eyes. But the ha­ir wasn’t be­ige an­y­mo­re. It was so­me sha­de of stre­aky blon­de that ma­de him think of cre­am swir­led in­to ho­ney. And the dress. It was a red that ma­de him think of ju­icy, lus­ci­o­us things. It was as una­dor­ned as an­y­t­hing he’d se­en her in, and it ex­po­sed only a vee of skin at the chest. It wasn’t re­ve­aling, but no man co­uld see it wit­ho­ut thin­king-ob­ses­sing-abo­ut the body be­ne­ath it.

  Do- Lord knew clot­hes. It was the dis­c­re­pancy bet­we­en his un­kempt, neg­lec­ted sta­te and his IQ that had ca­used So­ci­al Ser­vi­ces to re­mo­ve him from his mot­her. He’d be­en re­tur­ned to her be­ca­use the­re was no re­al gro­unds to be­li­eve he was in dan­ger, but af­ter that ex­pe­ri­en­ce, he stu­di­ed the ot­her kids’ clot­hes. He saw how the­ir clot­hes told who they we­re, whe­re they ca­me from, and how much mo­ney the­ir pa­rents ma­de. The ne­ed for cle­an je­ans and shirts, a ha­ir­cut, and sho­es had led to his first job. He had lo­ved the Navy’s dress co­de. It to­ok out all the gu­es­swork of we­aring clot­hes that fit in. The cor­rect at­ti­re for every con­ce­ivab­le job and oc­ca­si­on was pres­c­ri­bed in de­ta­il down to the un­der­we­ar.

  Be­co­ming a SE­AL had ad­ded anot­her la­yer of un­der­s­tan­ding. SE­ALs of­ten tra­ve­led un­der­co­ver. The­ir clot­hes, jewelry, and ha­ir­cuts had to match the­ir co­ver iden­tity. He still had fi­ve dif­fe­rent ID’s, but they we­re all pas­sports.

  The­re was much to know abo­ut clot­hes-not only what to buy, but how to we­ar them. With Lon as his per­so­nal war­d­ro­be men­tor, he re­fi­ned his know­led­ge of cut and fab­ric, qu­ality and ta­ilo­ring. He knew the thre­ad co­unt in the cot­ton of his light yel­low shirt and the sla­te blue bla­zer he wo­re was a fif­ty-fifty blend of pas­h­mi­na and silk.

  In the last two we­eks, Do-Lord had dis­co­un­ted the way Em­mie lo­oked at the wed­ding, tho­ugh he’d enj­oyed it. It was a cos­tu­me cho­sen by so­me­one el­se so she co­uld play a part-it wasn’t her. He’d re­mem­be­red Em­mie in sha­pe­less be­ige, and Em­mie swal­lo­wed by a terry ro­be with the sle­eves tur­ned up with sa­fety pins. He’d re­mem­be­red Em­mie, the shy fa­iry-spi­rit, who­se ma­gic was in­vi­sib­le to in­ha­bi­tants of the or­di­nary world, but who, li­ke all com­pe­tent fa­iri­es, co­uld en­c­hant.

  He didn’t know how or why she’d chan­ged, but no one co­uld say that the way she lo­oked now wasn’t her. The who­le out­fit ma­de you see the wo­man we­aring the clot­hes, not the clot­hes. In so­me way she was mo­re richly and truly her­self than she had be­en be­fo­re. He had cre­ated his who­le ga­me plan to uti­li­ze the fact that al­t­ho­ugh she had ac­cess to Cal­ho­un’s world, she wasn’t part of it. Now she was.

  His plan had be­en fa­ir and equ­itab­le. A sin­g­le wo­man, par­ti­cu­larly a pla­in one, ga­ins sta­tus by ha­ving a ma­le es­cort. Em­mie wo­uld gar­ner mo­re res­pect ac­com­pa­ni­ed by him, whi­le her ob­vi­o­us bra­ins and re­fi­ne­ment wo­uld con­fer sta­tus and le­gi­ti­macy on him by as­so­ci­ati­on. In the se­mi-so­ci­al, se­mi-pro­fes­si­onal gat­he­ring they wo­uld be jo­ining, the­ir al­li­an­ce wo­uld be­ne­fit both.

  He’d plan­ned to ke­ep things light, at first. She was le­ery of be­ing to­uc­hed. He’d ac­cep­ted that he wo­uld pro­bably lo­se gro­und in the in­ter­val be­fo­re he saw her aga­in. He me­ant to gi­ve her not­hing to reg­ret, to bind her to him mostly with pe­op­le’s ex­pec­ta­ti­ons of se­e­ing them to­get­her. Then even­tu­al­ly, if she drop­ped him, he’d be known. He’d ha­ve con­nec­ti­ons of his own.

  That plan was to­ast. She didn’t ne­ed him at all the way she lo­oked now. In fact, ha­ving him in tow wo­uld be a li­abi­lity.

  He ne­eded a new ga­me plan. He was go­ing to ha­ve to ca­pi­ta­li­ze on the fact that she wasn’t in­dif­fe­rent to him. She’d be­en eager for his kis­ses. He had to push the ti­me­tab­le for­ward, to bind her to him with sen­su­al cha­ins. He knew in­tu­iti­vely that whe­re she ga­ve her­self, she wo­uld be lo­yal.

  Emmie wat­c­hed Ca­leb’s ga­ze swe­ep from the top of her he­ad to her to­es and back in un­dis­gu­ised mas­cu­li­ne as­ses­sment. She’d al­ways ha­ted when men did that, me­asu­ring her with the­ir eyes to see if she fit­ted the­ir stan­dards. The ar­ro­gan­ce. It didn’t ha­ve qu­ite the sa­me ef­fect to­day. Not when the one do­ing it was Ca­leb. The­re was a ple­asu­rab­le flut­ter and an in­te­res­ting he­at. In­s­te­ad of lo­oking away and frow­ning, she did as Pic­kett sug­ges­ted-she re­tur­ned his ga­ze.

  The who­le se­xu­al dyna­mic to­ok a qu­an­tum jump. With no will of her own, her sho­ul­ders went back, and it felt li­ke her bra got tight. Go­od lord! She hadn’t known that wo­uld hap­pen.

  “You lo­ok be­a­uti­ful,” he sa­id.

  “ Not a pity-fuck then.” Cri­pes! She hadn’t me­ant that to co­me out. She re­mem­be­red now she hadn’t even sa­id, “Hel­lo, how are you?”

  “I wish you wo­uld for­get that. Davy is an idi­ot. He hasn’t fi­gu­red out what ma­kes a wo­man wor­t­h­w­hi­le.”

  “What do­es ma­ke a wo­man wor­t­h­w­hi­le?”

  He bra­ced an arm on the do­or­f­ra­me just abo­ve her he­ad and le­aned clo­se. She co­uld see the frec­k­les un­der the tan of his che­eks, a lazy twin­k­le of ap­pre­ci­ati­on for her chal­len­ge in the gol­den gre­en and brown of his eyes. The who­le spo­ke of a con­fi­den­ce in his mas­cu­li­nity that we­ake­ned her kne­es. He chuc­k­led. “You don’t was­te ti­me on small talk, do you? May I co­me in?”

  “Are you still mad abo­ut what you over­he­ard?” he as­ked on­ce they we­re stan­ding in her tiny li­ving ro­om. “Davy re­al­ly didn’t know what he was tal­king abo­ut. He’s cocky and full of him­self, but don’t jud­ge him too harshly. Li­fe will knock that out of him. I ne­ver ag­re­ed with him. When I lo­ok at you, pity is not what’s on my mind.”

  As if he co­uldn’t help him­self, as if his hand was drawn by os­mo­tic pres­su­re that had to mo­ve from high con­cen­t­ra­ti­on to low con­cen­t­ra­ti­on, he to­uc­hed the si­de of her neck with one fo­re­fin­ger. “Are we cle­ar abo­ut that?” He stro­ked from ne­ar her ear down to whe­re her neck cur­ved in­to her sho­ul­der. “Be­ca­use if the­re’s any do­ubt, any do­ubt at all, we ha­ve to re­mo­ve it.”

  After a tiny fo­ray un­der the shawl col­lar of her dress, he tra­ced the an­g­le of her jaw. “Now, are we on the sa­me pa­ge?”

  Stark de­si­re ga­ve his craggy fe­atu­res a gra­ven lo­ok. A lo­ok she’d ne­ver se­en be­fo­re, but had no tro­ub­le re­cog­ni­zing. No mat­ter what he was hi­ding from her, and she still felt the­re was so­met­hing, it wasn’t the truth abo­ut his at­trac­ti­on.

  Emmie co­uld now ex­p­la­in what might ha­ve be­en wrong with pre­vi­o­us re­la­ti­on­s­hips. She hadn’t felt as if she we­re be­ing swam­ped by re­pe­ated wa­ves of de­si­re. She wasn’t su­re she li­ked it. She felt out of con­t­rol, ca­ught up by vast ti­dal for­ces that ma­de her go­als se­em puny, pa­le, and in­sig­ni­fi­cant. If she had felt this way be­fo­re, she wo­uld ha­ve fo­ught it.

  But even as she con­si­de­red that, he wrap­ped his hand aro­und the na­pe of her neck, and drew her to him. Wit­ho­ut one sin­g­le tho­ught of fig­h­ting the at­trac­ti­on, she mo­ved to­ward him.

  “You didn’t an­s­wer me.” His bur­nt-um­ber vo­ice was grit­ti­er than ever, and his eyes we­re clo­se eno­ugh to see all the specks of blue and gre­en, gold and brown, in the iris. His bre­ath ca­me in warm, mo­ist puffs aga­inst her fa­ce. “You know what’s hap­pe­ning he­re. You know what’s go­ing to hap­pen. Say it.”

  “Yes.” He was go­ing to kiss her. Her he­art po­un­ded. Her lips ope­ned of the­ir own ac­cord.

  “And you want it. Say it,” he de­man­ded.

  “Yes.”

  His lips ca­me down on hers, fi­er­ce and hungry, whi­le he la­id his hand on the mid­dle of her back and pres­sed her in­to full con­tact. His tas­te was in her mo­uth, and his smell fil­led her he­ad. It ma­de her a lit­tle dizzy, and she stum­b­led slightly when he used his ot­her hand to sco­op her hips clo­ser. The­re was now­he­re to go ex­cept in­to him, aga­inst his hard chest and his hard thighs. She in­ha­led his cle­an, musky smell and re­lis­hed the to­tal com­pe­ten­ce with which his arms en­c­lo­sed her.

  He lif­ted her on­to her tip­to­es un­til the notch at the top of her thighs mat­c­hed the ful­lness of his erec­ti­on, which he gro­und aga­inst her with bla­tant in­tent.

  The kiss went on and on. He gro­aned. “God, I wan­ted this,” he sa­id as he dab­bed kis­ses and lit­tle licks down her neck. No one had ever lic­ked her be­fo­re. When he re­ac­hed the jun­c­tu­re to her sho­ul­der, he let her back down on her fe­et and with one hand ope­ned the but­tons at her wa­ist. He pus­hed the two hal­ves of the dress asi­de and clo­sed a hand over her bre­ast, kne­ading it in­sis­tently.

  The ti­mer on the sto­ve buz­zed.

  Ca­leb lif­ted his he­ad. “What the hell is that so­und?”

  “The ti­mer on the sto­ve.”

  “You’re co­oking so­met­hing?”

  “No.”

  “Go­od. How do you turn it off?” He tra­ced the rim of her ear with his ton­gue, even as he mo­ved her to­ward the sto­ve.

  But for­ced to think, to al­low awa­re­ness of ti­me and pla­ce back in­to con­s­ci­o­us­ness, the for­ward mo­men­tum was bloc­ked. The im­p­li­ca­ti­ons of what they we­re get­ting re­ady to do in­t­ru­ded. They had got­ten pretty far from her ga­me plan. She’d tho­ught they wo­uld get to this po­int even­tu­al­ly, but not the mi­nu­te he wal­ked in the do­or. And by the ti­me they did, she’d ha­ve ma­de her de­ci­si­on whet­her to tell him to get lost or not. Now it was all mi­xed up.

  “Stop… wa­it…” Em­mie pus­hed aga­inst his chest and avo­ided his de­vi­lish ton­gue, lit­tle as she wan­ted to. “I don’t do one-night stands. I don’t even do two-, three-, or fo­ur-night stands.” Ca­leb fi­nal­ly stop­ped kis­sing her. “And I don’t do af­ter­no­on qu­ic­ki­es eit­her.”

  “Okay, I rus­hed you.” Ca­leb res­ted his fo­re­he­ad aga­inst hers. “Sorry.” On­ce his bre­at­hing eve­ned out, Ca­leb drew back un­til he co­uld lo­ok in­to her eyes. His iri­ses we­re dark gre­en in the af­ter­no­on light co­ming in the kit­c­hen win­dow. Rus­set co­lor ro­de high on his che­ek­bo­nes. His eyeb­rows drew to­get­her in a frown. “Wa­it. Are you sa­ying ‘no sex?’” He lo­oked per­p­le­xed. Stun­ned even. “See each ot­her and ne­ver ha­ve sex? I don’t want that. In fact, I don’t think I co­uld.”

  Emmie pus­hed a lit­tle fur­t­her away lest she suc­cumb to the de­si­re to so­ot­he away the lost, be­wil­de­red no­te in his vo­ice. And she co­uldn’t lo­ok in­to his eyes eit­her, be­ca­use of the dis­t­rac­ting way her he­art po­un­ded whe­ne­ver she did. She ne­eded to be ra­ti­onal, des­pi­te the fact that she was fe­eling mo­re than a bit be­wil­de­red her­self. From the mo­ment she’d se­en him at the do­or, not­hing had go­ne as she had plan­ned. He was sup­po­sed to co­urt her and re­ali­ze just how de­si­rab­le she was and when he was smit­ten-oh, she li­ked the so­und of that-she wo­uld tell him she wasn’t in­te­res­ted. If she wasn’t. She wo­uldn’t cut off her no­se to spi­te her fa­ce, af­ter all.

  “I’m not op­po­sed to sex,” she ex­p­la­ined ca­re­ful­ly. “Per se.” She pus­hed aga­inst the so­lid wall of his chest, and this ti­me he let his arms drop. Ab­le to bre­at­he a lit­tle easi­er, she tri­ed to or­ga­ni­ze her tho­ughts. She bro­ught her fin­ger­tips to­get­her at her chin. “Sex is an im­por­tant part of the man-wo­man bond. But I think sex is too im­por­tant, too fra­ught with po­ten­ti­al­ly li­fe-al­te­ring con­se­qu­en­ces, to han­d­le ca­su­al­ly. I’m not go­ing to en­ter in­to se­xu­al con­g­ress wit­ho­ut so­me sort of mu­tu­al­ly ac­k­now­led­ged re­la­ti­on­s­hip.”

  Ca­leb did that pos­tu­re-thing of bro­ade­ning his sho­ul­ders. He pus­hed back his sport co­at from his wa­ist li­ke a gun­s­lin­ger and ho­oked his thumbs over his hips. “That may be the stuf­fi­est sen­ten­ce I ever he­ard. Se­xu­al con­g­ress?”

  “I know I so­und stran­ge.” If this con­ver­sa­ti­on didn’t send him run­ning, not­hing was ever go­ing to. She cer­ta­inly hadn’t ex­pec­ted to dis­cuss a con­t­ract mi­nu­tes af­ter he ca­me in the do­or, but she’d be­en blin­d­si­ded in the past be­ca­use she’d ne­ver had the con­ver­sa­ti­on at all.

  She’d drif­ted in­to re­la­ti­on­s­hips only to dis­co­ver the man wasn’t in it the sa­me way she was. Sha­red in­te­rests had be­co­me sha­red din­ners, and even­tu­al­ly, sha­red beds. But Blo­unt hadn’t tho­ught that se­e­ing each ot­her for months and ha­ving sex im­p­li­ed they we­re a co­up­le in any sen­se of the word. Du­ring the past few we­eks Em­mie had ac­cep­ted how much of that was her fa­ult. She’d be­en as wil­ling as the man to sub­s­ti­tu­te shop­talk for in­ti­macy. And she’d al­so al­lo­wed her­self to be­co­me part of the fur­ni­tu­re in his li­fe. The­re, ava­ilab­le, un­de­man­ding. Ke­eping her­self in the bac­k­g­ro­und even in her own lo­ve af­fa­irs.

  Altho­ugh she didn’t think she went in for ca­su­al sex, ap­pa­rently, men she’d be­en with didn’t ha­ve the sa­me opi­ni­on of her. Vi­ewed obj­ec­ti­vely, she co­uld see that she had let men think she’d be aro­und any old ti­me wit­ho­ut be­li­eving an­y­t­hing was re­qu­ired of them. She had drif­ted in­to re­la­ti­on­s­hips ba­sed on mu­tu­al pro­fes­si­onal go­als and drif­ted in­to sex that was ba­sed ma­inly on pro­xi­mity. Ne­ver aga­in.

  Not be­ing in the bac­k­g­ro­und was darn un­com­for­tab­le tho­ugh, and she was su­re she was go­ing abo­ut it all wrong. “Why don’t we qu­it tal­king abo­ut it? I’m su­re you want to for­get I sa­id an­y­t­hing as much as I do.”

  “You ha­ven’t we­ir­ded me out, if that’s what you’re wor­ri­ed abo­ut. I just don’t know what you’re tal­king abo­ut.”

  “Oh. Se­xu­al con­g­ress me­ans-”

  “I know what it me­ans.” He grow­led bet­we­en clen­c­hed te­eth, then vi­sibly got ahold of him­self. He re­la­xed and put on his go­od-ole-boy smi­le. She was star­ting to re­cog­ni­ze it. “So­unds li­ke you’re tal­king abo­ut com­mit­ment. I can do that. Just tell me what you want.”