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Now That You're Here
Lynnette Kent
A lot can change in twenty years…Emma Garrett's honoring her father's last request–find Jimmy Falcon and give him a medallion that rightfully belongs to him and his people. It's been more than twenty years since Emma last saw Jimmy, and she looks forward to seeing him again.But when she tracks him down she discovers that this Jimmy bears very little resemblance to the proud young Sioux she'd once been in love with. This Jimmy's cynical about his roots and wants nothing to do with the gift–or its secret.But Emma's changed, too. Years ago she gave up on Jimmy too easily. This time the stakes are higher….


Dear God, what had she done?
Nothing much, the rational part of her brain insisted. A spot of reminiscent lovemaking with the first lover she’d ever known. No harm done. Actually quite pleasant.
But her heart knew better. Her heart knew what kissing Jimmy Falcon revealed about the state of her emotions. Any hope of coming out of this encounter intact had just vanished.
She heard the front door open and close, and knew that Jimmy had left. That was okay. She didn’t need him to stay and try to apologize or explain. What had happened between them was as clear as a mountain spring, as irresistible as the glaciers that had carved valleys into the mountains. At seventeen she’d taken that power for granted, used it and then let it go.
At thirty-eight she doubted she had the grace—or the strength—to act so unselfishly again.
Dear Reader,
A love affair that ends in separation often does so painfully. It’s the nature of human beings to feel hurt when someone we’ve been close to no longer cares. Many reunion romance stories start with a relationship that somehow went wrong. The challenge for those heroes and heroines is to deal with the mistakes of the past and move into the future together.
I wanted to write about a couple who loved, then lost, but always remembered each other with gratitude and laughter. No guilt, no wounds from their mutual past to mar the present. Instead, it’s the experiences they’ve known in their years apart that come between them—the changes life has made in their attitudes, their feelings about themselves and each other.
A series of harsh defeats has left scholarly, vulnerable Emma Garrett seeking to regain her belief in herself as a successful and desirable woman. Ex-cop Jimmy Falcon has lost the enthusiasm of his youth, settling for a dark view of the world and his place in it. In the process of caring for the people around them, however, Jimmy and Emma learn that the surest way to gain is, in fact, to give. Once these two lost souls come to value themselves, they’re free to experience life’s greatest blessing—sharing that gift with each other. I hope reading their story brings you the pleasure writing it has brought me. And I hope you’ll share your love of books with your friends and acquaintances, thus supporting the Get Caught Reading program. After all, U.S. president Thomas Jefferson couldn’t live without books, and neither should anyone else!
I love to hear from readers—please feel free to write to me at P.O. Box 17195, Fayetteville, NC 28314, or send e-mail to lynnkent@juno.com.
Lynnette Kent
Now That You’re Here
Lynnette Kent


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For my agent, Deidre Knight, with thanks. I hope this is only the first of many projects we’ll see through together.

CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE (#u20881a65-a0f4-5186-aebb-41098a3118ab)
CHAPTER TWO (#u2207efb5-310d-53f1-8072-1f6497c907ef)
CHAPTER THREE (#u8f4a49ae-d37e-5929-96cb-0a617a73ec9a)
CHAPTER FOUR (#ub16dca7a-e897-5913-9df6-e65a203be264)
CHAPTER FIVE (#u04619893-5b5c-5e3b-9310-aaf37123fe6b)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE
AFTER TWENTY YEARS fifteen minutes more or less didn’t matter much.
Jimmy Falcon pulled his shirtsleeve down over his watch, leaned an elbow on the bar and picked up his glass. If he had to wait for a woman, he didn’t know of a better way to pass the time than standing in his own club, sipping old whiskey while listening to hot jazz.
When he checked the time again, discovering that only fifteen minutes more had passed, he realized even waiting with jazz had its limits. Where was she? Had she decided not to show up after all?
Finally, he decided to wait outside, by the entrance to the club. Maybe she’d had trouble finding the place. He could flag her down when she drove by.
Then again, would she even recognize him, after twenty years? Would he recognize her?
The answer to that question hit him right between the eyes as he stepped through the door. In a night full of people, he couldn’t help but notice the woman on the other side of the street. She was tall, generous through the hips and long in the legs under her jeans. She could be anyone, from anywhere, but something about the set of her shoulders inside a soft pink T-shirt, the tumble of gold-red curls clipped on top of her head, created a vibration deep inside him.
Barely noticing the traffic, he got across as fast as he could and put a hand on her arm. “Emma? Emma Garrett? Why the hell are you standing here in the dark?”
As she turned toward him, her blue eyes widened, first with caution, then surprise, finally, laughter. “Jimmy! I was coming in to find you!”
Just like that, with a street full of people gaping at them, Emma Garrett took hold of him. Again.
She flung her arms around his neck, and Jimmy returned the embrace, cautiously at first, then with more enthusiasm. Twenty years since he’d last held her, but the fit felt like it was yesterday. They were nearly the same height; her full breasts pressed into his chest as she hugged him tight, then tighter still. She wore a different perfume than he remembered, but he liked it. He liked everything about having Emma Mae Garrett this close.
When he finally forced himself to ease back, Emma let him go until just their hands touched. He searched her face in the streetlight’s glare, seeing again the clear, pale skin, dusted with freckles, the deep peach of her mouth, the bright blue eyes. For a second he was seventeen again, starting the best summer of his life.
But the past was…just the past. With a wrench, Jimmy pulled his thoughts to the present. “This isn’t the safest part of town to stand around in after dark. Come inside.” Taking her hand, noticing its softness, he led Emma across the street and into The Indigo.
One of the edgier jazz bands was playing tonight, the music hard and loud. Smoke hovered in the air and he heard Emma cough as the fog caught her by the throat. The place was full, especially for a Tuesday. He threaded his way through the crowd without letting go of her hand, stopped at the bar long enough to order them both a drink, then headed for his office.
“Sorry about that.” He leaned back against the closed door. All they could hear now was the pulse of the bass and the drums. “Things get kind of loud out there.”
Smiling, Emma shook her head, and a curl of red-gold hair escaped to bounce on her neck. “It’s wonderful music.” Her English accent was as elegant as he remembered.
“You still like jazz?”
“I dropped it for a few years. Then came to my senses.”
“Nothing’s quite the same, is it?”
“Nothing.” They looked at each other for a second, while the air got tighter, harder to breathe. Jimmy thought about the beat-up truck he’d owned that summer two decades ago, about popping an Ellington tape into the player and sitting with his arm around Emma, watching the sun disappear behind the mountains. About the things they’d learned together in that truck, in the dark…
“Have a seat,” he said abruptly. Looking relieved, Emma sank into the recliner in the corner while he rounded his desk. Before he could sit down, there was a knock on the door.
“Drinks, boss.” Darren McGuire, the club’s server, set a tonic water on the table beside Emma and a whiskey at Jimmy’s right hand. “Anything else?”
Jimmy consulted Emma. “Would you like a sandwich? Nachos? The variety’s not great, but we can feed you.”
She leaned forward to pick up the tonic. “Actually, I haven’t eaten since my flight left New York at nine this morning. I’d love a bite—something simple.”
He nodded at Darren. “Ask Hank to give us the best he’s got.”
The young man raised an eyebrow. “That’s not much.” He caught sight of Jimmy’s frown. “I’m going. I’m going.”
Shaking his head, Jimmy dropped into his chair. “God save me from wisecracking waiters.” He took a drink of whiskey, just for something to do. After twenty years, after anticipating this meeting for five long days, he suddenly didn’t know how to act.
The direct approach usually worked best. “So…your e-mail was kinda mysterious. You said when you were coming here, but not why.”
After a pause, while she stared into her glass and he stared at her, Jimmy said, “Emma? Do you want some gin with the tonic? Vodka?”
She jumped a little. “Oh. No. This is fine. I’m simply trying to decide how to begin.”
“Sounds bad.”
“It is, in a way.” Her gaze came to his face. “My father had prostate cancer. He died three months ago at home in England.”
The ground dropped out from beneath Jimmy’s feet for a minute. It was always a shock when someone you knew—and liked—was gone. “That’s…I’m sorry. He was a really good man.”
“Yes.” She looked at her hands, set down the glass of tonic.
Another long silence. “Are you here because of your dad?”
“Yes. I don’t know why I’m making this so difficult.” She drew a deep breath. “Before he died, my father asked me to find you. And when I found you, he wanted me to bring you a bequest.”
“He shouldn’t have bothered.” Jimmy resisted the urge to loosen his tie, though his collar felt a little tight all at once.
“But he did.” She reached into her large leather purse and drew out a polished wooden box, four inches square, two inches deep. “The gift is inside. I don’t know what it is—there’s a seal I didn’t want to break.” She showed him the blob of gold wax over the catch on the side.
“Emma, I don’t need—”
She got to her feet and crossed to the desk, picked up his hand and placed the box on his palm. “It’s yours. He wanted you to have it.”
He felt her touch deep in his chest. “Okay, okay. We’ll see what’s inside.”
“This isn’t any of my business.” She backed toward the door. “I’ll leave you alone.”
“No way.” He reached across and caught her wrist. “We’re doing this together. Sit down.”
He waited until she took the straight-backed chair on the other side of the desk, then pulled out his pocketknife and flipped open the blade. The sharp tip slipped easily underneath the seal and pried it off in one piece.
He closed the knife and set it aside, then sat staring at the box. Walnut, he thought, inlaid with two lighter woods in an angular, mazelike pattern. “Well, here goes.” He thumbed the hook free and eased the top back on its hinges.
Clean, soft sheepskin filled the shallow cavity, cushioning a silver disk as wide as the box. He picked up the medallion for a closer look. Inlaid with gold and silver and different shades of turquoise, the piece felt heavy in his hand.
“What is it?” Emma asked softly.
Jimmy shook his head. “Hell if I know.” Fine engraving combined with the inlay to create a sunrise over mountains.
Emma stirred. “There’s something in the lid.”
Laying the disk on its nest, Jimmy pulled the folded sheet of paper out of the box’s top and spread it open. Bold handwriting in fountain-pen ink covered the page.
Jimmy,
You may remember Joseph Hobson, an elder of your tribe on the reservation in South Dakota. After a chance meeting in Africa as college students, he and I corresponded for many years; my work with the Sioux language and traditions owed much to the friendship between us. When I left the United States and returned to England the last time, he knew we would not see each other again in this life. This medallion was his parting gift to me. He did not know where or by whom it was made, only that he’d received it from his father, who got it from his grandmother.
I’ve been unable, over the years, to pursue any useful research on this amazing work of art. And now I’ve run out of time. I feel strongly that the medallion has a purpose in the lives of those who hold it, and equally strongly that I must convey the purpose to you. I would be pleased to think you and Emma worked together to discover its significance. May your effort bring you what you most desire.
Until we meet again, I remain your friend,
Aubrey Garrett
Without a word, Jimmy passed the note across the desk to Emma. She read silently, then sat for a minute with her fingertips against the letters, as if she could connect with the writer. Her lips trembled slightly, and her blue eyes were bright with tears.
His own throat tightened. “I know you miss him.”
“Oh, yes.” She pressed her lips together. “That’s why I felt compelled to deliver the gift as he asked.”
“Did you know about—” he pointed to the medallion “—this?”
Emma shook her head. “Dad didn’t mention it to me. I was studying in France during his last trip to the reservation, about six years ago. And I never noticed it when I visited. His house was always such a jumble of books and papers and artifacts…” She took a deep breath. “It’s taken me this long to get the place orderly enough to sell.”
Jimmy refolded the note and put it back in the top of the box, which he closed and latched. Then he covered Emma’s hand with his own. “I’m grateful your dad thought about me. And I’m really glad for the chance to see you again. Can we spend some time together? How long will you be in Denver?”
“I…don’t have any definite plans for the next few weeks. I’d be glad to stay for a bit and help you with the research.”
A warning bell sounded in his brain, just as a knock shook the door. “Food, boss.”
He welcomed the interruption. “Come in.”
Darren set a paper plate on the small table beside Emma’s drink. “Hope you’re not vegetarian. It’s ham and cheese.”
Her smile was a gift. “That’s perfect. Thank you.”
Backing out into the hall, Darren looked a little star-struck, the way he did when he met one of the jazz players he idolized. “Any time.” He left the room without a single smart remark.
Emma returned to the recliner and picked up half of the sandwich. “I don’t have to be back in England until just before the Michaelmas term starts. October,” she explained at his puzzled look. “And this is August. We should be able to check out a number of reliable sources and references in that length of time.” She bit into the sandwich and began to chew. Hard.
Jimmy took hold of his drink, then leaned back in his chair. “That’s not how I define seeing each other. We’ve got twenty years to catch up on. We’ll need quite a few dinners together, lunches, maybe a trip into the mountains…”
After a silent minute Emma put down her sandwich. “You do intend to discover the history of the medallion, don’t you?”
He shrugged, trying for detachment. Staying cool had always been hard with Emma around. “I don’t need to know any more than that it came from your dad.”
Despite his attempt to be gentle, her eyes flashed with indignation. “But he wanted us to find out the rest!”
“He was dying, Emma, and probably in a good deal of pain. Did you never think he might not have been…rational?”
“He was completely rational until the very end.” She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Certainly he was sound of mind when he wrote that letter.”
She’d backed him up against the wall, with words if not in fact. But Jimmy fought on. “If it didn’t matter enough for him to have done something in six years, why does it matter now?”
“What reason could there possibly be to avoid learning everything we can?” On her feet again, she came to the desk and leaned forward, her graceful, long-fingered hands pressed flat against the oak-paneled top.
“Because—” Jimmy took a couple of seconds to get his voice and his feelings under control “—researching that piece won’t involve just reading books and museum catalogs.”
“I’ve been involved in historic research professionally for fifteen years. I know what kind of investigating is required. We’ll need to talk to people, perhaps visit the reservation.”
“Exactly.” He pulled in a deep breath. “And I’m not going back. Ever.”
Of all the reactions Emma had anticipated from Jimmy Falcon, this was not one. She stared at him in confusion, until the words began to make sense in her brain. “You won’t go back to the reservation?”
“No.” He sipped his drink, avoiding her eyes.
“When were you there last?”
Under the rich golden tone of his skin, his cheeks flushed a dull red. “The day after high-school graduation.”
She needed another moment to fully understand. “You haven’t seen your family since then?”
“There wasn’t all that much family to begin with. My aunt died just a couple of years later and my cousins left the rez for I don’t know where.”
The flaw in his argument was obvious. “If no one is there that you know, then where’s the threat in going back?”
“I didn’t say there was a threat.” Now he looked directly into her face. His gaze, so warm and welcoming only a few minutes before, had cooled. “I said I won’t go back. I don’t want to go back. I left that part of my life behind when I left the rez, and that’s where I want it to stay.”
She straightened and surveyed the man across the desk. From his well-cut black hair to his gray shirt and midnight-blue tie, he was the picture of success. There seemed to be nothing left of the wild Indian youth she’d known. The picture she’d retained in her mind all these years showed him balanced barefoot on the edge of a cliff, his hair long and straight and gleaming black under the midday sun, his brown chest bare and his muscular arms widespread like the wings of a hawk. Newly emerged into manhood, his energy and courage and mystery had enthralled her completely. They’d had one summer together, the kind of romantic interlude every teenage girl dreams of.
But that summer belonged to the past, and perhaps the Jimmy Falcon she’d loved did, too. After all, twenty years apart would make strangers out of anyone. This Jimmy certainly seemed like someone she didn’t know.
And Emma was suddenly too tired to push the issue further. However they spent their time together, she might find a way to change his mind about the medallion. Or perhaps she would pursue the research by herself. If that was all she could do for her dad now, then she would.
“I didn’t come here to argue with you,” she told Jimmy. “Let me call a cab to take me to the hotel and you can get back to work.”
He locked the box and medallion in a desk drawer, then got to his feet with a kind of controlled jerk. “I’ll drive you.”
Their trip to his office through the crowd in the club had been erratic and distracting. She hadn’t noticed his gait then, but she did now. As he came around the desk, he limped. Badly.
“What happened to your leg?”
Jimmy choked out a laugh. “Don’t beat around the bush, Emma. Let’s cut to the chase.” Resting some of his weight on his hands, he leaned back against the desk. “I was a cop a few years ago, and I showed up in the wrong place at the wrong time, during a gang fight.” His tone was casual, but the disability obviously bothered him.
“That must have been very difficult to deal with.”
“It’s okay.” He shrugged. “I found something new to do.”
She tilted her head toward the door and the main room of the club. “Successfully, judging by the crowd.”
He glanced at the plate the server had left. “But not by the food. You didn’t eat more than a bite of your sandwich.”
Emma hesitated, and he nodded ruefully. “It wasn’t very good, was it?”
An apologetic smile didn’t soften the truth. “Not very.”
“Hard to ruin a ham sandwich and chips. But decent cooks won’t stay in this part of town.”
“So the music must be fantastic.”
Now he grinned, with pride. “Yeah.”
“And you have a responsibility to be here.” She turned to pick up her now practically weightless purse. “I think I should take a taxi back to the hotel.”
He shook his head. “I think not.” That seemed to settle the issue, for Jimmy, at least. “So, can we have dinner together tomorrow night? About seven?”
Her annoyance at his attitude regarding the medallion leaked away. “I’d like that.”
“Good.” Music flooded into the office as he opened the door. “After you.”
There was—always had been—an air of command about him she couldn’t ignore. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” He returned her smile with the same appreciative grin that had snared her when she was eighteen. And did so again now.
On their way through the crush of people in the main room, he stopped at the bar and exchanged words with the woman making drinks, a pretty blonde with a figure Emma envied. What she wouldn’t give to be five foot five with a waist that small!
When they stepped outside, Jimmy touched her lightly on the shoulder. “I’m parked down here.” Emma turned obediently to the left, trying to ignore how she reacted to that simple, impersonal contact.
Under a street lamp only a few yards away, he stopped beside a sleek, black Jaguar XJE. Emma paused at the front bumper. “Very nice. But…” She glanced down the street. “Don’t you worry that such an expensive car will be stolen or damaged?”
“I’ve got a loud burglar alarm, and a steering-wheel lock.” Jimmy opened the passenger door. “Besides, it’s just a car. Expensive, but easy to—”
The sound of garbage cans crashing and voices yelling interrupted him. A writhing mass of bodies tumbled out of the blackness of a nearby alley, almost under Emma’s feet. Obscenities and curses drowned all the other night noises. Something flashed in the streetlight. The blade of a knife.
Jimmy opened the car door and pushed her inside. “Lock the door. Use the phone and dial 911.”
Hands shaking, she did as he said. But being locked in the car didn’t prevent her from witnessing the brawl. Time seemed to stop, though the whole episode lasted a minute at most. The violence broke into two battles—in the nearest, a thin man in black had hold of a younger man around the knees while the other assailant tried to get a grip on the victim’s throat. Unnoticed in the fury, Jimmy stepped in and grabbed the neck of the would-be strangler’s T-shirt, pulling backward, diverting his attention from his prisoner. Freeing one leg, the youth kicked out at the face of the man in black. The blow connected and the man fell back against a wall, blood spurting from his nose.
Thanks to Jimmy’s interference, the young man also managed to escape from the hold on his throat. He swung at his attacker and fell to his knees, breathing hard, only to be hit from behind by the man he’d just kicked. Face pushed into the pavement, he flailed his arms and legs, but the weight on his back didn’t budge.
The second man turned on Jimmy just as the other fight came apart. One of that struggling pair ducked, rolled away from his assailant—the one with the knife—and came to his feet right outside Emma’s window. The entire scene froze at that instant, went completely quiet. No one moved, except for the boy lying facedown. He couldn’t see the gun now trained on everyone involved in the confrontation.
Everyone…including Jimmy.

CHAPTER TWO
JIMMY STRAIGHTENED, dropped his hands to his sides and took a few breaths to get control of his voice. “Lose the gun, Tomas. The police are on their way.”
A siren in the distance backed him up. Some of the regulars on the street had noticed the commotion and were coming to investigate. Just what they needed—more targets.
“Go to hell,” the boy snarled. “These bastards were gonna kill us.” He pointed the gun at the guy sitting on his friend’s back. “Get off him. Now.” The man hesitated, then jerked at the sound of the hammer being pulled back. “Or I’ll blow you off.”
With a final shove at his captive’s shoulders, the creep scrabbled onto the sidewalk and backed up, crabwise, against the building.
Tomas nodded his approval. “Good idea. Now you—” he turned to the man with the knife “—drop the friggin’ knife before I friggin’ shoot your hand off. Good. You okay, Harlow?”
The other boy staggered to his feet, wiping blood off his face. “I’m okay.”
Jimmy could see Emma staring out the car window behind Tomas, her eyes wide with shock and, probably, terror. He started to sweat, thinking what a bullet could do to the thin shield of glass. “Nothing’s going to happen now, Tomas. Put the weapon away.”
As Harlow limped up beside the Indian boy, blue lights flashed at the corner. “Come on, Tommy. You want to keep that piece, you’d better stash it before the cops see you carrying.” He glanced at Jimmy, his eyebrow quirked. “Mr. Falcon’s not gonna give us away, right?”
“I didn’t see a gun…unless I count to five and it’s still in his hand.”
Tomas dropped the pistol into a pocket of his camouflage jacket just as a department vehicle pulled up behind the Jag. A couple of uniforms Jimmy didn’t know got out, each with a hand on his weapon and the other hand holding his stick.
Great. This explanation would have gone down easier with somebody he’d worked beside. “Evening, Officers.”
The taller one just looked him over. “What’s going on?”
“These guys jumped us in the alley.” Tomas spoke before anybody else could. “Practically killed us with that knife there.” He kicked the weapon with his toe.
“Sure.” The cop looked back at Jimmy. “Who are you?”
“Jimmy Falcon. I own The Indigo.” He nodded toward the nightclub. “I was about to take a friend home when these guys rolled out of the alley. I stayed to keep the numbers even.”
Finally the outlaws on the ground got their share of attention. The shorter cop glanced at Harlow. “You say these three attacked you?”
“Yeah.”
“You didn’t, like, attack first?” He began to sound bored. “What were you doing in the alley, anyway?”
Both Harlow and Tomas cut their gazes Jimmy’s way. “Just hanging out,” Harlow said in his Texas-flavored accent. “That ain’t a crime.”
“Uh-huh. You buying or selling?”
“Dunno what you’re talking about.”
The shorter cop pushed at one of the thugs with the toe of his boot. “This one’s out cold.” Bending over, he patted down the body. “Don’t think he’s carrying anything besides a pack of gum.”
“Check out the rest of them,” his partner ordered.
The other two dealers gave up bags of coke and weed, and a couple of dimes of heroin. Jimmy saw Harlow swallow hard as the small plastic sacks dropped into an evidence container.
Two minutes later the Saturday-night special was out in the open again. The short cop balanced it on his palm. “Nice toy. You got a permit, son?”
Tomas told the cop what he could do with the permit.
Using a speed and expertise Jimmy remembered from his days on the force, the cops slammed Harlow and Tomas up against the side of the police cruiser, patted them down again and cuffed them.
Emma sprang out of the Jag like a lioness in the African bush. “Don’t be so rough! They’re only boys!”
Jimmy caught her arm and pulled her back. “Stay out of it, Emma. These guys know what they’re dealing with. You don’t.” Another police car pulled up, and the three pushers, who—Jimmy had reason to know—had been in and out of jail for years, got their own sets of bracelets.
Emma turned on Jimmy. “I saw them earlier tonight as I was coming to see you. They were hungry. They’re young and homeless. They need help, not more violence.”
The cops exchanged derisive grins.
“They’re drug addicts.” With a hand on each of her arms, Jimmy pulled her farther away from the scene. “The whole mess is about selling and buying drugs. Let the police sort it out.”
She struggled against his grip. “How do you know that?”
“Because they hang around here a lot. Because they hit on me and my customers…” He watched her cheeks flush. “Damn. You gave them money.”
“I told them to get something to eat!”
“We did, too,” Harlow called. “Meat loaf and potatoes and corn. Thanks, lady.” A cop shoved him into the cruiser and closed the door before he could say anything else.
Yet a third cop strolled over. “You’re Falcon?”
“Yeah. This is Emma Garrett.” He released her, reluctantly. “She called in the incident from the car.”
“What’s going to be done with those boys?” Emma wanted to know. “Where are you taking them?”
“Detention.” The officer—his name tag said Havers—made a note on his pad.
“Jail?” Her voice squeaked on the single syllable.
Jimmy put a hand on her back, trying to give comfort. “They’ll have a bed for the night, Emma. And a decent breakfast. They’ll be okay.”
She gazed at him, disbelief written in the lines between her eyebrows. “Does this happen often?”
“It’s a tough neighborhood,” Havers said. “We’re taking your word for what happened, Mr. Falcon, mostly because we ran you through the computer and found out you’re an ex-cop.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“You’ll want to be available in case we have more questions.”
Jimmy shrugged. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Havers nodded. “Thanks for the help.”
In another few minutes, the cruisers took off and the sight-seers went back to their regular business, whatever it was. Jimmy put a hand to Emma’s jaw. Under smooth skin, the muscles were tight. “Let me take you to your hotel.” With a sigh, she slipped past him into the seat, and he caught a whisper of that new scent—some kind of flower he didn’t recognize, but wanted more of. While he buckled his seat belt, her fingers stroked the curve of the dash, her skin pale against the black leather and dark wood.
He blew out a short tense breath. “Where are you staying?”
She directed him to a hotel in a better part of town, near City Park. When he pulled to a stop at the entrance, neither of them moved or spoke for a measurable time. They turned to look at each other at the same instant.
Jimmy breathed in that perfume and said the first thing that came to mind. “That was some summer, twenty years ago. Every time I think about it, I have to smile. Nothing bad about goodbye, nothing to regret. The end was there in the beginning—you left for school in England and I…got on with life.”
Emma nodded, and the corners of her mouth curved up. “It does seem strange to think that we didn’t break up or get bored. So few relationships end painlessly.” Regret claimed her face again.
“I figured you’d be married by now, with a couple of kids in boarding school.”
“Boarding school is the last place I’d send my children. If I had any.”
He reached out, stroked his knuckles down her cheek, touched by the note of sadness in her voice. The pad of his thumb lingered at the corner of her mouth, waiting to test texture and shape. A kiss was not a good idea. They hardly knew each other anymore.
But her soft lips tempted him, and he was losing the battle with good sense. If either of them even breathed…
Faster than he’d have believed possible, Emma had the door open and was standing on the sidewalk. “Good night. Be careful.”
He fumbled to get out of the car. “I’ll walk you to your door.”
“No.” She put up a hand for emphasis. “I can get to my door by myself. Thanks for the ride, Jimmy. I’ll look forward to dinner tomorrow.” In a second or two she was on the other side of the glass door and lost in the lobby’s shadows.
Jimmy dropped back into the driver’s seat, then regretted it as his hip howled in protest. A vulgar word escaped his control. That fight tonight, even as little as he’d done, had aggravated his wrecked muscles.
He drove to his place slowly, thinking. The next week would be interesting. He’d never imagined seeing Emma again, especially once her letters had stopped coming. You could track down anybody on the Internet nowadays—that was how she’d found him. But he hadn’t thought about looking for her. Their time together was in the past.
Or was it? There was still a current between them, part memory, part brand-new attraction. Jimmy hadn’t followed an impulse in years, didn’t believe in them anymore. He had his life set up the way he liked it. Why invite change?
Then he thought of Emma’s blue eyes, her easy laugh, her lush curves. He remembered how she’d challenged him, taught him, loved him that summer. And the irrepressible question occurred to him.
Why not?
TIRED AS SHE WAS, Emma spent two restless hours trying to get to sleep before finally giving in and switching on the lamp again.
Her mind seemed to bounce from one problem to the next, without finding a solution and without settling down. She thought of those boys—Harlow was the Texan, she gathered, and Tomas the Indian—spending the night in detention. Horrible possibilities assailed her; American jails had a reputation for danger, even violence, from the people in charge. The officers had come close to assaulting the boys tonight. What would happen when there were no civilian witnesses?
Forcing herself to think of something else only brought her to Jimmy. Jimmy Falcon, whom she’d expected to know as easily, as intimately, as if they’d been together yesterday.
Even after twenty years, she remembered the beginning as clearly as she remembered yesterday. She’d been visiting her dad, at work on the Sioux reservation in South Dakota, before starting her studies at Oxford in October. Taking refuge from the fierce flatlands sun, she’d opened the door to a reservation trading post and been nearly knocked over by a young man—Jimmy—trying to sneak two bottles of beer without paying for them. The owner of the shop had grabbed him and threatened to call the police, but let him go when Emma laid down the cash.
Outside, Jimmy handed over one of the bottles. “You paid for it,” he said with that completely engaging grin. “Let’s go for a ride.” He gestured at his beat-up truck.
They ran wild together that summer, while her dad spent meticulous hours recording stories and language. Jimmy took her to the mountains, to the rodeo, to the Badlands of South Dakota. More often than not, Emma paid for the truck’s gas, the food, the tickets. If Jimmy showed up with money, she learned not to ask how he got it. Gambling was an answer she accepted, but stealing made her nervous. As long as she didn’t know which route to wealth he’d taken, she could simply share and enjoy.
He’d made love to her for the first time in the mountains at midnight. She relived the moment now—cold air and the heat of his body against hers, the taste of whiskey on his mouth, the clean scent of his skin, the rasp of his tongue, the only sounds that of their heavy breathing, and of her own pounding heart.
Oh, God. Emma left the bed and opened the mini-fridge, pulled out a can of ginger ale and pressed it against her cheeks, her forehead, her breastbone. This was the reason she’d kept the memory of Jimmy at the back of her mind all these years. It was almost too vivid to endure.
The man’s magnetism had only intensified with time. He would have kissed her tonight. With the smallest movement, she could have joined her lips to his. A kiss for old times’ sake—what would be the harm?
Turning off the lamp, she opened the curtains and stared into the city street—quieter here than outside The Indigo, nearly empty. No homeless boys to foolishly worry about.
Kissing Jimmy would be foolish, as well. They weren’t so young now, so eager for experience, so confident of the future ahead of them. A relationship of any depth would complicate their lives, perhaps beyond possibility of resolution.
And Emma had too many complications already. Making a life without her dad’s wry, loving support would be hard enough. The loss of one’s employment ranked very high on the list of significant life changes, and within the last six months she’d lost not just a teaching position, but her entire career as a research historian. She’d lost a fiancé too, though she hardly regretted the fact—Eric Jeffries had simply used their relationship to further his own interests. Still, the knowledge that he hadn’t really loved her hurt. As did her inner recording of things he’d said…
The bedside clock relentlessly counted the hours as she lay there, trying to sleep. She saw four-thirty, then five…and finally fell into an exhausted slumber just as the sun was coming up.
ON WEDNESDAY Jimmy stepped into the club and took off his sunglasses, relieved to be in the air-conditioned shadows after Denver’s summertime heat.
“Tiffany? Tiff?”
His bartender came out of the kitchen. “Hey, Jimmy.”
He gave her a grin. “Hey, beautiful. I hope you ordered me whatever you’re having. It smells great, and I haven’t seen food yet this morning.”
“It’s two o’clock, boss. That makes this the afternoon.” She winked at him. “But listen. I’ve got good news and bad news.”
“Hit me.” He eased his sound hip onto a bar stool.
“The good news is that I ordered Chinese and there’s enough for an army.”
“And?”
“The bad news is I ordered in lunch because Hank quit.” Hank Rawlins was the only cook he’d hired in the past year who’d stayed more than a couple of weeks.
Jimmy swore. “Why?”
“Something about a fight in the alley last night. He said he didn’t get paid enough to risk his life.”
“Great. Fantastic.” Jimmy tossed his sunglasses onto the bar. “What a way to start the day.” Thanks to Harlow and company, The Indigo was now missing a cook. And while the food wasn’t the draw, people usually liked something to eat while they drank. “Did you call the agency, see if they had any temps?”
“I did. And they didn’t. I also called to put an ad in the paper. But that’ll take a few days to get results. Meanwhile…”
“Meanwhile, dammit, I do the honors.” Eyes closed, he waited out the urge to throw something. He opened them again on a deep breath. “Those are the breaks, right?”
Tiffany shook her head, her smile sympathetic. “I can help you get ready.”
Jimmy put a hand on her shoulder. “That’s okay. You’ve got all you can handle out here. I think I can manage cutting up lettuce and tomatoes. I’ve got to make a call first, then I’ll get started.”
In the office, he pulled out the phone book and found the number for Emma’s hotel. With his finger on the button, though, he stopped and put the handset down. Unlocking the desk drawer, he reached in, then sat looking at the walnut box resting on his palms.
Without lifting the lid, he could visualize the medallion inside. Most likely Navajo or Hopi or Zuni work, the Southwestern tribes were known for their expertise with metals and stone. The route the piece had traveled from Arizona to South Dakota might be interesting to follow. If you cared about things like that.
Jimmy didn’t. He’d decided a long time ago that his Indian background created more trouble than it was worth. His ambition from the age of eight had been to get off the reservation and forget he’d ever been there. For the most part, he’d succeeded.
Until now. Emma had brought the reservation back into his life. Seeing her, getting at all close to her, would most likely involve him in the search for the background on the medallion.
But not seeing her again…he didn’t like that option, either. She wasn’t the girl he’d known that long-ago summer—redheaded, reckless and sassy, a strange combination of English manners and outright hell-raising. They’d caused some trouble and some talk when they were together, and why her dad hadn’t horsewhipped him Jimmy never knew. Maybe Aubrey Garrett just never noticed what had gone on under his nose.
Now there were shadows in Emma’s sweet blue eyes, pain in the set of her mouth. She’d just lost her dad, that was part of it. But there was something else, and he wanted to know what. He wanted to know about where she’d been these twenty years, and who’d been with her. There had been other women in his life, off and on. Had Emma loved other men? Had she been…was she married?
Jimmy swore and put the walnut box back in the drawer. It was a little late to be jealous. Or whatever the hell this gnawing in his gut was called.
The fact remained that he couldn’t see her tonight for dinner. He tracked down the number for the hotel and dialed, then asked for her room and waited to be connected, wishing that Hank had quit just a week later. Or a week ago.
“Hullo?” She sounded barely awake.
“Hey, Emma. Still in bed?” Bad question, raising possibilities he shouldn’t consider.
“Um…yes, actually.” Jimmy could hear her waking up. “Jet lag, I suppose. How are you?”
“Okay. But I’m going to have to break our dinner date.”
There was a pause. “Well, that’s all right.” Her tone had cooled down considerably.
“No, it’s not. But my cook quit. I can’t get hold of a temporary replacement this quick, and so I’m going to end up in the kitchen tonight.”
“That’s really too bad.” Emma thought she heard exasperation in his voice, along with regret, which lightened her plummeting spirits considerably. “I was looking forward to a chance to talk.”
“Me, too. I can’t even promise tomorrow night, since I don’t know when I’ll be able to get somebody in the kitchen.”
In the silence, she thought she heard drums. “Is that the band? Are they rehearsing?”
The sound stopped as he chuckled. “No, it’s just me. I have a bad habit of beating on any flat surface nearby. Listen, how about lunch tomorrow, before I go to work?”
“That sounds good.” A long time to wait, though. “I’ll see you then.”
“You bet.”
After they’d hung up, Emma gazed around the hotel room, wondering what she would do for the rest of the day. She did not want to play tourist—at least, not without Jimmy as the tour guide. For the first time in twenty years, she had no reading to do, no paper to write or examinations to grade. Just…time. Empty time.
Finally she connected her laptop computer to the Internet port provided by the hotel and signed on to check her e-mail—a couple of notes from friends, commiserating with her on the loss of her teaching fellowship, then the usual and irritating advertisements for sound equipment, airplane-fare discounts and instant riches. She replied to the notes and started to sign off, then reconsidered.
Her first search for Native American artifacts turned up thousands of sites. She went through them slowly, gathering scraps of information here and there. When she narrowed the search to metalwork, the Southwestern focus of that particular art became apparent. So Jimmy’s medallion wouldn’t have been made near the Sioux reservation. That argued for trade between tribes or, possibly, commerce between Southwestern tribes and whites, who then traded again with the groups on the Plains.
By dark she had quite a stack of note cards, her preferred method of keeping important information, and a few hints as to the meaning of the sun-over-mountains design. She also had a list of galleries and museums in Colorado, New Mexico and Arizona specializing in Native American metalwork. With a car, she could reach most of them in a day’s drive.
Stretching out her stiff neck muscles, Emma acknowledged that she would much prefer a day’s drive with Jimmy to one without him. If she didn’t ask him to go back to South Dakota, but only to Santa Fe, or even across Denver, would he cooperate? Was it just the reservation, or was Jimmy avoiding a more fundamental issue?
And what right did she have to ask? Or to push him into an enterprise he had already refused? After twenty years, she had no claim on Jimmy Falcon other than the fact that he had been her first lover and she, his. Not much of an obligation, especially since Jimmy had probably made love to any number of beautiful women since. His charm and magnetism guaranteed female attention.
But then again, her dad had asked them to trace the medallion. He felt “strongly,” the note said, that Jimmy should have this particular piece. Aubrey Garrett had gotten a bit, well, mystic, as he grew older. He’d studied the Native American legends and myths with great intensity.
There would be a reason her dad wanted Jimmy to know the history of the disk. And a reason he’d insisted that she deliver the box herself. Don’t mail it or ship it, he’d instructed. Take it to him yourself.
Perhaps he suspected Jimmy would resist the true message behind the medallion. And perhaps he counted on her to overcome that resistance. Her parents had enjoyed a long-standing joke comparing Emma’s tendency to take charge of a situation with the heroine of Jane Austen’s novel Emma, a young woman who considered herself an expert in the conduct of other people’s business.
Thinking about the twinkle in her father’s eye as he teased her, Emma smiled. Yes, Aubrey might well have been counting on her to see that Jimmy pursued this particular piece of business. She would hate to let him down.
An hour later, she once again stepped out of a cab across the street from The Indigo. She wouldn’t press too hard tonight, when Jimmy was overworked and understaffed. But the music called to her. And if they happened to talk, and she happened to mention the medallion, what could it hurt?
BY 10:00 P.M., Jimmy wished he could close the club for the night. He was sick of lettuce, pickles, tomatoes and nacho cheese. Or maybe he should just close the kitchen down. People who really liked jazz didn’t care about the food.
Darren came in with a tray full of paper plates and crumpled napkins. “She’s back.” He dumped the tray in the garbage can beside the back door.
Jimmy leaned back against the counter. His hip was on fire. “Who?”
“The lovely lady from last night. Tall, red hair…” A certain appreciative light in Darren’s eyes said he was ready to elaborate on the description.
“Yeah, that’s Emma. Did she ask to see me?” The server shook his head. “She asked for a table and a drink—a Pimm’s Cup, if you can believe it. She had to tell Tiffany how to make it—tall gin and lemonade, in case you’re interested. Now she’s just listening to the band.”
“Great.”
Knowing she was out front destroyed what was left of Jimmy’s patience with food. He cleaned up fast, before Darren could bring in another order. Then he straightened his tie, pulled down his cuffs, locked the back door and went out to see Emma.
She looked up in surprise as he dropped into the chair at her table. “Jimmy! I didn’t want to bother you while you were working.”
“I just hung a Closed sign on the kitchen. You gave me the excuse I needed.” Darren set a whiskey at his elbow and he nodded his thanks. “What brings you down tonight?”
“I was in the mood for jazz. Maybe not acid fusion,” she said as the band went for a far-out chord progression, “but the silence in my room was deadly.”
“TV?”
“All the police and attorney programs are reruns.” She smiled at him, and his pulse jumped. “I thought live music would be more fun.”
They listened for a couple of hours, talking during the quiet spots, trading glances at high points in the music…and low ones. During the last break, three different customers stopped to harass Jimmy about closing the kitchen.
“You’d think the food actually tasted good,” he said after the last couple left. “The bread was fresh tonight, anyway. That might have impressed them.”
“Fresh is always a good start.” Emma’s eyes laughed at him over the rim of her glass.
He enjoyed her good mood, maybe a little too much. “What do you know about cooking, Professor?”
“Quite a lot, actually. I’ve taken classes for years.”
“No kidding? I’m glad you didn’t take more than a bite of that sandwich last night, then. I didn’t know I was feeding an expert.”
Her smile was preoccupied. “You know, Jimmy…”
He recognized that look. Emma’s troublemaking face hadn’t changed in twenty years. “What?”
“I could cook for you.”
“That’d be great some night.” He deliberately misunderstood.
She didn’t let him get away with it. “No, I mean here. At the club. I could be The Indigo’s cook.”
“But…” Jimmy shook his head, trying to get his bearings. “Emma, I can’t hire you, especially not as a cook.”
“Why not? I can do the work, I know I can.”
“This isn’t the kind of place you ought to be working at all. You could get a teaching job in any school in the state.”
“But I’m not going to get a teaching position. I…I’ve taken some time off.”
“A…what do they call it? A sabbatical?”
Her eyes avoided his face. “More or less.”
“Then you really don’t want to tie yourself down to a job like this. Anyway, I can’t see me being your boss.”
She folded her arms across her chest, which meant she was about to get stubborn. “I don’t understand.”
“We’re friends.” More than friends, for one summer. “That complicates the situation when you’re working together.”
“You aren’t friends with your other employees?”
His face heated under her accusing stare. “Sure. Except when the club closes, they go their ways and I go mine.”
Emma hesitated a few seconds, then cleared her throat. “We can do the same.”
She watched as Jimmy’s jaw dropped. “You mean—”
“I think that will work quite nicely, for us to see each other only at the club, as employee and employer.” The whole idea was preposterous, insane…and yet felt exactly right. As if she’d been brought to Jimmy’s club at this very moment for a purpose she wasn’t sure she recognized.
All she had to do was convince Jimmy. “You do need a cook, don’t you?”
“I thought so. Now I’m not sure.”
“Good food would bring more customers in.”
He shook his head. “The money’s in the liquor.”
“But food persuades them to stay longer and buy more drinks.” She lifted her chin, daring him to contradict her. Silently praying he would allow her this chance.
Finally he shrugged and sent her one of his sexy grins. “We can give it a shot, I guess. I was planning to offer seven bucks an hour for six nights a week, five to two.”
She fixed him with that look. “Fifteen.”
Jimmy choked. “What’s your experience working a restaurant?”
“What other choice do you have?”
“Jeez.” He rolled his eyes. “Nine.”
“Ten.”
“Damn. Ten.”
She smiled in relief. “That’s good, then. You won’t be sorry.”
“I could never be sorry to see you again.” Jimmy walked her to the front door and stood with her while she waited for a cab. “If you change your mind…”
“I won’t.” No uncertainty allowed. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning to make some calls about provisions.”
He put his hand on her arm. “What about lunch?”
Emma hated to give up the chance for a private encounter with this stunning man. But in the long term, resisting might prove a better plan. “I’ll make lunch here—give you a sample of what I can do.”
He tightened his grip, then stepped back quickly just as the cab drew up to the curb. Opening the door, he leaned in as she settled on the seat.
“This is crazy, you know. Not what I planned at all.”
She took a risk and ran her fingertips lightly along the smooth line of his jaw. “Everything will work out, Jimmy. I’m sure of it.”
With a smile, he shut the door. Emma turned to the window and saw him still standing on the pavement, watching the cab out of sight.
Back in her hotel room, combing out her hair, she acknowledged her own qualms. “Everything will work out,” she assured herself. “I may have totally ruined the rest of my life. But surely I can manage to do this one thing right!”

CHAPTER THREE
HARLOW STAYED in the shadows at the street end of the alley, dragging on a cigarette as he watched Falcon put the English lady into a cab.
Ryan came up from behind, with Tommy following. “Hey, Harl—”
“Shut up.” Harlow jerked a nod toward the street. “Falcon’s still out there.”
“Okay, okay.” They froze in place until the door to the club opened and closed Falcon inside.
“Nice scenery,” Ry commented. His voice sounded easy and light, the way it did after a rush. “I like my women on the big side.”
“I like ’em big where it counts.” Tomas cupped his hands in front of his chest. “Ya know?”
Ryan laughed. Harlow dropped his cigarette butt to the pavement and ground it out with the toe of his shoe. “Think with your brains for a change, Tommy. The lady could be useful.”
“Women are built useful.” This gesture was graphic and dirty.
“I was listening to what they said.” Harlow ignored his friends’ cackles. “She’s cooking for the club.”
“So?” Ryan yawned. “’Bout nap time, ain’t it?”
“So…she’s not likely to be a shithead like the last guy. Or like Falcon. Bet we can get some food off her.”
“Hey, man, I’m all for free food.” Tomas shook his head. “But food from this place is hard to swallow. My ma cooked better drunk.” He scratched his head. “’Course, I don’t think I ever knew Ma when she was sober.”
“Long as we keep out of Falcon’s way, we could be in fat city.”
“Sounds good to me.” Ry rubbed a hand over his chest. “I get tired of puttin’ holes in my belt. What’s next? You gonna get us a house, too? We each get our own john, right?”
“You want a john?” Tomas staggered back in fake surprise. “You freaking ‘selling’ it now, dude?”
“Shut up.” Harlow started up the sidewalk. That was one thing they’d managed to stay away from so far. They stole, sure, when they had to. They worked a little, when they could find a job. But they hadn’t gotten into the sex business and they didn’t deal drugs. He didn’t have much pride left. But he did have some.
“If you can’t say something nice,” Ryan drawled beside him, “don’t say nothing at all.” He yawned again. “Man, I gotta crash. Think T-Bone is home? His squat’s pretty empty most afternoons.”
“We’ll check it out.” Harlow could feel the need waking up in his belly, in his brain. He’d gotten Ry taken care of. If he could stash him somewhere safe, he’d be able to take care of himself.
A couple more blocks…a hundred more yards…just two flights of stairs. Funny, how the sickness got so much stronger, so much faster, these days.
He pounded on T-Bone’s door as Ry all but fell asleep against the wall. The door swung back. “What the…? Oh, it’s you.” The man with shoulders as straight as the bone of the steak he was named for ground the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Whaddaya want?”
“Can Ry crash for a while? I’m going out.”
“Me, too.” Tomas wiped his nose on his sleeve.
T-bone glanced over his shoulder into the bare room. “Yeah, sure. Whatever.” He turned, stumbled through an inner doorway and closed the panel behind him.
Harlow shoved Ryan and Tomas inside. “Get some sleep. And maybe tomorrow night we’ll get a decent dinner.” Before they could think of a word together between them, he shut himself out in the hall.
Claws raked at the inside of his head, and his stomach twisted as he stumbled down the steps. The closest supply wasn’t the safest. But he didn’t think he could make it farther. Sometimes, second best had to do.
I know a hell of a lot about second best, he thought as he tracked down the dealer, made the buy and ran for cover.
Big brother Mark had always been a tough act to follow. Captain of the Little League team, the Pop Warner team, the Y soccer team. Straight A’s in every grade. Special awards in math and science. And that was all before high school.
Then the real stuff started happening. Scholarships and special sports camps and more math awards. Honor Society prez, top of the senior class. Headed for the Air Force Academy.
Until shithead little brother screws up. Big time. One minute, Mark’s standing there yelling at him. The next, a car speeds by and big brother’s flat on his back with blood everywhere.
Crouched behind a Dumpster at the back of a liquor store, Harlow tightened the band around his bicep, pumped his fist, took the syringe from between his teeth. Funny thing was, Mark had even more influence over his brother’s life after he was dead. We’re number two, whether we try harder or not.
But just a minute later, when he loosened the band on his arm and felt the power surge through his blood, being number two didn’t matter anymore.
LUNCH in the club’s kitchen, with Tiffany at the table and Emma cooking, was not Jimmy’s number-one choice for their first date in twenty years.
But he couldn’t deny that she knew her way around a kitchen. He watched as she sliced tomatoes, lettuce and onions, leaving them in neat stacks, instead of strewn across the table, which was the style he was used to. She skimmed the top off melted butter and then basted the rolls before piling on thin slices of ham and cheese, vegetables and a special sauce she threw together in about ten seconds flat.
The result was magic. “What’d you do to make ham and cheese taste like this?”
“Even the chips are different. Better,” Tiffany added.
Emma smiled. “The right mustard, a few spices…oh, and bat’s eyes. The bat’s eyes are crucial.”
Tiffany’s face went white. She lifted a corner of the roll and stared suspiciously at the inside of her sandwich. “What are those little round brown things?”
Jimmy laughed—for what seemed like the first time in years. Emma put a hand on the bartender’s shoulder. “Capers, Tiffany. The seeds of a pepper plant. I promise, no animal eyes of any kind.”
“Oh.” Tiffany sighed with relief, then gave Jimmy a dirty look because he was still chuckling. “How do I know what strange stuff foreigners put in their food? Far as I’m concerned, meat loaf with peppers in it is a gourmet dish.” She got to her feet and walked stiffly to the door into the club. “Thanks for the lunch, Emma. I’d better get back to work.”
Jimmy held up a hand. “Hey, Tiff, your limp beats mine today. What you’d do this time?”
She grinned. “In-line skating. There was this bump in the asphalt…”
He nodded. “I get the picture. Take it easy.”
“Sure, boss.”
Emma stacked the paper plates and took them to the trash. “She’s very easy to like.”
“Tiffany’s almost as big a draw as the music. Half the customers come in just to flirt with the bartender.”
As for himself, Jimmy enjoyed watching Emma move around the kitchen. The apron she’d tied on over her yellow dress did nothing to conceal her full breasts and shapely hips and legs. A breeze coming through the screen on the back door stirred the small curls at her temples and on the nape of her neck, made him think of how smooth her skin was in those places. And in others…
In just a minute or so, the kitchen looked spotless, which was as novel a concept for this room as decent food. Jimmy tamed his thoughts into innocuous words. “You really are good at this cooking stuff. I wouldn’t have guessed that twenty years ago.”
“I’ve learned a lot in twenty years.” She folded the dish towel and sat in the chair across from him, her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands. Her fingers, he noticed, were bare.
“Who do you cook for?” Might as well make sure of his assumptions, not that he planned to take advantage of Emma any more than he already had by giving her a job.
“Friends, myself. Dad, when I could.”
“No husband?”
She shook her head. “No husband. I was engaged, but we…broke it off.” After a second her gaze met his. “No wife?”
Jimmy shook his head. “Not even an engagement. And no good explanation, either.”
“You don’t need to make one.” She took a deep breath. “Listen, Jimmy, I wondered, have you thought any more about the medallion?”
The question hit from out of the blue, and he didn’t have a ready answer, except the truth. “It’s a beautiful piece and I’m very honored that your dad wanted me to have it.”
When she hesitated, he answered her next question before she asked. “But no, Emma, I don’t want to trace the history. I told you—it doesn’t matter.”
“I’ve done some research on the Internet—we wouldn’t necessarily need to visit the reservation. There are galleries and museums in the Southwest—”
“Which is where the metalwork probably came from. I know. I’m still not interested.”
Her folded hands dropped to the table with a thump. “Why?”
He would have liked to avoid this confrontation, but couldn’t. “Look. There was a man, an Indian, who made a big point of his heritage, his cultural pride. He knew the legends and the language of his tribe. He could trace his people back for a hundred years and more. He talked about forcing the whites to acknowledge Indian rights, to make reparations for the land they’d stolen. He wanted to bring the Indian race back to its rightful place of power, on the same level with whites.”
Emma nodded without speaking. Her gaze encouraged him to finish.
“This man lived on land his family had claimed for generations. One day, a car pulls up in front of his house—a house hung with signs and symbols of Indian power. An Oklahoma oilman gets out, nice guy, good suit, and offers the Indian an indecent amount of money for that land.”
“He took the money?”
“Of course not. It was Indian land. So the white men came back one night and caught him out at the barn, then beat him up until he agreed to sell.”
“I know these evil things happened. But that doesn’t explain—”
He held up a hand. “The man was my grandfather. My mother was his youngest daughter. They moved to the reservation after that, where he drank himself to death. My dad did the same, a little while after he told me the story. I was eight years old.”
“Jimmy—”
“I figured out right then and there that being an Indian was an accident of birth. A correctable birth defect, even. I found the cure. I walked away from that history and I don’t look back. For any reason.”
Emma stared at him from across the table with her twined fingers pressed tight against her lips. The hurt in her eyes said she’d taken the story into herself.
Shaking his head, Jimmy lurched to his feet. “Don’t be so sad, Emma. All of this was a long time ago, and doesn’t matter anymore. That’s the point.”
He would have liked to comfort her. But that would mean controlling the contempt for his grandfather’s weakness that roiled in his belly—not something he could handle in a minute or two. Without another word, he abandoned the kitchen, leaving Emma by herself.
ON HER THIRD AFTERNOON at work, Emma fortified herself with a deep breath, then left the kitchen and headed for Jimmy’s office. She peeked in. “Do you have a moment?”
He looked up from his account book with that heart-stealing grin. “For you, always. What’s up?”
They’d overcome their differences over the medallion by simply avoiding the subject entirely. Jimmy spoke with her, laughed with her—but not about anything that mattered. He didn’t get to the club until midafternoon, when she was already deep into prep work. Once the club opened, Emma was too busy to do much more than breathe, and too exhausted afterward to argue when he paid for the cab to take her home. Their situation bore little resemblance to the easy enjoyable reunion she’d anticipated.
But then, nothing about Jimmy seemed to be as easy as it had been twenty years ago. He wore armor now, invisible but quite impenetrable. By unspoken consent they’d ignored the revelation he’d made of the tragedy in his past. A tragedy, as far as Emma was concerned, still active in his present.
But she knew better than to broach the subject again so soon. This was a different mission. “Have you ever considered a more…um…adventurous menu?”
His reaction was not the encouragement she expected. The engaging grin faded, and his straight eyebrows drew together. “I think I told you, the food isn’t the draw.”
“You also told me the guests are enjoying their meals now. Why not expand a little?”
“This isn’t that kind of place.”
“It could be.” They both watched his long fingers rotate a pencil between point and eraser.
When he looked up, his gaze wasn’t angry, just wary. “Why change what works?”
“Why do something halfway?”
He gave a choked laugh. “Did I hire you to argue with me?”
Emma shrugged. “You hired me with the understanding that I would do my best. I’m telling you I can do better than ham-and-cheese sandwiches and dill pickles. The music deserves more than that.”
Jimmy shook his head. “Jazz is not polite music. It’s down and dirty, gut-wrenching. It doesn’t need polite food.”
“Jazz is also elegant and sophisticated and profound. We could provide that kind of food.”
“Your third day at work and you’re already rocking the boat?” He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes for a second. “What do you want to do?”
She sat in the chair across the desk. “A salad or two, I thought. And a featured entrée—an actual dinner on an actual crockery plate.”
He rocked his chair back, putting more distance between them. “We don’t have plates. Or forks or spoons or knives.”
“I can solve that problem with one telephone call.”
He lifted a sardonic eyebrow. “You’ll blow my profit, buying dishes. The margin’s not all that great to begin with.”
“Of course.” She lifted her own eyebrow and regarded him skeptically. “What kind of car is it you drive? Some sort of animal…Pinto..? Bronco..? Cougar?”
“Might be worth a try, boss.” Tiffany came in to stand at her shoulder. “Draw some folks in who stayed away because of the food.”
After staring at them a few moments, his face unreadable, Jimmy shook his head. “Emma, I’m sorry. I just don’t want to get into that kind of trade. Thanks for the effort, but no thanks.”
She drew a deep breath. “Jimmy—”
He held up a hand. “I never argue with a beautiful woman. And especially not with two beautiful women. Take away the distractions so I can get back to my numbers here, okay?”
With a sigh of surrender, she made her escape, Tiffany following close behind.
“That went well.” Emma sank into the chair at the kitchen table. “I’d say we left him at the point of conceding.”
Tiffany gazed at her with a frown. After a moment, her face cleared. “Oh, I get it. You’re joking again.”
Emma propped her chin in her hand. “Yes. I’m joking.” With the thumb of her free hand, she stroked the grain of the worn worktable. “Who’d have thought he would be so stubborn?”
“He’s a man, isn’t he? They’re all like that. They want their own way.”
“You sound as if you’ve had plenty of experience.” Emma pushed her own losing encounters with the male drive for control to the back of her mind.
“Yeah, well, my Brad pretty much says what goes.” The bartender put up a hand to massage her shoulder, wincing a little. “He’s six-four and two-fifty, so most people don’t argue.”
“What’s wrong with your shoulder?”
Tiffany dropped her hand. “Brad and me were fooling around last night—play fighting, you know. I hit a chair leg and got a bruise. That’s all.” She stepped through the doorway into the club. “See you later.”
Could she really be that clumsy? Or…Emma followed her into the dark. This was meddling—again—but she had to ask. “Tiffany, does Brad hit you?”
Wiping down the bar, the other woman shrugged. “He gets mad sometimes. And he forgets how strong he is. Nothing major.”
“How long have you two been together?”
“About three years.”
“But you aren’t married?”
Tiffany laughed. “I was already married once. To a real loser. I don’t plan to be trapped like that again.”
That should have been reassuring. Wanting to be convinced, Emma started back to the kitchen. At the doorway, she turned once more. “You probably have lots of friends and family already. But if you ever need help, please feel free to call me.”
“Thanks.” Intent on polishing a spotted glass, Tiffany didn’t look over again.
Alone in the kitchen, Emma tried to put the matter out of her mind, without success. Tiffany probably didn’t weigh much more than nine stone—one hundred twenty pounds or so—and she was half a foot shorter than Emma’s five-ten. Why would such a big man even think about wrestling—“play fighting”—with someone so much smaller?
Sighing, she focused her attention on the food yet again—sweet, ripe tomatoes and crisp lettuce, fragrant onions. Block cheese didn’t cost much more than fabricated cheese sauce for the nachos, especially when grated by hand, and tasted better. There was such peace in preparing food, a sort of rhythm…
Outside in the alley, glass hit concrete with an unmistakable shatter. Someone cursed, loudly and fluently.
Emma went to the screen door and peered out.
A boy stood just across the narrow lane, with a pile of rubbish at his feet, evidently fallen through the ripped bottom of the white plastic sack he held.
Harlow, the homeless boy she’d given money to her first night in Denver. The one Jimmy had rescued in the fight.
As Emma stepped outside, he looked over and grinned. “I guess I got greedy. Tried to carry too much.”
Emma crossed her arms. “What in the world were you trying to do?”
“Just looking for some lunch.” He started backing away. “Sorry if I bothered you.”
“Lunch? In the rubbish bins?” She spared a glance for the mess at his feet. “You were going to eat that?”
His shoulders lifted in a shrug, and his face flushed. Emma watched him a moment, then ducked back into the kitchen for another sack and a dustpan. “Clean that up and put it back where you got it. Then come inside.”
“That’s nice ’n all, lady, but…”
“But?”
“Well, this part of town is where I hang out most of the time, and I’ve tangled with Mr. Falcon before. He’s not big on handouts.”
Jimmy had warned her about this boy and his friends. They were drug addicts, he’d said. Best left alone.
But Jimmy wouldn’t expect her to ignore a hungry boy. “I’ll pay for the sandwich, if that will make you—and Mr. Falcon—feel better. You’ve got five minutes.”
Just as she set a full plate on the table, he tapped at the door. “Are you sure, lady? I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble.”
For an answer, Emma opened the screen and waved him inside. “Wash your hands and then sit down. And my name is Emma. Emma Garrett.”
He grinned again, and she blinked against the shine of it. “Pleased to meet you, Emma Garrett. I really appreciate the lunch.”
And he did—he ate every crumb in silent pleasure and asked for a refill on the glass of milk. Draining the last drop, he sat back with a sigh. “I won’t be hungry again anytime soon. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” She’d worked while he ate to give him privacy, but now she leaned back against the counter, watching him as she dried her hands. “Isn’t there somewhere you call home where you can get a meal?”
“Not this side of Amarillo. I’ve been on my own for a couple of years now.” He stood and picked up his paper plate and cup. “All right if I put these in the can over there?”
“Yes.” She waited until he closed the lid. “You don’t have a job?”
“Not steady work, no.” He glanced at the table. “I got a drop of mustard on your table. Let me wipe it up.”
Emma handed him the sponge. “Do you go to school?”
“Not since Amarillo.” A sheaf of dark blond hair fell over his eyes as he bent to his task. He was too thin and not very clean. Except for his hands now. Beautiful hands.
With a glance at the door into the club, he placed the sponge in the sink and stepped back. “I’d better get lost. Mr. Falcon’s car is out front. He wouldn’t like finding me in here.” At the screen door he paused. “Thanks again, Emma.”
“You’re welcome, Harlow.” She thought of urging him to come back. But he seemed convinced that Jimmy would disapprove. Until she had that situation figured out, she wouldn’t press. “Take care.”
With a quick nod, he slipped out the door. Emma looked outside an instant later to see which way he went. But the alley was empty. Harlow had disappeared into thin air.
WHEN EMMA CAME OUT of the kitchen at about six o’clock, Tiffany was in the storeroom, Jimmy had disappeared behind the closed door of his office, and Darren was sweeping the main room, with a book propped between his hands on the broom handle.
Smiling, Emma sat on a bar stool. “I hope you’re getting a lot of reading done, because you’re missing quite a bit of the stuff under the tables.”
Jerked out of his concentration, he looked at the floor around him. “I should know better.” He sighed, slapping the book onto a tabletop. “I guess I’ll just pull another allnighter after work.” He ran a hand through his curly brown hair, then gripped the broom handle with grim determination.
The next question came automatically, after twenty years in academic life. “What’s the assignment?”
Darren bent to brush napkins and potato chips out from under a chair. “I’ve got a paper to write for my history class. I have to get this primary-source reading done before I can even start thinking about what I want to say.”
“When is the paper due?”
“Tomorrow by three.”
“Darren! And you’re just starting this afternoon?”
“Well, I had a music-theory final this morning. I’ve been studying for that all week.” Darren’s passion for music—his dedication to the band he’d organized and played with—was the reason he worked at The Indigo. More than once he’d confided to Emma his dreams of performing and composing jazz.
“Are you a fast writer?”
“No. I hate it. But I have to take this history course to meet graduation requirements.”
“How much do you have left to read?”
“Four stupid pages.”
“Here.” She crossed the room and held out her hand. “I’ll sweep. You read.”
“Nah, that’s okay.” He kept hold of the handle.
“Come on, Darren. I can sweep for you. I can’t write your paper.”
He grinned, an endearing, mischief-filled expression. “You sure? I hear you’re an expert.”
“Idiot.”
Darren released the broom this time and Emma took over the job. Judging by the condition under some of the tables along the far wall, the server had been doing a good deal of double-duty work while sweeping up.
She was bending to whisk the last of the refuse into the dustpan when someone behind her cleared his throat. Upside down, Emma looked awkwardly around her jeans-clad legs and saw Jimmy’s black shoes, the soft gray of his cuffed trousers.
Damn and blast.
She finished the task and straightened up. “Hello there.”
Her face felt hot, wisps of hair stuck to her forehead and cheeks. She almost certainly had a swipe of dust over her nose, while Jimmy looked cool and controlled in a black shirt and silver tie. One of them had grown up quite nicely. The other had remained an adolescent mess.
His eyebrows were drawn together, but his eyes held amusement. “I could swear I hired somebody else to do that.”
“A bit of sweeping is good for the soul now and again.”
“Where’s Darren?”
“Um…on break.”
“On break.” Jimmy thought that over. “He comes in at six. He needs a break before seven?”
“He needed a chance to finish up some reading for school. I’m ready for the evening—I thought I could help him out.”
“Emma, you can’t do everyone’s work around here.”
“Oh, I know. I haven’t the faintest clue about mixing drinks.” She offered him a cheeky grin. “Tiffany’s job is safe.”
He shook his head, chuckling. “I don’t think I knew what I was getting into when I hired you to work here.” With a smile, he headed back to his office.
Emma watched almost greedily. Even considering the limp that marred his once-athletic gait, he was a wondrously attractive man.
“Neither did I, Jimmy,” she murmured. “Neither did I.”
“NO SHIT, she gave you lunch?” Tommy pounded the heel of his palm against his forehead. “Why didn’t I go?”
Stomach still full, Harlow grinned. “You’re freakin’ stupid, maybe?”
“Maybe.” Tommy didn’t mind knowing he was as dumb as a brick. He was big enough not to need brains. “Man! Ham and cheese.”
“And milk.”
“Chocolate milk?” Ryan stood beside Harlow, shivering in the summer heat.
“Not chocolate. Just cold. In a glass.” Harlow hadn’t had milk in a glass since he’d left home. Or a decent bed. Or a good pair of shoes.
But if he was gonna feel invisible, if people were gonna look at him like he’d just murdered somebody—which, to be truthful, he had—Harlow figured he might as well do it with strangers. Tommy and Ry and his other friends on the street didn’t treat him like anything but what he was. A kid with nowhere to go.
“What I’m thinking,” he said, distracting himself, “is that we can play Emma Garrett for a real good deal. She all but freakin’ melted when I smiled at her. So I butter her up, put on some manners, she’ll be giving me steak before too long. Then I’ll bring in Ry, and he’ll look real pitiful and she’ll feed him. Then Tommy—you practice looking nice, okay? You scare the shit out of most people just standing there. Anyway, if we behave ourselves and keep out of Falcon’s way, we’ll be in fat city.”
Tommy shook his head. “Falcon pulled some of that shit on us, remember? Gave us money, then tried to push rehab. I’m not going that route no more. I’m thinking it’s too big a pain, just avoiding him.”
“Then you’re not hungry enough.” Harlow looked at Ryan. “What do you think? You up for some decent meals?”
“Yeah, I think it’s a good deal.” He smiled, a sweet little boy’s smile that reminded Harlow of his younger brother at home. “But what do I eat in the meantime?”
His eyes were big circles of brown with tiny black dots in the middle, his face white and dirty and sick-looking. He would need another hit in an hour or so. That would use up their last ten bucks.
Time for a couple hours of spanging. Hanging out near the financial district downtown, asking the suits for spare change, they always got enough for a burger or two each. Harlow put his arm around Ry’s shoulders and gave Tommy a punch on the shoulder. “Like always, I got the answer to that, my man. You just stick with me.”

CHAPTER FOUR
JIMMY HADN’T FAILED to notice that Emma was keeping to her promise, as far as their working together was concerned. She spoke and laughed with him if he came into the kitchen, said a friendly good-night when he walked her out to the cab he made sure was waiting when the club closed. Just as she’d predicted, they had developed a polite, uninvolved employer-employee relationship.
Too bad he had to work so damn hard to keep it that way.
Sunday night’s crowd was thin and not very hungry. Jimmy leaned back against the bar a little after midnight, listening to the music, thinking about closing up early. Then Emma stepped up beside him.
“This band is quite good.”
He nodded, trying not to take too deep a breath, needing to avoid getting caught by that scent she used. “There’s a recording contract in the near future. Another year, and they’ll be too busy to play here.”
“You had something to do with that, I think.”
“I made a phone call. The music did the rest.”
She glanced at him, moved a step closer. “You must know some very influential people in the recording business.”
Easing back, he shrugged. “I played drums for a year or so with a band that wasn’t very good. After we broke up, one of the guys went back to the family business…which happens to be producing and recording. I let him know when something sounds good, he comes out from L.A. and we have a few drinks together while he listens. Not a big deal.”
The band moved into a slow number, showcasing the piano’s heavy chords and the sax’s sweet wail. Two couples at a nearby table got up to dance. Emma stirred, swayed slightly to the beat.
No. Jimmy threw himself a mental punch. The last thing you want to do is dance. Get a drink, tell a joke. Just walk off.
But he found himself looking at her when she turned his way. “Want to dance, Emma?” As soon as the words were out, he cursed himself for a fool.
She stared at him with caution in her eyes. Damned if he did or if he didn’t at this point, Jimmy grinned. “No strings. Just a friendly employer-employee conference…out on the floor.”
“Will it bother your hip?”
He took her hand and pulled her with him onto the small parquet square in front of the stage. “No.” Only a minor lie. He could handle anything from Emma Garrett except pity. “Let’s dance.”
Graceful they weren’t. His stiff hip threw their rhythm off. After one brush with Emma’s knees and thighs and breasts, Jimmy kept air between their bodies. His reaction to her softness was an echo of urges twenty years past.
And yet…completely in the present. Emma at eighteen had been a tall, thin, pale-skinned girl with unruly red hair, totally different from anyone he’d ever known. That uniqueness alone had been fascinating.
Emma at thirty-eight was a full-bodied temptress whose creamy skin and gold-red hair glowed, even under the harsh fluorescent lights in the kitchen. He’d met enough women in the past twenty years to make comparisons—she was still unique. And still fascinating.
Holding her away from him allowed them to talk. Jimmy went with the flow of his thoughts. “So what’s happened to you in two decades, Emma? You got your degree. And then?”
“Another degree. And another. Academic life is addictive.”
“If you say so.” High school had been more than he could take, though he’d stayed in long enough to graduate. Because Emma had wanted him to. “What’d you study?”
“History—British colonial history, actually, with an emphasis on relations between the Crown and the indigenous peoples of America.”
“Indians, you mean?” He grinned at her raised eyebrow. “I don’t have to be politically correct. You said you taught college. In England?”
“At Cambridge, yes, then Edinburgh and Toronto. I spent two years at Harvard on a fellowship.”
That hit him in the chest. “I’ve got a Harvard professor cooking in my kitchen?”
She looked away, toward the band. “An ex-professor.” Her freckles darkened over a sweet rose blush. “I…um…was sacked about six months ago. Dismissed.” The rose deepened to a splotched red.
His mind took a second to catch up. “You mean fired?” Emma nodded. “Why?”
With a soft glissando on the piano, the music ended. The bandleader said good-night, and the couples around them began to leave. Emma stepped back, needing to get away. Needing to avoid Jimmy’s very reasonable, completely unanswerable question.
He kept hold of her arms, drawing her close again. “Why did you get fired, Emma? Too many parties? You couldn’t get up in time for your eight-o’clock classes?”
Without looking at him, she pushed against his chest, against the solid muscles under a deceptively soft black shirt. His hands retained their strong grip on her elbows.
“I wrote a paper,” she said softly, desperately. “Had it accepted for publication in a major journal, was getting ready to be promoted to department head at an exclusive New England school. Just before I was to present the findings at a conference, the truth came out.”
“Truth?”
“The central conclusions of my paper, the most important parts of the entire project, were based on a recently recovered set of letters, written from the colonies to England in the eighteenth century. I’d been reading for information about native cooperation with the English, but I discovered a remarkable peripheral thread.”
“Yeah?”
“The letters revealed a traitor on the English military staff during the French and Indian war. The spy kept the opposing armies apprised of the movements of English troops. The fact that he was connected to some very highly placed figures in the governments of England and France widened the conspiracy. Or so I thought. The truly vital letters were found to be…to be…” She dragged in a breath. “Forged.”
After a few moments of silence, Jimmy’s hands softened. “Who did it?”
She threw her head back to stare at him. “The presumption is that I did, of course.”
His grin was cynical, knowing. “Sure. But who really did the forging?”
Now she couldn’t look at him at all. “That’s the truly pitiful part. The forgery was discovered by Eric Jeffries, my…my colleague on th-the project. And…” Her voice did not want to work. “And my fiancé.”
Jimmy muttered something under his breath.
When she pulled this time, he let her go. “It doesn’t really matter who forged the letters. As a historian, I should have been certain of the evidence and its provenance. I didn’t check deeply enough, and for that mistake alone I deserved to lose my post.”
He followed her into the kitchen. “Everybody makes a mistake once in a while. Some of us make more than one.”
Emma stood at the sink, staring down at the marred stainless steel. “Better not to do it when there is…are people standing at your shoulder, ready to take your place. I doubt I’ll ever be accepted as a serious historian again.”
“You think Jeffries planted the letters? So he could get the glory?”
“I…yes.”
Jimmy’s warm hands closed on her shoulders and turned her around. Unwillingly she looked into his lean dark face, into eyes as black as the night sky over the desert.
“You might have lost one round, Emma.” His thumbs stroked across her collarbones just above the neck of her shirt. “But you’re not a loser. Give yourself some time. You’ll be back where you belong.”
The touch of his skin, light as it was, set her to trembling. Emma looked at his mouth, remembered his flavor as if they’d kissed only yesterday. Did he still taste the same?
His thumbs stilled. The pressure of his fingers on her shoulders increased, drawing her forward. Emma closed her eyes, waiting.
Not for long. Jimmy touched her mouth with his, softly, asking permission. She parted her lips, granting it. She expected to be swept away. She wanted to be swept away.
But the kiss stayed well within the boundaries of control. Touching, parting, touching again—a sweet torment that brought tears to her eyes and need into her chest. She had no defense against gentleness.
Jimmy drew back, leaned in again to press kisses on her eyelids, her forehead. “You still taste like strawberries,” he said softly. Then he let her go and stepped away. “I’ll make sure the cab is waiting.” Before she could gather her thoughts together, he had left the kitchen.
She managed a calm goodbye as he held the door of the cab for her. She kept herself together during the ride across town, the wait for the elevator and the ride up with two tired-looking men. Emma didn’t react at all until she was safe behind the door to her private room.
There, she set free her self-disgust. “Haven’t you learned anything?” She yanked the band out of her hair and jerked a brush through the tangles. “Throwing yourself at the man like…like a lovesick undergraduate. Surely you know better by now.”
Even before the debacle that ended her research career, Emma’s experience in academia had taught her more than historical facts. Over years of competition with male scholars and teachers, she had come to see herself in a realistic light. Her brain was formidable, her talents varied and useful.
But as a woman she lacked the spark to ignite men’s hearts. Eric had as much told her so when he broke the engagement. “Thanks for the leg-up, Emma,” he’d taunted. “I knew if I played you right, you’d believe me when I said those letters were authentic. What I do for my career…” He sighed. “Now, of course, there’s no need for me to marry you. Amazons just aren’t my type.”
She wasn’t anyone’s type, apparently. That summer with Jimmy, they’d both been young, ready to learn the ways of love. Adolescent hormones and natural curiosity created a powerful chemistry. Only a fool would expect the reaction to last twenty years. Or to survive the twenty pounds she’d gained, the lines at the corners of her eyes, the awkwardness of being too tall, which she’d never managed to conquer.
Jimmy’s charm, his charisma, were as natural to him as breathing. But Emma knew better than to believe the fantasy. Cinderella she was not. When Jimmy was kind, when he was flattering, she would simply have to keep her head. He’d given her a job, given her a means to start over with her life.
How much more could she reasonably ask?
Turning off the bedside lamp, she burrowed under the sheet, arms folded tight against her chest, and acknowledged the answer to her own question.
Not nearly as much as I could want.
EVEN ON SUNDAY, the late-night streets weren’t deserted. Long after Emma had left, Jimmy set the club’s alarm, stepped out the front door and locked it, then turned to assess the situation. The cops patrolled fairly often until about midnight. After that, the pretense at control disappeared, and the street people reclaimed their territory. For a few hours, anyway.
Tonight’s cast of characters included a couple of prostitutes stationed on a corner across from the club and their pimp in his gold Mercedes parked nearby, plus the usual assortment of addicts and dealers, the homeless and the helpless.
Jimmy shook his head. He’d once seen himself as someone who could help these people solve their problems. Now he just figured they all had a right to go to hell their own way.
As he approached the Jag in its usual spot, a trio of shadows separated from the nearby wall. Talking about lost causes…
“Hey there, Mr. Falcon. Great wheels.” The Texas drawl identified Harlow.
“Thanks.” Jimmy leaned back against the front fender. “After that mix-up the other night, I didn’t expect to see you guys around here so soon. Doesn’t look like the neighborhood’s too safe, where you’re concerned.”
“We go anywhere we want to.” Tomas, part Mexican, part Indian, and all mouth, ran a hand over the roof of the Jag. “Nobody’s telling us where we can and can’t hang out.”
“If you say so.”
“Business doin’ good, Mr. Falcon?” The smoke from Harlow’s cigarette drifted on the late-night breeze.
“Same as usual.”
“Been catching some great smells coming out that back door this week. You got a new cook?”
Every hair on his body stood on end. Jimmy forced himself not to move. “That’s right.” These three weren’t the violent threat some folks pictured when they thought about heroin addicts—only boys who had nowhere else to go and nobody who cared. That was why he’d once thought he had a chance to get them off the streets, out of this lousy life.
But the drug had defeated him in the battle for their souls. He wasn’t afraid of them, but he didn’t want them hassling Emma. Just one more reason he never should have hired her.
Harlow wasn’t going to let the subject drop. “You’re gettin’ real uptown for a dirty little hole in the wall. Next thing we know, you’ll be paintin’ the place.”
“Don’t worry—I don’t expect to get an award from the Denver beautification committee anytime soon.”
“Glad to hear it. Those types like to think our types live somewhere else, you know?” Harlow straightened away from the lamppost. He sounded almost…regretful.
But Jimmy had let that easy regret fake him out before. Harlow was a master con artist. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, it’s been a long day.” He wouldn’t open the car door until they left. And all of them knew it.
“That it has.” Ryan, the smallest of the bunch, was thin to the point of disappearing. The hunger in his eyes was not for food. “Man with a car like this must carry some extra change. Whaddaya say, Mr. F.? How about a loan?”
“I could manage fifty cents for some gum.”
Tomas barked a laugh. “Piss on that. As if gum wasn’t eighty freakin’ cents these days. Gimme a break, man.”
Despite his size, he moved fast. Jimmy looked up into the swarthy, sweating face just inches from his own. If Harlow was the brains of the group, Tomas was the muscle. And he had a bad temper. “Get out of my way.”
“I’m tellin’ you, man—”
Harlow put a hand on Tomas’s shoulder and jerked him backward, away from Jimmy. “Chill, Tommy. We’re not gonna shake down Mr. Falcon. He’s one of the good guys.”
“Like hell he is.”
“Harlow…” Ryan’s voice had started to shake. In the few minutes of the conversation, his skin had paled and his eyes had clouded.
“Yeah, Ry. I’m coming.” Harlow shrugged and gave Jimmy a conciliatory grin. “Sorry for the trouble, Mr. Falcon. We’ll let you get home and get some sleep.”
“Thanks.” Jimmy didn’t move until Harlow and friends started down the sidewalk toward the part of town where drugs were easier to score than ice-cream cones. Then, through the windshield, he watched until the three boys blended into the night. He reminded himself once again that he had tried with them. And failed.
Headed across town to his apartment, he turned on the seat warmer to ease the ache in his hip. He hadn’t been keeping up with therapy the past few months, so a ten-minute dance had set up cramps in his shredded muscles. Small price to pay, though, for a chance to hold Emma in his arms.
But he shouldn’t have kissed her. He’d known it ahead of time and ignored the knowledge. The very first time he’d ever dared, she’d just eaten a strawberry, brought back from Denver to the rez by her impractical, nearsighted, absentminded father. Jimmy had never tasted strawberries—they didn’t thrive in the arid canyonlands he’d grown up in. But that summer with Emma, he’d learned to crave the sweet, seedy fruit. Anytime since, when he’d allowed himself the indulgence of that special berry, he had thought of one special woman-child. And smiled.
He wasn’t smiling now. He was trying to figure out how to keep control so that tonight’s mistake didn’t happen again. The easiest option was to fire Emma. Get her out of the club, out of his life.
Yeah, right. Kick her when she was already down. He couldn’t do that to any woman.
Especially not to Emma.
He’d have to make himself scarce. Tiffany had worked for him long enough to know the liquor reps, the standing orders, the combination to the safe and where he kept the spare keys. She would handle the daily management duties as well as he could. Especially if he raised her pay.
That left only the nights—when the club was packed and Emma worked her magic in the kitchen. He’d stay out of her way, but he’d be sure to hang around. Harlow and his gang could not be allowed to hustle Emma. Unless something deep inside her had changed—and he could tell from her eyes that it hadn’t—she’d have no problem throwing money into the bottomless well where these boys lived with their habit.
She would try to help them and, most likely, fail. Jimmy didn’t want her hurt that way, didn’t want to see the disillusionment in her eyes when she realized she’d only been a mark. Emma put her whole heart into everything she did. She’d done it the summer they spent together, and she was doing it now, just cooking up sandwiches in his club.
Somehow he was going to have to keep Emma from getting burned. By these boys…
And by his own fierce, out-of-line desire.
“JIMMY HASN’T BEEN HERE very often during this last week.” Late Thursday morning, Emma sat down on a wobbly bar stool to watch Tiffany stack glassware.
“Nope. He said he was taking some days off.”
“Did he say why?” Emma didn’t really need to ask. Jimmy was avoiding her, embarrassed at being pressured into that kiss.
Tiffany shook her head. “He’s done it before. I think he goes for weeks without sleeping more than a couple of hours a night, and then crashes and sleeps for about a month.”
“That doesn’t sound like much of a life.” Why would an accomplished and charming man live such a sterile existence?”
“I guess that’s the way he wants it.”
Emma surrendered to her curiosity. “Has he always lived alone?”
“As long as I’ve known him.”
Something loosened inside Emma’s chest that she tried very hard to ignore.
“Of course, that doesn’t mean he’s a monk.” Tiffany’s smile was wicked. “There have been quite a few women in his life over the years.”
“I’m sure.” Her chest had tightened up again. She decided to change the subject. “How long have you known Jimmy?”
The bartender pondered. “I worked here for a couple of years before I got married. After the divorce I came back. So I guess that’s maybe five or six years.”
“Has Jimmy met your current…er…boyfriend?”
“Nope. No reason to. Brad’s not into jazz.” She grinned.
“But he likes the tips I get, so he doesn’t mind me working.”
“Does Brad work?”
“Off and on. He does demolition—taking down old buildings and stuff like that—but it’s kind of an unsteady job market unless you run your own company. Which is okay with Brad, because he doesn’t like life too predictable, anyway.”
“Ah.” If Tiffany didn’t mind supporting a slacker, who was Emma to protest? She propped her chin in her hands. “Well, if Jimmy isn’t here, he can’t very well know what’s going on, can he?”
Tiffany shot her a suspicious glance. “What’s going on?”
The idea had occurred to her in the cab on the way home last night. “Suppose I changed the menu. He wouldn’t realize until sometime during the evening. And by then, he’d see how much the customers enjoyed something new.”
“Emma Garrett, you are nuts.” The bartender shook her head. “Jimmy would kill you for something like that. He’d kill me, too, for letting you.”
“But you know I’m right. Just think what this place could be with the right food, new furniture, paint—”
“Whoa! Furniture?” Tiffany backed into the counter opposite the bar, her hands held up as if to ward off danger. “Not another word. I want to be able to tell Jimmy I didn’t know a thing about it!”
Before noon, Emma had ordered a minimum of dishware from a local shop and billed it to her credit card, along with knives, forks and spoons. If the idea failed, she wouldn’t want Jimmy to bear the loss. Her savings could stand the damage. And though there would be more dirty dishes to deal with, the club’s dishwashing machine functioned well enough to make the gamble worthwhile.
From their grocer, she requested the usual supplies for sandwiches, but added mixed greens for salads, goat cheese and French bread. And chicken breasts—they were on special and would be easy to marinate and serve with sauce.
The woman on the other end of the line took the order without comment. After a moment’s silence, she said, “Now where did you tell me this was for?”
“The Indigo.”
“Jimmy’s place?”
“That’s right.”
“Did Jimmy die?”
“Of course not. Why do you ask?”
The woman clucked her tongue. “He’s the last guy in town I’d expect to serve fancy salads. I might have to show up tonight just to see that for myself!”
Emma prepped food for several hours, then went back to the hotel to change. When she returned at four, she noticed a young man leaning against the corner of the building, next to the alley. As she crossed the street, he turned. Harlow.
He threw away his cigarette and came toward her at an easy walk. “Hey, Emma. How are you this afternoon?”
“Well, thank you. I must say, you disappeared rather quickly last week.”
His grin could melt sugar. “I make it a point to leave fast. Never can tell what you’ll get blamed for if you hang around too long.”
She pushed open the front door to The Indigo. “Would you like to come in?”
He glanced up and down the empty street. “Sure. For a minute, anyway.”
As they stepped inside, Tiffany emerged from the back hallway. “Hey, Harlow. How’s it going?”
“Good. What’s Brad doing these days?”
Tiffany hesitated. “Uh…not much. He’s between jobs.”
Harlow laughed. “Me, too.”
The front door opened again. Emma saw the boy freeze, then turn slowly to face the newcomer. She wondered what he expected Jimmy to do to him.
But a heavyset man stepped inside, not Jimmy. “I got a food delivery. Where do you want it?”
“In the alley, please. Tiffany, would you unlock the door?”
In fifteen minutes, with Harlow helping, the boxes of groceries sat on the kitchen table. Emma surveyed what she’d done with a sudden tremor of doubt. This was a lot of food. If it didn’t sell…
Nonsense. “I should get those chicken breasts in the marinade.”
Somehow Harlow became the unofficial kitchen boy, stowing the supplies where she directed. The new dishes were delivered, and he put those away, as well, after she washed them. He worked efficiently, always whistling a tune underneath his breath. Soon enough, the kitchen was back to normal, except for a large bowl of salad greens soaking in cold water.
The daylight in the alley had nearly disappeared. “I’d better be going,” Harlow said. “Mr. Falcon’ll show up soon.”
Emma put her hand on the thin bones of his arm. “Let me make you something to eat first.”
“That’s okay. I’m good to go.”
“But you’ve done a great deal of work this afternoon. Please, it’s the least I can do.”
He shook his head. “I’d like to, Emma. Your cooking is the best. But I don’t want to be here when the boss comes in. That’ll be bad for you and me. I can take it, but you shouldn’t have to.”
“Well, then, at least let me pay you. I won’t feel right if I don’t.”
Again, that sweet grin. “I wouldn’t want you feeling bad. Just a couple of bucks for a burger is plenty.”
He’d worked for two hours. She gave him forty dollars—twice what she got paid, but her savings would make up the difference. In any event, she hadn’t taken this job for the money. “Have a really good meal tonight. Vegetables, too.”
“Yes, ma’am!” He saluted her from the door to the alley. His smile faded and his expression turned somber. “You’re something special. Thanks.”
Emma stared out the screen door for several minutes after he disappeared. Jimmy had warned her about Harlow, and his friend. But the boy she’d seen today seemed neither desperate nor dangerous. Just in need of help. Almost eager, in fact, to be helped. Perhaps he wanted to change his life and didn’t know quite how to begin. Or how to ask.
“If we wait until we’re asked to help,” her mother had said more than once, “many good people with too much pride will be lost.” Not long after Emma turned fifteen, Naomi Garrett had given her life for those good people—a victim of dengue fever, contracted while nursing the critically ill. Emma’s dad had suffered recurrent malaria attacks for years, thanks to his work in Africa studying tribal dialects. Between them, they’d left her a very big example to live up to.
If anything positive were to come out of the end of her university career, Emma thought it might be the chance to provide the kind of help her parents had modeled for her. At least, she could try.
She smiled ruefully, thinking of her father’s jokes about Emma-Knows-Best. Perhaps her penchant for meddling in other people’s affairs could finally be turned to good use.
THE MUSIC WAS HOT and heavy by the time Jimmy showed up at the club. He made his way down the bar, greeting regulars with a handshake, checking out the room in general. An okay crowd for a Thursday night. Big enough to keep him occupied somewhere besides the kitchen.
Tiffany brought him a whiskey as he leaned against the end of the bar. Darren whizzed by, carrying a loaded tray on his shoulder. “Upper-body strength,” he muttered. “I shoulda been lifting weights.”
The comment didn’t make sense until a break between sets, when Jimmy heard the clatter of dishes at a nearby table, the ping of knives and forks. The next time Darren came by, Jimmy stopped him.
“What’s the deal with the food?”
The server shrugged. “Emma said to mention salads and lemon chicken when I took the orders. We got more people ordering that now than sandwiches.” He shifted under the weight of the tray. “I gotta dump this, boss, or drop it.”
Jimmy waved him away. When Tiffany worked her way down to him again, he called her over. “Emma changed the menu?”
The bartender avoided his eyes. “Yeah. The customers seem to like the variety.”
“You didn’t think I might want to know about this?”
She shrugged. “I didn’t want to get between you and Emma.”
Guilt grabbed him by the throat. He drummed a quick rhythm pattern on the bar. “You’re right, Tiff. I’m a jerk for blaming you. There’s only one person I should be talking to about this.”
In the kitchen, Emma looked up from a plate of salad as he stepped through the door and let it swing shut behind him. “Hullo, Jimmy. How are you tonight?”
“Surprised. What are you doing, Emma?”
She met his gaze straight on. “I wanted to show you how successful a different menu could be. I think the customers are enjoying the wider selection of food.”
Brains and beauty and guts. A powerful combination. The recognition expanded his irritation. “What’s the profit margin on those salads?”
“The same as the sandwiches. I don’t want you to lose money.”
He leaned against the door frame to rest his hip. “Does that include the plates and silverware?”
Her face and throat flooded with red. “Um…no.”
“Right.” Hands in his pockets, he tried to figure out the real point here. A power struggle between them? Maybe. Emma was a woman used to running a classroom, a career. But he’d established his own life, ran his club to meet his own standards. He didn’t like having decisions taken out of his hands, even by Emma Garrett.
“I meant this for the best, Jimmy.”
“I’m sure you did.” He sighed. Staying mad at Emma for any length of time had been impossible when they were kids, something between them that didn’t seem to have changed. “The money doesn’t really matter a damn.”
“I know.”
“But if I wanted this place to be something different, it would be.”
“The question is, why wouldn’t you want it?”
“Because…” He shook his head. “That doesn’t matter, either. No more surprises, Emma, okay? At least talk to me first.”
“I did talk to you.”
“And then you ignored what I said.”
“I was right—the customers like a more sophisticated menu.”
“You were. You will be again.” Jimmy straightened. “In fact, you might just be right about everything one hundred percent of the time. But this is my place and what I say goes. Clear?”
Emma lifted her chin. “Yes, sir. Perfectly clear.”
“Thanks. You can keep the salads and the chicken. And the dishes. But that’s as far as we go.”
A minute later, behind the closed door of his office, Jimmy aimed a pencil and sent it flying, straight as an arrow, toward the opposite wall.
Emma was shaking up his world again. Only he wasn’t seventeen anymore. He hadn’t believed in happy-ever-afters since he was eight years old.
And he really hated being tempted to change his mind.

CHAPTER FIVE
DARREN’S FIVE-PIECE BAND played at The Indigo for the first time the following Sunday night. The crowd was small, but the music surprisingly good. Emma listened for most of two sets—she got only three orders, for nachos, all evening. When the last of the customers left about eleven-thirty, cleaning up the kitchen took her all of five minutes.
She stepped across the threshold into the darker club room and instinctively glanced to the right, toward Jimmy’s office. He hadn’t made any kind of appearance tonight. But a patch of light fell through his open doorway, signaling his presence. Now was as good a time as any, she supposed, to make her request.
He sat behind the desk with his chair turned sideways. At the sight of his strong profile, Emma caught her breath. Proud, intelligent, compelling, and obviously a man of Native American descent. A heritage he was determined to ignore.
Lost in thought, he didn’t notice her for a moment. Then, though she hadn’t moved, he turned his head. “Hey, Emma. I just called—the cab should be here in a few minutes.”
“Good.” She took a step into the room. “Before I go, I have a favor to ask.”
“What’s that?”
“I would like to borrow the medallion and its box.”
His straight black brows drew together. “Any particular reason?”
A deep breath steadied her voice. “I’ve made a list of galleries in the area specializing in indigenous artifacts. I thought I would visit some of them tomorrow, since the club’s closed on Mondays. The dealers will be able to give me more information if they can see the actual piece.”
He shook his head. “Emma—”
She held up a hand. “I’m not asking you to participate. But I can’t forget what my dad wanted, either. I’ll pursue the research by myself, if you’ll lend me the medallion.”
Without a word he turned his chair to face the wall behind him. For the first time, she noticed a built-in safe there. The combination lock whirred, the door opened, then Jimmy turned back to set the box on the desk.
Emma picked it up and flipped the catch. Struck by the overhead lighting, the disk inside gleamed like an actual sunrise. “It’s so unusual. I haven’t found anything quite like it listed anywhere online.” She traced a line of fine engraving with her fingertip. “I think it must be more than an ordinary concha,” she said, referring to silver disks used as decorative elements in Indian jewelry. “Perhaps part of a necklace, for which the chain has been lost.”
Jimmy cleared his throat. “There are rough places at two o’clock and ten o’clock that look like there might have been rings welded on at one point.”
Holding the medallion close to her face, she squinted at the edges. “Ah. I see them. They’ve been polished smooth, but not quite erased.” She glanced at the man across the desk. “You must have looked at this again.”
“I’ve looked at it a lot. I really appreciate that your father thought of me.” He let his head rest against the back of the chair. “Not that I know why—we didn’t see each other even once after that summer. You went back to England to start college, he left for some other research site. And the Christmas cards stopped after a couple of years.”
“Yes, they did.” Emma sat down without being asked, still cradling the disk in her palms. “Once you finished basic military training, you seemed to be awfully busy, and I couldn’t tell if you wanted me to write or not.”
“I liked hearing from you. But I didn’t have all that much to say. Army life’s pretty much the same every day.”
“What you think about is always different.”
Jimmy grinned slightly. “In the army, you’re trained not to think.”
“You didn’t like the service?” After his curt behavior over the chicken and salads, she supposed she should be distant, reserved. But an opportunity to hear Jimmy talk about himself couldn’t be wasted.
“More or less. I got to see places—not tourist spots, but the real world. I usually had a meal and a place to sleep, unless the operation went wrong. That didn’t happen too often. Made a friend or two, learned to live with malaria—”
“My father contracted malaria in Africa.”
Jimmy nodded. “Me, too. We were doing reconnaissance in Angola. I lost my pills in the mud somewhere and didn’t get back to base before my immunity wore off. But at least there’s treatment.”

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