“Emma....” He started to move to her. It was as if they were both blurring the lines of who they were, their true selves grappling with the personas they had taken on. She wanted to know if he was thinking about her. Was it her disappearance that haunted him?
“Who was she?”
That spooked him. It was the last straw. He looked angry, then distant, then he shuttered himself completely.
Emma mentally kicked herself. It was too much, too soon. Not to mention that he had served in Afghanistan and North Africa and routinely did business in Middle East hot zones. The list of things that had damaged him was not limited to Emily Webster.
He pulled out his phone and sent a text. It was strange only in that, with the exception of that one brief phone call earlier, he had been intently focused on her for nearly three hours. He had dismissed calls from high-level people and had even canceled a meeting. When he returned his gaze to hers, he was calm and remote.
“No ‘she.’ And like the scar, you are looking for drama that isn’t there.”
“So, I shouldn’t put down here that you were attempting to leap the Grand Canyon on a Harley?”
He didn’t even smile. “Just a standard slip on a wet road.” He started scrolling through emails on his phone.
“Whatever you say.” It wasn’t so much the lie, but his insistence on it that irked her. She hated that he was such a smooth liar.
“What I say is the truth, Ms. Porter,” he replied with icy clarity.
“What, no ‘Emma’ now? I thought we were going to get intimate?” She wasn’t flirting, she was pissed. And now he was pissed. Why? She wasn’t exactly sure, but they were both inexplicably seething.
With the effortlessness of practice, he donned his jacket, shot his cuffs, and straightened his tie, then looked at her, tense and impassive. The moment should have climaxed in a shove or a shout... or a sizzling kiss. They were staring at each other when his office door opened. “Ready?” They both turned to the door.
Emma Porter was a beautiful woman, stunning even. With her wavy, honey-blonde hair and striking features, she turned heads. Add to that long legs and what Caroline declared “the perfect rack,” and she pretty much, again as Caroline jokingly said, “had got it goin’ on.” Maybe God was compensating for the mess on the inside. Who knew? But for all her hang-ups and issues and phobias and neuroses, her looks were not one of them. However, when Emma saw the woman standing in the doorway, she was swamped with a feeling of inadequacy.
Wow.
She was striking. She was easily six feet tall, wearing flared, black trousers, an ivory shell, and a simple pair of nine-hundred-dollar Jimmy Choo black peep-toe pumps. She had flawless olive skin and black hair that hung like a sheet of silk down to the small of her back. Her nails were long, but not too long, and red, but not too red. Her eyes were hazel and her lips nude. She was pin-thin but still feminine. Her face was serene, uncomplicated.
It wasn’t so much the fact that she was prettier than Emma—that was debatable. It was the fact that she was the opposite of Emma: dark, exotic, composed.
Nathan shot his cuffs again, crossed to her, and gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek. They looked like a bride and groom on top of a wedding cake. Nathan was sending a message to Emma. It was more than ours is a professional relationship. It was more than I’m with someone at the moment. He was saying loud and clear: you’re not my type.
The woman was older than Emma, closer to Nathan’s age, and she hooked her hand around his bicep with an enthusiasm that didn’t suit her. Nathan didn’t seem to notice; he simply looked at Emma with his eyebrows raised in a smug gaze.
Nathan must have been used to a different reaction to his rejection. As the emotion drained from her face at the sight of them, Emma switched into auto-response. Her psychologist said it was an emotional safe zone that was understandable given her history. Caroline called it her “robot mode.” It wasn’t obvious to the casual observer, but it was there. Her face went pleasantly blank. She blinked at them calmly, then turned to gather her things. She did what Nathan had done just moments ago and organized her external world as inside she shut down.
Something about it must have alarmed Nathan because she suddenly felt his hand on her back.
“Emma?” She was uncomfortable being touched and didn’t allow strangers to touch her. Ever. But this was Nathan. His hand felt so good on that innocent place between her shoulder blades, but it didn’t matter.
“Yes?”
“Alex and I have plans. Are we good to wrap it up for the day?”
“Yes. This was great. Thank you.” She had pushed him too far and exposed herself stupidly, and his summoning of Alex confirmed that. His force field was back in place. Emma didn’t know if he regretted this extreme show of unavailability or not, but he huffed out a sigh and ran his hand down his face. Maybe he had expected a protest or nonchalance, but her subtle detachment seemed to trouble him. Alex shifted impatiently in her periphery.
“So, I’ll see you Friday then?” he asked, ignoring Alex.
“Friday?” It was Wednesday. Emma thought they had weekly interviews scheduled.
“Yes, Friday. It’s like my shrink says, ‘’I think we’re going to need to see each other twice a week to get through all this crap.’” He did exactly what she had done—tried to coax her out by lightening the mood. He wanted her to laugh. She forced a smile.
“All right.”
“Four o’clock.” It wasn’t a request. “We’ll need to meet at my apartment. I’m working from home Friday.” He grabbed her phone and entered his contact information, then texted himself. “I’ll text you the address.” Alex cleared her throat and a brief look of annoyance passed Nathan’s face. Emma did nothing to indicate her inward pleasure at his response.
“All right,” she replied flatly.