Flamingo Diner

Matt wasn’t sure whether to be pleased that he’d been so readily accepted in her view or insulted by her complete lack of appreciation for the qualities he’d shared with Owen Davis. If he’d had any idea she was drawn to dangerous boys, maybe he would have made his move back then despite Don’s disapproval. He decided to leave that particular discussion for another day. It wasn’t possible to change the past, anyway.

“So,” he began, forcing a teasing challenge into his voice, “was Owen a good kisser?”

Her expression turned nostalgic. “At the time I thought he was a fantastic kisser,” she admitted.

Matt barely contained a curse at the response. He was being ridiculous. Here he was jealous of a boy Emma had kissed more than a decade ago. Obviously it had never led to anything. He doubted they’d even been in touch in years.

“Have you seen him lately?” he asked anyway.

She stared at him blankly. “Why would I have seen him?”

“You said yourself he was a fantastic kisser.”

“A short-lived opinion. I grew up and discovered that really good kissing involves more than some guy sticking his tongue down your throat,” she said, chuckling. “Owen would not even make my list of top ten kissers today. Probably not even my top hundred.”

Top hundred? What the hell had she been doing up in D.C.? More important, he wondered if he would make the cut. Under other circumstances, he would be tempted to find out. He would be tempted to sweep her into his arms and demonstrate the many nuances of a great kiss. He’d had a lot of years to practice just in case an occasion like this ever arose. He looked up and caught her staring at him curiously.

“What are you thinking?” she asked, her voice vaguely breathless, as if she had a very good idea where his thoughts had wandered.

“You don’t want to know,” he said grimly, deciding to make that coffee after all. If he was going to sit here discussing Emma’s past escapades with the hundred greatest kissers in her life, he was going to need something a whole lot stronger than tea. Liquor was out of the question, given his exhaustion and the fact that he’d have to drive home soon.

“Matt?”

“What?”

“Did I say something to upset you?”

“Of course not. You can say anything you want to me.”

“I always thought I could,” she said, sounding suddenly uncertain.

“You still can,” he insisted, even if listening killed him. He would go through the tortures of hell, if it would distract her for a while from the reality of her father’s death.

“You’re a good guy,” she said.

She said it the way she might say it to an older brother. It grated on Matt’s nerves. He’d worked damn hard to become a good guy, and now he didn’t want to hear it. How ironic was that?

“That’s me, all right.” He poured himself a cup of strong coffee, then sat back down. “Tell me about your life in Washington. You work in an antiques store?”

“Fashionable Memories,” she said at once, her eyes brightening. “It’s a great place.”

As she began to talk, the years fell away and Matt could remember sitting in the backyard by the pool, listening to her spin her dreams for the future. He was pretty sure that back then there had been more talk of Hollywood or piloting a jetliner than selling antiques.

“When did you develop this fondness for old things?” he asked. “I thought you wanted to be an actress or maybe a pilot.”

She laughed. “How on earth did you remember that? I’d almost forgotten. I guess by my senior year in high school I’d figured out I wasn’t cut out for the silver screen, since I never once got chosen for the school play. As for being a pilot, once I understood how much technology was involved, I realized I was more interested in seeing the world than in actually flying a plane.”

“It’s still a big leap from either of those careers to selling antiques,” Matt said.

“While I was in college, I used to wander around Georgetown when I had some free time. There was this great thrift shop next door to a coffee shop I liked. I started poking around in there, looking for things to decorate my dorm room. One day I found a piece of porcelain. Even under all the grime, something about it made me think it might be valuable. I paid a few bucks for it, cleaned it up, then took it up the street to Fashionable Memories. Marcel bought it from me for a hundred dollars, then sold it for twice that. He told me he’d buy any other treasures I stumbled across. Next thing I knew, I was haunting thrift stores and going to flea markets and garage sales all over town. He suggested I start taking some appraisal courses. When I graduated, he offered me a job.”

She grinned at him. “Believe it or not, that’s the short version.”

“And the long version?”

“You don’t want to hear it. I go on and on about the thrill of the hunt, about trying to discover the history behind a particular piece, about feeling connected to the past. It’s pretty boring stuff.”

Matt gazed into her shining eyes and felt that familiar spark of desire, that tug of longing to know everything that went on in her head. She had the kind of enthusiasm that was contagious. “I can’t imagine anything you have to say ever being boring,” he said honestly.

“Then one of these days before I go back to Washington, I’ll take you with me to explore a few thrift shops around this area. I guarantee I’ll have you pleading for mercy by lunchtime,” she promised, barely stifling a yawn.

Matt laughed. “I’ll hold you to that.” He stood up. “I really do need to get out of here and let you get some sleep.” He searched her face. “Think you can now?”

She nodded slowly, looking vaguely surprised. “Actually, yes. Thank you.”

“For what? Making you sleepy?”

She stood up and touched his cheek. “No, for distracting me for a little while.”

“My pleasure. I’ll be back in the morning. If you need anything in the meantime, my home number’s on the back of this card.” He handed it to her, noting the beginnings of a smile tugging on her lips. “What?”

“Matt Atkins, Chief of Police,” she said with a shake of her head. “I guess we really are all grown-up now.”

He shrugged. “So they say.” For the last few hours, he’d felt like a teenager again, awkward and uncertain in the presence of a girl on which he’d had a secret crush forever.

When she reached up to give him a kiss on the cheek, he turned so that her lips brushed his. It was just a fleeting, unexpected caress, but it was enough to send fire shooting through his veins.

When he looked into Emma’s eyes, he saw by her startled reaction that the kiss had done something to her, too. Then her gaze turned shuttered, as if she’d suddenly remembered that her father had just died, and Matt cursed himself for being a jerk. The woman was in mourning and he was sneaking kisses just to prove something to himself.

And what had he proved? That he could coax a reaction from her? That he still felt a powerful pull where Emma Killian was concerned? Or simply that he was about as sensitive as a sledgehammer?

He considered apologizing, then decided that would make way too much of what had been little more than a friendly peck on the lips.

“Get some sleep,” he ordered brusquely instead.

“You, too. You must be exhausted.”

He had been, but then he’d met Emma at the airport and he’d caught a second wind. “I’m used to long hours.”

“But not to finding a friend drowned in the lake, I imagine,” she said quietly, a quaver in her voice as if the haunting image had lodged in her head.

“No, not to that,” he agreed. “Don’t focus on that, Emma. It doesn’t do any good.”

“How can I not?” she asked wistfully. “I’m afraid when I close my eyes that’s what I’ll see. It’s just been words up till now, but I’m afraid if I try to sleep, I’ll see what you saw.”

To be honest, Matt shared the same fear. The scene was indelibly inscribed in his head. Even without having been the one to pull Don from that car, he’d seen him in the murky water, still and lifeless. If it had been horrifying for him, how much worse would it be for Emma? Thank God he’d been the one to discover Don, and not someone in the family who would be haunted by the image forever.

“Come on, then,” he said, making a decision.