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.”
