Now That You're Here

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.