Take a Chance On Me

Chapter 14 Ring My Bell

"You're on fire, girl."

Velvet stepped back, tapped a finger on her cheek, and made one last inspection of Emma's ensemble. She wore the short and clingy blue dress with the little ruffle, the strappy sandals, and a pair of funky clip-on earrings Velvet had borrowed from Obaasan. She'd even convinced Emma to wear a bit of lip gloss tonight, a warm rose shade that accentuated her mouth.

The man was toast.

"He's going to slobber all over you."

Emma laughed. "Please. I get slobbered on all day, every day. I'm going for something out of the ordinary, here. Jaw-dropping shock, maybe."

Velvet nodded. "I hope his heart's strong. That's all I got to say."

Emma turned back to the full-length mirror on the inside of her office door. It was really here-the Night of the Blue Dress, the night she never thought would arrive. And with a minor adjustment of her cleavage, she smiled at herself and caught Velvet's eye in the mirror.

"Here goes nothing."

"Another man falls."

"But what if he doesn't?" Emma twirled on her two-inch heels, feeling elegant and feminine in the split second before she started to totter. Velvet grabbed her elbow.

"I mean, what if I'm imagining all this? What if he's really not as interested as I am? He's been so… reserved lately. Polite. He hasn't even tried to kiss me one single time since that night on the porch. He just stares at me."

"Because you asked him to wait, didn't you?"

"True…"

"So the man's respected your wishes. This is a good thing, Emma, not a bad thing."

"I guess. But what if he's cooled off since then?"

"Then he's about to warm up." Velvet reached over to fluff Emma's hair. "You're hot tonight. Sexy. Fabulous."

Emma scrunched her nose and peeked at the mirror again. "You know what? Maybe you're right. If those words have ever applied to me, it would be tonight."

She giggled at her reflection and turned to examine her behind. "I think I'm at my peak. Tonight. In this dress. I've never looked this good in my life and probably never will again. This is it-the zenith of Emma Jenkins. I hope you feel honored to witness it."

Velvet groaned.

"No. I'm completely serious." She put her hands on her hips. "I'm thirty-four. From what I understand, it's all downhill from here."

She turned-no wobble this time-and grabbed her little black purse. "I'm off. It's now or never. Wish me luck."

Velvet shook her head. "You don't need it, hon."

The hostess led Emma to the outdoor dining deck and instantly her eyes found Thomas.

He sat at a picnic table near the railing, looking out over the water, two bottles of beer already centered on the brown butcher-paper tablecloth in front of him. He wore a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, a pair of khaki pants, and brown leather loafers with no socks.

His long legs stretched out lazily under the table. His wide shoulders hung relaxed. He leaned on his forearms, the tendons and muscles in his neck exposed. It made him look vulnerable somehow, big and masculine but human all the same. It made her smile.

He turned to her.

A sharp "Ring, bing, bing, bing!" sliced through her brain. And she knew it was the sound of hitting the jackpot-like when the Price Is Right Showcase contestant won the car, the trip, and the twenty-five grand in one fell swoop.

A flash of surprise seemed to widen Thomas's eyes, but he instantly replaced it with a cool, unruffled gaze. He was quite capable of keeping his face unreadable when he wanted to.

He stood up.

She moved closer, the awareness intensifying with each step. It poured over her, hot and sizzling, leaving the tiniest suggestion of fear in its wake. The friendly little bells had been drowned out by the roar of her own blood.

She couldn't remember the last time she was this nervous, this self-conscious-this revved up-and tried to focus on placing one sandaled foot in front of the other in as ladylike a manner as possible. Thomas's eyes didn't stray from her face, but she was certain that other people were staring at her from head to toe, whispering things like "Did you get a load of that fleshy woman in an obscene blue dress?"

Emma suddenly feared the worst: a side seam was about to split open; her boobs were about to pop from the neckline like champagne corks on New Year's Eve. She couldn't do this.

Oh. But she already was, wasn't she?

Thomas's face remained perfectly inscrutable, though Emma thought he might have flexed his jaw. There was no smile. No mouth opening with shock. No drool. Nothing.

Her heart sank. She must have been overly optimistic. Maybe she looked so bad that he was embarrassed for her, embarrassed to be seen in public with her.

She reached the table, and Thomas cupped her bare elbow with a wide, warm palm.

"Hey, Emma."

He guided her down as she tried to fold and twist her tightly sheathed body onto the bench, which was no small feat. By the time she was seated, she was breathless, rattled, perspiring, and feeling horribly overdressed-or underdressed, depending on how she decided to look at it.

Why hadn't she worn the simple black outfit she'd chosen for her date with Mr. Traffic Court -comfortable, modest, dark enough that she'd simply faded into the background?

She closed her eyes in mortification. Why in God's name did I wear this dress?

Why the hell did she wear that dress? Thomas wondered.

Did she want to see him weep like a helpless infant? Did she want to see him die an agonizing death? Was she subjecting him to some strange, convoluted female test that he was predestined to fail?

Or had she changed her mind? Oh man, was she chucking the "time being" crap and hitting on him? Because it was inconceivable that she didn't know what she was doing to him-and every other man in the place-in that dress.

It had taken every ounce of strength to remain standing when she'd walked across the deck to their table, all her good parts on display all at the same time-the slender neck and creamy shoulders, those unbelievable breasts, those juicy hips, thighs, legs…

He swallowed-hard. What was he supposed to say? What was he supposed to do?

Thomas felt a trickle of sweat run down the center of his spine.

He tried not to stare at her, but he was weak-always so weak in her presence-no different from any other schlub under the spell of a beautiful woman.

So while Emma got comfortable and glanced around, he stared at her, unable to form words, aware that he must look like one of those old Looney Tunes characters who transforms into a wolf with one peek at a gorgeous dame, his long, red tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth, his eyeballs shooting straight out from their sockets, then snapping back, all to the sound of "AH-OOO-GAH!"

She looked at him.

He was a dead man.

From the grave, in a raspy groan, he asked, "Hungry?"

"Yes, I am. How about you?"

He felt one side of his mouth twitch and knew he couldn't stop himself. "I'm always hungry, Emma," he said in that dead man's voice.

Emma dragged her eyes all over him-that golden-boy face with the broken nose, the big shoulders, the sexy mouth…

"Nice place," she said.

"My favorite," he said.

They were surrounded by laughter, the squawk of sea gulls, the clatter of dishes, and the crack of mallets on crab shells. They were festive sounds-summer sounds-nearly ready to be packed away for the winter season. She took a deep breath and savored it.

The deck snuggled up to a little man-made beach along Bayside Landing. At least thirty people were crammed onto picnic tables on the deck and another fifteen sat at dining tables on the narrow strip of sand, under umbrellas, surrounded by transplanted palm trees and did torches. The combination of a legitimately pretty setting and tacky décor was pure Baltimore, and it made her smile.

Glancing around, she noticed the word Tobin scrawled in pencil at the edge of their paper-covered table. Thomas must have called ahead and reserved this table and now there she was, with him, in public, with his name in big letters for the world to see. And it made her feel special.

Why was that? She was fiercely attached to her own last name and never took Aaron's when they married. In fact, she'd never even considered hyphenating it-Emma Jenkins-Kramer just never sounded right to her.

But Emma Jenkins-Tobin? Now that had a nice cadence to it. Familiar, even. Like she'd heard it all her life.

Emma sucked in a mouthful of air and started to cough. Thomas offered her a bottle of Corona, a lime wedge perched on the lip of the glass.

"Here. Shall we make a toast?" He tapped her bottle with his own. "To smart consultants."

"To Hairy."

Thomas nodded, raising his bottle again. "To Hairy the Strange Little Dog. If it weren't for him, I'd be sleeping alone every night."

He tipped back his beer, and Emma watched Thomas's lips kiss the glass rim of the bottle, his tongue press into the round opening, his throat muscles ripple as he gulped.

How long had it been since the completely outrageous kiss on her porch? A couple weeks. Or a nanosecond. Or several lifetimes ago. The truth was, she'd forgotten how time worked.

"I called ahead and placed our order. I hope you don't mind."

Emma was relieved to talk-it kept her brain busy. "Let me guess-crabs?"

All around them was the evidence of serious crab consumption-tables heaped with piles of shells, buckets on the deck floor overflowing with shells, bowls of drawn butter, empty beer pitchers or bottles, and only an occasional basket of rolls or bowl of coleslaw or corn. This place was for genuine crab connoisseurs only.

"Yep. Crabs." He quickly looked away.

Emma sighed. It appeared Thomas wasn't going to say anything about the dress. The window of opportunity to mention her appearance had just closed, and he sat there, not saying anything about how she looked, not even able to hold her gaze.

It wouldn't have taken much. A simple "You look pretty tonight," or "That's a nice dress," and she'd have already vaulted over the table and crushed his body in an upper-thigh death grip.

But he didn't say a thing. And that said it all, didn't it? Their waitress arrived with a huge platter of hard-shell crabs. "Two dozen large," she said, lowering it onto the center of the picnic table. Another waitress followed close behind with butter, coleslaw, and soft, white rolls. "Anything else?"

"Thanks. I think we're all set," Thomas said with a friendly nod.

Emma's eyes flew to the waitress-it was pure female instinct. She was a pretty redhead no more than nineteen, and she was flirting outrageously with Thomas. Apparently, it didn't bother her that Thomas was nearly old enough to be her father-the little Jezebel! Emma watched the girl give Thomas a playful smile. "Let me know if I can do anything else for you."

Emma snorted. Right. It was all she could do to keep her next thought to herself. Over my dead body, cupcake. But then the waitress turned, swinging her slim hips all the way back to the kitchen.

The jealousy thumped Emma right in the center of her chest. She froze, surprised by the force of it. But then, of course women would find Thomas attractive-didn't she remember her initial response to him? She nearly had to be hosed down!

And really, so what if women flirted with him? She and Thomas were just friendly colleagues, correct? Nothing more. She had no claim on him. She had no expectations.

So she was wearing the infamous blue dress for him? So she was plotting to scratch out the eyes of a teenager for him?

She was even wearing clip-on earrings for him! She was thinking about hyphenating for him! She was falling in love with him!

Emma dropped her head in her hand and rubbed her forehead. "I'm in serious trouble," she said out loud.

Thomas laughed softly. Emma raised her eyes to him, certain that he'd just witnessed her painful journey to self-awareness. But he wasn't even looking at her.

"Yeah, it's a thing of beauty, isn't it?" He stared at the red mountain of steaming crabs, oblivious to all else. Then he peeked over the platter and shot her a grin.

She smiled back. She straightened up. "So how many of those can you eat, Rugby Boy?"

"I could eat 'em all." He wiggled his scarred eyebrow and the semicolon danced. "But I suppose I'll save a few for you."

They spent the next hour eating crabs, telling stories, and laughing. Thomas talked more tonight about himself than he ever had-probably because he no longer had anything to hide from her.

He talked about some of his cases. He talked about his childhood-how his mother had left when he was ten, never to be seen again. "She's been married several times since. She was in Italy last we knew, about ten years ago."

"I'm sorry," Emma said.

"Yeah, well, it was a rough lesson," was his only comment.

Then he talked about how he'd introduced Rollo to Pam one spring break and it was love at first sight. When he talked about Petey and Jack, his eyes sparkled.

Though the conversation was enjoyable, she was shocked by the way Thomas ate-the quick, methodical dismantling of the crustaceans, the well-placed whack of the mallet, rapid-fire sleight-of-hand movements followed by fast transfers to his mouth, then bam! An entire creature had been picked apart, licked clean, and its remains tossed to the heap of shells at the other end of the table-all while talking.

What Thomas told her next explained his skill-his grandfather was an Eastern Shore waterman, and he used to take him out on the crab boat as a kid, when Chesapeake crabs were plentiful.

"I checked with the owner here tonight-half of these pups aren't local-they're flown in from Texas and Louisiana." Thomas dipped a claw into the drawn butter and popped it in his mouth, scraping it clean. "Did you know the price is up to sixty-five dollars a dozen for good-sized hard-shells these days? I remember my granddad used to get half that much for an entire bushel."

Emma's breath caught-he was spending close to one hundred and fifty dollars on crabs tonight?

Thomas noticed her worry and waved it away as he threw another carcass on the pile. "It's worth it to me. This is a special occasion. I can afford it."

"The state police must pay better than I realized."

He hummed thoughtfully as he chewed. "I make enough to get by, but I also got extra help along the way. My dad was a big-shot corporate attorney and he left me and Pam a nice chunk of change when he passed away. Money's not a problem for me."

Emma looked up in surprise, then smiled wistfully. "Now that's something I look forward to hearing myself say someday."

Thomas remained quiet for a few moments, letting the guilt wash over him-again. He should have told her that he paid her consulting fee. But she wouldn't have wanted that, right? She wouldn't have agreed to work with him, right? She wouldn't have had any reason to spend time with him.

He couldn't keep putting this off. He had to come clean-about everything.

"Emma, I-"

"Thanks again for snagging the contract for me, Thomas. I'm sure it wasn't easy and you probably got a lot of ribbing about it. I wish… " Emma stopped and stared down at the dinner roll in her fingers. "I really needed the money-my practice needed it."

Thomas shook his head and began to say something but Emma jumped in again. "Aaron wasn't the most responsible person in the world. Money was a constant struggle with us and he had some personal problems that got us into trouble. But it was my fault too, for letting him get away with it."

Thomas answered her in a soft voice. "Beckett told me."

Her head snapped up and she blinked. "He did? When? What did he tell you?"

Thomas shrugged. "The first night I came to your house. He told me, and I quote, 'Aaron had an eye for the ladies and couldn't hold on to a dollar to save his soul. He wasn't good enough for my girl. Never was.'"

Emma snorted and took another sip of beer. "That about sums it up, unfortunately."

Thomas waited for a few more details, but they didn't come. He had to smile-the only human being in the world he wouldn't mind opening up to him about a failed relationship wasn't interested in doing so.

"You're a very private person, aren't you, Emma?"

She tipped her head. "Not really. Not with the people I'm close to-the people I love."

That sentence shot him through with pain-she didn't love him. But hold on. Of course she didn't love him! They'd only known each other a couple weeks! And yes, he was extremely attracted to her, but he didn't exactly want her to love him, did he? He didn't want any woman to love him!

Did he?

"Thomas, do you remember that night on my porch when we kissed?" Emma stared down at the brown paper tablecloth and her voice was barely more than a whisper.

"Only every other second."

Her breath was coming fast and her pulse was kicking hard and all she could think was that he didn't say anything about her dress. He didn't say anything! It was obvious that whatever was happening was a bit one-sided-he might not mind taking her to bed a few times, but he didn't like her enough to notice she'd gone to extreme lengths to look nice tonight. He didn't like her enough to be courteous. Respectful. Appreciative.

She had to remind herself that this was not the type of man she wanted in her life-even for a few nights. She deserved more, and though she'd convinced herself that Thomas was more, she had to admit she may have been wrong.

She needed to take charge of this situation, take care of herself. If she didn't, who would?

"When I said this wasn't the right time, I meant that in a couple ways." She bit her bottom lip with nervousness. "It's not just Leelee."

When she brought her soft blue eyes level with his, Thomas nearly moaned with longing.

"I just signed my divorce papers, Thomas. I just got out of an extremely bad situation, and I'm not exactly at my best-I'm kind of exhausted, actually." She let her elbow rest on the edge of the table and cupped her chin in her hand, looking at him. "It took me a long time to realize that I wasn't responsible for Aaron. It took everything I had to get out of that relationship. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Sure I do." He cracked another claw. "You're scared."

Emma sighed and shook her head. "I'm saying I need to be very careful. I'm trying to decide if I'm ready to get involved with anyone-with you-beyond being friendly business partners. I'm not convinced that you're the right kind of man for me."

She sat back and said nothing more.

Thomas's movements had slowed considerably. He used a napkin to wipe the streaks of red spices and butter from his fingers and grabbed for his bottle of beer. He took a long, slow drag, and let his eyes wander from that lovely, confused face to that dress again. Damn, he shouldn't have done that!

How ironic. She'd just told him he wasn't her type and he'd picked that particular moment to nearly explode in his chinos just from looking at her. All that thick, gleaming hair, that succulent cleavage, those ripe, red lips slippery with butter.

Never in his life had he known a woman as fun, appealing, smart, delicious-oh, Jesus, as fuckable-asMiss Marple over there, and all he wanted was to clear off the tabletop with one violent sweep of his forearm, lay her down on the butcher paper, and let his tongue slip over every goddamn inch of that farm-girl skin. He wanted to stretch his body over hers, feel her wrap around him, hear her scream his name.

He wanted… her.

Thomas put down the beer bottle and looked her right in the eye. He'd heard her words clear enough. And as he studied her, observed her body language, he heard that, too. And the actions were speaking much louder than the words.

The sexual heat gathered around them as fast as the twilight, and it pushed against his chest, against his cock, and into his brain.

Yes, her words said, "I'm not sure." But the soft pleading in her eyes, the way she'd been jealous of the waitress, the seductive pout of her lips, her quick breathing, that fucking dress!-allof it screamed, "Put your hands on me-now!"

Thomas didn't know what to do. He could hardly breathe.

So he started in on another crab.

Emma simply stared at him. Her lips were on fire. She didn't know if it was the beer, the heavy-handed dose of Old Bay spice on the crabs, or just plain sexual greed, but her lips felt unbearably sensitive and swollen and a liquid fire was rushing through her veins.

She watched Thomas as he ate-consumed was more like it. His mouth and chin were smeared slick with butter. He was an eating machine-evenly paced in his movements, denuding one helpless creature after another. It was a kind of lusty, barbaric dance that made her dizzy.

A loud crack! pierced the air and she jerked. He'd smashed the mallet down on a crab leg, using far more force than was necessary, not saying a word, his eyes now fierce on hers. He looked exactly like he did that night in the diner parking lot-absolutely tortured.

Then came another loud crack of the mallet, followed by more silence and staring, and the quiet was growing heavier, darker, breath-stealing. Emma felt how the air itself became heavy, rich, and dripping with the promise of sex.

Sex. Sex. Sex.

The two of them couldn't seem to escape it.

Suddenly, Thomas picked up a new victim, held it with both hands, and wrenched apart the crab legs until they formed a wide vee in front of his mouth. His eyes locked on Emma's as he licked a drip of butter off the inside of his wrist.

Emma jumped in her own skin.

Then she watched him ever so slowly suck a plump tidbit of white backfin meat from a tendon. He licked his lips. He made a raspy sound somewhere between a moan and a sigh of pleasure.

"All right. Friendly business it is, Dr. Jenkins." His eyes were hot and mischievous. "Would you say you're satisfied with the progress we're making with Hairy?"

Emma didn't know if the speech and language center of her frontal lobe still functioned. She couldn't take her eyes off him-the man knew what he was doing. Yes, indeedydoo. He worked to a nice, even rhythm. He knew how to pace himself. Spreading. Pulling. Licking. Grinding. Eating.

"I think I'm getting real close to being satisfied," she said.

Emma let the very tips of her fingers brush against a few of the places she now imagined him putting his mouth-the hollow at the base of her throat, her temples, her lips. She absently dropped her hand to the tops of her breasts and lazily dragged her fingers over her cleavage.

Thomas nearly howled-she'd just left a glittering smear of butter on her breasts! How thoughtful of her to provide the condiments, because he'd long ago decided her breasts would taste like hot bread right out of the oven-and he planned on doing some serious carbo-loading.

"I think we work well together," he mumbled, his eyes glued to her butter-topped flesh.

"Uh-huh," she agreed.

Emma wiggled around on the bench, horribly uncomfortable. Her dress suddenly felt way too tight. Her underwear didn't feel tight enough.

And it was back-Bing! Ring! Ring! Bing!-as his eyes flashed in the tiki torch flame, his skin glowed bronze in contrast to the white shirt and white teeth, and as his pulse throbbed beneath the tender skin of his throat.

She reached for her beer-suddenly parched-and brushed her fingertips up and down the sweating neck of the Corona bottle. "Thank you for keeping things businesslike between us, Thomas," she said.

"Of course." He smacked his lips. "I think we both know it's always going to be serious business with us."

Emma let go with a soft, strangled whimper. And right then, she knew, she was about to behave like a very bad girl.

What is Emma doing? Thomas's heart pounded. His throat constricted. And he watched-oh, yeah, he watched.

She looked up innocently from under those thick, black lashes and raised the beer bottle to her lips. Moisture beaded and dripped down the side of the bottle. Her lips glistened.

Ever so slowly, she inserted the rounded tip of the bottle into her mouth, pulled it out once to let her tongue swirl around the slick ridge of glass, then pushed it between her lips.

Then she swallowed.

Thomas was going down-down into the vortex without any hope of rescue. Which was fine with him.

She let the bottle slip out again with a faint sucking noise, keeping the very tip of her pink tongue inside the opening. Then she repeated the whole excruciating process before she set the bottle down with shaking hands.

"Serious business," she whispered, slipping her little pink tongue along her wet bottom lip.

Thomas was inpain from the chest down. He grabbed the mallet. He grabbed the last crab on the platter. And he began to hammer out a slow, sure rhythm, his eyes fused with hers, hot and penetrating.

Pound.

Pound.

Pound.

Pound.

Until the poor crustacean was mashed to a pulp, and Emma grabbed the edge of the picnic table and pressed her thighs together as she felt the tingle radiate to her scalp, her toes, realizing, as it was happening, that she was spontaneously combusting right there on the outdoor dining deck of Bayside Stella's, while an impatient crowd stood around waiting for a table.

Emma didn't quite know how she came to be standing in the parking lot a few moments later, car keys in hand, Thomas at her side. Perhaps it was for the best.

But there she was, and then Thomas was standing in front of her with that pained look on his face again and he was saying the strangest thing…

"I paid your consulting fee, Emma. I couldn't get it authorized, so I used my own money."

"What?" She fell against the Montero as if he'd pushed her.

"If I hadn't, you wouldn't have had any reason to spend time with me. I misled you and I'm sorry. It wasn't right."

Emma couldn't get enough oxygen to her brain. She was still buzzing from that very strange and very extraordinary public orgasm-and he'd lied to her. Again! She'd performed beer-bottle fellatio for a man who could not tell the truth!

The next thing she knew, she was driving away, alone, glad that they'd taken separate cars. Within minutes, she pulled into a 7-Eleven parking lot, cut the engine, and sat there in the dark.

The first two words out of her mouth came in a hoarse whisper.

"Oh," she said.

"My," she said.

Then she took a huge breath, and let it out.

"Gaaaawd!"

Then she cried.

In his Audi, Thomas's hands shook even though he gripped the leather steering wheel with all his might. He clicked on a Thelonious Monk CD and tried to calm himself.

He clicked it off immediately and stared at the road ahead in silence.

I am in one very large, big-time, bad-ass, hell of a mess.

He drove faster.

I'm completely in love with Emma Jenkins and she hates me.

He drove faster still.

What a bad time to tell her the truth.

He looked at his watch.

And now I have to go to work.