Public Secrets Part 130

Beautiful, nervous, and from out of town, Michael deduced. Rich, too,

he thought. Both her bag and her shoes were leather and expensive. And

there was the dull glint of real gold at her wrist and ears. There was

the way she moved that whispered of wealth and privilege. Her hands

might have given away her nerves, but her movements were smooth as a

dancer's.

She didn't hesitate on the walk. Obviously she had made up her mind in

the car to approach him. He caught her scent, light, quietly seductive,

over the fragrance of fresh-cut gra.s.s.

When she smiled, his heart nearly stopped. Shutting off the motor with

one hand and dragging off his headphones with the other, he stared at

her. In the sudden quiet Springsteen and the E Street Band could be

heard jamming metallically.

"h.e.l.lo. I'm sorry to interrupt your work."

His mouth went dry. It was foolish. It was ridiculous. But he

couldn't stop it. That voice-it had played through his head for years.

Sneaking up on him in sleep, in front of the television, in

conversations with other women. When he saw her bite her lip, he

snapped himself together. Taking off his sungla.s.ses, he smiled at her.

"Hi, Emma. Catch any good waves lately?"

Her lips parted in surprise, then recognition and pleasure curved them.

"Michael." She wanted to throw her arms around him. The idea made color

flutter in her cheeks, but she only held out a hand for his. "It's so

good to see you again."

His hand was hard against hers, hard and damp. He released hers almost

immediately to wipe his palm against his worn jeans. "Younever made it

back to the beach."

"No." She continued to smile, but the dimple faded away from the

corner of her mouth. "I never learned to surl I didn't know if you'd

still be living at home."

"Actually, I'm not. I lost a bet with my old man, so he gets free

gardening service for a few weeks." He didn't have a clue what to say to

her. She looked so beautiful, so fragile somehow, standing on the

freshly shorn gra.s.s in her expensive Italian pumps, her pale hair

stirring slightly in the light breeze. "How've you been?" he managed at

last.

"Fine. And you?"

"All right. I've seen your picture now and again. Once you were in one

of those ski places."

"Saint Moritz."

"I guess." Her eyes were the same, he thought. Big, blue, and haunted.

Looking into them made his stomach dance. "Are youvisiting around

here?"

"No. Well, yes. Actually-"

"Michael." He turned at his mother's voice. She stood in the doorway,

neat as a pin. "Aren't you going to ask your friend in for a cold

drink?"

"Sure. Got a few minutes?" he asked Emma.

"Yes. I was hoping to speak to your father."

He felt his hopes deflate like a used party balloon. Where had he