for her anger. Emily was angry because he could make her body respond without touching her, without asking her permission. Although she shouldn’t be surprised. This was just one more area of her life over which she didn’t have control.
“Maybe you’ve worked,” he allowed. “But do you know what it’s like to be the least important employee in the company? To clean toilets? Punch a clock? To have someone telling you what to do every minute? Because that’s the only kind of job you can get without references.”
Emily almost laughed, and a bitter smile lingered on her lips. Without realizing it, he’d stumbled on the two things she knew better than anything else—hard work and letting someone else run her life. She’d worked with blisters and bruises, sore tendons and muscle pulls. She’d worked twelve-hour days, seven days a week, fifty-twoweeks a year. And every second she had someone telling her how she could do it better.
“Do you think you can do that, Emma?”
“Oh, I think I can manage. I’ve had people telling me when to breathe for twenty years.” She resented his attitude, so much that she didn’t stop to censor her words as she set him straight. “Punching a clock is no different from having to be at a rink at five in the morning, and I can’t imagine a boss any harder to please than my coaches were.”
“Coaches?” Gabe pushed away from the counter, suddenly interested. “Rink?”
Emily caught her breath at her mistake, and the sound of her distress only made her slip more glaring. She could see the wheels turning in Gabe’s mind.
“Twenty years is more than a job,” Gabe said slowly. “In the navy it’s a career. You must have started young and been pretty good to have lasted so long at … skating, was it?”
“Excuse me.” Like a coward, Emily headed for the bathroom and shut the door on his questions.
Left standing alone in the kitchen after Emma’s vanishing act, Gabe resisted the urge to haul her out of the bathroom. Instead, he walked to the living room area and sank down in the chair that faced the bathroom. While he waited for Emma’s reappearance, he searched his mind for the information he wanted.
The closest he got to sports was pool—eight ball, to be precise. Simple rules. One man, one stick, and sink the eight ball last. A simple game and one he understood, unlike ice skating, about which he didn’t have a clue.
He shut his eyes and concentrated. The only names he had a prayer of remembering were Olympic gold medalists. If she hadn’t won a gold, it was pretty hopeless. On the other hand, if she hadn’t won a gold, she wouldn’t be famo—
Gabe’s eyes snapped open. Not Emma.
Emily. Emily Quinn
.
The only thing he could recall about her was that she had a bunch of world championships and had never won an Olympic gold medal. “Always a bridesmaid, never a bride” was how Skeeter Daniel put it.
Some sailors chose
Playboy
models, but not Skeeter. He was an odd little fellow from Minnesota—an expert marksman and jumper who had a real talent for blowing up things. He followed ice skating in general, and Emily Quinn in particular. Thank God for Skeeter, Gabe thought, otherwise he never would have matched Emily Quinn with Emma’s face.
And if he figured it out, then someone else sure as hell would, he reminded himself grimly. Even in a tiny speck of a town like this one.
They might have already
.
Dredging up memories, he tried to compare the woman in his bathroom with Emily-the-Ice-Princess. He remembered looking at the cover of a
Sports Illustrated
that Skeeter had lying around, but there wasn’t the connection to her that he felt tonight.
Because she didn’t need you then
.
As much as he hated it, being needed was a drug to him, an addiction that had been nurtured by repetition over the years. He was addicted to the instant connection forged between people in crisis. Even though heknew all too well that the bond would fade, and he’d be
“Maybe you’ve worked,” he allowed. “But do you know what it’s like to be the least important employee in the company? To clean toilets? Punch a clock? To have someone telling you what to do every minute? Because that’s the only kind of job you can get without references.”
Emily almost laughed, and a bitter smile lingered on her lips. Without realizing it, he’d stumbled on the two things she knew better than anything else—hard work and letting someone else run her life. She’d worked with blisters and bruises, sore tendons and muscle pulls. She’d worked twelve-hour days, seven days a week, fifty-twoweeks a year. And every second she had someone telling her how she could do it better.
“Do you think you can do that, Emma?”
“Oh, I think I can manage. I’ve had people telling me when to breathe for twenty years.” She resented his attitude, so much that she didn’t stop to censor her words as she set him straight. “Punching a clock is no different from having to be at a rink at five in the morning, and I can’t imagine a boss any harder to please than my coaches were.”
“Coaches?” Gabe pushed away from the counter, suddenly interested. “Rink?”
Emily caught her breath at her mistake, and the sound of her distress only made her slip more glaring. She could see the wheels turning in Gabe’s mind.
“Twenty years is more than a job,” Gabe said slowly. “In the navy it’s a career. You must have started young and been pretty good to have lasted so long at … skating, was it?”
“Excuse me.” Like a coward, Emily headed for the bathroom and shut the door on his questions.
Left standing alone in the kitchen after Emma’s vanishing act, Gabe resisted the urge to haul her out of the bathroom. Instead, he walked to the living room area and sank down in the chair that faced the bathroom. While he waited for Emma’s reappearance, he searched his mind for the information he wanted.
The closest he got to sports was pool—eight ball, to be precise. Simple rules. One man, one stick, and sink the eight ball last. A simple game and one he understood, unlike ice skating, about which he didn’t have a clue.
He shut his eyes and concentrated. The only names he had a prayer of remembering were Olympic gold medalists. If she hadn’t won a gold, it was pretty hopeless. On the other hand, if she hadn’t won a gold, she wouldn’t be famo—
Gabe’s eyes snapped open. Not Emma.
Emily. Emily Quinn
.
The only thing he could recall about her was that she had a bunch of world championships and had never won an Olympic gold medal. “Always a bridesmaid, never a bride” was how Skeeter Daniel put it.
Some sailors chose
Playboy
models, but not Skeeter. He was an odd little fellow from Minnesota—an expert marksman and jumper who had a real talent for blowing up things. He followed ice skating in general, and Emily Quinn in particular. Thank God for Skeeter, Gabe thought, otherwise he never would have matched Emily Quinn with Emma’s face.
And if he figured it out, then someone else sure as hell would, he reminded himself grimly. Even in a tiny speck of a town like this one.
They might have already
.
Dredging up memories, he tried to compare the woman in his bathroom with Emily-the-Ice-Princess. He remembered looking at the cover of a
Sports Illustrated
that Skeeter had lying around, but there wasn’t the connection to her that he felt tonight.
Because she didn’t need you then
.
As much as he hated it, being needed was a drug to him, an addiction that had been nurtured by repetition over the years. He was addicted to the instant connection forged between people in crisis. Even though heknew all too well that the bond would fade, and he’d be
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