“I just saw her in the hallway. Any idea when she’ll be here?”

  “Not my job to keep up with my coworker’s comings and goings.”

  Jazz stepped closer. “Look, I’m sorry if I was out of line the other night. I didn’t mean to imply you weren’t doing your job.”

  “Really? Felt like that to me.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I was looking out for the kid.”

  “Which suggests I wasn’t.”

  Sheri McGuire obviously held a grudge, which made any chance of getting further information about Emory or Shea out of the question. “Again, not my intent. Have a good day.”

  * * *

  Emory had spotted Jazz in the canteen and intended to cancel their pending date, having reconsidered overnight, but Jazz was with a woman who had a body like a model. Jazz’s eyes were hazy and her skin flushed, sure signs of attraction. After their brief exchange, Emory rushed to the restroom and splashed cold water on her face to erase the image of Jazz attending to the woman the same way she had to her. Her heart ached, but her self-respect hurt more. She’d fallen for Jazz’s self-deprecating manner and smooth talk too easily, and now she was paying for it.

  She stared at her face in the mirror. “You don’t have a chance. You should’ve known better.” The gorgeous stranger was the kind of woman Jazz deserved. They made a perfect couple. She tried not to imagine them naked, touching each other. She splashed her face again. Jean was history, but Emory still harbored the belief she’d never be special to anyone again, especially not someone like Jazz.

  She straightened her suit while her automatic jump to insecurity passed, and then she headed for the office, running a denial scenario in her mind. The woman might be a crime victim or witness, and Jazz had no real interest. But something about Jazz’s expression said she was wrong. She opened the office door, and Sheri was packing her bag. “How was last night?”

  “No problems. Quiet for a change.”

  “Any calls…or visitors this morning?”

  “Nope.”

  “Any more scuttlebutt about privatization?”

  “Not a peep. I’m out. See you tomorrow.”

  Emory made a cup of tea, hung her suit jacket on the back of the chair, and settled behind the desk scanning the night’s entries on the computer, but her mind wandered back to Jazz and the mystery woman in the canteen. The woman’s skin-hugging attire didn’t scream professional, but her look and demeanor certainly did. Who was she and what did she want with Jazz? Emory read the same paragraph three times, but nothing registered. She swiveled toward the small window behind her that let in a slender rectangle of light and rested her teacup against her chest. The view of sky and clouds settled her and helped her think more clearly.

  “Emory?”

  She jerked and tea sloshed down the front of her blouse. “Damn.” She jumped from the chair, pulling the wet, warm fabric away from her skin.

  “Let’s go.” Jazz cupped her elbow and practically ran down the hallway to the employees’ restroom and locked the door behind them. “Take it off. Quick.”

  Without question, Emory pulled the blouse from her skirt and shucked it over her head, not bothering with the buttons.

  Jazz handed her a wet paper towel. “Blot your skin before it burns, then your bra so it won’t stain.” Jazz ran cold water over the blouse in the sink and rinsed it up and down.

  When the shock and fear of burning wore off, Emory realized she’d stared at the computer long enough for the tea to cool a bit. She started laughing and couldn’t stop.

  Jazz gave her a quizzical look. “Are you in shock?”

  “Not at all. Look at us. We’re a comedy act. You’re washing my blouse, which I could never imagine in the real world, and I’m standing half naked dabbing my breasts like a lactating mother who’s had an accident.”

  Jazz propped against the sink, the blouse forgotten, her gaze resting on Emory’s chest. “And you do have magnificent breasts.”

  “What?” The heat scorching Emory’s face and chest had nothing to do with lukewarm tea and everything to do with the hungry look in Jazz’s eyes.

  “God, I’m so sorry,” Jazz said. “That was totally inappropriate. Please forgive me.” She glanced between Emory’s wet blouse in the sink and her damp bra with a face almost as red as Emory’s felt.

  “It’s all right.” Emory turned to survey the damage in the mirror. “Oh, my.” The silk fabric of her bra was almost transparent, highlighting her dark, puckered nipples. “This is embarrassing.”

  “You should never be embarrassed about your body, Emory. Trust me. Here.” She handed Emory a fresh paper towel. “Hold this over your breasts while I examine your chest…for injury. You could have serious burns.”

  Emory took the towels but shook her head. “I’m fine. The tea wasn’t hot. I guess I was more surprised than anything. I’ll be okay, but I’m not so sure about my wardrobe.”

  Jazz turned back to the sink, squeezing and wringing the blouse until it was somewhat clean but a mass of wrinkles. “I hope you have a spare blouse somewhere.”

  “Actually, I do. Years of working with upset children taught me that lesson. If you’ll get it from the bottom drawer of the file cabinet, I’ll take this bra off and try to make it wearable with the hand dryer.”

  “Okay, be right back.”

  Emory locked the door behind Jazz and rested her back against the cool metal. Her body shivered from the arousal she’d seen in Jazz’s eyes. No doubt it was lust, because she’d seen the same expression earlier when Jazz looked at the woman in the canteen. What was their connection? A light tap on the door sidetracked her thoughts.

  “Here’s your blouse.”

  She eased the door open a crack. “Thanks. You can head home. I know you’ve been up all night. I’m fine here.”

  “I’m not leaving until you’re fully dressed and back in your office. I feel responsible for this whole fiasco. I’ll wait at your office, if that’s okay.”

  “Fine. I’ll be out in a few minutes.” She stripped off her bra and held it under the hand dryer until the garment was dry enough to wear. She wiped the tea residue off her breasts, the coarse towel fanning the desire Jazz’s stare sparked. She splashed water on her face again, redressed, and squeezed the water out of her blouse before heading back. “All better.”

  Jazz paced the hallway in front of Emory’s small office. “Again, I’m sorry.”

  “It was an accident.” She stretched her wet blouse over one of the side chairs and moved toward her desk, wanting distance and the solid piece of furniture between them.

  “Did Sheri tell you I came by earlier?” Jazz asked.

  “This morning?”

  “Yes, right after I saw you in the canteen.”

  “She didn’t mention it.” Why wouldn’t she? Sheri was always in a hurry to leave work, so maybe she’d been in too much of a rush or maybe she’d simply forgotten. But she’d asked specifically if she’d had any calls or visitors, and Sheri said no.

  “I wanted to explain who—”

  “You don’t owe me an explanation.” The words tasted bitter as she tried to accept the truth.

  “The woman was Karen Patrick, director and counselor with the US Adoption Agency.”

  “Oh, I see.” The explanation didn’t change what she’d really seen.

  “What do you see?”

  “You’re attracted to her.” She had no right to make such an observation but couldn’t seem to stop. Too much had gone unsaid in her last relationship, and she wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. She and Jazz had shared coffee, lunch, and a working dinner, which didn’t make them soul mates, partners, or even girlfriends. Jazz was free to do as she pleased, but Emory deserved the truth.

  “What?” Jazz’s slightly colored cheeks and the fact she couldn’t meet Emory’s gaze told her everything she feared. “I won’t lie. She’s my type…or has been, but I’m into different now.”

  Emory struggled for something neutral to say so Jazz wouldn’t see how disappointed she was at her admission. Jean had taught her that the right temptation could turn any woman’s head. “She looks about my age.” The realization comforted and confused Emory. Jazz found an older woman attractive, just not her. But the way Jazz looked at her said she was interested. And she wanted something different. Could that mean Emory? Why was this so complicated? “Are you seeing her again?”

  Jazz’s eyes grew wide and she stared at Emory as if she wasn’t sure what to say.

  “You are.” Emory choked down the sick feeling rising in her throat. What she wanted to say and what she had to say warred inside. She hated judging anyone by their outward appearance. Those balms and barbs never considered the real person underneath. “We both want to know more about the agency, and you have to satisfy your curiosity about her. What choice do you have? Besides, we’re not in a thing.” She wanted to take the high road, but was she pushing Jazz into the arms of another woman?

  Jazz tugged her bottom lip with her teeth. “What? But I thought we—”

  “Coffee and two business-related meals, Jazz, that’s all. You’re a free agent. And I was going to tell you that I’d decided against our dinner date.”

  “But what if I—”

  “I need to get back to work.” Emory shuffled papers on her desk to avoid looking at Jazz. “Would you mind closing the door behind you?”

  Jazz didn’t move. “No.”

  “What?” Emory looked up, certain her dismissal would’ve scared Jazz from the room.

  “I want to have dinner with you tomorrow night like we planned. Please, Emory? Don’t let whatever just happened come between us. I don’t plan to.” Then she slowly started toward the door. “Think about it and let me know later.”

  When the door closed behind Jazz, Emory dropped her head in her hands and angrily brushed away a tear. She refused to cry over another woman who would probably choose beauty over substance and break her heart again.

  Chapter Seven

  Emory sliced the cooling meatloaf into meal-sized portions and placed them in containers along with a scoop of green beans and scalloped potatoes. She repeated the process until twelve meals of meatloaf and twelve of chicken lined the kitchen island in her brother’s house. After labeling each with their contents, she stacked them in the freezer and loaded the remainder of the dishes in the dishwasher. The mindless activity relaxed her and gave her uninterrupted time to think. She’d repeated the ritual every month since her mother died four years ago, and every time, her brother objected, also part of the routine.

  The front door slammed, and Ross called, “Something smells great. You still here, sis?”

  “In the kitchen finishing up.”

  Ross dropped his briefcase in a kitchen chair and gave Emory a hug. He was tall and broad like their father, compared to her short, squat features of their mother, and when he hugged her, she always felt safe and loved. “What did you make this month? Wait, let me guess.” He sniffed the air. “Mama’s meatloaf and…I give up.”

  “Barbecued chicken, green beans, and scalloped potatoes. Should last you a while considering how many business meetings you have over dinner.”

  “Thank you, but you don’t have to do this anymore. Most of the grocery stores in the area carry TV dinners that are pretty good quality, and they have deli sections with ready-made meals too. It’s called progress, sis.”

  “I know, but are they as good as a home-cooked meal?”

  “Never, but I could also have the wonderful lady who cleans for me do some light cooking. You make me feel like a charity case.”

  “You could never be a charity case, Ross. And besides, I enjoy cooking.” Ross did financial planning and was making much more money than he knew how to spend, which was why every month she found a generous donation in her bank account from his. She’d asked him to stop, but so far, he hadn’t listened, so she put the extra into savings for her forever home.

  “You’re early today, Em.”

  “Took half a day off to come by. I have plans tonight.” After talking through every excuse she could think of with Diane, she’d finally called Jazz to confirm their dinner plans.

  Ross studied her while he pulled a beer from the fridge, twisted the top off, and took a pull. “Date type plans?”

  “I think so.” She flushed and turned away to wipe the stove again.

  “I love redheads. You can’t hide anything. If you weren’t so honest, I’d still know the truth because of that blush. Just like Mom’s. Is this date someone you’re seriously interested in?”

  “I’m not sure.” When she was around Jazz, everything inside her screamed that she was sure, but when apart, the logical and damaged parts of her urged caution. Women like Jazz didn’t go for women who looked like her, at least not for the long term.

  “As long as she treats you right, I’m fine with it, not like that last one. If I could get my hands on her right now I’d—”

  “Stop, Ross. She’s not worth the breath it’ll take to finish the thought.”

  “Amen to that.” He toasted her with his beer bottle and glanced at the kitchen clock. “You better get moving. Takes forever for you to decide what you’re going to wear, not to mention showering, shaving your legs, putting on makeup, and doing your hair.”

  “You really do notice things, don’t you?” He grinned. “You’re going to make a good husband someday. Any prospects?”

  He shook his head. “The only prospect I want tonight is a few more beers and the football game I taped last night.” He gave her another hug and pushed her toward the front door. “Have a great time. And thank you again for the grub. Love you.”

  Ross was right. It took almost two hours before Emory emerged from her bathroom clean, shaved, moisturized, and makeup lightly applied for a natural look. Now for the hair. Most of the time she loved her long wavy tresses, but tonight they had a case of the frizzies. A French braid would be quick and easy, but she wore that style most days to work and tonight she wanted something different for Jazz. She settled on a braid within a braid, wove a three-strand at her crown, incorporated it into a larger weave, and then pancaked the two together for fullness. For the final touch, she pulled a few wispy strands loose to feather around her face and stood back from the mirror. “At least my hair looks good.”

  She checked the clock. Fifteen minutes until Jazz arrived and six outfits to try on. Less than three minutes each. If she knew where they were going, her choice would be easier, but since Jazz wanted to surprise her, this whole process was a crapshoot. She closed her eyes, spun in a circle, and pointed. When she opened her eyes, she was pointing at a spaghetti-strap gold knee-length dress with lace above the breast. The same color belt wouldn’t visually divide her body into halves like a carnival balloon animal. Added bonus, the dress was comfortable and caressed her body in softness as she moved.

  The final touch, perfume. She reached for her everyday brand, but then spotted the slender bottle of Chanel No. 19 Ross had given her for her birthday tucked behind the other cosmetics on her dressing table. At a hundred dollars a bottle, she used it sparingly, but tonight definitely qualified as a special occasion. The fragrance was a blend of jasmine, rose, iris, and sandalwood, all her favorites in one yummy combination. She spritzed a tiny pump in the air and walked through it on the way to the front door.

  Jazz rang the bell exactly on time, and when she saw Emory, her lips parted in a tiny gasp and her eyes sparked with flecks of gold that matched Emory’s dress. “Oh. My. God. You look amazing. I’m a lucky woman.” She sniffed the air. “And that perfume. It’s like…flowers, but more. Sorry, I’m not very good at describing girly things.”

  “Thank you.”

  Jazz produced a bouquet of three roses, white, red, and yellow, from behind her back and handed them to Emory. “I know this is probably old-fashioned, but you deserve beautiful things.” She leaned in and gave Emory a quick kiss on the cheek. “Is it all right?”

  “I…of course.” Her pulse quickened as she breathed in the fragrant aroma. “I love roses. You’re so thoughtful.” She raised a finger. “Don’t move while I put these in water.” She raced to the kitchen, found a vase, and carefully placed each one in separately. Could Jazz be any more perfect? She took a few extra seconds to calm her heart rate before returning to the entry where Jazz still stood framed in the doorway.

  Emory stopped to drink Jazz in. Her pinstriped suit gave her added height, and the silver Mandarin-collared shirt contrasted with Emory’s gold dress as if they’d coordinated for prom. If Di saw the two of them, she’d say they were totes on fleek, or something similar. Emory licked her lips. “Nice outfit. Who does your clothes shopping?”

  Jazz feigned shock. “How do you know I didn’t pick this out?”

  “Dylan?”

  “Am I such a fashion dinosaur?”

  Emory took Jazz’s arm as they walked toward a black SUV. “I just don’t see you clothes shopping beyond jeans and T-shirts.”

  “You’re right.” Jazz laughed as she opened the door, waited for Emory to climb in, and then lingered against the doorframe staring at her. “I had to go with Dylan though, to try stuff on. Does that count?” Emory grinned. “I hope I haven’t lost cool points.”

  “Not at all. I appreciate the extra effort.” And she was close to swooning at Jazz’s continued gallantry—flowers, compliments, opening the car door, and just the right amount of eye contact and subtle flirting. Her insides twisted with a delicious tingle of desire.

  “May I?” Jazz reached for the hem of Emory’s dress and waited until she nodded. “I just wanted to feel the material. It looks so soft.”

  Jazz’s fingers grazed the skin above Emory’s knee and she sucked in a quick breath. The tingle of desire flared as she watched Jazz caress the fabric between her forefinger and thumb so close to her burning center. “Do you do anything that isn’t sexy?”

  “Sorry?” Jazz let the fabric fall from her fingers and smoothed the dress back over Emory’s knee before she closed the door.

 

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