Secrets and Lies: He's a Bad BoyHe's Just a Cowboy

by Lisa Jackson

  “I never thought you killed anyone,” she replied. “But I wondered why you didn’t tell me about it. Or why you never mentioned to the police that you’d taken a post-midnight stroll.”

  “Probably for the same reasons you didn’t,” he snarled back.

  She lifted her chin a fraction. “You walked out on me, Jackson. Walked out and never looked back. It didn’t matter to you that I had nearly an entire year left of high school, that I had to suffer for your guilt—or your innocence.”

  His skin was stretched taut over his face and his eyes glittered at the injustice of her words.

  “It’s hard for me to even talk to you,” she admitted.

  “You hate me that much?”

  She hesitated a second, paused on the brink of the abyss she was certain would swallow her if she admitted to having any feelings for him. All the scars of the past were slowly being opened, hurting again, aching. Her head began to throb, and she swallowed with difficulty.

  “Oh, God, Rachelle. Don’t hate me,” he pleaded, his voice a low rasp. Desperation shadowed his eyes.

  She thought her heart might break all over again. She had to remind herself that Jackson was the one who had broken it in the first place. Finally, after all those years, the pieces were healing. With a little love and tenderness, all the pain would soon disappear into vague memories that she would lock away forever.

  “Talk to me,” he commanded in a voice as dry as a winter wind.

  “I—I can’t.”

  His fingers gripped her flesh. “What is it?”

  Her throat ached with unshed tears, but she forced the words over her tongue, and once they started, she couldn’t call them back. “You asked me not to hate you,” she said, shaking her head. “Well, I have no choice. I hate you for what you put me through, I hate you for ruining my parents’ trust in me and I hate you for making me love you, because I did, you know. I thought I loved you.” She laughed and felt the sting of improbable tears at her confession. “I felt like Joan of Arc, or some other martyred saint, because I knew, deep in my heart, that you’d come back, that you’d explain that you cared for me, that you’d prove you were innocent and everything would be all right.” She blinked hard at her own foolishness. “I was stupid enough to believe that you’d come back for me, Jackson, and I clung, like the silly fool I was, to that hope for years.” She yanked her arm away from his rough hand and shook her head. “So excuse me if I don’t invite you in, okay? I’m just not up for any more heartache.”

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said simply.

  “But you did. Every day that you didn’t call. Every time I walked to the mailbox hoping for a letter and finding nothing. Every night when I waited, patiently, praying that you’d come back. You hurt me. Maybe that’s not fair, maybe you could tell me that I was a fool and that I only hurt myself, and you may be right. But it’s easier, after all this time, to just blame you.”

  His tortured gaze searched hers. “I never figured you for taking the easy way out.”

  That hurt. Like the sting of a wasp. “Like you did?”

  “I had no options,” he replied, but she noticed the doubts surfacing in his eyes, the regret and pain.

  “Everyone I’ve seen in this town has given me only one piece of advice,” she said, “and for once, I think I’ll take it.”

  “Let me guess—”

  “They say that I should stay away from you, that you’ve always been trouble and always will be trouble.”

  “They’re right.”

  “Then you won’t mind if I say good-night.” She didn’t wait for a response, just reached for the door and started to swing it shut, but he pressed his palm against the peeled-paint surface and flung the door open with such pure physical force that the knob banged loudly against the wall. Java scurried down from the windowsill and, hissing, dashed into the night.

  “I do mind,” Jackson told her. “I mind a lot.”

  “Jackson, just get out of here—oh! What’re you doing?”

  He grabbed her so quickly, she couldn’t escape. His arms were around her and constricting her body. She tried to push away, but he was so much stronger. Then his head lowered and he pressed his lips to hers.

  As if he realized what he was doing, he snapped his head back sharply and eyed her. “I didn’t mean to—” He broke off, as if seeing her own uncertainty, and kissed her again.

  She didn’t want the feel of his mouth on hers and told herself that she would fight him tooth and nail. But his lips were warm and supple; they demanded her to yield, which she steadfastly refused to do.

  Her blood grew hot, and she convinced herself that she was having a purely animal response. Yes, Jackson was a masterful lover—she knew that from years ago. And he’d undoubtedly had a lot of practice. But she wouldn’t succumb to his charms; she wouldn’t! He moved against her, forcing her backward until her shoulder blades and hips met the resistance of the wall. And still he didn’t stop the plunder of her senses as he kissed her with a hunger so wild she thought she might faint.

  Her body responded, and she silently cursed herself. She would ignore the tingles crawling up her spine if it were the last thing she did in this lifetime. And she wouldn’t feel the persuasive stroke of his hands against her back, or the inviting feel of his tongue rimming her lips. She wouldn’t! She’d hit and kick and struggle to make him stop.

  But his lips were magical. They chased away all her hard-fought intentions. The smell of creaking leather and musky aftershave brought back bittersweet memories that caused tears to clog her throat. The wall of his chest was familiar and felt as right this night as it had all those years ago…

  His tongue pressed against her teeth, and she, unwillingly, opened her mouth to him. She tingled as their breaths mingled and his tongue danced with hers.

  This is crazy. This is wrong. This is exactly the kind of madness you should avoid!

  She thought of Roy and how he’d tried to force himself upon her all those years ago, but this was different; a part of her longed for Jackson’s touch, a small portion of her wanted to believe that they had shared a passion that was as enduring as it was hot.

  And yet her struggles slowly diminished, and her lips, swollen from the ravenous passion of his kiss, wanted more. Her knees sagged and she only stood because she was pinned against the wall, Jackson’s hard body pressed into her chest and abdomen, her back squeezed against the plaster.

  Desire flared like a match and ran quick as wildfire through her veins. His fingers wove through her hair, touching her neck, her throat, her breasts through her sweater. And she didn’t stop him. Couldn’t. Weak with lust, she clung to him until he stepped away from her.

  “Don’t ever tell me you don’t want me,” he said, breathing hard, “because I’ll never believe you.”

  She slapped him. With a smack, her palm smashed into his face. “And don’t you ever try anything like that again,” she shot back, hoping to wound him as deeply as he’d hurt her. She was still reeling from the sting of his words. “I’m more than a few female body parts that you can will into submission. If you ever come at me like a caveman again, I’ll have you up on charges so fast, your head will spin!”

  His fist curled, but he stepped away from her, his mouth drawn into a hard, uncompromising line.

  Rage consumed her and she was shaking. “Don’t ever touch me again, Jackson. You saved me once, from Roy. And then you seduced me. But it won’t work again.”

  He lifted a dark brow that silently and insolently called her a liar. “Who seduced whom, Rachelle? Am I mistaken, or weren’t you the one who wouldn’t stop, who wanted a taste of adventure, who wanted to experience sex?”

  She reached up to slap him again, but he caught her wrist and drew her close. His face was mere inches from hers and his breath, hot and angry, washed over her. “Don’t even think about it,” he warned, and she shivered from a mixture of fear and anticipation.

  “I never, never wanted sex from you! I ju
st got caught up in the moment. I assume, from the way you took off after the police investigation, that you felt the same. My problem was that I romanticized what we did into something more than what it was. But that’s over, Jackson. I’m grown up and believe in reality, not some silly romantic fantasy about you and me.”

  “So why’re you back in Gold Creek, Rachelle?” he asked as he slowly released her.

  “What?”

  “If you’re not here because of me, I’d like to know why you felt compelled to return.”

  “I told you—I’m doing a series of columns on—”

  “Bull!”

  “Excuse me?” she asked, astonished at the man’s gall.

  “You’re here for the same reason I am. You’re just not admitting it to yourself. You want to get on with your life and you can’t, not while there’s so much of the past still unsettled.”

  He’d hit so close to the mark, she was stunned and she knew her surprise registered on her face. Yet she couldn’t allow him the satisfaction of that particular admission. “You have nothing to do with the reasons I came back.”

  He barked out a short, mirthless laugh. “Tell that to someone who’ll believe it, Rachelle,” he said as he sauntered back through the door and left.

  CHAPTER NINE

  NOTHING WAS SETTLED. In fact, things were worse now than when he first set foot back on Gold Creek soil.

  Lying on the motel room bed, Jackson tossed his key ring into the air and caught it. He’d figured on a lot of things when he’d returned. He hadn’t been surprised at the cool reception he’d received in town and he’d expected a hassle when he went to the Gold Creek police department and asked for information, but he hadn’t guessed that one feisty little woman would get to him. And she had. In a big way.

  Ignore her. Stay away from her. Keep your distance. He’d warned himself off her a hundred times in the past twenty-four hours and yet he couldn’t get her out of his mind. Swinging his feet from the bed in frustration, he stretched. His entire body was tense, coiled, as if ready to strike. And seeing Rachelle hadn’t helped relax him at all. He’d been in town nearly a week and in that time he’d learned next to nothing. His friend at the attorney general’s was still “working on things” and Timms, the private investigator he’d hired, told him, “This kind of work takes time. Hell, it’s been twelve years, what’s the rush?”

  The rush was Rachelle. She’d been the siren’s call that had brought him back here and now she was intent on shoving him out the door. As if she, too, weren’t here to settle old scores.

  Well, things were going to change. He hadn’t traveled across the country just to stroll through the shrines built to the Fitzpatrick family. He had business to do, and he’d better do it and get out of town while his feelings for Rachelle were still somewhat under control.

  What a laugh! Who was he kidding? Whenever he was with her, control was the last thing on his mind. When he thought of the last time he’d seen her, how he’d physically shoved her up against the wall and kissed her—forced her into submission—his stomach churned. When it got down to basic animal lust, maybe he and Roy Fitzpatrick hadn’t been so different after all! The thought disgusted him and he told himself that from here on in, he wouldn’t push himself on Rachelle. He’d take it slow. Despite the freight train of adrenaline that rushed through his body every time he set eyes on her.

  The phone rang and he answered it with a gruff, “Moore.”

  “So you’re still alive and kicking, eh?” his partner, Boothe Reece, asked over a poor connection that linked him to New York. “I thought maybe you’d taken a permanent powder.”

  “I’ve been busy,” Jackson said, walking to the window and stretching the cord of the phone so that he could survey the day. Warm rays of California sunshine were flooding the street outside. A kid on a bike rode by, a dog chasing after him in a slow lope. Gold Creek. Homey. Warm. Cozy.

  Unless you were Jackson Moore.

  “Things are heating up here,” Boothe said, bringing Jackson back to the conversation. “We’ve got a case I think you’ll be interested in. Since you said you didn’t want to be bothered while you were in California, I tried to brush her off, but the client insists she wants to deal with you.”

  He should feel the first rush of adrenaline now—that spark of interest whenever a new case was brought his way, but he didn’t. “She’ll have to wait.”

  “She doesn’t have much time. The D.A.’s pressing hard.”

  Jackson scowled and, still watching the kid and dog ride through the park, rested one shoulder against the wall. “What’s the deal?”

  “The client is Alexandra Stillwell—ring any bells?”

  “Vaguely.” He tried to remember. Then it clicked. Stillwell Oil—a small, independent company that had survived without yet becoming part of the bigger, national oil conglomerates.

  “Well, she’s money—big money. Heiress to an oil fortune.”

  “I’m with you. Her father died recently, right?”

  “Killed two weeks ago. Freak accident on his sailboat. Alexandra was there. Some people think it was just that—an accident—that the old man’s number was up. He’d been drinking, popping some pills and slipped on the stairs, knocking his head. Others are conjecturing that it was suicide, some of the old man’s debts were being called and he didn’t have enough cash to cover them, and he didn’t want to sell his company. So some people figured he was going to kill himself one way or the other.”

  “But not everyone thinks this way.”

  “Nope. There are a few others, including our illustrious district attorney, who thinks Alexandra did the old man in. She claims she’s innocent, of course, that even as sole heir she would never do anything to hurt her father.”

  “You believe her?” Jackson asked, trying to keep the skepticism from his voice. For every client he represented, he turned a dozen away.

  “I can’t tell. But it doesn’t matter. She won’t deal with anyone but you.”

  Jackson plowed a hand through his hair. A week ago he would have jumped at a case like this. Now the scandal and notoriety didn’t intrigue him. “I’m gonna be tied up here awhile.”

  “She can’t wait.”

  “Then she’ll have to get someone else.”

  There was a long sigh on the other end of the line, and Jackson could imagine Boothe drumming impatient fingers on the desk. Boothe, a veteran of the Vietnam conflict, was fifteen years older than Jackson and, in Jackson’s opinion, twice as tough. He didn’t like taking no for an answer and was as stubborn as a mule when he wanted to be.

  “Look, I don’t get it, man,” Boothe cajoled. “You’ve spent the last four years making a name for yourself and now a case like you’ve never dreamed of is dropped in your lap and you’re not interested.”

  “I didn’t say I wasn’t interested. Just that she had to wait.”

  “Why? What could possibly be more intriguing in that little fork in the road than the Stillwell case?”

  What indeed? Jackson thought as he told his partner to have someone do the preliminary work and promised to fly back to Manhattan for a day or two later in the week. Maybe he needed a little time and space away from Gold Creek to put his reasons for coming here into fine focus. Ever since seeing Rachelle again, he seemed to have lost his sense of purpose. Instead, his purpose had shifted to her.

  He needed to get out of Dodge, so to speak. He’d personally visit the investigator he’d hired in San Francisco. The man hadn’t returned any of his calls for four days, and Jackson wondered if he’d skipped out with his two-thousand-dollar retainer.

  As for what he found so fascinating in Gold Creek, the answer to his partner’s question was simple: Rachelle Tremont and an old murder case that had never been solved.

  He decided he couldn’t sit around and wait for the phone to ring any longer. He was going out of his mind. He had to keep moving, start making things happen.

  First things first, he decided, snagging his leath
er jacket by the collar. Thomas Fitzpatrick was back in town, and Jackson figured it was time they met. He had only one stop to make on the way and that was at a motorcycle dealership on the outskirts of town. The rental car bored him, and he felt the yen of a bike. He’d lost something in Manhattan—something of himself. A part of him that had been wild and free and wanted to race with the wind. The edge.

  In New York he didn’t drive often; he only did when he left the city. And the Mercedes that sat in his garage for days on end was a symbol—a symbol he’d grown to hate.

  With a grim smile he walked outside and climbed into the rental. He drove to the agency, handed over the keys and paid his bill. Then, stuffing his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket, he started walking. The motorcycle showroom was a mile away, but the day was warm and he needed the fresh air to clear his head.

  * * *

  THE MOTORCYCLE DEALERSHIP was small, with black bars across the windows and eight bikes displayed side by side. He picked out his machine without a second glance at the other cycles. He bought the big, black Harley—a newer model of the bike he’d left in Gold Creek years before.

  For the next half hour, he toured the town and surrounding hills, putting the bike through its paces, getting used to the machine and feeling the long-lost exhilaration of the wind against his face.

  Satisfied that he’d mastered the beast, he took off. In a roar of exhaust, he ripped through the gears and drove straight to the Fitzpatrick home, a brick-and-stucco Tudor set upon a hill on the outskirts of the town.

  Fortunately, the wrought-iron gates were open and Jackson drove up the lighted brick drive for the first time in his life. The Fitzpatricks had lived here for years, but never before had he been on the grounds. The lawn was lush and trimmed and a rose garden was just beginning to bloom. A tiered fountain sprayed water to a series of man-made ponds that were the home for schools of orange-and-black fish that swam beneath the surface, their scales glinting in the sunlight as they moved between spreading lily pads.

  The grounds were trimmed meticulously, shade trees planted in strategic locations, flowers blooming profusely in wide terra-cotta planters on the front porch.