by Lisa Jackson
Rachelle steeled herself, but decided to tell Heather everything. It was going to come out sooner or later anyway. “David and I broke up.”
The “I told you so” forming on Heather’s lips didn’t get past her tongue because at that instant the sound of a motorcycle engine split the night. “Oh, don’t tell me,” Heather whispered, walking to the window and peering through the blinds. “I don’t believe it!”
Rachelle’s heart soared. He’d come back. Just when she’d convinced herself that, like before, he wasn’t going to return, he was back! “Believe it.”
“But a motorcycle? Is he going through his second childhood or what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Mommy?” Adam, his eyes glazed, a tattered blanket wound in one chubby fist, walked groggily into the room.
“Oh, sweetheart. You woke up.” In an instant all thoughts of Jackson disappeared as Heather picked up her son and clung to him with a desperation that seemed out of proportion to the circumstances. She nuzzled his neck and he ducked her kisses. “Are you hungry? I’ve got soup and bread and salad.”
“I hate salad!” Adam said. He had one arm thrown around his mother’s neck and he peeked at Rachelle over Heather’s shoulders. His skin was paler than usual, Rachelle thought, and she was surprised that he was napping at this time of day. His light brown hair was sticking up at all angles and his gray eyes didn’t hold their usual sparkle. Maybe it was the change in his routine.
Rachelle’s thoughts were interrupted by the doorbell.
She didn’t know if she had the stamina to deal with Jackson at this moment, but, obviously, she had no choice. She opened the door and he entered with the scent of fresh air and pine. His hair was windblown, his cheeks red, his gaze touching hers for an instant before landing full force on Heather. “I heard you talked to Fitzpatrick—”
“This is my sister, Heather,” Rachelle cut in. “You remember?”
Jackson didn’t crack a smile, but then his contact with Heather had been minimal and only after the sordid mess with Roy had been exposed. “We’ve met.”
Heather’s smile was brittle. “I heard you came back to Gold Creek.”
“Looks like I’m not the only one.”
“Heather’s here visiting Mom,” Rachelle explained as the tension in the air fairly snapped. What was it about Jackson that made everyone bristle?
“And who’s this?” Jackson asked, spying the boy. His features softened as he touched Adam’s chin.
To Heather’s credit, she didn’t shrink away. “This is my son. Adam, this is Mr. Moore.”
“Heather was married to Dennis Leonetti. You remember him… .” Rachelle explained.
Jackson’s lip curled a bit. The Leonetti family, from Coleville, was associated with banking and money.
“We were divorced a couple of years ago,” Heather said, and then, as if to change the subject, she handed Adam to Rachelle and turned her attention back to the stove. “If you haven’t eaten…”
“Be delighted,” Jackson drawled, though his expression was about as far from delight as a person could get.
Rachelle sliced bread and poured each adult a glass of wine. They all needed to relax a little. Even Adam, usually animated, seemed out of sorts. He wouldn’t touch his soup and ended up curled on a corner of the couch, his blanket clutched tightly to his chest, an old quilt tossed over his slim shoulders.
The meal was tense, the conversation stilted and Rachelle poured herself a second glass of wine. Heather asked about Jackson’s work and his reasons for being back in Gold Creek and he responded quickly, admitting that a particularly interesting case had lured him back to Manhattan for a few days, but that he’d returned on the first possible flight. The glance he sent Rachelle turned her cheeks a vibrant pink.
Heather didn’t miss the exchange and, blowing her bangs from her eyes, shook her head. “So you came back,” she said to Jackson.
“I’ve got some unfinished business here.” Again his gaze touched Rachelle’s as he poured them each a final glass of wine. Her heart was thundering under his stare, and yet she tried to act calm and nonchalant in front of Heather. He shoved his empty soup bowl aside.
“Your business here?” Heather persisted. “Legal matters?”
He smiled a crooked half grin. “You could say that.” He studied his wine, rotating the glass between his fingers.
“Big client?”
He leaned forward, balancing his elbows on the table. “I’m working for myself.”
Rachelle explained, “Jackson’s decided to clear his name. He’s going to try to find out who killed Roy Fitzpatrick.”
Heather eyed him skeptically. “It’s been eleven years.”
“Twelve,” Jackson corrected.
“A long time to cover up the truth.”
“A long time to live with a lie,” Jackson replied, his gaze cutting as it moved from Heather to Rachelle.
Somehow they finished the meal. Heather made excuses about getting Adam to his grandma’s and putting him to bed, and Rachelle was relieved that the inquisition was over, at least for the time being. She hugged Adam thoroughly and promised that the next time she saw him, she’d have something special for him.
“Will ya really?” Adam asked, his eyes growing bright for the first time that evening.
“You betcha, sport.”
He kissed the crook of her neck and whispered that he loved her and even though he was responding to her bribe, she squeezed him all the tighter. “I love you, too,” she agreed, knowing that this special feeling she had with Adam was one of the reasons she couldn’t marry anyone who didn’t want children. There was just so much love she could give a child—her child.
“We’ll see Aunt Rachelle again tomorrow,” Heather said, peeling her son from Rachelle’s arms.
“And she’ll bring me a surprise.”
Heather’s gaze caught her sister’s. “If she remembers.”
“You’ll ’member, won’cha?” Adam demanded.
“’Course I will.” She rumpled Adam’s hair and he giggled, some of his color returning as Heather carried him outside.
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Heather whispered to Rachelle as she carried Adam down the steps.
“Trust me.”
Heather cast a dubious look Jackson’s way, then bit her lower lip. “I know you haven’t asked for my advice,” she whispered to Rachelle.
“But you’re going to give it to me anyway.”
“Right. Don’t listen to Mom. Or Dad. Or anyone else in this town. I know I called and said some pretty horrid things about Jackson, but you can’t blame me. He did hurt you.” She touched Adam’s button of a nose. “But if you love him, and it’s my guess that you do,” she added quickly when Rachelle was about to protest, “then stick by him.”
“This isn’t the kind of advice I’d expect from you.”
“I know. But I think it’s important to be happy and follow your heart.”
Rachelle thought she read something more in her sister’s serious gaze, but Heather stepped off the porch and nearly slipped on the bottom step. “I guess we’d better fix that,” she said, eyeing the rotting wood. “I’ll talk to Mom about it.” She hauled Adam to her car. Rachelle stood on the porch and waved; Jackson, who had lingered in the doorway, stood next to her. They watched as Heather’s sleek car pulled out of the drive.
“I thought you’d end up like her, you know. Husband, kids, house with a white picket fence and a station wagon in the garage. The whole bit.”
“It didn’t work out that way.” They walked into the house together and Rachelle was aware of the ambiance of the little cottage—the fire, the near-empty bottle of wine, the cozy rooms with shadowy corners. The curtains were drawn, the lights turned down. The setting was too intimate, inviting romance. Though what she and Jackson shared was as far from romance as a couple could get.
“Why not? Why didn’t you settle down?”
Her heart ached a li
ttle and she felt him near her, smelled his masculine scent. “Didn’t meet the right guy, I guess.”
At the table, he turned a chair around and straddled it. “What about this David? Is he the right guy?”
Rachelle couldn’t lie. She shook her head. “I don’t think so. What about you?”
He laughed, his eyes glinting. “Maybe I just haven’t met the right woman.”
“I don’t think there is a right woman for you.”
“Oh, no?” His gaze moved lazily up her body, inch by inch. Her heart began to hammer, and to break the seductive spell he was weaving, she began stacking dishes in the sink. She should tell him to leave, to just go jump on his motorcycle and leave her alone. But she didn’t. Because, damn it, she didn’t want him to leave. There was something compelling about Jackson, something innately dangerous and yet strong and safe. She was pulled apart when she was with him, wanting to prove her independence one instant while ready to lean on him the next.
She turned on the water, nearly scalded herself and swore softly. Jackson unnerved her. She couldn’t do anything right when he was near.
She didn’t hear him approach but sucked in her breath when his arms surrounded her waist and he pressed the flat of his hands against her abdomen. A warm desire spread through her and she swallowed hard. She didn’t want him to touch her, knew the dangerous territory to which it would lead, and yet she couldn’t form the words to make him stop.
“We don’t need to be at each other’s throats,” he said, pulling her closer still, breathing in the scent of her hair.
She felt her resistance ebb as his smell and touch enveloped her. Her buttocks rested against his thighs and she felt his hardness.
Deep emotions stirred within her, but thoughts of refusing him had already disappeared. His lips were on her throat as he turned her in his arms.
“I told myself I’d never kiss you again,” he admitted, his voice a low rasp. “But even then I knew I was lying.”
His mouth found hers with a hunger that stole the breath from her lungs. She closed her eyes and let the kiss consume her, knowing the fires he was stoking deep in her soul were sure to burn hotter still.
She opened her mouth to him, let him carry them both to the floor, and when he began to remove her clothes, she didn’t stop. Instead her own fingers discovered the buttons of his shirt and the snap at the waistband of his jeans. She touched the naked wonder of him and explored each supple curve of his body. Her fingers traced his spine and pushed his pants over his buttocks as he disposed of her clothes.
Firelight cast flickering shadows over their bodies and sweat began to collect on their skin.
Jackson kissed her eyes, her lips, her throat, her breasts, and she tasted the salt on his skin as she kissed him back. Their arms and legs twined and she was so hot, she could barely breathe.
He stretched out beside her, one big hand resting on the curve of her waist. His eyes held hers and she felt as if she were losing herself to him. She tried to break the spell, but was unable. “Make love to me, Rachelle,” he whispered, and kissed the fine shell of her ear.
She moaned her response, her arms winding around his neck as she dragged his head close to hers and met his eager mouth with her own. Staring up at him, she watched as his lean body moved ever so slightly so that he was astride her.
“I can’t stop this,” he said in near apology.
“Neither can I.” Again she kissed him, her tongue delving deep into his mouth. With a shudder, he urged her legs apart with his knees.
“I can’t get enough of you,” he admitted as he plunged into her warmth. It was as close as an admission of love as she was going to get, and Rachelle clung to him, wrapping her arms and legs around him and meeting the passion of his thrusts and closing her eyes as the tide of desire swept her closer and closer to that whirling climax that ripped through her soul.
With a cry, Jackson fell upon her, flattening her breasts and breathing hard. He twined his fingers in her hair and held her face between his hands. Gazing down at her in wonder, he kissed her forehead. “I didn’t plan this, you know.”
“Neither did I.”
“I didn’t want it.”
“I know.”
“But I just can’t seem to stop. I tell myself to keep my hands off you. I give myself a list of reasons to stay away from you that is completely logical. But I can’t stay away.”
She smiled softly and touched the corner of his mouth. “Neither can I, Counselor,” she said with a giggle. “It’s crazy…I know that as much—maybe more—than you do.”
“What’re we going to do?”
She looked up at him and raised a wicked eyebrow. “For the rest of the night?”
“For the rest of our lives?”
A thick lump formed in the back of her throat. She could barely breathe. “I think we should take it slow.”
“Slower than twelve years?”
She had to laugh then. To her surprise, he rolled off her, picked her up and carried her stark naked into the back bedroom. “I think it’s time we did this properly,” he said, dropping her onto the old double bed.
“You? Proper?” She giggled again, and this time he flung himself down on the bed beside her. “Don’t make me laugh.”
“Actually, I was thinking of making you do a lot of things, lady. But laughing wasn’t near the top of the list.”
“What is?” she asked, a naughty spark lighting her eyes.
“I’ll show you.” And then, throwing the covers over them, he kissed her hard and didn’t stop for a long, long time.
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING RACHELLE awoke to the smells of hot coffee and burned toast. She touched the bed where Jackson had lain, but the sheets were cold. Stretching, she smiled to herself. Waking up with Jackson felt right. She threw on her robe and found Jackson seated at the table, sipping coffee and staring at the contents of a file folder. He glanced up at her approach. “‘Morning.”
Spying his work spread out on the table, she said, “Look, before you bury yourself in that, I think you should know that I lied to you.”
He stiffened, his eyes narrowing a fraction. “What about?”
“About the fact that I really do need an interview with you…my editor was insistent. You were so damned arrogant about it, I couldn’t admit that you were right.” She tossed her hair from her face. “Forgive me?”
He tapped a pen to his lips. “I guess,” he said, then grinned.
“What’s this?” she asked, covering her mouth to stifle a yawn as she gazed at the file folder that held his attention.
“Homework.”
“From New York?” She wandered over to the coffee-maker and poured herself a cup of the fresh brew.
“Not exactly.” He leaned back in his chair and smiled up at her. “I’ve had a change of heart. Remember when I asked you to stay out of my business?”
“How could I forget? Subtle isn’t your middle name.”
“All right, all right, so maybe I made a mistake.”
“What? An apology?” She feigned surprise as she shoved her hair from her face.
His eyes narrowed in good-natured anger. “Are you going to hear me out or give me a bad time?”
“Hopefully a little of both.” Cradling her cup, she plopped down in a chair next to his. “What’s this?”
“The information I got from a private investigator.”
“On?” she asked, her stomach dropping. Had he hired a detective to look into her life?
“On everyone who could’ve been involved in Roy’s death.” All the teasing light dimmed in his eyes. “You’re here, as well as your friends.”
Rachelle’s stomach knotted as she began scanning the individual reports. Jackson was right. Her name fairly leapt off the page—along with her phone number, address, Social Security number and California driver’s license number. A credit report and her credit history came next, then a quick résumé of her accomplishments, her education and her current
working address and job description.
With the turn of each page, she became more furious; she felt that Jackson had asked a perfect stranger to put together her life, file and label it accurately, then stuff it into a neat envelope for Jackson to dissect as he pleased.
The typewritten biography started with her birth, her parents, her sister, even including how much money her father and mother made. She read about her parents’ divorce, her father’s affair with a younger woman and her own involvement with Jackson. The report mentioned her termination of employment at the Clarion and the fact that she gave up most of her extracurricular activities after the night Roy Fitzpatrick died. The investigation went further, following her through college and her career. David was mentioned, as was her boss, Marcy, and friends she’d made over the years. Attached to the back page were photocopies of newspaper reports, primarily from the Gold Creek Clarion, about her as a witness—the sole witness—who could get Jackson Moore off the hook for Roy Fitzpatrick’s murder.
By the time she’d finished reading, her insides were shredding. “Thorough, isn’t he?” she asked, her lips pressed hard against each other. She felt betrayed by Jackson. He had no right to order out a copy of her life and study it as if it were some new cure for a fatal disease.
“I hope he is. Otherwise I paid him a lot of money for nothing.”
“Except to get your jollies from reading the dirt on everyone in town.”
He looked up sharply. “You’re offended?”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
“I’m only trying to get to the bottom of this.”
“By having me investigated? You didn’t trust me—even after I stood up for you.”
He sighed, set his cup down and leaned back in his chair. As if the strain of sitting for hours was beginning to get to him, he rubbed his eyes. “I didn’t want to put any restraint on Timms. I figured I needed a fresh outlook on an old crime. So I told him to look into everyone involved, including myself.”
“That’s crazy.”
He shuffled through a pile of reports and tossed one to her. Sure enough, it was labeled Jackson Moore and listed his address, phone number and place of employment.
