by Lisa Jackson
Obviously she’d meant nothing more to him than a one-night stand and an easy alibi for Roy Fitzpatrick’s murder. It took all the strength she had to throw the dead bolt and open the door.
A night breeze crept past him, stealing into the room.
“I thought you were in New York,” she said defensively, her reticent tongue working again. She decided she’d better set things straight before he had a chance to say anything. “Isn’t that where you live now, righting all the wrongs against your innocent clients?”
His eyes glittered, and the whisper of a smile caught the edges of his mouth for just a second. “I didn’t come here to talk about my practice.”
“Just in the neighborhood?” she taunted, wanting to wound him and give him just a taste of the pain she’d suffered when he’d abandoned her. All those years. All those damned years!
His thin lips shifted. “Actually, I came to see you.”
“A little late, aren’t you?”
Did he wince slightly, or did the shadow of a moth flutter by the porch light, seeming to change his expression for just a second? “I guess I deserved that.”
“What you deserve I couldn’t begin to describe,” she replied. “But phrases like ‘drawn and quartered,’ ‘boiled in oil’ or ‘tarred and feathered’ come quickly to mind.”
“You don’t think I suffered enough?” he asked, crossing tanned arms in front of a chest that had expanded with the years. He was built more solidly than he had been: broader shoulders, still-lean hips, but more defined muscles. Probably the result of working out with a private trainer or weight-lifting or some such upper-crust urban answer to aging. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him and he looked tougher in real life than he did on camera.
“You didn’t stick around long enough to suffer,” she said.
“What would that have proved?”
That you cared, that you didn’t use me, that I wasn’t so much the fool…. “Nothing. You’re right. You should have left. In fact, I don’t know why you’d want to come back here at all,” she admitted, some of her animosity draining as she stared at his sensual lower lip. Steadfastly, she moved her gaze back to the hard glitter in his eyes.
“I returned for the same reason you did,” he said slowly.
“And why’s that?”
“To settle things.”
“Is that what I’m doing?” He was gazing at her so intently that her heart, which was already beating rapidly, accelerated tempo. Emotions, as tangled and tormented as they had been twelve years before, simmered in the cool night. The sound of traffic from the freeway was muted, and the wind chimes on her porch tinkled softly on a jasmine-scented breeze.
“I take the New York Daily,” Jackson said, his hands in the back pockets of his black jeans. “It carries your column.”
She waited, expecting more of an explanation, and avoided looking into his eyes. Those eyes, golden-brown and penetrating, had been her undoing all those years ago. She’d trusted him, believed in him, and it had cost her. Well, she wouldn’t let his gaze get to her again. Besides, he couldn’t. There was a new jaded edge to him that she found not the least bit appealing.
“I read that you’re doing a series about Gold Creek.”
“That’s right.” Her gaze flew back to his and she straightened her shoulders, determined to deal with him as a professional. An interview with Jackson Moore would be a coup, an article her editor, Marcy, expected, but Rachelle couldn’t imagine talking with him, taking notes, probing into his life as it had been in Gold Creek all those years ago.
“I think we should discuss it.”
“Discuss it?” she repeated, her backbone stiffening as if with steel. “Why would you want—?” She cut herself off, and, folding her arms over her chest, propped one shoulder against the door. “What’re you doing back in Gold Creek?”
His eyes bored deep into hers and she realized suddenly what it must feel like to be a witness squirming on the stand while Jackson, slowly, steadily and without the least bit of compassion, cut her testimony to shreds. “I think you’re about to get yourself into trouble, Rachelle,” he said. “And I want to make sure that you don’t get hurt.”
She laughed. “I don’t need you to protect me. And there’s nothing to be afraid of, anyway.”
“You don’t know what you’re getting into.”
“I do. And if you’re talking about the Fitzpatrick murder, I was there, too. Remember?” Deciding she was probably exercising a blatant error in judgment, she kicked the door open wider. “Why don’t you come in and say whatever it is that’s on your mind?”
“Off the record?” he asked.
“Afraid of what I might write?”
“I’ve been misquoted before.” She thought of the past six years and his meteoric rise to fame, or infamy. He hadn’t been afraid of taking on the most scandalous of cases, many involving the rich and famous, and he’d managed to see that his clients came out smelling like proverbial roses.
One woman, an up-and-coming actress who had a reputation with men, had been accused of shooting her lover after he’d been with another woman. Jackson had come up with enough blue smoke and mirrors to confuse and cloud the issue, and the actress, Colleen Mills, had walked out of the courtroom a free woman. Though the press had tried her in the newspapers and the evidence had been overwhelmingly against Colleen, she was now in Hollywood working on her next film. Rumor had it that she was giving an Oscar-worthy performance, as she had, no doubt, on the witness stand under Jackson’s direction.
He walked into the house and she closed the door after him. He didn’t look like a hotshot New York attorney in his faded black Levi’s, boots and T-shirt. A leather jacket—black, as well—was thrown over one shoulder and she wondered sarcastically if he’d joined a motorcycle gang and roared up on his Harley.
She almost smiled at the thought and realized that he looked much the way she remembered him, though his features had become leaner, more angular with the years. His hair was still on the long side, shiny black and straight, and his eyes, golden-brown and judgmental, didn’t miss a trick. Even the brush of thick lashes didn’t soften his virile male features. His gaze swept the room in one quick appraisal and probably found it lacking.
“It’s late. Why don’t you get to the point?” She perched on the rolled arm of the old overstuffed couch.
“As I said, I read your column.”
She couldn’t help but let a cold smile touch her lips. “Don’t try to convince me that you left your lucrative practice, flew across the country and came back to the village of the damned just because of something I wrote.”
“That’s about the size of it.” He dropped onto the ottoman, so close that his jean-clad knees nearly touched her dangling bare foot. She refused to shift away, but part of her attention was attuned to the proximity of her ankle to the hands he clasped between his parted knees. She wondered if, beneath the denim, there was a faded scar, an ever-present reminder of that night—that one beautiful, painful night.
Her gaze moved back to his and she caught him watching her. She blushed slightly.
“I think it would be better if you didn’t touch on the Fitzpatrick murder.”
Rachelle lifted her brows. “Afraid your reputation might be smeared if it’s all dredged up again?”
“My reputation is based on smears.” He almost looked sincere, but, as a lawyer, he was used to playing many parts, being on stage in the courtroom, convincing people to say and do what he wanted. She wasn’t buying into any of his act. “But there is a chance you’ll scare whoever did kill Roy, into reacting—maybe violently.”
“And you came all the way cross-country to tell me this?” she said, unable to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. Who did he think he was kidding?
“No,” he adm
itted, stretching his legs before standing and walking to the fireplace. A mirror was hung over the mantel, and in the reflection, his gaze sought hers. “I’m going to be straight with you, Rachelle. When I said I was going to settle things, I meant everything.” Turning, he faced her and his features were set in granite. “I’m going to look into the Fitzpatrick murder and clear my name. I don’t want you poking around and getting in the way.”
She should have expected this much, she supposed. Shaking her head, she said, “So you’re afraid that I’m going to rain on your parade. That I might find out what really happened that night and steal your thunder.”
“That’s not it—”
“Sure it is, Moore. Look, I’ve read all about you. I know you don’t give a damn about your reputation or what happened to any of the people you left behind when you hooked your thumb on the highway and made your way out of this town. But if you think you’re going to come back here, cover up the truth and ruin my story, you’d better guess again.” She climbed off the sofa and advanced on him, her chin lifted proudly, the anger in her eyes meeting his. “I’m not the same little frightened girl you left sniveling after you, Jackson.”
“All grown up and a regular bad-ass reporter?” he drawled, baiting her.
“You got it.”
He sighed, his mask slipping a little. “What happened to you, Rachelle?” he asked, some of his insolence stripping away as he stared at her.
She didn’t want to see another side to him; didn’t want to know that, beneath his jaded New York attitude, beat a heart that had once touched hers. Nor did she want him to guess that he had any effect on her whatsoever. She was over him. She was! Then why did her pulse jump at the sight of him?
Shaking inside, she walked to the door and opened it, silently inviting him to leave. Her voice, when she finally found it, was barely a whisper. “You did, Jackson. You’re what happened to me. And for that, you’re lucky I’m just holding the door open for you and not calling the police and demanding a restraining order.”
His eyes glinted. “Does this mean the wedding’s off?” he teased cruelly, and Rachelle’s heart tore a little.
“This means that I never want to see you again, Jackson.”
He crossed the room, but stood in the doorway, staring down at her. “I’m afraid that’s impossible.”
“I don’t think so. Just walk out the door, find the nearest plane and fly back to the East Coast. Everyone here was doing fine before you showed up. We’ll all manage to survive without you.”
“Will you?” he asked, skepticism lifting a dark brow.
“Go, Jackson. Or I will call the police.”
“And here I thought you’d be anxious for an interview with me.”
The man’s gall was unbelievable. But his reasoning was right on target. “Believe it or not, I’m not a Jackson Moore groupie,” she replied, knowing that she was lying more than a little. She’d already half promised Marcy an interview with Gold Creek’s most notorious son.
“You were once,” he said, and his voice sounded softer, smooth as silk.
Her throat caught, and she remembered vividly how she’d lost her virginity with this very man. She’d tried to blame him for that loss over the years, but she couldn’t. Even now she realized that she’d given herself to him willingly. But what was worse, was the knowledge that she might, given the right circumstances, do it all over again.
“That was a long time ago, Jackson, when I was young and naive and believed in fairy tales. I trusted you, stood up for you and told everyone how innocent you were. But I’m all grown up now and I’ll never believe you again.” She forced a cold smile she hoped would pierce that insolent armor he wore so boldly. “Even fools eventually grow up.”
His eyes burned black. “I’m innocent.”
She let out a slow breath, her fingers clenching around the hard wood of the door. “Innocent?” She shook her head. “I believe you didn’t kill Roy Fitzpatrick twelve years ago, I believe you think you’re here to clear your name, but, Jackson, we both know you’re far from innocent.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
JACKSON WAS STILL STANDING on the threshold when the phone rang.
“I’ve got to get that,” she said, but he didn’t budge. Fine. Let him wait. She left him at the door and picked up the phone on the fourth ring.
“Rachelle?” David’s voice was warm and familiar. She heard him sigh with relief and a part of her melted inside. David was safe. She could count on him. He would never treat her as Jackson had.
“Hi.” She sneaked a peek at Jackson—still so darkly sensual. Well, his good looks and bloody sexuality did nothing for her. Nothing!
“You didn’t call,” David said, gently reprimanding her. His voice was filled with concern. “It’s getting late and I was worried.”
“Sorry,” she said automatically. “I just got in this morning and the phone wasn’t installed until four.” She tried to concentrate on the conversation, but slid a glance at Jackson, who didn’t seem the least bit bothered that he was eavesdropping. He didn’t even try to look interested in anything other than her.
“Well, so you’re okay?” David persisted.
“Fine. Just fine.”
“But you miss me,” he guessed, and she heard the tiny wheedle in his voice that was there every time he didn’t feel secure.
“Sure,” she replied. “Of course I miss you.”
“Good. Good. Look, I’m going to work the rest of this weekend, but I’ll get some free time at the end of next week and maybe I can come up and see you for a few days. Just you and me in the wilderness? Hmm?” he said suggestively, and Rachelle had to bite her tongue to keep from snapping at him. He had no idea that half their conversation was being dissected.
“I, uh, don’t think that would be such a great idea.” She felt heat climb up her neck. She turned her back to Jackson, tried to pretend that he wasn’t only a few feet from her, and attempted to ignore the knocking of her heart.
“Why not?” David asked in his suggestive voice. “We could have a good time.”
“I know we could, but this is serious stuff. I’m working.”
He sighed again, long and loud. Not quite so friendly. “It’s just a few columns, Rachelle. I thought we agreed that you’d go back, write whatever it is you have to, and then come back here. Pronto.”
“If it works out that way.”
“Well, try, won’t you? I miss you already.”
“Me, too,” she replied before saying goodbye and hanging up. She wanted to sag against the wall; there was something about her recent conversations with David that seemed to suck all the life right out of her. He wasn’t a controlling man, not really, not like Jackson, but he did try to manipulate her subtly, and that bothered her. He deftly attempted to mold her way of thinking to his. She would have preferred an out-and-out confrontation. She would have preferred an honest fight with someone like Jackson.
She brought herself up short. She didn’t mean that, of course; she couldn’t mean it.
“Trouble in paradise?” Jackson said with just a trace of sarcasm.
“No trouble. And definitely no paradise.”
He glanced at the phone. “Your husband?”
“Afraid not,” she replied breezily.
“Boyfriend?”
“Look, I don’t think it’s any of your business.”
Java slunk out of the bedroom. The black cat took one look at Jackson, arched her back and sidestepped back down the hall.
“Friendly,” Jackson remarked.
“You already told me to steer clear of the Fitzpatrick murder and I told you that I was going to do my job as I saw fit, so what is it you want from me, Jackson?” Rachelle finally asked. “I thought I made it clear that you weren’t
welcome.”
His eyes held hers for an instant too long, and the back of her throat tightened in memory. “What I want…” he said with a twisted smile. He rubbed the back of his neck, his hair, still slightly on the long side, brushing his fingers. “That’s not easy.”
“Not what you want,” she clarified. “What you want from me. There’s a big difference.”
He crossed to the kitchen and hoisted one leg over a barstool. Seated at the bar, he could watch her as she wiped the kitchen counter for the third time. He leaned forward, elbows on the tile, hands clasped in front of him. “What’re you trying to accomplish by all this?”
Maybe it was time for honesty. “I needed to come back here, clear up my feelings about the past, reexamine this town because it’s time I got on with my future.”
“With the guy on the phone?”
She met his gaze boldly. “Yes.”
“He gonna give you everything you want?” Jackson asked, and when she hesitated, he added, “You know, I’m surprised. I thought by now you’d probably be married and have a couple of kids.”
She flinched inside at the mention of children. For as long as she could remember, she’d wanted a baby, a child to raise. For a short time, twelve years ago, she’d fantasized about being pregnant and having Jackson’s child. All things considered, she was lucky she hadn’t conceived.
“You may as well know,” she said, tucking the towel into the handle of the oven door. “Monday morning I’m interviewing Thomas Fitzpatrick.”
Jackson’s expression changed. His smile fell and his eyes turned dark. “Why not start at the top?” he asked sarcastically.
“Whether you like it or not, he’s the single most important man in this town. For the past twenty-five years, he’s shaped the future of Gold Creek.”
“Lucky him.” He climbed off the stool. “I’m surprised he agreed to talk to you.”
“So was I. But he probably decided that he couldn’t dodge me forever and even if he tried, it wouldn’t look good. Remember the man is supposed to have political aspirations.”
