by Lisa Jackson
“I waited,” she said softly as a tiny breeze teased her hair. She thought she saw pain in his eyes, but the shadows were probably induced by the night. “I kept telling myself that you’d come back for me.”
His eyes narrowed. “I didn’t make any promises—”
She touched his lips, surprised at the warmth of his skin. “I know. I knew it then, but I was young enough, naive enough to believe that we’d shared something special, something sacred.”
“And now?” he asked. “What do you believe now?”
She met his gaze, her eyes unwavering. “That spending the night with you was the single biggest mistake of my life,” she said, her admission tearing her in two. “I was a fool—a schoolgirl who lived in a dream world. You taught me a lot about reality, Jackson. For that, I suppose, I should thank you.” She couldn’t keep the bitterness from her words. “I trusted you, slept with you, lied for you.”
“You didn’t lie.”
“And you weren’t with me for all of the night.”
His teeth flashed white as he bit out an oath. “You didn’t trust me.”
“I didn’t know you.”
“I did go back to the Fitzpatrick place,” he admitted, his voice low. “I wanted to get my bike—either drive it or push it—but by the time I got there, the party had broken up and my cycle was gone. You know, I never saw it after that night.”
Her pulse was hammering in her head; she remembered that the bike had been stolen, but she hadn’t really thought Jackson had returned to the party. Why? Just for his bike? Or to settle a score with Roy? Her tongue froze and her throat worked; surely he hadn’t…
“Hell, Rachelle. You don’t believe me. You think I killed Roy!” He muttered another string of oaths.
“I do believe you. I…I just wonder why you never told me before.”
“So that the story was simple.”
“But it wasn’t the truth.”
“It was,” he said. “I never saw Roy again.”
Her heart turned to stone. He’d lied—and caused her to perjure herself. To save his hide. Her stomach rolled over, and for a second she thought she might be sick. Her voice, when she spoke, quavered. “I thought more of you than this,” she whispered, her disappointment a gaping wound.
“It was a mistake. I should have told you everything.”
He reached for her, but she backed away, her ankle twisting on a rock near the shore, but she didn’t notice. “God, what a fool I was. I’d half convinced myself that you were some knight in shining armor, saving me from Roy. I’d even imagined that I was in love with you—”
“I never said anything about love!” he cut in, his eyes glittering ominously.
“I know. But I was naive enough to believe that sex and love went together. I know better now.”
“Do you?” He eyed her speculatively and her breath stopped at the base of her throat.
“Oh, Jackson, no—” She pushed him away, but there was no stopping him.
Gathering her in his arms, he kissed her, long and hard, his lips molding expertly over her mouth, his body pressed intimately against her softer contours. Her blood began to pound at her temples and she told herself that kissing him was madness, would surely lead to the same torment she’d suffered in the past, but she couldn’t stop.
“You lied,” she choked out when he finally lifted his head. “I trusted you and you lied!” Tears drizzled down her cheeks, and he slowly brushed them aside.
“If I could change anything, Rachelle, I would. But I can’t. God knows I’ve regretted a lot of things in my life, but I should never have kept my silence. I didn’t know you knew I left and I…I should have explained everything to you. I thought I was protecting you.”
“Oh, Jackson…” Her cold heart melted and she wanted to believe him, to trust him again, but the pain of the past was real and agonizing and she wondered if she ever could trust him again.
“Believe in me,” he whispered, and kissed her again, this time so chastely that her heart nearly shattered into a thousand brittle pieces. Yielding, she wrapped her arms around his neck and told herself to forget about the past, ignore the future and live for the moment. She was here, alone with Jackson, in his arms on the shores of Whitefire Lake.
The night surrounded them, and the smell of pine and musk and moist earth mingled as his weight dragged her toward the sandy beach. She felt herself being pulled to the ground and tried to utter a protest, but her words came out as a moan. Cold sand pressed against her back and Jackson was lying atop her, his face close to hers, his breath soft as a midnight breeze. “I don’t know what it is between us,” he admitted, his breathing labored, his gaze as tortured as her own. “But it’s something I can’t control.” His lips twisted into a line of torment. “I want you, Rachelle. More than I’ve ever wanted a woman, any woman.”
She understood. Gazing into his eyes, she felt the same emotional magnetism that she was powerless to fight. Her body craved his. Even now her hips were pressing upward, silently begging him to stroke and caress her, to strip her of her clothes and take her as if she were his first and only lover. And yet her mind told her this was wrong—so very wrong. Just because pure animal lust existed was no reason to give into it.
He kissed her again, and his hand gently cupped her breast. Heat seared through her blood. Desire pulsed in hot, demanding waves as his mouth moved, his lips grinding against hers in imitation of his hips, which were locked to hers.
The hard swelling in his loins pressed hard against her abdomen and she ached inside for the feel of him. His tongue explored her mouth, but it wasn’t enough. She wanted more, more—all of him.
She began to move and he rocked with her, his hands moving beneath her sweater to scale her ribs and grasp both breasts in anxious hunger. “Let me make love to you,” he whispered against her ear, and she only moaned in response.
He shifted suddenly, straddling her abdomen with his knees. Slowly he lifted her sweater over her head, baring her torso except for her scanty bra. In the cool night, her nipples turned to hard buttons and her skin was blue-white in the light from a slice of moon.
Licking one finger lazily, he watched her as he placed that wet finger against her breast. She groaned and writhed, the ache within her growing and pulsing. Sweat collected on her skin, a reflection of the drops she saw on his forehead. Her fingers worked at the waistband of his jeans and soon he’d discarded his shirt so that she could touch the thin wall of muscles that surrounded his navel. Her fingers inched upward and she explored the swirling hairs that hid the muscles of his chest.
“This is dangerous,” he whispered, unhooking her bra and letting her breasts fall free.
“Everything with you is dangerous,” she whispered, hardly able to breathe. He rubbed the inside of his legs against her bare ribs and she bucked against him. She couldn’t think, wouldn’t reason, and as he fell down upon her, covering her hungry lips with his own, she arched upward.
His hand slipped to the small of her back, pressing her up against him, making her all the more aware of the urgency of his need. He kissed her face, her throat, her shoulders, and swept lower to brush her nipples with his lips.
Rachelle was melting inside and she needed his sweet rhythm to end her agony. She clung to him and ran her tongue across his chest. Groaning, he unsnapped her jeans, tore them from her and disposed of his own. He hesitated for only a second, his naked body poised over hers in the moonlight, his eyes searching hers for answers to questions he couldn’t voice.
“It’s all right,” she whispered, anxious hands running down his sides. She felt the scar on his shoulder, a reminder of Roy’s wicked knife. “You don’t have to love me,” she said, though she felt that they were bound by the threads of fate that wove their lives together. “Just make love to me.”
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“Oh, Rachelle, this isn’t right.” But he couldn’t stop, and he plunged into her with a fevered thrust that caused her breath to stop in her throat. She closed her eyes as he began to move in a rhythm that melded with the night. Fighting tears, caught in an emotional maelstrom that tossed her backward in time, Rachelle clung to him. There was a desperation to his lovemaking, as if he never expected to hold her in his arms again and she, too, was desperate, feeling his body move within her, slowly at first and more quickly as his resistance gave way.
“Rachelle, Rachelle,” he whispered hoarsely. “I can’t stop…. Oh, oh, please, baby…” She barely heard his words over the sounds of her own breathing and the pounding of her heart. Her body bucked and arched and she cried out. The world spun faster and Jackson stiffened, shuddered and let out a primal cry that echoed off the lake. With a final tremor, he fell against her and she wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his throat.
I love you, she thought and tears collected at the devastating reality of it. Damn it, I love you. Her tears slid from the corners of her eyes and a cloud of afterglow caught her in its misty folds. If she could just stay here forever with this one special man.
She heard him sigh, not happily, but as if a great weight had settled upon his shoulders. Lying beside her, his hands smoothing the hair from her face, he whispered, “What am I going to do with you?”
Swallowing back a sob, she said, “You’re not going to do anything with me, Counselor. It’s what I’m going to do with you that’s the problem.”
He laughed at that and she smiled through her tears. Their lovemaking had to happen. They’d been on a collision course since returning to Gold Creek and the questions of their sexual involvement when they were barely more than children had begged to be answered. Unfortunately, she had responded to him as she had twelve years before. The physical chemistry was just as raw and electric as it had been. The bad boy of Gold Creek was as good a lover as she remembered. Maybe better.
And you love him!
Oh, Lord, what a mess. He was the one man in the world she couldn’t afford to love, the one man who could shred her heart into a million tiny pieces. She had to get away from him, to clear her head, before she did something even more foolish than she just had by making love to him.
In the dark she reached for her clothes, but a male hand clamped over hers. His expression was dark. “Things haven’t changed,” he said, studying her in the weak light from the moon. “I still haven’t made any promises.”
“Neither have I,” she shot back, determined to hide her feelings. “I’ve grown up a lot, Jackson,” she lied, still groping for her jeans. If only she could find her clothes and get dressed, she wouldn’t feel so damned vulnerable. Her fingers came in contact with her belt and she snagged it. “Look, I don’t expect a proposal just because we made love. I don’t even expect you to try and see me again.”
His jaw worked. “This is easy for you?”
“No.” She wasn’t going to lie. She found her jeans. Good. Her underwear was certainly nearby…. “I’ve lowered my expectations over the years.”
A trace of anger registered in his eyes. “So you can love ’em and leave ’em?”
“Yes,” she said, ignoring the furious line of his mouth as she struggled into her jeans. If only he knew. Tonight had been the first time she’d made love since she’d slept with him, twelve years ago. She’d come close a couple of times and disappointed more than one man, but she’d never been able to give herself to another…not even to David, which, she’d decided, was why he was so anxious to marry her. Over the years, she’d told herself that she was flawed, or at the very least scarred from Jackson’s tender lovemaking and then quick exit from her life. She’d learned not to trust men who spoke words of love in the throes of passion.
Although Jackson alone couldn’t be blamed. Her mother’s track record with men hadn’t been good, and Heather, too, had failed at marriage. Tremont women just weren’t good at picking partners. Her feelings for Jackson were a case in point.
He studied her for a minute as she worked at the buttons of her sweater. His eyes followed the movement of her fingers and she blushed. He was still naked, still somewhat aroused, and his dark skin and sinewy muscles reminded her that his body could do to hers what no other man had ever dared try.
“You don’t fool me, you know. All this tough act—the hard-nosed reporter bit—I don’t buy it.”
“No one’s asking you to.” She straightened her sweater and stood. What had she expected? Champagne and roses? Moonlight and promises of love? With Jackson Moore? She had to be kidding!
He, still silently seething, jerked on his jeans and quickly buttoned his shirt.
When she started for the motorcycle, he grabbed hold of her hand. “We’re not through yet.”
Her throat closed. How much more of this emotional roller-coaster ride could she take? “Oh, I think we are.”
“We have one more place to visit.”
She knew what he was considering and the idea turned her cold inside. Was he crazy? The man certainly had a death wish. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to go snooping on Fitzpatrick property.”
“You’ve come this far.”
“My mistake.”
He cocked a thick black eyebrow. “I don’t think so. Come on, reporter. Let’s go face our past.” He tugged gently on her hand and reluctantly she fell into step with him. The lake was dark and quiet and the night felt suddenly cool. Going back to the place where Roy had been killed chilled her to her very bones. They walked in silence along the shore and she wondered what Jackson was thinking. They’d just made love and he acted as if their lovemaking had never happened.
Just like before.
Maybe this was how he dealt with all his lovers.
Her heart wrenched as they crossed unseen property lines along the lake, keeping near the water’s edge, passing huge, empty estates until they came at last to the Fitzpatrick property, the most prestigious on the entire north shore.
They walked along the creaking dock, their footsteps loud in the quiet night. Rachelle could hardly breathe. She felt that they were being watched, that at any second someone, the police or the Fitzpatricks, would leap from behind the trees and point the muzzle of a rifle at their chests.
Please, God, she silently prayed, let us get out of this.
The boathouse was locked, the dock gray and bleached in the moonlight. The path to the gazebo wasn’t lit as it had been on the last fateful night that they had been here, and the scrape of flagstones beneath her feet caused a chill to race down her spine. Her heart knocked in her chest. She felt as if there were eyes in the huge sequoias and pines that guarded the house.
No laughter or music or smoke tonight. Rachelle rubbed her arms. “This place gives me the creeps.”
“Where’re all your reporter’s instincts? Your natural curiosity?”
“I’m not curious about this place.”
“Well, I am,” Jackson said, surveying the shrine of the Fitzpatrick empire. “Someone who was at the party that night killed Roy and was happy to pin it on me.” He frowned as he studied the lines of the manor.
“But who?”
Jackson shook his head. “I wish I knew. It could’ve been anyone, even someone who hadn’t been invited to the party—like me.” Together they walked toward the dark house, which seemed to melt into the black trees surrounding it. “Roy had stepped on lots of toes. He just barreled through life not giving a damn about anybody else.”
She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “Why did you hate him so much?”
Jackson thought for a moment, his hands stuffed into his jeans. “It was mutual. For some reason Roy detested the sight of me. I didn’t know it, until I was about thirteen, I guess. Then, all of a sudden, I was
the object of his ridicule. I was older, but he was bigger—had more friends. He made a point of always putting me down.”
“So you hated him.”
“Wouldn’t you?” He smiled at a private irony. “And I was probably jealous. The kid had everything. A rich, good-looking father who gave him anything he wanted, a big house, a respectable mother, nice clothes—the whole nine yards.”
“So why would he give you a bad time?” Rachelle eyed the house warily.
Jackson shrugged. “That’s just the way he was. He always put someone down to make himself look better.”
“Prince of a guy,” Rachelle said.
Jackson rubbed the back of his neck. “A few years later, I worked for Fitzpatrick Logging. But my career was cut short.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I was working in the woods—setting chokers. You know what they are—the cables that’re hooked around the cut timber. Once they’re set and in place, the logs are winched up the hill to the road where the trucks are waiting to be loaded.”
“I’ve heard of chokers,” she said dryly. “You’re forgetting that I grew up with them. So what happened when you worked for the logging company?”
“The old man fired me.”
“Why?”
“Well, I was never quite sure,” Jackson admitted, his gaze narrowing thoughtfully. “The long and the short of it was that I was working, setting chokers one day, and there was an accident. The bull line snapped and, because of the tension, flew at me. I dived out of the way, skidded down the hill and hit my head—woke up in an ambulance. I was examined in the emergency room, stitched up and held overnight for observation. I had a private room, and I was groggy, but once, in the middle of the night, I woke up and the door of the room was cracked a little. I could see out into the hallway.”
He chewed on his lower lip. “I couldn’t believe it. I heard my mom talking, so I know she was there, but the only person I could see was Thomas Fitzpatrick. I don’t know what he was telling Mom—his voice was too low—and later, when I asked my mom about it, she told me that I’d been delirious, that I’d imagined the whole thing, that Fitzpatrick had never been in the hospital.”
