by Lisa Jackson
“Go right ahead.”
“I’m not joking—”
“Neither am I.” He spun and, towering over her, felt a wash of pity for the woman who had vowed to stick by Thomas Fitzpatrick in good times and in bad. “Call the police. Tell them I’m trespassing. And I’ll tell them I’m Tommy’s long-lost bastard.”
Tears welled in her eyes and he felt a jab of empathy for the woman who had wanted more than anything in the world for him to be convicted of a murder he hadn’t committed. It would have made things so much tidier. “Go to hell,” she whispered, visibly shaking.
“Don’t worry, lady, I’m there.” He stormed through the rooms, found no one but a couple of servants and, convinced the old man had taken off, turned on June. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know!”
“Tell me.”
“I don’t know,” she repeated, and a triumphant gleam lighted her cold eyes.
“Then I’ll find him myself.” Jackson strode out of the house and climbed on his bike just as the first few drops of rain splattered from the sky. He barely noticed the drizzle sliding down his collar or the rain-washed streets. All he cared about was confronting his father—his lying scum of a father—with the truth!
* * *
“RACHELLE!” LAURA STOOD ON the other side of the door and for a second she resembled the girl who had once been Rachelle’s friend. How had they grown so far apart? “I don’t think you should be here.”
“I want to speak with Brian.”
Laura was instantly wary. “Why?”
“Because I think he knows who killed his brother.”
Laura tried to speak, failed and finally, though her eyes bore a desperate sadness, let the door open. “Brian doesn’t know anything,” she said, but her heart wasn’t in it.
“Do you?”
“Only that Jackson’s the culprit.”
“We both know that’s a lie.”
Laura led the way into the house, through the marble-floored foyer to the living room, a stark room that reminded Rachelle of an arctic winter. Only a few splashes of color—bloodred and ebony—gave any depth to the interior. Laura opened a cabinet and found a glass. “Would you like a drink?”
“No, thanks.”
Lifting the lid of an ice bucket, Laura found the tongs and carefully dropped a couple of cubes into two glasses. Ignoring Rachelle’s request, she poured them each a healthy portion of Scotch. With an inward shudder, she handed one glass to Rachelle and sipped from the second. “Brian doesn’t know anything about Roy’s death.”
“You’re sure?” Rachelle guessed Laura was lying.
“Absolutely. He’s convinced that Jackson is guilty. Everyone in the family thinks so.”
“They’re wrong.”
“Oh, Rachelle, why don’t you give up on this? Jackson got off, didn’t he? So what does it matter?”
“It matters a lot.”
The back door opened, and Laura jumped. Her drink sloshed onto her slacks and dripped onto the couch. “Damn.”
“Laura?” Brian’s voice fairly boomed through the house. “You home?”
“In the living room,” Laura called back, her fingers fluttering nervously to her throat. “Rachelle Tremont’s here—”
“Damn!” Brian burst into the room, his tie loosened, his expression hard. “I thought we were through with you.”
Rachelle decided to get right to the point. “I think you killed your brother.”
“I—I—what?” he stammered, stopping at the landing two steps above the sunken living room. His father joined him there and Rachelle’s heart dropped.
“You think what, Miss Tremont?” Thomas demanded, his eyes slitted.
This was no time to back down. “I think Brian killed Roy—”
Laura’s hand was on Rachelle’s sleeve. “You’re wrong.”
“I think he killed him, took his place, inherited his position and his girlfriend and began running the company right into the ground.”
“That’s crazy!” Brian protested.
Thomas didn’t say a word.
“Dad…Dad, you don’t believe that I—” Brian swiped at the sweat on his forehead. “Good God, you think I would kill my own brother?” His voice came out in a squeak. He looked at Laura and worked his way to the bar where he poured himself a drink.
“Of course he doesn’t,” Laura said, but her confident smile faltered and her skin had turned white as milk. “This is all so ridiculous. Rachelle, I don’t know what you think you’re doing here, but you’d better leave before I call the police—”
A pounding on the front door echoed through the house. “Now what?” Laura asked, but seemed relieved to leave the room. A few seconds later, Jackson, his hair wild, his eyes gleaming with a furious flame, strode into the room.
“You miserable, lying son of a bitch,” he growled at the sight of Thomas Fitzpatrick. Lunging at the man, he grabbed the lapels of Fitzpatrick’s jacket and nearly ripped the cloth as his fingers clenched in the soft weave.
“What the hell’s going on?” Brian asked.
“Stay out of this, brother,” Jackson said with a sneer, and Thomas turned a shade of gray that looked positively unhealthy.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about—”
“Save it, Fitzpatrick. Save it for your yes men and your gofers and your legitimate children.”
“Brother?” Brian repeated, and the back of his neck burned red.
“Oh, no,” Rachelle whispered, and everyone in the room went quiet. The air was charged as Jackson glared at the man who had sired him. Standing there, eye-to-eye, Rachelle saw the resemblance and felt the hatred flowing between the two men. Her heart wept for Jackson. If this were true. If Thomas Fitzpatrick were his father…
“I don’t understand,” Laura whispered, but Brian swore loudly and drained his drink.
“You tried to pin Roy’s murder on me so that you could get rid of me once and for all.” Jackson released Thomas with a shove and looked disdainfully down at the man who hadn’t claimed him. “You’re the poorest excuse for a father I’ve ever seen.”
“Now wait a minute—” Brian cut in.
“Shut up!” Jackson turned on him. “And you—you’re no better. My guess is you know who killed Roy or you did it yourself. No one else gained from his death. Only you.”
Brian visibly shook. He cast his wife a pleading look. “I didn’t do it.”
“Then who did?”
“No—” Laura cried as Brian pointed a finger in her direction. “Please, no—”
“You?” Thomas roared, pain ripping through him. “You killed my boy?”
“It was an accident,” Laura said, tears streaming from her eyes. She backed up until her buttocks met the glass of the French door.
“An accident?” Thomas repeated, his voice cracking, his eyes moving from Laura to Brian. “And you knew?”
“No, Dad, I swear—”
“Liar!” Laura cried, tears streaming down his face. “Roy…he…oh, God, he and I made love…and then, and then, he…he told me to get Rachelle. That he needed a real woman….”
Rachelle was thunderstruck. She couldn’t speak, she could hardly believe the confession that was coming from Laura’s mouth.
“I…I ran back into the house and Carlie helped me clean up. Rachelle went to get my purse and that’s when Roy attacked her—”
“You don’t have to say anything more,” Brian said. “We can get an attorney—”
She laughed bitterly through her tears. “Why? To save your hide?” The animosity between them throbbed through the room. “Later, after Roy’s fight with Jackson, I left Carlie to find him, to try to patch things up. He was near the
lake, and could barely stand up. He’d had too much to drink and the fight had taken a lot out of him. We argued. He called me horrible names,” she said, her voice hardly more than a whisper, her gaze focused on the floor, “then we began to fight. We struggled and I pushed him down. He hit his head on something under the water. I tried to pull him up, but he sank and he wouldn’t breathe and I got scared and…and…” She took a deep breath. “…And that’s when I ran into Brian. He checked Roy out, knew he was dead and promised that he’d take care of me, that I wouldn’t go to jail for killing him, that everything would be all right.”
Thomas was stunned. His skin was still a pasty gray. Jackson didn’t move. His anger seemed to have ebbed but his disgust at Laura’s story showed on his features. Laura appeared resigned, but Brian was still trying to set things right.
“It was an accident. Laura didn’t mean to—”
“You should have come forward—told the police,” Thomas said, his eyes filled with bitter disappointment.
“But Laura could’ve been charged with murder—”
“And instead, Jackson was,” Thomas said, his voice a low whisper.
“Dad, you’ve got to understand, Laura and I—we did what we thought was best.”
“What you thought was best,” Laura clarified. “I wanted to go to the police. But you wouldn’t let me and you held it over my head for twelve years. And why? Because you wanted to use me just like Roy did! It gave you a thrill that I’d been Roy’s lover—”
“That’s enough!” Brian raged.
But Laura wasn’t through. “Problem was, I got pregnant and you couldn’t just throw me away for someone else. You were stuck with me!” More tears streamed from her eyes, streaking her mascara as she sobbed, turned and walked out the door to stand on the veranda. Brian walked out and put his arm around her slim shoulders, but she shrugged his hand off and stepped away from him.
Thomas, a beaten man, fell onto the soft cushions of the couch. “I didn’t know,” he said, his eyes red, his prideful jaw still set as he stared up at his bastard child. “I didn’t know who killed Roy.”
“But you knew I was your son.”
“Yes.” He looked out the window, unseeing. “I loved your mother, you know.”
“But you married someone else. Someone with money. Someone with social status. Someone respectable.”
“I won’t apologize for my mistakes,” he said, “but I took care of your mother in my own way, and my own family suffered.”
“And I was almost hanged for a murder I didn’t commit.”
“I wouldn’t have let it come to that,” Thomas returned.
“Your lawyers, your money, your friends in the sheriff’s department—”
“Couldn’t build a case against you, could they? Nor did they rig the evidence and railroad you into a conviction, did they?” His clear eyes met his son’s. “If you believe nothing else, believe that I would never have let you go to jail for a crime you didn’t commit, but you have to remember, I, along with the rest of the town, didn’t know the facts.”
“And your wife wanted me wiped out of her perfect life.”
“Yes.”
“And what does she say about this?”
Thomas shook his head. “She accused me of not trying hard enough to send you to prison.”
“Well, now she has her answers. Her truth. And she has to live with it.”
“So do I,” Thomas said. “If it’s any consolation, I’ve already had a trust deed drawn up that assures you of your part of the estate. It’s in my office—”
With cold assessing eyes, Jackson scanned the man who had sired him.
“I know it doesn’t make up for everything,” Thomas said, his chin inching upward. “But you are my son—”
“Never! And as for your damned trust deed, you can take it with you to hell!” Jackson’s neck burned scarlet. “And just for the record, don’t ever, ever call me ‘son’ again and I won’t bother calling you ‘dad.’”
Jackson stormed out of the house and Rachelle followed him. His motorcycle was parked next to her car and he kicked at the bike’s tire. “Well, now we know the truth, don’t we?” he muttered, glaring up at the dark sky and letting the rain wash his face.
“You’re absolved of Roy’s murder.”
“And ended up being Thomas’s son. I wonder which is worse.”
“Come on,” she said. “Take me for a ride, Jackson.”
He hesitated.
“Please.” She touched his shoulder, felt the wet leather. “I love you.”
He smiled then, but the smile was filled with pain. “You mean you’d climb on a bike with a Fitzpatrick?”
“I don’t care if your name is Benedict Arnold, Counselor. You’re not a Fitzpatrick.”
“Amen.” He didn’t laugh, but some of the lines of strain left his features. He climbed on the bike and she settled into the seat behind him.
With a powerful kick, he started the bike. He ripped through the gears, leaving the Fitzpatricks and all their selfish deeds behind.
Rachelle held him tight. The wind screamed past, catching in her hair, bringing tears to her eyes. She buried her face in his jacket, smelling the leather and racing wind and knowing she belonged beside him forever.
* * *
THAT NIGHT, JACKSON MADE love to her with a desperation that nearly tore her heart in two.
“I love you,” he told her well into the night, holding her close and claiming her for his own. “Don’t ever leave me.”
“Never,” she promised, snuggling close to him.
Before dawn, he woke her up with soft kisses and told her to put on her clothes. In the cool morning, they drove to Whitefire Lake where they made love again.
As the sun climbed above the hills, streaking the sky with golden light, the mists of the lake rose like ghosts from the past. Rachelle smiled as she remembered the old Native American tale. Jackson dipped his hand into the water and held it to Rachelle’s lips. “Forever,” he whispered, kissing her cheek as the water drizzled through his fingers.
“Forever,” she agreed with a smile as she pledged her life, and her love, to the bad boy of Gold Creek.
* * * * *
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ISBN-13: 9781488030178
Dangerous Revelations by Lisa Jackson
First published as He’s A Bad Boy by Silhouette Books in 1993
Copyright © 1993 by Lisa Jackson.
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
