by Cox, Suzanne
Forcing his fingers to let her go, he made himself step away. He’d gone only a few feet when the whisper of a voice stopped him.
“Jackson.”
He turned toward her.
“Thank you, for the apology.”
He nearly went back. A huge magnet seemed to be drawing him. But she had no interest in him. That was obvious. Besides, there was safety in walking away.
“My pleasure,” he said and headed off to join the rest of the group, trying not to drag his feet as he went.
CHAPTER SIX
JACKSON SCRUTINIZED the pieces of golden, breaded meat skewered onto a thin wooden stick.
“Tell me again what this is.”
Emalea snickered as she pulled pieces of meat from her own stick. “Fried alligator, it’s good.”
“And why is it on a stick?”
“Because you’re in the South, and we deep-fry everything and put it on a stick. It’s a cultural thing.”
“Sounds like a heart-attack thing.”
“Yeah, well, that, too. You just shouldn’t indulge very often.”
Jackson slid a piece from the stick, popping it in his mouth while all the time watching Emalea. She was right; it was good. A truce seemed to have been called when they’d left the aquarium for the French Market. He hadn’t been sure what to expect, but the market was actually a long row of covered buildings open on the sides and both ends. Vendors sold everything from apples to jewelry to sunglasses. The scent of spicy foods had hit him the instant he’d swung off his bike, making him hungry even though lunch had only been a few hours ago. The riders had spread throughout the market to browse and he’d ended up with Emalea. He’d fully intended to keep his distance, but the lure of spending time in her company pulled him closer.
“What are these things between the meat?” He fingered more fried food of undetermined origin.
“Onions and dill pickles. If you don’t like the pickles, give them to me, they’re my favorite.”
“Dill pickles, you’ve got to be kidding?”
She took the object in question from his stick and gobbled it up like a delicacy. “What did I just say? South, everything fried and on a stick, what part of that is difficult for you?”
He laughed. “Most of it, and remember I’m from the South, too. I’ve just been living a really long time in a place where they don’t serve everything on a stick.”
She laughed with him and Jackson made an immediate decision that this Emalea could be much more of a danger to him than the one who kept all her claws exposed. He reminded himself of his earlier decision to keep an emotional distance and not get involved. Friends, yes. More, no. It was very simple. They stepped away from the busy market aisles to eat. He’d finished all of his skewered alligator before she spoke again.
“How are things at the office?”
He squinted at her and snorted, while she only smiled.
“You make me sound like a stockbroker.”
“Well, you’re definitely not one of those.” She took a long drink of her soda and he had to admire the skin on her throat, as he tried to keep up his end of the conversation.
“I guess you really want to know the latest on the shooting. The truth is we haven’t learned much.”
She went to toss her empty soda can in the garbage, glancing back at him as she spoke. “I wouldn’t be surprised to see the militia tied to this.”
He shrugged. “That’s one avenue we’re examining. But anytime you deal with illegal gun sales, the investigation can get frustrating. A large majority of guns that end up in the hands of criminals were actually purchased legally by someone who reports the gun stolen or can’t seem to find it when questioned. That’s what we’ve been up against so far. The only effective way to stop the flow of guns is to find out how they’re being moved. Without the right breaks, that can be a long, slow process.”
Emalea kicked the toe of her boot against the asphalt, frowning. “I hope you clear it up soon, our town isn’t exactly used to dead bodies lying around.”
He passed her two dill pickles he’d pulled loose, then broke the stick in half. “I know. That’s why I came here.”
“Really, the life of high crime in the FBI get to be too much for you?”
It was an innocent question, but Jackson chose his next words carefully. He had no intention of discussing his personal life with her, even if he felt the weight of it bearing down on him. A few minutes of friendliness didn’t make Emalea a confidante. Besides, confiding meant taking a step in a direction he’d prefer not to go.
“I just needed a change. After Matt got married, he and his wife visited me in Chicago and I came back here a couple of times. I liked Cypress Landing, liked the quiet, the river. It seemed like a good place.” He’d left out a lot, like how much trouble he’d had his last two years at his old job and how he’d told Matt on more than one occasion that he felt lost in the city. That was more than she needed to know. It was her turn to give up a little information. He turned to her and smiled. “How’d you end up in Cypress Landing?”
The wall that slammed between them was tangible. Jackson knew whatever answers he got from her after this would be carefully guarded.
“I grew up there, of course, but I moved to New Orleans when I finished school and worked at a couple of hospitals. I made good money.” She paused, staring at the tie-dyed dresses in a vendor’s booth fluttering on their hangers in the afternoon breeze. He wondered if this would be where the story ended. Emalea appeared to be far away, reliving another time that had sent her running back to Cypress Landing. Jackson gave himself a slight shake. His imagination had begun to run amok. For all he knew, she could have happily decided to go home.
At last she looked at him with a faint smile. “I just got tired of the city and the noise, so I went home.”
His first assumption had been right. He nodded at her and pretended to study the crowd around them. He’d become too adept at reading people to believe her going home had been a happy time. The skill also made him certain he wouldn’t be getting the real answer from her today.
“I’m going to look at those dresses.”
He watched her thread her way through the other shoppers to the booth. He really wanted her to buy one of the brightly colored dresses, a completely absurd thing to want. She fingered a couple, but moved on and he tried not to be disappointed. With no real plan in mind, he went into the booth and found himself holding the same dresses. The vendor pointed to a few she recommended, and he finally chose a green one that matched Emalea’s eyes.
After handing the woman his money, he all but ran back to his bike, stuffing the rolled up dress in the zippered storage bag at the back of his seat. Getting caught with the dress would be inexcusable. There would be absolutely no way he could explain it to someone else. He couldn’t really explain it to himself, except that he thought having a peace offering on hand might be a good idea.
Back in the market aisles in record time, he breathed a sigh of relief and began to thumb through a rack of leather belts before moving to a table loaded with wallets. He decided he might need a new wallet, so he began rummaging through the display. A bump against his arm made him move closer to the table. The next bump was hard enough to make him drop the wallet he’d been holding. Spinning around, ready to give a rude shopper an ugly look, he came chest to face with Lana. That is, her face hit him at the middle of his chest. She wore her usual grin.
“Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.”
He narrowed his eyes at her, wondering if she’d lost her mind. “What secret is that?”
“The dress you bought. I won’t tell anyone. It’s for Emalea, isn’t it?”
Damn, how could she have seen him? He’d been really careful. “It’s for my mother.”
She hooted with laughter. “I bet your mother would have a stroke if you gave her that dress, or didn’t you notice it doesn’t have a back.”
Jackson could have kicked himself. Why hadn’t he said he’d bought the d
ress for his sister? Lana wouldn’t have had a thing to say then.
“I promise not to tell and I’ll stay completely out of it. Unless you think my telling Em what a great guy you are would be bad.”
He dropped another wallet he’d just picked up. “When did you do that?”
She leaned toward him as if they were conspiring together for a great cause. “I haven’t yet, but I’m going to.”
“What makes you so sure I’m a good guy? You barely know me.”
Lana patted his arm. “Oh, please, you ooze goodness.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “I’m certain that’s the first time I’ve ever heard myself described that way. If it’s true, why should you have to tell Emalea? She should see it for herself.” In fact, he knew Emalea thought evil was the perfect word for him.
“That girl can’t see a thing where a man like you is concerned. She’s wearing blinders.” Lana grabbed an eel-skin wallet and flipped through the compartments.
“Maybe it should stay that way.”
She tossed the wallet back on the table. “Nope, she’ll wake up and see that a man like you doesn’t always fit into her little mold.”
Jackson crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Woman, you’re starting to sound like a learning-impaired parrot. A man like me, a man like me. What the hell kind of man am I supposed to be?”
Lana lost her smile for the first time that day as she touched his forearm. “The kind Emalea is most afraid of and the kind she needs the most.”
She hurried away, leaving that particular riddle unexplained. Not that he wanted it defined. He had no intention of being more to Emalea than a friendly acquaintance. He’d send the dress to his sister; the woman at the booth had said one size fits most.
Thirty minutes later, Jackson sat on his bike waiting for the others to finish shopping. They’d all parked on the edge of the street and beside him shops rattled with overflow business from the market. Historic brick buildings, weathered by the years, housed everything from tattoo parlors to sandwich shops. The three men who left the diner two doors down from him caught his attention. They had their back to him but he stiffened automatically as though his subconscious read the situation and was trying to prepare him. The men crossed the street toward the market. Jackson had swung off the bike and gone two steps into the street before he realized he’d even moved. A car horn blared and he jumped back. On the other side of the one-way street, the three men turned. The shortest man stared at Jackson. Something akin to shock or possibly fear settled on his features, then a smile inched across his stubby face. His hand rose in the air, a forefinger pointed toward Jackson and his thumb pointed skyward as though his appendage were a weapon. One of the other men laughed, then the three disappeared into the crowded market.
Jackson dropped to the seat of his motorcycle, sitting with both feet on one side, hands on his knees. He tried to remind himself to breathe. DePaulo was in New Orleans. Jackson knew the Mafia family had a business here, had for many years, but it was small time compared to the operations in Chicago. He’d made it his mission to be DePaulo’s shadow back in Chicago but DePaulo had disappeared without a trace and Jackson had been left with nowhere to unleash his anger. As soon as he got home, he’d make a call to one of his friends in the bureau. Surely they’d have an explanation…. He stopped thinking and started to run across the street. His hip bumped a vendor’s table, sending sunglasses clattering to the ground. The man shouted at him in a foreign language but Jackson moved deeper into the crowd. He had to hurry. DePaulo was in here somewhere and so was Emalea. She stood ten feet away from him holding a bracelet. Sweat dripped into his eyes, and Jackson swiped at it, trying to control his breathing. DePaulo didn’t know Emalea. She had nothing to fear from him. Jackson threaded his way through the shoppers back to his motorcycle. Maybe if he stayed out of New Orleans, everyone around him would be safe.
BEHIND HER, THE LIGHTS of Jackson’s motorcycle became more distant until they disappeared and Emalea realized he’d taken the road to his house. She’d had a brief, almost girlish thought that he might follow her home. Then what? Certainly they weren’t going to fall into each other’s arms. Were they? She had no intention of doing that. So why was she having fantasies that were filled with him? A little fantasizing is healthy, she told herself as she steered into her driveway and killed the motorcycle engine.
Admittedly, he’d given her plenty of reason for fantasies this afternoon. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed so much. After leaving the French Market they’d ridden back to Jackson Square to spend the rest of the afternoon watching the artists paint and wandering in a variety of unusual stores. If Jackson’s goal had been to prove he could be a likable companion, he’d definitely won the prize. Her disappointment must have been evident when he’d told her they had to meet the others, because he’d leaned toward her and whispered, “We’ll have to take another trip soon.”
Before she could stop herself, she’d blurted, “Really, I’d love to. I’ve had a great time today.” The words hung in the mildly humid air like a smoky cloud, and she wished she could take them back; but in all honesty, she’d meant what she’d said.
Jackson had smiled, no gibes or snide remarks. He’d leaned even closer to add, “I’m glad, because I’ve had fun today, too, thanks to you.” It could have been a meaningless line that a gorgeous man gave a girl he was trying to hit on, but if it had been, he’d made it the most sincere one Emalea had ever heard.
“Give him a chance. He’s a nice guy.” Lana had taken it upon herself to become Jackson’s champion on the ride home that evening. At every stop she had found a reason why he was a very delectable creature.
“See how he held the door for that elderly lady…. Doesn’t he have a kind smile and gentle eyes?… Isn’t he built like the perfect bodybuilder?” Emalea had finally threatened to inform Lance that his wife was drooling over another man. Then had come Lana’s shocker.
“I’m afraid for you, Em. Afraid you’ll never get done with the past. That it will dictate your every move, until one day you’ll realize you’ve spent your whole life running from a memory. I don’t want you not to live your life because of fear.”
Emalea had straddled her bike and been the first to depart from the service station, leaving Lana standing on the oil-splotched concrete. Who exactly held the psychology degree here? The last time she’d truly cared about someone, her feelings had blinded her from seeing what kind of man he really was. She couldn’t let that happen again. She hadn’t been running scared, just being careful not to repeat past mistakes. And that’s what getting involved with Jackson would be…a mistake.
KENT RAYNOR STARED at the ceiling dappled with light from the moon shining in his window. The rumbling of his father’s truck drowned out the peaceful chirping of the crickets. He was late coming home, very late. Kent hoped he wasn’t drunk. The last few weeks, the atmosphere in this house had been intense. Earl Raynor’s role in the militia gave him much more responsibility than many people imagined. Kent wasn’t sure exactly what, except that he knew many men listened to his father. Those were probably the only people in the world who would want the opinion of such a man.
Kent refused to join or participate in the militia and he wondered every day when the fact would make his father angry enough to kill him. He knew his father planned for him to become more active when he was older, even though boys his age participated in marksmanship contests all the time. Several weeks ago, Earl had been pushing the issue, trying to make Kent come to a game. It would be fun he said, a game of paintball.
Lots of people enjoyed playing paintball. The guns and pistols shot balls of paint. If you got splattered, well, you considered yourself splattered, as in dead. Under other circumstances, he might have liked the game, but a feeling seemed to get under his skin whenever he was at the camp across the river, a hatred or anger, and he didn’t want to feel it. He reserved most of his hatred and anger for his own father, who chose to come home an
d take out his frustrations on his family, most often his wife. Saying you hated one of your parents had to be wrong, and he figured maybe a part of him might still love Earl Raynor. But that part remained buried for safety.
Earl told him sooner or later he’d have to join, that one day Kent would take his father’s place in the family business as well as in the militia. It was his duty. Kent didn’t want those things. He’d rather do something with his art, maybe even go to college, an idea his father laughed at.
Kent thought of Ms. LeBlanc. What a cool lady. On his first visit, he’d called her Dr. LeBlanc but she’d said that made her feel like she should be giving him a shot in his butt. She wanted to hear all his problems, but he didn’t know where to start and, if he did, where it would end. A list of his problems could take days to compile.
And what if she thought the social worker needed to come because of his father? That had happened once and, when she’d left, the results hadn’t been pretty. His mother probably should have gone to the hospital but his father wouldn’t allow it. “Only bring that damn social worker here again,” he’d growled. The social worker had never come back.
He’d heard a few rumors that Ms. Leblanc had lived through problems of her own when she was younger, that her father had even gone to prison. If he told her just a few things, maybe she could help him find a way to stay alive long enough to graduate from high school. Then he could get away. But one huge problem remained. Who would take care of his mother if he left?
The door banged open and the whole house shook. Kent rolled over in his bed as the sound of shuffling feet paused at his door, but passed on. He moved to sit on the edge of the bed, waiting. If things got bad enough, he’d have to go to his parents’ room and try to divert his father’s attention, something that always left him in pretty poor shape. In his parents’ bedroom, his father started shouting, but quieted by the time Kent reached the hallway. He waited. A few feet away, the door opened a crack and his mother’s face, barely visible in the dim light, showed both fear and determination.
