Heartbeat

by Joan Johnston

  When he set his beer on the bar, she said, “We have time to sit for a while. Please go ahead and finish your beer.”

  Sit beside her? In that dress? Was she crazy? “Will you join me?” he asked, staying right where he was.

  “I don’t drink.”

  Jack didn’t drink much either, a beer once in a while to be social. An alcoholic mother had convinced him of the dangers of indulging. He looked at the bottles on the bar and noticed none of them were open. “Did you buy all of that for me?”

  Two pink spots appeared on her cheeks. “I wasn’t sure what you drank.”

  It was apparent Maggie didn’t normally entertain guests in her home, which meant he was a special case. “I appreciate the thought,” he said.

  “Woody used to insist the bar be kept—” She frowned and looked around the room as though expecting to find something—or someone. When she didn’t, she crossed and sank into the flowered chair, picked up the cat pillow, and hugged it close.

  Jack suddenly realized what was strange about Maggie’s apartment. Despite the fact she’d been married and had two kids, there were no pictures of her husband or her sons in the room. She had apparently cut them out of her life. Like the real cat she so obviously wanted, but hadn’t let herself have, along with real flowers and a real ficus. In fact, there wasn’t a single living thing in the apartment besides the lady herself.

  “What’s wrong?” Maggie asked.

  “I wondered why you don’t have pictures of your husband and kids sitting around.”

  Her eyes rounded in alarm. “Who told you about my sons?”

  “The question is, why didn’t you tell me, Maggie?”

  She looked around the empty apartment before she met his gaze and said, “I try not to spend much time thinking about them. How did you find out?”

  “My captain has a file on you.” Which Jack had taken with him, hoping it would tell him more about her. The information had been sketchy at best—except it revealed her sons had drowned on April 2, and her husband had died on April 6.

  “Why would the Rangers be interested in me?” she asked.

  Jack took a deep breath and said, “Because you’re a murder suspect now, along with the doctor and his nurse.”

  Maggie leapt to her feet, abandoning the cat. “But why? I haven’t done anything!”

  “You had opportunity, Maggie. You’ve worked for law firms representing all three hospitals where the suspicious deaths occurred. And you had motive.”

  “What motive?”

  “The same as the doctor and his nurse. Sparing the families of those kids the same kind of suffering you endured when your kids drowned and one of your sons ended up on life support.”

  Her complexion turned chalky, and she swayed. He crossed quickly to catch her, afraid she was going to faint. He eased her onto the flowered chair and knelt in front of her. “Maggie? Are you all right?”

  She nodded, then looked earnestly into his eyes. “I’m not the one who’s killing kids, Jack. I won’t deny I’ve suffered because of what happened to my sons. But I would never . . . I could never . . . .”

  He wanted to believe her. But how could he, when all the murders had occurred during the same calendar days each year that her family had died? It was too much of a coincidence to ignore. Nevertheless, the rational part of him that argued “She’s the killer” was being outshouted by the impassioned part of him that said he couldn’t want her so much if she was capable of such heinous crimes.

  “Aw, Maggie,” he said in a soft, husky voice. “What am I going to do with you?”

  “Hold me, Jack. Please hold me.”

  It would have taken a stronger man than Jack to refuse her plea. He pulled her onto her feet and into his arms. She clung to him, her nose pressed against his shoulder, and Jack felt the warmth that was missing from the room seep into him.

  “Maggie?”

  He was asking if he could kiss her, if he could love her . . . if he could trust her. He felt her hesitation, heard the hitching breath she took. The tension in her body revealed the tug-of-war she was waging with herself.

  At last she looked up at him, her heart in her eyes, her terribly lonely eyes, and said, “All right, Jack.”

  Chapter 8

  There was no question of having a long-term relationship with Jack Kittrick. Maggie would not allow it. Besides she had proved with Woody that she didn’t have the inner fortitude it took to make a lifetime commitment. She wasn’t about to end up with another death on her conscience. She was willing to take the gamble of letting Jack get close, because she felt certain he was no more inclined to make permanent ties than she was.

  It was safe to have an affair with him, because he was not likely to complicate matters by falling in love with her. He seemed to desire the same thing she did—a brief, close encounter with a willing partner. The fact Maggie had not once, in ten years, been tempted to have sex with a man should have given her fair warning. But she rationalized that after ten years, she was due a superficial sexual relationship.

  She lifted her face and watched Jack’s gray eyes darken as he lowered his mouth to hers. The kiss was unexpectedly gentle. It wasn’t until she parted her lips that he revealed the sexual hunger she had seen in his rigid features. His tongue surged into her mouth, mimicking the sex act and making blood rush to her extremities. She slipped her hands beneath his tux jacket to feel his strength as he pulled her close. His callused fingers made her shiver as they roamed her naked back from her shoulder blades to her nape, and back down the curve of her spine.

  She could see the rapid pulse at his throat, knew hers must be beating just as fast. She felt breathless, excited, aroused. And terrified of taking that final step over the brink.

  Abruptly she pushed at Jack’s chest with the heels of her hands, but she didn’t make much headway putting any space between them. He was big and strong and determined, and Maggie realized she might be in serious trouble. “Jack, stop!”

  His hands paused at her shoulders, and he took a shuddering breath and let it out. “What’s wrong?”

  She wished he had separated them, but she remained wedged securely between his thighs. The heat and hardness of him were like a magnet drawing her closer. She tried to ignore the danger she faced if she let things proceed to their natural conclusion, but it was impossible.

  “I thought I was ready for this, but I’m not,” she said.

  Jack sucked gently on her throat beneath her ear, and she felt her body clench as though he were already inside her. She moaned a protest that sounded more like a passionate response to his lovemaking.

  “You react to my kisses like a woman who’s ready. What’s the problem, Maggie?” he murmured, his breath warm and moist against her flesh.

  “Jack, I can’t get involved with anyone.”

  “Fine. We won’t get involved.”

  She made a sound that was half laughter, half a plea for mercy. “I wish I could believe you.”

  He kissed her again, claiming her mouth with his, coaxing her to give in to the pleasure. For a brief moment she did. It was wonderful. Her blood thrummed. Her skin heated where he touched her. She felt more alive than she’d felt in ten long years. She could leap tall buildings. She could soar over mountains. The future was an open book, and all she had to do was rewrite it to include Jack Kittrick.

  Maggie tore herself from Jack’s embrace. “No! I won’t let this happen.”

  Jack’s eyes narrowed, and his brows lowered. “Won’t let what happen? It’s just sex, Maggie. We’re two consenting adults. Where’s the harm?”

  “I’ve never been with any man except my husband,” she admitted breathlessly. “I’ve never done this when I wasn’t in love. It feels . . . I don’t know . . . wrong.”

  His eyebrows rose halfway to his hairline. “Your husband died ten years ago. You mean you haven’t once—”

  “No, I haven’t,” she interrupted.

  His lips curved in a satisfied smile. “I see.”r />
  “What is it you see, Jack?” she said, afraid he saw way too much.

  He backed away and picked up his Pearl from the bar where he’d left it. “You need a little time to get to know me. That’s fine. To tell the truth, I’d be more comfortable if we prove you’re not a serial killer before we hit the sack.”

  Her jaw gaped. “You mean you were considering making love to me even though you think I might be a murderer?”

  Jack shrugged. “I was willing to give you the benefit of the doubt.”

  “But you’re not entirely convinced I’m innocent?”

  He hesitated, then shook his head.

  “This is insane.” Maggie crossed to the bar, opened the bottle of Jack Daniels black label, and poured an inch into a glass. She stood with her back to him, contemplating the liquor. She had nearly made love to a man who believed her to be a child killer. She still wanted him, was still vulnerable to his kiss, to his touch. He made her feel . . . everything . . . again.

  Maggie wanted not to feel anything. She wanted not to have to make any choices. It was tempting to seek oblivion in a bottle. Sorry to say, it wasn’t the prospect of being a murder suspect that bothered her, so much as the fact she didn’t seem to be able to let herself enjoy sex with a man she didn’t love. It wasn’t fair.

  Jack came up behind her close enough that she could feel the heat of him, smell the scent of fresh-cut evergreens in his cologne. “If you’re taking that drink because of me, don’t. I’ll leave if you want me gone.”

  She grasped the edge of the bar and held on for dear life. “I haven’t had a drink in over nine years,” she said. She turned to face him, her lips curved in a self-deprecating smile, wanting desperately to lean on somebody—on him—but knowing she had to stand on her own two feet. “I suppose I can resist another day. That’s how it’s done, you know. One day at a time.”

  He was standing too close, invading her space as a lover would, and he seemed to realize it, because he took a step back. His eyes searched her face, and she wondered what he was looking for.

  “You’re an alcoholic?”

  He said it like he wanted her to deny it. Unfortunately, she couldn’t. “Afraid so. When my sons drowned and my husband died all in the same week, I wanted to die myself.” She hesitated, debating how much to tell him. As little as possible, a voice warned. At last she said, “I couldn’t face life without my family, so I lost myself in a bottle. That’s where I stayed for nine long months.”

  “What turned you around?” Jack asked.

  She managed a smile. “Uncle Porter gave me a reason to come back from the dead. I’ve managed to stay sober ever since.”

  “What happened just now?”

  “This isn’t the first time I’ve been tempted to take a drink, Jack,” she said. “So far I’ve managed to resist.”

  “What happens when you can’t?” he asked.

  “I hope I never find out.”

  He played with his beer bottle, but he didn’t drink from it again. “My mother was never able to quit for very long.”

  “You mother’s an alcoholic?”

  “Was,” he corrected. “She started drinking for the same reason you did, I expect—loneliness after my dad was killed in the line of duty. She died about two years ago. The liquor finally ate up her liver.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I,” Jack said. “When I was a kid . . . . ”

  He didn’t finish the sentence, but Maggie could fill in the blanks for herself. His mother had most likely embarrassed him in front of his friends, maybe even mistreated him. Drunks were an unreliable bunch. She felt sorry for Jack but knew he wouldn’t appreciate an offer of sympathy. “A lot of folks don’t make it back to sobriety, Jack,” Maggie said. “I have.”

  “But it’s a constant struggle, isn’t it?” Jack prodded.

  “Of course. Alcoholism doesn’t go away.”

  “Hypothetically, you could fall off the wagon at any time.”

  He was pushing her, challenging her. “I suppose it’s possible,” she conceded.

  “I just watched you pour yourself a drink, Maggie. It’s more than possible.” He sounded angry. His jaw was taut, his gray eyes dark as an East Texas thunderstorm.

  “What’s the problem, Jack?”

  “I don’t have much use for alcoholics, Maggie. They’re doomed individuals.”

  “What about reformed alcoholics?”

  “I don’t know any.” His features were rigid, his muscles taut. “Isn’t it about time we got out of here?”

  Maggie picked up her stole from the sofa and slipped it over her bare arms. She stood silently while Jack adjusted the black, satiny fabric around her shoulders. She felt tight inside, sick to her stomach. She understood where his lack of tolerance came from, but there was nothing she could do to change the facts. If Jack wanted her, he was going to have to accept her, flaws and all. At least now they both knew where they stood.

  Jack watched Maggie’s face as the attendant brought his Chevy pickup to the front of her condominium but didn’t see any signs that she was upset he hadn’t come in a car. He opened the door for her and helped her up into the truck, then scooted around the hood and got in himself.

  He couldn’t think of anything to say, and she didn’t speak. In silence they headed out onto the MacArthur Freeway toward downtown and Alamo Plaza, where the outdoor gala was being held.

  He probably should have kept his mouth shut about his mother’s alcoholism, Jack thought. It was none of Maggie Wainwright’s business. But he’d been shocked to discover she was an alcoholic. His mother’s alcoholism had made his childhood hell—between the fear that she would die and leave him alone, the humiliation when his friends saw her drunk, and the shame that he was ashamed of his own mother. He had sworn on her grave that he’d never put himself in a situation where an alcoholic could hurt him again.

  What he ought to do was get as far from Maggie Wainwright as he could as fast as he could. But that wasn’t possible, because she was a murder suspect. And because he wanted her more than he could ever remember wanting a woman in his life.

  It dawned on him that it shouldn’t have mattered one way or the other whether she was an alcoholic, if all he wanted from Maggie Wainwright was sex. In fact, now that he thought about it, he’d made love to a few women over the years who drank to excess. So why did it make such a difference with Maggie?

  Jack didn’t have time to answer the question, because they had arrived at the Rivercenter, an indoor mall and hotel near the Alamo, where the gala attendees were supposed to park. The Cancer Society Gala was spread out on the paved courtyard directly in front of the Alamo. Tables had been set up, and a small orchestra played in the gazebo on the square.

  The weather was beautiful, clear and cool and calm, with a full moon above. Jack took the parking stub from the valet and went around to help Maggie out. He had to hand it to her. She managed the most graceful exit from a truck he’d ever seen by a woman in an evening gown.

  He offered his arm, and as they walked the short distance to the Alamo said, “Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?”

  She stumbled, and he slipped his arm around her to keep her upright. She glanced back as though to see what had tripped her, but there was nothing but flat sidewalk. She avoided his eyes as she replied, “Thank you for the compliment. You look very nice, too.”

  “I usually clean up pretty good.”

  “I should have trusted you—”

  “I rented the tux from Anthony’s,” he said at the same time.

  She flashed him a startled look, then laughed, a silvery sound that made the hairs stand at attention all over his body. Her eyes looked bright and excited, and all he could think of was taking her somewhere dark and private and finishing what they’d started.

  “I hope you won’t mind sitting with a bunch of lawyers,” she said. “You already know Roman and Lisa. You’ll also meet—”

  She cut herself off as they reache
d the greeting line established on the south side of Alamo Plaza. “Good evening, Victoria,” Maggie said. “I don’t believe you’ve formally met Jack Kittrick. Jack, this is my mother-in-law, Victoria Wainwright.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Kittrick. Margaret’s told me so much about you.”

  There was a great deal of innuendo in Victoria Wainwright’s voice. Enough to make Jack uncomfortable and to put a dusky flush on Maggie’s cheeks.

  “I’m glad you could come this evening,” Victoria said. “It’s always nice to have attractive people attend these events. It helps increase the newspaper coverage.”

  Jack couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard. He wasn’t sure what reply to make, and thankfully he didn’t have to come up with one. The curtness of Maggie’s voice when she excused them from the line said it all for him.

  “I’m sorry,” Maggie said, as soon as they were far enough away that Victoria couldn’t overhear them. “Among society women like Victoria, charity fundraising is a fiercely competitive sport. It’s a game to see who can raise the most money, who garners the most important people, the most coverage of the event in video and print. Victoria lives for it. And she seldom loses.”

  “What did you tell her about me?” Jack asked.

  Maggie stopped abruptly and turned to face him. “Not enough for her to insinuate more.”

  She met his gaze directly, even though he could see, with help from the decorative red, white, and blue lights hung all around them, that her color was still high. “Victoria would be happy to run my life. I’m happier running it myself. Can we just forget about her and enjoy the evening?”

  “That’s fine with me,” Jack said.

  Maggie led them through the milling crowd of socialites dressed in World War II fashions to their numbered table, which had been set up far enough from the gazebo that they could hear themselves talk over the orchestra. Jack was glad to see the table had already filled up with people. He didn’t want to be alone with Maggie right now, because he was tempted to throw caution to the wind and suggest they forget about the gala and get a room at the Menger, next door.