An Equal Measure

by Bliss Addison

  Chapter Twelve

  Jackson lived in a hi-rise. Figure that. A man who dealt in antiques should want to surround himself with antiques. Right. Nothing about the man made sense. He was definitely up to something. For self-preservation, I needed to find out what it was, which was the only reason I agreed to have dinner with him.

  Since I’d seen Trish with him this morning, I could think of nothing else. A storm of emotions surged through me – anger for letting myself believe someone wanted a relationship with me, the homely one, the one who stood on the sidelines while schoolmates played sports and went on dates; a double dose of jealousy for seeing Jackson with another woman; hatred for them for not only hurting me but making a fool of me as well.

  I started it when I seduced Jackson and humiliated him, but enough already. I had sincerely apologized, then allowed Jackson to exact his revenge. Tit for tat. My debt to him was paid in equal measure.

  If I had a friend in my current position, I’d advise her to run...not walk...from Jackson Carlisle and Trish Whoever-She-Was. Nothing good will come of this situation, I’d say. They’re up to something. Don’t find out after it’s too late.

  Wise words.

  Sound advice.

  Tomorrow, I’d cut Jackson and Trish loose and forget about them like they never existed.

  Tonight, I’d find out what Jackson knew about Thomas’s murder and if I was involved in his death.

  Feeling manipulated and confused, I walked across the street and entered the building. I gave my name to the desk attendant and learned Jackson had efficiently prepared my way.

  “Fourteenth floor, Ma’am. Mr. Carlisle said to send you up when you arrive.”

  “Thank you,” I said, smiling. “Have a good night.”

  I walked to the bank of elevators. A car awaited me. I checked myself out in the mirror. I was a bundle of nerves, but it didn’t show.

  On the fourteenth floor, I strode from the car to Jackson’s apartment. I raised my hand to press the buzzer and the door swung open, startling me.

  “Josie!” Jackson said, wrapping me in a hug that robbed my breath.

  He kissed me on the cheek, then set my feet back on the floor.

  “I thought you weren’t coming,” he said, kicking the door closed.

  “Why would you think that?” I asked, my voice sounding natural. Despite my suspicions, I found myself enjoying his wide smile and hearty welcome. Once again, I questioned my instincts. Maybe I’d read him wrong.

  “First, we eat,” he said. “Then we talk.”

  I nodded.

  Jackson led me from the foyer into a modernly furnished living room and to a black metal dining table intimately set for two. Through the expansive window, I looked across the street to Coronation Park. Lovers strolled the tree-lined paths. Beyond the park on the western horizon the sun, a ball of fiery orange, sank into the earth.

  “The view is spectacular, isn’t it?” Jackson asked.

  I turned, expecting him to be looking out the window and found him admiring me instead. “It is.” In fact, the sunset virtually took away my breath it was that beautiful, so was the handsome man standing at my side.

  He held out a chair for me. I sat and watched him walk into the kitchen noticing, not for the first time, that Jackson looked as good from the back as he did from the front. He was an all-around superior male specimen. What in hell was he up to? I wish I could read minds, Jackson’s in particular.

  “Your timing’s great,” he said. “Dinner’s ready.”

  “You cooked?”

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” he said, wheeling in a cart.

  He said it so well, I couldn’t argue.

  “It’ll be fun getting to know each other, don’t you think?” He placed our plates on the table and sat, unfolding the white linen napkin and spreading the cloth across his lap.

  The spaghetti and meatballs looked delicious, and I couldn’t wait to sample the cheese garlic bread grilled to perfection. I eyed the parsley delicately arranged on a rectangular plate. Jackson had thought of everything!

  I followed his example. My usual dinner companions weren’t large on etiquette. With that thought, I wondered how Shamus and Shawn fared in my absence. Well, I expected. They were squirrels, after all, and used to forging for themselves.

  “I hope you like pasta,” Jackson said.

  “Yes, very much.” I stared into his eyes, hoping to find the truth behind this dinner invitation. After a half-minute, I broke eye contact. Another second and I’d be sitting in his lap, confessing all my sins and bawling my guilt for every wrong I perpetrated in my entire life.

  “Why did you want to have dinner with me?” Judging from his wide-eyed expression, he hadn’t expected the question. Jackson wasn’t a man often caught off-guard.

  I’d done so once, and just now. I wouldn’t go three for three.

  After a moment, he countered. “Why not?”

  His reaction and response seemed genuine. Maybe he was truly interested in me. Maybe there was no ulterior motive. And maybe if I reached out, I could touch the moon.

  I shrugged.

  He turned serious. “You’re a beautiful woman, Josie. You’re funny, cutely naive, intelligent, sexy, and from the moment you smiled at me, I wanted you.” He cocked a brow. “Hence, my over-eagerness to make love to you that night in my shop.”

  “Sex not love,” I said. “There’s a difference.”

  “Love,” he said, taking my hand. “I know the difference.” He kissed my fingertips.

  My traitorous heart reacted to his touch. My insides turned to mush, and my limbs tingled.

  He set my hand on the table. “I can see I took you by surprise. I’m moving too fast. Truth is, I never met a woman who inspired me the way you do.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  One part of me – the love-starved part – believed him. The other part – the pragmatic part – harbored doubts. Serious doubts. Don’t be a fool, Josie. Don’t trust him. I would be a fool, wouldn’t I, to trust a man who could have his choice of beautiful women but chose me instead?

  I wanted to call him out on the lie, confront him, make him admit his game, but couldn’t muster the courage. The problem was I liked the attention. I hoped I wouldn’t regret not walking away.

  Jackson, true to his word, ushered me into the living room after dinner to talk. I sat on the sofa, a French Provincial that looked new, or at least, unused. A man-about-town like Jackson wouldn’t spend much time at home. I wouldn’t imagine, anyway. My cottage was well used, but then I spent almost every living hour inside it.

  I studied him, sitting on the wing chair opposite me. He didn’t appear a man who struggled with the death of a good friend. We didn’t all handle grief the same way, though. Some of us lashed out. Some wallowed in self-pity.

  Maybe he formulated a story. Lies were easily fabricated. Truth, especially self-incriminating, on the other hand, was difficult to admit.

  I couldn’t continue this way. I needed to know the truth.

  “Dinner was delicious,” I said. “My compliments to the chef. Why didn’t you call to warn me the police might be knocking down my door? That’s what they did, you know. A heads-up would have been nice. I would have shown you the courtesy. How could you think I wouldn’t want to know Thomas had been murdered? Or was it another of your ways to get revenge? If it was, then you got it. I can’t tell you how frightening it was for me to see the police on the stoop. And why did I have dried blood on my hands when I woke this morning?”

  “I – ”

  “I’ve had all day to rationalize your inadvertence and quite honestly, there’s no excusing your insensitivity. If you thought anything at all about me, you would have called to tell me Thomas had been murdered, and that the police would probably want to question me.” I stopped. Something bothered me, a tiny detail that under normal circumstances I would have questioned immediately. What was it? The elusive fact came
to me then. “How did they know where to find me? No one knew where I was staying except for you and Trish. You told them, didn’t you? You told them where I was.” I waited for him to answer.

  “I called you. Check your messages.”

  I took my phone from my pocket and confirmed what Jackson said. Six messages relaying the same point: Urgent. Call me. Need to speak to you asap. Josie, it’s Jackson again. Please call. It’s extremely important we speak.

  How had I not noticed those messages?

  I was seeing only what I wanted to see. It was difficult admitting I was wrong, but I had to. For myself and for Jackson. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Forgive me?”

  “Of course. It was a simple misunderstanding.”

  I liked Jackson more and more. “How about the talk you promised.”

  His cell rang.

  “Excuse me,” he said, checking call display. “I have to take this.”

  “Okay.” I watched him walk into the kitchen where he spoke secret agent-like into the receiver. I became suspicious again. Who was he talking to? At the first opportunity, I’d snatch his phone and find out who called.

  With Jackson occupied, I walked around the expansive living room. There wasn’t a speck of dust or smudge anywhere. I doubted Jackson did his own cleaning and must have someone come in daily. A stack of envelopes bundled within an elastic band sitting atop a secretary desk caught my attention. A lot could be learned from someone’s mail. I chewed the inside of my cheek, dickering whether I should invade his privacy. If Jackson was up to something, something which might hurt or jeopardize my safety, I should know. Of course, I should.

  I peeked at him. He was still consumed with the telephone call, paying me no attention whatsoever.

  Humming, I walked to the desk and casually glanced at the addressee: Madeleine E. Fairweather.

  Who was she?

  Jackson’s wife?

  Jackson’s mistress?

  Jackson’s mother? No, a grown man, certainly one as sophisticated as Jackson, wouldn’t live with his mother.

  Wife or mistress, then.

  Neither answer would relieve me. I had no hold on him and no relationship with him to speak of, yet like before, I experienced a moment of jealousy, which made no sense. None at all.

  “Would you like more wine?” Jackson asked, re-entering the living room.

  I turned and peered at him. He didn’t look like a womanizer. Or an adulterer, either. Nor a murderer. Truth was, Jackson could be all of those things for all I knew.

  I couldn’t let him know I was on to his charade, so I smiled, letting on everything was fine.

  “I’d love some, thank you.” I walked to the sofa and sat, watching him refill our glasses. “Who was that on the phone?” I asked.

  “A client looking for a Louis XV armoire.”

  “Oh.” I doubted he told the truth.

  Jackson set his cell on the end table.

  I saw my opportunity and faked a sneeze. “Excuse me,” I said, placing my finger across my nostrils. “I couldn’t trouble you for a tissue?”

  “Of course.” He strode from the room.

  I grabbed his cell, checked the identity of his last caller and realized I wasn’t paranoid.

  Jackson had lied to me.