by Susan Conley
When he pulled her feet into his lap and massaged them, ever … so … slowly, Abby’s body hummed under his touch. “That’s easy for you to say, you weren’t driving.”
“I can get another car, but you would’ve been a little tougher to replace — ”
The phone rang.
“Rest,” he said. “I’ll take it in the other room.”
When the ringing stopped, Abby couldn’t help but overhear.
“I really didn’t expect to hear from you tonight, Bridget.”
Even the mention of that woman’s name prickled the hair on the back of Abby’s neck.
“So, tell me, how is New York?”
“That cold, huh?”
“No, I didn’t get the message.”
And Abby thought she couldn’t feel worse. What was the old joke — did you get the name of that truck? Well, as far as she was concerned, that eighteen wheeler’s name was Bridget Bishop. From Jack’s side of the conversation, it sounded like her accident may have caused him to forget his date tonight. Even the thought made Abby shudder.
“ — because I was with a client,” he said. “How about you? What did you do this afternoon?”
What on earth had made Abby think Jack’s generosity could or should be anything more than just that? He’d been taking care of an out-of-town client who’d had an accident. Doing his job. Nothing more. Nothing less.
“I don’t know.”
Jack slammed down the receiver.
The moment Jack walked back into the living room, Abby saw it. The laughter was gone from his eyes. Frustration or anger, she couldn’t tell which, had taken its place. Stroking Shadow, she avoided his gaze.
“Why don’t you just take me back to the inn? I’ll be fine there.”
“What?”
“I couldn’t help but overhear. Apparently you had plans — ”
“No. I didn’t.”
“Well, I want to go,” Abby told him. “You’ve gone above and beyond your responsibility.”
“Forget it. You’re not going anywhere — especially there.” He held up a hand. “You’re staying here with me.”
“Noble to the death,” Abby muttered, suddenly too tired to argue. “Fine.”
“What’s wrong, Abby? Do you feel worse?”
“I’m tired,” she sighed. “When can I go to sleep?”
Jack checked his watch. “Any time now.”
Picking at the dried blood on her sweater sleeve, she asked, “Where can I wash up?”
“I’m sorry. I should have thought — ”
“That wasn’t your responsibility either.” Jumping up a little too quickly, Abby faltered, and he scooped her up as if she were no bigger than Shadow. God, she was miserable. Aching bones. Pounding head. Throbbing wrist. Abby didn’t want to wrap her arms around Jack’s neck, but she did. She clung to him as he carried her up the spiral staircase and put her down on the bed.
“I’ll be right back,” he said.
Looking around, she noticed beautifully shuttered windows and a skylight directly overhead. Impressed by the bedroom, Abby wondered if that Bridget woman had decorated it. The pain in her head doubled.
“Here’s your suitcase.”
He looked like a fish out water. Poor thing acted like she was going to explode before his very eyes. “Thanks.” Taking pity, she let him off the hook. “You go on. I’ll be fine.”
Jack pointed. “The bathroom is through there.”
“Okay.”
“The clean towels are in the linen closet.” He gestured again.
She watched his hands slide into his pants’ pockets. “Where are the dirty ones?” she asked, trying to keep a straight face.
“Huh?”
“It was a joke.”
“Right,” he conceded. “I’ll be downstairs, if you need anything.”
“I’m sure I won’t.” Abby watched him descend the staircase — finally. She grabbed her suitcase and that’s when she noticed the slashed leather. Cringing, she found the bathroom, shut the door and waited until her heart stopped pounding. Someone had torn apart her room and sliced open her bag like a ripe watermelon. Looking for what? Unable to stand much longer, let alone think, she awkwardly stripped off her bloodstained sweater and jeans and opened the suitcase with her good hand.
“What in the world?” Abby muttered, digging to the bottom — her daintiest lingerie, skimpiest teddy and a sheer black nightgown. “I’ll bet Hawthorne had a heyday picking out this stuff.” He’d left her with some choice. It was either one of these or the street clothes he’d brought her.
After washing up, she slid into the nightgown and returned to find the room dark except for a tiffany lamp on a nearby pedestal table serving as a night-light. The bed had been neatly turned down, and Shadow already snoozed comfortably on one pillow. A wooden tray on the dresser held a pitcher of ice water, a glass, and one small, white pill. After taking the medication, she walked to the sleek wooden rail that surrounded the loft. The smooth rich wood felt solid beneath her hands.
The lights were out downstairs, and the dying firelight silhouetted Jack’s broad-shouldered form stretched the length of the couch. Backing away quietly, she self-consciously slid beneath the soft, cool sheets, Jack’s sheets, and snuggled under the covers. She gazed overhead at the skylight. The black velvet sky was sprinkled with a million stars. As her medication started to take effect, the shimmering night spiraled into images of Jack. Turning comfortably onto one side, she closed her eyes and smiled.
A little past twelve, Abby stirred only to find Jack standing motionless at the top of the stairs, checking on her. At two-thirty he stood beside the bed again. When she awoke briefly at five o’clock in the morning and found him sprawled in a chair next to the bed, she covered him with the plush, cotton throw that she hadn’t needed.
Warm sunshine caressed Abby’s face, slowly waking her. She opened her eyes and stretched, more than pleased to find the throbbing in her head had stopped. Shadow scampered across the bed, purring contentedly as he rubbed his furry face against her cheek.
“This is quite a bed, isn’t it?” Turning her head to meet the sound of someone coming up the steps, Abby was quick to pull the covers under her chin.
“Morning,” Jack said.
“Good morning.” She watched him set down a tray on the dresser and approach the bed. He grabbed the other pillow and propped it in back of her head, enabling her to sit up. The aroma of bacon and coffee made her mouth water. “You shouldn’t have,” she lied, not surprised by the dark circles under Jack’s eyes and the drawn lines around his mouth.
“I know, but I can’t have you dying in my bed, now can I?” He looked up and smiled. “At least not from starvation.”
“So this — ” she gestured toward the breakfast “ — more or less just protects your reputation?”
He balanced the tray on her lap. “Exactly.”
Despite being a bit ragged around the edges, Abby thought he looked wonderful — charcoal sweater, sleeves pushed halfway to his elbows, stone washed black jeans. And he smelled as good as he looked.
“Far be it from me to tarnish your impeccable character.” Adjusting her grip, a corner of the blanket slipped and exposed a portion of her nightgown.
“I think you already have.”
“You mean this old thing?” She winked. “If you think this little number is something, you ought to see the rest. But then I guess you already did.” She yanked the cover back up. “Like pilfering through ladies’ lingerie, Hawthorne?”
“I usually prefer the woman to be in them at the time.”
Abby ignored his comment and, instead, dug into the scrambled eggs, “Ummm. These are delicious. Thank the cook for me, will you?”
“Very funny.”
“What?” she asked innocently. Taking a sip of coffee, she immediately peeled her lips from the cup. “Geez, Hawthorne, are you trying to scald me?”
“That’s what you get for having such a smart mouth.”
“Your concern is touching.” Abby blew on the steaming liquid. Looking up, she found him staring. She enunciated as if explaining to a child, “This is what we do in Illinois when something is too hot.”
“Someday, when you’re feeling better, remind me to show you what we do in Massachusetts.”
Abby watched Jack’s lips curl into an insinuating grin before he turned and walked away. She muttered a string of oaths between bites as he descended the stairs. After finishing every bite, she struggled with her bandaged wrist to put the tray full of empty dishes on the floor. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, waited a moment to gain her equilibrium, then rested both feet on the soft, warm carpet. Standing tentatively, she balanced herself and checked for dizziness. Experiencing none, she headed for the bathroom.
Dressed in the jeans and sweatshirt he had packed, Abby applied a little makeup and brushed her hair before going downstairs. Much to Jack’s disapproving glare, she’d managed quite well alone.
“What, no tray?”
“I think I’m doing rather well, thank you.”
“So you are.”
Uncomfortable with his sincerity, Abby turned her attention to Shadow who was wolfing down his breakfast in the far corner of the kitchen. “Awww. You bought him cat food.”
Jack shrugged. “I fed you didn’t I?”
“And a real litter box — ”
“Which you can clean,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Fair enough,” she agreed. Stifling her pleasure, Abby reminded herself it was called keeping the client happy. She shifted her weight uneasily. “I’m ready whenever you are.”
“Oh, really?”
Jack gave Abby a smile so suggestive that her knees turned to jelly.
“You know exactly what I mean.”
Just the sight of him leaning against the cabinet, legs crossed at the ankles, arms folded across his chest caused her breath to quicken. His laugh was warm, catching. It erased the worry lines around his eyes and mouth, making him look years younger than he had earlier this morning. Just smiling at first, she couldn’t help but join in. “Do you have to make something out of a simple request to go back to the inn?”
“Oh, that’s what you were talking about.”
“Yes.” She rolled her eyes. “Besides, I have to talk to the police this morning.”
He shook his head. “I already phoned Venucci and updated him. He knows where you are, if he needs anything.”
“Thank you.” Regardless of feeling a little steadier, Abby hadn’t relished an interview — not that she knew anything. Because she didn’t.
“You should stay here at least another day.”
“Thanks, but no. You’ve already gone above and beyond.”
“It wasn’t a question.” Jack shrugged. “You’re staying.”
“Says who?”
“The doctor. I promised him you’d stay forty-eight hours.”
“You did not.” Abby planted both hands on her hips, forgetting momentarily about her injured wrist. “Ouch!”
“See.”
“Don’t worry about me.” She narrowed her gaze. “Tell me the truth. You didn’t say that to the doctor, did you?”
“I meant to. Besides, I’m sure he’d insist.” Holding up his palm to counter her protest, Jack continued, “I’ll be at work all day. You’ll have the entire house to yourself, and you’ll be here in case Detective Venucci calls.”
Well, she had to stay somewhere. And the police might need to talk to her. What could it hurt? “All right. Thank you.”
Moving closer, Jack faced Abby. “Except for inheriting your necklace, you’ve had nothing but bad luck since you landed in Boston.”
“That’s an understatement.” She watched his expression soften.
“Let me make it up to you.”
The quiet emphasis of his words touched Abby. “How?”
“We’ll call a truce. You rest and recuperate.”
Hearing the challenge in his voice, she stepped back. “And?”
“And I’ll take you to the Halloween Ball,” he stated rather than asked. “It’s the highlight of the season in Boston.”
The sexy smile tugging at his lips may have been contagious, but in light of all that had happened to her in the past month, Abby wasn’t really in a costume party kind of mood. “We’ll see,” was all she could promise.
• • •
“I’m going to the office now.”
“Okay,” Abby answered absently. She thought the view from the window was breathtaking … until she turned to face him. The man gave new meaning to the phrase tall, dark and impeccably dressed. “See you later.”
“I’ll be home about six.”
“Don’t go all domestic on me, Hawthorne. You sound like Ozzie Nelson.” Truce or no truce, she couldn’t help but remember Bridget Bishop’s phone call last night. “I’m just a guest. Feel free to come and go as you please.”
“On second thought, I may be late.”
The front door slammed behind Jack loud enough for the neighbors to hear. It spooked Shadow so badly he hissed and raced upstairs, his hair standing out like a tiny black porcupine.
“Maybe he wanted to come home at six,” she began, talking to herself. “Great. Now I can look forward to a long afternoon and a long evening.” The cat peaked curiously around the corner to see if the coast was clear. “What am I saying, Shadow? We don’t need Jack Hawthorne to occupy our time, do we?”
Chapter Twenty-One
Salem, Massachusetts
31 October
Year of Our Lord, 1692
Jackson could see Abigail’s lips moving, surely saying what would be her last prayer. From where he stood, the torches blazed around her. Reflections of the flickering firelight cast a strange pulsing glow between her fingers.
Working quickly, a woman dressed in black except for a bright red bodice jerked Abigail by the arms and tied both wrists behind her back. The woman’s strong, well-practiced fingers ripped the amulet from Abigail’s grasp, then hissed as the smooth amber stone branded its shape in the palm of her hand. An oath escaped her scarlet lips as she threw the pendant hard and fast. Slipping the noose over Abigail’s head, the woman moved closer.
“See you in hell,” Bridget Bishop whispered as she yanked the cord tighter. “He’s mine now.”
“Never,” Abigail swore as rough hands shoved her onto a frightened horse. “My spell will protect him from you until I return.”
When ice blue eyes met green, thunder shook the earth and lightning slashed the heavens. The dark-haired beauty tossed her head back and laughed hysterically …
• • •
The house was dark when Abby woke up. Disoriented, the iridescent glow of the clock on the bedside table reflected seven-thirty. Flipping on a light, she made her way downstairs. Jack had cleaned the fireplace and set up new wood before he left, so all she had to do was strike one of the long matches and ignite the kindling.
Refreshed and hungry, she put together a ham and cheese sandwich and a glass of milk and ate her meal by the softly crackling fire. Looking around, Abby had to admit she was fascinated by Jack’s home. Refined. Almost elegant. Yet comfortable. The man definitely had an eye for both shape and color. Paintings in muted earth tones hung haphazardly on opposite walls pulled the entire look together.
Suddenly aware of the silence, she flipped on the television. When was the last time she’d relaxed in front of the TV? Come to think of it, she didn’t even know what programs were on anymore. And since when did silence bother her?
>
Irritated by her insistent soul-searching, she opted for a mindless hour soaking in a hot bath instead. No psychoanalysis. No self-criticism. No mind games. Indulgence, pure and simple, was what she wanted. Afterward, unwilling to parade around in her scant, black nightgown, she gave herself permission to search Jack’s room for a robe. That seemed only fair since he was the one who brought her back as little as was humanly possible to wear.
She opened the closet door and found an array of neatly pressed suits, crisply laundered shirts and, voila, just as she’d suspected a wonderfully soft, kimono-style robe. Abby plunged her arms in and immediately recognized Jack’s sent clinging to the plush, white terrycloth. She closed her eyes, inhaled, and hugged herself tightly. Forced to cuff the incredibly long sleeves several times, she crisscrossed the front before cinching the belt around her waist.
Curious, she continued to snoop around the huge walk-in. The man was disgustingly neat. His beautiful designer ties were precisely arranged on orderly rows of hooks. Abby was impressed by his taste, but more than that, she couldn’t help but admire the fact that he didn’t work at it. Whatever class this man had, he came by it naturally. And that’s when she saw it … and smiled.
In the farthest corner of the closet she found a worn out, gray sweat suit, a pair of dirty Nikes and a badly scuffed basketball. So, Jack Hawthorne wasn’t perfect after all. Thank God. Satisfied, she was able to shut the door and go downstairs with her piece of mind intact.
Abby stretched out the length of the sofa and allowed herself to be swept away by Clark Gable. Every woman, she decided, should see “It Happened One Night” at least once.
• • •
“You know, Max, I’ve never known you to become involved with any client.” Without looking up from his computer screen, Jack continued typing as he spoke.
“Concerned. Not involved,” she corrected. “After all, Ms. Corey was injured in a car accident.”
Jack’s fingers stopped mid-sentence, and he swiveled his chair to face her. He’d seen that look hundreds of times over the years, but today something else was there. Something he could sense but couldn’t pinpoint. “Still, why so interested?”
