by Susan Conley
“Your car was totaled.”
Jack shrugged. “I’ll buy another.”
“Ms. Corey was driving.”
“And we’ve come full circle.” He crossed both arms over his chest. “Why so interested,” he repeated.
“Pleasant woman.” Maxine met his gaze. “Unpleasant circumstances.”
“And?”
“And nothing.” She stopped at the door and placed one hand on the knob but didn’t open it.
“What is it, Max?” He used his understanding, soothing lawyer voice. The one that urged trust me, and I can help you. Difference was, this time he meant it as a friend, not a prosecutor.
She turned to face him. Paused as if to speak. Then shook her head. “Nothing.”
“Okay.” He shrugged. “But we’ve been together a long time, and you can talk to me about anything.”
She pinned him with her gaze. “As can you.”
He thought a moment but could find no concrete, logical place to begin. “I know,” he said, wondering if that same feeling of uncertainty had anything thing to do with her decision not to speak.
Jack had learned a long time ago when Maxine was done discussing something, she switched gears without so much as a blink. And that was that. He might as well give up and go along with her. For the time being anyway.
Without a word, Maxine nodded, opened the door and left him feeling restless and frustrated. For a lawyer like Jack, unanswered questions gnawed a hole in his gut. What he had always trusted about himself, however, was his process. The way his brain worked. The way his mind sorted facts and connected the dots.
So, he made a conscious effort to spend the better part of his afternoon not thinking about Abby or Maxine or anything connected with either of them. Instead, he busied himself in the mundane, which unleashed his subconscious and allowed information to surface on its own.
During a trial, he would go for a long drive after work to clear his head. So, he decided today would be no different. Leaving the office, he settled behind the wheel of his Jeep. Content to head nowhere in particular, he laid the same mental groundwork that he would for any cross-examination.
Fact: Maxine does not pussyfoot.
Fact: Maxine deals solely in reality.
Fact: Maxine does not get involved in other people’s business — except his.
As he wound his way down the scenic, tree-lined streets, Jack admitted just how much he trusted Maxine and her instincts. Engrossed in determining how this translated to Abby Corey, he didn’t notice the rich autumn foliage illuminated by the setting October sun. Or the Halloween decorations. Or the jack-o-lantern studded porches. Instead, he concentrated on what he knew about Abby. The devastation she had experienced during the past month surfaced in his mind. The catastrophic fire. The death of her friend. The loss of her home as well as her business. And now all the misfortune that had happened to her since she arrived in Boston.
Jack would feel empathy for anyone under these circumstances. But his feelings went deeper than that. And what about Maxine? She was a rock. A no-nonsense woman who had never been at loss for words, much less an opinion, in her entire life. Yet neither he nor Maxine chose to verbalize why this virtual stranger had made such an impression on both of them.
Jack drove until his stomach insisted he stop to eat. He had never minded, and usually enjoyed, the solitude of a late night dinner. Until now. Tonight, visions of the red-haired beauty probably lying in his bed at this very moment teased and taunted him.
His smile faded when thoughts of Bridget intruded. He hadn’t been at the office when she called the last time, but Maxine had taken a message. Max may have added her personal spin as to the amount of hostility evident in Bridget’s tone, but he really didn’t care. Again, he trusted Maxine’s take on people.
Fact: Maxine does not like Bridget.
Fact: Maxine does not conceal the fact that she does not like Bridget.
Fact: Maxine’s dislike for Bridget appears to be in direct proportion to her uncharacteristic fondness for Abby.
As far as Bridget was concerned, Jack sided with Maxine. It was over. Not that it had ever really begun. Seeing her with the guy at the inn had pissed him off, but only because he detested a liar. Not due to any feelings he had for Bridget. They just weren’t there. Never had been. Maybe that was why her betrayal felt like more of a relief.
Pushing aside his barely eaten meal, Jack tossed down a twenty and left. Unfortunately, the drive home was every bit as frustrating as the trip there had been. Instead of finding definitive answers, he had succeeded in conjuring up more questions. Normally not a problem.
As a lawyer, there was nothing he liked more than the challenge of searching for the perfect angle or loophole. And he was damned good at both. However, that had not been his goal this evening. Tonight what Jack needed was rock-solid explanations. But as important as solutions were, and they seemed to be paramount, it was the sense of urgency brewing just below the surface that concerned him more. The truth will set you free.
Quietly entering the house, the sight of Abby sound asleep in the living room stopped him cold. The dying fire lent a soft glow to her face and heightened the purplish bruise on her cheek. His stomach tightened. The thunderous memory of her accident, not to mention her ransacked room, jabbed his conscience like a big thorny stick. He would check with Venucci first thing in the morning for an update on the investigation.
Mid-stride, Jack spotted his robe. He had to admit terry cloth had never looked that good before. Especially since it was tied loosely at Abby’s waist where it parted, revealing what little there was of her black nightgown. Her hair hung enticingly over the edge of the sofa almost to the floor. Long, smooth legs stretched to their oh-so-impressive length.
Shedding his coat and suit jacket, Jack knelt down and gathered up Abby. As he started upstairs, her arms automatically curled around his neck. She felt small and fragile as she nuzzled her face against his shoulder. Her hair carried the fresh scent of his shampoo.
She only stirred for a moment as he carefully eased her onto the bed. “Jack?”
“Shhh,” he spoke softly. “Go back to sleep.” He saw her smile reflected in the moonlight that spilled across the pillow. One last look and he headed downstairs.
Abby Corey. Why did the sight of her just now make him want to put his fist through the wall? Where was his frustration coming from? How could his feelings be this intense?
I must be nuts. So she put on my robe. Big deal. Since when was that so damn special?
He paced. “Ever since she stepped off that plane … ”
He yanked loose his tie and kicked off his shoes.
“ … She’s messed with my mind … ”
He peeled off his shirt and ripped out his belt like a bullwhip.
“ … She’s disrupted my life … ”
He dropped his pants, not to mention is guard.
“ … She’s … important to me.”
But why? Jack swallowed hard. He crossed the room and poured a whiskey neat, a double. He downed it in one gulp and relished the path it burned down his throat as he swallowed. He poured another …
Maybe I can drown whatever’s bugging me from the inside. Fat chance, pal. All you’re gonna get is one helluva hangover.
… And another.
Feeling no pain, but far from anesthetized, Jack dragged out the bedding and made up the couch. Realizing part of what had him crazy, he pounded the suddenly uncomfortable pillow with his fist. He did not believe in coincidences — like one person experiencing an unexplainable car wreck and her hotel room being ransacked in the same day.
Was Abby in danger? If so, what kind and how much? How far was this person prepared go? Two incidents in less than twenty-four hours. That was way too far. As for the rest of what was making him nuts
, his only clues had been bits and pieces. Scraps of some elusive feeling that tried his patience at every turn.
He angled for a more comfortable position. The bottom line — he would protect her whether she liked it or not. As for the rest, all the other explanations he needed, he decided time would tell.
Chapter Twenty-Two
A note scrawled in large masculine handwriting had been left on the kitchen table propped against a box of donuts. Jack had gone to work early and made several lurid suggestions about her feeling free to pillage his closet until he could stop by and pick up some more of her clothes.
Abby grinned; glad she and Hawthorne were back on speaking terms again. Suddenly famished, she ate a decadent donut filled with Bavarian cream, then another and felt more like her old self than she had since the accident. Enjoying a certain sense of freedom, Abby hit Jack’s bedroom room like a Saturday morning garage sale. She grabbed a pair of black sweat shorts with a drawstring waist and a black and orange T-shirt with Salem’s witch logo across the front.
“Can you believe it, Shadow?” she told the small furry cat who watched her every move with the utmost interest. “Even his grubby clothes match.” The kitten fell headfirst into the dresser drawer she had opened. Hauling him out, she kissed his tiny head.
“Oh, no you don’t. We’re going exploring and see just how much we can find out about Jack Hawthorne. Come on. Wanna poke around a little?”
She began downstairs, assessing the kitchen as well stocked, but not fussy. Although a woman’s touch wouldn’t hurt, it was still very attractive. No plants. No cookbooks. No knickknacks. Plenty of beautiful granite counter space and every utensil in its place. The copper pots hanging over an island stove/sink combination were well used, not decorative. She marveled at the cleanliness and thanked God that Jack couldn’t check any of those mystery containers in her refrigerator. Not that she even had a ’frig anymore.
Now more than ever, her life felt out of sync. And not just because of the loss of her friend and her shop. Those tragedies stained her past. Not to mention breaking her heart.
No, this felt different. More of a haunting sense of something yet to come that had actually followed her from Springfield. So, why had she experienced such an unexplainable familiarity in Salem? A sense of peace that resembled Shadow curling up in a warm spot of sunshine. After a silent vow to shelve her paranoia and take one day at a time, she decided today would be dedicated to exploring the world of Jack Hawthorne. Room by room.
Abby noted a stylish bar separated the dining area from the kitchen, complete with a wooden-shuttered pass through that could close off either room. Jack had left the morning newspaper and a half-cup of coffee behind. She admired the single pedestal design of his dining table, especially its massive ball claws. Like the rest of Jack’s house his furniture was masculine, but beautiful.
As she wandered through the living room, the exquisite oil paintings caught her eye. Although each one was unique, the signature, if that was what you could call it, was the same. Every one of them had two solid black, inverted triangles side by side — points down and wide bases touching. Could that be an abstract W, she wondered? The seascapes were so alive you could almost smell the salt air and hear the unmistakable call of the gulls. The barns and landscapes were warm and earthy.
Behind the chair next to the television, she found something that revealed a side of Jack Hawthorne she would have never guessed in a million years. An Xbox. Her neighbor’s son had beaten her into the ground playing Max Payne — at first. What the little darling didn’t know was, after he had been sent to bed, Abby practiced that game until her thumbs were numb. Not that she was a sore loser or the least bit competitive.
Finding her way to the den, with Shadow in tow, the room smelled of leather, rustic wood paneling, and Jack. His desk was huge and damnably neat, and the extensive library awed her. Shelf after shelf of books lined the walls. Everything from Wuthering Heights to Stephen King and Lee Child. And, if his array of historical literature was any indication of his knowledge, it wasn’t any wonder he’d been snatched up by Boston’s historical society.
One entire corner of the room was an elaborate yet amazingly compact computer center. Just beyond the mini office complex, she found a niche that consisted of a telescope set up in front of a huge picture window and an easel situated off to one side. Careful not to disturb its alignment, Abby looked through the lens and found it focused on a lighthouse. The sketch on the canvas was an excellent likeness. So, that W had been Jack’s signature on the paintings in the living room. Why W, she wondered? Regardless, Abby was genuinely impressed. Careful not to disturb his set up, she backed out of the small room and continued looking around.
Sidestepping the cat, who was grossly interested in playing with the fax machine’s cord, Abby pushed aside a decorative louvered screen and burst into laughter.
“Looks like there’s hope for Jack yet.”
Neatly situated in the far corner of the room was a ginormous, glass and chrome jukebox complete with every rock n’ roll hit imaginable. Unable to resist, she plugged it in. Iridescent neon lights blinked in progression, making Shadow head for cover under Jack’s desk. Delighted, she punched a couple of buttons and smiled at the familiar voices of The Four Tops.
• • •
Nothing like an unmistakable Motown rhythm to rock Abby. Once she started to dance, Shadow raced out and jumped back and forth between her bare feet. She snapped the fingers on her good hand and in drunken Karaoke-style sang along, never missing a note. Whirling around, face flushed, arms spread wide and backfield definitely in motion, Abby froze, practically in midair, at the sight of Jack. She raced to unplug the jukebox.
“My God, don’t you know how to knock?” she asked.
“That’s funny, I thought I lived here.” He dropped his briefcase and walked directly toward her.
Abby knew. His compelling look told her exactly what he wanted. What she had wanted since the day they met. The touch of his hands was unbearably tender as he gathered her into his arms. She could smell the cold October wind still clinging to him and realized how right this felt. Sighing, she dropped her chin to his chest.
His large hand took her face and tilted it upward. Standing on tiptoe, she was shocked at her eager response. He was surprisingly gentle. His mouth touched hers like a whisper, and she felt her body shudder at its sweetness.
His breath was hot against her cheek when he whispered, “I’ll be home at six.” His mouth brushed against her earlobe. “Make that five-thirty.”
He was still way too close for her to think clearly. “I’ll make dinner,” she heard herself say.
Releasing Abby, he grabbed a file folder off his desk and snagged his briefcase. Before leaving, he gently lifted her hand to his lips.
She had never experienced such a sensation of relief as his mouth reassuringly touched her palm. His breath was warm, his lips soft and moist. She wanted to stay forever within this haven safety. Then he was gone. And just like in her dream, she was alone.
Blinking, she just stood there. “Shadow, did Hawthorne just rush in here, catch me making a total fool out of myself, then kiss me stupid and leave?”
The cat sat in the sun licking his paw and preening his face. He paused momentarily before continuing his ministrations.
“Did I just stand here and let him do that?” The sweet memory was enough of an answer for her. She plopped down cross-legged next to the kitten. “Did I actually say I’d cook dinner?” Shaking her head, she started to laugh. “Damn, Shadow, that man can kiss.” He always could?
Finding enough ingredients to whip up spaghetti and a tossed salad, Abby headed upstairs and changed into a pair of khaki-colored slacks and an olive green sweater. Shadow followed close behind. Zigging and zagging, the kitten played with absolutely nothing or no one until he somersaulted to a sudden halt. He hissed
at his reflection in the large cheval mirror in the corner.
“That’s easy for you to say, but I’ve got a dinner to prepare.” She scooped up Shadow and headed downstairs. “One kiss and I offered to cook for the man,” she muttered. “Un-freaking-believable.”
At five-thirty on the dot, Abby heard the front door open. She stirred the bubbling sauce that simmered on the stove. An unmistakable essence of herbs and spices mingled with the rich fragrance of scented candles.
“Judging from the delicious aroma, it’s probably a good thing I picked up a little something for the cook.” Standing in the doorway, he offered Abby a huge spray of burgundy mums and baby’s breath.
Turning to face Jack, Abby realized tall, dark and handsome might have been a cliché, but in his case it was such an understatement. That prickly sensation nipped at her toes again when she saw the luscious bouquet of her favorites. “They’re beautiful, but maybe you should wait until you taste this before you pass out too many compliments.”
He inhaled deeply. “I don’t think so.”
She gestured around the kitchen. “Got something to put these in?”
Jack loosened his tie and gave his collar a yank before handing her a tall, cut glass vase from the cabinet over the sink. He lowered his face to her ear and inhaled deeply. “Anything that smells this good has to taste even better.”
Abby didn’t want to admit just how good Jack’s warm breath felt on her neck, so she sidestepped him and filled the cut-glass container with water. “You’ve got a few minutes before dinner.”
Jack peeled off his jacket and tossed it over a barstool before unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling up both sleeves.
“Want some coffee?” she asked, pointing to the freshly brewed pot.
He washed his hands before grabbing two mugs and filling them. “Black, right?”
“Right.” She eased the flowers down into the water and found herself smiling at his easy charm. “These will look great in the dining room.”
After placing the bouquet in the middle of the candle lit table, Abby returned to the kitchen. There Jack stood, slicing the French bread. His tall form was bent painstakingly over a granite cutting board as he slathered each piece with butter and garlic powder. She watched him carefully re-form the loaf and wrap it in aluminum foil before popping it into the oven.
