“Jesse.” Her heart was so far into her throat that his name emerged on a croak. “Jesus, you scared me.”
“Sorry.” His eyes were unreadable above the plaid shirt he wore buttoned up against the cold, but his voice held rebuke. “You didn’t honestly walk here, did you?”
“What? Oh, no.” She glanced around, realized she’d walked a little further away from the bar than she’d intended. She was outside the range of the security lights in the parking lot, standing in the shadows of a darkened commercial building. “Oh, God.” She realized that she wasn’t too far away from the street where she’d been assaulted, and that she hadn’t even been paying attention. “I can’t believe I did that.”
The line of Jesse’s mouth turned even grimmer. “Where’s your car?”
She squeezed her eyes shut, blocked out the memories that wanted to assault her yet again. She’d forced herself to come this way numerous times over the years, but it was generally in daylight, and when she was mentally prepared. She’d been so caught up in analyzing her conversation that she’d allowed herself to become distracted.
Dumb, dumb, dumb…
“Hey.” She found herself being shaken, not entirely gently, by the shoulders. “You’re safe. You’re okay. Just tell me where you parked your car so that I can walk you to it.”
She drew in a deep, stuttering breath that burned as if she’d been sucking in sulfur instead of oxygen. “I don’t have my car back yet,” she told him. “I took a cab. I was planning to call one when I left the bar, but I… I was distracted.” She glanced up, suddenly putting two and two together. “Were you there? The Shady Lady, I mean.”
He hesitated, and then nodded. “I saw you walking out, so came after you.”
She considered that. “I don’t mean this to sound offensive, but I wouldn’t really have tagged that as the kind of place you hang out.”
“It isn’t.” He hesitated again. “Brian’s in the back room, playing pool. I think he’s already scared off everyone at the sports bars and billiard halls in town, so he’s looking for new victims.”
The corners of her mouth lifted slightly. “He’s a terrible winner, too. Rubs your face in it.”
“I learned not to play against him after about three times.” He studied her face a moment, and Jillian hoped that the shadows were deep enough that he couldn’t see the residue of anxiety, of fear. “I have to say that I’m equally surprised to see you here. You sounded… disdainful the other night when the detectives asked you about it.”
She detected a note of censure in his voice. Or maybe it was her own… she couldn’t exactly call it a guilty conscience, but maybe she was projecting. “I am disdainful,” she said, a little sharper than she intended. “That place is like Hooters for pirate fetishists.”
Jesse coughed into his hand, and when he spoke again, his voice unmistakably held traces of suppressed humor. “So why were you there?”
Jillian wavered on what exactly to tell him. The truth. Or most of it, anyway. “I wanted to know if those detectives have been in there asking about me. I don’t know if I mentioned it, but my mother was Russian. Her name was Yulia. The man who had my card, the one who was killed, his name was Russian, too. I looked up stories online, and apparently he came here originally from Novosibirsk. I think, because he had my card, because he’d written the Shady Lady and a date and time on the back of it, that they assume I have some sort of connection, to either the man or the bar. I told you what I’ve been through with the Savannah police previously, so… let’s just say that I like to know what I’m up against.”
He stared at her for several long moments before rubbing his hand across his jaw. “That makes sense. But at the risk of coming across as high-handed, I’m going to suggest that inserting yourself into the investigation probably isn’t the best idea.”
Her own jaw set. “I’m not going to be blindsided again. Or sit back and wait for them to concoct some sort of… fabricated story.”
“What makes you think they would do that?”
It wasn’t exactly ladylike, but Jillian snorted. “Better question is what makes me think they wouldn’t? Mike McGrath still has plenty of friends on the force,” she told him. “I’m sure that they wouldn’t hesitate to, let’s say interpret the evidence in a way that isn’t favorable toward me.”
Jesse stabbed his fingers into his hair, which already looked like he’d been running them through it regularly. “Fair enough. But if you have concerns, you can always tell Brian. Or even an attorney. Taking this into your own hands isn’t safe or particularly smart.”
Her spine became a steel rod. “Are you implying that I’m stupid?”
“No, I’m stating flat out that this wasn’t the smartest decision. Even if you had good intentions, it will look bad should the detectives get wind of it. They might claim you were interfering with an investigation, and to some degree they have a point.”
“I’m not interfering,” she said, outraged. “I’m defending myself.”
“Preemptively.”
“Because it’s better to wait until after someone has cooked up charges against you to figure out how to handle them?”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“It sure sounded that way to me.”
Jesse drew in a breath that conveyed pure masculine frustration. “Let me drive you home,” he said, changing the subject. “We can talk about this in the car.”
Jillian considered telling him what he could do with his car and his discussion, but realized that would be childish. She liked Jesse, even if he was being a bit of a high-handed ass at the moment. “Fine. Thank you.”
He looked at her sideways.
“What?”
He shook his head. “It’s just that when my mom uses that ultra-polite tone, I’ve learned to duck and run.”
“You know, I think you just might be a mama’s boy after all.”
He stared at her and then laughed, muttering something that sounded like trouble.
“Let me tell Brian I’m leaving. You want to wait inside while I go get my Jeep? I parked a couple blocks away. It’ll be a brisk walk.”
“I’ll be fine.” She didn’t want to set foot inside the bar again. Now, more than ever, it seemed repulsive to her.
“I’ll text him.” Jesse started to pull out his phone and then hesitated, unbuttoning the heavy flannel he wore over a T-shirt. He draped it over her shoulders.
“Oh. That’s not necessary.” But it was sweet. She felt her ire melting into something considerably warmer. “Thank you.”
The moonlight was just strong enough that she could see his eyes flash with some unreadable emotion. “You’re welcome.”
He turned away from her and pulled out his phone.
CHAPTER NINE
THE air inside the closed Jeep churned with tension, to the point that Jesse thought you could scoop it up and spread it on toast.
Jillian stared out the window and Jesse kept his eyes on the road so that he wasn’t tempted to stop the car, grab her by the shoulders and ask her just exactly what the hell she was up to.
She’d spoken Russian. She didn’t realize that he’d overheard her conversation – bits and pieces of it, anyway – as he’d turned away as soon as she’d come in. There’d been a few people on stools between them, which was good in that it helped keep her from recognizing him and bad in that their voices obscured whatever Jillian and the bartender were discussing. Not that he could have followed anyway, since he didn’t speak the language. But that fact that she did was a revelation.
Nowhere in the information he had on her did it indicate she was bilingual. Her mom had died when Jillian was still very young, and though she may have picked up on the language during her toddler years, chances were she would have lost most of it without regular practice.
Maybe she’d taken a course or learned via language tapes or something, but Jesse wanted to know why. And as much as he didn’t like to admit it, it sent up a red flag. Espec
ially since she’d chosen to speak with the bartender at the Shady Lady in that language.
Wanting to know if the cops had been asking about her was understandable, especially given her previous experience. But going there, conversing in Russian…
His hands tightened on the wheel.
“Do you paint?”
Her voice sliced through the wall of tension, and he looked at her in confusion. “What?”
“Your T-shirt,” she explained. “It looks like the ones my friends in the fine arts classes always wore, with the…” she gestured with her fingers across her chest “smeared paint.”
“Oh.” He’d unrolled his jeans, removed the hat and the clear-lensed glasses he’d worn over his contacts before following her outside. He didn’t want her to wonder why he was suddenly dressed like an art student.
But he’d forgotten about the T-shirt.
“I think it’s one of my younger brother’s that got mixed up with my stuff. He went through a phase where he thought he was going to be the next Picasso, but luckily came to his senses. Mostly, I think he took the art courses because of some girl he was interested in at the time.”
“What does he do now?”
“He’s, ah,” shit “an assistant district attorney.”
“Really?” It sounded like she was going to ask him more questions – something Jesse hoped to avoid – but luckily they’d reached her townhouse. He pulled to the curb.
When he turned off the ignition she looked at him, and he said, in a tone brooking no argument, “I’ll walk you to the door.”
Because he was a gentleman, damn it. Even if he was torn between wanting to throttle her for her potential deception and wanting to follow her straight upstairs.
He opened her door, averted his eyes from her legs as she climbed from the seat. She was wearing those damn boots again, and they inspired very unprofessional thoughts. Very human thoughts.
Very male thoughts.
She handed him his flannel.
“Thanks for loaning me your shirt. Again. I’ll give it back to you now, since I seem to have a bad habit of losing them.”
“No problem.” He shut the door.
“Really, you don’t have to –” She stopped when she saw his expression. “Okay,” she said, pausing at the bottom of the steps “would you care to explain why you’ve been in a pissy mood ever since I bumped into you? Or since you bumped into me, to be more accurate. You didn’t have to come out after me, you know.”
She shook her head. “Never mind. I have the feeling it will involve you calling my judgment into question again, and quite frankly, it’s none of your business. Thank you for the ride.”
She started up the stairs.
“Jillian. Wait.”
He practically ran over her, because she’d stopped midway up. Having the advantage of height despite the fact that she was standing on the step above him, Jesse noted the cellophane-wrapped basket sitting on the porch.
“Early Christmas gift?” he inquired.
“I don’t know. I guess. It must be from Katie’s parents.” She climbed the last two steps, bent down to examine the card.
“Problem?” Jesse said when she only stared.
“It’s addressed to me.”
“Secret admirer?”
The look she sent him was droll. “Why yes. I have random men leaving fruit baskets on my porch on a regular basis. It’s surprising I can even make it through them to get to the door.”
He glanced at the boots. “I can believe it.”
When she drew in a breath, probably in preparation to tell him to take a hike, Jesse bent down and picked up the basket. “I’ll carry it in for you.”
She pursed her lips. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a way of using impeccable manners to disguise the fact that you’re a human bulldozer?”
Jesse considered that for a moment. “It might be a family trait.”
Jillian shook her head, but took out her key, opened the door. “Thank you,” she said, finality in her voice. “You can just sit it there.” She gestured toward the hall table.
Jesse sat it on the table, next to the collection of nesting dolls that Gannon had noticed the other night. Seeing them there reminded him of who she was. Of what she might be hiding.
And yet he still wanted her as much as he wanted his next breath.
He looked her in the eye as he put his palm flat against the door, slowly closed it. With him still on this side of it.
Jillian’s chest began to rise and fall more rapidly.
Jesse knew what he was doing was wrong. But he was going to do it anyway. He didn’t know yet, not positively, that she was guilty of anything other than – as she’d mentioned – slightly questionable judgment. However, once he discovered she was connected to Losevsky – if she was connected to Losevsky – she would be on the other side of a line that Jesse ethically could not cross.
Would not cross.
But he didn’t know. And until he knew, he wasn’t going to pass up the chance to touch her. Just once. And maybe that made him a bastard, but he decided he could live with that. Because if he didn’t touch her, he was pretty sure he was going to spontaneously combust.
They stood there, staring at each other in the dim light of the front hall. The porch light shone in through the sidelights, but Jillian hadn’t bothered turning on the overhead light. Probably because she didn’t want to encourage him to stay.
Well, too bad.
He reached out a hand, slowly enough to give her a chance to tell him that she really did want him to leave, but she didn’t. And he could tell by the way her eyes widened, her lips parted, that she wasn’t going to.
He took hold of a thick lock of her hair, the hair that had practically struck him blind when he’d seen the sun hitting it on Brian’s back porch, twirled it slowly around his hand. Never taking his gaze from hers.
He drew her toward him.
When they were mere inches from each other he simply stood there. Waiting. It had to be her move. That was the condition he gave himself, the admittedly flimsy means of assuaging his guilt.
But this was as far as he was willing to push it.
Realizing, after several moments, that he’d dropped the ball in her court, Jillian’s gaze drifted toward his mouth, her own lips parting further, and Jesse’s groin tightened in response.
Rising onto her toes, she brought her lips to his, sweet, slow. He tasted her, just a little. He’d known she’d be sweet. Suspected that they would… fit.
What he hadn’t expected was the burst of uncontrolled possessiveness that raged through him when she made a little whimpering noise in the back of her throat.
He wasn’t sure how it happened. One minute his hand was wrapped in her hair, his lips lightly pressing against hers.
The next he’d yanked her forward, lifting her up on her toes before backing her into the wall beside the door.
They fit together well – oh hell yes, they did – and she tasted even sweeter when he worked his tongue into her mouth, changed the level of the kiss from taste to devour.
She made the noise again and his brain shorted out completely, the few remaining cells that suggested this was a bad idea exploding in a fiery death.
He grabbed her ass and boosted her up so that her legs in those fuck-me boots wrapped around him. Then he pressed himself between them.
It was madness, no doubt about it, but the pain from his zipper digging into his arousal wasn’t sufficient to bring him to his senses.
Her fingers tangled in his hair this time, pulling just a little, and he nipped the corner of her lip in retaliation. She gasped, her eyes flying open, staring into his. They stayed that way, simply breathing heavily, for the space of several heartbeats.
And then she pulled his mouth back to hers.
He wanted to carry her into the parlor, bend her over one of those very uncomfortable chairs and then bury himself inside her.
Again. And again. And again and again a
nd again.
He ground himself against her and the skirt she wore, a sort of stretchy thing, rode up on her thighs. She wore some kind of heavy hosiery – tights, or whatever you called them – but he could rip those away. With his teeth if necessary.
Something fell over, crashed to the floor – he thought they’d bumped into the table – but neither of them paid much attention. His entire world centered where their mouths fused, where their bodies tried desperately to join despite the barrier of cloth and zipper.
Not much cloth on her part. He slid the fingers of one hand under the tights, encountered the scrap of lace that covered her ass.
She whimpered. Jesse growled.
“Jesse.” His name was a mere breath against his ear, and the sound of it was twin torture. He wanted to hear her say it again, to hear her scream it as he tossed her over that chair, as he took what she so obviously wanted to give.
But it also reminded him who he was. Who she was.
And why they couldn’t do this.
In a move that should earn him a medal for physical restraint, Jesse pulled back, laid his head against hers for several long, pain-filled moments. Shit. Just shit.
He slowly lowered her to the floor.
Her eyes, when he looked down at her, were glazed with a kind of sexual wonder.
He wanted to stomp his own ass for letting things go this far. He wanted to beat his head against the wall.
And above all he wanted to finish what they’d started.
Because he did, Jesse stepped back, accidentally kicking something on the floor. He glanced down. The fruit basket. They’d knocked it off the table, along with several of the nesting dolls.
“What’s wrong?”
So many things, he thought. But he chose the less problematic answer. “We knocked over your fruit basket.”
The cellophane must not have been secured terribly well, or else it had torn when it fell, because oranges and apples were scattered on the floor amidst sparkly shreds of paper.
“Oh.” It was obvious that Jillian was still coming back from that kiss, and while part of Jesse appreciated immensely the effect he’d had on her, the more rational, ethical part of him demanded that he get the hell out of there.
The Southern Comfort Prequel Trilogy Box Set Page 9
