“And making that promise to your fans wouldn’t be enough to make you do the show?”
“No.”
“But making a promise to me would?”
“Yes.”
And his face was so sincere and his sage eyes so bright with truth that the wind went right out of her sails.
“Then why can’t you just make me the promise without demanding anything?”
“Because I need to owe you. And I need to help you. But most of all because that monster needs to pay.”
He got up and knelt in front of her. “Emory, can you truthfully tell me you don’t want that asshole punished for what he did to you?”
“No.” Honestly, now that the whole impact of the truth had hit her, she did want him to pay. Pay. Maybe they’d watched too many revenge movies lately but she didn’t like the image pay conjured up.
“What is it you mean by pay? If I did tell you, what would happen?”
“Dirk will go and deal with the situation.”
This was sounding worse and worse.
“Would Dirk kill him?” she asked with alarm.
Jackson’s head snapped up in surprise.
“Of course not!”
“Well, with Dirk you never know.”
He flashed the barest smile. “There is that. But, Emory, we will see him in jail.”
And there it was. Courtrooms, judges, testifying, being sneered at—not to mention that he’d promised he’d come after her again if she told.
“I just can’t, Jackson,” she whispered. “I know it seems simple to you, seems very black and white.”
“It is back and white! He beat and raped you and he walked away!”
“But it’s not simple. The thought of walking into a courtroom and having to testify—”
“Emory, I cannot promise that you won’t have to testify but I promise I don’t think you will.”
“Then what’s the point? They don’t put people in jail without a trial.”
“Dirk will find him and persuade him to confess.”
Persuade? That was almost as disturbing as pay.
“Please tell me you’re not talking about Dirk torturing someone!”
Jackson shook his head. “It won’t come to that. Dirk is scary as hell when he has a mind to be and this cowardly little worm won’t need more than one of Dirk’s more polite conversations to see the right of things. I guarantee that.”
“But it might all come to nothing,” she said. “They might not believe it.” And then he would know where she was and he might come after her like he’d said. But wouldn’t Jackson protect her? Wouldn’t Dirk?
Jackson shook his head. “I wouldn’t accept that. I’m Jack Beauford. Unless they want me to scream down Gracie Mansion during a pit stop on my way to the White House, they will not brush this off. If things go the way we think they will, your statement will be enough. You won’t even have to go there. Dirk has a friend who is a detective with the NYPD. I’ll send my plane for him and he’ll take your statement right here. And, Emory”—he cupped her face in his hands—“I will be with you every second. I’ll help you.” He smiled. “And then you’ll go to Nashville, to the Ryman with me and help me go on that stage.”
She rubbed her temples. “All right. Okay. Drake Winterbourne. That’s the name.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Jackson found Ginger in the rose arbor behind the house. He hadn’t been alone with her since the night he’d told her he wasn’t doing the concert. To his surprise, she was reading to Julie, and Carter was napping at her feet on a blanket.
“Uncle Jack! Sing!” Julie popped out of Ginger’s lap and threw her arms around his knees. They’d had a couple more singing sessions since that first one and he’d learned a thing or two about bargaining. Julie liked singing with the piano much better than a cappella, though she wanted no part of guitar accompaniment.
He patted her head. “Okay. We’ll sing. But in a minute. I need talk to Miss Ginger a little. Then we’ll go to the piano and sing all the songs you want.”
“Now!” Julie jumped up and down.
Ginger gave him a long look, no doubt wondering what fresh hell he was going to rain down on her today.
“Here, Julie.” Ginger picked up her tablet and turned it on. “Would you like some Curious George?”
“Yay! George!” Julie clapped her hands. Beat out by a monkey. Jackson sat down in one of the wicker chairs across from the settee where Ginger sat.
“Shh.” Ginger handed Julie the tablet. “Go lie on the blanket and watch but don’t wake Carter.”
“How did you get kid duty?” Jackson asked. This conversation felt so normal, so ordinary, the way he and Ginger used to talk before the fire, even when they disagreed.
Ginger shrugged. “I offered. Dirk has to go out of town and needs to make some calls and pack—though I guess you know that and I guess you know why, though nobody else seems to—and Gwen’s getting ready for a tea this afternoon and a wedding tomorrow.”
“These are the last events for a while.”
“Until after the show.” Ginger nodded.
“They’ll have a few days to get ready for charm school after Gabe and his crew leave.”
“Crew?” Ginger frowned. “Who’s he bringing?”
“I don’t know. But Gabe’s a pack animal and he never travels alone. I think it comes from being a twin. I told Gwen to hire somebody to cook for a few days or have stuff catered in. And Sammy’s moving into the apartment above the garage so he can step and fetch for them.”
“When’s Gabe getting here?”
“Later today. I sent my plane last night.”
“So soon? It’s a week until the concert.”
“Maybe he wants to rest up. He’s going on a mountain climbing trip for two weeks before training camp.” In truth, Jackson had told his brother it was now or never, unless he wanted to fly commercial. That plane had to be back here and ready to send for the detective.
Ginger raised an eyebrow. “Does the front office in San Antonio know their star wide receiver is about to risk his neck?”
“I don’t know,” Jackson said. “He asked me to go but I like to keep my neck intact.”
Ginger smiled. “That’s good news, anyway. I don’t always know that these days.”
“I have some more good news.”
“Oh?”
“I’ll do the show.”
She closed her eyes and he watched as a curtain of relief came down over her.
“That is good news.”
He laughed a quiet little laugh. “After all this, I expected more enthusiasm.”
“Yay,” she said wearily but she smiled, clearly pleased. “Go team Jackson. I’ll turn a cartwheel when I get the cast off.”
“What do I need to do?”
“Decide on your set. I’ll send you the rehearsal schedule and call the guys, unless you want to. We need to line up a drummer and rhythm guitarist.” She held up a hand. “They don’t have to be permanent.”
“No,” he said. “It’s going to be me and my guitar, just like you said before. That’s a deal-breaker.” Though not just an acoustic. He needed to be able to change up.
She hesitated before she nodded. “All right. What about the techs?”
Hell’s bells and damnation. She had a point. No way could he do a show without his guitar techs and the sound guys—and there was lighting and all the rest.
“All right. Use your judgment. But, Ginger, bare minimum. I mean it.”
She nodded. “Security?”
“No. The Ryman’s security is good enough. And I don’t need a masseuse, a tarot card reader, or a yoga master either. Besides, I doubt Jimbo and Martin have any inclination to ever set eyes on me again, even if they are in any shape.”
“You’d be surprised. And you used to like having a masseuse around.”
“Used to is over. It has been for a while.”
She nodded. “Fine. I’ll leave Dirk to deal with you about
bodyguards. If he’s back.”
He looked at her a long time. She didn’t look away; she never did. “I’ve been hard on you,” he said. “I—” He what? Was sorry? Would have done better if he could have? Wasn’t sure if he would continue to be civil?
“I know.” She pulled her phone out. “This conversation has gone pretty well. Let’s quit while we’re still in the top ten.”
“Right.” He was relieved. “I owe a girl a song, anyway. Julie!” He held out his arms. “Ready to sing?”
She jumped to her feet and ran toward him. “Piggyback!”
“With an oink, oink?” Julie giggled as Jackson swung her onto his shoulders.
“Hey,” Ginger called after him. “Don’t break Gwen’s kid! Or if you feel you must, don’t do it on my watch.”
• • •
Jackson was really tired of “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” and “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” He needed to get a kids’ songbook.
“Play again!” Julie demanded, pounding on the keys from where she sat on his knee. Maybe he could sell her on “Row, Row, Row Your Boat.”
Then there was a knock on the door followed by it opening.
“Ginger says you’ve got my child,” Dirk said.
“Daddy!” Abandoned again. She flew across the floor of the music room as Dirk stepped inside, followed by a young woman wearing a Vanderbilt t-shirt.
“Look who’s here, Julie,” Dirk said.
“Darcy!” She ran to the girl, who squatted down to give Julie a hug.
Jackson rose from the piano and Dirk introduced him to the girl, who looked around the music room with some curiosity but not a lot of interest.
“Go ahead and give her lunch,” Dirk said, “but don’t let her go down for a nap until I come back to the house to say goodbye. I won’t be long.”
After Darcy left with Julie, Dirk said, “Sitter.”
“Give me the bill,” Jackson said.
“Don’t worry. I’d planned on it. She’s going to stay on the premises until I get back and I told her we’d pay her around the clock.”
“Whatever it takes. Do you want to have a seat?” Jackson gestured to the seating area in the center of the room.
“I don’t have time. I have to get to the airport. But I talked to Jeff Shelton in New York. We might have really caught a break. Two other women filed complaints against this guy—one three years ago and the other about six months after Emory came here. Similar situations. He met one at a bar—upscale place in Manhattan. The other he met at some kind of gallery opening. He took them home and when they told him no, he beat and raped them.”
“Then why isn’t he already in jail? Why wasn’t he in jail before he raped Emory?”
Dirk shook his head. “In the end, they both refused to testify.”
“Just like Emory.”
“Ultimately,” Dirk agreed. “Though they did file charges.”
“So if the first woman had been willing—” Jackson was furious at the thought that what happened to Emory could have been prevented.
Dirk shook his head and waved him silent. “We don’t have time for all that. And it doesn’t matter.” Dirk took a small notebook out of his pocket. “Let me make sure you haven’t remembered anything else. Drake Winterbourne. Works at Bank of America. His brother, Bentley, worked with Emory at Jennings-Caldwell. He lived somewhere on the Upper East Side but she doesn’t know where. Has or had a Porsche and a sailboat.”
“Or he said he did, for what it’s worth.”
“Every bit of information is worth something.” He flipped the page in his book. “Went to Columbia and she’s pretty sure that’s the truth because that’s where the brother went. Over six feet, athletic build, dark hair, brown eyes. Emory’s age, give or take. Are you sure that’s all?”
“You forgot that he threatened to come after her again if she told.” The words tasted like pure fury in Jackson’s mouth.
Dirk shook his head. “I haven’t forgotten. I can’t give that any energy yet because it won’t help me find him. Now, think. Anything else?”
Jackson was sure but he took a minute to go over it all in his head again, just in case. After she’d agreed to divulge the asshole’s identity, Emory had become very calm and forthcoming. It was as though she had decided that since she’d given up the name, she might as well go all in. He’d been afraid she’d make him go back to his own rooms and his own bed, but she hadn’t. After the emotional upheaval, there had only been some chaste cuddling, but she’d let him sleep with her and hold her. And that had been enough.
“That’s it,” Jackson said. “That’s all she knows.”
“I still wish you’d let me talk to her.” Dirk frowned and put his notebook back in his pocket.
“I’m surprised you let me stop you.”
“Yeah, me too. But if I told you not to talk to Gwen about something, I know what’d I’d do if you did it anyway.”
“Emory is not my wife.”
Dirk grimaced. “I need to go get my bags and tell my family goodbye. I’ll check in.” He turned toward the door.
“Dirk,” Jackson said. “I do appreciate this. You don’t know how much.”
“Believe me, Jackson, I want this guy only slightly less than you do. I will have my way about this.”
“Do you know the names of the other women he attacked?”
Dirk paused before giving a quick nod. “I’m not supposed to, but I do.”
And he was gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Emory nervously tapped her foot. Most of the seventy-five attendees from the bridal tea were gone but the bride, her mother, and grandmother were in the foyer by the front door chatting with the two hostesses.
Emory had heard enough peripheral conversation during the party to know this was a football crowd who bled University of Tennessee orange. They knew very well who Gabe Beauford was and that this was his home.
But they didn’t know that he would be here any second. If they knew or cared that Jackson was in residence, she hadn’t heard any evidence of it.
Jackson had asked her to please try to have these people off the premises before Gabe arrived. He’d kissed her when he asked but that didn’t change that he wanted it done. What a difference a little time made. She wanted to do it because he asked, not because she feared the repercussions.
Eager as she was for them to leave, she was happy for the distraction—it kept her from thinking about how Dirk would be in New York soon and what might—or might not—happen. Though, to be honest, she didn’t need the distraction as much as she would have thought. It was done now, no matter how it turned out.
“Please come back to the house and spend the night again,” hostess number one, who was from Nashville, was saying. “We’ve hardly had time to catch up. We can go to brunch in the morning and you can head back to Knoxville then.”
“I suppose we could,” the mother said hesitatingly. “Kristy?”
“I don’t know,” the bride said. “Jeremy is expecting me.”
“You’ve got the rest of your life to spend with that boy,” the grandmother said. “At least I hope you do. Let’s go to Greenhills and do a little shopping. I’ll buy you some honeymoon clothes.”
Yes! Go to Greenhills for honeymoon clothes! Do it now! Finally, they were moving toward the door. Oops, no. The hostesses were headed back toward her, smiling and saying things they had already said: lovely party, perfect food, perfect everything, thank you so much. And now the grandmother and her progeny got in on the act. Wonderful, so beautiful, best party ever.
“So glad it went well and you enjoyed it,” Emory said, shaking hands all around. “If Around the Bend can ever do anything for you in the future, please just let us know.” Maybe. “It’s been a pleasure.” Now, get the hell out of here!
Step, step, step, toward the door. Yes! They were almost there.
Then the front door burst open and nearly six and a half feet of brawny, blond, party-waiting-to-happen crashe
d in. He was wearing a University of Tennessee t-shirt and cap. And, as Gwen had predicted, his party was with him. One, two, three, four, five, six—counting Gabe, seven people, most of them girls.
The bride and company went silent with what was, no doubt, awe.
The mother clutched her heart. “Look, Kristy. He’s wearing Vol colors!” She said it like Gabe Beauford had just rescued a litter of drowning kittens and had taken them to raise.
Given that Emory was pretty sure there was no one in Gabe’s apartment taking selfies with his Heisman trophy or breaking into the case with his championship rings, this wouldn’t be as bad as the night Jackson returned. But it might be close.
But she shouldn’t have worried. He beamed like the sun on steroids and gave the mother that boyish, crooked smile that had graced the cover of every sports page and magazine in the country.
“Yes, ma’am, I am wearing my colors. I was born a Vol just like my daddy and I’ll die a Vol. I like to remind them in San Antonio how much worse things would have gone at the Alamo if not for Davy Crockett and the great state of Tennessee.” And he took off his cap and put it over his heart.
Could things really have gone much worse at the Alamo? Or maybe she’d learned it differently.
“Damn straight,” the grandmother said.
They were all going to break out into “Rocky Top” any second. No doubt Gabe would dance.
Gabe noticed Emory and gave her a smile and half wave. Since they were the same age, Gabe had been home at least part of the summers during his college years when Emory volunteered at Around the Bend, so they knew each other a little.
Finally, the women found their voices and began to fawn over Gabe. They weren’t the type to ask for autographs but they all wanted pictures with him—individual and group shots. Emory would have intervened but Gabe seemed to be having a dandy time. In fact, the photo session might have ended sooner, had he not prolonged it.
Forgiving Jackson Page 21
