by Jaye Ford
‘So you don’t stalk sad girls anymore?’
‘Not for a while.’
‘You ever been married?’
He laughed quietly. ‘More questions?’
‘You know more about me than you should. The information ledger needs balancing up.’
‘Fair enough. Married once. No kids. Divorced.’
‘When?’
‘It lasted three and a bit years. The divorce went through six months ago.’
‘Is that why you moved up here?’
‘No, we were separated for two years before it was signed off.’
Married for only eighteen months. She wanted to ask – for no other reason than she was a nosy bugger. She didn’t, though, just looked at him, wondered if he’d take the prompt.
‘I didn’t cheat, if that’s what you’re assuming. Neither did she, at least not that I know of. She told me she would’ve had more attention if she’d been laid out on a morgue slab.’
‘Ouch.’
‘Yeah. Probably not far from the truth. It’s hard to go home for romantic dinners when you’ve spent the day picking up bloodied bodies and telling families you’ll find the arsehole who did it. It wouldn’t have been easy to live with.’
She had some idea. Nick had been driven, although not by bloodied bodies.
‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I could’ve phrased that a little less gruesomely.’
‘No, your phrasing was excellent. Gruesome yet perfectly clear.’
He chuckled as they stopped at her car. ‘You got it back okay?’
‘Yes, this afternoon.’ She found her keys, leaned against the door. ‘Did you get fingerprints off it?’
‘Some. I’m still waiting for the results.’
They were alone in the quiet, narrow street, a few blocks from the beach, in a patch of post-war Newcastle suburbia that was holding out against the steady tide of new and spectacular contemporary homes. Small single-fronted cottages were just metres from the footpath, separated by low brick walls and tiny gardens that were spilling the scent of jasmine and passionfruit. Flickering from a TV danced silently in the front window of the closest house. Beside the car, Aiden was just beyond the bright glow of a streetlight, his face in soft shadow.
‘Why did you come to Newcastle?’ Jax asked.
‘It was a promotion. I got my senior sergeant’s stripes.’
‘Bit different to Serious Crime in Sydney.’
A tilt of his head. ‘Yeah.’
‘Not so many bloodied bodies?’
He turned his face away. ‘Or crying loved ones.’
It wasn’t the desensitised eye-roll of a jaded cop. It sounded weary, burned, a burden. He’d lost a marriage because of victims and their loved ones. He’d seen people on very bad days. More than one bad day for the girl who’d cut her wrists. He’d been there on Jax’s bad day, too, but she didn’t want to be his burden. Didn’t want him thinking of her like that.
She found something light in her voice. ‘Just women pointing guns at you.’
A smile tipped one side of his mouth as he looked back at her. ‘Only one so far.’
‘You expecting more?’
‘Are there any more like you?’
‘I’m not sure how to take that.’
He didn’t explain, just watched her with his unwavering gaze, pale irises filled with amusement and exasperation. Empathy and intelligence and …
A pulse tapped in her throat. Something inside her let go. She took a step towards him. Within arm’s reach. He didn’t move. She could see he wasn’t going to. His eyes were on her mouth now, but he was level-headed, well meaning, insightful – and he was waiting for her to decide.
She should think about it in a clearer moment, she told herself. When the air wasn’t perfumed and the humidity didn’t make her skin feel naked. But he’d reminded her of the girl she was at uni, made her yearn for some of that reckless freedom.
She took another step. Close enough to feel the heat coming off his body, to smell the hint of aftershave on his throat. She curled fingers around his tie, pulled his face down to meet her. Felt the start of a smile on her lips as they found his.
She’d expected something like it used to be. Heady but detached. She was an idiot. It wasn’t even close. His mouth was warm and tender and the sensation was like a gust of hot air on a freezing day – the promise of heat and relief, the thawing of everything that was frozen inside her. She broke away, stunned, heart thudding, a forgotten awareness rousing deep within her.
Aiden watched for a moment as though he could see it all, then cupped her face with his hands and kissed her again. Not a cautious step but a bold pace forward. His lips moved across hers as if they’d been set free. Exploring, confident, hungry. His thumbs traced the line of her jaw, the nape of her neck, before his arms closed around her. The lean, fit hardness of him pressed against her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. She opened her mouth to him, felt the pressure of his tongue, and awareness flared into need, a desire that lit a fire in the pit of her belly.
His lips left hers, worked their way to her throat, drawing a moan as she released a long, deep breath that seemed to have been held in her lungs for … for …
She opened her eyes, saw the street in lamp light, the flickering grey of the TV, and her hands tightened into fists. ‘Please, stop.’
He lifted his head, eyes moving fast over her face.
‘I’m sorry.’ She took a step away, her skin suddenly cold. ‘I shouldn’t have done that.’
‘Started or stopped?’
‘Started. I’m sorry, I didn’t … it wasn’t … what I expected.’
His intake of breath was sharp. ‘What did you expect?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t expect …’ What? To want him? To want anyone but Nick? ‘To enjoy it.’
He licked his lips, slowly. ‘You didn’t want to enjoy it or you thought it’d be bad?’
‘No. Neither.’ Bloody hell, she was making it worse. She swung away from him, braced her hands on the roof of the car, needing something solid to hold on to – and for the desire steaming inside her to settle the hell down. ‘I didn’t think. I’m not … I haven’t done this,’ she waved a hand between them, ‘in a long, long time.’ A million years since she’d kissed anyone but Nick. Since the day she’d met him, she’d never wanted to kiss anyone else. Until now.
Aiden moved alongside her, pressing his back to the chassis, ducking his face so she could see him. ‘Jax.’ There was comprehension in it – and something that said it was okay, he had patience, they could take it slowly.
She let her mind go there. His hands on her, his mouth, his body. Loosening the hold on herself, opening up, breathing hard and heavy until the flame he’d lit had been consumed. She wanted that with a need she hadn’t known was there. Wanted to press her lips to his and start over. But there was more in his face, etched into the pale, undaunted gaze of his eyes. It wasn’t just sex he was offering to take slowly. It was intimacy, a connection. A beginning, not a single experience. She didn’t want a one-night stand and a quick, sweaty release – she clearly wasn’t that girl anymore. But the alternative scared the hell out of her.
‘I’m not ready.’ She didn’t want to be, not yet. ‘I’m sorry.’
For a second, maybe two, he stayed where he was. Then he nodded, eased off the car, smoothed a hand down his tie – and the Aiden who’d kissed her, the one who’d talked about crying loved ones, disappeared behind a shutter, replaced by Detective Senior Sergeant Hawke. Sensible, professional, finished for the night.
‘Okay.’ He pushed hands into his trouser pockets, took a step back.
‘Aiden –’
‘It’s okay, Jax.’ No anger, no resignation. Nothing but a flat full stop.
She unlocked the car, pulled the door. ‘Thanks for answering my questions.’
A cursory upward lift of his chin. ‘’Night.’
Fuck. When she was in, he pushed her door closed, moved back from the kerb, watched
as she started up, flicked on lights, steered into the street. At the corner, she checked his reflection in the rear-view. He was in the same spot but not watching wistfully. Not watching at all. He had his phone out, face lit by the screen as he tapped on its surface.
39
Her mobile rang three minutes later as she wound her way up the hill in the dark. If it was Aiden, it wasn’t the first call he was making after kissing her – if that’s what he’d been doing. She hit the answer button on the dash, answered cautiously anyway. ‘Hello?’
‘Hey, Jax. I heard about the break-in.’ The sound of honey and vice.
‘Oh fucking hell, Deanne. I’ve just made a bloody fool of myself.’
‘I’m sure you haven’t. What happened?’ The beauty of friends who could start a conversation in the middle.
‘I just kissed someone.’
‘You kissed him? Was it a him?’
‘It was the fucking detective investigating the carjacking.’
A pause. ‘The one on the TV pointing a gun at you?’
‘Yeah. Him.’
‘Oh. Well. He seems … nice.’ Deanne’s phone-sex chuckle rumbled through the car.
Jax rolled her eyes and, despite the mortification, a laugh gathered in her throat. Oh, what the hell. She let it out, sharing a stupid girlie cackle, feeling not so ridiculous for a couple of seconds.
‘Are you okay?’ Deanne finally asked, perhaps hearing something a little desperate in Jax’s cackling.
‘No, I don’t think I am. I messed it all up.’
‘The kiss can’t have been that bad. I mean, it’s not like you don’t know how.’
Jax wanted to close her eyes and bang her head on the steering wheel but she just clenched her teeth, blinking at the tears that were heating behind her eyes. ‘God, the kiss. It wasn’t rusty. It was …’ She rolled her lips together, still feeling Aiden on them. And the guilt. ‘I didn’t even think of Nick.’
‘Oh, Jax.’
‘I told Aiden I wasn’t ready. And he was done, like that.’ She snapped her fingers. ‘He stepped away, said goodnight and pulled out his phone. And now I’ve fucked up everything.’
‘Jax, come on. It was your first kiss since Nick. It was always going to be difficult.’
‘Christ, it wasn’t difficult. It was intense, spectacular. And it freaked me out.’
‘Oh. Well …’
‘But he was finally including me. He came to the house after the break-in, saw the files scattered all over the bedroom. I convinced him to look at what I’d pulled together about Brendan. He thought I was a complete bloody amateur but he was answering my questions. We met for a drink to talk about it. And then I kissed him and now he’s taken a giant step back and I’ll get nothing. It’ll be Anita Lyneham all over again and I did it to myself. I fucked it up.’
‘Jax, slow down. Where are you?’
The sudden concern in Deanne’s voice made Jax search the view in her mirror. She was at the top of the hill, turning off the main road towards Tilda’s, the city lights behind and a four-wheel drive that kept going. ‘I’m in the car. Almost home.’
‘Can you pull over?’
She flicked eyes at the mirror again. ‘What for? Where are you?’
‘At home. You sound upset.’
Like she couldn’t drive responsibly? She felt wired and ticked off, and she’d wanted an opinion on the mess she’d made, not driving instructions. But she slowed anyway, concentrating on negotiating the darker neighbourhood streets. ‘I’m okay. I don’t want to stop, not after those guys chased me last night.’
‘Why don’t I come up tomorrow?’
‘Here? No. You do voice-overs on Fridays.’
‘You sound like you could do with some company.’
Christ, she must sound like she was out of her mind if Deanne was going to cancel what little work she had at the moment. ‘No, really, I’m okay. I was exaggerating before. Just feeling like an idiot.’
‘I could help with the unpacking, we could take Zoe to the beach, check out the Newcastle cafe culture. I’ve heard it’s good up there.’
And Jax heard the subtext: get her mind off Brendan Walsh and Nick’s files and the men who’d chased her. She steered into Tilda’s street, remembering other times Deanne had kept her company. The empathetic head nods, the show of interest, followed by suggestions to let the police handle it, to try to get back to normality, to learn to live again. Jax didn’t want to hear it. She wanted answers.
‘No, look, you guys are coming up next week. And didn’t you have something you were doing this weekend? That posh political dinner with David Escott and his A-lister mates? You were booked in to have your hair done on Saturday morning. Don’t come up. I’m fine. Both of us. All of us.’
Deanne’s silence sounded like are-you-sure?
‘Anyway,’ Jax said, ‘why did you call?’
‘Oh, right. Russell said he sent you an email.’
‘He didn’t want to tell me himself?’
‘He thought you could do with a phone call.’
‘I’m fine.’ Jax bumped onto the driveway, hit the button for the automatic door. ‘I’ll talk to you soon. Got to go.’
Jax set the house alarm as she walked through the entry level. Zoe and Tilda were playing cards around the coffee table, some game that involved code words and catching each other out.
‘How was the date?’ Tilda asked as Jax perched on the arm of the lounge with leftover quiche.
‘Mummy, did you go on a date?’ Zoe’s nose was a little pink from being out in the sun and a new dusting of freckles looked like someone had sprinkled cinnamon over her cheeks.
‘No, baby, it wasn’t a date. Aunty Tilda is teasing me. And it was … fine.’
Tilda looked at her over the top of her half-moon reading glasses. ‘Fine?’
‘We had a couple of drinks and a chat. Fine.’ Jax wasn’t going to tell the rest of it with Zoe there. Perhaps she wouldn’t tell Tilda at all – she didn’t need any more of her aunt’s theories in her head.
Tilda added a card to her hand. ‘Well, I hope Brendan Walsh wasn’t the only topic of conversation.’
‘Not more than eighty-five per cent.’
Tilda cast her a tut-tut glance and dropped a Jack of Hearts on the table.
Jax watched the game through two more hands, exhaustion coming on fast after the food, flattening her mood, making her more despondent than agitated, glum rather than angry. When Zoe started yawning, Jax announced bedtime. She listened to her daughter chatter through teeth cleaning, face washing, pyjama dressing and finally book selection. Jax rejected the first two on the grounds they were too long and read a short one they both knew by heart. Then she kissed Zoe goodnight, went to the sitting room, plugged in her laptop – the mini one that had escaped the break-in – and opened her email account.
Requests for interviews were still coming in. She ignored them, found Russell’s name in the inbox and clicked. There were two attachments to a brief note: Something came up in the conference this afternoon. Attached pic was taken last Saturday night by social pages. Looks like your guy, thought you could confirm or deny. Will be here till late if you get this today. R
Jax clicked on the first attachment, waited for the high-resolution photo to load and wondered who was ‘her guy’: Brendan, Aiden … Nick?
Then she saw the image and recognition and sorrow made her gasp. Nina Torrence, high-profile solicitor and Jax’s former courtroom source. She was in a group of guests arranged for the photo, everyone else diminished by Nina’s trademark radiant confidence. And the next day, she’d been found stabbed and thrown from a cliff. Why the hell had Russell sent that? Jax didn’t need another reminder of the shitty world she was inhabiting.
She tried the second attachment. It was an article on PTSD. An in-depth piece, something for her non-existent research. She didn’t bother to save it.
Clicking back, she read Russell’s note again. The ‘conference’ he mentioned was a twice
-daily meeting of desk editors. Nina’s murder was almost a week old but it would still be an item for discussion. They were probably planning a feature – for years, Nina had appeared in both social pages and news stories, ones involving high-profile crimes and court hearings. But Russell had written ‘your guy’. Had he sent the wrong picture? Or … Jax clicked on the photo again.
Glowing in a long slip of a gown, Nina was tanned and toned, hair blonde and glossy, smiling like a cat who’d feasted on the cream. Back when Jax knew her, Nina’s breasts weren’t so large or her lips so full – she’d obviously bought some enhancement with her status salary.
Jax eyed the others in the shot: an older woman with a large, dark rock at her throat, two younger ones, early twenties, looking impossibly thin and expensively dressed. Why, Russell? Where is the ‘guy’?
Sitting back, taking a wider look at the group arrangement, Jax saw part of a statue on the left, possibly an ice sculpture. On the other side and facing away, a slightly out-of-focus couple smiled for another snapper. A man and a woman. Jax focused on the man: shorter than his companion, bald, filling his suit like a potato with legs. Not anyone Jax knew. A few heads could be seen in the spaces behind the central figures. Three of them. Maybe guests waiting their turn for a chance in the social pages, maybe just drinking and chatting.
Jax slid the image around, zoomed in on a man and woman standing close enough to kiss. No-one she recognised. Slid and zoomed some more, squinted. Saw why Russell had sent it and sucked in a sharp, fast breath.
40
Between Nina and one of the younger women, side-on to the camera, was a man in a jacket, tie and white shirt. Dark-haired, unsmiling. The image was out of focus and pixelated, not much more than an outline and contours, but the high cheekbones were there, and the shape of his mouth. It was the chin that sold her, though. Held slightly high, a little forward. In her mind, Jax saw it swinging front to back, back to front.
It was Brendan Walsh.
He’d been a guest at the party?
Sydney had a large and active party scene and the newspaper’s social pages followed the A-listers. According to Hugh, Brendan had been making friends at a gym and paying for sex – not the usual entree to glamorous events. But he was also a bodyguard. Jax ran her eyes over the serious expression on his face. He was standing behind Nina – had she bought protection, too?
