by Lisa Jackson
“Oh, God,” she whispered as the memory of Jackson and the fight slid through her mind.
The taste of bile rose in her throat. She could have been raped and beaten if not for Jackson. He’d risked his life for her, rescued her and been falsely accused of murder. It had happened long ago, but tonight, faced with the decaying ruins of the gazebo, Rachelle felt all the fear and pain of the past.
Shivering, she looked away and stared at the water of Whitefire Lake. She felt Jackson’s arms surround her, felt the warmth of his body seep into hers as he drew her against him. His chest was pressed firmly to her backside and he buried his face into her hair. “I’ve never been in love,” he said, his voice as low as the wind in the pines. “I wouldn’t know what it felt like.”
“Maybe you’re not missing anything,” she said, fighting a losing battle with tears.
“I don’t have room in my life for a wife or a family.”
“Did I ask you?” She whirled on him. “Is that what you’re thinking? That I want you to propose to me? That I want to start making babies with you?” she demanded, frustrated tears hot as they ran down her cheeks. “You arrogant, self-important bastard!”
She tried to break away from his embrace, but he wouldn’t release her. The harder she pushed, the stronger his arms tightened around her.
“Let go of me!” she ordered, the thin web of her patience unraveling.
“Not until you hear me out!”
“I’ve heard enough for one night!” She shoved hard and was rewarded with his mouth crashing down on hers in an angry kiss that plundered and took. But instead of reacting as her silly heart told her to, she kicked him in the shins.
Sucking in a swift breath, he finally let her go.
“I don’t know the kind of women you’re used to, Moore,” she said in absolute fury, “but I’m not one of them. And I can’t be ‘tamed’ or ‘controlled’ by a kiss. Either treat me as a woman, an equal, or leave me the hell alone!”
He smiled slowly. “Oh, God, if you only knew,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. “I wasn’t trying to control you. I was trying to control myself. And that’s what I was trying to tell you. I can’t seem to control myself around you. You turn me inside out. I’ve never, never wanted a woman the way I wanted you—the way I still want you. But I’m not the right guy for you. You should try and work things out with that guy in San Francisco. He can give you what you want.”
“Which is?”
“A house. A family. A man to take care of you.”
She advanced upon him, poking him in his chest, hiding the fact that she cared about him. “I don’t want or need a man to take care of me, Jackson. And what I do want or need you couldn’t begin to understand. So just leave it alone. Don’t think you have to court me, for crying out loud.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Good!”
“But I can’t stay away from you.”
“You did a damned good job for twelve years!” she threw back at him, and in the moonlight he blanched. “Just keep doing what you’ve been doing for the past decade and don’t concern yourself with me. I’m fine.”
“We made love.”
She swallowed hard, and all her tough facade shattered around her. “My mistake.”
“Mine.”
“It won’t happen again. Don’t worry about it. It was natural,” she said, with false bravado, though her voice shook a bit. “We just wanted to see if the same chemistry was there.”
“And now we’re going to turn it off?” He touched her again, his fingers grazing her cheek, and with all the courage she could muster, she shrank away.
“Yes, Jackson,” she said over the lump in her throat. “It’s over. I think we should leave.”
He glanced around the Fitzpatrick estate once more, as if he could still see everyone who had been at Roy’s party that night. “Come on.” He reached for her hand, but she drew away from him. On the way back to the motorcycle, they walked along the edge of the lake, not touching, keeping at least one step apart from each other.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
DURING THE DRIVE BACK TO town, Jackson didn’t say anything and Rachelle didn’t bother with small talk. They were well past the small-talk phase, past reacquainting themselves. They were lovers again. And they weren’t in love; no more than they had been in the past. They knew each other’s bodies, but didn’t understand each other’s minds. What a shame. Once again she hadn’t been able to resist the lust that he inspired. Blushing, she was grateful for the darkness.
They passed the sawmill and Fitzpatrick Logging and finally, after what had seemed hours, the outskirts of Gold Creek came into view. Streetlamps and stoplights, flickering neon signs and other headlights destroyed the darkness and the sense of intimacy, the feeling that they were all alone.
When she couldn’t stand the tension a moment longer, she asked about his mother.
“She left Gold Creek about the same time I did.” He paused at a stoplight, the red beam steady through the gathering fog.
Rachelle was surprised. She’d assumed that Sandra Moore, like her own mother, had been rooted so deeply in Gold Creek that she would never leave. “Where did she move to?”
He glanced over his shoulder, throwing her a hard glare. “This going to be in the paper?”
That hurt. Stung, she said, “Of course. Right after the paragraph where I explain that you and I trespassed and made love on the shores of Whitefire Lake.”
Flashing her a mirthless smile, he revved the cycle’s engine. “Just checking.”
“What do you think I am?” she asked, appalled that he would think she would use their relationship to get information from him. And yet, wasn’t that exactly what she’d done when she’d promised her editor an interview with Pine Bluff’s most notorious alumnus?
“I’m trying to figure it out. Ever since we met again, you’ve been hard at work convincing me that you’re a reporter—hell-bent to get a story. So I’m just making sure. No surprises.”
“The light’s green,” she said as a horn blasted behind them. “And I didn’t come back to get a story on you. If I wanted to write about you, Jackson, I would’ve called you in New York.”
“So your paper isn’t interested in me?”
Her jaw began to ache. “I didn’t say that,” she replied, remembering Marcy’s exact words as she’d brought up her idea in her office. It had been raining, but Rachelle’s editor always kept the windows open, and the cold air had filtered into the office, ruffling papers and bringing the scent of rain-washed streets into the small office.
“Sure, you can go up to Gold Creek,” Marcy had told Rachelle. “Show how the town’s changed and grown, but concentrate on the people, and if there’s anything that will jazz up your columns, go for it. No boring trips down memory lane—be sure to add a lot of local color. We can use some homey pieces about the oldest lady in town and her ten or twelve cats and her embroidery piece that won at the state fair, but you need to dig deeper, check the town for any hint of scandal.”
Rachelle, though she felt as if she’d suddenly grown stones in her stomach, had gambled. “Jackson Moore grew up in Gold Creek.”
“The Jackson Moore?” Marcy had asked dubiously. A petite blond woman with short, spiky hair and oversized glasses, her eyebrows had elevated over the thin copper rims. “As in lawyer to the rich-and-famous? The guy who has all the celebrity clients and somehow gets them off?”
Big mistake, she thought, but there was no getting out of it now. “One and the same.” Rachelle had already begun regretting saying anything.
Marcy had grinned widely. “Well, what’d’ya know! I heard that he had trouble with the law before he turned into a lawyer and I knew he came from some little town around here, but I never guessed it was your old stomping grounds.”
Rachelle had nodded.
“Did you know him?”
“A little,” Rachelle had acknowledged. Sooner or later Marcy would find out. As
would the world.
“Well, good. We know he’s in New York, but you might be able to talk to some of his relatives and friends, people who knew him well. Then you can try a telephone interview. The guy is always in the papers. He won’t care. Maybe he’d like to give a former acquaintance a shot in the arm.”
Rachelle had doubted it, but the promise that she’d do a story on Jackson had cinched the deal and Marcy had sent her packing to Gold Creek… .
“Looks like you’ve got company,” Jackson observed, startling Rachelle as he wheeled the motorcycle into the drive.
Rachelle’s heart plunged. David’s silver Jaguar was purring in the drive. At the approach of the motorcycle, David killed the engine, opened a sleek door and climbed outside. He was tall and trim, over six feet, with blond hair that was beginning to thin. “Rachelle?” he asked, obviously perplexed to see her straddling a Harley behind a man he’d never met before.
Jackson cut the bike’s engine and Rachelle swung her feet onto the ground. “David! I didn’t expect you,” she greeted, knowing in her heart that she could never love him as he deserved, never love him as she already loved Jackson.
He slid a glance in Jackson’s direction, but didn’t comment.
Rachelle finger-combed her hair and motioned toward Jackson while making hasty introductions. The two men shook hands, though stiffly, and Rachelle could’ve screamed at the glint of amusement in Jackson’s eyes. Whereas David appeared uncomfortable, Jackson, the bad boy turned New York City attorney, enjoyed the confrontation.
They walked inside and Rachelle nervously made coffee. She shot Jackson a few swift glances, hoping that he would pick up on the hint and leave, but he didn’t. Instead he threw one jean-clad leg over a barstool and watched her as she poured water into the coffeemaker.
“Jackson Moore,” David finally repeated as Rachelle handed him a steaming cup. His puzzled expression cleared a bit. “The attorney for Nora Craig?”
“I was,” Jackson acknowledged.
Rachelle wished they would both disappear. They each represented the best and the worst in her life and each, in his own way, threatened her hard-earned independence. She didn’t need this. Not now. Not after giving herself to Jackson again. What she needed was time alone—time to think and sort things out.
“Cream, honey?” David reminded her and, biting her tongue, she padded back to the kitchen and dutifully pulled a carton of skim milk from the fridge. She carried it back to David. “Nothing stronger?” he teased.
“That’s it.”
With a sigh, David checked the expiration date and, eyebrows puckering, poured a thin stream of milk into his coffee.
Jackson’s lips tugged upward at the corners.
“You want cream, too?” Rachelle asked sarcastically.
“Black’s fine,” he said, and Rachelle watched as he swallowed back the urge to call her “honey” and mimic David, who slowly stirred his coffee and stared at Jackson.
“I didn’t know you two knew each other,” David said quietly, his eyes darting to Rachelle and asking her a thousand unspoken questions. She wanted to drop right through the floorboards, but she couldn’t. Somehow she had to get through this ordeal.
“Didn’t Rachelle tell you?” Jackson said. “We go back a long way. Just haven’t kept in touch much over the years.”
David looked at Rachelle, as if for an explanation, his eyes searching hers. She felt dirty and cheap. Only hours before she’d made love with Jackson and here was David, hoping that she would come back to San Francisco and marry him. Now, because of Jackson, she knew she’d never be able to walk down the aisle and become Mrs. David Gaskill. She wouldn’t be content to raise his half-grown children on weekends, and she wouldn’t ever embrace the same lifestyle, predicated on making money and doing things the “right” way. Nor would she be able to be his showpiece—his pretty, younger woman whom he displayed much as one would a prized Thoroughbred.
Since Jackson wouldn’t take the hint, she decided she’d have to be blunt. “I’d like to speak to David alone,” she said, and from the corner of her eyes she saw David’s face light up. Cringing inside, she sighed. She hadn’t meant to give him any encouragement, but he’d read more into her asking Jackson to leave than there was.
Jackson managed a cool smile as he swung off the stool. “Wouldn’t want to be accused of not being able to take a hint,” he said, and Rachelle walked him to the door.
He pulled her out onto the porch with him. “I thought you’d like to know that I’m leaving town for a couple of days,” he said, reaching into the inner pocket of his jacket.
“Had enough fun here in Gold Creek?” she quipped, though disappointment coiled over her heart. The thought of being in Gold Creek without Jackson seemed suddenly pointless.
“I’ll be back,” he promised, and pressed his business card into her palm. “But if you need me—”
“You’ll be a continent away.”
His forehead wrinkled at that. “Call me.”
“I don’t think I’ll need to. I can take care of myself.”
He touched the corner of her mouth. “I care,” he said softly, and the noises of the night seemed to fade into the distance. The traffic was suddenly muted and the wind chimes seemed to be instantly wrapped in cotton.
Her throat tightened and she bit her lip. “You don’t have to say anything—” she protested, but he silenced her with another kiss. His trademark, it appeared.
“I care,” he repeated.
Tears touched the back of her eyes at his tenderness. He folded her into the warm embrace of his arms and sighed into her hair. “This is probably unfair of me—God knows I’ve always been accused of breaking the rules, but…” He squeezed her and his words were lost, as if he’d suddenly changed his mind.
“But what?”
“Oh, hell,” he muttered, angry at himself. “Listen, I can’t tell you how to run your life, Rachelle, but whatever you do, don’t settle.”
“Pardon me?” Again the little squeeze.
“Don’t settle for less than you deserve.” His gaze touched hers for an instant, and the back of her throat turned to sand. “I’m not the right man for you, and my guess is, that guy—” he hooked his thumb toward the open door “—isn’t, either.”
“You have no right to—”
“I know.” He kissed her again, more passionately this time, and then let go of her quickly. Without looking over his shoulder, he stepped from the porch, swung onto his bike and roared away.
“A motorcycle?” David asked, as she walked back into the house, her lips still tingling from Jackson’s kiss.
David was seated on the couch, sipping coffee, his eyebrows inched high over his thin-rimmed glasses. “Is the guy going through midlife crisis or what?”
“I don’t know… . David…”
He looked up at her then, really stared at her, and his lips tightened a bit. “You don’t have to say it,” he muttered, setting his cup on the table and running an impatient hand through his hair. “You’re involved with him.”
It wasn’t a question.
“You don’t have to answer. It’s written all over your face. Oh, God, Rachelle, what happened?” He was standing by this time, his fists opening and closing in frustration.
Rachelle leaned her back against the door. “I don’t think involved is the right word.”
“No?” He let his gaze rove slowly up her body and she realized how she must look. Her clothes were wrinkled and soiled, her hair a tangled mess, her makeup probably streaked from tears. “Well, just what is it then? Because from where I’m sitting, you and he are more than friends.”
“I don’t think Jackson and I were ever friends.”
David rolled his eyes. “You know, Rachelle,” he said, rubbing his fingers and thumbs impatiently, “I expected more from you than this, that you weren’t like all those women who ran after the macho type, that you were too levelheaded to be interested in tough guys with bulging biceps.”
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“I haven’t done anything to be ashamed of,” she said, lifting her chin a fraction.
His gaze was positively damning. “I guess I’m the fool. I drove all the way up here thinking that you’d be missing me by now, that you would have had enough of this stupid town to want to come running back home. But, no—instead I find you riding a motorcycle with Mr. Bad News himself. God, what was wrong with me? Was I blind?”
Rachelle’s heart twisted a little. She didn’t want to hurt David. “It’s hard to explain about Jackson,” she finally said as she walked into the kitchen and poured the rest of the coffee down the sink. “He’s someone I knew a long time ago.”
“Ahh.” He nodded sagely, as if the slow-coming confession he’d anticipated was about to be revealed.
“Ah?”
“I knew there was someone back here, Rachelle. Someone important. Someone who had done you serious emotional damage.” Frowning, he picked up his coffee cup and carried it to the kitchen sink. “I was hoping that the man would be a heavyset middle-aged logger with a wife and a couple of kids. I guess I was wrong.”
“You don’t understand—”
“Probably not everything,” he agreed, reaching for the jacket he’d hung on the coatrack near the door. “But I know that Jackson Moore, the Jackson Moore, was someone you cared about very much. Someone you obviously still care about.”
She wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong, but she couldn’t. David had been good to her and the least she could do was to be straight with him. “I don’t have a future with Jackson.”
David shoved an arm into the sleeve of his jacket. “But you do have a past, Rachelle. And right now you have a present. As for the future…who knows? Maybe you and I are the future.” He looked at her long and hard. “I’d like to think so.”
“I—I can’t make any commitments—”
“Yet.”
She swallowed against a thick lump in her throat. She cared for David, if only as a friend. “About the future, I don’t think I have one with you, either.”
He studied the zipper tab of his jacket. “Are you telling me that you don’t want to see me again?”