by Lisa Jackson
* * *
Kimberly spent the remainder of the afternoon trying not to think about Jake McGowan. Instead she filled out reports, made phone calls, dictated letters and dealt with the investment department. She finally looked up from her desk at six and realized she’d be late again.
“Great,” she mumbled, dialing her home phone quickly and waiting impatiently until Arlene answered.
“Hello?”
“Hi,” she said. “Take a guess where I am.”
Arlene chuckled. “Oh, I don’t know, trapped behind a stack of tax forms or files or whatever you’ve got down there.”
“Right. Still at the bank. But I’ll be home in twenty minutes.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Arlene’s voice was full of mirth, and Kimberly sent up a silent prayer for her good nature. “I’ll just take Lindsay home with me. She can help with dinner for Lyle. He’d love it if you let her stay and eat with us.”
“I couldn’t.”
“He doesn’t see her very often,” Arlene added. “You know she’s the granddaughter he never had.”
Kimberly sighed. “I shouldn’t do this.”
“Sure you should. Slow down and enjoy life a little,” Arlene advised. “Go out with a friend tonight. Leave Lindsay to me.”
“I don’t have any plans—”
“So make some. Don’t you have a friend or two down at the bank?”
“I suppose.”
“Then go on. We’ll be fine.”
“Okay, but I’ll pick her up by seven-thirty,” Kimberly promised, thanking her and hanging up. She did have a couple of errands to run, she remembered, snatching up her purse, briefcase and coat as she headed out of her office. After she’d run to the pharmacy, dry cleaners and grocery store, she’d collect Lindsay.
She slapped the call button on the elevator and rode down to the basement parking lot. A few other employees straggled to their cars as she crossed the dimly lit lot and headed for her Mercedes. Just as she reached the car, she stopped short. There, one hip resting insolently against a sleek black fender, was Jake McGowan.
He’d replaced his faded jeans and work shirt with a pair of gray cords, a cream-colored sweater and beat-up leather jacket. His hair, though still on the wild side, wasn’t quite so rumpled, and some of the antagonism had left his face. Nonetheless, he still possessed that earthy sensuality she’d noticed when she’d first met him.
She ignored his charm and walked quickly to the car. “What’re you doing here?”
“Waiting for you.”
She lifted a brow. “Why?”
“I thought we should talk. About your case.”
Tossing her briefcase and purse inside the Mercedes, she said, “We talked earlier. You made it perfectly clear you aren’t interested in helping me or my daughter.” For effect, she planted her hands on her hips and stared him down. “I don’t think we have anything further to discuss.”
His eyes didn’t flicker. “Maybe you’re right,” he agreed, “but I’ve done a lot of thinking this afternoon and I read your file.”
“Would you like a round of applause? You shouldn’t have bothered.”
His jaw clenched. “Look, I’m just here trying to help, that’s all. I thought we could talk things out a little. It’s no big commitment. But I told Diane I’d help you.”
“Listen, Mr. McGowan—”
“Jake.”
“Jake, then. You don’t owe me any favors. As far as I’m concerned, you’re off the hook. As for whatever obligation you have toward Diane, just forget it. I’ll tell her it didn’t work out and I found someone else.”
“Who?”
Good question. She tossed her hair over her shoulder. “I don’t know yet. But when I find her, I’ll tell Diane.”
“Her? Find her?” he repeated.
“Yes, her. I think I’d work better with a woman.”
He smiled at that, and she couldn’t figure out what he found so damn amusing. What kind of game was he playing, telling her to go jump in a lake this afternoon and chasing her down tonight? The man was a bastard.
“It might look better to the judge if a man represented you,” he thought aloud.
“I doubt it.” Why was she even bothering with him?
“Your ex might insinuate you can’t get along with men. . . .”
She felt the blood surge to her face. “No judge would buy anything so ridiculous.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Your husband—”
“Ex-husband,” she corrected.
“—is a very powerful man. You already said he knows just about every attorney in town. What about judges? Does he have any ‘friends’ on the bench?”
Her legs felt suddenly shaky, but she tilted her chin up and stared him down. “And I suppose you know who’ll be assigned?” she baited. What was it about this man that agitated her to no end?
“No.”
“Of course not. No one does.”
“But Robert—I have the feeling he’d like to tilt the odds in his favor a little.”
“How would you know?”
His jaw clenched. “I read the papers.”
Of course. Robert’s had more than his share of trouble with the law lately—or at least his name had been linked to a couple police cases.
“It wouldn’t surprise me if Fisher somehow ended up with a judge who was lenient where fathers’ rights are concerned.”
She swallowed hard and leaned against the car. She knew Robert had friends in high places, including the courts. “You don’t have much faith in our judicial system.”
“There are flaws.”
“Surely no one who knows Robert would accept the case. . . .” Her voice trailed off. She’d thought of it before, of course, had considered the possibility of Robert buying a judge, but it seemed so bizarre and unlikely, something out of a made-for-television movie.
“All I’m saying,” Jake said, his expression suddenly kind, “is there’s a chance I can help you—or at the very least find someone who can do the best job.”
“That’s quite a turnaround. Why would you bother?”
“Because I do owe Diane Welby a lot and because I know a little about Robert Fisher.”
“Oh, I remember. The papers, right?”
He grimaced. “Right.”
She looked into his eyes. McGowan. Had Robert ever said that name before? She couldn’t remember. But there was something about Jake McGowan that touched her. Beneath his crusty, cynical exterior, she saw honesty in his flinty gray eyes that drew her like a magnet. So, what would it hurt to find out what he had to say? She still didn’t have to hire him.
“It goes without saying that Fisher isn’t one of my favorite people,” Jake was saying, “and if Ben Kesler’s going to represent him, we’d better get cracking.”
“Tonight?”
“Tonight.” His smile was hard. “I’m going out of town for a few days.”
“So it’s now or never, right?” she asked, feeling more than a little prickly.
His eyes flashed in the darkened lot. “No, it’s now or late next week.”
She almost smiled. He was clever, and that was good. She was tempted to listen to what he had to say, but she had to clear the air first. “Look, McGowan, let’s be honest, I didn’t like the way you treated me this afternoon. I came to you for help, and you immediately started baiting me.”
“That’s what’ll happen in court,” Jake replied.
“Fine. I don’t need it from my attorney.”
His sensual lips tightened. “Let’s just get one thing straight. If we come to some sort of agreement and I take your case, we’ll play this my way.”
She bit back a sharp response. This new side of Jake McGowan, slightly threatening and authoritative, caused her temper to flare, but maybe his arrogance was an attribute. She certainly didn’t want a wimp representing her, and right now, glaring at her in the shadowy parking lot, McGowan looked far from wimpy. In fact, he was downright imposing. He’d be perf
ect against the likes of Kesler. For the first time since she’d met him, she felt a ray of hope.
She checked her watch. “I promised my babysitter I’d be home by seven-thirty.”
“We could start there—at your place.”
The thought of him inside her home was more than a tad threatening. It made her feel naked and vulnerable. But what choice did she have? She needed a lawyer, McGowan might just be the best man for the job and she wanted to get home to Lindsay. “My place’ll be fine,” she said with more calm than she felt. “I live—”
“I know your address,” he cut in. “Remember, I read your file this afternoon.”
“Oh.” For the first time since meeting him, Kimberly was tongue-tied. The thought of his going through her private life, reading between the lines as he reviewed her relationship with Robert, was unnerving. She hated the thought of baring her soul to him, of sharing her innermost feelings. And yet she didn’t have much of a choice. If he were going to represent her, he’d have to know everything.
“I’ll meet you there later,” he suggested.
“Right.” She watched as he climbed into a silver Bronco. Tall and slim, with dark hair and expressive eyes, he walked with an innate sensuality that caused her breath to stop somewhere between her lungs and lips. She noticed the casual movement of his hips, and when he unlocked the door of the Bronco and reached across the front seat, his sweater lifted, showing just the hint of tight skin across his abdomen.
Swallowing hard, Kimberly slid into her own car. She couldn’t think of Jake McGowan as a man. He was her attorney—nothing more. And he wasn’t even that, yet, she reminded herself as she jammed her key into the ignition. He hadn’t said he’d take her case—just that he’d help her. And she wasn’t all that convinced he was the man for the job. Not yet. But at least he was offering to help.
“Well, it’s a step in the right direction,” she told herself as she pulled out of the lot.
* * *
Jake pulled out his phone, noticed his battery was starting to wear, and placed another call—his third in the past two hours. On the fourth ring voicemail picked up and Ron Koski’s voice rasped in his ear, telling him to leave his name and number.
“It’s McGowan again,” Jake started, just as he saw Ron’s number pop up on call waiting.
“Ron.”
“I got your message earlier,” Ron said, his voice gravelly from too few hours’ sleep and too many cigarettes. “I thought you’d given up on Fisher.”
Jake grimaced, turning up the collar of his coat against the cold. “I guess I can’t.”
“Maybe you should give it a rest, man. Nothin’ you can do will bring Dan back.”
Jake had told himself the same thing for the past few years. “I know, but I got caught in something else, and Fisher’s name came up.” He had pulled over to make the call and he glanced out his windshield to the dark night and the few people walking briskly along the wet streets, making sure no one was watching him.
“So you want me to reopen the investigation?”
“Immediately. And send me a copy of everything you have on Fisher.”
Ron laughed. “It’ll fill an encyclopedia. But nothing can be proved. There’s no hard evidence.”
“I know, but send it anyway—and that friend of yours in the police department?”
“Brecken?”
“Yeah. See what he knows about Fisher, his organization and his wife.”
“His wife?”
“Yeah. Both wives, actually. The first one’s name is Bennett—Kimberly Bennett. She’s the mother of his only child. The current wife is a woman named Stella Cross Fisher.”
“What do his wives have to do with anything?”
“Probably nothing,” Jake admitted, surprised he cared. He found himself hoping Kimberly was just a naïve innocent—a woman who really didn’t know her husband was Portland’s answer to the Godfather. “But check them out anyway.”
“It’s your money,” Ron said.
No, Jake thought as he hung up, it’s Kimberly Bennett’s money and it probably comes right from the source—Robert Fisher. No doubt Kimberly made out like a bandit when she divorced Fisher, though nothing in her file suggested a huge settlement: just the house, which was a piece of rental property Fisher had owned, the car, college education for the kid and a few dollars a month in child support.
He hopped back into his Bronco and took off, threading the rig through the city traffic that still, though it was nearly seven, crawled at a snail’s pace.
He felt the sting of guilt when he considered that he’d been less than honest with Ms. Bennett, but he rationalized his deception as a necessity. Until he knew just how far he could trust her, he needed to keep some things close to the vest—especially anything to do with Daniel.
He headed south through the wet, shimmering streets and across the Sellwood Bridge. Lights from the houseboats on the east side of the river were reflected in the dark water. On the east side of the Willamette, he rounded several corners and wondered at her choice of neighborhoods. Sellwood had its points, but it was hardly prestigious enough to attract a woman of Kimberly’s means.
But then much about Robert Fisher’s beautiful ex-wife didn’t make sense. The woman worked—held down a nine-to-five at First Cascade and had for a few years. No, he decided as he wheeled into the rutted driveway of the small cottage that was her home, there were things about Kimberly Bennett that just didn’t fit the rich-bitch image.
He strode up a cracked concrete path that was littered with gold-and-brown maple leaves. On the front porch he punched the bell and the door opened almost immediately.
Kimberly, dressed in a soft plum sweater and stone-washed jeans, looked nervous and younger than she had in her stark black coat and business suit. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes wide. “Come on in,” she invited, moving out of the doorway to let him pass. She leaned back against the door to shut it. “I think you should know that I’m not used to baring my soul to strangers.”
He smiled. “No one is.”
“I know, but I don’t want you to get the wrong impression. I don’t like talking about my marriage or my ex-husband. As far as I’m concerned, it’s all ancient history. Dredging it up again is . . . difficult. And if it weren’t for the fact that I’ll do anything to keep Lindsay, I wouldn’t talk about my marriage—or the rest of my private life—at all.”
“Fair enough.”
She took in a deep breath and rubbed her hands together. “Well, now that that’s over with, maybe we should start over. I’ll take your coat. . . .”
“Thanks.” He shrugged out of the jacket and watched as she hung it in a nearby closet.
She managed an anxious smile. “If you light the fire, I’ll make coffee.”
“It’s a deal.” He walked into a small room lighted only by table lamps placed strategically in the corners. An old sofa filled the wall opposite the fireplace, and there was an antique rocker near the archway leading to the dining room. Wicker baskets filled with greenery and dried flowers added color to the rather sparse room. A few sketches, drawn by a young child, were framed and hung on the walls.
“It’s nothing fancy,” she explained, “but it’s home.”
Jake tried to hide his surprise. The house was cozy, filled with a scent of spice, lemon and last night’s fire, but it lacked the feel of wealth he expected. Aside from a few antique faded Persian rugs, nothing inside the small rooms seemed of any value.
Then he reminded himself of the sleek black Mercedes in the garage. And the expensive coat and boots—he hadn’t imagined them.
So, what was it with Ms. Bennett?
Kimberly disappeared through the dining room and called over her shoulder, “There’s kindling in the basket and matches on the mantelpiece.”
Jake found the necessities, leaned over the grate, adjusted a few musty oak logs and struck a match to the cedar kindling. The fire caught and crackled, adding flickering light in the room.
/> He dusted his hands and rocked back on his heels, spreading his palms to the gentle warmth of the first few flames. Feeling someone’s gaze on his back, he glanced over her shoulder and saw Kimberly standing in the doorway to the kitchen, her wary blue-green eyes transfixed on him. “Something wrong?”
She licked her lips, and something deep inside Jake stirred—something dangerous and very, very primal.
“No—yes . . . well, everything,” she said with a small smile. “If things were going great, you wouldn’t be here, would you?”
“I guess not.”
“The coffee’s about ready. Do you want sugar or cream?”
“Black’s fine. I’m a purist.”
“It’s decaf.”
His lips twisted. “Well, I’ve never claimed to be all that pure.”
Kimberly knew then that she’d made a colossal mistake by inviting him into her home. He was too masculine, too irreverent, too damn sexy. Maybe it was just that she hadn’t been with a man for years—hadn’t dated much since the divorce, but Jake’s presence seemed to fill the entire house.
Forcing a smile she didn’t feel, she retreated to the kitchen and tried to calm her nerves. He was just a man—an attractive man, yes, but she met attractive men every day. Still, her hand shook a little as she poured the coffee, and she silently berated herself for being such a ninny.
By the time she returned to the living room, Jake had already opened his briefcase and withdrawn a pad, paper and digital recorder. He sat on a corner of the couch, the yellow pad resting on one knee.
He looked up as she entered. “I think we’d better get started. You ready?”
Never. “As ready as I’ll ever be.” She set both steaming mugs on the table.
“Okay, let’s start at the beginning. How you met Fisher, how long you dated, when you got married and how it fell apart.”
“Diane knows most of this,” she said.
“I know. But I’d like to hear it from you.”
She should have expected this, she supposed, but still it was difficult. “I was barely twenty, still going to school. I transferred up here from U.C.L.A.—”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why the transfer?”