by Lisa Jackson
A chill crawled down Rachelle’s spine. “That wasn’t all of it,” Jackson said quietly. “Someone else was with Fitzpatrick that night, I think, but I can’t remember who. I didn’t hear another voice, but I sensed that someone else was there. It’s strange—just an impression. Anyway, I got out of the hospital and found out I didn’t have a job any longer.”
“Why?”
Jackson shrugged. “Who knows? I was just a kid—I didn’t question it and my mother didn’t bother explaining, just told me that I’d have to look somewhere else for work. I always blamed Roy, but I’m not sure he had anything to do with it.”
“Why would your mother lie and say you were delirious if you weren’t?”
“I don’t know. But she lied. I spoke with one of the orderlies. He’d seen Thomas Fitzpatrick there that night.”
Rachelle hugged herself and walked a few steps closer to the imposing house, a symbol of the lifestyle of the Fitzpatricks.
“The night Roy died, you were furious with him,” she said.
“We’d already had a fight a few days before,” Jackson said. “He’d started spreading rumors about my mother and I couldn’t handle it. I confronted Roy and he hit me, cut me under the eye.” Jackson stared to the far shore where the lights of cabins glimmered seductively. Moonlight cast shadows over the smooth water, and high overhead a night bird swooped over the hills.
“There’s always been bad blood between our families,” Jackson admitted. “While I was in the navy, Roy started seeing my cousin, Amanda. She lived over in Coleville and thought she was in love with Roy. Anyway, she ended up pregnant and Roy wouldn’t marry her—claimed the baby wasn’t his. It was a time before they could do DNA testing and it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Amanda’s father was swayed by the all-mighty buck and Thomas bought him out. Amanda put the baby up for adoption and some couple now has an eleven- or twelve-year-old kid. Amanda regrets giving the baby up, but she got a college education out of the deal—bought and paid for by Granddaddy Tom.”
Rachelle felt sick. “So that’s why you hated Roy.”
“One reason. But there were lots of other people who hated him. Lots of people were jealous of his money, hated the way he threw his name around town…how his old man bought him favors. Even Erik Patton had a bone to pick with Roy. Roy had promised to marry Melanie, but he got sidetracked.”
“By Laura,” Rachelle said.
“And then you.” Jackson turned and faced her. “It was you he wanted, you know.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Oh, yeah. Laura was just a means to an end. She was pretty and willing and Roy was happy enough to show her a good time until he could get to you. But you posed a challenge and Roy liked nothing better than a challenge.”
“But I never knew he was interested in me,” she protested. “Until that night I didn’t have a clue.”
Jackson’s eyes turned hard. “Roy wasn’t known for longevity. He was just used to having anything or anyone he wanted. If he made a mistake, Daddy took care of it. He figured it was only a matter of time before you’d be interested in his wealth or his car or him. But he got too drunk to be subtle. You showed up in the gazebo and he reacted.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I’ve had a long time to piece it all together.”
“And are the pieces beginning to fit? What happens when you find out the truth?”
He grinned, his teeth flashing white in the darkness. “Then I’ve made my point to this town.”
“And that’s it?”
“One chapter in my life closed.”
They walked down a short path and suddenly the gazebo was in front of them. Paint peeled from the weathered slats, a step sagged in the middle and the roof had lost a few shingles, but it stood, neglected in the same grove of pines that Rachelle remembered. Rachelle’s heart thudded painfully and her insides turned as cold as a long, dark well. She remembered Roy struggling against her, pressing his anxious body over hers, his breath sour with beer as he’d tried to tear off her clothes.
“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 thro
at. “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.