"You want the truth or an excuse?"
He expected, at the least, a smile—at most, one of those devastating grins of hers. What he got was utter seriousness.
"I guess that's one of the few things you and I agree on. I generally prefer the truth."
Drawing a deep breath, he gave it to her. "I was waiting to see you."
Her expression didn't change. "Why?"
"Damned if I know." With a wry smile, he decided to try some of the directness she was famous for. "I like spending time with you, Jolie."
For a moment she simply looked at him, too calm, too serious; then, bit by bit, amusement began lightening her eyes. "Yes, I'm such a refreshing change from all those proper society belles you normally spend time with."
"You're definitely more interesting."
"Uh-huh. I bet you haven't once threatened to have the FBI arrest or conduct a background investigation on one of them."
"Not necessary. I can find out whatever I want about them through the Social Register."
"A place where no mention of the French Quarter Wades will ever be found," she said flippantly.
"A fact that you are undoubtedly proud of." He chuckled at her smug grin, then turned serious. "I wasn't threatening you, Jolie. It was a warning from one friend to another. I don't want to see you get in over your head on this one. I don't want it to cost you more than you're ready to pay."
For a moment Jolie didn't know what to say. On one level she was touched that whatever might happen to her seemed to matter to him. On another, she was suspicious, uncertain whether she could trust this unexpected concern. And on a third level, she was worried; he sounded as if the matter of her coming under FBI scrutiny was a foregone conclusion.
Maybe it was. She was stubborn and unwilling to turn Nick over to the government, and she knew too well that the FBI wasn't known for its reasonable treatment of anyone who stood in their way. Unless Nick volunteered to come forward, chances were pretty good that she would be seeing Smith in a courtroom and she wouldn't be there to cover the proceedings.
God help her, she didn't want it to come to that. She didn't want to push Shawna Warren until the agent felt she had no other choice. She didn't want, as she'd said last night, to be the news. She didn't want to face Smith in court, didn't want him to treat her in that cool, impersonal, slightly derisive way that he had with defendants. Even though he would simply be doing his job, a job in which she and Shawna would leave him no choice, she suspected that it would hurt to have him look at, speak to and speak about her in that way. And even though she wouldn't take it personally, she couldn't help but think he would. Prosecuting her inside the courtroom, she thought, would change the way he felt about her outside, and that would be a loss she would regret.
Most of all, though…
Most of all, she didn't want that background investigation.
"I appreciate the warning, Smith," she said quietly.
"Not that you're going to heed it." His expression was regretful.
"I told you I would talk to him, that I would ask him to talk to you. That's the best I can offer."
"Convince him, Jolie. Because I don't want to see you in court for any reason other than to cover Falcone's trial." Rising from the swing, he walked to the top of the steps and stopped there.
"Thank you for bringing Cassie home," she said, forcing a smile as she joined him.
"My pleasure." After a moment, he glanced at her. "Under the circumstances … you wouldn't … it wouldn't be wise for me to ask you to dinner, would it?"
She shook her head.
"I didn't think so."
Jolie watched him walk down the steps, then start toward his car. Before he'd gone far, she called his name. "Smith? For the record … I liked spending this time with you, too."
He gave her one last smile before climbing into the car. Long after he'd driven away, she was still standing there looking where he'd last been, his final question replaying in her head. Under the circumstances … you wouldn't … it wouldn't be wise for me to ask you to dinner, would it? Smith Kendricks—handsome, richer than God, well-bred and excruciatingly well-mannered—sounding hesitant and unsure about asking a woman out. Who ever would have believed it?
Not Jolie, not if she hadn't heard it for herself.
Especially when she was the woman.
Behind her the door opened just an inch or two, then wide enough for Cassie to slip out. "Is Smith gone?"
"Yes." She returned to sit on the swing, pleased when Cassie joined her there.
"He doesn't quite know what to do with you, does he?"
"What do you mean?"
"Whether to arrest you or romance you."
She should laugh off the comment, Jolie knew, or respond with sarcasm or cynicism, but none of those things would come. All she wanted, all she really wanted to do was to ask for reassurance. Do you think he really likes me? Do you think he's really interested? Do you think I stand a chance? Fortunately, for the sake of her pride, none of those questions would come, either.
"What if they do arrest you, Jolie?"
The uncustomary worry in Cassie's eyes reminded her of the point that she'd foolishly made clear to Smith: Cassie seemed older and was mature for her age, but she was still just a seventeen-year-old girl. Not grown-up. Not mature enough. Not old enough yet that she should be worrying about Jolie.
"If they do," she began, her tone lighter than her spirit, "then I'll probably go to jail. I'll become something of a celebrity. Reporters locked up under these circumstances generally do." After a moment, she glanced at the girl. "Will it embarrass you if they do?"
Cassie gave her question careful consideration before answering. "No. I can't imagine anything you would do that might embarrass me. But it will worry Mama and Daddy."
"Well, look at it this way, kiddo, if I get locked up, they'll be too wound up over that to nag you about Trevor. It'll take the heat off for a while."
That earned her one of those older-than-her-years chastising looks. "I can handle Mama and Daddy and Trevor." After another moment's quiet thought, she went on. "You know they're proud of you … but they don't understand you. They don't understand why you want to do what you do, why you hang out with criminals, why you're so often at odds with the police. Daddy, in particular, doesn't understand why you won't get married and be a wife and mother like the others."
Jolie redirected her gaze to the zinnias that grew right next to the porch. Occasionally one of the tall, spindly stalks was strong enough to stand up under the weight of its flower, but most of them leaned against the railing for support, and one or two had broken, their vividly colored blossoms resting upside down on the mulch. Most of her life she'd been like the plants that needed support, and she had taken it where she could—from her family, her friends and, for a time, from Nick. On a few occasions, like the weaker flowers, she had bowed under the burden of her life and her choices, had bowed and damn near broken, but today she could stand alone. She didn't need marriage. She didn't need a man in her life.
And she would never let herself need children.
"Frankly, Jolie, I don't understand it, either. I intend to go on to college and to have a career, but I also intend to get married and have a family. There's no reason why a woman shouldn't have it all."
Her throat tight, her jaw strained, Jolie smiled in Cassie's general direction without meeting her clear dark gaze. "If you can manage all three, sweetheart, fine. Go for it. But I can't. I have the energy for only one major commitment in my life, and I've chosen my job. It's more important to me than the options." Forcing a laugh, she gestured to the emptiness around them. "It's a pointless discussion, anyway. Do you see any prospective suitors lined up waiting for a chance to change my mind?"
"No. But just a little while ago, I heard one asking permission to ask you out, and you turned him down."
The tension inside her knotted a little tighter. "I can't go out with Smith."
"Why not?"
"
You were partly right earlier. He doesn't yet know whether he's going to have me arrested. Call me silly, but I try to avoid going out with men who are holding the threat of jail over my head."
"You also try to avoid going out with men you might come to care for," Cassie said quietly. "I think Smith falls into that category, as well." She got to her feet, then bent and gave Jolie a hug. "I'm meeting friends this evening for dinner and a movie. I'm going to start getting ready."
Jolie murmured something agreeable, then stretched out on the hard wooden bench, staring up at the porch ceiling. For a woman who prided herself on telling the truth, on being direct and plainspoken, she felt remarkably like a liar this afternoon.
She didn't need marriage. She didn't need a man in her life.
And she would never let herself need children.
Those were statements she'd made the better part of her adult life, rules she had lived by. She would never get married, would never let herself get caught in the trap that could keep her from fulfilling her potential, from meeting her goals, from being the best damn reporter the country had ever seen.
She would never need a man. Nick had taught her a few lessons there—about love, hatred, intimacy and betrayal. He had shown her how weak he was and, worse—far, far worse—he had taught her how weak she was. They were lessons she needed to learn only once.
It went without saying that, without marriage, without a man, there would never be children. Once she had wanted babies. Three—a boy and two girls, she had thought—was a nice round number. With three kids, the entire family could fit in one car. A family of five was so average, as opposed to her family of too many. Three mouths weren't impossible to feed; hand-me-downs, if they were necessary, weren't so handed down. Three names were easy to remember; the girls wouldn't find themselves answering to any girl's name she shouted out, as she and her sisters had been forced to do when family, friends and teachers alike couldn't connect the proper name with the proper face.
Once she had wanted babies—one baby—so badly that she had thought she would die from the pain.
Now she was past that. Of the last five or six babies born to her sisters and in-laws, she hadn't wanted to even hold them. She had bought gifts, admired them from a distance and walked away without feeling as if her heart had been wrenched out.
She had lived by those decisions, had dedicated herself to her career, and for seventeen years, she hadn't—except in the rare weak moment—regretted it. Nothing had changed. So why did she now feel like such a liar?
Because something had changed. She wasn't sure if it was Smith or if the changes came from deep inside her. Maybe it was because they'd never spent any real time together, not alone, not away from their offices. Somehow, though, in the past twenty-four hours, she had begun seeing him in a totally different light. He was no longer just a casual friend with whom she had little in common, but a man. A potentially special man. A man who could make reality of dreams she hadn't yet dared to dream.
A man she still had little in common with.
Maybe it was the summer heat or a combination of other factors, but she had to be crazy to even think about Smith that way. She still didn't need a man in her life … even if lately she found herself thinking that maybe it would be nice to have one. She certainly didn't need a man like Smith, who was everything she'd never been, who had grown up in a world that she could never relate to.
And Smith—who dealt with the rich and powerful both in his job and in his personal life, who was on a first-name basis with people the reporter inside her could only fantasize about meeting someday, whose influence ran deep in the city and throughout the state
A man like Smith certainly didn't need her.
* * *
The condo was quiet, cool. Filling half of the eighteenth floor of a twenty-story building that loomed over the Mississippi River, it had cost a fortune to buy and a smaller fortune to furnish. It was beautiful, impressive and offered breathtaking views from every window—of the river, the city and the Quarter.
And all in all, Smith thought, he would rather be in an unremarkable neighborhood in a little yellow house with crayon drawings framed on the living room walls.
He'd brought case files home from work with him Friday evening, but they seemed a pretty poor way to spend a sunny Sunday afternoon. He had thought about calling Michael and Remy and inviting them over, then had remembered Valery mentioning plans for Sunday dinner at Belle Ste. Claire. If Remy's parents had invited Valery and Michael to the family home, then they had surely invited Remy and Susannah, too. That—the Bennetts and the Sinclairs—exhausted his list of people he would call on short notice and say, "Let's get together and do something."
Except for one.
Turning from a view down Poydras Street
, he glanced at the phone. He had looked up Jolie's number several hours ago. Like a normal person, she was listed in the phone book, quite likely the only person he knew in town who was listed.
Of course, most of the people he knew were cops, federal agents, lawyers and prosecutors. Considering their line of work and who they dealt with, it wasn't a good idea to be too accessible. Granted, Jolie dealt with many of the same people, but her line of work made accessibility important.
He had memorized her number, but he hadn't yet gone so far as to dial it. Hadn't she made it clear yesterday that she wasn't interested in a date with him?
But hadn't she also said that she had enjoyed the time they'd spent together?
He sighed, feeling alone and more than just a little lonely. Everything had changed in the past fifteen months. Evan had died. Michael had married Valery. Remy had almost gotten killed twice and had married Susannah. The four best friends were reduced to one.
Of course, Evan had been married for years—nine or ten, Smith couldn't recall—before his death. His wife Karen had accepted them as a package deal—if she wanted Evan, she took the rest of them, too—and she'd done so graciously. She had made them all welcome at their house, had invited them for Thanksgivings and Christmases, had cooked birthday dinners and baked birthday cakes. She had mothered them all, had been a friend to them all. But, after Evan's death, she had drifted away from them. It was easier for her, Smith suspected, to escape the constant reminders they provided of her husband. As far as Smith knew, no one—with the possible exception of Michael—had much contact with her these days.
Evan's marriage hadn't brought many changes into their lives. Michael's, followed so quickly by Remy's, had. There were no more three, four or more weekly get-togethers, no more long hours spent talking shop, just the three of them. The friendship was as strong as ever; Michael and Remy—and now Valery and Susannah—were still family. It was just that the focus had changed. They each had a wife to go home to, a wife to plan a future with, a wife to have children with.
And Smith still came home to a quiet, cool, empty condo.
Smith still had no one.
He was beginning to discover how lonely that could be.
Listlessly he walked over to his desk, a sleek contemporary piece chosen by one of New Orleans's top interior designers. She'd been a lovely woman, a few years older, divorced and well aware of his standing on the eligible bachelor list, and she had understood absolutely nothing about what he'd wanted in a home. He had given her free rein, and she had given him, he suspected, what she liked. The rooms were monochromatic—black, white and shades of gray—with an occasional touch of yellow, crimson or royal blue. There was a great deal of leather, of tile, marble and stone, of highly polished surfaces that required three-times-a-week visits from his housekeeper to maintain their gleam.
And there was the furniture. Every piece, it seemed, had been chosen for form rather than function. After all the thousands of dollars he'd spent on the few pieces the designer had chosen for the living room and his den—less was better, she had thought, except when it came to price—there wasn't a couch in the place worth stretching out on.
It was his own fault. Do
whatever you want, he'd told her. He spent so little time at home that he hadn't wanted to be bothered by determining exactly what it was he wanted.
So this was what he got.
From the right-hand desk drawer, he removed his address book, then seated himself in one seriously unattractive leather-and-steel chair. As he settled in, he glanced around the office. The gray was charcoal in here—steel in the kitchen and bathrooms, dove in the master bedroom—and the one accent the designer had allowed was a textile piece, a wall hanging in crimson and glittery gold. The realization struck him that this—ultramodern, minimalist, visually stunning and cold as hell—was exactly what he had envisioned for Jolie.
Except Jolie, with no more than her mere presence, would have made it sizzle.
Turning his attention back to the address book, he thumbed through the pages. If he would settle for just anyone's company, there were dozens of people he could call, ranging from people he worked with to those he knew socially. A large number were women he had dated, most of them proper society belles, as Jolie had called them. He rarely ended a relationship on a bad note; he could claim to still be friends with virtually every woman he had ever been involved with. Granted, the friendships were casual—except for Remy and Michael, all of his friendships were casual—but there wasn't a woman out there who didn't think as well of him once an affair ended as she had while they were still together. He could call any one of them and, unless she was involved in a new relationship, make plans for later this afternoon or evening.
Muttering a curse that echoed in the still room, he tossed the address book onto the desk. He didn't want to spend the afternoon or the evening with anyone listed in those pages. He was going to call Jolie. To make her feel more comfortable, he wouldn't call it a date; he would simply ask if she wanted to have dinner. They could meet someplace public, and she could bring Cassie along. What could be less intimate than being baby-sat through dinner by her baby sister?
Just as he stood up to reach for the phone, it rang, one soft electronic trill. He picked it up, grateful for the distraction, for the delay that just might bring him to his senses before he actually carried out the plan to call Jolie. Recognizing his boss's voice at the other end of the line, he lost a little of that gratitude.
A MAN LIKE SMITH Page 7