"What kind of sacrifices, Jolie?"
Her hand, still clasped within his, went limp, but she couldn't pull free because he was holding on too tightly. Struggling to make her voice even, to hide any hint of just how difficult a question that was for her, she stared at the wheel and, just as quietly, answered. "You don't know me well enough to ask that question."
"I'm sorry." He didn't sound as if he really was. "But someday I will, and I'll ask again."
She wondered how he could sound so sure of himself—so sure of them—when all she had was doubts. Deciding that just this once, just for this moment, she would have faith in his judgment, she slid her arm around his waist, pulled him into a leisurely stroll along the deck and smiled up at him.
"Someday, Smith, I just might tell you."
* * *
Two hours later, Jolie was stretched out in one of her favorite places, the bathtub. Barely warm water covered with a layer of fragrant bubbles reached practically to her chin, one of her favorite tapes was on the stereo with the volume turned loud, and the cool air blowing from the vent overhead raised goose bumps where her wet skin was exposed—her shoulder, one knee and, propped on the faucet, one foot.
It had been a nice afternoon. At the end of the cruise, she and Smith had watched from the upper deck while the other passengers clogged the exits. Tourists were always in such a hurry, anxious to disembark and head for the next attraction. She and Smith had been among the last to leave the boat. Of course, they were fortunate enough to live in New Orleans. They didn't have to cram all its sights and sounds into a few busy summer days. They could enjoy it three hundred and sixty-five days a year.
Although not necessarily the way they had enjoyed the afternoon.
Not together.
The cruise had been different, she reflected, from the twelve or more she had taken in the past. It hadn't been as peaceful, relaxing or lazy. It hadn't been the quiet, solitary journey she had always made before. It hadn't been pensive or melancholy or just a little bit lonely.
For that she could thank Smith.
She could thank him for the souvenir, too. Rolling her head on the folded towel that served as a pillow, she studied the photograph propped up on the counter. After buying the picture, he had ordered a print for himself, then presented her with the original. She had protested, had told him that she didn't need the photo, that it was entirely too touristy a thing for her.
Secretly, she was glad he had insisted. She didn't have many mementos of her life. There hadn't been that many moments that had called for them. But the cruise—their first date, such as it was—had seemed an appropriate occasion for a souvenir. It was a time she would long remember.
The photo was a good one, a study in contrasts. There was Smith, tall, handsome and smiling. Even in the lifeless dimension of a photograph, there was an air about him, a sort of elegance. Her mother would call it breeding. Jolie preferred gentility. Grace. Class.
And then there was Jolie. What she lacked in elegance, breeding and all those other things, she made up for in ambition and attitude. She'd been born with ambition and, over the years, had cultivated attitude. If she had known at some time during those years that she was going to wind up posing for a photograph in the embrace of a man like Smith Kendricks, she would have cultivated a little grace, too. She would have made a serious effort to develop some class.
They were like two horses, she thought whimsically. Smith was the Thoroughbred—lean and long-legged, well-bred and graceful, bred for the purity of its lines—while she was more of the workhorse variety: strong, sturdy and intended for labor.
But workhorses could be valuable, too. Just as much as Thoroughbreds, they, too, could be prized for their lines. They could be pretty to look at and possess a certain grace. You're a pretty woman, Smith had told her after studying the picture, and she had wanted to believe he meant it. She did believe he meant it.
The compliment had brought her, still brought her, far more pleasure than it should have. She rarely dressed for effect. Her clothes were casual, her hairstyle simple, her makeup minimal. And she rarely spent more than a few necessary minutes looking at herself in the mirror. She was reasonably satisfied with what she saw and didn't often give her appearance further thought.
But it was nice to be called pretty.
It was nice to believe that Smith thought she was pretty.
The business with the photographer taken care of, they had walked to the parking lot near the Moon Walk where she had left the 'Vette, and they had confirmed this evening's plans. She had been reluctant to leave him, reluctant to bring the afternoon to an end, but finally there had been no reason to delay. The last she'd seen of him, he had been walking toward the Café du Monde. Taking a stroll around the Quarter? she had wondered, wishing he had invited her along. Or maybe he was going to visit Michael and Valery; their lovely old apartment was across the street from the café.
Only six or eight streets farther away was Serenity, and Jolie's old apartment. Only six or eight blocks, but, oh, what a difference those blocks made.
Someday, she thought, reaching for the glass of iced tea resting on the side of the tub, she might do more than tell Smith about those sacrifices she'd made. She might show him. She might take him to Serenity and give him the nickel tour. She could show him the shabby neighborhood that had produced her—the run-down house where she had lived, the grassless yards where she had played, the little park where she had lost her virginity at fifteen and her innocence at seventeen. She could show him the poverty, the aimlessness of Serenity's youth, the hopelessness of the older residents.
Would he look at her differently after seeing where she'd come from? Maybe. Poverty was a foreign concept to someone who'd been born into the sort of wealth the Kendrickses had. It was something a man like Smith could understand intellectually, but not emotionally. For that kind of bone-deep understanding, you had to live it. You had to know what it was like to do without, to want and need but never have, to be ridiculed by the younger kids at school, to be scorned by the older ones.
You had to know what it was like to go hungry.
She had been hungry, in some form or another, all of her life.
On the other hand, though, Smith could surprise her. It was something he'd been doing on a fairly regular basis lately. It would be just her luck, if she showed him Serenity, that it would only serve to impress him. That it would help him more clearly understand just how far her ambition really had taken her.
And if that was the case, if she wasn't already in love with him, she would probably fall right then and there.
Suddenly numbed by the thoughts echoing through her mind, she reached out, hand unsteady, to return the tumbler to the rim of the tub. It slipped and splashed into the water, spilling tea and ice, making her shiver.
She wasn't going to fall in love with Smith, she insisted to herself as she opened the drain, got to her feet and pulled the shower curtain shut. She would be his friend, would go out with him and would most likely go to bed with him, but she would not fall in love with him. That was a complication that her life couldn't afford.
But what if she didn't have a choice in the matter?
What if her most stubborn insistences and her best intentions meant nothing?
What if it happened anyway?
It wouldn't.
She wouldn't let it.
Turning the water on, she flipped the lever for the shower and got hit with a blast of cold water before a little heat seeped in. It made her shudder and step back, and it spun the tumbler at her feet in a slow circle before she snatched it up, set it on the shelf next to the shampoo, then stepped under the spray.
After her shower, it didn't take her long to get ready. Just time to dust herself with expensive powder and to spray with cologne in a matching scent. Time to choose between her usual Saturday night ensemble—shorts, a T-shirt and no shoes—and something a little dressier. Time to apply a little more makeup than normal, to dry her hair and
secure it with a set of shiny gold combs instead of merely running a brush through it and calling it styled.
Smith was due at seven. At ten minutes till, she stood in front of the cheval minor in her bedroom. She had opted for an outfit somewhere between casual and dressing to impress—a green silk blouse and a short white denim skirt that would be stunning on someone five foot seven or taller, but was appealing enough on her. She kept her jewelry simple, a delicate gold chain around her neck, a slender bangle around her wrist and earrings curved in graceful gold hoops.
Studying her reflection, she heard again the echo of Smith's compliment. You're a pretty woman, Jolie. The words had been simple, his tone matter-of-fact, but she had been flattered. More than that, she had been touched. In an effort to disguise just how deeply touched, she had responded dryly. I clean up real good. Take me someplace ritzy for dinner sometime, and I'll show you.
She did clean up nicely, she decided, turning away from the mirror to pull on a pair of loosely woven leather sandals. While she'd never had occasion to dress for something really ritzy, if he took her up on her suggestion, she just might exceed her wildest expectations.
For a few hours, at least.
Just as the tape on the stereo wound to an end, the peal of the doorbell echoed through the house. She hurried down the stairs, giving the living room a glance as she passed to make sure nothing was out of place, taking one quick moment to wonder whether she might have forgotten anything important when she had packed up her papers last week. She couldn't think of anything.
Myriad sensations greeted her when she opened the door. There was the sweet fragrance of the flowers around the porch, rising in the air as the temperature eased down. There was the slash of brilliant sun on the western horizon, turning the sky shades of gold, purple, blue and pink. There was the heat, heavy and breath stealing, easily vanquishing the cool air that seeped out the door. There were the aromas of dinner in the bags Smith carried, enticing and mouth watering, and, more subtle, the scent of his cologne.
And there was Smith himself. How did he manage to look more handsome each time she saw him? she wondered, but she didn't pursue an answer. She was afraid it might be more than she was ready to face just yet.
"That smells wonderful," she said by way of a greeting. "Let me help you."
He shook his head and retained his grip on the heavy bags. "You don't get the food until you show me the movie."
With a laugh, she stepped back so he could enter, then closed the door behind him and went to the coffee table. "For your viewing pleasure," she said with an airy sweep toward the three video cassettes there.
Setting the bags down, he examined each of the tapes. She didn't know enough about his tastes—other than that he didn't like tearjerkers—to make an informed choice, so she had gone for variety. She had picked up last year's megahit adventure movie, something that could be seen time and time again without losing any of the fun, a courtroom drama and a classic romantic comedy from the forties.
"You have good taste," he said. "For your dining pleasure…"
He announced the contents of each container as he removed it from the bags, starting with thick slabs of bread, sautéed in olive oil, flavored with garlic and still warm. Ingredients for a Caesar salad. Thin slices of roasted duck breast with sweet, fruity sauce. Wild rice. Steamed broccoli with brown butter. Chilled wine for dinner and a bottle of champagne to be poured over dessert, a salad of strawberries, peaches, apricots, blueberries and oranges.
Jolie surveyed the dinner covering her coffee table. "Darn. I guess I have to put away the paper plates and disposable cups and use real dishes now." Then she couldn't help grinning. "You do have style, Smith. Let me warn you—if this situation is ever reversed and I'm responsible for providing dinner, expect pizza or a bucket of fried chicken."
"I like pizza—no pepperoni, no anchovies, extra cheese. And chicken. Extra crispy." He glanced around the living room. "Want to eat here?"
"I think this dinner deserves the closest to a proper setting I can provide." Picking up the salad containers, she carried them to the opposite end of the long room, setting them on the dining table. He followed with the rest of the food while she went to gather dishes from the kitchen.
Smith poured the champagne over the fruit so the flavors could blend, poured the wine into the glasses she produced and tossed the salad. After dividing it evenly between their plates, he sat down across from her and, for the first time since leaving her in the parking lot a few hours ago, he felt himself relax. In a slow, steady drain, tension that he hadn't even been fully aware of vanished. Forget exercise, aspirin or antacid. All he needed for stress relief was Jolie. If he could come home to her every night, he would be the most even-tempered, unexcitable prosecutor in the Justice Department.
"Tell me something, Jolie," he said, his serious tone earning a quick glance from her. "Why does a beautiful woman stay home alone and watch movies on Saturday nights?"
"I don't know. I do it because I like being home. Because there aren't a lot of people I care to spend my free evenings with. Because going out on dates—especially when nothing is going to come of them—is an awful lot of trouble."
"I think you date the wrong men. I think you deliberately choose men you don't like enough to let anything develop. That way you don't have to worry about getting involved."
Her smile was slight and reflective. "Cassie told me the same thing. There's something humbling about getting advice on your love life from your baby sister who's young enough…"
"To be your daughter." Smith finished when her voice trailed off. "Sobering, isn't it? Here we were talking today about wanting babies—"
"And not wanting them." She was flippant again.
"And we're both old enough to be the parents of a young adult. We're both old enough. God help us, to be grandparents." He briefly considered the wisdom of continuing the subject, judged it foolish and went ahead anyway.
"Have you ever thought about that, Jolie? If you don't have children, you'll never have grandchildren. When you're eighty years old, you'll be the most famous female journalist in the world, but your only legacy will be newspaper stories that, soon, no one will care about. Your family will live on, but everything unique and distinctive that went into making you exactly the way you are will be lost. Don't you have any vanity? Isn't there some part of you that wants to believe that your best qualities will live on in your children and their children and their children's grandchildren? Wouldn't you like to think that in three or four generations, one of your descendants is going to give birth to a little green-eyed, blond-haired daughter who's as stubborn, as determined and bright and tough as you are?"
Looking up, she offered him an obnoxious smile. "If I get a vote on our conversation tonight, I'd say that we've said about all there is to say on the topic of babies and kids, and I'd like to suggest that it be placed off-limits for the rest of the night … if not for the rest of our lives."
Stubborn. Hell, yes, she was stubborn. However, he could interpret her response one of several ways. Maybe she really was tired of the subject. Maybe she was utterly convinced that she had no mothering instincts left; maybe she truly did not want children of her own.
Or maybe she wasn't so sure. Maybe the idea of grandchildren gathered around when she was eighty and slowing down was more interesting than she wanted to admit. Maybe the idea of some future great-great-grandchild who looked like her, acted like her, thought and lived like her held far more appeal than she cared for. God knows, he found tremendous appeal in the prospect of children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren who shared his and Jolie's blood.
"All right," he said agreeably. "What would you rather discuss? The Falcone case? Your source?"
"You haven't mentioned it all day," she pointed out.
"It's business. This is pleasure."
"It's business that concerns both of us. And for both of us, business is pleasure." She flashed that damned sexy grin. "Besides, I don't believe i
n keeping the two totally separate. Friends discuss each other's work."
Friends. So did lovers, he wanted to point out. So did husbands and wives. Wisely, he didn't. "Okay. Your article in Wednesday's paper was a good one."
"Thank you. There'll be another tomorrow."
"And another package delivered to my office Monday?"
"Unless you'd prefer that I take it straight to Warren this time."
"Considering that I'm all that's standing between you and Shawna and a judge, I don't think you should cut me out as middleman just yet." Besides, he thought with a moment's private pleasure, it would give him an opportunity to see her tomorrow. "Any chance I can get a preview of the story?"
She shook her head.
"You're still not willing to identify your source."
"No."
"And he's still not willing to come forward."
She shook her head.
"So everything's pretty much status quo." He waited while she removed the salad plates from the table, then he served the main course. "You've met Jimmy Falcone, haven't you?"
"I've interviewed him a number of times."
"What did you think?"
She tasted the duck and made a sound of deep-throated appreciation before answering. "He was kind of charming the first time—in a sleazy, classless, chauvinistic sort of way. He thought it was 'cute' to be interviewed by a 'girl reporter.' He was condescending, amoral, offensive, and yet reasonably polite and nonthreatening. The next time he knew who he was dealing with, and he showed me as much respect as he's capable of giving any woman who isn't paid to follow his orders."
"What about the people around him?" He recited a list of names, ending with the top three: Benson, Cortese and Carlucci. She didn't react in any way to a single name.
"You don't ever see Jimmy alone. He's always surrounded by people—bodyguards, flunkies, advisors, girlfriends. But they're there to protect him and to make him feel important. They don't share his spotlight, and they don't speak at his interviews—except, on occasion, the lawyer."
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