"Carlucci?"
She shook her head. "He's never been around when I've met with Jimmy. It was always Mulroney."
Which meant she hadn't interviewed the old man in at least two years, because Stephen Mulroney had dropped dead on a country club golf course more than two years ago, felled by a lifetime of bad habits, rich foods and little, if any, exercise. Thanks to his caddy-driven golf cart, even Mulroney's twice-weekly eighteen holes had done less to raise his heart rate than a good argument in the bar afterward.
"Have you heard from Falcone lately?"
"No … but I expect to."
She replied so casually, as if they were discussing the weather or some other insignificant subject instead of a stone-cold killer. Smith couldn't be that casual. He couldn't even try.
"I imagine he or his lawyer will call and request a meeting," she went on. "They'll want to ask all the same questions you've asked—who my source is, et cetera. They may even offer me a deal." She softened that last part with a smile meant to remind him of the deal he had offered.
Smith tried but couldn't return the smile. "Dealing with Falcone can get you hurt."
"Dealing with Falcone can get me dead," she corrected him, suddenly serious. "I'm no fool, Smith. I wouldn't trust the man as far as I could throw him."
"If they contact you, will you let me know?"
"And what would you do? Order Shawna Warren or Remy Sinclair to protect me?"
"I would send you far away from here. I would remove you from Jimmy's reach." Now he managed a smile, but it was cool. There was nothing pleasant about it. "And don't doubt that I could do it, Jolie. The kind of money I have can buy damn near anything—including your security."
"I wouldn't go willingly."
He shrugged. "You wouldn't have to be willing."
She subjected him to a long, measuring, unwavering look. "I wouldn't forgive you for interfering," she said at last. "I might even hate you for the rest of my life."
His jaw felt tight as he forced his mouth into another smile. "That may well be. But, honey…" He waited until her gaze was locked with his before continuing. "At least you would have the rest of your life."
* * *
Chapter 7
« ^ »
Jolie sat silent for so long that Smith began to wonder if he was about to be treated to a firsthand demonstration of the infamous Wade temper. Whether she had used that time to come up with arguments or simply to regain control, he didn't know, but when she finally spoke, her voice was even in pitch, sensible in tone. The perfect voice of reason.
He wasn't fooled for a minute.
"You can't do that, Smith. You can't take this—" she gestured to the dishes between them "—as permission to interfere with my work. I agreed to have a relationship with you, not to turn control of my life over to you."
"I'm not asking for control. But if Falcone threatens you—"
She interrupted him. "Jimmy isn't going to threaten me."
"What makes you so sure? Do you realize how badly you can hurt him?"
"Do you have a good case against him?"
"Yes, but—"
"So my articles and my source's information don't really affect much, do they? You may not be able to use any of the evidence, but you'll get a conviction anyway, won't you?"
"I don't know."
She smiled slyly. "Oh, come on, Smith. The trial starts soon. Don't tell me you don't have a pretty good fix on how things are going to go down."
He swore beneath his breath. "Yes, I have a strong case. I've got good witnesses. I've got a ton of evidence. The only way we could not get a conviction would be if Falcone somehow managed to buy off the judge and every one of the jurors."
"Which is highly unlikely, so he'll leave me alone." Her manner was light, careless. "At this point, the last thing Jimmy needs is to mess with a reporter. He'll ask me who my source is. He'll try to negotiate some sort of payment in exchange for the information. When he realizes that he can't buy me off, he'll back off, because he'll understand that you're not getting the information, either. As long as I keep my mouth shut and don't reveal my informant's identity to anyone, I can't hurt Jimmy where it counts—in court."
"And is that your plan, to keep your mouth shut? Even in court?"
The look in her eyes sobered a degree or two. "Yes, it is."
"Even if I need the information to strengthen our case?"
"You just said you already have a strong case. Good witnesses. A ton of evidence."
"Other prosecutors have built strong cases against Falcone before, and he's gotten off. You said yourself that he's the most brazen liar I've gone up against—that I could place him at the scene of a murder, present a thousand witnesses and show a videotape of him killing the victim, and he would still persuade the jury that he was innocent." He fell silent for a moment, searching for the right words. "I want him, Jolie. I want him more than anyone I've ever prosecuted. This is the most important case of my career, but it's not because Jimmy is the biggest crook or because he's involved in the most widespread criminal activity or because it'll be a real boost to my reputation. It's personal, Jolie. He threatened my family. He tried to destroy them. They put together the evidence necessary to charge him. Now I have to make him pay."
Jolie pushed her empty plate away. He wasn't telling her anything new. From the day last winter when he had gone to Michael Bennett and asked him to help locate Valery Navarre—witness to a Falcone-ordered hit, unwitting pawn in a conspiracy against her cousin Remy, hiding out, afraid and alone—the case had started getting personal for Smith. It had gotten very personal on a January Saturday night when Remy had been shot three times by one of Falcone's flunkies. Smith's degree of involvement had intensified a month later when a second attempt—this one orchestrated by Nick Carlucci—had been made on Remy's life.
Yes, this case was personal for him. It was important.
Important enough to come between them?
She didn't know, and she was afraid to ask, afraid of what answer he might give.
But she would find out soon enough. Unless Nick came forward before the trial, she was going to receive a subpoena from Smith's office. She was going to be sworn under oath and placed on the witness stand, and she was going to be asked to identify the source behind her Falcone series.
And she was going to refuse.
She was going to face Smith, knowing how very important this case was to him, and she was going to refuse to help him.
I wouldn't forgive you for interfering, she'd told him a short time ago, but she hadn't really meant it. She would be angry, of course, if he took the action he had threatened, but part of her would be flattered that he cared enough to worry about her, that he worried enough to risk her anger. Part of her would be touched that her safety was so important to him.
But if she refused to help him put Falcone away, if she understood the importance of this case and still turned her back, if she chose to protect Nick Carlucci over helping Smith…
She doubted he would be very forgiving.
Her voice was unsteady, a little bit scratchy, when she spoke. "You'll have to make him pay without me."
The disappointment in his gaze hurt more than she wanted to acknowledge. "Will it bother you, Jolie, if you refuse to cooperate and he gets off and goes back to business as usual? Will you feel any responsibility to the family of the next person who crosses him and pays for it with his life? Will you feel any regret over the lives he'll continue to destroy with his gambling and drug business?"
"That's not fair, Smith," she whispered stiffly.
"It's very fair."
"I can't help you convict him. All I can give you is the name of my source—but if he doesn't want to talk to you now, what makes you think he'll talk to you in court? If you force him to testify against his will, you have no guarantee at all that he'll tell the truth. He could get up there in front of the jury and be the best character witness Jimmy could ask for. What would that do for your cas
e?"
"But at least you would have done what was right. You would have lived up to your responsibilities. What happened once we got him in court would be a separate issue. He could lie. He could help Jimmy. Or he could single-handedly put Falcone away for the rest of his life."
She shook her head in disagreement.
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because I know him." Nick did what suited. Nick, with no excuses, no explanations, no regrets. She had learned that painful lesson eighteen years ago.
Rising from the chair, she began stacking dishes for a trip into the kitchen. She had set the first load on the counter and was filling the sink with hot sudsy water when Smith carried the rest in. He set them down, then moved to stand behind her, resting his hands gently on her shoulders. It was a simple touch to carry such impact.
"Business isn't always such a pleasure, is it?" he murmured, referring to her earlier remark.
"No, it isn't." She leaned back against him, feeling only comfort as his light touch altered into a full-fledged embrace. "I don't like having to make moral judgments of myself. The reporter in me couldn't live with myself if I gave up a source … but the person in me couldn't live with the knowledge that, even inadvertently, I did something that allowed Jimmy Falcone to go free."
"I'm sorry. I was wrong to push you."
She breathed deeply, inhaling the scents and fragrances that were uniquely his. There was something to be said for the concept of aromatherapy, she thought with a faint smile. These particular aromas certainly had a therapeutic effect on her. They made her feel a little more secure, a little easier, a little more relaxed. They made her feel that, somehow, some way, everything was going to be all right.
They made her feel contented in a soul-deep, satisfying, gratifying sort of way that she hadn't experienced since she was a child.
"Let's leave the dishes to soak and watch one of your movies," he suggested, his voice a whisper in her ear that made her shiver. "I'll help you clean up before I leave."
His idea held a certain appeal. But so did simply standing there in the dimly lit kitchen, warm and comfortable in his embrace, thinking very little and feeling—wanting—a great deal.
With a sigh, she drew away from him, slid the dishes into the water, then dried her hands and followed him into the living room. While they watched his pick of the three movies, they shared the sofa, starting at opposite ends but moving together to eat the champagne-soaked fruit straight from the bowl and staying shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, through the rest of the film. By the time the movie ended, his arm was around her shoulders, she was snuggled close to his side, and her hand rested on his thigh. She was unspeakably comfortable.
Without moving from her position, she used the remote control to stop the videotape, pushed the rewind button, then changed the channel to one featuring music videos. An instrumental was playing, soft, relaxing, a soprano sax backed up by guitar and the sweet melodies of a piano. It was music to relax to. Music to ease your tensions.
Music, she thought with a drowsy smile as he pressed a kiss to her temple, to make out to.
His kisses were sweet, tentative, questing. They stirred a familiar hunger deep inside her and brought to life a need that she had thought forgotten, a desire that she had convinced herself was unwelcome.
She had been a fool.
She moved until she was facing him but still in the circle of his arms. In response he lowered his head to hers, covered her mouth with his. His kiss tasted of arousal, of pleasures promised and satisfaction guaranteed. Of longing and belonging. Of passion and greed.
Oh, yes, greed. She had always been a greedy soul—she had wanted success, recognition, respect, a better life. And now this. She could learn to crave this. She could come to need this—this kiss, this intimacy, this man—to live.
Raising his head, for a moment he simply gazed down at her, drawing her own gaze to him. Something was clearly wrong with the moment, she thought whimsically. Bells should be ringing. Whistles should be blowing. Winged cherubs should be strumming soft harps.
Actually, bells were ringing—at least, the telephone was. Smith stroked his fingers across her lips, still parted, and murmured, "Do you need to answer that?"
She didn't give it a moment's thought. It couldn't possibly be anyone important enough to compete with what she and Smith were doing. "The machine will pick it up. Kiss me like that again."
He willingly obliged, sliding his hands into her hair, dislodging the combs there, taking her mouth in a way that already, after only one time, some part of her hidden deep inside would always recognize. But before he'd gone any further, before his tongue parted her teeth, before he claimed her sweetly, hungrily, thoroughly, the answering machine on the desk in the corner clicked on, and a long-forgotten greeting drifted between them.
"Hey, jolie blonde," Jamey said, the sounds of O'Shea's—a television, conversation, the clinking of glasses—muted in the background. "Just wanted to see if you're going to keep our date. Tonight, same time as usual, same place. If it's a problem, give me a call and we'll reschedule." With another series of clicks, the machine shut off again, and the room grew quiet.
It wasn't a bad message, she thought with regret as Smith put her away from him. Jamey could have come right out and said that Nick Carlucci wanted to meet her at the Serenity Street
park at midnight. But no, he'd been careful. He had left a message that wouldn't arouse suspicion in anyone … except the man who had just stopped kissing her.
Slowly she lifted her gaze from Smith's shirt to his face. There was a little bit of tension in his blue eyes that hadn't been there a moment ago, taut lines at the corners of his mouth that had just appeared. He looked serious. So very serious.
"It's not a date," she said quietly. "It's just a…" She didn't know what to say. A what? A meeting? An appointment? They both smacked entirely too much of business, and Smith knew too well what most of her business these days consisted of: her source in Falcone's organization. But what other word could she possibly substitute? Conference? Engagement? Rendezvous?
It was just business—business that she didn't want anyone but Jamey to know where and when she was conducting it.
"I should have asked before I invited myself over this evening." His voice was as quiet as hers, his manner subdued. "The next time I get pushy, don't hesitate to tell me that you already have plans."
"I don't have other plans—at least, I didn't. I wouldn't even bother going except…" Except Nick wouldn't have had Jamey call if it wasn't important. Except she wanted to see if he had some new information for her. Except she wanted to ask him yet again if he would talk to Smith, if he would help her out of the mess they'd gotten her into.
Not that she expected an affirmative answer from him. Nick was an expert at making messes. When it came to cleaning them up, he was usually long gone.
"You don't owe me an explanation, Jolie." Smith's voice and his attitude put an emotional distance between them, one that he made physical as he rose from the sofa and started toward the kitchen. "If you have time, I'll help you do the dishes. If not—"
"Damn it, would you stop being so reasonable?" she snapped, rising onto her knees to watch him.
He stopped halfway through the dining room and for a moment simply stood there before turning to face her. The tension radiating from him was strong enough to make her stiffen there on the other side of the room. "I thought you liked the idea that the assistant U.S. Attorney was a reasonable man."
"I'm not talking to the assistant U.S. Attorney, and I damned sure wasn't kissing the assistant U.S. Attorney … was I?"
He drew a deep breath, then noisily blew it out. "No," he sighed. "It was just me." Coming back, he brushed his hand over her hair. "'Jolie Blonde.' You know that song?"
She nodded. It was impossible to live long in Louisiana without hearing the traditional Cajun tune about a pretty blonde—especially when your name was Jolie and your hair color was blond.
&nbs
p; "You are a pretty woman."
She caught his hand as he started to withdraw. "Come and sit down. I'll take care of the dishes later."
Turning his hand so that he was holding hers, he pulled her to her feet. "Let's do them now, then I'll go on home and you can get ready for your…" He hesitated, then shrugged. "Non-date." Once she was on her feet, he let go and, in a few long strides, disappeared into the kitchen.
Jolie sighed regretfully. With his request—command?—for tonight's meeting on such short notice, Nick had once again proven a lesson she would never forget: his timing was incredible. Absolutely incredible. She would tell him so when she saw him tonight.
When she was sneaking around with him, hidden in Serenity's shadows.
When she should be safe at home. With Smith. Doing heaven only knows what—something sweet. Something special. Something reckless.
She gave a disgusted shake of her head.
Absolutely, god-awful incredible.
* * *
Monday afternoon found Smith in the middle of a meeting, staring out his office window, hearing the voices behind him but listening to nothing. The impromptu meeting had been going on for more than an hour, since shortly after the secretary, with a disapproving sniff, had delivered an envelope "from that reporter" to his desk. He had been waiting impatiently all morning, not for the delivery, not for the documents inside the envelope, but for a chance, however brief, to see Jolie. He had been disappointed—and still was—that she'd come so close, literally within feet of his desk, and had left without seeing him.
She had chosen to leave without seeing him.
Because of what had happened Saturday night.
Exactly what had happened? he wondered darkly. Who was this man she met often enough for him to tack an "as usual" onto his "same time, same place"? And if it wasn't a date, then exactly what was it, and why had she had such trouble finding a word for it? She was a reporter, for God's sake, with an enviable gift for language. Words were her specialty, her talent.
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