Yet she hadn't been able to find the words to describe the nature of her relationship with Saturday night's caller.
Because it was business? He had considered that possibility, had considered that maybe the mystery man was her source, that the casual reference to a date had been designed to mislead anyone who might hear the message or have a tap on the phone.
He had also considered the possibility that it wasn't business. That whatever was between her and the guy was very personal. After spending the better part of Sunday morning alone at the Café du Monde, he had given that possibility very serious consideration indeed.
It had been a weekend for breaking Wade traditions. First she had invited him to share the cruise she usually took alone … and then she had missed her Sunday morning ritual of beignets and café au lait at the Café du Monde.
And he couldn't help but wonder why.
"I've never seen you so distracted before."
Alexander Marshall's voice, composed of equal parts amusement and concern, penetrated his thoughts. Looking up, he realized that he and his boss were alone in the office. Shawna and the other FBI agent who had accompanied her were gone.
Smith was embarrassed by his obvious preoccupation. His thoughts occasionally wandered in meetings—when he was tired, when the material being covered was all too familiar, when he had other, more pressing business matters on his mind—but in the past few weeks, it was as if his mind had taken a vacation on him. How many times now had he been caught totally oblivious to his surroundings?
"I'm sorry, Alexander. I was thinking."
"About anything connected to this case?"
Smith's mouth formed a thin line. That was their problem: Jolie's connection to this case. If only she covered other kinds of news or he prosecuted other kinds of cases.
If only he knew where she'd gone Saturday night … and with whom … and if she had returned home alone … or if she hadn't gone home at all.
He couldn't remember ever in his life being jealous over a woman, but damned if he wasn't now, so jealous that he could taste it.
"You're wandering again." There was a faint censure in Alexander's voice. "Do you want to talk?"
Smith took a deep breath, then turned his gaze to his boss. He didn't want to go into this, didn't want to discuss his private life with anyone in the office. But since neither he nor Jolie had made any effort at secrecy and since hiding her away was something he would never even consider, their relationship was going to become public knowledge sooner or later. Under the circumstances, it would be to both his advantage and hers if he broke the news to his boss himself. It was the best way to avoid even the appearance of a conflict of interest. "I've been seeing a lot of Jolie Wade lately."
His boss sat motionless for a moment. "What do you mean by seeing? That you're friends outside the office? That you're involved in a personal relationship with her? That you're intimately involved with her?"
Smith didn't answer. He simply returned Alexander's level gaze and let him interpret that however he wanted.
"There are dozens of beautiful, rich young women out there who would be delighted to occupy your free time, gracious young women who are eminently suitable for an assistant in this office, women who were raised to be proper companions to men like you. And who do you choose?" Alexander shook his head. "A feisty, five-foot-nothin', hell-raising, stubborn little blonde who doesn't give a good damn about being rich or gracious or suitable—and one who's involved in your current case, no less. You do know how to pick them."
Smith remained silent.
"Well, hell. Can you honestly say this … involvement hasn't had any bearing on the way you've handled the case or the advice you've given Shawna?"
"Yes." He spoke without reservations, without doubts. "Jolie's cooperating with us as much as she can. I haven't done anything for her that I wouldn't do for any other reporter who was willing to work with us."
"Can you honestly say that it won't affect the way you'll treat her in court?"
"Yes, sir." He could separate the demands of work from his personal life.
But he wasn't so sure Jolie could. Even Saturday evening, after those too-few and too-brief kisses that had tempted and tantalized and ultimately frustrated him, she'd had a few doubts. I damned sure wasn't kissing the assistant US. Attorney … was I? He had wondered then—and again now—if she had been aware of the soft plea in those last two words, if she had known that there was a shadow of hurt in her emerald green eyes. How would she react when he questioned her in court? How would she feel when he asked the judge to send her to jail, to lock her up with the criminals she wrote about? If she couldn't separate the prosecutor from the man in a clinch on her living room sofa, how could she ever manage it in a courtroom or a crowded jail cell?
"Isn't your life difficult enough, Smith? Don't you have enough to do without going out looking for trouble?" Alexander chuckled. "You're one of the smartest people in this office. I'd give up my retirement for another two or three just like you. But, damn, son, couldn't you have been satisfied with some sweet young demure thing who could actually help rather than hinder your career?"
Smith smiled faintly. Isn't life tough enough on its own? he had once asked Jolie. Do you have to go and complicate everything? And she had smiled one of those brilliant smiles that could outshine even the hot July sun and replied, "It keeps things interesting." Interesting. Hell, yes, Jolie was indeed that.
"Demure would bore me to death," he replied dryly. "Feisty, stubborn and hell raising are more to my tastes."
Rising from his seat, Alexander shoved his hands into his pockets. "If you want, when it comes time to put her on the witness stand, I can take over."
It was a tempting offer—to let Alexander be the bad guy, to let him ask her questions that they all knew her principles wouldn't let her answer, to let him tell the judge that they thought she should be locked up—but Smith shook his head. He had an obligation to do his job properly. He couldn't shirk his responsibilities in the courtroom because of his personal relationships outside.
And he couldn't shake the feeling that somehow Jolie would think less of him if he did.
"Well, keep it in mind." At the door, Alexander paused and turned back. "It would have come out sooner or later anyway, but … thanks for telling me. I appreciate the courtesy."
Alexander closed the door behind him, leaving Smith alone in the silence of his office. He tried for a moment to turn his attention to work, but when that failed, not surprisingly, he reached for the phone instead. It took only a moment to look up the number for the newspaper in the directory, only a moment longer to dial and a moment longer than that for the cheerful young woman who answered to tell him that Jolie was out.
Out? he wondered moodily after hanging up without leaving a message. Or not taking calls? Maybe avoiding him as she'd avoided him earlier this afternoon?
Repeated calls through the afternoon earned the same response. A call to her house got him the answering machine, where he left his only message, short and simple. "Jolie, it's Smith. Call me, will you?"
At six o'clock, he stuffed his briefcase full of files and was heading for the door when the phone rang. Wishing it would be Jolie, expecting it to be anyone but her, he returned to his desk and picked it up only to have his expectations met.
"Hey, Smith," Remy greeted him. "Do you have plans for dinner tonight?"
"No." Only hopes, he thought with a grim sigh.
"Why don't you meet us at Ralph and Kacoo's—Michael and Valery, Susannah and me?"
"I don't know. I have work—"
Remy interrupted. "Come on, the workday is over. We haven't seen much of you lately. Leave your briefcase in the office, take a break, come and have dinner. You can even bring Wade along if you want."
Smith gave it a long moment's thought. He liked the restaurant, he had to eat dinner, and he could certainly use the company. And Remy was right; they hadn't seen much of each other recently. It was only natural, h
e supposed, considering that Michael and Valery had been married only four months, Remy and Susannah less than that. They needed time to adjust to the changes marriage had brought to their lives, and he certainly didn't mind giving them that time and space. But he didn't want so much time and space between them that their friendship suffered. Married or not, Michael and Remy were still his best friends. They were still his family.
"All right," he finally agreed. "What time?"
"We're meeting there at six-thirty."
"I'll see you there. If I'm late, go ahead and get a table." After saying goodbye, he glanced at his watch, then left the office. He had less than half an hour to go home, change, drive to the Quarter, find a parking space and walk to the restaurant. Less than half an hour to try once again—maybe twice again—to reach Jolie, to try yet again to put her and this jealousy that nagged at him out of his mind. Less than half an hour to straighten up and search for a better mood that might fool his friends.
No doubt he would be late.
* * *
Watching fish was supposed to be relaxing, to relieve stress and ease tension and generally make you a mellower person. Jolie had read that somewhere, but after spending some time gazing at the brightly colored fish in the large aquarium that separated the restaurant lobby from the bar, she couldn't honestly say she felt any mellower. In fact, she didn't feel much of anything at all except edgy. Tired. In need of a vacation.
She wished she could leave the fish to their lazy swim, go home and go to bed with the covers pulled over her head. But she had spent the better part of the past two days at home, using her answering machine to screen her calls, huddled on the sofa with the newest packet of information from Nick scattered all around her, and it hadn't made things any better.
Their meeting Saturday night hadn't been particularly productive. She had asked him to talk to Smith, and he had refused to even consider it. He wasn't interested, he was doing things his way, end of discussion. Typical Nick.
But, if his self-centered stubbornness was typical, his mood hadn't been. It had been different—darker, more reckless, more dangerous. When she had paused Sunday morning on her way out for beignets and coffee to thumb through the documents, she had found a reason for the impression of danger. She had sat down on the sofa, had gone through everything carefully—had listened to the tapes, had studied the photographs, had read the constructed-from-memory transcripts of phone calls and other conversations. She hadn't finished until late Sunday evening, and she had gone over it all again today.
Her thorough scrutiny of the evidence had left her with nothing but questions. Had Nick simply gotten careless with the documents he'd given her this time, or were his actions deliberately reckless? Was he really looking for justice, as he claimed? Revenge, as Smith suspected? Or penance, as she was beginning to believe? Was he really trying to bring an end to Jimmy Falcone's reign as the undisputed boss of organized crime in southern Louisiana? Or was he trying to bring an end to something else, such as his own ten years of criminal activity?
Such as his own life?
Behind her the door opened, letting the muggy evening air drift in, but she didn't bother looking over her shoulder. It was only six forty-five. Cassie was already fifteen minutes late for their dinner date. If she lived up to her reputation, she would be at least another fifteen minutes late.
Another fifteen minutes to brood over Nick. And Smith. And the decision facing her.
Back in college, when she was a young, idealistic journalism student, she had vowed she would be among the noblest of the noble. She would never betray a source, not even if it meant going to jail for months on end. Not even if it meant disappointing someone whose opinion had too quickly come to mean too much to her. Not for any reason.
But back in college, she had never imagined the situation she now found herself in. She had never dreamed that she might one day find herself about to have an affair with the attorney prosecuting the man she was writing about. She had never dreamed that she would be so disturbingly close to falling in love with a man whose goals, personally and professionally, were so at odds with her own. She had never dreamed that Nick Carlucci might come back into her life, as arrogant and selfish as ever, but with one major difference: his drive to succeed replaced by something more dangerous, more morbid, more threatening.
And it had been. While Nick might not be actively trying to destroy himself—he wasn't drinking himself into an early grave, wasn't playing Russian roulette with a loaded pistol or contemplating stepping in front of a speeding train—he was actively taking steps to make his own death not only possible, but damn near probable.
And he wanted to use her to do it.
"Do you think they know that, while they live a life of leisure here in this tank, back in the kitchen their distant cousins are being broiled, steamed and fried by the thousands so that we can enjoy them for dinner?"
Smith's voice startled her, then filled her with a rush of pleasure that chased away all thought of Nick. She looked from the fish in the aquarium to him, then guiltily back again. "Do you think they care?" she responded. "They're beautiful, pampered, fed daily and kept safe from predators. What's happening to the less fortunate redfish, catfish and crawfish doesn't matter to them at all." After a moment she glanced at him again. "What are you doing here?"
"I'm meeting Michael and Remy."
"Guys' night out?"
"No, their wives are with them. They've already been seated. I'm late."
"I thought you were never late."
"I had to make a couple of phone calls before I came." Phone calls to her? she wondered when he hesitated. Then he went on. "If you're alone, you're welcome to join us."
She would like that—spending time with Smith and his friends. Feeling for an evening that she was a part of his close-knit family. Putting aside work and worries and simply having a good time. It frightened her just how much she would like that. "Thanks, but I'm waiting for Cassie."
He moved to stand beside her, his attention focused, like hers, on the fish. "I called the paper a half-dozen times today."
"I was working at home."
"I called there, too."
She'd heard his message, brief and to the point. Jolie, it's Smith. Call me, will you? By the time she'd gathered up the papers on her lap and scattered around the sofa cushions, by the time she'd managed to step over a pile of cassette tapes and untangle herself from the extension cord running to the nearest outlet, the tape had stopped and he had already hung up. It was just as well. She hadn't really wanted to talk to anyone right then.
She wasn't sure she was ready now.
"I was working," she repeated, her gaze fixed on a large fish whose colors were so vivid that they were almost surreal.
Abruptly he turned to face her. Although she could see him peripherally, she continued to watch the fish. "Jolie, I don't like the way things are between us right now. I feel as if you're pushing me away, and I don't know why." He paused briefly, but when she showed no inclination to speak. He went on. "Does it have something to do with the man you met Saturday night? Are you involved with him?"
She settled for a version of the truth, the one that she thought he would probably prefer. "I'm not seeing anyone else, Smith." Continuing, she forced an uneasy little smile that the glass and water of the aquarium reflected back at her. "I haven't gone out with another man, or gone to bed with another man, or even kissed another man, in a very long time. In fact, until you came along, male companionship has been noticeably missing the better part of my life."
He didn't look reassured by her answer. If possible, his blue eyes had grown even more sober. "Then what's wrong?"
She wanted to confide in him, she realized with a slight jolt of surprise. Even if she had to confine herself to generalities, even if she had to be overly careful to say nothing that might lead him to Nick's identity, she wanted to share her suspicions with him. She wanted to show him the evidence Nick had given her this time, wanted to voic
e her fears, wanted to hear his opinion. She wanted his advice. She wanted the benefit of that reasonable nature of his.
Jolie Wade—who rarely confided in anyone, who often didn't care for even her editor's opinion and who never asked for advice—wanted to disclose everything to Smith and ask for his guidance. It was a miracle, she thought self-mockingly, how things could change.
But a restaurant lobby was hardly the place for unburdening herself, and this evening wasn't the time, not with his friends waiting for him and Cassie walking in the front door at that moment.
"Can we talk later?" she asked softly.
He glanced from her to Cassie, giving her sister a smile and a distracted greeting, then looked down at Jolie again. "You know where to find me." With a nod to them both, he walked away, disappearing into the rear dining room.
Cassie waited until they were seated underneath a fantastic display of Mardi Gras finery to comment. "Trouble in paradise?"
Jolie dredged up another smile. "Honey, there is always trouble in the adult world. Take my advice. Stay seventeen forever."
"Time moves on regardless of what we want. August fifteenth is going to be here in three more weeks no matter what."
"I remember the day you were born," Jolie murmured. "It was hot and humid, and a storm was forming on the horizon."
Cassie's laugh was as cool and quiet as that day had been sultry and loud. "You've just described the majority of my birthdays. The day I made my entry into the world wasn't remarkable."
"No, at least, not in that aspect." But it had seemed pretty damned remarkable to Jolie. What would Smith, dining in the next room with his friends, think lf he knew that? Probably that he had a chance, after all, to change her mind about having kids of her own—kids of their own.
But if Smith, dining there in the next room with his perfectly suited, disgustingly happy newlywed friends, knew all there was to know about Jolie, there would be a change of minds, all right. He would change his mind about wanting her.
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