A MAN LIKE SMITH

by Marilyn Pappano

  And right now, she very much wanted him to want her.

  Even if it was wrong.

  Even if it was only temporary.

  Even if it led only to heartache.

  "So what's the problem with Smith?"

  Jolie's gaze drifted to the broad doors connecting the dining rooms. She couldn't see him or his friends, but she could envision them. The men's conversation would eventually come around to work; it always did. Remy or Michael would ask about the Falcone case, and Smith would tell them whatever he could. She wondered if he ever told them anything about her and, if he did, what he said and how he said it. She wondered if he called her Jolie, as Michael did, or Wade, as Remy did, or that damned reporter, as some of the others on their side of the law did. She wondered if he complained about her in that derisive way he spoke of people who interfered in his pursuit of justice.

  She wondered if he had acknowledged his relationship with her to them.

  Selecting a hush puppy from the bowl in the center of the table, she flippantly replied, "Smith doesn't have any problems. They're all mine."

  "Have you gone out with him?"

  "A time or two."

  "Have you gone to bed with him?"

  Jolie stopped in the act of spreading butter across the fried cornmeal to direct her startled gaze at her sister. "I don't believe that's any of your business."

  "No one thinks twice about asking me if I'm sleeping with Trevor."

  "I haven't asked you that. But…" Jolie grinned. "As long as you brought it up…"

  Cassie's responding smile was serene and told her nothing. "Do you remember Mama's introduction to sex education? 'Sex is a wonderful experience when shared by…'"

  "'A woman and her husband,'" Jolie finished. "She gave all of us that little speech. I can still remember how surprised I was when I discovered that it's pretty damn wonderful whether you're married or not. Then, of course, there's Daddy's guidelines for having sex." With a laugh, they spoke simultaneously. "'Don't.'"

  "Naturally, that was just for the girls. He told the boys, 'Do it, but be careful.' Excellent advice from the father of thirteen." Cassie's expression grew serious. "How old were you the first time?"

  Melancholy swept over Jolie, and she sighed heavily. "Not old enough."

  "Did you love him?"

  "As much as one foolish child can love another."

  "Did you regret it?"

  Did she have regrets? Without knowing or caring, Nick had changed her life in ways both good and bad. He had taught her lessons no teenage girl should ever have to learn. He had set her on the path that had brought her to where she was today. She didn't regret the loving—could never regret that—but the losing…

  Oh, yes, she regretted what she had lost.

  She had a heart full of regrets.

  And she didn't want Smith—either loving him or losing him—to become another.

  "Sometimes," she answered at last. "In some ways."

  "Overall, we Wade women have good taste in men," Cassie remarked. "Seven marriages—eight counting Mama and Daddy—and not a divorce in the bunch. I think you and I have made good choices, too. In spite of his appearance and the family's prejudice against him, Trevor has some admirable qualities, and Smith … he's strong in ways that you aren't. He provides balance for you. He'll make a good husband for you."

  Such a comment spoke by a seventeen-year-old girl who hardly knew the man in question shouldn't make Jolie's heart hurt, but it did. It took all her strength to hide it, to inject a careless note into her voice. "A husband?" she asked dryly. "Aren't you getting ahead of yourself there? We've only gone out a couple of times. Why, we haven't even—"

  Cassie smiled that slow, serene smile again. "I didn't think so. But that's all right. Neither have Trevor and I. We're waiting." Then she shrugged, setting her long, dark hair ashimmer. "Of course, we're just a couple of kids. You and Smith, on the other hand … you're not getting any younger. What are you waiting for?"

  "Similar ambitions would be nice," Jolie replied, thinking of Smith's desire for a family and her own hunger for success. "Similar backgrounds would be a plus. Jobs that didn't put us at cross-purposes would be wonderful."

  "Is he still threatening to have you locked up if you don't come clean?" Although Cassie's expression was sober, there was an unmistakable hint of amusement underlying her voice.

  "Not at the moment. But the trial starts next week. It's coming."

  This time Cassie made no effort to hide her humor. "I'll come and visit you at the jail every week. I'll even bring you a piece of my birthday cake." Abruptly she became more serious than ever. "Daddy says the man you're protecting is scum. He talks as if he knows him."

  Jolie raised her gaze to one of the costumes on the wall. Hung with its flowing cape, the dress was long, satiny, beaded, sequined and feathered in brilliant, vibrant colors. Paired with the matching headdress, it was flashy, flamboyant, outrageous—a perfect match for Carnival in the French Quarter.

  Of all the people she didn't want to discuss Nick with—even more than the FBI, the US. Attorney's office and Falcone's people—Cassie headed the list. By the time she was born, he had been long gone from Serenity and mentioning his name in the Wade house had been strictly forbidden. It was a fair bet that most of the family had forgotten his existence.

  Except Jolie.

  And her parents.

  They could never forget.

  "Does Daddy know this guy?"

  Jolie sighed heavily. "Sort of."

  "Is he worth going to jail for?"

  She didn't need to consider her answer. "No."

  "Is he worth jeopardizing your relationship with Smith?"

  "It's not really about him, Cassie. It's about my job and ethics and keeping promises. Journalists have to be free to report the news. They have to be able to provide some measure of protection to their confidential sources or those sources won't come forward."

  "Information that comes from sources who hide behind the shield of confidentiality isn't news, Jolie. It's rumor. Gossip."

  "Not when it's supported by documentation."

  With a careless shrug, Cassie brushed her off. Right now she wasn't really interested in a debate on ethics, Jolie knew. There were more important questions on her mind, and she asked one of them next. "How does Daddy know someone who worked for Jimmy Falcone?"

  Jolie understood her curiosity. Patrick Wade was a hardworking, God-fearing man. For years he'd held two jobs to support his family, to give them the best he could. He didn't gamble, didn't run around, didn't drink more than an occasional beer or utter more than an occasional profanity. After nearly thirty-eight years of marriage, he still loved his wife more than anything in the world. He still showed respect to his elders and still had the same two best friends that he'd had in first grade. He provided guidance to his children, adored his grandchildren and attended church faithfully. How, indeed, had he come to know the kind of person who would make his career with Falcone? How had he become acquainted with someone so immoral, so dishonorable, so corrupt?

  That was the problem with the mistakes Jolie had made in her lifetime. She didn't make the kind of typical little screwups that everyone else made. Her mistakes were big ones, ones that affected not only her but the people around her. Eighteen years after Nick had walked away from her, he was still affecting her life, and her mother's and her father's and, now, even Cassie's.

  "He was from the old neighborhood," she replied at last. It was true, as far as it went. It just didn't go far enough. There had been plenty of disreputable people in the old neighborhood—poverty had a way of increasing their numbers—but her father had kept his distance from most of them, and he had urged his family to keep their distance, too.

  But Jolie hadn't been able to stay away from Nick. Friendship had turned into a crush, a teenage romance into a two-year affair that had ended in heartache, depression, sorrow and major changes.

  That was how her law-abiding father had come to k
now someone who worked for Jimmy Falcone.

  That was also how her father had come to…

  A small crowd of diners leaving the back room caught her attention and sent her thought trailing off, forgotten. She wanted to drop her gaze, wanted to pretend that she didn't see them, that she was too focused on Cassie to notice the Bennetts, the Sinclairs and Smith. But all she could do was look.

  He was bringing up the rear, and he saw her almost immediately. He smiled, but there was something so serious about it, something almost melancholy. For a moment, she thought he was going to separate from the others and approach her—his steps slowed, and he looked as if there were something he wanted to say—but as the others went through the next doors into the main dining room, Michael turned back and spoke to him. With one last, faintly regretful look, Smith turned away and caught up with them, taking two steps out of sight.

  Jolie felt more alone than she ever had in her life.

  Cassie settled back in her chair, the fringe on her black dress swaying with the movement, and folded her hands together, resting them on the edge of the tabletop. "You never did give a really suitable answer to one of my earlier questions," she remarked softly.

  Jolie sighed wearily. No more talk about Nick, their father or Jimmy Falcone, she silently vowed. She wasn't in the mood.

  But none of them was on her sister's mind at the moment.

  "Explain it to me, would you?" Cassie asked, her tone so reasonable, her gaze so knowing. "Exactly what are you and Smith waiting for?"

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  « ^ »

  Smith sat on the textured floor of the patio, his back against the glass door, his arms resting on his knees, and stared at the darkness across the river. He still wore the suit he'd worn to work that morning, though the jacket was tossed across the sofa inside, his tie dangled from a table and his cuff links had been dropped into one of Lily Andrews's ugliest and most useless contributions to his home, a free-form ashtray for a man who didn't smoke and didn't have any friends who smoked.

  He had unfastened the top few buttons of his shirt, had rolled the sleeves to his elbows, but he was still uncomfortable. The fine fabric, soaking in moisture from the muggy air, clung to his skin. The temperature was typical for a summer evening—hot—but the humidity was higher than normal tonight, the air heavy and thick. Black clouds gathered overhead blocked the moon and the stars and seemed to absorb the light that filtered up from the city, allowing nothing to bounce back down. It was as if a black hole had opened up above downtown New Orleans, stealing its energy and recycling it into brilliant lightning that occasionally flashed in the night.

  He should have skipped dinner tonight. If he had known that he was going to run into Jolie, if he had known what the major topic of conversation among his friends would be, he would have refused Remy's invitation and come on home. His mood had been bad enough before he'd gone to the restaurant. He hadn't needed five of the people he cared most about to make it worse.

  Jolie and babies.

  There had been a purpose behind the last-minute get-together: twin announcements, although neither couple had known about the other's beforehand. Valery and Susannah were pregnant, Valery about six weeks so, Susannah twice that long. Michael and Remy were going to be fathers.

  It wasn't fair, Smith thought with a scowl. In less than a year, both of his best friends had fallen in love and gotten married; in less than another year, they would each have a son or daughter.

  And he was still alone.

  He was happy for his friends, truly, he was. Even though neither couples had been married long, he fully understood why they had wanted to start their families as soon as possible. Michael and Remy were his own age—thirty-seven. Michael had been through a divorce, and Remy had indulged in a number of insignificant relationships before meeting Susannah. They had both undergone major traumas in the past year or so. Michael had gotten shot, and Evan had died saving him. The resulting grief and guilt had sent Michael on a drinking binge that would have destroyed him, if he hadn't pulled out of it, as surely as a bullet to the head. Remy had survived his own shooting and a second attempt on his life, and both he and Michael had seen the women they loved threatened by Falcone.

  After a tough sixteen months, they were both healthy, happy, alive and in love. They were facing futures brighter than any they had hoped for. Having children was only natural.

  It was exactly what he would do if he was in their place.

  But, thanks to Jolie, he wasn't in their place. He might never be.

  The wind picked up a little, ruffling his hair, cooling the perspiration that dampened his skin. It was the only movement in a curiously still night. Everything seemed subdued, stifled. Sound was muted by the sheer weight of the air; scents were unable to penetrate the dense moisture-laden particles. If he was any judge of Louisiana weather—and, after sixteen years, he thought he knew his adopted home state's quirks fairly well—they were in for one hell of a storm tonight. The thunder would rumble, the lightning would crack, and the heavens would open up. Parts of the low-lying city would flood, the power would go out, and for a time, life in the Crescent City would be difficult and harsh.

  Then the storm would pass and the floodwater would drain off. Closed streets would reopen, power would be restored, and the people would take stock, repair damage, deal with losses and go on with their lives. Louisianans were admirable that way—strong-willed, self-sufficient, independent.

  There was no denying that Jolie Wade was a Louisianan through and through.

  In the darkened room behind him, the doorbell sounded, a harmonious chime, soft and subtle, that reached into every room. He considered not answering. He was tired, bad company. It was late. He wanted to sit out here in the heat, alone and gloomy, and commiserate with the weather.

  But it was late. People rarely dropped in on him without calling ahead, particularly after eight o'clock or so. It could be important. It could be an emergency.

  Or, he discovered when he crossed the room and opened the door, it could be Jolie.

  Shifting uncomfortably, she looked past him into the apartment. The only light came from a small Art Deco lamp down the hall; the housekeeper turned it on when she left so he wouldn't come home to a dark, empty place.

  As if a lighted, empty place was much better.

  "Am I disturbing you?"

  He smiled thinly as he leaned against the door. "Only for the past six months or so."

  She looked puzzled, but he didn't offer an explanation. He didn't tell her that he could pin down almost to the minute when his awareness of her had changed from politely professional to purely personal. It had been in January, a sunny cold day, and she had walked into his office unannounced to take him to a meeting at the shabby motel where Michael and Valery had gone into hiding from Falcone's thugs. She had driven—as Cassie so eloquently described it—like a bat out of hell, weaving in and out of traffic, paying more attention to her rearview mirrors, watching for a tail, than to the road ahead. She had been bright and alert, excited by the story she was uncovering, and so sublimely self-confident, and he had found himself thinking as they sped along Interstate 10 that this woman was exactly what he needed in his life.

  This brash, bold, aggressive woman who, frankly, scared the hell out of him.

  There wasn't anything brash or bold or aggressive about her now, but she was still, now more than ever, exactly what he needed.

  And she still scared him.

  "I—I'm sorry. I would have called, but your number's unlisted."

  "Hell, Jolie, you could have talked it out of anyone who knows me."

  Her discomfort increased, showing in the shadows that darkened her eyes, and she took a backward step toward the elevator. "Maybe I should call you at the office tomorrow—"

  "Please don't go." His plea was little more than a whisper, but it was enough to stop her retreat. The smile he managed to summon was shaky. "It's been a tough couple of days. I was just s
itting out on the patio waiting for the storm to break and wash everything away."

  Her own smile was crooked. "I used to do that when I was a kid."

  "Did it work?"

  She shrugged. "Everything looks brighter when it's wet and clean."

  Releasing his grip on the door, he stepped back and waited for her to enter before closing it again. She walked to where the black tile of the hallway gave way to the high-gloss gray gleam of the living room and stopped. "Want a drink?" he offered. He didn't drink often and doubted that she did, either, but this night—this mood—seemed to call for something strong, with a bite.

  "No, thanks. Could we go out on the patio again?"

  He gestured for her to lead the way, and she did, stopping only briefly to lay her purse on the table where his tie had fallen. Outside, she walked to the rail, then turned into the wind that was picking up, kicking up dust and bits of stray leaves and blossoms from the potted geraniums. It moved her hair, too, lifting it from her neck, blowing it back and around, whipping her bangs first to one side, then the other.

  He stayed near the door and watched her.

  "You said it had been a tough couple of days," she said at last. "Problems at work?"

  "No more than usual." He waited for her to glance his way before he went on. "I told Alexander that I've been seeing you."

  It was difficult to read the emotion that accompanied the slight widening of her eyes. Was it surprise or dismay? Likely the latter. They hadn't discussed whether they would try for some semblance of privacy in their relationship, although, considering what they each did for a living, they probably should have. But he wasn't going to lie, wasn't going to sneak around, wasn't going to act as if his association with her were something to be ashamed of.

  "Was that what made the day tough?"

  "No. Alexander doesn't care … as long as I can still be ruthless with you in court."

  She smiled faintly. "Any chance I'll be out of jail in time for Cassie's birthday the fifteenth of August?"

  "I doubt it. You may not get out in time to sail to the Caribbean with me this winter."