"That depends."
"The day we took the riverboat cruise, we talked about having kids, and you said, 'I can't even consider it.' Do you remember?"
She simply shrugged, although, of course, she did.
"Is this a conscious choice that you've made or … is there something physical?"
"It's a choice," she said flatly. She had to clamp her jaw shut to keep from going on, to stop herself from adding, But not my choice. None of the important choices had ever been hers.
"So … if it's a deliberate choice, then it can be changed."
Instinct warned her not to even consider the question within his statement, and she always trusted her instincts. But instead of turning away from the subject, instead of making clear to Smith once and for all that she couldn't be budged on the issue, instead of doing something seductive and bold to make him forget it, she found herself wondering about it.
Could she change her mind? After living her entire adult life utterly convinced that she shouldn't have children, that there wasn't any mothering left in her, could she suddenly decide that it was all right, after all? That there was room in her life not only for kids but for their father, too? That she was entitled to the sort of normal life that all her sisters were living? That she could make her career not her first priority, not her second but somewhere down there around number three or even lower?
Could she live with the guilt?
She was well acquainted with guilt. Nick had put her on a first-name basis with it the summer she was fifteen, and her parents and Father Francis had added to it over the next three years. Her parents were entitled—after all, they loved her no matter how badly she had disappointed them and were concerned for her—but the priest … he was a sanctimonious old man who'd had no intention of ever letting her forget her sins. Was it any wonder that she avoided church now as religiously as her parents attended?
Could she bear the guilt? It would mean new lies and new secrets. It would mean being haunted once more by old memories that had taken years of struggle to lay to rest. But she could live with it. She'd lived with guilt of some sort and of some degree for twenty years. This would simply be a different sort and a different degree.
All that aside, there was one very basic question she hadn't asked herself, one question she had never dared ask for fear the answer, no matter how deeply buried, would find its way out. Did she want a baby? Not would she have one or could she have one, but did she want one?
The answer was inside her, wrapped in layers of hurt and sorrow, anguish and guilt. It was a little word, a tiny word with the power to break her heart if she never allowed it to escape. It was only three letters, a short little glide of three sounds, but she had never let herself say it. She had never let herself even think it.
Yes.
Until now.
Yes. She wanted a baby. She wanted to know what it was like to hold her own child in her arms. She wanted to nurture him, to protect him, to be there for him when he needed assurance or comfort or just a little love. She wanted to be able to claim that child at age five, age ten and age twenty, to be able to point him out and say this is my son. She wanted all the experiences—all the joys, all the tribulations, all the heartaches—of being a mother.
God help her.
God forgive her.
"I guess ignoring me is your way of saying you don't want to have this conversation." Smith pressed a kiss to her forehead. "All right. It's dropped."
For now. He didn't say it, but he might as well have. The thought hung between them.
"At the restaurant you asked if we could talk later. Is this a good time for whatever you wanted to discuss?"
Jolie held back a bleak sigh. After babies, Nick was the last thing she wanted to talk about tonight. She knew him too intimately. She didn't want him intruding any more than he already had on this new intimacy with Smith.
However, without Nick, his evidence and her articles, Smith wouldn't have gone to her house that sultry Friday evening a few weeks ago. He wouldn't have talked her into a relationship, and she wouldn't have come here tonight. She wouldn't be lying here in his arms tonight. She owed Nick something for that.
But tomorrow would be soon enough to think about repaying him.
Swallowing the lump in her throat, blinking back the moisture that thinking about a baby all her own had brought, she moved, twisting in Smith's arms until she was facing him. "I don't want to talk at all," she announced, her voice consciously provocative.
In the dim light she could see his responding smile, could hear it in his response. "What do you want to do?"
Laying one hand on his chest, she pushed until he was lying on his back and she was leaning over him, their bodies in close contact. "I want to see you." She pushed the covers back, exposing them both. The longer the power stayed out and the air-conditioning remained off, the warmer the room would get and the heavier with moisture the air would become. But that was all right. Even if the room temperature registered somewhere below frigid, what they were about to do would leave them sweaty and hot … and that was a damned sexy way to be.
"I want to touch you." She did so, gliding her fingertips over his chest, paying particular attention to his nipples, flat one second, pebbly hard the next. "And I want to kiss you." Rising to her knees, she bent over him, leaving a trail of kisses from his jaw down his throat, wicked, wet kisses that made him suck in his breath and caused the muscles in his belly to contract beneath her fingers. When her kisses moved lower, he groaned, and when they went even lower, became hotter, more intimate, he swore aloud. He was ready for her, she thought with a private smile. With so little coaxing, so little touching, so little playing, he was harder, hotter, needier, than ever before
When he reached for her, ending her kisses, she let him, and when he lifted her over his hips, she settled into place, wrapping her fingers around him, guiding him inside her, sinking down until she had taken all he offered.
She sat still, her body adjusting to the intrusion of his. It was a powerful feeling, knowing that she had created such arousal in him, knowing that she could satisfy it and leave him weak … but no weaker than he left her. Such power that they shared. Such passion. Such need.
"What are we aiming for this time?" he asked teasingly, reaching up to stroke her breasts, stiffening as she finally moved against him. "Wicked and wild? Or slow and easy?"
Supporting her weight on her palms, she leaned forward and kissed him, sliding her tongue inside his mouth, tasting and testing him as she shifted back and forth, slow, lazy strokes, her hips rocking against his. Wicked and wild had its fine points—there was no denying that. Heated passion, pleasure so sweet and fast, a whirlwind of need feeding, devouring, consuming, then releasing them.
But slow and easy had its finer points, too—intensifying the arousal one achingly sweet degree at a time. Time to caress. Time to savor lazy, hot kisses. Time to absorb the myriad sensations—the feel of him, long, thick and hard, inside her. The intensity of the heat deep in her belly where she sheltered him. The tickle of his fingers where he stroked her. The sharp bite of his teeth on her nipple, shooting tiny jolts of erotic pain straight through to her core. The rough texture of his tongue and the strong sucking of his mouth as he eased the pain and made her throb for more.
Yes, wicked and wild was wonderful, but this time she wanted it…
Breaking off the thought, she claimed his mouth for a breath-stealing kiss before finally answering his question in a murmur of sound that passed from her mouth into his.
"Slow," she whispered. "And easy."
* * *
Tuesday morning was sunny and hot and promised to deliver even more of both as the day wore on. Smith stood on the patio, a cold soda making his hand damp, and gazed down at the city below. From eighteen stories up, it was impossible to see signs of damage from last night's storm, although according to the morning news, there had been flooding, trees uprooted and power lines blown down. From up here everything looked
fine. Normal. Life as usual.
Power had been restored to the condo sometime in the night. He had awakened about four o'clock, according to his wristwatch, to find the hall lamp on again, the alarm clock flashing and Jolie snuggled practically underneath him as she sought relief from the air-conditioning. He had ignored the lamp, reset the clock and retrieved the comforter from the floor where it had fallen before going to sleep again. He had slept holding her close and had awakened the same way when the alarm went off at six.
Life as usual.
Not after last night.
Not without Jolie a permanent part of it.
How could he have fallen in love with a woman so totally unsuited to him? She wanted to leave New Orleans, and he intended to live the rest of his life here. She didn't want kids, didn't want marriage, and he wanted both so damned badly that it hurt. She wanted to take every risk her career offered, and he wanted to keep her safe. She was stubborn, difficult and so damned determined, and so was he.
All she wanted was her career, and all he wanted was her. A home with her. A future with her. A family with her.
Behind him the patio door slid open, and she stepped outside. She had been asleep when he'd gotten up to take a shower. By the time he'd finished, she was awake and awaiting her turn in the bathroom. They'd done little more than exchange a brief greeting before he turned the room over to her, got dressed and came out here. How would she feel? he wondered. Mornings after could be awkward, especially the first one. Would she be shy? Regretful?
Or would she be unaffected by what had passed between them last night?
He could deal with anything—reticence, embarrassment, anger, remorse. He could handle any emotion from her except no emotion at all.
She joined him at the railing, her face scrubbed clean of makeup, her hair wet and combed back from her forehead. Her clothes were rumpled, a little the worse for having spent the night on his bedroom floor.
Damn, she was beautiful.
"Good morning," he greeted her.
"Morning." Leaning over the rail, she gazed down at the street below. "From up here, you can't see any sign of the storm last night."
"What storm? I thought that was just you and me heating up the night and making the earth move."
She tilted her head back and gave him a long, level look; then abruptly sobriety gave way to a sweet, oh-so-smug and confident grin and an okay morning became good. Hell, it was better than good. It was damn near the best morning of his life.
"You're pretty damn good, you know it?" she remarked.
"You're not bad yourself, lady." He reached for her, and she came willingly into his arms. "You think you might be interested in doing it again?"
"I think I might." The teasing note faded from her voice to be replaced by regret. "We need to talk, Smith."
A chill chased away the warmth created by her body against his. Struggling to keep the accompanying tension out of his voice, he offered a soft warning. "If this is where you tell me that last night didn't mean anything, that it was only about sex, I don't want to hear it."
She didn't look up at him. Instead, her gaze stayed locked on his tie. "Last night was about a lot of things, the least of which was sex."
"I don't want to hear that it can't happen again, either."
"We both know it will."
He gently forced her head up so he could see her face. She let him, but her eyes were still downcast. "And I don't want to hear that you're sorry."
At that she finally met his gaze, and she smiled just a little. "No. I'm not sorry."
Satisfied, he slid his arms around her again. "Then I suppose it's business. Do you want to talk over breakfast? Since it is business, it'll be my treat." He tried to coax a brighter smile out of her. "It's not often the U.S. Attorney's office is willing to buy a reporter a meal."
She rewarded him with precisely the smile he'd wanted. "Are you kidding? Your people are just itching to provide me with not only three squares a day but also a jail cell to eat them in." She glanced around, then gestured toward the glass doors. "We can talk inside, all right? It won't take long. Then I need to go home and get ready for work."
Agreeing, he released her, then followed her into the living room. She chose a seat at one end of the sofa and sat for a moment studying the sculpture across from her before she finally spoke. "The man I met Saturday night? That was my source. He gave me some new information."
Smith sat down on a low table, a steel and granite piece strong enough to hold far more than one ugly ashtray, one discarded tie and one oversize handbag. It was solid and hard, the stone cold. "When will this stuff show up in the paper?"
"I'm not sure it will." She looked troubled, as if she would rather not be having this conversation—and definitely not with him. He understood that. No matter what had happened between them last night, no matter what happened in the future, this was always going to be a separate part of their lives. There was always going to be a time when he was, if not her enemy, well, not her friend, either. Their professional relationship would always have to contain a certain amount of distance. There would always be a certain adversarial flavor to it.
Which meant that whatever was troubling her was serious indeed if she would bring it to him for advice.
"Is there a problem with his evidence this time?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Do you think it's manufactured?"
She shook her head.
"Then what is it, Jolie?"
She started to speak, stopped, then with a heavy sigh, tried again. "I think he's trying to make it easy for Falcone to figure out who he is."
Her words hung between them, tentative and uncertain—not because she didn't believe them but because she didn't want to believe them. Because she didn't want to think what Smith was starting to think. After a still moment, though, she put the thought, however reluctant, however repugnant, into words.
"I think … I think he's trying to get himself killed."
* * *
Chapter 9
« ^ »
"What makes her think so?"
Two hours had passed since Smith's conversation with Jolie in his living room. She had left after giving him a hug that could only be described as clinging in all the best usages of the word. It had been as much a boost to his ego as the fact that she had confided in him about her source. He would bet Jolie Wade had never clung to any man—not ever.
It was a sure thing that she'd never confided in a prosecutor.
Now he was standing next to a bench that overlooked the Mississippi River. Jackson Square
was behind him, Algiers Point across the wide expanse of water. Much closer in either direction were Remy, sitting on the bench, absently rubbing his thigh where the gunshot wound had healed, and Michael, at the edge of the boardwalk, his attention on the ferry making its way from Algiers to the landing at the foot of Canal Street. It was Michael who had spoken.
"Everything he's given her so far has been more or less common knowledge within Falcone's organization," Smith said. "It could have come from any of a number of people—his employees, his bodyguards, his women, his house staff or even his gardening staff. A lot of it wouldn't even have to come from someone inside. Some hotshot electronics whiz could have bugged his house and tapped his phones. A computer hacker could have gained access to his records. The photographs could have been taken from a distance with a very long telephoto lens."
"We've been studying everything, trying to narrow it down," Remy spoke up. "We've ruled out a few people who weren't around at the right times, but there's still a long list of possibles. The people closest to Falcone are loyal. They tend to stick with him until they die."
"So what's changed?" Michael asked, still watching the ferry.
Smith watched it, too, for a moment, then shifted his attention to the Natchez. "Jolie says the new stuff he gave her narrows the field of suspects—significantly. She says Falcone would have to be an idiot to not be able to figure out the
guy's identity, just based on what information he's made available."
"Maybe the source is the idiot," Remy suggested. "Maybe he doesn't realize what he's given her."
Smith shook his head. "She says he's not. She says he's very bright, very logical and methodical. She says there's no doubt that he understands exactly what he's done."
"She doesn't happen to say who he is, does she?" Remy asked sourly.
"No."
"And she hasn't turned over the documents that would allow us to figure it out … or does she think we're not as smart as Falcone?"
Finally Michael turned from the river to face them. He was grinning. "You can't blame her for having doubts about the FBI," he said mildly. "After all, it was Jolie who discovered that your partner was on Falcone's payroll. That one sort of slipped by all you special agents."
Remy's scowl deepened, Smith noticed as he forced back his own smile, but their friend didn't say anything in his own or the bureau's defense. He couldn't, because Michael was absolutely right. The government's background check into Remy's former partner had turned up nothing out of line, while Jolie's had revealed a history of gambling, bad debts and a steady flow of cash from sources unknown. It had been exactly the information they had needed to stop the man and to make a move on Falcone.
"So what is Wade going to do?" Remy asked.
Leaning back, Smith braced himself against a square wooden planter that stood about three feet high. "I don't know. If she doesn't use the information, she's not keeping the agreement she made with her source—that he would provide the documentation and she would expose Falcone's wrongdoing. If she does use it, Jimmy will be able to figure out who's betraying him, and he'll have the guy killed. If she doesn't use it and gives it to us, we'll be able to figure out who it is, which, again, will be breaking the agreement she made with him to protect his identity."
"But if she doesn't turn it over," Michael went on, "she'll be breaking the agreement she made with you to cooperate in exchange for you keeping Shawna away from her. Hell, she's damned if she does and damned if she doesn't."
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