"An ethical dilemma," Remy said. "Who ever would have guessed that reporters even had ethics?" Before anyone could respond, though, he raised his hand to stall them. "I know, I know. Jolie's not your typical reporter. You've got a dilemma or two of your own, Smith. If she chooses to sit on this material and do nothing with it, you've got to tell Shawna."
"And when I do, Shawna's going to figure that all deals are off," Smith said ruefully. He had realized that—and its implications—pretty quickly. "She'll want to put Jolie under surveillance, get a line ID on her phone, start an investigation into her background and activities … I know."
Michael shoved his hands into his hip pockets and rocked back on the heels of his rundown sneakers. "At least you'll be out of the decision-making process. That ought to save you a little grief."
"How do you figure that?" Smith asked.
"Well … under the circumstances … hell, you've already acknowledged to Marshall that you and Jolie are … that you're having an af—" With a shrug, he broke off and looked away.
Smith looked from him to Remy, who seemed to find the river as interesting as the tree that held Michael's gaze. "A relationship," he said quietly. "I have a relationship with her. So … I told Alexander. He told Shawna. Shawna told you—" he looked at Remy before shifting his gaze back to Michael "—and he told you."
Neither man spoke.
Now it was his turn to walk over and stare out across the river. It wasn't fair. Michael and Remy had both been allowed to fall in love privately, without anyone looking on, without censure, while for him, it had to be front-page news. Then he thought of Jolie, whose stories were almost always on the front page, and he smiled thinly. Maybe that was a bit of exaggeration … although a front-page announcement couldn't be a whole lot worse than the scrutiny they were getting from the FBI and his own office. As for the scrutiny they would face if Jolie stopped cooperating…
Every move she made would be watched. If she went to his house, if he went to hers, if they met innocently in the middle of Jackson Square
, the government would be watching and making notes. There would be no more nights like last night. There would be no phone calls, no more kisses, no shared dinners, no steamy lovemaking.
If the bureau placed her under surveillance and initiated a background investigation, she would have no privacy for a relationship.
Until Falcone's trial was over, she would have no privacy at all.
They would have no privacy at all.
And that, he acknowledged grimly, meant no relationship at all.
* * *
With the television tuned, volume down, to a twenty-four-hour news channel and a guitar solo blasting from the stereo, Jolie sat curled on the sofa Tuesday evening, comparing transcripts she'd made from some of Nick's tapes against her own notes from an earlier interview. The interview had been conducted back in late February when Falcone's house of cards had come tumbling down around his ears. It had been Jolie's first meeting with Susannah Duncan—now Sinclair. Susannah had recounted for Jolie the details of her numerous phone conversations with Nick Carlucci regarding Falcone, who had used Susannah's younger brother to blackmail her, and his plans for getting rid of Remy once and for all.
Much of the interview had gone into Jolie's article; the rest was documented in these notes and preserved on a cassette tape neatly filed away at work. Although Jolie hadn't listened to the tape in months, with the help of her notes, all the pieces of the conversations remained clear in her mind. She knew what threats Nick had delivered for Falcone, knew what questions he had asked and what answers Susannah had given.
Now she knew something else, too.
In passing Susannah's information on to Falcone—information that the old man had intended to use to track Remy's movements, to learn his habits, to make it easier to kill him—Nick had lied.
He had lied to his boss.
He had taken all the information Susannah had given him and twisted it and turned it into something believable but bearing little resemblance to its original form and then had given it to Falcone. Granted, Jimmy had made his move against Remy anyway, but Nick hadn't helped. Susannah hadn't helped. The fact that Jimmy's hired killers had almost succeeded had been purely the luck of the draw.
The other woman had felt so badly over what she'd done, Jolie remembered, that she had been willing to die to give Remy a chance to live. At least this news ought to ease her lingering guilt a bit. Thanks to Nick, she'd done no harm.
They had briefly touched on his dealings with Susannah in one of their conversations, Jolie recalled. You made a big mistake when you tried to use Susannah Duncan to get to Remy Sinclair, she had taunted him. You didn't count on her falling in love with him, did you?
And his response had been flat, empty of emotion. I didn't count on her doing anything. I didn't count on her at all.
What was his game? What did he want from Jimmy Falcone? Justice, he had claimed—but justice for what? What had Jimmy done that had driven Nick to such elaborate lengths to punish him? Which of his innumerable crimes had affected Nick personally?
The loud knock at the door behind her startled her from her musings. Rising quickly to her feet, she stuffed the papers into a file folder and hastily slid them underneath the sofa before approaching the door, barefoot and wary.
It was Smith waiting there. She had invited him over, but she hadn't expected him until seven, and it was only… A quick glance at her watch made her sigh exasperatedly. It was seven o'clock straight up.
Opening the door, she stepped back and waited for him to come inside. Once the door was closed again, it seemed the most natural thing in the world for her to step into his arms for a long, leisurely kiss.
This wouldn't be so bad, she thought as he pulled her closer, kissed her harder, more greedily. To come home from work every day to this—to Smith, to a kiss and a family and so much more. Maybe she could do that. Maybe she could be happy working the rest of her life for the Times-Picayune. Maybe she could give up the crime scenes and the criminals and the trials—or at least give up some of the risks associated with them. Maybe…
Maybe.
Smith ended the kiss, raised his head and gazed down at her. There were stress lines at the corners of his eyes and around his mouth, as if he'd had yet another tough day. It couldn't have been any worse than her own day.
Raising his hand, he brushed her hair back from her face, then let his fingertips glide along her jaw to her throat. "Hell, Jolie, what are we going to do?" he asked, his voice soft, his smile tired.
"I don't know." She wasn't sure if he was referring to their professional problems or the more personal, more intimate, situation between them, but her answer remained the same. "We could rent that sailboat we talked about and run away for a while."
"Maybe by the time we got back, this entire case would have gone away."
"I don't know. I don't think Shawna's going to let it go away without the pleasure of seeing me behind bars for at least one night."
"She doesn't have much tolerance for you," he agreed.
She chuckled. "Remy tolerates me. Shawna hates me. So…" Leaning back against the cradle of his arms, she smiled up at him. "How was your day?"
"Not good. How was yours? You reach a decision yet about your guy?"
"He's not my guy, and no, I didn't. I will, though. I'm convinced that if I give it enough thought, I'll come up with a thoroughly brilliant solution that will make everyone happy."
She expected him to laugh or at least smile at her smug confidence, but he looked even more melancholy than she'd been feeling lately. "I certainly hope you do," he murmured. He brushed a kiss across her temple, then finally released her. "Do you want to go out somewhere or order in?"
What she wanted was to forget about dinner and simply take him upstairs to her bedroom, but she didn't suggest it. Somehow it seemed too forward.
Then she rolled her eyes heavenward. What were the first words that most people used to describe h
er? Bold. Brazen. Aggressive. Pushy. Brash. Who would ever believe that Jolie Wade found herself in a situation where she didn't want to seem forward?
"Order in?" she echoed, feigning surprise, thickening her Southern accent. "Honey, when I invite someone over for dinner, I spare no effort or expense. I intend to make our dinner myself in my own kitchen."
He did smile just a little at that. "You can cook?"
"I'm the oldest of thirteen children. You bet I can cook." After a moment, she relented. "However, that doesn't mean I ever do. I stopped at the deli on the way home and picked up sandwich stuff. When we're ready to eat, I'll make our sandwiches and dish up the potato salad and baked beans with my own hands."
"By all means, use a spoon," he said dryly. Then, after giving her a long look, he softly asked, "Are you hungry?"
She swallowed hard. "Not particularly. Are you?"
"Not at all."
"I guess we'll have to amuse ourselves for a while."
He nodded agreeably. "Maybe work up an appetite."
She tugged the collar of her shirt, then fingered the top button. It seemed to be growing much warmer in the room, even though the air conditioner was running and the ceiling fan turned overhead. Chances were good, of course, that it was just the way Smith was looking at her that made her so warm. As if he'd been without a woman far too long. As if he couldn't imagine any other woman he'd rather be with.
Hell, he was looking at her in exactly the same way she was looking at him.
Wickedly.
Wantonly.
Returning to the door, she twisted the lock, then headed for the stairs. When she passed Smith on the way, she caught his hand and pulled him along—up the stairs, down the hall, into her bedroom at the back of the house. Evening light filtered through heavily leafed trees to dimly illuminate the room and its furnishings. Knowing they would likely wind up here, she had taken a little time after work to straighten up, but he probably couldn't tell. She had too much stuff and too few places to put it.
But he wasn't looking at the room or the things that cluttered it.
He was looking at her.
Using his hold on her hand, he pulled her closer until only their clothing separated them, and he kissed her. It was a sweet kiss, tentative, promising passion, pleasure and delight … all in good time. It was the sort of kiss given by people who were intimately familiar with each other, people who had shared a past, people who were guaranteed a future. It was a serious, beyond-an-affair, more-than-just-lovers sort of kiss.
It threatened to break her heart.
Or put it back together again.
When it ended, he slid his fingers through her hair, gently tugging out the glittery band that held it off her neck, letting it fall to cover his hands and to swing lightly across her shoulders. "I like your hair," he murmured.
Of its own will, her mouth curved into a smile. "I like yours, too. Of course, I like damned near everything about you."
"You're not too crazy about my job, huh?"
"No more than you are about mine."
"I'll turn in my resignation tomorrow."
As he began a series of slow, lazy caresses across her scalp and down her neck to her shoulders, she sighed softly and let her eyes flutter shut. "Right. And miss out on the biggest case of your career?"
"Big criminal cases come along often enough. There will be one bigger, more important and more complex than this one."
"Ah, so you wouldn't give up prosecuting the bad guys. You would just change the office you do it from."
"That wouldn't help much, would it?" He added kisses to his caresses, little ones, light, teasing, soothing. "I could always go into private practice. Instead of prosecuting the bad guys, I could start defending them."
"No, you couldn't." She spoke with certainty. He was too honest, too by-the-book, to use his brilliant career and his sterling reputation to help people like Falcone walk away scot-free from their crimes. "You could only defend the innocent, and so few people are innocent anymore."
"Then that would give me more time with you."
"And what would we do with this extra time?"
He kissed her again, stealing her breath, making her knees go weak, sending heat searing through her. She clung to him for support, pulling at his clothes and her own as they made their way blindly to the bed, as they sank down together, powerless, powerful, hot and ready. He shifted over her as if he'd been there a thousand times or more. She opened to him as if she had welcomed him often, as if she would welcome him always. He filled her, pushing slowly, sinking deeply until she sheathed him, heated, moist, tight, and then he gave her a long, lazy kiss before answering her question.
"I'm sure we'd think of something."
* * *
The sun had set and night had truly fallen before either Smith or Jolie stirred from the bed. He was the one to move, to untangle his arms and legs from hers, to slide back the quilt she had pulled over them, sit up and turn on the bedside lamp.
The lamp's light was softened by its frosted glass globe, but it was enough to banish the darkness from all but the distant corners of the room. It was enough to show him the details of the room where Jolie slept. Where she dreamed.
It was as cluttered as his bedroom was spare, as old-fashioned as his was modern. The walls were papered in a floral print of cream, pale green and paler rose, and the furniture consisted of mismatched pieces—a brass bed, a cherry armoire, a wicker settee and an oak dressing table, complete with marble top, framed mirror and a low, petit-point-topped stool. The settee and a rattan trunk in the corner held quilts, both relatively new in comparison to the one that covered the bed, and there was lace everywhere—the curtains at the windows, the pillows on the settee, the doilies that protected the top of the dressing table and the nightstands.
Soft colors, old lace and quilts, antique furniture. He smiled. Jolie, tough and independent though she was, had a romantic streak.
He wondered how he could make it pay off for both of them.
Rising from the bed, he picked up the rumpled pile that was their clothing and sorted through it until he'd located all but his shirt. He took his time dressing, in no rush because he felt lazy and perfectly relaxed and because Jolie, lying in bed, seemed to enjoy watching him.
"Do you want to have dinner now?" she asked, her voice thick, her smile satisfied.
He zipped his trousers, then fastened his belt. "That's a tough choice."
"In what way?"
"Do I stay here and watch you lie there naked, or do I become quite possibly the only man in Orleans Parish to enjoy a dinner prepared by Jolie Wade's very own hands? Fixing dinner for a man … you know, that's such a womanly, wifely sort of thing to do."
She threw a pillow at him, then drew the quilt back over her, tucking it underneath her arms as she sat up.
"Covering up does no good, sweetheart. I'm intimately familiar with what you're hiding. I remember every little wonder and every little flaw."
"What flaws?" she asked indignantly, lifting the quilt and giving herself a quick once-over.
He returned to the bed and bent to kiss her full on the mouth. "You don't have any flaws—not a single one. You're gorgeous. Beautiful. Thoroughly desirable."
"And you're a very smart man." She took the pillow he was holding and tucked it behind her back.
Leaving her there, he turned his attention once more to the room. Cobalt blue bottles shared the broad windowsill with small pots of ivy. Crystal atomizers in deep amethyst, citrine yellow and faceted rose were lined up on the dressing table, and strings of cheap plastic beads in garish colors—throws, or souvenirs thrown from Mardi Gras floats during past Carnivals—hung from the top corner of the mirror.
Stopping in front of the dressing table, he picked up the only atomizer that held perfume and sniffed the sprayer. Jolie's fragrance filled his senses before he returned it to the marble top and moved on to the next area of interest: a wall filled with framed photos. In the center was a bac
kyard shot, informally posed, of the entire Wade clan, with Jolie sitting on the ground in front, a nephew on each knee and a niece hanging around her neck. In a haphazard pattern around that one were individual and family pictures, snapshots and portraits commemorating births and birthdays, graduations, weddings and anniversaries.
"Let me make a wild guess and say that Cassie is your favorite sister," he said, noticing that a disproportionate number of the photos were of the youngest Wade.
"She was born just before I started college over in Mississippi," Jolie replied, an odd tone to her voice. "She's the only one of the kids that I didn't help raise."
He took down one of Cassie's pictures from the wall for a closer look. In it her gaze was direct and level—no shyness, flinching away or mugging for her. She simply looked straight into the camera and, in exchange, let it look straight into her. "She's a beautiful child. She must leave a trail of broken hearts wherever she goes."
"Starting when she was born." The strange quality in Jolie's voice grew stronger, prompting Smith to glance over his shoulder, but she wasn't looking at him. Instead, her gaze was focused on her hands, folded tightly together in her lap.
He turned back to the wall, intending to replace the frame on its hook, then go back to the bed, but the cardboard in the frame had slipped a few inches. "This back is a little loose," he remarked, turning the frame over to slide it into place. As he did so, a small piece of paper slid out from between the layers and fluttered to the floor. He bent to pick it up. "If you add an extra sheet of cardboard, it will hold it more securely…"
His voice trailed off, the thought forgotten while he studied the fallen item. It wasn't paper but another photograph, three and a half by five inches, the colors faded. It was a snapshot of Jolie, very young, short and reed thin but somehow stronger looking than today. Standing in front of a shabby house with a cluttered porch and barren yard, she was with a young man—a boy, really—who stood behind her, his arms possessively around her, and they were laughing for the camera.
Smith smiled as he looked at her captured-on-film image. Even in this flat, lifeless medium, she had presence. She looked so damn alive that he almost expected to hear her laughter. "No wonder Cassie's breaking hearts," he said softly. "She learned from her—"
A MAN LIKE SMITH Page 20