by Susan Conley
“My God, he cooks.”
He met her gaze. “I thought you figured that out this afternoon.”
“You’re not referring to that little,” she shrugged her shoulders, “peck on the mouth you gave me on your way out, are you?” she asked without as much as a glance in his direction.
“You’re absolutely right. That’s all it was.”
Looking up, his dark eyes searched too deeply. Said too much. Weighing the possibility of Jack’s statement, she swallowed hard and maneuvered around him to remove the salad from the refrigerator. “Ready for dinner?”
He brushed a stray lock of hair off her cheek. “I’m starving.”
When Abby slipped past him, his low whistle followed her out of the kitchen. As they ate, Abby wondered why looking at Jack through the warm glow of candlelight during dinner didn’t seem the least bit awkward or strange? After all, she didn’t even know him — not really. It made no sense that she felt so at home with him or in his house.
Jack pushed his empty plate aside. “I definitely owe you more flowers.”
“No, you don’t. It was my pleasure.” And that was the truth. “After all, you remembered burgundy mums are my favorite.”
“You really shouldn’t have gone out for the candles though,” he pointed out. “You’re probably still a little shaky.”
“I didn’t.” Was he kidding? After that so-called little peck on the mouth, she couldn’t have even dialed 911.
“Oh, that’s right. You bought some in Salem.”
“I did, but not these. They were in my suitcase.”
“You carry candles with you?”
“I — ”
“No. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”
“You brought it up.”
“Got any stakes of holly, silver bullets — ”
“If you’ll knock off the sarcasm, it’s really quite simple.” But it wasn’t, not really. In fact it still confused her a little, too. “I love candles,” she lied, knowing she’d always had an aversion to fire.
“And after your shop burned, they don’t bother you?”
“Not these,” she told him, certain that was the truth but not certain why. “The gold ones symbolize protection.”
“From what?”
Abby hiked both shoulders. “Evil, I guess,” she told him, bracing for the smirk that never came. Instead, she watched him grab the bottle of wine and both of their glasses from the table.
“They’re nice. Let’s drink this in the living room,” he suggested.
“Okay. I’ll just clean up first.”
“Leave it.”
Jack moved Abby’s candles to the coffee table. “Mind if I make myself comfortable?”
“Su casa is, after all, su casa,” Abby reminded him.
“Right.”
When he eased off his shoes and stretched out both legs, Shadow jumped from beneath the sofa and attacked his feet. Scooping up the little furball, he stroked the kitten. Purring, the small creature ritualistically turned around three times before settling down on his lap and dozing comfortably.
“Speaking of your house,” she began, “I really do like it, but I’m kind of surprised that you bought a home.”
“Why?”
Abby swirled the wine in the delicately stemmed glass as she spoke. “It just seems like most men prefer to rent an apartment.”
He shrugged. “I wanted my own place. Something to focus on besides work.”
She sipped her drink and watched him absently pet Shadow. “Work and home sound pretty good to me right now.”
“I’m sure they do,” he said. “Have you decided what you’re going to do?”
“Not yet.” She sighed. “It’s still so hard to believe. Kat. My apartment. My shop.”
“I can’t imagine — ”
“Hey, enough about me,” she insisted, cutting him off. She refused to let a pity party ruin such a nice evening. “Did you paint these?” she asked with a wide sweeping gesture toward the pictures on the walls.
“Guilty as charged.”
“Why the W signature?” Before he could answer, she realized, “It’s the W you added to the Hathorne name, isn’t it?”
“Well, not me personally, but yes.”
“They’re wonderful. You have a great eye. Well, actually two,” she observed, without cracking a smile.
“Thanks. On both counts.”
“No portraits?” she asked, remembering the man in her dream who promised her portrait as a wedding present.
“Never found a face interesting enough to paint — until now.”
She willed away the dream — her beloved’s promise of a portrait for a wedding present. Just as quickly, she ignored Jack’s compliment as well as the slow somersault her heart did. “Were you always interested in art?”
“Yes,” he said. “Tell me. What do you lose yourself in? Something that puts you in the zone.”
She took a frank, admiring look at Jack. Feather-like laugh lines crinkled around his eyes, softening his sometimes disturbingly intense appearance. “I walk.”
“Your dog?”
“I don’t have a dog.”
“Cat?”
She shook her head.
“No pets?”
“Nope.”
“Let me get this straight,” he began. “You don’t have a pet back in Springfield, but you adopt one while you’re on vacation?”
Abby’s eyes widened as she pointed to Shadow. “You mean him? Oh, I’m not taking him home with me.”
“Then why am I feeding him?”
She scooted closer and whispered into his ear, “Because you’re such a nice guy?”
He turned his head quickly to prevent her from moving out of reach. His lips brushed hers as he murmured, “Damn right I am.”
Abby enjoyed the feel of his strong arms. Her body told her so. Timidly, she splayed her fingers across his broad back, savoring its warmth. The only aspect of Jack more powerful than the strength simmering just below the surface was the tenderness he tried so hard to hide.
Abby could feel Shadow at her back, slapping at her hair. Reaching around, she tried to shoo him away with one hand. The more she waved her fingers, the more he wanted to play.
Raising his head a whisper, Jack asked, “Are you always this flighty when you’re being kissed?”
Unable to suppress the laughter, Abby pulled Shadow from behind her. “Blame your cat.” She eased herself back against the davenport, just out of Jack’s reach and watched him refill their glasses before saying, “I can’t stay here indefinitely, you know.” She’d always prided herself on her strength, but living under the same roof with Jack was becoming too much of a challenge, even for her. The physical attraction between them was undeniable, and it was growing. Abby decided it best to leave while she still had the inclination.
“Sounds like you’ve already decided.”
Abby nodded, accepting the wine Jack offered. She focused on Shadow and ran a teasing finger along the couch to encourage his playfulness. Without looking up, she answered, “Yeah, I think it’s for the best.”
“Not Hannah’s Inn though.”
Even though Abby thought Jack would agree with her decision to go, she wasn’t prepared for the hurt that followed his easy acceptance. Abby uncurled her feet, planting them squarely on the floor. She set the wine aside. “No, I’ll find another bed and breakfast or a nice hotel.” Standing, she started toward the kitchen. “I’ll get us some coffee.”
“Whoa.” Jack caught her about halfway. “You sit. I’ll pour.”
“I’m not an invalid,” she insisted. “After all, I made it.”
“Exactly,” Jack grinned. “So, don’t overdo.” He gently shoved her in the dir
ection of the couch. “Go.”
“To hell,” Abby muttered as she headed back into the living room.
In less than five minutes, Jack handed Abby a cup of coffee. “You realize that what happened today wasn’t some prank. Someone is after something, and whoever this is, they think one of us has it.”
“Maybe,” she agreed half-heartedly.
When the phone rang, Jack turned his back to Abby as he spoke. “What have you got?”
“What’s the bottom line?”
“Thanks. Keep me posted.”
He hung up the receiver and faced Abby.
“What?” she asked, bracing herself for the inevitable.
“Just let me handle this, will you?”
She bristled, then spoke with quiet firmness, “First of all, this is not some legal case. This is my life — and yours. Secondly, you are not my employer; therefore you cannot dismiss me like some kind of servant. In fact, now that I think about it, technically I’m your employer. You’re my lawyer.”
“Your room at Hannah’s Inn being ransacked may have been the result of a nosy maid who was baited by a beautiful necklace,” he began. “My car, on the other hand, may have been deliberately tampered with which makes this my problem and my decision.”
Abby struggled to maintain an even, conciliatory tone. “Not when it comes to me,” she insisted, observing his dark eyes flash a gentle but firm warning.
“Damn it, Abby, can’t you get it through your head whoever is behind this is playing for keeps.” He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his pants.
“Then we’ll just have to check into it.”
“What do you mean we?”
“What do you mean, what do I mean? You know very well what I mean. Someone has targeted one of us. My room. Your car. So like it or not, we’re in this together.”
Jack shook his head. “Not anymore.”
Determined to beat him at his own game, Abby lifted her chin, meeting his icy gaze straight on. “You’re right.”
“Forget it. You’re not playing Nancy Drew … I’m what?”
“I said you are right.” Abby enunciated as though she were speaking to a small child. She slipped past him muttering hostile, unintelligible expletives and nearly ripped the pages out of the phone book, searching for the number of a cab. “You believe you’re the target,” she hissed at Jack, pounding the touch-tone at the expense of her still sensitive wrist. “So, I’m sure you’ll want me as far away from you as possible.” She switched hands. “For my safety, of course.”
“You’re not going back to Hannah’s Inn,” Jack stated.
“I’ll go where I please,” Abby insisted, not that she would return there, it was just the principle.
“Not there you won’t. I checked you out.”
“You what?” She slammed her free hand on her hip, wincing at the pain in her wrist. “And just when were you planning to tell me?”
“When I didn’t take you back,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Of all the impertinent, presumptuous, egotistical — no, no not you,” she apologized into the receiver and glared at Jack. “I’m sorry. I’d like a cab.”
She shot him a look that would have dropped a bull elephant at a thousand yards. After the quick phone call, she tore the address of a motel from the phone book and spent the next few minutes stuffing her suitcase.
Jack never made a move to stop Abby. Instead, he stood motionless in his very empty, very quiet house as the cab’s fiery taillights disappeared into the darkness. She was gone and he was alone.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Salem, Massachusetts
31 October
Year of Our Lord, 1692
Lashed to a nearby tree, Jackson watched in amazement as a woman deftly intercepted Bridget’s throw and snagged Abigail’s amulet from midair. Careful to stay behind the crowd, the tall, thin woman wove her way through the shadows and dropped the amulet in the dry grass at his feet.
“Maxine? — ”
“Hush,” the woman ordered as she slipped behind the tree and shoved a folded sheet of paper into his hand.
“What’s this?” Sweat stung his eyes as he ground both arms against the tree’s rough bark to give Maxine as much slack as possible.
“Abigail had another dream last night. About a witch hunt. Fearing it would come to pass, she wrote out instructions for me to give you, so listen carefully. First, I’ve dropped her necklace at your feet. You must take it with you. Second, you must read what she’s written and do exactly as she asks.”
“Why?” Jackson felt her bony fingers nimbly working at the knot that bound his wrist.
“There’s no time to explain,” her thin lips warned. “Just do as I say … ”
• • •
Before daylight, Jack stood impatiently in the hallway outside the entrance to his office. Head pounding and sleep deprived, he had tossed and turned all night, tormented by the haunting Bill Withers’ song that had relentlessly played in his head. He shoved his key into the lock and, once inside, he slammed the door shut behind him. The deafening quiet screamed at him like a jealous lover and somehow managed to further tick him off, if that were even possible. Whatever the hell was going on, one of them was in danger. Him? Or her? That was the real question. The jump ball as it were.
The past few days had been a nightmare, and his gut reaction to each incident had erupted like a bleeding ulcer. Jack was used to taking control, being in charge. For him, the law had always been black and white, and that was the concept he liked most about it. Inside the courtroom he was damned good at calling the shots, but this was different. Suddenly, he was up to his eyeballs in gray areas. Jack hated gray areas.
He flipped on the lights, wishing his thoughts were as easy to illuminate. As he crossed the beautifully polished floor, his shoes echoed in the otherwise silent building. Wasn’t this the same maddening quiet that had driven him from his tomb-like house at the crack of dawn?
“Dammit.” Jack slammed his fist into the wall. How in the hell could he protect Abby … this time? Those two words didn’t even make sense to him. Jack’s heart beat hard against his ribs, like a mother shaking a child from a fitful dream. Only for Jack the implication merely teased at the edges of his mind like an unspoken threat. His consciousness refused the warning, but something deep inside sensed some kind of an awakening.
“Bring it on,” he whispered to no one.
• • •
“Hurry, Midnight, he’s right behind us.” Abigail held on for dear life and begged her horse to gallop faster. Whispering in his ear, cooing and pleading, she ducked the tree branches and woody vines that canopied the well-worn, dirt path. Abby dug her heels into his flanks and prayed her beloved animal could hold his pace. As she hunched over the pommel, his thick, dark mane whipped against her cheeks the same way her petticoats and her long, black skirt’s hem slapped his heaving sides.
Careful to keep her head down Abby stole a glance over one shoulder. The man in the red cape was gaining on them. His horse’s hooves pounded the barren trail, gouging chunks of earth and spitting them in his wake. Whip in hand, the rider lashed out, pushing the animal harder. As the stranger’s fearsome silhouette thundered through the sun-dappled forest’s path, light and shadow alternately flashed across his features, scrambling his identity in what could otherwise be considered broad daylight. The black, pilgrim-style hat he wore stayed put, unlike the scarlet material that billowed behind him like great devil’s wings …
• • •
Splashing water in her face, Abby regarded her reflection in the tiny hotel mirror. “Not too bad for only a couple of hours sleep and a nightmare that would have made Rosemary put her baby up for adoption.”
Dabbing extra concealer under both eyes and gingerly tapping some on her bruise
d cheek, she put the finishing touches to her makeup and decided it was good enough.
Despite another bad dream, a ransacked room, and checking into what might as well have been the Bates Motel, Abby had made it through the night on her own. However shaky, she had stood her ground and still had no intention of letting anyone dictate what she could or could not do.
As she stepped into the hotel parking lot, the brilliant October sun felt warm on her back but only for an instant. A black cloud appeared from nowhere, blocking out the daylight, shadowing her every move. And with it came a chilling breeze that swirled around her ankles, shackling them with chains of dried leaves. Her blood ran cold. She shook each foot as if to break some invisible restraint.
Fighting the uneasy sensation of being watched, Abby walked back to where she’d parked the black Ford Taurus she had rented on her way to the hotel last night. As she pulled away from the curb, that uneasy feeling she couldn’t shake shrouded her consciousness like a pall. Not just the creeps. This was different. Intense. Over and over, she sensed some kind of warning. But what?
Several blocks later, Abby checked the rear view mirror and her breath caught in her throat. Was that the same red car that had just been parked across the street from the hotel?
Talk about paranoid. Be realistic. How many red cars, she glanced again, are there in a city the size of Boston? Only one? Don’t be ridiculous.
Abby decided to double back to the hotel just to satisfy the knot in the pit of her stomach and to see if he was really following her. Several turns later, the red car was still a good block behind her. But he was there. She accelerated and veered into the hotel parking lot. Rushing inside and down the hall, she slammed the door behind her. It took two tries before her shaky fingers finally secured the chain lock. Aggravated at having knees that felt like Jell-O and hands that still trembled, she sat down at the small desk next to the bed to catch her breath. Unable to remain seated, she stood and began pacing.