Jack glanced away, picked up his glass, took a sip. “Chantal must have mentioned it, or Pia.”
God knew what else they’d “mentioned” to him. They both loathed Preston. “He couldn’t ask me to go with him, ’cause it’s this guy thing he does every year with some old pals. He was very apologetic.”
He wouldn’t have been if he’d known how secretly grateful Kat had been at the prospect of a respite from him. His three weeks in Aspen would give her, she’d reasoned, the breathing room she needed to think clearly and objectively about their budding relationship. More and more lately, she’d begun to wonder if Preston’s refreshing lack of interest in the size of her bank account hadn’t blinded her to his . . . “Faults” might be the wrong word, but he was different from her, and in some very significant respects. Not to mention two decades older. On the other hand, he was smart, successful, and classically handsome. She’d spent the past two months hoping for a genuine rapport to materialize between them, but it had proven slow in coming.
Three weeks. Three precious weeks in which to contemplate her future with Preston, or lack of it. That was all she’d wanted, yet no sooner had Preston flown off to Aspen than Jack O’Leary had stepped up to the plate. How could she possibly trust any conclusions she drew about Preston with a guy like Jack keeping her all weak in the knees? Her only recourse was to keep Jack at a distance unless and until she broke things off with Preston. Otherwise she’d always doubt that she’d done the right thing for the right reason.
“Do you miss him?” Jack asked.
“Of course,” she answered too quickly.
“Yeah,” he said soberly. “You probably spend an hour on the phone with him every night.”
“He’s called me a couple of times. He didn’t bother giving me the number, ’cause he said he’s hardly ever in his room.”
“Really? You’d think he’d want you to have the number so you could at least leave a message if you wanted to. Where’s he staying? You could always call information.”
She shrugged. “All I know is, it’s at the base of Buttermilk Mountain. Some hotel where you can ski in and ski out.”
“He didn’t even tell you the name of the place?”
“It just never came up.”
“You know . . . maybe I shouldn’t say anything, but . . .” Jack glanced uneasily at her. “Have you ever considered that he might be married?”
“What?” She sat upright, laughing incredulously. “No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
“Just ’cause he told you he was single?”
“I’d know if he was lying.” She grabbed the wine bottle off the table and refilled her glass.
Jack studied the wine in his glass as he swirled it. “Married men, when they’re pretending to be single, there’s a certain behavioral profile. They’ve got to compartmentalize their life, keep the wife in one world and the girlfriend in the other, ’cause God help him if they end up meeting, or talking to each other on the phone. That’s why these guys make it so hard for the girlfriend to get in touch with them.”
“And you’re an expert on cheating husbands because . . .?”
He looked suddenly weary. “Let’s just say I know whereof I speak. Has Preston ever even had you over to his place?”
“It’s a bit of a haul. He lives in Greenwich, Connecticut.”
“Are you sure? Where’s your Manhattan phone book?”
With a roll of the eyes, Kat pointed to the Edwardian banker’s desk in the corner. Jack crossed to it and flipped through the white pages with a determined expression. He believes this, she realized. He’d convinced himself that Preston was married, and now he was trying to convince her.
Jack made a sound of disgust and slammed the phone book onto the desk. “Unlisted. Of course.”
“Either that,” she said testily, “or he really does live in Greenwich. I’ve got his phone number, you know. It’s a two-oh-three area code. That’s Connecticut.”
“And you’ve spoken to him there?” Jack asked as he walked back across the room.
“Yes. Well . . . I’ve left messages on his machine. He’s out a lot. There’s that long commute, and he’s active at his club. But he’s always gotten back to me.”
“Just ’cause he’s got an answering machine in Greenwich doesn’t mean he lives there. Maybe he knows someone—”
“And maybe you’re clutching at straws.” More gently she said, “Jack, I’m flattered, I really am, but you’ve got to let it go.”
Jack sat on the corner of the coffee table, leaned forward, cupped her face in his warm hands; the air left her lungs. Earnestly, softly, he said, “He doesn’t deserve you. He’s just using you.”
She shook her head resolutely. “I’d know it if he was.”
He stood up, raked both hands through his hair. “Kat . . . no. You wouldn’t. Not you. You’re trusting—too trusting. You think everyone’s as good as you are, but—”
“You think I’m gullible.”
“No, I—”
“Maybe I used to be, but I’ve learned my lesson, especially when it comes to men. Why do you think I was so attracted to Preston in the first place? It’s because for once there’s a man in my life who’s actually interested in me as a person, not in how he can profit from me.”
“He’s not using you for money.” Jack picked up his wine glass and sat back down on the sofa. “He’s using you for sex.”
“Yeah, well, that just shows how little you know, because we’ve never even . . .” She bit her lip, wishing she hadn’t blurted that out. What business was it of Jack’s?
He was staring at her, his head cocked as if he weren’t sure he’d heard right. He looked surprised, but pleased. She could see it in his eyes, that little glimmer of gratification. “You and Preston. You don’t . . .”
Kat gulped down the rest of her wine. “We will, I’m sure. Sooner or later.”
“Let me guess. Preston’s lobbying for sooner. You’re holding out for later.”
“I’ve been burned too many times by letting things get too . . . intimate with a man, only to find out . . . well, we’ve covered that territory. The users.”
“But Preston’s different,” Jack said. “Or so you seem to think. So how come you won’t sleep with him?”
“He is different,” she said heatedly. “And I am going to sleep with him. I even went back on the . . .” Damn. It was the wine, making her spill her guts like this. She should have known better than to drink so much on an empty stomach.
“The pill?” he said. “You went back on the pill.”
“I can’t believe I’m telling you all this.”
“And I can’t believe this guy isn’t trying to coax you between the sheets every chance he gets.”
“He’s a gentleman.”
“Even gentlemen have certain expectations once a few weeks have gone by. Surely he’s made his move by now.”
Kat ran her finger around the rim of her empty wine glass, generating an airy trill. “About a month ago, when we were out to dinner, he gave me these gifts. Three of them—a tiny box, a medium box, and a big box, all tied together with gold ribbon. He said to open the smallest one first. It was a pair of diamond earrings from Harry Winston. He told me he wanted me to go away with him that weekend—he’s got a place in Bermuda. I said I’d go with him, but only if we had separate bedrooms, and that I couldn’t accept the earrings. They were too valuable a gift.”
“Not to mention that there appeared to be strings attached,” Jack pointed out.
Kat didn’t bother trying to deny that that had factored into the equation.
“If you gave the earrings back, then . . .” Jack reached out and brushed a fingertip over her left earlobe and the diamond stud that adorned it; she wished his touch didn’t speed her heart this way. “What are these?”
“My grandmother gave me these for my fifteenth birthday. They’re pear-cut. The ones Preston gave me were emeral
d-cut.”
“Oh.”
She smiled. “You don’t know the difference.”
He returned the smile, still stroking her ear. “No.”
She lowered her head, breaking the contact. “I opened the medium-sized box next. It held that picture of him in the Tiffany frame. He took the big box away without letting me open it. He said it was something else he’d wanted me to wear in Bermuda, but that it could wait till we were a little further along in our relationship.”
“Sexy lingerie,” Jack said.
“That’s what I was thinking.”
“Let me guess. He never did take you to Bermuda.”
Kat hated that he was right. “Something came up. He had to work that weekend.”
“Uh-huh.” Jack lifted the almost-empty wine bottle and held it over her glass, but she covered it with her hand, saying she’d had more than enough. He emptied the last couple of ounces into his own glass.
“So, you don’t love him.” Jack sat back, propping an ankle on his knee. “Not yet, anyway. And so far it’s a platonic relationship. Yet you’re bending over backward to be faithful.”
She shrugged. “It’s the way I am. I don’t like complications, and I especially don’t like to be the cause of them. And I do believe in right and wrong. Preston and I have an unspoken understanding, and that understanding is that we’re exclusive and that eventually we’ll take things to the next level.” All of which was true enough on the surface, but nowhere near the whole story. Kat knew better than to confide her doubts about Preston to Jack, who would no doubt seize on them and make her decision even more difficult. “In the meantime, like I said, he’s being a gentleman.”
“Playing the gentleman. He’s wearing you down. Sex is what he’s after.”
She made a little Yeah, right face. “He’s middle-aged. Middle-aged men have other priorities.”
“Not this one.”
“What makes you think that?”
He turned toward her, his eyes all-seeing in the dark, his voice low and almost pained. “Because no man in his right mind could be with you, smelling the way you smell and watching you walk and listening to that laugh of yours, and not want to possess you. Entirely. Body and soul. You’re the kind of woman a man wants to lose himself inside, Kat, the kind he aches to hear moaning his name in the dark. You’re the one.”
Kat couldn’t tear her gaze from his. A log shifted in the fireplace, settling with a rustle of embers.
“You should leave,” she said, so quietly even she almost didn’t hear it.
“Yeah.”
She fetched his overcoat, walked him to the front door, held it open.
“What time should I be there in the morning?” he asked.
She frowned in bewilderment for a moment before remembering that Chantal had drafted him to help get ready for the holiday party at Augusta House. “You really don’t have to—”
“I want to.”
“Nine o’clock, then?”
“I’ll be there.” As he stepped out into the hallway, he turned and said, “What does he call you? Kat or Katherine?”
“Katherine.”
That seemed to please him, because he smiled as he turned to leave. “Good night, Kat.”
There was a message on Jack’s machine when he got home to Brooklyn that night.
Beep.
“Jack, it’s me, Celeste. Any developments as regards the service I’ve retained you to perform? You’ll notice I’m being discreet, in case you have company.”
There came a muted snick and the crackle of a cigarette being lit, followed by a brisk exhalation.
“As you know, I expect this situation to be resolved before I return to New York on January fourth, which means you’ve got thirteen more days to, shall we say, close the deal. I assume you’re in contact with the subject at this point—hopefully close contact. I wouldn’t mind a progress report, as I’m naturally very much preoccupied with this matter. I left my credit card behind at two different stores yesterday.”
Another drag on the cigarette. “Preston’s getting a massage tomorrow between two and three in the afternoon your time, so he’ll be out of the room for an hour—an hour and a half if he bangs the masseuse. You’ve got my number here. I’ll be waiting for your call.”
Click.
CHAPTER SIX
No heavy lifting. Wasn’t that what Celeste had promised when she’d finagled Jack into taking this job? Then why had he spent the past five hours—with a twenty-minute break for pizza at noon—lugging literally tons of old school equipment from the Augusta House communal room out to a row of rented Dumpsters in the parking lot? In 40-degree weather.
Not that he minded the occasional blast of cold air that much. They kept the heat pretty high in the building, and it was brutal work, hauling all that crap outside. Even stripped down as he was to a T-shirt and a pair of jeans, he’d been soaked through with sweat by mid-morning.
Dragging yet another broken school desk over to a half-empty Dumpster, Jack took a deep breath, hoisted it overhead, and heaved it into the receptacle, where it landed with a clatter.
On his way back, he held the door open for Chantal’s brother Calvin, a New York City firefighter who had a battered old bookcase, a big one, balanced on his meaty shoulders. There were dozens of people helping out today—the Augusta House staff and most of the moms and kids who lived here—but Calvin and Jack were among an all-too-small handful of men who’d let themselves get talked into this gig.
“Hey, man,” Calvin panted on his way to the Dumpsters. “You know how chicks are always saying they’re so smart and we’re so dumb? You think maybe they’re onto something?”
“Strong backs and weak minds,” Jack said with a grin as he headed back inside. “That’s us.”
The cavernous, linoleum-floored communal room, book-ended by a curtained stage at one end and a kitchen at the other, buzzed with activity, as it had all day. Now that most of the debris had been cleared away and the usable furniture shoved to the perimeter of the room, it was time to break out the brooms, mops and buckets. Tomorrow they would decorate for Tuesday’s party, which the children, especially the younger ones, looked forward to with an almost frantic anticipation.
Through the open doorway to the kitchen at the opposite end of the room, Jack spied Kat scrubbing down a big steel table with a sponge. She looked about seventeen in her faded Bryn Mawr sweatshirt and jeans, her hair in a slapdash ponytail, her hands sheathed in bright yellow rubber gloves. She’d been cleaning and disinfecting that kitchen all day in preparation for Tuesday’s turkey dinner, her progress hampered by a parade of staff members, volunteers, and delivery men, each with some problem only she could resolve, some decision only she could make, some check only she could write, some paper only she could sign. It was a lot of responsibility on one person’s head; Jack admired her composure, although she was starting to look a little frayed around the edges.
Tugging off his left-hand work glove, he checked his watch. Just barely two o’clock. He’d give it a few more minutes, just to make sure.
“Yo, Jack!” Chantal called out as she crossed the crowded room on her way to the kitchen. “Those chairs still need to go out.” She pointed toward a cluster of cracked old stacking chairs.
“Yes, ma’am!” Jack saluted jauntily as Chantal rolled her eyes. “On the double, ma’am!”
He yawned twice while snugging the chairs together to lift as a unit. It had been almost dawn by the time he’d finally nodded off last night, after hours of lying there in the dark, grappling with his situation.
The message Celeste had left on his machine—you’ve got thirteen more days to, shall we say, close the deal—had served as a crude but necessary reminder of his true purpose in cultivating the acquaintance of Katherine Peale. He’d staged their initial meeting, lied to her face, charmed his way past her defenses—all for fifty thousand bucks.
That was shameful enough. What in holy hell had he been thinking last night, workin
g up that elaborate security system for her? He hadn’t been thinking. So effortlessly had he fallen into his cover role—so pathetically eager was he not just to be with her, but to be who she thought he was—that he’d all but forgotten who he really was: an opportunistic PI who’d do just about anything for a buck.
And, oh, God, he’d almost kissed her. Not because of the job—that was the thing—but because he’d forgotten about the job. He’d forgotten he was just conning her and started to think maybe he was falling in—
“Damn,” he growled as he hefted the stack of chairs and headed outside. “Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn.”
It was shame that had kept Jack awake last night. He wasn’t used to feeling like a devious sack of crap, and he didn’t like it one bit. But his long night of penitent insomnia had given him the opportunity to reflect on his situation and formulate a plan for extracting Kat from Preston’s clutches that might even redeem a little of his own erstwhile integrity—or at least not add to the sick sense of shame he’d been carrying around all week.
The only smart thing he’d done last night, he reflected as he muscled the door open with his burden and stepped outside, gulping cold air, had been to rat Preston out, or try to. Kat had to find out he was married. Jack’s sense of decency and righteousness—latent though it might be—demanded it, and although the news would shock her, it would be for her own good.
Thunking the stack of chairs down next to the emptiest Dumpster, Jack proceeded to hurl them in one by one.
Not that he was eager to blow his cover to accomplish that goal; the prospect of Kat’s discovering his own duplicity made his stomach clutch. But at around three in the morning, Jack had thought up a way to break the news to her that would leave him entirely in the clear.
Now to execute his plan. She would end things with Preston when she found out. And she would do it without Jack’s having to seduce her into it, either physically or emotionally, thereby allowing him to salvage a shred of honor in this murky mess.
What then? he wondered as he returned, empty-handed, to the communal room. The right thing would be to walk away from her then. Otherwise he’d only be prolonging the fiction that he was just some affable security consultant who’d saved her from a mugging . . . only to fall for her, hard, once he’d gotten to know her.
Naughty or Nice? Page 6