Secrets and Lies. Lisa JacksonЧитать онлайн книгу.
of his mouth for just a second. “I didn’t come here to talk about my practice.”
“Just in the neighborhood?” she taunted, wanting to wound him and give him just a taste of the pain she’d suffered when he’d abandoned her. All those years. All those damned years!
His thin lips shifted. “Actually, I came to see you.”
“A little late, aren’t you?”
Did he wince slightly, or did the shadow of a moth flutter by the porch light, seeming to change his expression for just a second? “I guess I deserved that.”
“What you deserve I couldn’t begin to describe,” she replied. “But phrases like ‘drawn and quartered,’ ‘boiled in oil’ or ‘tarred and feathered’ come quickly to mind.”
“You don’t think I suffered enough?” he asked, crossing tanned arms in front of a chest that had expanded with the years. He was built more solidly than he had been: broader shoulders, still-lean hips, but more defined muscles. Probably the result of working out with a private trainer or weight-lifting or some such upper-crust urban answer to aging. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him and he looked tougher in real life than he did on camera.
“You didn’t stick around long enough to suffer,” she said.
“What would that have proved?”
That you cared, that you didn’t use me, that I wasn’t so much the fool… . “Nothing. You’re right. You should have left. In fact, I don’t know why you’d want to come back here at all,” she admitted, some of her animosity draining as she stared at his sensual lower lip. Steadfastly, she moved her gaze back to the hard glitter in his eyes.
“I returned for the same reason you did,” he said slowly.
“And why’s that?”
“To settle things.”
“Is that what I’m doing?” He was gazing at her so intently that her heart, which was already beating rapidly, accelerated tempo. Emotions, as tangled and tormented as they had been twelve years before, simmered in the cool night. The sound of traffic from the freeway was muted, and the wind chimes on her porch tinkled softly on a jasmine-scented breeze.
“I take the New York Daily,” Jackson said, his hands in the back pockets of his black jeans. “It carries your column.”
She waited, expecting more of an explanation, and avoided looking into his eyes. Those eyes, golden-brown and penetrating, had been her undoing all those years ago. She’d trusted him, believed in him, and it had cost her. Well, she wouldn’t let his gaze get to her again. Besides, he couldn’t. There was a new jaded edge to him that she found not the least bit appealing.
“I read that you’re doing a series about Gold Creek.”
“That’s right.” Her gaze flew back to his and she straightened her shoulders, determined to deal with him as a professional. An interview with Jackson Moore would be a coup, an article her editor, Marcy, expected, but Rachelle couldn’t imagine talking with him, taking notes, probing into his life as it had been in Gold Creek all those years ago.
“I think we should discuss it.”
“Discuss it?” she repeated, her backbone stiffening as if with steel. “Why would you want—?” She cut herself off, and, folding her arms over her chest, propped one shoulder against the door. “What’re you doing back in Gold Creek?”
His eyes bored deep into hers and she realized suddenly what it must feel like to be a witness squirming on the stand while Jackson, slowly, steadily and without the least bit of compassion, cut her testimony to shreds. “I think you’re about to get yourself into trouble, Rachelle,” he said. “And I want to make sure that you don’t get hurt.”
She laughed. “I don’t need you to protect me. And there’s nothing to be afraid of, anyway.”
“You don’t know what you’re getting into.”
“I do. And if you’re talking about the Fitzpatrick murder, I was there, too. Remember?” Deciding she was probably exercising a blatant error in judgment, she kicked the door open wider. “Why don’t you come in and say whatever it is that’s on your mind?”
“Off the record?” he asked.
“Afraid of what I might write?”
“I’ve been misquoted before.” She thought of the past six years and his meteoric rise to fame, or infamy. He hadn’t been afraid of taking on the most scandalous of cases, many involving the rich and famous, and he’d managed to see that his clients came out smelling like proverbial roses.
One woman, an up-and-coming actress who had a reputation with men, had been accused of shooting her lover after he’d been with another woman. Jackson had come up with enough blue smoke and mirrors to confuse and cloud the issue, and the actress, Colleen Mills, had walked out of the courtroom a free woman. Though the press had tried her in the newspapers and the evidence had been overwhelmingly against Colleen, she was now in Hollywood working on her next film. Rumor had it that she was giving an Oscar-worthy performance, as she had, no doubt, on the witness stand under Jackson’s direction.
He walked into the house and she closed the door after him. He didn’t look like a hotshot New York attorney in his faded black Levi’s, boots and T-shirt. A leather jacket—black, as well—was thrown over one shoulder and she wondered sarcastically if he’d joined a motorcycle gang and roared up on his Harley.
She almost smiled at the thought and realized that he looked much the way she remembered him, though his features had become leaner, more angular with the years. His hair was still on the long side, shiny black and straight, and his eyes, golden-brown and judgmental, didn’t miss a trick. Even the brush of thick lashes didn’t soften his virile male features. His gaze swept the room in one quick appraisal and probably found it lacking.
“It’s late. Why don’t you get to the point?” She perched on the rolled arm of the old overstuffed couch.
“As I said, I read your column.”
She couldn’t help but let a cold smile touch her lips. “Don’t try to convince me that you left your lucrative practice, flew across the country and came back to the village of the damned just because of something I wrote.”
“That’s about the size of it.” He dropped onto the ottoman, so close that his jean-clad knees nearly touched her dangling bare foot. She refused to shift away, but part of her attention was attuned to the proximity of her ankle to the hands he clasped between his parted knees. She wondered if, beneath the denim, there was a faded scar, an ever-present reminder of that night—that one beautiful, painful night.
Her gaze moved back to his and she caught him watching her. She blushed slightly.
“I think it would be better if you didn’t touch on the Fitzpatrick murder.”
Rachelle lifted her brows. “Afraid your reputation might be smeared if it’s all dredged up again?”
“My reputation is based on smears.” He almost looked sincere, but, as a lawyer, he was used to playing many parts, being on stage in the courtroom, convincing people to say and do what he wanted. She wasn’t buying into any of his act. “But there is a chance you’ll scare whoever did kill Roy, into reacting—maybe violently.”
“And you came all the way cross-country to tell me this?” she said, unable to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. Who did he think he was kidding?
“No,” he admitted, stretching his legs before standing and walking to the fireplace. A mirror was hung over the mantel, and in the reflection, his gaze sought hers. “I’m going to be straight with you, Rachelle. When I said I was going to settle things, I meant everything.” Turning, he faced her and his features were set in granite. “I’m going to look into the Fitzpatrick murder and clear my name. I don’t want you poking around and