Secrets and Lies

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 getting in the way.”

She should have expected this much, she supposed. Shaking her head, she said, “So you’re afraid that I’m going to rain on your parade. That I might find out what really happened that night and steal your thunder.”

“That’s not it—”

“Sure it is, Moore. Look, I’ve read all about you. I know you don’t give a damn about your reputation or what happened to any of the people you left behind when you hooked your thumb on the highway and made your way out of this town. But if you think you’re going to come back here, cover up the truth and ruin my story, you’d better guess again.” She climbed off the sofa and advanced on him, her chin lifted proudly, the anger in her eyes meeting his. “I’m not the same little frightened girl you left sniveling after you, Jackson.”

“All grown up and a regular bad-ass reporter?” he drawled, baiting her.

“You got it.”

He sighed, his mask slipping a little. “What happened to you, Rachelle?” he asked, some of his insolence stripping away as he stared at her.

She didn’t want to see another side to him; didn’t want to know that, beneath his jaded New York attitude, beat a heart that had once touched hers. Nor did she want him to guess that he had any effect on her whatsoever. She was over him. She was! Then why did her pulse jump at the sight of him?

Shaking inside, she walked to the door and opened it, silently inviting him to leave. Her voice, when she finally found it, was barely a whisper. “You did, Jackson. You’re what happened to me. And for that, you’re lucky I’m just holding the door open for you and not calling the police and demanding a restraining order.”

His eyes glinted. “Does this mean the wedding’s off?” he teased cruelly, and Rachelle’s heart tore a little.

“This means that I never want to see you again, Jackson.”

He crossed the room, but stood in the doorway, staring down at her. “I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

“I don’t think so. Just walk out the door, find the nearest plane and fly back to the East Coast. Everyone here was doing fine before you showed up. We’ll all manage to survive without you.”

“Will you?” he asked, skepticism lifting a dark brow.

“Go, Jackson. Or I will call the police.”

“And here I thought you’d be anxious for an interview with me.”

The man’s gall was unbelievable. But his reasoning was right on target. “Believe it or not, I’m not a Jackson Moore groupie,” she replied, knowing that she was lying more than a little. She’d already half promised Marcy an interview with Gold Creek’s most notorious son.

“You were once,” he said, and his voice sounded softer, smooth as silk.

Her throat caught, and she remembered vividly how she’d lost her virginity with this very man. She’d tried to blame him for that loss over the years, but she couldn’t. Even now she realized that she’d given herself to him willingly. But what was worse, was the knowledge that she might, given the right circumstances, do it all over again.

“That was a long time ago, Jackson, when I was young and naive and believed in fairy tales. I trusted you, stood up for you and told everyone how innocent you were. But I’m all grown up now and I’ll never believe you again.” She forced a cold smile she hoped would pierce that insolent armor he wore so boldly. “Even fools eventually grow up.”

His eyes burned black. “I’m innocent.”

She let out a slow breath, her fingers clenching around the hard wood of the door. “Innocent?” She shook her head. “I believe you didn’t kill Roy Fitzpatrick twelve years ago, I believe you think you’re here to clear your name, but, Jackson, we both know you’re far from innocent.”

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