Secrets and Lies: He's A Bad Boy / He's Just A Cowboy

“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.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

JACKSON WAS STILL STANDING on the threshold when the phone rang.

“I’ve got to get that,” she said, but he didn’t budge. Fine. Let him wait. She left him at the door and picked up the phone on the fourth ring.

“Rachelle?” David’s voice was warm and familiar. She heard him sigh with relief and a part of her melted inside. David was safe. She could count on him. He would never treat her as Jackson had.

“Hi.” She sneaked a peek at Jackson—still so darkly sensual. Well, his good looks and bloody sexuality did nothing for her. Nothing!

“You didn’t call,” David said, gently reprimanding her. His voice was filled with concern. “It’s getting late and I was worried.”

“Sorry,” she said automatically. “I just got in this morning and the phone wasn’t installed until four.” She tried to concentrate on the conversation, but slid a glance at Jackson, who didn’t seem the least bit bothered that he was eavesdropping. He didn’t even try to look interested in anything other than her.

“Well, so you’re okay?” David persisted.

“Fine. Just fine.”

“But you miss me,” he guessed, and she heard the tiny wheedle in his voice that was there every time he didn’t feel secure.

“Sure,” she replied. “Of course I miss you.”

“Good. Good. Look, I’m going to work the rest of this weekend, but I’ll get some free time at the end of next week and maybe I can come up and see you for a few days. Just you and me in the wilderness? Hmm?” he said suggestively, and Rachelle had to bite her tongue to keep from snapping at him. He had no idea that half their conversation was being dissected.

“I, uh, don’t think that would be such a great idea.” She felt heat climb up her neck. She turned her back to Jackson, tried to pretend that he wasn’t only a few feet from her, and attempted to ignore the knocking of her heart.

“Why not?” David asked in his suggestive voice. “We could have a good time.”

“I know we could, but this is serious stuff. I’m working.”

He sighed again, long and loud. Not quite so friendly. “It’s just a few columns, Rachelle. I thought we agreed that you’d go back, write whatever it is you have to, and then come back here. Pronto.”

“If it works out that way.”

“Well, try, won’t you? I miss you already.”

“Me, too,” she replied before saying goodbye and hanging up. She wanted to sag against the wall; there was something about her recent conversations with David that seemed to suck all the life right out of her. He wasn’t a controlling man, not really, not like Jackson, but he did try to manipulate her subtly, and that bothered her. He deftly attempted to mold her way of thinking to his. She would have preferred an out-and-out confrontation. She would have preferred an honest fight with someone like Jackson.

She brought herself up short. She didn’t mean that, of course; she couldn’t mean it.

“Trouble in paradise?” Jackson said with just a trace of sarcasm.

“No trouble. And definitely no paradise.”

He glanced at the phone. “Your husband?”

“Afraid not,” she replied breezily.

“Boyfriend?”

“Look, I don’t think it’s any of your business.”

Java slunk out of the bedroom. The black cat took one look at Jackson, arched her back and sidestepped back down the hall.

“Friendly,” Jackson remarked.

“You already told me to steer clear of the Fitzpatrick murder and I told you that I was going to do my job as I saw fit, so what is it you want from me, Jackson?” Rachelle finally asked. “I thought I made it clear that you weren’t welcome.”

His eyes held hers for an instant too long, and the back of her throat tightened in memory. “What I want…” he said with a twisted smile. He rubbed the back of his neck, his hair, still slightly on the long side, brushing his fingers. “That’s not easy.”

“Not what you want,” she clarified. “What you want from me. There’s a big difference.”

He crossed to the kitchen and hoisted one leg over a barstool. Seated at the bar, he could watch her as she wiped the kitchen counter for the third time. He leaned forward, elbows on the tile, hands clasped in front of him. “What’re you trying to accomplish by all this?”

Maybe it was time for honesty. “I needed to come back here, clear up my feelings about the past, reexamine this town because it’s time I got on with my future.”

“With the guy on the phone?”

She met his gaze boldly. “Yes.”

“He gonna give you everything you want?” Jackson asked, and when she hesitated, he added, “You know, I’m surprised. I thought by now you’d probably be married and have a couple of kids.”

She flinched inside at the mention of children. For as long as she could remember, she’d wanted a baby, a child to raise. For a short time, twelve years ago, she’d fantasized about being pregnant and having Jackson’s child. All things considered, she was lucky she hadn’t conceived.

“You may as well know,” she said, tucking the towel into the handle of the oven door. “Monday morning I’m interviewing Thomas Fitzpatrick.”

Jackson’s expression changed. His smile fell and his eyes turned dark. “Why not start at the top?” he asked sarcastically.

“Whether you like it or not, he’s the single most important man in this town. For the past twenty-five years, he’s shaped the future of Gold Creek.”

“Lucky him.” He climbed off the stool. “I’m surprised he agreed to talk to you.”

“So was I. But he probably decided that he couldn’t dodge me forever and even if he tried, it wouldn’t look good. Remember the man is supposed to have political aspirations.”

Jackson’s eyebrows quirked. “You like to live dangerously.”

She stared at him long and hard. “I did once,” she admitted. “But that was a long time ago.”

She walked to the front door again and held it open. “I don’t think we have much more to say to each other, Jackson,” she whispered, though the questions that had bothered her for twelve years still swam in her mind. Why had he never called? Once he was released from jail, why didn’t he stop by? Why had he left her to battle the town all by herself? And why, oh why, had he never so much as mentioned the night that she’d given herself to him, body and soul?

This time he left. He paused only for a second at the door, and for an insane instant Rachelle thought he was going to kiss her. His gaze caressed hers then moved to her mouth.

Her lungs stopped taking in air as his gaze shifted back to hers. “I hope you find what you’re looking for,” he said as if he really meant it. Her heart ached dully for an instant, and when he traced her jaw with one lean finger, she didn’t have the strength to pull away.

“I think you should go,” she said, and he touched her lips with his thumb. Inside she was melting, her pulse rocketing, but she didn’t move a muscle.

“Do you?” he said, and in his expression he silently called her a liar.

“Absolutely.” She grabbed hold of his wrist and shoved his hand away from her face. Beneath her fingertips she felt his own pulse, quick but steady, and the smell of him, all male and clean, filled her nostrils. “Just because we’re back in the same town, doesn’t mean we have to see each other.”

A sardonic smile curved his lips. “No?” he asked, disbelieving. “You think we can stay away from each other?”

“It hasn’t been a problem for the last twelve years.”

“But now we’re back in Gold Creek, aren’t we? I doubt that we can avoid each other.”

“We can try.” She dropped his hand and refused to acknowledge his insolent grin.

“Gold Creek’s a small town. But you’re right, we can try.” Without so much as a goodbye, he crossed the porch, grabbed hold of the rail and vaulted into the yard. Within seconds, he’d disappeared into the shadows.

Jackson Moore.

Back in the town that had cast him out.

Back with a vengeance.

And she needed a damned interview with him!

Rachelle closed the door and threw the dead bolt into place as the sound of a car’s engine roared to life.

* * *

JACKSON MENTALLY KICKEDhimself all the way back to his motel. What in God’s name had he been thinking? He hadn’t intended on making a pass at Rachelle. In fact, he’d faced her just to prove to himself that his memory of her was skewed; that she wasn’t as attractive today as she had been on that long-ago emotion-riddled night.

He’d dealt with his guilt over leaving her by telling himself that they’d made love, she’d lost her virginity because of the circumstances, because they were thrust together and scared, because they were young and stupid. He’d convinced himself that he’d overdramatized their lovemaking in his mind and that she wouldn’t affect him now as she had then.

Wrong.

He’d been stunned at the sight of her. While in high school, she’d been pretty, now she was beautiful, not in a classic sense, but beautiful nonetheless.

But beauty usually didn’t get to him. He was surrounded by beautiful women, women who were interested in him because of his notoriety or his money. He usually didn’t give a damn.

Rachelle was different. She looked more womanly now than she had twelve years before; her face had lost all the round edges of adolescence. Her cheekbones were more pronounced and her body language gave the impression that she was a woman who knew what she wanted and went after it. Until she’d taken the phone call. The atmosphere in the room had changed then; she’d seemed more submissive somehow, a little less secure.

Whoever the guy was on the other end of the line, Jackson didn’t like him. And so, he himself had come on to Rachelle.

He pulled into the parking lot of his motel and gritted his teeth. Leave her alone, he kept telling himself as he pocketed his keys and climbed the stairs to his room on the second floor. She doesn’t want you and she’s better off with the jerk who called her.

Inside the room, he tossed off his jacket and headed to the bar. He needed a drink. Seeing Rachelle again was a shock. His reaction to her was even more of a shock. And what he was going to do about the next couple of weeks scared the hell out of him.

* * *

AVOIDING JACKSON DIDN’T prove to be easy, Rachelle learned to her chagrin. Gold Creek was just too small to get lost in. She’d seen him walking into the Buckeye and caught him having breakfast at the Railway Café. She’d even watched him work an automatic teller machine at one of the two banks in town.

Now Rachelle half expected to see him at Fitzpatrick Logging where she was rebuffed by a sweet-smiling receptionist. “I’m sorry, but there must’ve been some mistake. Mr. Fitzpatrick is out of town for several days,” she was told.

“But I’ve got an appointment with Mr. Fitzpatrick,” she replied firmly. “My editor set it up a week ago.”

The receptionist, Marge Elkins, lifted her plump shoulders and rolled her palms into the air. “I’m sorry. There must’ve been some mix-up, but if you’d like to speak to Mr. Fitzpatrick’s son, Brian, I could fit you in within the next couple of days.”

Why not? Rachelle thought. She may as well start with someone she knew, someone at the top of Gold Creek’s economic ladder. “I’d like that.”

“Mmm.” Marge flipped through an appointment book. “He’s free Wednesday morning,” she said. “How about eleven?”

“That would be fine,” Rachelle agreed, her curiosity aroused. “So Brian works here with his father?”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Fitzpatrick, Mr. Brian Fitzpatrick is president of the company,” the friendly woman told Rachelle as she scratched a note in the appointment book. “His father only works a few days a week—more of a consultant than anything else. He’s busy with the rest of his businesses. Oh, here—our annual report.” She reached into a drawer and pulled out a glossy folder. Inside, along with pictures of the board members, which consisted mainly of the Fitzpatrick family, were graphs and charts on productivity at the logging company as well as a list of other enterprises that comprised the Fitzpatrick empire.

Rachelle thumbed through the report as she walked away from the receptionist’s desk. Brian? In charge of the logging company? Rachelle was surprised. In school, Brian had always been more interested in sports than academics. She’d heard from her mother that Brian had married Laura but, of course, Rachelle hadn’t been invited to the wedding. During the remainder of their senior year at Tyler High, Laura had made a point of keeping her distance from Rachelle.

All because of Jackson, Rachelle thought with a trace of bitterness. Though, if given the same set of circumstances, Rachelle would have stood up for him again. He was innocent, damn it, and no matter what else happened, she’d never believe him capable of murder.

Frowning at the turn of her memories, she shoved open the door and stepped outside. The air was clear, a hint of sunshine permeating thin clouds. Behind the low-slung building housing the offices of Fitzpatrick Logging was a huge yard surrounded by a chain-link fence and guarded by a pair of black Doberman pinschers who paced in a kennel that ran along the fence. Warnings were posted on the chain link. A few signs cautioned employees to wear hard hats and work safely. Other signs threatened would-be trespassers.

Trucks, loaded with logs, rumbled in and out of the yard. Cranes lifted the loads from the trucks, to be stacked in huge piles, while other trucks hauled their cargo away from the yard, presumably to a sawmill down the road.

Rachelle’s boots crunched on the gravel of the parking lot and so immersed was she in the report she’d received from Marge Elkins, she didn’t notice Jackson leaning against the dusty fender of her Escort.

“Short meeting,” he commented, and she nearly jumped out of her skin.

“Wha—oh!” Her hand flew to her throat and she almost dropped the shiny-paged report. Though she’d thought he might show up, still he startled her. “What’re you doing here?”

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