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