A Different Kind of Man. Suzanne Cox
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“If you’ll come in for a minute, I’ll get my keys, while we have some tea.”
The polite thing would have been to ask if she wanted to join him for dinner. But she’d already said she had to get back home, so he wasn’t being completely inhospitable. He should have been angry with her after yesterday, instead of wondering if he was being a good host. Somehow the whole thing only made him want to grin. A good sign that he’d put all his pent-up anger behind him. He placed her glass of tea on the bar while he admired the way loose strands from her ponytail framed her face. His fingers itched to pull the elastic band off to see how far her hair fell down her back.
He poured tea in his own glass while giving himself a mental butt kicking. He’d known this woman for less than forty-eight hours. In two years he’d never been tempted to cross the line he’d drawn in the sand. He certainly wasn’t going to start now.
“So how does an Arkansas boy, turned Chicago dweller, end up in Cypress Landing, Louisiana?”
He smiled—though he imagined it looked a little forced—while he made a decision only to give her the basics. She didn’t need to know how rough the road was that had brought him here.
“When I first started at the FBI I worked on missing children cases. I came here to help with a string of abductions that were happening.”
“Of course, I remember you. Or at least I remember FBI agents being here. I was new in SAR back then, and I didn’t work on those cases. I guess I never met you.”
“You might have. I had hair back then and no goatee. Right after that I made a move from missing children to working organized crime.” He didn’t mention that after his daughter had been born he couldn’t take seeing what often happened to children who were abducted. “Anyway, I worked organized crime a couple of years then decided to leave the FBI. Matt and I had become friends when I was here and he offered me a job. I really liked the town and I didn’t want to go back to Arkansas.” That would have been too much like hiding, and he didn’t want to have any slipups with his self-control in his own hometown. “So, here I am.”
She nodded, and he tried to let go of the breath he felt like he’d been holding. Obviously, the flimsy story made sense to her.
The phone rang, startling Emalea. She’d been trying to remember Jackson being in Cypress Landing, but that had been years ago. He stepped to the counter to get the phone, while she continued to sip her iced tea. So far so good. He hadn’t made any references to yesterday. As a matter of fact, he was being absolutely cordial. Kind of odd after the way she’d behaved at the bar.
Standing in the kitchen with him while he was on the phone almost felt like eavesdropping, so she wandered through a wide archway into the next room and paused in front of a small mahogany table with several pictures on it. In the other room Jackson ended the conversation and she heard drawers opening and closing.
“I’ll be ready in a minute,” he shouted. “I need to find a phone number and make a quick call.”
Emalea didn’t respond but stood staring at the pictures in front of her. The first silver frame held a photo of Jackson with two men and a younger girl. The resemblance was too strong for them to be anyone other than his brothers and sister. A wistful smile drifted along her lips. Two more pictures framed in silver caught her eye.
“Do you know where the SAR training will be held?”
Emalea jumped at the question. He hadn’t looked up from the drawer he was digging in. She continued to stand by the table. “I’m not sure.”
He must not have thought her mumbled response unusual, because he continued plundering in the drawer. She lifted the pictures from the table. One was Jackson with a beautiful blond woman and an equally beautiful blond little girl. The other was of the woman and the girl alone.
Her breath caught in her throat. She’d never considered that he might be married. Not that it mattered to her, but why weren’t they here? Maybe they were coming after he got settled.
She glanced back toward him. “Is this your family?” No reason to beat around the bush; if the guy was married or divorced or whatever, he ought to let someone know.
Jackson, half smiling, turned to answer, but froze at the sight of the pictures in her hand. An array of emotions contorted his face, making Emalea regret the question. He strode to the sink—his back to her—and stopped to grasp the edge of the counter.
Returning the pictures to the table, she went in to the kitchen, immediately noticing his white-knuckle grip. Tread carefully, she cautioned herself, this might be a subject that makes him angry. She didn’t want to make him angry with her, not while they were alone at his house. Although this time, her usual flash of fear was absent. The sickly mask of stone that had settled onto him concerned her more.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“Of course you did. But it’s okay. They died, back in Chicago two years ago, car accident.” He slowly relaxed his grip.
“I’m truly sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t mean to bring up a bad memory.”
He nodded, still gazing out the window as though he might see something in the darkening sky. “You’re lucky if you haven’t had to deal with losing someone in your family.”
“My mother was killed in an accident when I was twelve.” Emalea fought the urge to slap her hand over her mouth. Why in heaven’s name had she said that? He didn’t need to know about her past. An accident? What a stretch.
“I’m sorry for your loss. Were you not able to stay with your dad? Is that why you went to live with your aunt and uncle?”
She wondered if she could say she had to go to the bathroom, then just never answer his question. “My dad was… Well he wasn’t around after my mom died.”
Jackson didn’t respond, seemingly satisfied with her rough interpretation of the truth. His fingers tapped absently on the counter.
“It’s still not like losing your wife and child, though. I’m sorry.”
He was quiet and she thought the conversation had ended.
“It should never have happened. It was my fault.”
The words were spoken so softly Emalea wasn’t sure if she’d actually heard them. If she considered what he said through the filter of her own past, she’d run out the door. But she didn’t even feel the fear that had once resided constantly inside her. Even though he appeared physically capable of doing whatever he wanted, he didn’t seem to have that spark of pure meanness that could make men dangerous. He didn’t notice that she stared at him, and she was glad because she couldn’t stop. She realized she desperately wanted Jackson not to be like other men she’d known.
“I guess I better get you home.” He stepped away from the sink, grabbing a set of keys from the bar. “You want to go in my truck or on the motorcycle?”
“Truck,” she responded quickly. An image of being on the motorcycle with her arms wrapped around him was too much.
“What about the phone call you needed to make?”
He shook his head. “It can wait.”
CLASSIC ROCK MUSIC HID the fact they weren’t talking. She had only spoken to give him directions, and Jackson easily found her small house at the end of a short driveway. Huge live oak branches hung low in her yard. The whole scene sent waves of peacefulness washing over him.
“Live here by yourself?”
“Yeah, my aunt and uncle live just around the corner from their shop in town but I like it here.”
He rubbed his hand across the dashboard. “It’s been quite a change for me from the city. I’m enjoying the solitude, most of the time anyway. I appreciate your bringing the bike and having tea with me.”
It was true, even though he’d had to speak of his family. Something he