Keep No Secrets (55 page)

Perhaps he simply believes she's done enough damage already. She can't imagine he will welcome Earl's bright idea to invite her to join their firm.

She stands when she hears voices just outside the door, a key in the lock. Why did she lock it? She brushes the dust from the back of her skirt.

The door swings in and Earl comes through first, Jack just behind him.

They're talking, something innocuous from their easy tone, and she suddenly knows that Earl didn't tell Jack she'd be here.
Damn him
.

Earl moves farther into the room and sets his briefcase on the drywall next to her, but Jack stops short just past the threshold and stares at her. Something is different about him. His expression is unreadable but intense, so intense she finds herself trying to remember if the house has a back door through which to escape.

"Jenny."

She stands taller and tries to meet his gaze without withering. She tries to summon the woman from the mirror. She tries to remember the warrior who railed at Earl in the coffee shop. She glares at Earl now to show her displeasure at his stunt.

"What's going on?" Jack asks.

"This is the prospect I told you about.

I think she'd make a perfect fit, don't you?"

"
What's going on?
" Louder, stronger.

Still unreadable. Still staring at her.

"Just what I said. An interview. And everything I told you about the candidate is accurate."

"But incomplete. You left out a few minor details, starting with a name."

"Hmm, that's true. I did."

"Are you suggesting you want her to join your firm?"

Her
. Jenny stifles a wince, feeling exposed and invisible all at once. "Jack, I'm sorry, I didn't—"

"
Our
firm," Earl says in answer to Jack as if Jenny wasn't speaking. "Yes, but only if you agree."

If this is how it will be, with the two of them ignoring her, Earl can take his idea and shove it. "Hey, I—"

"I'd like to speak with her alone," Jack says.

Earl looks to Jenny for agreement, and even though she's fuming, she nods slightly. He picks up his briefcase to leave.

"I'll call you when we're done," Jack adds.

"You'll take care of locking up?"

"I'll call you when we're done," he repeats. Not once does he look away from her.

Jenny glances at Earl, hoping for a hint to Jack's mood, or
something
, but Earl simply winks at her. As if she's supposed to know what that means.

Jenny gets relief from Jack's

penetrating stare when he moves to lock the door behind Earl.

"I guess the suit came in handy." He loosens his tie as he talks, but even so, she sees the slight tremble of his hands.

She looks down at herself as if she forgot she's wearing the green suit. "Yes."

She's about to tell him that she's back home in Lafayette Square and purposely picked this suit from many, but instead says quietly, "Thank you. For bringing it to me, I mean." When he simply stands there, hands in pockets, she says, "The offices will be nice when they're finished."

"Did Earl give you a tour?"

"I gave myself one, while I waited. I hope that was okay."

"Pick out an office?"

She thinks she detected sarcasm, not good-natured teasing. She pretends not to notice.

"So," she says, sweeping her arm to gesture at the offices, "which one will be yours?"

He tilts his head, motioning her to follow him. He leads her to one of the two rooms at the front of the house, in the southwest corner. Late day sunlight shoots through the two west-facing front windows and captures the dust motes hanging weightlessly in the air. She crosses through the beams to look out the bay window on the south wall. A large oak shades a small side garden and brick path leading to the rear yard. The path is lined with ivy and flowering shrubs.

She laughs a bit. "How fitting."

He comes closer, so close their

shoulders touch, and looks out with her.

"What?"

She sits on the wide sill and points at a shrub that drips with an abundance of hot pink flowers. "See the little heart-shaped flowers? They're called Bleeding Heart." She sneaks a glance at him to see if he gets her ribbing about his left-leaning tendencies, and that's when she realizes what's different about him. He's letting his facial hair grow in again. She hopes this time it's intentional.

She fears he misunderstood the

comment, but he finally cracks a reluctant grin.

"It'll be lovely," she says. "Your office, I mean. It's got good light."

"I thought so, too. Earl preferred the cooler north side, so it worked out."

He keeps his eyes aimed on the scene outside the window, but she knows he's aware of her studied gaze.

"How have you been, Jack?"

He swallows, and just when she thinks he's going to ignore the question, he says,

"I've been better."

"Earl said you're living at Mark's."

He nods. "I figured I'd wait until after I announce my resignation before finding some place permanent. After that, Wolfe and the rest of them will be on to the next thing and won't pay attention to where I go." He laughs softly, but it's tinged with bitterness. "He's not there much, anyway."

"Who?"

"Mark. He spends a lot of time with Claire."

Jenny's shock must have been evident from her expression, because he quickly adds, "No, it's not what you're thinking.

He wouldn't do that, not unless he made sure I was okay with it. He's just being a friend to her right now. He's always had a soft spot for her, and she for him. It's a good thing he's doing."

Despite defending his brother, Jack's adding of "right now" to his explanation suggests to Jenny that he believes the relationship might later change. She can't tell how he feels about that.

Turning back to the window, she hears children playing in a distant yard, and she wonders if it will be hard for him to hear that sound every day.

"Do you regret your decision?" she asks.

"Which one?"

She looks up at him in surprise. "Jack

—"

He shakes his head. "I know what you're asking." He meets her eye. "No. I miss my kids, not seeing them every day, and . . ." He hesitates, as if he's weighing whether to say the rest of what's on his mind. "I have this unrelenting sadness because we couldn't manage to keep it together, but no, I don't regret the decision. It was the right one."

She wants to tell him she's sorry, but she knows coming from her, the

sentiment will only sound self-serving.

She thought she knew what Earl meant when he accused her of having Jack exactly where she wanted him, and she doesn't think this was it.

"I should have called you," he says. "I owe you an apology."

"For what?"

"For ever doubting you."

"No, you don't—"

"But it wasn't just that . . ."

He stops talking and her stomach

twists with dread. "I'm listening."

"I wanted it to be for the right reasons."

She stands and faces him. "I don't understand." He reaches up and pushes a loose strand of hair off her cheek in the same gentle manner he once used to. She grips his hand before it drops. "Please tell me what you mean."

"I'm not sure how."

"Try."

He breathes deep. "I didn't want to make the mistake of coming to you for comfort while I licked my wounds. I wanted to be fair to you, by waiting to make sure I had my head on straight and I
was
coming to you for the right reasons."

Her eyes tear up. She tries to turn so he won't see, but he catches her by the arm. "I'm sorry. I know it doesn't make sense."

"But it does. I just wish you’d called and told me. I didn't know what to think.

I gave you that report, and I thought you'd hate me after you read it. And then I saw the news online about what Claire said on the stand, and I was so confused.

How could your own wife say something like that, and yet from you, silence?" The tears come anyway. She slumps back onto the window sill. "God, Jack, I'm sorry. I really didn't want to do this. I don't mean to sound like I expect anything from you.

And I
really
didn't want to become a blubbering idiot, either."

This gets a genuine laugh from him.

He squats so that he's level with her.

"Jen, look at me." He waits until she reluctantly complies and then hands her a handkerchief. Now she laughs, too, because he did the same thing when she was first arrested for Maxine's murder and he visited her at the jail. "You truly have no idea what you do to me, do you?"

he asks. "I was a mess that night after seeing the report. If I'd called you, do you think I would have been able to stay away from you? The better part of me realized how pathetic that would have been."

"I wouldn't have thought you were pathetic."

"Maybe not then. But at some point you would have wondered whether you were just a substitute."

Would she have? She can't honestly say.

"Even after Alex took the plea bargain, I was afraid to call you. I knew if I so much as made a move in your direction, you'd be skewered. I didn't want you to have to hide anymore. Until I get off the radar, they'll be watching everything I do."

"You think I care about that?"

"I care about that. I saw what they did to Claire. Even though they saw her as a victim, they still used her when it served their purposes. Just imagine what they'll do to you."

She hands the handkerchief back to him. "I don't get it. What, exactly, do you care about? What 'they' think? Who
are

'they', anyway?"

"I care about
you
, and what they'll do to you."

"
Who are 'they'
, Jack? Tell me."

"I'm talking about the press. And everyone. This town."

"The
press
? What more can the press do to me? Have you forgotten what they put me through a few years ago?"

"No. That's why—"

"Do I look that delicate?"

As soon as she speaks the words, she understands. His hands hold hers and his thumb rubs her wrist the way it did when he first asked to see the scar. She's not sure he even realizes he's doing it. She quickly stands, but he rises with her.

"Jenny." He holds tight to her hands.

"Please tell me this isn't the reason you're resigning. I hope you don't feel forced to give up something you love in some misguided attempt to protect me, because I don't need protection. I almost wanted Alex to turn down the deal so I could finally get on the stand and tell the world my side of the story."

"I'm resigning for the same reason you think those flowers are so fitting."

She scoffs. "You really think you'll be able to represent the other side and feel good about it?"

"When the other side is a defendant like you or me, yeah, I do."

"And when they're not? Because most times, they're not. You know that."

He shrugs. "Even the guilty are entitled to a lawyer."

"Yeah? What will you do when the guy who raped and murdered the little girl down the street wants to hire you?"

"I guess I'll try and keep him off death row."

She can't help but laugh. They've slipped right back into their old arguments, the same ones that sparked their attraction to each other and kept it going for so many years. "You really are a bleeding heart, you know that?"

"So I've been told." A rogue grin sprouts on his face.

"I was so afraid you hated me."

He frowns. When he realizes she's referring to the PI report again, he says,

"Why would I hate you for something you had nothing to do with?"

"I don't know. Kill the messenger, I guess."

He steps closer, and she has nowhere to go but against the window frame.

"Look. You're right. I should have called you. Maybe I was being stupid, but I didn't want us to start something that way."

"Are we starting something?"

"I hope so." He reaches around and pulls the pin that holds her hair in a twist.

The hair falls but is still bound at the nape of her neck with a hair band. He tugs to remove this, too. She closes her eyes for a moment as he combs his fingers through.

"Why, because Earl put in a rush order?"

"Because sometimes Earl knows me better than I know myself."

She wants to be skeptical, but she can't stop a small smile. As if that's the only cue he needs, he kisses her, at first gently, but harder when she returns it. Like an octopus, his hands seem to be everywhere at once—in her hair, behind her neck, at the small of her back as he tries to press her closer and then closer still. She responds eagerly, weaving a leg around his ankle as her hands brush against the stubble on his face before finding their way to his shoulders and down his back.

She hears a rumble from deep in his throat, and she understands. They can't get to each other fast enough now that they've given themselves permission.

Everything else—their clothes, the empty room with only nails and random tools strewn dangerously across the foundation, even his grief and her fear of telling him what she knows she must tell him—all will be dispensed with quickly or dealt with another time.

One by one, he unfastens the silk-covered buttons of her jacket. Only then does his mouth finally leave hers and move down to the side of her neck, into her hair, brushing her jaw and ear along the way. He meets the camisole

underneath and mumbles, "too many layers," and all at once he hoists her up and carries her, laughing and legs wrapped around him, back into the lobby.

Somehow he sets her down at the end of the drywall without dropping her.

"Such strength, Mr. Hilliard."

"You have no idea," he says, and she laughs again.

He removes his coat and tosses it over the sawhorse. The tie follows. She lies back when he moves to join her, and for a moment his kisses are gentler as he hovers over her. When he stops and with an earnest expression says, "You are so beautiful," all she can do is try not to cry.

She knows he's not referring to her appearance.

He hikes up her skirt and sees the thigh-high stockings, the garters. "Sweet Jesus, do you always dress like this under your skirts?"