Live and Let Love (10 page)

“Nothing about remembering Jack is unpleasant.” Her voice trembled with emotion and
her eyes shone as she looked at him.

She misses me.

Was she trying to kill him? It took all he had not to let any more emotion than the
curiosity of a stranger show on his face as he beeped the car unlocked and opened
the door for her. She was so slight, he could have carried her the half mile home.
But he didn’t think she’d go for that, and he didn’t know how he’d keep his hands
off her once he’d held her in his arms again. So he elected to burn the gas.

“Your late husband must have been some man.” He tried to sound noncommittal, conversational.
“Not Italian, was he?”

“Not that I know of.” She slid in and looked up at him as he prepared to close her
car door.

He caught himself acting as he used to, as himself. He liked to gently shut her in
the car, protect her.

Willow stared up at him as if he was the second coming of Jack, a lover across time
and death.

“Not that you know of?” He made himself slam the door just a little too hard. Or maybe
he was more frustrated than he’d thought. He walked around the car and slid into the
driver’s seat.

She answered as he buckled up. “Jack was mysterious. He had a few close friends, but
otherwise was pretty much a loner. He didn’t like to talk about himself, his childhood,
or his family. He said they were all unpleasant.” She yawned and covered her mouth.

“His father is gone. I only met his mother and brother twice. At our wedding and his
funeral. I didn’t get much of a chance to get to know them on either occasion. Jack
didn’t keep in touch with them. His past is pretty much a mystery to me.”

His mother.
He was glad
he
hadn’t had to deal with her at his funeral. Now there was a picture—the old lady
putting on grief. Did she really have a heart? He was damned glad to be dead to her.

There are very few people who grow up to be killers. You had to either be a born psychopath
or endure a hellacious childhood. Jack had had the latter and preferred to forget
it, and the people who peopled it, as much as possible. There was one benefit in playing
Con—he could make up a happy childhood and play off Aldo’s great big loving family.

Jack stuck the key in the ignition. “A little mystery is good for a relationship.”
The irony of that statement was almost too much.

She seemed to catch it. “Is it?”

She stared at him with the moonlight reflected in her eyes and rolled down her window.
Willow didn’t like being confined. She loved the feel of cool night air blowing through
her hair. And right now she was probably hoping it would wake her up. All she really
needed were a few hours to sleep it off.

As if she willed it, a gentle breeze blew in, tinged with the crisp cold of autumn.

“That’s what they tell me.” He fired up the car and pulled out of the driveway.

The drive to her house took less than two minutes, even cruising along the gravel
road at a whopping 25 miles per hour and resisting showing off with any extreme driving
maneuvers. He’d have loved to take her for a long drive, show off his skills. But
he had the feeling she’d sleep through it anyway. She kept nodding off.

He parked the car by the front door and turned off the ignition. “I’ll walk you in.”

“Afraid I’ll pass out again?” Her tone was light, even as she studied him with intensity
and suspicion.

Ah, suspicious minds.

“Just doing my duty. You look beat and I promised to see you safely home.”

They got out of the car. He walked her to the front door, resisting the urge to put
his arm around her again. She looked steady enough on her feet to manage on her own,
though she moved drowsily. There was a light on in the house and porch light on above
the entry where they stood.

She unlocked and opened the door before pausing and studying him, lingering as if
she was in no hurry to go inside and conversely looking at the same time as if she
longed for her bed. She stood too close to him for comfort. His comfort. And looked
up at him practically begging to be kissed. She looked so sexy with that sleepy, drowsy
expression.

As he inhaled the sensual scent of her perfume, he wasn’t in any hurry to leave, either.
He looked deep into her eyes, mesmerized, when he knew he should take a step back
and walk away. But he was held in place by the sense of peace he always felt in her
presence. By the warmth of her personality and his desire for her and the way she
used to love him.

Since he’d found her years ago, Willow had been the one good, truly good, person and
thing in his life. In his world of violence and death, Willow would never harm anyone
or anything. Especially him. She did nothing but love him. He didn’t deserve it. He’d
never deserve the love of such a gentle, caring woman. But it seemed so natural to
kiss her good night, just as he had hundreds of nights before. Just one small kiss—

It was madness, but he bent his head toward hers. She angled her head and wrapped
her arms around his neck, pressed her soft sweater into his until he could feel her
warmth through the cashmere between them.

Every part of his body went hard and stood at attention as he gently brushed her lips.
Willow kissed him back softly, tentatively, as if this were the first time, a first
kiss.

He knew her theories about sexual chemistry and how a kiss would either reveal it
or show it sadly lacking. He should have restrained himself, but he could no more
stop himself than cease breathing. Longing thrummed through his body and ran his blood
hot with desire.

Her kiss, gentle and sweet as it was, almost broke him the way hours of torture could
not. She opened her mouth to him. He had to restrain himself. He wanted to kiss her
as if he possessed her. Instead, he kissed her just deeply enough to make her body
tremble, until he knew she felt the chemistry, too.

He could have lingered in that kiss, swept her in his arms, and taken her to bed.
But he came to his senses just in time, pulled back, and broke the kiss, shaken. “Willow—”

“Yes?” She stared up at him. He read her expression easily enough—she’d felt the desire,
too. And then she yawned again.

“I’m sorry. Again. I shouldn’t have … I took advantage. You’re overwrought. And tired.”
He took a deep breath, reaching for that concerned stranger within him, trying to
fend off the husband who wanted her desperately.

She was breathing hard, if somewhat sleepily, and staring at him, looking almost triumphant.
Which frightened the hell out of him.

Just then Spookie, the killer watchdog, barked and came charging from the deep recesses
of the house. Jack heard her toenails clicking on Willow’s hardwood floors as she
approached. Spookie appeared from around a corner, growling. She took one look at
him, and stopped dead in her tracks.

It was a crucial moment. “Hey, girl,” he said, kneeling to get down on her level,
where he could stare her in the eye without Willow being able to see his expression.
Many people assume dogs, who have poor vision as a whole, recognize their owners by
smell and voice. But Jack knew dogs inside and out. Dogs recognize their owner’s faces
and read emotion on them similar to the way humans do. He looked just different enough
that Spookie would probably be confused. At least for an initial moment.

He loved that dog and hated what he was about to do to his poor pup. But it was for
her own good. As he reached to pet her, he gave her a hard stare and a disapproving
alpha-male back-off scowl. His little Spookie was a coward at heart. She whimpered
and dashed off.

Why did Jack always have to scare off those he loved? Sometimes he hated this job.

He stood and looked at Willow, putting a heavy dose of apology and confusion in his
expression and voice. “Sorry! I’m scaring everyone tonight. Dogs generally like me.
Honest.”

She stared at him without answering.

Just then he noticed a spray of cockscomb in a vase on her entryway table and his
blood ran cold. From the Rooster, no doubt. A coded message for Jack, should he see
it. No one else would recognize it as such.

I’m close to your wife. I have access to her home. I’m after you.

Jack composed himself and pointed. “What are those ugly flowers?”

“Cockscomb. From Shane.”

“Interesting choice. They look a bit like brains.” The flowers were probably bugged.
Jack had to get them out of her house. “Wait. Is that a whitefly I see on them? Or
aphids, maybe? You need to get those out of your house. They’ll infect everything.”

Willow looked alarmed. “I didn’t notice.”

He stepped past her into the house and grabbed the flowers. “May I?”

She nodded.

“I’ll just take these away and dump them for you.”

“Sure.” Willow looked relieved to get rid of them.

Jack glanced down at the flowers and back up at Willow. “I’d better go. You look dead
on your feet and need your rest. Good night.” He turned to leave but somehow couldn’t
make himself go. He had to see her again, convince her he wasn’t Jack. Even though
of course he was.

He also had to distract her from Kennett. And he couldn’t have her wondering all her
life if he was still alive. He had to convince her otherwise. “Can I make things up
to you? Take you out for coffee?” Coffee seemed safe. “Pay for your cleaning?”

“No need to pay for cleaning. I’ll just toss these in the washer.” She smiled. “But
I’d love to go for coffee. Tomorrow morning? Before the madness hits?”

He nodded. “Name the place”

“Bluff Country Store. Ten?” She covered her mouth, trying to stifle a yawn.

Good luck with that.
He made the best XTC around.

“I promise I’ll be more awake and better company.” She paused. “I don’t know what’s
come over me.”

But he did. “Sounds good. I look forward to coffee with a fully alert you.” He smiled
at her. “Don’t beat yourself up. You’ve had a long, stressful, busy day. A few hours’
sleep should fix you up.”

She nodded. “Tomorrow then. Fully awake. And if I’m not, Ada’s coffee will do the
trick. That’s probably what you were thinking, right?”

He laughed and nodded. As Jack walked away with the Rooster’s coded flowers he couldn’t
believe he’d just made a date with his wife.

*   *   *

Willow shut the door and, holding back the curtains, watched through the side window
by the door as Con drove off. When his taillights disappeared down the drive, she
let her lacy curtains fall back into place and fell to a sit on the cold, hard floor.
She was too unsteady to remain on her feet another minute. And too tired, too. At
this rate, she was going to have to crawl to bed. That man, whoever he really was,
had the power to take her breath away and render her unconscious with a look.

She’d never met a man with that kind of power over her before. Except Jack.

When Con had kissed her, she felt that jolt of attraction she’d known would be there.

She must be overwrought. Either that or Aldo had just created the world’s first 190-proof
wine and one glass had done her in. Something had gone to her head.

But the root cause of her unsteadiness was pretty simple—the uncertainty, was Con
Jack or not? Was Jack very much alive? Or was fate playing a cruel trick on her by
throwing his almost perfect twin in her face at the least opportune moment?

She couldn’t believe she was even contemplating that Jack could be alive. That Con
could be him. She must be crazy.

She ran her fingers through her hair. “Spookie! Here, girl! You can come out. He’s
gone.”

Spookie came running from the back bedroom where she no doubt had been cowering. She
paused at the edge of the living room. Sniffed. Tilted her head. Surveyed the area.
Studied Willow. And, finally, scampered into Willow’s lap for comfort.

As Willow mindlessly stroked Spookie behind her ears and crooned to her, she ran over
the facts and circumstances as she knew them.

If Con was Jack, why hadn’t Spookie recognized him? Shouldn’t she have recognized
his scent?

Willow frowned. Spookie wasn’t a hound dog, a tracker. But still?

Willow looked up at the ceiling. Con sure tasted like Jack. Looked just enough like
Jack to make her doubt. His eyes were Jack’s. And his dance moves. And his Bond lines
and sense of humor.

If he was Jack, and still alive, and messing with her, pretending not to be himself,
she’d, she’d …

She didn’t know what she’d do. She wanted him back so badly.

And what about the opposite end of the spectrum—if Con wasn’t Jack? Would a Jack look-alike
be enough for her? Be better than no Jack at all?

Well, at least if Con’s story was true and he was simply Con Russo, Aldo’s distant
cousin, then danger wasn’t his middle name, right? In the win column for Con, her
conscience wouldn’t bother her over what he did for a living.

Marriage to Jack had taught her cunning and deception, how to get the intel she wanted,
how to think like a spy. She drew on those rusty resources now, trying to think like
Jack would have and see the situation from every angle.

She could contact Emmett using her emergency contact method. Tell him her suspicions.
See if Emmett choked and spilled anything.

She pursed her lips.
Fat chance. Emmett never chokes. He’ll probably just tell me I’m crazy.

Then again, the possibility existed that Jack had somehow survived that blast without
Emmett’s knowledge. That Jack had contrived his own death and this was his way of
coming back to her.

If that were the case, alerting Emmett would blow the whole thing. Still, if that
were true, why hadn’t Jack come clean with her and revealed himself immediately?

Could he have switched sides and was now a traitor or a double agent?

She shook her head. Her Jack would never become a traitor. But if that
were
the scenario she was dealing with, she should warn Emmett.