Make Me Forget (3 page)

“I looked out my window and saw Harper’s hair.”

There was a burning in Harper’s chest cavity. She realized it was because she hadn’t drawn air as she watched him approach. And . . . had he
really
just said that about her hair?

“Jacob Latimer,” he said, extending his hand. “I don’t think I ever got the chance to actually introduce myself the other day on the beach.”

“No, you didn’t,” she said, grasping his hand. She stared up into a pair of long-lashed golden-green-brown eyes. He wore a suit, including a vest and tie, but somehow he managed to make the suit seem as casual and easy as the swim trunks she’d seen him in yesterday. Just as sexy, that much was certain. Here was a man who was supremely confident in his own skin.
And why shouldn’t he be?

“It’s the color of the sunset,” he said quietly, and again, there was that small smile, almost as if he was a little embarrassed by his poetic turn of phrase, but had said it, anyway. He released her hand slowly and pointed at her hair when she just stared at him stupidly. She managed to return his smile despite her discomposure, all too aware of Elizabeth and Cyril’s fascinated gazes on them.

“A sunset is one of the kinder things it’s been compared to. Ask any redhead how much they liked their hair color as a kid,” she laughed.

“So it’s real?” Cyril asked. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen that particular shade naturally. It’s absolutely brilliant, to say the least. You’re quite right about the sunset, Jacob.”

Harper knew her cheeks had turned the color of her hair. She couldn’t believe the iconic Latimer and the man on the beach were one and the same. He was way too young to be so accomplished, wasn’t he? Too young to already have acquired such an aura of mystery and fascination?

“Has Cyril been talking to you about his film idea?” Jacob asked her, politely changing the topic. He’d probably noticed her discomfort on the topic of her hair.

“Actually, he mentioned it was
your
idea,” she said.

“I brought up the subject of you and your article. Cyril thought of the movie, and I agreed it would be brilliant,” he said, gracefully avoiding her pointed statement. “So he has mentioned it?” he asked, glancing inquiringly at Cyril, Harper, and Elizabeth.

“He’d just brought it up when you arrived,” Harper told him.
Of course.
He’d mentioned that particular story on the beach. Cyril had just said his home neighbored Latimer’s. It must have been Cyril’s beach they were on when Charger raced toward her. Then he’d mentioned their brief meeting to Cyril, the director . . . and here she was. Understanding the chain of events that had gotten her to this unusual situation steadied her a bit from a whirlwind of confusion.

Got it. I’m good. I can handle this.

“I was telling him that I didn’t think it would work,” Harper told Latimer frankly.

“She’s concerned that the young woman, Ellie, won’t consent to having her story told,” Cyril told Jacob. “But we can use another name, after all. Perhaps you can broach the topic to her? If she’s hesitant, I’m sure I can convince her.”

“Cyril is very convincing,” Elizabeth said, although she wasn’t looking at Cyril, but Latimer. Latimer, in turn, was steadily regarding Harper. Harper was highly aware of his stare on her cheek.

“Ellie aside,
you
don’t like the idea,” Latimer said. “Why not?”

She blinked at his astute observation. She hadn’t even been aware it was true until he said it. “I felt like writing Ellie’s story was worthwhile. Still . . . part of me felt a little guilty—
still
feels a little guilty—for exposing her entire life for public consumption.”

Latimer nodded once solemnly. “How did Ellie feel about it? Do you think she’ll worry about having her history become even more exposed?”

“She never complained. In fact, she was thankful. She was glad to have her story, and the experience of many of her friends and acquaintances, told.”

“It’s a story that
should
be told,” Cyril stated unequivocally. “We call ourselves civilized in the Western world, and yet innocent children are living in the most appalling circumstances right in the midst of our cities. You wanted to expose that story, and you did, Harper. Why wouldn’t you want it to reach an even wider audience?”

“I . . . I’m not saying I’m against it,” she replied, flustered. A cool lake breeze swirled around them, cutting through the silk of her cocktail dress. The temperature had dipped as sunset approached. A shiver rippled through her. This wasn’t a conversation she’d prepared herself for. “And like I said, it’s not primarily up to me.”

“As I said, I’m sure we can convince—”

“Give it a rest for the moment, Cyril,” Jacob interrupted, his voice quiet, but steely. He slipped a hand beneath Harper’s bent elbow. “Ms. McFadden is feeling a bit ambushed, I think. Elizabeth, could you have one of the waiters bring Harper and me a hot drink? We’re going to sit up by the fire.”

No one contradicted him. Harper had the impression no one would dare. She followed him up the stairs, highly aware of two things: the stares on her exposed back, and Jacob Latimer’s hand on the sensitive skin on the underside of her elbow.

“There. Is that better?” he asked a moment later when he led her to a deep sofa situated before one of the stone fireplaces. She nodded and set down her wineglass on a coffee table before she sat. Realizing she still clutched her purse, she quickly tucked it in the corner of the sofa. He came down on the cushion next to her. His long, strong thigh was only an inch away from hers. His stark masculinity—his potent attractiveness—crowded her brain and rushed her body.

“It got chilly so fast. It was really warm when I left my townhome,” she said, her voice steady despite her ruffled state. Her halter dress left her arms and a good portion of her back exposed. The warmth from the fire felt good on her chilled skin.

“Tahoe is a place of extremes. The temperatures at night can plunge thirty, even forty degrees from the daytime highs. It’s alpine desert, but it’s still the desert. In the winter, I can ski on a foot of new powder and come down the mountains to the lake and broil a bit in the sun.”

She smiled. “That sounds nice. Thank you,” she murmured to the waiter when he approached and placed two steaming cups on the table in front of them. Latimer leaned forward, elbows on his thighs, and grabbed the drinks. She accepted the mug gratefully, cradling the drink with both hands.

“Cider,” he said, inhaling the steam from his cup.

Harper took a drink. “And . . . whiskey?” she added, stifling a gasp. The beverage was tasty and warming, but strong.

He smiled and set down his cup. “Blended bourbon, actually. Would you prefer something else?”

She shook her head and took another sip. “It’s delicious. I just wasn’t expecting the up-front punch.”

“Just like you weren’t expecting all that talk about the film.”

“I wasn’t expecting you,” she said frankly, turning toward him.

His expression sobered.

She hadn’t meant to say her impulsive thought out loud. She cleared her throat and clutched the intoxicating beverage tighter in her hand. “I mean . . . I hadn’t put Jacob Latimer the icon and you together, when we met down there on the beach.”

“Icon,” he repeated slowly, that X-ray stare narrowing on her. “An icon is representative of something. What do you think I symbolize?”

She laughed but squirmed a little in her seat. “I don’t know. The American Dream, rags to riches, glamor and wealth, mystery and speculation, and—”

“Ill-gotten gains?” he murmured, his silky tone at odds with the sudden glacial quality of his eyes.

Jesus. The rumors about him being paranoid are true.

“I wasn’t going to say that,” she replied.

“I’m not a symbol of anything.”

He closed his eyes briefly, as if to calm a sudden rough chop of emotion. When he opened his eyelids, he once again seemed completely under control, if a little weary.

“I’m sorry if I seem suspicious,” he said slowly. “It’s a constant battle to keep my private life private. Cyril is interested in your story for the film, and I want to help him if I can. But I don’t usually allow the press into my home. The invitation was for you. Harper McFadden. Not a member of the press. I want to make that clear from the outset. From what I’ve learned about you, I assume you’d have the decency to tell me right now if you planned to print anything you learned here tonight.”

“I didn’t come here for that,” she said stiffly. “And you’re right. I’d tell you if I was planning on publishing anything about tonight. Or about you.”

He merely regarded her steadily for a moment by way of response, and then transferred his gaze to the fire. Her brief flash of annoyance in reaction to his suspicion seemed to drain away under the influence of the flames, the strong drink . . . and her heightened awareness of him. For a few moments, neither of them spoke.

“I can only imagine how hard it must be for you to live your life away from prying eyes, rumors, and misunderstandings,” she said at length. “But I’ll remind you that you were the one to ask me here tonight. I didn’t come with any underhanded motivations.”

“So you definitely didn’t come because of interest in doing a story on Jacob Latimer or Lattice?” he murmured.

“For the newspaper?”

His small shrug caused his jacket to brush lightly against her bare arm. A shiver of awareness passed through her. She glanced sideways at him. She hadn’t been able to discern it on the beach when he was wet, but his hair was somewhere between a dark ash blond and light ash brown. It blended ideally with his arresting eyes—all those colored shards of amber and brown, the green only adding another layer of complexity. He was almost alarmingly handsome.

“No,” she replied. “I always tell people when they say something along those lines: it’s like if you invited a food critic to your house for a dinner party, or a psychotherapist, or . . .
anything
, really. They aren’t going to publically critique your meal or waste time developing a personality assessment. I exist beyond my job, you know.”

“So why
did
you come?” he asked.

“I was interested. Who wouldn’t be curious? About this place. About you. I may not be planning on writing it, but I love a good story as much as anyone.”

His brows slanted. “What are you so curious about, exactly?”

“You’re awfully young,” she stated with blunt honesty.

“Age is relative, isn’t it? You’re young, too, to have found so much success in your chosen field, to have been given so many awards in journalism.”

A wave of warmth and relaxation went through her as she watched his mouth move. Her limbs tingled. The pleasant sensation somehow twined with his mellow, seductive voice.
What was in this drink
, she wondered, idly taking another sip.
Liquid Xanax?

“Any success I’ve had is comprehensible,” she said after a short pause. “It followed a logical path. Your success is astronomical for someone so young and who, from what I understand, wasn’t born into wealth.” Despite her entrancement at his closeness, Ruth’s earlier references to his shrouded, possibly illegal rise to riches and power came to mind.

“So you’ve decided my success in the business world is illogical?”

“No,” she defended. “It’s just a glaring thing, isn’t it? You can’t be more than what . . . thirty-five?” she guesstimated. “And”—she waved around the spectacular surroundings. “Anyone would be curious about how you got here. And I’m more curious than most, by nature. It’s an annoying, but unchangeable characteristic.”

“It’s what got you where you are today.”

“As the news editor at a paper with a circulation of all of thirty-five thousand?” she countered wryly.

He blinked. “I wouldn’t have thought the
Gazette
had
that
many.”

She laughed. He smiled full-out for the first time, white teeth flashing in his tanned face. Something hitched in her chest. There it was again. That crack in his armor. He really did shine bright, when he wasn’t so busy being paranoid.

“We all feel the need to hide away at times in our life. To forget the past. Surely you can understand that,” she said softly as their amusement faded.

Her heart thumped very loud in her ears for a suspended moment when he didn’t immediately reply. She was so sure she’d made another misstep, saying something so personal to such an aloof, private man.

“Where’s Charger?” she asked, referring to his energetic dog in a desperate attempt to change the subject when he continued not to speak.

“In the house.”

“Oh.”

He glanced away distractedly. An awkward silence ensued. Like she had on the beach, she had the impression he’d discounted her or lost interest. She started to set down her cider, assuming their conversation was coming to an end.

“Do you want to go see him and some of my other dogs?” he asked suddenly.

“You have several?”

He nodded, his expression completely sober.

“Uh . . . sure,” she said, taken off guard. But again, she was curious. Fascinated, in truth.

He nodded and stood smoothly, putting out a hand to help her stand. He headed toward the glass doors. She followed his tall form, feeling a little dazed. She understood how people could find him intimidating. He could be glacial. Impenetrable. Then she’d catch a glimpse of his warmth. His humanity. Raw sexuality twined with something she could only call a sweetness, impossible as that descriptor seemed given the rest of the package. It was the mystery of that paradox that had her tantalized. But she’d have to be careful.

A person could get dizzy and disoriented—maybe even lost—trying to figure out the puzzle of Jacob Latimer.

He led her through the empty great room back in the direction from which she’d entered the house. When he opened one of the large pine doors, she saw darkness had fallen in the opposite direction from the lake and setting sun.

“How many dogs to you have?” she asked in a hushed tone as she followed his silent, graceful shadow down the front steps. The winding sidewalk ahead was illuminated by lanterns, but the black night sky, towering pines, and landscaped greenery surrounding them seemed to suck up their meager light.

“Sixteen,” he replied.

“
What
?”

“I know,” he said, and much to her amazement, he sounded a little sheepish. “It seems like a lot, but I like dogs.”

“Apparently,” she said under her breath, smiling.
Well, the extremely rich do have their quirks, don’t they?

“Clarence,” she heard Latimer say quietly.

“Mr. Latimer. Nice night, isn’t it?”

Harper let out a stupid little cry at the disembodied, gruff voice that came out of the dark woods to the right of her. She stumbled in her heels. Two hands grasped her shoulders, steadying her.

“Whoa. You okay?” It was Latimer’s mellow voice.

“Yeah, but—” She glanced over to where the unexpected voice had come. A bulky man in his forties with a crew cut stepped out of the trees and into the dim light.

“It’s just Clarence. He works here,” Latimer explained.

Harper looked around, startled. Latimer had sounded close. She realized the tips of her breasts were pressed against the lapels of his jacket. He towered over her. His face was shadowed, but she made out his gaze fixed on her upturned face. She could feel the metal of his belt buckle against her belly. And the fullness beneath it.

It happened in the amount of time it takes electricity to travel. Her blood became the current, turning into the equivalent of jet fuel. It seemed to roar through her veins, sparking her flesh to life. She felt his cock stir against her. His nostrils flared slightly as he stared down at her.

“Sorry for startling you, miss.”

Harper blinked at the sound of Clarence’s rough voice behind her. She stepped back, breaking contact with Latimer. The electrical connection didn’t seem to cut off entirely, though. Her skin still tingled. Her sex felt warm, heavy, and tight, like a pleasant ache.

She glanced over to Clarence, trying to steady herself.

“It’s okay,” she replied shakily.

The man’s sharp gaze ran over her briefly.
He’s part of Latimer’s security staff
, Harper immediately knew. Apparently, Clarence found nothing alarming about her appearance. He was likely used to seeing Latimer around the property in the presence of a female.

“Off to the doghouse, sir?” Clarence asked pleasantly.

“Yeah,” Latimer replied. Harper jumped slightly when his hand enclosed hers. She gave a disgusted, frustrated sigh at her show of nerves. “Night, Clarence.”

“Good night, sir. Miss.”

“Night,” Harper managed despite her breathlessness. Latimer tugged slightly on her hand and she moved up next to him. As they continued down the dimly lit path, now side by side, she saw that he peered over at her.

“Are you okay?”

She blinked. A feeling of uneasiness went through her that she couldn’t comprehend, a feeling like déjà vu . . . or dreaming of another person’s life.

“Believe it or not, most people aren’t used to having men hiding in the shadows next to where they’re walking,” she said, injecting some humor into her voice to minimize her sense of the surreal and her embarrassment.

“No. I suppose you’re right.”

A building was suddenly in front of them. Latimer released her hand and placed his forefinger on a lit keypad to the right of the door. It appeared to be a fingerprint scanner.

“Where are we?” she wondered when she heard the snick of a lock releasing.

“The doghouse.”

He took her hand again and drew her over the threshold. Harper was aware of a scurrying sound and some barks. Latimer flipped on a light.

“Oh, s
hit.”

A dozen or more canines were in various stages of racing to the door to greet them. Flopping ears, bounding paws, gleaming coats of various colors, and wagging tails abounded. She recognized Charger at the forefront of the onslaught, galloping toward them with a fury. Harper’s heart lunged in a prequel to panic. She was sure she was going to be knocked over by Charger’s weight, but Latimer put out his hand, palm down, and not only Charger, but the rest of the dogs, pulled up short, jumping and prancing around them, yelping and barking. Not one of them touched her or Latimer. Her heart still pounded in surprised alarm, but then she noticed something that distracted her.

“Oh no,” she said.

A black puppy had stumbled amidst the stampede and struggled to get up. She waded through the canine sea, forgetting her momentary fear. She knelt, righting the puppy on his feet. Not four feet.

Three.

“What happened to him?” Despite the lack of one paw, the puppy seemed healthy enough, turning his head to lick at her hand shyly. Reacting instinctively, she lifted the pup to her mouth and kissed his smooth head before setting him back on the floor again.

“His foot was amputated,” Latimer said from behind and above her.

“Was he sick, or injured?” Harper wondered, petting the wiggling puppy.

“No. He was tortured.”

Harper turned her head and gaped up at Latimer, horror slinking into her awareness. “You mean . . . someone cut off his foot just to . . .
do
it?”

“That’s right. He and his brothers and sisters were found locked in a stifling hot barn just south of Genoa. They’d all been tortured. Two of them were dead when they were found, and the other three—including Milo there—were brought in to the shelter. Two of the puppies died in the vet’s office from the effects of open wounds and extreme dehydration. Milo was the sole survivor of all his siblings.”

Sobered and chilled, Harper turned back to the puppy. She scooped him into her arms and stood, caressing Milo all the while. For the first time, she actually looked around the large, comfortable room. Several dogs hadn’t joined Charger’s rambunctious run to greet them at the door. They lay on cushy-looking dog beds and regarded them with sharp interest and perked-up ears. Given some of the white around their maws, Harper thought they were the older dogs.

“Oh. Not a
doghouse
. You meant a
house
for the dogs,” she said, comprehension dawning. Because that’s what this was. The building was a small home. Her gaze traveled over a pair of glass doors, one of which included an opening with a flap that presumably led outside. There was a well-appointed kitchen in the distance.

“I guess so,” Latimer said. “There’s a vet’s office down the hall for doctor’s visits, and they have a caretaker-trainer during the day. But they’re on their own most of the time. They have a nice patch of woods out back, where they can roam.”

She turned to him slowly, her fingers caressing the smooth head of the puppy.

“You sponsor that animal shelter in town, don’t you?” she asked him, but somehow she already knew the answer. It just made sense to her, which was odd. She barely knew him.

He was turned in profile to her.

“Jacob?”

“That’s not public knowledge.”

“I understand. I wouldn’t say anything to anyone. But you do, don’t you?”

He continued to keep his face averted as he petted Charger and a big, brown dog. “Yes,” he finally replied.

“Have you always liked animals so much?”

A pit bull nuzzled his hand. He just nodded silently. The idea struck her that he looked perfectly natural surrounded by animals while wearing an impeccable suit. She also thought at that moment that while he seemed completely open and warm with the animals, he’d grown wary toward her questions. Shut off.

Shy? No, it
couldn’t
be. That characteristic just didn’t fit with the rest of the man. But neither did this house for abused and forgotten dogs. Something inexplicable quivered within her, elusive and fleeting. He was such a strange, compelling man. And he seemed so alone in that moment, standing there and carefully petting the dogs that vied for his attention. No wonder rumors and speculation clung to him like metal filings to a magnet. Harper herself experienced his haunting, powerful pull. She needed to be very careful.

He straightened and faced her.

“What about you? Do you like dogs?” he asked.

“Sure. I mean . . . as much as the next person.” She glanced down at the adorable puppy in her arms and kissed Milo’s smooth head again. “I think I like them a little bit more this size than say . . . that one,” she admitted, nodding toward the brown pit bull. She realized her vague anxiety must be on display, because his gaze on her was sharp. She tried to laugh it off. “I just get a little nervous when big or aggressive dogs come at me.”

He nodded. “Most people do. Especially if they’ve had a bad experience in the past. I should have warned you.”

“I haven’t had a bad experience with dogs.” Had she said that too sharply? She suspected she had, given his knitted brow.

She gave the black puppy another fond caress and set him down on the floor. She smiled as she watched his surprisingly smooth three-legged trot toward the pack of bigger dogs. It horrified her, to think of an innocent, powerless thing being tortured in that way. Who would do such a thing? It would require a degree of depravity—of evil—that her brain shied away from considering.

“It’s nice that you do it. Give shelter to the animals. Medical care. And for these, a home.”

He shrugged off her praise. An awkward silence descended. Harper was wondering if she should take her leave, but he spoke first.

“Won’t you consider asking Ellie about the film?”

She exhaled on a bark of laughter. “Why are you so dead set on doing it?” she asked incredulously.

“I told you on the beach. I’ve admired of your work in the past, but I was particularly drawn to that story. I’d like to see it reach a wider audience.”

She threw up her hands helplessly. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to ask Ellie about it. She’s kind of a Hollywood fanatic. She might be thrilled at the idea. I’ll call her.

“Good,” he said, stepping toward her. The dogs had scattered, several of them returning to their beds and a few ducking out the flapped opening to the backyard.

“Cyril will offer you and Ellie payment for rights to the story, of course, so there are details to work out there. I think he might ask you to help him write the screenplay, as well.”

“Really?”

“I take it from your reaction you’ve never written a screenplay before?” he asked, a small—very distracting—smile molding his lips.

“No, never.”

“Would you be interested?”

“Maybe,” she replied dubiously. It actually sounded pretty exciting . . . like the exact kind of opportunity she needed to shake up her life even more than her recent move and job change had.

Precisely the kind of thing that would help me avoid that black hole of grief.

“You’re a good writer. You’d get the hang of it, if it’s something you decide to do. But most importantly . . . if Ellie agrees,
you
won’t stand in the way?”

“I don’t see why I would, as long as it’s agreed upon that the story is told in a tasteful, compassionate way.”

“Cyril wouldn’t consider handling a story like this with anything but the respect it deserves. As his producer, I’d demand it.”

“You’re his money man, then?”

“He’s a good investment. Usually,” he added with a half smile.

Harper nodded. “I’m sure my father would want me to have a lawyer look over everything if the project ever progresses that far . . . I mean . . . He
would
have wanted it—”

She broke off abruptly, stunned at her stupidity.

“Harper?”

“Hmmm?”

“What’s wrong?” he asked, stepping closer.

“Nothing.”

He reached out and grasped her upper arm. “Did something happen? To your father?”

She gave a brittle smile. “He passed last year. It just happens sometimes, that I find myself talking like he’s still alive. It happened so suddenly, it’s like part of me can’t get used to the fact, like my heart hasn’t caught up to my brain. Like it doesn’t
want
to.” She swallowed through a suddenly tight throat, fighting off a rush of emotion. When would it stop—damn it—the grief crashing into her unexpectedly? On this occasion, it hadn’t seemed random, however. She suspected it had something to do with Jacob Latimer’s gaze. It seemed disconcertingly all-seeing, at times. It acted like a mirror to her confused inner world. She shook her head.

“Sorry. We were very close,” she said, shrugging.

“You miss him a lot,” he said slowly, studying her face. His thumb moved, caressing the bare skin of her arm. It was a simple gesture. It should have
felt
casual, too. It didn’t. Pleasure rippled through her, and she felt his stroking thumb somewhere deep inside her being. “Were you two alike?” he asked quietly.

“My father? In some ways. Everyone says I was more like my mother, though,” she said, avoiding his stare. “She started out in journalism, like me, and eventually went on to write over a dozen books on international relations, national politics, and a few biographies.”

“Jane McFadden?”

She nodded, still unable to meet his stare, almost every ounce of her awareness focused on maintaining her self-control . . . and on his firm, warm hold and the pad of his thumb sliding against her skin.

“I read her essays on Afghanistan and her biography of Winston Churchill. It’s no wonder you’re such a good writer, with her as your teacher. She had the ability to humanize even the most complicated of people and situations. You got that from her. Your compassion. Was your father a writer, too?”

She fought back the knot in her throat. “He was, after a fashion. He was a psychiatrist, but he regularly published case studies in academic journals—”

Emotion pressed on her chest from the inside out. It was humiliating. She felt very exposed.

“I really should be going,” she said, drawing in a ragged breath and starting to move past him. “I have a press conference first thing in the morning,”