Renee Simons Special Edition (6 page)

"How long have you been there?"

"Not long."

"Why didn't you say hello?"

He shrugged. "I wanted to watch you."

"Your brother has the same annoying habit."

"I'm sorry." Although his face held no expression his eyes glittered with suppressed laughter.

"No, you're not."

"You’re right." He sat down on the ledge. "I promised myself I wouldn't say this, but watching you reminds me of what's missing in my life."

She felt her face go hot and cursed the tendency to blush at the slightest provocation. "Don't do that."

"Don't look at you?"

"Don't make a big deal of it."

"Why not?" His eyes turned soft and liquid, as restless waves of thought and desire moved in their depths.

"It makes me uncomfortable."

"You should be accustomed to the admiration of men."

"And you shouldn't have broken your promise." She'd had this conversation with other men, and had no desire to repeat it. "I have to go."

She bundled her papers in the crook of her arm, slipped down from the ledge and went to her car. She found her way out of
Cambridge
, through downtown and onto a block bordering Faneuil Hall Marketplace, where a spot opened up despite the shortage of parking. Her mind raced angrily as she walked to the tourist attraction with its Federal brick building and pedestrian walks dotted with trees and benches. She barely noticed the crowds strolling the cobblestone streets, window shopping or sampling delicacies purchased in Quincy Market.

What he'd said might not have seemed offensive to some, might even have been considered flattering, but she'd just given up the job of a lifetime because a perfectly acceptable boss had turned romantic and incapable of maintaining a platonic relationship. She didn't need to be the centerpiece of Ethan's day dreams.

Knowing how he felt and how he made her feel scared hell out of her. She wanted no part of the emotions that flared between them, or of the intimacy those emotions foreshadowed.   

"Tsk, tsk," said a voice in her ear. "No fair calling me names without giving me a chance to defend myself..."

She stopped short, colliding with Ethan before turning to him. "You followed me?" Her voice shook with anger.

He grinned. "Always wanted to tell a cabby, 'follow that car!'"

"He must have thought you'd lost your mind."

"Nah." He waved his hand. "He thought I was rehearsing for the telly. I did a routine for him in my best Aussie accent. Went over pretty well, if I do say so myself." He went quiet, waiting.

"I am not amused."

As she turned to leave, he touched her arm and fixed her with a penetrating look. "Give me ten minutes. Then if you want me to go, I will."

Would it hurt to hear what he has to say, she wondered. But a voice whispered it might be easier to walk away now, before he got to her any more than he already had. That since she'd already taken the first step, she need only keep going to preserve the protective screen she’d fought so hard to maintain, that seemed so near crumbling to dust.

"No, Ethan. I don't want to hear explanations or justifications. Most of all, I don’t want to hear another apology."

She left him with a shrug. She needn't waste time worrying about him. He would find comfort at Kevin's place.

For her, dinner came courtesy of room service, with the rest of the evening spent on the phone with Drew in an extensive review of her research. When they had covered all the familiar territory, he asked, "Have you any questions?"

"What do you know about VolTerre?"

"Terence Conlan owns the company. He’s built a number of city projects, and several in the private sector. I’m told he's mob connected, but I can’t confirm."

"Have you looked into the company's performance record? And the problems they've experienced on other projects?"

"Everything from budget overruns to structural defects,” he said. “On one job, workers poured the walls of a concrete elevator shaft two-and-a-half inches off center. Can you believe that?”

“How about the hotel project where the metal roofing collapsed because they poured too much cement? That fiasco also caused injuries to workers."

"That's one I missed,” Drew said.

"But you have heard the talk about a silent partner?”

“Who we’ve been trying to identify with no luck.”

“Well, I'd like to know who he is. Everything I've read points to hanky panky of some kind, or at the very least, gross negligence."

His cigarette lighter clicked. "About Ethan...you haven't told him what you're...we're doing, have you?"

"No,” she replied, “but the secrecy is making me very uncomfortable." How many lies - of omission and otherwise - could she juggle before the load became too heavy to bear?

"I'm sorry to put you in this position,
Jordan
, but he mustn't know."

"You’ve said that before."

"Because his anger at me might cause him to undermine our efforts to help him."

"He's obviously very critical of you, but there must be some positive feelings also. Why else was he living with you on the
Cape
? And why is he at your
Boston
house instead of with his friends?"

"He said the
Cape
compound would keep him out of the way of his adversaries. As for the house on
Beacon Hill
, you must agree it's convenient."

Jordan
told him about Ethan's near-accident and his latest foray into the site.

"He will continue to take foolish risks to uncover the truth," Drew said. "But if the other side is watching him, I need someone trustworthy to keep an eye on him, don’t I? Would you do that for me?"

  She laughed. "He's a little old to have a nanny."

"But not a friend."

Her fingers beat a gentle tattoo on the table as she considered his request. "You're asking a lot."

"Perhaps, but we need your help."

The warning bells clanged but it seemed to
Jordan
the time for caution had come and gone. "All right. I'll try. I'm not promising results but I will try."

"Have you thought about moving over to
Beacon Hill
?”

"With Ethan already there? You're really backing me into a corner."

"I don't mean to go on about it, but the Willises are there and surely living in my home is preferable to a hotel, more warm and personal, less...lonely."

During the pause that followed his last words,
Jordan
considered the danger of being under the same roof with Ethan. The man stirred emotions she would rather not feel - a need to be close to another, a warmth that filled her dark, lonely places, a stirring in that feminine core she’d long ago relegated to the deep freeze.

"I'll stay at the hotel. Fewer complications."

   "Whatever you say. Mind you, there’s a place waiting should anything change."

When he hung up,
Jordan
reached into a stack of folders and pulled out the file on VolTerre. She opened to an article about Terence Conlon. The photo showed an older version of the man who'd been a frequent visitor to her childhood home and a trusted friend and business associate of her father's. The friendship had been strong enough for Jordan to call him "Uncle" and his wife "Aunt."

When the trouble hit Dutch VanDien's family, however, Uncle Terry had been unavailable and Aunt Candi a stranger, forcing a teen-aged
Jordan
to discard the myth of friendship she'd been taught to believe. By the time both her father and mother had died, leaving her orphaned at the age of sixteen, she'd become accustomed to trusting no one, to relying on no one, except herself. Nothing had changed during the thirteen years that followed.

A pain started deep in her gut and traveled upward until it filled her chest and threatened to overcome her. She slammed the file shut and closed her eyes. Thinking about Conlon had resurrected feelings she'd considered long dead.

"I won't think about this. Not now. Not till I'm ready." The words echoed in the silent room while a still, small voice wondered when that would be.

  She had the dream again, the same dream that had plagued her since her father's death. In the middle of a deep, dark night, the wolf came, stalking, watching with yellow eyes for a sign of weakness. Most times, he kept his distance. This night, he left the shadows, coming close enough for her to see the saliva dripping from his jaws, to smell his hot breath, fetid from old kill, to hear the low fearsome growl that rumbled up from his belly and grated at the back of his throat. Close enough to imagine his sharp fangs tearing into her flesh.

Afraid he might attack, she searched frantically for a weapon and finally picked up a piece of tree branch and held it in front of her like a sword. The tip burst into flame reflected in his eyes. For a long, terror filled moment, he paced back and forth, looking for some way past the threat. Finally, as if unwilling to chance the danger, he backed away and melted into the dark forest.

Sweat prickled on
Jordan
’s skin, a cold, numbing moisture that ran down her face and soaked her tee shirt and the sheet covering her. She felt the wetness before hearing the long, haunting wail that roused her from the dream to lie shaking with fear until she recognized the siren of a fire engine passing in the street below.

Neither asleep nor fully awake, she stripped off her wet clothes, took a lukewarm shower and wrapped herself in a terry robe before getting back into bed. Comforted by the faint sandalwood scent of a man's after-shave and freed of her nightmare pursuer, she slept until ten o'clock when the telephone woke her.

"You loafin', love?"

"Sleeping in. What's wrong?"

"Would you have dinner with me tonight?"

She started to say no, then remembered her promise to Drew. "No disagreements?"

"I’ll watch my mouth. Promise."

"Then how can I refuse?"

"Come over at five, but take a cab. Parking's rough."

The house stood on a street whose buildings formed a U surrounding a small park on three sides. The ride up the hill revealed bow fronts, red brick, cobblestones, and multi-paned story-high windows glowing with the last light of the fading afternoon. Like the others, Drew's house appeared more than a hundred years old, but seemed solid and well kept.

The brass door knocker brought Mrs. Willis, who ushered her through a marble-floored gallery big enough to hold a dance and into the dining room. Formal and elegant, its sage green walls found echoes in the drapery framing ceiling high windows. Matching damask seats covered twelve Queen Anne chairs arranged around the banquet table and bracketing a highboy and buffet. That the mahogany furnishings were authentic antiques was obvious from their lustrous finish and fine workmanship.

"Do you like this room?" Ethan stood in the doorway as if reluctant to join her.

"Very much."

He motioned with a lifted chin. "All this came from the house where we grew up. Our Mum paid storage on it for years hoping we'd get back to it someday. Andy bailed out the lot when he bought this place."

"Family heirlooms make the room special."

"I'm glad you’re here."

His hesitant smile turned her knees to mush and his strong presence drew her like a magnet. Beige slacks and a matching turtleneck sweater emphasized his slim length and broad shoulders and brought out pale lights in his blond hair. Devastating, she thought. Unmistakable pleasure lit his eyes, leading her to wonder what her own eyes gave away.

"Ethan, I'm sorry about what happened yesterday. I overreacted and..."

"Don’t apologize. If my admiration for you is unwelcome, I can keep it to myself. Your friendship is too valuable. I missed you like hell - especially when I came back from the building site."

"What happened?"

They walked to the head of the table where Mrs. Willis had set their places with crystal, silver and fine china.

He shrugged. "I tried talking to the contractors and was shown the door."

"The direct approach doesn't seem to work very well with those people."

He pulled out a chair for
Jordan
before seating himself. "Probably a clue to how much they have to hide."

Chapter 4

Jordan
looked at Ethan over her coffee cup. "What was it like, being a stockman?"

Dinner had been filled with good food and easy conversation. Replete and relaxed, neither wanted to end the interlude.

"About like you’d expect - hot, dusty, long days, longer nights, floods during the wet, willy-willies during the dry.”