Kitabı oku: «Past Imperfect», sayfa 3

Chapter Three

That night, Rachel took a shower, then slipped into some cozy flannel pajamas to eat a popcorn dinner and watch TV. Her friends had indeed met at the tavern after the hearing, but a phone call from Jane had informed Rachel that the gang still disagreed about telling Gilbert that they knew about him being the benefactor.

Why upset their mentor right now? they’d decided yet again. Gilbert didn’t need to know that they were all aware of his secret, especially since Ella Gardner, the only person who was supposed to know, could talk him into going public herself.

Besides, if they all kept their mouths shut, Ian Beck would have less of a chance of discovering Gilbert’s business. After all, the professor had kept his benefactor status under wraps for years. No one knew why, precisely, but he’d obviously been intent on maintaining his privacy.

More remorseful than ever about avoiding another gang meeting and going behind their backs with Ian, Rachel sat down on her couch, popcorn bowl on her lap, and found her favorite old Hitchcock movie on cable. She was trying to escape again, but it wasn’t any use.

The next time my friends ask for my company, she thought, I need to go. I miss them.

As if in answer to her musings, a knock sounded at her door.

She tiptoed over the worn carpet, coming to peek out of the lace curtains by the door. Oh, no.

Bathed by the porch light, Ian Beck saw her spying on him, a smile lighting over his lips as he raised his hand in a friendly wave.

Rachel darted away from the window, thrown off guard. “What in the world…?”

She glanced down at her faded yellow pajamas, the flannel design featuring waddling ducks. Yeesh, there were even dialogue balloons with the word “Quack!” in them.

Her first instinct was to run to her room for a robe, but the darn thing was so raggedy that it made her pajamas look like J-Lo’s newest Academy Awards ensemble in comparison.

Ian knocked again. “You still there?” he asked through the door.

“Yes.” She paused. “I’m not really dressed for company.”

“Oh, the duck pajamas. I saw them when you just looked through the window. They’re cute.”

So much for fooling old X-ray eyes. But why did it matter? Was she really out to impress this guy?

An unbidden blush answered that for her.

In response, Rachel unlocked her door, determined to prove herself wrong. Maybe duck pajamas would kill the tension or…whatever it was between them. Flannel wasn’t exactly the new lingerie.

She opened the door a crack, letting in a stream of chilled air. Ian was breathing plumes of smoke, his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, his face reddened by the weather.

“Don’t tell me,” she said. “You want another interview.”

“Not…exactly.” He shuffled around, doing a subtle cold dance.

She was going to have to invite him in, wasn’t she?

Opening the door the rest of the way, she ushered him over the threshold, anxiously tugging at the bottom of her pajama top as if that would turn it into a fashionable sweater.

“Damn, it feels good in here, and it smells like popcorn,” he said, peering around her modest home, absolutely unaware that she was considering putting it on the market by the end of the month.

Or maybe, she thought, I could get a full-time job, a second job or… Or what? Debtor’s prison?

After closing the door, she gestured toward the bowl of popcorn on the couch. “I’m settled in for the night.”

“That’s what you do on a Friday?” He shrugged out of his jacket and allowed her to drape it over a dining chair. “You’re a homebody.”

She’d developed the habit with Isaac. On Fridays after work, he would stop by the video store and rent kung fu videos, buying one per month to add to his collection. Sonny Chiba, Bruce Lee, Jackie Chan—she was well acquainted with the boys, but watching those kinds of flicks didn’t appeal to her anymore. They’d only been fun with her husband around.

Still, the homebody habit remained, especially nowadays, when she could make herself feel better just by hanging out alone. So much for being the belle of the social scene anymore.

“I outgrew the weekend bar thing a long time ago,” she said. “I’d rather hole in and get to bed early.”

The mention of a bed seemed to stop the flow of air around them. Suddenly, the TV’s volume seemed way too loud, her pajamas much too revealing, her bare feet too vulnerable.

Even standing a few feet away from him felt too close, as if his skin was giving off more heat than she could handle.

“Can I get you something to drink?” She took off toward the sofa and grabbed the popcorn, then veered toward the kitchen, trying to put some distance between their bodies.

Ian followed her with his gaze, a lopsided grin revealing that he knew how nervous she was.

“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” he said.

After setting the bowl on the counter, she got two bottled waters out of the refrigerator. It was the most harmless beverage she could think of. “So what brings you around? The hearing wasn’t enough for you today?”

“I don’t blame you for being frustrated. It couldn’t have been easy, sitting there and listening to Broadstreet manipulate whatever Westport or Kathryn had to say.” Ian sauntered over to the counter, where he half sat on a barstool that showed a tiny tear on one side. “Just when things were starting to look good, he turned it around. And I don’t think Gilbert was helping by just sitting there and taking Broadstreet’s knocks.”

“We all thought Kathryn’s testimony was going well until Broadstreet started second-guessing Gilbert’s good intentions.”

Rachel urged the bowl of popcorn at him, then uncapped both waters. She took a swig of hers, as if quelling her temper.

Damn Alex Broadstreet. After Kathryn had shed such wonderful light on Gilbert’s caring nature, Broadstreet had tried to make it seem as if the professor had shirked his duty by failing to get his student proper guidance from a “real” mental-care professional. In essence, Gilbert had come off as inept and arrogant.

And, as Ian had pointed out, Gilbert hadn’t even lifted a finger in his own defense. He was guarding his secrets carefully. But why?

As she lowered the bottle, she realized that Ian had been carefully gauging her. Her blood gave a shuddering thump, leaving her heart racing.

“Monday’s another day,” Ian said. “Nate Williams and Jacob Weber are bound to present strong testimony. They’ll give Broadstreet a run for his money.”

She didn’t want to think about next week, because she would be testifying, too. Boy, how would she stand up to the board president? He was going to tear her apart.

Ian must have picked up on her fear, because he reached out, placed his hand over the one she was resting on the counter. The contact sheltered her in warm calm, spiking her skin with tingles.

“You’re surrounded by friends,” he said. “I couldn’t help but notice how supportive you are of one another. In fact, afterward, I saw Ella Gardner giving Gilbert a pep talk.”

For a sublime moment, she was almost able to block out reality, to concentrate on his palm covering the back of her hand.

But she had also seen Ella and Gilbert, and the memory intruded upon any comfort she might have felt from Ian’s touch. Ella, who’d been ahead of Rachel in school by several years, had been very close to the professor, too. When Rachel had seen her talking to him after the hearing, she’d been struck by her friend’s pleading gestures, the desperation written on her face. Rachel knew that the pregnant woman had been trying to convince Gilbert to confess that he was the benefactor, but of course, the older man had sat there shaking his head, apparently resolute and clueless to the fact that the rest of the gang was already armed with the truth.

Why can’t he just admit it? Rachel wondered once again. Can’t he see the revelation would only help his cause?

She felt Ian’s hand tighten over hers. Instinctively, she turned her palm upward. His skin was rough, masculine, strong in its reassurance. When he rubbed his thumb near hers, the easy caress took her breath away.

But then she glanced into his eyes—those intense reporter’s weapons. All the questions he was harboring speared into her and, suddenly, she remembered who they both were.

A journalist.

And his prey.

She backed away from him, disconnecting, crossing her arms over her chest. “Why are you here again?”

On the counter, his hand closed, just like the mouth of a predator after it realizes that its last meal has escaped.

But Ian’s posture told a different story. For a moment, he seemed sad, lost in an entirely different way.

“I just…” He straightened in his chair, shrugged. “I wanted you to know what I saw today, what I’m going to report—a man being railroaded.”

Excellent! But…he could’ve phoned her with this news.

Was it possible that he only wanted to see her again, and that’s why he’d shown up on her doorstep?

Before Rachel could get too excited, she dissuaded herself from believing it.

Instead, she looked askance at him. “I thought you were supposed to sit on the fence, to stand back and report the facts.”

“Yeah. That’s how it’s supposed to be. But sometimes it’s impossible to divorce yourself from a story, especially when there’s real injustice. The more I learn about Gilbert Harrison, the more I suspect Alex Broadstreet’s motives.”

Her arms slipped from their protective position across her chest as he continued.

“I’m more surprised at my feelings than anyone,” he said, laughing a little, “but I was getting riled at that hearing. I’ve even had this pinch of…I don’t know what it is…anger?…that Gilbert is going to come out on the wrong side of everything and—you know what? That’s wrong. A Good Samaritan is taking a beating from an authority figure and I can’t stop it.”

Rachel refused to comment. Had Ian found proof that Gilbert was the benefactor? No. He couldn’t. He would’ve come right out and said it by now. He was only talking in generalities.

“It doesn’t sit right with me,” he added. “Hell, but what do I know? Gilbert won’t agree to an interview, so I have no basis for a personal opinion.”

Rachel’s heart crashed to the tile. “Ah. So that’s it. You want me to set up an interview with him.”

Of course. That was the reason for Ian’s home invasion. He wanted to work his wiles on her in person, probably knowing she was a sucker where Gilbert’s well-being was concerned.

Ian ran a finger over the rim of the popcorn bowl, his brow furrowed. “Even though I’d like nothing better than to talk with him, that’s not why I’m here, Rachel. I…” He shook his head. “Damn, I’m not sure why I came.”

She chanced a look at him, finding that he was doing the same. When their gazes locked, her pulse paused…stretched…popped, forcing her to glance away.

The room seemed entirely too small with him in it. Alarmingly, space only seemed to shrink more and more with every tick of the clock on the fireplace mantel.

But the last thing she wanted to do was acknowledge the taunt awareness, the sensual snap in the air.

This couldn’t be happening. Couldn’t he see the barriers between them…his job, the color of her skin?

“Who would’ve thunk it?” she said, evading the moment. “You’re actually a crusader, Ian Beck.”

“Not me.” He sighed, grinned, grabbed some popcorn and rattled it around in his closed hand. The cavalier journalist had returned, thank goodness. “I haven’t been a pen-wielding warrior for a while. But if Gilbert manages to get his fat pulled out of the fire, I wouldn’t mind seeing it.”

As he tossed the food into his mouth, he seemed much too casual. Was he lying to her? Did Ian Beck really have a softer side? Not that he’d admit to it.

Still, this new possibility prodded her to talk—really talk—about what was happening. More than anything, she wanted to spill her doubts and fears about Gilbert, to lean on someone else’s shoulder in order to take the burden off of her own.

Be careful, she told herself. This man is an investigative reporter. Don’t you think he’s used this act before? Don’t you think this is how he gets his dirt?

Even so, the thought of revealing everything to a person who wouldn’t be around for much longer was tempting. After he was gone, her confessions would leave town with him, too, as if she’d never spoken at all.

A stranger, she thought. A temporary haven.

Then reality slapped her upside the head. The last person she wanted to blab to was a journalist, for heaven’s sake. But if he were any other friendly companion, she knew she’d really give some serious thought to allowing a man like Ian Beck to give her some relief.

And maybe even in more ways than one.

Fleetingly, she imagined leaning her head against his chest, closing her eyes as he enveloped her with his strong arms, breathing easy as he stroked her back, his hands slipping under her shirt to caress her bare skin.

Warmed by the fantasy, she smiled at him, then tentatively walked closer, reaching in to the bowl for a handful of popcorn.

Unexpectedly, he did the same thing.

Their fingers brushed, sending giddy shivers up her arm, through her skin, down to her belly.

“If you want,” he said softly, keeping his hand near hers, “I can show you my rough draft tomorrow. You can give me your thumbs-up before my deadline.”

Wow, he was really trying to earn her trust and reel her in.

Curiously, she skimmed her finger over his as she picked up a kernel, acting as if the contact was an accident, even if they both knew it wasn’t. As she brought the food to her mouth, he didn’t look at the popcorn so much as her lips.

She allowed herself to rest the snack against her mouth, enjoying his frank interest, still thrown off balance by it, too. “Thank you. I’d really like that.”

Pushing the snack into her mouth, she knew what he was probably thinking: that she wasn’t merely liking the chance to preview his reporting.

That there were so many other things for her to like about him.

Things that just might get her through these troubled times.

After polishing off the popcorn last night, Ian had offered to take Rachel out for a more substantial dinner, but she had declined, saying that she planned to get up early for a painting class at the local learning center.

Even though he knew there was a current of attraction running between them like a live wire, he’d accepted her excuse, thanked her for the snack and made arrangements to meet her at the art shop the next morning.

Back in his hotel room, he’d burned the midnight oil, punching out his story on his laptop, satisfied enough with the results to get a few hours of shut-eye.

Morning didn’t come soon enough. But when it did, he shined himself up, sent an e-mail to a loop he’d created for his nine nieces and nephews and, by the time eleven o’clock rolled around, traveled by subway to meet Rachel.

Her class was located in a shop on a quiet, tree-lined block that included knitting and crocheting boutiques, a small Italian restaurant and an antique emporium. Thank God the place was tiny enough so that he could see the students through the lettering of the front window. Ian didn’t go into these kinds of stores unless he was chasing a story. And it’d have to be a damned good one, at that.

Rachel was sitting near the front, painting a plaster-cast bust. It resembled an old sailor, with a burnished yellow hat, slicker-coated shoulders and overgrown whiskers covering his craggy face.

Paintbrush held in the air as she tilted her head and considered her nearly finished masterpiece, Rachel frowned. She set down the tool and pushed herself away from the table, as if she was done with the project, abandoning it.

Ian lightly rapped on the window, catching her attention.

When she saw him, a smile beamed over her face. Unadulterated joy traveled to her eyes, absolutely transforming her.

Shocking him.

He actually had to blink, to clear his gaze.

But… Yup, there she was, still smiling, and now waving.

Somehow, Ian had made her happy just by showing up. He’d never seen such a reaction, not from a woman, anyway. Sure, his family tended to jump all over him like white on rice whenever he could come to one of their shindigs in Albany, but this was different.

This was…

…scary.

And real nice.

He waved back, and she set about cleaning up. Soon she was saying goodbye to the teacher and exiting the shop while donning her long coat.

A blush covered her skin, giving a hint of rose to the creamy brown of her cheeks. It was almost as if she’d noted her strong reaction at seeing him earlier and was doing her damnedest to make him think he’d been imagining her excitement.

“Good work,” he said as they began to walk. “Your sailor looked like he just walked off a ship.”

“You think so?” She frowned. “The colors were all wrong. I don’t know… I have no talent for painting anything. Not even plaster.”

He didn’t like how she was doubting herself. “Hey you’ve got some art magic going. Your work was great.”

“Not really. There’s not much point in taking more classes if all I’m doing is creating visual barf.” She laughed. “That won’t make the world a more beautiful place at all.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself.” Impulsively, he stopped, rested his hands on her shoulders. “I’m not blowing sunshine in your ear. It was really good.”

Her eyes had gone wide. Was it because of the compliment or because he was touching her again? Jeez, he couldn’t seem to keep his hands to himself around her.

“You’re fooling me,” she said in a soft voice.

“No fooling here.”

A beat passed, one with a hint of all the words they weren’t saying—not that Ian could even identify what those words would be even if he had the guts to blurt them out.

As Rachel offered a shy grin, then started to walk away, Ian stood there a moment, hands empty, wondering what the hell was going on. Wondering why she didn’t fit into his seamless no-attachments-no-worries life like every other woman did.

Within four steps, he caught up to her.

“I’m sorry about that,” she said.

“What?”

“Being so whiny. Grubbing for compliments.”

He hadn’t thought it was a big deal, but now he wasn’t so sure her self-critique had been that simple.

Women, he thought. Each of them a puzzle. Impossible to understand.

So why did he want to solve her so badly?

“I’m the type of person,” she said, “who constantly flits from one activity to the next, one club to the other. Gilbert always told me that I seek approval from outside sources, and I leave before I don’t get it. And he’s right. Back in school, I was Miss Popularity. I was the head of everything from Pep Club to Drama Club to the Cheer Squad—‘the star.’” She smiled. “But those were the days when I had the energy to do it all, when I fueled myself with social activities and loved the attention.”

She followed up with a small, sad laugh, and Ian filed that away. It was confirmation of everything he’d feared about her: a lover who would require much more care than he normally invested.

Someone he’d have to change for.

But…

Damn, he couldn’t believe he was even thinking about it.

His family and friends had always teased him that someday he’d find a woman worth the commitment and effort.

Was Rachel James that woman?

“Were you ever a joiner?” she asked, oblivious to his world veering off its course.

“Me?” He forced himself back into bachelor mode. Much easier that way. “I can’t say I’ve joined a whole lot. But once I do, I’m loyal. I’ve had this reporting gig since I was twenty-nine, seven years now, and the adrenaline was what always kept me going. I could always count on it to get me from one day to the next.”

Interesting, how that had all come out in the past tense.

“So, tell me…” Without warning, she stopped walking, looking around as if confused. “Hey, you know what? Where are we going?”

Good question. It just occurred to him that they’d started talking the second she’d come out the door, ignoring the details around them, so happy to see each other that they hadn’t even decided where they were headed.

“Isn’t there a coffee house around?” he asked. “We can go over my article there.”

“Two blocks away.” She tugged at his jacket and started down the sidewalk again. “So, as I was asking, you’re pretty good at sticking with one thing?”

Jobs, yes, he thought. But not with much else.

“My career allows me a lot of freedom, so I’m not too stifled.” Or, at least, it had offered freedom. “I’m content with it.” Or, at least, he had been.

“Running around from assignment to assignment must make it tough to put down roots.”

“It is hard to settle down. And I feel for any woman who decides to hook up with a reporter. My last assignment was over in Saudi Arabia—not exactly someplace, at the moment, to encourage thoughts of safe harbor for a boyfriend.”

She was watching him in a new way—not like he was a muckraker or a tragedy chaser. He puffed up a little, flattered and kind of proud.

“How did you go from a hot spot to Saunders?” she asked.

“Well, even an action junkie like me needs a break every once in a while. I thought I could do this story in my sleep. I have to write one of those every once in a while to stay sane, you know.”

Too bad he hadn’t known what kind of complete sleaze had been on his editor’s agenda. The second Ian got back to the offices in New York, he was going to put in for another overseas assignment, just to wash away the bad taste of this one.

They were passing a toy boutique, and Ian slowed, checking out the window display. He pointed to a compact bunny wearing a Red Sox uniform.

“Mind if we stop?” he asked.

“You’re into furry little stuffed things?” She laughed. “Wow, Ian, you manage to surprise me at least once a day.”

Just think what I could do if I had more time, he thought.

“It’ll take one second and that’s it,” he said, heading for the store’s entrance.

Five minutes later, he had the bag-wrapped bunny in his jacket pocket.

“For the brood back home,” he said. “My nephews and nieces. All nine of them.”

“Whoa, one bunny for the masses?”

He grinned, just thinking of the kids. Just thinking of how his parents and four brothers good-naturedly ribbed him for being the one sibling who wasn’t contributing to Beck World Domination by breeding too much. He always had a good comeback for that, saying that he wasn’t one to add to overpopulation. They should thank him.

“We have this game,” Ian said as they came to a corner and paused. The coffee house was across the busy street. “Every time I go on assignment, I get some kind of item that represents the area: a toy, a trinket, a symbol. I pose it in an interesting place and take a picture, as if it’s visiting right along with me. Then I send it over an e-mail loop to my little nieces and nephews—a postcard. When I get home, I hide it, and one lucky boy or girl becomes the proud new owner when they find it. I started this when my brothers told me that I was bringing the kids too many souvenirs and they were getting spoiled. But I still give them each something tiny from all my travels, even if it’s candy. That’s a big secret, though.”

“I won’t tell.”

She seemed about near to bursting with approval. He couldn’t help reaching for her hand, enfolding it in his own. Warmth shot through his fingers.

“Time to cross the street,” he said, ignoring the flare of sweet hunger, the compulsion to gather her into his arms and hold her close.

When the traffic allowed, they sprinted to the coffee shop and took a table by the window. He held on to her hand the entire way.

And she didn’t let go, either, until they were inside and ready to order at the counter.

Unfortunately, that’s when her cell phone rang. She had to use both hands to unzip her purse, so there went his big moment. His skin felt cold and bereft, having gotten used to the pressure of her fingers entwined with his own.

Answering the call, she indicated that he should go ahead and order while she claimed a table.

Soon afterward, he joined her with two cups of cappuccino. He’d had to guess at what beverage she would enjoy the most and, judging from her enthusiastic nod, he’d done well.

Ian tried not to be too happy about that, but he was. Dammit all, he was.

“Okay,” Rachel said, obviously winding up the call. She sucked in a breath, looking as if she was making an important decision, then exhaled on her final answer. “I’ll be there.”

From the look on her face, Ian guessed she’d just jumped some kind of mental hurdle, one that didn’t necessarily comfort her.

“That was Jane,” she said, folding up her phone and putting it away. “Breakfast tomorrow with the gang.”

Ah, he thought. She’s finally hanging out with her friends again outside of the trial. But why? “Is the team forming battle plans?”

“Yeah. I suppose it’s about time I was a part of the group again.”

Cello music from the speakers played over their silence as they drank. The change in tone rattled him, made him crazy to get back the past fifteen minutes.

What could he… Hey, talking about his family had entertained her. Maybe asking about hers would do the same trick.

“How about the James clan?” he ventured. “How many nieces and nephews overrun all your reunions?”

She gulped down her cappuccino, tightening her hold on the porcelain mug almost imperceptibly. But after a pause, she answered, “My sister’s too young to be a mom…fourteen. And, actually, she’s not even my real sister.”

“Oh.” Had he stumbled upon the wrong subject? Judging by the darkness haunting her gaze, he guessed so.

Was it too late to backpedal?

She forced a smile. “I’m adopted, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

Something told him to shut up, to can the reporter sense and leave well enough alone.

Luckily, she saved his bacon, rescuing him from making a further nuisance of himself because—God knows—that’s the last thing he wanted to be for this woman.

“So where’s that rough draft?” she asked, her perky tone ringing false.

Relieved, he couldn’t get the papers out from the lining of his jacket soon enough. “For your pleasure.”

At that, she really did smile, small dimples forming at the tips of her mouth. The gesture bowled Ian over, making him wonder if he’d be no more than a fallen pin by the end of the assignment he’d come to despise.

An assignment he was actually enjoying more than he would like to.