Tell No Lies Read online

  "Claire . . ."

  "Relax, I said. Just lie there and enjoy yourself." If she knew what bothered him, she didn't plan to talk about it.

  He closed his eyes as her hands traveled his body. But he couldn't forget Mark and Jenny in the hall, Mark pressing up against Jenny like he owned her, and Jenny letting him.

  He opened his eyes and looked at Claire's face above him. She straddled his waist, her eyes closed and her hands caressing him. He pulled her down close and rolled over quickly so that he was on top. She opened her eyes during the repositioning, surprised by the apparent sudden change in his mood. He kissed her before she had a chance to speak.

  His mind was back in the parking garage again with Jenny, but this time he didn't fight it. He'd been fighting it for seven months now. He had been winning, of sorts, but it had been exhausting and now he felt entitled to just give in. If he let himself think the forbidden, then maybe it would go away. His thoughts hurtled between the real kiss in the garage and an imagined one in the hotel corridor. His cheek brushed Claire's and he heard her utter his name from deep in her throat, but he suppressed his voice for fear of what he might say. He closed his eyes tightly, and the taut muscles responding to his touch became Jenny's. He thought of them together on her large bed, her hands pressed firmly into his backside. He heard a faint voice in his head—his own—telling him to come back, but another louder, more insistent voice—also his—prevailed.

  As their bodies rocked together in a fast, rhythmic motion, he grabbed Claire's arms and held them above her head, gripping them by the wrists with one hand while the other pressed into the hot skin of the small of her back. She wriggled a bit underneath him and he tightened his grasp. He knew she didn't like to be held like this, but he felt strangely indifferent to what she wanted just then. She didn't protest aloud but she squirmed some more and tried to free her hands, her body and her mind disagreeing even as she continued to move with him. She grunted loudly and said, "Let me go!" He loosened his grip just as she jerked her arms down. For one brief instant she pushed against his shoulders, then relented and gave in to the needs of her body.

  He continued as if nothing had happened. He was all but gone.

  Later, there was a rap on the door to the suite. Jack lay prone, one side of his face smashed into the pillow. He opened one eye to look at the clock on the nightstand. Eleven a.m. Through the open French doors he saw Claire sitting on the sofa, looking out the window, her bare legs bent and pulled up close to her body. She wore a long green silk camisole, and her hair cascaded over her arms. She didn't move to answer the door, so he decided the noise had been a dream.

  The knock was repeated and then a voice called, "Room service!"

  She turned her head toward the door and sighed so loudly he could hear her from the bed. To his surprise, she answered the door without putting on the hotel-supplied robe.

  "I'm sorry, but we didn't order room service," she said quietly.

  "Mr. Scanlon ordered it last night for you, ma'am."

  "Oh," she said, sounding surprised but pleased. Jack heard the valet roll the cart in.

  He climbed out of bed and pulled on his shorts. By the time Claire shut the door, he was standing in the doorway from the bedroom, watching her.

  "Morning," he said.

  She lifted the covers to peek at the food.

  "Anything good?"

  "Earl knows you well, doesn't he? Eggs and bacon. And they're over easy."

  It seemed like a normal conversation, but he knew from her flat tone that it wasn't.

  "When did you get up?" he asked, moving toward her.

  She shrugged. He waited but she didn't elaborate. He wrapped his arms around her from behind. "Don't I get a hug?"

  She nudged his arms off and walked away. "I think you got whatever it was you wanted a few hours ago."

  Stung, he watched numbly as she pulled up a chair to the edge of the small cart.

  "You'd better eat before it gets cold," she said without emotion.

  He didn't move. He stared as she spread a napkin on her lap, removed the silver lid from the plate in front of her, poured maple syrup on the strawberry pancakes Earl had ordered for her, and picked up her fork and began to eat. He tried to gather his thoughts, determine his next move, but he couldn't get past deciding whether to just sit down with her or retreat into the shower. She made the decision for him.

  "Jack?"

  He grabbed a chair from the dining table and sat across from her. He didn't think he'd be able to eat, but once he'd taken a bite of the eggs, he realized he had that ravenous, grease-craving hunger that always follows a night of drinking. They ate in silence without looking at each other. Despite her head start, he finished first. He fiddled with things on the table while he sipped his coffee and waited for her to finish. He noticed a folded note card. "Take your time, the room is yours as long as you want it." It wasn't Earl's handwriting, but Jack knew the message was his. He lifted the card and held it in front of Claire's face so she could read it. She eyed it as she chewed, but didn't react. He contained a sigh and suspected he was going to need at least until mid-afternoon to warm her back up.

  He picked up a miniature ketchup bottle and read the label. "Do you know anybody who actually puts ketchup on his eggs?" he asked.

  She gave him a disgusted look.

  "What?" He could feel himself sinking further and couldn't seem to grab hold of anything to pull himself back up.

  She shook her head. "Is that all you can think of to say to me?"

  Her eyes were becoming glassy and her bottom lip quivered. He didn't want to end their stay in the room like this. He wanted to say something, but he didn't know what. How had they gotten to this point? This was supposed to be a good day.

  When he didn't answer her question, she calmly placed her napkin on the table and stood up. "I'll be ready to go home in a half hour," she said.

  He stared at the yellow yolk drying on his plate, barely registering the loud slam of the bathroom door. What was he supposed to say? I'm sorry, I was thinking about another woman when I was making love with you? Right. Anyway, she'd probably done the same thing at some point in their marriage, hadn't she? No one was perfect. He knew, though, that there'd never been a time when he felt she wasn't right there with him. With his elbows on the table, he cradled his head in his palms and closed his eyes. He wished that the day were already over.

  He finally went into the bedroom. He held his ear to the bathroom door but didn't hear anything. He knocked on it softly. "Claire, can I come in?"

  There was silence for a moment, and then: "Sure, you're king of the world. I guess you can do anything you want."

  He glanced at the ceiling. This wasn't going to be easy. He turned the knob and opened the door; at least she hadn't locked it. She was sitting in the empty claw foot tub, looking out the window. She'd taken a blanket from the bed and had it wrapped around her.

  "I think you forgot the water." He tried to say it softly, teasingly.

  "Fuck you, Jack," she said.

  He looked down. In the thirteen years they'd been married, she'd said that to him on only two occasions, both having to do with his run for DA: the first when he announced his candidacy, and now, after he'd won. He'd deserved it each time.

  He approached the tub cautiously and squatted next to it. He almost reached over and touched her, but decided to wait. "I'm sorry."

  She didn't respond, didn't even acknowledge that she'd heard him. He knew why: she wanted to hear what he was apologizing for. Just to make sure, say, he wasn't apologizing for his dumb comment about the ketchup.

  "I'm sorry about last night." Finally, a look in his direction. But she still wanted more. "I guess I just got carried away."

  Her eyes narrowed. "Carried away?"

  He looked at her manicured feet sticking out from under the blanket. He couldn't look her in the eye. "Well, I—"

  "I felt like I was being raped, Jack." He looked right at her then. He opened his mo
uth to protest but she stopped him. "I'm not saying that's what it was. I'm just saying that's what it felt like." Her eyes filled and he couldn't look away. "I don't know who was in bed with me, but it wasn't Jack Hilliard." Tears began to trail slowly, silently, down her cheeks. They glistened in the warm sunlight beating through the bay window.

  "Claire, you've gotta believe—"

  "You're different. Ever since your decision to run for DA, you've been different. I don't know you anymore."

  "I'm not. It's just—"

  "You are. And . . . and I'm afraid now that you've won, it'll just get worse."

  "It won't. I promise."

  "But will it get better?"

  "Yes."

  "I tried to tell myself you were under a lot of pressure. I tried to make it easier for you." It seemed that she was talking to herself now. "And last night, I realized you were upset about what Jenny had done." His pulse quickened at the mention of Jenny's name. "It took me a bit, but I did realize it, once I sobered up some. And I was trying to make you feel better. I felt bad for you. I know you felt like you'd been tricked." He reached up and with his thumb wiped tears from the side of her face. She gripped his hand. "But it felt like you were taking all your anger out on me. That's what it felt like. You were so angry. It was so angry."

  "I'm sorry," he whispered.

  "The Jack I know isn't an angry person. You've never been an angry person."

  "I'm sorry," he repeated. He meant it, but he couldn't give her a better explanation. He had been angry, but of course it had been about more than the letter. He couldn't tell her anything to make her understand how angry he was at himself for not having control of his emotions.

  "What is it about her, Jack?"

  Her question took him by surprise. She'd suddenly turned a corner, taken a new, more direct route to a destination he'd been trying to avoid. He couldn't find words fast enough.

  "There's something different about both of you. Something different between you." She held his eyes; there would be no circling around the issue. "And I'm not the only one who thinks so, either."

  He swallowed, and it felt like a walnut going down his throat. "What do you mean?"

  "Just what I said. People have said things to me."

  He shook his head, denying any understanding, denying the accusation. "What are you talking about? Who? Who has said things?"

  "Well, the most recent was Maria."

  Jack let out a soft grunt, but Claire continued as if he were no longer part of the conversation.

  "I think her exact words were: 'You are such an awesome wife not to be bothered by how close Jenny and Jack are.' Yes, I'm sure she used the word awesome."

  Jack relaxed a bit; if that was her evidence, she didn't even have a case. "Well, she'd right," he said gently. "You are awesome. A lot of women would be bothered by our friendship, I guess." She didn't appear flattered; more like skeptical. "That's it?" Jack asked.

  She shook her head. "Frank."

  "Frank?"

  "Yeah."

  "What did Frank say?"

  "He claims that you told him we had a threesome going on."

  His jaw dropped and he pulled his hand away from her grip, averted his eyes. "Unbelievable. Frickin' unbelievable."

  "Well?"

  "Well what?" The question came out loudly and much angrier than he'd intended.

  "Did you tell him that?"

  He grunted, shaking his head in denial, but unable to say no truthfully. "How in the hell did it come about that Frank said something like that to you?"

  "He was drunk," she said flatly. "It was at one of those fundraisers this summer. He had a few too many drinks in him, and you know how obnoxious he is anyway. You were talking to her, and I guess he thought I was feeling neglected or something. I don't know. He—"

  "Were you?" He forced himself to look at her again.

  "No." She stared back for an instant before she continued. "He started rambling about how he thought Jenny had the hots for you and that when he suggested that to you, you told him we . . . well, you know."

  "He's such a fuckin' asshole," he said, looking away once more.

  "Did you tell him that?" she persisted.

  "Yes, but it wasn't like that."

  "Like what?"

  "It wasn't some sort of veiled acknowledgment about me and Jenny, for Christ's sake. He was being obnoxious, so I was just being obnoxious back at him."

  She nodded; she was willing to accept that.

  They both fell silent, as if neither quite knew where the discussion had led them or where they should go next. Jack heard maids in the hall, cars honking on the street outside the window.

  "Claire?" She turned to him. She'd stopped crying for now, but she wiped at the expectant tears still poised for release. "Does it bother you? My friendship with her?"

  She shrugged sadly. "It didn't used to. I trusted you. I even trusted her." She paused. "But then when people started saying things like that to me, I began to wonder if maybe I'm just naïve. Or too trusting." She shrugged again. "And it's just that, what she did with the letter . . . that she could make you react so . . ." Her voice trailed off and she looked right at him. The late-morning sunlight made her blue eyes appear transparent, and he imagined she could see straight into his soul with those eyes. "I don't know. Should it bother me?"

  In that instant he recognized that Jenny had become an obsession. He knew it now, as he knew the color of his eyes or the date he was born. He hadn't wanted to admit it because that was exactly what had happened with Claire, that day he saw her for the first time in the Pit. He hadn't wanted to believe he could feel that way again, that there was anyone other than his wife who could inspire such emotions in him.

  Will it get better? He needed to believe it would; he needed Claire to believe it would, that he would. If Jenny was an obsession, he could control it. It was a choice to make, and he determined right then to make the right one. He reached for Claire's hand.

  "No. It shouldn't bother you." He touched her hair. "Okay? Nothing about me and Jenny should bother you."

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  HE WENT BACK to the scene of the crime. That's what inexperienced criminals did, wasn't it? It took him just over a week to get up the nerve, but he went back. He was relieved to see her car in the same spot, despite the late hour.

  He sat on the hood and waited for her. What a difference a few months made. The air, which had been heavy and wet the last time, now filtered coolly and easily through his nostrils. The garage seemed darker. When he lay back against the windshield, he noticed that the light fixture on the ceiling was broken. Something had shattered the dingy plastic globe that covered the bulb—a gunshot, or perhaps a rock. All that remained were the sharp, jagged edges of half the globe and the dangling filaments of the bulb. He pulled his coat tighter.

  He tried to think of what he would say when she arrived. How to tell her that he had to stay away from her? How to explain that, despite their promise to each other, he couldn't forget what had happened in this garage and that her presence in his life was messing with his mind? Should he just come right out and admit that he couldn't stop thinking about her, and the only way he knew to solve the problem was to banish her completely? Or would that make it worse? Maybe the thing to do was lead her in the other direction, blame the situation on everyone else. He wondered whether to tell her about his conversation with Claire, to explain that others were starting to talk and that he'd decided the only way to protect Claire, to preserve his marriage—which, he needed to make her understand, meant more than anything to him—was to end his friendship with her. But how could he say this with hurting Jenny, or worse, making a fool of himself if he'd called it all wrong? After all, perhaps what he thought of as an unspoken but undoubted attraction between them was really one-sided on his part. Maybe he'd turned a simple kiss into something much more. What if she didn't even know what the hell he was talking about?

  He turned when he heard the elevator.
Jenny stepped off, walking tall and moderately fast. She wore a long black coat over her black pantsuit. On her shoulder she carried a black bag large enough to hold files. Her black hair was gathered behind her head. Except for her face and hands, all he could see was black.

  When she saw him, still some distance away, she hesitated. She turned to see the two others from the elevator getting into a car together. She approached cautiously, shoulders erect. As she came closer, her body relaxed. "Jack?" she called softly.

  He didn't respond. The other car passed him on the way to the ramp; oddly, the possibility that he might have been recognized didn't worry him as it had the last time.

  When she reached the car, she stayed a few feet away, next to the driver's side door.

  "What are you doing here? What happened? Is something wrong?"

  He shook his head. Nothing's wrong, everything's wrong. What should he say?

  "What is it?" she asked, her voice more urgent. "You're scaring me."

  "Where have you been?" The words came out more accusatory than he'd intended.

  She looked behind her again, as if watching for something. "I. . ." She hesitated. "I had a late meeting."

  He jumped down from the hood and extended his hands to her. "We need to talk."

  She set her bag on the ground and stepped closer. When their hands touched, he realized he'd misstepped. If he was going to rid himself of an obsession, he shouldn't have touched it. He shouldn't have even gotten near it. The words—the absolute wrong words—tumbled out.

  "I need to dance with you again."

  It wasn't at all what he'd intended to say, but once he'd said the words, he knew they were true. He felt goose bumps travel like an unstoppable tidal wave up his legs and down his arms and he could think of nothing except being with her. Not just being in her presence, but being with her as one, feeling her body lean against him as it had when they'd danced in this same spot last April. He wanted to make everything else disappear and sway to the music again with her, go round and round until they fell down laughing from dance-induced vertigo. He wanted to lie down on that gigantic bed of hers, sink with her into the layers of blankets and pillows and comforters she had piled on top, and as they made love, hold her head so she couldn't look away. He wanted to drown in the vortex of her eyes.