Tell No Lies Page 21

  They stared at each other and he could see her breath in the air. She didn't answer him, and he started to panic. He realized, with horror, that he'd just propositioned her.

  "Jenny, please." He just wanted her to say something, anything. Tell him to go home.

  She looked down with eyelids slow and heavy. "Get in. We'll talk when we get there."

  They drove in silence for the ten minutes it took to Lafayette Square. He glimpsed her profile out of the corner of his eye, but she just stared at the road and gripped the steering wheel. He asked himself what he was doing, but he couldn't come up with a sensible answer.

  "Be careful, the cats might try to get out," she said at the front door, as if he were merely a girlfriend she'd invited for dinner. But the cats were nowhere to be seen, and after they went in and she'd locked the door behind them, she turned on a light and walked around closing the blinds. She hung their coats in a small closet near the front door.

  "Did you have dinner?" she asked. On the way to the kitchen, she kicked off her shoes and threw her suit jacket over the stair railing.

  "No. I'm not hungry."

  "You will be." She opened a drawer and fished around for a take-out menu. "Thai okay?"

  He nodded. He watched as she placed the call without asking him what he wanted. When she hung up, she took a bottle of wine from a small rack on the counter and searched a different drawer for a corkscrew. She poured two glasses and handed one to Jack.

  "Have you thought this through?" she asked.

  "Some things you shouldn't think through." Even as he said it, he knew he was wrong.

  "This isn't one of them." When he didn't respond, she said, "Where are you supposed to be right now?"

  "On my way to Jeff City for a seminar tomorrow."

  She took a longer sip of her wine. He heard the clock ticking on her kitchen wall.

  "You're very selfish." Her voice was matter-of-fact. What did she mean? Was she talking about Claire? He didn't want to think about that right now. "You only think about what you want, and you plow on ahead, oblivious to how your actions might affect others. You think if you just turn on that charm, then it's all okay."

  "I'm willing to accept the consequences, if I have to. But it doesn't have to affect anyone else. No one ever has to know." With these words he realized that somehow he'd already moved beyond worrying about the ramifications.

  Her eyes narrowed. She set her wine down hard; a few drops splashed onto the counter. "Goddammit, I'm not talking about Claire. What about me, Jack? How do you know I'm willing to accept the consequences? Did you ever think about me?"

  "Jenny, you're all I've been thinking—"

  "Stop it. Just stop it. Don't you understand what I'm trying to say? Tomorrow you'll go back to your perfect little life, but what about me? I'm not interested in being someone's mistress." She paused, blinking to hold back the tears. "Especially not yours."

  When he made no response, she said, "What do you think? Because I'm single, it's not a big deal for me? Just another fuck?"

  "No. I know it's not like that."

  She put her hands on her hips. "What's it like, then? Tell me."

  But he couldn't tell her. Because she was right—he hadn't given it much thought from her point of view. All you have to do is say the word, and it's yours. Maybe he'd misunderstood. Maybe he'd read much more into that statement than she'd ever intended.

  What should he do now? He would get on his knees and beg to stay, if he had to. He couldn't imagine leaving. Nothing would ever be the same, but in a different way than if he left the following morning. If he didn't find the words to explain himself right then, he'd never have the chance, much less the nerve, to explain tonight's actions later.

  "It's like . . ." he began, not knowing what to say, just fumbling his way through.

  She put her hand up. "No. Please, don't say anything." She gently rubbed at the outer corners of her eyes. She picked up her wine again and took a long drink. What was he supposed to do? He wondered if he should call a cab. He waited for her to tell him to leave.

  "I don't know," she said finally. "It just seems so calculated."

  He wanted to laugh, but didn't. Nothing had seemed calculated to him, at least not until he'd gotten into her car at the garage. How could he explain to her why he'd ended up there, waiting for her on the hood? How could he explain that he hadn't intended for this to happen? But he sensed an opening, so he stepped closer to her.

  "Jenny, I didn't plan this. I swear. I've thought about it for a long time, but I didn't plan it. I went to the garage tonight to tell you that we need to stay away from each other. I didn't go to end up here. You have to believe that. Something just happened, I don't know what. I know it sounds ridiculous, but it just seemed so right. It felt so right that night last spring in the garage, too. I've been going crazy for months, thinking about it. I know it's ridiculous, I know it's wrong. I can't explain it, really, not in a way you'll understand."

  "That's the problem," she whispered, "I do understand." She wouldn't look at him. He moved even closer, and she let him. He rested his lips on her forehead and closed his eyes. She tilted her head up, and he kissed her, just once. Her mouth was sweet from the wine.

  "Do you want to go up upstairs?" she asked.

  Her resignation stung. How could he make her understand it wasn't just sex? He wanted to spend the night with her, talking like they always did. He wanted to feel her warm body against his as they drifted to sleep and then wake together at sunrise and talk some more over morning coffee.

  "No. Let's drink our wine and eat."

  She glanced at the clock on the wall. She finally nodded and poured him some more, and then she topped off her own. She played with a button on his shirt, studied a scratch on the counter—anything not to look at him. He rubbed a tear from the corner of her eye and licked his finger to taste it.

  "It's almost gone," he said, nodding to the bottle on the counter.

  "Yeah."

  "We could open another."

  She pursed her lips. "I think we'd better wait until the food comes."

  He felt as thought they were two virgins who were just figuring it out as they went along.

  "There it is now," she said when the doorbell interrupted their awkwardness. He followed her to the door, where she peeked through the peephole. "Uh-oh. You'd better go back in the kitchen."

  "Why?"

  "It's Alex."

  "What's he doing here?"

  "I don't know. I didn't invite him."

  "Does he stop by often?" Jack asked, feeling the old jealousy return. The bell rang again.

  "Jack, will you get in the kitchen? Or better yet, upstairs. We can talk about this later. I need to answer the door."

  "Why? Just pretend you're not home."

  "My car's outside. He's not stupid."

  "Someone could have picked you up."

  "All the lights are on." She shook her head. "Why am I arguing with you? Get upstairs."

  He climbed to the first landing, where the stairwell turned, and continued up. He sat on the top step of the second landing, out of view but still within earshot. He heard her slip the chain off its lock and turn the deadbolt.

  "Hi, Alex." Impatience oozed from her voice.

  Jack recognized her former boyfriend's voice, but all he could make out was something about coming in.

  "What do you want? I'm a little busy."

  "Someone here?" His voice was louder now; Jack could tell he'd stepped into the living room.

  "No, but I don't think that's any concern of yours."

  "Then why are you so busy?"

  Jack heard Alex's footsteps on the hardwood floor, his voice moving through the house.

  "I'm trying to edit an appellate brief that's due next week. You mind?"

  "Maybe I could help you."

  Jack strained to hear her response. After a long silence, she said, "Alex, what do you want?"

  "Just wanted to see you again. I was surpri
sed to see your lights on. I thought you'd be back at work."

  "It's nine thirty. I'm not usually at work this late."

  Why doesn't she just tell him to get the hell out of there?

  "Did you talk to Maxine?"

  "Maxine is Maxine. I deal with her, okay?"

  "Just wondering. We've gotta get it resolved."

  Jack felt his muscles tense. We've? He heard them as they passed by the bottom of the stairs.

  "Did you eat yet? We could have dinner together."

  "No, we couldn't, Alex. I want you to leave now."

  There you go, Jen. Their voices were fainter; it sounded as if they'd moved into the kitchen

  "I thought you said no one was here." Alex's tone had turned almost angry.

  "They're from earlier."

  There was silence for a moment, and then Jack heard the clink of glass against the counter.

  "The glasses are still wet."

  "Alex, you're getting on my nerves. Who are you, Sherlock Holmes? I want you to leave now. Don't tempt me to call the police."

  For some reason, he laughed at her threat.

  Jack wondered if Jenny had given him one of her "if looks could kill" type looks, because then Alex said, "Okay, okay," and Jack relaxed a bit. But he added, "Can I use your bathroom first?"

  Shit. The lone bathroom was upstairs. Jack stood quietly and looked around for a good place to hide. He hoped the wood underneath him didn't creak when he walked.

  "You're five minutes from your house. You can't hold it?"

  Jack could go into her bedroom, but if Alex thought she had someone there, he'd no doubt take a look.

  "Come on, Jenny. I'll leave. Just let me use your john."

  Jack slipped into a small closet that held her water heater.

  "Fine." God, she must have trusted Jack to find a hiding place quickly. Or maybe she thought he deserved to sweat. "Two minutes, Alex, and then I'm calling the police. I'm not kidding."

  Jack listened as Alex climbed the stairs and went into the bathroom. After a minute he heard the toilet flush and then the faucet run. But he hadn't heard that distinctive, telltale sound of urine hitting the water in the bowl. The bathroom door opened, but he didn't hear Alex go down the stairs. Where was he? Jack held his breath and listened more closely. But he couldn't hear anything. He started to get nervous. What if Alex opened the closet door?

  Jenny called up, "Alex, you have five seconds."

  "Relax. I'm coming right now."

  Where had Alex gone? Her bedroom? Once he was sure that Alex was downstairs, Jack tiptoed back to his spot on the steps. The doorbell rang again. There was the food.

  "Busy night, huh, Jenny?"

  "It's my dinner. So why don't you show yourself out while I get it?" Her voice was sarcastic, angry.

  She opened the front door; Jack heard her pay the deliveryman.

  "What are you doing?" she said suddenly. Even from upstairs, Jack heard the quiver in her voice. He stood, ready to go down.

  "I didn't know you'd started to wear men's trench coats. Looks like something your favorite prosecutor might wear."

  "Get the hell out of here." The closet door shut hard. "And stay the hell away from me. The next time you knock on my door, I'm getting a restraining order against you. I'm sure my favorite prosecutor can arrange that."

  "Jenny." His voice was apologetic, as if he'd realized too late that he'd taken the wrong tack.

  "Get out. Now." Alex was still protesting as he stepped outside. She slammed the door and after a moment called up, "The coast is clear."

  Her face had paled. For the first time that night, she fell eagerly into his arms. He held her firmly, and it reminded him of how he sometimes held Jamie to calm him down. His stomach tightened; he felt his conscience trying to break through.

  "I'm glad you were here," she whispered. "He was starting to give me the creeps."

  "What's with him? Has he been bothering you a lot?"

  "He's an asshole" was all she said.

  "Does he stop by often?" He'd asked the same question earlier, but his motivation for wanting to know had changed. "What did he mean, he wanted to see you again? Have you seen him recently?"

  "He's just an asshole," she said again. Whatever was going on, she didn't want to tell him.

  He decided to try a different approach. "How would he recognize my coat?"

  "He doesn't really know it's yours. For all he knows, it belongs to any guy. He's always been insanely jealous of you, of our friendship. He was just trying to get to me."

  Now he was getting somewhere. As he stood there thinking of the next best question, inhaling the jasmine scent of her hair, she said, "It always drove him crazy how much time I spent with you. He thought it was odd that we had lunch together so often."

  "He's right. It is."

  She lifted her head to look at him. After a moment, she rested it back against his shoulder.

  "But since we broke up, I don't know, he's been out of control."

  "In what way?"

  "I don't know. Do we have to talk about him? It's ruining my appetite."

  "Yes."

  "It's not like you're thinking. It's nothing physical or anything. He's just a pest, constantly calling me and stopping by unannounced. I made the mistake of—" She stopped abruptly.

  "What?"

  She sighed and shrugged apologetically. "I met with him, earlier. The meeting I mentioned."

  Jack stared at her. He had no right to have an opinion, but they both knew he had one.

  "It was a mistake. He doesn't seem to be able to let go."

  "Why haven't you ever mentioned this to me before?"

  "You're not my dad, Jack."

  No, he wasn't. For a moment, he wondered if she was wishing she had a dad to call. But what was he, exactly, to her? He wasn't her husband, he wasn't her brother, he wasn't even her lover. He was just a guy she was going to sleep with, and he wasn't even sure she wanted to.

  "No, but I'm your favorite prosecutor."

  She looked up again and grinned. The color had come back to her face. He bent his head and kissed her. Not like in the kitchen, but in the garage. This time she was decisive. She gripped his shoulders and pulled him closer.

  Her urgency fed his. He tugged her blouse from the waist of her slacks and reached under to touch her skin. Just feeling the ridge of her lower spine roused him to kiss her harder, and she let out a murmur from deep in her throat. With his other hand he unclipped the large barrette holding her hair. But when she reached for his belt, he pulled back.

  "Not yet. Let's eat, have some more wine."

  She groaned. "You're killing me, Jack." She grabbed the bag of food from the table by the door. "Okay, why don't you grab our glasses and another bottle of wine and meet me upstairs. I'll get this stuff ready."

  "Okay." But again, they just stood there. She laughed.

  "Come on, Mr. Hilliard," she said, and he followed like a puppy.

  Upstairs, he left the light off. He set the wineglasses on the nightstand next to her bed and opened the new bottle. He reached behind the sheers and opened each window just a crack. The air was crisp; he breathed in deeply.

  "It's dark in here." Her voice filled the room.

  She turned on the stereo, and light from the receiver softly illuminated the room. As she chose a CD, he came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. It felt so natural, so easy, touching her this way, as though he'd done it a thousand times.

  When she turned to face him, he didn't hesitate. He felt like a child opening the first present on Christmas morning.

  "The food's getting cold," she said, grinning, and watched him trying to unbutton the small pearl buttons of her blouse.

  "Yeah." He knelt down to unfasten her slacks. On the way back up he brushed his lips against her exposed stomach. "I told you I wasn't hungry."

  He led her to the bed, and when they lay down together, he simply looked at her. Her black hair was spread out like a geisha's
fan. The skin on her breasts was almost as brown as the rest of her, but he saw faded tan lines from a bathing suit. Her nipples were small, dark. His gaze traveling down to her stomach, he thought back to the bar and how he'd glimpsed that stomach when she danced.

  "Jack, don't hurt me," she said. The words startled him. "After tonight, I mean. If you for one minute avoid me, or treat me differently, I won't be able to take it."

  "I wouldn't do that."

  "I know. I'm just telling you, I don't think I could take it."

  He looked into her dark eyes and saw immense sadness. "I think if we were playing strip poker, I'd be losing," she said, and he knew that was her signal to move on.

  He refilled the wineglasses and handed one to her before shedding his clothes. He took a brief sip, but she emptied hers quickly.

  "You're not getting drunk, are you?" he asked her.

  "Maybe just a little."

  "Don't. I don't want you to use the wine as an excuse to apologize tomorrow for what happens tonight."

  She nodded in silent agreement.

  He dipped a finger into his wine and brought it to her lips. Starting at her mouth, he traced a line down the middle of her body. He traced over her chin and then her throat as she tilted her head back. He traced down the small hollow where her collarbone met the base of her neck. He traced down the center of her chest, but before reaching the valley between her breasts he took a small detour to inspect a mole at the spot where her right breast began its rise. He resumed his journey then and continued down between her breasts, watching her nipples grow hard. His finger moved between her ribs and down onto her flat stomach. He let it fall briefly into her navel and continued until he reached the top of her underwear. He lingered there for a moment, drawing invisible circles on her skin. She raised her hips slightly and he knew where she expected him to go next, but to tease her he dipped his finger again and started the process all over.

  "You know, I was thinking of something today," he whispered. Her eyes turned to him but her body remained still. "You never did tell me where you went to high school."