Dangerous Temptation (17 page)

"What do you want?" he asked abruptly, deciding he had had enough of this. His fingers curled into a fist beside his glass. "We got nothing to say to one another."

"Don't we?" Surprisingly, for such a frail man, Jacob was obviously not intimidated, either. Shit, thought Fletcher in anger. Was he losing his touch?

"No, we don't," he said, emptying his glass with his second gulp. "I suggest you get outta here, while you still can."

Jacob sighed as if in resignation and pushed the whisky towards him. "Help yourself," he said wearily, not moving. "While I decide where to begin."

Fletch resisted the pull of the bottle and pointed a finger that he couldn't prevent from trembling slightly at the other man. "I should beat your fucking brains out. I've been wanting to push your fucking teeth down your throat ever since you came through that door!"

"Charming," said Jacob sardonically, without any of the alarm Fletch had expected. But somehow, over the years, he'd lost that cutting edge, and Fletch wondered what had happened to pull him down.

And because there was no point in looking a gift horse in the mouth, Fletch grabbed the bottle and filled his glass. What the hell, he thought, he might as well enjoy it. If Jacob wanted to reminisce that was up to him.

"How long is it since you've seen Jake?" Jacob asked suddenly, and Fletch, who was considering the dregs in his glass, felt a sobering shot of fear invade his loins. Dammit, Jacob hardly knew Jake. The boy never bothered with him. But he was reminded that his son hadn't been around.

"What's it to you?" he demanded, exhibiting a defiance he didn't truly feel, and Jacob took a shuddering gulp of air.

"Humour me," he said. "How long is it since you've seen him? Or don't you keep in touch with him any more?"

" 'Course we keep in touch." Fletch was indignant. "As a matter of fact, I see Jake at least once every week. He doesn't forget his old man. It wasn't you that cared for him when he got home from 'Nam."

Jacob exhaled wearily. "I'm not interested in the past, Connor. Nor am I here to dispute the fact that you've been a better father to him than I could ever be. But—" he moved his thin shoulders in a dismissive gesture "—I want to know when you last saw him." He paused. "Tell me, has he ever tried to pass himself off as Nathan?"

"What?" Fletch's indignation was so great, he spluttered whisky all over the table, causing Jacob to draw back in distaste. "There ain't no way
my
boy would want to imitate that bastard! Believe me, he despises the both of you almost as much as me."

Jacob moistened his lips. "D'you think so?"

"I don't think it, jerk. I know it." Fletch swept the half-empty bottle of whisky and all the beer bottles from the table as he got unsteadily to his feet. "Like I said before, you and me got no damn thing in common. Now get the hell outta here! Before I break your neck."

Jacob sighed. "Sit down," he said, barely raising his voice, and Fletch glared at him with bloodshot eyes.

"You can't give me orders," he snarled. "I'm still not too old to beat the shit outta you. Just ask anyone around here. They know old Fletch still has what it takes."

Jacob gave him a pitying look. "Sit down," he said again. "You've just wasted twenty dollars' worth of fine malt whisky. How about if I call the sheriff to sort this out?"

"Wouldn't do you no good," retorted Fletch, but his defiance was less convincing. He knew the new sheriff, Ellis Hutchinson, wouldn't hesitate to throw him in jail. Since Andy Peyton died, things in Blackwater Fork had gone from bad to worse.

Jacob was waiting, and with a feeling of frustration, Fletch subsided into his seat again. He should have dealt with Wolfe when he was younger, he thought bitterly. These days, his threats were hollow things at best.

His spirits lifted a little when Jacob signalled Casey to bring another bottle, and after his glass was full again, he looked squarely at the other man. "What's all this about?" he demanded. "Why are you asking all these questions about Jake?"

"You'll find out." Jacob cradled his own glass between his hands. "So you don't think he envies his brother at all?"

Fletch scowled. "Jake? Envy that ponce?" He grimaced. "If you asked me if Nathan envied Jake, I might agree with you. He was pretty desperate to see him a couple weeks ago."

Jacob stared at him. "Nathan came to see Jake?" he echoed. "When?"

"I've just told you. A couple weeks ago," replied Fletch carelessly. "Made me call him from the house. Said he didn't want to go to Jake's office."

Jacob looked disturbed. "So what did he want? Did he tell you?"

Fletch gave the other man a scornful look. "Oh, sure. He'd do that, wouldn't he?" He sneered. "Nathan wouldn't piss on me if I was on fire."

Jacob ignored the provocation, and then asked shortly, "So did he speak to Jake? How long did he stay?"

"I don't know how long he stayed, do I?" Fletch was resentful. "He arranged to meet Jake in town, and I ain't set eyes on either of them since."

Jacob's face turned even paler. "You don't think—"

"What?" Fletch stared at him. "What don't I think?" Then, as if realising what Jacob might be insinuating, his face turned red. "You ain't suggesting Jake's gotten rid of his brother, so's he can take his place, are you?" His eyes darkened angrily. "Now see here…"

He started to get up out of his seat again, his swaying bulk threatening to overturn the table, but this time Jacob's hand placed squarely between his sagging pectorals drove him back onto the bench. "I'm not suggesting anything," he said with a warning note of caution. "But I'd like to know why Jake was on that flight."

"Flight?" Fletch blinked. "What flight?"

"The one that crashed on take-off in New York," replied Jacob heavily. "Christ, don't you read the papers? A jumbo ploughed into the runway at JFK."

Fletch quivered. "Jake's—dead?" A sour wave of bile filled his throat. "God—why didn't you say so?" Tears pricked his eyes. "Oh, Lord, I loved that boy!"

"No." Jacob was impatient now. "Jake's alive. Didn't I just say so? And he's supposed to have lost his memory in the crash. But the reservation must have been made in Nathan's name because that's what they're calling him. Do you hear what I'm saying? But I went to see him in the hospital, and it was Jake!"

"D'you wanna refill?"

He started, his thoughts far away from the dingy diner where he had come to try and sort out what he was going to do. Hunching his shoulders, he had the uneasy suspicion that the woman was staring at him, but he guessed she was only impatient because he hadn't given her a tip.

Besides, no one knew he was here, and even if they did, he wasn't doing anything wrong. Well, not yet, he amended broodingly. He was just sitting here, nursing a half-empty cup of cold coffee, and wondering what in hell he should do next.

He'd been so clear in his mind at the beginning. Getting his brother to help him had seemed an inspiration. He'd always resented the fact that despite the differences in their backgrounds, the other man had made more of a success of his life than he had. And it shouldn't be true, for Christ's sake. He had had all the advantages. Why did everything he attempted go so wrong?

This time, he'd been sure that nothing could stop him. With his brother on board the plane to England, all he'd intended to do was phone the Heathrow authorities and warn them that a certain passenger from New York was carrying drugs. A small amount, true, but enough to put his brother away for a little while.

But before he'd had time to make the call, he'd heard about the accident on the car radio. God, he remembered the elation he'd felt when he'd heard that news. For a full twenty-four hours he'd been convinced his troubles were over. What had the chances been of his brother surviving?

But like every other time in his goddamned life, he'd drawn a loser. The initial reports of a total disaster had been revised, and by the time he'd reached here, the rescue services were being praised for their bravery in saving so many. A call—anonymously, of course—to the hospital had confirmed his fears. His brother was one of the "lucky" survivors, and instead of that putting him out of danger, it had created problems he hadn't even thought of before the crash.

He grimaced. He'd even considered going to the hospital and finishing the job himself. What would it take to make a man who was already suffering from shock and concussion to stop breathing? But he had been heading for the border with Canada by that time, and in any case, he knew he didn't have the guts to do it. He could tell himself that even with a disguise someone might recognise him, but the truth was, he was too scared to kill his brother in cold blood.

He scowled, and the waitress, imagining the scowl was for her, gave him a surly look. "Hey, you've been nursing that cuppa coffee for over an hour," she exclaimed defensively. "Can I help it if the boss thinks you oughta vacate the table. This is a diner, not a waiting room."

He hid the scowl behind a rueful grimace. He had enough problems without creating more. The woman was only doing her job. She wasn't to know what he was thinking, thank God!

"I'm sorry," he said. "I wasn't listening. I've not been sleeping well lately." Wasn't that the truth? "I guess I must have dozed off."

The waitress seemed mollified by his apology. He guessed apologies weren't thick on the ground around here. "You live local?" she asked, pouring the coffee and gesturing at the neon lights beyond the grubby windows. He thanked her and fumbled for a convincing response.

He could hardly tell her he'd only been in town a couple of days. That this small town, on the U.S. side of the Canadian border had never been intended to be his destination. It reminded him too much of Prescott in any case. All small-town folk were the same: they wanted to know far too much about you for your own good.

"Just passing through," he offered at last, stirring some more sugar into his cup. It was the only thing that made the stuff palatable, though he had to admit it filled a corner. At present, he was finding it difficult to swallow any food.

"You going north?" she asked, propping a hand on her hip and evidently deciding she had time to chat. And why not? The diner was virtually empty. No one could accuse him of stopping a would-be customer from finding a seat.

"Maybe," he responded, regretting the impulse that had made him open up to her in the first place. "I—as a matter of fact—I'm looking for work. My last job folded and my girlfriend threw me out."

That was good, he complimented himself. Enough information to satisfy her curiosity and just a bit of pathos to gain her sympathy. Hell, if he'd been in the mood, he guessed he could have persuaded her to take him home with her. But getting involved with another woman was not in the cards right now.

Besides, he thought, giving the woman a critical glance, he could do better than this. Okay, his relationship with Lisa had been going nowhere, but at least she still had her looks. His lips curled. It was the only thing she had to offer, and she was going to find out soon enough it wasn't enough.

"I could ask Eddie if he needs someone," the waitress offered, indicating the pock-marked proprietor, who was scowling at them from behind the bar. "He knows most people in town. If he doesn't have anything himself, he might know someone who does."