From the Heart (27 page)

“Yes, all right.” Jessica pressed her hands together. She'd felt nothing but regret when he'd pressed his lips to her palm. “Good night, Michael.”

When the front door closed behind him, she stood where she was. She had no taste for coffee now, nor the energy to carry the tray to the kitchen and deal with Betsy or the cook. Leaving things as they were, Jessica headed for the stairs.

“Jess?” Slade stopped her with a word. He came down the hall as she paused on the second step. “Okay?”

All of a sudden she wanted badly to cry—to turn, run into his arms, and weep. Instead she snapped at him. “No, it's not okay. Why the hell should it be?”

“You did what you had to do,” he said calmly. “He's not going to drive off a cliff.”

“What do you know about it?” she tossed back. “You haven't got any feelings. You don't know what it's like to care for someone. You have to have a heart to be hurt.” Whirling, she dashed up the stairs, making it almost halfway before she stopped. Shutting her eyes tight, Jessica slammed a fist onto the railing. After a deep breath, she turned and walked back down. He stood at the bottom, waiting.

“I'm sorry.”

“Why?” Because her words had cut deeper than he liked, he shrugged. “You were on target.”

“No, I wasn't.” Wearily, she rubbed a hand over her forehead. “And I haven't any right to use you for a punching bag. You gave me a lot of support today, and I'm grateful.”

“Save it,” he advised as he turned away.

This time it was her turn to stop him. “Slade.” He took two more steps, swore, then turned back to her. His eyes were dark, smolderingly angry, as if her apology had flamed his temper more than her insults. “I realize you might think differently, but you don't go to hell for being kind.”

With that, she left him staring after her as she continued up the stairs.

T
WO A
.
M
. Jessica heard the old Seth Thomas clock in the hall strike two musical bongs. Her body was exhausted, but her mind refused to settle. Slade's spurts of stop-and-go typing had silenced over an hour before. He could sleep, she thought in disgust as she rolled to her back to stare, again, at the ceiling. But then, he wasn't in an emotional whirl.

Thoughts of Michael drifted to her and she sighed. No, let's be honest, Jessica, she ordered herself. It isn't Michael who's keeping you awake, it's the man two doors down on the left.

Alone in the dark, in the tangle of soft linen sheets, Jessica could feel the scrape of sand against her back, the heat of the sun and bite of the wind on her face. The press of his body against hers. Desire churned in her tired body, awakening pulses she struggled to calm. She felt the ache move slowly from her stomach to her breasts. Quickly she sprang out of bed and tugged on a robe. All she needed was a hot drink to settle her, she decided, almost frantically. If that didn't work, she'd switch on the television until some old movie lulled her to sleep. In the morning she'd have herself in order again. She'd go back to work, stay out of Slade's way until he finished the library and went back to where he came from.

Jessica slipped out of the room and moved on silent bare feet down the hall. She paused in front of Slade's door, even reached for the handle before she caught herself. Good God, what was she thinking of! Moving quickly, she headed for the
stairs. Maybe a brandy would be a better idea than the hot drink, she decided.

Out of habit, she went quietly down the steps, avoiding the spots that creaked and groaned. Brandy and an old movie, she told herself. If that didn't put her to sleep, nothing would. Seeing that the parlor doors were closed, she frowned. Now who would have done that? she wondered. They were never closed. With a shrug, she decided Slade had shut them before coming up to write. She crossed the hall and pulled one open.

A light blinded her. It shone straight in her eyes, forcing her to throw up a hand to shield them. Shock came first. She stepped back, stunned by the glare, confused by its source. Before she could speak, Jessica froze.
A flashlight.
No one should be in the closed parlor with a flashlight in the middle of the night. Fear ran coolly over her skin, then lodged like a fist in her throat. Without a second's thought, she turned and raced back up the stairs.

Slade snapped fully awake the moment his door was flung open. A shadow darted toward his bed and instinctively he grabbed it, twisted it, and pinned it underneath him. It gave a quiet whoosh of air as it slammed onto the mattress. At the moment of contact he knew he held Jessica.

“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded as his fingers clamped over her wrists. Her scent flooded his senses; instant desire roughened his voice.

With the wind knocked out of her, Jessica struggled to speak. Fear had her body shuddering under his. “Downstairs,” she managed. “Someone's downstairs.”

He tensed, but schooled his voice to casualness. “A servant.”

“At two o'clock in the morning?” she hissed as anger began to take over. It suddenly seeped into her that he was naked, and that her robe had parted when he had yanked her into bed. Swallowing, she struggled beneath him. “With a flashlight?”

He rolled from her quickly. “Where?”

“The parlor.” Snatching her robe together, Jessica tried to pretend that she hadn't been weakened, not for a minute, by desire. She watched his shadow as he tugged on jeans. “You're not going down there?”

“Isn't that what you expected me to do when you came in here?” he countered. He opened a drawer and found his gun.

“No, I didn't think at all. The police.” Reaching over, she switched on the light. “We have to call . . .” The sentence died as she saw what he held in his hand. A new bubble of terror rose in her throat. “Where did you get that?”

“Stay here.”

He was nearly at the door before Jessica could propel her numb body from the bed. “
No!
You can't go down there with a gun. Slade, how—”

He stopped her with a hard, bruising grip on her shoulder. When they fixed on her, his eyes were ice cold and expressionless. “Stay put,” he ordered, then closed the door firmly in her face.

Too shocked to do otherwise, Jessica stared at the blank wood. What in God's name was going on? she demanded as she pressed her hands to her cheeks. It was crazy. Someone sneaking around the parlor in the middle of the night. Slade handling a big ugly gun as if he'd been born with it in his hand. Nerves jumping, she began to pace the room. It was too quiet, she thought as her fingers laced and unlaced. Just too quiet. She couldn't just stand there.

Slade had just finished a quick, thorough tour of the first floor when the creak on the steps had him whirling. He saw Jessica stagger back against the wall, eyes wide as he turned the gun on her.

“Goddammit!”
The word exploded at her as he lowered the gun. “I told you to stay upstairs.”

She had enough time to register that she'd seen the stance he'd taken with the gun on a hundred television police shows. Then the trembling started. “I couldn't. Is he gone?”

“Looks that way.” Seizing her hand, Slade dragged her into the parlor. “Stay in here. I'm going to check outside.”

Jessica sank into a chair and waited. It was dark; the thin, shifting moonlight tossed wavering shadows around the room. Defensively, she curled her feet under her and cupped her elbows with her hands. Fear, she realized, was something she'd rarely dealt with. She wasn't doing a good job of it now. Shutting her eyes a moment, Jessica forced herself to take deep, even breaths.

As the shuddering calmed, her thoughts began to focus. What was a writer doing with a revolver? Why hadn't he called the police? A suspicion rose out of nowhere and she shook it off. No, that was ridiculous . . . . Wasn't it?

When Slade returned to the parlor ten minutes later, she hadn't moved from the chair.

With a flick of the wrist, he hit the switch, flooding the room with light. “Nothing,” he said shortly though she hadn't spoken. “There's no sign of anyone, or any sign of a break-in.”

“I saw someone,” she began indignantly.

“I didn't say you didn't.” Then he was gone again, leaving her next retort sputtering on her lips. He came back without the gun. “What did you see?” As he asked he began a more careful search of the room.

Brows drawn together, she watched his practiced movements. “The parlor doors were closed. When I opened them, a light hit my eyes. A flashlight. I didn't see anything.”

“Anything out of place in here?”

She continued to watch his deft, professional search as he roamed around the room. No, the suspicion wasn't ridiculous, she realized as her stomach tightened. It was all too pat. He's done this before. He's used that gun before.

“Who are you?”

He heard the chill in her voice as he crouched in front of the liquor cabinet. None of the crystal had been disturbed. He didn't turn. “You know who I am, Jess.”

“You're not a writer.”

“Yes, I am.”

“What is it?” she asked flatly. “Sergeant? Lieutenant?”

He took the brandy decanter and poured liquor into a snifter. His brain was perfectly cool. He walked to her and held out the glass. “Sergeant. Drink this.”

Her eyes stayed level on his. “Go to hell.”

With a shrug, Slade set the snifter beside her. A deadly calm washed over her, dulling the sting of betrayal. “I want you out of my house. But before you leave,” Jessica said quietly, “I want you to tell me why you came. Uncle Charlie did send you, didn't he? Orders from the commissioner?” The last sentence was full of carefully calculated disgust.

Slade said nothing, debating just how much he'd have to tell her to satisfy her. She was pale, but not with fear now. She was spitting mad.

“Fine.” Keeping her eyes on his, she rose. “Then I'll call your commissioner myself. You can pack your typewriter and your gun, Sergeant.”

She was going to have to have it all, he decided and wished fleetingly for a cigarette. “Sit down, Jess.” When she made no move to obey, he gave her a helpful shove back into the chair. “Just shut up and listen,” he suggested as she opened her mouth to yell at him. “Your shop's suspected in connection with a major smuggling operation. It's believed that stolen goods are hidden in some of your imports, then transferred to a contact on this side, probably through the sale of the whole article.” She wasn't attempting to speak now, but simply staring at him as if he'd lost his mind. “Interpol wants the head man rather than the few underlings already under observation. He's managed to slip away from them before; they don't want it to happen again. You, your shop, the people who work for you, are under observation until he's in custody or the investigation leads elsewhere. In the meantime the commissioner wants you safe.”

“I don't believe a word of it.”

But her voice shook. Slade thrust his hands in his pockets. “My information as well as my orders come from the commissioner.”

“It's ridiculous.” Her voice was stronger now, touched with scorn. “Do you think something like that could go on in my shop without my knowing about it?” Even as she reached for the brandy, she caught the look in his eyes. Jessica's hand froze on the glass, then dropped away. “I see,” she said quietly. The pain was dull in her stomach. Briefly, she pressed a hand to it before linking her fingers together. “Did you bring your handcuffs along, Sergeant?”

“Cut it out, Jess.” Because he couldn't handle the way she looked at him, Slade turned to prowl the room. “I said the commissioner wanted you protected.”

“Was it part of your job to attract me enough so that I might be indiscreet?” When he whirled back, she sprang to her feet
to meet his fury with her own. “Is making love to me all in a day's work?”

“I haven't begun to make love to you.” Infuriated, he grabbed the lapels of her robe, nearly hauling her off her feet. “And I wouldn't have taken the damn assignment if I'd known you were going to tie me up in knots every time I looked at you. The Bureau thinks you're clean. Don't you understand that only puts you in a more dangerous position?”

“How can I understand anything when I'm not
told
anything?” she tossed back. “What kind of danger could I possibly be in?”

“This isn't a game, Jess.” Frustrated, he shook her. “An agent was killed in London last week. He was close, too close, to finding out who's pulling the strings. His last report mentioned a quarter of a million dollars' worth of diamonds.”

“What does that have to do with me!” Jessica jerked away from him. “If they think there're diamonds stashed away in one of my imports, let them come in. They can take the furniture apart piece by piece.”

“And tip off the number one man,” Slade returned.

“How do you know I'm not in charge?” A raging headache was added to the sickness in her stomach. Wearily, Jessica rubbed at her temple. “I run the shop.”

He watched her slender fingers knead at the ache. “Not alone.”

All movement stopped. Very slowly, Jessica lowered her hand. “David and Michael?” she whispered. Incredulity gave way to anger. “No! I won't have you accusing them.”

“No one's accusing anyone yet.”

“No, you're here to spy on us.”

“I don't like it any better than you.”

“Then why are you here?”

The deliberate scorn in her tone made him want to strangle her. He spoke slowly, brutally. “Because the commissioner didn't want his goddaughter to end up with her beautiful throat slit.”

Her color drained at that, but she kept her eyes level. “Who would hurt me—David, Michael? Even you must see how absurd that is.”

“You'd be surprised what people do to survive,” he said
tersely. “In any case, there are other people involved—the kind who wouldn't think of you as any more than an expendable obstacle.”

She didn't want to think about that—couldn't if she wanted to stop herself from having a bout of hysteria. Be practical, she ordered herself. Be logical. This time she lifted the brandy and drank deeply before speaking. “If you're with the NYPD you have no jurisdiction here.”

“The commissioner has a lot of clout.” The hint of color that seeped back into her cheeks relieved him. She was tougher than she looked. “In any case I'm not here about the smuggling, not officially.”

“Why are you here—officially?”

“To keep you out of trouble.”

“Uncle Charlie should have told me.”

Slade lifted his shoulders in a half shrug as he looked around the room. “Yeah, maybe. There's no way of telling if he was after something in here, or slipping through this room to another. Not with the way this house is set up.” With a frown, he ran a hand absently over his bare chest. “Do you see anything out of place in here?”

Jessica followed the sweep of his eyes. “No. I don't think he could have been around very long. You didn't stop typing until one. Wouldn't it make sense for him to wait until all the lights were out before he broke in?”

He started to remind her that no one had broken in, then changed his mind. If it helped her to believe it had been a stranger, she might sleep better. He thought of David, who had a room on the east wing of the first floor. “I've got to call in my report. Go on to bed.”

“No.” Unwilling to admit that she couldn't bring herself to go upstairs alone, Jessica lifted the brandy again. “I'll wait.”

She sat as he went out to the phone in the hall. Purposely, she tuned out his conversation, though it was carried on in such quiet tones that she would have had to strain to hear. Her shop, she thought. How was it possible for her shop to be tangled up in something as fantastic as international smuggling? If it hadn't been so frightening, she would have laughed.