“Take yours off, too, if you like,” she said generously. “I don’t mind if they smell.”
Hawk gave a single whoop of laughter, he couldn’t help it.
But it was a struggle, trying to push off one laced-up athletictype shoe with the toe of the other. And he didn’t dare lean over too far, because he knew if he got the taste of her in his mouth again, the smell of her… Then he felt her hands, strong, no-nonsense hands. A moment later, first one foot, then the other experienced the chill of suddenly exposed, sweat-damp socks. “Thanks,” he said gruffly.
“Don’t mention it.” Her voice was as cool as his socks. “Want a blanket?” -
“Yeah, please.” He felt the weight of the packing blanket fall across his knees, felt her pull and tug it until she had it wrapped snugly around his ankles and feet. “Hand me a blanket,” he heard himself say. “and I’ll do you.”
There was a curious pain in his chest, like something stuck way down deep in his esophagus, something he couldn’t get rid of. And hard as he tried to stop the memory, it came anyway…
He and Jen, sitting on opposite ends of the old sofa in the den at her parents’ house…a fire roaring in the fireplace and half-drunk mugs of cocoa on the floor. He’d been home from college on Thanksgiving break, her parents were out for the evening at some party or other, and they’d just been rough-housing in the unexpected snow, the first fall of the season. He could hear Jen’s voice, with that bossy self-confidence he’d loved so much, saying, “Here-you do me and I’ll do you.” His icy-cold feet in her lap, hers in his…he couldn’t remember who’d started the tickling, but inevitably they’d wound up in a tangle on the rug, kissing breathlessly and with escalating passion. It had been the first time they’d made love…
“There you go,” he said as he shoved Jane’s swaddled feet back down beside him, wishing he could do something about the roughness in his hands and voice, hoping she wouldn’t read into that things about him he wasn’t ready for her to know. “Hey, how about some of that food, now, huh?”
“Okay, let’s see, which do you prefer, peanuts or cookies?”
“Oh, hell, I don’t care-you choose.”
“Well, maybe we should each have some of both-protein and carbohydrates-what do you think?”
God, she sounded like his mother. Well, okay, not his mother, but somebody’s. Like June Cleaver. “Fine. Need the light?”
“No, that’s okay. Give me your hand.”
“Come on, Tom, you get on, too! Quick, give me your hand, give me your hand!”
“Wait-I want to take one more picture… wave next time you come around, okay? Jase, wave at Daddy, now…”
He put his hand into the darkness and felt her cool fingers close around his. He could feel his heart beating.
“Ooh…I hate the way they make these dam packages of peanuts so hard to open, don’t you? I just hope I don’t lose them all in the dark…”
He took a breath. It was like dragging shards of glass through his chest. “Want some help?”
“No, that’s okay, I’ve got it now… Mmm, boy, those taste good.”
For a while, Hawk sat with his mind in neutral and listened to the sounds of her genteel munching, giving his emotions time to drift back into quiet waters. When he felt pretty sure he was back on course again, he opened his own stubborn little foil pack and downed the peanuts in a couple of greedy handfuls, figuring they’d make more of an impact on his stomach that way. The cookies he nibbled; he wasn’t much of a sweets person. Jen had been the one-
“For once I’m not sorry I have a bit of a sweet tooth,” said Jane with a sigh. The cookie wrapper crinkled softly in the darkness.
Suddenly feeling as if he had rocks under his butt, Hawk shifted and growled like a bad-tempered dog, “All right, let’s cut the crap. Out with it. Get it over with.”
He felt her legs twitch as she gasped, “I beg your pardon?” But she said it on a little ripple of laughter, and he had a feeling she wasn’t really all that surprised.
“You’re wondering what the hell this is all about,” he went on, his voice still guttural and harsh with diverted emotions. “You said I owe you an explanation. So go on. This is your chance. Ask your questions.”
There was a pregnant little silence, and then a solemn, “You’ll tell me the truth?”
He gave a short, hard laugh. “Well, I’ll try.”
Questions. Jane took a bite of cookie and chewed thoughtfully. Funny, up until the moment she’d stepped out of that taxicab in Georgetown, all she’d been able to think about was questions. And boy, had she wanted answers! She’d been feeling angry, victimized, threatened and just plain scared.
But ever since that tussle with Aaron Campbell, well, how on earth to describe it? She’d felt…exhilarated. And at the same time, calm. Right now she felt strong. Confident. And yes, Tom was right, in a strange way, she was sort of enjoying this. She was alive, uninjured, and it didn’t really matter what the explanation was for whatever it was she’d stumbled into: never again would Jane Carlysle be able to say that nothing ever happened to her!
“I’m not sure I know where to begin,” she said finally. She frowned, trying her best to inject a degree of sternness into her voice and thinking that what it reminded her of was when the girls were little, and she’d been forced to discipline them when actually she was secretly entertained by the mischief they’d done.
It wasn’t that she didn’t still want-need-answers and explanations; goodness no. But somehow the urgency was gone. She felt strangely at ease with Tom Hawkins now-this mystifying stranger she hadn’t even met before yesterday, and whose bundled bare feet were now snuggled cozily under her elbow. She wasn’t sure she could have explained why, it was just a feeling she had. The feeling she was going to have all the time in the world to learn about this man, including the answers to questions she hadn’t even thought of yet.
“I guess,” she said at last, dabbing cookie crumbs from her lips with the tip of a forefinger, “you could begin by telling me who you are.”
Chapter 8
“Interpol?” For one wild instant she thought he must be joking. But for some reason, she didn’t follow up on her initial impulse to laugh.
The flashlight’s beam slashed across her blanket-covered legs. When it steadied, and she saw that Tom was reaching for something inside his jacket, she jerked slightly and frowned; that gesture reminded her of something, but she couldn’t think what. Then he pulled out a wallet-no, an ID case-and without a word handed it to her and trained the light on it. She studied it carefully and then gave it back, heart thumping.
“My goodness,” she said faintly.
Her thoughts were racing. So he’d told her the truth, about being a policeman, at least. And this was what he meant by “not in this jurisdiction.” But who’d have thought…Interpol? It seemed so exotic to her, like something out of a movie, or a spy novel-James Bond stuff.
Her head was spinning, and she couldn’t think which question should logically come next. She also felt a little testy. She wished he’d just explain, dammit. But she could tell by his silence that she was going to have to drag this, whatever it was, out of him, piece by piece. She had an idea that the habit of secrecy was deeply ingrained in this man.
But it hasn’t always been so. Oh, yes, somehow she knew that. Once he’d had a friend, a best friend, with whom he’d shared his innermost thoughts, his secrets, his anger and pain. A friend for whom he still grieved.
“But why…” Her throat was suddenly filled with gravel. She cleared it and tried again. “Why are you here? What do you want with me?”