Some secrets are too painful to stay buried...

HE’S A BAD BOY

Famous criminal defense attorney Jackson Moore thought he had left his bad-boy past behind him—but his childhood sweetheart had different plans for him.

Rachelle Tremont thought she could forget her tragic small-town history by writing about it in her nationally syndicated column. She hadn’t counted on Jackson Moore’s return, or on the way her blood ran hot at the sight of him. He was determined to discover the town’s secrets with Rachelle—and in doing so, uncover some secrets of their own....

HE’S JUST A COWBOY

For six agonizing years Heather Tremont Leonetti tried to make a lie of the breathless summer when rodeo rider Turner Brooks broke her innocence and branded her heart. But now only the truth could save her most precious, cherished memento.

Which meant she’d have to beg the help of the one man who could drive her to her knees—the proud, unforgiving loner she’d loved…the unforgettable cowboy who’d sired her son.

Dear Reader,

Deep down, doesn’t every woman love “bad boys”? How about “rich boys”? Well, and certainly “cowboys”?

Right?

I think so.

I know I do, and I also love a reunion story, where lovers who were torn apart in the past have to face each other again. I believe that old sparks can be quickly ignited again, and Secrets and Lies is a book that proves my theory.

Years ago I wrote the Mavericks series, which was composed of He’s a Bad Boy, He’s Just a Cowboy and He’s the Rich Boy, all written for Silhouette Special Edition and all connected by The Legend of Whitefire Lake.

In Secrets and Lies, two of those stories, He’s a Bad Boy and He’s Just a Cowboy, come back to life again. You’ll get to meet “bad boy” Jackson Moore and Rachelle Tremont, the woman he’s never forgotten, no matter how hard he tried. Then there’s “cowboy” Turner Brooks, and Heather Tremont Leonetti, who had his love child. Their story is included. Let me tell you, the sparks fly when these people get together again!

I’m thrilled that HQN Books has repackaged some of my earlier novels, and I’m sure you’ll love the Mavericks of Secrets and Lies! Look for the third book of the Mavericks series in Confessions, coming soon from HQN. In that story you’ll meet Hayden Garreth IV (the rich boy) and the woman he could never forget, Nadine Warne.

If you’d like to find out more about Secrets and Lies as well as my other books, just visit me at www.lisajackson.com or my Facebook fan page!

Keep reading!

Lisa Jackson

Secrets and Lies

Lisa Jackson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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He’s a Bad Boy

Contents

PROLOGUE

BOOK ONE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

BOOK TWO

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

PROLOGUE

San Francisco, California

The Present

PROLOGUE

THE WIND WAS BRISK, cold for early summer, as it blew off the bay and crawled beneath the hem of Rachelle Tremont’s leather jacket. Rain began to fall from the leaden sky, and she hurried up the staircase leading to her apartment.

“Come on, come on,” she muttered under her breath when she couldn’t find her keys in her pockets. She rifled through her purse while rain dripped from an overflowing gutter and her black cat, Java, meowed loudly at her feet. “I’m trying,” she grumbled through chattering teeth as she found the key in a side pocket of her purse. The door stuck, as it always did in the rain, and she had to shoulder it open.

Finally she was inside, dripping on the faded gray carpet, her hands like ice. She should feel good, she told herself; she’d finally made a decision to get on with her life—confront the past so that she could face her future.

She plugged in the coffeemaker and, after leaving a dish of milk for Java, replayed the single message on her answering machine.

The voice on the machine belonged to her sister. “Rachelle? Rachelle, are you there?” Heather asked. “If you are, pick up and don’t give me some nonsense about deadlines or any of that guff… . Rachelle? Mom just called. She says you’re going back to Gold Creek…that you’re planning to rent the cottage! Are you crazy? Don’t you remember what happened there? Your life was practically ruined! For crying out loud, Rachelle, why would you go back?” A pause. “This doesn’t have anything to do with Jackson Moore, does it? Rachelle? Rachelle?” Another pause while Rachelle’s heartbeat thudded so loudly, she could hear it. “You call me,” Heather insisted, sounding worried. “Before you take off on some trip that’s going to be emotional suicide, you call me…! Listen, Rachelle, you’re supposed to be the levelheaded one. And you told me once if you ever thought about doing anything as insane as returning to that town that I was supposed to take a gun and shoot you. Remember? Well, consider yourself shot! Don’t go and do something stupid! And just forget Jackson! You hear? Forget him. He’s bad news. Always was. Always will be… . I wish you were home so we could straighten this out,” Heather added anxiously. “Okay, you call me. Okay?”

Finally a click and a beep and Rachelle let out her breath. Her hands were trembling as she poured herself a cup of coffee. Just the mention of Jackson could shake her up. It had been twelve years. Twelve years! How could she still be so affected by a man who had turned his back on her when she’d been his only friend in a town that had branded him and wanted him hung from the tallest tree?

The answer was simple—and complicated. Despite her down-to-earth nature, Rachelle had once had a romantic side, a part of her personality that had believed in fairy tales and castles and knights on white chargers. And bad boys? Hadn’t she believed in the myth of the bad boy with the heart of gold? Well, Jackson Moore had killed that fantasy, which, all things considered, was probably for the best.

She shrugged out of her jacket and draped it over the cane-back kitchen chair. Water dripped from the sleeves to the floor, but she didn’t care. She considered calling Heather, but decided against it. Why have an argument with her younger sister? She could picture Heather, blond hair neatly cut, silk pants and matching top, perfect smile. One of San Francisco’s elite, or she had been, during her marriage to Dennis Leonetti, a rich man whose father owned the Bank of The Greater Bay. Now Heather, divorced and a single mother, was trying to make her own living by converting the art she’d dabbled in for years into a career. She’d bought a loft, studio and gallery not far from Ghirardelli Square.

Heather had enough problems. She didn’t need to worry about her older sister—the confirmed career woman, the reporter who was always championing the cause of the underdog and who thought nothing of storming into the office of any public official for a quote.

The reporter who still quaked at the mention of a man she hadn’t seen for over a decade.

Rachelle glanced at the cluttered kitchen table and the manila envelope that contained a copy of the article she’d already left with her editor at the San Francisco Herald. Her first article explained that for the next ten weeks her syndicated column would be written from Gold Creek, California, the town where she’d grown up. Her introductory column in the series Return to Gold Creek would appear in newspapers across the country tomorrow. And her editor, Marcy Dupont, expected more—a lot more. Marcy wanted an interview, by telephone of course, with Jackson Moore. That request would probably prove impossible.

Frowning thoughtfully to herself, Rachelle kicked off her sodden boots. Her socks were waterlogged, and she yanked them off before tossing the wet hosiery into the bathroom sink. Padding barefoot into her single bedroom, she finger-combed her tangled hair and spent the next ten minutes braiding the wet strands into a single auburn plait that swung past her shoulders as she walked.

She’d decided to go back to Gold Creek and, come hell or high water, she was going. No amount of talking from Heather was going to change things. She’d already worked out the details with her job; Marcy was all for a column of self-examination about herself and the town in which she’d grown up. Rachelle bit her lower lip and felt a tiny jab of guilt that she’d have to draw Jackson into this. Too bad. Especially now, when she was over him—completely over him.

Now she had David—kind, understanding David. Hadn’t he insisted she return to “find herself” or some such sixties mumbo jumbo? What he’d really meant was that he wanted her to be able to lock away the past once and for all and return to him. He wanted her to move in with him, marry him, and accept his teenage daughters as her stepchildren. And he wanted her to be fulfilled. Because he didn’t want to start another family—not at the age of forty-five. David was sixteen years older than Rachelle, which wasn’t all that much, but he’d done his fatherly bit and he wanted a new wife with no hang-ups about starting a family. A new, younger wife who would look good at company parties and cook his dinners for him, yet still have an interesting, vital career of her own. Rachelle filled the bill. Except she had a few problems of her own to work out first.

So she was returning to Gold Creek. For David. For her job. For herself.

For Jackson?

Not in a million years.

All she had to do now was pack. But she stared at her closet, her throat dry. Her stomach tightened into a hard knot when she spied the yearbook of Tyler High, and next to it a scrapbook filled with yellowed, time-worn pages from her youth.

Knowing she was making a mistake that could cost her all of her hard-fought independence, she crossed to the closet, yanked out the scrapbook and slid to the floor where she sat cross-legged on the braided rug. One knee poked out of the hole in her jeans as she slowly opened the dusty volume and stared at the aged articles from the Gold Creek Clarion. The pictures were grainy, brittle with time, but Jackson Moore seemed as real now as he had then. He stared at the camera as if it were an enemy.

His eyes were dark and brooding, his sensual mouth curved into a defiant frown, his wet hair plastered to his head. He was looking over the shoulder of his black leather jacket and his hands were cuffed behind him. His jeans were dirty and crusted with blood. A policeman, riot stick in hand, was leading him through the glass-and-steel doors of the county jail.

Rachelle’s heart slammed against her ribs and her eyes stung with unshed tears. The print in the newspaper had faded, the picture of Jackson was wrinkled and unforgiving, but in Rachelle’s memory the night that had changed her life forever might just as well have been yesterday… .

BOOK ONE

Gold Creek, California

Twelve Years Earlier

CHAPTER ONE

THE NIGHT WAS WARM, a harvest moon glowed behind a thickening layer of clouds and there was excitement in the air—a sense of adventure that caused Rachelle’s seventeen-year-old heart to race. The football field shimmered green under the lights, the crowd loud and anxious and yet there was more: an undercurrent of electricity that seemed to charge the atmosphere.

Maybe it was because tonight was homecoming and the parade of students had serpentined through town. Maybe it was because the Tyler High Hawks were taking on the rivals from Coleville. Or maybe it was because Rachelle, after spending her life doing exactly what was expected of her, was about to step out of her quiet, studious, “good-girl” image. She’d already unwittingly lied to her mother and felt more than a tiny twinge of regret.

But she wasn’t turning back. It was time to experience life a little, walk on the wild side—well, at least touch a toe on the wild side; she wasn’t ready for out-and-out rebellion yet.

With an earsplitting shriek, feedback whined from the speakers.

Rachelle winced, but aimed her camera at the plywood platform that had been set up for the pregame ceremony. As a reporter for the school paper, she sometimes took pictures and tonight, because Carlie, the staff photographer, was scouting out drinks at the refreshment stand, Rachelle was stuck with the camera. She didn’t mind. Looking through the lens sometimes gave her a clearer view of the person she was interviewing and actually helped her write her article.

She zeroed in on Principal Leonard, who, with a big show to the packed stands, turned to one of the students operating the public-address system.

“…And I want it on now! Oh. Testing, testing. Uh-oh, there we go.” He managed a foolish-looking grin as he tapped the microphone loudly and his voice boomed into the stadium. “Well, now that we worked out all the bugs in the PA system, let’s get on with the festivities.” He droned on about Tyler High for a minute, then added, “I’d like to take this opportunity to thank Thomas Fitzpatrick for his generous donation to the school.”

Across from the stands on the far side of the field the new electronic scoreboard flashed with a thousand lights. Fitzpatrick Logging was scripted across the top of the scoreboard and the company insignia was stamped boldly across the bottom. No one who ever witnessed a football game at Tyler Stadium would forget the Fitzpatrick name. Not that anyone in Gold Creek could, Rachelle thought with a wry smile.

Click. Click. Click. She snapped off several shots of the new lighted display and a few more of the small crowd in the middle of the field. Short and round, Principal Leonard was going on and on about the generosity of the Fitzpatrick family. Rachelle grimaced. The Fitzpatricks were one of the wealthiest families in Gold Creek, and Thomas Fitzpatrick never passed up an opportunity to show off his philanthropy.

The two men shook hands. Fitzpatrick was tall and handsome. With broad shoulders and black hair shot with silver, he looked like a politician running for office. It was speculated widely that with all his money, he would someday enter state politics—all the better for Fitzpatrick Logging, the primary employer for the town. And therefore, all the better for Gold Creek, California.

A roar of applause rippled through the stadium as Fitzpatrick flashed his often-photographed grin and hugged his wife, June, who stood, along with her three children, next to her husband.

Yep, Rachelle thought, rewinding the film, the Fitzpatricks looked exactly like what they were—the royal family of this California timber town. June was a tall, blond woman with delicate features, haughty brows and sculpted cheekbones. Her firstborn, Roy, was blond, as well, but solidly built, like his father. Just the year before, Roy had been the star quarterback for the Tyler High Hawks. Now his younger brother, Brian, was leading the team. Brian stood with the family. He dwarfed Roy because of the thick padding beneath his uniform and he carried his helmet under one hand. The youngest Fitzpatrick, a girl named Toni, stood a little apart from the family. She was only fourteen, but already promised beauty, and was rumored to be more trouble than both the boys put together.

“Rachelle. Hey, get a load of this!” Carlie sang out as she balanced two soft drinks and wended her way through the ever-thickening throng of people standing on the sidelines. Some of the soda had sloshed over the rim and she was licking her fingers. “Here’s your Coke.”

“About time you showed up,” Rachelle teased. “You’re supposed to be responsible for the pictures—”

“I know, I know,” Carlie replied, her blue-green eyes dancing merrily. “Now, come on, there’s something you’ve got to see.”

“Just a minute.” Rachelle finished taking her shot, then traded her camera for the cup. The Coke was cold and slid easily down her throat.

“Look to the north of the field. Here, use these.” Carlie stuffed her camera into her oversized bag and withdrew a small pair of binoculars. “No, no, not there. North! Now, see over there?” She pointed toward the far side of the stands.

Rachelle peered through the glasses. She swung her gaze past the green turf shimmering beneath the floodlights and the track surrounding the playing field. Beyond the track was a chain-link fence separating the athletic facility from the parking lot.

“You see him?”

“Who?”

Exasperated, Carlie gently grabbed Rachelle’s chin and swiveled her head slightly. Rachelle’s gaze landed on a motorcyclist straddling a huge black bike.

“Oh,” she said, her throat suddenly dry.

“‘Oh’ doesn’t do him justice.”

Carlie was right. The boy—well, nearly a man—on the bike was tall, maybe six feet, with hair as black as midnight and harsh features that were drawn into an angry scowl of determination. His skin was tanned, but not dark enough to hide the cut beneath his eye or the bruise on his cheek. Backdropped by the lights of a strip mall, and set apart from the festivities by the fence, he seemed sinister somehow, as if his being ostracized were as much his idea as the rest of the crowd’s. He stared through the mesh of the security fence, to the center of the field where the Fitzpatricks were posed like the quintessential family unit. The biker looked as if he’d like to personally tear into the whole lot of them.

Rachelle’s heart drummed a little faster.

“It’s Jackson Moore,” Carlie told her, as if Rachelle didn’t know the name of Gold Creek’s most notorious hellion.

“What’s he doing here? I thought he left town.” Rachelle focused the binoculars again, until Jackson’s rough features were centered in stark relief. For a second she thought he was handsome with his knife-sharp features and thin lips, but it wasn’t so much his looks as his attitude that made him seem mysterious—even sexy. Wondering if she were out of her mind, she let the binoculars swing from her neck, grabbed the camera and snapped in the zoom lens before clicking off several shots of the bad boy of Gold Creek.

“Print one for me,” Carlie said as she lifted the binoculars to her own eyes.

Rachelle ignored her. “So you don’t know why he’s back?”

“Haven’t you heard? He’s in trouble big-time with the Fitzpatricks,” Carlie said. “That’s why he’s giving them all the evil eye. My dad’s a foreman for the logging company and he’s usually up in the woods, but he had to come into the office for something—to fill out forms for an accident that happened the other day.

“Anyway, it was kinda late and Jackson was there, raising some sort of stink about his mom working for ‘dirty Fitzpatrick money’ I think was the quote. It’s not like she’s there all the time. She just puts in a few hours a week doing filing or something. Everybody thinks the old man hired her out of pity—they went to school together, I guess, and he’s into causes, you know. Part of his political thing. Anyway, supposedly Jackson objected to his mother being another one of Fitzpatrick’s charities.”

Rachelle took another swallow of Coke, her throat parched from staring at Jackson.

Carlie rattled on. “It probably has something to do with the fact that Thomas Fitzpatrick gave Jackson a job a couple of years ago, then fired him. No one, not even my dad, knew why, but my dad figures Jackson was stealing tools or something and that Fitzpatrick didn’t want to press charges.” From the corner of her eye, Rachelle noticed the guilty look that passed over Carlie’s face. “I wasn’t supposed to say anything—”

“Your secret is safe with me,” Rachelle replied, but wondered how many other people Carlie had told. Carlie loved gossip, and short of wiring her mouth shut, there was no way to keep her from spreading rumors. The news of Jackson Moore’s confrontation about his mother was probably all over school.

Rachelle bit her lower lip and stared openly across the field to the spot where Jackson, balanced on the idling motorcycle, still stood. Suddenly his head swung toward her, his eyes searching the crowd. His gaze landed on her with a force that sent a jolt of electricity through her. Her throat tightened and her hands were clammy. She looked quickly away, then finished her Coke in one swallow.

It was stupid, of course. He couldn’t pick her out of a throng; he had no idea that she was thinking about him or had even glanced his way, but when she slid another glance toward the fence, he was still staring at her and her blood seemed to pound at her temples.

Touching her throat with her fingertips, she felt tiny drops of perspiration collecting against her skin. She couldn’t help a little feeling of fascination for the boy with the blackest reputation in Gold Creek. He was almost twenty-two, and though he was rumored to have straightened out some of his lawless traits, there had been a time when he’d raised nothing but hell. He lived with his mother on the outskirts of Gold Creek in a rusting single-wide mobile home. He didn’t have a father—well, none that anyone in town could actually name—and he’d been in trouble with the law for as long as Rachelle could remember. As a minor, he’d stolen gas and hubcaps and shot mailboxes and had been kicked out of Tyler High for fighting on the school grounds. Somehow he’d managed to scrape together enough credits to get his diploma, though no one in Gold Creek thought he’d amount to anything.

He’d joined the navy for a hitch and had disappeared from town for a while. But now he was back—dressed in black leather and riding a thrumming Harley-Davidson, his tattered image of the troubled kid from the bad part of town still very much intact.

“Oh, Lord, he’s looking right at you!” Carlie whispered loudly. “You know, he’s got a face to die for.”

“He’s dangerous,” Rachelle replied, crushing her cup.

Carlie’s eyes widened and her blue-green eyes glinted impishly. On a sigh she said, “Of course he is. That’s what makes him so attractive.”

* * *

“LAURA SAID SHE’D MEETus in the parking lot—after she changed out of her cheerleading uniform,” Carlie told Rachelle as they climbed out of the emptying bleachers an hour later. They’d stayed at the stadium to take some postgame pictures of the star players and get some quotes for the next week’s edition of the school paper. Carlie had snapped a couple of pictures of Brian Fitzpatrick and Joe Knapp, the team’s all-league wide receiver, who, after catching a wobbly pass from Fitzpatrick, had run fifty-three yards to make the winning touchdown. Carlie had taken the boys’ pictures while Rachelle had gotten a few quotes from Coach Foster. Now they were to meet Laura, Carlie’s friend and one of the most popular girls in school.

“There’s her car!” Carlie said, pointing to a yellow Toyota. “She must be around here somewhere—oh, look, over there—”

Rachelle searched the lot and saw Laura standing next to a shiny red Corvette. Two boys were seated in the car, and another was leaning against the fender of a pickup parked next to the sports car.

“Oh my God, that’s Roy Fitzpatrick!” Carlie whispered. “Do you think he’s the new boyfriend she’s been hinting about?” Before Rachelle could answer, Carlie was dashing through the few vehicles left in the parking lot and Rachelle was beginning to think that her new rebellious streak wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Roy Fitzpatrick? He’d earned a reputation for smooth words, quick hands and fast goodbyes. Rumors of his sexual appetite had filtered through the hallways of Tyler High and there had been gossip of a pregnant girlfriend in Coleville. Lately he’d been dating Melanie Patton, his best friend’s sister.

Rachelle had met Roy only a couple of times—when she’d had to interview him for the school paper. She was probably the only girl in the entire school who didn’t have a crush on him.

Ignoring the apprehension that followed her like a cloud, she wended her way through the parked cars, careful of the vehicles backing up and trying to find a way out of the crowded lot.

The night was muggy, the clouds overhead dark and threatening rain. Over the odors of exhaust and hot engines, a thinner smell, of stale beer and cigarettes, wafted on the breeze that rustled the dry leaves dancing across the asphalt.

The Corvette’s glossy red finish shone under the glow of the security lights. Roy, the crown prince of Fitzpatrick Logging, was seated behind the wheel, his toe tapping restlessly on the throttle, the powerful car’s engine thrumming anxiously.

Scott McDonald, one of his friends, sat in the passenger seat and Erik Patton leaned against the fender of his metallic blue pickup.

“Roy wants to take us for a ride,” Laura said as Rachelle approached. She tossed her a triumphant glance, as if she’d caught a prize all the girls in town were wanting.

“Where?” Rachelle asked, feeling suddenly awkward. Though Roy and his friends were only two years older than she, they seemed so much more mature.

“Remember I told you I knew someone with a cabin on the lake?” Laura reminded her.

The Fitzpatricks did have a home at Whitefire Lake, but, in Rachelle’s estimation, it was hardly a cabin. The house had to be four or five times the size of the small cottage in which she’d grown up. But then Laura had grown up with higher standards. Both her parents worked and she’d never had to go without anything she really wanted.

And now, from the looks of things, Laura wanted Roy Fitzpatrick. As if reading Rachelle’s hesitation, she said, “Come on, Rachelle, why not?” Her eyes were bright and eager as she sneaked a peek at Roy.

Roy tossed them all—Rachelle, Laura and Carlie—his well-practiced all-American smile. His wheat-blond hair was clipped short, his athletic physique visible beneath the thin layer of yellow cotton in his polo shirt. “Yeah, why not, Rachelle?” Roy said, his gaze moving slowly up Rachelle’s body with a bold familiarity that caused her stomach to turn over.

She swallowed hard. Until the past couple of weeks since she’d begun hanging out with Laura, not many boys had noticed her, and certainly not older college boys who practically owned the whole town.

“Yeah, why not?” Carlie chimed in. “We already planned to ditch the dance.”

Laura had told Rachelle that if the dance was boring they’d go out cruising around town, maybe drive over to Coleville as none of the girls were dating anyone special from Gold Creek, then return to her house for a sleepover. But she’d never once mentioned going to the lake with Roy and his friends.

Rachelle hesitated. Everyone was staring at her. “Still the prude?” Roy taunted, and Rachelle’s cheeks flamed. How would Roy know anything about her?

“I told my mom we’d be at the dance—”

“So?” Roy cut in a little irritably. “What your mom doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

Laura shot her a scathing glance. “We already worked out our story, Rachelle.”

Rachelle bit her lip. This was her chance. She’d always been considered a “brain,” a girl who’d rather study or work on the school paper or paint scenery for the drama club than show any interest in boys. But lately, with Laura’s help in the makeup and hair department, boys had been calling and asking her out. She liked the feeling. But she didn’t trust Roy.

“Well, what’s it gonna be?” Roy asked, his smoldering blue eyes touching hers. “A mama’s girl—or ya gonna have some fun? We can’t wait around here all night.”

“That’s right,” Erik agreed, glancing over his shoulder. His vintage truck didn’t compare to Roy’s sleek machine, but the Pattons didn’t have the kind of money that had been passed down from one generation of Fitzpatricks to the next. As long as there had been people in Gold Creek, there had been money in Fitzpatrick hands.

“Come on,” Carlie urged.

“Yeah, let’s go with the guys,” Laura agreed, smiling at the three college boys. She fanned herself with her fingers. “It’s so hot tonight. The lake would be great.”

Roy flashed his rich-boy grin—a slow-spreading smile that had been known to melt the most formidable ice maiden’s resistance.

Laura leaned against the fender of the Corvette, her hands braced against the gleaming hood of the car, her heavy breasts outlined against her sweater. “I know I would love a ride.”

“That’s more like it. I was beginnin’ to think that you girls were afraid,” Roy drawled, his blue eyes flickering devilment at Rachelle. He pushed the throttle with his toe and the Corvette’s engine rumbled eagerly.

“Yeah, come on, we’ll show you a good time,” Scott agreed. Whereas Roy was blond and blue-eyed, the all-American boy, Scott was shorter, more muscular and had thick brown hair and freckles.

Erik, unlike Scott and Roy, didn’t seem as interested in Laura or her friends. “Let’s get outta here,” he grumbled. “There’s no action. Everybody’s takin’ off.”

He was right. The line of cars that had been streaming from the stadium lot had dwindled to a trickle. Even some of the boys from the team, freshly showered, were climbing into vehicles and heading back to the school for the postgame dance, the dance Rachelle had promised her mother she’d attend before spending the night with Laura. But Laura, it seemed, was only interested in Roy Fitzpatrick.

“There’s action here,” Roy replied, sliding a cocksure glance Rachelle’s way. “All the little ladies have to do is say ‘yes.’ We’ll guarantee them the ride of their lives.”

“Now what kind of ride are you talking about?” Laura asked in a sexy voice, and Rachelle nearly choked.

Scott chuckled deep in his throat, and Erik looked embarrassed.

Rachelle was flabbergasted by Laura’s behavior. The girl was asking for trouble, more trouble than Rachelle thought she could handle.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Rachelle said, feeling Roy’s hot gaze on her. She didn’t want to be a wet blanket, but she could smell trouble. A walk on the wild side.

“Loosen up,” Carlie said in a soft whisper. “When do you ever get a chance to go joyriding with Roy Fitzpatrick?”

“Three of us, three of you—we could have a party,” Roy said.

“A private party?” Laura replied, flirting outrageously. Rachelle wanted to drop through the pavement, but she didn’t move. There was no place to go. By now the parking lot was nearly empty. Except for a lone motorcycle rider astride his thrumming machine.

Rachelle’s heart nearly stopped as she recognized Jackson Moore. He parked his bike about twenty yards away and didn’t move. Just sat there…waiting, the Harley’s engine idling loudly, the growl of a metallic beast.

Roy blanched at the sight of him. “Get lost, Moore,” he yelled, but Jackson didn’t flinch.

Rachelle couldn’t take her eyes off him.

“We didn’t finish our discussion the other day,” Jackson said, and his lips curled into a sardonic smile as he rubbed the bruise beneath his eye.

“We’ve got nothing to talk about,” Roy replied testily. “Get out,” he muttered to Scott McDonald, reaching over his friend and flinging the passenger door open. An old Doors song blared into the night.

Jackson didn’t let up. Over the rumble of engines and Jim Morrison’s deep-throated lyrics he yelled, “You and that old man of yours keep insulting my family.”

Roy pretended not to hear. As Scott climbed out of his car, Roy crooked a long finger at Laura. “Let’s go,” he said. He took up the conversation where it had been dropped. “You said you’re lookin’ for a private party, well you found one. Hop in.” His gaze moved quickly up and down Laura’s curves as she climbed into the convertible. Roy’s mouth twitched. “Now that’s what I like—a girl who knows her own mind.”

“We’re not through, Fitzpatrick,” Jackson reminded him.

“That does it. I’m sick of you, Moore. Just butt the hell out of my life!”

“As soon as you stay away from my family.”

“Your family? God, that’s rich. You’re a stinkin’ bastard, Moore. Or didn’t you know? Everyone in Gold Creek but you knows that your mother’s the town slut and that she probably can’t even name the man who’s supposed to be your father!”

Jackson’s expression turned to fury. “You lying—”

Roy tromped on the accelerator. The Corvette lurched forward with a spray of gravel. Tires squealed and Roy wrenched hard on the steering wheel, heading the car straight at Jackson and his bike.

Rachelle screamed.

Laura, in the seat beside Roy, turned to stone.

Jackson gunned the engine of his Harley, but not before the fender of the Corvette caught the back wheel of the bike. The motorcycle shimmied, tires sliding on the loose gravel. Jackson flew off. With a loud thud he landed on the ground and his bike skidded, riderless, across the lot.

Roy laughed, shifted into a higher gear and tore out of the lot. Rachelle started running to Jackson’s inert form. He can’t be hurt, he can’t be, she thought as panic gripped her heart. He lay flat and still on the gravel while the sound of a disappearing engine and the lyrics of “Light My Fire” faded on the wind.

Erik tried to grab her. “Leave him alone,” he said, though his voice lacked conviction and his face was sheet-white. “He’s okay. Only scared a little. That’s all.”

“I hope to God you’re right.” Heart in her throat, Rachelle jerked her arm away and ran to Jackson’s inert form.

With a groan, he rolled over. His jacket was ripped down one arm and his pants, too, were torn. “Bastard!” Jackson groaned. “Damn bloody bastard.” He slowly pulled himself to his feet and though he limped slightly, he headed straight for his bike.

Relief flooded through Rachelle’s veins and she managed a thin smile. “Then you’re okay?”

“Compared to what?” he muttered, righting his bike and frowning as he noticed broken spokes. Lips flattening angrily against his teeth, he winced painfully as he swung one leg over the motorcycle and switched on the ignition.

“But at least you’re all right,” Rachelle said, nearly sagging with relief.

“No thanks to your friend.”

“He’s not my—”

“Sure.” Jackson sucked in his breath, as if pain had drawn the air from his lungs, then shoved hard on the kick start with his boot heel. With a roar and a plume of blue exhaust, the Harley revved.

“You…you might want to see a doctor—”

“A doctor?” he mocked. “Yeah, sure. I’ll go check into Memorial. Have them patch me up.”

“It was only…a…suggestion.”

“Well, I don’t remember asking for your advice.”

Stung, she stepped back a pace. “I was just concerned,” Rachelle said lamely, flustered at his anger. “Look, I’m on your side.”

Dark, impenetrable eyes swung in her direction. His lips curled sardonically, as if he and she shared a private joke. “Let’s get something straight. No one in Gold Creek is on my side. And that includes you.”

“But—”

“You know Fitzpatrick, right?”

“Not really. He’s not my friend and—”

“In case I don’t catch up to him tonight, you can give him a message for me. Tell Roy-boy that if he knows what’s good for him, he’ll leave my family alone. And that goes for his old man. Tell the old coot to quit sniffin’ around Sandra Moore. Got it?”

“But I don’t know—”

“Just do it,” Jackson ordered, his square chin thrust in harsh rebellion as he flicked his wrist and took off in a spray of anger and gravel. She watched him streak out of the lot and onto the street and listened as the bike wound through several gears. Her heart was racing as fast as the motorcycle’s engine, but she attributed the acceleration to the near collision of sports car and cycle and the fact that she’d been talking to the bad boy of Gold Creek. His reputation was as black as the night and anyone in town would tell you that Sandra Moore’s son was just plain bad news.

“Rachelle, come on!” Carlie called. She seemed to have shaken off her own fears that Jackson was injured and was deep in conversation with Scott and Erik.

With realistic fatalism, Rachelle glanced around the deserted parking lot. Aside from Laura’s car, the acre of asphalt was empty. Rachelle sighed and shoved her hair out of her face. She knew she was stuck with Roy’s two best friends. Not a pleasant thought. The wild side suddenly seemed like something she should avoid—unless she was with Jackson. Oh, but that was crazy. Jackson was no better than Roy and he carried a chip on his shoulder the size of Mount Whitney. Uncouth, rebellious and just plain nasty—that’s what he was.

Still, she listened to the sound of the cycle, the engine whining in the distance. There was something about that boy that was just plain fascinating. Probably because he was so bad.

Despite the mugginess of the night, she stuffed her hands deep into the pockets of her jean jacket and retraced her steps.

“Was he okay?” Carlie asked, looking worriedly past Rachelle’s shoulder to the spot where Jackson had been thrown.

“I don’t know. I think so.”

“He’ll get even with Roy somehow,” Erik predicted, and Rachelle thought about Jackson’s cryptic warning. Erik looked nervous. He searched his pockets for his keys.

“Let’s get out of here.” Scott was already opening the door of the pickup and glancing anxiously around the empty lot, as if he expected Jackson Moore to come back and wreak his vengeance on Roy’s friends. “We’d better find Roy.”

“Roy? You want to find Roy after what he did? He nearly killed Jackson! On purpose.” Rachelle wrapped her arms around her torso and felt herself shaking from the inside out.

“He didn’t, did he?”

“No, thank God!”

“You don’t understand,” Scott said a little impatiently. “Moore’s been asking for trouble—begging for it—for weeks. There’s always been bad blood between Jackson and Roy. It goes way back. But it’s over tonight.”

Rachelle wasn’t sure. “Maybe not. Jackson could press charges.”

“His story against Roy’s.”

“But we all saw it. Roy tried to run him down!” Rachelle pointed out.

“If he would’ve tried to run him down, he would’ve,” Scott said. “Moore would be in the hospital now. Instead he and his bike are a little scratched up. No big deal.”

“But it was a big deal!”

Erik, sullen, frowned darkly. “Come on,” he ordered the girls. “Get in.” He must’ve seen Rachelle’s stubborn refusal building in her eyes because he added, “Unless you’d rather ride on the back of Moore’s cycle, but you don’t much look like a biker babe to me. Besides, he already took off.”

Carlie didn’t look convinced, but the night was drawing close around them. “We have to get hold of Laura.”

“We could call—” Rachelle ventured.

“No phones at the summer house,” Scott said.

“I don’t think this is a great idea.”

Scott lifted his hands, palms up to Rachelle. “Look, I’ll admit it. Roy’s a hothead. And when it comes to Moore, well, he just sees red. But that goes two ways. And Roy shouldn’t have scared the hell out of Jackson, but then Jackson shouldn’t have come nosing around, telling Roy what to do.” He offered Rachelle a smile that seemed sincere. “Look, it was a bad scene, but it’s over and everyone’s okay. Now let’s go and try to find Laura. If you want to come back later, I’m sure that Roy or Erik—” he glanced up at his friend for confirmation, and Erik gave a reluctant nod “—will bring you home.”

Carlie shrugged. Obviously her worry for Jackson was long gone. “I say we go.”

Rachelle’s only other option was to walk to the school and call her mother and explain why she was stranded, since Laura had the keys to her car with her and Rachelle’s overnight bag was locked securely inside the trunk. The thought of bothering Ellen Tremont and telling her about being abandoned by Laura in favor of a party at the lake wasn’t appealing. Rachelle would probably end up grounded for life.

“Looks like we don’t have much of a choice, do we?” Carlie asked, echoing Rachelle’s thoughts. “And once we connect with Laura, we’ll have these guys drive us back to the dance and no one will be the wiser.” Carlie was already climbing into the cab of Erik’s pickup. Her black hair gleamed, and she even managed a grin. “Let’s not let this spoil our fun.”

She had a point, Rachelle supposed, but it still didn’t feel right. She slid into the truck from the driver’s side and Erik followed her. Carlie perched on Scott’s knees, bumping her head, trying to avoid more intimate contact.

Erik started the pickup and Carlie was thrown against Scott’s chest. He was quick. His arms surrounded her and her backside was pressed firmly to his lap. Carlie giggled as Erik rolled out of the lot and turned east.

“Why is there bad blood between Roy and Jackson?” Rachelle asked, and Erik shot her an unreadable glance. She wasn’t about to be put off. “Well?”

“Yeah, why does Roy hate Jackson?” Carlie asked, but Scott was tracing the slope of her jaw with one finger.

“Jackson’s a nobody.”

“But Roy almost ran him over!” Rachelle protested, her back stiffening. She’d always taken the side of the underdog and though Jackson had started the altercation with Roy, she felt that somehow he’d been wronged. “You don’t run over a ‘nobody’ without a reason.”

Erik pressed in the lighter and fumbled in his pocket. He withdrew a crumpled pack of Marlboro cigarettes and lit up. “Let’s just forget it. Okay?”

Scott reached behind the seat to find a couple of bottles of beer. He opened them both by hooking the caps under the lip of the dash and yanking hard. Foam slid down the bottles and onto the floor. He tried to hand the first bottle to Rachelle.

“I don’t think so,” she said dryly.

“Your mistake.” Erik grabbed the bottle and began drinking as he took the smaller streets to avoid the center of town.

“Maybe you shouldn’t drink while you’re driving,” Carlie said, but Erik just laughed.

“Boy, are you out of it.”

Rachelle’s stomach twisted into a hard ball. This was all wrong. She’d made a big mistake in getting into this truck and now, as they headed out of town, she didn’t know how to get out without completely abandoning Laura.

She abandoned you, didn’t she? Took off with Roy and left you with these two creeps.

She stared into the rearview mirror, half expecting to see a single white light from Jackson Moore’s motorcycle drawing up behind the truck. If the rumors surrounding Jackson’s temper were true, Roy and his friends would have to answer to him sooner or later, which was probably why sweat had collected on Erik’s upper lip. He took a long drag on his smoke, the tip of his cigarette glowing brightly.

“Forget about Moore,” Erik advised, as if reading her mind. “He’s nothin’ but trouble.”

* * *

WITH THE TASTE OF HIS OWN blood in his mouth, Jackson seethed. He slowed the Harley down and turned into the trailer park where his mother still lived. He’d moved back for a couple of months, but already this town was getting to him—Gold Creek was like a noose that tightened, inch by inch, around his neck. And he knew who held the end of the rope—who was doing the tightening. Roy Fitzpatrick.

He thought of Roy and his blood boiled again. Ignore him, one part of his mind said, but the other, more savage and primal male part of him said, teach him a lesson he’ll never forget!

The pain in his shoulder had lessened to a dull ache and he knew his knee would bother him come morning. He’d been thrown hard from the bike, and his body would hurt like crazy tomorrow. He wanted Roy to feel a little of his pain. Roy was a stupid, spoiled brat and had been the bane of Jackson’s existence for as long as he could remember. Roy hated him. Always had. Pure and simple, and though it sounded crazy, Jackson suspected that Roy was jealous of him. But why?

Roy had grown up in the lap of luxury, having anything he wanted, doing whatever he pleased. Jackson, on the other hand, had been dirt-poor, had never known his father and had spent most of his life helping support his mother. So why the jealousy?

It didn’t matter. Jackson usually avoided Roy.

But tonight he’d had it. His mother had let the cat out of the bag. Her sister’s girl, his cousin Amanda, in Coleville, had turned up pregnant last year while Jackson was still in the Philippines under the employ of the U.S. Navy. Rumor had it, the kid belonged to Roy. Amanda had dropped out of school, had the baby and given it up for adoption. Now she was regretting her decision and was involved in a messy court battle that was costly and gut wrenching for everyone involved.

Wincing, Jackson rubbed his shoulder.

Roy, of course, had denied his paternity and somehow, probably by Thomas greasing the right palms, Roy had come out of the sordid situation with hardly a scratch. But Amanda and the baby, and the couple who had adopted the boy, were paying and would be for the rest of their lives.

Roy deserved a beating, and Jackson intended to thrash him within an inch of his silver-spooned life. He cut the engine of the bike at his mother’s door and stared at the black windows of the trailer. His shoulder was bruised from his embrace with the gravel, his leg hurt like a son of a gun, and the Harley’s fender was bent and twisted. Other than that, the only thing wounded was his pride. And it was wounded big-time. Who the hell did Roy think he was?

Jackson knew the answer: Prince of Gold Creek. Keeper of the keys to the city. All-mighty jerk.

It was time Roy Fitzpatrick learned a lesson. And Jackson intended on being Roy’s teacher. Roy and his father, Thomas, worked on a premise of fear and awe. And most of the comatose citizens of Gold Creek were either scared stiff of the old man or thought they should bow when he entered a room. It made Jackson sick.

Thomas Fitzpatrick believed that he could buy anything he wanted, including judges, doctors and sheriffs. Yeah, the old man was a piece of work and, in Roy’s case, the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree. That went for the rest of the Fitzpatrick offspring, as well. The second son, Brian, was a snot-nosed wimp, and the daughter, Toni, though quite a bit younger, was already on the red-carpeted path to being a spoiled princess.

Sandra Moore’s single-wide trailer showed no signs of life—no light in the window, no sound of radio or television. She was out again and she didn’t confide in him where she went—just “out.” Jackson supposed she was with a man and he only hoped that whoever the guy was, he’d treat her right. She’d never quite made the trip to the altar, though she’d come close a couple of times. But the love of her life had been his father, a sailor she’d met and planned to marry, but who had died before the wedding ceremony. Matt Belmont. She still carried his faded and well-worn picture in her wallet.

Jackson glanced up at the sky. The moon was nearly hidden by slow-moving clouds. The air was oppressive and hot. His cheek throbbed, his shoulder ached, and somewhere up by the lake Roy Fitzpatrick was having the time of his life with yet another girl. He supposed he shouldn’t care, but the thought made his blood boil.

Tonight Roy was with the blonde—the Chandler girl, a flashy, big-breasted cheerleader who was just Roy’s type, but soon Roy would get restless and bored and he’d move on. But to whom? Some college coed at Sonoma State where he went to school, or another small-town girl who thought the world began and ended with Gold Creek and the Fitzpatrick money? Maybe Roy would take a shine to one of the others who had been in his group. Perhaps the girl with the long red-brown hair, the one who had seemed genuinely concerned when Roy had tried to clip him.

Leaning forward, he rested his forehead on the handlebars.

He knew where Roy was. He’d heard about the party at the summer home of the Fitzpatricks. His chin slid to one side as he considered his options. Sweat trickled down his neck. He thought again of the girl who had run over to him to see if he’d been hurt. She was beautiful, as were all of the girls to whom Roy was attracted. Her hair was straight and thick, a glossy auburn sheath that fell nearly to her waist. Her face was small, with high cheekbones and eyes that were a shade between green and gray. Funny, how he’d noticed those eyes. They’d studied him with such intelligence, such clarity, that he couldn’t imagine she was one of Roy’s women. Still, he’d given her a rough time; tossed off her concerns. She was, after all, with Roy. Just another Gold Creek girl who wanted to get close to the Fitzpatrick money. They were all the same.

He spit blood onto the gravel drive and ran his tongue over his teeth. None chipped. He’d been lucky. Roy’s fender had just clipped him, though Jackson doubted that Roy would really risk denting his expensive car. Or maybe he would. Daddy would always buy Roy a new one.

Closing his eyes, he rotated his head and heard his neck crack a little. A headache pounded near his temples. He should just leave Roy and Old Man Fitzpatrick alone. But he couldn’t.

He kick-started the bike and wheeled around. No reason to stay in the dark trailer when he could settle things once and for all with the Fitzpatricks.

CHAPTER TWO

THE FITZPATRICK “CABIN” was a mansion. Hidden behind a brick fence and wrought-iron gates, the rustic building was nestled in a thicket of pines on the shore of the lake. A sweeping front porch, awash with lights, was flanked by cedar-and-stone walls rising three stories.

Rachelle climbed out of Erik’s pickup. The night smelled of pine, fir and water. Clouds gathered in the sky, blocking out the moon. The wind, too, picked up and rifled across the water, promising rain.

Music was throbbing through the open windows. Laughter and loud conversation were punctuated by the beat of a classic Eric Clapton tune. Though the night was muggy, Rachelle drew her jacket around her more tightly as she hurried up the stone path to the front door. She just wanted to find Laura and go home.

Even Carlie was getting nervous. She shot Rachelle a worried glance. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”

“It’s a great idea,” Scott said, throwing his arm over Carlie’s shoulders. “Besides, Roy would be disappointed if you two didn’t show up.”

“He’d never miss us,” Rachelle predicted.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Erik drawled. He and Scott exchanged a look and a smile that made Rachelle’s blood run cold.

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll see.” Erik herded them onto the porch.

The door was ajar, and they walked into a two-storied foyer resplendent with Oriental rugs tossed over polished hardwood floors. Objets d’art and antiques were positioned carefully in the entry hall. A spinning wheel stood near the coat closet, a loom bearing a half-woven rug had been pushed into the far wall of the living room and a suit of armor stood near the staircase, a can of Coors clutched in its iron-gloved hand.

Laughter and music wafted from the back of the house.

“This way,” Scott said, as he and Erik turned a corner and headed toward the rear of the house. Reluctantly Rachelle and Carlie followed. Rachelle regretted ever getting into the truck. What if someone called the police? What if no one was in any shape to take Carlie and her back to town? What if Laura was having such a good time, she didn’t want to leave? Well, Rachelle could always call her mother. She winced at the thought and decided that if worse came to worst, she could hike the seven miles back to town.

The party was in full swing in the game room. Glassy-eyed heads of deer, moose and elk were mounted on the walls. In one corner, a player piano stood untouched, in another a Wurlitzer jukebox, straight out of the fifties, was playing records. A pool table, covered in blue felt, was centered on the gleaming floor and Foosball and darts were arranged in other parts of the room. A wall of windows, two stories high, offered a panoramic view of the lake, while against the interior, a set of stairs led to a loft. Smoke filled the air and glasses clinked.

Looking for Laura, Rachelle recognized some of the faces of the boys standing around a keg and telling jokes. Others were playing pool. Through sliding doors, to one side of the game room, steam rose from a glassed-in pool where a couple, dressed only in their underwear, was splashing and laughing.

“Have you ever in your life seen a house like this?” Carlie asked in an awed whisper.

“Never.” Under other circumstances, Rachelle would have thought the rustic old house beautiful. Compared to the small cottage she lived in with her mother and sister, this “summer home” was palatial. Of course, the Fitzpatricks were the wealthiest family in town. They wouldn’t have settled for anything less than the largest house on Whitefire Lake. But tonight the place gave her the creeps.

She kept telling herself to relax and lighten up, that she’d made the decision to come here, and she had to make the best of it. She sat on the piano bench, her fingers curling over the chipped edge, and tried to smile. But her lips felt frozen, even when she saw kids she recognized: older boys—Evan and Jason Kendrick—rich kids who knew the Fitzpatricks, and were playing pool while Patty Osgood and Nadine Powell were hovering nearby, ready to laugh at the boys’ jokes and smile easily. Patty was drinking from a paper cup. She appeared a little unsteady on her feet and Nadine, the redhead, was leaning over the table, her face flushed as she flirted with Jason Kendrick. Both girls were wearing tight jeans and too much makeup. Patty, the reverend’s daughter, was rumored to be fast and easy, though Nadine usually kept out of trouble. But tonight, both girls were definitely interested in the rich boys.

Gold Creek seemed to be a town divided—the haves and the have-nots, all of whom had collected at Roy’s party. Rachelle wanted to go home more than anything right now. She had no business being here—

no interest in any of the people who’d come here to pay homage to the Fitzpatrick wealth.

“Surprised to see you here,” Nadine commented, raising a brow at Rachelle.

“Yeah, don’t you have a midterm to study for or somethin’?” Patty asked, then giggled and turned her attention back to her cup.

Rachelle felt the heat rise in her cheeks. Ignore her, she thought. Patty was drunk. As Rachelle watched, Patty draped one arm over Jason Kendrick’s back while he tried a particularly difficult shot. The cue ball skipped and clicked against the eight ball, sending it whirling into a corner pocket.

“Too bad,” Jason’s older brother, Evan, said, but chuckled at his brother’s misfortune.

Rachelle saw Carlie inching her way through the throng of kids, talking and laughing with several before plopping down on the bench beside Rachelle. “Where’s Laura?” She was holding a cup, sipping beer and trying to look as if she’d done it all her life.

“Probably with Roy,” Rachelle guessed.

“But where?”

“I wish I knew.” Rachelle pretended not to be worried as she glanced around the room again, but she felt trapped. And Erik’s cryptic words about Roy wanting the girls there made her uncomfortable.

Erik retreated to a corner with a group of boys. They were laughing and telling jokes, but Erik’s dark eyes never glimmered with the faintest trace of humor. Scott hung out at the keg, but his eyes kept returning to Carlie. “He likes you,” Rachelle said, and Carlie bit her lip.

“I know.” She took a sip from her cup.

“Aren’t you flattered?”

Before Carlie could reply, some of the football players showed up. Brian Fitzpatrick, of course, Joe Knapp and a few others swaggered in. They bellied up to the keg, started drinking and became louder and louder, replaying the game over, down by down, drowning out the music and other conversation.

Wouldn’t Coach Foster be proud? Rachelle thought with a trace of sarcasm. She had no right to judge the football players, though, did she? She’d shown up here, too. Of her own free will. No one had pointed a gun at her head and forced her into Erik’s truck.

Brian smiled when he noticed Rachelle and Carlie. “Joinin’ the big boys, eh?” he asked, holding up his mug of beer. Some of the foam sloshed over his meaty fingers.

Rachelle managed a smile. “I think we’re about ready to leave,” Rachelle replied. “As soon as we find Laura. We just need a ride.”

“Laura Chandler?” Brian said, grinning widely. “She’s probably with Roy.” He sniggered to his friends and then glanced to the loft. “She and Roy have been seein’ a lot of each other lately, and I mean a lot.”

This caused a roar from the crowd and Rachelle couldn’t stand it another minute. “Let’s find her,” she said to Carlie. She started toward the pool but stopped when she spied Laura slipping through the door. Her clothes were wrinkled, her hair a mess and mascara streaked her cheeks.

Rachelle and Carlie surrounded her. “Where have you been?” Carlie asked. “What happened?”

Laura ignored Carlie’s questions. “So you made it,” she said bitterly to Rachelle. “I was stupid enough to think you wouldn’t show your face here.”

“This was your idea,” Rachelle reminded her.

“No it wasn’t. It was Roy’s.” Laura’s voice was filled with a cold fury. “That’s why I started hanging out with you. Because he was interested in you! I thought I could change his mind, but I was wrong.” She sniffed loudly and her eyes glittered. “He wants you, Rachelle. He just used me to get close to you.”

“But I’ve hardly ever talked to him—”

“Well, it doesn’t matter. He’s seen you. At the games. At school. At your job with the Clarion.”

“It’s only freelance—”

Laura laughed harshly. “Doesn’t matter. Roy remembers you. You did a couple of articles about him when he was a senior. And, can you believe it, he’s even impressed that you write for the school paper—that you’re ambitious!” Tears had collected in the corners of her eyes and she wiped at them. “God, I need a cigarette.”

Carlie dug into her purse, found an old pack of Salem cigarettes and shook one out for Laura. Grateful, her hands shaking, Laura lit up and blew smoke to the ceiling. “God, I’m such a fool,” she whispered, her voice cracking as tears streamed again.

Some of the pool players glanced over their shoulders and a few of the girls stared openly at the cheerleader from Tyler High as she blinked rapidly and fought a losing battle with tears.

“Look, let’s just get out of here,” Rachelle suggested.

Carlie looked at Rachelle as if she were crazy. “How?”

“I don’t know, but we’ll find a way.”

“You—you don’t want to stay here?” Laura was flabbergasted. She took a long drag of her cigarette. “Roy will want to—”

“I don’t care what Roy wants! I want to leave.” Rachelle really didn’t believe that Roy had any interest in her, but she wasn’t going to argue with Laura now, not in the state Laura was in. And Rachelle didn’t give two cents for Roy Fitzpatrick. “We can find someone to take us back—maybe Joe Knapp,” she said.

Laura’s chin wobbled and tears drained down her face, streaking her cheeks with mascara. “I love him,” she said simply, and Rachelle felt a deep sadness for her friend—because she believed that Laura really did think she was in love. “I just…” Laura blinked hard but couldn’t stop crying. “I’m so embarrassed.” She wiped at the waterworks in her eyes.

Carlie grabbed hold of her hand. “Come on. You can clean up in the bathroom.”

“I left my purse outside. My makeup and wallet and everything…” She dissolved into tears again, and Rachelle felt more than one set of eyes staring at them. Erik Patton, from his position near the keg, lit a cigarette. Through the smoke, his eyes found Rachelle’s and he shook his head, as if he found Laura’s emotional condition pathetic.

“I’ll get your purse,” Rachelle offered. “And I’ll find us a ride back.”

Laura stubbed out her cigarette. Her hands were still trembling. “Thanks. I think I left it in the gazebo by the lake.”

Rachelle didn’t waste any time. “I’ll meet you two by the front door in fifteen minutes.”

While Carlie hustled Laura to a bathroom, Rachelle worked her way through the thickening crowd to the door. Outside, the air was heavy and close and the first fat drops of rain began to plop to the ground.

“Great,” she murmured, hurrying along a lighted path that wound through the pines. The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees and the breath of wind blowing across the lake was now cool with the rain. Her feet slapped against the bricks, and her hair streamed out behind her as she ran up the two steps to the gazebo.

Roy Fitzpatrick was waiting for her.

“I was thinkin’ I’d have to go in after you,” he drawled, his voice smooth as silk.

She stopped dead in her tracks. “I just came for Laura’s purse.”

“Here it is.” He picked up the purse by the strap and let it swing from his fingers. “Come and get it.”

Fear slid down Rachelle’s spine. “Why don’t you just toss it over here?”

“What’s’sa’matter? You scared of me?”

Scared to death, she thought, but shook her head. “Of course not.” She stepped forward and grabbed for the strap, but Roy was quick. He caught hold of her wrist and pulled her down hard against him. “Hey, let me go!” she cried in surprise.

“Didn’t Laura tell you I wanted to see you?” Roy asked. His breath reeked of beer and cigarettes, and his arms circled her back, holding her close.

“Laura’s really upset,” she replied, trying to wriggle free. This was crazy. What was Roy thinking? “Look, we’re all leaving.”

“You ain’t going nowhere, honey,” he whispered against her ear, and with a jolt Rachelle realized he wasn’t kidding around.

“Roy, please—”

“Please what?”

“Just let me go.”

“No way. I’ve been lookin’ at you for a long time. Too long.” Roy was strong, his muscles toned from years of athletics. As she pushed against him, he laughed and to her horror he placed a kiss against her hair. “Mmm, baby, you smell so good.”

“Stop it,” she warned, but his arms tightened and she was pressed hard against him.

Rachelle struggled, but her fight seemed to arouse him all the more. She tried to scream, but he covered her mouth with lips that were hot and eager. His tongue pressed anxiously against her teeth, trying to gain entrance. The heat of his body radiated into hers. “Come on, baby,” he whispered, and she jerked her head away. His kisses brought a hot taste of fear to the back of her throat, but he wouldn’t stop and the hands that held her were as strong as steel.

“Stop it,” she ordered when he finally drew his head away. His expression in the darkness was intense. His eyes bored into hers in a savage way that made her insides curl. He transferred both her wrists to one of his hands and he kissed her again. This time his free hand slipped beneath her jacket to palm a breast.

She screamed then and tried to kick him, but he moved and covered her mouth with his hand. “No one’s gonna come to your rescue here, girl. Don’t you know that? All the guys—they’re lookin’ for their own fun.”

She bit his hand and he yelped. “You bastard!” she shrieked as he flinched. She tried to scream again, but he flattened his lips to hers and kissed her hard.

“You know you want it,” he whispered roughly, his breath tinged with stale beer. His fingers felt clammy and cold.

She kicked again, throwing all her weight into the effort as she aimed for his crotch. He shifted and her foot connected with his shin. He howled in pain but didn’t let go.

“You little bitch!” He shoved her hard against the bench, and she screamed.

“Roy, don’t—”

“You, don’t. Ya hear?” he screamed in her face. “I’m the one giving orders and you’re going to give me whatever I want and you’re going to like it—”

Suddenly he was ripped off her and tossed across the gazebo like a rag doll. Her blouse tore with a horrid ripping sound.

Roy yelled, “Hey—what the—” as he crashed into the bench on the far side of the slatted structure.

“Leave her alone,” Jackson thundered, appearing out of nowhere. Rachelle hadn’t heard his bike or boots. She gulped back tears, limp beneath a tidal wave of relief at the sight of him. He glared over his shoulder at her. “Run!”

Rachelle tried to get to her feet, but she could barely move.

“I shoulda killed you when I had the chance,” Roy yelled, struggling upward and lunging at Jackson. But the beer had made him sluggish, and as he scrabbled for Jackson’s neck, Jackson shoved him back down.

“Leave her alone,” Jackson ordered, then shot Rachelle a furious glance. “Damn it, I told you to run.” He grabbed hold of her arm and yanked her to her feet. “Get outta here!”

A dozen of Roy’s friends converged on the gazebo. There were shouts and hoots; the smell of a fight was heavy in the air.

Roy climbed to his feet, reached into his pocket and pulled out a jackknife. Jackson glared at him. Roy clicked the knife open. The blade gleamed wickedly in the night.

“No—Roy—” Rachelle cried, horrified.

But Roy smelled blood. He swung at Jackson, and Jackson spun, but not quickly enough. Roy drew back and the blade slashed downward. With a sickening rip, the knife connected with Jackson’s leg.

Jackson sucked in his breath as Roy struck again, this time plunging the knife into Jackson’s shoulder.

“Stop it, Roy!” Scott McDonald yelled.

“Butt out! This is my fight!” Roy snarled.

Jackson backed up and Roy slashed wildly.

Rachelle screamed.

“I’ll kill you, man,” Roy vowed, swinging at Jackson savagely, the blade slashing through the air as Jackson wheeled and dodged. Roy raised the knife again, and Jackson grabbed his wrist with one hand and landed a hard punch to Roy’s midsection. The knife clattered onto the gazebo floor.

Jackson smashed his fist across Roy’s cheek. Roy tumbled backward in a heap. Shaking his head, he spit and coughed. “You’re a dead man, Moore! I’ll kill you, I swear it.”

“You’ll never get the chance.”

Jackson must’ve spied Rachelle from the corner of his eye. “Are you still here?” he demanded. “Get out of here before—”

“She stays!” Roy commanded, and Jackson lost no time.

“For crying out loud!” Grabbing Rachelle’s arm firmly and half carrying her with him, Jackson vaulted the latticework of the gazebo. Together they landed in the bushes and scrambled to their feet. Jackson nearly stumbled as his leg gave out, and Rachelle pulled him upright. He was breathing hard and sweating. “Unless you want more trouble than you bargained for, you’d better get out of here now!” he advised.

“Listen, you illegitimate SOB,” Roy bellowed, “she stays here!”

“No way!”

With Jackson still tugging on her arm, Rachelle started running with him, holding her tattered blouse and jacket together as they dashed through the shrubbery, Jackson spurring her on, though his gait was uneven and he was breathing heavily.

“Stop Moore—stop him!” Roy yelled but his voice was muffled now. Jackson led Rachelle through a garden and between trees to the driveway where his bike was parked. Three boys were standing guard and when they saw Jackson emerge from the woods, Erik Patton smiled wickedly.

“Well, look what you found—Roy’s little piece,” he taunted, but Jackson ignored them.

“Get on,” Jackson told Rachelle, and without thinking she climbed astride the huge machine.

Erik lit a cigarette with exaggerated calm. “You’re not gonna get far,” he predicted, then cupped one hand around his mouth. “Hey, Roy, they’re over here! Moore and the girl.”

Jackson tried to start the bike. Nothing happened. Rachelle shivered visibly. Roy was coming. She could hear him. Her heart slammed in fear. “Come on,” she whispered, and Jackson tried again. The engine wouldn’t even turn over.

He glared at Erik for a heart-stopping second, then swept his gaze back at Rachelle. She didn’t doubt if she weren’t there that he would have climbed off the bike and torn Erik limb from limb.

“This way,” he said, hopping off the motorcycle and dragging her along. They ducked into the woods again, and Rachelle wanted to cry. She was terrified of Roy, and knew instinctively that she was safer with Jackson, yet the night was too awful to believe. Roy had intended to rape her and Jackson, her savior, wasn’t exactly a knight in shining armor. She only hoped her instincts about him were right, because she guessed by the way he touched her, by the glint in his eye, that beneath his bad-boy exterior, there was a trace of good. She clung to that notion like a drowning man holding fast to a life preserver.

Twigs and thorns tore at her skin and hair, but she took Jackson’s advice and began running, as fast as her legs would carry her, toward the rocky beach surrounding the lake. She tripped twice on berry vines, but Jackson helped her struggle up and keep plunging forward. She didn’t know if they were being chased, didn’t want to take the time to look around and find out.

Her throat was hot and thick and tears streamed from her eyes. Rain poured down her neck. She couldn’t forget the skin-crawling feel of Roy’s body against hers, the terror that he wouldn’t stop until he’d stripped her of her clothes, robbed her of her dignity and…oh, Lord, she couldn’t think of that! She wouldn’t.

The trees gave way and she was on the beach, running north, against the wind and rain that swept over the hills. Jackson’s breathing was labored, and he ran with a limp. Now it was she who was pulling him, half dragging him up the beach. Help me, she prayed as the rain pelted them both and her legs began to ache. She held back sobs of fear and just kept running, clinging to Jackson’s hand as if he were, indeed, the knight who was destined to save her from the evils of Roy Fitzpatrick.

CHAPTER THREE

JACKSON WAS WEAK FROM the fight. By the time they turned from the beach and reentered the woods, he was limping badly and breathing hard. Even in the darkness, Rachelle could see the sweat standing on his face.

“We’ve got to get to the main road and hitchhike back to town,” Rachelle said as he pulled up and braced his back against the rough trunk of a pine tree. He drew in a ragged breath, then placed his hands on his knees and lowered his head. “Come on,” she urged.

“You want to take a chance on being picked up by Roy or one of his friends?” Jackson asked. He tilted his head to stare up at her in the darkness. His eyes were dark and unreadable—as black as the night that surrounded them. He swiped the back of his hand over his forehead. “Isn’t that what got you into this mess in the first place?”

“You can’t go much farther.”

His lips twisted ironically. “Don’t count me out yet. Come on, I’ve got an idea.” He took her hand and led her at a slower pace through the forest. Trees snapped underfoot, and rain dripped in a steady staccato on a carpet of needles.

The night was so dark, she could barely pick a path; she continually stepped in mud and puddles. Her hair was drenched and she shivered as the wind whistled through the trees. Clutching her ripped clothes with her free hand, she didn’t stop to think where they were going; she wanted only to keep moving and put as much distance between Roy Fitzpatrick and herself as she could.

She wondered about Jackson’s timing, how he’d found her with Roy in the gazebo. “Why were you at the party?” she asked.

“Fitzpatrick and I had some unfinished business.”

“Is it finished now?”

He snorted. “I don’t think it ever will be.”

“Why does he hate you so much?”

Jackson threw her a dark glance. “Maybe he doesn’t like me interrupting him when he thought he was going to score.”

Rachelle felt as if she’d been slapped. “What’re you talking about?”

“I didn’t see what started it. But somehow you ended up alone with Roy. The way I figure it, you flirted with him, he responded and when things got a little too hot to handle, you panicked.”

Rachelle’s mouth tightened in indignation. “I went out there to get my friend’s purse.”

“And somehow ended up making out with him.”

She stopped, breathing hard, her anger as bright as her tears. “You have no right to judge me. No right. I didn’t tease or lead Roy on, if that’s what you’re hinting at. And anyway it doesn’t matter. He attacked me. I said ‘no’ and he wouldn’t listen. Look, you don’t have to babysit me any longer. I can find my own way back to town.”

He glanced at her, muttered something under his breath and sighed. “I guess I made a mistake.”

“I guess you did.” They stood staring at each other, the rain drizzling around them, their gazes locked. The woods smelled steamy and wet, and far in the distance the sound of music hummed through the trees.

Jackson grimaced. “I got to the party, decided that I needed to cool off before I made an ass of myself with Roy, so I walked down toward the lake. I heard noises in the gazebo. When I got there, Roy was kissing you. I couldn’t tell you were fighting back until you screamed.”

He glanced away, his hands on his hips. “Look, I’m sorry. I just figured anyone who was with Roy and his crowd was asking for trouble.”

She couldn’t argue with that. Hadn’t she, too, decided the very same thing? “I’m not a part of Roy’s crowd.”

“Just who are you?”

“A friend of Laura’s, Rachelle Tremont.”

Eyeing her for a moment, he said, “We don’t have any time to lose. Come on, Rachelle.” He took her hand again and they began picking their way through the undergrowth.

“Where’re we going?” she whispered. She’d lost her sense of direction, but she felt as if they were circling back, heading toward Roy’s party.

“I know a shortcut,” he said. His grip tightened around hers and she felt as if the blood were all pooled in her hand. Jackson was wheezing a little, wincing each time he stepped on his right leg.

“You can’t go on—”

“Shh!” he warned so loudly that some unseen creature scurried through the undergrowth.

Rachelle’s heart was pounding in her ears, but she knew she was right. Closer than before, she heard the sound of voices and the gentle vibration of music. Jackson was leading them right back to Roy!

“You’ve got to be out of your mind!” she whispered.

“Maybe,” he admitted with a sarcastic edge to his words. “But I don’t think so.”

They skirted the Fitzpatrick estate, staying in the trees that surrounded the thick stone walls. When they came to the private lane, Jackson hesitated, his muscles taut, his gaze moving swiftly through the forest. “Okay. Now,” he whispered, half dragging her out of the cover of the woods to dash across the road and into the trees on the far side. They were heading east now, and the lake was visible through the trees. Dark and shimmering, the water rippled with the wind.

Rachelle’s throat was dry and her body ached all over. Rain ran down her neck and seeped through her jacket. It seemed that they’d been wandering through the dripping trees for hours.

Jackson stopped for a second and rubbed his leg. Even in the darkness, she noticed the corners of his mouth turn white. “You need a doctor.”

“I just need to rest awhile,” he argued, taking her hand again and hobbling toward the lake. She followed him blindly, her fate in the hands of the bad boy from Gold Creek.

“Here we go,” Jackson said as they used the beach to get past the fence that separated the estate and a huge house came into view.

“What’s this?”

“The Monroe place.”

She’d heard of it; a grand house that had stood empty during the winters when the Monroe family returned to San Francisco. “I don’t think we should stop here,” she said aloud, worrying, but Jackson had already run to the manor and was standing in a breezeway between the house and garage.

“No one will think we’d have the guts to stay so close to the party,” he reasoned aloud. “They saw us take off in the opposite direction.”

“But—”

“Stay here,” he ordered, then checked all the doors and windows on the first floor.

“You’re going to break in?”

“If they left it locked.”

“But that’s illegal.”

Jackson sent her a glance that called her naive. “We won’t get caught.”

“That doesn’t make it right.”

“No, it doesn’t. So you go ahead and stand here in the rain and figure out what else we’re gonna do. In the meantime, I’ll be looking for a way into this place.”

He disappeared around the corner, and Rachelle shivered. She thought of Roy, how he’d tried to force her, and her stomach turned over. She’d been stupid and foolish and now, here she was, in the middle of nowhere, with a boy whose reputation was tarnished, breaking into the summer home of a wealthy family!

She’d wanted adventure, she’d longed to test her wings, and those very wings were about as sturdy as Icarus’s had been against the heat of the sun. She’d plummeted in a downfall so great, she knew she’d crash and never find herself again.

Wrapping her arms around herself, she considered her options. Maybe Jackson was right. If they could just rest and warm up, then they could decide what to do. Inside the house, there could be a phone; she might be able to call her mother. Her stomach tightened at facing Ellen Tremont, or her friends again. What had happened to Carlie and Laura? What were they doing right now? Were they worried sick about her?

She heard a noise on the roof and her heart nearly stopped. Moving out of the cover of the breezeway, she looked up. Jackson had shimmied up the drainpipe and was working his way across the rain-slickened shakes to a window. She held her breath and crossed her fingers that he didn’t slip, fall and break his stubborn neck. He rattled one lock, swore and moved to the next window. It, too, seemed shut tight.

To Rachelle’s horror, he worked up the slope to the third story, where dormers protruded from the roof. At the second window, he stopped, withdrew something from his pocket, worked on the lock until with a sound of splintering wood, it gave way. A second later, he climbed through.

Great. Not only had they trespassed, but now they were breaking and entering. She waited impatiently, certain that someone from Roy’s party would wander by and discover her. A full five minutes passed and she started to worry again. Had Jackson hurt himself, fallen down the stairs in the dark?

A lock clicked softly. The back door swung inward and Jackson stood with his back propping the door open, obviously pleased with himself.

She didn’t wait for an invitation, but slipped inside, where some of the heat of the day had collected. They stood in the kitchen, dripping water onto the oak floor, listening to an old clock tick and the timbers creak. The furniture was covered in white sheets, and if she let herself, she could imagine that this particular house was haunted.

“Now what?” she asked him, suddenly aware that she was completely alone with him.

“We need a flashlight. The electricity’s been turned off and I wouldn’t want to use any lights anyway. Someone might see us and call the cops.”

“No one will see us,” she said, thinking how remote they were.

“Wrong. There’s a marina across the lake and the bait-and-tackle shop. Someone over there could glance this way, see a light that shouldn’t be on and get nervous.” He opened a cupboard and ran his fingers over the contents of the shelves, grunted, then started with the next cupboard. Before too long, he’d covered half the kitchen.

“This isn’t going to work—”

“Hold on. What’s this?” he asked, and she could hear the grin in his voice. “A candle. Primitive. But just the ticket.”

He struck a match. It sizzled in the night, and in the small flame she could see his face, streaked with mud, a hint of beard darkening his chin, and the reflection of the match’s flame as pinpoints of light in his dark eyes.

Carefully he lit the candle, then searched in the closet for more. Soon he had lit three candles and the kitchen seemed almost cheery in the flickering golden light.

“Aren’t you afraid someone might see the candlelight?” she asked, but he shook his head.

“There’s a den near the front of the house. It doesn’t face the lake or the Fitzpatrick place. The blinds are already drawn. I think we’ll be safe. If not—” He looked at her again and this time his gaze lingered a second longer than it should have. He shifted. “If not, we’ll just have to face the music.”

“We could call—”

“I tried. The phone’s shut off.”

“Wonderful,” she murmured sarcastically, trembling inside. Things were going from bad to worse. “So what do we do?”

Jackson leaned one hip against the kitchen island. His hair was wet, golden drops ran down his face and neck. “I guess we wait, try to dry out and then figure out a way to get back to town. I imagine that if you don’t show up somewhere at sometime, your folks will send out a search party.”

Rachelle lifted a shoulder. “My mom works nights and I’m supposed to be staying overnight with Laura. My sister is with a friend. So no one’s looking for me yet.”

“What about your dad?”

That old knot in her stomach squeezed tighter. “He, um, he won’t know. He and Mom are separated and he’s living in an apartment in Coleville.” She didn’t add that he was probably with his girlfriend, a woman only a few years older than Rachelle. Glenda. Her father had found Glenda in the middle of his life and had decided that Ellen could raise the girls. He had living to do. “No one will call him,” she said, trying to avoid thinking about her dad.

“But Laura’s mother might call yours.”

“I suppose.”

Again Jackson looked at her and one side of his mouth lifted a fraction. “It’s not so bad having someone who cares for you, you know. Believe me, it’s better than the alternative.”

Rachelle felt suddenly foolish. His mother probably had never cared when he came home and he’d never had a dad to worry over him or scold him or play catch with him or take him fishing.

He left the kitchen and, walking stiffly, holding on to the wall for support, headed for the den. Rachelle followed, carrying two candles and noticing how he favored his right leg. His jeans were soaked and streaked with mud, and the worn fabric clung to his thighs and buttocks as he limped down a short hallway. She forced her eyes away from his legs and found herself staring at the back of his battered old jacket, wide at the shoulders, tapered to the waist.

Over the scent of melting wax were the stronger smells of rain and musk and leather.

He placed his candle on the mantel of a river-rock fireplace and turned to face her.

She was shivering, her feet ice-cold in her wet boots. A crease formed between his brows, and he rubbed his chin. “You’re freezing.”

“A little.”

“A lot. So am I.” He checked the blinds again, closed the door to the room and then leaned over the fireplace. “I guess we’d better find a way to warm up.” He reached into the chimney and pulled, opening a creaking damper and causing soot to billow onto the grate.

There were already logs piled on old andirons and newspaper and kindling neatly stacked in a box near the hearth. He bent on one knee and set to work.

Rachelle tried not to stare at him. “Isn’t starting a fire asking for trouble?”

“Begging for it.”

“Seriously.”

“Maybe.” He grabbed his candle and pressed the flame to the dry kindling and paper. In a few seconds the fire was popping and hissing, shooting out sparks and slowly warming the room. “Come over here,” Jackson suggested, but Rachelle didn’t dare move. She felt trapped in the seductive glow of the blaze, held prisoner by a man she found fascinating yet frightening.

To her horror, he stripped off his jacket, then his shirt. He hung his clothes over the screen and was left standing, half-naked, the golden light playing upon his dark skin and black thatch of hair at his neck. The wound to his shoulder had already stopped bleeding. He winced a little as he moved his arm.

“I—I can’t do that,” she pointed out, and he grinned—not the sardonic smile that twisted his lips cruelly, but a genuine smile of amusement.

“We’ll figure something out. At least take off your boots.”

That, she could do. So she balanced herself on the edge of a couch and tugged on her boots. Her skirt was torn in spots where thorns had caught in the folds and her blouse was in tatters. Her jacket was in better shape, but wet all the way through. She kicked her boots onto the hearth, then self-consciously hung her jacket over the screen.

She felt every bit the virgin she was. She’d seen boys without their shirts before—many times while swimming at the lake or watching them scrimmage in basketball—but they had been boys, with smooth skin and only the smallest suggestion of body hair. Jackson, on the other hand, was a man. His muscles were developed and moved with corded strength, and his beard was dark against his jaw. The way his jeans hugged his hips, hanging low enough to expose his navel, caused her diaphragm to constrict. The back of her throat went dry, and she had to force her eyes away from the raveling waistband of his jeans.

His voice jerked her from her wicked thoughts. “I’ll see if there’s something around here that you can wear, so that that—” he pointed to her ripped blouse “—can dry out.”

“It’s fine.”

“Is it?” He lifted a brow in disbelief. “We’re in enough trouble as it is. I don’t want to be responsible if you get pneumonia.”

“I won’t.”

“And I don’t want to get caught with you in something that was obviously torn from your body.”

“Oh.” She licked her lips nervously, aware that his gaze followed the movement. “Well, uh, I don’t want to get caught—period.”

“Amen.” He limped out of the room and Rachelle let out her breath. Good Lord, what was she doing here? If she had any sense at all, she’d grab her boots and jacket and flee.

To where?

Anywhere! Any other place had to be safer than here, alone with Jackson. Her thoughts had turned so wanton that she was shocked. She, who had never much enjoyed being kissed. All that fumbling and groping and panting. She’d thought something was wrong with her because she’d never been “turned on” as some of the girls had confided. She’d wondered about the girls who said they’d trembled because they wanted to sleep with their boyfriends so badly.

Well, Rachelle had never been in love and her parents were a fine example of how love didn’t work out. As for sex, Ellen Tremont had been embarrassed by the subject and had given her daughters minimal information on the subject. But Rachelle had learned a lot. From her friends. From the books she read. From movies. And she knew that something was wrong with her. Because she didn’t want it.

Or at least she didn’t think she did. Until now. For the first time in her life, she knew what her friends meant by thudding heartbeats and sweaty palms and a crackle of excitement—an electrical charge—between two people.

But Jackson Moore? Why not someone safe like Joe Knapp or Bobby Kramer? Someone who wouldn’t intimidate her.

She was still standing in front of the fire, heating the backs of her legs and holding her blouse together when he returned with a couple of blankets. “No clothes,” he said, and she accepted the blanket and tucked it over her shoulders.

“I’ll be fine.”

He smiled then and shook his head. “If either of us get out of this and are ‘fine,’ it’ll be a miracle.” She was suddenly so aware of him…of his maleness that she couldn’t look at him and felt tongue-tied, though she was beginning to warm a little.

From the corner of her eye, she watched him. Half boy, half man and thoroughly fascinating.

He flopped onto the couch, then sucked in a sharp breath as he attempted to struggle to a sitting position. But his knee, stiffening, wouldn’t bend. His face turned white with the effort, and he fell onto the cushions, wincing when his shoulder connected with the back of the couch.

“Your leg. It’s hurting you and your shoulder…”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“You should see a doctor.”

“I said I’m okay.”

Rachelle wasn’t convinced. Every time he moved, he blanched. “You’re a lousy liar.” She glanced down at his jeans and felt sick. A dark stain colored the fabric stretching across his knee.

“So sue me.”

“Let me look at your leg.”

He offered her a lazy, pained smile. “Why, Miss Tremont,” he mocked, “are you suggesting that I drop trou?”

“No, I—”

“That’s a new one on me,” he cut in, “but if you insist—” He made a big show of sliding the top button of his waistband through its hole and she knew that he was expecting her to yell “stop,” but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

Her heart was beating faster than the wings of a bird in flight but she watched, her fingers clenched tight in the folds of the blanket.

His gaze still pinned on her face, he yanked at the worn fabric and a series of buttons released with a ripple of pops. Rachelle’s breath seemed to stop.

Despite his pain, his lips twitched in amusement.

Rachelle was certain he wouldn’t go any further, yet she stared at him as he squirmed, lifting up his buttocks and sliding his pants down his leg with a grimace and groan of pain. For the first time in her life she saw a man in white briefs and she forced her eyes away from the bulge that was apparent between his legs.

“You could help me, you know. This was your idea.”

“You want me to help you take off your pants? No way.” The thought of grabbing that wet fabric, the tips of her fingers grazing his legs and hips brought a blush to her cheeks. He was injured, she told herself, she should help him, but she stood near the fireplace as if cast in stone. It wasn’t a simple situation of patient and nurse; there were emotions charging the air, sensual impulses that she’d never felt before but recognized as sexual. Her insides quivered—in fear or anticipation—before she saw the gash that started above his knee and swept over the joint to dig deep into the flesh of his calf. Blood was crusted around the cut and her stomach turned over.

“That’s horrible.”

“One word for it,” he said. His pants would go no further as he was still wearing black leather boots. Without a word, she grabbed one boot by its run-down heel and tugged, inching the wet leather off his swollen leg. The sturdy cowhide had spared his lower calf from further injury, but still the cut looked painful.

“Nice guy, Roy Fitzpatrick,” Jackson mocked.

“A prince.” She yanked off the other boot, and it slid off to the floor with a clunk. To keep busy, she set both boots by the fire, then turned to find him, nearly naked, staring up at her.

“What now?”

“You should go to a hospital, then press charges against Roy at the police station,” she said flatly, still keeping her distance.

“Oh, sure. Like the cops would believe me.”

“You had witnesses.”

“Who will all say I started the fight, provoked Roy into it.”

“I won’t,” she whispered, biting her lower lip. “I was there, Jackson. I know what happened.”

“Our words against the son of Thomas Fitzpatrick. Do you know who the chief of police in Gold Creek is?” he asked, and Rachelle’s heart did a nosedive. “So you do. Vern Kyllo. Thomas Fitzpatrick helped elect him. Vern’s Thomas’s wife’s cousin or something like that. Anyway, there’s no way Chief Kyllo is going to let anything happen to Roy.”

“But Roy attacked you and me!”

Jackson shot her a look that called her a fool. “You’re going to stand up to the Fitzpatricks?”

“Yes!”

He smiled and shook his head. “Then you’ll lose.”

“Someone’s got to stand up to them.”

“I just wouldn’t want to see you hurt.” His gaze touched hers, and for a crazy second her heart took flight. Her face was suddenly hot. “I’ve got a bone to pick with Roy. You don’t—”

“I do after tonight!”

“I know, but if you start yelling ‘attempted rape,’ you’ll be in for a lot of trouble.”

“You mean no one will believe me.”

His gaze touched hers. “It’ll be tough.”

“But you believe me, don’t you?” Suddenly it was important that Jackson know the truth.

“Yeah, but I’m the only person in this damn town who sees Roy for what he is.” He reached forward and touched her hand. “I’m sorry for that crack earlier—I know you didn’t tease Fitzpatrick into attacking you.” His fingers were warm and gentle. “I was just angry. It bothers me that you were with him.”

“It does?” She bit her lip, her heart pounding as his fingers linked with hers.

“You’re better than Roy, Rachelle. Better than the whole lot of Fitzpatricks. Don’t let any of them get to you.”

“I—I won’t,” she said as he dropped her hand.

Her heart was thudding so loudly she was sure he could hear it. “I—I’ll go look for something to clean up your leg,” she said, suddenly needing air.

Jackson flopped back on the couch, and for the first time she noticed that the water on his face wasn’t all raindrops. There was sweat beading against his upper lip and forehead and his teeth were clenched tight. Against pain. He’d only been keeping up a good front for her.

Using candlelight as her guide, she explored the downstairs, found a bathroom off the kitchen and discovered not only scissors, iodine and cotton balls, but gauze and tape, as well. She didn’t know the first thing about binding wounds and warding off infection and whether or not a person would need stitches, but decided to be prepared for anything.

However, nothing could have readied her for the sight of Jackson lying on his back, eyes closed, firelight playing upon his bare chest, arms and legs. Black, straight lashes touched his hard-edged cheekbones and his wet hair was drying in a thick tangled thatch that fell over his forehead. The corners of the room were in shadow, and the room smelled of burning cedar and baking leather. Warm. Cozy. The sound of rain pelting the windows and wind rattling old shutters only added to the feeling of home. For the first time that night she felt safe.

Which was ridiculous, considering the circumstances.

She was alone, cut off from the world with the sexiest boy she’d ever met and all her emotions were on edge—tangled and confused. Her pulse was out of control when he opened one eye and slid his gaze her way.

“I’m not much of a nurse,” she said.

“Probably better than I am.”

“There’s no water,” she said, “but I suppose that the iodine will do.”

Nervous couldn’t begin to describe how she felt as she balanced on the edge of the couch, turned slightly and, with visibly shaking fingers, swabbed the cut with the dark liquid that turned yellow against Jackson’s skin. He sucked in a swift breath and caught her wrist between steely fingers.

“Damn it, woman! What’re you trying to do, burn a hole clean through me?”

“Of course it burns. That’s how you know it’s working,” she replied, though she was only repeating her grandmother’s words from long ago.

“Then it’s working like crazy.” He let go of her wrist. “Least you could’ve done is give me a bullet to bite or something.”

She almost laughed. Except she had to touch him again. Carefully she washed the cut again. Jackson flinched and ground his teeth together, his muscles tightening reflexively, but he didn’t try to stop her.

The gash began to ooze more blood. Rachelle’s stomach roiled. “I don’t think this is working.”

“Sure it is,” he assured her through gritted teeth. “Just finish cleaning it and wrap the damned thing up.”

“You need a doctor.”

“Not when I’ve got you, Florence Nightingale.”

She caught his eye and knew that he was trying to lighten the mood. “Give me a break,” she muttered, but started wrapping gauze around a muscular leg covered with tanned skin and surprisingly soft black hair. She tried not to notice that her heart was thundering, that her insides had seemed to melt or that the little bit of heat climbing up her neck had seemed to start in a deep part of her that heretofore had been unexplored. She concentrated on her work, closing the skin and stopping the flow of blood, and refused to let her eyes wander upward past the slash that started on his thigh to his shorts and what lay beneath the thin fabric.

Being here alone with him was madness. She bandaged his shoulder, but the wound wasn’t as deep as that on his leg. “We have to find a way out of here,” she said. “You really do need a doctor.”

“I’ll be okay.”

“Will you?” She tried to smile, but couldn’t. “I don’t know if, after tonight, either one of us will ever be okay again,” she said, repeating the sentiments he’d expressed earlier. When he didn’t reply, she moved off the couch and threw another chunk of wood onto the fire.

She started to explore a bit then, feeling his gaze upon her as she poked into a bookcase that covered one wall. Below the rows and rows of volumes were cupboard doors, and within the cupboard was an old quilt, hand-stitched and lovingly worn in places. “Just what you need,” she said, withdrawing the blanket and shaking out its neat folds. “Voilà. Comfort and modesty all in one fell swoop.” With a flourish, she snapped the comforter in the air and let it drift down over the couch to cover Jackson’s long body.

“Does it bother you?”

“What?”

“The fact that I’m undressed.”

“What do you think?” She couldn’t even look at him then; the conversation was far too intimate.

“Haven’t you ever seen your brothers—”

“Don’t have any. Just one sister.”

“Well, the brother of a friend?”

“No.”

He studied her long and hard, as if trying to unravel a mystery that surrounded her. It was foolish of course. She wasn’t mysterious, nor particularly interesting for that matter, and yet he stared at her as if she were the most fascinating creature on earth.

“Tell me about Rachelle Tremont,” he suggested.

“Not much to tell.”

“Well…tell me about yourself, anyway. What else have we got to do?”

The question stopped her cold. It implied that they had time, and lots of it, alone together. It implied that anything else they might consider would only get them in trouble. It implied that they were somehow bound together, obligated to share of themselves, and yet she couldn’t imagine sharing only part of herself with this boy. This man. This male.

As she stood up, she glanced down at him, at his shoulders rising above the hem of patchwork pieces. “I should leave, Jackson. Try to get to town and find you a doctor.”

“I don’t want a doctor.”

“You need one.”

“No way.”

She sat down on the edge of the couch, looking at him, wondering what it would be like to kiss him, and her gaze locked with his for a heart-stopping instant. The look was electric, and she glanced quickly away, aware of heat climbing up her neck.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice husky.

“No, but considering…” She shrugged. “I’m all right.” She was so aware of Jackson that she tingled. “Thanks…thanks for saving me.”

“No big deal—”

“It was!” She bit her lip then, surprised at her vehemence, and when she slid a glance his way, he was studying her face.

“I—I’m not sure—we should stay here.”

“Neither am I,” he admitted, his hand finding hers. His fingers were warm as they laced through hers. Still watching her, he tugged gently, silently insisting that she get closer to him. She knew she shouldn’t. That she should resist. He was too dangerous. Too sexy. And yet her legs moved willingly to the edge of the couch and she didn’t stop him from pulling her closer, so that she was sitting, half lying with him.

As she lowered herself, his hands moved, surrounding her waist, drawing her closer. He stared up at her with the firelight catching in his golden-brown eyes and the throb of his pulse visible in his throat.

One hand held the back of her neck, dragging her head forward until his lips were only inches from hers, his breath mingling with her own. She felt poised on the brink of an emotional river that promised to change her life forever. Not really understanding what was expected of her, and yet wanting to find out, she felt herself let go and dive into the current as his lips brushed gently over hers.

Her heart stopped and the noises of the night—the steady patter of rain, the tick of the clock, the hiss of the fire—faded into some dreamy corner of her mind. The kiss was slow and sensual, and though only their lips touched, the feeling seemed to reach every point in her body.

She felt his breath mingle with hers as his hands twined in her hair. Low and husky, his voice whispered a soft groan and she responded in kind. He drew her closer still until her breasts were flat against his bare chest and his tongue insistently prodded her teeth apart.

Willingly she accepted him. Never had she wanted to be kissed so thoroughly, never had she felt such passion. Eager to learn, quivering as his fingers brushed the bare skin at her throat, she kissed him with the same hunger she felt shudder through him.

“This is dangerous,” he said, but didn’t release her.

“I know.” She licked her tingling lips nervously, and he groaned again.

“I think we should stop.”

“I do, too,” she replied, but didn’t mean the words. Thoughts of pregnancy skittered through her mind, but were quickly forgotten when his fingers lowered, through the long strands of her hair to her back and he gently eased her forward until he could bury his face between her breasts. Her ripped blouse gave him easy entrance, and his breath was warm and wet against her skin.

She felt on fire and instinctively she arched closer, quivering when his tongue touched her flesh, wanting more of this delicious torture. An ache, deep and hot, burned between her legs as his lips slid downward, opening the flaps that had been her blouse and touching the lace of her bra.

His tongue delved beneath the sculpted edge and her nipple puckered in expectation. “You’re beautiful, so, so beautiful,” he said, shoving her blouse open and lowering the one silky strap.

Rachelle kissed the top of his head, wanting so much more.

She trembled as the strap was pulled over her arm and her breast, unbound, spilled into his waiting mouth. A shiver ripped through her as he began to suck and she moved against him, ecstasy and desire running like lava through her veins.

He cupped her buttocks and she felt a short second of panic before desire, like a living, breathing animal, turned panic into need. While he suckled and nipped at her breast, his hands moved downward, beneath her skirt to inch upward again, his flesh against hers.

“Stop me,” he said, his eyes glazed as he stared up at her. “Stop me if this isn’t what you want.”

She was embarrassed, but couldn’t control her wayward tongue. “I—I—uh, don’t want to stop.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

She reached down and held his face between her hands. “I’ve never felt like this before. Never. I don’t know if I can stop.”

He grabbed her hands, his fingers biting into her wrists. “For God’s sake, Rachelle, you were nearly raped tonight. I have no right to ask you to—”

“What happened with Roy has nothing to do with this,” she replied, surprised that he would compare the ugly scene with Roy to this tender, warm moment.

He stared up at her and clenched his teeth together as she shifted her weight. His eyes were tortured. “Too much has already happened tonight. I can’t do this to you.”

“Just kiss me,” she said, knowing she was inviting trouble, but unable to stop. A walk on the wild side? Wasn’t that what she wanted? But this—?

“Rachelle—no—”

She lowered her face to his and slowly drew his lower lip into her mouth. He clenched his jaw. She moved, and her bare breast rubbed against the hair of his chest.

With a groan, he buried his face in her abdomen and she bucked against him.

Jackson’s control burst and he was kissing her again. His lips, wet and anxious, covered her bare skin with eager kisses. His tongue, a wild thing, licked and played, and she was moaning in his arms, consumed with an ache so painful, she only wanted him to fill it.

Her thoughts were blurred, the flame within her so hot that she knew nothing aside from the feel of his skin against hers. He was hard where she was soft, he was hot and sweating as was she and her clothes seemed to fall away effortlessly as he kissed her and whispered words that hinted of love.

Rachelle closed her eyes and let her hands explore every inch of his maleness. From his rock-hard shoulders to the scale of his ribs, she felt him. He kissed her eyes and throat and sucked from her breasts as if she were offering sweet nectar and when he, suddenly oblivious to pain, rolled over her so that she lay beneath him, she felt no fear. He parted her legs and hovered above her.

Only when he looked down and saw her completely naked did he hesitate. “This is wrong,” he whispered.

“It feels right,” she said, swallowing against a sudden premonition that what was happening could never be undone. That he didn’t love her, nor she love him. That she was a stupid teenager experimenting with something that could burn her forever.

Swearing at himself, he thrust into her and she cried out from the pain that seared between her legs. She flexed but he didn’t stop. He moved within her, gently at first until once again the doubts were chased away and all that she felt was the swell of him in her, the calluses of his hands stroking her breasts, the fire that ravaged them both. His strokes deepened and came faster and Rachelle moved with him, wanting more of him, knowing in her heart that nothing that felt so beautiful could be wrong. She clung to him, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her hips arching up to meet his until, like an earthquake, a tremor rocked through her and she cried out.

He stiffened and threw back his head in a primal cry. As he fell against her, he tangled his hands in her hair and whispered her name over and over. She seemed to glide, like a feather on the wind, sinking slowly back to earth. She was breathing hard, but the soothing waters of afterglow wrapped around her as tightly as the frayed quilt and Jackson nestled beside her, holding her close, resting her head in the crook of his neck, telling her that she was like no other woman on earth. To her horror, a sob thickened her throat and tears formed in the corner of her eyes.

She didn’t regret their lovemaking, oh, no, but she did cry—for something lost and something gained.

CHAPTER FOUR

AFTER HOURS OF MAKING LOVE in the candlelight, Rachelle fell asleep in Jackson’s arms, certain that their love—for that’s what she told herself the emotions she was feeling had to be—would last forever. Midway through the night, she felt Jackson slip away from her, but only for a while. Soon he was back beside her, his skin cool, his hair smelling of pine trees, his lips pressing softly against her nape. She wrapped her arms around him and they slept, legs and arms entwined, one of his hands cupping her breast.

She didn’t think of the morning or the problems they would face.

But those problems were worse than she imagined. She was still sleeping soundly when a loud banging against the door dragged her into consciousness.

“Moore?” A male voice boomed through the house.

Rachelle’s eyes flew open. She was disoriented for a second and the room unfamiliar.

Jackson levered up on one elbow, his bare muscles tense.

She was confused. “Wha—”

Silently he placed a warning finger against her lips, cautioning her not to cry out. His eyes were dark as he slid off the couch and snatched his jeans from the floor.

The voice thundered again. “We know you’re in there. Sheriff’s department. Open up.”

Rachelle felt instantly cold all over. The sheriff’s department? Here? Searching for them? Panic and guilt tore through her. Had her mother called the police and hysterically claimed that her child had run away or been kidnapped? But how had the police tracked them down here?

Noiselessly Jackson tossed her skirt and blouse to her and motioned for her to get dressed.

She couldn’t move. The thought of the police just outside the door made her feel sick with fright. What would happen to them? She began to panic, but Jackson’s hand, strong and warm, settled over her shoulder.

“It’ll be all right,” he whispered, though she didn’t believe him. But it was nice to have him try to comfort her, and she flew into action, throwing on her clothes before anyone saw her nakedness.

Jackson, too, was trying to get dressed. Wincing against the pain ripping down his leg, he struggled into his jeans. His calf and knee had swollen and with the added thickness of his bandage, he had trouble sliding his wounded leg into the tight-fitting Levi’s.

The pounding on the door resumed, and Jackson, limping visibly, slipped to the back of the house, where he carefully peered through the kitchen windows. Rachelle followed him and watched his handsome face fall.

“No way out,” he whispered, cursing under his breath.

“Maybe we should hide.”

“From the sheriff’s department? They’ve got dogs, Rachelle.”

The thought of the police terrified her. Sirens, guns, lights, dogs… “But—”

His face was filled with compassion. “We’ve got no choice.”

She glanced past him to the window. “You mean they’ve got us surrounded—just like in all those crummy old Westerns?” she asked, following his uneven strides back to the den.

“That’s about the size of it.” His gaze swung around the room where morning light was piercing through the shades and the smell of warm ashes, tallow and sex still lingered. The quilt had slid to the floor but throw pillows were still piled on the end of the couch that had supported their heads. Rachelle’s throat tightened at the sight of this, their love nest.

“Moore! Come out with your hands over your head!” the deputy ordered, his voice hard.

“I hear you!” Jackson replied. “Give me a second.”

“Now!”

Jackson swiped his jacket from the screen and tossed Rachelle hers. “Big trouble,” he said, staring into her eyes so deeply that her heart turned over. “I’m sorry.”

“Not me.” She gulped, but tilted her chin upward. Panic seized her, and her stomach clenched into a hard ball.

“You will be,” he predicted as he twined his fingers through hers. He sucked on his lower lip for a minute as he stared at her, then, in a gesture she’d remember the rest of her life, he drew her close, fingers still interlaced, and touched his lips to hers in a chaste kiss that melted most of her fears. “I’ll never forget last night.”

“Me neither.” Tears threatened her eyes as hand in hand they walked to the front door. She felt dead inside, certain that her life—as she’d known it for the past seventeen years—was over, but at least she and Jackson were together, she reminded herself, tossing her tangled hair away from her face and holding her shredded blouse together. What a sight they must make.

“Comin’ out,” Jackson yelled as he opened the door with a decisive turn of his wrist. He and Rachelle stepped onto the front porch. It was early, just after dawn, and there was still a thick mist rising off the lake.

Three cars from the sheriff’s department were parked in the drive. Six officers, weapons drawn, were staring grim-faced at them, sighting their guns as if Rachelle and Jackson were dangerous fugitives who had escaped the law.

Rachelle thought she might faint.

“Let her go,” one deputy ordered, and Jackson released her hand as if it had suddenly seared him.

“No—“ she whispered, but was cut off.

“You’re Rachelle Tremont?” another officer demanded.

She nodded dully. What was this all about? They were trespassing, true, but the somber faces and loaded weapons of the officers reeked of much more heinous crimes than even a possible kidnapping charge. “Jackson?” she whispered.

“Move away from him,” a voice barked.

“But—”

“Move away from him. Now!”

Her spine stiffened in silent rebellion though she was scared to her very soul. With her throat dry as a desert wind, she moved on wooden legs, feeling the distance between Jackson and herself becoming more than physical; as if by walking away from him, she was creating an emotional chasm that might never be bridged again. His expression turned harsh and defensive, and he only glanced at her once, without a glimmer of the kindness or even the cynical humor she’d seen the night before.

Slowly Jackson raised his hands, palms forward into the air, and the officers rushed him. Two grabbed his arms, while another threw him up against the side of the house and quickly frisked him. Rachelle looked on in horror.

“Hey, man, I’m not carrying—”

“Shut up!”

Jackson snapped his mouth closed while another deputy read him his rights.

Rachelle was nearly dragged by yet another to one of the deputies, down the steps and to the cruiser.

“What’s going on?” she demanded, shaking and pulling back, her head craned to look over her shoulder so that she could keep Jackson in view. Her blouse gaped, and she caught it with cold fingers.

“Just get inside, Miss Tremont.”

“But why are you doing this?”

Jackson was being stuffed into another car from the sheriff’s department, and once the deputies had slammed the cruiser’s heavy door shut, they slid into the front seat and flicked on the engine. With red and blue lights flashing, the car roared down the puddle-strewn drive.

“We’re taking you to the department to ask you a few questions,” a short deputy with a bushy red mustache explained. His name tag read Daniel Springer.

“Why?”

“We want to know what you were up to last night.”

She swallowed hard and her cheeks began to burn. “I was here.”

“All night?”

“Y-yes—after we, um, left the party—the party at the Fitzpatrick place on the lake.”

“We know about the party.”

“Jackson and Roy got into a fight. Roy almost killed him… .”

“So you were here alone all night with Jackson Moore,” Deputy Springer clarified.

“That’s right.”

“You’d swear to it?”

“Slow down, Dan,” the other deputy, Paul Zalinski, insisted. He lit a cigarette, took a long drag and snapped his lighter closed. Smoke streamed from his nostrils. “We don’t want to screw this up. She’s a minor, for God’s sake. We’ve got to talk to her guardian and probably a lawyer. Then we can get her statement.”

“By then, she and Moore can get her story straight—”

“There’s nothing to get straight,” Rachelle interjected.

The men exchanged glances and told her to get into the waiting car. She had no choice. Nervous sweat broke out between her shoulder blades as she slid into the worn backseat of the cruiser. Deputy Zalinski ground his cigarette out beneath the heel of his boot before climbing into the Ford. Deputy Springer started the car. Soon, they were following the other police cars on their way back to Gold Creek, leaving the Monroe mansion, a rumpled couch and a night of lovemaking far behind them.

Rachelle tried to fight against the terror that she felt creeping into her heart. Arms hugging her middle, she huddled in the backseat of the police cruiser and silently prayed that this was all a bad dream and she’d wake up with Jackson stretched out beside her. She rubbed her arms and stared through the trees to the misty lake. What was the old Indian legend? Drink from the lake but don’t overindulge and the waters will bring you good luck? Well, she was certain both she and Jackson could use a shot of magic water right now. They were in trouble. Deep trouble.

However, she wouldn’t realize until hours later just how bottomless that trouble was.

Before the day was out, Jackson Moore, the bad boy of Gold Creek, would be formally charged with the murder of Roy Fitzpatrick.

* * *

“THAT’S CRAZY! JACKSONwouldn’t kill anyone!” Rachelle cried, disbelieving. She leapt out of the hard wooden chair in the interrogation room at the sheriff’s office.

Her mother, two deputies, a lawyer she’d never seen before, and even her father were with her, listening as she tried to explain the circumstances of the night before.

“You’ve got everything wrong!” She was nearly hysterical.

“Calm down, little lady,” Deputy Springer advised. “We’re just talkin’ this thing out. Now, someone hit that boy over the head and drowned him in the lake last night, someone strong enough to hit him and hold him down, someone who was angry with him, someone who had a reason to pick a fight with him.”

“But not Jackson,” she replied staunchly, though her insides were shredding with fear and doubt and a million other emotions.

“You see ’em fightin’ earlier?”

“Yes, but—”

“And didn’t Moore stop Roy from…well, from attacking you?”

Rachelle took in a long breath. “That doesn’t prove anything.”

“A couple of witnesses say that Jackson was lookin’ for a fight with Roy, that he’d already had words with Roy’s daddy at the logging camp a few days ago, and that Roy had almost run Jackson down before the party.”

Rachelle didn’t say anything. Her throat was tight and hot, and she was more scared than she’d ever been in her life.

“Isn’t that what happened?” Deputy Zalinski prodded.

Slowly, so as not to be misunderstood, she said, “I’m telling you I was with him the entire night.” Her voice was raw from talking, and hot tears began to gather in the corners of her eyes. She felt shame that all of Gold Creek would learn of her night with Jackson, but more than shame she felt fear, sheer terror for Jackson. The charges were ridiculous, but the stony, solemn faces of the men who worked for the sheriff’s department convinced her that they meant business. She had to save Jackson. She was the only one who could. “That last time we saw Roy, he was alive. Drunk, and a little beat-up, but alive!”

“And you were awake all night long?” Deputy Zalinski asked. He fiddled with his lighter, but she knew his concentration hadn’t strayed at all. He waited, flipping the lighter end over end in his fingers.

Rachelle hesitated. She couldn’t look her father in the eye. “I slept part of the time.” She was mortified and tired and still in the dirty, ripped clothes she’d been in the night before. All she’d been given was a box of tissues and a glass of water. And her father’s disgrace, so visible in the downcast turn of his eyes, made her cringe inside.

Zalinski finally lit a cigarette. “Are you a heavy sleeper?”

“I don’t know.”

“She sleeps like a log—” her mother began, then snapped her mouth shut when the lawyer shot her a warning glance. Ellen Tremont went back to worrying the handle of her purse between her bony fingers.

“Isn’t it possible that Jackson could have left you for a couple of hours and you would never have been the wiser?” Deputy Zalinski suggested. He took a long drag of his cigarette, and the smoke curled lazily toward the light suspended above the table. “The Monroe place is less than a quarter of a mile away from the Fitzpatricks’.”

“He didn’t leave me!”

“But you were asleep.”

“He was hurt and…” She swallowed back her humiliation and tried not to remember the hours in early dawn when she’d felt him leave the couch to return later—she couldn’t have guessed how long—smelling of pine needles and the rain-washed forest.

“And what, Miss Tremont?” Zalinski pressed on.

“He, uh, he didn’t have his clothes on.”

Her mother gasped, and Rachelle fell back into the folding chair. Somehow she managed to meet Deputy Zalinski’s eyes. “He could barely get into his pants because of the swelling and bandage around his leg.”

“He was wearing jeans this morning.”

“Yes, but he had to struggle to get them on. And I watched him do that—after you had arrived and ordered us out of the house.”

The deputy smiled patiently. “Then it was possible that while you were sleeping, he could’ve ‘struggled’ into his clothes, left and returned before you even missed him.”

“No!” she snapped quickly, and watched as Deputy Springer, propped against the corner of the room, jotted a note to himself.

Zalinski stubbed out his cigarette. “Miss Tremont—”

“Can I go now?” she cut in.

The answer was no. The interrogation lasted another two hours, at the end of which, on the lawyer’s advice, her parents—in the first decision they’d agreed upon for two years—proclaimed that Rachelle wasn’t to see Jackson again. They were both shocked and appalled that their daughter, the reliable, responsible one of their two girls, had gotten involved with “that wretched Moore boy.” Though the police had assured her folks that Rachelle was not a suspect, not even considered for being an accessory, she was as good as convicted in their eyes. She’d slept with a boy she hardly knew, a boy with a reputation as tarnished as her grandmother’s silver tea set, a boy who was now charged with kidnapping, trespassing, assault, breaking and entering and murder.

While Jackson sat alone in the county jail, unable to make bail, Rachelle was grounded. Indefinitely. Even her sister, Heather, who usually enjoyed adventure and took more chances than Rachelle, was subdued and stared at Rachelle with soulful, disbelieving blue eyes.

“I can’t believe it,” Heather whispered, gazing at Rachelle with a look of horror mingled with awe. “You did it? With Jackson Moore?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Rachelle, sitting on the edge of her bed, towel-dried her hair.

“But what was it like? Was it beautiful, or scary or disgusting?”

Rachelle ripped the towel from her head. “I said I’m not discussing it, Heather, and I mean it. Let it go!” she snapped, and Heather, for once, turned back to the pages of some teen magazine. To Rachelle, her sister, four years younger and a troublemaker in her own right, seemed incredibly naive and juvenile. In one night, Rachelle felt as if she’d grown up. She had no patience for Heather getting vicarious thrills out of Jackson’s bad luck.

And bad luck it was. Jackson, before he was indicted, was branded as a killer by the citizens of Gold Creek, and Thomas Fitzpatrick swore that whoever murdered his boy would live to regret it. Thomas never came out and publicly named Jackson as Roy’s assailant, but it was obvious, from the biting comments made to the press by Roy’s mother, June, that the Fitzpatrick family would leave no stone unturned in seeing that Jackson was found guilty of Roy’s death. The Fitzpatrick money, lawyers and as many private detectives as it would take, would aid the district attorney in the quest to prove Jackson the culprit.

Rachelle was frantic. She would do anything to see Jackson again and she suffered her mother’s reproachful stare. “Just pray you’re not pregnant,” Ellen Tremont said through pinched lips about a week after Jackson was hauled in. She was washing dishes with a vengeance. Soapsuds and water sloshed to the cracked linoleum floor as she scrubbed, her stiff back to her daughter. “It’s bad enough your reputation’s ruined, but think about the fact that you could be carrying his child!” She cast a look over her shoulder and her mouth curved into a frown of distaste. “And then there’s venereal disease. A boy like that—who knows how many girls he’s been with?”

“He’s not like that!”

Her mother slapped down her dishrag and held on to the counter for support. She was shaking so badly, she could barely stand. “You don’t know what he’s like! And besides all that—” Ellen turned to face her daughter, and her teary reproachful stare was worse than her rage. Her chin wobbled slightly and the lines around her mouth were more pronounced. She looked as if she’d aged ten years. “How will you ever get a scholarship now? We can’t count on your father anymore and…a scholarship’s about the only way you’ll be able to afford college. Lord, Rachelle, God gave you a brain, why didn’t you use it?”

Rachelle couldn’t stand to see her mother’s pain any longer. Nor could she listen as Jackson’s character was destroyed even further. She left the kitchen and slammed the door of her room behind her. But she felt sick as she flopped on her twin bed and stared across the room to her sister’s empty bunk. She flipped on the radio and tried to get lost in the music of Billy Joel, but through the thin walls of the cottage, she could still hear her mother softly crying.

God, please help us all. And be with Jackson. Oh, Jackson, I wish I could see you… .

Rachelle squeezed her eyes shut. She refused to break down and sob, but tears slid down her cheeks and she had to bite her lower lip to keep the moans of despair within her lungs. She wouldn’t let her mother or anyone else in town see how much she hurt inside. She would abide the stares, the whispers, the pointed fingers and the knowing snickers, because she knew that she and Jackson had shared something wonderful, something special.

Let the gossip-mongering citizens of Gold Creek make it dirty. Let the damned Clarion, the newspaper where she had worked two afternoons a week and from which she had been fired, tear her reputation to shreds. In her heart of hearts, she knew that she and Jackson would never let go of the unique bond that held them together.

Was it love? Probably not. She couldn’t kid herself any longer. But someday, if things worked out, and the circumstances were right, if given the chance, she and Jackson could fall in love. In time. And together she and Jackson would show everyone that what they’d shared was beautiful. He’d prove his innocence, the town would forgive him and everything would work out.

It had to.

BOOK TWO

Gold Creek, California

The Present

CHAPTER FIVE

RACHELLE SHIFTED DOWN and her compact Ford responded, slowing as she took the winding curves of the road near the lake. From the wicker carrier propped on the back seat, her cat growled a protest.

“We’re just about there,” Rachelle said, as if Java could understand. But how could he?

More than once Rachelle herself had questioned the wisdom of this, her journey back home. She told herself it was necessary, that in order for her to be happy as David’s wife, she would have to resolve some problems that were firmly rooted in Gold Creek.

But now as she approached the lake where all the pain had started, her skin began to rise in goose bumps and she wished she were still asleep in her walk-up overlooking San Francisco Bay.

She shivered a little. The summer morning was dark, the last stars beginning to fade. Her headlights threw a double beam onto the rutted road and she flipped on the radio. Bette Midler’s voice, strong and clear, filled the small car’s interior and the words of “The Rose” seemed to echo through Rachelle’s heart.

She flipped to another channel quickly, before the words hit home. She’d heard the song often in the days after Jackson’s arrest—the days when she, along with he, had been branded by the town. The lyrics had seemed written for them and the lonely melody had only reminded her that aside from her family, only Carlie had stood by her.

Carlie.

Where was she now? They hadn’t spoken in three or four years. The last time Rachelle had heard from her, she’d received a Christmas card, two weeks into January and postmarked Alaska. Most of the other kids had stayed in Gold Creek. A few had moved on, but the new generation of Fitzpatricks, Monroes and Powells had stayed. Even Laura Chandler, the girl who had never once spoken to Rachelle since the night of Roy’s death, had married into the Fitzpatrick money by becoming Brian Fitzpatrick’s bride.

The soft-rock music drifting out of the speakers was better. No memories of Jackson in a Wilson Phillips song.

She parked her car near the bait-and-tackle shop on the south side of the lake and knew in her heart that she’d come back to Gold Creek because of Jackson, to purge him from her life, so that she could start over and begin a new life with David.

The thought of David caused a pucker to form between her eyebrows. She told herself that she loved him, that passion wasn’t a necessary part of life and that romance was a silly notion she’d given up long ago.

David sent her flowers on all the right days—straight from the florist’s shop each birthday and Valentine’s Day. He took her to candlelight dinners when he deemed it appropriate and he always complimented her on a new outfit.

A stockbroker who owned his own house in the city and drove a flashy imported car and knew how to program a computer. Perfect husband material, right? What did it matter if he didn’t want a baby or that his lips curved into a slight frown whenever he caught her in a pair of worn jeans?

She shoved her hands into her pockets. Though the lake was still thick with mist, several boats were already heading into the calm waters, and fishermen were hurrying in and out of the old bait shop. Built in the twenties, it was a rambling frame structure that still had the original gas pumps mounted in front of the store. A bell tinkled over the threshold as customers came and went and the wooden steps were weathered and beaten. Rusted metal signs for Nehi soda and Camel cigarettes had never been taken down, though the lettering was faded, the paint peeling.

“Like stepping back in time,” she told herself as she followed a trail past the store and into the woods. From this side of the lake, once the haze had disappeared, she would be able to look to the north shore, where the estates of the wealthy still existed. The Monroe home and Fitzpatrick “cottage” would soon be visible.

Rachelle wasn’t superstitious. She didn’t believe in ghosts. Nor Indian lore. Nor psychics, for that matter. She’d never had her palm read in her life and she wasn’t about to have her chart done to find out about herself.

And yet here she was, standing on the shores of Whitefire Lake, the source of all sorts of legends and scandals and ghosts that were as much a part of the town of Gold Creek, California, as the Rexall Drug Store that stood on the corner of Main and Pine.

Hopefully she’d find answers about herself as well as this town in the next few weeks. And when she returned to San Francisco, she’d be ready to settle down and become Mrs. David L. Gaskill. Her palms felt suddenly sweaty at the thought.

And what about Jackson?

Jackson. Always Jackson. She doubted that there would ever be a time when she would hear his name and her heart wouldn’t jump start. Silly girl.

Rachelle tossed a stone into the lake. The first fingers of light crept across the lake’s still surface and mist began to rise from the water. Like pale ghosts, the bodies of steam collected, obscuring the view of the forests of the far shore.

Just like the legend, Rachelle thought with a wry smile. Impulsively she knelt on the mossy bank, cupped her hands and scooped from the cool water. Feeling a little foolish, she let the liquid slide down her throat, then let the rest of the water run through her fingers. She smiled at her actions and wiped the drops from her chin. Drying her hands on her jeans, she noticed, in the dark depths of the lake, a flash of silver, the turning of a trout, the scales on its belly glimmering and unprotected, as the fish darted from her shadow.

She felt a sudden chill, like winter’s breath against the back of her neck, and the hairs at her nape stood. She knew she was being silly, that the old Indian legend was pure folly, but when she looked up, her gaze following an overgrown path that rimmed the water, she saw, in her mind’s eye, a figure in the haze, the shape of a man standing not twenty feet from her.

Too easily, she could bring Jackson Moore to mind. She imagined him as she’d last seen him: dressed in a scraped leather jacket, battered jeans and cowboy boots with the heels worn down; his thumb had been hooked as he started toward the main highway. The look he’d sent her over his shoulder still pulled at her heartstrings.

“Bastard,” she muttered, refusing to spend too much time thinking of him. The mirage, for that’s all it was, disappeared.

The sun crested the hills and sunlight streaked across the sky, lighting the dark waters of the lake, turning the surface to golden fire. The mist closed in, pressing against her face, wet and cool.

She drew in a long breath and wrapped her arms over her chest. Maybe coming home hadn’t been such a hot idea. What was the point of stirring things up again?

Because you have to. Because of David.

She smiled sadly when she thought of David. Kind David. Sweet David. Understanding David. A man as opposite from Jackson as a man could be. A man who wanted nothing more than for her to become his wife.

With one final glance at the still waters of Whitefire Lake, she dusted off her hands and walked up the gravel-and-dirt path to her car. The mist rose slowly and without the fog as a shroud, the forest seemed warm and familiar again. A chipmunk darted into the brambles and in the canopy of branches overhead, a blue jay screeched and scolded her.

“Don’t worry,” she told the jay. “I’m going, I’m going.” She unlocked the door of her old Ford Escort and slid onto a cracked vinyl seat. Someday soon she’d have to replace the car, she knew, but she had resisted so far. This car, bought and paid for with her first paycheck from the San Francisco Herald, was a part of her she’d rather not throw away just yet.

With an unsettling grind, the engine turned over, coughed and sputtered before idling unevenly on the sandy road. Java meowed loudly. Rachelle sighed and turned on the radio. A song from years past reverberated through the speakers and she thought again of Jackson.

Rolling down a window, she breathed deep of the wooded air, then threw the little car into gear and started down the winding road that would lead her back to Gold Creek.

Jackson Moore. She wondered what he was doing right now. The last she’d heard, he was in the heart of New York City, practicing law, but still a rebel.

* * *

“I TELL YOU, THERE’S GONNA be trouble. Big-time,” Brian Fitzpatrick insisted. He tossed a newspaper onto his father’s desk and, muttering an oath under his breath, flopped into one of the expensive side chairs.

Thomas was used to Brian’s moods. The boy had always been a hothead who didn’t have the mental fortitude to run the logging company, but there’d been no choice in the matter. Not after Roy’s death. At the thought of that tragic night, Thomas set his jaw. God help us all, he’d thought then. And now, as he stared at the Tremont girl’s headline, he thought it again.

“Back to Gold Creek,” the article was titled. Thomas’s gut clenched. He skimmed the article and his lips thinned angrily. So she was returning. What a fool. She was better off living in the city, burying the past deep as he and the rest of his family had.

“Thomas? Did I hear Brian’s voice?” his wife, June, called. He heard her footsteps clicking against the marble foyer of the house they’d called home for nearly twenty years. She poked her head into the den and her pale face lit with a smile at the sight of her son. “Weren’t you even going to say ‘hi’?” she admonished with that special sparkle in her eyes she reserved for her children.

“’Course I was, Mom,” Brian replied. He was putty in her hands. Just as Roy had been. “Dad and I were just discussing business.”

She rolled her eyes. “Always. So Laura isn’t with you?”

At the mention of his wife’s name, Brian forced a cool smile. “Nope. I came directly from the office.”

“She should stop by more often, bring that grandson of mine over here. I haven’t seen Zachary for nearly a month,” June reprimanded gently—with a smile and a will of iron.

“I’ll bring him over.”

“And Laura, too,” June insisted, and started for the door. But as she turned, she spied the newspaper, folded open to Rachelle Tremont’s article. Her pale face grew whiter still. “What’s this?” she whispered.

“Nothing to get upset about,” Brian intervened quickly.

Wearily Thomas handed his wife the paper. She’d find out soon enough as it was. “Rachelle Tremont’s coming back to town.”

“No!”

“We can’t stop her, June.”

Two points of color stained her cheeks as she read the article. “I won’t have it, Thomas. Not after what happened.” Her throat worked and she clasped a thin hand to her chest.

“She has family here. You can’t stop her from visiting.”

“That little tramp is the reason that Jackson Moore wasn’t convicted!” she said, her eyes bright. She collapsed on the couch and closed her eyes. “Why?” she whispered. “Why now?” The agony in her voice nearly broke Thomas’s heart all over again.

“I don’t know.”

“If she comes, he won’t be far behind,” she predicted fatalistically.

“Who? Moore?” Brian asked. “No way. He was lucky to get out of this town with his skin. The coward won’t dare show his face around here.”

“He’ll be back,” she whispered intently, unnervingly.

Thomas rounded the desk and sat on the edge of the couch, taking her frail hands in his. “He’s a hotshot lawyer in Manhattan. He probably doesn’t even know that she’s coming back.”

“He’ll know. And mark my words, he’ll be here.”

“He could’ve come back any number of times. It’s been twelve years.”

Her eyes flew open and she looked over his shoulder and through the window, as if staring at the hills in the distance, but Thomas knew she wasn’t seeing anything other than her own vision of the future and that the vision frightened her to her very bones. He felt her fingers tremble in his hands, saw her swallow as if in fear.

“He’s a coward. A murdering, low-life coward,” she said, her voice cracking. “But he’ll be back. Because of her.” With a strength he wouldn’t have believed she possessed, she crumpled the newspaper in her fist and blinked against the tears that she’d held at bay for over a decade.

“He’s in New York,” Thomas assured her, and they both knew that Thomas had kept track of Jackson Moore ever since he’d left Gold Creek. There were reasons to keep track of him, reasons Thomas and his wife never discussed. “He won’t come back.”

But Thomas was lying. With a certainty as cold as the bottom of Whitefire Lake, Thomas knew that Jackson Moore would return.

* * *

THE HEAT OF THE DAY STILL simmered in the city and the air was sultry and humid, a cloying blanket that caused sweat to rise beneath collar and cuffs. Even the breath of wind slipping across the East River didn’t bring much relief through the open window of Jackson Moore’s Manhattan apartment.

He rubbed the kinks from the back of his neck, then poured Scotch over two cubes of ice in his glass and sat on the window ledge. The air-conditioning was on the fritz again, and his apartment sweltered while dusk settled over the concrete-and-steel alleys of the city.

As he had for the past six summers since he’d started working, he wondered why he didn’t pack his bags and move on. New York held no fascination for him—well, nothing much did. He’d spent too many years chasing after a demon who probably had never existed, before giving up on his past and settling here in this city of broken dreams.

“Keep it up, Moore, and you’ll break my heart,” he told himself as he swirled his drink, letting the cubes melt as condensation covered the exterior of the glass. He didn’t have it so bad. Not really. His apartment was big enough for one, maybe two, should the need arise, and he did have a view of the park.

By all accounts he was a rich man. Not a millionaire, but close enough. Pretty damn good for a kid from the wrong side of the tracks, he thought reflectively, a kid once considered the bad boy of a sleepy little Northern California town. Not that it mattered much. He tossed back his drink and felt the fiery warmth of the liquor mingle with the frigid ice as the liquid splashed against the back of his throat. A nice little zing. A zing he was beginning to enjoy too much.

He flipped through the mail. Bills, invoices and yet another big win in a clearing-house drawing where he would become an instant millionaire—all he had to do was take a chance. He snorted. He’d been taking chances all his life. The afternoon edition of the New York Daily was folded neatly under the stack of crisp envelopes and, as he had every Saturday since her syndicated column had appeared, he opened the paper to Section D, and there, under the small byline of Rachelle Tremont, was her article—if you could call it that. Her weekly exposés were little more than expressions of her own opinions about life in general—or her latest pet peeve of the week, usually on the side of someone she thought had been wronged. Not exactly hard-core journalism. Not exactly his cup of tea. Why he tortured himself by reading her column and reminding himself of her week after week, he didn’t bother to analyze; if he did he’d probably end up on the couch of an expensive shrink. But each Friday evening, when the Saturday edition was left near his door, he poured himself a drink and allowed himself the pleasure and pain of tripping down memory lane. “Idiot,” he muttered, and his voice bounced off the walls of his empty apartment.

He leaned a hip against the table and read the headline. Back to Gold Creek. Distractedly he read the editor’s note that followed, indicating that the column would be written from good ol’ Gold Creek, California, for the next ten weeks while Rachelle returned home to examine the small town where she’d grown up and compare that small-minded little village now to what it had been when she’d lived there.

Jackson sucked in a disbelieving breath. His gut jerked hard against his diaphragm. Was that woman out of her mind? She was always too inquisitive for her own good—too trusting to have much common sense, but he’d given her credit for more brains than this!

A small trickle of sweat collected at the base of his skull as he thought of Rachelle as he’d found her that night in the gazebo, drenched from the rain, her long hair wet and soaked against bare skin where her blouse had been torn. A metallic taste crawled up the back of his throat as he remembered how frightened she’d been, how desperate she’d felt in his arms and how he, himself, had unwittingly used her.

So now she was going back? To all that pain? He’d never thought her a fool—well, maybe once before. But this—this journey back in time was a fool’s mission—a mission he’d inadvertently caused all those years ago.

He squeezed his eyes shut for a minute and refused to dwell on all the pain that he’d created, how he’d single-handedly nearly destroyed her.

So what was this—some sort of catharsis? For her? Or for him?

The demons of his past had never been laid to rest; he’d known that, and he’d accepted it. But whenever they’d risen their grisly heads, he’d managed to tamp them back into a dark, cobwebby corner of his mind and lock them securely away. And time, thankfully, had been his ally.

But no longer. If Rachelle tried to turn back the clock and expose that hellhole of a town for what it really was, if she attempted to tear open the seams of the shroud that had hidden the town’s darkest secrets, the questions surrounding Roy Fitzpatrick’s death would surface again. Jackson’s name would surely come up and the real murderer—whoever the hell he was—might reappear.

What a mess!

He tossed his paper on the table and swore as he began pacing in front of the open window. His muscles tense, his mind working with the precision that had gained him a reputation at the courthouse, for he’d been known to become obsessed with his cases, living them day and night, he considered his options.

Until now, he’d managed to keep his past to himself. However, things had changed. It looked as if, through Rachelle’s column in the Daily and a dozen other newspapers across the country, that the whole world would find out how he’d grown up on the wrong side of the tracks and left his hometown all but accused of murder.

“Great,” he muttered sarcastically, glancing at the half-full bottle of Scotch on the bar. He plowed both sets of fingers through his sweaty hair and his thoughts took another turn. Not that it really mattered. His life was open. He’d been raised by a poor mother, gotten into trouble in high school and had shipped out with the navy. Eventually he’d gone back to Gold Creek, made a little money and had been accused of murder.

That’s when he’d left. And along with the government’s help and the money he earned working nights as a security guard, he’d made it through college and law school. He’d been hell-bent to prove to that damned town that he wasn’t just their whipping boy, that he had what it took to become successful. And every time a news camera captured him on film, he hoped all the souls in Gold Creek who had condemned him, could see that the bad boy had made good. Damned good.

He’d never wanted to go back. Until now. Because of Rachelle. Damn her for sticking her pretty neck out.

If he returned to Gold Creek, he’d have some explaining to do. Rachelle, no doubt, hated him.

Not that he blamed her. She had every reason to be bitter. From her point of view he’d used her, then left her to fight the battles—his battles—alone. He snorted in self-derision.

Yanking on his tie and loosening the top button of his shirt, he thought about the town where he’d been sired.

Gold Creek. A small town filled with small minds. No wonder he ended up here, where a person could be as anonymous as he wanted, one man in seven million.

He scanned the article one last time and noted that she’d written it while she was still in San Francisco. The column explained why she felt it necessary to return to that godforsaken hamlet.

She seemed to think that she had to tell the whole nation about her past, which, given the circumstances, was cruelly knotted to his in a noose of lies and sex and death. He smiled grimly at the ironic twist of fate, because by purging herself, she would be dragging him back and, perhaps, putting herself in danger.

Only he wouldn’t let her get away with it. Whether she knew it or not, Rachelle and her series were like a siren call to a place he wanted to forget.

He burned inside, thinking that she was manipulating him, forcing him to take a roller-coaster ride back in time.

Tossing back his drink, he knew what he had to do. It was something he should have done long ago. Now it was time to return to Gold Creek, to straighten out a past that had twisted his life for so many years, a past that had threatened his life, his career and his relationship with women; a past that had given him cause to become one of the toughest defense lawyers in the nation, his reputation tarnished or shining brightly depending upon which side of the courtroom a person favored.

He poured another drink, which he figured he owed himself, then checked the top drawer of his nightstand. His .38 was right where he’d left it, untouched, for six years. He picked up the gun, his fingers resting against the smooth handle. The steel was cold even in the heat of the bedroom.

Seeing his reflection in the mirror over the bureau, he cringed. His face had taken on the expression of a man obsessed by a single purpose.

Bad boy. Son of the town whore. From the wrong side of the tracks. Bastard. Murdering son-of-a-bitch.

The taunts and ridicules of the citizens of Gold Creek ricocheted through his mind, and his hands were suddenly slick with sweat.

He dropped the gun and slammed the drawer shut. Twelve years was a long time. Whoever had set him up for Roy Fitzpatrick’s murder was probably confident that his secret was safe. And even if the culprit were dangerous, bringing a handgun along wouldn’t help. He couldn’t walk back into town packing a gun. The .38 would stay, but Jackson would return to Gold Creek.

And when he did step onto California soil again, come hell or high water, he was going to find out what had happened on the night that had changed the course of his life forever.

Rachelle Tremont and her series be damned. She had no business putting herself into any kind of danger.

He picked up the telephone on the nightstand and dialed the number of his travel agent, the first move toward returning to California.

And to Rachelle: the last person he’d seen as he’d shouldered his few belongings and hitchhiked out of Gold Creek twelve years ago, and the first person he intended to lay eyes upon when he returned.

CHAPTER SIX

RACHELLE’S FIRST DAY IN Gold Creek wasn’t all that productive. She’d spent hours unpacking and settling into the cottage where she’d grown up, the cottage her mother and Heather still owned. At present no one was renting the little bungalow, so Rachelle and Java moved in, cleaned the place and fought back memories that seemed to hang like cobwebs in the corners.

It was night before she donned her jacket and drove into town. Her first stop was the high school. She parked in front of the building and ignored the race of her heart.

Red brick and mortar, washed with exterior lights, Tyler High rose two stories against a star-spangled backdrop. The sharp outline of a crescent moon seemed to float on a few gray wisps of clouds that had collected in the sky.

Memories, old and painful, crept into her mind and she wondered again about the wisdom of returning to a town where she’d been born, raised and humiliated.

Steady, she told herself, and plunged her hands deep into the pockets of her jacket. Muted music and laughter, seeping through the open doors of the Buckeye Restaurant and Lounge, rode upon an early summer breeze, diminishing the chorus of crickets and the soft hoot of an owl hidden high in the branches of the ancient old sequoias that guarded the entrance of the school.

She remembered the taunts of the other kids—the clique of girls who would giggle as she passed and the boys who would lift their brows in invitation. Her senior year had crawled by and when it was over, she’d worked the summer at a newspaper in Coleville and started college the following September. She’d refused to think about Jackson, for, after eight months of thinking he would return for her, she’d finally accepted the cold, hard fact that he didn’t care for her.

Harold Little, her mother’s second husband and a man she could hardly stomach, had lent her money to get through school. After four years at Berkeley, long hours working on a small, local paper and few dates, she’d graduated. With her journalism degree and her work references, she’d found a job at one small paper, and another, finally landing a job at the Herald. Her column had been well received and finally she felt as if she’d made it.

But not as big as had Jackson. Even now, standing in front of the school, she remembered the first time she’d seen him on television. His face was barely a flash on the screen as the camera panned for his famous client, a famous soap-opera actress whose real life paralleled the story line on her daytime drama.

Rachelle had dropped the coffee cup she’d been carrying from her kitchen to the den. The television set, usually on, was muted, but she couldn’t forget Jackson’s strong features, his flashing dark eyes, his rakish, confident smile, the expensive cut of his suit.

She’d heard that he’d become a lawyer and it hadn’t taken him long to move to New York and earn a reputation. But seeing his face on the television screen had stunned her, and in a mixture of awe and disgust, she’d watched the screen and mopped the coffee from the floor. From that point on, she’d kept up with his career and wondered at his chosen path.

He’d never contacted her in twelve years. He probably didn’t even remember her name, she thought now, alone in the dark. And yet she’d promised her editor she’d try to interview him by calling him in New York. What a joke!

* * *

GOLD CREEK HADN’T changed much.

Jackson drove his rental car through the night-darkened streets. Yes, the homes sprawled closer to the eastern hills than they had twelve years before and a new strip mall had been added to the north end of town. A recently built tritheater boasted the names of several second-run movies and, as expected, a lot of the real estate and businesses were tagged by the name Fitzpatrick.

“Some things never change,” he said, thinking aloud as he passed yet another home offered for sale by Fitzpatrick Realty.

Fitzpatricks had always run the town. The first Fitzpatrick had discovered gold here and his descendants, too, had made a profit from the natural resources the hills offered and from the strong backs of other able bodies in town. From the early 1900s, when Fitzpatrick Logging had opened up wide stands of fir and pine in the foothills surrounding Gold Creek until now, Fitzpatrick Logging had been a primary employer of Gold Creek. Millions of board feet of lumber had translated into hundreds of thousands of dollars for the first timber baron in the county’s history, and George Fitzpatrick had become a millionaire. His wealth had been passed on from generation to generation, spreading like some unstoppable disease until the majority of townspeople worked for Thomas Fitzpatrick, grandson of George and father of Roy, the boy Jackson had been accused of murdering twelve years before.

Fitzpatrick Logging. Fitzpatrick Realty. Fitzpatrick Hardware. Fitzpatrick Development. Fitzpatrick Building Supplies. Everything in the town seemed to be a shrine to the influence and wealth of the Fitzpatrick family.

Jackson’s hands tightened over the wheel of the Buick as he cruised past a local pizza parlor, thankfully named Lanza’s. As far as Jackson knew, Thomas Fitzpatrick and his ancestors didn’t have any Italian blood running through their veins.

He guided the Buick to a stop at the park situated in the middle of town. This little scrap of ground, less than an acre, was a far cry from Central Park in the heart of Manhattan, but Gold Creek was no New York City, he thought with a trace of sarcasm. Despite its problems, New York held more appeal.

Jackson climbed out of the car and stretched his legs, eyeing the surroundings. The hair lifted on his arms as he spied a gazebo that stood in the center of the green where several concrete paths met. The gazebo was larger than the lattice structure he remembered at the Fitzpatrick summer estate, but still, his skin crawled.

The walkways, illuminated by strategically placed lampposts, ran in six directions, winding through the trees and playground equipment of one square block of Gold Creek. The grass was already turning brown, and the area under the swings and teeter-totters was dusty. Flowers bloomed profusely, their petals glowing in the white incandescence of the street lamps. A few dry leaves, the precursors of autumn, rustled as they blew across the cracked concrete.

But the air was different from the atmosphere in New York City. In Manhattan, he felt the electricity, the frenetic pulse of the city during the day as well as the night. But here, practically on the opposite shore of the continent, the pace was slow and low-key. No one appeared in the dusky park, and the wattage of energy seemed to simmer on low.

Shoving his sleeves over his elbows, he made his way to the gazebo and read a carved wooden sign that noted that the park was dedicated to Roy Fitzpatrick, and listed his date of birth and death, a bare nineteen years apart. Ironic that the shrine for Roy had been a gazebo, similar in design to the gazebo on the Fitzpatrick property at the lake—the very spot where Roy had tried to force himself on Rachelle. Jackson’s jaw grew hard. He supposed he should feel some pity for Roy, but he didn’t. Though he’d never wished Roy dead, the kid had rushed headlong into tragedy. Roy had taken what he wanted, had felt no remorse and had believed that excess was his due.

No wonder someone had objected. It was just a shame that Roy had died. He ran his fingers over the inscription and wondered for the millionth time who had killed Roy. Probably someone they both knew, some coward who had let Jackson hang, twisting in the wind, for the murder. How far would the killer have let him go? If the case had gone to trial, if, by some fluke, Jackson had been convicted, would Roy’s murderer have come forward? He doubted it. Whoever had killed Roy had been more concerned about covering his tracks than letting justice prevail.

But Jackson hadn’t been indicted and he’d run. Like a jackrabbit escaping a coyote, he’d decided to run as far as he could and start a new life. Without any ties to Gold Creek. Without Rachelle. And he’d created that life for himself through hard work, determination and luck—something that was in short supply here in Gold Creek.

And now Rachelle was going to dig through the dirt all over again. Though her column hadn’t said that was her intent, Jackson knew that the old scandal wouldn’t stay buried, not with the ever-widening specter of dominion that was the Fitzpatrick family. It was time to settle this, once and for all. Before anyone—especially Rachelle—got hurt.

And Rachelle? How does she fit into the plan? He glanced up to the diaphanous clouds skirting a slit of a moon. He’d tell her to lay off, threaten her with some kind of fictitious libel suit, then leave her alone.

He only hoped she had enough sense to take his advice. He didn’t really give a damn if she wanted to let the nation see the small town where she’d grown up, but he didn’t want her fouling up his own reasons for being here.

Yes, she’d been the catalyst that brought him to the sunny state of California, but he wanted her to concentrate on the daily lives and anecdotes of the people in her town, and he wanted her to stay the hell away from the night that Roy Fitzpatrick died.

Roy’s death was Jackson’s business. Unfinished business that he intended to finally take care of. He didn’t need Rachelle unwittingly stepping into danger.

Now all he had to do was find her. There were a couple of motels in town that he would check out and he knew the little house where she’d grown up. He’d start there.

* * *

RACHELLE TOOK A SIP FROM her tea and nearly burned her lips on the hot mug. “Blast it all,” she muttered at the microwave she had yet to master. The house had changed in the past twelve years, as had her life. New coats of paint gleamed on the walls, the kitchen cabinets had been refinished and soft new carpet spread like a downy blanket over the battered linoleum floors. She could thank her sister, Heather, as well as Heather’s money, for the restoration of this place. Heather had, for their mother’s sake, invested in this house after their mother had decided she wanted to rent an apartment in the heart of town, closer to the man who was now her husband, Harold Little. Rachelle frowned at the thought of Harold. She’d never liked the scrappy, flat-faced man.

But Heather, God bless her stubborn streak, had tried to help their mother. She’d thought Ellen needed to meet other people, get on with her life and quit stewing over the fact that her husband had left her over a decade before. Rachelle had agreed, and Heather, confiding that she planned to let the tide of California inflation buoy the value of the cottage into the stratosphere, had bought the house. The plan had been great until the recession had hit and the tidewaters of big money had ebbed dismally.

Cradling her tea, Rachelle padded barefoot back to the small bedroom. Aside from a few clothes, her cat, Java, and her laptop computer, she hadn’t brought much with her. Setting her mug onto the nightstand, she kicked a small pile of dirty laundry toward the closet.

She flopped onto the bed, the laptop propped against her knees and Java curled at her feet on the rumpled bedspread. This little room with its blond twin beds and matching dresser had been the girls’. The bulletin board was long gone, taken down in her senior year when her blackened reputation had made each day at Tyler High a torture and any reminders of high school had been burned, tossed out or locked in the attic.

Her dark thoughts shifted to the friends who had turned their backs on her, who had since become stalwart citizens of the town: teachers, bankers, waitresses and even a doctor who had avoided her. Now they were parents themselves, married, divorced, their lives as changed from their carefree days in high school as hers had been. She set her fingers on the keypad and started on her column, entitling it “Faded Flowers,” and imagined interviewing the people who had shunned her.

Shivering, she picked up her mug, nearly sloshing its contents over the bed when the doorbell pealed. Java leapt off the bed and crawled beneath the dust ruffle.

“Chicken,” Rachelle chided the cat. She set her drink down and walked quickly through the hall. “Coming!” she called toward the door, then noticed from the antique clock on the mantel that it was after ten. Aside from her mother, or possibly Heather if the whim struck her, no one would visit.

Flipping on the porch light, she peered through the narrow window next to the door—and froze, her spine tingling coldly. She’d been thinking of him tonight, yes, and not kindly. But she couldn’t believe he was here, a handsome ghost of her past returned to haunt her! Her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth, and her heart nearly stopped as her eyes glued to the hard-edged features of Jackson Moore.

Time seemed to stand still. Rachelle’s skin was ice as Jackson’s inflexible brown gaze moved to the window to land full force upon her.

Her throat turned to cotton at the hard line of his lips, the tension in his jaw. He didn’t smile or frown, and she knew instinctively that he wasn’t pleased to see her.

Twelve years of fantasies shattered in that single second. For even though she’d told herself she hated him, that the mere sight of him on the news reports turned her stomach, a stupid little feminine part of her had wished that he still cared. From the intensity of his features and the unspoken anger in his glare, she’d been wrong about him. Shame washed up her neck as she realized, not for the first time, that the town, this damned town, had been right! She’d been a worse fool than even she had thought.

Obviously she’d meant nothing more to him than a one-night stand and an easy alibi for Roy Fitzpatrick’s murder. It took all the strength she had to throw the dead bolt and open the door.

A night breeze crept past him, stealing into the room.

“I thought you were in New York,” she said defensively, her reticent tongue working again. She decided she’d better set things straight before he had a chance to say anything. “Isn’t that where you live now, righting all the wrongs against your innocent clients?”

His eyes glittered, and the whisper of a smile caught the edges of his mouth for just a second. “I didn’t come here to talk about my practice.”

“Just in the neighborhood?” she taunted, wanting to wound him and give him just a taste of the pain she’d suffered when he’d abandoned her. All those years. All those damned years!

His thin lips shifted. “Actually, I came to see you.”

“A little late, aren’t you?”

Did he wince slightly, or did the shadow of a moth flutter by the porch light, seeming to change his expression for just a second? “I guess I deserved that.”

“What you deserve I couldn’t begin to describe,” she replied. “But phrases like ‘drawn and quartered,’ ‘boiled in oil’ or ‘tarred and feathered’ come quickly to mind.”

“You don’t think I suffered enough?” he asked, crossing tanned arms in front of a chest that had expanded with the years. He was built more solidly than he had been: broader shoulders, still-lean hips, but more defined muscles. Probably the result of working out with a private trainer or weight-lifting or some such upper-crust urban answer to aging. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him and he looked tougher in real life than he did on camera.

“You didn’t stick around long enough to suffer,” she said.

“What would that have proved?”

That you cared, that you didn’t use me, that I wasn’t so much the fool… . “Nothing. You’re right. You should have left. In fact, I don’t know why you’d want to come back here at all,” she admitted, some of her animosity draining as she stared at his sensual lower lip. Steadfastly, she moved her gaze back to the hard glitter in his eyes.

“I returned for the same reason you did,” he said slowly.

“And why’s that?”

“To settle things.”

“Is that what I’m doing?” He was gazing at her so intently that her heart, which was already beating rapidly, accelerated tempo. Emotions, as tangled and tormented as they had been twelve years before, simmered in the cool night. The sound of traffic from the freeway was muted, and the wind chimes on her porch tinkled softly on a jasmine-scented breeze.

“I take the New York Daily,” Jackson said, his hands in the back pockets of his black jeans. “It carries your column.”

She waited, expecting more of an explanation, and avoided looking into his eyes. Those eyes, golden-brown and penetrating, had been her undoing all those years ago. She’d trusted him, believed in him, and it had cost her. Well, she wouldn’t let his gaze get to her again. Besides, he couldn’t. There was a new jaded edge to him that she found not the least bit appealing.

“I read that you’re doing a series about Gold Creek.”

“That’s right.” Her gaze flew back to his and she straightened her shoulders, determined to deal with him as a professional. An interview with Jackson Moore would be a coup, an article her editor, Marcy, expected, but Rachelle couldn’t imagine talking with him, taking notes, probing into his life as it had been in Gold Creek all those years ago.

“I think we should discuss it.”

“Discuss it?” she repeated, her backbone stiffening as if with steel. “Why would you want—?” She cut herself off, and, folding her arms over her chest, propped one shoulder against the door. “What’re you doing back in Gold Creek?”

His eyes bored deep into hers and she realized suddenly what it must feel like to be a witness squirming on the stand while Jackson, slowly, steadily and without the least bit of compassion, cut her testimony to shreds. “I think you’re about to get yourself into trouble, Rachelle,” he said. “And I want to make sure that you don’t get hurt.”

She laughed. “I don’t need you to protect me. And there’s nothing to be afraid of, anyway.”

“You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

“I do. And if you’re talking about the Fitzpatrick murder, I was there, too. Remember?” Deciding she was probably exercising a blatant error in judgment, she kicked the door open wider. “Why don’t you come in and say whatever it is that’s on your mind?”

“Off the record?” he asked.

“Afraid of what I might write?”

“I’ve been misquoted before.” She thought of the past six years and his meteoric rise to fame, or infamy. He hadn’t been afraid of taking on the most scandalous of cases, many involving the rich and famous, and he’d managed to see that his clients came out smelling like proverbial roses.

One woman, an up-and-coming actress who had a reputation with men, had been accused of shooting her lover after he’d been with another woman. Jackson had come up with enough blue smoke and mirrors to confuse and cloud the issue, and the actress, Colleen Mills, had walked out of the courtroom a free woman. Though the press had tried her in the newspapers and the evidence had been overwhelmingly against Colleen, she was now in Hollywood working on her next film. Rumor had it that she was giving an Oscar-worthy performance, as she had, no doubt, on the witness stand under Jackson’s direction.

He walked into the house and she closed the door after him. He didn’t look like a hotshot New York attorney in his faded black Levi’s, boots and T-shirt. A leather jacket—black, as well—was thrown over one shoulder and she wondered sarcastically if he’d joined a motorcycle gang and roared up on his Harley.

She almost smiled at the thought and realized that he looked much the way she remembered him, though his features had become leaner, more angular with the years. His hair was still on the long side, shiny black and straight, and his eyes, golden-brown and judgmental, didn’t miss a trick. Even the brush of thick lashes didn’t soften his virile male features. His gaze swept the room in one quick appraisal and probably found it lacking.

“It’s late. Why don’t you get to the point?” She perched on the rolled arm of the old overstuffed couch.

“As I said, I read your column.”

She couldn’t help but let a cold smile touch her lips. “Don’t try to convince me that you left your lucrative practice, flew across the country and came back to the village of the damned just because of something I wrote.”

“That’s about the size of it.” He dropped onto the ottoman, so close that his jean-clad knees nearly touched her dangling bare foot. She refused to shift away, but part of her attention was attuned to the proximity of her ankle to the hands he clasped between his parted knees. She wondered if, beneath the denim, there was a faded scar, an ever-present reminder of that night—that one beautiful, painful night.

Her gaze moved back to his and she caught him watching her. She blushed slightly.

“I think it would be better if you didn’t touch on the Fitzpatrick murder.”

Rachelle lifted her brows. “Afraid your reputation might be smeared if it’s all dredged up again?”

“My reputation is based on smears.” He almost looked sincere, but, as a lawyer, he was used to playing many parts, being on stage in the courtroom, convincing people to say and do what he wanted. She wasn’t buying into any of his act. “But there is a chance you’ll scare whoever did kill Roy, into reacting—maybe violently.”

“And you came all the way cross-country to tell me this?” she said, unable to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. Who did he think he was kidding?

“No,” he admitted, stretching his legs before standing and walking to the fireplace. A mirror was hung over the mantel, and in the reflection, his gaze sought hers. “I’m going to be straight with you, Rachelle. When I said I was going to settle things, I meant everything.” Turning, he faced her and his features were set in granite. “I’m going to look into the Fitzpatrick murder and clear my name. I don’t want you poking around and getting in the way.”

She should have expected this much, she supposed. Shaking her head, she said, “So you’re afraid that I’m going to rain on your parade. That I might find out what really happened that night and steal your thunder.”

“That’s not it—”

“Sure it is, Moore. Look, I’ve read all about you. I know you don’t give a damn about your reputation or what happened to any of the people you left behind when you hooked your thumb on the highway and made your way out of this town. But if you think you’re going to come back here, cover up the truth and ruin my story, you’d better guess again.” She climbed off the sofa and advanced on him, her chin lifted proudly, the anger in her eyes meeting his. “I’m not the same little frightened girl you left sniveling after you, Jackson.”

“All grown up and a regular bad-ass reporter?” he drawled, baiting her.

“You got it.”

He sighed, his mask slipping a little. “What happened to you, Rachelle?” he asked, some of his insolence stripping away as he stared at her.

She didn’t want to see another side to him; didn’t want to know that, beneath his jaded New York attitude, beat a heart that had once touched hers. Nor did she want him to guess that he had any effect on her whatsoever. She was over him. She was! Then why did her pulse jump at the sight of him?

Shaking inside, she walked to the door and opened it, silently inviting him to leave. Her voice, when she finally found it, was barely a whisper. “You did, Jackson. You’re what happened to me. And for that, you’re lucky I’m just holding the door open for you and not calling the police and demanding a restraining order.”

His eyes glinted. “Does this mean the wedding’s off?” he teased cruelly, and Rachelle’s heart tore a little.

“This means that I never want to see you again, Jackson.”

He crossed the room, but stood in the doorway, staring down at her. “I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

“I don’t think so. Just walk out the door, find the nearest plane and fly back to the East Coast. Everyone here was doing fine before you showed up. We’ll all manage to survive without you.”

“Will you?” he asked, skepticism lifting a dark brow.

“Go, Jackson. Or I will call the police.”

“And here I thought you’d be anxious for an interview with me.”

The man’s gall was unbelievable. But his reasoning was right on target. “Believe it or not, I’m not a Jackson Moore groupie,” she replied, knowing that she was lying more than a little. She’d already half promised Marcy an interview with Gold Creek’s most notorious son.

“You were once,” he said, and his voice sounded softer, smooth as silk.

Her throat caught, and she remembered vividly how she’d lost her virginity with this very man. She’d tried to blame him for that loss over the years, but she couldn’t. Even now she realized that she’d given herself to him willingly. But what was worse, was the knowledge that she might, given the right circumstances, do it all over again.

“That was a long time ago, Jackson, when I was young and naive and believed in fairy tales. I trusted you, stood up for you and told everyone how innocent you were. But I’m all grown up now and I’ll never believe you again.” She forced a cold smile she hoped would pierce that insolent armor he wore so boldly. “Even fools eventually grow up.”

His eyes burned black. “I’m innocent.”

She let out a slow breath, her fingers clenching around the hard wood of the door. “Innocent?” She shook her head. “I believe you didn’t kill Roy Fitzpatrick twelve years ago, I believe you think you’re here to clear your name, but, Jackson, we both know you’re far from innocent.”

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