Читать книгу The First Wife - Tara Quinn Taylor - Страница 12

HE SHOULD HAVE CALLED JANE. On Sunday, Brad had taken an impromptu forty-mile bike ride instead. If the bike path had been expanded to its proposed seventy-mile length, he’d probably have gone the distance.

He could do that on a bike, no problem.

Going the distance in his personal life was another issue.

Brad had been around enough to know that some people just didn’t have what it took to commit to a monogamous relationship. He wasn’t convinced he was one of them, but it wasn’t impossible.

He’d already broken one woman’s heart. He was not about to risk doing it again.

And he didn’t have sex with women except casually. For mutual recreational pleasure.

Now there was Jane.

It took Brad five minutes to drive from his home to the offices of Border, Manchester and Willow. Monday morning, while on that drive, Brad finally phoned his friend.

She didn’t pick up.

He didn’t blame her. They’d barely spoken on their hike down the hill on Saturday, other than to assure each other that what had happened would be forgotten. And he’d spent the two-hour trip back to town on the phone.

“Jane, hi, it’s Brad.” Great. He’d stopped identifying himself after a month of hanging out with her. “I was just calling to check on the time for Thursday’s flight. Call me.” He ad-libbed about as well as he’d greeted her.

He’d written down the time of her flight when he’d dropped her off Saturday evening. She was flying to Ohio to meet with Sheila Grant and he’d insisted on taking her to the airport.

He always took her to the airport. And picked her up, too.

Maybe by Thursday he would have forgotten Jane’s long, sexy legs wrapped around his waist—her body grabbing hold of him, welcoming him inside. Maybe.

If Thursday took a hundred years to get here.

JANE CALLED HIM BACK just as he was getting out of court. Brad’s first instinct was to let the call go to voice mail. Communicating through technology devices was probably just what the doctor would order were they to go see someone about the mess they’d gotten themselves into.

He seemed to be all about stupid choices this week. “Hi,” he said, sucking in the crisp spring air outside the courthouse.

“I was afraid you were avoiding me.”

“Of course not.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Lie to me. You’ve never lied to me. Don’t start now.”

There was a difference between lying and sparing someone’s feelings. Like if one of his dates wore a dress he hated and he complimented the color. Or the fabric. Or maybe, in an extreme case, the way it matched…something.

“Okay, I’ve been avoiding you.” This was Jane. They didn’t hide or pull punches.

They didn’t sleep together, either.

“Why?”

He’d reached his car, so he climbed in. He inserted the key in the ignition, but sat there without starting the engine “That answer’s obvious,” he said, somewhat dryly.

“No, it’s really not. Having sex was a mistake. We both said so, and agreed to forget it. It happened but now it’s over. It would be a tragedy if we let fifteen minutes of insanity ruin a great friendship.”

“So you’re really okay with it?”

“I’ve had a moment or two, but overall, yeah, I’m okay with it.”

“And with me?”

“I think so.”

“I didn’t mean it to happen, Jane. You have to know that. It was never my intention to have sex with you. At all.”

“I know.” He couldn’t tell if her chuckle was sincere, or if she was just strong enough to fake it for the sake of their friendship.

“I would never take advantage of you. I just—”

“Brad, it’s okay.” She cut him off, still sounding like the Jane he’d always known. “I was there, too, you know. I could’ve said no.”

Right. She could have. And she hadn’t. He’d been so consumed with his own guilt that he’d lost sight of that part.

Damn. So did that mean she’d wanted to have sex with him? That she still wanted him?

Beginning to sweat, Brad turned the key so he could start the air-conditioning.

“I can’t be best friends and have sex, too.” He just put it right out there.

“I know. Me, neither.”

“So where do we stand?” And why was he leaving it all up to her? What would he do if she said she wanted the sex more than the friendship?

“As best friends, I hope.”

Okay. “I’m glad to hear that.”

“So we’re good?”

“Absolutely.”

“No more avoiding me?”

“Nope.” Just images of those long legs. He’d avoid those. But that he could handle.

“Whew.” Jane sounded as relieved as he felt. “Thank heavens. I’ve spent the whole weekend feeling bereft, trying to imagine life without my buddy. It was awful. With everything going on in my life right now, the thought of losing you, too…”

“You aren’t going to lose me,” he promised. Though he wondered what she thought about the sex they’d shared. She had to have thought about it, too, over the weekend, but he didn’t ask. Sex was something he and Jane were never going to discuss again.

They chatted for another ten minutes—almost as though proving that they could still hold a conversation. The case in Ohio was a safe topic. Jane was worried about the meeting there and truth be told, he was worried about it, too. About her.

When awkward silences fell, Brad hurried to fill them. It would just take some time, he assured himself. They’d get back to who they’d been. He’d make certain of it.

He meant to tell Jane so as she was ringing off.

Instead, what came out was, “So…did it work?”

“Did what work?”

“Saturday.” Since they were struggling to maintain a friendship that until now had been natural and easy, he wanted to know if the risk had been worth it.

“Don’t ask, Brad. Don’t ever, ever ask me about my sex life again. Don’t even think about it. It’s off-limits to you. And I promise not to talk to you about yours. Got it? That’s the only way we can stay friends.”

“Got it.”

Brad hung up, relieved. He was glad to have the difficult conversation behind him, and satisfied that it had gone as well as could be expected. Better than expected. Great. Fantastic.

The best.

JANE WASN’T OUT of her art meeting five minutes before Marge Davenport, her senior editor, was at her office door with an envelope in her hand.

“We got another one,” she said, her face pinched.

Jane stared at the envelope in Marge’s hand, but didn’t reach for it. “What does it say?”

“Same as the others. ‘Do the right thing, or else.’ That’s it.”

“Has Walt Overmeyer seen it?”

The private security guard had started that morning.

“Yeah, he’s outside waiting to speak with you.”

“Did you call Detective Thomas?”

“He’s on his way over.”

Jane cursed the fear that raced through her, making her weak.

“I WANT TO ASSURE YOU, Ms. Hamilton, we’re taking this issue very seriously.” The middle-aged detective stood with Jane just inside her closed office door, holding the newest threat letter in a ziplock bag.

Jane focused on the bisque-colored plaque hanging above the doorway. Bright flowers rimmed the ceramic piece, but they weren’t why she’d purchased it or hung it there.

“The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” Franklin Delano Roosevelt, March 4, 1933.

“I’ve been in publishing long enough to know that you’re never going to please everyone,” she said now, glancing back at Detective Thomas. “You speak out against emotionally charged issues and there’s always going to be someone having a bad enough day to need to have their grievances heard.”

“So you’ve said.”

“It’s not like this is the first threat we’ve received.”

“But it’s the only one that’s been repeated. Three times now.”

Jane grew cold. “So what are you telling me? I can’t stop living. I can’t let some anonymous coward run me out of my world.”

“I’m just saying that you need to proceed with extreme caution,” Detective Thomas said. “If you’ve got vacation time, take it.”

“I don’t. And even if I did, where would I go? For how long?”

“I understand how difficult this is,” the detective said. “Believe me, we’re working as quickly as we can, trying to trace this. Unfortunately we’re dealing with computer-generated messages on generic paper. We know from the postmark that whoever is sending these is mailing them from somewhere here in Chicago—probably from the same place each time. And based on the repetition, I’m guessing that this guy’s serious.”

“He might not be targeting me. They’re addressed to the editor in chief.”

“We are considering that he’s angry with the magazine itself. But it would appear that he believes that you control whatever comes out of here. We have to assume that whatever it is he wants done is, in his opinion, under your control, as well.”

Jane focused on the plaque.

“The guy’s sending the letters here. What if this escalates and he targets the building?”

“We’re posting extra people around the premises. A uniformed officer will be on guard at the security screening station at the main entrance. And screening officers are being assigned to the two private entrance doors, as well. They’ll hand search everyone who tries to enter there.”

The other tenants were going to love her.

She told Detective Thomas about her encounter with Kim Maplewood that morning and about Shawn’s conversation with his pastor. He told her again to be careful.

“Don’t go anywhere you don’t absolutely have to go,” he said. “Especially here in the city. And don’t go anywhere alone.”

“I’ve hired a private security company….”

“I’ve already met with Walt Overmeyer,” the detective said. “He or one of his associates will also be walking you to and from your car and the building every day for the next little bit. I recommend that you hire them to watch your house at night, too. And in the meantime, we’ll be doing all we can to get this guy.”

Before he gets you, Jane finished silently, thanking the officer as she ushered him out.

She hadn’t liked anything the man had to say.

He was there to help her. To protect her.

So why didn’t she feel protected?

BRAD WAS BACK IN HIS OFFICE after an emotionally charged settlement conference when Jane called late Monday afternoon.

He answered the call on the first ring. He hadn’t expected to hear from her again so soon.

“There’s been another threat.”

All thoughts of Saturday—and sex—flew out of his mind. “What does it say?”

“Same thing.”

“So what in the hell does this guy want you to do?”

“He might be a woman, for all we know.”

“Fine, what could this person possibly want you to do?”

“I have no idea.” Jane’s troubled sigh made it harder for him to stay detached. “Believe me, I’m driving myself crazy trying to figure it out,” she continued. “I mean, how can I possibly do what this person wants if I don’t know what it is?”

“What about nonthreatening letters to the editor?” Brad asked, hating this new feeling of helplessness he had where Jane was concerned. “Is there anything there that might tie in?”

“The police took everything we had and haven’t found a connection. I’ve personally gone over every issue we’ve published in the past six months, tried to piece them together with a note or letter or phone call, but I can’t come up with anything.”

“But this person must think you know what he or she wants or why put on the pressure?”

“Detective Thomas suspects we’re dealing with a narcissist. Or at least someone unhinged enough to overestimate their importance to me. The police are doing all they can, but how much time do I have before this person decides I’m not going to do what’s right?”

“I guess that depends on what they want you to do.”

“Right, and if I don’t do it, what’s the ‘or else’?”

Brad had no answer to that, either, but whatever the “or else” meant, it couldn’t be good.

“What about Durango? Did they find anything there?”

“Not yet, but I ran into Kim Maplewood this morning.”

Brad straightened when he heard the name. His client was no longer officially associated with Jane, but she had a very angry ex-husband. “What’d she have to say?”

He was more uncomfortable than ever when he heard about Shawn’s visit to his minister.

“He needs someone to blame in lieu of taking accountability for his own actions and since blaming Kim didn’t work…” Brad let the thought trail off.

“I know. Thomas said he’s going to bring Shawn in for questioning.”

Brad was glad to hear it, but didn’t feel any better about her safety. “And in the meantime?”

“I called Barbara Manley.” Barbara was Jane’s boss and the publisher of a much more established and highly respected national news magazine. Jane had written for the publication before heading up Twenty-Something. “The company is footing the bill for upgraded security in our building and to have someone watch my house at night, too.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Keep your phone close by.”

“I will.”

“And your mace.”

“I always do.”

“Call me if you so much as hear the wind whistle.”

“Okay.”

“Or if you just plain get scared. I’m two minutes away and sleep just fine on the couch.”

He’d spent the night at her house before, when she’d been sick. And a time or two on holidays when they’d had more to drink than safe driving allowed.

“I’ll be fine,” she insisted and Brad had a feeling that no matter how scared she might get in the middle of the night, he was not going to be the one she called.

Whether Jane wanted to admit it or not, things had changed between them.

The knowledge left him empty and sad. He was worried as hell about her. And helpless to do a damned thing that would make the situation better.

THE BLACK SUIT? Or the red one? Black spoke of power and authority. Its absence of color blocked emotional accessibility. Black commanded respect. Red meant energy. Strength. An ability to take action. It also spoke of passion.

Jane threw the black suit into her suitcase. Black with a white blouse. Elegant. Respectable.

And untouchable. She hoped.

She also hoped that the issue on clothing colors that they’d run the previous year was more than just psychological mumbo jumbo. She’d read every article before publication. Most of the stuff she’d heard before. Some she hadn’t. Like the information about Elizabethan clothes colors.

Back then England had had Sumptuary Laws that dictated the colors people could wear. It had to do with immediate recognition of a social class, but also with the expense of fabrics and dyes. Red, black and white were colors worn mostly by royalty.

And the lower class…whatever. She really didn’t care about Elizabethan clothes.

Adding her cosmetic bag, Jane zipped her suitcase shut and pulled it from bed to floor with ease. What she really cared about was that her flight to Ohio—to meet with the prosecutor in her ex-husband’s trial—left in a little over three hours. Which meant Brad would be arriving momentarily.

She was nervous about the drive. About being alone with him. That last conversation on Monday, he’d sounded different by the time they hung up. A bit distant. And other than a quick call each evening to confirm that the unmarked security car was outside her house, Jane hadn’t heard from him since.

Before Saturday, they’d talked just about every day.

“Come on, Petunia, let’s get you fed,” she said, forcing cheer into her tone as she took a container of chopped-up green beans from the refrigerator. The rescue macaw, the family member she’d adopted during a spread on animal abuse, used to scream on a daily basis. Now she only did so when she sensed that Jane was upset.

“Beans. Pet beans… Beans. Pet beans for Pet.” The twenty-four-inch blue beauty chirped, skittering to the back of her perch and watching as Jane filled her dish. “Beans. Pet beans for Pet.” As usual, Jane took an extra couple of minutes to smooth the young bird’s silky feathers.