From the Heart (34 page)

He nodded again, not noting that she had edited his phrase. “Okay, let's get some breakfast to go with this champagne before Betsy completely writes you off.”

F
or Jessica, the day crawled. The confinement alone would have been torture to her. She hated seeing the sun pour through the windows while she remained trapped inside. Even the beach was off limits, so she was prevented from learning if she could walk there again without looking over her shoulder.

Thinking of her shop only brought on a dull, nagging headache. The one thing she'd conceived and built by herself had been taken out of her hands. Perhaps she would never feel the same pride in it, the same dedication to making it the best she was capable of. Worse, her own weariness was taking her to the point where she no longer cared.

Jessica detested being ill. Her usual defense against a physical weakness was to ignore it and go on. It was something she couldn't—or wouldn't—change. Now, however, she had no outlet. The quiet library and monotonous tasks Slade gave her were grating on already taut nerves. Finally she tossed her pen across the table and sprang up.

“I can't stand this anymore!” She gestured widely to encompass the library at large. “Slade, if I write one more word, I'll go crazy. Isn't there something we can do?
Anything?
This waiting is unbearable.”

Slade leaned back in his chair, listening calmly to her complaints. He'd watched her fidget throughout the morning, fighting off boredom, tension, and exhaustion. The only
surprise he felt was that she'd managed to go so long without exploding. Sitting still, he mused, was not Jess Winslow's forte. He pushed aside a pile of books.

“Gin,” he stated mildly.

Jessica plunged her hands into the pockets of her trousers. “Damn it, Slade, I don't want a drink. I need to
do
something.”

“Rummy,” he finished as he rose.

“Rummy?” For a moment she looked puzzled, then gave a gusty sigh. “
Cards?
I'm ready to beat my head against the wall and you want to play cards?”

“Yeah. Got any?”

“I suppose.” Jessica dragged a hand through her hair, holding it back from her face a moment before she dropped her arm to her side. “Is that the best you can come up with?”

“No.” Slade came to her to run his thumb along the shadows under her eyes. “But I think we've given Betsy enough shocks for today.”

With a half length, Jessica gave in. “All right then, cards.” She went to a table and pulled open a drawer. “What stakes?” she asked as she rummaged around in the drawer.

“Your capital's a bit bigger than mine,” Slade said dryly. “Half a penny a point.”

“Okay, big spender.” Jessica located a pack of cards, then flourished them. “Prepare to lose.”

And he did—resoundingly. At Slade's suggestion, they had settled in the parlor. His thoughts had been that the sofa and a quiet fire would relax her, and a steady, boring game might put her to sleep. He'd already concluded that asleep was the only way Jessica could handle the waiting without losing her mind.

He hadn't expected her to know a great deal about the game, any more than he had expected to be trounced.

“Gin,” Jessica announced again.

He looked down in disgust at the cards she spread. “I've never seen anyone with that kind of luck.”

“Skill,” she corrected, picking up the cards to shuffle them.

His opinion was a brief four-letter word. “I've worked vice,” he told her while she dealt. “I know a hustle when I see one.”

“Vice?” Jessica poked her tongue in her cheek. “I'm sure that was very interesting.”

“It had its moments,” he muttered, scowling at the cards she'd dealt him.

“What department are you with now?”

“Homicide.”

“Oh.” She swallowed, but managed to keep her voice light. “I suppose that has its moments too.”

He gave her a grunt that might have been agreement as he discarded. Jessica plucked it up and slipped it into her own hand. When Slade narrowed his eyes, she only smiled.

“You must have met a lot of people in your work.” She contemplated her hand, then tossed out a card. “That's why your characters have such depth.”

Briefly he thought of the street people; dealers and prostitutes, petty thieves and victims. Still, she was right in her way. By the time he'd hit thirty, Slade had thought he'd seen all there was to see. He was constantly finding out there was more.

“Yeah, I meet a lot of people.” He discarded again, and again Jessica plucked it up. “Busted a few professional card sharks.”

Jessica sent him an innocent look. “Really?”

“One was a great-looking redhead,” he improvised. “Ran a portable game in some of the best hotels in New York. Soft southern accent, white hands, and a marked deck.” Experimentally, he held a card to the light before he discarded it. “She went up for three years.”

“Is that so?” Jessica shook her head as she reached for the card. “Gin.”

“Come on, Jess, there's no way—”

Apologetically, she spread her cards. “There seems to be.”

After a quick scan of her cards, he swore. “Okay, that's it.” Slade tossed in his hand. “Figure up my losses. I'm finished.”

“Well, let's see.” Jessica chewed on the end of a pencil as she scanned the notepad dotted with numbers from previous hands. “You got caught with a bundle that time, didn't you?” Not bothering to wait for his reply, she scribbled on the pad. “The way I figure it, you owe me eight dollars and fifty-seven
and a half cents.” Setting down the pad, she smiled at him. “Let's just make it eight dollars and fifty-seven, even.”

“You're all heart, Jess.”

“Just pay up.” She held out a hand, palm up. “Unless you want to go for double or nothing.”

“Not a chance.” Slade reached into his pocket and drew out his wallet. He tossed a ten onto the table. “I haven't got any change. You owe me a buck forty-three.”

With a smirk, Jessica rose to retrieve her purse from the hall closet. “One dollar,” she said, rummaging through her billfold as she came back into the parlor. “And . . . twenty-five, thirty, forty-three.” She dropped the change into his hand, then grinned. “We're even.”

“Not by a long shot.” Slade grabbed her and gave her a long, thorough kiss. “If you're going to fleece me,” he murmured, gathering her hair in one hand, “the least you can do is make it worth my while.”

“Seems reasonable,” she agreed as she offered her lips again.

God, how he wanted her. Not just for a moment or a day or a year, he thought as he lost himself in the taste of her. For always. Forever. All those terms he never allowed himself to think. There was a wall between them—the thin glass wall of status he forgot when she was in his arms. He had no business feeling what he felt or asking what he wanted to ask. But she was warm and soft, and her lips moved willingly under his.

“Jess—”

“Don't talk.” She wrapped her arms tighter around him. “Just kiss me again.” Her mouth clung to his, smothering the words that begged to be said. And the longer the kiss went on, the thinner the wall between them became. Slade thought he could feel it crack, then shatter without a sound.

“Jess,” he murmured again as he buried his face in her hair. “I want—”

She jolted and Slade swore when the doorbell rang.

“I'll get it,” she said.

“No, let Betsy.” He held her another minute, feeling the hammer of her heart against his chest.

More than willing, Jessica nodded. When Slade released
her, she sank into a chair. “It's silly,” she began, then Michael walked into the parlor.

“Jessica.” Ignoring Slade, Michael went to her to take her hand. “You're so pale—you should be in bed.”

She smiled, but couldn't prevent her fingers from tightening on his. “You know I'd go crazy if I stayed in bed. I told you not to worry, Michael.”

“How could I help it?” He lifted her hand to brush his fingers over the knuckles. “Especially with David muttering all afternoon about you not knowing how to take care of yourself.”

“That was—” She broke off, casting a quick look at Slade. “That was just a small disagreement we had. I'm fine, really.”

“You don't look fine, you look exhausted.” Frowning, Michael followed the direction of her gaze until he too looked at Slade. Understanding was followed by anger, resentment, then weary acceptance. “She should be in bed,” he told Slade curtly, “not entertaining guests.”

Slade shrugged as he eased himself into a chair. “It's not my place to tell Jess how to run her life.”

“And what exactly is your place?”

“Michael, please.” Jessica cut off Slade's answer and rose hastily. “I'll be going up soon, I am tired.” With a silent plea, she turned to Slade. “I've kept you from your work too long. You haven't written all day.”

“No problem.” He pulled out a cigarette. “I'll make it up this evening.”

Michael stood between them, obviously not wanting to leave—and knowing there was no point in staying. “I'll go now,” he said at length, “if you promise to go up to bed.”

“Yes, I will. Michael . . .” She put her arms around him, feeling the familiar trim build, smelling the light, sea-breeze scent of his after-shave. “You and David mean so much to me. I wish I could tell you.”

“David and I,” he said quietly and brushed a hand down her hair. “Yes, I know.” He cast Slade a last look before he drew her away. “Good night, Jessica.”

“Good night, Michael.”

Slade waited until he heard the front door close. “What kind of disagreement did you have with David?”

“It was nothing to do with this—it was personal.”

“Nothing's personal right now.”

“This was.” Turning, she fixed him with weary eyes, but he saw the stubborn crease between her brows. “I have a right to some privacy, Slade.”

“I told you not to see either of them alone,” he reminded her.

“Book me,” she snapped.

“Don't tempt me.” He met her angry eyes directly. “And don't do it again.”

“Yes, Sergeant.” On a disgusted sigh, Jessica dragged a hand through her hair. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't apologize,” he told her briefly. “Just do what you're told.”

“I think I will go up. I'm tired,” she added, not looking at Slade.

“Good.” He didn't get up, nor did he take his eyes off her. “Get some sleep.”

“Yes, yes, I will. Good night, Slade.”

He listened to her go up the steps, then tossed his cigarette into the fire and swore.

Upstairs, Jessica filled the tub. That was what she needed, she told herself—an aspirin for the headache, a hot tub for the tension. Then she would sleep. She had to sleep—her body was crying for it. For the first time in her life Jessica felt the near weightlessness of true exhaustion. She waited until the bathroom was steamy, then lowered herself into the tub.

She knew she hadn't deceived Slade. Jessica wasn't fool enough to believe that he'd taken her excuse of being tired at face value. He was just as cognizant of what was going on inside her head as she was. The visit from Michael had been the last straw in a day filled with unspoken fears and rippling tension.

Nothing had happened, she thought in frustration as she let the water lap over her. How much longer would she have to wait? Another day? A week? Two weeks? On a long, quiet sigh she shut her eyes. Jessica understood her own personality too well. She would be lucky to get through the night much less another week of waiting and wondering.

Take an hour at a time, she advised herself. It was seven o'clock. She'd concentrate on getting through until eight.

 

At twenty past eight Slade went systematically through the first floor, checking locks. He'd waited, throughout an unbearably long day, for the phone call that would tell him his assignment was over. Silently he cursed Interpol, the FBI, and Dodson. As far as he was concerned, they were all equally to blame. Jessica wouldn't be able to take much more—that had been made abundantly clear during Michael's visit.

Another thing had been made abundantly clear. Slade had found himself entirely too close to stepping over the last boundary. If the doorbell hadn't rung, he would have said things best left unsaid, asked things he had no right to ask of a vulnerable woman.

She might have said yes. Would have said yes, he corrected as he stepped past a snoring Ulysses. And would have regretted it, he reflected, when the situation changed and her life was back to normal. What if he had asked her, then they'd been married before she'd had time to readjust? A good way to mess up two lives, Slade, he told himself. It was better to make the break now, draw back until they were just cop and assignment again.

At least she was upstairs resting, not beside him, tempting him to cross the line again. When she wasn't there where he could see her, touch her, it was easier to keep things in perspective.

The servants were settled in their wing. He could hear the low murmur of a television and the settling of boards. After he'd finished checking the locks, he'd go upstairs and write. Slade rubbed a hand over the back of his neck where the tension concentrated. Then he'd sleep in his own bed, alone.

As he walked toward the kitchen door, Slade saw the knob slowly turn. Muscles tensed, he stepped back into the shadows and waited.

 

Eight-thirty. Jessica glanced at the clock again as she roamed her bedroom. Neither the bath nor the aspirin had relaxed her enough to bring sleep any closer. If Slade would come up, she thought, then shook her head. She was becoming too
dependent, and that wasn't like her. Still, she felt that her nerves would calm somewhat if she could just hear the sound of his typewriter.

An hour at a time, she reminded herself, glancing at the clock yet again. Well, she'd made it from seven to eight, but she wasn't going to make it until nine. Giving up, Jessica started back downstairs.