“I know I've said this before, but it takes time, and we can all help you with it, if you'll trust us enough, and you have the desire.”
Trust and desire. Those were tricky concepts, and even more so when put together. And then there was that lingering elephant dancing between them. “I don't know, Nick. I didn't want any of this ... stuff. I don't want ...” She sighed, at a loss to explain or even wanting to.
“Me?” Nick asked quietly.
It took a second for the question to sink in. “What? No, I wasn't trying to say that, and I don't really want to talk about that now.”
Please don't go there. Please don't.
He nodded. “I understand. I do, but I'd like to say something, and you don't have to respond or say anything, just be willing to listen.”
God, here it comes.
Jackie turned and looked up into that calm, still face, the porch light reflecting off the smooth, new skin of the scar along his jaw. “OK. I'm listening.”
“First off, I wanted to apologizeâ”
“Nick, no.” Jackie laid her hand against his chest. “No apologies. You didn't do a damn thing wrong.”
He stared down at her in silence until her hand dropped away, and gave Jackie a pained smile. “I'm sorry that I didn't stop things sooner. I could tell it was difficult before things ever got to the point they did. I've known this was hard for you from day one. I don't understand it all, and I don't need to, but I'd like to. I didn't stop things sooner last night because I had hopes that when I woke up this morning, you'd being lying in bed next to me.”
Jackie hung her head, staring down at the deck in silence.
Me too.
“Jackie,” he said, and remained silent until she looked back up. “Whatever it is, whatever you need ... take your time. We aren't in any hurry, and I'm not going anywhere. If, in the end, the answer is âno,' then just tell me. There's no obligation here. You don't owe me for saving your life or anything else. If what I am interferes too much, then I get that, too.” Nick thrust his hands into his pockets and let out his breath in a rush. “When you get down to it, it's pretty simple. I like you, Jackie, enough that I do want you waking up next to me in the morning, but I also consider you a friend, and life has done you no favors of late. As your friend, I want you to take care of yourself and be healthy and alive. To me that's more important than any of this other stuff between us.” He picked up his coffee cup off the railing and took a drink. “OK?”
What to say to that? Jackie nodded. “OK.” The tension that had knotted up her stomach when he began this speech faded by the time he was done. Last night had not made him think she was a complete nut job, even if she was. “Thanks for that, Nick.” She chuckled. “I don't think I've ever heard you talk that much at one time.”
He turned and leaned against the rail. “It needed to be said. Something like last night was not meant to break us.”
Jackie was not quite sure how to take that, but she had to agree. She did not want it to break them, to get in the way of everything else. Her hand settled on top of his. “My coffee's cold. Warm it up?” For now at least, that dancing elephant had pranced off into the shadows.
Chapter 11
Margolin pulled up under the streetlight in front of the Thatcher's Mill diner and shut off the headlights of his car. He leaned forward against the steering wheel and stared out at the smattering of lit windows curtained off against the night. It looked like your typical rural town, like a thousand others scattered around the Midwest. Not a creepy thing about it.
He recalled the note, pinned to the bulletin board in Special Investigations' office, over a decade old, speaking to the inordinate amount of ghostly activity in the area. The questions had been running through his head for the past four hours. Why were they here? What possible interest could they have in a bunch of ghosts? And why the hell was a former FBI agent working for that company?
Inside the diner, Margolin stepped up to the counter and sat down on a stool. The dinner crowd had gone, and there were only two others seated in the room. The waitress, who was busy cleaning up behind the counter, gave him an exasperated smile. Someone was ready to go home.
“What can I get for you?”
“Some coffee,” he said, “and how about a piece of pie?”
“Pumpkin or apple?”
“What do you recommend?”
“Apple's made here,” she said.
“Apple it is, then.”
He waited in silence while she got the pie and warmed it up in a microwave. She put a scoop of ice cream on the side and brought it over with the coffee pot. “Anything else for you?”
“Actually, I have a question,” Margolin said.
The woman rolled her eyes. “I'm off at ten, and no.” With that, she sashayed back over to her cleaning.
Margolin laughed. “Thanks, but not what I wanted to ask.”
“Ah. Well.” She gave him a fleeting smile. “Too bad. You're cute and I probably would've changed my mind.”
“Good God, Molly,” came the cook's voice from the back. “I pay you to work, not flirt.”
“Oh, you be quiet, Tucker,” she yelled over the counter. “It's called customer relations.”
“Do your relating on your own time, woman,” he sniped back.
Margolin grinned. “Molly, is it? Well, Molly, I was hoping you might haveâ”
The loud rumble of a motorcycle engine cut him off. He turned and looked out the window to see a polished piece of fabulous chrome and fire-engine-red paint roll to a stop in front of his car. Someone hardly big enough to be riding the thing swung her lithe little leg over the seat and came marching up to the door. The door jangled the overhanging bell and slammed back against the wall, and in walked a pistol-whip of a young woman, her head covered in an old-fashioned aviator style hat with goggles perched on top of her head. Her black army boots moved soundlessly across the floor.
“Tucker! Molly!” She stopped when she caught Margolin staring at her. “Eat your dessert, pretty boy.”
“What's up, Charlie?” Tucker stepped out from the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron. “Not your usual night out. Something wrong?”
Pretty boy?
Margolin could not recall ever having been called that, except maybe by his grandmother when he was seven. This womanâthough woman might be stretching it, she did not look much older than sixteenâhad a very authoritative look about her. Having interviewed hundreds of people over the years, Margolin could usually tell someone's character just by how that person stood and looked at others, and this motorcycle chick had “boss” written all over her. It struck Margolin as very peculiar in someone who looked so young. He made a mental note:
older than she looks.
“I just spoke with Chief Carson,” she said, stopping at the cash register on the end of the counter and folding her hands over the top of it. “He says some people were here earlier, looking for something.”
“Oh!” Molly exclaimed, waving a finger at Charlie. “It was them ghosthunters, four of them I think it was.”
Margolin sat bolt upright.
Answered that question. And why are you suddenly so anxious, Molly? Little motorcycle chick makes you nervous?
“You know, I happen to be looking for them, too.”
Charlie's head pivoted with the slow precision of a windup doll until her gaze fell upon Margolin. She lay her cheek down against her arm and arched her brows. “Do you now? And just who are you, pretty boy?”
He had a handy retort, but it faded away somewhere between his brain and mouth. Those big, hooded, hazel eyes were haunting. Something about them looked off. They were exceptionally bright, even for the lit room they were in. “I'm a journalist, from Chicago. I'm following a story on this group and was hoping to find out why they came here to Thatcher's Mill. Something to do with ghosts, I think.”
“Really,” Charlie said. “Chicago?”
“It's true,” Molly said. “They wanted to know why there were so many ghosts here.”
“I see.” Charlie pushed herself up from the register. “Molly, why don't you close up. I believe the diner is closing a few minutes early tonight.” She walked toward Margolin, who got a very unsettling feeling in his gut about this woman, yet he could not take his eyes off of her. “Tom,” she said to the man who had been reading his paper over coffee in the corner booth, “best you be heading home now.”
He folded up his paper and scrambled to his feet. “Sure thing, Ms. Thatcher. Lovely to see you, as always.”
She flashed a smile at him before refocusing on Margolin. “So, pretty boy, what is your name?”
He leaned away from the counter as she approached. There was something incredibly dangerous in that smile of hers. “Margolin. Philip Margolin. You can call me Margolin.”
“Philip Margolin,” she said, lingering longer on the
ph
sound. “Why don't you come sit with me and tell me about these ghosthunter people from Chicago.”
He slid off the stool before even considering his answer. “You seem to have some authority around here, Charlie.”
Again, the fleeting smile rolled across her face, leaving no pleasantness in its wake. “That I do, Philip.” She drifted across to a booth and sat down, watching Molly lock up the door behind the fleeing Tom. “Sit, please. Molly? Some tea, if you would.”
Margolin slipped into the seat across the table from her. Who the hell was this chick? He could see the allure, but these people were falling all over themselves. She folded her hands together and rested her chin upon them, staring at him in silence as Molly slid the cup of hot water dangling a teabag string before her. Charlie did not acknowledge her presence. Margolin got the unnerving sense that he had stepped into a bad, teen mob show on the CW.
“So, Philip,” she said and reached down to bob her teabag in the cup, “tell me about these ghosthunters you're looking for.”
Actually, I'm more interested in who you are, lady.
Once again, though, the thought did not quite reach his mouth. Her question was innocent enough. “Honestly, I don't know a whole lot about them, other than I believe they're involved in some kind of FBI cover-up.”
The hand let go of the tea bag and she stared at him, not moving for several seconds. “The FBI? That is interesting. Why do you think that?”
I should be trading information here, seeing what she might know about why they're here.
“The woman, Agent Jackie Rutledgeâ”
“Agent!” The cool, seductive demeanor vanished for a split second, but then Charlie smiled and picked up her tea. “She is an FBI agent?”
Margolin wagged a finger at her. “Was. That's the operative word here. She got fired for killing a Chicago cop, and is now with this group called Special Investigations. I found out through my, um, resources, that they're digging through old FBI files, looking for something. They came here, and I'm trying to find out why.”
“Old files? That is curious,” she said, demurely sipping at her tea. “There have been no significant crimes in Thatcher's Mill for years.”
Margolin chuckled. “You hardly look old enough to know about crimes that happened here years ago.”
The smile vanished as easily as it had come. “Looks can be deceiving, Phillip. I'm quite familiar with what goes on in my town.”
Whoa. My town? That hit a sore spot. This chick is not what she seems. Creepy little bitch.
“So, what do you think they're looking for then? What's with the ghosts?”
Charlie set down her tea, and the smile returned. “Old stories, passed down over generations, nothing more. It brings in the tourists and the occasional crackpot looking to prove the existence of the paranormal.”
“These people are hardly crackpots, Charlie,” Margolin said. “They're up to something.”
“Perhaps,” she said, “that is why they harassed Chief Carson today.” Her hand slipped across the table, reaching for his, a single finger tracing lightly across its back. “You have your suspicions, I suspect. You are a big city journalist after all.”
Margolin looked down at the finger brushing over his skin, suppressing the shudder of goose bumps that ran up his arm.
Wow. This chick is smooth. Definitely not a teen.
“If I were to guess, I'd say they're looking for someone, maybe someone involved in this cover-up they're perpetrating. You know,” he said, “you have the brightest eyes I've ever seen. They almost glow.”
Her finger continued to trace its circle on the back of his hand. “Family trait. Like them, do you?”
“They're quite stunning, actually.”
Shit! Is this going where I think it is? Or is she just playing me? And why do I care?
Questions could be dealt with the morning after.
“Thank you.” Her head cocked to one side while those big, dark eyes studied him. “Perhaps we can help one another, Phillip. Would you like to help me with these people?”
“You know I would,” he replied. “How can you help me?”
Charlie's hand covered his, and Margolin felt his cock begin to harden. “I have a certain influence around here. I can ... make things happen. If they come backâ”
“When,” Margolin said. “If they're digging, they'll be back.”
And in the meantime maybe we can get to know one another a little better.
She nodded. “When they come back, would you like to help me deal with them? I believe we could have a mutually beneficial relationship here. Maybe you'll even get your story.”
“I'd like that. How shall I contact you, Charlie?”
“There's a bed and breakfast a mile up the highway. You can stay there,” she said, and withdrew her hand from his. The separation created a hollow ache in his chest. “We'll be in touch.”
Oh, I'd like to touch you all right. Jesus Christ, this girl has it going on. I'm clearly not getting out of the city enough.
“You want me to contact you when they get back in town?”
Charlie slid out of the booth and stood next to him. Her hand reached out to caress his cheek. “You're such a pretty boy. We'll keep this between us, OK? Our little secret?”
Margolin nodded.
Who can say no to that face? What an amazing beauty.
“Sure thing. We'll get these bastards, don't you worry.”
“I'm not worried.” Her finger brushed across his lips. “We will.”