A MAN LIKE SMITH Read online

  "What do you think of the festival?" she asked as they moved away from the tall fence that encircled the park and slipped into the throng of wanderers.

  "You people down here certainly know how to throw a party."

  "And we don't need an excuse for it, either. Surviving yet another day is reason enough." Moving with the flow of the crowd, she sneaked a quick but observant look at him. He was dressed about as casually as he ever got, wearing khaki trousers and a short-sleeved polo shirt in pale blue. While there was no denying that the subdued shades were flattering to him, she would like to see him in some real color—magenta or fuchsia, emerald green or electric blue or rich, royal purple.

  But she doubted he owned anything in bright, vibrant colors. She would bet next Tuesday's paycheck that his closet was filled with very expensive suits in very traditional fabrics, cuts and colors, that his dress shirts were mostly white or blue, that the rest of his clothing came in shades of gray, khaki, black, brown and blue. There might be a pair of sweatpants, maybe some old forgotten jeans, but no vivid colors, nothing ratty or worn-out, nothing designed or made for pure, unadulterated comfort.

  "So…" He looked down, his eyes meeting hers. "Have you had a chance to talk to your informant yet?"

  She looked away, fixing her gaze on the ground ahead. She didn't need to watch where she was going, at least not literally. She knew Jackson Square intimately. For years it had been her playground, practically her backyard, a place where she and other Serenity Street

  brats had roamed freely. Even if she tried never to go back to Serenity, she still came often to the square. She knew the grounds and the sidewalks, knew the cracks and the bumps and fissures that might trip an unsuspecting person.

  On the other hand, in a more figurative sense, she did need to watch exactly where she was going. For a moment she'd forgotten that her business with Smith was strictly that—business. She had let herself forget that he wasn't suddenly spending time with her out of the generosity of his heart or because he liked her, as Cassie suggested. He wanted something from her, and it wasn't her company, her charming conversation or her Saturday afternoons.

  He wanted her source. Nick.

  "No, I haven't." But that had been one of her reasons for coming down to the Quarter today with Cassie. She had figured that before the afternoon was out, Cassie would run into a group of her friends or possibly good old Trevor and would ditch her; their outings often ended that way. Then she could stroll on over to Serenity and Jamey O'Shea's bar—stroll, she had decided, even though the short walk from here to Serenity led her through streets that were sometimes less than safe, because then she would be out in the open and moving slowly. The farther she got from the square, the more obvious it would be if someone—like an FBI agent—was following her.

  "You really don't think he'll cooperate, do you?"

  "No more than you thought I would."

  "Can you tell me if it's someone the grand jury has already indicted?"

  She forced a grin. "How many indictments were handed down in this case? How many defendants do you already have awaiting trial?"

  "Enough to keep me busy for a long time," he admitted ruefully. "But maybe if your guy was on my side, I could get a few guilty pleas and skip a few trials."

  "Oh, right," she scoffed. "Jimmy Falcone has never admitted guilt, not once in his entire life. He's the most brazen liar you've ever prosecuted. You could place him at the scene of a shooting, put the gun in his hand, present a thousand unimpeachable witnesses who saw him pull the trigger and show a videotape that captured the killing from beginning to end, and he would still insist that he was innocent. And you know what? People would believe him. He has that talent."

  "You're right. That's why I need whatever the hell I can get to help strengthen my case against him. That's why I need your guy."

  She choked back the impulse to tell him to quit calling Nick her guy. If it hadn't once been true, maybe she wouldn't mind so much. Then again, considering how Nick had turned out, maybe she would. He was hardly the kind of man a woman fantasized about taking home to meet Mama and Daddy. He certainly wasn't the sort of man a woman would want to spend the rest of her life with … unless she didn't mind high walls, armed guards and conjugal visits behind bars.

  They had at last reached the opposite end of the square. The benches between the park and the cathedral were filled, as was most of the small plaza there. In a clearing a band was set up and filling the air with the Dixieland jazz so closely associated with New Orleans. Pushing her hands into the pockets of her shorts, Jolie tapped one foot in tempo while searching the crowd for Cassie.

  It was Trevor she located first, his arm draped over her sister's shoulder. He was unshaven, his black hair looking as if it hadn't seen a comb in days, a small gold stud glinting in his ear. As a woman who remembered being seventeen and in love with an unsuitable man, she could understand Cassie's attraction to him. He was handsome in a narrow-eyed, rebellious sort of way, and he possessed a ton of the bad-boy allure that Nick had practically exuded.

  But as a mature, responsible adult, she could also understand why her parents didn't approve of him. They remembered all too well her own heartache with Nick. They had already lived through this scenario once, and they didn't want to go through it again. Who could blame them? The results the first time had been disastrous. They'd thought Nick had ruined her life.

  Truth be told, she had thought so, too, for a very long time.

  There were still times, usually late on hot sunnier nights when the moon was full and birds were singing, when the air was heavy with the scent of roses, that she still thought so. Times when she knew she could never get back what he had taken from her. Times when she feared she could never put right what he—and she, for she had played a part, too—had done wrong.

  "Is that Trevor?" Smith asked, so close beside her that her skin rippled.

  "How do you know his name?"

  "She mentioned it last night."

  And she had, in passing. Sorry about dinner, Jolie, but Trevor's here. Jolie gave a shake of her head. Smith was very observant and paid attention to small details. She needed to remember that. "He's the reason she spent last night at my house. Our parents don't like him and have forbidden her to go out with him."

  "But you help her break their rules. Hardly the actions of a responsible adult … but exactly what I would expect from a good sister."

  "Putting him off-limits doesn't help. Doesn't forbidden fruit taste all the sweeter precisely because it is forbidden?"

  Upon a gruff request from the people behind them, Smith laid his hand on her back and shifted her closer to the rail fence and the stones that supported it. Her skin was warm through the cotton of her T-shirt. He was warm, too, uncomfortably so, but it had nothing to do with the day's heat. And everything to do with Jolie.

  "Trevor's probably not as bad as he looks," he remarked, hoping his voice sounded steadier to her than it did to him.

  She gave him something of a surprised look, then burst into laughter. "Honey, he looks pretty damn good."

  He looked at the young man again, but what he saw hadn't changed in the past few minutes: a sullen punk who needed to grow up, clean up and shape up. It took a woman to fully appreciate Trevor, he supposed, which obviously was completely outside his realm of experience—but he didn't have to be a father to imagine Mr. Wade's dismay at seeing his pretty baby girl with someone like that.

  "So that's your type, huh? Teenage rebels."

  "Used to be." Looking past him, she gestured down Chartres Street

  , a few yards away. "Let's get out of the crowd. It'll be easier to talk."

  He let her make a path and followed along close behind. It gave him a chance to appreciate something else outside his realm of experience: Jolie herself.

  The farther they went from the square, the less crowded the sidewalks were. Within a block and a half, they were walking side by side in relative peace. He took up the conversation where
they'd left off. "So what is your type now?"

  "My type? I'm not sure I have one." After a moment's consideration, she went on. "Living and breathing would be nice. On the right side of the law would be a plus."

  "If your parents didn't already have gray hair, I bet you and Cassie have given it to them. She's in love with a young James Dean, and you're on a first-name basis with half the criminal element in the state. Is that the life they envisioned for their eldest and youngest daughters?"

  For a moment her expression turned sad, deeply sad, and Smith remembered too late what Michael had said. I always thought maybe there'd been some guy in her past, someone who'd hurt her… His theory had sounded reasonable enough on the balcony. It was looking stronger every minute.

  When she finally replied, the sadness was hidden … but not gone. "My family was very traditional. Men worked and supported their families, and women had those families and took care of their men. Since it worked for my parents, they thought we should all live just like them. It wasn't easy for them to understand that I didn't want that kind of life. They thought that, in rejecting the life-style, I was rejecting them, and it wasn't that at all. I just wanted more. I wanted to make decisions—more important decisions than what I would cook my husband for dinner or whether I would do laundry on Monday, the way Mama did, or on Saturday, like Grandma. They wanted me to be an obedient wife and a good mother, and I wanted to go out into the world. I wanted to support myself. I wanted a career—not a job, not work, but a profession."

  Her smile was a few watts less bright. "I imagine my parents sound terribly old-fashioned to you."

  "Actually, no. My family is also very traditional. Neither of my sisters has ever held a job or had any interest in a career. Initially my parents supported them, then they each came into some family money when they turned twenty-one, and now their husbands take care of them."

  "I'm not knocking it. A number of my sisters are full-time housewives and mothers, and some of the others would like to be if they could afford it. If it makes them happy, that's all that matters. I just wanted a different life for myself."

  At the corner of Ursulines, she turned right, and he automatically followed her. "But does having a different life—being independent, having a career—mean you can't also be a little traditional?" he asked, aware that her answer interested him more than was wise. "Don't you ever feel the urge to give the wedding march a spin? Don't you ever hear your biological clock ticking?"

  "Never," she replied flatly.

  "Never? Not even after you have a Pulitzer or two?"

  She repeated the answer with the same certainty. "Never. I helped raise the last nine or ten of my mother's children, Smith. I've changed diapers, mixed formula, fed, burped, bathed, rocked and walked more babies than you can imagine." She looked up at him, her expression earnest, determined and not the least bit regretful. "I won't ever have any of my own."

  * * *

  Chapter 3

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  It wasn't such a big deal, Smith told himself.

  It wasn't as if they were contemplating marriage or anything long-term and serious like that. Hell, he hadn't even contemplated asking her for a date—last night, being business, didn't count—although he had contemplated making love to her. He had acknowledged that that would surely be a fine way to pass an evening … a weekend … a lifetime, a traitorous voice whispered.

  So what did it matter if she hadn't merely delayed marriage and a family for the sake of her career, but had done away with the possibility altogether?

  What did it matter if she sounded like a woman who most definitely knew her own mind?

  What did it matter if she absolutely, positively, without doubt, did not want children?

  What did it matter that he did?

  They were just acquaintances. Associates of a sort. Two people who knew a little bit about each other and liked that little bit enough to spend a summer afternoon together.

  But it did matter. The disappointment that reached deep inside told him it did. The regret and lack of understanding repeated the message. The feeling that something that might have been very special had ended before it even started confirmed it.

  Smith Kendricks did not take on losing battles. He didn't involve himself in fights that couldn't be won. He didn't invest his time and his self in relationships that were doomed from the start. He didn't believe people could be changed. Crooks remained crooks no matter how many second chances they were given. A man who treated a woman badly before they were married still treated her badly after they were married.

  And a woman who never wanted to have children, a woman who had changed diapers, mixed formula, fed, burped, bathed, rocked and walked ten baby brothers and sisters, wasn't going to yield to any sudden and unwanted maternal urges.

  "What about you?" she asked, her tone easy and conversational again. "When are you going to get married and present your parents with an heir?"

  "My sisters have three children each. My parents have plenty of heirs."

  "Ah, but you're the only son. Your sisters' children are probably perfect little grandchildren, but only your children will carry the Kendricks name. Unless you rich folks are significantly different from us commoners, that's still important to a man. It was certainly important to my father."

  "No," he admitted with a sheepish smile. "My father's not that different. He wants a grandson first—"

  "A daughter-in-law first," she interrupted teasingly.

  "Of course. There have been no illegitimate births in our family for at least two hundred years. Anyway, after a grandson to ensure that the name lives on, then he figures we can have all the daughters we want."

  "Who is the feminine half of this 'we'? Does he have someone eminently suitable in mind? Some virginal, young, blue-blooded lass?"

  He scowled at her. "You make it sound as if she would be offered up as a human sacrifice to appease the gods. Trust me, Jolie. Marrying me wouldn't be a hardship for any reasonably intelligent woman."

  "Such modesty." Her teasing was gentler this time; so was her smile when she looked at him. No losing battles, he reminded himself. "I'll concede that. Considering what's available for marriage these days, you're a reasonably good catch. So … does Dad have a blushing bride awaiting your return to Rhode Island?"

  "Not that I'm aware of," he replied, "although I have no doubt that if I asked him to find one for me, he would. Mergers are his corporate specialty. I'm sure he could locate a fortune or two to merge our family with."

  Beside him, her steps slowed until she was standing motionless in front of a tiny restaurant. Smith had to retrace his last few steps to reach her again.

  "Are you hungry? I'm hungry," she said, never pausing for his response. "Come on, let's split a sandwich."

  He followed her inside and back to a corner table. She didn't bother with a menu; before he was even settled in a chair, she had ordered a muffuletta, onion rings and iced tea for both of them. "You come here often?"

  "Often enough," she replied.

  "Does your family still live around here?"

  Her gaze narrowed as she twisted and pleated a paper napkin into a crude flower, then smoothed it again. "How do you know my family used to live around here?"

  "I work for the government." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "We know everything."

  She wasn't amused. "You checked?"

  "That was a joke, Jolie."

  "So what was it then? A lucky guess?"

  He leaned back in his chair and studied her. He'd never seen Jolie on edge. He'd seen her laughing and teasing and sarcastic; he'd seen her at her most professional and, on occasion with Valery, at her most relaxed. He had even seen her angry. But not edgy like this. Not this kind of suspicious, almost paranoid nervousness.

  "Michael told me," he finally admitted.

  "So you had him check."

  "No. We were talking. We talk about business, about his cases and mine. I asked him what he knew about you, and on
e of the things was that you'd grown up in the Quarter."

  He watched as the tension slowly drained away. It was a physical thing—the color returned to her face, the tightness eased from her jaw, the stiffness left her body. He brought some of it back when he covered her hand on the tabletop with his own. "Jolie, if you've got something to hide, then you'd better think twice about what you're doing. We need your cooperation, and if we don't get it, I won't have to ask someone to check on your background. The FBI will initiate it on their own—and, honey…"

  He broke off as the waitress served their tea, then grimly finished. "They won't leave you any secrets."

  * * *

  Two hours later Jolie was wandering through the open market, occasionally stopping to examine a piece of jewelry, a display of sunglasses or a T-shirt. She'd been keeping a close watch on the crowd around her, searching for familiar faces, for anyone who seemed too intent on going where she went. She had been exaggerating last night when she'd warned Smith that she knew all the cops, all the deputies and feds in the parish—not by much, but exaggerating just the same. There were surely a few faces that were unknown to her.

  But no one seemed unusually curious about her this afternoon.

  No one except Smith.

  After lunch they had walked back to the square. They had talked about the weather, the festival, about Mardi Gras and the Quarter and life in general in New Orleans. They hadn't talked about his job or hers, and they hadn't continued the conversation they'd dropped at the restaurant, although she had sensed that he wanted to.

  Jolie, if you've got something to hide…

  Sighing, she replaced the brooch she had been examining on its cotton bed and shook her head politely when the vendor offered her a half-off discount. Weaving around tourists, she exited at the end of the building, stood in the bright sun for a moment, then started toward Serenity Street