Loving Jack Read online

  “How do you know? You haven’t had either yet.”

  “What I want,” he began, careful to space his words and keep his tone even, “is privacy.”

  “Of course you do.” She didn’t touch him, but her tone was like a pat on the head. He nearly growled. “We’ll make a pact right now. I’ll respect your privacy and you’ll respect mine. Nathan . . .” She leaned toward him, again covering his hand with hers in a move that was natural rather than calculated. “I know you’ve got absolutely no reason to do me any favors, but I’m really committed to this book. For reasons of my own, I’ve a great need to finish it, and I’m sure I can. Here.”

  “If you’re trying to make me feel guilty because I’d be sabotaging the great American novel—”

  “No, I’m not. I would have if I’d thought of it, but I didn’t. I’m just asking you to give me a chance. A couple of weeks. If I drive you crazy, I’ll leave.”

  “Jacqueline, I’ve known you about twelve hours, and you’ve already driven me crazy.”

  She was winning. There was just the slightest hint of it in his tone, but she caught it and pounced. “You ate all your pancakes.”

  Almost guiltily, Nathan looked down at his empty plate. “I’ve had nothing but airplane food for twenty-four hours.”

  “Wait until you taste my crepes. And my Belgian waffles.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “Nathan, think of it. You won’t have to open a single can as long as I’m around.”

  Involuntarily he thought of all the haphazard meals he’d prepared, and about the barely edible ones he brought into the house in foam containers. “I’ll eat out.”

  “A fat lot of privacy you’d have sitting in crowded restaurants and competing for a waiter’s attention. With my solution, you won’t have to do anything but relax.”

  He hated restaurants. And God knew he’d had enough of them over the past year. The arrangement made perfect sense, at least while he was comfortably full of her blueberry pancakes.

  “I want my room back.”

  “That goes without saying.”

  “And I don’t like small talk in the morning.”

  “Completely uncivilized. I do want pool privileges.”

  “If I stumble over you or any of your things even once, you’re out.”

  “Agreed.” She held out a hand, sensing he was a man who would stand by a handshake. She was even more certain of it when she saw him hesitate. Jackie brought out what she hoped would be the coup de grâce. “You really would hate yourself if you threw me out, you know.”

  Nathan scowled at her but found his palm resting against hers. A small hand, and a soft one, he thought, but the grip was firm. If he lived to regret this temporary arrangement, he’d have one more score to settle with Fred. “I’m going to take a spa.”

  “Good idea. Loosen up all those tense muscles. By the way, what would you like for lunch?”

  He didn’t look back. “Surprise me.”

  Jackie picked up his plate and did a quick dance around the kitchen.

  ***

  Temporary insanity. Nathan debated the wisdom of pleading that cause to his associates, his family or the higher courts. He had a boarder. A nonpaying one at that. Nathan Powell, a conservative, upstanding member of society, a member of the Fortune 500, the thirty-two-year-old wunderkind of architecture, had a strange woman in his house.

  He didn’t necessarily mean strange as in unknown. Jackie MacNamara was strange. He’d come to that conclusion when he’d seen her meditating by the pool after lunch. He’d glanced out and spotted her, sitting cross-legged on the stone apron, head tilted back, eyes closed, hands resting lightly on her knees, palms up. He’d been mortally afraid she was reciting a mantra. Did people still do that sort of thing?

  He must have been insane to agree to her arrangement because of blueberry pancakes and a smile. Jet lag, he decided as he poured another glass of iced tea Jackie had made to go with a truly exceptional spinach salad. Even a competent, intelligent man could fall victim to the weakness of the body after a transatlantic flight.

  Two weeks, he reminded himself. Technically, he’d agreed to only two weeks. After that time had passed, he could gently but firmly ease her on her way. In the meantime, he would do what he should have done hours ago—make certain he didn’t have a maniac on his hands.

  There was a neat leather-bound address book by the kitchen phone, as there was by every phone in the house. Nathan flipped through it to the L’s. Jackie was upstairs working on her book—if indeed there was a book at all. He would make the call, glean a few pertinent facts, then decide how to move from there.

  “Lindstrom residence.”

  “Adele Lindstrom, please. Nathan Powell calling.”

  “One moment, Mr. Powell.”

  Nathan sipped tea as he waited. A man could become addicted to having it made fresh instead of digging crystallized chemicals out of a jar. Absently he drew a cigarette out of his pocket and tapped the filter on the counter.

  “Nathan, dear, how are you?”

  “Adele. I’m very well, and you?”

  “Couldn’t be better, though March insists on going out like a lion here. What can I do for you, dear? Are you in Chicago?”

  “No, actually I’ve just arrived home. Your nephew Fred was, ah . . . house-sitting for me.”

  “Of course, I remember.” There was a long, and to Nathan pregnant, pause. “Fred hasn’t done something naughty, has he?”

  Naughty? Nathan passed a hand over his face. After a moment, he decided not to blast Adele with the sad facts of the situation, but to tone it down. “We do have a bit of a mix-up. Your niece is here.”

  “Niece? Well, I have several of those. Jacqueline? Of course it’s Jacqueline. I remember now that Honoria—that’s Fred’s mother—told me that little Jack was going south. Poor Nathan, you’ve a houseful of MacNamaras.”

  “Actually, Fred’s in San Diego.”

  “San Diego? What are you all doing in San Diego?”

  Nathan tried to remember if Adele Lindstrom had been quite this scattered in Chicago. “Fred’s in San Diego—at least I think he is. I’m in Florida, with your niece.”

  “Oh . . . Oh!” The second oh had enough delight in it to put Nathan on guard. “Well, isn’t that lovely? I’ve always said that all our Jacqueline needed was a nice, stable man. She’s a bit of a butterfly, of course, but very bright and wonderfully good-hearted.”

  “I’m sure she is.” Nathan found it necessary to put the record straight, and to put it straight quickly. “She’s only here because of a misunderstanding. It seems Fred . . . didn’t understand that I was coming back, and he . . . offered the house to Jackie.”

  “I see.” And she did, perfectly. Fortunately for Nathan, he couldn’t see her eyes light with amusement. “How awkward for you. I hope you and Jacqueline have worked things out.”

  “More or less. You’re her mother’s sister?”

  “That’s right. Jackie favors Patricia physically. Such a piquant look. I was always jealous as a child. Otherwise, none of us have ever been quite sure who little Jackie takes after.”

  Nathan blew out a stream of smoke. “That doesn’t surprise me.”

  “What is it now . . . painting? No, it’s writing. Jackie’s a novelist these days.”

  “So she says.”

  “I’m sure she’ll tell a delightful story. She’s always been full of them.”

  “I’ll just bet.”

  “Well, dear, I know the two of you will get along fine. Our little Jack manages to get along with just about anyone. A talent of hers. Not to say that Patricia and I hadn’t hoped she’d be settled down and married by now—put some of that energy into raising a nice family. She’s a sweet girl—a bit flighty, but sweet. You’re still single, aren’t you, Nathan?
”

  With his eyes cast up to the ceiling, he shook his head. “Yes, I am. It’s been nice talking to you, Adele. I’ll suggest to your niece that she get in touch when she relocates.”

  “That would be nice. It’s always a pleasure to hear from Jack. And you, too, Nathan. Be sure to let me know if you get to Chicago again.”

  “I will. Take care of yourself, Adele.”

  He hung up, still frowning at the phone. There was little doubt that his unwanted tenant was exactly who she said she was. But that didn’t really accomplish anything. He could talk to her again, but when he’d tried to do that over lunch, he’d gotten a small, and very nagging, headache. It might be the coward’s way, but for the rest of the day he was going to pretend that Jacqueline MacNamara, with her long legs and her brilliant smile, didn’t exist.

  Upstairs, in front of her typewriter, Jackie wasn’t giving Nathan a thought. Or if she was she’d twined him so completely with the hard-bitten and heroic Jake that she wasn’t able to see the difference.

  It was working. Sometimes, when her fingers slowed just a bit and her mind whipped back to the present, she was struck by the wonderful and delightful thought that she was really writing. Not playing at it, as she had played at so many other things.

  She knew her family tut-tutted about her. All those brains and all that breeding, and Jackie could never seem to make up her mind what to do with them. She was happy to announce that this time she had found something, and that it had found her.

  Sitting back, her tongue caught between her teeth, she read the last scene over. It was good; she was sure of that. She knew that back in Newport there were those who would shake their heads and smile indulgently. So what if the scene was good, or even if several chapters were good? Dear little Jack never finished anything.

  In her stint at remodeling, she’d bought a huge rattrap of a house and scraped, planed, painted and papered. She’d learned about plumbing and rewiring, haunted lumberyards and hardware stores. The first floor—she’d always believed in starting from the bottom up—had been fabulous. She was creative and competent. The problem had been, as it always had been, that once the first rush of excitement was over something else had caught her interest. The house had lost its charm for her. True, she’d sold it at a nice profit, but she’d never touched the two upper stories.

  This was different.

  Jackie cradled her chin in her hand. How many times had she said that before? The photography studio, the dance classes, the potter’s wheel. But this was different. She’d been fascinated by each field she’d dabbled in, and in each had shown a nice ability to apply what she’d learned, but she was beginning to see, or hope, that all those experiments, all those false starts, had been leading up to this.

  She had to be right about the story. This time she had to carry it through from start to finish. Nothing else she’d tried had been so important or seemed so right. It didn’t matter that her family and friends saw her as eccentric and fickle. She was eccentric and fickle. But there had to be something, something strong and meaningful, in her life. She couldn’t go on playing at being an adult forever.

  The great American novel. That made her smile. No, it wouldn’t be that. In fact, Jackie couldn’t think of many things more tedious than attempting to write the great American novel. But it could be a good book, a book people might care about and enjoy, one they might curl up with on a quiet evening. That would be enough. She hadn’t realized that before, but once she’d really begun to care about it herself she’d known that would be more than enough.

  It was coming so fast, almost faster than she could handle. The room was stacked with reference books and manuals, writers’ how-tos and guides. She’d pored over them all. Researching her subject was the one discipline Jackie had always followed strictly. She’d been grateful for the road maps, the explanations of pitfalls and the suggestions. Oddly, now that she was hip deep in the story, none of that seemed to matter. She was writing on instinct and by the seat of her pants. As far as she could remember—and her memory was keen—she’d never had more fun in her life.

  She closed her eyes to think about Jake. Instantly her mind took a leap to Nathan. Wasn’t it strange how much he looked like her own conception of the hero of her story? It really did make it all seem fated. Jackie had a healthy respect for fate, particularly after her study of astrology.

  Not that Nathan was a reckless gunslinger. No, he was rather sweetly conservative. A man, she was sure, who thought of himself as organized and practical. She doubted seriously that he considered himself an artist, though he was undoubtedly a talented one. He’d also be a list maker and a plan follower. She respected that, though she’d never been able to stick with a list in her life. What she admired even more was that he was a man who knew what he wanted and had accomplished it.

  He was also a pleasure to look at—particularly when he smiled. The smile was usually reluctant, which made it all the sweeter. Already she’d decided it was her duty to nudge that smile from him as often as possible.

  It shouldn’t be difficult. Obviously he had a good heart; otherwise he would have given her the heave-ho the first night. That he hadn’t, though he’d certainly wanted to, made Jackie think rather kindly of him. Because she did, she was determined to make their cohabitation as painless for him as possible.

  She didn’t doubt that they could deal very nicely with each other for a few months. In truth, she preferred company, even his reluctant sort, to solitude.

  She liked his subtlety, and his well-bred sarcasm. Even someone much less sensitive than she would have recognized the fact that nothing would have made him happier than to dispose of her. It was a pity she couldn’t oblige him, but she really was determined to finish her book, and to finish it where she had started it.

  While she was at it, she’d stay out of his way as much as was humanly possible, and fix him some of the best meals of his life.

  That thought made her glance at her watch. She swore a little, but turned off her machine. It really was a pain to have to think about dinner when Jake was tethered by a leather thong to the wrist of an Apache brave. The knife fight was just heating up; but a bargain was a bargain.

  Humming to herself, she started down to the kitchen.

  Once again it was the scents that lured him. Nathan had been perfectly happy catching up on his back issues of Architectural Digest. He burrowed in his office, content simply to be there with the warm paneled walls and the faded Persian carpet. Terrace doors opened onto the patio and out to the garden. It was his refuge, with the faint scent of leather from books and the sharp light of sun through etched glass. If a man couldn’t be alone in his office, he couldn’t be alone anywhere.

  Late in the afternoon he’d nearly been able to erase Jackie MacNamara and her conniving cousin from his mind. He’d heard her humming, and had ignored it. That had pleased him. A servant. He would think of her as a servant and nothing more.

  Then the aromas had started teasing him. Hot, spicy aromas. She was playing the radio again. Loud. He really was going to have to speak to her about that. Nathan shifted in his office chair and tried to concentrate.

  Was that chicken? he wondered, and lost his place in an article on earth homes. He thought about closing the door, flipped a page and found the Top 40 number Jackie was playing at top volume juggling around in his head. Telling himself she needed a lecture on music appreciation, he set the magazine aside—after marking his place—then headed toward the kitchen.

  He had to speak to her twice before she heard him. Jackie kept a hand on the handle of the frying pan, shaking it gently as she pitched her voice to a shout.

  “It’ll be ready in a few minutes. Would you like some wine?”

  “No. What I’d like is for you to turn that thing off.”

  “To what?”

  “To turn that thing—” Almost growling
in disgust, Nathan walked over to the kitchen speaker and hit the switch. “Haven’t you ever heard about inner-ear damage?”

  Jackie gave the pan another shake before turning off the flame. “I always play the music loud when I’m cooking. It inspires me.”

  “Invest in headphones,” he suggested.

  With a shrug, Jackie took the lid off the rice and gave it a quick swipe with a fork. “Sorry. I figured since you had speakers in every room you liked music. How was your day? Did you get plenty of rest?”

  Something in her tone made him feel like a cranky grandfather. “I’m fine,” he said between his teeth.

  “Good. I hope you like Chinese. I have a friend who owns a really wonderful little Asian restaurant in San Francisco. I persuaded his chef to share some recipes.” Jackie poured Nathan a glass of wine. She was using his Waterford this time. In the smooth and economical way she had in the kitchen, she scooped the sweet-and-sour chicken onto a bed of rice. “I didn’t have time for fortune cookies, but there’s an upside-down cake in the oven.” She licked sauce from her thumb before she began to serve herself. “You don’t want to let that get cold.”

  Wary of her, he sat. A man had to eat, after all. As he forked a cube of chicken, he watched her. Nothing seemed to break her rhythm, or her breezy sense of self-confidence. He’d see about that, Nathan thought, and waited until she’d joined him at the bar.

  “I spoke with your aunt today.”

  “Really? Aunt Adele?” Jackie hooked one bare foot around the leg of the stool. “Did she give me a good reference?”

  “More or less.”

  “You brought it on yourself,” she said, then began to eat with the steady enthusiasm of one who liked food for food’s sake.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Jackie sampled a bamboo shoot. “Word’s going to spread like wildfire, through the Lindstrom branch and over to the MacNamaras. I imagine it’ll detour through the O’Brians, too. That’s my father’s sister’s married name.” She took a forkful of saffron rice. “I can’t take the responsibility.”