“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
