Home > You Don't Know Jack (NY Girlfriends #2)(25)

You Don't Know Jack (NY Girlfriends #2)(25)
Author: Erin McCarthy

He had the sneaking suspicion the semi-truck feeling wasn’t going to go away. It was Jamie. She was amazing. Sweet, shy, yet so giving, so generous with herself.

She was everything he was looking for in a woman.

Jack glanced in the living room and finally stopped in the kitchen, bewildered.

What Jamie was, was gone.

What the hell?

Jack looked around again, as if expecting her to suddenly pop up from behind the stove.

How could she have left? It wasn’t possible.

A frantic search of the living room showed that her bra and her purse were gone, and her jeans and shoes were missing from the bedroom. The only thing he found was her torn flower shirt, kicked under his coffee table.

Clutching the fabric in bewilderment, he looked for a note left in the kitchen or on his nightstand, but couldn’t find any.

Finally, he stopped in his living room and stood staring at the door in disbelief, the shirt pressed against his chest. She had left. Without a word. Without a note.

After the most incredible dinner, night, morning of his life, she had disappeared. Not a call me, a see ya, a thanks for the memories, a you suck in bed…nothing.

All she had left him was a pot of coffee, still warm.

“You did what?” Beckwith shrieked at her, causing other diners to glance their way.

Jamie winced and picked at her bagel. “I left.” Normally she loved big Sunday breakfasts, but this time she didn’t have any appetite. That was a serious first, noteworthy in the Jamie Peters record book. Disinterest in food. Maybe she was getting sick.

Maybe she was just an idiot. For more than one reason. But she felt compelled to defend herself. “I told you, he lied to me. I don’t like people lying to me. It shatters all trust. And he’s rich, Beckwith. Rich people make me uncomfortable.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” was Beckwith’s opinion on the subject. He fussed with the back of his diamond solitaire earring. He had gone for the Connecticut brunch look. Silk blouse, light make-up, designer slacks, pointy-toed pumps.

“I told you a dishonest act was going to bring him to you. You should have been mentally prepared for a lie. I’m sure he had a good reason.”

“And every man I work with had a good reason for committing the crime he did. I don’t want excuses. I want someone who can take responsibility and tell the truth.” It was still so darn hard to reconcile the tender and sexy lover Jack with the millionaire Jonathon. She didn’t understand why he had lied to her and didn’t think the reason was really going to be anything she wanted to hear.

Beckwith waved his hand as if all of that were unimportant. “I practically spoon fed you true love, and you just walk away? Without getting his number or last name?” Spearing a grape, he pointed it at her. “You panicked and ran scared. Being rich is never a bad thing in my book, honey.”

He shook his head mournfully. “True love. It was so damn beautiful. There were all kinds of little happy auras all over your cards, and you just spit on it and throw it away. I’m Jamie, I’m too good for love, don’t need it, I’m a Bolshevik hippie going to give away all my money because money is bad…”

That cut through her melancholy and made her laugh. “Okay, now you’re being flat-out crazy. And I didn’t get his last name because I didn’t need to. I saw the pictures. He’s Caroline’s brother. That was his apartment.” She shuddered just thinking about the horror, the humiliation. “That place was like an exercise in isolation. It screamed workaholic.”

“And you’re not a workaholic?”

“No!” Jamie sat back in shock, abandoning her bagel altogether. “Of course not.”

“Please. You work ten, twelve hours a day for peanuts. You let cases call you at home, on the weekend. You open yourself up both financially and emotionally. You’re having brunch with me, an ex-con cross-dressing psychic, for God’s sake. You, my darling, are a workaholic.”

They were dining alfresco on a little patio outside the bagel shop. A breeze kicked up and sent her hair tumbling across her eyes. Swiping at it, Jamie tried to convince herself Beckwith’s words were just flat-out wrong. “I’m dedicated. Committed to my career.”

Her voice didn’t sound as convincing and firm as she would have liked it to.

Apparently Beckwith agreed. “So is Jack. The only difference between the two of you is he’s a Republican.”

“That’s a pretty big difference.” Peasant skirts and designer suits didn’t go together.

“This isn’t about politics. It’s about love.” He brought his right hand up and formed an L with his fingers, showing off his French manicure. “The big L. Destiny. The One.”

Jamie had found herself waffling all morning, wondering if she had done the right thing in leaving. It wasn’t like her to run away from a situation. She liked to talk through things, resolve with communication. But nothing was going to change the fact that Jack/Jonathon had lied to her and she felt like a humongous fool.

Beckwith’s words reminded her just how much.

“Beck, it’s exactly that kind of talk that got me into this in the first place. If I hadn’t been so sure that Jack was The One, I wouldn’t have gone home with him. I wouldn’t have slept with him, and I wouldn’t find myself in the very embarrassing situation I am in. I let my fortune, my vision of the future, cloud my judgment, and that makes me feel as naïve as people say I am.”

She had always prided herself on being compassionate but intelligent, willing to take a chance on people without being gullible and blind. This made her feel like a joke. Like the goofy girl from Kentucky that everyone humored. Usually she didn’t care what people thought of her. She was confident, knew who she was, liked herself.

But she had opened up to Jack, told him personal feelings, hopes, dreams, and it hurt like hell to think he might not have been sincere. Especially since she had been just fine without a man until he’d come along. This was what she got for thinking Jamie Peters could have a wild, sexual fling. She couldn’t kiss a man without wanting to knit him a scarf.

Beckwith didn’t answer for a minute, chewing a bite of his omelet, gaze drifting over to the street. Then he pinned her with a hard stare. “All I know is you can’t fuck with fate. If you do, it will just bitch-slap you back.”

Then she was even. Because she pretty much felt like she’d been slapped already.

Chapter 10

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