by Norah Wilson
~*~
Quigg opened the car door and let Bandy out. The squat little dog hit the pavement with a grunting exhalation, then trotted toward Suzannah’s door, his tail windmilling furiously.
“I know how you feel, buddy.”
Quigg stuck his key in the lock, let himself in and turned automatically to the alarm panel, ready to plug in the code to keep it from bleating. Dammit. It wasn’t set.
“Suzannah?”
“Right here.”
“Sorry, didn’t mean to shout. I didn’t see you there.” He gestured to the alarm panel. “Honey, don’t you think you should use this thing?”
“Not especially.”
He frowned. The dog rushed her and she bent to pet it. Or maybe just to prevent it from gouging her legs.
“Ray says all Mann’s receipts square with your deliveries.”
“That’s right,” she said.
“And it’s been confirmed Mann was at the Record Office the day you were attacked.”
“So Ray said.”
“Did you hear he got remanded for psychiatric evaluation?”
“Yes.”
Something about her tone made him look at her, really look at her. Her face wasn’t quite right. Fear, sharp and illogical, stabbed at his gut.
“Are you all right, Suzannah?”
She smiled serenely. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be? My stalker is behind bars. I can come and go again like a free woman.”
“Amen to that.”
“In fact, it’s already feeling like it never happened. Like it was all a bad dream.”
He frowned. “Yeah, a freaking nightmare.”
“But the nightmare’s over. I have my life back, now.”
Fear again, tightening his midsection. “Suzannah, are you trying to tell me something, here? Because I feel like I’m missing something.”
She twisted her hands together, the first sign that her cool composure wasn’t perfect. “Yes, I guess I am.”
“Then you’d better spell it out, sweetheart, ’cuz you know I’m not too good with this between-the-lines stuff.”
He saw her draw a deep breath. “I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”
“What?”
“You know it’s fraught with problems. For you, for me. Lord knows our jobs are hard enough as it is. Why make it any harder than it has to be?”
He eyed her sharply. “Have you been drinking?”
She laughed, a short, hard sound. “No, I’m dead sober, John. Maybe for the first time in weeks.”
Jesus, God, no. “What’s that mean?”
“Remember that little scene we choreographed for the staged arrest?”
He nodded curtly, and she continued.
“The reason the script came so easily is because it anticipated the truth. Mann is in custody and not likely to see freedom for a long time. Which means I don’t need a live-in bodyguard anymore. And you—well, you must have enough fodder for a lifetime of locker room She-Rex tales by now.”
He felt like every drop of his blood had drained away. “That’s all it meant to you? You expect me to believe that? That you were paying for my protection with your ... with your ... Jesus!”
She had the grace to flush. “You’re right. It was more than that. I had a little sexual dysfunction going on there, and you helped me with it. For which I will be eternally grateful.”
The way she said it suggested she would be grateful, all right. Grateful to try out her newfound sexual ease with the next guy. A more suitable guy. A guy like the Armani-suited, Italian-shod, Rolex-wearing sonofabitch he’d collared today.
All the blood that had drained away seemed to rush back at once, straight to his head, a blinding red rush of fury. He wanted to shove her. He wanted to shout at her. He wanted to push her down and kiss her until she accepted him.
Oh, God, he had to get out of here, before he became what he despised. He cleared his throat, which felt like swallowing razor blades. “I guess we’re square then, eh?”
“Yes, I guess so.”
“I’d better pack my things.”
“I’ve already done it.” She produced his overnight bag seemingly from nowhere.
“Wow, how efficient of you.”
She made no reply.
“Come on, then, Bandy. Let’s go.”
The dog hunkered down.
“Bandy, I’m not fooling. Come on.” The mutt ignored his command. Quigg strode over, grabbed the mongrel by the collar and pulled. The dog refused to come to his feet, sticking to the Persian carpet like he’d been Velcroed there. “Bandy! Come on. Dammit, she wants us out of here.”
“Don’t drag him!”
“What do you suggest I do? Hire a crane? He won’t get up and if I try to lift him, he’ll freak.”
“I’ll drop him off. I still have a key. I’ll leave it.”
“Fine.”
He wheeled and walked out, closing the door behind him quietly, though he would have loved to slam it hard enough to make the rafters tremble.
He didn’t exercise quite so much control in reversing out her drive and shooting away in a squeal of protesting tires.
Damned traitor of a dog. He shoulda told her to keep the rotten mongrel.
Locker room fodder? That’s what she thought he’d gotten out of this? He laughed bitterly. Yeah, that’s exactly what he’d get. But not the kind she thought. He was screwed now, just as Ray warned. Just as his own instincts had warned. He’d stuck his neck out for this woman, ruffled feathers, antagonized Bruce Newman and anyone Newman might have spouted off to.
And forget about promotion. Even if he could earn it, how could he effectively supervise men who looked at him and saw a man who’d been ruled by his dick? Worse, a man who’d broken ranks with his colleagues.
Half way home, he pulled into a convenience store parking lot and killed the engine. He walked into the store, bought a pack of cigarettes, tore them open and lit up. Dragging the smoke deep into his lungs for the first time in eight years, he leaned back on the fender of the Taurus. He smoked the one cigarette, ground the butt out under his foot and tossed the rest in the garbage.
Then he got back in his car and drove home.
He let himself into the big, empty house he’d inherited from his aunt, hung the keys on a peg, grabbed a beer from the fridge, twisted the top off the bottle and flopped in his leather chair.
Yeah, he was royally screwed. He tipped the beer and drained half of it. The problem was, he’d do it all over again. Which made him a fool.
At least Suzannah was safe. He smiled grimly and took another swig of beer. After the way she’d slam-dunked him, he shouldn’t give a rat’s ass. Guess that made him worse than a fool. It made him pathetic. Well, so be it.
If he hadn’t tailed her all those weeks ago, if he hadn’t insisted she needed his help, Mann might have gotten to her. The thought had the power to twist his stomach into a painful knot. Even now, he couldn’t believe their plan to lure Mann out had worked so well. Pity he hadn’t confessed, though. Now they’d have to wait for the DNA comparison. He drained his beer and put the empty on the floor beside his chair.
No doubt about it, the DNA would be the clincher. If Suzannah hadn’t jabbed the guy, the case’d be a lot harder to make. Amazing to think a few drops of blood...
Quigg leapt up, overbalancing the chair, which crashed to the floor. Mann should have had a pretty good puncture wound on the back of his right hand. Quigg couldn’t remember seeing one, or even a dressing on his hand, for that matter.
He grabbed his cell phone and his keys. Seconds later, he was on his way back to Suzannah’s. Fumbling with the cell phone, he finally managed to dial Ray’s home number.
“Did Mann have any wounds on his hands?”
“Quigg? That you?”
“Quick, Ray. Did he have a puncture wound on his right hand? Or a bandage of any kind?”
Ray swore.
“Here’s the thing,” Quigg said. “I think
there are two of them.”
“Two stalkers?”
“One secret admirer—that’s our mild-mannered, shy boy who liked to leave her pretty roses. And one stalker, who sent her those dead bouquets and did all that other stuff.”
“Yes, dammit,” said Ray. “He probably followed her, saw her dump the flowers, then retrieved them, delivering them right back to her once they were good and dead. We’d never find him through the florists because he never visited one.”
“We got the wrong guy, Ray.”
“Okay, stay there with Suzannah. I’m gonna call –”
“I’m not with Suzannah, but I’m on my way.” Plenty of time to tell Ray later. “This guy won’t wait long to go after her. He knows we’ll tumble to the fact we got the wrong guy.”
“I’ll call for backup.”
“Thanks, buddy.”
Quigg stabbed the off button and tossed the cell phone. He took the corner with tires squealing and nailed the accelerator. “I’m coming, Suzannah.”