by Nora Roberts
* * *
Quinn found the cramped little flower shop in the West Sixties. In spite of the air-conditioning, the air was sultry inside and heavy with a barrage of floral scents. Three customers were crowded in, two of them in front of a long, chipped counter covered with scraps of papers and a shrilling phone the harried little man behind the counter ignored. Another customer stood in front of a display window and studied arrangements.
“Can’t have them there before four. Can’t.” The owner scrawled on a form and kept shaking his head. He took a credit card and ran it through a machine for authorization. “Yes, it’ll be pretty,” he answered to the customer’s murmured question. “Big pink carnations, some sprays of baby’s breath. Tasteful, very tasteful. Sign here.”
Quinn wandered to a grouping of lilies while the man dealt with the other customers.
“Okay, okay, you want to buy flowers or just look at them?”
Quinn glanced over to see the man piling the papers on the counter. “Pretty busy today.”
“You’re telling me nothing.” The little man pulled out a handkerchief to wipe the back of his neck. “Got problems with the air conditioner, my clerk gets appendicitis, and too many people are dying.” When Quinn lifted a brow, the man settled down a bit. “Funerals. Got a run on gladiolas this week.”
“Tough.” Quinn skirted a spray of daisies in a watering can. “This one of yours?”
He glanced at the card in Quinn’s hand. “Says so right there.” The man’s squat finger punched at the name. “Flowers by Bernstein. I’m Bernstein. You have a problem with a delivery?”
“A question. Red roses, a dozen, delivered to the Plaza this morning. Who bought them?”
“You ask me who bought them?” Bernstein gave a long, nasal laugh. “Young man, I sell twenty dozen roses this week if I sell one. How am I supposed to know who buys?”
“You keep records?” Quinn gestured toward the register. “Receipts. You should have a receipt for a dozen red roses delivered to the Plaza at, let’s say, ten thirty, eleven this morning.”
“You want me to go through my receipts?”
Quinn reached in his pocket and drew out a twenty. “That’s right.”
The little man stood straight. His drooping jowls quivered with indignation. “I don’t take bribes. You got twenty dollars, you buy twenty dollars’ worth of flowers.”
“Fine. How about the receipts?”
“You a cop?”
“Private.”
Bernstein hesitated. Then, grumbling, he went into the drawer that held the day’s receipts. He mumbled to himself as he flipped through them. “Nobody bought red roses today.”
“Yesterday.”
That earned Quinn a disgusted look, but Bernstein went into another drawer. “Red roses to Maine, two dozen to Pennsylvania, a dozen to Twenty-seventh Street …” He mumbled out a few more addresses. “A dozen to the Plaza Hotel, suite 1203, for delivery this morning.”
“Can I take a look at that?” Without waiting for an answer, Quinn plucked it out of his hand. “Paid cash.”
“I got no problem taking cash.”
But cash meant no signature. Quinn passed the receipt back. “What did he look like?”
“What did he look like?” The man let out another snort of laughter. “How am I going to remember what you look like tomorrow? People come in here and buy their flowers. I don’t care if they got an eye in the middle of their forehead so long as their credit’s good or their cash is green.”
“Just think about it a minute.” Quinn pulled out another twenty. “You got some great flowers here.”
The florist gave him a shrewd look. “The carnations on display here are getting wilted.”
“I happen to be very fond of carnations.”
With a nod, the man pocketed the two twenties, then took the slightly drooping carnations from behind the glass. “I remember he said to send the roses to Chantel O’Hurley. Things were pretty busy here yesterday. They hauled my clerk out in an ambulance. My other clerk’s on vacation, and we’ve got two weddings.” Because the florist had a genuine love for flowers, he took out a plastic bottle and spritzed the carnations. “Anyhow, he says to send them to her, so I say, hey, is that the actress? You know, the wife and I go to the movies a lot. Oh, yeah, I ask him if he’s from California. He was wearing a hat, one of those panama types, and dark glasses.”
“What did he say?”
“I don’t think he did. And don’t ask me what he looked like again, ’cause I don’t know. I had Mrs. Donahue in here fussing about her daughter’s wedding. Rose petals—bags of ’em. Pink.” He shook his head. “He was a guy, and I never saw much of his face.”
“How old?”
“Could’ve been younger than you, could’ve been older. But he wasn’t built so big. Nervous hands,” he remembered suddenly, and in a moment of conscience added some fresh greenery to the carnations.
“Why do you say that?”
“Came in here smoking some foreign cigarette. I don’t allow smoking, no matter how classy the tobacco. Not good for the flowers.”
“How do you know it was foreign?”
“How do I know? How do I know? I know an American cigarette when I see one,” the florist said testily. “And this wasn’t one of them. Made him put it out, too. Don’t care how much money you spend in here, you ain’t gonna pollute my flowers.”
“Okay, so he had nervous hands.”
“Couldn’t keep them still once he put the thing out. Look, I had enough trouble in here yesterday without this character. Mrs. Donahue was driving me to grief, and my clerk was getting her appendix out. Next thing you know, she’ll want to claim it on workman’s compensation.”
“Anything else?” Quinn steered him patiently away from his clerk’s appendectomy. “Anything he did or said that sticks in your mind?”
“Money clip,” he said abruptly. “Yeah, he took the cash out of a clip instead of a wallet. A nice one, nothing you’d pick up on the street. Silver. Monogrammed.”
“What initials?”
“Initials?” The florist began to file away his stack of receipts. “What do I know from initials? It had squiggly lines on it.”
“Any rings? A watch?”
“I don’t know. I notice the clip because the guy’s got a nice fat wad tucked into it. Maybe he’s got jewelry; maybe he doesn’t. I’m taking his cash, not giving him an appraisal.”
“Thanks.” Quinn took out a card and wrote his number at the hotel on the back. “I’d appreciate it if you’d call if you remember anything else. Or if he comes back.”
“He in trouble?”
“Let’s just say I’d like the chance to talk to him.”
“Don’t forget your carnations.”
Quinn tucked the arrangement under his arm and headed for the door.
“Guess you get some weirdos out in California,” Bernstein commented.
“Our share.”
“Movie stars.” He gave another quick snort. “Guy said he worked close with Miss O’Hurley. Real close.”
Quinn’s fingers tightened around the knob. “Thanks.” As he stepped onto the sidewalk, he thrust the flowers into the arms of a woman dragging a shopping cart. He didn’t look back to see her staring at him. There was a sick feeling starting in his stomach. He knew someone who occasionally carried a silver money clip. A clip that had been a present from Chantel. Matt Burns.
He didn’t want to believe it. Matt was a friend, and no one knew better than Quinn how hard it was to make and keep friends in his business. Yet how well did he really know Matt Burns?
He hadn’t known about the gambling until he’d dug it up. Matt had betrayed a client then because of a weakness. Didn’t that make him first in line to betray Chantel because of another kind of weakness?
A lot of men carried money clips, Quinn reminded himself as he headed away from the hotel rather than toward it. He needed to think things through before going back to Chantel. A lot of men
carried silver money clips, Quinn continued, just the way a lot of men smoked foreign cigarettes. But he wondered how many men who knew Chantel, who worked closely with Chantel, did both.
He was being stupid, Quinn decided as he stopped at a phone booth. The word was soft, he corrected. That’s what the woman had done to him. It wasn’t his job to find reasons why it couldn’t be Matt, but find reasons why it could.
Flipping open his notepad, he scanned for Matt’s number and dialed.
“Answering for Matt Burns.”
“I need to speak with him.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Burns is unavailable until Monday.”
“Make him available, sweetheart. It’s important.”
The voice became very prim. “I’m sorry, Mr. Burns is out of town.”
Nerves skimmed down Quinn’s spine. “Where?”
“I’m not permitted to give out that information.”
“This is Quinn Doran. I’m calling for Chantel O’Hurley.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Doran. You should have told me who you were. Mr. Burns is out of town, I’m afraid. Should I have him get in touch with you if he checks in?”
“I’ll get in touch with him on Monday. Where is he?”
“He flew to New York, Mr. Doran. On some personal business.”
“Yeah.” He bit off an oath as he hung up the phone. It was very personal. This was going to hurt her, Quinn thought. And it was going to hurt deep.
* * *
“Three more hours.” Maddy O’Hurley jumped up from her chair, paced across the room and plopped onto the sofa. “We should have gotten married in the morning.”
“It’ll be afternoon soon enough.” Chantel sipped at her third cup of coffee and wondered when she would hear from Quinn again. “Shouldn’t you be enjoying your last hours as a single woman?”
“I’m too wired to enjoy anything.” Maddy was up again, her mop of red hair bouncing with the movement. “I’m so glad you’re here.” She stopped long enough to give Chantel a quick squeeze. “I’d be going crazy now if you weren’t. I wish Abby would come down.”
“She will, as soon as she dumps Dylan and the boys on Pop. Think about something else.”
“Something else.” Maddy’s slim dancer’s body spun in a circle. “How can I think of something else? Walking down that aisle is the biggest entrance I’ll ever make.”
“Speaking of entrances, tell me about the play.”
“It’s terrific.” Her amber eyes lighted with love of the theater. “Maybe I’m prejudiced because it was the play that brought Reed and me together, but it’s the best thing I’ve done. I was hoping you’d be able to see it.”
“I’ll be back in New York shooting on location soon. You’ll be back from your honeymoon and onstage.” Chantel reached restlessly for a cigarette. “And if the reviews are any indication, the thing’s going to be running for years.”
Maddy watched her sister toy with, then light, the cigarette. It was something she did rarely, and only when she was tense. “How’s the filming going?”
“No complaints.”
“And this Quinn? Is it serious?”
Chantel moved her shoulders. “He’s just a man.”
“Come on, Chantel, this is Maddy. I’ve seen you with just a man before. Did you have an argument?” She managed to keep herself still long enough to sit on the arm of Chantel’s chair. “Last night you seemed so happy. You practically glowed every time you looked at him.”
“Of course I’m happy.” She gave Maddy’s arm a quick pat. “My baby sister’s getting married to a man I’ve decided is nearly worthy of her.”
“Don’t hedge, Chantel.” Abruptly serious, Maddy took Chantel’s restless hands in hers. Nerves seemed to leap from one sister to the other. “Hey, something’s really wrong, isn’t it?”
“Don’t be silly, I—” She broke off at the knock on the door. Maddy felt her sister’s fingers tense.
“Chantel, what is it?”
“Nothing.” Disgusted with herself, Chantel made her muscles relax. “Just make sure who it is, darling. We don’t want an overexuberant bridegroom walking in.”
Far from satisfied, Maddy rose and walked to the door. “It’s Abby,” she said as she looked through the peephole. And with Abby’s help, Maddy thought, she’d get to the bottom of what was worrying their sister. “How come you’re not fat yet?” she accused as she opened the door.
With a laugh, Abby put one hand on her stomach and the other on Maddy’s cheek. “Because I have over five months to go. How come you’re not getting ready yet?”
“Because the wedding’s not for three hours.”
“Just enough time.” Abby draped a garment bag over the back of a chair and went to Chantel. “Think we can whip her into shape?”
“Maybe. At least if we start on her she can’t pace around the suite. Thank God Reed talked you into giving up that apartment. We’d have been sitting on top of each other.”
“I still miss it.” With a grin, Maddy moved over to wrap an arm around each of her sisters. “I have such a hard time picturing me in a penthouse uptown. Are Dylan and the boys with Pop?”
“I left them at his door. Mom’s getting her hair done, and Pop was about to talk Dylan into a prewedding toast. I can’t wait to see Ben in his tux again. He looks like such a little man. And Chris is annoyed that we’re renting them instead of buying them. He thinks it’s just the thing to show off to his friends at home. And by the way”—she gave Chantel a squeeze before she released her—“I liked your Quinn.”
“The possessive pronoun’s a bit premature,” Chantel managed a smile. Then, on impulse, she went to the phone. “I know what’s missing here,” she told them, punching up room service. “I’d like a bottle of champagne, three glasses. Dom Pérignon ’71. Yes, Madeline O’Hurley’s suite. Thank you.”
Abby arched a brow and leaned her arm on Maddy’s shoulder. “It’s barely eleven.”
“Who’s counting?” Chantel wanted to know. “The O’Hurley Triplets are going to celebrate.” Without warning, her eyes filled. “Oh, God, sometimes I miss the two of you so much I can hardly stand it.”
In an instant they were together, holding close in the bond that had cemented them even before birth. Maddy sniffled, Abby soothed, and then, to her sisters’ amazement, Chantel broke down completely.
“Oh, baby.” Abby lowered her to the sofa, casting a quick, concerned look at Maddy. “What’s wrong, Chantel?”
“It’s nothing, nothing.” She brushed her tears aside. “Just being sentimental. I guess I’m a little edgy, working too hard. Just seeing the two of you, you with your beautiful family, Abby, and Maddy about to start one of her own. I wonder if things had been different …” She let her words trail off with a shake of her head. “No, I made my choices, now I have to deal with them.”
Abby brushed the hair from Chantel’s face. Her voice was always calm, her hands always gentle. “Chantel, is this about Quinn?”
“Yes— No.” She lifted both hands, then dropped them. “I don’t know. I’m having a little trouble with an overenthusiastic fan,” she said, downplaying her problem. “I hired Quinn to more or less keep him at a distance, and then I fell in love with Quinn and …” She trailed off again, letting out a deep breath. “I just said it out loud.”
Maddy bent down to kiss the top of her head. “Did it help?”
Some of the tension uncurled. “Maybe. I’m being an idiot.” Chantel fumbled for a tissue. “And I’ll be damned if I’m going to walk down the aisle as maid of honor with puffy eyes.”
“That sounds more like Chantel,” Maddy murmured. “And besides, if you’re in love with Quinn, everything’s going to work out.”
“Always the optimist.”
“Absolutely. Abby found Dylan, I found Reed, so it’s your turn. Now if we could just pin down Trace …”
“You’re really reaching,” Chantel said with a laugh. “If there’s a woman out there who can put a hobble on big broth
er, I’d love to meet her.” She started at the knock on the door, but brought herself back quickly. “Must be the champagne.” Stuffing the tissue in her pocket, Chantel went to the door but checked the peephole first. “Uh-oh.” A smile hovered on her lips as she glanced over her shoulder. “We’ve got the champagne, all right, but there’s more. Abby, drag Maddy into the bedroom. There’s a lovesick maniac at the door.”
“Reed? Is it Reed?” Maddy was halfway to the door before her sisters headed her off.
“No way.” She might be nearly four months pregnant, but Abby was still agile. She had an arm hooked around Maddy’s waist. “Bad luck, honey. You get into the bedroom. Chantel and I can transmit any messages.”
“This is silly.”
“I’m not opening the door until you’re out of the room,” Chantel said simply, and leaned back on it. “All the way out.”
After wrinkling her nose, Maddy slammed the door behind her. As a precaution, Abby posted herself in front of it. With a nod of satisfaction, Chantel pulled open the door to the hall. “Just over there,” she told the waiter. “And you”—she put a slender, manicured finger to Reed’s chest—“not a step farther.”
“I just want to see her for a minute.”
Chantel managed to force back a smile and shook her head. She could almost feel the love coming from him, the nerves, the longing. He hadn’t changed into his tux yet, and he was wearing a pair of casual slacks and a shirt that reflected his conservative style. He looked like an executive. He was an executive, she thought with another shake of her head. And the farthest thing from the type one would have imagined with her free-spirited, bohemian sister. Yet they fit. Chantel imagined Maddy had fallen for those calm gray eyes first. The rest would have been a smooth drop.
“Look, I have something for her.” Used to getting his own way, Reed took a step forward, only to be blocked easily by Chantel. “I’ll be in and out before you know it.”
“You won’t be in at all,” Chantel corrected. “We’re Irish, Reed, and we’re theater people. You’re not going to find a group more superstitious. You’ll see Maddy at the church.”
“That’s right.” Hearing a stirring behind her, Abby hooked her hand firmly around the knob of the bedroom door. “I’m sure you’re too much of a gentleman to try to get through both of us.” Using the ultimate weapon, she smiled and put a hand to her stomach. “Or should I say all three of us?”