His hand swept up along her cheek and came to rest in the soft hair at her temple. She didn't push him away. She didn't turn her face from him. She returned his gaze, and in her soft, dark eyes Quinn saw the permission he sought.
"You make me fairly crazy, Homey," he whispered, bringing his lips to hers in softness—such softness—as his fingers played along her cheek.
The gentleness of it stunned her. They weren't smashing heads on sidewalks or crashing into porch furniture this time. Quinn's kiss was tender and full of sweet questions, and it shattered her.
She closed her eyes and let him touch her, let him explore her mouth with his lips, her body with his hands. She felt his palm flat at the small of her back, but it didn't piss her off this time. And at that moment, somewhere in the recesses of her mind, she decided that she'd go wherever he was taking her. Maybe not today—but someday.
Audie tilted her head to yield to the tentative requests from his tongue, and the emotion welled up in her belly and spread hot through her, and a helpless little squeak came out of her mouth.
Quinn pulled away, watching her shut her eyes and smile, holding on to the shadow of his kiss. Then her dark lashes fluttered and she looked right at him.
"Nice kiss, Quinn."
"There's more where that came from."
The way he grinned down at her made him look like a little boy, Audie thought, cute and afraid and shy. But this was no little boy, she knew. Quinn was a man, with a man's desires.
Was she willing to get closer to all of him—the little boy's sweetness and the man's needs? Was she willing to try with Quinn?
"I need to be careful," she whispered.
"I know you do."
"I'm a total failure at this. You saw the list."
"Think positive."
"No. Quinn, listen. I suck at relationships. I'm trying to be honest here."
He laughed softly. "Honesty is good."
She grinned at him and sighed. "OK. You've been warned. Now what about you, Stacey Quinn? You're the cautious type, aren't you?"
He reached for her hands and held them in his. Quinn wanted to look at her, so soft and beautiful, so close. He wondered why this extraordinary woman stood here with him, scared but willing. He wondered if she had any idea how his heart was cracking wide open in his chest.
"Usually I'm cautious. But with you…" He pulled on her hands. "Oh, hell, Audie. Not with you. Come here to me."
He gathered her up in his arms and she felt him cradle her, protect her, give her a place in the world to stand for a moment, a place where she seemed to fit just fine.
Audie tucked her head into his shoulder and heard the lake stop rippling and the breeze stop blowing and her own heart stop beating. There was only Quinn, and he was a heady mixture of scents—water and wind, beer and sunscreen, and Quinn himself—and his body was warm and steady and sure against hers. She let the feel of Stacey Quinn sink into her bones.
"Thank you," she whispered. "It's been a long time since someone just … hugged me."
He chuckled softly and heard himself say, "I could hug you like this till we both dry up and blow away."
She pulled back and examined his face. There was no self-satisfied look in his eye—just surprise. Apparently this was something out of the ordinary for him as well.
The destruction was complete.
"What are you doing to me, Quinn?" she breathed.
The smile started small and spread slowly but eventually engulfed his whole handsome, sunburned face. "I'm not sure, but I hope to God it's something like what you're doing to me."
He kissed her again, and this time she threw her arms around his neck with enthusiasm. Quinn hugged her so tight that her feet lifted off the deck.
* * *
From his second-story bedroom window, Drew stared down the sloping lawn to the dock, where he watched his clueless sister throw herself at Mister Chicago's Finest. He took another sip of his Tanqueray and tonic.
"Jesus Christ, Audie," he muttered, spinning the ice cubes around with the rotation of his wrist. "We sure know how to pick 'em, don't we?"
He raised his glass to his sister and her latest beau, gleaming and giggling under the boathouse lights. "Two weeks, tops," he said, throwing back the rest of his drink.
* * *
"Do you have dinner plans for next Sunday?" Quinn could barely see Audie as they continued their walk up the dock in the darkness.
"No. Why?"
"I'd like to take you someplace real special."
She shook her head slowly. "You don't need to spend your money taking me to some fancy restaurant, Quinn. I thought you were getting to know me a little. I don't even like—"
"Audie."
"What?"
"I want to take you to Beverly for Little Pat's birthday party."
"You do?"
"I do. And you might want to wear something washable."
* * *
Chapter 7
« ^ »
September 10
Dear Homey Helen:
I've been thinking. September 22 is a dreadfully long way off. Could we possibly reschedule? I've tried to be patient—you have no idea how I've tried—but my patience is wearing thin.
I just don't think I can wait another moment for you to be dead. It's not like you'll leave behind a grieving family, now, is it? Why don't we just get to it?
—Your most loyal fan
PS: I thought your column on top fifty uses for transparent tape was to die for!
Her hands started to shake, and she felt a cold flash of panic race through her bloodstream. She handed the note back to Griffin very slowly, careful not to touch any part but the edges of the paper—careful not to meet his eye as she turned toward her office door.
"Audie?" Griffin placed the letter back on the reception desk, watching her walk away. "Shit."
Marjorie was shaking her head.
"Do you think I should talk with her?"
Marjorie wiped tears off her cheek with a trembling hand and sighed. "I honestly don't know what to do at this point. Why don't you go in with her for a minute while I call those detectives, and then I'll try to talk with her, OK?"
Griffin nodded. "Are you all right, Marjorie?"
She pulled her mouth tight. "It makes me very emotional. I see these notes and Audie's sadness and everything that happened with Helen comes back to me like it was yesterday. I get so damn angry, Griffin! I feel so—God, I don't know—helpless, I suppose."
"I hear you," Griffin said softly. He patted the top of her hand and headed into Audie's office. He heard Marjorie sigh and pick up the phone.
Audie was sitting on top of the credenza near the window, surrounded by tall stacks of newspapers and file folders, hugging her legs tight and resting her chin on her knees. Griffin closed the door and leaned on the wall.
"Hey, girl. Is there anything I can do?"
She shook her head. "Just call Quinn and Stanny-O."
"Marjorie is doing that now. Anything else?"
"No."
"Do you want to be alone?"
"No."
"Would you like a hug?"
"No. But thanks."
Griffin sighed. This was an all-too-familiar state for him—not knowing exactly what Autumn Adams wanted or needed. It had always been this way with them, as a couple and as friends. When she pulled away like this he felt useless, the same as Marjorie. It was as if Audie wanted him but didn't want him; as if she needed something, but she wouldn't take anything.
She told him once that she believed she was missing some basic part of her heart—she just didn't know how to deal with people who wanted to comfort her, love her. She'd never had much experience with that sort of thing, she explained.
Griffin waited with her for many quiet minutes, watching her stare out the windows. "I'm sorry, Audie," he exhaled, letting his shoulders slump. "I wish there was something I could do to help you."
She nodded, and Griffin saw her jaw tremble and her sh
oulders shake.
"Oh, please don't cry."
The tears made his worthlessness complete. Griffin scanned the room for a box of tissues but didn't see one, though it could certainly be lurking beneath the layers of junk in there.
Just then, Marjorie tapped on the door and she stepped in, carrying a tray of hot tea, a box of Kleenex, and a slice of her German chocolate cake.
Griffin would just go out and wait for the detectives. Audie was obviously in competent hands.
* * *
"We should place a patrol officer here in the office and have one at her apartment when we're not around," Stanny-O said.
Quinn nodded silently, still balancing the latest letter between his fingertips, still reading, still thinking.
He glanced over at Griffin, draped across Marjorie's desk chair looking quite surly. His expression didn't go with the festive tie-dyed T-shirt and billowy cargo pants he was wearing.
The guy may have questionable taste in clothing, but Quinn and Stanny-O agreed—there was no question that Griffin cared for Audie, that he would do anything for her. Griffin Nash wasn't sending these notes.
"So, Griffin, what's your take on this?"
Griffin's head popped up, his eyes darting from Quinn to Stanny-O and back. "My take is I wish to hell you two would find out who's doing this. This one really ripped her up."
Quinn's stomach clenched, and a little painful surge moved through him at the thought that she was hurting. Then the inside of his skull began to throb at the thought that Timmy Burke may have done this to her.
He glanced at the closed door to Audie's office. He hadn't heard any crying from in there for a good long while, so maybe Marjorie had been able to calm her down.
"So? Any leads, mon?" Griffin stood up and moved in front of the desk.
Stanny-O and Quinn looked at each other briefly before Quinn answered him.
"Nothing new."
"Do you think it's Drew?"
Quinn and Stanny-O stared at him.
"You think it's her brother?" Stanny-O asked. "What's your insight into Andrew Adams?"
Griffin laughed, crossing his ankles casually as he leaned against the reception desk.
"We're not close. He didn't exactly welcome me to the family, if you know what I mean. So what I tell you, you got to realize doesn't come from an objective source, right?"
"Right." Stanny-O smiled.
"Andrew Adams is a spoiled, elitist, lazy, pussy-assed rich boy who hates anyone who doesn't belong to the Chicago Yacht Club. He drinks more than any man should be allowed. He doesn't give a shit about Audie or anyone but himself, for that matter. That about sums it up."
"Hey, don't hold back on our account." Stanny-O chuckled.
Griffin scowled at him.
"OK, so he's another asshole. We seem to have hit the motherlode in this case, don't you think, Quinn?"
"Absolutely."
"But that don't mean he's sending the letters. You really think he's our man, Griffin?"
"Probably."
Stanny-O frowned. "And his motive?"
"Money."
"As things stand right now, we've got no physical evidence on him," Quinn said. "He's lost a boatload of money in the last year, but he's managing to stay afloat. His printer doesn't match up and his prints aren't on any of the letters."
"And whose prints are?"
Quinn smiled a bit. "Well, Griffin, the letters that came before we arrived were covered in fingerprints—yours, Marjorie's, and Audie's. After we asked you to be careful handling the paper, there have been none at all."
Griffin frowned, and just then the door to Audie's office opened and Marjorie walked out, smiling, an empty plate and teacup in her hand. She gave Quinn a reassuring nod and gestured toward Griffin's office.
"Would you mind if I had a word with you, Detective? Can we use your office, Griffin?"
"Sure."
Quinn followed Marjorie, entered the office, and leaned up against the wall. He was surrounded by soccer action photographs—Griffin apparently played with the Baltimore Blast and the Chicago Fire. Above Griffin's desk was a photo of him and Audie, sitting on the stoop of an apartment building, their heads together, grinning.
Finally—Quinn had seen a picture where Audie was smiling.
"How do you think she's holding up, Detective?" Marjorie eased herself into the computer chair, smoothing down her stylish straight skirt. "It's obvious that you two have hit it off, and I thought maybe she was opening up to you a little bit. She's a difficult person to read sometimes."
Quinn nodded and studied Marjorie with appreciation. She was a slim, attractive woman with nice pale eyes and fashionably short silver hair. She moved with surprising grace for someone her age.
Though she seemed devoted to Audie, he and Stan had checked out her background just to be sure, and found nothing that would indicate a motive for sending the notes. Marjorie's business partnership with Helen Adams had made her a very wealthy woman. She'd welcomed them graciously into her elegant La Salle Street
townhouse and talked for hours about the Homey Helen column, answering all their questions and then some. Her computer equipment wasn't a match.
"I thought she was doing OK up until this morning," Quinn answered her.
"Are you with her all the time, Detective? Is somebody with her all the time?"
Quinn looked down into Marjorie's worried face and wished he had something more reassuring to tell her. He watched as Marjorie suddenly winced and brought her hand to her head.
"It'll be all right, Marjorie."
She shook her head and swallowed. "It's not … I'm sorry. I've got a horrible headache, and this has been a completely awful morning. You were saying?"
"We're going to post a uniformed officer here and one at her place when Detective Oleskiewicz or myself can't be with her. We'll keep her safe."
She nodded but continued to frown, apparently not satisfied with his answer. Then she sighed.
"I think she likes you quite a bit, Detective." She looked up at him quizzically. "Is the sentiment returned?"
"Are you always this nosy, Marjorie?"
She laughed. "Oh, well, yes, I suppose I am! Television is repulsive and I can only read so many hours before my eyes start to go haywire, so I have to find my jollies somewhere, don't I?"
They shared a brief laugh before her expression went serious again.
"I don't mean to pry, Detective, but has she told you about that Tim Burke, the vice mayor?"
Quinn's whole body stiffened and he felt the little hairs on the back of his neck prick up. "What about him?"
"That he's always bothering her. That he sends her flowers about once a week. That it's been more than a year since they broke up, but the man won't leave her alone."
Quinn stared at her, thinking through all the details—he'd get a search warrant. He'd confiscate Burke's home and work computer equipment. He'd—
"And Audie just told me he showed up the other night at her apartment. Uninvited, of course."
He'd kill him. The lying sack of shit—of course Audie wasn't "coming around." How could he have wondered for a moment that it was possible?
"Thank you, Marjorie. I'll talk to Audie about this."
"I was wondering what we should do about her road trip next week. Should we cancel, do you think? Russell will probably go postal on me if I suggest it, but I just don't know if going out of town is a good idea right now."
"Where's she supposed to be?"
"Los Angeles Tuesday through Thursday. Dallas Friday. Atlanta Saturday and Sunday."
"Would she be going alone?"
"Yes."
"Is it possible to cancel?"
"Oh, certainly."
"Then that sounds like a wise thing to do."
Marjorie sighed and stood, still rubbing her forehead. "Then I'll try to handle Russell." She smiled at Quinn bravely on the way out the door, but Quinn could see the discomfort in her eyes. "Maybe it's time I ask for that ra
ise."
When Quinn stepped into the reception area, Audie was there, waiting for him. Her eyes were red and her face looked a bit puffy and all he wanted to do was cradle her in his arms, tell her everything would be all right, that he was right there and he'd keep her safe.
Instead he smiled at her and felt the relief wash through him when she tried to smile back.
"Got any plans for today, Miss Adams?"
She shook her head, her eyes so big and sad and beautiful.
"What do you say to lunch and maybe a nice long run? We haven't seen the lions in a while."
As he watched the edges of those lovely lips curl up in delight, Quinn thought again how much he wanted to hold her—but this time he also thought about crushing her with his mouth, covering her body with his, being inside her, protecting her from all the Timmy Burkes of the world, even if it were the last thing he ever did.
"That sounds absolutely perfect, Detective," she said.
And for a second, Quinn wondered what she'd just agreed to.
* * *
They had a long, exhausting run, and on the way back to the apartment they stopped at the grocery, and Audie was certain it was the first time she'd ever been positively giddy in the Dominick's produce section.
And now the man who made her that way was cooking for her, his hair still damp from the shower, his lean, muscled arms and hands chopping and slicing and mixing and stirring.
Audie remembered how she'd taken one home economics class in high school and the teacher had compared cooking to chemistry—the careful mixture of elements to achieve a predictable result, time after time.
Chemistry hadn't been her calling either, as she recalled, and so it made sense that her home ec projects boiled over, congealed, or exploded at random.
Helen had been very disappointed.
But right now, Quinn was showing her how to adjust the gas flame so that the onions would sauté clear, not brown, and she was actually interested—interested in standing close to him and hearing his voice, in breathing in his scent, in feeling him near her.
"Are you listening, Homey? I'll be testing you on this later."
KNOCK ME OFF MY FEET Page 12