A Stranger's Touch

by Tori Carrington

  A few minutes later, her heart pounding in her chest and acutely aware of her panty-less state, Dulcy was climbing behind the wheel of her Lexus in the garage. She inserted the key into the ignition and rested her forehead against the steering wheel.

  She wasn’t made for this kind of clandestine existence. It just wasn’t in her bones to do what she had done in that bathroom with Quinn. Not to mention what had passed between them Friday night. Well, okay, maybe it was in her bones. But the deceptive part that went along with it certainly wasn’t. She’d learned over the course of her career that to some, lying came as naturally as breathing. To her, telling a telemarketer that she was in the middle of dinner so she could end the call, though she’d already eaten, made her uneasy.

  Then again, maybe the trait wasn’t something someone was born with, but was a learned behavior. When they were young, Jena had never been much good at hiding stuff from her and Marie. And look at her now. Not only was she the queen of deception, but she could spot it in others at ten paces. Currently, her success rate hovered between eighty and eighty-five percent. And those were only the cases of personal perjury they could prove.

  She grimaced and lifted her forehead from the hot leather of the steering wheel to glance in the rearview mirror at her reflection. Oh, great. Now she had steering wheel head.

  She started the car. Forget all that. She could sit here all day worrying about creases in her forehead and berating herself for her naughty behavior as of late. But it was Brad who needed her attention now. She tried to ignore the voice that said if she had been giving her attention to Brad all along, she wouldn’t even be in the trouble she now was. And he probably wouldn’t, either.

  From what she understood, Barry had given Beatrix twenty-four hours to circle the wagons, so to speak, and protect the Wheeler name, and then they were calling in the police. But where did that leave Brad? None of this made any sense. If there was even a remote chance—and given that peculiar ransom note, she thought the chance was more than remote—that Brad was in trouble, had been kidnapped, why would Beatrix not want to call in the police immediately?

  She ineffectually rubbed at the crease. Was it possible that Brad had taken off on his own? She remembered Quinn saying that at this point anything was possible. She shivered and drove the car out of the lot into the bright midday sunlight.

  Depending on which point you entered or left Albuquerque, the city was an anomaly compared to some of the plains that surrounded the Sandia Mountains. Green, cloud-laced mountains that jutted out from the arid earth seeming to mock the nearby desert. Dulcy had spent her entire life there, even choosing to attend the University of New Mexico, rather then trekking east and doing the Ivy League bit. The view of the city itself never failed to awe and inspire her. She’d never longed to live anywhere but here. She’d been to L.A., New York, Chicago and Dallas, but, for her, this was where it was at. Aside from the fact that it’s where her family and friends lived, it was the most magical place on earth.

  Brad’s condo was in the newer section of town where construction seemed to be at an all-time high. Dulcy forced herself to drive carefully, resisting the urge to slam the gas pedal to the floor. She had some idea of what Brad did when he wasn’t with her, but she would be hard-pressed to come up with a blow-by-blow itinerary. There was the local country club, the health club, the restaurants they’d gone to together, his office at Wheeler Industries. She tightened her fingers on the steering wheel, just now finding it odd that they led such completely separate lives. They met for dinner three nights out of seven, attended social functions together, played some tennis at the club. But otherwise she lived her life, he his. Even their conversations seemed to focus on other people rather than on themselves.

  Was that normal? She flicked on the blinker to turn right at the next light. She didn’t know. What, exactly, was normal nowadays? The way her parents lived? Her father going off to work at the same time every morning and returning home at the same time every night, sitting down to dinner at six, exchanging vague conversation, then parting again afterward, her father to disappear into his study to read the latest political biography, her mother to nest in the kitchen, scrubbing at a spot on the ceramic tile that only she could see?

  Dulcy squinted at the street signs. All her life she’d never questioned the health of her parents’ marriage. That she was doing it now, so close to her own wedding and with everything else going on around her, unnerved her.

  She knew the history of her family name, knew the Ferrises had been instrumental in settling Albuquerque. She could also remember a time when the gigantic tribute to European architecture that she’d grown up in had been a true showpiece inside and out, rather than just kept up for appearances’ sake. She’d been five when her parents had quietly sold off the majority of their furniture and closed off most of the twenty-five rooms, leaving open only the study, the salon, the kitchen and their two bedrooms upstairs. The exterior and the salon were well maintained so that sometimes even she forgot what really existed behind the shiny red painted door and simple but manicured lawn.

  She wasn’t all that clear on the dynamics behind her parents’ actions. Something about her uncle having sold the family business out from under her father, leaving him with nothing but a load of debt. But by then Dulcy had met Jena and Marie and started not to miss the swimming pool that had been filled in, or Benita, the saucy Latina housekeeper they’d had. And it didn’t matter to her that she had to go to her friends’ houses and wasn’t allowed to invite them over for more than an occasional cookie set out in the stuffy salon, her mother virtually standing guard in the hall should anyone catch the wandering bug.

  But while she had adjusted and achieved success in her life, moved on beyond the facade, she suspected her parents still lived like everything had happened yesterday, and were still secretly trying to find a way out of the reality that was their lives. Her mother, especially, was a pro at self-delusion. She’d never worked. Still volunteered and arranged fund-raisers as though she hadn’t a financial care in the world, and acted like it was her duty to feed the under-privileged, never giving away that at times she’d been a member of that group. For Catherine Ferris, appearances meant everything. And Dulcy knew that while the outside world saw her in her old designer clothes that were kept in airtight bags, her daughter hardly saw her in anything but faded, flowered housecoats with frayed hems and crooked collars.

  Her father, on the other hand, merely looked faded and frayed. If he cared about his wife’s activities, he didn’t show it, and certainly didn’t show an interest in participating in them. He went to work every day, performing his mediocre-paying middle management job with no complaint, then came home and vegged in the study, his book propped up on his chest.

  Separate lives.

  Dulcy turned into the exclusive gated neighborhood where Brad lived, then flashed her identification to the attendant. Sure, she’d been there on a few occasions, but not often enough to remember exactly where the town house was located. They all looked the same. Generic. Well appointed. All with the same green lawn and flower beds. And since Brad had always been the one to drive them there, well, she hadn’t paid close attention. She wondered what that, if anything, said about her relationship with Brad.

  Oh, stop it, she ordered herself. Everything had been fine four days ago. Everything was fine now. Nothing had to change. Maybe Brad was just sick. She sat up straighter and pulled into the driveway for what she hoped was the right town house. Yes, that’s it. Perhaps Brad had caught that nasty strain of flu virus making the rounds and was in bed trying to fight it off. He’d wanted to call the office, and her, but he’d left the cordless in the living area and didn’t have the energy to reach it.

  She switched the car off, amazed by her own ability to delude herself. Was it an inherited skill? She didn’t know. But somehow she thought her mother would be proud.

  She got out of the car and slammed the door harder than she had intended. Or maybe she had in
tended to slam it, if only to jolt herself from her ridiculous thoughts. She’d never been one to succumb to delusions. If Brad was in trouble, she was going to find him. An image of Quinn slid sexily through her mind. She took a deep breath. First, she’d find Brad. The rest…well, she’d deal with that when the time came.

  The town house was part colonial and part southwestern. A boxy, two-story structure with white exterior, slatted wood shutters and tile roof, it wasn’t all that attractive. Blooming red flowers spilled over copper pots on either side of the brown painted door.

  Basically the place was what Brad referred to as his city, or in-between, pad. Up until a few months ago he’d still lived with his mother in the palatial house just outside town. He still called the Wheeler estate home. That’s where his cars and the bulk of his wardrobe were kept. Unfortunately, it’s also where his mother lived. Which wouldn’t have been so bad in and of itself, except that Brad had talked about the two of them moving to the estate after they married. A prospect that gave her the willies. She’d instead offered up an alternative: buying their own place closer to town. Anything he wanted. Anything that didn’t include a room for Beatrix Wheeler.

  The sprinkler system switched on, nearly drenching her as she hurried up the stone sidewalk toward the door.

  For several moments, Dulcy stood staring blankly at the glistening brown paint. What should she do? She felt she should be doing something, but couldn’t quite think what. She finally decided she should ring the bell. If Brad was inside and suffering from some sort of antisocial bug or virus, she didn’t want to barge in on him. She pressed the button, and the booming strains of “Beethoven’s Fifth” echoed through the house. No answer. She released the breath she was holding and scanned the front. Sparkling windows with white shears and heavy, brocade curtains prevented her from seeing inside. Her gaze caught on the simple black mailbox. The lid was closed on top of a regular-size white envelope. Looking first one way down the street, then the other, she slid the envelope out, then opened the box and took out the rest of the mail. She leafed through the six envelopes. Everything was postmarked Saturday, which meant he either hadn’t received any mail today, or the mailman was running late.

  She looked up, startled, when she found a woman with what appeared to be gray wool for hair and steely eyes staring at her from a window next door. Dulcy forced a smile and waggled her fingers. The curtains closed and the woman disappeared from sight. What was it with nosy neighbors? Did everyone have them? She could only hope the old woman wasn’t this minute calling security, or worse, the police. Dulcy sighed and felt for the key she’d put in her pocket. It fit easily into the lock, and within moments she was inside and had closed the door behind her, blinking to adjust her eyesight.

  Funny, she didn’t remember the place being so dark. She flicked the switch to her right, and the overhead chandelier burst to life, nearly blinding her. She switched it off, deciding she’d rather wait for her eyesight to adjust. She put the mail down on the hall table and stepped to the open doorway to the right, where the living area lay. Empty but for the dark leather furniture and heavy wood tables. Her heels clicked as she walked down the tiled hall. The kitchen, dining room and office were also empty and very, very quiet.

  She started to turn from Brad’s home office, then hesitated, looking back toward the heavy mahogany desk. Done in dark greens and darkly stained woods, the room was murky and forbidding. The clock ticking on the mantel didn’t help matters, either. The setting could have been snipped from an old Agatha Christie novel. But no bloodstained letter opener was on the desktop. Instead, the gleaming surface was clean, the answering machine minus any blinking lights or waiting message numbers. That’s funny—

  A muffled sound from upstairs.

  Dulcy slapped her hand to her heart and stared at the ceiling. Brad didn’t believe in pets so he didn’t own any. That left only one other thing that could have made the noise. A person.

  Brad?

  She swallowed hard. She certainly hoped so. She strained her ears, trying to make out any other sounds. Nothing but silence greeted her.

  Walking on tiptoe to avoid making too much noise on the polished tile, she backtracked to the foyer, craning her neck to see up the staircase to the hall above. It appeared as dark up there as the downstairs. No pools of sunlight flooding from an open bedroom door. Her palms clammy, she slowly ascended the steps. Could it be that Brad really was sick? She’d had headaches where even the slightest ray of light seemed to stab through her skull. That would explain the closed curtains, the darkness of the place.

  She reached the second-floor landing and nearly tripped over something. She reached down. A book. David Copperfield to be precise. She looked up to where a couple of other books were teetering on the edge of the hall bureau. The source of the sound she’d heard from downstairs? She turned the book over. Seemed probable. She put the book on top of the others, then pushed them back from the edge.

  She’d been upstairs only once. The day Brad had given her a tour of the place, then presented her with the key. To the left were two guest bedrooms and a bath. To the right, the master suite.

  She remembered that the most. Not because of how large it was or how well appointed. But because Brad had shown it as if it was of less importance than his home office, but slightly more important than the living room. She had lingered a little longer, thinking that it was the room where they would be sharing every night together.

  Now, the dark wood door stood slightly ajar. Trying to peek inside, she quietly pushed the door. She supposed she should be thankful there wasn’t a squeak. Then again, why should there be? All these places had been built a little less than two years ago. There was nothing in any of them that would need oil yet.

  She squinted, finding the room darker than the others. From her earlier inspection, she knew that heavy stamped brown woven curtains stretched the length of the front wall, a variation of the fabric across the bed. The rug was a rich, thick burgundy, the king-size four-poster bed imposing. She crossed to that bed now, curving her fingers around the foot post and staring down at the dark bed coverings. No Brad. Only tousled sheets and dented pillows. She stepped along the side, wrinkling her nose at an almost flowery scent.

  “Fancy meeting you here.”

  Dulcy nearly fainted dead away.

  QUINN FLICKED A SWITCH. The brass bedside lamps filled the room with a warm, yellow glow. He crossed his arms and watched where Dulcy had nearly fallen flat on her bottom. She stumbled backward, her expression confused and frightened. Her gaze fastened onto his face and that expression quickly changed. Her tongue dipped out to lick the side of her mouth. Quinn found himself wondering if she was still without panties. She wore the suit she’d had on earlier, so he’d chance a guess and say she was. He rubbed the back of his neck. Thinking such thoughts wasn’t a good idea considering they stood on either side of a very big, very welcoming bed that was just the right size to use as a playground for all the naughty things he had in mind.

  If only that playground didn’t belong to her missing fiancé.

  “What…what are you doing here?” Dulcy asked, straightening her suit jacket and tugging at her skirt though neither piece of clothing needed adjusting. Quinn, however, had some body parts that would sorely appreciate the attention.

  “My best friend’s missing, his mulish mother doesn’t want to call the cops and his fiancée has no idea where he is. Where else would you suggest I start looking?”

  Dulcy’s eyes widened and she looked around the room. “Where’s Beatrix?” Her voice lowered to a stage whisper. “She’s not here, is she?”

  Quinn felt the corners of his mouth turn up. “No. She’s not.”

  Dulcy looked altogether panicked…and oh so sexy. Her gaze dropped to the bed and she frowned.

  “Someone had to stay behind at the office in case the kidnapper calls,” he pointed out.

  She reached out and touched a pillow, then lifted her hand to her nose. “Do you really t
hink there is a kidnapper?” Her voice sounded overly thoughtful, as if her mind were a thousand miles away.

  Quinn shrugged and walked to the far corner of the room. He figured it was the safest place to be. Dulcy standing next to that bed was growing all too inviting. “I don’t know.” He opened the drawers to a tallboy. “But we want to make sure all the bases are covered if there is. Beatrix has already been in contact with her accountant to secure the money.”

  Dulcy’s brows rose. “One million dollars?”

  “That’s the amount on the note.”

  She nodded slowly, seeming preoccupied with the bed. Quinn got the impression it was not for the same reason he was preoccupied with it. She reached out and fluffed, then straightened the comforter, the action looking suddenly domestic. Quinn turned his back to her and groaned. Of course it was domestic. How many nights had she spent in that bed with Brad? His best friend? His missing best friend?

  “So tell me, Dulcy, how is it we hadn’t met until…now.”

  Her head snapped up to meet his gaze. She let go of the bedspread, then rubbed her palms on her skirt as if ridding them of something she would have preferred not to touch. That was odd.

  “I don’t know, really. I mean, Brad talked about you and all, but he said that you lived outside of town and only came in every now and again.”

  He nodded.

  A shadow of a smile. “He also said that he wanted to wait until right before we were married to introduce me to you. Said you had this, um, way with women he couldn’t compete with.”

  Quinn grimaced. Way with women? Brad had never had a problem with women.

  She pointedly looked away and cleared her throat. “He, um, said you were one of those tall, dark and handsome loners that women loved to try to domesticate.”

  “Makes me sound like an animal.”

  Her pupils widened, nearly taking over the hazel of her eyes. “Is it so far from the truth?”