Unraveled

by Allie Hawkins

  Quinn laughed. “And look how that went.”

  “Well, Julia and Brittany are with someone who makes them happy now, and you’ve avoided my question about Bob Matthews.”

  Quinn jutted her jaw. Her glare yelled, Don’t mess with me, bud. Instead of falling off his high horse, he returned a smile so sexy she felt her toes curl.

  “Bob and I have known each other since grade school.” Each word crackled like icicles breaking. “He’s like a member of our family. He moved here and—” Her chin came up another inch. “And I can’t believe you sucked me into this conversation.”

  “Naked curiosity. And speaking of naked—”

  “Do not even go there.” She stomped toward the kitchen.

  “I hate that phrase.”

  She turned in the doorway. “Because you hear it a lot?”

  “Believe it or not, I had a devious, underhanded reason for starting this conversation. Giving or receiving insults is not the reason.” He wiggled fingers on both hands at her, then at his chest. “This is where you say, ‘So what was your reason, Pierce?’”

  A gun to the head couldn’t have moved Quinn to repeat this question. How, on the other hand, to deal with it? Four options flashed in her head.

  Kill him.

  Protest exhaustion.

  Hear him out.

  Laugh it off.

  Her ankle ached and the dishes felt like led ingots so she pitched her voice waspish. “Better not tick me off. I’m on estrogen overload, running out of places to hide the bodies.”

  He exhaled. “For the record. Brittany and I never pretended we loved each other. We made no promises—and we broke no hearts.”

  When Quinn thought she could speak without her voice cracking, she opened her mouth and the phone rang.

  “Let voice mail pick it up,” Pierce said in his CEO-voice. “If it’s Michael, you can call him right back.”

  Torn by her fantasy of setting him straight and her habit of caring for her brother, she wanted to take thirty seconds to explain why she wanted a man she could trust. But the phone rang again. She raced for it, ignoring the hot needles stabbing her ankle, and didn’t look back.

  ****

  For two cents, he’d rip the damn phone out of the jack.

  Temptation beckoned, but Pierce carefully turned and inhaled. Miraculously, his head didn’t explode. The scene in front of him, on the other hand, wiped out any vague idea of calling the Fairway police about their attack.

  Thinning snow drifted downward—with open space between the flakes. Light from the crescent moon spiraled through the crack, lighting the backyard with the diamond brilliance of high noon. Two deer, heads touching, tails wagging, munched on a snow-covered juniper bush.

  “Quinn! Come here. Quick,” Pierce whispered, looking over his shoulder

  The room spun, and he clamped his mouth shut and turned his head back to the scene like an old man. She was on the phone. Busy with her real life. He could rage or he could figure out how to become a part of that life or he could go back to getting through each day kicking his ass for his stupidity.

  The smaller deer continued eating, but the larger one lifted her head. She flicked her ears and seemed to gaze right at Pierce—on alert for any sudden movements. Her watchfulness reminded him of Quinn’s super-vigilance for Michael—a guy who wasn’t on Pierce’s Favorite-Hundred-Thousand-People List. The doe continued staring toward Pierce as she ambled closer to her companion.

  Obviously a pair—like Quinn and Michael.

  The doe arched her neck, giving some kind of silent signal. The pair glided past the window and into the bushes as silently as ghosts. Pierce stayed absolutely still and thought about his next move. Quinn needed to take care of Michael. She didn’t need any grief. So, he’d can the wise-cracks, swallow his opinions and morph into Mr. Supportive if it killed him.

  Luckily, she returned before he broke his arm patting himself on the back for his newly discovered maturity.

  “Can I help?” He held out his hand and shuffled toward her.

  She met him halfway. Her fingers laced with his. Lord, she was fine boned.

  “It was Rex.”

  “Ahhh.” Pierce’s guts rolled, but the frown between Quinn’s eyebrows reminded him he aspired to maturity.

  “He’s going to St. Louis tomorrow, talking to Michael face-to-face. He wanted to be sure I hadn’t set up any job interviews yet.”

  “Two days before Thanksgiving?” Pierce couldn’t believe the weasel’s nerve.

  “Why not? I don’t have much time before the rumor mill starts up.”

  “It won’t start up on my patch.”

  “I hope not.” Her voice caught.

  Pierce held his ground. “Trust me.”

  Her bleak eyes held his, but there was a tiny quirk at the corners of her mouth. “I hate to break it to you, Pierce. But...you’re not God.”

  His jaw dropped. He slapped his chest in mock disbelief. “You’re sure ?”

  The cost to his pride was worth the half-smile she flashed him. She said, “I should go to bed.” Something in her tone nixed all double entendres. “I may go with Rex tomorrow.”

  “I see.”

  “I can set up appointments while he drives.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” For disaster, but Pierce still longed for maturity.

  “If I go, there is one problem.” She let go of his hand and withdrew a step.

  With the tom-toms in his head pounding double-time, Pierce couldn’t duck—even if he’d seen what came next.

  “I won’t be back in time to give you your check.”

  ****

  Sleep eluded Quinn like a cat burglar.

  Counting sheep set her teeth on edge.

  Reading required too much concentration.

  Watching the light snow revved up her pulse.

  Pokes and punches to her pillow zapped her but didn’t bring sleep.

  A second shower—cold—at midnight, cooled the heat rising off her but also woke up all her little gray cells. Snowflakes gliding down her windowpane slowed her pulse as she applied Band-Aids to her jewel-like bruises.

  Every moan and creak—in the rafters, on the stairs, in the hall—raised visions of Pierce stealing into her room, ripping off her nightgown, smothering her with kisses. Eyes wide open, she held her breath, shivered in anticipation and waited. And waited. And waited.

  Pale moonlight bounced off her door handle—which turned slowly. A sixteenth of an inch. Then another sixteenth. The air in her bedroom became so quiet she could hear atoms bump into each other. The down comforter felt as if it was lined with asbestos and aggravated her numerous abrasions. Her nerves screamed.

  Here he comes. Here he comes. Here. He. Comes. Her stampeding heart all but lifted her out of bed. She knew he couldn’t hold out. She tiptoed toward the door, unsteady on her swollen ankle. A cold draft snaked across her feet, up her knees, higher.

  Oh, hell. She’d crawled into bed without underwear.

  What an oversight.

  A memory-flash dragged her into the past—the first time she and Pierce made love. She’d lit a match to their mutual desire and worn white cutoffs. Shamelessly, without panties.

  The microscopic turn of the door handle yanked her back from the past. She pressed a hot cheek against the frame. Disbelieving her ears, she pressed harder. With the same results.

  Nothing.

  No heavy breathing.

  No heartbeat except her own.

  The day’s events—confronting Dim Bulb, arguing with Michael, meeting Rex, facing off with Pierce, coming under attack on the golf course, twisting her ankle, nursing Pierce—swept over Quinn like a tsunami. Wiped out, she climbed back in bed, pulled the covers over her head and curled into a ball.

  Pierce was not Rhett Butler. Pierce had received a head injury that would fell an ox. Pierce undoubtedly slept like a baby.

  While he slept, she’d lost her mind.

  ****

  The strong, enti
cing smell of mocha amaretto at 5:45 penetrated Quinn’s sleep-deprived brain. Her nose twitched. She opened one eye and stuck her head out from under the covers. Total darkness filled the sky. Pierce should be sleeping, knocked out by the rock to his head.

  Groaning, Quinn fell back on the pillows. The early bird shouldn’t get the worm. The early bird should get shot.

  The squeak of the fifth step brought her bolt upright in bed. Her mouth went dry. She licked her lips and ran a hand through her hair, imagining the ends wild with static electricity, her face battered as a prizefighter’s. She must look like a zombie.

  A soft tap on her door. “Room service.”

  Her heart dropped like a rock into her quivering belly. “I’m not dressed.”

  “Your point being?”

  She was going to kill him. “Go away.”

  “Sure you don’t need a backrub in the shower?”

  “Sure you don’t need a brain transplant?”

  He laughed. “Oh, you sweet talker.”

  The fifth step squeaked under his weight, but Quinn counted to a hundred, then limped out of bed and listened at the door.

  Was her life caught in some kind of perpetual soap-opera loop?

  Impossible to contemplate such spiritual matters so early. She jerked open the door and snatched up the tray. The aromas of coffee, strawberry jam and butter on the English muffin made her mouth water. She pushed the door shut with her toe and managed to carry the tray to her bed. Still standing, she knocked back a full cup of coffee, then dialed the bedside phone.

  Too bad for Rex if he’d planned on sleeping in.

  Voice mail came on after the first ring. Maybe he was in the shower. Unless he’d already gone to St. Louis.

  Without calling her?

  Had Michael nixed the idea of her going?

  Her pulse stuttered. She inhaled, exhaled, inhaled again and hung up. Simply thinking about Michael talking to Rex infuriated her. Was her brother losing it? Was he really afraid Baby Quinn would be born with a port wine stain? Quinn shivered. Needing light to think clearly, she switched on the lamp and massaged the goose bumps hopscotching on her arms.

  Dammit, Michael should be talking to her. To her, not to Rex. She redialed, left a terse message, drained her coffee cup and swept half a dozen Band-Aids out of her bed. She pulled the bottom sheet snug as the cover on a trampoline. The Band-Aids symbolized a terrible, horrible, very bad day that caught her off guard.

  Today, bring it on. She switched on the closet light, pulled out a hanger and stroked the front of the high-powered raspberry-colored pantsuit she saved for tough days.

  Chapter 7

  Pierce met Quinn at the foot of the stairs and came close to biting through his tongue.

  “Not a word about how I look.” She held the tray in front of her like a damn shield.

  “Not even that I can’t see the bruises?” he lied.

  “Not another word or I’ll describe how you look. In vivid detail.” She held the tray high, pushing past him, calling over her shoulder, “Where’s your bandage?”

  “Came off in the middle of the night. I thought about coming upstairs and asking you to replace it, but—”

  Raspberry splotches, bright as her pantsuit, covered her neck.

  “But,” he continued, staying far enough behind her that her icy stare didn’t freeze his balls, “but my head felt so good I tossed the bandage in the trash.”

  She whipped around and the china rattled. “You may have a concussion, dammit!”

  “I don’t. Not Mr. Cement Head.” God save him, if she guessed he’d actually tiptoed up the stairs like a moron. Why the hell he hadn’t knocked on her door escaped him. That must’ve been one helluva head blow, but he intended to make up for his stupidity.

  Until the time was right, he’d keep his distance.

  “Mister, not doctor,” she said—reminding him of his shortcomings with a touch of scorn.

  “Point taken.” He lounged against the doorjamb while she rinsed dishes and loaded the dishwasher. “I know going to work this early drives you crazy—”

  Smooth opening, Pierce.

  “Half the people in the U.S. suffer from sleep deprivation,” she shot back. “Scientists think lack of sleep actually shrinks the brain, weakens short-term memory.”

  “No kidding?”

  God knew, he didn’t clearly remember why he’d started down this path to hell. Maybe he needed that bandage after all.

  The phone interrupted his mental lapse. Mr. Helpful, he asked, “Want me to get it?”

  Tell the creep to soak his head?

  Water sluiced down Quinn’s wrists. She grabbed the phone. Pierce poured himself another cup of coffee and sat down to eavesdrop. The first words out of Quinn’s mouth made him want to shake her.

  “I intended to go with you.” A frown knit her brows together. “I don’t care what time he called, you should’ve called me.” She stared right through Pierce. “I was awake all night.”

  Quack, quack. Quack, quack. Pierce mentally whacked himself upside the head. God, he was dumb as a duck. The coffee tasted bitter and did nothing for his black mood. The conversation with Rex didn’t seem to improve Quinn’s mood much, either.

  “I’m not shooting the messenger, Rex.” Icicles tinkled.

  She tapped her foot fast enough to lift off into space, listened longer than Pierce expected, then spit out shards of ice faster than Uzis spit out bullets. “I know Michael’s upset. But not so upset he can’t talk to you. Please tell him I expect a call from him later today.”

  Yessss. Pierce quickly got the smile twitching his mouth under control, glad he wasn’t on the receiving end of her tongue, but disappointed the weasel got off easy.

  ****

  Talking with Rex before seven in the morning had vaporized the part of Quinn’s brain that managed speaking in complete sentences.

  She also had hand-eye coordination problems putting her arms through the sleeves of the coat Pierce held for her. Accepting his small courtesy made arguing with him seem petty so she agreed to stop by his house before going to the office. Ostensibly, he needed clean clothes.

  “And going to my place, you’ll get to see my new house.”

  “I didn’t know you had a new house.”

  “All the more reason to go along for the ride.”

  “You should just drop me off at the office, then go to a doctor.”

  “Showing you my house is better medicine.”

  Fatigue checked Quinn’s impulse to snort. She yawned, instead, and rubbed her eyes. She should call Triple A about her car, but an image of Pierce eavesdropping clobbered the idea. She’d call from the office. How long could a stop at his place take?

  The street workers must’ve spent all night cleaning the streets, she realized, huddling against the car door. Please, please, please, let Pierce shut up.

  Which he did. Until he started swearing, then stopped so fast she jerked awake. Even in her dazed, half-comatose state, Quinn recognized the KCPD squad car parked in front of ornate iron gates. Damn, she should’ve realized he’d report last night’s attack to the police.

  “Where are we?” She felt dull, more asleep than awake in the white world surrounding them.

  “My house.” Pierce rolled down his window as a young policeman with a neat, dark moustache approached the Corvette. “I’m Pierce Jordan. This is my house. What’s wrong?”

  “Sir, your housekeeper called us at six fifteen and reported a break-in.” The policeman leaned into Pierce’s car. “We responded immediately. Found blood all over the family room.”

  “Blood?” Quinn squeaked, like a bird waking up in the dark.

  “Is Mrs. Taylor okay?” Pierce demanded.

  “She’s scared. We took her to the Greens’.” Verified by checking a three by five notebook. “Says she tried calling you after she notified us.”

  Quinn thought the cop’s blue eyes were harder than they should be for someone so young. His eyes said he understo
od—Pierce and Quinn coming home after a night of partying, not interested in picking up voice mail after such a fun time.

  Apparently, he didn’t see the gash in Pierce’s head. Or remember the snowstorm.

  “Mrs. Taylor tried your cell twice.” Officer Blue Eyes leaned in—up close and personal.

  Checking if we’re drunk. Or maybe he thinks we’re high. Stunned, Quinn listened to Blue Eyes finish his spiel about their unavailability.

  Pierce, his hands loose on the wheel, his body relaxed, must have seemed cool and collected under the circumstances. He returned the officer’s gaze without blinking. This equated to an unspoken challenge in Quinn’s opinion.

  The young cop shifted his weight, pulled up his gun belt, patted his sides and leaned deeper into Pierce’s space. “Mrs. Taylor said she didn’t get an answer at work either.”

  “That’s right.” Pierce held the cop’s gaze. “But, as you can see, I’m right here.”

  The knot in Quinn’s stomach contracted, and she wanted to smack Pierce on the nose like a naughty puppy. Why show courtesy when he showed contempt so well?

  “If you’d move your car a few feet,” he said in a tone that made Quinn cringe, “I can park in my driveway.”

  Once Blue Eyes was out of earshot, her stomach flip-flopped. “He’s just doing his job.”

  “He could take some lessons.”

  Adrenaline pumped into Quinn, bringing her wide awake, but she bit her tongue. The crack of Pierce’s clenched jaw sliced through her raw nerves. Though not as deeply as the thought of blood in his family room. Her mind veered away. They parked in the middle of a snow-cleared circular, brick driveway in front of six white marble steps.

  “You’d better come in,” Pierce said.

  Quinn pulled her coat collar higher and followed him up the clean, dry steps. A gust of cold wind slammed into her back, taking her breath away. The wind ruffled his hair, revealing the gash and triggering Officer Blue Eyes’ bombshell. Blood...all over the family room...

  She blinked rapidly, opened her mouth to announce she’d wait in the car, but Pierce said, “I figured you wanted to forget calling the cops about The Snowman, but here I have half the KCPD department in my house. I’m sorry about this, Quinn.”