Unraveled

by Allie Hawkins

  Chapter 8

  Quinn couldn’t decide if it was disgust with Triple A or worry about Michael or frustration with Kansas City bankers or exhaustion or hunger. But she felt like a zombie.

  Her ankle throbbed and her neck hurt from pressing the phone against her ear and her fingers ached from dialing half the banks in town. Most banking execs had taken off for the holidays. Stomach growling, she made a last call before lunch. Calling a banker at noon was like E.T. calling home. Iffy at best, a waste of time at worst. When Edward Roslyn’s secretary put her through to him, Quinn stumbled for a minute before hitting her stride.

  Once she did, the bank prez didn’t stand a chance.

  Rex’s computer skills rolled off her tongue like perfect-cut diamonds. Hard-working, self-motivated, brilliant—virtues that made him sound like a candidate for sainthood.

  His reason for leaving his present job?

  Her mind didn’t miss a beat. Not enough challenge. He was bored. Money couldn’t keep this amazing employee in an environment without challenge. At this point, she held her breath—amazed her tongue didn’t stick to the roof of her mouth.

  Worries about honesty and integrity evaporated as Edward Roslyn made noises of interest. “Any reason we can’t set up an appointment with him tomorrow, Edward? I mean, the weather won’t keep you at home...”

  “That’s right. We’d call this a spring day in Kalispell.”

  Quinn waited thirty seconds after hanging up before she let out a whoop. “Afternoon snacks on me,” she yelled, then left Rex a voice mail. “Call me. Immediately.”

  ****

  Pierce heard the garage door and literally raced out of the house. Quinn had called from the foot of the hill, and he’d opened the front gate again. He’d left it open most of the morning, closing it when the police finally left at eleven-thirty. A century ago now.

  The fragrance of Mrs. Taylor’s freshly-baked bread followed him into the garage. No way he’d eat, but he knew Quinn would be famished. Normally, she ate enough for two professional full-backs. Under stress, she could eat the entire Kansas City Chiefs under the table. She eased out of the car, bright-eyed and heart-knockingly gorgeous. Wired, too, though she was trying her damnedest to cut back on the electricity she generated.

  “An early visit from Santa?” he asked, his neck muscles twanging, his tone pissy. “Or an interview all wrapped up for Rex?”

  “We don’t have to talk about it.” She tipped her head back and sniffed.

  “Garlic and cumin.”

  “Smells like perfume.” She unbuttoned her coat and her stomach rumbled.

  A signal, Pierce figured—that she was both starving and close to exploding from suppressed excitement.

  “Who is the idiot?”

  “Edward Roslyn.” One thing about Quinn. She didn’t play games.

  The door into the house hit Pierce in the ass. “Is this what you call poetic justice?”

  “Do we have to talk about it?” She turned and her coat slipped off her shoulders.

  Fury slammed into his chest, but Pierce caught the coat by the collar. “Talk about feeling like you pulled the rug out from under me? Hell, no. Let’s talk about the weather. That’s a safe subject. How long do you think the snow will last?”

  “Can’t we talk about...Fat Floyd?”

  “Sure, but the conversation won’t last long. I haven’t found him.” She looked over her shoulder as he led her past the family room. No sign of blood stains.

  “The carpet cleaners did a great job.” Belligerence rode the comment as he hung her coat in the closet. He shut the door—hard, like a spoiled little boy.

  She jumped—as if he’d caught her doing something unnatural.

  “An appointment two days before Thanksgiving...Guess I’m not the only one who can charm birds out of the trees.” He pulled a wing chair closer to the living room fire and reached for the poker. God, he’d seen too many old movies.

  Quinn ignored his stupid cliché. Apparently, she hadn’t seen the same movies. The wounded lead sitting by the fire brooding. She stayed on her feet instead of kneeling at his feet and crying her eyes out.

  Her lovely, kissable mouth twisted. “I didn’t charm Edward.”

  Pierce heard the edge and didn’t give a damn. She’d crossed a line and she could bat her baby grays at him all day, but she knew she’d crossed the damn line.

  Red splotches flashed on her cheeks. “It’s possible Edward won’t hire Rex.”

  “I’d say you can take that idea to the bank—once I talk to Edward.” Since he was holding the poker, Pierce opened the glass screen and jabbed at the logs.

  “Stop that.”

  On the defensive, he arched a brow. “Mrs. Taylor said lunch won’t be ready until one.”

  “Stop avoiding me. Stop patronizing me and stop threatening me. You’re the idiot.” The bruise under her eye stood out purple and ugly against her crimson cheeks.

  “Don’t hold back, Quinn. It’s a myth guys have feelings too.”

  Disgust flashed in her eyes. “If you’ve got such a strong case against Rex, have him arrested. Don’t attack his character behind his back. That’s not fair.”

  A neuron—or something basic—snapped in Pierce’s head like a nuclear rubber band. He slammed the glass doors. “But I suppose it is fair that you set up an interview for an embezzler with my mentor.”

  “Edward has a brain. So do you. What better place for a man you think is an embezzler than working for Edward Roslyn?”

  “It’s like giving the bank robbers the combination to the safe.”

  A heartbeat of silence, then she said, “I don’t want to fight. Can we agree to disagree?”

  A simple yes or no would’ve done nicely, but Pierce couldn’t let go that easily. “About his guilt? Or about his interview with Edward?”

  “About whether he’s a Leo or a Taurus. About whether he’s a misfit or misunderstood. About—”

  “Okay, okay.” Her rumbling stomach sounded like thunder before a summer storm. Pierce said, “I agree to disagree.”

  At that moment, Mrs. Taylor called from the hall that soup was on. He and Quinn started—like kids caught arguing by parents who had ordered them not to argue or else.

  “We’re eating in the kitchen,” he said. “Unless you—”

  “The kitchen’s fine.” Now—when it didn’t matter—she was Ms. Congeniality.

  “My gosh.” She stopped in the door and snickered. “Your refrigerator’s bigger than your entire kitchen in the bungalow.”

  A smile tugged at Pierce’s lips. “It’s Mrs. Taylor’s domain, but I still like to cook.”

  “Isn’t she eating with us?” Quinn pointed at the table set for two.

  “She’s a little upset. She and Floyd share the domain since I’m gone so much.”

  “Am I naive, thinking—since you haven’t found him—that’s good news?”

  Pierce swiveled his gaze away from her. “I wish I knew.”

  ****

  “I bet you don’t have problems with vampires in this neighborhood.” Quinn’s mouth watered as she leaned over her bowl of steaming soup.

  Pierce gave her a passable smile. “Lots of garlic in Mrs. Taylor’s herb garden.”

  In Quinn’s mind, the soup, the garden, the plate of yeasty rolls now offered three safe topics for lunch-time conversation. Rex and Fat Floyd were not safe topics. Pierce showed zero inclination to reveal any feeling except anger.

  Or, maybe she didn’t feel inclined to delve into his vulnerability—as readable as newspaper headlines on his bewildered face. Certain he’d hate her insight, she resisted pointing out he needed more than two spoonsful of the wonderful chicken soup to keep up his strength.

  Did he think she was as sensitive as a pig at a trough?

  Did he remember that tension always made her ravenous?

  If Floyd was her cat, there wouldn’t be enough room in Pierce’s wall-to-wall fridge to stock fuel to feed her. Fortified by a second help
ing of soup, she decided which safe topic to pursue and opened her mouth. Just like on the TV soaps, the phone rang.

  The bronze tones of Pierce’s face paled. He pushed his chair away from the table. “Detective Olsen...with results...blood test.”

  Quinn waited until she heard Pierce acknowledge it was the red-haired detective. Despite her stomach’s protest, she pushed away from the table, grabbed a roll and limped into the pantry.

  Pierce motioned her to stand next to him and tilted the receiver toward her.

  Detective Olsen spoke fast. “The blood in your family room was not your cat’s.”

  “Christ. You mean it was human?”

  “No, it wasn’t human.”

  “You’re sure?” Pierce swiped his sweat-beaded forehead.

  “Positive. The lab confirmed it’s chicken blood.”

  Quinn grabbed Pierce’s elbow and yelled softly, “Yesss.”

  He frowned. “So where the hell’s my cat?”

  A loud crash, followed by a blood-curdling yowl, drowned out the response.

  Pierce punched SPEAKER, shoved the phone at Quinn and sprinted toward the kitchen. Ignoring Detective Olsen’s questions, Quinn dropped the phone and dogged Pierce. In the middle of the table, tail whipping back and forth like an angry orange and white cobra, Fat Floyd disregarded the broken blue bowls on the floor. He was too busy scavenging tidbits of chicken in the broth dripping over the side.

  “FF, you devil,” Pierce yelled. “Mrs. Taylor?” His grin spread from his mouth and lit up his black eyes. He grabbed the cat, scratched him behind the ears and held him under Quinn’s nose. “Mrs. Taylor!”

  Floyd growled like a starved tiger. He struggled to jump back on the table. He dug his toes into Pierce’s side and lunged at several chicken pieces he’d missed vacuuming up.

  Quinn held out her arms. “Finish your call. I’ll corral his royalship.” She followed Pierce, petting and talking to the complaining feline.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” The housekeeper hustled into the kitchen, her eyes wide. She took one look at Floyd and cried, “Fat Boy.”

  The cat backflipped like a contortionist out of Quinn’s arms and landed at Mrs. Taylor’s feet. He bumped her ankles, and she knelt, crooning his name, promising him a treat.

  Pierce’s boyish grin reminded Quinn of a young Cary Grant. “Sorry, Detective,” he yelled like a kid discovering treasure, “but the great cat caper is now solved.”

  “Glad to hear it, Mr. Jordan.” Quinn winced at the detective’s booming voice. “Just a couple more loose ends before I hang up.”

  “Okay.” Pierce circled Quinn’s waist, hugging her, pointing at his ravenous cat.

  “I’m sure you want to know who got in your house and painted your family room with chicken blood.”

  Pierce’s arm circled Quinn’s waist, but she couldn’t repress a shiver. He asked, “Any chance the bastard got the wrong house? I maintain I don’t have a lot of enemies.”

  A long, loud sigh. “Yes, sir. I know, I know. I rarely meet anyone—normal folks like yourself, that is—who can think of someone vicious enough to vandalize their property.”

  Detective Olsen let this sink in before adding, “Have you found any valuables missing?”

  “Nothing.” Pierce stretched the phone’s cord to its limit and strained to watch his cat devour a plate of cooked chicken. “I don’t keep anything of value in the house.”

  Detective Olsen frowned. “No electronics? Smart phones? PCs? TVs?”

  “The three TVs are attached to the wall. My computer’s in my office.” Pierce patted his pockets and produced his phone. “I carry my Droid everywhere. No need for a PDA.”

  A sigh preceded the detective’s flat response. “That leaves us at a dead end. Hold on.”

  A mumble of voices buzzed in the background. Pierce grinned at Quinn. “Ever seen such a spoiled cat?”

  “No, and I’ve never seen a human so besotted, either.”

  “Moi?” Pierce laughed. “Did you hear that, Mrs. Taylor?”

  “Heard it and couldn’t agree more.” She winked at Quinn.

  Detective Olsen came back on the line. “We checked with your neighbors, by the way. None of them saw or heard anything. And none of them has reported any incidents.”

  “Not surprising, is it?”

  “No. It sorta leaves us with three ways to look at what happened. The vandalism to your house was a random act. Or it was it a mistake. Or...it was planned.”

  “I’m guessing we’ll never find out, Detective. Let me know what I can do to help.”

  When Pierce hung up, the housekeeper shooed Quinn and Pierce out of the kitchen while she cleaned up Floyd’s mess. “Five minutes until dessert,” she said.

  In the foyer, Pierce grabbed Quinn and twirled her around until she felt like a kid on a merry-go-round. His kiss added to her delirium, but didn’t vaporize the nagging in the back of her mind. She held onto his neck and said, “You didn’t mention your suspicions about Rex. This morning you told me he was your prime suspect. What changed your mind?”

  Pierce dragged a fingertip across her bottom lip. “Gut reaction’s all I have, Quinn. If he did manage to get in and pour chicken blood in the family room, I’ll live with it. In his shoes, I might even do worse.”

  ****

  “Over the river and through the woods...” Pierce chanted, fighting the urge to grab Quinn in a hug that would make her weak in the knees. Instead, he flipped on the ’Vette’s wipers.

  She stuck her head out the window. “My kind of weather.”

  “Hooky weather. Let’s do it. Play hooky.”

  She laughed and caught a mouthful of snow. “Are you insane?”

  “Nope. You nailed an interview for Rex tomorrow. I’ve found my cat. Steve and Tony think they have a lead on the security system crash yesterday.” He spoke fast, piling on every argument he could marshal. “Why not celebrate? Those kids have the right idea.”

  Three ruddy-cheeked kids, bundled up like Eskimos, trudged up the hill pulling their sleds. They waved at him and Quinn.

  “Uh-huh.” Quinn pulled her head inside, rolled up her window, and waved until the kids disappeared over the summit.

  Ruddy-cheeked herself, she shook her head, spraying Pierce with snow. “Those kids don’t have forty people coming for Thanksgiving. They don’t have a brother who’s having some kind of meltdown. They don’t have a car with a dead battery.”

  Silenced, Pierce considered saying, “No, they’ve got a life.” He tapped the brake, feeling stupid for inviting Quinn to play. Play was a four-letter word in her dictionary. “What’s wrong with your battery?”

  “Who knows? Triple A called and said it wouldn’t hold a charge. They promised to change it out today, but they’re swamped. Maybe I’ll just ski into work mañana.”

  “What about getting home tonight if they don’t get to you?”

  “I’ll put a call in for a taxi right now.” She pulled her cell phone out of her coat pocket.

  Mr.Cool said, “I can take you home.”

  “I thought you were going to play hooky.”

  “Not by myself.” Then, because he sounded so pathetic, he said, “Skiing’s fine by myself. Ditto, snorkeling. Deep-sea diving, fine. Playing hooky definitely requires a playmate.”

  “Get thee behind me, Satan. Or, I’ll breathe on you.” She stared out her window.

  He laughed. “I should’ve offered you a toothbrush. Mrs. Taylor keeps new ones in the guest room for Mom and Dad.”

  After a decade, she finally turned to face him. “How are they? Are they flying in tonight?”

  Now it was his turn to stare through the windshield like a geek. “They’re probably landing in Sydney about now. It’s Sandi’s turn to have them. She invited me, but I opted out. I’m staying home.”

  “You’re not skiing?” Quinn jammed the phone back in her pocket and pulled her gloves out at the intersection of Brush Creek and Forty-Seventh.

  “Not this
year.” Smart decision since paying out two and a half million dollars put a crimp in his play money, though Quinn didn’t need to know that.

  “What are you doing about Thanksgiving Dinner?”

  “You saw my kitchen. I’m cooking.”

  “How big a turkey?”

  “Cornish hens—though Floyd prefers turkey.” He could see where this was going.

  “You can’t celebrate Thanksgiving alone.” Quinn’s need to mold the world into a Norman Rockwell painting punched Pierce in the gut.

  “I won’t be alone. Floyd loves strutting his holiday finery.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “There’s a painting of a forty-pound wild turkey on his Thanksgiving kerchief. Mrs. Taylor will press it—”

  “You’ve gotta be kidding.” Quinn shook her head. “You, the banker born doing everything by the book. I don’t believe it.”

  A rush of heat filled his stomach. He deliberately missed taking the yellow light. Damn, it was fun catching Quinn off balance. He wiggled his eyebrows and gave her his best wolfish grin. “I’ve changed a little in the past four years.”

  “A little? I’m thinking I’m sitting next to an alien.”

  The light turned green. The driver behind them laid on his horn. Pierce shot him the bird.

  “Pierce!”

  “Quinn?” He drove through the intersection like a sane man. Mr. Impatient rode his tail.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Jerking that guy’s chain.”

  “You’re scaring me to death.”

  Good. Scared to death meant she might just forget about inviting him to her annual Thanksgiving Bash.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, “I’ve got a tire iron in the trunk.”

  “Who are you?” She grabbed the door handle as he peeled into the parking garage. He slowed immediately to 5 MPH.

  “Relax. The jerk went on.”

  “So what? What if he wrote down your license? What if uses it and finds out where you live? What if—”

  “What if the sky falls, Chicken Little?” Pierce pulled into his reserved spot, killed the engine and took her gloved hand. “I’m sorry if I scared you. Hard to believe my IQ’s higher than an eggplant’s, isn’t it?”