“Imagine them tripping down my spine a few times. They’ll feel like—”
“There you go. Being eager again.”
Ahead, blue lights flashed, police radios crackled. Three whistle-blasts stopped her at a red light. Pierce’s voice faded in the crunch of tires. She yelped and jumped sideways. Her bum ankle buckled, collapsed. Flat on her back, dazed, she groaned. A savage grinding of gears released the metallic taste of adrenaline deep in her throat. She rolled onto her side, flailed to get to her feet, put distance between her and the car she imagined fishtailing on the ice.
Her hands slipped. Her feet slid. Blood roared in her ears. She scrabbled backwards, twisting her head toward the street, toward the car she couldn’t see.
Stand up. She had to stand. Had to...get...away.
Instinct warned trying to stand promised disaster. Ice demanded crawling. Crawling offered a small hope of survival. She flopped onto her stomach. Her wrists wobbled. On the second try, they supported her weight. Her heart beat too hard. Too fast. Unable to catch her breath, she tucked her head and crabbed across the icy sidewalk. Too late, panic shocked her like electricity. The wrong way. She—
Turn around. Turn...
A blur of black rolled toward her.
Wind swallowed her scream.
The blur collided with the post supporting the stoplight.
****
“What the hell was that?” Muffled voices offered Pierce no explanation. Frustration grabbed him. “What the hell’s going on?”
No one replied and he really let loose. Forgetting he was an adult, he changed into a three-year-old in the middle of a major meltdown, yelling repeatedly, “Answer, dammit.”
A clear, distinct male voice came on the line. “Mr. Jordan, KCPD Officer Tim Rourke here. Think of the next two minutes as a character-building exercise.”
“Screw character building.” The top of Pierce’s skull retracted as bits and pieces of his brain exploded. Screw waiting. He slammed open the car door and stepped into an avalanche.
Christ, he should’ve skipped flirting. He should’ve insisted Quinn stay at the bank.
Insisted, oh right. That would’ve proved interesting.
Taunted by logic, he held onto the door and looked over the roof of the Gomobile. Lights on The Giralda’s bell tower flickered in the distance, but offered no visibility west on Forty-Eighth Street. Drivers on all sides of Pierce opened their doors and piled out.
Gridlock blocked every exit off Pennsylvania. Headlights from six patrol cars lit up the space between a crumpled Prius and an ambulance. Four EMTs carried a gurney into the wind.
God, what if Quinn needed an ambulance? Pierce swept his forearm across the ’Vett’s roof spraying snow like buckshot. Rage hammered his pulse. “What the hell’s the holdup?” the driver behind him yelled.
“A picnic in the park.” Pierce growled. Did the fool have a valid driver’s license? His cell rang and he forgot the other driver.
“Mr. Jordan? Officer Rourke letting you know Miz Alexander appears fine, but I’m requesting an EMT check her out.”
Pierce’s heart stopped. Missed two beats before he croaked, “Check her out?”
“She had a fall. A vehicle went out of control—”
“Sonuva—Was she hit?”
“The vehicle swerved at the last minute. Would you like to talk to her?”
Why would I want to talk to her? Pierce locked his jaw and spit out his reply. “I do definitely want to talk to her.”
The sound of the phone being passed grated Pierce’s nerves. It took forever before Quinn said, “I’m fine. Honestly. Snow’s a softer cushion than garage floors.”
Despite her attempt at levity, a quiver knotted in his chest. “What happened?”
Her account spilled out in short, fast fragments stripped of melodrama, devoid of images or phrases or specifics that could set him off. She might as well be reading the phone book. His breathing grew harsh, his eyes hot, his nerves taut enough to pop through his clammy skin.
“You said you couldn’t see. How sure—I mean, are sure you saw a Jeep?” Pierce’s brain felt punctured by shards of glass.
“A black Jeep. Like Tony’s. Black contrasts nicely with the white powdery stuff.”
“I called Tony right after you got out of the car. He was here on The Plaza. The cops kept traffic moving. No stopping. No waiting. I drove on—right into this zoo. I wanted Tony as backup—in case I got stuck. Or in case someone plowed into me.”
And? Quinn’s unasked question magnified the silence.
“Never heard back from him since...my phone’s crapped out twice.” Pierce pinched the bridge of his nose and worked the knot of tension growing bigger and harder between his eyes. His mind raced, sorting and resorting Quinn’s info. “Lots of black Jeeps in the metro area...” Uncertainty flattened his monotone. The words stuck in his throat. On the defensive, he swallowed and tried again. “Tony would never leave the scene of an accident.”
“Officer Rourke wants to speak with you.”
“In a minute—”
“Mr. Jordan, I need the full name and home address of the guy who owns that Jeep.”
And I want a hot bath and my fur-lined slippers. Pierce opted for silence as the better part of intelligence. Or maybe obstruction of justice.
“Officer Rourke? Hellllooo?” He dragged his thumbnail across the mouthpiece on his phone. “I’m having trouble hearing you.”
“Funny. I hear you fine.” Irritation tinged Rourke’s tone.
It occurred to Pierce he wasn’t doing Tony any good by stonewalling. Unsure why he was acting like such a dumbass, Pierce covered the mouthpiece with three fingers, held the phone at arm’s length and spoke without moving his lips. “Can you speak louder?”
“Don’t trouble yourself anymore, Mr. Jordan. Miz Alexander can give me a last name.”
The click of the DISCONNECT caught Pierce by surprise, and he called himself a few names. They failed to capture his stupidity. He drummed his fingers on the cell’s cover and jumped straight up several times—like a kangaroo on a pogo stick—trying to catch a glimpse of Quinn, though that was so stupid he thought he might be in the first stages of hypothermia.
He opened, closed, opened, closed, opened, closed the cell’s cover. Snow dusted the keypad. He snapped the cover closed for the last time. If he called her, Rourke would know for certain Pierce was pulling his chain. Riiiight.
A swift, vicious kick to the Gomobile’s back wheel reinforced the certainty he needed another outlet for his stupidity. He flipped open his cell and hit SPEED DIAL. Tony’s voice mail picked up on the first ring. Pierce left a terse call-back message and hung up. A call to Tony’s office phone met his same expectations—more voice mail. His next call to the company attorney yielded the same results, and Pierce tasted defeat scalding the back of his throat.
Dammit, he hated feeling powerless. Could he control the fallout if Tony had left Quinn in that snowbank? If Tony left Quinn in that snowbank, I’m dumb as a day-old snowman.
Ready to eat crow for screwing up with the cop, Pierce dialed Quinn and got voice mail.
“Sonuva—” Pierce slammed the phone on the Gomobile’s hood and growled. Michael or Rex? Rex or Michael? She had to be talking to one of them. Why?
A siren’s wail jerked his attention to the ambulance—moving at the rate of a hibernating bear. Three or four drivers stood in front of the emergency vehicle as if ready to hijack it and ride it out of the gridlock. Several cops, backlit by the headlights on their squad cars, approached the drivers, waving them out of the way, shoving one guy who refused to move.
The other drivers stiffened like a phalanx. They threw off a sullen, defiant ’tude that dared the cops to assert their authority. Pierce’s gut flipped. He sympathized with the pissed drivers. They wanted to get home—before one of them ended up like the Prius passenger. Normally, they’d cooperate with the police, but their patience had unraveled. They were tired of waiting, feeling like prisoners in the
ir own cars, tired of seeing how easily life fell apart under emergency circumstances.
Edginess receding, he slid behind the steering wheel and slammed his door. Let the cops do their job. The sooner they did, the sooner he’d see Quinn. He hit REDIAL.
“How’s your reception, Mr. Jordan?”
“Perfect, Officer Rourke. I’m sure Quinn gave you Tony’s last name. He lives five miles outside Tonganoxie. No street or house address, but here’s his phone numbers.”
During the pause that followed, Pierce imagined the cop writing. The head-movie helped distract him from thinking about Quinn, wanting to talk to her, wanting to take her in his arms.
“Miz Alexander and I can see your car. Expect us in five minutes.” Rourke hung up.
Listening to dead air, Pierce clamped his teeth together, locking his jaw against his impulse to snarl at Rourke’s casual dismissal. But images of Quinn lying hurt and scared after her near-miss with a hit-and-run driver looped through his fury, fueling his guilt as he saw a faceless cop offering her his hand.
****
Quinn and Rourke covered the last yards of their trek so fast she stopped looking over her shoulder for black Jeeps. She had zero doubt the cop could stop a Jeep. He could stop a freight train, and he’d go after Pierce with very little provocation.
When they came within shouting distance, she phoned Pierce. The howling wind curtailed prolonged conversation. He rounded the car and dragged her into a hug she worried would crack a rib. Her police rescuer showed remarkable patience during the hugfest, but finally tapped her shoulder.
Pierce released her, kept one arm around her shoulders and extended his free hand. “Tony would never leave the scene of an accident. Especially if he caused it.” A chill crept into Pierce’s tone, and Quinn put a little weight into leaning against him. He squeezed her waist and spoke quietly, “No way he caused an accident. He grew up driving in Colorado.”
“Hope you’re right. We’re on the lookout for him in Kansas City, but the storm’s messing up everyone. FYI, I’ll alert the Johnson and Leavenworth County Sheriffs’ Departments. I’d appreciate your cooperation by not contacting Mr. Franklin tonight. If he’s done nothing wrong, he has nothing to fear.”
“Understand.” Pierce shifted his weight, keeping Quinn close yet leaning toward the policeman, telegraphing his intent to protect the man he considered his kid brother. “Tony’s a key person in my business. One of my most trusted associates. Our office is closed tomorrow. Good business judgment dictates sticking to our nightly check-in.”
A sharp wind blew over them, tearing a seam in the snow-curtain. Each man stood with the jutted jaws and hard faces of adversaries. A mound of white covered the top of Pierce’s bare head. A higher mound topped Rourke’s hat. The bill looked like a beak on some prehistoric creature. Quinn imagined mountain goats butting heads and scattering snow everywhere.
Bones aching from the cold, she moved out from the warmth and security of Pierce’s embrace. “What if we ask Tony to go to the nearest sheriff’s department?”
Rourke said, “He should show up in his Jeep. Hitting that light pole left a dent.”
“Tony will cooperate,” Pierce said with the confidence of a man accustomed to having his statements accepted without discussion. “I guarantee his Jeep won’t have a scratch.”
Rourke pulled two business cards from an inside pocket and gave one to each of them. “The storm’s gonna keep me busy most of the night, but I will follow up if I don’t hear from you or Mr. Franklin.”
He made no effort to soften the threat in his tone.
“You won’t have to follow up.” A note of finality overrode the hum of rage in Pierce’s clipped statement.
The cop nodded at Quinn, but said to Pierce, “Drive carefully.”
She grabbed Pierce’s arm. “Brrrrr. Pissing contest officially over.”
“What’s a blizzard to male egos? Besides, Tony’s innocent.” Pierce threw open the car door and guided Quinn into a cocoon of warmth that left her lightheaded.
“Oooooooo!” She stripped off her gloves and rubbed her numb hands, massaging each fingertip, trying unsuccessfully to snap her fingers.
Pierce slid behind the steering wheel and reached for her in one fluid movement. He mashed his hot mouth against her icy ear, whispering, “Let’s get your blood moving.”
Heat shot into her, melting bones, boiling blood, searing her brain, pushing Tony to the back of her mushy mind. She felt like purring, but managed to say, “Best offer I’ve had all day.”
His slow, easy grin promised another kiss. “I bet you say that to all the guys.”
“Only to the ones who defrost my feet.” A shiver shot up her legs and spine. At some deep level her mind made a connection with promises broken, dreams abandoned, and hurts unhealed. She was skating on ice too thin for flirting.
Pierce hesitated, his forehead wrinkled, his eyes looking somewhere else, someplace that caused his jaw to crack and his face to stiffen. Then, he exhaled and wiggled his eyebrows—a gesture that always made her laugh. “There’s a challenge I can’t resist.”
The magic of his strong fingers slurred her response and total brain paralysis set in. Concerns about protecting herself against him evaporated as soon as he rested her ankle on the console and unzipped her boot. She closed her eyes. The hum of heat flowing through the vents calmed her. She sighed. Her eyelids crashed downward. Sleep teased her, reached for her, pulled her under once, twice...
A feather danced on her instep. “Forget Tony. Forget Rex. Forget Michael.”
****
Michael’s name jerked Quinn upright—like a child in the middle of a nightmare. Heart thumping, eyes staring, mouth dry, she screamed silently, Where am I?
“You’re okay, Quinn.” Fingers stroked her cheek, moved to the back of her neck.
She stared blindly at a blurred face and made a noise. Shapes she didn’t recognize loomed in the distant shadows.
“You had a nightmare.” The low, comforting baritone throbbed with male assurance. “You’re safe. We’re in the car. You’re safe.”
Recognizing Pierce’s voice, Quinn felt the rawness of her fear recede. Slowly, she nodded. The snow-covered shapes took on the forms of cops and firemen. She turned her head, saw a few hazy lights, began to make out more ghostly shapes, felt her unease grow.
“Wh—what time is it?”
“Four fifty-five. In the afternoon.”
“Did Michael call? Did Luce have the baby?” Unsure if her rapid, garbled questions made sense, she caught and held Pierce’s hand.
“Your cell hasn’t rung.” Pierce stroked her thumb, infusing warmth into her entire body. “I’d say Luce hasn’t had the baby yet, but why don’t you call Michael?”
“Call Mi—?” Quinn frowned and resisted the impulse to tap the side of her head. “You mean call my brother—the one you’ve never liked?”
Pierce lifted one shoulder. The elegant gesture typified his reputation for arrogance. His smile was soft, accommodating, confusing in the hushed womb of leather and warmth.
“Go on,” he said. “I enjoy counting snowflakes.”
She stared at him. The erratic rhythm of his Adam’s apple revealed the crack in his steely composure. “And now you’re a diplomat?”
“Not a diplomat. But I am teachable.”
Her stomach dropped. The yearning to be believed in his voice set her heart thudding and her mind racing. She looked away from the hope in his dilated pupils, wet her lips and said in a neutral tone, “I’ll call Mom first. See if her plane’s leaving at seven.”
“Then call Michael. I’ll be here when you’re finished.”
That sounded so scary, Quinn hit SPEED DIAL without a comeback. Was he saying she could depend on him? A part of her longed to tell him about the Samaritan in black.
Except she wanted to forget the man in black and the black Jeep.
So when did she plan to confess she’d seen the Jeep twice before tonight?
&
nbsp; Her mother picked up, unruffled by an additional four-hour delay of her plane. “I may stay in St. Louis. I know Luce doesn’t want us at the hospital, but once they go home, maybe she’ll give us a reprieve about seeing the baby.”
“Maybe.” Quinn hoped she sounded non-committal. Luce had declared the baby off limits for one full month.
“I can go to San Francisco anytime.” Her mother made life sound so easy. She already had a plan for getting home using a friend’s limo service. “Michael called half an hour ago. Said he and Luce were about to lie down. Poor things, they’re both frazzled.”
Big surprise. Hearing Michael had picked up their mother at six that morning—ahead of the storm—Quinn felt a new chill and focused on the green dash light. What time had her brother called Rex? Did her mother know about their rendezvous?
“Maybe this nap is practice for when Baby Quinn comes,” Mom said, upbeat as always.
“We can hope.” Quinn tried to muster some enthusiasm so she didn’t spill a word about Michael meeting Rex. “And we can hope he’ll slow down.”
Between trying to please Luce, driving their mother to the airport and hooking up with Rex, her brother must’ve burned several days’ worth of adrenaline. No wonder he felt frazzled. She’d spent half his level of energy—yet she felt whacked. She kept up her end of the conversation for a few more minutes, hyper-aware of Pierce’s methodical swipes at the windshield.
Whacked or not, if she was smart, she’d remember that trusting this man with all her heart belonged to the past. Logic belonged to the present.
Throat dry, she sensed Pierce watching her and refocused, taking in her mother’s suggestion of a nap. Wouldn’t Pierce love that suggestion?
Ridiculously, a rush of heat rose off Quinn’s skin and she fought the urge to stare at him. Nervous her mother’s famous ESP would kick in, she said goodbye, disconnected and faced Pierce. “Long delay out of St. Louis tonight,” she reported.
“What about calling Michael?”
“Rex, first.” She spoke hard and fast, a touch of steel in her voice, telegraphing readiness to defend her decision. Her stomach clenched, but she met Pierce’s gaze head on.
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