Unraveled

by Allie Hawkins

  “Not much light in here,” he drawled, “except your eyes shooting fireballs.”

  “You always were astute.”

  “And you always were soft-hearted.”

  She flipped open the cell’s cover. “What if Tony did hit that light pole? What if he asks you for help?”

  Pierce’s jaw cracked in the pulsating silence before he spoke in a flat, clipped voice. “Moot question since he didn’t. He wouldn’t hit and run. Wouldn’t leave the scene of an accident. Wouldn’t drag me into that kind of mess.”

  “Okay, okay, okay.” Quinn held up her hand. “I’m calling Rex.”

  The lines around Pierce’s mouth deepened. He crossed his arms and stared out the windshield as if counting every snowflake.

  She sat up straighter, dialed and faked a warmth so phony she felt him flinch.

  “God, I’m sorry,” Rex said immediately. “Me and my big mouth. I don’t know why I went off on you like that.”

  His sad, ugly face flashed in her mind’s eye. Was he always the first to apologize? In this case, he owed her an apology, but he didn’t have to eat dirt.

  “Thanks.” Pierce’s snort short-circuited her playacting.

  “You should’ve hung up. I was out of line. Michael’s foul mood was contagious.”

  The muscles in her neck froze. Consequences of her own foul mood? She said, “I was feeling a little stressed earlier.”

  “That would explain your total lack of appreciation.”

  Total? That seemed a tad harsh. She pressed her tongue against the roof of her mouth. Dammit, Pierce didn’t get the satisfaction of witnessing her destroy Rex. She unfolded her legs, flexed her toes under the heater, and willed herself to say, “I know driving to St. Louis was tough.”

  “Let me tell you,” Rex said in a high, nasal pitch that warned Quinn a whine was coming. “The weather was such a bitch when I left home. I never even got coffee.”

  “Lucky for me, Pierce fixed mine—” Ahhh, nooo. She administered a mental head-slap.

  Pierce smiled as if totally unaware of his sexy grin. Quinn twisted toward the side window and pressed the phone harder against her ear. Stupidity merited some discomfort.

  “Pierce was at your house at six-fifteen? What’d he do? Spend the night?”

  “You were telling me about your meeting when we spoke earlier.” Quinn spit out the words. Pierce must be choking on suppressed laughter.

  “Earlier when?” Yah, yah, yah, yah, yah. His unspoken taunt mocked her. “This morning or when you hung up on me an hour ago?”

  My, my how time flies when you’re contemplating murder. Quinn swallowed her impatience, speaking slowly, “An hour ago.”

  A single beat of silence before he said, “I was saying I don’t want to scare you.”

  Quinn’s stomach buckled. Like hell, she thought and seized the opportunity to disabuse Rex of his power fantasies. “What could you say...about Michael...that would scare me?”

  Rex sighed. “Remember, you asked me.”

  A man deeply torn. Contempt twisted her stomach. “Several times.”

  Another sigh. “Frankly, I think our Michael’s a little...on edge.”

  A part of her tried breaking away from the rest of her body, but she wouldn’t let it go. Not in front of Pierce. Losing control was scarier than anything Rex might say.

  “He’s tired and scared about the baby.” She shook off the hand Pierce laid between her shoulders. “Wouldn’t you be a little...on edge?”

  “Sure, but—”

  “If he was a little...on edge, would he have pled your case so forcefully yesterday?” She’d see if Rex could keep up with the twists and turns and contradictions of her fuzzy logic.

  “Things change in twenty-four hours.” He sounded like a lecturer enlightening the class dummy. “Countries go to war. Babies are born. People die...”

  “People don’t get enough sleep and get edgy. I think I understand your profundity.” She wanted to wring his melodramatic neck.

  “Is that why you’re being sarcastic? You didn’t get enough sleep last night?”

  She considered telling him the sarcasm stemmed from wiping out her savings account to save his butt. Except that was a lie.

  The lie didn’t matter, but she sure didn’t intend to tell him the truth. Admit his take on Michael had scared her senseless. Not in front of Pierce.

  “I never get enough sleep,” she said, alert enough to change the subject yet again. “What did Michael say about inducing labor? Don’t tell me you talked him out of it. What did he say?”

  “No way in hell. His exact words. But I knew what he meant. He was terrified if his kid was induced, she’d turn out like me.”

  Quinn’s stomach dropped. God, how had Michael sat during their meeting, looking at his best friend’s burgundy, bumpy face, without recoiling?

  “The best medical minds in the world can’t tell you why nevus flammeus occurs at birth. I told him there’s not a shred of evidence that inducing labor causes it.”

  Quinn’s heart fired rapidly, but her mind blanked. Why did humans always want to know why? Pierce shifted in his seat, and the whisper of the leather sounded like sandpaper against cement. She bit her bottom lip and listened as Rex droned on and on and on.

  “No one knows why the discoloration runs from barely visible to reddish-purple. Like mine,” he added, his tone less strident.

  Would knowing why make his life easier?

  “What’d Michael say?” She pinched the skin inside her elbow.

  “No way in hell. No way in hell.” Rex’s voice dropped to a whisper and she shuddered.

  “Have you and Michael talked about this before?” The thought came out of nowhere.

  “From the day we met. We don’t have any secrets, Quinn.”

  Her breath caught. God, let him be wrong about that.

  Chapter 11

  “I told Mrs. Taylor to cut back on the garlic.” Pierce fought the urge to drop a kiss on Quinn’s nose as she sniffed the aroma of browned onions and garlic drifting into his garage.

  “Vivaldi balances everything.” Her voice sounded perfectly normal after they’d ridden—at her request—to his house in maddening silence.

  “I figured.” Drunk on her nearness, he stuffed the frustration over her call to Rex and opened the door into the kitchen. He mentally thanked his housekeeper for her classical music selection. Coming home to Roy Acuff would not impress Quinn or motivate her to open up about the weasel.

  “I’ll take your coat.” To hell with the weasel. He’d been patient long enough. Any excuse to put his hands on her. On all of her.

  As if reading his mind, she extended her arms. “Can never get too much help.”

  “I aim to please.” He slipped off her heavy coat and bit back a growl of disappointment.

  Her red pantsuit—despite its eye-blinking color—could pass for a nun’s habit. Had she worn the outfit this morning? He tried to remember, but his mind stalled.

  “Why do women wear pantsuits?”

  She arched a brow at his eye-roll. “They’re professional.”

  “Sexless, you mean.” He studied the buttons on her double-breasted jacket. They had a bar or clip that held them in place and required safe-cracking expertise to open.

  “Professional,” she maintained and threw him a non-professional smile that teased, taunted, and tempted him. “Men know nothing about women’s professional attire.”

  “Is there professional underwear too?”

  She lifted her chin at least two feet. “Ever hear of pantyhose? They’re throwbacks to chastity belts.”

  “Women’s fashion.” He let his gaze travel slowly, very slowly, from her head to her bellybutton, lower, to her toes. Pantyhose underneath and a jacket on the outside that went past her hips. What was a red-blooded male to do?

  “There’s a fire in the dining room,” he said. Not to mention between his legs. Hands sweaty, shoulders tense, betting it took an engineer to manage those damn but
tons, he asked as casually as a man in severe pain could manage, “Want to take off your jacket?”

  “I did notice global warming’s hit here.” She flipped the buttons open faster than he could take in a deep breath.

  Under the jacket she wore a long-sleeved, high-necked sweater. It stopped at the tip of her chin. He exhaled. Hell, in some countries he’d see nothing but her eyes and half an inch of forehead.

  “What’s wrong?” She tucked a chunk of hair behind her ear.

  “Not a damn thing.”

  Her coat and jacket filled his arms, but he leaned into her and kissed her exposed ear. “Ears make my blood boil.”

  “You are weird.” She arched her neck.

  “MEEE-ooowww.” Floyd bumped Quinn’s calf with his head.

  “Laundry room, Big Guy.” Pierce hitched the clothes under one arm and reached down.

  The cat rolled his ears back, growled, bared yellowed fangs.

  “Whoops, His Highness has other ideas.” Pierce ignored the growls and loaded the complaining beast on top of Quinn’s coat and jacket. “He’s shameless. He demands being the center of attention.”

  “That is shameless.” Quinn cooed and tickled Floyd’s head. “Let him stay.”

  Jealousy corkscrewed into Pierce’s heart. “You’ve charmed him.”

  She patted Floyd with one hand and skimmed a fingernail on her other hand down Pierce’s cheek. He couldn’t decide which male purred louder.

  “My charms work best in front of a fire.” Her tone carried a low, dangerous throb.

  The charm started working on Pierce before he shuffled another step. Without warning, he was hard. His feet froze. The coats and cat tumbled from his arms. Despite the soft landing, Floyd yowled and stalked off—his tail an orange exclamation point.

  “I know where there’s a fire.” Pierce avoided mention of the flame building in his gut.

  With his hair threatening to combust, he pulled her close. He’d waited four years for this moment. Her eyes widened, then softened. He linked her arm through his and sidestepped the clothes on the floor. He’d swear his feet didn’t touch terra firma.

  He threw open the double doors to the dining room. “Does this work for you?”

  She gasped. Her eyes outshone the flames leaping behind the glass screen in front of the fireplace. Lights from The Plaza a hundred feet below broke the curtain of snow and spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows in a gauzy rainbow. Silverware and china glowed. Crystal sparkled.

  “Mrs. Taylor outdid herself,” Pierce said, surprised he wanted to impress Quinn.

  “You could charge admission,” she whispered.

  “Not to you.” Pierce, Medieval Knight Besotted, scooped his lady fair into his arms. His back protested, and he made an unknightly noise.

  “Put me down, you fool. You’ll get a hernia.”

  “Is that what that is?”

  More awkward than the most bumbling knight, he managed to sink down in front of the fireplace without dropping her. The death-hold she locked around his neck threatened his delicate equilibrium and forced him to breathe through his mouth.

  She blew on his chin. “How romantic.”

  He laughed and fell backwards on the carpet, pulling her on top of him.

  “Bowled you over, didn’t I?” she teased.

  In answer, he ran his hands down her back, enjoying the muscles under her sweater. The pantsuit hid her fitness. Did she work out? Weights might explain her round, firm butt. A perfect handful.

  He drank in her scent of violets and roses and adjusted her long, curved body on top of his. “We still fit together just fine.”

  “Except for this instrument of torture.” She slid off him, uncinching his belt buckle.

  His heart thundered as he lifted his hips. Wordlessly, she pulled the belt through the loops. When she finished, she stood on her knees. A wisp of blonde hair fell across her cheek. She raised the belt over her head, cracked it once, then tossed it behind them.

  “You’re not going to handcuff me, are you?” he imitated the voice of a scared adolescent.

  “Depends.” She tucked her chin and went to work on his shoelaces.

  He strained to stroke her hair, and her breast brushed his thigh. His breath caught. For a second, he thought he’d brushed against the fire screen.

  “Depends on what?” He unzipped one of her boots.

  “Now who’s eager?” She pulled off one of his shoes.

  “Not me. Not after that massage you begged for.”

  “Ha. Ha.”

  “Short memory.” God, his dick begged for more than a massage, but as proof he was in total control, he removed both her boots before she finished tugging off his second shoe.

  “Dah winner!” Pierce massaged her icy feet. “Does this mean your heart’s on fire?”

  “That’s hands, you knave.” Gently, Quinn cuffed him on the side of the head. “Cold hands, warm heart. Not feet. Cold feet are normal.”

  “Maybe.” He wiggled his eyebrows, swirled an imaginary moustache, and rubbed his hands together like the villain in a melodrama. “But I remember how to make your feet feel like you walked across hot coals.”

  “Never. You must have me confused with—”

  For an endless second, Pierce was sure they’d screwed up. Broken the magic spell. His chest tightened. An ache for wounding her squeezed his heart. He cursed himself for Brittany, for causing Quinn pain. He stayed absolutely still, suspended in a bubble of regret, letting her make up her own mind.

  She wiggled her foot in his hand. “I’m from Missouri,” she scoffed. “Show me.”

  So he did. In sync with Vivaldi’s Winter movement, Pierce feathered the high arch of each foot.

  Her feet twitched, but she pressed them against his fingers. “That’s a start.”

  “There you go. Being eager, again.”

  Next, he circled her thin, narrow ankles between his thumb and forefinger and rubbed the heel of first one foot, then the other against his palm. Her moans made him smile, and he increased or decreased the pressure and friction with quiet glee.

  “Okay, okay, I’m convinced.” Her gray eyes darkened with pleasure.

  “Thank God. These little piggies are almost too hot to handle.” He tweaked her toes, one by one.

  ****

  Quinn lost track of time and forgot everything but the electricity humming off Pierce. When she felt sure she couldn’t hold back longer, she pushed his heavy boots to the side.

  “What about your socks?” Desire seared her throat. “Should I just knock them off?”

  His grin invited murder. The triangle of curls on his chest invited caresses. She licked her bottom lip, unzipped his jeans and tugged them down—down past his waist, past his hips, past his erection. The corners of his mouth twitched as she looked, and he took his time pulling her sweater over her head.

  God, why was he so slow? Heat rolled off her. She bit back a groan. Couldn’t he see she was ready? Had been ready since she got in the car?

  His pupils dilated, his breath caught. He had the sweater bunched under her neck. His swallow was an audible gulp as he stared at her lacy, transparent bra. The one she’d changed after Rex talked her out of going to St. Louis.

  “In my book,” he drawled, his Adam’s apple working, “a black lace bra definitely falls into the category of professional underwear.”

  “I should tell you right now I’m not impressed with boxer shorts.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” He grabbed the waist of his jeans.

  “Shhhh.” Quinn dragged her tongue down his jaw, along his collarbone, into the hollow of his throat. Her tongue tasted and teased while his fingers drew exquisite, electrifying patterns on the insides of her thighs.

  Then he found her softest part of all.

  Her whole body arced backwards and she cried out.

  He kept his eyes wide open, whispering her name in a raw, husky voice that flowed over her like water over the desert.

  Qui
nn soaked up his desire, tucking away his moans and growls and whispers. Careful to guard the spell, she spoke nothing about love. This was sexual release. Love wasn’t involved. Her heart hammered her chest. She took a deep breath, raised her hips, wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him into her.

  A kaleidoscope of colors danced around them. Taut nerves relaxed. The undulating rhythm of their bodies kept beat with their pounding pulses. Their primitive moans and groans sounded to Quinn like songs of celebration. His constant concerns about her pleasure swelled her heart. Jolt after jolt after jolt of desire left her lightheaded, deaf and blind to everything but his body.

  They lay exhausted in each other’s arms, patting, touching, healing. Their earthy, natural smells of lovemaking conjured up for her the image of a cocoon. Safety. Security.

  The ear-shattering crack of a dying log crashed through her altered consciousness. She jumped, hand on her chest and blurted, “Oooomygod.”

  Pierce reined in his ragged breathing and winked. “I’m going to avoid any smart remarks about ending with a bang.”

  “What a wise man you are.” Quinn twisted a couple of his chest hairs into a mini-braid.

  “Remember when you used to braid my hair? I always looked like someone who’d just rolled out of bed after a bad nightmare.”

  “I’m surprised you remember.” In fact, she was shocked. She shifted her head to his chest and listened to the erratic, hard beat of his heart.

  “You’d be surprised what I remember.” He laughed and Quinn’s bones melted, her mind went blank. He snuggled her closer, stroking her damp hair, sighing from time to time for no apparent reason. “A dollar for your thoughts,” he said.

  “Sorry, but my thoughts don’t come cheap. I expect stock options and bonuses.”

  “Lord, give women an inch—”

  Quinn pinched his hip. “Your chauvinism’s showing.”

  “Again?” He raised his head and sighted between his legs.

  “You are so-so—” She smacked his hand. “Impossible,” she said lamely.

  “But would you pay a dollar to hear my impossible thoughts?” His solemn gaze raised goose bumps on her bare arms.

  “Will you take an IOU?”

  “In a heartbeat.” His voice deepened solemnly like an actor about to deliver his big lines.