She tensed, dreading a post-coital declaration. She poked his chest, then released the braids she’d just created. “Okay,” she said with zero enthusiasm. “I’m all ears.”
He propped himself up on one elbow, caught her hand and held it against his chest. His body hummed. “I don’t know your intentions, Quinn, but I’m telling you mine right now. I don’t intend to be a one-night stand.”
****
D-U-M. The word looped in Quinn’s head like a mantra.
D-U-M. Like people who drove and talked on cell phones.
D-U-M. Like women who jogged in parks at midnight.
So D-U-M, aliens would refuse to kidnap her.
Miserable and naked, Quinn lay on her side in Pierce’s over-sized king bed. Her misery didn’t stem from the twenty-pound, orange and white bowling ball lodged between her and him, making it impossible to pull the comforter up over her bare shoulder.
Her misery was worse. It was self-inflicted. She’d vowed to lie back and enjoy raw sex, and what happened?
She blissed out.
Blissed out. That’s what she and Pierce used to call their post-lovemaking state. After the fireworks, the earth tilting, the planets colliding—came bliss. And she’d blissed out tonight—both times after going for raw sex. She’d blissed out so far, she’d capitulated—after a second thought—to sleep over at his house.
“Why are you awake?” The throb in Pierce’s voice raised goose bumps, but she pinched the inside of her elbow.
“Why are you awake?” she countered. Damn, why hadn’t she pretended she was asleep?
“I heard you beating yourself up.”
“I’m not—” He reached across the chasm separating them and touched her chilled shoulder.
Floyd growled.
A slight increase in the pressure of Pierce’s fingers, and Quinn turned on her back. A deeper growl and Floyd made known his disgust by using her stomach as a launching pad.
Air whooshed out of her. “Ummmf.”
“He’s miffed, but he’ll get over it.” Pierce arranged the comforter under her chin, then he pulled her into the curve of his arm as naturally as if they snuggled up together every night for the past four years.
Her skin prickled, and a shiver came from the deepest part of her. She blinked back tears. Her throat ached too much to trust her voice.
“Are you worried about Michael?”
“No.” Of course she was, but D-U-M as she was, she’d forgotten her brother the moment she entered Pierce’s house.
“Having second thoughts about Rex?”
“No.” She’d erased all thoughts of Rex once she walked into Pierce’s house.
“You think I’m a bastard? That I took advantage of you?”
“No.” The truth? She’d wanted him, he complied.
Contrary to his no-one-night-stand declaration, Quinn knew better than to play in a bonfire. She said, “We’re moving too fast. The sex was great, but—”
“You want the big C, right?” His throat sounded jammed with sticks of dynamite. Might explain why he rushed on. “What if I asked you to marry me?”
Luckily, she lay on her back. Even so, her heart lurched, making her dizzy. God, what if she was having a heart attack?
“Take your time,” Pierce said.
A hole opened in her chest as he rolled away, propped his weight on one elbow and flipped on the bedside lamp. She squeezed her eyes shut.
The mattress shifted with his weight. She opened her eyes. He looked down at her. “Let me know if the light’s too bright.”
Distrustful of her voice, Quinn shook her head. The lamp threw off a soft, diffused lemony circle. Bright enough she could see the black hairs on his chest. Clumped together, they begged for her attention. She dug her fingers into her palms.
She absolutely wasn’t D-U-M enough to braid the wiry black hairs. Or, for that matter, to touch him.
She licked her lips and began. “Don’t take this the wrong way—”
“Oh-oh. Not a good sign.” He barely raised the comforter, sliding under it at warp speed. On his side, with about a foot between them, he said, “Drafts make Floyd edgy.”
Astonished, she whipped her head around so that she was staring into his eyes. “You let your cat sleep under the covers?”
Silently, she groaned. Astonishment didn’t excuse such a D-U-M, irrelevant, off-the-track question.
“Huh-uh. Floyd lets me sleep under the covers.” Pierce threw her a wink, and her skin incinerated.
Dammit, she recognized this trick. Back him into a corner, and watch him change the subject. Or, crack a joke. Or, distract his opponent.
“See how I’ve grown,” Pierce said. “Grown—that is the PC-term, right?”
“The PC-term is professional relationship. You and I have one—I assume?”
“After you paid me more than two million bucks, I think that’s a safe assumption.”
Given a straight path to making her point, Quinn took it. “You see the situation with Rex strains that professional relationship.”
His lips disappeared, and his eyes became slits.
“To the breaking point.” Quinn couldn’t decide if he was mad, disappointed or both.
“That’s giving the creep a lot of power.”
Scratch disappointment. She threw fuel on the fire. “Sex would be the straw that snaps our professional relationship.”
One of his arms snaked out from under the cover, and Quinn stiffened. He laid his arm on top of the comforter. “I didn’t propose sex, by the way. I proposed marriage.”
Not really, she almost said, saw the trick and said instead, “I’m juggling too many balls to think about marriage.”
“That’s a no, then?”
Without hesitating, she said, “That’s a no.”
****
“I’ll take the guest room,” Pierce insisted when Quinn announced at two o’clock she wanted to go home.
“I’d rather go home...if it’s not too much trouble.”
“No trouble at all.” Mr. Accommodating, he shrugged, still under the covers because he figured hopping out of bed naked as a jaybird might stress their professional relationship.
In the past, whenever Quinn had worried her professional mask was slipping, Pierce noticed she talked to an invisible person over his left shoulder.
This time, since she lay flat on her back, also naked as a jaybird, she stared at the ceiling. “I know it’s trouble.”
Apparently, staring at the ceiling brought small comfort. She sighed, but kept her gaze there anyway. “I said, ‘If it’s not too much trouble.’”
“Nothing’s too much trouble for you, Quinn.”
After a minute, she said, “Then I’d appreciate it if you put a sock in the sarcasm.”
“That’ll be har-difficult. My socks are downstairs.” He chuckled.
Her head whipped around and her eyes flashed. “Not funny.”
The chuckle, halfway to a laugh, died in his throat. “Seriously? Sorry, I thought it was.”
She narrowed her eyes, but he said, “I swear I thought...it was funny.”
Did he get any credit for spontaneously correcting hard to difficult?
“I can call a cab. Hector Ramirez gave me his direct number years ago.”
Uh-huh. And where was Hector’s card? Pierce knew for damned sure Quinn didn’t have it on her. Temptation baited him.
Tell her to call Hector.
Watch her kick off the comforter.
No peeking as she fumbled the top sheet off the bed.
Offer assistance wrapping the sheet around her.
No peeking at her naked bod while they tucked in the ends.
Warn her about Floyd’s habit of hiding on the landing.
“I’ll call Hector,” she said to the ceiling.
“Forget it.” Pierce kicked back the bedclothes.
Cool air chilled his hot head, but he forced his feet onto the carpet. “Get a grip,” he said. “Don’t peek.”
“Let me remind you. He who laughs last...” He strutted his stuff straight into the bathroom and slammed the door.
As far as he could tell, nothing fell off the wall in the bedroom.
****
Pierce figured they must’ve set some kind of world-class record for dressing. He took five minutes in the bathroom. After which, he cracked the door, found the bed empty and started grabbing clothes right and left from the closet. By the time he got downstairs, Quinn had her coat on. Floyd yowled, resentful she put him off her lap. The cat stalked off. Quinn stood, averting eye-contact with Pierce.
He yawned. His eyes felt like burned toast. He shrugged into his coat, told Floyd he’d return and followed Quinn into the garage.
The heat in there cycled off at ten, and the ’Vette felt like a meat locker. “It’ll only take a few minutes to warm up,” he said, his breath silver puffs.
“I’m fine.”
No doubt. Icebergs didn’t notice the cold he supposed.
The garage door slid up. Pierce shifted the ’Vette and his brain. Quinn wasn’t an iceberg. Tonight had proven that fact. She tried his patience. She was stubborn, hard-working, loyal, and honorable.
She was no iceberg.
The front gate opened. He slid through and waited a minute at the top of the hill. Since The Plaza lightscape was no more awesome from the hill than from his dining room, he didn’t mention the glow.
“Any idea how we derailed so fast?” he asked.
“Karma, I think.” Since she couldn’t stare at the bedroom ceiling, she stared out her side window and missed the panorama in front of her nose.
Ignored, he said, “Sure, why didn’t I think of karma?”
The silence made the fifteen-minute trip feel like a trek across the North Pole. A part of Pierce welcomed the silence. It had stopped snowing. There was no traffic. The quiet gave his jangled nerves a rest and reinforced his determination.
Tomorrow, come rain, snow, sleet or an attack of locusts, he’d hammer out the ground rules for their personal relationship. Right now, he’d try not to open his mouth and self-destruct.
They passed the Kansas City Country Club. All signs of the skirmish on the golf course with Abommie lay hidden under shimmering whiteness. Wanting to share the scene with Quinn, Pierce said, “What time do I pick you up for work?”
Mesmerized by her neighbors’ houses—which she saw every damn day—she didn’t bother glancing his way. “I’ll call Hector.”
That popped his cork. Choking the steering wheel helped with his anger management. He said evenly, “You’ll either call me or I’ll sleep in your driveway. My, my, what will the neighbors think?”
“That you’re insane?”
Before he could give tit for tat, she said, “I’ll be ready at eight. Bring the evidence against Rex. I’ll read it while you drive.”
Chapter 12
Quinn’s doorbell rang—long and loud and insistent. She slammed the drawer in the bathroom vanity. Not a good beginning, Pierce.
Not after their post-coital bliss derailed into post-coital angst reminiscent of Woody Allen. She leaned into the mirror. Dèjá vu. Soft light did absolutely zip to soften her puffy face. She stuck out her tongue.
No amount of makeup was going to hide the trunks under her eyes or disguise her resemblance to a corpse. Looking like a corpse had now become her new norm.
The doorbell pealed again and cut short her deep philosophical observations.
She flipped off the bathroom light and jerked her coat off the bannister, calling, “Ready.”
Ready was a lie, but it delayed opening the door and inviting Pierce inside. She buttoned her coat. Call her rude, but she wanted to spend as little time with him as possible—not because he was obviously a bear this morning, but because of their three-A.M. ride home. Their electrified silence—with its unspoken accusations—had barely qualified as civil.
Working her gloves on finger by finger ate up two more seconds as the memory unwound of Pierce fuming in silence. Why his head hadn’t exploded remained a mystery. They reached Quinn’s cul-de-sac, giving her the false hope of safety. Of course Pierce didn’t leave well enough alone. He pulled into her drive and went on the defensive.
She had, he pointed out in a mean-schoolgirl voice, jumped into his bed willingly.
Maybe he expected a denial. Or wanted a reaction from her. Or maybe he fantasized her agreeing. Whatever, his logic short-circuited her first impulse to lie. He was right—without saying another word. It wasn’t like she’d lost her virginity. They’d—she’d—crossed a line or opened a door or one of those millions of other damn clichés about life. Mocked by the truth, she’d ordered him to remain in the car while she limped to the front door alone.
“What’s the hold-up?” He pounded the door as if he intended to bash the wood to splinters.
“Coming.” What fun riding with Grumpy. She threw a scarf around her neck and straightened her shoulders. She’d dragged into the shower at six, but she should’ve called, wakened him, and told him not to pick her up.
Instead, she stood under the cold water too long trying to kickstart her brain and had to crawl back in bed to stop shivering. A call at 7:10 from her mother taxed Quinn’s brain so much she kept interrupting for understanding.
I almost wish I didn’t know she’s stranded at the airport. Quinn flung open the door and glared at Pierce, ready to take out her frustration, fatigue and sense of failure on him. Mentally, she dared him to utter a word about the bags under her eyes.
An anemic sun bubble surrounded him in morning softness, but his eyes—usually bright and dancing—belonged on a Basset Hound. Quinn’s mouth dropped. His cafe-au-lait skin resembled ashes more than coffee and milk. Her heart missed a beat. After one sleepless night, he hadn’t turned into Quasimodo, but he’d probably place second in a Mr. America contest.
Her breath caught. “Don’t tell me you slept in your car.” She tried to remember what time she’d last checked the empty driveway.
“Can we go inside? I need to talk to someone besides myself.”
A blast of wind gusted snow on the ground and ruffled his hair. Instead of looking boyish, he looked so worn out Quinn momentarily forgot her anger. What had it cost him to ask her for help?
Heart flip-flopping, she opened the door, but stepped back from the stiff wind blasting across the golf course. “What’s wrong?”
“Detective Olsen dropped by the house before dawn.” Pierce shook his head. “He claims he has evidence who vandalized my house.”
Not Rex. She closed her mouth and exhaled. Rex wouldn’t merit such remorse.
“Uh-huh.” Pierce handed her his coat. “I know there’s a screw up.”
“What is the evidence?” She held his coat, making no move toward the closet.
“A Droid. The cops found it yesterday. Wedged in the family room sofa.”
“Whose is it?” She could see it cost him to tell her.
“Tony’s.” Frustration resonated in his clipped reply and narrowed eyes.
Relieved, but puzzled, she shifted the weight of his coat. “What’s the big deal? He must’ve left it the last time you two played pool.”
“Makes sense, doesn’t it?” Pierce nodded, but Quinn was hyperaware of his stiff, unyielding posture. He was like one of the old backyard oaks stretched to breaking under the accumulated snow.
As if picking up on her scrutiny, he jerked his gaze from somewhere over her shoulder and stared her straight in the eye. “How long would it take you to miss your phone?”
“Two minutes. It’s like a second brain.” A burn crept into Quinn’s upper arms. His coat felt heavier than cement.
“Same for Tony. Who, according to my calendar, hasn’t played pool or dropped by my place for a week.” The accusatory note in his tone chilled her more than the erratic rise and fall of his chest. “He hasn’t returned any of my calls from last night. His phone in my sofa? Ma
kes no sense.”
Someone should’ve knocked Pierce off his hobby horse the first time he stepped out of line. Michael’s outburst echoed in Quinn’s ears.
“Let’s have a cup of coffee.” Her voice sounded tinny and too loud to her ears.
“Shoot mine in a vein.” Pierce stayed in the hall while she hung up both their coats, then dogged her into the kitchen. “Tony’s never asked me if I found his phone.”
“What’d he say when the police asked him?” She motioned toward the kitchen.
“They haven’t asked him.” Pierce collapsed in the same chair where she’d tended his head wound a hundred years ago. “They can’t find him.”
“Olsen must’ve called him yesterday at work?” She grabbed a sack of coffee beans from the freezer and dumped them into the grinder.
“Sure did. Never got a callback. So Olsen ran another routine computer check. Found Rourke’s notification to the sheriffs’ departments. They’re up to their eyelids helping KHP, but the Tonganoxie cops went to Tony’s. No tire tracks. And he didn’t answer the door.”
At six-six, built like a Viking, tow-headed Tony Franklin didn’t exactly fade into the woodwork. Quinn thought for a moment, then said, “You said he was on The Plaza last night. Maybe he took off from there for Thanksgiving.”
“Not without calling me. I think he went to The Plaza searching for evidence.”
Quinn whipped around to face Pierce. “Tony blew the whistle on Rex, didn’t he?”
The sullen expression he gave her confirmed the truth. “We’re discussing his phone in my sofa. Next topic? Soaking my family room in chicken blood.”
“Rex swears Tony loathes him.” Linear thought eluded her. “Detests and hates him.”
“Listen to Rex and you’ll conclude Santa Claus hates him.” Pierce scrubbed his face so hard she winced. “Tell me what their love-hate relationship adds to the phone in my sofa.”
Caffeine might help him see, Quinn thought, but hesitated turning on the grinder. It sounded like a buzz saw. Not a sound conducive to priming logic. Taking advantage of the quiet in the kitchen, she said, “All the snow...maybe Tony’s stranded.”
Or hurt. A more likely scenario for why he hadn’t called?
Unraveled Page 15