Unraveled

by Allie Hawkins

  Pierce pushed away from his desk like a drunk waking up from the mother of all hangovers. Christ, no wonder Quinn couldn’t trust him. Calling her name, he jogged into the hall.

  Wide-eyed and pale, she met him halfway. “What’s wrong? Did you find proof?”

  “No.” He cushioned her face between his hands, kissed her on the tip of the nose and hoped she read in his eyes the admiration and respect and desire and love filling him with the hope she could see he’d changed. “I found proof I was a bastard for letting you down. Betraying you. I know I said I’d give you time, but if you’ll have me, I want to spend the next fifty years of my life with you.”

  “Fifty? You’ll be ninety and I’ll be—”

  “The woman I love. Have always loved—even though I never deserved you.”

  Tears shimmered in her eyes, spilled over, pooled on the tip of her chin. “Damn, why can’t I cry like they do in the movies? I’ll have to see a plastic surgeon if I don’t want to terrify forty guests tonight.”

  “Now you’re fishing.” He dabbed at her chin with his handkerchief. “Resorting to your feminine wiles.”

  She laughed. “Dream on.”

  “More sexual banter,” he growled.

  “How well you know me.” She snuggled into his chest, resting her head over his heart, wrapping her arms around his middle, making him feel ten feet tall—even though he was hyper-aware she’d sidestepped his second proposal.

  Chapter 18

  In her bathroom, Quinn leaned against the lavatory and massaged the caravan of goose bumps marching up her bare arms. Crazy reaction since the memory of Pierce’s hands on her twenty minutes earlier still burned her nerve-endings. Thank God she’d insisted they dress in their separate offices. She removed the last hot curler with fingers shaking like those of a ninety-year-old woman.

  Ninety? Dear Lord. The thought of living with Pierce into old age intensified the ache to belong to a man who loved her. Only her. Who would stick with her. Only her. Had Pierce really changed? What if Dim Bulb hadn’t jumped out at her? Would Pierce have ever made the first move toward reconciliation? Would he wait four more years for her answer? Arms trembling, she ran her fingers through a mass of waves. If she thought he had changed, why didn’t she let him read the note from her kitchen?

  She’d let him take her to bed, but she’d refused to let him into her soul. Her stomach growled. Stress always made her ravenous. Time later for armchair psychoanalyzing. She dusted a sprinkling of gold and silver glitter on her cheekbones and went into her outer office for a final inspection.

  “Looking good.” Titan-haired, sporting at least thirty earrings in her right ear to balance out her triple nose rings, Nancee, of Nancee’s Catering, gave Quinn two thumbs up.

  “You’ve outdone yourself, Queen of Catering.”

  Masses of potted bronze, purple, and white mums sat on the floor, on the desks, and at each end of the buffet. Everywhere Quinn looked, she saw bronze, silver, or gold candles. Nancee would light them around 4:30, turning the room into a fairytale. At seven, when nearly a third of a million lights set The Plaza ablaze, she’d extinguish the candles until everyone tired of oohing and ahing.

  A low wolf-whistle interrupted the chat with Nancee. Pierce walked around Quinn in a wide circle. “May I see your license, Ma’am?”

  “License for what?” Blushing, she pirouetted.

  “To drive men mad.” He touched her bare skin, exposed by the dress’s daringly low, scooped back.

  “In this ole rag?” She laughed. Her repayment of the embezzlement money meant she’d wear the five-hundred-dollar rag for the next twenty Thanksgivings.

  “Men could drop dead from heart failure before they go mad.” Pierce growled, his eyes all pupil, his nostrils flaring.

  “So you like ze dress?” Quinn danced away, feeling frivolous and shallow and edgy. She’d found nothing online indicating Molly MacIntyre was ill or recovering from an accident. Pierce had found zip pinpointing Tony’s guilt.

  “I like ze dress.” Pierce grabbed her wrist and kissed a spot at the nape of her neck. “I like even more what’s een ze dress.”

  Flirting lost the mental battle between teasing and behaving. She needed a break from being so damned serious and weighed down. She batted her mascaraed lashes. “I can see your thong underwear.”

  “I don’t wear—” The pulse in his temple went crazy. “Who are you?”

  She brought his face to the hollow of her throat. “How do I smell?”

  “God.” His groan raised goose bumps on her arms. “You smell unlawful.”

  “That good, huh?” She sniffed his cheek, then dragged her tongue down to the tip of his ear.

  They held their breath as if suspended in a bubble and gazed into each other’s eyes. He asked, “You gonna kiss me, or am I gonna kiss you?”

  “I can never figure out where my nose goes.” Lips parted, heart fluttering, Quinn moved to meet him.

  “You need practice. Practice makes perfect.” Laughter jitterbugged in his dark eyes. He lowered his lips closer and closer and closer...

  WHACK! The front door crashed open. They jumped. She clipped him under the chin, and his molars clacked.

  “Sonuva—”

  “Looks like my timing’s perfect,” Rex yelled in a hearty voice that sounded like John Stewart.

  “Perfect,” Pierce’s curtness telegraphed danger.

  Secretly grateful for the interruption, Quinn resisted the impulse to pat her hair. Instead, she tweaked Pierce’s cheek.

  “I’ll check with the caterers,” he said.

  Quinn gave him an eye roll Rex couldn’t see. “Thank you.”

  He sauntered away whistling Over the River.

  “Now I see why you’ve been so busy.” Rex came closer on a cloud of musk, his mouth twisted into a bared-teeth smile. “When Michael said you aren’t a woman who takes no for an answer, I thought he was just sounding like a brother.”

  “What the heck are you babbling about?” Quinn exploded. “Do you know what time it is? What are you even doing here before five o’clock?”

  His eyes widened in mock surprise. “I’m here at your invitation. And I’m babbling, as you call it, about Pierce giving a reference to my prospective employer.”

  “You think—” Quinn stared at him. Not eyeball to eyeball, because he gave her the “good” side of his face, with its even colored-skin tone and good bones.

  Air hissed through her lips. She paused, said, “Here’s a newsflash. I don’t use sex to achieve business goals.”

  In the past four years since she’d left Pierce, she could’ve taken vows as a contemplative nun.

  “You don’t think my chances of getting that letter are better now than they were yesterday?” Rex grinned at her as if they shared a delicious secret.

  Quinn grabbed his elbow, guiding him toward one of the undecorated back offices. “Whatever your chances are, they have nothing to do with my relationship with Pierce.”

  Crimson suffused Rex’s ears, his entire face and the roots of his brassy yellow hair. His birthmark turned the color of a raw steak. The vein pulsating in his left temple reflected a purplish shine.

  Tough. Quinn fixed him with a glare. “My relationship with Pierce is none of your damned business.”

  His eyes narrowed to tiger-slits, and his lips disappeared into a thin, hard line. “So the bastard’s turned you against me too.”

  His whine grated her nerves like a buzz saw.

  “Wrong again.” Quinn rushed on. “You turned me against you.”

  “Michael swore you’d fight for me.”

  “I don’t think Michael will be disappointed.” Her cutting tone masked her doubt.

  “No, I’m sure he’ll see your attitude as supportive.”

  “I think I know my brother pretty well.”

  Quinn felt Rex watching her watch him as she tried to resist the impulse to slug him. Ridiculously, his fingernails, bitten to the quick, made her feel like crying.
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  Sucker. Can’t disappoint baby brother.

  Slouched against the doorjamb, Rex stuffed his hands in his pockets, crossed one foot over the other and pointed his toe into the floor

  “This is me,” he said, “being multi-talented. I can talk and piss you off at the same time.”

  There was too much truth in the statement for Quinn to laugh. She wanted to say, Yeah, and I’m out of estrogen, but lucky for you I don’t have a gun.

  “If Pierce had cracked wise like that,” Rex continued, “you’d fall down laughing.”

  The truth in that hit too close to home and Quinn’s stomach cramped. She said in what she hoped was a neutral tone, “Do I have to point out you’re not Pierce?”

  “Would you kick me instead?” Naked contempt blazed in his eyes.

  Quinn didn’t allow herself to flinch. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was vicious.”

  And she’d had enough vicious for one day. The note in her kitchen conveyed enough viciousness for at least a decade. A sharp, bitter taste flooded the back of her throat. She pushed the note onto the back burner of her memory.

  “I owe you an apology.” She pressed her tongue against the roof of her scalding mouth.

  The beat of silence stretched into discomfort. Did he want her to grovel?

  More silence before Rex stood straighter. He didn’t quite shrug as he drawled, “Sorry if I’m a little slow on the uptake. I don’t get many apologies.”

  “Maybe I’ll start a trend.” She couldn’t bring herself to touch him, but she moved closer.

  “Be still my beating heart.”

  His lame attempt at humor rang more of sarcasm than wit, but Nancee had just set fire to the first candle. A light in the darkness, Quinn thought.

  A wiggle of her fingers brought the bartender to her side. “Two glasses of champagne, please.” She met and held Rex’s stare.

  As she’d dressed, she imagined her first toast with Pierce. After which, ever the romantic, she’d planned on asking him to make Rex’s Thanksgiving by rehiring him on the spot.

  The best laid plans... Quinn raised her glass. “Happy Thanksgiving, Rex. I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Glad to be here, Quinn.” He clinked his glass against hers—a little harder than necessary.

  ****

  Smiling, Quinn greeted the first guests and ushered them into the transformed office. A live string trio played Vivaldi. The multitudes of candles threw off pools of soft light and illuminated the deepest corners. Three buffet tables groaned under the weight of a feast. Nancee and her servers in their formal black pants and spotless white shirts stood at the ready with trays of champagne and canapés.

  “Check out the dessert table first,” Quinn teased a friend from college.

  Rex appeared at her side. “What tempts you? Missouri Mud Torte, I bet.”

  “Cranberry-pear crisp.” She hoped he’d take the hint and move along.

  “I’m a pumpkin-bundt-cake guy, myself. I’ll have to pump iron for three months to take off half that cream cheese frosting.”

  A new wave of arrivals squelched their scintillating conversation. Next to her, Rex extended his hand, smiled, and gave every indication he was her date—the official host for the evening. Where was Pierce?

  “Head straight for the dessert table,” Rex advised the guests and threw Quinn a sly look.

  “Go mingle.” Her smile felt tight enough to pop off her eyebrows. “I certainly don’t expect you to stand here all night.”

  She didn’t add that she wanted Pierce acting as host.

  Rex gave her a one-shouldered shrug. “Tough job, but someone has to do it.”

  Yes, and she wanted Pierce doing it—even if she wasn’t willing to say she’d marry him. Her heart missed a beat. Would he wait four more years for her answer?

  Another throng of people stepped off the elevator. Rex whistled and said under his breath, “How many people did you invite? Must cost a bundle to wine and dine a horde like this.”

  Her stomach fluttered and Quinn snapped, “Why does everything always come back to money for you?”

  His mouth twisted. “I’m a computer analyst. Or, I used to be. Can you deduct your expenses as a total tax write-off?”

  Quinn stared. Money didn’t consume Pierce, who was born a banker.

  “I’m not being nosy,” Rex said. “I’m interested. Someday, I want to throw a bash like this.”

  Longing or hope or some emotion Quinn didn’t recognize sucked her in. “I invited forty friends.”

  Plus Brittany and you. She bit her tongue and swallowed the remark.

  More guests came through the door, hugged Quinn, and entered Nancee’s fairyland. Waiting for more arrivals, she said, “For your information, I don’t deduct this on my taxes.”

  “Why not?” His yellow eyes narrowed—as if she were pulling a joke on him.

  “Because I have no intention of discussing business tonight. This is a Thanksgiving celebration.”

  “Why here? Why not in your home? You have a great house.”

  A little shiver tiptoed down her back.

  “I’ve only seen it from the outside, of course. Three years ago, remember?”

  His eagerness made it impossible to say no. She nodded. “You took me to dinner at Plaza Three the night Pierce hired you.”

  “That was about the best night of my life.”

  Afraid he expected the same admission from her, Quinn said, “To answer your question. I hold the bash here so we can see the lighting ceremony without getting trampled.”

  “Makes sense, but it’s gotta be expensive.”

  Quinn sighed. God, how had she stepped in this snake’s nest? Where was Pierce? She slid her eyes away from Rex. “I paid Nancee four thousand dollars—about what I’d pay in a good restaurant. Would you like to see the itemized bill?”

  A sheepish look passed over his marred face, surprising her.

  He turned both palms up. “Like I said, I’ve always wanted to go all out like this.”

  Less subtle than Quinn, he looked around, his yellow eyes taking in all the details.

  Itemizing the cost of the flowers, the food, the wine, and the service? She pressed a knuckle against her bottom lip.

  He finished his inspection and looked her straight in the eyes. “You know when you’re supporting a sick mother, you don’t have an extra four-K lying around for blowouts like this.”

  Quinn felt as if she’d just kicked a puppy. Before she could backtrack, three more guests arrived. Her Self-anointed Host with the Mostest greeted them as if they were his best friends. No one even glanced at his birthmark. By the time Quinn finished chatting with the arrivals, he’d disappeared.

  Thank God, she no longer had to explain who he was and why he stood at her side. Pierce caught her eye and waved from across the room. Their ESP was tuned into the same channel. They zigzagged through the packed bodies. Quinn’s heart missed several beats then settled into a soft flutter.

  The slow, sexy smile Pierce threw her melted the bones in her toes.

  People closed in on all sides of them, but she felt as if everyone except them vanished. Michael’s face flashed, but she stopped and cocked a hip toward Pierce, enjoying the quiver behind her knees.

  He closed the distance. His hand rested in the small of her back, sending several megawatts of electricity tingling up her elbow. He whispered, “You and Rex joined at the hip?”

  She turned in a small circle. “Where is he, do you know?”

  Pierce snorted, and his nostrils flared. “Vampires don’t eat regular food, do they? He probably flew down to The Plaza to see if he can find some fresh blood.”

  “Yuk.” She stepped back, recoiling from Pierce’s sarcasm.

  “Sorry. Guess I resent his acting like your lover more than I realize.”

  “Are you insane?”

  “Yes. I had a small mental breakdown while he played Squire of the Manor.” Pierce laughed, but there was no humor in the sound. “Was the
weasel hitting on you—or does he have indigestion?”

  “Will you shut up? He’s less than ten feet behind you.”

  “And your point is?” Pierce turned slowly.

  “Stop flaring your nostrils,” Quinn hissed.

  “Habit. It’s a guy thing.”

  Rex stood alone in a darkened corner—away from food and drink. The intensity of his stare raised the little hairs on the back of Quinn’s neck. She fingered her earring. From this distance, she might have described his birthmark as a heavy five o’clock shadow.

  “What if he heard us?”

  “Think he read your lips? Believe me, he wants to do more than read them.”

  “That was a mega-breakdown, by the way.”

  “Okay, I lied.”

  “Let’s mingle.” She squeezed his warm hand. “We can talk later.”

  Wherever she went around the room, she sensed Rex’s eyes boring into her skull. He wasn’t eating, but she caught him chugging champagne as she flitted from one group to another.

  When Pierce brought her a plate piled with food, he asked, “Is Count Dracula’s Cousin Rex from New Orleans by any chance?”

  “Stop calling him that.” Instead of shame, she felt an almost hysterical urge to giggle.

  “Okay,” Pierce capitulated. “But is he from New Orleans?”

  Trying to keep her eyes away from Rex’s corner, she shook her head. “You know he’s from St. Louis.”

  “Well, he must have Louisiana ancestors then ’cause he’s either trying to hex us or spook us with that steely look of his. Don’t let him get any of your hair or fingernail clippings. That way he can’t make a voodoo doll—”

  “Pierce. Please. I’m getting uncomfortable. We’re acting like adolescents.”

  He shot her an unreadable look. “Okay, I’ll back off. And to show you my heart’s in the right place, I’ll even go over and talk to him. Will that count as sufficient penance?”

  Her ears rang. “Not a good idea—”