When he finally arrived at The Silver Strand, he was twenty-five minutes late and in a mood. Why did the water main have to break right near his exit? And why did the detour have to loop the entire city? And why had he let his sister talk him into doing something he had absolutely no desire to do?
He’d just backed the Audi into a parking space when Danielle raced out of the boutique and slid into the seat beside him. “Hi.”
Quinn blinked and did a double take. “What in God’s name did you do to your hair?”
“I got it cut.”
“That’s an understatement.” All that gorgeous hair, whacked off to just below her chin. “Why?”
She shrugged, touched her hair as though she weren’t sure it was really hers. “Evie thought it would be better if I disguised myself in some way, a camouflage of sorts.”
“Like a female robin.”
“I guess.”
“Beautiful birds that make themselves ugly to protect their young. You’ve got no young and no reason to continue with the camouflage.” He wasn’t going to tell her that his man, Butch Cooker, called this morning to tell him somebody had used Alexander Maldonando’s Mastercard twice in the past week; Arizona and Texas. Credit card theft happened all the time. Still, he had Cooker rechecking his report but Danielle didn’t need to know that.
She touched her hair again and said, “I needed a change.”
Damn his mother. Quinn threw the car into drive and pulled onto the street. “No, you didn’t.”
“I almost dyed it, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.”
“Don’t.”
She looked away, her fingers sifting through the folds of her dress. It was a wispy lavender concoction that made her pale skin glisten. The fabric hugged her small breasts and he wondered for one insane second if the skin there would be even whiter than the rest of her. This thought annoyed him so he said, “You’re too skinny to wear your hair so short. It makes you look like a giraffe.”
She bit her lip and said, “Annie bribed you to take me to dinner, didn’t she?”
“No.” But the denial fell out rushed and insincere.
“Please take me back to Arianna’s.”
He ignored her and flicked the signal for the entrance to the highway. “Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“You said what you meant.”
“No, I didn’t.” He really could be a jerk sometimes. “It doesn’t matter what you do to your hair, long, short, bald, you’d still be beautiful.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“I’m just partial to long hair.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Can we start over?”
“Okay.” She turned to him. “Hi, I’m Eve Maldonando.”
“No, you’re Danielle.”
“Well, I’m really Eve.”
“No, you aren’t. If you want to make a convincing disappearance, you’ve got to do it one hundred percent. You can’t slip in and out of character like you’re on stage.”
“Okay. Hello, I’m Danielle.”
“Hello, Danielle, nice to meet you. Quinn Burnes.” He reached for her hand and shook it. Her skin felt soft and silky against his. Her name was Danielle. Not Eve. Who was he protecting, himself or her? From what? A woman named Eve or a fabrication named Danielle? And why did this woman bother him so much? Quinn popped in a CD and let the symphonic Rolling Stones fill the rest of the fifteen minute trip. Danielle sat back and closed her eyes, probably as thankful as he that no further talking was required.
When they reached El Charro’s, Quinn escorted her into the Mexican restaurant that boasted 2 for 1 Margarita’s and an extra hot secret salsa dip that the owner’s grandfather, Manuel Rodriguez, created thirty years ago when he opened the restaurant’s doors. The host stuffed them into a corner booth in a 12x14 room crammed with tables, chairs, red plastic jalapeno pepper tablecloths, and an assortment of parrot piñatas dangling from the rafters. The relaxed, festive atmosphere calmed Quinn and by the time the waiter returned with their drinks, a Corona for him, an iced tea for her, he was in an almost pleasant mood. “So, how old are you today? Twenty-six? Twenty-seven?”
“Thirty.”
“Really?” He took a swig of beer. “You don’t look a day over twenty-seven. Maybe it’s the hair.”
She smiled. “Just for that, wait until the next time you see me. It’ll be flaming red or maybe, peroxide blond.”
He narrowed his gaze on her. “You don’t know how to take a compliment, do you?”
“You don’t know how to give one, do you?”
“Touché.”
“Speaking of compliments, I owe you one. If it weren’t for you, I’d still be wondering if Alexander was out there somewhere. I know you did it for Arianna, but still, I’m grateful.”
He was glad he hadn’t said anything about the charge cards. “You’re welcome.” He took another swallow of beer, uncomfortable with her words. Women fed him sugared compliments all the time, usually because they wanted something, but this one seemed real and that was dangerous.
Their waiter approached and asked them in wobbly English if they’d like another drink. He must have been eyeing them from a corner of the room, calculating the exact second Quinn would set down his empty glass. When he left, Quinn asked, “So, what other skills did you learn about the art of being elusive?”
Pink seeped into her cheeks. “I don’t think you really want to know.”
“Sure, I do,” he said, planting both elbows on the table and leaning forward. “I’m very curious to hear what she had to say.”
“She talked about appearance, and speech,” she paused, “and paying with cash.”
“Ah, yes, the almighty dollar. Do you have money?”
“Some.”
“It takes more than some to get by.”
“Arianna said I can stay until I get enough saved to move on.”
“To where?”
She shrugged. “Anywhere.”
Quinn toyed with his napkin, folding it into small, symmetrical squares as he forced out the next words, “How did she tell you to deal with the ones you left behind?”
“Quinn, don’t do this.”
He ignored the awkwardness in her voice. “Surely, she must have given you some pointers on how to ditch your family.”
“I think she’s sorry.”
His head shot up and he spat out, “Sorry and Evie Burnes are mutually exclusive.”
“She said she had to forget about all of you or she’d go mad.”
“Right. She saved herself, and sacrificed us.”
“No.”
“Sure she did. Could you walk out on your kids?”
“She was beaten and abused. Who knows what that does to a person?”
“Right.” She didn’t have a clue about the truth.
“I don’t know what I would have done given those circumstances.”
Memories clogged his brain, propelling him to fifteen again. “Just think of it. One day you’re making them French toast and sewing on Girl Scout badges and the next you’re swapping ID’s.”
Danielle clasped her hands around her iced tea. “She did say to avoid fake ID’s.”
“First good piece of advice she’s given you.”
“Quinn?” She looked at him, her blue eyes swallowing her face. “She said you used to paint.”
Damn Evie Burnes and her big mouth. “That was a long time ago.”
“Why did you stop?” she asked softly.
He stretched a smile over his lips and glanced at her breasts. “I discovered girls.” His gaze shifted from the curve of her breasts to her collarbone, her throat, her chin, nose, eyes . . .
“Why are you doing that?”
“What?”
“Trying to turn things sexual because the topic’s uncomfortable?”
“I’m not allowed to admire your attributes?”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” she said in a tight voice.
>
“Sorry, but if you don’t want men looking, don’t wear outfits like that,” he said, pointing to her lavender dress.
“There’s nothing wrong with this dress.”
He laughed which seemed to infuriate her.
“There’s nothing sexual about this dress. No dipping neckline, no see-through material, no high hem.”
“Which is exactly why it’s sexual.”
She threw him a disgusted look. “That makes absolutely no sense.”
“Think about it. It’s human nature to want what you can’t have. If a woman flaunts her stuff in front of everybody, a guy might look but he’ll wonder how many other guys have looked and touched. He loses interest. But if her clothes tease him with just enough to make him start fantasizing, well, then she’s got him.”
“Thanks for the Sex Education lesson, according to Quinn Burnes.”
He saluted her with his drink and said, “You’re welcome.”
“Even though you’re way off base,” she continued, “unless you’re just into shallow, meaningless relationships.”
He winked at her. “They’re my specialty.” That would annoy the hell out of her and for some insane reason he wanted to do just that right now.
“Good, then I’m safe,” she said dryly.
“Hmmm, don’t be so sure.”
“What?”
He shrugged, and let a scrap of truth slip out. “Maybe you distract me.”
She laughed. “I’m not your type.”
“Oh?” He raised an eyebrow. “How would you know that?”
Her lips turned at the corners. “Arianna.”
“Ah, yes, of course. What’s she told you?”
“The women you date only want you for your money and the sex.”
Chapter 12
“Arianna said that?”
Danielle nodded. “She said more, but I’m not going to repeat it.”
“Thank you, I think.”
“You’re welcome.” Her smile spread, illuminating her eyes, her skin, her lips. At this moment she might well be one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen. His gaze fell to her lips again, lingered there. She opened her mouth and ran her tongue over them.
“Quinn?”
He jerked his gaze to hers. “What?”
“Our food’s here.”
He spent the rest of the meal stuffing chicken burritos into his mouth and trying to figure out what the hell had happened between them. Was he insane? He didn’t even like the woman, so why was he lusting after her? Not that a person had to necessarily like someone to lust after them, but why this woman?
He needed to get his head together before he did something else stupid, like try to kiss her. That would be a mistake. Wouldn’t it? Quinn tore into his second burrito, polishing the whole thing off without even trying to enlist casual conversation. He did remember his manners and had a trio of musicians sing Danielle Happy Birthday and the hostess even brought fried ice cream and cake with a candle in it. Danielle watched him as she cut the cake, like she expected him to sit there and have a piece, share, maybe share a piece of himself, too. That wasn’t going to happen. He excused himself and left her to celebrate with the hostess and three singers.
The drive home proved even quieter than the last half of the dinner. The Coronas and Quinn’s lustful thoughts threw him into a morose mood which only intensified with Danielle’s silence. He let out a long breath when he spotted the lights of The Silver Strand, glad the evening would soon be over.
“Thank you for dinner.”
She spoke before he pulled into a parking spot. Seemed she was just as anxious as he was to get this disaster of a night over as soon as possible. “You’re welcome.” Quinn shifted the car into park. Half a minute of niceties and he could leave.
She reached for the door handle and said in a flat voice, “Consider your duty done.”
“Danielle.” He touched her arm and she turned toward him, her face half-illuminated by the street light. A perfect face. A beautiful face. He wished for a second he could be a different kind of man, a better man. “I’m sorry.”
“Why, Quinn? Why’d you leave me sitting there with those strangers, looking like a fool? Couldn’t you have just stayed? Was it that important to show everyone we weren’t a couple?”
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t treat people like that.” Her eyes glistened. “No matter how much money you have, it’s not right.”
He pulled her to him, desperate to quiet her, equally desperate to kiss her. It was madness, yet that didn’t stop him from seeking her mouth, her tongue, her breast. He stroked her nipple through the gauzy lavender material, caressed her tongue with his and coaxed her to do the same. She tasted like Heaven. Pure. Honest. Tantalizing. He lost himself in the feel of her and he didn’t care. He wanted more.
Danielle jerked away.
Quinn eased back into his seat and stared straight ahead. The city had begun to settle in for the night, wrapped in the cool breeze of summer relief but inside the car, it was sweltering. What the hell had he done? And why? No woman had ever wielded such control over him, not since his mother. It had to stop. Now. He waited until his breathing steadied and said, “Well, at least now we know.”
“Know?” The word trembled through her lips.
He would not look at her. “The sex would be lousy.” In seconds she was gone, from his car, from his life. It was better this way, better to lie sometimes than stand and face the truth.
***
The Carlson’s were back, wedged into Quinn’s chairs like marshmallows, their excess oozing over the sides. They had come for another meeting, bearing more doctor’s reports and test results, testimonies to Carl Carlson’s incapacitation.
“We was talking to Larry and Rose Klapert,” Roberta Carlson said. “They got themselves some fancy lawyer in Pittsburgh who’s suing WalMart for not chaining up their bicycles. Their five year old, Kenny, wrecked one of them bikes and broke his collarbone. Can you imagine? The manager was mad at Larry and Rose, said they shouldn’t have let their kid on a bike he couldn’t ride.”
“They shouldn’t have.” Quinn scratched his neck, glanced at his watch.
“How was they to know the training wheels wasn’t attached? They looked like they was.” This from Roberta again.
Carl was extra quiet today, his big hands resting on his belly like the perfect ad for an Alka-Seltzer commercial. Quinn noticed his left hand wasn’t bandaged. “Mr. Carlson,” Quinn said, “is your hand any better?” Hard to tell about the knee since the Carlson’s both did the limp-waddle.
“It’s okay.” He avoided his wife’s beady glare. “It’s slow, but I’m getting around.”
“Carl!” Roberta Carlson pounced on her husband in a high, squeaky voice reminding him once again of Betsy, the pet pig they’d once had. “This is the first time you’ve been out of bed in a week.”
He shot his wife a dark look. “It ain’t got nothing to do with my knee.”
“Oh, good Lord, is this about that woman?” Carl’s head sunk to his chest but he remained silent. His wife jerked her head around to address Quinn. “His mother died a week ago. You’d of thought she was the blessed Mother herself what with the way he’s been carrying on. The woman was eighty-four years old, living with his sister and her five kids, with no memory past 1988. She was mean to boot. Every time Carl went to visit her, she asked him to bring her this or that. Apples, but they had to be Jonagold’s, or candy, nothing but the best, Russell Stover’s, and Stella Dora’s. Don’t think those Stella Dora’s are cheap either. Not that she left him a red penny, mind you. All that went to his sister, Lucille.”
“I didn’t care about the money. Lucy’s the one who gave up her job to take care of Ma.”
“Ha, you mean stuffing crème in donuts?” Flaps of flesh jiggled as Roberta Carlson nodded at Quinn and repeated, “Not a red penny.”
“I was supposed to visit her last week, the day we come to see you, Mr. Burnes.” C
arl’s eyes glossed with a mix of regret and misery. “She asked for me, but I came here instead.” His voice quivered. “I came to talk about money, and after, when we stopped by . . .”
“She didn’t remember nothin’ past 1988, Carl. She wouldn’t have known you was there.”
“I would have known.”
Roberta shook her head again and crossed her arms over her huge chest. “Fine. You would have. Where’s that get us now?”
Carl pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket, wiped his eyes and blew his nose. He directed his next words at Quinn. “I’m not wanting to sue anymore, Mr. Burnes.”
“Carl!” his wife squealed.
“I thank you for your time, and you go on ahead and send a bill.”
“Carl, wait. You don’t know what you’re saying. You have permanent damage. What about the surgeries, the therapy, the disability?”
“Insurance took care of most of it.” He shrugged and said, “It was an accident, Roberta. Them people meant me no harm and it ain’t right to take something from them just because they got it.”
“You’re upset.” She looked at Quinn, desperation in her beady eyes. “It’s his mother. He hasn’t been the same since her death. Give him a few weeks, he’ll come around and see the right of it. Can’t you just, you know, keep things in motion?”
“It’s up to Mr. Carlson.” Quinn was rooting for the big man to push past his big-mouthed wife.
“I won’t be pressing no charges.” Carl Carlson wiped his eyes with a beefy hand. “All that money wouldn’t bring my Ma back. It’d only be a reminder that I was here, instead of where I should’ve been.”
“Carl, please. Don’t do this.”
“That’s enough, Roberta. I said it’s done.” He hefted himself out of the chair and wobbled to a standing position. “I thank you, Mr. Burnes.” He extended his hand. “Sorry to take up so much of your time.”
“My condolences, Mr. Carlson.” Quinn stood and shook his hand before turning to Roberta Carlson.
She opened her mouth, closed it, then she too, squeezed out of her chair. “Good bye, Mr. Burnes.”
Pieces of You Page 8