Noelle sat lengthwise on the leather couch, propped on pillows, a Brandenburg concerto playing softly on the stereo, warm sunlight bringing color to her cheeks. Liam sat across from her, building with Legos. Not quite back to his rambunctious self, his quick improvement might mean a smooth recovery for Noelle too.
He asked if she had Quinn’s phone number.
“You don’t?” She feigned shock, but it was only partly feigned. “Your own fiancée?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
She’d been ribbing him from the moment Quinn left. She didn’t realize he’d been working on a plan since the idea occurred. Quinn’s “final” answer had been equivocal, her criminal and work history background as clean as newly fallen snow. Didn’t hurt to think positively.
Noelle relented. “She’s in my contacts.”
“Thanks.” He located her phone on the arm of the couch, entered the number into his, and went out. The tension in his stomach kicked up a notch when the no-longer-in-service message came on. Changing her number might have been smart, given the harassment, but there was that thing she’d said. “I’m ready to run.”
Whether the danger was real or not, her perception of it was. The idea that she might actually go caused a discomfort he didn’t analyze but couldn’t ignore. He closed his eyes and raised his face to the sun. After a while, he keyed another number, and when RaeAnne answered, he asked how it went.
“Just great! She got in fine and I saw her off this morning. We had the best time.”
That sounded positive, but would Quinn have told RaeAnne her fears, or just pretended she was fine? “Do you have her phone number?”
“Oh sure. Just a sec.” She gave him the one he’d already tried.
“Okay. Thanks, RaeAnne.” When Rick rode in and handed Livie down, he said, “Do you know where Quinn lives?”
Rick shook his head. “I only saw her at Vera’s. And here.”
There had to be . . . And then he had a thought. She’d done business on his laptop. He could check his history, contact her through e-mail. Maybe. It was worth a try. “Come on, jelly bean. Let’s find Queen.”
Quinn parked the truck on the paved road, more willing to walk a ways to her door than leave deep ruts in the driveway. The day was beyond beautiful, springlike, melted snow dripping from the trees like raindrops. The wet ground smelled fresh, the air warm and clear. Mountain chickadees flitted in the dripping trees. Crows cawed. High above, a hawk or eagle made a silent gyre, as though no winged thing could be still on such a day in winter.
It was all for show, because tomorrow it would probably snow again. The next front could drop temperatures below zero. But today the mountains shone like a scene from The Sound of Music. After the time with RaeAnne, her heart felt light enough to sing.
She reached for her carryon bag as her phone indicated an incoming e-mail. She’d added a data plan on the new number, so she wouldn’t need someone else’s device to check mail again. Digging the phone from her bag, she brought the message up, slumping when she saw the sender. She was not eager to deal with Morgan.
Sighing, she took a look at the message. Checking that you got back all right. Hopefully no hassle. Call, if you don’t mind, to let me know.
Not wanting to talk, she touched Reply. Back fine. No hassle. RaeAnne’s happy. Thanks.
She hit Send and tugged her tote free. Before she had the truck door closed a new message came. Can we talk?
No. We can’t. She didn’t want to hear his voice. She wanted to hear the birds that had strangely gone silent. She looked into the bare sky. No eagle.
She trudged to the house on spongy ground and paused, key in hand, when she reached the stoop and saw the door hanging loose against the splintered jamb. Heart thumping, she nudged the door with her elbow, stared long enough to see her shredded couch, her books ripped up and scattered, her clothes hanging in strips from the balcony. Legs turning to jelly, she ran to her truck, shoved her bag inside, and cranked the engine.
Yes, Morgan, we can talk. If she could breathe. The destruction in her house had taken time, energy, and rage. The message was clear. Markham wasn’t only after what he’d lost, he wanted to hurt her. Driving to Rick’s ranch, she forced the terror down and thanked God there was nothing at her place that connected to the Spencers.
Every ten seconds she checked her rearview, but no one followed. Markham should have waited for her there, knowing she’d see the wreckage and run. Not very smart for a prophet. Please, God, help me. Morgan had offered her a new name. It felt bad that she couldn’t keep her side of the bargain, but she’d been found, and that changed everything.
She knocked at his cabin, but no one answered. She hurried to the house, and he came out, head cocked, before she reached the door. The warmth in his face almost undid her. She wanted the cold business proposal, the reasonable merger. She wanted the imperious look he gave her when he told her to leave the locket.
“I only requested a call.” A breeze lifted the hair over his forehead.
“I know.” She swallowed, making herself meet his eyes, which studied her curiously under the dark, angled brows. “But I came to say I accept the merger.”
He stilled. “More threats?”
Of course he’d jump to that conclusion, not missing a thing, even if she were half skilled at hiding it. “I need a different name.” Admitting it brought tears to her eyes. If he changed his mind, she was on her own. She looked away, blinking hard. “If you didn’t mean it, say so.”
“I meant it.” He clasped her shoulder. “But I thought you—”
“I overreacted. Now I’ve had time to think.” She drew and released a hard breath. “Can we do it now?” She didn’t want to look desperate. She tried to look decisive. Her other choice was to take off—but if Markham found her here, how would she hide anywhere?
Lightly gripping her chin, he lifted her face. Staring into her teary eyes, he said, “Okay.”
No questions, no argument. The single word quaked in her chest. Was this the biggest mistake of her life? She pictured her little home destroyed. No. She’d already made that one.
Surprised but determined, Morgan led Quinn into the great room, where Noelle sat with Liam and Livie prancing, neighing, and pawing her. She had barely greeted Quinn with visible delight before he said, “I know you’re not at full strength, but could you keep Livie for a few days?”
“Of course, but . . . what for?” She looked at Quinn and back to him.
This wouldn’t go over well, but the shaking in Quinn’s hands, the hunted look in her eyes proved he’d been closer than he knew in his concerns. She was ready to bolt, and this would accomplish what she wanted and keep her close. “We’re getting married.”
Noelle’s eyes showed the shock he’d expected, though she was too well bred to gape. He’d already explained his side of the plan when she questioned his “proposal.” He’d kept Quinn’s issue out of the explanation, because frankly he knew too little and it wasn’t his tale to tell.
“We’ll be back as soon as possible.”
She shook her head, at a loss for words.
He said, “Where’s Rick?”
“With a breeder, discussing spring foals.”
Livie stopped galloping and grabbed his leg. “I a horsey, Daddy.”
“A fine princess pony.” Kneeling down, he hugged and kissed her. “I have to go away for just a little while. Okay?”
When her face clouded, he added quickly, “Not as long as last time. I promise.” He held her tightly when she started to cry. This would only add a little to his already planned absence, and on the back side Quinn could help with her care. That would be new and fun for Livie. But how did you explain that to a two-year-old? He handed her to Noelle, a default they both understood.
She drew Livie in but caught his arm. “Are you sure this a good idea?”
“We’re managing a situation.”
“With marriage?”
“Trust me.” He brushed her arm, a little offended that it w
asn’t automatic. “Solving problems is my raison d’être.” He looked into her face, reminding her of what she knew, at least what he hoped she knew. If he didn’t trust this course, he wouldn’t follow it.
He’d hardly closed the door behind them when Quinn said, “I don’t want to cause trouble with your family.”
“There’s no trouble.” Noelle was the least of his concerns. “Do you have a passport?”
“Yes.”
“On you?”
“Always.” The tiny hitch when she said it was telling.
“We’ll need your birth certificate.”
“All my important papers are in my truck. When I heard he was released, I got everything ready, in case I had to leave in a hurry.”
“Good foresight.” And because she’d said she was ready to run, he’d prepared as well.
Pulling his borrowed Tahoe back into position behind the steel barn, Markham Wilder continued his watch on Quinn’s house. The supplies he’d purchased would keep him another day or two before he made another run into town. He opened a package of cheese-filled crackers and chewed in morose silence. Sooner or later she’d come home and find his welcoming tableau.
She might think she’d been robbed. Maybe her first thoughts would be of him. If not, her next ones would. Maybe she’d call the police, whatever law enforcement this place had. She’d try to have him arrested, but he wasn’t stupid. He’d been wearing gloves. And even if some miracle on their part put him inside, he’d say he found the place wrecked and was afraid for her. Quinn wouldn’t buy that, but he could sell it to the rest.
He chewed a cracker, contemplating the vandalism. The only part that bothered him was its spontaneity. He couldn’t afford to act without thinking. Still, it sent a message, and he couldn’t wait to watch her receive it.
He wanted to see fear on her face. Fear and regret, and even hope that she could make it right. She’d make it right, but that wasn’t enough.
Like the people he’d eliminated before, Quinn had made him suffer. Because of her, he’d experienced the degradation of prison. He’d lost four years of his life. Because of her, his cache was gone. But not . . . irrevocably.
CHAPTER
14
Driving on autopilot, Morgan ticked off in his mind the things he’d put in motion and the things they would still need to do. At the small mountain airport, he parked the Range Rover and chartered a flight to New York. When the crew arrived, he motioned Quinn up the steps into the jet, half surprised she didn’t balk. Since she’d been practically silent, he thought she might be talking herself out of the plan.
She only said, “Where will we go from New York?”
He told her, “You’ll see,” and Quinn-like, she let it go. That was either trust or resignation.
She’d already flown twice in three days and looked a little weary as she buckled in beside him. Shortly after takeoff she closed her eyes. Her hand slipped down her side, the strong yet delicate fingers dangling. For the better part of the flight, he watched her sleep, watched the dreams move beneath her eyelids, studied the peaked line of her eyebrows, the narrow bridge of her nose.
Some heritage less fair than traditional Irish had given her skin a bronzer tone that matched her brown eyes. Her boldly formed lips were parted slightly in slumber, the breath passing softly through them. One shoulder hunched beneath her tipped head, and he thought of how it had fit inside his palm.
She had clipped her hair into a black plastic claw, but spirals fell loose in a way he could hardly keep from touching. It was the first thing he’d noticed and the most persistent. He wanted to bunch his hands into her hair.
The thought startled him. Quinn would be his wife on paper only, physically off-limits, their hearts unengaged. His mind did violence to the concept, but that was the agreement. She stirred and made a small, soft noise. She’d accepted a merger, not a proposal. He didn’t think for a minute her choice of the word accidental.
And still, he imagined running his thumb down the slope of her cheek, the line of her neck. His throat constricted. He needed to resist the attraction—and not only attraction but fascination. Appreciation. Things more lasting than chemistry, though he suspected that was there too.
If Rick hadn’t prompted him to offer a job, would he have asked her out? Could he even consider dating? His mouth twisted wryly. No dating, only marriage. He shook his head. He’d taken risks in his life, but this was the closest to playing with fire he’d come in a long time.
Quinn woke when they landed in New York, something vulnerable showing through her composure, as though she sensed he’d been watching. Inside JFK she fidgeted while he found a flight to their destination and purchased the tickets. They’d leave at 6:15 p.m. and arrive in Paris at 7:30 in the morning.
The knot in her stomach must have shown, because Morgan reached over and squeezed her hand. “It’ll work.”
Maybe. But it wasn’t only her life changing. It was his life too, even if she left. That thought actually hurt, not only the dishonesty, but a sense of real loss. “What was it you said, raison . . . whatever?”
“Raison d’être. Reason for being.”
“You live to fix things?”
He nodded slowly. “Sounds arrogant, doesn’t it?”
“No.” She shook her head. “Not if the core is doing what people can’t do for themselves.” In Morgan’s case, it wasn’t only his vocation but his avocation.
“You do pretty well for yourself, Quinn. This is for both of us. Okay?”
A lump formed in her throat. He was counting on her. She almost told him everything right there and would have, except she needed it so badly.
As the jet began its slow taxi, he said, “Do you have a middle name?”
“Erin.”
“Quinn Erin Reilly. Black Irish?”
“That’s what Pops—my grandfather—calls it.”
“A little Iberian Peninsula in your genetics.” He smiled. “Catholic?”
“Until Pops defected.”
“The one whose hound you’re named for?”
She nodded. “My father was out of the country when I arrived, and my mother wouldn’t act on anything without him. Before she knew what happened, Pops filled out the birth certificate. My father insists it was to keep me from receiving the Christian name he would have chosen.”
Morgan cocked a brow. “Pops on sketchy terms with heaven?”
She slanted him a look. “My dad became a minister in response to Corlin Reilly’s rabid apostasy. In retaliation, he adopted the most rigid faith he could imagine and built a church around it.”
“He could have changed your name.”
“It was only one skirmish in their war.” Though she’d always felt her dad gave up on her there and then, as if the naming gave her into the heathen’s camp. And truth be told, she loved Pops. He was a little like Morgan, larger than life without trying to be. It did break her heart that he battled as hard with God as with his son.
As the jet surged and lifted, he said, “How do you feel about Erin?”
She adjusted to the vertical rise. “It’s fine, why?”
“I think you should be Erin Spencer.”
She frowned. “Why?”
“Not to put too fine a point on it, but Quinn glares like a spotlight.”
She had intended to change her last name when they married. Now she’d be losing her first as well. Even if Quinn came with baggage, it was her connection to Pops and her past. “Just on the certificate, right?”
“Bank accounts, credit cards. We want a good paper trail.”
Everything she needed and more. “Erin Spencer.” A tear leaked from the corner of her eye.
“You were ready to buy a false ID. What if the name available was Brunhilda?”
That forced a grudging laugh. “Guess I didn’t think it through. I thought I’d keep Quinn and—I don’t know—be myself still.” She pressed her fingers between her brows.
He reached over and drew her hand d
own. “None of this changes you.” The kindness in his voice quickened her spirit. “When you look in the mirror, you’ll be the same feisty female of diminutive stature, wayward hair, and winsome way.”
He was teasing, in a good way, his hand on hers warm and firm. “And hey,” he added, “we’re nearly straight Irish on my mother’s side. Erin’s a blessed name.”
His encouragement braced her like a fresh wind in her face. How did he know just what to say? Part of his raison d’être, she supposed.
“So I go by Erin too? I mean when we talk?”
“Talking with anyone. A clean break is safer.”
Erin Spencer. Erin. “What about my passport and everything?”
“We’ll get it figured out.”
“How can you be so sure?”
His smile went all the way into his eyes. Devastating. She hadn’t considered the greatest risk in all of this. Falling for him, heart and soul.
A rare snow was falling on the streets of Paris as the cab carried them from Orly Airport to the town hall, where Justine met them, kissing him on both cheeks and taking Quinn’s hand between hers in a warm welcome. “You know there is nothing I wouldn’t do for you, Morgan, but this haste has stretched even my influence.”
“I know. Thank you.”
An executive with Chanel, Justine was still as long and elegant as when she’d walked the runway. She had wealth, prestige, and close family in both the National Assembly and the Senate. A favor from Justine Gaudet was no small thing.
“You must still have the blood tests, and there is a doctor just down the street to perform them. You have the documents?” Her voice softened when she specified, “The Acte de décès?”
“Yes.” He’d brought Jill’s death certificate.
“The sworn translator in this mairie will transcribe your certificates of birth, certificates of celibacy—that you are not married already to others—certificates of law, that you are free to marry and your country will recognize it.”
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