“Ready for more?”
“There’s more?” she whispered.
He swept her into his arms and carried her down the hall. “Don’t expect this kind of a ride every time,” he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I know you like variety.”
“Variety?”
He gently lowered her to his bed and showed her exactly what he meant, loving her as she’d never been loved before, with his heart in his touch and his soul in his gaze. And she gave herself up to him, loving him in return.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
QUINN CLIMBED into his truck well after midnight on Wednesday, bone-tired and brain-dead. Why was it that paperwork could wear a man down like nothing else?
He’d hoped to get back home sooner than this. Tess and Rosie were both there, having themselves a “girls’ night,” whatever the hell that was. He suspected the two of them were scheming, and he was unsure about what he’d find when he arrived.
He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, digging his fingers into his nape and wondering if he could convince Tess to give him a quick massage before she left. If she did, he’d probably pass out, snoring, before she walked out the door—not the kind of impression he’d want to leave her with.
He yawned and shook his head, and then he pulled through the gate and left the motor running while he jogged back to close and lock the fencing. Strips of night fog swirled around the streetlamps, gliding on traces of the day’s lingering warmth, and a couple of cats faced off in a yowling duet somewhere near the marina. No cars passed the waterfront, no lights glowed in the black windows up and down the street or on the boats moored at the docks. Except for Quinn and the cats, everyone in this part of town had turned in hours ago.
He returned to his seat and pulled his car phone from the glove box. He’d call Tess to tell her he was on his way back and try to keep her chatting. His personal talk radio. “Hey, Tess,” he said when she answered.
“Where are you?”
“Headed home.”
“At last,” she said.
He could hear the television in the background, something with a hyperactive rock beat and sarcastic commentary. “Rosie still awake?”
“Hope that’s not a problem.” Tess must have placed her hand over the phone, because her next words were muffled. The television volume decreased a few degrees. “She wanted to wait up for you.”
“No problem.” His truck idled at an intersection, waiting for the signal to change. “How did things go?”
“Fine. We made popcorn and did our nails and talked about boys.”
“Boys?”
“You’d prefer it if we talked about men?”
“No.” He grinned as he pulled through the intersection. “I was wondering what you contributed to the discussion.”
“Hey. I used to date boys.”
“So you provided the expertise.”
“On boys? No way. I don’t know the guys in Rosie’s class.”
Neither did he, Quinn realized. He was suddenly much less sleepy.
“By the way,” Tess said, “you’re out of milk.”
“We had half a carton when I left.”
“Sorry. Hot cocoa to wash down the popcorn.”
Quinn tugged on the wheel and angled around another corner, heading back in the direction he’d come from. “Guess I’ll pick some up at the twenty-four-hour place near the marina on the way there. See you in ten minutes.”
“Okay. Quinn?”
“Yeah?”
“Your kid’s okay.”
He tossed the phone on the paperwork spread on the bench seat beside him, his grin spreading so wide he thought his face would crack. A guy had to fall for a woman who was a sucker for his kid.
Happiness and hope were rusty things, snagging on the tight spots as they struggled up from somewhere deep inside him, scrambling toward the surface. Damn, it felt good. Light and tingly and nearly as heady as one of Tess’s kisses. He’d been afraid to set those feelings loose, to let them spread and settle, but things between him and Tess and Rosie had been going so well lately that it—
He coasted to the curb a couple of blocks from Tidewaters and switched off the ignition. Sinking low in his seat, he waited, nerves taut, for the automatic light to dim and give him another glimpse of what he thought he’d seen. There it was, on the second level, deep within the shadowy angles of Tidewaters’ hulking silhouette. A momentary streak of faint light.
A flashlight’s beam.
He opened his door, slid from the seat to the pavement and carefully closed the truck, holding his breath as the latch caught with a quiet snick. He paused again, crouched beside the black door, grateful for his dark clothing, waiting for another sign the intruder was still there. Again, that faint sweep of light, farther to the north.
The bastard wouldn’t get away with whatever he had planned for tonight.
Quinn darted across the street and down the block, keeping to the shadows beneath the trees dotting the sidewalk, avoiding the fog-misted spotlights below the streetlamps. Stealthily, scanning the construction site every few yards, he moved to the gate, and then he silently swore as he fumbled with the lock in the darkness. He’d forgotten his cell phone in his truck. He couldn’t be sure he’d have time to cut across the site to reach the phone in his trailer, and the squawk of the metal door might give him away.
The combination lock sprang open, and Quinn slipped inside and caught the gate with the latch, leaving it unlocked. He had to move across open space now, in clear view of whoever was up there. He slowly stood, his senses straining, his heart pounding and his breath coming in short puffs. Again, the light, shifting along the north side, and then disappearing.
He focused on the ground and ran a jagged path, skirting the edge of En-Tech’s massive dig. He aimed for the smooth spots where the gravel had settled into the mud, where he’d have less chance of crunching over loose rocks or catching a stone with his boot toe and sending it clanging against a piece of equipment. A dense layer of fog blotted the moonlight as he passed through one of the gaping doorways on the east side of the structure. He ducked behind a stack of siding and paused again, listening for some sound, some sign of discovery or a hint of what the intruder was doing here.
He waited, too, until his breath came in slower, deeper gasps, and it was then that he smelled it. Gasoline. The pungent stench was overpowering.
God. He was going to burn the place down.
Quinn sprinted from his crouch and pounded up the stairs, dashing around partial walls and leaping over piles of material. He slipped on the powdery residue of sawdust and nearly fell against the air compressor, the humid night air clogging his lungs and his pulse throbbing in his ears as he raced toward the place he’d last seen the light. No one there. “I know you’re here,” he shouted. “I’ve called the cops.”
Silence.
Quinn slid through a stud wall, edging toward the open ramp leading to the third floor, his thoughts racing. No plywood cladding on the walls up there, no railing in too many places on that level. He didn’t want to climb up and risk a confrontation and a fall. But the stink of oil hung thick in the mist around him here. He had to get out, to get to the scaffolding or—
He ducked and swung, low, toward the scuffling sound of a footstep behind him, raising an arm to protect his head. Something glanced off his arm, sloshing liquid to blind him and soak his hair before smashing to the floor. Glass shards crunched beneath his boots as he plowed into the figure, taking them both down, hard, on the thick plywood. Shocking pain shot through his jaw, and another blow landed on his head as the intruder grunted and squirmed, a mass of flailing arms and legs. They rolled once, twice, before the intruder shoved and kicked free, catching Quinn in the ribs and punching the breath out of him.
He lurched upright, tangling and tripping in the compressor hose as he staggered toward the black gap in the floor where steps led to the ground level. A moment later a muffled whoomph echoed through the structure, and f
lames licked up the stair opening to spread in oily waves along the floor, flowing toward his feet.
He dove for an opening in the plywood wall and dropped to the ground two levels below. He landed crookedly, an ankle twisting beneath him. Rolling to his back, his breath burst from his throat in a strangled grunt and he stared up at Tidewaters, glowing orange and gold, cloaked in roiling black smoke. The air crackled and stank of fuel and burning pitch. “No.”
The sound of an engine whined over the roar of the fire. Quinn struggled to his feet and stumbled toward the headlight beams shining on the trailer. He detoured to the chop saw raised on its temporary sawhorse, grabbed a crowbar and swung as the dark truck moved past him. The windshield cracked and the bar caught in its frame. The driver swerved, dragging Quinn through the gravel and mud before the truck’s tires skidded and spun, seeking purchase along the sharp edge of the spill excavation. The chassis shuddered and tilted over the yawning gap, and Quinn’s legs swung over nothingness as he lost his grip on the bar.
He tumbled into the hole and rolled, digging and clawing and scrambling away from the edge, out from beneath the pickup he was sure would roll onto its side and crush him. But in the next breath he heard the thud and ping of rocks pelting the depression around him, and he curled into a tight ball, covering his head to protect it from the rear tire as it gained traction. Pea gravel stung his back like wasps.
He hauled himself to his knees to peer beyond the rim of the excavation, watching as the truck crashed through the gate, one fence section collapsing and catching on its hood to trawl behind, out into the street. And then the stiff wire section clattered to the pavement as the truck picked up speed and disappeared into the siren-screaming distance.
“WHEN DID Dad say he was coming home?” Rosie switched channels again, and Tess snatched the remote from her hand.
“Ten minutes.”
“Ten minutes was up ten minutes ago. It’s tomorrow already. He missed our party.”
“That’s what we get for planning a surprise party. The surprise is on us.” Tess tried to shrug off the trickle of anxiety, but she glanced toward the window. “He’ll be here.”
“I’m tired.” Rosie yawned and flipped over, stretching out on her stomach. “Call him again.”
“He’ll think I’m nagging.”
“He’s used to it.”
“I don’t nag.”
“Ha.”
Tess muttered something uncomplimentary about the kid as she dug through her purse for her phone. She punched in Quinn’s number, waited through the ring tones and got his voice mail. “He’s not answering.”
“He always answers.” Rosie shifted upright. “Something’s wrong.”
“Maybe the batteries ran low. Maybe he left it in his car when he went into the store,” she said, although she knew he wouldn’t do that. He always had a phone with him. He wanted to stay in touch with his daughter. “Maybe—”
Sirens squealed to life, nerve-racking and earsplitting and so close Tess jumped from the sofa. “What’s that?”
“The fire department.” Rosie stumbled to the window and stared down at the street. “It’s right around the corner.”
“No kidding.” Tess rubbed her arms. “How do you sleep through that?”
“We don’t.” Rosie turned, her face streaked and dotted with the ghastly glow of neon strobes. “What if that’s for Dad?”
“It’s not.”
“What if it is?” Rosie ran to her room. “I’m getting my coat,” she called over her shoulder.
“Good idea.” Tess flinched as another screaming vehicle roared down the street below the apartment window. She grabbed her jacket. “Let’s go.”
She locked the door behind Rosie, and they raced together down the hall.
TESS TRAILED the wailing sirens through the heart of town, breaking several traffic laws as she drove her roadster toward the hellfire coiling red and black above the bay fog. Oh God oh God oh God. Tidewaters. Quinn.
Her car shot through the gaping hole where the gate had been and spun to a stop beside a fire engine. She crawled out, grabbed Rosie’s hand and barreled through a knot of emergency crew, legs pumping, heart pounding, breath burning in her tight throat.
“Let me through,” she yelled when one of the fire-fighters made a grab to stop her. Another stepped into her path, and she let go of Rosie’s hand to try to shove past him. He grabbed her by the waist. “Let me go.”
“Wait a minute, lady.” Another firefighter nabbed Rosie by her coat sleeve. “You can’t go up there.”
“My dad’s up there,” Rosie said.
“No one’s up there.”
“Are you sure?” Tess sagged in the firefighter’s arms. “How can you be sure?”
“Crawford.” A man in a different uniform stepped forward. “Take these women to the trailer.”
The firefighter named Crawford gripped Tess’s arm and Rosie’s and escorted them to the trailer. Along one of its corrugated metal sides, visible in the pulsing neon of the emergency vehicles, Tess saw huge lettering in an ugly, spray-painted scrawl—the acronym of a terrorist organization.
Environmental terrorists.
“No civilians past this point.” A police officer stepped from the shadows near the trailer’s door and met them at a bobbing line of yellow crime-scene ribbon. “Take these women back out to the street.”
“This is Quinn’s daughter,” Tess said, yanking her arm free of Crawford’s grip.
“And who are you?” the officer asked.
Tess opened her mouth to reply and froze. The project architect. Quinn’s lover. A friend. None of the phrases seemed to have enough power to get her past the barrier and through that door to be by Quinn’s side, to see for herself if he was all right.
“She’s my dad’s fiancée,” Rosie told the men.
Crawford raised the yellow crime-scene tape. “Let them through.”
Tess followed Rosie toward the short metal steps. “Why did you tell them I’m his fiancée?”
“I saw it in a movie.” She shot Tess a bland glance over her shoulder. “It worked, didn’t it?”
“This is real life, kid,” Tess said as she shoved the trailer door open. “No happy endings here.”
Inside, two men in uniform stood at the counter, and beyond them, in his desk chair, sat Quinn.
“Dad!”
Rosie dashed around the corner and threw herself into his arms. He scooped her up and into his lap, burying his face in her hair for a long moment before looking up, across the room, to where Tess stood.
She took a step forward and then stopped, staring at him, at his sticky hair and bloodshot eyes, at his torn and muddied clothing. And she breathed in the smell of him, the sickly sweet smell of whiskey that permeated the air around him.
“You’re okay,” she said.
“Yeah.”
“Good,” she managed.
And then, her heart numb and her brain buzzing, she crumpled and crept into the safety of a familiar, black nothingness deep inside, and she turned and walked out the door.
CHAPTER TWENTY
QUINN SAGGED against the unforgiving back of the wooden visitor’s chair in Reed Oberman’s corner of the police station late Thursday morning, feeling every bruise he’d acquired the night before. He’d taken Rosie home and tucked her into bed, showered and collapsed on his own mattress. And then he’d lain awake, staring at his ceiling, reliving the night’s events. Reliving the surging rage and the heart-stopping terror and the knee-buckling pain, until the evening shadows faded to filmy daylight.
Hunger and thirst had driven him from bed shortly after seven, and he’d limped through the front room, heading toward the kitchen, hoping a bowl of cereal and a glass of juice would cure the insomnia that exhaustion hadn’t been able to dent. It was then that he’d discovered what Tess had done, what he hadn’t noticed a few hours earlier when he’d carried a sleeping Rosie down the hall.
His front room had been painted a soft, s
ilvery green. Plump new pillows on his old brown sofa picked up the beautiful color in lively tones, and a watercolor print of a lighthouse on a sandy shore hung on the wall above. She’d managed to make his run-down, secondhand space seem updated and inviting without changing much of anything at all.
Imagine what she might have done with me, he’d thought, if she’d cared enough to stick around and try.
He’d stared at the walls and the print, at the pretty bakery cake and festive party things arranged on his coffee table. And then he’d closed his eyes and seen again the revulsion in her face when she’d come close enough to smell Wade’s whiskey on his clothes, and he’d heard again her flat, emotionless voice when she’d turned her back on him.
Damn. Needing Tess more than he’d ever needed a drink was a hell of an improvement in his addictions. He’d stood there, in that room she’d brightened, fighting the pressure building in his chest and the thick, hot pain clogging his throat. And then he’d returned to his room to dress.
After leaving Neva to watch over his still-sleeping daughter, he’d come to the police station to make another statement and check on the status of the investigation. He had to do something, make some sort of progress. Like a shark, if he stopped moving, he’d drown.
Reed returned to his cubicle and dropped heavily into his desk chair. He rubbed a hand over his reddened eyes and sighed. “Wade isn’t changing his story. He’s still insisting he acted alone.”
“Did you offer him a deal?”
“Working on it.” Reed tipped back in his creaky chair and yawned. “Still trying to convince the DA there’s enough evidence to point to an accessory.”
“There isn’t any evidence.”
“There’s the problem.” Reed frowned. “It’s not that I don’t believe you, it’s just that—”
“It’s easier to hang this on Wade and forget about the conspiracy angle.”
Reed nodded. “We’ve got a witness, we’ve got a truck showing damage consistent with reported events, we’ve got forensic evidence in that same truck and on Wade’s clothes. And we’ve got a confession. It’s an open-and-shut case.”
A Small-Town Homecoming Page 19