by Debby Conrad
“I don’t want to write a book. And even if I did, I wouldn’t exploit my family that way. By the way, have you found a storefront for me yet?”
“As a matter of fact, I’ve found several locations you may be interested in. As soon as your family leaves, we’ll go out and take a look. Okay?”
Bailey smiled with satisfaction. She was going to be a shopkeeper soon. How exciting!
When Doyle brought Bailey’s soup and Gwen’s sandwich, he said, “Stanley was surprised to see you here.”
I’ll bet, she thought, being careful to stay out of Quinn’s range of sight. “I didn’t get a chance to mention to him that I was coming in today,” she said. “Gwen and I made last minute plans.”
“That’s what I figured. Enjoy your lunch,” he said, walking away.
Bailey plunked her elbows on the table and buried her face in her hands. She must have been a fool to think he wouldn’t see her.
“What is wrong with you?” Gwen asked, sounding impatient.
Rather than answer, Bailey simply shook her head behind her hands. Gwen wouldn’t understand. She’d probably had plenty of orgasms in her lifetime.
“I want to talk to you,” Quinn’s voice beamed above her.
Bailey quickly dropped her hands and stared icily at him. “Well, I don’t want to talk to you. And besides, I’m busy at the moment.”
“Doing what? Talking about vibrators again?”
Gwen laughed, and Bailey gave her a look. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” she asked, taunting Quinn.
“Yeah, I would. But right now I want to talk to you about your father. Finish your soup and meet me in my office in ten minutes.”
Fuming at the way he’d spoken to her, she pounded a package of cellophane wrapped saltines with her fist, crushing them until they were nothing but sawdust. “Ooooh,” she squealed. “That man!”
With wide eyes, Gwen looked over her shoulder at Quinn’s retreating form, then back at Bailey. “What is going on between you two?”
“Nothing!”
“Don’t give me that. Start talking and, this time, don’t forget the juicy parts.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Quinn had a feeling Bailey would try to sneak out without talking to him first. Which is why he’d chosen to wait for her outside by her car. “Was everything satisfactory?” he asked sarcastically when she approached, keys in hand.
“What do you want?” she asked, placing her hands on her hips, which only managed to thrust her breasts forward. Quinn tried to keep from looking there. Nor did he let himself focus on the way her tight jeans hugged her shapely hips.
“I thought I told you to stop by my office when you were finished eating.”
“I believe you mentioned it, but I don’t take orders from you.” Rifling through her purse, she pulled out a pair of designer sunglasses and plopped them on her face. “Now, if you’d be so kind as to remove your butt from my car.”
“Not until we’ve talked.”
“I have nothing to say to you.” Stepping closer, she tossed her purse on the passenger seat and glared up at him. Daring him to move out of the way, he supposed. But he refused.
Quinn tossed his head back and forth, crossing his arms over his chest. “Do you want to tell me what’s got you in such a foul mood today? If anyone should be angry here, it’s me. At least you got off last night. Twice.”
Her hand shot out, her palm connecting with his cheek. Then, she stepped backward, bringing that same hand to her mouth, as if she were horrified by her actions. “I’m sorry,” she said, almost whimpering, looking down at the pavement. “I’ve never hit anyone before.”
Quinn leaned forward, grabbed her by the wrist, and pulled her toward him. “Don’t!” he said, then lowered his voice. “Don’t be sorry, Bailey. I deserved that, and more.” What had come over him? He’d never talked to a woman like that before.
He could barely see her eyes through the dark lenses. He couldn’t tell if they were moist with tears or full of hatred.
“Please, Quinn. Let me go.” Wrenching her wrist free she looked away again.
“I’m sorry. Look, I haven’t been myself lately. I’m probably going to have to sell the bar, unless I can come up with a huge amount of cash, which I don’t see happening.” On top of that, he’d been worrying about her problems, and then there were those thugs to worry about.
“Yes, well, I offered you money, but you refused,” she said sadly, still refusing to look at him. “If you’ve changed your mind . . .”
“I haven’t,” he growled. Didn’t she understand that he couldn’t take her money? Feeling defeated, Quinn stepped away from the Porsche just as two men in a black sedan coasted through the parking lot, the car picking up speed as it passed them.
Bailey’s head jerked in the direction of the car, her mouth dropping open. “What?” he asked, laying a hand on her arm. “What is it?”
She shook her head. “Nothing.” Swallowing, she kept her eyes trained on the rear of the car as it pulled onto the street. Looking back at Quinn, she said, “It’s just that I thought I saw that same car and those same two men this morning in front of my house.”
Temper soaring, he said, “Give me your keys. I’m driving you home. And you’re going to stay put from now on, unless I’m with you. Do you understand?” The thought of something happening to Bailey tore at his gut. Although the men in the car didn’t resemble Harry and Shorty, that didn’t mean they weren’t after the diamonds as well.
“You don’t need to drive me--”
“Give me the keys, Bailey.” It was not a request, but an order.
She must have realized how serious he was, because she handed over the keys without another word.
On the drive home, she refused to speak to him, let alone look at him, her ponytail flapping in the wind, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Quinn stared at her sideways. When had he started caring so much about her? He wasn’t even sure he liked her. But he’d be damned if he’d let anyone lay a finger on her.
She was his responsibility. His to protect. Whether she liked it or not. And he had a strong suspicion she did not. Well, too bad.
He pulled into her drive and, before he’d come to a complete stop, she’d hopped out of the car and started up the walk. Slamming a fist against the steering wheel, he swore aloud. Waiting until she went inside, he drove off. He’d bring her car back later.
* * * * * * * * * *
It had been a long day and an even longer night. Quinn was looking forward to a hot shower and a good night’s sleep. He was so tired Doyle’s snoring wouldn’t keep him awake tonight.
Opening Davenport’s front door, he noticed Doyle had left the porch light on for him. How thoughtful, he joked to himself. But it was the least the man could do after insinuating himself in Quinn’s life, first at home--or Davenport’s home rather--and then at the bar. Although he had to admit, Doyle had done a pretty good job waiting tables and tending bar earlier that day. And the customers seemed to like him too. Of course, they didn’t really know the guy and what a devious mind he had.
Closing the door, Quinn heard voices coming from the kitchen. He followed the sounds to the end of the hall where he found Doyle and Mark nursing beers at the kitchen table. Mark was dressed in a T-shirt and sweat pants. A black canvas duffel bag sat on the floor next to his bare feet.
“You two having a pajama party?” Quinn grabbed a beer from the refrigerator. Suddenly it dawned on him. “Don’t tell me,” Quinn said, focusing his gaze on Mark again. “Kaitlyn threw you out.” Swell, another houseguest. He probably snored too.
“How did you know?” Mark asked, a faint thread of hysteria and desperation in his voice. He resembled a basset hound, the way his face and eyes drooped. “Did Bailey say something to you? Did Kaitlyn talk to Bailey? Please, Quinn, tell me, if you know something.”
“Get a grip, would you? Bailey didn’t say anything to me,” Quinn said, popping the top from the beer can. Tilting his head back, he took
a long drink. “You guys are pathetic. You look like lifetime members of the Lonely Hearts Club.” Not that he should talk. He and Bailey weren’t exactly on friendly terms either.
He shook his head, realizing where his thoughts had taken him. As if he and Bailey were actually a couple. He was tired, that was all. And it was starting to affect his brain. Pulling out a chair, he let his weary body fall into it. He may as well join these losers. “So, what happened?” he asked, feigning interest. There was a pile of shredded napkins next to Mark.
“I wish to hell I knew,” Mark answered in a solemn voice. “I’ve been telling myself that it’s just this pregnancy taking its toll on Kaitlyn, but I don’t know anymore. Lately, it’s as if everything I do annoys her.” He plucked a napkin from the wooden holder in the center of the table and started shredding it in tiny pieces.
“Yeah? Well, I haven’t seen you do much of anything since you got here but talk on that damn cell phone of yours.”
Mark looked up expectantly. “Do you think that’s what it is? Do you think Kaitlyn feels neglected because I’ve been spending so much time working?”
“What do you think?” he asked, then quickly admonishing himself for getting involved. But Mark looked so damn hopeless, someone had to offer him a little sympathy.
“I think you’re right,” Mark said finally. His face came to life, then, a moment later, all signs of happiness faded. “Although, I think there’s something more bothering her. I admit I’ve been ignoring her and the kids lately, but I just took a job with a big firm. It’s been hectic, to say the least. And I haven’t had a lot of patience with the kids the past few months. But it’s not as if I enjoy spending so much time working and away from my family.” He went back to his napkin, tore a corner off and laid it aside.
“Then why are you?”
“What?” Quinn’s words must have finally registered. Mark sat up straight and looked at Quinn as if he were crazy.
“I said, then why are you? If you don’t enjoy what you’re doing, and you’d rather be with your family, then do something about it. Get your priorities in order. Before you ruin your marriage.” He tossed back his beer and swallowed. Dr. Quinn, the shrink.
Mark fell back against his chair and sighed loudly, blowing napkin shreds to the floor. “I never thought about it like that. It’s not as if I didn’t make a decent living before, working for a smaller firm. And we were happy . . .” He lifted his eyes as if he were reminiscing about something.
“You’re good,” Doyle said, saluting Quinn with his beer. “Now it’s my turn.”
Jeez. What was with these two? It’s not as if he were some kind of marriage counselor. Hell, he’d never even been married. But Doyle’s problems would be easy, since he thought he had a good idea what was bothering Mimi Maguire. “Your wife wants to be closer to her daughters and her grandchildren.”
Doyle’s mouth dropped open. “How do you know that?”
“I looked into my crystal ball this morning.”
“But Mimi loves Ireland.”
“Just because she loves it doesn’t mean she wants to live there. Grandmothers like being around their grandchildren. You can go back and visit Ireland whenever you feel like it, but those kids aren’t going to stay young forever. Soon they’ll be married with kids of their own.”
Doyle scowled at Quinn. “If Mimi wasn’t happy there, she would have told me.”
“Don’t be such a stubborn old fool. Women pride themselves with knowing things that men are supposed to figure out for themselves.”
“Who are you calling a stubborn old fool?” Doyle challenged, his voice deep and authoritative. “At least I didn’t do anything as stupid as pretending to be someone’s fiancé.”
“Guys,” Mark intervened. “Come on now.”
“He started it,” Doyle said, pointing his finger at Quinn as he rose from the table. “I don’t have to sit here and take this. Stubborn, my ass. What the hell do you know?”
“Apparently, more than you,” Quinn shot back. Here he was, trying to help, and that was the thanks he got.
Doyle leaned over him, nostrils flared, his chest puffing up. Quinn silently dared him to take a punch, knowing all along he would never hit the man back. Maybe he was getting used to pain and suffering.
“Dad, sit down.” Mark stood and pushed Doyle’s chair out in invitation.
After a momentary silence, Doyle sat down, his hands resting on the table top, fists clenched tightly. “And I’m not old. I can still kick your butt,” he said, sneering and nodding at Quinn’s face.
“Look,” Quinn said, agitated with Doyle, “I was only trying to point out that maybe you guys should be talking to your wives instead of me. Be a little more considerate of their feelings.”
“Hah!” Doyle slapped a hand on the table. “What about my feelings? Do you realize how hard I had to work just to prove I was good enough for her?”
Quinn didn’t have the faintest idea. But it was starting to make sense. He supposed he couldn’t blame the guy. A man had his pride, after all. But still, this was getting a little ridiculous. “So, you’re just going to live with me? While your marriage falls apart? That’s what I call being a stubborn old fool.” Let Doyle punch him. Quinn couldn’t care less.
Doyle fumed, but didn’t budge out of his seat.
“Hey, I used to tend bar while I was going to school. Could you use some more help?”
Quinn couldn’t believe it. Getting to his feet, he shifted his eyes from one man to the other. “You two should hear yourselves. The women you love are sleeping next door alone, while you guys are pursuing careers as bartenders. You’re acting like jerks.”
“What about you?” Mark asked.
“What about me?”
“Is that why Bailey came home crying last night? Because you were so considerate of her feelings?”
Quinn struggled with his conscience. “Bailey was crying?” Quinn asked, his mind reeling with confusion. When he’d walked her home, she’d been prickly as hell. He’d never dreamed she’d cry. Of course, she would have cried, you moron. She’d thought she was in love with him for a brief moment, but then he’d set her straight.
“If you did anything to hurt her . . .” Doyle threatened.
“I’m not going to discuss Bailey with you. Either of you.” Especially not after what had happened last night. “If you two want to sit here all night, feeling sorry for yourselves, then be my guests. I’m going to bed.”
* * * * * * * * * *
Another night without sleep. And this time he couldn’t blame it on Doyle’s snoring. In fact, the house was extremely quiet. Maybe too quiet. Swearing, Quinn crept from the bed, stepped into his jeans, and padded barefoot downstairs.
From the kitchen, he’d be able to see Bailey’s house. Quinn headed straight for the window and peered through the glass. All the lights were out next door, not that he’d expected to see anything at five o’clock in the morning. But he could always hope. In the pre-dawn silence all he could hear was his own shallow breathing.
He turned on the lights long enough to start a pot of coffee, then turned them off once he’d finished. While waiting for it to brew, he watched Bailey’s house.
She’d cried, according to Mark. Quinn didn’t want to believe that, but it was true. And the harder he tried to ignore the truth, the more it persisted.
He cared about Bailey. Was consumed with her. And he didn’t have a clue what he was going to do about it.
They were different. Bailey was an idealist. She lived her life to please others, because she believed it was what was expected of her, while he’d chosen his path, because he believed that if he worked hard it would pay off in the end. Not so much in a monetary sense, but in a way of making him feel whole. Accomplished.
They were different, all right. She was worth a fortune, and he wasn’t. So, it came down to that. Was he that insecure that he’d let a little thing like money stand between him and Bailey? he wondered. “You’re damn right
,” he muttered.
The smell of fresh brewed coffee floated around the room. Almost hypnotized, he breathed in the aroma, and turned away from the window in search of a mug.
Doyle stood in the doorway, watching him. “I smelled coffee,” he said, flipping on the lights. He wore bright red pajamas, with black and white panda bears sprinkled about. His dark red hair stuck up at odd angles. “Looks like you couldn’t sleep either.”
Quinn muttered a response, handed Doyle a mug, and added a generous amount of milk to his own mug. After a few sips, he started feeling human again. Tired, but human.
“I thought about what you said last night.”
Quinn stared at Doyle, but didn’t comment. Resting his hip against a counter he took another sip of hot liquid.
“It made sense.”
“Yeah, well, what do I know? Besides, it was none of my business. You want to ruin your marriage, why the hell should I care?” Quinn recognized the heavy irony in his own voice.
“That’s right. Why should you?”
“I don’t.”
Doyle nodded and brought the black coffee to his lips, taking a drink. “Unless . . .” he said, pausing, “unless you feel some kind of connection to us Maguires. Because of your relationship with Bailey.”
Quinn snorted. “Well, Maguire, I’ve already told you that Bailey and I don’t have a relationship, so . . .” What kind of cat and mouse game was he playing?
“I see.”
No, he didn’t see, Quinn thought. Doyle was fishing, that’s all. And Quinn refused to take the bait. He drained his mug and set it in the sink.
“The Irish are known for their stubbornness. You’re Irish, aren’t you, Quinn?”
“Half.”
Doyle nodded. “I remember the first time I realized I was in love with Mimi. It was like getting knocked up along side the head with a baseball bat. And I still refused to admit it. You know what I mean?”
“I don’t have the slightest idea.” He wasn’t in love with Bailey. He cared about her, yes. But that was it. Okay, and he was attracted to her too. But that wasn’t love. Just because she’d wormed her way under his skin and had imbedded herself in his mind didn’t mean a thing. And he didn’t like Doyle Maguire’s smug looks. Moving past him, Quinn said, “I’m going to take a shower.