CHAPTER SIX
AMY MADE IT IN TEN, dressed in jeans and sneakers and a pajama top, her flashlight in hand. She walked through the door and stopped in her tracks when she saw the spreading pool of paint.
Quinn had been leaning against the wall while he waited but he straightened when he saw her.
“My God,” she said after a long beat. “What a pack of assholes.”
Any other woman would have been hysterical, but not Amy. He laughed, couldn’t help himself. She spun to face him and he winced as her flashlight found his face and blinded him.
“What is it with you flashlight people and the eyes?”
“You’re bleeding!”
“You should see the other guys.”
“You were here?”
“I couldn’t sleep, I saw someone inside….” He felt ridiculously transparent, as though she need only look at him to know he’d been forced out of his bed because he’d been having XXX-rated dreams about her.
“And so you tried to stop them? Are you insane?”
She moved closer, her brow furrowed with concern as she stared up into his face.
“In my defence, I did call the cops first. Senior Constable Wentworth can back me up on that.”
He glanced toward the other man, but a second policeman had joined him and the two were conferring off to one side.
Amy lifted a hand and touched his jaw. Her fingers were cool and gentle but he still winced.
“Quinn.” Her face was very pale.
“Amy, seriously I’m fi—”
“You idiot!” A small fist thumped into the middle of his chest. “What were you thinking? You could have been killed. I could have come in here and found you dead on the ground. Do you have any idea…?”
Tears spilled down her face. He reached out to comfort her but she took a step backward and half turned away from him. She lifted a shaking hand to swipe at her cheeks.
“I’m fine, Amy,” he said, hating seeing her like this.
“I can’t believe you could be so stupid. You’ve got a freaking law degree. Doesn’t that mean you’re supposed to have some smarts?”
“I wasn’t really thinking, okay? I saw someone moving around inside…All I wanted to do was stop them from doing any damage to the Grand.”
“From now on, you’re not allowed out without adult supervision, okay?”
“Yes, Boss Lady.”
He’d been hoping to squeeze a smile out of her, but she only stared at him for a long moment before looking away.
“I’ve got a first-aid kit in the car. Wait here,” she said.
“Ames, honestly, it’s a little cut, no big deal. I’m more worried about this paint. We want to mop it up before it dries, right? Because then it becomes a whole other problem.”
“I’ve got it covered, don’t worry about it.”
“Amy—”
“Don’t piss me off right now, Quinn. I’m so…. angry with you, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
He held up his hands, took a step back. “Okay. Fair enough.”
“Wait here.”
She swiveled on her heel and strode for the door. He talked to the cops while he waited, learning they suspected the vandals had had a car waiting the next street over, ready to make a quick getaway. They’d put out an all-points bulletin for any vehicles in the area acting suspiciously, but Quinn could tell they weren’t holding their breath. It wasn’t as though there were a million patrol cars cruising the Victorian countryside at this time of night.
His head was starting to throb when Amy returned with a professional-looking first-aid kit. She wasn’t alone. A middle-aged woman and a tall, thin guy in his early twenties were following her, both carrying powerful battery-operated lanterns. He recognized them both from their visit to the hardware store earlier in the day. Like Amy, they looked as though they’d just rolled out of bed.
“This is Cheryl and Eric,” Amy said as she dropped the first-aid box by his side.
They’d barely exchanged muted greetings before more people started arriving. Amy’s father and mother, half a dozen other people.
“From the store,” Amy explained briefly.
She went over to confer with her father, then came back to him and picked up the first-aid kit.
“Can I borrow your lantern?” she asked Cheryl.
The other woman handed the light over and Amy jerked her head, indicating Quinn should follow her.
“We’ll only be in the way in here.”
She led him around the edge of the spill. His side hurt when he moved and he pressed his palm against his ribs, wondering if maybe he’d cracked one or two.
The lantern cast a golden circle as they entered the foyer. Amy pointed at the steps to the balcony. “Sit.”
“Seriously, Ames, it looks worse than it is. I’m more worried about the paint.”
“Sit.”
He did, wincing as his ribs protested.
Amy’s eyes narrowed. “Have I mentioned that you’re an idiot?”
“I believe you have.”
“Well. You are. A big one.”
She placed the lantern beside him on the step and knelt in front of him.
“What are we doing about the paint?”
“Sand. Kenny’s bringing over a load from the store right now. It’ll soak up the liquid. We shovel the sand into wheelbarrows and ship it out, then mop up anything that’s left.”
He eyed her with new respect. “You organized all this in the time it took you to get over here?” he asked.
She shrugged. “We’ve had spills at the store before.”
Nothing as big, though, he guessed.
She stood, a bottle of alcohol solution in one hand, cotton pad in the other. “I want to clean up that cut first, make sure you don’t need stitches.”
He didn’t say anything because he figured it was pointless. She was worried about him and if it made her feel better to clean up a scratch or two, he’d suck it up.
“It might sting a little. Try not to squeal too much,” she said as she moved closer.
“Thank you for your high opinion of my manliness.”
She tilted the bottle to douse the cotton in alcohol, then put the bottle down on the step. “Stay still.”
She leaned forward, her free hand sliding into his hair to hold it away from his face as she gently dabbed at his cheek and temple. He stared at her face, so very close to his own. His gaze zeroed in on her lower lip. It was pale pink and looked very soft.
Very feminine. Very kissable.
This was the problem with having dirty dreams. They planted ideas in your head that had no business being there.
He averted his eyes before his thoughts went somewhere they shouldn’t. Which was when he realized that he could see straight down the front of Amy’s gaping pajama top.
And she wasn’t wearing a bra.
He blinked, slowly.
Of course she wasn’t wearing a bra. She’d jumped out of bed and into her clothes and organized a massive cleanup, all in the space of ten minutes. There’d been no time for foundation garments.
He told himself to be a gentleman but he was too busy taking in the smooth creaminess of her breasts to listen. Her nipples were pale pink, her breasts small and perky. They swayed slightly as she shifted her weight and leaned forward to inspect his scalp. Heat from her body enveloped him and he inhaled the smell of sunshine and warm skin. She was so firm, so round. He could almost feel the weight of her in his hands.
“Yow!” He jerked his head away from the fiery heat attacking his scalp and glared at Amy.
She looked utterly unrepentant. “You’ve got a cut on your scalp.”
“No shit.”
“Stop being such a wuss.” She leaned forward again but he caught her arm.
“Give that stuff to me. I’ll do it.” Anything to end this torturous proximity.
“You won’t be able to see it. It’s right over the back.”
She pulled her arm free and pl
aced her left hand on his shoulder to brace herself as she leaned forward. She was standing on her toes now and her breasts were almost in his face, scant inches from his mouth. He closed his eyes, but he could still see her in his mind’s eye. Pink. Plump. Firm.
Bloody hell.
If she glanced down, she was going to see exactly what she was doing to him. She was going to know he was hard for her, and then he was going to have to find some explanation that didn’t involve him admitting to long-buried sexual fantasies involving her curvy body.
She leaned closer and for the fraction of a second her breast grazed his face. He opened his mouth. Couldn’t help himself. Imagined himself reaching up and tugging her near while he pulled her nipple, pajama top and all, into his mouth. Actually lifted his hands, ready to slide them over her hips.
She stepped backward, bloodied cotton in hand, a frown on her face.
“I don’t think you need stitches but I’m pretty sure I read somewhere that cuts on the scalp get infected really easily. I wonder if I should trim the hair around the area?”
He could just imagine how long that would take, how hard he’d be by then.
“I’m fine,” he said, shooting to his feet, one hand tugging on the bottom of his T-shirt to ensure it was covering the bulge in his jeans. He’d forgotten his ribs and he grunted as pain shot up his side.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Quinn, so help me—”
Before he could stop her, she reached out and pulled his T-shirt up, exposing his right side.
“Oh, Quinn…”
For a second he wasn’t sure if her dismay was because of his injury or because she’d finally noticed his hard-on. Then she reached out and gently traced the purple marks bruising his rib cage.
He hissed in a breath, but not because it hurt. Having her touch him when he’d dreamed about touching her was a special form of torture. The kind reserved for idiots who were in danger of letting their libido ruin their lives.
“Did someone kick you? Is that the toe of a boot I can see here?” Amy asked, her expression horrified as she traced a mark above his hip. She laid her palm over the spot and stared at him, her face pale. “You really could have died, you know that?”
The fear and love in her eyes took his breath away. Shame washed over him like a bucket of cold water. While he was standing here wrestling with lust, she was worrying about him, feeling his pain.
Being his friend.
“I’m okay,” he said gruffly.
She ducked her head for a few seconds. Sniffed loudly. Then nodded. “Okay.” She let his T-shirt fall and moved away from him.
He stared at her downturned head. Thirty years of friendship, of platonic hugs and kisses, and it had come down to this.
To say he was confused was an understatement. Minutes ago he’d nearly done something irretrievable. He’d nearly laid hands on his best friend with sexual intent. He’d nearly changed the dynamics of their relationship forever.
Maybe it’s the knock on the head.
But he knew it wasn’t. It was more than that. And he had no idea how to stop it or control it. No idea at all.
AMY FOUGHT TO STOP HERSELF from touching Quinn again. Every time she relived the moment when she’d first seen his face, the blood on his forehead and cheek, the ugly red mark on his jaw, her knees got wobbly and she had to quell the urge to burst into pathetic, girly tears all over again.
She could have lost him. One of the vandals could have had a knife, or Quinn could have landed the wrong way or hit his head too hard…. He could have been gone, and she would never have heard his voice again, never looked into his dark eyes and handsome face….
She knelt over the first-aid kit, concentrating on packing away the supplies, forcing herself to get a grip.
Quinn was not dead. A little bruised, a little bloody, yes. But not dead. She was freaking out, and she needed to reel herself in before she said or did something irretrievably revealing.
“You should go back to the apartment and rest,” she said, not looking up. “There are more than enough people here to help with the cleanup.”
Quinn didn’t say anything and she finally lifted her head to look at him. He had a small smile on his lips, a wry expression in his eyes.
Right. As if he was going to leave before things were put right.
Typical.
She opened her mouth but he beat her to it.
“I know. I’m an idiot. I can live with that.”
He held out a hand. She took it and he drew her to her feet.
“This wasn’t kids fooling around, Ames. You know that, right?”
“Yes.”
“They were here to cause as much damage as possible, as quickly as possible.”
She met his eyes. “You think it’s Ulrich?”
The moment she’d seen the scale of the damage she’d known this was no ordinary act of vandalism.
“You got anyone else gunning for you at the moment I should know about? Anyone else who wants you to fail?”
“No.”
“Then yes, I think it’s Barry Ulrich.”
Even though it was exactly what she’d expected him to say, even though she’d already concluded as much herself, she had a sudden, very inappropriate urge to laugh. It seemed so off the planet. Surreal. Someone was targeting her, trying to intimidate her into abandoning her dream of restoring the Grand. Here, in sleepy old Daylesford.
“This is nuts.”
“Yeah. But at the end of the day, money is money, whether it’s in the big city or out here. Ulrich stands to make a huge profit on this place if he can get it at the right price. He probably figures a little quiet sabotage will get him back in the driver’s seat on this deal.”
“I would rather give this place away than sell it to him, now more than ever.”
Quinn smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I love it when you get all feisty.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re the one with a lump the size of an egg on the back of your head because you decided to play hero. I think that officially makes you the feisty one.”
Quinn picked up the first-aid kit and headed for the archway to the theatre.
“I prefer bold, if you don’t mind.”
“I bet you do.”
He grinned at her over his shoulder and for the first time since she’d seen him all bloodied and bruised, the tight, scared feeling in her chest relaxed. He was okay. He really was.
She took a moment to absorb the realization.
Then she straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin.
There was work to do. A lot of it. And the sooner she started, the sooner she’d be finished and the sooner Barry Ulrich would understand that she wasn’t the kind of woman who intimidated easily.
IT TOOK FOUR HOURS and many, many wheelbarrows full of sand to clean up the spill. By the time Amy was certain they’d mopped up the last vestiges of paint it was light outside and her impromptu team of rescuers was wilting. She had blisters on her palms from wielding first a shovel then a mop, and her stomach was rumbling with hunger.
She pushed her mop over one last section of floor, then took a moment to catch her breath and scan the theatre. Her mother and father stood to one side, their faces weary. Quinn was in the far corner, still wielding a mop even though she’d tried to send him home half a dozen times. Eric and Cheryl and the other guys from the store were scraping up the last of the sand and starting to gather shovels and spades together.
These people had gotten up in the middle of the night for her. They’d raced down here and thrown themselves into the task of saving the Grand from disaster. She would never, ever be able to repay them.
For a moment she was humbled by the knowledge, but then she realized that if gratitude was all she had to offer, then she should offer it as graciously and generously and sincerely as possible.
She slipped quietly out the front door and across the street, astonishing the young guy at
the bakery with her disheveled, paint-spattered appearance.
“Performance art,” she said, deadpan.
“Right.”
Ten minutes later she walked back into the Grand with a tray piled high with baked goods.
“Amy! You are a goddess,” Eric said when he saw her.
“I’ve got danishes, muffins, doughnuts, coffee scrolls, croissants. Please, dig in. Breakfast is the least I owe you.”
Her mother had made a trip to the hardware store sometime during the night to collect an old card table and a few packages of cookies from the staff room. Amy set her bounty down on the table and turned to face her gathered friends and family.
“But before we eat, I wanted to say a few words.”
Eric groaned theatrically and clutched his stomach.
Amy smiled. “I’ll be quick, I promise. I just wanted to let you all know how much I appreciate everything you’ve done for me and the Grand tonight. This could have been a disaster, a huge setback, but you’ve all helped turn it into a minor hiccup. This has been my dream since I was ten years old, and I will always remember the kindness and generosity you’ve all shown me tonight. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.”
“Free movies for life,” Eric called out with a cheeky grin.
Amy pointed her finger at him. “Done. Consider yourselves all patrons of the Grand.”
A small cheer went up. Quinn joined her as the others crowded around the card table.
“Nice speech.”
“Thank you.”
“Probably should have run the free-movies-for-life thing past your legal adviser first.”
“I can live with it.”
“Pretty generous.”
She looked at him. He was watching her with warm eyes.
“Have I told you lately that you rock, Amy Parker?”
As always, his approval warmed her. “Is this the head injury talking or the fatigue?”
“Both.”
“That’s what I thought. So now that you’ve proven you’re both indestructible and indefatigable, do you think I might be able to convince you to leave now?”
She kept her tone light, but he was gray with tiredness. She wanted him to rest. Ideally, she wanted to personally put him to bed and fuss over him until she’d proven to herself that he was fine. Since that was never going to happen, she would settle for sending him home.
Her Best Friend Page 10