The Quinn Brothers

by Nora Roberts

  “Fine. I won’t touch you. Let’s find somewhere to sit down and talk the rest of this out.”

  “I thought we just had.”

  “Now you’re being stubborn.”

  “No, now I’m being realistic. You slept with me, but you didn’t trust me. The fact that I was honest with you and you weren’t with me is my problem. The fact that I went to bed with a man who saw me as an enjoyment on one hand and an obstacle on the other is my mistake.”

  “That’s not the way it was.” His temper began to rise again, pumped by a slick panic. “That’s not the way it is.”

  “It’s the way I see it. Now I need to take some time and see how I feel about that. I’d appreciate it if you’d drive me back to my car.”

  She turned and walked away.

  He preferred fire to ice, but he couldn’t break through the frigid shield she’d wrapped around her temper. It scared him, a sensation that he didn’t appreciate. She was perfectly polite, even friendly, to Seth and Phillip when she returned to the house to gather her things.

  She was perfectly polite to Cam—so polite that he imagined he would feel the chill of it for days.

  He told himself it didn’t matter. She’d get over it. She was just in a snit because he hadn’t bared his soul, shared all the intimate details of his life with her. It was a woman thing.

  After all, women had invented the cold shoulder just to make men feel like slugs.

  He would give her a couple of days, he decided. Let her stew. Let her come to her senses. Then he would take her flowers.

  “She’s ticked off at you,” Seth commented as Cam stood by the front door staring out.

  “What do you know?”

  “She’s ticked off,” Seth repeated, entertaining himself with his sketchbook while sitting cross-legged on the front porch. “She didn’t let you kiss her good-bye, and you’re all the time locking lips.”

  “Shut up.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “I didn’t do anything.” Cam kicked the door open and stomped out. “She’s just being female.”

  “You did something.” Seth eyed him owlishly. “She’s not a jerk.”

  “She’ll get over it.” Cam dropped down into the rocker. He wasn’t going to worry about it. He never worried about women.

  He lost his appetite. How was he supposed to eat fried fish without remembering how he and Anna had sat on the dock that morning?

  He couldn’t sleep. How was he supposed to sleep in his own bed without remembering how they’d made love on those same sheets?

  He couldn’t concentrate on work. How was he supposed to detail diagonals without remembering how she’d beamed at him when he showed her the lofting platform?

  By mid-morning, he gave up and drove to Princess Anne. But he didn’t take her flowers. Now he was ticked off.

  He strode through the reception area, straight back into her office. Then fumed when he found it empty. Typical, was all he could think. His luck had turned all bad.

  “Mr. Quinn.” Marilou stood in the doorway, her hands folded. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “I’m looking for Anna—Ms. Spinelli.”

  “I’m sorry, she’s not available.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “It’ll be a long one. She won’t be in until next week.”

  “Next week?” His narrowed eyes reminded Marilou of steel sharpened to the killing point. “What do you mean, she won’t be in?”

  “Ms. Spinelli is taking the week off.” And Marilou figured the reason for it was even now boring holes through her with furious gray eyes. She’d thought the same when Anna had dropped off her report that morning and requested the time. “I’m familiar with the case file, if there’s something I can do.”

  “No, it’s personal. Where did she go?”

  “I can’t give you that information, Mr. Quinn, but you’re free to leave a message, either a written one or one on her voice mail. Of course, if she checks in, I’ll be happy to tell her you’d like to speak with her.”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  He couldn’t get out fast enough. She was probably in her apartment, he decided as he hopped back in his car. Sulking. So he would let her yell at him, get it all out of her system. Then he’d nudge her along to bed so they could put this ridiculous little episode behind them.

  He ignored the nerves dancing in his stomach as he walked down the hall to her apartment. He knocked briskly, then tucked his hands into his pockets. He knocked louder, banged his fist on the door.

  “Damn it, Anna. Open up. This is stupid. I saw your car out front.”

  The door behind him creaked open. One of the sisters peered out. The jingling sound of a morning game show filled the hallway. “She not in there, Anna’s Young Man.”

  “Her car’s out front,” he said.

  “She took a cab.”

  He bit back an oath, pasted on a charming smile, and walked across the hall. “Where to?”

  “To the train station—or maybe it was the airport.” She beamed up at him. Really, he was such a handsome boy. “She said she’d be gone for a few days. She promised to call to make sure Sister and I were getting on. Such a sweet girl, thinking of us when she’s on vacation.”

  “Vacation to . . .”

  “Did she say?” The woman bit her lip and her eyes unfocused in thought. “I don’t think she mentioned it. She was in an awful hurry, but she stopped by just the same so we wouldn’t be worried. She’s such a considerate girl.”

  “Yeah.” The sweet, considerate girl had left him high and dry.

  She’d had no business flying to Pittsburgh; the airfare had eaten a large hole in her budget. But she’d wanted to get there. Had needed to get there. The minute she walked into her grandparents’ cramped row house, half her burden lifted.

  “Anna Louisa!” Theresa Spinelli was a tiny, slim woman with steel-gray hair ruthlessly waved, a face that fell into dozens of comfortable wrinkles, and a smile as wide as the Mediterranean Sea. Anna had to bend low to be clasped and kissed. “Al, Al, our bambina’s home.”

  “It’s good to be home, Nana.”

  Alberto Spinelli hurried to the door. He was a foot taller than his wife’s tidy five-three, with a broad chest and a spare tire that pressed cozily against Anna as they embraced. His hair was thin and white, his eyes dark and merry behind his thick glasses.

  He all but carried her into the living room, where they could begin to fuss over her in earnest.

  They spoke rapidly, and in a mix of Italian and English. Food was the first order of business. Theresa always thought her baby was starving. After they’d plied her with minestrone, and fresh bread and an enormous cube of tiramisu, Theresa was almost satisfied that her chick wouldn’t perish of malnutrition.

  “Now.” Al sat back, puffing to life one of his thick cigars. “You’ll tell us why you’re here.”

  “Do I need a reason to come home?” Struggling to relax fully, Anna stretched out in one of a pair of ancient wing chairs. It had been recovered, she knew, countless times. Just now it was in a gay striped pattern, but the cushion still gave way beneath her butt like butter.

  “You called three days ago. You didn’t say you were coming home.”

  “It was an impulse. I’ve been swamped at work, up to my ears. I’m tired and wanted a break. I wanted to come home and eat Nana’s cooking for a while.”

  It was true enough, if not the whole truth. She didn’t think it would be wise to tell her doting grandparents that she’d walked into an affair, eyes wide open, and ended up with her heart broken.

  “You work too hard,” Theresa said. “Al, don’t I tell you the girl works too hard?”

  “She likes to work hard. She likes to use her brain. It’s a good brain. Me, I’ve got a good brain, too, and I say she’s not here just to eat your manicotti.”

  “Are we having manicotti for dinner?” Anna beamed, knowing it wouldn’t distract them for long. They’d seen her through the wor
st, stuck by her when she’d done her best to hurt them, and herself. And they knew her.

  “I started the sauce the minute you called to say you were coming. Al, don’t nag the girl.”

  “I’m not nagging, I’m asking.”

  Theresa rolled her eyes. “If you have such a good brain in that big head of yours, you’d know it’s a boy that sent her running home. Is he Italian?” Theresa demanded, fixing Anna with those bright bird eyes.

  And she had to laugh. God, it was good to be home. “I have no idea, but he loves my red sauce.”

  “Then he’s got good taste. Why don’t you bring him home, let us get a look at him?”

  “Because we’re having some problems, and I need to work them out.”

  “Work them out?” Theresa waved a hand. “How do you work them out when you’re here and he’s not? Is he good-looking?”

  “Gorgeous.”

  “Does he have work?” Al wanted to know.

  “He’s starting his own business—with his brothers.”

  “Good, he knows family.” Theresa nodded, pleased. “You bring him next time, we’ll see for ourselves.”

  “All right,” she said because it was easier to agree than to explain. “I’m going to go unpack.”

  “He’s hurt her heart,” Theresa murmured when Anna left the room.

  Al reached over and patted her hand. “It’s a strong heart.”

  Anna took her time, hanging her clothes in the closet, folding them into the drawers of the old dresser she’d used as a child. The room was so much the same. The wallpaper had faded a bit. She remembered that her grandfather had hung it himself, to brighten the room when she’d come to live with them.

  And she’d hated the pretty roses on the wall because they looked so fresh and alive, and everything inside her was dead.

  But the roses were still there, a little older but still there. As were her grandparents. She sat on the bed, hearing the familiar creak of springs.

  The familiar, the comforting, the secure.

  That, she admitted, was what she wanted. Home, children, routine—with the surprises that family always provided thrown in. To some, she supposed, it would have sounded ordinary. At one time, she had told herself the same thing.

  But she knew better now. Home, marriage, family. There was nothing ordinary there. The three elements formed a unit that was unique and precious.

  She wanted, needed that, for herself.

  Maybe she had been playing games after all. Maybe she hadn’t been completely honest. Not with Cam, and not with herself. She hadn’t tried to trap him into her dreams, but underneath it all, hadn’t she begun to hope he’d share them? She’d maintained a front of casual, no-strings sex, but her heart had been reckless enough to yearn for more.

  Maybe she deserved to have it broken.

  The hell she did, she thought, springing up. She’d been making it enough, she’d accepted the limitations of their relationship. And still, he hadn’t trusted her. That she wouldn’t tolerate.

  Damned if she’d take the blame for this, she decided, and stalking to the streaked mirror over her dresser, she began to freshen her makeup.

  She would have what she wanted one day. A strong man who loved her, respected her, and trusted her. She would have a man who saw her as a partner, not as the enemy. She’d have that home in the country near the water, and children of her own, and a goddamn stupid dog if she wanted. She would have it all.

  It just wouldn’t be with Cameron Quinn.

  If anything, she should thank him for opening her eyes, not only to the flaws in their so-called relationship but to her own needs and desires.

  She would rather choke.

  TWENTY

  A week could be a long time, Cam discovered. Particularly when you had a great deal stuck in your craw that you couldn’t spit out.

  It helped that he’d been able to pick fights with both Phillip and Ethan. But it wasn’t quite the same as having a showdown with Anna.

  It helped, too, that beginning work on the hull of the boat took so much of his time and concentration. He couldn’t afford to think about her when he was planking.

  He thought of her anyway.

  He’d had a few bad moments imagining her running around on some Caribbean beach—in that little bikini—and having some overmuscled, over-tanned type rubbing sunscreen on her back and buying her mai tais.

  Then he’d told himself that she’d gone off somewhere to lick her imaginary wounds and was probably in some hotel room, drapes drawn, sniffing into a hankie.

  But that image didn’t make him feel any better.

  When he got home from a full Saturday at the boatyard, he was ready for a beer. Maybe two. He and Ethan headed straight for the refrigerator and had already popped tops when Phillip came in.

  “Seth isn’t with you?”

  “Over at Danny’s.” Cam guzzled from the bottle to wash the sawdust out of his throat. “Sandy’s dropping him off later.”

  “Good.” Phillip got a beer for himself. “Sit down.”

  “What?”

  “I got a letter from the insurance company this morning.” Phillip pulled out a chair. “The gist is, they’re stalling. They used a bunch of legal terms, cited clauses, but the upshot is they’re casting doubt on cause of death and are continuing to investigate.”

  “Fuck that. Cheapscate bastards just don’t want to shell out.” Annoyed, Cam kicked out a chair—and wished with all his heart it had been Mackensie.

  “I talked to our lawyer,” Phil continued, grimacing. “He may start rethinking our friendship if I keep calling him on weekends. He says we have some choices. We can sit tight, let the insurance company continue its investigation, or we can file suit against them for nonpayment of claim.”

  “Let them keep their fucking money, I don’t want it anyway.”

  “No.” Ethan spoke quietly in the echo of Cam’s outburst. He continued to brood into his beer, shaking his head. “It’s not right. Dad paid the premiums, year after year. He added to the policy for Seth. It’s not right that they don’t pay. And if they don’t pay, it’s going to go down somewhere that he killed himself. That’s not right either. They’ve been doing all the pushing up to now,” he added and raised his somber eyes. “Let’s push back.”

  “If it ends up going to court,” Phillip warned him, “it could get messy.”

  “So we turn away from a fight because it could get messy?” For the first time, amusement flickered over Ethan’s face. “Well, fuck that.”

  “Cam?”

  Cam sipped again. “I’ve been wanting a good fight for a while. I guess this is it.”

  “Then we’re agreed. We’ll have the papers drawn up next week, and we’ll go after their asses.” Revved and ready, Phillip lifted his bottle. “Here’s to a good fight.”

  “Here’s to winning,” Cam corrected.

  “I’m for that. It’s going to cost us some,” Phillip added. “Filing fees, legal fees. Most of the capital we’ve pooled is sunk into the business.” He blew out a breath. “I guess we need another pool.”

  With less regret than he’d expected, Cam thought of his beloved Porsche waiting patiently for him in Nice. Just a car, he told himself. Just a damn car. “I can get my hands on some fresh cash. It’ll take a couple of days.”

  “I can sell my house.” Ethan shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve had some people asking about it, and it’s just sitting there.”

  “No.” The thought of it twisted in Cam’s gut. “You’re not selling your house. Rent it out. We’ll get through this.”

  “I’ve got some stocks.” Phillip sighed and waved good-bye to a chunk of his growing portfolio. “I’ll tell my broker to cash them in. We’ll open a joint account next week—the Quinn Legal Defense Fund.”

  The three of them managed weak smiles.

  “The kid ought to know,” Ethan said after a moment. “If we’re going to take this to the wall, he ought to know what’s going on.”

 
Cam looked up in time to see both of his brothers’ eyes focus on him. “Oh, come on. Why does it have to be me?”

  “You’re the oldest.” Phillip grinned at him. “Besides, it’ll take your mind off Anna.”

  “I’m not brooding about her—or any woman.”

  “Been edgy and broody all week,” Ethan mumbled. “Making me nuts.”

  “Who asked you? We had a little disagreement, that’s all. I’m giving her time to simmer down.”

  “Seems to me she’d simmered down to frozen the last time I saw her.” Phillip examined his beer. “That was a week ago.”

  “It’s my business how I handle a woman.”

  “Sure is. But let me know when you’re done with her, will you? She’s—”

  Phillip broke off when Cam all but leaped over the table and grabbed him by the throat. Beer bottles flew and shattered on the floor.

  Resigned, Ethan raked his hand through his hair, scattering drops of spilled beer. Cam and Phillip were on the floor, pounding hell out of each other. He got himself a fresh beer before filling a pitcher with cold water.

  His work boots crunched over broken glass, which he kicked out of the way in hopes that he wouldn’t have to run anybody to the hospital for stitches. With malice toward neither, he emptied the pitcher on both his brothers.

  It got their attention.

  Phillip’s lip was split, Cam’s ribs throbbed, and both of them were bleeding from rolling around on broken glass. Drenched and panting, they eyed each other warily. Gingerly, Phillip wiped a knuckle over his bloody lip.

  “Sorry. Bad joke. I didn’t know things were serious between you.”

  “I never said they were serious.”

  Phillip laughed, then winced as his lip wept. “Brother, did you ever. I guess I never figured you’d be the first of us to fall in love with a woman.”

  The stomach that Phillip’s fists had abused jittered wildly. “Who said I’m in love with her?”

  “You didn’t punch me in the face because you’re in like.” He looked down at his pleated slacks. “Shit. Do you know how hard it is to get bloodstains out of a cotton blend?” He rose, held out a hand to Cam. “She’s a terrific lady,” he said as he hauled Cam to his feet. “Hope you work it out.”