by Anne Conley
“I’m not planning on playing with the dude, bro,” Quinten snarled. He seriously wanted this fight to be over. He was ready to turn the page on this part of his life.
“Aw, come on. I want to see something good. Not just a thirty-second K.O.” Andrew was on the treadmill, running the socks off it, still managing to sound whiny. Homeboy could run miles around anyone on that thing, even while perving after Deena Rae. It was impressive.
Quinten was about to say something to that effect, but a harried Miriam showed up at the door to the gym with her baby carrier on her hip.
“I need help…” Quinten was the first to her side, ever Miriam’s slave. He’d thought he loved her once, but it wasn’t meant to be. Mostly because she thought of him as another brother. Eventually, the intensity of his feelings had faded, but Quinten still had a soft spot for Miriam. Probably always would.
“Here’s Uncle Quinten. I bet he’ll talk to you while Mommy takes care of a few things.” She led the way to the reception area, her hair still in curlers and no makeup on her face. Quinten thought she was beautiful anyway, but he held out his hand for the carrier. “Thank you so much. The nanny has a stomach thing, and Jake’s out of town at a shoot in Houston. I didn’t have much of a choice spur of the moment.”
“No problem,” Quinten murmured, even as he struggled with unbuckling the straps of the carrier so he could lift out the baby. Baby Nicholas—named after Miriam’s brother and their father—was almost six months old, but compared to Quinten’s frame, he was still ridiculously tiny.
He held his breath as he pulled the struggling infant out of the car seat and settled him on his thigh for a little bounce.
“Quit squirming, little man,” he breathed at the tiny human, unsure what to do now. A long-forgotten nursery rhyme filtered into his head—one his mother or his nanny used to say—something about a cockhorse and Banbury Cross or something. But he couldn’t remember all of it, so he settled with humming tunelessly to the tot while he gently bounced his leg.
Baby Nick looked like one of those impossibly happy babies Quinten had always longed for. While he’d been helping Miriam divorce her abusive husband, Quinten had imagined she could be his. He’d wanted to take care of her, help her, be her hero. But she didn’t want that, and it had hurt him. In the end, it was for the best. Her husband, Jake, was the polar opposite of Quinten in almost everything, but he was exactly what Miriam had needed. And Quinten respected that. Jake treated her well and made her happy.
Fist in his mouth, Nicholas stared at Quinten, drool dripping off his chin. Quinten looked around helplessly for something to wipe it off before it dripped on his shorts.
Too late.
“Okay, fine.” Quinten scooped the boy up in his arms, and he willingly went, apparently deciding his shoulder looked tasty.
There went the shirt.
Walking around the office, aimlessly pointing out things in an effort to get the infant’s mind off gnawing at Quinten’s shoulder, he settled on a colorful print hanging on the wall to focus the baby’s attentions on. He described it in vivid detail to baby Nick, pointing out the different colors and things to the cooing bundle in his arms—the cooing bundle who had grabbed his free hand and was currently gnawing on his fingers.
“Oh. My. God. If that’s not just the cutest damn thing I’ve ever seen.” Quinten spun around to find Krista staring at him with a twinkle in her eyes. “The big, burly giant holding the itty-bitty baby.” Why did women’s voices do that? She was talking baby talk to him, about a baby. Or maybe it was to the baby about him. Either way, it brought a smile to his face.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m picking up Ryan for our sonogram appointment. We’re hoping the bean will cooperate and tell me what color to paint the nursery. Its legs were crossed the last two times we went in, and I’m tired of calling it an it.”
Ryan came out of his office he shared with Jordan and wrapped his arms around Krista, a look of contentment Quinten couldn’t comprehend on his face.
He wanted a woman to make him stupid like that.
“What do you want it to be?” he asked Ryan, honestly curious.
Ryan let loose of Krista to run a hand through his hair. “You know? I’m so out of my depth on this whole baby thing, I don’t even know which side to root for. I want it to be healthy and not hurt my girl too bad coming out.”
Krista snorted. “You know it’s something the size of a melon coming out a hole the size of a lemon, right? It’s gonna hurt.” Krista smiled vaguely as she rested her hand on top of her massive belly, and Quinten was trying to imagine a baby only a little bit smaller than the one he held right now, in there. He couldn’t.
Ryan’s face paled. “Jesus, babe. Do you have to say stuff like that?” Krista giggled and turned to him.
“You ready? I don’t want to be late.”
“Uh, yeah. Let’s go.” Ryan flashed Quinten a plaintive look before following his wife out the door.
Quinten smiled to himself and held the baby up to his face. “You were really inside your mama’s belly like that? Do you remember it? Do you miss it?”
Nick’s impossibly blue eyes—the product of both parents—stared back while he noisily sucked on his fist, then he grinned a gummy grin. There were two teeth in there, but the shiny gums looked red and inflamed.
“Miriam? Is he okay?” he called, alarmed at how swollen the baby’s gums looked.
Miriam came rushing out of the bathroom with curlers in her hair. “What’s wrong?” She relieved Quinten of the baby and cuddled him to her chest. Nick immediately squirmed around and started fussing, holding his arms back out to Quinten.
“His gums are all red,” Quinten pointed out. Miriam only rolled her eyes and plopped the baby back in his arms.
“He’s teething. That’s what they do. You scared the hell out of me. I’ll be five more minutes. Thanks.” She planted a kiss on his cheek and went back to the bathroom.
Quinten sat in the chair at Miriam’s desk and watched the little guy explore his surroundings. A vibration in his pocket prefaced Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto Number Two. He dug for the phone while baby Nick’s eyes widened at the intrusion.
“Pierce,” he answered, bouncing Nick as he picked up the stapler and put it in his mouth.
“Quinten, it’s Hollerman. I think I’ve got a job for you guys. This woman needs you.”
Plucking the stapler and putting it out of reach—terrified the little guy would swallow a staple or staple his tongue—he said, “Give it to me.”
“Valerie Dunaway had a home invasion last night, but it’s bizarre. She’s agoraphobic and can’t leave her house. I verified that with her psychiatrist. Evan can look up the details of that for you. But this guy… I’ve never seen anything like it. He just came in and made himself at home. Knew where everything was, sat down to dinner, watched TV, and snuggled with her all night. She tried to run away once but didn’t get far before she had an anxiety attack.”
Nick grabbed the mouse and started mouthing it while Quinten gently took it away. “How did he leave?”
“Said he was off to work, kissed her on the cheek, and walked out the door like he owned the place. Said he’d see her this evening. She called us as soon as he left. She won’t do protective custody. Says she can’t leave her house, but she needs someone there watching her, and I don’t have the manpower.”
Nick grabbed a handful of papers and smushed them awkwardly to his face with a grunt of satisfaction. Quinten reached for them, already anticipating the drool, and managed to retrieve them, only ripping one page. As he smoothed them, he read the top one absently.
“Give me an hour to shower and get the details from Evan, and I’ll be out there. Can you text me the address?” Quinten was intrigued. Valerie Dunaway was a familiar name, but he couldn’t put his finger on why. Evan would tell him as soon as Miriam got her damn makeup on.
The more Quinten learned about the reason for Valerie Dunaway’s
agoraphobia, the less he liked it.
Quinten looked over Evan’s shoulder at the three massive monitors.
“She doesn’t appear to have left her house in three years, dude. Not since the husband sliced and diced her face. She shops online, doesn’t have a car registered to her, nothing. She sells crafts for the Crisis Center, but other than that, she just stays home and entertains her help.”
Quinten rubbed his jaw in thought. “Who comes in and out?”
“A therapist comes once a week. She pays a housekeeper and a man who does gardening and errand-running type stuff. But it looks like that’s about it. She cut all ties with friends and family after the incident, except her parents. Maybe they took sides?” Evan’s eyes pored over the screens in front of him faster than Quinten could process what the man was reading.
“What exactly did her husband do to her? You said sliced and diced?” Evan’s choice of words churned in his stomach. Quinten peered at the screens, desperate to find the one that made sense.
“She was a model when they met. She came from old money. The Dunaways? They married into the Stadlers and created a dynasty.” Quinten nodded. That’s why she sounded familiar. He was pretty sure some of his parents’ dinner parties had involved the Dunaways and Stadlers. “Well, she was their face. Apparently, when she married Argyle Ford, he wanted her to stop being her family’s face piece, and when she wouldn’t, he tied her to their marital bed and sliced her face up with a straight razor.”
Quinten took the marriage vows of loving, honoring, and cherishing a woman seriously. Acid roiled in his stomach at the thought of a man doing this to the woman he’d made those vows to. Real men didn’t hurt their women. “When you say, ‘sliced her face up,’ what exactly do you mean?”
“Put her in the hospital for two weeks. There were other injuries, mostly from the restraints he used. Her lawyer wouldn’t let her do any reconstructive surgery besides the bare minimum until after the trial.”
Evan’s fingers flew over keys, and he pointed at one of the monitors. There, displayed larger than life, was the most beautiful creature Quinten had ever seen, on the arm of some guy, in a newspaper article.
Quinten sat back in his chair. So she’d put the man who’d sworn to love her in prison after he’d taken away her identity as a woman in the worst possible way. She was a model, at least for her family’s enterprises—her mother’s clothing company and her father’s golf club. Quinten had been to the club with his dad. She also was a spokesperson for numerous charities. She used her beauty for good, it seemed. And it had pissed off her husband? Was she hogging all Ford’s attention? Quinten shook his head, unable to understand it.
At least she’d taken a stand against her attacker. That should have been a step toward recovery. What would be so bad that a woman who lived in the limelight would suddenly disappear from it?
“Tell me if the bastard’s still in jail,” Quinten murmured as he leaned forward to try to make sense of Evan’s screens again. The computer whiz was clicking through them so fast, even Quinten couldn’t keep up.
“Well, I’ll be damned…” Evan mused, his fingers clicking on keys.
“What?” Quinten growled.
“Looks like he got out last month.” Another couple of clicks and something whirred to the left of Quinten. “I’m printing out his address for you. It seems he’s living with an uncle on the other side of the lake from Ms. Dunaway.”
That news didn’t make Quinten happy at all.
“I’m going to her house. See what you can get as far as backgrounds on friends and family, especially his. Find me a trial transcript. And we’ll go from there.”
Evan nodded, still absorbed in the data on his monitors. “Will do.”
Valerie watched through her video monitoring system as the giant man greeted Detective Hollerman at her door. The detective had been insistent she go into protective custody, but the idea of leaving her home gave her an anxiety attack.
Just having all these strangers here was making her edgy. She hadn’t slept a wink last night, not with that man snuggling her as if they were an old married couple. She’d tried again to escape while he slept, but he either wasn’t really sleeping or he was a light sleeper, because with each attempt to get loose from his grip, no matter how futile, he tightened his arms around her.
So she hadn’t slept. And now this man was here, and the detective was leaving. The other police officers had already vacated the premises, thankfully, and the detective had stayed until this man—somebody he trusted—came to watch over her. Detective Hollerman had said they would charge for their services, but Valerie would pay anything to make sure that other man didn’t come back again.
Out of habit, she double-checked to make sure her mask was firmly in place and pressed the talk button on the PA system.
“Please come in and have a seat, Mr. Pierce.” He looked around the foyer, looking for cameras and speakers, but he wouldn’t find them unless he looked very carefully. She had paid to have them hidden well. Valerie was sure her voice sounded cold through the speakers, but she was tired, and frankly, still terrified, even though she could feel the adrenaline draining from her body. “The living room is to your left.”
Valerie cringed as Mr. Pierce cautiously walked into the room her mother had decorated with fine antiques and imported rugs. To his credit, the giant didn’t blink an eye as he looked around before sitting, his focus remaining on the fireplace mantle laden with Fabergé eggs and crystal pieces.
“Ms. Dunaway, it was my understanding we’d be meeting today. As in, face-to-face.”
“I don’t do face-to-face, Mr. Pierce. I thought Detective Hollerman would have made that clear.”
“I understood you were agoraphobic, not scopophobic as well.” His voice was deep and smooth as he spoke. It held an understanding she wanted to cocoon herself in and never come out. He was bigger than her intruder, and it made her feel safe. If the man came back, he wouldn’t stand a chance against this guy, especially if he was as strong as he looked.
And he looked strong. With dark hair and eyes, he had a brooding look to him. The fact he used the term scopophobic to describe her indicated an intelligence she rarely encountered. Not that she encountered very many people.
“Yes, well, this is how I do things. I only let a very few people into my inner sanctuary. The rest I communicate with in this manner.” She was aware her voice was formal and flat, but she couldn’t bring herself to put emotion into it. “You can periodically do a walkthrough of the east wing, but you won’t see me.” The police in her wing had nearly killed her, traipsing through and touching her things, covering it all with dust.
As he pulled out a notebook and leaned back on the couch, he introduced himself. “My name is Quinten Pierce. Hollerman is a friend and colleague of mine, and I’m going to get a feel of your situation, and then I’ll call my office with a plan for protection. Is that alright with you?”
“Yes, absolutely. Thank you.” He’d gotten over the strangeness of the situation easier than most and was moving on. That was a relief. Valerie let out a sigh as she sat forward in her desk chair and watched him on the monitors.
The quality was grainy, something she wanted to have fixed soon. But at the time it was installed, she just wanted to be aware of who was in her home—not what they looked like.
She could tell just enough about Quinten Pierce’s appearance to know he was tall, dark, and handsome. Even as big as he seemed to be, though, he was at ease in his skin, moving with a grace and agility that was rare in a man his size. His chest stretched his dress shirt, and a powerful-looking back pulled it taut. His hips were lean, as the dress shirt tucked neatly into a pair of belted slacks. He was dressed professionally, but the shock of dark hair flopping over his forehead spoke of a side that didn’t play by the rules.
His shoulders straightened, but not in an uncomfortable way. He just had good posture, something that was ingrained in Valerie from toddlerhood. She idly wondered if h
is parents were the same as hers?
“Please tell me a little about what happened last night.”
Valerie sighed, not really wanting to get into it again, but she forgot to take her finger off the button and Quinten Pierce heard her.
And he reacted.
It was subtle, just a shift in posture—a craning of his thick neck—but it was a reaction, and something fluttered in her belly.
She stifled it, though, ready to get on with the telling, again, of what had happened last night.
As Valerie spoke, he took notes, not interrupting until she was finished, for which she was thankful.
When she had told the last spine-chilling detail, he leaned back and stretched his arms on the sofa, totally at ease in the showy elegance of the room.
“Do you know who he is?”
“No. Like I said, he was wearing a mask. A black ski mask.” Her voice trembled at the memory of his eyes through the holes, his smile. He could have had a kind face, but the mask made everything so sinister.
“If he was being so normal, why would he wear a mask like that?” Quinten mused, looking vaguely at the fireplace.
“H-he said it was to make me more comfortable, because… I wear masks.”
His face snapped toward the speaker, where her disembodied voice was coming from.
“You do? Why?”
Valerie shrugged, as if he could see her. “Because I’m scarred.” The masks were another layer of protection against the ugliness. They were a measure of safety for her. And the masks were beautiful. She carefully chose them from artisans around the world. Only the most beautiful to make her feel pretty again. But she didn’t say that.
“Is that common knowledge? Do people know you wear masks?”
“No. Only my staff know. And my parents.”
He made some notes in his book and pondered her words. She thought he would interrogate her about her staff, like the police had. Instead, he went down another track.
“Has he contacted you prior to this?”