by Anne Conley
When he walked out of the east wing, he was met by Simon, thunderclouds all over his face. His stomach dropped. If Simon was here, it was because he was pissed, and he couldn’t blame the man. Simon was jumping to conclusions about why he’d spent the night in the east wing.
Sure enough, as soon as the door clicked shut behind him, Simon advanced, poking his finger in Quinten’s chest, aggravating a bruise he had there.
“Don’t you fucking dare get too close to her,” Simon snarled. “What the fuck do you think you are doing, sleeping with a god-damned client?”
It was too late on the too close part, but Quinten could deny some of the allegations with good conscience. “I’m not sleeping with her, Simon.” He sighed as he spoke, knowing exactly where the conversation would go. If they were lucky, it wouldn’t end in fisticuffs.
“I’m not even convinced she’s not doing this to herself for some kind of sick attention.” Simon’s voice was gritty through his sneer. Of course he would think that. Simon had a chip on his shoulder about women victims, and only Quinten understood why, but that didn’t excuse him.
Anger pulsed through Quinten at Simon’s words. Without thinking, he had his older, yet smaller brother shoved up against the wall, his pristine shirt wrinkled in his fist. “If you keep talking about her like that, I won’t work for you anymore. That’s a bullshit reaction to your own damn issues, and you know it.”
Clarity dawned on Simon’s features, and they smoothed out a bit. “You’ve already fallen for her, dammit.”
Quinten released him. “Maybe, but I haven’t acted on anything.” Much.
“Do you have a suspect?” Simon was back to business. Quinten knew he had to get through his own issues sooner or later and learn to trust again, but now wasn’t the time, and Quinten wasn’t the guy. Simon had to fix Simon. Nobody else. In the meantime…
“Brandon Fuller, her lawyer, was my roommate in law school. He cultivated black roses. He knows I fight and contacted The Grynderr for some reason. I don’t have a motive for any of it, except he’s totally in love with Valerie. I called Hollerman last night, when I put two and two together, and he’s looking into it. If he can find something, he’ll take him in for questioning.”
“Well, that’s something, I guess,” Simon said reluctantly. It was as if he wanted to be proven right, that Quinten couldn’t fall in love and do his job at the same time. And he almost couldn’t, but Quinten wasn’t going to admit how long it took him to connect the dots with Brandon.
When his phone dinged a text message, Quinten pulled it from his shorts to look at it.
I need to meet with all of you as soon as possible.
It was from Valerie. Odd. But he responded with, Simon and I are at the door to the east wing right now.
Thirty seconds later, she opened the door, and Quinten could see she was in the middle of an anxiety attack. Her pink mask trembled on her face, and her chest rose with ragged breaths. Her green eyes were brighter than normal as the pupils had shrunk to pinpricks.
“It’s okay, breathe.” Quinten was at her side, murmuring in her ear as he rubbed her back. Simon quirked an eyebrow, crossing his arms in front of him, but Quinten couldn’t give two fucks. “Take your time, and tell us what’s going on.
“It’s nothing against the rest of you, but I only really feel safe with Quinten around.” Her voice shook, and her eyes stayed on the ground at their feet. Valerie took a deep breath before continuing. “Something’s happened, and I need him in my quarters, around the clock.” Turning to Quinten, her eyes rose to his, and he lost his breath a little bit. She said, “You can have the guest room.” Turning back to Simon, who looked at her with absolutely no emotion in his features, she shrugged, her eyes back on their knees. “I guess I’ll still need the rest of the house monitored as well as the exterior. I’ll pay extra, I don’t mind. I just—” She wrung her hands together in a gesture that tugged at Quinten’s heart. Something was bothering her, and he needed to stop it. “I need this.”
Something had to have happened, and Quinten needed to know what. He sent an urgent look to Simon, who nodded, giving him a warning glare.
“That’s exactly what we’re here for, Ms. Dunaway. This isn’t a problem. Simon will sort it out.” Today, she wore a bright pink mask that glittered in the lights of the room. It went well with the wrap-around sweater she wore over black slacks and high heels. She looked professional and feminine. She looked like a woman playing princess with her mask. To an outsider, it would seem like she was drawing attention to her disfigurement, but to Quinten, he thought she might be trying to find beauty in an ugly situation.
Simon turned to find the others. “I’ll have Andrew and Ryan keep monitoring the rest of the house and the perimeter.” Quinten kept a bag packed in his car—they all did—and he’d get it as soon as he found out what was going on.
After Simon had left, he turned to Valerie. “What happened?”
“Follow me.” She turned and glided away from him, not looking him in the eyes, as if embarrassed.
He followed her as she moved with a grace that belied the tenseness of the situation. Floating across the floors effortlessly, Valerie led him outside and across her small corner of her massive lawn to the shed. Unlocking the padlock, she threw open the door and stood back, letting him enter.
What he saw took his breath away.
It was filled with small, wooden crafts—bird houses, cat condos, dog houses. They were immaculately detailed depictions of architectural feats of wonder: The Coliseum, Notre Dame, Buckingham Palace, the Leaning Tower of Pisa, the White House. Smaller things, too, like door hangers with kitschy sayings on them, blocks for infants and toddlers. He spun around to see her standing in the doorway, watching him.
“These are magnificent.” He was dumbfounded. He’d had no idea she did work like this. Miniature replicas of world landmarks. They were stunning.
“Look in those. Over there.” She waved her hand toward the wall, where a row of dog houses, cat condos, and bird houses were lined up. He looked closer, and inside each one was a dead animal.
A real, dead animal. Puppies, kittens, dogs, cats, birds, in one there was a turtle. Had somebody raided an animal shelter? Or were these people’s pets? All the shelters in Austin were no-kill shelters, and each one of these animals were sprawled in death as if sleeping. The stillness of death and the fact some still had their eyes open was creepy as fuck. Quinten shuddered.
“Christ.” No words could convey the sudden welling of panic inside him. He quickly ushered her back out of the shed and inside her house. “Go inside your house, lock the door, and don’t let anybody in until I come back.” She nodded.
What the actual fuck?
Quinten called Hollerman before going to get a clean set of clothes from his car. He was still shirtless from the night before and didn’t want any more people jumping to the wrong conclusions. Hollerman got there almost immediately with a team of crime scene investigators. Quinten was impressed. This was probably Hollerman’s last case before retirement, and he was going out with a bang, determined to find out who was stalking Valerie and put him away.
While the crime scene techs worked, Quinten and Hollerman stood on the lawn and talked.
Hollerman pursed his lips in thought as Quinten reiterated his theory about Brandon, even though he’d woken Hollerman out of a dead sleep last night to tell him when he’d thought of it. When he had finished, the detective was silent, pulling out his notebook and jotting down some notes.
“What about Argyle? He’s got the motive and the means. It’s certainly something he would do, especially if his past with Ms. Dunaway is any indication.”
“Maybe they’re in on it together,” Quinten allowed, not willing to give up on his theory. “They did start out together with Valerie.”
“So it’s Valerie, now, is it?” Hollerman teased, lightening the mood.
Quinten wanted to declare his intentions, stake his claim, mark his territory. He wo
uld gladly pee all over Detective Hollerman if the man showed the least bit of interest, but he only shrugged.
“Yeah, well, you spend enough time with someone…” It’s been a week, he reminded himself. Seven intense days of anxiety, yearning, and comfort that all culminated into an attraction he didn’t understand and a possessiveness he couldn’t contain, even if he hadn’t acted on it yet.
“Whatever. I’ll look into all this after we get this scene processed. I’m also going to check out animal shelters. Maybe we’ll have some luck there.”
Frustration welled up inside him. This really should be an open/shut case. Her ex-husband had the motive, means, and opportunity. Brandon had the means and the motive. The guys at the office were checking on alibis, but so far, nothing had come up.
Why hadn’t Argyle contacted her? He was the type of man who wanted the women he was fucking with to know exactly who he was and why he was doing it.
Instead of trepidation about Valerie’s clinginess, Quinten felt a sense of pride bubble up inside.
Valerie had chosen Quinten. Said she’d felt safest with him.
Anger mixed with the pride—anger that she didn’t feel safe to begin with.
Before today, the stalker hadn’t done anything since the Pierce firm had taken the case, except a threatening phone call and contacting The Grynderr to lay out a threat. But dead animals carefully arranged on private property were nothing to joke about. It required a premeditation that was downright scary.
It had gone from psychologically messing with her to not-so-subtle threats.
Inside, Quinten moved his office to the east wing, using the other sunroom overlooking the birds. He should use a room that overlooked the exterior, but something about the birds was soothing, and there were monitors in here Valerie used to watch the various parts of the house, so he just reprogrammed them to view the exterior instead.
With a low grunt, he crossed his legs and got comfortable. It was going to be a long night.
Valerie laid in her bed, staring at the ceiling. It was night three with Quinten next door, and his bed had finally fallen silent. But she still wasn’t sleeping.
Valerie silently got out of bed and wandered into the living room, thinking maybe if she had something to read, she might get her mind off Quinten and go to sleep. Not wanting to turn on the light, afraid it would awaken him, she crept across the floor to the bookshelf on the opposite wall. Her fingers tapped the spines as her eyes tried to adjust to the darkness.
She was unaware of the shadowy figure silently moving in on her. Fast.
Until she was tackled from behind. Panic infused her, and Valerie fought back, desperate for Quinten to hear and come to her rescue. She cursed herself for not waking him and telling him she was awake.
With a shriek, she clawed at her attacker, only to be pinned by an enormous, rock-hard body. She stilled, reality dawning on her.
Quinten hovered over her, staring, as if mesmerized.
Staring at her.
Her face.
She closed her eyes, as if that would make anything any better, but it didn’t. She wasn’t wearing her mask, and Quinten was looking at her face.
Her eyes closed. His face was ingrained in her brain—the look of disbelief mixed with remorse and pity.
He didn’t move to get off her, as if he wanted her to know he saw her, know he pitied her. She hated that. Valerie didn’t want his pity. She knew she looked hideous. Slowly opening her eyes, she looked at him, realizing her hands gripped his biceps. He was in her arms, remaining still, as if he would scare her if he moved. Valerie squeezed, just once, gently, and felt the muscles under her hands tense, as if holding himself in a hover above her body wasn’t strenuous at all. He was teasing her with a flex.
His eyes were wholly focused on her, raking across the lines and scars on her face, caressing each one, as if in a seductive dance. Valerie’s insides turned into a warm puddle and morphed into a weird tension. It wasn’t pity on his face. She felt him harden against her thigh, and a gasp left her lips. He was getting turned on. So was she.
This was madness.
The bruises on his face were fading, but they only enhanced his rough masculinity. The black eye, darkened by shadows, the split on his lip that she wanted to kiss better, the cut on the top of his cheek, all made her realize his stark virility.
Her tongue snaked out and wet her bottom lip, and it seemed to snap his gaze straight to her mouth. His dark, espresso-colored eyes focused entirely on her face without its mask, and he didn’t show an ounce of disgust. If anything, he looked… triumphant. But that couldn’t be right. It was dark in here, and she must not be seeing things right.
She had a man in her arms. Pressed against her thigh. Turned on. Valerie’s insides were a gushy mess, and she couldn’t comprehend what was happening. She knew what was happening, but the fact it was happening to her was insanity.
And she wasn’t freaking out. Somehow, she’d gotten comfortable with Quinten, to the point she desired his company. She no longer wanted to be alone. She wanted him. Valerie didn’t know how it happened, or the exact moment her body and brain had declared him safe, but she knew he was.
Leisurely, his lips curved upward into a smirk, and Valerie’s insides were sent into a tailspin. What did that smirk mean? Coupled with the erection, she could only grasp at straws as to what the hell was happening.
And then his body lowered over hers, slowly, until he was pressed against her breasts when she breathed, which she was doing heavily. His head dropped, his lips almost touching hers. She could smell the mint from his toothpaste, feel the heat of his breath, his body. She was awash in sensations, and he was barely touching her. What would it feel like if he actually kissed her?
She flinched at the thought. Surely, it was a wayward extrapolation. There was no way this man was about to kiss her. She was reading the signals all wrong. Seeing the flinch, Quinten pushed himself up with his arms. The loss was sudden, and Valerie bit her lip to keep from protesting. He helped her up off the floor, effortlessly pulling her up.
“I’m so sorry. I heard you in here, and I thought…” He stopped himself, his fingers lingering on her waist under her robe which had fallen open. “Are you hurt?” His hands started to wander, and Valerie couldn’t take any more of him touching her. Not because of her issues, but because nothing would come of it.
“I’m fine. I just couldn’t sleep and was looking for something to read.” She noticed he was wearing pajama bottoms, hanging dangerously low on his hips—his deceptively lean hips for his frame. His bare torso. His obvious erection pushing the front of his pants.
Sheesh. She needed to get a grip. She wasn’t even thinking in complete sentences.
Blindly grabbing a book, she held it above her head as she ducked her face down, cheeks flaming in mortification. “Got something. I’m going to bed.” Slamming her door to her room, she sank into her bed and looked at her book.
Sigh. Lady Chatterley’s Lover. Perfect.
It took a long time for Quinten to get over the dizziness her scent evoked in him, even after he’d gone to bed and gotten away from it. All he could think about while he laid there and tried to get rest was the way her soft curves had felt under the silk of her nightgown, how he’d found himself cradled between her thighs, how she’d looked at him—so full of desire.
He’d almost kissed her, but something had happened and she’d flinched. So he’d backed off but hadn’t tried to hide his erection. For some reason, he’d wanted her to know he was turned on. He wanted her to see what she did to him. When she was ready, he would take her and make her his.
His to keep.
That thought brought him up short. She wasn’t a pet, for Christ’s sake. That’s what he told himself, anyway. But he still wanted her with an undeniable force, deep in his gut.
Quinten thought a lot about love and the polarity of human beings, the almost programmed need to find their other half. From the beginning of history, the first m
an and woman were cleaved from one. As the poet Rumi said, one hand can’t clap without the other. According to him, every man was pre-ordained to be with his mate. Yes, Quinten believed in soul mates and had been searching for his entire life.
He couldn’t help believe he’d found her. But what was he supposed to do now?
Sure, he’d been attracted to her from the beginning, but it hadn’t occurred to him to do anything about the attraction. She was a job, shouldn’t be anything more. And she certainly wasn’t the type for one-night stands. And he was too old for that shit, anyway. Quinten was ready.
She obviously wasn’t.
Could she be the one?
He’d seen her face, and all the mask bullshit was just that: a build-up of bullshit. He’d been expecting something hideous underneath it, but she was extraordinarily beautiful. Sure, she had some scarring, but it had healed and faded, decorations for pristine skin and flawless bone structure. There was one—a deep, long scar—that moved from below her eye, over her nose, and down her neck. It was as if fucking Argyle had been trying to cleave her in two. It was the one he wanted to lick—the one he saw below the mask. But even with the scar, her features were gorgeous, breathtaking. She had high cheek bones, a long, straight nose, and the fullest, pouty lips he’d ever seen.
And those green eyes had sparkled at him with desire. He knew it.
But he couldn’t do anything with her, as much as he wanted to. It was Simon’s rule, and it was a good rule, especially with him living with her. Never mind it had been broken at least four times already with Ryan, Evan, Miriam, and Jordan—each time had almost had dire consequences, and Quinten wouldn’t put Valerie in danger like that.
Besides, he knew what Simon had gone through. Simon had fallen in love once before, and Quinten thought he’d be broken forever. That love, betrayal, and death had nearly killed his brother. He never wanted to see Simon sink into that dark abyss again. The security firm had given him a foothold on his life, some sense of purpose to cling to. Quinten knew this was a different situation, as every situation was different, but he wouldn’t do it to his brother.