When Lightning Strikes Twice

by Barbara Boswell

  She had been successful in her goals. Until tonight, when Quint Cormack single-handedly shattered her illusions about herself. Rachel did not feel so cool and sharp and confident right now. And she had a sinking feeling that she could be a world-class fool over Quint Cormack.

  “I have to go. I—oh!” Rachel’s voice ended with a gasp as Quint’s arm snaked out and he fastened his fingers around her ankle.

  “You promised Brady you would give him a bath,” Quint reminded her. With his free arm, he scooped up the little boy and deposited him into the half-filled tub.

  Brady squealed with delight and began to splash. A flotilla of toys were bobbing up and down in the water.

  “You have the situation well in hand,” Rachel said tersely. “Let me go.”

  “No.”

  The flat, unnegotiable reply inflamed her. “You can’t keep me here!”

  “You don’t think so?” he challenged. “Just watch me.”

  Quint turned his attention to his son, soaping him with one hand, talking to him, listening to the two-year-old chatter, all the while imprisoning her with his manacle of a hand around her ankle.

  For a few minutes Rachel was too stunned to react, let alone rebel. Never before had anyone physically restrained her! It was outrageous, unbelievable. She tried to imagine what Aunt Eve would do in this situation.

  Press charges? However, she would have to escape first.

  Rachel gave her leg a tentative tug. Quint’s grip tightened. The harder she pulled, the tighter his hand clamped. It was like one of those dreadful Chinese cylinder puzzles Wade had tormented her with when they were kids. Driven mindless with rage, she would invariably try to yank her finger out of the straw tube which would only make the sides tighten more. Wade would howl with laughter while she shrieked with frustration.

  Quint Cormack would undoubtedly behave the same way were she to resort to yanking and furious yells. Rachel glared balefully at him. How could the man who was so lovingly and competently tending to his child hold her prisoner like this?

  “I can kick you with my other foot, you know,” she threatened triumphantly, when the idea finally struck. “My sandal might not be as forceful as, say, a jackboot, but I can still inflict some damage.”

  Quint remained undaunted. “If you try it, you’ll hit the ground hard because I’ll pull this leg out from under you.” He squeezed her ankle as he gave her a smug smile.

  “Mommy, bath!” squealed Brady. He held up a plastic tugboat. “Boat. Pay boat.”

  “He wants you to play with the boat with him,” Quint translated.

  “I know. He communicates very well, and I have no trouble understanding him. I spent the day with him, remember?” Even to herself, she sounded like a prissy scold. Rachel winced.

  “Come here, Rachel.”

  She told herself that this time he sounded as if he were making a reasonable request, not ordering her around. She reminded herself that she’d made a promise to little Brady, and she was not the type to disappoint small children. With Quint’s hand still shackled around her ankle, Rachel inched her way to the edge of the tub and knelt beside him.

  Quint immediately released her. She felt his hand glide over her, from her ankle to the nape of her neck, before he removed it. Rachel tried to ignore the glowing warmth that surged through her. She pretended to be oblivious to Quint’s presence as she leaned over the tub and grasped a bright orange toy boat. She bumped it against Brady’s red, white, and blue tug.

  “Crash!” Rachel and Brady chorused together.

  She laughed. She’d learned from watching him play today that Brady considered toy collisions hilarious and exciting.

  At his demand, she played boat crash with him over and over and over again.

  Quint watched them. “I’m curious as to how Sarah and my car ended up on the Garden State Parkway,” he remarked after a while.

  “With Matt and a flat,” added Rachel. “Sorry. I’ve read so many Dr. Seuss books to the children today, I’m starting to talk like one. Actually, I have no idea how and why Sarah was where she was.”

  “She was where she was and is where she is,” offered Quint.

  “Uh-oh.” Rachel felt strangely giddy. “Seems like talking in nonsense verse can be catching.”

  “Seems like. Are you ever going to tell me how you ended up with Brady? I don’t think the two are unrelated.”

  It wasn’t easy to carry on a conversation with Brady demanding most of their attention but Rachel and Quint managed to exchange some relevent facts. He hadn’t heard about Sarah’s intervention with Austin and the BB gun, but she already knew that Dustin and the dog had been found safe and sound at a neighbor’s. Sarah had relayed that particular good news over the phone, courtesy of Call Forwarding.

  Quint told Rachel that Carla and the two boys were now staying with Carla’s mother and that though the fire, smoke, and water had caused significant damage to the Cormack house, it wasn’t a total loss. He mentioned that Frank Cormack still hadn’t been located.

  “Dad told Carla he was going into the office today, but he never showed up,” Quint’s tone was neutral enough but his hard, cold expression spoke volumes. “It’s anybody’s guess as to where he is or where he’s been, but his usual haunts have to be considered. Maybe he’s at one of the casinos in Atlantic City. Maybe he’s with a new girlfriend. Maybe he’s hitting the sleaze palaces on Admiral Wilson Boulevard.”

  “Poor Carla,” Rachel said quietly.

  “Poor Austin and Dustin. Having Frank Cormack for a father isn’t easy. Nobody knows that better than I do.” Quint grimaced. “And his marriage to Carla has lasted longer than any of his previous ones so his influence on those kids is bound to be more pronounced and more pernicious. Of course, it doesn’t help that Carla is so—” He broke off. He turned his full attention back to Brady.

  Rachel was uncertain what to say. She knew Frank Cormack’s reputation as a lawyer was poor indeed. The local bar association considered him something of a joke.

  She hadn’t known much about his personal life other than the basic facts known to everyone else in Lakeview. That he had married the much younger Carla Polk. That he had been struck while crossing the street by a drunk driver fourteen months ago and suffered devastating injuries, that he hadn’t been expected to live but somehow pulled through. His son Quinton had arrived from somewhere out West to keep Frank’s legal practice afloat while he recuperated.

  Rachel remembered that Frank Cormack’s accident hadn’t generated much sympathy; rather it had been regarded with black humor in the area’s legal circles. News of Quint’s arrival in Lakeview initially was met with scorn. It was said that Cormack’s law practice was on life support, just like he was, and it would be kinder to pull the plug on both.

  Aunt Eve said it was typical of the luckless Frank to be run over by a drunk who was driving without a license or insurance, and who died penniless of cirrhosis of the liver a few months later. Frank Cormack’s family had no savings, no insurance or no income, and were further burdened by a pile of medical bills. Their future had looked extremely bleak until Quint began to turn things around.

  Slowly, but steadily, he’d built the law practice in Lakeview, gaining new cases with every win. His string of successes accelerated the growth of the firm’s client base, boosting the income of Cormack and Son to an unprecedented level. Now there was the Tilden will. Considering the potential for appeals in that case, Quint’s fee could easily run into the high six figures.

  And he would have to share the profits with his father, Carla and the boys. Rachel’s eyes flew to Quint’s face. For the first time she fully appreciated that he was not only supporting himself and his child, but also an entire second family. Frank Cormack certainly made no contribution. He couldn’t even be found when his own house was on fire.

  As if feeling her stare, Quint turned his head toward her. Their eyes met and held. Her chest felt oddly constricted and her skin began to tingle as he focused his gaze
intently on her. He seemed to be drawing her out of herself, exerting a power that made her body tighten with sexual tension so potent she was helpless against it.

  Fortunately, a torrent of water from Brady’s latest collision between a squeaky frog and his beloved tugboat, splashed her cheek and immediately broke the spell she was fast falling under. Rachel was grateful for the reprieve. Shakily, she rose to her feet. “I really have to—”

  “You’re turning into a wrinkled purple prune, Brady,” Quint announced. “Time to get out.” He flipped open the drain, and the water swiftly began to recede.

  Brady noticed. And couldn’t bear for the fun to end. “No, no, no! Bath, bath,” he wailed.

  “Spoilsport,” Rachel murmured. As one who also didn’t appreciate Quint’s absolute authority, she sympathized with the toddler’s frustration.

  “The water was getting cold, Rachel,” Quint pointed out.

  “Brady didn’t mind. He was enjoying himself.”

  He wasn’t now. Brady stood in the few inches of water that remained, crying his heart out as shivers racked his naked little body.

  “Oh, poor Brady, you didn’t want to get out, did you?” Reflexively, Rachel took the towel that Quint handed her and wrapped it around the two-year-old. She picked him up, talking to him all the while.

  “His room is this way,” Quint said, and she followed him down the short hallway carrying Brady in her arms.

  By the time they reached Brady’s room, wallpapered with zoo animals in primary colors—Rachel guessed Quint had deemed them suitably masculine—the little boy had stopped crying and was eager to show her his toys.

  Brady insisted that Mommy, not Daddy, dry him and dress him in his pajamas, which he chose from a drawer. “Choo-choo train,” he said, pointing at the blue engines printed on the cotton.

  Rachel glanced at the other pajama sets. “More trains and boats and planes. Not a single pink bunny in sight,” she said dryly.

  “Certainly not,” said Quint. He was standing aside, watching them.

  Although Rachel was very much aware of his intensely focused gaze upon her, Brady’s presence diluted its effect. It was almost impossible to be sensually blitzkrieged while a toddler babbled incessantly as he dragged books and toys into the middle of the room for her inspection. Rachel dutifully admired each and every item.

  “I hate to break up the party but it’s past seven-thirty, and Brady is usually zonked by this time,” Quint finally announced.

  Rachel glanced at her watch. It was nearly eight o’clock and Brady’s little voice was beginning to sound hoarse with fatigue. “Brady, do you want me to read you a story or Daddy to read you a story before you go to sleep?” she asked.

  She’d learned from her interactions with Snowy that offering a choice to youngsters in this age group often precluded a temper tantrum. Very young children didn’t seem to realize that another, unmentioned option existed—to reject both choices offered and keep on with the current activity.

  Predictably, Brady fell for her ploy. “Mommy read,” he commanded.

  “Okay. What book do you want?”

  Brady immediately rummaged through the pile of books to find a well-used copy of that old classic Goodnight Moon. Rachel smiled. It had been Snowy’s bedtime favorite, too.

  Quint flicked on a lamp made of alphabet blocks and turned off the overhead light. Rachel settled in the rocking chair with Brady on her lap and began to read. The text was so familiar to her she could recite it by memory. While she read, Quint quietly put the toys and books away and cleared a space for Brady in his crib, lining up his assortment of stuffed animal against the bars.

  At the end of the story, Rachel glanced up and met Quint’s eyes. He gave a swift, silent nod and she lifted Brady into the crib. The baby glanced sleepily around, then reached for a stuffed brown raccoon. And promptly tossed it out of the crib.

  Quint grinned. “Brady runs a very exclusive place. Only TV and video stars are allowed in. That raccoon is an irritating pest who keeps trying to break into the club.”

  Rachel looked at the remaining toys in the crib. Every one of them was either a Sesame Street or a Disney character. She smiled, instantly disarmed by Quint’s amusing perspective.

  Quint picked up the cast-aside toy and placed it on the child-sized table in the corner. “Sarah and I keep trying to slip the raccoon in, to see if it’ll get by him. So far, poor old Reject Raccoon gets the heave-ho every single time.”

  Rachel chuckled. “I guess not even little kids are immune to the power of celebrity. Night-night, Brady,” she leaned down to kiss him. He smiled drowsily at her, already half-asleep.

  Then it was Quint’s turn to bend down and kiss his son good night.

  “ ‘Night, Brady.” Quint covered the child with a well-used pale blue blanket that looked as if it had been hauled many places for a very long time.

  Rachel touched the satin edge of the blanket. Snowy had a beloved old blanket too, but hers was baby pink. A smile curved her lips. It appeared that pastel blue had somehow passed Quint’s machismo test.

  She watched the quiet moment between father and son, consumed by a melting tenderness. The emotional feelings evoked were as strong as the sexual ones Quint roused in her.

  Before she had fully comprehended the enormous scope of their cojoined power, Quint had hooked his arm around her waist and walked her out of the room.

  6

  Quint pulled Brady’s bedroom door closed behind them when they stepped into the hall. And before Rachel could move, think, or even breathe, she was pinned between Quint and the wall.

  She raised her head and met his eyes, seeing the urgency and the passion that he made no attempt to conceal. His gaze held her captive as effectively as his body, which was hard and burgeoning with desire. He made no attempt to hide that either.

  She must be getting conditioned to this, Rachel mused dazedly. Because instead of reacting with shock or outrage—certainly her expected response to such overt caveman tactics—she felt giddy with her own feminine power. Quint’s arousal was directly related to his proximity to her; his lack of restraint evidenced a lack of control. Which was especially thrilling because she knew how controlled the man could be.

  Not now, however. Not with her.

  ‘There is something very familiar about this situation,” she murmured huskily. “You’ve got me backed up against the wall again. Literally.”

  “And figuratively?”

  “If you’re referring to that phony Tilden will—”

  “Which is very real.” Quint’s dark brown eyes were alight with amusement.

  “Mmm-hmm. You can’t even say that with a straight face, Quinton Cormack.”

  “Rachel, speaking as one attorney to another, at this particular moment I don’t give a flying f—um—fig—about anybody’s will.”

  “Coming from you, I think that’s something of a compliment.”

  She raised her hands slowly. It wasn’t until Quint caught her wrists and pinned them at shoulder height against the wall on either side of her that Rachel realized she hadn’t intended to push him away. She’d been about to slide her arms around his neck.

  That startling realization finally cleared her head. What was she thinking, to allow Quint to manhandle her this way? While joking about the fake Tilden will!

  Her pride demanded a struggle. At the very least, a token one. She tried to pull her arms away but his steely grip didn’t give even an inch. Having no luck there, she shifted her hips from side to side trying, not very successfully, to dislodge him. But her movements resulted in him settling more firmly between her thighs, which had parted during their little tussle. In addition, the motions of her body had only aroused him further. She could feel how much.

  Quint groaned. Or maybe it was more of a moan. “You do it deliberately, don’t you? You’re determined to drive me crazy, you know exactly how to do it, and you won’t quit until I’ve gone totally over the edge.”

  Rachel giggled, sta
rtling herself. She wasn’t the giggly type, she never had been. But Quint’s lamentations tickled her. He sounded so aggrieved!

  She had to sternly remind herself that this was no laughing matter and that Quint had no cause for complaint. She was the one being pinned against the wall—and for the second time that day. She was the persecuted party here.

  Although what she actually felt was as far from persecution as MTV was from PBS.

  “You think it’s funny, hmm?” Quint nuzzled her neck as he spoke, gently nipping and kissing between words. She felt him pull on her skin with his teeth, drawing it between his lips to suck.

  Her breath burned against her throat, and she swallowed with difficulty. “N-No. It’s not funny at all.”

  His erection pressed formidably against her and she rotated her hips in an erotic rhythm she hadn’t even realized she knew. She was acutely aware of his strength—and fiercely turned on by it. The shackles of inhibitions and repression that she had maintained for years suddenly disintegrated, leaving her at the mercy of this breakout of desire and need. She didn’t care about anything but this man and this moment.

  Quint affectionately rubbed noses with her. “Aren’t you going to tell me to stop?” he whispered.

  Rachel gazed deeply into his eyes. She felt as if she were drowning in the dark depths. “No,” she breathed the word. Her tongue felt thick in her mouth. Speaking required a concentrated effort.

  “No?” His lips brushed hers lightly. “No, you don’t want me to stop?” The tip of his tongue traced the shape of her lips, and she parted them in aching invitation. Which he did not take.

  “Do you want me to keep going?” he murmured instead.

  “So many questions!” Rachel moaned a protest. And the answers were all too obvious!

  “Remember my obsession with accuracy and specificity?” His smile was warm and teasingly intimate and made her shiver with yearning.

  His lips flirted with hers, tantalizing her with feather-light touches, but lifting out of reach whenever she raised her mouth for deeper, stronger contact. “I think you carry accuracy and specificity to ridiculous lengths,” she complained.