Quinn wasn’t sure what to expect from the Grand Dames of romance. The word “dames” made him think of older women having tea and lobbing zingers that their younger counterparts wouldn’t be comfortable stating.
Instead, the three women waiting for him in the publishing suite were all much younger than he imagined.
Rosalind Painter, a contemporary romance author, had a helmet of blond hair that would’ve been welcome in the 1980s even though she only looked to be in her forties. Roxanne Hamilton, a bad boy author who wrote about men treating their bikes better than their girlfriends, boasted long brown hair that swept over her shoulders and clearly hadn’t crossed the mid-century mark as of yet. Jazzy Jessup — Quinn was positive that wasn’t her real name — looked to be in her late twenties at the most, perhaps even younger. She wore so much makeup it looked caked on and her eyelashes were a bright fuchsia color.
They all greeted him with warm smiles, and the way they looked him up and down made him think they were undressing him with their eyes ... which left him feeling strangely vulnerable.
Rosalind was the first to speak. “Have you ever considered moonlighting as a book cover model?”
Whatever question he was expecting, that wasn’t it. Quinn forced a smile all the same and merely shook his head. “I have enough on my plate with The Bounding Storm. I don’t think I would like being a book model.”
“You don’t know unless you try,” Roxanne argued. “You would be perfect for my books.” She held her hands up, as if looking through a lens. “I see you in barbed wire tattoos sitting astride a Harley. I bet you would look good with a blonde.”
“I have no intention of finding out.”
“I write space opera romances,” Jazzy volunteered. “Don’t tell me you don’t have a Han Solo fetish. I could totally cast you as Han.”
“Again, while flattering, I don’t want to be a book model.”
“Have you ever had your picture taken by a professional photographer?” Rosalind challenged. “That might change everything.”
“My girlfriend is a professional photographer and she takes my photo all the time. I still don’t want to be a book model.”
Rosalind heaved out a sigh and then reached for her drink. It was purple and in a martini glass, which told Quinn they were already imbibing even though it was before noon. “Your loss. What is it you want from us? Our publishers said that you wanted to speak to us and thought it best if we were all together for the interview.”
That wasn’t what Quinn requested, but he wasn’t in the mood to start a row. If he needed to tackle the women individually, he would do it at a later time. For now, he was interested in seeing how the group interacted when together.
“I want to talk to you about Julia West.”
Roxanne didn’t bother hiding her sneer. “What’s wrong with her now? Is she upset that we cut her out of drinks last night? If so, that’s on her. We made no secret of where we would be.”
“Ms. West didn’t join you for drinks last night because she’s dead,” Quinn replied simply.
“What?” Jazzy’s eyes widened. “No way. That can’t be right. We would’ve heard if she died. It would be all over the news.”
“The world doesn’t know that she’s dead yet,” Quinn explained. “She died less than an hour after landing on the ship, although her body wasn’t discovered until after we left port.”
“But ... I don’t understand.” Jazzy flicked her eyes to Rosalind, confused. “What is he saying?”
“He’s saying that you should keep your trap shut,” Rosalind shot back, her temper on full display. “If you don’t have anything important to add to the conversation, perhaps you should practice that meditation you’re always going on and on about.”
Jazzy worked her jaw but didn’t speak, which allowed Quinn to take control of the conversation.
“I want to hear from everybody,” he insisted, pulling out a pad of paper so he could jot down notes as they talked. “I need to know about your group. I’ve heard a few things, but they were from outside sources and I’m not sure how much weight I should give the statements.”
“Who told you about our group?” Rosalind, eyes narrowed to dangerous slits, had the sort of flaring nostrils that made Quinn think of a snout rather than a nose.
“I don’t think that’s important.” Quinn was blasé as he clicked his ink pen. “My understanding is that, even though she qualified for membership in the group the first year she published, you only allowed her to join the second year because you had no choice. Would you like to explain why that occurred?”
Roxanne blinked several times in rapid succession. “Our group is private,” she said finally. “Our membership guidelines aren’t for public consumption.”
“Really?” Quinn was having a hard time keeping his temper in check. “My understanding is the four top-selling romance authors in the publishing world get to be Grand Dames. Two of you have been in the group for years. One of you has only been here for two years.” His eyes briefly flicked to Jazzy. “If your sales fall, you’re out of the group, right?”
“They have to fall below someone else’s sales,” Jazzy answered, ignoring the dark look Roxanne sent in her direction. “Like Julia, for example. Her complete series has been out for more than two years and her sales have obviously fallen from what they were, but she still outsells everyone below her.”
“That’s good to know.” Quinn jotted something down. “Whose place in the group did Julia take?”
Rosalind and Roxanne exchanged a quick look that wasn’t lost on Quinn.
“Does that really matter?” Rosalind asked finally.
Quinn didn’t hesitate to answer. “Yes. You either give me the name or I’ll get it somewhere else. If you withhold information, though, I’ll assume you’re hiding other things.”
“Oh, you’re just saying that to bully us.” Roxanne’s distaste was evident, but she answered all the same. “Megan Kramer. She was in the group for four years before she lost her spot.”
“I’m guessing she should’ve only been in the group for three years if the rules were followed that first year Julia was publishing,” Quinn argued.
“Not exactly,” Roxanne replied. “Rosalind had the worst sales that year. She’s rebounded since. She would’ve been the one who lost her spot, though.”
Incensed, Rosalind scorched Roxanne with a hateful glare. “That’s only because the publisher flubbed my launch. You know it!”
“It’s because you wrote a ridiculous book,” Roxanne shot back. “Everyone knows that.”
“Ladies, I won’t stand for a fight.” Quinn kept his voice stern. “I don’t have time for immature shenanigans. I want to know about Julia’s standing with this group and whether you know of any enemies she had.”
“She had nothing but enemies,” Rosalind said. “No one liked her. She wasn’t a real author. She made it to the top of the charts on a gimmick. I’m not entirely sure the publisher didn’t artificially expand her sales numbers as part of some sort of marketing ploy.”
“Oh, they didn’t do that,” Jazzy countered. “They didn’t have to. You saw all the news stories. There were people everywhere carrying around those books. They might not have been your cup of tea — probably because they weren’t secretly filled with brandy or bourbon — but other people liked them. You just can’t stand that she outsold you.”
“Little girl, you can be booted out of this group as easily as you were accepted,” Rosalind threatened.
“You don’t frighten me.”
Quinn cleared his throat to get their attention. He was at the end of his rope. “Knock it off. I’m not kidding. I’ve had it with your crap. This is a serious situation. Julia West is dead ... and it wasn’t an accident.”
“You haven’t mentioned how she died,” Roxanne noted. “I think that’s important.”
“She was strangled.”
“Men strangle women,” Rosalind said. “Women don’t strangle other women. If you’re looking
at us for suspects, you’re looking in the wrong place.”
“Who told you women don’t strangle other women?” Quinn asked.
“I’ve done copious amounts of research for my romantic suspense books. I know things.”
“Well, if you know things, you should also recognize that there is no such thing as an absolute. Strangulation is a method used when you want to be close to your victim. That means it was personal.”
“Are we suspects?” Jazzy asked.
Quinn shrugged. “That’s entirely up to you. I have questions. You have answers. You can either work with or against me. It’s completely up to you.”
Rosalind’s sigh was heavy and theatrical. “What do you want to know?”
“Let’s start from the beginning ... and I want to know everything.”
QUINN WAS EXHAUSTED AFTER spending two hours with the Grand Dames. Between the catfights and underhanded digs, he was surprised no one had ever gone after them. Jazzy wasn’t as difficult, but she seemed genuinely clueless. Quinn rationalized it could’ve been an act, but if it was, he believed she’d missed her calling. She should’ve been an actress.
Once he finished with them, he headed up to the deck. He wanted to check on Rowan, who was nowhere to be found. He stopped in the tiki bar long enough to ask Demarcus if he’d seen her, and when he responded that he hadn’t laid eyes on her all day, Quinn shoved the investigation to the side and began panicking.
The first place he looked was the last place he saw her. He used the extra keycard to gain entrance to her room, and almost cried out in relief when he found her laying on the bed. She was hugging a pillow, her expression serious, and it took everything Quinn had not to start demanding answers.
Instead, he was gentle as he slid onto the bed and spooned behind her.
“I was worried, Ro. Why aren’t you working? Are you sick?”
She shook her head.
“Did something happen?”
Her voice was small when she finally spoke. “He came here. Right after you left. Well, I guess it wasn’t right after. I showered and straightened my hair. I know you like it when I straighten it, so I thought it would be a surprise. I guess it’s not a surprise now, huh? It probably looks like crap.”
She was babbling. Quinn didn’t point that out.
“It looks fine.” As if to prove it, he smoothed her hair. “You’re always beautiful. In fact, I think it’s possible you’re the prettiest woman in the world. I don’t know why you’re not a supermodel.”
Genuinely amused, Rowan snorted as she rolled to face him. Her eyes were clear, but the remnants of an earlier crying jag remained, and Quinn wanted to beat the person who caused the puffiness. “You don’t have to lay it on so thick,” she said quietly.
“It’s the truth. I always want to crow the truth from the main deck so everybody can hear it. In fact, I can go up there and do it now if that will make you feel better.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“What is necessary?”
“I ... don’t know. I just can’t seem to motivate myself to get up right now.”
Quinn darted his eyes around the room, looking for a hint that Paul had been there, perhaps that he’d left something behind. The room looked exactly as it had when he left, though, which seemed more bothersome than soothing. “Can you tell me about it?”
Rowan nodded. “He was on the other side of the door when I opened it to leave for my shift. He was just standing there, as if he’d never left. It seemed so ... normal.”
“I can see that.”
“Except it wasn’t normal.”
“No, not even a little,” he agreed.
“I kind of freaked a little bit,” she admitted. “I was so surprised I almost fell over. I’m not exaggerating. I felt lightheaded for a second and I could’ve hit my head if I’d fallen. Instead, he caught me, and came in here. He sat right over there.” She pointed to the table.
Quinn wanted her to get to the meat of the story, but he knew better than pushing her. “Okay.”
“I asked him what happened, where he was and why he left. He asked about you. He saw the photograph of us and wanted to know if I was happy.”
“Did he not answer your questions?” Quinn felt hot rage bubbling up. “I mean ... did he leave you hanging after all these years?”
“No, he answered them. He said that he was part of an experiment with my mother when they were in college. That’s how they met. It was for people with psychic abilities.”
Quinn opened his mouth but no sound came out. Rowan barreled forward as if she hadn’t noticed.
“They both had minor psychic abilities, small things. Apparently my mother could cheat at cards and he could pick up surface thoughts. He said their abilities actually faded as they got older.”
“What about the group that ran the experiments?” Quinn queried. “What was up with them?”
“The Phoenix Society. Supposedly very secret. My mother and father weren’t strong enough to garner a lot of interest. That changed when they had me.”
Suddenly, Quinn felt sick to his stomach. “They thought there was a chance that the offspring of two minor psychics would be more powerful.”
“They did.” She bobbed her head. “They thought I might have special abilities.”
“You do.”
“My father didn’t want them to know that, though,” Rowan explained. “He said he heard stories back in the day about the stronger psychics going missing. He didn’t want to risk that. They lied to the group because they thought it would be enough to keep me safe.”
“Something must’ve happened to change that.”
“It did. It was after my mother died, when it was just my father and me. I was having trouble with the omen. It terrified me. Whenever it popped up, I tried to stop whatever was going to happen because the guilt would eat me alive otherwise. One time it showed up for my chemistry teacher and I told the police because I thought they might be able to do something. I thought they would want to help.”
“They didn’t?”
“They thought I was barking mad ... until he was killed in a strange accident two days later. Then they showed up on our doorstep to ask questions.”
“I see.” Quinn pressed a kiss to her forehead as he considered the story. “I’m guessing they didn’t believe it was simply a coincidence.”
“No. My father lied to them. He was nervous. At the time, I couldn’t figure out why. I honestly thought the police would like having someone with my ability to help them. I was naive.”
“Well, don’t take that on yourself.” Quinn slid his arms around her back and held her tight. “I would’ve wanted to believe the same thing at your age.”
Rowan didn’t believe that was true, but she didn’t call him on the fib. She knew he was simply trying to help. She wouldn’t punish him for that. “My father was increasingly nervous after that. I didn’t understand it at the time, but he says he didn’t want my name showing up in police reports because he thought it would attract more investigators from The Phoenix Society. That’s when he hatched his plan to protect me.”
Rowan told Quinn the rest of the story in a flat voice, as if she was reading a recipe and preparing ingredients. When she finished, she seemed almost detached from what had happened.
“I don’t know whether to believe him,” she admitted. “I don’t know if he’s telling the truth or it’s a convenient lie. For all I know, he could’ve spent the past ten years coming up with a lie. Maybe he really left because he was sick of taking care of me ... or my abilities freaked him out ... or he simply wanted a new life.”
“Well ... I guess that’s possible,” Quinn hedged. “I think he’s telling you the truth, though.”
“Are you saying that story makes sense to you?” Rowan was understandably dubious. “It doesn’t make sense to me.”
In truth, Quinn had a feeling Paul had only told his daughter part of the story. He was probably doling out information in
small increments because he didn’t want to overwhelm her in one sitting. He didn’t bother saying that, though, because she clearly wasn’t ready to hear it.
“I need time to think about it,” he admitted. “I don’t know how I feel yet.”
“Okay.” She closed her eyes and snuggled close. “I’m thinking about taking a nap. For some reason, I’m really tired.”
She wasn’t tired. Quinn knew that. She was shutting out the world because her brain was overloading and she didn’t know what else to do. He wouldn’t force her to face things just yet. Sleep might do her good, balance her a bit.
“You should take a nap.” He pressed another kiss to her forehead. “I’ll stay here until you fall asleep. I have to continue my interviews, though, so I can’t stay for the whole afternoon. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize for doing your job.” Rowan’s voice was muffled against his chest. “Just ... hold me for a little bit. I need you for just a little bit.”
“You have me forever,” he whispered, running his hands up and down her back. Before she drifted off, he knew he needed one last bit of information from her. “What name is he registered under?”
“P.J. Landis.”
Quinn stiffened. “I’ve read his books. He writes science fiction and fantasy stuff. It’s really good.”
“Yeah. I think I’ve heard of him. It’s weird, huh?”
“It’s ... something.” He rhythmically started stroking her back to lull her. “It’s going to be okay, sweetie. I swear it. We’re going to figure this out together. You have nothing to worry about.”
“I’m not worried. I have you.”
“You definitely have me.” Quinn remained close, holding her tight, until she slipped into slumber. Then he carefully climbed off the bed and headed toward the door.
He wasn’t lying when he told her he had interviews. He had something else more important to do first, though. He was going to find P.J. Landis, and the questions he asked were going to be so much more in-depth than his stunned daughter could muster.
Quinn didn’t fancy himself Rowan’s protector, but he had no intention of letting her get hurt if he could help it. Paul Gray was going to explain what was going on, even if Quinn had to beat the answers out of him.
Farewell Seas Page 8