Quinn Security

by Dee Bridgnorth

  Two hours later—yes, beauty took time!—she was dressed in a smart Ann Taylor suit that complimented her slender physique, a comfortable pair of Jimmy Choos—well, no designer heel was ever comfortable, but in comparison to last night’s shoes these were much better—and a pearl necklace. She’d blown her hair out, using an iron to curl the wavy sides framing her face, and had fully made up her face with pink lipstick, cheek contours and blush, and dramatic smoky eyes replete with false lashes.

  After collecting her purse, she slipped out of her dingy motel room into sweltering heat and reminded herself that it would be much cooler in town, as she made her way to her parked Mercedes.

  Elizabeth had done a soldierly job of not losing it all night, though she felt constantly on the brink of an emotional breakdown.

  It had all happened so fast, the heartbreaking news of her father’s passing. She had loved her father dearly. She’d respected and admired him and had consistently looked up to him throughout all of her years. She was only twenty-eight years old. Much too young to lose a parent.

  She had survived the news. Barely. The first few days after his passing had been horrendous emotionally, but she’d managed to make all of the arrangements with the funeral home in Sonoma, California. Daddy had loved wine country, and it had been his wish to be buried there. In a lot of ways, being responsible for handling every last detail of the wake, funeral, burial, memorial, and reception had kept her focused and busy. Of course, she had broken down into crying jags, but for the most part she’d been able to keep it together.

  Now that all that was over, it seemed that all Elizabeth had was a terrible sense of mourning weighing her heart down. She’d slogged through her privileged life in Los Angeles, barely able to make it out of bed, much less meet her girlfriends for brunch or cocktails.

  When she’d received her father’s will and understood that he had left her a huge plot of land in some desolate town called Devil’s Fist, it had given her a whole new project. Something to focus on. Something to get her out of bed and get her going.

  Her father had been a prominent real estate tycoon. He’d developed some of the most glamorous areas of the nation’s largest cities. He’d turned slums into upscale neighborhoods and had given Elizabeth everything she could have ever wanted in life.

  And upon his passing, Thomas Halsey had decided to leave his daughter a huge chunk of Wyoming.

  Frankly, Elizabeth hadn’t a clue what her father was planning to do with the land in Wyoming. It seemed out of character that Thomas would have poured his time and resources into developing some forgotten corner of the Wild West. Well, that was probably precisely why he hadn’t developed the land. Apparently, he’d had it for years and years and years and never did a damn thing with it. He’d also never mentioned it to her in all his life and it remained a mystery to Elizabeth to this day as to why he’d bought it in the first place.

  But the fact of the matter was that Elizabeth wasn’t a real estate mogul like her dad. If she’d known what his wishes might have been for the land in Devil’s Fist, she might have committed herself to executing those plans. Given that she hadn’t the foggiest, all she really wanted to do was sell the land and get the hell out of Devil’s Fist as fast as she could. She didn’t need to be in some dusty, old town right now. She needed to be with her girlfriends, to mourn for her father in the peace and quiet of indulgent spas and five-star restaurants.

  She felt another crying jag bubble up her throat, but she swallowed her emotions down, firmly reminding herself that she was not wearing waterproof eye makeup. If she needed to sob her heart out in the shower later tonight, then so be it, but she would have to stay strong and wait until then.

  The GPS navigation system on her dashboard was acting up again. Cell service was downright terrible out here, but she more or less knew the way to go. She stayed on the highway, heading west until the two-lane throughway narrowed into one lane and the speed limit signs forced traffic down to a crawling thirty mph, coming onto Main Street and the heart of the Fist.

  She recognized the bar from last night on her left—Libations—and tried not to think about the stubborn stud who had barely accommodated her.

  He had been easy on the eyes, but he had no manners. There was no excuse for that kind of behavior. Men in Los Angeles would’ve tripped over themselves to open doors for her or show her to the finest B&Bs. Instead of feeling honored that she’d actually lowered her standards far enough to grace him with her presence, that guy, Dean, had instead had the nerve to act put off by her. It didn’t bode well for the types she might meet in this town. All the better to sell the land and get back to L.A. where she belonged.

  Traffic was at a crawl, but she spotted a cozy-looking diner up ahead on the left and immediately began to hunt for a parking spot.

  Luckily, there was one available in front of a store that looked like it had burned to the ground recently. As she pulled over, angling her Mercedes into the vacant spot just shy of Bison Road, she hoped that charred debris from the collapsed building wouldn’t blow into her luxury automobile. The paint job was new.

  After easing out of her car, she looked both ways and wasn’t pleased that traffic wasn’t readily stopping for her to cross. When the coast was clear, she hustled to the other side, high heels clicking over asphalt, as she neared the diner called Angel’s Food.

  It was late for breakfast, nearly 11am, but it seemed the diner was bustling. Nearly every table was full, she realized as she waited patiently at the hostess stand to be seated. She really, really didn’t want to have to cram herself into one of those uncomfortable-looking bar stools at the counter.

  “Mornin’!” an angelic blonde woman said, greeting her with a smile, blue eyes twinkling. She plucked a giant laminated menu from the stand as she asked, “Breakfast for one?”

  “I’d prefer a booth,” said Elizabeth.

  The waitress, though sweet—her nametag read Lucy—didn’t seem especially willing to oblige. “I really need to save the booths for families and larger parties.”

  “I can’t sit at the counter on one of those stools,” she grimaced.

  “You can’t?” Lucy questioned.

  Elizabeth smiled and produced a crisp twenty-dollar bill. “A booth. Please. Chop, chop.”

  Though the waitress looked perturbed, cash always did the trick, and Elizabeth followed the pixie-blonde through the crowded diner.

  As she sat, she dictated, “Americano with a shot of espresso on the side. I’d like an egg-whites-only omelet. Farm fresh eggs, mind you, organic. With a side of organic, whole grain bread, and a mixed greens salad with raspberry vinaigrette.”

  When she glanced up at Lucy to be sure the girl had written all that down, she was met with a blank stare.

  Lucy snapped back into herself and countered with, “How ‘bout black coffee, eggs on toast, and hash browns.”

  “That sounds awful.”

  “Comin’ right up!” said Lucy as she quickly padded away.

  Elizabeth sighed and glanced out the window at the burnt-to-a-crisp building across the street.

  What might her father have done? she wondered as she stared at the destroyed building. Part of her thought he might swoop in, buy the building, build it back up, rent it out, and improve the neighborhood. But would he have? He had been sitting on a massive plot of land in this town and hadn’t done a damn thing with it. It was puzzling.

  She let out another sigh, grateful that another hot wave of tearful emotion hadn’t slammed into her, and found her cell phone deep inside of her Balenciaga purse. She had saved Dante Alighieri’s telephone number in her contracts so she pulled it up now, eyed the restaurant, and sent the call through since she figured it would be a good long while before her breakfast would arrive.

  “Good morning,” she said as soon as she heard a deep, smooth voice come through the line. He sounded handsome! “This is Elizabeth Halsey. We spoke briefly last week about the land I’m trying to sell in Devil’s Fist?”


  “Elizabeth,” he said, his enchanting tone washing over her. “Yes, how are you?”

  “I would be better if I’d managed to find a charming bed and breakfast last night when I got into town, but I suppose that might be on your list of projects once you buy the land from me?”

  If her father had taught her anything about real estate, it was to always proceed as though the sale was already in motion.

  Dante let out a smooth laugh and allowed, “I’m certainly interested in the land and I agree that the Fist could use a bed and breakfast among other accommodations. How long will you be in town for?”

  She was tempted to say as long as it takes you to sign on the dotted line, but she didn’t want to sound too pushy, so she mentioned, “Possibly a week. I’m meeting with as many interested parties as I can, of course. I happen to be on Main Street right now having breakfast at Angel’s Food, if you’d care to join me to discuss?”

  There was a brief pause and Elizabeth felt her heart leap up her throat, but she breathed easy once he said, “I can be there in five minutes.”

  “Excellent. I’ll keep my eyes peeled for you. I’m in one of the booths in the window facing Main Street.”

  “See you then,” she heard him say.

  She set her cell phone on the sticky table and felt butterflies hoping that this Dante Alighieri would look as handsome as he sounded.

  The waitress returned and placed a tall mug of coffee in front of her that didn’t at all resemble an Americano.

  “Hope you like it,” said Lucy. “Your food should be out in a minute.”

  “Thank you,” she managed to return.

  She watched as the waitress started off through the restaurant and then her gaze was drawn to the entrance door.

  “Oh, no,” she muttered under her breath.

  It was the guy from last night. Dean.

  As she spied him, slouching herself down into the booth, she noticed he looked taller and more muscular than he had on the darkened sidewalk and dimly lit bar. Maybe it was the lighting. The black tee-shirt he wore hugged his sculpted chest. His strong, rippling arms were covered in tattoos and she had to admit, he’d pretty much nailed the bad boy look. But she didn’t need to get interested in some guy who was probably better suited to change her oil than take her out.

  She watched as he ordered a coffee to-go at the counter and quickly diverted her eyes when he turned and scanned the restaurant.

  Damn, had he spotted her? She snuck a peek his way and cringed. Yup, not only had he spotted her but he was starting over this way.

  She pressed her mouth into a poised line, straightened up in the booth, and held her head high, looking up at him as he neared her table.

  “I figured you’d be gone by now,” he mentioned offhandedly as he grinned down at her.

  She scowled up at him and said, “I have business in Devil’s Fist, and I’ll be here until it’s finished.”

  “Good for you,” he said dryly. “There are families waiting for booths, you know,” he pointed out as he stared judgingly down at her single coffee. “You could’ve sat at the counter.”

  “You could’ve minded your own business,” she hotly returned.

  “I’ll do you one better,” he said, and then to her astonishment Dean had the audacity to actually sit down across from her. “Now you don’t look like such a jerk.”

  She frowned at him. “I’ve never looked like a jerk in my life.”

  “That’s what you think.”

  Mean of him, she thought, and yet there seemed to be a playful, almost interested-looking grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

  She got a bit lost, staring at his mouth, the shape and smoothness of it. Crap, he had a good mouth.

  “As it turns out,” she began to inform him. “I’m meeting someone here. A gentleman,” she stated, emphasizing the word, because it was probably foreign to him. “So, in fact I do need a booth and you are interrupting.”

  “A gentleman, huh?”

  “That’s right,” she confirmed.

  “You don’t strike me as the type of person who would think anyone in Devil’s Fist is a gentleman.”

  Elizabeth’s gaze was drawn to a bona fide gentleman who had just entered the diner. Dressed in a pressed suit that to her trained eye looked like a tailored Armani, came an impressively handsome, silver-fox of a man who could only be Dante Alighieri.

  “Here he is now,” she boasted as she smiled out at Dante’s approach.

  Dean glanced over his shoulder to see who she was referring to and the second he did, he jumped out of his side of the booth, his fists balled and his sculpted chest heaving.

  Dante grinned at him, and Elizabeth knew in an instant that they must know each other and likely had a rocky history.

  “Dean,” said Dante in a cool, smooth tone. He was confident. Handsome and confident and exactly Elizabeth’s type. “How’s the shoulder?”

  “You’ve got some nerve,” Dean seethed through clenched teeth.

  Elizabeth was suddenly alarmed. Was he about to throw a punch?

  Dante, who was profoundly unalarmed by the situation, smiled down at her and asked, “You two know each other?”

  “Hardly,” she laughed before she asserted to Dean, “it was nice running into you. Take care.”

  Dean was practically quaking with adrenaline. He stared at Dante—hard—and it was a very long moment before he backed off. When he did, however, the blonde waitress who owed Elizabeth an omelet by now joined him and they stared in wide-eyed horror at the only man in this God-forsaken town who seemed at all cosmopolitan.

  “You’ll have to excuse Dean Quinn,” said Dante as he glided into the booth seat across from her. “He was raised by wolves.”

  She chuckled—oh, Lord, he was witty!—and agreed, “I can’t say I’m surprised.”

  ***

  At about the time Elizabeth and Dante Alighieri were critiquing precisely every single way in which their so-called Americanos had fallen wildly short, across the street inside of the police station, Sheriff Rick Abernathy was in the complicated throes of typing up a mountain of reports to close out all of the cases that had sprung up thanks to Dante and his army of the damned.

  His instructions had been—and these were mandated by the dark lord himself with threats and reinforced by Detective Eddie Friendly, who Rick now thoroughly despised—to erase Dante’s name from every crime, deem each crime solved, and strip as many records as he could from the police database.

  Dante fully expected to have free reign of Devil’s Fist and Rick didn’t dare cross him.

  The best that Rick had been able to do was approach Troy Quinn during Sasha Quinn and Gaylord Geer’s wedding. Rick had seen Troy’s abilities with his own two eyes in the salvage yard of Damned Repair, the automotive repair shop on the dusty outskirts of town near Yellowstone. Angel Mercer had been darkly tied to Dante since he’d been the one to turn her. Her love for Jack Quagmire, the owner of the one bar in town, Libations, had compelled her to stop at nothing to finally be free of Dante’s choking hold on her soul. And with time and determination, Troy Quinn had accomplished exactly that. He had freed Angel, and the beautiful bombshell who ran Angel’s Food had been able to not only wed Jack, but unite their pure souls for all of eternity.

  If Troy could save Angel from Dante, then Rick had every hope in the world that the werewolf and king of the Quinn clan pack would be able to do the same for him…

  …eventually.

  Rick was itching to be free. He hadn’t felt like himself in weeks. At times, it felt as though the real Rick was trapped somewhere deep inside of himself, while on the surface some devilish thing had full control.

  But Troy had another plan.

  Instead of freeing Rick right away, which would’ve been Rick’s preference, Troy wanted the sheriff to sit tight, continue to work for Dante Alighieri, and report back to the Quinns the dark lord’s every next move. It was a strategy that all of the Quinns felt like they needed i
n order to capture, and kill, Dante once and for all.

  It made Rick extremely nervous.

  Of course, Rick also wanted to put a permanent end to Dante’s dark reign, completely extinguish the threat he posed to Devil’s Fist and all of the innocent residents that lived here, but he felt he would be better equipped to do that as a freed soul.

  However, Rick had no choice but to cooperate. If Troy wasn’t going to wash his werewolf magic over him and free him just yet, then it wasn’t like Rick could very well point a shotgun at his head and make him. He would have to be patient, do his best to both report back to Troy as well as keep his true intentions secret from Dante, Eddie Friendly, and all of the damned werewolves who were living, hidden and loyal to Dante, throughout the Fist.

  At least the fevers he had been suffering had subsided. The last thing he wanted was to have to return to the hospital in Jackson Hole for more tests. That had been another source of immense stress in his life, those two days he’d spent strung up to machines and monitors as a cluster of doctors tried to figure why in the hell he had a fever of over 105 degrees when there were zero signs of infection in his blood.

  He’d also gotten a handle on controlling his shifts, which was another saving grace. But it seemed that the more in control he became, the less like himself he felt.

  He was slipping away, slowly but surely, gradually but dangerously, and deep, deep down Rick Abernathy sensed that time was running out.

  If he wanted anything, second to being freed from Dante’s horrible hold, it was to keep his precious Whitney from ever finding out that Dante had turned him. Rick had begged Troy not to tell Rick’s daughter what had become of him. But Shane Quinn knew, and though Shane had also promised not to breathe a word of any of this to his daughter, Rick wasn’t certain he could trust him. Shane and Whitney were engaged, after all. Why would one fiancé keep secrets from another? Why would a husband not share with his wife shocking information that had to do with her father?