Читать онлайн книгу «Rules of Attraction» автора Susan Crosby
Rules of Attraction
Susan Crosby
QUINN'S RULES WERE SIMPLE. DO THE JOB. STAY OUT OF DANGER. AND NEVER GET PERSONALLY INVOLVED WITH A CLIENTHired to keep Claire Winston's sister under surveillance, Quinn Gerard was stunned to find he was following the wrong woman when he and Claire came face-toface…body to body. Knowing Claire would eventually lead him to his quarry, the daring P.I. vowed to keep her close, but in doing so he risked more than he could have imagined. For Claire's loving nature–and passionate secrets–had shaken the unshakable Quinn to the point where once his job ended, he didn't know if he would ever be able to walk away. That was the thing about rules…. They were made to be broken.
“Trust Me.”
Quinn turned toward her. Claire raised her gaze to his. He looked at her mouth. Full lips, parted just slightly.
Couldn’t. He looked away, tried to focus. Shouldn’t.
“Claire,” he said.
“What?”
He cupped her face, waited two seconds for her to object, then he kissed her. He felt her breath stop, then she took a long, slow breath and kissed him back. Her hands pressed against his chest then slid higher. Before she wrapped her arms around his neck he pulled back.
He wasn’t going to apologize for something she apparently wanted as much as he did.
Except that he had rules, and he’d just broken one.
Dear Reader,
Thank you for choosing Silhouette Desire. As always, we have a fabulous array of stories for you to enjoy, starting with Just a Taste by Bronwyn Jameson, the latest installment in our DYNASTIES: THE ASHTONS continuity series. This tale of forbidden attraction between two romance-wary souls will leave you breathless and wanting more from this wonderful author—who will have a brand-new miniseries of her own, PRINCES OF THE OUTBACK, out later this year.
The terrific Annette Broadrick is back with another book in her CRENSHAWS OF TEXAS series. Double Identity is an engrossing page-turner about seduction and lies…you know, all that good stuff! Susan Crosby continues her BEHIND CLOSED DOORS series with Rules of Attraction, the first of three brand-new stories set in the world of very private investigations. Roxanne St. Claire brings us a fabulous McGrath brother hero caught in an unexpected situation, in When the Earth Moves. Rochelle Alers’s THE BLACKSTONES OF VIRGINIA series wraps up with Beyond Business, a story in which the Blackstone patriarch gets involved in a surprise romance with his new—and very pregnant—assistant. And last but certainly not least, the engaging Amy Jo Cousins is back this month with Sleeping Arrangements, a terms-of-the-will story not to be missed.
Here’s hoping you enjoy all six of our selections this month. And, in the months to come, look for Maureen Child’s THREE-WAY WAGER series and a brand-new installment of our infamous TEXAS CATTLEMAN’S CLUB.
Happy reading!
Melissa Jeglinski
Senior Editor
Silhouette Desire
Rules of Attraction
Susan Crosby
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
SUSAN CROSBY
believes in the value of setting goals, but also in the magic of making wishes. A longtime reader of romance novels, Susan earned a B.A. in English while raising her sons. She lives in the central valley of California, the land of wine grapes, asparagus and almonds. Her checkered past includes jobs as a synchronized swimming instructor, personnel interviewer at a toy factory and trucking company manager, but her current occupation as a writer is her all-time favorite.
Susan enjoys writing about people who take a chance on love, sometimes against all odds. She loves warm, strong heroes; good-hearted, self-reliant heroines…and happy endings.
Susan loves to hear from readers. You can visit her at her Web site, www.susancrosby.com.
For Bobbie Vetter Fite, one of the windows that opened
when my door closed. Onward and upward, my friend.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
One
Private investigator Quinn Gerard felt a momentary pang of regret for having turned respectable seven months ago. He missed the anonymity, and the danger. He’d hungered for it, thrived on it. Since he’d given up his private practice to become a partner in ARC Security & Investigations, he’d had to operate by the rules, instead of ignoring them or making up his own when the situation warranted it.
One personal rule that hadn’t changed, however, was that he never got personally involved with a client—no matter how tempting—and the willowy blonde in the electric-blue blouse and black leather skirt currently ambling away from her car was worse than a client. She was a subject.
Still, as a man, he could admire the package if not the contents. And that package was more interesting at the moment than in the previous three days he’d had her under surveillance. In fact, Jennifer Winston was a bundle of surprises today. First, she’d left her house hours earlier than her norm. Second, she’d slowed her pace. Usually in a hurry, today she moseyed along as if life were eternal—or she was reluctant to get where she was going. Third, she’d borrowed her sister’s car, a modest white compact, instead of driving her own conspicuous red convertible. Fourth, and perhaps most surprising, she was headed into the local blood bank.
Quinn would’ve guessed that Jennifer Winston didn’t have a charitable blood cell in her entire lovely body. So, why was she here?
She’d been followed twenty-four hours a day, for weeks, from the house she shared with her sister, first by D.A. investigators, and now by Quinn. According to reports passed along to him, her routine stops included chic boutiques, trendy San Francisco nightspots and luxurious spas in the Napa valley. She hadn’t held a job in almost half a year, so she came and went at will, generally staying out until very late at night then not leaving home again until almost noon.
Suspicious of the deviations in her pattern today, Quinn followed the newly unpredictable and decidedly sexier Ms. Winston into the building instead of waiting for her to return to her car. Deviation from the norm often resulted in the big breaks in a case.
He trailed her down a wide, quiet hallway, watched as she disappeared through a doorway topped by a sign that read Donor Room. Not wanting to be directly on her heels, he stopped to drink from a water fountain then pretended to read some flyers on a bulletin board. Finally he put himself in a position to peer into the room. He didn’t see her so he moved a little closer, stepped through the doorway—
“You’re here to make a donation?” someone almost shouted behind him.
The tone of voice was more demand than query. Quinn turned and eyed the white-haired pixie with the big voice. The top of her head barely reached his sternum. He outweighed her by at least a hundred pounds.
“No, I—”
“Why not?” she asked, looking him up and down. “You look healthy.”
Because I’m following a woman the district attorney is convinced is hiding five million embezzled dollars, that’s why not. “I don’t have time,” he said.
“Hardly takes any time at all,” the human steamroller said, challenge in her eyes. “In and out before you know it.”
Her name tag identified her as Lorna, a 15,000-hour volunteer. Quinn ignored her as he scanned the room then zeroed in on Ms. Winston. She had donned a purple smock over her clothes and was putting cookies on a plate next to cartons of juice. Jennifer Winston, the juice-and-cookies lady? He couldn’t reconcile it with what he knew of her. Although he had imagined her living a double life….
“Scared of needles?” Lorna asked.
He met her placid gaze directly, coolly. “Yes.”
After a moment she cracked a smile. “Thought not. Come on, then.”
He focused on the fact that Ms. Winston wasn’t going anywhere. He could observe her and do his civic duty at the same time. It was a little risky getting so close to her, close enough she might remember him later and realize she was being followed again, but the thrill revved his adrenaline. The challenge of meeting her face-to-face while still tailing her appealed to him. Hiding in plain sight. He excelled at it.
He answered the long list of health-related questions, had his iron level tested, then settled in a padded lounge chair. He sought out his target as the nurse inserted the needle in his arm. Lorna and Ms. Winston were laughing together. He hadn’t seen her this mellow or friendly. Until now, she’d seemed like a woman on a mission, determined and direct. Now, she smiled at everyone, drawing smiles in return. She tossed her shoulder-length blond hair flirtatiously, lifted a hand to wave to someone entering the room—then noticed him.
From thirty feet away Quinn saw her falter in her conversation. Her smile faded. She lowered her arm slowly.
Had he been made? He went on alert, ready to go after her should she run. But then Lorna elbowed her and said something that put some pink into Ms. Winston’s cheeks and made her dip her head a little, as if embarrassed.
Quinn relaxed. Male/female connection? Now that intrigued him. He believed the reason he was never noticed by his subjects was that he was ordinary looking. Unmemorable.
On the other hand, there was something to be said for animal magnetism. As Ms. Winston maintained eye contact, his pulse sped up. Which was a normal reaction to the risk, he decided, of her being able to spot him following her after this. But it had been a while since his hormones had mutinied on their own like that.
A few more minutes passed. She looked away and back several times. He didn’t pretend disinterest, deciding instead that he could take an entirely different approach to his surveillance, a much more personal one. It would require playing a role, acting as if he didn’t know her boyfriend had been convicted of embezzlement and now occupied a cell in a federal prison—and that she was thought to be his accomplice.
Quinn had to be especially careful, however. Agreeing to take on the case for the D.A.’s office made him a police agent, which meant he needed to stay within the boundaries and scope of the law.
Ms. Winston took a few steps toward Quinn then hesitated. He held her gaze. She came closer. Close enough that he saw her eyes. Blue. Bright blue, not brown.
His gut clenched. Blood rushed through him, a feeling as close to panic as anything he could remember.
This wasn’t Jennifer Winston but her half sister, Claire. First-grade teacher, blue-eyed, brunette-until-today Claire—the good sister.
Curses whipped through his mind. Jennifer was no longer being watched. She could skip town and no one would find her, especially if she had the five million dollars her boyfriend stole.
“Take the needle out,” Quinn ordered the nurse. The good sister stopped. She backed up as the nurse spoke.
“Just a minute more—”
“Now. Or I’ll do it myself.” He reached for it.
“I’ll do it!” The nurse shoved his hand away, then slid out the needle and pressed a folded gauze pad to the site.
He stuck his thumb on the gauze and swung his legs over the side of the lounge. He had to see if Jennifer Winston had left town, if her sister was a decoy. What else could she be?
“You’ll need to sit over at that table and have some juice and cookies,” the nurse said. “Claire will go with you.”
He stood. Claire could go to—
The room tilted as unearthly quiet bombarded it.
“Hey! I have to bandage that!” The voice seemed to come through a tunnel.
He took a step. Darkness teased his vision, first at the edges, then closing in until only pinpoints of light remained. Bright. Disorienting. Nauseating. Take a deep breath. Put your head down.
Down….
“It’s always the big ones,” Lorna said, coming up beside Claire after the fiercely attractive man collapsed to the floor, the blow softened by the nurse’s hold on him, slowing his descent. “I’ll get his keys,” Lorna added. “I have a feeling he’s going to fight us about staying here for a while.”
Claire studied the unconscious man while Lorna dug her hand into the man’s pocket and pulled out a set of keys. Well, shoot. Claire had really wanted to flirt with him, to test whether blondes do have more fun. Her sister had talked Claire into a makeover the night before, her first day of summer break from teaching. She had been nervous about testing the waters with her new look. She’d even worn one of Jenn’s outfits, because hers just didn’t seem to go with that blonde-and-fun thing. When the stranger had made eye contact with her, she’d thought he was interested. Now he would probably be too embarrassed to talk to her, much less flirt.
Maybe it was only certain blondes who had more fun….
So much for the great experiment, she thought with a sigh.
“Mr. Gerard,” Lorna said, crouching beside him and patting his cheek.
His eyes opened. He looked around in momentary confusion, then focused on Claire. His eyes were brown, flecked with gold, like amber, and a little eerie to stare at for long. His short black hair required little fuss, a practical, not-quite-military look. Mid-thirties, she decided. A solid, muscular body dressed in black jeans and a gray sweater—clothes that would make him blend in with a crowd except that he was over six feet tall and extremely attractive in a rugged, angular, mesmerizing kind of way.
Why had he been in such a hurry to leave? It was almost as if seeing her up close had triggered something in him. Yet he didn’t seem the type to shy away from anything, much less an unintimidating first-grade teacher whose newly blond hair and trendy outfit would never hide the fact that she was neither beautiful nor sexy, even if she felt a little bit of both after her makeover.
Finally he looked away and sat up.
“Juice and cookies, Mr. Gerard,” Lorna said. “You won’t be allowed to leave until we give the okay.”
“You think you can stop me?” he challenged, standing. He wobbled a bit.
Claire leaned forward, ready to help prop him up.
Lorna dangled his keys.
For a second, Claire thought he might smile. “You in the habit of taking advantage of unconscious men?” he asked Lorna.
“Do you need a wheelchair to take you to Claire’s table?” she countered.
His mouth twitched. “I can manage.”
“Guess you were telling the truth about being afraid of needles, after all,” Lorna said.
“Maybe.” He turned his gaze on Claire again. “Lead the way.”
He obviously could’ve snatched his keys, but apparently he realized he wasn’t ready to drive. She liked how he adjusted to his situation, considering that a few minutes ago he’d been in such a hurry to leave. “Orange, apple or cranberry juice?” she asked.
“Orange. Please.” He pulled out a cell phone the second he sat down. “Cass? I know you probably just got to bed, but I think I may have lost it…. Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s gone.”
Claire poured the juice and set the cup in front of him. She pushed the plate of cookies closer.
“Long story, involving a mistake,” he said, eyeing Claire in a way that made her hold her breath. “I need you to get over there and see what’s going on…. Yeah. It’s probably too late, but we need to check it out. Call me.” He closed the flap on the phone and set it on the table. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
He swigged half the glass. “People pass out around here often?”
“You’re not the first.”
“Ah. A polite answer to save me from too much embarrassment.” He finished the juice and shoved the glass toward her to refill, then bit off half a cookie. “Have you worked here long?”
“I’ve been volunteering one Saturday a month since March, but now that it’s summer I’ll help out once a week.”
“Are you a student?”
She knew she looked younger than her age. “I teach first grade.”
“For how long?”
Was he trying to figure out how old she was? “Four years.” I’m twenty-six. Is that too young to interest you?
“How long until the drill sergeant gives me back my keys?”
Claire smiled at his description of Lorna. “A half hour, maybe. When they’re sure you’re stable.”
He finished the cookie. “That’s never happened to me before,” he said.
She sat back, her smile broadening. So, he was a normal man, after all, worried that he appeared weak.
“It hasn’t,” he insisted, looking at his watch.
“I believe you.”
“You’re laughing at me.”
“Just at your ego.” She angled toward him. “I don’t think less of you, even if you don’t like needles.”
“I can’t tell you how relieved I am.”
She laughed, appreciating his dry sense of humor, and he seemed to relax a little more—or perhaps resigned himself to the situation.
“I’m Quinn Gerard,” he said, extending his hand.
“Claire Winston.” His hand engulfed hers, and was warm and…ridiculously arousing. She knew some people had chemical reactions to other people. It had just never happened to her. Not on first meeting. Not with a stranger.
“Why do you volunteer here, Claire Winston?”
Raw emotions rose up, catching her off guard. After all this time she should be able to say the words out loud without her throat closing. “Six months ago my parents were in a car accident. My father died instantly, but my mother survived a little while longer, in part because of blood transfusions. She died of other complications, but that extra time meant we got to say goodbye.”
His hesitation lasted but a second. “I’m sorry.”
He sounded more matter-of-fact than sympathetic. She moved the plate of cookies to the left a few inches then back again. “The work done here is not just important but critical. I do what I can.”
He seemed to be weighing a response. “Do you like teaching?”
The change of subject silenced her for a few seconds. “I love it. It’s all I ever wanted to do. How about you? What do you do?” His phone conversation earlier made her wonder. What had he lost? What mistake had he made?
“Find new ways to meet interesting women.”
So he did know how to flirt. “For a living?” she asked, teasing him back, feeling flattered and cautious. Maybe her blond hair was having an effect, after all.
Before Quinn answered, a group of people entered the room almost soundlessly. Claire knew by their somber expressions that they were the friends, family and, perhaps, co-workers of someone in need of a transfusion. Those kinds of donors generally came in groups and rarely smiled except in nervousness.
Lorna looked toward Claire and angled her head as if to say, “Come help.”
“Excuse me,” she said to Quinn. “I’m needed. Eat and drink as much as you like.”
She felt his gaze on her as she helped the new donors get situated. She was aware of him every second, even when she wasn’t sneaking a peek in his direction. Her body heated up. Her heart pounded a stronger rhythm, relentless and unsteady. Her reaction was new to her—so new, she wasn’t sure how to respond except to let him know in some way that she wouldn’t mind taking it one step further. She had a lunch break due her later. There was a café within walking distance.
After a while his phone rang. She saw him drag his hand down his face and his shoulders drop momentarily before he slid the phone back in his pocket. He met her gaze and tapped a finger to his watch face, asking his question with the gesture.
Claire walked up to Lorna. “Mr. Gerard is getting antsy.”
“Take his blood pressure and blood-sugar level. You’re trained to do that, right?”
She was. She gathered the equipment and approached his table. Her pulse tripped noticeably. She decided not to hide it, even though she didn’t really understand his interest. It couldn’t just be the hair, could it? She hoped he wasn’t that shallow. And yet she’d let Jenn convince her to go blond for exactly that reason—to see if men warmed up to her more than usual, which was shallow reasoning on her part.
Her main goal, however, had been to shake up her life a little.
“If you pass the tests, you can leave,” she said, donning latex gloves.
“I do better on essay exams.”
You should smile more often, she thought as she reached for his hand, feeling the same warmth as before, and the same sparks, even through the gloves. There was strength there, and a strange kind of comfort.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
“No.” She focused on her task, cleaning his finger with alcohol before pricking it. She squeezed a drop of blood onto a test strip, then handed him a piece of gauze to press against the puncture. Setting the testing machine aside to count down to the results, she readied the blood pressure cuff.
He peeled off his sweater—
Um. Okay. Not naked underneath, but a white T-shirt that contrasted with his olive skin and showed off muscled biceps and forearms.
The testing machine beeped. Grateful for the interruption she looked at the number that came up. “Normal range,” she said.
“Good.”
She wrapped the blood pressure cuff around his arm, then she tucked his arm between hers and her torso and slid the stethoscope under the cuff. She’d tested blood pressure before, but this time her skin seemed to catch fire where his arm touched her body.
“You don’t dress like any first-grade teacher I know,” he commented.
Her eyes sought his.
Oh. She got it, finally. The leather skirt and relatively formfitting blouse seemed to be a signal to him, even though her smock mostly covered her. Disappointment slammed into her. “And how would that be?” She sounded snippy, even to herself.
“Wash-and-wear. Utilitarian.”
He’d described to a T what she usually wore, whether teaching or not.
Claire pumped the cuff, not saying anything. She had a job to do, and it wasn’t to flirt with the donors. She listened for his pulse.
“Blood pressure is fine,” she stated, letting go of his arm and removing the cuff. “You can go.”
“Ms. Winston…Claire.”
She fussed with the equipment but met his gaze, steadily, calmly. “Yes?”
After a moment he looked away. He pushed out his chair and stood. “Have a nice day.”
He didn’t seem like a man who uttered platitudes. Another disappointment. “Thanks. You, too.”
She told herself she was watching him walk away because she wanted to be sure he was steady on his feet. She almost convinced herself of that, too, except that her stomach did a funny little flip-flop when he glanced over his shoulder at her after reaching Lorna’s side.
He said something that made Lorna laugh, then she dropped his keys in his hand. He gave Claire one final look. This time her heart lurched. Crazy. This was crazy. He was a stranger. A dark, intense stranger who hadn’t even told her what he did for a living, but had evaded answering with all the finesse of a practiced deceiver. He’d flattered her instead, sidestepping the question altogether.
She turned away, then felt someone tap her shoulder a moment later.
He’d come back.
“How late do you work?” he asked.
The answer spilled out of her, banishing her disappointment. “Until four.”
He nodded and walked away.
Intrigued, Claire smiled. She’d wanted an adventure. It looked like she was about to get one.
Two
Quinn had been parked for hours near Claire Winston’s house, an old but well-maintained Victorian in the family-friendly Noe Valley area of San Francisco. There had been no signs of life in the house. He hadn’t expected any. A few days ago Jennifer had marched up to the car of the D.A. investigator assigned to tail her and challenged the man, which had led to the D.A. hiring Quinn, who’d built his reputation on his success at clinging to the shadows.
But she must have spotted Quinn, as well, then laid the foundation for ditching him using her sister’s makeover to switch identities. Was Claire part of the ruse? He couldn’t answer that question for sure, but she suddenly bleaches her hair, parks her car on the street instead of in the garage, then her sister-the-suspect disappears? It seemed well planned to him.
It ticked him off that Jennifer had made him. No one had before. How could he explain the screwup to Magnussen, the D.A. who’d hired him because Magnussen’s own investigators had, well, screwed up?
Quinn glanced at his watch. Almost five o’clock. An hour after the end of Claire’s shift. She should be home by now—unless she was going to wear that sexy little number out somewhere.
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. People made their way up and down the street. A typical Saturday in June, the weather was cloudy and cool. So far no one had reported him for loitering in his car, which happened occasionally during a stakeout.
His luck held. He spotted Claire’s car. The garage door opened as she reached it. She started to pull in then stopped. Jennifer’s red convertible filled the space.
Quinn blew out a long, slow breath. Okay. She hadn’t left, after all. Okay.
He watched Claire park up the block then stroll to her house, no overt sway to her hips, but sexy nonetheless, her short skirt giving him plenty to admire as she climbed the steps, a grocery sack in each arm. She juggled the bags for a minute before setting them down to open the door, then he got an eyeful of her long, slender, perfect legs.
The door shut on his entertainment. He made himself comfortable in the car, grateful to be there instead of having to report to the D.A. that he’d lost his subject. It was Saturday. Date night. Jennifer would leave the house sometime, and Quinn would be on her tail, his reputation intact.
But several hours later, she still hadn’t emerged.
Claire took a few steps back to admire the flowy white curtains she’d just hung, her first step in redecorating what had been her parents’ bedroom and now would be hers. It had taken six months since their deaths before she thought she might be able to sleep there.
She looked at the dog sitting at her feet. “What do you think, Rase?” she asked.
Eraser grinned up at her, his tail wagging slowly. She crouched beside him and buried her face in his thick, white-tipped gray coat. He let out a little growl of contentment as she scratched his flanks then hugged him a little tighter. He was just a mutt, but he was her mutt, even if he wouldn’t obey a single command.
“The curtains look beautiful, don’t they?” she asked, sitting cross-legged beside him, patting him as she inspected her handiwork.
She’d gotten over her disappointment that Quinn Gerard hadn’t returned to the blood bank at four o’clock. In fact, she’d decided she should be grateful he hadn’t. Obviously he was a con man of some kind or, at the least, a jerk.
“Not worth my thoughts, is he?” she asked the dog.
Rase’s ears pricked up, then he took off down the stairs, running and barking. A moment later the doorbell rang.
Claire saw with surprise that it was almost ten o’clock. She’d intended to keep herself distracted, but had done such a good job of it that she hadn’t noticed that night had fallen. She had no reason to feel guilty, but—
The bell rang again. Rase barked more frantically, alerting and calling her at the same time. She couldn’t imagine who would be coming around this late. Some friend of Jenn’s, she supposed. Someone who didn’t know….
Claire grabbed her portable phone and made her way to the door without turning on any lights, a streetlight providing just enough illumination from outside that she could negotiate the stairs. Maybe it was better that she hadn’t turned on any lights. She could pretend she wasn’t home if the visitor wasn’t someone she wanted to talk to.
Without telling Rase to quiet down—as if it would’ve done any good anyway—she crept to the door and looked out the peephole. She hadn’t turned on the porch light, however, so she could see only a dark blob silhouetted from behind by the streetlight. Now what?
“I know you’re in there,” came a man’s voice.
She hopped back. Rase picked up on her surprise and reared up, slamming his paws against the door, digging at it, barking louder. “Who’s there?” she asked.
“Quinn Gerard.”
Quinn— From the blood bank? She looked again through the peephole but still couldn’t identify the man. How did he— He’d followed her?
She put a hand over her mouth. How stupid could she be? She’d told him what time she got off work. He’d followed her to her home.
“Please open the door,” he said. “I need to talk to you.”
Grateful for how ferocious Rase sounded, she called out, “You’re stalking me. I’m calling the police right now,” she said, meaning it, squeezing the portable phone a little tighter.
“You’ll save us both a lot of time if you don’t do that,” he said, his voice raised but calm. “I’m under contract with the district attorney. If you open the door I’ll show you my identification.”
The D.A.? She relaxed a little, but no way was she removing the safety of the wooden barrier between them. “What do you want?”
“You can call off your dog, for one, so I don’t have to yell. Unless you like having your neighbors hear your business.”
He had a point. “Sit,” she said to the dog. “Quiet.”
Rase wagged his tail, barked once, but didn’t sit. She sighed. “Okay. Now, what do you want?”
“I’d prefer to tell you face-to-face.”
“You can prefer all you want.”
A pause ensued. Her grandfather clock ticked off time, the sound seeming to gain volume.
“If you don’t tell me right now why you’re here,” she said, “I’m calling the cops.”
“I want to talk to you about your sister, Jennifer.”
She closed her eyes. Great. Just great. She should have guessed. Just as she should’ve guessed he hadn’t been attracted to her. They were as different as night and…tuna. For one thing, she was honest.
“Did you follow me from the blood bank?” she asked. If so, he’d been sitting in his car for hours, biding his time, waiting for darkness to fall.
“I followed you to it. I thought you were your sister. Look, is she in there?”
“No.”
A long moment of silence sat like an invisible wall between them. “Will she be home soon?”
Claire leaned her forehead against the door. “No.”
She was tired of covering for Jenn, who was two years older than Claire and should’ve been the big sister but had never behaved like one.
“Is she gone, Claire?”
He asked the question quietly, almost sympathetically. It made her throat ache. Rase picked up on her mood and nudged her thigh with his muzzle. She patted his head. “That’s Ms. Winston to you.”
“Is she?”
She needed to tell someone, even this stranger. Maybe especially this stranger. “Yes,” she said quietly. Jenn had taken so few personal possessions with her that Claire might not have realized she was gone, except that she’d left—
“How do you know?” he asked.
She propped herself against the doorjamb. “She left a note.”
“May I see it?”
“No.” She certainly was not opening her door to a man who’d pretended to like her, who’d lured her just with promise in his eyes. Give her a dull but honest man anytime.
“Why didn’t she take her car?”
“I don’t know. Go away or I’ll sic my dog on you.” Quinn couldn’t see Rase, all twenty-five wimpy pounds of him. He only sounded like a hundred pounds of ferocity. In truth, he’d been known to run from cats.
“Do you know why the D.A. wants her?” Quinn asked.
Knowing Jenn, it could be anything. After all, she’d gotten herself involved with an investment broker who’d embezzled millions from his clients, investments they’d made in good faith. Jenn was as gullible as those clients. She’d just been lucky not to have any of her money taken by him.
“The D.A. believes she’s got Craig Beecham’s stolen funds,” he said when she didn’t answer. “Or at least knows where they are.”
“That was settled in court. Jenn didn’t know anything about it.”
“She’s been under investigation because no one believes that. How far gone do you think she can get on five million dollars, Ms. Winston?”
“She didn’t take the money.” Jenn had assured Claire of that, many times. Claire had sat beside Jenn in the courtroom, supporting her, believing in her. Jenn might be self-centered and immature, but she wasn’t a criminal. “She inherited a lot of cash when my parents died, enough to equal the value of this house, which I inherited. She’s got plenty of money.” More than she should have access to, Claire thought. She’d been spending it, too. On clothes and jewelry and that snazzy car. “She wouldn’t have need for more.”
“Everyone has need for more, but I hope you’re right. Good night.”
She moved to her front window in time to see him jog across the street and climb into an almost invisible gray sedan parked between two streetlights so that she couldn’t see into the interior. Picking up on her tension, Rase looked out the window then at her, then out the window and back at her again. She waited for Quinn to drive away. He didn’t.
Fifteen minutes later he still sat there. A half hour more. An hour. She went upstairs to her bedroom to sit by her window. Another half hour went by. Then a car pulled up beside him and stayed for close to a minute before backing up twenty feet. His car pulled out. The other parked.
A changing of the guard. Claire gave up and went to bed but barely slept. When the sun came up, she peeked outside and saw the car was still there. Why? They already knew that Jenn was gone.
After showering and changing, she went downstairs into her living room where she could get a good view of the driver, a woman, who seemed to be staring right back at her as Claire peeked through the slats of her blinds.
She couldn’t talk herself out of the guilt that had burned a hole in her yesterday when she’d come home to an empty house, even though Jenn had merely done what Claire had asked. She should be celebrating Jenn’s departure. Instead, she hovered in front of the window like she was to blame for something.
She was tired. Having Jenn underfoot the past six months, enduring her boyfriend’s trial, putting up with her moods—it had drained Claire, especially since she was still in mourning for her parents. And maybe besides being tired she was also angry. She felt used and manipulated—her own fault, since she’d known what Jenn was like, had given in to her all her life.
Still, Claire had needed her own space, needed Jenn and her wild lifestyle gone. Now she was.
And now Claire was a prisoner in her own home. Someone would probably be watching her house, or following her if she went out, presumably to see if she made contact with her sister.
Half sister. She didn’t usually make much of the distinction until lately, when she wanted to disconnect from Jenn and live her own life.
But Claire had made enough concessions to and for Jenn. She also knew when Jenn was lying. She’d looked Claire straight in the eye and said she didn’t know anything about the money.
That was good enough for Claire. It should be good enough for the D.A., and Quinn Gerard, who was just pulling up across the street.
Rase came up beside her, his leash clenched in his mouth. She glanced from him to the window. She smiled.
“Ready for a run, boy?” she asked, taking the leather strap to fasten to his collar.
Rase barked once, his rear swinging from side to side as he wagged his tail in answer.
“I like the way you think,” she said. “Let’s see if Mr. Gerard is in as good shape as he looks.”
Three
Quinn pulled up beside Cassie Miranda’s car, leaned across the passenger seat and handed her a steaming cup of her favorite mocha. She was one of two investigators he’d hired late last year. She’d pulled the night surveillance on Jennifer, and now Claire.
“Thanks,” she said, breathing the aroma before taking a sip and sighing. “No activity from the house, except that she opened the blinds a little while ago.”
“I bet she’s showered, dressed and sitting like a soldier in her living room.”
“Not the kind to fly, hm?”
“No reason for her to.” He admired Claire for standing up to him last night, even for not letting him inside her house. “I’ll probably see you in the office later.”
“I’m going to grab a few hours of sleep before I come in.”
“Hey, it’s Sunday. Take an extra hour.”
“Gee, thanks, boss.” She started her engine. “How come we’re still working this, anyway? The job is done. There’s no one to tail.”
How come, indeed? Not just because he always saw things through, but because he thought his presence might make what was about to happen easier for Claire, if she wasn’t too mad at him. He’d been in a similar situation once. He hadn’t forgotten how it felt, and how hard it was to recover from the invasion of privacy.
“She’s taking the dog for a walk,” Cassie said, pointing. “I’ll get going.”
Quinn swore. He’d bet she’d specifically waited for this moment, when he and Cassie traded places, to get a head start on him. What did she think he was going to do, follow her? As far as she knew he was waiting for her sister.
He wasn’t.
He looked out his car window just then and she smiled—no, smirked—and waved to him then started jogging up the street, her dog beside her. Her dinky dog with the big bark.
Was that a challenge?
In no time he was following her, watching her ponytail bounce in rhythm with her steps. He caught up soon enough but lingered behind her, enjoying the view and the way she looked over her shoulder without trying to seem like she was. She did have spectacular legs.
When she spotted him she picked up speed. The dog broke stride, barked once then settled beside her, keeping pace.
Quinn had appreciated the leather skirt yesterday. Today she wore running shorts, a tank top and a sweatshirt that she’d pulled off and tied around her waist without missing a step. He whipped his own sweatshirt off, wishing he’d known he would be running. Jeans chafed. Good thing he’d worn sneakers. Most of the time he wore boots. He would’ve looked like he was chasing her. Some Good Samaritan might’ve decked him.
She jogged in place at a traffic signal at the bottom of a hill. He stayed twenty feet behind her. The light turned green and she took off with only a glance over her shoulder. Damn. He hadn’t felt this good in months, ever since he’d left his one-man operation to come aboard with ARC. The transition had been challenging, reporting to and working with other people.
Today he was glad for the job, glad for this particular assignment. The bleached blonde with the long legs and the canine companion sent his mood soaring.
Suddenly she turned around and ran toward him, the dog nipping at her heels. Was she going home already? Should he step aside and let her pass or—
“You might as well run with us,” she said, stopping in front of him but still jogging.
The dog danced around, barking.
“Stop it, Rase.”
“You call that a command?”
She pursed her lips. The dog never stopped moving.
“And I see how well it works,” he added. “Sit,” he said authoritatively.
The dog put his rear on the sidewalk instantly and grinned, his tongue hanging out, his tail dusting the ground.
Claire stopped jogging. “How did you— Traitor,” she said to the dog. “You little traitor. He has never done that for me.”
“That’s because you say ‘Stop it.’” He tried to match the pitch of her voice. “Good boy,” he said to the dog, patting his head. “Rase?” he queried, looking at Claire.
“Short for Eraser. Because his coat is the color of the old blackboard erasers.” She rubbed his ears. “He probably had another name, but I got him from the pound. He was already a couple of years old.” She put her shoulders back. “Let’s go.”
They jogged up a hill, not a particularly steep one by San Francisco standards, but enough that they couldn’t talk much.
“You saved his life,” Quinn said to her, not surprised that she’d rescued the dog from death row.
“He kind of saved mine, too.” She kept her eyes focused ahead. “We needed each other.”
Because of her parents or her sister? he wondered. He tried not to feel sorry for her. People often couldn’t see the truth about family. He’d been in that position himself, not once but twice. Claire was apparently as untainted as he had been once, enough so that she volunteered at a blood bank in gratitude for a little extra time with her dying mother…and chose to teach first-graders, innocence personified…and rescued pound dogs…and had blind faith in her unworthy sister.
But it was also hard to imagine Jennifer talking Claire into something she didn’t want to do. Claire only seemed mild mannered. She’d displayed a firm strength of character last night. So, why change from brunette to blonde? Why the shift to leather skirt and snug blouse? The change was drastic.
Had Jennifer convinced her to transform herself? Quinn found it hard to believe it had been Claire’s idea. Jennifer needed to escape surveillance, and she’d used her sister to do it.
He gave up asking himself questions he couldn’t answer and focused on the run, which felt good. He hadn’t taken enough time for himself lately. Lately? He almost laughed at the understatement. He got a work-out in because he had a gym at home, but free time was a rarity, which was why on the rare occasions he dated, they were busy women who weren’t demanding of his time, because they understood working long hours. So he chose professional women, mostly. Except lawyers, who asked too many questions.
And most women ended the relationship quickly, saying he was too serious. Hell, life was serious.
A block away from Claire’s house he spotted two men loitering at the base of the stairs. He knew them. Knew why they were there.
Claire slowed her pace to a walk. So did Quinn. Rase started to bark as they got closer to the house.
“No,” Quinn ordered. The dog went silent, then looked adoringly at Quinn.
Claire sighed loudly.
“Dogs like limits,” Quinn said. “He’s obviously had some training.”
She angled her head toward the men, who had come to attention and were watching their approach. “Friends of yours?”
“I know them.”
He couldn’t read her expression, and he admired her all the more for that. Show No Fear was his personal motto. Maybe hers, too. Maybe being a teacher ingrained that, he decided.
“Gerard,” the taller of the two men said in greeting.
“Santos,” Quinn replied.
“We can take it from here,” the man told Quinn.
Peter Santos was the D.A. investigator Jennifer had spotted tailing her, the reason why Quinn, a private not public investigator, had been hired. Quinn noted the edge in his voice. Santos should relax. Jenn had spotted Quinn, too—another reason why Quinn figured she was guilty. She wouldn’t have been that alert if she hadn’t been looking for someone watching her.
“I believe I’ll stay,” Quinn said. “This is Claire Winston.”
“Ms. Winston, I’m Peter Santos from the district attorney’s office. Could we go inside, please?”
“Do I have a choice?” she asked, but led them up the stairs, not waiting for Santos’s answer to her rhetorical question. When everyone was gathered in her foyer, Santos held out a piece of paper. Rase whined.
“I’ll be right back,” Claire said, not accepting the document. “I’m going to shut the dog in the kitchen.”
Good. She would handle the situation on her own terms. Had she figured out why Santos was there?
When she returned she looked calm. She’d also put her sweatshirt back on.
Santos passed her the paper. “I have a warrant, Ms. Winston.”
“For what?”
“Requiring that you turn over the note that your sister, Jennifer Winston, wrote you.”
Claire’s gaze shifted to Quinn. Hurt radiated from her like a furnace blast. Because of him the note would no longer be private but would be seen by the D.A. and others. “It takes three of you to bring me one piece of paper and pick one up?” she asked. “You all must’ve heard about my black belt in karate, I guess.”
The joke went over Santos’s head. Quinn cleared his throat. It really was pretty funny, the three of them confronting one slender schoolteacher with a spotless reputation. Claire took her time reading the warrant. Santos shifted from foot to foot. A grandfather clock by the front door ticktocked, ticktocked.
“Ms. Winston,” Santos said after a while. “All it says is—”
“I can read.” She opened the drawer of her entry table, removed a piece of paper and gave it to him.
Santos looked it over. Quinn held out his hand and was handed the note, probably because Santos didn’t want to argue in front of her.
“Dear Claire,” it read. “I’m doing what you asked. I’ll be in touch. Love, Jenn.”
“What does this mean?” Santos asked. “That she’s doing what you asked?”
“Night before last I gave her a deadline to find somewhere else to live.”
“Why?”
“She’d lived here long enough.”
“Her car is in your garage.”
“I don’t have an explanation for that. I assume she will be back for it.”
Santos took the note from Quinn. “You bleached your hair.”
She raised her brows. Quinn thought she looked magnificent, all haughty and cool. Mild-mannered schoolteacher—ha!
“So?” she asked.
“So, you look a lot like her now. Did you pretend to be your sister, Ms. Winston, so that she could get away?”
“I don’t believe your warrant covers anything beyond me giving you the note. I already answered questions I didn’t have to. It’s time for you to go.” The front door still stood wide open. She gestured for them to leave.
Quinn stepped aside as the two investigators exited.
“You, too, Mr. Gerard,” she said, not looking at him but at the men headed toward their car.
He saw a break in her composure, a fragility she hadn’t shown Santos. “I’d like to talk to you,” Quinn said.
“I have nothing to say.”
“I have things to say. I’ll stand right here, with the door open. Or we could go outside, if you prefer.” He pulled a business card from a leather holder and passed it to her. “I’m not a D.A. investigator. I’m in private practice. My job for them was over when your sister left. This is personal now, just between you and me.” The betrayal he’d endured years ago whirled inside him until he tamped it down. He knew how she felt. That’s all he wanted to tell her. He had little doubt she was an innocent victim swept into her sister’s game.
“You knew they would be waiting for us after the run,” she said, her tone accusatory.
“I knew they would be here sometime today.”
“You told them about the note.”
“I had no choice.”
“You had a choice.”
“No, I didn’t. Ms. Winston, are you worried about your sister?”
“Worried?”
“After you got home yesterday you never turned on your lights downstairs. That’s how I knew something was wrong and why I knocked. If she’d only been doing what you asked her to do—move out—you would’ve turned on your lights and gone about life as usual.”
Her shoulders drooped slightly. She closed her eyes for a second too long.
“What you say will stay between us,” he said, hoping she would talk to him, unburden herself. He’d been in her shoes. He understood.
“She didn’t take her stuff,” she said, meeting his gaze, confusion in her eyes but no weakness.
“Nothing?”
“Her jewelry, but not her clothes, or at least not many. And her car! She loves that car.”
“What do you think it means?”
“I don’t know. I wish I did.”
He hesitated in offering a possibility. “Could we sit down?”
She nodded. After they sat on her sofa he watched her finger his business card. “What does the ARC stand for?” she asked.
“The initials of the three original partners of the agency, Alvarado, Remington and Caldwell. I’m also a partner.”
“Have they been in business long?”
“About eight years. They work out of L.A. I opened a branch office for them here right after Thanksgiving last year, but I’ve been a private investigator for ten years.”
“Why were you working for the D.A.?”
“Your sister realized she was being followed by their people, so the D.A. hired me to take over. I’m usually pretty good at it.”
“Not this time?”
“I figure she made me, too.” Made a fool of me.
He knew Claire was killing time. He let her set the pace.
“Jenn doesn’t have the money,” she said finally.
“What makes you so sure?”
“She said so.”
“Is she always honest?”
Claire started to answer, then shut her mouth. “Usually. Brutally honest.”
He leaned forward, resting his arms on his thighs. “Why did you bleach your hair?”
She ran a hand down her ponytail, as if she’d forgotten. “I wanted a change.”
“It was your idea?”
She shifted. “Not entirely.”
“Jennifer came up with the idea?”
“She said blondes…”
“Have more fun?” he asked, finishing her sentence when she didn’t.
“Yes.”
“And the clothes? Her clothes that you wore yesterday?”
“Part of the makeover. Yes, that was also her idea. But I didn’t have to go along with any of it, and she couldn’t have forced me.”
Quinn knew all about the tactics of manipulation. Some people were so good at it that they could even get their victim to defend them, which was probably true in this instance.
“We did it on a lark,” Claire said, sitting up straighter, apparently well in control again. “To celebrate the end of the school year and the beginning of summer.”
“Did she make changes, too?”
Claire frowned. “Do you mean, did she take on my appearance?”
“Yes.”
“Meaning, you think she’s on the run?”
“Could be.”
“She said in her note that she would be in touch with me. Doesn’t that imply she’s not running or going into hiding?”
He didn’t answer. He knew something Claire didn’t—her sister had been followed by someone else, someone not from the D.A.’s office. Quinn had seen him and reported it to the D.A. It was likely someone her convict boyfriend had managed to hire, therefore he must believe she was a threat to run. Therefore, she knew more than she’d said in court.
“You don’t believe her,” she said, her gaze cool.
“I don’t know her.”
“Well, one thing I can tell you—she wouldn’t be caught dead as a brunette or wearing the clothes I wear.”
“Are any of your clothes missing?”
She sat back. “I don’t know. I didn’t think to look.”
“Maybe you should. Maybe you should check your trash cans to see if there’s a box of hair color in there.” He stood. She’d gathered her composure. His job was done—unfortunately. He wouldn’t have minded getting to know her better, but he didn’t think they could get past the reason they’d met in the first place.
“Maybe you should try to put the facts together and see what you come up with,” he said, then pointed to the business card she still clenched. “You’ve got my number. If you want to talk, you can reach me on my cell phone twenty-four hours a day.”
She stood, too. “Why would I call you?”
“Because I know what you’re going through.” He resisted the temptation to put a comforting hand on her shoulder. He had no right to touch her, but he was also afraid he wouldn’t stop there, that he would pull her into his arms and hold her close, maybe for his sake as much as hers. Everything she was experiencing brought back devastating memories for him, memories he usually had no problem keeping buried. She was as innocent as he’d been.
If he ever did meet up with Jennifer Winston—
“Thank you for staying and talking,” Claire said.
“Thanks for believing I’m not the enemy.”
“I’ve seen you faint. How scared should I have been?” she asked, a teasing smile brightening her face.
Claire Winston didn’t fall under the category of client or subject, but his own code of ethics, the personal rules by which he lived, prevented him from letting himself respond to her in a way his mind and body were telling him to. Even with her face lined with exhaustion she looked pretty. Not classically beautiful, nor cute. Pretty. The kind of pretty that comes from inside. He remembered the way she looked in the short leather skirt, the slow, tempting way she walked, the way her cheeks had flushed when they’d first made eye contact. He remembered her teasing eyes as he’d jogged with her.
Temptation, thy name is Claire.
And he needed to avoid this particular temptation.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
He shook his head. Not wrong, but not right, either. “You’ll call if you want to talk?”
She smiled. “Maybe.”
“Goodbye, Ms. Winston.”
“Claire.”
“I hope you can sleep now.” He pulled her front door shut behind him and didn’t look back. He didn’t want to see her standing in the window, watching him. Claire, with the bright blue eyes that weren’t as innocent as they had been yesterday.
He wished he hadn’t been part of that loss of innocence.
Four
For the first time since Claire was sixteen years old, she didn’t have a summer job. She planned to redecorate the house more to her taste, strip and refinish furniture, sand and paint kitchen cabinets, and make a bedspread for her bedroom. She might even try her hand at writing a book geared toward first-through third-graders, something about life in a big city, a backdrop with which children in her community could identify.
Jenn had been gone a week. None of Claire’s clothes were missing, nor had she found a hair-color box or anything else in the trash to give hints as to where Jenn had gone. Claire had gotten past her anger. She figured Jenn intended for Claire to feel guilty about issuing the ultimatum to move out, and would stay out of touch long enough to make Claire worry, and possibly relent about living together.
Not this time, Claire decided, putting a little more effort into sanding the last kitchen cabinet before she started painting. She would assume that Jenn had landed on her feet, as she always did. Claire never had been able to figure out why her sister wanted to live with her. She’d never catered to her, never done her laundry or fixed her meals. Certainly Jenn could afford her own place.
Rase barked then ran out of the kitchen. The doorbell rang. Every time someone had dropped by in the past week, she’d hoped it was Quinn. Silly of her to hope for that, she knew. He’d had a job to do, and that was all. Still, she’d felt a connection with him and thought perhaps he had with her, too.
He’d given her his phone number. She’d dialed six of the digits several times, then hung up at the last minute. What could she say— “You make my heart stand still”? He believed her sister was guilty. How could Claire be with someone who thought that? Yet another way Jenn had disrupted her life.
Claire reached her front door and looked through the peephole, then smiled as she opened the door to Jenn’s mother, Marie, who, while she didn’t have any official title, like “stepmother,” had become like a second mother to Claire through the years.
“Hi, baby— Oh, Claire! Goodness. You’re blond. I thought you were Jenny.” She stepped into the house. Rase circled her.
“Stop,” Claire ordered the dog in a serious voice. As usual he ignored her.
“How’s my favorite doggy?” Marie crooned, not helping matters, as Rase danced on his hind legs, his front paws on her thighs.
“Down,” Claire ordered again. This time he bounded onto all fours. “Sit.” He grinned. She sighed.
Marie hugged Claire. “You look cute, honey.”
“Thanks, Marie.” Claire adored the tall, buxom, fiftyish woman with the bright red, long, curly hair, dramatic makeup and tinkling jewelry. “How have you been?”
“Better than most, I think.” Her sparkling smile reminded Claire of why her father had been drawn to Marie once upon a time, even if her New Age personality had contrasted sharply with his rational-physicist nature—a major reason why they’d never married, although he’d offered when he found out she was pregnant. It was Marie who’d turned him down. A year later he’d married the woman who became Claire’s mother.
“Business is good,” Marie added. “Lots of stressed-out people out there. I’ve been turning away new customers.”
“You give great massages.”
“I do, don’t I?” She flexed her hands. “Hope the instruments stay healthy. Listen, honey, I’ve been leaving messages for Jenny on her cell all week and she hasn’t returned any. Nothin’ new there, of course, but I tried again a little while ago, and the line’s been disconnected. What’s going on?”
Claire would’ve invited her to sit down but Marie wouldn’t stay long. She never did. “Jenn’s gone.”
“What do you mean?”
“She moved out. Beyond that, I don’t know anything.”
“Did you two have a fight?”
“No. Not really. Well, sort of, I guess. I mean, I asked her to move out. I thought it was time she go out on her own again.”
“You know I agree with you. We talked about it before. Why didn’t she call me?”
“I assumed she had.”
Marie shook her head. “Did she leave me a check?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
Marie paced, her velour pants hugging her ample behind. Lime-green high heels clicked against the hardwood floor. “She was supposed to give me a check.”
“You can look in her bedroom, if you want.”
Marie laughed, the sound musical. “Like anyone could unearth anything there.” Her cell phone rang. She dug it out of her big cloth purse and said hello. “Baby, where are you?” She glanced at Claire and mouthed, “Jenn.”
Claire crossed her arms.
“You promised me a check, you know, for—” She turned away slightly. “You know…. No, I can’t wait! Jennifer Marie, you promised…. I gotta have it, baby…. Okay, okay. Thanks.”
Claire held out her hand, asking for the phone.
“Listen,” Marie said. “I’m at your sister’s house. She wants to talk to you…. ’Cause I was worried about you. What’s your new cell number?…Well, when you do get one, call me. Stay in touch, okay, baby?”
Marie passed Claire the phone.
“What’s going on, Jenn?” she asked.
“I’m moving on, just like you said.”
“I didn’t mean you had to move out the same day. Where are you?”
“What do you care?”
Jenn’s casual way of putting Claire on the defensive riled her. She’d had it with her self-centered sister. “Well, for one, your car’s taking up my garage space. If you don’t get it out of there, I’m going to have it towed. You can pay the fines when you pick it up from impound.”
“Ooh, kid sister’s got fangs all of a sudden.”
Marie leaned toward the phone’s mouthpiece. “Can I use your car until you get back, baby?” she asked loudly, then whispered to Claire, “I’m gonna use your restroom.”
“Tell Mom no. She would crash it, just like all the others she owned.”
“Tell her yourself.” She waited for Marie to shut the bathroom door down the hall, then walked into the living room and let her frustration spill out. “You didn’t tell me the cops were looking for you.”
“The D.A., not the cops. They followed me for weeks. So what? No big deal.”
“Is that why you left?”
“I left because you told me to.”
Claire gritted her teeth. She didn’t believe her. “I’ll ask you again, Jenn. Do you have the money Craig Beecham embezzled?”
“And I’ll answer you again. No, I do not.”
“Then why did you run?”
“Who says I ran?”
“You left me a note, which is a cowardly way to leave, and you know it. You left your car and your clothes behind. Now you’ve changed your cell phone number. You ran,” she said again.
“I’m starting the life I always wanted, that’s all. Listen, I gotta go. Later, okay?”
Claire punched the off button and banged the phone down on the bottom stair. She blew off some steam by walking into the foyer then back into the living room again until Marie joined her.
A movement outside caught her attention—a gray sedan pulling up across the street. Recognizing Quinn Gerard, she closed her eyes and groaned. Great. Just great. She’d been sanding kitchen cabinets all morning and hadn’t even showered yet. She’d twisted her hair up off her neck with a big clip. Of all days for him to show up.
She resisted the temptation to pat her hair and smooth her clothes.
He got out of the car, his expression serious as he stood for a moment and stared at her house. He looked like a bearer of bad news.
Quinn should’ve done the polite thing and called before dropping in on Claire. In fact, he could have given her the information over the phone. Yet he was here, outside her house, feeling more hesitant than when he’d asked Melanie Davison to the homecoming dance eighteen years ago. Why did this fresh-faced, seemingly harmless woman have the ability to intimidate him?
He climbed her stairs, eight of them, then stood under the portico for several seconds. Hell. He should just get in his car and drive away. Call her from his cell phone. Tell her what he’d found out. And keep on driving.
He blew out a breath. Big, fearless Quinn Gerard, who’d earned a reputation for uncovering secrets others couldn’t, for clinging unnoticed to the shadows of the city, for hacking into other people’s computers without remorse for violating their privacy—that Quinn Gerard was quaking in his boots at facing a first-grade teacher with philanthropic tendencies?
Idiot.
He started to knock but the door opened. A tall redhead was chattering and smiling. “I only crashed two cars,” she was saying. “And that was years ago.” Her smile changed, as did her body language, when she almost bumped into Quinn.
“Well, hi, there,” she said, not quite à la Mae West, but in a definitely flirtatious way.
“Good morning.”
Rase charged out of the house, right at him. “Sit,” he said. Rase’s rump hit the ground but his body was in motion. Quinn had never seen a dog grin like that. He scratched the dog’s ears.
“Traitor,” he heard Claire say.
The redheaded woman put out a hand. Her wrist jangled with at least ten silver bracelets. “I’m Marie DiSanto.”
He shook her hand. “Quinn Gerard.”
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Susan Crosby
QUINN'S RULES WERE SIMPLE. DO THE JOB. STAY OUT OF DANGER. AND NEVER GET PERSONALLY INVOLVED WITH A CLIENTHired to keep Claire Winston's sister under surveillance, Quinn Gerard was stunned to find he was following the wrong woman when he and Claire came face-toface…body to body. Knowing Claire would eventually lead him to his quarry, the daring P.I. vowed to keep her close, but in doing so he risked more than he could have imagined. For Claire's loving nature–and passionate secrets–had shaken the unshakable Quinn to the point where once his job ended, he didn't know if he would ever be able to walk away. That was the thing about rules…. They were made to be broken.
“Trust Me.”
Quinn turned toward her. Claire raised her gaze to his. He looked at her mouth. Full lips, parted just slightly.
Couldn’t. He looked away, tried to focus. Shouldn’t.
“Claire,” he said.
“What?”
He cupped her face, waited two seconds for her to object, then he kissed her. He felt her breath stop, then she took a long, slow breath and kissed him back. Her hands pressed against his chest then slid higher. Before she wrapped her arms around his neck he pulled back.
He wasn’t going to apologize for something she apparently wanted as much as he did.
Except that he had rules, and he’d just broken one.
Dear Reader,
Thank you for choosing Silhouette Desire. As always, we have a fabulous array of stories for you to enjoy, starting with Just a Taste by Bronwyn Jameson, the latest installment in our DYNASTIES: THE ASHTONS continuity series. This tale of forbidden attraction between two romance-wary souls will leave you breathless and wanting more from this wonderful author—who will have a brand-new miniseries of her own, PRINCES OF THE OUTBACK, out later this year.
The terrific Annette Broadrick is back with another book in her CRENSHAWS OF TEXAS series. Double Identity is an engrossing page-turner about seduction and lies…you know, all that good stuff! Susan Crosby continues her BEHIND CLOSED DOORS series with Rules of Attraction, the first of three brand-new stories set in the world of very private investigations. Roxanne St. Claire brings us a fabulous McGrath brother hero caught in an unexpected situation, in When the Earth Moves. Rochelle Alers’s THE BLACKSTONES OF VIRGINIA series wraps up with Beyond Business, a story in which the Blackstone patriarch gets involved in a surprise romance with his new—and very pregnant—assistant. And last but certainly not least, the engaging Amy Jo Cousins is back this month with Sleeping Arrangements, a terms-of-the-will story not to be missed.
Here’s hoping you enjoy all six of our selections this month. And, in the months to come, look for Maureen Child’s THREE-WAY WAGER series and a brand-new installment of our infamous TEXAS CATTLEMAN’S CLUB.
Happy reading!
Melissa Jeglinski
Senior Editor
Silhouette Desire
Rules of Attraction
Susan Crosby
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
SUSAN CROSBY
believes in the value of setting goals, but also in the magic of making wishes. A longtime reader of romance novels, Susan earned a B.A. in English while raising her sons. She lives in the central valley of California, the land of wine grapes, asparagus and almonds. Her checkered past includes jobs as a synchronized swimming instructor, personnel interviewer at a toy factory and trucking company manager, but her current occupation as a writer is her all-time favorite.
Susan enjoys writing about people who take a chance on love, sometimes against all odds. She loves warm, strong heroes; good-hearted, self-reliant heroines…and happy endings.
Susan loves to hear from readers. You can visit her at her Web site, www.susancrosby.com.
For Bobbie Vetter Fite, one of the windows that opened
when my door closed. Onward and upward, my friend.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
One
Private investigator Quinn Gerard felt a momentary pang of regret for having turned respectable seven months ago. He missed the anonymity, and the danger. He’d hungered for it, thrived on it. Since he’d given up his private practice to become a partner in ARC Security & Investigations, he’d had to operate by the rules, instead of ignoring them or making up his own when the situation warranted it.
One personal rule that hadn’t changed, however, was that he never got personally involved with a client—no matter how tempting—and the willowy blonde in the electric-blue blouse and black leather skirt currently ambling away from her car was worse than a client. She was a subject.
Still, as a man, he could admire the package if not the contents. And that package was more interesting at the moment than in the previous three days he’d had her under surveillance. In fact, Jennifer Winston was a bundle of surprises today. First, she’d left her house hours earlier than her norm. Second, she’d slowed her pace. Usually in a hurry, today she moseyed along as if life were eternal—or she was reluctant to get where she was going. Third, she’d borrowed her sister’s car, a modest white compact, instead of driving her own conspicuous red convertible. Fourth, and perhaps most surprising, she was headed into the local blood bank.
Quinn would’ve guessed that Jennifer Winston didn’t have a charitable blood cell in her entire lovely body. So, why was she here?
She’d been followed twenty-four hours a day, for weeks, from the house she shared with her sister, first by D.A. investigators, and now by Quinn. According to reports passed along to him, her routine stops included chic boutiques, trendy San Francisco nightspots and luxurious spas in the Napa valley. She hadn’t held a job in almost half a year, so she came and went at will, generally staying out until very late at night then not leaving home again until almost noon.
Suspicious of the deviations in her pattern today, Quinn followed the newly unpredictable and decidedly sexier Ms. Winston into the building instead of waiting for her to return to her car. Deviation from the norm often resulted in the big breaks in a case.
He trailed her down a wide, quiet hallway, watched as she disappeared through a doorway topped by a sign that read Donor Room. Not wanting to be directly on her heels, he stopped to drink from a water fountain then pretended to read some flyers on a bulletin board. Finally he put himself in a position to peer into the room. He didn’t see her so he moved a little closer, stepped through the doorway—
“You’re here to make a donation?” someone almost shouted behind him.
The tone of voice was more demand than query. Quinn turned and eyed the white-haired pixie with the big voice. The top of her head barely reached his sternum. He outweighed her by at least a hundred pounds.
“No, I—”
“Why not?” she asked, looking him up and down. “You look healthy.”
Because I’m following a woman the district attorney is convinced is hiding five million embezzled dollars, that’s why not. “I don’t have time,” he said.
“Hardly takes any time at all,” the human steamroller said, challenge in her eyes. “In and out before you know it.”
Her name tag identified her as Lorna, a 15,000-hour volunteer. Quinn ignored her as he scanned the room then zeroed in on Ms. Winston. She had donned a purple smock over her clothes and was putting cookies on a plate next to cartons of juice. Jennifer Winston, the juice-and-cookies lady? He couldn’t reconcile it with what he knew of her. Although he had imagined her living a double life….
“Scared of needles?” Lorna asked.
He met her placid gaze directly, coolly. “Yes.”
After a moment she cracked a smile. “Thought not. Come on, then.”
He focused on the fact that Ms. Winston wasn’t going anywhere. He could observe her and do his civic duty at the same time. It was a little risky getting so close to her, close enough she might remember him later and realize she was being followed again, but the thrill revved his adrenaline. The challenge of meeting her face-to-face while still tailing her appealed to him. Hiding in plain sight. He excelled at it.
He answered the long list of health-related questions, had his iron level tested, then settled in a padded lounge chair. He sought out his target as the nurse inserted the needle in his arm. Lorna and Ms. Winston were laughing together. He hadn’t seen her this mellow or friendly. Until now, she’d seemed like a woman on a mission, determined and direct. Now, she smiled at everyone, drawing smiles in return. She tossed her shoulder-length blond hair flirtatiously, lifted a hand to wave to someone entering the room—then noticed him.
From thirty feet away Quinn saw her falter in her conversation. Her smile faded. She lowered her arm slowly.
Had he been made? He went on alert, ready to go after her should she run. But then Lorna elbowed her and said something that put some pink into Ms. Winston’s cheeks and made her dip her head a little, as if embarrassed.
Quinn relaxed. Male/female connection? Now that intrigued him. He believed the reason he was never noticed by his subjects was that he was ordinary looking. Unmemorable.
On the other hand, there was something to be said for animal magnetism. As Ms. Winston maintained eye contact, his pulse sped up. Which was a normal reaction to the risk, he decided, of her being able to spot him following her after this. But it had been a while since his hormones had mutinied on their own like that.
A few more minutes passed. She looked away and back several times. He didn’t pretend disinterest, deciding instead that he could take an entirely different approach to his surveillance, a much more personal one. It would require playing a role, acting as if he didn’t know her boyfriend had been convicted of embezzlement and now occupied a cell in a federal prison—and that she was thought to be his accomplice.
Quinn had to be especially careful, however. Agreeing to take on the case for the D.A.’s office made him a police agent, which meant he needed to stay within the boundaries and scope of the law.
Ms. Winston took a few steps toward Quinn then hesitated. He held her gaze. She came closer. Close enough that he saw her eyes. Blue. Bright blue, not brown.
His gut clenched. Blood rushed through him, a feeling as close to panic as anything he could remember.
This wasn’t Jennifer Winston but her half sister, Claire. First-grade teacher, blue-eyed, brunette-until-today Claire—the good sister.
Curses whipped through his mind. Jennifer was no longer being watched. She could skip town and no one would find her, especially if she had the five million dollars her boyfriend stole.
“Take the needle out,” Quinn ordered the nurse. The good sister stopped. She backed up as the nurse spoke.
“Just a minute more—”
“Now. Or I’ll do it myself.” He reached for it.
“I’ll do it!” The nurse shoved his hand away, then slid out the needle and pressed a folded gauze pad to the site.
He stuck his thumb on the gauze and swung his legs over the side of the lounge. He had to see if Jennifer Winston had left town, if her sister was a decoy. What else could she be?
“You’ll need to sit over at that table and have some juice and cookies,” the nurse said. “Claire will go with you.”
He stood. Claire could go to—
The room tilted as unearthly quiet bombarded it.
“Hey! I have to bandage that!” The voice seemed to come through a tunnel.
He took a step. Darkness teased his vision, first at the edges, then closing in until only pinpoints of light remained. Bright. Disorienting. Nauseating. Take a deep breath. Put your head down.
Down….
“It’s always the big ones,” Lorna said, coming up beside Claire after the fiercely attractive man collapsed to the floor, the blow softened by the nurse’s hold on him, slowing his descent. “I’ll get his keys,” Lorna added. “I have a feeling he’s going to fight us about staying here for a while.”
Claire studied the unconscious man while Lorna dug her hand into the man’s pocket and pulled out a set of keys. Well, shoot. Claire had really wanted to flirt with him, to test whether blondes do have more fun. Her sister had talked Claire into a makeover the night before, her first day of summer break from teaching. She had been nervous about testing the waters with her new look. She’d even worn one of Jenn’s outfits, because hers just didn’t seem to go with that blonde-and-fun thing. When the stranger had made eye contact with her, she’d thought he was interested. Now he would probably be too embarrassed to talk to her, much less flirt.
Maybe it was only certain blondes who had more fun….
So much for the great experiment, she thought with a sigh.
“Mr. Gerard,” Lorna said, crouching beside him and patting his cheek.
His eyes opened. He looked around in momentary confusion, then focused on Claire. His eyes were brown, flecked with gold, like amber, and a little eerie to stare at for long. His short black hair required little fuss, a practical, not-quite-military look. Mid-thirties, she decided. A solid, muscular body dressed in black jeans and a gray sweater—clothes that would make him blend in with a crowd except that he was over six feet tall and extremely attractive in a rugged, angular, mesmerizing kind of way.
Why had he been in such a hurry to leave? It was almost as if seeing her up close had triggered something in him. Yet he didn’t seem the type to shy away from anything, much less an unintimidating first-grade teacher whose newly blond hair and trendy outfit would never hide the fact that she was neither beautiful nor sexy, even if she felt a little bit of both after her makeover.
Finally he looked away and sat up.
“Juice and cookies, Mr. Gerard,” Lorna said. “You won’t be allowed to leave until we give the okay.”
“You think you can stop me?” he challenged, standing. He wobbled a bit.
Claire leaned forward, ready to help prop him up.
Lorna dangled his keys.
For a second, Claire thought he might smile. “You in the habit of taking advantage of unconscious men?” he asked Lorna.
“Do you need a wheelchair to take you to Claire’s table?” she countered.
His mouth twitched. “I can manage.”
“Guess you were telling the truth about being afraid of needles, after all,” Lorna said.
“Maybe.” He turned his gaze on Claire again. “Lead the way.”
He obviously could’ve snatched his keys, but apparently he realized he wasn’t ready to drive. She liked how he adjusted to his situation, considering that a few minutes ago he’d been in such a hurry to leave. “Orange, apple or cranberry juice?” she asked.
“Orange. Please.” He pulled out a cell phone the second he sat down. “Cass? I know you probably just got to bed, but I think I may have lost it…. Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s gone.”
Claire poured the juice and set the cup in front of him. She pushed the plate of cookies closer.
“Long story, involving a mistake,” he said, eyeing Claire in a way that made her hold her breath. “I need you to get over there and see what’s going on…. Yeah. It’s probably too late, but we need to check it out. Call me.” He closed the flap on the phone and set it on the table. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
He swigged half the glass. “People pass out around here often?”
“You’re not the first.”
“Ah. A polite answer to save me from too much embarrassment.” He finished the juice and shoved the glass toward her to refill, then bit off half a cookie. “Have you worked here long?”
“I’ve been volunteering one Saturday a month since March, but now that it’s summer I’ll help out once a week.”
“Are you a student?”
She knew she looked younger than her age. “I teach first grade.”
“For how long?”
Was he trying to figure out how old she was? “Four years.” I’m twenty-six. Is that too young to interest you?
“How long until the drill sergeant gives me back my keys?”
Claire smiled at his description of Lorna. “A half hour, maybe. When they’re sure you’re stable.”
He finished the cookie. “That’s never happened to me before,” he said.
She sat back, her smile broadening. So, he was a normal man, after all, worried that he appeared weak.
“It hasn’t,” he insisted, looking at his watch.
“I believe you.”
“You’re laughing at me.”
“Just at your ego.” She angled toward him. “I don’t think less of you, even if you don’t like needles.”
“I can’t tell you how relieved I am.”
She laughed, appreciating his dry sense of humor, and he seemed to relax a little more—or perhaps resigned himself to the situation.
“I’m Quinn Gerard,” he said, extending his hand.
“Claire Winston.” His hand engulfed hers, and was warm and…ridiculously arousing. She knew some people had chemical reactions to other people. It had just never happened to her. Not on first meeting. Not with a stranger.
“Why do you volunteer here, Claire Winston?”
Raw emotions rose up, catching her off guard. After all this time she should be able to say the words out loud without her throat closing. “Six months ago my parents were in a car accident. My father died instantly, but my mother survived a little while longer, in part because of blood transfusions. She died of other complications, but that extra time meant we got to say goodbye.”
His hesitation lasted but a second. “I’m sorry.”
He sounded more matter-of-fact than sympathetic. She moved the plate of cookies to the left a few inches then back again. “The work done here is not just important but critical. I do what I can.”
He seemed to be weighing a response. “Do you like teaching?”
The change of subject silenced her for a few seconds. “I love it. It’s all I ever wanted to do. How about you? What do you do?” His phone conversation earlier made her wonder. What had he lost? What mistake had he made?
“Find new ways to meet interesting women.”
So he did know how to flirt. “For a living?” she asked, teasing him back, feeling flattered and cautious. Maybe her blond hair was having an effect, after all.
Before Quinn answered, a group of people entered the room almost soundlessly. Claire knew by their somber expressions that they were the friends, family and, perhaps, co-workers of someone in need of a transfusion. Those kinds of donors generally came in groups and rarely smiled except in nervousness.
Lorna looked toward Claire and angled her head as if to say, “Come help.”
“Excuse me,” she said to Quinn. “I’m needed. Eat and drink as much as you like.”
She felt his gaze on her as she helped the new donors get situated. She was aware of him every second, even when she wasn’t sneaking a peek in his direction. Her body heated up. Her heart pounded a stronger rhythm, relentless and unsteady. Her reaction was new to her—so new, she wasn’t sure how to respond except to let him know in some way that she wouldn’t mind taking it one step further. She had a lunch break due her later. There was a café within walking distance.
After a while his phone rang. She saw him drag his hand down his face and his shoulders drop momentarily before he slid the phone back in his pocket. He met her gaze and tapped a finger to his watch face, asking his question with the gesture.
Claire walked up to Lorna. “Mr. Gerard is getting antsy.”
“Take his blood pressure and blood-sugar level. You’re trained to do that, right?”
She was. She gathered the equipment and approached his table. Her pulse tripped noticeably. She decided not to hide it, even though she didn’t really understand his interest. It couldn’t just be the hair, could it? She hoped he wasn’t that shallow. And yet she’d let Jenn convince her to go blond for exactly that reason—to see if men warmed up to her more than usual, which was shallow reasoning on her part.
Her main goal, however, had been to shake up her life a little.
“If you pass the tests, you can leave,” she said, donning latex gloves.
“I do better on essay exams.”
You should smile more often, she thought as she reached for his hand, feeling the same warmth as before, and the same sparks, even through the gloves. There was strength there, and a strange kind of comfort.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
“No.” She focused on her task, cleaning his finger with alcohol before pricking it. She squeezed a drop of blood onto a test strip, then handed him a piece of gauze to press against the puncture. Setting the testing machine aside to count down to the results, she readied the blood pressure cuff.
He peeled off his sweater—
Um. Okay. Not naked underneath, but a white T-shirt that contrasted with his olive skin and showed off muscled biceps and forearms.
The testing machine beeped. Grateful for the interruption she looked at the number that came up. “Normal range,” she said.
“Good.”
She wrapped the blood pressure cuff around his arm, then she tucked his arm between hers and her torso and slid the stethoscope under the cuff. She’d tested blood pressure before, but this time her skin seemed to catch fire where his arm touched her body.
“You don’t dress like any first-grade teacher I know,” he commented.
Her eyes sought his.
Oh. She got it, finally. The leather skirt and relatively formfitting blouse seemed to be a signal to him, even though her smock mostly covered her. Disappointment slammed into her. “And how would that be?” She sounded snippy, even to herself.
“Wash-and-wear. Utilitarian.”
He’d described to a T what she usually wore, whether teaching or not.
Claire pumped the cuff, not saying anything. She had a job to do, and it wasn’t to flirt with the donors. She listened for his pulse.
“Blood pressure is fine,” she stated, letting go of his arm and removing the cuff. “You can go.”
“Ms. Winston…Claire.”
She fussed with the equipment but met his gaze, steadily, calmly. “Yes?”
After a moment he looked away. He pushed out his chair and stood. “Have a nice day.”
He didn’t seem like a man who uttered platitudes. Another disappointment. “Thanks. You, too.”
She told herself she was watching him walk away because she wanted to be sure he was steady on his feet. She almost convinced herself of that, too, except that her stomach did a funny little flip-flop when he glanced over his shoulder at her after reaching Lorna’s side.
He said something that made Lorna laugh, then she dropped his keys in his hand. He gave Claire one final look. This time her heart lurched. Crazy. This was crazy. He was a stranger. A dark, intense stranger who hadn’t even told her what he did for a living, but had evaded answering with all the finesse of a practiced deceiver. He’d flattered her instead, sidestepping the question altogether.
She turned away, then felt someone tap her shoulder a moment later.
He’d come back.
“How late do you work?” he asked.
The answer spilled out of her, banishing her disappointment. “Until four.”
He nodded and walked away.
Intrigued, Claire smiled. She’d wanted an adventure. It looked like she was about to get one.
Two
Quinn had been parked for hours near Claire Winston’s house, an old but well-maintained Victorian in the family-friendly Noe Valley area of San Francisco. There had been no signs of life in the house. He hadn’t expected any. A few days ago Jennifer had marched up to the car of the D.A. investigator assigned to tail her and challenged the man, which had led to the D.A. hiring Quinn, who’d built his reputation on his success at clinging to the shadows.
But she must have spotted Quinn, as well, then laid the foundation for ditching him using her sister’s makeover to switch identities. Was Claire part of the ruse? He couldn’t answer that question for sure, but she suddenly bleaches her hair, parks her car on the street instead of in the garage, then her sister-the-suspect disappears? It seemed well planned to him.
It ticked him off that Jennifer had made him. No one had before. How could he explain the screwup to Magnussen, the D.A. who’d hired him because Magnussen’s own investigators had, well, screwed up?
Quinn glanced at his watch. Almost five o’clock. An hour after the end of Claire’s shift. She should be home by now—unless she was going to wear that sexy little number out somewhere.
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. People made their way up and down the street. A typical Saturday in June, the weather was cloudy and cool. So far no one had reported him for loitering in his car, which happened occasionally during a stakeout.
His luck held. He spotted Claire’s car. The garage door opened as she reached it. She started to pull in then stopped. Jennifer’s red convertible filled the space.
Quinn blew out a long, slow breath. Okay. She hadn’t left, after all. Okay.
He watched Claire park up the block then stroll to her house, no overt sway to her hips, but sexy nonetheless, her short skirt giving him plenty to admire as she climbed the steps, a grocery sack in each arm. She juggled the bags for a minute before setting them down to open the door, then he got an eyeful of her long, slender, perfect legs.
The door shut on his entertainment. He made himself comfortable in the car, grateful to be there instead of having to report to the D.A. that he’d lost his subject. It was Saturday. Date night. Jennifer would leave the house sometime, and Quinn would be on her tail, his reputation intact.
But several hours later, she still hadn’t emerged.
Claire took a few steps back to admire the flowy white curtains she’d just hung, her first step in redecorating what had been her parents’ bedroom and now would be hers. It had taken six months since their deaths before she thought she might be able to sleep there.
She looked at the dog sitting at her feet. “What do you think, Rase?” she asked.
Eraser grinned up at her, his tail wagging slowly. She crouched beside him and buried her face in his thick, white-tipped gray coat. He let out a little growl of contentment as she scratched his flanks then hugged him a little tighter. He was just a mutt, but he was her mutt, even if he wouldn’t obey a single command.
“The curtains look beautiful, don’t they?” she asked, sitting cross-legged beside him, patting him as she inspected her handiwork.
She’d gotten over her disappointment that Quinn Gerard hadn’t returned to the blood bank at four o’clock. In fact, she’d decided she should be grateful he hadn’t. Obviously he was a con man of some kind or, at the least, a jerk.
“Not worth my thoughts, is he?” she asked the dog.
Rase’s ears pricked up, then he took off down the stairs, running and barking. A moment later the doorbell rang.
Claire saw with surprise that it was almost ten o’clock. She’d intended to keep herself distracted, but had done such a good job of it that she hadn’t noticed that night had fallen. She had no reason to feel guilty, but—
The bell rang again. Rase barked more frantically, alerting and calling her at the same time. She couldn’t imagine who would be coming around this late. Some friend of Jenn’s, she supposed. Someone who didn’t know….
Claire grabbed her portable phone and made her way to the door without turning on any lights, a streetlight providing just enough illumination from outside that she could negotiate the stairs. Maybe it was better that she hadn’t turned on any lights. She could pretend she wasn’t home if the visitor wasn’t someone she wanted to talk to.
Without telling Rase to quiet down—as if it would’ve done any good anyway—she crept to the door and looked out the peephole. She hadn’t turned on the porch light, however, so she could see only a dark blob silhouetted from behind by the streetlight. Now what?
“I know you’re in there,” came a man’s voice.
She hopped back. Rase picked up on her surprise and reared up, slamming his paws against the door, digging at it, barking louder. “Who’s there?” she asked.
“Quinn Gerard.”
Quinn— From the blood bank? She looked again through the peephole but still couldn’t identify the man. How did he— He’d followed her?
She put a hand over her mouth. How stupid could she be? She’d told him what time she got off work. He’d followed her to her home.
“Please open the door,” he said. “I need to talk to you.”
Grateful for how ferocious Rase sounded, she called out, “You’re stalking me. I’m calling the police right now,” she said, meaning it, squeezing the portable phone a little tighter.
“You’ll save us both a lot of time if you don’t do that,” he said, his voice raised but calm. “I’m under contract with the district attorney. If you open the door I’ll show you my identification.”
The D.A.? She relaxed a little, but no way was she removing the safety of the wooden barrier between them. “What do you want?”
“You can call off your dog, for one, so I don’t have to yell. Unless you like having your neighbors hear your business.”
He had a point. “Sit,” she said to the dog. “Quiet.”
Rase wagged his tail, barked once, but didn’t sit. She sighed. “Okay. Now, what do you want?”
“I’d prefer to tell you face-to-face.”
“You can prefer all you want.”
A pause ensued. Her grandfather clock ticked off time, the sound seeming to gain volume.
“If you don’t tell me right now why you’re here,” she said, “I’m calling the cops.”
“I want to talk to you about your sister, Jennifer.”
She closed her eyes. Great. Just great. She should have guessed. Just as she should’ve guessed he hadn’t been attracted to her. They were as different as night and…tuna. For one thing, she was honest.
“Did you follow me from the blood bank?” she asked. If so, he’d been sitting in his car for hours, biding his time, waiting for darkness to fall.
“I followed you to it. I thought you were your sister. Look, is she in there?”
“No.”
A long moment of silence sat like an invisible wall between them. “Will she be home soon?”
Claire leaned her forehead against the door. “No.”
She was tired of covering for Jenn, who was two years older than Claire and should’ve been the big sister but had never behaved like one.
“Is she gone, Claire?”
He asked the question quietly, almost sympathetically. It made her throat ache. Rase picked up on her mood and nudged her thigh with his muzzle. She patted his head. “That’s Ms. Winston to you.”
“Is she?”
She needed to tell someone, even this stranger. Maybe especially this stranger. “Yes,” she said quietly. Jenn had taken so few personal possessions with her that Claire might not have realized she was gone, except that she’d left—
“How do you know?” he asked.
She propped herself against the doorjamb. “She left a note.”
“May I see it?”
“No.” She certainly was not opening her door to a man who’d pretended to like her, who’d lured her just with promise in his eyes. Give her a dull but honest man anytime.
“Why didn’t she take her car?”
“I don’t know. Go away or I’ll sic my dog on you.” Quinn couldn’t see Rase, all twenty-five wimpy pounds of him. He only sounded like a hundred pounds of ferocity. In truth, he’d been known to run from cats.
“Do you know why the D.A. wants her?” Quinn asked.
Knowing Jenn, it could be anything. After all, she’d gotten herself involved with an investment broker who’d embezzled millions from his clients, investments they’d made in good faith. Jenn was as gullible as those clients. She’d just been lucky not to have any of her money taken by him.
“The D.A. believes she’s got Craig Beecham’s stolen funds,” he said when she didn’t answer. “Or at least knows where they are.”
“That was settled in court. Jenn didn’t know anything about it.”
“She’s been under investigation because no one believes that. How far gone do you think she can get on five million dollars, Ms. Winston?”
“She didn’t take the money.” Jenn had assured Claire of that, many times. Claire had sat beside Jenn in the courtroom, supporting her, believing in her. Jenn might be self-centered and immature, but she wasn’t a criminal. “She inherited a lot of cash when my parents died, enough to equal the value of this house, which I inherited. She’s got plenty of money.” More than she should have access to, Claire thought. She’d been spending it, too. On clothes and jewelry and that snazzy car. “She wouldn’t have need for more.”
“Everyone has need for more, but I hope you’re right. Good night.”
She moved to her front window in time to see him jog across the street and climb into an almost invisible gray sedan parked between two streetlights so that she couldn’t see into the interior. Picking up on her tension, Rase looked out the window then at her, then out the window and back at her again. She waited for Quinn to drive away. He didn’t.
Fifteen minutes later he still sat there. A half hour more. An hour. She went upstairs to her bedroom to sit by her window. Another half hour went by. Then a car pulled up beside him and stayed for close to a minute before backing up twenty feet. His car pulled out. The other parked.
A changing of the guard. Claire gave up and went to bed but barely slept. When the sun came up, she peeked outside and saw the car was still there. Why? They already knew that Jenn was gone.
After showering and changing, she went downstairs into her living room where she could get a good view of the driver, a woman, who seemed to be staring right back at her as Claire peeked through the slats of her blinds.
She couldn’t talk herself out of the guilt that had burned a hole in her yesterday when she’d come home to an empty house, even though Jenn had merely done what Claire had asked. She should be celebrating Jenn’s departure. Instead, she hovered in front of the window like she was to blame for something.
She was tired. Having Jenn underfoot the past six months, enduring her boyfriend’s trial, putting up with her moods—it had drained Claire, especially since she was still in mourning for her parents. And maybe besides being tired she was also angry. She felt used and manipulated—her own fault, since she’d known what Jenn was like, had given in to her all her life.
Still, Claire had needed her own space, needed Jenn and her wild lifestyle gone. Now she was.
And now Claire was a prisoner in her own home. Someone would probably be watching her house, or following her if she went out, presumably to see if she made contact with her sister.
Half sister. She didn’t usually make much of the distinction until lately, when she wanted to disconnect from Jenn and live her own life.
But Claire had made enough concessions to and for Jenn. She also knew when Jenn was lying. She’d looked Claire straight in the eye and said she didn’t know anything about the money.
That was good enough for Claire. It should be good enough for the D.A., and Quinn Gerard, who was just pulling up across the street.
Rase came up beside her, his leash clenched in his mouth. She glanced from him to the window. She smiled.
“Ready for a run, boy?” she asked, taking the leather strap to fasten to his collar.
Rase barked once, his rear swinging from side to side as he wagged his tail in answer.
“I like the way you think,” she said. “Let’s see if Mr. Gerard is in as good shape as he looks.”
Three
Quinn pulled up beside Cassie Miranda’s car, leaned across the passenger seat and handed her a steaming cup of her favorite mocha. She was one of two investigators he’d hired late last year. She’d pulled the night surveillance on Jennifer, and now Claire.
“Thanks,” she said, breathing the aroma before taking a sip and sighing. “No activity from the house, except that she opened the blinds a little while ago.”
“I bet she’s showered, dressed and sitting like a soldier in her living room.”
“Not the kind to fly, hm?”
“No reason for her to.” He admired Claire for standing up to him last night, even for not letting him inside her house. “I’ll probably see you in the office later.”
“I’m going to grab a few hours of sleep before I come in.”
“Hey, it’s Sunday. Take an extra hour.”
“Gee, thanks, boss.” She started her engine. “How come we’re still working this, anyway? The job is done. There’s no one to tail.”
How come, indeed? Not just because he always saw things through, but because he thought his presence might make what was about to happen easier for Claire, if she wasn’t too mad at him. He’d been in a similar situation once. He hadn’t forgotten how it felt, and how hard it was to recover from the invasion of privacy.
“She’s taking the dog for a walk,” Cassie said, pointing. “I’ll get going.”
Quinn swore. He’d bet she’d specifically waited for this moment, when he and Cassie traded places, to get a head start on him. What did she think he was going to do, follow her? As far as she knew he was waiting for her sister.
He wasn’t.
He looked out his car window just then and she smiled—no, smirked—and waved to him then started jogging up the street, her dog beside her. Her dinky dog with the big bark.
Was that a challenge?
In no time he was following her, watching her ponytail bounce in rhythm with her steps. He caught up soon enough but lingered behind her, enjoying the view and the way she looked over her shoulder without trying to seem like she was. She did have spectacular legs.
When she spotted him she picked up speed. The dog broke stride, barked once then settled beside her, keeping pace.
Quinn had appreciated the leather skirt yesterday. Today she wore running shorts, a tank top and a sweatshirt that she’d pulled off and tied around her waist without missing a step. He whipped his own sweatshirt off, wishing he’d known he would be running. Jeans chafed. Good thing he’d worn sneakers. Most of the time he wore boots. He would’ve looked like he was chasing her. Some Good Samaritan might’ve decked him.
She jogged in place at a traffic signal at the bottom of a hill. He stayed twenty feet behind her. The light turned green and she took off with only a glance over her shoulder. Damn. He hadn’t felt this good in months, ever since he’d left his one-man operation to come aboard with ARC. The transition had been challenging, reporting to and working with other people.
Today he was glad for the job, glad for this particular assignment. The bleached blonde with the long legs and the canine companion sent his mood soaring.
Suddenly she turned around and ran toward him, the dog nipping at her heels. Was she going home already? Should he step aside and let her pass or—
“You might as well run with us,” she said, stopping in front of him but still jogging.
The dog danced around, barking.
“Stop it, Rase.”
“You call that a command?”
She pursed her lips. The dog never stopped moving.
“And I see how well it works,” he added. “Sit,” he said authoritatively.
The dog put his rear on the sidewalk instantly and grinned, his tongue hanging out, his tail dusting the ground.
Claire stopped jogging. “How did you— Traitor,” she said to the dog. “You little traitor. He has never done that for me.”
“That’s because you say ‘Stop it.’” He tried to match the pitch of her voice. “Good boy,” he said to the dog, patting his head. “Rase?” he queried, looking at Claire.
“Short for Eraser. Because his coat is the color of the old blackboard erasers.” She rubbed his ears. “He probably had another name, but I got him from the pound. He was already a couple of years old.” She put her shoulders back. “Let’s go.”
They jogged up a hill, not a particularly steep one by San Francisco standards, but enough that they couldn’t talk much.
“You saved his life,” Quinn said to her, not surprised that she’d rescued the dog from death row.
“He kind of saved mine, too.” She kept her eyes focused ahead. “We needed each other.”
Because of her parents or her sister? he wondered. He tried not to feel sorry for her. People often couldn’t see the truth about family. He’d been in that position himself, not once but twice. Claire was apparently as untainted as he had been once, enough so that she volunteered at a blood bank in gratitude for a little extra time with her dying mother…and chose to teach first-graders, innocence personified…and rescued pound dogs…and had blind faith in her unworthy sister.
But it was also hard to imagine Jennifer talking Claire into something she didn’t want to do. Claire only seemed mild mannered. She’d displayed a firm strength of character last night. So, why change from brunette to blonde? Why the shift to leather skirt and snug blouse? The change was drastic.
Had Jennifer convinced her to transform herself? Quinn found it hard to believe it had been Claire’s idea. Jennifer needed to escape surveillance, and she’d used her sister to do it.
He gave up asking himself questions he couldn’t answer and focused on the run, which felt good. He hadn’t taken enough time for himself lately. Lately? He almost laughed at the understatement. He got a work-out in because he had a gym at home, but free time was a rarity, which was why on the rare occasions he dated, they were busy women who weren’t demanding of his time, because they understood working long hours. So he chose professional women, mostly. Except lawyers, who asked too many questions.
And most women ended the relationship quickly, saying he was too serious. Hell, life was serious.
A block away from Claire’s house he spotted two men loitering at the base of the stairs. He knew them. Knew why they were there.
Claire slowed her pace to a walk. So did Quinn. Rase started to bark as they got closer to the house.
“No,” Quinn ordered. The dog went silent, then looked adoringly at Quinn.
Claire sighed loudly.
“Dogs like limits,” Quinn said. “He’s obviously had some training.”
She angled her head toward the men, who had come to attention and were watching their approach. “Friends of yours?”
“I know them.”
He couldn’t read her expression, and he admired her all the more for that. Show No Fear was his personal motto. Maybe hers, too. Maybe being a teacher ingrained that, he decided.
“Gerard,” the taller of the two men said in greeting.
“Santos,” Quinn replied.
“We can take it from here,” the man told Quinn.
Peter Santos was the D.A. investigator Jennifer had spotted tailing her, the reason why Quinn, a private not public investigator, had been hired. Quinn noted the edge in his voice. Santos should relax. Jenn had spotted Quinn, too—another reason why Quinn figured she was guilty. She wouldn’t have been that alert if she hadn’t been looking for someone watching her.
“I believe I’ll stay,” Quinn said. “This is Claire Winston.”
“Ms. Winston, I’m Peter Santos from the district attorney’s office. Could we go inside, please?”
“Do I have a choice?” she asked, but led them up the stairs, not waiting for Santos’s answer to her rhetorical question. When everyone was gathered in her foyer, Santos held out a piece of paper. Rase whined.
“I’ll be right back,” Claire said, not accepting the document. “I’m going to shut the dog in the kitchen.”
Good. She would handle the situation on her own terms. Had she figured out why Santos was there?
When she returned she looked calm. She’d also put her sweatshirt back on.
Santos passed her the paper. “I have a warrant, Ms. Winston.”
“For what?”
“Requiring that you turn over the note that your sister, Jennifer Winston, wrote you.”
Claire’s gaze shifted to Quinn. Hurt radiated from her like a furnace blast. Because of him the note would no longer be private but would be seen by the D.A. and others. “It takes three of you to bring me one piece of paper and pick one up?” she asked. “You all must’ve heard about my black belt in karate, I guess.”
The joke went over Santos’s head. Quinn cleared his throat. It really was pretty funny, the three of them confronting one slender schoolteacher with a spotless reputation. Claire took her time reading the warrant. Santos shifted from foot to foot. A grandfather clock by the front door ticktocked, ticktocked.
“Ms. Winston,” Santos said after a while. “All it says is—”
“I can read.” She opened the drawer of her entry table, removed a piece of paper and gave it to him.
Santos looked it over. Quinn held out his hand and was handed the note, probably because Santos didn’t want to argue in front of her.
“Dear Claire,” it read. “I’m doing what you asked. I’ll be in touch. Love, Jenn.”
“What does this mean?” Santos asked. “That she’s doing what you asked?”
“Night before last I gave her a deadline to find somewhere else to live.”
“Why?”
“She’d lived here long enough.”
“Her car is in your garage.”
“I don’t have an explanation for that. I assume she will be back for it.”
Santos took the note from Quinn. “You bleached your hair.”
She raised her brows. Quinn thought she looked magnificent, all haughty and cool. Mild-mannered schoolteacher—ha!
“So?” she asked.
“So, you look a lot like her now. Did you pretend to be your sister, Ms. Winston, so that she could get away?”
“I don’t believe your warrant covers anything beyond me giving you the note. I already answered questions I didn’t have to. It’s time for you to go.” The front door still stood wide open. She gestured for them to leave.
Quinn stepped aside as the two investigators exited.
“You, too, Mr. Gerard,” she said, not looking at him but at the men headed toward their car.
He saw a break in her composure, a fragility she hadn’t shown Santos. “I’d like to talk to you,” Quinn said.
“I have nothing to say.”
“I have things to say. I’ll stand right here, with the door open. Or we could go outside, if you prefer.” He pulled a business card from a leather holder and passed it to her. “I’m not a D.A. investigator. I’m in private practice. My job for them was over when your sister left. This is personal now, just between you and me.” The betrayal he’d endured years ago whirled inside him until he tamped it down. He knew how she felt. That’s all he wanted to tell her. He had little doubt she was an innocent victim swept into her sister’s game.
“You knew they would be waiting for us after the run,” she said, her tone accusatory.
“I knew they would be here sometime today.”
“You told them about the note.”
“I had no choice.”
“You had a choice.”
“No, I didn’t. Ms. Winston, are you worried about your sister?”
“Worried?”
“After you got home yesterday you never turned on your lights downstairs. That’s how I knew something was wrong and why I knocked. If she’d only been doing what you asked her to do—move out—you would’ve turned on your lights and gone about life as usual.”
Her shoulders drooped slightly. She closed her eyes for a second too long.
“What you say will stay between us,” he said, hoping she would talk to him, unburden herself. He’d been in her shoes. He understood.
“She didn’t take her stuff,” she said, meeting his gaze, confusion in her eyes but no weakness.
“Nothing?”
“Her jewelry, but not her clothes, or at least not many. And her car! She loves that car.”
“What do you think it means?”
“I don’t know. I wish I did.”
He hesitated in offering a possibility. “Could we sit down?”
She nodded. After they sat on her sofa he watched her finger his business card. “What does the ARC stand for?” she asked.
“The initials of the three original partners of the agency, Alvarado, Remington and Caldwell. I’m also a partner.”
“Have they been in business long?”
“About eight years. They work out of L.A. I opened a branch office for them here right after Thanksgiving last year, but I’ve been a private investigator for ten years.”
“Why were you working for the D.A.?”
“Your sister realized she was being followed by their people, so the D.A. hired me to take over. I’m usually pretty good at it.”
“Not this time?”
“I figure she made me, too.” Made a fool of me.
He knew Claire was killing time. He let her set the pace.
“Jenn doesn’t have the money,” she said finally.
“What makes you so sure?”
“She said so.”
“Is she always honest?”
Claire started to answer, then shut her mouth. “Usually. Brutally honest.”
He leaned forward, resting his arms on his thighs. “Why did you bleach your hair?”
She ran a hand down her ponytail, as if she’d forgotten. “I wanted a change.”
“It was your idea?”
She shifted. “Not entirely.”
“Jennifer came up with the idea?”
“She said blondes…”
“Have more fun?” he asked, finishing her sentence when she didn’t.
“Yes.”
“And the clothes? Her clothes that you wore yesterday?”
“Part of the makeover. Yes, that was also her idea. But I didn’t have to go along with any of it, and she couldn’t have forced me.”
Quinn knew all about the tactics of manipulation. Some people were so good at it that they could even get their victim to defend them, which was probably true in this instance.
“We did it on a lark,” Claire said, sitting up straighter, apparently well in control again. “To celebrate the end of the school year and the beginning of summer.”
“Did she make changes, too?”
Claire frowned. “Do you mean, did she take on my appearance?”
“Yes.”
“Meaning, you think she’s on the run?”
“Could be.”
“She said in her note that she would be in touch with me. Doesn’t that imply she’s not running or going into hiding?”
He didn’t answer. He knew something Claire didn’t—her sister had been followed by someone else, someone not from the D.A.’s office. Quinn had seen him and reported it to the D.A. It was likely someone her convict boyfriend had managed to hire, therefore he must believe she was a threat to run. Therefore, she knew more than she’d said in court.
“You don’t believe her,” she said, her gaze cool.
“I don’t know her.”
“Well, one thing I can tell you—she wouldn’t be caught dead as a brunette or wearing the clothes I wear.”
“Are any of your clothes missing?”
She sat back. “I don’t know. I didn’t think to look.”
“Maybe you should. Maybe you should check your trash cans to see if there’s a box of hair color in there.” He stood. She’d gathered her composure. His job was done—unfortunately. He wouldn’t have minded getting to know her better, but he didn’t think they could get past the reason they’d met in the first place.
“Maybe you should try to put the facts together and see what you come up with,” he said, then pointed to the business card she still clenched. “You’ve got my number. If you want to talk, you can reach me on my cell phone twenty-four hours a day.”
She stood, too. “Why would I call you?”
“Because I know what you’re going through.” He resisted the temptation to put a comforting hand on her shoulder. He had no right to touch her, but he was also afraid he wouldn’t stop there, that he would pull her into his arms and hold her close, maybe for his sake as much as hers. Everything she was experiencing brought back devastating memories for him, memories he usually had no problem keeping buried. She was as innocent as he’d been.
If he ever did meet up with Jennifer Winston—
“Thank you for staying and talking,” Claire said.
“Thanks for believing I’m not the enemy.”
“I’ve seen you faint. How scared should I have been?” she asked, a teasing smile brightening her face.
Claire Winston didn’t fall under the category of client or subject, but his own code of ethics, the personal rules by which he lived, prevented him from letting himself respond to her in a way his mind and body were telling him to. Even with her face lined with exhaustion she looked pretty. Not classically beautiful, nor cute. Pretty. The kind of pretty that comes from inside. He remembered the way she looked in the short leather skirt, the slow, tempting way she walked, the way her cheeks had flushed when they’d first made eye contact. He remembered her teasing eyes as he’d jogged with her.
Temptation, thy name is Claire.
And he needed to avoid this particular temptation.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
He shook his head. Not wrong, but not right, either. “You’ll call if you want to talk?”
She smiled. “Maybe.”
“Goodbye, Ms. Winston.”
“Claire.”
“I hope you can sleep now.” He pulled her front door shut behind him and didn’t look back. He didn’t want to see her standing in the window, watching him. Claire, with the bright blue eyes that weren’t as innocent as they had been yesterday.
He wished he hadn’t been part of that loss of innocence.
Four
For the first time since Claire was sixteen years old, she didn’t have a summer job. She planned to redecorate the house more to her taste, strip and refinish furniture, sand and paint kitchen cabinets, and make a bedspread for her bedroom. She might even try her hand at writing a book geared toward first-through third-graders, something about life in a big city, a backdrop with which children in her community could identify.
Jenn had been gone a week. None of Claire’s clothes were missing, nor had she found a hair-color box or anything else in the trash to give hints as to where Jenn had gone. Claire had gotten past her anger. She figured Jenn intended for Claire to feel guilty about issuing the ultimatum to move out, and would stay out of touch long enough to make Claire worry, and possibly relent about living together.
Not this time, Claire decided, putting a little more effort into sanding the last kitchen cabinet before she started painting. She would assume that Jenn had landed on her feet, as she always did. Claire never had been able to figure out why her sister wanted to live with her. She’d never catered to her, never done her laundry or fixed her meals. Certainly Jenn could afford her own place.
Rase barked then ran out of the kitchen. The doorbell rang. Every time someone had dropped by in the past week, she’d hoped it was Quinn. Silly of her to hope for that, she knew. He’d had a job to do, and that was all. Still, she’d felt a connection with him and thought perhaps he had with her, too.
He’d given her his phone number. She’d dialed six of the digits several times, then hung up at the last minute. What could she say— “You make my heart stand still”? He believed her sister was guilty. How could Claire be with someone who thought that? Yet another way Jenn had disrupted her life.
Claire reached her front door and looked through the peephole, then smiled as she opened the door to Jenn’s mother, Marie, who, while she didn’t have any official title, like “stepmother,” had become like a second mother to Claire through the years.
“Hi, baby— Oh, Claire! Goodness. You’re blond. I thought you were Jenny.” She stepped into the house. Rase circled her.
“Stop,” Claire ordered the dog in a serious voice. As usual he ignored her.
“How’s my favorite doggy?” Marie crooned, not helping matters, as Rase danced on his hind legs, his front paws on her thighs.
“Down,” Claire ordered again. This time he bounded onto all fours. “Sit.” He grinned. She sighed.
Marie hugged Claire. “You look cute, honey.”
“Thanks, Marie.” Claire adored the tall, buxom, fiftyish woman with the bright red, long, curly hair, dramatic makeup and tinkling jewelry. “How have you been?”
“Better than most, I think.” Her sparkling smile reminded Claire of why her father had been drawn to Marie once upon a time, even if her New Age personality had contrasted sharply with his rational-physicist nature—a major reason why they’d never married, although he’d offered when he found out she was pregnant. It was Marie who’d turned him down. A year later he’d married the woman who became Claire’s mother.
“Business is good,” Marie added. “Lots of stressed-out people out there. I’ve been turning away new customers.”
“You give great massages.”
“I do, don’t I?” She flexed her hands. “Hope the instruments stay healthy. Listen, honey, I’ve been leaving messages for Jenny on her cell all week and she hasn’t returned any. Nothin’ new there, of course, but I tried again a little while ago, and the line’s been disconnected. What’s going on?”
Claire would’ve invited her to sit down but Marie wouldn’t stay long. She never did. “Jenn’s gone.”
“What do you mean?”
“She moved out. Beyond that, I don’t know anything.”
“Did you two have a fight?”
“No. Not really. Well, sort of, I guess. I mean, I asked her to move out. I thought it was time she go out on her own again.”
“You know I agree with you. We talked about it before. Why didn’t she call me?”
“I assumed she had.”
Marie shook her head. “Did she leave me a check?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
Marie paced, her velour pants hugging her ample behind. Lime-green high heels clicked against the hardwood floor. “She was supposed to give me a check.”
“You can look in her bedroom, if you want.”
Marie laughed, the sound musical. “Like anyone could unearth anything there.” Her cell phone rang. She dug it out of her big cloth purse and said hello. “Baby, where are you?” She glanced at Claire and mouthed, “Jenn.”
Claire crossed her arms.
“You promised me a check, you know, for—” She turned away slightly. “You know…. No, I can’t wait! Jennifer Marie, you promised…. I gotta have it, baby…. Okay, okay. Thanks.”
Claire held out her hand, asking for the phone.
“Listen,” Marie said. “I’m at your sister’s house. She wants to talk to you…. ’Cause I was worried about you. What’s your new cell number?…Well, when you do get one, call me. Stay in touch, okay, baby?”
Marie passed Claire the phone.
“What’s going on, Jenn?” she asked.
“I’m moving on, just like you said.”
“I didn’t mean you had to move out the same day. Where are you?”
“What do you care?”
Jenn’s casual way of putting Claire on the defensive riled her. She’d had it with her self-centered sister. “Well, for one, your car’s taking up my garage space. If you don’t get it out of there, I’m going to have it towed. You can pay the fines when you pick it up from impound.”
“Ooh, kid sister’s got fangs all of a sudden.”
Marie leaned toward the phone’s mouthpiece. “Can I use your car until you get back, baby?” she asked loudly, then whispered to Claire, “I’m gonna use your restroom.”
“Tell Mom no. She would crash it, just like all the others she owned.”
“Tell her yourself.” She waited for Marie to shut the bathroom door down the hall, then walked into the living room and let her frustration spill out. “You didn’t tell me the cops were looking for you.”
“The D.A., not the cops. They followed me for weeks. So what? No big deal.”
“Is that why you left?”
“I left because you told me to.”
Claire gritted her teeth. She didn’t believe her. “I’ll ask you again, Jenn. Do you have the money Craig Beecham embezzled?”
“And I’ll answer you again. No, I do not.”
“Then why did you run?”
“Who says I ran?”
“You left me a note, which is a cowardly way to leave, and you know it. You left your car and your clothes behind. Now you’ve changed your cell phone number. You ran,” she said again.
“I’m starting the life I always wanted, that’s all. Listen, I gotta go. Later, okay?”
Claire punched the off button and banged the phone down on the bottom stair. She blew off some steam by walking into the foyer then back into the living room again until Marie joined her.
A movement outside caught her attention—a gray sedan pulling up across the street. Recognizing Quinn Gerard, she closed her eyes and groaned. Great. Just great. She’d been sanding kitchen cabinets all morning and hadn’t even showered yet. She’d twisted her hair up off her neck with a big clip. Of all days for him to show up.
She resisted the temptation to pat her hair and smooth her clothes.
He got out of the car, his expression serious as he stood for a moment and stared at her house. He looked like a bearer of bad news.
Quinn should’ve done the polite thing and called before dropping in on Claire. In fact, he could have given her the information over the phone. Yet he was here, outside her house, feeling more hesitant than when he’d asked Melanie Davison to the homecoming dance eighteen years ago. Why did this fresh-faced, seemingly harmless woman have the ability to intimidate him?
He climbed her stairs, eight of them, then stood under the portico for several seconds. Hell. He should just get in his car and drive away. Call her from his cell phone. Tell her what he’d found out. And keep on driving.
He blew out a breath. Big, fearless Quinn Gerard, who’d earned a reputation for uncovering secrets others couldn’t, for clinging unnoticed to the shadows of the city, for hacking into other people’s computers without remorse for violating their privacy—that Quinn Gerard was quaking in his boots at facing a first-grade teacher with philanthropic tendencies?
Idiot.
He started to knock but the door opened. A tall redhead was chattering and smiling. “I only crashed two cars,” she was saying. “And that was years ago.” Her smile changed, as did her body language, when she almost bumped into Quinn.
“Well, hi, there,” she said, not quite à la Mae West, but in a definitely flirtatious way.
“Good morning.”
Rase charged out of the house, right at him. “Sit,” he said. Rase’s rump hit the ground but his body was in motion. Quinn had never seen a dog grin like that. He scratched the dog’s ears.
“Traitor,” he heard Claire say.
The redheaded woman put out a hand. Her wrist jangled with at least ten silver bracelets. “I’m Marie DiSanto.”
He shook her hand. “Quinn Gerard.”
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