Cold Midnight (13 page)

Mindful of the watching reporters, she forced herself to smile pleasantly up at him. “Meanwhile, they’re going to report that the cops were called to my brother’s house for reasons unknown.”

“If you’d like to take a swing at me to give them something else to report, go ahead.” He said this while nodding at the TV news people, his genial expression firmly in place.

Checking her scowl, she turned and pushed the doorbell. She didn’t expect Quinn to answer, but she didn’t want to walk in without some warning. When she tried to jam Quinn’s house key into the lock, her hand shook so much she missed.

“Damn it,” she muttered, irritated that her nerves were so visible. She was already anxious about what she would find when she got to Quinn. Add Chase to the mix, and she was a wreck. If she hadn’t let him provoke her, and kiss the daylights out of her last night, she would have been fine. The guard she’d reinforced for more than a decade would have been perfectly intact.

When she fumbled the key the third time, Chase’s palm, big and warm, slid over the back of her hand, and he eased the key ring from her fingers. “Let me do that.”

She held her breath as he stepped closer to maneuver the key into the lock. When she began to feel lightheaded from lack of air, she drew in the light tang of sweat mixed with tropical sunscreen. Longing immediately followed. She had a weak body, a traitorous heart.

“Are we going in or what?”

She opened her eyes, wondering when she’d closed them, and felt the heat of a blush race into her cheeks. Ignoring his knowing look, she brushed by him and into Quinn’s living room.

“Quinn?”

The closed blinds made the room semidark but not so dark that she didn’t see the uncapped bottle of tequila on the coffee table. An empty glass with an abused wedge of lime in the bottom sat next to the bottle. The
Kendall Falls News
lay crumpled on the floor next to the gray sofa, as if Quinn had angrily balled it up after reading the front-page story.

“Quinn?” she called, louder this time.

The air-conditioning kicked in, adding a low hum to the silence and stirring air that carried the unmistakable odor of booze.

“You stay here while I check the rest of the house,” Chase said.

Kylie watched him move quickly toward the hallway that led to two bedrooms and a bathroom, fear prickling at the back of her neck. Unable to just stand there and wait, she walked into the kitchen. Nothing seemed amiss, though an empty Absolut bottle, a half-full bottle of vermouth and a jar of olives littered the white countertop of the center island. Quinn had either started with martinis and moved on to tequila or vice versa.

She went to the sliding-glass doors that led to the back-yard and twisted the plastic wand that opened the vertical blinds. She had to narrow her eyes against the harsh sunlight that poured through the glass.

“Ow.”

She jerked in surprise and turned to see Quinn sitting on the floor between the island and the white refrigerator, his hand up in front of his eyes to block the light. He looked as if he’d been sleeping—or passed out—propped against the fridge door. His navy T-shirt and white shorts were wrinkled, and a beer bottle rested on the floor between the knees of his outstretched legs.

“Owwww,” he repeated, drawing it out.

Kylie quickly closed the blinds, her legs watery with relief. He was okay. Drunk off his ass. But okay.

“I was worried about you.” Determined to play this cool, she went to the coffeemaker and flipped up the top before rummaging in the cupboard for a fresh filter. “How long have you been drinking?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder at him.

He checked his wrist, but it was bare, so he shrugged. “Couple of days.”

She scooped coffee into the filter. “I just saw you yesterday, ya dope.”

“Couple of hours,” he amended.

At the sink, she filled the glass carafe, focusing intently on the bubbles that formed on the water’s surface. Chase had had plenty of time to check the rest of the house by now, so she assumed he stood in the hall outside the kitchen, analyzing their conversation for clues to Quinn’s guilt. Well, she damn well was not going to give him anything he could use.

“That story is crap, you know,” she said to Quinn.

“What about it is crap?” he asked, his words slurred. “I’m a suspect. The cops think I could have . . . done that to you.”

“And we both know that’s bullshit.” She faced him, the carafe grasped in both hands, and considered dumping the cold water over his head.

He gave her a loopy grin. “You said bullshit.”

A soft, relieved laugh escaped her. So he wasn’t going to fall apart on her.

“It’d be funnier to hear Janie say it,” he said. “She’s so much more proper.”

Kylie turned to pour the water into the coffeemaker, knowing now how to snap him into sobriety. “Speaking of our sister, you’d better get straightened out before she shows.”

He sat up, knocking the beer bottle between his knees askew and fumbling to catch it before it fell over. “Did you call her?” he asked, the demand faintly accusing.

“Nope, but she knows about the story. She said she’s going to stop by.” She checked her watch. “I figure you’ve got about ten minutes before she’s banging on your door.”

Quinn pushed himself to his feet and wavered, slapping a hand onto the island for balance. “Damn. Think I’m seriously trashed.”

She had to laugh at the note of amazement in his tone. “Go take a cold shower. I’ll bring you some coffee and make you breakfast.”

“Thanks.” He gave her an exaggerated nod. “You’re too good to me.”

The way his voice cracked set her on edge. “And don’t you forget it,” she said, determined to keep it light.

He hung his head, still gripping the counter. “I’ve been a terrible brother, Kylie.”

Her heart rose into her throat. What did he mean by that? The alarm grew double-edged as she pictured Chase, the cop on the hunt for evidence, listening on the other side of the door. “Go take a shower,” she said. “You’re drunk.”

He gave his head a vigorous shake, deep lines furrowing his forehead as he stared at his feet. “It’s all my fault. All of it. I should never have—”

“Quinn.”

He raised his head at the sharpness of her tone and made a visible effort to focus on her face.

Putting her hand on top of his on the counter, she squeezed. “Think about the grief Jane is going to give you if she gets here while you’re like this.”

He straightened his shoulders. The fear of Jane was greater than the fear of God. “Right. Shower.”

“Long and cold,” she called after him as he swayed his way out of the kitchen.

Alone, waiting for Chase to show himself, she capped the olives and put them in the fridge. Her hands began to tremble as she threw the empty Absolut bottle in the recycling bin and stashed the vermouth under the sink, Quinn’s words echoing inside her head.

What could he possibly mean by that?

19

CHASE PAUSED IN THE KITCHEN DOORWAY TO
watch Kylie vigorously wipe the island countertop clean. She looked beyond tired, and her ponytail was falling apart, yet she was so stunning that his breath clogged in his lungs. It didn’t help that her red T-shirt hugged her slim curves, the short sleeves conforming to the toned shape of her upper arms. It
really
didn’t help that her nipples were poking against the cotton of her shirt, yet it wasn’t even close to being chilly in the kitchen. In fact, in his opinion, it was too damn warm.

His body started to react to the sheer physical appeal of this woman he’d kissed to within an inch of his sanity just yesterday. Jesus, he wanted her. And not just to sink into her heat and lose himself in her body, her rhythm, her life force. He wanted to heal her and love her and cherish her. He wanted to make her so dizzy with need that she leaned on him, and only him, for support.

Dragging a hand through his hair—it was good to have fantasies—he took a mental cold shower. “Guess you don’t need me here anymore.”

She turned to drop the sponge onto the edge of the sink. “Thanks for coming. I appreciate it.”

He should have turned and left. But at least a little bit of blood had returned to his brain, so he decided that now was a good time to ask her some questions about the conversation she’d just had with Quinn. Cop, first. Horny guy, second.

Chase went to the blinds and opened them. “I’d be happy to make Quinn some breakfast before I go,” he said. “One of my killer omelets would help soak up the booze in his blood.”

When she didn’t respond, he glanced over to find her staring at him as if he’d just double-faulted on match point. “What?” he asked.

“You want to make an omelet for a suspect in your case?”

He pocketed his hands, figuring that was the only way to avoid grabbing her and wiping all the frosty anger out of her with a mood-altering kiss. No, better to flee while they were still friends. Sort of.

“Guess I’ll be on my way then,” he said, walking to the door. “Call me if you need me.”

“I won’t need you.”

He paused to look back at her. She returned his gaze with a defiance that didn’t surprise him in the least. She didn’t
need
him? They’d see about that.

He pivoted toward her, darkly satisfied at the way she drew back into the corner where the counter took a turn.

She raised a hand to hold him off. “Look, I don’t know what you’re—”

She broke off when he paused with his chest pressed against her palm, and he couldn’t stop the triumph that swelled in his chest at how wide her eyes had gotten. She didn’t know what to do, how to react. She wasn’t slapping him, so clearly she wasn’t going to make a big squealy deal out of this, probably for fear of making him think he had power over her. Little did she know.

Reaching up, he grasped the wrist of the hand she’d planted against his shirt, but instead of drawing her to him, he stepped forward, fencing her in.

“This isn’t—”

“Shut up, Ky,” he drawled.

Letting go of her wrist, he braced his hands on the counter on either side of her and went in for the kill. She turned her head to the side, avoiding his lips by a scant inch. The move put his nose at the crook of her neck, and he breathed in her vanilla scent, enjoyed the lazy spin of his senses. After letting his slow exhalation caress the side of her neck, he tried to kiss her again, only to have her turn her head to the other side. Since she had yet to try to push him away, he angled his head forward, lightly brushing the tip of his nose over the surface of her cheek.

“I don’t want this,” she said softly.

Yet, he noted, her breathing had gone shallow and choppy. Oh, yeah. “I think you do want this,” he murmured, and nipped at her earlobe with his teeth.

She breathed in sharply. “Stop.”

“I don’t think so.” He tried a third time—it’s the charm after all—and nearly groaned out loud when her lips finally met his.

Heat flared instantly, and it was the kind that sucked all the air out of his lungs. His plan to thaw her, to prove how much she was kidding herself, flew out of his head the minute her tongue stroked against his. When her hands slid into his hair, and she pressed fully against him, making a small, helpless sound in the back of her throat, he lost complete control of the kiss.

He surged against her, wanting more, needing more. He’d meant only to kiss, to make a point, that no matter how cold she pretended to be, he knew just how to set her on fire. But it wasn’t enough. With her, a kiss was never enough. He wanted so much more. He wanted everything.

And then she shoved him back, her formerly stroking hands planted firmly against his chest. He blinked away the blinding desire to focus on her face, saw the glitter in her eyes, the icy set of her jaw. A smile that didn’t come close to touching her eyes played at the corners of her mouth.

“You really should think these things through,” she said.

The realization that she’d played him struck like a ringing slap. He should have known better than to challenge her competitive nature, to play dirty. She’d always come out swinging. Game, set, match.

He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Clearly, I’m out of my league.”

He thought he saw a flash of doubt, or maybe hurt, in her eyes as he turned away. But he didn’t turn back. He had his own hurt and doubt to deal with.

He walked out of the house, his steps sure and probably a bit too stompy, not pausing or looking back. Next to the SUV, he stopped, squinting against the harsh sunlight and trying to ram his brain back into work mode.

Things had changed. He’d heard with his own ears as Quinn had tried to confess something to Kylie, and she’d shut him down. To protect him. She believed he was innocent, fine. But Chase’s doubts were growing, and Sylvia Jensen was right. If Quinn did indeed attack Kylie with a bat, he could easily do it again.

In a matter of minutes, he was on his cell, outlining the case to Assistant District Attorney Rebecca Morgan. “I’ve got means, motive, opportunity. His shirt links him to the probable weapon. His alibi is weak. Drunk and alone.”

“Are there other suspects?”

“Not at the moment. I’m waiting on some test results on the shirt that could add to the case.”

“For now, though, you do realize that this case is circumstantial,” she said.

“My gut tells me he’s one of the guys.”

“Your gut carries a lot of weight with this office, but I’d need more to make a strong case.”

“My plan is to get a confession.”

“So just bring him in for questioning.”

“My partner questioned him already and didn’t get anything. I need him in cuffs and intimidated if I’m going to get anywhere with him.”

“Okay. I’ll get a warrant issued, and we’ll see what happens. We can present the case to the grand jury, and if they don’t bite, kick it.”