Rules of Attraction (11 page)

Her sandals dangling from one hand, she shaded her eyes and glanced toward the stairway that made a steep descent from the hotel property to the beach. Empty.

Where was Quinn?

She'd awakened to a note on her pillow saying that breakfast would be delivered at 8:00 a.m., and that he thought he'd be back by nine. No mention of where he was going.

She'd hoped to wake up in his arms. She'd wanted to lie in bed with him and talk and touch.

Instead she'd opened the door to a uniformed man pushing a wheeled serving cart, then eaten a breakfast of Belgian waffles with fresh strawberries and whipped cream all by herself. Even though the surroundings and the view were awesome, she barely enjoyed the luxury.

“Claire!”

She searched out the voice, then spotted Quinn starting down the stairway, not slowly but not hurrying either. She didn't know how to react. She was irritated that he'd left her a note instead of waking her to say he would be gone for a while. She was also warm and satisfied from their lovemaking, and grateful for his generosity for bringing her here and appreciative of his determination in trying to track down Jenn before the authorities did.

The pros far outweighed the cons, so she ignored the hurt to simply welcome him back.

He walked like a man headed for a showdown, his strides measured, totally focused on what was ahead—her. Because her heartbeat picked up audibly, she smiled.

He smiled, too. Tentatively at first, then it reached his eyes just as he came up to her. He was doing that more and more with her lately—smiling. She was achieving her goal to bring more fun to his life. That satisfied her.

She laid her hands on his chest. “How are—”

He kissed her. And kissed her. And kissed her. Then he hauled her close and held tight, his arms enveloping her.

“I missed you,” she said, her words muffled by his chest.

He said nothing. “Did you eat?” he asked finally, disappointing her that he hadn't said anything personal in return.

“Yes. Did you?”

“Not yet.”

“I'll have coffee with you while you have breakfast.” She felt almost like a stranger, except that he was holding her as if they would slip off the earth if he let go.

“Okay.”

“I need to freshen up first,” she added.

He nodded. They walked hand in hand up the steep wooden stairs. At the top was a low faucet. Quinn knelt at her feet to rinse off the sand. She stared at the top of his head. He took his time, brushing every speck from her legs and feet. Something was weighing on him. She could tell from the way he set his shoulders—and his mouth. Something big. Something he wouldn't want to talk about. She didn't know how she knew that, but she did.

She decided not to put him on the spot by asking.

He rinsed his own feet quickly. They slipped on their sandals and made the walk to her room in silence. He
followed her inside. The note he'd written her still lay on the pillow. In the mirror's reflection she saw him look at it. His mouth tightened.

“I'll wait on the balcony,” he said, heading there.

She laid a hand on his arm, stopping him. His eyes were filled with some kind of agony. What happened? What's changed? she asked him silently.

He gave no answers, but she knew she had to give him something else to think about. Grabbing hold of her nerve, she lifted her T-shirt over her head, toed off her sandals and pushed her shorts down, kicking them aside. She knelt on the bed then went to work unbuttoning his shirt. At first he stood rigid, resisting but not rejecting, then gradually he turned his attention on her.

“I don't think I would've expected such sexy lingerie, P.A.,” he said, eyeing her as she slipped his shirt over his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.

“I'm full of surprises,” she said, giving him a sultry look, then laughing at her attempt. She unfastened his shorts, grateful that she could see and feel that she'd distracted him from whatever was on his mind.

Naked he joined her on the bed. He put his fingers on the front catch of her bra. He took his time ridding her of her undergarments, stopping to admire and touch and taste, already knowing what excited her and what drove her wild.

“My turn,” she said after a while, making him stop, giving him a little shove.

He didn't protest, but let himself fall back on the bed. His head landed on the note he'd left. He reached for it. She pulled it from him, crumpled it and tossed it aside. It landed in the wastebasket.

“Two points,” she said, raising her arms in victory.

He moved his thumbs over her nipples. “Two very nice points,” he agreed.

Was that gratitude in his eyes for not mentioning the note? She chose to think so. She also chose to make him forget everything except her—the feel of her hands caressing, and her lips tasting and her mouth savoring. He grabbed her hair, holding it away from her face so that he could watch. She made him quiver. She made him suck in his breath. She made him—

“Come here,” he said, pulling her up.

She straddled him, lowered herself onto him, moved with him, feeling desired and cherished and wanted. He took her breast in his mouth, slid his hands over her rear, helping her find a rhythm, then letting her set the pace. She moved until she was almost at the peak, then stopped until the sensation faded. Then moved again. Stopped again.

“I can't,” he said, low and harsh, switching their positions and driving into her, driving coherent thought out of her.

There was only sensation. A fast climb, a powerful ascent, a mighty crest. He groaned her name. She raised her hips higher, dug her fingers into his back. He picked up speed and force. His mouth came down hard on hers, open, hot, wet. Everything intensified—the heat, the drive, the pleasure. And finally, joy. Sublime joy. Bliss.

After a while she came aware of the lovely weight of him sprawled on her, and the sound of his breathing as it settled, and the feel of his hand as he stroked her hair.

“Thank you,” he said.

“No, thank
you,
” she said solemnly, trying not to smile.

He levered himself on his arms and looked into her eyes. “I guess saying thanks was a little…”

“Silly.”

“Not a word I would use, but, yes.”

“So why did you? Say thank you?” She combed his hair with her fingers, trying to keep the moment light.

“I don't know.”

He did. But he wasn't saying. “Okay,” she said. “Did you work up an appetite?”

He rolled to one side, keeping her close. “Satisfied one appetite, and now I'm ready to satisfy another.” He brushed her hair from her face. “You haven't asked any questions about this morning. Where I was.”

“I figure you'll tell me if you want to.” Yes, she was curious. More than curious.

“And if I never do?”

She turned her head and pressed a kiss into his palm. When she looked at him again, she let her sadness show. “Then we don't have much of a relationship, do we?”

 

Eight hours later Claire was still wondering why he wouldn't talk about where he'd gone that morning. They pulled up in front of her house, blocking her driveway and the sidewalk.

From that she assumed he wasn't planning to get out of his car. Looking away so that he couldn't see her disappointment, she pulled the door handle.

He leaned across, putting his hand on hers. “Claire.”

Keep it light. Keep it light.
“Hmm?”

“According to my voice mail, I have a lot of work waiting for me. I hadn't planned on staying over in Santa Barbara last night, so things piled up. It'll take me hours to deal with it all.”

“Meaning?”

“That's why I'm not coming inside.”

“Oh.” She waved a hand. “I hadn't thought about it.”

He waited a few beats. “I'll call you tomorrow.”

“Okay.” She stared out the windshield for several seconds before she finally made eye contact. “I'm sorry about Jenn.”

“Sorry for what?”

“That we didn't find out anything that would help in locating her. I know you wanted to clear your reputation.”

His pause was longer this time. “I'll survive.”

“Good,” she said with false cheer. There was nothing more to say. She gathered her fancy shopping bag and opened the car door.

“No kiss goodbye?” he asked.

She hadn't realized how tightly wound she was until he said that. Sheer determination kept her from climbing into his lap and burying her face against his neck. She wished he would stay. She wished she could have him all to herself for another night.

I'm not long-term material,
he'd said before. She couldn't hold him with wishes.

Claire turned toward him. He ran his fingertips down her hair, then hooked it over her ears. Then he cupped her head and kissed her, dragging his lips back and forth across hers before finally settling for a long, sweet kiss.

“Sleep tight,” he said.

“Don't let the bedbugs bite,” she answered lightly. She climbed out of the car. Before she shut the door she leaned back in to pass him what she'd been fingering since they left Santa Barbara. “Here.” She dropped it in his hand.

He held it aloft, the small, white, surf-worn shell she'd kept.

“A memento, M.Q.”

He tucked it in his fist. “'Bye.”

She was aware of him watching as she let herself into the house. Because of that, she didn't look back.

After she'd greeted Rase and checked her answering-machine messages and her mail, she glanced out the window in time to see him pull away. He'd been waiting. In case she needed him.

She leaned against the window frame and closed her eyes.

So. She'd fallen the rest of the way in love with him. She'd thought she could be so sophisticated and mature about this relationship. He'd been honest about not being the kind to stick around. She'd deceived herself that she could accept the relationship on his terms. She wanted much more than just to bring fun into his life. She thought he'd needed her. Well, she needed him, too.

Rase whimpered at her feet. She knelt down, put her arms around his neck and pressed her face into his coat.

“What do I do now, boy?”

He barked, the deep sound that didn't fit the small body making Claire smile.

“You like him, too,” she said with a sigh, sitting on the floor to let Rase show his affection. She scratched his haunches and his ears. He moaned with pleasure, which made her laugh.

“Okay. Enough moping.” They'd stopped for dinner on the way back, so she wasn't hungry, just restless. She wandered into her office and turned on her computer, then brought up her e-mail—and found a note from Jenn.

Q
uinn clenched his fists so that he wouldn't drum his fingers on the mahogany table in the ARC conference room. Out of a picture window San Francisco Bay gleamed like the natural jewel it was, the view unobstructed by buildings or even the normal morning fog. He paid little attention. He'd called his investigators the night before and asked them to meet him at the office at 7:00 a.m.

They'd all arrived early. He'd listed the facts about Jenn and Claire and Beecham, then Cassie got a phone call she couldn't ignore, and Jamey volunteered to make coffee while they waited for her.

Quinn's usual store of patience had deserted him sometime between Claire's misguided apology last night and the sleepless night that followed. She really believed that he was only interested in upholding his reputation for never losing a subject? He would've walked away two weeks ago if that was all that mattered.

And he'd had the perfect opportunity to tell her he was going to continue the search for Jenn, but he let it go by. It wasn't like him not to confront facts.

So, he wanted Cassie's and Jamey's input, because there wasn't a lot of time to waste. In his head he kept hearing Claire's grandfather clock ticking, resonating, reminding him he didn't possess the key to keep it wound.

He watched Cassie scribble notes on a yellow legal pad. She was dressed in jeans—not designer—and a white blouse, starched and pressed. Her old, worn leather jacket hung on the back of her chair. She wore boots. Not girly, spike-heel boots, but cowboy boots, with chunky heels and pointed toes. When he wanted to rile her, he called her “Tex.” Her golden-brown hair hung down her back in a long, thick braid. She didn't take crap from anybody, probably because she'd had to for too many years as a child.

“Sorry,” she said, hanging up the phone. “I've been waiting a week to hear back from that guy.”

Jamey returned with three steaming mugs of coffee and passed them around. He was as laid-back as Cassie was driven. She rarely sat still. He relaxed and sipped his coffee, his eyes alert and measuring. Quinn had chosen these two investigators to open the branch office with because they complemented and contrasted his personality and his approach to the business. As a team they were dynamic.

“Teach Olivia how to make coffee, will you?” Cassie said to Jamey, raising her mug in a toast. “You make the best.”

“How about if I teach you, instead,” he said easily.

“I wasn't being chauvinistic,” she countered. “Olivia said at her interview that she had no problem making coffee for us.”

“Olivia needed the job.”

“I think that I, of all people, would be sensitive to a gender issue, Jamey, and I don't—”

“Could we get back to my case?” Quinn interrupted, knowing their debate could go on for a while.

“Sorry,” Cassie said in a rush. “Okay. So, to sum it up—you think sister Jenn is in a whole lot of trouble, and therefore sister Claire, by default.”

“Beecham is hunting Jenn. I believe that Claire's and my visit to the prison jacked up his fear that Jenn is in possession of his funds, and he probably accelerated his search for her. I drove by Claire's house a couple of times during the night and then again this morning. The white van wasn't there, but that doesn't mean someone isn't watching her.”

“Why watch Claire?” Jamey asked. “It seems clear that she doesn't know where Jenn is.”

“She's the only link. And Jenn's mother, possibly, but she comes across so flaky that no one probably pays her much attention.”

Cassie frowned. “I don't know. Beecham lived with Jenn for a year. You'd think he would have some idea about where she went or what kind of action she would take. So, again, why Claire? Unless someone is supposed to grab her and use her as bait, the ransom being Jenn.”

“I considered that. It's why I took Claire to interview Beecham—so that he could see for himself that she doesn't know where Jenn is.” Beecham had to believe she didn't have a clue where Jenn was living—or hiding. “He's greedy, but I can't see him adding murder to his charges.”

“But he wouldn't be. He has the perfect alibi,” Cassie pointed out. “Obviously he's hired someone to do his dirty work. That someone may have no problem
with kidnapping or murder. He may have been told to do whatever was necessary. There's also nothing Beecham could do from prison about a guy who takes matters into his own hands.”

“Everything you say makes sense, Cass. I just don't see it coming down that way. If I were Beecham, I'd be more worried that the thug he hired would run off with the money, or diamonds, or whatever.”

“Maybe Beecham hasn't even told whoever he hired about the money,” Jamey said. “Maybe he just wants to keep track of her until he gets out and can deal with her himself. Could she spend five million dollars before he's released? Sure, but keeping a low profile would be difficult. That kind of flash brings attention. She'd be buying property, and property has to be recorded.” He cocked his head. “But I think you're just as concerned about the D.A.'s pursuit of her.”

“Yeah. One way or another she's going to be found. Neither is going to be good for her, particularly if she has the money. And Claire's going to get caught up in the media aftermath.”

“Why?” Cassie asked.

“Because that's what happens.” Quinn shoved away from the table and carried his mug across the room with him to pretend to look at the view, keeping his back to Jamey and Cassie. “I'm not saying the press would publish Claire's name—that would be an invasion of privacy. But at the least she would be asked for a quote, and she would give one, in defense of her sister. Yes, the press has a job to do, but I'm going to do my best to shield Claire from it.”

“What are we really doing here, Quinn?” Cassie asked, impatience in her voice. “This is a noncase. It's all speculation, none of it realistically threatening.”

“We're here because I say so.”

Silence stretched behind him. Another brilliant answer, he thought, angry at himself. They were probably exchanging glances, trying to figure out if he'd lost his mind. Maybe he had. Maybe because the hurt he'd suffered as a teenager had hit him full force again yesterday, seeing his father. So he might err on the side of caution—extreme caution. It was better than not preventing something he could have.

He had to find Jenn.

He jammed his hand in his pocket and fingered the shell Claire had given him. Maybe he had become obsessed. Maybe he was out of control. He didn't seem to have a choice.

“Okay,” Jamey said. “I think Cassie and I understand how important this is to you. So, what can we do?”

They'd already done what he'd wanted—given him feedback and confirmed that he was a little crazy and a lot obsessed about…. Well, what? The unsolved case? Yes. Always. He hated for a case to end, even as he liked to solve it.

He closed his fist around the shell, felt it press into his flesh, reminding him to be honest with himself. In truth, he was also a little crazy and a lot obsessed about…Claire.

“I'll let you know,” he said. “And if you think of anything else I should be doing, talk to me. Thanks for coming in so early.”

Cassie nodded. She swept up her mug and paperwork and left the room, her strides purposeful. Places to go. Things to do.

Jamey wandered to where Quinn stood. “Anyone paying for this investigation?” he asked.

“Nope,” Quinn answered, prepared to defend his actions.

“Okay. If you want Claire guarded, let me know. I'll volunteer for shifts.”

“Thanks.”

Jamey gave him a little pat on the shoulder then left the conference room.

Quinn had only known Jamey since he'd come to work at ARC, had heard comments and praise about him for a few months before that. Quinn hadn't counted on finding a friend when he'd offered Jamey the job, but a friendship had taken root. A loner for all of his adult life, Quinn had hidden in the dark alleys of the city for most of those years. By becoming a partner in ARC and stepping into the sunlight, he'd also found a friend. More than one, if he counted the three partners, all of whom he liked and respected.

Scanning the view of the bay again, he remembered the promise he'd made to himself that he wouldn't keep Claire in the dark, that he would tell her what he discovered. He wasn't keeping anything from her, not technically. There were no facts to disclose. What would he gain by telling her that her sister was in a whole lot of trouble? Claire knew that, at least subconsciously. Or that she, Claire, might still be followed? She would be alert to that, too, he was sure.

So why did he feel guilty?

He shouldn't. Based on his experience, he had better instincts than the average person—and he trusted his instincts and followed them. He also knew that no matter how many times Claire said that Jenn would have to fend for herself, Claire would not forgive him if something happened to her sister that he might have somehow prevented.

He needed to make sure nothing happened to Jenn.

How?

He'd already gotten a list of the phone calls made from Claire's house for the six months since Jenn moved in. None of those numbers jumped out at him as suspicious. The police were watching for her reported-as-stolen car. He'd visited her usual haunts, pretending to be a friend as he asked patrons at the nightclubs and bars she frequented if they knew where she was, told them that he owed her money. Nothing. She'd vanished.

He looked at his watch. Not yet 7:30. He didn't want to call Claire this early, so he buried himself in paperwork in his office until a few hours went by, then he pressed the speed-dial number he'd assigned Claire on his cell phone.

“Hello?”

He hadn't realized how tense he was until he heard her voice. He pictured her as she'd been the morning before, undressing him with hands that shook, her wet, wonderful mouth exploring him, her fingernails scratching him lightly, starting at his ankle, moving up his calf, along his thigh and beyond.

He ran a hand over his abdomen.

“Hello?” she repeated.

He sat up straighter. “Good morning, P.A.,” he said, raising his voice above the noise on her end. “I'm sorry. I was distracted. How are you?”

“Good, thanks. Rase, no.” She sighed. “I swear he's like a child. The minute I get on the phone, he wants my attention.”

He heard the dog bark, deep and fierce. “Is someone at your door?”

“I don't think so. Let me look.”

He waited. He could tell she was using the portable phone because he could hear her footsteps.

“I don't see— Wait. Rase! No! It's just the mail
man,” she said. “Rase goes crazy. I don't understand it. The guy comes every day. He goes. He doesn't even knock.”

“And that's the problem.”

“What do you mean? He doesn't pose a threat. Rase should know that by now.”

“He's protected his home and chased the guy away. He's proud of himself. He's done his job.”

“I never looked at it that way.”

He heard traffic noise and assumed she'd stepped outside to get the mail. It occurred to him— “Do you still get mail for Jenn?”

“I never have. She has a post-office box somewhere.”

A post-office box. He couldn't get that information, but the D.A. could.

“How is your day going?” she asked.

“Busy.” Now what? Get the D.A. involved? He'd told Claire he wouldn't.

“Um, would you like to come to dinner?” she asked.

Would he like to? Yes. But should he? How long could he keep the truth from her? “I'm not sure. I've got—”

“No problem,” she interrupted. “I just thought if you were free….”

“Tomorrow?” he asked.

“Maybe. Well, I need to get back to…what I was doing. See you later.” She didn't even wait for him to say goodbye but hung up with a quiet click.

He set down his phone. Olivia appeared in the doorway.

“There's a newspaper reporter here to see you,” she said. “He doesn't have an appointment.”

So. The D.A. had already leaked something to the press to try to force Jenn into the open, the only explanation for how a reporter would know to contact Quinn.
And since ARC wasn't listed in the Yellow Pages, the reporter would've had to be provided with an address, which the D.A. knew.

“Bring him back,” he said to Olivia. He would deal with him, then contact Claire and brief her on how to handle the questions that might be put to her.

He went around his desk to meet the man at his door and start the interview on a seemingly cooperative note, since he had no intention of giving any quotes or providing any information.

Good, he thought, as he glimpsed the man walking beside Olivia. No eager, young hotshot but a seasoned veteran, one who looked like he'd seen into the blackest soul of humanity and somehow survived. Midfifties, hair that had been red once but was now blended with white. Lanky frame. And judging by the intelligent eyes, probably not as laid-back as he appeared on the surface.

“John Foley,” he said, extending his hand.

“Quinn Gerard. Please, have a seat.”

Foley said nothing until Quinn was also seated. He seemed to be waiting for something, but since the ball was in his court, Quinn also waited.

Foley opened his notepad. “You don't remember me, do you?”

Quinn's memory rarely failed him, but he couldn't place the man seated across from him. “No.”

“Seventeen years ago I wrote a three-part series on your father.”