Rules of Attraction (12 page)

C
laire dragged herself out of bed after a toss-and-turn night. She hadn't expected Quinn to be overly attentive to her—he didn't seem the type—but would another call yesterday have been too much to ask? A little hurt, but a lot more irritated, she splashed water on her face, then looked at her bleary eyes in the mirror.

She'd never pictured him as a love-'em-and-leave-'em kind of guy. She hated being wrong about him.

Well, she couldn't say she hadn't been warned. She'd just wanted it to last a little longer. Or a lot longer. Like any woman who found the right man, she'd hoped to be the one to change his mind.

Rase bounded down the stairs ahead of her as she headed to the kitchen to brew some first-aid coffee. She stopped in the foyer, tightened the sash on her robe, then stepped outside to get her newspaper. She'd tried for weeks to teach Rase how to fetch it but had given up
when he shredded the front page too many times with his teeth.

She set the paper on her kitchen counter, fed Rase and made coffee. While it brewed she wandered into her back garden to deadhead a few blossoms, giving herself busy work. What was she supposed to do now? Wait? She wasn't very good at that.

She sighed. She'd wanted an adventure, something to change her life. She got it.

Rase came up beside her and bumped her legs, his signal that he wanted a hug, which made her smile. Sometimes he seemed so human. She crouched and put her arms around his neck. “I didn't know how lonely I was until I had someone to miss,” she said to him, admitting to her pain. “You, too?”

He wagged his tail then followed her into the kitchen. A couple minutes later, she settled at the counter to read the paper.

She pulled off the rubber band, and the paper fell open. The headline caught her eye:
Spared execution, spy faces another death sentence.
It wasn't a topic she normally would read, but the name
Gerard
jumped out at her from the text. The coincidence started her reading about Robert Gerard, a former Bay Area resident who had been sentenced to life in federal prison for treason seventeen years ago, and was now dying of liver cancer at age sixty-one. He had a son, Robert Quinn Gerard, a San Francisco private investigator.

Claire's breath seized. She felt chained to the chair. Her coffee turned cold as she read the article word by word, her heart in her throat. At the end, she went to the newspaper's Web site, where a three-part series written long ago was posted as one long article. Dazed, she read it—factually the same as today's ar
ticle but in greater detail. Quinn must've been just eighteen. His name and his mother's, Peggy, were included in the stories. He'd changed his name. Out of embarrassment?

I just don't want your life to be thrown into misery like mine was,
he'd told her shortly after they met.

She sat back in her chair, weighed down by sorrow for him. The article said he refused to comment on his father. She could picture that—his expression closing up and his jaw hardening.

Everything made sense to her now. He'd seen his father at the prison. That was where he'd disappeared to that morning.

Had he found out then, too, that his father was dying? And was that why he was so tense? How often had he visited?

She picked up his business card from her desktop and called his cell, but only got his voice mail. She hung up and called his office and was told he wasn't expected in today.

“I'm a friend,” she told the woman who answered the phone. “Is he working or could I reach him at home?” Since she didn't have his home phone number, it really didn't matter, but it was worth a try.

“I really couldn't say,” came the response.

“I'd like to speak to Jamey Paladin, if he's in, please.”

“He's in a meeting.”

“Tell him that Claire Winston is on the line, please.” She paced as she waited. From his caller ID, Quinn had to know she'd phoned him. If he wouldn't answer knowing it was her, he probably wouldn't answer his home phone, either. But maybe Jamey could get a message to him.

“Ms. Winston, this is James Paladin. What can I do for you?”

 

Quinn opened a cabinet door and eyed the bottle of Scotch he'd been given as a Christmas gift by a client last year. It was still sealed.

He wrapped his hand around the cool glass bottle then let it go. Too early.

Hell, too stupid.

He banged the door shut and walked away, then caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror. He looked like he hadn't slept—which he hadn't—or showered or shaved, which he hadn't. He wore the T-shirt and sweatpants he'd put on early that morning when he'd gone outside to get his newspaper, dread tying him up in knots. He knew there would be a story—Foley had made that clear before Quinn had hustled him out of the office—but he hadn't anticipated front page, above the fold.

He didn't know how the reporter had learned that he was a partner in ARC, nor how he found the office, its location not top secret but not publicized, either. The man had good contacts, as any good newsman would. More likely, whoever had tipped Foley off to the fact that Robert was dying must also have known where Quinn worked. Which meant that someone at the prison had made the call, someone with access to the information he'd given them to get clearance to see Beecham.

Dying.

Quinn dropped onto the sofa and rested his head in his hands, willing himself not to think about his father. Maybe he'd been the one to contact Foley—

No. Quinn didn't want to believe that.

He sat back and stared at the ceiling. All these years he'd stayed not only out of the limelight but out of the public eye altogether, then just when he'd forced himself
to make changes in his life, his past lurched before him like a three-eyed monster. And not only he was affected by it, so was ARC, a company whose reputation for confidentiality was critical to its success. Word of mouth from their political, executive and celebrity clientele meant ARC never had to look for business. If his father's story being printed did anything to damage that—

His doorbell rang. His stomach knotted like a fist but he didn't move. It rang again. Still he ignored it. He didn't want to see anyone, talk to anyone.

“I know you're in there!”

Claire.

“Unless you like having your neighbors hear your business,” she said, “you'd better open up.”

His mouth twitched. She was using his own words against him, threatening him as he'd threatened her that night through her door.

He padded down the stairs. She banged her fist against the door, not letting up.

“Hang on!” he shouted. “I'm coming.”

The noise stopped. He drew a settling breath and combed his fingers through his hair before he opened the door.

His throat ached. He hadn't realized how much he needed her until he saw her standing there, sympathy in her eyes.

“You could scare children on Halloween,” she said, walking past him without invitation, startling him. He thought for sure she would be tender and sweet and, well, pleasantly annoying. That she knew him well enough to know he wouldn't want her to show sympathy surprised and pleased him.

Rase started to jump up on him but sat instead, his tail sweeping the floor, when Quinn gave him a stern look.

“What are you doing here?” he asked her. How did you find out where I live? was really the question.

“We were in the neighborhood.”

That surprised a laugh out of him. “Go on up,” he said, pointing to the stairs, then crouching to unhook Rase's leash, which Claire had dropped, taking time to ruffle Rase's coat and get a tongue lick in return.

When they got to the second floor, he filled a bowl with water for Rase and set it on the kitchen floor. He watched Claire study his living room and wondered what she thought.

He approached her, his hands shoved in his pockets. His fingers brushed the ever-present shell.

“Jamey gave me your address,” she said.

He would either thank Jamey later or reprimand him. “Have a seat.”

She sat in the middle of his leather sofa. He took a seat across from her in a matching chair. “No comment on my house?” he asked, delaying the inevitable conversation about his father.

“It's very…neat.”

He half smiled. Rase's nails clicked against the hardwood floor as he joined them, the fur around his mouth wet. He bumped Quinn's legs with his head several times.

“That means he wants a hug.” Claire's voice was infused with cheerfulness but her eyes looked bleak. She was trying not to get maudlin, he could tell. He appreciated her efforts. “He won't quit until you give him one,” she added.

Because he didn't feel like debating, he wrapped an arm around the dog, who wriggled against him and made a happy little sound. He settled at Quinn's feet after that.

Quinn eyed Claire. She wore jogging clothes— T-shirt and shorts, a sweatshirt tied at her waist—but her ponytail was too neat. She obviously hadn't been running. Plus, a light lemony scent surrounded her, as if she'd put on perfume, something he doubted she did when she jogged.

“You wouldn't answer your phone,” she said. “So I begged Jamey. Please don't be mad at him.”

“I'm not.”

“Why didn't you tell me about your father?”

So. She wasn't wasting any time. “I've done my best to try to forget him.”

“You saw him at the prison. When you went back.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you go there often?”

“I didn't even know he was there until I was told, right after we saw Beecham. I hadn't seen him since his conviction.”

Silence filled the air like a living thing.

“How sad,” she said quietly. “And now he's dying.”

“Apparently.”

She raised her brows.

“I'm taking the word of the reporter on that one,” he said.

“Your father didn't tell you?”

He shook his head.

“You didn't know until you read it in the paper?” Shock echoed in her voice.

“The reporter commented on it yesterday when he came to my office to interview me. He probably assumed I knew.”

“I'm so sorry, Quinn.”

“Robert Gerard is a stranger to me, Claire. He took money from a foreign government for spying on his own
country. He committed treason. He got what he deserved. The only reason he wasn't executed was because he turned himself in before he got caught.”

“Still, he's your father.”

“Biologically.”

“You wouldn't have gone to see him if he didn't mean something to you.”

“I was in the vicinity. I was curious.”

“I don't believe that,” she said softly.

“Well, P.A., not everyone sees the rosy side of life.”

She flinched. “We're different that way,” she said.

“Yeah. We are.”

“Where's your mother?”

“In Europe somewhere. She ran off with my father's dirty money.”

“You haven't seen her either?”

He shook his head.

“Quinn—”

“Don't say it.” He walked away. His back to her, he looked out his window into the courtyard. “You don't know what I went through.”

“I only know that I would give anything to have my parents back, even if just for a day.”

Hadn't he said she would say that? Predictable Pollyanna. “I'm not you.”

“But—”

His doorbell rang. “Great,” he muttered. Now what?

Because he wanted to end the discussion with Claire, he went down the stairs to open the door. Sam Remington stood there, one of the partners of ARC.

“We should talk,” Sam said.

“Yeah.” Quinn opened the door wider and gestured for Sam to precede him up the stairs. Sam was the one who'd searched him out to join the firm, the one who'd
recommended him to the two other partners, who hadn't been sure about him because he hadn't seemed sociable enough.

Rase ran to greet Quinn as if he had been gone a month. “Sit,” he ordered the dog.

Quinn made brief introductions. Claire looked uncomfortable.

“I should go,” she said hesitantly, more of a question than a statement.

“I'll call you later,” he said. He saw hurt flare in her eyes for a moment, then she took the leash from him after he hooked Rase to it.

“Nice to meet you,” she said to Sam quietly.

“Same here.”

He hadn't meant to hurt her, but he had.

“Did you fly up this morning?” Quinn asked Sam after they were seated.

“No. Dana flew in last night, so I joined her.” His wife was a U.S. senator who spent most of her time in Washington, D.C. Quinn didn't envy them their commuter marriage. “I was a little surprised to open the paper this morning.”

“Me, too.”

“I'm sorry about your father.”

Quinn shrugged. “Look, I know this presents a problem for the firm.”

“It caught us off guard.”

He'd just started feeling like he'd found a home with them. Just started to believe that he wasn't alone in the world. “I'll tender my resignation,” he said. An ache spread through him, gaining heat and speed. Eight months ago it wouldn't have mattered. But now—

“We don't want your resignation,” Sam said.

The relief that swept through Quinn would've mea
sured high on the Richter scale. Aftershocks stopped him from speaking.

“It isn't like you hadn't told us.”

“But faced with the reality of the world now, knowing that one of your partners is the son of a spy, it's a little different,” Quinn said.

“It's your father's crime, not yours. We support you, but we also need to figure out a PR angle.” Sam's gaze was intent. “The reporter didn't name the firm.”

“Yet. But the article hit hard on the irony of the convicted-criminal father having the private-investigator son. What's to stop him from doing a follow-up about the son trying to make up for his father's transgressions? The son who champions the innocent and the helpless.”