Tainted Gold (13 page)

“I can’t.” She shrugged away from his hand and the feathery shivers his thumb stirred at the nape of her neck. “I’m the landlord; I have to take care of this.”

“I’ll do it for you.” He dropped a light kiss on her forehead, opened the door, slipped through it, then shut it behind him.

Leaning there against the wall, Quillen listened to Tucker’s footfalls on the steps and his voice and Tom’s echoing up the stairwell. She tried but simply couldn’t muster indignation. It felt so good, so blessedly wonderful to hear someone else say, “Let me do it for you,” that she decided to do just that—let him. Besides, she was too tired to fight about it.

Who’d believe that, she wondered wryly as she pushed herself wearily to her feet and started toward her room. It was just about as unbelievable as Desmond Cassil wanting to kill her.

That thought should have stirred the cauldron of panic she could still feel simmering inside her—but it didn’t. She seemed to be considering it from a distance, from a far removed vantage point… Ah, Carl’s magic little needle, she decided, smiling, as she entered her room and saw Mrs. Sipp spreading a fresh, peach-colored percale top sheet over her bed.

“Oh, Rosalie, you doll,” Quillen gushed gratefully, forgetting the protocol Mrs. Sipp had established and insisted on twelve years ago when she’d first leased the front single from Grandma Elliot. “Now if I could only soak in a hot tub.”

“Would a sponge bath do?” she asked, tucking a perfectly creased hospital corner under the mattress. “I’ve heated two kettles of water and put them in the bathroom for you.”

Thank God for electricity, Quillen sighed. She crossed the room and smiled at Mrs. Sipp as she took a clean nightshirt out of a dresser drawer. “You’re a treasure.”

“Oh, not at all,” Mrs. Sipp twittered, her fingers fluttering like hummingbird wings as she plumped the pillows in their crisp, eyelet-trimmed cases. “It’s the very least I could do. Would you like some tea and toast?”

The thought of food turned her stomach, but Quillen didn’t have the heart to say so.

“I’ll pass on the toast, but tea would be lovely, thanks,” she lied as she backed into the adjoining bathroom and shut the door.

Tiredly, she leaned against the door and unbuttoned her blouse. On the yellow sink vanity, two kettles sat on black wrought-iron trivets beside melon-colored towels, soap, and a facecloth. Steam still curled from both spouts.

Under the influence of whatever it was that Carl had given her (probably a sedative of some sort, she imagined), Quillen’s mind meandered down safe, comforting paths as it gradually retreated farther from the epicenter of the conflict surrounding her and the fear she couldn’t face. She really should have asked Carl what was in the hypo. Dumb move, that. She made a face at herself in the mirror as she peeled off her blouse and then her slacks. Grandma Elliot would have given her hell for it. Who needed drugs when there was Mogen David wine in the world? Two ounces slowly sipped had been her universal cure-all for everything from asthma to whooping cough. That’s what she should have asked Mrs. Sipp for—two ounces of Mogen David.

Yawning, Quillen stripped off her underwear, filled the sink, and languidly washed her body with the soapy, rose-scented cloth. Drowsiness weighted her hand and her movements grew slower and slower until finally she rinsed with cool water. Toweling off was an ordeal, lifting her arms over her head to pull on her nightshirt a herculean effort. She was eighty percent asleep when she stumbled out of the bathroom, tugging the blue and white pin-striped nightshirt over her still-damp thighs.

As she came through the door, Mrs. Sipp bolted out of the cinnamon wicker chair that she’d drawn up to the far side of the bed. She scuttled around the bed and took Quillen’s arm, the strength in her fingers belying her petite size.

“I’m so sleepy.” Quillen yawned as she listed against her and let Mrs. Sipp ease her toward the bed. “Must be the shot Carl gave me.”

She heard the slur in her speech but couldn’t muster the strength to giggle, let alone laugh. The pillows swam up at her and a light-headed rush like a swoop down a roller coaster engulfed her. She was floating, falling, and was almost disappointed when she landed gently on the bed and Mrs. Sipp lifted the sheet and comforter over her.

“I was so scared when I couldn’t find you,” Quillen told her sleepily, “but I’m so glad you weren’t home.”

“I should be ashamed to admit this,” Mrs. Sipp confided as she perched on the edge of the bed and tucked the covers snugly around her, “but I was taken in by a practical joker. A man who said he was Fred Cunningham at the post office called and said I had a crate of grapefruit there. I said I hadn’t ordered it, that I was allergic to grapefruit, but he insisted it had my name and address on it, and I agreed to come down there and see if we couldn’t get it sorted out. When I got there, Fred’s wife Mabel gave me the oddest look. She didn’t have a crate of grapefruit and she said Fred couldn’t have called me because he was still out delivering the mail. I was so embarrassed, but you know, it seems funny now.” She giggled and gave the covers a final smoothing stroke. “I can hardly wait until tomorrow. With Mabel’s tongue it’ll be all over town by noon that Rosie Sipp’s finally flipped her dipper.”

“Tell you what, Rosie.” Quillen yawned again as she snuggled down on her side, facing Mrs. Sipp. “You stick up for me and I’ll stick up for you.”

“Why, whatever for?” Her neatly penciled eyebrows drew together, then sprang apart as her cheeks pinked. “Oh, Miss McCain, young people do such outrageous things these days, I doubt anyone noticed when Mr. Ferris carried you into the house. And so what if someone did? I’d go for it if I were you.”

The conspirator’s wink and knowing, sidelong smile Mrs. Sipp gave her was the funniest thing yet. Still Quillen couldn’t summon a giggle, just a droopy, lopsided smile as her eyes drifted shut of their own volition.

“He’s so handsome, isn’t he?” Mrs. Sipp went on in her breathy, girlish voice. “I say he favors his mother, a real beauty she is, but Mabel, as usual, disagrees. What a contrary woman…”

Though Quillen was asleep, her brain stayed awake long enough to record this last snatch of conversation. She did play it back later, but by then it was much too late.

She slept heavily and without dreams, a positive side effect of the drug, she concluded groggily as her heavy eyelids lifted sometime later. She was lying in the same position she’d fallen asleep in, on her side facing the bathroom. It was still daylight, but very late in the afternoon, she guessed as she blinked at the long, gray shadows stretching away from the pool of light falling across her shoulder from the lamp on the cinnamon nightstand behind her.

Also from behind her she heard a faint scratching noise. No, it was more like a scrape, she decided, and she rolled toward it—then froze, and stared, horrified, as she watched a narrow sliver of lamplight slide down the arrow shaft pointing at her nose and gleam maliciously on the razor-sharp hunting tip. She screamed as she hurled herself away from it, then saw the stricken look on Tucker’s face and the wink of reflected light on the lenses of his glasses as he flung the arrow aside and launched himself out of the wicker chair.

“Oh, Quill— Oh, love—” He scrambled onto the bed, gathered her into his arms, and cradled her against his naked chest. “Oh, God, I didn’t mean to scare you!”

“I know—” Her voice caught in her throat with her rapidly pounding heart and her eyes widened as her jolted-awake senses registered the warmth of bare skin, the waxy smell of soap, and the smooth flex of muscle as he leaned back against the fan-shaped wicker headboard and drew her with him.

For an awful moment, until she’d gathered courage enough to lower her chin and look, she thought he was naked. He wasn’t, but he might as well have been. Piped in gold, the kelly green shorts he wore were drawn taut across his lower abdomen by his half-supine position and the weight of her body against his, and left absolutely nothing to Quillen’s imagination.

Oh, help! she cried silently. He’s gorgeous—
everywhere
!

The brief glimpse she’d had of long, muscled body quickened her pulse. Her right hand opened from the quailed fist she’d made and spread gingerly across his chest. Beneath her fingertips, the dark curly hair covering his skin bristled lightly, and she felt him draw a deep breath as his hand covered hers.

“You’re shaking again.” He raised her palm to his cool, clean-shaven face and softly pressed it to his mouth. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his eyes closing as his lips moved against her skin.

“It’s not your fault,” she breathed, his silky warm voice singing through every cell in her body. “It’s just that after the burglary and what happened yesterday—”

Oh,
no
! Her body went rigid. Slowly, Tucker’s eyes opened, his pupils dark and luminous. Curling her fingers around his thumb and securing them with his own, he laid the fist he’d made against his collarbone and looked down at her steadily.

“
What
happened yesterday? Are you going to tell me or do I have to borrow Sheriff Blackburn’s rubber hose?”

His voice was a velvet caress, but his pupils contracted and his lids narrowed over his almost navy blue eyes. It wasn’t quite the unblinking, granite stare he’d given her earlier in the Jeep when he’d trapped her chin in his hand, but close enough.

“You wouldn’t believe me,” she answered lamely, and ducked her head. “You’ll think I’m crazy—”

“Try me.”

It wasn’t a request. It was a command, the silk in his voice stretched taut, a steel thread ready to break. His grip on her knuckles tightened and her chin shot up, her eyes wide.

“Oh, Tucker, please don’t make me—”

Instantly he released her hand. His eyes were flinty and ready to strike a flame.

“I don’t know what kind of man you’re used to, Quillen, but I’ve never bruised a woman in my life.”

He swung himself away from her and sat up on the side of the bed. Thrusting his fists into the mattress, he leaned forward and bent his head. The muscles below his shoulder blades and the triceps in his arms tightened.

Quillen’s fingertips sprang to her mouth. She’d hurt him. Every taut inch of his body said so. Oh, she hadn’t
meant—

“I want to make love, Quillen.” His body relaxed and he raised his head. “But you keep shoving me away, and I don’t mean physically. I’m only human, and I’m getting fed up with being rebuffed every time I reach out to you.”

“You don’t hear no very often, do you?”

Too late, she realized she’d done it again. She cringed, almost flinched, and pressed her fingertips tighter to her lips as he bent his left knee on the bed and looked at her over his shoulder.

“Virtually never. But that I can handle. What I can’t, and what I don’t understand, is why you don’t trust me.”

“It’s not that—”

“It
is
that. I’m not stupid, and despite these”—he tapped his right index finger on the temple of his glasses—“I’m not blind, either. I see very clearly through your Quillen-the-Invincible facade, so why don’t we just dispense with it?”

“My
what
?” She bristled, tucking her legs beneath her as she sat back on her heels.

“That.” He leveled his index finger at her. “Your I-don’t-need-anybody face. It doesn’t work anymore, not with me. You’re so afraid someone’s going to hurt you, so afraid to trust
anybody
that you make my heart ache.”

Give it up, her little voice advised; he’s got your number. Quillen knew it, too, and wished she could feel relieved as she had on Saturday night when he’d knocked the chip off her shoulder. But this wasn’t relief, this was stripped-to-the-bone
exposed
, and realizing it didn’t make it any less scary or painful. Still, she knew she was beaten, and she felt tears slowly fill her eyes as the stiffness melted out of her spine.

“I’m still applying to fill the vacancy in your life.” The silk crept back into Tucker’s voice and smoothed away the rough edge as he eased himself toward her. “Let me hold you, Quillen. Let me show you that I love you and that I need you as much as you need me.”

Amazement parted her lips and instantly evaporated her tears. She stared at him, stunned, unable to imagine how he could love her or why in the world he needed
her.
A flicker of a smile lifted the right corner of his mouth and deepened the cleft in his chin.

“I’ve needed you all my life, Quillen.” He raised his right hand and delicately cradled her face in his palm.

“Why me?” she asked in a small, bewildered voice.

“Because you didn’t fall in love with my face. You fell in love with me.” His thumb grazed her chin and his smile spread to his eyes. “You fell in love with Realgar.”

“I
didn’t
!” she huffed indignantly, then wilted, caught again. “Oh, yes, I did,” she admitted, her voice small again and sheepish. “I think I’d love you no matter what, even if you were that white-bearded old man.”

“I
am
he.” His fingers lightly stroked her cheek, then he turned himself around and leaned back against the headboard. “This”—he glanced down the length of his body, then arched one eyebrow as he looked up at her and grinned—“is just gravy.”

“Oh, aaagh!” Quillen clutched her throat and pretended to gag. “Arrogant and brazen!”

Laughing, he leaned forward, caught her hands, and tugged her gently toward him. She went, willingly, and settled down on her heels beside him, facing him, his hairy right leg brushing hers.