Her Private Avenger

by Elle Kennedy

  Ignoring the intense reaction, she focused on the sheriff, whose hard gaze didn’t waver. “I’m a journalist, Jake,” she said, softening her tone. “And Layla was my best friend. I have every reason to want to find out what happened to her.”

  “Finding that out is the police’s job. My job,” he clarified.

  “Do you have any leads?” she asked.

  His jaw twitched. “No.”

  “Suspects?”

  “No, but—”

  She hurried on. “Then what’s the harm in another pair of eyes, another brain trying to solve this puzzle?”

  Irritation flashed in his eyes. “I’m warning you, Morgan, don’t stick your nose in my investigation.”

  She disregarded the thrend said, “I want access to the crime scene and Layla’s remains.”

  “No way,” Jake said flatly. He made a frustrated sound. “Your father told me you’d try to interfere. Well, I’m making it clear right here and now, if you mess around with my case, I’m charging you with obstruction.”

  Morgan swallowed back her anger. Antagonizing Jake wouldn’t help the situation, but she was unbelievably tempted to lash out. Instead, she drew in a calming breath. “I’m a good journalist. I could help—”

  “You’re mentally unstable,” Jake interrupted, his voice colder than a glacier. “I read the newspapers, I know about the delusions, the reckless behavior.”

  The fury she’d swallowed down rushed up her throat and scorched her cheeks. “I am not—”

  The fingers at her hip dug in deeper. Quinn, who’d been silent up until now, cut her off quickly. “Fine, Sheriff, we hear you loud and clear.”

  Jake’s suspicious gaze shifted to the other man.

  “Neither Morgan nor I will interfere with the investigation,” Quinn went on. His tone was composed and friendly, but the hard set of his broad shoulders revealed he wasn’t pleased with this turn of events, either. “I brought Morgan here so she could recover from the accident away from the media in D.C. We plan on keeping a low profile anyway.”

  Some of the suspicion in the sheriff’s gaze dimmed. “Good,” he finally said, nodding. “Stay out of my way, and we won’t have any problems.” He lifted his hand from his holster. “You two have a good night.”

  Gritting her teeth, Morgan watched as Jake walked back to his cruiser, opened the door and slid inside. A moment later, the engine roared to life and then he was gone.

  After the cruiser disappeared through the gates, Morgan brushed Quinn’s hand off her waist and spun to face him. “I have every intention of investigating my best friend’s murder.”

  A fleeting expression of amusement crossed his face. “Of course. Who said you couldn’t?”

  “You. You just told Jake—”

  “I lied. You honestly think I’d bring you back here only to make you sit at home twiddling your thumbs?”

  Relief shimmied up her spine. Then she faltered. “But he won’t let us see the crime scene. And I’m pretty sure he’s going to order everyone involved in the case not to talk to us, including the coroner, which means we won’t get access to her remains.”

  A spark of humor lit his green eyes. “Have you forgotten what I do for a living, sweetheart? I’m a mercenary. We live and breathe covert. Don’t worry, you’ll have access to anything you want.”

  Although she should’ve still been furious at him for the way he’d spoken to her earlier, Morgan’s anger thawed, replaced by a warm rush that surrounded her heart. Licking her dry lips, she tilted her head to meet his eyes and said,

  The conversation with that ass of a sheriff had made it difficult to examine his surroundings, but with the distraction gone, Quinn was finally able to really look around, and what he saw floored him. He knew Morgan’s family was wealthy, but this house…hell, house? Calling it a house was like calling Andre the Giant a dwarf.

  Three stories high, the French colonial-style mansion resembled the White House, with enormous limestone pillars flanking the entrance, wide marble steps leading to a pair of intricately carved front doors, and large balconies with wrought-iron railings on the second and third floors.

  Morgan unlocked the door and beckoned for him to follow her into the front foyer. White marble spanned the enormous space, making Quinn feel as if he was committing a grievous sin as his big black boots connected with the pristine floor. Morgan seemed oblivious to his turmoil as she stepped forward in her sneakers, leaving a trail of mud on her way to the light switch. She flicked the switch, and the foyer lit up, revealing a crystal chandelier that belonged in Buckingham Palace, and two spiral staircases leading to the second and third floors.

  “Don’t worry about getting the floor dirty,” Morgan said when she noticed him hesitating. “I’ll mop it up in the morning.”

  He took a tentative step, his gaze drifting to a shadowy room to the right, which seemed to boast not one, but two shiny black grand pianos.

  “The music room,” Morgan supplied, following his gaze.

  He finally found his voice. “I didn’t realize anyone in your family was musical.”

  “We’re not.” She rolled her eyes. “But as my father says, every home needs a music room.”

  Quinn fought the urge to mention that said music room was the size of his apartment. Hell, the foyer alone was bigger than most people’s homes.

  He wasn’t surprised that Morgan had never brought him back here before. Knowing her, she’d be embarrassed by the gaudy show of wealth. And the fact that her father spent most weekends here was probably another reason she hadn’t invited him. Not that he minded—he’d rather cut off his own arm than spend his free time with Senator Kerr.

  “Would you like a tour?” Morgan asked. “Or would you rather go straight to bed?”

  Quinn’s mouth turned to cotton. Damn, this woman was not allowed to say the word bed. Even after an escape from the psych ward, a run through the woods and a two-hour car ride, she still looked as beautiful as ever. Blond strands had fallen loose from her ponytail, framing her heart-shaped face like ribbons of gold, and her cheeks were flushed from the cold, or perhaps from their encounter with Wilkinson. Either way, the rosy blush made her look unbelievably sexy.

  When his groin tightened, Quinn forced himself to re member what he’d told her in the car. He was not here to rekindle their romance. He wouldn’t let himself.

  “A quick tour would be okay,” he said gruffly, deciding it was probably best to stall going into a bedroom with Morgan for as long as

  “Quick isn’t going to be feasible. Did you see the size of this house?” She gave a rueful smile. “All right, let’s see what I can do.”

  Quinn didn’t say much as she took him around the first floor, showing him the famous music room, two living rooms and a sitting room—“I’m not sure what the difference is,” she’d admitted—a kitchen boasting so much black marble and stainless steel his eyes hurt, two studies and a library that apparently contained over five thousand books.

  “Ready for the second floor?” Morgan made a show of glancing at a watch she didn’t wear. “We’ve got another hour or two.”

  He started to follow her back to the foyer, then halted. The hall they were in was lined with portraits, and one in particular caught his eye. In a beautiful gilded frame, a portrait of a stunning blonde with enormous blue eyes, delicate features and a long regal neck.

  “My mother,” came Morgan’s soft voice.

  He knew who it was before she even spoke; he’d seen pictures of her mother before. Besides, there was no mistaking the resemblance. Only, Patricia Kerr looked far more fragile than the daughter she’d given birth to. The eyes were too soft, the mouth too tender. She lacked the sparkle of humor, the fire, the glint of stubbornness, qualities her daughter possessed in spades.

  “She was very…fragile,” Morgan confessed, using the exact adjective that had entered his mind.

  Quinn gave her a sideways glance and saw the sorrow swimming in her eyes.

  “She hated conf
lict,” Morgan went on. “Arguments made her nauseous, and she was so sensitive. If someone in town said an unkind word to her, she would stay in her room for days, inconsolable.”

  “She sounds…” His voice drifted. The word he wanted to use was weak but he couldn’t bring himself to say it, not when Morgan’s face shone with such obvious love for her mother.

  But Morgan knew him well. “Weak?” she suggested. “I guess in a sense, she was.” Her features softened, and suddenly she looked very much like the woman in the portrait. “But she was also very sweet. She loved me, and she adored Tony. Unlike my father, she spent a lot of time with us when we were kids. She was a good mother, Quinn.”

  “I don’t doubt that.” He cleared his throat. “Come on, let’s head upstairs.”

  The second-floor tour ended up being quick. Each member of the house had their own wing, decorated in a way that distinctly revealed the personality of the person it belonged to. The senator’s wing was done in shades of gold and black. Pale creams and yellows filled Patricia Kerr’s rooms. Tony’s wing was blue and green, with a splash of yellow thrown in here and there. And Morgan’s wing…

  “Pink?” he said, raising his eyebrows.

  Morgan paused at the doorway of her childhood bedroom, making a face at the pale pink walls. “My parents chose it. I think they believed they could tame my wild and tenacious streak if they suffocated me with ladylike colors.” She glanced at him and shrugged. “I wou’ve chosen red.”

  Quinn couldn’t help a grin. “Of course you would.”

  Morgan shut the door, then took him up to the next level, quickly showing him the playrooms she and Tony had used as children, another study and half a dozen guest rooms.

  “You can sleep here.” She flicked on the light to reveal a room with navy blue walls and gray trim, a queen-size bed with a deep gray bedspread and shimmery blue curtains over a large bay window that overlooked the backyard.

  “Is the room okay?” she asked.

  “It’s fine.”

  “Thanks again for handling Jake. I was perilously close to losing my temper when you stepped in.”

  He smiled faintly. “No problem. Though I’m not sure it was a good idea letting him know you’ve considered the notion that he might have killed Layla.”

  She sighed. “I know. I couldn’t help it. Jake has always rubbed me the wrong way.”

  “I can see why. The guy is a first-class jerk.” Quinn headed for the bed and sank down on the edge, then bent down to unlace his boots. As he removed the mud-caked footwear, he glanced at Morgan. “Do you think he did it?”

  “Honestly? I don’t know. Is he capable of it? I think so.” She leaned against the doorway. “He always had a temper, used to pick fights with any guy who looked at Layla.”

  Quinn kicked aside his boots. “Did she break up with him, or was it the other way around?”

  “She broke things off. And I know for a fact Jake didn’t take the breakup well, which is why—” Morgan paused midsentence, a flush sweeping across her cheeks.

  It took a second for him to figure out the reason for the blush. In the midst of their conversation, he’d started to remove his shirt. His hands froze on the hem of the sweater, then shoved the material back down to his waist. Damn it. It irked the hell out of him to realize he’d fallen right back into old habits. He used to undress in front of Morgan back when they lived together. She’d be filling him in about the latest developments in a story she was working on, he’d be removing his clothing, and…well, there wouldn’t be much talking after that.

  She betrayed you.

  All it took was that one little reminder. Quinn stood abruptly, pushing away the unwelcome memories. He’d meant what he told her in the car. He wasn’t interested in revisiting the past.

  “It’s late,” he said coolly. “We’ll finish this discussion in the morning, and figure out our next move.”

  He might as well have said “get out,” yet Morgan lingered in the doorway, a hesitant flicker in her gorgeous blue eyes. Her bottom lip trembled, mouth parted slightly, as if she wanted to say something. After a moment, her shoulders sagged, and the expression in her gaze dissolved into resignation.

  “You’re right. We’ll talk in the morning. Good night“Good night, Morgan.”

  He watched her go, then walked to the door and closed it. He was tempted to lock it, too, add another barrier between him and Morgan, but he knew a locked door wasn’t going to quell the traitorous rush of desire coursing through his body. Since the second he’d laid eyes on her in that cabin, after two years of trying to push her out of his head, he’d wanted her. Wanted her so badly it shocked him that he’d been able to hide it for this long.

  Well, he wasn’t hiding it any longer, was he? He shot a rueful glance at his groin, which was harder than ever and bitterly reprimanding him for the discomfort he’d put it through all night.

  She betrayed you, he reminded himself—and his body.

  Keeping those three words in the forefront of his brain, he undressed with a sigh and slid into bed.

  Chapter 6

  Quinn awoke the next morning to the brutally frigid breeze coming in from the window he’d left open. Sometime during the night he’d kicked the covers off. They now lay at the foot of the bed in a crumpled heap, while his entire body felt like it had been stuffed in a freezer. The glaring red numerals of the clock on the nightstand informed him it was eight o’clock, which meant he’d only gotten five hours of sleep. Oh, well. He’d functioned on less sleep before. On his last assignment he’d stayed awake for days.

  Sighing, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, wincing when his ice-cold feet connected with the ice-cold parquet floor. Ignoring the goose bumps on his bare chest, he reached for the clothes he’d worn yesterday and put them on. Fortunately, he had some gear in the trunk of his car. Always be prepared, wasn’t that the Boy Scouts’ motto?

  He smiled wryly to himself. As if he would know. He’d spent his childhood defending himself from abusive foster fathers and wondering when his next meal would be, not learning to tie knots and eating s’mores around a campfire with other boys.

  Leaving the guest room, he went downstairs. The house was dark and quiet, and yet again he shook his head as he reached the front foyer. He’d never been surrounded by such extravagant wealth. It was slightly disconcerting.

  When he stepped outside, the cold late-October air hit him like a fist to the gut, chilling the tips of his ears and burning his lungs when he inhaled it. With brisk strides he headed for the car, grabbed his duffel from the trunk and went back inside. Upstairs, he walked into the bathroom adjoining his room, where smooth black marble and a Jacuzzi tub greeted him. After a quick shower, he dressed in a pair of jeans, a blue button-down over a long-sleeved wool shirt and his trademark boots.

  As he tied his laces, he heard pipes creaking from below, followed by the distant sound of water. He forced himself not to picture Morgan in the shower, and failed miserably. It was far too easy to imagine her standing under the hot spray as water sluiced down her sleek, curvy body.

  To distract himself, he pulled out his cell phone and checked his messages. One from a contact at the CIA, though he had no intention of taking another assignm from the agency for a long while, not after all the red tape he’d had to wade through the last time. Two messages from Murphy, his fellow merc and right-hand man.

  He called Murphy back without listening to the messages, and was greeted with a brisk hello. Darius Murphy was former navy, all business all the time, and the most efficient soldier Quinn had ever encountered.

  “Hey, Murph, what’s going on?” he asked, balancing the cell between his ear and shoulder as he bent down to make the bed. An old army habit—he couldn’t leave a room without making the damn bed.

  “Got a call from the CEO of a pharmaceutical company,” Murphy answered. “Guy’s daughter was kidnapped by some nasty dudes in Caracas. Apparently they’re pissed off at Mr. CEO for testing his latest vaccines o
n some of the villagers there.”

  Quinn tucked the sheets into the edge of the bed frame, then smoothed out the duvet. “He wants us to extract the girl?”

  “Yes, sir.” After five years of working together, Murphy still referred to him as “sir,” no matter how many times Quinn told him to cut it out.

  “Think you and the guys can handle it on your own?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He bent down to retrieve the throw pillows he’d tossed on the floor last night, fluffed them out and set them back on the bed. “I’m still held up here, so I can’t fly out. I’ll be a few more days probably, but I suspect our CEO won’t wait that long, huh?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then do the extraction.”

  Rather than another “yes, sir,” he got a long silence.

  “Murph, you still there?”

  “Yes, sir, still here.” Another pause. “How’s Morgan?”

  Quinn stifled a sigh. He’d wondered when the other man would bring it up. “She’s good, considering someone tried to kill her.”

  “Have you caught the son of a bitch?”

  The vehemence in Murphy’s tone didn’t surprise him. Murph had always been Morgan’s number-one fan. For the past two years he’d constantly harassed Quinn to forgive her, to stop being a stubborn ass and take her back.

  But stubbornness had nothing to do with it. He’d had a damn good reason to walk away from Morgan, one Murphy would never understand. The guy had a wife who adored him, who waited patiently at home while her husband flew to some of the world’s most dangerous hot zones and risked his neck time and time again. Elena Murphy’s entire life revolved around her husband, and if she ever had to choose between him and someone else, there would be no contest.

  Morgan, on the other hand, had made the wrong choice.

  “Haven’t caught him yet,” Quinn answered. “But I will.”

  “And then?”

  “And then I meet up with you guys and prepare for our next gig, whatever it may b”