by Norah Wilson
~*~
Quigg cursed under his breath. Damn stubborn woman. She was fumbling with the lock when he caught up with her. Her hand froze on the doorknob and she turned to face him, her pale face cool and impossibly lovely in the porch light.
“I distinctly remember saying thanks but no thanks to your offer to play the big, strong male to my helpless female.”
He suppressed a smile. Not very well, apparently, because her lips tightened in irritation.
“Maybe you would care to tell me, what part of No, thank you escaped your comprehension?”
There it was again, that haughty Queen of Sheeba tone. Could she get her nose any higher?
“Golly, Suzannah, you’re gonna have to use smaller words, maybe some of them there single syllable ones.”
She angled her head. “You know, Detective, you behavior is really starting to shade toward stalker.”
His face sobered. “You don’t believe that.”
Did she?
“Just go home, Detective. Or back to the party. I don’t need your help.”
He felt his jaw tighten. “That’s developing into something of a theme with you, refusing help.”
“As is your trying to make me accept it.” She straightened her spine, drawing herself up to her full height, which with those stilts she called shoes put her cool blue gaze just a hair higher than his. “I don’t appreciate being made to look like a weak, frightened woman.”
Frightened? Hah! She didn’t have the good sense to be frightened. Frightening, more like it. Not to mention maddening, stubborn and just plain stupid. For a second, he was tempted to throw up his hands and walk away. Then he remembered the obscenity of the dead roses, the viciousness of her slashed tires, and bit back a sigh.
“Look, I just want to make sure the house is empty, do a perimeter check. After that, I’ll be on my way.”
She looked unconvinced.
“Someone slashed your tires tonight, sweetheart. Since you’re too stubborn to call in a complaint, you’re stuck with me. My conscience won’t let me walk away until you’re safely inside and locked down. If it makes you feel better, I’d do it for anyone.”
She held his gaze for a few beats, measuring him. “Okay,” she said at last. “If that’s what it will take to get rid of you, okay.”
Turning back to the door, she fumbled with the key some more. Did he make her nervous? The idea brought a rush of male satisfaction, until it occurred to him that she might actually fear him. The spurt of gratification died.
Finally, the lock submitted. She twisted the knob, wiggled her key free and stepped inside. Quigg followed, finding himself in a small entryway dimly lit by two tasteful bronzy-looking wall sconces. She dropped her keys on a gleaming mahogany table, then leaned against it as she slipped her shoes off. She was all grace, all fluid limbs and smooth skin. He caught a glimpse of her bare back in the mirror behind her as she bent to retrieve the ridiculously insubstantial sandals.
“Oh, God, that feels better,” she said, her voice conveying that universally female relief at shedding diabolically cruel, indescribably beautiful shoes.
And he was hard as a virgin on prom night.
“You shouldn’t do that.” His words emerged harsher than he intended.
“Oh, puhlease.” She rolled her eyes. “Who are you, now, Dr. Scholl? You’re going to lecture me on my choice of footwear? Recommend a sensible flat shoe?”
“Leave your keys on that side table, I meant.”
“Oh, that.” She nabbed the fat set of keys. “Don’t worry, I don’t make a habit of it. Now, don’t you have some checking to do? I’ll go change while you –”
“No. You’ll stay with me, at least until I’ve been through the house.”
Wrong thing to say. Or wrong way to say it. Whichever, he could see he drawing breath to scorch him. Before she could blast him, he grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the living room. “Come on. Faster we get this done, faster I’ll be out of your hair.”
“Finally. Something we can agree on.”
She tugged her arm free, but followed him as he made a thorough check of the house. In the last room, a spare bedroom, Quigg spied a door to the attic, a retractable ladder folded up into the ceiling.
“What’s up there?” He nodded toward the attic.
“Up there?” She blew out an inpatient breath, lifting a strand of hair that had escaped the smooth twist. “You mean, besides my crystal meth lab?”
He fixed her with a hard look.
“John it’s an attic. What do you suppose is up there? Christmas decorations, old textbooks from law school, your usual run-of-the-mill junk.”
He pulled a mag light from his pocket. “I’ll just take a quick look.”
“Fine, but I’m going to change.”
Since this was the last room to be checked, he didn’t object. He’d satisfied himself there were no intruders lurking in the attic and was closing the door when he heard the crash from the master bedroom down the hall.
