Guarding Suzannah

by Norah Wilson

  ~*~

  From his vantage point on the deck, Quigg watched Suzannah and Grace, talking and laughing against the backdrop of Grace’s flower-lined picket fence. At least he didn’t have to pretend to pay attention to Denny White. The copy man had wandered off in search of a more attentive audience, leaving Quigg free to look his fill. And look he did. Damn, she looked good in that too-fancy dress.

  Yeah, the dress. He’d watched her carefully, seeing the precise moment when she knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that she was overdressed. Her initial suspicion had been allayed when their hosts had come out to greet them. But Ray and Grace always looked like they stepped straight out of a catalogue. Then she’d met the crowd in the back yard.

  She’d tried to make the best of it, he’d give her that, but her manner was too formal, her carriage too regal. To make matters worse, she obviously knew squat about the topics that dominated the ladies’ conversation. She couldn’t join in the discussions about Billy Bob’s latest movie, Enrique’s latest music video, or yesterday’s episode of Oprah. Her pop culture education seemed to have stopped at “Columbo”. Between her natural reserve and the social differences, she’d come across as cool and superior, and she knew it.

  Quigg shifted, feeling an unexpected pang.

  This was the friggin’ plan, man. Payback for her dragging him to those mind-numbingly staid gatherings.

  “Would you say we were men of average intelligence?”

  From long practice, Quigg managed not to jump as Ray glided up beside him. He turned a reproving gaze on his host. “I’d say one of us is. The other can’t seem to remember basic rules of etiquette, such as stealth is not a skill to be practiced in a social situation.”

  “Okay, but would you say between us we have the combined IQ of at least a garden slug?”

  “Razor, what are you talking about?”

  “Just answer the question.”

  “Hell, yeah, I think we’re at least as smart as a slug. Though, if you think about it, they can produce electricity, not to mention slime trails –”

  “Enough about the snails already. My point was –”

  “Slugs.”

  “Slugs, snails, whatever. My point is, why are we standing here while my gorgeous wife and your beautiful date are standing way over there?”

  Damn, Ray was right. As the man who had allegedly breached the heretofore unassailable castle walls, he should be glued to Suzannah. Suddenly, the idea had appeal above and beyond the role he was supposed to be playing. Strong appeal.

  “Ray, buddy, that’s the most astute thing you’ve said in recent memory.” He drained his soft drink and handed the empty to his friend.

  Both women looked up as he approached.

  “John, we were just talking about you.”

  He cocked an eyebrow suspiciously at Grace as he came to a stop beside Suzannah. “Yeah?”

  “I was just telling Suzannah what a soft touch you are when it comes to animals.”

  Ah, hell. “Not this again, Grace. I keep telling you people, I only took the damned dog home because the SPCA didn’t have room for him. I’m sure a kennel will open up any day.”

  Grace laughed. “That was two years ago,” she confided to Suzannah, who also laughed.

  “Oh, by the way, Grace,” he said, “Ray’s looking for an excuse to get you alone. He says to ask isn’t there something needs doing in the kitchen?”

  He had the satisfaction of seeing her face color as her gaze flew to her husband.

  “In that case, I’d better run along,” she said. “After all, how could I turn down such an eloquent invitation?”

  “I like her,” Suzannah said, as they watched Grace cross the lawn to join Ray.

  “I knew you would.”

  “You also knew I was dressed all wrong.”

  Quigg glanced at Suzannah to find she was now watching him closely. He widened his eyes. “Hey, wait a minute, this is me, here, remember? You think I’m qualified to make judgments in matters of dress?”

  “What’s the story with Bruce Newman?”

  The rapid change of subject threw him for a minute, but he wasn’t about to complain. “What about Newman? Did he give you a hard time?”

  “No.”

  Her answer was unequivocal, but it was just a second too long coming. He searched her face. “You sure?”

  “He was perfectly polite. I just wondered about him, is all. I didn’t see his wife here.”

  “You interested?”

  She made a disparaging sound which coming from anyone other than Suzannah Phelps he might have called a snort. “Yeah, like I need another cop breathing down my neck.”

  Her words were like a scalpel, slipping effortlessly between his ribs. The unexpected pang couldn’t have shocked him more than if she’d actually stuck him. He masked it with a smile.

  “Hey, sweetheart, you know how to get this cop off your back. Just ride with me down to the station house right now and make a report on your schizophrenic flower boy.”

  “No.” Her answer was automatic.

  He shrugged, as though it was six of one, half a dozen of another. “What do you say we get out of here?”

  She glanced at the group on the deck. “The party’s still in full swing. Won’t it raise some eyebrows?”

  He closed his hand around her arm to pull her closer, and her gaze flew up to meet his. “Honey, it would raise eyebrows if I don’t whisk you away.”

  Her lips parted on a gasp of surprise, and Quigg couldn’t resist skimming his palm up and down the warm silk of her bare arm. He felt her involuntary shiver at the light contact, but she didn’t back off.

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  Her voice was a husky dream as she made the acknowledgment.

  “Kiss me.”

  “No!” She glanced around to see if anyone were watching.

  He sighed. “Then I guess I’ll have to do all the work.”

  Before she could pull away, or maybe before he could reconsider, he lowered his mouth to hers. It was a light thing, the merest brush his lips against hers, but he felt the moist heat of her breath, tasted the temptation. The need to go deeper, past the pleasant taste of her perfect lipstick to the dark secrets of her mouth, surged in his veins. He lifted his head abruptly. “Let’s go.”

  “Let me get my purse.”