Guarding Suzannah

by Norah Wilson

  ~*~

  Quigg heard the echo of his words reverberate in his head. Had he really said that? Suzannah was staring back at him, blue eyes rounded, her reddened, kiss swollen mouth finally at a loss for words. Just as the silence began to grow intolerable, Bandy scratched at the door.

  Stifling a curse, he strode to the door and let the dog out of his kitchen prison. The mutt shot over to Suzannah. She bent to lay hands on him, though it was debatable whether her intent was to demonstrate affection or merely to protect herself.

  “Just tell him when it's enough and he'll leave you be, if you use a firm tone."

  She glanced up at him, and said, deadpan, “Yes, I see you've mastered that particular command.”

  He felt a flush climb his neck and lifted a hand to rub it.

  “It’s okay.” She gave the dog a last pat and a firm word, and stood, though she kept a wary eye on him until he wandered over to a throw rug and flopped down. “I guess I kind of jumped on you, there.” She turned to look him square in the eye. “You had every right to call me off. It was the smart thing to do.”

  “Yeah? Then how come I feel like such a dumb ass?”

  Her lips curved in what looked like a genuine, if somewhat tight smile. “It's just that I haven't...” Her voice trailed off and she shrugged. “I don't know. It felt nice. I guess I wanted to hang onto it.”

  Her words were casual, easy, yet he was left feeling like he’d robbed her of something precious. Suddenly, he had the disconcerting conviction that he was letting some important detail elude him. “Am I missing something here?”

  For a second, he thought he saw indecision darken those lovely eyes.

  “Suzannah?”

  “No.” Her lifted her chin, and her eyes were clear as a summer sky again. “You didn't miss a thing, Detective. Now, where am I sleeping?”

  He considered challenging her, then discarded the idea. Patience, he was beginning to think, would get him further with Suzannah Phelps than this butting of heads. And patience was his long suit. Or at least it had been until he’d come up against a certain hard headed defense lawyer. It would be again.

  “Spare bedroom,” he said at last, in answer to her question. Picking up her bag which she'd left beside the couch, he nodded toward the stairs. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

  He led the way, and Bandy scrambled up behind them, making more noise than a herd of buffalo. “Bathroom,” he pointed out as they passed it. Reaching the spare bedroom directly across the hall from his, he pushed the door open and motioned for Suzannah to precede him. He heard her draw in a breath.

  “It’s lovely.”

  Quigg put her bag down and regarded the interior with all its wicker and floral fabric and fussy cushions. “I’d like it noted that I had no hand in this. It’s my late Aunt Charlotte’s handiwork. The only rooms I bothered with are the master bedroom and the TV room, mainly because they’re the only rooms I use.”

  She smiled. “Thank you. I’ll be quite comfortable.”

  Bandy padded in, giving the empty wastebasket a sniff, no doubt in the wistful hope it contained something edible.

  “Towels in the linen closet outside the bathroom. Anything else you need, just give me a shout. My bedroom is across the hall.” He gestured with a nod of his head.

  “Thanks. I'm sure I’ll have no trouble.”

  Get moving, man. You’ve been dismissed. A flash of what could have been if he hadn’t called a halt downstairs ripped through his mind. Suzannah on his bed, under him, as wild and ravenous for him as he was for her.

  “I’ll leave you, then.” He backed out of the bedroom, nearly stumbling over his own feet. “C’mere, Bandy.”

  Bandy turned languid eyes on him, then promptly leapt up onto Suzannah’s bed. Well, scrabbled up might be a better description. The combined challenges of height, girth and arthritis had left his leaping days behind him. He called the dog again, but it played deaf, circling a couple of times and settling at the foot of the bed.

  “Stupid mutt,” he muttered, starting back into the room to remove him by the collar.

  “It’s okay, he can stay,” she said.

  Quigg held up. “You sure? He snores.”

  “I’d appreciate the company.”

  Damn, damn, damn. Don’t think about the company she could be keeping.

  “Okay.” He backed out of the room. “Goodnight, then.”

  “Goodnight.”

  He was halfway to the head of the stairs with a drink of that bourbon on his mind when she called his name. He turned back. “Yes?”

  “It wasn’t about the adrenaline.”

  The words were still ricocheting around inside his head as, smiling, she closed the bedroom door softly.