Secret Sacrifices

by Jannifer Hoffman

  She didn’t need to point the way because the house was one airy cavernous room. Three marble pillars spanning two stories supported the roof and an open loft. A white wrought iron staircase spiraled around the center pillar leading the way to the main bedroom loft. The entire length of it looked down on the sitting room, and was separated only by a metal railing with an oriental floral design. Four skylights supplied light for the house.

  Jamie trudged up the staircase, aware that Quint watched her. She stopped midway and looked back at him, meeting his gaze.

  “Give me a few minutes,” she said. “Maybe you could bring me a glass of white wine.”

  He nodded without taking his eyes off her face.

  When she turned and started back up the stairs Quint blew out a sigh of either relief or regret, he wasn’t sure which. He would have had no trouble following her, undressing her, and doing all the things he’d spent the last week thinking about. She was unquestionably ready to forget about getting to know each other, but tomorrow she might regret it and blame him for taking advantage of her in a weakened state. God knows it was the first one he’d seen in her. She looked so sweet, so vulnerable, so damned sexy.

  He was a jerk for even thinking about capitalizing on that.

  He had to get his mind off her body before he abandoned his good intentions and indulged in his bad ones.

  A cheery breakfast nook with daisy cushions was nestled in a corner overlooking Lake Michigan. The window well was alive with greenery. He couldn’t name any of the leafy plants but counted at least ten different varieties. He set his laptop on the table, grabbed an apple from the counter and strolled into the sitting room. The sofa and chairs were all in coordinating prints with blooming red roses and rose buds on black fabric; they looked so real he thought he could smell them. He realized the fragrance came from two vases on a polished black side table. One held five pink roses, one five red roses. He recognized the five he’d sent but wondered about the long-stemmed pink ones. There was no card attached.

  He headed for the bar along one wall. The black surface of the bar gleamed like midnight on a still lake. A massive fern covered a third of it. He found a bottle of brandy and a snifter in a glass cabinet, poured two fingers, replaced the bottle and headed back to the kitchen. A smile twitched his lips when he noticed an open door across the room leading to the spare bedroom. There was also a door to a sunroom that looked out over the lake.

  Swirling his brandy, Quint wandered into the sunroom. Two large wicker chairs covered with red and yellow floral cushions were tucked under tall broad-leafed plants. Potted flowering vines hung from the open cedar beams while other colorful pots filled every available corner. Every plant was lush and green, obviously well tended. It was like walking into a Caribbean hideaway. That’s when he remembered Delta Douglas telling him about how much Jamie loved plants. He imagined Jamie curled up in one of the chairs reading a book or staring out over the lake. The thought stepped up the pace of his heartbeat. Sighing, he took one last deep breath of the earthy scent and left the room.

  He went back to the kitchen, set his drink down, and hooked up his computer to her telephone line. In a matter of minutes he was scanning numbers, looking for the owner of a gold Cadillac with Illinois plates.

  While he worked he thought about the cap he’d seen with the logo on it. All he could make out was a dark color, possibly green with yellow or gold entwining circles—three or four of them. It reminded him of the Olympics emblem. There were probably a million caps like it.

  It may not be important but he’d forgotten to tell Jamie or the police about the cap. He would mention it to Jamie tomorrow. Maybe it would mean something to her.

  Forty-five minutes later a familiar name popped up in front of him.

  For several heart pumping moments, Quint stared at the screen, disbelievingly. Then he wondered how he would tell Jamie that the car that ran her off the road was registered to one Raymond Bentler.

  Chapter Ten

  It was a strange dream. She dreamed that she was sleeping, wrapped in a giant cocoon. She snuggled deeper into the safety and warmth of it, nuzzling her face against a thick furry wall.

  When she opened her eyes, her lashes fluttered butterfly-soft against a matt of crisp fur pressed to her face. She realized it wasn’t the first time she’d awakened with her body intimately entwined this exact same way. Quint’s arm rested possessively, but lax, over her shoulder, his muscular thigh pressed intimately between her legs, riding high enough to make her blush if she thought he was doing it consciously.

  His chest rose deeply and slowly. She could feel the movement of his breath in her hair. His warmth transferred a disturbing heat to her body.

  Without moving the rest of her body, Jamie tilted her head up enough to view the skylight. There was a pale pinkish, gray sky overhead. It was about six-thirty; the time she normally got up to exercise and run. She was amazed that she had slept peacefully through the night. The last thing she remembered was putting her nightshirt on and crawling into bed. Quint must have joined her sometime later, quietly, so as not to disturb her.

  For a few delicious moments she remained motionless, basking in his warmth, savoring his musky male smell, enjoying the muscular firmness of his body. She couldn’t tell if he was wearing anything below the waist. Her imagination said he was nude. Every inch of her skin started to tingle where it touched him. If she continued lying next to him, in a few scant seconds, she’d start rubbing her body all over him.

  Holding her breath, she eased herself from the tangle of his limbs. He reached out to her in his sleep as though seeking her warmth, but didn’t awaken. She quickly pulled the covers over his bare shoulders. Not until she was clear of the bed did she allow herself to fully breathe. She noticed the glass of pink Chablis on her nightstand beside the phone, and was thankful he couldn’t see her face—it was surely the same color as the wine. He was in her bed by her own invitation. Why hadn’t he awakened her?

  She hurriedly dressed in her jogging suit and had her foot on the first step when the phone rang. She raced to answer it but was too late. Quint’s eyes opened as he shoved the covers away, staring at her as though trying to orient himself. She grabbed the phone before it could ring again, willing him to go back to sleep. That was wishful thinking. His gaze focused on her before she had the phone to her ear.

  She tore her eyes away from him, but not before she got a glimpse of blue boxer shorts.

  “Hello,” she said into the receiver.

  Buster LeCorre’s voice barked back at her. “Jamie, where the hell have you been? I tried to reach you until midnight. Then your line was busy the rest of the night. What on earth kept you on the phone that long?”

  Jamie knew he didn’t really care if she was on the phone, or with whom. He was just irritated because he couldn’t reach her when he wanted to. “What do you want, Buster?”

  “Why can’t you call me Dad when we’re not at the track?”

  The question caught Jamie off guard. She bit back the answer she wanted to give him. “All right, Dad, what do you want?”

  “I imagine you know about the mess over at Riker’s place?”

  “Yes, I—”

  “Just tell me you had nothing to do with that shit! I know you’re pissed at him for whatever went on between the two of you, and he’s been an ass on the track but that’s no reason for you to—”

  Red splotches flared like blinding firebombs in front of her eyes. “Jiminy Christmas, Buster, give me some credit. You actually think I would go into his house and tear it apart just because—”

  “Somebody was killed in there.”

  Jamie dropped to the edge of the bed. “And you think I did it?”

  “Hell, how do I know? Where were you last night?”

  Buster shouted so loud, Quint was able to hear his words. When Jamie didn’t answer, Quint pried the phone from her shaking fingers.

  “She was with me—all night,” he snapped into the phone.
/>   “Who the hell are you?” Buster asked.

  “Somebody that knows your daughter better than you do, apparently.”

  Except for his heavy breathing Buster was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was considerably calmer. “All night, including the evening?” he asked.

  Quint noted that Buster was more concerned about his daughter’s whereabouts during the break-in than he was about the fact that she’d spent the night with someone he didn’t know. It wasn’t Quint’s place to set the man’s priorities straight or to remind him of a father’s trust in his offspring.

  “Yes, we went out to eat. She never left my sight all night.”

  “Thank God. Now who the hell are you?”

  Quint held the phone aside. He touched Jamie’s arm. When she turned to look at him, unshed tears filled her eyes.

  “He wants to know who I am,” Quint said softly. “What do you want me to tell him?”

  “I don’t care,” she said, her voice breaking. “Tell him I picked you up in a bar—whatever. I’m going jogging. I’ll be back in a half hour.”

  Quint watched her until the top of her head disappeared down the stairs. Then he realized Buster LeCorre was still talking on the phone. Reluctantly, Quint put the receiver back to his ear.

  “…can’t understand why the phone was busy all night, if you were there.”

  “The phone was busy because I was connected to the Internet,” Quint said.

  An irritated grumble came over the line. “I’m going to ask one more time. Who the hell are you?”

  Quint resisted the urge to hang up on him. After all, he was Jamie’s father and if he wanted to have a relationship with her, he had to say something. “A friend. I’m a friend.”

  “All right, so don’t tell me your name. Just answer one question—are you involved in NASCAR? Are you a driver, by chance?”

  “That’s two questions. The answer to both of them is no.”

  Buster released a short huff of air. “Thank goodness. She needs to find friends off the track. I keep trying to tell her that, but she never listens to me. Has her own mind, stubborn as hell like her mother, and determined as hell, like me. What a goddamn combination. That’s what makes her such a good driver…and that’s what’s going to get her killed one of these days. I keep telling her, she doesn’t have to win. Hell, just placing in the top five makes her one of the best drivers in the country and keeps Bentler more than happy.”

  Quint’s spine straightened. “So Bentler is happy with her performance?” he asked.

  “Hell, yes. Naturally he wants a win, we all do, but not at the expense of her life. She’s aggressive and that’s what it takes, but she—hell, I wish she’d get her win because maybe then she’d give it up.”

  Quint thought he’d heard wrong. “You don’t like her racing?” he asked.

  “Shit no, I already lost T-Roy to the tracks. I don’t want to lose her too.”

  “Have you told her that?”

  “Fuck, you don’t tell her anything. I can’t even have a normal conversation with her and she’s all over my ass. If she quits, it’s going to have to be her decision. And I’ll give you a word of advice, if you’re her friend don’t even suggest it or you’ll be her ex-friend quicker’n a thirteen-second pit stop.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Quint replied, pulling the phone with him over to the window. Below, he could see Jamie leaving for her run with Leibers in tow. The sun hadn’t risen yet but the sky was lightening up, making visibility good except for a steamy fog hanging over the lake. Down the beach a ways he saw at least one other person out for early morning exercise.

  If she hadn’t stuck him with Buster LeCorre, Quint would have run with her. He guessed she probably knew that.

  “You still with me, boy?” Buster asked.

  “Yeah, I’m here. And you can call me Quint.” He wasn’t exactly sure what did it but sometime during their conversation Buster had gained an inkling of Quint’s respect.

  “Well, okay, Quint. Can you put Jamie back on the line?”

  “She left to go running.”

  “See, that’s what I mean about her. Dammit. Well, maybe you can tell her. The boys want her to stop down at the shop today. They’re putting the finishing touches on her car for the Monte Carlo 400 this weekend and they have some questions for her.”

  “I can tell her that.”

  “Oh, yeah, and in case she hasn’t heard—that guy they found dead at Clay’s place was Jim Bodean. She knows him. He ran that crab shack she always goes to. Thank God, she has an alibi.”

  Quint digested that bit of information while he showered. So it was Jimbo. The fellow who called the restaurant and had a bottle of wine sent to their table. Jamie was in for yet another jolt when she heard that unhappy tidbit. He already wondered how she would respond to the news that Ray Bentler owned the car that ran her off the road.

  He finished shaving, put the same clothes on he’d worn the night before, and was coming down the stairs when Jamie walked in the back door.

  One look at his face and she stopped short. “Sorry for dumping Buster on you,” she said. “Was he his usual prick of a self?”

  Quint approached her, smiling. He held out his arms. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a friendly hug.”

  Jamie returned his smile. “That bad, huh.” She went to him, more than happy to accommodate his request.

  Quint gave her a brotherly kiss on the cheek. “No, it wasn’t bad at all. I found myself kind of liking the man.”

  Jamie pulled away from his embrace. “He gave you the I-lost-one-kid-to-racing-I-don’t–want-to-lose-another-one routine didn’t he?”

  Quint laughed. “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  “He only uses that on his non-racing victims. No one else would fall for it.”

  “Come to think of it, the first things he asked me was if I was involved in racing.”

  She gave him a look that had, sucker, written all over it. Stepping around him, she gave him a teasing swat on the rear, and escaped toward the spiral staircase. “I’m going to take a quick shower. I’ll make breakfast when I’m done.”

  “If you don’t mind me rattling around your kitchen, I can fix something.”

  She was already halfway up the stairs. “Rattle away. Surprise me. I’ll eat anything but tater bunnies. I get their furry little tails caught in my teeth.”

  Quint’s gaze followed her. “I hope you realize I’m going to get even with you for that one.”

  She vanished to the far end of the loft, but her silky laughter drifted down to him. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d enjoyed a woman’s laughter more. He couldn’t remember a woman who made his body leap to attention just by looking at him. Cynthia was sensuality personified. She lived it and worked it, always to her advantage. When it came to sex she was greedy and selfish. Jamie’s sexual appeal was fresh and natural. How could he ever have thought her to be a hooker?

  There was time enough later to tell her about Jimbo. Let her have a few precious stress free minutes. She deserved it after last night.

  While he hunted for supplies in the kitchen, Quint thought about Buster. The man had sounded so sincere. Either he was an excellent actor or Jamie was wrong about him. Quint hoped the latter was true. Even without parents of his own he knew the value of family. Being raised in Hank and Delta’s home gave him three brothers and a sister. Virgil, Hunter, Stephen, and Corrine were closer to him than his biological family.

  He rarely saw his brother, Grant, or his sister, Myra, and her husband, Patrick. They all lived in upstate New York. Myra was fifteen years older than Quint, he hardly remembered her living at home. She called regularly and never forgot his birthday or Christmas. More than once she’d begged him to come visit. Myra and Patrick had two teenage sons that Quint had only seen a couple of times. He knew it wasn’t fair to them. Maybe he would drive up and see them when he got home. He wondered if he might talk Jamie into going with him.

  C
orrine and Billy’s baby was due in about six weeks, which meant Delta was finally getting her wish for grandchildren. Especially with Hunter and Nicole adopting Shanna and Kyle. Plus, the way those two lovebirds were hot for each other; it wouldn’t be too surprising if they came back from their honeymoon pregnant.

  Quint cracked eggs into a bowl, smiling to himself. He hadn’t thought much about having kids of his own, but right now the idea seemed like a good one.

  Watching Jamie bounce down the steps a few minutes later reinforced that thought. She wore a pair of snug jeans and a loose fitting pink silk blouse. Her head was a crowning glory of perky blond curls. She said she’d cut her hair before going to the wedding, hoping it would help keep her incognito. He hadn’t seen it long, but he liked her look just the way it was now. He liked it a lot.

  She came up close behind him, peering around his shoulder. The top of her head brushed his chin. She smelled of roses, toothpaste, and woman. His testosterone kicked into overdrive.

  She made a hungry, purring sound. “Mmmm, smells delicious. I’m starving.”

  So am I, sweetheart, but not for scrambled eggs. “It’s nothing special but it should do the trick. Grab a seat and I’ll dish it up.”

  Jamie slid into the daisy-cushioned booth where he already had glasses of grapefruit juice, silverware, and napkins set out. “Maybe we should switch the TV on and see if they identified that body in Clay’s house yet.”

  Quint spooned scrambled eggs on two plates, topped them off with parsley and toast. He set one plate in front of her and one across from her. He sat down hoping he could prolong telling her until they’d finished eating. “Why don’t we wait until we’ve eaten,” he said.

  Her hand stopped midway to reaching for her juice glass. “What haven’t you told me?” she demanded, staring at him.

  Quint grabbed his fork and stabbed his eggs. This woman picked up signals better than a lighthouse beacon. “It was Jim Bodean,” he said softly, watching her expression go from carefree to crestfallen in the space of two seconds. Tears sprung up in her eyes just as quickly.