Reif handed her the tea. “I’m sure you’ll be back with him in no time.”
She heard the buzz of the television from the other room. Suddenly she was feeling much better. Maybe instead of going back to bed, she’d have her tea down here. Sitting on the couch. With Reif.
Chapter Seven
Quinn set the alarm and stepped outside, turning the key in the dead bolt. Reif had told her not to leave the house without him. He’d given her the security code so she had easy access to the pool and the back deck, and a spare key in case of emergency. But while she was inside, all the doors and windows were to be locked and the alarm system engaged. Reif also showed her where he kept his gun, a Glock. He tried to explain the basics of gun safety to her, before she reminded him that she’d been raised by two cops.
Quinn had decided to operate using her own initiative from the moment she arrived and reminded herself every time she left the house that what Reif didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. He had a fairly regular work schedule and she wasn’t about to imprison herself in his house while he was gone.
She was free, and she was going to enjoy every last second of that freedom, but she wasn’t stupid. She’d keep herself on a short enough leash. Reif’s neighborhood seemed safe enough. The houses were similar to his, rehabbed craftsman and ranches, many of them nearly hidden behind wrought iron or wooden fences and well-tended landscaping. In the evenings, cars parked along the curbs or in the short driveways, but during the day, most vehicles were gone. The area was quiet, with only a few of the neighbors walking a dog or gardening.
She waited until he left each morning before she got dressed and went for a run. She’d been running for as long as she could remember. On the high school track team, on the beach, around her own neighborhood. Reif had a treadmill, but to her it wasn’t the same thing. Treadmills bored her and she didn’t need to be more bored than she already was.
She smiled as she meandered along the sidewalks, enjoying the cool, dry air, the glimmer of the sun shining down on her. How perfectly lovely, she decided, to have landed in a safe haven with a man like Reif, even if he was getting a bit too protective. She’d show him she could take care of herself.
She wouldn’t risk being seen in public for long periods of time. She knew better than to establish any kind of routine, just in case someone was looking for her. She took alternate routes, working outward in concentric circles, but was never more than a few blocks from Reif’s house. Maybe she wouldn’t go out every day, except for her morning run, but if she stayed in the house alone for days at a time she’d go crazy. She’d pop out every once in a while during the day for a stroll like this, never taking the same route, never frequenting the same places. But even those precautions seemed excessive. No one was going to look for her here. She was the needle in the proverbial haystack.
She crossed the street to familiarize herself with the businesses in a couple of the strip plazas there. Nail and hair salons. Tax preparation. A vintage clothing store. A used book store.
Set back from the street on the corner was a pizza place with its own parking lot and an old-fashioned neon sign proclaiming, “Antonia’s Pizza.”
Quinn stopped and stared. Memories of her grandparents’ place in Miami with the same name washed over her. Her grandmother Antonia Fontana had been famous in certain circles for her secret pizza dough recipe and a variety of tomato and pesto sauces.
Quinn’s mouth watered, the toast and coffee she’d had earlier a distant memory. The hand-lettered signs painted across the windows offering pizza by the slice and carry-out deals called to her. She pulled open the glass-paneled door to a cacophony of sound and tantalizing smells. The place was packed. Every single small table was taken, there was a line at both ends of the counter, customers waiting to order and to pick up.
She edged her way through the crowd so that she was close to the pick-up area where she could peruse the menu behind the counter. She was jostled by both a server and a customer in a hurry, and had to move aside so that she was at the end of the counter. A harried-looking man was at the cash register, taking orders and barking over his shoulder at the kitchen staff behind him, all of whom were working at top speed assembling pie after pie.
“Hey, sweetheart, you wanna hand me my order? It’s right there.”
Quinn looked at the man who’d tapped her on the arm. He pointed to a box one of the kitchen staff had just slid onto the top shelf of the pickup window.
“Large pepperoni and bread sticks,” he said, waving the receipt at her. “Number two eighty-four.”
Obviously he thought she worked here. She was close enough to the counter to take two steps and reach it for him. The numbers on the box and receipt matched up. No one else seemed likely to do it any time soon and the guy appeared to be in a hurry. Where was the harm? She picked up his order and handed it to him.
“Thanks a lot.” He dropped a fiver into the tip jar before another customer stepped forward brandishing his own receipt.
“Two eight five.”
She checked the number, turned and found his order, a small sausage pizza and a house salad, handed it to him and thanked him. None of the staff seemed to notice that she was helping or told her to stop assisting the customers. A mischievous smile crossed her face. How long could she get away with this?
She set her small shoulder bag on a shelf below the counter and donned an apron she found there. For over an hour she smiled and said thank you, made sure the orders were correct and handed out food to unsuspecting customers.
The lunch rush faded and the man who’d been at the register lumbered toward her. His brows knit together as he looked her over, realizing only now he’d never seen her before in his life. She handed off the last order and turned to face him.
“You’re not Bridget.”
“Never said I was.”
“Where is she?”
“Beats me.”
“I didn’t hire you.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“You’re odd.”
“So I’ve been told.”
He huffed out a breath then he held out a hand. “Frankie Funigello.”
“Quinn.”
He raised an eyebrow when she didn’t offer her last name. “Want a job?”
“Maybe.” A job at a place like this might be just what she needed, even though it broke one of the rules she’d made for herself. Helping out during the lunch rush, what was that? A couple of hours a day? She glanced at the clock a beer company had supplied which hung over the beverage cooler. It was almost two now. Her gaze darted to the tip jar which held a surprising number of bills and coins.
“Lunch rush only. Tips only. First name only. No questions.”
“Oh?” Frankie stared her down. He was fifty if he was a day, Quinn decided, and he was nobody’s fool. He was a survivor. He was successful, too, based on what she’d just seen. He probably wouldn’t go for her proposal. But then, she hadn’t been looking for a job when she’d walked in. Although spending a couple of hours a day doing what she’d just done would go a long way toward breaking up the monotony of being alone in Reif’s house. All she had come for was lunch. Her stomach growled to remind her of that fact. “And a slice every day on the house.”
Frankie burst out laughing. Huge, amused guffaws that caught the attention of everyone left in the place. Quinn grinned, feeling a rush of fondness for this man she’d just met.
He got himself under control and said, “I can picture this sort of thing happening to my cousin in Jersey, but here?” He started chuckling again. “You’re hired. Eleven to two weekdays. No questions asked.” He lowered his voice, so only she could hear. “First sign of trouble, you’re out of here. Capisce?”
“Capisco,” Quinn replied just as softly.
He chuckled and shook his head. He nodded at what was left of the pizzas sold by the slice. “What d
o you want to eat?”
A couple of the kitchen guys and the server were gathered around one of the tables already with leftovers and soda. They eyed her with friendly curiosity.
“Okay if I take a couple slices and a soda to go?”
“Knock yourself out.” Tony handed her a paper plate along with a Styrofoam cup. “You don’t show up tomorrow, don’t bother coming back.”
He walked off when she didn’t reply. She had every intention of taking the job, such as it was. She could earn a bit of extra money and add it to the cache she had brought with her. Just in case, on the outside chance, she had to run.
Chapter Eight
Reif stared at the ceiling of his bedroom. He’d been in a restless sort of half slumber before but now he was fully awake. The numbers on his bedside clock glowed 1:34 a.m. He lay still, listening, until he was certain he heard movement coming from downstairs.
He slid out of bed and donned a pair of flannel pajama bottoms. Reaching beneath the bed he wrapped his hand around the base of a Louisville Slugger. Out in the hallway he paused, listening to the soft shuffle of footsteps and a door opening and closing.
With his heart pounding double time he kept his back to the wall as he moved down the steps. Had they come for Quinn? What if there was more than one of them?
Reif owned a Glock 22. He kept it in a gun safe in his bedroom closet and took it out on those rare occasions when he visited the gun range, usually when his dad was in town. But he’d never shot at anything other than paper targets, tin cans or old tires, and he didn’t intend to start now. He felt confident he could defend himself against a lone assailant, crack a knee or a head or a couple of ribs with his trusty bat. But if there was more than one, and if they were armed, his bat wasn’t going to do a whole lot of good.
He peeked into the kitchen, searching the shadows for the intruder, before moving further into the room. He hadn’t imagined the sound of the door and the shuffle of footsteps. Someone was down here. He’d bet his life on it.
Moving forward he noticed a light beneath the door of the pantry and laundry room area that led to the garage. The light went out. He shifted to the side of the door, holding his breath as he heard the knob turn. The door opened and a figure collided with him. He nearly dropped the bat when Quinn screamed before he could identify himself.
He clamped his hand over her mouth. “It’s me. Calm down. It’s me.”
Either she didn’t hear him or he’d royally pissed her off, because she bit him. He yelped and pulled his hand back. Before she could run he caught her, yanking her back against him. “It’s me! Reif. I thought you were a prowler.”
“Reif?” she queried shakily.
He tried not to laugh. She was trembling. “Yes.”
“Sorry I bit you.”
“It’s okay.” He continued to hold her, even though there was no need. Let go, his conscience warned him. But his arms wouldn’t obey.
“You scared me,” Quinn said. She seemed no more inclined to move away from him than he was to let her go.
“You scared me first. What the hell are you doing down here?”
“Looking for ginger ale. I was hungry.”
Her lips brushed his throat as she spoke. He felt the whisper of her breath against his skin. Let go of her, came that warning once more. He ignored it.
“You can’t eat ginger ale.”
“No, I know. We don’t have any anyway.” Her arms had somehow twined themselves around his neck. His were wrapped around her waist, holding her against him.
He heard her breathe the words “screw it” just before she went up on tiptoe and pressed her lips to his.
He made a murmur of protest. Don’t go there, came that internal warning.
She teased him with her tongue, nudging at his lips. Ah, screw it, that other part of his mind echoed.
He kissed her back, wanting to explore every inch of her, take the time he hadn’t taken that first morning. Desire surged through him, swamping his brain until he felt he was drowning in the scent and taste of her, forgetting that he shouldn’t. Forgetting that he couldn’t. Not with Tony’s sister.
Quinn trembled in his arms. Not from fear, he was pretty sure, but from that same desire that was about to overtake him. She whimpered as their tongues warred with each other.
Oh yeah, baby, the devil in him said, that’s the good stuff.
It was enough to remind him of who he was. Reif fought every impulse he had and eased out of the kiss.
He heard her moan of disappointment. She dropped quick light kisses across his cheek to his ear and back, trying to reignite his interest.
“Stop it,” he said, his arms tightening around her in warning.
“Maybe I don’t want to.” Quinn ignored the refusal of his mouth and continued her path across his other cheek to his ear and on down the side of his neck, to the hollow where throat met chest.
She pressed her lower body insistently against him.
Reif drew in a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m not doing this.”
Quinn groaned as he loosened his hold on her. “Why?”
He met her gaze in the dim light. “Because I can’t compromise you more than I already have.”
“Not this again! Compromise? What, will my lack of virginity lower the price of my dowry when I am offered as a bride to—to a fresh prince of Bel Air, forsooth?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“It’s because of Tony.”
Reif eased his hold another notch. “Maybe at first it was because of Tony. Now it’s more because of you.”
“We really need to get something straight,” she informed him. “You didn’t compromise me. You got that? I was the one riding you like a fairground rollercoaster.” She leaned into him, as if her intent wasn’t already unmistakable.
“I never said I didn’t enjoy the ride.”
“Good of you to admit it.”
“My dad always said honesty is the best policy.”
He thought he saw her wince before she said, “I want you.”
“I want you, too.” That was a vast understatement. He was dying for her. But he wasn’t going to take advantage of her. Whether she admitted it or not, she was vulnerable right now. He couldn’t let himself use that to his advantage.
“Then what’s the problem?”
Reif didn’t know how to explain it. He only knew that sex with her under the circumstances was out of the question. Any way he looked at it, it felt like he would be taking advantage of Quinn’s situation, or betraying his friend. She needed a safe place. Tony had looked to Reif to protect her. And that’s exactly what Reif planned to do. Even if it killed him.
“I can’t,” he said.
Quinn’s gaze dropped to his crotch.
“Liar.”
When he made no move to pick up where they’d left off, Quinn straightened, tightened the belt of her robe, and lifted her chin. “Good night then.”
“Good night.” Reif bit his lip, trying not to smile, lest she turn back and think he was laughing at her. He wasn’t. He swore he wasn’t. She stomped up the stairs, letting him know his response to her seduction attempt was not to her liking. It wasn’t exactly to his either. He wondered if she’d lay awake now, plotting some sort of revenge, laying a trap for him. He hoped so. Tortuous as it was, he liked doing battle with her.
Quinn ground her teeth as she settled back into bed. She was no longer hungry for a midnight snack, but a different kind of hunger gnawed at her instead. Punching her pillow harder than was necessary she turned on her side.
She was pretty sure any other man would have taken what she offered with no qualms at all. It wouldn’t matter to most men that she was their best friend’s sister. Most men probably wouldn’t even stop to consider little nuisances like that until after the fact.
Unfortunat
ely, she wasn’t living with most men. She’d had the misfortune to land on Reif Callaghan’s doorstep. He might be one of the last men on Earth with old-fashioned values deeply ingrained into his character.
Just her luck. She had the hots for a guy who was not unlike her father and brother. Great. Just great. She’d traveled across the country only to find the one man outside her immediate family who wanted to protect her from herself.
She closed her eyes, but that was worse than lying in bed wide awake. Because when she closed her eyes, memories of Reif crowded her mind. She relived every touch, every sensation, all over again. She craved that touch, especially at times like this when she could still feel the heat from his arms and the taste of him on her lips.
Her stomach growled. Too bad, she told it. You’re not getting anything tonight and neither am I.
Chapter Nine
In the lower level of his townhouse near Key Biscayne, Vinnie had created an information room. Blackout curtains covered the windows. The French doors leading to the patio were double-insulated and equipped with triple locks. The room had been sound-proofed and wired with its own alarm system. If the alarm was tripped, everything was rigged to self-destruct. Hard drives would be destroyed, data corrupted and made unusable.
Vinnie didn’t back anything up. Ever. His computers scanned for information he programmed into them, searching on auto-pilot twenty-four/seven. If they found what he was looking for, he was notified by a coded message sent to one of several email inboxes.
His information room wasn’t sanctioned by the organization. Certainly not by Pops. Pops didn’t care how Vinnie obtained information. He probably assumed Vinnie was breaking legs or severing fingers like in the old days. Vinnie had never broken a leg or severed a finger, though he’d knocked a couple of heads together when he had to. But he’d discovered methods of extracting information that didn’t involve touching other human beings. No one was safe from Vinnie’s nose.
He was always amazed at the kind of information that could be pieced together about anyone so long as someone was willing to invest the time and the patience. Vinnie’s time was often his own. He had no family he was close to. He’d never seen the point in marrying or having kids. He’d never been in love. He’d discovered prostitutes at a young age. When he was finished with them they left him alone. All in all, he found it an acceptable arrangement. Gave him more time to work.
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