by Mary Campisi
Quinn squashed those memories and rode the elevator to the eleventh floor and his penthouse office. If only he could get Annie to see there was more to life than trying to rescue crack mothers who didn’t want to be rescued. Not likely to happen. The only answer was a truce. He’d stop at The Silver Strand after work and pick out something nice. Maybe an opal bracelet or a jade necklace with all those little beads around it.
His mind was still on his sister when he stepped off the elevator and into the suites of Burnes and Wightman. There was no Wightman anymore, not since Bernie keeled over in the courtroom four years ago during his closing argument. That’s what defending the supposedly innocent got you—dead at fifty-four with a nice pension for your widow and a cheesy bronze plaque.
Quinn shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on the coat tree. In exactly seven minutes, Sylvia would sashay in with a coffee, black, no sugar, and a copy of The Philadelphia Inquirer. She’d read him his horoscope, translated into the Sylvia Freeman version, which usually centered around intrigue and love, two of her favorite pastimes, and then she’d give him his messages. And of course, she’d bring him lunch: sushi, a Mediterranean salad, or maybe if he were very lucky, a Philly cheesesteak. All of this, and it only cost him an occasional headache and $38,000 a year plus benefits.
He eyed the phone, wishing Annie would call. Her name used to be Annalise but she chopped it to Annie when she went into social work so she wouldn’t sound too high-brow. Quinn could’ve called her Gladys after their mother vanished and their father wouldn’t have noticed. Rupe Burnes had only cared about one thing: finding a wife who was not going to be found. He died eight years ago, tired, broken, and still waiting for his wife to come home.
Annie had given up years ago and quietly accepted the fact that her mother was dead. In the early days, Quinn had dried her tears, removed the barrettes from her long brown hair before tucking her into bed with Penelope, the pink hippo, and sometimes, he even read a few poems from Shel Silverstein’s A Light in the Attic. He did this because ten-year-old brains were not equipped to handle death or loss, unless it was a squished worm or a sick hermit crab, and even then the tears and questions could resurface for days. But parents didn’t die in a ten-year-old’s mind, and they never just disappeared; washing T-shirts and underwear one day, gone the next.
And eighteen years later, Quinn was still there for Annie. He’d always protect his sister, no matter how many lies he had to tell to keep her safe.
WHAT QUINN LIKED most about The Silver Strand was the smell, a honey-cider spiced mix that reminded him of Thanksgiving morning, not patchouli or lavender, or any other New Age relaxing nonsense to trick a person into a meditative state so he’d open his wallet.
The Silver Strand lay tucked between a candle store and a vitamin shop on Chestnut Street, clever and curious, with its bright red appendages; hands, fingers, legs, artfully arranged, sporting opals, rubies, jade, and sapphires. Quinn opened the door, immune to the silver string of bells tinkling his entrance, and inhaled deeply.
Arianna was with a customer but she looked up and smiled, reminding him of a Nordic princess with her tall, silver-blonde beauty and casual grace. He’d never understood how a guy could leave someone like Arianna Sorensen ten days before the wedding, but Ash Revelin had done it two years ago, with a half-baked excuse and a mediocre apology. She was better off without a jerk like that but the sadness in her eyes said she might not think so.
Quinn moved toward the far end of the store where there were several rectangular cases housing a variety of jewels and jewelry. The more expensive pieces were in the smaller room in the back but he still liked to ease his way through each case. Just a simple cut could change the way a topaz sparkled in its setting, not as arresting as a black opal, but there was a fluid beauty in the deep golden color unique to the topaz. Some nights as he watched Arianna shape metal into intricate designs, he had to clench his fists to keep from grabbing the torch and forming his own design.
Arianna was still with the customer, a middle-aged woman in a flowery dress and matching headband, and from the indecision on the woman’s face, it could be awhile. Quinn decided to make his way to the studio and pour a whiskey while he waited. He didn’t realize anyone was in the studio until he had his hand on the knob. That’s when he saw her. Much of her face was obscured by huge goggles as she clutched a blowtorch and bent over a piece of metal. He studied the long, lean frame, the black braid reaching down her back as she aimed the blowtorch and a bright, orange-blue flame spat out, illuminating a slice of pale skin.
The woman’s slim fingers mesmerized him as she worked the torch with practiced skill, making him think of sex and lots of it. Who was she? Quinn clutched the doorknob, caught between desire to go to the woman and rip off the goggles so he could see her face and the equal need to stay right there, watching.
She leaned forward further and he could make out a swell of small breast beneath the black turtleneck sweater. They’d be round breasts, firm, full. He imagined her naked, the long waist, the slim hips… The woman turned off the blowtorch, set it on the workbench, and held up the metal she’d been soldering. His gaze fell to her lips. Full. Red. Perfect.
He turned the knob just as she disappeared behind a screened panel. What would he say when she returned? I like the way you work a blowtorch? Maybe he wouldn’t say anything, he’d pour a drink, no two, and go for the casual, Hi, I’m Quinn, Arianna’s friend.
He waited. Three minutes, five, six. Finally, he opened the door and stepped inside, expecting the mystery woman to materialize from behind the partition. When she didn’t, he edged toward the screen and looked behind it. A tiny hall snaked toward a door that led to the street. The woman was gone.
“Quinn? There you are!”
He swung around to find Arianna, smiling at him, two glasses in hand.
“Whiskey or wine?”
“Whiskey.” He glanced at the door one last time and followed Arianna to the workbench. What color were her eyes? Blue? Green? Maybe they were amber, the same color as the whiskey he drank, hot and burning . . .
“Sorry it took me so long. Sometimes customers have a difficult time knowing what they want.”
Quinn knew what he wanted—information about the mystery woman. “Who was the woman in here working the blowtorch?”
Arianna lifted a shoulder and toyed with her necklace in a way that told him she didn’t want to talk about it. “Just a friend of a friend.”
“I’ve never seen her before.” But I plan to see her again.
“No.”
Why such stingy answers? What was she hiding? Quinn’s lawyer instincts kicked in. “Is she working for you?” He wondered about her name, something exotic no doubt. Ellysa. Anastasia. Veronica.
“Sort of.” She uncapped the whiskey and poured two fingers in each glass. “It’s temporary.”
That could mean anything. Or nothing. “So, who is she?”
“She’s too quiet for your tastes.”
What was that supposed to mean? So, he’d dated some women who oozed sex and loved the limelight almost as much as they loved him. That didn’t mean he was a complete caveman. He had manners. He had style. Besides, the mystery woman had her own brand of sex appeal. “The way she was working that blowtorch did not look quiet to me.”
Arianna ignored his comment. “It’s a complicated situation. You do not want to get involved.”
Oh, yes, I do. “I’m just curious.”
She shook her head and a swirl of golden blonde sifted along her back. “She’s lying low for a little while. I took her in as a favor to a friend.”
“Lying low as in hiding?” He’d heard those words before. Classic for in trouble and trying to get out of it. “What did she do? Skip out on her rent?”
Arianna looked him straight in the eye and said, “She shot her husband.”
17
CHAPTER 2
The beautiful mystery woman imploded Quinn’s senses, tormenting him in ways o
ther women never had. Her name was Danielle. He could see that name on her, could hear himself calling to her, letting the syllables slip through his lips in soft, sensual longing. He could even picture her response, a low, throaty laugh pulling him in, challenging him to take what he wanted, what he needed.
He cursed his damn wandering imagination. He’d bet the Audi that Danielle wasn’t even her real name. A woman capable of shooting her husband could come up with a fake ID or two. Apparently this woman was quite skilled in the art of deception and storytelling. Arianna’s lips quivered when she told Quinn how Danielle shot her estranged husband when he showed up at their home, a residence he’d been court-ordered from six weeks before. But, the ogre of a husband entered anyway while Danielle slept. She woke when she heard someone in the bedroom and, just like that, had the sense of mind to grab the Glock under the pillow and blast her husband in the gut.
The stomach was a nice touch, lots of internal bleeding. Supposedly, Danielle didn’t know it was her husband, another nice touch, until she turned on the lights and saw him crumpled on the floor, bloody fingers clutching his gut. Even if Quinn believed the story, which he didn’t, how would she explain the 9-1-1 call that never happened?
“Why didn’t she call 9-1-1?” he asked, casually sipping his whiskey.
“She said she was in shock, that all she wanted to do was get away.”
“From what? A murder rap?” How could he have thought her appealing?
“A monster. Quinn, he threatened to kill her. Several times.” Arianna tilted her head to the side and watched him with cat eyes, glittering, opaque.
Who was she trying to convince, him or herself? “She told you he tried to kill her?”
His lawyer brain created a series of sadistic possibilities: estranged husband stalks wife and tries to shoot, stab, strangle, run over, push out a window, or dismember, maybe a combination. Scenes ran through his head, a mass of black hair sticky with blood, Danielle’s pale face starch-white. Or maybe not. Maybe she’d fabricated the whole story. Maybe she’d invited her husband to the house and greeted him with a bullet.
“Danielle doesn’t like to talk about it. Most of my information came from Nina, the friend I told you about. Danielle’s her niece.”
“How convenient she doesn’t like to talk about it.” Quinn swirled the whiskey in his glass and said, “Fewer stories to keep straight.”
“You think she’s lying?”
Of course she’s lying. He didn’t want to hear another of Arianna’s lectures on the inherent goodness of mankind, minus her ex-fiancé, so he merely shrugged. “It wouldn’t be the first time a wife tried to kill her husband and claim self-defense.”
Arianna’s eyes grew wide and too damn trusting for her own good. She and Annie would make a good pair. “She’s afraid for her life. She says he’ll come after her.”
“So, that’s why she’s holed up here, making you a sitting duck?” If a sixteenth of the story were true, Arianna could be in danger and that didn’t sit well with him.
She leaned forward and clutched his shirtsleeve. “I think he beat her up. There’s real fear in her voice when she talks about him.”
The idea of a man using a woman as a punching bag sickened him. “Did she press charges? That’s why we have laws, to protect the innocent.”
“She won’t talk about it. I’m telling you, she’s afraid.”
There was too much that didn’t add up. Or maybe it did. Maybe she had been tossed around and staging a break-in was the only way to get rid of the guy. “She’s pretty good at this, isn’t she?”
“How can you talk like that? You’re a lawyer, for heaven’s sake. Not that the law does much good for the victims these days.” She pointed to him. “You know how wonderful our illustrious legal system is. It’s made you a ton of money. You and your clients with carpal tunnel, pinched nerves, bad backs. Tying up court dockets and collecting zillions from corporate America while women get beaten up and left for dead by estranged husbands. Welcome to America’s judicial system.” She held up her glass and saluted him.
“You want me to feel bad for making money? Now you sound like Annie.”
“Who’s trying to make you feel bad? I’m just telling you that while you’re raking in the cash for all those poor injured clients of yours, there are people like Danielle out there, scared for their lives.”
He didn’t want to hear any more about the mystery woman or her problems. “People create their own destinies, Arianna. You can’t tell me there’s nothing she can do about her situation but hide like a scared rabbit.”
“She is scared. He did a number on her.” Her voice dipped. “You know she spent three months in a psych unit after she lost her baby? She miscarried after a supposed fall, but you know that means her husband pushed her or beat her. Her aunt says she’s a different person.”
That was not what he wanted to hear, some sob story about a woman who lost a child and then lost her mind. He could see where a situation like that would make murder the necessary retribution. Lawyer or not, it’s what he would do if anyone hurt Annie, which only strengthened his gut feeling the shooting was intentional.
“Why don’t you meet her and form your own opinion?”
“No.” He meant it. He didn’t want to meet her. Not anymore.
“Why? Too messy for you? Might make you regret all those personal injury clients?”
“I thought you were my friend.” Sometimes Arianna could be downright brutal with her opinions. He downed the rest of his whiskey and set the glass on the bench.
“I am your friend, you know that. Maybe you could help her.” Her gold hoop earrings glistened as she leaned forward. Light, dark, dark, light. Black, white, right, wrong. “Do a little investigation. Please. See if Danielle’s husband is still alive.”
He didn’t want to get involved. Arianna was right, it was too messy. “I can’t help her. I don’t do that kind of work.”
“Please?”
He should say no and forget the mystery woman with the long black braid and full red lips. But there was Arianna to think about. “Maybe I can refer her to somebody; let me think about it.”
She looked down at her hands. “You could do it. You know you could, if you wanted to.”
The challenge hung between them. She was right. He could help if he wanted to.
“Please, Quinn. Would you help her?”
He opened his mouth to speak and was free falling to fifteen again. “He’ll probably never find her anyway, even if he is still alive. People disappear all the time. One day, they’re washing dishes at the kitchen sink, and the next, boom, they’re gone. Nobody ever hears from them again.”
“I’M WORRIED ABOUT HIM, Michael.”
“You’re always worried about him, Annie. And he’s always worried about you. Sometimes I’m glad I’m an only child.”
“I’m serious.” She searched for the right word to describe her brother’s lifestyle. “Quinn’s just coasting. And avoiding.”
“Avoiding what?”
“Life.” She rolled over and planted a kiss on her fiancé’s forearm. “Can’t you see it? The cars, the trips, the house, the women, especially the women.”
“They look pretty good to me, especially the last one, the blonde. Remember, the one with the big—”
She poked his shoulder, yanking the sheet closer to her naked body. “They’re all big-chested. It’s a prerequisite, didn’t you know? If they don’t have it naturally, he’ll order them up a double injection of silicone.”
“He seems happy enough, Annie.”
“How can he be happy? He buys everything, I think sometimes, even friendships.”
Michael traced the small birthmark on her shoulder. “There are worse tragedies than being loaded.”
“Not if it numbs you to the real world. I worry about him all the time; this trip to New Zealand, that one to Italy. A Porsche, an Audi. When does it stop?”
“Why does it have to stop? It’s the way he want
s it.”
“If that were true, there’d be nothing to him but a hollow shell, but Quinn’s full of love.”
“Tell that to his women.”
“Don’t you see, they’re always the wrong ones? He does it on purpose. Surely, you know that, Michael. You’re a man, you have to see it. He chooses women he could never want long-term; that way there’s no risk of falling for one of them. He settles for the foo-foo, airheads with the beautiful bodies and no backbones because he knows he’ll tire of them.”
She buried her hands in her hair and groaned. “He drives me crazy. I’m going to have to watch out for him the rest of my life.”
“He probably says the same thing about you.”
“He probably does, but he’s wrong.” She leaned over and kissed him on the mouth, the tip of her tongue dipping inside.
“Baby, stop. I’ve got to be at the hospital in half an hour.”
“So, that gives us ten minutes.”
He smiled and slid his hand under the sheets. “Then we better stop talking.”
Twenty-five minutes later, Annie watched Michael pull on his scrubs and sneakers. His scent, his words, his touch, filled their tiny apartment on Sycamore Street. He’d come to her two years ago as the leaves turned heavy and brilliant with color. He was in a pediatric rotation at the hospital where she was a caseworker for a battered three-year-old girl. Annie had held the child in her arms, waiting for the doctor and when he arrived, it was Michael.
He planned to continue research after he finished his residency, stem cell or Alzheimer’s. Next spring, they’d marry and buy a brownstone with three or four bedrooms, enough to contain the four dark-haired children they planned to have. Michael was an only child whose parents belonged to a retirement community in Fort Lauderdale. He wanted a large family with tradition; turkey with stuffing and homemade pumpkin pie, stockings hung on the fireplace side by side, Easter egg hunts, and hand-crafted birthday cards.
Annie wanted those traditions, too, but she never told him she had no experience with any of it, that it had all evaporated eighteen years ago. Most of the pain remained in Corville, buried in a house now occupied by a young couple with two children. But some of that pain still lived inside her, lived inside Quinn, too, layered too deep to be unearthed or even understood.
