No sane runner’s out this morning. Quinn kept her eyes on her feet, acknowledging this certainty, but seeing in her mind’s eye the bumpy, livid port-wine stain that covered the entire right side of Rex Walker’s face and body. He’d told her once, in a sad, sardonic wail, that his face was the prototype for Phantom of the Opera.
Wrapped up like an Eskimo, Quinn shivered. Okay. She knew she was being silly, letting the deserted park, the fog and her mixed-up feelings about Michael’s boyhood chum give her the willies. In reality it was the encounter in the garage that had left her edgy. What she ought to feel was shame. Michael shouldn’t have to worry about Rex. Not when she—
A feathery touch on her elbow jerked her heart up and down like a yo-yo. She whirled, salt filling her throat.
“Thank you for coming.” The fog muffled Rex Walker's husky baritone, but his voice vibrated with an intimacy that prickled the hairs on her neck. “Did Michael browbeat you into meeting me?”
“Of course not.” She stuffed her hands deeper into her pockets, fighting the urge to rip off his head, pressed her elbows into her sides and felt a stab of triumph when he let go. “Meeting you was my idea.”
Her head ached—from the cold—she reasoned, not from lying.
His wide-brimmed felt hat, made popular in the Thirties and Forties, hid most of his face. But the anemic light from an imitation gas lamp caught the fever in his yellow eyes. Quinn’s heart shifted into overdrive.
“Hey!” Rex chaffed his gloved hands together. “Let’s get out of the cold. I think I can still afford a cup of coffee.”
If Pierce’s accusation was right, he could afford the whole damn coffee plantation.
Afraid the thought would bypass her brain and become speech, Quinn said, “I shouldn’t stay out of the office that long.”
Rex rocked back on his heels as if she'd slugged him. “Right. Sure.” He pushed the cuff up on his cashmere coat and squinted at his Rolex. “You’ve probably got a ton of paperwork before your first appointment.”
Sarcasm? He had to realize clients with any sense would cancel. Those without sense simply wouldn’t show up.
But his easy-out tempted Quinn, and she said, “I swear I leave two papers on my desk overnight, and there are ten the next morning.”
He gave her a wan smile. “Ain’t it the truth? That’s why I went in at six this morning. Wanted a head start on the end-of-the month reports. Pierce is a stickler for detail, you know.”
Beneath the bluster, he sounded scared and lonely and sad. Was he crying? Was Michael his only friend in the world?
Sleet was filling her chest cavity, shrinking her lungs, choking her. They walked toward the park entrance by unspoken agreement, their footsteps echoing on the brick path.
At least Quinn assumed they were walking toward the entrance. The fog disoriented her, made her extra cautious. Every step sent shivers up her legs and back. She was terrified he’d break the silence, force her to play act, pretend she wasn’t shallow enough to let his face bother her.
The truth caught her off guard. She exhaled. Her breath exploded in little silver puffs, triggering memories of ice skating and sledding with Michael on sunless winter days after school. So long ago. Heart aching, she felt as if she were watching a movie starring other children in another dimension.
She glanced at Rex from under her lashes. What kind of childhood memories did he have? Did she really want to know?
He slowed, stopping under a street lamp, his birthmark hidden by the slant of his hat. He kept his hands jammed in his coat pockets. “You do know, don’t you, Quinn, how indebted I'll always be...for your help in getting me the job with Pierce?”
She swallowed, stuffed her hands deeper into her pockets and fought down the temptation to wring her hands. Finally, they’d come to it. The reason she’d left her toasty office to freeze her butt off. She nodded. “I know.”
“Remember,” his voice vibrated with eagerness, “how you coached me?”
A favor to Michael.
“You counseled me on everything.” He breathed excitement, wonder, even, in each syllable. “From what aftershave to wear to what phrases to avoid during that first interview.”
“I remember.” Would she ever forget the images of dark, primitive Amazonian forests his heavy aftershave conjured—making her stomach lurch, her head ache?
“Your coaching’s why I got the job.”
Her back stiffened. “You got the job because you know computer systems inside out.”
Pierce had done neither of them any favors, of that she was positive.
“I didn’t steal that money.”
“Knowing Pierce, I can’t imagine he doesn’t have evidence.”
“Ssst.” Rex stamped his foot.
A wire in her brain tripped. In her head, she heard the hiss of a cape. She flinched, her whole body tensing.
“Evidence, proof, whatever you want to call it, can be manufactured,” Rex said as if speaking to an airhead. “People fall for lies and false documentation all the time.”
“Pierce isn’t people.” Ticked by his tone, her own edginess and the biting cold, she snapped out the words, rushing on in a hard, impersonal voice. “You said it. He's a stickler—”
“Yes, but let him leap to one of his famous conclusions, and you can forget persuading him to see anyone else’s viewpoint.”
The bitterness—understandable—still grated Quinn’s raw nerves. Damn, why couldn't she like this lonely, pathetic man?
“What viewpoint did you try to persuade him to see?” Her throat ached, so the question came out a croak.
“That someone else is guilty.”
Quinn stifled a groan. Ask a stupid question... She bit her tongue. Asking “who” simply compounded her stupidity and fueled Rex's antagonism. Sometimes, she wondered how much Michael had told him over the years. On the other hand, did she want to know what her brother had told someone outside the family?
Her indecision didn’t deter Rex. He made his point. “Pierce didn’t even pretend to listen. It was like telling him the world really is flat.”
“You mean it isn’t?” God, was her brain locked in stupid mode?
The approach of a city bus saved her from making a total fool of herself. Instead of pushing her under the wheels, Rex maneuvered her away from the curb. An island of diesel-infused warmth enveloped them. He held onto the brim of his hat, struggling against the bus’s backdraft. The tail lights disappeared, and he extended his hand.
“Thank you for coming. I hope Michael tells you every day how you do him proud.”
His sincerity stuck in Quinn’s conscience like a bayonet. Oh yeah, no doubt about it. Michael was certainly going to be proud of his big sister.
About as proud as she was of herself.
“I’d walk you to your office, but Pierce advised me to stay away from the building. Doesn't want me upsetting people. Thinks he rules the universe because he owns the whole damn block.”
Tears flooded Quinn’s throat, stopping speech for the second time that day. How would she feel if she and Rex changed places, and he left her alone like Humpty Dumpty—to pick up the pieces of her life?
“Well.” He dropped his hand. Nothing in his face or body language gave a hint he’d taken offense at her bad manners. “I’m sure I’ll see you at Baby Quinn's baptism.”
Whether it was the cold, congenital stupidity, or most likely guilt, Quinn blurted, “Since Pierce doesn’t rule the universe yet, let’s go back to my office. We'll strategize finding you a new job over coffee and a couple of Lamar’s.”
Chapter 3
Pierce tossed the weasel’s file back in his top drawer, scrubbed his eyes and pushed away from his desk.
Strange how facts didn't change. Now for the fun part. He took out his cell phone, dialed Quinn’s personal cell, caught Chatty Cathy, disconnected and immediately dialed the phone on her desk.
Her AVR picked up. He redialed her cell. She finally picked up on his third try to her d
esk phone.
“I’m in conference,” she said in her Miz In-Control Voice. “I’ll get back to you,”
“You know about Walker, don’t you?” Pierce opened the top drawer of his desk and fingered the file that contained the seeds for their bankruptcy.
“Yes.”
“Is he there now?” A red haze tinted Pierce’s vision.
“Yes.”
How could one word shrivel a man’s balls faster than a laser?
“If I charge in there on my white stallion and sweep you away for coffee, will you be eternally grateful?” Pierce imagined Quinn's frosty tone turning him into an ice sculpture, crashing onto his solid mahogany desk.
“I’m in conference.”
“Okay, scratch the eternally. I forgot you don’t appreciate small talk.” Or romantic gestures. “I expect too much.”
“Is it ‘conference’ that confuses you?”
“I’m coming down there.” He glanced at his watch. “Eleven minutes.”
“No!”
Keep it simple, Stupid. “Ten minutes, fifty-nine seconds.”
“I said—”
“If he’s still there,” Pierce slammed the drawer, “it will get ugly.”
His bad imitation of a tough TV-detective disgusted him so much he hung up, choking on the stench of testosterone. The smell permeated his office. Hung in the corners like smog.
Wired, he whipped through a dozen chair push-ups.
Hell, maybe testosterone poisoning explained why he'd repressed how much Quinn hated ultimatums. From the first time he’d thrown one at her, she’d come back at him, both barrels blazing.
“You know,” she hadn’t cracked a smile, “why men are like copiers?”
Arrogant male that he was, he’d said, “No, why?”
“You need them for reproduction...that’s about it.”
His desk phone rang, but he ignored it and came out of his chair. The mutual need for control had long ago destroyed their personal relationship, but until now, their need had never impinged on their professional dealings.
“Way to go, Pierce.” He stopped in front of a mirror in the bathroom. A face that would scare babies and pit bulls stared back at him. He leaned closer. Yep, sure enough. There was blood in his eye.
Taking the stairs down four floors boosted his adrenaline supply instead of depleting it. Random images of Quinn, superimposed by images of the weasel’s shock this morning, tumbled through Pierce’s head. Dammit, she had to see reason. Say no to Michael. Protect herself.
Walker ripped off little old ladies' savings accounts.
Firing the bastard was the right decision. The only decision.
Why couldn’t Quinn see that?
Because, Pierce answered himself, per St. Michael, the weasel’s practically an Alexander clansman. No way she’ll ever see he's a snake.
Not as long as she thinks you’re lower on the food chain than pond scum.
****
Pierce ignored the protests of Quinn’s office manager and stalked through her door, ready to beat Walker to a pulp.
Quinn raised her chin, but remained behind her desk. “You’re late.”
“Guilty as charged.” Luckily, there was no sign of Walker or he’d be guilty of murder.
The crown of her usually smooth, ash-blonde hair was frizzy. So she’d gone out of the building to meet the creep—despite the welt on her chin, the cut above her top lip, and the bruise around her left eye. Pierce clenched his hands at his sides. Had she told Michael about getting mugged?
Bet she doesn’t trust me enough to admit what I already know. Guts churning, he asked, “What happened to your face?”
“I had a facelift.”
“I figured it was something like that.” Pierce leaned against the wall, going for the casual body language, taking in the red splotches on her elegantly sexy throat. “Did you tell the weasel about the guy in the garage?”
“Why would I do that?”
He snapped his fingers. “Sorry, I forgot. Nothing scares you. You're a modern, self-reliant, independent—”
“Who’s not discussing the fluke in the garage.” She jutted her chin higher, but blood stained her throat and cheeks a harsh crimson. He pretended not to notice. “So what do you want, Pierce?
“You know what I want.” He wanted her to pretend his worry for her mattered. Pretend he’d find the guy who scared her in the garage. Pretend she knew he wanted her safe and happy.
This particular insight felt like a nail in his liver. Since it was nothing he intended sharing, he tried stalling. “I was late because my bum knee’s acting up.”
A lie. It was his heart acting up. Thumping too hard. Still aching, after four long years, for a kiss from Quinn.
Lips pursed, she locked eyes with him, her gray glare cold enough to freeze the lower regions of hell. “You don’t have a bum knee.”
“True. But speaking of bums—”
“Referring to yourself, are you?”
Another smooth segue shot down.
He moved closer to her desk. “Believe him or believe the evidence.”
“Evidence?” She tapped a yellow pencil in the middle of her desk. Pierce enjoyed the power jolt that looming over her gave him.
The pencil-tapping stopped. She lifted one eyebrow. “Facts, proof, whatever you want to call it, can be manufactured. People fall for lies and false—”
“That’s bull and you know it.” He wanted to shake her but knew he was too close to her as it was.
Tension between them snapped, crackled and popped. They stared at each other, eyes locked, two predators in the wild, ready to pounce at the slightest provocation. Hell, he wanted to pounce on her without provocation. Long ago, they’d played a game. Whoever blinked first decided where they’d make love. Memories of them in this office, on this desk he’d given her, pulled him into the past. His eyes burned. Did she remember?
Remember was Quinn's middle name. He felt her stare boring past his skull, past nerves, deep into his brain. The game had changed. They were professional colleagues now. She’d ripped their emotional relationship from her mind like a page from a calendar.
He blinked.
She stared.
Defeat tempted him to wink, but the strain around her eyes and mouth pushed him to maturity. He eased into the nearest chair and broke the deafening silence with a sigh. The extra oxygen helped. He said, “One of my hotshots got suspicious a couple of weeks ago. He told two auditors.”
The knot in Pierce’s stomach hardened. Now came the tricky part.
The pre-dawn rehearsal in front of his bathroom mirror faded. To hell with softening the statement as he’d originally planned. But he did cross his legs and swing his foot.
“The auditors confirmed—positively—last Thursday that Rex Walker’s been manipulating accounts at Plaza Reserve Bank for the past eleven months. I assume he told you how much money’s miss—”
“Last Thursday?” Quinn whispered the question, adding in the same lethal tone, “Why’d you wait until now to tell me? I thought we were—”
“Friends?” Pierce interrupted. “Exactly why I didn’t tell you. My lawyers said wait until I reached a decision. Quinn,” he leaned forward. “I only decided last night.”
“Did you stand next to him while he packed?”
“Of course not. Security handled that. Stop being melodrama—” He changed his mind. “Stop biting my head off and think. The guy stole a cool five million bucks—a little more loose change than I usually carry in my pocket.”
“Are you bringing charges?” She reverted to the whisper, her eyes huge, all pupil.
“Not if I can keep it quiet. I’ve already repaid the bank.”
“But he swears—” She held Pierce’s gaze, then looked away.
“He’s lying. No one framed him. He did it.” Pierce planted both feet on the carpet where they’d made love more times than he could remember. He tensed his leg muscles and started to stand, but a sharp pain pressed a
gainst his lungs, slowing his breathing and bringing his understanding into clear focus.
No use going to her. Touching her. Kissing her.
The way back to her had vanished long ago.
“I know about his father.”
“Do you know why he believes his father abandoned him and his mother?” She twisted the small pearl earring in her left ear as if the question was rhetorical and not a trap.
The edge to her tone made Pierce think twice about expressing his theory of paternal abandonment. Big mistake, though, to say he didn’t give a damn. If he was smart, he’d keep his mouth shut. His head felt like the blood in his brain had reached full boil.
“I know silence is the better part of valor, but I’ll point this out anyway,” he said. “Your father also deserted you and Michael and your mom.” She flinched, but Pierce drove his point home. “Yet none of you—not a single one of you—has broken the trust people have placed in you.”
He shifted his crossed legs and placed one hand over the other in a strategic position he hoped would deflect the lightning bolts blazing in her eyes and aimed right at his balls.
“That’s...below the belt.” Her chin quivered, and she bit her bottom lip.
“True.” He passed her a white silk handkerchief and winced when she blew her nose into it with the gusto of an elephant with packed sinuses.
“I’m sorry.” Hackneyed, but sincere considering she’d turned the big guilt guns on him with her smoky, hurt whispers and trembling chin and wet eyes.
The rules according to Quinn Alexander hadn’t—apparently—changed in four years. Mention of her father bordered on pinching babies and kicking puppies. She absolved Pierce of his breach with the barest of nods, touching a raw nerve that made him forget caution.
“Dammit, we’re wasting time feeling sorry for this sociopath.”
“He can’t help being ugly, Pierce. Any more than you can help being handsome as a movie star.”
“Yes, but I wasn’t born handsome.” Moving his head from side to side, he patted his hair. “Hair mousse turned my life around. Without it, I’d cry myself to sleep at night.”
Laughter gurgled in the back of his throat. The day he used that gunk on his hair was the day they laid him out in a coffin.
Unraveled Page 3
