“Bought it three years ago...” He stopped before he inserted his foot in his mouth and told her it hadn’t healed the cracks in his heart. “I bought red instead of black because red tights are flashier.”
“Smart.”
Snow hit the windshield as soon as they cleared the underground garage, but the ’Vette’s wipers flicked it off with quiet precision. The precision failed to impress Quinn, Pierce noticed.
Wipers...a guy thing.
They whipped onto Southwest Trafficway and made a right at the foot of the Forty-Seventh Street hill, accelerating through the light and up over the top despite the slush. Quinn gasped and he swallowed the impulse to yell, Eeeeeeha! A few feet below the crest of the hill, two SUVs, abandoned, covered with snow, straddled the curb under the EMERGENCY SNOW ROUTE sign.
“Hot dogs.” Pierce tapped the brakes and shifted again going down the long, treacherous street. The ’Vette held as steady as if they rode on the streets of Miami.
He watched Quinn in his peripheral vision. She released her death-hold on the handle, dialed her cell phone, listened and grimaced, reminding him of his futile efforts to reach her this morning.
“Isn’t technology a marvel?” She threw him a glance and snapped the cell cover shut.
“When it doesn’t turn on you.”
“That happened this morning. Luce called Michael repeatedly on his way to work. No signal...” Quinn punched REDIAL, sighed, hung up.
“Find some music,” Pierce invited, hoping to distract her for two minutes from saving the world. “You should find at least one CD that’s not Country.”
He crossed his fingers. She hated Country.
She shook her head. “Ten minutes to my house. I like the quiet.”
In other words, remember your promise to drive and say nothing. Keep your mouth shut and don’t disturb her by yakking.
“I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.” Her tone sounded genuine, but she stared out her window as if she’d never seen snow.
“Hey! I’m tough. Did I cry once during your kangaroo inquisition?”
“Your bravery was commendable.”
Her failure to remind him the inquisition was off-limits surprised him.
Before he could tell her he was pulling her chain, she said, “I know I sound as if I should cut back on caffeine, but I don’t think I can manage choosing a CD. My mind’s flying off in a dozen different directions.”
“Your car.” He flipped on the high beams and searched for a rip in the snow-curtain alerting him to other idiots driving in a storm straight out of the movies.
“That’s the least of it.” Her tone was flat, barely audible.
“The guy in the garage?” Mounds of snow, recently shoveled and piled on the shoulder, narrowed the curving stretch of Highway 50.
“Forgot all about him.”
“Uh-huh.” Pierce took his eyes off the road.
“A fluke.” She wiggled her fingers dismissively. “Nothing.”
“According to Steve Cutter—”
“Ah-ah-ah. You swore.” The glow from the dash softened her scrapes and bruises, but even in the poor light, she looked so tired and so vulnerable, Pierce wanted to pull over, take her in his arms and make more promises he couldn’t keep.
“Sorry.” He slowed crossing Brush Creek, mentally cursed his stupidity, figured what the hell, and decided he could always come back to Michael. “Gotta be Rex Walker.”
“Bingo.” She wagged a finger. “Off limits, remember?”
“You can’t save the world, Quinn.” He rolled the taste of her name in his mouth like fine wine.
“I know. I know. But I feel sor—” She exhaled, then whispered, “OooomyGod.”.
He tromped the brakes. The ’Vette’s rear end fishtailed, then straightened. His heart tripped over his vocal cords, choking him. He croaked, “What’s wrong?”
A smile lit her face, and her gloved fingertip grazed his nose. “Look!”
The snow seemed to slack off enough for him to take in a shimmering white blanket stretching over the fifteenth green of the Kansas City Country Club. A thin winter moon hung like a mirage, filtered through the falling snow. Pierce stopped the ’Vette and let the powerful engine idle. He’d never seen Quinn lovelier or more desirable.
She pressed her nose against the window like a child. His heart ached. Quinn was like a child in some ways—filled with wonder and convinced most people had hearts as soft as hers. How had he ever been such a fool...
“You dressed for a short walk?” He didn’t trust himself any longer in their magical igloo. “It’s pretty nippy.” God, he couldn’t believe he was yammering about the cold when what he really wanted was to get her blood boiling.
“I can trudge across the tundra in this coat.” She was already scrambling out the door.
Pierce had to hustle, but he made it around to her side of the car without falling on his ass. He took her elbow. They stepped into an ankle-deep drift. She yipped but plowed forward. They were panting and laughing and shushing each other by the time they reached the hedge bordering the golf course. He spread a couple of low pyracantha branches, and she slipped between them like a princess passing through golden doors. Lights from The Plaza—over a mile away—reflected an aurora borealis of hazy pinks and subdued purples. The kaleidoscope of colors and patterns bounced off the fresh whiteness. Snow muffled the silence.
Quinn exhaled, blowing out a circle of silvered air. “Michael and I used to go sledding on nights like this.”
“I bet you pulled him most of the time.” Pierce hooked a damp curl behind her ear.
Her eyes widened, alight with memories. “Pulling was the most fun.”
The blood in his veins was scalding. Like the lone survivors on earth, they reached for each other. He had no idea who made the next move. What’s more, he didn’t give a damn. All that mattered was that Quinn lifted her face at the same time he lowered his head—first to brush her parted lips, then to kiss them hard when she didn’t pull away or slug him.
Desire sucked him into a mindless vortex of falling snowflakes.
“God—” Something whizzed over his head. Instinctively, he shoved Quinn away from him.
She squawked and flapped her arms like a wild goose separated from the rest of the flock. “What the heck happened?” She tilted her face up at him.
“Beats me.” Enjoying her closeness, Pierce planted his feet and peered over her head.
A high, whistling sound grabbed his attention. He tackled Quinn instinctively, then scrambled to his feet. The second potshot connected squarely with the side of his head. Stars cha-chaaed between snowflakes. He grunted. His legs gave way. He hit the ground hard enough his back teeth clacked.
“That was loaded,” Quinn called.
“With titanium boulders.” Pierce sat up, touched his temple and examined the tip of his glove. “No blood.”
Quinn crabbed toward him and swiped snow out of his eyes. Having her so close made his head spin. Or maybe it was having his dinosaur brain on the fritz. Whichever, he knew his mission. Get on his feet. Go after his assailant. Take out the bastard.
The pep talk failed to solve his major problem. He couldn’t stand. His boots kept slipping on the ice-crusted snow. Quinn whispering his name, patting his shoulder, nursemaiding him further stymied his good intentions.
A surge of disgust at his wimpiness drove him to lurch upright. He wobbled. His chest heaved as if a rhinoceros had gored him, but he fantasized receiving a medal for bravery.
While he grinned goofily, Quinn clipped him behind the knees, yelling, “Duck!”
He bellowed and nosedived into the snow. He bucked her off him and came up sputtering for air. Two feet away, a snowball dropped short of his aching head. Arms and feet flailing, they scuffled and grunted, each intent on winning. A barrage of snowballs fell around them like showers of meteors. They huddled together and lay absolutely still.
Zing. Zing. Zzzing. Three more snowballs cut through the
cold air, whizzing over them.
“Stay down.” Pierce raised his head and swiveled it from side to side.
“What’s he doing?” Quinn raised her head even with his.
Near where they’d slipped through the fence, their attacker, dressed in white ski pants and parka, head and face covered by a white ski mask, packed another handful of snow.
Pierce narrowed his eyes and brought The Abominable Snowman into focus. The bastard fired three speed balls with uncanny precision. Swearing, Pierce ducked, shielding Quinn from the next volley. A pause in the action gave him the perfect offense. He leaped up with such a blood curdling shriek he imagined himself a blue-painted Celtic warrior. He slowed for a fraction of a second halfway across the golf course.
Why hadn’t the neighbors called the cops? This was not a neighborhood tolerant of racket on the golf course. One of Fairway’s finest should appear any minute and nab Ole Abominable. Until then, Pierce would play hero.
Huffing and puffing, he changed course—intuitively heading for the stand of trees on the opposite side of the greenway. If the bastard made the trees...Pierce ignored his heart roaring in his ears and ran as if he could see. He lost momentum as he stooped and grabbed a handful of snow. The cold burned through his leather gloves, but he packed the missile on the run, zigzagging toward where he expected the phantom.
It was hard to tell, but Pierce thought he was gaining. Or maybe the phantom was slowing. Pierce pumped his arms and followed the ragged breathing of his unseen attacker. Was it his imagination, or was the snow letting up? How much longer could the race continue?
Abommie pivoted, lobbed a pitch, disappeared. Testosterone fumes spurred Pierce. A copse of trees rose from the whiteness like black ghosts. He sprinted toward the total blackness yawning past the trees. Without warning, his ankle turned. He grunted, stopped, and leaned over his knees. He kneaded the stitch in his side and gasped for breath. An impulse to touch the blood running from his head wound took hold, but Quinn’s shriek overrode everything else.
He raised his head, and the pressure squashing his brains exploded. His whole skull throbbed. He tried to draw air into his lungs, but they burned too much to expand. His feet felt like snowshoes. He watched—in stunned fascination—as Quinn hurtled toward him.
“You should’ve...” She skidded to a stop. “...tried out for the majors.”
“Bas-bastard got away.” Pierce groaned.
“He had a big start.” She threw Pierce’s arm over her shoulder like an Amazon helping a pygmy. She staggered under his hundred and ninety-seven pounds.
His pulse shot up. “Take it easy, okay?”
“Give me any trouble, and I’ll sling you across my back and carry you to the car.”
He pressed a knuckle against his bottom lip, then said, “That I’d pay to see.”
“Tsk, tsk. You’d force me into such an unladylike activity?” She jostled him a little, and he cursed.
Macho Celt, he jerked off his gloves and touched the back of his head, then jumped as black dots tap-danced in front of his eyes.
“Stop that.” She grabbed his sticky fingers and gently brushed at the spot where his brains were undoubtedly seeping out. “You’ve got a goose egg bigger than Rhode Island.”
For a second, he stupidly fought with her. His whole body twitched with the urge to examine the knot again. “I beg your pardon.” He swayed against her, figuring she wouldn’t hit an injured man and went for pathetic. “It’s twice as big as Rhode Island. And it’d feel a hundred percent better if you kissed it.”
Her guffaw lacked any essence of elegance. “I’m freezing. I can barely move my lips.”
He traced his thumb across her bottom lip. “Kiss me and get lips hotter than matches.”
She slipped out of his embrace so fast he thought he’d imagined her arms around him. “Sounds dangerous. Like I could set us on fire.”
“That’s the general idea.”
“How about if I drive you to my house and examine the holes in your head instead?”
****
The snow fell faster and harder leaving Quinn breathless as she half-carried, half-dragged Pierce toward the hedge. Constant checks over her shoulder slowed their progress and wasted time. Their attacker couldn’t see them any better than they could see him, but they’d never survive another sneak assault.
“You’re not the first person who’s wanted to examine my head,”
“Uh-huh. I suppose scientists are lining up from around the world.”
“Damn right.”
His almost inaudible slur scared her, but when he handed over his car keys without a murmur, her stomach contracted. Did he have a concussion? Should she take him to the ER?
Heart fluttering, she maneuvered him into the passenger’s seat. He complied so easily with her order to lie still and close his eyes that she kept sneaking looks at the rise and fall of his chest. She held her own breath during the drive to her cul-de-sac.
The Corvette’s headlights swept past the Neighborhood Watch sign and picked up the black Jeep parked at her end of the cul-de-sac. Damn. Why did teenagers neck in cars when most parents allowed kids to listen to music or do homework or play video games in their own bedrooms?
Pierce groaned and Quinn forgot everything but getting him inside. Automatically, she dragged her fingers across the soft leather of his visor without finding her garage door opener.
Dammit. She bit back a scream. The minute he’d suggested driving her home, she stopped using her brain. She’d left it—along with the stupid remote—in her car.
Clumps of snowflakes clung to the windshield like fine lace. God, she soooo did not want to move. “Stay put,” she said. “I left the garage opener in my car.”
“What?” He sounded groggy and unfocused.
Impatience sliced through her fleeting good intentions, but guilt won out. The man had a head injury for God’s sake. She softened her tone. “I have to open the door with the keypad.”
“Huhhh?”
Quinn doubted he understood how her mind was plodding along. “We’ll go inside.”
“Hmmmm.”
Was he laughing? God save him if he was faking his head injury. Anger knotted her stomach. She shot him a death glare. He didn’t move a muscle.
Which in itself was suspicious. Suspicious enough she wanted to wring his neck.
“Okay,” she snapped. “So I don’t want my neighbors to notice how late you leave.”
Or, if he didn’t leave.
****
Quinn peered at the white layer covering her driveway and tried to work up courage to step outside. Pierce’s eyes remained closed, his body stiff, his breathing shallow. The blood had congealed on his left temple in an ugly, wet blob. She cracked the car door and pretzeled out. Her feet slid in opposite directions. Like a whale on ice skates, she grabbed the edge of the open door. Her ankle twisted as she fought to avoid falling on her butt. She took a tentative step. Her ankle wobbled, but she held onto the side mirror and inched forward, head down against the driving wind. She imagined backtracking, getting in the car, taking Pierce to the hospital.
The man was the poster boy for hardheaded, but the snowballs had done definite damage. He was hurt—maybe seriously hurt. He could require professional help.
But on a night like this with the first big storm of the season, normally careful people forgot how to drive. They plowed into everything from stalled cars to telephone poles and ended up filling the ERs. St. Luke’s was on The Plaza, but it could take hours before a nurse or doctor or intern even looked at Pierce.
What if Michael calls?
Shivering, fingers numb, she removed her gloves and stared at the keypad—her mind blank as a TV turned off. Dammit, what was wrong with her? She knew the code. She knew the damn code. She knew... She swallowed, tried a combination, cancelled it and felt dumb, dumb, dumb. Closing her eyes, she let her fingers work the keypad.
The smooth, nearly imperceptible hum of a motor shot through he
r like electricity. Her eyes snapped open. She laughed too loudly. The overhead lights brought the chaos in her pottery studio into stark relief, but for one fleeting moment, Quinn saw the underground garage in Pierce’s building, heard the hiss of a cape, smelled cinnamon breath. Her own breath caught.
She blinked. The unfired pots remained static. Her pulse slowed. Reason resurfaced.
Feeling ridiculous, she returned to the car on trembling legs. When she whispered Pierce’s name, his eyelids fluttered, but his eyes remained closed. He lay so still she worried he’d lost consciousness. Her pulse stuttered. In that instant, she reconsidered backing into the street and heading straight for St. Luke’s.
Later. She drove the Corvette into the garage. If he needs to go.
Which he won’t. She fought her dread, reassuring Pierce he was fine, urging him to open his eyes and talk to her. She turned off the ignition, then went behind the car to open his door. His breathing was ragged, and his eyelids trembled as she eased him out of the front seat—careful to avoid bumping her kiln. Between starts and stops, quiet moans from him and coaxing from her, they inched away from the car. She punched the interior keypad, automatically checking over her shoulder.
Headlights off, the black Jeep rolled past her drive.
“Yessss,” she said under her breath. The teenage driver must’ve realized she’d seen him and figured she’d call the police if he hung around much longer.
Pierce’s dead weight made her forget everything. Her ankle ached from supporting him and from waiting for what felt like hours before he managed to lurch up onto the step separating the garage from the mud room. The trip of a few feet felt like a marathon. They shambled into the kitchen. Despite her zigs and zags around knobs and handles, Pierce banged his hip on the table. He yelped and fell into a chair, dragging her down with him.
His pupils had shrunk to glassy pinpoints. His fingers grazed his head. “Oww...”
Chest contracting, Quinn caught his fingers, squeezed them, stroked his cheek. “I’ll make it feel better.”
“Feel better.” He sounded so much like a bewildered little boy, she felt like crying. She’d never seen Pierce vulnerable. The man she knew was too cool. Too cocky. Too in-control to show a side of himself that was anything but tough and hard-edged.
Unraveled Page 6
