“But I need to pay you the money.” She stopped and pointed over his shoulder. “We’re six or seven feet from the lobby door. The pavement slopes up. I don’t want you falling on your butt after your head injury.”
“Considerate of you to warn me.”
“That’s me. Miz Considerate.”
Somewhere in the garage, a motor roared, then quieted. Any minute the car would come past them.
Quinn tasted the oil and gas fumes. “I am going to the bank.”
“All right. All right.” Pierce threw his hands in the air. “Do you have to walk? Or can I at least drive you?”
“As long as you can get me there by four—”
“Yessss!” He leaped in the air and clicked his heels together.
****
“This is me eating crow.” Pierce held the steering wheel with his left hand, pretended to scoop food into his mouth with his right hand and hoped for a smile from Quinn.
Her laugh—a sound he’d always loved—rang with fun. “How are the feathers?”
“Tough.” She laughed again, and he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “Aren’t you going to say you told me snails move faster than the traffic?”
“Finish your crow first. I don’t want you to have indigestion.”
“Indigestion is a natural state after your near-mugging experience.”
She groaned and rolled her eyes. Exactly the response he’d expected. Still, he enjoyed the feeling he’d caught her off guard and pressed ahead while he could.
“Indigestion is what I had after my conversation with Steve Cutter. Who, by the way, can’t explain why the security cameras didn’t work yesterday morning but do now.” Confident the gridlock wouldn’t inch forward any time soon, Pierce stopped peering past his windshield wipers and locked eyes with Quinn. “Tony’s coming up blank too. He’s on The Plaza grilling the security company.”
“Well, if I emitted less electricity early in the morning, I’m sure the cameras would’ve operated fine.”
Pierce risked electrocution and took her hand. “You should sleep in late—so the world doesn’t short out.”
She squeezed his fingers and threw him a thousand-watt-smile and sent his heart into defibrillation. “Right now, my brain’s about to short out from over-thinking that garage soap opera. Rehashing it isn’t my idea of playing hooky.”
“I suppose the same goes for discussing our ski-mask friend.”
“Oh, my gosh!” Quinn widened her eyes. “You are teachable.”
“We always come back to who’s in control, don’t we?” He wiggled his eyebrows, hoping to take the sting out his question.
“Always. So here we are. Two control freaks stopped in their tracks by gridlock.”
The pressure in his chest eased. “Do we have a Plan B?”
Frankly, he didn’t think much of Plan B, but for once he kept his opinions to himself. Limping probably would get her the four blocks to the bank faster than idling in the Gomobile. No doubt she’d arrive frozen stiff. No doubt she’d then veto a romantic ride in a horse-drawn carriage and they’d forget the hooky idea altogether. Unless he thought of something else.
At a momentary loss for other hooky-options, he remained adamant on one point. “No jay walking. This weather requires x-ray vision.”
“We agree. I’ll get out at the next light.”
His jaw dropped. Had she ever acquiesced to one of his suggestions so quickly? “Are you pulling my leg?”
“I’m being flexible. See how flexible I am?”
“Flexible enough to give me a kiss before you get out?”
The logical part of him expected a rebuff—a sigh. A head-toss. A look. So, when she brushed his cheek with her warm lips, he damned near rear ended the Lexus in front of them.
She whispered, “I’m looking forward to playing hooky with you.”
****
Snow crashed down around Quinn like an avalanche. She trudged the last two blocks to the bank, praying she didn’t trip over an invisible trash can or collide with another fool when Rex called and started speaking as soon as she said hello.
“Are you eating? You sound like you’ve got a mouthful of mush.”
“Bingo.” Edgy about snow-blind drivers jumping the buried curb, she had zero tolerance for wisecracks. She pulled the wool scarf away from her mouth and asked, “How’s Michael? Did Luce go to the hospital?”
“You’ve got questions, I’ve got answers.” A buzzing undercurrent of power rode his attempt at humor. “Thanks for the interview mañana. Give me facts about Edward Roslyn.”
“Give me facts about Michael, and I’ll tell you everything you should know about Edward.” Inhaling snow with each word she uttered, Quinn wasn’t sure if she sounded hard-nosed or stuffy-nosed.
Too bad for Rex if he expected her to have Michael’s soft heart.
“Okay, okay. Oooookay. I suppose your concern for your baby brother trumps my concern about eating next month.”
His whine grated her nerves like a dentist’s drill. Hang up. She bit her lip and let the fantasy slip away. He had answers she needed. “What about inducing labor?”
“I talked Michael out of it. For now. Luce’s too terrified.”
A sudden wind slammed Quinn in the face. She gasped, wiped her eyes and plodded forward. The bank closed in nine minutes. No one would wait a pico-second for a no-show in this storm. “Maybe I should call Luce.”
“Why? You’ve never had labor induced. You’ve never even had a kid.”
Quinn flinched. She tried to imagine speaking so bluntly to Rex, pointing out he’d never had people look at him without recoiling. Never known a woman—except maybe his mother—who told him he was handsome. Never looked in a mirror and smiled at his reflection. Biting her bottom lip, she shook so hard she dropped the damn cell phone.
It sank like a rock sucked into quicksand. Millions of snowflakes swirled around the nearest street lamp, reducing its incandescence to a weak, whitish-blue halo. She stood stunned, muscles locked, mind frozen.
“Here you go.” A man dressed in black emerged from the shadows, scooped up the phone and pressed it into her hand.
She reeled backwards. Fought for balance. Struggled to see the man’s face, saw the masked face in the underground garage. Her heart kicked a couple of ribs. Her lungs deflated like punctured balloons, but she lunged at a black sleeve. She caught a handful of snow.
The Samaritan was gone, lost behind the solid white curtain.
In the middle of her anxiety attack, the faint scent of spicy cologne made her freezing nose twitch. Her lungs shrank, making her breathing ragged. She took a small, hesitant step toward the smell, shielding her eyes against the thick flakes. Snow had already filled his footprints. The high beams on several cars crawling toward her cast ghostly streams of light through the white veil, but it was too late. He was gone.
Gone. The word relooped through her brain as she pivoted, mumbling incoherently.
“What?” Rex yelled. “I can’t understand you. Speak up.”
“I’ll. Call. You. Back.”
The marble bank building rose out of the murk like an ancient monolith—ablaze with lights. The heavy glass doors weighed a ton and her feet slipped in knee-deep drifts. She entered the lobby, shivering, rubbing her gloved hands together, cutting her eyes past the guard to the large wall clock. Four minutes before four.
For a second, she swayed with relief and her skin crackled. She’d made it. Despite Mother Nature. Despite Rex. Despite her jumpy nerves.
The husky guard said something and she laughed. The sound echoed in the lobby—empty except for her and him. He narrowed his beady eyes, focused on space behind her, and frowned. Her heart lurched. A glance over her shoulder confirmed no one had followed her inside. By the time she finished informing the guard she had an appointment, Douglas Prescott, 2nd VP for Customer Services was bustling toward her, his pale brows knotted together, his chicken lips set in a thin line as snow dripped off her, onto the marble floor.
>
Douglas made no small talk about the weather or about her well-being or about the upcoming holiday. He led her to his glass-enclosed office. He went behind his desk, opened a drawer and handed her a plain white envelope.
“This is a rather large check, Quinn.” He pushed his rimless glasses higher on his long, straight nose as if he’d stated a profundity instead of the obvious.
Stating the obvious wasn’t illegal. She flicked her eyes toward his desk clock, a pricy reproduction of an astrolabium timepiece with a miniature globe of the earth rotating around a brass sun. “Large for what, Douglas?”
“You’ve never made a withdrawal this large. Or a deposit.”
“I’ve been saving up.” She pressed her knees together and mentally talked herself out of biting off his head. She didn’t need Douglas recounting her meltdown to his Thanksgiving high-society dinner guests.
Hyper-aware he was leaning toward her like the brass sun, trying to pull her into his orbit, she slipped the envelope into her coat pocket. “You’re closing early so I won’t keep you.”
“Did you park downstairs?” He pulled his coat off a brass rack.
“No, I figured it was full.” She reached for the doorknob and smiled at her illogical lie.
“Do you need a ride to your car?” His tone held all the enthusiasm of a mortician greeting attendees at a funeral.
“I’m meeting someone.” She couldn’t bring herself to say thank you.
“It’s brutal out there.” Apparently unaware of his hollow observation, he followed her into the desolate lobby.
“I love snow. I dressed for the Arctic.” She spared a second to consider changing her mind, throwing herself on the pompous jerk’s mercy and asking if she could wait in the lobby.
The guard straightened as they approached and unlocked the front door at Douglas’s signal. Too late now to do anything but leave.
She raised her coat collar to her ears, wished both men Happy Thanksgiving and stepped into the storm, feeling light headed. How easily she’d wiped out a million dollars from her ROTH account and closed all savings accounts and borrowed every penny of equity in her house.
For Michael, I’d do it again, she thought.
****
Quinn stood in the bank’s doorway, stamped her numb feet, hugged her waist and pressed her cell against her stinging ear. Her breath came out in silver puffs. C’mon, Pierce. C’mon.
The phone rang and rang and rang. Why didn’t he answer? Had he been in an accident? Her heart stuttered. Pacing a few steps away from the doorway, she scanned the blurry, oncoming headlights. Bullets of snow fanned out horizontally, blinding her.
Dammit. She’d never recognize her own car in this weather. Would she recognize the Corvette? On the fifth ring, she hung up, unwilling to leave a message. She wasn’t sure she could talk without her voice cracking like a damsel in distress.
Pierce was fine. She was just edgy because she’d retraced her steps and found the guard had moved away from the bank’s front windows. His absence, the empty sidewalk, and near zero-visibility left her feeling like the last planetary survivor. Lights aglow in the lobby reinforced the fact she was standing out in the cold looking in. She fought the impulse to press her nose against the icy glass. Forget the guard showing pity and letting her back inside.
The sensation someone was watching her skittered down her spine like icicles. She turned warily—nose alert to the scent of cinnamon, neck muscles twanging, heart ringing in her ears. She clutched her cell phone and saw, again, the man in black coming toward her. She took a step backward, bumping against the bank’s front door. She opened her mouth, ready to scream. Snow gusted upward, but no one stepped through it. Disgust froze the bleat stuck in her raw throat.
Stop acting like a Gothic heroine, the voice of reason whispered over the BA-bum, BA-bum of her heart. Millions of men wore black. This one hadn’t even smelled like cinnamon. Walking in snow on The Plaza wasn’t like climbing stairs to the haunted attic or tiptoeing down to the spooky basement. Shivering, she flipped open her cell and debated calling Pierce again. She really needed to hear a voice besides the one babbling in her head.
The first notes of “Moonlight Sonata” made her smile. “ESP.”
The idea that she and Pierce communicated via a mystical connection felt so good she almost picked up the call without checking the LED. When she saw Rex’s number, she indulged in kicking snow over her head twice before she answered, trying to sound gracious.
Gracious was hard to do with her frozen tongue. She asked, “Can you hear me better?”
“I heard you fine before.” So he felt no need to sound gracious.
“You were telling me about Michael.” She returned to the bank’s doorway and stared at the lighted lobby.
“Cut right to the chase, don’t you, Quinn? For all you know I’m in a ditch right now. While you’re snug as a bug.”
The vision of him in a ditch didn’t come, and she couldn’t help it, she laughed. “Nooo.”
“Snug enough you can laugh at me. A laugh’s my thanks for doing you a favor.”
“Stop right there!” Her scalp tingled. “I asked you not to meet Michael.”
“Michael’s my best friend. We’re like brothers. I thought helping him—the way you’re helping me—was the right thing to do.”
His whine ticked her off almost as much as his attempt at guilting her. “Thanks.”
“Brrrr,” he said. “I’d get more heat from an Alaska ice floe than from that thank-you.”
“Newsflash. Forget heartfelt after poking me with a guilt stick. I’ll call Michael—”
“Not smart.”
His arrogance pushed her over the edge. “Not smart to call my own brother, but smart to listen to you whine? Don’t think so. Drive safely.”
She hung up and kicked up more snow and the memory of last night’s snowball ambush unfolded in slow mo. “Thanks, Rex,” she muttered, refusing to admit she—not he—had triggered the memory.
Chapter 10
Stomping and humming in front of the bank did zip to keep Quinn warm. A couple of smart-ass comebacks raised her blood to a boil.
Fuck off hummed in her head. She’d never used the phrase in her life.
Ever the slow learner. She wrapped the scarf across her mouth, walked two steps—smacking the cell phone in one gloved palm then in the other—pivoted and shuffled back to the bank’s door.
Calm down. Calm down. She had to calm down. Talking to Michael in such a snit would only ratchet up the pressure he’d lived under for too long. His phone call yesterday morning attested to how close he walked on the edge. He had her number. He’d call.
When he was ready. When he finished dealing with Luce’s hysterics—especially if she suspected he’d met with Rex.
Quinn massaged the invisible wire slicing her lungs and struggled to breathe normally, to focus on Michael instead of on Luce. She exhaled through her mouth. Poor Michael. His drop-dead gorgeous wife had a tongue like a razor—and she rarely hesitated to sharpen it on anyone who came within striking distance.
Anyone was usually Michael. Not that he was a saint...
A howling wind came at her and for a moment she felt swept up in a sea of whiteness. Her lungs shrank to the size of peanuts. She sucked in the icy air, clearing her head. Rex was right. Definitely not smart to call Michael. Not when her own tongue was shredding the roof of her mouth into slivers sharper than poisoned spears.
Exhaling, she refused to peer into the deep shadows. “Stalkers don’t stalk in blizzards.”
She pushed up her coat sleeve. How many decades had she stood talking to herself and teetering on the edge of hysteria? Mist shrouded the face of her watch, but her cell lit up.
“Where are you?” she yelled, so eager to hear Pierce’s voice she forgot to say hello.
“In a left-turn queue going straight to hell...” A blast of horns drowned out the rest.
“Where, exactly? I’ll hike over.” She moved from under t
he bank’s overhang to the mound of snow she assumed was the curb and peered toward the opposite end of The Plaza. “I’m freezing,” she yelled. “Where are you?”
“Are you outside? What the hell’s wrong with Dougie Prescott?” The pitch of Pierce’s voice rose, vibrating hard and fast. “That guy has the brain of of an eggplant—you see why I don’t want him—or any banker—to find out about their missing money?”
Between shivers, Quinn said, “He offered me a ride. I refused. Said I have anti-freeze in my veins...hinted I’m burning up.”
“Hold that thought. Forget walking. I’m across from Pinstripes.”
Quinn hunched her shoulders and jammed her dead fingers in her pockets. She stayed as close to the buildings as possible. “Pinstripes isn’t that far for a former Girl Scout.”
Head down, Quinn plodded through the drifting snow, blinded by the whiteout. Dim Bulb could be slaloming two blocks ahead of her. Or two feet. Or two inches.
Pierce interrupted the unbidden image. “If I’d suggested an IOU until after Thanksgiving, would you have felt compelled to repay me today?”
“In hindsight, I think so. Probably.” Her lungs, as inflexible as frozen turkeys, shrank.
Forget Dim Bulb. He was a fluke. A fluke. A homeless guy off his meds.
“Thanks for the probably. If you’d said absolutely—well, let’s just say you salved my fragile male ego.”
Remembering Rex’s hurt feelings, she said, “Your ego’s not fragile.”
“Repeat that over supper tonight, okay?”
“Maybe,” she said lamely. If she survived to eat supper.
“I’m stuck here till—an ambulance arrives. Want me to whisper X-rated suggestions in your ear? Turn the air so hot you’ll rip off your clothes and run naked through the snow?”
Snow slithered down her expensive, silk-lined boots, but Quinn laughed, her heartbeat slowing, images of Dim Bulb fading. “Remember that fragile ego, Buster.”
“That a challenge?”
The heat in his whisper promised a hint of what she could expect after he undressed her. Anticipation shook her. “I’d throw down my glove but my fingers would freeze.”
Unraveled Page 12
