Unraveled

by Allie Hawkins

  So, contrary to Pierce’s logical conclusion, Mrs. Walker wasn’t dead. The knife in Quinn’s heart cut something vital. She held her breath.

  Rex gave the knife another twist. “That’s why I’ve got to start a new job right away. I can’t afford taking care of my mother on less than a hundred twenty-five K a year.”

  One hun—? Her mind stuttered. Before his interview with Edward, he’d said ninety-five. He must feel pretty cocky about how well the meeting had gone.

  “Speaking of mothers,” Rex was saying, “I was surprised Sarah headed to San Francisco. I figured she’d stick around this Thanksgiving—even if this is the year you and Michael do your own thing.”

  Damn. He’d managed to bring the subject back to Thanksgiving. Quinn heard the trap snap shut.

  In a bright voice—reminiscent of TV commercials for Alzheimer’s meds—she said, “Mom thinks life’s simpler for Michael if he and Luce don’t have to juggle Thanksgiving with two different families.”

  “Someday I hope I’ve got that problem.” Rex adopted the same TV-commercial perkiness.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. “Well, this year, why don’t you come to my bash?”

  “Gosh, Quinn, I can’t tell you how much this means to me.” He spoke fast—afraid, maybe, she’d recant the invitation. “I wasn’t looking forward to Thanksgiving alone.”

  Stomach rolling, instantly regretful, Quinn held onto the desk. Watch out, Alice, I’m right behind you, she thought, seeing herself falling down the rabbit’s hole.

  “What time?” Rex asked, the upbeat note in his voice more pronounced.

  “The caterer arrives around two. Most people show up between four thirty and five.”

  “You’ve made my day, Quinn.”

  Did she have to tell him again not to come before four thirty?

  “The lighting ceremony begins at seven, so come at five and you’ll have plenty of time to eat before it starts.”

  “Can I pick you up—since your car’s in the garage?”

  “Thanks, but I’ll come early, check with the caterer on last-minute details.”

  “Computer geeks love details.”

  “Trust me,” she said, feeling goose bumps chase each other down her spine. “You’d be bored out of your mind.”

  “I doubt it, but see you tomorrow. With bells on. Whoops, that’s Christmas, isn’t it? Whatever. I’ll be there. Can’t wait.”

  Face hot, Quinn hung up. His intense gratitude hung in Pierce’s study like little pops of electricity. Thank God she’d wiggled out of riding with him. She’d walk first. She’d done her duty. She’d asked him to her bash.

  The gesture came close enough to making her a martyr.

  Chapter 15

  Floyd threw himself against the office door with the fury of a caged tiger. When Pierce caught him before his second assault, the wannabe tiger hissed and pawed the air.

  “Quinn could take this personally, okay?” Pierce sat on the floor and scratched his feline’s head. “Give her a little time to see a few of your more mature qualities.”

  Feline disdain greeted attempts at appeasement. The old Tom squirmed and yowled like a cat on the rack.

  “A smart man would shut you in the laundry room,” Pierce said, piling on more hypocrisy. Secretly he hoped the racket would end Quinn’s damn phone call. Couldn’t be going well or she’d be in the family room sipping wine.

  More caterwauls finally triggered a stab of guilt. Guilt for wishing he could break his promise to her about not making love tonight. Guilt for hoping Edward would take the first bus to hell before hiring the weasel. Guilt for wanting her to help figure out what was going on with Tony. Tony deserved her help. Rex did not.

  Midway through another cat shriek, the office door opened. Quinn stepped around them like a queen stepping around debris. Floyd lunged at her like she was the biggest piece of chicken he’d ever seen.

  Her back stiffened. She ignored her attacker and stared at Pierce. “Edward knows something’s wrong with Rex’s situation.”

  “It doesn’t take an Einstein to figure out there’s something wrong with Rex.” Keeping an eye on Floyd, now bumping her ankles, Pierce stood, facing her. “Edward’s a smart cookie.”

  “He said a source informed him Rex left you under unusual circumstances.”

  Anger flared in Pierce’s stomach and spilled off his tongue. “Didn’t we have this discussion?”

  “We did. Why so crabby since you’re not the source? Are you touchy because we can eliminate Rex and Michael, leaving Tony—”

  A little love nip from Floyd made her jump back, giving Pierce time to come to her rescue. He scooped up his cat, dumped him in the office and closed the door.

  “Sorry about that. I can administer first aid—”

  “You can get back on the subject. Which is, who’s Edward’s whistle blower if we eliminate you, Rex and Michael?”

  “Who says we can eliminate them?” Pierce spit out the question, his throat fever-dry, burning with hostility.

  “Logic?” Quinn tapped her temple and spoke to him in a tone of complete control. “Why would Rex or Michael do something that could derail getting this job?”

  A shrug, accompanied by a smirk gave Pierce a minute for a comeback. “My mind doesn’t work like a sociopath’s.”

  “You think Michael’s a sociopath?” Amazingly, her voice remained modulated.

  “I didn’t say that.” His reply came too quickly, and he shifted his gaze to the floor. Now he’d crossed the line.

  “But you don’t like him.” Her voice vibrated with accusation.

  “Do I have to like him to be in your life?” He pinched the bridge of his nose, then brought his gaze up to meet hers.

  Her face was paler than snow, her lips bloodless. Lines furrowed her forehead, and thin red strings in her bloodshot eyes reminded him she was running on adrenaline fumes.

  She let the silence hang for a decade, but not long enough for him to regroup.

  “My personal life includes Michael.” Disappointment punctuated each word, but her voice was strong, defiant. “Just as yours includes your mother.”

  His gut dropped. Leave it to Quinn to knock him off balance with her penetrating, disagreeable, on-the-money insight. On the defensive, he repeated, “My mother?”

  “Disapproves of me as much as you disapprove of Michael.” Drawing herself up until Pierce imagined her hitting the twenty-foot ceiling, she held up one hand. “And before you say something I’ll regret, I vote for eating. I’m starving. We can talk later. After we get a few nights’ sleep. Which can start tonight since we’re not having sex.”

  “Sure, let’s eat. The chicken passes the Floyd taste-test.” Didn’t he get any credit for the decision to forgo sex?

  Sometimes the better part of valor was, in Pierce’s opinion, taking the option of least resistance. Having his own shaky intentions thrown back in his face felt like one of those times. Taking the option of least resistance also meant playing the role of good sport. It was a role he’d played with Quinn for four years. What was one more night repressing his views of Michael? Or cementing his mouth about the weasel? Or saying zip about Quinn’s misplaced loyalty?

  She was right...they teetered on the cusp of saying the unforgiveable.

  Not a good place to teeter, Pierce reasoned, releasing Floyd from imprisonment and leading them to the kitchen.

  They passed the closed dining-room doors, and Pierce saw a re-run of their slow strip-tease the night before. He saw them unable to get to a bed, making love on the floor. His dick tingled, and he missed a step. He pretended he’d stumbled over Floyd. Christ, he was hard just remembering. Quinn was as serene a Tibetan nun.

  The kitchen blazed with enough electricity to land a 767 on the granite island. Quinn ooohed and ahhed over The Plaza lights, but they blurred for Pierce. After feeding Floyd enough roast chicken for a large mountain lion, he managed to pull her chair out without touching her, served her wine without touching her, pa
ssed her bread without touching her. The chicken was wonderful—he assumed. He didn’t taste anything but desire. The conversation was mundane—he assumed. He didn’t hear a word. Lust and excitement jitterbugged in his head and pushed worries about Tony, Rex, Michael, their mothers—and everyone but Quinn—out of his mind.

  How much longer could he keep his hands off her?

  They were behaving like Victorian lovers—reserved and socially correct—but he was shooting smoldering glances at her, willing her to take pity on him. Disregard his promise. Forget watching Abbott and Costello. Drag him under the kitchen table. Rip his clothes off...

  How could looking at a woman’s ears make him hard? How could she sit there as if he was contemplating world peace instead of ogling her body, luscious curve by luscious curve?

  Midway through his exercise in masochism, the phone rang. Pierce heard it from another galaxy.

  Quinn glanced at the kitchen clock. “Pretty late for telemarketers on a holiday, don’t you think?”

  He followed her gaze and felt the cream sauce in his gut curdle. “Telemarketers never take a holiday,” he said like a child waking up in the middle of the night.

  Something in his tone or his body language must have alerted her. She frowned. “Let’s forget the movies tonight. I’ll load the dishwasher. You go to bed—”

  “What about dessert?”

  Her mouth twitched. “Is that a double entendre?”

  “For your enlightenment, I do think about other topics besides sex.” Like the phone ringing at 7:18 at night.

  She shrugged. “Sorry. I’ve confused you with the Pierce Jordan I used to know.”

  The phone stopped. Abruptly. A ring before going to voice mail. Pierce went absolutely still. Hyper-focused on the phone. Breathing steady. Muscles tense. Thinking of nothing but getting to the phone. Mentally, he counted to twenty.

  The ringing started again. He leaped out of his chair. It hit the floor, knocking off a plate and silverware. Heart thudding, he spun into Quinn’s shoulder, made no apology and lunged for the wall phone.

  Confusion and surprise flashed across her face. “What’s wrong?”

  He yelled into the receiver, “I’m here, Tony!”

  Her eyes widened. In slo-mo, she pushed away from the table and picked up Floyd, cowering near his empty dish. She whispered, “Is he okay?”

  Pierce held up a hand, listened, nodded, listened, said, “You’ve got it. Done. No. Understand. I’ll be there.”

  The buttery fragrance of chicken filled the kitchen. Warmth from the oven should’ve made the room cozy, but it felt claustrophobic. When Pierce hung up, he felt like a kid who’d just learned Santa’s a fraud. Quinn stroked his cat but said nothing, letting him tell it his own way.

  Or not, the voice of reason cautioned.

  Her eyes were soft, the pupils huge in the dim light. No sharp angles or planes in the face he knew so well. Her body was curves and roundness. God, what he’d give to go to bed and just hold her. Feel her breath on his neck. Inhale her freshness. Her honesty. Her trust he didn’t deserve. Being near her seemed to expand his lungs, help him breathe deeper, think more clearly. Air whooshed out of him. He forgot her loyalty to the weasel and to her brother and went with his gut.

  “He’s in trouble.” Each word hurt his throat. He stumbled to the sink and ran a full glass of water. He chugged it down in one gulp, aware Quinn stood behind him. She was hugging Floyd, and he wished she’d grab him and hug him and make his day. “He wants to meet...tomorrow...see what we can do about this...fix he’s in.”

  “Lord, Pierce.”

  A muscle ticked under his right eye. He rubbed the spot and stared into space. “He says Rex didn’t steal the money. He says he made a big mistake.”

  She set Floyd on the floor. “He admitted that?”

  Pierce nodded slowly. The movement hurt his spine. “Rex told the truth.”

  “He’s innocent?” She didn’t sound as if she meant the question.

  “Maybe of embezzling the money.” Pierce stared at a bubble in the sink.

  “I am so sorry.” She took a step, stopped, wrapped an arm around her waist. As an afterthought, she said, “Where is he now?”

  “He wouldn’t say.” Impulsively, Pierce took her hand, curled her fingers into her palm and kissed her knuckles. “I need a minute...to think.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” Meeting his gaze, she put her fingers against his cheek and held them there, infusing him with her compassion.

  He accepted her offered arm and shuffled back to the adjoining family room. The room where yesterday Tony Franklin, apparently, drenched the white carpet with the blood of a chicken.

  “Christ,” he blurted, “do you think Tony’s into something weird—like a satanic cult?”

  “No.”

  The one word reassured Pierce, and he shouted, “Hell no!”

  Not wanting to scare her, he collapsed into the recliner he’d designated as her seat to watch Bud, Lou and the mummy.

  “You’ve had a shock.” She fingered the remote. “Want the drapes open?”

  What he wanted was to hold her but he said, “Thanks.”

  The drapes slid back and she gazed at the falling snow, giving him time to breathe. When she faced him again, she said, “What time are you two meeting?”

  Don’t tell her, Pierce thought. There was plenty she’d kept to herself. Such as the attempted mugging. The black Jeep. Whether she believed him about ratting to Edward.

  “You don’t have to tell me.” A small smile lifted the corners of her mouth. She crossed her ankles and lowered her ass onto the floor, assuming the Lotus position as if it were natural and not torture. “I probably wouldn’t in your shoes. I’d worry you’d call the police.”

  “Nine tomorrow night.” He watched her drag an almost invisible piece of string under his feline’s nose, jerking it away at the last minute. Hunched forward on his front paws, Floyd was in heaven. “At the office.”

  “Why not in the morning?” She dangled the thread over the cat’s head. “He knows you’re an early bird.”

  “He probably figures traffic will keep The Plaza cops busy in the afternoon. Or—” Pierce shrugged. “Frankly, I don’t have a clue what he’s thinking anymore.”

  She shivered. “How could you?”

  The answer yawned at him from a pit of quicksand. Hating the sense of powerlessness, he said, “Unless you’re really in the mood for Abbott and Costello, I suggest you go upstairs and try the soaking tub in the guest bathroom. I need to stop gazing at my navel and do something. Something physical. Release some testosterone.”

  “Such as?” She looked up at him and a piece of her hair came loose and framed her face like pictures he’d seen of a young Grace Kelly.

  Mind-whacked, he looked away and mumbled, “Go for a jog. No problem with loose dogs or traffic...”

  “And no problem with enough ice and snow on the streets to break every bone in your body?”

  “Not every one, but point taken. I’ve got a great gym in the basement. I can lift weights. Tony and I...” He slammed the door on the images of their weight-lifting marathons and moved from the recliner to the leather and chrome chair molded into the shape of a vintage car’s backseat.

  Quinn rose and floated across the floor and climbed in next to him. “There’s always loading the dishwasher. Or mopping the kitchen floor. Or...” She crawled onto his lap and flicked the tip of her tongue across his bottom lip. “Raw sex counts as exercise...doing something. Releasing testosterone.”

  “Jesus, Quinn!” Groaning, he sucked in oxygen like a gored ox. His dick hardened into a titanium pole, and his hands slid automatically under her sweater.

  “Let’s play doctor and nurse. See if we can lift your spirits.” She rose on her knees and straddled him, laughing as he flailed to sit upright. Pressed against him, she teased his bottom lip, inviting him to explore her open mouth with his tongue.

  He groaned louder. His depression appeared to b
e lifting. She smiled. He said, “In your next life, you should go to med school, become a shrink.”

  “Can I use you as a reference?”

  His fingers slipped inside her silky bra, caressing nerve endings until her nipples grew hot and hard.

  She worked open the buttons on his shirt, then moved lower. “Hmmm. I do believe your erection is proof you’d benefit from further therapy.”

  His eyes flew open, and he pushed her away.

  Astonishment took over her lovely face.

  “Timeout.” Trying to catch his breath, he put his palm above four raised fingers. “I promised...I swore...you spend the night and no-no sex.”

  She nipped his ear. “Promises are made to be broken.”

  He jerked away. “No foreplay, either.”

  “Fine. I’m ready. Let’s do it right here.”

  “For God’s sake, Quinn!” He yanked her up to standing, but held her at arm’s length.

  She stared at him. “What are you doing?”

  “Keeping my word. I’m not ripping your clothes off. I’m not making love to you tonight.” He took a step backwards. “I don’t want your pity fuck.”

  “Fine.” Quinn flashed a coy smile. “You promised me a back rub.”

  His hands shot out in front of him, and he took another step backwards. “Take a rain check.”

  “That’s not right—going back on your promise.”

  “If I touch you—”

  “C’mon. Take your medicine like a man,” she whispered.

  And he did.

  ****

  The mattress moved so imperceptibly Pierce convinced himself that Quinn—not Floyd—was claiming more of the bed. When she snuggled into his backside, snaked her hands under the covers and cupped his balls, he stopped breathing.

  “God, what a beautiful morning,” she said her voice smiling.

  Stunned by her nearness and the memory of making love, then going to sleep with her in his arms, he turned, slipped his arm under her neck and inched away from her glorious bod. “About last night...”

  “Shhhh.” Her smile dazzled him. “Today’s Thanksgiving. Don’t mention Rex or Michael or Tony. Let me wallow in denial a little longer.”