The Cat Came Back

by Louise Clark

  Quinn laughed as they started to move again, walking, not running after Aaron DeBolt. Meeting rooms lined the corridor he'd taken. They stopped at one so Quinn could check inside, but the door was locked. The others were the same. Wherever Aaron had gone, it wasn't inside one of the rooms.

  The hallway turned, leading to double plate glass doors that opened onto a terrace. Ornamental trees in wooden planters and flowering annuals in ceramic pots decorated the gray concrete, softening the hard edge of the man-made material. At the far end a staircase led down to the sidewalk.

  Aaron DeBolt was huddled in a corner, near a five-foot camellia with glossy green leaves. Two attractive young women dressed in body-revealing evening gowns hovered by him. They seemed to be passing something between them, but Christy couldn't be certain exactly what. She had her suspicions though.

  Her hand tightened on Quinn's. "He's over there. I think he's doing some kind of drug, so he may not be much help, but we don't have any other option." She looked up at Quinn and smiled faintly. "He's a jerk, so be prepared."

  When they approached one of the girls squealed, "Oh, look who it is. Frankie's discard." She zeroed in on the diamonds at Christy's throat and ears. "Faux jewels and an out-of-style dress. It's no wonder Frank took off on you."

  "Lovely woman," Quinn muttered beside her.

  Christy could hear the contempt in his voice and knew he was annoyed on her behalf. That warmed her, providing emotional armor. She shot him a smile. She could get used to having a man on her side.

  Wraithlike, Aaron leaned against the wall and watched Christy through narrowed eyes. He was a graceful young man who wore evening clothes with the lazy elegance of one who enjoyed getting dressed up. His hair was brown, thin and cut long from a center part. "Well, well, well, if it isn't Christy Jamieson. What did it take to make you crawl out of your boring suburban hole?" His full lips twisted into a pouty sneer.

  Christy was proud of the way she was able to look at him without flinching. "Hello, Aaron. It's good to see you too."

  DeBolt's sneer deepened. Quinn moved closer, then took Christy's hand in his in a possessive gesture that had her heart thumping.

  It also focused DeBolt's attention on Quinn. His gaze sharpened. "And who would this be? I swear, Christy, you have the manners of a peasant. Introduce us." One of the girls giggled. Another made a derisive sound in her throat.

  Quinn was utterly still, then his hand squeezed Christy's. She welcomed his support, but she didn't need it. Aaron DeBolt had never liked her, and he'd been taking potshots at her from the moment Frank had introduced them. She loathed him and avoided him where she could, but she refused to allow his spiteful comments to hurt her, even if he hit a soft spot.

  Quinn released her hand. Christy was absurdly bereft considering that he was a reporter and she ought to tell him to go away so this nasty little scene wouldn't show up in the morning paper. She didn't want Quinn to go, though. She wanted his hand warming hers, promising strength and support and the caring found in a relat—

  He moved with the speed and grace of a big cat capturing prey. One minute Aaron DeBolt was standing negligently, a sneer on his face, the hand holding a joint raised so he could take a puff, then he was pinned to the wall of the building with Quinn's hands curled around the lapels of his elegant tux and an expression of horror on his thin, sharp features.

  One of the girls screamed. The other picked up the joint that Aaron had dropped. She took a drag and watched thoughtfully as Aaron said, "Let go of me!"

  Christy stared at Quinn in amazement. Frank had never made any attempt to defend her from Aaron's sharp tongue beyond telling her to ignore whatever Aaron said, that it was just his way. It would never have occurred to Frank to tell his friend to stop baiting his wife.

  "My name," Quinn said to Aaron, "is Quinn Armstrong, and you have a nasty way of using your words, DeBolt. I don't like it. It's time for you to clean up your act."

  Christy would have been less than human if a part of her didn't revel in the look of abject terror on Aaron's face. He was a mean-spirited creature who had deliberately hurt her time and again over the years. To see him at Quinn's mercy was a balm to old wounds. She knew Aaron DeBolt well, though. Once Quinn let him go, he'd find some way to get revenge. She didn't want to see Quinn hurt, so she put her hand on his arm and said, "You met his mother, Quinn. He can't help it."

  "Maybe not," Quinn said, keeping his gaze locked on DeBolt's. "All the same, he'll apologize."

  Aaron's face twisted with resentment. His gaze skittered wildly from one face to the other. The brunette holding the joint took a last drag then dropped it on the concrete floor and ground out the butt with her shoe. The other woman was staring at Quinn with an avid expression on her face. Neither was going anywhere.

  Aaron's voice squeaked as he caved in to a strength he couldn't undermine. "Sorry, Christy. I was out of line."

  Quinn released him. While DeBolt tried to smooth the wrinkles from his lapels, Quinn brushed his hands together as if to dislodge something foul.

  Christy nodded a silent acceptance of the apology. Then, as if nothing had happened, she said, "Aaron, have you heard that Frank is back in town?"

  Already pale, Aaron went white. The hand on his lapel faltered and fell as his eyes opened wide. "No! That can't be." He wetted his lips. "Frank's in Mexico."

  Christy studied him for a moment. Something was wrong here. "You haven't seen him then?"

  Aaron drew a deep breath. It seemed to Christy that he had to make a deliberate effort to revert back to his usual insolent manner. "Would I bother telling you if I had?"

  "Yes," Quinn said, quietly.

  Aaron jumped.

  Christy laughed. She couldn't help it. "You know, Aaron, you don't have to protect Frank from me. I'm not after him for the money he embezzled or to rag on him about running off with Brianne. I just want to find out what his plans are so I can tell our daughter when Daddy is going to see her next."

  "He loved that kid of his," Aaron muttered. "He'd talk about her like she was the only eight-year-old on the planet." He shot Christy an under-brow glance. "Look, if he contacts me, I'll tell him what you said, but don't get the kid's hopes up. He's gone south for good. I don't think he'd be stupid enough to come back."

  "Maybe, maybe not," Christy said.

  A car horn honked on the street below. Aaron jumped again. "I've got to go." He pushed away from the wall in a movement that was jerky and out of character. His duo of curvy belles went with him, though the brunette rubbed suggestively against Quinn as she passed.

  * * *

  "That was not particularly useful," Christy said later, when they were back in Burnaby. Quinn had parked the car in his garage, and, as he walked her to her door, he was tugging on the bowtie at his neck.

  "I don't know," he said. The tie came loose. He left it dangling, a stark black contrast to the snowy white of the formal shirt. "I learned a great deal about Fisher Disposal that I didn't know. The VPs I was sitting between seemed to think I was one of Gerry's anointed. They tripped over themselves to give me the inside scoop."

  "You didn't like him." Quinn had the top button of his shirt open now. Christy's mouth dried.

  "Who? Gerry Fisher?"

  She nodded.

  "Not much. I liked him a heck of a lot better than Aaron DeBolt and his mom, though. Do you think DeBolt has seen Frank? He looked like he was hiding something to me, but you know him better than I do."

  "He's always like that. He takes potshots at everybody." They reached her front steps. "By the way, thanks for defending me. It's not something I'm used to."

  "You're welcome." Quinn smiled at her.

  Christy's heart did an unexpected flip-flop. "Why did you do it?"

  A moody frown replaced the lazy smile. "I don't know... because you took off your shoes and ran down the stairs in your stocking feet without thinking twice about it? Because his mother kicked you off the board of her pet charity? Because I didn't like his face
, or his manner? Who knows?"

  "Because people like Aaron and Natalie DeBolt would have been the type to try to put down your mother?" Christy said softly. It was easier to attribute his behavior to cleansing an old wound than accepting that he'd defended her for no reason other than she deserved his protection.

  His expression was enigmatic as he looked down at her. "Maybe. Maybe not."

  Christy shook her head. "You shouldn't have pushed Aaron. He'll try to hurt you. I know he will."

  Quinn smiled at her. "Guys like him don't scare me." He reached up to brush a strand of hair away from her face. "I wonder why DeBolt is so certain that Frank wouldn't return from Mexico."

  "Good question." Quinn's touch, gentle, almost tender, brought her nerve endings to life. Panicked, she dug in her purse for her key. "Maybe they talked about what it would be like to go to prison. I've heard Aaron deals drugs to his friends. He may worry what would happen if he got caught."

  "Not that spineless little worm," Quinn said. "He'd just get Mommy the barracuda to attack the legal system and force it to set him free."

  Christy laughed. "Yeah. Sounds like Aaron." She held up her key. "I should go in. I wasn't kidding when I told Gerry that I'll have an early morning. Thank you for tonight, even if it was a waste of your time."

  He stared at her for a minute. The look on his face made her breath catch and her lips part. He took a step toward her, put the edge of his palm under her chin, and tilted it up. Christy moistened her lips, knowing she was enticing him, but unable to stop.

  When his mouth touched hers, she wasn't ready. He tasted of wine and dinner and something else, something essentially himself. Her senses kicked into overdrive as his lips brushed hers, with just the tickle of a touch by his tongue.

  She wanted to melt into him, to take that kiss to a more passionate level where their tongues could mate as their hands played. Instead, he pulled away, leaving her dazed. He took her key, bounded lightly up the stairs, and unlocked her door.

  If she hadn't been bemused by her body's unexpected reaction to his kiss, she'd have been annoyed at his presumption that he could just take over her key that way. Sure, it was probably a gentlemanly thing to do, maybe, but no one had ever done it for her before, including Frank. Of course, Frank wouldn't have thought of it, because he'd always had servants to open doors for him. But still...

  Roy Armstrong appeared in the doorway. He had a laptop under his arm and a rather impatient expression on his face. "You're back?"

  "Yup," Quinn said, stepping out of the way.

  He clearly knew his father. "Good," Roy said, as he dove out the door. "I've got to go."

  "How was Noelle?" Christy asked as he flew past her. "Was everything okay?"

  "She's great," Roy said over his shoulder. "Get her to show you the epic she wrote for her composition assignment." He disappeared up his steps.

  "Sure," Christy said, staring at where he'd just been. She heard his door slam behind him. Shaking her head, she turned back to her own front door and found Quinn laughing quietly. "What?"

  "We must have arrived when he was in the middle of a scene. My father is like a snake. He doesn't write little bits on a regular basis, he gorges himself on immense writing binges that are intense and demand his concentration for hours. He'll write thirty or more pages in one session, then he'll rest for days. When he's in one of these binges, he allows nothing to break his focus."

  Christy's brow furrowed as she climbed the steps to the door. "I hope Noelle's okay."

  Quinn smiled. Standing in the light, he looked like a fallen angel, his formal—respectable—clothing casually loosened, a lock of black hair on his forehead, a half smile on his face. To gain the sanctuary of her home, she would have to pass the seductive temptation he offered. If he reached out to her, she would go to him. She knew that, even as she knew that she should not.

  She was working with Quinn Armstrong. She'd hired him to help her achieve a goal. He was an employee, paid in a different currency, but an employee nonetheless. Allowing her hormones to rule her head was not a good idea.

  She mounted the first step, then the second. Quinn watched her silently, waiting for her to come to him. Christy's heart pounded.

  The third step. The fourth, then the landing. He reached out his hand. She caught it and he drew her close.

  "Noelle will have been fine," he said. "Something she said or they did together set my dad's imagination flying. When I was a kid that often happened. We'd be doing an activity together, throwing a ball maybe, and suddenly this dreamy look would come into his eyes. He'd be there with me, on top of things, making sure everything was okay, but his mind would be working on two levels. When my mom got home, or I was busy on my own, he'd disappear with a pad and pen, eventually his computer. We'd see him again much, much later."

  The way his lips formed the words was driving her crazy. He had beautiful lips. She wanted them. She wanted him. God, what was she going to do about this?

  He held her hand between both of his. His fingers played with hers for a minute, then he raised her hand to his mouth and slowly, deliberately, kissed each knuckle.

  Fire shot down her arm and throbbed through her torso. She wanted to fling herself against him. She wanted to open up and luxuriate in the sensations he could provide.

  Drawing her hand from his took every ounce of resolution she possessed. She smiled shakily. "I have to go. Good night, Quinn."

  He smiled that knowing, dark angel smile back at her. "Good night, Christy."

  Inside the house she closed the door, then leaned against it. As she summoned the will to move, she could hear him humming as he walked away.

  Chapter 11

  Saturday Noelle was up and on the move early, into weekend cartoons on TV. She was still full of questions about the fundraising evening, even though it had happened two days before, but when Mary Petrofsky came to the door asking her out to play, she abandoned Christy without a second thought. Christy laughed, told her daughter to have fun, then worried about the end to her evening, just as she had the previous day.

  She wasn't sure why Quinn had kissed her. She wanted to believe it was the result of their shared experience that night, looking to each other for support against the nastiness of Frank's trustees and friends, plus a potent dose of sexual attraction tossed in for good measure.

  Quinn Armstrong was a reporter, though, and her experience with reporters had taught her that they would do anything for a story, no matter what lies they had to tell.

  Was the emotion she'd sensed in him that evening real? She hadn't seen him since Thursday evening, so she couldn't even guess. As she loaded the dishwasher she told herself she should stay away from him. That was what a sensible woman would do.

  She dumped in the soap and slammed the door so it locked. Clearly, she was not a sensible woman, because she had no intention of driving Quinn Armstrong from her life. She set the dial and got the machine running and then she headed upstairs for a load of laundry.

  She had the vacuum out and on when she thought she heard the doorbell ring. She flicked the switch to turn off the machine then, hot, she rubbed her arm over her forehead. She was wondering if her imagination had played a trick on her when the bell rang again. Her heart leapt. Was it Quinn? She glanced down at herself. Were the jeans she was wearing okay? Her top was a royal blue, lightweight sweater she'd bought because it brought out the red highlights in her dark hair, but what if the blue made her made her look sallow? What if...

  Answer the door.

  The people in the doorway were not who she expected.

  "Hello, Christy," Gerry Fisher said. "May we come in?"

  Christy stepped back. "Of course." All thoughts of sweater colors went out of her head. Gerry Fisher had visited before, and she'd asked him to come again, but Ellen Jamieson rarely had anything to do with them even though Noelle was her niece. So why was she here today?

  Ellen and Gerry crowded into her narrow foyer. Christy gestured toward the stairs
. "Come up to the living room. Would you like a coffee?"

  While Gerry accepted the offer of a coffee, Ellen opted for tea. Christy prepared both, wondering with some trepidation why two of the trustees had arrived on her doorstep two days after a social event she'd attended with Quinn Armstrong. Were they here because of Quinn? Or—

  Heavens, had they heard about the run in with Aaron DeBolt? As rude as Aaron and his mother were, the DeBolt family was a power in the city. It didn't do to cross them, especially if you wielded no financial power yourself.

  Was it possible they had brought news of Frank? Then why not phone? People imparted good news on the phone. They came in person when it was really nasty. What kind of bad news could they bring? That Frank was in Vancouver but refused to see Noelle? That he'd been arrested and would be in jail until he could be bailed out? Were they here to tell her they were going to have to sell Jamieson Ice Cream shares to set him free?

  She had to tame her frantic thoughts or they would show on her face when she returned to the living room. Think about setting up a tea tray. Don't use the everyday china. Use the pretty things that signified a social event. Pretend the PAC committee heads had come for a meeting. Deep breathe. Remember you're the hostess.

  She headed into the living room holding the tray before her like an offering. She'd put the coffee for herself and Gerry into the cups—proper cups with saucers—but she'd brought a teapot for Ellen, as well as creamer, sugar bowl, and silver spoons for all of them.

  As she poured, Ellen said, "That tea set came from the mansion."

  Christy nodded. "Would you like some cream?" The tea set was gorgeous. Hand-made in the nineteenth century, the china was eggshell thin. Delicately rendered cornflowers, daisies, geraniums, and other flowers adorned the surface. Though the set was very valuable, its attraction for Christy was that it had been a tenth anniversary present to Frank's parents.

  "That should have been put in the auction with the rest of the valuables from the mansion," Ellen said.

  Christy's calm began to crack. Ellen had a way of making her feel clumsy and never quite good enough. Her hand shook as she put the creamer back on the tray. "No," she said. "It is part of Noelle's heritage. She has a right to know who her family is and where she came from. The few hundred dollars the tea set might have fetched isn't worth stealing away a visible part of her background."