by Bonnie Vanak
Quinn gestured to the store. “I’m baking. Come on in.”
Tom gestured to the table where he’d been sitting. “I’ll be right here, Miss Colton.”
West had told her not to leave, but said nothing about inviting in family.
In the kitchen, she resumed mixing cake batter as Valeria perched on a stool and watched, chattering madly, asking questions about how Quinn felt, explaining that she felt awkward visiting the hospital and didn’t want to disturb Quinn’s rest while she recovered.
Valeria. Pretty name to match the face. Valeria looked as young as Quinn felt old and weary.
Her cousin looked around the kitchen. “I’ve never been here. I did actually try to visit in the hospital, but Brayden and Shane said no visitors. So here I am!”
Was she ever this young and enthusiastic? Quinn smiled as she continued to find the ingredients. “I’m making cake, if you want to stick around for a snack.”
“Can’t. I have to get back to the ranch and chores soon.” Valeria studied the mixture. “Is it one of your special cakes?”
Everything is special to me now. “Of course.”
“Can I tell you a secret?” her cousin asked.
Sure, why not? I probably won’t remember it anyway. The thought made her chuckle. “Sure, go ahead.”
“I’d planned on getting married. Christmas Eve. I told everyone my engagement to Vincent Gage was off because of the Groom Killer, but we can’t wait any longer. I’m tired of living at home and I want to be with him.”
The Groom Killer again. Unease pricked her. Had this Groom Killer targeted her because she’d been engaged to West? They’d kept it secret, but her bestie, Austin, had found out. Quinn realized others could, as well.
Valeria heaved a dramatic sigh. “Have you ever been so much in love that it hurts?”
Yes, I believe so. Except I don’t remember such a love. All I know is the man who professed to love me could be the agent who’s investigating me. How can I trust him? And if you can’t trust, how can there ever be true love?
“I can imagine it,” she told Valeria. “You’re young, in love and impatient. It’s natural.”
And I’m thirty years old. I must have had relationships, but they came to a dead end. Nothing worked for me. I’m single and it seems up until a few weeks ago, I felt content to stay that way.
What happened with West Brand that she had fallen madly for him? Quinn looked around the kitchen and felt a burst of pride. Maybe the business was floundering, but it was her business, built through hard work and dedication. No one told her what to do, dictated her life to her. She didn’t live at home with parents who made demands on her life and her time.
She was free. Independent.
Career had been everything. Quinn stared at the expensive electric mixer. She knew this deep in her heart, that career had been everything to her. She’d wanted to be a success and she had pride in her work.
Her creations. The compulsion to succeed came from never having enough money, enough respect...
Odd how she remembered that from her childhood, and yet remembered nothing of the business that she’d started to overcome those issues.
Quinn checked the oven. Gas. Cooking with gas meant better ability to control temperatures. She remembered that much. A cooking class, perhaps.
Maybe she could control the heat in the kitchen better than the heat in the bedroom. Nothing was certain right now. But those flashes of memory with West indicated they’d had a very good time in that particular room.
“We’re thinking of eloping in Las Vegas,” Valeria blurted out.
Eloping? Quinn switched off the electric mixer. “That’s a big step. Just the two of you, no family with you?”
“Yes. Don’t tell anyone?” Valeria made a zipping motion across her mouth.
Quinn offered a faint smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll probably forget we had this conversation ten minutes after you leave.”
The little joke failed to make her cousin smile. Instead, Valeria bit her lip. “I’m sorry, Quinn. I can’t imagine what happened to you... It’s so terrifying.”
“I’m fine,” she hastened to assure her.
“Good.” Valeria looked around the kitchen. “Did you get my letter with the monogrammed stationary? What did you think?”
“What letter?”
“The one I sent in the mail days ago. There was a red heart on the envelope. It was a sample. I wanted to get your opinion on the stationery.”
Laughing, she checked the recipe. “The boys on the bomb squad blew it up.”
Valeria’s eyes widened. “Blew it up?”
“There was no return address and everyone got suspicious, after what happened at Tia’s office.”
“There was no return address because everyone in this town, including the postmaster, is nosy. I didn’t want anyone but you to see it was from me.” Valeria sighed. “Oh well.”
“If I were you, I’d hold off on sending any more mail without a return address,” Quinn advised.
“Do you think the Groom Killer would still pursue Vincent if we were married?”
The cake batter splashed into the pan. Glop, glop, glop. Quinn scraped out the rest with a wide spatula. “Marry, after what happened? I wouldn’t. It’s too risky, Valeria. Whoever is doing this may not only want grooms dead, but future brides, as well. Look at Tia.”
Her cousin frowned. “Tia Linwicki was getting married? I didn’t know she dated anyone that seriously.”
Quinn pressed two fingers to her head. A dim flash of memory. Phone call. Angry voices.
Marriage made in hell.
You’ll never commit.
Was Tia marrying someone, and that’s why she’d been killed?
“I don’t know.” The earlier frustration had returned, leaving her wanting to bang her head against the counter. Maybe that would make everything better.
She wanted to be alone. “Valeria, I’m quite tired and this is my first day home.”
Her cousin gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “All right. But only if you promise to come to our family barbecue this Sunday.”
Family gathering? With all those people staring at her, wondering about her? What if the person who did this hid among them?
Wiping her hands on a dish towel, she shook her head. “I don’t think so. I’m still recovering.”
“It’s six days away. You’ll feel better by then!”
“Doubt it. I’m not ready.”
“Please come,” Valeria begged. “It’s not going to be a huge party. Just family, and your cousins will be there. And me. Please, Quinn. I’d love to see you there.”
How could she resist such youthful enthusiasm? A small family gathering didn’t sound intimidating. How many Coltons could there be in this town, anyway?
“What can I bring?”
Valeria hooked her arm through Quinn’s. “You and a date. Or...whoever you wish to bring.”
With a wink, she bounded off.
After setting the cake pans into the oven, she returned upstairs, unlocking the door.
In the bathroom, the mirror showed bruises and cuts. She did look like a wreck. Quinn found her makeup. She smeared it on until everything, including her freckles, vanished.
A shiver raced through her. She hardly recognized herself.
Who am I?
* * *
Hard work never intimidated West. Neither did cases, because he could turn off his emotions like a water spigot.
Today it had taken all his control to resort to that tactic. Thoughts of Quinn kept pushing through his mind as he analyzed evidence, went over interview notes with interviewees from the most recent bombing, as well as the first one.
Returning to the crime scene to scrutinize it for additional evidence had been pure hell. He could barely get the thought of Quinn, her f
ace bloodied, her body lying so still, out of his mind so he could sift through the rubble once more.
He’d spent an hour interviewing possible witnesses. Broad daylight and no one saw anything. Nothing but Quinn walking down the street, marching toward Tia’s office with the casserole.
Marching toward her possible death.
As he filed his report, his cell rang. West checked the number. Cal Flinders from the ATF.
“What do you have for me?” West asked. “We got the lab results from the powder residue. TATP. What do you know about the bomb itself?”
“Matched the one found at the abandoned hardware store. No signature. Ran the pattern through the database. Nothing came up. Whoever did this wasn’t making a statement that he disliked Realtors. Or was protesting development.” Cal’s voice droned over the phone.
West frowned. Most bombers had signatures, putting certain elements into their work. The typical bomber was male, a loner and involved in criminal activity. They fell into specific categories, such as the terrorist, whose aim was to invoke fear into the general populace. Or a protestor, blowing up a building that opposed his beliefs, such as a real estate office.
“Unless this unsub is new at the game.” West leaned back.
“In which case he’s lucky to not have blown himself up. He’s smart, accurate and organized. He did this to cover Tia’s murder and any evidence. Did forensics find anything from Tia’s computer?”
“No. It was too damaged.”
“Then maybe the computer was the real target. A database. Did she back up to a cloud?”
If Tia did, they could access those records. “She was too insular, distrustful of tech.”
Cal sighed. “Sorry, West. If I have anything more for you, I’ll call.”
He hung up.
By the time he returned to the apartment, West felt emotionally and physically wrung out. He let himself and Rex into the store with his key, and punched in the alarm code once he got upstairs. West unlocked the door, hesitated.
All the previous times he’d been here, Quinn had been whole. Happy. Bubbly. He would anticipate walking through that door, kissing her deeply and relaxing. He knew her habits. Knew her quirks, how she liked to walk around the apartment barefoot and paint her toes bright pink. How she quickly undressed in the morning to prepare for the day and slowly undressed for him with a teasing smile.
And now he was about to enter the home of a total stranger.
Chin up. West opened the door and called out a greeting as Rex ran forward.
Delicious smells of home cooking filled the air. His stomach rumbled, reminding him he’d skipped lunch. The apartment was slightly warm, but a cooling breeze came through the open living room window, billowing the curtains. West frowned. Even a second-story open window presented a threat. An unsub could lob an explosive, tearing through the screen, blowing up the place...
He shut the window as Quinn came out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a dish towel. “Hi.”
Her voice sounded hoarse still, uncertain. This was so awkward, coming home to someone who had no memory of him. The same someone who would greet him with a soul-searing kiss, whose warm concern would erase the gritty memories of ugliness that came with the job.
“Hi.” She petted Rex.
“Hi.” West gestured to the window. “Don’t leave it open unless I’m home.”
Halfway expecting her to argue, as the old Quinn might, he was surprised to see her nod. “All right. Did you have a good day?”
Ordinary small talk, common to ordinary relationships. “It was all right.” West jammed his hands into his jeans pockets as Rex looked up and whined.
His dog sensed his tension. West followed Quinn into the kitchen. The drop leaf table had been set with plates and silverware. Meatballs bubbled in a skillet filled with red sauce.
“I made whole-wheat linguini with tomatoes, peppers, scallions and cilantro. I also cooked some he-man meat for you. Found some lean ground beef in the freezer and I made meatballs in case the froufrou food doesn’t appeal to you.”
The cutest little frown dented her brow. “I wonder where that term came from? It sounds familiar.”
His shoulders relaxed their rigid stance. West grinned. He-man, now that sounded more like the old Quinn. Considering, he scratched his chest and affected a lazy drawl. “Well, I dunno, little lady. He-man balls in red sauce sounds mighty wimpy to me without the proper he-man juice. Got a beer to go with it?”
Quinn stared.
Okay, that tanked. West shifted his weight, uncomfortable with her scrutiny. Hell, this was harder than he’d ever imagined, trying to crack a joke with a woman who used to laugh at everything.
A woman who used to share intimacies with him as easily as she made delicious dinners.
She turned and left. He heard her heading downstairs.
His heart sank. Damn. Now he’d driven her off. West rubbed his face, knowing he should go after her.
A minute later, she returned, six bottles of beer in her arms. Now it was his turn to stare.
Quinn dumped them onto the table. A saucy smile, the one he adored, lit her face. “Will this do for your manliness or do you need some homemade moonshine from the still out yonder in back?”
The grin returned as he picked up a bottle. “No need for a moonshine chaser, little lady. Thanks.”
“I may be little, but I bet I could drink you under the table, on top of the table and sideways. And many other positions, doing many other things other than drinking.”
Now his grin widened. “I like the sound of that.”
How many times had she told him that in the past few weeks? And then they’d ended in bed, tangling together in the sheets, the food and liquor forgotten?
Quinn’s smile faded. She tilted her head and frowned. “Did I actually say that? Is that something I’ve said before?”
Whoa, this was new turf. West set down the beer. “You have. It’ll come back to you.”
Because she looked so woebegone and lost, he didn’t pursue it. Here he’d been so worried about forging new connections with her, and she must feel as uncertain and uncomfortable as a teenager at her first dance.
“I am hungry,” he told her. “Your dinner smells delicious, but you don’t have to wait for me to come home, or feed me, Quinn.”
Coming closer, she rested her palm upon his chest, over his heart. “Yes, I do. Someone has to take care of you to make sure your arteries don’t harden to concrete before you’re forty.”
His gaze remained steady, though his heart pounded a little harder. Quinn always had the ability to throw him off guard, make him feel alive and aware.
And sexually responsive. West stepped back a pace. It was warm in there, and not only from the heat generated by the stove. Easy. Now is not the time to kiss her, follow up on your feelings. Let her set the pace.
“I’ll go wash up,” he muttered.
When he returned to the kitchen—his gun locked in the case he’d brought over, his hair damp from a quick scrubbing—West wore clean chinos, a green polo shirt and socks with hamburgers all over them. Maybe the socks would nudge her into remembering.
But she didn’t even glance at his feet, only bustled around the kitchen to bring the food to the table. He tried to help, and she shooed him away.
As they sat, he forked a generous portion of her linguini, added some meatballs. “This is special. Thank you. But don’t feel like you have to wait on me, Quinn. I work late and I would rather have you rest and recover.”
She spun linguini around on her fork. “I needed to make dinner, West. I need to feel useful again, not like an invalid.”
“You’re not an invalid, honey.” He sipped some cold beer. “You’re recovering.”
“I did manage to make dessert, too. I was downstairs, baking a cake, trying to get back to some kind
of routine in hopes it jogged my memory.” She sighed. “I didn’t remember much.”
Something was different about her. West dug into his meal with gusto, talking about Red Ridge, the cops on the force, the funny story he’d heard about her father’s bar. He talked more than he had all day.
And yet that damnable blank look still rested on her face, as if he’d chattered on about a city that she’d never visited and people she’d never met.
Her own father. Well, Rusty Colton was a loser. Not worth remembering him. But right now, he’d even settle for Quinn recalling Rusty.
West set down his fork, realizing what was wrong with Quinn’s expression. “What did you do to your face?”
She touched her cheek. “It’s makeup.”
Suppressing a groan, he gave her a level look. “Remove it.”
She bristled. “Why? It’s my face.”
Okay, the old Quinn had returned. West got up, bent down by her chair, cupping her cheek with one hand. “Don’t cover up your freckles. They’re gorgeous.”
“And I’m ugly. The cuts—”
“Will heal. And the bruises.” He stroked a thumb over her cheek gently. “You never wore makeup before. All natural. It’s what drew me to you. Why now?”
As he listened to her talk about Valeria’s visit and reaction to seeing Quinn, he felt his anger rise.
West returned to his seat, drank more beer. Hell, the way this night was going, he might just need all six bottles, even though he seldom drank more than one a night, even on weekends.
Getting drunk meant lowering his guard, losing control.
Losing control meant something could slip past him, hurt those he loved.
He pushed back the beer. Water would suffice. “Valeria may mean well, but she’s young and impulsive.”
“She invited me to a family barbecue this Sunday. I told her no, but she was persistent.” Quinn’s gaze looked troubled. “Do you think it’s safe for me to go? Will you go with me?”
West’s heart beat a little faster. Maybe he was a stranger to her, but she trusted him a little. “Of course. I’m sure Brayden will be there, and your cousin Finn, Valeria’s brother.”
They finished dinner and he insisted on cleaning up, telling her to go into the living room while he made her a cup of tea. She didn’t protest, which indicated she was more exhausted than she’d let on.
