Conor

by Kate Hoffmann

  With a sniff, she spun on her heel and flounced up the steps. Of all the nerve! What right did he have to treat her like some-some recalcitrant child? Next thing, he’d be throwing her over his knee and spanking her. Olivia risked a look back as she walked in the door. Good grief, why did that notion suddenly appeal to her?

  When she got inside, she found Detective Wright nervously pacing the room. He looked up and relief flooded his expression. Olivia almost felt sorry for him and was about to apologize when the door slammed behind her. “What the hell were you thinking, Wright? You never, ever, let a witness out of your sight. She could be dead now and then where would we be?”

  Olivia turned and sent the dark-haired cop a livid glare, one he returned in equal measure, sending a shiver down her spine. “Don’t you think you’re being a bit dramatic? Besides, it’s not his fault. I snuck out.”

  He took a step toward her and she backed away. “Did I ask for your opinion?” He turned back to Detective Wright. “Why don’t you watch the road and the perimeter? I’ll stay with Ms. Farrell for now.”

  “I don’t want you here,” Olivia said, tipping her chin up defiantly. “I want Officer Do-Right to stay. You can leave.”

  “Officer Wright is needed outside. And since you’ve decided to ignore his warnings, you’re stuck with me. Or more precisely, I’m stuck with you.” His gaze raked the length of her body and stopped at her toes. “Give me your shoes.”

  “What?”

  “Take them off.” He turned and stalked to her bedroom, then emerged a few moments later with the boots and loafers she’d hurriedly packed after the incident at the shop. “You can have them back once I’m sure you’re going to stay inside. Now, give me your shoes.”

  Olivia had every intention of refusing but the look in his eyes told her otherwise. She sat down on the sofa and yanked both shoes off, then threw them in the direction of his head. Then she crossed her arms and sank back into the cushions, watching him suspiciously and waiting for the next demand.

  He drew Detective Wright aside and spoke softly with him, giving Olivia a chance to observe him in an objective light. He stood at least half a head taller than Wright and his dark good looks stood in sharp contrast with Dudley’s clean-cut choirboy features. When his face wasn’t filled with fury, the guy was actually quite handsome-high cheekbones and a strong jaw, a mouth that looked as if it had been sculpted by an artist. His hair was dark, nearly black, and his eyes were that strange shade that she couldn’t quite describe in words. Fascinating. Unearthly. Riveting.

  While Dudley looked conscientious and trustworthy, this new guy had a wild and unpredictable air about him. His hair was just a little too long, his clothes a bit too casual. He had a sinewy build, long legs and broad shoulders and a flat belly that showed no evidence of too many donuts. When they both turned her way, she averted her eyes and casually picked at the fringe of a throw pillow she’d pulled onto her lap.

  Detective Wright approached the sofa. “Ms. Farrell, I’m going to leave you in the care of Detective Quinn. He’ll be with you until the trial. I hope you won’t give him any more trouble.”

  She forced a sweet smile and slowly rose. “That all depends upon Detective Quinn’s behavior. As long as he can stifle his Neanderthal tendencies, it will be pure bliss.”

  Wright looked back and forth between the two of them, then nodded before hurrying out of the room. Left alone with Quinn, Olivia wondered whether she might be better off taking her chances with Keenan’s hit man. It would be best to keep Quinn off guard, to refuse to give in to his bullying. Twelve days of “yes, sir” and “no, sir” would be completely intolerable. She shrugged out of her jacket and tossed it his way. “You might as well take it,” she said. “Do you want my socks as well?”

  A muscle in his jaw twitched and he didn’t speak for a long time. “I don’t want to be here any more than you do, Ms. Farrell. But it’s my job to keep you safe. If you let me do my job, then we’ll get along just fine.”

  When he wasn’t yelling at her, he had a very pleasant voice, deep and rich. His accent was working-class Boston, but there was something else there, a hint of something exotically foreign. “You said that you’re being punished,” she ventured. “What did you do wrong?”

  “Nothing you have to worry about,” he muttered. “As long as I don’t lose my temper again, you should be safe.” He wandered around the room, checking every window and door, then disappeared into her bedroom. She imagined him rifling through her bag, plucking at the lacy scraps of underwear and smelling her perfume. She could always tell when a man was attracted to her, but Quinn was impossible to read. He was probably telling the truth when he said he’d just as soon shoot her.

  When he returned, he had a pillow and comforter in his arms. He set them on the back of the sofa. “You’ll sleep in here tonight,” he murmured.

  “I sleep on the sofa and you get my bed? That doesn’t seem fair.”

  “No,” he said, “you sleep on the sofa and I sleep on the floor. We sleep in the same room, Ms. Farrell. If that doesn’t suit, we can sleep in the same bed. That’s up to you. I just need to be able to get to you quickly.”

  Olivia scowled. “Listen, Quinn, I-”

  “Conor,” he interrupted. “You can call me Conor. And there’s no use arguing. I’m not going to change my mind.”

  Olivia opened her mouth to protest, then snapped it shut. She’d never felt entirely safe with Detective Wright. But with Conor Quinn, there was no doubt in her mind that he’d do what he had to do to protect her, regardless of her feelings in the matter. When he’d grabbed her on the beach, she had to admit she’d been scared. What if he had been one of Keenan’s men? Chances were she’d be floating facedown in the bay right about now.

  “I’m going to make a fresh pot of coffee,” she said grudgingly. “Would you like a cup?” He nodded, but when she got up, he followed her into the kitchen. He methodically checked the windows and doors, then sat down on a stool at the breakfast bar. “Are you going to follow me around all day?” she asked as she filled the pot with cold water.

  “If I have to,” he said. His shrewd gaze skimmed over her body, blatantly, as if he were trying to see right through her clothes. “Why did you climb out the window?”

  Olivia sighed. “You have to understand that I’m used to my own space, my own life. I never wanted this, never wanted to get involved. I shouldn’t be here.”

  “But you are involved,” he murmured, his eyes probing, his expression curious.

  “I tried to explain to the district attorney that I didn’t want to testify but-”

  “Ms. Farrell, you have a duty to do what’s right. Red Keenan is scum, a big player in the mob. With your testimony, we can put him away. A little inconvenience on your part is nothing compared to the pain that man has caused countless innocent people.” With that, he pushed away from the counter and walked out of the room. “And stay away from the windows,” he called.

  The rest of the day passed in excruciating boredom. She stayed away from the windows and out of Conor Quinn’s way. And he stayed just close enough to make her uneasy. Whenever she looked at him, he was watching her, silently, intently. Olivia assumed he was waiting for her to make another run for freedom. But she’d already resigned herself to her fate. The trial was twelve days away-twelve long days spent in the company of the brooding Conor Quinn. She’d need to choose her fights carefully if she expected to survive.

  THE SMELLS coming from the kitchen were too much to resist. Conor glanced up from an old issue of Sports Illustrated, then levered himself up from the overstuffed chair he’d occupied for the past hour. Furrowing his hands through his hair, he wandered into the kitchen to find pots bubbling on the stove and Olivia Farrell busily chopping vegetables.

  “Smells good,” he said.

  She looked up at him for a brief moment, then turned her attention back to the salad she was preparing. “I asked Detective Wright for some groceries yesterday. I was getting a l
ittle tired of take-out meals and a little angry with my situation, so I made the grocery list as complicated as I could.”

  He slid onto the kitchen stool. “What are you making?”

  “Paella,” she said.

  “What?”

  “It’s an Italian seafood stew. They probably had fits trying to hunt down fresh shrimp and scallops. But then, I could afford to wait. I’ve got plenty of time, which is what it takes to make paella, and it’s always better the second day.” She looked at him again, this time letting her gaze linger for a long moment. Olivia Farrell had very alluring eyes, Conor concluded. Wide and trusting, ringed with thick lashes. She didn’t wear much makeup, allowing her natural beauty to shine through. “There’s a bottle of wine in the fridge. You can open it, if you like.”

  “I shouldn’t drink on duty,” Conor said, reaching for the wine.

  Olivia managed a tiny smile. “I promise I won’t try to escape again. You can have a small glass, can’t you?” She reached into a cabinet next to the sink and pulled out two wine goblets, then set them down in front of him.

  Had this evening occurred under different circumstances, Conor could imagine them on a first date- Olivia cooking dinner for him at her apartment, Conor bringing the wine. He grabbed the bottle, then took the corkscrew and opened it. Perhaps if he thought of this as a personal rather than a professional relationship, it might be much more tolerable. “Do you like to cook?”

  Olivia shrugged. “I don’t cook often,” she said, “at least not like this. It’s kind of silly to cook for one.”

  “Then you don’t have a…” He let his question drift off. Maybe that was getting too personal.

  “A boyfriend?” She shook her head. “Not right now. How about you?”

  He smiled. “No boyfriend for me either.”

  She glanced up, then giggled softly. “I meant, do you have a girlfriend? Or maybe a wife?”

  He poured her a generous glass of wine, then splashed a bit into a goblet for himself. He wasn’t much of a wine drinker, but he had to admit that the crisp Chardonnay tasted good. “Cops don’t make good husbands.”

  She reached for her glass, then took a sip as she studied him shrewdly. “The accent,” she said. “I can’t place it.”

  “Southside Boston, with a dash of County Cork,” Conor replied. “I was born in Ireland.”

  She raised her eyebrow. “When did you leave?”

  “Twenty-seven years ago. I was six.” Conor hated talking about himself. His life had been so ordinary, of no interest to a sophisticated woman like Olivia Farrell. “Where are you from, Ms. Farrell?” he asked, deftly changing the subject.

  “Olivia,” she said. “I’ve lived in Boston all my life.”

  A long silence grew between them as he watched her preparing the meal. She moved with such grace, everything she did seemed like part of a dance and Conor found himself fascinated by the turn of her head or the flutter of her fingers. Even though she was casually dressed in a bulky cable-knit sweater and jeans, elegance and class seemed to radiate from her body.

  “What made you become a cop?” she asked, interrupting his thoughts.

  Conor pushed up from the stool and circled around the counter to peer into the pot she was stirring. “It’s a long story,” he said.

  “Like I said, I’ve got plenty of time. Twelve days, in fact. Which is good, because trying to carry on a conversation with the likes of you is like talking to a-a bowl of vegetables.”

  Conor chuckled. “I guess I don’t talk much.”

  “Ah, a sentence with more than five words,” she said sarcastically. “We’re making progress. Before the night is out, I expect scintillating repartee.”

  She dipped a spoon into the pot and tasted the sauce. Then she held out the spoon to him. He took her hand and steadied it as he licked the end of the spoon. The feel of her tiny wrist, her soft skin beneath his fingertips, sent a frisson of electricity up his arm.

  Their eyes met and, for a long moment, neither one of them moved. Had it been a first date, Conor may have taken the spoon from her hand and swept her slender body into his arms, kissing her until he lost himself in the taste of her mouth and the feel of her soft flesh.

  But this was not a first date, he reminded himself. He was a cop, charged with protecting a witness. And fantasizing about this witness, no matter how beautiful she was, would only take his mind off the real dangers that waited for her outside the beach cottage. He drew back, forcing his gaze to fix on a spot over her shoulder. “I should go check everything outside before it gets dark,” he murmured, schooling his voice into indifference. “Make sure Danny hasn’t fallen asleep.”

  He strode to the kitchen door, not bothering to fetch his jacket from the other room. The icy air would do him good, clear his head. “Don’t go near the windows,” he said as he stepped outside.

  Conor waved at his partner, stationed in a parked car near the road. He was tempted to switch jobs again with the poor guy. To give him paella and fine wine in turn for endless hours of lukewarm coffee, stale donuts and talk radio. Conor had always taken his job seriously, but it was hard to think about work while sitting in the same room as Olivia Farrell. Why did she have to be so beautiful?

  He’d flipped through the case file in the car, but hadn’t really bothered to read it in detail. In truth, he didn’t want to know more about Olivia Farrell. He already knew she was attractive and desirable and intriguing. But after spending the afternoon in her presence, his curiosity had been piqued. Right now, he wanted to know every detail he could about her and her involvement with Red Keenan.

  Maybe, after that, he could start looking at her as just a witness and stop thinking of her as a beautiful woman.

  THE LIGHT from the fire had waned and Conor rose from the floor to poke at the embers. Outside the wind howled and shrieked, waves crashing against the shore. He’d watched the weather reports earlier in the day and knew the nor’easter was blowing itself out. He thought again about Brendan, wondering if he’d put into port yet. The only solace he could find in the storm was that Keenan’s men wouldn’t dare to venture outside.

  Inside the beach house, the remains of dinner were scattered across the coffee table, dirty bowls, half-eaten bread, and the empty bottle of wine. Conor glanced over at the sofa. Olivia Farrell lay curled up asleep beneath a soft afghan, her hands clutched beneath her chin. He recalled a picture he’d found in one of his Irish storybooks, a drawing of Derdriu, an ancient beauty, betrothed to a king yet loved by a common warrior. Olivia’s hair, like Derdriu’s, was a pale shade of gold. The waves and curls spread over the pillow and her perfect skin shone like porcelain in the dim light from the fire.

  He tossed another log on the fire. Sparks scattered across the hearth and the log popped and sizzled before it caught fire. His father had often told the tale of how Derdriu’s beauty had brought only death and destruction to her people. But Conor remembered the drawing, how sweet and vulnerable her face had looked to his ten-year-old eyes. Even then, he’d doubted his father’s warnings about the opposite sex.

  He’d been sent to protect this woman, been asked to lay his life on the line for her like some ancient warrior. Yet what did he really know about her? Conor crossed the room and pulled the copy of the police file from his duffel bag. Then he wandered back to the fire, drawing nearer to the light to read. From what he could tell, Olivia Farrell was an ordinary citizen, caught up in extraordinary circumstances.

  Her partner, Kevin Ford, had been arrested for participating in a money-laundering scheme for organized crime boss Red Keenan, a scheme that had included murder. The mechanics of the scheme were quite complex-buying expensive antiques for Keenan, reselling them to bogus clients for three or four times the value, then handing over the freshly laundered money to Keenan.

  Olivia hadn’t been aware of the scheme, but she had had the misfortune of overhearing a conversation between her partner and Keenan, providing the only solid evidence to link the two. Conor looke
d up, wondering if she realized the true danger she was in. He also wondered what kind of relationship she had with Kevin Ford.

  He flipped past the report of Ford’s criminal activity to a photo of the guy. He wasn’t bad-looking, Conor mused, in that polished, sophisticated, Ivy League way. A woman like Olivia probably found him endlessly charming…intelligent…sexy, even. Perhaps they’d been lovers at one time, maybe still were. Conor shoved the photo back into the file and grabbed the page that included a rundown on her background.

  Olivia Farrell. Graduate of Boston College, lived on a nice street in the South End. No criminal record. Single. Twenty-eight years old. Co-owner of one of Boston’s most successful antique galleries, Ford-Farrell Antiques. Well-known throughout certain social circles in Boston. Dated an investment banker, a corporate attorney, and a shortstop for the Red Sox. No long-term relationships since college. Both parents living, residing in Jacksonville, Florida.

  Conor closed the file and turned his gaze back to her. “Stubborn to a fault,” he murmured. “Possible potential as a kick-boxer. Sharp tongue. Great cook. Incredibly beautiful.”

  His gaze drifted down to her mouth. Though she’d worn a grim expression for most of the day, all traces of irritation had been dissolved by the wine and good food. They’d chatted over dinner, each of them revealing just enough about themselves to keep the conversation interesting. She’d told him about her shop, the excitement of finding valuable antiques, the wealthy clients she worked with, the elegant parties she’d attended.

  He told her about the seamy underworld of the vice cop, the endless schemes criminals found to circumvent the law and the frustrations he felt when they got away with it. To his surprise, she seemed fascinated by his work and questioned him until he’d told her about the most interesting cases he’d ever worked. Conor sighed. He really shouldn’t have been surprised. Olivia Farrell was used to sparkling conversation. She could probably make an undertaker sound like he was the most intriguing man on the planet.