Home at Last--Sanctuary Island Book 6

by Lily Everett

  Quinn groaned when the tips of her breasts crushed into the mat of springy hair on his chest, and she twisted against him as if she liked the sensation. The sounds she made went to Marcus’s head like strong drink. Since the very first time, he’d been addicted to the way Quinn loved sex. She was so responsive, so eager and natural in the way she enjoyed how their bodies came together. Maybe it was her youth and relative inexperience, or maybe it was a quality all Quinn’s own—either way, she made Marcus feel young again. She made him feel like every time was the first time, a discovery of what their bodies were made for—an exploration of how much pleasure their bodies could contain without exploding.

  Hard and aching with it, Marcus walked Quinn backward to the bed. When it hit the backs of her knees, she tumbled onto it with a laugh and laid herself out for him. Her narrow waist and the curves of her hips were still hidden by those cotton drawstring shorts she wore—those shorts shouldn’t be sexy, but damn, they were. Marcus’s eyes devoured her like a feast for a starving man. The rounded softness of her breasts, tipped with pink and begging for his mouth. The line of her neck as she threw her head back and silently invited him closer, invited him to have her. And he would.

  He did. And it was glorious.

  Chapter 17

  Quinn bounded down the stairs, full to the brim with energy and a determination to make the most of the day.

  She’d woken up twined around Marcus Beckett like a very affectionate Virginia creeper vine, and they’d repeated last night’s wonderful, sweaty, bed-shaking adventures before she’d leaped into the shower and gotten dressed.

  Last night—even before the bed shaking, it was a pretty incredible night. Marcus had opened up. Maybe only a crack, and maybe what he’d shared had only made her more aware of the damage he carried around like a badge of honor, but still, it felt like progress.

  As long as she ignored how hard she’d had to work to make him tell her anything.

  Breezing into the kitchen, she found her father sitting alone at the table, nursing a cup of coffee. When he looked up, she frowned at the dark smudges under his puffy eyes.

  “You look like you didn’t get a wink of sleep. Did you and Mother talk for a long time last night?”

  “Sorry to dash your hopes, but your mother was asleep when I got upstairs. Or at least, she pretended to be. I thought I’d talk to her this morning, and I hardly slept, thinking about what I’d say—but I guess I did eventually pass out, and she was gone before I woke up.”

  Disappointment wilted Quinn briefly, but she shook it off and grabbed a mug to pour herself some coffee. “I’m sorry, Daddy, that sounds like a rough night. But it’s only a setback. Can’t you go talk to her now? Marcus is in the shower and I can make myself scarce, give you some privacy.”

  “I would if I knew where she was. But the car is gone, and so is Ron. So they’re off together doing God knows what.”

  “Daddy! You don’t mean that.” Quinn plopped down with her coffee and regarded her father across the table with concern. “Mother would never cheat on you.”

  He slumped over and put his forehead in his hand. “Honestly, I don’t know what to think anymore. I don’t know what to do. The problem is so much bigger than I even imagined. It’s overwhelming.”

  “Well, I know one thing we’re going to do.” Quinn set her coffee cup down with a clack. “We’re going to have an intervention. Mother is addicted to Ron Burkey and his breath work and astral healing and spiritual psychobabble. But I have a lead on some information that might help her kick the habit. Let Marcus and me dig into it a little more today, and then tonight we’ll sit her down and talk it out, as a family. How does that sound?”

  Paul smiled weakly. “It can’t hurt. Do you really know something about Ron that will change your mother’s mind?”

  “It’s more of a suspicion than a fact,” Quinn hedged. “But Marcus and I have plans to get some confirmation, enough to convince Mother that we’re right.”

  She thought he’d ask more about it, but instead, he only nodded and got up to refill his coffee. He moved slowly, shuffling across the linoleum like a much older man, and Quinn felt her heart crack in two. She wanted to promise him everything would be okay, but of course, she couldn’t know that for sure.

  For the first time since she hatched her crazy scheme to make Marcus into her fake boyfriend, Quinn faced the fact that there truly might be nothing she could do to save her parents’ marriage.

  The realization threatened to break her heart, but even as her throat ached and swelled with emotion, Quinn was conscious of a tiny seed of relief sprouting in her chest.

  If she couldn’t change the outcome for her parents … maybe their relationship wasn’t actually her responsibility? Maybe even their problems … weren’t her fault.

  None of that meant that Quinn would stop fighting for her family. At the very least, she was going to get to the bottom of whatever Ron had planned for the land he and his wife wanted to buy up. Exposing the truth could only be a good thing. Then whatever choice her parents made would be based on having all the facts.

  But even if this didn’t go the way Quinn wanted, even if the worst happened and her parents split up—for the first time, Quinn thought she might survive it. She’d be okay, and so would Mother and Daddy. If they truly couldn’t make each other happy anymore, then they would honestly be better off apart.

  The way she felt about Marcus … that’s what she wanted for her parents. And if they’d lost that, she couldn’t fault them for wanting to end the marriage.

  Quinn drained her coffee and took the mug to the sink. She hadn’t had this many deep thoughts before breakfast since college. “Okay, Daddy, I’m going to make some calls about Ron. Will you keep an eye on the driveway and give me a shout if it looks like they’re coming home?”

  “Sure.” Paul perked up, bending to pull out his frying pan. He always liked to have a plan, Quinn mused. “I’m going to start breakfast. How does Marcus feel about French toast?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s find out!” Quinn knocked a kiss onto her dad’s cheek before heading to the home office at the back of the house. A few quick internet searches later, she had the contact information she needed.

  Quinn cracked her knuckles and picked up the phone. Holding her breath, she dialed in the number and waited while it rang.

  “Burkey Commercial Real Estate,” said a cool, collected female voice. “How can I help you realize your dreams today?”

  Pitching her voice a little higher and more nasally than usual, Quinn said, “Yes, ma’am, hello. I’m calling from the offices of the Sanctuary Island Town Council. We understand you have a client looking into purchasing some land there, and I’m going to need a little information from you so I can get the zoning permits started…”

  *

  Paul had wondered how Quinn intended to get Dr. Ron out of their hair long enough to do an intervention for her mother, but in the end, Ron made it easy. When he and Ingrid came back to the house that afternoon, he said he’d made arrangements with a local who owned a boat to take him on a tour of the coves and inlets around the outskirts of the island.

  “I’ll be back for dinner,” he assured Paul, who bared his teeth in a smile that felt more like a snarl.

  “Can’t wait,” he replied flatly.

  The minute Ron was gone, they all gathered in the living room. Ingrid was reluctant—he could tell she didn’t want to talk about where she’d been with Ron all morning. And she didn’t want to talk to her husband at all. She’d barely even look at him.

  So it was Quinn who started things off, after sharing a glance with her fiancé that seemed to bolster her spirits.

  “Mother, we need to talk to you about Ron.”

  Ingrid huffed and crossed her arms over her chest. “Must we have this conversation again? Believe me, I know how you all feel about him, but he’s here to help. It’s not his fault that the process is painful. That’s how you know it’s working!”

&
nbsp; “It’s true that productive therapy can be painful,” Quinn said, obviously choosing her words with care. “Which is why it’s all the more important to only undertake work like that with a trained, licensed professional who has your best interests at heart. Marcus? Tell her.”

  Raising both brows at Marcus, Ingrid sat up in the rose-upholstered armchair. “Yes?”

  Marcus was perfect for this kind of thing, Paul thought. His serious, emotionless expression and matter-of-fact tone made Ingrid relax almost imperceptibly from her defensive stance. Until she heard what he was saying.

  “Ron Burkey—‘Dr.’ Ron—” Marcus said, making the gesture for air quotes with his fingers, “is not a doctor. He doesn’t even have a Ph.D., much less an M.D. He has no legal or ethical right to be running a psychology practice.”

  Ingrid didn’t move. She didn’t flinch. Paul, who was watching her intently for any sign that she’d heard and understood, finally said, “Honey, you know what that means? Ron is a phony.”

  “Excuse me,” Ingrid retorted. “But that’s not what it means at all. Ron may not have the backing of the medical establishment, but that’s hardly surprising considering how cutting-edge his theories are. Of course he doesn’t have a degree—he’s self-taught! More than that, he’s one of the foremost thought leaders when it comes to spiritual psychology and intuitive healing. There’s no one who’s a bigger expert than he is, so that means there’s no one higher up to give him that stamp of approval. So what?”

  A chill spread from Paul’s insides to the tips of his fingers. If even this didn’t convince Ingrid to stop listening to Ron’s poison, then what would?

  “I hope you didn’t drag me in here just for this,” Ingrid said, gathering her long skirts up as if she were about to stand. “It’s been a long morning and I’m tired. I was thinking of lying down for a nap before dinner.”

  “A long morning doing what?” The words popped out of Paul’s mouth before he could stop them.

  His wife glared at him across the coffee table. “Is this an intervention or an interrogation?”

  “It’s neither,” Quinn soothed, leaning over to put a hand on her mother’s arm. “Not really. But … can I make a guess about what you and Ron were doing?”

  Ingrid stiffened visibly, but Quinn didn’t wait for a response.

  “Were you looking at apartments and smaller houses closer to downtown?”

  Pulling away, Ingrid sank back into her chair. “How did you know that?”

  The implications hit Paul like a sledgehammer between the eyes. “You went looking for a new place to live … without me?”

  “Don’t make such a thing of it.” Ingrid’s cheeks were red as the roses embroidered on her chair. “Ron only wanted me to see that there are options.”

  “In case you do decide to sell the house,” Quinn clarified, glancing at Marcus again. He nodded encouragingly.

  “After last night, we can’t pretend this last-ditch effort to save our marriage is going well.” Ingrid lifted her chin and spoke with the innate dignity that had always drawn Paul to her. There was a grace to Ingrid’s movements, the straight line of her spine and her long neck, that stopped his eyes whenever they passed over her.

  He couldn’t believe how close he was to no longer seeing that graceful posture every day.

  “Ingrid.” His mouth was dry. “Honey, please.”

  She looked torn, her face screwing up for a moment as if she almost couldn’t bear it—and that’s when Quinn struck.

  “I guessed that Ron had taken you house-hunting today, because I know the truth about why he wants you to sell this place,” she said baldly. Only her tense fingers, white with pressure where they gripped her knees, gave away her inner turmoil. “He wants to buy it.”

  Paul stared as Ingrid’s head reared back. “That’s ridiculous. He never said one word about buying this house. He hasn’t made us an offer! What makes you think—”

  “He wouldn’t make the offer himself,” Marcus interrupted. “At least, that’s not how he did it with my father.”

  “Your father?” Paul’s gaze shot to the front window, where the ramshackle house up the lane was framed between the gently waving curtains. “Will sold his house?”

  “Not yet,” Marcus answered. “But he’s thinking about it. He has received an offer … from Ron’s wife, who is a commercial real estate developer.”

  Ingrid went absolutely rigid, as if all her bones and muscles had been replaced with steel rods buried in cement. “What.”

  Her voice was deadly soft, but Quinn didn’t back down. Paul was proud of her.

  “It’s true,” she said, calm and steady. “I spoke to Amber Burkey this morning. She confirmed that she and her husband think Lantern Point would make the perfect spot for a brand-new ‘wellness spa.’ They want our land, and Marcus’s family’s land, to build it on.”

  Without a flicker of an eyelash, Ingrid got up and crossed the living room to stand by the window. Looking out toward the Beckett house, she said, “Are you certain Ron knows about this plan?”

  “I haven’t confronted him about it,” Quinn said, “but his wife used the word ‘we’ a lot. And she talked about the therapies her husband plans to offer. So I think it’s safe to assume that Ron is in on it, Mother.”

  Wincing, Paul watched his wife carefully to see if she bridled at Quinn’s accusatory words, but for the first time since Ron Burkey came into their lives, Ingrid didn’t leap to his defense. Instead, she nodded once, as if she were confirming something to herself. And then she said, “Quinn, Marcus. Could you give us a moment alone?”

  Quinn’s hands twisted in her lap. “I … I know this is a lot to take in, Mother. I know how much you believed in Ron, but—”

  “It wasn’t how much I believed in Ron,” Ingrid corrected her absently. “It was how much he believed in me. Or at least, he convinced me that he did. It doesn’t matter now. I need to speak to your father in private. I appreciate the effort you put into finding the truth, sweetheart. You, too, Marcus. I’m sorry you had to get involved.”

  Paul saw from the way Quinn bit her lip that she was reluctant to leave without hearing some sort of acknowledgment that her mother renounced Ron Burkey and everything he stood for. But Paul knew his wife. She had something to say, and if she didn’t say it, she was going to explode. “Go on, sweetheart, get out of here and let your mother and me talk. That’s what you’ve wanted all along, remember?”

  “I guess it is. And y’all deserve to have some privacy,” Quinn said, standing up.

  “Privacy’s not easy to come by when we’re all living on top of each other like this,” Paul said with a smile, heart pounding with nerves. “But I’m glad we’ve had the chance to get to know you better, Marcus. And to see you and Quinn together—I can tell you’re good for each other. Thanks for being here.”

  Marcus set his jaw as if he didn’t know what to say, and Quinn jumped in to rescue him before it got unbearably awkward. “Okay, we’ll leave you two in peace. Marcus, want to take me out to the Firefly for dinner? We can meet y’all here afterward and decide what to do next.”

  “Sounds good,” Paul said, slapping his thighs and smiling for all he was worth. “That should give us plenty of time.”

  Plenty of time to figure out where they stood now that Ron Burkey wasn’t standing between them.

  But after Quinn and Marcus left the house, Paul and Ingrid spent the next few minutes in tense silence. Paul watched his wife, who was still standing at the window looking out. He used to be able to tell exactly what she was thinking just by looking at her. When did he lose that ability?

  Finally, Ingrid turned around to face him. Dry-eyed and face set, she said, “You win. Ron is a fraud and I feel like a fool. I’ll tell him to go.”

  She was shaking, Paul saw with a shock. He shot off the sofa and headed toward her, but she held up both hands to stop him from coming closer.

  “Don’t.”

  Taken aback by her sharp tone, Pa
ul blinked. “But … please, Ingrid. Let me comfort you. I know you’ve been hurt by this news—”

  “I’m not hurt,” she interrupted. “I’m furious. And if you come any closer, it’s possible I’ll lose my grip on my emotions and lash out at the nearest convenient target. I know how much you hate it when I get overly emotional, so I’m giving you fair warning.”

  Paul frowned, but he stopped moving closer. “I don’t hate it when you get emotional.”

  “Please. It embarrasses you, or you’re made uncomfortable, or you wish I’d just be calm and rational like you. Mr. Logic.” Ingrid smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s fine. I’m working on it. But it’s probably better for everyone if I’m alone right now.”

  Everything inside Paul rebelled at that idea, but he didn’t know how to say that to his wife. Ingrid had always been a full-blown rose, wild and carefree, her petals open to the sun. Now she seemed more like a rosebud, furled tightly closed against him. Paul wavered, unsure what to do, how to reach her.

  And then he had an idea. A terrible, amazing, exhilarating idea.

  “Okay, I’ll give you some space,” he finally said. “But we need to have that conversation we told Quinn we’d have. We can’t keep putting it off. I’m going out to the garden. Come find me when you’re ready.”

  Without waiting for a reply, Paul strode from the room and made for the stairs, taking them two at a time. He felt more energized than he had in years, since before he retired.

  Half an hour later, in the waning light of the afternoon sun, Paul struck a match and watched the new bonfire blaze up from the ashes of last night’s charred wood.

  “Oh my goodness,” breathed his wife from behind him. “What in the world are you doing?”

  “Nothing rational or logical, I’ll tell you that,” Paul replied, feeling giddy. He glanced over his shoulder to where Ingrid hovered outside the stone circle. “And I have to say … I’m enjoying it.”