“This is preposterous!” He shot from his chair and folded his arms across his chest. Tugging on his lower lip with one index finger, he muttered to himself as he paced back and forth in front of the windows that framed his desk.
Francesca was actually encouraged by his response to her narrative version of what had happened with the court-appointed psychologist. “She was extremely rude,” Francesca said again, and then she added something else. “And I’m almost certain that Stedman has paid her off.”
“Really?” Fabian’s gaze narrowed. “That’s easy enough to find out. Why people take bribes, I will never know.”
“Yes. But won’t she just be able to claim that she saw Stedman for some clinical reason and that’s why he paid her?” Unfortunately, Francesca was used to Stedman getting his own way. It seemed almost too good to be true that he would not.
“That excuse only works if the amount isn’t some astronomical number.” Fabian flung himself into his executive chair and began swiping energetically at his smartphone. “Let us hope that the good doctor did not sell her honor for cheap. A four to six thousand dollar payment should be a giant red flag.”
Francesca still wasn’t convinced. “Or a huge therapy bill.”
“Ha!” Fabian pushed a button to dial. He moved his mouth away from the phone to throw her one more positive thought. “If Stedman Hyde-Pierson is getting that much therapy, then what right does he have to say that you’re the one who isn’t mentally competent? Eh?”
Francesca actually found herself laughing. Fabian was on the phone speaking loudly and at lightning speed to someone on the other end of the line. She didn’t know what language the lawyer was using, but it sounded as though it were Arabic or something equally exotic. Holloway was a very American-sounding name, but Fabian might be something else. She would keep that in mind.
Finally, the lawyer hung up. “My brother is a private investigator. I’ll admit that we keep most business in the family. It cuts costs and lets me be as bossy as I want to be.” He flashed her a smile. “He will start digging immediately. If we can find a connection between our rude and obviously biased clinical psychologist and Stedman, then the hearing on Friday will most certainly go our way.”
“I’m sorry, did you say Friday?” Francesca blinked in surprise. “As in this Friday?”
“Yes.” Fabian was scribbling away on a legal pad on his desk. “Did I forget to mention that? I got a notice this morning almost as soon as I filed a motion to dismiss.”
“Is this bad?”
“No.” Fabian shook his head. “Judge MacKenzie is usually a straight-up individual, and he isn’t the one on the initial court order, which is promising.”
“And weird, right?” Francesca barely grasped how the legal system worked to begin with. She just knew it was a pain in her ass.
“Extremely outside the norm, yes.” Fabian waved at Francesca as though he were shooing her away. “Now, go find something productive to do with your day—like hiring yourself another clinical psychologist who isn’t on your brother-in-law’s payroll.”
“Oh!” Francesca stumbled to her feet. The idea of seeking out another mental health professional was distasteful. She hated those appointments. And yet there was certainly wisdom in what Fabian was suggesting. “All right. I guess—I’ll find someone.”
Fabian was already on the phone again. He handed her a sheet of paper with a list of names and phone numbers on it. Francesca headed out of his office feeling heavy as lead. This was the last thing she wanted to do. It had taken her years to get up enough guts to go to her own therapist. It had taken several more years for her therapist to convince her to see a psychiatrist. Now she was supposed to let yet another perfect stranger dig around in her head? This. Sucked. Ass!
Steeling herself, Francesca strode out of Fabian’s office. She nearly ran right into Quentin’s broad chest. Without thinking, she inhaled deeply and was nearly knocked off her feet by the wonderful, spicy masculine scent of him.
Why did he have to smell so good when he probably really didn’t like her very much right now? It was embarrassing that her body reacted almost instantly. Didn’t she have a shred of pride? Ugh!
“You ready to leave?” His voice was gruff, and his manner was short.
She sighed. So much for that warm fuzzy feeling. It was pretty obvious that the guy didn’t want to be anywhere near her anymore. “Yes. I have to call one of these psychologists and make another emergency appointment.”
Quentin pressed his lips together so hard that she could not decide whether or not he was irritated on her behalf or by her. It was probably a bit of both. The poor man was no doubt sick and tired of all of the drama that seemed to follow her like a black plague. With a sigh, Francesca led the way out of the lawyer’s office with Quentin bringing up the rear. At some point, she really hoped this circus would be done.
QUENTIN WAS SICK and fucking tired of everyone pushing this poor woman around as if they had zero concern for her wellbeing. Did this lawyer guy not realize that another visit to yet another mental health professional was likely to push Francesca right over the edge?
He followed Francesca down the stairs and out of the building into the wan late day sunlight. Pulling out the fob for the luxury sedan, he unlocked the doors so that Francesca could get right in. She went right to the back door. For some reason, it bothered him to see her getting into the backseat. There was an intentional distance there, and he didn’t like it.
Since there was really nothing he could say about her choice of where to sit in the vehicle, he could do nothing but sigh and get behind the wheel. He kept a careful watch on their surroundings as he got into the vehicle. There had never been any overt threats against Francesca, but he wasn’t taking any chances that Stedman might utilize his mafia contacts to get nasty. Assuming of course that those “mafia contacts” were not all a load of horseshit, which was pretty much what Quentin was beginning to believe.
Once he settled into his seat, Quentin waited a few moments for Francesca to announce a destination. After what felt like ten minutes and was probably ten seconds, he gave up on the wait. “Where to?” he prodded.
“Just drive somewhere. Stay around Beacon Hill. I need to think for a moment, and I need to get an appointment.” Francesca muttered something else, but Quentin was too irritated by her tone of voice to care. She sounded as though she were ordering around a servant.
That wasn’t the way she usually treated him, and Quentin didn’t know what to make of the change. He started the engine. As he pulled away from the curb, he cursed himself for a fool. He should have never been stupid enough to sleep with a client. It mucked everything up. His perspective was all skewed now, and things that wouldn’t have bothered him, now bothered the hell out of him.
He could hear her in the backseat trying to make an appointment. In the rearview mirror, he could see her perusing a list of names and phone numbers. He could only assume the lawyer had given them to her. Nobody told him a damn thing.
Shit! I’m acting downright bitchy!
Quentin took a few deep breaths and purposefully sagged in the driver’s seat. He needed to force himself to calm down. He was also hungry. It was well past lunchtime, but they hadn’t stopped to pick anything up or to grab a bite to eat.
He spotted a diner up ahead with a conveniently located parking space across the street. Every ounce of his focus shifted to that one task. Acquiring that place on the curb became his sole mission in life. Spotting another motorist getting ready to flip a U-turn into the vacant slot, Quentin gunned the engine, and the luxury car lurched to close the opening. Quentin swung the wheel and expertly parked the vehicle while the other motorist waved his hand out the window and shouted obscenities.
“Are you happy now?”
Francesca’s prim voice was a surprise reminder that he wasn’t alone in the car. Quentin refused to feel chagrined. Not even when he glanced in the rearview mirror and saw her staring at him as though she were pretty
certain he had lost his mind.
She gestured to her list. “I don’t even know where we’re going yet. Why did you park?”
“I’m starving.” Quentin turned off the engine. “We’re going into that diner to get some lunch before I eat the steering wheel.”
“Is that why you’re so crabby?” she muttered. Packing away her phone and her list in her purse, Francesca smoothed her hands down her skirt and shot him a frigid look in the mirror.
Quentin already had one foot on the curb. “Just get out and go inside with me.”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t,” she told him as she got out. “I just don’t think this is the right time.”
“It’s an hour past noon.” He didn’t spare her a glance. If she wanted to be stubborn and stand here on the curb, he was about to let her. He needed food or he was going to turn into a real beast.
“Men.”
Her disgust prompted him to turn around in the midst of crossing the street and point right back at her. “Women.” He said it with equal disgust. “They make no sense and have zero logic when it comes to practical matters.”
Her sound of outrage actually made him smile. It was good to know that she still had some fire left after the hellacious day she’d had. Pausing at the diner’s door, he held it open for her to enter. The expression on her face as she did was very amusing. It was readily apparent that she’d never been in such a place before. Her gaze was flitting around to look at just about everything all at the same time.
“Is this place sanitary?” Francesca whispered.
He gestured to a booth in the back of the restaurant. “Don’t be a snob. Just sit down and see what they have to offer.”
Francesca eyed the booth before sliding into her side. “I was not aware that there were any places like this in Beacon Hill.”
“I don’t know if there are,” he reasoned. “But we’re technically in Back Bay, so I don’t suppose that matters.”
“I told you to stay in Beacon Hill!” She seemed outraged that he had once again disobeyed her orders. That shit was going to have to stop.
“You told me to stay around Beacon Hill,” he reminded her. “This is around Beacon Hill. We’re within a few miles and a few minutes. It’s all the same.”
A heavyset waitress with a broad smile appeared beside their table. “What can I get you folks to drink?” Her words were coated in a thick New England accent.
“Iced tea?” Francesca sounded as though she was trying to decide if this place would have such a thing.
Quentin smothered a laugh. “I’ll have a coke. Just give us a minute with the menu, all right?”
“Sure thing!” The waitress bustled off, and Quentin took a long look at his unwilling lunch date. This was going to be one very interesting meal.
Chapter Fifteen
Francesca peered at the menu and tried not to admit to herself that her mouth was watering not just from the descriptions, but because the pictures looked so very delicious. She was currently hung up on the diner’s breakfast offerings. Not just because she loved breakfast, but because the menu bragged that the diner served breakfast ALL DAY. It was a marvelous thing, and no matter how much she wished she could turn up her nose, she knew she simply didn’t have the strength.
“Anything catch your fancy?” Quentin drawled.
She lifted her gaze and stared at him. “Where are you from?”
“A little town near Shreveport in Louisiana.” He shrugged. “Why?”
“Your accent is very unusual.” She reconsidered that. “At least compared to what we usually hear around the New England area.”
“I suppose that’s true enough.” He was still focused on the menu. “I learned to talk with a lot less accent when I was overseas. It was always best not to stand out.”
“Standing out means giving someone extra information about your personal life and your origins,” she agreed. Francesca felt a little shudder go through her body at the thought of exactly what someone could do if they had a little bit of information about origin and background.
“You sound like you know firsthand.” He set his menu down flat on the table and stared at her. “That surprises me.”
“Why?” she shot back. “Because I’m just a spoiled little Hyde-Pierson?”
Quentin opened his mouth to answer, but the waitress with the huge bosoms and the sunny smile appeared tableside. “What can I get you folks? Did you decide?”
Francesca mustered up her friendliest smile. There was no way she wanted anyone here to think badly of her. There were too many stories of what went on in the kitchens of places like this when the customer was rude. “I think I’m going to have to try the short stack of pancakes with a side of sausage.”
“How do you want your eggs, sweetheart?” The waitress was scribbling a mile a minute on her little order pad.
Francesca was strangely at a loss. She never ordered eggs. People always just made them the way she liked them. How refreshing and odd. “Over medium?”
“All righty, then.” The waitress moved on to Quentin. “And for you, sir?”
“I’m going to have steak and eggs. Medium rare and over easy, please.” Quentin gathered up the menus and handed them to the waitress. “Thank you so much, ma’am.”
“Oh, it’s a pleasure!”
The whole experience had been surreal so far. Francesca realized that she had been living one tier of existence her entire life and rarely ventured beyond what she knew. It was a startling thought.
“You must think I’m the world’s biggest snob,” Francesca said decidedly. “I think I can understand why. I really can.” She rushed on, not wanting to hear any more condemnation from his lips. “I don’t mean to look down on others or on places and unfamiliar situations. I’m just not used to things outside of my own little world. I’m sort of sheltered that way, I guess. Not that it’s an excuse, mind you. I’m just trying to explain…”
“Francesca,” Quentin broke in. “Sheesh, woman, calm down.”
“Huh?” She felt like she was sitting with her mouth hanging wide open.
He chuckled and reached across the table to very gently touch the back of her hand with his fingertips. “I really don’t think you’re a snob. I think you’re sheltered and it’s made you a bit judgmental, but that’s not unusual.”
“You sound like an expert.” She picked up her paper napkin wrapped silverware and pulled off the strange little paper holder. It was wrapped around the bundle and fastened with some kind of rubbery sticky stuff.
“Come on.” Quentin was staring at her obvious fascination with the silverware. “How is it possible that you’ve never eaten anywhere with paper napkins and silverware all wrapped up like that?”
She shrugged. “I’ve never been to a restaurant where there weren’t cloth napkins on the table.”
“Never?”
Was this really so impossible to believe? “No.”
“Did you grow up under a rock?”
“Beacon Hill,” she said stiffly. And then she had to admit that he was partially right. “So, basically, on top of a rock.”
“My God, she made a joke!” he teased. “Look. I grew up in a town where they served food by dumping a pot full of steamed crawdads onto a table covered in brown paper. You just dug in and tossed your cracked shells into the bucket.”
Francesca gaped at him. “I’ve heard of places where they do that with crab! I’ve never been though.”
“There was a place in Baltimore that we went when we were on leave,” he began slowly. “They gave you a mallet to beat the crab shells apart with.”
“I want to do that!” The words burst from her lips. Francesca put her hands over her mouth and blushed red hot.
“Glad to hear you’re human, then,” he told her with a smile. “And I really don’t think you’re a snob. I just don’t understand you sometimes. Do you see the difference?”
“Like back at the house when you were talking about PTSD and I told you that you didn
’t understand.” She could not believe she was opening up that prickly topic again. Was she insane?
“I suppose exactly like that.”
“I lost a baby,” she whispered. Her throat seemed to close up. It was so rare that she said those words out loud. Sometimes she let herself think about it, but she did not speak of it. Ever. “I was only three months along. I had just passed that mark where I was getting excited about being able to tell people that we were going to have a baby.”
“Was your husband excited?” Quentin’s voice was strangely tight. She could not read him to find out why. There was simply too much emotion sitting in her gut to do that with any accuracy.
“Lyle was indifferent,” she remembered bitterly. “I thought it would help us. He had always been rather physical with me. But one night, he got drunk and really rough. He hit me, and I fell. He kicked me a few times, and that was it. No more baby, and no more chances to have one.” She swallowed back the thick coating in her throat. “The hemorrhaging finished off whatever dreams of motherhood I might have had.”
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. He took her hand and held it tight. “I am so very, very sorry.”
QUENTIN WANTED TO dig up that bastard Lyle Hyde-Pierson just so he could kill him off again. Quentin was starting to come to the decision that the asshole had done everyone a favor by ending his life. And that was a very unreasonable and very dark thought to have. But the idea that the man could have hit this tiny woman with the sparkle in her eyes was abhorrent.
“I don’t hit women,” Quentin said suddenly.
She drew back and pulled her hand away from his. “What?”
“I told you that I don’t hit women. I have never raised my hand to a woman in anger, and I never will.”
“But not in anger?” She cocked her head and looked very confused.
Quentin sighed. “I’m a marine. Analise is a marine. We’ve sparred on occasion, and I will tell you with pride that I managed to hit that woman. If I hadn’t, she would have wiped the floor with me.”
Nash Security Solutions Page 55
