by Louise Clark
Quinn cocked a brow at Christy. "Can you manage dessert?"
She laughed. "I shouldn't."
"We have a selection of fresh berry pies and tonight we are featuring bread pudding made with bannock instead of the traditional bread," the waitress said helpfully.
Quinn laughed at Christy's expression. "Your eyes just lit up." To the waitress he said, "We'll share a bannock bread pudding, please." He looked at Christy. "Would you like a brandy? Or a liqueur?"
She shook her head. "Just a coffee, please."
Quinn ordered two coffees and the waitress went away. He reached across the table to take Christy's hand. "I'm glad you enjoyed the food."
"I enjoyed everything!" She smiled at him. "Especially the company."
He smiled briefly at her, then sobered. "Christy, I know you're worried about Shively and what she can do to Noelle. But I want you to know that I won't let anything happen to her. To either of you."
Her heart did that little flip thing again, and she could feel tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. She didn't think that it was possible for one person to ever completely protect another. In that moment, though, she believed it could happen. Quinn was a man comfortable in himself and in his ability to create change when change was necessary. He could slip easily into the Jamieson world of elites, money, and power, or live quite happily in an everyday world. Tonight he wanted to convince her to stay in Vancouver. He deliberately chose clothes and a restaurant that would remind her that he could be successful in her world. He wanted her to know she wasn't on her own; he was there for her and she could depend on him.
She had already made her decision, but Quinn wasn't aware of that. Everything he had done tonight was deliberately staged to make her stay in Vancouver. To make her stay with him. His clothes, his choice of restaurant, his promise to protect her—Quinn might not realize it yet, but he had committed himself to her, and to Noelle, even if he wasn't able to express his feelings in words.
"I know," she said, smiling rather mistily at him.
He looked down at their entwined hands. His dark lashes swept down, covering his eyes. His expression was intent when he looked up again. Christy had a sense that he needed to reassure her. "You've been through a hell of a lot in these last few months and until September, you had to face it all on your own. You don't anymore."
"No," she said. "I have you, Quinn." Her voice was soft, little more than a whisper. His words were bringing her emotions so close to the surface it was impossible for her to speak in a normal way.
It took a moment for her words to penetrate, then he grinned widely. "Yeah, you do. And my dad. And it looks like Trevor is on your team as well."
She smiled. "Your dad is great, but it's you I trust." She sobered and sighed. "I need your help, Quinn. I talked to Noelle about a move to Kingston this afternoon and she told me she didn't want to go. In fact, she begged me to stay. I realized that she is putting down roots here, in Burnaby. She's making friends and she likes her new school. I promised her we'd stay. But I'm scared, Quinn. Shively is like a bulldog. She never gives up. And she has no imagination. She doesn't see that no matter how strange Noelle's family is, we love her and we'd never hurt her." She looked down at their joined hands as he had moments before. "Quinn, when I promised Noelle that we'd stay, I was thinking of you." A little sob escaped before she could catch it as she looked up and into his eyes. "Because I know I can count on you, no matter what."
He lifted their joined hands and kissed the knuckles of hers. "Shh. It's okay. We'll work it out."
She sniffed. "I know."
He laughed. There was a tender look in his eyes. "I'm a lucky guy."
She managed a watery laugh. "How do I answer that without sounding stuck on myself?"
He gave her a teasing smile. "Give it a try anyway."
She was saved by the arrival of their waitress carrying the bannock bread pudding and two spoons. A dark-colored sauce had been drizzled over the warm slice. Whipped cream was swirled to one side. A quick taste told her the sauce was whiskey-based. "Yum," she said, her mouth watering.
She scooped up a portion, then offered the spoon to Quinn. "You get first dibs, lucky guy," she said.
Something smoldered in his eyes as he opened his mouth and accepted her offering.
As his mouth closed over the spoon, Christy's imagination took flight, going to places that sent shivers of desire shooting through her.
Her body felt like it was on fire as he savored the morsel. Slowly.
Her eyes tracked his progress as he swallowed.
And while he savored, his eyes never left hers. "Delicious."
She drew a deep, unsteady breath, then moistened her lips.
He smiled as he spooned a portion of the pudding, added whipped cream, and sauce, then held it to her to taste.
She opened her mouth and let him in. The dessert's flavors exploded on her tongue, sweet and spicy at the same time. The pudding was satisfyingly solid, the whipped cream as light as air, the sauce sweet with just the hint of a bite. The perfect ending to a culinary feast.
The future blazed brightly in that moment. For her. For them.
"Thank you," she whispered when she'd consumed the pudding.
He smiled at her, an endearing half-smile that was pleased, though a little rueful. "Like I said, I'm a lucky guy."
"No. I'm the lucky one." And this time is was Christy who lifted their joined hands and kissed his.
Chapter 18
"Where's Uncle Trevor?" Quinn asked, when he found his father at the kitchen table with his laptop open. It was the day after his dinner with Christy. He'd been working in the basement rec room, which he'd converted into an office, for the last two hours. His research had been split between computer searches and telephone conversations. He'd come up to take a break and make some sense of the information he'd gathered.
Roy was peering at the screen, a frown on his face. "I hate Track Changes," he said. "Inserts right in my text and all these little balloons beside it. I wish the editor would just courier me a paper manuscript with good old-fashioned mark-up."
Used to this complaint, Quinn opened the fridge door and pulled out a jug of ice water. "It's faster this way." He poured himself a glass then offered his father one.
Roy nodded. "I'm going blind," he said. "What the hell does that mean? Is this guy nuts?" He hunched deeper into himself and began to mutter, "No, no, no," as he deleted proposed changes.
"Uncle Trevor, Dad. Is he around?"
Roy sighed, then sat back. He picked up the glass Quinn had placed on the table beside him and drank, still staring at the screen. Then he shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair, which was tied at his nape. The result was a rather wild lumpy look, with some locks bunching and others escaping to hang over his eyes. He shoved those back roughly, causing more damage. "No," he said. "He's gone out." He leaned forward, okayed or canceled another couple of changes, then dragged his gaze away from the screen. His eyes lit on Quinn's face and sharpened. "Down to the cop shop to see what he can do for Ellen. He left about nine this morning."
It was eleven now. Quinn made a noncommittal noise then drank the cold water.
Roy pointed at him. "You've been researching the university people. Did you find out anything interesting?"
Quinn rummaged around in the pantry cupboard, found a bag of jalapeño potato chips and brought them over to the table. He sat down opposite his father and said, "Lots."
Roy made a "give" motion with his hand, twitching his fingers toward himself. Quinn opened the bag of chips and offered it to him. Roy made a face, which caused Quinn to grin, but he took a handful and stared to munch.
Quinn delved into the bag and came up with a big round chip, heavily spiced. He bit off one side and chewed. "Turns out Dr. Jacob Peiling's research program is in deep financial trouble."
"You don't say." Roy dug into the bag for another handful.
Quinn nodded. "His funding for the program comes from a b
unch of different places. The Jamieson Trust grant is only one of many and not particularly large at that. His major funding is from a government agency, the Science Council. The initial funding was for four years."
"And the four years are up?" Roy said, speculating.
Quinn nodded. "To get an extension, he had to write a results report and create a proposal for the next four years. He didn't get it in on time."
Roy raised his brows and raided the chip bag again. "Is he a perfectionist procrastinator who couldn't get his act together?"
"No." Quinn drew out the word, consuming one chip and digging in for another. He waved it at his father. "Not all of his grad students got their reports done and into him on time."
Roy sat up straight. "Brittany Day?"
Quinn nodded. "He used the excuse of Brittany's death and the resulting confusion to ask for an extension."
"Did he get it?"
"Apparently."
"Well, well, well." Roy leaned back in his chair and stared thoughtfully at his son. "That's very interesting. I'd say it gives Dr. Peiling plenty of reasons for being happy Brittany is dead, but does it provide him with enough of a motive to kill her?"
"Yeah, that's the question. A lot of his other funding is tied into the government grant, though, so it's important. If he loses it, he loses the others."
"Which ones?"
"The most important is a substantial grant from the university that comes out of their general funding. Then there's a provincial grant that is tied into the federal one. He also has sizeable grants from Roger Day's company and from Nathan DeBolt's company. Those are not reliant on the government funding, but they aren't enough to keep the program operating at the current level. If he doesn't secure the Science Council grant he'll lose at least two grad students, plus lab space."
Roy looked startled. "He only had four to start with. That would cut his program in half."
Quinn ate some more chips, then chugged half a glass of water. "Since the Science Council grant stretched over four years, the research is expected to produce significant results. The other grants are annual, but also achievement-based. He's got the Day and DeBolt grants for this year, but if he doesn't provide suitable outcomes, he could lose them next year."
"What happens to his grad students if he loses all his grants?"
Quinn shrugged. "The master's degree students like Brittany and Bradley Neale would have to look for a new program, possibly at another university, if they wanted to continue to the PhD level. I expect the PhD candidates would continue, but would have to find other funding. But they'd all be graduates of a failed program. Not much help if you're trying to build a career."
"So the TAs have good reason to be happy over Brittany's death, too. But like Dr. Peiling, is the funding issue enough to provide motive to kill her?"
"Probably not. There's also the problem of the location where Brittany was found."
"Ellen's apartment." Roy sighed and pushed the chip bag away. "How would Peiling get a key to her apartment to let himself in? And why would he kill Brittany there?"
"Spite over the cancellation of the Jamieson donation?" Quinn suggested. "The Trust provided the grant, but Ellen Jamieson was the trustee who networked with the university. Until the grant was discontinued, she was on Peiling's steering committee. We know the Trust had to cancel the grant because of the embezzlement, but maybe Peiling didn't. If he and Ellen had ever disagreed over committee issues, he might have imagined she had it in for him."
"And so he decided to get back at her in a way that would really stick it to her." Roy contemplated the idea as he sipped his water. "I like it. Makes Peiling seem just a little off-kilter. Gives him edge and makes us wonder what he might be up to next."
"This isn't a novel, Dad." There was amusement in Quinn's voice.
Roy managed to look indignant, but his eyes were alight with humor. "Is he a wimpy guy? Mild mannered and self-effacing?"
"I wouldn't call him a big personality," Quinn said, eying his father and eating more chips.
Roy pointed an emphatic finger. "Definitely an edge. Wimpy guys like him are unstable. They take it and take it and take it some more until they blow. What makes this guy tick?"
"His research," Quinn said without hesitation.
"There you have it." Roy raised his hand. "Threaten his program and you give him motive."
"Maybe," Quinn said, unconvinced. "I dug up another interesting fact, though."
Roy did his "give" motion again as Quinn, grinning, stretched out his announcement. "Nathan DeBolt is on Peiling's steering committee."
"Is he now?" Roy breathed out the statement. "That is very interesting. Brittany Day provides an alibi—a false alibi!—for Nathan's son, Aaron. Nathan's wife, Natalie, is a close friend of Ellen Jamieson, in whose apartment Brittany's body is found. Both Ellen and the DeBolts are involved with Jacob Peiling." He ticked off the points on his fingers as he itemized them, but by the time he was finished he was shaking his head. "There are links there, but I don't see how they connect."
Quinn shot his father a thoughtful look. "Maybe Peiling imagined he could settle a score and put the DeBolts into his debt at the same time, ensuring that the DeBolt funding would be guaranteed to continue. So he was the one who arranged for Brittany to make the false alibi statement. And when she decided to recant it, he realized that not only would DeBolt no longer be in his debt, but the man would be infuriated by the reversal. If that happened, DeBolt would ensure that Peiling lost the grant. So Peiling killed Brittany before she could make the change."
"And put her in Ellen's apartment to pay Ellen back."
Quinn nodded.
"I like it," Roy said, nodding. Then more enthusiastically, "I like it a lot!"
Quinn ate another chip. "There's still the problem of the key and getting into Ellen's apartment."
Roy waved his hand in dismissal. "Easy. All he has to do is filch a key from the super or the housekeeper, take it to a hardware store, and get a new key cut. He could do it in half an hour. The super or housekeeper would never know it was gone."
"Which would make the whole scenario very hard to prove."
"Yeah," said Roy, gloomy now in contrast to his enthusiasm from a moment before. "Still, Three says the defense doesn't have to prove who did the murder, it just has to throw enough doubt on the prosecution's case to convince the jury that the defendant isn't guilty."
Quinn nodded. "I'm going to continue to pick at the university connection and see if I can find any dirt on the TAs. The further we can push this away from Ellen, the better."
Roy nodded. "Good idea." He jiggled the laptop, shaking his head as the screen come alive. "I've had enough of this computer editing stuff for now." He saved the document, then clicked off the program and closed the computer. Then he beamed at his son. "What would you like for lunch?"
* * *
"Want to come out to EBU with me tomorrow?" Quinn was leaning against a tree in the wooded area above the townhouse complex. His hands were on Christy's waist and her hands were on his shoulders. They were standing very close together. So close he could feel the heat of her body.
So close his body was screaming out for hers.
She was smiling at him, her expression dreamy, her eyes not quite focused. He'd finished kissing her about thirty seconds ago and she was still locked in the pleasure of it.
He knew that because desire was thrumming through his body with an intensity that demanded more. Much more.
Hence the question. He needed to get his mind off the physical. Off the impossible and back onto something sensible.
Murder.
She blinked and looked confused, but she didn't pull away. "Do you have something specific in mind?"
She looked so gorgeous he wanted to kiss her again. Instead he reached up to stroke the hair at her temple. "I want to sweat the good Dr. Peiling."
She laughed and said, "Sweat him? That sounds ominous."
"It is for him," Quinn said. He cou
ld hear the lazy seduction in his voice. They might be talking about the murder investigation and a field trip to the other end of town, but his body—and certain parts of his brain—were still filled with desire for the woman he held in his arms.
And he didn't care. Hell of a thing, that. He was working on two levels, physical and intellectual, at the same time. He could still plan a cold-blooded interrogation of a reputable university professor who apparently had a lot to hide, while he contemplated the pleasure to be had kissing—and more—the woman in his arms.
Who seemed to be working on the same set of principles.
She nestled in a little closer and her smile deepened.
She had to feel his arousal. She had to know how much he wanted her. Maybe her movement meant she wanted him just as much. Now that was something to contemplate. The problem was, where did they go to take what they both wanted one step further?
"What did you find out?" she asked.
Her mouth was inches from his. The urge to close the distance, join with her and let nature take its course beat through him. The woods were thick here, relatively quiet at this time of the day. They could slip through the underbrush, find a private place—
A dog barked.
Maybe not. On this path, a barking dog meant a human walking it and at this time of day humans were likely to let their dogs off leash, even though technically it wasn't a no-leash zone. A dog off leash was likely to investigate interesting sounds and smells in the trees bordering the path.
He sighed, kissed the corner of Christy's mouth—chastely—and used both hands to ease her away from his body.
She laughed, her siren's eyes telling him that her thoughts were drifting in the same direction as his until the damned dog barked. "You were researching the people Brittany knew at the university. Any interesting connections?"
She stepped back and he took her hand in his. They resumed their walk down the path. The early December afternoon was chilly, with that crisp edge that signaled the damper, colder weather of winter was on its way.
