Parker’s Price

by Ann Bruce

  She got to admire the honey-colored hardwood floor in her living room because not a single piece of furniture blocked it from view. She hadn’t had that pleasure since the day she’d moved in. It was a good thing she had insurance. Of course, she didn’t look forward to filling out the second round of insurance forms in triplicate, then having to wait weeks for the claim check to arrive in the mail.

  Her bathroom was cleaner—and emptier—than she’d seen it in years. As Parker jotted down a note to have a new bathroom mirror installed she noticed her little list was getting long.

  The bedroom depressed her the most. Her bed was bare and the mattress removed. The bed frame, box spring and highboy had survived the rampage, but little else. A note was taped to her wrought iron headboard. Parker peeled off the note and read it aloud: “Your clothes were damaged beyond repair and discarded.”

  Parker shuddered. She wouldn’t have worn them again, anyway.

  “Look at it this way,” said Deidre from behind her, her strong hands massaging Parker’s tense shoulders, “you have a legit excuse for retail therapy. And you can add a little color to your wardrobe.”

  Parker dropped her arms to her sides and did a visual sweep of the barren room. “I like black,” she said.

  “I know you do,” Deidre murmured soothingly, like she was humoring a child.

  “Black never goes out.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “I’m wearing color now.”

  “Your sister’s clothes, I’ll bet.”

  Parker looked back over her shoulder. “You’re angling to go shopping with me, aren’t you?”

  Deidre beamed at her and batted her fake lashes.

  “Okay. Upcoming Saturday. And we’re going to stick to a budget.”

  Deidre hooked her arm through Parker’s and steered her from the room. “Do you think that lovely Gordon will drive us?”

  “If Dean has anything to say about it, we’ll be lucky if Gordon’s the only one with us.”

  “That’s new for you,” remarked Deidre, her serious tone setting off warning bells in Parker’s head.

  “What is?” she asked warily.

  “Letting a man take charge in a relationship.”

  “I let men take charge.”

  “Not in the years I’ve known you,” countered Deidre. “I don’t know if you seek them out or if they’re drawn to you, but the men you date let you call the shots.”

  “I don’t think I like where this conversation is going.”

  “Sweetie, you’re very strong willed and I love you for it, but you date the wrong men. They’re wimps. They always give in to you and let you have your way. And worse, they’re shallow.”

  They exited the apartment and Parker withdrew her arm so she could lock the front door.

  “I like dating…nice men who don’t make things complicated,” she said as she tested the door.

  “Boring is the word you’re looking for. Which is why you quickly get bored and move on. Sometimes I think you do it deliberately.”

  “Are you saying I sabotage all my relationships from the start?” asked Parker, trying to be nonchalant and not quite succeeding because her face suddenly felt very stiff. “Have you been watching Oprah with Brenda?”

  “Don’t make a joke of it,” Deidre chided, her look pitying. “You always gloss over these things. Makes them easier for you to dismiss, I suppose.”

  Parker turned away hastily lest her friend witness the sudden rise of panic in her eyes. “Dean’s only sticking around until whoever’s targeting me is caught.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you ask him?”

  Her stomach lurched. “No.”

  Very softly, Deidre asked, “Why not?”

  When Parker remained stubbornly silent, Deidre sighed. She looped her arm through Parker’s. “My place. Hot chocolate. Now.” She tapped a long, jeweled fingernail against her lips. “And we’d better call Gordon to join us. This is going to take a while. You need a lot of work.”

  Parker tried to go over the to-do list she’d compiled in the backseat of the Maybach but Deidre’s question kept intruding, stubbornly refusing to be dismissed. She considered asking Gordon to turn on the radio, but she looked outside the window and noticed they were stopped at an intersection one block from Dean’s apartment building, which she could see clearly. A yellow taxi pulled up to the curb in front of the entrance and, after a moment, the back door opened and a familiar figure carrying a briefcase got out.

  Even from a distance, Dean managed to look imposing and sexy in his dark suit, making her heart beat a little faster.

  As if sensing her regard, he turned and looked around. He saw her and waved away the doorman.

  Gordon cursed.

  Parker blinked, glanced over at him. “What is it?”

  The light must’ve turned green because the sedan shot forward. Parker’s head whipped back to Dean—and her mouth parted in horror. A helmeted daredevil on a sleek motorcycle jumped the curb, bounced onto the sidewalk and didn’t slow down. Parker’s heart lodged in her throat. The rider extended an arm. There were shouts above the noise of the bike. Dean shoved the doorman out of the way and followed him onto the concrete just as the bike whipped past them. There was a pop, like a firecracker going off. The bike wobbled, sideswiped a parked vehicle and kept going, disappearing around the block.

  Oh God, oh God, oh God. Onlookers rushed over to the scene, obstructing her view of Dean. Her stomach pitched and rolled. Parker shoved open the back door before the Maybach came to a complete stop and, ignoring Gordon’s startled shout, jumped out. She frantically pushed through the gathered crowd, her vision blurred. She was crying, and in public, no less, but she couldn’t stop herself and didn’t care.

  A broad chest checked her progress. She brought her hands up and shoved. It didn’t move. Her frustration mounted and she beat at the chest with her fists. Strong arms went around her and squeezed, forcing her face into the chest. A voice called her name over and over again.

  Dean, she thought, and her knees gave out.

  Thirty minutes later, with her tears mopped up and her muscles no longer like gelatin, Parker sat on the sofa next to Dean, her fingers entwined tightly with his. The two detectives sat across from them. Like before, Detective Wade asked the questions and Detective Harris took notes. Dean had recounted his version of events. He had heard the bike, saw the rider pull something from his jacket, and reacted, taking both himself and the doorman out of the line of fire. It had been over in mere seconds. The discharged bullet had gone through one of the glass doors and embedded itself harmlessly into a wall. The door would have to be replaced and the plaster refinished and repainted, but no one had sustained anything more serious than a few scrapes and bruises.

  Dean hadn’t noticed too many details, but he didn’t need to because Parker already knew to whom the motorcycle belonged.

  “Are you sure, Ms. Quinn?” Detective Wade asked again.

  “I’m positive. It’s a black Ducati with purple and red pinstriping. I was with Tyler when he went to buy it.”

  The detectives exchanged cryptic looks.

  “Do you doubt her?” demanded Dean.

  “No, no,” the detective reassured quickly. “There was paint transfer on the vehicle that was sideswiped. Purple paint flecks. With that evidence and Ms. Quinn’s statement, we’ll be able to get a warrant for the bike.

  “Do you know where he keeps it?”

  “A parking garage two blocks from his apartment,” Parker answered. “I don’t remember the exact address.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll track it down. What about the gun?”

  Parker shook her head. “I didn’t even know he had one.”

  “How long is this going to take?” asked Dean.

  “We won’t be able to get a search warrant signed until tomorrow. However, since the bike’s in a parking garage, we’ll send someone to check on it shortly.”

&
nbsp; “What about Moore? What if he decides to run while you’re waiting for a signature?”

  “We’ll have someone sit on him. Don’t worry, Mr. Maxwell. This will all be over soon.”

  After a few more repetitive questions, as if they wanted to make sure the stories didn’t change, Gordon showed the detectives to the elevator door, leaving Parker and Dean alone.

  “Feeling better?”

  He’d been nearly run over and shot at, yet he was asking about her welfare. Parker almost laughed, but simply shook her head, too tired and shaky from the after effects of shock to lie. She dropped her face into her hands and massaged her temples. “You were right about Tyler,” she mumbled through her hands. “And this is all my fault. I shouldn’t have used you to get rid of him.”

  Dean grabbed her hands and forced them away from her face. “It is not your fault.”

  She couldn’t meet his eyes. “Tyler just tried to kill you because of me.”

  “Moore tried to kill me; not you. He’s responsible for his actions. You didn’t make him do anything.”

  She closed her eyes and considered that, knowing he was right but still unable to make the feelings of guilt go away. And there were still echoes of the aching hollowness when she’d feared the worst.

  “You’re very good at taking blame for other people’s actions.”

  Her head lifted. “I’m not a martyr.”

  “Then stop acting like one,” he said. “You blamed yourself for your sister lying to you. Now you’re blaming yourself for this. You are not responsible for everyone. Sometimes it’s not you, it’s them.”

  She covered her face with her hands. “Oh, God. Not you, too.”

  “What?” he asked, sounding annoyed.

  “Everyone around me has been watching Oprah.”

  He chuckled. “Nah. I got a similar lecture from my dad after my sister broke our living room window and I took the blame for her because Lisa was aiming for my head when she threw the baseball. She was pissed because I told her she threw like a girl. Both of us ended up getting punished.”

  Dean pulled her to her feet, catching her against him when she swayed. “Come on. We’re calling it an early night.”

  “I should be the one taking care of you,” she said, even as she clutched tightly at his sides.

  “I did say you could be on top tonight.”

  Her lips twitched unexpectedly. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Are you going back on your word?” he murmured. A hand skimmed down her back, settled at the hollow just above the curve of her buttocks.

  She inched closer to him. “I didn’t promise anything.”

  “It was a tacit agreement.”

  Of their own accord, her hands fisted in his shirt and started pulling it free of his pants. He took that as another tacit agreement and led her into his bedroom. Overtaken by the sudden need to inspect every part of him and reassure herself he really was fine, Parker tore at his clothes in between deep, hard, open-mouthed kisses. When they were finally naked, Dean tossed her on the bed, pulled on a condom and followed her down, crushing her under his weight. His penetration was hard and rough and deep, and she rose to meet it.

  There was the immediate tidal wave of relief of having him inside her, of reassurance in this most primal method. His mouth found hers and their tongues tangled. He pulled out, thrust back in and repeated the cycle, driving her deep into the bed each time. Then he crushed her to him, seeming to squeeze the air from her lungs, and rolled, taking her with him.

  For a heartbeat, she didn’t understand the change in position or why he stopped. His hands clamped onto her hips and he thrust up. Parker made an inarticulate sound and pushed herself up, bracing her hands on his rigid abdomen muscles. She rolled her hips and moaned when pleasure pulsed through her. She rose, using her knees, and sank back down. Dean groaned and ran his hands over her sleek curves.

  As she rode him, her head fell forward and, within the intimate confines of the curtains of her hair, he managed to snag her gaze and hold it. As she stared into those dark, glittering eyes that wouldn’t let her go, something inside her cracked. The fissure grew, spreading in all directions like a spider’s web. Searing heat trailed down her cheeks. Then the wall broke, shattering into too many pieces and a hot well of emotion swelled in her chest, threatening to burst through.

  Her world dipped and spun and she found herself staring up at Dean.

  “Baby, don’t cry,” he murmured, kissing away her tears. “Did I hurt you?”

  Unable to speak with tears clogging her throat, Parker shook her head and wrapped her legs around his hips, pulling him deeper inside her. He groaned, took the hint and started thrusting again, moving in and out, slow and deep. But it wasn’t long before it wasn’t enough and his pace increased, faster, harder.

  Dean reached down between their joined bodies and stroked her clitoris. A cry of rapture tore from her throat and her body shook as a rush of unbearable sensation crashed over her. With a harsh, guttural sound of completion, Dean followed her.

  Chapter Ten

  At just a few minutes after eleven the next morning, Dean disconnected the call with Detective Wade, called Gordon and asked him to be in front of the office building in ten minutes. He needed to see Parker. Perhaps he was overreacting, but he couldn’t dismiss the distance that had sprang between them this morning and didn’t want to wait until after work to address it. He needed to see her now and find out why she’d barely spoken two words to him since they woke up.

  He exited his office, waved to his administrative assistant who was saying, “No comment,” to someone—most likely another reporter—on the telephone, and mouthed, Cancel my meetings.

  The Maybach neared Parker’s office building and slowed to a halt because a traffic accident blocked the street up ahead. Dean frowned at the scene, annoyed at the delay. He glanced at the mirrored high-rise that housed Parker’s magazine’s offices. It was only a block and a half away. There was a steady stream of people entering and exiting the building. He was keeping an eye out for Parker, just in case she decided to leave the building for an early lunch.

  A woman entering the building caught his eye. Hair as dark and straight as Parker’s, but too tall to be her. However, something about the way the woman moved triggered a memory.

  He reached for the door handle. “Gordon, I’ll get out here.”

  It was over. The NYPD called her at the office and informed her Tyler Moore was in police custody and facing a handful of charges, including attempted murder. They’d found the Ducati, dented and scraped, in the parking garage and it had been enough to arrest him.

  Her movements slow, Parker returned the telephone receiver to its cradle and wondered why she wasn’t feeling more relieved at the undoubtedly good news. No, that was a lie. She wasn’t wondering why. She already knew. She no longer had an excuse to stay with Dean.

  Her heart pounded, almost painful. Despite her own personal revelation last night, she didn’t know if his feelings went beyond lust and a protectiveness for those weaker than him. She was in new territory and it terrified her. Deidre had been right. She had called the shots in her previous relationships, had kept things shallow. It made it easier to walk away.

  Parker slumped back into her chair and squeezed her eyes shut.

  She could take the straightforward approach and ask him, but if Dean didn’t return her feelings or, worse, pitied her, that would be the end for them. It would be too awkward, too painful, to continue the affair. And she wanted more time with him, more memories, even if he walked away from her later on.

  There was a knock on her door, jerking Parker out of her borderline self-pitying ruminations. She sat up and brushed her fingers under her eyes. Satisfied they were dry, she called out, “Come in.”

  The door opened and Owen appeared. “I have Renata Tariko out here. She doesn’t have an appointment, so I told her you might be busy.”

  The name rang a bell, but she couldn’t put a face to
it. “I have a few minutes now. You can send her in.”

  Her administrative assistant’s eyes narrowed. “Are you okay?”

  She waved away the concern. “I’m fine. Not enough sleep last night.”

  That wasn’t a complete lie. Dean had only reached for her once more in the middle of the night, but she’d woken up early and watched him sleep until the alarm went off.

  Obviously giving her answer his own spin, Owen grinned, then backed out. Parker rose to her feet as a woman with black hair, dressed in a knitted, black sheath, and carrying a matching clutch entered. Parker met her eyes. Shock froze her momentarily. It was the model Tyler had bought at the auction, only her hair had gone from platinum blond to as dark as Parker’s. Parker didn’t know what to say. She heard the door close. Did the other woman want privacy because she wanted to talk about Tyler and his current status as a guest of the NYPD?

  “Parker Quinn.” The voice was slightly accented, like a Russian spy in a Bond movie. That accent combined with the stunning face and killer body had probably made Tyler think he’d died and gone to the Playboy mansion. So why had that idiot continued to be obsessed with her?

  “Would you care to sit down?”

  Renata Tariko remained standing and stared at her, wintry blue eyes moving over Parker insultingly, from her head to her feet. Parker felt the sudden urge to put obstacles—large, impenetrable ones—between herself and her unexpected guest.

  “Ms. Tariko?”

  “I don’t understand how he can want you, not when he has me.”

  Parker’s pulse tripped, then quickened. “Maybe we can do this another time.”

  “Why?” the other woman asked coolly. “I came to see what you have that I don’t have and I won’t be staying long.”

  Parker glanced at the door, but Tyler’s lover stood between her and escape. She moistened her lips. “I don’t know why Tyler did what he did, but I didn’t encourage it. I’m sure any psychiatrist will tell you his obsession had nothing to do with love. The crimes he committed were to punish me, not about him wanting me back.”