Voice tight, she said, “I don’t get any input?”
His jaw muscles spasmed. “What input would you have given?”
He apparently had a gift for infuriating her. “You don’t know any more about Fenton Security than I do! What makes you…”
“Who the hell do you think has been running it for the last month? Or didn’t you wonder why Mulligan gave up calling you?”
“Even Dean took a few days off! I thought the company could run itself for a week or two. I never gave you permi—”
“I’m the executor,” he interrupted her. “That gives me the right to put a value on assets, and to make damn sure they don’t lose value.”
She didn’t like that, but couldn’t argue. Finally she said sulkily, “Do I get to know what your formulas say Fenton Security is worth?”
He told her.
She blinked, sat in silence for a long moment, gave her head a little shake, and then said, just above a whisper, “That’s less than I thought it would be. Um…quite a lot less.”
Quinn didn’t want to be doing this. He wanted to be home, the window blinds drawn, stretched out on his bed in his shorts. A couple of aspirin would be dulling his headache and sleep would be dragging him deep.
But something like pity made him go over and pull out the chair across from Mindy.
“Yeah. It’s less than I thought it would be, too. But Dean borrowed a lot on the business. There are some big debts.”
“Oh.” She sounded and looked forlorn. “I wish…”
“What?”
“He’d told me.”
Quinn wished the same. Hadn’t Dean known how shaky the footing was, how far the plunge to the ground would be? Why hadn’t he taken success a little slower? Waited to get a boat, to expand the business, to drive the dream car?
But Quinn knew the answer. Despite the fact that his mother never did come back for him, Dean had been the eternal optimist. Hell, the eternal adolescent. “Nah,” he’d have said. “That won’t happen to me.”
But death had happened, and he hadn’t expected that, either.
Quinn tried to smile. “He enjoyed the damn boat and the car and…” His pretty wife.
Her eyes filled with tears again, even as she gave him a smile as wry as his. “He did, didn’t he?” She sniffed again. “Will you, um, negotiate for me?”
He’d already begun, but he was smart enough not to tell her that. He only nodded.
“I guess I should shower,” she said, starting to stand.
It struck him suddenly that she’d lost weight. Her pixie face had acquired some hollows that hadn’t been there before. The robe hung off one shoulder, exposing a bony protuberance on her shoulder and the most pronounced collarbone he’d ever seen.
“You’re not eating enough.”
She yanked the robe around herself. “And you know this how?”
“I haven’t seen you eat more than a few mouthfuls in…” He couldn’t remember. “You look skinnier.”
“You know, Quinn, Dean always said you didn’t have a girlfriend because you had trouble trusting anyone. I’m starting to think it’s because you’re a heck of a lot better at insults than you are at compliments.”
He’d gone rigid halfway through this speech, hating the idea of her and Dean talking about him, of Dean telling her things about him that were supposed to stay between the two of them.
Her face changed. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”
Quinn just walked out. He was hardly aware of her staring after him.
Goddamn you, Dean, he thought, and didn’t even know if he was angriest at his best friend for psychoanalyzing him for the benefit of anyone who’d listen, or for dying.
TWO WEEKS LATER, Mindy stood naked looking at herself in the full-length mirror on the closet door. She was pretty sure she was three-and-a-half months pregnant, and she could already see changes in her body.
She was skinnier, thanks in part to grief but mainly to the never-ending nausea. Morning sickness, ha! When she first got out of bed in the morning was her worst time, sure, but her stomach stayed queasy most of the day. If she actually threw up, she’d feel better for a little while—long enough to realize she was starved and to stuff her face—but then she’d just get sick again. So she barely managed crackers and celery and carrots—the clean sharp taste of raw vegetables tasted especially good—and clear soup. Juice and crackers for breakfast, chicken noodle soup for lunch, and vegetables and more crackers at intervals the rest of the day.
She’d lost almost ten pounds, which she knew couldn’t be good. But she was trying. And the morning sickness would go away soon. Please God.
Despite the weight loss, she was starting to have a little pooch below her belly button. If not for the missing ten pounds, her jeans might have been getting tight around the waist. And her breasts, too, looked fuller.
She made a face at herself. Or maybe they just looked bigger because the rest of her was so skeletal.
Brendan Quinn sure knew how to make a girl feel good.
Dean had been dead six weeks now, and she was starting to dread the very sight of Quinn. That made her feel petty, because he was doing so much for her. Most of it unasked.
Sighing, she glanced once more at her skinny, pregnant body and turned away, picking out underwear, T-shirt and jeans from the dresser.
A couple of weeks ago, she’d started sleeping up here again, in the bed she’d shared with Dean. She felt less lonely here. Sometimes she’d even pretend to herself that he was just working late, that he’d wake her when he got home and…
She gave a sad laugh. Everything nauseated her right now. Making love would not have been in the cards.
But that wouldn’t have mattered, because she’d have long since told Dean about the baby. As excited as he’d have been, patience would have come easily.
And morning sickness did pass. Or so the books assured her.
Except for the obstetrician she’d seen for the first time a couple of weeks ago, Mindy hadn’t told a soul yet about the pregnancy. Not her mother. Not even Selene. And not Quinn. Especially not Quinn.
Her jeans on, the T-shirt in her hand, she frowned into space. Quinn already treated her as if she were fragile, and not in a good way. Not as if he wanted to take care of her, but rather as if he thought she was completely incapable of taking care of herself. He did things without asking whether she wanted him to, then managed to look irritated because he had to do them. If she admitted she could hardly go out to the grocery store because she was so sick to her stomach, he’d be unbearable.
She let out an exasperated puff of air. Be unbearable? He was unbearable. Ten times in every conversation she had to remind herself that he meant well. And he was incredibly capable. Apparently he’d been fielding calls night and day from Mick Mulligan, who really did need his hand held, Dean had said. Quinn dealt with the lawyer, he’d negotiated the sale of Fenton Security, he’d arranged for the boat to be trailered to a marina and put up for sale, he mowed the lawn, for Pete’s sake!
And he judged her. She saw it in his eyes. He thought she was selfish, silly, lazy. At first he hadn’t believed she really loved Dean; now he seemed to think she should get over it and whip her life into shape. Except he obviously didn’t think she could.
In fairness, he was doing his best to see that she walked away with as much money as possible. Presumably because he didn’t believe she was able to make a living, and he felt he owed it to Dean to be sure she was okay.
That was what rankled: the fact that he despised her and was helping only out of a sense of obligation to Dean. At first she’d been grateful no matter what. The truth was, she didn’t have anyone to step in, and at first she hadn’t been in any shape to make decisions. But now she could make her own, only Quinn persisted in treating her as if she were a developmentally disabled adult who needed a new guardian.
And, oh boy, if he found out she was pregnant he’d become ten times worse. Instead of being the prov
erbial thorn in her side that could be plucked out, he’d become something painful but permanent. Arthritis that sent white-hot jolts through her knees every time she stood up. Because Quinn would feel an obligation to be sure Dean’s child was okay. And given his attitude toward her, he’d be positive she was incapable of being an adequate parent. Everything she did, he’d criticize, if only silently, with a lift of a dark eyebrow or condemnation in his eyes.
Mindy sank onto the edge of the bed.
She wasn’t sure she wanted him to ever find out about the baby.
There. She’d thought it. Maybe that did make her selfish, because it was possible that a relationship with Dean’s son or daughter would mean something to Quinn. He and Dean had been friends for a very long time.
But maybe…maybe later she could deal with him. Once she’d had the baby, and gotten her life together. Maybe then she’d call Quinn and say, “Hey. You want to meet Dean Jr.?”
And then, if he glanced around and said something like, “Shouldn’t his crib be in his bedroom, not yours? He’s got to learn to be independent,” she would be able to stand up to him. Right now, that was really hard for her to do. She owed him too much.
So right now, she didn’t want him to know she was pregnant. And that was a problem, because pretty soon he was going to notice. He wouldn’t be able to help noticing.
Only, there was a way to make sure he didn’t notice. That was not to let him see her.
Not to see Brendan Quinn—maybe never to see him again—would be an enormous relief.
CHAPTER FIVE
QUINN COULDN’T BELIEVE how fast the fight blew up.
He came over to mow the lawn only to find it had been done. He could tell whoever had done it had used a mulching mower, which was supposed to be good for the grass. He’d have raked anyway, but he supposed it looked okay.
Mindy answered the door in a sacky T-shirt and shorts, her legs long and tan. She must have seen him stop on the way up the walk, because she said, “I hired a lawn service. I shouldn’t have let you do it as long as you did. I’m sorry.”
So as he followed her in, he asked who she’d hired. After she told him, he merely asked whether she’d shopped around, and suddenly she was mad.
“You know, I’m not quite as stupid as you seem to think I am. I made it on my own for a lot of years before I met Dean.”
Uh-huh. Two or three years, maybe.
“Did you ever have a lawn?” he asked.
Eyes glittering with anger way out of proportion to the argument, she snapped, “Gosh, did I miss something? Is shopping for the best price to have your lawn mowed any different than shopping for someone to replace your garbage disposal?”
“I just asked.”
“No, you assumed!”
He swore. “As far as I could tell, Dean took care of you.”
She stiffened. “So you felt obligated to continue the job? Isn’t that a little above and beyond the call, Quinn? It’s not like you signed on to the job like Dean did.”
His grip on his temper slipped. “And I have to ask myself a dozen times a day whether he had the slightest goddamn idea what he was doing when he signed on.”
“You know, somehow I could tell. You never gave me any slack, Quinn. Not even for Dean’s sake.”
He hadn’t seen that knife coming before it slipped between his ribs. But he wouldn’t let himself wonder if she was right, if he should have tried harder for Dean’s sake. What did she know about the kind of friendship that saved two lost kids, that gave each the bedrock to build a life on? She didn’t even have a friend close enough to call when her husband was murdered!
Quinn gave her a scathing look. Funny time to notice she’d painted her toenails again. Pale pink. Nothing vivid, but a sign of recovery.
“Maybe that’s because I was too good a friend to shrug and say, ‘Hey, guy. Learn from your mistakes. Divorce. Broken heart. What the hell. You’ll get over it.’”
Voice crackling with anger, she said, “And you were so sure I was going to break his heart because…” Then she shook her head and made a disgusted sound. “You know what, Quinn? I don’t care why you don’t like me. Unlike you, for Dean’s sake I tried to be friends. But I don’t have to try anymore. I’m grateful for what you’ve done, even though I know it was done out of love for Dean, not out of any sympathy for me. But I can manage on my own now.” She marched to the front door and held it open. “You’re a free man, Quinn. Consider your obligation canceled. Go back to your life.”
He laughed in disbelief. “With pleasure!” Three strides and he was out the front door into the warmth of the June day, the scent of newly mown grass filling his nostrils. Hearing the quiet sound of the door shutting behind him, he only wished this was it, that he’d never see her again.
But he knew better. Unfortunately for him, she’d be calling. She wasn’t stupid, he didn’t believe that, but her real-life skills were not what he’d call impressive. She’d get the paperwork for the sale of Fenton Security and not be able to make heads or tails out of it. Or her cute little BMW would break down some day, and who would she call? A scary sound in the night, and his phone would be ringing. Lucky him.
He was just grateful that she would have enough cushion of money to let her go back to school—or take some time to find another husband. If Fenton Security had been in trouble and even the house had had to be liquidated to pay debts… Getting into his car and slamming the door, he shook his head. Thank God for small favors.
Right now, he’d just enjoy a brief vacation, so to speak. He’d hope for a week before she got over her snit and realized she needed him more than she resented him.
A WEEK TURNED INTO TWO before Quinn knew it. High-profile murders tended to suck up time in a big way, and this week’s was a doozy.
A hot young rock star was in town to play the Key Arena. In fact, he had played to a sold-out crowd at the Key Arena. Then he partied with his band members and some groupies before heading for his room at the waterfront Edgewater Hotel with a cute blonde tucked against his side.
Come two o’clock the next afternoon, the band members gathered in the lobby and the limo showed up to take them to the airport for their flight to Portland, where their next concert was scheduled. Only the rock star didn’t appear, and he didn’t answer the knock on his door. The concierge let one of the band members into the room, where he found their headliner dead on the king-size bed, a bullet through his temple.
What was meant to look like a suicide wasn’t. Wrong angle for the path of the bullet, and wrong temple for a lefty. Murderers made stupid damn mistakes, lucky for the cops.
Turned out the rock star was married to another rock star with an ego bigger than his. She’d been heard to say, “If I ever catch him with his dick out for another woman, he’s dead.”
Turned out also that he had a restraining order on a stalker, who happened—gee whiz—to be in Seattle. For entirely innocent reasons, of course.
The cute blonde who’d gone to his room with him had completely vanished. No one at the party knew her; they all thought she’d come with someone else.
The case had all the makings of a thriller. Within days, Quinn had a camera in his face every time he turned around. His photo was in People magazine the following week. Mindy Fenton was far from his mind.
Week two, the cute blonde’s corpse floated in with the tide. At least, a young blond woman, whose body had been in the Sound the right length of time, bumped up against a moored sailboat and scared the crap out of the rich forty-year-old couple who had taken it out for a sail and were just tying up.
The stalker, also young and blond, admitted to stalking, but claimed that in the wee hours she’d seen a second woman knock and enter the hotel room. She insisted that she’d then returned to her own hotel and gone to bed. A night clerk confirmed he’d seen her cross the lobby and get in the elevator. Apparently even stalkers needed sleep.
The woman was undeniably crazy as well as grief-stricken. “I would never
have hurt him!” she kept crying. “I love him.” When she realized her verb was wrong, that the obsession of her life was now past tense, a sob escaped her. “He loved me, too! I know he did! He needed to get out of being married to her.” Loathing was easy to read. “The other women was so he’d divorce her. And then we could be together.”
The restraining order?
She made him get it.
Right.
But Quinn believed she hadn’t hurt the love of her life. Her faith in their future was still too solid. Stalkers didn’t kill until they were disillusioned and had to face the reality that the loved one would never be theirs.
Quinn flew to San Francisco, where the rock-star wife had supposedly been the night her husband had been murdered. Funny thing was, no one could confirm her whereabouts. In fact, a maid at her hotel swore no one had slept in the bed on the night in question.
Interestingly, the stalker had apparently bought two airline tickets to Seattle—one from Southwest Airlines on the same day the band had flown in to Seattle, and another on Alaska Airlines the day of the concert. That one had been bought at the counter just before the flight, too late for the purchaser to have checked baggage. The ticket seller remembered her because she’d cut it so close and because she looked vaguely familiar.
“I assumed I’d waited on her when she flew Alaska in the past.”
When Quinn showed her a photo of the stalker, she shook her head decisively. “No. That wasn’t her.” Cute blonde dredged out of the water brought an equally certain, “No.” When he produced a paparazzi photo of the wife trying to slip out to the grocery store or the gym without makeup, her hair back in a ponytail, she said, “Yes! Yes, that’s her.” Then her eyes widened. “Wait. Isn’t that…”
He tucked the photo away. “I’m going to ask you to keep what you know to yourself for a few days.”
“Oh!” Eyes still wide and glassy, she nodded and kept nodding. “I can do that. Sure. Wow.”
Back in Seattle, Quinn and Ellis Carter flashed the wife’s photo around some more and found a taxi driver willing to swear he’d picked her up at the airport—“Yo! That woman is a bitch!” he declared—and a desk clerk at the Alexis Hotel who had registered her for a room.
With Child Page 6
