“Trust Me.”

Quinn turned toward her. Claire raised her gaze to his. He looked at her mouth. Full lips, parted just slightly.

Couldn’t. He looked away, tried to focus. Shouldn’t.

“Claire,” he said.

“What?”

He cupped her face, waited two seconds for her to object, then he kissed her. He felt her breath stop, then she took a long, slow breath and kissed him back. Her hands pressed against his chest then slid higher. Before she wrapped her arms around his neck he pulled back.

He wasn’t going to apologize for something she apparently wanted as much as he did.

Except that he had rules, and he’d just broken one.

Dear Reader,

Thank you for choosing Silhouette Desire. As always, we have a fabulous array of stories for you to enjoy, starting with Just a Taste by Bronwyn Jameson, the latest installment in our DYNASTIES: THE ASHTONS continuity series. This tale of forbidden attraction between two romance-wary souls will leave you breathless and wanting more from this wonderful author—who will have a brand-new miniseries of her own, PRINCES OF THE OUTBACK, out later this year.

The terrific Annette Broadrick is back with another book in her CRENSHAWS OF TEXAS series. Double Identity is an engrossing page-turner about seduction and lies…you know, all that good stuff! Susan Crosby continues her BEHIND CLOSED DOORS series with Rules of Attraction, the first of three brand-new stories set in the world of very private investigations. Roxanne St. Claire brings us a fabulous McGrath brother hero caught in an unexpected situation, in When the Earth Moves. Rochelle Alers’s THE BLACKSTONES OF VIRGINIA series wraps up with Beyond Business, a story in which the Blackstone patriarch gets involved in a surprise romance with his new—and very pregnant—assistant. And last but certainly not least, the engaging Amy Jo Cousins is back this month with Sleeping Arrangements, a terms-of-the-will story not to be missed.

Here’s hoping you enjoy all six of our selections this month. And, in the months to come, look for Maureen Child’s THREE-WAY WAGER series and a brand-new installment of our infamous TEXAS CATTLEMAN’S CLUB.

Happy reading!

Melissa Jeglinski

Senior Editor

Silhouette Desire

RULES OF ATTRACTION

SUSAN CROSBY

Books by Susan Crosby

Silhouette Desire

The Mating Game #888

Almost a Honeymoon #952

Baby Fever #1018

Wedding Fever #1061

Marriage on His Mind #1108

Bride Candidate #9 #1131

[*] His Most Scandalous Secret #1158

[*] His Seductive Revenge #1162

[*] His Ultimate Temptation #1186

The Groom’s Revenge #1214

The Baby Gift #1301

[†]Christmas Bonus, Strings Attached #1554

[†]Private Indiscretions #1570

[†]Hot Contact #1590

[†]Rules of Attraction #1647

SUSAN CROSBY

believes in the value of setting goals, but also in the magic of making wishes. A longtime reader of romance novels, Susan earned a B.A. in English while raising her sons. She lives in the central valley of California, the land of wine grapes, asparagus and almonds. Her checkered past includes jobs as a synchronized swimming instructor, personnel interviewer at a toy factory and trucking company manager, but her current occupation as a writer is her all-time favorite.

Susan enjoys writing about people who take a chance on love, sometimes against all odds. She loves warm, strong heroes; good-hearted, self-reliant heroines…and happy endings.

Susan loves to hear from readers. You can visit her at her Web site, www.susancrosby.com.

For Bobbie Vetter Fite, one of the windows that opened
when my door closed. Onward and upward, my friend.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

One

Private investigator Quinn Gerard felt a momentary pang of regret for having turned respectable seven months ago. He missed the anonymity, and the danger. He’d hungered for it, thrived on it. Since he’d given up his private practice to become a partner in ARC Security & Investigations, he’d had to operate by the rules, instead of ignoring them or making up his own when the situation warranted it.

One personal rule that hadn’t changed, however, was that he never got personally involved with a client—no matter how tempting—and the willowy blonde in the electric-blue blouse and black leather skirt currently ambling away from her car was worse than a client. She was a subject.

Still, as a man, he could admire the package if not the contents. And that package was more interesting at the moment than in the previous three days he’d had her under surveillance. In fact, Jennifer Winston was a bundle of surprises today. First, she’d left her house hours earlier than her norm. Second, she’d slowed her pace. Usually in a hurry, today she moseyed along as if life were eternal—or she was reluctant to get where she was going. Third, she’d borrowed her sister’s car, a modest white compact, instead of driving her own conspicuous red convertible. Fourth, and perhaps most surprising, she was headed into the local blood bank.

Quinn would’ve guessed that Jennifer Winston didn’t have a charitable blood cell in her entire lovely body. So, why was she here?

She’d been followed twenty-four hours a day, for weeks, from the house she shared with her sister, first by D.A. investigators, and now by Quinn. According to reports passed along to him, her routine stops included chic boutiques, trendy San Francisco nightspots and luxurious spas in the Napa valley. She hadn’t held a job in almost half a year, so she came and went at will, generally staying out until very late at night then not leaving home again until almost noon.

Suspicious of the deviations in her pattern today, Quinn followed the newly unpredictable and decidedly sexier Ms. Winston into the building instead of waiting for her to return to her car. Deviation from the norm often resulted in the big breaks in a case.

He trailed her down a wide, quiet hallway, watched as she disappeared through a doorway topped by a sign that read Donor Room. Not wanting to be directly on her heels, he stopped to drink from a water fountain then pretended to read some flyers on a bulletin board. Finally he put himself in a position to peer into the room. He didn’t see her so he moved a little closer, stepped through the doorway—

“You’re here to make a donation?” someone almost shouted behind him.

The tone of voice was more demand than query. Quinn turned and eyed the white-haired pixie with the big voice. The top of her head barely reached his sternum. He outweighed her by at least a hundred pounds.

“No, I—”

“Why not?” she asked, looking him up and down. “You look healthy.”

Because I’m following a woman the district attorney is convinced is hiding five million embezzled dollars, that’s why not. “I don’t have time,” he said.

“Hardly takes any time at all,” the human steamroller said, challenge in her eyes. “In and out before you know it.”

Her name tag identified her as Lorna, a 15,000-hour volunteer. Quinn ignored her as he scanned the room then zeroed in on Ms. Winston. She had donned a purple smock over her clothes and was putting cookies on a plate next to cartons of juice. Jennifer Winston, the juice-and-cookies lady? He couldn’t reconcile it with what he knew of her. Although he had imagined her living a double life….

“Scared of needles?” Lorna asked.

He met her placid gaze directly, coolly. “Yes.”

After a moment she cracked a smile. “Thought not. Come on, then.”

He focused on the fact that Ms. Winston wasn’t going anywhere. He could observe her and do his civic duty at the same time. It was a little risky getting so close to her, close enough she might remember him later and realize she was being followed again, but the thrill revved his adrenaline. The challenge of meeting her face-to-face while still tailing her appealed to him. Hiding in plain sight. He excelled at it.

He answered the long list of health-related questions, had his iron level tested, then settled in a padded lounge chair. He sought out his target as the nurse inserted the needle in his arm. Lorna and Ms. Winston were laughing together. He hadn’t seen her this mellow or friendly. Until now, she’d seemed like a woman on a mission, determined and direct. Now, she smiled at everyone, drawing smiles in return. She tossed her shoulder-length blond hair flirtatiously, lifted a hand to wave to someone entering the room—then noticed him.

From thirty feet away Quinn saw her falter in her conversation. Her smile faded. She lowered her arm slowly.

Had he been made? He went on alert, ready to go after her should she run. But then Lorna elbowed her and said something that put some pink into Ms. Winston’s cheeks and made her dip her head a little, as if embarrassed.

Quinn relaxed. Male/female connection? Now that intrigued him. He believed the reason he was never noticed by his subjects was that he was ordinary looking. Unmemorable.

On the other hand, there was something to be said for animal magnetism. As Ms. Winston maintained eye contact, his pulse sped up. Which was a normal reaction to the risk, he decided, of her being able to spot him following her after this. But it had been a while since his hormones had mutinied on their own like that.

A few more minutes passed. She looked away and back several times. He didn’t pretend disinterest, deciding instead that he could take an entirely different approach to his surveillance, a much more personal one. It would require playing a role, acting as if he didn’t know her boyfriend had been convicted of embezzlement and now occupied a cell in a federal prison—and that she was thought to be his accomplice.

Quinn had to be especially careful, however. Agreeing to take on the case for the D.A.’s office made him a police agent, which meant he needed to stay within the boundaries and scope of the law.

Ms. Winston took a few steps toward Quinn then hesitated. He held her gaze. She came closer. Close enough that he saw her eyes. Blue. Bright blue, not brown.

His gut clenched. Blood rushed through him, a feeling as close to panic as anything he could remember.

This wasn’t Jennifer Winston but her half sister, Claire. First-grade teacher, blue-eyed, brunette-until-today Claire—the good sister.

Curses whipped through his mind. Jennifer was no longer being watched. She could skip town and no one would find her, especially if she had the five million dollars her boyfriend stole.

“Take the needle out,” Quinn ordered the nurse. The good sister stopped. She backed up as the nurse spoke.

“Just a minute more—”

“Now. Or I’ll do it myself.” He reached for it.

“I’ll do it!” The nurse shoved his hand away, then slid out the needle and pressed a folded gauze pad to the site.

He stuck his thumb on the gauze and swung his legs over the side of the lounge. He had to see if Jennifer Winston had left town, if her sister was a decoy. What else could she be?

“You’ll need to sit over at that table and have some juice and cookies,” the nurse said. “Claire will go with you.”

He stood. Claire could go to—

The room tilted as unearthly quiet bombarded it.

“Hey! I have to bandage that!” The voice seemed to come through a tunnel.

He took a step. Darkness teased his vision, first at the edges, then closing in until only pinpoints of light remained. Bright. Disorienting. Nauseating. Take a deep breath. Put your head down.

Down….

“It’s always the big ones,” Lorna said, coming up beside Claire after the fiercely attractive man collapsed to the floor, the blow softened by the nurse’s hold on him, slowing his descent. “I’ll get his keys,” Lorna added. “I have a feeling he’s going to fight us about staying here for a while.”

Claire studied the unconscious man while Lorna dug her hand into the man’s pocket and pulled out a set of keys. Well, shoot. Claire had really wanted to flirt with him, to test whether blondes do have more fun. Her sister had talked Claire into a makeover the night before, her first day of summer break from teaching. She had been nervous about testing the waters with her new look. She’d even worn one of Jenn’s outfits, because hers just didn’t seem to go with that blonde-and-fun thing. When the stranger had made eye contact with her, she’d thought he was interested. Now he would probably be too embarrassed to talk to her, much less flirt.

Maybe it was only certain blondes who had more fun….

So much for the great experiment, she thought with a sigh.

“Mr. Gerard,” Lorna said, crouching beside him and patting his cheek.

His eyes opened. He looked around in momentary confusion, then focused on Claire. His eyes were brown, flecked with gold, like amber, and a little eerie to stare at for long. His short black hair required little fuss, a practical, not-quite-military look. Mid-thirties, she decided. A solid, muscular body dressed in black jeans and a gray sweater—clothes that would make him blend in with a crowd except that he was over six feet tall and extremely attractive in a rugged, angular, mesmerizing kind of way.

Why had he been in such a hurry to leave? It was almost as if seeing her up close had triggered something in him. Yet he didn’t seem the type to shy away from anything, much less an unintimidating first-grade teacher whose newly blond hair and trendy outfit would never hide the fact that she was neither beautiful nor sexy, even if she felt a little bit of both after her makeover.

Finally he looked away and sat up.

“Juice and cookies, Mr. Gerard,” Lorna said. “You won’t be allowed to leave until we give the okay.”

“You think you can stop me?” he challenged, standing. He wobbled a bit.

Claire leaned forward, ready to help prop him up.

Lorna dangled his keys.

For a second, Claire thought he might smile. “You in the habit of taking advantage of unconscious men?” he asked Lorna.

“Do you need a wheelchair to take you to Claire’s table?” she countered.

His mouth twitched. “I can manage.”

“Guess you were telling the truth about being afraid of needles, after all,” Lorna said.

“Maybe.” He turned his gaze on Claire again. “Lead the way.”

He obviously could’ve snatched his keys, but apparently he realized he wasn’t ready to drive. She liked how he adjusted to his situation, considering that a few minutes ago he’d been in such a hurry to leave. “Orange, apple or cranberry juice?” she asked.

“Orange. Please.” He pulled out a cell phone the second he sat down. “Cass? I know you probably just got to bed, but I think I may have lost it…. Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s gone.”

Claire poured the juice and set the cup in front of him. She pushed the plate of cookies closer.

“Long story, involving a mistake,” he said, eyeing Claire in a way that made her hold her breath. “I need you to get over there and see what’s going on…. Yeah. It’s probably too late, but we need to check it out. Call me.” He closed the flap on the phone and set it on the table. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

He swigged half the glass. “People pass out around here often?”

“You’re not the first.”

“Ah. A polite answer to save me from too much embarrassment.” He finished the juice and shoved the glass toward her to refill, then bit off half a cookie. “Have you worked here long?”

“I’ve been volunteering one Saturday a month since March, but now that it’s summer I’ll help out once a week.”

“Are you a student?”

She knew she looked younger than her age. “I teach first grade.”

“For how long?”

Was he trying to figure out how old she was? “Four years.” I’m twenty-six. Is that too young to interest you?

“How long until the drill sergeant gives me back my keys?”

Claire smiled at his description of Lorna. “A half hour, maybe. When they’re sure you’re stable.”

He finished the cookie. “That’s never happened to me before,” he said.

She sat back, her smile broadening. So, he was a normal man, after all, worried that he appeared weak.

“It hasn’t,” he insisted, looking at his watch.

“I believe you.”

“You’re laughing at me.”

“Just at your ego.” She angled toward him. “I don’t think less of you, even if you don’t like needles.”

“I can’t tell you how relieved I am.”

She laughed, appreciating his dry sense of humor, and he seemed to relax a little more—or perhaps resigned himself to the situation.

“I’m Quinn Gerard,” he said, extending his hand.

“Claire Winston.” His hand engulfed hers, and was warm and…ridiculously arousing. She knew some people had chemical reactions to other people. It had just never happened to her. Not on first meeting. Not with a stranger.

“Why do you volunteer here, Claire Winston?”

Raw emotions rose up, catching her off guard. After all this time she should be able to say the words out loud without her throat closing. “Six months ago my parents were in a car accident. My father died instantly, but my mother survived a little while longer, in part because of blood transfusions. She died of other complications, but that extra time meant we got to say goodbye.”

His hesitation lasted but a second. “I’m sorry.”

He sounded more matter-of-fact than sympathetic. She moved the plate of cookies to the left a few inches then back again. “The work done here is not just important but critical. I do what I can.”

He seemed to be weighing a response. “Do you like teaching?”

The change of subject silenced her for a few seconds. “I love it. It’s all I ever wanted to do. How about you? What do you do?” His phone conversation earlier made her wonder. What had he lost? What mistake had he made?

“Find new ways to meet interesting women.”

So he did know how to flirt. “For a living?” she asked, teasing him back, feeling flattered and cautious. Maybe her blond hair was having an effect, after all.

Before Quinn answered, a group of people entered the room almost soundlessly. Claire knew by their somber expressions that they were the friends, family and, perhaps, co-workers of someone in need of a transfusion. Those kinds of donors generally came in groups and rarely smiled except in nervousness.

Lorna looked toward Claire and angled her head as if to say, “Come help.”

“Excuse me,” she said to Quinn. “I’m needed. Eat and drink as much as you like.”

She felt his gaze on her as she helped the new donors get situated. She was aware of him every second, even when she wasn’t sneaking a peek in his direction. Her body heated up. Her heart pounded a stronger rhythm, relentless and unsteady. Her reaction was new to her—so new, she wasn’t sure how to respond except to let him know in some way that she wouldn’t mind taking it one step further. She had a lunch break due her later. There was a café within walking distance.

After a while his phone rang. She saw him drag his hand down his face and his shoulders drop momentarily before he slid the phone back in his pocket. He met her gaze and tapped a finger to his watch face, asking his question with the gesture.

Claire walked up to Lorna. “Mr. Gerard is getting antsy.”

“Take his blood pressure and blood-sugar level. You’re trained to do that, right?”

She was. She gathered the equipment and approached his table. Her pulse tripped noticeably. She decided not to hide it, even though she didn’t really understand his interest. It couldn’t just be the hair, could it? She hoped he wasn’t that shallow. And yet she’d let Jenn convince her to go blond for exactly that reason—to see if men warmed up to her more than usual, which was shallow reasoning on her part.

Her main goal, however, had been to shake up her life a little.

“If you pass the tests, you can leave,” she said, donning latex gloves.

“I do better on essay exams.”

You should smile more often, she thought as she reached for his hand, feeling the same warmth as before, and the same sparks, even through the gloves. There was strength there, and a strange kind of comfort.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“No.” She focused on her task, cleaning his finger with alcohol before pricking it. She squeezed a drop of blood onto a test strip, then handed him a piece of gauze to press against the puncture. Setting the testing machine aside to count down to the results, she readied the blood pressure cuff.

He peeled off his sweater—

Um. Okay. Not naked underneath, but a white T-shirt that contrasted with his olive skin and showed off muscled biceps and forearms.

The testing machine beeped. Grateful for the interruption she looked at the number that came up. “Normal range,” she said.

“Good.”

She wrapped the blood pressure cuff around his arm, then she tucked his arm between hers and her torso and slid the stethoscope under the cuff. She’d tested blood pressure before, but this time her skin seemed to catch fire where his arm touched her body.

“You don’t dress like any first-grade teacher I know,” he commented.

Her eyes sought his.

Oh. She got it, finally. The leather skirt and relatively formfitting blouse seemed to be a signal to him, even though her smock mostly covered her. Disappointment slammed into her. “And how would that be?” She sounded snippy, even to herself.

“Wash-and-wear. Utilitarian.”

He’d described to a T what she usually wore, whether teaching or not.

Claire pumped the cuff, not saying anything. She had a job to do, and it wasn’t to flirt with the donors. She listened for his pulse.

“Blood pressure is fine,” she stated, letting go of his arm and removing the cuff. “You can go.”

“Ms. Winston…Claire.”

She fussed with the equipment but met his gaze, steadily, calmly. “Yes?”

After a moment he looked away. He pushed out his chair and stood. “Have a nice day.”

He didn’t seem like a man who uttered platitudes. Another disappointment. “Thanks. You, too.”

She told herself she was watching him walk away because she wanted to be sure he was steady on his feet. She almost convinced herself of that, too, except that her stomach did a funny little flip-flop when he glanced over his shoulder at her after reaching Lorna’s side.

He said something that made Lorna laugh, then she dropped his keys in his hand. He gave Claire one final look. This time her heart lurched. Crazy. This was crazy. He was a stranger. A dark, intense stranger who hadn’t even told her what he did for a living, but had evaded answering with all the finesse of a practiced deceiver. He’d flattered her instead, sidestepping the question altogether.

She turned away, then felt someone tap her shoulder a moment later.

He’d come back.

“How late do you work?” he asked.

The answer spilled out of her, banishing her disappointment. “Until four.”

He nodded and walked away.

Intrigued, Claire smiled. She’d wanted an adventure. It looked like she was about to get one.

Two

Quinn had been parked for hours near Claire Winston’s house, an old but well-maintained Victorian in the family-friendly Noe Valley area of San Francisco. There had been no signs of life in the house. He hadn’t expected any. A few days ago Jennifer had marched up to the car of the D.A. investigator assigned to tail her and challenged the man, which had led to the D.A. hiring Quinn, who’d built his reputation on his success at clinging to the shadows.

But she must have spotted Quinn, as well, then laid the foundation for ditching him using her sister’s makeover to switch identities. Was Claire part of the ruse? He couldn’t answer that question for sure, but she suddenly bleaches her hair, parks her car on the street instead of in the garage, then her sister-the-suspect disappears? It seemed well planned to him.

It ticked him off that Jennifer had made him. No one had before. How could he explain the screwup to Magnussen, the D.A. who’d hired him because Magnussen’s own investigators had, well, screwed up?

Quinn glanced at his watch. Almost five o’clock. An hour after the end of Claire’s shift. She should be home by now—unless she was going to wear that sexy little number out somewhere.

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. People made their way up and down the street. A typical Saturday in June, the weather was cloudy and cool. So far no one had reported him for loitering in his car, which happened occasionally during a stakeout.

His luck held. He spotted Claire’s car. The garage door opened as she reached it. She started to pull in then stopped. Jennifer’s red convertible filled the space.

Quinn blew out a long, slow breath. Okay. She hadn’t left, after all. Okay.

He watched Claire park up the block then stroll to her house, no overt sway to her hips, but sexy nonetheless, her short skirt giving him plenty to admire as she climbed the steps, a grocery sack in each arm. She juggled the bags for a minute before setting them down to open the door, then he got an eyeful of her long, slender, perfect legs.

The door shut on his entertainment. He made himself comfortable in the car, grateful to be there instead of having to report to the D.A. that he’d lost his subject. It was Saturday. Date night. Jennifer would leave the house sometime, and Quinn would be on her tail, his reputation intact.

But several hours later, she still hadn’t emerged.

Claire took a few steps back to admire the flowy white curtains she’d just hung, her first step in redecorating what had been her parents’ bedroom and now would be hers. It had taken six months since their deaths before she thought she might be able to sleep there.

She looked at the dog sitting at her feet. “What do you think, Rase?” she asked.

Eraser grinned up at her, his tail wagging slowly. She crouched beside him and buried her face in his thick, white-tipped gray coat. He let out a little growl of contentment as she scratched his flanks then hugged him a little tighter. He was just a mutt, but he was her mutt, even if he wouldn’t obey a single command.

“The curtains look beautiful, don’t they?” she asked, sitting cross-legged beside him, patting him as she inspected her handiwork.

She’d gotten over her disappointment that Quinn Gerard hadn’t returned to the blood bank at four o’clock. In fact, she’d decided she should be grateful he hadn’t. Obviously he was a con man of some kind or, at the least, a jerk.

“Not worth my thoughts, is he?” she asked the dog.

Rase’s ears pricked up, then he took off down the stairs, running and barking. A moment later the doorbell rang.

Claire saw with surprise that it was almost ten o’clock. She’d intended to keep herself distracted, but had done such a good job of it that she hadn’t noticed that night had fallen. She had no reason to feel guilty, but—

The bell rang again. Rase barked more frantically, alerting and calling her at the same time. She couldn’t imagine who would be coming around this late. Some friend of Jenn’s, she supposed. Someone who didn’t know….

Claire grabbed her portable phone and made her way to the door without turning on any lights, a streetlight providing just enough illumination from outside that she could negotiate the stairs. Maybe it was better that she hadn’t turned on any lights. She could pretend she wasn’t home if the visitor wasn’t someone she wanted to talk to.

Without telling Rase to quiet down—as if it would’ve done any good anyway—she crept to the door and looked out the peephole. She hadn’t turned on the porch light, however, so she could see only a dark blob silhouetted from behind by the streetlight. Now what?

“I know you’re in there,” came a man’s voice.

She hopped back. Rase picked up on her surprise and reared up, slamming his paws against the door, digging at it, barking louder. “Who’s there?” she asked.

“Quinn Gerard.”

Quinn— From the blood bank? She looked again through the peephole but still couldn’t identify the man. How did he— He’d followed her?

She put a hand over her mouth. How stupid could she be? She’d told him what time she got off work. He’d followed her to her home.

“Please open the door,” he said. “I need to talk to you.”

Grateful for how ferocious Rase sounded, she called out, “You’re stalking me. I’m calling the police right now,” she said, meaning it, squeezing the portable phone a little tighter.

“You’ll save us both a lot of time if you don’t do that,” he said, his voice raised but calm. “I’m under contract with the district attorney. If you open the door I’ll show you my identification.”

The D.A.? She relaxed a little, but no way was she removing the safety of the wooden barrier between them. “What do you want?”

“You can call off your dog, for one, so I don’t have to yell. Unless you like having your neighbors hear your business.”

He had a point. “Sit,” she said to the dog. “Quiet.”

Rase wagged his tail, barked once, but didn’t sit. She sighed. “Okay. Now, what do you want?”

“I’d prefer to tell you face-to-face.”

“You can prefer all you want.”

A pause ensued. Her grandfather clock ticked off time, the sound seeming to gain volume.

“If you don’t tell me right now why you’re here,” she said, “I’m calling the cops.”

“I want to talk to you about your sister, Jennifer.”

She closed her eyes. Great. Just great. She should have guessed. Just as she should’ve guessed he hadn’t been attracted to her. They were as different as night and…tuna. For one thing, she was honest.

“Did you follow me from the blood bank?” she asked. If so, he’d been sitting in his car for hours, biding his time, waiting for darkness to fall.

“I followed you to it. I thought you were your sister. Look, is she in there?”

“No.”

A long moment of silence sat like an invisible wall between them. “Will she be home soon?”

Claire leaned her forehead against the door. “No.”

She was tired of covering for Jenn, who was two years older than Claire and should’ve been the big sister but had never behaved like one.

“Is she gone, Claire?”

He asked the question quietly, almost sympathetically. It made her throat ache. Rase picked up on her mood and nudged her thigh with his muzzle. She patted his head. “That’s Ms. Winston to you.”

“Is she?”

She needed to tell someone, even this stranger. Maybe especially this stranger. “Yes,” she said quietly. Jenn had taken so few personal possessions with her that Claire might not have realized she was gone, except that she’d left—

“How do you know?” he asked.

She propped herself against the doorjamb. “She left a note.”

“May I see it?”

“No.” She certainly was not opening her door to a man who’d pretended to like her, who’d lured her just with promise in his eyes. Give her a dull but honest man anytime.

“Why didn’t she take her car?”

“I don’t know. Go away or I’ll sic my dog on you.” Quinn couldn’t see Rase, all twenty-five wimpy pounds of him. He only sounded like a hundred pounds of ferocity. In truth, he’d been known to run from cats.

“Do you know why the D.A. wants her?” Quinn asked.

Knowing Jenn, it could be anything. After all, she’d gotten herself involved with an investment broker who’d embezzled millions from his clients, investments they’d made in good faith. Jenn was as gullible as those clients. She’d just been lucky not to have any of her money taken by him.

“The D.A. believes she’s got Craig Beecham’s stolen funds,” he said when she didn’t answer. “Or at least knows where they are.”

“That was settled in court. Jenn didn’t know anything about it.”

“She’s been under investigation because no one believes that. How far gone do you think she can get on five million dollars, Ms. Winston?”

“She didn’t take the money.” Jenn had assured Claire of that, many times. Claire had sat beside Jenn in the courtroom, supporting her, believing in her. Jenn might be self-centered and immature, but she wasn’t a criminal. “She inherited a lot of cash when my parents died, enough to equal the value of this house, which I inherited. She’s got plenty of money.” More than she should have access to, Claire thought. She’d been spending it, too. On clothes and jewelry and that snazzy car. “She wouldn’t have need for more.”

“Everyone has need for more, but I hope you’re right. Good night.”

She moved to her front window in time to see him jog across the street and climb into an almost invisible gray sedan parked between two streetlights so that she couldn’t see into the interior. Picking up on her tension, Rase looked out the window then at her, then out the window and back at her again. She waited for Quinn to drive away. He didn’t.

Fifteen minutes later he still sat there. A half hour more. An hour. She went upstairs to her bedroom to sit by her window. Another half hour went by. Then a car pulled up beside him and stayed for close to a minute before backing up twenty feet. His car pulled out. The other parked.

A changing of the guard. Claire gave up and went to bed but barely slept. When the sun came up, she peeked outside and saw the car was still there. Why? They already knew that Jenn was gone.

After showering and changing, she went downstairs into her living room where she could get a good view of the driver, a woman, who seemed to be staring right back at her as Claire peeked through the slats of her blinds.

She couldn’t talk herself out of the guilt that had burned a hole in her yesterday when she’d come home to an empty house, even though Jenn had merely done what Claire had asked. She should be celebrating Jenn’s departure. Instead, she hovered in front of the window like she was to blame for something.

She was tired. Having Jenn underfoot the past six months, enduring her boyfriend’s trial, putting up with her moods—it had drained Claire, especially since she was still in mourning for her parents. And maybe besides being tired she was also angry. She felt used and manipulated—her own fault, since she’d known what Jenn was like, had given in to her all her life.

Still, Claire had needed her own space, needed Jenn and her wild lifestyle gone. Now she was.

And now Claire was a prisoner in her own home. Someone would probably be watching her house, or following her if she went out, presumably to see if she made contact with her sister.

Half sister. She didn’t usually make much of the distinction until lately, when she wanted to disconnect from Jenn and live her own life.

But Claire had made enough concessions to and for Jenn. She also knew when Jenn was lying. She’d looked Claire straight in the eye and said she didn’t know anything about the money.

That was good enough for Claire. It should be good enough for the D.A., and Quinn Gerard, who was just pulling up across the street.

Rase came up beside her, his leash clenched in his mouth. She glanced from him to the window. She smiled.

“Ready for a run, boy?” she asked, taking the leather strap to fasten to his collar.

Rase barked once, his rear swinging from side to side as he wagged his tail in answer.

“I like the way you think,” she said. “Let’s see if Mr. Gerard is in as good shape as he looks.”

Three

Quinn pulled up beside Cassie Miranda’s car, leaned across the passenger seat and handed her a steaming cup of her favorite mocha. She was one of two investigators he’d hired late last year. She’d pulled the night surveillance on Jennifer, and now Claire.

“Thanks,” she said, breathing the aroma before taking a sip and sighing. “No activity from the house, except that she opened the blinds a little while ago.”

“I bet she’s showered, dressed and sitting like a soldier in her living room.”

“Not the kind to fly, hm?”

“No reason for her to.” He admired Claire for standing up to him last night, even for not letting him inside her house. “I’ll probably see you in the office later.”

“I’m going to grab a few hours of sleep before I come in.”

“Hey, it’s Sunday. Take an extra hour.”

“Gee, thanks, boss.” She started her engine. “How come we’re still working this, anyway? The job is done. There’s no one to tail.”

How come, indeed? Not just because he always saw things through, but because he thought his presence might make what was about to happen easier for Claire, if she wasn’t too mad at him. He’d been in a similar situation once. He hadn’t forgotten how it felt, and how hard it was to recover from the invasion of privacy.

“She’s taking the dog for a walk,” Cassie said, pointing. “I’ll get going.”

Quinn swore. He’d bet she’d specifically waited for this moment, when he and Cassie traded places, to get a head start on him. What did she think he was going to do, follow her? As far as she knew he was waiting for her sister.

He wasn’t.

He looked out his car window just then and she smiled—no, smirked—and waved to him then started jogging up the street, her dog beside her. Her dinky dog with the big bark.

Was that a challenge?

In no time he was following her, watching her ponytail bounce in rhythm with her steps. He caught up soon enough but lingered behind her, enjoying the view and the way she looked over her shoulder without trying to seem like she was. She did have spectacular legs.

When she spotted him she picked up speed. The dog broke stride, barked once then settled beside her, keeping pace.

Quinn had appreciated the leather skirt yesterday. Today she wore running shorts, a tank top and a sweatshirt that she’d pulled off and tied around her waist without missing a step. He whipped his own sweatshirt off, wishing he’d known he would be running. Jeans chafed. Good thing he’d worn sneakers. Most of the time he wore boots. He would’ve looked like he was chasing her. Some Good Samaritan might’ve decked him.

She jogged in place at a traffic signal at the bottom of a hill. He stayed twenty feet behind her. The light turned green and she took off with only a glance over her shoulder. Damn. He hadn’t felt this good in months, ever since he’d left his one-man operation to come aboard with ARC. The transition had been challenging, reporting to and working with other people.

Today he was glad for the job, glad for this particular assignment. The bleached blonde with the long legs and the canine companion sent his mood soaring.

Suddenly she turned around and ran toward him, the dog nipping at her heels. Was she going home already? Should he step aside and let her pass or—

“You might as well run with us,” she said, stopping in front of him but still jogging.

The dog danced around, barking.

“Stop it, Rase.”

“You call that a command?”

She pursed her lips. The dog never stopped moving.

“And I see how well it works,” he added. “Sit,” he said authoritatively.

The dog put his rear on the sidewalk instantly and grinned, his tongue hanging out, his tail dusting the ground.

Claire stopped jogging. “How did you— Traitor,” she said to the dog. “You little traitor. He has never done that for me.”

“That’s because you say ‘Stop it.’” He tried to match the pitch of her voice. “Good boy,” he said to the dog, patting his head. “Rase?” he queried, looking at Claire.

“Short for Eraser. Because his coat is the color of the old blackboard erasers.” She rubbed his ears. “He probably had another name, but I got him from the pound. He was already a couple of years old.” She put her shoulders back. “Let’s go.”

They jogged up a hill, not a particularly steep one by San Francisco standards, but enough that they couldn’t talk much.

“You saved his life,” Quinn said to her, not surprised that she’d rescued the dog from death row.

“He kind of saved mine, too.” She kept her eyes focused ahead. “We needed each other.”

Because of her parents or her sister? he wondered. He tried not to feel sorry for her. People often couldn’t see the truth about family. He’d been in that position himself, not once but twice. Claire was apparently as untainted as he had been once, enough so that she volunteered at a blood bank in gratitude for a little extra time with her dying mother…and chose to teach first-graders, innocence personified…and rescued pound dogs…and had blind faith in her unworthy sister.

But it was also hard to imagine Jennifer talking Claire into something she didn’t want to do. Claire only seemed mild mannered. She’d displayed a firm strength of character last night. So, why change from brunette to blonde? Why the shift to leather skirt and snug blouse? The change was drastic.

Had Jennifer convinced her to transform herself? Quinn found it hard to believe it had been Claire’s idea. Jennifer needed to escape surveillance, and she’d used her sister to do it.

He gave up asking himself questions he couldn’t answer and focused on the run, which felt good. He hadn’t taken enough time for himself lately. Lately? He almost laughed at the understatement. He got a work-out in because he had a gym at home, but free time was a rarity, which was why on the rare occasions he dated, they were busy women who weren’t demanding of his time, because they understood working long hours. So he chose professional women, mostly. Except lawyers, who asked too many questions.

And most women ended the relationship quickly, saying he was too serious. Hell, life was serious.

A block away from Claire’s house he spotted two men loitering at the base of the stairs. He knew them. Knew why they were there.

Claire slowed her pace to a walk. So did Quinn. Rase started to bark as they got closer to the house.

“No,” Quinn ordered. The dog went silent, then looked adoringly at Quinn.

Claire sighed loudly.

“Dogs like limits,” Quinn said. “He’s obviously had some training.”

She angled her head toward the men, who had come to attention and were watching their approach. “Friends of yours?”

“I know them.”

He couldn’t read her expression, and he admired her all the more for that. Show No Fear was his personal motto. Maybe hers, too. Maybe being a teacher ingrained that, he decided.

“Gerard,” the taller of the two men said in greeting.

“Santos,” Quinn replied.

“We can take it from here,” the man told Quinn.

Peter Santos was the D.A. investigator Jennifer had spotted tailing her, the reason why Quinn, a private not public investigator, had been hired. Quinn noted the edge in his voice. Santos should relax. Jenn had spotted Quinn, too—another reason why Quinn figured she was guilty. She wouldn’t have been that alert if she hadn’t been looking for someone watching her.

“I believe I’ll stay,” Quinn said. “This is Claire Winston.”

“Ms. Winston, I’m Peter Santos from the district attorney’s office. Could we go inside, please?”

“Do I have a choice?” she asked, but led them up the stairs, not waiting for Santos’s answer to her rhetorical question. When everyone was gathered in her foyer, Santos held out a piece of paper. Rase whined.

“I’ll be right back,” Claire said, not accepting the document. “I’m going to shut the dog in the kitchen.”

Good. She would handle the situation on her own terms. Had she figured out why Santos was there?

When she returned she looked calm. She’d also put her sweatshirt back on.

Santos passed her the paper. “I have a warrant, Ms. Winston.”

“For what?”

“Requiring that you turn over the note that your sister, Jennifer Winston, wrote you.”

Claire’s gaze shifted to Quinn. Hurt radiated from her like a furnace blast. Because of him the note would no longer be private but would be seen by the D.A. and others. “It takes three of you to bring me one piece of paper and pick one up?” she asked. “You all must’ve heard about my black belt in karate, I guess.”

The joke went over Santos’s head. Quinn cleared his throat. It really was pretty funny, the three of them confronting one slender schoolteacher with a spotless reputation. Claire took her time reading the warrant. Santos shifted from foot to foot. A grandfather clock by the front door ticktocked, ticktocked.

“Ms. Winston,” Santos said after a while. “All it says is—”

“I can read.” She opened the drawer of her entry table, removed a piece of paper and gave it to him.

Santos looked it over. Quinn held out his hand and was handed the note, probably because Santos didn’t want to argue in front of her.

“Dear Claire,” it read. “I’m doing what you asked. I’ll be in touch. Love, Jenn.”

“What does this mean?” Santos asked. “That she’s doing what you asked?”

“Night before last I gave her a deadline to find somewhere else to live.”

“Why?”

“She’d lived here long enough.”

“Her car is in your garage.”

“I don’t have an explanation for that. I assume she will be back for it.”

Santos took the note from Quinn. “You bleached your hair.”

She raised her brows. Quinn thought she looked magnificent, all haughty and cool. Mild-mannered schoolteacher—ha!

“So?” she asked.

“So, you look a lot like her now. Did you pretend to be your sister, Ms. Winston, so that she could get away?”

“I don’t believe your warrant covers anything beyond me giving you the note. I already answered questions I didn’t have to. It’s time for you to go.” The front door still stood wide open. She gestured for them to leave.

Quinn stepped aside as the two investigators exited.

“You, too, Mr. Gerard,” she said, not looking at him but at the men headed toward their car.

He saw a break in her composure, a fragility she hadn’t shown Santos. “I’d like to talk to you,” Quinn said.

“I have nothing to say.”

“I have things to say. I’ll stand right here, with the door open. Or we could go outside, if you prefer.” He pulled a business card from a leather holder and passed it to her. “I’m not a D.A. investigator. I’m in private practice. My job for them was over when your sister left. This is personal now, just between you and me.” The betrayal he’d endured years ago whirled inside him until he tamped it down. He knew how she felt. That’s all he wanted to tell her. He had little doubt she was an innocent victim swept into her sister’s game.

“You knew they would be waiting for us after the run,” she said, her tone accusatory.

“I knew they would be here sometime today.”

“You told them about the note.”

“I had no choice.”

“You had a choice.”

“No, I didn’t. Ms. Winston, are you worried about your sister?”

“Worried?”

“After you got home yesterday you never turned on your lights downstairs. That’s how I knew something was wrong and why I knocked. If she’d only been doing what you asked her to do—move out—you would’ve turned on your lights and gone about life as usual.”

Her shoulders drooped slightly. She closed her eyes for a second too long.

“What you say will stay between us,” he said, hoping she would talk to him, unburden herself. He’d been in her shoes. He understood.

“She didn’t take her stuff,” she said, meeting his gaze, confusion in her eyes but no weakness.

“Nothing?”

“Her jewelry, but not her clothes, or at least not many. And her car! She loves that car.”

“What do you think it means?”

“I don’t know. I wish I did.”

He hesitated in offering a possibility. “Could we sit down?”

She nodded. After they sat on her sofa he watched her finger his business card. “What does the ARC stand for?” she asked.

“The initials of the three original partners of the agency, Alvarado, Remington and Caldwell. I’m also a partner.”

“Have they been in business long?”

“About eight years. They work out of L.A. I opened a branch office for them here right after Thanksgiving last year, but I’ve been a private investigator for ten years.”

“Why were you working for the D.A.?”

“Your sister realized she was being followed by their people, so the D.A. hired me to take over. I’m usually pretty good at it.”

“Not this time?”

“I figure she made me, too.” Made a fool of me.

He knew Claire was killing time. He let her set the pace.

“Jenn doesn’t have the money,” she said finally.

“What makes you so sure?”

“She said so.”

“Is she always honest?”

Claire started to answer, then shut her mouth. “Usually. Brutally honest.”

He leaned forward, resting his arms on his thighs. “Why did you bleach your hair?”

She ran a hand down her ponytail, as if she’d forgotten. “I wanted a change.”

“It was your idea?”

She shifted. “Not entirely.”

“Jennifer came up with the idea?”

“She said blondes…”

“Have more fun?” he asked, finishing her sentence when she didn’t.

“Yes.”

“And the clothes? Her clothes that you wore yesterday?”

“Part of the makeover. Yes, that was also her idea. But I didn’t have to go along with any of it, and she couldn’t have forced me.”

Quinn knew all about the tactics of manipulation. Some people were so good at it that they could even get their victim to defend them, which was probably true in this instance.

“We did it on a lark,” Claire said, sitting up straighter, apparently well in control again. “To celebrate the end of the school year and the beginning of summer.”

“Did she make changes, too?”

Claire frowned. “Do you mean, did she take on my appearance?”

“Yes.”

“Meaning, you think she’s on the run?”

“Could be.”

“She said in her note that she would be in touch with me. Doesn’t that imply she’s not running or going into hiding?”

He didn’t answer. He knew something Claire didn’t—her sister had been followed by someone else, someone not from the D.A.’s office. Quinn had seen him and reported it to the D.A. It was likely someone her convict boyfriend had managed to hire, therefore he must believe she was a threat to run. Therefore, she knew more than she’d said in court.

“You don’t believe her,” she said, her gaze cool.

“I don’t know her.”

“Well, one thing I can tell you—she wouldn’t be caught dead as a brunette or wearing the clothes I wear.”

“Are any of your clothes missing?”

She sat back. “I don’t know. I didn’t think to look.”

“Maybe you should. Maybe you should check your trash cans to see if there’s a box of hair color in there.” He stood. She’d gathered her composure. His job was done—unfortunately. He wouldn’t have minded getting to know her better, but he didn’t think they could get past the reason they’d met in the first place.

“Maybe you should try to put the facts together and see what you come up with,” he said, then pointed to the business card she still clenched. “You’ve got my number. If you want to talk, you can reach me on my cell phone twenty-four hours a day.”

She stood, too. “Why would I call you?”

“Because I know what you’re going through.” He resisted the temptation to put a comforting hand on her shoulder. He had no right to touch her, but he was also afraid he wouldn’t stop there, that he would pull her into his arms and hold her close, maybe for his sake as much as hers. Everything she was experiencing brought back devastating memories for him, memories he usually had no problem keeping buried. She was as innocent as he’d been.

If he ever did meet up with Jennifer Winston—

“Thank you for staying and talking,” Claire said.

“Thanks for believing I’m not the enemy.”

“I’ve seen you faint. How scared should I have been?” she asked, a teasing smile brightening her face.

Claire Winston didn’t fall under the category of client or subject, but his own code of ethics, the personal rules by which he lived, prevented him from letting himself respond to her in a way his mind and body were telling him to. Even with her face lined with exhaustion she looked pretty. Not classically beautiful, nor cute. Pretty. The kind of pretty that comes from inside. He remembered the way she looked in the short leather skirt, the slow, tempting way she walked, the way her cheeks had flushed when they’d first made eye contact. He remembered her teasing eyes as he’d jogged with her.

Temptation, thy name is Claire.

And he needed to avoid this particular temptation.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

He shook his head. Not wrong, but not right, either. “You’ll call if you want to talk?”

She smiled. “Maybe.”

“Goodbye, Ms. Winston.”

“Claire.”

“I hope you can sleep now.” He pulled her front door shut behind him and didn’t look back. He didn’t want to see her standing in the window, watching him. Claire, with the bright blue eyes that weren’t as innocent as they had been yesterday.

He wished he hadn’t been part of that loss of innocence.

Four

For the first time since Claire was sixteen years old, she didn’t have a summer job. She planned to redecorate the house more to her taste, strip and refinish furniture, sand and paint kitchen cabinets, and make a bedspread for her bedroom. She might even try her hand at writing a book geared toward first-through third-graders, something about life in a big city, a backdrop with which children in her community could identify.

Jenn had been gone a week. None of Claire’s clothes were missing, nor had she found a hair-color box or anything else in the trash to give hints as to where Jenn had gone. Claire had gotten past her anger. She figured Jenn intended for Claire to feel guilty about issuing the ultimatum to move out, and would stay out of touch long enough to make Claire worry, and possibly relent about living together.

Not this time, Claire decided, putting a little more effort into sanding the last kitchen cabinet before she started painting. She would assume that Jenn had landed on her feet, as she always did. Claire never had been able to figure out why her sister wanted to live with her. She’d never catered to her, never done her laundry or fixed her meals. Certainly Jenn could afford her own place.

Rase barked then ran out of the kitchen. The doorbell rang. Every time someone had dropped by in the past week, she’d hoped it was Quinn. Silly of her to hope for that, she knew. He’d had a job to do, and that was all. Still, she’d felt a connection with him and thought perhaps he had with her, too.

He’d given her his phone number. She’d dialed six of the digits several times, then hung up at the last minute. What could she say— “You make my heart stand still”? He believed her sister was guilty. How could Claire be with someone who thought that? Yet another way Jenn had disrupted her life.

Claire reached her front door and looked through the peephole, then smiled as she opened the door to Jenn’s mother, Marie, who, while she didn’t have any official title, like “stepmother,” had become like a second mother to Claire through the years.

“Hi, baby— Oh, Claire! Goodness. You’re blond. I thought you were Jenny.” She stepped into the house. Rase circled her.

“Stop,” Claire ordered the dog in a serious voice. As usual he ignored her.

“How’s my favorite doggy?” Marie crooned, not helping matters, as Rase danced on his hind legs, his front paws on her thighs.

“Down,” Claire ordered again. This time he bounded onto all fours. “Sit.” He grinned. She sighed.

Marie hugged Claire. “You look cute, honey.”

“Thanks, Marie.” Claire adored the tall, buxom, fiftyish woman with the bright red, long, curly hair, dramatic makeup and tinkling jewelry. “How have you been?”

“Better than most, I think.” Her sparkling smile reminded Claire of why her father had been drawn to Marie once upon a time, even if her New Age personality had contrasted sharply with his rational-physicist nature—a major reason why they’d never married, although he’d offered when he found out she was pregnant. It was Marie who’d turned him down. A year later he’d married the woman who became Claire’s mother.

“Business is good,” Marie added. “Lots of stressed-out people out there. I’ve been turning away new customers.”

“You give great massages.”

“I do, don’t I?” She flexed her hands. “Hope the instruments stay healthy. Listen, honey, I’ve been leaving messages for Jenny on her cell all week and she hasn’t returned any. Nothin’ new there, of course, but I tried again a little while ago, and the line’s been disconnected. What’s going on?”

Claire would’ve invited her to sit down but Marie wouldn’t stay long. She never did. “Jenn’s gone.”

“What do you mean?”

“She moved out. Beyond that, I don’t know anything.”

“Did you two have a fight?”

“No. Not really. Well, sort of, I guess. I mean, I asked her to move out. I thought it was time she go out on her own again.”

“You know I agree with you. We talked about it before. Why didn’t she call me?”

“I assumed she had.”

Marie shook her head. “Did she leave me a check?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

Marie paced, her velour pants hugging her ample behind. Lime-green high heels clicked against the hardwood floor. “She was supposed to give me a check.”

“You can look in her bedroom, if you want.”

Marie laughed, the sound musical. “Like anyone could unearth anything there.” Her cell phone rang. She dug it out of her big cloth purse and said hello. “Baby, where are you?” She glanced at Claire and mouthed, “Jenn.”

Claire crossed her arms.

“You promised me a check, you know, for—” She turned away slightly. “You know…. No, I can’t wait! Jennifer Marie, you promised…. I gotta have it, baby…. Okay, okay. Thanks.”

Claire held out her hand, asking for the phone.

“Listen,” Marie said. “I’m at your sister’s house. She wants to talk to you…. ’Cause I was worried about you. What’s your new cell number?…Well, when you do get one, call me. Stay in touch, okay, baby?”

Marie passed Claire the phone.

“What’s going on, Jenn?” she asked.

“I’m moving on, just like you said.”

“I didn’t mean you had to move out the same day. Where are you?”

“What do you care?”

Jenn’s casual way of putting Claire on the defensive riled her. She’d had it with her self-centered sister. “Well, for one, your car’s taking up my garage space. If you don’t get it out of there, I’m going to have it towed. You can pay the fines when you pick it up from impound.”

“Ooh, kid sister’s got fangs all of a sudden.”

Marie leaned toward the phone’s mouthpiece. “Can I use your car until you get back, baby?” she asked loudly, then whispered to Claire, “I’m gonna use your restroom.”

“Tell Mom no. She would crash it, just like all the others she owned.”

“Tell her yourself.” She waited for Marie to shut the bathroom door down the hall, then walked into the living room and let her frustration spill out. “You didn’t tell me the cops were looking for you.”

“The D.A., not the cops. They followed me for weeks. So what? No big deal.”

“Is that why you left?”

“I left because you told me to.”

Claire gritted her teeth. She didn’t believe her. “I’ll ask you again, Jenn. Do you have the money Craig Beecham embezzled?”

“And I’ll answer you again. No, I do not.”

“Then why did you run?”

“Who says I ran?”

“You left me a note, which is a cowardly way to leave, and you know it. You left your car and your clothes behind. Now you’ve changed your cell phone number. You ran,” she said again.

“I’m starting the life I always wanted, that’s all. Listen, I gotta go. Later, okay?”

Claire punched the off button and banged the phone down on the bottom stair. She blew off some steam by walking into the foyer then back into the living room again until Marie joined her.

A movement outside caught her attention—a gray sedan pulling up across the street. Recognizing Quinn Gerard, she closed her eyes and groaned. Great. Just great. She’d been sanding kitchen cabinets all morning and hadn’t even showered yet. She’d twisted her hair up off her neck with a big clip. Of all days for him to show up.

She resisted the temptation to pat her hair and smooth her clothes.

He got out of the car, his expression serious as he stood for a moment and stared at her house. He looked like a bearer of bad news.

Quinn should’ve done the polite thing and called before dropping in on Claire. In fact, he could have given her the information over the phone. Yet he was here, outside her house, feeling more hesitant than when he’d asked Melanie Davison to the homecoming dance eighteen years ago. Why did this fresh-faced, seemingly harmless woman have the ability to intimidate him?

He climbed her stairs, eight of them, then stood under the portico for several seconds. Hell. He should just get in his car and drive away. Call her from his cell phone. Tell her what he’d found out. And keep on driving.

He blew out a breath. Big, fearless Quinn Gerard, who’d earned a reputation for uncovering secrets others couldn’t, for clinging unnoticed to the shadows of the city, for hacking into other people’s computers without remorse for violating their privacy—that Quinn Gerard was quaking in his boots at facing a first-grade teacher with philanthropic tendencies?

Idiot.

He started to knock but the door opened. A tall redhead was chattering and smiling. “I only crashed two cars,” she was saying. “And that was years ago.” Her smile changed, as did her body language, when she almost bumped into Quinn.

“Well, hi, there,” she said, not quite à la Mae West, but in a definitely flirtatious way.

“Good morning.”

Rase charged out of the house, right at him. “Sit,” he said. Rase’s rump hit the ground but his body was in motion. Quinn had never seen a dog grin like that. He scratched the dog’s ears.

“Traitor,” he heard Claire say.

The redheaded woman put out a hand. Her wrist jangled with at least ten silver bracelets. “I’m Marie DiSanto.”

He shook her hand. “Quinn Gerard.”

The door opened a little wider, revealing Claire standing to the side of the exotic-looking woman.

“Have you got a couple minutes?” he asked Claire.

“Sure. Stay in touch, okay, Marie?”

“I will, honey. You, too. ’Bye. Nice to meet you,” she said to Quinn, breezing by him, her scent pungent, like incense.

“Same here.” He turned toward Claire, then felt the older woman’s hand on his arm. When he looked at her she was no longer smiling.

“Your past is about to catch up with you,” she said, her eyes vacant.

Hell. A psychic. He humored her. “I hope it’s Andrea Scarpelli. She—”

Marie made a hissing sound. “You jest. Don’t jest. This will be serious to you.”

“Look—”

“Marie,” Claire said, putting her hands on the woman’s shoulders and gently moving her back.

She seemed to snap out of her trance, or whatever it was. “Sorry,” she mumbled.

Since he didn’t believe anyone could predict the future, he found her harmless, although he never would’ve guessed that the very sensible Claire believed in such nonsense.

“Come in,” Claire said to him, turning away. “Bring your dog with you.”

He smiled. The dog followed without prompting. Quinn studied Claire. Her clothes were dusted with something, not dirt or sawdust but a residue of some sort. “Did I interrupt something?”

“That was Jenn’s mother.”

He tried to put the mother and daughter together, but the picture didn’t come into focus. “Has she heard from her?”

Claire headed away from the living room. He followed.

“I’ve been sanding my kitchen cabinets,” she said over her shoulder, “so I don’t want to sit in the living room, if you don’t mind. Can I get you something to drink?”

Can’t answer the question, Claire? “I’m fine, thanks.” Her kitchen was spacious, and adjoined a breakfast room with a sliding glass door overlooking multiple-level decks and a nicely landscaped garden. The kitchen appliances looked fairly new, but the rest of the room hadn’t been updated in a long time. All of the cabinets looked freshly sanded.

He spotted a dog bed and encouraged Rase to lie down there so that he wouldn’t be underfoot.

Claire dusted herself off a little then washed her hands. He was caught off guard by how much her casual look appealed to him. Maybe it was the red sneakers. Or the body-hugging T-shirt that molded her frame, emphasizing her curves. Or maybe he liked the baggy, faded overalls because those metal fasteners just begged to be unhooked. Or perhaps he was so used to the corporate wardrobe of the women he usually dated, Claire stood out in comparison. “I’m fun,” her look seemed to say. He’d already noticed that.

“Jennifer’s mother is a—” What could he call her?

“Psychic?” Claire supplied with a half smile.

“Is that what she is?”

Claire hung her hand towel neatly over the oven handle. “She’s a massage therapist, and an excellent one. As for being a psychic, who knows? She’s never predicted anything for me, so I have no way of verifying it. Is there something in your past you don’t want to catch up with you?”

“Isn’t there something in everyone’s past?”

She frowned thoughtfully. “No,” she said finally. “Not mine. So. What brings you here?”

A need to see you. “I kept in touch with the D.A.’s office. Thought you’d like to know that your sister hasn’t used her credit cards all week, which you probably know is outside her normal use pattern. She’s an everyday user, and a big spender.”

“Especially since she got her check a couple of months ago, to settle my parents’ estate.”

“What you might not know is that she withdrew a substantial amount of cash from her bank account the day before she left.”

“The day before?”

He nodded. She grabbed a soda from the refrigerator. Her hand shook just a little.

“So, everything was planned,” she said. “It didn’t matter that I’d told her she had to move. She was already leaving.”

“Looks like it.”

She leaned her elbows on the counter. “How much is ‘substantial’?”

“I can’t give you a figure. Enough to live in luxury for quite a while.” He sat on a bar stool when she offered the seat with a gesture. “Have you heard from her?”

She took a sip of her soda. Damn, she was sexy when she was evasive. He almost laughed at the thought. He couldn’t remember enjoying a woman more. Maybe part of it was that she was forbidden.

“I’m not the enemy,” he said. “As I told you before, whatever you tell me stays between us.”

She took a seat beside him at the breakfast bar, muttering a quick “Sorry” when she bumped against him. The innocent, accidental brush of her arm against his sent his hormones on another mutiny.

“She called her mother today,” Claire said. “But she didn’t say where she was. Except—”

He waited. He was good at waiting.

“She said something to me. A hint, kind of.”

“What?” he asked.

“That she was starting the life she’d always wanted.”

“Do you know what she means?”

She met his gaze directly. Her eyes took on a little sparkle. She seemed to be suppressing a smile. “She’s always had it in her head that she would marry a prince.”

Quinn raised a brow.

Her smile widened. “I know. Delusions of grandeur. But she’s always believed it. She figured she would move to a ritzy European hideaway, where she might meet a prince who would—”

A look of horror came across her face as she realized what she’d revealed.

“I won’t give that information to the D.A.,” he assured her. “Although you know it’s in your sister’s best interests that she come home. It already looks bad for her, as if she’s on the run. Even if she isn’t living on the money Beecham embezzled, she’s going to make it seem like she is, the longer she stays away.” Quinn’s experience was that people who looked guilty usually were.

Plus, he’d also seen someone following her.

“Haven’t they checked the airlines and found out if she flew anywhere?” Claire asked.

“Probably. But if she bought herself a new identity….” He let the word hang there.

“Why would she do that?” Claire pulled the clip from her hair, letting it fall against her face, blocking his view.

He wanted to run his fingers through her hair, to know if it was as silky as it looked. “Only your sister can answer that.”

“Well, I asked her again this morning if she had the money, and she said no.”

“Did you expect her to say yes?”

After a minute, she shook her head. “I guess not.”

“The problem is that this isn’t going to stay private forever. Someone’s bound to leak it to the press so that they can enlist the public in tracking her down. Maybe they’ll take a couple of weeks to check things out through their own sources, but eventually they’ll expand their search. Maybe treat it as a missing-person case. You could very well find yourself in the media as a result. Believe me, it’s not a place you want to be.”

Guilt by association. He’d lived with it, been damaged by it, scarred forever. He didn’t want to see the same thing happen to Claire, especially by someone she loved. It was so much worse when it was someone you loved. Family was supposed to support each other, yet too often an innocent victim was left behind to deal with their mess. When that happened, ties should be severed. He’d done that. He’d had to.

Jennifer had selfishly used Claire’s guilt and goodwill. Why couldn’t Claire see that?

“You need to find her,” he said. “She needs to show she hasn’t run away.”

She took a long sip of her soda then set the can down carefully before she answered. “I don’t understand. She says she doesn’t know where the money is. No one has found any evidence that she has knowledge of or possession of it. So, why isn’t she free to come and go as she pleases? How can the D.A. pursue her without evidence?”

“Circumstantial evidence is enough for them to look at her with interest.”

“I don’t see what I could do to find her. Nor why I should. To me, everything points to Jenn being Jenn.”

He angled toward her a little more. If Claire didn’t want to search for Jenn, he couldn’t make her. But he didn’t know any other way to continue contact with her. It would be the unspoken subject, like the skeleton in the closet. So, in order to see her, he needed to keep the situation with Jenn up front. “I’ll help you, if you want,” he said.

She frowned. “If the D.A. can’t find her, why do you think you could?”

“While I was under contract with the D.A., I was a police agent and I was hindered by rules of evidence. On my own, I can approach an investigation differently.”

“Illegally?”

“Differently.”

She smiled slightly. “I doubt I could afford you.”

“No charge. I told you before,” he said before she could ask why. “I know what you’re going through.”

He’d never seen eyes so bright a shade of blue.

“So, a P. I. with a soft heart,” she said.

“We’re not the hard-boiled detectives shown on television. We have hearts, and consciences. I got into this business to help the innocent and the helpless.”

“Because you’d been in that position yourself.”

He didn’t answer, but she seemed to read it in his eyes just the same.

“What happened to you?” she asked.

“I don’t talk about it anymore. I overcame it. I just don’t want your life to be thrown into misery like mine was.” And I want to see what could happen between us.

She moved off the stool, taking her soda with her. “I tried to check out your company, ARC Security & Investigations. I couldn’t find anything. No Web site. You’re not even listed in the Yellow Pages.”

“We get our business by word of mouth, reputation and recommendation.” He approached her, liking how she held her ground. At least she wasn’t nervous around him. “Look, Claire, this is about my reputation, too. Jennifer got away on my watch. You don’t think that ticks me off? It’s the first time it’s happened. I’m good at what I do. Damn good. I want to fix it.”

“You want to prove my sister is guilty.”

He didn’t think he would have to prove that. “I want to salvage my own reputation, and I want to keep you from getting hurt. What happens to your sister depends on her innocence or guilt, not whether we find her.”

She held his gaze for a long time, as if seeing into him layer by layer until she could see his soul. She needed to believe him, to trust him. He understood that. He found her unwavering stare incredibly sexy. He found everything about her incredibly sexy.

Even if he had intended to stay involved only in a business sense, it was too late. He wanted to sit her on the counter, unfasten the hooks on her overalls and slip his hands under her T-shirt. He’d bet her skin was warm and soft. He’d bet if she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled herself close that she would smell fresh and flowery. He’d bet she put her heart and soul into a kiss.

Maybe he should test the theory….

Five

Claire forgot what the question was. Or the issue. Or whatever it was that he was waiting for her to say. Something about Jenn….

She liked the way he looked, liked his strong features and amber eyes, and his logic and calmness. She believed him when he said he understood what she was going through. People often said things like that, but they didn’t really know. He did, apparently. He’d been in her shoes. If she let him help, she stood a much greater chance of finding Jenn—if she wanted to.

But it also created two problems. First, she was attracted to him, an attraction she didn’t think would die with familiarity but would instead become stronger. It had already transformed from the strictly physical and chemical response when they’d first met to something else, something more. Second, if they were successful and found Jenn, it could mean Jenn might end up in jail. Could Claire be part of that? Live with that? The repercussions were huge.

She should be very, very careful not to fall for him—

No. She was sick of being careful. She wanted to kiss and be kissed. To hold and be held. To have a partner. Why couldn’t she fall for him? Why couldn’t they fall for each other?

But she knew why—he believed Jenn was guilty, and Claire believed she was innocent, at least of stealing the money from Beecham. Jenn may have always wanted more, but she wouldn’t steal to get it.

“Claire.”

Quinn’s voice startled her. She’d been staring right at him but had forgotten he was there.

“Okay,” she said, turning away and picking up her empty soda can to put in the recycling bin. “We’ll work together.” And see where it goes.

He needed her, she realized with sudden clarity. He was too serious. He needed some fun in his life, needed to smile more. She could do that for him.

“When do you want to start?” he asked.

She thought about her grungy work clothes, and the fact that she hadn’t showered or fixed her hair. Not the most auspicious way to start a…a what? Courtship? No. A wooing? Maybe it was an old-fashioned word, but it seemed to fit.

“I guess my schedule is more flexible than yours,” she said. “I’ll leave it up to you.” How about tomorrow, when I could look my best?

“Now?” he asked.

She managed not to sigh. “Sure. What first?”

“Her bedroom.”

Claire headed out of the room, expecting he would follow, then walked ahead of him up the stairs, aware of him close behind her. Rase bounded past them, waited on the landing.

“Do you have the key to her car?” he asked as they neared the top.

“No. Do you think she hid stuff in there?”

“Maybe.”

Before they entered the room she said, “I need you to promise me something.”

“What’s that?”

“If I decide at any time not to continue looking for Jenn, you have to honor my wishes.”

“Don’t handcuff me, Claire. This is what I do for a living. I will, of course, respect your wishes, if I can. That’s as much promise as I can make. If you can’t deal with that, let’s stop here and now.”

Claire’s reasons for continuing had more to do with her own needs. She wasn’t going to take the chance of Quinn walking out of her life yet. “Okay,” she said, then opened Jenn’s bedroom door.

Claire was embarrassed by the messy room, even though it wasn’t hers. The room was as Jenn had left it—clothes strewn on the unmade bed and heaped on the closet floor. Claire had removed the dirty dishes left behind then closed the door on the disaster.

“Doesn’t win the Cleanest Camper award, does she?” he said, stopping inside the doorway.

“She says her DNA is missing the clean gene.”

Rase made a nest of a pile of clothes and went to sleep. Claire stood by as Quinn poked through Jenn’s belongings, rifling through a drawer stuffed with sexy lingerie, looking under the bed and the mattress and pulling out paperwork from both places. He glanced at each item, then tossed it on the bed, adding more papers he found scattered around the room.

“Does she have a computer?” he asked.

“A laptop. She took it with her.”

He pulled out every dresser drawer to look behind and under, as well as inside the dresser itself. He looked behind the three framed prints of Prince Charles and Princess Diana’s wedding on the walls. Strangely, the room seemed to be getting neater as he worked. She realized he was folding clothing and stacking items. Maybe he’d noticed how embarrassed Claire was by the mess.

Jenn didn’t own many books, but he took each off the shelf and shook it. A couple of CD-ROMs fell out of one.

Claire met his gaze.

“I’ll get my computer from the car,” he said.

She waited until he left the bedroom, then scooped up all the paperwork he’d tossed on the bed and went downstairs, for the first time seriously considering that Jenn might really be guilty of something.

Quinn set his computer on the dining room table. Claire had already placed all the papers he’d unearthed in the middle of the table. She stood with her hands shoved in her pockets.

Long-buried memories blasted him. He recalled the men who’d brought boxes of paperwork out of his parents’ bedroom, his father’s office and even the garage. He’d stood much as Claire did now, scared and vulnerable, not knowing what they would find, not even knowing what they were looking for. He’d tried to stop them. His mother had ordered him to his room until they were gone. He’d refused. Then they wouldn’t let him be there while they searched his own bedroom. No one had told him why. Not even his mother.

He wouldn’t leave Claire in the dark like that. What he found, he would share.

He put two chairs side by side and invited her to sit. She moved like a whisper, taking a seat beside him then linking her hands together in her lap, her knuckles white.

“It’s better to know than to wonder,” he said.

“I guess.”

“Trust me. It is.” He gave her hands a brief squeeze, being careful not to linger. “Ready?”

She nodded.

He loaded the first CD-ROM and ran it through his virus-detection program. Claire moved closer, trying to see the screen along with him. Her shoulder pressed against his arm, but she didn’t pull away. Nor did he.

He turned toward her. She raised her gaze to his. The need to kiss her rushed through him. He couldn’t, of course. Shouldn’t. It was way too soon. They barely knew each other. She would be embarrassed and pull away. It would make them uncomfortable with each other.

He looked at her mouth. Full lips, parted just slightly.

Couldn’t. He looked away, tried to focus on the screen. Shouldn’t.

She moved just far enough that she wasn’t touching him anymore, but close enough for him to still feel heat rising from her.

“Claire,” he said.

“What?” Her voice was pitched a little higher than usual.

Emotion, but which emotion? Hell. He was over-thinking it. There really wasn’t anything to consider. He couldn’t kiss her.

Shouldn’t.

He was known for his patience, for recognizing the time for action and the time to wait.

But he’d wanted to kiss her since she’d threatened to sic her dog on him. She was gutsy. He liked that. Like when she’d told Santos she wasn’t required to answer his questions. Her haughty tone had turned him on, especially coming from the girl-next-door package.

What the hell. He cupped her face, waited two seconds for her to object, then he kissed her. He felt her breath stop, then she took a long, slow breath and kissed him back, a throaty little moan rising from her as her hands pressed against his chest then slid higher. Before she wrapped her arms around his neck he pulled back.

He wasn’t going to apologize for something she apparently wanted as much as he did. Except that he had rules, and he’d just broken one. “Okay,” he said after a minute. “We got that out of the way.”

She leaned her cheek against his arm, but not before he saw her smile.

“What?” he asked.

“You. You’re funny.”

He was? He couldn’t remember anyone thinking he was funny. Not ever. He angled his head enough to see her face. “If you say so.”

She smiled for a second longer then looked as if she was trying to suppress it, like she knew something he didn’t know. “Shall we get this over with?” she asked, pointing to the computer.

Apparently she hadn’t been as involved as he’d thought, or as needy as he’d been, if she could switch gears that fast. Or maybe she was too nervous about what they would find on the CDs. He wanted to assure her that life would still go on. Instead he scanned the names Jenn had given the folders. They looked like—

“Music,” Claire said. “They’re all song titles.”

He opened one. A song with a hard beat and indecipherable lyrics blasted them from the tiny computer speakers. He felt Claire’s relief.

“She probably downloaded them illegally, so she hid them,” he said, opening another song, then another. He would go through all of them to make sure. The next CD was the same.

They sorted through the paperwork—receipts from her spending spree of the past two months, including her expensive car and credit card statements, lists of things to do, some items crossed off, some not, nothing important, mostly things to buy. No clues emerged as to her current whereabouts or her plans. No airline or hotel information. No travel brochures. No names and addresses of friends or business associates. If she had an address book, she’d taken it with her.

“Let’s go to the garage and check out the car. Does it have an alarm?”

She nodded, then put a hand on his arm briefly. “Are you hungry? I made a pot of chicken-and-rice soup yesterday. I could put it on to heat while we’re in the garage.”

“That would be great.” He was surprised she felt like eating. It was a good sign that she wasn’t knocked completely off balance by her sister’s…what? Cruelty? Deception, at the very least. Quinn wasn’t sure what to call it, not until they knew her motives for running. Maybe Claire was right, and Jenn was just punishing Claire for telling her to move out. Then again, there was that large amount of cash she’d withdrawn the day before.

“How is it that you’re close to Jenn’s mother?” he asked as Claire turned the heat on under the soup pot.

“My parents maintained a friendly relationship with Marie. I spent the night at her place a lot, as Jenn did here. My father had asked her to marry him when he learned she was pregnant, but she refused, believing they would end up divorcing. She was probably right. She never denied my father his rights to his daughter, and my mother accepted and loved her.”

“Marie or Jenn?”

She smiled. “Both. You can’t help but love Marie.”

“Jenn was more of a challenge?”

“In every way. She always felt denied. Nothing was ever quite enough for her.” She could have walked past him on the way out of the kitchen, but she laid a hand along his shoulder blade, her fingertips trailing away after a few seconds. “Let’s go.”

Her proprietary touch both pleased and worried him. He liked that she already felt comfortable with him. He was worried that she would expect more of him, more than he could give. Or should give, anyway.

He followed her out the front door, shutting the door on an unhappy Rase. “Does she have a lot of friends?” he asked.

“Jenn? Yes. Although not ones who’ve been around forever. No leftover friendships from high school. She accumulates people then tosses them aside when their usefulness has passed.”

“What about Craig Beecham?”

“What about him?”

The morning haze was gone, replaced by a sunny day, warm for San Francisco in June. Activity surrounded them—people and pets and traffic.

“Did you meet him?”

“I saw him at the trial. She’d lived with him for about a year. I didn’t see her much during that time. Just for Christmas, I think. Then Mom and Dad died, and a week later Craig was arrested. Jenn didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

She punched her code into the control panel on the outside of the garage.

“You should put your hand up to block anyone from seeing your code as you enter it,” he said.

“Your job must make you really paranoid.” She hit the Enter button.

She was probably right. “How did she behave at the trial?” he asked. “Did she try to talk to him?”

“Yes. She visited him in jail, too.”

“Did she know he was guilty?”

The door opened, revealing the red sports car. “She didn’t defend him to me.”

“Was she called as a witness?”

“Yes. And she said she didn’t know anything about his business or any missing money.”

Quinn would get a copy of the trial transcript and read it for himself. He found the car locked. A blinking red light on the dashboard indicated the alarm was set.

“Can you bypass the alarm?” she asked.

“Doubtful, but I know someone who can. If you’ll give your permission.”

“I want this over with.”

“Right.”

“It’s not my car, though,” she pointed out. “Does my permission matter?”

“It’s on your property. That’s good enough for me.” It was the tightrope he sometimes walked.

They returned to the house. As she dished up the soup, he stood by the dining room window overlooking the street and called one of his investigators.

“James Paladin,” said the voice on the other end.

“Jamey, it’s Quinn. Would you have time to break into a car for me?”

“There’s a question you don’t hear every day. Can it wait until tomorrow? I’ve got three interviews back-to-back, then my first date in four months after that.”

“Sure. I don’t think the car’s going anywhere.” He gave Jamey the address. “How about ten o’clock tomorrow morning?”

“I’ll be there.”

Quinn ended the call just as Claire set the soup bowls on the table. She added a basket of sourdough rolls, butter and iced tea, then they took their seats. Rase tried to lie on Quinn’s feet.

“You haven’t taught your dog any manners,” he said, walking Rase to his bed in the breakfast room.

“I tried. I thought he was untrainable.”

“They’re all trainable,” he said, sitting down. “Just make sure he knows you’re the boss.”

“I’d have to be promoted,” she said with a smile. “How does your friend know how to bypass car alarms?”

“It’s a skill he picked up along the way. Jamey was a bounty hunter for almost twenty years, but he did some repo work on the side, as well, although not recently.”

“Does he work for you?”

“This soup is great. Thanks.” Not only good but also spicy, unusual for a chicken soup. “He’s one of the investigators I hired. The other is Cassie Miranda. I lured her away from a law firm where she’d been an on-staff investigator for about five years.”

“So, you’re a three-person business?”

“With the backing of the much bigger home office in L.A. I imagine we’ll grow. We’ve got a support staff of three, as well.”

“What makes your company so exclusive?”

“The three original owners decided that was the market they wanted. They had some connections to get going, but their reputation spread fast.” He broke off a piece of the roll and buttered it. The comfortable domesticity of the moment struck him. He eyed her as she ate. She wasn’t quite as curvy as her sister, although he’d thought so originally when she’d been wearing Jenn’s clothes, but she was in many ways sexier. Maybe it was the fresh look about her—the simple hairstyle and little amount of makeup, if any. Her neck was slender, her skin pale, with a few tiny freckles across her cheeks and on her arms.

“Do you always work on Saturday?” she asked.

He realized he’d been holding his spoon close to his mouth without taking a bite. “We work when the job requires it. We take time off when we can, but it’s not often.”

“Am I keeping you from another assignment?”

He was never without work to do. Never. “Nothing that can’t wait a little. I won’t be spending all my time trying to track down Jenn. I think we’ll come up against too many dead ends, anyway.” He leaned toward her. “Claire, I know you want to do your share, but you need to let me run this investigation.”

She set down her spoon carefully, seeming to measure her words before speaking them aloud. “Meaning I should do nothing without clearing it with you first?”

“Yes.”

“Will you do the same?”

“I’m better equipped to take a lead and run with it.”

“No,” she said firmly, flatly, her fists resting on the table. “I don’t really want to do this at all, but since I am, it’s as a partner.”

“We’ll share results.”

“You mean you will. I, apparently, won’t be allowed to do anything that would result in my sharing results.”

“You’ll be here to field phone calls.”

“Oh, goody.” She crossed her arms. “No way, Mr. Gerard. I’m in this all the way or we’re not doing it at all. We’ll let her sink or swim on her own, which is my preference, anyway.”

He debated a moment. “This situation has gone beyond letting it resolve itself,” he said finally. And it wouldn’t give him the time with Claire he wanted, either. “Come with me.” He led her to the window, his hand on her shoulder. He pointed toward the street, the sheers offering a degree of security. “See the white minivan?”

“Yes.”

“The driver of that car has had your house under surveillance since I first started this job.”

She went very still, keeping her focus on the van. “Who is he?”

“I don’t know. My guess is someone connected with Beecham. The D.A. ran the plates. The car is registered to a woman who died last year. There’s a child’s booster seat in the back. Nice ploy.”

“Can’t he be arrested?”

“The car isn’t registered as stolen. The cops could talk to him and make him move, but he could come back, maybe hide himself better. At least this way we can spot him. He’s doing a lousy job of staying hidden, if that’s his goal. He pulled up while we were in Jenn’s bedroom.”

“You think he’s looking for Jenn?”

“I’m ninety-nine percent sure of it.”

She turned her head sharply, pinning him with a look. “Is that why you think she’s guilty? Because someone is on her tail?”

Because Claire’s serious expressions always turned him on, he wanted to slip his arms around her. “Or maybe someone is on her tail because they think she’s guilty.”

“If he’s been watching the house that long, he knows she’s not here.”

“Except that he just saw her car in the garage.” He watched Claire swallow. He wished he hadn’t had to clue her in on the man’s presence, but she needed to be aware of what happened around her. “I figure your sister escaped all of us. Maybe that’s why she left her car. Maybe she left on foot because it was the only way to avoid him seeing her. She’d already sent you ahead, figuring to draw me away, and maybe him, too. He’d been watching your house when I followed you to the blood bank, thinking you were Jenn.”

“Did he follow me?”

“No. I thought at the time it was odd, but I couldn’t watch him and follow you—or Jenn, as I thought—at the same time. Then I let it go because he wasn’t here later that day. If he’s been here all week, I wouldn’t know, since I haven’t had your house under surveillance this week.”

“If he knows Jenn isn’t here, why is he still hanging around?”

“Maybe he’s waiting to see if she comes back, because this is the only lead he has.” He finally gave in to what he was feeling and put his hands on her shoulders. Her body was stiff.

She looked into his eyes. “I wish I didn’t know he was there.”

“Knowledge is power.”

“I’m just a schoolteacher. I live a simple, honest life. Why is this happening?”

“Because your sister doesn’t live by the same rules as you.”

“I know that. I’ve always known that.”

He heard tension in her voice. Anger at her sister? Fear? He’d found that anything perceived as invasion of privacy sparked an above-average fear in people. The feeling of violation was too strong to ignore. “What can I do, Claire?” he asked, hoping she would answer honestly. “How can I make you feel safe?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Move in with me.”

Six

Stunned at her own words, Claire pulled away from him. She didn’t need a bodyguard. She just wanted him to stay. He’d kissed her. The thrill of it still resonated.

His silence made her uncomfortable. She realized she needed to make light of her request, as if she’d been joking. She picked up their dirty dishes from the table and carried them into the kitchen. “Don’t panic. I was kidding,” she said as she walked away.

He followed with the bread basket and butter dish. “If I thought you were in danger, I would never leave you here alone, Claire.”

“I really was kidding.” She’d given him an excuse to stay, and he’d rejected it. She should be grateful he hadn’t made a big deal of her moment of weakness. “But for the sake of argument, how do you know I’m not in danger?” she asked.

“Experience and intuition. But we can test him, if you like,” he said.

“How?”

“We go for a drive. If he follows, I’ll move in here with you for a while, if it makes you feel more comfortable. If he doesn’t, we know he thinks Jenn is still here. Or that she’s coming back. He seems to be just watching.”

Claire loaded the dishwasher and returned the rest of the soup to the refrigerator, appreciating the blast of cold air to cool her embarrassment. Why had she said such a thing to him? She barely knew him. All she knew for sure was that he tempted her.

She hoped the van followed them.

“Where will we go?” she asked, grateful he couldn’t read her mind.

“We’ll just drive.”

“Can I shower and change first?”

“Sure. I’ve got some work I can do. Take your time.”

She didn’t race up the stairs, nor did she take a longer shower than usual or do her hair or makeup differently. But she did remember to dab a little perfume on her throat and wrists, and she thought about him every second. Obsessed about him.

She forced herself to breathe normally as she walked down the stairs to meet him. He looked up from the table, stared at her for a moment, then stood as she approached. She was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, but she felt naked under his flattering gaze.

“I’m ready,” she said, a little breathlessly.

“Do you put Rase in the yard while you’re gone?” he asked, disappointing her a little. She wouldn’t have minded another kiss now that she was all cleaned up. He stuck his hands in his pockets, however, and she recognized that universal signal.

“He has a dog door, so he can go out when he wants to.”

“Okay, let’s go.”

Taking her cue from him, Claire tried not to look through the windshield of the van as they headed to the car, although she was curious. Shouldn’t she be able to identify the man if he walked up to her on the street? She posed the question to Quinn when they got into Claire’s car.

“I’ve got a picture of him. I’ll bring you a copy.” He drove, his head grazing the ceiling of her little car. She leaned forward a little to look out the side mirror.

The van didn’t follow.

Quinn drove Claire back to her house an hour later, after cruising the city for a while and stopping for ice cream cones. The van was gone, but Quinn parked instead of dropping her off.

“I want to check out a couple of things,” he said as she opened the passenger door. “I’ll talk to you before I leave.”

“Okay.”

Curiosity darkened her eyes, but she didn’t question him. He liked that she understood already that he didn’t like to speculate. Cassie called him “task oriented.” Others weren’t as polite, saying he wore blinders, that he saw only the goal.

Maybe that was true in the past, but it was something he was trying to change, and one of the reasons he’d hooked up with ARC after years on his own—to expand his world, to get out of the shadows he’d lived in for so long that he’d been known by most people only by the nickname “Doc.”

From his car he watched Claire go inside her house. Then he walked up and down the street, evaluating vehicles, especially two delivery vans that could easily be used for surveillance. He checked the names of the businesses painted on the trucks—both were listed in the Yellow Pages. No cars were occupied.

Where was the guy in the white van? Quinn found his disappearance more unsettling than his hanging around watching. Maybe he’d been a decoy. Maybe a second car had followed them.

No. No one had followed. He was sure of that.

And was disappointed. He’d wanted the excuse to stay….

He knocked on Claire’s door. He could’ve just said goodbye, but he went inside when she held the door open in invitation.

“Sit,” she ordered Rase.

The dog looked at Quinn. “Sit,” he said.

“You want a dog, cheap?” Claire asked, exasperated as the mutt planted his rear on the floor.

“Just keep working at it. If I’m not here, he’ll start to respond.”

“There was a phone message from Marie,” she said, closing the door.

“She heard from your sister?”

“No.” Claire linked her fingers. “She said to tell you that you’ll be tempted to fight what’s coming up for you but that you shouldn’t. That you need to face it. Now or never, she said.”

Quinn hid his annoyance at the psychic nonsense. “Right. Listen, the van’s gone. I don’t see anyone else hanging around. Stay alert but don’t worry, all right? If no one has bothered you by now, I doubt they’re going to start. I’ll be back tomorrow morning with Jamey.”

She put a hand on his arm as he turned away. “Thanks for the ice cream.”

He faced her. She smiled, her eyes shimmering. He bet she was an amazing teacher. Nurturers were, and she fit the description. She was loyal, too, a trait he usually admired. But where her sister was concerned? Misguided loyalty.

She also ate ice cream as though it was her last meal, he thought, his gaze drifting to her mouth. She’d savored every slow lick of her cone. He’d eaten his in bites and was done in a few minutes. She’d taken fifteen. He’d wanted to lean across the table and kiss her when she was done, to feel how cool her mouth was and see how fast it could heat up again.

He’d resisted then, but now he covered her hand with his, holding it against his arm. Their gazes held. Her smile faded. The need to kiss her came alive inside him again, making demands.

She was fast becoming a complication.

“Are you afraid?” he asked.

“Of you?”

No, he hadn’t meant that. He’d meant of being alone, of wondering if she was in danger because of Jenn. But maybe she saw more clearly than he did. Did he represent a danger to her? A threat to her peaceful existence?

More likely she was the one who posed a threat to his.

“I’ve never been less afraid of anyone,” she said, taking his hands in hers. “Never been so sure that someone wouldn’t hurt me.”

A huge burden of responsibility crash-landed on him with her words. “Maybe we need some rules of attraction,” he said, moving back.

“Do we?”

Was she irritated or amused?

“Things got out of hand today.”

“Yes.”

She was enjoying his discomfort, he decided.

“I know about the rules of engagement,” she said. “But what are the rules of attraction?”

“I’ll know them when I see them.”

She laughed. It went a long way toward relaxing him.

“I already broke a rule for you,” he said.

“Did you?” She cocked her head. Her eyes took on some sparkle. “What rule would that be?”

“Never get involved with a client. Or a subject. Or a co-worker.”

“I’m none of those.”

“We are working together.”

“We are working together toward a common goal.” She seemed to find it all amusing. “Do you have other rules?”

“Yeah.”

“Not sharing them?”

He shook his head.

“How do I know I’m breaking a rule if I don’t know what they are?” she asked.

“I’ll let you know.”

“Ahh. The old hidden-rules rules. Okay. I’ll play along. I’ve got rules, too, by the way, but at least mine are typed and put on the wall for everyone to see.”

Because he wanted so much to kiss that smile right off her face, he crossed his arms, putting a barrier between them. “What rules would those be?”

“I’ll show you.”

He followed her into a room that she used as an office. On the wall was a framed list: Rules for Teachers.

He read the first two out loud. “‘Teachers each day will fill lamps and clean chimneys. Each teacher will bring a bucket of water and a scuttle of coal for the day’s session.’ When were these written?”

“In 1872.”

He read the rest of the list, then came back to rule number six: “‘Women teachers who marry or engage in unseemly conduct will be dismissed.’ See? If we obey the rules of attraction, I’m saving you from dismissal.”

“And I’m giving your rules about as much credence as I give those,” she said with a smile. “I don’t think you should fight this, Quinn.”

He didn’t ask her to clarify. He knew what she meant. “Rule number one, Claire. Nobody gets hurt.”

“Technically, that’s rule number two. And no one can make that guarantee.”

He hadn’t anticipated this stubborn side of her personality. It was way too soon to be getting so serious, anyway. “Are you afraid to be here alone?” he said, deliberately steering her down a different path.

A few beats passed. “I’m fine.”

“You’ll call me if that changes?”

“Of course.”

“If you hear from Jenn….”

“I will let you know.”

She seemed to be waiting, probably for a kiss goodbye. Dammit. He left the room and headed for the front door.

“See you tomorrow,” she said from behind him.

“I’ll be here before Jamey.”

“Okay.”

He left. There were things he needed to do at his office—prepare a request for the transcripts from Craig Beecham’s trial, contact the prison where he was housed to get permission to see him, file some reports on ongoing cases.

Hell. None of it appealed to him.

He drove home instead of to the office. He parked his work car next to his classic Corvette in the underground garage, then took the stairs to his two-level loft in a converted warehouse. The industrial-looking decor seemed stark compared to the warm coziness of Claire’s house, but it suited him. He’d handpicked every item, from the black leather sofa and chairs to the chrome-and-glass tables, and stainless-steel-and-granite kitchen. Splashes of blue punctuated the space in the rugs, pillows and glass art he’d collected. Everything was spotless and neat. More than neat—orderly. Everything in its place. Nothing cluttered a countertop or table. No closet door hid disorder of any kind.

Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked an interior courtyard he shared with the other owners of the building, but he rarely used the space and knew little about his neighbors. He’d had no time for or interest in socializing, but he hadn’t alienated them, either. He was used to being alone. Enjoyed it. Some people talked about being lonely, but not him. Alone was different from lonely.

Claire would be the type to be lonely, he decided, if alone too long.

He grabbed a bottle of beer from his refrigerator and booted his computer, then printed the photo of the man in the van for Claire. Afterward he reread the reports he’d written about Jenn’s surveillance, as well as the D.A.’s reports.

He navigated newspaper archives to read articles about the trial, which had ended a month ago with Beecham’s conviction. It was a fairly open-and-shut case. He’d been an investment broker who had managed to skim from the funds of his investors somewhere around five million dollars over a period of six years. Most of his clients were elderly, many had died, and he’d manufactured paperwork for the heirs showing substantially less money than was actually there. He’d skimmed from people still alive, as well, but in lesser amounts.

It was believed that he’d diverted the money to an offshore account, probably in Switzerland, but he hadn’t denied himself luxuries in the meantime. The house he owned, the one he’d shared for a year with Jenn, was worth over two million. It had been sold, but the equity went to the lawyers who’d defended him, not the people he’d swindled.

Beecham was methodical and greedy. Jenn Winston seemed like a good mate for him. Claire would argue his opinion of her sister and be defensive about her, too—as sisters should be under most circumstances.

Quinn dragged a hand down his face then walked away from his computer and his thoughts. Night had fallen. He took some Chinese take-out containers from the refrigerator. Almost instantly he returned them. He needed to get out of the house.

He grabbed a well-worn leather jacket and slipped into it. His cell phone rang as he was turning out the lights. He’d programmed Claire’s number into his phone, so her name showed up as the caller.

“I talked to Marie,” she said after exchanging greetings. “She said Jenn was supposed to send her a check.”

Quinn straightened. “She’s mailing it?”

“Marie assumes so.”

“Is there some way you can manage to see the envelope—and the postmark?”

“Not without telling Marie what’s going on. I don’t drop in on her.”

“Then why tell me?”

“Because Marie feels a connection with you. If you went to see her as a client, you—” She stopped, blew out a breath. “I can’t believe I’m saying this.”

“You think I should do some snooping?”

“Well, she works out of her home. She puts her mail on her kitchen counter next to the refrigerator. Look, I want to prove my sister is innocent. I’ll do whatever is necessary to prove that to you.”

“Even suggesting I violate Marie’s privacy?”

“Whatever it takes—within reason. This is within reason to me.”

He grabbed a pad and pen from a kitchen drawer. “Give me her address and phone number.”

She did, then she said, “Just because you go to see her doesn’t mean she’ll believe that you believe she’s psychic. You’ll have to convince her. She can spot a skeptic.”

He’d played so many roles in the past ten years, he should be given an Oscar. “Thanks for the advice, and for the information.”

“Okay. I’ll see you in the morning.”

After he hung up he contemplated Marie’s address and phone number. Psychic. Right. She said his past was going to catch up with him. Hell. Everyone had a past. It was a blanket statement applicable to anyone at all, any sucker needing to believe.

He didn’t need anything.

No. A week ago he could’ve said that and had it be true. But he wasn’t so sure anymore.

Seven

Claire had just served Quinn a cup of coffee the next morning when Jamey Paladin arrived. About as tall as Quinn, Jamey looked slightly older, broader and more overtly muscular, with hair longer than Quinn’s, and friendly green eyes. His less intimidating presence helped settle her nerves.

She’d hardly slept, anticipating the crime she was about to allow, but also anxious to see Quinn again. He hadn’t kissed her good morning. She had to assume he had decided to stick to the rules-that-made-no-sense.

“You can break into the car without tripping the alarm?” she asked Jamey as they went out the front door.

“I’ll give it a shot.”

She turned around sharply. He grinned.

“Don’t worry. No one will hear anything.”

She lifted the flap covering the remote opener, then didn’t key in the code.

“Having second thoughts?” Quinn asked from behind her.

“I’m just not sure if I want to know.”

“I can’t force you, of course,” he said, his tone cool. “But I thought you wanted answers.”

“I think you want answers more than I do.” She punched in the code. The door lifted—

“It’s gone,” she said, stunned. “Her car is…gone.”

“You didn’t hear anything during the night?” Jamey asked, stepping inside.

“Nothing. Rase— The dog didn’t bark, and he hears everything. Everything.” Her voice echoed in the empty space. Surprise echoed in her mind. She faced Quinn. “If Jenn came and got it, it means she’s still in town.”

“If it was her.”

“Who else could it be?”

“Her mother?”

“Marie doesn’t have a key. Plus, she’d asked Jenn if she could use the car, but Jenn said no.”

“No signs of forced entry,” Jamey said. “You think it was taken last night?”

“It was here yesterday. We saw it,” Claire said.

“We were also away from the house for an hour,” Quinn reminded her. “And when we returned, the van was gone. That seemed significant, but we didn’t know what to make of it. And if you didn’t hear Rase barking, maybe that’s because it didn’t happen during the night.”

Confused, Claire shoved her hair away from her face and stared at the floor. “How could someone have gotten into the garage and the car without breaking in?”

“Maybe the guy in the van had binoculars, and when you punched in the code, he intercepted it.”

He was reminding her of his caution yesterday without saying I told you so. She’d thought he was being paranoid, as someone in his line of work would be.

“But still, he would’ve had to bypass an alarm and hot-wire the car.”

“Which can be done,” Jamey said. “What was in the car?”

“We hoped there would be clues of some kind,” Claire said. “But we thought maybe more than that, maybe money. Should we report it stolen?” She looked at Quinn for an answer, but she already knew she would call the police, no matter what he said. If nothing else, the police might pull Jenn over, determine the car wasn’t stolen, and then Claire would know she was still in town.

“Yeah, we’ll definitely report it.”

Jamey left. Quinn and Claire returned to the house to locate the make, model and license plate of the car in the paperwork still on the dining room table. Quinn then called the police, talking to someone he seemed to know personally.

Claire didn’t know what to think. Had Jenn taken the car? It seemed unlikely that someone else had managed to get into the garage, disarm the alarm and take off without her knowing. Without Rase barking.

If Jenn had taken it, why now? Why not before? It was still a bright red convertible that screamed to be noticed.

Quinn ended the call and tucked the phone in his pocket. “You okay?” he asked.

She was fine. She really was. “It’s all just a mystery, you know? We’ll have the answers at some point. And look at the bright side—I’ve got my garage back.”

“Right. I think the next step is to visit Beecham in prison and see what he has to say. I can go alone….” He let the sentence trail into a question.

“I’d like to go, too.” She surprised herself with the answer. Until the car had come up missing, she’d been curious but not worried about Jenn. But now her curiosity had tumbled closer to concern. “Do you think he’ll talk to us?”

“Sometimes criminals who’ve gotten away with something like to talk. Not that they necessarily say anything, but there are some who love to talk in generalities and tease with hypotheticals. I’ll request permission to see him.” His jaw clenched. “Claire, he’s not in a maximum security facility, but if you’ve never been in a prison before, it may be—”

“Disconcerting?”

“At the least.”

“I’ll be okay.”

He held her gaze for a few seconds then nodded. “Yeah, I think you will. Well, there’s nothing else to be done at the moment. Someone will come out from the P. D. and take a look at the garage, so don’t park your car in it until they’ve checked it out.”

She wanted to ask him to stay, but she couldn’t come up with a good reason. The van was gone, and there was no other worry that they knew of. She wished the van was out there…. “Thanks for your help.”

“I’ll let you know when we have permission to talk to Beecham, but feel free to call anytime—about anything.”

She crossed her arms because she wanted to hug him. Life was making some fast changes, and she needed something stable to hang on to. “Okay,” she said instead.

He started to leave then turned back and just looked at her. She tried to keep her expression neutral.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine.”

“Okay.”

She followed him to the front door.

“’Bye,” he said, his hand on her shoulder.

Then he cupped her face and her knees wobbled.

“Claire.” He said her name in a whisper of sound, not quite a question, not quite a need, but something in between.

They moved toward each other. Her arms went around him at the same time that she felt his slip around her. She nestled against him. His chest was solid. His heart beat steadily. It had been a long time since she’d been held and comforted. But this was more than that. This made her heart pound and her eyes sting.

He tucked her closer when she uttered a little sound of contentment, then he stroked her hair, catching the ends between his fingers, creating friction that crackled around and through her.

You feel wonderful, she told him silently. You feel like forever.

He let go first but didn’t step back. She let her hands drift down until they touched his. He wrapped his fingers around hers then tightened. She met his gaze. Watching her, he lowered his head. His lips touched hers softly, lightly, exquisitely, brushing hers, lingering. Because he wouldn’t free her hands, she arched her back, reaching toward him but unable to make contact except with her lips. A sigh slipped out, full of longing. He deepened the kiss, making magic of the moment, memorable and electrifying.

He backed away. She opened her eyes, hoping to catch him unguarded, but his face revealed nothing.

“You figure since we already broke the rule, it doesn’t matter how many times?” she asked.

“Something like that.”

“So, rule number three is to be flexible.”

She waited until he shut the door behind him, then she leaned against it and grinned at the ceiling. Jenn was right about one thing—blondes do have more fun.

On Monday morning Quinn charmed Marie DiSanto’s elderly neighbor into giving him an approximate time the mail was delivered, then he parked near her apartment, rolled down his window and waited. If Jenn had mailed the check on Saturday, when she’d talked to Marie about it, and she was still in San Francisco, it should arrive today.

He had no idea whether Marie was home. Her mailbox was attached to the building, and accessible—that was all that mattered. Breaking the law by sifting through her mail sat better with him than faking interest in her psychic hocus-pocus.

Quinn tapped the steering wheel, although he didn’t have the radio on. Honest with himself, he acknowledged a restlessness since…well, since he’d kissed Claire. Yesterday. And the day before. It seemed like weeks ago.

Stupid move. Really stupid move.

He glanced at his right side-view mirror and spotted a woman and a dog jogging down the hill. Recognizing the long legs and bouncing blond ponytail, he keyed the ignition far enough to roll down the passenger window. But before he could call out to her, she slowed, cutting toward his car.

She leaned down and smiled. “Good morning.”

Rase slammed his paws on the door frame and grinned, his rear end moving like a metronome at top speed.

“Down,” he ordered the dog, who obeyed. Quinn shifted his gaze to Claire, who looked relaxed and tense at the same time. “You’re a long way from home,” he said.

“It’s a nice day for a jog.”

He looked through his windshield at the wet, chilly morning. “Right.”

Her eyes sparkled. Her lips—her very kissable lips—curved into a bigger smile.

“Hop in,” he said, then cringed when she opened the back door to let Rase in, his damp paws leaving tracks along the upholstery. Claire slipped into the front seat. Rase bounded toward Quinn and licked his ear.

“No,” he ordered. “Sit.”

“He’ll almost do that for me now,” Claire said, watching the dog back up and sit down.

“So, what really brings you here?” he asked, giving Rase a look designed to keep him in place. “You didn’t jog from your house.”

“Didn’t I?”

“You live four miles away, and you’re not winded.”

“Caught.” She leaned against the door, her arms crossed. “I thought, what would Quinn be doing today? Staking out Marie’s mailbox, I decided. So I came to keep you company.”

Her voice carried an edge of something—accusation, maybe. “I wasn’t excluding you. You said I should deal with Marie myself.”

“I changed my mind.” She smiled sweetly.

He wouldn’t encourage her by laughing. “Woman’s prerogative?”

“You never change your mind?”

“Sometimes.”

“But not often?”

“No.” He angled toward her a little more. “Did you sleep okay?”

She nodded.

“Is that the truth?”

She leaned forward and touched the back of his hand. He resisted capturing hers in return.

“I slept,” she said.

“I drove by your house on my way here. No sign of the van.”

“Nope.”

“No calls from Jenn?”

“I would’ve told you.”

He wanted—needed—to kiss her good morning. They stared at each other for a few seconds. Her gaze drifted to his mouth, then she pulled her hand away.

“So, what’s the plan?” she asked, sitting back.

He didn’t know whether to be relieved or sorry that the moment had passed. “Wait for the mail to be delivered. See if I can get a look at it.”

“What, you don’t want to spend any time with Marie?” she chided.

“I’ll do what I have to do.” He’d done plenty for his job he would’ve preferred not to, although that was before he’d turned respectable.

“I feel like I’m taking you away from your work.”

“It’s fine.” He’d gotten by on three hours of sleep plenty of times before. He noticed how she rubbed her arms. “Your ‘nice day’ is a little cooler than you anticipated?”

She half smiled. “Maybe I should jog around the block until something happens.”

He peeled his sweater over his head then settled it over her.

“Warm,” she said, dragging her arms through the sleeves then hugging herself. “Thanks.”

Awkwardness hovered between them. He wondered if she had a clue how much she tempted him. “Here comes the carrier,” he said, eyeing his rearview mirror. He registered the time—10:30 a.m. Right on schedule. Quinn watched the man sort through the stack in his hand as he approached Marie’s apartment. He slid one white legal-size envelope into the mailbox Quinn had already identified as hers, third from the left.

Claire put her hand on the door handle.

“Let him get out of sight,” he said.

She sat back but was poised to move. “I don’t think I have the patience for this kind of work.”

“Being a first-grade teacher doesn’t require patience?”

“Naw. Just fortitude.” She grinned. “Now can we go?”

“I go. You stay.”

“But—”

He shook his head. “You can’t be involved in this.”

She looked away from him, toward the building instead.

He left the car and climbed the four steps to the landing. His eyes on the glass entry door, he lifted the flap on the mailbox, pulled out the envelope—

“It’s a federal crime to tamper with someone’s mail,” a voice called out.

Eight

Quinn looked up to find Marie leaning out an open window.

“What’re you doing?” she asked.

“I came to see you.” He held up the envelope. “Your mail was just delivered. Thought I’d bring it up.”

A few beats passed. “I’ll buzz you in.”

He glanced at the car before he let the door close behind him. He couldn’t see Claire’s expression through the windshield, but he imagined her panic and was glad he’d made her stay behind. Marie would’ve seen through any kind of lie Claire attempted.

The apartment door was open. He could hear her talking as he walked in, the pauses indicating a phone conversation. He passed her the envelope, the return address a doctor’s office, then wandered around the room while she finished her phone conversation. Crystals, candles, velvet fabrics, glass-bead curtains hanging in the doorway to the hall. No surprises there. The scent that had clung to her the first time they’d met lingered in the air. Incense or scented candles, he wasn’t sure which, a pungent odor, but not unpleasant.

He spotted a FedEx envelope on a brass-and-glass coffee table partially draped with a fringed fabric. The envelope had been opened, the air-bill missing from the clear plastic pouch. It could’ve been from anyone, arrived at anytime, but he had a gut feeling it was from Jenn. Despite the fact that the room was cluttered with things, it wasn’t cluttered with trash. The envelope stood out in that it was trash.

“You are ignoring the obvious,” Marie said into the telephone. “We talked about that, Monique.”

Quinn looked out the window and spotted Claire staring up at him. She put a hand over her mouth.

“I can squeeze you in this afternoon. Around four?” Marie said, then ended the call. “I’m surprised to see you…Mr. Gerard, is it?”

He faced her. “Quinn. I’m surprised to be here.”

She smiled at that, although not with her eyes. She set the phone aside. “I pegged you as a nonbeliever.”

“You pegged right.”

“Yet you’re here.”

He shrugged.

“Have a seat.”

He sat on the sofa and stretched his arms along the back, intending to seem relaxed and open. She seated herself in a chair that looked more like a throne. Her long red hair flowed around her like a curly royal robe. Her posture regal, she lit a candle beside her and closed her eyes.

He did not want to do this. Resistance rose up in him like a river hitting flood stage. Claire had warned him he would have to convince Marie, that she could spot a skeptic. He decided it was better to let his resistance show. She would believe that.

She opened her eyes, placid now. “What question are you seeking to have answered?”

How soon can I get out of here?

He hesitated too long. Her expression changed, intensified. “Why are you really here?” she asked.

He couldn’t speak. Images sprang to his mind, fresh because of Claire and her situation, so similar to his. He blocked them as best he could.

“You built thick walls around you,” Marie said, moving her hands like a swimmer treading water, the jangle of her bracelets surprisingly soothing. “I can’t break them down, or even penetrate them.”

“I don’t want you to.”

“Yes. So, again, why are you here?”

He couldn’t talk to her about Jenn, and he didn’t want to hear any mumbo jumbo about his past. He knew how the psychic act worked. A few generalities became specifics to a receptive mind.

Her hands stopped moving, bringing an abrupt halt to the music she’d created from the bracelets. “What is your relationship with Claire?” she asked.

“I’m a friend.”

She set her hands in her lap. “You don’t seem her type. Or maybe she doesn’t seem yours.”

“Tell me about it.”

Her dyed red brows lifted. “There’s more than friendship there.”

“Not yet.” Why the hell was he having this conversation? How could he make an exit and still use her for information later if he needed to?

“Yet she and her dog sit in your car waiting for you.”

He tensed. He’d underestimated Marie DiSanto. “She convinced me to see you.”

“Yet you arrived alone. Claire and Rase showed up almost an hour later.”

He looked around. “Where’s your crystal ball?”

She smiled, genuinely this time. “I’m claustrophobic. I keep the windows open, and I like to watch the park across the street. I didn’t know it was you sitting in the car, only that the car pulled up and the driver never got out. Then Claire arrived on foot and got into the car, which made me more than a little curious. Before too long you headed to my house, but it seemed like your goal was my mailbox, not me. Don’t tell me,” she added quickly. She strode to the window. After a few seconds she waved. “I like puzzles.”

He joined her. Claire was grinning up at him as if to say, “You’ve been caught!”

“There’s more to you than meets the eye,” he said to Marie.

“Ditto.” She faced him. “There’s more to that young woman sitting in your car, as well. She might surprise you.”

“She already has.”

“I like to think it was my influence.” Her smile was full of self-satisfaction. “Those stick-in-the-mud parents of hers tried to keep her…”

“Mild mannered?” he supplied when she didn’t finish.

“Precisely. I encouraged otherwise. On the other hand, I went overboard with Jenny. Should’ve pulled in the reins some, but I didn’t.”

Quinn didn’t comment. Second-guessing was useless.

“Will you come back?” she asked. “Let me try again to get through?”

“I might.” He passed her a twenty-dollar bill.

She hesitated, then took it. “Sometimes pain brings pleasure.”

“Not in my experience.”

“You’re older now. Wiser.”

That threw him. How did she know he’d been young when—

She patted his arm. “Claire is waiting.”

He thought maybe he said goodbye, but the next thing he knew, he was getting into his car.

“She caught you red-handed!” Claire exclaimed.

He was aware of Rase running back and forth across the back seat, reacting to her mood, but Quinn didn’t order him to stop.

“What happened?” she asked. “Did you find out anything?”

His surroundings came into focus. Claire’s eyes were lit with impatient curiosity. The deep-down pretty in her shone, giving her a golden aura he hadn’t noticed before. He didn’t want her to be hurt, and he feared Jenn would hurt her, badly. He didn’t want to hurt her either. Maybe he’d made the biggest mistake of his life by encouraging the investigation when Claire really didn’t want it. Maybe only heartache could come from it.

But as he’d thought a minute ago with Marie, second-guessing was useless.

He pulled Claire to him, kissed her like he’d never kissed anyone—without thought, without plan, without expectation. After a slight hesitation, she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling herself closer. Sexy little sounds vibrated through her and into him. He backed off fractionally, brushed loose hair away from her face, then kissed her a little more gently, a little more thoroughly, finding her tongue with his, enjoying the taste of her and the heat and the…life. He hadn’t realized how dead he’d been, living in those shadows for so long. Unemotional. Controlled. Steady.

She didn’t make him feel steady. Her hands framed his face, not pushing him back but bringing him closer.

He ended the kiss because he had to, because he was losing control, something he never did. She opened her eyes and looked at him, emotions he couldn’t pinpoint gleaming in them. She dragged her thumbs across his lips.

“You look like you’re about to apologize—or make a new rule,” she said, smiling softly.

How had she gotten to know him that well, that fast?

“I feel like I should promise not to let that happen again,” he said.

“Don’t make promises I don’t want you to keep.”

He sat back. She put a hand on his arm and leaned toward him. “What’s between us,” she said intently, “the pull or the chemistry or whatever you choose to call it, needs its own resolution. Don’t even think about promising otherwise.”

Damn, but he liked her more and more. She was a lot more complicated and intriguing than he’d imagined. He’d labeled her “the good sister,” and compared to Jenn, she was, but she was no pushover.

“Take back the thought,” she said again.

“I get a do-over?”

“Rule number four,” she said. “We get do-overs whenever we want.”

A laugh rose up in him. “Then what good are rules? Everything could be reversed.”

“You think?”

He fingered her hair. He needed to be honest, however. “I’m not long-term material, Claire. I’ve never even lived with a woman. I need a lot of privacy and space.” And he’d never relied on anyone else for anything. He could count on himself. That was all he needed. He’d taken enough risks recently just by becoming a partner in ARC, leaving his intensely private world behind.

“Well, that’s a little egotistical, don’t you think?” she asked, a glint in her eyes. “It was just a kiss.”

It was the best kiss in his memory, but to her it was “just” a kiss?

“A spectacular kiss,” she added, answering his unvoiced question. “One that curled my toes. But still, a kiss, not a commitment. Okay, M.Q.?”

“M.Q.?”

“Mighty Quinn. Do you know the song?”

“Sure. Bob Dylan.”

“Marie loved Dylan—her brand of lullabies.” She brought her feet up, crossing her legs, breaking the contact between them. “Speaking of Marie, did you find out anything from her?”

He wondered at her change of mood. “There was an empty FedEx envelope on her coffee table. The air bill was missing, so no way of tracking it, but it wasn’t an international envelope.”

“Will you stalk her mailbox tomorrow, too?”

“She’ll be watching specifically for that, so, no. I won’t.”

“Do you want me to drop by?”

“Can you lie to her?”

“Depends on the lie. I don’t want her to know our suspicions about Jenn, but I don’t see any need for the issue to come up.”

“You decide, then. Just let me know your plans.”

“I will.” She glanced at the back seat, where Rase was curled up, sound asleep. “We should go. I imagine you would like to get to work, or something.”

“I can drive you to where you left your car.”

“Thanks, but we’ll jog in the park first. And I’m parked only a block away.”

“We should have permission to visit Beecham in prison soon, although it’ll take longer for your clearance than mine. I’ll let you know.”

“Call me whenever you want.” She got to her knees and set her hand against his face, then brushed her thumb along his cheek. “You don’t need a reason.”

“Same for you.”

She nodded. “Rase. Come on, boy. Let’s go for a jog.”

The mutt jumped up, slobbered a doggy kiss along Quinn’s ear then hopped into the front seat when Claire opened her door.

“He needs obedience school,” Quinn said, wiping his ear.

“He loves you,” Claire said, leaning through the window, her gaze tender.

He hadn’t heard that word associated with himself for so long, it seemed like a foreign language.

“Later, P.A.,” he said, turning the ignition.

“P.A.?”

“Pollyanna.”

“Am not.”

“Are, too. It’s not an insult.”

“It seems like one. I’ve been working at trying not to be so safe. And predictable. And nice.”

He heard her indignation. “You can’t change the fact that you’re a nice person, Claire, but it may interest you to know that you are not predictable.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Well, okay then. See ya.” She stepped in front of his car, waved one more time through the windshield then jogged across the street.

Rase ran in circles, his leash coiling around her as a car approached from the other direction. She spun around, freeing herself in time. Quinn let out a long, slow breath that she hadn’t broken one or both of those spectacular legs. He shook his head at her when she turned around and waved as she jogged backward. Her smile widened.

He felt an urge to play hooky. It would mean missing the weekly case meeting and a visit by one of the Southern California partners, Sam Remington.

No. He couldn’t enjoy himself when there was work to do.

He started the engine, then he spotted Claire playing with Rase, her laughter carrying all the way to where he sat, watching. He hungered for the freedom to play, to just have fun, to live in the moment.

Sunshine. He needed sunshine after living in the dark for so long.

He put his hand on his car key to turn off the engine, then shifted the car into Drive instead.

Maybe another time.

Nine

Claire resisted the need to sidle up next to Quinn and slip her hand into his. She thought she’d been prepared for her first visit to a federal prison, that she’d seen enough television programs and movies to give her a sense of what would happen, but they were far from reality. Truth be told, she’d agreed to come with Quinn to see Craig Beecham because she knew they would get to spend a whole day together.

The drive to the prison had taken six hours, and they’d left at 6:00 a.m. While Quinn had driven, she’d read trial testimony aloud to him and they’d discussed what might help in their meeting with Beecham, then decided to play it by ear. Much of the trip had passed in silence, the anticipation making normal conversation difficult, at least for her.

She’d seen Quinn six times in the week and a half they’d been waiting for approval to go to the prison. He’d shown up five times to join her and Rase for a run in the morning. Once, he’d brought dinner. After dinner she’d talked about her childhood. He hadn’t. She’d talked about work. He hadn’t. He’d sat next to her on her sofa, sometimes holding her hand, then at the end of the evening kissing her good-night in that completely involved and intense way he had, leaving her breathless.

Glancing at him now, seated in the common visiting room of the prison, she wondered what he was thinking. Most of the other tables were occupied with inmates visiting with their families—or an occasional lawyer. They were easier to spot because the inmate’s expression was more intense. With family they put on fake smiles and joked with false enthusiasm. Laughter rang hollow. No one was allowed to touch. The parched air smelled of bitter hopelessness.

“You okay?” Quinn asked her quietly.

“How do they survive?” she asked.

“Some don’t.”

“Everyone should be made to see what it’s like.”

“You think that would deter more people from doing the crime?”

“Don’t you?”

“Maybe. Some people. Most never think they’ll get caught.”

He’d told her this was the low-security complex. She couldn’t imagine what the medium-and high-security areas were like.

She recognized Beecham when he was brought through the door. His six months of incarceration showed, especially the six weeks or so in prison instead of jail. His walk was cocky, his smile meant to look sure of himself, but in that he failed. To Claire he looked much older than forty. His buzz-cut graying hair revealed a comically pointed head and winglike ears. Dark circles under his eyes added to the clownish look. He’d been slender at his trial. Now he was rail thin. Still, bravado oozed from him. Claire wished they’d been separated by a window with each of them holding a telephone, as she’d expected from the movies.

“Sit up,” the guard said to Beecham when he slouched casually. “Hands on the table.”

He immediately obeyed. In an odd way it reminded her of Rase taking commands from Quinn. Maybe structure was what made the prisoners survive, too.

“Sister Claire,” he drawled, making her skin crawl. He cocked his head at Quinn then. “I was told your name but I don’t know you.”

“I’m a friend of the family. We’re looking for Jennifer.”

His eyes opened wide. “Well, goodness gracious, she was here a minute ago. Didn’t you pass her in the hall? She’s devoted to me, you know.”

“She hasn’t been in touch with you,” Claire said, sure of it.

“Au contraire. I get a perfumed letter every day. And there was that box of fudge with a file hidden in it, but it was confiscated. She’s a pistol, that Jenny.”

“You had her followed since you were brought here,” Quinn said.

“Did I?” He shrugged. “A man takes care of his woman the best he can.”

“Except she slipped past your guards, too,” Quinn pointed out.

“Did she?”

“You know it. You called off the dogs after she disappeared from Claire’s home.”

Beecham looked smug. “Maybe she’s taking a little R & R from Saint Claire here.”

Was that how Jenn spoke of her? Claire’s stomach churned. She’d taken Jenn in, put up with her messes and her comings and goings and her lack of responsibility. Always on the move. Push, push, push. Live hard. Play hard. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

Except for that last night when they’d been bleaching Claire’s hair—as though they were teenagers again, giggling and having fun. Jenn had styled Claire’s hair, applied her makeup and then pulled one of her own outfits from her closet, making Claire stand in front of the mirror and see a whole new person. Jenn had smiled at the tears in Claire’s eyes.

“I look pretty,” Claire had said.

“You look gorgeous, baby sister.”

That was the Jenn that Claire also remembered. She wouldn’t let anyone steal those memories.

“You look worried,” Quinn said to Beecham, startling Claire into looking at him, too.

“Not me.”

“No? You figure she’ll be here waiting when you get out? What do you think the chances are of that?” Quinn asked Claire.

“Given her track record? Zero to none.”

Quinn nodded. “Did Jenn have access to your money, Beecham?”

“I have no money. Everything went to the lawyers.”

“Except the five million dollars of other people’s money.”

“I have no money,” he repeated.

“Maybe not in the U. S. Or maybe not even in cash.” Quinn settled back. “Did you convert it into diamonds?”

Beecham clammed up.

“Does Jenn know where they are?” Quinn asked.

“Where are you going with this?” Beecham asked finally. “My answering these questions won’t get you anywhere.”

“I figure your game plan, like many others who’ve bilked innocents, is to serve your sentence, get out early for good behavior, then live on what you stole. By that point you’ll convince yourself you deserve it. You will have paid your debt to society, and by damn, you’re owed for the time you spent in this hellhole, never mind that you put yourself here. But what happens to your plan when you get out and find the money is gone?” He gestured casually. “We want to find her for reasons different from yours. You helping us helps yourself.”

“Last I heard, Jenny was rich in her own right. Why would she need more?”

Not too long ago Claire had said almost the same thing to Quinn. He’d made her see she could be wrong, had opened her eyes to the truth about her sister—how she’d always wanted more, that there might never be enough. “You lived with her for a year, yet you don’t know her at all, do you?” she asked.

Beecham flattened his hands on the table and leaned toward her. “She’s greedy, I know that. She manipulates. I know that, too. But at least I knew she was doing it. You, little sister, were too stupid—”

“Sit back,” the guard ordered, suddenly there.

Tension lingered for a few long seconds. “Jenny and I were good together,” Beecham said in a calmer voice. “She knew how to have fun.”

Unlike you. He didn’t have to say the words for Claire to hear them. She’d had enough. She’d been insulted and demeaned, and they weren’t getting any answers. She looked at Quinn, hoping he could read her face well enough to know she wanted to get out of there.

“You could wait outside,” he said.

“Let’s just go.”

“I’d like to—”

She shook her head, cutting him off.

“We’re ready to leave,” Quinn said to the guard, who ordered Beecham to his feet.

“Tell your sister,” Beecham said, his voice conversational, “that my love for her will take me to the ends of the earth. Whatever it takes, I will find her.”

The threat wasn’t even veiled. Quinn’s hand came down on Claire’s, keeping her in her seat. After Beecham left, she and Quinn were allowed to go, too. She shook so much she could barely sign her name on the checkout form. She hated everything about this place, every dingy, ugly, caged inch.

They turned in their visitor badges. The guard handed Quinn’s back to him. “Mr. Gerard, the warden’s assistant would like to speak with you.”

“About what?”

“I wouldn’t know, sir.”

He waited a few beats. “All right.”

“I’ll call him. If you’ll just take a seat.”

The second they sat down Quinn put his arm around her. She leaned against him.

“Sorry you came?” he asked.

“No.”

“You’re tougher than you look, P.A.”

She expelled a little laugh. “Think I can get a gig with the World Wrestling Federation?”

“Serving them water between rounds, maybe.”

She closed her eyes as he stroked her hair. “I keep picturing Jenn in a place like this.”

“Yeah.”

“She’s my sister. I can’t stand the thought of her….” She couldn’t even finish the sentence.

“Do you still think she’s innocent?”

Claire thought it over. “Yes. But she made her own bed, and she can sleep in it for a hundred years, as far as I’m concerned. When her Prince Charming finally comes along he can kiss her awake and deal with her. Guilty or innocent, I’m done, though. No more bailouts. No more investigation, okay? It stops now.”

He frowned. “Claire—”

“Mr. Gerard. Please come with me.”

“I’ll be right back,” Quinn said to Claire.

She was too tired to be curious, she realized, but she didn’t dare close her eyes, and there were no magazines to read. She sat in a kind of a daze as people came and went. No one smiled except the youngest of the children visiting, toddlers not old enough to know where they were.

What would happen now with Quinn? Without their common cause of looking for Jenn, he had no reason to hang around. She wanted him to hang around. They’d been taking steps toward something she couldn’t yet define but seemed critical to her life. He made her feel safe—but not safe at all. She liked both feelings.

And he needed her. He was beginning to relax with her, to smile more.

She didn’t know exactly how long he was out of the room, but long enough that she got uncomfortable with the wait and her curiosity finally surfaced.

He burst through the door then, tossed his visitor badge on the desk and held out his hand for his personal belongings left in their custody. He opened the exit door, waiting for her but not looking at her. His skin was ashen, his body rigid, his eyes cold and hard.

“What happened?” she asked as she preceded him out the door.

“I can’t talk about it.”

She turned around, walking backward. “Can’t or won’t?”

“Take your pick.”

She almost snapped back at him but stopped herself because temper was out of character for him. She rushed to keep up with his long, angry strides. He didn’t look at her until they were in the car and he’d turned the ignition.

“Sorry,” he said, his jaw clenched, his fingers gripping the steering wheel.

“Okay.” She touched his arm lightly. His muscles twitched as if repulsed by the contact. “Maybe I should drive.”

“No.”

“I’m a good driver. No tickets. No accidents.” Keep it light.

“What a surprise, P.A.”

The sarcasm ticked her off.

“Whatever’s going on with you, I didn’t cause it. I’m just trying to help. And I’m sure as heck not going to spend six hours riding in a car with an angry maniac driver.”

After a minute he looked at her, his brows raised. “You’re ‘sure as heck’?”

That he was mocking her was obvious. “I don’t need to swear to make a point.”

He stared out the windshield for a long time. “I apologize,” he said finally.

“It’s okay. But I’m driving. There’s a rule for this kind of situation, I’m sure of it. One without do-over possibilities.”

“Now who’s making up rules?” He studied her. “I’m all right, Claire. Let me make it up to you.”

“How?”

“Don’t look so suspicious. Can you get someone to feed and walk Rase tonight and tomorrow morning?”

“Probably.”

“Then let’s drive down the coast a little farther to Santa Barbara and get a couple of hotel rooms for the night. We’ll have dinner. Go for a walk on the beach. Forget our troubles. How about it?”

She hesitated. A couple of rooms. That took some pressure off. Things would happen or not. But she couldn’t afford such luxuries. Then she heard a voice that sounded very much like Marie’s, asking if she was out of her mind.

“Sure,” she answered, ignoring the fact that she didn’t have a change of clothes, makeup or pajamas. “Do you have a place in mind?”

“I do. Let me give them a call.”

Ten

Quinn was glad he’d driven his Corvette. Even the valets at this resort would look down their noses at the unremarkable gray sedan he used for his job.

He pulled up in front of the hotel.

“We are not staying here,” Claire said, her voice filled with awe and resistance in equal measure.

“We are.” He grabbed his briefcase and opened the door as the valet approached.

“I can’t afford this,” she said. “It must run a couple hundred dollars a night.”

“Depending on which rooms we’re assigned, somewhere between five hundred and a thousand per night.”

She rounded on him. “Drive. Right now. I saw a Motel 6 up the road with a vacancy sign.”

“We’re being comped, P.A. No charge except for clothes we might need to buy to get us through the night.”

“Free? No way.”

He would remember her expression for the rest of his life. “Way. Good afternoon,” he said to the valet who’d just opened Claire’s door.

“Welcome to Descanso.” The valet gave the Spanish pronunciation with flair. Descanso—in English, something about rest or relaxation, Quinn recalled. “Are you checking in, sir?”

“We are.”

“I’ll have someone get your bags.”

“We don’t have any.” He got out of the car and walked around to Claire’s side, since she hadn’t yet made a move, then passed the young man a tip. Quinn followed Claire’s mesmerized gaze to the building.

The Spanish-style structure defined old-world elegance. The sound of the surf pounding nearby enticed. He breathed in the clean ocean air and was glad he’d decided to do this, not just for Claire but for himself, too. He had a decision to make by tomorrow morning. This was a good place for decision making—and for putting off the decision for a while, too.

He held Claire’s hand as she stepped out of the car. “I’m not dressed for this,” she whispered harshly.

He studied the dark blue pants and pale blue blouse she wore, the most dressy he’d ever seen her. “You look fine.”

“Spoken like a man.”

“I hate to point out the obvious,” he said to her. “It’s a casual world, Claire.”

They walked into the lobby, imposing in size, with a wrought-iron staircase winding grandly to a second story. Huge vases of flowers looked and smelled incredible. The Spanish tile floors were cool and earthy.

They approached a front-desk clerk, a smartly tailored young woman. “Mr. Baxter is expecting us.”

“Mr. Gerard?”

“Yes. And Ms. Winston.”

The clerk made a quick call, telling the manager, Quinn assumed, that they had arrived. By the time they’d registered and been given the key cards to their rooms, the amiable Brent Baxter strode up beside them.

“Doc,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m glad you came.”

Quinn felt Claire react to the nickname. He would have some explaining to do.

“I’m glad I could finally take you up on your offer, Brent. This is Claire Winston.”

He gave her a smart bow. Claire didn’t laugh, but she looked like she enjoyed the gesture.

“I’ll show you to your rooms,” Brent said, taking the lead. “Stairs or elevator?”

“Stairs,” Claire said when both men looked at her. She slipped her hand into Quinn’s. “I need to do a little shopping.”

“After we see the rooms,” he said. He wondered why she took his hand. Was she nervous? “I need a few things, too.”

Their rooms were side by side but didn’t have a connecting door. Their view of the Pacific Ocean from the balconies was unobstructed and unparalleled. A basket of toiletries containing all the necessities sat on the tile counter in the luxurious bathroom. In Claire’s sitting room a tray of cheeses, a sourdough baguette and fruit awaited them, as well as a bottle of champagne and two crystal flutes.

“If there’s anything at all you need, please call me directly,” Brent said. “Enjoy your stay.” He left the room with as much noise as a butterfly.

Quinn watched Claire lean her elbows against the wrought-iron balcony railing. She shook her head, loosening her hair into the ocean breezes. He went to her, as if pulled by a riptide he couldn’t swim out of and rested on his arms next to her.

“Nice, huh?” he asked.

“That must qualify for the world’s biggest understatement, M.Q. And you really are a Mighty Quinn to pull this off for free.”

“Not exactly free. I did a job for Brent a couple of years ago. He wanted it kept hush-hush from the owners, so I said I’d take it out in trade sometime. He’s still gonna owe me, even after this.”

“He called you Doc.”

He knew she wouldn’t let that pass. “It’s what I used to be called.”

“An alias?”

“Yeah. Until I became a partner in ARC, I operated pretty much undercover all the time.”

“You did dirty work?”

“I did work for people who didn’t want their names bandied about. I kept a level of anonymity that made me desirable to those kinds of people.”

“How did they find you?”

“Word of mouth.”

“Why ‘Doc’?”

“One of my early clients called me that. He said I was a specialist at what I did.”

She smiled. “Sounds very cloak-and-daggerish.”

“I liked it. I had a business name, so people wrote checks to the company, but no one knew my real name. I milked it.” And now it seemed a little juvenile, but what was done, was done. “Hungry?”

“Yes.”

He opened the champagne and brought the food to the balcony table where they ate in silence, enjoying the pounding surf and the occasional drifts of laughter coming from the pool nearby. He caught her closing her eyes, her face lifted to the sun, her champagne flute in hand. If he were an artist, he would paint her like that.

“Thank you for doing this,” she said after a while.

“You’re welcome.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve got us booked for massages in half an hour.”

“Really?”

“And you’re getting a…I forget what it’s called. Some kind of body treatment or something.” He was prepared for her to protest but her smile widened.

“Cool.” Her eyes held an impish gleam. “Just being casual, M.Q.”

“Let’s go see if the shops can tempt you.”

“Beyond a couple of necessities, they won’t. I’m totally resistant to temptation.”

“Are you?”

She smiled. “Clothing temptation. I’m a clearance shopper.”

He decided to leave the subject alone as they took the long hallway back to the staircase.

“Are you allowed to tell me what kind of job you did for Mr. Baxter?” she asked.

“He heard rumors there was a call-girl operation being run out of the hotel. I was hired to find out who and how.”

“Just how long did that take?”

He gave her a look that made her laugh. “About a week to get everyone involved.”

“And did you work under cover?”

“I didn’t compromise my virtue.”

She grinned. He liked that she had a sense of humor.

“I want all the sordid details,” she said.

“Sometime I’ll tell you.” They reached the bottom of the stairs. “But first, we have massages and some shopping to do.”

Like a sleepwalker Claire managed to find her way back to her room more than two hours later. She wore a soft white robe and slippers, and carried her new purchases plus the clothes she’d worn upon arrival in a shopping bag so beautiful she could use it to wrap a gift at another time.

She started to go to her room then walked herself to Quinn’s instead. No answer. In her room she found a message from him saying he was at the pool, and to join him. She changed into her new coral-colored shorts outfit and sandals and made her way to the pool area.

From a distance, she spotted him wearing black trunks and stretched out on a lounge chair. His eyes were closed. He looked…incredible.

As if he somehow knew she was there, he turned his head and spotted her. She managed to smile as she walked toward him. More of him came into focus—broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips. Muscles without bulk. Smooth skin dusted with enough hair to cause a little friction.

“Too tempting, huh?” he asked.

It took her a second to realize he was talking about her new outfit. “I realized I couldn’t put the clothes I’d worn to the prison back on. I had to buy something.”

He reached for her hand, understanding in his eyes. She crouched beside him.

“Feel good from the massage?” he asked.

She put an arm up close to his face. “What do I smell like?”

He sniffed. “Guacamole.”

She smiled sleepily. “I had a citrus-avocado body polish after the most amazing massage. Marie gives great massages, but this was incredible. How was yours?”

“In an outdoor alcove. Deep muscle. Nice.”

“I’m so relaxed I’m wobbly.”

“Do you want to swim?”

What she wanted was to know what had upset him at the prison today. It’d been on her mind throughout her spa treatments.

“I didn’t buy a suit. I don’t think that avocado and chlorine mix.” She perched on the edge of his chair.

“Sun feels good,” he said.

She nodded, enjoying the feel of the rays bathing her.

“Why don’t I drag a lounge over for you? You can take a nap.”

Why don’t we go to your room and take a nap together? she thought, but she stood instead and let him line up a chair next to his.

She must have dozed, because all of a sudden she was aware of how low in the sky the sun was.

“Hey, sleepyhead.”

“Hi.” She smiled at him and stretched, then noticed a large umbrella had been slid over so that she was in the shade. “I didn’t realize I was so tired. Did you sleep?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you arrange the shade?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t want you to burn.”

“Thank you.”

“No problem.” He sat up and extended a hand to her, helping her up. “If we get ready now, we can watch the sun set while we eat dinner.”

Anticipation spun through her as they walked to their rooms. Dinner. Then what?

“Knock when you’re ready,” he said.

She almost banged her knuckles three times against the door behind her. “Okay.”

Claire hadn’t told him she’d splurged on a new outfit for dinner, but she’d fallen in love with a dress she found on the sale rack—turquoise silk with a low neck and even lower back and slits to midthigh. Her bra straps showed so she went without. Too brazen? She hoped not.

When her hair was fixed and her makeup applied, and with her skin glowing from the body polish, she tapped on the wall between them, then opened her door.

A few seconds later he appeared, a bouquet of yellow roses in one hand, a box of Godiva chocolates in the other and the look of a man intent on courtship on his face.

Eleven

Quinn couldn’t remember ever showing up for a date with candy and flowers. Too clichéd, he always thought. Yet it seemed the right thing to do for Claire. And when she buried her face in the blooms and drew a long breath of their scent, he was glad he’d gone with his instincts about her.

“They’re beautiful,” she said, her eyes alight.

“I left a vase in the hall.” He’d wanted to hand her a real bouquet, not an arrangement already in glass. “I’ll get it.”

He was glad for something to do. He hadn’t counted on the awkwardness of a real date. Until now he’d been comfortable around her. Horny, but comfortable. He laughed at the thought as he filled the vase with water from the bathroom then took it to her. She already had the box of chocolates open and was choosing one. She nibbled a bite of it then extended the box toward him.

“After dinner, maybe,” he said.

“Life’s short. Eat dessert first. My mother reminded me of that as she was dying.”

He couldn’t very well refuse. He popped one in his mouth. She took another small taste of hers, then put the final bite in her mouth and closed her eyes as she savored it, making an experience of eating it.

“You had that dress hidden in your purse, I guess?” he asked.

She brushed a hand down the soft, silky fabric. He’d noticed right away when she opened the door that she wasn’t wearing a bra, that she had perfect-size breasts and nipples that stayed hard.

“I decided to splurge,” she said of the dress. “It’ll be a memento of the trip.”

It was good she’d put aside the prison experience and could focus on the pleasure of the hotel stay instead. He wished he could. He still had a decision to make. And memories to bury again. He’d been blindsided—

Stop. Let it go for tonight.

A few minutes later, they were seated by a restaurant window. They toasted the sunset with a crisp Napa Valley zinfandel then lingered over dinner. He shared a few work stories. She flirted with him, using body language and words. They split a death-by-chocolate dessert and sipped brandy.

“Did you want to go for a walk on the beach?” he asked when they couldn’t drag out the two-hour meal any longer.

She shook her head.

“Go back to your room?”

“That’d be fine.”

Even though he suspected she wanted the evening to end in bed, as he did, he waited for her to give the goahead, either with words or action, but for once, she was being subtle.

They sat in chairs on her balcony, the sound of the ocean taking the place of conversation as he put an arm around her. Her head came to rest against his shoulder. The fragrance distinctly hers filled his head. He thought she’d gone to sleep until she sighed.

“Tired?” he asked, unsure of the next step.

She hesitated. “A little.”

They hadn’t known each other long but he knew one thing about her—making love wouldn’t be casual to her. He couldn’t rush her, even though he wanted her more than he could remember wanting anyone. She seemed to embody the goal of his recent life changes, a deliberate risk he’d taken by going from a one-man business to a partnership and a slightly more visible presence. People at least knew his name now, and he wasn’t hiding in the shadows anymore. The transition from loner to involved citizen had been huge for him.

Which didn’t help him in his current dilemma. Did she want to sleep with him or not? Was he misreading her? Were there rules that applied here? And how would she amend them?

It occurred to him that she might be waiting for him to make the move, then he rejected the idea. She hadn’t hesitated before now to state her opinion or set him straight on any issue. This situation wouldn’t be any different. Just turn your head for a kiss, he told her silently.

But as hesitation-filled seconds became minutes, then minutes added up to insecurity-filled longer minutes, he pulled away, mentally, at least. Obviously it was too soon for her. Perhaps for him, too, or he would be making some moves to gauge her response.

“Maybe I should leave and let you rest,” he said.

The sound of waves hitting the shore intensified her silence.

“Thanks for the nice evening.” He stood. She didn’t look at him for a few seconds. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“G’night,” she said quietly.

He couldn’t get out of there fast enough. He felt seventeen again, and filled with doubts.

Women, he thought, exasperated.

Claire didn’t move. He was gone. Just like that. No kiss goodbye, not even a handshake. Just thanks and so long.

She gripped the arms of the chair, wondering what had just happened. She’d thought for sure that he was interested in…well, more than a kiss, anyway. He’d brought her flowers and candy. He’d wooed her through dinner with engaging conversation and seemed to respond to her teasing in return. What changed?

It wasn’t like she could unbutton his shirt the way she’d wanted to, then press her lips to his chest the way she’d craved to. Or shove him onto that enormous bed and have her way with him. Men didn’t like forward women. At least not the men she knew.

Of course, he was totally different from any man she’d known. Maybe he had been waiting for her to signal him. She hadn’t let him know, had she? She rubbed her temples. No. She hadn’t. Idiot. Why not?

Because she wanted to be wanted by him. Uncontrollably. Completely.

Well. Did you give him a chance to show that he did or didn’t?

No.

Idiot.

How could she fix it—short of going next door and throwing herself at him?

A knock on her door had her on her feet instantly. He’d come back—

She flung open the door.

“Housekeeping,” said a petite, uniformed woman. “May I turn down your bed?”

“Um.” She swallowed her disappointment and backed up. “Yes. Thanks.”

The woman worked quietly and efficiently, leaving a chocolate mint on her pillow then smiling at Claire as she left. The room suddenly seemed mammoth and deafeningly quiet. He would’ve come back by now if he’d thought it over, as she had done, and decided maybe he’d made a mistake, too.

She turned on the stereo and chose music to suit her mood. A hard beat pounded her body with unrelenting force. She turned off the lights, stripped off her dress—her unlucky dress—peeled off her panties and yanked her robe on. She moved around the room restlessly, wishing for a glass of wine, then danced her way onto the balcony and almost tripped over her own feet at what she saw.

Quinn stood on his balcony next door, his back stiff, his arms crossed, staring at the ocean. He wore the khaki shorts from earlier, but he’d left the shirt behind. He glanced in her direction, saying nothing. Nothing.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked after a few seconds, his jaw barely moving.

“No.”

He nodded and turned away.

Her eyes stung. Talk to me. Please talk to me.

“What happened tonight, Claire?” he asked, looking at her again.

“I don’t know.”

“Did I read you wrong? I thought…”

At his pause she moved closer. Apparently he was as confused as she was. It gave her hope. “I thought, too.”

“Did we—” He stopped, frowned at her, then started again. “Did I just make an idiot of myself?”

“No. I did. I was waiting for you to take the lead,” she said.

“I was waiting for you to give me a signal you were ready. I didn’t want to rush you.”

Ten seconds passed. Confusion gave way to relief and then hope. “Could we pretend you never left?” she asked.

He didn’t hesitate for a second but climbed onto his balcony railing. She gasped. “What are you doing?” she almost screamed.

“Coming over.”

“No! Absolutely not. You’ll break your neck.” Her heart thumped so hard, she could barely hear anything else.

“I’ll be fine.”

Panic gripped her. “I’ll unlock the door. Just come around.”

“Then we couldn’t pretend I never left. It would feel like starting over instead of continuing on.”

“I am perfectly content with starting over,” she said in a rush as he teetered on the rail. It was at least a three-foot jump, without a running start.

“Move back.”

She pressed her hands to her mouth and stumbled back several steps. He leaped, lurched a bit on the landing but gave her a cocky grin as he windmilled his arms to keep him from tumbling.

“That was totally uncalled for,” she said primly, her relief immense.

“Was it?” He moved in on her.

“Yes.” But oh, my, was he sexy when he was intent. And was he ever intent. His gaze didn’t stray from hers for a second. She didn’t budge. He took her hand and walked her into the bedroom.

“Interesting choice of music,” he commented, stopping to listen.

“It suited the moment.”

“You were mad?”

“At myself.”

He kept her hand in his as he walked to the stereo and changed the selection. The crystal clear notes of a clarinet pierced the night, enticing, luring. Promising. A little jazzy, a little bluesy. A lot sensual.

He turned on a lamp before taking both of her hands in his. “Do me a favor?”

“What?”

“Put the dress back on.”

Her hotel-supplied bathrobe was made of thick, fluffy terry cloth. She had no problem filling his request. “Turn around.”

He did. She grabbed the dress from where she’d thrown it across the foot of the bed. Then, turning her back, too, she dropped the robe and shimmied into the dress, skipping the underwear, which she scooped up with her toes to grab and toss them aside.

“Okay,” she said, spinning around.

After he faced her he hooked a thumb toward the wall behind him. A mirror mounted there had given him a clear and easy view of her backside while she changed.

“You could’ve said something,” she muttered.

“I’ve never looked a gift horse in the mouth.”

“Still—”

He moved in on her. “Tell you what, P.A. I’ll turn around and drop my shorts for three seconds. Then we’ll be even.”

“Ahh. The old even-Steven rule. Okay.”

He hadn’t expected that, she could tell. She laughed.

He hauled her to him. “Nothing happens tonight that you don’t want to happen, okay?”

“I’ll make you a deal, M.Q.,” she said, brushing her fingers over his chest, enjoying the friction of the dark hair against her fingertips. “Unless I tell you to stop, you can assume that whatever you’re doing is fine with me.”

All traces of their miscommunication disappeared in his slow, sexy, sure smile. “Deal. As long as you promise the same.”

“Want to shake hands on it?”

“I thought we might seal it with a…”

She waited, her breath frozen in her throat, as he dragged his lips along her jaw then toyed with her earlobe. Shivers rippled through her. She held on to him as her knees went weak.

“Dance,” he finished.

She liked this playful side of him. Happily she put her arms around his neck, as his arms encircled her, as well. They moved to the music. His hands drifted lower to rest along her waist, bringing her closer.

“I’m glad you told me to take back my promise,” he said, his lips grazing her temple.

“Me, too.” She wouldn’t have missed this moment for anything, no matter what it yielded in the future. That she was already a little bit in love with him—well, maybe more than that—meant she might have regrets later, especially since he’d told her he wasn’t a long-term kind of guy. But the potential pleasure seemed worth the potential regret. In the past few weeks she’d made a conscious effort to take risks, to seek discomfort in her life. She needed not to feel as safe as she used to. Safe was boring.

This was far from boring.

And he needed her.

The song ended. A new one began, a little more uptempo, a little less predictable in rhythm, more jazz than blues. Not dance music. Still, they swayed to it. He slid his hands over her rear and lifted her to her tiptoes, aligning their hips. She drew a quick breath, let it out shakily as they continued to move to the music, sustaining the slow arousal, the tempting contact and the promise of much, much more.

“You’re sure of this?” he asked quietly, letting her heels touch the floor again but not releasing his intimate hold.

Stop being so nice, she thought, impatient. She wanted him. Wanted him bad. Wanted him now. She didn’t want to think or plan or debate or even talk.

She just wanted to enjoy him.

When she didn’t answer, he bent his knees until his eyes were level with hers. She laid her hands along his face.

“When it comes to you, doubt is not a word in my vocabulary,” she said. “Are you looking for an escape?”

“I’m looking not to scare you with how much I want you.”

Oh. Nice. Very nice. “Okay, then. I’m on the Pill, by the way.”

“I brought protection.”

“Then I think the need for conversation is done,” she said, kissing him lightly, intending more.

“You don’t like to talk during, P.A.?”

“I just want to feel.” Forever. This feeling, forever.

“Feel this, perhaps?” He set himself on a course to arouse her, his lips drifting down her neck, the tip of his tongue teasing her flesh until her skin rose in bumps and her breath went shallow. He followed the curved path of her neckline then moved lower still, his mouth settling over her nipple, over the fabric.

It seemed like she’d been waiting forever for him, for this. As if he’d been there all along, a dream waiting to be manifested, a future waiting to be fulfilled. He needed her, she knew that. But she needed him, too.

She sighed his name….

He swooped her up and whirled her around. Tipping her head back, she laughed in heady surprise. The romantic gesture thrilled her.

He laid her on the bed and stretched out beside her. She didn’t want to wait another second for a kiss. Her need for him—

His mouth came down on hers, warm, wet, wonderful. Intent, insistent, irresistible. Consuming, involving. Life affirming. She’d lived all these years just to feel this…this once-in-a-lifetime connection with her soul mate, for indeed she felt he was. She answered with her own searching tongue, questioned with her hands along his chest, down his ribs.

He lifted his head. His eyes were dark and serious as she slid her palms over him, drifting lower a little at a time, so nervous and excited, she shook.

“Scared?” he asked, wrapping a hand around hers, stilling her exploration as she touched the button above his zipper.

“Far from it.”

“You are so beautiful.”

It was an effective way to stop her from shaking. “You don’t have to flatter me. I’m here. I’m willing.”

“Ahh, Claire.” He propped himself on an elbow and dragged a finger across her lips, down her neck, then her chest, sliding beneath her dress. He molded her breast with his hand, kneading it gently, rubbing her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. “I don’t flatter. I thought you were sexy from the moment I saw you.”

She shook her head.

“Yes,” he said, dragging the fabric below her breast, shifting his gaze to look at what he’d revealed. “That slow walk of yours. The way your hips moved in that skirt. Beautiful and sexy.” He touched her breasts. “Perfect.” He slid a hand down her legs. “Lloyd’s of London insurable.” He looked at her face then and smiled. “And what I saw of you in the mirror looked pretty damn good, too.” He put his lips to her breast, swirled his tongue around her nipple before pulling it into his hot mouth.

She arched her back. A needy sound resonated in her throat.

“You believe me?” he asked.

She did. She arched higher as he dragged the dress off her shoulders, to her waist, and lavished his attention on her other breast.

“Believe me?” he repeated more harshly, his teeth scraping her nipple.

“Yes. Yes.” She lifted her hips as he pulled the dress off her, then felt a whisper of air over her bare skin as he tossed it aside.

“Perfect,” he said, the word filled with appreciation or awe or something else she couldn’t name for sure, but something flattering.

She didn’t want to wait any longer. She needed to feel him on top of her, inside her. Short of begging, however, she wasn’t going to get him to speed up. This was apparently on his terms—and she really didn’t want it any other way.

He slipped a hand between her legs. She jerked at the touch.

“Easy,” he breathed, making trails across her stomach with his tongue.

She dug her nails into his shoulders as he nudged her legs apart to rest a hand there, his fingers nestling intimately. He gently scraped the tender skin, moving only one fingertip.

A long, low moan spilled from her. A fiery fist clenched inside her abdomen, its heat intensifying. She dug in her heels and raised her hips, unintelligible sounds filtering from her open mouth as her neck bowed. Then his mouth joined his fingers, and she almost levitated with the infinite pleasure of it all.

Exquisite. Generous. Unparalleled. She rocketed high, soared for a long, dazzling, radiant lifetime. Just when the pleasure finally peaked, but before she came all the way down from it, she felt his suddenly naked body cover hers. His mouth devoured hers in a kiss that stopped only to change angle and intensity, escalating with speed and power by the second, then slowly backing off to just two open mouths dragging along each other as he joined with her in a moment so beautiful, her heart swelled. He went still, his body taut, his breath ragged. She savored the heavy feel of him inside her, and the sense of coming home. He pulled back slightly. She opened her eyes in time to see him close his, his jaw hard. She wanted to watch him find the same satisfaction she had, but her body teased her with other ideas.

A new pressure built. He pushed a little deeper, a little harder, a little stronger. He slipped his hands under her and lifted her hips higher, their bodies slick, gliding along each other as if designed for such perfect alignment. Then she forgot to do anything but feel. Her earlier climax was just preparation for this one, this one that hit her hard and fast but held at the peak long enough that she came aware of him making the same magical journey. She tightened her hold, buried her face against his shoulder, pressed her teeth into his flesh, muffling the sounds rising from inside her. He drew his head back, his face showing a kind of ecstasy.

He moved against her, inside her, with a final powerful surge.

After several long seconds he lowered his head and kissed her. She laid her hands along his cheeks, kissing him back fervently, afraid to show him how much he meant to her.

Finally he rolled onto his side and tucked her close. His heart still thundered. His labored breath slowed, steadied. His arms tightened.

She pressed a cheek to his chest and closed her eyes.

So this is what it means to be content.

He reached down and grabbed the sheet, tugging it over them.

“Quinn—”

“Shh.”

He stroked her hair. She couldn’t see his face but she felt his smile. Because it suited her, she kept quiet and simply enjoyed being held. Soon his arms relaxed, then his body went heavy. He sleeps, she thought, satisfied.

Trying not to disturb him, she rolled over carefully, inching back against him until their bodies spooned. His arm anchored her in place, both comfortable and uncomfortable, but she wouldn’t change anything. Just when she decided she couldn’t possibly fall asleep, her eyes drifted shut.

“Sleep,” he said, the word was slurred a little, but the order clear.

“Aye, aye, sir.”

His chest shook with silent laughter.

“I thought you were asleep,” she said.

“Nah. I was just enjoying you rubbing against me while you got situated. Felt nice.”

“I didn’t do that on purpose.”

“Right.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “I was getting comfortable.”

“If you say so.”

She smiled and closed her eyes again. It occurred to her that she had Jenn to thank for this night. Claire owed her for that.

Twelve

As dawn sneaked into the room the next morning, Quinn wrote a quick note to Claire and set it on the pillow beside hers. He almost stroked her hair, almost kissed her. But if she woke he would have to explain that he was going back to the prison, and why. He was going to be in enough hot water when he told her he had no intention of dropping the investigation, as she wanted. It was too late.

So he left her sleeping and made his way to his own room for a quick shower, grateful he’d stuck his room key card in his pocket before he’d jumped balconies. Making the leap in daylight would probably have brought security running.

After he headed onto the highway a little while later, he tried to put Claire out of his mind, not wanting her tainted even by his thoughts. He’d been shocked yesterday when the warden’s assistant had taken him aside and told him what they knew about him. He’d felt dirty. Claire needed to stay untouched by his past.

He was tempted to visit Beecham again. Claire hadn’t let Quinn ask the questions he’d been on the verge of putting to him when she decided she’d had enough. Reading between the lines of Beecham’s comments and answers, it was easy to determine that he thought Jenn knew where his money was—or diamonds, or whatever form of currency he’d converted the money into. And Beecham was worried.

Had Claire seen that? They hadn’t discussed it. He’d gone out of his way not to discuss it, wanting to have one memorable night with her, without the real world intruding.

But reality always reared its ugly head, and today was no different. He pulled into the main gate at the prison, answered the guard in the tower about why he was there and what was in his car, as he’d done yesterday. Allowed in, he took his time getting out of the car, steeling himself for the confrontation ahead.

Your past is about to catch up with you.

He heard Marie’s voice, distinct and cautionary, as he walked toward the prison entrance. She’d also told Claire that he needed to face it. Now or never.

The psychic hotline was open, after all. And accurate.

Because he was entering the medium-security prison instead of the minimum-security camp of yesterday, he stood at the waiting-room counter as his background was again checked, as well as the special approval granted yesterday for him to enter before official visiting hours, even though he hadn’t decided until this morning to come back.

He filled out new forms, had his hand stamped with invisible ink, then emptied his pockets into a locker, as he had yesterday. He stepped into a space between metal gates surrounded by rolled razor wire. A metal door slid shut behind him, a clanging death knell. No joy would be found here, and little hope. To survive, one must live in the here and now, but also think about what put you behind bars.

Quinn was led into a visiting room similar to the one yesterday, except that the environment seemed even more gray, more hopeless, more disturbing. The room was empty. He almost wished it teemed with people. Noise might have helped.

He was assigned a table, but he wanted to prowl the room. He’d made the decision, so there was no turning back, but the waiting made his gut clench, his stomach churn and his jaw ache.

He didn’t know what to expect. Perhaps that was the hardest of all for someone whose name might as well be Control. For seventeen years he’d lived and worked toward his primary goal of earning respect, of being known as trustworthy, so that no one could question him—ever—about his motives. He could control what happened to his reputation. He couldn’t control this moment.

C’mon, c’mon, c’mon. Bile rose in his throat from the agony of waiting. He pushed his palms against his legs, stopping them from bouncing.

The door opened. A man entered, followed by a guard. The man stopped when he spotted Quinn, then was prodded forward.

“Take a seat,” the guard said.

Fascinated and repelled, Quinn said nothing.

Chair legs scraped the floor as the man lowered himself into a seat across from Quinn, his gaze never leaving Quinn’s face.

“Son,” Robert Gerard said finally.

Quinn couldn’t call him Dad, as he had for the first eighteen years of his life. Or Father. Or any title of respect. He wouldn’t even have recognized him. What was left of his hair was steel-gray. His eyes were light brown, like Quinn’s, except that they lacked sheen. The whites were tinged with yellow, as was his skin. Sharp cheekbones emphasized deep hollows in his cheeks. His brittle body stooped so much he looked in danger of tipping forward. His fingers curled into his hands like an old man’s might, although he was only sixty-one.

“I didn’t know you’d been moved here,” Quinn said.

“Last week. For good behavior,” he said, irony coating the words. “I stopped trying to contact you years ago, Bobby. Once a month I tried, for how many years? Seven? Eight? Every time, the letters came back, unopened.”

Quinn ignored the hurt embedded in his father’s tone. “I don’t go by ‘Bobby’ anymore.” He’d given up the name when his father had been convicted of treason and given a life-without-parole sentence when Quinn was eighteen years old.

Robert’s brows lifted. “What do I call you?”

“Quinn.”

“Your middle name. Your mother’s maiden name.”

“Better than the alternative.” Although not by much. His mother had damaged Quinn’s life in her own way, too.

“Your mother also lost track of you,” Robert said.

“I was supposed to stay in touch?” Quinn asked, stunned.

“Yes.”

“She’s the one who abandoned me.” After his father’s betrayal.

“She asked you to go with her.”

“To Europe? Into exile? To live off your ill-gotten gains?”

“Your mother made many sacrifices by taking that route, the biggest one—leaving you.”

“Right. She took the money you got for selling state secrets and has been living the good life ever since.”

“What did you want her to do?”

“Give the money back. Rebuild her life. She wasn’t the criminal. You were.”

“Still an idealist, I see.” He leaned toward Quinn. “You think she could have lived anywhere in the United States and been treated as anything other than the wife of a spy? You think anyone would’ve believed she didn’t know what I’d been doing? Her only hope for a decent life was to live beyond the reach of those who knew of me. And if you think she had a whole lot of money to start new with, you’re dead wrong. Contrary to popular opinion, spying isn’t all that lucrative.”

Quinn recoiled from the joking tone of Robert’s last sentence. “According to the prosecutors, you made a lot of money.”

“What I made I used to improve our lives. Then the government sold everything, and the profits were confiscated.”

Quinn stared at him in shock. “We needed to improve our position in life so much that you would resort to selling secrets to the enemy?”

“When your mother agreed to marry me,” Robert said as if reading a bedtime story, “I promised to care for her. I hadn’t been doing a good job.”

“You committed crimes against your own country so that—” he couldn’t say Mom “—your wife could have a bigger house and a new car?”

“Peggy was fragile.”

“Weak.”

“Maybe.”

“You let her be. Then you blamed her for your own weakness.”

“I turned myself in to protect you and your mother. I wouldn’t call that weak.”

“I would call that looking out for number one,” Quinn said. “You turned yourself in before you got caught. Too little. Too late.”

“I live with the hope that it’s never too late.”

Quinn tried to read between the lines. “Do you expect sympathy?”

“I’m trying to get you to understand. You wouldn’t let me explain before. I figure this is my only opportunity. When I heard you were here, so much ran through my head. I thought maybe you were going to forgive me.”

“Dream on.”

“Forgiveness is good for the soul.” His momentary bravado deserted him. Even his shaky voice gave away his emotion.

Quinn hated being confined to a chair. He needed to walk. He needed to drag his father up by his shirt and shout in his face. Instead he said in a low voice, “You went to prison. My mother went halfway around the world. And you both left me to live with your betrayals. Because of you I lost my life and my friends. I’ve lived in the shadows for most of my adult life, afraid someone would make the connection.” I’ve just now come into the sun. I won’t go back. I can’t. “You can go to your grave hoping for forgiveness,” Quinn added, crossing his arms. “It isn’t going to happen.”

Robert sank into himself. He finally stopped looking at Quinn, focusing instead on the tabletop. “Why did you come?” he asked, defeat in his voice.

“Because I was here yesterday interviewing another prisoner. Like everyone else, I’d had to go through a background check to get in here, which revealed my connection with you. I was asked if I had come to see you, too.”

“You hadn’t sought me out.”

“Hell, no.”

Robert moved a shoulder as if to ward off a blow. “Then why did you come back today? You could’ve gone back to wherever it is you live and forgotten all about me.”

“Curiosity.”

“And has your curiosity been satisfied?”

“For a lifetime.”

Robert raised his head slowly. His gaze drilled Quinn.

“Maybe someday you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me, after all, for ruining your life. I sold some technology. No one died because of what I did. The world didn’t come to an end, either.”

“My world did.” Quinn pushed his shoulders back, but a seed of guilt sprouted. His life wasn’t ruined. He’d made a success of himself despite his parents’ selfishness and abandonment. He’d learned to live without support from his family. But he felt like Claire had yesterday—he couldn’t endure another revelation.

Still, he had an important question to ask. “Are you sorry for what you did?”

“Every day.”

Quinn nodded, then he made eye contact with the guard, who stood across the room. “I’m ready to leave.”

“Wait.” His father stopped the guard with a gesture. “Humor an old man for a minute with a couple of questions.” He paused. When Quinn offered no encouragement, but no rejection, either, he said, “You said you were here interviewing another inmate. Did you become a lawyer, as you’d always planned?”

“A private investigator.”

“Why’d you change?”

“I could stay invisible.”

“Ah.” Robert nodded. “Are you married? Do you have children?”

“No.” He needed to get out of there, but he couldn’t leave until his father was taken away. “I have nothing more to say.”

Robert stood but didn’t move away from the table. “You’re my son, and I love you,” he said, his voice quavering. “Thank you for seeing me.”

I love you. The words twisted Quinn’s heart into a pounding mass. But no words came in return.

“I have your mother’s address and phone number if you want it.”

“Did she remarry?”

“We never divorced.” The guard urged him along. Over his shoulder he said, “Hate me forever, if you want. Your mother’s only crime was to fall in love with someone who couldn’t give her the life she deserved.”

Quinn said nothing.

“She’s your mother, Bobby.”

The door shut. Quinn didn’t move until another guard roused him. Even then, he made the walk back to his car in a daze. He drove until he found a bluff overlooking the ocean. In the distance he saw the hotel where he’d spent a wonderful night with Claire, the kind of night that made memories. They’d made love twice, the second time with less control, less tenderness, but even more emotion, a freeing kind of lovemaking that said everything necessary without using any words.

She would ask where he had been. He wouldn’t tell her the truth because he didn’t want to talk to her about it. She would ask questions, offer sympathy, perhaps even advise him to contact his mother, to end the questions he had about her, too. But that part of his life was over. He’d moved on, as he’d told her before. A Pollyanna wouldn’t understand that.

He sat on a rock and closed his eyes. The sun bathed his face. He recognized the emptiness yawning inside him, because he’d lived with it for so many years. Claire had just begun to fill that emptiness. Would she continue, especially after he told her he wouldn’t stop looking for Jenn—to finish that business?

Time passed. Minutes, an hour, he didn’t know. Finally he dragged his hands down his face. His palms picked up moisture. He stared at them, bewildered. How—?

Angry, he stood, wiping his face again. No. He refused to let his father’s words get to him. Not now, not when life was opening up for him.

You’re my son, and I love you.

The words wouldn’t go away anytime soon. But if he drove fast enough, kept busy enough, worked hard enough, they would recede, fade. Disappear. Again.

For now, he would pick up the eternal optimist Claire Winston and somehow make the six-hour drive home without telling her about his father or letting her help soothe his mixed emotions about the man—and the woman, his mother.

He knew exactly what Claire would say. “I would give anything to have my parents back. Find a way to forgive them. You know in your heart of hearts it’s what you need.”

Which would only show that she didn’t know him at all.

Claire crouched in the sand as a wave receded, her legs cold from the hour she’d spent walking along the shore. She watched a tiny crab dig himself into the sand, an air bubble rising from where he’d disappeared, then she stood and jogged back as another wave washed up. It was low tide. The waves rolled in and retreated with little fuss or noise. She’d picked up a shell here and there, examined it, then returned it to the sea, except for one which she stuck in her pocket as a memento.

Her sandals dangling from one hand, she shaded her eyes and glanced toward the stairway that made a steep descent from the hotel property to the beach. Empty.

Where was Quinn?

She’d awakened to a note on her pillow saying that breakfast would be delivered at 8:00 a.m., and that he thought he’d be back by nine. No mention of where he was going.

She’d hoped to wake up in his arms. She’d wanted to lie in bed with him and talk and touch.

Instead she’d opened the door to a uniformed man pushing a wheeled serving cart, then eaten a breakfast of Belgian waffles with fresh strawberries and whipped cream all by herself. Even though the surroundings and the view were awesome, she barely enjoyed the luxury.

“Claire!”

She searched out the voice, then spotted Quinn starting down the stairway, not slowly but not hurrying either. She didn’t know how to react. She was irritated that he’d left her a note instead of waking her to say he would be gone for a while. She was also warm and satisfied from their lovemaking, and grateful for his generosity for bringing her here and appreciative of his determination in trying to track down Jenn before the authorities did.

The pros far outweighed the cons, so she ignored the hurt to simply welcome him back.

He walked like a man headed for a showdown, his strides measured, totally focused on what was ahead—her. Because her heartbeat picked up audibly, she smiled.

He smiled, too. Tentatively at first, then it reached his eyes just as he came up to her. He was doing that more and more with her lately—smiling. She was achieving her goal to bring more fun to his life. That satisfied her.

She laid her hands on his chest. “How are—”

He kissed her. And kissed her. And kissed her. Then he hauled her close and held tight, his arms enveloping her.

“I missed you,” she said, her words muffled by his chest.

He said nothing. “Did you eat?” he asked finally, disappointing her that he hadn’t said anything personal in return.

“Yes. Did you?”

“Not yet.”

“I’ll have coffee with you while you have breakfast.” She felt almost like a stranger, except that he was holding her as if they would slip off the earth if he let go.

“Okay.”

“I need to freshen up first,” she added.

He nodded. They walked hand in hand up the steep wooden stairs. At the top was a low faucet. Quinn knelt at her feet to rinse off the sand. She stared at the top of his head. He took his time, brushing every speck from her legs and feet. Something was weighing on him. She could tell from the way he set his shoulders—and his mouth. Something big. Something he wouldn’t want to talk about. She didn’t know how she knew that, but she did.

She decided not to put him on the spot by asking.

He rinsed his own feet quickly. They slipped on their sandals and made the walk to her room in silence. He followed her inside. The note he’d written her still lay on the pillow. In the mirror’s reflection she saw him look at it. His mouth tightened.

“I’ll wait on the balcony,” he said, heading there.

She laid a hand on his arm, stopping him. His eyes were filled with some kind of agony. What happened? What’s changed? she asked him silently.

He gave no answers, but she knew she had to give him something else to think about. Grabbing hold of her nerve, she lifted her T-shirt over her head, toed off her sandals and pushed her shorts down, kicking them aside. She knelt on the bed then went to work unbuttoning his shirt. At first he stood rigid, resisting but not rejecting, then gradually he turned his attention on her.

“I don’t think I would’ve expected such sexy lingerie, P.A.,” he said, eyeing her as she slipped his shirt over his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.

“I’m full of surprises,” she said, giving him a sultry look, then laughing at her attempt. She unfastened his shorts, grateful that she could see and feel that she’d distracted him from whatever was on his mind.

Naked he joined her on the bed. He put his fingers on the front catch of her bra. He took his time ridding her of her undergarments, stopping to admire and touch and taste, already knowing what excited her and what drove her wild.

“My turn,” she said after a while, making him stop, giving him a little shove.

He didn’t protest, but let himself fall back on the bed. His head landed on the note he’d left. He reached for it. She pulled it from him, crumpled it and tossed it aside. It landed in the wastebasket.

“Two points,” she said, raising her arms in victory.

He moved his thumbs over her nipples. “Two very nice points,” he agreed.

Was that gratitude in his eyes for not mentioning the note? She chose to think so. She also chose to make him forget everything except her—the feel of her hands caressing, and her lips tasting and her mouth savoring. He grabbed her hair, holding it away from her face so that he could watch. She made him quiver. She made him suck in his breath. She made him—

“Come here,” he said, pulling her up.

She straddled him, lowered herself onto him, moved with him, feeling desired and cherished and wanted. He took her breast in his mouth, slid his hands over her rear, helping her find a rhythm, then letting her set the pace. She moved until she was almost at the peak, then stopped until the sensation faded. Then moved again. Stopped again.

“I can’t,” he said, low and harsh, switching their positions and driving into her, driving coherent thought out of her.

There was only sensation. A fast climb, a powerful ascent, a mighty crest. He groaned her name. She raised her hips higher, dug her fingers into his back. He picked up speed and force. His mouth came down hard on hers, open, hot, wet. Everything intensified—the heat, the drive, the pleasure. And finally, joy. Sublime joy. Bliss.

After a while she came aware of the lovely weight of him sprawled on her, and the sound of his breathing as it settled, and the feel of his hand as he stroked her hair.

“Thank you,” he said.

“No, thank you,” she said solemnly, trying not to smile.

He levered himself on his arms and looked into her eyes. “I guess saying thanks was a little…”

“Silly.”

“Not a word I would use, but, yes.”

“So why did you? Say thank you?” She combed his hair with her fingers, trying to keep the moment light.

“I don’t know.”

He did. But he wasn’t saying. “Okay,” she said. “Did you work up an appetite?”

He rolled to one side, keeping her close. “Satisfied one appetite, and now I’m ready to satisfy another.” He brushed her hair from her face. “You haven’t asked any questions about this morning. Where I was.”

“I figure you’ll tell me if you want to.” Yes, she was curious. More than curious.

“And if I never do?”

She turned her head and pressed a kiss into his palm. When she looked at him again, she let her sadness show. “Then we don’t have much of a relationship, do we?”

Eight hours later Claire was still wondering why he wouldn’t talk about where he’d gone that morning. They pulled up in front of her house, blocking her driveway and the sidewalk.

From that she assumed he wasn’t planning to get out of his car. Looking away so that he couldn’t see her disappointment, she pulled the door handle.

He leaned across, putting his hand on hers. “Claire.”

Keep it light. Keep it light. “Hmm?”

“According to my voice mail, I have a lot of work waiting for me. I hadn’t planned on staying over in Santa Barbara last night, so things piled up. It’ll take me hours to deal with it all.”

“Meaning?”

“That’s why I’m not coming inside.”

“Oh.” She waved a hand. “I hadn’t thought about it.”

He waited a few beats. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Okay.” She stared out the windshield for several seconds before she finally made eye contact. “I’m sorry about Jenn.”

“Sorry for what?”

“That we didn’t find out anything that would help in locating her. I know you wanted to clear your reputation.”

His pause was longer this time. “I’ll survive.”

“Good,” she said with false cheer. There was nothing more to say. She gathered her fancy shopping bag and opened the car door.

“No kiss goodbye?” he asked.

She hadn’t realized how tightly wound she was until he said that. Sheer determination kept her from climbing into his lap and burying her face against his neck. She wished he would stay. She wished she could have him all to herself for another night.

I’m not long-term material, he’d said before. She couldn’t hold him with wishes.

Claire turned toward him. He ran his fingertips down her hair, then hooked it over her ears. Then he cupped her head and kissed her, dragging his lips back and forth across hers before finally settling for a long, sweet kiss.

“Sleep tight,” he said.

“Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” she answered lightly. She climbed out of the car. Before she shut the door she leaned back in to pass him what she’d been fingering since they left Santa Barbara. “Here.” She dropped it in his hand.

He held it aloft, the small, white, surf-worn shell she’d kept.

“A memento, M.Q.”

He tucked it in his fist. “’Bye.”

She was aware of him watching as she let herself into the house. Because of that, she didn’t look back.

After she’d greeted Rase and checked her answering-machine messages and her mail, she glanced out the window in time to see him pull away. He’d been waiting. In case she needed him.

She leaned against the window frame and closed her eyes.

So. She’d fallen the rest of the way in love with him. She’d thought she could be so sophisticated and mature about this relationship. He’d been honest about not being the kind to stick around. She’d deceived herself that she could accept the relationship on his terms. She wanted much more than just to bring fun into his life. She thought he’d needed her. Well, she needed him, too.

Rase whimpered at her feet. She knelt down, put her arms around his neck and pressed her face into his coat.

“What do I do now, boy?”

He barked, the deep sound that didn’t fit the small body making Claire smile.

“You like him, too,” she said with a sigh, sitting on the floor to let Rase show his affection. She scratched his haunches and his ears. He moaned with pleasure, which made her laugh.

“Okay. Enough moping.” They’d stopped for dinner on the way back, so she wasn’t hungry, just restless. She wandered into her office and turned on her computer, then brought up her e-mail—and found a note from Jenn.

Thirteen

Quinn clenched his fists so that he wouldn’t drum his fingers on the mahogany table in the ARC conference room. Out of a picture window San Francisco Bay gleamed like the natural jewel it was, the view unobstructed by buildings or even the normal morning fog. He paid little attention. He’d called his investigators the night before and asked them to meet him at the office at 7:00 a.m.

They’d all arrived early. He’d listed the facts about Jenn and Claire and Beecham, then Cassie got a phone call she couldn’t ignore, and Jamey volunteered to make coffee while they waited for her.

Quinn’s usual store of patience had deserted him sometime between Claire’s misguided apology last night and the sleepless night that followed. She really believed that he was only interested in upholding his reputation for never losing a subject? He would’ve walked away two weeks ago if that was all that mattered.

And he’d had the perfect opportunity to tell her he was going to continue the search for Jenn, but he let it go by. It wasn’t like him not to confront facts.

So, he wanted Cassie’s and Jamey’s input, because there wasn’t a lot of time to waste. In his head he kept hearing Claire’s grandfather clock ticking, resonating, reminding him he didn’t possess the key to keep it wound.

He watched Cassie scribble notes on a yellow legal pad. She was dressed in jeans—not designer—and a white blouse, starched and pressed. Her old, worn leather jacket hung on the back of her chair. She wore boots. Not girly, spike-heel boots, but cowboy boots, with chunky heels and pointed toes. When he wanted to rile her, he called her “Tex.” Her golden-brown hair hung down her back in a long, thick braid. She didn’t take crap from anybody, probably because she’d had to for too many years as a child.

“Sorry,” she said, hanging up the phone. “I’ve been waiting a week to hear back from that guy.”

Jamey returned with three steaming mugs of coffee and passed them around. He was as laid-back as Cassie was driven. She rarely sat still. He relaxed and sipped his coffee, his eyes alert and measuring. Quinn had chosen these two investigators to open the branch office with because they complemented and contrasted his personality and his approach to the business. As a team they were dynamic.

“Teach Olivia how to make coffee, will you?” Cassie said to Jamey, raising her mug in a toast. “You make the best.”

“How about if I teach you, instead,” he said easily.

“I wasn’t being chauvinistic,” she countered. “Olivia said at her interview that she had no problem making coffee for us.”

“Olivia needed the job.”

“I think that I, of all people, would be sensitive to a gender issue, Jamey, and I don’t—”

“Could we get back to my case?” Quinn interrupted, knowing their debate could go on for a while.

“Sorry,” Cassie said in a rush. “Okay. So, to sum it up—you think sister Jenn is in a whole lot of trouble, and therefore sister Claire, by default.”

“Beecham is hunting Jenn. I believe that Claire’s and my visit to the prison jacked up his fear that Jenn is in possession of his funds, and he probably accelerated his search for her. I drove by Claire’s house a couple of times during the night and then again this morning. The white van wasn’t there, but that doesn’t mean someone isn’t watching her.”

“Why watch Claire?” Jamey asked. “It seems clear that she doesn’t know where Jenn is.”

“She’s the only link. And Jenn’s mother, possibly, but she comes across so flaky that no one probably pays her much attention.”

Cassie frowned. “I don’t know. Beecham lived with Jenn for a year. You’d think he would have some idea about where she went or what kind of action she would take. So, again, why Claire? Unless someone is supposed to grab her and use her as bait, the ransom being Jenn.”

“I considered that. It’s why I took Claire to interview Beecham—so that he could see for himself that she doesn’t know where Jenn is.” Beecham had to believe she didn’t have a clue where Jenn was living—or hiding. “He’s greedy, but I can’t see him adding murder to his charges.”

“But he wouldn’t be. He has the perfect alibi,” Cassie pointed out. “Obviously he’s hired someone to do his dirty work. That someone may have no problem with kidnapping or murder. He may have been told to do whatever was necessary. There’s also nothing Beecham could do from prison about a guy who takes matters into his own hands.”

“Everything you say makes sense, Cass. I just don’t see it coming down that way. If I were Beecham, I’d be more worried that the thug he hired would run off with the money, or diamonds, or whatever.”

“Maybe Beecham hasn’t even told whoever he hired about the money,” Jamey said. “Maybe he just wants to keep track of her until he gets out and can deal with her himself. Could she spend five million dollars before he’s released? Sure, but keeping a low profile would be difficult. That kind of flash brings attention. She’d be buying property, and property has to be recorded.” He cocked his head. “But I think you’re just as concerned about the D.A.’s pursuit of her.”

“Yeah. One way or another she’s going to be found. Neither is going to be good for her, particularly if she has the money. And Claire’s going to get caught up in the media aftermath.”

“Why?” Cassie asked.

“Because that’s what happens.” Quinn shoved away from the table and carried his mug across the room with him to pretend to look at the view, keeping his back to Jamey and Cassie. “I’m not saying the press would publish Claire’s name—that would be an invasion of privacy. But at the least she would be asked for a quote, and she would give one, in defense of her sister. Yes, the press has a job to do, but I’m going to do my best to shield Claire from it.”

“What are we really doing here, Quinn?” Cassie asked, impatience in her voice. “This is a noncase. It’s all speculation, none of it realistically threatening.”

“We’re here because I say so.”

Silence stretched behind him. Another brilliant answer, he thought, angry at himself. They were probably exchanging glances, trying to figure out if he’d lost his mind. Maybe he had. Maybe because the hurt he’d suffered as a teenager had hit him full force again yesterday, seeing his father. So he might err on the side of caution—extreme caution. It was better than not preventing something he could have.

He had to find Jenn.

He jammed his hand in his pocket and fingered the shell Claire had given him. Maybe he had become obsessed. Maybe he was out of control. He didn’t seem to have a choice.

“Okay,” Jamey said. “I think Cassie and I understand how important this is to you. So, what can we do?”

They’d already done what he’d wanted—given him feedback and confirmed that he was a little crazy and a lot obsessed about…. Well, what? The unsolved case? Yes. Always. He hated for a case to end, even as he liked to solve it.

He closed his fist around the shell, felt it press into his flesh, reminding him to be honest with himself. In truth, he was also a little crazy and a lot obsessed about…Claire.

“I’ll let you know,” he said. “And if you think of anything else I should be doing, talk to me. Thanks for coming in so early.”

Cassie nodded. She swept up her mug and paperwork and left the room, her strides purposeful. Places to go. Things to do.

Jamey wandered to where Quinn stood. “Anyone paying for this investigation?” he asked.

“Nope,” Quinn answered, prepared to defend his actions.

“Okay. If you want Claire guarded, let me know. I’ll volunteer for shifts.”

“Thanks.”

Jamey gave him a little pat on the shoulder then left the conference room.

Quinn had only known Jamey since he’d come to work at ARC, had heard comments and praise about him for a few months before that. Quinn hadn’t counted on finding a friend when he’d offered Jamey the job, but a friendship had taken root. A loner for all of his adult life, Quinn had hidden in the dark alleys of the city for most of those years. By becoming a partner in ARC and stepping into the sunlight, he’d also found a friend. More than one, if he counted the three partners, all of whom he liked and respected.

Scanning the view of the bay again, he remembered the promise he’d made to himself that he wouldn’t keep Claire in the dark, that he would tell her what he discovered. He wasn’t keeping anything from her, not technically. There were no facts to disclose. What would he gain by telling her that her sister was in a whole lot of trouble? Claire knew that, at least subconsciously. Or that she, Claire, might still be followed? She would be alert to that, too, he was sure.

So why did he feel guilty?

He shouldn’t. Based on his experience, he had better instincts than the average person—and he trusted his instincts and followed them. He also knew that no matter how many times Claire said that Jenn would have to fend for herself, Claire would not forgive him if something happened to her sister that he might have somehow prevented.

He needed to make sure nothing happened to Jenn.

How?

He’d already gotten a list of the phone calls made from Claire’s house for the six months since Jenn moved in. None of those numbers jumped out at him as suspicious. The police were watching for her reported-as-stolen car. He’d visited her usual haunts, pretending to be a friend as he asked patrons at the nightclubs and bars she frequented if they knew where she was, told them that he owed her money. Nothing. She’d vanished.

He looked at his watch. Not yet 7:30. He didn’t want to call Claire this early, so he buried himself in paperwork in his office until a few hours went by, then he pressed the speed-dial number he’d assigned Claire on his cell phone.

“Hello?”

He hadn’t realized how tense he was until he heard her voice. He pictured her as she’d been the morning before, undressing him with hands that shook, her wet, wonderful mouth exploring him, her fingernails scratching him lightly, starting at his ankle, moving up his calf, along his thigh and beyond.

He ran a hand over his abdomen.

“Hello?” she repeated.

He sat up straighter. “Good morning, P.A.,” he said, raising his voice above the noise on her end. “I’m sorry. I was distracted. How are you?”

“Good, thanks. Rase, no.” She sighed. “I swear he’s like a child. The minute I get on the phone, he wants my attention.”

He heard the dog bark, deep and fierce. “Is someone at your door?”

“I don’t think so. Let me look.”

He waited. He could tell she was using the portable phone because he could hear her footsteps.

“I don’t see— Wait. Rase! No! It’s just the mailman,” she said. “Rase goes crazy. I don’t understand it. The guy comes every day. He goes. He doesn’t even knock.”

“And that’s the problem.”

“What do you mean? He doesn’t pose a threat. Rase should know that by now.”

“He’s protected his home and chased the guy away. He’s proud of himself. He’s done his job.”

“I never looked at it that way.”

He heard traffic noise and assumed she’d stepped outside to get the mail. It occurred to him— “Do you still get mail for Jenn?”

“I never have. She has a post-office box somewhere.”

A post-office box. He couldn’t get that information, but the D.A. could.

“How is your day going?” she asked.

“Busy.” Now what? Get the D.A. involved? He’d told Claire he wouldn’t.

“Um, would you like to come to dinner?” she asked.

Would he like to? Yes. But should he? How long could he keep the truth from her? “I’m not sure. I’ve got—”

“No problem,” she interrupted. “I just thought if you were free….”

“Tomorrow?” he asked.

“Maybe. Well, I need to get back to…what I was doing. See you later.” She didn’t even wait for him to say goodbye but hung up with a quiet click.

He set down his phone. Olivia appeared in the doorway.

“There’s a newspaper reporter here to see you,” she said. “He doesn’t have an appointment.”

So. The D.A. had already leaked something to the press to try to force Jenn into the open, the only explanation for how a reporter would know to contact Quinn. And since ARC wasn’t listed in the Yellow Pages, the reporter would’ve had to be provided with an address, which the D.A. knew.

“Bring him back,” he said to Olivia. He would deal with him, then contact Claire and brief her on how to handle the questions that might be put to her.

He went around his desk to meet the man at his door and start the interview on a seemingly cooperative note, since he had no intention of giving any quotes or providing any information.

Good, he thought, as he glimpsed the man walking beside Olivia. No eager, young hotshot but a seasoned veteran, one who looked like he’d seen into the blackest soul of humanity and somehow survived. Midfifties, hair that had been red once but was now blended with white. Lanky frame. And judging by the intelligent eyes, probably not as laid-back as he appeared on the surface.

“John Foley,” he said, extending his hand.

“Quinn Gerard. Please, have a seat.”

Foley said nothing until Quinn was also seated. He seemed to be waiting for something, but since the ball was in his court, Quinn also waited.

Foley opened his notepad. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

Quinn’s memory rarely failed him, but he couldn’t place the man seated across from him. “No.”

“Seventeen years ago I wrote a three-part series on your father.”

Fourteen

Claire dragged herself out of bed after a toss-and-turn night. She hadn’t expected Quinn to be overly attentive to her—he didn’t seem the type—but would another call yesterday have been too much to ask? A little hurt, but a lot more irritated, she splashed water on her face, then looked at her bleary eyes in the mirror.

She’d never pictured him as a love-’em-and-leave-’em kind of guy. She hated being wrong about him.

Well, she couldn’t say she hadn’t been warned. She’d just wanted it to last a little longer. Or a lot longer. Like any woman who found the right man, she’d hoped to be the one to change his mind.

Rase bounded down the stairs ahead of her as she headed to the kitchen to brew some first-aid coffee. She stopped in the foyer, tightened the sash on her robe, then stepped outside to get her newspaper. She’d tried for weeks to teach Rase how to fetch it but had given up when he shredded the front page too many times with his teeth.

She set the paper on her kitchen counter, fed Rase and made coffee. While it brewed she wandered into her back garden to deadhead a few blossoms, giving herself busy work. What was she supposed to do now? Wait? She wasn’t very good at that.

She sighed. She’d wanted an adventure, something to change her life. She got it.

Rase came up beside her and bumped her legs, his signal that he wanted a hug, which made her smile. Sometimes he seemed so human. She crouched and put her arms around his neck. “I didn’t know how lonely I was until I had someone to miss,” she said to him, admitting to her pain. “You, too?”

He wagged his tail then followed her into the kitchen. A couple minutes later, she settled at the counter to read the paper.

She pulled off the rubber band, and the paper fell open. The headline caught her eye: Spared execution, spy faces another death sentence. It wasn’t a topic she normally would read, but the name Gerard jumped out at her from the text. The coincidence started her reading about Robert Gerard, a former Bay Area resident who had been sentenced to life in federal prison for treason seventeen years ago, and was now dying of liver cancer at age sixty-one. He had a son, Robert Quinn Gerard, a San Francisco private investigator.

Claire’s breath seized. She felt chained to the chair. Her coffee turned cold as she read the article word by word, her heart in her throat. At the end, she went to the newspaper’s Web site, where a three-part series written long ago was posted as one long article. Dazed, she read it—factually the same as today’s article but in greater detail. Quinn must’ve been just eighteen. His name and his mother’s, Peggy, were included in the stories. He’d changed his name. Out of embarrassment?

I just don’t want your life to be thrown into misery like mine was, he’d told her shortly after they met.

She sat back in her chair, weighed down by sorrow for him. The article said he refused to comment on his father. She could picture that—his expression closing up and his jaw hardening.

Everything made sense to her now. He’d seen his father at the prison. That was where he’d disappeared to that morning.

Had he found out then, too, that his father was dying? And was that why he was so tense? How often had he visited?

She picked up his business card from her desktop and called his cell, but only got his voice mail. She hung up and called his office and was told he wasn’t expected in today.

“I’m a friend,” she told the woman who answered the phone. “Is he working or could I reach him at home?” Since she didn’t have his home phone number, it really didn’t matter, but it was worth a try.

“I really couldn’t say,” came the response.

“I’d like to speak to Jamey Paladin, if he’s in, please.”

“He’s in a meeting.”

“Tell him that Claire Winston is on the line, please.” She paced as she waited. From his caller ID, Quinn had to know she’d phoned him. If he wouldn’t answer knowing it was her, he probably wouldn’t answer his home phone, either. But maybe Jamey could get a message to him.

“Ms. Winston, this is James Paladin. What can I do for you?”

Quinn opened a cabinet door and eyed the bottle of Scotch he’d been given as a Christmas gift by a client last year. It was still sealed.

He wrapped his hand around the cool glass bottle then let it go. Too early.

Hell, too stupid.

He banged the door shut and walked away, then caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror. He looked like he hadn’t slept—which he hadn’t—or showered or shaved, which he hadn’t. He wore the T-shirt and sweatpants he’d put on early that morning when he’d gone outside to get his newspaper, dread tying him up in knots. He knew there would be a story—Foley had made that clear before Quinn had hustled him out of the office—but he hadn’t anticipated front page, above the fold.

He didn’t know how the reporter had learned that he was a partner in ARC, nor how he found the office, its location not top secret but not publicized, either. The man had good contacts, as any good newsman would. More likely, whoever had tipped Foley off to the fact that Robert was dying must also have known where Quinn worked. Which meant that someone at the prison had made the call, someone with access to the information he’d given them to get clearance to see Beecham.

Dying.

Quinn dropped onto the sofa and rested his head in his hands, willing himself not to think about his father. Maybe he’d been the one to contact Foley—

No. Quinn didn’t want to believe that.

He sat back and stared at the ceiling. All these years he’d stayed not only out of the limelight but out of the public eye altogether, then just when he’d forced himself to make changes in his life, his past lurched before him like a three-eyed monster. And not only he was affected by it, so was ARC, a company whose reputation for confidentiality was critical to its success. Word of mouth from their political, executive and celebrity clientele meant ARC never had to look for business. If his father’s story being printed did anything to damage that—

His doorbell rang. His stomach knotted like a fist but he didn’t move. It rang again. Still he ignored it. He didn’t want to see anyone, talk to anyone.

“I know you’re in there!”

Claire.

“Unless you like having your neighbors hear your business,” she said, “you’d better open up.”

His mouth twitched. She was using his own words against him, threatening him as he’d threatened her that night through her door.

He padded down the stairs. She banged her fist against the door, not letting up.

“Hang on!” he shouted. “I’m coming.”

The noise stopped. He drew a settling breath and combed his fingers through his hair before he opened the door.

His throat ached. He hadn’t realized how much he needed her until he saw her standing there, sympathy in her eyes.

“You could scare children on Halloween,” she said, walking past him without invitation, startling him. He thought for sure she would be tender and sweet and, well, pleasantly annoying. That she knew him well enough to know he wouldn’t want her to show sympathy surprised and pleased him.

Rase started to jump up on him but sat instead, his tail sweeping the floor, when Quinn gave him a stern look.

“What are you doing here?” he asked her. How did you find out where I live? was really the question.

“We were in the neighborhood.”

That surprised a laugh out of him. “Go on up,” he said, pointing to the stairs, then crouching to unhook Rase’s leash, which Claire had dropped, taking time to ruffle Rase’s coat and get a tongue lick in return.

When they got to the second floor, he filled a bowl with water for Rase and set it on the kitchen floor. He watched Claire study his living room and wondered what she thought.

He approached her, his hands shoved in his pockets. His fingers brushed the ever-present shell.

“Jamey gave me your address,” she said.

He would either thank Jamey later or reprimand him. “Have a seat.”

She sat in the middle of his leather sofa. He took a seat across from her in a matching chair. “No comment on my house?” he asked, delaying the inevitable conversation about his father.

“It’s very…neat.”

He half smiled. Rase’s nails clicked against the hardwood floor as he joined them, the fur around his mouth wet. He bumped Quinn’s legs with his head several times.

“That means he wants a hug.” Claire’s voice was infused with cheerfulness but her eyes looked bleak. She was trying not to get maudlin, he could tell. He appreciated her efforts. “He won’t quit until you give him one,” she added.

Because he didn’t feel like debating, he wrapped an arm around the dog, who wriggled against him and made a happy little sound. He settled at Quinn’s feet after that.

Quinn eyed Claire. She wore jogging clothes— T-shirt and shorts, a sweatshirt tied at her waist—but her ponytail was too neat. She obviously hadn’t been running. Plus, a light lemony scent surrounded her, as if she’d put on perfume, something he doubted she did when she jogged.

“You wouldn’t answer your phone,” she said. “So I begged Jamey. Please don’t be mad at him.”

“I’m not.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about your father?”

So. She wasn’t wasting any time. “I’ve done my best to try to forget him.”

“You saw him at the prison. When you went back.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you go there often?”

“I didn’t even know he was there until I was told, right after we saw Beecham. I hadn’t seen him since his conviction.”

Silence filled the air like a living thing.

“How sad,” she said quietly. “And now he’s dying.”

“Apparently.”

She raised her brows.

“I’m taking the word of the reporter on that one,” he said.

“Your father didn’t tell you?”

He shook his head.

“You didn’t know until you read it in the paper?” Shock echoed in her voice.

“The reporter commented on it yesterday when he came to my office to interview me. He probably assumed I knew.”

“I’m so sorry, Quinn.”

“Robert Gerard is a stranger to me, Claire. He took money from a foreign government for spying on his own country. He committed treason. He got what he deserved. The only reason he wasn’t executed was because he turned himself in before he got caught.”

“Still, he’s your father.”

“Biologically.”

“You wouldn’t have gone to see him if he didn’t mean something to you.”

“I was in the vicinity. I was curious.”

“I don’t believe that,” she said softly.

“Well, P.A., not everyone sees the rosy side of life.”

She flinched. “We’re different that way,” she said.

“Yeah. We are.”

“Where’s your mother?”

“In Europe somewhere. She ran off with my father’s dirty money.”

“You haven’t seen her either?”

He shook his head.

“Quinn—”

“Don’t say it.” He walked away. His back to her, he looked out his window into the courtyard. “You don’t know what I went through.”

“I only know that I would give anything to have my parents back, even if just for a day.”

Hadn’t he said she would say that? Predictable Pollyanna. “I’m not you.”

“But—”

His doorbell rang. “Great,” he muttered. Now what?

Because he wanted to end the discussion with Claire, he went down the stairs to open the door. Sam Remington stood there, one of the partners of ARC.

“We should talk,” Sam said.

“Yeah.” Quinn opened the door wider and gestured for Sam to precede him up the stairs. Sam was the one who’d searched him out to join the firm, the one who’d recommended him to the two other partners, who hadn’t been sure about him because he hadn’t seemed sociable enough.

Rase ran to greet Quinn as if he had been gone a month. “Sit,” he ordered the dog.

Quinn made brief introductions. Claire looked uncomfortable.

“I should go,” she said hesitantly, more of a question than a statement.

“I’ll call you later,” he said. He saw hurt flare in her eyes for a moment, then she took the leash from him after he hooked Rase to it.

“Nice to meet you,” she said to Sam quietly.

“Same here.”

He hadn’t meant to hurt her, but he had.

“Did you fly up this morning?” Quinn asked Sam after they were seated.

“No. Dana flew in last night, so I joined her.” His wife was a U.S. senator who spent most of her time in Washington, D.C. Quinn didn’t envy them their commuter marriage. “I was a little surprised to open the paper this morning.”

“Me, too.”

“I’m sorry about your father.”

Quinn shrugged. “Look, I know this presents a problem for the firm.”

“It caught us off guard.”

He’d just started feeling like he’d found a home with them. Just started to believe that he wasn’t alone in the world. “I’ll tender my resignation,” he said. An ache spread through him, gaining heat and speed. Eight months ago it wouldn’t have mattered. But now—

“We don’t want your resignation,” Sam said.

The relief that swept through Quinn would’ve measured high on the Richter scale. Aftershocks stopped him from speaking.

“It isn’t like you hadn’t told us.”

“But faced with the reality of the world now, knowing that one of your partners is the son of a spy, it’s a little different,” Quinn said.

“It’s your father’s crime, not yours. We support you, but we also need to figure out a PR angle.” Sam’s gaze was intent. “The reporter didn’t name the firm.”

“Yet. But the article hit hard on the irony of the convicted-criminal father having the private-investigator son. What’s to stop him from doing a follow-up about the son trying to make up for his father’s transgressions? The son who champions the innocent and the helpless.”

“Is that why you became a P.I.?”

“Yeah. Mostly. And I knew I could work alone.”

“Then maybe that’s what you should do. Tell your story yourself, in your own way, to the reporter.”

Everything inside him rebelled at the idea. “Go more public? No way.”

“If it’s handled right, it’ll work. Look, we can talk to the people in Dana’s office. There are some great spin doctors on her staff. They’ll help us come up with something. This guy, Foley? Dana’s known him for years. You can trust him to tell it right.”

Quinn scrubbed his face with his hands. “Okay. I’m willing to talk about the possibility.”

“Good. I’ll arrange a meeting in Dana’s office for this afternoon. I’ll give you a call. Answer your phone, okay?”

Quinn nodded. After Sam left, Quinn took a shower, shaved and fixed himself scrambled eggs and toast. He ignored the image of the hurt in Claire’s eyes that kept popping into his head. Sam called, setting the meeting for four o’clock. It meant he had four hours to kill.

He looked at the phone, then walked away from it. He wandered to the window overlooking the courtyard, saw a dog run across it. Rase?

Then he saw Claire playing with him, running away, the dog nipping at her heels. What was she doing there? She’d left over an hour ago.

She grabbed Rase’s leash the next time he went by. He danced a circle around her, tying her up. She unwound herself. He could see her laugh, could almost hear it in his head.

Why are you still here?

It didn’t matter, he realized. She was there.

And he needed her.

Driven by that need he hurried down his stairs and into the courtyard. She was smiling, and looking so beautiful. Rase spotted him, barked, then jerked on the leash toward Quinn. He kept walking until he reached her.

“Hey, M.Q., we’re—”

He kissed her. Surprise made her go stiff for a few seconds, then she made a throaty sound, wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back. She tasted like…Claire. Warm, sweet, sexy. He wrapped her closer, heard her sigh loudly. He lifted his head, waited until she opened her eyes then kissed her again, angling his head the other way. He dragged one hand through her hair, pulling the band out to free it, then running his fingers through the silky softness.

He lifted her into his arms.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, looking around.

“Applying a new rule.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“Every time you kiss me like that I’m taking you to bed.”

“Oh.” Her voice got quieter, softer. “Oh.” She smiled. “How nice. Except it was more you kissing me.”

“You want to change that rule, P.A.?”

“Absolutely not. Just defining the parameters for future reference.”

Rase ran ahead of them then circled back. She’d dropped his leash. It trailed in his wake.

“You really need to train that mutt.”

“He doesn’t listen to me.” She nuzzled Quinn’s neck.

The feel of her breath against his skin was like tiny lightning strikes inside him. The touch of her fingers slipping under his collar weakened his knees.

He turned his head and kissed her. “Why were you in the courtyard?”

“I was working up the nerve to knock again. I couldn’t seem to manage it.”

“So you put yourself in a position where I would see you?”

“I’d almost given up. I was leaving the decision to you. I figured if you didn’t want to see me again, you wouldn’t come out.”

“I didn’t see you until a minute ago.” He kissed her again then climbed the stairs to his front door.

“You can put me down.” She said it halfheartedly.

“I’m trying to be romantic here, P.A.”

She kissed his temple, his jaw, the spot just in front of his ear, then just below it. He felt her tongue drag along his neck. He sucked in a breath.

“You are very romantic,” she said. “But I’m not light.”

He grunted as if agreeing with her. She bopped him on the shoulder.

“You asked for it,” he said with a grin.

When he got to his bedroom, he kicked the door shut on Rase, who whined his displeasure at being left out. Then Quinn laid her on the bed before he dropped onto his back beside her, panting.

“See?” she said, rolling onto her side, bringing herself close to him. “There was no reason for the big romantic ges—” She squealed as he hooked an arm around her and brought her on top of him.

“You’re not even winded,” she said accusingly. “Cheater.”

She crossed her arms on his chest and rested her chin there, looking him in the eye.

“Beautiful,” he said, running his fingers down her hair, slipping the blond tresses behind her ears. “Beautiful Claire with the pretty blue eyes.”

She went quiet and still.

“I think you’re very handsome, too,” she said.

He smiled at her earnestness.

“And very strong.” She trailed a finger across his lips. He sucked it into his mouth.

“Sit up.” He softened the order with a kiss to her palm, then helped her straddle his hips. He peeled her T-shirt over her head, revealing a sports bra that wasn’t as easy to remove, and got her to laughing.

She turned serious when he cupped her breasts, letting their weight rest in his palms as he ran his thumbs over her nipples, hard and tight and tempting. He maneuvered their bodies until he could rest his head on a pillow, then he took her hands and set them on the vertical bars of his headboard, bringing her breasts close to his face. He swirled his tongue around a nipple as she let it dip into his mouth. After hearing her breath catch he sucked the nipple deep as he massaged the flesh around it. She moved her lower body along his, finding a rhythm, already driving him crazy.

“You feel so good,” she said, arching her back, closing her eyes.

“So do you.” He jackknifed up, an arm wrapped around her waist, keeping her close, then he pulled off his T-shirt and tossed it aside. She stroked his chest with her fingers, then used her mouth, hunching over him. Her teeth scraped the tender skin around his navel. She slid her fingertips along his waistband, slipped them under his jeans just enough to torment.

He wanted to be patient and attentive to her needs, but his own rose up, demanding he take more, give more. Do more.

He pulled off her shoes and socks, slipped his hands under her shorts to cup her rear and slid her shorts off, leaving her naked, then got himself undressed without losing contact with her. They sat facing each other, knees bent, legs entwined. She dragged her hands down his chest, his abdomen. She wrapped a hand around him, explored him with teasing fingertips, drove him wild. He wanted to close his eyes and just enjoy her attention, but he was also enjoying watching her as he stroked her intimately. Her legs dropped open a little wider. He delved a little deeper, with featherlight touches. Finally he had to wrap a hand around her wrist, stopping her from taking him too far, too soon.

“Just enjoy,” he said. “Lie back.”

She fell back. He lifted her to his mouth. She clenched the quilt when he used his tongue on her slowly, lightly. Words tumbled from her, breathless, nonsensical, demanding. She lurched higher; he held her there. A long, low sound filled the room as she gave in to his pleasuring. He didn’t let her come all the way down but poised himself above her, pressed into her, closed his eyes at how tight and hot she was. She dug her fingers into his back as he plunged and retreated, plunged and retreated. The room filled with her flattering sounds, then he joined in, driving, exploding—achingly, relentlessly, soul satisfyingly.

He pressed his head to hers a minute later. She smelled like lemons and woman. He closed his eyes and memorized it.

“Quinn,” she whispered, squeezing him when he relaxed against her.

He lifted his head and kissed her as they both struggled to catch their breath. “What?”

“Nothing.” She cupped his face. “Just Quinn.”

“As in, ‘Thank you, Quinn.’ Or, ‘That was the best sex of my life, Quinn,’” he teased.

“Your ego’s big enough without me adding to it,” she said lightly, although something serious lingered in her eyes.

He didn’t want to know what it was. Not now. There was a lot left unsaid between them. Whether or not it ever got said would be determined in the future. For now, he only wanted to give and take pleasure. It was enough.

They lingered in bed until Rase started slamming himself against the door. Quinn got up to let him in and tossed Claire’s scattered clothes to her, picking up his own to put on.

Rase ran into the room, leaped onto the bed and staked his claim there. “How did Rase and Jenn get along?” Quinn asked when they both were dressed.

“Rase likes everyone.” She wrestled with the dog. “Don’t you, boy?”

His tail whipping back and forth, Rase barked and grinned.

“Did Jenn like him?” Quinn asked.

“She seemed to. Why?”

“Just curious.” Dogs determine truth about people better than humans do, he thought.

“I mean, she didn’t ask about him in her e-mail or anything, but she didn’t care if he jumped up on her.”

“E-mail?”

“Oh! I forgot to tell you. There was an e-mail waiting from Jenn when we got back from Santa Barbara.”

Fifteen

Claire dawdled. She stared into space. She sighed.

Rase ran circles around her in the kitchen, reminding her it was time for his dinner. She ignored him until he dragged his bowl across the floor and nudged it against her ankles with his nose.

She laughed, fed him, then leaned her elbows against the kitchen counter and sighed again.

She’d been in this ridiculous condition since Quinn left. He’d followed her home earlier and read the meaningless e-mail from Jenn: “Just checking in. I’m fine. Hope you are, too. Love, Jenn.” Then he’d gone to a four o’clock meeting.

“Come back when you’re done,” she’d said.

“If I can.”

She would ask him to spend the night. They could lie in bed in the dark and talk. She had so many questions for him—about his father and mother, and his life before and since his father went to prison.

When the phone rang she grabbed it on the first ring. “Hello?”

“You’ll never find me.”

Claire’s good mood evaporated. “Jenn?”

“Mom told me about the P.I. you’ve got on my tail. You’re spinning your wheels, little sister. You will never find me. Not until I want to be found.”

How did Marie— Oh. The newspaper article. She’d come to her own conclusions. “I’m not looking for you,” Claire said.

“I’m not stupid.”

“I was looking for you. I stopped.”

“Why?” Suspicion layered the word.

“Because I’m done bailing you out, Jenn.”

“What makes you think I need bailing out?”

“I saw Craig Beecham.”

Several beats passed. “When?”

“Three days ago.”

“Why? Why would you do a crazy thing like that?”

“Believe it or not, I was trying to help you.”

Jenn muttered a string of curses Claire hadn’t heard her say before. “What did he say?” Jenn asked finally.

“He said to tell you that his love for you will take him to the ends of the earth. That whatever it takes, he will find you.”

“And you assume what from that?”

“That you’ve got something he wants.” It hurt Claire to admit that. She’d wanted to be wrong about her sister, wanted to believe that Jenn was a good person. “He didn’t say it with any romantic tone, Jenn. It was a threat.”

“Don’t you ever go back to see him, do you hear me?”

“I have no intention of—”

The line went dead.

Quinn hadn’t even knocked yet when Claire’s front door opened. She must’ve been watching for him.

“Hi. Jenn just called,” she said. “She—”

“Has anyone called since?” He headed for the kitchen, and the nearest phone.

“No, she—”

“Hang on.” He dialed *69 and listened to the recorded message. “Unavailable at this time. No voice mail.” He dropped the receiver back onto the cradle. “What did she say?”

Frowning, Claire crossed her arms. “Well, first of all, you and I decided not to search for her anymore, so what was all that about?”

“Habit,” he answered as he scratched Rase’s ears. The dog hadn’t jumped up on him, hadn’t needed any command at all. He’d just wagged his tail and waited to be noticed. At least Quinn had accomplished something.

Claire recapped the phone conversation. “Marie must know where Jenn is,” she said at the end.

“Maybe. But maybe Jenn just happened to call her today.”

“Oh. You could be right. I talked to Marie today, though, and she didn’t mention it. She just said she was leaving on vacation tomorrow morning.”

“Going where?”

“She wouldn’t say.”

“Didn’t or wouldn’t?”

“Wouldn’t. She implied she was going with a man. I didn’t ask questions.” Claire moved a little closer to him. “Your meeting lasted a long time.”

He wondered if Marie was going off to meet up with Jenn. “I met with John Foley afterward. The journalist,” he added when she didn’t seem to make the connection. He’d made a deal with Foley to give him the interview he wanted, first because he hadn’t identified ARC as his firm, but more importantly because Quinn wanted a story told about what happens to the family members of felons, how their lives are affected forever. If his story stopped one person from committing a crime, it would be worth it to Quinn.

And as the political spin doctors predicted, he’d made an advocate of Foley, which was far better than an adversary. Who knew when that might come in handy?

“Is he writing another story?” Claire asked.

“Yeah. You can read it in the Sunday paper,” he said, exhaustion hitting him like a sledgehammer.

“Tomorrow? That’s fast work.” She gestured toward the refrigerator. “Are you hungry? I made some soup.”

He looked at her pretty face, at the concern in her eyes. Concern for him. What a good person you are, Claire Winston. Would she be as kind and selfless if she knew….

He pulled her into his arms, laid his cheek against her hair and closed his eyes. “No. I’m not hungry.” He wanted to sleep with her. Just sleep. Words kept popping into his head, though.

Ethics. He hadn’t told her he was continuing the hunt for her sister. Hadn’t told her he’d asked the D.A. to find Jenn’s P.O. box. Hadn’t told her he was a pretty good computer hacker and he was going to try to trace the route of her sister’s e-mail. Hadn’t told her he would ask the D.A. to see if they could track Jenn through the *69 callback. Three options, all of them long shots.

Respect. He’d spent his adult life earning it, making up for his parents, who’d lost it. He wanted his name associated with honesty and trustworthiness, and yet he was being dishonest with the one person to come along in a long time who deserved his honesty the most, and who trusted him.

Necessity. He was a problem solver. He could not let his hands be tied, not by Claire or anyone. He needed to remove from Claire’s life the problem Jenn was causing. He wasn’t sure how yet, but he would do it.

“Will you stay the night with me?” she asked, her words muffled by his shirt.

“Yes.” He bent to kiss her, tenderly, without the passion of the other kisses. “I’d like to just sleep….”

“Yes.” She took his hand and led him from the kitchen.

Rase’s nails tapped the floor as he followed. In Claire’s bedroom, he went straight to his dog bed, circled it three times, then plopped down.

Quinn and Claire undressed and got into bed from opposite sides. She turned out the small bedside lamp, plunging them into darkness. He felt her reach for his hand, and entwined his fingers with hers.

“I’m a good listener,” she said quietly.

He squeezed her hand. “Maybe another time, okay? I didn’t sleep last night.”

“Okay. G’night.”

“’Night.”

Rase sighed. Claire rubbed her thumb along Quinn’s finger. Peace settled over him like a down comforter.

“What are you thinking?” he asked after a while, his eyes closed but his thoughts still whirling.

“That I didn’t wash my face or brush my teeth.”

He smiled. “That’s all?”

“No.”

He waited a while. “Not saying any more?”

“Maybe another time.”

Again she got him with his own words. “I’m sorry about, you know, just sleeping.”

“I’m not.” She rolled toward him and kissed his shoulder. “As much as I love making love with you, this is nice. Really nice.”

He lifted his arm around her, drawing her close. When they were skin to skin, he slept.

Early Sunday morning Quinn sat in Claire’s kitchen. With his cell phone to his ear, he also listened for sounds from upstairs that she was awake, but so far, nothing.

D.A. investigator Peter Santos, irritated at being awakened on a Sunday morning, said coolly, “Can’t this wait until business hours tomorrow?”

“My gut says no,” Quinn answered. “Did you get the post-office box information on Jennifer Winston or not?”

“Yeah, we got it, but Magnussen says we can’t afford to stake out the place on the slim possibility she’ll show up. The budget won’t support the low odds.”

Which is exactly what Quinn had counted on. “I want permission to take care of it. Tell the D.A. I won’t charge you unless I locate her.” He wanted to talk to Jenn, to convince her to come forward. His other two long shots hadn’t paid off yet.

“If we give you the info, you’re working for us. You have to follow protocol,” Santos replied.

Which meant he’d be a police agent for them, like when he first was hired to trail Jenn. Which meant obeying the law.

Which also meant turning her in if he found her.

“I know the rules,” he said to Santos.

“Hold on, Gerard. I’ve gotta call and check. Magnussen isn’t gonna be happy about a six a.m. wake-up call.”

Tough, Quinn thought. Then for at least the fifth time, he skimmed the newspaper story from the Sunday edition while he waited. It was a good article, balanced and thorough—and cathartic. What caught him off guard were the quotes attributed to his mother. Had his father given Foley the contact information? Had Foley interviewed Robert, too? Maybe a third part of the story was still to be written.

His mother talked about her life in self-exile, about all she’d sacrificed, but she didn’t get personal enough to make Quinn squirm.

He wondered what she looked like….

Santos came back on the line. “Magnussen wants to know why you’re doing it for free.”

“I lost her.”

A few seconds passed. “Yeah, okay. Here’s the info.”

Quinn copied it down. The post office was only a few blocks from Claire’s house. Obviously he couldn’t stake it out for all the hours it was open, but he would be there as much as possible, starting this morning.

He just needed to keep Claire out of the picture.

Quinn was prepared for a long, boring day. He’d awakened Claire with a kiss and told her he had an assignment. She’d looked sleepy and sexy, and he’d wished he could crawl back in bed with her. He’d told her he would call her later, and to go back to sleep.

He parked where he could see the front of the building. While he waited, he decided he would ask Sam to loan him a couple of L.A. investigators for the week, which was all the time he would give to the hope of Jenn making an appearance. The fact that Marie was leaving made him think Jenn was out of town, maybe even out of the country, but he wouldn’t give up until he’d exhausted the possibilities.

An hour went by. Yawning, he wished he’d grabbed something to eat. He kept eyeing a diner across the street until he finally decided to get coffee and breakfast to go. The restaurant had a big window in front. He wouldn’t miss anything.

He jogged across the street, placed his order, then went to stand by the window to wait for it. While he’d spoken with the waitress, a white van had pulled up in front of the post office, blocking his view of the entrance. Quinn came to attention. No. It couldn’t be….

“I’ll be right back,” he said to the waitress, then went outside and down the street a little to where he could see the license plate. He recognized it.

He started across the street just as a woman climbed the stairs to the building. Jenn. No doubt about it. Even though she wore a baseball cap, sweatshirt and jeans, it was Jenn. He would recognize that power-walk anywhere.

The man in the van climbed out and followed her, but stopped at the bottom of the stairs and scrutinized the surroundings. Quinn sped up. The guy intended to snatch Jenn in broad daylight? Did he think no one would try to stop him? If he felt that confident, he must have a gun. Quinn didn’t.

He heard a dog bark—and recognized that bark.

He spun around. Claire and Rase were jogging up the street. She waved.

He swore. “Go home. Now!” He didn’t wait for her reaction but ran toward the post office to thwart the kidnapping.

The man saw him coming. Quinn froze first, then started up the steps after him—toward Jenn. The perfect hostage situation. Quinn lunged, caught him by the legs and brought him down at the moment Jenn emerged. She screamed. Claire yelled her name. Seconds later Rase flew by Quinn and up the stairs. He ran circles around Jenn, lassoing her with his leash.

One problem solved.

Quinn searched the guy for weapons as he bucked and fought. An underarm holster yielded a semiauto.

“Run, Claire!” Jenn yelled. “Run!”

“You run!” the guy shouted to Jenn. “Keys are in the van.”

But she couldn’t go anywhere with the leash wrapped around her ankles. Rase wagged his tail hard, which kept his body in motion. She couldn’t grab him to unhook the leash.

Claire, disregarding Quinn’s order, and her sister’s, came into the middle of the fray.

“Quinn,” she panted. “What can I—”

“Quinn?” Jenn said, shock in her voice. “You’re Quinn?”

“Yeah—”

“That’s my bodyguard you’ve got pinned down. Let him go.”

Bodyguard?

“Let him go.”

Not until they’d sorted out everything. He hauled the guy up but kept a hold on him.

“You lied,” Jenn said to Claire, her eyes cold, her mouth hard. “You said you’d given up looking for me.”

“I did. I swear.” Panic coated her words. She looked at Quinn for confirmation.

Sirens pierced the air. A moment later two police cars slammed to a halt and four officers, weapons drawn, spilled out of the cars.

Not so boring a day, after all, Quinn thought as he put up one hand, half obeying a shouted command. Not so boring at all.

Claire had plenty to say, but not from the back seat of a police car. She, Rase and Quinn were being driven home after being questioned. She had never been so angry. Never even close. Rase, picking up on her mood, whined. From the front seat, Quinn glanced over his shoulder. She wouldn’t look at him. Couldn’t.

Many questions had been answered. Marie hadn’t been about to leave town. She’d had a face-lift, financed by the check Jenn had sent her, and she was laying low until she healed. She hadn’t wanted anyone to know.

As for the red convertible, Jenn had stowed it at a garage. After Claire threatened to have it towed, Jenn arranged for it to be picked up. That’s why the white van had returned that day. Jenn’s bodyguard had waited for Claire to leave the house, then he’d driven the convertible a few blocks away and returned for his van. He hadn’t been back since.

And so many more revelations, Claire thought as they pulled up in front of her house. So many more.

She thanked the officer for the ride home, scooted out of the car and jogged up her stairs. She knew Quinn was right behind her, so she left the door flung open and walked straight to the kitchen to leave Rase there while she and Quinn talked. Rase would take Quinn’s side. She wasn’t putting up with that.

She almost bumped into Quinn as she exited the kitchen, pulling the door shut behind her. “In the living room,” she said, coming to a halt before their bodies touched. She stared straight ahead—which meant his chest filled her view. Sadness tried to replace her anger. She shoved it aside. But, oh, what they could have had together….

He stepped aside. She passed him. When she got to the living room, she considered where she might sit, then chose to stand instead.

“I told you she was innocent,” she said.

He stayed standing, too, not close enough to touch but not across the room, either. “So you believe her story?” he asked.

“You don’t?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes, it matters.” Everything matters. She finally looked at him. His expression was…neutral. Emotionless. Businesslike.

“I believe some of it,” he said.

“Like what?”

“I believe she was scared. When she said Beecham was evil and that she’d been trying to break up with him for months before he was arrested, I believe that. And that she moved in with you because she was afraid to be alone, and then left here because she was afraid that you might get hurt? I believe that, too. I believe it because she yelled at you to run. She was scared for you.” He took a step forward. “Claire—”

“What don’t you believe?”

“Do we have to do this?”

“Yes.”

His mouth tightened. “I didn’t buy that she’d located the diamonds only a couple of weeks ago and mailed them to herself for safekeeping, leaving them in her P.O. box rather than having them in her possession.”

“Why don’t you believe that?”

“Once she had them, why not turn them in, if that was her goal? Beecham wouldn’t have any more reason to have her followed or stalked or whatever it was he had arranged from prison. If he did. We have no proof of that.”

Claire didn’t have an answer for that. She hadn’t thought to question Jenn about it. “She thought she was being followed.”

“Not since the day she ducked out of here.”

“Well, you should be happy. After she caught Santos tailing her, she’d only assumed someone else would be following her. She hadn’t spotted you, after all.”

“Yeah, that’s all that matters to me.”

His sarcasm made her feel guilty. He’d been doing his job. There was plenty to fault him for, but not for doing his job. One of the things she’d admired about him was his competency.

“Why exactly are you mad at me, Claire?”

Because I fell in love with you and you didn’t fall in love with me. The words stuck in her heart, held there by other things that mattered, too. Like honesty. “You lied to me and made a liar out of me.”

“How?”

“I told Jenn we weren’t looking for her. She came out of hiding because I told her that. You agreed to stop hunting her.”

“I made a decision based on what I believe had to be done. And, Claire, she told me the newspaper article about me this morning spurred her out of the house. She didn’t want to live like a victim, hiding from the world like I had.”

“That’s right. She was going to get the diamonds and turn them in to the authorities today.”

Quinn said nothing.

“You don’t believe that, either,” she said.

“Frankly, I don’t know. I don’t think we’ll ever know the truth.”

“You called the police on her.”

“That I didn’t do. Someone observing what was happening in front of the post office called it in. I’d fully intended to follow her home and try to talk to her. That’s all. Just talk to her. To try to convince her to come forward.” He moved closer and set a hand on her shoulder. “Why are you so angry, Claire? Everything turned out okay. The problem is solved.”

“Spoken just like a man.”

His brows lifted.

“You really don’t understand, do you?” She pulled out of reach and walked away. Her throat burned. “You didn’t trust me.”

“That’s not true.”

“You didn’t tell me you were still trying to find Jenn. You didn’t trust me. And you didn’t honor my wishes.”

“I didn’t want you involved in it anymore. I didn’t want you hurt. What would you have done if I’d told you?”

“Insisted you stop.”

“Which is why I didn’t. She had to be found, Claire. Surely you see that.”

“All I know is you kept it from me. If you’d explained it, maybe I would’ve understood. I trusted you.” She turned to face him. There was emotion on his face now. It had gotten personal. “Now I can’t.”

“Ever?”

What did it matter? He wasn’t a long-term guy. He’d said so. They might as well break it off now, before—

Before what? She already loved him. What more was there?

“Claire.”

There was pain in his voice. She heard it. She ignored it. If she couldn’t trust him to be honest with her, to share with her, what was there?

“You need to leave,” she said.

He stared at her. Her head roared with the sound of her grandfather clock, ticking.

Finally he took a step back and shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Go,” she said, the word harsh and without volume or strength.

He extended his right hand. She didn’t want to shake his hand. Didn’t want to touch him. She would fly into his arms, where she’d wanted to be forever, and now knew she wouldn’t be. Everything had happened too fast.

But he kept his hand out until she finally extended hers. He tucked something against her palm, then turned and walked away.

She opened her hand and looked at the shell she’d given him after their beautiful stay in Santa Barbara. He’d carried it in his pocket with him. And he’d given it back.

Trancelike she went to the kitchen and opened the door. Rase stood there, his tail barely wagging. He whimpered. She sank to the floor, wrapped her arms around him and cried, for all that was and for all that might have been.

Sixteen

“Are you crazy?” Jenn threw her hands in the air and walked away. “How stupid can you be?” she asked, as if she hadn’t insulted Claire enough with the first question.

Claire turned toward Marie, who sat like a queen on her throne, her face bandaged but her posture regal. Marie’s apartment seemed stiflingly small all of a sudden.

“Don’t look at me. I agree with Jenny.”

“You let that gorgeous man go because he was trying to help you and protect you? Of all the idiotic—” Jenn shook her head. “I got you all sexed up with your new look, then you waste it.”

“You got me all sexed up so that you could make a getaway,” Claire countered.

Jenn shrugged. “Two results for the price of one action.”

Claire had sent Quinn away a week ago. She’d been miserable ever since. Even Rase had been looking at her with accusation in his eyes. She couldn’t stand it anymore. She knew if she told Marie and Jenn what had happened, they would push her into action. She’d wanted to be pushed so that she couldn’t claim responsibility if she failed. She could blame Marie and Jenn.

She missed him. Missed his rare smiles, his dry wit, his protective arms. His wonderful kisses. She missed sharing life with him. Sleeping beside him. Saturday night was the loneliest night of the week—she’d found that out last night. She’d even driven to his house, saw that both of his cars were there, then left, too nervous to go to his door.

She wanted him to come to her, as unfair as that sounded. She wanted him to beg.

No, she didn’t. She wanted him to love her.

Marie laid a hand on her arm. “I see you wearing white,” she said. Her eyes—which was all Claire could see well with all the bandages on her face—were serious and a little vacant, like when she’d made the prediction to Quinn about facing his past.

Claire’s heart got a little hopeful, even though she knew Marie was putting on a show for her. “That’s impossible. He’s not a long-term guy. He told me so.”

“So, enjoy the short term.” Jenn made a rude sound. “Stupid.”

Only a sister could get away with calling her that. Claire curled her hands into fists. She stared at the floor. Well, really, what did she have to lose by trying? She’d reacted out of hurt and anger last week, and maybe even out of relief, oddly, that Jenn was okay. She hadn’t seen that he’d been doing everything he could to help not just her, but Jenn, too.

She blew out a breath. “Okay.” She flattened her hands against her thighs and shoved herself up. “Okay, I will.” Her heart thundered. She hugged Jenn and then Marie. “Wish me luck.”

“Love and luck, honey,” Marie said.

“Come, Rase.”

“Leave the damn dog here,” Jenn said. “Just let me know if you need me to keep him tonight. And remember, little sister, if things work out with you and Mr. Save the World, you have me to thank.”

Claire considered the irony. Rase stared up at her, his tail wagging at medium speed, as if knowing she had something important to do. She crouched down and kissed his head. “He changed your life, too, didn’t he?”

He barked then grinned.

“I’ll try. I may be setting us up for more heartache, but it’s worth a try.”

Heart in hand, she drove to his house. She felt strange without Rase. Empty-handed. She liked having him along, liked having the leash to hold on to as she walked up Quinn’s stairs.

She thought she was going to faint as she pushed his bell. Her legs shook. She rang the bell again and knocked, as well. Nothing. She lowered her hand, looked at the ground. Tears stung her eyes. She blinked them back.

She didn’t have a plan B.

Or did she?

Quinn had gotten good at ignoring the doorbell. He had no trouble disregarding it now, and the knocking that followed.

It would stop soon.

When it did, he closed his eyes again. He was stretched out on his sofa, where he’d pretty much been living for the past week. He’d showered when he couldn’t stand himself any longer, but he hadn’t shaved and he’d barely eaten. Sleep came in spurts. Dark, tangled dreams shook him awake then lingered for hours.

He heard a noise. Someone was in his house. How could that be?

He waited for the tiptoeing intruder to reach the top of the stairs, then he jackknifed up.

Claire gave a little scream.

Claire?

“How’d you get in?” he asked, probably too harshly, but he was stunned.

“I memorized your code.”

She memorized— From the last time she was there, when he’d carried her up his stairs? He’d punched in the code to the keyless entry panel. She’d been watching. Memorizing.

“Guess you should’ve blocked the panel, hmm?” she asked, bravado in her voice.

Score one for Claire.

She came toward him, scanning his face. “You’re sick.”

He shook his head. He had no doubt he looked like he’d been struck with the plague, but he’d only been sick at heart.

She leaned over, almost putting her hand on his forehead before she straightened, entwining her fingers. Hope took some baby steps in his heart.

He watched her silently examine his loft. His living room was a disaster—newspapers strewn everywhere, mail stacked on the coffee table. Dirty dishes and empty beer bottles took up the remaining space.

She was obviously stunned at the mess, especially since the last time she was there she’d pronounced his home “very neat.”

“What happened?” she asked.

You. The word jammed in his throat. He saw her focus on some pages he’d printed off the Internet—flight information for London.

“I’m going to see my mother,” he said.

“Oh, I’m so glad. You won’t regret it.”

“I hope not. I’m going back to see my father, too. That should make you happy.”

“The point is, it will make you happy.”

He shrugged. “Why are you here, Claire? What’s wrong?” he asked. It must have taken something big to bring her to his house in person.

“Nothing’s wrong.”

He waited. Hope began to take strides. “Nothing?”

“Well. Maybe that’s not true.” She started picking up the newspapers and stacking them. “Maybe everything’s wrong.”

Hope jumped up and cheered.

“Maybe I realized that I was wrong, and you were right and— And I needed to tell you that.” She still wasn’t making eye contact. “From the way you look, maybe everything’s wrong for you, too.”

He stood. She said nothing else, just stared ahead at the opposite wall. He came up behind her, touched her shoulders lightly, felt her tremble.

“Everything’s wrong,” he said quietly. “I’ve missed you.”

She dropped the newspapers and pushed her hands against her mouth as a sob rose up from her.

“Claire.” He turned her toward him. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

“I love you,” he said, the first-time words spilling out joyously.

She nodded. Her eyes said the words back, although she tried to say them out loud. Her arms snaked around his neck. She burrowed into him. “Love you, too,” she finally said. “I was stupid.”

“No.” He stroked her hair. “I was. I should’ve confided in you. Trusted you. I’ve never had anyone to do that with before. I’ve been alone so long….”

“You don’t have to be anymore.”

He tightened his hold on her and laughed a little. “Aren’t you even going to let me be the one to ask—”

“I didn’t mean that,” she interrupted, horror in her voice as she pulled back and looked him in the eye. “I know you’re not long-term. I just want you to know that it doesn’t matter to me. I’ll take whatever I can get.”

“Really?” He didn’t believe her for a second. Well, he believed she would try, but she wasn’t cut out for that kind of relationship. All or nothing, he figured. And he sure as hell wasn’t letting it be nothing.

“About those rules of engagement,” he said.

“Attraction.”

“No. I got it right.” He waited for his words to set in. Her eyes widened. He saw he’d made his point. “I love you, Claire. People will tell us we’re crazy for going into this so fast. But I’m as sure about wanting to marry you as I’ve been about anything in my life. Please say yes.”

“Rule number— I don’t know what number it is,” she said with a smile. “Never stop telling me you love me. No changing that rule.”

“Deal. And rule number…whatever. When I ask you a question, you answer.”

She tightened her hold around his neck and pulled herself snug against him. “Yes.”

“Yes to the rule or yes to—”

“Yes to everything.”

“You say that now, P.A., but at some point you’re going to want a do-over.”

“Only for this,” she said, right before she kissed him, over and over and over again. Maybe someday they would get it right.

ISBN: 978-1-4268-7696-7

RULES OF ATTRACTION

Copyright © 2005 by Susan Bova Crosby

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[*]The Lone Wolves

†Behind Closed Doors