Broken, p.10
Broken, page 10
Then things changed. Suddenly, drastically, things changed, and once more, Don had to figure out the best way to get through this mess without having it blow up in his face. There were certain things he had no control over—certain things on a specific timetable. So very little that left him maneuvering room. So very little.
Sweat beaded on Don’s upper lip as James said, “Just be aware—my patience is rapidly coming to an end.”
The call disconnected and Don lowered the phone, staring at it nervously. Damn it, he didn’t know what to do. This wasn’t the sort of mess he had signed on to handle.
But how could he walk away? Anytime he tried to even consider it, he remembered the bruises. The blood. Soft white skin swollen and discolored.
Don didn’t see himself as a particularly strong man, and definitely not a brave one. He was a numbers man, a facts man. A knight in shining armor, he was not.
Truly, there was only so much he could do. Only so much that he could be expected to do. Only so much he knew how to do.
JAMES Morgan disconnected and tossed the phone to the desktop, eying the neatly typed list that rested on the blotter. He’d been debating this next step over and over for quite some time.
It was completely unacceptable for his wife to remain hidden for as long as she had, but up until the past few months, he’d forced himself to wait. To bide his time.
He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, staring out his window at the glass-and-concrete canyons of Los Angeles. It had been two years. Legally, he could’ve started divorce proceedings after one year. It would be a time-consuming process of forcing a spouse who had abandoned him. So many things he’d have to do that would require he share his private business with others. He would much rather find his wife and deal with her his way.
Quietly, of course. He sneered, remembering Don’s comments about proceeding with caution. Foolish little weasel. Nobody understood the need for caution more than James. He had to handle this quietly, but he would handle it.
It was hard enough to deal with the cops under good circumstances. Harder still under bad circumstances. A rich man like him, and his wife disappeared. The police would automatically assume he had something to do with it. He’d already dealt with that once, and he had no desire to catch their interest again.
So he had kept calm, remained quiet, and trusted Don to do his job. Sooner or later, she’d mess up. Sooner or later, he’d find her. Then he would deal with her.
Deal with the humiliation of having her leave him. She’d pay for that. She’d pay for all the inconveniences he’d suffered. And it would be sweet—now that the heat of his rage had passed, once he did find her, he would be able to thoroughly enjoy her punishment.
Vengeance, after all, was a dish best served cold.
Don, as James had expected, still had no news. If by some slim chance there had been news, James would have been rather surprised. Very little surprised him, because he knew people. He understood their motivations, how they thought, how they reacted, what drove them to succeed or fail.
It had taken some time, though, to realize why Don had failed, time and again. Don wasn’t finding James’s wife because he didn’t truly want to. It was a sobering realization and one that had him picturing using Don’s skinny, ratlike face as a target for his many frustrations.
“James? Am I interrupting?”
He glanced up and realized he wasn’t alone. Pushing back from the desk, he made himself smile. “Not at all, Alison. You’re never an interruption.”
SEVEN
“YOU have to leave. Take as much money as you can, don’t use your credit cards. Don’t get a P.O. box. You need a job where they pay you cash, because if you pay taxes, he can find you like that. You can’t use a regular cell phone—get one of those pay-as-you-go.”
“How do we stay in contact?”
“I’ll have a phone, too. We’ll stay in contact.”
“How long? How long do we have to do this?”
Blister packs were a creation of the devil, Sara thought as she used a knife to slice open the prepaid cell phone’s package. She barely missed nicking her finger and ending up dropping the knife.
It was the one day a week she had off. After her new cell phone charged for a while, she was taking the old one to Best Buy and tossing it in the recycle bin. She’d already wiped every last call from it, then took the added precaution of wiping it down so that none of her fingerprints would be found on it.
Using gloves, she’d opened a new box of sandwich bags, put the cell phone and cord inside one bag, and then tucked that bag into another. She’d used the outer bag as a “glove” of sorts when she dumped it, keeping her prints off the phone and the bag that held it.
Even if somebody was so inclined to go through the damned recycle bin, there was no way to link it back to her. Paranoia, it was a lovely way to live. She knew all of her precautions were probably overkill, but she felt better doing them.
Once she managed to get the fricking blister pack open and the phone out, she plugged it in to charge. Then she settled down with a map she’d bought a few days earlier.
Plotting out her next route, figuring out her next move. It wasn’t something she really wanted to do, but she didn’t have much choice.
She’d been in St. Louis for close to three months now. It was time to move on. It was harder to think about than she’d anticipated, which meant she’d already waited too long.
Too long, and a huge part of the reason started with the letter Q. Although how in the hell that had happened, she didn’t know. They hadn’t so much as had a date. Other than that one very excellent kiss, they’d never even touched. Of course, during that very excellent kiss, they’d managed some very excellent touching as well.
It’s not the quantity of the time . . . it’s the quality.
Morosely, she muttered, “Why couldn’t he have been a lousy kisser?”
If he had been awful at kissing, no matter how hot he looked, she wouldn’t still be having all the hot and sweaty dreams she’d been having. But he was a very excellent kisser.
Still, kisses shouldn’t be enough to slow her down, make her change her routine—she couldn’t let them be.
Leaving shouldn’t feel so wrong.
Leaving him shouldn’t feel so wrong.
How had he become such a dominating presence in her life? She just didn’t get it. No dates. They never called each other. They knew next to nothing about each other.
Well, not entirely nothing. He knew she hated exercising and made herself do it anyway, and she knew that fact amused the hell out of him. He had gone running with her two more times in the past week, appearing silently out of his apartment in the basement while she stood out in the side yard. He ran alongside her and when she grumbled under her breath about how much she hated running, he teased her.
She knew he had a protective streak in him that probably should have her backing off, yet it was oddly appealing. Maybe it was because it seemed like some old-world chivalry more than anything else—something that should have seemed out of place with him, but instead, it fit.
She’d seen him come up out of his apartment to help Theresa carry in groceries. There had been a few nights when she’d gotten off the bus to find him waiting there—it might have freaked her out to some extent, except she had a feeling he was . . . well, watching out for her, in the protective kind of way, not in some uber-creepy stalker sort of way.
It had been a damn long time since she’d felt protected, and if it was anybody other than Quinn, it probably would have freaked her out. She didn’t want people watching out for her, didn’t want people noticing when she did things. Hell, she didn’t really even want people to notice her, and for the most part, they didn’t. After spending more than half of her life being the center of attention in some way, shape, or form, she had perfected the art of blending into the background.
It was wasted on Quinn. He noticed everything, it seemed . . . from what time she got off the bus, to what time she’d start her workout. She was getting too damned predictable—he had her timed down to practically the minute.
She hated that she’d become so predictable. She liked change, but she wanted it on her conditions. Changing just because she had no other choice only served to piss her off.
Lately, she longed for some kind of consistency, some kind of normalcy. And she longed for the chance to spend time with him, even though she knew that wasn’t smart.
“Girl, you have got to stop thinking about him,” she muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. She shot a look at the clock and swore, realizing she’d spent the past half hour daydreaming about Quinn instead of taking care of priorities.
Pushing him out of her mind took a concentrated effort, but she finally managed to plot out several potential moves, memorizing each one, making mental notes after consulting assorted bus and train schedules.
It was nearly five by the time the phone had taken a sufficient charge, and she took a few more minutes to activate it, yet another tedious task that she’d gotten used to. Just like moving every few months. Just like memorizing bus and train schedules. Just like adapting to a new city and the minute she was used to things, changing them all over again. Just like sending out a text message that held nothing more than her new phone number. Just like making those rare calls where she hoped for good news, even as she knew it wasn’t going to happen.
Tucking the new phone into the clip on her belt, she took the plastic-bagged old one and dumped it into the small purse she carried. A glance at the clock assured her she’d have time to catch the Metrolink if she hurried.
She was jogging down the front steps when Quinn pulled up in front of the house. His motorcycle was a shiny, slick piece of work, all black paint and silver chrome.
Geez, he was the living embodiment of a girl’s bad-boy fantasy—worn jeans that clung to long, lean legs, his wheat blond hair just a little too long, a heavy growth of stubble darkening his face. Straddling that bike, he made a picture that was almost too perfect to be real.
Oh. Oh, man, girl, you gotta be careful here . . .
Her heart skipped a beat as she eyed him on the bike, then it jumped into her throat as he turned his head and met her gaze.
A slow smile curled his lips, but that wasn’t what had her heart lodged just above her trachea.
It was the very vivid, very ugly black eye.
Screw being careful. She strode over to him and caught his face in her hands, turning it to the side to better study the bruise. It spread out over his cheek and there was swelling as well as discoloration.
“What happened?” she asked, unaware that her voice had gone flat; unaware that she was gingerly probing the bone just under his eye with gentle fingers.
The only thought in her mind was that somebody had hurt him.
“Got hit,” Quinn said easily. He’d been checked over for injuries often enough to recognize when it was being done by a professional. The calm, practical tone of her voice, the steady and skilled way she examined his bruise, they both said, loud and clear, that she had training, although he wasn’t exactly sure what kind. Something medical.
He could have told her that he’d already been subjected to a quick examination by a paramedic earlier, but that might make her stop touching him. So he sat there and enjoyed the feel of her fingers, cool and competent, on his face.
“Yes, Quinn. I can see that you got hit,” she said, tongue in cheek. “What I’m wondering is why . . . ?”
“Got in somebody’s way and the guy wasn’t too happy about it.”
The guy had been built like a fucking Mack truck, too. Quinn’s face hurt like a son of a bitch. Up until he’d seen Sara heading out, the only thought in his mind had been taking some Motrin, putting a bag of ice on his face, and collapsing into bed.
It was amazing what just the sight of her did to him. How in the hell could a woman manage to both soothe and excite at the same time? Sara managed it, though. His blood heated and his heartbeat sped up and at the same time, the ache in his head started to recede. By the time Sara finished looking him over, he was no longer in the mood to fall into bed, unless she took the fall with him.
“You done playing doctor?” he asked, keeping his tone light.
That blank mask appeared on her face and the smile she gave him was the same empty, polite one she’d give a stranger. He hated that smile. He wanted the real one, the one that made her eyes light up.
“I need to make my diagnosis first—I say you’ll have one hell of a headache later on,” she said, keeping her tone light.
“Already do. Or did. It’s not so bad now . . . but if you want to kiss me, that might help.” He reached out and toyed with the top button on her shirt.
“If it’s not too bad, then you don’t really need me to kiss you, do you?” She sidestepped neatly, taking herself and her buttons out of his reach.
“I think I heard somewhere about how it’s always a good idea to kiss a pretty lady.” He glanced at her purse, a small affair that settled neatly on her hip. The strap cut diagonally across her breasts and she kept her hand on it, a light, easy touch, but one that made him think she’d either had a purse stolen before or she was just used to the threat. “You heading out?”
“Yeah. Thought I might go down to Crestwood Center. It’s my day off, thought I’d pick up a book or two, get some pizza.” Absently, she reached up and started toying with the button the same way Quinn had been doing.
He stared at her hand and when she saw where he was looking, she blushed and lowered it to her side. Quinn felt a grin tugging on his lips. Man, what he wouldn’t give to see her slip that button free. Then the next. Then the next . . . revealing more and more of that soft, ivory skin.
“Want a ride?” he asked, forcing his mind away from her buttons and her soft ivory skin.
She blinked. Glanced down at the bike and then up at him. That careful, blank mask look fell away from her eyes and she gazed at him with blatant wariness written all over her face. “Ahh . . . I was going to catch the Metrolink.”
“Why?” He flicked a look at his watch and then smiled at her. “You’ll have to run to make it, and you hate exercising.”
“Oh, now that’s clever, Quinn.”
AM I on a date? Sara wondered.
She stood in the women’s restroom, staring at her reflection and trying to figure out the answer to that question. It shouldn’t be such a tricky one, but it was.
Granted, it had been a long time since she’d done the dating bit. Even then, she’d been more on the fringe of the dating scene. And nobody had ever grabbed her attention the way Quinn did. Her attention, her libido . . . more.
A group of girls came in, giggling, chattering, and blushing.
One of them was looking over her shoulder as she did. “Man, did you see him? He’s just so hawt.”
“I wonder how he got that black eye.”
Sara smiled at her reflection as the girls broke up into groups, some lingering by the mirror to fluff hair and fuss with makeup. A few drifted toward the stalls.
“You think he’s got a girlfriend?”
One of them rolled her eyes and said, “Stacy, he’s old.”
Stacy, a willowy blonde, gave a sigh. “He’s not old. I bet he’s only maybe ten years older than we are. Fifteen, tops.”
If they were talking about Quinn, and she was pretty sure they were, then Sara suspected they were looking at a bigger age gap than that. These kids wouldn’t care—Sara remembered being that age, remembered being utterly convinced of her own maturity.
Sighing, she brushed her hair back from her face and then set her shoulders. Coming in here to hide from Quinn and try to settle herself was only going to work if he didn’t realize she was hiding. If she lingered too much longer, he would figure her out. She circled around the girls and slipped out of the bathroom.
Quinn was waiting on the opposite wall just down the corridor, his eyes on hers. She paused by the water fountain to get a drink and as she straightened, a tired-looking young woman intercepted her. “Excuse me, miss . . .”
Sara politely listened to the girl’s hard-luck story, all the while eying the worn clothes, the lines of strain fanning out from her eyes. Before the woman had finished, Sara dipped a hand into her pocket. She pressed a ten into the woman’s hands. Tears welled in the woman’s eyes.
Uncomfortable, Sara moved to go around her.
Quinn watched her with a cocked brow before glancing over her shoulder to look at the other woman. From the corner of her eye, Sara could see the woman duck her head and shuffle around them, moving away at a fast clip.
“You realize that plenty of people will hand you those stories just to get you to shell out the cash—feeding you whatever lie they think will tug your heartstrings,” Quinn said.
As they started down the corridor, Sara shrugged. “I know. But if she’s just bullshitting me, that’s on her. I tried to help—best anybody can do.”
“And if you see her walking into a liquor store a half hour from now?”
“Same response . . . I realize she could be lying. But her actions have no effect on mine.” She shrugged again.
“So if you see her walking into a liquor store, you’re not going to get pissed, not going to feel a little manipulated?”
She pursed her lips, thinking about it. “I think I’d probably feel sorry for her. If that’s her idea of really living, then she definitely deserves some pity.”
Behind them, she heard some giggles and glanced back. The group of girls from the bathroom trailed along after them. The blonde Stacy looked Sara over from head to toe. One of her friends elbowed her. “I think I broke somebody’s heart just now,” she said, glancing up at Quinn. “There were some girls in the restroom sighing over some hawt guy in the hall, wondering how he got his black eye. One of them was curious about whether or not you had a girlfriend.”
His expression didn’t change, but there was a gleam in his eye. “Some hawt guy? What makes you think it was me?”
