Broken, p.22
Broken, page 22
Quinn shoved off the wall and stalked her way. “Why did you run?” he asked a third time. He didn’t shout. His voice actually dropped, and if he hadn’t been standing close enough to touch, she wouldn’t have heard a word he said.
She would much rather hear him yell.
He crouched in front of her, resting his hands on the mattress. The veins in his arms stood out in sharp relief as he closed his hands into fists. Sara eyed him warily and fought the urge to pull back. The look in his eyes . . . it was unnerving, to say the least. She knew he wouldn’t hurt her—he just wasn’t that kind of man—but he was sure as hell making her nervous.
“Did he hit you?” Quinn asked.
Sara bared her teeth at him. “Any man that lays a hand on me in violence will go to sleep and never wake up.”
“Then why?”
Turning her head aside, she focused on the abstract art print that hung over the dresser.
“Answer me,” he rasped, catching her face in his hand and forcing her to look back at him.
Well, at least his eyes weren’t cold. They were hot. Hot with anger, hot with hunger, hot with other emotions she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Her heart skipped a beat and her mouth went dry.
“If this is all you wanted to talk about, Quinn, you’ve wasted your time,” she said quietly.
“I want you to fucking answer me,” he rasped.
“And I want you to get the hell away from me,” she snarled back, shoving her hair back from her face.
“Oh, I will. After I dump you back in your husband’s lap.”
She blinked at him. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” He shoved upright, glaring down at her. “There’s a nice little bonus involved if I actually deliver you to him.”
“Deliver me? What in the hell am I? A cow?”
Quinn jerked a shoulder in a shrug. “Apparently you’re his wife and he’s quite anxious to have you back.”
“You can’t make me go to Chicago.”
Something flashed in his eyes. A smile twisted his lips. He knelt back down in front of her and pressed his lips to her ear. “You want to bet on that, darlin’?”
She jerked away, scrambling back on the bed and drawing her knees to her chest. “I don’t want to go back to Chicago,” she said, trying not to let her voice shake. But even as she said it, somewhere deep inside, she had to wonder. Maybe this was the way to do it . . . maybe this was the way out. Back the way she’d come.
You can’t, you’re not the only one in danger. You can’t take that risk.
No. Theresa had been right. She couldn’t run forever . . . and now she had some sort of control. Going back because she was forced wasn’t the kind of control she’d prefer, but it was control.
It was time. She couldn’t put it off any longer. If she could, she’d send out a warning. But she was going back home.
Quinn, unaware of her internal conflict, shrugged. “I don’t much care if you want to go or not. I was just going to send word back on where he could find you, but you went and tried to skip town. I’m not about to let you slip away that easily.”
“Why?” She blinked away the tears that threatened.
“Because I’ve got a job to do, and I’m going to do it.”
A job—damn it, what the hell kind of work did he do? “Exactly what is this job and how does it involve me?”
“I work for a private detective. Mostly I just bring in those who’ve skipped out on bail. You just sort of fell into my lap.”
His eyes, flat and emotionless, stared into hers.
A private detective agency. Money. He had come after her because of money. Was that why—
Her heart screamed in denial. Unconsciously, she fisted her hands. Her nails tore into her skin, but she never even noticed.
“So how long . . .” The words didn’t want to come. She didn’t want to ask, she didn’t want him to answer. But she forced the question out anyway. “How long have you been looking for me?”
He flicked a glance at his watch. “Less than twenty-four hours. You’re the reason my boss called me in yesterday. The information just came into our office early yesterday.” Rage, ugly and hot, flashed in his eyes, and his mouth twisted in a cold smile. “Can you imagine what a surprise I got when I opened that file folder and saw your face staring out at me? Your fucking wedding portrait.”
She glanced at the picture in question. It had probably hit him like a punch in the gut. Part of her even understood how furious he was. The evidence was damning as hell.
But jaded as she’d become over the past few years, she wouldn’t have automatically expected the worst—not from somebody she cared about. Not from somebody she loved.
Obviously, she couldn’t say the same for him. It was damned obvious he’d expected the worst. No trust. No understanding. He just made his assumptions and fuck all.
The lack of trust was painful, a twisting, burning grip on her heart that refused to let go. Staring at him, she searched for some sign that he wanted to believe—
Believe what? He obviously doesn’t believe in me.
Yet still she searched his face. Searched for some sign that she was wrong. That some part of him doubted.
But she saw only ice and fury. If he was hurt, it sure as hell didn’t show in his eyes or on his face. She swallowed against the knot in her throat. She managed a derisive tone as she asked,
“How much money has that bastard offered up?”
“Enough.”
“How much?” Not that she really cared, but it could be important. Information—information was key. She needed to know as much as she could.
“Why?” A blond brow cocked up. “You thinking you might beat it? You still have money from the shit you stole lying around somewhere?”
Curling her lip at him, she said, “I’m not about to try and bribe you. If the money is that fucking important to you, you’d just turn around and try to get a sweeter deal from him anyway. I sure as hell can’t pay anything close to what he can cough up.”
Quinn just stared at her.
She was really starting to hate that stare. Cool, blank, hard. Like a fucking mask. She’d rather face almost anything but that emotionless façade. Even his anger.
She bared her teeth at him in a mockery of a smile. “So . . . when do we go?”
“You that ready?” he asked. A muscle jerked in his cheek.
“Well, since it’s pretty clear that you’re not going to take no for an answer, I might as well accept the inevitable.” She glanced at the clock and then back at him. “Are we leaving tonight?”
He jerked a shoulder up. “Don’t see why. It’s late. We’ll leave in the morning.” His mouth twisted in a sneer and he added, “Besides, you already paid for the room.”
“Well, I’d hate to see that go to waste,” she muttered, looking away. Her mind raced. If he wasn’t planning on leaving yet, then she had some time. Time to figure out if she was going to try telling him anything. Time to figure out if she was going to just merrily go off with him to Chicago. Time to figure out where she needed to go from here.
Was one night enough to get all those answers?
She used the sheet to drape around her body, feeling his eyes on her as she made her way to her bags. A few feet away, she froze and gaped, staring at her open bags.
The small carry-on suitcase was unzipped, the clothes messed up. Her duffel bag lay next to it, and it was in the same condition. She sure as hell hadn’t gone through the bags.
She hadn’t—Quinn had. Fury bubbled inside her. He’d gone and rummaged through everything. Her pathetically small collection of panties and bras lay in a heap on the floor. Her jeans were haphazardly stacked, her shirts draped over top. The T-shirt of his that she had taken lay discarded on the floor like some piece of trash.
“Was there any reason to go through my belongings?” she demanded, glaring at him over her shoulder.
Quinn didn’t answer.
Giving him a withering stare, she grabbed her cosmetic case and the top and lounge pants she used as pajamas. “Am I allowed to shower?” she asked mockingly.
“Sure.” He shoved off the wall and sauntered over to the bed, flopping down on it.
On the way into the bathroom, her phone chirped. Frowning, she turned back and saw Quinn holding it in his hand, obviously reading the message. “Do you mind?” She held out her hand.
From the bed, he smirked up at her. “You’re not getting the phone back.” He turned it around and showed her the message. “Who keeps texting you? This is like the fifth one.”
Only five? “It’s none of your business.”
“Well, I guess they’ll just have to keep sending the messages then, because you’re not using the phone unless I know who it is.”
“Afraid I’ll call for the cavalry?”
“Just being cautious.”
The door closed behind Sarah, and Quinn closed his eyes as the shower came on, tried not to think about her standing wet and naked under the spray of water. Definitely not the image he needed in his mind right now.
He was having a damned hard time blanking his mind, too. Jackknifing off the bed, he prowled the room. He was restless. He was edgy. He was irritated. And hurt. No matter how deep he tried to bury the hurt, it kept working free, rising to taunt him.
Trust—he knew better.
He’d trusted again and it had come back to bite him, leaving a gaping, open wound square in the middle of his chest.
Married.
He still couldn’t wrap his mind around it. In the back of his mind, there was a derisive voice, one that mocked the hopes he’d unconsciously started to build, the plans he’d consciously started to make. Hopes, plans, thinking about something besides getting through the day . . . looking forward to the next day, just because it was one he’d get to spend with Sara.
Having all of that smashed hurt like a son of a bitch.
It hurt almost as much as that look he’d glimpsed in Sarah’s eyes once or twice. Something like pain. Like misery. Like shock. She looked at him—like he’d been the one misleading her—and that pain flashed through her eyes. But only for a second, then it was gone, like she’d locked it down, put it away.
Or maybe he was just imagining it. Maybe he wanted so badly to believe there was a lot more going on than he realized and he was dreaming up things that might make that belief easier.
After all, if she was hurting, too, that must mean she cared a little. Maybe she really hadn’t wanted to leave . . .
He stopped his pacing and turned, staring at her open suitcase. She’d had one of his T-shirts in there. Until he’d gone through her clothes, everything in her bags had been neatly, almost ruthlessly organized—except for his T-shirt. It was shoved inside, like she’d done it at the very last minute.
Why did she have one of his shirts?
The whisper of her voice danced through his mind. She’d told him, repeatedly, that she couldn’t stay, that she couldn’t explain. Maybe . . .
“Fuck.” He came to a stop in front of the dresser and scrubbed his hands over his face. He was doing it again, trying to make up excuses, trying to explain away what she’d done, how she hadn’t told him the truth, reasons for misleading him. He was so desperate to believe there was something else going on, even though she’d yet to give him a reason to believe otherwise.
He wanted to trust her again—to believe in her. Wanted to pin his hopes on the fact that she had one of his T-shirts stowed in her bag, to believe something other than the obvious, all because he thought he saw unhappiness in her eyes.
“Stupid, so fucking stupid,” he muttered, shoving a hand through his hair. He never should have trusted her in the first place and here he was, desperate for her to give him a reason to do it again. To trust her. To believe in her.
From the corner of his eye, his reflection caught his attention. Slowly, he turned his head, studied the man he saw in the mirror. He looked much like he always had, lean face, hair that needed cutting, an unsmiling mouth.
Cold eyes.
Angry eyes.
He didn’t like the man he saw, he realized abruptly. Not right now.
He didn’t like how pissed off he was, how angry, feeling like he shouldn’t trust Sarah, that he was right for not doing it. He didn’t like any of it. Dragging his eyes away from the mirror, he dropped down in the chair in front of the desk, staring at the gleaming wood surface without seeing it.
He wanted to trust her. Part of him needed to try.
Why was it such a bitch for him? Why now? Why was it so fucking important for him to believe her? She’d already proven to him that he couldn’t trust her, but here he was miserable because he didn’t want to let that go.
Abruptly, he shoved out of the chair and stormed to the door. Out in the hall, he pulled his phone out and dialed up Luke.
“Be home, man,” he muttered under his breath. He pinched the bridge of his nose as the phone rang.
And rang.
And rang.
Devon answered on the third ring, and Quinn managed to keep from swearing. Just barely.
“Sorry, Quinn.” A yawn interrupted her words and he glanced at his watch, wincing as he realized he’d probably gotten her out of bed. It was close to midnight in Kentucky.
“Luke’s working tonight . . . try calling his cell. He’s usually got it on, so unless he’s in the middle of something, you can probably get through,” Devon said.
“No.” He shoved off the wall. “I’ll just talk to him later.”
“Are you okay? You sound kind of . . . well, more pissed off than normal.”
Quinn laughed and the sound was so bitter, it all but choked him. “You’ve got good ears. I am more pissed off than normal.”
Her voice was hesitant as she asked, “Is there anything I can help with?”
“No.” He went to disconnect. Then stopped. Cleared his throat. “I dunno. Maybe.”
“What is it?”
He blew out a breath and focused on the door in front of him. He couldn’t hear the shower from here, didn’t know if she was done—the phone. Fuck . . . “Hold on.” He pulled his key card out and swiped it, pushed the door open just enough to glance inside. He could hear the shower. From where he stood, he could see the hotel phone. Careful. Had to be more careful than that.
What if Sarah got ahold of whoever was trying to call her? What if whoever it was tried to help her slip away? Not that Quinn planned on letting her out of his sight—not until he had answers.
Answers—fuck the money, he wanted answers.
“Quinn?”
Devon’s voice jerked him out of his thoughts. Leaning against the doorjamb, keeping the door propped open with his foot, he half listened to the sound of water coming from the bathroom.
“Sorry,” he said into the phone.
“It’s okay. How can I help with . . . well, whatever is going on?”
He felt like a fool, standing there trying to figure out how to ask what he needed to know. But he wasn’t sure what he needed to know, so how could he ask?
A memory flashed through his mind. Months earlier, after Devon had left the hospital, he’d gone by the house where she lived with Luke. The scars on her arms—her childhood had been even more screwed up than Quinn’s had. Not that she’d explained much about it, and Luke hadn’t, either. But Quinn knew—somehow, he just knew.
Quinn and Devon, both of them were broken, battered souls. Two of a kind. Or at least Devon had been . . . until Luke.
“You have a hard time trusting people, Devon?” he asked.
“Do I have a hard time trusting people?” she echoed. Then she snorted. “In a word, yes. In three words—oh, hell, yes.”
“Do you trust Luke?”
“Luke . . . ?” She paused and then asked, “You want to know if I trust Luke?”
He could all but hear the confusion in her voice. Blood rushed to his cheeks. Hate this—hated, hated, hated. “Yeah. I want to know if you trust Luke.”
“Quinn, if I didn’t trust Luke, I wouldn’t have married him.”
The water in the shower turned off. His heart skipped a beat and he stared at the bathroom door. “How did you know you could trust him? How did you know you should?”
“There wasn’t ever much of a question. Part of me trusted him pretty much from the beginning. Otherwise . . .” Her voice trailed off and she sighed. “Look, this is complicated, and very personal, but I never consciously made a decision to trust him. I just did. I just knew I could. I knew I should.”
“Never had doubts?”
Devon laughed. “Oh, I had plenty of doubts . . . but the voice in my heart managed to be louder than the doubts in the long run.”
Seconds ticked away and Devon finally broke the silence. “You still there?”
“Yeah. I’m here.”
“Are you okay? Ahhh . . . well, maybe this isn’t my business, but Luke mentioned you’d met a lady. Is—well, is this about her?”
“Yeah. No. Shit.” Still staring at the bathroom door, he tried to focus on the conversation, tried to think past the blood roaring in his head. “Beats the hell out of me. I don’t know what in the fu—hell. I don’t know what’s going on inside my head.”
“I’m going to take that as a yes. Look, I’m a lousy person to offer any kind of advice, but you know people, Quinn. You may not like a lot of them, but you know them. Whatever the problem is now, I’d say just try to stick to what your heart tells you. What your gut says. Instincts are usually pretty reliable.”
The door started to open. His hand clenched on the phone. Reliable—how could the bloody, bruised mess of his heart be anything he could rely on?
“I’ve got to go,” he said, his voice gritty. Without waiting for Devon to say anything else, he hung up.
Putting the phone away, he stared as Sarah opened the door and came out. A rush of steam followed her. He slipped all the way into the room and nudged the door closed with his foot.
Leaning against the wall, he gazed at her, tried to find some sense in the chaos of his mind. She ignored him, moving about the room as though she was the only one in there. She placed her bags on the bed and reorganized them, neatly folding the shirts, the jeans, even her panties.
