Can't Take My Eyes Off Of You (v1.2) (21 page)

Quinn rolled his eyes. “Stimuli. Buttons. Reactions. Do I hear the echo of some Psych one-oh-one professor in here?”

Shelby yanked the bath sheet up higher around her breasts. “So what if you do? I’m right, and you know it. That old woman is running their lives, but at the same time Brandy is allowing it, and Gary is allowing it.”

“And you’re going to change all of that, right?”

She shrugged, averting her eyes. “Maybe. And what are
you
going to do, other than take Gary to a baseball game?”

He moved closer to her and smiled. “Nothing,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m going to do nothing at all. I only took Gary away yesterday so he’d have some time to think about what he was doing, maybe even look at the problem from some other angle. Right now he’s thinking a dozen roses. In other words, he’s still got a long way to go, but he’s trying. And I suggest you butt out as well, Shelley. People don’t like other people interfering with their lives, even with the best intentions.”

Shelby felt hot color run into her cheeks as his comment reminded her that she had just run away from all the people whose good intentions had been ruling her life for so long. “You’re right, I suppose.”

He stepped even closer, put a finger under her chin, and lifted her face to his. “Besides, I think we’ve got enough going on between us, don’t you?”

“I… I don’t know what you mean,” she lied, realizing that her legs had begun to tremble.

“Yes, you do, Shelley,” he told her, his voice low, intimate. “Because there’s something going on between us, something neither of us wants to ignore. The only questions right now are why we feel this way, and what we are going to do about it. Right now I think I want to kiss you.”

She moistened her suddenly dry lips with the tip of her tongue, a move that might have been nervousness on her part but that had an entirely different impact on him, making him feel bolder, more eager for the taste of her mouth.

“Shelley? May I kiss you? Please.”

That did it. Her knees melted. She nearly fell against him as he put his hands on her bare shoulders and lowered his head to hers. All she could see was the black of his hair, the intense gray of his eyes, the slight smile on his full lips. And then her eyes fluttered closed and she gave herself up to sensations that had nothing to do with sight.

The kiss began tentatively, nothing like his first kiss on Saturday night. He kissed her as if he were in no hurry at all, as if he had all day to kiss her, taste her, draw her sweetness from her, drive her wild with desire.

His fingers held on to her shoulders, kneading the soft flesh she’d smoothed with body lotion, and he felt her arms go around him, reaching up to hold on to his shoulders, drawing him closer. Closer.

She was his for the taking, his for the giving. She was delicate and pliant, yet she burned with an inner fire that seared him chest to thigh as he pressed against her softness, as her mouth opened beneath his, allowed him entry.

Quinn lifted his head, looked down at her, at her closed eyes, her moist mouth, and he kissed her again. He wanted to go on kissing her until the last star died and the skies went forever dark.

He wanted to hold her, to love her, to have her. He stepped back slightly, his hand going to the knot in the bath sheet, beginning to fumble with it, his movements less sure than he could ever remember them being. But then he couldn’t remember anything else he’d done in his life that was this important.

And the phone rang.

He broke the kiss, pulled her close against him, and spoke against her hair. “Don’t answer it. Pretend it isn’t ringing.”

She remained locked against him, allowing him to nibble at the side of her throat, but by the sixth ring she had pushed him away, mumbled a soft “Sorry, Brandy turned off the answering machine,” and headed for the phone.

“Hello. Brandy? What?” She turned and looked at Quinn, who was doing his best to regain his normal breathing pattern. “Oh. Oh, yes. Quinn came over and the mouse is gone. I… I’m sorry I didn’t call you back, but Quinn’s still here and… Yes, you could say that. No, it’s all right, really. I don’t mind that you called, honestly. What? When? How many roses?” she asked, looking at Quinn, holding up her hand as if to say, “I’m sorry, but she just keeps on talking.”

“It’s all right, Shelley, I have things to do anyway,” Quinn said, already heading for the door. He had to leave, or he had to have her. There was only that either or, nothing else would do. Even if he still hadn’t told her the truth, even if the moment he told her the truth she’d slap his face and tell him to go to hell.

Maybe later. Maybe tonight. Maybe he could tell her tonight, and then let the chips fall where they might. Tonight, before he got in too deep, before they both got in too deep. If they already weren’t

“Yes, Brandy, it is. It’s wonderful of him. So you’ve forgiven him? Good-bye, Quinn,” she then said, her hand over the receiver. “Um… later?”

“Later. That’s a promise,” he said, bending to pick up the mail the postman had slid through the slot, as all the mailboxes downstairs were rusted shut. “I’ll just put this on the table,” he said, and wandered out. He thought about taking a cold shower. Maybe two cold showers.

Shelby watched him go, wondering why she was letting him go when all she wanted was for him to pick her up, carry her to her bed surrounded by country and western singers and Beanie Babies, and make mad, passionate love to her.

As Brandy rambled on about how wonderful Gary was, Shelby picked up the mail and began idly looking through it, even though it was nothing but bills for Brandy or junk mail.

Then she saw an envelope with her new name on it, the address spelled out in block letters, and with no return address. Still with the receiver between her ear and shoulder, she slit open the envelope and pulled out the single sheet of paper, also written in block letters and all in capitals. There was only one line, in the center of the page:

LEAVE TOWN NOW. THERE ARE SAFER PLACES.

“Um, Brandy? I have to hang up now,” she said as calmly as possible. “Yes, my hair is wet and still wrapped in a towel and I’m probably going to have to wash it again if I want it to look even halfway decent before I go to work. Yes, okay,” she said, already bending down, the phone at her ear, heading it toward the receiver. “Um-hmm, later, bye.”

Then Shelby sat down on the couch, her fingers trembling, her whole body shaking with shock, and read the few words again.

Quinn had been sitting at the corner table in Tony’s for the past hour, pretending to eat his lunch. So had the guy in the ripped jeans, faded T-shirt, and handmade leather loafers.

It was the loafers that gave him away. That and the fact that he kept watching Shelby. Not that everyone didn’t watch Shelby. She was, in her designer clothes, her sleek blond hair, her perfect posture, her wide and genuine smile, and all that other stuff Quinn dreamed of at night, eminently watchable.

But this guy was different. For one, nobody knew him, even though he’d made a great business out of saying hello to everyone just as if he’d lived in East Wapaneken all his life. And, as the people of East Wapaneken were a friendly sort, they said hello right back at him. Then, Quinn saw, they looked at their table companions and whispered something like, “Who’s that? Do we know him?”

Quinn had patted himself on the back, believing he had slipped into town, and into the life of the town, without making much of a splash.

The guy in the handmade loafers was about as subtle as a Mack truck driving through Tony’s front window. At least he was to Quinn.

Ten minutes ago he’d taken a walk outside, checked out the cars in the lot Mayor Brobst’s ‘67 Caddy took up two spaces right out front. Three motorcycles, as the regulars were three short until half the guys got back from the unemployment office. Three other cars he recognized from seeing them in the lot before, but he could place only two of them with Tony’s everyday customers.

The third, a brand-new BMW, had to belong to Handmade Shoes. Except that Quinn hadn’t seen him inside the restaurant before today. He rubbed the back of his neck, dredging through his memories of his days at Tony’s, pretending to write in his notebook while watching Shelby, and suddenly it came to him.

There had been another guy, late last week. Tall, thin, thirtyish, unremarkable. One of those invisible sorts witnesses later described as being “average height, average build, wearing khakis—no, maybe it was jeans. And a shirt. Yeah, he was wearing a shirt; I’m sure of that—was I any help?”

The guy had just come in, ordered coffee and cake, spoke with Tabby for a while, then left again. Spoke with Tabby? Hell, that was better, and more productive, than watching CNN for twenty-four hours straight.

Quinn pushed back his sleeve, checked his watch, then, with one last look at Handmade Shoes, paid his bill, waving good-bye to Shelby as she sorted menus. She nodded, then went back to counting out the small “Specials” cards that had to be paper-clipped to the menus. She did smile at him, but she looked preoccupied, and as if counting out cards were a job almost beyond her powers.

Now that he thought about it, she also had been rather pale, somewhat quiet, even while talking to Amelia Brobst, who couldn’t hear much of anything below a bellow. He should have noticed that earlier, damn it, but he’d been too busy watching her move, admiring her long legs, remembering the taste of her kiss, anticipating tonight, when they’d be together again.

Now both his cop and bodyguard antennae began to quiver and he was no longer Quinn Delaney, hopeful lover, but Quinn Delaney, protector of the innocent.

He had his cell phone out of his pocket before he hit the door. “Somerton Taite, please,” he told—not asked— the person who answered the phone at the Taite mansion. “Never mind who’s calling, damn it, get the man on the phone.
Now.”

Somerton was on the line moments later. “Delaney, is that you? I can’t think of anyone else who’d be so rude to a member of my staff. Is something wrong?”

“You could say that,” Quinn said, fishing in his pocket for the keys to the Porsche. “Have Westbrook in your living room in an hour. We have to talk.” Then he broke the connection before Somerton could ask any questions.

Quinn headed for the parking lot behind the apartment building, then hesitated at the last moment and climbed the front stairs, thinking to get his jacket because it looked like rain would fall in another hour.

He got as far as the hallway outside his furnished rooms before he decided he really should have told Shelby he was going to be away for most of the day. After the way he had just disappeared on Sunday, she might not be too happy if he did it again today. He’d write her a note and slip it under her door.

And then the antennae wiggled again. He didn’t know why. He never knew why. But he had also learned to follow his instincts.

Taking a moment to peer down the stairs, just in case Mrs. Brichta was out and about on one of her snooping rounds, he pulled a credit card from his wallet and approached 2C. The locks in this place, he already knew, were very much Mickey Mouse, and with a few good pushes and a bit of handle wriggling, he was inside Brandy’s apartment, the door closed at his back.

Now if he only knew what he was doing here.

He didn’t spend much time in the living room, as he’d already seen it, and he didn’t expect to find anything of Shelby’s there anyway. There wouldn’t have been room. Brandy had every tabletop covered in knickknacks ranging from the tacky to the not so tacky. Still, the place was warm and inviting, and Shelby could have done a lot worse than to have met Brandy and been taken in by the bighearted woman.

Something touched his leg, and he looked down to see Princess rubbing against him. “No more mice?” he asked, bending to rub under the cat’s chin, setting off a round of purring that sounded like the Persian’s motor needed a tune-up. “Be good, and maybe I’ll import one for you, if you promise to show it to Shelby when she’s home alone, dressed only in a towel,” he said to the uncomprehending animal, then set off down the hallway, toward the bedrooms.

Simple deduction told him the queen-size bed belonged to Brandy, the small single bed to Shelby.

He stepped into the room, shaking his head at the decorations, trying without success to picture Shelby sleeping in the middle of it, sleeping with the big plush dog that lay on the neatly made bed.

But there was a silver brush and comb set on the bureau, a bottle of her favorite perfume standing next to it. A pair of navy blue pumps pushed into a corner. A mountain of suitcases shoved into another corner. A pink lace bra draped over the cold metal radiator under the window, probably put there to dry after Shelby had washed it in the bathroom sink.

Funny, he’d never felt like an intruder before, never separated the person from the job, gave that person a human face. He’d carried out more than a few searches while on the job, and he’d known why he was doing what he did, the reasons behind it, even what the district attorney who’d ordered the warrant hoped to find.

But this was different He wasn’t a cop anymore; he wasn’t, technically, even on the job anymore. This was breaking and entering, pure and simple. Or very complicated, as he didn’t know why he’d thought looking through Shelby’s personal belongings could be important, didn’t know what he hoped to gain. He just knew she’d looked different at Tony’s. Maybe even scared.

Quinn shook his head, turned, and left the room, knocking over the purse that had been sitting on the edge of the bureau. He’d already noticed that Shelby never brought her purse with her to the restaurant, preferring just to carry her key in her pocket. “Damn,” he said, bending to pick up the scattered contents, wondering if it had purely been an accident, or if he’d subconsciously hoped something like this would happen so that he had a “reason” for going through Shelby’s purse.

Still, no matter how lousy he felt, he had also felt the tingle, and he wasn’t about to forget that. He wasn’t about to forget that Shelby Taite was an heiress at least a few million times over, and that she was a possible kidnap victim every moment she was out in the wide, wide world, having her “adventure.”