Can't Take My Eyes Off Of You (v1.2) (26 page)

He was such a good liar. So believable. She would have believed him without a doubt, if she didn’t know what she knew. Shelby nodded and kept walking. That amazed her. That she could still put one foot in front of the other. Still move, still function. Even with her heart, and her trust, broken into small, jagged pieces.

“I won’t tell anyone,” she promised. “Not even Brandy. Especially Brandy, I suppose. She’d just be upset.”

That, Shelby knew, was also true. Brandy would be upset, more than upset. She’d probably want her to call Somerton at once, have some armed guard come to escort her home. And that was the last thing Shelby wanted to do.

She was not going to run. Taites didn’t run. They probably never
had
to run, but that was beside the point. Shelby Taite was going to stand her ground, right up until the moment she had decided to leave. Nobody, not threatening letter writers, not halfhearted abductors, not nosy bodyguards—not even her own unhappiness—was going to make her turn tail and run.

Not until she’d figured out a way to prove her suppositions about Quinn. And make him hurt for them. Make him hurt
real
bad.

With that in mind, and knowing now that he was a professional, and probably not all that easy to fool, she pinned a bright smile on her face and said, “Tell me more about that picnic you spoke of earlier. It sounds like fun.”

Quinn scratched at a sudden itch at the back of his neck. Why were his antennae quivering? What in the hell was going on? Shelby was acting as if the near-abduction was nothing more than a very forgettable incident. She hadn’t cried on his shoulder or told him about the threatening note. She hadn’t asked for his help, or broken down and confessed her true identity.

She’d done none of that, and yet now her mouth smiled and her brown eyes remained blank, shuttered, like the woman he’d first met the night of the charity ball. She was looking at him, but she wasn’t seeing him. Wasn’t connecting with him, not on any level.

Could she know? Could the incident this morning have somehow jogged her memory, brought his face and name together and let her come up with D & S?

No. That was impossible. If she hadn’t recognized him by now, she wouldn’t have had some startling revelation this morning because she’d been put into danger, had automatically thought about how she usually didn’t travel anywhere out of her circle without someone from D & S along, usually Grady.

And just that one time, him…

He stepped in front of Shelby and opened the door to Tony’s, motioned for her to precede him into the restaurant. “It’s only eleven-thirty, half an hour until your shift starts. You were planning an early lunch, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” she answered, glancing at the handwritten “Specials” board and frowning.
“Potatoe
soup? With an E? I guess Tabby’s running for president,” she said with an attempt at humor. “I talked Tony into adding two low-fat, low-calorie salads to the luncheon menu and I’d like to try
one,
as this is the first day. Do you care to join me?”

“For lunch, but not for the salad,” Quinn replied honestly. “I think I’m forever hooked on fat, grease, starch, cholesterol, and those slightly burned onions Tony mixes in with his steak sandwiches. Are any of those part of the basic food groups?”

“Only if you harbor a death wish,” Shelby told him, still outwardly happy, in control, still smiling. Still showing him those sad, empty eyes.

While she hunted for an eraser to fix the “Specials” board, Quinn walked around the dividing wall and over to the corner, taking up his position at his usual table, waving to four of the regulars on his way.

“Hey, Delaney. Good,” George called to him. “C’mere a minute, would ya?”

Rising once more, he joined George and the others in their corner booth, sitting on the chair that always stood on the opposite side of the table, in case Tony wanted to sit down, have a chat. “What’s up, guys?” he asked, motioning to the papers scattered all over the table along with four cups and two white thermal carafes. The regulars drank coffee by the gallon, so that Tony found it quicker and easier to charge them by the pot rather than the cup.

“You know about the dinner this Friday, right?” George asked, and Quinn nodded that, yes, he did. “Saw the signs out front? The ones the rest of the guys are putting up all over town?” Quinn nodded again. “Saw the banner Harry hung on the back of his hog?”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” Quinn acceded, “but it sounds like a great idea. So is there a problem?”

“Yeah, there sure as hell is,” George said, dropping his head nearer to his barrel chest, shaking it. “She wants me to give a speech,” he muttered, so that Quinn had to strain to hear him.

“She? That would be Shelley, right? A speech?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, a speech. Didn’t I say that?”

“Easy, George,” Harry said, patting his friend’s arm, the one with the tattooed anchor and entwined snake on it, as he looked across the table at Quinn. “I haven’t seen him this bad since his wedding. Passed out, right on the altar. Took out a Gook sniper’s nest without a blink, but when it came to saying ‘I do,’ the guy goes down like a tree. Who’d figure that?”

“Shuddup, Harry,” George said, then looked straight at Quinn. “She says somebody has to say something at stuff like this. And not just once, neither, but for all three settings, servings—whatever the hell she’s calling them. So, thinking that you’re a writer and all…”

Now here was a dilemma. How did that go? Hoist by his own petard? Maybe. But Quinn decided it was more like he’d royally screwed himself. He couldn’t write a speech. Hell, he’d only gotten through English Composition in college because he’d been dating the professor’s daughter. He was a numbers man. Facts, figures, reports. Not speeches meant to empty somebody’s pockets.

“Sure,” he said brightly as George watched him through narrowed eyelids. “Be happy to,” he lied. “Are these your notes?” he asked, picking up the many sheets of paper, stacking them together.

“Yeah, those are them. Just some stuff about the boys, you know. The ones who didn’t come back. I want you to do them proud, okay?”

Quinn looked down at the top sheet, which he noticed thankfully was typed, probably by George’s wife, who also typed the daily menus for Tony. He read aloud, “Bender, William, age nineteen. Gunner’s mate. Missing in action, in country, since 1971. Played second base for the East Wapaneken Warriors. Altar boy, Saint Michael’s Church.” So stark, so simple. Yet those few lines said so much.

He looked at the regulars, at their double-chinned faces with the faintly bulbous noses of men who spent a lot of time outdoors and the rest of it drinking beer. Looked into their eyes deeply for the first time, saw that they were all one hundred years old in experience. Remembered that, once, they had all been nineteen-year-old boys who played baseball, maybe sang in church, probably made out with their girlfriends in the backseat of a souped-up ‘57 Chevy, and went face-to-face with the horrors of war before they were old enough to vote.

“I’ll take care of it, George,” he promised quietly, and meant it.

“Hey! Come back here! Nobody leaves without paying.”

Quinn whirled around, hearing Tabby yell as she pointed to two boys of about thirteen or fourteen who were laughing as they headed for the door.

Shelby, still working on the “Specials” board in the entryway, and probably correcting more of Tabby’s rather inventive spelling, had flattened herself against the closed door by the time Quinn skidded around the corner, her arms out, blocking the exit. She looked like a sleek, upscale version of one of those plush animals plastered spread-eagle to the window of a car with suction cups, although he didn’t think he’d ever tell her that.

“Out of the way, lady,” one of the boys told her, raising a hand to her.

Big mistake.

Shelby abandoned her spread-arm pose at the door and took two steps forward, putting her nose-to-nose with the slight teenager, her chin thrust out, her eyes slitted and glittering. “Boy, did you ever pick the wrong day to get me angry,” she told him.

And then, as Quinn took hold of the other teenager by the scruff of his neck, Shelby put out one leg, did something rather strange, clumsy, but vaguely judo-like as she grabbed that upraised arm, and the threatening teenager was looking up at her from the floor.

“Wow. Cool,” the boy Quinn held said admiringly.

Quinn looked past Shelby, through the clear glass door to the small vestibule, and saw the local police chief obliviously playing one of the video poker games. “You want me to alert Barney Fife there, or will you let them go if they pay for their food?”

“And apologize,” Shelby added, still feeling rather pleased with herself, even as she knew she was also very much surprised at what she’d done. Twice in one day, for goodness’ sake. “In writing,” she added when the boy on the floor groaned. “An essay, as a matter of fact, on why honesty is important.”

“And safer,” Quinn added, grinning.

With a little grumbling, and some halfhearted attempts at swagger—hard to do in wide-legged jeans that dragged two inches on the ground—the boys paid their bill and promised to deliver their essays by Friday.

“And we know who you are,” Quinn called after them, just to remind them that he’d make sure the essays were in on time. They stopped in their tracks and turned around, shoulders hunched.

“We do?” Shelby asked, confused.

“Oh, yeah, Shelley, we do. Just listen.” He lifted his head, raised his voice, and called out over the partition, “Anybody in here know those two kids?”

There came a definitive chorus of “I dos” that would have done one of those large group weddings proud.

Quinn grinned as the boys’ faces blanched. “See you boys Friday,” he said, and then laughed as the two turned and ran. Quinn still didn’t know where they lived, but that didn’t matter. Everyone knew everyone in East Wapaneken, and the boys’ mothers would probably hear about their sons’ little escapade before dinner was on the table tonight.

Once Shelby had closed the cash register her shoulders slumped and Quinn could hear her take a shuddering breath. He put his arms on her shoulders and turned her around to look at him. “Hey, you’re a hero. Why are you crying?”

“I don’t know,” Shelby answered honestly. “But I think you were right. I can’t work today. Those boys… I guess they were the icing on the cake or something. But I want to go back to the apartment”

Quinn fought the urge to gather her in his arms, knowing that her few tears could turn into a real gusher if he did so here in the restaurant. She was strong, damn strong, but she’d finally had enough, finally given in. “Done and done,” he said bracingly instead, and went to tell Tabby she was in charge until Tony could get someone else to take over.

“Sure, you bet,” Tabby said, balancing three platters on her left arm. “He’ll probably get one of his church ladies to help,” she added, referring to the older women who ate nearly every meal at the restaurant and often helped at private parties in the back room. “Better get Shelley home, though,” she added, gesturing toward Shelby with a flip of her head. “She looks like she’s about to lose her breakfast.”

Shelby let him keep his arm around her waist all
the
way back to the apartment. Let her head rest against him as they walked along. Took his strength and his comfort because she needed them, wanted them, could think of no one else who made her feel so safe, so protected.

Even if she detested him for the lying sneak he was…

Shelby rested on the couch, her shoes kicked off and lying on the carpet, and watched as Quinn made her a cup of tea.

He looked so cute, being domestic. Cute, and a louse. Domestic, and a liar. Caring and loving and incredibly sweet. And a lying, no-good son of a—

“Two sugars, right?” Quinn asked, placing a small black plastic tray with
Loving is better in Maryland
painted on it in vibrant pink lettering on the coffee table. Brandy and Gary seemed to have tried loving in quite a few places. “And I have toast in the toaster. I figure you should eat, but nothing heavy, all right?”

And, crazily, Shelby found herself apologizing. Had she spent her entire life apologizing for not being perfect? Probably, but it was a hard habit to break. “Thank you; that’s lovely. I’m so sorry to be such a bother.”

Quinn handed her a steaming mug, took
the
second for himself, and sat down, cross-legged, in front of the couch.

“What in hell are you apologizing for? For nearly being mugged? For stopping two wanna-be punks who tried to stiff Tony? For crying, which is the same as saying for being human? I think you’re pretty damn wonderful, if you really want to know.”

Shelby felt her spine stiffening. “You’re right. I shouldn’t be apologizing, should I? All right, I retract that apology, and replace it with just saying thank you very much for being my rescuer today. Twice.”

Quinn’s smile showed in his eyes, made a physical impact in Shelby’s heart. “Yeah, I’m wonderful, too, aren’t I? In fact, we’re a pair of heroes. And we deserve a reward.”

Shelby continued to stare at him, astounded at how much she wanted to kiss him, be held by him, make wild, passionate love with him… and all while she knew he had deceived her, deceived her horribly. “A reward?”

He took the cup from her hands, then pulled her to her feet. “Yes, Shelley, a reward. Now, as I’m already sure you’re going to tell me you feel honor-bound to work tomorrow, on your day off, to make up for today—”

“Of course,” Shelby answered, this woman who never made a promise, or a bargain, without making sure she lived up to every last bit of it. But how did he know that about her? How did she know that he did things exactly the same way? Was that how he came to be in East Wapaneken in the first place? He had taken on the job of Taite bodyguard, and now was just finishing the job? And was it still just a job to him? Would a man actually make love to a “job?”

Many would. Quinn, she thought, probably would not. Definitely would not, now that she’d had some time to mink sensibly, and not just with anger burning inside her.