In Hot Pursuit (24 page)

“Uh, Logan, don't want to spoil this but uh, do we have protection?”

“You're right.” He jumped off the bed and rummaged in a suitcase. Within fifteen seconds, he had resumed his position.

Finally, their need became urgent and they came together, need matching need — their union so perfect that tears glittered in Quinn's eyes. Logan stayed on top of her, his warmth caressing her body, his breathing heavy. She massaged his back with her palms, knowing this would be the last time she'd touch him. She would not assume they could mesh their different lives together. She squeezed her eyes shut.

Logan nuzzled her neck. “Thank you.”

“For what?” she whispered in his ear.

“For trusting me.” He brushed her cheek with his lips. “Why the tears?”

She opened her eyes, shook her head. She couldn't tell him the truth, that there was no tomorrow for them. “Mascara got in my eye.”

He eyes narrowed for a moment then he chuckled, ran his hands along her hips and thighs. “Well, darlin', let's try this again.”

And that's just what they did. Quinn once again shut down her brain and made another memory of Logan loving her and her loving him. In the far reaches of her soul, she knew the memory would have to last for rest of her life.

$ $ $

Wednesday morning dawned late. The remnants of an erotic dream floated on the horizon of Quinn's brain, delaying her normal early wake time. She blew hair off her face and opened her eyes a slit, the dream hadn't been a hallucination. It was real.

Logan lay on his back next to her. Memories of kisses filled her head — Logan, last night, mind blowing sex flooded in.

Holy shit.

She rolled to her good shoulder and hugged the edge of the mattress. She had participated in glorious, stupendous sex with Logan Rice without a care in the world. And, she couldn't use too much champagne as an excuse, although it had created a nice buzz. What in the hell was wrong with her? Sleeping with Logan Rice could prove to be the dumbest move she'd ever made. Could she do anything else to make a bad situation worse? Apparently, she didn't know the depth of her talents in that department.

What a mess.

She sensed, then heard, then felt Logan stir beside her and didn't want to even consider what he must think of her. They were traveling together on business and then she had to go and screw up their relationship by having sex with him.

A hand patted her hip then gently slapped her butt. Uh-oh … he was in a good mood.

The mattress squeaked as Logan rolled toward her. His breath teased her ear before he kissed her neck.

“Good morning, sleepy head,” he whispered. “You smell nice.”

She smelled like sex and he damned well knew it. Fine, just fine, she could handle this situation. Granted, she didn't have much, hardly any experience with morning after sex conversation with a man who wasn't her husband. Since the divorce, there had been a guy or two, but they left her townhouse after the deed was done. She felt like such a nerd, unsure of how to deal with Logan.

Her mouth found its voice. “Uh … thanks. Can we order coffee?”

She must have hit the after-sex-motor-button. Logan vaulted over her and out of the bed, landing on the floor. How could a forty year old adult do that?

He hurried to the phone and promptly called room service.

Whew …she needed coffee to accurately negotiate any human interaction with him.

He leaned over her, smiling.

“You relax. I'll be out of the shower in fifteen minutes.” He trotted off to the bathroom and shut the door.

What was she supposed to do now?

Nothing.

Then, she understood.

Manifesting calmness, Quinn filled her lungs with the peace of the day. She could handle this. Sure, the situation was a bit out of her comfort zone, but she could deal with a happy man who enjoyed really good sex, with her. And, no question, it was good sex.

But could she deal with herself?

Wednesday, 11:32
A.M.

After three cups of coffee and a croissant, Quinn clomped downstairs alongside Logan to check her email. Nothing additional from Roddy but Liz was holding on, feeling like an elephant.

With no word from Agent Brown, Logan and Quinn continued with their list of Roman tourist sites. They took a taxi to St. Peter's Basilica. They arrived on the side of Piazza San Pietro or St. Peter's Square. It was huge and flat.

Logan was in a fine mood. He nudged her shoulder and directed her onto the square.

“Come on,” he said. “Let's look around.”

“I suppose you've been here before.”

“Yes, and I know the perfect spot for a kiss.”

She rolled her eyes and followed him nonetheless.

They walked to the center of the square, which was actually a circle. Columns bordered the sides. The colonnade was composed of two hundred eighty-four columns and eighty-eight pillars in a quadruple row, symbolizing the “gathering of Christianity.” Quinn liked that. They walked to the center, marked by an Egyptian obelisk, and he kissed her. It was quick and sweet.

“That's something I've wanted to do for twenty years,” he said. “Thank you for being here with me.”

“You're welcome.” She gave him a hug, then walked around the center of the square, tracing the outline of the obelisk. “Isn't there a special spot of some sort in the center?”

Logan moved to her side. “Yes, here it is. See this marble stone? If you look at the columns from here, you'll see one row rather than four.”

She squeezed against Logan on the stone. He was right; what an optical illusion. She hugged him again, then pulled back. “This is so cool. Can we go in the Basilica now?”

They observed everyone on the square as they made their way to the church — no Rebecca.

The entrance to St. Peter's Basilica, possibly the largest church in Christianity, was huge. The façade was over three hundred seventy-five feet wide and nearly half as high. One of the doors to the basilica was called “Door of the Dead.” As they reached the center of the portico, Logan's phone rang. He answered and handed it to Quinn with surprise in his eyes. “It's for you.”

What?

“Ms. Wells, this is Stephano from the hotel. I have a message from Hotel Alimandi Vaticano.”

Did this mean what she thought it meant? “What is it, please?”

“The concierge called. They have a guest named Nancy Sims and she fits your description,” Stephano said.

“Did he say anything else?”

“No, miss, that was all.”

“Grazie very much.”

She handed the phone back to Logan, performed a quick jig in front of the “Holy Door” at the Basilica's entrance.

She tugged on Logan's hand. “We gotta go. I've found Rebecca.”

$ $ $

They ran along the curve of the buildings facing the square then cut through the columns to a gate exiting the Vatican property. A taxi stand was conveniently placed on the corner.

They jumped in the backseat of the first taxi in line.

“We need to get to the Hotel Alimandi Vaticano.” Quinn had no idea where the hotel was located, but the driver understood she meant quickly,
velocemente
. He gunned the accelerator and off they roared, for a block. Traffic blocked the street in front of the taxi.

“Oh, crap,” Quinn shouted.

The driver again understood and veered off to the right, narrowly missing a Mercedes and nearly clipping a Smart car. She gripped the edge of the car seat. Logan braced against the corner of the seat back, throwing her a “what the hell?” look, yet he didn't ask one question, which was comforting. They abruptly turned left at a wide boulevard.

The taxi made several more turns then after fifteen minutes swung into a small circular drive in front of the hotel. Quinn bounded out and rushed to the hotel's main entrance.

“Come on, Logan,” she shouted over her shoulder. “It's show time.”

She rushed straight to the registration desk. Logan skidded to her side after paying the taxi driver. She took a deep breath and counted to five.

“Good morning, I'm, uh, we're here to see Nancy Sims. Would you please call her room.”

The grey-haired woman behind the desk stared at Quinn before turning her attention to a computer screen. Her fingers raced over the keyboard. She squinted before turning around and running her fingers along the edge of wooden boxes with horizontal numbers. She stopped at a box with the number 327. A key lay in the slot.

“Miss Sims, she is not here.”

“Do you know where she went?” Quinn pushed back her hair. “How long ago did she leave?”

The woman pursed her lips, raised her arm, and pointed to what Quinn guessed was the concierge desk just past the entrance. They marched over and asked the same question.

“Miss Sims left a few minutes ago for lunch.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Quinn noticed Logan palming a Euro bill from his pants pocket. He slid it across the counter. “Lunch, where?”

The bill disappeared under a travel brochure. “She has a reservation at Ristorante da Fortunato.”

“Located where?” she asked.

“Go left at our driveway. Down a couple of blocks, turn right.”

She pulled Logan's hand. “Let's go.”

They exited through the front door and followed the drive to the left, turning at the sidewalk. They hurried along the street amid the late morning crowd of local shoppers and gawking tourists. Within five minutes, they had covered two blocks and stopped to catch their breath.

She looked right, left, then at Logan. “You think the restaurant is to the right?”

“Why not?” Logan squeezed her shoulder. “Let's go find Rebecca.”

They set off down another Roman street. Without a fountain, a basilica, or a monument to mark the spot, the streets were beginning to look the same. Quinn scanned the buildings looking for a restaurant sign titled Ristorante da Whatever. Logan's eyesight was better and pointed to it at the end of the block. They stopped under a green awning.

“Now what?” He put his hands on her shoulders. She didn't flinch at his touch, even though the right shoulder was still sore.

“Let's agree on how we're doing this,” she said.

“How about we get a table like any other hungry couple?”

“Good idea.” She suspected Logan considered this latest goose chase for Rebecca to be silly. “I'm hungry anyway. I can watch for Rebecca without being conspicuous.”

Logan walked behind her to the reception stand and mumbled. “You, bring attention to yourself. Never.”

“Whatever. Be cool, we don't want her to notice us.” A waiter seated them at a corner table with a perfect view of the dining area.

Logan leaned over the table. “By the way, she probably doesn't know I'm with you.”

“Right.” Quinn hadn't considered that. “Block me from view if I give you the high sign.”

“The high sign?”

“Just follow my lead. You'll know if I spot her.”

“How?”

“Stop being so hard-headed, you'll figure it out.” She opened the menu. Pasta, again?

They ordered and waited for water; no wine today. Quinn closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, praying for strength to end this chase for Rebecca.

“What's your plan?” Logan asked. “Will you confront her or hang back?”

“Guess I, er we, should have a plan.” Quinn groaned in frustration. “I've been so intent on finding her that I haven't given any thought to what I'll do when we're face to face.”

She sipped the water just poured. “Guess it's just you and me for now.”

“Not sure that's a good idea.”

There was no one else to help, she thought. This was it, now or never, the whole enchilada. “Face it. We're on our own. Roddy's not here and the official Italian help hasn't appeared.” She pointed her index finger at his chest then at her own. “You and me …we need to bring down Rebecca.”

“Bring her down?”

“Good lord, Logan, get with the program. We need to confront and uh … .” What should Quinn do once she glared at Rebecca's headed-for-prison face? She considered her options, snapped her fingers. “We make a citizen's arrest.”

He sighed and rolled his eyes.

“You have a better idea?” Quinn asked.

“I've a hunch a citizen's arrest isn't all that common in Italy. Let's go with Plan B.”

The restaurant's tables were filling up, a crowd milled around the entrance. She did her best to concentrate on Logan while scoping out the face of every female at a table or waiting for one. Most likely Rebecca had changed both her hair color and style and her mode of dress. That's what Quinn would do.

Did she have a Plan B? No. Logan's face came back in focus. “You tell me, what's our plan if we spot Rebecca?”

His eyes avoided Quinn. Fine. Whatever. He didn't have a real plan either. This wasn't a crisis …yet.

“Quinn … . ”

“Uh-huh?” She pointed an ear toward Logan while canvassing the restaurant a second time. She studied each female, hoping to catch even a slight resemblance to Rebecca — pointed chin or high cheekbones or full lips.

“Quinn, I need to tell you something — ”

“Hold it.” She held a hand over the table, palm down. Bingo. “I've spotted Rebecca.” Quinn squinted to get a better view of her, to verify her initial reaction was correct. Yep, the woman was the black-hearted, southern belle Rebecca. She stood at the reception desk as cool as a vanilla gelato. Her hair was darker and cut shorter — her cheekbones gave her away and those pink glossed lips.

“Be cool and don't turn around. She's standing by the hostess desk, light brown hair, yellow sun dress. She's talking to a young guy.” Quinn squinted again. “He's cute.”

Logan dropped a napkin, bent to the side of the table. “You're right, that's her.” After a moment of silence, he said, “Where is she now?”