In Hot Pursuit (25 page)

“Still up front. We never did decide on Plan B.”

Logan pulled out his cell. “Guess we'll have to wing it.”

“Whatever. I think she saw me.” Quinn scrambled up from the table and rushed toward the entrance.

$ $ $

Quinn was out of her comfort zone. Logan seemed to be in his.

They followed Rebecca and friend out of the restaurant and watched the pair enter a white Mercedes. Logan immediately found a taxi going the opposite direction. It performed a u-turn in the middle of the street and pounded to a stop at the curb where they waited. They jumped in the backseat and Logan spoke Italian to the driver.

The Mercedes was three cars ahead when it turned left. The taxi quickly made the same turn, Rebecca's car still in sight but further ahead. It picked up speed. Rebecca must have realized she was being followed.

“Logan, should we call the police to set up a road block or something?”

He looked at her like she had bubble gum for brains. “Don't think so. Let's see how this plays out, then I can make a call.”

What should they do once the Mercedes stopped and Quinn confronted Rebecca? She had imagined this scene with Roddy at her side, HPD badge in one hand and pistol in the other. He'd take care of the bad stuff. Quinn would yell at Rebecca and probably slap her.

She'd yell at her because Rebecca was just plain stupid and a terrible example of a woman who had so much — looks, smarts, a good job, and people around her who thought she was wonderful. Why was Rebecca so damned stupid? Stupidity was a crime of the highest order in Quinn's world.

The taxi stayed behind the Mercedes for another ten minutes as it made random turns.

All of a sudden, the Mercedes slowed down, pulled along the curb. The taxi did the same, half a block back.

“What do you think she's doing?” Quinn asked, her heart thudding like she'd run the Boston marathon.

“Playing with us,” Logan said, cool as a cucumber.

She looked at him. He concentrated on the Mercedes.

“A door is opening,” Logan said.

The back door of the Mercedes along the sidewalk had opened. They watched for a few seconds. Nothing else happened.

“Logan, this is silly. I'll go talk to her.” She placed her hand on the door handle. “It can't hurt anything.”

“Quinn, no. Do not open that door.” He caught her arm. “I'll talk to her.”

She looked him in the eye, recognized concern.

“And say what? She obviously wants to talk with me.” She quickly slid her arm out of his grip and pushed open the taxi's door. “Don't worry, I'll be fine.” Her brain ignored that fact that Rebecca might have killed Bill and/or Scooter.

Quinn stood by the car, noticed Rebecca waving at her by the Mercedes. Quinn waved back, then heard a very loud car backfire and noticed Logan rushing around the back of the taxi.

Her left arm developed a spasm and people dropped to the sidewalk in front of her. She noticed the Mercedes moved back into the traffic of the narrow street — strange, it moved in slow motion. Quinn collapsed to the sidewalk, blood seeping through her blouse. She saw Logan high above her before darkness slithered like a fog over his face.

Thursday, 11:33
A.M.

Twenty-four hours had passed since Quinn had collapsed on the sidewalk in front of Logan. Her arm hurt like hell until the pain meds kicked in. A huge bouquet of yellow roses sat on the table next to her bed. The room wasn't all that different from a hospital room in Houston. Other than the fact, she was stationed in a bed with a gunshot through the fleshy part of her upper left arm, and she didn't speak the language. A sling held her arm immobile.

Logan had just left to gather their belongings from the hotel. She'd be leaving Rome not as a conqueror, but as a semi-cripple. She was the HCU point person who chased the bad guy from Houston to Las Vegas to Rome — did she bring in the bad guy? No, hell no. Rebecca got away from them just as easily as she stole the money in the first place.

Quinn adjusted the sling, her arm felt tired to the bone. She wanted to go home. Home to Houston and her townhouse and her family and escape the fact her liaison with Logan was kaput. What did they have in common other than enjoying the same food and walking upright? Nothing. He was class and money, and well, she was basic middle class.

She was done. Done investigating Rebecca. The police were the targets for bullets, not Quinn, the civilian. She was tired of everything and longed to go home. Logan had promised, soon. After a few minutes of feeling sorry for herself, her eyes closed and she dozed off.

$ $ $

“Are you comfortable?” Logan searched Quinn's face, attuned to any sign of pain or discomfort she might exhibit. Sweet baby, he was being such a good nurse.

“I'm fine. I just slept five hours, my arm is immobile, and the pain meds help.”

“You've only taken three pain pills in the last twenty-four hours.”

“I know. But I'm not big on pills and my arm feels fine.” She tried to smile, although it wasn't one of her best. She still felt out of sorts, more mentally than physically. “The doctor in Rome was great. She said I'll be back to normal in a few days.”

Logan kissed her cheek, moved to the seat across from her. The Bridge Foundation jet had arrived in Rome a few hours ago and was now zooming across the Atlantic to Houston.

“Gunshots can be tough but the arm wound you have is one of the easier ones to recover from,” he said.

“You're like an encyclopedia. How do you know that? Have you ever been shot?”

His face went blank, turned pink, then back to normal, all in ten seconds. His eyes moved away from her and told the story of his discomfort at her question. She found his reaction strange. He remained silent.

“Have you ever been shot?” She leaned over across the aisle and shook his knee. “You can tell Auntie Quinn anything.”

His mouth opened, closed, opened again. “Yes, I've been shot before.”

Now that was interesting. “Really? When and why? Other than myself, you're the only person I know who's been shot. Coincidence, huh?”

“I was shot on the job several years ago,” he said.

“You're kidding. Did the Foundation have a break-in?”

Logan ran both hands through his hair. “I wasn't working for the foundation then.”

She plumped the pillow behind her head. “Who were you working for?”

Logan rose, paced the aisle a couple of times. Something was up. Quinn's stomach got that queasy feeling, signaling shit ahead.

“What?” she said, her voice softened with frustration. “Just tell me.”

Logan stopped his pacing, knelt in front of her, his fingers moving over her free hand. His eyes bored in hers. “I was shot about twelve years ago when I was a Special Agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

She absorbed that for a split second, threw off his hand, pushed at his chest.

“FBI? You worked for the FBI and you didn't tell me?” She rose, a bit unbalanced, and pushed past him toward the bulkhead.

“Now, Quinn, I wanted to tell — ”

“Tell me, my ass. You had plenty of opportunity to tell me you were a professional.” She slapped her forehead with her palm. “No wonder you always knew exactly what to do.”

“It's no big deal. My past didn't have any impact on your investigation.”

“Did you go with me to Las Vegas and Rome as my babysitter? Did Roddy give you the idea?” Her face was hot and her arm throbbed. Had Logan played with her to keep her out of trouble? Well, that backfired the minute she was shot. “And I trusted you,” she muttered, adding another notch to her lousy-man-picker belt.

“I wasn't your babysitter,” Logan said, his eyes snapping with frustration. “That's ridiculous.”

“Whatever. You made a fool out of me.” Her fist pounded the top of a leather seat. “I talked to you about surveillance.” Embarrassment washed over Quinn. She stopped pacing directly in front of Logan, in the middle of the aisle of the Bridge Foundation jet, somewhere over the Atlantic, and poked a finger at his chest. “Did you enjoy humiliating me? Was it fun?”

Saturday, 1:05
P.M.

Quinn had been home for just over a day. Nana and the twins were due any minute. They were bringing lunch — home cooking, Texas food for a change, no pasta. Barbeque would be perfect.

The doorbell rang. Rather than her family, a delivery person presented Quinn with a huge bouquet of yellow roses, probably two dozen. She assumed it was from HCU. The card read: “Thinking of you, love, Logan.” Her initial reaction was to throw the vase in the garbage can. However, being a practical woman, she put them on the table by her chair. Only nerds throw away roses in anger. She had trashed her nerd persona on a sidewalk in Rome. Today was a new day.

The door bell sounded again, immediately followed by the door opening. She rushed to embrace Nana, the twins, and Ruthie — all her favorite people, in her house, at one time.

“Mom,” Jane said after a hug.

“Mom,” Liz said after a hug.

“My sweet baby,” Nana said with a double hug.

“What the hell happened to you?” Yep, she could count on Ruthie to be the sane one.

They all squirted tears, even Ruthie. Quinn was blissfully happy. It was fantastic to see them all at one time, her girls. Her heart opened and felt just right.

“You need to sit down.” Nana ushered her to the chair. “Ruthie, you keep Quinn company while we get lunch organized.” Nana motioned with her head for the twins to follow.

Once they moved to the kitchen, Ruthie got down to business.

“Okay, tell me everything.” She settled on the sofa across from Quinn. “What happened in Las Vegas and in Rome? What's the deal with this Logan Rice person?”

That's why Quinn loved Ruthie, no kibitzing, no flowery build up. Just get to the point, already. She wanted to hear the real deal, not a sanitized version.

“I don't know where to start.”

“How about at the beginning? I haven't talked to you since you left for Las Vegas. That was a week ago last Thursday.” She raised her eyebrows for emphasis, noticed the roses. “Pretty. From HCU?”

“No.” Quinn sighed. “They're from Logan.”

“Oh.”

“I'll give you the summary version of the story.” Quinn adjusted the sling on her left arm to a more comfortable position and took a calming breath. “The first disaster in Las Vegas was Scooter running away from me. The first good thing was hiring a private investigator. Naturally, Mr. Ex-FBI Agent Logan arranged that.”

“Logan worked for the FBI?” Ruthie's mouth dropped. “That gorgeous man is a Fed?”

“How do you know he's gorgeous?”

“I looked him up on the internet. He's been in the society pages of the
Houston Chronicle
. Very nice package to travel with, if you ask me.”

“Looks aren't everything. Anyway, the next bad thing was learning Scooter had been killed and Rebecca had flown off to Rome. I followed with Logan tagging along.”

“Not such a bad place to search for a crook.” Ruthie said. “What happened there?”

“Well … Logan could find a hotel room with only one bed — ”

“One bed? How'd you handle that?”

“With dignity and keeping my distance. Although now I wonder if he booked one room on purpose. Anyway, we went to the U.S. Embassy rather than the Italian police. What I didn't know was that Logan and the FBI agent there were old buddies.” Quinn rubbed her eyes. “Just thinking about it pisses me off.”

“Are you tired? We can talk about this later,” Ruthie said.

“I'm fine. Where was I? Oh yeah, I told Agent Brown the story about our search for Rebecca and gave him Roddy's contact information. We decided to search for her while he checked out our story.”

“Smart. But what about the one bed in the hotel room?” Ruthie was persistent.

“Not now.”

“You slept with him didn't you?”

Quinn ignored the question and continued with her story. “Eventually, I got a tip about Rebecca's location. We ended up at the same restaurant, she ran, we followed, her car stopped, she got out, I got out, she waved, I waved.” She blew out a breath. “I got shot and she escaped. Now you know the whole story.”

“Incredible.” She looked pensive for a moment. “I still want to hear all about you sleeping with Logan.”

Lunch saved Quinn from answering. Nana came back to the living room carrying a tray, followed by Liz and Jane with iced tea and a salad bowl.

“Lunch is served, girls. Let's celebrate Quinn being home safe and sound.”

The food was wonderful — a simple avocado/fruit salad, sourdough bread, and oatmeal cookies. The girl talk was light and fun. No questions about the HCU theft or Logan Rice.

“Quinn, did you notice Ruthie's engagement ring?” Nana said.

“I totally forgot about your engagement. I'm so sorry.” She set aside her plate and went over to Ruthie, gave her a one-armed hug. “Let me see that ring.”

Ruthie held out her left hand, wiggled the finger holding a stunning sparkler. She held Ruthie's hand, studied the ring from different angles. “Ruthie, it's a knock-out.” She hugged her again. “Have you set a date?”

“We're thinking about Las Vegas the end of August. I've done some research and The Bellagio is at the top of my list. Did you go there on your trip?”

“It's a perfect location for your wedding.” Avoiding Ruthie's question, Quinn said, “What style of dress are you considering?”

They discussed weddings for a while then Quinn yawned and the group began to pack up. Just as everyone walked out the front door, Roddy appeared on the porch. She introduced him to everyone and ushered him inside.

“How are you doing?” He settled on the sofa, crossed his legs, looking very comfortable in her living room. “Must admit, you getting shot isn't on the point person job description,” he quipped with a sloppy grin. “You're a real trooper.”