But the truth is, you don’t know anything about me, and I didn’t expect…didn’t have any way to protect you.”
“From what?”
“Are you crazy? From me. From a possible pregnancy.” He jumped to his feet and glared at her. “Or… For all you know, I could have HIV or—”
“Do you?”
“No.”
“Or anything else?”
“No. But that’s not the point, damn it.”
She rose to her feet and took a step toward him. “Then what is?” When he glanced blankly at her, she added, “The point.”
“I’m not one of those strays you’re known for picking up.”
That baffling hurt was back in his eyes. “It never occurred to me that you were.” She took another step toward him.
He retreated a step. “Why in hell—”
“Did I climb into bed with you?” She shrugged, then told him the truth. “I’ve lived my whole life being the good girl, doing what was expected of me.” She took another step toward him and he backed up one. “That was the old me.” She closed the space between them until she could feel the heat from his body though they weren’t touching. “An aneurism in my husband’s brain burst while he was having lunch. Two days later he died.”
“I’m sorry,” Quinn murmured.
She met his gaze. “So am I. But you know what that taught me? Finally? That nothing is sure. That today is all there is. That you’d better grab what you want when you have the chance because tomorrow it could be all gone.” She touched one of the buttons of his shirt with her finger, not quite sure enough of herself to put her arms around him, but aching for him to give her some clue that she’d be welcome if she took that final tiny…huge…step into his arms.
Pretending to be far more courageous than she really was, she looked up and found him watching her with the eyes of a man being tortured. “So, that’s my regret. That I once again took time to think, instead of taking what I wanted. I’m so sick of being a coward.”
“That’s not true,” he said quietly. He held her gaze for a long moment, his eyes deeply searching hers. They held the colors of the earth and ocean and stormy sky, framed with lashes any woman would envy. “Not making love was for the best,” he finally said, glancing up when something behind Lily caught his attention.
She turned around and found Rosie at the doorway and headed for the cupboard where the crackers were kept.
“Good morning,” Lily said.
“Morning,” Rosie returned, reaching into the cupboard. She pulled down a package of soda crackers, then took a bite of one, giving them an apologetic smile. “Don’t mind me.”
“No problem.” He glanced down at Lily and managed to slip from between her and the counter. “I’ve got to go.”
“Cocoa Puffs isn’t much of a breakfast,” Lily said. “Let me make you something.”
“I really do need to…” His gaze caught hers once again.
“Go?” Rosie supplied, looking from him to Lily.
He nodded, pulling keys out of the pocket of his jeans.
“If you can give me about fifteen minutes, I can get dressed and go with you,” Lily said.
“I, uh, need to check with Hilda before going to work.”
“Fine. I thought you might.”
A flush crawled up his cheeks, and Lily realized he was trying to find a tactful way to leave without her. “I think I’d like to go home before going to work.”
“I can take you to work, Lily,” Rosie said, waving one of the crackers. “Another half dozen of these and I’ll be fine.”
A look of pure relief passed over Quinn’s face. “There. A solution. You have a ride to work.” He headed for the door. “See you later.”
“Okay.” Lily watched him leave, one more regret heaping on all the others. She had ignored the possibility that he might not want her the way she wanted him.
“You slept with him, didn’t you?” Rosie accused.
The call came into the payphone near the marina exactly when the man was expecting it—dreading it.
“Is it done?” asked the raspy voice.
“Accidents are dicey things,” he said, watching a float plane land beyond the line of boats. “Not predictable like more traditional methods. This will be a helluva lot easier with the direct approach.” Stealing the keys out of a desk—that had been easy. Pushing a car down a slope at exactly the right time to kill somebody—that was a gamble in anybody’s book.
“No,” was the immediate answer. “So you’re telling me that the status quo hasn’t changed.”
“She’s not dead, if that’s what you mean,” he answered, tired of the stupid game of refusing to name what he’d been hired to do. The chances of anyone listening to a conversation made to a pay phone from a pay phone were slim and none. “You want an accident, that’s going to take time.”
“And expenses on our clock. Mr. Lawrence expects results from you. I expect to read in the paper that a terrible accident has had tragic results. The sooner, the better.”
“And like I said, accidents aren’t that easy.”
“Let me put this another way, so you’ll understand perfectly. Mr. Lawrence is an engineer, did you know that?”
“Get to the point.” So he was an engineer. So what?
“He always ensures there are backup systems and fail safes.”
Which explains why he’s in prison, he nearly retorted.
“If a fail safe is required for this situation,” the voice continued, “you won’t be needing a single dime of the payment that was agreed to. Now, then. Since you seem to be unable or unwilling to think on your own, you will find a way to get close to her, and you will see to it that she’s involved in a very tragic, life-ending accident.”
The line went dead.
He stared across the water. A fail safe? A chill slithered down his spine. He got it. Somebody would kill him if he didn’t kill Lily Jensen Reditch. So far, he hadn’t been able to get close enough, which was only one of the problems with “accidents.”
As for thinking on his own, he already had an employment application in to go to work at the research center. He had enough of a chemistry background to create fire out of water, to even blow up a building. Plus, he knew for a fact he had the party-hearty merchandise a couple of the students wanted—they’d already made a buy from him. Trade drugs for a favor or two—a plan that was already in the works. Think on his own. What the hell did the old guy on the other end of the phone even know?
As the opening movement of Tchaikovsky’s Seventh Symphony swelled from the small CD player on the counter, Max Jamison, aka Jones, sat at the kitchen table waiting for a collect call. Depending on the length of the lineup to use the phone at the prison, the call could come in the next second or the next three to four hours. His gaze swept over the austere apartment he’d rented after arriving here a week after the double wedding of Dahlia Jensen to Jack Trahern, and Rosie Jensen to Ian Stearne. That’s a ceremony he would have liked to have seen, though he wouldn’t have been welcome.
The last time he had seen Dahlia, she’d believed he would kill her. She had shot him instead. Luckily for him, hospital prison wards were easier to escape from than prison cells. And now, unlikely as it seemed, here he was—seeking his revenge. Franklin Lawrence was going to pay for blackmailing him into kidnapping Lily’s sister.
Oh,