Five years ago? Surely not. That could mean countless women. No, if that many of his former lovers had been murdered, that fact would have surfaced before now. As far as reciting a list of his former lovers’ names in front of Annabelle—that was the last thing Quinn wanted to do. Besides, if he had to go back further than a couple of years, he doubted he’d remember most of them by name. Calculating quickly in his mind, he counted two women this year. Only two. Lulu and Kendall. And last year? Joy Ellis, then the Parisian model,
Claudette, when he’d gone to France in May. After that came Carla, an interior designer from Houston. He’d met Lulu at Thanksgiving last year and began an on-again/off-again affair. Only four women last year. He was slowing down. There had been a time when he easily went through at least a dozen or more in a year.
Not wanting to name names in front of Annabelle, Quinn gave Griffin a help-me-out-here look, which prompted Griffin to say, “Why don’t you go over to the desk and write down the names for me. In the meantime, I’ll make a phone call to a friend of mine, a Chattanooga lawyer who will probably be willing to come to Memphis to represent you as a favor to me.”
Quinn stared quizzically at Griffin. “Who’s your Chattanooga lawyer friend?”
“Judd Walker.”
“I figured as much. He and I locked horns several years ago when he worked in the Chattanooga DA’s office. He’s not going to want to represent me. I actually thought of Judd, then I decided I needed a Memphis lawyer ASAP and called Kendall.”
“He’s the best Tennessee has to offer,” Griffin said. “And he owes me a favor.”
“And you’re willing to call in that favor for me?”
Griffin chuckled. “Not only that, but I’m going to contact an old buddy of mine who just happens to be on the Memphis police force and is the lead detective on the two murder cases. Jimmy Norton and I played ball together at UT.”
“Lieutenant Norton is an old teammate of yours?” Annabelle released a delayed gasp of surprise.
“When this is all over, I’m going to owe you big time,” Quinn said.
“Yeah, you will,” Griffin replied. “And someday I may call in that marker. But for now, write down those names for me while I make a couple of phone calls.”
Quinn knew what he had to do. The honorable thing where Annabelle was concerned. “While we’re both busy, how
about giving Annabelle that basic report you had compiled on me,” Quinn said.
“You want her to read that report?”
Quinn nodded.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.” He squeezed Annabelle’s hand, then released it and walked away from her, toward the desk.
“I’ll get the report for you,” Griffin told her, then left the room.
Annabelle laid the file folder on the coffee table in front of the sofa. Taking a deep breath, she leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Although the Powell Agency’s report was brief—only three pages—it was a precise, condensed version of Quinn Cortez’s life from birth to the present. A poor kid who grew up on the streets of San Antonio, a half-Mexican delinquent who stayed in trouble from the age of ten until he wound up in Houston and was arrested for vagrancy. He’d been sixteen at the time. A runaway with no place to go. A renowned Houston judge, Harwood Brown, who had a reputation for saving teens in trouble, had helped Quinn turn his life around in a few short years. After law school and passing the bar, he’d been a street-smart, power and money hungry young lawyer, willing to do whatever it took to succeed. And succeed he had. He was considered one of the top criminal lawyers in the country and his astronomical fees had made him a multimillionaire.
Quinn had won ninety-five percent of his cases and had a reputation that made other lawyers quake in their boots. And on a personal level, he was known as a Latin lover, a lady-killer, a love-’em-and-leave-’em kind of guy. He’d never been married or engaged. Not even close.
So this was the man she had chosen to believe in, to trust, to stand by his side against all odds. What made her think that he wasn’t using her as he had used so many other women?
“Are you okay?” Quinn asked as he rose from the chair
across the room and laid the list he’d written out for Griffin on the desk.
She opened her eyes and looked at him. “How many women are there on that list?”
He picked it up, walked across the room and handed it to her. When she took the list, her hand quivered just the slightest bit.
She glanced at the sheet of paper. Five names in all. Five lovers since January of last year. A hysterical giggle bubbled up inside her. She’d had three lovers in the past eleven years. Hell, she’d had a total of three lovers in her whole life and one of those—the only one who had counted—had been her fiancé, a man she had dearly loved. That giddy chuckle inside her erupted suddenly, vocalizing as a squeaky laugh.
“Annabelle…honey…?”
“You don’t owe me any explanations. You’ve been completely honest with me and I appreciate that fact.” After handing the list back to him, she clasped her hands together and held them in her lap, then stared downward, avoiding making direct eye contact with him. “I’m going to return the favor. You need to understand something about me.” She paused, gathering up her courage. “I hate myself for being attracted to you. You’re not the type of man I would choose to become involved with and even though I do believe you didn’t kill Lulu, I don’t entirely trust you. You could very easily break my heart.”
Quinn knelt in front of her and grasped her hands. “Look at me, honey.”
She forced herself to do as he’d requested. When their gazes met, she clenched her teeth tightly and willed herself not to cry. Right now she wanted him to hold her, to swear to her that she had nothing to fear from him, that what he felt for her was different from anything he’d ever felt before for any other woman.
“You’re right. I could break your heart. And I don’t want to do that.” He laughed, the sound hollow and anguished.
“You can’t imagine how much I want you. But I’ve wanted a lot of women and I’ve had just about every woman I’ve ever wanted.”
“Are you trying to warn me off again?”
“I’m telling you that you should run from me. Run like hell.”
Griffin Powell cleared his throat when he entered the room. Quinn released Annabelle’s hands and rose to his feet to face the other man.
“I’ve got Judd on the phone,” Griffin said. “He wants to speak to you.”
“I suppose he wants to hear me beg a little before he agrees to become my lawyer.”
Griffin grunted. “Yeah, something like that.”
“While I’m on the phone with Judd, would you mind seeing Annabelle to her suite?” Quinn asked.
“Sure thing.”
When Quinn disappeared inside Griffin’s bedroom and closed the door behind him, Griffin turned to Annabelle. “If you’re ready…”
“I’m ready.”
She wanted and needed a straightforward, uncomplicated relationship with a man. Annabelle Vanderley was a marriage, children and ever-after kind of woman. Even if she was certain of nothing else in her life right now, she was certain of that.
“You’ll do all you can to help him, won’t you?” Annabelle stood.
“You sound as if you’re walking away from this situation, away from him.”
“I am. I have to.” She followed Griffin to the door.
“So you’ll be going home then, back to Mississippi?” he asked as he opened the door for her.
“Yes, as soon as they release Lulu’s body, I’ll take her home to Uncle Louis. He needs to see that she has a proper funeral and a burial in the family cemetery.”
“And will you come back to Memphis after the funeral?”
“If it’s necessary, yes, I’ll come back. But in the meantime, I expect you to keep in touch with me. I’ll want full reports on whatever you find out about Lulu’s murder. And I want you to do whatever is necessary, regardless of the cost, to prove Quinn is innocent.”
He had spent a lifetime trying to forget, praying that God would erase the horrible memories. But he had learned that there was no escape, no way to stop the nightmares that plagued him—awake or asleep—no way to control the need to end not only his misery, but hers, too. Although he had suffered unbearably, so had she. And in her own cruel, tormented way, she had loved him. Hadn’t she?
The sound of her voice reverberated inside his head. He covered his ears with his hands, trying to block out the condemning words. But it was useless. He was doomed to relive the memories of his tortured childhood again and again.
“Don’t hide from me, you little devil you!”
Lying flat of his stomach under his bed, his body shaking uncontrollably, he held his breath. If he could stay very still and very quiet, maybe she would go away.
God, please, make her leave me alone
. Breaking her favorite ashtray had been an accident. After he’d dumped the ashes and cigarette butts in the garbage can, he had wiped the tray clean with a wet cloth. He didn’t know how it had happened. One minute he was holding it and the next it had slipped through his fingers.
She had heard the shattering glass the minute the tray hit
the kitchen floor and had jumped up from the table where she’d been sitting drinking a beer.
“What the hell have you done now, you stupid little fuck-up?”
He’d looked up at her, seen the fury in her hazel eyes and without thinking of the consequences, ran past her and through the house, straight to his room.
The sound of the breaking glass clattered inside his head. He kept hearing it over and over again, like background music that he couldn’t shut off.
“I thought you knew better than to hide from me,” she called to him. “You know that when I find you, I’ll have to punish you twice. Once for breaking my favorite ashtray and again for running and hiding.”
He held his breath for as long as he could, then finally sucked in air as quietly as possible. Lying there against the cold wooden floor, he listened while she tore his room apart in her rage. Lifting his head just a fraction, he peered out from under the bed and watched while she ripped the curtains from the windows, yanked all the drawers out of the dresser and then jerked open the closet door.
“If you’re not in the closet, then where are you?”
He couldn’t see her evil smile, but he knew she was smiling. Whenever she punished him, she smiled. He couldn’t understand how hurting him could make her so happy.
When she walked toward the bed, he clenched his teeth tightly together and held his breath again.
No, please, no. Don’t hurt me. Not again
.
His heart beat so fast he thought it was going to jump out of his chest as she knelt down beside the bed and looked underneath it. He scooted as far back against the wall as he could. She was so big; and he was so very small. She had all the power; he had none. He tried so hard to be good, to please her, to prove to her that he did love her, but it was never enough.
“If I have to come under there and drag you out, you’ll be sorry.”
He froze with fear.
She got down on her belly and inched her way beneath the bed, just far enough so that she could reach out and grab his ankles. The minute she touched him, he peed his pants.
Oh, no. She’d punish him for that, too, for wetting his pants.
She dragged him out from under the bed, then rose to her feet and stood over him like a menacing giant, glaring at him. “Why do you do these things?” she asked him as if genuinely puzzled. “Why can’t you be a good boy?”
He opened his mouth to tell her that he tried, tried so very hard to be good. But the words lodged in his throat.
With him lying at her feet, she slid her hand into her shirt pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Then she sat down on the edge of his bed and lit one of the cigarettes. After placing the pack and the lighter back in her pocket, she took a long draw on the freshly lit cigarette.
“Look at you, all wet and nasty. You pissed in your pants again, didn’t you? You think just because you’re so damn good-looking the rules don’t apply to you? You think because I love you, I’ll let you treat me any way you want to? Well, you’re wrong. Damn wrong!” She lifted her foot and kicked him in the ribs.
The pain radiated through his whole body, but he kept quiet, enduring in silence. She liked to hear him cry, but he wouldn’t cry for her. Not this time. He wouldn’t!
Leaning down, she stuck the cigarette in her mouth before she grabbed his wrists and yanked him off the floor. She spread her legs, forced him between her thighs and then closed them, holding him in place.
He watched helplessly, completely terrified, as she removed the cigarette from her mouth and brought it down to his arm. When the burning tip pressed into his skin, he keened quietly, but he didn’t cry. She lifted the cigarette and moved it up his arm a couple of inches, then pressed it into his skin again. Tears welled up in his eyes. He clenched his teeth as tight as he could. She repeated the torture again and
again until she had inflicted eight burn spots—four on each arm.
“Damn, you. Cry. Any normal kid would cry when he’s being punished.”
She yanked his unbelted jeans down, taking his cotton briefs with them.
“Don’t, please, don’t. I’ll cry for you, Mama. I’ll cry.”
“Too late, you little shit.”
When he tried to escape her tenacious hold, she grabbed him by the shoulders, lifted him off his feet and flung him onto the bed.
He cried then, cried as loud and as hard as he could.
But it didn’t matter. She was going to do what she was going to do no matter what. When he tried to cover himself with his hands, she prized his hands away and while he struggled fruitlessly, she stuck the red-hot end of her cigarette to the tip of his little penis.
Valerie Miller waited until their housekeeper, Eula, placed her breakfast plate in front of her, poured her coffee and returned to the kitchen, before she spoke to her husband. Randall sat at the far end of the dining room table, this morning’s
Commercial Appeal
in his hand, his gaze riveted to the front-page.
“Something interesting in the news this morning?” she asked.
Randall folded the paper and laid it beside his plate. “Another woman has been murdered. Kendall Wells. She was Quinn Cortez’s lawyer.”