Rules of Attraction (8 page)

C
laire resisted the need to sidle up next to Quinn and slip her hand into his. She thought she'd been prepared for her first visit to a federal prison, that she'd seen enough television programs and movies to give her a sense of what would happen, but they were far from reality. Truth be told, she'd agreed to come with Quinn to see Craig Beecham because she knew they would get to spend a whole day together.

The drive to the prison had taken six hours, and they'd left at 6:00 a.m. While Quinn had driven, she'd read trial testimony aloud to him and they'd discussed what might help in their meeting with Beecham, then decided to play it by ear. Much of the trip had passed in silence, the anticipation making normal conversation difficult, at least for her.

She'd seen Quinn six times in the week and a half they'd been waiting for approval to go to the prison.
He'd shown up five times to join her and Rase for a run in the morning. Once, he'd brought dinner. After dinner she'd talked about her childhood. He hadn't. She'd talked about work. He hadn't. He'd sat next to her on her sofa, sometimes holding her hand, then at the end of the evening kissing her good-night in that completely involved and intense way he had, leaving her breathless.

Glancing at him now, seated in the common visiting room of the prison, she wondered what he was thinking. Most of the other tables were occupied with inmates visiting with their families—or an occasional lawyer. They were easier to spot because the inmate's expression was more intense. With family they put on fake smiles and joked with false enthusiasm. Laughter rang hollow. No one was allowed to touch. The parched air smelled of bitter hopelessness.

“You okay?” Quinn asked her quietly.

“How do they survive?” she asked.

“Some don't.”

“Everyone should be made to see what it's like.”

“You think that would deter more people from doing the crime?”

“Don't you?”

“Maybe. Some people. Most never think they'll get caught.”

He'd told her this was the low-security complex. She couldn't imagine what the medium-and high-security areas were like.

She recognized Beecham when he was brought through the door. His six months of incarceration showed, especially the six weeks or so in prison instead of jail. His walk was cocky, his smile meant to look sure of himself, but in that he failed. To Claire he looked much older than forty. His buzz-cut graying hair re
vealed a comically pointed head and winglike ears. Dark circles under his eyes added to the clownish look. He'd been slender at his trial. Now he was rail thin. Still, bravado oozed from him. Claire wished they'd been separated by a window with each of them holding a telephone, as she'd expected from the movies.

“Sit up,” the guard said to Beecham when he slouched casually. “Hands on the table.”

He immediately obeyed. In an odd way it reminded her of Rase taking commands from Quinn. Maybe structure was what made the prisoners survive, too.

“Sister Claire,” he drawled, making her skin crawl. He cocked his head at Quinn then. “I was told your name but I don't know you.”

“I'm a friend of the family. We're looking for Jennifer.”

His eyes opened wide. “Well, goodness gracious, she was here a minute ago. Didn't you pass her in the hall? She's devoted to me, you know.”

“She hasn't been in touch with you,” Claire said, sure of it.

“
Au contraire.
I get a perfumed letter every day. And there was that box of fudge with a file hidden in it, but it was confiscated. She's a pistol, that Jenny.”

“You had her followed since you were brought here,” Quinn said.

“Did I?” He shrugged. “A man takes care of his woman the best he can.”

“Except she slipped past your guards, too,” Quinn pointed out.

“Did she?”

“You know it. You called off the dogs after she disappeared from Claire's home.”

Beecham looked smug. “Maybe she's taking a little R & R from Saint Claire here.”

Was that how Jenn spoke of her? Claire's stomach churned. She'd taken Jenn in, put up with her messes and her comings and goings and her lack of responsibility. Always on the move. Push, push, push. Live hard. Play hard. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

Except for that last night when they'd been bleaching Claire's hair—as though they were teenagers again, giggling and having fun. Jenn had styled Claire's hair, applied her makeup and then pulled one of her own outfits from her closet, making Claire stand in front of the mirror and see a whole new person. Jenn had smiled at the tears in Claire's eyes.

“I look pretty,” Claire had said.

“You look
gorgeous,
baby sister.”

That was the Jenn that Claire also remembered. She wouldn't let anyone steal those memories.

“You look worried,” Quinn said to Beecham, startling Claire into looking at him, too.

“Not me.”

“No? You figure she'll be here waiting when you get out? What do you think the chances are of that?” Quinn asked Claire.

“Given her track record? Zero to none.”

Quinn nodded. “Did Jenn have access to your money, Beecham?”

“I have no money. Everything went to the lawyers.”

“Except the five million dollars of other people's money.”

“I have no money,” he repeated.

“Maybe not in the U. S. Or maybe not even in cash.” Quinn settled back. “Did you convert it into diamonds?”

Beecham clammed up.

“Does Jenn know where they are?” Quinn asked.

“Where are you going with this?” Beecham asked fi
nally. “My answering these questions won't get you anywhere.”

“I figure your game plan, like many others who've bilked innocents, is to serve your sentence, get out early for good behavior, then live on what you stole. By that point you'll convince yourself you deserve it. You will have paid your debt to society, and by damn, you're owed for the time you spent in this hellhole, never mind that you put yourself here. But what happens to your plan when you get out and find the money is gone?” He gestured casually. “We want to find her for reasons different from yours. You helping us helps yourself.”

“Last I heard, Jenny was rich in her own right. Why would she need more?”

Not too long ago Claire had said almost the same thing to Quinn. He'd made her see she could be wrong, had opened her eyes to the truth about her sister—how she'd always wanted more, that there might never be enough. “You lived with her for a year, yet you don't know her at all, do you?” she asked.

Beecham flattened his hands on the table and leaned toward her. “She's greedy, I know that. She manipulates. I know that, too. But at least I knew she was doing it. You, little sister, were too stupid—”

“Sit back,” the guard ordered, suddenly there.

Tension lingered for a few long seconds. “Jenny and I were good together,” Beecham said in a calmer voice. “She knew how to have fun.”

Unlike you.
He didn't have to say the words for Claire to hear them. She'd had enough. She'd been insulted and demeaned, and they weren't getting any answers. She looked at Quinn, hoping he could read her face well enough to know she wanted to get out of there.

“You could wait outside,” he said.

“Let's just go.”

“I'd like to—”

She shook her head, cutting him off.

“We're ready to leave,” Quinn said to the guard, who ordered Beecham to his feet.

“Tell your sister,” Beecham said, his voice conversational, “that my love for her will take me to the ends of the earth. Whatever it takes, I will find her.”

The threat wasn't even veiled. Quinn's hand came down on Claire's, keeping her in her seat. After Beecham left, she and Quinn were allowed to go, too. She shook so much she could barely sign her name on the checkout form. She hated everything about this place, every dingy, ugly, caged inch.

They turned in their visitor badges. The guard handed Quinn's back to him. “Mr. Gerard, the warden's assistant would like to speak with you.”

“About what?”

“I wouldn't know, sir.”

He waited a few beats. “All right.”

“I'll call him. If you'll just take a seat.”

The second they sat down Quinn put his arm around her. She leaned against him.

“Sorry you came?” he asked.

“No.”

“You're tougher than you look, P.A.”

She expelled a little laugh. “Think I can get a gig with the World Wrestling Federation?”

“Serving them water between rounds, maybe.”

She closed her eyes as he stroked her hair. “I keep picturing Jenn in a place like this.”

“Yeah.”

“She's my sister. I can't stand the thought of her….” She couldn't even finish the sentence.

“Do you still think she's innocent?”

Claire thought it over. “Yes. But she made her own bed, and she can sleep in it for a hundred years, as far as I'm concerned. When her Prince Charming finally comes along he can kiss her awake and deal with her. Guilty or innocent, I'm done, though. No more bailouts. No more investigation, okay? It stops now.”

He frowned. “Claire—”

“Mr. Gerard. Please come with me.”

“I'll be right back,” Quinn said to Claire.

She was too tired to be curious, she realized, but she didn't dare close her eyes, and there were no magazines to read. She sat in a kind of a daze as people came and went. No one smiled except the youngest of the children visiting, toddlers not old enough to know where they were.

What would happen now with Quinn? Without their common cause of looking for Jenn, he had no reason to hang around. She wanted him to hang around. They'd been taking steps toward something she couldn't yet define but seemed critical to her life. He made her feel safe—but not safe at all. She liked both feelings.

And he needed her. He was beginning to relax with her, to smile more.

She didn't know exactly how long he was out of the room, but long enough that she got uncomfortable with the wait and her curiosity finally surfaced.

He burst through the door then, tossed his visitor badge on the desk and held out his hand for his personal belongings left in their custody. He opened the exit door, waiting for her but not looking at her. His skin was ashen, his body rigid, his eyes cold and hard.

“What happened?” she asked as she preceded him out the door.

“I can't talk about it.”

She turned around, walking backward. “Can't or won't?”

“Take your pick.”

She almost snapped back at him but stopped herself because temper was out of character for him. She rushed to keep up with his long, angry strides. He didn't look at her until they were in the car and he'd turned the ignition.

“Sorry,” he said, his jaw clenched, his fingers gripping the steering wheel.

“Okay.” She touched his arm lightly. His muscles twitched as if repulsed by the contact. “Maybe I should drive.”

“No.”

“I'm a good driver. No tickets. No accidents.”
Keep it light.

“What a surprise, P.A.”

The sarcasm ticked her off.

“Whatever's going on with you, I didn't cause it. I'm just trying to help. And I'm sure as heck not going to spend six hours riding in a car with an angry maniac driver.”

After a minute he looked at her, his brows raised. “You're ‘sure as heck'?”

That he was mocking her was obvious. “I don't need to swear to make a point.”

He stared out the windshield for a long time. “I apologize,” he said finally.

“It's okay. But I'm driving. There's a rule for this kind of situation, I'm sure of it. One without do-over possibilities.”

“Now who's making up rules?” He studied her. “I'm all right, Claire. Let me make it up to you.”

“How?”

“Don't look so suspicious. Can you get someone to feed and walk Rase tonight and tomorrow morning?”

“Probably.”

“Then let's drive down the coast a little farther to Santa Barbara and get a couple of hotel rooms for the night. We'll have dinner. Go for a walk on the beach. Forget our troubles. How about it?”

She hesitated. A couple of rooms. That took some pressure off. Things would happen or not. But she couldn't afford such luxuries. Then she heard a voice that sounded very much like Marie's, asking if she was out of her mind.

“Sure,” she answered, ignoring the fact that she didn't have a change of clothes, makeup or pajamas. “Do you have a place in mind?”

“I do. Let me give them a call.”

Q
uinn was glad he'd driven his Corvette. Even the valets at this resort would look down their noses at the unremarkable gray sedan he used for his job.

He pulled up in front of the hotel.

“We are not staying here,” Claire said, her voice filled with awe and resistance in equal measure.

“We are.” He grabbed his briefcase and opened the door as the valet approached.

“I can't afford this,” she said. “It must run a couple hundred dollars a night.”

“Depending on which rooms we're assigned, somewhere between five hundred and a thousand per night.”

She rounded on him. “Drive. Right now. I saw a Motel 6 up the road with a vacancy sign.”

“We're being comped, P.A. No charge except for clothes we might need to buy to get us through the night.”

“Free? No
way.
”

He would remember her expression for the rest of his life. “Way. Good afternoon,” he said to the valet who'd just opened Claire's door.

“Welcome to
Descanso
.” The valet gave the Spanish pronunciation with flair.
Descanso
—in English, something about rest or relaxation, Quinn recalled. “Are you checking in, sir?”

“We are.”

“I'll have someone get your bags.”

“We don't have any.” He got out of the car and walked around to Claire's side, since she hadn't yet made a move, then passed the young man a tip. Quinn followed Claire's mesmerized gaze to the building.

The Spanish-style structure defined old-world elegance. The sound of the surf pounding nearby enticed. He breathed in the clean ocean air and was glad he'd decided to do this, not just for Claire but for himself, too. He had a decision to make by tomorrow morning. This was a good place for decision making—and for putting off the decision for a while, too.

He held Claire's hand as she stepped out of the car. “I'm not dressed for this,” she whispered harshly.

He studied the dark blue pants and pale blue blouse she wore, the most dressy he'd ever seen her. “You look fine.”

“Spoken like a man.”

“I hate to point out the obvious,” he said to her. “It's a casual world, Claire.”

They walked into the lobby, imposing in size, with a wrought-iron staircase winding grandly to a second story. Huge vases of flowers looked and smelled incredible. The Spanish tile floors were cool and earthy.

They approached a front-desk clerk, a smartly tailored young woman. “Mr. Baxter is expecting us.”

“Mr. Gerard?”

“Yes. And Ms. Winston.”

The clerk made a quick call, telling the manager, Quinn assumed, that they had arrived. By the time they'd registered and been given the key cards to their rooms, the amiable Brent Baxter strode up beside them.

“Doc,” he said, extending his hand. “I'm glad you came.”

Quinn felt Claire react to the nickname. He would have some explaining to do.

“I'm glad I could finally take you up on your offer, Brent. This is Claire Winston.”

He gave her a smart bow. Claire didn't laugh, but she looked like she enjoyed the gesture.

“I'll show you to your rooms,” Brent said, taking the lead. “Stairs or elevator?”

“Stairs,” Claire said when both men looked at her. She slipped her hand into Quinn's. “I need to do a little shopping.”

“After we see the rooms,” he said. He wondered why she took his hand. Was she nervous? “I need a few things, too.”

Their rooms were side by side but didn't have a connecting door. Their view of the Pacific Ocean from the balconies was unobstructed and unparalleled. A basket of toiletries containing all the necessities sat on the tile counter in the luxurious bathroom. In Claire's sitting room a tray of cheeses, a sourdough baguette and fruit awaited them, as well as a bottle of champagne and two crystal flutes.

“If there's anything at all you need, please call me directly,” Brent said. “Enjoy your stay.” He left the room with as much noise as a butterfly.

Quinn watched Claire lean her elbows against the
wrought-iron balcony railing. She shook her head, loosening her hair into the ocean breezes. He went to her, as if pulled by a riptide he couldn't swim out of and rested on his arms next to her.

“Nice, huh?” he asked.

“That must qualify for the world's biggest understatement, M.Q. And you really are a Mighty Quinn to pull this off for free.”

“Not exactly free. I did a job for Brent a couple of years ago. He wanted it kept hush-hush from the owners, so I said I'd take it out in trade sometime. He's still gonna owe me, even after this.”

“He called you Doc.”

He knew she wouldn't let that pass. “It's what I used to be called.”

“An alias?”

“Yeah. Until I became a partner in ARC, I operated pretty much undercover all the time.”

“You did dirty work?”

“I did work for people who didn't want their names bandied about. I kept a level of anonymity that made me desirable to those kinds of people.”

“How did they find you?”

“Word of mouth.”

“Why ‘Doc'?”

“One of my early clients called me that. He said I was a specialist at what I did.”

She smiled. “Sounds very cloak-and-daggerish.”

“I liked it. I had a business name, so people wrote checks to the company, but no one knew my real name. I milked it.” And now it seemed a little juvenile, but what was done, was done. “Hungry?”

“Yes.”

He opened the champagne and brought the food to
the balcony table where they ate in silence, enjoying the pounding surf and the occasional drifts of laughter coming from the pool nearby. He caught her closing her eyes, her face lifted to the sun, her champagne flute in hand. If he were an artist, he would paint her like that.

“Thank you for doing this,” she said after a while.

“You're welcome.” He looked at his watch. “I've got us booked for massages in half an hour.”

“Really?”

“And you're getting a…I forget what it's called. Some kind of body treatment or something.” He was prepared for her to protest but her smile widened.

“Cool.” Her eyes held an impish gleam. “Just being casual, M.Q.”

“Let's go see if the shops can tempt you.”

“Beyond a couple of necessities, they won't. I'm totally resistant to temptation.”

“Are you?”

She smiled. “Clothing temptation. I'm a clearance shopper.”

He decided to leave the subject alone as they took the long hallway back to the staircase.

“Are you allowed to tell me what kind of job you did for Mr. Baxter?” she asked.

“He heard rumors there was a call-girl operation being run out of the hotel. I was hired to find out who and how.”

“Just how long did that take?”

He gave her a look that made her laugh. “About a week to get everyone involved.”

“And did you work
under cover?
”

“I didn't compromise my virtue.”

She grinned. He liked that she had a sense of humor.

“I want all the sordid details,” she said.

“Sometime I'll tell you.” They reached the bottom of the stairs. “But first, we have massages and some shopping to do.”

 

Like a sleepwalker Claire managed to find her way back to her room more than two hours later. She wore a soft white robe and slippers, and carried her new purchases plus the clothes she'd worn upon arrival in a shopping bag so beautiful she could use it to wrap a gift at another time.

She started to go to her room then walked herself to Quinn's instead. No answer. In her room she found a message from him saying he was at the pool, and to join him. She changed into her new coral-colored shorts outfit and sandals and made her way to the pool area.

From a distance, she spotted him wearing black trunks and stretched out on a lounge chair. His eyes were closed. He looked…incredible.

As if he somehow knew she was there, he turned his head and spotted her. She managed to smile as she walked toward him. More of him came into focus—broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips. Muscles without bulk. Smooth skin dusted with enough hair to cause a little friction.

“Too tempting, huh?” he asked.

It took her a second to realize he was talking about her new outfit. “I realized I couldn't put the clothes I'd worn to the prison back on. I had to buy
something.
”

He reached for her hand, understanding in his eyes. She crouched beside him.

“Feel good from the massage?” he asked.

She put an arm up close to his face. “What do I smell like?”

He sniffed. “Guacamole.”

She smiled sleepily. “I had a citrus-avocado body polish after the most amazing massage. Marie gives great massages, but this was incredible. How was yours?”

“In an outdoor alcove. Deep muscle. Nice.”

“I'm so relaxed I'm wobbly.”

“Do you want to swim?”

What she wanted was to know what had upset him at the prison today. It'd been on her mind throughout her spa treatments.

“I didn't buy a suit. I don't think that avocado and chlorine mix.” She perched on the edge of his chair.

“Sun feels good,” he said.

She nodded, enjoying the feel of the rays bathing her.

“Why don't I drag a lounge over for you? You can take a nap.”

Why don't we go to your room and take a nap together? she thought, but she stood instead and let him line up a chair next to his.

She must have dozed, because all of a sudden she was aware of how low in the sky the sun was.

“Hey, sleepyhead.”

“Hi.” She smiled at him and stretched, then noticed a large umbrella had been slid over so that she was in the shade. “I didn't realize I was so tired. Did you sleep?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you arrange the shade?”

He shrugged. “I didn't want you to burn.”

“Thank you.”

“No problem.” He sat up and extended a hand to her, helping her up. “If we get ready now, we can watch the sun set while we eat dinner.”

Anticipation spun through her as they walked to their rooms. Dinner. Then what?

“Knock when you're ready,” he said.

She almost banged her knuckles three times against the door behind her. “Okay.”

Claire hadn't told him she'd splurged on a new outfit for dinner, but she'd fallen in love with a dress she found on the sale rack—turquoise silk with a low neck and even lower back and slits to midthigh. Her bra straps showed so she went without. Too brazen? She hoped not.

When her hair was fixed and her makeup applied, and with her skin glowing from the body polish, she tapped on the wall between them, then opened her door.

A few seconds later he appeared, a bouquet of yellow roses in one hand, a box of Godiva chocolates in the other and the look of a man intent on courtship on his face.