Breakwater

29

When Quinn parked in the driveway next to her cottage, for a split second everything seemed quiet and peaceful, as if she were arriving for a normal getaway weekend of work and relaxation.

But as she stepped out of her car, she saw an osprey soar above the bay and felt a pang of loss-and a surge of frustration. There were so many unanswered questions about why and how Alicia had died. Now one of her colleagues had maneuvered his way into Quinn’s office, perhaps had searched it, and wasn’t returning her calls. Quinn had left messages on every phone number she had for him-office, cell, apartment. She took his non-response as a confirmation of his culpability. He had looked through her stuff.

Quinn felt a gust of chilly air, the temperature on the bay much cooler than in the city. The lilacs, she noticed, had come into bloom, the breeze tinged with their soft, soothing fragrance.

Normally, she would tell herself she didn’t mind being on the sidelines. By staying out of the center of the action, she could maintain a clear mind and a level of objectivity. She didn’t have to plunge herself into the fray.

This is different.

Alicia had come to her for help, and Quinn still didn’t know why, what she was supposed to have done to keep her friend from drowning in the bay.

Now there was Huck McCabe, the undercover federal agent. Quinn pictured his dark green eyes, not at all unreadable-he didn’t like her knowing his status.

One of your brighter moves, Harlowe. Telling him.

He didn’t like having her on the periphery, never mind in the middle, of his investigation, whatever it was. If she meddled, he wouldn’t hesitate to put her under surveillance or arrest her or something.

Unless…

She didn’t want to finish the thought, but it had hung around in the back of her mind for hours.

What if the feds were investigating her?

She knew Oliver Crawford. She’d let Alicia stay at her cottage. Alicia had come to her for help. Quinn had found her friend dead. Now, Steve Eisenhardt had searched her office. On his own? Or had someone put him up to it?

Did he believe she was involved in Alicia’s death somehow-or was he acting on behalf of someone else? Someone at Breakwater? Lattimore? The FBI?

As unsettling as any of those prospects were, Quinn knew exactly what she’d done and hadn’t done.

Maybe, she thought, worrying about staying on the sidelines was a moot point.

She grabbed her backpack of work and tote bag of clothes out of the car and carted them into the cottage, dumping them onto her bed, then headed back to the kitchen. Evening was coming fast. Hungry, distracted, edgy, she put on a kettle for tea, hoping to clear her head. She dug out a mismatched teacup and saucer and a white linen napkin, all at least fifty years old, and set her small table.

As she waited for the water to come to a boil, she fought back an unwelcome sense of loneliness. She’d never meant for the cottage to be an isolated retreat. She’d always pictured friends, family, joining her, if not all the time-a lot of the time. But who would want to visit now?

She looked out at her cove, gray-blue with the fading sunlight, and thought she saw baby ospreys in the sprawling nest.

“The osprey will kill me.”

Her throat tightened. “Oh, Alicia. What were you up to here in Yorkville?”

But no answer came, just the wash of the tide and the cry of seagulls out on the open bay.

After her tea, Quinn resisted taking an evening walk. She didn’t want to run into Diego Clemente. If she said something she shouldn’t, who knew what he’d do. She had no desire to end up in the bottom of his boat, out of circulation. As much as she tried to tell herself she was being dramatic, she didn’t know how Clemente had reacted to the news she’d made him and Huck. Surely Huck would have told him by now. Clemente was Huck’s backup-his eyes and ears in the village. It was his job to protect Huck and their investigation.

Drama, Quinn thought, heading for the shower.

An hour later, her skin was still pink from her shower. She’d turned the water up as hot as she could stand it. She shook out her dress for Oliver Crawford’s open house and tried to remember when she’d last worn it. She’d attended social functions at least once a week when she was at Justice, but, more often than not, would end up wearing whatever she’d had on at work, running from office to cocktail party.

Since leaving Justice, she’d felt more pressure, not less, to join the Beltway cocktail circuit. There’d been no shortage of invitations. Although she liked parties and recognized the importance of networking, lately she’d find herself digging around in the Society’s musty, cluttered attic, glancing at her watch as party time approached, and ending up just not going-or hitting the road to Yorkville, a list of local weekend yard sales in hand.

Quinn slipped into the silky champagne dress. At least it still fit, although she didn’t remember the neckline having such a deep V.

The silk brocade of her 1930s shawl reminded her of the blues of the bay, with a thread of champagne that matched her dress. She wrapped it over her bare shoulders, its long fringe tickling her arms, and spun out into the living room, pretending she had nothing more serious on her mind than an upper-crust open house in a beautiful bayside location.

She didn’t think about armed bodyguards and undercover federal agents and kidnapping survivors and a troubled friend who was dead.

Opening her porch door, she welcomed the fresh breeze coming in through the screen, the smell of the water-and more than a hint of lilac. She put aside her questions and her ghosts, her fears, and danced barefoot out to the kitchen.

When she danced back into the living room, she stopped abruptly, noticing a figure in the doorway, and recognized Huck Boone/McCabe just in time to stifle a startled yell.

He wore a work shirt and jeans, and he shook his head at her. “You must have nerves of steel, Harlowe, dancing by yourself out here in a skimpy cocktail dress, your front door wide open.”

“My dress is not skimpy, and my door-I was letting in the evening air.” The shawl fell off her shoulders, landing in the crook of her arms. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Not long enough.” He smiled. “I was hoping you’d do a couple dips before you saw me.”

“No dips. I’m not that good a dancer.”

He made no move to come inside. “You’re not that bad, either.”

She took a breath, her heart pounding from exertion and the start he’d given her, showing up on her front porch. “What are you doing here?”

“I was driving past and saw your door open. Thought I’d stop and say hi.”

“You didn’t walk-”

“I’m in my Rover.”

“It’s a dead-end road.”

He shrugged. “I needed to turn around.”

Quinn stood on the other side of the screen door, giving him a skeptical look, but she noticed that nothing about him was relaxed. The humor-the irreverence-was just a facade. But she tried not to react, and said, “I think you’re checking up on me.”

“Do you?”

“Did you follow me here?”

“If I did, you’d never know it.”

She managed a smile. “Cocky, aren’t you?”

“You’re in your own little world here. You’re not even playing music, but you didn’t hear me walk up onto your porch.” He tapped the screen, in front of her nose. “A screen door’s not much protection.”

“It’s locked.”

He just raised his eyebrows.

“I keep the doors and windows open as much as possible.” She slipped the near-useless lock on the screen door and pushed it open, stepping out onto the porch. The floorboards were cool under her bare feet. “Otherwise, I might as well stay in Washington. I like the bay breeze.”

Some of the guardedness in his eyes receded, although he didn’t relax. “Kind of cool tonight, isn’t it?”

With a rush of heat, Quinn remembered she’d tried on her dress straight from the shower and hadn’t bothered with undergarments. The filmy fabric and cold air left little to the imagination. And Huck had noticed-he couldn’t not have noticed, even if he hadn’t been trained to take in everything around him.

“Maybe it’s cool by California standards,” she said. “I think it’s gorgeous. I was just trying on my dress for the open house tomorrow-”

“You’re not going to the open house,” he said.

“No? Did Oliver Crawford rescind his invitation?”

“Quinn-”

“Because I can call him and ask.” Without giving Huck a chance to respond, she took a step back, resisting the urge to cross her arms over her breasts. “I think my outfit works okay. If it didn’t-well, then I might not go.”

His gaze drifted from her head to toes and back as he smiled. “I don’t know about the bare feet.”

“I’ve got strappy heels.”

“Ah. Thank God.”

She lifted her shawl back over her shoulders, subtly covering her breasts. “Gerard Lattimore’s going to be at the party tomorrow. It’ll be fine.”

“Your buddy Special Agent Kowalski says you like to play with fire.”

“So, you two have talked. I see.” She tried to keep her tone neutral. “And Clemente?”

“Quinn, we’ve had one body wash up onto shore-”

“I’m aware of that.” She tried to ignore the rush of images of the gulls at Alicia’s body, the sudden jolt of mixed emotions. “I think it’s best for me to do what I would normally do. If I don’t-that would just draw more attention to me.”

“You have plenty of attention on you as it is.”

“Then all the more reason for you not to interfere.”

He shook his head. “Don’t even think you can help me. You’re a historian. You might like playing with fire, but it’s not real to you-”

“Did I say I could help you? If I do something wrong, you guys in the field can get hurt. I’m aware of my responsibilities, as well as my limitations.”

“I’m not belittling you.” His tone didn’t soften. “I’m saying-”

“Anyone in my position would jump at the chance to go to a Crawford social function.” Quinn tightened her shawl around her. “It’d look more suspicious if I didn’t go tomorrow.”

Huck sighed suddenly. “You must be hell in a meeting. Do you ever let yourself get sidetracked?”

“Not when I know I’m right. I listen, of course.”

“Ha.”

“I’m not arrogant, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“It’s not.” He smiled, and, with one finger, touched her shawl, just below her collarbone. “You’ve got a moth hole.”

“Only a tiny one. It adds character.” She felt a little breathless, and self-conscious, as if she’d just exposed too much of herself to this man-too many of her weaknesses. “Our grandmothers might have worn a shawl like this one to a pre-World War Two dinner dance. Have you ever been to a dinner dance?”

“Several.”

“Not in your present line of work-”

“As a kid. My parents like that sort of thing.”

“It sounds fun-I think. I’d wear a shiny, elegant dress-long, with a wide skirt so I wouldn’t trip when I danced.” She couldn’t believe she was talking about dinner dances, but it was better than arguing about tomorrow’s open house, having him probe her motives. “But then, I’d have to learn to dance.”

“You’ve never taken lessons?”

“Not in my family. If I wasn’t wandering through Civil War battlefields and hiding in musty corners of the Society headquarters with a book, I was supposed to be learning to dive, climb mountains, whitewater kayak, navigate, fly planes-not dance.” She tilted her head back at him. “What about you? Did you ever learn to dance?”

“You bet.” Without warning, he draped a muscular arm around her middle and swept her across the porch. “Follow my lead.” He spoke softly into her ear. “A simple waltz step. One, two, three, one, two, three-”

“Should I ignore your holster and gun?”

“Sure. I’m not in a shooting mood.”

Huck seemed to hold her closer, or she’d leaned into him without realizing it. He picked up his pace just enough that she tightened her hold on him, her shawl trailing down her arms and back. “I’m not all that coordinated…”

“You can do it.” Settling his arm low on her back, he moved more smoothly than she’d have imagined for a man of his build and profession. “There you go. Easy, isn’t it?”

“I’m going to step on your toes-”

“So long as I don’t step on yours. I’d break a few.”

Somehow, he managed to get the screen door open and waltz her into the living room, gracefully, nothing about him self-conscious or awkward or stiff. Her head seemed to spin, and yet she didn’t falter, didn’t trip over her shawl-and she only stepped on his toes twice.

In a low, sexy voice, he hummed a waltz tune into her ear, almost as if he were in another world.

“Huck…”

“It’s okay. I’m not wired. Your cottage isn’t bugged. No one will catch me singing and waltzing.”

With a final swoop, he lifted her off her feet and dropped her effortlessly onto the couch.

Quinn gulped in air. “Where did you learn to dance like that?”

“My mother tried to make a gentleman out of me. She said I can never go wrong being a gentleman. I know how to tie a bow tie, do six different ballroom dances, eat with the right utensils, make small talk. And I learned not to drink the finger bowl.” He sat beside her. “I don’t look that civilized, do I?”

“Well, let’s just say the small talk’s a surprise. I don’t imagine you suffer fools gladly-” She stopped, not knowing what to call him.

He looked at her. “Huck.”

“That is your real name, yes? And these stories about your family-”

“All real. Think I’d make up learning how to waltz?”

She hesitated. “I’m not sure I know what you’d do.”

“Probably just as well. My parents are open-minded by conviction and nature. Not a mean bone in their bodies. I, on the other hand-” He lifted Quinn’s shawl back onto her shoulders. “Mean as hell.”

“I don’t know about that.” She sat up straight, feeling a little light-headed now, and more than a little self-conscious. “I haven’t had dinner, and I don’t have anything here except tea. Lots of tea. I was thinking about crab cakes at the local marina. There’s not much time before they close. Would you care to join me?”

“Only if you put on shoes.”

“And take off the dress-I mean-” Oh, hell. “I’ll change into jeans.”

But as she jumped up, she got tangled up in her shawl and ended up whipping fringe into his face. When she tried to yank it back and apologize, she tripped on his feet, and fell onto his lap.

“I told you,” she said. “I’m not that coordinated.”

“An expert in international crime, and here you are in a moth-eaten shawl and bare feet, sprawled on the lap of a bodyguard-”

“An armed bodyguard.”

He smiled, settling his arms around her. “I don’t think you’re as risk-avoidant as you like to pretend.”

His mouth lowered to hers, but it was her idea to put her arms around his neck, their kiss, she thought, not so much sudden as inevitable. From the moment she’d seen him on her porch tonight, Quinn had known, on some level, that this would happen. She relished the feel of his mouth on hers, the taste of him as she let her palms travel up his arms, feeling the hard muscles under his denim jacket.

As she fell back against the couch, her shawl dropped to the floor and her dress rode up to her thighs. With a little jolt of panic, she remembered that she had absolutely nothing on under her dress.

Her mouth opened to the kiss, his hands coursing up her legs, then along the bare skin of her hips. She thought she heard his breath catch. He lowered one hand, parting her legs ever so slightly, teasing her with his fingers. She responded to his touch with a small gasp of her own, and a flood of wet heat.

“I want to make love to you,” he whispered. “Now, tonight.”

She brought one hand back down his arm, and, ignoring his holster and gun, down to his hip, her fingers drifting across his pants to his zipper. In a few swift moves, she could have him exposed. They could make love on the couch, in the bay breeze, keeping each other warm.

You are out of your mind…

The thought did nothing to stop her. With a feathery touch, she outlined the length and breadth of his erection, even as he slipped two fingers into her, his mouth finding hers again as he thrust tongue and fingers in the same erotic rhythm. Now she could barely breathe at all.

She placed her palm against him, pushing firmly, imagining his hardness inside her as they indulged the sexual tension that had sparked between them. She imagined herself naked under him. Finding his belt, she undid the buckle, fumbling, then lowered his zipper. Her dress was up to her waist now. He withdrew his fingers, cupping her with his palm.

“Quinn…” His voice was ragged, his eyes dark on her.

With a boldness that surprised her, she wrapped her hand around him, his erection thick and hot, so close to her she had only to guide him a few inches.

“We’re not-” She couldn’t believe what she was saying. “Huck, this is just nerves.”

He pulled back so fast she almost landed on the floor. “Damn. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?”

He gave her a ragged smile. “Well, not that sorry.”

He swept her shawl up and gently tossed it over her, and when she got up, this time she didn’t trip. She fled back to the bedroom and stripped off her dress, threw it and her shawl onto the bed, and pulled on underwear, jeans, a cotton sweater, thick socks and running shoes. The marina was casual. She took a moment to dab on lipstick, using her bureau mirror, noticing that her cheeks were flushed. What has gotten into you? She had no idea, but doubted Huck had come there to dance with her, or make love to her, or do anything except his job.

Which job?

Who was he tonight, Huck Boone of Breakwater Security-or Huck McCabe of the U.S. Marshals Service?

Quinn pushed back her doubts but didn’t chastise herself for them. Staying on guard made sense. Asking questions. Being analytical, objective. She could even rationalize dinner with a man she was almost certain hadn’t told her even half the truth about himself and his reasons for being in Yorkville.

But she liked the idea of not having dinner alone.