Breakwater (17 page)

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.

Huck didn’t know what was going on with him, but it sure as hell wasn’t nerves. As he and Quinn walked along the dock of Yorkville’s small marina, tucked in an inlet just off the loop road, he imagined a different kind of night, one where Quinn wasn’t tortured by a friend’s death and he wasn’t working, torn by his responsibilities and sense of duty-and the sense of danger he felt. Hanging out with paranoid vigilantes and private security types was bad enough, but his uneasiness had more to do with what the network he was supposed to penetrate had planned. These weren’t people who liked to stay idle for long.

Walking with Quinn Harlowe on a beautiful spring night only heightened his awareness of the stakes.

“That’s Gerard Lattimore’s boat,” she said, pointing to a yacht at a slip about thirty yards down along the main dock. “Yorkville’s a bit quiet for his tastes. When he was married, his wife almost never came down here with him. She doesn’t like boats. I think he comes more because of his friendship with Oliver Crawford.”

“Not because of you?”

“No.” She didn’t elaborate. “It doesn’t look as if he’s here yet. Maybe he’ll come in the morning. He was on his way to a meeting when he called to invite me to the open house. I left town early-I have more flexibility than he does now that I’m out on my own.”

“Lattimore wants you back at Justice,” Huck said.

She shrugged. “I suppose that’s better than breathing a sigh of relief that I quit.”

“Why did you quit?”

“Flexibility, opportunity, the chance to be my own boss.” She smiled. “I had illusions of having a life.”

They stopped at a spot along the dock where there were no boats, the water black under the night sky, reflecting here and there the gleam of lights from boats and the rustic restaurant. A variety of pleasure boats and fishing boats bobbed in the low tide.

A quiet night in Yorkville, Huck thought.

Quinn stood next to him. Her hair seemed blacker, her skin paler, almost translucent, but her eyes had taken on some of the darkness around her. “Lattimore doesn’t know anything about you, does he?” she asked.

“The fewer people who know about me, the better I like it.”

“I’m not going to give you away. I can be discreet.”

Huck let her comment go. After dancing and nearly making love in her cottage, he figured neither of them could claim discretion.

“I was still at Justice when Oliver Crawford was kidnapped,” she went on quietly.

“Lattimore must have gone apeshit.”

“It was a tense time. I left not long after Crawford was rescued. The FBI was investigating-I assume they still are.” She looked back out at the water. “They must have briefed you.”

“Quinn-”

“I’m not asking. I’m just saying.” She paused, squinting down the dock, toward the marina, then touched Huck’s wrist. “That’s Lattimore there.”

Huck, who’d only seen pictures of the deputy assistant AG, saw a good-looking, gray-haired man in a dark suit get out of a Breakwater SUV and shut the door, waving to the driver. The SUV backed out. Vern? Lubec? One of the Riccardis? Perhaps Oliver Crawford himself, Huck thought, watching Lattimore, caught in a dim streetlight, spot Quinn and smile, then join them out on the dock.

“Hello, Quinn.” He nodded to Huck. “Who’s your friend?”

Before she could answer, Huck said, “Huck Boone, sir. I work at Breakwater Security.”

“Huck was on a run when I found Alicia,” Quinn said, then introduced him. “Huck, this is Gerard Lattimore, my former boss at the Justice Department.”

“Good to meet you,” Lattimore said, shaking hands with Huck. “I’m sorry you and Quinn met under such difficult circumstances. We’re all still grappling with the tragedy. Alicia was a wonderful person, a very talented attorney.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Huck said.

He nodded his thanks, but said nothing.

Quinn deftly changed the subject. “Was that a Breakwater SUV? Were you out there?”

“Only for a few minutes. Ollie offered me a lift from Washington aboard one of his helicopters. He’d gone on ahead of me, but a few of his people were still in town. I just got here-a couple of Ollie’s meats dropped me off.” He sputtered into embarrassed laughter. “Boone, sorry. I didn’t mean to impugn the work you do. I’ve been in situations where I’ve required a private protective detail, and it’s very comforting to know how well trained you people are.”

“No offense taken,” Huck said.

“I’m afraid I shouldn’t have had that one drink with Ollie. It went right to my head.”

“How will you get back to Washington?” Quinn asked her former boss.

“Same way. Helicopter.” He recovered himself somewhat. “I didn’t use to like helicopters, but when you sail above snarled Beltway traffic-suddenly you don’t think it’s such a bad way to travel. Not that I’m in Ollie’s league when it comes to private helicopters ferrying me around. I’m just a government employee.”

“Huck and I are on our way to dinner. Would you care to join us?”

“Oh, thanks, but no-please, don’t let me keep you.” Lattimore made a broad gesture toward his boat. “I’m going to settle in for the rest of the evening. Enjoy yourselves. Boone-I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yes, sir, I’m sure you will.”

“Ollie’s first social event since he was kidnapped, you know.”

Huck nodded. “So I’ve been told.”

But Lattimore turned his attention back to Quinn, started to say something, then abandoned the effort and, without another word, headed for his boat. He wasn’t staggering, but he was obviously not entirely sober, either.

“Guess he’s had a long day,” Huck said. “I’ll say it again-I think he has a crush on you. Threw him to see you out here with me.”

Quinn scowled at him. “That’s ridiculous. Gerard’s only recently divorced-”

“Gerard, huh?”

“Oh, stop.” But she smiled. “You’re not even that funny, you know.”

“I’m very funny.”

“Well, Gerard is obviously under a lot of stress. I’m sure he’s hardly even thought about dating again, never mind striking up any kind of relationship with me. I have an interesting family background, but the Harlowes have always been more eccentric than well connected.”

“Seeing you wouldn’t do him any good.”

“I don’t mean to make him sound crass-”

“A guy in his position, with his ambitions, needs to be strategic about who he lets himself fall for.” Huck winked at her. “Unlike those of us who exercise no sense whatsoever.”

“And which describes you? Are you the strategic type or the no-sense type?”

“Me? I’m not supposed to be falling for anyone, for any reason, strategic or stupid.” He started back along the dock with her, the cool night air or the lights-he couldn’t tell which-turning Quinn’s lips blue. “And you?”

“None of the above.”

“Meaning?”

“I don’t want to be strategic or stupid. I just want to fall in love.” She looked at him, her directness, her bright smile, catching him off guard. “I do try to stay away from heartbreakers.”

“I can’t see anyone wanting to break your heart, Quinn.”

Although she must have heard him, she pretended not to, shooting out ahead of him. “The restaurant will be closing soon,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “We should get a table.”

Once they were inside the small restaurant, a middle-aged man Quinn knew by name showed them to a table overlooking the water, with blue cloth napkins, fresh daisies in a flowered vase and a white votive candle flickering in a clear-glass holder.

Quinn ordered wine with her crab cakes, but Huck stayed away from alcohol. Gun or no gun, he wasn’t drinking tonight.

Across the room, Joe Riccardi was drinking alone at the bar, no sign of his wife or their mutual boss, or any of his Breakwater crew. He carried his drink over to their table. “I thought I saw you head out earlier, Boone.” He nodded politely at Quinn. “Nice to see you, Ms. Harlowe.”

“You, too, Colonel Riccardi,” she said smoothly. “Huck’s keeping me from getting stuck having dinner alone.”

“I understand Mr. Crawford invited you to the open house tomorrow.” Riccardi spoke in his usual neutral tone. “I’d be glad to give you a personal tour of our training facility.”

In other words, Huck thought, no sneaking around. Quinn didn’t seem to take offense. “Thanks.”

“We want to be as open as possible about what we’re doing.” Riccardi sipped his drink, an amber-colored liquid. “We don’t want people creating fantasies about what we do.”

“Not even good fantasies?”

Riccardi smiled at her, but not warmly. “We play by the rules.”

“Whose rules?” She gave him a sharp look. “Oliver Crawford isn’t known for his patience. He’s known for pushing himself and everyone else. I’ll bet he wants a state-of-the-art, high-quality security firm up and running with the snap of his fingers.”

“He understands the importance of laying the proper foundation. We’re dealing with people’s safety. Their lives. Integrity and competence matter in this business more than all the bells and whistles.” Riccardi’s gaze bore into Quinn, but she didn’t flinch. “I didn’t realize you knew Mr. Crawford that well.”

“We’re neighbors, more or less.” She raised her water glass. “I’ve been doing a little research on my own, talking to my contacts, checking the public record. Makes sense, doesn’t it? I just found a friend dead under unusual, if not criminal, circumstances. If you were in my position, wouldn’t you look into the people who’d seen her last?”

And she says she doesn’t like playing with fire. Huck debated hauling her out of there and dumping her with Diego.

Riccardi polished off the last of his drink. “From what I understand, Ms. Harlowe, that would be you.”

She didn’t give up. “Whoever picked her up in the black sedan saw her after I did. I wouldn’t be surprised if we all traipsed out to Ollie’s place in the suburbs, we’d find shiny black Lincoln Town Cars-”

Huck broke in. “Drink’s on me, Joe. I’ll see you back at Breakwater.”

Riccardi set his empty glass on the table, muttered a good-night and stalked out of the restaurant.

“He seems lonely,” Quinn said, unrepentant.

Huck shook his head at her. “You’re a pain in the ass, Harlowe. If he’d decided to throttle you, I’d have helped him.”

She shrugged. “I’m sure that would have enhanced your reputation with your Breakwater buddies.”

“You had to let him know you’ve been doing your homework on them, didn’t you?”

Her wine arrived. When she picked up her glass, Huck saw the spots of pink in her cheeks, the sparkle in her eyes. She’d stayed cool, but she wasn’t unaffected by her encounter with his retired army colonel boss.

She sipped her wine. “Think Joe Riccardi’s the one who put Steve up to searching my office?”

“Uh-uh, Quinn. I’m not going there.” Huck kept his voice low and calm, not because she’d care if he shook his finger in her face and yelled, but because he didn’t want the few stragglers around them to notice he was on his last nerve. “You’re done. You have a nice dinner. Then I take you back to your cottage, and you lock all your doors and windows, and I get my friend Diego to watch you. And in the morning, you get a coffee-to-go at the local gas station and you drive back to Washington.”

She drank more of her wine. “Now that I think about it, I have no idea what you did after you left me at my office.”

“Quinn-”

“Did your guys put Steve up to sneaking into my office?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “I told Special Agent Kowalski about him. Do you suppose he’d tell me if Steve turned up?”

“I wouldn’t,” Huck said.

She smiled. “Relax. Quit worrying about me. I promise-” She leaned over the table, her eyes shining. “I’ll do up my hair and wear makeup and underwear and everything tomorrow. I’ll blend in. I’ll behave. I’ll dazzle. I’ll do whatever one does at an Oliver Crawford party, but I’ll definitely stay out of your way.”

Their meals arrived, and she dug into her crab cakes as if she hadn’t eaten in days-or just needed something to do besides argue with him. “Do you think Riccardi is in over his head at Breakwater?” she asked.

“No. I think you’re in over your head.”

She waved her fork. “By Harlowe standards, I’m not even close.”

“Keep it up, Quinn. Diego’s out there.” He nodded toward the water out their window. “He’s not as patient as I am. He doesn’t have a sense of humor.”

“He’s also very protective of you.”

“That’s his job.”

“I’m glad.” She sat back in her chair. “It must be good to know someone you trust is out there.”

“You can trust him, too, Quinn. And you can trust me. Stop, okay? Take a step back. Let us do our jobs.”

She didn’t respond. Her mood had darkened. Huck studied her, realized that she wasn’t easily pegged. He remembered the feel of her mouth, her soft skin, her hand on him, exploring, tempting. He wondered how far they’d have gotten if she hadn’t brought up that bit about nerves. Would he have made love to her?

In a heartbeat, he thought, not feeling any better.

Suddenly, everything about his assignment seemed crazy and so unorthodox that he was tempted to drive back to Nate Winter’s house and give it up. Help the Winters move. Talk to the ghosts.

But he was hungry, and he wasn’t about to walk out and leave her to Gerard Lattimore.