Broken (31 page)

He didn’t respond.

It was quiet in the room, one of those awful, weighted silences. She hated it. Frowning, she reached out and grabbed the blanket, wrapping it around herself. “The silent treatment is starting to piss me off, Quinn.”

He shrugged. “I asked you some questions earlier and you wouldn’t answer them.”

“I
can’t
.” Or at least, she wasn’t supposed to . . . but she could, and she wanted to, and if he’d just stop acting so fucking weird . . .

“Maybe if I give you an idea on where to start, it might be easier for you to answer those questions.”

His voice sounded almost normal. Her heart skipped a beat. Seeking out his face in the dim room, she strained to pick up some kind of clue. Some kind of warmth.
Tell him—

It was time. That was for damn sure.

She licked her lips and tried to figure out where in the hell to start.

He reached out and hit the light switch. She flinched at the sudden brightness, turning her head away. That was when she saw it. A piece of paper sitting on the little bedside table. It had several creases on it, like it had been folded up for a while.

Dread flooded her. Blood roared in her ears as she stared at the paper. It looked so innocuous—something she could tear to shreds, something she could set a match to and it would be gone in seconds.

A piece of paper and just the sight of it made her gut clench. She recognized the picture immediately. One very similar to it had been carried in her wallet for ages. It had been two years since she’d seen that image the last time.

She skimmed the brief paragraphs on the page, the blood in her veins turning to ice. Her heart went crashing down to her feet and suddenly, Quinn’s bizarre behavior didn’t seem so bizarre.

You
shouldn’t do this.

There was a laugh bubbling up in her throat, hysterical laughter, the kind that too easily turned to tears. Closing her eyes, she thought silently,
You fucking moron
.

But she didn’t know if it was directed at him . . . or at her.

She was somewhat pleased to see that her hand was steady as she reached out and plucked the page up. She was a shaking, nervous mess on the inside, but none of it would show on the outside. She wouldn’t let it.

The information on the piece of paper was damning.

“Interesting reading material,” she said, giving him a sardonic smile. She dropped it back down on the table and looked back at him. “You find that at the library?”

“Why did you run away from him?” he asked.

Sara lifted a brow at him. “Does it matter?”

“If it didn’t, I wouldn’t ask. Why did you run away?”

She didn’t respond. She’d be damned if she’d give him those answers now. And to think how damn close she’d been to doing just that. How close she’d been to trusting him—completely. With every dark, closely hidden secret. Close—entirely too close.

Quinn shoved off the wall and stalked her way. “Why did you run?” he asked a third time. He didn’t shout. His voice actually dropped, and if he hadn’t been standing close enough to touch, she wouldn’t have heard a word he said.

She would much rather hear him yell.

He crouched in front of her, resting his hands on the mattress. The veins in his arms stood out in sharp relief as he closed his hands into fists. Sara eyed him warily and fought the urge to pull back. The look in his eyes . . . it was unnerving, to say the least. She knew he wouldn’t hurt her—he just wasn’t that kind of man—but he was sure as hell making her nervous.

“Did he hit you?” Quinn asked.

Sara bared her teeth at him. “Any man that lays a hand on me in violence will go to sleep and never wake up.”

“Then why?”

Turning her head aside, she focused on the abstract art print that hung over the dresser.

“Answer me,” he rasped, catching her face in his hand and forcing her to look back at him.

Well, at least his eyes weren’t cold. They were hot. Hot with anger, hot with hunger, hot with other emotions she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Her heart skipped a beat and her mouth went dry.

“If this is all you wanted to talk about, Quinn, you’ve wasted your time,” she said quietly.

“I want you to fucking answer me,” he rasped.

“And I want you to get the hell away from me,” she snarled back, shoving her hair back from her face.

“Oh, I will. After I dump you back in your
husband’s
lap.”

She blinked at him. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” He shoved upright, glaring down at her. “There’s a nice little bonus involved if I actually deliver you to him.”

“
Deliver
me? What in the hell am I? A cow?”

Quinn jerked a shoulder in a shrug. “Apparently you’re his wife and he’s quite anxious to have you back.”

“You can’t make me go to Chicago.”

Something flashed in his eyes. A smile twisted his lips. He knelt back down in front of her and pressed his lips to her ear. “You want to bet on that, darlin’?”

She jerked away, scrambling back on the bed and drawing her knees to her chest. “I don’t want to go back to Chicago,” she said, trying not to let her voice shake. But even as she said it, somewhere deep inside, she had to wonder. Maybe this was the way to do it . . . maybe this was the way out. Back the way she’d come.

No.
Theresa had been right. She couldn’t run forever . . . and
now
she had some sort of control. Going back because she was forced wasn’t the kind of control she’d prefer, but it was control.

It was time. She couldn’t put it off any longer. If she could, she’d send out a warning. But she was going back home.

Quinn, unaware of her internal conflict, shrugged. “I don’t much care if you want to go or not. I was just going to send word back on where he could find you, but you went and tried to skip town. I’m not about to let you slip away that easily.”

“Why?” She blinked away the tears that threatened.

“Because I’ve got a job to do, and I’m going to do it.”

A job—damn it, what the hell kind of work did he do? “Exactly what is this job and how does it involve me?”

“I work for a private detective. Mostly I just bring in those who’ve skipped out on bail. You just sort of fell into my lap.”

His eyes, flat and emotionless, stared into hers.

A private detective agency. Money. He had come after her because of money. Was that why—

Her heart screamed in denial. Unconsciously, she fisted her hands. Her nails tore into her skin, but she never even noticed.

“So how long . . .” The words didn’t want to come. She didn’t want to ask, she didn’t want him to answer. But she forced the question out anyway. “How long have you been looking for me?”

He flicked a glance at his watch. “Less than twenty-four hours. You’re the reason my boss called me in yesterday. The information just came into our office early yesterday.” Rage, ugly and hot, flashed in his eyes, and his mouth twisted in a cold smile. “Can you imagine what a surprise I got when I opened that file folder and saw your face staring out at me? Your fucking
wedding
portrait.”

She glanced at the picture in question. It had probably hit him like a punch in the gut. Part of her even understood how furious he was. The evidence was damning as hell.

But jaded as she’d become over the past few years, she wouldn’t have automatically expected the worst—not from somebody she cared about. Not from somebody she loved.

Obviously, she couldn’t say the same for him. It was damned obvious he’d expected the worst. No trust. No understanding. He just made his assumptions and fuck all.

The lack of trust was painful, a twisting, burning grip on her heart that refused to let go. Staring at him, she searched for some sign that he
wanted
to believe—

Believe what? He obviously doesn’t believe in
me
.

Yet still she searched his face. Searched for some sign that she was wrong. That some part of him doubted.

But she saw only ice and fury. If he was hurt, it sure as hell didn’t show in his eyes or on his face. She swallowed against the knot in her throat. She managed a derisive tone as she asked,

“How much money has that bastard offered up?”

“Enough.”

“How much?” Not that
she
really cared, but it could be important. Information—information was key. She needed to know as much as she could.

“Why?” A blond brow cocked up. “You thinking you might beat it? You still have money from the shit you stole lying around somewhere?”

Curling her lip at him, she said, “I’m not about to try and bribe you. If the money is that fucking important to you, you’d just turn around and try to get a sweeter deal from him anyway. I sure as hell can’t pay anything close to what
he
can cough up.”

Quinn just stared at her.

She was really starting to hate that stare. Cool, blank, hard. Like a fucking mask. She’d rather face almost anything but that emotionless façade. Even his anger.

She bared her teeth at him in a mockery of a smile. “So . . . when do we go?”

“You that ready?” he asked. A muscle jerked in his cheek.

“Well, since it’s pretty clear that you’re not going to take no for an answer, I might as well accept the inevitable.” She glanced at the clock and then back at him. “Are we leaving tonight?”

He jerked a shoulder up. “Don’t see why. It’s late. We’ll leave in the morning.” His mouth twisted in a sneer and he added, “Besides, you already paid for the room.”

“Well, I’d hate to see that go to waste,” she muttered, looking away. Her mind raced. If he wasn’t planning on leaving yet, then she had some time. Time to figure out if she was going to try telling him anything. Time to figure out if she was going to just merrily go off with him to Chicago. Time to figure out where she needed to go from here.

Was one night enough to get all those answers?

She used the sheet to drape around her body, feeling his eyes on her as she made her way to her bags. A few feet away, she froze and gaped, staring at her open bags.

The small carry-on suitcase was unzipped, the clothes messed up. Her duffel bag lay next to it, and it was in the same condition. She sure as hell hadn’t gone through the bags.

She hadn’t—
Quinn
had. Fury bubbled inside her. He’d gone and rummaged through everything. Her pathetically small collection of panties and bras lay in a heap on the floor. Her jeans were haphazardly stacked, her shirts draped over top. The T-shirt of his that she had taken lay discarded on the floor like some piece of trash.

“Was there any reason to go through my belongings?” she demanded, glaring at him over her shoulder.

Quinn didn’t answer.

Giving him a withering stare, she grabbed her cosmetic case and the top and lounge pants she used as pajamas. “Am I allowed to shower?” she asked mockingly.

“Sure.” He shoved off the wall and sauntered over to the bed, flopping down on it.

On the way into the bathroom, her phone chirped. Frowning, she turned back and saw Quinn holding it in his hand, obviously reading the message. “Do you mind?” She held out her hand.

From the bed, he smirked up at her. “You’re not getting the phone back.” He turned it around and showed her the message. “Who keeps texting you? This is like the fifth one.”

Only five?
“It’s none of your business.”

“Well, I guess they’ll just have to keep sending the messages then, because you’re not using the phone unless I know who it is.”

“Afraid I’ll call for the cavalry?”

“Just being cautious.”

The door closed behind Sarah, and Quinn closed his eyes as the shower came on, tried not to think about her standing wet and naked under the spray of water. Definitely not the image he needed in his mind right now.

He was having a damned hard time blanking his mind, too. Jackknifing off the bed, he prowled the room. He was restless. He was edgy. He was irritated. And hurt. No matter how deep he tried to bury the hurt, it kept working free, rising to taunt him.

Trust—he knew better.

He’d trusted again and it had come back to bite him, leaving a gaping, open wound square in the middle of his chest.

He still couldn’t wrap his mind around it. In the back of his mind, there was a derisive voice, one that mocked the hopes he’d unconsciously started to build, the plans he’d consciously started to make. Hopes, plans, thinking about something besides getting through the day . . . looking forward to the next day, just because it was one he’d get to spend with Sara.

Having all of that smashed hurt like a son of a bitch.

It hurt almost as much as that look he’d glimpsed in Sarah’s eyes once or twice. Something like pain. Like misery. Like shock. She looked at him—like he’d been the one misleading her—and that pain flashed through her eyes. But only for a second, then it was gone, like she’d locked it down, put it away.

Or maybe he was just imagining it. Maybe he wanted so badly to believe there was a lot more going on than he realized and he was dreaming up things that might make that belief easier.

After all, if she was hurting, too, that must mean she cared a little. Maybe she really hadn’t wanted to leave . . .

He stopped his pacing and turned, staring at her open suitcase. She’d had one of his T-shirts in there. Until he’d gone through her clothes, everything in her bags had been neatly, almost ruthlessly organized—except for his T-shirt. It was shoved inside, like she’d done it at the very last minute.