Broken (8 page)

“Like I said, a little bit of this . . . a little bit of that.”

Sara wasn’t going to get anything more than that unless she came right out and said, “Hey, is he somebody who could cause me trouble?” And she wasn’t going to do that. It lacked subtlety.

For reasons that had little to do with handyman and knight-in-shining-armor tendencies, he made her nervous. Made her wish she’d passed on Theresa’s offer, even if it did mean staying in that nasty one-room apartment where she had to sleep with one eye open.

But it was too late now. She’d already moved her stuff, what little she owned, into the apartment upstairs and she wasn’t going back to the other place.

Sara would just have to wait and see, and be ready.

Sara came awake and for two seconds, panic tried to take over. But she didn’t give in.

“Just a dream,” she told herself, her throat tight. She swallowed, but it didn’t do a damn thing to ease the tightness. There was a lump lodged halfway down and it wasn’t going to go away anytime soon. Not after that. “Not real.”

She lay still and quiet, let her heart settle as she took in what she could see without moving anything more than her eyes.

White ceiling, sloped and pristine—not stained and cracked. Sunlight filtering in through curtains. There hadn’t been a window in the last place she’d stayed.

Angling her head to the left, she stared at the table sitting neatly under the window, eyed the yellow walls.

Yellow
. . . ?

Then her memory kicked in.

Theresa.

The apartment.

Closing her eyes, Sara blew out a sigh and wondered if it would ever be over. If she’d ever have a chance at anything resembling a normal life again. Then she sat up and stretched her arms over her head, wincing at her stiff back and neck.

The apartment was a godsend, but that futon was a torture device straight out of hell. With a grimace, she rolled off it and settled on the floor next to it. Grimly, she did a series of crunches, hating every second. She gritted her teeth through the push-ups that followed. Those were followed by the other exercises that she’d started doing over the last two years.

Leg extensions, lunges, squats.

With focused determination, she went through them all. Sweat was gleaming on her body by the time she started walking herself through the different self-defense techniques.

Martial arts was the one form of exercise she didn’t loathe and despise, although it might be because she didn’t let herself
think
of martial arts as exercise. At first, it had been harder to practice without a partner, but she’d gotten used to it.

In a little while, she’d dig out some tennis shoes and take a run around the neighborhood—that particular bit served a number of purposes. She could scout out the area, figure out some escape routes.

And it kept her strong, kept her ready.

Being out of shape just wasn’t acceptable.

Thirty minutes later, she was done with everything but the run. She went into the bathroom and paused in the doorway, unable to keep from smiling as she studied the cheery blue and white interior. A far cry from the cracked, urine-stained toilet and soap-scum-lined shower she’d shared with three other people over the last couple of months.

She caught sight of her face in the mirror and paused. She almost looked . . . content. Really content, not just the “everything is fine” mask she wore for the world.

“Don’t get used to it,” she muttered.

Getting used to something meant falling into a routine. Falling into a routine meant she got sloppy.

With that sobering thought, her half smile faded and she once more found herself staring at a grim-faced stranger. Nothing like the woman who’d stared back at her reflection just over two years ago.

Everything looked different. Her hair was short, the color drab. Her face was thinner, her mouth unsmiling. The worst change, though, came from inside. Anger—carry it on the inside for too long and it started to show on the outside.

Nobody, not even her own mother, would recognize her.

QUINN lay on the weight bench, ignoring the nagging ring of his phone. It was somebody from the Gearing Agency. Quinn used specific ringtones for the few that had his number—that way he could decide if it was a call that he could put off indefinitely or if he needed to answer it just to get some peace.

When certain people called, namely, his dad or his twin brother, Luke, Quinn usually answered. Calls from Jeb Gray, a friend from his army days, were a little more iffy. Sometimes Quinn felt like talking to Jeb. Other times, he didn’t.

Then there had been a few calls from Theresa, and although it surprised the hell out of him, Quinn answered each and every one of those calls. Hell, he answered those calls more often than he answered calls from Luke and his dad.

The rest of the calls, though, more often than not, came from somebody at Gearing, and Quinn rarely answered those. He often wondered why they even bothered calling. They had better luck getting in touch with him via e-mail.

Most likely they were calling about another job. If that was the case, they could e-mail Quinn the details. So it rang and rang, and stopped, then started all over again. He tuned it out. After about five minutes, the ringing stopped.

Staring at the ceiling, he slowly lifted the bar up, lowered it back down. Again, and again, going through his workout on autopilot.

But his mind wasn’t on reps.

It wasn’t on building muscle mass.

It wasn’t on maintaining his physical strength.

It wasn’t on work.

No, he was actually reliving a very, very vivid dream. A dream that had had him waking up with a raging hard-on, a dream that still danced through his mind hours later.

A dream that had starred none other than the very sexy lady who had taken up residence a few floors above him.

A dream about having a taste of that mouth of hers, seeing if she was as soft as she looked, seeing if she tasted as sweet as he thought she’d taste.

As he finished the last rep, he heard footsteps going by the window. He glanced up but couldn’t see much more than a pair of tennis-shoe-clad feet and shapely calves. He hadn’t managed to get a glimpse of those calves yesterday—he’d been too busy focusing on her mouth, then on her ass, but he knew it was her.

She was pacing back and forth.

Back and forth.

On her third pass by his windows, he grabbed a bottle of water and headed for the door. He climbed the stairs that led to his private outside entrance and leaned against the railing as he eyed his new neighbor.

She had her hair scooped up into a stubby ponytail and was staring at her feet as she paced. Halfway down the brick sidewalk, she stopped and turned, staring at the gardens. Judging by the grim look on her face, he had a feeling she wasn’t admiring Theresa’s pride and joy.

“Everything okay?”

She flinched and went dead white. Her eyes cut to him and he watched a series of emotions flit across her face. Nerves. Something too close to fear for his liking. Determination. Then, finally, recognition.

She was good. He had to give her that.

In the span of maybe three seconds, she went from ready to fight or flee, to giving him a rueful grin. Quinn suspected there were quite a few people that wouldn’t have picked up on that quickly hidden fear, even though it caught his attention.

“Pep talk.”

“Pep talk.” He cocked a brow. “Looks more like pacing.”

“Mental pep talk combined with pacing.” She rolled her eyes and sauntered his way.

It took a focused effort to watch her face and not the sway of her hips as she drew nearer. Nice hips . . . way nice, sweetly curved, the kind of curves that would cradle a man just right. She had on a pair of black running shorts and a fitted tank top that molded to a set of world-class breasts, big and round, the kind that would fill a man’s hands perfectly.

Quinn’s hands itched to peel the cloth away from her body. He wanted to see what color her nipples were, wanted to cup her hips and hold her steady as he rocked his cock against her.

“I need to go for a run and I know I need to go for a run but I hate running, so I’m mentally going over all the reasons I need to just do it anyway.” Her voice was full of a self-deprecating humor.

He braced an elbow on the railing and shrugged. “If you don’t like running, don’t do it. Seems pointless to torture yourself if you don’t need to.”

“Doctors everywhere would hate you for that statement,” Sara drawled. “It doesn’t matter if people hate to exercise or not . . . they need to do it, right?”

“If you’re just looking for exercise, find one you don’t hate so much. Find one you like, you wouldn’t have to pace and give mental pep talks—you’d enjoy it. If you like it, you’re more likely to stick to it.” Quinn recognized the sound of his voice, but didn’t quite believe the words coming out of his mouth.

Small talk. He was making small talk with his gorgeous neighbor. He was actually engaging in a fucking conversation.

Shit, he was either hornier than he thought or he was still asleep. Quinn didn’t do small talk. Quinn
hated
small talk.

“The problem is that I don’t like
any
exercise, and trust me, I’ve tried quite a few. I’m just naturally lazy.” She shrugged her shoulders and said, “I’m also a born procrastinator, so I need to just shut up and get this over with.”

As she headed down the walk at a slow jog, Quinn remained where he was, admiring the view until she turned and disappeared out of sight.

T
HE offices of the Renaissance Group took up an entire floor. The head of the company sat in his office, staring out the window at Lake Michigan. A thin, nervous man waited in front of his desk.

“Have you found my wife yet?”

“No, James. But I believe we’re getting closer,” Don Hessig said, shifting from one foot to the other.

Don had worked for James for ten years and in those ten years, he had done a myriad of tasks that hadn’t been listed in the job description. Locating James’s missing wife had kept him occupied for much of the past two years.

Actually, he spent more time laying a false but convincing trail to keep his boss satisfied.

It wasn’t working anymore. For the most part, James had allowed Don to handle things, because he didn’t want any undue attention focused on him. For whatever reasons, that was no longer the case.

Spinning around in a custom-crafted leather chair, James faced Don. He lifted his hands, pressing the fingertips of one against the other. In a mild voice, he pointed out, “That is what you told me two months ago. Supposedly you had information that she’d been seen in Billings, Montana. Whatever came of that?”

“It wasn’t her. Poor information.”

James’s face didn’t change. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t even move.

But there was a look in his eyes that had Don wishing he was anywhere but where he was.

“I suggest you be more cautious about how you gather your information, then,” James said, his voice silky. “I suggest you verify it before bringing it to me.”

“I certainly will.” His mind was blank—he was a problem solver by nature, but the sort of problems he was used to solving were the kind written in black and white, or the sort that were aired in a boardroom. Numbers. Give him numbers, figures, facts, and tables any day of the week. “I’m going to talk to my contacts again, run another credit check—”

“She hasn’t put anything on credit or even attempted to purchase anything under her name in more than two years. I don’t believe she’s going to start doing it now.” James stared at him, his icy blue eyes devoid of emotion. “I want my wife found, Don. This has been going on for far too long. I’ve had some matters come up that need my attention, and there are loose ends that must be dealt with before I can deal with them.