Knock Me Off My Feet (33 page)

* * *

"Mind if I smoke?" Audie asked as Russell got settled in his chair.

"Not in the least. Mind if I have a complete mental breakdown?"

His sternly handsome face looked haunted today, but she was going to help the guy out. With this one conversation, she'd put him out of his misery once and for all.

"Did you sign the contract?"

"No, Russell, I did not." Audie stared quizzically at
the
stray cigarette she found in her desk drawer and threw it in the trash—it didn't even tempt her. She clasped her hands on the desktop. "Look. My life is falling apart right now and I really need to be on my way, so I'm just going to get right to the point. I asked you to come over today because I've decided not to sign it. I don't want to be Homey Helen anymore."

Russell went perfectly still, except for a slight tremor at the left corner of his down-turned mouth. "You're fucking kidding me, right?"

"I've never been more serious about anything in my life. I want out. It's over. I'm not sure exactly what comes next, but please do whatever it is you have to do to sell it. Drew won't be taking over. That I can tell you. Just take care of it, please."

His words came out dreamily. "But we just sent out your new publicity shots. You looked so good with your hair down."

She sighed. "Keep it together, Russell. I've made my decision. I'm going back to my old job."

"You're going to do
what?"

"Coach. Teach. I'm going to do what I enjoy—what makes me happy. Uptown has agreed to take me back starting in the winter semester, and I'm putting the Lakeside Pointe condo on
the
market. I've already started house-hunting in Wrigleyville."

He began nodding absently and let his eyes scan her office. "You're insane."

"Not anymore, I'm not."

Russell whipped his head around and gave her his best look of disapproval. "So you're going back on your word to your mother?"

This wasn't an unexpected tactic, but Audie couldn't hide the weariness she
felt
.
She was barely holding on to rational thought—all she wanted was to find Quinn. Talk to him. Make him listen.

"My mother is dead, Russ. She's been that way for over a year and I think it's safe to say she doesn't give a crap what I do. The only person I need to answer to is myself."

"But the
Banner
reception is tomorrow night! The column—"

"I'll go to the party and I'll do the column until the last day I'm obligated, which is October first from what I can tell. Your firm will be compensated for everything related to tying up the loose ends."

"But, Audie—"

She reached for the file folder on top of a teetering stack of newspapers. "Here's the contract, with my letter of resignation attached. Just think, Russ—you won't have to deal with me anymore. Maybe your ulcer will go away."

Russell took the folder from her, staring blankly, then placed it back on her desk. "I'm not doing your dirty work. You can give your resignation to Malcolm yourself." He turned
to
leave but glanced over his shoulder. "You know, I just can't believe you're throwing all this away—the fame, the TV spots, the money. I don't understand you at all, Audie."

She smiled sadly. "I know you don't, Russ. That's OK."

Russell's eyes suddenly narrowed. "I won't let you do this. I'll find a way to make you stay."

"God, don't go there, all right? Think this through a minute—my mother made you an obscenely rich man, but the party's over. Besides, I was a public relations disaster waiting to happen, and you know it, Russ."

Audie stood up behind her desk to make her point. "How long before somebody found out I don't own a vacuum? That the one year I tried to roast a Thanksgiving turkey I left the plastic bag of giblets inside and the whole thing tasted like a trash can liner? That I wouldn't know silver polish from Polish sausage? So think of this as me doing you a huge favor, and just let it go. Let
me
go."

Audie saw his face brighten, as if he'd had an epiphany.

"This is your way of getting back at me because I slept with Megan Peterson, isn't it? I apologized for that, Audie. I really did want it to work out between us—I still wish it had."

She was stunned, and it took her a moment to realize she was hearing the sound of her own laughter. Since she really could use a rip-snorter right about then, Audie threw her head back and roared.

Unfortunately, Russell stalked out before she could say good-bye. When she'd stopped laughing, she poked her head out of her office, suddenly remembering that Marjorie was gone. That was bad—because she had no idea why Marjorie had been crying.

Besides, she needed Marjorie's help cleaning up the enormous mess her life had suddenly become.

Who wrote that letter on Tim's desk? Why? How could she convince Quinn to talk to her? Had Tim really been threatening her? What did Drew say or do that upset Marjorie so? And why did he run off like a crazy man?

What the hell was going on?

* * *

Well, he'd made a debacle of that, hadn't he? It was the shock of seeing her, he supposed. He hadn't laid eyes on the crone for over a year, since she'd stood stiff as a two-by-four at Helen's funeral, the tears running down her face.

He shouldn't have run off like that. His calves were still cramping from the three-block race from
Chestnut Street
to
the
parking garage. He should have stayed there and talked to Audie.

But he had freaked. Confrontation was not his forte. And now he had the creepiest feeling—a premonition almost—a sickening kind of dread that made his mouth dry. Between that and his leg cramps, he was a wreck.

Drew limped over to the bar, made himself a drink, then sat down in his favorite chair and closed his eyes.

When his gaze had locked with Marjorie's, an electric shock sliced through him and the hairs stood up on the back of his neck. She sat behind the big, polished desk like she was a Supreme Court Justice, and the look in her eyes was creepier than he'd ever seen.

She accepted the manuscript calmly. She didn't even seem surprised. The only thing she said was, "Good title."

As he looked down at her cold expression, he had a brief wild thought that Marjorie was the one sending those threats to Audie. It was in her eyes.

But then he'd shaken off the idea.
He
was the one Marjorie hated, not his sister. The disgust in Marjorie's eyes was for him, not Audie. Audie had never done anything to Marjorie. Marjorie protected Audie. Marjorie loved Audie.

Didn't she?

Drew propped his drink on the armrest and blinked into the growing darkness.

What did he know about his sister's relationship with Marjorie? What did he know about his sister, period? When was the last time he'd really talked with her, really listened to her?

He couldn't remember.

Drew sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. He'd been a real ass the day she'd come to ask about the boat. He remembered how she stood there in the library, looking scared and confused, asking him if he wrote the threats to get at the Homey Helen assets.

He let loose with a nervous laugh, feeling the dark room begin to close in around him. Jesus Christ, even his sister didn't like or trust him! Right then, Drew realized that he'd never felt more wretchedly alone in his whole life.

And that was saying something.

Drew drained his drink and picked up the phone. When Audie greeted him with surprise and a touch of fear, it broke what little remained of his heart.

"Audie, we need to talk."

Chapter 15

«
^
»

O
n the evening of September 22, Audie found herself in the grand ballroom of the Drake Hotel, surrounded by gold filigreed columns, lemon-yellow walls, tuxedos, and sparkling crystal chandeliers.

So much for being chopped into itty-bitty pieces and shoved inside
freezer
bags, she thought. Her body was one big miserable chunk of living flesh tonight, on display in a strapless port wine gown Marjorie had selected for the occasion.

At least it wasn't pink.

But so what if her body was in one piece? Her heart was bashed to smithereens. She was so sad that her skin felt sore to the touch. Her head ached. Her feet hurt inside a pair of beaded red evening shoes. She felt like she was going to cry again.

Audie wandered toward the open bar across the room, glad that she'd let Drew escort her tonight and wishing he'd hurry back. That morning, she'd gone for a sail—alone with her brother, out on the water, for hour after hour.

She couldn't remember the last time they'd talked like that. Probably because they never had. It was like going on a blind date—they had to start from scratch. There were so many surprises, yet she sensed that Drew was slowly working himself up to something big—something that was horribly painful for him. She promised him that when he was ready, she'd listen.

The
biggest shock of all came when he told her he'd always wanted to do the Homey Helen column. She thought she'd heard wrong, and then when he repeated it, the two of them nearly died from the laughter. At some point it disintegrated into plain old crying—crying for their mother, their father, for everything they could never get back.

At one point Drew made this observation: "We probably should have talked a long time ago."

"Yeah," Audie said. "That might have been good."

Now what was taking him so long? She'd asked him to run to the office to get her letter of resignation, which she'd forgotten to bring along. Their plan was to talk with Malcolm together, but if Drew didn't hurry, she might have to face Malcolm without him.

Besides, the truth was that without Drew at her side, she felt quite alone and out of place in this sea of people. All she wanted was to tie up loose ends and escape without too much drama. Then she could go home and get out of this dress and get on with her life.

A life without Homey Helen.

A life without Quinn.

"What kind of beer you got?"

"Beer?" The young bartender looked shocked.

"Yes.
B-e-e-r."
Audie rolled her eyes and nearly said out loud, "What? Can't a woman in a strapless red gown have a beer?"

"On tap, we've got Killian's, Beck's, and Old Style. In bottles we've got Heineken and Sam Adams."

"Killian's, please."

She took her beer and wandered out into the press of beautiful people. The
Banner's
annual fall fling was always a predictably elegant and stuffy affair, and Malcolm spared no expense in entertaining his staff writers and syndicated columnists. With a small smile, she realized it was an exclusive club she was honored to un-join.

She looked around at the opulence and only half-listened to the din of laughter and chatter. After tonight, there'd be no more of this, she knew—Homey Helen was going to be history, and Autumn Adams was just going to be herself.

She lifted her glass and whispered a private toast. "Here's to the first day of Autumn."

How else could she celebrate her freedom? Drew already had said she was welcome to sail every day she wanted until the end of the season. She'd join her winter indoor women's soccer league, as usual. Maybe she'd look into taking a few continuing ed classes at the Learning Annex—cooking, gardening
…
bagpipes?

She shook her head so hard that her French twist came de-Frenched, and she tried to fix it with one hand. Then she groaned out loud. How many hours had it been since Quinn had made her laugh? Since she'd seen his eyes? Since she'd been thoroughly ravaged? She groaned again.

The strangest part of this whole miserable mess was that every time she thought of Quinn, she smiled. She felt it happening again—the tiniest smile was turning up her lips. Maybe it was just the residue of bliss—his gift to her. She headed back to the bar.

"Another Killian's, please."

"Did you drop it?" The bartender looked young enough to be a college kid, but he was quite cute in his tuxedo, and his smile was big and devilish.

"I chugged it, babe." She took the glass, tilted back her head, drained it, and set it down on the bar with a thud. Then she belched demurely.

"Excuse me."

The young man's face went slack. "Dude! Aren't you Homey Helen?"

"Actually, that was my mother." Audie grabbed a cocktail napkin and dabbed at her mouth. "I'm just a soccer coach with a broken heart."

The young man frowned. "Who in the world broke your heart?"

She belched again. "Broke it all by myself."

"How did that happen?"

"Oh, you know." Audie waved her hand in the air. "I couldn't say the L-word to the most wonderful man I've ever known and now he's convinced I did something really awful that I didn't do and he won't talk to me. Won't answer my calls. Won't answer his door. Your basic nuclear winter."

"Ouch." He leaned across the bar. "I bet I could heat things up for you."

Audie laughed. "Just get me another beer, dude."

When she turned back to face the room, she saw her loose ends walking right toward her. It was show time, with or without Drew.

"Hello, gentlemen."

Malcolm Milton took her hand warmly and patted her shoulder. "You look lovely as usual, Autumn. Now tell me why in the world you haven't taken care of our little housekeeping matter. I refuse to believe the rubbish Russell has just been telling me."

Audie winced. "I should probably confess that I've never been very interested in housekeeping, Malcolm. I think we need to have a chat. Do you have the time now?"

His face fell, and the CEO turned to Russell, and Audie watched Malcolm's mouth became smaller, paler, and tighter. With each passing second, Russell looked closer to tossing his cookies.

It might have been the Killian's. It could've been the rush of being herself after so long. But on her way to the white-linen—covered table with the huge fall centerpiece, Audie felt like jumping up and down and hooting.

The second they all were seated, she made her position clear. There would be no reconsidering. She was finished.

"Thank you for your generosity and support, Malcolm, and for helping my mother with her career from the very beginning. She liked and trusted you very much." Audie took a deep breath and continued. "But here's the good part—Drew wants to do it."

Russell made a sound in between a laugh and a scream of horror. Malcolm sat quietly, his face completely blank; then he got up and walked away.

"I take it he's not thrilled with the idea?" Audie said half to herself and half to Russell.

"Oh
…
my
…
God." Russell was obviously in shock, and Audie watched his pulse beat bang at the tight white collar of his tuxedo shirt. "When did you find out about this?" He turned fierce gray eyes in her direction.

"Today. He's going to give you a call Monday. He's very excited—wants to make a bunch of changes. Good luck, Russ."

Audie reached out her hand and waited until Russell, in shocked silence, offered his. She pumped it hard and smiled at him. "Later."

She turned toward the curved carpeted stairs that led from the ballroom floor to the sitting rooms and lounges. Just a few more steps and she'd be free of this room. Of this life. She'd wait for Drew out front. She'd mail her resignation to Malcolm on Monday.

Audie felt someone reach for her wrist, and she pivoted quickly to see the bartender.

He flashed her a toothy grin. "Just wanted to let you know I'm going on break. Would you like to come with me?" He opened his tuxedo jacket to reveal two Heinekens stuffed in an inside pocket.

Audie laughed, surprised and flattered by his determination. She studied him a moment, admiring just how cute he really was—greenish eyes, sandy straight hair, a wide, sensual mouth…
"Oh, hell!" she groaned.

"Hey, I'm twenty-one, if that's what you're thinking. Whaddya say, soccer coach?"

Audie sighed. "Look, thanks for the beers and the offer, but no. I need to go home."

"With or without company?"

Jeez, the guy was stubborn, and for a second she was tempted. But it would only be a pale imitation of what she really wanted, and no amount of wishful thinking would turn this kid into Quinn.

She popped up on her toes and kissed his cheek. "Go find a girl to love. She's out there. Have faith."

She went running up the stairs, holding up her long skirts as she went. Maybe Drew was on his way in the front door. That would mean three minutes and they'd be at her car. Fifteen minutes and she could get out of this stupid dress and stupid shoes that made her look like Dorothy in the Land of Oz. She couldn't wait to get the hell out of Oz.

"Audie?"

What now?
She spun around only to find herself staring at
…
Tim Burke?

Somebody just shoot me.

* * *

The run did nothing for him. Nearly ten hard and fast miles along the sticky, dark lakefront, and he didn't even feel tired. There was no sense of peace in him. Just fury, loneliness, and a stomach-churning dose of doubt.

Quinn peeled off his sweat-soaked clothing and stepped into the shower. He never thought he'd say this, but he missed Rocky Datillio. He'd been a roommate in name only, but now that he was married and gone for real, the house felt empty.

Maybe it was just that somewhere in the back of Quinn's mind he'd pictured Rocky moving out and Audie moving in.

He'd pictured a lot of things.

Quinn let the water rush over him and he shuddered. The last two days had been wild. The last two days had nearly done him in.

Timmy Burke was looking at nineteen counts of felony assault and two counts of stalking. The mayor went apoplectic. The reporters were salivating all over themselves. Commander Connelly told him that he and Stanny-O had done fine work, but they'd taken ten years off his life expectancy.

Then Quinn came clean to Connelly about his relationship with Audie, and the commander got so red in the face that Quinn was afraid he'd have a stroke on the spot. He had no idea what Connelly was going to do to him on Monday, but it wouldn't be pretty.

At the initial hearing that morning, Tim had been released on a $100,000 bond and told to stay away from Audie. It was what they expected.

After the hearing, Quinn went back to work—it may have been Saturday, but he didn't know what else to do with himself. The congratulations he kept hearing only annoyed him. He and Stanny-O had done their jobs—they'd made an arrest in an important celebrity harassment case. The added bonus was that Timmy Burke had finally gotten what he deserved.

Yet none of it mattered to Quinn.

Because all he thought about was Audie. And all he felt was awful.

Quinn let the cool stream hit his face straight on, hard enough to smack some sense into him, he hoped. Da and Michael and Pat came to see him at the station house today, and Michael had been downright
nice
to him—a sure sign that he'd become an object of pity.

What a god-awful scene that had been, admitting to them that he hurt like hell.

"We're right here with you, boy-o," his father had said.

Quinn felt like punching something.

He raked his fingers mercilessly through his hair, scruffing up the shampoo, groaning as the water cascaded down the top of his head and along his shoulders.

He couldn't stop picturing the words he'd seen above Audie's signature, and the more he tried not to think about the words, the clearer the mental images became. He knew no amount of running would ever shake the pictures loose from his brain.