* * * *
“Ryan!” Taylor yelled from the kitchen. Her chest still pulled, but that was normal they told her and it would fade. She lifted her foot from the mess in the floor. The music from the living room continued to drift on the air as Ryan kept playing.
“Ryan!”
“Ma’am?”
“Come here!”
“In a minute.”
“Now, young man.”
She heard his sigh here in the kitchen.
“Can’t I finish playing that piece, Mama?” he asked, coming to a halt in the doorway.
She only pointed to the mess on the floor.
“Oh, man!” he complained.
“Your puppy didn’t make it outside.”
“Sorry.” Ryan hurried to the paper towels and ripped several off. “I thought I got Luna out in time.”
Taylor retrieved a plastic grocery bag. “It’s fine. That’s what puppies are known for. Is
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Luna out back?” She looked out the window to the back yard scattered with fallen leaves.
Autumn hung crisp in the air; its presence sang in muted tones of gold, orange, reds and browns.
Thanksgiving was in two weeks. And she was excited about celebrating it in their new home. After D.C., Gavin asked her if she minded moving closer to Seneca. He started talking little league this and little league that. Taylor didn’t care where they lived as long as one Nina Fisher left them alone.
Now, they lived half an hour from D.C. and about twenty minutes from Gavin’s parents.
“When’s Dad gonna be home?” Ryan asked, tossing the soiled paper towels in a sack she held. He took the bag and tied it off to take outside.
Taylor checked the clock. Should be anytime. The rumble of the garage door had her grinning at Ryan. “Looks like he’s here.”
Gavin walked into the kitchen through the side door, tossing his jacket over a chair.
Smiling that crooked grin that would for always cause her heart to race, he strode to her and wrapped her in his arms. She felt his inhale against her chest, against her hair.
“How was your day, dear?” Taylor asked him in her best Carol Brady voice. Personally, she missed the office, missed the people and the work. But as yet, she just wasn’t up for it.
Maybe after Christmas. She still tired easily, still hurt, though she tried to hide it from Gavin, and for the most part he let her.
“Fine, and yours?” he asked, leaning down and kissing her.
“Gross,” Ryan muttered.
Taylor’s chuckle mixed with Gavin’s. He looked at Ryan. “Go take your mess out to the cans.”Ryan rolled his eyes, and walked out the door grinning.
Never, in all her dreams, did Taylor think it would be this simple. And it hadn’t been. After she’d finally woken up, there were days and weeks of hospital or therapy, both physical and psychological. Some sessions were private; some were with Gavin and Ryan.
The road hadn’t been easy by any means, and it still had its bumps, but over all things were better than they’d ever been.
“How long do you think he’ll be out there?” Gavin asked, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, his thumb trailing the edge, down to her lobe. Shivers danced down her spine.
“Not long enough for what you’re thinking, I assure you.” She traced his lips with her finger. God, he still caused her heart to flip over.
“Well, then, we’ll have to get him busy on homework or something. I need to take a shower and tell you about my day. Delivering babies and dealing with pregnant women makes me want to see your belly all round.” His eyes twinkled down at her as his hand rubbed low on her stomach. The intention was clear in his eyes before his mouth lowered and kissed her with all the love she felt mirrored her own.
Pulling back, she looked at him. She’d often wondered if his hadn’t been the hardest road of all. She knew Gavin still blamed himself, and probably always would for what happened to them. And he was forever trying to make it up to them.
Taylor sighed. Life would work it all out. In time, in time.
Walking to the door, she opened it up. “Ryan! Time for homework!”
Turning back to Gavin she grinned. “Didn’t you say something about a shower? And
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working on babies?”
* * * *
Journal Entry
I haven’t written in a long while. I still can’t believe it, Nina is dead. It reminds me of that
weird movie Mama likes so much. Ding dong the witch is dead.
That sounds really bad I know. Truthfully, I’m glad she’s dead. I just don’t know how I
should feel because of that. Is it bad that I’m glad?
But enough of HER. I’m writing cause I had another vision. A good one. A really, really
good one.
Yesterday evening I walked into the living room. Dad and Mama were snuggled up on the
couch. They do that a lot. They were watching some movie back when people drove funny
looking cars that looks like they have bicycle wheels--I can’t remember the name, something
about tomatoes--that’s another one of Mama’s favorite movies. I think it’s the clothes in it, cause
they’re like the clothes she wears.
Anyway, I saw something that I should probably tell them about, but I don’t want to. I want
to wait and let them tell me. And since I can’t tell them, I’ll just write it.
I’m going to be a big BROTHER!
I’m going to have a baby sister. I’m not sure when, but isn’t that cool? I wonder what we’ll
call her?
I can’t wait till the day she’s born. I’m going to teach her all sorts of stuff. I’ll teach her
about puppies and my violin. I can teach her about music. But I think the most important thing
I’ll teach her, will be about family. Yeah, I’m going to tell her that no matter what, love always
tells. And of course I’m going to swear the Kinncaid motto to her: This I’ll defend.
THE END
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An excerpt from DEADLY OBSESSION by , coming in August from NCP.
He’d found her. Finally, after all this time.
The opera CD he’d put on soared to a crescendo--and he remembered. The music stirred the memories within him. Strains filled his mind with thoughts, yearnings so strong he could scarcely breathe, could all but taste the sweet nectar.
Her voice, young, yet worldly, sopranoed out all the emotions known to man within notes and keys appreciated only by a few.
And she had been his.
No.
She was his
still
. She would always be his. He’d promised her that.
He opened his eyes, his leather chair squeaking slightly as he shifted. The smoke from his Cuban cigar drifted up from the Waterford ashtray, the taste sweet with a hint of citrus behind the robust tobacco flavor.
Her face stared up at him from the photograph. That smiling picture had sat at the corner of his desk for the last eight years. It was her in youthful beauty, the innocence still there in the soft lines of her face. Except for her eyes.
Those smoky gray eyes had always seen too much, understood too much. Those eyes haunted him.
With one finger, he traced the line of her mouth, remembering what it felt like beneath his, what it had tasted like, the music that could come from those lips. The glass protector was cool to his touch.
His sigh carried with it tension and elation. Carefully, he set the photo so that the edge of the frame was an inch from the corner of his blotter, and just a finger length from the family picture. In the photograph, her hair was the color of dark winter wheat. He’d loved the long tresses, the smell of them, the feel.
She wasn’t to cut her hair.
The man took a deep calming breath and heard voices drift down the hall.
No matter, no one would disturb him.
He opened the top drawer to his right, the moan of wood on wood familiar, the jingle of the handle dropping back down unnoticed.
His fist clenched atop the polished mahogany as he withdrew another photo from the drawer.
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His angel.
He’d know her anywhere.
Somehow, he’d known all along she wasn’t dead. But to find her again…
Ahhh…
He shook his head sadly. A shame, all that beautiful hair, cut short now, in some feministic stylish flip. The shortened tresses were darker and made her round eyes even larger.
Her straight nose, slightly tilted at the end was the same. At least she hadn’t had a nose job. And he had to admit that the new hairstyle accentuated her long, graceful neck. He traced the swan-like column, remembering how soft her skin was just there. The lines of her face were not as soft as in the other picture. Time had sharpened them to an edge, prominent cheekbones and that stubborn, arrogant chin. His fisted hand relaxed, and he curved it around the crystal faceted tumbler sitting on his desk.
She should have long hair. And not this deep brown color. What had she been thinking?
Did she dye it? Probably.
He sipped his brandy, the taste full and rich on his tongue, swirling away and melding with the taste from his Havana best.
Always was too smart for her own good, which was why he was drawn to her. Her brain, her looks, her voice.
She was older now, more worldly.
Her young voice shimmered from the speakers as she held a note, as she drew it out.
Kinncaids. She was with the Kinncaids. A more noble, honorable family he could not think of. Strange, them being so old to the Washington, D.C. area, yet none of the elite family had ever had a thing to do within political circles. A shame really. With their money, brains and ambitions the possibilities would be endless. Or could have been.
Christian Bills. She was going by that deplorable name. Christian, Chris. He’d hated it, as he recalled, did her mother. And Bills? It was so very low class, so incredibly common.
Though he suspected it stemmed from William. Always was the daddy’s, even granddaddy’s girl. Christian Bills? No.
Josephine. She was his Josephine.
And she always would be.
He’d let her think herself safe, for now.
He smiled. The cat’s advantage to the mouse was in the fact the cat knew of his prey’s existence. Unfortunately, from the mouse’s point-of-view, the rodent was all too often unaware of the feline until just before the pounce.
Cat and mouse.
A game they knew well.
Eight years.
Full circle.
The game was just beginning.
He grinned, touched the lips of the woman, caressed her cheekbone, the column of her neck. His lungs filled with his sigh, just as blood rushed to fill his veins, his passion. It would not be long. Not long at all.
Opening his eyes, he tapped her lips one last time before he gently placed the photo in the
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top drawer and locked it. Footsteps neared his door.
In one gulp, he finished off the brandy and hit the remote. The opera and Josephine’s voice silenced. Carefully, he set his empty glass on the desk just as the door opened.
“There you are. I’d wondered where you’d gone.” She propped her hands on her trim hips.
“Come on. You can’t hide out here all night.”
No, he supposed he couldn’t, but he would dearly have loved to. He stood and inwardly longed for the house to be empty. Then, he’d be able to go up to private, hidden room and enjoy the memories and plan for the future. Wasn’t to be.
Smiling, he ran a hand down his jacket, straightened the black bow tie and held his hand out to her.
“I just needed a moment, darling.”
“Hmm. Well, come on then. There are guests waiting. Don’t want to give the wrong impression, do you? The constituents should be placated.”
A glance over his shoulder and his eyes landed on the photo on the edge of his desk.
Gray eyes.
It was her. He’d found her. His angel.
The music from the terrace drifted down the hallway as he turned and led the woman away.
He’d found his Josephine and he was never again letting her go. No one else would have her. Ever.
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“Don’t look at me like that,” Brayden said on a sigh.
Christian cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, how am I supposed to look at you?”
She would not cry, she would not.
Just because she’d finally overcome her fears, finally reached for what she’d wanted when it was offered, finally made love to the one man, the only man she wanted, did not mean she would fall apart when he acted as if it were a mistake. Just because it had been the most wonderful night of
her
life did not, obviously, mean it had been
his
.
Brayden Kinncaid’s cobalt eyes bore into hers before darting away. He rose from the bed and grabbed the quilt. Not that he needed it. She knew his body now as a river knew its stream bed. Tall, well muscled, he’d always reminded her of a professional football player. Wide sculpted shoulders tapered down to a toned and trimmed torso, long tan legs dusted with his dark hair strode along the wall as he paced. His six-foot-four-inch frame moved as fluidly, as powerfully without clothing as it did within his custom-made suits. Ebony hair, cut neatly short, caught and held the rising sun.
Christian pulled her knees up and tucked the sheet under her arms.
“Look,” he said, turning to her. “I’m sorry, this—” He gestured at the bed. “This never should have happened between us. What the hell were we thinking?”
A knot lodged in her throat. She wished she could curl up under the covers and hide from the eyes that would not meet hers.
Taking a deep breath, she braved, “Why? What was wrong with what we did? If memory serves, it didn’t seem to bother you last night.”
The night of lovemaking had been exquisitely sweet. Passionate and cherished, hungry and tender--so much more than she ever would have, could have, dreamed. It had felt honest. Open.
Right.His jaw tensed as he leveled a look at her, his eyes widening, black brows winging up on surprise. “What was wrong with it?” He shook his head. “What was wrong with it?”
Had it really been that bad?
Forget it. She didn’t want to know the answer to that. Scrambling off the bed, she wrapped the sheet around her until she spotted her silver evening gown.
“Sorry it was obviously such a strain for you, Bray,” she tossed, letting go of the sheet as she grabbed the silk dress. “Though last night, I don’t remember you complaining in the least.
In fact, at one point, I do believe you begged.”
The gasp of breath behind made her glance over her shoulder.
His eyes were lightning, blue-edged lightning.
Could it be that simple? Standing naked and holding the gown in her hand, she faced him
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squarely, though it took all the courage in her to do so. “What? Oh, I guess I should cover up, huh? Wouldn’t want you to see something that might be
wrong
.”
She slid the dress down over her head, the silk gliding over her skin, reminding her all too clearly of Brayden’s hands. As her head broke through the neck, she noticed he had moved forward with his hands fisted at his sides.
Turning her back to him, she propped her hands on her hips. “Zip me up, and I’ll leave.”
His heavy warm sigh brushed the back of her neck, as his fingers grazed her backbone.
The zipper slid up slowly from the small of her back before it was yanked quickly to the top.
She tilted her head to the side, caught him looking down at her, his hands hovering over her shoulders. Taking a deep breath, she took two steps away before facing him again.
“Was it really so bad?”
His silence hung heavy between them.
“You know, I guess this goes without saying, but last night,” she stopped. Licking her lips she continued, “It was--it was--”
“What? It was what?” his deep voice coaxed; though she caught the strained edge.
What the hell. Closing her eyes, she admitted, “It was the best night I ever had. More than I had thought it could be.”
He couldn’t know, no one knew, just what last night had meant to her, the hurdle she’d finally overcome, the deep fears that had finally been banished.
“It shouldn’t have happened,” he repeated, sitting down on the edge of the bed.
“Why?”
His eyes when they met hers again were tumultuous. “Because, it’s just not right. You’re practically my sister! Tori thinks of you as her mom!”
Christian rolled her eyes. That didn’t make a bit of sense. Temper started to simmer beneath the pain of his regret. “Your sister? First off, Brayden Kinncaid, I’m not your damn sister--or, for that matter, any relation to you at all. The things you said to me, did to me last night--” She waited a beat. “It wasn’t to a sister.” Thank God.
“Second,” she started, the anger warming even more. “I think of Tori as my daughter. I’ve seen her grow from a month old baby. She’s as much mine as she is yours, regardless of whether or not I gave birth to her.” Then an idea shimmered. Cocking her head to the side, she whispered, “Or maybe that’s part of the issue, here. I’m not JaNell, Brayden.” His eyes flashed.
She hurried on, “But other than that, I really don’t see what Tori’s view of me, or my view of her, has to do with you and me, with us. And don’t,” she added when his head shook, “shake your head at me. There is an us. There always has been in one form or fashion, and if you say otherwise, you’re lying. Not that I would be surprised with the excuses you’re spouting this morning.”
A muscle bunched in his jaw as his eyes narrowed. Temper now fueling her, Christian walked towards him.
“I don’t know what changed from a couple of hours ago.” She leaned down into his face.
“The words I said to you last night, I meant every one of them.”
I love you
. Now, she couldn’t believe she’d told him that. “And, you said them back to me.” Hot and sweet in her ear as he’d brought them both to pleasure, the words still echoed in her heart, in her soul, in her very being. “You said them back.”
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The blue of his eyes shifted. She couldn’t define the emotion in them, the feelings behind them. “We were both drunk,” he said.
“Drunk?” She straightened and laughed, but her heart skipped, cracked. “Drunk? That’s the road you’re going to take now? When a few hours ago you were whispering about perfection and beauty.”
“Look, Christian.” He stood and she stepped back. “It never should have happened.”
“Why?” She crossed her arms over her chest and hoped to hell he couldn’t see them tremble. God, why?
He paced away, ran a hand through those soft wavy locks, and muttered to himself.
Finally, he stopped. The confusion on his face tied her nerves even tighter.
“We crossed a line last night, I know that. I’m just trying to figure out what the hell to do about it.”
And he would, worry it, analyze it, and dissect it to death. She hoped to hell he would.
“Fine,” she said tightly. “When you figure it out, you let me know. Stubborn ass.”
Taking the bull by the horns, she walked up to him, leaned up on her bare toes, grabbed his face between her hands, and kissed him.
Brayden rocked back, the feel of her wonderful against him. He started to push her away, but could no more do that than he could stop his next heartbeat.
Her body, soft and pliant against his, roared the memories from the night before to life in his mind. Shifting and caressing, they teased his mind, his senses. Just as his hands got lost in her short, cropped hair, she pulled back from him.
“There,” she whispered, licking those luscious lips, “maybe that’ll help you figure things out.” She stood barefooted before him, gowned in wrinkled silver with hurt and anger shifting in the depths of her smoky gray eyes. God he loved her eyes.
As she turned to go, he grabbed her arm. The skin, soft as satin, glided under his fingers.
One dark brow arched in question.
“We’re not through with this discussion,” he calmly told her.
He wanted to kiss her again, and that only aggravated him more, made the tension in his voice more pronounced. “It shouldn’t have happened.”
Her eyes flashed at him. “Have you bothered to ask yourself why it did?”
He opened his mouth.
One elegant finger rose between them. “Do not use the drunk excuse again, or I swear I will hit you.”
Brayden had known this woman for well over eight years and could count the number of times she’d lost her temper or even raised her voice. The fact she was clearly close to doing both now fascinated and warned him.
“I wasn’t. I will admit, I think the alcohol only pushed the foolishness to the front, but—”
Her deep in-drawn breath and slight narrowing of her eyes told him that was the wrong thing to say.
They shouldn’t even be having this conversation. What the hell had he been thinking?
Well, it was obvious, he hadn’t been. That was the damn problem.
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“Maybe it was just--we spend a lot of time together, you and I. And as you pointed out, we’ve both raised Tori, in the same home, around the same people. We even work together.
Maybe we’ve been playing house for too long.”
Both her dark winged brows rose on that one.
“House? We’ve been playing house?” The strain in her voice sharpened her tone to a fine edge. Why wasn’t she understanding? On a curse, he looked down, his disbelief, his self-disgust at what had happened between them, what he had
allowed
to happen between them, simmering into anger. There was no way to go back to what they were.
“I hired you to help raise my daughter, my parents see you as part of this family, as a daughter of their own, my brothers think of you as their sister. This should not have happened between us.” He punctured the air with his finger.
She jerked her arm free of his hold. “Well, Mr. Rochester, I’m so sorry, my lowly, employed self aimed, dreamed of better things. Yes, I should know better.”
Women! How did they manage to twist everything so damn illogically?
Christian strode to the door, anger radiating out of her like a boulder splashing into a pond.
There, she turned. “You can be such an ass, Brayden Gallager Kinncaid. You know what your problem is? You’ve painted every woman with the brush that JaNell handed you. And I could almost hate you for that alone. I’m not her. I didn’t lie last night. Part of me wants to believe you meant the words you said. But this morning has shown me you are either a liar or a coward.” Her eyes locked with his. “Maybe even both. I never thought you were either.”
On those words, his bedroom door slammed shut.
Frozen, he stood there. What the hell? A liar? A coward?
He stalked to the door and all but ripped it off its hinges. The outer suite door slammed shut as well.
In the middle of the living quarters, he stopped. Anger tempted him to go after her, but his pride wasn’t about to let him traipse out into the damn outer hall wearing a bed quilt, for the love of God.
He stood glaring at the door of his suite, willing her to come back so he could--he could what?Try to make her see reason, see what they had done was not only wrong it was--it was…
Damn it.
Right, so damn right, it made his breath catch to think of how it had been between them.
Never had it been like that with any other woman – except JaNell. Maybe Christian was right.
He was measuring her by another woman. God. He rubbed his hand over his face. He needed to think.Looking across to another door, he was silently thankful Tori, his eight-year-old daughter, elected to sleep in her grandparents’ suite a few doors down the outer hall.
He bit down on his temper and frustration at the situation, and hopeless it was, as he walked back to his room.
In fact, the whole damn mess was beyond hopeless. No matter how much he cared for Christian, how great the night with her had been, it would not be again, and shouldn’t have happened in the first place.
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So, he had looked at her in the last couple of years in more than a sisterly fashion. No harm there, she technically wasn’t his sister, regardless of what the family thought of her. Or what he told her.
Then what the hell was the problem? He stared himself down in the mirror and realized the problem was staring back at him.
She was right, he was an ass, and would probably continue to be so. He’d learned the hard way, women and commitments weren’t for him.
*****
Christian stood, barefoot, waiting on one of the private elevators. At least she’d remembered to grab her purse. Come on, come on. Surely it didn’t take that long for the elevator to get up here.
The idiot! The jerk! Who the hell did the man think he was? A Kinncaid, that’s who.
She’d been with them long enough to know, that whatever a Kinncaid wanted, a Kinncaid got. It wasn’t just Brayden; they were all that way--strong, arrogant, powerful men. Handsome men who were loyal to a fault.
She wiped a tear away and realized she was actually crying. God, her heart hurt. After everything,
everything
this was how it ended?
Last night had been… Wonderful. Loving.
Healing
.
And now?
Footsteps sounded down the hallway.
Without turning around, she all but snarled, “If you think I’m changing a thing I said or meant, you are dead wrong.” Silence greeted her, but the footsteps neared.
“I don’t care to talk to you right now. Leave me the hell alone!” She turned to glare at the man, her anger charged and ready to zap the blind, denying idiot, and stopped short.
Quinlan Kinncaid stood a few paces to her left looking straight at the elevator doors.
Shit. Shit. And shit again. Bring the whole damn family into it. Good God.
Christian inwardly sighed and closed her eyes. The ping of the elevator doors jerked her back. Quinlan stared at her with those green eyes he’d inherited from his mother, his hand holding the door.
Without another look at him, let alone another word, she walked into the elevator.
Stepping in beside her, he punched the lobby button, and just as the doors started to close, she saw Aiden Kinncaid walk out his suite and holler, “Wait up.”
Thankfully, Quinlan let the doors shut and the elevator went down. The entire Kinncaid clan was here at their hotel,
The Highland Hotel,
since they’d celebrated Gavin and Taylor’s awaited wedding reception. When the two had married several months ago, there had not been time to have a celebration. After Taylor healed, and the kids were doing better, the family threw a giant ball in honor of the new couple in the family hotel here in Washington, D.C. And the night of dancing had ended in one of love. Or so she had thought at the time.
The sunrise apparently changed the mindset of Brayden. Idiot.
Quinlan cleared his throat.
She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. His were locked on her. She could smell the after shave he’d always favored and that always made her think of watery forests for some
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reason.“I didn’t think you’d want another one of us asking you what was wrong,” he said.
Was it possible to fade into the wooden paneling?
His head cocked to the side. “Want to talk about it?”
“No.”
Silence stretched between them. But then he cleared his throat again. “Not that it’s any of my business, but from the looks of things you’re rather upset. Bray being an ass again?”
She didn’t snicker at the pun. “Isn’t he always?”
“What did he do this time?”
Turning, she faced this youngest Kinncaid, who was still a few years her senior. “Do you think… That is… Never mind.”
His tongue ran around his teeth. “You two were awfully close last night.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, his dark suit jacket caught behind his wrists. “I know you left together, which isn’t really anything new, but I have to admit, seeing you barefoot, dressed in last night’s dress and your hair all a mess reflects a little close to a lover’s spat.”
She felt her face heat at the words and that damn cocky grin of his slid across his face. She should have just gone to her own room, but then she still would have been in Brayden’s suite.
No, she had to get out and if she looked tumbled, well….
“That and the hickey on your collar bone. I wondered how long it would take you two.”
Great. This just kept getting better. “Hell,” she muttered. “You know what, I don’t care.
Tell me, do you think, since you obviously noticed something between us, do you think it’s only there because we’ve been playing house?” She crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her foot. It was beside the point she was beyond embarrassed, mortified more like. What if Brayden did have a valid point and she just couldn’t see it?
No, that couldn’t be right.
Russet brows rose at her question. Out of all the Kinncaid males, Quinlan was the only one to take after Mrs. Kinncaid, his mother, in coloring with his eyes, green as Ireland, and his hair as burnished as autumn leaves.
One long finger scratched the corner of his mouth. “No, I don’t think… Playing house?”
His eyes narrowed on her.
The disbelief in his words mirrored her feelings. “Never mind, you answered my question.” Then an idea came to her. “Maybe I should find my own place.”
“What?” His voice sharpened. “Did he say that to you?”
The more she thought about it, the more the idea bloomed. Playing house. No way. Let the man see what life without her was like. Course she might be spiting her nose to save her face. And she would miss Tori dreadfully, but if--and that was a giant if--Brayden was actually right, that meant he would eventually find some other woman and she couldn’t very well sit back and watch, the passive little nanny.
“Christian?” Quinlan’s voice pulled her back. “Did you hear what I said?”
She shook her head. “I need you to do me a favor and be quiet about it.”
“First, answer my question. Did Brayden tell you to find your own place?” His eyes were as sharp as emeralds.
“What?” She waved her hand at him. “No. I just need you to do something for me.”
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“Well, that depends on what you want me to do.” The elevator reached the bottom level.
The elevator was hidden behind a wall of guilded mirrors. The occupants inside--the Kinncaids--
could see out into the lobby, but no one could see in until the outer mirrored doors were opened.
The men said that as owners of
The Highland Hotel
, they didn’t want to be predictable. This gave them the advantage of seeing what was going on, on the floor, without anyone the wiser.
Quinlan didn’t open the outer doors, nor did he look at the floor, his gaze was centered on her. “What do you want me to do, Christian?”
Taking a deep breath, she said, “I want you to keep quiet about me looking for a place. I don’t need anything fancy, just an apartment, somewhere between here and Seneca. That way I’m close to the shop and close to home, too.”
His eyes studied her, made her feel like squirming.
“Why?” He crossed his arms.
She raked her hands through her hair. “Because, maybe he’s right. Maybe we just got lost up in the moment. No. That’s not it either. That can’t be it. I don’t know. Maybe if I was gone, he’d see that… that… Hell, I don’t know. Just keep quiet, will you? Be a pal, a brother.
Help me look. It doesn’t mean I’m going to actually get it, but I might.”
Another moment stretched between them. “Have you thought about Tori in all this? Or Mom and Dad? I think you need to think this through.”
She loved this family, she really did, but they were all so damn protective, so--so--
Kinncaid!
Reigning in her frustrations at the males of this clan, she said, “Yeah, I have. And if he’s so set that I’m not the woman for him, that means that he will one day find one. What am I supposed to do? Sit back while she starts doing all the things I’ve always done? And if that does turn out to be the case, then in long run, my moving will help Tori. I won’t be in the way for whoever, or whatever he decides he wants.” She stopped, his expression hadn’t changed. “I’m a grown woman, Quinlan. Have you ever known me to leap without looking?”
“Before this morning? Or maybe last night? No. But need I remind you why you’re concocting this brilliant plan of yours in the first place? Did you leap or look before…
Before…”
“Before what? Before I made love to your brother?”
His eyes slid closed and he pinched the bridge of his narrow nose. “I don’t want this picture in my mind.”
“You’re the one that brought it up. And I don’t want it there either.” Planting her hands on her hips, she said, “What do you think? I just hopped in bed for a damn one night stand?”
His head shook. “No. I’m just trying to point out—”
A shadow fell over the doors, Aiden, the eldest Kinncaid brother, stood glaring in. In seconds, the mirrors slid back.
“Why didn’t you hold the elevator? I know you heard me.” He glared from one to the other, but his cobalt gaze, darker than Brayden’s, zeroed in on her. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” She started to shove by him, but he blocked her way and turned the stare on Quinlan.
“What did you do to her?”
228
Quinlan’s hands rose, palms up. “I’m just trying to talk some sense into her.”
“Will you both just stop!” This time, when she shoved Aiden, he moved. “I have things to do.” “You’re not wearing shoes,” he muttered. And she heard his whispered, “She had a hickey on her neck!”
Rolling her eyes, she didn’t look back, but hurried across the foyer of the grand hotel and out into the warming sun. Already into September, the mornings were cool here and the cement chilled her feet.
The valet brought her Volkswagen Bug around. She climbed into the gray vehicle, cursing all males in general and left, merging with the early Sunday morning traffic.
There were things she needed to think about, things to decide.
Maybe Brayden, even in his stupidity, had been right. Maybe they did spend too much time together. The Kinncaids had been Heaven sent to her, in her opinion, and perhaps it was time to move on. Grow up and move away.
Well, not grow up. She’d grown up one wintry night years and years ago.
But moving on, moving away was realistic. The problem was she didn’t know if she was ready. Was she ready?
The small town of Seneca, the old family Kinncaid home, the hotel, the entire family, offered and blanketed her in a security she did not take for granted. She’d known a family like theirs once, long ago, but time, events, and people changed all that.
No, she wasn’t going there, not now, not this morning.
Back to the matter at hand.
Should she get her own place? And if she tried, what excuse would she give?
What about Tori? That would be hard. No, more than hard. She was used to seeing the little girl everyday. And she hadn’t lied when she said she thought of the little girl as her own.
But--and God knows she didn’t want to think about it, yet the doubt crept in anyway--what if Brayden didn’t feel the same way about her as she did about him? What if he didn’t really love her? What if he’d just said it in the heat of the moment? Then one day he would find someone and that someone would be Tori’s mom.
That hurt, hurt so bad her skin prickled and her breath caught.
Christian shook her head, blinked the sudden stupid tears away and gripped the steering wheel. No matter what, she had to know what he really felt about her.
Perhaps by putting some distance between them, she, they, he could figure it all out.
So distance it would be. A place of her own.
On her own. She hadn’t been on her own since she’d come to Washington, D.C. and Seneca, Maryland—since she’d met the Kinncaids.
The past slithered through her memories, but she shoved it aside. All that was behind her, and ghosts couldn’t hurt her. Besides,
he
was still in Oregon, completely across the country and he had no idea where she was.
Yes, she could live alone. She was a grown woman and it was time to stop living in fear.