Amy smiled and nodded. “You’re going to be a great husband.”
“I know.”
They both laughed because he sounded like such a cocky son of a bitch.
“You finally going to come up to Sydney and visit us once we’re back from the honeymoon?” He and Lisa had been bugging Amy for ages to visit them in Sydney. She always had an excuse.
“You guys aren’t going to want me hanging around.
I’ve heard all those newlywed stories.” She shuddered theatrically.
He tilted his bottle toward her. “You need to get out of town. See the big wide world.”
“Don’t make me sound like some kind of hick. Melbourne is an hour away, in case you’d forgotten.”
“We miss you, Ames.”
She stared at him. Then she braced her arms on the dock and pushed herself to her feet.
“It’s too hot. Let’s swim.”
He almost choked on his beer as she reached for the waistband of her tank top and pulled it over her head. She was wearing a red-and-white polka-dot bra underneath. He could see her nipples. He told himself to stop looking, but she was smoothing her hands down her belly to the stud on her cutoffs.
“What’s wrong, Quinn? Not hot enough for you?”
Her voice was low, husky. She didn’t sound like Amy. Not the Amy he knew.
She was watching him, her eyes heavy-lidded and smoky. She popped the stud. Her zip hissed as she slid it down. Then she tucked her thumbs into the waistband and pushed her cutoffs over her hips. She was wearing matching panties and he could see a shadow of blond hair through the lace.
“You’re getting married tomorrow. Haven’t you ever wondered what it would be like between us?”
She stepped closer, standing between his bent knees. He looked up, his gaze traveling over her thighs, her belly, her breasts. He was so hard it hurt, his erection straining against the fabric of his cargo shorts.
He set his beer on the dock. Then he lifted his hand toward her.
Just one touch. To see if she was as soft and warm and lovely as he’d always—
What the hell was that all about?
But he knew. The dream had been a tangled mess of memory and fantasy. Those stolen moments from the upper foyer today grafted onto the night six years ago when he and Amy had gotten drunk before his wedding. Needless to say, Amy had not stripped for him that night. They’d gone swimming, sure, but she’d jumped into the lake in her cutoffs and tank top. And he’d certainly never tried to touch her.
He kicked off the sheet, trying to cool his body.
He was thirty, not fourteen. Long past the age when horny dreams and fantasies were commonplace. Especially about his best friend.
Gradually his heart slowed. He didn’t understand what was going on, why he was suddenly thinking about Amy in this way. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t slept with anyone else since he and Lisa broke up. Hell, for a while there he’d been in serious running for man-whore of the year. There was no good reason for him to be having these thoughts about Amy.
He rolled out of bed and reached for his clothes. Five minutes later he was outside, hands deep in his coat pockets, shoulders hunched as he walked up the street.
Fog had come with the night and the streetlights stood out like small, glowing lighthouses in the gloom. He walked toward the hardware store, then did a lap of the lake. He felt like the last man on earth, utterly alone.
The lights were on in the bakery when he walked up to Vincent Street, steam condensing on the windows. He wondered what time it was. Three? Four? He was turning to head back to his apartment when something flashed in his peripheral vision. He stopped and stared across the road at the Grand. The front windows were dark. As they should be.
Still, he’d seen something.
He crossed the street and peered through the glass doors. Adrenaline kicked through his belly as he saw a thin flashlight beam crawl across the wall of the theatre, just visible through the archway.
Someone was in there.
He pulled his phone from his back pocket. He was about to dial emergency when it occurred to him that maybe it was Amy inside. Maybe, like him, she’d been unable to sleep.
He broke into a jog and turned into the alley that ran along the side of the theatre. When he reached the corner, he slowed and flattened his back to the wall. If it really was Amy inside, he was going to feel like an enormous dick playing
Starsky and Hutch
out here in the middle of the night.
He eased around the corner and saw immediately that the rear door had been kicked in. The padlock he’d installed when they’d gotten back from their supply trip had ripped a substantial chunk out of the door frame before it had given way. Whoever was inside, they’d wanted in, big-time.
He ducked back into the alley and called emergency.
“Please state the name of the emergency service you require,” the operator said into his ear.
“Police.”
“I’m putting you through now, sir. Please hold the line.”
There was a click, then a short pause. Quinn used the moment to pull his thoughts together. A man came on the line.
“Victorian Police. What’s your emergency?”
“My name is Quinn Whitfield. I’m outside the Grand Picture Theatre in Daylesford. Someone has broken into the premises. They’re still inside. I need you to get the local police here, stat.”
“Please hold the line while I alert the local police, sir.”
Quinn waited for long moments, his mind ticking over. There was no way the cops would get here for another ten minutes. Someone intent on destruction could do a lot of damage in that time.
He eased around the corner again and ducked his head through the open doorway. It was pitch-black, which meant the door at the other end must be closed. He hesitated a moment, then made a decision. This was Amy’s dream. No way was he going to stand by while it was trashed.
He ended the call and slid his phone into his pocket, then he started up the corridor, moving as soundlessly as possible.
He could feel his heart pounding like a tom-tom in his chest. It had been years since he’d been in a fight, but he figured he still knew how to hurt someone if he had to.
His outstretched hand hit the surface of the door. He found the handle. Took a deep breath. Jerked the door open.
“Oi! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he bellowed at the top of his lungs.
Two flashlight beams swung toward him, blinding him, then suddenly it was dark. Quinn blinked furiously, trying to force his eyes to adjust. He heard the scuff of footsteps and braced himself. He was standing in front of the only viable exit; they wanted to get out, they had to come through him.
He squared up. All he had to do was keep these guys occupied until the cops showed up. Five, six minutes, max.
A dark shape came at him. He dropped his shoulder and lunged forward, aiming for the solar plexus. Something hard hit him in the chest—the flashlight, maybe—then he was on the ground grappling with someone who felt a hell of a lot bigger and heavier than him. His fist connected with a jaw. He took a blow to the gut, another to the neck. He gasped for air, caught a handful of greasy hair with one hand and a fistful of clothing with the other and attempted to force his assailant onto his back.
Pain exploded in his side and he shied away from it. A kick. How…? Another blow landed on his ribs. Then he understood the second guy had joined the fray. He released his grip on the first guy, shoved him backward. Tried to scramble to his feet—and stepped straight into a swinging fist. He flew backward, his head slamming into the wall. Disoriented and winded, he struggled to keep his feet.
A siren split through the night, then a flash of blue whipped past as a cop car sped by the front of the cinema.
“Cops! Go! Go!” someone yelled.
Footsteps pounded down the corridor toward the rear exit. Quinn started after them. Dizziness hit him when he was halfway up the corridor. He wavered on his feet. Must have knocked his head harder than he’d thought. He found the wall with an outstretched hand. The world still swung crazily. He put his back to the wall and slid down until his butt hit the floor.
Better. The world was much steadier down here.
If he could catch his breath…He closed his eyes.
His jaw felt like it had been hit with a sledgehammer. Something trickled down his face. He took a swipe at it with his fingers.
Footsteps scuffed in the corridor. He opened his eyes just as a brilliant flashlight beam found him. He flinched away from the brightness.
“Police! Stay where you are and put your hands on your head.”
“My name’s Quinn Whitfield,” he said. “I’m the guy who called it in.” Still, he put his hands on his head.
It took five minutes for him to tell his story. The cop waited until he had confirmation from his radio before relaxing his vigilant stance.
“You need me to call an ambulance? Looks like you’re bleeding,” the cop said, playing the beam over Quinn’s face.
“I’m fine.”
“Should have waited for us to get here. Stupid coming in here alone.”
Quinn fingered his sore jaw.
Tell me something I don’t know, buddy.
The cop’s radio crackled to life. Quinn strained to understand what was said but it was too garbled.
“Did you catch them?” Quinn asked.
The cop shook his head, looking as disappointed as Quinn felt. “We’re still in pursuit.”
The cop aimed the beam up the corridor toward the cinema.
“There much damage inside?”
Quinn braced his arm against the wall and pushed himself to his feet.
“Don’t know.”
The cop strode forward, his powerful flashlight beam cutting through the darkness. Quinn was close enough to hear him swear softly under his breath when he entered the cinema.
Quinn stopped in the doorway, speechless. More than half the cans of primer and top coat they’d bought had been pried open and pushed over. White paint spread across the floor in an ever-widening pool, thick and relentless. Two of the wall sconces had been ripped from the wall and were hanging by their wiring, their glass shades shattered on the floors. Ugly graffiti sprawled across the walls in vivid red paint.
Amy was going to freak when she saw this.
He dug in his pocket for his cell phone. Miraculously, it was still in one piece, albeit with a crack across the screen.
If there was some way to fix this, make it all disappear before Amy had to see it, he would. But he couldn’t, and she needed to be told.
“Quinn? What time is it?” a sleepy voice asked.
He could picture her, hair tousled, face soft from sleep. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, hating being the bearer of bad tidings.
“Ames, there’s been a break-in at the Grand. I’m here with the cops, and there’s a ton of wet paint on the floor that we’re going to need to clean up somehow.”
There was a short silence. “I’ll be there in five.”
“My God,” she said after a long beat. “What a pack of assholes.”
Any other woman would have been hysterical, but not Amy. He laughed, couldn’t help himself. She spun to face him and he winced as her flashlight found his face and blinded him.
“What is it with you flashlight people and the eyes?”
“You’re bleeding!”
“You should see the other guys.”
“You were here?”
“I couldn’t sleep, I saw someone inside….” He felt ridiculously transparent, as though she need only look at him to know he’d been forced out of his bed because he’d been having XXX-rated dreams about her.
“And so you tried to stop them? Are you
insane?
”
She moved closer, her brow furrowed with concern as she stared up into his face.
“In my defence, I did call the cops first. Senior Constable Wentworth can back me up on that.”
He glanced toward the other man, but a second policeman had joined him and the two were conferring off to one side.
Amy lifted a hand and touched his jaw. Her fingers were cool and gentle but he still winced.
“Quinn.” Her face was very pale.
“Amy, seriously I’m fi—”
“You idiot!” A small fist thumped into the middle of his chest. “What were you thinking? You could have been killed. I could have come in here and found you dead on the ground. Do you have any idea…?”
Tears spilled down her face. He reached out to comfort her but she took a step backward and half turned away from him. She lifted a shaking hand to swipe at her cheeks.
“I’m fine, Amy,” he said, hating seeing her like this.
“I can’t believe you could be so stupid. You’ve got a freaking law degree. Doesn’t that mean you’re supposed to have some smarts?”
“I wasn’t really thinking, okay? I saw someone moving around inside…All I wanted to do was stop them from doing any damage to the Grand.”
“From now on, you’re not allowed out without adult supervision, okay?”
“Yes, Boss Lady.”
He’d been hoping to squeeze a smile out of her, but she only stared at him for a long moment before looking away.
“I’ve got a first-aid kit in the car. Wait here,” she said.
“Ames, honestly, it’s a little cut, no big deal. I’m more worried about this paint. We want to mop it up before it dries, right? Because then it becomes a whole other problem.”
“I’ve got it covered, don’t worry about it.”
“Amy—”
“Don’t piss me off right now, Quinn. I’m so…. angry with you, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
He held up his hands, took a step back. “Okay. Fair enough.”
“Wait here.”
She swiveled on her heel and strode for the door. He talked to the cops while he waited, learning they suspected the vandals had had a car waiting the next street over, ready to make a quick getaway. They’d put out an all-points bulletin for any vehicles in the area acting suspiciously, but Quinn could tell they weren’t holding their breath. It wasn’t as though there were a million patrol cars cruising the Victorian countryside at this time of night.
His head was starting to throb when Amy returned with a professional-looking first-aid kit. She wasn’t alone. A middle-aged woman and a tall, thin guy in his early twenties were following her, both carrying powerful battery-operated lanterns. He recognized them both from their visit to the hardware store earlier in the day. Like Amy, they looked as though they’d just rolled out of bed.
“This is Cheryl and Eric,” Amy said as she dropped the first-aid box by his side.
They’d barely exchanged muted greetings before more people started arriving. Amy’s father and mother, half a dozen other people.
“From the store,” Amy explained briefly.
She went over to confer with her father, then came back to him and picked up the first-aid kit.
“Can I borrow your lantern?” she asked Cheryl.
The other woman handed the light over and Amy jerked her head, indicating Quinn should follow her.
“We’ll only be in the way in here.”
She led him around the edge of the spill. His side hurt when he moved and he pressed his palm against his ribs, wondering if maybe he’d cracked one or two.
The lantern cast a golden circle as they entered the foyer. Amy pointed at the steps to the balcony. “Sit.”
“Seriously, Ames, it looks worse than it is. I’m more worried about the paint.”
“Sit.”
He did, wincing as his ribs protested.
Amy’s eyes narrowed. “Have I mentioned that you’re an idiot?”
“I believe you have.”
“Well. You are. A big one.”
She placed the lantern beside him on the step and knelt in front of him.
“What are we doing about the paint?”
“Sand. Kenny’s bringing over a load from the store right now. It’ll soak up the liquid. We shovel the sand into wheelbarrows and ship it out, then mop up anything that’s left.”
He eyed her with new respect. “You organized all this in the time it took you to get over here?” he asked.
She shrugged. “We’ve had spills at the store before.”
Nothing as big, though, he guessed.
She stood, a bottle of alcohol solution in one hand, cotton pad in the other. “I want to clean up that cut first, make sure you don’t need stitches.”
He didn’t say anything because he figured it was pointless. She was worried about him and if it made her feel better to clean up a scratch or two, he’d suck it up.
“It might sting a little. Try not to squeal too much,” she said as she moved closer.
“Thank you for your high opinion of my manliness.”
She tilted the bottle to douse the cotton in alcohol, then put the bottle down on the step. “Stay still.”
She leaned forward, her free hand sliding into his hair to hold it away from his face as she gently dabbed at his cheek and temple. He stared at her face, so very close to his own. His gaze zeroed in on her lower lip. It was pale pink and looked very soft.
Very feminine. Very kissable.
This was the problem with having dirty dreams. They planted ideas in your head that had no business being there.
He averted his eyes before his thoughts went somewhere they shouldn’t. Which was when he realized that he could see straight down the front of Amy’s gaping pajama top.
And she wasn’t wearing a bra.
He blinked, slowly.
Of course she wasn’t wearing a bra. She’d jumped out of bed and into her clothes and organized a massive cleanup, all in the space of ten minutes. There’d been no time for foundation garments.
He told himself to be a gentleman but he was too busy taking in the smooth creaminess of her breasts to listen. Her nipples were pale pink, her breasts small and perky. They swayed slightly as she shifted her weight and leaned forward to inspect his scalp. Heat from her body enveloped him and he inhaled the smell of sunshine and warm skin. She was so firm, so round. He could almost feel the weight of her in his hands.
“Yow!” He jerked his head away from the fiery heat attacking his scalp and glared at Amy.
She looked utterly unrepentant. “You’ve got a cut on your scalp.”
“No shit.”
“Stop being such a wuss.” She leaned forward again but he caught her arm.
“Give that stuff to me. I’ll do it.” Anything to end this torturous proximity.
“You won’t be able to see it. It’s right over the back.”
She pulled her arm free and placed her left hand on his shoulder to brace herself as she leaned forward. She was standing on her toes now and her breasts were almost in his face, scant inches from his mouth. He closed his eyes, but he could still see her in his mind’s eye. Pink. Plump. Firm.
Bloody hell.
If she glanced down, she was going to see exactly what she was doing to him. She was going to know he was hard for her, and then he was going to have to find some explanation that didn’t involve him admitting to long-buried sexual fantasies involving her curvy body.
She leaned closer and for the fraction of a second her breast grazed his face. He opened his mouth. Couldn’t help himself. Imagined himself reaching up and tugging her near while he pulled her nipple, pajama top and all, into his mouth. Actually lifted his hands, ready to slide them over her hips.
She stepped backward, bloodied cotton in hand, a frown on her face.
“I don’t think you need stitches but I’m pretty sure I read somewhere that cuts on the scalp get infected really easily. I wonder if I should trim the hair around the area?”
He could just imagine how long that would take, how hard he’d be by then.
“I’m fine,” he said, shooting to his feet, one hand tugging on the bottom of his T-shirt to ensure it was covering the bulge in his jeans. He’d forgotten his ribs and he grunted as pain shot up his side.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Quinn, so help me—”
Before he could stop her, she reached out and pulled his T-shirt up, exposing his right side.
“Oh, Quinn…”
For a second he wasn’t sure if her dismay was because of his injury or because she’d finally noticed his hard-on. Then she reached out and gently traced the purple marks bruising his rib cage.
He hissed in a breath, but not because it hurt. Having her touch him when he’d dreamed about touching her was a special form of torture. The kind reserved for idiots who were in danger of letting their libido ruin their lives.
“Did someone kick you? Is that the toe of a boot I can see here?” Amy asked, her expression horrified as she traced a mark above his hip. She laid her palm over the spot and stared at him, her face pale. “You really could have died, you know that?”
The fear and love in her eyes took his breath away. Shame washed over him like a bucket of cold water. While he was standing here wrestling with lust, she was worrying about him, feeling his pain.
Being his friend.
“I’m okay,” he said gruffly.
She ducked her head for a few seconds. Sniffed loudly. Then nodded. “Okay.” She let his T-shirt fall and moved away from him.
He stared at her downturned head. Thirty years of friendship, of platonic hugs and kisses, and it had come down to this.
To say he was confused was an understatement. Minutes ago he’d nearly done something irretrievable. He’d nearly laid hands on his best friend with sexual intent. He’d nearly changed the dynamics of their relationship forever.
Maybe it’s the knock on the head.
But he knew it wasn’t. It was more than that. And he had no idea how to stop it or control it. No idea at all.