“And she didn’t find that odd?”
“Not especially. Now listen to this, seems mister liked to rough the wife up on a pretty regular basis so there was always blood on something in the house.” He paused and added, “Especially the bedroom.”
Damn the bastard. “So he did beat her.”
“If you consider a broken arm, a dislocated shoulder, and black eyes abuse, then I’d say hell yes, he beat her.”
“Good God, why didn’t anyone report him?”
“Mr. Burnes, do you know who this man is? Who his family is? In these parts, they make the laws.”
Quinn pictured Danielle, beaten, bruised, whimpering in pain. “Bastard.”
“I did find out what hospital he went to after he was shot. I scouted a thirty mile radius and on the fourth one, bingo, white male, age thirty-eight, registered under the name Gregory Mansfield. Twenty-five miles away. And it wasn’t a gunshot to the head either. She nailed him right in the gut.”
Chapter 16
Evie rinsed the last of the breakfast dishes. French toast made with a hint of vanilla and nutmeg, Mabel Burnes’s secret. Amazing, she still remembered such tidbits after so many years. There were times she wished she could forget, one giant eraser swipe. Not everything, just the painful memories, like Rupe smiling down at her, his big hand on her shoulder, the heat of him next to her. Or Quinn painting beside her, his then shaggy head bent low in concentration.
She was responsible for the rift between Annie and Quinn, one more reason for him to hate her. She understood why he bought the paintings, even how he thought it would help Annie, like a parent bribing a child to attend his daughter’s birthday party. Which was worse, paying the attendees off with elaborate party favors and entertainment or having no one come? Which caused the bigger hurt? Quinn’s deeds only let Annie believe she had talent. It wasn’t fair to give hope where there was none. In the end, he’d harmed her more than helped her. Or had he? Maybe there were thousands of untalented artists who earned a very handsome living with less than stellar pieces. So, really, who was to say what was right or wrong?
Evie hated that she’d driven a wedge between her two children. Annie clung to her, more desperate than ever for a mother, while Quinn just wanted to be rid of her. She never should have come, and if there had been any other choice, she would have stayed away. Hopefully, she could leave soon and let Quinn and Annie find their way back to normal. This time, they would watch her walk out the door and know where she was headed. She wondered what Quinn would say when she told him she planned to return for Annie’s wedding next spring.
Evie poured a cup of coffee and reached for a cigarette. Smoking calmed her so she could think. She lit a Salem Light and breathed deeply as smoke filled her lungs, her heart, her brain. Quinn told her she couldn’t go back to Maine and she’d accepted that, but her finest piece of work, no, her
defining
piece, remained there. It was a half-finished canvas of a young man perched on the craggy rocks of the Maine shoreline at pre-dawn, peering over the edge of rock. Was he a mesmerized onlooker, or a dark contemplator, gazing into a treacherous abyss? These were questions Evie couldn’t answer. Perhaps the figure in the painting represented a young man’s symbolic leap into adulthood, a complex union of struggle and exhilaration. One could see this if one looked hard enough. But there was another possibility, a subconscious rendition formulated from guilt, hope, and despair.
Perhaps the young man was Quinn.
Perhaps the pain in Quinn’s soul was as great as the young man’s in the painting. She had to finish the piece and hope the answers would reveal themselves once it was complete. It was the least she could do for her son.
***
“I don’t want to discuss this again, Danielle. It isn’t safe here.”
“Your proposal is ludicrous.”
“Why?”
“I can’t just move in with you.”
“You aren’t moving in with me. Well, technically you are, but not for the usual reasons.”
“Not for any reasons. I should have left two days ago when I told you I was going to.” She should have. Alexander could be two days closer.
“That would have been a bad idea,” he said, clasping her hand. “I can’t believe we’re having this discussion. Do you have any idea how many women would be lined up if I told them I wanted them to move in with me?”
She didn’t need numbers. Any female with half an ounce of estrogen would be packing. Unless she were pregnant.
“I’m not joking,” Quinn said, impatience spreading across his face.
“About which? The moving in or the women lined up?”
He didn’t smile. “He will find you. I want to even out the playing field.”
He looked so handsome and sophisticated in his black turtleneck and jeans, his silver-blue eyes dark with emotion. Quinn really believed he could protect her. He didn’t understand he was too civilized for a man like Alexander who didn’t know the meaning of words like fair and reasonable.
Rain pelted the windows, coupled with sporadic bouts of thunder and lightning, a summer storm gone awry amidst heavy winds and flash flooding. Quinn would be staying with her tonight, the third time in as many days. He’d told Arianna that Maldonando was the reason, but they all knew that was only part true. Each night, he and Danielle lost themselves in the explosive passion of lovemaking, sparking emotions neither wanted to acknowledge, yet when day emerged, he reverted back to the unapproachable Quinn Burnes, the one who guarded his feelings and his thoughts.
He was kind and protective with her now, even gentle at times, but she noticed the cool detachedness that kept him a safe distance from plunging forward into a full blown relationship. It was just as well. She had no right getting involved, not with an estranged husband on the loose and a child growing inside her. She wouldn’t tell Quinn about the baby. Not yet. Maybe not at all.
“We’ll pack you up tomorrow and move you out.”
“Quinn.”
“I mean it, Danielle.”
Eve.
My name is Eve.
Just once, she wanted to hear him say her name.
“I want you where I can keep an eye on you until we catch this monster.” He brushed her hair aside and planted a soft kiss on the back of her neck. “Besides, your mattress is killing my back.”
She tried to ignore the tingle spreading through her body. “Quinn.”
“Hmmmm.” He traced the spot behind her ear with his tongue.
“Arianna’s in the studio.”
“Hmmm.” He nipped her earlobe.
She squirmed and said, “What if she comes down here?”
He reached around to unzip her sweat top and let out a very male sigh when his fingers touched bare breast. “No bra. I like that.”
It was growing increasingly difficult to concentrate with his hands and mouth working her body. Soon, he’d turn serious in his seduction attempt and she wouldn’t be able to think of anything but his silver eyes burning into her, his tongue, his hands, and his erection. “Maybe we should wait until Arianna leaves.”
Quinn’s fingers stilled on the waistband of her sweats. “Do you want me to stop?” He dipped a finger inside the elastic, plunged deep enough to touch her through her panties. When he began stroking, Eve forgot about Arianna, forgot everything but the rhythmic pace of his finger on her. He eased her onto the futon and murmured, “She won’t bother us.”
“She won’t,” she repeated the words on a sigh. Her hips jerked to meet his touch.
More . . . more. . .
Soon, he’d plunge deep inside her, fill her, make her pant with need. She reached to unbuckle his belt.
Quinn buried his finger deep inside her. “I set up a code,” he said, his rapid breathing belying the casualness of his words. “If my cell phone rings, she needs to see us.”
“Oh.” The tiny sound slipped out, and then, “Oh,” louder, as the pleasure mounted.
“No screaming,” he whispered, planting a soft kiss on her left breast. “We’ll save that for later.” But it was Quinn who lost control when she yanked down his pants and clutched his penis in both hands. He thrust himself against her, once, twice, three times with long, increasingly jerky strokes. The half smile on his face faded as she worked him with her fingers, desperate to pull him into the sexual abyss with her. He leaned forward to capture her mouth, but it was Eve who acted the aggressor, pulling his tongue into her mouth, sucking on it, swallowing his groans of need and pleasure as he pumped into her hands, slowly at first and then with the frenzy of a crazed man.
Her climax hit her suddenly, a fast, overwhelming free fall of sensation pulsing through her whole body as she convulsed against his fingers. Quinn let out a desperate groan, arched his back and gave one final thrust before exploding in her hands.
Hours later, the phone awakened her, its incessant high pitch ringing into the darkness. She reached for the receiver and mumbled, “Hello?”
“Hello, Eve.”
Oh, dear God, no.
“Did I wake you?” Silence. “Of course, I woke you. What? No kind words for your husband?” Alexander’s laughter filled the receiver. “I’m coming for you, Eve. Very soon.” He paused. “And that boyfriend of yours is dead.”
“No. No.” The phone slipped from her fingers and crashed against the nightstand.
“What the hell?” Quinn flipped on the reading lamp and blinked against the light. “What’s wrong?”
She slumped forward and curled into a ball.
He was coming.
She rocked herself back and forth unaware she’d made sound or movement.
He would hurt the baby. He was coming. He would kill Quinn.
“Danielle!”
His voice was too far away to understand. She kept rocking, blocking out, out, out . . .
“Danielle!” Quinn grabbed her arms and for a split second, his face became Alexander’s, but then it changed and she saw it was only Quinn. “Talk to me. Tell me what happened.”
There was fear in his voice, a fear that she’d caused. “He called.”
Quinn glanced at the nightstand where she kept her phone. “He called? Tonight?”
She nodded, at least she thought she nodded, but her head felt heavy and she couldn’t focus.
“What did he say?”
“That he was coming.” She dropped her head to her knees and buried her face. “That he will kill you.”
Chapter 17
The painting arrived in three days. It was as exquisite and disturbing as Evie remembered. She studied the young man in the painting, and still, she couldn’t tell what he was thinking and worse, didn’t know if the man was Quinn.
Sheila hadn’t minded sending the painting, said that’s what neighbors were for, right? She told her Henre’ had been calling, his usual petulant, self-absorbed self, wanting to know when she’d be returning.
By the way, when will you be returning, Rita?
Henre’ was still at the house, taking care of things as far as Sheila could tell. The lawn looked only slightly overgrown, the trash cans brought back from the curb within two days, and there had only been one party since Rita left.
Sheila laughed and asked what more could one expect from a man-boy? The conversation centered on painting and Henre’ and just when Evie began priding herself for having spoken the whole time without once disclosing her whereabouts, her friend told her about the man who showed up at her door last week.
He was a good looking guy. Older than your usuals, but I’d take him.
What did he want?
You.
She laughed.
They all want you, Rita, even the ones who
are
your age. So, who’s the guy?
To Evie’s amazement, the words spilled from her lips without wobbling apart.
I don’t know.
You don’t know, huh? Well, he sure knew a lot about you.
Don’t talk to him again.
Sheila sighed into the receiver.
Okay, I get it. He’s married, right?
Right.
A lie that was so much safer than the truth.
Don’t worry. If he comes around again, I’ll handle him.
Stay away from him. He’s dangerous.
Every man on this planet is dangerous.
Sheila sighed again.
That’s why we want them, isn’t it?
Sheila hung up believing her friend was having an affair, which was better than the truth. It was too risky to contact her again and besides, what would she say?
I’m not coming back.
She ran a finger over the canvas, the swirls of roughness calming her, giving her strength for what she must do.
***
Annie was in the kitchen making green tea.
“Tea’s almost ready. Mom.” Annie took every opportunity to say “Mom” either directly to Evie or to others in casual conversation. “Here we go, Mom.” Annie emerged with two steaming mugs and set them on the coffee table. “I know it’s eighty degrees outside but you sounded congested this morning and this will help.”