Broken, p.14
Broken, page 14
“Bossy.”
She wasn’t sure, but she thought he smiled.
TEN
THE ringtone was the last one Don Hessig wanted to hear.
Even with his boss several thousand miles away, he wasn’t getting any peace. Not this time.
“It took you long enough,” James bit off. “I don’t pay you to sit around.”
“Of course not. I’m sorry, Mr. Morgan, I was dealing with the matter we discussed a few days ago.”
“The matter.” James snorted. “About that matter—have you made any progress?”
Propping the phone against his shoulder, Don automatically adjusted his tie. Even though James was on the other side of the country and they were talking via the phone, he checked his tie, his cuff links and smoothed down his hair as he answered, “I’m afraid not. I do have a few other options . . .”
Liar.
He didn’t have any options. He’d been ad-libbing for the past two years, hoping an answer would appear out of thin air. It had yet to happen and Don had worn himself out trying to think up other options, other avenues, other explanations or suggestions with the hope he could buy a little more time.
Now, all he really needed was a little more time. A few weeks, no more than a few months. But he wasn’t going to get it.
“What sort of options?” James asked, his tone bored.
“I’ve been researching the divorce laws of the state. I know we’ve discussed this before. But perhaps you’ve reconsidered the matter. By Illinois law, if one spouse has abandoned the other for a period of a year or more, the remaining spouse can file for divorce. Would you be interested in discussing this further with your legal counsel?”
“No. I do not wish to discuss this with my legal counsel.” His voice as cold, sharp as a blade. “Were there any other options that you had considered?”
Don stared at the surface of his desk, seeing blood. Seeing tears. And hearing a voice—James’s voice.
“One way or another, I want her out of the picture. Permanently. One way or another. Now . . . you can either take care of the matter, or I will take care of you.”
His mouth dry, he swallowed. “No, I’m afraid that had been my most realistic option.”
“So in other words, you have nothing new for me.”
“No sir. I don’t.”
“Somehow I knew you’d say that.” James’s voice was gentle, polite. But it didn’t mask the anger that throbbed underneath. Or the threat. “You are aware of the fact that I’m disappointed.”
Oh, yes. Don was well aware.
“But it doesn’t matter. I knew that would be your answer. I knew this was coming and I’ve decided to take a more hands-on approach.” James paused and then continued, “Effective immediately, I’ll be the one handling the search for my wife.”
“Sir, do you truly have time for that?”
“No, and if I wasn’t short on time, I’d fire you and have your replacement take over. But I haven’t the time or the patience for that currently. So you’ll continue to investigate the matter, but you’ll work from my information, rather than trying to gather your own. I also want detailed reports on the steps you’ve taken to take care of this matter. So be prepared.”
Time was up.
Don kept his voice level, made mental notes of each bit of information as it was relayed and answered each question for James quickly, using his iPhone to look up the information as James requested it.
“I’ll need to do a bit of research, see if I can find the people who are going to best suit our needs,” he said.
“Just be quick about it—I’ll be back in the Chicago office on Monday and I expect to have everything I need waiting for me.”
“Of course.” He could have the information in a matter of hours, but he didn’t mention that to James.
Inside, he was sick with fear and nerves. Sick with guilt.
What if this worked . . . ?
What if James found her?
There was a part of him that knew it wasn’t a matter of what if he found her. But when.
He needed to let her know.
IN his Los Angeles offices, James slipped a portfolio inside his briefcase. He used his iPhone to check his calendar and noted that Don had made a few minor adjustments to the schedule, along with notes explaining each change.
A few meetings rescheduled, a phone conference added. Nothing terribly time consuming, which was good. With what he felt was reasonable optimism, he hoped that sometime in the next couple of weeks, he would need to work in time to deal with his wife.
She’d be found.
This time, he was sure of it. Now that he’d made the decision to move the search out of his assistant’s hands and into the hands of professionals, she would be found and—he hoped—relatively quickly.
Discreetly.
They had to be discreet.
Making that decision rubbed him absolutely raw. It was the best choice available to him, letting a bunch of unknown individuals know of his personal life, how his wife had run away from him. It had him all but sick with fury and disgust—nearly as furious and disgusted as he’d been when forced to let the police investigate her disappearance two years earlier.
He knew what they’d believed—that he’d killed her and disposed of her body, then made up the story about her disappearance and the other tawdry details just to cover it.
They took him for a fool. A man in his position wouldn’t kill his wife, because law enforcement always suspected the spouse. He had no reason to kill his wife, no reason to risk the smear such an act would leave on his image.
There were other ways to deal with her, and it was high time he acted on them.
“HE won’t quit looking for me. James doesn’t let go of things easily, especially not his things. And that’s how he sees me.”
“Then we’ll just have to make it very hard for him to find you.”
Very hard.
Sara came awake with memories lingering just beyond the edge of her consciousness. Dreams. Nothing but dreams, the same dreams that awaited her every time she slept.
The same dreams.
The same fears.
But this morning was a far cry from the way she’d gotten used to things. She wasn’t alone. She wasn’t lying in a solitary bed and wondering if she’d ever have something better to occupy her thoughts in the morning.
She definitely had better things to occupy her thoughts. There had even been a night or two in the past two weeks when memories weren’t lying in wait for her when she closed her eyes. A few nights when dreams about Quinn dominated and she didn’t have the time to remember the nightmares. Didn’t have time to remember the fear.
But today wasn’t one of those days. Something dark and oppressive hung in the air. She could feel it, chilling her gut, leaving her palms sweaty and damp. Her spine itched and her head pounded. Unable to linger in the bed and try to sleep, she threw her legs over the side.
“Where you going?” Long, warm fingers loosely shackled her wrist and she looked up, saw that Quinn was lying there watching her. His blond hair was tousled, falling into his eyes. His lips quirked up in that faint smile of his, and he watched her . . . the way he always watched her.
Sara shivered at the sound of his voice, low and rough, sleepy and sexy.
It had been a week since they’d first been together, a week since she’d first woken in his arms. She suspected the sound of his voice would still have the power to make her shiver in a hundred years.
She went to respond, but then their gazes connected and the ability to coherently say anything disappeared.
Staring into those gray eyes, her mouth went dry.
He was smiling, she realized.
His lips were curled up in that happy, content kind of smile people had when all was right with their world. It somehow managed to warm her heart and break it at the same time.
He lifted a brow at her and she realized she’d been staring at him while he waited for her to answer him. Licking her lips, she angled her head toward the bathroom. “I need to use the bathroom . . . get dressed.”
He slanted a look at the clock. “You going for a run?”
“Yeah.” She rolled her eyes.
Quinn laughed at her. Then he reached up, tangled his fingers in her hair, and tugged. “Mind if I come with you?”
The devil made her do it, she’d swear to it. Turning back to him, she settled on the bed next to his hips and reached down, wrapped her fingers around his cock. “I love it when you come with me.”
His grin faded away, replaced by a sensual twist of his lips. He arched into her touch and muttered under his breath. Then he reached down, closed his fingers around her hand, adjusting her grip, guiding her strokes as he thrust his hips up, pushing himself into her touch.
Sara stared, watching the way he moved, reveling in the feel of him, satiny skin and under it, he was so hard. She stroked a thumb over the head of his cock, watched as a bead of clear fluid welled on the crown. Unable to resist, she dipped her head and licked it away.
Quinn swore, his voice low and shaking. Then he slanted a look at her and said, “We keep this up, I’m going to be coming alone.”
He tried to tug her wrist away, but Sara resisted until he finally stopped, his hand falling away to his side, clenched into a tight fist. The veins stood in sharp relief and every muscle in his body seemed to tighten.
“Squeeze harder,” he rasped and then he reached down again, once more covering her hand with his and tightening her grasp. At the same time, he started to thrust up with his hips—faster, his movements almost desperate as he drove his cock back and forth against the friction created by her hand.
Once more, another drop of clear fluid welled from the head of his cock and once more, she stroked her thumb over the head of his cock, spread it over the smooth surface. Quinn swore, his other hand fisted in the sheets, twisting and tugging. “Sara . . .”
He came in her hand, groaning and shuddering as hot, pulsating jets of semen spilled out. Sara smiled at him and dipped her head to kiss his lips.
“Hmmm. That was fun . . .” she whispered.
Quinn nipped her lip and reached out, grabbed a fistful of the sheet, used it to wipe the fluid from his belly. Sara lifted a brow at him. “I ought to make you do my laundry.”
“Works for me,” he said. “You do that anytime you want, and I’ll do the laundry for you anytime you want.”
She traced the scar on his side with her index finger and chuck-led. “You work cheap. You cook, too?” She went to stand and he caught her.
“A lousy cook. Maybe we can try this instead,” he muttered. In seconds, she was bent over the bed, her upper body braced on the mattress while Quinn knelt behind her.
“Now I’ll come with you,” he muttered. She heard foil tear and then he was pressing against her, pushing his way inside.
Sore and swollen, she whimpered. Burying her face against the tangled sheets, she sucked in a deep breath and tried to will herself to relax. Regular sex hadn’t ever been regular for her, and although they didn’t spend every night together, when they did, it seemed as though they couldn’t get enough of each other.
Quinn smoothed a hand along her back, then around, working between her lower body and the mattress. He touched her, stroking her entrance with a gentle fingertip. “Are you too sore?”
“Probably . . . but I don’t care.” She pushed her ass back against him and winced as it took him deeper. A little too deep, she realized, as pain sliced through her.
“Easy,” he muttered, using his other hand to hold her still. He started to stroke her, teasing her clit, petting her until the pain bled away into a mere ache.
She hummed under her breath and tried to push back but again, he used his hands to still her body, used his body to control hers, keeping the pace slow and easy.
“Quinn, please.”
“So impatient,” he whispered against her ear, nipping her earlobe.
“Damn straight.” She clenched around him and once more tried to guide him into a quick, deeper rhythm, but he wasn’t having any of it. He kept his strokes slow and steady and all the while, his fingers, wicked and clever, stroked her clit, teasing the peaked flesh.
“Damn it, Quinn, you’re killing me.”
“No . . . I’m loving you.”
Those words twisted her heart, even though she realized he hadn’t meant it that way. Tears stung her eyes and she blinked them away before she looked at him over her shoulder. Giving him a wicked smile, she said, “Do it harder.”
“No . . . you’re sore.”
“I don’t care.”
“I do,” he whispered, leaning over her and pressing his mouth to her neck. His lips brushed against her flesh, down to her shoulder. He raked his teeth along her, bit her lightly. Sara’s awareness centered down on those three things, the feel of his mouth and teeth on her body, his thick cock lazily thrusting in and out of her pussy, and his fingers caressing her clit with light, rapid strokes.
The fiery sensations, intense on their own, were too much to handle all at once, and she started to rock back to meet him, fighting against the rhythm he’d set. She clenched down on him, because she knew it drove him crazy. Then she reached down and back, catching his balls in her hand and squeezing.
“Damn it, Sara,” he snarled.
Orgasm was just a wish away. And then the wish was coming true as the hand on her hip tightened and he started to push deeper, harder, faster. The caressing fingers between her thighs became less teasing and gentle, becoming more demanding, rougher. His teeth raked over her skin, leaving a fiery, stinging trail behind as he nipped and kissed his way back up her neck.
“You come with me,” he muttered, pinching her clit and tugging on it. He worked his other arm around her waist and held her steady as he shafted her, hard, fast, rough. “Come . . .”
“Quinn . . .” she gasped out, angling her head and seeking his mouth. He was there . . . waiting. She pressed her mouth to his, greedy and desperate. She moaned in her throat, broken and ragged. The need for him swelled around her, grabbed her, pulled her under, and she let it. Lost in him, she climaxed, her body trembling, her heart pounding.
And for some odd reason, tears stung her eyes.
ELEVEN
DON’T get excited.
Sara stared at the message displayed on her phone and told herself again, Don’t get excited.
Call me. That was all it said. It could be nothing. It could be problems. It could be a warning. No reason to get excited, she knew.
Still, her fingers shook as she made the call. “Yeah?”
“I’m close.”
She licked her lips and asked, “Close to what?”
“Not telling you. But I’m close.” The call ended.
“Damn it,” Sara snarled. She threw the phone down on the counter and turned, staring outside. Close . . . close to what, and how close?
She’d put the maps away, tucked them out of sight so she didn’t have to see them, even though she didn’t need the glaring reminder. But now she went and pulled one out, staring at it. She hadn’t made any notes on the map—never a good idea, but she remembered the routes she’d planned, outlined in her head.
Was it possible that she wouldn’t need to leave?
She didn’t even want to hope. Part of her, though, couldn’t help it.
Maybe, just maybe, she wouldn’t have to leave.
Maybe, just maybe, she could keep Quinn. For as long as he wanted her, anyway.
“DAMN, Sara. I don’t know what you’re doing lately, but I want some of it.”
“Huh?”
Sara looked up from the counter where she was counting out her tips and found Meagan watching her with a wicked grin. “I said I want some of it.”
Sara looked at her tips and then at Meagan, scowling. “You’ve got your own tips.”
Meagan laughed. “Not talking about the money . . . I’m talking about whatever has that smile on your face lately.”
“A man,” Annette said from behind the cash register where she was also counting up money. “Only thing that makes a girl smile like that is a man.”
“I dunno . . . good chocolate can make me smile pretty big,” Sara hedged while blood rushed up to stain her cheeks red.
“So you were thinking about chocolate?” Meagan snorted. “Honey, chocolate might make you smile, but it won’t make you blush. So . . . is it a man?”
“Ahh . . .” Sara didn’t know how to answer that. Girl talk was something she’d been lacking in, almost as much as just regular old small talk—except while she abhorred small talk in general, she’d always loved sitting around and talking with friends.
She missed it.
It was dangerous, though. Too dangerous. Even though a sliver of hope had settled inside her heart, she wasn’t going to mess up. She had to stay careful. She shot Meagan a small smile and shrugged, keeping her voice level as she said, “There might be a guy.”
“Might?”
“Might be. We’re mostly just friends, though.”
“Man, I need a friend who can make me smile that way.” Meagan rolled her eyes and then added, “Well, other than a battery-operated one.”
Annette snickered. “Batteries don’t operate good enough to bring on that kind of smiling.”
They all laughed, and finished counting things up in silence. When it was time to leave, just like he normally did, Annette’s husband Arnold walked Meagan and Sara to the bus stop. An ex-Marine, he still had that hard, tough look to him, and the thugs that might have hassled the women that late at night cut a wide berth around him.
“You be careful getting off, honey,” he said, smiling kindly at Sara as her bus slowed down.
“I will.”
The bus stopped just a block from Theresa’s, and while it was late, it wasn’t that late. Most of the time, her ride was uneventful, and this one turned out the same way. A lesson in monotony, slow at this stop, drive by that one, slow . . . drive by . . . slow . . . by the time it slowed for her, the rhythm had all but lulled her to sleep and she knuckled her eyes before rising from the seat and making her way up front.
