Take Me Two Times Read online

  “Mierda,” said Cato. “You broke my fuckin’ nose, you prick.”

  Quinn grinned at him through the blood. “Yeah. But it’s real nice to meet you.”

  “Vete a singar por—” Cato broke off and looked sheepishly at Gwen. “Sorry.”

  “Yes, best to stop there. Get into the car, both of you,” Gwen said severely. “I’m taking you to the emergency room.”

  “We’re fine,” Quinn protested.

  “Nothing but a flesh wound or two,” Cato said.

  Gwen took a deep breath and counted to three. “Get in the car before I either Mace or shoot you both!”

  “Yes, ma’am,” they said glumly. Quinn rode shotgun. Cato rode bitch.

  Cato’s nose was indeed broken. Quinn had a minor concussion, and the doctor advised that he not be alone that night in case of complications.

  Gwen dropped Cato off at the parking garage and then drove the purple-eyed Quinn to her house while he protested. He didn’t need to be babysat. The quack was just being paranoid. Really, a shiner was no big deal. He’d had dozens of ’em.

  She smiled, nodded, and utterly ignored him until she pulled the Prius into her driveway.

  “Nice mailbox,” he said, taking in the dolphins and flamingos.

  Was he being sarcastic?

  “Out,” Gwen ordered. She got out of the car herself and went around to his side. She opened his door.

  “Honey, you’re such a gentleman.” Quinn got out and appraised her little house with his good eye. “I like it. Much smaller than I would have thought. But honestly, why are we here? I thought you were mad at me for beating up your buddy.”

  “I am mad at you. And at him. But how are you feeling?”

  “For real? Like I was shot at and missed, then shit at and hit.”

  Quinn had a way with words. Her lips twitched in spite of herself. “I’m not sure which one of you looks worse. But Cato doesn’t have a concussion, and you do. So you get to cozy up to a bag of frozen peas on my couch, at least for tonight.”

  A gleam appeared in his good eye. “Well, since I’m your hero and all, can I take the bed and cozy up to you? You did admit that you want me—that way.”

  “You are not my hero, you idiot.”

  “Not even a little bit? I was trying to protect you from that yellow-haired freak. How was I supposed to know he gets paid to harass you?”

  “Oh, gee, maybe when I yelled, ‘Stop, I know him’?” Gwen threw up her hands. “And while there is some sick, girly part of me that appreciates your caveman response, I am fully capable of protecting myself, Quinn. When will you get that?”

  Quinn hunched his shoulders. “Fine,” he muttered. “We’ll just call it even, then, since I’m still mad at you for going to Jaworski alone the other night.”

  Gwen unlocked the door and pushed it open.

  He brightened. “Hey, maybe we can have some great angry sex?”

  “Unbelievable,” Gwen said, shaking her head. She walked straight to the kitchen, opened the freezer, and pulled out a bag of mixed vegetables.

  He followed her. “That’s the same fridge we had in Brazil.”

  “Yeah. I liked it. Homey.”

  “And the same stove, just a nicer color.”

  She shrugged.

  “Where did you find them?”

  “Through a junk dealer. I had them fixed up and repainted.” Gwen handed him the frozen veggies.

  “Remember how Maria Elena taught you how to make Camarão na Moranga in that old earthenware pan?”

  Gwen nodded. Maria Elena, a tall, dark-haired girl studying history, had lived in the next apartment.

  “Did you keep in touch with her?”

  “We exchange Christmas cards. That’s about it. Quinn, go make yourself at home on the sofa. Can I bring you anything?”

  “A beer, if you have one.”

  “I don’t think beer is great for a concussion.” She watched him as he looked around her little house.

  Quinn was too big for the space. Too overpowering. Too much. That was Quinn. He towered over her sofa, making it look like a toy.

  Most of her furniture dated to the fifties and was made of blond wood with clean lines. The curved dining room chairs would probably splinter if he sat in them.

  Her floors were refinished hardwood and creaked as he walked on them. They were warmed by area rugs woven to resemble famous modern paintings—a Kandinsky, a Rothko, a Mondrian.

  Black-and-white photographs of Brazil, of Europe, and of friends and family lined the walls, which she’d painted a very pale, buttery yellow.

  “I like it,” he said simply. “It’s you; it’s designed deliberately—but it’s not ‘done up’ to within an inch of its life.”

  He moved to the dining room, admired the big abstract glass piece that held court on the sidebar, and then walked to her china cabinet. “Get out,” he said, turning with a grin. “You have Wonder Woman china?”

  “I’m not sure it qualifies as china, but yes.”

  He chuckled. “I remember that you had a pair of Wonder Woman panties.”

  “They got holes in them,” Gwen said, heat creeping up her neck. “I had to throw them out a long time ago.”

  “So . . . what kind of panties do you wear now?”

  “That is so none of your business, Quinn. Now, what would you like to drink?”

  “Beer,” he said again. “Come on. Just one. This is a minor concussion, remember? My skull is too thick to sustain much damage.”

  She smiled at that. “Okay, one. But that’s it—I don’t want you going into a coma on my couch.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Because then I’d never leave. And since you only want me in your body, and not in your life . . .”

  Oklahoma had strolled lazily back into his voice. It wasn’t a strong accent, not like a Texas drawl. It was just a little bit country. Gwen had always thought it was sexy—though now was a fine time to be remembering that.

  “Quinn, I didn’t say that to hurt you. You know that a part of me will always love you. But . . .”

  “But what?”

  She didn’t know how to explain to him. If she let him in, he’d take over her entire world again. He was already distracting her from doing her job. Instead of talking to the Velasquez brothers and consulting with a jeweler, she’d spent her day in an emergency center because he’d misguidedly tried to protect her. He’d harassed her about breaking into the lab. He was getting in her way, and he’d only become worse.

  “I don’t think we should have this conversation,” Gwen said. “We should focus on our search for the mask.”

  “What conversation? How can I agree not to have a conversation with you when I don’t even know the topic?”

  Gwen sat down in the armchair opposite the sofa. “Okay. I’m going to say this as simply as I can, and then you’re going to rest and I’m going to go back to work.”

  He waited, peering intently at her with his good eye from around the frozen vegetables.

  “Quinn . . . all I know is that fifteen years ago, I went to Brazil to escape, for freedom and adventure. But I met you within weeks, and suddenly I was pregnant. And then married, for God’s sake. Whisked off to California—”

  “So I’m the bad guy, huh? Because I did the right thing, unlike my own sperm donor? Because I didn’t want my kid to be born a bastard like me? Because I wanted you to have decent medical care?”

  “I didn’t say you were a bad guy. You’ve never been a bad guy. But you just made all these decisions—”

  “You could have said no. I didn’t force you to marry me!”

  “You didn’t hold a gun to my head, Quinn, but you backed me into a corner with your logic and your manic determination that your child would have a legal father. You built a cage around me—”

  “A cage? What melodramatic crap is this?”

  “You just took over. And you’re doing it again right now. You won’t even—”

  “Bullshit.”

&nbs
p; “—let me finish my sentences!”

  “I didn’t take over anything. I offered you a ring because it was the right thing to do, and you took it. Plain and simple.”

  “Plain and simple, huh?” Gwen’s eyes filled. “Not so much.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You gave me a ring because it was the right thing to do. I took the ring because I loved you. Do you see the disconnect there, Quinn? Do you?”

  The bag of vegetables fell into his lap, exposing Quinn’s battered, bruised eye. The good one stared at her.

  “It wasn’t convenient for me to love you. It was the wrong time and the wrong place, and you loved me for the wrong reasons, but I couldn’t help it, and that’s why I walked into the damn cage,” she said quietly. Then she picked up her purse and headed for the door.

  “What do you mean, I loved you for the wrong reasons?” he demanded.

  She didn’t answer.

  “Gwen,” he said. “You’ve got this all backward. So damned upside down. I loved you, too. I wasn’t just stepping to the plate because of the baby. Sure, the baby speeded things up. . . .”

  She couldn’t bear to think about the baby. “I have to go,” she said.

  “Where? You don’t have to go anywhere. It’s almost five o’clock.”

  “Waiting six hours in the emergency room didn’t help me accomplish much today.”

  Quinn got to his feet and stepped between her and the door, blocking her exit. “Don’t go. Please don’t run away.”

  “I’m not running away from anything, and—”

  “You are.”

  “—you are not allowed to interfere with my job. So please move.”

  He didn’t.

  So she stepped to the right and squeezed by him. But he turned to face the door, putting his hands flat against it and trapping her between them.

  “Quinn,” she said despairingly. “You’re doing it again. Taking over.”

  “And you’re running away again. Admit it.”

  She sighed, leaned her forehead against the door. “Okay,” she said. “I’m running. I’m sorry—I don’t know any other way to deal with you.”

  “How about by turning around and fighting?”

  She did turn. Faced him. “I’ve tried that, Quinn! You just steamroll me. You don’t respect boundaries. You never stop fighting.”

  “Better than never starting. You weren’t in a damn cage, Gwen. You were never my prisoner. You were captive to your own passivity.”

  That hurt. She sucked in a breath. “Fine. You want me to admit it? You’re right. It’s not something I’m proud of, and I struggle with it.”

  He nodded, his gaze intent on her face. “You’re not used to struggling.”

  “No,” she said quietly. “I’ve never had to. Everything was given to me on a silver platter, and you resent that. But believe me, it brings its own set of problems. Makes it hard to know what you want . . . when you never want for anything.”

  He nodded as if he understood. Did he?

  “And it makes you feel guilty,” she continued. “Determined to give back, be useful, not take everything for granted.”

  His eyes seemed to go darker as he focused on her face. He smoothed a strand of her hair back and tucked it behind her ear. Just the simple touch of his fingers undid her. Then his hand flattened on the door again, invading her space and curdling the tenderness.

  “So, you gonna stop running?” he asked. “It’s the ultimate passive-aggressive act.”

  Gwen stiffened. “Great, Dr. Freud. Thanks for that insight. Tell you what: I’ll stop running when you stop badgering. ”

  He blinked at that; he didn’t seem to have a response.

  “This is why you’re impossible, Quinn. This is why it’s a bad idea for us to work together.”

  “Sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean—”

  “I need to go,” she said. “I can’t get through you. You’re in my way. And when you’re in my way, you leave me no choice: I get around you.”

  They stood barely an inch apart from each other. “You get around me, huh?” His deep voice rumbled in his chest, vibrated in her ears. She could smell him again, those unique essences that made him Quinn. His skin underlying the light aftershave, his soap, his detergent, the starch of his shirt. It got to her, the scent of Quinn. It always had.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I get around you.” She stared at the third button on his shirt, which was at eye level for her. Annoyed and upset as she was, she wished the shirt would disappear.

  “Well, that’s not going to work again.” Quinn the road-block. He’d blocked her search for freedom fifteen years ago. He’d effectively blocked her from finding anyone else during the past fifteen years, too, just by being an aggressive memory that she couldn’t banish, no matter how many dates she went on. And here he was, being a barrier again—to her exit right now and to her career.

  “I have to get around you, Quinn,” she whispered. “Please understand that.”

  But he didn’t move—and neither did she.

  chapter 14

  With reluctant fingers, Avy dialed her father’s number. She sat curled in a ball on a hotel bed in Tours, France, looking into a broad expanse of antique mirror. If she looked into the mirror, she could pretend that her reflection was going to have this conversation with U.S. Marshal Everett Hunt, not her.

  Her reflection looked just as uncomfortable as she did, though, and borderline nervous. The woman in the mirror stretched her long legs out into a hurdler position and touched her toes, too.

  The muscle burn felt good. Avy switched legs and touched the other toe with her fingertips as her dad answered with a deep, Southern bark. “Avy, that you?”

  “Yes, sir. The one and only.” She kept her tone light.

  “How’d your meetin’ go?” he asked.

  “Fine.”

  “Don’t lie to me, girl. There was no meeting, was there?”

  She sighed. “No, but I was with someone and couldn’t talk right then.”

  “Can you talk now?”

  “Sure.” Avy glanced uncomfortably at Liam, who was clad in nothing but a white hotel towel, draped none too discreetly. He blew her a kiss from the small table he sat at, enjoying some of his beloved Camembert on a chunk of baguette.

  “Look, I have some information on this boyfriend of yours.”

  Avy took a deep breath. “Dad, about that. He’s not just my boyfriend. We’re engaged.”

  A thunderous silence ensued. A bad sign, very bad.

  “Engaged,” her father repeated. “As in, engaged to be married? No. No, absolutely not. You have no idea—”

  “Dad, I know exactly who he is.”

  “No, Avy, you don’t. You can’t, or you’d never have gotten involved with him. Listen to me—”

  “Dad—”

  “Avy, the man you’re engaged to is a goddamned thief. He’s got four different aliases, lives in a residence owned by a shell corporation, and is a suspect in thirty-three different heists. He’s wanted in seven different countries!”

  Avy Hunt listened to her father rant while Liam continued to lounge half-naked at the little breakfast table. He winked at her, his hair tousled, his face creased by sheet marks, his eyes very green this morning. A small crumb clung to the overnight bristle on his chin. He looked like sizzling original sin, sunny-side up with toast.

  No wonder he was wanted in seven different countries. Avy wanted him, too. Again.

  “Dad,” she said. “Maybe you should meet him before you pass judgment.”

  “I don’t have to meet him! This guy is a world-class con artist and a lousy cat burglar.” He’d raised his voice and it was clearly audible, even across the room.

  Avy winced.

  Liam frowned. “I beg his pardon, but I’m a top-notch cat burglar.”

  Avy shot him a warning glance and laid a finger over her lips, but it was too late.

  “Is he there with you, right now?�
�� her father demanded.

  “Yes.”

  “Avy, you’re exhibiting spectacularly bad judgment, and I don’t know what’s gotten into you. I don’t know how you got tangled up with this guy, but he’s one hundred percent bad news. You cannot marry him.”

  “Dad, I love you. But I’m an adult, and I make my own decisions. You have to trust me on this. He’s all right. You’ll like him, I promise.”

  “He’s a criminal. Please listen to me, sweetheart. He’s got you snowed.”

  “No, he doesn’t,” she said calmly. “I know about his past. But it’s just that: past. He’s retired. He’s going to return—”

  Liam shook his head violently and made wild gestures with his hands.

  “—everything,” she continued. “I told him that I wouldn’t have anything to do with him if he didn’t.”

  From Atlanta, U.S. Marshal Everett Hunt made a strangled noise that was unintelligible and yet communicated his feelings quite clearly.

  If he hadn’t been so upset, Avy would have been tempted to laugh. But he was her father and he was worried sick, and really, who could blame him? On paper, in a black-and-white report, Liam James was a terrible prospect for a husband.

  “Avy, how long have you known this guy? A couple of weeks?”

  “Three months.”

  “You can’t marry someone you’ve known only three months.”

  “We’ll have a long engagement,” she said reassuringly.

  “We will have no such thing,” Liam said crossly, in his most Etonian accent. “We’ll have a bloody short engagement and a rollicking long honeymoon.”

  Avy narrowed her eyes at him and mouthed, Be quiet!

  “I heard that,” her father growled.

  “Dad, I really think you should meet him and get to know him. He’s not the man you think he is. He’s been helping the FBI. . . . ”

  Down the wire came a snort that would have done a warthog proud. “Avy, only because he was caught and turned! They arrested this joker in the Getty Museum. They caught him red-handed and gave him a choice: He could go to jail and become someone’s girlfriend or he could help out the feds with a case. If they hadn’t grabbed him, he’d have committed burglaries until he died.”

  “No, Dad. He’d already retired. He was only in the Getty trying to get something back for a friend—”