Can't Take My Eyes Off Of You (v1.2) (22 page)

After all, what if she was planning to leave town again, take another flit? What if, right now, there were bus tickets stuck in this purse? What then? How would he handle that? And what if she’d been writing to someone? Someone who might not be blind to the profit to be made in selling Shelby’s story to the tabloids?

There were so many reasons for Quinn to check the contents of Shelby’s purse. So many reasons, and no good reasons at all, except that he cared for her. He really, really
cared
for her.

He picked up lipstick, a compact, a gold pen, a pair of Paloma Picasso sunglasses in a red case, a finely woven linen hankie with an S embroidered on one corner in dusky rose thread. He looked at her wallet for a long time, hefted it in his hand, then told himself that he’d been overreacting, and nosy. He put the wallet, unopened, back into the purse.

At the last moment, just when he was congratulating himself on his ethics, he felt the stiffness of paper behind the zippered compartment on one side of the purse.

And he gave in to temptation.

One hour and one speeding ticket on the Pennsylvania Turnpike later, he stepped through the Taite door before the butler had opened it all the way, and headed for the living room, smoke still coming from his ears.

“Where is he?” he asked without preamble, seeing only the two Take men and Jeremy Rifkin scattered about the room like so many statues warily waiting for the pigeons to come flying in to roost

“You would mean Parker?” Somerton asked politely.

“Yeah,” Quinn said, realizing his hands were drawn up into fists. “That’s who I would mean, all right Parker Westbrook the freaking third. Where is he?”

“Oh, dear, the native has gone restless,” Uncle Alfred said, pouring Quinn a tumbler of scotch and bringing it over to him. “Here, boy, I think you need this.”

Quinn shook his head. “No, thanks.”

“Very well, I need this,” Uncle Alfred said, and wandered off again, sipping at the scotch.

“Somerton, I believe Mr. Delaney is upset about something,” Jeremy put in, as if he was the only one in the room to have figured out that Quinn was ready to explode. “Oh, please don’t let anything have happened to our dear Shelby.”

Quinn looked at Somerton, gauging the man’s expression, and saw only concern for his sister. He had thought about Somerton, thought he might be the one, wanted to keep an open mind before he popped Westbrook in the chops. “Shelby’s fine,” he told the man, and watched as Somerton visibly relaxed. “But she is in trouble.”

“Oh, my good Lord!” Jeremy exclaimed, fanning himself with both hands. “I knew it; I just knew it. Somerton, didn’t I tell you? She’s in trouble.” He stopped fanning himself and looked at Quinn.
“How
is she in trouble, Mr. Delaney? We thought she was working in a fine establishment.”

“Is it money?” Somerton asked. “I know you said we couldn’t fix that mess we made with her credit card, but if it’s money, if she’s desperate…”

“It’s not money,” Quinn said shortly. “As a matter of fact, you can be damn proud of your sister. She’s working every day, earning a wage, and not spending like the drunken sailor Westbrook seemed to think her. But somebody’s”—he hesitated, framed his words carefully— “somebody else is in town, watching her. Now tell me, have you sent another bodyguard after her? A private investigator, by any chance?”

“Ah, that would be me, Delaney,” Parker Westbrook in said, walking into the room, making his dramatic entrance, as he seemed prone to do on any occasion. He was dressed in blue pinstripes, his suit custom made, his shirt a pristine white beneath his old school tie. He was tanned and smil ing, and Quinn wanted nothing more than to pop him one in the chops.

“Parker,” Somerton said, walking over to greet the man. “You sent a private investigator to watch Shelby? But we agreed—”

“No,” Westbrook interrupted,
“you
agreed.
I
did not It was an asinine capitulation to this… this
hireling
of yours, and I made my mind up to have nothing to do with it. Good God, Somerton, I’m her fiance, and you wouldn’t even tell me where she’d run off to. So, yes, I hired my own investigators. Top-notch, came highly recommended. They traced Shelby to a dreadful little place called East Wapaneken where, contrary to
your
man’s report, she is working at some greasy spoon, putting in long hours for what is probably minimum wage.”

“Minimum wage,” Uncle Alfred repeated, shuddering, then took another deep drink of scotch.

Somerton looked to Quinn. “I thought you said—”

Quinn waved his arms, erasing Westbrook’s words. Damn the man for putting him on the defensive. “It’s a fine place, Mr. Taite. Well run, only two blocks from the apartment Miss Taite is sharing with Ms. Wasilkowski. And I’ve become a regular patron at the restaurant, besides taking the apartment across the hall from Ms. Wasilkowski’s, so that I have Miss Taite under my surveillance and protection twenty-four-seven.”

“Twenty-four-seven,” Uncle Alfred repeated, heading for the drinks table. “Ten-four, over and out. Love that sort of thing, don’t you? Macho, Jeremy, don’t you think?”

“Yes, Uncle Alfred,” Jeremy said, rolling his eyes at Somerton. “Quite macho. I’m all atingle.”

Quinn listened to this short interchange, gathering his own thoughts. Mostly those thoughts had to do with drop-kicking Westbrook through one of the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Taite mansion, but he fought and gained control over his baser instincts, more was the pity.

“I want them called off, Westbrook,” he said, narrowing his attention to the man and trying to ignore Uncle Alfred, who was holding the brandy decanter next to his ear and saying, “That’s a copy. A five-twelve in progress at Fourth and Main. Ten-four, over and out.”

“No,” Westbrook replied, crossing his arms over his chest. And smirking. Quinn knew a smirk when he saw one.

“Look, Westbrook, I spotted your man this morning. Took me all of ten seconds. The guy blends into the background like a zebra against a red canvas. How long do you think it will take for Ms. Taite to figure out someone’s set a keeper on her trail?”

He didn’t mention the note, would not mention the note. Not for a lot of reasons. One, Somerton would go straight to East Wapaneken and personally escort Shelby home, which was the last thing Shelby wanted, the last thing Quinn wanted, if he wanted to be honest with himself. Two, there was something fishy about that note, something too cute, too pat, and he wanted to find out who was at the bottom of it. Three, he hoped it was Parker Westbrook III. Man, did he hope it was Westbrook.

He sure as hell didn’t want it to be the regulars, who were his only other suspects, considering the fact that they were bound to know that Shelby had overheard them talking about offing the mayor. Shelby was a lot of things, nine-tenths of them wonderful, but she had a face a person could read by moonlight. The regulars had to know, from the way she smiled at them, from the way she watched them, that she knew what they were planning. Or dreaming. Quinn didn’t put much credit in the idea that they were doing anything more than dreaming. After all—Amelia Brobst? It was ludicrous.

“Parker, I believe I must insist,” Somerton said, standing stiffly in front of the man, both his chin and his voice wobbling a little. “I have every faith in Mr. Delaney, and everything has been working out quite well so far. Bringing in your own bodyguards, or private investigators, or whatever it is you’ve so clumsily done, can only provoke Shelby once she discovers what you’ve done and prolong her… her adventure. None of us wants that, now, do we?”

Behind him on the couch, Jeremy applauded happily. “Oh, Somerton, that was
so
perspicacious of you. Wasn’t that perspicacious of him, everybody? I’ve been studying the dictionary, hoping to improve my vocabulary, and that’s one of my very best new words. Perspicacious: having keen mental perception. Truly a wonderful word. And, Parker? You’re being unperspicacious. Oh, dear. Is that a proper form of the word? I really should—”

Quinn watched, keeping his own counsel, as Westbrook’s handsome face turned the color of an overripe persimmon. He leaned past Somerton and spit, “Shut up, you damned fairy!”

What happened next would be pressed between the pages of the picture book of Quinn’s memory for many a year.

Because Somerton, known for his backhand but not for much of anything else physical, balled up his fist, brought back his arm… and punched Parker Westbrook III flat in the mouth.

Uncle Alfred roared his approval as Somerton then danced around the room, holding his punching hand to his mouth, sucking on his knuckles and whimpering.

Jeremy all but swooned on the couch, keeping one eye open to see if that was it or if there’d be a round two.

Which left Quinn to pick up Westbrook, dust him off, and send him on his way.

If he’d been a nice man, that is. Since, in this instance, he decided he was
not
a nice man, he just stood there and watched as Westbrook climbed to his feet, brushed off his own clothing, then took out a handkerchief when he realized he had a bloody lip.

“Out of… out of the knowledge that I am soon to be a member of this family,” he said, dabbing at his bottom lip, “I am going to forget this happened, Somerton.”

Somerton bobbed his head up and down several times and swaggered a bit. “Yes, you do that, Parker. And fire those damn investigators. I mean it”

“Better listen to the lad,” Uncle Alfred said, handing Somerton a linen napkin he’d filled with ice, to put n his knuckles. “We’re bad to the bone, us Taites. Couldn’t guarantee your safety if you were to insult the little woman again, because he’s
our
little woman.”

Then Uncle Alfred turned to Quinn. “You go back there and guard our Shelby, Delaney. Oh, and make sure she has a good time,” he added, winking. “If you take my meaning?”

“Yes, sir,” Quinn said, then left the mansion, eager to get back to Shelby in time to eat with her during her dinner break.

Still, all in all, Quinn had enjoyed his little trip to the Main Line very much.

“You haven’t told me if you’ve learned anything from the regulars,” Shelby said as she and Quinn walked back to the apartment after she’d completed her shift. “Not that I think there’s anything to it. I mean, the regulars? And the mayor? No, it’s just too silly.”

The June night was full of stars, with a full moon hanging over East Wapaneken, lighting their way home, lighting Shelby’s upturned face.

And Shelby looked worried.

Quinn slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her close against his side as they walked along the cracked pavements that bore silent—and twice litigious, so far— witness to Amelia’s late husband’s last and worst idea, the planting of shade trees along the town’s streets. The trees had grown, the shade was lovely, but the roots had pushed up pavements from one end of East Wapaneken to the other. Still, the unseen sidewalk was the perfect excuse for holding hands, for slipping a protective arm around a young woman’s waist.

“I think they like to talk a lot,” he told her comfortingly, or maybe not so comfortingly. After all, when one was getting threatening letters, it was at least some small comfort to believe one knew who was sending them. “But I guess you never know,” he added in the belief that the small “hedge” might make her feel better.

She nodded, watching where she was stepping. “I’ve been giving it a lot of thought today,” she told him. She wouldn’t tell him how much thought she’d been giving a lot of things all day today, or how nervous she’d been and still was. “Their problem, you understand. And I’m willing to bet that if they raised the money for a memorial, then Mayor Brobst will allow it to be built in the park.”

“Really?” Quinn said, trying not to smile. Why hadn’t he already considered this? Put someone like Shelby Taite down in front of a problem, and the first solution that would most naturally come to her mind was to have a fundraiser. Maybe even a ball.

He tried to picture the regulars at a ball. Balding or with long, flowing locks. Beer-bellied. Tattoos all around. More than a couple of missing teeth as they requested that the orchestra play some Willie Nelson. Nope. Couldn’t picture it.

He offered another solution. “I guess they could have a bake sale, something like that. But Shelley, it would take a lot of cakes and cookies to raise enough money for a monument.”

“A wall,” Shelby corrected. “I spoke with the regulars this afternoon, and they want a wall, divided into two areas. One for those who served, the second section for those who died. Did you know that, for a town of only about four or five thousand people, East Wapaneken lost six men to that war? And thirty-seven more served. I find that rather amazing, and sad.”

“Sad, yes, but not surprising,” Quinn told her. “The draft took kids who didn’t go on to college, kids who worked in the local mills and factories. I’m willing to bet that back then there were more sons who followed in their father’s footsteps—straight into the factories—than there were those who could get themselves a college deferment. You’re right, Shelley, and so are the regulars. They should have a monument”

Unless someone in that group sent you that cryptic message, he added to himself.

“I’m so glad you agree. Then you’ll buy a ticket to our dinner?”

“Your
what?
I’ve been gone for only one afternoon. Have I missed something?”

They had reached the apartment building, and Shelby looked up the stairs to the doorway, then at Quinn. “Oh, I forgot Gary, having been duly forgiven, is visiting tonight, and I’ve been told not to come home before ten. Do you want to talk out here?” she asked, pointing to the steps.

“We could,” he said, smiling. “But I’ve got some cold beers in the fridge upstairs.”

She returned his smile. “All right,” she said slowly, and he knew she had answered quite another question. A question that had hung between them almost from the first a question that had been partially answered this morning.

She settled herself on the couch up in his apartment slipping out of her pumps and curling her long legs up beneath her, resting her arms on the back of the couch and watching as he pulled two beers from the fridge, then belatedly grabbed a single tall glass from the cabinet The glass was decorated with bluebirds, in typical Mrs. Brichta fashion.