Deadly Secrets (13 page)

Quinlan took a deep breath.

“And if you did,” Ian started, his gaze still searching, and seeing too damned much, “where is the illustrious Mrs. Quinlan Kinncaid?”

He shifted and shrugged. “No idea.”

“See, he’s not married.” Gavin chuckled. “He’d have to be drugged again and out of his mind.”

That was just a little too close to the truth. He shifted again in his seat.

Ian’s eyes narrowed and now Aiden was leaning forward. “Or just seriously drunk.”

Bray leaned over the top of the seat. “If it’s Ella, at least she’s pretty, even if she’s a bit weird.”

Brody joined the group. Ever the lawyer. “Please tell me there was no marriage, and if so, you have a prenup somewhere, somehow.”

Quinlan shut his eyes and leaned back, ignoring them all. Their joking was too damned close to the truth and he didn’t want to deal with any of it just now.

“So are you or aren’t you?” Aiden asked.

As both rings were sitting in his pocket along with her damned note, that was an easy answer, though he wasn’t about to admit that. “Apparently not. She’s left me the ring and a sweet note and I’ve no idea where she is.”

“Do you have any idea
who
she is?” Gabe asked, joining the conversation. “It is Ella, isn’t it? Or did you elope with some Vegas showgirl?”

Several mutters and curses filled the air.

“I only ask ’cause I married this really sweet Vegas showgirl once. God, she had a pair on her, and legs that went on for fucking ever. And,” he continued, holding a hand up as questions were lobbed at him, “I didn’t remember her. I remember getting hitched. Remember the weird preacher dude and—”

“Can they be preachers in Vegas? Isn’t that like a priest in Sodom and Gomorrah?” Bray asked.

“Anyway, he wore this weird lime green suit, which is how I found him, and he said we never signed the license, which is how I slicked by. Don’t even remember her name. But she had the best ass I’ve ever seen and a dimple just . . .”

Great. Why didn’t he just shrug them all off.

“You should all see your faces, shocked to amused to completely pissed,” Quinlan said, forcing a laugh.

They all sat back and huffed.

Aiden pointed to him. “I knew
you
couldn’t be that stupid. Gabe, well, he’s a different story. I write it off to him being a cop and too many close encounters with death.”

“Hey!” the cop said. That rankled. “Why? Because I’m too stiff? Too predictable? Too set in my ways to find a great girl for a weekend fling and then marry her?”

“Yeah, we all foresaw your trip to Sin City,” Gavin said and sighed back himself. “This was, overall, a fun weekend. We should do it again. This time
all
of us, and not just some of us while others go seek diversion elsewhere.”

Ian was the only one who continued to watch him. Great. Just great.

Let him wonder, let him look. Let him search. Maybe then Quinlan would know where she was, because he had a marriage certificate for Clark County, Nevada, and it was notarized and had both legible sigs on the bottom of it.

He. Was. Married.

How the hell did that happen?

Married?

Insanity. Ella. Laughter?

Laughter. It had been so long since he’d really laughed and with her it had been . . . so easy. So . . . right. He’d even told her about the hell last year of being drugged and almost killed. How he got his permanent limp. Yeah, everything had been perfectly right.

Stupid too, apparently.

And champagne.
Lots
of champagne he’d licked off her heated skin, her chilled skin . . . off the dragonfly tattoo low on her hipbone. He remembered running his tongue along the Hindu symbols along the side of her left breast, tracing them with his finger. The way the lights played in her hair. A memory pierced his brain of him running her hair through his fingers while she said she wanted to change the color.

“To what? I thought you were going purple next time,” he’d said.

“I’m thinking pale, probably white if I can find someone to get it that color with a dark purple stripe in it.” She’d wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him down for a kiss . . .

Champagne. The bill showed seven bottles charged last night. And absinthe. Wicked evil brew that. What the hell had possessed him to order the green liquid, he had no idea.

Alcohol and impulsiveness. Dangerous partnership.

And a taunt. He remembered that. She teasing him that he never was spontaneous.

The memory slipped away.

He closed his eyes and decided he’d worry about it later. He caught Brody’s eye and his cousin lifted his thumb and pinky to his jaw in the classic
call me
sign.

He might just have to.

Chapter 9

Las Vegas

Ella Ferguson sat in the airport waiting on her flight. She had watched earlier, hiding in a coffee shop at the hotel, when Quinlan had climbed into a limo and headed—she presumed—to the airport.

God her head hurt. But then it had since sometime this morning, early. The walls and sidewalks had finally stopped spinning a couple of hours ago. She knew she’d been stupid. Beyond stupid, really. She was rarely this idiotically stupid. She’d always, always done what she was supposed to.

What was expected of her—well, most of the time. Yes, she had a few tattoos. Three, so what? And yes, her hair was whatever color she felt like dying it. So what? That did not make her an irresponsible person normally.

She remembered making love early this morning. How she remembered as gone as they both had still been, she wasn’t sure, but they had. He’d made the comment that his family would love her.

She had met his brothers back in New Orleans. They’d all headed to Magnolia Grill.

Group like that . . .

Family like that? Love her? Yeah, right.

And the panic had slammed into her and swallowed her up.

She was married.

Again.

To another fast-playing rich boy.

What the hell was the matter with her? What had she been thinking? She hadn’t been thinking, that was clear enough. Drinking and thinking were not synonymous or even symbiotic—no, more like polar opposites.

She twirled the platinum band between her thumb and forefinger.

What had she done as soon as she’d realized the folly of her grand weekend? She’d lain there, looking at that beautiful ring she couldn’t really remember picking out. Where had they gotten the rings?

Married.

She
liked
Quinlan, he was funny and quirky and hid it all under that solid seriousness. But they’d gotten past somber Quinlan sometime down in New Orleans. They’d talked, cooked, laughed and dreamed.

Connected.

She’d jokingly told him he was wasting time feeling sorry for himself.

Too wrapped up in what he could no longer do, in what had almost happened rather than what didn’t happen, or what he could still accomplish with his life. The fact he was in a position to help others had honestly seemed lost on him. She’d told him he should help others in worse situations than he’d been in, put things in perspective. So he limped, had a cane, couldn’t run a marathon or 10K anymore. So what?

Yeah, they’d connected. Stranger things happened, she supposed.

Married.
The thought kept screaming in her head.

And his family?

Old money, the Kinncaids. Old traditions, she would bet.

Something to do with hotels.

She didn’t care.

She’d been down that road before. Married a rich boy from the Garden District in college and then he’d chosen his family over her when it came to that. She got a nice settlement and heartbreak. She no longer trusted men—especially not trust-fund boys.

Yet, Quinlan didn’t exactly seem that way. Not really.

What the hell did she do now?

See her lawyer when she got home?

Or maybe she could just file an annulment?

She’d have to look into it. Or maybe just leave it be. She’d left the papers with Quinlan, let him take care of it. When he sobered up . . . it wouldn’t be like he’d really
want
to introduce her to his family, at least not as his
wife
.

Right now, her head freaking hurt way too damned much to figure out any of it. The kid screaming and running between his mother and other waiting passengers was driving spikes into her brain.

Really, couldn’t the woman control her kid?

Kids.

Her birth control pills were at home, they had to be because they were not in her purse, or the bag she didn’t remember packing. Not really. She remembered making love on the plane. That was about it. God, had they been smart or stupid? Probably stupid, it wasn’t like
any
of this could be termed in any way or fashion smart.

She put her hands over her stomach for just a second. Nah. Wouldn’t happen. Instead, she rubbed the side of her head.

Just move on and forget him
. That’s all she needed to do. Just move on, and in time she wouldn’t remember the way his chuckle sounded deep in his chest as she lay her head down, or the way his heartbeat lulled her to sleep. The way her mouth watered at the very scent of whatever cologne or aftershave he wore. The way his fingers raked through her hair, or softly grazed her skin. Maybe it was a good thing she didn’t know more about him.

And now what?

Go back, what else was there? She had a life in New Orleans, and a job. This was just a great and fabulous weekend to write down and remember. To forget if she could for now. It wasn’t like she had never had a one-night stand before. Granted, it had been years, and okay, yes—
years
. Since college and her divorce from Lance—that she hadn’t wanted, but had too much pride to beg when a man didn’t want her. And the guy her friend Marie had set her up with.

Twice. She’d done the one-night never-look-back twice.

And both of those times? No backward glances.

You weren’t married to either one of them
. And she’d spent the weekend with Quin. The weekend.

God. She was
M.A.R.R.I.E.D.

Maybe she should have waited for him to wake up and they could have discussed it all. But really, what was she going to do? Wait for him to sober up and look at her with the
what the fuck did we do?
look she saw in her own eyes every time she looked in the mirror?

No.

Coward, maybe she was. Okay, that was a given, and that was fine. Her heart would survive for another day. Sooner or later she’d forget him. And he’d forget her.

She’d gone back to the hotel after he’d left and asked the concierge if there was a message for her. There had been. His phone number and a
Call me ~Quin.
She’d stood there looking at the message and didn’t realize he’d left something else until the man handed her an envelope with money and another note.
You didn’t have to run, you could have ridden home with me. We could have talked about this, which we will have to do. I’ve got to get the plane back and get my brothers. Here’s some money to see you back to New Orleans.
Something was scribbled out. Then again,
Please call me. Yours, Quin.

Yours.

She was not going to read more into that word than he’d meant. What else would he sign? Love? She had folded it up and put it in her purse and made her way to the airport.

Now here she sat wondering how she could be so . . . reckless? Irresponsible?

It was his eyes, those damned haunted green intense eyes. And that smile. His laughter. His voice and . . .

The announcement for the flight pulled her attention back. They started boarding the plane and she waited. She had enough she could have gotten a first-class ticket, but she’d save the money. She always saved money. It was the only smart thing to do. Call him? Maybe. Maybe not.

Who knew what the future held?

* * *

Washington, D.C., two weeks later

Quinlan stood staring out the windows of his penthouse suite. The brothers were all at home, with their wives and kids. Families.

He was staring out a dark window.

Family.

He’d never wanted one of his own before. Not like his brothers had. Things, apparently, change. When death sat and whispered in your ear, it made you sit the hell up and ask what was important.