Her Christmas Hero (13 page)

Every morning she saw that empty crib, and how that must hurt her. He hated his part in this whole custody debacle. His stomach churned with distaste and he glanced at her face. Yet she didn't seem to hate him.

He flipped off the light, quietly closed the door and let himself out.

All the way home he thought about how tired she was. How long could she continue going on so little sleep? He had to do something.

Pulling into his driveway, he saw the old Lincoln parked to the side. Harmon Withers, a colleague of his dad's, was walking from the front door. Quinn parked and went to meet him. Quinn had called him about the books, so assumed that was the reason for the visit.

They shook hands. Quinn's father had been Harmon's mentor. Even though there was a large age gap the men had been close.

“Forgive my rudeness in not calling,” Harmon said in his soft-spoken voice, “but I was returning home after a late evening at the university and thought about the books of Malcolm's that you mentioned. On the off chance you might be home, I stopped. I do hope it's not an inconvenience.”

“No, no. Come on in.” Quinn unlocked the door and they went through the large foyer into the library. Quinn pointed to two boxes on the hardwood floor. “Those are the books I was talking about. Some are in foreign languages. I know Dad would want them to go to good use.”

Harmon knelt near the boxes, as eager as a child, and gently opened a couple of the books. “Oh, yes. These are
rare. I will gladly give them a home.” Harmon pushed himself to his feet, using the desk for stability.

In his sixties, he was neatly dressed as usual in a three-piece suit, tie and a matching pocket square in his breast pocket. His gray hair was cut short, and his glasses were perched on his nose.

“I'll carry these to your car,” Quinn offered.

“Thank you, Quinn.”

After the boxes were in the car, Harmon asked, “Were you working late, too?”

“Yes. I have a difficult case coming up.”

Harmon patted Quinn's shoulder. “Even though Malcolm was proud of everything you did, he always said you didn't have the heart to be a defense attorney. My boy, you have proved him wrong. You've helped a lot of people.” Harmon tapped his glasses. “You see, I follow your trials in the paper.”

“Thank you,” Quinn said, and to get off the subject he asked, “And what is a professor doing working so late?”

“Oh, don't ask.” He waved a hand as he slid into his car. “My assistant is on maternity leave and isn't planning on returning. I can't find anything in that office, can't even locate some of my research papers. Plus, I have papers to grade, which she puts into the computer. Now I have to do it. I don't have enough time.” He shook his head in frustration. “Thanks again, Quinn.” The door closed and Quinn waved goodbye.

Then it hit him. He knocked on the window before the professor could back out. The window slid down and Harmon squinted at him.

“Are you looking for someone else?”

“Yes, but I'm picky.”

“I might know someone.”

Harmon frowned. “She's not a ditzy blonde, is she?”

Did Quinn have a reputation for dating ditzy blondes? That stung a little, but he brushed it off.

“She actually has dark hair and is very pleasant. She's going through a bitter divorce and needs a job.”

“Oh.” The frown reappeared. “I don't want to get involved.”

“I'll vouch for her.”

“Well…” Harmon reached into his pocket. “Give her my card and I'll interview her, but I'm not promising anything.”

“Thank you, Harmon.”

The man drove away with his treasures and Quinn went to his car and retrieved his briefcase. Walking into his study, he remembered Harmon's words:
Your father didn't believe you had the heart to be a defense attorney.
He sighed, sinking into his chair.

“You were right,” he said to the room that permeated Malcolm Ross. The abuse and the violence were getting to him. It was hard to find a measure of happiness for himself when he dealt with it every day. Maybe his career choice all those years ago had been wrong. Was he better suited to teaching law, as his father had believed, instead of practicing it?

Quinn removed his coat and felt the loneliness of the house. At Britt's he'd felt at home. But it wasn't the apartment that made him feel that way. It was her.

She made him feel at home.

“Quinn.”

Britt woke up calling his name. She stirred, and a warm feeling suffused her whole body. Touching her cheek, she sighed, and then sat bolt upright.

The room was in darkness, but she felt Quinn's presence for some reason. Then she remembered last night and them talking about his case. However, she didn't remember him leaving.

The alarm shrilled through the apartment. Five-fifteen. Time to get ready for work.

She crawled from beneath the covers and flipped on the light, realizing for the first time that she was still in her robe. How? She tried to remember and couldn't. She had no recollection of going to bed. Had Quinn put her there?

Her hand went to her cheek again, which seemed to be extra sensitive this morning. Oh! His touch. His kiss. Her body remembered. And she'd slept through it. Damn! She must have been really tired.

The alarm buzzed again. She didn't have time to daydream. Slapping the off button, she gazed at the empty crib. That familiar ache inside her blossomed and she hurried to the bathroom. Dillon would be back in his bed soon, she promised herself.

She was rushing to the door when the bell rang. She
paused. Who was at her apartment this early? Tentatively, she checked—and realized she was spending a lot of her time looking at Quentin Ross through a peephole.

Slowly, she opened the door. He leaned on the doorjamb with a lazy grin, and every feminine sensory receptor she had came to full attention. He was so handsome in a dark, two-piece suit and long winter coat. His blond hair curled into the collar. His blue eyes twinkled.

“Morning, ma'am.” His voice was low, infectious and any thought of resisting his charm went south.

“I—I'm on my way to work.”

He handed her a business card. “This guy is a history professor at the university. He's looking for an assistant. Decent hours, good wages and benefits. If you're interested, give him a call.”

Feeling like poor helpless Britt who couldn't find a decent job got to her. Even Quinn's charm couldn't wipe away that feeling.

“I can find my own job, thank you.”

His eyebrow shot up. “A little touchy, aren't you?”

“And you are Phil's attorney, so stop being nice to me. Stop…”

“Stop what?”

Stop making me love you.
But she didn't say that. Her pride wouldn't let her. “Stop helping me.”

“That might be impossible.” He reached for her left hand and fingered the silver bracelet, then tucked the card into her palm. “Just think about it.”

Warm sensations shot up her arm. She raised her eyes to his and wished she hadn't. Those same sensuous emotions were in his. She melted like butter under a heat lamp.

“Did you get a good night's rest?” he asked in a low voice.

“Yes.” Her reply was barely audible.

He bent his head and kissed her lips lightly, briefly, blowing whatever defense she had against him out of the water.

“Think about the job.” After one last glance, he strolled to his car.

She let out the breath she was holding, turned off the lights, locked the door and ran to her car with the card still in her hand. Tucking it into her purse, she smiled. She had no idea where she and Quinn were headed. Every time she put up her guard, he found a way to break through it. Mostly with just his voice, his kindness.

A man like that couldn't be all bad.

She wanted to believe that with all her heart.

 

W
HEN
B
RITT FELL INTO BED
at eleven o'clock that night she was exhausted. Threadgill's had had a small band playing, and the place was packed with college students and families, as well as singles looking for dates. She'd been hit on more times than a Vegas stripper and was getting good at the smiling brush-off.

The music was loud, the patrons louder. But everyone came for a good time and good food. Threadgill's had been an Austin tradition for over seventy-five years. Kenneth Threadgill was the first person to have a liquor license in the county. Back then musicians were paid with beer. Things had changed since the olden days, but Threadgill's was still a favorite musical venue. She worked in the south Austin restaurant, which was next door to the old great Armadillo World Headquarters. The walls were covered with memorabilia of famed musicians, from Count Basie to Willie Nelson and Waylon Jennings, who had played the 'Dillo in Austin's musical heyday.

Britt served so many chicken fried steaks with Thread
gill's Texas margaritas that she lost track. But the tips were good and she loved the friendly environment.

The next morning she was back at McDonald's, and wondered how long she could keep up the pace. She revived for her afternoon with Dillon. That made it all worthwhile. At times, though, she found it hard to stay awake. After the nanny picked up Dillon, Britt fished the professor's business card out of her purse.

Decent hours. Oh, God, she'd love decent hours.

Before she could stop herself, she called Harmon Withers, and she made an appointment for Friday at two. That was her rest time between jobs, but that was the only way she could work it. Hopefully, it was a step in the right direction.

Britt liked Professor Withers. He was a soft-spoken man who made her feel at ease. He didn't ask a lot of questions and that surprised her. His main concern was that she could use a computer, file and do research. Another concern was he wanted her to work quietly and not burden him with endless chatter.

She promised she could do that, and he hired her on the spot. That was strange to her. She'd expected a thorough interview. Red flags went up. Did Quinn have something to do with this?
Of course,
was the immediate answer. Now her options were to accept or just walk out.

She would be beholden to Quinn. But she already was—he'd saved her life. She had to look at this realistically, though. With a better job she had the added ammunition she needed to fight Phil in court.

“The position is eight to five, Monday through Friday,” the professor was saying.

It gave her the opportunity to explain about Dillon.

He looked up from the papers on his desk. “Mr. Ross your attorney?”

She swallowed. “No. He's my ex's attorney.”

The professor blinked, clearly thrown. “Interesting and totally confusing.”

“Does it make a difference?” she asked.

“Not to me, my dear. You start on Monday if you want the job.”

“I do, and thank you.” The decision was easy, after all.

“Just do the work—that's all I ask—and you can have Tuesday and Thursday afternoons off. But you might have to take work home.”

“No problem. I'll see you on Monday.”

Britt left, thinking there were a lot of nice people in the world and she was grateful for their help. She wouldn't let Professor Withers down. Just as she'd never let her son down again.

Her life took a turn for the better. She quit her job at McDonald's, but still helped out at Threadgill's at night. She was saving every dime she could so she'd be able to rent a bigger place. Dillon needed his own room.

She and the professor worked well together. He was a quaint, eccentric man who liked his privacy, and Britt made sure he had that, fielding calls and dealing with students who just had to talk to him. She didn't know a lot about ancient civilization but she was learning.

Going to work at the university was a little different than McDonald's. She enjoyed wearing nice clothes, and the campus was beautiful with its gnarled oaks and historic buildings, which were overshadowed by the 307 foot UT tower. If the weather wasn't bad, she loved to sit under one of the big oaks and watch the students with their backpacks, laptops and cells phones, full of life and energy, with their whole lives ahead of them. She'd once been like that.

Then she'd met Phil Rutherford.

And she felt old and used up.

Until she thought about Quinn.

He made her feel young and alive again. She wanted to call and tell him about the job and thank him. But she hesitated. She had to do this on her own without any more favors from him. Every time he saw her she knew he was putting his job on the line. And she couldn't get involved with a man who was working for Phil.

But she couldn't change the fact that she already was. How were they going to fix their messed up lives?

 

Q
UINN WAS WORKING LATE
again. It was the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. Jury selection for the Morris case started on Monday, so he was going to have a short weekend. Peyton had already informed him that he was expected for dinner on Thursday. His mother and her husband would be there, too. A family Thanksgiving, Peyton had said.

He eased back in his chair, thinking of Britt. She'd have Dillon for part of the day and he knew she was happy about that. Staring at his cell phone on his desk, he thought of calling her. She'd taken the job with Harmon and he wondered how she was doing. As he reached for his cell, Steve walked in.

“I can't find any precedent you can use in the Morris case. Damn! Why did she have to shoot him in the back?”

“When you're that afraid, logic is not a strong suit. I have to hope we get an understanding jury.”

“It sucks, having her trial right before Christmas. If she's convicted, those kids will go into foster care.”

“Well, thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Sorry.” Steve's face turned a slight pink. “You know what I mean, though. This case is a bitch. But if anyone can get her off, you can.”

Quinn waved a hand toward the door. “Go spend the holiday with your family.”

“I'm staying to watch the UT and Aggie game with my brothers, but I'll be back in town on Saturday. If you need anything, just call.”

“I will. And happy Thanksgiving.”

“You, too.” Steve frowned. “You're not going to work through the holiday, are you?”

“No. I have orders to be at my sister's.”

Steve nodded and walked out.

Quinn would love to spend Thanksgiving with Britt and Dillon, but he knew that was impossible. He wasn't a member of her family. He was the man who'd taken her child from her. That still burned like raw acid in his gut.

Suddenly a shuffling noise came from the outer office and then he heard low voices. It wasn't Steve.
It couldn't be….
He hurried around his desk and through the door, and there they were, Bonnie and Clyde. What were they up to now?

“Are you sure this is it, Ona?” Enzo asked. “It doesn't look the same.”

“You don't remember anything, Enzo. Of course this is it. Now let's find Mr. Hotshot.”

“Are you two vampires who only come out at night?” Quinn asked, walking into the reception area.

“What he say?” Enzo asked with a giant-size frown.

“He said you're a vampire,” Ona replied. “What's that?”

“Think Dracula,” Ona told him.

Enzo's frown welded into his wrinkled forehead. Clearly, he didn't get it. Tonight he wore a baseball cap with the University of Texas logo on it, a heavy coat and pants two sizes too big for him. And he leaned heavily on a cane.

Ona wore a bright red knitted hat, a long gray coat and support shoes. In her hand was a large brown paper bag.

“Aren't you two grounded?” he asked.

“We've come to get my gun,” Enzo said. “I had it since the war and I want it back.”

“Sorry. Mrs. Davis told me to throw it away.” It was still in Quinn's safe, but no way was he giving it to Enzo.

“What? She had no right. That's my gun.” Enzo sank into a chair in front of Denise's desk. “Did you get any beer?”

Ona grunted. “He has the attention span of a child. I brought you something.” She held up the paper bag.

Quinn eyed it warily. “Is that a bomb?”

Ona laughed, a real laugh, and Quinn knew underneath her hellfire and fury she had a sense of humor. “Hear that, Enzo? We never thought of a bomb.”

“Yeah. Could have blown up the whole place, except I don't know how to make a bomb.”

“Me, neither, but it's a hell of an idea.”

“You know they lock people up for saying things like that.” Quinn knew they were harmless, and he wondered if they even realized the consequences of their actions.

“Yeah. Go figure.” She raised the bag again. “I made you a chocolate pie for saving my granddaughter's life.”

“Ona makes good pies.” Enzo bobbed his head.

Quinn took the bag. “So I'm forgiven?”

“Hell, no,” Ona was quick to say. “But one good deed deserves another.”

Quinn didn't think he was, but he thought he'd ask.

“Did you get any beer?” Enzo asked again. Loudly.

Quinn looked at the old man. “Are you even allowed to have beer?”

Enzo bristled. “Damn right. I can have anything I want.
I'm ninety-two and not on any medication. What do you think about that, hotshot?”

“I think it's great and I'm wondering why you don't buy your own beer.”

“Because that sour-faced daughter of his won't give him any money,” Ona said.

Enzo pointed his cane at her, his wrinkly face scrunched in anger. “Don't talk about Frances.”

“I'll talk about that whiney, lazy, no good cheapskate—”

“Time out,” Quinn shouted, knowing this was turning in to a full-blown argument. “How did you get here? And does Mrs. Davis know?”

“We came on the bus,” Ona answered tartly. “Carin doesn't have a clue where we are. She's sitting with a neighbor's sick mother while they're out for the evening. It's their anniversary or something. Carin's always a sucker for someone in need. She brought me in earlier so I could spend the night with my Britt, and get up early to cook dinner tomorrow. Enzo wanted to get his gun and I wanted to bring you that pie.” She pointed to the bag. “So here we are. Does that answer your nosy questions?”