KNOCK ME OFF MY FEET

  "A lot, I guess." Quinn took another gulp of Guinness as his brothers exchanged glances.

  "Have you winterized her yet?" Michael asked, and Quinn saw the glint in his eye.

  "Jaysus, Mike. I've only known her a couple weeks. I think it's a little early for that."

  "You can never do it soon enough," Michael said, quite serious. "I'll never forget what happened with Bridget Feeney—gorgeous woman, but she went totally psycho on me that winter. It was like a five-month-long case of PMS. I should've tested her in the fall, but I forgot. I was distracted by her ass."

  Pat frowned. "What the hell does winterized mean? I have a feeling you're not talking about antifreeze."

  Michael and Quinn nearly busted a gut.

  "Actually, it is kind of like that," Quinn said.

  "Look, Pat," Michael explained patiently. "You can never really know a woman until you go through a Chicago winter with her, OK? The cold, the wind, the flu, scraping ice off the car, shoveling out your parking space—from November to March, that's when the real woman comes out.

  "Incredibly bad things can happen during that time, let me tell you," Michael continued. "Ugly things. But if you can stand her during winter, you've got a good one. Sheila passed with flying colors. It's one of the reasons I married her."

  Pat's mouth hung open. "Lovely. But that doesn't explain why in God's name the woman married you, Michael." Then he turned to Quinn, frowning. "Are these lucky gals aware they're being tested?"

  "No," Quinn said. "That would skew the results."

  Pat scowled at him.

  Quinn held up his hands in defense. "It's nothing awful, Pat. All you do is ask a couple basic questions, like what she'd enjoy doing on a Sunday afternoon in February."

  "And this accomplishes what?" Pat asked.

  "Well," Michael said thoughtfully, "the best answers involve food, televised sports, beer, and sex in any combination."

  "There's a range of good answers," Quinn added. "But if she mentions sex and beer, things are looking up."

  Pat shook his head. "Good God, I'm glad I'm a priest."

  They all felt him before they saw him—the room pulsed with energy when the door opened and Jamie Quinn strolled in, exchanging warm greetings all around.

  "Hello, boy-os," he said, eventually sliding his big, sturdy body in next to Pat. "Did I miss anything?"

  Pat nodded and gestured with his pint glass. "We were just talking about Stacey's new girlfriend, Da."

  Jamie leaned toward his oldest and tapped a beefy fist on the table, grinning. "It's about damn time, lad," he said, settling back in the booth. "Well now. Let's just hope she's not the pain in the arse that Laura was, shall we?" He winked at Pat and Michael. "That woman gave me pontab of the gullet every time I saw her."

  * * *

  Audie lay sprawled out on the Italian couch, realizing yet again that she hated the feel of leather against her skin, especially in the summer, realizing yet again that for all its glitz, she hated this apartment.

  It was sleek and huge and she felt insignificant and uncomfortable in it. The city lights and the dark lake were beautiful at night, beautiful and big and powerful—but all it did was make her feel small.

  She thought of her old apartment in Wrigleyville, with the big oak tree in the backyard, its crooked little back porch, the neighborhood sounds and the cooking smells, the old clawfoot bathtub, the cozy bedroom. It fit her like a favorite sweatshirt—warm and comfortable and not trying to be anything it wasn't.

  Why she let Marjorie convince her to move to Helen's place was anyone's guess. She was making a lot of stupid decisions around that time, if her memory served her correctly—one right after the next. She took on a job she didn't want and couldn't do. She agreed to pretend she was somebody she wasn't. She started living a life that belonged to someone else.

  All for her mother. All for a woman who never loved her.

  Audie closed her eyes at the awful memory of her mother's last hour. Her face was swollen and bruised from the attack and her hair was matted with blood. And the terror in her voice, the pleading…

  It was the desperation that was Audie's undoing. The woman who was always perfect, polished, and poised was gone, and in her place was an old lady who was bleeding and trembling and could barely speak.

  "I'm counting on you," her mother had whispered as they rolled her down the hallway. "Swear to me. Don't disappoint me, Autumn."

  She was twenty-eight years old the night her mother died, but Helen could still slice her to the quick with those familiar words: Don't disappoint me. She said it, then reached for Audie's hand and died.

  In her more self-pitying moments, Audie realized she had become Homey Helen to prove to her mother that she was worth loving, that she could be something other than a disappointment.

  Stupid decisions, certainly.

  And now what? Was a year long enough, Audie wondered? Did Helen ever look down from the Elizabeth Arden salon in the sky and feel rotten for putting her daughter in this position?

  "Can I bag the Banner renewal and go back to my old life?" Audie asked out loud. "Will you forgive me if I at least try to be happy, Mom?"

  Audie sighed. The woman was dead. She couldn't hear her and she couldn't love her. If Helen had ever wanted to do either of those things, she would have done them while she was alive.

  With a sudden burst of energy, Audie hopped up from the couch and kicked a soccer ball down the long, dark hallway, hearing it smack dead center against the far wall.

  "She scores," she mumbled to herself, "and the crowd goes wild." She heard her feet shuffle over what seemed like acres of carpets and wood floors before she reached the kitchen.

  She walked around the long curved counter of teak and stainless steel and reached for the refrigerator handle.

  "Gross." There were things in there that scared her.

  "Crap." There was nothing to drink except water.

  "Oh, hell." She opened the pantry to discover she was even out of tea bags.

  Audie turned around and put hands to hips over her nightshirt—one of Griffin's soccer jerseys from his pro days. What was she doing? Was she nuts? It was a balmy Friday night in the big city and there she was—a reasonably attractive, pseudo-successful, still somewhat young woman, alone in her dark castle tower, talking to dead people, with nothing to eat or drink.

  She was pathetic. She should be out enjoying her life.

  Oh, wait. She had no life.

  Her life lately consisted of following Marjorie's business plan, hanging out with Stanny-O and eating way too many Frango Mints, and waiting each day by the mailbox for the next death threat.

  Oh, and let's not forget the best part about her life—Stacey Quinn! The intensely sexy cop who kissed her until her spine fused, then disappeared with some lame excuse, then sent her a gift so inexplicably sweet and personal that it made her cry.

  Enough of that, she told herself—no more thinking of Stacey Quinn tonight. She'd see him Sunday. That would have to be enough. She was sexually frustrated. That was her problem. And Stacey Quinn was simply the hottest thing she'd ever seen in her life!

  She covered her face in her hands and groaned. "You're such a jerk, Quinn," she whispered. Then she smiled in the dark.

  It was beyond her control, so she gave in and wondered what he was up to right then, who he was with, what he was wearing, and whether he thought of her. She wondered who got to hear the sound of that gravelly voice and who was lucky enough to hear him laugh.

  She hoped to God it wasn't a woman.

  The buzz of her doorbell nearly sent Audie through the ceiling. She ran across the wide living room to the foyer and flipped on the light, slamming her eyes shut in the brightness. She peered through the peephole to see the smiling face of—Tim Burke?

  "Tim Burke?" she whispered to herself, dropping her eyes from the door. It was beyond her how he thought it was OK just to show up here. It was beyond her how he got beyond lobby security. Why couldn't he just
leave her alone?

  "What do you want, Tim?" she shouted through the heavy double doors.

  "Hey, babe! I was just at a dinner party in the building. I wanted to drop by to say 'Hi.'"

  "Not a good time, Tim." As if there ever was a good time for Tim Burke.

  "Oh. Well, sure. Not even a cup of coffee?"

  "I don't have any coffee."

  "Oh. Right. How come you haven't returned my calls, Audie? I miss you. You know I care for you."

  She huffed. She leaned her forehead against the cool, smooth wood and began a light banging at a slow, even tempo.

  "What are you doing, Audie?"

  "Bashing my head in," she muttered to herself. "Nothing! Look, I've got company, Tim, all right?" She didn't like to lie, but this was an emergency. "Good-bye."

  Audie was turning away from the door when she heard him say, "Is Stacey Quinn in there with you?"

  "What?"

  "He came to see me today. I'll give you a little advice, Audie. The guy's a hothead and a womanizer and nothing but trouble. Watch yourself."

  Audie stuck her eye back on the peephole, but Tim Burke was gone.

  She shook her head. Obviously, there was no love lost between Quinn and Tim Burke, and she wondered what had happened so long ago. She could just picture them in a playground scuffle, hurling insults and punches at each other, shoving and tearing at each other's little white Catholic school dress shirts.

  She was rooting for Quinn.

  "Men," she mumbled, heading for her bedroom. She might as well go to bed for the night. That way, when Marjorie asked her on Monday if she was getting enough sleep, she wouldn't have to lie.

  * * *

  Chapter 6

  « ^ »

  "What's your favorite thing to do in the summer, Homey?" Quinn settled back on the varnished oak bench of the sailboat and stretched his arms wide along the edge of the cockpit.

  "Take in a Cubs game." Audie threw him a teasing smile from her perch behind the helm. "And this—there just isn't much better than this, Detective."

  She turned her face into the wind and closed her eyes, enjoying the peaceful sound of water lapping at the side of the boat, the whisper of air over the sails.

  Quinn watched her. He didn't think he'd ever seen her truly relaxed, and his heart opened at the sight of it. He was perfectly content to sit there the entire day, just appreciating her face and the way the breeze tossed around her hair.

  He'd never been sailing before, but if it meant hanging out with a beer and looking at Audie, he believed this was a pastime a man could grow to like.

  It wasn't a stretch to say that Autumn Adams was the prettiest woman he'd ever known. He liked the way the light hit her out here on the lake, making her skin glow like copper and gold. He stared at the long, smooth, casually outstretched leg and remembered all too well what it felt like to touch each place on that leg—the solid calf muscle, the sharp shinbone, the hard knee, the soft thigh. Holy God. That he wasn't jumping on her this very second, pulling her down onto him and devouring her, was proof of his superhuman will. Sixteen years of Catholic school probably didn't hurt, either.

  And Holy God. The idea that Tim Burke may have ever put his hands on her was enough to make him lose his mind. He knew that he'd have to ask more about their relationship, but not right now. Not today. Today, he just wanted to enjoy being in her company again.

  Quinn moved his eyes from Audie to the flat blue horizon line of Lake Michigan. He really had been busy last week. But the truth was, he had asked Stan to take care of Audie so he could cool his jets—pure and simple.

  After that out-of-control kiss on his deck, Quinn found himself thinking with his dick instead of the perfectly fine brain God gave him, and that wasn't his style. And he was still responsible for Autumn Adams's case, which had to be his priority—at least for the time being.

  But when she'd asked him to go for a sail, he'd accepted gladly. And now he wondered how the hell he'd managed to stay away for a total of ten days—ten very long days.

  He took a swig of beer, put the can in the convenient beverage holder on this fancy North Shore sailboat—all gleaming wood and polished brass and bronze—and laughed at himself. He was sure this boat was worth more than Da's house in Beverly. He was sure he was a bit out of his element here.

  He wondered how long it would be before he ended up at the fucking opera.

  "Did you say something?" Audie opened her eyes and smiled at him politely.

  "Nope." Those plump lips, wet from a recent slide of her tongue, and that rounded chin, perfect for biting. She looked delicious and juicy and he felt an ache in his groin. Watching this woman did painful things to his chest, too, like his heart was being throttled, like his blood was backing up, like the oxygen couldn't quite make it up to his head.

  "I used to sail a lot with my dad when I was a kid," Audie said, running her fingers through her hair and closing her eyes in the wind again. "It was nice to come out here on the water, away from everything, just the two of us."

  He actually felt her voice touch his skin. It was warm and smooth and rich and he felt it fall over him, wrap around him in the breeze. It was the weirdest damn thing.

  The satiny curve of her throat … had he gotten a chance to taste her there yet? It was all a blur. He couldn't remember if he'd yet run the tip of his tongue up her throat, and it bugged the hell out of him.

  "Dear God," he muttered to himself.

  "What?"

  Quinn shook his head and tried to pick up the threads of the conversation—there had been words exchanged, hadn't there?

  "Did your mother ever come out on the boat?"

  "No. She didn't care for the lake all that much."

  "Did she care for your father all that much?"

  Audie's head snapped around and she stared at him in disbelief. "What kind of question is that?"

  Quinn winced, annoyed with himself. He didn't want to piss her off already—they'd only been out here a few minutes and he wanted to stare at her for several more hours at least.

  "I just saw some of your pictures, that's all. They didn't look too thrilled to be together."

  Audie shrugged. "I guess they tolerated each other, like with any marriage. My dad was not a very demanding person, so he kind of let Helen rule the roost and did his own thing. He wasn't home all that much."

  "What did he do at the Mercantile Exchange?"

  "He traded in the pits for many years, then became a broker. Made a ton of money."

  "Did he have affairs, Audie?"

  She went very still and stared at him. He appeared perfectly innocent sitting there with one leg propped up on a knee, his arms draped across the back of the bench—but his eyes were insistent, intense.

  She blinked at him in astonishment. "You know, it amazes me how rude you can be."

  "I don't mean to be rude. I'm just trying to figure something out, is all."

  Audie snorted. "What in the world would my father's indiscretions have to do with the letters I'm getting? You think one of his old lovers is sending them? That's a bit out there, don't you think?"

  He cocked his head and examined her face for a quiet moment, aware that she was uncomfortable. There was no way around it. "So he did have affairs, then?"

  Audie closed her eyes briefly and sighed. "I don't know for sure, Quinn. There was just something wrong. That I know."

  "Wrong? What do you mean?" He leaned forward, elbows on knees.

  Audie was rapidly becoming annoyed by this line of questioning and groaned. "Look, from what you've told me about your family, I don't think you'd understand even if I tried to explain it, so forget it."

  Quinn gave her a small smile. "Try me, OK, Homey?"

  The beer felt cool going down her throat, and Audie looked out over the water for a while. They were heading south, being nudged along by a nice steady breeze near the shoreline. To the right was one grand home after another, made of stone and brick or wood, surrounded by huge, heavy sum
mer trees and tidy grounds. This back view of the North Shore castles of Winnetka. Wilmette, and Evanston was one she knew by heart.

  "It was a big house, right?" Audie kept her eyes on the shore, watching the homes float by. "Everyone went to their own corners—you didn't have to see anyone else if you didn't want to. When Dad was home, he went to his den. I went to my room or down to the boathouse. Drew usually just left altogether. And Helen worked with Marjorie in the home office."

  "Not Chestnut Street

  ?"

  "No. She didn't buy the building until I was in high school, so they wrote the column from the house for many years."

  Quinn nodded slightly, trying to imagine what it would have been like to have so much room for so few people—the opposite of his experience as a kid. "Go ahead. I'm listening."

  Audie sighed. "It wasn't so much that we didn't like each other—we just didn't know each other." She leveled her gaze and stared hard at him. "That's the part I don't think you'll get—how a family can be strangers the way we were. I think my dad and I were the closest, but that's not saying much, and he died when I was fifteen. My mother and I…"

  Audie shrugged and looked up to the telltale fluttering against the jib. She adjusted the wheel a bit until the tiny streak of red cloth flew straight and smooth against the canvas. "Helen and I never really understood each other. I'm a lot like my dad, and that seemed to bother her to no end. She was always busy or traveling and didn't have much time for me. I think she was glad of that."

  Quinn looked down at his hands and remained silent.

  "Marjorie and Mrs. Splawinski were the ones who pulled me through." Audie flashed a grin. "For as long as I can remember, they were more my mother than Helen. I went to Mrs. Splawinski when I was bummed out, and she'd sit and speak Polish to me and feed me brownies. I didn't understood half of what she said, but God, she makes awesome brownies."