KNOCK ME OFF MY FEET

"Audie! Are you all right?"

  "Am I all right?" Her body was shaking from the sudden drop in adrenaline as she screamed at the top of her lungs, "I'm fine! But you people are completely insane!"

  Jamie chuckled at that and moved everyone back up on-stage, leaving Quinn to stare at her and catch his breath. "Did he hurt you?"

  "Hurt me?" Audie moved from Griffin's side to stand in front of Quinn. The pipes started up again, without their star player, and Quinn had to shout at her so she could hear him.

  "Did he touch you?"

  "What are you talking about, Quinn? Do you mean to tell me you did all that just because he touched me?"

  "We'll talk about this after the set."

  She shook her head and gestured toward the city skyline. "I don't think so. I'm leaving." She started through the crowd, quickly saying good-bye to his family, Griffin jogging behind her. Quinn yelled after her and turned on his heels, weaving through the press of bodies until he caught up with her.

  "Audie." He touched her shoulder and she spun to face him.

  "I'll get you an Italian ice!" Griffin shouted in her ear, nodding toward Quinn as he turned away.

  "What the hell were you doing?" She knocked her fists against his chest, hitting him in his brass nameplate. "Somebody could have been hurt! The kids saw everything!"

  Quinn looked stricken and rubbed a hand across his chin and down the perspiration on his throat. "All I could think was he was going to hurt you."

  She started to laugh but abruptly stopped as she understood his words. She stared at him in disbelief. "The letters? You thought Tim Burke was going to murder me right here in front of thousands of people?"

  "I'm not sure what I thought, Audie. All I know is I saw his hands on you and I wanted to kill the man."

  "God! I can't believe this!" She turned to go, but he reached for her wrist and gripped her tight.

  "Please hear me out."

  She jerked back from his touch. "No! You're an unstable, gun-toting neat freak! Your little show just now scared me much more than any letters ever have!" Before she knew it, the tears started to well in her eyes. She turned to run.

  The pipes were reaching a crescendo and Quinn took a huge breath to shout as loud as he was able, "I love you, Audie!"—and the words exploded from his lungs just as the song ended and before the applause began, perfectly timed for the full appreciation of the CityFest crowd.

  "Go for it!" Michael's booming voice rang out behind Quinn, and he cringed. Quinn hung his head as the band cheered him on from the stage.

  Audie's arms fell uselessly to her sides and she turned slowly, her head spinning, feeling the eyes of hundreds of beer-swilling, egg-roll-eating Chicagoans now fixed on her and the guy in the kilt.

  Quinn looked up from his cower, his eyes pleading. "I couldn't let him hurt you."

  "Oh, this is just great, Quinn." Audie shook her head, aware that her knees were feeling weak and she was a hair's breadth away from sobbing. "You love me? This is getting completely out of control."

  "That happened a few days ago, really," Quinn offered.

  She stared, nodded, and felt relief that at least the band had started playing again. It was some kind of happy jig that had people clapping and dancing instead of staring at her and Quinn.

  She looked at him for a long moment but couldn't bear what she saw—too much honesty and too much love. She stared down at her sandals until Quinn's spats appeared in her line of vision.

  "Look at me, Audie," he said.

  She would only hurt him. She knew she would only hurt him.

  She raised her eyes. His gaze locked with hers. And though she knew this was the biggest mistake she'd ever make in her life, she reached out and touched his chest, right where she'd so recently pummeled him. His skin felt hot beneath the white uniform shirt. His heart was beating fast.

  "Quinn, I—"

  A voice boomed down from the heavens. "Hey, Fabio—get your arse up here so we can finish our set!" Jamie's words echoed through the speakers, and the laughter rolled and rocked through the Grant Park crowd.

  "Meet me by the stage?"

  Quinn's little-boy uncertainty was showing again, and all Audie could do was smile and nod. He started to go, but she grabbed his shirt and popped up on her toes to whisper in his ear.

  "What's under your get-up, Detective?" In case he missed the point, she bit his earlobe.

  He pulled back, grinning wickedly. "Boxers, Homey. For now, anyway."

  He winked at her and she watched him swagger through the crowd, the plaid kilt swaying against his firm butt and muscular thighs with every step.

  "He loves me," she muttered to herself, staring after him. Then she smacked herself in the forehead. "Oh, crap! Hell! What a disaster!"

  Griffin suddenly reappeared with a half-melted lemon ice.

  "I've got a big favor to ask you, Audie." He handed over the leaking waxed paper funnel. "Do you think you'd be all right hanging with the Quinns for the duration?"

  He wagged his eyebrows to the left and gave his dread-locks a little shake, and Audie followed. Griffin's big favor was standing a few feet away, looking beautiful and shy in a white gauze sundress and gleaming dark skin. Audie turned to find Pat, Michael, Sheila, and the kids all smiling at her.

  "I think I'll be fine," she said.

  When she pushed through the crowd to reach the Quinns, Sheila put her arm around Audie's shoulders and squeezed.

  "You OK?" she shouted.

  "Fine. Are you and the kids OK?"

  "Fine." Sheila looked at Audie and sighed. "Testosterone poisoning," she said. "At least it keeps things interesting."

  * * *

  Quinn opened the back door and Audie pushed past him into the kitchen. She disappeared down the hallway, kicking off her shoes as she ran. He heard her feet move fast on the stairs.

  "Where are you going?"

  "To the bedroom!"

  "I thought you wanted me to tell you about my pipes and kilt!"

  "I do! Bring 'em up!"

  A few moments later, Quinn found Audie lying on her stomach on his bed, her chin resting on her fists and her bare ankles crossed above her in the air. The little blue sundress was pulled tight across her round bottom, and she was smiling at him, apparently ready to be enlightened.

  "Let's get to my lesson, Quinn." She cocked her head and he watched the dark waves of her hair brush against her bare shoulder.

  "It will be a pleasure to properly introduce you to the second most beautiful lady in the world."

  "Lady?"

  "Her name is Philomena." Quinn clicked open the carrying case and pulled out the gangly apparatus. "Here she is. A Great Highland bagpipe made in Scotland in 1897. She was my grandfather Quinn's."

  "Wait. It has a name?"

  "Yes. My grandfather named her. In Greek, it's supposed to mean 'one who loves songs.'"

  "Philomena." Audie mused over that while she watched him cradle the pipes in his arms like a child.

  "You obviously take very good care of it, them—her."

  "Sure I do." Quinn grinned at Audie, then bent down and kissed her softly. "I figure if I'm lucky enough to be in the company of someone this beautiful, it's my duty to take real good care of her."

  Audie hummed in agreement, not missing the compliment. "So. What's an Irishman doing playing Scottish pipes?"

  Quinn laughed. "That's a good question, Homey." He settled the pipes into the crook of his arm and began to give his lesson. "The lush version are called Uilleann pipes, and they have a softer, more melodic tone. These babies produce the great big roar a man needs for things like parading down State Street

  and going to war against the English. Some people call them Irish war pipes, but that's not really accurate."

  Audie stared, realizing there was apparently a third subject that could turn Quiet Quinn into Chatty Cathy—bagpipes. So it was family, sex, and bagpipes.

  "So tell me all about Philomena. I promise I'll try not to get jealous."
br />   Quinn grinned at her again, and Audie felt her stomach flip.

  "Well, let's start with her anatomy, shall we?"

  She nodded.

  "I hold her close to my left side with pressure from my forearm—there's no strap tying her to me. She's got three drones that come out of the top." Quinn pointed to three thin, tall pipes rising above his left shoulder, one much longer than the others.

  "Now, one of the things that makes Philomena so special is all the silver-and-ivory inlay on the drones, see?" He brushed his finger along the bands of ornate detail work and smiled. "They don't make pipes like this anymore."

  "How much is that worth?" Audie asked, her eyes wide.

  "About three thousand, not that I'd ever sell her. She'll stay in the Quinn family."

  "That's good." Audie couldn't help but smile at him, and she pictured in her mind how Quinn would teach their kids to play Philomena one day. Their kids—the ones who'd be playing on that swing set right out in the backyard.

  She suddenly gasped. She had to stop thinking like this.

  "You all right there, Homey?"

  "Go on. I'm learning a lot," she managed.

  "OK." His eyes sparkled down at her. "This is called the chanter." His fingers rippled along the pipe at the bottom of the instrument. "I cover or uncover the holes to play notes. All the while, the drones up here continue to produce the background hum you always hear in pipe music."

  "You do both at the same time?"

  "Yes. I use what's called circular breathing—I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth in a continuous cycle. That way, the pressure stays constant to support the drones and the melody line from the chanter."

  "That sounds hard."

  Quinn laughed. "It is. You usually have to study for years before you're allowed to play the chanter in a band. Da started teaching me when I was about twelve, so when I joined the force I stepped right into the Garda Band, full of myself and ready to go."

  Audie lifted an eyebrow. "You? Full of yourself?"

  "Yeah, well, I can't help it that I'm so damn good."

  Audie laughed. "OK. So what's the bag made of? I thought it looked kind of different from the other bagpipes."

  "Ah. The detective in you again, Homey," he said appreciatively. "It is different—most of the newer pipes have Kevlar bags, a plastic material. But I wanted to keep Philomena as historically accurate as possible, so I'm one of a handful of players that use an elk hide bag."

  Quinn rubbed his fingers along the rough skin. "See how it's all bumpy here? It's inside out—the inside of the bag is the outer hide, elk hair and all."

  "Eeewww, gross."

  "Yeah, well, it helps make the sound rich and mellow, not buzzy like the new pipes. Want me to play a little something for you?"

  "Please."

  "How about 'Itchy Fingers'?"

  Audie laughed. "Sounds good."

  "I won't be able to talk, all right? I'm going to fill the bag with air and then give her a little slap to get the juices flowing."

  Audie cocked her head and blinked. "What did you just say?"

  "A slap gets the air moving through the drones. Now you can't be making me crazy while I play, or it won't sound right."

  "I wouldn't think of it, Quinn."

  The song was light and quick and Quinn was right—Philomena's sound was quite rich—and sitting this close, Audie could appreciate the amount of skill it took to produce the glorious tone.

  She sat up on her haunches and clapped enthusiastically when the song ended, then gave Quinn one of her ballpark whistles.

  "God, woman, you're going to make me deaf," he mumbled behind his smile, putting the pipes away and closing the case. Quinn stood in front of her, his hands on his hips.

  "What next, Homey?"

  "Ahhh." Audie flopped down on her side, propping her head with an elbow as she appraised him.

  Quinn watched the sundress pull across the curves of her breasts, the slight swell of her stomach, and her round hips. He hoped whatever she wanted to know wouldn't take long to explain.

  "The get-up, Stacey. All the doodads you're wearing."

  He narrowed his eyes at her. "I'll have you know that everything about the get-up, as you call it, is significant. So treat it with respect."

  "Oh, I'm very respectful of it, believe me."

  A little flash of heat moved through Quinn at the serious look in her eye. She did like the get-up, and it surprised him how happy that made him.

  "Where should I start?"

  She looked him over carefully and hummed, thinking. "Tell me about the little milkman hat and the story with the shoes."

  Quinn laughed big and reached for the black two-edged cap sitting at a jaunty angle on his head. He held it out to her and ran his fingers along the black-and-white checkerboard pattern on the brim. "It's called a Glengarry and this is the black and white of the old Chicago Police Department."

  He set the hat on Audie's head, giving her shiny hair a fluff and letting his fingers linger on her cheek a moment.

  "You enjoying this, Homey?"

  "Very much," she sighed, smiling up at him.

  She watched him rake his fingers quickly through his sun-streaked short mane, the entirety of his hairstyling regimen, as she'd already learned.

  "And these are spats worn over your standard-issue police shoes." He took off the spats and shoes and placed them under a straight-backed chair near the bureau.

  "You look real good in those kneesocks, Quinn."

  "They're not kneesocks—they're called hose. And these bright green garter things are called flashes—you fold the tops of the hose over the flashes just below your knee."

  "So take them off."

  He shot her a challenging look. "I feel like you're going to start sticking dollar bills in my shorts."

  She laughed. "If you earn it, I will."

  He took off the hose and flashes and folded them neatly on the chair. While he did that, Audie got to look at the defined muscles of his calves and his tapered ankles. He had excellent legs, this man in a skirt.

  "Where to next, Homey?"

  "The shirt," she said, grinning and rolling back to her stomach, propping her chin in her hands. Quinn watched the Glengarry slide off her hair and land on the disheveled comforter. The sight of Audie rolling around on his bed brought on that tightening in his chest again and in his groin.

  His fingers went to the shirt buttons, taking detours to point out important features. "This is, of course, the standard-issue Chicago Police Department summer dress shirt, with the city flag on the right arm here"—he pointed—"and the Garda Pipe and Drum Band insignia on the left. And this little brass plate on the pocket is my name in Gaelic—Cuinn." His fingers pulled out the shirttails from the front and back of the kilt.

  "So unbutton the rest of it."

  He cocked his head to the side and saw how she watched his fingers pop open the last few buttons. He pulled off the shirt and gave it a series of little burlesque flips through the air before he laid it neatly over the back of the chair.

  When Audie was done laughing, she continued her questions. "Does the undershirt have any significance, Quinn?"

  "Yes it does, since you ask. Fruit Of The Loom, JC Penney, six for fifteen dollars."

  Audie watched him do the one-handed macho T-shirt removal thing and toss it to the chair. And there he stood in front of her, wearing nothing but the kilt and a muscular chest, trim abdomen, and strong arms.

  Audie knew she might very well be drooling, but she didn't care. His body was exquisite—powerful, sprung tight, ready for whatever might be required.

  She liked that about him.

  Quinn crossed his arms over his chest and glared down at her, trying his best to temper his sparkling eyes with a frown. "What now, Miss Adams?"

  All she could do was look. She folded her legs beneath her and sat up again, hands on knees, just appreciating him. "Can you let your arms down to your sides?" she asked very softly.
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  The request surprised him. He couldn't imagine what she found so interesting but did as she asked, watching her watch him.

  Audie was fascinated by the single thick vein that ran the length of the inside of each arm, branching off into smaller veins that wrapped around the forearm and wrist. His arms were a soft pink-peach, sprinkled with light freckles and covered with a dusting of hair. The same hair covered his chest and narrowed to a V shape between the ridges of his stomach muscles.

  It came as a shock to realize she knew exactly what he felt like in all those places, how warm his skin was, how hard his muscle felt beneath her fingertips. She also knew how bracing he smelled and how smooth he tasted.

  She sighed. So what if Quinn was full of himself? He was the most exquisite male specimen she'd ever seen, and beneath the hard-ass cop routine, he was the kindest man she'd ever known.

  And he said he loved her, so he must be a very brave man as well.

  Audie stared, breathing quietly, feeling the room grow thick with tension and desire. She'd tried to be honest with him. But was she honest with herself?

  She told herself she didn't know how to love him—but she desperately wanted him, right now. Was it wrong to want his body? Was there anything wrong with taking what she wanted and giving him what he obviously wanted, too?

  "The belt, Quinn," she said, her voice unexpectedly husky and low. She laughed at herself, embarrassed. "I mean, what's in your little pouch, good-lookin'?"

  Quinn enjoyed the way her cheeks and chest flushed. "This is called a sporran, Homey, and its made of horsehair, and I keep real important stuff in here, so don't be smart."

  His hands went down to the snap and opened it for her, revealing a wilted twenty-dollar bill. "Beer money."

  "How about in the back?" Her eyes were expectant and bright.

  Quinn twisted the black leather belt around to reveal a second, larger pouch and opened it. He took things out one at a time, held them up for her inspection, and placed them on the chair. "Car keys. Badge. Service weapon. Handcuffs." He unbuckled the belt and laid that on the chair as well.

  She harrumphed a little and her brows drew up tight. "Do you always have to carry your gun, Quinn? All the time?"

  "Except when I'm in the shower or asleep or naked with you, yes."