KNOCK ME OFF MY FEET

  When he went to the other foot, she giggled again but was soon returned to bliss with his rhythmic touch.

  "This is wonderful, Quinn."

  "Yes, it is."

  Audie realized her eyes had been closed all this time, and she opened them to admire his efforts.

  "Oh!" The little exclamation came out involuntarily. It seemed Quinn's lion-at-breakfast look was back, but this time she'd served herself to him on a plate. He held her gaze as his touch suddenly changed.

  Audie felt the hot, firm pressure move to her ankles now, then to her calves. He stopped there and raked his knuckles hard down her muscle.

  "Ahhh!" She nearly jumped off the table.

  "You're very tight," Quinn said, still holding her eyes with his. She could've sworn he smiled at his choice of words, and she was once again impressed by the fact that Stacey Quinn was one damn fine-looking man.

  Audie found herself scooting closer to the edge of the table to give him more of her legs, which clearly indicated she was out of her mind or wasted or both. He responded by taking long strokes from the soles of her feet to above her knees, still staring at her intently.

  "Oh, wow," she whispered. The sensation was pure heat, and it tingled and pleased and hurt all at the same time. She found she couldn't breathe between strokes of his hands. "Oh, yes," was her next comment.

  "How are those feet doing?"

  "What feet?" she answered, smiling behind her closed eyes.

  His hands were now fully inside her dress, pushing higher on her legs, leaving streaks of fire on her skin, moving higher still, and heading outward toward her hips. She groaned softly when his fingers brushed against the silk of her underwear and raced back down her legs, only to move back up, turning this time toward the painfully tender skin of her inner thighs…

  Quinn's hands stopped. "Audie?"

  "Yes?"

  "What are we doing?"

  "You're giving me a foot massage." She clenched her eyelids tight and didn't dare breathe.

  "Not anymore I'm not."

  Audie sat up, clamped her legs together, and felt sick with embarrassment. His hands slid away abruptly. "You're right. This is not a good idea. I've got to go home. Do you still have my keys?"

  She was about to remove her feet from his lap and run like hell when Quinn jumped up, spread her legs apart, and stepped inside.

  "I didn't say it was a bad idea." Quinn was leaning forward, his hands on the edge of the table by her hips, his breath hot on her neck. "I was making sure you knew what was happening, that's all."

  "Thank you, Quinn, I… Oh, God, I appreciate that. I really do." Audie swallowed hard. "It would have been a mistake."

  He smelled so good, so sharp and masculine. Every nerve ending in her body was screaming to touch him. His lips were so close to her neck, to her face. Her legs were opened to him.

  "Just one kiss, Homey."

  "One good-night kiss. Then I've got to go."

  When Quinn pulled back enough to look her in the eye, Audie gasped. She was in for it now.

  Technically, it was just one kiss. It started quite gently, a soft, careful touch of his lips against hers, moist and sweet and warm. Then came her tender response and her lips yielded to his, her hands lightly stroked the back of his neck, and she breathed his name into his mouth.

  And it continued, as Quinn dared to ask for a little more, and Audie dared him right back, and the kiss deepened as Quinn climbed up on the table with her and gently laid her down, feeling her stretch out all soft and warm and willing beneath him.

  And it continued, as she offered him her tongue and felt him suck it and pull it into his mouth and the flame licked low inside her and she felt his hands go into her hair, then down her neck to her shoulders, then wrap around her body, and the kiss grew wet and rough and she felt how very hard he was against her belly and she couldn't help it and just threw her legs around his waist and rolled with him.

  They smashed into one of the chairs first, then tumbled onto the deck together, their legs askew but their kiss unbroken.

  She scrambled on top of him, straddling his hips and devouring his lips, yanking his shirt from his belt, reaching up inside to get her hands on his bare chest, and raking her fingertips across his pebble-hard nipples.

  "I want you bad, Quinn." She spoke, but her lips never left his.

  "I'm going to tear off your clothes now," he mumbled, tugging on the zipper at the back of her dress.

  "I'm going to rip off your pants," she told him, her declaration muffled not only by the ongoing kiss but also by the giggles now coming from both of them.

  They began to shake with laughter while they pulled at each other's clothing, their lips never parting—at least not until the back door opened and a man's voice called out into the night.

  "Quinn? You home?"

  They didn't dare breathe.

  "Quinn? You're freaking me out. Where are you?"

  "Uh, down here."

  While Quinn answered, Audie zipped the dress and hid her face, hoping the roommate's eyes hadn't yet adjusted to the darkness.

  "Jesus, Quinn, what are you doing down there? You scared me."

  "My sincere apologies."

  "Oh. Sorry. Well, I'm going to bed."

  "Why aren't you at Marie's house?"

  "She's got PMS. I'll lock the front door. Good night." He turned to leave but remembered his manners. "Hello. I'm Quinn's roommate, Rocky Datillio. And you are…?"

  "Going home now," Audie said.

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  « ^ »

  Quinn moved through the crowded, cavernous old city hall building at a no-nonsense pace, took the elevator to the fifth floor, and strode through the double glass doors to the reception desk.

  He knew there was no need to show his badge, but he couldn't stop himself. "Area Three Violent Crimes Detective Stacey Quinn here to see the vice mayor," he said with a smile.

  "Oh, certainly. Have a seat, Detective. He'll be right with you."

  That son of a bitch.

  Fifteen minutes, twenty minutes went by, and Quinn still sat there in the waiting room outside his office, seething, wanting nothing more than to get up, grab the little pecker by the collar, and beat him to a pulp.

  Quinn took a breath and relaxed. He knew Timmy. He knew Timmy was making him sit out here simply because he could, and he'd prefer it if Quinn was good and pissed off so he could have the advantage right from the start.

  Quinn wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

  He could already see it—Timmy would come bursting out of his office soon enough, making up some sorry-assed excuse, apologizing like a gentleman, acting like it was pure joy to see him, and Quinn wouldn't believe any of it.

  In fact, he pictured Tim right that second—probably peeking around the door at him, picking his nose, and snickering the way he did back in Sister Cecilia Edward's third-grade class.

  Some people never change.

  Quinn shook his head softly. Not today, he told himself. He was here to investigate Audie's case, nothing more. This was not the place to remember the day John died—how his baby brother stopped breathing and all Quinn could hear was Timmy's laugh.

  It wasn't the time to start thinking about how Laura had made her point loud and clear from Tim's bed.

  Quinn was here to do his job—and he planned to do it professionally, dispassionately, and be on his way.

  Then when he got back to the station house, he'd take a hot shower and change his clothes, the usual precaution after any haz-mat spill—or a visit with Timmy Burke.

  He heard the office door fly open and Tim appeared in front of him, flustered and apologetic, rambling on about how crazy his life had been this summer and about how he had a luncheon scheduled with a Lithuanian trade group and some other complete shit that Quinn didn't bother to listen to.

  "Stacey! Come on in! It's great to see you! Have a seat. Can I get you coffee or anything?"

  Quinn declined polit
ely and sat down, crossing his legs comfortably in one of the leather club chairs.

  "Nice digs you got here, Timmy." Quinn scanned the plush office with its dark paneled walls, flag stands, rich burgundy carpet, and massive, gleaming desk. "Looks like you've risen to the top."

  Like scum in the Cal-Sag drainage canal, he thought.

  "If I didn't know better, I would think you just paid me a compliment, Stacey."

  Quinn smiled and said nothing for a moment. "Well then, we've already pulled your prints, so I'm just here to chat about Miss Adams for a bit."

  Tim blinked at Quinn and sat down in one of the chairs clustered in a casual sitting area.

  "Let's chat then." Tim leaned back and produced one of his all-purpose smiles. "How's life in District Eighteen? You like the remodeled station house?"

  "Absolutely. State-of-the-art and all that. Commander Connelly can't stop singing the mayor's praises."

  "Good to hear," Tim said contentedly. "And the Quinn family?"

  "Excellent. The Burkes?"

  "Fine. Fine. Pop's doing great after his prostate surgery."

  "Good."

  "Did you hear Mrs. Geleski died?"

  "Yeah, I went to her funeral. Apparently she had sixteen cats in the house."

  "Must've smelled to high heaven."

  Quinn smiled slightly. "So, Timmy. Know anything about these nasty letters Miss Adams has been receiving?"

  "Yeah, you said something about threats. Is she still getting them?"

  "Yep, she is. Anything you wanna get off your chest?"

  Tim tossed his head back and howled with laughter. "Christ, Stacey, please. I just love you." He sighed contentedly. "You are the most humorless bastard I've ever known in my life. Honestly. So you think I'm sending these notes to Autumn? What on earth makes you think that?"

  "Are you?"

  "No, Detective. I am not. And she certainly knows that."

  Quinn nodded. Timmy Burke seemed human enough on the outside—blond and blue-eyed and well dressed and well spoken. Quinn could see how Audie might have been momentarily hoodwinked. He couldn't hold it against her. After all, much of the city had been conned by Timmy's act, apparently.

  "So tell me how long you dated Miss Adams. How you met, what your relationship was like. Why you broke up."

  Tim chuckled. "Don't you want to know if she'd go down on me in the car? As I recall, that was our standard of excellence at one time. You want to start there?"

  Quinn reached in his jacket pocket for his notebook. It gave him something to do with his hands for a moment, enough time to remember it would be a felony to put a bullet in the vice mayor's brain and to remind himself yet again that this wasn't about Laura.

  This was about Autumn Adams—who needed him to keep her safe and make an arrest. The fact that Quinn really liked Audie could not—and would not—interfere with the way he handled her case.

  "Because she did, Stacey," Tim said with a sigh. "And Jesus, let me tell you, it was pure heaven! That girl knows exactly what those gorgeous lips of hers are for."

  Quinn said nothing, but his insides were tensing, his blood was roaring, and his jaw went hard. He blocked the image from his mind—it was too horrible. Not Audie. Not with Tim Burke. Oh, God, why did it make him this crazy?

  Maybe he could just shoot now and plead insanity later.

  "I hope you weren't driving at the time, Timmy. That's a bit of a safety hazard," he managed.

  Tim nodded, grinning. "So you want to know about Audie, do you? Am I really a suspect? Because the idea of being a suspect in one of your cases leaves me kind of skittish, as you might understand."

  Quinn grunted. "Of course you're a suspect, Timmy, along with every man Audie has dated in the last few years. The letters are real nasty and personal. So what happened with the two of you?"

  "Didn't Audie tell you?"

  Quinn shrugged. "She told me you walked away after a couple months. Not much more than that."

  "Oh, really?" Tim's eyes went wide in surprise. "How interesting."

  He got up from his chair and made a lap around the perimeter of his office, his feet silent on the thick carpeting, his hands in his pockets. He was smiling.

  "She really said that?" Tim came to a stop near Quinn and cocked his head. "That's what she told you?"

  "Yep."

  "Well, I'll be damned." Tim sat back down across from Quinn and leaned forward on his knees. "She dumped me, boy-o. That's how it ended. But she's slowly coming around. I'm trying to be patient, and we still talk."

  Tim ran a hand through his pale curls. "The truth is I adore the woman, shortcomings and all. She stole my heart, Stacey, and she's driving me crazy. There. You can't say I never bared my soul to you."

  Quinn glared at him and their eyes locked. There was a long moment of silence between them, and they both felt it—the electric crackle of old hate, resentment, and jealousy.

  "Oh, holy shit." Tim was up out of the chair and began to pace along the broad bank of windows behind his desk. He turned his back on Quinn and looked out over the concrete-and-steel canyons of the Loop. When he turned around again, he was laughing bitterly.

  "This is fucking hilarious. What are we, stuck in some kind of Greek tragedy or something? Are we cursed or something, Stacey? Answer me that."

  Quinn said nothing.

  "Please don't tell me you've got a thing for Autumn Adams, OK? I just don't think I'm in a good-enough mood to deal with that today—with the Lithuanians and all."

  Quinn was scribbling in his notebook, trying to breathe normally. "So she dumped you. You're pissed off. So you slashed her tires and sent her dead roses and a whole slew of letters and in your mind this all accomplishes what?"

  "I'm not slashing tires or sending goddamned letters!" Tim's face was red. "I cannot possibly be considered a suspect. Give me a fuckin' break!"

  "A jilted lover is always a suspect in a stalking case, Mister Vice Mayor."

  "I told you we were working it out, that she's coming around!"

  "And what makes you say that?"

  Tim propped himself against his desk and crossed his arms over his chest, glowering. "Look. There was nothing ugly about the way we broke up, all right? She just has a little problem with commitment. She's the jumpy type. But we're working on it. I'm taking it slow. And I would never threaten to hurt that woman. Goddamn, Stacey—I think I'm in love with her."

  Quinn stared at him in silence.

  "Believe me, Quinn. I would die before I'd see her hurt."

  Quinn let out an abrupt laugh. "And I'm to believe you because … wait. Because you're a man of integrity? Is that it?"

  "Fuck you, Stacey."

  "No. Fuck you, Timmy." Quinn was up out of his seat and his face was instantly in Tim Burke's. "God, this is sweet," Quinn said, turning to go.

  Tim's words came out in an icy whisper. "Do you really think I'll let you stay on this case, you pathetic loser?"

  Quinn spun around, his hand on the doorknob. "What?"

  "Do you really think I can't have your ass pulled off this case and out of your fluff job at District Eighteen? Because it would take just a few phone calls to accomplish that, Stace."

  Quinn didn't move a muscle.

  "Which public housing assignment would you prefer? Cabrini Green? The Robert Taylor Homes?" Tim walked over toward the door to finish his point, his voice now sharp and angry. "I'll get your ass canned if you continue to harass me. Now get out of here, go find the real mental case who's bothering Audie, and leave my reputation alone."

  "Your reputation," Quinn repeated, almost to himself, smiling. He looked Tim Burke in the eye. "As always, it's been a pleasure seeing you, Timmy." He opened the door to see a group of pasty-looking businessmen in the waiting room, all wearing visitor badges and nervous expressions.

  "Your Lithuanians are here, big man. Oh, I forgot—" Quinn turned around and grinned at him. "Did you get your book autographed the other night? It was a shame you had to rush out like that.
Urgent city business?"

  A muscle twitched at the corner of Tim's lips. "Get the fuck out of my face," he said.

  * * *

  Audie didn't mind waiting for Griffin, because she was used to it. She knew that if she wanted Griffin to be somewhere at noon, she told him eleven, then she could count on him by twelve-fifteen. He always blamed his Jamaican upbringing for this affliction, explaining that when you live in a country that's stifling hot and you're hungry and have no job to go to, there's no point in rushing.

  Besides, he'd always saved his speed for the soccer field.

  At least she had a nice booth by the window and she could sip her iced tea and watch the Rush Street

  lunch crowd from her air-conditioned perch. She could let her mind wander.

  That night last year when she found her tires slashed after a soccer game, she figured it was just random vandalism. When the dead flowers came, she shrugged it off. And at first, she thought the letters were a joke as well—weird, annoying, and sometimes a little creepy, but just a prank. For more than a year she'd ignored Griffin's pleas that she get the police involved.

  Well, now the letters truly scared her. And she was angry that they'd invaded her life, made her worry, made her wrack her brain trying to figure out who in the world would want to hurt her.

  Her stomach churned. Her head hurt. She felt very alone.

  She knew the list of suspects she gave to Quinn was a waste of time. Will Dalton? He was an absentminded professor type—intelligent and wickedly funny but completely benign. The only thing that ever riled him was his belief that the American family had been destroyed by commercial television. Outside that topic, Audie never encountered a bit of passion in the man.

  Darren Billings? He wasn't literate enough to write those notes. The letters just dripped with sarcasm, something he couldn't spell, let alone convey.

  Kyle Singer was smart enough. Certainly snide enough. But he had no reason to send those letters—he couldn't have cared less for Audie and immediately had found someone else to escort to public functions. She'd been nothing to him but a distraction for the rumormongers.