Читать книгу Her Private Avenger - Эль Кеннеди, Elle Kennedy - Страница 10

Sheriff Jake Wilkinson looked like a man ready for a fight as he stepped out of the cruiser and approached the SUV. Morgan unbuckled her seat belt, studying the man through the windshield, and, as usual, marveling at the fact that he looked exactly the same as he did in high school. Six feet tall, with a stocky chest and the arms of a bouncer, Jake had been the star linebacker on the high school football team, and his don’t-mess-with-me attitude had followed him to adulthood. Back then, he was always itching for a good fight, often throwing the first punch. According to some acquaintances in town, that hadn’t changed much, only now he had a badge to go along with his fists.

Morgan was not a fan of Jake Wilkinson. Hadn’t liked him back then, didn’t like him now.

“The sheriff, I presume?” Quinn murmured.

“Yep,” she murmured back. “My father must have called him the second you two got off the phone. You’re right, he knew exactly where we would go.”

Quinn paused for a moment. “Sheriff dated her, right?”

“Yep.”

Quinn’s eyes narrowed at the man approaching their vehicle. “Isn’t the person closest to the victim usually the likeliest suspect?”

“Yep.” Morgan sighed. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”

She and Quinn got out of the car. From the corner of her eye, she noticed Quinn had squared his shoulders, a sure sign he was geared up for a possible altercation. And if it came to one, she suspected Quinn could take the sheriff easily.

Jake’s wide mouth was creased in a frown as she stepped closer to him. His dark-eyed gaze rested on her briefly before shifting to examine Quinn. The way he studied the other man, there might as well have been a neon sign with the words testosterone overload flashing across Jake’s forehead.

She stifled a sigh. “Hello, Jake.”

“Morgan.” He gave a curt nod of greeting before turning to Quinn. “Adam Quinn, right?”

Quinn offered a nod of his own, along with a cheerless smile. “What can we do for you, Sheriff, at, oh—” he made a show of looking down at his watch “—one thirty-eight in the morning?”

Jake ran a hand through his jet-black hair before lowering it to the gun holstered at his hip. His fingers rested on the weapon ever so casually, yet the entire move screamed intimidation. “Your father informed me you were heading back to town,” he said. “So I decided to come here and see how you’re doing. You know, considering the last time you were here I was pulling your car out of the river.”

Morgan bristled at his words. The night she went over the bridge, she’d told Jake about the other car. Like her father, he hadn’t believed her.

“I’m fully recovered, thank you,” she returned stiffly.

“Uh-huh.” The tone of his voice revealed precisely what he thought of the matter—suicidal chick in denial.

“Let me guess,” she said. “You’ve made no headway in tracking down the car that was behind me that night.”

Jake’s obsidian eyes flashed. “I investigated your claim and found nothing to indicate there had been another car on the bridge.”

“Of course.” Each word dripped with sarcasm.

The sheriff ignored her tone. “How long are you planning on staying?” His gaze shifted from her to Quinn, distrustful.

“Does it matter?” Quinn asked with insincere friendliness. “This is where Morgan grew up.” He gestured to the massive house behind them. “Her family still owns this house. She’s allowed to be here as long as she wants, no?”

“Sure, as long as she doesn’t decide to interfere with my investigation.”

Anger skimmed up Morgan’s spine. “The investigation in to Layla’s death, you mean? The one that poses a serious conflict of interest for you, seeing as you dated Layla?”

Jake’s fingers tightened over the butt of his gun. “Layla and I broke up before she disappeared and you know it, Morgan.”

“That doesn’t mean you didn’t kill her,” she answered sweetly.

She opened her mouth to say more, but Quinn’s hand suddenly dug into her waist. He palmed her hip hard, sending the clear message to cool it. Despite the warning in his touch, she welcomed it. The feel of his long, warm fingers sent a sizzling rush through the material of her sweater and burned her skin.

Ignoring the intense reaction, she focused on the sheriff, whose hard gaze didn’t waver. “I’m a journalist, Jake,” she said, softening her tone. “And Layla was my best friend. I have every reason to want to find out what happened to her.”

“Finding that out is the police’s job. My job,” he clarified.

“Do you have any leads?” she asked.

His jaw twitched. “No.”

“Suspects?”

“No, but—”

She hurried on. “Then what’s the harm in another pair of eyes, another brain trying to solve this puzzle?”

Irritation flashed in his eyes. “I’m warning you, Morgan, don’t stick your nose in my investigation.”

She disregarded the threat and said, “I want access to the crime scene and Layla’s remains.”

“No way,” Jake said flatly. He made a frustrated sound. “Your father told me you’d try to interfere. Well, I’m making it clear right here and now, if you mess around with my case, I’m charging you with obstruction.”

Morgan swallowed back her anger. Antagonizing Jake wouldn’t help the situation, but she was unbelievably tempted to lash out. Instead, she drew in a calming breath. “I’m a good journalist. I could help—”

“You’re mentally unstable,” Jake interrupted, his voice cold er than a glacier. “I read the newspapers, I know about the delusions, the reckless behavior.”

The fury she’d swallowed down rushed up her throat and scorched her cheeks. “I am not—”

The fingers at her hip dug in deeper. Quinn, who’d been silent up until now, cut her off quickly. “Fine, Sheriff, we hear you loud and clear.”

Jake’s suspicious gaze shifted to the other man.

“Neither Morgan nor I will interfere with the investigation,” Quinn went on. His tone was composed and friendly, but the hard set of his broad shoulders revealed he wasn’t pleased with this turn of events, either. “I brought Morgan here so she could recover from the accident away from the media in D.C. We plan on keeping a low profile anyway.”

Some of the suspicion in the sheriff’s gaze dimmed. “Good,” he finally said, nodding. “Stay out of my way, and we won’t have any problems.” He lifted his hand from his holster. “You two have a good night.”

Gritting her teeth, Morgan watched as Jake walked back to his cruiser, opened the door and slid inside. A moment later, the engine roared to life and then he was gone.

After the cruiser disappeared through the gates, Morgan brushed Quinn’s hand off her waist and spun to face him. “I have every intention of investigating my best friend’s murder.”

A fleeting expression of amusement crossed his face. “Of course. Who said you couldn’t?”

“You. You just told Jake—”

“I lied. You honestly think I’d bring you back here only to make you sit at home twiddling your thumbs?”

Relief shimmied up her spine. Then she faltered. “But he won’t let us see the crime scene. And I’m pretty sure he’s going to order everyone involved in the case not to talk to us, including the coroner, which means we won’t get access to her remains.”

A spark of humor lit his green eyes. “Have you forgotten what I do for a living, sweetheart? I’m a mercenary. We live and breathe covert. Don’t worry, you’ll have access to anything you want.”

Although she should’ve still been furious at him for the way he’d spoken to her earlier, Morgan’s anger thawed, replaced by a warm rush that surrounded her heart. Licking her dry lips, she tilted her head to meet his eyes and said, “Thank you.”

The conversation with that ass of a sheriff had made it difficult to examine his surroundings, but with the distraction gone, Quinn was finally able to really look around, and what he saw floored him. He knew Morgan’s family was wealthy, but this house…hell, house? Calling it a house was like calling Andre the Giant a dwarf.

Three stories high, the French colonial-style mansion resembled the White House, with enormous limestone pillars flanking the entrance, wide marble steps leading to a pair of intricately carved front doors, and large balconies with wrought-iron railings on the second and third floors.

Morgan unlocked the door and beckoned for him to follow her into the front foyer. White marble spanned the enormous space, making Quinn feel as if he was committing a grievous sin as his big black boots connected with the pristine floor. Morgan seemed oblivious to his turmoil as she stepped forward in her sneakers, leaving a trail of mud on her way to the light switch. She flicked the switch, and the foyer lit up, revealing a crystal chandelier that belonged in Buckingham Palace, and two spiral staircases leading to the second and third floors.

“Don’t worry about getting the floor dirty,” Morgan said when she noticed him hesitating. “I’ll mop it up in the morning.”

He took a tentative step, his gaze drifting to a shadowy room to the right, which seemed to boast not one, but two shiny black grand pianos.

“The music room,” Morgan supplied, following his gaze.

He finally found his voice. “I didn’t realize anyone in your family was musical.”

“We’re not.” She rolled her eyes. “But as my father says, every home needs a music room.”

Quinn fought the urge to mention that said music room was the size of his apartment. Hell, the foyer alone was bigger than most people’s homes.

He wasn’t surprised that Morgan had never brought him back here before. Knowing her, she’d be embarrassed by the gaudy show of wealth. And the fact that her father spent most weekends here was probably another reason she hadn’t invited him. Not that he minded—he’d rather cut off his own arm than spend his free time with Senator Kerr.

“Would you like a tour?” Morgan asked. “Or would you rather go straight to bed?”

Quinn’s mouth turned to cotton. Damn, this woman was not allowed to say the word bed. Even after an escape from the psych ward, a run through the woods and a two-hour car ride, she still looked as beautiful as ever. Blond strands had fallen loose from her ponytail, framing her heart-shaped face like ribbons of gold, and her cheeks were flushed from the cold, or perhaps from their encounter with Wilkinson. Either way, the rosy blush made her look unbelievably sexy.

When his groin tightened, Quinn forced himself to remember what he’d told her in the car. He was not here to rekindle their romance. He wouldn’t let himself.

“A quick tour would be okay,” he said gruffly, deciding it was probably best to stall going into a bedroom with Morgan for as long as possible.

“Quick isn’t going to be feasible. Did you see the size of this house?” She gave a rueful smile. “All right, let’s see what I can do.”

Quinn didn’t say much as she took him around the first floor, showing him the famous music room, two living rooms and a sitting room—”I’m not sure what the difference is,” she’d admitted—a kitchen boasting so much black marble and stainless steel his eyes hurt, two studies and a library that ap parently contained over five thousand books.

“Ready for the second floor?” Morgan made a show of glancing at a watch she didn’t wear. “We’ve got another hour or two.”

He started to follow her back to the foyer, then halted. The hall they were in was lined with portraits, and one in particular caught his eye. In a beautiful gilded frame, a portrait of a stunning blonde with enormous blue eyes, delicate features and a long regal neck.

“My mother,” came Morgan’s soft voice.

He knew who it was before she even spoke; he’d seen pictures of her mother before. Besides, there was no mistaking the resemblance. Only, Patricia Kerr looked far more fragile than the daughter she’d given birth to. The eyes were too soft, the mouth too tender. She lacked the sparkle of humor, the fire, the glint of stubbornness, qualities her daughter possessed in spades.

“She was very…fragile,” Morgan confessed, using the exact adjective that had entered his mind.

Quinn gave her a sideways glance and saw the sorrow swimming in her eyes.

“She hated conflict,” Morgan went on. “Arguments made her nauseous, and she was so sensitive. If someone in town said an unkind word to her, she would stay in her room for days, inconsolable.”

“She sounds…” His voice drifted. The word he wanted to use was weak but he couldn’t bring himself to say it, not when Morgan’s face shone with such obvious love for her mother.

But Morgan knew him well. “Weak?” she suggested. “I guess in a sense, she was.” Her features softened, and suddenly she looked very much like the woman in the portrait. “But she was also very sweet. She loved me, and she adored Tony. Unlike my father, she spent a lot of time with us when we were kids. She was a good mother, Quinn.”

“I don’t doubt that.” He cleared his throat. “Come on, let’s head upstairs.”

The second-floor tour ended up being quick. Each member of the house had their own wing, decorated in a way that distinctly revealed the personality of the person it belonged to. The senator’s wing was done in shades of gold and black. Pale creams and yellows filled Patricia Kerr’s rooms. Tony’s wing was blue and green, with a splash of yellow thrown in here and there. And Morgan’s wing…

“Pink?” he said, raising his eyebrows.

Morgan paused at the doorway of her childhood bedroom, making a face at the pale pink walls. “My parents chose it. I think they believed they could tame my wild and tenacious streak if they suffocated me with ladylike colors.” She glanced at him and shrugged. “I would’ve chosen red.”

Quinn couldn’t help a grin. “Of course you would.”

Morgan shut the door, then took him up to the next level, quickly showing him the playrooms she and Tony had used as children, another study and half a dozen guest rooms.

“You can sleep here.” She flicked on the light to reveal a room with navy blue walls and gray trim, a queen-size bed with a deep gray bedspread and shimmery blue curtains over a large bay window that overlooked the backyard.

“Is the room okay?” she asked.

“It’s fine.”

“Thanks again for handling Jake. I was perilously close to losing my temper when you stepped in.”

He smiled faintly. “No problem. Though I’m not sure it was a good idea letting him know you’ve considered the notion that he might have killed Layla.”

She sighed. “I know. I couldn’t help it. Jake has always rubbed me the wrong way.”

“I can see why. The guy is a first-class jerk.” Quinn headed for the bed and sank down on the edge, then bent down to unlace his boots. As he removed the mud-caked footwear, he glanced at Morgan. “Do you think he did it?”

“Honestly? I don’t know. Is he capable of it? I think so.” She leaned against the doorway. “He always had a temper, used to pick fights with any guy who looked at Layla.”

Quinn kicked aside his boots. “Did she break up with him, or was it the other way around?”

“She broke things off. And I know for a fact Jake didn’t take the breakup well, which is why—” Morgan paused midsentence, a flush sweeping across her cheeks.

It took a second for him to figure out the reason for the blush. In the midst of their conversation, he’d started to remove his shirt. His hands froze on the hem of the sweater, then shoved the material back down to his waist. Damn it. It irked the hell out of him to realize he’d fallen right back into old habits. He used to undress in front of Morgan back when they lived together. She’d be filling him in about the latest developments in a story she was working on, he’d be removing his clothing, and…well, there wouldn’t be much talking after that.