He would tell them that he’d come to check on the house because he’d worried that the killer might have the address. From there, he could just tell the truth. He’d noticed a light moving in the upstairs bedroom, walked to the door, and found that someone had broken in. He’d been jumped by a man, who’d swung at him with a knife before running off into the neighbor’s yard with something in a pack.
That’s what he’d tell Ava, too. The police would notify her. She’d be afraid and face the added trouble of cleaning up this mess.
“This is Quinn McManus calling to report a burglary.” He gave the woman on the other end Jack and Ava’s address. “I’m a friend of the family come to check on the house. I saw a light movin’ about inside and walked up to the door to find that someone had broken in. I guess I startled the gobshite because he ran, but no’ afore slashin’ my arm wi’ his blade.”
As he recounted the confrontation, one thing stood out for him.
Whoever he was, the bastard moved with uncanny speed and knew well how to wield a knife.
* * *
It was almostnoon in Glasgow when Elizabeth checked into Quinn’s hotel. For all her expertise in predicting human behavior, she often didn’t understand herself. She’d wanted to spend her vacation relaxing on a tropical beach. Instead, she’d flown to Scotland where it was dark and rainy and cold because she knew Quinn would end up in trouble without her.
Damn it, Quinn!
Her one shot at a beach vacation this year, and she was going to spend it babysitting a rough, hard-charging operative whose big heart might land him in prison. Instead of drinking daiquiris, soaking up the sun, and watching the waves roll in, she’d be freezing her butt off and not understanding a single word anybody said.
She was fluent in four languages, but Glaswegian wasn’t one of them.
Leaving her computer and other electronics in their suitcase, she unpacked her clothes and took a shower to refresh herself. The hot water didn’t help as much as she would have liked, but then she hadn’t yet gotten over the long flight home from Kabul. She blew her hair dry and put on a little mascara and lip gloss, ignoring the dark circles beneath her eyes. Then she dressed in jeans and her black V-neck cashmere sweater.
Feeling a little more human, she tucked her room key into her pocket, took a notebook and pen, crossed the hall to his door, and knocked. She hadn’t told him she was coming, perhaps because she couldn’t believe it herself. But here she was.
She heard his footfalls, saw a shadow move over the peephole in his door.
He opened it, wearing only a pair of jeans, astonishment on his handsome face. “Lilibet? What in God’s name are you doin’ here?”
A jolt of heat shot through her, her pulse picking up.
Holy freaking heaven.
Defined pecs dusted with freckles and auburn curls. Flat tan nipples. A trail of curls bisecting his six-pack. Broad, strong shoulders. Thick biceps. Scars.
“I…um…” She’d never seen him without a shirt before and was so distracted that it took her a moment to notice the dark bruise on his face and the bandage on his left arm. “I came to keep you out of trouble. It looks like I’m late.”
He motioned her into his suite, locking the door behind her. A half-empty bottle of whisky sat on the coffee table, the TV muted on some news channel, a bloody T-shirt hanging on the door handle to the bathroom.
“Tea?”
She turned to face him, willed herself to keep her gaze on his eyes and not to ogle him. “Tell me what happened.”
“I’m brewin’ myself a cuppa, so it’s no’ trouble.”
“Okay. Fine. Tea. Thanks. What happened?”
While he brewed the tea in the room’s kitchenette, he told her how he’d gone to break into Jack and Ava’s house to search for information on the phone, only to find someone already there. Rather than calling the police, he’d gone inside alone—of course, he had—to confront the culprit. He’d stepped on a squeak toy, alerting the intruder, who had run at him down the stairs, thrown a flashlight at his head, and tried to stab him before running off, a bag over one shoulder.
Chills skittered down Elizabeth’s spine. “He had a knife?”
“Aye, but I caught the blow wi’ my left arm and got him in the face wi’ my blade.” Quinn grinned, held up his left arm. “The police made me to go A&E—Accident and Emergency—afterward. Six stitches.”
Elizabeth gaped at him. “Quinn, he might havekilledyou.”
“Och, well, he didnae, did he?”
Dear God, give me patience.
“Not this time.” She’d worked with special operators all of her adult life. Their confidence in their own abilities was well-founded, but sometimes it got them into trouble. “You should have called the police and waited for them to arrive. They might have been able to arrest him, and we’d know who he was and why he was there. What if by rushing in you let Jack’s killer escape?”