Tears filled her eyes. “I wantyou, Quinn McManus. I never expected to feel this way about anyone.”
He kissed her, soft and slow, then wiped the tears from her cheeks. “We’ve really made a mess of it, haven’t we?”
“I suppose we’ll be fired.”
He nodded. “I’ll probably wind up in prison.”
“Prison?” Her heart sank.
She’d been so out if it that she hadn’t thought about that. He had risked everything—his life, his career, his freedom—to save her.
“Aye, prison. It’s okay. It was worth it.” He gave her that smile, the one that melted her insides. “A perfect time to fall in love, aye?”
The doctor returned with a heated thermal blanket. “This ought to warm you up.”
Quinn helped him tuck it around her. “Is that better?”
Warmth enfolded her, seeping into her skin. “Oh, that feels good.”
And despite every effort to stay awake, Elizabeth drifted off again.
* * *
Quinn watched sleep overtake Elizabeth.He kissed her and dragged himself from her side, leaving her in the infirmary and riding the lift with Smith upstairs.
It was time to pay his debts.
He sat down with Smith, Corbray, and Tower in Smith’s office and told them everything—except for the private details about his relationship with Elizabeth. Then he answered their questions, one after the next, until it was just shy of midnight.
Smith took notes, preparing a report for the police, who would likely show up to arrest Quinn sometime tomorrow morning. Already, word of a shoot-out at a warehouse near Clydebank was on the news—reports of nine found dead and millions of pounds worth of cocaine and heroin recovered.
Quinn had been at that warehouse. He’d carried an illegal weapon. He’d watched men kill other men—criminals, the lot of them—and he’d done nothing to stop the carnage. He’d left Lewis with Grant, knowing Grant would make Lewis suffer.
Aye, Quinn deserved to go to prison.
At least Elizabeth is safe.
“Why didn’t you wait?” Tower asked at last. “I believe that’s what you were ordered to do.”
“If I’d waited, she’d be dead.” The memory of Lewis holding the blade to her throat made Quinn’s gut twist.
“What concerns us is your refusing to follow instructions.”
“You also ordered me to keep her safe.” Quinn spelled it out for them. “I knew it would be at least eleven hours afore you got here, and every minute of that time, she’d be in that bastard’s hands—a man who slit a friend’s throat, who gives drugs to teenage girls so politicians can assault them. Then Grant pulled up, said he had a man inside Lewis’ organization and knew where Elizabeth was. What would you have done?”
The three men looked at him, their expressions grave.
Smith tapped his notepad with his pencil. “I’ve been taking notes, and I’d like to run my summary by you before I turn this over to the police.”
“Aye, go ahead.” Quinn steeled himself for the words that would send him away.
“On the evening of sixteen November, two rival crime syndicates got into a lethal conflict at a warehouse near Clydebank, leaving nine dead. One of those syndicates has associations with MSP Whitehall, who has an appetite for underage girls and drugs, some of which he imports through ties to British veterans who served in Afghanistan.”
That was news to Quinn.
Smith went on. “Among the dead is Andrew Lewis, who was found beheaded.”
So that’s what Grant had done to him.