The Mighty Quinns: Conor
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Kate Hoffmann
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1
THE SHOT CAME out of nowhere, shattering the plate-glass window of Ford-Farrell Antiques into thousands of pieces. At first, Olivia Farrell thought one of the display cases had fallen over, or a crystal vase had tipped off a shelf. But then a second shot rang out, the bullet whizzing by her head and embedding itself into the wall with a soft hiss and thud. Frantic, she glanced up to find shards of glass tumbling into the window display around a Federal-era breakfront.
Her first impulse was to throw herself over the breakfront, a rare piece valued at over $60,000. After all, the multipaned doors still contained all original glass! And the piece would be virtually worthless to her discerning clientele if it contained any scratches on the exquisitely preserved marquetry. But then, common sense took over and she dove for cover behind a rather overblown chaise longue in the Victorian style, a piece that might actually benefit from a few bullet holes.
“Oh, damn,” she murmured, not sure what to do next. Should she run? Should she hide? She certainly couldn’t shoot back since she didn’t own a gun. She thought about locking the front door, but then whoever was shooting could just walk through the gaping hole in her plate-glass window. “Why didn’t I listen? Why did I sneak out?”
Pushing up from the floor, she gauged the distance between her location and the back door of the gallery. But what if they were waiting for her in the alley? Since she wasn’t familiar with wiseguy protocol, she had no idea whether her unseen assassins were determined to kill her at all costs or whether they’d regroup and try again later. Then again, they’d missed. Maybe they’d just meant to scare her.
“Phone,” she murmured, reaching into her jacket pocket to pull out the sleek little cell phone she always carried. “Nine-one-one.” She punched in the number and immediately began to pray. Perhaps she should just play dead, in case they burst into the shop, guns blazing.
Tears pressed at the corners of her eyes and her hand trembled as she waited for the emergency operator to answer. But she refused to give in to fear, pushing back the tears and summoning up her courage. She’d taught herself to control her emotions, to maintain a cool demeanor, but that was for business purposes only. Maybe a gunshot through the window was a good excuse for a little hysteria.
None of this would have happened if she’d just kept her mouth shut, if she’d just turned around and walked away that night a few months back. But she’d been scared back then, scared that everything she’d worked so hard to achieve was about to be taken from her.
The closest she’d ever come to breaking the law was fudging a few numbers on her tax return and ignoring the speed limit on the I-90. Now her business records had been impounded, her past scrutinized, her partner thrown in jail, and her reputation left nearly in tatters. She was a material witness in a murder and money-laundering trial against a very dangerous man—a man who obviously thought nothing of killing her before she had a chance to tell her story in court.
Olivia listened as the operator came on the line, then quickly gave her location and a brief description of what had happened. The operator asked her to stay on the line and she listened distractedly as the woman tried to keep her calm. Olivia had always heard that when someone came close to death, their life passed before their eyes. All she could think about was how she hated feeling so vulnerable, so dependent on someone else’s help.
“Just keep talking to me, ma’am,” the operator urged.
“What should I talk about?” Olivia asked, her voice edgy. The only subject that came to mind was how quickly her life had changed in such a short time. Two months ago, she’d been on top of the game, Boston’s most successful antiques dealer. She travelled all over the country, searching out the finest American antiques for her shop. Her client list read like a Who’s Who of East Coast society. And she’d recently been named to the board of one of Boston’s most prestigious historical societies. There was even talk that she might be asked to appear on the public television show Antiques Caravan.
All this for a girl who’d grown up not on Beacon Hill, but in a working-class neighborhood of Boston. But she’d risen above her rather common beginnings, leaving her past far behind and creating a whole new identity for herself—a wonderful, exciting identity, filled with travel and parties and influential friends. And financial security. She had saved only one thing from her childhood—an interest in anything one hundred years old or older.
“My parents were antique fanatics,” she murmured to the operator, surrendering to the memory. “They used to haul me from auction to auction as a child, eeking out a living with a tiny little secondhand shop on the North End. We never knew where the next meal was coming from, never knew if we’d scrape together enough to pay the rent. It was frightening for a child, that uncertainty.”
“Don’t be frightened,” the operator said. “The police are on their way.”
“When I got older,” Olivia continued, “they turned to me for authentication and I became an expert in 18th- and 19th-century New England furniture makers. My parents never had a very good eye for fine antiques and when I was just out of high school, they decided to try the restaurant business, managing a truck stop off the interstate in Jacksonville, Florida.”
“The police are just a few minutes away, Ms. Farrell.”
She continued talking, the sound of her own voice soothing her fears. As long as she could talk, then she was still alive and the fear couldn’t consume her. “I stayed behind to attend college. I worked three different jobs for pocket change. I lived from hand to mouth for nearly my entire freshman year at Boston College, scraping to pay tuition and rent. I hated that. And then I found my very first ‘treasure,’ a Sheraton chair I bought for $15.00 at a tag sale and resold for $4,000.00 at a consignment auction.”
From that moment on, Olivia had paid for her college education by buying and selling antiques. She discovered she had an uncanny eye for spotting valuable pieces in the most unlikely places—garage sales, thrift shops, estate auctions. She could tell a reproduction from an original at fifty paces and was a skilled bidder.
“Even though I majored in art at Boston College, I fell naturally into a career in antiques. I rented my first showroom space the year I graduated. Six years later, I formed a partnership with one of my clients. Kevin Ford was a man with money. I thought I had it made. He bought a beautiful retail space on Charles Street at the base of Beacon Hill.” Olivia sighed. “How could I have been so naive?”
“The police will be there in approximately thirty seconds, ma’am,” the operator said.
Olivia could already hear the sirens in the distance over the traffic outside the gallery. But even the police couldn’t get her out of the mess she’d made of her life. She blamed herself for this whole thing. When Kevin bought the building, she’d had her doubts. Though he was wealthy, he certainly didn’t have the millions to buy retail space on Charles Street. But all Olivia could see was the next stage in her meteoric rise to the top of Boston society—and all the business that would come her way.
Had she trusted her instincts, she might have realized that Kevin Ford’s bottomless wallet came from underworld connections. That fact had been proved when Olivia overheard a late-night conversation between Ford and one of Ford’s most important clients, Red Keenan—a man she later learned was a Boston crime boss who’d ordered a handful of murders last year alone.
The sound of more glass smashing made her jump and she prepared herself for the worst. But then a familiar voice brought a rush of relief. “Ms. Farrell? Are you all right?”
Olivia poked her head up over the back of the chaise. She waved weakly at Assistant District Attorney Elliott Shulman, the man in charge of the murder case against Red Keenan. “I—I’m still alive,” she said.
He hurried through the shop and helped her to her feet. “This is just unacceptable,” he muttered. “Where was the police protection I ordered?”
“They’re still parked outside my flat,” Olivia murmured, a warm flush flooding her face.
Shulman gasped. “You went out without telling them?”
She nodded, her spine stiffening at his censorious tone. “I—I just needed to get some work done. The shop has been closed for almost two months. I have bills to pay, antiques to sell. If I don’t work with my clients, they’ll go someplace else.”
Shulman grabbed her by the elbow and led her toward the front door, his fingers firm on her arm. “Well, you’ve seen what Red Keenan is capable of, Ms. Farrell. Maybe now you’ll listen to us and take his threats seriously?”
Olivia yanked her arm from his grasp. “I still don’t understand why he’d want me dead. Kevin can testify to the whole sordid business. I just overheard them talking. And I didn’t hear that much.”
“As I told you before, Ms. Farrell, your partner isn’t talking. You’re the only witness who can put the two of them together. After what happened tonight, we’re going to have to hide you. Somewhere safe, out of town.”
Olivia gasped. “I—I just can’t leave. Look at this mess. Who’s going to repair the window? I can’t let the weather come in. These antiques are valuable. And what about my clients? This could ruin me financially!”
“We’ll call someone to replace the window right away. Until then, I’ll leave a patrolman outside. You’re coming with me down to the station until we find a safe house for you.”
Olivia grabbed her coat and purse from a circa 1830 primitive wardrobe next to her desk, then reluctantly followed Shulman to the front door. Maybe it was time to go into hiding. It was only for a couple of weeks, until the trial started. At least she’d feel safe again. When she stepped out onto the sidewalk, she gave her keys to the patrolman and murmured detailed instructions on the security code. When she finished, she closed her eyes and drew a long breath.
“Promise me I’ll have my old life back soon,” she said, trying to still the tremor in her voice.
“We’ll do our best, Ms. Farrell.”
CONOR QUINN knew the meaning of a bad day. Drugs, hookers, booze, smut—this was his life. Working vice for the Boston Police Department, he couldn’t recall a day that hadn’t been tainted by society’s ills. He reached inside his jacket pocket for the ever-present pack of cigarettes, his own private vice, then remembered he’d quit three days ago.
With a soft oath, he slid his empty glass across the bar and motioned to the bartender. Seamus Quinn approached, wiping his scarred hands on a bar towel. His dark hair had turned white and he now walked with a stoop owing to years of back-breaking labor on his swordfish boat. Conor’s father had given up fishing a few years back. The Mighty Quinn now bobbed silently at its moorings in Hull harbor, brother Brendan using it as a temporary home on the rare occasions he stayed in Boston. Seamus had moved on, using his meager savings and a gambling boon to purchase his favorite pub in a rough and tumble section of South Boston.
“Buy you a pint, Con?” Seamus asked in his rugged brogue.
Though Ireland was still thick in his father’s voice, little of the Quinn brothers’ birthplace remained in their memories. Yet, every now and then, Conor could still hear traces of the old country in his own voice, traces that he sometimes caught in Dylan and Brendan, too. But they were Americans through and through, all of the brothers had become naturalized citizens—save Liam, who’d been born in America—the day their parents took the oath.
Conor shook his head. “I’m on duty in a half hour, Da. Danny’s picking me up here.”
Seamus gave him a shrewd look, then set a club soda in front of Conor, before serving the next patron. Conor watched as his da expertly pulled the Guinness, tipping the glass at the perfect angle and choosing the exact moment to turn off the tap. He set the tall glass on the bar and the pale creamy foam rose to the top, leaving the nut brown brew beneath.
His father didn’t bother asking. Though the rest of the patrons profited from Seamus’s sage advice, over the years the Quinn boys had learned to handle their own problems without parental involvement. In truth, Conor had been the one to dispense advice and discipline to his younger brothers. He still did. Nearly his entire life, from the time he was seven, had been consumed with keeping his family intact at all costs and keeping his brothers on the straight and narrow. Making life safe had been his job, then and now. Now, he was just watching out for a city of a half million instead of five rowdy boys from Southie.
He glanced around the bar, searching for a diversion, anything to get his mind off the events of the day. Seamus Quinn’s pub was known for three things—an authentic Irish atmosphere, the best Irish stew in Boston and rousing Irish music played live every night. It was also known for the six bachelor brothers who hung out at the bar.
Dylan was playing pool with some of his firefighter buddies, all dressed alike in the navy T-shirts of the Boston Fire Department. A bevy of girls had gathered to watch, sending flirtatious looks Dylan’s way. Brian worked the other end of the bar this night and was occupied charming the newest barmaid. Liam had found himself a lively round of darts with a pretty redhead. And Sean stuck to the rear of the pub, dancing to the music of a fiddle and tin whistle with a striking brunette.
It was no different for Brendan when he was in town, finished with another magazine assignment or a research trip for his latest book. A soft and willing woman was the first thing he looked for. And though their father’s warnings about women had been drilled into their heads from an early age, that didn’t stop the six Quinn brothers from sampling what the opposite sex offered so freely—without love or commitment, of course.
But lately, Conor had tired of the shallow interaction he’d enjoyed in the past. Maybe it was his mood, the indifference he felt for life in general. Hell, the blonde at the end of the bar had been giving him come-hither looks for the past hour and he couldn’t even manage a smile. Though a woman to warm his bed on this blustery fall night was tempting, he was too tired to put out the effort to charm her. Besides, he only had a half hour before he had to report to the station house—not nearly enough time.
“Good evening, sir. I’ve got the car outside when you’re ready to leave.”
Conor glanced to his right to see his partner, Danny Wright, slide onto the bar stool beside him. The rookie detective had been assigned to Conor last month, much to Conor’s dismay. Although Wright was a good detective, the kid reminded him of a great big puppy, wide-eyed and always raring to go.
“You don’t have to call me ‘sir,”’ Conor muttered, taking another sip of his soda. “I’m your partner, Wright.”
Danny frowned. “But the guys in the squad room said you like to be called ‘sir.”’
“The guys are pulling your leg. They like to do that to rookie detectives. Why don’t you have something to drink and relax for a while.”
Anxious to please, Danny ordered a root beer, then grabbed a handful of peanuts and methodically began to shell them. When he’d arranged a neat little pile in front of him, he popped a few into his mouth and slowly munched. “Lieutenant wants us down at the station house by the end of the shift. He says he’s got a special assignment for us.”
Conor chuckled. “Special assignment? Special punishment is more like it.”
Danny sent him a sideways glance. “Lieutenant’s pretty steamed at you,” he murmured. “The guys say you’re a good cop who just has a bit of a temper. Lieutenant says the skell is bringing brutality charges though. Already hired himself a lawyer.”
Conor’s jaw tensed. “That slime bilked an 84-year-old woman out of her life savings. And when she wouldn’t give up her credit cards, he beat her within an inch of her life. I should have knocked his teeth through the back of his head and tied his arms and legs behind him. He got off easy with a split lip.”
“The guys say—”
“What is this, Wright? Don’t you ever speak for yourself?” Conor said. “Let me tell you what the guys are saying. They’re saying this isn’t the first time I’ve gone off on a suspect. They’re saying Conor Quinn is getting a reputation. And that reputation doesn’t help my chances of moving over to homicide. Combine the split lip with my other misadventures and the brass has got me pegged as a rogue cop.”
“I—I didn’t mean to—”
“You don’t have to worry, Wright. It’s not contagious,” Conor muttered.
“I’m not worried about me. You’ve been waiting for an assignment in homicide for two years and there are only two slots open. You’re a good detective, sir. You deserve one of those slots.”
Conor shook his head. “I’m not sure I’m even interested anymore.”
“Why not?”
He’d been mulling over that question for weeks now, but Conor hadn’t been able to come up with an answer, at least one that made sense. “I’ve been trying to make this city safe for more years than I’d care to count. I honestly thought I could make a difference and I haven’t even made a dent. For every hooker and bookie and scam artist I put behind bars, there’s another one right behind. What makes me think I could do better with murderers?”
“Because you will,” Danny reasoned in his own guileless way.
“Hell, I’m sick of playing it safe. It’s time I started living my life. I want to get up in the morning and look forward to the day. Look at my brother Brendan. He chooses what he writes, when he writes, if he writes. He’s living life on his own terms. And Dylan. What he does makes a difference. He saves lives. Real lives.”
“So what are you going to do? You’re a cop. You’ve always been a cop.”
“Maybe that’s the problem. I went from taking care of my family to taking care of this city. I was nineteen when I went into the academy, Wright. I had responsibilities at home, I needed a steady job. Maybe I would have chosen differently. I certainly would have enjoyed going to college rather that taking years of night courses to get a degree.”
Danny gave him a sideways glance. “You’ll feel better when the lieutenant lets you out of the doghouse,” he said. “He can’t stay mad forever.”
“So what kind of scut work does he have for us this evening?” Conor asked. He took a long sip of his soda, then wiped his hand across his mouth.
“Actually, it’s pretty interesting, sir,” Danny said. “We’re protecting a witness in the Red Keenan case. We’ve got to transport the guy out to a safe house on Cape Cod and then keep watch for a few days. Kind of an odd place for a safe house, don’t you think?”
Conor shook his head. “I guess they figure they can monitor everyone coming and going this time of year. One highway, one airport. Easier to spot suspicious characters.”
Conor pushed back from the bar and started toward the door, Wright dogging his heels. He gave Sean a wave, then called out a farewell to his brothers. When he reached the street, he pulled up the collar of his leather jacket and turned his face into the wind. He smelled the ocean on the stiff, damp breeze and he knew a storm was on the way. For a moment, he worried about Brendan, almost two days late on a return trip from the Grand Banks where he’d had a last run with the swordfishermen before they started to work their way south. Why he’d decided to write a book about swordfishing, Conor would never understand.
Hell, swordfishing had been the ruin of their family life, the reason their mother had walked out, the reason their father had left the parenting to Conor. He sighed and cursed softly. Brendan could handle a storm at sea—he’d spent many a summer vacation making runs with their father. And Dylan could handle a fire out of control. It was Conor who was having trouble handling his life of late, making sense of it all.
His head bent to the wind, hands shoved into his pockets, Conor strode down the rain-slicked street toward his car, Danny hard on his heels. He glanced up when he heard footsteps coming his way, his instincts automatically on alert. A slender woman with short, dark hair passed, nearly running into him in the process. Their eyes met for only a moment. He glanced over his shoulder, thinking he recognized her. Bunko artist? Hooker? Undercover cop?
He watched as she slowly stopped in front of Quinn’s, then peered through the plate-glass window. A few seconds later, she started up the steps, then paused and hurried back down, disappearing into the darkness. Conor shook his head. Was he so jaded that he now saw criminal intent in a perfectly innocent stranger? Maybe a few days of solitude on Cape Cod would put everything back in perspective.
The District Four station house was buzzing with activity when Conor and Danny arrived in the unmarked sedan. Conor was used to working the day shift, but days and nights would mean nothing now that he’d been assigned to protect a witness. Just endless hours of boredom, bad takeout, and what amounted to nothing more than baby-sitting.
According to Danny, the witness had been transported earlier that evening from the downtown station house. The lieutenant had been vague on the particulars of the case, preferring to speak to Danny and Conor in person about their new assignment—no doubt to use the meeting as a lesson for an unruly detective.
But when they strode into the squad room, the lieutenant’s office door was closed. Conor checked for messages, grabbed a cup of coffee, then searched the mess on his desk for his pocket pad, the leather bound notepad that each detective carried for witness interviews. He remembered that he’d had it last in the observation room while he watched an interrogation through the one-way window.
He grabbed a pen and backtracked, finding the door to the room open. But his search for the missing notepad was stopped short when he glanced through the one-way window into “the box.” The featureless interrogation room contained a single table with a chair on each side, a light above, and the mirrored window on one end, through which Conor now stared.
The sole occupant of the room was a woman, a slender figure with ash-blond hair, patrician features and an expensive wardrobe. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but he was certain she wasn’t a call girl or a drug dealer or a con artist. He’d be willing to bet his badge that she hadn’t committed any crime. She lacked the hard edge to her features that most criminals acquired after working the streets. And she looked genuinely out of her element, a butterfly in the habitat of…cockroaches.
He stepped closer to the window and watched her for a long moment, noting the tremor in her delicate hand as she sipped at the paper cup filled with muddy coffee. Suddenly, she turned to look his way and he quickly stepped back into the shadows. Even though he knew she couldn’t see him, he felt as if he’d been caught looking.
God, she was beautiful, Conor mused. No woman had a right to be that beautiful. He found in her features sheer perfection—a high forehead, expressive eyes, cheekbones that wouldn’t quit and a wide mouth made to be kissed. Her hair fell in soft waves around her face, tumbling just to her shoulders. Conor’s hand twitched as he imagined how soft the strands might feel between his fingers, how her hair would slide over his skin like warm silk.
A soft oath slipped from his lips and he turned away from the window. Hell, what was he thinking, fantasizing over a complete stranger? For all he knew, she could just be a better class of call girl, or some drug-runner’s high-living girlfriend. Just because she was beautiful, didn’t automatically make her pure.
Old habits did die hard. How many times had he looked at an attractive woman only to have his father’s voice nagging in his head? All those cautionary tales, hidden between the lines of Seamus’s old Irish folk stories. A Quinn must never surrender his heart to a woman. Look beyond the beauty to the danger lurking beneath.
He turned back to the window in time to see her wrap her arms around herself. Her shoulders slumped and then she rocked forward, her body trembling. When she tipped her head back, he saw the tracks of her tears on her smooth complexion. Conor’s heart twisted in his chest at the fear and regret in her expression, the raw vulnerability of her appearance. She looked small and all alone.
Had she been standing next to him, she might have crumpled into his arms, hiding her sobs against his shoulder. But the glass between them was like an impenetrable barrier and he’d become nothing more than a voyeur. He’d never seen a woman cry before, except for the hookers he’d arrested, but those tears were usually just for show.
She cried for a long time while Conor watched, memories of his mother’s pain flooding his mind. He knew he should leave and allow her the privacy of her emotions, but he couldn’t. He felt as if his feet were glued to the floor, his gaze caught by her beauty and her pain. The tears had opened her soul and for a moment, he could see inside. He fought the urge to pull open the door and go to her. Whoever she was, criminal or not, she deserved a shoulder to cry on.
Conor reached out to turn the doorknob so he could enter the box, but just as he was about to open the door, he saw Danny Wright stroll into the room, a grocery bag in his arms. Slowly, he drew his hand away, stunned by the unexpected change in the woman’s expression. The transformation was astounding. Almost instantly, the vulnerability vanished and her expression became cool and composed, almost icy. Surreptitiously, she brushed away all traces of her tears and glanced up at his partner, her lips pressed into a tight line.
Conor flipped the switch on the intercom, then braced his hands on the table beneath the window and listened to Danny’s voice, crackling through the speaker.
“Ms. Farrell, I’m Detective Wright. My partner and I have been assigned to protect you until the trial. I’m sorry you’ve been waiting so long, but we’ve been making arrangements to take you to a safe place.”
Conor sucked in a sharp breath. This was his witness? This woman who’d drawn him into her troubles with just a few tears and a stunningly beautiful face? “Aw, damn it,” he muttered, throwing his notepad onto the table. He figured he’d be baby-sitting some wimpy little accountant or slimy two-faced informant. Considering his reaction to Ms. Farrell so far, spending the next two weeks in her company would be hell on earth.
“I don’t understand why I can’t just disappear,” she said, a sharp edge to her voice. “I can go to Europe. I have business associates there who would be happy to—”
“Ms. Farrell, we’ll keep you safe. There’s nothing to worry—”
She brought her palms down on the table and shot out of her chair, the action causing Danny to jump. “I don’t need you to keep me safe,” she cried, her voice suffused with anger and frustration. “I can keep myself safe. I don’t want your help.”
Danny took a step back, caught offguard by the intensity of her outburst. “But—but we won’t have any assurance that you’ll return to testify.”
“What if I don’t testify?” she demanded. “Then you’ll have to let me go, right?”
“Keenan will find you eventually, Ms. Farrell. Because, if you don’t testify, he’ll be out on the street and he won’t leave any loose ends.”
She gripped the back of the chair with a white-knuckled hand. “That’s what I am? A loose end?”
Danny blinked, then shook his head. “Th-that’s not what I meant. I was just telling you what Keenan would think. Listen, I’m going to go find my partner and let him talk to you. He’s a good cop. He won’t let anything happen to you, either.”
Conor snatched up his notepad and stalked out of the observation room, straight through the squad room to his lieutenant’s office. He wanted a reassignment and he wanted one now. He’d even settle for desk duty if that got him out of watching over this woman. Conor rapped on the door, then closed his eyes as he waited for an answer.
“Lieutenant went downtown,” Rodriguez called. “The commissioner is holding some big press conference on his Cops and Kids program. He talked to Danny a few minutes ago. I think your witness is in the box.”
Conor turned on his heel and walked back through the squad room, muttering beneath his breath. He met Danny halfway down the hall.
“There you are,” his partner said. “Are you ready to roll?”
“Lieutenant’s gonna have to find someone else for the job,” Conor muttered. “I’ve got too many open cases to take time off. Besides, District One should be handling this witness. It’s their case.”
“What? You can’t bail on me now. I need you to talk to the witness. Her name’s Olivia Farrell. Red Keenan’s guys took a shot at her earlier this evening and she’s pretty shook up. She doesn’t want to testify. I don’t know what to say to make her—”
“So let her take her chances on the street,” Conor muttered. “If she doesn’t want to testify, she doesn’t have to.”
Danny frowned. “What are you saying? We’ve got a chance here to nail Keenan. Besides murder and drug dealing, the guy’s been running us ragged in vice. You should want him off the street.”
Conor raked his hand through his hair and shook his head. “I do. But I’m not going to talk to her. She’s your responsibility, Wright. You’re the point man on this one. You get her ready to go and you drive her out to Cape Cod. I’ll be in the backup car watching your ass.”
“I gave her some clothes,” Danny said. “Lieutenant figured we should sneak her out of here in disguise, like a suspect transfer. We’ll drive past the South Boston station house on the way out of town, and if you don’t see anyone on our tail, we won’t stop until we get to the safe house.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Conor muttered. “I’ll wait for you in the parking lot and follow you out.”
Conor shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and started down the hall. Suddenly he needed fresh air, time to breathe. What had this woman done to him? With just one look, she’d sapped his strength and sent him running for cover. If he didn’t know better, he’d have to believe his father’s warnings were true. But this was just a job and he could certainly maintain a professional demeanor if he had to. Besides, as with all women in his life, the fascination would soon fade.
Consumed by his own thoughts, his gaze fixed on the floor, he didn’t notice the figure who stepped out of the doorway to the box. She slammed into him and he grabbed her as she bumped against the wall. With a soft curse, Conor looked into the most incredible green eyes he’d ever seen.
She’d changed out of her designer clothes and was now dressed in a faded T-shirt, tattered chinos and a slouchy hat. An old camouflage jacket was clutched in her hands. If he didn’t know her, he might mistake her for one of the vagrants who hung out down on the waterfront. Conor stepped to one side and, at the very moment, she made the same move. Twice more, they tried to get past each other, the two of them participating in some bizarre little tango right there in the hall.
Finally, he grabbed her arms and impatiently moved her against the wall. But the instant he touched her, his anger with her dissolved. Her skin was warm and so soft. A current shot up his arms, and as if he’d been burned, he snatched his hands away. “Sorry,” he muttered.
“It—it’s all right,” she said. “It was my fault. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
The sound of her voice surprised him. The intercom in the box had distorted it until she sounded like some harpy fishwife. But here, standing so near to him, her words were low and throaty, wrapping around his brain like a mind-numbing drug, immediately turning him into an addict for the sound. “No, it was my fault,” he said, hoping she’d speak again.
“Can you tell me where Detective Wright is?” she asked. “He gave me these clothes to wear but I’m afraid they don’t fit very well.”
She glanced up at him again and he saw the vulnerability return to her eyes, the hard facade gone. “Detective Wright will be with you in a moment, miss,” he said, steering her back through the door to the box. “Wait in here until he returns.”
With that, he turned and strode down the hall, rubbing his tingling palms together as he walked. “See? She’s nothing special,” he murmured. “Just an ordinary witness. Sure, she’s a beautiful woman. But sooner or later they all turn into clinging, grasping shrews.” Conor repeated these words over and over as he walked to the parking lot.
By the time Danny helped a handcuffed Olivia Farrell into an unmarked sedan and roared off into the night, Conor had nearly convinced himself that his words were true. But as he followed the taillights of his partner’s car, memories of the feel of her skin and the sound of her voice flooded his brain.
She wasn’t like the others. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but Olivia Farrell was different. Conor couldn’t help but feel a small measure of regret at the revelation. He’d never really know how she was different, or why she made him feel the way she did.
The only thing he knew for sure was that he damn well didn’t intend to get within fifty feet of Olivia Farrell ever again!
