Broken (38 page)

IT was the longest night of Quinn’s life. He’d stopped by the bus station and to his surprise, one of the women at the counter had remembered selling a ticket to Chicago to a woman she thought might be Sarah—no.

Not Sarah.

The eyes—the eyes were all different. The shy happiness he’d seen on her face in her wedding picture hadn’t been burned out of her by a life on the run the way he’d thought. That shy happy bride hadn’t been the woman he’d fallen in love with.

He’d fallen in love with her sister. Twin sisters, shit, how had that happened? The picture he’d seen of Samantha, she’d been rounder, softer, all curves where Sarah had been sleek, blonde perfection. Samantha’s hair had been black—the raven wing black had made her skin seem paler, her eyes bigger, darker. It actually suited her, but then again, when he saw another picture of her, this time with dark, vibrant red hair, that had suited her, too. Apparently she had changed the color of her hair often—in all of the pictures he’d looked at with her in them, her hair was rarely the same shade more than once or twice.

But the hair wasn’t what had clued him in.

It had been Samantha’s eyes, those big dark eyes, full of fight. Full of life. Even though physically she looked different in those pictures than she did now, he would have recognized those eyes anywhere.

Quinn didn’t know what in the hell was going on, but he knew, as well as he knew his own name, that whatever had inspired Samantha to take off, whatever had inspired her to live a lie, it had to do with her sister.

He also knew that there was very little he wouldn’t do to protect his twin and heaven help the person that got in the way.

He suspected all those messages Sam had been getting came from her twin. But there hadn’t been a single message since yesterday. The phone was tucked into his pocket, silent. No little tones that signaled an incoming message. Not one single ring.

Sitting on his bike outside the Renaissance Building where James Morgan worked, he waited. He’d been waiting since six a.m., feeding quarter after quarter into the meter and scowling at anybody who slowed down, as though waiting for him to empty out the space where he’d parked his bike.

From the information he’d gotten from Martin, supposedly “Sarah” would arrive at the offices in the morning. Now Quinn just needed for “Sarah” to show up. So he could . . . well, he still hadn’t figured out that part.

He’d get to it when the time came.

A few feet ahead of him, a cab slowed down. His heart started to race. Even before she climbed out, he knew it was her. He felt frozen, unable to move as she paid the driver and then turned to stare up at the tower with determination written all over her face.

Determination.

Focus.

Anger.

Icy cold anger.

She hadn’t seen him, seemed totally unaware of him, as she started toward the office building. That look on her face, it was one he’d seen before. It was like she was locked on some unseen target and nothing but that target existed for her.

Kind of like he felt just then—only she was his target. For him, nothing else did exist. Nothing else mattered. Kicking a leg over the bike, he headed after her.

Trailing along behind her, he rehearsed words in his head.

None of them worked.

Hell, screw trying to prepare himself to say anything—he’d just go to her and whatever happened, happened.

But he’d let too much distance get between them, and when he pushed through the revolving door, it was just in time to see her step inside an elevator. The doors closed behind her the second she was completely inside.

The last thing he saw was the back of her head.

FROM the corner of her eye, Sam watched Don Hessig as he led her toward the office.

He’d come down to meet her on the elevator, and it had surprised the hell out of her to see him. As the door slid closed, she’d shot him a look, wanting to ask a million questions.

He should have already gotten out of town. She’d thought that had been the original plan—he’d split and hope James was too keen on self-preservation to come looking for him.

She wanted to know why he was still here. But she didn’t ask him—she didn’t dare. Not in here. The elevator had cameras and it wouldn’t surprise her at all if good old James was watching their every move.

Don wasn’t an idiot, though. He wouldn’t be here if he didn’t have some sort of plan.

But Sam couldn’t worry about that right now. All she could think about was the fact that in a few minutes, she’d find out if all of her planning had been worth it.

And if it didn’t, she had a backup plan. She actually had several backup plans. Just in case.

A few feet in front of her, Don stopped and pushed open a door. She glanced down at her tote and then started inside. It was a corner office, and the northern windows faced out over the lake. Morgan would have a view from up here, all right.

The ruler of all he surveys.
James had always had that kind of mind-set. He liked looking down on the peons. He was doing it even now, standing by the wide expanse of windows and staring out.

Without turning to face them, James said, “Don, thank you. If you don’t mind excusing us, I’d like some time alone with my wife.”

Don didn’t say a word, just left, his feet silent on the carpet.

“Hello, Sarah.”

She didn’t respond, didn’t correct him. Couldn’t talk, not yet. Needed a few more seconds to get a damn grip. Behind the shield of her sunglasses, she studied the back of him. His hair was still a dark, near-black shade of brown, although she thought she could glimpse a bit of white coming in along the sides.

“Nothing to say?” he asked, turning around and looking at her.

Even though her gut was cold with fear and nerves, she forced herself to smirk at him as he looked her over, his shark-eyes taking in everything. He had the intimidation thing down pat, she had to give it to him. Her heart raced, her breathing kept trying to speed up on her, and her palms were damp, slick with sweat.

Out of the blue, she found herself thinking about Quinn.

“Tell me the truth, damn it. If he never hurt you, fine—I’ll live with the fact that I’ve been fucking a married woman who just wasn’t happy with her husband. But if he hurt you, damn it, you’d better tell me . . . and tell me
now
.”

What would he have said if she’d told him the truth?
I’m not married and James Morgan isn’t my husband. He’s my sister’s husband and up until she ran away from him two years ago, he had made her every day a living hell.

Would he have believed her?

She just didn’t know.

Later on, when her heart wasn’t so bruised from his lack of faith in her, later on, when she could think past the rush of adrenaline fogging her brain, it would probably be a little bit of comfort to think of the torment she’d seen in his eyes. Hell, maybe later on, once this was settled, maybe . . . maybe they could try it again.

And maybe she’d sprout wings and fly when she left Chicago behind.

He hadn’t trusted her. She hated to admit it, but she hadn’t really trusted him much either.

Man, what a mess the two of them were.

Still, she wanted to believe that he had cared for her.

He truly hadn’t wanted to bring her here. He’d walked away. She had been the one to buy the ticket to Chicago—she was the sole reason she was here right now. Because she had to see this through.

She might have spent the next few minutes, next few hours, days, years, and decades, thinking about the puzzle of Quinn Rafferty, wondering, wanting to hope, but afraid to do it. Quinn was definitely a more pleasant line of thought, even with the pain, than James.

But then James Morgan had to go and intrude on her thoughts. He’d always been an intrusive bastard.

“Apparently you
don’t
have anything to say. Well, my dear, you led me on quite a chase the past two years. Did you enjoy your little game?” he asked. “I certainly hope you had fun.”

His voice was cool, but there was no mistaking the anger in it.

Her heart gave one more frantic leap against her rib cage and then abruptly, the fear faded. Adrenaline kicking in, maybe. All she knew was that she could suddenly breathe easier, think easier.

She was even able to manage a cocky smile as she pushed her sunglasses up on her head.

“Oh, I’m just getting started with the fun part, Jimmy.”

THE man might as well have placed himself in Fort Knox, Quinn decided, taking in the lobby with a quick, trained eye. The elevator that had taken Samantha away was unmarked, probably went straight to the top and only to the top.

Security cameras were discreetly placed.

The security guards were every bit as discreet, wearing suits instead of uniforms, but they were still easy enough to pick out. Apparently they were good at picking out trouble, too, because they locked in on him as quick as he locked in on them.

He didn’t even have a chance to go to the information desk. As they approached him, Quinn resisted the urge to roll his shoulders. He felt like he was getting ready to go into the fight of his life—blindfolded.

“Hello, sir. May we be of service?”

He might be blindfolded, but if there was anything Quinn knew how to do, it was win a fight—the dirtier, the better.

THE look on his face was priceless.

It was every bit as perfect as Sam had hoped it would be, and God knows she’d spent a whole hell of a lot of time thinking about this moment. Almost two years of planning. Two years of working toward this.

It wasn’t carelessness that had her living in cities relatively close to Chicago. It wasn’t naiveté that had her choosing the name
Sara
. It wasn’t some feminine vanity that had her fighting away the pounds that had crept up on her in school, pounds that had kept her and her sister from looking like mirror images.

It had been for
this
.

She’d known that sooner or later, James would put serious effort into locating his missing wife, and Sam had every intention of being located . . . in lieu of her sister.

James stood behind his desk, staring at her as though his mind wasn’t processing what he saw. His face was red, his eyes narrowed down to slits. He didn’t wear rage all that well. As he stood there sputtering and glaring at her, she didn’t bother hiding her laugh.

Recognition came quickly, almost too quickly for her. Personally, she’d rather drag this out, taunt him until he was all but blind with rage.

But this would work, too.

He’d known who she was the second she took her sunglasses off. There had been times over the past few years when she’d looked in the mirror and done a double take. Oh, the hair was different—but it had always been. The face, though, it was Sarah’s.

Speaking on a biological level, the twins were identical and through most of elementary school, only their mom had been able to tell them apart. At least when it came to looks. That had changed in middle school—Sarah had been athletic, popular . . . the golden girl to Sam’s goth.