Dead on the Dance Floor (29 page)

“Thanks, thanks a lot,” she told him.

“I think I'll sleep on the couch in back,” he told her.

“I didn't ask you to.”

“I know. I'm telling you that I'm going to.”

“What if I don't want you to?”

“Trust me—you want me to,” he told her.

He stepped inside, closing and locking the door behind him. And she had to admit, he was right. She
was
glad to have him there.

H
e cruised by. Easy enough…just cruising. People did it on the beach all the time. Drove around, saw what action was going on.

Except his cruising was a little off the beaten path.

What was it? Had he always had a bit of a thing for her? She moved like liquid. The tilt of her head, the arc of her back, just the reach of her hand, slowly moving to the music…yeah, she was liquid. Elegance in motion.

Had it been that, or…

Or had she always made him a little bit nervous?

Whatever had caused his obsession, she had never known of it.

He suddenly damned his partner, who was causing the trouble now. Strange, but once it started, murder came easy. And he had to admit, his partner had an ungodly finesse….

But his partner could also cause them all to get caught.

Wrong choice of people.

Because, here on the beach, with the garish, shrieking beat of the night, anything could happen. Rich and poor, they came. Ecstasy flourished—the drug and the feeling it enhanced. New designer drugs hit the streets every night.

People died. They couldn't handle it. Everyone in the world knew it: drugs killed.

But now…

She made him nervous. And she made him angry. Because…

He was obsessed. So if she pushed him too far…

He could solve both his obsession and his problem in one little night.

He was smart. And dangerous.

But she was always watching. And listening.

Hide in plain sight. It was good advice. She could watch and listen, but what could she see?

Lara had known. But Lara had wanted money. She'd actually found the whole thing amusing. Sins weren't sins to Lara Trudeau, not unless they were against her. She had probably dropped dead having no idea of what had happened, or why. Pity. He'd wanted her to know. She shouldn't have pushed the wrong people too far.

He slowed the car as he neared her house.

The Navigator was there.

He swore, feeling his anger—and his obsession—grow.

Jealousy shot through him, like the piercing blade of a knife. He stared at the house, imagining what might be going on inside.

The fury grew.

At last he drove on by, anger now a fierce flame.

It took root, wrapping around his gut like a fist of burning steel. His fingers were so tense around the steering wheel that he jerked the car to the side of the road.

He gave himself a mental shake.

His time would come.

Her
time would come.

 

There he was, Quinn O'Casey, in her house and heading for the kitchen.

She followed him. “You can't stay here,” she informed him.

“What have you got in here?” he asked her, opening a cabinet. “Coffee? No good, I don't want to stay up.” He opened the refrigerator.

“You can't stay,” she repeated.

“What, not afraid tonight?” he asked her. “Tea,” he said. “Hot tea, I guess it's got caffeine, too, but they say it can make you sleep.”

She reached for the box of tea bags. “You can't stay.”

There was a strange look in his eyes. A bright glimmer of dry amusement. “What? Afraid of me being on your couch? Afraid you won't be able to keep your distance?”

She snatched the box out of his hands. “I guarantee you that I can keep my distance. What you don't understand is this—I can't have your car out in front of my house all night.”

“Why? Do your friends—employees—check up on you? Does Gordon make a habit of driving by at night?”

“Of course they don't check up on me. But they drive by occasionally. They stop by in the morning sometimes.”

“You're the mother hen, huh?”

“The point is, they may come by.”

“I'll move the car,” he said.

“Move it where?”

“Out to Alton. People hang out on the beach until the wee hours of the morning. I can leave it there and no one will ever notice.”

She couldn't argue with that. But she shook her head. “There's no need for you to stay. I was uneasy, but it turned out that Marnie was living in the yard. Now that she has a home, I'm not afraid anymore.”

She was lying. She remained nervous, with no tangible reason, and it was driving her nuts. She wasn't usually such a chicken.

But then, she didn't have a defensive talent to her name. She wasn't a weakling, but she had never shot a gun in her life nor taken a single course in self-defense. She should probably rectify that situation, but everything she had ever said about having no life was true. She spent far too much time at the studio.

She reflected briefly that even Lara Trudeau had allowed herself to have a life.

That didn't matter tonight. He shouldn't be in her house.

Tomorrow, she decided, she was going to go through every room in the studio again. Yes, even the men's room. She was going to find out what that noise was. She was going to find out why she heard not just noises, but footsteps that followed her when she fled the building.

Quinn was watching her. It was almost as if he could read the thoughts running amok in her mind. “I think I should stay,” he said firmly.

“But I'm not inviting you!” she said. Then she felt uneasy, wondering just why he was so sure he should stay. “Do you think that I may be in danger?” she demanded.

“Well, let's see, we both know I'm a P.I. working a case. Maybe I think—”

“You
are
a P.I.” She cocked her head suddenly.

“Yes, that's been established.”

“Couldn't you rig me with a surveillance system?”

“Sure. But they cost. And they take time.”

“Tomorrow, maybe?”

“I can do it on Thursday,” he told her. “For tonight, I'll move my car.” He indicated the box of tea bags in her hands. “I like sugar and milk in mine,” he told her, heading for the door. “And lock up while I'm out.”

He left the house, and she just stared after him for several seconds. Then she flew to the front door and locked it. Irritably, she threw the box of tea bags on the counter. Then she waited impatiently for him to return.

When he did, she didn't open the door until she saw his face through the peephole.

“Honey, I'm home,” he teased. “Where's the tea?”

“I'm exhausted, and I'm going to bed. I'm sure you know how to boil water.”

“I do,” he told her. “I make a pretty good cup of tea, too. Want one?”

“Thank you, no.”

“You don't have to sleep with me just because I make you tea.”

“Cute. I don't want tea.”

“Still afraid you'll get too tempted with me sleeping out in the Florida room?”

“Not a chance.”

“Pity.”

“I told you, I don't like liars.”

“I never actually lied. But it doesn't matter, not if you're going to be that bitter.”

“I still say there's no reason for you to be here.”

“Just protecting your interests—in the pursuit of my own. And if there's no chance of you forgiving me, there's no reason for you to be so irritable about me being here.”

She shook her head. At least he wasn't coming anywhere near her. He'd done some teasing, but he certainly seemed to have no difficulty keeping his distance.

“You want to sleep on the couch, sleep on the couch,” she said at last.

“Good night, then.”

“Good night.”

She made a good exit, turning, heading straight for her bedroom, then closing and locking the door. She leaned against it for a minute, listening.

She heard him filling the kettle with water and shook her head. Last night, she'd lain awake listening for noises and wondering about Ben.

Tonight she would feel safe.

But she would still lie awake, knowing this man was in her house.

Shannon moved away from the door and went into the bathroom, where she brushed her teeth, she showered, then found a ripped-up flannel nightgown. She put it on, then went back to the door, leaned against it and listened again.

She heard the sound of the television and the drone of his voice. He was on the phone, she thought.

Screw it.

She crawled into bed, reminding herself how angry she was at the way he had used her.

Ah, but he knew how to use a woman well.

She could get up, invite him in and sleep in the real comfort of feeling those arms around her. Feeling…

More. A lot more. Excitement that was raw and seductive and exhilarating. Carnal and lusty and sensual, hot, slick, vibrant…

She turned, slamming a fist into her pillow.

Absolutely not.

Why? It was so much better to lie here, in a cool dry blanket of dignity.

Yes.

No.

She stood up and walked to the door, listening again.

She could still hear him on the phone, thanking someone for taking care of something that would happen tomorrow. She slipped the door open, trying to hear more clearly.

He said goodbye to the person on the other end of the phone as she did so.

“There's still tea in the pot!” he called to her.

She stiffened. “I was just going to ask you to turn the television down a bit.”

He turned, seeing her down the length of the hallway. “Really? I thought maybe you were going to come on out and seduce me again.” His eyes slid up and down her, taking in the ragged flannel nightgown. “Guess not, huh?”

“Not a chance,” she told him solemnly.

She closed the door and went back to bed, swearing.

Later, even as she burned with discomfort, wanting what she refused to allow herself, she began to drift, until finally she fell into a deep refreshing sleep.

 

Tedium.

Half the work was pure tedium.

There had been dozens of waiters on duty the night of the competition. But thanks to Jake, he had a list of names and phone numbers.

And when he called people, they seemed to think he was a cop, even though he identified himself immediately. At any rate, it worked.

A few of the men he talked to were hesitant at first. He had a feeling that a number of them weren't quite legal. Once they ascertained that he wasn't with INS, they tried to be helpful.

On some of the calls he made, the numbers just rang and rang. On some, he hit answering machines. On some, he hit really sleepy people. Seemed most of the guys worked nights.

He kept dialing, marking off those he had spoken with. The next guy to pick up sounded uneasy. Quinn assured him that he wasn't with INS.

“The waiters didn't help line up the dancers,” Miguel Avenaro told him. “The judges do that. They had their clipboards, and their lists of names and schedules, and handled all that themselves.”

“Thank you for your time,” Quinn told him and hung up.

How many calls had he made? Twenty-something already.

He tried the next name on his list. Manuel Taylor. A true Miami name.

The man who answered spoke English perfectly, no hint of an accent. He listened to Quinn's question.

“Who are you?” he said.

“I'm a private investigator. My name is Quinn O'Casey.”

“You're not a cop?”

“No.”

“I don't have to speak with you, then, do I?”

“No, you don't. I can have a cop call you,” Quinn said.

“They don't think any of the waiters had anything to do with that woman's death, do they?”

“No.”

“Then…”

“I'm just trying to find the man who spoke to Miss Mackay and find out who instructed him to do so.”

There was silence on the other end.

Then, “It was me,” the man said.

 

In the morning, Quinn was gone. The bottom lock on her front door was in place, though the bolt, which had to be latched from the inside or with a key, had necessarily been left unlocked.

There was coffee waiting in the pot, along with a little note.

“Funny, funny,” she muttered.

She poured herself coffee. She leaned against the counter, feeling a little chill. She hadn't experienced any of the wild, carnal excitement that had teased her memory and stirred her senses. She had gotten a good night's sleep, instead.