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Smiling at the trail, she hauled herself over a fallen pine tree and jumped to the packed earth below. She’d been stunned by that conversation at the time, just the idea that Quinn—sweet, quiet, big-brother Quinn—could make a cheerleader cry. Could make a cheerleader cry about wanting todo itwith him. What a strange and disturbing idea that had been.
And now hereshewas wanting to do it with him. Not crying over him, at least, but certainly confused. It felt strangely natural, as if that moment in that high school bathroom had been the first point on a meandering trail that led to an inevitable affair between Quinn Jennings and Lori Love.
But maybe it was a terrible idea, inevitable or not. Maybe it would end with her crying in a bathroom somewhere. Maybe she’d even be wearing a cheerleader’s uniform at that point. Just a lonely, kinky mess, wearing a short skirt and no underwear as mascara ran down her cheeks.
Her laughter bounced off the rock wall on the far side of the river, as if to confirm her decision. Sex with Quinn was a good idea, even if it turned out to be a bad one, because her nights would be spent pacing around her house, leaving angry messages for a forgetful lover, instead of tossing and turning and worrying about an investigation she couldn’t control.
She didn’t want to think about what might have been done to her father, didn’t want to imagine that someone had stolen his life and all her plans. So until Ben called to tell her his suspicions were unfounded, Lori would think about Quinn instead.
* * *
QUINN GLANCEDat his watch, then back to the road that led in a straight line from his condo to his office. It would be a busy day, but he felt as relaxed as if he’d just checked out early on a Friday afternoon. An hour swimming laps would do that for you, but it was more than just the loose exhaustion in his muscles. He finally had the vision he’d been chasing for Brett Wilson’s new home. The two-acre lot halfway up Aspen Mountain was flat and perfect for building…aside from the fact that Brett wanted a view of his favorite ski run from his living room. A ski run that sat on the wrong side of a jagged wall of granite.
“Buy another lot,” had been Quinn’s first suggestion upon walking the land. The builder had insisted that Brett Wilson would pay a premium if Quinn could make it work.
Quinn would be collecting on that premium now, though it had been the challenge of the project that had driven him to take it on rather than the money. He’d spent days turning possibilities over in his head, but the swimming had finally unlocked the puzzle for him, as it often did. Something about the rhythm and the echoing solitude worked like meditation for him.
He was picturing the cantilevered jut of the suspended living room when his cell rang. The sound tossed a sudden thought into his brain, where it exploded like a white-hot cherry bomb.
It might be Lori.
“Holycrap.” Quinn scrambled to grab the phone, but the front wheel hit a slight buckle in the shoulder of the road, and when he jerked the car back onto the blacktop, the phone skittered away.
“Shit.” He’d forgotten to call her. “Shit, shit, shit.”
He pulled into a lot, threw his car into Park and dived across the seat to grab the phone.
“Hello?”he nearly shouted.
“Good morning, Mr. Jennings.” The cool voice of his office manager flowed across the ether. Jane. Just Jane.
Collapsing back into his seat, Quinn let his head hit the headrest. “Morning, Jane.”
“I hope I’m not disturbing you. I wanted to remind you of your schedule in case you were heading straight to a site this morning.”
“No. No, I’m coming in. But remind away.” He raised one eyelid to glance at the clock—8:30 a.m. Yes, he’d most definitely missed Monday by a mile.
“Here we go,” Jane said, just as she always did before running through his appointments. “You’ve got a preliminary consult with Jean-Paul D’Ozeville at ten this morning. Lunch with Peter Anton of Anton/Bliss Developers at twelve, a conference call at three about the lecture in Vancouver, and then the benefit dinner with Tessa Smith at seven.”
“The what?”
“The fund-raiser for the Aspen Music Foundation. You bought tickets weeks ago. I believe Ms. Smith wanted to meet Sting.”
Quinn thought he could detect a sardonic hint in her words, which would have surprised him if he hadn’t been busy reeling over the shock she’d just delivered.
“Tessa and I broke it off last week.”
“Well, she called yesterday to be sure you hadn’t forgotten.”
“Uh…right.” He vaguely remembered Tessa’s shouted assertion that she was not going to let him back out of such an important event.
“And,” Jane continued, “she went to dinner with you on Friday?”
“Yeah. Apparently I forgot to cancel that, too.”
His office manager cleared her throat. “I don’t see any more dates on your schedule. As long as you don’t accidentally agree to any other shared meals, this should be your last evening with Ms. Smith.”
“Good. I’m not—Jane, are you laughing at me?”
