The Next Accident - Lisa Gardner [120]
And then, still not feeling good about things, she got down on her hands and knees and peered beneath the door. No dark shadow of feet standing outside her door. She collapsed into a sitting position on the carpet, her Glock cradled in her lap.
“Oh yeah,” she murmured darkly in the empty room, “I’m doing just fine.”
“I’m thinking, no sickening-sweet pet names. Phrases that have been used on nighttime soaps do not belong in the home. Plus, if it’s been used on a Hallmark card, I don’t really think it applies to me. I’m not a Hallmark sort of gal. Though, for the record, I could probably learn to like flowers now and then. Pink roses. Or that champagne color. Yeah, I’m pretty sure I would like that. Of course, that raises the whole issue of chocolates and other special-delivery sweets. I’m going to say yes to the chocolates, no on the heart-shaped box. Things that involve red velvet also do not belong in the home. What do you think?”
Rainie was sprawled next to Quincy in the deep-pile comfort of her bed. They hadn’t bothered getting dressed yet. It was a little after twelve, the sun was high in the sky and at any minute, her phone was bound to ring. Screw it.
Her head was on his shoulder and she was doodling little designs on his chest with her index finger. She liked the feel of his chest hairs, crisp but silky. She liked the way he smelled, aftershave mixed with sex. She liked the way he looked, his broad, well-toned chest like a vast plane beneath her hand. She was thinking she’d soon be ready for more talk of Olympic-medal events.
“Green-light flowers and square boxes of chocolate,” Quincy dutifully repeated. “Red-light sickening-sweet pet names.” His hand was stroking her hair; he was obviously in no rush to get up either. He tilted his head down to see her better. “For the sake of argument, what qualifies as a sickening-sweet pet name? I’d hate to think I was being cute and adorable, only to wind up dead.”
“Sweetheart, cupcake, sugar pie, honey bunch,” Rainie rattled off. “Sweetie pie, cutie pie . . . You know, the kind of names that when other people use them, you want to give them a whopping dose of insulin . . . or a smack on the head.”
“No terms of endearment that owe their origin to the glucose family?”
“That’s my stance. You don’t call me sweet cheeks and I won’t call you stud muffin.”
“I don’t know,” Quincy said mildly. “I kind of like stud muffin. . . .”
She hit him on the chest. He pretended to be mortally wounded. She was just leaning over to kiss him back to life when the phone rang. She groaned.
“Carl Mitz,” Quincy murmured.
“Gymnastics!” she countered.
“Later, I’m afraid.”
“Spoilsport.” Rainie reached over and grabbed the cordless phone off her nightstand. “Hello,” she declared grumpily.
“Lorraine Conner. How nice to speak with you.”
Rainie frowned. She didn’t recognize the voice. Not at all. “Who is this?”
“You know who this is. I want to speak with Pierce.”
Rainie looked questioningly at Quincy. If the caller wanted him, that ruled out Carl Mitz or her long-lost father. But hardly anyone called Quincy Pierce. So who . . .
Shit. She bolted upright, covers falling away as her heart began to thud furiously. She knew who this was. “How the hell did you get this number?”
“Directory assistance, of course. Hand the phone to Pierce.”
“Fuck you, asshole. I’m not doing anything you want.”
“How marvelously childish. Hand the phone to Pierce.”
“Hey, you call my number, you get to speak with me. So if you have something to say, I suggest you start talking or I’m hanging up.” Her words ended in a screech; Quincy had grabbed the phone out of her hands. She was ready to battle him for it, but then she saw the steely look in his eyes.
He put the receiver to his ear. “Hello,” he said evenly. “Who is this?”
“Pierce Quincy, of course. Would you like to see my driver’s license? Or perhaps a sample of my handwriting?”
“Delusional disorder, subtype grandiose,” Quincy said.
The man laughed. “As if to be Pierce Quincy is such a grand thing. Your daughter is dead, your