The Next Accident - Lisa Gardner [54]
She’d moved closer. Inhaled the scent of his cologne. How much she loved that fragrance. And she’d felt him grow still, his body nearly breathless as if he understood that even exhaling might frighten her away. He’d gone still, so she’d kept approaching. She’d smelled the skin at his throat. Explored the curve of his ear. And then, something had taken hold of her. Desire maybe—she had so little experience with the real thing. She’d just wanted to touch him, more and more, if he’d stay, just like that, not moving, not breathing. She’d unbuttoned his shirt. She’d smoothed it from his shoulders. He had a hard chest, sculpted by a lifetime of running. The whorls of chest hair felt spongy against her palm. She placed her hand over his heart and felt it race against her touch.
On his collarbone and upper arm. Three small scars. Souvenirs of a shotgun blast, not all of which had been absorbed by his vest. Tracing those scars with her fingertips. Quincy, the super agent. Quincy, the superhero. Marveling . . .
His hand had suddenly snapped around her wrist. Her gaze jerked up. For the first time she saw his expression, dark and glittery with lust.
And the moment flew away from her. Her body froze, her mind rocketed back and she was thinking of yellow-flowered fields and smooth-flowing streams. She remained touching his body, but it was harsh now, a sick imitation of the real thing. The way she’d been taught in the very beginning.
Quincy had pushed her away. He’d told her to give him a minute. But she hadn’t. She’d been humiliated, embarrassed, ashamed. And being Rainie, she’d told him it was all his fault, then left without saying another word. In the following months, it had been easier for her to simply let the phone ring. If he did catch her at home, she was always too busy to talk.
He was right; she was the one who’d stopped returning his calls. But he was supposed to know better. He was supposed to understand and still come after her. Except he hadn’t.
“I’m supposed to be patient,” Quincy said, as if reading her mind. “I’m supposed to be persistent. I’m supposed to be tolerant of your mood swings, your temper, your troubled past. I’m supposed to be everything, Rainie, but frustrated and angry—”
“Hey, I’m dealing with a lot of things—”
“And so am I! We’re all dealing with things. Unfortunately, you seem to think you’re the only person who’s allowed to be petty. Well, I have news for you. I buried my daughter last month. My coworkers are now conducting surveillance on her grave. And no matter what I do, I can’t reach my ex-wife, whose family connections might have enough power to call it off. I’m not just mad, Rainie. I’m pretty damn pissed off.”
“Well, there’s your problem, Quincy—you’re mimicking me when we both know I should be mimicking you.”
“I can’t be perfect for you right now, Rainie.”
“Dammit, I am not that needy!” Rainie scowled at him. Quincy merely shook his head.
“You have to have faith,” he said quietly. “I know it’s hard, but at some point, you have to believe. Some people are evil, some people will hurt you, but not everyone will. And trying to stay safe by going at it alone doesn’t work in the end. Isolation is not protection. I know. I thought it would be easier if I never opened up to my family, if I never got too close. Then I lost my daughter, and it hasn’t been any easier at all. I am falling apart.”
“Quincy—”
“But I am going to put myself back together,” he continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “I am going to find the son of a bitch who did this. And if I have to be angry to do that, I’ll be angry. And if I have to stop sleeping and start swearing and behave like an utter jerk, I’ll do that, too. I’m coping, Rainie, and nobody ever said coping had to be pretty. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to try to reach Bethie again.”
Quincy turned away. He started walking back to his