The Mighty Quinns: Declan

Her boss, Trevor Ross, had insisted she leave her cozy colonial in the College Hill section of Providence and move into a secure high-rise downtown. So Rachel had agreed, and a month ago, she’d packed her bags and headed to safer ground. Ross had given her a new SUV to drive, the tinted windows providing additional anonymity, and had also assigned her a security detail from his corporate force.

Rachel stopped at the valet booth near the elevators and waited for a few minutes, then decided to park the car herself. When she’d pulled the SUV into her parking spot, she turned off the ignition, then rummaged through her purse for her pepper spray. Though she felt relatively safe with the new location, the 24-hour parking valet, and the lobby security, she took her own precautions.

Rachel still found it odd that she’d attract the attention of a stalker. She’d never considered herself a celebrity. Her radio show, Simply Sex with Dr. Lillian Devine, could at times be controversial, inviting responses from all kinds of weirdos, but a stalker? Then again, perhaps it shouldn’t have come as any surprise. Normal, handsome, successful men hadn’t been beating down her door. Why not a strange, obsessive stranger instead?

She’d taken her radio name, Dr. Lillian Devine, to protect her reputation as an academic, but it also served another purpose—protecting her privacy. Now, whoever was stalking her probably knew that Rachel Merrill, Ph. D and associate professor of anthropology at Providence University, and Dr. Lillian Devine, radio sex therapist, were one and the same.

She’d always known there was risk that her double life might be revealed. And when Trevor Ross had offered her a syndicated radio show, she’d initially refused. But the money had been too good to pass up. Her life as Lillian Devine could fund more research for Dr. Rachel Merrill, and provide her some of the comforts that a college professor’s salary couldn’t.

So, every weekend, on Saturday and Sunday night between ten p.m. and one a.m., she hosted a nationally syndicated call-in show and answered any question posed regarding sexual behaviors, fetishes, obsessions, addictions and frustrations. Though she possessed a Ph.D in psychology, Rachel’s primary focus had always been more in tune with biology or anthropology—the study of human sexual behaviors. As an expert, she provided her listeners with keen insight into their problems. Last ratings period, her show had become the number four rated syndicated radio show nationwide, a jump of seven spots from the previous quarter.

But now, that popularity came with a price that far outweighed the benefit. She was living like a hunted animal, always looking over her shoulder, frightened of what or who might be waiting in the dark. The police were trying to find the stalker, but they had few leads.

Drawing a deep breath, she opened the door of the SUV and jumped out. As she walked toward the elevator, she turned back to set the alarm on the truck. It was then that she noticed the shadowy figure approaching from her right.

“Miss Merrill?”

Rachel picked up her pace and when she reached the elevator, frantically pushed the button again and again, hoping that the door would open and she could escape. She wanted to scream, but her adrenaline was pumping so hard, her throat seemed to close. As the stalker got closer, she knew a decision was at hand. Spinning around, she aimed her pepper spray at his head and pushed the nozzle.

Funny enough, her first reaction to his face wasn’t fear. Instead, she was immediately struck by how handsome he was. Stalkers weren’t supposed to be handsome. Or well-dressed. He held out his hand, as if to stop her, but a wave of panic suddenly overwhelmed her.

He saw the spray coming and he raised his hand just in time to block the stream. But the pepper spray had the desired effect. Just the smell made him cough and sputter and his eyes began to water. Cursing, he bent over at the waist, tugging his jacket up over his mouth and nose.

The bell for the elevator door sounded and Rachel dropped the pepper spray and rushed inside. Just as the door closed, he called her name again. “Leave me alone!” she screamed. “Just leave me alone.”

“I work for Trevor Ross,” the man shouted, adding a string of curses to the statement. “He sent me.”

The door shut and the elevator began to silently rise. Rachel’s pulse pounded in her ears and her breath came in quick gasps, but she felt as if she were outside her body. Slowly, her mind began to work again and confusion replaced the panic that had overwhelmed her.

He had been dressed much nicer than the average stalker, although she didn’t know exactly what the fashionable stalker wore these days. She imagined a hooded sweatshirt and grubby clothes, not a tailored sport jacket and finely pressed trousers. And his dark hair wasn’t shaggy and unkempt but neatly trimmed.

If Trevor Ross had sent the man, what was he doing skulking about in the garage? And how had he gotten inside? She needed some answers. So when she reached her floor, she pushed the button for the garage and the elevator slowly descended. When she got back to the garage, Rachel found him squatting against a pillar, his cheeks wet from tears, his head tipped back. He’d tossed his jacket aside and unbuttoned his shirt.

“Who are you?” she demanded, snatching up her pepper spray and aiming it at him again.

“My name is Declan Quinn,” he said, squinting up at her. “I run Quinn Security and Investigations. Trevor Ross has our firm on retainer.”

“Why are you here?”

“I’ve been called in to provide you with personal security. There was a death threat made last night during your radio show. Ross thought I might be able to convince you to accept round-the-clock security. Your security detail was supposed to call you and let you know I’d be waiting here.”

Her stomach roiled. “A—a death threat. Why didn’t someone tell me?”

“That’s why I’m here,” he replied.

Rachel wasn’t sure what to do. The guy looked trustworthy. And he did seem to know the specifics of her situation. “Let me see your badge,” she demanded, her voice shaking.

“I don’t carry a badge. I’m not a cop.” He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his cell phone. A tear trickled down his cheek and traced a path along his strong jawline. For a moment, Rachel couldn’t take her eyes off of it. “Here. Call Trevor Ross. His number is on my speed dial. He’ll explain everything.”

She hesitated. If he was working for her boss, then she’d just made a very big mistake. “Why did you come after me?” she asked.

“I was trying to introduce myself.”

With a soft oath, Rachel tossed the pepper spray aside and stepped closer. She grabbed him by the arm and pulled him along toward the elevator, the fumes from the pepper spray burning at her own eyes. “You shouldn’t have startled me,” she scolded. “I’m really jumpy lately. And you came out of the dark. What was I supposed to do?”

“You did the right thing,” he admitted.

She stopped short. “I did?”

He nodded. “Your first duty was to protect yourself. And you did.”

They got inside the elevator and he leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. Rachel pulled her jacket up over her mouth and nose and observed him silently, taking her first good look at the man. Her heart skipped a beat as she took in his handsome features, the dark hair casually mussed, the straight nose and strong jaw. Her gaze came to a stop at his mouth and a shiver skittered down her spine.

How could she have ever thought this guy was a stalker? A man as gorgeous as him would have to beat women off with a stick, not chase them around in the dark. She wondered what color his eyes were. It didn’t really matter. Regardless of the color, they’d just make him more attractive. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

He glanced over at her, his eyes narrow slits, then shook his head. “You hit me in the chest and the hands. I have to get these clothes off. And it’s burning my hands. But if you’re going to count on pepper spray as a defense, we’ll need to improve your aim.”

When the door opened on her floor, Rachel stepped out and the man followed her down the hall, his hand resting on her shoulder. His fingers were warm and gentle and when they slipped down to rest at the small of her back, Rachel felt herself go weak in the knees.

Such a simple, innocent touch shouldn’t have affected her so strongly. Perhaps it was all the adrenaline pumping through her body that heightened every sensation. Every nerve in her body tingled and she found herself fantasizing about all the other places he might touch her body.

He’d introduced himself, but for the life of her, she couldn’t remember his name. In all the excitement, she’d completely lost her ability to think clearly. Quinn. That was it! But was it his first name or his last?

When they got inside, he gave the apartment a cursory glance. “I’ve got to get out of these clothes,” he murmured. “Where’s the bathroom?”

Rachel pointed to the hallway on the other side of the living room. “Down that hall, last door on the left.” She watched him retreat. She could count on two fingers the handsome men who’d wandered into her life over the past couple of years. Not that she’d been actively looking for a relationship, but she hadn’t been “not” looking for a man. It wasn’t supposed to be so difficult. If her talk show had taught her anything it was that there was a match out there for everyone. But then spraying a guy with pepper spray didn’t exactly create a great first impression.

She hurried down the hall and stood outside the bathroom door. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Do you have any cooking oil?” he asked through the door.

“I think so.” Rachel frowned as she headed to the kitchen. If he’d asked her for cottage cheese she would have felt obliged to provide it. After retrieving a bottle of canola oil, she returned to the bathroom and rapped on the door. When he didn’t answer, she pushed the door open.

He stood in front of the sink, bare-chested, his shirt wadded up in the corner. Rachel’s breath caught in her throat as she stared at his reflection in the mirror. He was slender, but quite muscular, broad-shouldered with a narrow waist and a flat belly. His trousers hung low on his waist, revealing a trail of hair that ran from his belly to beneath his waistband.

As he bent over the sink, she handed him the oil. He poured a bit onto his hands then rubbed it in. “What are you doing?” she asked.

“Taking away the sting.” After he removed most of the oil with a towel, he doused his hands in her facial astringent. “You’re supposed to use alcohol, but I think this will do.”

“I have a bottle of vodka,” Rachel offered cheerily.

“I’d prefer Scotch,” he said. “On the rocks.” His voice was deep and rich, with a slightly cynical edge.

“I—I’ll just go get—”

He chuckled softly. “Never mind. I don’t drink on the job.”

“I could use a drink,” she murmured.

“Go ahead. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

Rachel turned and walked back down the hall. When she reached the kitchen, she took a bottle of vodka from the freezer and poured a measure into a tumbler, then took a slow sip. This was not how she had expected the evening to end, with a half-naked man in her apartment.

After her show had finished at one a.m., she’d looked forward to a long, hot bath, a good book, perhaps a movie to wind down, and then a decent night’s sleep. In truth, that’s the best she hoped for every night. But since the letters had started, she hadn’t slept much at all. And now, a death threat. What was she supposed to do with that?

Rachel kicked off her shoes and sat down on the sofa, sinking into the down-filled cushions. She tucked her feet beneath her and sipped at the vodka, listening to the sounds of a real live man in her apartment. She closed her eyes and tried to pretend he was here for a different reason—for a romantic reason, that he’d emerge from the bathroom completely naked and aroused and ready to seduce her.

The fantasy was enough to distract her mind from her stalker, but then Rachel groaned and pressed her flushed face into a pillow. After what she’d done, the last thing he’d be interested in was getting cozy with her.

A few minutes later, he walked into the living room. His hair was wet and he’d draped a towel around his neck. His eyes weren’t watering anymore and Rachel could see they were a deep shade of blue. She swallowed hard and tried to smile. “Better?” she asked.

He nodded, then plucked at the towel. “I hope you don’t mind. My shirt is trashed for now. And I left my bags down in my car. Any chance you have a T-shirt I could borrow?”

Bags. He obviously intended to stay, at least overnight. Who was she to object? Rachel shook her head. “No.” In truth, she probably did have something he could wear, but she preferred him half-naked. “If you call the parking valet, he’ll get your bags and bring them up.”

He sat down across from her and rubbed the towel over his damp head. “How long have you been carrying pepper spray?” he asked.

Rachel shrugged. She didn’t want to talk about the stalker. For once, she just wanted to put it out of her mind and relax. She was safe for the time being and she wanted to enjoy it. “What did you say your name was?” she asked, running her finger around the rim of the tumbler.

“Quinn. Declan Quinn.”

“And Trevor sent you?”

He nodded. “After the latest threat was called in to the—”

Rachel held up her hand to stop him. “I don’t need to hear about it.”

“Do you have any idea who might be doing this?” Declan asked.

Her gaze flitted over his body, coming to rest on his hands. They were beautiful hands, well-formed with long fingers and neatly groomed nails. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a drink?” Rachel countered. “I think I do have some scotch.” She got up from the sofa and he quickly rose and grabbed her arm to stop her. His fingers were warm on her skin and she looked down at the spot where he touched her, suddenly unable to breathe. “I—I guess not.”

“Sit,” he insisted. Rachel did as she was told, only this time, Declan sat down next to her, stretching his arm out across the back of the sofa. “Why don’t you want to talk about this?”

“I’d just like to stop thinking about it for a while. I don’t know who’s behind the letters. I don’t know if he’s serious or just out to scare me. I’ve talked to a few thousand people over the past couple of years, so it could be anyone. The police can’t seem to find this person and they don’t take his letters very seriously.”

“They will now,” Declan said. “It is serious. He threatened to kill you.”

“And that’s why you’re here? To protect me?”

He reached out to take her hand, and the moment he touched her, she felt a current run through her body. Rachel held her breath, fighting the urge to curl up against his body and fall asleep. “I’m tired.” She glanced up at him. “You’re going to sleep here tonight?”

“If that’s all right with you. I can sleep on the sofa.”

“There’s a guest room,” she offered. “You might find something to wear in there. Mr. Ross keeps this apartment for out-of-town business associates, so maybe someone left something behind. And I’ll call downstairs and have them bring your bags up as soon as they can.”

She slowly rose, but he held on to her hand, his fingers weaving through hers. “Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked.

Rachel nodded, touched by his concern. “I should be the one asking you that.”

“Hey,” Declan kidded. “I’m tough. It’ll take a lot more than a little pepper spray to stop me.”

There was something so perfect about his face, she mused. Handsome, yet boyish, but so focused. Her cheeks warmed with another blush. This was silly. She was treating him like some hero come to rescue her. He was an employee, a bodyguard whose only purpose was to make sure she was safe. As much as she wanted to imagine him as her very own sex slave, it wasn’t going to happen.

“Good night,” she murmured. With that, Rachel turned and walked to her room. She closed the door behind her and slowly began to undress, dropping her clothes across an overstuffed chair in the corner.

But she couldn’t drag her thoughts away from the man she’d left in her living room. Sure, Declan Quinn was handsome and powerfully attractive. He was everything she might want in a lover. The only problem was, Rachel hadn’t had a lover in her bed in more than a year and had begun to wonder if she’d ever find another man willing to slip between her sheets.

Intellectually, she knew women could live without sex indefinitely, but the physical ache she felt at times was getting almost overwhelming. She wanted to touch a man’s skin, to inhale his scent and feel the weight of his body on top of hers.

Men felt a much greater imperative to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh on at least a weekly or monthly basis. But a year-long drought was bordering on pathetic. Declan Quinn had probably had sex at least once or twice in the last week, maybe even with two different women.

She could write off her drought as a result of a busy work schedule or a lack of suitable prospects. There had been a few men who seemed like good candidates, but once they found out what she did for a living, they were less than enthusiastic about spending a night in her bed.

Rachel had tried to explain that she wouldn’t be judgmental or critical, that even though she was an expert in sex, her persona was more a title the media had given her than an indication of her sexual prowess. In truth, her “book learning” far surpassed her actual practical knowledge. She knew exactly what caused a female orgasm, the physiological process that a woman’s body went through, but she’d enjoyed precious few orgasms herself.

She had Declan Quinn at her beck and call for at least the near future. So, if she wanted to explore her options, now would be a good time. Rachel was well aware of what it took to seduce a man—in most cases, not much. Men were much more vulnerable to seduction, able to become aroused with just the thought of sex.

Rachel slipped a thin cotton nightgown over her head, then crawled into bed, pulling the sheets up to her nose. She could walk out into the living room right now, stark naked, and chances were good that Declan wouldn’t be able to resist a willing female.

With a low groan, she sat up and punched her pillow. For now, she’d get some badly needed sleep. Her sex life could stay the way it was, at least for the next eight hours. Tomorrow morning, she’d reconsider her options. “He could be married,” she murmured, trying to rationalize her reluctance. “Or seriously involved.”

The last thing she needed to deal with now, on top of everything else, was rejection. Especially at the hands of a man as sexy as Declan Quinn.

2

DECLAN SWITCHED OFF the light in the guest room. He carried the pillow and the blanket down the hall, then tossed them both on the sofa in the living room. He could choose to sleep in the comfort and relative privacy of the guest room, but he wasn’t a guest. He had a job to do and didn’t intend to let any bothersome sexual attraction get in the way.

He flopped down on the sofa, then kicked off his shoes. His hands and chest still stung from the pepper spray, but the effects had nearly worn off and he could see again. His mind flashed with an image of Rachel Merrill and he remembered his reaction when he’d first been able to see her clearly.

He’d known a lot of beautiful women but they’d all been beautiful in a conventional way. Thinking back, they’d all shared the same qualities—long, sexy hair, trainer-toned and tanned bodies, and a wardrobe that seemed designed to reveal as much cleavage as possible.

Rachel Merrill was one of those rare women, a woman who was completely unaware of her beauty. She seemed a bit shy and unsure of herself, which only made her more attractive. The striking auburn hair and porcelain complexion didn’t hurt her either. Though she wore her hair in a practical shoulder-length style, the tousled waves made it look as though she’d just spent a wild night in bed.

But it was her mouth that Declan found most attractive, the bee-stung lips that just begged to be kissed. A man could lose his soul thinking about that mouth. Declan tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling. And that body. That perfect, slender body with the delicate limbs and the tiny waist, hidden beneath the conservative clothes.

He groaned softly. It had been three weeks since he’d made the deal with his brothers, a bet that they could all remain celibate for three months, a bet they’d reminded him of just yesterday when they’d met for breakfast. They’d all taken the oath on Marcus’s little gold charm and tossed a thousand bucks into the pot to make the competition more interesting.

Until tonight, Declan had been sure he’d win. He’d noticed yesterday that Marcus and Ian were already showing signs of cracking. Though he didn’t have any proof that they’d broken the pact, he had his suspicions. The bet doubled if either of them actually had sex before the three months were out, so Declan could win as much as four thousand dollars.

It wasn’t the money, though. He could make four thousand in the course of an evening. He’d suggested the deal because he’d reached a point of frustration in his life. Everyone around him was settling down and starting a family—his friends, his cousins, guys he’d never expected to find the perfect mate.

Over the past year, Dec had begun to question whether he might be missing out on something. He’d never had a relationship that lasted longer than three months, and that had been fine with him, until now. But lately, he’d begun to wonder if there was something wrong with him, if he was supposed to want the white picket fence, the mini-van in the garage and loving wife to come home to every night.

He stood up and unbuckled his belt then let his linen trousers drop to the floor, wriggling his feet out of his socks in the process. Declan slowly walked around the apartment in his boxer briefs, listening to the soft hiss of the air conditioning.

The place was almost sterile, with nothing of Rachel scattered about. He couldn’t even appease his curiosity by poking through her belongings. Instead, he wandered over to the windows. The apartment was on the thirty-sixth floor of Providence’s exclusive One Ten building, the southeast balcony overlooking the river.

Dec walked into the spacious kitchen and pulled open the refrigerator, hoping to find a cold beer but willing to settle for anything to snack on. He pulled out a bottle of orange juice then found a box of crackers in an adjacent cupboard. But as he was going back to the living room, he heard a soft knock at the door. He set the juice and crackers on the dining room table, then walked over to the door and peered out the peephole. Dec recognized the uniform of the building’s security force and he unlocked the door and pulled it open.

The man smiled and nodded. “Mr. Quinn. I’ve brought your luggage. And this envelope just arrived downstairs. The courier said I was to deliver it directly to you. It’s from Mr. Ross. If you have any questions, you’re asked to call him in the morning.”

Dec took the envelope and the guard set his bags inside the doorway. “Thanks,” he murmured. He closed the door and walked over to the sofa, then sat down on the end nearest the lamp. Inside the envelope, he found several file folders. The first was a copy of Rachel’s personnel file, complete with press clippings and photos. The second was a copy of an investigation report. Ross had hired a small Providence P.I. firm to check out her stalker and their findings were tucked behind a stack of hand-written notes—notes from Rachel’s stalker.

But instead of reading through them, he went back to the first folder and withdrew an 8 by 10 glossy of Rachel. Attached to it was a résumé that was several years old. “Born in New York, New York,” he murmured. “April 18, 1977.” That made her just a year younger than him. He read down the list of her professional degrees and certifications, her published articles, then scanned for more personal data. But everything in the file related to her work experience.