Rules of Attraction

It ticked him off that Jennifer had made him. No one had before. How could he explain the screwup to Magnussen, the D.A. who’d hired him because Magnussen’s own investigators had, well, screwed up?

Quinn glanced at his watch. Almost five o’clock. An hour after the end of Claire’s shift. She should be home by now—unless she was going to wear that sexy little number out somewhere.

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. People made their way up and down the street. A typical Saturday in June, the weather was cloudy and cool. So far no one had reported him for loitering in his car, which happened occasionally during a stakeout.

His luck held. He spotted Claire’s car. The garage door opened as she reached it. She started to pull in then stopped. Jennifer’s red convertible filled the space.

Quinn blew out a long, slow breath. Okay. She hadn’t left, after all. Okay.

He watched Claire park up the block then stroll to her house, no overt sway to her hips, but sexy nonetheless, her short skirt giving him plenty to admire as she climbed the steps, a grocery sack in each arm. She juggled the bags for a minute before setting them down to open the door, then he got an eyeful of her long, slender, perfect legs.

The door shut on his entertainment. He made himself comfortable in the car, grateful to be there instead of having to report to the D.A. that he’d lost his subject. It was Saturday. Date night. Jennifer would leave the house sometime, and Quinn would be on her tail, his reputation intact.

But several hours later, she still hadn’t emerged.

Claire took a few steps back to admire the flowy white curtains she’d just hung, her first step in redecorating what had been her parents’ bedroom and now would be hers. It had taken six months since their deaths before she thought she might be able to sleep there.

She looked at the dog sitting at her feet. “What do you think, Rase?” she asked.

Eraser grinned up at her, his tail wagging slowly. She crouched beside him and buried her face in his thick, white-tipped gray coat. He let out a little growl of contentment as she scratched his flanks then hugged him a little tighter. He was just a mutt, but he was her mutt, even if he wouldn’t obey a single command.

“The curtains look beautiful, don’t they?” she asked, sitting cross-legged beside him, patting him as she inspected her handiwork.

She’d gotten over her disappointment that Quinn Gerard hadn’t returned to the blood bank at four o’clock. In fact, she’d decided she should be grateful he hadn’t. Obviously he was a con man of some kind or, at the least, a jerk.

“Not worth my thoughts, is he?” she asked the dog.

Rase’s ears pricked up, then he took off down the stairs, running and barking. A moment later the doorbell rang.

Claire saw with surprise that it was almost ten o’clock. She’d intended to keep herself distracted, but had done such a good job of it that she hadn’t noticed that night had fallen. She had no reason to feel guilty, but—

The bell rang again. Rase barked more frantically, alerting and calling her at the same time. She couldn’t imagine who would be coming around this late. Some friend of Jenn’s, she supposed. Someone who didn’t know….

Claire grabbed her portable phone and made her way to the door without turning on any lights, a streetlight providing just enough illumination from outside that she could negotiate the stairs. Maybe it was better that she hadn’t turned on any lights. She could pretend she wasn’t home if the visitor wasn’t someone she wanted to talk to.

Without telling Rase to quiet down—as if it would’ve done any good anyway—she crept to the door and looked out the peephole. She hadn’t turned on the porch light, however, so she could see only a dark blob silhouetted from behind by the streetlight. Now what?

“I know you’re in there,” came a man’s voice.

She hopped back. Rase picked up on her surprise and reared up, slamming his paws against the door, digging at it, barking louder. “Who’s there?” she asked.

“Quinn Gerard.”

Quinn— From the blood bank? She looked again through the peephole but still couldn’t identify the man. How did he— He’d followed her?

She put a hand over her mouth. How stupid could she be? She’d told him what time she got off work. He’d followed her to her home.

“Please open the door,” he said. “I need to talk to you.”

Grateful for how ferocious Rase sounded, she called out, “You’re stalking me. I’m calling the police right now,” she said, meaning it, squeezing the portable phone a little tighter.

“You’ll save us both a lot of time if you don’t do that,” he said, his voice raised but calm. “I’m under contract with the district attorney. If you open the door I’ll show you my identification.”

The D.A.? She relaxed a little, but no way was she removing the safety of the wooden barrier between them. “What do you want?”

“You can call off your dog, for one, so I don’t have to yell. Unless you like having your neighbors hear your business.”

He had a point. “Sit,” she said to the dog. “Quiet.”

Rase wagged his tail, barked once, but didn’t sit. She sighed. “Okay. Now, what do you want?”

“I’d prefer to tell you face-to-face.”

“You can prefer all you want.”

A pause ensued. Her grandfather clock ticked off time, the sound seeming to gain volume.

“If you don’t tell me right now why you’re here,” she said, “I’m calling the cops.”

“I want to talk to you about your sister, Jennifer.”

She closed her eyes. Great. Just great. She should have guessed. Just as she should’ve guessed he hadn’t been attracted to her. They were as different as night and…tuna. For one thing, she was honest.

“Did you follow me from the blood bank?” she asked. If so, he’d been sitting in his car for hours, biding his time, waiting for darkness to fall.

“I followed you to it. I thought you were your sister. Look, is she in there?”

“No.”

A long moment of silence sat like an invisible wall between them. “Will she be home soon?”

Claire leaned her forehead against the door. “No.”

She was tired of covering for Jenn, who was two years older than Claire and should’ve been the big sister but had never behaved like one.

“Is she gone, Claire?”

He asked the question quietly, almost sympathetically. It made her throat ache. Rase picked up on her mood and nudged her thigh with his muzzle. She patted his head. “That’s Ms. Winston to you.”

“Is she?”

She needed to tell someone, even this stranger. Maybe especially this stranger. “Yes,” she said quietly. Jenn had taken so few personal possessions with her that Claire might not have realized she was gone, except that she’d left—

“How do you know?” he asked.

She propped herself against the doorjamb. “She left a note.”

“May I see it?”

“No.” She certainly was not opening her door to a man who’d pretended to like her, who’d lured her just with promise in his eyes. Give her a dull but honest man anytime.

“Why didn’t she take her car?”

“I don’t know. Go away or I’ll sic my dog on you.” Quinn couldn’t see Rase, all twenty-five wimpy pounds of him. He only sounded like a hundred pounds of ferocity. In truth, he’d been known to run from cats.

“Do you know why the D.A. wants her?” Quinn asked.

Knowing Jenn, it could be anything. After all, she’d gotten herself involved with an investment broker who’d embezzled millions from his clients, investments they’d made in good faith. Jenn was as gullible as those clients. She’d just been lucky not to have any of her money taken by him.

“The D.A. believes she’s got Craig Beecham’s stolen funds,” he said when she didn’t answer. “Or at least knows where they are.”

“That was settled in court. Jenn didn’t know anything about it.”

“She’s been under investigation because no one believes that. How far gone do you think she can get on five million dollars, Ms. Winston?”

“She didn’t take the money.” Jenn had assured Claire of that, many times. Claire had sat beside Jenn in the courtroom, supporting her, believing in her. Jenn might be self-centered and immature, but she wasn’t a criminal. “She inherited a lot of cash when my parents died, enough to equal the value of this house, which I inherited. She’s got plenty of money.” More than she should have access to, Claire thought. She’d been spending it, too. On clothes and jewelry and that snazzy car. “She wouldn’t have need for more.”

“Everyone has need for more, but I hope you’re right. Good night.”

She moved to her front window in time to see him jog across the street and climb into an almost invisible gray sedan parked between two streetlights so that she couldn’t see into the interior. Picking up on her tension, Rase looked out the window then at her, then out the window and back at her again. She waited for Quinn to drive away. He didn’t.

Fifteen minutes later he still sat there. A half hour more. An hour. She went upstairs to her bedroom to sit by her window. Another half hour went by. Then a car pulled up beside him and stayed for close to a minute before backing up twenty feet. His car pulled out. The other parked.

A changing of the guard. Claire gave up and went to bed but barely slept. When the sun came up, she peeked outside and saw the car was still there. Why? They already knew that Jenn was gone.

After showering and changing, she went downstairs into her living room where she could get a good view of the driver, a woman, who seemed to be staring right back at her as Claire peeked through the slats of her blinds.

She couldn’t talk herself out of the guilt that had burned a hole in her yesterday when she’d come home to an empty house, even though Jenn had merely done what Claire had asked. She should be celebrating Jenn’s departure. Instead, she hovered in front of the window like she was to blame for something.

She was tired. Having Jenn underfoot the past six months, enduring her boyfriend’s trial, putting up with her moods—it had drained Claire, especially since she was still in mourning for her parents. And maybe besides being tired she was also angry. She felt used and manipulated—her own fault, since she’d known what Jenn was like, had given in to her all her life.

Still, Claire had needed her own space, needed Jenn and her wild lifestyle gone. Now she was.

And now Claire was a prisoner in her own home. Someone would probably be watching her house, or following her if she went out, presumably to see if she made contact with her sister.

Half sister. She didn’t usually make much of the distinction until lately, when she wanted to disconnect from Jenn and live her own life.

But Claire had made enough concessions to and for Jenn. She also knew when Jenn was lying. She’d looked Claire straight in the eye and said she didn’t know anything about the money.

That was good enough for Claire. It should be good enough for the D.A., and Quinn Gerard, who was just pulling up across the street.

Rase came up beside her, his leash clenched in his mouth. She glanced from him to the window. She smiled.

“Ready for a run, boy?” she asked, taking the leather strap to fasten to his collar.

Rase barked once, his rear swinging from side to side as he wagged his tail in answer.

“I like the way you think,” she said. “Let’s see if Mr. Gerard is in as good shape as he looks.”

Three

Quinn pulled up beside Cassie Miranda’s car, leaned across the passenger seat and handed her a steaming cup of her favorite mocha. She was one of two investigators he’d hired late last year. She’d pulled the night surveillance on Jennifer, and now Claire.

“Thanks,” she said, breathing the aroma before taking a sip and sighing. “No activity from the house, except that she opened the blinds a little while ago.”

“I bet she’s showered, dressed and sitting like a soldier in her living room.”

“Not the kind to fly, hm?”

“No reason for her to.” He admired Claire for standing up to him last night, even for not letting him inside her house. “I’ll probably see you in the office later.”

“I’m going to grab a few hours of sleep before I come in.”

“Hey, it’s Sunday. Take an extra hour.”

“Gee, thanks, boss.” She started her engine. “How come we’re still working this, anyway? The job is done. There’s no one to tail.”

How come, indeed? Not just because he always saw things through, but because he thought his presence might make what was about to happen easier for Claire, if she wasn’t too mad at him. He’d been in a similar situation once. He hadn’t forgotten how it felt, and how hard it was to recover from the invasion of privacy.

“She’s taking the dog for a walk,” Cassie said, pointing. “I’ll get going.”

Quinn swore. He’d bet she’d specifically waited for this moment, when he and Cassie traded places, to get a head start on him. What did she think he was going to do, follow her? As far as she knew he was waiting for her sister.

He wasn’t.

He looked out his car window just then and she smiled—no, smirked—and waved to him then started jogging up the street, her dog beside her. Her dinky dog with the big bark.

Was that a challenge?

In no time he was following her, watching her ponytail bounce in rhythm with her steps. He caught up soon enough but lingered behind her, enjoying the view and the way she looked over her shoulder without trying to seem like she was. She did have spectacular legs.

When she spotted him she picked up speed. The dog broke stride, barked once then settled beside her, keeping pace.

Quinn had appreciated the leather skirt yesterday. Today she wore running shorts, a tank top and a sweatshirt that she’d pulled off and tied around her waist without missing a step. He whipped his own sweatshirt off, wishing he’d known he would be running. Jeans chafed. Good thing he’d worn sneakers. Most of the time he wore boots. He would’ve looked like he was chasing her. Some Good Samaritan might’ve decked him.

She jogged in place at a traffic signal at the bottom of a hill. He stayed twenty feet behind her. The light turned green and she took off with only a glance over her shoulder. Damn. He hadn’t felt this good in months, ever since he’d left his one-man operation to come aboard with ARC. The transition had been challenging, reporting to and working with other people.

Today he was glad for the job, glad for this particular assignment. The bleached blonde with the long legs and the canine companion sent his mood soaring.

Suddenly she turned around and ran toward him, the dog nipping at her heels. Was she going home already? Should he step aside and let her pass or—

“You might as well run with us,” she said, stopping in front of him but still jogging.

The dog danced around, barking.

“Stop it, Rase.”

“You call that a command?”

She pursed her lips. The dog never stopped moving.

“And I see how well it works,” he added. “Sit,” he said authoritatively.

The dog put his rear on the sidewalk instantly and grinned, his tongue hanging out, his tail dusting the ground.

Claire stopped jogging. “How did you— Traitor,” she said to the dog. “You little traitor. He has never done that for me.”

“That’s because you say ‘Stop it.’” He tried to match the pitch of her voice. “Good boy,” he said to the dog, patting his head. “Rase?” he queried, looking at Claire.

“Short for Eraser. Because his coat is the color of the old blackboard erasers.” She rubbed his ears. “He probably had another name, but I got him from the pound. He was already a couple of years old.” She put her shoulders back. “Let’s go.”

They jogged up a hill, not a particularly steep one by San Francisco standards, but enough that they couldn’t talk much.

“You saved his life,” Quinn said to her, not surprised that she’d rescued the dog from death row.

“He kind of saved mine, too.” She kept her eyes focused ahead. “We needed each other.”

Because of her parents or her sister? he wondered. He tried not to feel sorry for her. People often couldn’t see the truth about family. He’d been in that position himself, not once but twice. Claire was apparently as untainted as he had been once, enough so that she volunteered at a blood bank in gratitude for a little extra time with her dying mother…and chose to teach first-graders, innocence personified…and rescued pound dogs…and had blind faith in her unworthy sister.

But it was also hard to imagine Jennifer talking Claire into something she didn’t want to do. Claire only seemed mild mannered. She’d displayed a firm strength of character last night. So, why change from brunette to blonde? Why the shift to leather skirt and snug blouse? The change was drastic.

Had Jennifer convinced her to transform herself? Quinn found it hard to believe it had been Claire’s idea. Jennifer needed to escape surveillance, and she’d used her sister to do it.

He gave up asking himself questions he couldn’t answer and focused on the run, which felt good. He hadn’t taken enough time for himself lately. Lately? He almost laughed at the understatement. He got a work-out in because he had a gym at home, but free time was a rarity, which was why on the rare occasions he dated, they were busy women who weren’t demanding of his time, because they understood working long hours. So he chose professional women, mostly. Except lawyers, who asked too many questions.

And most women ended the relationship quickly, saying he was too serious. Hell, life was serious.

A block away from Claire’s house he spotted two men loitering at the base of the stairs. He knew them. Knew why they were there.

Claire slowed her pace to a walk. So did Quinn. Rase started to bark as they got closer to the house.

“No,” Quinn ordered. The dog went silent, then looked adoringly at Quinn.

Claire sighed loudly.

“Dogs like limits,” Quinn said. “He’s obviously had some training.”

She angled her head toward the men, who had come to attention and were watching their approach. “Friends of yours?”

“I know them.”

He couldn’t read her expression, and he admired her all the more for that. Show No Fear was his personal motto. Maybe hers, too. Maybe being a teacher ingrained that, he decided.

“Gerard,” the taller of the two men said in greeting.

“Santos,” Quinn replied.

“We can take it from here,” the man told Quinn.

Peter Santos was the D.A. investigator Jennifer had spotted tailing her, the reason why Quinn, a private not public investigator, had been hired. Quinn noted the edge in his voice. Santos should relax. Jenn had spotted Quinn, too—another reason why Quinn figured she was guilty. She wouldn’t have been that alert if she hadn’t been looking for someone watching her.

“I believe I’ll stay,” Quinn said. “This is Claire Winston.”

“Ms. Winston, I’m Peter Santos from the district attorney’s office. Could we go inside, please?”

“Do I have a choice?” she asked, but led them up the stairs, not waiting for Santos’s answer to her rhetorical question. When everyone was gathered in her foyer, Santos held out a piece of paper. Rase whined.

“I’ll be right back,” Claire said, not accepting the document. “I’m going to shut the dog in the kitchen.”

Good. She would handle the situation on her own terms. Had she figured out why Santos was there?

When she returned she looked calm. She’d also put her sweatshirt back on.

Santos passed her the paper. “I have a warrant, Ms. Winston.”

“For what?”

“Requiring that you turn over the note that your sister, Jennifer Winston, wrote you.”

Claire’s gaze shifted to Quinn. Hurt radiated from her like a furnace blast. Because of him the note would no longer be private but would be seen by the D.A. and others. “It takes three of you to bring me one piece of paper and pick one up?” she asked. “You all must’ve heard about my black belt in karate, I guess.”

The joke went over Santos’s head. Quinn cleared his throat. It really was pretty funny, the three of them confronting one slender schoolteacher with a spotless reputation. Claire took her time reading the warrant. Santos shifted from foot to foot. A grandfather clock by the front door ticktocked, ticktocked.

“Ms. Winston,” Santos said after a while. “All it says is—”

“I can read.” She opened the drawer of her entry table, removed a piece of paper and gave it to him.

Santos looked it over. Quinn held out his hand and was handed the note, probably because Santos didn’t want to argue in front of her.

“Dear Claire,” it read. “I’m doing what you asked. I’ll be in touch. Love, Jenn.”

“What does this mean?” Santos asked. “That she’s doing what you asked?”

“Night before last I gave her a deadline to find somewhere else to live.”

“Why?”

“She’d lived here long enough.”

“Her car is in your garage.”

“I don’t have an explanation for that. I assume she will be back for it.”

Santos took the note from Quinn. “You bleached your hair.”

She raised her brows. Quinn thought she looked magnificent, all haughty and cool. Mild-mannered schoolteacher—ha!

“So?” she asked.

“So, you look a lot like her now. Did you pretend to be your sister, Ms. Winston, so that she could get away?”

“I don’t believe your warrant covers anything beyond me giving you the note. I already answered questions I didn’t have to. It’s time for you to go.” The front door still stood wide open. She gestured for them to leave.

Quinn stepped aside as the two investigators exited.

“You, too, Mr. Gerard,” she said, not looking at him but at the men headed toward their car.

He saw a break in her composure, a fragility she hadn’t shown Santos. “I’d like to talk to you,” Quinn said.

“I have nothing to say.”

“I have things to say. I’ll stand right here, with the door open. Or we could go outside, if you prefer.” He pulled a business card from a leather holder and passed it to her. “I’m not a D.A. investigator. I’m in private practice. My job for them was over when your sister left. This is personal now, just between you and me.” The betrayal he’d endured years ago whirled inside him until he tamped it down. He knew how she felt. That’s all he wanted to tell her. He had little doubt she was an innocent victim swept into her sister’s game.

“You knew they would be waiting for us after the run,” she said, her tone accusatory.

“I knew they would be here sometime today.”

“You told them about the note.”

“I had no choice.”

“You had a choice.”

“No, I didn’t. Ms. Winston, are you worried about your sister?”

“Worried?”

“After you got home yesterday you never turned on your lights downstairs. That’s how I knew something was wrong and why I knocked. If she’d only been doing what you asked her to do—move out—you would’ve turned on your lights and gone about life as usual.”

Her shoulders drooped slightly. She closed her eyes for a second too long.

“What you say will stay between us,” he said, hoping she would talk to him, unburden herself. He’d been in her shoes. He understood.

“She didn’t take her stuff,” she said, meeting his gaze, confusion in her eyes but no weakness.

“Nothing?”

“Her jewelry, but not her clothes, or at least not many. And her car! She loves that car.”

“What do you think it means?”

“I don’t know. I wish I did.”

He hesitated in offering a possibility. “Could we sit down?”

She nodded. After they sat on her sofa he watched her finger his business card. “What does the ARC stand for?” she asked.

“The initials of the three original partners of the agency, Alvarado, Remington and Caldwell. I’m also a partner.”

“Have they been in business long?”

“About eight years. They work out of L.A. I opened a branch office for them here right after Thanksgiving last year, but I’ve been a private investigator for ten years.”