The Mighty Quinns: Tristan

Exposing the Enemy

Lawyer Tristan Quinn has never met a woman he couldn’t charm, so he’s confident he can convince three elderly women to sell their artists’ colony to a developer. He poses as a writer to gain their trust. But then he meets Lily Harrison—the ladies’ sexy, quirky niece—and Tris realizes he’s in for way more than he bargained for...

Lily can smell a lawyer a mile away. Expose him—that’s what she needs to do. One piece of clothing at a time—until he’s naked and they’re at each other’s hungry mercy. She can’t trust him. She definitely can’t fall for him. She just needs to keep her friends close...and her enemy much, much closer!

Praise for Kate Hoffmann’s The Mighty Quinns

“[Kate] Hoffmann always brings a strong story to the table with The Mighty Quinns, and this is one of her best.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Mighty Quinns: Eli

“The [Aileen Quinn storyline] ends as it began: with strong storytelling and compelling, tender characters who make for a deeply satisfying read.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Mighty Quinns: Mac

“[Hoffmann’s] characters are well written and real. The Mighty Quinns: Eli is a recommended read for lovers of the Quinn family, lovers of the outdoors and lovers of a sensitive man.”

—Harlequin Junkie

“A winning combination of exciting adventure and romance... This is a sweet and sexy read that kept me entertained from start to finish.”

—Harlequin Junkie on The Mighty Quinns: Malcolm

“Ms. Hoffmann’s voice is smooth, calming and soulful.... If you are looking for a steamy romance with an engaging storyline, give this book a try.”

—Harlequin Junkie on The Mighty Quinns: Roarke

“The Mighty Quinns: Jack is one of those stories that will capture your mind and heat your emotions. It was impossible for me to put this steamy, sexy book down until the last page was turned.”

—Fresh Fiction

Dear Reader,

One of the best things about being a writer is creating interesting characters. Sometimes those characters live entirely on the pages of my books, but other times they seem to come to life in my mind. They almost seem real. And I enjoy their company so much that when I finish the book, I actually feel a bit lonely for these temporary “guests.”

The Mighty Quinns: Tristan was one of those books that brought together an odd community of characters that really stayed with me long after the book was finished. I hope you enjoy them as much as I did!

Happy reading,

The Mighty Quinns: Tristan

Kate Hoffmann

www.millsandboon.co.uk

KATE HOFFMANN lives in southeastern Wisconsin with her books, her computer and her cats, Princess Winifred and Princess Grace. In her spare time she enjoys sewing, baking, movies, theater and talking on the phone with her sister. She has written nearly ninety books for Harlequin.

To Judge Andy S. for helping with legal matters.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Prologue

THEY’D LIVED IN the blue house on Downey Street for just five months. Tristan had been so excited to move in. A real house after the family of five had spent their summer living in the car or sleeping in a tent. But when his father had died and the cold weather set in, things became desperate again.

They scraped together just enough money to survive from panhandling, petty theft and their mother’s disability payments. The Quinns couldn’t pay their rent, but no one wanted to evict tenants in the middle of winter. That was what their mother depended upon—the guilt of strangers.

Tristan stood at the window, scraping his finger over the frost that coated the inside. The heat and the electricity had been turned off two months ago. They’d been forced to depend upon a smoky fireplace for warmth and a gas-station restroom for water and plumbing facilities.

“Where is she?” Tristan’s little brother, Jamie, asked.

Their mother had taken their other brother, Thom, out to pinch some food from the local market. They’d been caught last month stealing a box of cereal, but the store owner had refused to press charges during the holiday season. He’d sent them home with a huge box of food that had lasted nearly a week.

Up and down. That was the way life seemed to work for the Quinns. Just when things started looking a little better, something would knock them down.

Tristan rubbed his arms through his jacket, his breath clouding in front of his face. His mother and Thom had been gone far too long. Something had happened, and Tristan was afraid of the consequences.

They were always just a few steps ahead of CPS—Child Protective Services—the dragon that loomed over their small world, waiting to snatch one or all of them away. Tristan couldn’t go to the police to find his mother because they’d discover that he and his brothers were alone, living in an unheated house in the middle of a Minnesota winter. And then CPS would separate them, possibly forever. So he and his brothers were forced to wait and wonder where their mother was—sometimes for a day or two, sometimes, if she managed to score some booze or drugs, for weeks.

The sound of footsteps on the porch caught Tristan’s attention and he held his breath, wondering who it might be. Burglars regularly broke into the house, looking for anything worth selling. The landlord made threatening appearances occasionally.

“Hey!”

Jamie smiled. “Thom,” he said.

A few seconds later, the second of the three Quinn brothers strolled in, his jacket unzipped, his face red from the cold. He carried a crumpled grocery bag, which he dropped on the floor next to the fireplace.

“What happened?”

“I told her she shouldn’t take the booze. She was already drunk, you’d think she could do without it for once. She was walking out and she dropped a bottle. It shattered around her feet. I grabbed what I could and ran, but they got her. She’s probably in jail now.”

“We have to rescue her,” Jamie said.

“No,” Tristan replied. “No. She’s safe there. She’ll have food, and a bed and heat. They won’t let her drink. If we go get her there’ll be too many questions. You know I’m right, don’t you, Jamie?”

The younger boy nodded.

“We’ll survive just fine on our own,” Tristan explained. “We have a fire and something to eat. We’ve got our sleeping bags to keep us extra warm. It will be like camping. And in the morning, we’ll go to school and we’ll be warm for the whole day and have a hot meal. We’ll make it through. We always do.”

Tristan reached out and pulled Jamie into his arms, giving him a hug. Then he looked over at Thom. “Why don’t you eat? I’m going to see if I can find some more wood for the fire. I passed a house on my way to school that had stacks of firewood. If I can take some, we’ll be warm for a few days.”

“It’s really cold out,” Thom warned. “Wear the red coat. That has a good hood.”

Tristan left his brothers in front of the fire, picking through the bag of snacks that Thom had managed to steal. Tris bundled up against the cold, then headed out, turning toward the alley that ran between the blocks of houses in their run-down neighborhood.

As he walked, he sniffed the air for the scent of a fire, squinting into the sky for a curl of smoke that might come from a nearby chimney.

Everything looked so different in the dark, especially when covered with a layer of white. But he found a house with a fire burning inside. He peered through the windows into the darkened interior, noticing the bars that blocked his entrance. But to his surprise, a side door to the garage had been left open, probably so the owner could retrieve more wood.

“This is good,” he murmured with a smile. Now he just had to find a way to carry it home. He could balance three, maybe four pieces in his hands. Not enough even for the night. He needed a way to move more wood.

The light from the alley allowed him to see the interior of the garage. He spotted a tarp and a wheelbarrow. Tristan grabbed the tarp. The wheelbarrow would be missed and he wasn’t sure he was strong enough to push it, but he could easily drag the tarp through the snow.

Tristan made quick work of the task, knowing the longer he took, the greater the odds of being caught. He managed to load up sixteen logs before he carefully closed the door and headed down the alley.

The guy would never miss the wood and Tristan’s family would be warm for the next day or two. He didn’t feel bad about stealing. Guilt was no longer an emotion he could afford. But every time he’d been forced to break the law or take advantage of someone to survive, Tristan made a promise to himself.

One day, when he was older, when he no longer had to take care of his brothers and they were on their own, he’d find a way to help people who were in trouble or struggling to survive.

He’d find them food or a nice place to live or maybe a job that would help to buy clothes and an ice cream cone every now and then. He wasn’t sure what kind of job it would be, but if there was something like that in the world, he’d find it...

1

TRISTAN QUINN DOWNSHIFTED the sleek silver convertible as he navigated the narrow curve of the road. Dappled sunlight filtered through the trees lining each side of the pavement, the thick green forest broken only by occasional homemade signs indicating cottages and resorts located deep within the woods.

He drew a deep breath, enjoying the brisk wind and warm sun on his face. There were moments when he had to wonder why he’d decided to seek a career in law, except for the rather sizable salary. He could have easily enjoyed being a construction worker or a ditch digger. At least he’d be free of the confines of his office, free to enjoy the weather, the warm summer days and even the bitter cold that came with the winters in Minneapolis.

So when this case had come up, Tristan had jumped at the opportunity. Though the matter had plagued most of the lawyers in his office, it meant an entire day outside of the office. He’d left that morning, headed northwest, a tidy stack of documents tucked in his briefcase. Today, he’d take his shot at negotiating a settlement to a contentious real estate case that had been going on for three long years.

Though most of the lawyers in the firm had worked on the case, this was his first crack at it. It was his chance to show the partners what he could do.

The case involved a dispute over an incredibly beautiful piece of land located an hour from the city on a pristine and very private lake. It was one of the only undeveloped lakes that close to Minneapolis–St. Paul, and as such was considered gold for any real estate developer.

The land had been held by the Pigglestone Family Trust since the late 1950s, and since then had been the site of an artists’ colony. But the latest generation wanted to sell the land, and in order to do that, they needed to evict their three elderly aunts, who had lived on the property from the beginning. Papers had been drawn up, notices sent, but the women had largely ignored the court orders.

Tristan didn’t relish evicting a trio of old ladies, but the partners had authorized him to offer an extraordinary financial settlement—one that would set the women up in relative luxury almost anywhere in the world. Though the job had proved impossible for others, Tristan was confident he’d be able to complete this task in a day or two and return to the firm a winner. After all, he’d been charming women for as long as he as he could remember.

“Turn right, two hundred yards.”

He glanced over at the navigation screen and frowned. He hadn’t seen any road signs for the past mile and assumed that he was off the grid. But a few moments later the voice warned him again. “Turn right, one hundred yards.”

He slowed the car and watched for a sign. But all that was visible was thick brush and tall trees. “Turn right, twenty yards.”

The narrow side road suddenly appeared and Tristan slammed on the brakes in order to make the turn. There was no sign or any indication of what lay ahead. But the coordinates had come directly from his boss so he knew he could trust them.

As he drove deeper into the woods, the road narrowed until it was only wide enough for one car to pass. Tristan slowly rounded a curve but skidded to a stop when he saw a figure standing in the middle of the road.

Her arms were stretched above her head, her fingers spread wide. She stood perfectly still, only the breeze moving her hair. She wore a loose cotton blouse that barely covered her backside—and nothing else. Tristan watched her for a long moment, his gaze drifting lower to take in the sweet curve of her naked backside. He couldn’t see her face, but somehow he sensed that she would be beautiful.

She continued to watch the trees above her head and then suddenly her hands drifted down to her sides. Tristan switched off the car and waited, remaining still and silent, afraid he might spook her. She tilted her head slightly as if she’d caught some sound deep in the woods. Finally, her shoulders dropped and she slowly shook her head.

When she turned to face him, his suspicions were proven true. She was beautiful. Breathtakingly beautiful. Like some wild wood nymph, her dark tousled hair fell in curls around perfect features.

“This is private property,” she called, bracing her hands on her waist. The cotton shirt lifted again, revealing the tops of her shapely legs. His gaze drifted down to her bare feet, which were covered with mud.

Tristan got out of the car, closing the door behind him before he approached. “What were you looking for?”

“I wasn’t looking,” she said. “I was listening.”

“Then what were you listening for?”

“An owl. A great gray owl. Every now and then when I walk along this stretch of road, I hear him. I just can’t tell where the sound is coming from. Maybe it’s just the wind playing tricks on my ears. Or maybe it’s a ghost.”

“What does he sound like?” Tristan asked.

“I’m not very good at bird calls,” she said.

“Give it a try. I’m curious.”

“Actually, it sounds just like sex.”

“Sex?”

“Yeah. It’s kind of a soft, grunting sound. Uh, uh, uh.”

“I thought owls said ‘who,’” Tristan joked.

“That’s only in cartoons,” she murmured. “I once saw a red-necked grebe. That’s very rare for this area. Indigo buntings are my favorite, but hard to spot. They’re the most beautiful shade of blue, but not really indigo at all.” She met his gaze. “Closer to lapis. Or azure. Are you lost?” she asked. “Can I help you?”

A little dazed by her quick change in subject matter, Tristan tried to refocus on the task at hand. “I’m looking for this old artists’ colony. I read about it and wanted to check it out.”

“An artists’ colony? I’ve never heard of anything like that,” she said. “Are you sure you’re in the right place? There’s nothing but cottages at the end of this road.”

“I’m certain,” he said. “Fence Lake Artists’ Colony. It was founded in the fifties. By three sisters?” He met her gaze. “None of this sounds familiar?”

She shook her head. “Nope.”

Tristan knew she was lying. He’d never met a beautiful woman who was a decent liar. Hell, he could read any woman, gorgeous or Plain Jane, in half the time he could read a man. It was one of the talents that made him a great litigator.

Well, if she was going to lie, then he’d be forced to counter her deception with one of his own. “Hmm. That’s too bad. I was really hoping I could spend a week or so there.”

“You’re an artist?”

He nodded. “Writer. I’m not published, but I have a publisher interested in my book. I need to rewrite part of it and I’m blocked. I was hoping a new environment would help.” He glanced over his shoulder at his car. “I should probably get going. I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere.”

She stared at him for a long moment. Yes, she definitely knew much more than she was willing to reveal. But how much? “I suppose I could help you out,” she murmured.

“You have a map?”

“I can take you to the colony,” she said. “I’m staying there myself.”

“Are you a writer?”

“Artist,” she said. “Painter. Sculptor. Whatever medium and subject catches my attention. Lately, it’s been owls.”

“I don’t want to take you away from your bird-watching,” he said.

She shrugged. ‘“In every walk with nature, one receives far more than he seeks.”’ She smiled. “John Muir. Do you mind if I drive? The road is a bit tricky.”

Tristan shook his head. “I don’t even know your name. Why would I let you drive my car?”

“Because the road is very curvy and narrow. I wouldn’t want you to wreck your car.” She held out her hand. “Lily Harrison.”

Tristan held his breath as he tried to hide his surprise. He’d been warned about this woman. But he’d never expected her to be so young—or beautiful.

Lily Alicia Hopkins Harrison. Her mother was heir to the Pigglestone fortune and her father heir to the Harrison fortune. But instead of following in her parents’ footsteps, Lily had become an artist, activist and protector of the three Pigglestone sisters. Meanwhile her family had hired his law firm to convince the elderly sisters to vacate the land.

Last summer, Lily and the aunts had chained themselves to the porches of their cottages when the bulldozers had arrived to demolish the colony. She’d appeared in the news media and marshalled her forces on social media to make the rest of the family look like greedy Scrooges trying to toss three old women out of their homes.

“Have you ever had an accident?” he asked. “Any speeding tickets?”

“No to both,” she said.

“May I see your license?”

“I don’t have one,” she said. “Never got one. But I drive really well.”

“How do you get around?”

“I make do,” she said with a shrug.

Right. Her first car had probably been a limousine.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said, taking her hand. “I’m—I’m Quinn. Quinn James.” His brother’s name was the first that came to mind. It would have been too easy for her to Google his name and find out he worked for the very law firm that had been causing her trouble. With an alias, he could hopefully maintain his anonymity long enough to get to the three aunts and make his proposal. After that, it wouldn’t matter.

“That’s a good name for a writer,” she said. “What kind of book are you writing?”

Since that was another lie, he decided to change the subject. “I’d love to see some of your work. You said you painted owls?”

“No,” she said. “Owls have just been on my mind lately. They visit me in my dreams. I think it’s a sign but I’m not sure what it means. Do you know what it might mean?”

He slowly shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t.” Tristan walked to the car and opened the driver’s-side door, waiting for her to slip behind the wheel.

So far, things had gone much easier than he’d imagined they might. However, his problems were mounting. Now, if he managed to wrangle an invitation to stay at the colony, he’d have to produce a novel—or at least a few pages. But his biggest test was still the three sisters.

He circled the car and jumped into the passenger seat. He’d cross that bridge when he came to it. For now he was determined to get to know this strange yet beautiful woman. He sensed that Lily might be the key to everything he wanted—both professionally and personally.

* * *

“HE’S A LAWYER. I’d be willing to bet my life on it.”

Lily paced the length of her aunt Violet’s front parlor. Violet, dressed in her usual dance attire of black unitard and chiffon skirt, casually sipped at her tea. Her gray curls were covered by an elaborately tied scarf and her eyes were ringed with dark makeup. “Do sit down, Lily. I think your imagination has run away with you again.”

“I’m right, I’m sure of it. He says he’s a writer, but no writer I’ve met would drive a car like that. A Mercedes convertible? In Minnesota? Do you know what that car says?”

“I wasn’t aware automobiles had acquired the power of speech.”

Lily rolled her eyes. “You understand what I meant.”

“Please, Lily, be more precise in your speech. If you don’t stop this tendency of yours to wander off topic, you’re going to start sounding like Daisy. Trying to follow her train of thought is like chasing a hummingbird through the woods.”

“I’m not going off topic. That expensive convertible says that he’s a lawyer. It tells anyone who bothers to notice that he’s wealthy enough to have a summer and a winter car. And then there are his shoes. And his watch.”

“Perhaps he’s a lawyer who is attempting to be a writer,” her aunt suggested. “Must you always be so suspicious? Not everyone is out to get us.”

“I’m just trying to protect us all,” Lily said.

The door to Violet’s cabin opened and her two sisters hurried inside. Rose, the youngest of the trio, wore her long gray hair in an untidy knot on the top of her head. A composer, she was currently working on a new series of songs inspired by art. Over the course of the day, she’d stuck pencils in her hair until she looked like some deranged geisha.

The middle sister, Daisy, was an artist like Lily and could normally be found wearing a paint-stained smock and a scarf covering her hair, which had been dyed a shocking shade of pink for the last few months. Before that, it had been lavender, a much more appropriate tone for someone of her age.

“What is the problem?” Daisy asked. “I really need to get back to work. Did you see the sunrise this morning?” She sighed. “Paris, 1963.”

Violet motioned for them to sit down. “Lily thinks she’s seen a lawyer. Here. At the colony.”

“What? Just wandering through?” Rose asked.

“No,” Lily said. “He’s pretending to be a writer. He’s asked to stay.”

“What do you call those clouds that look like horse’s tails?” Daisy asked.

“I’m not sure,” Lily said. “I suspect he’s going to try to get closer to you three.”

“He’s welcome to try, but you know we can’t be persuaded,” Violet said. “Nothing he says will change our mind. We’re not going to leave the colony and that’s that.”

“Then what do you want me to do about him?” Lily asked.

“Well, perhaps we should take him in,” Violet said. “We might find him useful for other reasons. And don’t they say that it’s better to keep your friends close and your enemies closer?”

“Who said that?” Rose asked. “I do recall arguing about that very quote one night at the bar in the Savoy Hotel in London. I’d had far too many gin fizzes.”

“Wilbur Fontaine,” Daisy said.

“Who?”

“The butcher in town,” Daisy explained. “I heard him say that very thing just last month. ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.’ Or maybe it was ‘keep your musket cocked and your tinder dry.’ But I’m not really sure what that means.”