Her Private Avenger. Elle Kennedy
back here only to make you sit at home twiddling your thumbs?”
Relief shimmied up her spine. Then she faltered. “But he won’t let us see the crime scene. And I’m pretty sure he’s going to order everyone involved in the case not to talk to us, including the coroner, which means we won’t get access to her remains.”
A spark of humor lit his green eyes. “Have you forgotten what I do for a living, sweetheart? I’m a mercenary. We live and breathe covert. Don’t worry, you’ll have access to anything you want.”
Although she should’ve still been furious at him for the way he’d spoken to her earlier, Morgan’s anger thawed, replaced by a warm rush that surrounded her heart. Licking her dry lips, she tilted her head to meet his eyes and said, “Thank you.”
The conversation with that ass of a sheriff had made it difficult to examine his surroundings, but with the distraction gone, Quinn was finally able to really look around, and what he saw floored him. He knew Morgan’s family was wealthy, but this house…hell, house? Calling it a house was like calling Andre the Giant a dwarf.
Three stories high, the French colonial-style mansion resembled the White House, with enormous limestone pillars flanking the entrance, wide marble steps leading to a pair of intricately carved front doors, and large balconies with wrought-iron railings on the second and third floors.
Morgan unlocked the door and beckoned for him to follow her into the front foyer. White marble spanned the enormous space, making Quinn feel as if he was committing a grievous sin as his big black boots connected with the pristine floor. Morgan seemed oblivious to his turmoil as she stepped forward in her sneakers, leaving a trail of mud on her way to the light switch. She flicked the switch, and the foyer lit up, revealing a crystal chandelier that belonged in Buckingham Palace, and two spiral staircases leading to the second and third floors.
“Don’t worry about getting the floor dirty,” Morgan said when she noticed him hesitating. “I’ll mop it up in the morning.”
He took a tentative step, his gaze drifting to a shadowy room to the right, which seemed to boast not one, but two shiny black grand pianos.
“The music room,” Morgan supplied, following his gaze.
He finally found his voice. “I didn’t realize anyone in your family was musical.”
“We’re not.” She rolled her eyes. “But as my father says, every home needs a music room.”
Quinn fought the urge to mention that said music room was the size of his apartment. Hell, the foyer alone was bigger than most people’s homes.
He wasn’t surprised that Morgan had never brought him back here before. Knowing her, she’d be embarrassed by the gaudy show of wealth. And the fact that her father spent most weekends here was probably another reason she hadn’t invited him. Not that he minded—he’d rather cut off his own arm than spend his free time with Senator Kerr.
“Would you like a tour?” Morgan asked. “Or would you rather go straight to bed?”
Quinn’s mouth turned to cotton. Damn, this woman was not allowed to say the word bed. Even after an escape from the psych ward, a run through the woods and a two-hour car ride, she still looked as beautiful as ever. Blond strands had fallen loose from her ponytail, framing her heart-shaped face like ribbons of gold, and her cheeks were flushed from the cold, or perhaps from their encounter with Wilkinson. Either way, the rosy blush made her look unbelievably sexy.
When his groin tightened, Quinn forced himself to remember what he’d told her in the car. He was not here to rekindle their romance. He wouldn’t let himself.
“A quick tour would be okay,” he said gruffly, deciding it was probably best to stall going into a bedroom with Morgan for as long as possible.
“Quick isn’t going to be feasible. Did you see the size of this house?” She gave a rueful smile. “All right, let’s see what I can do.”
Quinn didn’t say much as she took him around the first floor, showing him the famous music room, two living rooms and a sitting room—”I’m not sure what the difference is,” she’d admitted—a kitchen boasting so much black marble and stainless steel his eyes hurt, two studies and a library that ap parently contained over five thousand books.
“Ready for the second floor?” Morgan made a show of glancing at a watch she didn’t wear. “We’ve got another hour or two.”
He started to follow her back to the foyer, then halted. The hall they were in was lined with portraits, and one in particular caught his eye. In a beautiful gilded frame, a portrait of a stunning blonde with enormous blue eyes, delicate features and a long regal neck.
“My mother,” came Morgan’s soft voice.
He knew who it was before she even spoke; he’d seen pictures of her mother before. Besides, there was no mistaking the resemblance. Only, Patricia Kerr looked far more fragile than the daughter she’d given birth to. The eyes were too soft, the mouth too tender. She lacked the sparkle of humor, the fire, the glint of stubbornness, qualities her daughter possessed in spades.
“She was very…fragile,” Morgan confessed, using the exact adjective that had entered his mind.
Quinn gave her a sideways glance and saw the sorrow swimming in her eyes.
“She hated conflict,” Morgan went on. “Arguments made her nauseous, and she was so sensitive. If someone in town said an unkind word to her, she would stay in her room for days, inconsolable.”
“She sounds…” His voice drifted. The word he wanted to use was weak but he couldn’t bring himself to say it, not when Morgan’s face shone with such obvious love for her mother.
But Morgan knew him well. “Weak?” she suggested. “I guess in a sense, she was.” Her features softened, and suddenly she looked very much like the woman in the portrait. “But she was also very sweet. She loved me, and she adored Tony. Unlike my father, she spent a lot of time with us when we were kids. She was a good mother, Quinn.”
“I don’t doubt that.” He cleared his throat. “Come on, let’s head upstairs.”
The second-floor tour ended up being quick. Each member of the house had their own wing, decorated in a way that distinctly revealed the personality of the person it belonged to. The senator’s wing was done in shades of gold and black. Pale creams and yellows filled Patricia Kerr’s rooms. Tony’s wing was blue and green, with a splash of yellow thrown in here and there. And Morgan’s wing…
“Pink?” he said, raising his eyebrows.
Morgan paused at the doorway of her childhood bedroom, making a face at the pale pink walls. “My parents chose it. I think they believed they could tame my wild and tenacious streak if they suffocated me with ladylike colors.” She glanced at him and shrugged. “I would’ve chosen red.”
Quinn couldn’t help a grin. “Of course you would.”
Morgan shut the door, then took him up to the next level, quickly showing him the playrooms she and Tony had used as children, another study and half a dozen guest rooms.
“You can sleep here.” She flicked on the light to reveal a room with navy blue walls and gray trim, a queen-size bed with a deep gray bedspread and shimmery blue curtains over a large bay window that overlooked the backyard.
“Is the room okay?” she asked.
“It’s fine.”
“Thanks again for handling Jake. I was perilously close to losing my temper when you stepped in.”
He smiled faintly. “No problem. Though I’m not sure it was a good idea letting him know you’ve considered the notion that he might have killed Layla.”
She sighed. “I know. I couldn’t help it. Jake has always rubbed me the wrong way.”
“I