Her Private Avenger. Elle Kennedy
know the answer?
“You honestly don’t think I tried to kill myself?” she asked instead, studying his expression.
Conviction laced his gruff voice. “Hell, no.”
“Then don’t tell my father you found me,” she blurted out.
“I can’t do that, Morgan.”
Something coiled in her belly. Irritation. Desperation, maybe. And anger, because she was sick of everyone else making decisions for her. Ever since the car accident—heck, even before that—her father had been calling all the shots.
The only time she’d ever felt an inkling of freedom was when she and Quinn were together, but her father had managed to destroy that, too.
“Why not?” she demanded. “Just get in your car and forget you saw me. Or, here’s a better idea, help me find out what the hell happened in Autumn.”
She had no idea where the spontaneous request for help came from. She was a seasoned journalist, perfectly capable of investigating on her own. But that feeling of danger…it lingered in her gut like a stray animal, hounding at her. Quinn was a mercenary. He could protect her.
She glanced at his broad chest, the ripples of muscle straining against his sweater. A little thrill shot through her. She remembered with perfect clarity how it felt to run her fingers over that chest, the soft sound of pleasure he made when she pressed her lips to his—
No. Not going there.
She couldn’t think about that right now, although from the sparks of heat going off like fireworks in her body, it was evident this man was still capable of eliciting a primal physical response in her. He’d always done that, made her hot and needy, just by being in the same room as her.
Looking oblivious to her painfully aroused state, Quinn’s forehead creased with unease. “You’re planning on going to Autumn.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes.”
“Bad idea,” he said flatly.
She feigned innocence. “Why’s that?”
Disapproval filled his eyes. “Someone ran you off a bridge. You go in asking questions, digging around, and you could end up asking the wrong person or digging in the wrong place.”
“So come with me.” She laughed derisively. “Keep me in line.”
He responded with a laugh of his own, deep and genuine. “Keep you in line? That’s like trying to teach a raging bull to do tricks.” The laughter faded as rapidly as it came. “Forget it, Morgan. I’m not going to Autumn with you.”
“Then I’ll go alone.”
He gave a firm shake of the head. “Only place you’re going is home. Anything else is too dangerous.”
She experienced a pang of disappointment, but rather than arguing, she dropped the issue. She knew the look in Quinn’s eyes too well. He meant business. He wasn’t going to help her. And she got the feeling he’d take her back to the city even if he had to drag her there, kicking and screaming.
“In fact,” he continued, “we’re leaving now.”
“Couldn’t we at least wait until morning?”
Something indefinable flashed across his face. Averting his eyes, he cleared his throat and said, “No. I don’t have time to sit around here all night with you. We’re leaving now.”
She tightened her lips. “Fine.”
His eyes narrowed. “Fine?”
“Yes, fine.” She rose stiffly to her feet, tossing him a glance over her shoulder as she rounded the couch to get her purse. “Isn’t that what you want?”
He stood up, arms crossed over that spectacular chest. “Yes, but it’s not what you want. So why are you giving in so easily?”
She shrugged, and slung her purse over one shoulder. “We both know I’ll be going to Autumn. This is just a small bump in the road. I broke out of the psych ward once. I can do it again.”
“So that’s your plan, dutifully come back with me and then escape again?”
“Yep.”
He let out an exasperated breath. “You are the most stubb—” He stopped abruptly, suddenly frowning. “Forget it. Beggars can’t be choosers. Your thoughtful compliance only makes my job easier. Once you’re home, you’ll be the senator’s problem.”
The sudden bite of hostility stung like hell, but she wasn’t sure she blamed him. She’d hurt him when she’d canceled their wedding. Scratch that—he’d canceled their wedding. She’d simply asked to postpone it. But with Quinn, there was no such thing as a gray area. It was black and white, get married or don’t. He’d chosen the latter.
Quinn moved to the door. “Get your coat. It’s cold out there.”
“I don’t have a coat.”
His eyes flashed. “You walked all the way here without a coat?”
She offered a stony look. “I was a little too focused on sneaking out of the psychiatric ward to worry about the weather.”
He muttered something under his breath, then opened the door. They walked out to the rickety porch.
Quinn’s back was to her as he locked up the cabin, and she took the opportunity to draw in a steady breath and examine the porch. Her heart skipped when she noticed a white ceramic flowerpot sitting on the wooden railing. About twice the size of a snow globe, but it would do the trick.
She had no intention of going back to D.C. tonight. She didn’t think she could lose him during the hike to the car, but if she got a head start now…
“Don’t forget to put this back,” she said when he turned around. She stuck out her palm, and the silver spare key sparkled under the thin shaft of moonlight illuminating the front yard.
Without a word, he took the key and headed down the steps. Morgan followed him, casually picking up the empty flowerpot and tucking it behind her back. She waited until Quinn was on his knees, big body bent down to slip the key under the rock she’d liberated it from.
Another breath. Now or never.
Fighting the jolt of guilt that streaked through her, she lifted her arm and murmured, “I’m sorry.”
Quinn’s head swiveled sharply, but he had no time to react as the ceramic pot came crashing down on his head.
Chapter 3
Morgan took off running.
She didn’t dare turn back to see if Quinn was following her but she knew she hadn’t knocked him unconscious, as she’d hoped. No surprise. He’d always had a pretty thick skull. She’d heard his grunt of pain as the flowerpot connected with its target, the sound of ceramic splintering against his head, but he hadn’t passed out. Still, she’d stunned him, and she suffered a tug of guilt as she tore through the woods.
She tried to ignore the image of Quinn’s body falling backward from the impact. God, she hoped she hadn’t hurt him. She wasn’t a violent person, not usually anyway.
But she wasn’t crazy, either, and she’d be damned if she was going to be forced back into that psych ward.
Twigs snapped under her sneakers as she ran, trees whipping by her face. Her cheeks grew flushed from the cold. She came dangerously close to slamming into a branch, but kept moving, slipping several times on the layer of slush beneath her feet.
Sucking in oxygen, she tried to pay attention to her surround ings, but she had no freaking clue where she was going. If she stopped for a minute and looked for her previous tracks, she’d be able to find her way back to the