Quinn Security Read online

  A feeling of doom swept through her, however. The same one that had caught her heart in its claw grip just before she’d eased the back door of the library open to find poor Holly dead on the ground. Was it doom or just darkness? she wondered. Maybe a combination of both. Whatever it was, at least this time she knew what had caused it to bubble up in her chest.

  What if Troy didn’t just drop her off at her cottage? What if he walked her to the door? What if he shot her another crooked grin, locking eyes with her?

  Her stomach warmed with a little flip at the thought.

  As they sailed down Berry Road, a long, winding, two-way route with a speed limit of 45 mph that meandered across the northern-most edge of the Fist, the light energy that had filled the truck’s cabin was quickly replaced with a dark chill that was rolling off of Troy.

  “Have you noticed any wolves out back behind the library?” he asked pointedly. “At dusk or after nightfall?” he added.

  “Well, no,” she replied thoughtfully. “I don’t believe I have.”

  “What was she doing out there?”

  “Just taking the trash out,” said Reece with a clipped voice, emotion welling up in her throat all over again.

  “And you’ve never seen any animals prowling out there?”

  “Maybe a raccoon or two,” she allowed. “Deer, of course. One time last spring there was a little black bear that wandered on through. Never a wolf or a coyote.”

  He ruminated on the information, or perhaps the lack of it, since she obviously hadn’t provided the answer he was looking for.

  “Any suspicious characters?” he asked next, and it threw her. Far.

  “Suspicious characters?” she questioned, confused.

  “Loiterers,” he clarified. “Any types like that in the library?”

  The only out-of-place character she’d ever taken notice of in the library was Troy himself. Why was he asking about that? What would a suspicious character have to do with a wolf attack?

  As Troy pulled off of Berry Road, angling the truck down Reece’s long, dirt driveway, she told him, “No, I really haven’t. I know most everyone that comes into the library. I’m good with faces and names, and everyone has to use their library card to check out their books.”

  The closer they came to her cottage, the tighter her chest felt, nerves fluttering through her stomach like a cluster of trapped butterflies.

  She’d lowered her gaze in consideration of his strange question, and as she pushed her red-frame glasses up her button nose, she suddenly took notice of the tattoo that had darkened his inner left forearm. It appeared to be the silhouette of a wolf, its howling snout tipped up to the sky. Around it was a thick, inky oval, and it was filled with a tapestry of textures that reminded her of the school crest of the university she’d attended.

  It gave her an idea. She pulled her tote bag onto her lap. She’d tucked a little notepad inside and always had a bundle of pens floating around her bag, so grabbing one, she began scrawling a few detailed thoughts on the third page of the notepad, since the first two pages were already filled with good material for her novel.

  “What are you doing?” he asked as he came to a stop at her cottage, headlights briefly illuminating the white siding and hanging, potted plants that lined the cozy front porch until he flipped those off and killed the engine.

  Why had he turned the truck off if he was just dropping her off?

  There were those butterflies again, but this time their fluttering wings felt as though they were made of shattered glass.

  “Nothing really,” she answered in delayed reply.

  The cabin light had eased on automatically the second Troy had turned the key in the ignition. He presented his inner forearm to her, allowing her a good look at his wolf tattoo that was surrounded by a wealth of others. He was heavily tatted, his two arms covered in sleeves of tattoos, and he even had a few creeping up the side of his neck.

  “It’s the Quinn clan crest,” he explained. “All of us have it.”

  “I see,” she said softly, feeling his eyes on her as she kept her gaze locked on the tattoo, too scared to look anywhere else at this point since it seemed all of his attention was now on her. He was even leaning towards her a bit, his elbow planted on the console between them, the length of his tattooed forearm practically spanning across her lap.

  “Is this what you were making note of in your little book?” he guessed. “For your novel?”

  In fact, it was, but she pulled her tote bag up against her chest, clutching it, which gave him no choice but to pull back his arm onto his side of the truck cabin.

  “I probably won’t be able to work it in,” she said with a shrug, implying he was right.

  Troy took a deep breath, a mile-long stare hazing over his dark eyes as he looked through the windshield at nothing in particular. Every time he took his attention off of her, she stole glances freely.

  “Truth is stranger than fiction,” he stated as if he’d learned it the hard way.

  Considering what had happened to poor Holly van Dyke, Reece agreed wholeheartedly.

  “I might not need to come up with much fiction,” she said softly, “considering what happened tonight.”

  A cloud of remorse pressed in on Reece and she felt her entire body slump, arms loosening from around her tote bag. She ought to push off, get inside, maybe pour herself a glass of wine and flip on the TV to give her brain a break from trying to make sense of Holly’s brutal death. But she couldn’t seem to get going. Even the door handle seemed too far away to take hold of.

  Troy popped his door open and the next thing she knew he was opening hers from the outside. She hadn’t even unbuckled her seatbelt, so she made quick work of accomplishing that much and when she lifted her eyes, she saw he was holding out his large hand to help her out of the truck.

  There was really nothing about Troy Quinn that screamed gentleman, not in his appearance anyhow, but she was coming to understand that looks could be deceiving.

  Having taken his hand and allowed him to help her step out of the truck, they made their way up the manicured, stone walkway to the front door of her cottage where a soft, amber light shined down under the knotty portico.

  Reece clutched her tote as if it might save her from whatever gentlemanly gesture Troy had in store for her next. She hadn’t been on a date in ages, and though she knew this was far from a date, there was something about having a man walk her to her door that called to mind that very experience.

  Fumbling, she pulled her keys from her tote bag, but stilled when Troy said, “You know I run Quinn Security.”

  “It’s a small town,” she allowed, indicating that of course she knew that.

  “I’d like to keep an eye on you in that regard.”

  Huh?

  “You would?” she asked, once again thrown. Why would she need a bodyguard? Randomly? Weren’t bodyguards needed for protection against stalkers and violent attacks? Sure, there was a vicious wolf somewhere out there, but why would that necessitate her, or anyone, needing the protective services of a military-trained agent?

  Rather than answer her, he took her keys from her, identified the house key, and proceeded to unlock her front door. If that hadn’t thoroughly alarmed her, the fact that he went right on in and held the door open for her to follow did.

  “Excuse me, Troy?” she questioned as he stalked right on through the shallow foyer and into the living room. Instinct must have told him where the light switches were, because he found them as he passed through without even hunting much, Reece padding in after him.

  “There a back door?” he asked, but before she could answer or even question him about just what in the heck he was doing, he added, “a basement?”

  “No, just the front door. And there’s a cellar, but you can’t get there except for the hatch out back.” As he took a slow lap around the living room, eyeing her cozy couch, the armchair and end tables, and all the decorative fixtures, and then coming to examine the windo
ws, their latches and locks, she asked in what she hoped sounded like a good-natured tone, “Do you know something I don’t about rabid wolves? Can they open windows and doors?”

  He cut his dark eyes at her, satisfied that the windows at the back of the cottage were secure, and gave her what she pegged as a guarded reply, “You ought to be cautious and stay on the safe side until the animal is found.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” she allowed, as she tried to read his veiled expression. “I’ll be praying that the sheriff and his deputies hunt down that wolf and put it to rest before anyone else gets attacked.”

  There was a flicker of doubt behind those dark eyes of his. Reece wasn’t entirely in the dark in that regard. The sheriff wasn’t exactly fond of Quinn Security, and the distrust went both ways. If Troy doubted Rick Abernathy could locate a rabid animal, even with all of animal control behind him, she wasn’t surprised. But from where Reece was standing, there seemed to be more to it than that, as though the concern that he was trying to keep hidden from his face was actually anchored to a much larger problem.

  He knew something she didn’t, and she knew that no matter what she asked, she wasn’t going to get it out of him.

  “I really ought to get to bed,” she mentioned.

  “Would you let Quinn Security keep an eye on you?”

  She felt her eyebrows shoot up to her hairline as her red-frame glasses slid a tad down her button nose. As she pushed them up, she said, “Why would I need—?”

  “Let me keep an eye on you.”

  She blinked. “Why, though?”

  Instead of answering her, he turned on his heels, having some strange sense of exact direction in her cottage, and disappeared down the hallway that led to the bathroom and her bedroom.

  “Troy?”

  She skirted after him, but just as she caught up to him in the bathroom, he was already starting out of it, passing her in favor of checking out her bedroom.

  Oh, for goodness sake!

  When she caught up to him once again, thoroughly embarrassed that she hadn’t made her bed or organized her writing desk—she didn’t want him to assume she was some kind of slob just because she lived alone—she found him yanking on the locked bedroom windows to test their strength.

  “I don’t mean to be rude here,” she began as he turned away from the windows, as satisfied as he’d seemed in the living room, “but you’re acting like you own the place.”

  “I don’t like you being in here all by yourself.”

  It scrambled her brain. A man who hadn’t said so much as five words to her every time he passed through the library, one who never glanced her way around town much less said hello, had barreled through her home and was now declaring what he didn’t like about her living situation? He wasn’t her father. He wasn’t even a distant cousin, for goodness sake. And yet, here he was voicing his opinion like it was his business.

  She frowned, planted her fists on her hips, and, scowling at him, asserted, “I insist you excuse yourself from my house right this very instant, thank you very much.”

  What he did next threw her for a real loop.

  He laughed.

  He actually had the audacity to grin as though she was cuter than a baby brown bear and let out a deep, low laugh.

  Folding her arms, she told him, “I believe you know where the door is.”

  He started through her bedroom for the doorway and as he passed her, he said, “If I’ve a mind to keep an eye on you, that’s what I’m gonna do.”

  “Is that right?” she challenged.

  He pivoted on his heel and towered over her so that she had to look up into his eyes, and maintained, “That’s right.”

  She narrowed her eyes into a tight glare. “Is that what happened with those boys on the street that time?” She could see, no matter how much of a brick wall he was determined to be, that he knew exactly what she was talking about. “You were keeping your eye on me and roughed up some punks who’d never learned any manners?”

  “Like I said,” he told her as he turned, giving his back to her in favor of the passing through the open bedroom doorway, “if I’ve a mind to keep an eye on you, that’s what I’m gonna do.”

  Or that’s what he’s been doing all along, she thought to herself, as she heard the clank of her keys against the kitchen counter followed by the distinct click of her cottage door closing.

  Next came the sound of Troy’s truck starting up in the driveway. Headlights blared through the curtained windows of the living room and then eased away as he drove off. Reece padded quickly to the front door, locked it, and made her hurried way all the way back into her bedroom, plopped down on her writing desk, pulled her laptop computer from her tote bag along with the little notepad she’d been collecting plot twists in, and got to work, inspiration having struck her like lightning.

  Certain details sprung forth from the notepad—wolf attack, family clan, a town filled with secrets—and she began working each and every one into her novel.

  It wasn’t just a work of fiction. It was a romance. And just now, Reece decided it would be about werewolves.

  After typing for some time, the flow of inspiration having compelled her, Troy suddenly sprang to mind…

  Werewolves…

  She lifted her head in deep thought, considering, but then laughed and laughed.

  “No way,” she told herself, laughing hard that she could ever suspect Troy Quinn or anyone of being a werewolf. “Werewolves don’t exist.”

  Chapter Five

  TROY

  At about the time Reece Gladstone was easing her slender body into a hot bubble bath to reward herself for a long chapter well written, a chilled glass of white wine resting on the edge of the tub next to the Nora Roberts paperback she’d been slowly chipping away at, Troy Quinn was holed up in Libations with his four brothers, seated around a table in the back, and working on his second pint.

  Libations was situated on the corner of Trout and Main, caddy-cornered from the library and just far enough from the police station that Troy and all his brothers could breathe without their blood boiling. Of course, the fact that the sheriff was seated at his favorite bar stool instead of out combing the town for the rabid wolf he’d fictionalized wasn’t helping matters. Lazy son of a bitch. But there was no rabid wolf or coyote or any other animal the sheriff had wrongfully assumed responsible for the death of Holly van Dyke. Still, Troy and all the Quinn men would’ve preferred Rick anywhere else but here.

  The bar was rustic and happening at this hour since it was a Friday night and the only place open in all of the Fist. Its owner, Jack Quagmire, was one of their own, a werewolf. He kept busy behind the bar but kept gravitating back to the sheriff, since Jack and Rick had developed something of a friendship years ago, not that Troy could fathom the reason for it. Rick was an ass as far as Troy could tell, but at the end of the day it was probably more beneficial than not that good ol’ Jack could get the inside scoop from the sheriff whenever the pack needed it. Jack Quagmire had both the looks and the friendly demeanor of any given bartender. Kind eyes, a good listener, the man appeared to be in his mid-forties, though that didn’t amount to even a quarter of his real age. Troy kept a watchful eye on their exchange from across the place, but he was unable to hear their ongoing conversation. Whatever tidbits were being discussed, however, he’d soon learn every last detail thanks to Jack’s loyalty.

  “It damn well has to be a Younger,” said Kaleb, the playboy of all the Quinn men. He might have been leaning in, speaking low and secretively, and fully invested in the conversation, but in true Kaleb Quinn fashion, he kept his lustful eyes scanning the bar for any interested ladies who might be willing to take a personal tour of his bedroom come closing time. “Who else would have such poor control of their urges?”

  “Could be,” Conor allowed, but their brash, army-fatigued-out brother, Shane, had other ideas.

  Shane was shaking his head in firm disagreement. “It’s gotta be a vendetta,” he
maintained, since none of his brothers had been convinced yet.

  “Shane,” their youngest brother, Dean, began balking with an eye roll and sarcastic, sideways grin. “This is Devil’s Fist, not the Bronx circa 1983. Vendettas belong to the Italian mob for Christ’s sake, not a bunch of dusty, Wyoming farmers.”

  “If you were listening,” Shane immediately retorted, “instead of just waiting for your turn to talk, you’d agree that we don’t know much about the other packs that occupy the Tetons or Montana or the western-most edge of Yellowstone. We keep to ourselves and maybe that’s been a mistake.”

  “If you’re suggesting,” Dean shot back, “that some other pack has breezed into the Fist, unbeknownst to us, to attack our residents… First of all, that’s not a vendetta, and second of all, shut the fuck up.”

  Shane slammed his fist on the wooden table, causing all the pints to slosh, and was on his feet, angling over Dean in the blink of an aggressive eye.

  Every patron in Libation looked over. Troy grabbed Shane by his black, sleeveless tank and yanked him back into his chair. The stares lingered, but only for a beat, and soon most everyone was back to minding their own business, except, of course, for the sheriff who kept his steely gaze glaring over their way for a tense minute.

  From behind the bar, Jack pulled Rick’s attention back.

  “Shane has a point,” Troy allowed. “I wouldn’t rule out that it could be one of our own, a Younger who’s struggling and too proud to ask for help. But it could also be a rogue wolf from another pack. Maybe a Younger of their own.”

  “Mom would know about the other werewolf packs in the surrounding areas,” offered Conor.

  “So would Grandmother Sasha,” agreed Kaleb, who had trained approximately ninety percent of his attention on the buxom blonde at the far end of the bar counter who’d been toying with a cherry stem between her teeth and smiling his way with absolutely no shame.

  “Okay,” said Troy decisively. “We’ll talk to them at first light.”