the center of her parents’ universe had placed a heavy burden on her young shoulders. She’d actually believed that it was her duty to make her parents happy, and by the time she reached adulthood that feeling had transmitted itself to everyone around her.
“You care so deeply about everyone and everything,” Aunt Perdita had once told her. “Your devotion to Christopher is quite admirable, my dear child, but you must occasionally think of yourself. You’re a healthy young woman, with a woman’s needs. And what you need is a man.”
Her aunt had been half right about her needing a man. She had needed the man she loved to be whole again, for Chris to be as he’d once been—her friend and lover. But that had been an impossible dream. Her darling Chris had been a paraplegic for nine years before his death, completely paralyzed from the waist down and unable to function sexually. And two very brief and completely secret affairs had shown her that sex for the sake of sex was not what she wanted or needed.
There had been times when she’d wished she could be more like Lulu, who could so easily go from man to man with no regrets. She doubted that Lulu’s conscience had ever bothered her. What must that be like? Annabelle wondered.
After setting her cup of chocolate caramel coffee beside her laptop on the desk, Annabelle pulled out the chair. When the telephone rang, she jumped. Her nerves were shot. Not only had memories of Lulu as well as concerns about her cousin’s death and all that entailed kept her awake, but so had thoughts about Quinn Cortez. Ever since agreeing to become partners with the man in hiring Griffin Powell, she’d had a million and one second thoughts.
On the third ring, Annabelle lifted the receiver from the base on the desk. “Hello.”
“Ms. Vanderley?” a man’s voice asked.
“Yes, this is she.”
“This is Sergeant George, ma’am. I was wondering if I could come by and talk to you?”
“I—er—when?”
“Right now, if that’s convenient. I can be there in no time.”
“Do you have information about—”
“No, not really. Sorry. There’s nothing new,” he said. “But if you could spare the time, I’d like to go over a few things with you.”
“Yes, of course. I take it that you’re nearby.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then come right over. I want to do whatever I can to help the police.”
“Thank you.”
The minute she hung up the receiver, Annabelle dashed into the bedroom and stripped out of her comfy fleece sweatshirt and pants. Her wardrobe was limited since she’d brought only a couple changes of clothes, but thank goodness she’d brought along a pair of jeans. After dressing hurriedly in jeans, white shirt and slip-on loafers, she had just applied pink blush and lipstick when her guest arrived. Taking a deep breath, she rushed through the apartment.
Flinging open the door, she gasped when she saw the man standing there. Not Sergeant George. Definitely not the handsome young police officer.
“Mr. Cortez, what are you doing here?”
Wearing faded blue jeans, a beige turtleneck sweater and a brown leather jacket, he didn’t look like a wealthy lawyer. But even in casual attire, he possessed an aura of power and strength. And danger.
“I thought we needed to talk,” he said. “After we settled things with Griffin Powell last night, you rushed off in quite a hurry before we had a chance to discuss the situation.”
Go away. Leave me alone. I don’t want to see you or talk to you or think about you.
“There isn’t anything to discuss,” she said. “Not until Mr. Powell has some information for us.”
“May I come in?” he asked.
“I don’t see the need. Besides, I’m expecting company any minute now.”
“This shouldn’t take long. What if I come in and stay until your company shows up? Then I’ll leave.”
He wasn’t going to take no for an answer. It was that plain and simple. Short of slamming the door in his face—which is probably what she should do—her only alternative was to give him what he wanted.
“Very well, Mr. Cortez, you may come in for a few minutes.”
As he entered the apartment, he paused and their gazes locked. “I thought we agreed last night that you’d call me Quinn.”
Heat suffused her, warming her from head to toe. “Please, come in, Quinn.”
“Thank you, Ms. Vanderley.”
When he smiled at her, the bottom dropped out of her stomach. Dear God, had she gone so long without a man that she had become little more than a bitch in heat? What was wrong with her? She never—not ever!—reacted this way to a man.
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