In fact, Janine Taylor herself could be a problem. The leery woman had watched him as a sparrow might watch a stalking cat, a surprising—and unpleasant—contradiction to the guileless welcome he’d received from her Darby Ridge neighbors. Apparently she wasn’t a native of the area, yet she seemed rather young to have deliberately cloistered herself in such a remote location. Quinn had also noted a peculiar apprehension in those golden brown eyes, a secret fear that he might have found intriguing under other circumstances.
At the moment, however, his speculation wasn’t born of idle curiosity. It was crucial that he understand exactly with whom he was dealing. A mistake in judgment could be fatal.
Dropping his duffel on the tidy bed, he glanced around the sparsely furnished room. A frameless oval mirror was positioned over a plain pine bureau, unadorned except for an ashtray and a thin stack of magazines. A goosenecked floor lamp was positioned beside the dresser and a wobbly wooden chair sat under the room’s only window. There was also a narrow closet containing an extra pillow and a few bent hangers.
After a cursory inspection of the accommodations, Quinn rolled up the yellowing vinyl shade and was pleased to see that the second-story vantage point offered a clear view of the smoldering ruins several blocks away. That was an added bonus.
After reclosing the shade, he extracted a snub-nosed .357 revolver from his duffel, spun the cylinder to check load, then tucked the weapon into his jacket pocket and walked out of the room.
By late afternoon, the sun had broken the fog’s gray grip, and clouds billowed like cotton mushrooms in a field of cornflower blue. The breeze was cool, not chilly, but as she walked the familiar sidewalks of the quiet residential area, Janine paid no attention to the pleasant weather. Instead she clutched the empty canvas tote, stared at cracked concrete and plodded up the hill toward the place where only yesterday Marjorie Barker had tended her roses.
The acrid smell of smoke clung to the air, becoming even more pungent as Janine crested the rise. She didn’t want to look up, didn’t want to see the carnage. Swallowing hard, she focused on the brisk movements of her own sneakered feet and busied her mind by identifying the various weeds that flourished between the sidewalk’s concrete slabs.
Suddenly she jerked to a stop. From the corner of her eye she saw the smoke-stained pickets at the edge of the burned-out property. Hesitantly, she raised her eyes. The sight turned her stomach.
Beyond the fence, thorny stalks stood barren amid the clutter of shriveled blossoms and dead leaves—all that remained of Marjorie’s beloved garden. A brick chimney rose from an elongated heap of charred and blackened debris; everything else had been completely consumed by the raging flames.
Both repulsed and ghoulishly fascinated, she was unable to look away. That scorched skeleton had once been a home, a safe haven that had suddenly and inexplicably turned deadly. The grim scene was a bleak reminder of how fragile life was, how easily destroyed.
As Janine contemplated that sobering thought, a movement beyond the ruins caught her attention. She shaded her eyes and was stunned to see her newest tenant lurking in the shadows beyond the burnt hulk of Marjorie Barker’s house.
Quinn Coulliard emerged from behind a tree not thirty feet away. Apparently unaware of her presence, he walked to the edge of the rubble and bent to examine a charred remnant. After a moment he dropped the object then stared at the cold ashes with an expression of regret and utter despair that touched Janine to the bone.
As she studied the man’s jagged profile, she noted that his features appeared softer, less intimidating than she’d first thought and the subtle slump of his shoulders hinted at an unexpected vulnerability that was oddly appealing.
A breeze swirled through the site, scattering ashes and whipping the few loose hairs that had escaped the binding at his nape. Standing, he absently brushed the long strands from his face, turned into the wind and looked straight at Janine. The grief in his eyes took her breath away.
In less than a heartbeat that intense sadness dissolved into an impassive stare. He nodded an acknowledgment, ducked under the yellow police ribbon haphazardly stretched around the perimeter and sauntered toward the sidewalk. Tucking his hands in his jacket pockets, he gestured toward the fire scene with his head. “How did this happen?”
Janine shrugged weakly. “I don’t know. Since our fire fighters are all volunteers, the investigation team will probably come from Eugene, which is about fifty miles west of here.”
“When is this team expected?”
“I have no idea. Why do you ask?”
“The site is unprotected,” he replied curtly. “When a death is involved, authorities aren’t usually so cavalier about preserving evidence.”
A cold chill skittered down her spine. “How did you know that someone died here?”
“Word gets around, even to newcomers.” His wintry eyes held her captive. “Some say it was arson.”
Although the last comment was issued like an afterthought, Janine was nonplussed by the intensity of his gaze. She moistened her lips, reminding herself that a man so deeply affected by a stranger’s tragedy must be more compassionate than those secretive eyes would indicate. “Small-town gossip tends to be overly dramatic, Mr. Coulliard. The fire was probably started by a spark from the fireplace or an electrical short.”
“It wasn’t.”
“How do you know that?”
Without answering her question, he gazed at the burned rubble. A muscle below his ear twitched. His jaw clenched and beneath his sculpted cheekbones deep hollows suddenly appeared as though the flesh had been gouged away by demonic fingers. Shaded by a thick fringe of darkness, Quinn’s eyes were as cold as frozen ponds and his sharply angled features hardened like a stone mask, revealing a leashed rage that frightened her half to death.
She stumbled backward, her heart pounding wildly.
Suddenly the fearsome expression dissipated and was replaced by one of calm concern. As Janine followed the direction of his gaze, she saw two frightened children cowering behind a tree at the edge of the burned property.
Quinn greeted them softly. “Hello.”
A brown-eyed boy of about nine emerged towing a blond girl who appeared to be a year or two younger. Janine recognized them as Rodney and Sara Drake, who lived a few houses up the block.
The boy nervously returned Quinn’s smile. “Hi.”
After Janine completed the introductions, Quinn squatted down to the children’s level, smiling at the girl who peeked out shyly from behind her brother.
“Sara is a pretty name,” Quinn told her and was rewarded by a happy giggle. He turned his attention to the somber young boy. “I’ll bet you take good care of your sister, don’t you, Rodney?”
The boy nodded. “I have to, ’cause she’s a girl and all.”
An amused twinkle warmed Quinn’s pale eyes and the transformation was stunning. As Janine watched in mute fascination, the man who had terrified her only moments ago now exuded a magnetism that shook her to the soles of her feet.
And she wasn’t the only one affected. Quinn was speaking softly, gesturing toward the burnt house, and both children were
