of the register, Amy, but what you must understand is—”
“I have copies,” Amy said, holding up a handful of photocopies.
A woman with garnet-red hair popped up from her seat in the front of the public gallery. She winked at Quinn as she crossed the room and took the copies from Amy. It took him a moment to realize it was Denise Jenkins. She’d had mousy brown hair when he’d last seen her.
“Thanks, ‘Nise,” Amy whispered.
“Kick ass, sweetie,” Denise whispered back. Then she turned to distribute the copies to the council members.
“I have a copy for you, too, Mr. Ulrich, in case you aren’t aware that both the interior and exterior of the theatre are listed for protection,” Amy said.
She held a sheet out, but both Ulrich and his lawyer ignored her. Surprise, surprise. The last thing they wanted was to hear about the architectural features they planned to turn to rubble at the earliest opportunity.
Amy shrugged, then launched into her argument. She was passionate and articulate, her small body vibrating with determination. Quinn alternated between making notes and watching her face. Despite the circumstances, despite the distance that had grown between them, it was good to see her. To look into her familiar brown eyes and hear her voice.
Opening salvo fired, Amy sat. She glanced at him and he smiled. She offered him a nervous grimace in return.
Ulrich’s lawyer stood next, launching into a soliloquy on the “extraordinary and prohibitively expensive” accommodations Ulrich had built into his plans to preserve the theatre’s historic facade, painting the other man as a community benefactor sacrificing personal wealth for the good of all.
“What a load of bullshit,” Amy muttered under her breath.
“Come on, the guy’s clearly a saint,” Quinn murmured. “One step away from being recognized by the Pope.”
“Thank you, Mr. Collins,” Reg said when the lawyer was done. “I think we’ve all heard enough to make an informed decision. Ladies and gentlemen, I believe we’re ready to vote.”
Quinn almost laughed at the clumsiness of the other man’s tactics. They’d barely opened discussion, yet the chairman was trying to ram the vote through. Quinn was suddenly very, very glad that he’d decided to ditch his vacation.
An angry murmur went up from the gallery. Amy started to stand again, but he caught her arm.
“My turn, I think,” he said quietly.
He rose. “Before you start tallying votes, Chairman Hanover, I’d like to draw the council’s attention to a number of recent findings in the Victorian Supreme Court. It might be helpful for council to understand what penalties have been applied to cases where historically listed sites have been exploited by unscrupulous developers.”
That brought Ulrich’s lawyer to his feet.
“I object to the inference that my client is unscrupulous,” the younger man said.
“Go right ahead. But you might want to remember that we’re not in a court of law so there’s no one to actually uphold your objection,” Quinn said. “But please, feel free if it increases your billable hours.”
Ulrich’s lawyer turned a dull brick-red. Quinn refocused on the council members. Eight men and women, all of them looking decidedly uncomfortable. They were about to get more so.
“I’d also like to remind councillors that when they were elected to office they took an oath which binds them to a code of conduct which requires them to uphold all the bylaws of the county, not simply those which are deemed convenient at the time.”
Several of the councillors shifted in their seats. Quinn undid the button on his jacket and slid his hands into his trouser pockets. He had the floor, and he wasn’t giving it up until he had these bastards on the run.
“Where was I? Right, the State of Victoria versus Simpkin-Gist Construction …”
TWO HOURS LATER, Amy exited the council building and stopped on the front steps to suck in big lungfuls of cool night air. She was a little light-headed after the tension of the past few hours. Her armpits were damp with sweat, she’d chewed her thumbnail down to the quick, and she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry or jump with joy.
She owned the Grand. As of fifteen minutes ago, Quinn had talked the council into signing the sale contract. She’d had to pay more than she’d anticipated, thanks to Ulrich upping the ante, but it was hers. At last. After ten years and a last-minute rush to the finish line.
It didn’t feel quite real.
“Here you are! One minute you were standing there, surrounded by everyone, the next you were gone,” her mother said from behind her.
Amy turned to face her. “I needed some fresh air. It all got a bit crazy in there once the contract was finalized.”
The doors opened behind them and her father and Quinn joined them, both smiling broadly.
“I was just telling Quinn that I haven’t enjoyed anything so much since Mohammed Ali took on George Foreman in the Rumble in the Jungle. The way he took those councillors apart …” Her father clapped a hand onto Quinn’s shoulder and gave him an approving shake.
“It was a pleasure, believe me,” Quinn said.
Amy looked at him, standing there with his dark hair gleaming in the light from the street lamp. He’d been her knight in shining armor tonight, riding up out of nowhere and vanquishing her enemies. Her heart swelled with old, foolish emotions.
“Quinn, I don’t know what to say. You gave up your holiday—Lisa is probably cursing my name—and you won me the Grand.”
Even though she knew it probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do given her unrequited crush, Amy stepped forward and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
“Thank you! From the bottom of my heart.”
She started to pull away but Quinn’s arms came around her and the next thing she knew she was clamped against his chest and he was spinning her around.
“You made it, Ames,” he said. “Woohoo!”
His wool coat was as soft as silk beneath her hands, his body beneath it big and strong. She closed her eyes and inhaled the smell of expensive fabric and subtle, woody aftershave.
“And it only took ten years and every cent she’s ever earned,” her father said drily.
Quinn set her on her feet and she tried to look as though her heart wasn’t pounding out of control because he’d held her in his arms for a few short seconds.
“We need to celebrate,” she said. “We need to drink champagne and thank the gods that Quinn decided to become a lawyer instead of a doctor when he applied to university all those years ago.”
Her father looked rueful. “I’d love to, sweetheart, but we’ve got that lumber shipment coming in first thing. If I have a glass of wine now I’ll be useless tomorrow.”
This
