to be able to get to you quickly.”
Olivia scowled. “Listen, Quinn, I—”
“Conor,” he interrupted. “You can call me Conor. And there’s no use arguing. I’m not going to change my mind.”
Olivia opened her mouth to protest, then snapped it shut. She’d never felt entirely safe with Detective Wright. But with Conor Quinn, there was no doubt in her mind that he’d do what he had to do to protect her, regardless of her feelings in the matter. When he’d grabbed her on the beach, she had to admit she’d been scared. What if he had been one of Keenan’s men? Chances were she’d be floating facedown in the bay right about now.
“I’m going to make a fresh pot of coffee,” she said grudgingly. “Would you like a cup?” He nodded, but when she got up, he followed her into the kitchen. He methodically checked the windows and doors, then sat down on a stool at the breakfast bar. “Are you going to follow me around all day?” she asked as she filled the pot with cold water.
“If I have to,” he said. His shrewd gaze skimmed over her body, blatantly, as if he were trying to see right through her clothes. “Why did you climb out the window?”
Olivia sighed. “You have to understand that I’m used to my own space, my own life. I never wanted this, never wanted to get involved. I shouldn’t be here.”
“But you are involved,” he murmured, his eyes probing, his expression curious.
“I tried to explain to the district attorney that I didn’t want to testify but—”
“Ms. Farrell, you have a duty to do what’s right. Red Keenan is scum, a big player in the mob. With your testimony, we can put him away. A little inconvenience on your part is nothing compared to the pain that man has caused countless innocent people.” With that, he pushed away from the counter and walked out of the room. “And stay away from the windows,” he called.
The rest of the day passed in excruciating boredom. She stayed away from the windows and out of Conor Quinn’s way. And he stayed just close enough to make her uneasy. Whenever she looked at him, he was watching her, silently, intently. Olivia assumed he was waiting for her to make another run for freedom. But she’d already resigned herself to her fate. The trial was twelve days away—twelve long days spent in the company of the brooding Conor Quinn. She’d need to choose her fights carefully if she expected to survive.
THE SMELLS coming from the kitchen were too much to resist. Conor glanced up from an old issue of Sports Illustrated, then levered himself up from the overstuffed chair he’d occupied for the past hour. Furrowing his hands through his hair, he wandered into the kitchen to find pots bubbling on the stove and Olivia Farrell busily chopping vegetables.
“Smells good,” he said.
She looked up at him for a brief moment, then turned her attention back to the salad she was preparing. “I asked Detective Wright for some groceries yesterday. I was getting a little tired of take-out meals and a little angry with my situation, so I made the grocery list as complicated as I could.”
He slid onto the kitchen stool. “What are you making?”
“Paella,” she said.
“What?”
“It’s an Italian seafood stew. They probably had fits trying to hunt down fresh shrimp and scallops. But then, I could afford to wait. I’ve got plenty of time, which is what it takes to make paella, and it’s always better the second day.” She looked at him again, this time letting her gaze linger for a long moment. Olivia Farrell had very alluring eyes, Conor concluded. Wide and trusting, ringed with thick lashes. She didn’t wear much makeup, allowing her natural beauty to shine through. “There’s a bottle of wine in the fridge. You can open it, if you like.”
“I shouldn’t drink on duty,” Conor said, reaching for the wine.
Olivia managed a tiny smile. “I promise I won’t try to escape again. You can have a small glass, can’t you?” She reached into a cabinet next to the sink and pulled out two wine goblets, then set them down in front of him.
Had this evening occurred under different circumstances, Conor could imagine them on a first date— Olivia cooking dinner for him at her apartment, Conor bringing the wine. He grabbed the bottle, then took the corkscrew and opened it. Perhaps if he thought of this as a personal rather than a professional relationship, it might be much more tolerable. “Do you like to cook?”
Olivia shrugged. “I don’t cook often,” she said, “at least not like this. It’s kind of silly to cook for one.”
“Then you don’t have a…” He let his question drift off. Maybe that was getting too personal.
“A boyfriend?” She shook her head. “Not right now. How about you?”
He smiled. “No boyfriend for me either.”
She glanced up, then giggled softly. “I meant, do you have a girlfriend? Or maybe a wife?”
He poured her a generous glass of wine, then splashed a bit into a goblet for himself. He wasn’t much of a wine drinker, but he had to admit that the crisp Chardonnay tasted good. “Cops don’t make good husbands.”
She reached for her glass, then took a sip as she studied him shrewdly. “The accent,” she said. “I can’t place it.”
“Southside Boston, with a dash of County Cork,” Conor replied. “I was born in Ireland.”
She raised her eyebrow. “When did you leave?”
“Twenty-seven years ago. I was six.” Conor hated talking about himself. His life had been so ordinary, of no interest to a sophisticated woman like Olivia Farrell. “Where are you from, Ms. Farrell?” he asked, deftly changing the subject.
“Olivia,” she said. “I’ve lived in Boston all my life.”
A long silence grew between them as he watched her preparing the meal. She moved with such grace, everything she did seemed like part of a dance and Conor found himself fascinated by the turn of her head or the flutter of her fingers. Even though she was casually dressed in a bulky cable-knit sweater and jeans, elegance and class seemed to radiate from her body.
“What made you become a cop?” she asked, interrupting his thoughts.
Conor pushed up from the stool and circled around the counter to peer into the pot she was stirring. “It’s a long story,” he said.
“Like I said, I’ve got plenty of time. Twelve days, in fact. Which is good, because trying to carry on a conversation with the likes of you is like talking to a—a bowl of vegetables.”
Conor chuckled. “I guess I don’t talk much.”
“Ah, a sentence with more than five words,” she said sarcastically. “We’re making progress. Before the night is out, I expect scintillating repartee.”
She dipped a spoon into the pot and tasted the sauce. Then she held out the spoon to him. He took her hand and steadied it as he licked the end of the spoon. The feel of her tiny wrist, her soft skin beneath his fingertips, sent a frisson of electricity up his arm.
Their
