

As dawn sneaked into the room the next morning, Quinn wrote a quick note to Claire and set it on the pillow beside hers. He almost stroked her hair, almost kissed her. But if she woke he would have to explain that he was going back to the prison, and why. He was going to be in enough hot water when he told her he had no intention of dropping the investigation, as she wanted. It was too late.
So he left her sleeping and made his way to his own room for a quick shower, grateful he'd stuck his room key card in his pocket before he'd jumped balconies. Making the leap in daylight would probably have brought security running.
After he headed onto the highway a little while later, he tried to put Claire out of his mind, not wanting her tainted even by his thoughts. He'd been shocked yesterday when the warden's assistant had taken him aside and told him what they knew about him. He'd felt dirty. Claire needed to stay untouched by his past.
He was tempted to visit Beecham again. Claire hadn't let Quinn ask the questions he'd been on the verge of putting to him when she decided she'd had enough. Reading between the lines of Beecham's comments and answers, it was easy to determine that he thought Jenn knew where his money was---or diamonds, or whatever form of currency he'd converted the money into. And Beecham was worried.
Had Claire seen that? They hadn't discussed it. He'd gone out of his way not to discuss it, wanting to have one memorable night with her, without the real world intruding.
But reality always reared its ugly head, and today was no different. He pulled into the main gate at the prison, answered the guard in the tower about why he was there and what was in his car, as he'd done yesterday. Allowed in, he took his time getting out of the car, steeling himself for the confrontation ahead.
Your past is about to catch up with you.
He heard Marie's voice, distinct and cautionary, as he walked toward the prison entrance. She'd also told Claire that he needed to face it. Now or never.
The psychic hotline was open, after all. And accurate.
Because he was entering the medium-security prison instead of the minimum-security camp of yesterday, he stood at the waiting-room counter as his background was again checked, as well as the special approval granted yesterday for him to enter before official visiting hours, even though he hadn't decided until this morning to come back.
He filled out new forms, had his hand stamped with invisible ink, then emptied his pockets into a locker, as he had yesterday. He stepped into a space between metal gates surrounded by rolled razor wire. A metal door slid shut behind him, a clanging death knell. No joy would be found here, and little hope. To survive, one must live in the here and now, but also think about what put you behind bars.
Quinn was led into a visiting room similar to the one yesterday, except that the environment seemed even more gray, more hopeless, more disturbing. The room was empty. He almost wished it teemed with people. Noise might have helped.
He was assigned a table, but he wanted to prowl the room. He'd made the decision, so there was no turning back, but the waiting made his gut clench, his stomach churn and his jaw ache.
He didn't know what to expect. Perhaps that was the hardest of all for someone whose name might as well be Control. For seventeen years he'd lived and worked toward his primary goal of earning respect, of being known as trustworthy, so that no one could question him---ever---about his motives. He could control what happened to his reputation. He couldn't control this moment.
C'mon, c'mon, c'mon. Bile rose in his throat from the agony of waiting. He pushed his palms against his legs, stopping them from bouncing.
The door opened. A man entered, followed by a guard. The man stopped when he spotted Quinn, then was prodded forward.
"Take a seat," the guard said.
Fascinated and repelled, Quinn said nothing.
Chair legs scraped the floor as the man lowered himself into a seat across from Quinn, his gaze never leaving Quinn's face.
"Son," Robert Gerard said finally.
Quinn couldn't call him Dad, as he had for the first eighteen years of his life. Or Father. Or any title of respect. He wouldn't even have recognized him. What was left of his hair was steel-gray. His eyes were light brown, like Quinn's, except that they lacked sheen. The whites were tinged with yellow, as was his skin. Sharp cheekbones emphasized deep hollows in his cheeks. His brittle body stooped so much he looked in danger of tipping forward. His fingers curled into his hands like an old man's might, although he was only sixty-one.
"I didn't know you'd been moved here," Quinn said.
"Last week. For good behavior," he said, irony coating the words. "I stopped trying to contact you years ago, Bobby. Once a month I tried, for how many years? Seven? Eight? Every time, the letters came back, unopened."
Quinn ignored the hurt embedded in his father's tone. "I don't go by 'Bobby' anymore." He'd given up the name when his father had been convicted of treason and given a life-without-parole sentence when Quinn was eighteen years old.
Robert's brows lifted. "What do I call you?"
"Quinn."
"Your middle name. Your mother's maiden name."
"Better than the alternative." Although not by much. His mother had damaged Quinn's life in her own way, too.
"Your mother also lost track of you," Robert said.
"I was supposed to stay in touch?" Quinn asked, stunned.
"Yes."
"She's the one who abandoned me." After his father's betrayal.
"She asked you to go with her."
"To Europe? Into exile? To live off your ill-gotten gains?"
"Your mother made many sacrifices by taking that route, the biggest one---leaving you."
"Right. She took the money you got for selling state secrets and has been living the good life ever since."
"What did you want her to do?"
"Give the money back. Rebuild her life. She wasn't the criminal. You were."
"Still an idealist, I see." He leaned toward Quinn. "You think she could have lived anywhere in the United States and been treated as anything other than the wife of a spy? You think anyone would've believed she didn't know what I'd been doing? Her only hope for a decent life was to live beyond the reach of those who knew of me. And if you think she had a whole lot of money to start new with, you're dead wrong. Contrary to popular opinion, spying isn't all that lucrative."
Quinn recoiled from the joking tone of Robert's last sentence. "According to the prosecutors, you made a lot of money."
"What I made I used to improve our lives. Then the government sold everything, and the profits were confiscated."
Quinn stared at him in shock. "We needed to improve our position in life so much that you would resort to selling secrets to the enemy?"
"When your mother agreed to marry me," Robert said as if reading a bedtime story, "I promised to care for her. I hadn't been doing a good job."
"You committed crimes against your own country so that---" he couldn't say Mom "---your wife could have a bigger house and a new car?"
"Peggy was fragile."
"Weak."
"Maybe."
"You let her be. Then you blamed her for your own weakness."
"I turned myself in to protect you and your mother. I wouldn't call that weak."
"I would call that looking out for number one," Quinn said. "You turned yourself in before you got caught. Too little. Too late."
"I live with the hope that it's never too late."
Quinn tried to read between the lines. "Do you expect sympathy?"
"I'm trying to get you to understand. You wouldn't let me explain before. I figure this is my only opportunity. When I heard you were here, so much ran through my head. I thought maybe you were going to forgive me."
"Dream on."
"Forgiveness is good for the soul." His momentary bravado deserted him. Even his shaky voice gave away his emotion.
Quinn hated being confined to a chair. He needed to walk. He needed to drag his father up by his shirt and shout in his face. Instead he said in a low voice, "You went to prison. My mother went halfway around the world. And you both left me to live with your betrayals. Because of you I lost my life and my friends. I've lived in the shadows for most of my adult life, afraid someone would make the connection." I've just now come into the sun. I won't go back. I can't. "You can go to your grave hoping for forgiveness," Quinn added, crossing his arms. "It isn't going to happen."
Robert sank into himself. He finally stopped looking at Quinn, focusing instead on the tabletop. "Why did you come?" he asked, defeat in his voice.
"Because I was here yesterday interviewing another prisoner. Like everyone else, I'd had to go through a background check to get in here, which revealed my connection with you. I was asked if I had come to see you, too."
"You hadn't sought me out."
"Hell, no."
Robert moved a shoulder as if to ward off a blow. "Then why did you come back today? You could've gone back to wherever it is you live and forgotten all about me."
"Curiosity."
"And has your curiosity been satisfied?"
"For a lifetime."
Robert raised his head slowly. His gaze drilled Quinn.
"Maybe someday you'll find it in your heart to forgive me, after all, for ruining your life. I sold some technology. No one died because of what I did. The world didn't come to an end, either."
"My world did." Quinn pushed his shoulders back, but a seed of guilt sprouted. His life wasn't ruined. He'd made a success of himself despite his parents' selfishness and abandonment. He'd learned to live without support from his family. But he felt like Claire had yesterday---he couldn't endure another revelation.
Still, he had an important question to ask. "Are you sorry for what you did?"
"Every day."
Quinn nodded, then he made eye contact with the guard, who stood across the room. "I'm ready to leave."
"Wait." His father stopped the guard with a gesture. "Humor an old man for a minute with a couple of questions." He paused. When Quinn offered no encouragement, but no rejection, either, he said, "You said you were here interviewing another inmate. Did you become a lawyer, as you'd always planned?"
"A private investigator."
"Why'd you change?"
"I could stay invisible."
"Ah." Robert nodded. "Are you married? Do you have children?"
"No." He needed to get out of there, but he couldn't leave until his father was taken away. "I have nothing more to say."
Robert stood but didn't move away from the table. "You're my son, and I love you," he said, his voice quavering. "Thank you for seeing me."
I love you. The words twisted Quinn's heart into a pounding mass. But no words came in return.
"I have your mother's address and phone number if you want it."
"Did she remarry?"
"We never divorced." The guard urged him along. Over his shoulder he said, "Hate me forever, if you want. Your mother's only crime was to fall in love with someone who couldn't give her the life she deserved."
Quinn said nothing.
"She's your mother, Bobby."
The door shut. Quinn didn't move until another guard roused him. Even then, he made the walk back to his car in a daze. He drove until he found a bluff overlooking the ocean. In the distance he saw the hotel where he'd spent a wonderful night with Claire, the kind of night that made memories. They'd made love twice, the second time with less control, less tenderness, but even more emotion, a freeing kind of lovemaking that said everything necessary without using any words.
She would ask where he had been. He wouldn't tell her the truth because he didn't want to talk to her about it. She would ask questions, offer sympathy, perhaps even advise him to contact his mother, to end the questions he had about her, too. But that part of his life was over. He'd moved on, as he'd told her before. A Pollyanna wouldn't understand that.
He sat on a rock and closed his eyes. The sun bathed his face. He recognized the emptiness yawning inside him, because he'd lived with it for so many years. Claire had just begun to fill that emptiness. Would she continue, especially after he told her he wouldn't stop looking for Jenn---to finish that business?
Time passed. Minutes, an hour, he didn't know. Finally he dragged his hands down his face. His palms picked up moisture. He stared at them, bewildered. How---?
Angry, he stood, wiping his face again. No. He refused to let his father's words get to him. Not now, not when life was opening up for him.
You're my son, and I love you.
The words wouldn't go away anytime soon. But if he drove fast enough, kept busy enough, worked hard enough, they would recede, fade. Disappear. Again.
For now, he would pick up the eternal optimist Claire Winston and somehow make the six-hour drive home without telling her about his father or letting her help soothe his mixed emotions about the man---and the woman, his mother.
He knew exactly what Claire would say. "I would give anything to have my parents back. Find a way to forgive them. You know in your heart of hearts it's what you need."
Which would only show that she didn't know him at all.
Claire crouched in the sand as a wave receded, her legs cold from the hour she'd spent walking along the shore. She watched a tiny crab dig himself into the sand, an air bubble rising from where he'd disappeared, then she stood and jogged back as another wave washed up. It was low tide. The waves rolled in and retreated with little fuss or noise. She'd picked up a shell here and there, examined it, then returned it to the sea, except for one which she stuck in her pocket as a memento.
Her sandals dangling from one hand, she shaded her eyes and glanced toward the stairway that made a steep descent from the hotel property to the beach. Empty.
Where was Quinn?
She'd awakened to a note on her pillow saying that breakfast would be delivered at 8:00 a.m., and that he thought he'd be back by nine. No mention of where he was going.
She'd hoped to wake up in his arms. She'd wanted to lie in bed with him and talk and touch.
Instead she'd opened the door to a uniformed man pushing a wheeled serving cart, then eaten a breakfast of Belgian waffles with fresh strawberries and whipped cream all by herself. Even though the surroundings and the view were awesome, she barely enjoyed the luxury.
"Claire!"
She searched out the voice, then spotted Quinn starting down the stairway, not slowly but not hurrying either. She didn't know how to react. She was irritated that he'd left her a note instead of waking her to say he would be gone for a while. She was also warm and satisfied from their lovemaking, and grateful for his generosity for bringing her here and appreciative of his determination in trying to track down Jenn before the authorities did.
The pros far outweighed the cons, so she ignored the hurt to simply welcome him back.
He walked like a man headed for a showdown, his strides measured, totally focused on what was ahead---her. Because her heartbeat picked up audibly, she smiled.
He smiled, too. Tentatively at first, then it reached his eyes just as he came up to her. He was doing that more and more with her lately---smiling. She was achieving her goal to bring more fun to his life. That satisfied her.
She laid her hands on his chest. "How are---"
He kissed her. And kissed her. And kissed her. Then he hauled her close and held tight, his arms enveloping her.
"I missed you," she said, her words muffled by his chest.
He said nothing. "Did you eat?" he asked finally, disappointing her that he hadn't said anything personal in return.
"Yes. Did you?"
"Not yet."
"I'll have coffee with you while you have breakfast." She felt almost like a stranger, except that he was holding her as if they would slip off the earth if he let go.
"Okay."
"I need to freshen up first," she added.
He nodded. They walked hand in hand up the steep wooden stairs. At the top was a low faucet. Quinn knelt at her feet to rinse off the sand. She stared at the top of his head. He took his time, brushing every speck from her legs and feet. Something was weighing on him. She could tell from the way he set his shoulders---and his mouth. Something big. Something he wouldn't want to talk about. She didn't know how she knew that, but she did.
She decided not to put him on the spot by asking.
He rinsed his own feet quickly. They slipped on their sandals and made the walk to her room in silence. He followed her inside. The note he'd written her still lay on the pillow. In the mirror's reflection she saw him look at it. His mouth tightened.
"I'll wait on the balcony," he said, heading there.
She laid a hand on his arm, stopping him. His eyes were filled with some kind of agony. What happened? What's changed? she asked him silently.
He gave no answers, but she knew she had to give him something else to think about. Grabbing hold of her nerve, she lifted her T-shirt over her head, toed off her sandals and pushed her shorts down, kicking them aside. She knelt on the bed then went to work unbuttoning his shirt. At first he stood rigid, resisting but not rejecting, then gradually he turned his attention on her.
"I don't think I would've expected such sexy lingerie, P.A.," he said, eyeing her as she slipped his shirt over his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.
"I'm full of surprises," she said, giving him a sultry look, then laughing at her attempt. She unfastened his shorts, grateful that she could see and feel that she'd distracted him from whatever was on his mind.
Naked he joined her on the bed. He put his fingers on the front catch of her bra. He took his time ridding her of her undergarments, stopping to admire and touch and taste, already knowing what excited her and what drove her wild.
"My turn," she said after a while, making him stop, giving him a little shove.
He didn't protest, but let himself fall back on the bed. His head landed on the note he'd left. He reached for it. She pulled it from him, crumpled it and tossed it aside. It landed in the wastebasket.
"Two points," she said, raising her arms in victory.
He moved his thumbs over her nipples. "Two very nice points," he agreed.
Was that gratitude in his eyes for not mentioning the note? She chose to think so. She also chose to make him forget everything except her---the feel of her hands caressing, and her lips tasting and her mouth savoring. He grabbed her hair, holding it away from her face so that he could watch. She made him quiver. She made him suck in his breath. She made him---
"Come here," he said, pulling her up.
She straddled him, lowered herself onto him, moved with him, feeling desired and cherished and wanted. He took her breast in his mouth, slid his hands over her rear, helping her find a rhythm, then letting her set the pace. She moved until she was almost at the peak, then stopped until the sensation faded. Then moved again. Stopped again.
"I can't," he said, low and harsh, switching their positions and driving into her, driving coherent thought out of her.
There was only sensation. A fast climb, a powerful ascent, a mighty crest. He groaned her name. She raised her hips higher, dug her fingers into his back. He picked up speed and force. His mouth came down hard on hers, open, hot, wet. Everything intensified---the heat, the drive, the pleasure. And finally, joy. Sublime joy. Bliss.
After a while she came aware of the lovely weight of him sprawled on her, and the sound of his breathing as it settled, and the feel of his hand as he stroked her hair.
"Thank you," he said.
"No, thank you," she said solemnly, trying not to smile.
He levered himself on his arms and looked into her eyes. "I guess saying thanks was a little..."
"Silly."
"Not a word I would use, but, yes."
"So why did you? Say thank you?" She combed his hair with her fingers, trying to keep the moment light.
"I don't know."
He did. But he wasn't saying. "Okay," she said. "Did you work up an appetite?"
He rolled to one side, keeping her close. "Satisfied one appetite, and now I'm ready to satisfy another." He brushed her hair from her face. "You haven't asked any questions about this morning. Where I was."
"I figure you'll tell me if you want to." Yes, she was curious. More than curious.
"And if I never do?"
She turned her head and pressed a kiss into his palm. When she looked at him again, she let her sadness show. "Then we don't have much of a relationship, do we?"
Eight hours later Claire was still wondering why he wouldn't talk about where he'd gone that morning. They pulled up in front of her house, blocking her driveway and the sidewalk.
From that she assumed he wasn't planning to get out of his car. Looking away so that he couldn't see her disappointment, she pulled the door handle.
He leaned across, putting his hand on hers. "Claire."
Keep it light. Keep it light. "Hmm?"
"According to my voice mail, I have a lot of work waiting for me. I hadn't planned on staying over in Santa Barbara last night, so things piled up. It'll take me hours to deal with it all."
"Meaning?"
"That's why I'm not coming inside."
"Oh." She waved a hand. "I hadn't thought about it."
He waited a few beats. "I'll call you tomorrow."
"Okay." She stared out the windshield for several seconds before she finally made eye contact. "I'm sorry about Jenn."
"Sorry for what?"
"That we didn't find out anything that would help in locating her. I know you wanted to clear your reputation."
His pause was longer this time. "I'll survive."
"Good," she said with false cheer. There was nothing more to say. She gathered her fancy shopping bag and opened the car door.
"No kiss goodbye?" he asked.
She hadn't realized how tightly wound she was until he said that. Sheer determination kept her from climbing into his lap and burying her face against his neck. She wished he would stay. She wished she could have him all to herself for another night.
I'm not long-term material, he'd said before. She couldn't hold him with wishes.
Claire turned toward him. He ran his fingertips down her hair, then hooked it over her ears. Then he cupped her head and kissed her, dragging his lips back and forth across hers before finally settling for a long, sweet kiss.
"Sleep tight," he said.
"Don't let the bedbugs bite," she answered lightly. She climbed out of the car. Before she shut the door she leaned back in to pass him what she'd been fingering since they left Santa Barbara. "Here." She dropped it in his hand.
He held it aloft, the small, white, surf-worn shell she'd kept.
"A memento, M.Q."
He tucked it in his fist. "'Bye."
She was aware of him watching as she let herself into the house. Because of that, she didn't look back.
After she'd greeted Rase and checked her answering-machine messages and her mail, she glanced out the window in time to see him pull away. He'd been waiting. In case she needed him.
She leaned against the window frame and closed her eyes.
So. She'd fallen the rest of the way in love with him. She'd thought she could be so sophisticated and mature about this relationship. He'd been honest about not being the kind to stick around. She'd deceived herself that she could accept the relationship on his terms. She wanted much more than just to bring fun into his life. She thought he'd needed her. Well, she needed him, too.
Rase whimpered at her feet. She knelt down, put her arms around his neck and pressed her face into his coat.
"What do I do now, boy?"
He barked, the deep sound that didn't fit the small body making Claire smile.
"You like him, too," she said with a sigh, sitting on the floor to let Rase show his affection. She scratched his haunches and his ears. He moaned with pleasure, which made her laugh.
"Okay. Enough moping." They'd stopped for dinner on the way back, so she wasn't hungry, just restless. She wandered into her office and turned on her computer, then brought up her e-mail---and found a note from Jenn.


