The Quiet Storm. RaeAnne ThayneЧитать онлайн книгу.
Beau muttered a curse and captured her mouth with his.
Elizabeth sighed and settled against him. The kiss was soft and sweet. His skin was warm and smelled of his cologne, and she inhaled it deeply into her lungs while her mouth caressed his.
Under other circumstances she would rather have her derriere tattooed with a snake than be caught in the middle of an embrace like this where any stranger might see them.
But how could she step away when she had thought about being in his arms like this, secretly yearned for it, for so many months now? When she had imagined this kiss so many times—and was discovering that the reality of it far, far exceeded any fantasy?
She would have to go back to her dull, insular existence soon enough. For now, she wanted to savor every second.
The Quiet Storm
RaeAnne Thayne
RAEANNE THAYNE
lives in a graceful old Victorian nestled in the rugged mountains of Northern Utah, along with her husband and two young children. Her books have won numerous honors, including a RITA® Award nomination by the Romance Writers of America. RaeAnne loves to hear from readers. She can be reached through her Web site at www.raeannethayne.com or at P.O. Box 6682, North Logan, UT 84341.
To speech therapists everywhere.
Special thanks to Robert Hale, editor of the Waggoner Cruising Guide, for his invaluable help to this dedicated landlubber about all things nautical.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 1
The ice princess was nervous.
From his post by the door of the precinct break room, Beau Riley watched the woman perched on a plastic molded chair in front of his desk. She sat prim as a schoolgirl, with spine-cracking posture—knees perfectly aligned, shoulders back, those huge blue eyes focused neither to the right nor the left.
He might have thought she was carved from a thin glacial sheer except for her hands, which trembled ever so slightly.
No. Scratch that, he corrected himself, looking a little closer. She was more than nervous. She was scared to death. Elizabeth Quinn, multigazillionaire publishing heiress, looked ready to jump right out of her skin.
He had to admit he wanted to let her stew in it a little longer, let her sit there until perspiration popped out on that lush, perfect lip, until she was as jumpy as a grasshopper on a hot sidewalk.
The vindictiveness of the impulse startled him. Was his ego really so fragile?
Maybe. He had plenty of reason to dislike this particular rich bitch.
Still, curiosity was a far stronger element of his psyche than petty vengeance. He had to find out. What the hell was she doing perched at the desk of one of Seattle PD’s finest? What would possibly make the ice princess come down from her crystal palace to mingle with the rest of the world?
Whatever she was doing here, he wouldn’t find out unless he talked to her. With one hand fisted around the handle of his favorite Sonics coffee mug, he sauntered to his desk and loomed over her.
As he neared, she drew a deep breath as if gearing up for a firing squad, then she lifted her gaze to his. He wanted to think he saw an instant of shocked recognition in those cool-blue eyes, then she shielded whatever emotion might be lurking there.
“May I help you?” he asked, his voice sharp as an ice pick.
She blinked a little at his tone, and those pretty white hands fluttered just once then tightened on the strap of a slim little nothing of a purse he was willing to bet cost more than his month’s salary.
“Are you…” Her voice faltered and she closed her eyes. After a few seconds she opened them again. He was intrigued to see that the nervousness had given way to determination. “Are you Detective Riley?”
So it wasn’t a mistake. She was here looking for him. He narrowed his eyes as his curiosity kicked up a notch. Last time he’d seen her, she hadn’t been nearly as eager to talk to him.
“Yeah. I’m Riley. Who wants to know?” He couldn’t resist asking the question, even though he knew exactly who she was.
Muscles worked in her throat as she swallowed. “My name is Elizabeth Quinn. I’m a…friend of Grace Dugan’s. She gave me your name and said you might be able to help me.”
Ah. Suddenly things began to make more sense. He should have known Gracie had her meddling little fingerprints all over this somehow. His temporarily sidelined partner damn well ought to have enough on her plate with a husband like Jack Dugan, a new baby, an energetic seven-year-old and that big house out on Bainbridge Island.
But Gracie wasn’t content with that. Oh, no. She wasn’t happy unless she was coming up with new and creative ways to tangle up his life.
He swallowed a frustrated growl and turned his attention back to the latest complication perched in front of him. Damn. Why did it have to be Elizabeth Quinn? She probably needed a traffic ticket fixed or some other piddling thing.
He wanted to order her away from his desk. Wanted to snarl that he had real police business waiting for him and didn’t have time for this today. Before he could open his mouth, though, he caught sight of her hands again. Those long, slender fingers looked strangely vulnerable clasping that ridiculous bag. Closer inspection showed that instead of the glossy polish he might have expected, the nails were bare and looked as if they’d been chewed almost to the quick.
The sight shouldn’t have moved him. He was a hardened police detective who had seen the worst life had to offer. Still, a funny little twinge caught in his chest.
“How can I help you?” he finally asked.
Elizabeth Quinn pursed those lush lips, so at odds with the rest of her prissy, back-off demeanor. She followed his gaze to her hands, then looked back at him, and the sudden pain etched into her eyes like acid on glass took him by surprise.
It had been there all the time, he realized, just buried beneath all the nervousness.
“I need you to find a murderer,” she whispered.
Okay. He wasn’t expecting that one. He edged back in his chair and frowned. “We have a chain of command for these kinds of things, Ms. Quinn. If you’re here to report a crime, I can point you in the right direction. Other than that, I’m not sure how I can help you.”
Her chin lifted. “I’ve been through just about every link in that chain of command, Mr. Riley. I’m ready to hire private investigators, but Grace suggested I come to you first.”
Lucky him. He made a mental note to