A Place to Call Home. Kathryn SpringerЧитать онлайн книгу.
while trying to resurrect the business his father had spent the last years of his life determined to bury, Quinn had discovered the cause and effect relationship between the two. Sometimes the first one depended upon the second.
“Are you buying a condo? Building a hotel in the area?” Quinn searched his desk drawer—the Bermuda Triangle of office supplies—for a pen that actually worked. “O’Halloran Security custom designs security systems to fit the needs of each client. We can set up an appointment to discuss the details—”
“I don’t need a new security system.”
Quinn frowned. “I thought you said you wanted to hire me.”
“I do. You recognized my name, and I recognized yours when I was researching businesses in the Mirror Lake area. I don’t need an alarm system. This is…personal.”
Personal.
Quinn’s fingers tightened around the phone. “Sorry. You’ve got the wrong person.”
“I don’t think so.”
“O’Halloran Security is strictly buildings. I don’t provide personal security.” Not anymore. “I’m sorry you wasted your time. But I have an appointment now, so you’ll have to excuse me. There are other reputable agencies in the Chicago area. I’m sure you’ll find someone.”
To walk you to your limo, Quinn added silently.
“It isn’t for me. It’s for my younger sister.”
Something in Porter’s voice stopped Quinn from hanging up the phone. A hint of emotion that cracked the surface of the cool, CEO voice. “Just hear me out.”
Don’t ask.
“Please.”
Coming from Porter, the word sounded as if he’d started speaking a foreign language. So, against his better judgment, Quinn asked.
“What’s going on?”
“Abby turned in her letter of resignation at the hotel a month ago and bought a run-down lodge a few miles outside of Mirror Lake. She plans to turn it into a bed-and-breakfast.” The disapproval leaking into Alex’s voice told Quinn how he felt about his sister’s decision. “You must have heard about it.”
“Maybe.” Quinn deliberately kept his voice noncommittal as a conversation he’d overheard stirred in his memory.
Although he tried to keep to himself, he had heard a rumor about the sale of the former Bible camp while waiting for his breakfast one morning at the Grapevine Café, where local gossip brewed as fast as Kate Nichols’s industrial-strength coffee.
“So far, Abby refuses to listen to reason and come back to Chicago where she belongs. It looks like I’m going to have to play this her way for a while.”
“So why did you call me?” Quinn’s lips twisted. “You need a bodyguard to keep the local riffraff away from her?”
That was ironic. At one time, his family portrait would have appeared beside the word riffraff in Webster’s Dictionary.
Alex chose to ignore the sarcasm. “A few weeks ago, someone started harassing me. Vandalized my car. Painted some, shall we say, rather unflattering graffiti on the window of my office. There haven’t been any overt threats made, but I want someone to keep an eye on Abby until my private investigator finds out who I angered.”
“That could take a while,” Quinn said under his breath.
To his amazement, Alex laughed. “It might,” he admitted. “I’m not concerned about myself as much as I am about Abby. She is…fragile. I can’t believe she’s serious about opening a bed-and-breakfast, but it doesn’t change the fact that right now she’s miles away from civilization, living in a house with hook-and-eye locks on the doors and windows that won’t close all the way. I want to be sure she’s safe.”
Some memories were so bitter he could taste them. “Then you should have done your homework. Because if that’s the case, I guarantee you called the wrong person.”
A tense silence stretched between them, and Quinn guessed it was because not many people had the guts to point out that Alex Porter made mistakes. Maybe he’d save Quinn the trouble and hang up first.
He didn’t.
“You spent four years in the Marine Corps. Seven years with Hamlin Security,” Alex recited evenly. “You moved back to your hometown a year ago to take over your father’s locksmith business after he died. Since then, you expanded to specialized security systems designed for summer homes and luxury condos.”
Apparently Porter had done his homework.
All those things were true. But Porter had left out a six-month gap in Quinn’s employment history. “You forgot something.”
“That you got a raw deal while you worked for Hamlin? Doesn’t matter.”
Didn’t matter?
Under different circumstances, Quinn might have been flattered. Except that he couldn’t believe someone could neatly condense the last thirteen years of his life and then dismiss the single event that had ripped it apart. Especially when it had cost him his career—and his reputation.
“I have a business. And it isn’t babysitting the rich and famous.” Been there, done that. Still pulling out shrapnel.
“I need the best. That’s you.”
“What you need to do is buy your sister a rottweiler and remind her to lock the doors at night,” Quinn shot back. “It sounds to me like you’re overreacting to a threat that doesn’t exist. And even if one does, it’s in Illinois, not Wisconsin. She’s probably safer here than anywhere.”
“I’m not taking any chances when it comes to Abby’s safety.” A hint of steel sharpened the words. “I want someone with her who’s experienced in sensing potential threats.”
That was funny. Because Quinn was sensing one right now. A threat to the life he’d started to rebuild.
It was proving to be challenging enough to erase the stain of having the last name O’Halloran without people getting wind of the reason he’d returned to Mirror Lake. Quinn figured if they knew the truth, he’d have to start at square one again. If he was allowed to start at all.
From the sound of it, the only thing Abby Porter was in danger of was being smothered by an overprotective brother. Getting involved with the Porters would be a bad idea, for more reasons than Quinn could count.
“I can’t help you.”
“You mean you won’t help me.”
It boiled down to the same thing. “I can give you some names,” Quinn offered reluctantly. “Talk to some people I used to know.”
Not that he could guarantee those people would talk to him.
“You’ve heard of the White Wolf Run condominiums, right?” Alex asked. “Jeff Gaines happens to be a close friend of mine.”
“Really?” Quinn’s voice was stripped of emotion.
Apparently, Porter had not only done his homework, he’d done the extra credit. O’Halloran Security had put in a bid on that job.
A wave of frustration battered Quinn’s resolve. This was the difference between the haves and the have-nots. When you belonged to the first group, all you had to do was open your wallet to get your way.
“I can put in a good word for you,” Alex said.
The underlying message was clear. If Quinn agreed to work for him.
The confidence in Porter’s voice rankled. And brought back that pride versus the paycheck issue again. Designing a security system for the White Wolf Run condos would boost Quinn’s income enough to wipe out some of his start-up debt, install an air conditioner in the sweltering