Excitement and arousal had raced through him. The more he'd learned about her, the more determined he had been to have her. She was sharply intelligent, witty, sarcastic at times and had a robust sense of humor that sometimes caught him off guard, though it always delighted him. And she burned with an inner intensity that drew him as inexorably as a magnet draws steel.
The intensity of his attraction had caught him off guard. He wanted to know everything there was to know about her, even her childhood memories, because that was a time in her life that would be forever closed to him. He wanted to have children with her and was fascinated by the possibility of a daughter in Elizabeth's image, a small, strong-willed, sharp-tongued, dimpled cherub. Talking about Elizabeth's own childhood made that possibility seem tantalizingly real.
At first Elizabeth had talked openly, with that faint arrogance of hers that said she had nothing to hide and he could like it or lump it. But then he had begun to sense that she was hiding something. It wasn't anything he could put his finger on; it was more of a withdrawal from him, as if she had built an inner wall and had no intention of letting him progress past that point.
Both his training and his nature made it impossible for him just to let it pass. Her withdrawal didn't make sense, because he knew, knew with every animal instinct in him that she felt the same way he did. She wanted him. She loved him. If she were truly hiding something, he wanted to know about it, and he had both the skill and the resources to find out just about anything in a person's life. His inquiries had turned up the fact that she had been married before, but the marriage had seemed to be fairly typical, and fairly brief, the sort of thing a lot of college graduates drifted into, quickly finding out they didn't suit. He'd had his own short fling with marriage at that age, so he knew how it happened. But the more he'd thought about it, the more he'd noticed that the period of her marriage was the one period she didn't talk about, not even mentioning that she'd ever been married at all. He was too good at what he did not to realize the significance of that, and he had begun to probe for answers about those two missing years. At the same time, feeling her slipping away from him, he had made a bold move to cement their relationship and taken her to bed, trusting in the bonds of the flesh to both break down the barriers and hold her to him until she learned to trust him completely.
It hadn't worked.
She had fled the next morning while he was still in the shower, and this was the first time he'd gotten her alone since then.
Over half a year wasted. Almost seven long damn months, endless nights spent in burning frustration, both physical and mental.
But he had her now, all alone, and before they left this building he intended to know just what the hell happened and have her back where she belonged, with him.
Chapter Four
"Let's get those snack machines raided," she muttered, grabbing up her ditty bag of goodies and heading for the door. Quinlan had been standing there, staring at her for what seemed like several minutes but had probably been less than thirty seconds. There was a hooded, predatory expression in his gleaming blue eyes, and she just couldn't stand there, like a tethered goat, for another second.
He sauntered out in her wake, and she relocked the office door, then looked up and down the dim hallway. "Just where are these snack machines?" she finally asked. "I'm not a junk food junkie, so I've never used them."
"There's a soft drink machine at this end of the hallway," he said, pointing, "but there are snack ma- chines in the insurance offices. They have a break room for their employees, but they let us use them." He set off down the long hallway, away from the bank of elevators, and Elizabeth trailed after him.
"How are we going to get in?" she asked caustically. "Shoot the lock off?"
"If I have to," he replied, lazy good humor in his voice. "But I don't think it will come to that."
She hoped not. From what she could tell, insurance companies tended to be rather humorless about such things. She could well imagine receiving a bill for damages, which she could certainly do without.
Quinlan knelt in front of the insurance company's locked door and unzipped the leather bag, taking from it a small case resembling the one in which she kept her makeup brushes. He flipped it open, though, and the resemblance ended. Instead of plush brushes, there was an assortment of oddly shaped metal tools. He took two of them out, inserted the long, thin, bent one into the keyhole, then slid the other instrument in beside it and jiggled it with small, delicate movements.
Elizabeth sidled closer, bending down to get a better look. "Can you teach me how to do that?" she asked in an absent tone, fascinated with the process.
The corners of his mouth twitched as he continued to gingerly work at the lock. "Why? Have you just discovered a larcenous streak?"
"Do you have one?" she shot back. "It just seems like a handy skill to have, since you never know when you'll accidentally lock yourself out."
"And you're going to start carrying a set of locksmith's tools in your purse?"
"Why not?" She nudged the black leather bag with her toe. "Evidently you carry one in yours."
"That isn't a purse. Ah," he said with satisfaction, as he felt the lock open. He withdrew the slender tools, stored them in their proper places in the case and replaced the case in the bag. Then he calmly opened the door.
"Explain the difference between my purse and yours," she said as she entered the dim, silent insurance office.
"It isn't a purse. The difference is the things that are in them."
"I see. So if I emptied the contents of my purse into your leather bag, it would then become a purse?"