The Third Victim Part 69

"What's your ex-wife like?"

"Christ, you're trying to kill me."

Rainie sat up. She gazed at him more frankly.

"I mean it. What's your ex-wife like?"

Quincy sighed. Apparently he decided she was serious, for now he took the cap off his beer bottle and drank deeply. Then he settled back on his elbows in the middle of the queen-size bed. Her curled feet loosened enough to nestle against the side of his hip. She admired the line of his throat against the open collar of his white dress s.h.i.+rt.

"Bethie's a good mother," he said finally.

"She takes wonderful care of our daughters daughter. Daughters."

"How did you meet?"

"College, when I was pursuing my doctorate in psychology."

"Is she a psychologist?"

"No. Bethie's from a wealthy family. College was a means of meeting an appropriate husband. A shame she has a wonderful mind."

"Is she pretty?" Rainie asked.

Quincy took more care with his answer.

"She has aged well," he said at last, his voice neutral.

"Pretty, smart, and a good mother. Do you miss her?"

"No," he said firmly.

"Why not?"

"My marriage is old news, Rainie. When we met, Bethie admired my background as a Chicago cop, while fully expecting me to settle into a more socially elevated lifestyle as a private-practice psychologist.

h.e.l.l, I expected the same thing. But then the Bureau started recruiting me. I didn't say no. And poor Bethie ended up with an armed FBI agent for a husband. If I wanted to be fair to her, I should've stayed a psychologist. But I was true to myself. I got into

this stuff, and then my marriage faded away.""Why don't you say anything bad about her?"

"Because she's the mother of my children and I respect that."

"You're a gentleman, aren't you?" Her voice suddenly gained an edge.

She didn't plan on sounding bitter or looking for a fight, but she took a step down that road anyway. Fighting was what she did best, conflict more second nature to her than kindness. She thought of George Walker again and her eyes began to sting. She wished they would stop.

"I believe in the importance of civility," Quincy said quietly.

"I see enough inhumanity in my job without needing to add to it."

"I'm not civil."

"No." He smiled wryly.

"But somehow it works for you."

Rainie stuck her beer on the nightstand. Her movements were restless.

He had given her a gracious out. She couldn't take it. The mood ruled her now, and she only knew how to go toward dark and dangerous places.

"You come from money, too, don't you, Quincy? The nice suits, the expensive cologne. This stuff isn't new to you."

"I don't come from money. My father is a Yankee swamp rat, born and bred. Owns hundreds of acres of G.o.d's own land in Rhode Island, works it with his own sweat and will take it with him to the grave. He taught me the importance of manners. He taught me to love fall, when the leaves change and the apples grow crisp. And he taught me never to tell the people close to you that you care." The corner of his mouth twitched wryly.

"The suits I picked up on my own."

Rainie got on her hands and knees on the bed. Her gaze was locked on his. She moved closer.

"I'm white trash."

He didn't take his eyes from her.

"Don't degrade yourself."

"I'm not. I'm telling you who I am now, so you can't hold it against me later." She kept advancing. He didn't retreat.

"I'm not civil. I hate to apologize. I have a bad temper, bad dreams, and a bad mood, and I shouldn't be doing this, but dammit, I'm going to do it anyway."

He said quietly, "Liar." Then he reached up with his broad hand, cupped the back of her head, and dragged her down to his mouth.

She'd invited the kiss, but the first contact still shocked her. She felt cool, strong lips against her own hot, angry mouth. She tasted hops, smooth golden hops, and she opened her lips greedily, as if she would gladly get drunk off him. Then his tongue pushed into her mouth, strong and commanding, and in spite of her best intentions, the old panic reared hard.

She drove her fingernails into her palms. She did her best to control her mind. Yellow-flowered fields. Smooth-flowing streams. So many techniques she'd learned over the years. Keep it simple. Keep it quick. Never lose control. No one was ever the wiser.

Quincy's palm was rough against her cheek. It tickled her and brought a flood of unexpected heat low in her stomach. She halted, a bit frightened. His lips whispered across her neck. She let her head fall back. She exposed her throat to him. His breath was warm and tantalizing across her collarbone.

He'd go lower, she thought. Must remember to moan. Yellow-flowered fields and smooth-flowing streams. She could feel his lips, firm and skillful. But she could also feel the dark places hovering just out of sight. Yellow-flowered fields and smooth-flowing streams. He would touch her breast. She would arch her back. Get it over with. Get it done.

She felt suddenly, unspeakably sad. She had started this, but it would not be what she needed in the end. And she'd been wrong to do this with Quincy. He wasn't like the other men. With them it had been cheap and mindless. With this man, it would be blasphemy.

She lowered her head. Don't let him see her eyes. Don't let him see her stark and gray and thinking so hard about yellow-flowered fields

and smooth-flowing streams and Danny O'grady holding the shotgun that had blown off her mother's head.

She ached. She suddenly ached so hard she didn't know where the pain ended anymore and Rainie Conner began.

Quincy's hands came up. He feathered back her hair with his fingers.

He swept the long, fine strands from her face. And then he kissed the corner of her eye where the first of her tears had gathered.

Rainie scrambled off the bed.

"For G.o.d's sake, don't be so d.a.m.n nice."