Quinn's Woman. Susan Mallery

of making a smart-ass response, Quinn stood. “This has been great,” he said.

      She rose and walked toward him. “Wait. I really want to know.”

      His gaze never left her face, yet everything changed. The teasing was gone, as was the humor. Instead, bone-deep weariness invaded his expression. He knew things, she thought as she involuntarily took a step back. He’d seen and done things no man should experience. His life was about a whole lot more than simply getting people out of places they shouldn’t be.

      “I’m not playing,” she said. “I want to learn what you know. I’m a quick study.”

      “Why does it matter?”

      “Your skills would help me with my work. I want to be better.”

      “Aren’t you good enough to get the job done?”

      “Yes, but I want to be better than good enough. I want to be the best.”

      “There is no best.”

      Of course there was, she thought. There always was. She worked her butt off to make sure it was her most of the time.

      “I’ll pay you,” she said.

      He smiled then. “Thanks, but I’m not interested. Take care, D.J.”

      And then he was gone. He simply walked out of the tent without looking back.

      She watched him go and decided right then she was going to get him to change his mind. She didn’t know how, but she would convince Quinn Reynolds to teach her what he knew. She would be stronger, faster, smarter, and finally the ghosts would be laid to rest.

      

      Two days later D.J. still hadn’t come up with a plan. What on earth would a man like Quinn want that she could give him? She’d paced most of the night, and when that hadn’t cleared her mind, she’d awakened early for a three-mile run. Now she prowled her back room, pausing occasionally to jab at the punching bag in the corner.

      “I can see you’re in a temper this morning. Want to talk about it?”

      D.J. turned toward the voice and saw Rebecca Lucas standing in the doorway of her workout room. She held a thermos in one hand and a pink bakery box in the other. D.J.’s spirits lightened immediately.

      “Danish?” she asked, heading toward her friend.

      “Of course. Don’t I always bring Danish?”

      “You’re a good woman.”

      “I know.”

      Rebecca led the way to the main office, where she set the box on the front desk and opened the thermos.

      “So what has you all crabby this morning?” she asked as she poured coffee into two mugs. “If you were anyone else, I would swear it was man trouble.”

      “It is, but not the romantic kind.”

      Rebecca handed her the coffee. “Too bad. You need a man in your life.”

      “Right. That would be as useful to me as inheriting a toxic waste dump.”

      Rebecca tisked softly as she poured more coffee for herself, opened the bakery box and pushed it toward D.J.

      D.J. grabbed a napkin, then a cheese Danish. The first bite was heaven. The second, even better. She slowly chewed the flaky, sticky, sweet pastry.

      Rebecca took one for herself and nibbled daintily. As usual, all conversation ceased until they’d each downed at least one Danish and felt the kick-start, blood-sugar rush of refined carbohydrates and frosting.

      D.J. finished first and licked her fingers. Rebecca dabbed at her mouth with a napkin.

      They couldn’t be more different, D.J. thought affectionately. Rebecca was all girl, from her long, curly hair to her wardrobe of soft, flowing, floral-print dresses. She wore foolish shoes, delicate jewelry and wouldn’t be caught dead in town without makeup.

      “You’re looking at my dress,” Rebecca said when she’d finished her Danish. “You hate it.”

      “No. It’s great.”

      D.J. studied the light-blue flowers scattered on a white background, the lace at the edge of the collar and the tight, puffy sleeves, while trying desperately not to wince.

      “I just don’t understand why you have to dress so…girly.”

      Rebecca took another Danish. “We don’t all need to look as if we’d just come from a sale at the army surplus store. Olive green isn’t my color. Besides, Austin likes how I dress.”

      End of argument, D.J. told herself. If Austin mentioned he would like the rotation of the earth changed, Rebecca would set out to see what she could do to make that happen. She adored her husband past the point of reason. D.J. found the situation palatable only because Austin was a good man—weren’t those few and far between?—and he loved his wife just as completely. D.J. believed down to her bones that if someone tried to hurt Rebecca, Austin would rip that person into stamp-size pieces.

      Rebecca looked her over, making D.J. aware of her camouflage pants and heavy boots.

      “You’re expecting a war later?”

      “Real funny.” D.J. grabbed a second pastry. “So what’s going on?”

      Rebecca filled her in on the latest escapades of her four children, including David’s increasing fascination with cars. “He’s going to be a holy terror on the road,” Rebecca said, her voice mixed with worry and pride. “He’s already poring through Austin’s car magazines and giving us suggestions for his sixteenth birthday.”

      The conversation continued. Rebecca made it a habit to drop in two or three mornings a week. D.J. enjoyed hearing about her family. As she didn’t plan to get married, and doubted she would be a very good single mom, Rebecca’s kids were as close to her own as she was going to get.

      “I’m having a party next week,” Rebecca announced as she poured them each more coffee.

      D.J. held up her hands in protest. “No, thanks.”

      “How can you say that?”

      “You have two kinds of parties. One is for couples, which means you’re going to set me up with some guy I don’t want to meet. The other is a girls-only deal where someone will be trying to sell something I’ll find completely useless.”

      “Cosmetics,” Rebecca confirmed. “And they’re not useless. I know you’re not a big fan of makeup, but you take good care of your skin. This line of skin care is really amazing. Besides, it would be good for you to get out.”

      “I get out.”

      “I’m talking about spending some time with normal women.”

      “I spend time with you.”

      Rebecca sighed. “Why can’t you be more social?”

      “It’s not my thing.”

      “So what is your thing?”

      D.J. thought of Quinn. He intrigued her. “There was this guy I met during the war games,” she said.

      Rebecca instantly brightened. “Did he ask you out?”

      “It wasn’t like that. I captured him, but only because I got lucky. I want him to teach me what he knows.”

      “Which is what?”

      “I’m not sure. I’ve asked around a little and found out that he works for a secret branch of the military. I’ll bet he knows more about killing people than anyone I’ve met.”

      Rebecca shuddered. “Not exactly someone you want to have over for dinner. What’s the guy’s appeal? You don’t kill people. You keep them alive.”

      “The