The Mighty Quinns: Conor. Kate Hoffmann

going to stay inside. Now, give me your shoes.”

      Olivia had every intention of refusing but the look in his eyes told her otherwise. She sat down on the sofa and yanked both shoes off, then threw them in the direction of his head. Then she crossed her arms and sank back into the cushions, watching him suspiciously and waiting for the next demand.

      He drew Detective Wright aside and spoke softly with him, giving Olivia a chance to observe him in an objective light. He stood at least half a head taller than Wright and his dark good looks stood in sharp contrast with Dudley’s clean-cut choirboy features. When his face wasn’t filled with fury, the guy was actually quite handsome—high cheekbones and a strong jaw, a mouth that looked as if it had been sculpted by an artist. His hair was dark, nearly black, and his eyes were that strange shade that she couldn’t quite describe in words. Fascinating. Unearthly. Riveting.

      While Dudley looked conscientious and trustworthy, this new guy had a wild and unpredictable air about him. His hair was just a little too long, his clothes a bit too casual. He had a sinewy build, long legs and broad shoulders and a flat belly that showed no evidence of too many donuts. When they both turned her way, she averted her eyes and casually picked at the fringe of a throw pillow she’d pulled onto her lap.

      Detective Wright approached the sofa. “Ms. Farrell, I’m going to leave you in the care of Detective Quinn. He’ll be with you until the trial. I hope you won’t give him any more trouble.”

      She forced a sweet smile and slowly rose. “That all depends upon Detective Quinn’s behavior. As long as he can stifle his Neanderthal tendencies, it will be pure bliss.”

      Wright looked back and forth between the two of them, then nodded before hurrying out of the room. Left alone with Quinn, Olivia wondered whether she might be better off taking her chances with Keenan’s hit man. It would be best to keep Quinn off guard, to refuse to give in to his bullying. Twelve days of “yes, sir” and “no, sir” would be completely intolerable. She shrugged out of her jacket and tossed it his way. “You might as well take it,” she said. “Do you want my socks as well?”

      A muscle in his jaw twitched and he didn’t speak for a long time. “I don’t want to be here any more than you do, Ms. Farrell. But it’s my job to keep you safe. If you let me do my job, then we’ll get along just fine.”

      When he wasn’t yelling at her, he had a very pleasant voice, deep and rich. His accent was working-class Boston, but there was something else there, a hint of something exotically foreign. “You said that you’re being punished,” she ventured. “What did you do wrong?”

      “Nothing you have to worry about,” he muttered. “As long as I don’t lose my temper again, you should be safe.” He wandered around the room, checking every window and door, then disappeared into her bedroom. She imagined him rifling through her bag, plucking at the lacy scraps of underwear and smelling her perfume. She could always tell when a man was attracted to her, but Quinn was impossible to read. He was probably telling the truth when he said he’d just as soon shoot her.

      When he returned, he had a pillow and comforter in his arms. He set them on the back of the sofa. “You’ll sleep in here tonight,” he murmured.

      “I sleep on the sofa and you get my bed? That doesn’t seem fair.”

      “No,” he said, “you sleep on the sofa and I sleep on the floor. We sleep in the same room, Ms. Farrell. If that doesn’t suit, we can sleep in the same bed. That’s up to you. I just need to be able to get to you quickly.”

      Olivia scowled. “Listen, Quinn, I—”

      “Conor,” he interrupted. “You can call me Conor. And there’s no use arguing. I’m not going to change my mind.”

      Olivia opened her mouth to protest, then snapped it shut. She’d never felt entirely safe with Detective Wright. But with Conor Quinn, there was no doubt in her mind that he’d do what he had to do to protect her, regardless of her feelings in the matter. When he’d grabbed her on the beach, she had to admit she’d been scared. What if he had been one of Keenan’s men? Chances were she’d be floating facedown in the bay right about now.

      “I’m going to make a fresh pot of coffee,” she said grudgingly. “Would you like a cup?” He nodded, but when she got up, he followed her into the kitchen. He methodically checked the windows and doors, then sat down on a stool at the breakfast bar. “Are you going to follow me around all day?” she asked as she filled the pot with cold water.

      “If I have to,” he said. His shrewd gaze skimmed over her body, blatantly, as if he were trying to see right through her clothes. “Why did you climb out the window?”

      Olivia sighed. “You have to understand that I’m used to my own space, my own life. I never wanted this, never wanted to get involved. I shouldn’t be here.”

      “But you are involved,” he murmured, his eyes probing, his expression curious.

      “I tried to explain to the district attorney that I didn’t want to testify but—”

      “Ms. Farrell, you have a duty to do what’s right. Red Keenan is scum, a big player in the mob. With your testimony, we can put him away. A little inconvenience on your part is nothing compared to the pain that man has caused countless innocent people.” With that, he pushed away from the counter and walked out of the room. “And stay away from the windows,” he called.

      The rest of the day passed in excruciating boredom. She stayed away from the windows and out of Conor Quinn’s way. And he stayed just close enough to make her uneasy. Whenever she looked at him, he was watching her, silently, intently. Olivia assumed he was waiting for her to make another run for freedom. But she’d already resigned herself to her fate. The trial was twelve days away—twelve long days spent in the company of the brooding Conor Quinn. She’d need to choose her fights carefully if she expected to survive.

      THE SMELLS coming from the kitchen were too much to resist. Conor glanced up from an old issue of Sports Illustrated, then levered himself up from the overstuffed chair he’d occupied for the past hour. Furrowing his hands through his hair, he wandered into the kitchen to find pots bubbling on the stove and Olivia Farrell busily chopping vegetables.

      “Smells good,” he said.

      She looked up at him for a brief moment, then turned her attention back to the salad she was preparing. “I asked Detective Wright for some groceries yesterday. I was getting a little tired of take-out meals and a little angry with my situation, so I made the grocery list as complicated as I could.”

      He slid onto the kitchen stool. “What are you making?”

      “Paella,” she said.

      “What?”

      “It’s an Italian seafood stew. They probably had fits trying to hunt down fresh shrimp and scallops. But then, I could afford to wait. I’ve got plenty of time, which is what it takes to make paella, and it’s always better the second day.” She looked at him again, this time letting her gaze linger for a long moment. Olivia Farrell had very alluring eyes, Conor concluded. Wide and trusting, ringed with thick lashes. She didn’t wear much makeup, allowing her natural beauty to shine through. “There’s a bottle of wine in the fridge. You can open it, if you like.”

      “I shouldn’t drink on duty,” Conor said, reaching for the wine.

      Olivia managed a tiny smile. “I promise I won’t try to escape again. You can have a small glass, can’t you?” She reached into a cabinet next to the sink and pulled out two wine goblets, then set them down in front of him.

      Had this evening occurred under different circumstances, Conor could imagine them on a first date— Olivia cooking dinner for him at her apartment, Conor bringing the wine. He grabbed the bottle, then took the corkscrew and opened it. Perhaps if he thought of this as a personal rather than a professional relationship, it might be much more tolerable. “Do you like to cook?”

      Olivia shrugged. “I don’t cook