Olivia must have been in a desperate state to leave her son with such a harridan, Conor mused. He was glad that he’d be responsible for reuniting mother and son. And though protecting the two of them would be more work, at least there’d be a buffer between them, a reason to keep from touching her at every whim. “Where is he?” he asked, holding his arms up above his head to avoid touching the woman.
“He’s on the bed in my bedroom.”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d gather his things. I don’t have much time.”
Mrs. Callahan muttered a curse. “I should make you get him. He’s got a wicked temper, that one. He’ll scratch your eyes out.” She sniffed disdainfully, gave Conor the once-over, then opened the inside door. “Wait here,” she ordered.
As Conor waited, he peered out the lace curtains onto the street, puzzling over her words. He’d rather not give the neighbors anything to talk about, he mused. If he could get the kid to his car without being seen, then all the better.
A few moments later, he heard shouting from inside the house, then an ungodly howl that sounded more like an animal than a human being. He reached for the doorknob, but the door swung open in front of him. Mrs. Callahan shoved a cardboard box into his arms. “Good riddance,” she said and moved to shut the door in his face.
Conor jammed his foot against the bottom of the door. “Wait a second. Where’s Tommy?”
“He’s in the box,” the landlady said.
“In the box?” Conor carefully set the box on the hardwood floor, then peered beneath one of the flaps. A low growl emanated from the interior, and before he could pull his hand away, a paw snaked out and scratched him. Conor gasped, shaking his hand with the pain. “Tommy is a cat?”
“Yeah,” Mrs. Callahan said. “What’d you think he was, one of them fancy French poodles?”
Conor didn’t care to illuminate the old lady on his expectations. Right now he was having enough trouble keeping his temper in check. Of all the scheming, low-down, ridiculous- He ground his teeth, reserving his anger for the confrontation he planned to have with Olivia Farrell. “Does he have things? I mean, cat toys, food, stuff like that?”
“It’s all in the box.” She nodded, then smiled disdainfully. “Just don’t touch his tail or you’ll be scraping pieces of your hand off the ceiling.” With that, she shut the door, leaving Conor cramped inside the little foyer with just a thin layer of cardboard separating his manhood from a spitting and hissing hellcat. He turned and opened the door, then hefted the box up into his arms. “You’re going to pay for this, Olivia Farrell,” he muttered.
As he walked down the sidewalk with Tommy the cat, the animal made a valiant attempt at escape. Though Conor was tempted to open the top of the box himself, after all the trouble he’d gone through to get the cat, he sure as hell wasn’t going to let him go. After all, the cat was evidence. He was proof that Olivia Farrell had deliberately lied to him, had sent him on a fool’s errand, and had put his life in danger in the process.
One of Keenan’s men could have recognized him and taken a shot. Or he could be followed back to the motel where Keenan would take care of Olivia as well. Conor checked the street again as he put the box on the passenger seat of the Mustang. Then he jogged around to the other side of the car and hopped in.
He continued to watch his rearview mirror for signs of a tail and made a series of illogical turns through the South End neighborhood until he was certain he wasn’t being followed. Then he headed for the interstate, his mind carefully reviewing the conversation he was about to have with Olivia.
Though he wanted to rail at her, to scold her until he extracted both a confession and an apology, Conor was secretly relieved. She didn’t have a child. And without a child, there’d be nothing standing between them. He hadn’t been sure what to think when she first mentioned Tommy, only that he felt an unbidden flicker of envy that her heart might belong to someone else.
Why feel envy, though? He’d tried to convince himself that his feelings for her were purely professional. After all, protecting people was what he did best. From the time he was a kid, he’d taken more than his share of responsibility. Still, he couldn’t ignore the attraction between them, the sudden impulses to touch her and kiss her.
Hell, he’d heard about cops falling for the women they were assigned to protect and he’d always thought a guy had to be crazy to risk his career for a woman. But now he knew how it happened. She was just so frightened and needy, and his immediate instinct was to protect and to soothe. And sometimes nothing showed concern better than a kiss or a gentle caress.
Conor drew a sharp breath. He knew the rules, and the penalties for getting involved with a witness. If anyone found out, it could be the end of his career. He’d be back to walking a beat or, worse, be off the force altogether. And all for the pleasures of a woman! His father’s warnings rang in his mind. The only thing that could bring down a Mighty Quinn was a woman. “So just keep your damn distance,” he muttered.
As he drove south toward Quincy, he couldn’t help but wonder if Olivia Farrell was worth the risk. The surge of desire he felt when he touched her, or the warm sensation of her lips on his, always seemed to thwart his common sense. Maybe it was because she was different from the girls he usually dated, girls he met in his father’s pub, girls determined to tame a Quinn. Olivia was sophisticated and refined, elegant, the kind of woman who seemed… unattainable.
There’d been only one other woman in his life that had eluded his grasp. He’d been devastated when his mother had walked out, yet he still held her up as a paragon of womanhood. She was a lot like Olivia-beautiful, delicate, poised. Even though they’d been poor, she’d always set a proper table and taken special pains with her appearance and made sure her sons combed their hair before leaving the house.
As he had watched his parents’ marriage fall apart before his eyes, Conor wondered why Fiona McClain had married Seamus Quinn in the first place. They were like caviar and sardines, from the same place yet worlds apart. His mind drifted back to memories of happier times. But laced within those images were thoughts of Olivia. This time, he didn’t brush them aside. Instead, like the rain pelting against the windshield, he let them wash over him. From now on that would be all he’d allow himself when it came to Olivia-an occasional impure thought.
By the time he pulled off the highway near Quincy, all the anger and resentment had faded. He stopped at a red light just a few miles from the motel, his mind focusing on Olivia. But the soft swish of the wipers was interrupted by a sudden flurry of noise. Conor glanced in the rearview mirror in time to see a shadow pass behind him. His first instinct was to duck, waiting for the sound of gunfire. But then he realized the ruckus wasn’t coming from outside the car, but from inside!
He glanced over at the box on the front seat. The top was open and it was empty. “Damn,” he muttered. It was like a cyclone had been let loose. Fur swirled in the air as Tommy raced around in circles, leaping over the front seat, bouncing off the back window, tearing across the dashboard, and whizzing past Conor’s head. Conor tried to grab him, but the cat was too fast and his claws too sharp. He nicked Conor’s chin and cheek on one lap around the interior and got him in the hand on another.
“All right!” Conor shouted. “I’ve had enough of this!” He yanked the steering wheel to the right and pulled over to the curb, ready to face the devil. Either he caught the cat and resumed control of the situation-or he turned the car keys over to Tommy. “I’m not handing the pink slip to this car over to a damn cat.”
On Tommy’s next pass, Conor gritted his teeth and grabbed at the blurry ball of fur. He caught hold of a leg and wrestled the cat back into the box, but not before suffering another round of injuries. “I should have just opened the window,” he muttered as he threw the car back into gear, keeping an eye on the box.
By the time he pulled into the parking lot of the Happy Patriot Motor Lodge, he was bleeding from most of his wounds. But his pride had suffered the most. Hell, he’d brought down career criminals, ruthless men who wouldn’t think twice before putting a bullet through his heart, and had come away without a scratch. It was embarrassing to be bested by a cat.
Conor grabbed the box from the front seat, then stalked toward the door. “She’d better be grateful,” he muttered. “She’d better be damn grateful.” He’d be satisfied with nothing less than a kiss-a long kiss, deep and wet. Brendan appeared out of the shadows and gave him a wave.
“Where’s the kid?” he asked. He squinted in the low light. “And what happened to you?”
“There was no kid.” Conor reached up to his cheek and came away with blood.
Brendan’s eyes went wide. “You mean they got to him?”
Conor smiled and shook his head. “Tommy is a cat.” He held out the box. “Take a peek. He’s a fine little beast.”
Brendan stuck a finger under the cardboard flap and was rewarded with a nasty howl and a vicious scratch. “Geez, what’d you do to the poor thing?”
