Her Best Friend Page 3

  “Do I?”

  “Yeah. Since when did you start wearing suits?”

  “Since I borrowed this from Denise.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe you’re really here.”

  “I did a bit of checking into Ulrich,” he said. “Guy’s got some serious connections around town. Figured you might need someone to ride shotgun.”

  Her gaze searched his face just as his had searched hers. He wondered if he looked as tired as he felt, if she could see past the mask he’d worn for months now.

  Before either of them could say any more, a middle-aged man wearing the ugliest tie he’d ever seen banged a wooden gavel on the long table placed before the council members.

  “This council meeting is now in session. I call upon the secretary, Councillor McMahon, to read over the minutes from the previous meeting.”

  A gray-haired woman with a severely short haircut began to drone her way through the minutes. Quinn turned to Amy but she spoke before he could get the question out of his mouth.

  “Reg Hanover,” she said. “He’s the chairman, and Dulcie McMahon is the one speaking.”

  Quinn drew a quick representation of the council table on his notepad and labeled the central position and the secretary. Amy reached across and slid his pen from his hand, an old trick of hers from high school. She angled his notepad toward herself and started jotting names in the other six seats along the table, indicating official roles where applicable. He glanced at her profile as she wrote. She might have swapped her usual bright, haphazard fashion for a suit and high heels, but she still poked the tip of her tongue between her lips when she was concentrating.

  He suppressed a smile.

  She glanced up at him and quirked an eyebrow. What?

  He shrugged. Nothing.

  She pushed his notepad toward him.

  “What happened to Hamilton Island?” she asked quietly, one eye on the councillors.

  “It’ll keep. I wanted to make sure you were over the line first.”

  A flurry of yays drew his attention to the front of the room as the councillors voted to accept the minutes as a true record of the last meeting.

  Quinn could feel someone watching him and he glanced to his left to find a man in his midfifties scowling at him. Ulrich, if Quinn didn’t miss his guess. The older man had the flushed complexion of a heavy drinker and his pale blond hair was brushed carefully to try to disguise the fact that it was thinning.

  Quinn held the man’s gaze for a few long seconds. Ulrich’s scowl deepened, then he looked away.

  It was enough to tell Quinn that the guy was a hothead. Which meant this meeting had the potential to get interesting. Quinn smiled slightly as he returned his attention to the front of the room. He’d never been afraid of a fight.

  Amy sat straighter as the chairman cleared his throat.

  “First up on the agenda is the sale of the Grand Picture Theatre to Ulrich Construction. All councillors have received copies of a proposal from Ulrich Construction to redevelop the property into an apartment building offering luxury accommodation for tourists visiting the area,” the chairman said.

  He shuffled the papers in front of him then glanced quickly around the room—avoiding looking directly at Amy, Quinn noted. Guilty little rat.

  Reg went on to read from the most flowery sections of Ulrich’s proposal, effectively selling the project on the other man’s behalf. Not hard to work out which side Hanover thought his bread was buttered on.

  Amy’s hands tightened on her pen until her knuckles were white. He leaned closer to her ear. “We’re not leaving until the Grand is safe. I promise.”

  He could smell her perfume, something sweet and light. One of her curls had escaped her bun to brush her cheek. She nodded her understanding but retained her death grip on the pen. He understood her fear. He doubted she’d be able to relax until after this meeting was over.

  “Council has reviewed the proposal and considers it to be of benefit to the greater community of Daylesford,” the chairman said. “However, in accordance with policy, we now invite any members of the public who may wish to comment to take the floor.”

  His words were still echoing around the chamber as Amy stood, her chair scraping across the floor.

  “I have a few questions for council,” she said. There was a nervous quaver in her voice, but her chin was high and her shoulders square. “I’d like to know what measures the council has in place to ensure that Ulrich Construction’s development will preserve the unique architectural features of the Grand Picture Theatre. Features which are detailed in the town’s own historical register.”

  “I’m not conversant with the exact wording of the register, Amy, but what you must understand is—”

  “I have copies,” Amy said, holding up a handful of photocopies.

  A woman with garnet-red hair popped up from her seat in the front of the public gallery. She winked at Quinn as she crossed the room and took the copies from Amy. It took him a moment to realize it was Denise Jenkins. She’d had mousy brown hair when he’d last seen her.

  “Thanks, ’Nise,” Amy whispered.

  “Kick ass, sweetie,” Denise whispered back. Then she turned to distribute the copies to the council members.

  “I have a copy for you, too, Mr. Ulrich, in case you aren’t aware that both the interior and exterior of the theatre are listed for protection,” Amy said.

  She held a sheet out, but both Ulrich and his lawyer ignored her. Surprise, surprise. The last thing they wanted was to hear about the architectural features they planned to turn to rubble at the earliest opportunity.

  Amy shrugged, then launched into her argument. She was passionate and articulate, her small body vibrating with determination. Quinn alternated between making notes and watching her face. Despite the circumstances, despite the distance that had grown between them, it was good to see her. To look into her familiar brown eyes and hear her voice.

  Opening salvo fired, Amy sat. She glanced at him and he smiled. She offered him a nervous grimace in return.

  Ulrich’s lawyer stood next, launching into a soliloquy on the “extraordinary and prohibitively expensive” accommodations Ulrich had built into his plans to preserve the theatre’s historic facade, painting the other man as a community benefactor sacrificing personal wealth for the good of all.

  “What a load of bullshit,” Amy muttered under her breath.

  “Come on, the guy’s clearly a saint,” Quinn murmured. “One step away from being recognized by the Pope.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Collins,” Reg said when the lawyer was done. “I think we’ve all heard enough to make an informed decision. Ladies and gentlemen, I believe we’re ready to vote.”

  Quinn almost laughed at the clumsiness of the other man’s tactics. They’d barely opened discussion, yet the chairman was trying to ram the vote through. Quinn was suddenly very, very glad that he’d decided to ditch his vacation.

  An angry murmur went up from the gallery. Amy started to stand again, but he caught her arm.

  “My turn, I think,” he said quietly.

  He rose. “Before you start tallying votes, Chairman Hanover, I’d like to draw the council’s attention to a number of recent findings in the Victorian Supreme Court. It might be helpful for council to understand what penalties have been applied to cases where historically listed sites have been exploited by unscrupulous developers.”

  That brought Ulrich’s lawyer to his feet.

  “I object to the inference that my client is unscrupulous,” the younger man said.

  “Go right ahead. But you might want to remember that we’re not in a court of law so there’s no one to actually uphold your objection,” Quinn said. “But please, feel free if it increases your billable hours.”

  Ulrich’s lawyer turned a dull brick-red. Quinn refocused on the council members. Eight men and women, all of them looking decidedly uncomfortable. They were about to get more so.

  “I’d also like to remind councillo
rs that when they were elected to office they took an oath which binds them to a code of conduct which requires them to uphold all the bylaws of the county, not simply those which are deemed convenient at the time.”

  Several of the councillors shifted in their seats. Quinn undid the button on his jacket and slid his hands into his trouser pockets. He had the floor, and he wasn’t giving it up until he had these bastards on the run.

  “Where was I? Right, the State of Victoria versus Simpkin-Gist Construction…”

  TWO HOURS LATER, Amy exited the council building and stopped on the front steps to suck in big lungfuls of cool night air. She was a little light-headed after the tension of the past few hours. Her armpits were damp with sweat, she’d chewed her thumbnail down to the quick, and she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry or jump with joy.

  She owned the Grand. As of fifteen minutes ago, Quinn had talked the council into signing the sale contract. She’d had to pay more than she’d anticipated, thanks to Ulrich upping the ante, but it was hers. At last. After ten years and a last-minute rush to the finish line.

  It didn’t feel quite real.

  “Here you are! One minute you were standing there, surrounded by everyone, the next you were gone,” her mother said from behind her.

  Amy turned to face her. “I needed some fresh air. It all got a bit crazy in there once the contract was finalized.”

  The doors opened behind them and her father and Quinn joined them, both smiling broadly.

  “I was just telling Quinn that I haven’t enjoyed anything so much since Mohammed Ali took on George Foreman in the Rumble in the Jungle. The way he took those councillors apart…” Her father clapped a hand onto Quinn’s shoulder and gave him an approving shake.

  “It was a pleasure, believe me,” Quinn said.

  Amy looked at him, standing there with his dark hair gleaming in the light from the street lamp. He’d been her knight in shining armor tonight, riding up out of nowhere and vanquishing her enemies. Her heart swelled with old, foolish emotions.

  “Quinn, I don’t know what to say. You gave up your holiday—Lisa is probably cursing my name—and you won me the Grand.”

  Even though she knew it probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do given her unrequited crush, Amy stepped forward and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

  “Thank you! From the bottom of my heart.”

  She started to pull away but Quinn’s arms came around her and the next thing she knew she was clamped against his chest and he was spinning her around.

  “You made it, Ames,” he said. “Woohoo!”

  His wool coat was as soft as silk beneath her hands, his body beneath it big and strong. She closed her eyes and inhaled the smell of expensive fabric and subtle, woody aftershave.

  “And it only took ten years and every cent she’s ever earned,” her father said drily.

  Quinn set her on her feet and she tried to look as though her heart wasn’t pounding out of control because he’d held her in his arms for a few short seconds.

  “We need to celebrate,” she said. “We need to drink champagne and thank the gods that Quinn decided to become a lawyer instead of a doctor when he applied to university all those years ago.”

  Her father looked rueful. “I’d love to, sweetheart, but we’ve got that lumber shipment coming in first thing. If I have a glass of wine now I’ll be useless tomorrow.”

  This was true, Amy knew. For a big, shambling bear of a man, her father was a very cheap drunk.

  “Maybe we can do something tomorrow night, then.” She glanced at Quinn. “How long are you in town?”

  “The weekend. But you can’t go home and put on your jim-jams after a win like this. If your folks are going to wimp out, I’ll take you out.”

  Her mother pretended to be offended as she gave Quinn a push on the arm.

  “You watch yourself, Quinn Whitfield. Your mother and I still e-mail regularly. I can get you into big trouble if I want to.”

  “My humble apologies, Mrs. P. I stand corrected.”

  Amy fumbled in her bag for her notepad.

  “That reminds me. I promised Louise I’d let her know what happened tonight,” Amy said. She added a note to e-mail Quinn’s mom with her news to her To Do list. Quinn’s parents had been on the road in their RV since his father retired last year, their house empty and silent next door, but like her mother, Amy kept up contact via e-mail.

  When she glanced up from writing her note, Quinn was watching her with amused eyes.

  “What’s with the notepad?” he asked.

  “It helps me stay organized.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “It does!” she insisted.

  “It’s true, Quinn. Amy is the best paint department manager we’ve ever had at the store, thanks to that little pad,” her mother said.

  “Guess we’re going to lose her now, though, huh?” her father said.

  Amy smiled fondly at her parents. They had never ceased to support her, even though she knew there were probably times when they’d been convinced she’d never achieve her dream. She put her arm around her father’s waist and gave him a little squeeze. He dropped a kiss onto the top of her head, his eyes suspiciously shiny. After a few seconds, he cleared his throat.

  “Well, I guess we’ll leave you kids to it.”

  Her parents headed home and Quinn took her elbow and started steering her toward a nondescript sedan parked at the far corner of the parking lot.

  “Hey. I need my car,” she said.

  “Not tonight. Tonight you’re going to drink champagne and kick up your heels and get messy drunk,” Quinn said.

  She glanced at his profile as they walked, his features barely visible in the dark. Despite all the reasons why it should be wrong, it felt right that Quinn was here to celebrate with her.

  She smirked as Quinn cut in front of her to open her car door for her.

  “So courtly, Mr. Whitfield,” she said. “So sophisticated.”

  He gave her a dry look. “I know you’re probably used to being thrown into the back of a truck or over a shoulder, but up in the big smoke we’re a little smoother.”

  “Do tell,” she said, fluttering her eyelashes at him as she slid into the car.

  He pushed the door closed and circled to the driver’s side.

  “You know what we should do? Bribe Phil into selling us a bottle of champagne and take it to the Grand,” Amy said as Quinn got behind the wheel.

  Phil ran the local pub and could generally be relied upon to supply a bottle of wine to desperate locals when the liquor shop was closed for the night.

  Quinn pulled onto the road.

  “As a member of the New South Wales Bar Association, it behooves me to inform you that purchasing alcohol from a licensed facility for consumption off premises is a crime,” Quinn said in the same tone he’d used to destroy Reg Hanover and Barry Ulrich earlier in the evening.

  “So you want me to run in and get it, then?”

  “Nah. It’ll be good to catch up with Phil,” Quinn said with a quick grin.

  A rush of warm emotion washed over her. It was only now that Quinn was sitting beside her, so familiar and dear, that she was able to acknowledge how much she’d missed him. How painful her self-imposed isolation had been. His laugh, his dry sense of humor, his honesty, his patience and kindness—she’d missed him like crazy for every second of the eighteen months she’d tried to cut him out of her life.

  Which went to show how effective her cold-turkey regime had been.

  “Lisa must have been pretty pissed with you for canceling Hamilton Island,” she said.

  Good to remind herself of Lisa. Quinn’s wife. Her friend. Good to always keep those two very important facts top of mind, before she got too caught up in the feelings swamping her.

  There was a short silence as Quinn pulled into a parking spot outside the pub.

  “The old oak’s gone,” he said.

  She glanced at him, aware that he hadn’t respo
nded to her comment. Did that mean he was in the dog house over helping her out? She hoped not.

  “It fell over in a storm last year.”

  “Must have been some storm.”

  They got out of the car and Quinn took a moment to scan the town’s main thoroughfare.

  She looked, too, and wondered what he saw. The heritage shopfronts, or the fact that there was only one butcher? The well-tended flower beds and handmade park benches, or the fact that the post office doubled as a news agency as well as a lottery outlet?

  “I suppose it must all seem pretty tin-pot compared to the bright lights of Sydney,” she said.

  He met her eyes across the car.

  “It’s home, Ames. That’s what it seems like.”

  His mouth tilted upward at the corner, but he looked sad. Or maybe lost. Amy frowned, suddenly remembering the long silences during their recent phone conversation.

  It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if anything was wrong but Quinn turned away and started walking toward the pub.

  “Phil still trying to give up smoking?” he asked.

  “Every year. Last time he held out a whole month.”

  “Wow. That’s got to be a new record, right?”

  “No way. I think you’re forgetting the great abstinence of ’95 when he went a full three months without touching the demon nicotine.”

  “Right. My mistake.”

  Quinn was smiling again as they pushed through the double doors into the bar. She told herself she’d imagined the small moment by the car, that it had simply been a trick of the light.

  And even if she hadn’t imagined it, she had no right to pry into Quinn’s private thoughts and feelings. Not when she’d been trying to cut him out of her life for the past year and a half.

  The news of her successful purchase of the Grand had spread through town and it was twenty minutes before she’d finished accepting congratulations from her friends and acquaintances. Phil handed over a bottle of his best French champagne but refused to accept any money for it.

  “Against the liquor laws, Amy,” he said with a wink at Quinn. “Plus I figure I’ll hit you up for some free movie tickets when you’ve got the old girl up and running again.”