Her Best Friend Page 9

“You have to pace yourself. I know you’ve been panting to get into that old theatre and fix it up, but you need to look after yourself.”

  “I just need a good night’s sleep.”

  And a reset button on her heart.

  When they returned to the living room her father was asking Quinn for advice on a contract with one of his major suppliers. Amy listened to them talk for another fifteen minutes before making her excuses. It was too hard sitting across from Quinn, thinking about what her mother had said.

  She drove three streets over to her own cottage and shivered as she entered the front hall. As usual, her place was freezing, thanks to the fact that there was no central heating. The price she paid for keeping her rent down.

  She turned on the small fan heater in her bedroom and stripped for the shower. She was going to wash off the sweat and grime of the day, put on her warmest flannel pajamas and go to bed thinking about the Grand and how great it was going to look when she’d completed the restoration. She was not going to brood or sulk over Quinn. She’d wasted too many years already. Quinn not loving her was not a tragedy. It wasn’t. It was disappointing. Sad. But it was not the defining fact of her life. She refused to let it be.

  She was naked and ready to walk into her ensuite bathroom when her phone rang. She glanced toward the shower longingly before scooping up her phone.

  “Amy speaking.”

  There was a long silence. Then she heard someone swallow.

  “Ames. It’s me.”

  Amy sank onto the edge of her bed. “Lisa.”

  “Surprise!” Lisa said with ironic brightness. “I bet you weren’t expecting to hear from me. Especially after what Quinn’s probably told you.”

  Amy scrambled to assemble her thoughts. How did Lisa know Quinn was in town? Had he told her? Were they still in contact?

  “He hasn’t told me that much, to be honest. Just that you two are getting a divorce,” Amy said.

  She could hear the coolness in her own voice. She couldn’t help it, but she felt guilty for it, all the same. Lisa was her friend, too, no matter what had happened between her and Quinn.

  “I’m sure he told you more than that.” Lisa’s voice was so faint Amy had to press the handset to her ear to hear.

  “He told me that you were with someone else.”

  “That I had an affair, you mean.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you hate me?”

  Amy was shivering. She leaned across the bed to drag her quilt over her shoulders. “No. Of course I don’t.”

  But it was impossible to pretend that she didn’t feel differently toward her old friend.

  “But you disapprove, right? You think I’m a dirty bitch for messing up Quinn’s life?” Her speech was slurred.

  “Are you okay?” Amy asked, concerned. Lisa sounded deeply unhappy.

  “Sure. I’m great. New man, new house, new life. What’s not to love?” There was a short pause, then Lisa sighed heavily. When she spoke again her tone was more sincere, less brittle. “Sorry, Ames. I’m just…How are you? We haven’t spoken for ages.”

  Because she wasn’t sure what else to do, Amy gave her old friend a quick rundown on what had been happening in her life: the Grand, Quinn’s part in helping her win the fight with the council, the renovations she had planned. It was awkward and uncomfortable, stilted in a way things had never been with Lisa before.

  There was a short pause when she’d finished.

  “And how is Quinn? Last time I saw him he’d lost a bit of weight,” Lisa said.

  “Well, he’s doesn’t complain when I boss him around, which is a good thing, right?” Amy joked.

  “Ames, has he mentioned anyone? Another woman?”

  Here we go. Was this why Lisa had called? To fish for information on Quinn?

  “Lis, I really don’t want to play piggy in the middle, you know?”

  “Please. I just need to know this one thing.” She sounded desperate. “Is he seeing anyone?”

  Amy tugged the quilt tighter. “I’m sorry, Lis.”

  “All right. I understand. You and Quinn were always close. I get why you’d pick him over me. I’m the dirty wrongdoer, right?”

  “It’s got nothing to do with choosing sides. If you want to know how Quinn is, who he’s dating, whatever, you need to talk to him, not me. I’m not a marriage counselor or a go-between.”

  “It’s okay, Amy. I’d probably be the same myself. Good for you for standing by him. If it’s not pushing our friendship too much, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention this call to Quinn.”

  “Lisa—”

  But it was too late, she was listening to the dial tone.

  Shit.

  Amy threw the phone to one side and made a frustrated sound in her throat. What had Lisa expected from her? A full report on Quinn’s comings and goings? An intimate recounting of all his conversations?

  It wasn’t fair of Lisa to try to trade off their friendship to pump Amy for information. In fact, it was uncool in the extreme and Amy was tempted to call Lisa back and tell her as much.

  Two things stopped her: the fact that she’d been lying through her teeth when she’d said she wasn’t on anyone’s side, and the memory of that small, ugly moment not long after Quinn had told her he was getting a divorce when she’d consciously registered the fact that he was free to love again and a part of her had rejoiced.

  She wasn’t exactly a shining example of virtue in this situation, after all.

  She was covered in gooseflesh by now and she took the quilt with her as she crossed to the ensuite. She waited until the water was steaming hot before tossing the quilt into her bedroom and stepping beneath the shower.

  The water was hot and hard. She turned her face into the spray and held her breath. Only then did she allow herself to ask the question that had been echoing inside her since Lisa’s call.

  If Lisa wanted to try again, would Quinn take her back?

  Her gut said no, that Quinn was too hurt, too angry to forgive two years of lies and betrayal. But what did she know, really, at the end of the day? Quinn and Lisa had been together for a long time. Who knew how far and how deep their connection went? Marriages had recovered from worse blows, she was sure.

  It doesn’t matter. It’s none of your business. If they get back together or not is irrelevant. It doesn’t change anything for you. Not a thing.

  God, how she needed to hang on to that reality.

  She also needed to decide whether it would be a bigger betrayal of Quinn to tell him Lisa had called or to do as Lisa asked and keep it a secret.

  So much for not brooding.

  THEY WERE SITTING on the edge of the dock down at the lake. It took Quinn a moment to recognize it as the night before his wedding. Amy sat opposite him in a pair of cutoff jeans and a tank top, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. They were drinking Coronas with slices of lime in the neck of the bottle. The air was warm, the moon full.

  “Tomorrow’s going to be a great day. The best day of my life,” he said.

  Amy smiled and nodded. “You’re going to be a great husband.”

  “I know.”

  They both laughed because he sounded like such a cocky son of a bitch.

  “You finally going to come up to Sydney and visit us once we’re back from the honeymoon?” He and Lisa had been bugging Amy for ages to visit them in Sydney. She always had an excuse.

  “You guys aren’t going to want me hanging around. I’ve heard all those newlywed stories.” She shuddered theatrically.

  He tilted his bottle toward her. “You need to get out of town. See the big wide world.”

  “Don’t make me sound like some kind of hick. Melbourne is an hour away, in case you’d forgotten.”

  “We miss you, Ames.”

  She stared at him. Then she braced her arms on the dock and pushed herself to her feet.

  “It’s too hot. Let’s swim.”

  He almost choked on his beer as she reached for the waistband
of her tank top and pulled it over her head. She was wearing a red-and-white polka-dot bra underneath. He could see her nipples. He told himself to stop looking, but she was smoothing her hands down her belly to the stud on her cutoffs.

  “What’s wrong, Quinn? Not hot enough for you?”

  Her voice was low, husky. She didn’t sound like Amy. Not the Amy he knew.

  She was watching him, her eyes heavy-lidded and smoky. She popped the stud. Her zip hissed as she slid it down. Then she tucked her thumbs into the waistband and pushed her cutoffs over her hips. She was wearing matching panties and he could see a shadow of blond hair through the lace.

  “You’re getting married tomorrow. Haven’t you ever wondered what it would be like between us?”

  She stepped closer, standing between his bent knees. He looked up, his gaze traveling over her thighs, her belly, her breasts. He was so hard it hurt, his erection straining against the fabric of his cargo shorts.

  He set his beer on the dock. Then he lifted his hand toward her.

  Just one touch. To see if she was as soft and warm and lovely as he’d always—

  QUINN JERKED AWAKE. The sheets were damp with sweat and he was as hard as a rock, his heart pounding.

  He blinked, fragments from his dream lingering in his mind’s eye.

  What the hell was that all about?

  But he knew. The dream had been a tangled mess of memory and fantasy. Those stolen moments from the upper foyer today grafted onto the night six years ago when he and Amy had gotten drunk before his wedding. Needless to say, Amy had not stripped for him that night. They’d gone swimming, sure, but she’d jumped into the lake in her cutoffs and tank top. And he’d certainly never tried to touch her.

  He kicked off the sheet, trying to cool his body.

  He was thirty, not fourteen. Long past the age when horny dreams and fantasies were commonplace. Especially about his best friend.

  Gradually his heart slowed. He didn’t understand what was going on, why he was suddenly thinking about Amy in this way. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t slept with anyone else since he and Lisa broke up. Hell, for a while there he’d been in serious running for man-whore of the year. There was no good reason for him to be having these thoughts about Amy.

  He rolled out of bed and reached for his clothes. Five minutes later he was outside, hands deep in his coat pockets, shoulders hunched as he walked up the street.

  Fog had come with the night and the streetlights stood out like small, glowing lighthouses in the gloom. He walked toward the hardware store, then did a lap of the lake. He felt like the last man on earth, utterly alone.

  The lights were on in the bakery when he walked up to Vincent Street, steam condensing on the windows. He wondered what time it was. Three? Four? He was turning to head back to his apartment when something flashed in his peripheral vision. He stopped and stared across the road at the Grand. The front windows were dark. As they should be.

  Still, he’d seen something.

  He crossed the street and peered through the glass doors. Adrenaline kicked through his belly as he saw a thin flashlight beam crawl across the wall of the theatre, just visible through the archway.

  Someone was in there.

  He pulled his phone from his back pocket. He was about to dial emergency when it occurred to him that maybe it was Amy inside. Maybe, like him, she’d been unable to sleep.

  He broke into a jog and turned into the alley that ran along the side of the theatre. When he reached the corner, he slowed and flattened his back to the wall. If it really was Amy inside, he was going to feel like an enormous dick playing Starsky and Hutch out here in the middle of the night.

  He eased around the corner and saw immediately that the rear door had been kicked in. The padlock he’d installed when they’d gotten back from their supply trip had ripped a substantial chunk out of the door frame before it had given way. Whoever was inside, they’d wanted in, big-time.

  He ducked back into the alley and called emergency.

  “Please state the name of the emergency service you require,” the operator said into his ear.

  “Police.”

  “I’m putting you through now, sir. Please hold the line.”

  There was a click, then a short pause. Quinn used the moment to pull his thoughts together. A man came on the line.

  “Victorian Police. What’s your emergency?”

  “My name is Quinn Whitfield. I’m outside the Grand Picture Theatre in Daylesford. Someone has broken into the premises. They’re still inside. I need you to get the local police here, stat.”

  “Please hold the line while I alert the local police, sir.”

  Quinn waited for long moments, his mind ticking over. There was no way the cops would get here for another ten minutes. Someone intent on destruction could do a lot of damage in that time.

  He eased around the corner again and ducked his head through the open doorway. It was pitch-black, which meant the door at the other end must be closed. He hesitated a moment, then made a decision. This was Amy’s dream. No way was he going to stand by while it was trashed.

  He ended the call and slid his phone into his pocket, then he started up the corridor, moving as soundlessly as possible.

  He could feel his heart pounding like a tom-tom in his chest. It had been years since he’d been in a fight, but he figured he still knew how to hurt someone if he had to.

  His outstretched hand hit the surface of the door. He found the handle. Took a deep breath. Jerked the door open.

  “Oi! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he bellowed at the top of his lungs.

  Two flashlight beams swung toward him, blinding him, then suddenly it was dark. Quinn blinked furiously, trying to force his eyes to adjust. He heard the scuff of footsteps and braced himself. He was standing in front of the only viable exit; they wanted to get out, they had to come through him.

  He squared up. All he had to do was keep these guys occupied until the cops showed up. Five, six minutes, max.

  A dark shape came at him. He dropped his shoulder and lunged forward, aiming for the solar plexus. Something hard hit him in the chest—the flashlight, maybe—then he was on the ground grappling with someone who felt a hell of a lot bigger and heavier than him. His fist connected with a jaw. He took a blow to the gut, another to the neck. He gasped for air, caught a handful of greasy hair with one hand and a fistful of clothing with the other and attempted to force his assailant onto his back.

  Pain exploded in his side and he shied away from it. A kick. How…? Another blow landed on his ribs. Then he understood the second guy had joined the fray. He released his grip on the first guy, shoved him backward. Tried to scramble to his feet—and stepped straight into a swinging fist. He flew backward, his head slamming into the wall. Disoriented and winded, he struggled to keep his feet.

  A siren split through the night, then a flash of blue whipped past as a cop car sped by the front of the cinema.

  “Cops! Go! Go!” someone yelled.

  Footsteps pounded down the corridor toward the rear exit. Quinn started after them. Dizziness hit him when he was halfway up the corridor. He wavered on his feet. Must have knocked his head harder than he’d thought. He found the wall with an outstretched hand. The world still swung crazily. He put his back to the wall and slid down until his butt hit the floor.

  Better. The world was much steadier down here.

  If he could catch his breath…He closed his eyes.

  His jaw felt like it had been hit with a sledgehammer. Something trickled down his face. He took a swipe at it with his fingers.

  Footsteps scuffed in the corridor. He opened his eyes just as a brilliant flashlight beam found him. He flinched away from the brightness.

  “Police! Stay where you are and put your hands on your head.”

  “My name’s Quinn Whitfield,” he said. “I’m the guy who called it in.” Still, he put his hands on his head.

  It took five minutes for him to tel
l his story. The cop waited until he had confirmation from his radio before relaxing his vigilant stance.

  “You need me to call an ambulance? Looks like you’re bleeding,” the cop said, playing the beam over Quinn’s face.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Should have waited for us to get here. Stupid coming in here alone.”

  Quinn fingered his sore jaw. Tell me something I don’t know, buddy.

  The cop’s radio crackled to life. Quinn strained to understand what was said but it was too garbled.

  “Did you catch them?” Quinn asked.

  The cop shook his head, looking as disappointed as Quinn felt. “We’re still in pursuit.”

  The cop aimed the beam up the corridor toward the cinema.

  “There much damage inside?”

  Quinn braced his arm against the wall and pushed himself to his feet.

  “Don’t know.”

  The cop strode forward, his powerful flashlight beam cutting through the darkness. Quinn was close enough to hear him swear softly under his breath when he entered the cinema.

  Quinn stopped in the doorway, speechless. More than half the cans of primer and top coat they’d bought had been pried open and pushed over. White paint spread across the floor in an ever-widening pool, thick and relentless. Two of the wall sconces had been ripped from the wall and were hanging by their wiring, their glass shades shattered on the floors. Ugly graffiti sprawled across the walls in vivid red paint.

  Amy was going to freak when she saw this.

  He dug in his pocket for his cell phone. Miraculously, it was still in one piece, albeit with a crack across the screen.

  If there was some way to fix this, make it all disappear before Amy had to see it, he would. But he couldn’t, and she needed to be told.

  “Quinn? What time is it?” a sleepy voice asked.

  He could picture her, hair tousled, face soft from sleep. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, hating being the bearer of bad tidings.

  “Ames, there’s been a break-in at the Grand. I’m here with the cops, and there’s a ton of wet paint on the floor that we’re going to need to clean up somehow.”

  There was a short silence. “I’ll be there in five.”