Read Online Knock Me Off My Feet by Susan Donovan - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Susan Donovan
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headed into the formal dining area, another room strewn with newspapers and odd bits of debris. He saw the shoes sticking out from beneath a sleek modern sideboard—blond maple, he thought. As he looped his fingers inside the shoes and stood up, he saw a few family photos on display. Like everything else, they were sprinkled with dust.
He took a second to examine them—and his eyes fell on one group shot in particular. There was Audie—fourteen maybe—gangly and wearing braces and suffering from a fatal case of Big Hair, standing as if someone were holding a gun to her head. Quinn laughed at the angry look in her eyes until he saw that her brother possessed the same expression. They must have been fighting.
Audie's father looked absolutely lost, standing off to the side a bit, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his suit trousers.
In the center was Helen, beaming into the camera like she had with Margaret Thatcher and Nancy Reagan, her hand resting on Audie's shoulder. It didn't seem to be out of affection as much as control.
And who was that? A younger, quite beautiful version of Marjorie Stoddard, standing with a protective hand on Drew's arm, holding the leash to a regal-looking standard poodle with a pompadour and a pompom tail.
Dear God. Out of the lot of them, Quinn decided the poodle looked the happiest.
"Did you find them?"
He straightened up at the faint sound of her shout and headed toward the other end of the apartment. A man could get a blister on his heel walking from one end of this place to the other.
"Whoa!" Quinn pulled back as Audie ran into the hallway outside her bedroom.
"Sorry. Thanks."
Quinn watched her balance one hand on the door frame, bend at the waist, and skip her feet into the shoes one at a time.
She looked elegant, refined, and professional. She'd chosen a simple pale pink sheath dress and wore pearls at her throat and ears. Her hair was twisted back in some complicated shape that left those little tendrils loose at the nape of her neck again. She smelled faintly of flowers and spice.
"You're lovely, Audie."
She straightened up, and her breath caught. "God, you clean up good, Stacey. You look downright … I don't know… Protestant!"
As Quinn laughed, she checked out his lightweight gray suit, simply cut, nicely fitted, and the starched white collar and a tie of watery blues and grays. The man was dazzling.
"I'm late. Let's go," she said.
* * *
Quinn couldn't remember the last time he'd enjoyed being in a library this much. It was a decent crowd, mostly after-work types and a few older retirees. He scanned the faces, looking for anything that might catch his eye—a little too much adoration or anger or resentment, anything that didn't fit.
"Perhaps I'm just bitter."
He couldn't get that sentence out of his head. There was something intimate in those words. He looked around the room again—was there bitterness in anyone's face here tonight? He didn't see it. These people were polite, excited, starstruck, and, at worst, a bit impatient that they had to wait in line for Audie's autograph.
But whoever was sending her those notes wasn't here tonight. Quinn was sure of it.
He moved around the large hall, watching her from every possible angle. He'd listened earlier as she stood at the podium to chat about the column and answer questions. He laughed to himself when he realized that most of her answers involved the use of club soda, baking soda, or white vinegar.
She was good, Quinn had to admit. She smiled pleasantly as she rattled off facts and tricks. She looked perfectly in control. She looked as if she enjoyed herself.
It was only when Audie stepped down from the podium that the spell had been broken. She tripped on a microphone cord and nearly fell on her face before the library director grabbed her arm.
About an hour had passed since then, and Audie sat at a long wooden table, her legs crossed daintily at the ankles, writing and smiling and nodding. At one
He took a second to examine them—and his eyes fell on one group shot in particular. There was Audie—fourteen maybe—gangly and wearing braces and suffering from a fatal case of Big Hair, standing as if someone were holding a gun to her head. Quinn laughed at the angry look in her eyes until he saw that her brother possessed the same expression. They must have been fighting.
Audie's father looked absolutely lost, standing off to the side a bit, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his suit trousers.
In the center was Helen, beaming into the camera like she had with Margaret Thatcher and Nancy Reagan, her hand resting on Audie's shoulder. It didn't seem to be out of affection as much as control.
And who was that? A younger, quite beautiful version of Marjorie Stoddard, standing with a protective hand on Drew's arm, holding the leash to a regal-looking standard poodle with a pompadour and a pompom tail.
Dear God. Out of the lot of them, Quinn decided the poodle looked the happiest.
"Did you find them?"
He straightened up at the faint sound of her shout and headed toward the other end of the apartment. A man could get a blister on his heel walking from one end of this place to the other.
"Whoa!" Quinn pulled back as Audie ran into the hallway outside her bedroom.
"Sorry. Thanks."
Quinn watched her balance one hand on the door frame, bend at the waist, and skip her feet into the shoes one at a time.
She looked elegant, refined, and professional. She'd chosen a simple pale pink sheath dress and wore pearls at her throat and ears. Her hair was twisted back in some complicated shape that left those little tendrils loose at the nape of her neck again. She smelled faintly of flowers and spice.
"You're lovely, Audie."
She straightened up, and her breath caught. "God, you clean up good, Stacey. You look downright … I don't know… Protestant!"
As Quinn laughed, she checked out his lightweight gray suit, simply cut, nicely fitted, and the starched white collar and a tie of watery blues and grays. The man was dazzling.
"I'm late. Let's go," she said.
* * *
Quinn couldn't remember the last time he'd enjoyed being in a library this much. It was a decent crowd, mostly after-work types and a few older retirees. He scanned the faces, looking for anything that might catch his eye—a little too much adoration or anger or resentment, anything that didn't fit.
"Perhaps I'm just bitter."
He couldn't get that sentence out of his head. There was something intimate in those words. He looked around the room again—was there bitterness in anyone's face here tonight? He didn't see it. These people were polite, excited, starstruck, and, at worst, a bit impatient that they had to wait in line for Audie's autograph.
But whoever was sending her those notes wasn't here tonight. Quinn was sure of it.
He moved around the large hall, watching her from every possible angle. He'd listened earlier as she stood at the podium to chat about the column and answer questions. He laughed to himself when he realized that most of her answers involved the use of club soda, baking soda, or white vinegar.
She was good, Quinn had to admit. She smiled pleasantly as she rattled off facts and tricks. She looked perfectly in control. She looked as if she enjoyed herself.
It was only when Audie stepped down from the podium that the spell had been broken. She tripped on a microphone cord and nearly fell on her face before the library director grabbed her arm.
About an hour had passed since then, and Audie sat at a long wooden table, her legs crossed daintily at the ankles, writing and smiling and nodding. At one
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