Read Online Knock Me Off My Feet by Susan Donovan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Susan Donovan
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point she raised her head, blinked, and looked around the room until she found him.
Quinn watched something pass over her face—relief, maybe. Whatever it was, it was just for him, and it made him smile.
The smile abruptly faded. Quinn felt the hard, cold stare of unfriendly eyes on him and turned in time to see a man disappear around the double doors of the hall. After a quick look Audie's way, Quinn followed.
He found nothing. No one. But he wasn't about to leave Audie alone to go chase after the guy. Besides, he had an appointment with him in a few days.
An appointment with Vice Mayor Tim Burke.
* * *
"I've got to eat something." Audie leaned back in the car seat, closed her eyes, and sighed. She flipped off her shoes. "I thought I'd never get out of there!"
Quinn was driving the Porsche north on
La Salle Street
. "I'll take you somewhere."
"I'm too tired to go anywhere."
"Then I'll take you nowhere."
"Perfect."
They drove in silence for most of the way as Quinn headed west on Division and north on Clybourn. He pulled into an alley off of Southport . In the dark, Audie had no idea where they were—until they whipped into a small parking space adjacent to someone's neatly landscaped backyard.
She turned to him, too tired and hungry to put up much of a fight. "Is the food here any good?"
"Always."
The first thing she noticed was how clean his floors were—shiny, flawless oak strips that ran the narrow length of the house, not a scatter rug to be seen in the whole place.
The next thing she noticed was that Quinn's house immediately put her at ease. There were big, overstuffed chairs, a soft-looking couch, photographs on the walls, and a nice old fireplace. She saw lots of green thriving plants near the windows and the bookcases filled with rows of books arranged by height.
"Make yourself at home," Quinn said, hanging his suit jacket in the hall closet. "Wine?"
She nodded. "Bathroom?"
He pointed up the set of stairs. "Down the hall and to the left."
When she finished in the bathroom, she ripped off her panty hose and balled them up in her hand. Wearing panty hose in the summer in Chicago was masochistic, and she sighed with relief to feel the air on her legs.
Audie caught the smell of onions and hot butter and headed toward the stairs, as if pulled by the rich and pungent scent.
But suddenly she stopped, blinked, and stared at the wall of framed photographs beside her—portraits, candids, baby pictures, weddings, communions, landscapes, cityscapes, graduations—all along the upstairs hallway from the chair rail nearly to the ceiling. The faces! So many faces!
The pictures made her smile. Quinn and two other boys in hockey uniforms, one boy missing a front tooth. Scruffy-looking mutts. Fishing trips. First cars.
Her eye moved to one picture, a wedding portrait from what looked like the early 1900s. The man stood stiffly in a suit that didn't quite fit, one large hand clutching a cap against his leg and a sweet, shy smile plastered across his broad face.
His other hand rested hesitantly on the tufted parlor chair that held his bride. Her thick, dark hair was piled loosely on top of her head. Her light eyes danced in the camera flash. The bodice of her gown fit snugly against her tidy figure.
Quinn's great-grandparents, maybe? Audie gazed in wonder at all the people that seemed to radiate from this single old wedding portrait, their placement telling the story of a family.
Audie realized with a start that she was weeping, that a steady flow of silent tears now ran down her face. She swiped at them with the balled-up panty hose and scolded herself for the ridiculous outburst. It had been a long day.
With a deep breath she turned to go, but her heart was having none of it. She looked back and stared. There was joy on that wall. There was life and death and a reason for everything in between. She felt the jealousy stick in her chest like a knife, sending the pain of longing through her.
Damn it, how
Quinn watched something pass over her face—relief, maybe. Whatever it was, it was just for him, and it made him smile.
The smile abruptly faded. Quinn felt the hard, cold stare of unfriendly eyes on him and turned in time to see a man disappear around the double doors of the hall. After a quick look Audie's way, Quinn followed.
He found nothing. No one. But he wasn't about to leave Audie alone to go chase after the guy. Besides, he had an appointment with him in a few days.
An appointment with Vice Mayor Tim Burke.
* * *
"I've got to eat something." Audie leaned back in the car seat, closed her eyes, and sighed. She flipped off her shoes. "I thought I'd never get out of there!"
Quinn was driving the Porsche north on
La Salle Street
. "I'll take you somewhere."
"I'm too tired to go anywhere."
"Then I'll take you nowhere."
"Perfect."
They drove in silence for most of the way as Quinn headed west on Division and north on Clybourn. He pulled into an alley off of Southport . In the dark, Audie had no idea where they were—until they whipped into a small parking space adjacent to someone's neatly landscaped backyard.
She turned to him, too tired and hungry to put up much of a fight. "Is the food here any good?"
"Always."
The first thing she noticed was how clean his floors were—shiny, flawless oak strips that ran the narrow length of the house, not a scatter rug to be seen in the whole place.
The next thing she noticed was that Quinn's house immediately put her at ease. There were big, overstuffed chairs, a soft-looking couch, photographs on the walls, and a nice old fireplace. She saw lots of green thriving plants near the windows and the bookcases filled with rows of books arranged by height.
"Make yourself at home," Quinn said, hanging his suit jacket in the hall closet. "Wine?"
She nodded. "Bathroom?"
He pointed up the set of stairs. "Down the hall and to the left."
When she finished in the bathroom, she ripped off her panty hose and balled them up in her hand. Wearing panty hose in the summer in Chicago was masochistic, and she sighed with relief to feel the air on her legs.
Audie caught the smell of onions and hot butter and headed toward the stairs, as if pulled by the rich and pungent scent.
But suddenly she stopped, blinked, and stared at the wall of framed photographs beside her—portraits, candids, baby pictures, weddings, communions, landscapes, cityscapes, graduations—all along the upstairs hallway from the chair rail nearly to the ceiling. The faces! So many faces!
The pictures made her smile. Quinn and two other boys in hockey uniforms, one boy missing a front tooth. Scruffy-looking mutts. Fishing trips. First cars.
Her eye moved to one picture, a wedding portrait from what looked like the early 1900s. The man stood stiffly in a suit that didn't quite fit, one large hand clutching a cap against his leg and a sweet, shy smile plastered across his broad face.
His other hand rested hesitantly on the tufted parlor chair that held his bride. Her thick, dark hair was piled loosely on top of her head. Her light eyes danced in the camera flash. The bodice of her gown fit snugly against her tidy figure.
Quinn's great-grandparents, maybe? Audie gazed in wonder at all the people that seemed to radiate from this single old wedding portrait, their placement telling the story of a family.
Audie realized with a start that she was weeping, that a steady flow of silent tears now ran down her face. She swiped at them with the balled-up panty hose and scolded herself for the ridiculous outburst. It had been a long day.
With a deep breath she turned to go, but her heart was having none of it. She looked back and stared. There was joy on that wall. There was life and death and a reason for everything in between. She felt the jealousy stick in her chest like a knife, sending the pain of longing through her.
Damn it, how
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