In the Tycoon's Debt (Silhouette Desire #1967)

Since he had little interest in office gossip and even less in people's opinion of him, he did nothing to encourage the rumors—but nothing to put them to rest, either. One rumor painted him as a trained assassin for the CIA. Another as a Black Operative for a secret branch of the military. A third as the billionaire heir to a national chain of automotive stores. None of the rumors mentioned a wife. For most people, it was easier to imagine Quinn as a ruthless killer than a loving husband.

Which was why, the day Genevieve Montgomery called his secretary asking for an appointment and claiming to be his ex-wife, the rumor mill went into overdrive. By the time Quinn found out about the appointment, there was nothing he could do to stifle the gossip.

By the time Wednesday morning rolled around, the situation was so desperate that before Quinn could even sip his coffee, Derek Messina let himself into Quinn's office. Messina Diamonds, McCain Security's biggest client, was located in the same building just a few floors up. So while it appeared Derek hadn't particularly gone out of his way to stop by, it didn't bode well that he'd taken time out of a workday to do so.

Quinn scowled, trying to send subliminal get-the-hell-outta-my-office signals. Subliminal only because saying it aloud would make him seem way too preoccupied with Evie's impendingvisit. "So I take it you heard."

"About Evie?"

Quinn nodded. "Based on how quiet it gets every time I enter a room, it's all anyone in this office is talking about. A good portion of my employees are former military. You'd think I wouldn't have to put up with this crap from them."

He wasn't the kind of guy who made many jokes, but usually when he did make them, his friends had the common courtesy to laugh. It seemed a very bad sign that Derek simply studied him.

"Your meeting with her is today, right?"

Since he couldn't get Derek to take a hint, Quinn leaned back in his chair and nursed his coffee. "In just a few minutes."

"Do you know what she wants?"

"Don't know. Don't care."

"Do you want me to stay?"

"When she's here?" Quinn asked in disbelief. Derek nodded, seriously. "No, but I'd really appreciate it if you could pass her a note in biology. Tell her to meet me out behind the gym after band practice."

Derek gave him a blank look, and it was a minute before Quinn remembered that Derek hadn't had a traditional upbringing and had never even gone to high school.

Quinn sighed. "I'm not fourteen. I don't need you to hold my hand when I meet her. You know how I feel about my marriage."

"Right," Derek said. "You don't want to talk about it. You don't want to think about it. If I wasn't such a good friend, you'd shoot me just so there'd be one less person in the world who even knew about it."

"I believe those were my words."

They were a little harsh—especially in light of all those "paid assassin for the CIA" rumors—but at the time he'd said them, he and Derek had been very hungover. Too much brandy the night before had been the culprit in both their confessional discussion and their hangovers the next morning. Since they were both wishing they were dead, the threat didn't seem like such a bad one.

"Is that her out in the waiting room?" Derek now asked.

"I don't know." He'd arrived at six this morning. Though he hated the notion that he'd been hiding inside his office ever since, he couldn't overlook that possibility.

The truth was, he didn't know how to feel about Evie popping up in his life after all these years. On one hand, it might be gratifying to have her see exactly how well he'd done for himself. On the other, every cell in his body recoiled at the thought of her. Of the reminder of what an idiot he'd been.

He'd loved her. Been completely, stupidly devoted to her, in the way only the young and naive could be. He would have done anything for her. And, bored rich girl that she was, she'd toyed with him, manipulated him and used him to get back at her father. All before breaking his heart, ending their marriage and leaving him to rot in jail.

"It might be good to see her," Derek pointed out. "It might be cathartic."

What could he say? That he'd rather crawl naked through a pit of scorpions? That he'd rather go through therapy on live TV? That he'd rather parachute into hostile territory? Hell, forget the parachute. He'd just jump out of the plane.

His expression must have spoken volumes because, finally, Derek said, "You know, you could cancel the meeting. You could refuse to see her."

"No. I can't. If I did that, everyone in this office would wonder why I canceled. Then there'd be more rumors and speculation. Or, worse, sympathy."

He could just imagine it now. Some "helpful" person would decide he'd canceled because it had been too hard on him to see his ex-wife. Then he'd have to put up with the cloying compassion. People being nice to him.

He was a CEO, for God's sake. He had a net worth that ranked him among the richest men in the state. Beside which—while not actually an assassin—he was an excellent marksman and trained in demolitions. Men who could blow stuff up should not be the objects of pity.

He stood, tugging at the hem of his suit jacket. "No, the only thing I can do now is just get this over with."

"What are you going to say to her?"

"Whatever the hell I need to say to get her out of my office and my life as quickly as possible."

Evie Montgomery had forgotten how much she truly despised wearing cashmere. It made the back of her neck itch.

But the twelve-year-old lavender sweater was the single most expensive item of clothing she had. So two days ago, she'd pulled it and the matching skirt out of the storage chest and aired it out, knowing that if she wanted to get through today with any semblance of dignity, she needed to look her absolute best.

Still, as she sat in the impeccably decorated high-rise offices of McCain Security, she had to fight the urge to scrape her nails along the back of her neck. However, doing so would leave bright red marks across her skin. It was silly vanity, but when she saw Quinn for the first time in nearly fifteen years, she didn't want to look blotchy.

She was nervous enough as it was, without adding blotchy to her list of problems.

What if he never wanted to see her again? If that were the case, the next twenty or so minutes were going to be very uncomfortable. Particularly the part where she asked him to give her fifty thousand dollars.

Before she could contemplate that possibility, the door to his office opened and the same dour-looking man who'd entered ten minutes ago walked out. He gave her an appraising look, and she had the distinct impression he and Quinn had been discussing her. Which was just great. Because she wasn't nearly nervous enough as it was.

A moment later, the receptionist looked up and said, "Ms. Montgomery, Mr. McCain will see you now."

Evie moved mindlessly into his office, barely aware of his assistant asking if she wanted a cup of coffee and then leaving when she didn't reply. She was too keyed up to drink anything and too aware of Quinn to answer.

The instant she saw Quinn's face, Evie knew it had been a mistake to come. Knew her hopes that he'd moved on—maybe even forgiven her—were about to be crushed. His expression said it all.

He stood behind his desk, every muscle of his body tense, as if she were some medusa from his past who'd turned him into a statue of repressed hate. But of course, being Quinn, he didn't look angry that she'd come. No, he looked shut down. The way he used to look when dealing with "concerned" teachers who would try to talk to him about his father's drinking problem.

She was probably the only person in the world who knew that his complete detachment hid seething anger.

He had not moved on. He'd never forgiven her. And he would not loan her the money. Jeez, she'd be lucky if he didn't call in security guards to have her hauled out and thrown down to the curb.

A hysterical giggle bubbled up through her chest. Did the CEOs of security firms have security guards?

He certainly didn't look as if he needed them. In the years that had passed, his shoulders had broadened. His physique, which had always been long and lean, like a professional swimmer's, had bulked up.

No, he wouldn't need anyone else to throw her out. He looked more than capable of doing it himself. And like he might even enjoy it, if he let himself.

But she'd been doing hard things her entire life. This would be no different. Though undoubtedly more humiliating.

Since this wasn't going to get any easier, she launched into the script she'd been practicing for days. "Hello, Quinn. It's been a long time."

She expected some rejoinder. Not long enough, perhaps.

Instead, he nodded, his face still lined with cool distaste. As if a slug had slimed its way into his office and he didn't want to step on it and risk ruining the carpet.

"Evie." He accompanied the word with a brief nod.

That was the only way she knew it was a greeting and not a slur.

"How have you been?" she asked, mostly because it seemed rude to jump straight to the part where she begged him for money.

"Let's skip the pleasantries. You must want something from me or you wouldn't be here."

"You're right." She gestured toward the chair opposite Quinn's desk. "May I sit?"

He seemed to consider the question for a minute before nodding.

Maybe if they were both sitting, she'd be able to dismiss her fears that he was about to jump across the desk and pounce on her like a wild puma devouring his prey. However, instead of sitting when she did, he continued to lean, his hips propped against the edge of his desk, a mug of coffee steaming beside his hand. Since his legs were stretched out in front of him, she had to cross hers at the ankle and keep them tucked off to the side to avoid brushing her feet against his. If her mother were still alive, she'd be happy to know Evie was finally putting all of those deportment lessons to use.

"You must know that whatever it is you want, I won't give it to you."

"It's not for me, if that makes any difference at all."

"It doesn't."

The Quinn she'd known had spoken with a slight east Texas twang, not unlike the one that had made Matthew McConaughey the stuff of fantasies. Yet this Quinn had buried his drawl beneath the bland Midwestern tones of a newscaster. What else from his past did he keep hidden away?

Not that it mattered. She was here for one reason only. To save her baby brother. "It's for Corbin."

"I don't care—"

She spoke quickly over his arguments, her desperation palpable. "I need you, Quinn. You know I wouldn't ask for help if there was anyone else I could turn to." He didn't say anything, so she kept talking. "He's gotten himself into trouble and owes some people money. These people—the Mendoza brothers—I had a friend of mine who's on the force tell me about them. They—" She couldn't quite bring herself to repeat the things she'd heard.

Apparently the Mendoza brothers were the up-and-comers in the world of organized crime in Dallas. They were making a name for themselves by being more brutal and more ruthless than any of their competitors. They'd already been linked to a string of bloody murders, but the DA hadn't been able to build a case against them.

"Corbin says they've threatened him. They're going to cut off a finger or something. But I think he's wrong. I think it's going to be much worse. He's scared. And I'm scared for him."

So scared she couldn't let herself think about it. She'd been concentrating only on getting here. On talking to Quinn. On putting herself in his hands and hoping he'd help her.

Corbin was the only family she had left. Ever since her mother had died when Evie was a teenager, her relationship with her father had grown more and more hostile. She couldn't lose Corbin, too.

For a brief moment, Quinn's gaze seemed to soften as he studied her. Then he straightened and rounded the desk, distancing himself from her. "So why come to me? I suppose you want me to take care of it." He made a sweeping motion with his hand. As if brushing Corbin's problems aside. "I suppose you think that because I own a security company I have a legion of hired thugs to do my bidding. But that's not the kind of work I do."

"I know what you do."

He quirked an eyebrow as if to say, "Oh really? Prove it."

"You make money," she stated succinctly. "Lots of it. I know what you're worth."

This time the other eyebrow went up, too. She'd surprised him.

"I don't want you to make his problem go away. I want you to pay off his debt."

"You need money." He spoke slowly, as if marveling at the irony. "And you have no one else to ask?"

Despite the embarrassment creeping under her skin, she forced herself not to look away. Not to shy away from his cool, appraising gaze. "There's no one else."

"Your father owned half the county."

She hadn't spoken to her father in more than ten years, but last week she'd gone to him and begged. Literally on her knees. She'd begged him for the money. And he'd said no. Spit it, actually.