LITMIR.BIZ

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her, enjoying the view and the way she looked over her shoulder without trying to seem like she was. She did have spectacular legs.

      When she spotted him she picked up speed. The dog broke stride, barked once then settled beside her, keeping pace.

      Quinn had appreciated the leather skirt yesterday. Today she wore running shorts, a tank top and a sweatshirt that she’d pulled off and tied around her waist without missing a step. He whipped his own sweatshirt off, wishing he’d known he would be running. Jeans chafed. Good thing he’d worn sneakers. Most of the time he wore boots. He would’ve looked like he was chasing her. Some Good Samaritan might’ve decked him.

      She jogged in place at a traffic signal at the bottom of a hill. He stayed twenty feet behind her. The light turned green and she took off with only a glance over her shoulder. Damn. He hadn’t felt this good in months, ever since he’d left his one-man operation to come aboard with ARC. The transition had been challenging, reporting to and working with other people.

      Today he was glad for the job, glad for this particular assignment. The bleached blonde with the long legs and the canine companion sent his mood soaring.

      Suddenly she turned around and ran toward him, the dog nipping at her heels. Was she going home already? Should he step aside and let her pass or—

      “You might as well run with us,” she said, stopping in front of him but still jogging.

      The dog danced around, barking.

      “Stop it, Rase.”

      “You call that a command?”

      She pursed her lips. The dog never stopped moving.

      “And I see how well it works,” he added. “Sit,” he said authoritatively.

      The dog put his rear on the sidewalk instantly and grinned, his tongue hanging out, his tail dusting the ground.

      Claire stopped jogging. “How did you— Traitor,” she said to the dog. “You little traitor. He has never done that for me.”

      “That’s because you say ‘Stop it.’” He tried to match the pitch of her voice. “Good boy,” he said to the dog, patting his head. “Rase?” he queried, looking at Claire.

      “Short for Eraser. Because his coat is the color of the old blackboard erasers.” She rubbed his ears. “He probably had another name, but I got him from the pound. He was already a couple of years old.” She put her shoulders back. “Let’s go.”

      They jogged up a hill, not a particularly steep one by San Francisco standards, but enough that they couldn’t talk much.

      “You saved his life,” Quinn said to her, not surprised that she’d rescued the dog from death row.

      “He kind of saved mine, too.” She kept her eyes focused ahead. “We needed each other.”

      Because of her parents or her sister? he wondered. He tried not to feel sorry for her. People often couldn’t see the truth about family. He’d been in that position himself, not once but twice. Claire was apparently as untainted as he had been once, enough so that she volunteered at a blood bank in gratitude for a little extra time with her dying mother…and chose to teach first-graders, innocence personified…and rescued pound dogs…and had blind faith in her unworthy sister.

      But it was also hard to imagine Jennifer talking Claire into something she didn’t want to do. Claire only seemed mild mannered. She’d displayed a firm strength of character last night. So, why change from brunette to blonde? Why the shift to leather skirt and snug blouse? The change was drastic.

      Had Jennifer convinced her to transform herself? Quinn found it hard to believe it had been Claire’s idea. Jennifer needed to escape surveillance, and she’d used her sister to do it.

      He gave up asking himself questions he couldn’t answer and focused on the run, which felt good. He hadn’t taken enough time for himself lately. Lately? He almost laughed at the understatement. He got a work-out in because he had a gym at home, but free time was a rarity, which was why on the rare occasions he dated, they were busy women who weren’t demanding of his time, because they understood working long hours. So he chose professional women, mostly. Except lawyers, who asked too many questions.

      And most women ended the relationship quickly, saying he was too serious. Hell, life was serious.

      A block away from Claire’s house he spotted two men loitering at the base of the stairs. He knew them. Knew why they were there.

      Claire slowed her pace to a walk. So did Quinn. Rase started to bark as they got closer to the house.

      “No,” Quinn ordered. The dog went silent, then looked adoringly at Quinn.

      Claire sighed loudly.

      “Dogs like limits,” Quinn said. “He’s obviously had some training.”

      She angled her head toward the men, who had come to attention and were watching their approach. “Friends of yours?”

      “I know them.”

      He couldn’t read her expression, and he admired her all the more for that. Show No Fear was his personal motto. Maybe hers, too. Maybe being a teacher ingrained that, he decided.

      “Gerard,” the taller of the two men said in greeting.

      “Santos,” Quinn replied.

      “We can take it from here,” the man told Quinn.

      Peter Santos was the D.A. investigator Jennifer had spotted tailing her, the reason why Quinn, a private not public investigator, had been hired. Quinn noted the edge in his voice. Santos should relax. Jenn had spotted Quinn, too—another reason why Quinn figured she was guilty. She wouldn’t have been that alert if she hadn’t been looking for someone watching her.

      “I believe I’ll stay,” Quinn said. “This is Claire Winston.”

      “Ms. Winston, I’m Peter Santos from the district attorney’s office. Could we go inside, please?”

      “Do I have a choice?” she asked, but led them up the stairs, not waiting for Santos’s answer to her rhetorical question. When everyone was gathered in her foyer, Santos held out a piece of paper. Rase whined.

      “I’ll be right back,” Claire said, not accepting the document. “I’m going to shut the dog in the kitchen.”

      Good. She would handle the situation on her own terms. Had she figured out why Santos was there?

      When she returned she looked calm. She’d also put her sweatshirt back on.

      Santos passed her the paper. “I have a warrant, Ms. Winston.”

      “For what?”

      “Requiring that you turn over the note that your sister, Jennifer Winston, wrote you.”

      Claire’s gaze shifted to Quinn. Hurt radiated from her like a furnace blast. Because of him the note would no longer be private but would be seen by the D.A. and others. “It takes three of you to bring me one piece of paper and pick one up?” she asked. “You all must’ve heard about my black belt in karate, I guess.”

      The joke went over Santos’s head. Quinn cleared his throat. It really was pretty funny, the three of them confronting one slender schoolteacher with a spotless reputation. Claire took her time reading the warrant. Santos shifted from foot to foot. A grandfather clock by the front door ticktocked, ticktocked.

      “Ms. Winston,” Santos said after a while. “All it says is—”

      “I can read.” She opened the drawer of her entry table, removed a piece of paper and gave it to him.

      Santos looked it over. Quinn held out his hand and was handed the note, probably because Santos didn’t want to argue in front of her.

      “Dear Claire,” it read. “I’m doing what you asked. I’ll be in touch. Love, Jenn.”

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