Free Tainted Gold by Lynn Michaels Page A

brochure about The Towers—you know, that new condo they just built? Minimal down payment, low interest rate, and since I own my own business, too, I need all the tax breaks I can get.”
    “I understand. It’s just—this is two in one day. Mr. Phillips moved out this afternoon.”
    “Sorry, Quill, really . Listen, I gotta go. I’ve got five silk flower arrangements to make for Mrs. Desmond Cassil’s bridge party tomorrow.” She made a hoity-toity face. “We’ll have lunch, okay?”
    “Sure.” Quillen nodded absently and stared at the envelope.
    “Psst!”
    She glanced up at Paula, paused between two stairs with her hand on the rail. Her brown eyes slid toward the door.
    “Where’d you find him?”
    “Oh.” Quillen smiled wanly. “Under a long white beard.”
    “Some Santa Claus.” She winked and hurried up the stairs.
    Slowly, a pensive frown on her face, Quillen reached behind her and turned the knob. She backed through the door, shut it, then leaned against it as she tapped the corner of the envelope on her chin.
    “Quillen?” His hands in his back pockets, Tucker walked into the room, one eyebrow raised. “Something wrong?”
    “I just lost another tenant.” She sighed, moving toward the mantel and sliding Paula’s envelope on the smooth oak slab between two of Grandma Elliot’s porcelain bells.
    “You’re kidding!”
    She smiled at him weakly. “I think I said that.”
    “Hey, you found me,” he said brightly. “Come on, let’s sign the lease and I’ll write you a check. That’ll perk you up.”
    It did, a little, but afterward, while Quillen stood at the front window and watched Tucker unload his sleeping bag from the back of the Jeep, her momentary cheer faded. Unmindfully rubbing her left arm as she watched him lug his gear up the walk, she remembered Desmond Cassil’s statement: “There are other methods of persuasion available.” Oddly, she wasn’t mad. She was scared.
    “Could I borrow a pillowcase?”
    Looking toward the hall and Tucker framed in the open doorway, Quillen did her best to smile. “Sure. Need a blanket?”
    “Nope, my bag’s nice and snug. Plenty of room for two.” He leered at her, then frowned as he walked toward her and lifted her chin on one finger. “Don’t look so bleak. Hey, let’s ask Realgar. He was right last night.”
    In that same instant, Quillen felt the floorboards beneath the gray and burgundy shag carpet tremble, and the stained glass panel in the top half of the window rattled. Behind her, the porcelain bells on the mantel tinkled and she spun around as the Luxo light on her drawing board flickered.
    “What the—” She gasped, her scalp prickling.
    “Tremor—a biggie.” Tucker bolted out the door.
    Quillen followed on his heels. He flipped the light on as he flung open the door and stepped out onto the porch, staring toward the east, in the direction of the festival grounds.
    “How big?”
    “I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.” He wheeled around and so did Quillen to watch him shoot up the stairs three at a time.
    He came back down in ninety seconds, pulling on a brown flannel shirt and carrying a jacket, his boots, and his duffel. His glasses slipped off the top of his head and landed, crooked, on his nose.
    “You may not see me for a couple days.” He brushed a wet, sloppy kiss on her cheekbone as she reached up and straightened his glasses. “Depending on what the seismometer says, I may stay out there.”
    “Tucker, you’re scaring me.” She held out her arms to take his clothes as he shoved them at her and bent over to pick up the sleeping bag. “I’m coming with you.”
    “As much as I want you in my sleeping bag—” He grinned at her as she followed him outside. “You’d be in my way, and I wouldn’t get any work done.”
    “But, Tucker—” she objected as she trailed him down the steps and the walk.
    He opened the back of the Jeep and lifted his sleeping bag and duffel inside. He kissed her