The Raven Master. Diana Whitney
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voice that sounded very much like her own. “Yes, I suppose so.”
Peculiar waves of warmth washed over her, an odd floating sensation that settled like a fluttering bird to nest in her feminine core. In spite of a cultured manner, there was a primitive quality about this mysterious man that awakened an ancient part of her own soul. Like a magnificent warrior, Quinn Coulliard exuded an aura of strength and leashed savagery that was deeply disturbing—and incredibly erotic.
Confused and unnerved, she glanced away long enough to take a deep breath and clear her fuzzy mind. She managed a tight laugh. “Well, regardless of metaphysical consequences, it seems that Darby Ridge is a gathering point for displaced San Diegans. Marjorie Barker once mentioned that she’d owned some kind of business outside of Mission Bay.”
“And your other tenants, are they from Southern California?”
The underlying urgency of his question gave her pause. “I’m not certain.”
His smile wasn’t particularly pleasant. “So of all your guests, only I have been singled out for your intensive interrogation. Should I be concerned or flattered?”
Her face warmed. “It wasn’t my intent to interrogate you, Mr. Coulliard. I was simply making polite conversation.”
A victorious smile played on his lips. “So was I, Miss Taylor.”
Decidedly uncomfortable, Janine fidgeted with the detergent box. He was right, of course. She hadn’t grilled her other guests about their pasts. Quite frankly, she hadn’t been interested, and that realization opened an entirely new area of thought. Obviously she was interested in Quinn Coulliard yet was unsure as to exactly why. She’d have to think about that later.
At the moment, however, she offered a conciliatory smile. “Jules and Edna are originally from Massachusetts, but from what I understand, they most recently lived in Seattle. They’ve been in Darby Ridge a little over a year. As for Althea, she’s lived here longer than any of us.”
“Ah, yes, Ms. Miller. She’s quite an interesting woman.” He absently rubbed his index finger along his angled jawline. “Ms. Fabish and her grandson are also…rather unique.”
Janine straightened and said nothing.
Quinn pursed his lips thoughtfully. “All of your guests are so colorful, I can’t help wondering what has brought them to such a secluded place.”
She forced a nonchalant shrug. “I wouldn’t know. Maybe they’re soul mates, too.”
He regarded her for a moment, then posed a blunt question. “Don’t you find their peculiarities to be unsettling?”
Shifting nervously, she fingered a rusted scratch on the washing-machine lid, remembering the horrible things Jules had said about poor Marjorie and how his eyes had gleamed with perverse pleasure. “No one is perfect, Mr. Coulliard. We have to accept people as they are, not as we’d wish them to be.”
“But if such wishes could be granted, what changes would you make in the people living under your roof?” The moment the question slid from his lips, Quinn knew he’d pushed too hard.
Janine’s shoulders squared stubbornly. She suddenly grabbed the detergent box, shoving it in the overhead cabinet with unnecessary force. “I don’t care for hypothetical questions, Mr. Coulliard, and I make it a point not to discuss my guests’ personal lives.”
One look at the angry spark in those liquid amber eyes and Quinn knew that he had to act quickly or he’d lose the advantage. He took her hand, ignoring her startled expression as he expertly guided the conversation to a more intimate level. “I’m concerned about you, Janine.”
As her eyes widened, she touched her throat in a gesture that could have been interpreted as an expression of shock or vulnerability or both. She managed to stammer a single word. “Why?”
With slow strokes of his thumb, Quinn lightly caressed the back of her hand. “Surely you’ve noticed how Jules looks at you.” The fear in her eyes hit him like a body blow.
She withdrew her hand. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Surprised by a visceral reaction to her distress, Quinn took a moment to compose himself and scrutinize the woman who had evoked the unexpected response. There was a purity about her, an air of innocence that he found oddly appealing. Hers was a quiet beauty, fresh and natural, her face framed by silky strands of chestnut hair cut in a simple style that complemented her dainty features. She neither used nor needed cosmetic enhancement but her exotic eyes, so delicately tinted with flecks of gold, reflected a vague sadness that he found strangely unsettling.
Quinn looked away, breaking the spell and refocusing his mind on what had to be done. After a moment, he faced her again to gauge her reaction. “Jules appears to be an emotionally fragile young man.” As her perfect complexion faded, he deduced that Janine was well aware of her tenant’s emotional problems.
To her credit, however, she defiantly lifted her chin and met his eyes without blinking. “To make such a denigrating statement about a man you’ve just met is presumptuous to say the least, and unless you have a psychology degree tucked in those ragged jeans, I suggest you keep your pompous opinions to yourself.”
Quinn arched a brow and regarded the gutsy woman with a combination of admiration and renewed wariness. Under ordinary circumstances, he’d have appreciated such chutzpah. These, however, weren’t ordinary circumstances, and at the moment he’d have preferred the exquisite young lady to be less perceptive and more compliant.
To obtain what he needed, Quinn had to establish her trust, and since she could not be easily manipulated, he’d have to open his own life just far enough to gain her empathy and confidence. He hadn’t wanted to do that but she’d left him no choice.
Sighing, he rubbed his forehead. “Actually I do.”
The cryptic statement appeared to knock the breath out of her. “Do what?”
Dropping his hand, he smiled in what he hoped was a modestly endearing manner. “I don’t keep it in my pocket, though. Sheepskin tends to wrinkle.”
She frowned, tilted her head and eyed him skeptically. “You’re a psychologist?”
“I was.”
Folding her arms, she aimed a pointed glance at his unconventional attire, dubious that a ponytailed man in torn denim could have ever held such a position. At least, that was Quinn’s assumption, so her next statement took him by surprise. “I should have guessed,” she murmured. “Especially after watching how you calmed those terrified children. You were wonderful with them.”
Taken aback by such unexpected praise, Quinn covered his discomfort with an impassive shrug. “The children needed to express their fears in order to face them. I just asked the questions.”
“Perhaps, but I recognized something deeper in the way you related to them—an affinity and concern that can’t be taught at a university.” She smiled and a dazzling warmth settled inside Quinn’s chest. “Do you specialize in working with children?”
“No. I had hoped to but…” He hesitated, unwilling to expose such a painful part of his life. A quick glance confirmed her interest. He took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “I couldn’t afford to open my own practice, and since a depressed economy limited the number of positions available in my area of expertise, I ended up in a state clinic counseling adults with drug and alcohol problems.”
“You didn’t find that fulfilling?”
“At first I did.”
“And something changed that?”
He shrugged. “My patients were only there because treatment had been mandated by the courts.”
“But you still helped them.”
“No, I didn’t. When their probation ended, nearly all of them returned to self-destructive behavior.”