A Place to Call Home. Kathryn Springer

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      Faye was right. Instant migraine.

      “Good morning, Mr.—”

      “Alex Porter.” There was a significant pause, as if he expected Quinn to recognize the name. “Porter Hotels.”

      Now Quinn recognized the name.

      The deluxe hotels had their roots in Chicago, where Quinn had lived for eight years before returning to Mirror Lake, Wisconsin. Under Alex Porter’s management, offshoots now sprouted in other major Midwestern cities. Not only did they successfully compete against the larger, well-known chains, but the fact that Porter Hotels remained a family-run enterprise made it even more unique.

      “What can I do for—”

      “I want to hire you.”

      Quinn let out a slow breath. No wonder the guy had raised Faye’s hackles. Everything Alex Porter said came out sounding like a command instead of a request. As if he expected his name would open doors that were closed to mere mortals.

      The trouble was, Quinn thought with a trace of bitterness, it probably did. He’d dealt with people like Alex Porter before and had no desire to repeat the experience. Unfortunately, he wasn’t in a position to turn down business. Any business.

      Pride or a paycheck?

      Over the past year, while trying to resurrect the business his father had spent the last years of his life determined to bury, Quinn had discovered the cause and effect relationship between the two. Sometimes the first one depended upon the second.

      “Are you buying a condo? Building a hotel in the area?” Quinn searched his desk drawer—the Bermuda Triangle of office supplies—for a pen that actually worked. “O’Halloran Security custom designs security systems to fit the needs of each client. We can set up an appointment to discuss the details—”

      “I don’t need a new security system.”

      Quinn frowned. “I thought you said you wanted to hire me.”

      “I do. You recognized my name, and I recognized yours when I was researching businesses in the Mirror Lake area. I don’t need an alarm system. This is…personal.”

      Personal.

      Quinn’s fingers tightened around the phone. “Sorry. You’ve got the wrong person.”

      “I don’t think so.”

      “O’Halloran Security is strictly buildings. I don’t provide personal security.” Not anymore. “I’m sorry you wasted your time. But I have an appointment now, so you’ll have to excuse me. There are other reputable agencies in the Chicago area. I’m sure you’ll find someone.”

      To walk you to your limo, Quinn added silently.

      “It isn’t for me. It’s for my younger sister.”

      Something in Porter’s voice stopped Quinn from hanging up the phone. A hint of emotion that cracked the surface of the cool, CEO voice. “Just hear me out.”

      Don’t ask.

      “Please.”

      Coming from Porter, the word sounded as if he’d started speaking a foreign language. So, against his better judgment, Quinn asked.

      “What’s going on?”

      “Abby turned in her letter of resignation at the hotel a month ago and bought a run-down lodge a few miles outside of Mirror Lake. She plans to turn it into a bed-and-breakfast.” The disapproval leaking into Alex’s voice told Quinn how he felt about his sister’s decision. “You must have heard about it.”

      “Maybe.” Quinn deliberately kept his voice noncommittal as a conversation he’d overheard stirred in his memory.

      Although he tried to keep to himself, he had heard a rumor about the sale of the former Bible camp while waiting for his breakfast one morning at the Grapevine Café, where local gossip brewed as fast as Kate Nichols’s industrial-strength coffee.

      “So far, Abby refuses to listen to reason and come back to Chicago where she belongs. It looks like I’m going to have to play this her way for a while.”

      “So why did you call me?” Quinn’s lips twisted. “You need a bodyguard to keep the local riffraff away from her?”

      That was ironic. At one time, his family portrait would have appeared beside the word riffraff in Webster’s Dictionary.

      Alex chose to ignore the sarcasm. “A few weeks ago, someone started harassing me. Vandalized my car. Painted some, shall we say, rather unflattering graffiti on the window of my office. There haven’t been any overt threats made, but I want someone to keep an eye on Abby until my private investigator finds out who I angered.”

      “That could take a while,” Quinn said under his breath.

      To his amazement, Alex laughed. “It might,” he admitted. “I’m not concerned about myself as much as I am about Abby. She is…fragile. I can’t believe she’s serious about opening a bed-and-breakfast, but it doesn’t change the fact that right now she’s miles away from civilization, living in a house with hook-and-eye locks on the doors and windows that won’t close all the way. I want to be sure she’s safe.”

      Some memories were so bitter he could taste them. “Then you should have done your homework. Because if that’s the case, I guarantee you called the wrong person.”

      A tense silence stretched between them, and Quinn guessed it was because not many people had the guts to point out that Alex Porter made mistakes. Maybe he’d save Quinn the trouble and hang up first.

      He didn’t.

      “You spent four years in the Marine Corps. Seven years with Hamlin Security,” Alex recited evenly. “You moved back to your hometown a year ago to take over your father’s locksmith business after he died. Since then, you expanded to specialized security systems designed for summer homes and luxury condos.”

      Apparently Porter had done his homework.

      All those things were true. But Porter had left out a six-month gap in Quinn’s employment history. “You forgot something.”

      “That you got a raw deal while you worked for Hamlin? Doesn’t matter.”

      Didn’t matter?

      Under different circumstances, Quinn might have been flattered. Except that he couldn’t believe someone could neatly condense the last thirteen years of his life and then dismiss the single event that had ripped it apart. Especially when it had cost him his career—and his reputation.

      “I have a business. And it isn’t babysitting the rich and famous.” Been there, done that. Still pulling out shrapnel.

      “I need the best. That’s you.”

      “What you need to do is buy your sister a rottweiler and remind her to lock the doors at night,” Quinn shot back. “It sounds to me like you’re overreacting to a threat that doesn’t СКАЧАТЬ