Dean: Marquette Security, #3

By Clara Kendrick

This is the third book in the Marquette Security series, with over 79,000 words of romantic suspense.

 

Dean Witherspoon doesn't ever plan to grow up. He's not interested in settling down, committing, and being responsible, primarily because it only brings heartbreak.

 

That's why the only woman he's committed to is his sister, Willow. At least, that is, until Quinn walks in, still mourning her sister Mila and believing there was a lot more to Mila's death than the police had discovered.

 

The investigation leads Dean into the dirty background of Chicago's dance scene, putting both of them in a position where they may not escape alive. It's only when Quinn's life is on the line that Dean realizes that, risky or not, he doesn't want to live without her and her son.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Clara Kendrick
• Release date: May 20, 2018
• ISBN: 9798224457298

Clara Kendrick

Discover the captivating world of Clara Kendrick's romantic suspense. With her masterful storytelling and skillful blend of intrigue, romance, and passion, Kendrick draws readers in and keeps them hooked until the very end. Get ready to be swept away by her thrilling and steamy tales of love and suspense. Signup and follow at: Books2read.com/ClaraKendrick Facebook.com/AuthorClaraKendrick

Book preview

Prologue

Mila groaned, another wave of nausea moving over her that had her stumbling from her bed to the toilet. She vomited, purging her already-empty stomach all over again. She had been sick for three days—three days that had taken a serious toll on her dance training—and she was so ready to be better. Every time she thought she was making progress, it seemed like she fell sick again as soon as she started to get up and move around. Just earlier that day, when her sister, Quinn, had been over, Mila had been feeling more herself. They had even sat together on the couch, sipping at warm drinks and chatting. Now, just a few hours later, she was in misery all over again.

Tumbling back into bed, Mila pulled the covers up over her and considered texting Quinn to say she was feeling worse than ever. But she refrained, knowing that her sister would feel like she needed to come over. Quinn had her son, Joshua, to worry about, and even more than that, Mila didn’t have the energy to pretend to be the person that she always was in front of her sister. Quinn had no idea what Mila’s life was really like, and she never would if Mila had anything to say about it.

Quinn had done more for her than anyone in her life ever had, and she deserved to be sheltered from the pain and turmoil that Mila dealt with day in and day out. She didn’t need the burden of knowing how often Mila escaped her memories, her relationships, and her anxiety by popping a pill or having another drink. She didn’t need to know that despite how hard Quinn had tried to shelter Mila from the darkness of life, Mila found herself surrounded by it, day in and day out. She didn’t need to know that while Mila loved dance, the studio where she learned and worked had become so toxic that there were moments when Mila had feared being arrested, attacked, or killed. Those were thoughts that Mila only indulged in late at night, when she was alone and when the only witness was the silent, non-judgmental glow of the recording light on her camera. It helped to pour her feelings into an anonymous device, and it kept those feelings from taking over during the day when she was supposed to be a functioning member of society—and a happy, carefree sister.

Knowing what Mila was going through would only hurt Quinn, and they had both had enough pain in their lives. So, Mila didn’t call her sister. Instead, she rested in her bed, shivering with cold and nausea and thinking about all the things she had done in her life that she regretted—all the things that had gotten her to this moment where she didn’t know what she was going to wake up to each and every day. Would she go about her normal routine? Would she be fired? Interrogated? Arrested? Would her bad decisions somehow end up hurting the only two people she really loved—Quinn and Joshua?

Her thoughts were so all-consuming that she didn’t notice at first when it became harder for her to breathe. She was feeling unbearably drowsy, but there was no position in which she could feel comfortable. Every time she shifted position, the pressure in her chest increased. Her lungs wouldn’t fill up all the way, and then her eyes wouldn’t stay open. She tried to focus on the fact that she was struggling to breathe, but her mind was so cloudy—it had been cloudy a lot lately—that she couldn’t manage to worry about why she couldn’t fill her body with enough oxygen to sustain her until the next breath.

Her thoughts tried to send up alarms, warning her about what was happening, but it was all a blur of dance recitals, conversations in dark rooms, threats, and the ever-looming pressure that accompanied the knowledge that her mistakes had given people who were dangerous, self-interested, and conniving power over her future. Even though she knew all of that and more, as her brain struggled to function, she couldn’t piece it all together. Only as she was finally slipping into a permanent unconsciousness did a face flicker in her mind and a realization in her heart.

She had been eliminated.

Chapter One

Dean

Garrraugh! Dean let out a grunt as he lay prone on the bench press, his hands gripping the bar that held two hundred forty pounds of weight, as he used all of his strength to push upward and slowly lower it back to his broad chest. He did it ten times, sweat beading on his forehead, as his face grew red and his muscles strained beneath his skin. Shit, he said, letting the bar rest back in its holding position, as his arms dropped to his sides. This is almost not worth it, but tonight, when I go out to the bar and the cute bartender can’t take her eyes off me, I’ll remember why it actually is worth it.

Willow, his sister, rolled her eyes as she stood over him, serving as his spotter. Her hair was piled up on her head in a messy, knotted ponytail, her face was bare, and her well-toned arms were exposed by her workout top. She was a serious workout partner, and they often interrupted their workday at Marquette Security to go lift weights and then grab a fast lunch afterward. It was one of the many benefits of both of them being private investigators who work for the same agency.

When are you going to grow up and stop thinking about cute bartenders? Willow asked, getting into position as he once again gripped the bar and lifted it off its holds.

He did ten more reps before he answered her, breathing hard as he spoke. Never, I hope. Who grows up while they’re in their twenties anyway? Sitting up, he wiped the sweat off of his forehead and turned around, grinning at her. He caught sight of himself in the mirror behind her, seeing that his dark-blonde hair that held just a hint of curl was plastered to his head and that the sheen on his skin enhanced the definition of his muscles. Teasing his sister, he let out a wolf whistle. Look at that gorgeous man.

Oh my God. Willow pushed his head, making him laugh. You’re a disaster.

Nah, I’m just getting ready for summer, he told her. It’s May, and I’m sick of winter. Bring on the sunshine and heat and pool-party weather.

We live in Chicago, Willow reminded him, rounding to the front of the machine to take her turn. It’s not exactly sunshine and pool-party central.

Scrunching his nose, he adjusted the weight on the bar for her and moved to the spotter position. Don’t be a downer.

Don’t be a man-child, she shot back, smirking up at him as she lifted one hundred eighty pounds without blinking. Her reps were fluid, her arms easily pumping the weight up and down. When she finished the first set, Dean put ten more pounds on each side, bringing her total to two hundred.

Come on, woman-child, he said, pushing her right to her limits. I want to see you work for it.

Grunting a bit, Willow lifted the bar again and managed to do five reps before she nodded for him to take the bar from her and rest it back on the holds. She sat up, smoothing her hair back as she caught her breath. Damn, that was hard.

But you did it, he said, clapping her on the back. Come on. Let’s go get some lunch.

They washed up and changed clothes in the locker rooms, then met outside, walking the two blocks down to their favorite lunch spot. The woman behind the counter knew them, and they didn’t even have to ask for their usual—a steak and cheese sandwich for Dean and a tomato basil soup and grilled cheese sandwich for Willow.

Dean was ravenous when their food finally arrived at their table, and he picked up his sandwich with both hands, taking a healthy bite that left strings of cheese hanging from his lips.

Yeah, you’re a stud, Willow said, smirking as she shook her head and blew on her warm, savory soup. I have to skip the workout tomorrow by the way.

What? Dean frowned at her over his food. Why?

Because I’m meeting up with Hayley, Willow told him, crunching happily into her grilled cheese sandwich, having thoroughly dunked it in her tomato soup. We’re doing a girls outing—shopping for new clothes or something.

Dean stared at her. You’re skipping the gym to go clothes shopping?

Unrepentant, Willow nodded. Yup. She smiled, taking another big bite of her sandwich.

Hayley was the girlfriend of one of Dean and Willow’s mutual colleagues at Marquette Security. Ian and Hayley had been together for about two months—ever since Ian had taken on Hayley’s case and they had worked together to bring down one of the most discreet sex trafficking rings in Chicago. They were already madly in love, and Dean was happy for his friend. Just like he was happy for Ethan, another of their mutual colleagues who had recently found love with a woman named Megan.

I don’t like this, Dean said. Nobody asked me if everyone could go falling in love and getting distracted. Now you’re skipping the gym to go shopping. Things are getting out of hand. Who’s going to spot me?

She shrugged. I don’t know. Skip a day.

Oh, don’t be crazy, Dean protested. What about the cute bartender?

Willow pinched a piece of bread off of her sandwich and threw it at him. She’ll survive, I’m sure. As will you. I haven’t gone shopping in ages, so it’ll be good. My wardrobe could use a serious update.

You go to work, the gym, and to class, Dean pointed out. What do you need to update your wardrobe for?

You don’t know what I do. I might date.

You’d better not.

Rolling her eyes again, Willow chuckled. Okay, stud. You can tell me all about your cute bartenders, but I’d better not even mention the possibility that I might talk to a boy.

I’m glad you understand. Dean grinned, leaning back in his chair and looking around the small café. There was nothing particularly special about it—no colorful décor or modern vibe. It just had consistently good food with plenty of variety. Not that he didn’t always get the same thing. He turned back to Willow, picking up his sandwich again. How’s the doctorate coming anyway? Have you figured out how useless it is to study European history yet?

It’s not useless, Willow said, as she always did. History is one of the most important liberal arts. I’m broadening my mind.

You’re going to be a doctor...of European history.

Better than a doctor of love—like you, she said, making him laugh.

His cell phone rang, and he glanced at it, seeing it was his boss and close friend, Connor. Holding up a finger to Willow, he answered. Yo. What’s up?

Got a case, Connor said. You’re up in rotation. You around?

Dean put the rest of his sandwich back in the wrapping, trying to contain the food in the crumpled paper. Yeah, just down the road. I can head back now.

Good deal.

Connor hung up, and Dean put the phone down. His friend sounded stressed, and Dean wondered if it was about the case he was about to hand over to Dean, or if it was Connor’s own personal situation. He knew that Connor had been dealing with a lot lately, particularly with a case from long in his past coming back to haunt him. Standing up, Dean dusted off his jeans and grabbed his messily-wrapped sandwich.

Got a case, so I gotta head back. See you back there later? he asked Willow.

She nodded, waving him away. Yep. Go ahead. I’ll see you when I see you.

He reached out and ruffled her hair, just because it annoyed her, then headed out of the shop with a wave to the woman behind the counter. Marquette Security was only a few blocks away, so he was back in the building within ten minutes of Connor’s call, greeting the secretary, Benjamin, with an enthusiastic discussion of the baseball game that had gone down over the weekend.

Dude, Dean said, walking backward down the hallway toward Connor’s office, I’m telling you. Total Mantle moment.

He backed right into Connor’s door and turned around, opening it and stepping inside to find Connor sitting across from a woman with dark hair that was wild with curls and seemed to have a life of its own as it spilled down her back. She had tanned skin, exotic features, and deep brown eyes that were red-rimmed and wet with unspilled tears. Sadness was etched into her expression, but even with her obvious sorrow, she was stunning, and Dean had to work hard to keep his eyes from roaming over the rest of her to take stock in full. He was a ladies’ man by nature, but he was also respectful, and this woman wasn’t in a bar somewhere—she was obviously devastated and looking for help. That was the only thing that needed to register in his mind.

Hi, Dean said, walking over and sticking out his hand. I’m Dean.

Quinn Robinson, she said, attempting a small, polite smile that in no way reached her eyes. Nice to meet you.

Dean sat down in the free chair that sat across from Connor’s desk and got settled. What can I help you with, Ms. Robinson?

Quinn, she corrected him. I—

She broke off, and Connor took over seamlessly. Quinn’s sister died recently, he said, his tone sober and respectful. How many months ago, Quinn?

About two.

Connor nodded. Two months ago. The police have investigated and declared the death to be from natural causes, but Quinn is not convinced. She’s hoping that we can help her find some answers.

That’s what we do, Dean agreed, feeling a deep sympathy for the distraught woman already. I’m very sorry for your loss, Quinn.

Thank you, she murmured. Mila was a beautiful girl, with so much potential. She was so...talented. So smart. She was like a daughter to me more than a sister.

Dean couldn’t even imagine how he would feel if something happened to Willow. For all their teasing and banter, Willow meant more to him than anyone. They had grown up taking care of each other because their parents weren’t capable of taking care of them. He would kill for her, and he would die for her. If anyone hurt her, he’d be exactly where Quinn was right now. Except angrier.

I understand exactly what you mean, Dean promised her, and she nodded.

Quinn, if you don’t mind, I’m going to ask you to step out to the waiting area, Connor said. Dean will be handling your case, and he’ll be out in a few minutes to begin working with you, but I want to update him on some things first.

Standing up, Quinn tossed a tissue in the trash and sniffed, swiping the tears from her cheeks. Of course. Thank you. So much.

Dean got up and opened the door for Quinn, touching her arm lightly as she passed by him. It was a poor attempt at comfort, but he felt compelled to do something to show her she wasn’t entirely alone.

When Quinn was gone, Connor stood up and rounded his desk, perching on the edge of it. So, this case isn’t really in your area of expertise, he admitted to Dean. You’re best at the tech stuff, and I usually keep that in mind. There’s probably not going to be a whole lot of that in this case, but it’s a sister, so—

So—it’s mine, Dean said, nodding. Agreed. One hundred percent.

Good. Connor pinched the bridge of his nose, as he sometimes did when he was trying to relieve a headache. I thought you would feel that way. I just wanted to make sure.

We’re on the same page, Dean said, watching his friend closely. You okay, man?

Fine, Connor said, nodding and going back around his desk to sit down again. Why?

I can tell when you’re stressed.

Connor waived a hand, dismissing the topic, and Dean let it go. He knew better than to push the man to talk about something he wasn’t ready to talk about, but he still felt concern for Connor. But he just clapped his friend on the shoulder, pressing reassuringly, and walked back out after Quinn, ready to get to work.

Chapter Two

Quinn

Quinn didn’t want to be there, standing in the front office of a private security and investigation agency, feeling as though every person walking past the glass windows could see her and wonder what terrible thing had happened in her life. Did they all judge her? What would they say if they knew that she was the one who had entered her younger sister’s apartment, only to find her cold, still, and lifeless in her bed? What would they say if they knew that Quinn had grabbed Mila up into her arms and tried to breathe life back into her before calling the police and screaming for them to come help her. She had known, even in that moment, that Mila’s death had been a homicide, but the police had discovered nothing that would confirm her gut instinct. If the passersby knew how confident she still was that her sister had been murdered, would they find her pitiable and sad, the way the rest of her family did?

Quinn? Are you ready?

She turned, her gaze settling on Dean, the man assigned to her case. He was her opposite, physically. Blonde, with light skin and bright blue eyes, he had shoulders that were as broad and strong as hers were slim and narrow. He looked like he worked out, and it was clear that he took a great deal of pride in his appearance. She wouldn’t be shocked to find him on the front cover of a magazine. He looked like he would belong there more than he would belong in a detective agency, but she would try not to jump to conclusions.

Yes, she said, hoping that it wasn’t too obvious that she had been sizing him up. Yes, thanks.

We can talk in my office, he said, gesturing with one arm back down the hallway.

She followed him, stepping inside the brightly-lit room and immediately noting the weight bench in the corner. It confirmed her impression of him, but she sat down in the chair across from his desk, still telling herself to keep an open mind. Connor had seemed like a very capable man, and everything that she had learned in her research about Marquette Security gave her every reason to believe that their services were good. Surely, Dean would measure up to what she had read.

I’m sorry, he said again, about your sister. I have a sister. She works here, actually. Her name is Willow, and I’m sure you’ll meet her soon enough. If anything happened to her, I would stop at nothing until I got the truth. That doesn’t mean I know what you’re going through, but I can sympathize.

Quinn felt a bit badly for assuming he was shallow when the tone of his voice clearly indicated his love for his sister. Again, she vowed to give him a fighting chance before jumping to conclusions. I appreciate that. I hope you never do find out what I’m going through.

So do I. Dean opened his laptop and clicked away for a minute before looking at her again. I’m sure you’ve already talked with Connor at length, but I’d like you to tell me the story from the beginning. Every detail is important, so take your time and be as thorough as you can be.

Telling the story was always difficult for Quinn, no matter how many times she had told it before. But she knew it by heart now, so she closed her eyes and started at the beginning, telling the story for what felt like the hundredth time.

"Mila was sick, and she had been for several days. It was flu season, so my twenty-three-year-old sister’s cough, fever, and body chills were nothing unexpected, though it was terribly inconvenient. As a ballet dancer, every day that Mila was unable to go into the studio, she lost fitness, technique, and even pull with the studio heads. Only the girls who trained hard every single day were picked for the top shows, and Mila had dedicated her life to her craft. Those top shows were all she ever wanted.

Three days into her flu, I showed up at Mila’s apartment early in the morning. It was just barely past seven, but I had just dropped my son, Joshua, off at school for his early-morning tutoring session—he was the tutor, not the tutoree—and I only had a limited amount of time before I had to be at my job at the flavor house.

I’m sorry— Dean broke into her narration, looking up from his computer where he was taking notes. What is a flavor house?

It’s a place where we manufacture artificial flavors or enhance naturally occurring flavors, Quinn explained, twisting the ring that sat on her right middle finger. It was a habit of hers whenever she felt she was under stress. It was a ring her mother had given to her many years ago, as a symbol of strength and perseverance. It represented the Costa Rican heritage her mother came from, but the inscription inside was in Greek, representing her father’s heritage. She had mixed feelings about the ring, but she wore it every day to honor her mother’s memory.

You create flavors?

She nodded. Yes, I have a masters in biochemistry, and I help create chemicals that produce different flavors. Everything from vanilla to vegetarian products that taste like different cuts of meat. There’s a big difference between the flavors of ground beef and a pork chop.

Wow, Dean said, typing away. That’s one I haven’t heard of before. Okay, sorry. Keep going.

"I wanted to check on Mila and bring her some more medication before I went to work. I felt badly for her, living on her own, with no one to look after her while she was feverish. Mila was so fiercely independent that she wanted to live in her own apartment, despite the fact that Joshua and I live in a place that would have easily accommodated her.

"After knocking on the door a few times, I figured that Mila was still asleep, and I used the key that always sat on top of the nearby light fixture to let myself in, replacing it carefully as soon as I opened the door. I went to the kitchen first, putting some cold medication in the cupboard above the stove and the soup in the fridge. The kitchen was a bit of a mess, so I tidied up by loading the dishwasher and wiping down the counter. As I did, I thought—fondly—of Mila’s inattention to such things. Mila had always been the wild, artistic one who had no time for the practical side of life, and I had always been the more serious, efficient one. We were total opposites, but we had always been close.

"That’s why I thought nothing of walking back to Mila’s bedroom, pushing the door open, and peeking in on my sister. Mountains of tissues sat on the nightstand, and the TV was on, though muted. Mila was on her side, and the covers were pulled up close around