By Invitation Only

by Wilde, Lori; Etherington, Wendy; Burns, Jillian

  With a woman who didn’t know who he really was.

  5

  PEYTON OPENED HER EYES slowly, feeling sluggish but oh-so comfortable and warm. She didn’t want to get up.

  Usually she awoke alert, already thinking about the day ahead and the work that needed doing. As she lay there, snuggled into a soft mattress, she knew there was something she had to accomplish today, but all she wanted to do was close her eyes and try to continue the dream she’d been having about a sexy man….

  A heavy arm curved over her waist and a very masculine hand cupped her breast. Her eyes popped open.

  Quinn was nestled behind her, spooning her. His finger and thumb rolled her nipple.

  No. She must fight this urge to turn over and kiss him. She had a mission and it was time to get back to the real world. Her career depended on getting this funding. It was the only reason for being in this fantasyland to begin with.

  She removed his hand and scooted out of the bed, racing for the bathroom without answering his mumbled protest.

  Turning on the shower, she took a moment to examine herself in the mirror. She’d left her glasses on the bedside table and she wasn’t going back for them. She brought her face a few inches away from the glass.

  Her hair was mussed and tangled, her lips were red and swollen, and her cheeks and neck were chafed from his stubble.

  My god. She looked…like a woman with a lover. Even when she’d first moved in with Jason she’d never looked like this in the morning. More importantly, she’d never felt so weak and jittery. As if she had a hangover, except she’d overindulged on emotions.

  She stepped into the hot water and let it soak her hair. Could she replicate the job the makeup artist and hair stylist had done for the wedding? She didn’t have all those products and appliances. She’d have to go to the salon here.

  Closing her eyes under the spray, she tried to picture herself finding Mr. Prescott and what she would say to him when she did. But as she ran soap over her body, it seemed every part carried a memory of Quinn’s hands or mouth caressing it.

  Quinn.

  Just thinking of his name caused her heart to flutter. Which was illogical. She’d known the man less than forty-eight hours. So he was a good—okay, she’d admit, an amazing lover—but that was most assuredly due to his making love to dozens, maybe hundreds of women.

  These feelings were merely the result of getting caught up in the physical passion and in this fantastical situation. There was a reason she’d decided at an early age to never let emotions rule her. They confused and complicated everything. Calm, cool logic made life simple.

  “Peyton?”

  She jumped as Quinn stepped into the shower with her. He swung her around and kissed her as if he hadn’t seen her in weeks.

  “Good morning,” he mumbled into her neck.

  Mmm, all that gloriously naked, muscled man in her arms. Hers to run her hands over. His narrow hips. His taut butt. His shoulder blades and the muscles that bunched in his wide shoulders as he tightened his hold on her and deepened the kiss.

  “Let’s go back to bed and order room service,” his deep voice rumbled behind her ear.

  Oh, yes. That sounded wonderf— Wait a minute. She pulled out of his embrace. “I can’t.” But, oh, how she wanted to.

  “Why not? The wedding isn’t until six. And it’s not even two.”

  “Two o’clock in the afternoon?” She grabbed the shampoo bottle, squirted a dollop into her palm, and began vigorously washing her hair. She never slept late.

  “Here, let me help with that.” Quinn ran his hands over her stomach and up her rib cage as if he worshipped every inch.

  “Stop.” She squirmed away from him.

  He dropped his hands. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing, I just have a lot to do and think about.” She turned her back to him and rinsed her hair. “I—I’m just not used to sharing my shower.”

  After a moment of silence, she turned to find he’d left the bathroom. Dressed in her jeans and shirt, she padded out to the living area. Quinn sat out on the balcony wearing shorts and a T-shirt, a baseball cap backward on his head. The morning sun glistened off the water and the golden hair of his tanned legs. He was having coffee and looked so ordinary, so cute, guilt wrenched in her chest.

  She poured herself a cup of the coffee he’d made and joined him.

  “Hey.” She tried to smile.

  His expression grim, he stared at her. “We need to talk.”

  “Isn’t that usually the woman’s line?” She gave a halfhearted laugh and avoided looking into his eyes.

  He reached across the table and took her hand. “I need to tell you something.”

  Looking out over the turquoise water, she gulped her coffee. Was he going to tell her he was married? Or that it’d been fun, but he couldn’t in good conscience let her crash the actual wedding? “You’re going to call security on me if I go to the wedding, aren’t you?”

  “What? No. But…I haven’t been completely honest.”

  Oh, no. “Then let’s not do this.” Snatching her hand away, she stood so fast her chair almost fell over. She didn’t want to hear that he’d been lying. What good was a fantasy weekend fling if reality intruded? “Like you said yesterday, last night was what it was. You’ll be going back to your life, and I’ll go back to mine.” That way, this interlude could always remain pure in her memories.

  “No, this is important.” His voice got louder. He stood, rounding the table to close the distance between them.

  Her feet shuffled toward the French doors. “Can we talk later? I really need to get my hair and makeup done.” Darting inside the suite, she gathered up her bag and headed for the bedroom. Whatever he had to say, she didn’t want to hear it. Why did he have to complicate things with some deep, dark secret? It wasn’t as if they would ever see each other again.

  “Peyton.” He followed her in from the balcony. “Wait.”

  Finding yesterday’s clothes wadded up on the floor on the other side of the bed, she started stuffing them into her bag.

  He came into the bedroom and grabbed her arm. “Will you stop and listen a minute?” he demanded.

  Ah, there it was. So, he had a temper when he didn’t get his way. He was just like she’d been as a little girl. This was what she’d avoided all her life. An emotional scene.

  She faced his angry glare with detached calmness. “Let go of me, please.”

  His brows creased and his gaze lowered to where he gripped her arm. Jaw tight, he dropped his hand.

  She brushed past him out of the bedroom to the main door, grabbed the latch and then glanced back. He stood in the bedroom doorway, his ball cap in his hand.

  “Thank you for—” She swallowed. Damn it. Now it was ruined. A crushing wave of resentment and depression hit her hard. He’d spoiled everything. She pulled open the door and raced to the elevators.

  WHAT THE HELL HAD just happened?

  Quinn pitched his hat across the room. He ran a hand through his hair and paced to the kitchenette, turned and paced back to the bedroom doorway. Peyton’s reaction made no sense. If she’d known all along who he was, wouldn’t she have let him admit it and pretend ignorance? Or, if she didn’t know, what was all that anger and evasion about?

  He was sorely tempted to pack up, check out and forget about attending this wedding. He could sail the yacht back to Florida and maybe stop in the Bahamas along the way, take in some night life…. Damn it. He needed at least to put in an appearance at the reception. J. D. Maynard Sr. was too important a connection not to give the family his regards.

  And what was he running from anyway? He’d tried to tell her the truth, albeit a little late. And he hadn’t done anything she hadn’t done. They’d both pretended to be someone else.

  His mind made up to stay, he decided to hit the gym for a workout, swim some laps and then sit a spell in the sauna before dressing for the wedding. He pulled his tux from the closet and saw the garment ba
g with the dress in it. His chest felt tight. He wanted to kick himself for that colossal blunder.

  Shoving it back in the closet, he turned and kicked something across the floor. The brown book. Peyton’s translation of the monk’s diary.

  He picked it up and opened the page to the beginning.

  AMAZING WHAT MAXING OUT a credit card could do for a girl.

  For the second time in a week, Peyton had her hair and makeup done and a gown chosen by experts. The dress wasn’t as beautiful as the one Quinn had bought for her, but the dark navy chiffon would do.

  As she sat in the hairdresser’s chair, it finally occurred to her that what Quinn had probably tried to tell her was that he’d lied about Prescott being on a yacht. The CEO had probably been in this hotel the whole time, and she’d wasted yesterday not looking for him.

  She hadn’t figured out why yet, but more than likely Quinn had been trying to shield his friend from the crazy professor out to get his money. Just thinking that’s what Quinn thought of her made her cheeks hot with humiliation.

  Hours later and, at last, within reach of her goal, she stood beside a stern-looking security guard waiting for Quinn. Her name wasn’t on the guest list and she’d had to swallow her pride and tell him she was with Quinn Smith.

  As she scanned the lobby watching for Quinn, he appeared from the elevator bank looking wickedly handsome in his black tuxedo. She tried not to stare but her eyes wouldn’t obey her brain. He was staring at her, too, his gaze serious as he approached.

  Without a word to her, he gave the security guard his name and vouched that Peyton was his plus one. Once outside, they walked under a trellis of gardenias, white roses and twinkling white lights. The air was fragranced with hundreds of brightly-colored tropical flowers.

  Quinn placed his hand at her elbow and directed her to some folding chairs about halfway down the aisle. As if by agreement they waited in silence for the ceremony of the century.

  Peyton scanned the hundreds of guests, searching for Prescott. Seeing no one that fit his description, panic gurgled in the pit of her stomach. She shouldn’t have wasted yesterday with Quinn. Shouldn’t have assumed Mr. Prescott would stay on his yacht the whole time. What if she’d missed him?

  A string quartet began the wedding march and one by one seven bridesmaids came down the aisle. Then the bride appeared and everyone stood and faced her as she approached the altar.

  Peyton glanced at the groom, who was waiting under the arch staring at his bride with all the love in his heart visible on his face.

  What would it be like to be the recipient of such adoration? Peyton had always thought she didn’t want marriage and kids, but watching Holly Addison, she envied the certainty in the bride’s eyes. As the couple exchanged vows they’d written themselves, Peyton tried to suppress her emotions, but it was difficult not to get caught up in the fervor of the ceremony.

  Not one but two receptions were being held. The younger crowd headed for the largest ballroom, where a pop diva was singing under flashing lights. It didn’t seem like the kind of place Prescott would choose.

  The other boasted a famous country singer who was married to an actress and friend of Holly’s. Without asking Quinn, she followed the older crowd to a huge white tent on the resort grounds surrounded by palm trees and hibiscus and fountains with statuary of sea horses and dolphins. They reminded her of what Quinn had said about the sea nymphs in the Italian fountain.

  She knew that fountain, the Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi in the city of Navona. When Quinn had mentioned it, the hairs on the back of her neck had risen. She’d always wanted to see that fountain of Neptune rising from the waves to rule over his sea creatures. Good grief. Snap out of it, Monahan, Peyton admonished under her breath. With renewed determination, she searched the crowd for Mr. Prescott.

  He wasn’t at any of the round tables. He wasn’t at either of the two bars or the cake table. Desperate, she casually asked a passing bridesmaid if she knew Mr. Prescott. No luck.

  The band was setting up on a stage. A polished wood dance floor had been laid over the beach. Amid enthusiastic applause, the famous singer appeared at the mike and began a lively song about love being a leap of faith.

  She felt Quinn’s presence, quietly accompanying her as she moved around the room. A few inches taller than most of the men, he’d grabbed two glasses of champagne for them. His solid support tonight, despite her behavior earlier, humbled her.

  Her hand trembled as she sipped her champagne. What if she’d made a huge mistake this afternoon? What if whatever he’d been going to tell her had nothing to do with Prescott, or being married, or about their weekend together at all?

  But what else could he possibly want her to know?

  As those thoughts seeped into her psyche, the groom led the bride out onto the dance floor. The tenor sang another hit about making memories.

  It was a beautiful song. She watched the newlyweds dance, smiling and gazing into each other’s eyes. Marriage definitely was a leap of faith. The odds of success were slim. The possibility of pain almost certain. Why did anyone risk it?

  “Can we at least have one dance?” Quinn’s deep voice murmured into her ear.

  She turned to find his right hand extended, palm up.

  Self-preservation battled with a powerful longing. She had to find Prescott, but all she wanted was to be in his arms one last time.

  “It’s just a dance, Peyton.” Gently he took the champagne flute from her hand, set it on a tray and lightly grasped her hand. He led her out to the floor and slid his arm around her waist to rest at the small of her back.

  He held her lightly, but close enough that her breasts pressed against his chest, his hip nestled into hers. Memories of the past two nights smothered her senses. As if in a dream, she placed her hand in his and followed him as he rocked from foot to foot and turned slowly around the floor.

  His scent enveloped her and without thinking she laid her cheek against his chest. His hand moved around between her shoulder blades, bringing her closer. Her arm went over his shoulder and encircled his neck, and with her fingers she played in the hair at his nape.

  Her other hand rested against his chest and she could’ve sworn she felt his heartbeat, strong and sure beneath her palm.

  The song finished and the singer started another slow number.

  As Quinn guided her around other couples in perfect rhythm to the steady beat, he caressed her back and his lips lightly touched her temple. As the music faded and came to an end, neither one of them moved. Gradually he let her go and stepped back. He led her off the dance floor to a shadowed corner where the setting sun and candlelight didn’t quite reach.

  He took both her hands in his and stared at them, rubbing his thumbs over her skin. “I just wanted to say—” he looked up and her gaze caught in his “—I’ll never forget our time together, the meteor shower and…just you.”

  Her chest ached. She blinked away tears. It was crazy. She couldn’t possibly feel so strongly for someone she’d just met. She didn’t believe in love at first sight. But the words in the monk’s diary mocked her pragmatic rationale. The Spaniard had spoken of losing his heart the very moment he first spied the young Mayan girl. And their love had lasted a lifetime….

  “Mr. Smith?” A youngish blonde approached and laid her hand on Quinn’s arm. “Quinn Smith, I’m so glad you came, darlin’.” She spoke with a prominent Texas twang.

  Quinn’s face drained of emotion, except his eyes. They turned warily to the Texas lady. “Mrs. Maynard, how are you?”

  This was Mrs. Maynard? She couldn’t be much older than the groom.

  “I couldn’t be better, hon. But how’s your daddy? We heard you’d been practically running Prescott Industries ever since his stroke.”

  It took a moment for the words to sink in. Peyton might not have even noticed except for Quinn’s reaction. His gaze darted to her. His mouth dropped open, then shut again. Time froze as all the words jumbled around in her head and
came back to her in bits and pieces. Daddy. Running Prescott. Stroke. Quinn’s father was…Prescott?

  She yanked her hand from Quinn’s, spun on her heels and bolted through the crowd.

  She was furious. Outraged. Mortified.

  Quinn was Edward Prescott’s son. He’d sat there and let her run on and on about finding the man. He’d made up some bull about a yacht. How he must have been laughing behind her back.

  And he’d slept with her! Knowing who she was. If she didn’t find an exit soon she’d confront that SOB and cause a scene that would make her childhood tantrum pale in comparison. But Peyton Monahan didn’t vomit her emotions into a room and leave everyone else to clean up the mess. Peyton Monahan removed herself from the situation.

  Then she was running, jostling past guests and waiters. She searched frantically for an exit, finally spied the double doors, and then couldn’t seem to reach them, no matter how fast she ran, it felt as if she were in a nightmare where everything was moving in slow motion.

  Quinn’s voice called to her from somewhere behind her, but she finally reached the doors, threw them open and raced through the lobby to the front drive and jumped into a cab.

  She tried to say airport, but she couldn’t get enough air in her lungs to speak. She was hyperventilating. A hand pounded on her window and she jumped and everything went back to real time.

  “Peyton. I tried to tell you this morning.” He looked down and reached for the door handle. She slammed her palm down on the lock at the same time. He looked back up at her, his mouth a tight line. “Peyton, unlock this door.” He pounded on the window with the flat of his hand, and she flinched.

  She called to the cab driver, “Airport. Now!”

  The cab lurched out of the driveway and she watched Quinn from the back windshield as he stepped into the drive, staring after her.

  6

  WE’RE BACK IN KANSAS, TOTO.

  Peyton didn’t have a cute little dog, but as her plane landed at Newark in the wee hours of Sunday morning, she was definitely back in the real world. Though it was June, the air was chilly as she made her way out of the Jersey airport and hailed a cab. Colors seemed drab, less vibrant than in the Caribbean, and crowds of serious-minded people jostled past, intent on their own schedules.