“Are you sure it was just a few drinks?” Gilligan asked.
Ginnie shot him an indignant glare. “There’s no law against getting tipsy. And I’m not even sure there’s a law against airplane sex. So if you’re not going to…” She trailed off as the officer’s eyebrows shot up so far that they disappeared into his hairline. “What?”
Gilligan jumped to his feet and rapped on the mirror.
Ha! Ginnie thought. One-way. I knew it.
Seconds later, the door swung open once again, and another TSA agent came in, rolling a familiar, black and grey bag behind him. He lifted the luggage, set it at the edge of the table, then exited silently.
“Recognize this?” Gilligan asked as soon as the door was closed.
“It’s my bag.”
“Yes, it is.”
The TSA agent stood up and unzipped the suitcase. Then he flipped the top open and pushed it toward Ginnie, whose face reddened immediately. The contents was a mess of lace and silk and was that a pair of handcuffs? And a big, plastic police badge attached to a distinctly blue shirt. And yes, it looked like vibrators did indeed come in shiny.
She reached up and shoved the bag a bit farther away.
“That’s not – ” But Ginnie cut herself off as the stuff in the bag shifted and she spied a plastic evidence bag and its contents.
A gun. What the hell?
Gilligan reached in and yanked the bag out. He held it up.
“This is the fake I was talking about,” he said. “I don’t know how it got missed in the bigger airport, but it was the first thing we saw when it came through our screening department. So, Mrs. Michaels…Do you have something to say now?”
Ginnie’s gaze strayed back to the suitcase. Leather. Lace. Toys. A police costume and a gun.
And then Ginnie figured it out.
“It’s a prop,” she blurted.
“A prop?”
Ginnie was sure that every drop of blood in her body had managed to settle in her face. “For the, uh, bedroom.”
Gilligan blinked once. “I see.”
Great, Ginnie thought. Now I’m a woman who has fake sex on airplanes and carries fetish items wherever she goes.
Except the bag wasn’t actually hers. It just looked like hers. Exactly like it.
Very quickly, she scanned the tag attached to the suitcase. L.W. Michaels.
Oh. Ew.
“Mrs. Michaels?”
Ginnie brought her eyes back to the airport guard. Should she tell him that the bag really wasn’t hers? Or would it just create a headache and generate paperwork and stall her even further? Would he even believe her? She knew who the…err…items belonged to. And Lawrence would definitely recognize Ginnie’s own stuff the second he unzipped her real suitcase. He was more than familiar with her standard look of crisp blouses and tidy skirts.
And there was the added humiliation factor to consider.
Sorry officer, that bag isn’t mine after all. It belongs to my former husband’s hoochie. Looks like they were gonna get kinky. My bad.
No. Far too embarrassing.
And the TSA officer wasn’t quite done yet anyway.
He reached into his pocket and yanked out a second evidence bag, this one full of slips of papers.
“These,” he stated, “Concern me even more than that replica.”
Ginnie squinted at the red-tinted bag.
The look like…Prescription pads. What the hell?
“Are those Lawrence’s?” she asked.
“You tell me.”
Ginnie took a breath and put on her game face. “Were they in my bag?”
“They were. And I’m sure your husband is aware that he’d be violating several laws if he used these inappropriately.”
I’m sure he would, Ginnie thought, then wondered, Is this still so embarrassing that you’ll get arrested on Lawrence’s behalf? Just turn him in for...Whatever dumb thing he was up to.
But she wouldn’t do it. She wouldn’t stoop to his level. What she needed was to stay cool, calm, and collected, and talk her way out of this situation.
She knew she could do it. She was good with words, when she put her mind to it. The past couple of hours had just temporarily clouded her memory. Clouded her course.
“I’m really sorry,” she said slowly. “But there’s been a misunderstanding. Lawrence and I aren’t travelling together any more than Quinn and I are.”
The agent pursed his lips. “Who are you travelling with, Mrs. Michaels?”
“Myself.”
“Yourself?”
Ginnie lifted her chin. “I can’t be the first recently divorced woman to head to Vegas for a wild weekend.”
“I suppose not. But you’re travelling alone, and your husband just happened to be on the same flight? Seems a little too coincidental to be true.”
Ginnie sighed. “You’re telling me. But my husband and I did book this trip together, and apparently both decided not to lose out on what we paid for.”
“And he just happened to leave a giant stack of his prescriptions in your bag?”
“We shared a life for five years, so some of his things are bound to have been mixed up with mine.”
Gilligan should her a dubious look from across the table. “Some things?”
“Do I need a lawyer, Mr. Gilligan?”
Gilligan looked at her like he was carefully considering both her words and her expression. Ginnie sensed that he was swaying in her favor. She smiled – not smugly, but agreeably.
“I suppose not,” he finally said.
Ginnie let out a mental breath. “And I apologize for the fake gun. I truly didn’t realize it was something I had to declare.”
“Both the real thing and replicas need to be identified at check in.”
“Now I know.”
“Now you do,” Gilligan replied, still examining her as he tapped his fingers on the table. “Huntingdon is a safe community.”
“I get that.”
“No one – including me – is happy about this little waylay from Sin City.”
“No.”
“And I’d prefer for all of this to be over quickly.”
Ginnie nodded. “Me, too.”
“I’ll need to keep the prescriptions.”
“Please do.”
“Is it safe to assume that you’ll declare the gun next time? Or better yet…Leave it behind altogether?”
“Yes! And if you need to confiscate it too, that’s fine.”
And even if you don’t…I’m tossing the damned thing out the second I get away from here.
Gilligan tapped his fingers on the table, then turned, nodded toward the one-way mirror, and face Ginnie once more. The door squealed open, and relief made her entire body sag.
Gilligan zipped up the bag, then pushed it toward her.
“We’ll let it go,” he said. “Chalk it up as something for the bloopers reel.”
“Thank you.”
Eager to get out before he could change his mind, Ginnie rose to her feet and snagged the handle of the suitcase, then dropped it down and took a step toward the door. Gilligan’s voice made her pause, one foot out and one foot in.
“Mrs. Michaels?”
“Yes?”
“The other thing you claim that you were faking…You may want to consider leaving that behind, too.”
Ginnie’s face flamed as she nodded.
No way would she be doing that again. Especially not with Quinn, who she damned well hoped she never laid eyes on again.
With her mind stewing and her stomach churning, Ginnie made her exit as swiftly as dignity would allow.
Twelve
Quinn kicked off his boots and sunk his toes into the area rug under his bed. He was trying his damnedest to settle into the hotel room. Which was decidedly hard considering that he felt a bit like he was being held under lock and key.
He might’ve left behind the stone-faced man who led him to the hotel door, but he had a feeling that if he made
a move – back toward the airport, in particular – the guy wouldn’t be far behind.
Might as well have settled for an overnight in lockup, he thought irritably.
Truthfully, he probably would have felt more comfortable in jail. Or just about anywhere with a little less curb appeal and a little more grit. Some place where he’d feel a little more at home and not like if he bumped something the wrong way, it was going to fall and break.
He shot another critical look around the hotel room. Nothing would make it comfortable. It was clean and tidy and meant to look homey. Luxury in the guise of old-fashioned charm.
Quinn, though, was accustomed to far more Spartan conditions. Less than Spartan.
During his undercover time on the streets – working his way up from the rank of low-level thug to trusted advisor of a minor drug lord – he’d stayed in his share of shitty places. Actual crack houses. Pay by the hour hotels.
Later, when he was incarcerated, his undercover stint in the prison system taught him to live with even less luxury. A thin mattress, a seat-less toilet, and plain walls.
Then the injury and the hotel room.
Lack of comfort had become so normal that when Quinn finally moved on, when he was finally free from both prison and the police force, the outside world had been overwhelming.
So his apartment at home was as minimalist as possible. No cushy damned bathrobes or baskets of fake flowers or soothing paintings.
Sometimes, it was still overwhelming. Especially when he was faced with an emotionally draining day or situation.
Like today.
With an annoyed grunt, Quinn sank down onto the bed, resting his elbows on his knees. He yanked on the tips of his faux hawk, then flopped backwards on the mattress. As he landed, something dug through his pocket and into his ass. He reached to adjust it, then stiffened as he realized it was Ginnie’s phone.
Goddammit.
Why was she still permeating his existence? He’d let her go.
Quinn stared up at the too-white ceiling.
Let her go? You practically abandoned her, he scoffed guiltily. Admit that there’s more to it.
Which was very likely the real reason he couldn’t get comfortable.
Genevieve Silver – and her sweet, curved ass and her sweet, curved smile and all her other potentially sweet, curved parts – had somehow managed to get under his skin.
He was sure the airport security had figured out they’d made a mistake, and that Ginnie was somewhere ironing the stupid pleats back into her skirt and smoothing out every bit of kink brought into her life by Quinn and his generally bad influence. By his jacked up libido and his need to keep her safe.
“Shit,” he said out loud. “I’m such an asshole.”
He threw himself back forcefully again, hoping to knock the stupid from his body. Instead, the pillow was silky smooth, just like Ginnie’s skin.
He hoped like crazy she was okay. And maybe that she’d understood why he left her there.
“Double shit,” Quinn muttered. “Now I’m a sentimental douchebag too.”
Yeah, he knew sentimental douchebag seem oxymoronic. But he wasn’t in the mood for logic. He was in the mood for slipping off his clothes, slipping under the covers, and slipping into Ginnie.
Christ.
His emotions weren’t just drained – they were on a runaway train. Right along with his sex drive.
Quinn rolled to his side and caught sight of the TV. It was an older model. Maybe close to an antique. There was a rental box on top, though, so there was a high probability he could get some kind of porn. Not his usual cup of tea, but hell. He clearly needed to get it out of his system.
Very briefly, his mind slipped to the young woman at the hotel’s front desk. The daughter of the manager. Who’d smiled at him like the TSA agent wasn’t standing beside him. What had she said her name was? Kelsey? No. Chelsea. She’d made it abundantly clear that Quinn was her cup of tea. She’d asked three times about tattoos, touched his arm several times, and hinted fairly emphatically that she was just a call away, and that she was off in a half hour.
Chelsea had been pretty. Ish.
But she’s not Ginnie.
With a self-directed eye roll, Quinn stood and moved toward the ancient television. As he took a few steps, though, he spied the bathroom door, and behind that, the promise of a marble tub.
A bath.
Ginnie had said she wanted one, he remembered. Maybe she was settling into her own hotel room now, running her own bath. Maybe she was thinking of him, as she slid her off her robe.
The remembered smoothness of her skin filled his mind again. It expanded with his imagination. Her shoulders and her back. The bend of her waist and the swell of her hips.
Quinn groaned. “Fuck, man. Get a grip. If they already let her go, she probably hates you. Which is what you wanted.”
The idea of soaking in a steaming pool of water was suddenly very appealing. He hadn’t had a bath himself in years. A decade or more.
He could lose himself in it. In more ways than one, if he chose.
And it’s getting to be less and less of a choice.
He was thick with bottled up need.
“All right,” he muttered, and came to his feet. “Take a bath, Quinn. It’s better than staring at the ceiling and tormenting yourself. And right after that…Stop fucking talking to yourself.”
Quickly – so he wouldn’t change his mind and go back to brooding – he set the taps to hot and stripped down.
He stepped in and let the scalding water lap at his toes. It burned against the bottoms of his feet, then the tops, pleasantly punishing. The slight pain was a welcome distraction, and it suited his mood perfectly.
The heat reached his ankles, then his calves, massaging away the ache. Or maybe just driving it higher.
Why hadn’t he held Ginnie’s hand a little more forcefully? Why had he been so stupidly stubborn? If he’d stuck around, he might’ve had her here now. Underneath him, waiting.
He started to sink down, to let the water consume him, but the bedroom door squeaked open, and he froze as blast of frozen air accompanied by a gasp carried across the room.
“Quinn!”
For a desperate second, he was sure his brain had simply conjured up a very vivid memory of her voice.
He turned slowly and blinked.
There she was, straight across the room, and straight out of his fantasy.
Well. Almost. This Ginnie was fully clothed. The fantasy version of Ginnie would definitely have walked in naked.
And she wouldn’t look near as pissed off.
Not that she wasn’t still sexy as hell.
Her hair was speckled with snow, and the flakes that had already melted had turned the tendrils around her face into clinging curls that licked her cheeks and throat. Quinn was so glad she hadn’t tamed it with another ponytail. The wildness suited her.
Her eyes were flashing, and damn was she vibrant with how mad she was.
In spite of her obvious anger, Quinn couldn’t help but drink in the rest of her appearance, and white hot lust quickly overrode his other emotions.
Ginnie’s cheeks were pink with cold, and her clothes were soaked, hugging every curve. The wetness had turned her blouse see-through, and her bra was pink lace. It matched the panties she’d handed over earlier.
Panties she isn’t wearing now, Quinn remembered.
Suddenly, that was all he could think about. Creamy, wet skin. Bare ass. Just a few feet away under that prim skirt. Which Quinn wanted to tear off. Preferably with his teeth.
Even the cold air that still swept through the room wasn’t enough to dampen his desire. His very obvious desire.
Shit.
She was staring right at it, her face turning from pink to an alarming shade of red. Well, hell. She’d walked into his room, not the other way around. What right did she have to be staring at him like he was doing something wrong?
Quinn was torn. Part of him was tempted
to drag her into the bathtub. To kiss the living hell out of her. To make her beg for more, to show her how that bullshit, talk-you-through-it orgasm in the airplane bathroom couldn’t come close to the real thing.
Very fucking tempted.
Then she crossed her arms over her chest, momentarily blocking his view, and sending a trickle of sense back into his head.
You already decided you were no good for her, he reminded himself, then added, Yeah, after you promised to sort everything out.
He needed to get rid of her. Nicely.
Because two seconds alone with her, looking like that…
Her eyes narrowed as though she could hear his thoughts.
“Can I help you?” she asked coolly.
“Can you help me?” Quinn replied.
“You’re in my room.”
“Your room?”
She lifted an old-fashioned key – one that was an exact match for his – and shook it at him.
“My room. And stop repeating everything I say.” Her voice was just imperious enough to piss him off.
He stepped from the tub, ignored the way she gasped and leaped away as he strode by her, and – still bare-ass naked – snatched up his own key from the night stand. And he waved it at her. Mockingly.
Then he echoed her words and her superior tone, too. “My room. Come in and close the door, Ginnie. And you can tell me what you’re doing here.”
She opened her mouth like she was going to argue, then closed it, and turned to slam the door shut with entirely more force than necessary. When she spun to face him again, two dots of pink highlighted the center of each cheek.
“Look,” she snapped. “There’s obviously been a mistake. The woman at the counter said this was the last available room.”
Quinn raised an eyebrow. “Maybe you should’ve been more specific about what you meant by available.”
Her lips pressed together irritably, but after just a second, her gaze betrayed her by straying to his still-on-display masculinity.
Quinn just barely managed to keep from grinning and asking her if she wanted to take a picture.
“Can we be serious, for just a second?” Ginnie asked in a strained voice, clearly being careful to look anywhere but south.
“Sure we can,” Quinn replied. “If you wanted a little more fake action, you should’ve just asked nicely.”
Mile High Weekend (Opposites Attract Book 1) Page 9