Mile High Weekend (Opposites Attract Book 1)

by Di Lorenzo, Melinda

  And then they were alone, Ginnie cowering against one corner of the elevator while Lawrence stood in front of her. He glared down at her, more intoxicated than she’d seen him in all their years together. With his bloodshot eyes and clenched, unsteady hands, he looked far more dangerous than Ginnie had ever considered him to be. Certainly scarier than Quinn.

  “Why are you doing this to me?” he demanded.

  “What do you think I’m doing to you?” she said.

  “Fucking following me!”

  Ginnie stared him, worry and fear charging through her. He sounded nothing like the man she married. Her doctor husband rarely swore, rarely drank, and never raised his voice.

  Breathe. Keep him talking.

  “I’m not following you,” she corrected as calmly as she could manage. “We booked this vacation months ago. When I called the airline, they told me a refund would go to you. So I came anyway.”

  “And the fucking thug? What’s your excuse there? He wouldn’t give you a refund either?”

  The elevator lurched to a start, and began a far too slow ascent. Ginnie inhaled, picturing Quinn and his furious, protective self on the other side of the door waiting. He’d have taken the stairs three at a time to beat them. She hoped to God he was feeling particularly thuggish.

  “Quinn is just…” She swallowed. Just what?

  Just a fling? Just some guy she’d started out using to make Lawrence jealous? Just some guy who’d had his tongue between her thighs?

  No. The thing about Quinn was, he wasn’t just anything.

  “Quinn has nothing to do with you,” she managed to get out.

  Lawrence didn’t seem to notice Ginnie’s slip. “So it’s just a coincidence that you…hook up with a criminal and my shit goes missing?”

  “A criminal?”

  “Oh, c’mon. What else could he be? Even you aren’t that naïve. You guys stole my bag and I want it back.”

  I was that naïve, Ginnie thought. When I married you. But not anymore.

  Out loud she said, “Are you talking about the suitcase that looks exactly like mine?”

  “What other one would I be talking about?”

  “I didn’t steal it. It was just a mix up at the airport. And I thought I was giving it back. At least I did until you decided to take me hostage.”

  “Did you go through it?”

  Ginnie thought of the explosion if underwear in the hotel room and winced. “Not exactly.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  The elevator came to a halt, and Lawrence swayed a little, nearly lost his hold on the button, then righted himself and pushed it down even harder.

  How long until it sets off an alarm? Ginnie wondered. And how will he react if it does?

  She didn’t want to find out.

  “No, I didn’t go through it, Lawrence,” she said evenly. “What you and your new girlfriend do is your business.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Just like what you and your new boyfriend do is your business. Or it was until you took my stuff.”

  Ginnie refused to take the bait. “I still don’t know what it is you want.”

  “What I want is the same thing you and that overgrown monkey of yours want. The whole reason you took the bag in the first place.”

  “I didn’t – God, Lawrence. What do you think I stole? Your stupid dildo and your stupid handcuffs? Sorry, but second hand sex toys aren’t my thing.”

  “I know exactly what is and what isn’t your thing, sweetheart.”

  “You don’t know me at all.”

  He leaned forward, breathing an alcohol-infused breath her way but still holding the Close Door button.

  Could Ginnie shove him away? Would it give her time to get out, or make things worse?

  “You shared my bed for years,” Lawrence reminded her. “And quite frankly, most of what makes up the list falls under the isn’t-your-thing category.”

  Ginnie bit the inside of her cheek and snapped, “Fuck you.”

  “Already did.” He was smug.

  And disgusting.

  If Ginnie hadn’t been so indifferent to him, she might’ve hated him. But as it was, all she wanted to do was get out of the damned elevator. And her patience was nearing the end.

  “Let me go,” she said.

  “I will. If you tell me that you have my prescriptions and you’re going to hand them over.”

  “What?”

  “White sheets of paper. My name, office address – ”

  “I know what a prescription is,” she interrupted. “But if you’re talking about that huge stack of them in your bag, then no, I don’t have them. Airport security took them.”

  Lawrence sagged back and closed his eyes. “Fuck.”

  Ginnie had all but forgotten about the confiscated items. But by the devastated look on his face, they were important. She fought back the automatic sympathy. Her former husband didn’t deserve it.

  “What the hell is going on, Lawrence?” she asked.

  He opened his eyes and examined her face. “Holy shit. You really are this naïve, aren’t you? Of course, that’s one of the things I always liked about you. Even when you were acting like a tough bitch, I knew underneath that, you were all innocence.”

  Ginnie didn’t like the sudden change in his tone. Not that she had liked the other one, either, but now…He was almost leering at her.

  “You’re drunk,” she said softly, hoping to diffuse whatever nefarious thoughts were forming in his head.

  She failed.

  “Must be why you look so pretty,” he told her.

  She inched a bit farther away. “Is that supposed to be a compliment? I’m pretty because you’re drunk?”

  “You were always pretty,” he amended. “Not much more than that. But definitely pretty.”

  Lawrence’s gaze found her bare legs.

  Shit.

  Hadn’t the man dissolved their marriage because he found her sexually unappealing?

  But there was no mistaking the way his bloodshot eyes moved up her body, and for the first time since putting on the revealing outfit, Ginnie wished she hadn’t.

  Stop it, she chastised herself. Wearing something sexy doesn’t invite perverts to check you out.

  And just like that, the fact that she felt so comfortable with Quinn, but completely unconnected to her former husband – that she simply thought of him as a creep she didn’t want to be stuck in an elevator with – was as far removed from funny as it could possibly be.

  She steeled herself and straightened her shoulders. “I’m smart and resourceful, too. And I’ve taken a few self-defence classes.”

  Lawrence smiled. “Since when do you need to defend yourself against me?”

  Since when, indeed?

  His smile widened, and he took a step toward her.

  Ginnie refused to give in to the panic building in her chest.

  He’s closer, but his hand is almost off the button.

  Ginnie moved back, and Lawrence followed.

  Now!

  She dove sideways, and when he put up an arm, she ducked underneath it. Her hand grazed the panel and a half a dozen buttons lit up before Lawrence pulled her back. As the elevator started up again, he spun her around, slammed her to the wall, and suddenly his sour-tasting tongue was between her lips, his once-familiar arms crushing her in an unwanted embrace.

  No. This isn’t happening. It’s not going to happen.

  Ginnie bit down on the intrusion in her mouth, and when Lawrence pulled back with a yell, she brought her knee up and drove it straight between his legs. He dropped to the ground, and for good measure, she gave him another kick.

  The elevator jerked to a stop, and tears blinded Ginnie as she sought the Open Door button.

  C’mon, c’mon, Ginnie urged silently.

  On the floor, Lawrence muttered something unintelligible about tattoos and knives.

  “Shut up,” she snapped, and refused to look his way.

  “Ginnie,”
he wheezed.

  “I said – ”

  He cut her off. “Ask him about the ink. Then ask what he really wants.”

  In spite of her resolve not to, Ginnie looked down at him. “What?”

  “Ask yourself why a guy like that is so interested in a girl like you. Or better yet, ask him. You’re too good for him. And I don’t mean that nicely.”

  And at last, the doors slid open.

  Ignoring the way her former husband called after her, Ginnie threw herself into the hallway and stumbled toward the stairwell.

  One floor down. Just one floor to Quinn.

  She flung open the heavy door below the exit sign, and she collided with something solid. She drew back a fist.

  “Baby.”

  Quinn’s voice, gruff and familiar, cut through the anger and the fear.

  Thank God.

  And she tossed herself into his arms hard enough that he had to catch himself on the railing and hold them both back from tumbling down the concrete stairs.

  Twenty-Six

  Quinn sat across from Ginnie, watching her down another shot. Her fourth since they made their way into the corner booth of the strip bar.

  Scantily clad servers worked around them, smiling and spilling drinks.

  Even more scantily clad women gyrated on raised mini-stages placed strategically throughout the club.

  A thumping beat boomed out above them, and the dollar bills were flying.

  Quinn was pretty sure that Ginnie didn’t notice any of it. She hadn’t spoken a word in the two-minute, SUV-style cab ride over, hadn’t commented when asked to hand over her I.D. to the bouncer and he’d called her Mrs. Michaels.

  Now, her focus was taken up by the clear liquid in the little glass. That, and whatever thoughts were going on inside her head. Which Quinn would’ve given his own last dollar to hear.

  And he was near explosion.

  His fury at the other man for jumping him and dragging Ginnie into the elevator was surpassed only by his fury at himself for letting it happen. He should’ve anticipated what was going to happen. In all his years undercover, no one had ever got the better of him. Not in a fight. Not in a surprise attack like the one that just happened. Never. He could read situations and he could read other men, and he was sure he’d pegged Dr. Lawrence Michaels.

  High and mighty, shit-don’t-stink weasel.

  No way in hell had he expected the man to have the balls to do what he’d just done.

  Quinn had been so stunned that his reaction had been delayed. He’d sprung to his feet a second too late and been forced to watched as the elevator doors slid shut.

  Then the light above the door lit up, indicating which floor it was stopping at, and Quinn had finally come to his senses. He bolted up the stairs, not quitting until he reached the correct floor.

  When the elevator lights sprung up – a dozen goddamned floors in a row – he’d all but panicked. The sense of helplessness – where the fuck was the asshole taking her and for the love of God what was he doing to her – had been overwhelming.

  He’d run to each floor indicated by the lit-up elevator sign, glad that at least the old fashioned piece of technology offered minimal guidance.

  On the last floor, when Ginnie came flying through that door and just about knocked them both over, Quinn’s relief was as thick as his anger.

  He’d wrapped his arms tightly around her and pulled her close.

  She was shaking. Crying. And the bastard who’d grabbed her was nowhere to be seen.

  “You’re okay, baby.” He wasn’t sure if it had been a question or a statement.

  Her reply – “Take me out drinking. Now.” – was what had brought them here. And it hadn’t satisfied Quinn in the least.

  He’d opened his mouth a half a dozen times since they took their seats, unsure what to say. What to ask. What to do to get that mask on her face to fall away so she could work through whatever had happened in the elevator.

  What the fuck did Dr. Douchebag do to her? If he – no. Fuck. Just no.

  “Drink with me.”

  At the soft request, Quinn’s eyes flew to Ginnie’s.

  “Drink with me,” she said again.

  “One of us should stay sober.”

  “I can feel you sitting there, brooding.”

  “If I’m brooding, what are you doing?”

  “Wallowing.” She pushed her newly replaced shot glass toward him.

  Quinn exhaled and pushed it back. “Sobriety is the only thing keeping me from breaking something. Or someone.”

  “Do you want to know what happened in the elevator?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then drink with me.”

  He met her level stare with one of his own, shot back the burning liquid, then flagged down the waitress for another round of shots. And a beer, just for good measure.

  Ginnie didn’t speak again until they’d clinked their shot glasses together and slammed away the vodka inside. When she did open her mouth, it wasn’t to offer an explanation.

  “Talk to me,” she commanded.

  “Ginnie…”

  “Just for a minute, Quinn. I need a distraction.”

  The waitress came by again, dropped down two more shots, and Quinn drank them both quickly so that Ginnie couldn’t help herself to another. He had to admit that the liquor was going to his head a bit, too, and that he didn’t mind the sensation at all.

  “What would you like me to talk about?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Yourself?”

  “Myself?”

  “Is that a problem?”

  He met her gaze. “No.”

  She swept her hand through the air drunkenly. “Good. Because I don’t see another hot, melted-cheese hater at my table.”

  He forced a grin. “You think I’m hot?”

  “Only in a tattooed Sasquatch kind of way.”

  In spite of himself, Quinn’s smile turned genuine. “What do you want me to tell you?”

  “Besides about cheese? I dunno.” Her gaze travelled around the bar, then came back to his face. “Have you been in a lot of strip bars?”

  His grin slipped. Girls and drugs were the bread and butter of the Black Daggers.

  “Quinn?” Ginnie prodded.

  He sighed, wondering again what it was about her that compelled him to tell the truth when he knew he should do the opposite.

  “Yes, I’ve been in a lot of strip bars.”

  “So this is what does it for you?”

  It was it his turn to take a perusal of the club. When he was younger – first on the job and green as hell – he’d considered the chosen business venue something of a perk. Naked flesh and pretty girls. Hard for a twenty-one year old man to dislike it.

  Pun intended.

  As time went by, though, he got to know the women – mothers and students and moonlighters and addicts, there was no one set of rules for what brought them to the stages. And as much as he hated to admit it, once their stories were in his head, he found it that much more difficult to enjoy himself.

  Quinn took a generous pull of his beer. “No. This isn’t what does it for me.”

  “What does do it for you?”

  “It’s not obvious?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “You.”

  “I was being serious.”

  “So was I. A dozen naked girls around and all I see is you.”

  It was tough to tell if the pink in her cheeks was from the alcohol or from a blush. “I bet that line’s worked for you a few times before.”

  “If I was a betting man – which I’m not – I’d give you pretty shitty odds on that.” He leaned across the table. “Mostly because I’ve never used it.”

  This time, it was definitely a blush. “So if you’re not into strippers, and you’re not into betting…Why you were going to Vegas? The all-you-can-eat buffets?”

  “Isn’t that obvious, too?” Quinn deflected. “I was going to a hot, tattooed Sasquatch convention.�
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  “You’re soooooo funny.” She tapped his hand drunkenly.

  Quinn tried to thread his fingers through hers and suppressed disappointment when she jerked away immediately.

  “Maybe I was going to Vegas to do the same thing that you wanted to do…” he said lightly. “Sully my reputation a bit.”

  “You just admitted that you spend an inordinate amount of time in strip clubs. I think it might be hard to sully your reputation.”

  “You make it sound so dirty.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Not if it’s work.”

  “Work?”

  Quinn realized he’d slipped up and he covered it with another smile. “You don’t think work happens in strip bars?”

  “I guess it depends on what line of work you’re in.”

  “I guess it does.”

  He felt her scrutiny as she examined his face.

  Too smart for her own good, her brother had once told Quinn.

  “You’re not going to tell me what you do for work, are you?” she asked.

  “Do you want to know about me?” he deflected. “Or my job?”

  “Aren’t they kind of the same thing?”

  “Related, maybe. But definitely not the same thing.”

  “I don’t understand the difference.”

  “What do you do for a living?” he asked, fully aware of the answer already.

  Ginnie’s responding smile was best described as sardonic. “At the moment…Very little. I went to school to become a medical office assistant. But my – but Lawrence always said I didn’t need to work.”

  “And is that what defines you?” Quinn wanted to know. “Your lack of a job?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Are you avoiding my question?”

  He shrugged, took a sip of his beer and said, “Definitely.”

  “Why?”

  “Why aren’t you telling me what just happened between you and your former husband?”

  A pained looked crossed her face before she looked down at the table. Quinn knew he was being given yet another opportunity to tell the truth. He knew also, that this was the worst possible time. Ginnie’s body language told a story that her easy, tipsy tone didn’t match. Her hands were tense, her mouth pinched, and the only sparkle in her eyes was a result of the vodka in her system.