With a Twist

by Martin, Deirdre

  Mason’s hand came across the table to rest firmly atop hers. “I really enjoy your company, Natalie. I would like—I would love—if we started dating each other exclusively.”

  “Exclusively,” Natalie repeated dumbly. As delicately as she could without being hurtful, she slid her hand from beneath his and took a deep breath. “Mason, I think you are a wonderful, very interesting man. But—”

  He cut her off, frowning. “Is this about O’Brien?”

  “No,” she lied.

  “Then why not go out with me?”

  His arrogance reminded her of Quinn, but with one difference: had Quinn said that, her heart would secretly beat a little faster. Irksome and egotistical as Quinn was, at least she felt alive in his presence—not that she still wasn’t angry with him. With Mason, there was nothing beyond casual fondness.

  “I enjoy talking to you, Mason. But I can’t see us being anything more than friends. I’m sorry.”

  Mason’s eyes fixed on a spot over her shoulder. “I see,” he said coldly.

  This is horrible. Totally horrible and painful, to hurt a nice person this way. Not wanting to prolong the agony for either of them, she rose. “What do I owe for my half of dinner?”

  “Don’t be silly,” Mason scoffed.

  “I just feel—”

  “Like you owe me something for letting me down? That’s silly, Natalie. Sit down and finish your coffee.” He motioned for the check. “I’m glad we’ll still be friends.”

  “Me, too.”

  “I’ll see you home when we’re done.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  Mason looked deflated. “Then I guess I’ll see you at the Wild Hart.”

  “Gimme five minutes.”

  Quinn could feel Kenny Durham’s eyes burning a hole in his back as he frantically hammered out some notes from a recent conversation on his computer.

  “Five minutes,” Quinn repeated when Durham didn’t move. He had to get all the info down while it was still fresh in his head, especially since he couldn’t read half the shit he’d jotted down on his notepad. It didn’t help that he typed using only two fingers, his brain racing faster than his fingers could keep pace with.

  Durham sighed, walking away, but Quinn couldn’t worry about him right now. The notes he was typing—he was pretty sure he had a possible lead on something pretty big going down right in his own neighborhood. God bless connections, discontent, and unnamed sources.

  He finished his typing with a final flourish and went to find Durham. His friend was sitting with his feet up on his desk, his fingers laced behind his head, deep in thought.

  “What’s up?” Quinn asked.

  Durham turned to look at him. “What’s up with you?”

  Quinn tapped the side of his head. “Had to get down what’s in here. You know I can’t read my own handwriting half the time.”

  “Use your damn digital voice recorder.”

  “I do. But in general I hate that thing. Looking at notes is easier for me.”

  “God, you’re such a Luddite.” Durham rubbed his eyes wearily. “I have no goddamn idea what the theme for Thursday’s crossword puzzle should be, and it’s due in half an hour.”

  “Monkeys? Nuns? Lindsay Lohan?”

  “I’m being serious here,” Durham whined. “Help me out, you pain in the ass.”

  Quinn thought. “Mayors of New York.”

  “Good one.” He jerked his head in the direction of Quinn’s desk. “You ever follow up on the stuff about the Porcos losing the bid?”

  Quinn grinned. “Oh yeah.”

  Durham’s eyebrows lifted. “Care to elaborate?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Quinn O’Brien, International Man of Mystery.”

  “You know it.”

  “There are some things you should tell your friends, though.”

  “Like—?”

  “I heard through the grapevine that you were out on a date the other night.”

  “So?”

  “Was it with Natalie?” Durham prodded.

  Quinn readjusted his watch. “Maybe.”

  Christ, he’d been so busy he hadn’t been to the Hart in a few days. Crime tended to come in waves. Things would be relatively quiet for a while, and then bam! He’d be running his ass off all over the five boroughs. Of course, Mademoiselle Natalie probably assumed he was just avoiding her. She had been royally pissed at him when he called to apologize. She understood the emergency but reamed him out for not explaining what was going on before bolting from the concert. He knew she was right.

  “You’ve got some serious competition, you know.”

  Quinn yawned with boredom. “You already told me she went out with Clement. Old news.”

  “No, new news: she went out with him again. Met him here last night, and they left together.”

  What the hell? After he’d shelled out four hundred smackers to take her to the symphony? Yeah, she had a right to be upset with him, but this was spite. And it pissed him off.

  “You look kinda pale, Quinnie boy.”

  “I just need coffee,” Quinn growled.

  She wasn’t the only one who deserved an explanation.

  Natalie hated cleaning. She knew it was the result of growing up with a maid, but all that dusting and vacuuming and sink scrubbing and whatnot—it all seemed so futile, especially since things just got dirty again so quickly. Vivi, of course, loved to clean, claiming it gave her a sense of accomplishment. All it gave Natalie was a feeling of having wasted a morning of her life. Still, she didn’t like dirt, and since the apartment was Bernard Rousseau’s, she felt an obligation to maintain it.

  She was in the middle of dusting the giant telescope in the living room when the intercom buzzed, startling her so much she nearly shot to the cathedral ceiling. She glanced at her watch: 11 a.m. on a Friday morning. Maybe it was another package from her mother in Paris, who claimed to miss her, while in the same breath saying she was a “selfish and atrocious daughter” for choosing to live in America.

  Natalie pressed the intercom button. “Oui—uh yes, Mikel?”

  “There’s someone here to see you named Quinn. Should I let him up?”

  She told Mikel to send him up, regretting it immediately. She was barefoot, in jeans and a plain blue T-shirt, sans makeup—completely unpresentable. Panicked, she ran into the bathroom to put some lipstick on and at least run a comb through her hair. There was no time to change into something a bit more stylish. Merde.

  Her doorbell rang, and she squared her shoulders, opening the door. There he was, the man who had dashed out on her in the middle of one of the most glorious piano concertos of all time, one he claimed to love. She found herself wishing that he wasn’t quite so good-looking. Even with what looked like a small spaghetti sauce stain on his tie, he still emitted charisma. It was maddening.

  “Come in.”

  Quinn entered the apartment, whistling through his teeth. “Wow. Impressive. I figured Bernard had to have a nice place, but I didn’t think it would be this nice.”

  “He’s a diplomat, remember?”

  “Maybe I should switch careers.”

  “I believe diplomats need to be diplomatic. I don’t think it would be the right job for you.”

  Quinn chuckled, still glancing around. He pointed to the dust rag Natalie had carelessly thrown on the coffee table in her haste to answer the intercom.

  “Did I interrupt your cleaning, Cinderella?”

  Natalie just stared at him.

  Quinn leaned toward her. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Even if I say no, you’ll ask anyway, so go right ahead.”

  “Who the hell cleans house with lipstick on?”

  “Who shows up unannounced at someone’s door?” Natalie snapped.

  “You put it on for me, didn’t you?” Quinn continued in a teasing voice.

  “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  He studied her face. “You really don’t need makeup, you know. You look
fine without it.” He looked down at her feet. “Nice toes. Very well-groomed.”

  I hate you! Natalie thought.

  “Enough with your sarcastic compliments. Why are you here?”

  “Because I owe you another apology. Can I sit down on Bernie’s couch? Or do you want to have this entire conversation standing by the door?”

  “Sit,” Natalie muttered begrudgingly.

  “Are you going to join me?”

  “Of course, you oaf.”

  She saw Quinn suppress a smile, which irritated her no end. He thought this was a joke, did he? Well, he’d soon find out it wasn’t.

  She sat down on the opposite end of the couch, hoping to send a clear message. Now Quinn looked amused.

  “Aren’t you even going to offer me a cup of coffee?”

  “You’re not going to be here long enough to drink it.”

  “God, you’re feisty.”

  “And you’re maddening.” She crossed her arms. “Well? I’m waiting.”

  “You’re absolutely right. I should have told you there was an emergency. I was wrong to just run out of there without an explanation. I’m terribly sorry.”

  “Apology accepted under one condition.”

  “I don’t do it again.”

  “That’s not the condition. I want you to give me an honest answer to one question.”

  “Of course, ask away.”

  “You were bored at that concert, weren’t you? Bored to tears.”

  Quinn scratched his chin absently. “Yeah, I was. I’m pretty sure that if I go to hell when I die, part of my eternal punishment will be an endless loop of that concerto.”

  Natalie shook her head, her exasperation beginning to fade, even though she wished she could hold on to it longer. “Why did you lie to me, then? Why did you say you loved classical music and that concerto?”

  “Because I wanted to impress you. Jesus Christ, what was I supposed to do? Take you to the movies and buy you a tub of popcorn after Mr. Down Under took you to the museum, and you acted like you’d spent the afternoon with the art critic for the New York Times?”

  “So this is really all about you and Mason, then. Trying to outdo each other.”

  “No, you mule-headed woman,” Quinn spat out in frustration. “It’s all about wanting to make sure you had a good time.”

  Natalie narrowed her eyes. “But Mason did figure into it, too, didn’t he?”

  Quinn threw his hands up in the air. “Fine! Yes! Crocodile Dundee figured into it! It drives me crazy that you like that putz!” Quinn was scowling. “Durham told me you went out with him again.”

  “I saw no reason not to,” Natalie replied, sounding blasé.

  “You going to see him again?”

  Natalie shrugged, a frisson of excitement going through her as she waited to see what he would do.

  “Need a reason not to?” Quinn growled. He looked dangerous, thrilling Natalie even more. “Here, I’ll give you one.”

  One minute Quinn was practically snarling at her from the other end of the couch; the next he had snatched her up into his arms, pressing his lips against hers so hard that an uncontrolled current of electricity shot through her, making her gasp. Quinn pulled back to look at her, an evil little smile on his face.

  “Liked that, huh, Miss Bocuse?”

  Natalie’s head was swimming.

  “Here’s a little more.”

  He crushed his mouth to hers again, the force of the kiss one of unmistakable dominance. His mouth was claiming hers so fiercely, so roughly, that she began to quiver. She liked a man who took control, and clearly Quinn O’Brien was one of those men. When he pulled back a little to nip at her lower lip, a small groan escaped Natalie’s lips.

  “Clement kiss you like that? Huh?”

  “He—he never kissed me,” Natalie managed.

  His expression was triumphant. “Good.”

  Had any other man acted as if she were a prize he’d won, she would have pushed him off her and given him a piece of her mind. But that wasn’t what she wanted. What she wanted was to pull his face down to hers, taste his mouth, run her hands through that thick tangle of his hair.

  She reached for him, confused when he pulled away.

  “Quinn—?”

  His expression was all innocence. “Yes?”

  Natalie swallowed, trying to hide how vulnerable she suddenly felt. “If you want to, you can keep kissing me.”

  “You still haven’t said you’ve forgiven me.”

  “Obviously I’ve forgiven you, you fool! I’m kissing you, aren’t I?”

  “And Clement—?”

  “Dear God, have you suddenly turned into an idiot who needs everything spelled out for you? I told him we would only ever just be friends.”

  “Oh, he must have loved that.”

  “Can we stop speaking about him?”

  “Sure.” Quinn stood up.

  “What are you doing?!” Natalie’s heart was still thumping away in her chest for want of him.

  “I think it’s good to keep your lady eager for more, you know?”

  Natalie’s mouth fell open. “You bastard!”

  “That’s me,” Quinn grinned mischievously. “Should I give you a call and we’ll figure out our next rendezvous, mademoiselle?”

  “Oh, you’re maddening! Maddening!”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” He leaned over and planted a chaste, gentle kiss on her cheek. “Talk to you soon.”

  14

  “Well, if it isn’t himself.”

  Quinn ignored his mother’s affectionate barb and bent down to kiss her cheek. She was at the breakfast table with his father and Liam. This was the way the three of them started most every day: Liam would come over to talk inventory and the previous night’s take, etc., with his folks, and then his parents would go downstairs into the kitchen at the Hart and start preparing for lunch while Liam dealt with deliveries and the bills. It was Liam with whom Quinn wanted to speak, but he thought that by stopping by he’d kill two birds with one stone.

  “And just where have you been keeping yourself, boyo?” his father asked while Quinn grabbed a mug from the cabinet and poured himself a cup of coffee.

  “Working.”

  “You’re going to drive yourself into the ground with that job,” his father chided.

  “I could say the same to you,” Quinn replied, sliding into the empty seat next to his brother.

  “No doubt you’ve heard about what happened to PJ Leary,” said his father, shaking his head sadly.

  Quinn’s eyes flicked to Liam’s. “Yeah, Liam told me.”

  “I don’t like what’s going on in this neighborhood,” his father continued. “All those perfectly good buildings being torn down or renovated by the Shields Brothers.”

  “You know them at all?” Quinn asked suddenly. Jesus, why hadn’t he thought of asking this earlier? Well, at least he had the presence of mind to ask now.

  “Not really. They’ve come in a few times over the years but never really became regulars.”

  “The wife of the younger one—what’s his name, Larry?—she’s nice,” said his mother. “I see her at Mass every Sunday with their two little ones.”

  His mother was the only family member who still attended Mass regularly. His once-devout father had stopped going, disgusted by the priest sex scandals. But his mother’s faith ran deep. Sunday remained a ritual for the family in another way, however; it was when they all gathered for a big afternoon dinner.

  “Why are you asking about the Shields Brothers?” asked his mother.

  “The boy’s a reporter,” his father answered with pride in his voice. “He asks about everything.”

  Quinn sipped his coffee. “How’s Natalie working out?”

  His mother’s expression darkened. “God knows she’s a good waitress, but Jesus, Mary, and Saint Joseph, the gall of her to suggest we change the menu . . .”

  “She’s just trying to help, Mom.”

  “Yes, w
ell, I do find it a wee bit insulting.”

  “Call her on it,” Quinn suggested, knowing Natalie would kill him if she knew what he was about to suggest. “Next time she suggests a menu change, say, ‘Fine, but you cook it.’ I bet that’ll shut her up fast.”

  His mother laughed. “Perhaps I will.”

  “I hear you two are sweet on each other,” said his father.

  Quinn’s gaze shot to Liam.

  “Don’t look at me!” Liam protested.

  “It was your crossword puzzle friend who told us,” his mother confessed. “Is it true?”

  “We’re dating,” Quinn replied evasively.

  Quinn’s father coughed nervously. “You sure she’s the type of girl for you, Quinn? She seems a bit—”

  “Posh,” his mother finished.

  “Because of her accent?”

  His mother sighed. “Because of all of it, I guess. Her accent, the way she carries herself . . . I noticed her nails are always manicured and painted.”

  This was just the sort of thing his no-nonsense mother would notice. As far as Quinn knew, his mother had never had her nails done, claiming it didn’t make sense, since she cooked so much. Still, there were times he’d caught his mother looking enviously at the well-dressed women who came into the pub.

  “You should have your nails done sometime,” Quinn suggested.

  His mother snorted as if that was the most ridiculous suggestion she’d ever heard. “I’m not that type of woman.”

  “No, it’s that you don’t think you deserve it,” said Liam. “You’ve got that Irish denial thing going on.”

  Quinn’s mother turned to his father. “You hearing this? My own sons ganging up on me?”

  Quinn’s dad just chuckled, eyeing Quinn. “We were on the subject of your sweetheart before all this talk of nails sidetracked them.”

  “Yeah, you were characterizing her as posh.” Quinn chose his words carefully. “Natalie was raised wealthy, but that doesn’t mean she’s had it easy.” He filled his parents and Liam in on what he knew: her diplomat father’s loveless marriage to her mother, being a lonely, only child until she found out about Vivi. He omitted the part about a romantic relationship driving her to make a new life for herself here in the States. He also saw no point in telling them she was a recovering shopaholic. That wouldn’t go down well with his frugal mother.