She studied him in action. Instead of being crude, he was being witty and charming and never at a loss for words. He had to drop her hand to take notes when he talked to celebs attending the party, but that was all right. When he was mingling with other reporters, she was surprised how collegial they all were. Quinn explained that it wasn’t unusual for reporters to hop from paper to paper in the course of their career. Half of them used to work at the Sent.
Quinn turned, pointing out a tall man to Natalie looking at them from across the room.
“You see that thin guy in the expensive suit?”
Natalie nodded.
“Well, he’s one of the mayor’s top aides.” He paused. “I really need to go over there and talk to him. Will you be okay if I leave you alone for just a few minutes?”
“Certainly.” Obviously, Quinn wanted to talk to the man privately, and she wasn’t going to press him for the reason. If he wanted her to know, he would have told her. Besides, she’d spotted someone she wanted to talk to: British chef Sebastian Thompson, owner of highly regarded restaurants in London and New York who was about to open a new place in Manhattan.
“You sure you’ll be okay?” Quinn asked.
“Yes, perfectly fine.” She tipped her head in the direction of Thompson. “I’m going to go talk to Sebastian Thompson.”
Quinn glanced Thompson’s way. “Isn’t he supposed to be totally nuts?”
“He’s brilliant. He’s opening a new restaurant very soon. He might be in need of a manager.”
“He well might be.” Quinn discreetly pinched her butt. “Go for it, Nat. What have you got to lose?”
His confidence in her buoyed her. “Exactly.”
“We’ll meet up when I’m done with the mayor’s aide. Good luck.”
“You, too,” Natalie said.
Then Natalie took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and began moving in the direction of Sebastian Thompson.
16
Natalie had never been shy, and the thought of approaching Sebastian Thompson in no way intimidated her. She knew she was good-looking. In addition, most English and American men were enchanted when they heard her accent.
Thompson was holding court at a small, round table beneath one of the soaring stone archways. Natalie strode confidently to the table and tapped his shoulder. Thompson looked up at her, his eyes immediately sweeping her body. She smiled.
“Bonjour. My name is Natalie Bocuse. I wanted to let you know that I’ve eaten at Shepherd’s Pie in London, and it was wonderful. You are an amazing, amazing chef.”
“Well, thank you,” said Thompson, looking immensely pleased. “You’re not from around here, aye, love?” Despite the pedigree of his restaurants, his accent was pure cockney. Natalie was surprised to find it charming.
“Oui.”
“On holiday in New York?”
“Actually, I live here.”
“Interesting.” Thompson rose and dragged over an empty chair from the next table, placing it next to his own. “Have a seat, love. Join the party,” he urged as he poured her a glass of champagne.
Natalie sat down beside him and took a demure sip of champagne. The constellation of people surrounding Thompson didn’t seem to resent her presence, for which she was grateful. Most of them were what the Americans referred to as “foodies.” Because Vivi was a chef, Natalie knew a bit about food and how restaurants worked, so she was able to hold her own in conversation. In fact, Thompson said he’d heard about Vivi’s, claiming he wanted to check it out. Natalie couldn’t wait to tell her sister. She’d be beside herself.
Her chance for an in with him came when he asked what she did. “I’m a restaurant manager.”
Thompson’s eyes lit up. “Yeah? Where?”
“Well, I’m unemployed right now. But I’m actively looking for a job.”
“What kind of experience you got?”
“Well, I was a manager at my sister’s bistro.” A lie. “And I was also a manager at a medium-sized brasserie in Paris after I left the civil service.” Oh, God, another lie. But she had a feeling if she admitted she had no experience at all, he’d dismiss her outright. Right now, he was looking very interested.
“Wot you doing right now?”
“Helping out some friends who have an Irish pub.”
“The Irish are mad as hatters,” he declared. “Good with salmon, though. You do know I’m opening a new restaurant called Seb’s in about a month or so?” Thompson asked casually.
“Yes, of course.”
His eyes bored into hers. “Haven’t picked a manager yet. You think you might want to come in for an interview?”
“That would be wonderful.” Calm on the outside, she was giddy with excitement inside.
“How ’bout you give me your number, and I give you a ring in the next couple of days?”
“Again, that would be wonderful. Thank you so much.”
“My pleasure, darlin’. More champers?”
Quinn took his time making his way to Larry Mullen, pausing to chat a moment with Kirsty Perry, a bubbly former Sent reporter now covering entertainment for the New York Globe. She was surprised to see him there. “I’m surprised to be here,” Quinn replied dryly. He promised to give her a call soon, then continued on his way.
“Larry Mullen.” Quinn extended his hand and Mullen shook it.
“Quinn O’Brien. Long time, no see.”
“Been busy,” Quinn replied enigmatically.
“You always are.” Mullen’s smile was as broad and fake as Pamela Anderson’s tits.
“I’ve been digging into the gentrification that’s going on in Hell’s Kitchen. I’ve been struck by how many of the buildings being renovated by the Shields Brothers were also purchased by them. I mean, that’s kind of rare, isn’t it?” Quinn cocked his head inquisitively. “Shields Brothers were major contributors to Mayor Dunphy’s reelection campaign, weren’t they?”
Mullen smiled tersely. “I don’t see your point.”
Quinn shrugged. “Just making conversation, Lar.”
“You know, the mayor really likes you, Quinn.”
“Does he? I didn’t think City Hall was very pleased with the piece I did after the crane accident.”
“No, not at all. You revealed an oversight that needed to be corrected. But as for the Shields Brothers, well, I don’t think you’ll find what you’re looking for down at Gracie Mansion. That would be a waste of time. And I know how busy you are. I think you’d be better off looking a little closer to home.”
“Larry, how considerate of you. I’m touched that you care.”
“Oh, I care. And so does the mayor. We care that you find what you’re looking for, rather than getting diverted by, let’s say, side issues that really aren’t pertinent.”
“Larry, please tell the mayor that I appreciate his concern, and that I don’t intend to be diverted.”
Mullen smiled broadly. “That’s great news, Quinn. I’ll be sure to tell the mayor that you’re focused on what really matters. Enjoy the rest of your night.”
“You, too, Larry.”
Quinn spun on his heels quickly so Mullen couldn’t see the glee overtaking his face. He couldn’t wait to file this insipid movie premiere story, then get back to the work that really mattered.
Quinn caught Natalie’s eye as soon as he was done talking to Mullen. She seemed to be having the time of her life at the crazy chef’s table. A few minutes later, Natalie was by his side.
“How’d it go?” he asked.
“He’s going to call me in a few days to interview me about a managing position when he opens Seb’s!” Natalie said excitedly. She bit her lower lip. “I lied, though.”
“What do you mean, you lied?”
“I told him I had more experience than I did.”
Quinn laughed. “Well, if he doesn’t hire you, it won’t matter. If he does hire you and you do a good job, he won’t give a shit. And if he hires you and you don’t do a good job, you’ll get fir
ed anyway.”
They were on the sidewalk now. Quinn raised an arm to hail a cab.
“Where are we going?” Quinn asked as one pulled over.
“Your place?” Natalie was pleased their evening wasn’t coming to an end quite yet.
“Oh, no, no, no, no, no,” Quinn chuckled. “That’s simply not happening. How about your place?”
“Fine.”
They slid into the back of the cab.
“Why not your place?” she wanted to know.
“It’s a sty,” Quinn said simply. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his reporter’s pad, thumbing quickly through the pages. “More than enough crap to give Clement what he wants,” he muttered, shoving it back into his coat.
Natalie smiled at him. “Thank you for inviting me. You seemed to find it much less excruciating than the symphony.”
“A little bit, but not much.” He put his arm around her shoulders. “I’m glad you had a good time.”
“I did.”
“Thompson was staring at your chest.”
“Everyone stares at my chest.”
“God, your lack of humility turns me on.” He leaned over, lightly brushing his lips over hers. Natalie felt an excited flutter low in her belly as Quinn sat back, smiling seductively. Would he tease her again tonight? Would she let him?
It was then she realized: she’d let him do anything.
17
Should I offer him a drink? Natalie wondered as she led Quinn into her—Bernard’s—apartment. She’d been vigilant about not letting herself think of the apartment as hers, no matter how much she wished otherwise.
The minute Quinn stepped over the threshold, he loosened his tie, carelessly tossing his sports jacket over the back of the couch. He was one of those men who, by the end of the evening, had developed a five o’clock shadow. On any other man, Natalie might have thought it scruffy. But on Quinn it seemed attractive. She remembered the roughness against the skin of her face and swallowed nervously.
“I hate ties,” Quinn announced as he sank down onto the couch. “I bet you like them. I bet you think they’re classy.”
“They give men a polished look.”
“They’re uncomfortable as hell. If you had to wear them all the time for work, you’d know.”
“Moan moan moan.”
Quinn laughed. Natalie loved that sound, and that she could make such an intelligent man with such a wonderful sense of humor laugh. So many people thought her humor-less. They didn’t understand that she had a hard time letting down her hair. She’d been raised to be ladylike and polite, a true politician’s daughter. She envied her sister’s free spirit. Still, she was learning. You couldn’t work at the Wild Hart and be reserved; almost everyone there was a talker, friendly as can be. It was as if everyone was gathered in one big living room chattering away.
She paused, hand on the back of the couch. “Can I get you something to drink?”
Quinn craned his neck to look at her. “Do you have any whiskey?”
“Well, I don’t. But Bernard might have some somewhere.”
She headed toward the kitchen, halting when Quinn called out to her.
“Know what? Forget it. If I have a shot of whiskey now, I’ll fall asleep.”
Natalie nodded, joining him on the couch. He certainly didn’t look tired to her. In fact, his blue eyes seemed as awake and intense as ever, sending a bolt of lust through her body. She wondered if he felt the same way. Well, there was only one way to find out.
Slowly, seductively, she brushed an index finger back and forth over his lower lip. “You like that, yes?” she murmured.
Quinn’s eyes hooded. “Who wouldn’t?” He removed her index finger from his lip and slowly, with eyes burrowing into hers, took it into his mouth, sucking on it. Natalie’s breath hitched. How embarrassing that such a simple action could arouse her so quickly.
Quinn took her finger out of his mouth, kissing the tip before returning it to her lap. “Close your eyes,” he commanded quietly.
Natalie complied, butterflies in her stomach. She held her breath for what felt like an eternity. Finally, she could feel Quinn’s face close to hers, his breath on her face, his scent filling her senses. When he finally pressed his lips to her cheek, it was so exciting she felt weak.
“Tell me how that feels,” said Quinn.
Natalie swallowed. “Nice,” she managed, her heartbeat beginning to gallop. With her eyes closed, Quinn could do anything he wanted to her; he could make any move he wanted, and she wouldn’t see it coming. A delicious feeling of vertigo overcame her.
“How about this?” Quinn’s lips moved to within a fraction of an inch of hers, lingering, not moving. Again Natalie held her breath, the warmth wending through her almost unbearable. Finally Quinn attacked, kissing her roughly as he spoke in between bouts of ravishing her mouth.
“I’m a journalist,” he said in a low, seductive voice. “I like words. Tell me what I’m doing to you.”
“Kissing me,” she whispered with a moan.
“And how . . . is it making you . . . feel?”
“Wonderful.” Oh, Jesus God, her body was on fire.
“Just what I wanted to hear,” said Quinn, teasing her lower lip with his teeth. “Except I want you to be a little bit more descriptive.”
“I—I—oh, it feels so good.” Her blood was sizzling.
“Correct answer.” Quinn gently pulled Natalie’s head back as he began running his lips over her neck. “Describe what I’m doing now.” Natalie let out a small gasp at the feel of his mouth running over her flesh. The fever beginning to build in her body couldn’t be ignored. She opened her eyes.
“Close them,” Quinn growled roughly.
“Oh, God.” Natalie took a shaky breath, doing as he commanded, unable to suppress a moan as his mouth returned to feast on her neck. His mouth pressed to her skin, her own galloping heartbeat in her ears—it was a wonderful kind of madness. She almost jumped out of her skin when Quinn began slowly unzipping the back of her dress, fingers grazing the sensitive skin of her back.
“What am I doing now?” he whispered.
“Driving me insane!” Natalie cried out in frustration.
Quinn laughed wickedly. “Tell me what you want me to do, Natalie.”
She was trembling uncontrollably now, drunk on the feel of him, wondering if it were even possible to form the words she longed to say.
“Tell me,” he commanded again.
“I—I want you to undress me and put your mouth on my breasts and—and—”
She didn’t have to finish. Quinn pushed up her bra and dipped his head to her breasts, his tongue circling and flicking as she fisted her hands in his hair. It had been so long . . . If he kept it up, she was going to explode. The rough stubble of his chin against her skin as he suckled . . . unbearable. And then he took one hand to reach under her dress and cup her between her legs with his palm, rubbing it against her. Natalie couldn’t hold back anymore. She bucked with pleasure as lightning crashed through her body.
Slowly, dazedly, Natalie returned to herself. What she saw when she was finally able to focus was Quinn with a somewhat devilish yet amused smile on his face.
Natalie raised an eyebrow. “Pleased with yourself, are you?”
“Very pleased.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “Did you like that?”
“You know the answer. You’re just fishing for compliments.” She stroked his hair. “Now you.”
Quinn kissed her hand. “Let’s save that for next time.”
Natalie stared at him. “You don’t want me to pleasure you?” She felt a quick jab of rejection. Did he think she might not be good at it? The French were known as lovers. Had he forgotten that?
Quinn kissed her palm. “Of course I want it. But not tonight. Not when I’m so tired I can’t fully enjoy it.”
“All right,” Natalie acquiesced, still surprised. She nestled into his arms. “I had a wonderful time tonight.”
&
nbsp; “Me, too—when I was with you.”
“I’ve been thinking, though. You’ve taken me on three very fancy dates—all, I think, to impress me, no?”
“I already told you that. Yes.”
“You don’t need to impress me. I am impressed, even though you are the most trying man on earth. Why don’t we do something you would like to do?”
Quinn smoothed her hair. “Funny you should say that. Would you like to come to dinner with me at my parents’ on Sunday afternoon?”
“Your parents?”
“Yeah, you know, that plump white-haired couple with brogues who sign your paycheck?”
Natalie scowled at him. “No need to be sarcastic.” She took a deep breath. “The thought is very scary to me.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because your mother doesn’t like me.”
“My mother doesn’t know you. That’s one of the reasons I want you to come.” Quinn paused. “I’ve never taken anyone home for Sunday dinner before,” he said quietly.
“Really?”
“Really.”
So you love me? Natalie longed to say.
“Look, it’s not a fancy affair. You don’t need to get dressed up or anything. If everyone shows, there will be nine of us.”
Nine. That was nothing compared to the Sunday dinners the Dantes had, where it wasn’t uncommon for fifteen or more people to be gathered around the table, the decibel level deafening. Natalie realized that maybe she no longer needed to envy Vivi’s being welcomed as a member into a large, loving family. Maybe it was her turn now, even though she didn’t want to think about what the food would be like.
“All right, then. I’ll come. Shall I bring a bottle of wine?”
Quinn hesitated. “You could, but my family really doesn’t drink it. Why don’t you bring some flowers? And an appetite.”
With a Twist Page 13