Then again, under the circumstances, any greeting milder than castration counted as a win. God knew he deserved a hell of a lot worse.
“Mr. Canton!” Lassiter unpeeled his right hand from Eliza’s back, then held it out to Quince for a firm handshake. “You have the look of a man who’s enjoying himself.”
Quince flashed his most charming smile. “You assured me that this would be a spectacular party. My compliments. For the event, for this stunning renovation, and,” he added as he deliberately turned toward Eliza, “for the spectacular ornamentation.”
“You have good taste,” Lassiter said. “I’d say she’s among the loveliest of the flowers decorating the room.”
Quince knew the role he was supposed to play. With deliberate slowness, he let his eyes roam over her, as if inspecting the merchandise. When he reached her face, he allowed himself a hint of a smile, like a satisfied customer.
She didn’t smile back, and he was surprised at the wave of loss that crested over him. During their time in London, he’d come to rely on that cockeyed smile, as dependable as the rising sun. She’d see him across a room, and her lips would curve in greeting, her dimple flashing and her eyes sparkling with an invitation that was impossible to ignore.
Considering the situation, he shouldn’t have expected to see any sort of light in her eyes. But while reason knew that, his heart was less astute.
He willed his features to stay bland, fearing that his disappointment would show on his face. Damn, but he wished he didn’t still want her so much. Didn’t still crave those wonderfully sweet days they spent exploring London—and the wickedly sensual nights they passed exploring each other.
He wanted to hold onto those memories. Wanted to wrap himself in them when the nightmares came. But how could he when they were so inextricably intertwined with pain? The bloody, brutal, fucking pain that he battled down every goddamn day. It had changed him. Tainted him.
He’d walked away so that he wouldn’t soil her, too, and he’d sworn to himself it would be a clean break for both of them.
And yet here he was, standing in front of her, about to demand help from the one woman in the world who truly—and deservedly—hated him.
Beside him, Lassiter cleared his throat, and Quince realized that he was still staring at Eliza.
He turned to his host, his demeanor casual. As if he couldn’t be bothered about anyone else’s comfort or expectations. “Since she’s with you, I assume she has yet to be keyed by one of the guests?”
He spoke matter-of-factly, and only to Lassiter. Eliza was chattel tonight, and although that simple reality burned a hole in his gut, there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it right then.
“Ah, I’m afraid I’ve been keeping Bunny occupied,” Lassiter said, which Quincy understood as his claim on Eliza. Lassiter couldn’t key her outright—he was the host, after all. But he could subtly suggest that if Quince disrupted his plans for the girl, then Lassiter would ensure that Robert Canton’s name was conveniently dropped from future guest lists.
As far as Quince could tell, it was working. In just the time it had taken to cross the room, he’d noticed at least three of the guests stealing hungry glances her way. And one, a broad-shouldered man with a goatee and short ginger curls, hadn’t taken his eyes off Eliza.
Fortunately for Quince, this was a one-time gig. He stepped toward her, then took her wrist, using the tip of his forefinger to trace the red ribbon she’d tied there. Why had she worn it? Coincidence? Probably. But maybe there was a tiny bit of affection still lingering beneath the hatred? A sign that while she hadn’t forgiven him, there might be a few lingering memories that she cherished?
After a moment, she tugged her hand away. She met his eyes, silently daring him to call out her bad behavior.
“She and I have met before,” he said, speaking again to Lassiter and not Eliza. “London, perhaps. No, it was Paris. Tell me, Scott. Do you know Sir Jonathan Semple?”
Lassiter’s face showed that he did, and Quince wasn’t surprised. Semple was an entitled British prick who had spent his life bouncing from party to party, spending his massive inheritance on drink and women. And he had a tendency to buy his friends’ loyalty by buying them women.
Quince had infiltrated one of Semple’s parties during his time at MI6, but that was long before he’d met Eliza. The mention of Semple’s name to Lassiter was nothing more than camouflage.
He and Eliza had gone to Paris, though. One Friday on a lark they’d popped over to St. Pancras station, bought two same-day tickets, and taken the Chunnel to Paris. They’d found a small hotel on la Rive Gauche, and had wiled away a weekend both in bed and wandering the streets and shops of the City of Lights.
Because she said it was the memories that mattered, she’d turned down all the gifts he’d offered her except for a bundle of roses and a hardbound copy of Le Petit Prince. “Emma used to read it to me,” she’d told him. “I’ve always wanted to learn enough French to read it in the original language.”
As for the roses, they’d stayed in the hotel room until they returned to London, when they’d left the still-lovely blooms for the maid. But he’d taken the ribbon that had bound the stems and tied it around her wrist. He hadn’t known why at the time, other than some primal need to mark her as his own. She’d declined his offer of a Cartier diamond and sapphire bracelet, and he assumed she’d laugh at the ribbon, then take it off once they left for the train station.
But she kept it. For that matter, she wore it continuously.
She’d even been wearing it on that day he’d gone to see her. The day she didn’t know about.
He’d watched her from across the street, and his heart had wrenched at the sight of her. He’d almost approached her. But how could he? He’d never again be the man in Paris who gave red ribbons. That man might have been a bit damaged and rough around the edges, but at his core, he was whole.
The man who’d watched her in silence was broken. Inside and out. And the shards of his soul would cut her to pieces.
He’d watched, hidden in the shadows. He’d mourned what might have been.
Then he’d left.
And when he finally reached the tiny, antiseptic government dorm that had become his temporary home, he’d wept.
Today, he didn’t have the luxury of turning away. Didn’t matter if it would hurt either one of them, he and Denny needed help. The princess needed help. Every one of Corbu’s tormented victims needed help.
And Eliza was the only one he could turn to.
“You and Bunny crossed paths at one of Semple’s parties?” Lassiter said. “What a stunning coincidence.”
“Small world.” Quince put on his most charming smile. “At the time I believe she was hopping all over the continent. If I recall, she was well worth the, ah, time I spent spent with her.” He rubbed his fingers together to suggest her very steep price. But of course neither Robert Canton nor Lassiter would be so uncouth as to talk about a call girl’s price out loud.
As Lassiter watched with a frown, Quince took Eliza’s hand, forcing himself not to react to the visceral memory that washed over him merely from the feel of her warm, smooth skin. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Bunny.”
Eliza’s expression never changed, but she turned her hand over and opened it, so that Lassiter could see the ornate brass key now resting on her palm. “I’m a creature of habit,” Quince said. “Once I find something I enjoy, I claim it for my own.”
“A very wise policy, Mr. Canton.” Lassiter seemed to be talking through his teeth, his desire for Eliza warring with his duties as a host.
Eventually, duty won out. “Go with Mr. Canton, Bunny.” He gave her a pat on the rump, and Quince fought the urge to land a right hook on his jaw. “Make sure he enjoys himself this evening.”
“Of course, Mr. Lassiter.” Her voice was as smooth as he remembered, strong and musical. A good voice for the stage, and he wondered what had happened to her acting career. He’d checked on
her over the years, and he knew she worked steadily. So why was she now performing sex acts for strange men instead of Shakespeare? The question sat heavy in his gut, especially considering everything he knew about her. Was she here merely as a practical solution to some unmanageable debt? Or was there a darker need lingering under the surface? Some void she was desperately, foolishly trying to fill?
He wanted to know. Hell, he wanted to help.
But now wasn’t the time. “With me,” he said, relieved when she came easily, almost eagerly.
“So what do you have to tell me,” she whispered, as soon as they were out of earshot.
Tell her? Tell her what?
What he was doing there? Why he’d left her?
A thousand possible questions burned in his brain, but he didn’t have time to examine any of them. Right then, all that mattered was getting her to his room and getting her hands in position on that relay.
“Sounds like you’re on the move,” Denny whispered in his ear. “Cough to confirm.”
He coughed.
“I’ll expect to hear from you in three. Get to the room.”
He didn’t bother acknowledging again. But he did pick up his speed. Eliza’s heels clicked beside him. “Qui—I mean, Robert.”
“We’ll talk in my room.” They’d reached the elevator where several groping couples waited for the car to arrive. He slid an arm around her waist and for a moment he was lost in the memory of her soft curves. Of the way they’d once fit together so perfectly, as if they were two halves of a whole.
Then she stiffened and the illusion shattered. Now, he was all ragged edges and missing pieces. Maybe they’d fit once, but they could never again.
The doors opened and they followed the other couples into the mirrored interior of the elevator car. He saw them reflected back at him. Men falling into lust. Women dialing up the heat. For these ladies, he knew, it was all about the payday. But you couldn’t tell from the images in the mirror. Each and every one was putting on an award winning performance—and not a single person in the car was paying any attention at all to him and Eliza.
And thank God for that.
The car descended to the fourth floor, and they got off, along with two other couples who turned in the opposite direction. Quince kept a firm hand at Eliza’s waist, afraid she’d say or do something to attract attention, but she moved in step with him, cooperating fully. By all appearances she was just as keen to get to the room as he was. She wanted an explanation, of course. And he’d give her one—he owed her that.
But it would come after they’d completed the mission. Call it incentive. Hell, call it payment.
Whatever it took, he’d promise it. Because one quick glance at the analog face of the Patek Philippe confirmed what he already knew—they were running out of time.
The lights from the city illuminated the hallway, streaming in through a floor-to-ceiling window framed by an ornate, geometric carving. A similar window stood in his room opposite the king sized bed. And that window was handy for two reasons. One, it had provided Denny with access to the fire escape that led to street level, allowing her to slink across Hollywood Boulevard to the opposite office building. The original plan had been that she’d set up the transmitter, then return to this room and operate the relay, adjusting for any variation in the alignment so that the signal coming through the window was fully captured, then relayed into the building’s interior. And Lassiter’s office.
Now, of course, she had to keep the transmitter steady. Eliza would have to take over the role of middleman, making sure the relay’s indicator stayed in the green zone so that he could do his job downstairs.
Hell of a risk, but he had no choice.
At the room, he pulled out the flat, hotel-style card key. The brass key Quince had given Eliza was only for show—he’d tried it out of curiosity and learned that not only did it not unlock the door, but that the door couldn’t be unlocked from the inside without the card key. Apparently the men who’d come expecting companionship for the night required assurance that their companion wouldn’t be taking her leave before they were done with her.
Quince used the card key and opened the door, ushering Eliza in before him.
The second the door closed behind them, she whipped around. “Why did you insist on the red ribbon? You couldn’t have possibly known it was me. Did you know it was Emma?”
He stared at her, trying—and failing—to make sense of her words. All he understood was Emma. But he didn’t know what tonight’s party or the ribbon had to do with her sister. And right then, he didn’t have time to find out.
“Eliza, I don’t—”
“No.” She thrust her hands up and out, landing them hard on his chest. The move was so completely unexpected that he didn’t have time to compensate, and he stumbled back, then landed against the door with a thud.
“What the bloody hell do—”
“Goddammit, Quincy! Don’t you dare play games with me.”
“She’s Eliza?” The shock in Denny’s voice reverberated through his head. Of all of his friends, Denny was the only one in whom he’d confided about his past. About Eliza. And about what had happened. Not everything—God, he barely let himself remember everything—but he’d told her enough. And he knew her well enough to know she had to be both curious and sympathetic.
Mostly, though, she’d be worried about the mission.
A thought that was borne out by her next comment. “Put it away for later, Q. The clock’s ticking.”
“I know,” he snarled.
“Then talk to me,” Eliza pressed, talking over his thoughts and Denny’s curse in his ear. “You’re the one who contacted me, dammit.”
“Fuck.” He ground out the word at the same time he grabbed Eliza’s wrist. In one swift motion, he whipped her around, so that they’d completely changed positions. Now she was against the door and he was the one blocking her.
He had one hand on her wrist, pressed tight above her head. The other he had cupped over her elbow, which was also firm against the door. In that position, there were only inches between them. They were intimately close, and he could feel her heat—her fury—burning through him.
He was a full head taller than her, and he looked down into her fiery upturned face. Her eyes burned like a blue flame, and he could practically see the wheels in her mind turning.
“Let. Me. Go.”
He ignored her. “I don’t know why you’re here. I don’t know why you think I know something about your sister. I do know that you hate me, and I can’t say that I blame you.” He saw the flicker in her eyes and the shadow on her face. He ignored it. “We can talk. I’ll help you if I can. But right now you’re going to help me. It’s not a question. It’s not a request. I’m running out of time, and I need you.”
She spat in his face.
She actually, truly, spat in his face.
“Six minutes. You have six minutes to get into the office and online.”
Shit. Two floors below and he had to break into the office and then boot up the computer.
“I’m really sorry about this, Eliza.”
Her eyes widened as her mouth parted, either to spit again or to ask what he meant.
He didn’t take the time to find out which. “But I need your help.”
“What—” she began, but her question was cut off as he tugged her away from the door, and in one smooth motion spun her around and tossed her onto the bed. She yelped and started to rise, but he didn’t give her the chance.
He moved fast, getting onto the bed and straddling her waist before she even had time to react. Then he leaned forward, drew a pair of fluffy pink handcuffs out of the bedside table, and said very simply, “Trust me.”
6
“What the hell, Quincy!” He’s holding fuzzy pink handcuffs in one hand and reaching for my arm with the other. With one quick, efficient movement, he snaps the cuff around my left wrist. “Trust you?” I kick, trying to dislodge him, but his knees are t
ight at my waist, like I’m a bucking bronco and he’s a rodeo star. “I tried that, remember? And it didn’t work out too well for me.”
He’s holding onto the free end of the cuff as he leans toward one of the metal bars that make up this party theme-compatible headboard. His hips rise a bit as he stretches, and I take advantage by bouncing my ass on the bed, then thrusting up, trying to dislodge him.
It doesn’t work. All it does is upset his balance so that he falls on top of me, crushing my breasts as he knocks the wind out of me.
For one moment, he hovers over me, his lips slightly parted as his breath comes hard and fast. His eyes are locked on mine, his pupils dilated. I can see his pulse beating at his temple, and I can smell his cologne. That’s what does it. That’s what finally makes my muscles go slack in surrender—that familiar scent that I’d once associated with feeling safe and warm and loved.
“Quincy,” I whisper, at the same time I hear a sharp, distinctive, click, and he sits back, once against straddling my hips in a position that would be intimate if it weren’t so damned infuriating.
Dammit, dammit, dammit.
I yank my arm, wincing when I can’t pull it down from over my head. “I swear to God, Quincy, I’m going to—”
“—do exactly what I say,” he finishes. “Because I don’t have time to argue or explain.”
He reaches for my other hand, and I completely lose my shit. I kick and scream and writhe and practically growl at him. I’m not scared so much as confused and pissed and frustrated. I came to find a clue about Emma’s disappearance. I didn’t bargain on Quincy, and seeing him has thrown me completely off balance.
Despite my contortions, he grabs hold of my wrist. I wasn’t a match for him when I was completely free, and since I’m now attached to the bed, my resistance is both lame and futile. I’m quite certain there’s another set of cuffs in that drawer, and that pretty soon I’ll be spread-eagled across this damn bed.
Vote Then Read: Volume III Page 206