“Anything?” he asks, as I sink to my knees in relief. Because there, on the stone wall is a message for me. All it says is Alive.
But that’s enough.
17
It’s late by the time we finally leave the ranch. We’re both exhausted, emotionally and physically, and I’m really not looking forward to another long drive.
Even so, I’m surprised when Quincy pulls into a charming boutique hotel on Avila Beach, only about thirty minutes away from the cabin. I twist in my seat. “You’re kidding, right?”
He draws a breath as he turns to look at me. “We’re both exhausted and uncomfortable, Eliza,” he says gently. “We need food and we need sleep. Tomorrow, we’ll head back to LA.”
I want to tell him that crashing here won’t do a thing for my comfort level. Where Quincy is concerned, the only thing that will make me comfortable is curling up against him. Feeling his strong arm around my shoulders and letting his heartbeat fall into a pattern with mine. Because as much as I appreciate that he’s helping me find my sister, being around him is hurting my heart.
Part of me wants to tell him so. To just say flat out that I want to keep driving so I can go home. But the truth is that here or there won’t matter. Because even in LA, he’ll insist on staying with me. I crashed Lassiter’s party. Red died after a fight in my room. And I helped Denny and Quincy steal data. Emma may be my top priority—and the princess may be at the top of Quincy’s list—but no matter what, he’ll say that I’m in danger, too. And he’ll stick to me like glue.
“We can stay,” I say. “But I want to eat at the patio restaurant. Not room service.” The weather is perfect, the ocean is beautiful. And the sunset is sure to be stunning. The only thing that would make it better would be if this were a date. But I figure three out of four is better than nothing.
Since we don’t have luggage—something the barely pubescent desk clerk seems to find amusing—we head straight for the restaurant. And, because I need it, I order a bottle of wine. Red, because that’s my favorite. Pinot Noir, because that’s Quincy’s.
“Are we going to find them?” I fire off the question as soon as the waiter pours our wine and drops off a basket of bread. I’m not in the mood for small talk or coddling, and I take a long swallow of the wine, enjoying the tingle on my throat and anticipating the sweet lightheadedness that I know will follow. I’ve eaten nothing but shortbread cookies all day. I just want to eat my salad, drink my wine, fall asleep, and not dream a thing.
That, at least, is what I tell myself. Because what I really want to do isn’t something I’m ever going to get to do again. And I want to do it with the man sitting across from me.
I draw a breath, gather myself, and study his face.
To his credit, he doesn’t shy from my question or my steady gaze. “Yes,” he says simply. “We’ll find them.”
“Good answer. Now explain to me why it’s the truth and not bullshit.”
“Because I’m not willing to accept failure, and because I don’t bullshit.”
I lean back in the seat and take a long sip of wine. “Clearly you’re talking about work. Because as far as relationships are concerned, failure and bullshit are pretty much your stock in trade.”
He pushes his chair back and stands. “I can only apologize so many times, Eliza, before it starts to sound redundant.”
“You really think we’ve hit that point?” My heart is pounding. Part of me wants to call back the words. I just want to have dinner. I just want peace.
The other part wants to yell and scream and rant. I want to toss my wine in his face and smash the glass on the floor. I want to hear an explanation, not an apology. Because I don’t give a crap that he’s sorry. Everybody’s sorry about something. I want to know why.
I want to know what the hell I did wrong.
I watch, baffled, as he seems to melt back into the chair, then reaches for my hand. “Oh, Eliza, love. You didn’t do anything wrong. Not a single bloody thing.”
Oh, hell. “I said that out loud?”
The corner of his mouth twitches. In London, I was always saying things I didn’t mean to. Usually comments on how ridiculously hot he looked or how much I wanted to be having sex instead of doing whatever else we happened to be doing. I was always mortified. He thought it was adorable. So adorable that the sex part usually came true.
That’s probably why I never tried too hard to control that little quirk…
Now, though, I really am embarrassed, and as my cheeks burn, his hand tightens around my fingers.
“Don’t,” I whisper.
“Don’t what?”
Gently I pull my hand out of his. “Don’t touch me. It—I’d just rather you didn’t touch me.”
We’re not together. I know that. He doesn’t want to be together. I get it. But my body still reacts to him, and just the simple brush of his fingers against my palm sends shockwaves to my core.
I’m glad we have a suite—and I’m glad he’s giving me the bedroom—because I already know that I’m going to fall asleep tonight with my hand between my legs. Pathetic, perhaps, but at this point, I really don’t care. After London, I thought I’d never see Quincy Radcliffe again. Under the circumstances, I think I’m entitled to a little pathos and a few self-induced orgasms.
He sucks in air and nods. “Of course. Whatever you want.”
“But that’s not true either, is it?”
He doesn’t answer, and I can’t really blame him. I’m pretty sure I’ve crossed the line from wounded to bitchy. I take another sip of wine to center myself. Then—what the hell—I finish the glass and pour myself another. As I do, I notice that he’s finished as well, and I silently applaud. Misery loves company, after all, and I refill his glass, too.
Our food arrives, and we eat in silence as the sun sinks slowly toward the horizon. It is breathtakingly beautiful, and my chest swells with awe. In that moment, I feel the same sense of hope and wonder and possibility as I used to feel with Quincy. And the fact that I’ve lost that is so unbearably sad that I blurt out a question I swore I would never, ever ask.
“Did you ever really love me at all?”
I see the pain slash across his face before he looks down at his empty plate. The echo of my question fades, and my heart twists with the knowledge that he’s not even going to give me the satisfaction of answering.
Then he lifts his head, his eyes steady on mine. “How can you even ask that? Of course I loved you. I never stopped loving you.”
My heart skips a beat, and I can’t seem to catch my breath. I swallow, then blink as I look away, trying desperately not to cry. “Then why?”
“Please,” he says. “Please don’t ask me that.”
I want to do just that, but the waiter arrives, and Quincy asks for the check. He signs it to the room, then stands, not asking if I’m ready. I’m not, of course, but I follow obediently, fully intending to get into this once we reach the room. He loves me. If he loves me, then we can make this work. And I don’t understand why he doesn’t see that.
“We need to talk about this,” I say the moment the suite door closes behind us. But Quincy just shakes his head.
“We’re both tired. I’m going to take a quick shower and then the bedroom’s all yours.”
“Quincy, please. We—”
“Tomorrow,” he says. “I’ll be a captive audience for more than three hours.” He turns and heads for the bathroom, leaving me standing in the living area, wondering what the hell to do now.
I’m not ready to end this. I can’t just leave it be until tomorrow when he’s regrouped and pulled back even more. The man just told me he loves me. The same man who walked away from me without so much as a “see you later.”
As far as I’m concerned, I don’t owe him anything, and certainly not polite acquiescence to his request that I simply put this conversation on hold.
On the contrary, he played dirty in London. I can play dirty right now.
And even thoug
h I’m terrified that I might be crossing a line I can’t come back from, I strip off my clothes as I walk toward the bathroom, then I turn the knob, push open the door, and step from the carpet onto the slick, cool tile.
The shower is huge and enclosed in glass. He’s facing the back wall and the shower head, and doesn’t see me, and for the moment I enjoy the view of his well-muscled back and his tight ass as he tilts his head back and lets the water pound his face.
He has a mole on his left side just above his hipbone and seeing it now, I can imagine the feel of it under my fingers. How many times have I touched his skin and lazily stroked that very spot as we lay together in bed after we made love?
I want that again. That intimacy. It’s not even that I want sex, though I won’t deny the way my body craves him now, or the building heat between my thighs. But that’s not the core of it. I miss our closeness. The sweet touches. The long talks into the night. The way he always knew how to draw me close and make me feel safe.
I swallow, ridiculously sad, and for one tiny moment I almost back out of the room because I’m terrified that if I walk to him and he pushes me away again, that I really won’t survive the loss.
But I’m not surviving now, am I?
I’ve been in limbo since London. Mourning the loss of him. Not moving on.
Maybe it’s wrong to push him, but he was wrong to leave the way he did.
I need closure. I need to know if there’s still the slightest chance for us.
I need to either take a step toward putting the pieces of our life back together, or I need him to finish the work he started and destroy me completely. One way or another, it’s time for a new beginning, and the first step is to cross this bathroom.
Squaring my shoulders, I do just that. He still hasn’t turned, which makes it easier, although I’m surprised he doesn’t know I’m there. Quincy is always so aware of his surroundings.
I pause just outside the shower and take a breath for courage. Then I reach for the handle on the glass door.
I see his body straighten as I tug it open. I freeze, then tell myself that I’ve already crossed the Rubicon. No point stopping now.
“I hoped you were going to change your mind,” he says, with his back still to me. And I realize that, of course, he knew I was there all along.
“I almost did,” I admit. “But I think we’re worth taking the leap.” I ease up behind him and slide my arms around his waist.
“I didn’t want to have to push you away,” he says.
“Well, you don’t actually have to.” I press my lips to his shoulder blade, my hands lightly stroking his lower abs. “Free will and all that. It’s a thing.”
I don’t see him smile, and I don’t hear him chuckle. But there is a slight quiver in his muscles that I think might be a laugh, and I silently rejoice.
“I wish you hadn’t come in here.”
I take a risk and slowly slide my hand down, then smile when I discover that he’s hard. “Really? You don’t seem displeased.”
This time, I know I hear him chuckle. “I’m human, Eliza. I never said I don’t want you. But I can’t have you.”
A wave of frustration washes over me, and I have to work to keep it out of my voice. “Yes, you can. I’m right here.”
I ease around his body, needing to face him. “Talk to me, Quincy. Tell me what happened, and then maybe I can understand. But instead you just shut down on me. Like dropping one of those giant metal doors. Boom, and you were gone. Do you know how much that hurts?”
I’m looking at his face, and I see him wince. He gets it—I’m certain of it. He knows he’s hurt me.
And he wants me.
But he’s not giving an inch.
I just don’t get it.
“Is it me?” This time, there’s no keeping the frustration out of my voice. “Or have you just decided to be celibate?” He makes a sound that’s almost like a laugh, and a hot blade of jealousy slices through me. “Oh, great. So you’ve slept with other women since you walked. I guess it really is just me.” Fucker. It takes all my willpower not to say that last bit out loud.
“Slept with, no. Fucked, yes.”
Stupid, stupid tears sting my eyes. “Why not me?”
His expression is so tender that the tears almost spill down my cheeks, and I’m grateful we’re in the shower, where maybe he won’t see.
Gently, he cups my face. “Because you matter.”
I shake my head, not sure if I’m confused or angry or sad. All I know is that this isn’t right. “You once told me you’d protect me. Do you remember? You pointed out your mother’s bedroom and you told me the story.” I remember it all. How she’d shoved him under the bed. How he’d wanted to come out and fight for her but he was too scared. And how later he swore he’d never let that happen again.
“Didn’t I live up to that promise?” His words are harsh, and I know I touched a nerve. “Didn’t I get you out of The Terrace?”
“You did, yes. But that doesn’t make it better. Because you’re the one who hurt me, Quincy. You hurt me when you walked away.”
I see the anger flare across his face, but it’s banked quickly, fading into acceptance as he slowly nods. And then I see regret.
“Do you think I don’t know that? Do you think I don’t hate myself every single day?”
“Then why?” I shiver, but not from the water. It’s still pounding hot, filling the room with steam. No, I’m shivering in fear, because I have no idea what his answer will be, but I’m certain I won’t like it.
He starts to open his mouth and I think he’s going to tell me. But then he lashes out, his fist landing so hard on the glass wall that I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter.
I gape, not sure if I’m scared of his temper or pleased to have gotten a reaction. I don’t have time to decide, though, because suddenly he has me by the shoulders. He pushes my back up against the wall and pins me there, his eyes wild as he looms over me. “Don’t you get it? I can’t be the man you need.”
“I’m not asking for forever,” I lie. “Just right now. Don’t you get it?” Boldly, I cup his erection. “And right now, I think you’re up to the task.”
For a moment, we just stare at each other, both of us breathing hard. Then he swoops down, captures my mouth, and kisses me long and deep.
It’s heaven and hell all at the same time. This is what I’ve wanted. What I’ve craved. And I fear that it’s going to evaporate far too quickly. But, dammit, I’m going to take what I can now and screw the consequences.
With that as my mantra, I lock my arms around his neck, then practically climb him until my back is balanced against the wall but my legs are tight around his waist.
He turns the shower control, cutting off the water, then maneuvers us out of the bathroom and to the bed. We’re both still wet, but I don’t care. I’m not letting go of him for anything. Not until he drops me onto the bed, then closes his mouth over my breast.
I moan and arch up as he sucks hard, sending sparks of electricity shooting from my nipple down to my core. As if the thread is visible, he follows it down my body, tracing the path with his lips until he finally buries his face between my legs, his tongue working all sorts of magic as his fingers slide deep inside me, and I rock my hips, wanting so much more. Wanting everything.
When he starts to kiss his way back up my body, I know what’s coming—what we both want—and I tremble in anticipation and desire. I reach up, stretching my arms above my head, waiting for him to grab my wrists. To hold me down and take me hard. Or to flip me over and spank me before sinking himself deep inside me.
And yet he does none of those things.
His mouth teases me and his hands stroke me, and it all feels delicious and wonderful. I’m not complaining, but at the same time, I want to fall back into the past. I want the Quincy who possessed me. Who forced me to surrender. Who let me slide down into my own desire and lose myself safely in those dark places. Because I need that right now. With Emm
a missing and fear nipping at me, I need him to push me to the edge. I need to know I can go there, that he will be with me, and that I can get back okay.
But he doesn’t. He knows me so damn well—has always known exactly what I need—and yet he just doesn’t go there.
Instead he keeps me on my back and he rides me hard, and yes, it feels amazing even if it is a little tame. I hook my legs around him and cup my hands on his ass, urging him deeper and harder. Until, finally, the friction of our bodies sends me spiraling over the edge and I explode, my body clenching tight around him until he follows me right over into the stratosphere.
It’s incredible. Mind-blowing. And not nearly enough…
Stifling a sigh, I twine my fingers in his hair. He slides up my body, then pulls me close. I start to speak, though I’m not entirely sure what I intend to say. It doesn’t matter, because he puts a finger over my lips, shushing me.
“You won the war, love. Give me this small victory. Just let me hold you. Just let me fall asleep with you in my arms.”
Since that’s hardly a difficult demand, I agree and snuggle close, feeling safe and loved for the first time in a long time.
I drift, half in and out of sleep, until I’m rocked into full wakefulness by the man tossing and turning beside me.
I shift, propping myself on an elbow, then gently lay a hand to his chest to coax him out of his dream.
But before I can even wrap my head around what’s happening, he’s grabbed my wrist and is hurling me out of bed. I hear my own scream echo in the room as he slams me against the wall, knocking the wind out of me.
I try to catch my breath, but now it’s impossible, because his hand is at my throat, and I’m starting to feel dizzy and terrified and completely confused.
Frantic, I thrust my knee up and manage to catch him in the balls. He howls and opens his eyes, but it’s clear that he’s locked in a nightmare and doesn’t see me. But at least his hand is no longer at my throat. And as he starts to reach for me again, I do the only thing I can think of. I scream, “Duck! Duckling! Duck!” at the top of my lungs, and hope to hell the old safe word gets through to him.
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