Neanderthal Marries Human: A Smarter Romance (Knitting in the City)

by Penny Reid

  I sighed again, this time because his sweet words chased the breath out of me. I grinned like a content cat—which didn’t make any sense, because no other animals but humans smile in order to demonstrate pleasure.

  I pressed my lips together to keep from relating this as a fact.

  Quinn’s gaze narrowed on mine. He must’ve perceived that I was suppressing a tangent, because he said, “Say it.”

  “What?”

  He lifted his eyebrows, dipped his chin, and issued me a very effective glare that said, You know what.

  I shook my head. “It’s nothing.”

  “Tell me.”

  “It’s completely unnecessary information.”

  “I want to know.” He dropped his voice nearly an octave and held me against him as though to emphasize his point.

  This only served to make me more deliciously agitated. “Quinn...” I whispered. I didn’t know why I whispered.

  “Janie, everything you say is fascinating.” He whispered too.

  “No, it’s not. And the fact that you think I’ll believe that you believe that I’ll believe a statement so patently false is somewhat concerning to me.”

  He took a moment to sort through the tangled web of my words before he responded. “I’m not really sure what that means. However, the fact that you think I’d say something patently false to you is very concerning to me.”

  We held each other’s eyes, a showdown of manufactured guilt. He won.

  “Fine. You want to know? I was just thinking that I was smiling like a contented cat, which troubled me as an analogy because no animals other than humans smile as a demonstration of pleasure. Some people think animals do, especially cats and dogs, but those people are mistaken. The mouth curve is incidental. Cats purr to demonstrate pleasure, and dogs wag their tails.”

  “How do we know for sure that purring is the only way cats demonstrate pleasure?”

  “The two studies I reviewed on animal behavior didn’t definitively rule out other outward signs of pleasure. Rather, they noted that the only reliable demonstration—specifically, for a cat—was purring.”

  “People do more than smile to show happiness and contentment. It seems to me that cats, dogs, and other animals likely display other outward manifestations as well.” He shrugged. As usual when we conversed about such things—some tangent of my trivial knowledge—he appeared to be genuinely interested and engaged.

  I loved this about him. No one had ever done this with me before, engagement on the random topics. He always asked questions, tried to relate it back to a different concept, make the small fact seem large and important.

  I nodded at his excellent point, because it was an excellent point. “You are absolutely correct. I admit that one major flaw of both the studies was that they only sought to discover whether animals smile to denote happiness or pleasure. Once they ruled smiling out, they provided very little in the way of additional information. Maybe I should contact one of the authors and ask if there were any outward displays shared between species in the entire animal kingdom.”

  “Maybe we should document all your outward demonstrations of pleasure first.”

  I frowned at him, opened my mouth to ask what the scientific value would be, then snapped it shut when I noted the subtle simmer in his usually icicle eyes.

  I didn’t have to wait for the blush that stained my cheeks. All these months later and I was still embarrassed by his ability to fluster me.

  Actually, embarrassed wasn’t the right word.

  I used to get embarrassed. Now I just felt hyperconscious of him, of his reactions, the tilt of his head, the subtle lift of his lips.

  Like right now, how his expression abruptly became impossibly soft and cherishing as it moved over my flushed skin as though I was some great treasure or new discovery. It disconcerted and thrilled me, and I was becoming addicted to it. Logically, I couldn’t fathom that his response could possibly last. No one could sustain this level of interest in my eccentricities forever. At some point, I was going to bore or irritate the hell out of him.

  Nor could my hyperawareness of all things Quinn last. Eventually this—what we shared, the intensity—would have to fade.

  Therefore, I blurted, “Do you think this will ever stop?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Do you think I’ll ever be able to look at you without losing all my wits?”

  His smile intensified; the softness sharpened. “I hope not.”

  “You like me witless?”

  “Let’s just say it evens the playing field a little.”

  I frowned at that. Now that I had something to focus on and think about, my head settled more squarely on my shoulders. “You can’t be suggesting that you’re witless.”

  He gave me a silent smile in response then a quick kiss, or what I imagined he meant to be a quick kiss. No sooner had his lips left mine did he grunt disapprovingly and fasten his mouth on mine once again. Then he really kissed me.

  As usual—when we really kissed—I lost track of my surroundings, the operation of my limbs, and the functionality of my vocal chords. I may have started to climb him.

  After an indeterminate period, Quinn set me away, though his hands gripped my upper arms a bit too tightly.

  Of course, I felt immediately bereft without him, his body against mine. I opened my eyes and found him glaring at me, his jaw tight. This was not unusual, especially after a kiss in public. I had to wonder at the saneness of his perpetual, self-imposed frustration.

  However, at present—and of particular note—a perceivable undercurrent of something else flashed behind his eyes, something that startled me. Yes, he usually glared at me and/or parts of me for several seconds after separating us from our public displays of affection. This time he looked like he wanted to speak but was holding himself in check. His lips were pressed together in a tight line. He swallowed twice.

  The light sound of my somewhat labored breathing was interrupted by a burst of laughter from the restaurant. His eyes flickered to the sound, and I could tell he was looking without seeing. I recognized that he was lost in his thoughts, and they appeared to be of the stormy sort.

  “Quinn?”

  “We need to leave. Dan will grab your things.” His attention moved back to me as he spoke, and I was surprised to find his expression guarded. Not giving me any time to respond, he released one of my arms, turned, and used the other to pull me after him toward the exit.

  “Wait!” I glanced over my shoulder, saw Dan and my other guard emerge from the shadows, and gave him a small wave. “I’d like to say goodbye to the knitting group, and I need my jacket.”

  “He’ll get your jacket. I made reservations and we have…” I heard him clear his throat before he continued, “…things to discuss.”

  “We’re going out?” I blinked at his back; usually, after post-public-kiss-frustration, we would go back to his apartment—or, since we were in London, the hotel room—and attack each other for several delicious hours.

  “Yes.”

  “In public?”

  He hesitated before responding, yet his steps never faltered. My legs were long. His were longer. I was forced to move in double time to keep pace.

  “More or less.” He said.

  “More or less?”

  “Yes. It’s a place where the public goes.”

  I grimaced at his back. “This is you being purposefully vague.”

  He stopped suddenly and spun around. I tripped on my own feet and Muppet flailed into his arms—which he’d opened to embrace me, as though he knew my movements would be markedly ungraceful.

  No sooner had I lifted my chin to chastise him for his sudden stoppage than Quinn brushed his lips against mine, his hands smoothing down my form-fitting dress of his choosing until they rested on my backside. I may have made a small noise resembling a whimper when his fingers dug into my bottom.

  “Sometimes…” Quinn whispered against my lips, his voice both painfully seductive
and sweetly teasing, “…it’s fun to be surprised.”

  CHAPTER 2

  I was surprised.

  I’d expected Sir McHotpants Von Grabby Hands as soon as the limo door was closed. However, what I got instead was Sir McCoolpants Von No Touchy.

  One minute into the car ride and I deduced that he had plans for our evening that didn’t include limo groping. I surmised this fact when he didn’t make an attempt at getting me naked.

  Actually, he sat apart from me on the bench and faced the window, giving me the back of his head. His hand rested between us, his arm stiff and straight during most of the very short ride to our destination.

  I hadn’t yet grown accustomed to riding in limos; I didn’t know if I ever would. It felt extravagant and elitist. Taxis would do just as well, or even better, public transportation. The Tube would certainly have been a more fuel-efficient method of transportation.

  But I tolerated the limo because it meant alone time with Quinn. Alone time with Quinn was precious. Therefore, I kept glancing between him and the surrounding streets, waiting for him to make a move and not hiding my confusion.

  Mansell Street became Shorter Street, and when the car stopped, I knew where we were.

  “The Tower of London?” I bounced a little in my seat. “We’re going to the Tower of London?”

  A big black bird swooped upward from the stone wall in the prolonged dusk of late spring. My eyes followed its path as it circled above the imposing structure. The bird was a raven.

  This was impossibly exciting and explained why I’d been cajoled by my guards into going everywhere in London other than the Tower. Along with the British Museum and the Globe Theater, the Tower was on my list of must-see places during our visit.

  I glanced back to Quinn as the limo slowed then stopped, and found him watching me. His face was an impassive mask, but this didn’t bother me. I knew him well enough now to know that impassive-mask-face was his baseline. What bothered me was how the usual mischief in his eyes had been replaced with an air of guarded distraction.

  “Are you okay?” I covered his hand with mine, wanting the physical contact. This was an action on my part that would have been remarkable six months ago as I’d never been one to seek or give physical touches as comfort. But with Quinn, touching and being touched felt as natural and essential as breathing or reading comic books.

  “Yeah. Fine. You?” His eyes searched mine, but they were cagey and distant.

  I frowned at him for a moment before speaking my thoughts. “I feel like there is something wrong—with you—and you don’t want to tell me, or you’re waiting to tell me. Is it work? Does it have something to do with why I have three guards with me everywhere I go?”

  “Why do you think there’s anything wrong?”

  “Because you’re McCoolpants Von No Touchy since we entered the limo.”

  One of his eyebrows arched, his cool expression wavering.

  “What’s this? A new nickname?”

  “I hope not. But it’s the most efficient way I can think of to describe how strangely you’re behaving.”

  “What’s strange?”

  “You haven’t made any attempt to take off my clothes. In fact, you haven’t even reached under my skirt. Based on historical data, this behavior is strange.”

  He gave me his slow, sexy grin—made even more potent by our semi-touching closeness. “It was a short ride.”

  I shrugged. “That’s never stopped you before.”

  “This is good news.” His voice was barely contained mirth.

  “What is good news?”

  “I now have your expectations calibrated to expect sex every time we ride in a limo.”

  I blinked at him with wide eyes, considered the veracity of this assertion then nodded at the accuracy of his statement. “You’re right. Although, more accurately, it’s not sex that I expect. I expect groping at a minimum and an orgasm at a maximum.”

  “Just one?”

  “No need for me to be greedy, although it’s always nice when you exceed my expectations.”

  “You know how I love to exceed your expectations.”

  “The feeling is mutual.”

  We smiled at each other for a beat, all of the earlier distracted aloofness evaporated from his eyes and expression. We shared such a lovely moment of silent staring that my mind cleared, I stopped thinking, and all I felt was warm and loved.

  The sound of a siren in the distance brought me back to the present. I shook myself, blinked at him. “Wait, what are we talking about?”

  His smile grew. “How you’ve come to expect, at a minimum, groping in the limo.”

  “Yes, right. Those are my expectations. Congratulations. Very nicely done.”

  “Thank you.” He tipped his head in acknowledgement of my praise. I had the distinct impression that he would have bowed had we been standing. In truth, I had a sudden desire to applaud.

  The door to the limo opened, pulling our attention from each other and to the chilly spring evening. Quinn exited first then held his hand out for me.

  Sure enough, Dan stood just outside and handed Quinn my jacket, which Quinn immediately placed on my shoulders. He was always doing this kind of stuff—holding my coat while I shrugged it on, helping me take it off, holding doors, pulling out chairs—and it had taken me some time to get used to.

  Sometimes it felt nice, and sometimes it felt antiquated and annoying. I couldn’t entirely explain why, not even to myself, but his stringent display of gentlemanly manners made me feel like a hypocrite, which then pissed me off.

  When, in western civilization, women were the weaker sex, when they needed protection, the ladies first rule of etiquette made sense. It was an acknowledgement of our place; by placing us first, it was really the patriarchal society’s way of telling women they were fragile and incapable, and that men, through good manners, recognized our feebleness of abilities and were displaying honor by allowing us to precede them.

  It’s polite to hold the door for a child or the elderly. It’s good manners to give up your seat on public transportation to someone who is physically disabled. It’s honorable to assist those in need.

  Weakest first.

  By allowing Quinn to hold my doors and take my hand and help me in and out of my jacket, wasn’t I passively admitting that I was weaker in the relationship? Wasn’t I ceding power every time he displayed chivalrous deportment?

  But, dammit, I liked it most of the time. I liked it so much that I let him do it, and I’d never talked to him about my cognitive dissonance on the subject. Hence my constant self-directed irritation and feeling like a hypocrite.

  Ruminations running rampant were interrupted by a very pleasing female voice.

  “Hello, and welcome to the Tower. You must be the Sullivan party.” The owner of the voice was a very cheerful looking woman in her mid to late fifties. She was dressed in a black and red tour guide costume, complete with a funny looking hat and a red appliqué crown at the chest. Her eyes were a bright blue, and she wore her brown hair pulled away from her face.

  We’d walked all the way to the entrance, me tucked under Quinn’s arm and against his chest while I stewed in my feminist guilt. But her voice and expression were so pleasant, I immediately forgot about the inner turmoil.

  Quinn nodded to her and I reached out my hand. Her engaging smile made me smile as she gave me a firm shake. “I’m Emma,” she said. “Pleased to meet you both. Is this your first time with us?”

  “Yes,” Quinn said.

  I added, “I’m Janie; it’s lovely to meet you, and I’m really looking forward to seeing the ancient torture device room as well as where Anne Boleyn was executed.”

  Her smile widened and she released my hand. “That’s excellent. You know, however, that most of the executions did not take place within the Tower itself.”

  I nodded, licking my lips as a precursor to my enthusiasm. “Yes. Historians agree that there were only seven deaths at the Tower itself, and onl
y for those who might incite a riot if executed publicly. The majority of the executions took place on Tower Hill.”

  Emma giggled at my recitation, and I liked her even more. “You’ll pardon me, but most young ladies are more interested in seeing the Jewel House than the torture device room.”

  “Ah, I’d forgotten that the Crown Jewels are also here.” It definitely had slipped my mind. I wasn’t opposed to seeing the Jewel House, but it wasn’t the highest on my list of priorities.

  Quinn fit his hand in mine and gave it a squeeze as he addressed our guide. “I trust all the preparations have been made?”

  Emma responded, “Of course, sir, just as you instructed.”

  I only half listened to this interaction as I was distracted by the remains of the Lion Tower drawbridge pit.

  Emma turned toward the Tower, called over her shoulder, and waved us forward. “Let’s get out of the cold. It looks a bit like rain, doesn’t it? Come on. We’ve a lot to see and only a few hours to see it.”

  ***

  Quinn wasn’t irritated, and he wasn’t upset. However, all of his earlier aloof detachment was back, and I was trying not to notice.

  Presently we were in the Jewel house standing on a people mover that wasn’t currently moving. During the day, Emma had explained earlier, tourists would stand on the conveyor belt and gaze at the glittering jewels within the thick glass cases.

  They’d added the people movers for a few reasons, not the least of which was to encourage people to keep moving rather than crowd around a single case.

  I wasn’t sure, but my attempts to draw Quinn out with facts about the different towers, who built them and when, appeared to be falling on deaf ears. As a last ditch effort, I’d pointed out that the Beauchamp Tower marked the first large scale use of brick as a building material in Britain since the Romans departed in the fifth century.

  He’d only nodded.

  I stood in front of the third jewel case and stared into it unseeingly. Part of the problem might have been that it was so completely full of shiny objects that my mind had difficulty focusing on just one.