by Penny Reid
I removed my shoes and strolled to the bedroom, smiled even as my body readied with anticipation of her soft submission.
The door to our room was ajar. I pushed it slowly open. It made no sound. I leaned inside to see where she was, my eyes scanned the master bedroom. I found her squatting on the floor in the same white, terry cloth bathrobe from before.
She was next to my bag.
She was going through my bag.
She was digging, searching.
I could barely believe my eyes and spoke her name automatically. “Janie?”
She bolted upright, jumped away from my luggage, and stared at me with stunned alarm.
I glanced at my suitcase, the spot where she’d been rummaging, then back at her. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing.” Her eyes were wide, plainly rimmed with guilt and alarm.
I stepped into the room but didn’t cross to her.
“Janie.”
“What?”
“Are you going through my things?”
She shook her head; then she offered a delayed, “No.”
My gut flooded with displeasure and something else—something like fear. I stared at her, waited for her to tell me the truth.
When I said nothing, she added, “I wasn’t. I promise I wasn’t going through your things.”
I ground my teeth and focused on keeping my voice soft and level because the fear was starting to resemble panic. “You’re lying.”
Did she suspect? Or did she know already about the private clients? Did she know how I’d built my business? What was she looking for?
No. If she knew for sure she’d have left already, or she’d likely be looking at me now with suspicion instead of guilt. Just the thought made my breath catch.
“No, Quinn, I promise I was not going through your stuff. Really.” She started to move toward me, reach her hand out, but then quickly halted and hid something behind her back. “Really, I swear.”
I forced myself to stay calm, study her, and listen to her words instead of jump to conclusions. She was ashamed, but her words and expression were honest. She was telling the truth. Yet the fact remained that I’d just walked into our room and found her crouched over my suitcase digging through it.
I subdued the spike of adrenaline. “Then what were you doing in my suitcase?”
“Nothing.”
That was a lie.
Her neck and cheeks were red. She was blushing like a pole-dancing virgin.
I stalked slowly toward her. “Why were you going through my bag, Janie?”
She shook her head, obviously torn, her face a grimace. “I…I don’t want to tell you.”
“Tell me.” I stopped three feet from her, close enough to catch her if she tried to run.
Abruptly she blurted, “As able consumers we must be accountable for our purchasing practices. It’s not just enough to buy local; we must also be certain that farmers employ responsible techniques, both in the use of labor and the land itself.” She shut her eyes, her hands still behind her back, hiding something.
She was hiding something from me.
Panic, a new kind of panic, coiled in my stomach and chest, the kind that drives a man insane, the kind that is fueled by jealousy.
I worked daily to suppress my baser instincts. But I couldn’t yet control my selfish nature or the accompanying possessiveness.
I knew owning a person wasn’t possible, but I wished it were, because I would have given anything to truly own Janie. I wanted every part of her—all her love, loyalty, fears, secrets, desires—even if that made me a bad guy.
I allowed my voice to betray some of my concern and lack of patience. “What’s going on?”
“Seven hundred and eighty million dollars a year spent on chemical products that can cause devastation to ecosystems and….”
My patience snapped and I charged her, took advantage of her closed eyes, and reached for her wrists.
She sucked in a breath, and her eyes flew open just as I wrenched the hidden item from her grip. My other hand pinned her in place, crushed her against me. She landed against my chest with such force that an oof escaped her lips. I lifted the item out and away from her reach.
I looked at it.
I blinked at it.
I frowned at it.
I rubbed my thumb over it.
What the hell…?
I glanced down at Janie and found her head bowed against my chest. I could tell that she was holding her breath.
“Janie, this is underwear.”
“Yes,” came her muffled reply. She sounded downright despondent.
I stared at the top of her wet head. My panic dissipated. I required several seconds to find my next words.
“Why were you trying to hide underwear from me?”
Her hands now gripped the front of my suit as though she was afraid I’d leave her.
“Gah!” was her response.
I glanced at the underwear again. It was white cotton, surprisingly soft, modestly cut. I could find nothing nefarious about it.
“What is going on?”
She suddenly lifted her head, but her hands still held my jacket front. “I just love it so much.”
“The underwear?”
“Yes! The underwear! The cotton is organically produced in North Carolina. It’s so soft, and it only gets softer each time I wash it, which doesn’t make any sense! How do they do that?”
“But….” I searched her face, my brain, the room, the ceiling; I was so confused. “What does that have to do with my bag?”
She heaved a defeated sigh. “When we packed for this trip, I hid several pairs in your bag, in the zippered compartment I know you don’t use. I’ve been….” she paused, chewed on her lip, “I’ve been putting them on after you leave in the morning. I’ve been changing out of the lace panties and wearing the white underwear instead. Then, before you get back, I put on the sexy panties again.”
“But, why there? Why my bag?”
“Because I suspect that you go through my stuff—which, honestly, I don’t care if you do and I’ve accepted this strangeness about you because I love you—but I knew you would never search your own bag. And, I want to be sexy for you, I want you to think of me that way, not as someone who is always wearing granny panties. And, dammit Quinn, you have a deplorable habit of hiding my underwear!”
I stared at her anguished face, her golden, pleading eyes, and I couldn’t think of a single thing to say.
God, how I loved her.
CHAPTER 5
*Janie*
Steven wanted high tea.
He’d heard of this boutique hotel near the British Museum that had absolutely fabulous high tea.
Therefore, after our specs meeting with Grinsham Banking and Credit Systems, Steven and I left Quinn with Dan and we took the Tube. We could have taken a car, but it felt ridiculous when one of the world’s best public transportation systems was at our disposal.
Despite his self-proclaimed dislike of people, Steven displayed a good deal of enthusiasm when I proposed the idea of riding mass transit.
My three guards dutifully surrounded us, though they looked less than happy with our choice. It would have been nice to walk freely, without the escort, to experience London like a native or even a typical tourist. Alas, Steven and I sat quietly, exchanging glances instead of talking, while my guards continually swept the train.
We didn’t have any real privacy for conversation until we were seated in the tearoom of the hotel.
The hotel was quite small, but it was lovely—exactly the kind of place I would have wanted to stay had Quinn and I been in town for pleasure rather than business.
The lobby was petite, but decorated in black and white. The floor was black and white marble, and four high-backed chairs were covered in black and white fabric with a scrolling flowers design.
A sitting room off to the right was appointed with luxurious antique furniture and red velvet upholstered chairs and sofas, an
d the wooden floor beneath creaked its welcome as we were ushered up four stairs to the tearoom.
The tearoom was really just three small wooden tables and ten richly upholstered damask chairs in a well-lit space. It jutted out into and looked over a moderately sized garden, and reminded me of an atrium, but not quite. The ceiling was normal and enclosed. Since all the walls were glass, it gave me the sense of sitting in the garden itself, but without the frigid temperature.
Spring flowers were just starting to show signs of life. A stubborn looking pale pink rose bush positioned just beyond the windowpane nearest our table proudly displayed five giant blooms. The yellow rose bush next to it was larger, yet contained only three buds.
“We’ll have the Empress tea, please.” Steven winked at me as he ordered for both of us. It was a running joke between us that I’d forgotten how to order for myself.
“And what champagne?” Our waitress smiled prettily at Steven. Her accent told me she was from Eastern Europe. “We have Monet Chandon and….”
“We’ll take a bottle of Henri Billiot, because I think we’re celebrating a momentous event.” Steven wagged his eyebrows at me then winked again. Wagging eyebrows plus a double wink meant that Steven’s excitement was nearing critical mass.
I was actually surprised he’d held it in all through the client meeting, Tube ride, and walk to the hotel.
No sooner had she left us than Steven reached for my left hand—without permission—and pulled it to his side of the table for intense scrutiny. “Egads, Sugarplum! That’s what I call an engagement ring!”
I laughed at his abrupt focusing of the conversation. “Yes, it’s just so….”
He interrupted me. “Give me all the details—inquiring minds want to know. How did he do it? Are you pregnant? Should I not have ordered alcohol? I can’t believe it! It seems sudden, but then the Boss never takes very long to make up his mind. Damn, he has good taste. But I already knew that.”
“I’m not pregnant, and….”
“But you will be.”
“Steven….”
“I’m serious. Quinn Sullivan is a hunter-gatherer. I’ve known him longer than you have. I’ve seen how he is in business—and that’s just money. How do you think he’s going to be with the woman who is his wife?” Steven tsked and released my hand. “My guess is that he’ll be at least as domineering and protective about you—I mean, have you seen that ring you’re wearing? Already marking his territory. Has he peed on you?”
“Steven!”
“You’re right, it’s none of my business.” He held up his hands, then reached for his napkin and shook it with a flick of his wrist before laying it on his lap. “You two are going to have the tallest and best looking children. They’ll be supermodels, and basketball players, and Navy SEALs.”
My stomach warmed with the thought of little Quinn Navy SEALs running around the penthouse, causing mischief and throwing taciturn tantrums. Perhaps executing covert ops to extract cookies from the kitchen. “We haven’t discussed that yet.”
“What?” Steven placed an elbow on the table, then rested his chin in his palm and gazed at me.
“Children.”
“You haven’t discussed children?” His eyebrows arched over his gray eyes. “Well, don’t you think you need to? Seeing as how you’re going to marry the guy. You should find out if he wants an even or odd number—you know, like seven or ten.”
“Honestly, he took me completely by surprise. I wasn’t expecting it at all.”
“But you said yes?”
“Yes. Of course I said yes.”
“Why of course?”
I sighed, but was forced to delay my response when our waitress returned with lovely little sandwiches and the bottle of Crystal. She assured us that petit fours, scones with clotted cream and strawberry jam, and Earl Grey tea would be forthcoming.
Steven lifted his glass of champagne as she left and encouraged me to lift mine. “Clink me, we’ll make a toast later after I find out why you of course said yes.”
“Well, first of all, I’m in love him.”
“You and I both know that’s not a good reason. I’m in love with my white couch, but you don’t see me getting a marriage license.”
I ignored his comment and selected a delicate looking egg salad sandwich with no crust from the serving tray. “Secondly, I like him.”
“Ah! Now we’re getting somewhere. Care to expand on what you like about him? Other than the obvious.”
“The obvious?”
“His face, body, and bank account.”
I twisted my mouth to the side and crossed my arms over my chest. “He’s more than just a face, body, and bank account.” I both loved and liked his face and body. I had mixed feelings about the bank account.
“Well, he’s got brains too, I’ll give you that.” Steven popped a chicken salad sandwich into his mouth and spoke while he chewed; miraculously, all the food stayed within. “You’re a sensible girl, probably smarter than he is in the traditional way.” He gulped half the glass of champagne to wash down the sandwich then continued. “All I’m saying is that I could find a dozen Quinn Sullivans—handsome millionaire manwhores—but I’ve only encountered one Janie Morris.”
I pressed my lips together to keep from smiling. Steven had the uncanny ability to both compliment and insult while making both sound like a discussion about tax law.
“Do you want me to defend my decision?” I tried my sandwich—found it delicious, took a substantial bite—then sipped my champagne.
“No. You don’t need to defend anything to me. I’m one of your biggest fans. I just want to make sure you know why you’re marrying him. Because, to me, you’re special; you deserve the best.”
We exchanged a silent smile while our server placed a layered tray of delectable petit fours, scones, and related accoutrements on the circular table then scurried off with a promise of tea. Steven poured more champagne into my class then refilled his.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now then, why are you marrying him?”
I glanced over Steven’s shoulder to the garden beyond, searched for the right words, and thought of viruses.
“You know how a virus works?” I refocused my attention to his and watched as Steven’s chewing slowed, his eyes narrowed and clouded with confusion.
“Uh…for purposes of this conversation, let’s say no.”
“Well, in layman terms, the long and short of it is as follows.” I sipped my champagne, placed it on the table, then leaned forward. “A virus attaches to a host cell and sends genetic instructions into the host cell. The instructions recruit the host cell’s enzymes—like propaganda—and convince the enzymes to make parts for new virus particles. The new virus particles assemble and break free from the host cell. Then the whole thing starts all over again. That’s how the virus spreads until it just takes over.”
“O-o-o-kay.” Steven placed a scone on his plate and cut it open before applying liberal amounts of clotted cream. “Your point is?”
“My relationship with Quinn is the virus.”
Steven frowned at his scone then at me. “That sounds unhealthy.”
“Yes, in some ways it most likely is. And, for some relationships, it most definitely is. But it’s not for us, not really. Every relationship is like a virus—where two people negotiate and change, stretch and grow, recruit and assimilate until you’re two things, but also one thing, one entity, working together.”
“So, are you the virus or the host cell?”
“The relationship is the virus, and both Quinn and I, separately, are the host cells. The key is to find a relationship, a virus, that encourages you to be stronger, a better person, but also be able to show weakness without fear of exploitation—a relationship that challenges you, but also makes you happy and lifts you up.”
Steven’s expression hovered between incredulous and amused. “Don’t some viruses cause cancer?”
“Yes.” I nodded, ced
ing the point, and began thinking through the ramifications of the expanded analogy out loud. “And some viruses irrevocably change your DNA. But that’s like a relationship too, isn’t it? Some relationships can change how we see ourselves for better or for worse—as you say, in chronically unhealthy ways, like a cancer. And some do the opposite. They make us realize our potential.”
“Huh,” came his thoughtful response. He studied me for a protracted moment before saying, “I love you, Janie. Only you can compare a relationship to a disease and make it sound both romantic and terminal.”
CHAPTER 6
For the first time in my life, I was wearing a ball gown.
It itched.
However, it had also elicited a prolonged, heated stare from my fiancé—likely because it was strapless and necessitated a likewise strapless bustier with a pushup bra. My breasts were distracting even to me, especially when I drew in a deep breath. They kept popping up in my peripheral vision, and I caught myself staring down at my chest wondering who they belonged to.
Given Quinn’s preoccupation with them in general, I imagined that to him, my squeezed-in pushed-up breasts were like two pale mounds of hypnotizing flesh.
I’d spent most of the day shopping for necessary undergarments for the gown since I had nothing even close to appropriate. Quinn, to my total shock and surprise, cleared his schedule so that he could come with me. While we were out, he’d also made a point to have me try on, model, and purchase a good amount of bridal lingerie.
I was pleased to see he was taking the wedding planning seriously.
The ball gown was a deep burgundy silk and sequined with dark red and black beadwork. It was fitted through the lower waist then flared dramatically to the floor. It also had a quantity of black feathers—a modest gather at one side of the waist that increased in width and spread down the right side of the skirt like a fan.
I didn’t choose the gown. It was sent to Quinn by the foundation hosting the ball after we RSVPed for the event. I didn’t discover until later that, along with the RSVP, his secretary—Betty—had sent in a recent picture of me along with my measurements.