by Penny Reid
I felt that it was extremely misplaced, as she’d just admitted that he didn’t want to converse with her.
“Yes. So he said.” I nodded.
“What did he say?” Her head whipped toward mine, her eyes narrowed. “What did he say about me?”
I quickly processed whether admitting that he disliked her conversation would be a breech in trust. I decided against framing it quite that way.
“He just said that when you two were acquainted, you hardly ever spoke.”
Her mouth fell open and her cheeks flushed. “Oh my. He said that to you?” She looked pleased. This further confused me.
Maybe Quinn was right. Maybe she was crazy.
“I can’t believe you’re with him after he told you that. Us girls need to look out for each other, and I’m telling you, he will use you and abuse you, and I’m telling you, you are too sweet.” Her eyes and the soft, sympathetic shake of her head told me she felt sorry for me. “You’re a sweet girl. You need to get away from him.”
“Looking at this objectively, if you don’t mind, may I just summarize what you’ve said? This will help me understand.”
“Go ahead. I know this must be hard. Go ahead if talking about it will help.”
“Thank you.” I gave her a small smile because she seemed like a nice person. But I wanted to reiterate the facts so I could make a determination on her level of crazy. “When you and Quinn first got together, he told you he was with other women. Then, the two of you engaged in very little conversation. Then, later, when you told him that you wanted to be exclusive, he responded that he didn’t date. Do I have that right?”
“Well, yeah….”
“And that makes him a bad guy because…?”
“Because good guys do not have multiple girls on the hook. Good guys don’t do those kinds of things. He is a user.”
“But…he’s an honest user, yes?”
“Just ’cause he’s honest about it doesn’t change the fact that he uses people.”
“Hmm…you have me there. That’s an excellent point. I’ll file that away for later contemplation.”
Her gaze moved over me again, this time a bit more assessing than before. “I assume he’s told you that there are others, right?”
Because I was still marinating in her user comment, I responded without thinking of the ramifications of my words. “No, he hasn’t. Actually, we’re engaged.”
She didn’t purse her lips, and her eyelashes didn’t flutter. In fact, she didn’t move at all for a good twelve seconds. Then, as though pulled, her eyes lowered to my left hand, resting on top of my knee.
She blinked just once, as if she expected the ring on my finger to disappear. When it didn’t, she breathed, “No shit!”
Her stare moved back to my face, and I struggled to remember the last time I’d seen a person so shocked.
“Oh my God….” she said, then she repeated it with varying pitch and inflection. “Oh my God. Oh. My. God.”
“Do you…need a glass of something?” I offered, because she looked truly distressed.
“You’re his fiancée?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“And you know that I used to have sex with Quinn and you’re in here patching up my dress and calmly discussing my relationship with him.”
“Well…yes.”
She stared at me, her expression complete befuddlement. “Aren’t you jealous? Pissed off?”
“Jealous of what?” I titled my head to the side, tried to think back over our conversation to determine what part of it should inspire jealousy. “Because Quinn had sex with women before we met? I’m glad that he did. It’s provided him with a great deal of useful life skills.”
Useful life skills is how I decided to refer to his talents in the bedroom…and airplane, and desk, and shower, and bathtub, and et cetera.
“You should be pissed because….” she started, stopped, then sighed. “I guess I don’t know.”
I gave her a small smile. “Quinn’s relationship with individuals from his past doesn’t need to have any bearing on my interactions with the same individuals now and in the future. You needed help. I like to help. You’re a nice person.”
Her blue eyes moved over my face and her painted mouth tugged to the side. “You’re a nice person, too. You’re too good for him.”
“We’re good for each other,” I countered softly and stood. “Thank you for answering my questions. I’ve never met one of his past sl…um…one of his previous relationships. I really enjoyed our discussion.”
“Wait a minute.” She rummaged through her clutch and took out a thin plastic card. “I’m Niki. Here, this is my business card. I work for a modeling agency. Give me a call if you’re ever interested in doing some work on the side or ever need anything or…” she shrugged “…just want to talk.”
“Thank you, Niki. I’m Janie. I hope you don’t mind, but I need to put this in my bodice. I didn’t bring a purse.”
She laughed lightly, her eyes merry, and shook her head. “I don’t mind in the least! Just don’t forget it’s in there.”
CHAPTER 8
*Quinn*
Janie was quiet.
She’d been quiet for most of the night. I could see that she was deep in her own thoughts; she seemed to be working through a problem.
I hoped it didn’t have anything to do with crazy Niki.
Dan and Steven left us in the lobby. Janie and I took the private elevator to our suite. She was silent and stood off to one side.
As soon as the doors opened, she exited, kicked off her shoes, and walked to the bedroom. I did an automatic sweep of the outer room while I loosened my tie and took off my jacket. I trailed her into the bedroom and hovered at the door.
She was standing with her back to the full-length mirror and her neck twisted toward it. She was trying to unfasten the twenty or so buttons that held the top of her dress together.
“Let me do that.” I went to her before she could say no and pushed her hair over one shoulder, grazing my fingertips down her spine. She stiffened then relaxed under my hands. I heard her sigh.
“Thank you.” Her head fell forward and I began undoing her dress.
We were quiet as I worked the buttons from their loops. I stole glances of her profile in the mirror and fought the urge to lift up her skirt, cup her bottom. Maybe bend her over the loveseat tucked into a corner of the room….
“Quinn.”
I blinked, found her watching me in the mirror.
“Yes?”
She turned to face me, holding the top of her dress to her chest to keep it from falling to the floor. Her eyes moved between mine, then she said. “I don’t like you how exploit my weaknesses.”
I frowned, watching her. I hoped she’d continue without me having to ask her to explain. But she didn’t, so I asked, “I exploit your weaknesses?”
“Yes, you do, Quinn. You know I’m easy to distract, and so, when you don’t want me to ask you questions about a topic or probe too deeply, you distract me.”
“Janie…you hide your underwear in my suitcase so I will think you wear black lace panties all day.”
“So? What does that have to do with anything?”
“You do the same thing.”
She frowned at me. Her frown was thoughtful, not troubled. I could see her analyzing my words.
Finally, she nodded. “Okay. You’ve got me there. But can I ask a favor?”
“Anything.” My attention moved from her face to the sagging dress she was clutching to her chest. I fit my hands in hers and lifted them away, and the gown crumpled to the floor.
This made me smile.
“When I ask you about a topic that is important and that might impact my desire to continue our relationship, you need to tell me the truth and not distract me.”
I frowned again, but quickly wiped all expression from my face. “I promise.”
Holding her hands, I helped her step out of the circle of the dress and releas
ed her so that she could bend to pick it up. I balled my hands into fists instead of grabbing her from behind—because I sensed this conversation hadn’t reached its conclusion—and sat on the edge of the bed.
I would wait until she came to me. Or, I would wait until I could wait no longer.
Janie hung up the gown. Then, facing me, she loitered in the doorway of the closet. “Are you aware of the research that says our willingness to trust can be altered by the application of oxytocin?”
She was stunning—long legs, the dramatic slope of her waist, the soft, ample curves of her breasts, which were basically spilling out of the bustier. Fiery red hair framed her porcelain shoulders and face. Her amber eyes were wide and watchful, earnest.
“No,” I said, drinking in this vision of her. “I’m not.”
“Oxytocin is sometimes called the bonding hormone and is released during pregnancy as well as when a woman breastfeeds. Interestingly, a recent study showed genital tract stimulation also results in increased oxytocin immediately after orgasm.”
I swallowed, but tried to keep my expression blank. Janie had learned early in our relationship to cite peer reviewed research relating to sexuality if she wanted to get me hot. It always worked.
It was working now.
“Interesting.” It was interesting. I licked my lips, let my eyes wander over the curves of her body, now highlighted by the red and black bustier, and framed by her thigh-high stockings.
Janie twisted her hair into a loose braid and slowly crossed the room to stand in front of me. “Quinn, do you think I trust you so much simply because you’ve given me so many orgasms?”
My eyes flickered to hers and found them serious, questioning.
“I hope that’s not the reason,” I answered soberly, but couldn’t stop myself any longer. I needed to touch her. I reached for her waist and pulled her forward so that she was standing between my legs.
“Quinn, I need to talk to you. We need to talk.” Her hands settled on my shoulders for balance.
I fingered one of the straps on her corset that held her stockings in place. “What do you want to talk about?”
“I want to talk about the private accounts.”
I stared unseeingly at her lace-clad stomach. The room went completely silent, and I held my breath. I absurdly wished that we were back in the tower of London and she was tied to the rack.
The last time I was scared was when Janie showed up at one of my vacant apartments and found me shirtless and barefoot with her bitch sister—the same bitch sister who pissed all over my shoes then stuck a lit cigarette into my shirt necessitating the removal of both articles of clothing. I then ran after Janie and into her apartment just seconds before three men with guns broke down the door.
I’d been scared of losing her, and now, that visceral fear was hitting me again, gnawing my insides. But this time her crazy sister wasn’t to blame. I was.
My chest felt tight. I needed a drink. More than that, I needed a minute to think.
I set her away and stood from the bed, crossed to the wet-bar and reached for the first available bottle.
“Quinn?” Her voice behind me was tentative, uncertain. I didn’t like how it sounded.
“Do you want something to drink?” I poured myself two shots in a single tumbler then glanced at the label; it was scotch.
“No. Thank you.” She crossed the room and stood by my side. I felt her eyes on me. Instead of returning her gaze, I kept mine fastened to the glass.
She glanced from me to the tumbler. “Are you going to answer me?”
“You haven’t asked a question.”
“Will you please tell me about the private accounts?”
“No.”
“No?”
I nodded then swallowed half of the scotch.
“Quinn….” She hesitated, then covered my hand with hers. “Please talk to me about this.”
I huffed a laugh—felt the bitterness of it through the burn of alcohol coating my throat. “Janie, it’s really better if you don’t know.”
“I don’t like that answer.”
I cut my eyes to hers, and whatever she saw in my expression made her flinch, which made me curse.
I turned to face her, rested my hip against the sidebar, and tried to ignore the fact that she was wearing nothing but a black and red lacy bustier with matching panties, and thigh-highs.
Tried and failed.
Faced with temptation, I kept my arms crossed over my chest so I wouldn’t touch her, and gritted my teeth. I needed focus.
“Why the sudden interest?” I wasn’t going to lie, but I didn’t want to tell Janie more than she wanted or needed to know.
“Why the evasion?” She lifted her chin as she countered my question. She was sexy as fuck when we battled wits, and I felt a primal urge to bite the tops of her breasts. Then she added, “You’re hiding something from me, which feels really close to technical honesty.”
We exchanged stares, my jaw still ticking. Unable to help myself, I lifted my hand to her shoulder and traced the line of her collarbone with my thumb down to the slope of her chest.
“You’re right. I am.”
“Why? Don’t you trust me?”
I did trust her. If it came down to it, I would tell her everything and hope she could see past the man I used to be to the man I was trying to become. Part of me reasoned that the entire conversation was irrelevant since I was ending my association with those people.
I didn’t answer right away. Instead, I shifted a step closer. She was forced to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact.
I said, “We’re getting married.”
“Yes. We are.” She lifted her hands to my chest, placed her right palm flat over my heart, and gripped the front of my shirt with her left. “And that’s why I need you to trust me, completely. History and classical fiction are polluted with story after story, example after example of the downfall of relationships because one or both parties didn’t speak openly, or hid a secret that didn’t need to be hidden. In fact, I am given to understand that the majority of popular fiction revolves around avoidable misunderstandings as a central theme. I can name ten instances of related Greek tragedies.”
“Please don’t.”
“I will, if you don’t start talking.”
My hands were on her waist, and I abruptly realized that my grip was likely bordering on painful and had already crossed the line to aggressive. I forced myself to loosen my fingers, but pulled her more completely against me and turned her so her back was to the bar.
I briefly considered using my tie to bind her wrists and my belt to immobilize her feet. If she couldn’t leave me, if she were physically incapable, I would breathe easier.
These thoughts I filed away under crazy and desperate.
Instead, I mentally prepared for her reaction to the truth. I didn’t know how else to be other than evasive or blunt.
With my heart in my throat, I said, “I use the intelligence I gather while I provide security to persuade wealthy and powerful people. I use the information to persuade them to make good decisions.”
Janie’s eyes narrowed and stared straight ahead; she lost focus as she internalized and examined my statement. She was silent for several long seconds, and I moved my knee between her legs to press my torso more completely against hers. I thought about re-examining the crazy and desperate file.
At length her eyes flickered back to mine. “You blackmail them.”
I shrugged but kept my attention fixed on her features, looking for clues as to how she was going to react.
“For money?” She sounded like the words choked her. “Do you blackmail them for money?”
“No. I use the information for influence.”
“What does that mean, influence? To do what?”
“Real change comes from knowing the wrong people and the right people.” I watched her lips part in surprise. I wanted to kiss her. Instead, I continued. “I make sure information goes to the
people who can do the most good with it.”
“So…the police?”
“Not always.” I didn’t know how much she wanted to know, and I wasn’t sure how much I should tell her. Therefore, instead of telling her that I’d sometimes used criminal organizations as a means to administer justice, I answered only the questions she asked.
Her eyes lost focus as she worked to grasp the truth. “That’s why everything is behind those steel doors at the office. That’s why the private security servers are not connected to the Internet and behind encrypted security. That’s why you won’t use open source development apps.”
“That’s part of the reason.” My tone was flat. I’d told her the bulk of it; now it was just about clarifying the details. “The other is because part of the security we offer to private clients is to hack into their personal systems, cell phones, and bank accounts to assess security risks.”
She blinked at me and her eyes moved to my mouth. Her next words were full of dawning comprehension, yet lacked judgment. “You store their private information on your servers. They pay you to keep them safe, and you use their secrets against them.”
I almost laughed. She was so smart, yet frequently missed the obvious.
Her eyes cut to mine—they were without emotion, but far from emotionless. “This is not legal, Quinn. Does Steven know? Why would you do this? Quinn….” She shook her head, her eyebrows drawing together. “After what happened to your brother, why wouldn’t you turn any information over to the police?”
I absorbed the blow, the reminder of my culpability in Des’s murder. I met and held her challenging and assessing glare straight on and did my best to explain my actions, but was careful not to defend them.
“These aren’t petty criminals, Janie. These are powerful people. I could do more good and make a bigger difference using them and their information than I could if these people were behind bars for tax evasion and recreational drug use. They would just be replaced, and I’d have no leverage.”
“Leverage to do what? You said you use the information to persuade them to make good decisions? What kind of good decisions?”
I thought of some examples. Many were selfish, like using powerful families to administer revenge against the crime organization responsible for my brother’s death. I hadn’t stopped until that organization had been completely dismantled and all the heads of the business had been severed—literally or figuratively. I didn’t care which.