CHAPTER SEVEN
“There has to be another side of the story,” Celie insisted after her sister wearily plopped down in the chair next to the bed and told her what Quinn had said.
“Tell that to Julia and Matthew Martin.”
“I just can’t believe it. Quinn seems like such a nice man.”
Tasha shot her sister a skeptical look. “You’ve got to be kidding. He flat-out admitted that he’s a white slaver. That’s not exactly the profession of someone who’s ‘nice.’ ”
“I don’t believe the rumors are true. I mean, I knew about them, of course. To be honest, I was the one who hatched the whole plan to have Lillian Bryson tell you about Quinn’s questionable past.” Celie sat down on the edge of her bed and stared glumly at the wide-planked hardwood floor.
“You what?” Tasha asked, sitting up straight in her chair.
“When I first heard about Quinn and this hotel, I looked him up on the Internet. He was so cute, and since we were all going to be down here for the wedding I thought it might be cool if you and he, er, hooked up. I knew you wouldn’t give him a second thought if he was just a regular guy, so I had Lillian tell you about the rumors to make you pay him some attention. I never once thought the rumors might be true.” Celie continued studying the floor as her cheeks took on a rosy hue.
“You can’t be serious.” Tasha knew her mouth was hanging open, but she couldn’t seem to close it. They were in this mess because her sister had been trying to fix her up with her wedding planner?
“It’s just . . . I want you to be happy,” Celie said, finally looking up to meet Tasha’s gaze.
“I’m happy,” Tasha protested.
“Right. That’s why you never date. Because you’re happy by yourself.”
“I’m by myself because every man I get involved with turns out to be secretly married, is a complete asshole, or lives with his mother.”
“I know. But Quinn’s none of those things. That’s why I thought you guys might hit it off,” Celie said.
“He sells people for money, Celie. I think that trumps being married, a jerk, or living with Mom.”
“I still think there’s something he’s not telling you—something that proves he’s not the man you think he is.”
Tasha shook her head with disbelief. Could her sister really be that naïve? “You’re too trusting,” she said.
“And you’re a cynic,” Celie countered.
“You don’t understand. People do bad things.”
“They do good things, too,” Celie said softly. “You spend your entire life searching for the worst in every situation. Why not try looking for the best just this once?”
Tasha blinked and hugged the overstuffed pillow she’d been holding to her chest. That wasn’t true. She didn’t always look for the worst.
Did she?
“I mean, did it occur to you to ask Quinn why he was in prison?”
“Well, no. I just assumed that he got caught selling slaves,” Tasha said.
Celie snorted and stood up to pace the room. “I talked to Elise—that’s the name of the girl who tried to protect you from Acosta—while we were on the zip line coming back to the hotel. Want to know what she said?”
Tasha hugged the pillow tighter. She wasn’t sure she did want to know. Her entire belief system was at stake here.
She cleared her throat. “What’d she say?”
Celie stopped pacing and turned around, spearing her sister with her gaze. “She told me that Quinn was down in Costa Playa on spring break during his senior year of college. He was at this open-air bar, drinking with some friends, when a van full of women who had been kidnapped parked across the street. The driver got out, and some of the girls tried to get the attention of people walking by, but no one wanted to get involved. That is, until Quinn happened to look up and see them.”
“Oh, God,” Tasha breathed. Please don’t let this story end how I think it will.
Celie nodded. “Yeah. He could have turned away, but he didn’t. Here he was, this dumb kid on spring break with his whole life ahead of him. And you know what he did?”
Numb, Tasha shook her head.
“Yes, you do,” Celie admonished. “He got up from his stool, went over to the van and smashed in the driver’s side window. While his friends were urging him to come back to the bar, he freed all those women. They probably owe their lives to him.”
“But he got arrested,” Tasha said with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.
“The police were being paid off by the slave trader. They got to him before he could leave town.”
“And no one in the U.S. could help?” Tasha asked.
“His parents tried, but the police moved him to a prison outside of San Pedro and wouldn’t tell them where their son was being held. It took nearly a year for them to locate him. They finally came during the rainy season to visit him and tell him they were doing everything they could to get him out when a stretch of road washed right out from under them. No one ever saw them again.”
Tasha tried to breathe around the tightness in her chest. She - couldn’t imagine being twenty-one, trapped in some hellhole of a jail, not knowing if anyone even knew you were alive. Quinn had to have been terrified.
How had he held on to hope all that time when no one—not his friends or his parents—was able to contact him? How had he managed to stay sane?
And if she’d been so wrong about that so-called fact, was it possible that there were other things she was wrong about, too?
“I left him to face Acosta’s men alone,” Tasha whispered.
“Maybe that’s for the best,” Celie answered evenly.
But Tasha knew it wasn’t. He shouldn’t have to deal with this by himself.
She stood up and tossed the pillow to the floor. “I’m going back there,” she announced.
Then, without waiting to see if her sister would try to stop her, she hurried out the door.
When the knock sounded at the door, Quinn straightened his shoulders and took a deep, steadying breath.
This was it. His last moment of freedom.
“Come in,” he called, remaining seated in the chair next to the bed where Acosta’s body was sprawled out.
He expected to see three uniformed men with the hardened faces—and muscles—of thugs. He was surprised, instead, to see Tasha O’Shaunessey step quickly through the doorway and pull the door shut behind her.
“Tell me again why we can’t just leave him here alone,” she said by way of greeting, watching him intently as if the rest of her life hinged on his answer.
Quinn propped one foot up on the bed frame. “Because too many people know he came after us. If Acosta’s men start probing, suspicion will fall on you and your sister. And they’ll find out about the girl and the other runaways. I can’t let that happen.”
“Your people would betray you?” she asked.
“I know how ruthless these men can be. It wouldn’t be easy, but they would find out eventually.”
“You were going to tell them that you killed him, weren’t you?”
“Yes,” he answered calmly. No sense lying about it.
Tasha crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back against the door. After a long moment, she let her breath out slowly, as if she had come to some sort of conclusion.
“I think I can buy us some time to figure out a better plan,” she announced.
Quinn quirked one eyebrow at her. “Oh?”
“Help me get Acosta into the bathtub and get him undressed. I’ll tell you my idea while we work.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
Tasha unfolded her arms and walked toward him. Or, rather, - toward the bed. “Got any other ideas?” she asked, turning to look at him over her shoulder.
Quinn thought for a moment, then slowly stood up. “No,” he admitted.
“All right, then. Let’s hurry. We’re going to have to make this look good.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
&n
bsp; When the first knock sounded, Quinn raised himself up on one elbow and quirked an eyebrow at her.
“Are you sure you can do this?” he asked.
Tasha shuddered, and then took a deep breath and nodded. “I’m a woman. I’ve been doing this since I was eighteen,” she assured him with a hell of a lot more confidence than she felt.
“That’s the spirit.”
From the opposite end of the bed, Quinn shot her the briefest of wicked grins before diving under the sheet. Tasha shivered again when she felt the warm touch of his hand on her thigh.
All right. It was showtime.
She leaned back on the fluffy white pillows and forced the muscles in her jaw to relax. She closed her eyes and tried to forget about the naked dead guy in the bathtub and the fact that she was being felt up by a handsome stranger with questionable morals. Pretty tough to forget about that, though, as his work-roughened fingers skimmed down the smooth skin of her inner thigh.
Wow, that felt good.
Tasha moaned low in her throat and was surprised at how easily it slipped out. She moaned again when Quinn’s hands slid down to cup her feet in his palms. He massaged her insteps with his thumbs and Tasha felt her entire body relax.
Mmm. Feet as an erogenous zone. Who knew?
“Yes,” she murmured, pressing her toes into his fingers so he - wouldn’t stop.
He made slow, lazy circles on the balls of her feet while Tasha continued to purr. Then, as the door slowly creaked open, he moved up, trailing hot, wet kisses behind her knees as he parted her thighs with his hands.
“Oh, Jorge,” she breathed as Quinn’s tongue traced a line up her inner thigh, following his strong fingers as they caressed her skin.
And suddenly she wasn’t thinking about Jorge Acosta or the stage they’d carefully set for his men—not the clothes they’d strategically tossed over chairs or the phony love scene they’d choreographed to make it appear that it was Acosta in bed with her and not Quinn.
No. She wasn’t thinking at all.
Instead, she was just feeling, reveling in sensation as Quinn’s mouth moved up, up, toward her waiting, wanting flesh. Her subconscious registered the soft click of the lock as the hotel room door closed, but she was past caring.
“Don’t stop,” she pleaded, unmindful of the desperation in her voice.
And Quinn, gentleman that he was, didn’t stop. He slid his thumbs into the hot, slick folds at the juncture of her thighs and groaned. God, she was wet.
He tried reminding himself that this was just for show, hoping that the reminder would soothe the ache at his own crotch.
It didn’t.
Tasha’s toes brushed against his erection and Quinn nearly screamed with frustration. Okay. So he’d had a king-size hard-on for her since he’d first opened his eyes and found her lying on top of him. That didn’t mean anything. He was a guy. Guys got hardons for pretty women all the time.
It didn’t mean he felt anything for her, didn’t mean that the hope stirring in his gut was for real. It was just sex.
He couldn’t let himself dream that it might be more than that.
No, she was only here with him because of Acosta’s men. And if they were listening outside the door, hoping for a good show, then, by God, he’d give them one.
He glanced up then and found Tasha watching him through half-lidded eyes filled with a mixture of desire and fear. Lazily, Quinn circled his thumbs around her heat, burying himself in her slick wetness. Then, with their gazes locked together, he brought one thumb to his mouth and sucked the taste of her into his mouth.
“Oh Q—Jorge,” Tasha corrected before his name slipped out from between her lips.
With a self-satisfied smile, Quinn went in for the kill. He slid Tasha’s white silk panties down past her knees with one hand, while slipping one finger slowly, tauntingly into her. When her panties were gone, he settled himself between her knees, flicked his tongue over her swollen clitoris and then sucked her into his mouth as she writhed beneath him, her breath coming in panting gasps as he felt the tension mount, mount, mount. Then, with a strangled groan, she tensed, her legs pressing against his skin.
And then it was over, her legs sprawled at his sides as she relaxed in a boneless heap.
It was a long moment before Tasha opened her eyes, a moment Quinn used to rearrange himself and move into a more comfortable position with his hips resting between her legs, his hands splayed across her stomach.
“I’m . . . uh, sorry about that,” she whispered, two spots of pink staining her cheeks.
Quinn couldn’t help but grin. No woman should ever apologize about having an orgasm. He reached up and smoothed a lock of hair behind her ear before placing a warm, wet kiss on her stomach.
“You know what I’m sorry for?” he asked softly.
Tasha pulled her bottom lip into her mouth and shook her head.
“That it wasn’t my name you screamed when you came.” Quinn paused for a moment, then added with a wolfish grin, “But don’t worry. You can make up for that next time.”
“So, tell me about the Martins,” Tasha said hours later, when dusk had been replaced by a soft shimmering moon. She didn’t know if Acosta’s second-in-command was still listening by the door—when their room service order of champagne and chocolate-dipped strawberries had arrived half an hour ago, she’d flung the hotel room door open wide and come face-to-face with the man. With a half-feigned shriek, she’d pulled her robe closed and yelled, “Jorge! There’s someone skulking out in the hall.”
To which Quinn had shouted back an unintelligible response from behind the bathroom door.
Acting as an interpreter, Tasha grabbed the tray of food from the room service waiter, told Luis Ortega to go away, and slammed the door in the man’s face. Then she’d pressed her back to the door, panting with fright as she waited for him to break down the door and shoot her.
He hadn’t, but Tasha was too scared to crack open the door to see if Ortega was still out there.
Instead, she’d snuggled back under the covers, where Quinn’s large, hard body was waiting.
She trailed her fingers down his chest, feeling the rumble beneath her palms as he chuckled softly. “You probably won’t believe me if I tell you,” he said.
Tasha draped herself over Quinn’s chest and looked him straight in the eyes. “Try me.”
He studied her intently for a moment before reaching over to the nightstand for the glass of champagne he’d set there earlier. He took a long sip of the golden liquid. Then, with the flute still in his hand, he said, “Ten years ago, I came down to Costa Playa with some friends on spring break. On the day before we were supposed to leave, we were hanging out in this bar when I spotted a van full of young women. They were trying to get my attention, trying to get me to help them.”
Quinn told the story dispassionately, as if it had happened to someone else and not him. Tasha didn’t interrupt, didn’t tell him that she already knew about this part of his past. She wanted to hear it from him.
Her hand stilled on his chest as she nodded for him to continue.
“So I, uh, I did. I broke into the van and found out that they’d been kidnapped. Most of the girls had been taken from their homes, but I later found out that one of them was an American who was down in Costa Playa with her church group. She’d strayed from the group during a shopping trip, and the kidnappers plucked her off the street. That girl . . .” Quinn paused, took another sip of champagne and continued. “She was Julia Martin’s sister.”
“You saved her. Saved all of them,” Tasha said softly.
Quinn didn’t bother denying it. “Like I said, I didn’t know who she was. I just . . . let them all out of that van and got the hell out of there as fast as I could. Unfortunately, I wasn’t fast enough. The local cops found out what I’d done and tossed me into jail. I didn’t know it at the time, but they were all on Acosta’s payroll. I didn’t find out until much later that Julia’s sister never stopped looking for me—o
r forgot what might have been.”
Tasha waited for the puzzle pieces to fall into place. She was starting to see the outlines of a picture, but right now, it was still out of focus. Most stories she worked on were like this. You’d find a piece of sky here, a few blades of grass there. Then, suddenly, someone would reveal a key fact that made it a complete landscape.
“Then, five years ago, after Newsweek did an article about Extreme I Do and the types of services we offer, Julia Martin called me. Her sister had apparently seen my picture and recognized me from all those years ago. Julia and Matthew were about to get married. They had amassed a huge fortune, and they wanted out of the Hollywood life, wanted to give something back. And Julia’s sister had a plan for how they could do just that.”
“Yes?” Tasha asked eagerly. The truth was about to be revealed. She could feel it.
“They wanted to help others who had been kidnapped, but not in the usual way.” Quinn snorted and shook his head. “This is where it gets complicated.”
Tasha reached up to caress Quinn’s cheek. “We’ve got all night.”
“Good thing,” Quinn muttered, then put his hand over hers and turned to place a kiss on her palm. “To put it simply, the Martins wanted more than just to save a few innocent victims from Acosta’s reign of terror. They wanted to topple the government, but in a peaceful way.”
It was Tasha’s turn to snort. Right. Like that ever happened.
“With their financial resources, they’ve been able to set up a very lucrative mining operation deep in the jungle. We have a network in place to steal Acosta’s slaves and move them to the mine. It’s not an ideal life, but at least they’re paid for their work and given homes and schools for their children. In the meantime, the company profits are being used to educate politicians in the U.S. about the plight of the people of Costa Playa. They’re hoping—we’re hoping—that this regime will be gone by next year.”
“But I don’t understand. Why did the Martins have to disappear?”
“Because they couldn’t have accomplished anything with reporters from Entertainment Tonight or the National Enquirer following them around. They needed secrecy and . . .”
Catch of the Day Page 22