By Invitation Only (18 page)

Her other hand rested against his chest and she could’ve sworn she felt his heartbeat, strong and sure beneath her palm.

The song finished and the singer started another slow number.

As Quinn guided her around other couples in perfect rhythm to the steady beat, he caressed her back and his lips lightly touched her temple. As the music faded and came to an end, neither one of them moved. Gradually he let her go and stepped back. He led her off the dance floor to a shadowed corner where the setting sun and candlelight didn’t quite reach.

He took both her hands in his and stared at them, rubbing his thumbs over her skin. “I just wanted to say—” he looked up and her gaze caught in his “—I’ll never forget our time together, the meteor shower and…just you.”

Her chest ached. She blinked away tears. It was crazy. She couldn’t possibly feel so strongly for someone she’d just met. She didn’t believe in love at first sight. But the words in the monk’s diary mocked her pragmatic rationale. The Spaniard had spoken of losing his heart the very moment he first spied the young Mayan girl. And their love had lasted a lifetime….

“Mr. Smith?” A youngish blonde approached and laid her hand on Quinn’s arm. “Quinn Smith, I’m so glad you came, darlin’.” She spoke with a prominent Texas twang.

Quinn’s face drained of emotion, except his eyes. They turned warily to the Texas lady. “Mrs. Maynard, how are you?”

This was Mrs. Maynard? She couldn’t be much older than the groom.

“I couldn’t be better, hon. But how’s your daddy? We heard you’d been practically running Prescott Industries ever since his stroke.”

It took a moment for the words to sink in. Peyton might not have even noticed except for Quinn’s reaction. His gaze darted to her. His mouth dropped open, then shut again. Time froze as all the words jumbled around in her head and came back to her in bits and pieces.
Daddy. Running Prescott. Stroke.
Quinn’s father was…Prescott?

She yanked her hand from Quinn’s, spun on her heels and bolted through the crowd.

She was furious. Outraged. Mortified.

Quinn was Edward Prescott’s son. He’d sat there and let her run on and on about finding the man. He’d made up some bull about a yacht. How he must have been laughing behind her back.

And he’d slept with her! Knowing who she was. If she didn’t find an exit soon she’d confront that SOB and cause a scene that would make her childhood tantrum pale in comparison. But Peyton Monahan didn’t vomit her emotions into a room and leave everyone else to clean up the mess. Peyton Monahan removed herself from the situation.

Then she was running, jostling past guests and waiters. She searched frantically for an exit, finally spied the double doors, and then couldn’t seem to reach them, no matter how fast she ran, it felt as if she were in a nightmare where everything was moving in slow motion.

Quinn’s voice called to her from somewhere behind her, but she finally reached the doors, threw them open and raced through the lobby to the front drive and jumped into a cab.

She tried to say
airport,
but she couldn’t get enough air in her lungs to speak. She was hyperventilating. A hand pounded on her window and she jumped and everything went back to real time.

“Peyton. I tried to tell you this morning.” He looked down and reached for the door handle. She slammed her palm down on the lock at the same time. He looked back up at her, his mouth a tight line. “Peyton, unlock this door.” He pounded on the window with the flat of his hand, and she flinched.

She called to the cab driver, “Airport. Now!”

The cab lurched out of the driveway and she watched Quinn from the back windshield as he stepped into the drive, staring after her.

W
E’RE BACK IN
K
ANSAS
, T
OTO
.

Peyton didn’t have a cute little dog, but as her plane landed at Newark in the wee hours of Sunday morning, she was definitely back in the real world. Though it was June, the air was chilly as she made her way out of the Jersey airport and hailed a cab. Colors seemed drab, less vibrant than in the Caribbean, and crowds of serious-minded people jostled past, intent on their own schedules.

Peyton felt right at home.

In the taxi, she pulled out her BlackBerry and checked her email and messages. Nothing that wouldn’t wait until tomorrow, but it stunned her how she hadn’t given her BlackBerry a thought the past three days. How could she have been so distracted from her life? Easy. Her distraction had been a candidate for Sexiest Man Alive, except he liked playing cruel games.

Now that she
was
back, it was time to think about alternative options for funding the Mayan expedition. If only she could get a loan and finance it herself. Even if she had anything to use as collateral there was no way she’d ever be able to repay the money. She’d just have to search farther afield for a benefactor.

By the time the cab pulled up in front of her apartment, exhaustion had hit. She trudged up to her third-floor unit feeling as if she weighed two tons. And as she sank into bed, her last vestiges of strength gave way to weak self-pity.

As plans go, this one had been a massive failure. What had she been thinking? Flying down to an exclusive resort? Crashing a celebrity wedding? All in the hopes of speaking to a man she didn’t know and who had already shown he had no interest in her proposal.

Except, of course, the real man who’d been ignoring her letters and phone calls the past several months was Quinn Smith. He’d been “practically running” Prescott Industries since his father’s stroke, so
he’d
known who she was the minute she divulged her real name.

Thinking back on her behavior that day in the lobby, she closed her eyes and cringed. Pretending to be Holly Addison was bad enough, but grabbing a complete stranger and kissing him? She hadn’t fooled Quinn for one minute. And then to let him talk her into spending a whole day with him away from the resort. Of course, her quarry had been right under her nose the entire time.

She flipped onto her stomach, burying her face in her pillow. Could she be any more of an idiot?

I
T TURNED OUT SHE COULD
.

When she went to transfer the translated version of the diary from her travel bag to her briefcase Monday morning, it wasn’t there. Panicked, she dumped the contents of the tote onto her bed and tossed every article across the room in a vain hope that the diary was hiding among her clothes and toiletries.

But it wasn’t.

Peyton dropped to her knees by the bed and lowered her head into her hands. How could she have been so irresponsible?

The translation wasn’t her only copy of course, but the idea of leaving it around for anyone to read was reprehensible. She’d have to call the airline company and the hotel to see if it turned up.

Trudging into the Anthropology building in a horrible funk, she hadn’t even made it to her office when her department chair called her and a few other faculty members to a meeting in the staff room.

“Congratulations, Dr. Monahan,” Carolyn Whitehouse popped open a bottle of champagne as Peyton entered. Her colleagues’ applause erupted around her, all of them smiling as if she’d just won the lottery.

Confused, Peyton watched glasses of champagne being passed around. “Dr. Whitehouse, what’s this about?”

“The check arrived this morning by courier.” Dr. Whitehouse lifted her drink. “To Dr. Monahan from Prescott Industries.”

A cold chill shivered up Peyton’s back. She dropped her smile. “What?”

“Now that we have the funding, I’d like you to begin assembling a team. Dr. Steinberg has asked to assist you and—”

“Wait,” Peyton cut in. “Prescott Industries sent us a check?”

A stunned silence echoed around the room. “Peyton, we assumed
you
had secured this,” Carolyn said. “I know you’ve been trying to meet with Mr. Prescott for months.”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Don’t be modest, Doctor. Prescott Industries came through.” Dr. Whitehouse beamed as she held out the check.

Peyton took it, searching for the signature at the bottom.

Quinn Smith.

She froze. The staggering amount would more than cover the expenses for the expedition. Fury spewed up from deep in her core. She barely restrained herself from ripping the check into shreds.
Keep it together, Monahan.
She did not do melodrama. She did not cause scenes.

After half listening to congratulations and Dr. Whitehouse’s plans, Peyton locked herself in her office, staring at the check in her icy hands. Her vision had narrowed to a small tunnel of light and the image in front of her shook.

What could Quinn possibly think of her? To have it couriered over with no note or any explanation? Did he think he was paying her for services rendered? God!

In his defense, he had tried to tell her his identity. So he couldn’t have thought she already knew.

Still, there were too many unanswered questions. Too much baggage attached with this check for her to accept it.

But how could she explain losing the funding now? The humiliating truth would come out, and Dr. Whitehouse would probably ask for her resignation.

How dare Quinn put her in this position.

She gathered her purse and stuffed the check inside, then stalked down the hall and out to the parking lot to her little car. Traffic seemed determined to thwart her. The normal twenty-minute drive to New Brunswick seemed to take twice as long. As she parked at Prescott Industries’ corporate offices and entered the tastefully decorated lobby, she took several deep breaths to calm her temper.

“May I help you?” a security guard wearing a headset asked from behind a reception desk.

“Yes. I’m Professor Monahan and I’d like to speak with Quinn Smith, please.”

“Just a moment.” The guard punched some buttons on a phone and announced her name to whomever was on the other end.

Peyton’s hands shook as she tried to smooth back loose strands of hair that had fallen from her chignon.
Remain calm, Monahan.
But she couldn’t quite stop the churning in her stomach.

The guard’s eyebrows rose as he hung up, studying Peyton curiously. “Sign in here, ma’am.” The guard extended a clipboard with a sign-in sheet. “Then take the elevators to the eighth floor and turn left.”

“Thank you.”

On the eighth floor she was blocked once more by a woman at a desk. A gray-haired, no-nonsense woman. “I’m here to see Mr. Quinn Smith.”

“Mr. Smith is in a meeting. If you’ll have a seat he’ll be with you in a moment.”

Peyton eyed the door behind the administrative assistant. It sported an engraved gold plate that read Quinn Smith.
In a meeting, my Aston Martin!
A white haze of fury pumped adrenaline into her veins. The bold woman from Rapture Island who took chances and risked anything was on the loose. She pushed past the dragon lady and opened the door.

“Excuse me, you can’t go in there!”

Quinn sat behind a large desk on the other end of a huge office. He pushed to his feet as she stomped up to the desk.

“I don’t know who you think I am, or what you think you’re paying me for, but you can take this check and shove it up your exceptionally fine ass!” She grabbed the check from her purse, crumpled it and tossed it at his chest.

The check bounced to the desk and Peyton expected Quinn’s expression to give her great satisfaction. Instead, he was staring to her right, worry and anxiety in his eyes.

She turned, startled.

An elderly man sat hunched in a wheelchair in front of the bank of windows overlooking the city. He had thinning white hair and the left side of his face was slack. She spun on her heels, noticing a couple of other men in suits sitting on a leather sofa behind her.

They stared at her as if she were some psychotic lunatic.

Oh, god. What had she done? Her face flamed in mortification. She’d just regressed to the hot-tempered little girl her father had sent away. How had she reverted to such childish behavior? When she’d worked so hard to become a calm, rational person her father would approve of. She should apologize, but…she couldn’t make herself say the words.

Her gaze returned to Quinn. He looked pale. Tired. His suit was impeccable, but he had dark circles under his eyes. The island playboy with the easy grin was gone, replaced with this tight-lipped businessman.

A businessman who still smelled of musky sandalwood. Whose very presence caused a burning inside her. A longing for…him.

Quinn cleared his throat and rounded the desk to take the handles of the wheelchair. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, we’ll continue this meeting later.”

The other men stood, one murmuring, “Of course,” and the other grumbled about never finishing the second quarterly report before they shuffled out.

As Quinn pushed the frail old man through the door, Mr. Prescott, Peyton assumed, mumbled something and Quinn bent down to hear him.

Quinn’s posture stiffened and he straightened, handing off the wheelchair to his assistant. “I’ll talk to you later,” he told Prescott.

Quinn turned and stepped back into the room, shutting and locking the door behind him.

The hairs on the back of her neck rose at the look on his face.

He gestured to the sofa. “Have a seat.”

Peyton raised her chin and faced him with as much dignity as one could possess in such a situation. Which wasn’t much. Couldn’t the floor just swallow her up? “This was a mistake. I should go.”

“We’ll deal with this now.” He strode to his desk, leaned his hip on the corner and crossed his arms.

She crossed her arms, as well, irritated at his commanding tone. “There’s nothing to deal with. I obviously came at a bad time.”

He shrugged. “I have back-to-back meetings the rest of the day.”

“Oh, yes, the island playboy who’s consumed by work.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “If you only knew.”

His condescending smirk drove her past caring. “I know you’re a liar and that you like to play cruel jokes.”

The smile disappeared and his eyes narrowed. “You don’t know me at all.”

“Exactly,
Mr. Smith.
If only I’d known the real you this weekend.” A lump formed in her throat. She felt ridiculously close to tears.

He shoved off the desk and closed the distance between them. “You want to know the real me? I’m Prescott’s bastard. The son he never wanted until he needed me.”

Peyton refused to back down. “So you think that gives you the right to play with people’s lives?”

“I wasn’t playing. Well, I was, but— Not like you think, damn it.” Dragging a hand through his hair, he brushed past her.

She turned to see him drop onto the sofa.

“I just needed to get away from this…prison,” he continued. “I wanted a couple of days to forget about Prescott Industries.” He said the last two words as if they were fungus in a petri dish.

“Why?”

“Because I made a deal with the devil.”

Keeping her arms folded, she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, waiting for him to explain.

Quinn sighed and leaned forward, his elbows braced on his knees. “My mother was Prescott’s mistress. When she told him she was pregnant, he wanted her to get rid of me. And when she refused, he cut her off without a cent. She did her best to raise me, but by the time I was in high school I was getting stoned and stealing cars.”

He dropped his gaze briefly, and then resumed eye contact. “I’d have ended up a felon if she hadn’t swallowed her pride and gone to ask for his help. He hired the best lawyer money could buy and got my sentence reduced.”

Quinn stood, tugged his blue silk tie loose and stalked around the room like a restless tiger in a cage. “But the only reason he agreed to help me was because he didn’t have anyone else. No kids. His wife had died. All he had was his company, but that would’ve been sold off when he died.” Finally stopping at the bank of windows, he stuffed his hands in his slacks pockets and stared outside. “Hence, my freedom came with a price.”

After their weekend together, Peyton could picture Quinn as a rebellious delinquent. Yet he also seemed perfectly at ease in his tailor-made suit and his executive offices. And she could see the hurt boy in his eyes when he turned. “But you can bet your exceptionally fine ass I made sure my mother was taken care of for life.”

Her chest hurt knowing exactly what it felt like not to be wanted. “So, you became his protégé?”

He huffed. “More like his lackey.”

“Still, you seem to have come out on top.”

“Oh, I earned a degree. Learned to run the company. And when he said jump, I asked how high, although I never let him forget how much I hated him.”

Hairs rose along her arms. So much venom. She could relate. Ever since her father sent her off to boarding school, Peyton had made sure he was well aware of her unhappiness. In choosing to bury her emotions, she’d made sure to be as cold and unfeeling as he was. And she’d succeeded. “And do you hate him still?”

He smiled. “Funny thing about hate. It takes a lot of energy to maintain that kind of anger. One day, a few years ago, my mother wisely told me that my hatred of the old man was like taking poison every day and hoping
he
would die.”

Peyton blinked as those words of wisdom sank in. Whoa. Is that what she was doing? Poisoning herself with years of resentment?

She thought about the last time she’d talked to her father, just before she’d gotten on the plane for Rapture Island. Dad had casually suggested she try to come home for Christmas.

At the time, Peyton had chalked the invitation up to a shallow platitude. But as she thought back on it, she let herself hear the sincerity in her dad’s voice. The longing for a relationship.