Mile High Weekend (Opposites Attract Book 1) (19 page)

Twenty-Five

Even though Ginnie could feel Lawrence slugging along behind them, she didn’t care.  In a few minutes, she’d have shoved the suitcase into her former husband’s hands, slammed the door, and she’d be in Quinn’s arms.

A delicious shiver crept up her spine.

She wasn’t gloating.  She didn’t quite feel like she’d gotten her way.  This wasn’t seduction.  It was something more.  Or at the very least, a lead-up to something more.  And it might be even better.

Ginnie was practically bouncing in her near-stilettos as they waited for the elevator.  It was funny to her how little it bothered her that Lawrence stood to one side of them.  It didn’t matter to her what he thought of the fact that she was sharing a room with the hard-edged man who currently held her hand tightly.  In fact, the only real thought she had about Lawrence was that she’d never been so glad to not be married to him.

It was funny – really funny – to her that just a few months ago, the man had been her husband and she’d been satisfied with that.  When now she felt like he was a stranger.  And Quinn, who
was
a stranger, felt so much more an intimate part of her life.

It scared her a little.

More than a little.

But she wouldn’t trade in the last thirty hours.  Not even if it meant going back to never knowing what she was missing.

That shiver of anticipation swept over her again, and Quinn kissed the top of her head.

“Almost there,” he murmured.

And like his words prompted it, the elevator doors slid open.

Quinn put his hand on the door and said, “Ladies first,” and Ginnie stepped forward.

But so did Lawrence. 

And as he did, all hell broke loose.

Lawrence lunged at Quinn, and for all the other man’s size and strength, her former husband had surprise and drunken stupidity on his side.  Quinn lost his footing, just for a minute.  It was enough.  Lawrence lifted a loafer-clad foot and drove it into Quinn’s knee.  And before Ginnie could react, before Quinn could recover…Lawrence was in the elevator beside her, one hand slamming on the button labelled
Close Door
and the other on Ginnie’s arm.

And then they were alone, Ginnie cowering against one corner of the elevator while Lawrence stood in front of her.  He glared down at her, more intoxicated than she’d seen him in all their years together.  With his bloodshot eyes and clenched, unsteady hands, he looked far more dangerous than Ginnie had ever considered him to be.  Certainly scarier than Quinn.

“Why are you doing this to me?” he demanded.

“What do you think I’m doing to you?” she said.

“Fucking following me!”

Ginnie stared him, worry and fear charging through her.  He sounded nothing like the man she married.  Her doctor husband rarely swore, rarely drank, and never raised his voice.

Breathe. Keep him talking.

“I’m
not
following you,” she corrected as calmly as she could manage. “We booked this vacation months ago. When I called the airline, they told me a refund would go to you. So I came anyway.”

“And the fucking thug? What’s your excuse there?
He
wouldn’t give you a refund either?”

The elevator lurched to a start, and began a far too slow ascent.  Ginnie inhaled, picturing Quinn and his furious, protective self on the other side of the door waiting.  He’d have taken the stairs three at a time to beat them.  She hoped to God he was feeling
particularly
thuggish.

“Quinn is just…” She swallowed.
Just what?

Just a fling?  Just some guy she’d started out using to make Lawrence jealous? Just some guy who’d had his tongue between her thighs?

No.  The thing about Quinn was, he wasn’t
just
anything. 

“Quinn has nothing to do with you,” she managed to get out.

Lawrence didn’t seem to notice Ginnie’s slip. “So it’s just a coincidence that you…
hook up
with a criminal and my shit goes missing?”

“A criminal?”

“Oh, c’mon. What else could he be? Even you aren’t that naïve. You guys stole my bag and I want it back.”

I
was
that naïve,
Ginnie thought.
When I married you. But not anymore.

Out loud she said, “Are you talking about the suitcase that looks
exactly like mine?
”

“What other one would I be talking about?”

“I didn’t steal it. It was just a mix up at the airport. And I thought I was giving it back. At least I did until you decided to take me hostage.”

“Did you go through it?”

Ginnie thought of the explosion if underwear in the hotel room and winced. “Not exactly.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

The elevator came to a halt, and Lawrence swayed a little, nearly lost his hold on the button, then righted himself and pushed it down even harder.

How long until it sets off an alarm?
Ginnie wondered.
And how will he react if it does?

She didn’t want to find out.

“No, I didn’t go through it, Lawrence,” she said evenly. “What you and your new girlfriend do is your business.”

He rolled his eyes. “Just like what you and your new boyfriend do is
your
business. Or it was until you took my stuff.”

Ginnie refused to take the bait. “I still don’t know what it is you want.”

“What I want is the same thing you and that overgrown monkey of yours want. The whole reason you took the bag in the first place.”

“I didn’t – God, Lawrence. What do you think I stole? Your stupid dildo and your stupid handcuffs? Sorry, but second hand sex toys aren’t my thing.”

“I know exactly what is and what isn’t your thing, sweetheart.”

“You don’t know me at all.”

He leaned forward, breathing an alcohol-infused breath her way but still holding the
Close Door
button. 

Could Ginnie shove him away?  Would it give her time to get out, or make things worse?

“You shared my bed for
years
,” Lawrence reminded her. “And quite frankly, most of what makes up the list falls under the
isn’t-your-thing
category.”

Ginnie bit the inside of her cheek and snapped, “Fuck you.”

“Already did.” He was smug.

And disgusting.

If Ginnie hadn’t been so indifferent to him, she might’ve hated him.  But as it was, all she wanted to do was get out of the damned elevator.  And her patience was nearing the end.

“Let me go,” she said.

“I will. If you tell me that you have my prescriptions and you’re going to hand them over.”

“What?”

“White sheets of paper. My name, office address – ”

“I know what a prescription is,” she interrupted. “But if you’re talking about that huge stack of them in your bag, then no, I don’t have them. Airport security took them.”

Lawrence sagged back and closed his eyes. “Fuck.”

Ginnie had all but forgotten about the confiscated items.  But by the devastated look on his face, they were important.  She fought back the automatic sympathy.  Her former husband didn’t deserve it. 

“What the hell is going on, Lawrence?” she asked.

He opened his eyes and examined her face. “Holy shit. You really are this naïve, aren’t you? Of course, that’s one of the things I always liked about you. Even when you were acting like a tough bitch, I knew underneath that, you were all innocence.”

Ginnie didn’t like the sudden change in his tone.  Not that she had liked the other one, either, but now…He was almost leering at her.

“You’re drunk,” she said softly, hoping to diffuse whatever nefarious thoughts were forming in his head.

She failed.

“Must be why you look so pretty,” he told her.

She inched a bit farther away. “Is that supposed to be a compliment? I’m pretty because you’re drunk?”

“You were
always
pretty,” he amended. “Not much more than that. But definitely pretty.”

Lawrence’s gaze found her bare legs.

Shit.

Hadn’t the man dissolved their marriage because he found her sexually unappealing?

But there was no mistaking the way his bloodshot eyes moved up her body, and for the first time since putting on the revealing outfit, Ginnie wished she hadn’t.

Stop it,
she chastised herself.
Wearing something sexy doesn’t invite perverts to check you out.

And just like that, the fact that she felt so comfortable with Quinn, but completely unconnected to her former husband – that she simply thought of him as a creep she didn’t want to be stuck in an elevator with – was as far removed from funny as it could possibly be.

She steeled herself and straightened her shoulders. “I’m smart and resourceful, too. And I’ve taken a few self-defence classes.”

Lawrence smiled. “Since when do you need to defend yourself against me?”

Since when, indeed?

His smile widened, and he took a step toward her.

Ginnie refused to give in to the panic building in her chest.

He’s closer, but his hand is almost off the button.

Ginnie moved back, and Lawrence followed.

Now!

She dove sideways, and when he put up an arm, she ducked underneath it.  Her hand grazed the panel and a half a dozen buttons lit up before Lawrence pulled her back.  As the elevator started up again, he spun her around, slammed her to the wall, and suddenly his sour-tasting tongue was between her lips, his once-familiar arms crushing her in an unwanted embrace.

No. This isn’t happening. It’s not
going
to happen.

Ginnie bit down on the intrusion in her mouth, and when Lawrence pulled back with a yell, she brought her knee up and drove it straight between his legs.  He dropped to the ground, and for good measure, she gave him another kick. 

The elevator jerked to a stop, and tears blinded Ginnie as she sought the
Open Door
button.

C’mon, c’mon,
Ginnie urged silently.

On the floor, Lawrence muttered something unintelligible about tattoos and knives. 

“Shut up,” she snapped, and refused to look his way.

“Ginnie,” he wheezed.

“I said – ”

He cut her off. “Ask him about the ink. Then ask what he really wants.”

In spite of her resolve not to, Ginnie looked down at him. “What?”

“Ask yourself why a guy like that is so interested in a girl like you. Or better yet, ask
him
. You’re too
good
for him. And I don’t mean that nicely.”

And at last, the doors slid open.

Ignoring the way her former husband called after her, Ginnie threw herself into the hallway and stumbled toward the stairwell.

One floor down. Just one floor to Quinn.

She flung open the heavy door below the exit sign, and she collided with something solid.  She drew back a fist.

“Baby.”

Quinn’s voice, gruff and familiar, cut through the anger and the fear.

Thank God.

And she tossed herself into his arms hard enough that he had to catch himself on the railing and hold them both back from tumbling down the concrete stairs.

Twenty-Six

Quinn sat across from Ginnie, watching her down another shot.  Her fourth since they made their way into the corner booth of the strip bar.

Scantily clad servers worked around them, smiling and spilling drinks.

Even
more
scantily clad women gyrated on raised mini-stages placed strategically throughout the club.

A thumping beat boomed out above them, and the dollar bills were flying.

Quinn was pretty sure that Ginnie didn’t notice any of it.  She hadn’t spoken a word in the two-minute, SUV-style cab ride over, hadn’t commented when asked to hand over her I.D. to the bouncer and he’d called her Mrs. Michaels. 

Now, her focus was taken up by the clear liquid in the little glass.  That, and whatever thoughts were going on inside her head.  Which Quinn would’ve given his
own
last dollar to hear.

And he was near explosion. 

His fury at the other man for jumping him and dragging Ginnie into the elevator was surpassed only by his fury at himself for letting it happen.  He should’ve anticipated what was going to happen.  In all his years undercover, no one had
ever
got the better of him.  Not in a fight.  Not in a surprise attack like the one that just happened.  Never.  He could read situations and he could read other men, and he was sure he’d pegged Dr. Lawrence Michaels.

High and mighty, shit-don’t-stink weasel.

No way in hell had he expected the man to have the balls to do what he’d just done.

Quinn had been so stunned that his reaction had been delayed.  He’d sprung to his feet a second too late and been forced to watched as the elevator doors slid shut. 

Then the light above the door lit up, indicating which floor it was stopping at, and Quinn had finally come to his senses.  He bolted up the stairs, not quitting until he reached the correct floor. 

When the elevator lights sprung up – a dozen goddamned floors in a row – he’d all but panicked.  The sense of helplessness –
where the fuck was the asshole taking her and for the love of God what was he doing to her –
had been overwhelming.

He’d run to each floor indicated by the lit-up elevator sign, glad that at least the old fashioned piece of technology offered minimal guidance.

On the last floor, when Ginnie came flying through that door and just about knocked them both over, Quinn’s relief was as thick as his anger.

He’d wrapped his arms tightly around her and pulled her close.

She was shaking.  Crying.  And the bastard who’d grabbed her was nowhere to be seen.

“You’re okay, baby.” He wasn’t sure if it had been a question or a statement.

Her reply – “Take me out drinking. Now.” – was what had brought them here.  And it hadn’t satisfied Quinn in the least.

He’d opened his mouth a half a dozen times since they took their seats, unsure what to say.  What to ask.  What to do to get that mask on her face to fall away so she could work through whatever had happened in the elevator.

What the fuck did Dr. Douchebag do to her? If he – no. Fuck. Just no.

“Drink with me.”

At the soft request, Quinn’s eyes flew to Ginnie’s.

“Drink with me,” she said again.

“One of us should stay sober.”

“I can feel you sitting there,
brooding
.”

“If I’m brooding, what are you doing?”

“Wallowing.” She pushed her newly replaced shot glass toward him.

Quinn exhaled and pushed it back. “Sobriety is the only thing keeping me from breaking something. Or someone.”

“Do you want to know what happened in the elevator?”

“Yes.”

“Then drink with me.”

He met her level stare with one of his own, shot back the burning liquid, then flagged down the waitress for another round of shots.  And a beer, just for good measure. 

Ginnie didn’t speak again until they’d clinked their shot glasses together and slammed away the vodka inside.  When she did open her mouth, it wasn’t to offer an explanation.

“Talk to me,” she commanded.

“Ginnie…”

“Just for a minute, Quinn. I need a distraction.”

The waitress came by again, dropped down two more shots, and Quinn drank them both quickly so that Ginnie couldn’t help herself to another.  He had to admit that the liquor was going to his head a bit, too, and that he didn’t mind the sensation at all.

“What would you like me to talk about?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Yourself?”

“Myself?”

“Is that a problem?”

He met her gaze. “No.”

She swept her hand through the air drunkenly. “Good. Because I don’t see another hot, melted-cheese hater at my table.”

He forced a grin. “You think I’m hot?”

“Only in a tattooed Sasquatch kind of way.”

In spite of himself, Quinn’s smile turned genuine. “What do you want me to tell you?”

“Besides about cheese? I dunno.” Her gaze travelled around the bar, then came back to his face. “Have you been in a lot of strip bars?”

His grin slipped.  Girls and drugs were the bread and butter of the Black Daggers.

“Quinn?” Ginnie prodded.

He sighed, wondering again what it was about her that compelled him to tell the truth when he knew he should do the opposite.

“Yes, I’ve been in a lot of strip bars.”

“So this is what does it for you?”

It was it his turn to take a perusal of the club.  When he was younger – first on the job and green as hell – he’d considered the chosen business venue something of a perk.  Naked flesh and pretty girls.  Hard for a twenty-one year old man to dislike it. 

Pun intended.
 

As time went by, though, he got to know the women – mothers and students and moonlighters and addicts, there was no one set of rules for what brought them to the stages.  And as much as he hated to admit it, once their stories were in his head, he found it that much more difficult to enjoy himself.

Quinn took a generous pull of his beer. “No. This isn’t what does it for me.”

“What
does
do it for you?”

“It’s not obvious?” he asked.

“No.”

“You.”

“I was being serious.”

“So was I. A dozen naked girls around and all I see is you.”

It was tough to tell if the pink in her cheeks was from the alcohol or from a blush. “I bet that line’s worked for you a few times before.”

“If I was a betting man – which I’m not – I’d give you pretty shitty odds on that.” He leaned across the table. “Mostly because I’ve never used it.”

This time, it was definitely a blush. “So if you’re not into strippers, and you’re not into betting…Why you were going to Vegas? The all-you-can-eat buffets?”

“Isn’t that obvious, too?” Quinn deflected. “I was going to a hot, tattooed Sasquatch convention.”

“You’re soooooo funny.” She tapped his hand drunkenly.

Quinn tried to thread his fingers through hers and suppressed disappointment when she jerked away immediately.

“Maybe I was going to Vegas to do the same thing that you wanted to do…” he said lightly. “Sully my reputation a bit.”

“You just admitted that you spend an inordinate amount of time in strip clubs. I think it might be hard to
sully
your reputation.”

“You make it sound so dirty.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Not if it’s work.”

“Work?”

Quinn realized he’d slipped up and he covered it with another smile. “You don’t think work happens in strip bars?”

“I guess it depends on what line of work you’re in.”

“I guess it does.”

He felt her scrutiny as she examined his face.

Too smart for her own good,
her brother had once told Quinn.

“You’re not going to tell me what you do for work, are you?” she asked.

“Do you want to know about me?” he deflected. “Or my job?”

“Aren’t they kind of the same thing?”

“Related, maybe. But definitely not the same thing.”

“I don’t understand the difference.”

“What do
you
do for a living?” he asked, fully aware of the answer already.

Ginnie’s responding smile was best described as sardonic. “At the moment…Very little. I went to school to become a medical office assistant. But my – but
Lawrence
always
said I didn’t need to work.”

“And is that what defines you?” Quinn wanted to know. “Your lack of a job?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Are you avoiding my question?”

He shrugged, took a sip of his beer and said, “Definitely.”

“Why?”

“Why aren’t you telling me what just happened between you and your former husband?”

A pained looked crossed her face before she looked down at the table.  Quinn knew he was being given yet another opportunity to tell the truth.  He knew also, that this was the worst possible time.  Ginnie’s body language told a story that her easy, tipsy tone didn’t match.  Her hands were tense, her mouth pinched, and the only sparkle in her eyes was a result of the vodka in her system.

That. Or you’re using it as convenient excuse to avoid being completely honest.

Quinn shoved aside the voice in his head guiltily. “Ask me anything else, Ginnie.”

“All right. What’s the going rate for a lap dance?”

The unexpected question startled him. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I want one of those girls…” She pointed toward the closest mini-stage. “To give me a lap dance. Shimmy shimmy shake herself all over me.”

“That is
not
happening.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s not up to you.”

“You’re drunk, and – ” he cut himself off, sure he was just going to dig a hole he couldn’t readily climb out of.

“And what?”

Quinn ran a hand over his hair. “And something obviously happened in that elevator that’s affected your judgement.”

“You don’t know a damned thing. And being unreasonable is my prerogative.”

“You’re right. I
don’t
know a damned thing because you won’t
tell
me a damned thing. But taking you out of here before you do something you regret is
my
prerogative.”

“You’re not exactly being forthcoming, either. And you don’t get to make decisions for me.”

“Clearly, someone has to,” Quinn muttered.

“Why do you care what I do with my lap?”

Because your brother is
paying
me to care.

Quinn clamped down his jaw – hard – to stop the furious, barely true statement from slipping out. 

Now isn’t the time.

He leaned back on his chair.

“I
don’t
care,” he lied. “If you want a damned lap dance, get a damned lap dance.”

For a second, he was sure he saw hurt mingled with surprise in her eyes, and then it was gone. “Fine.”

“Hell, I’ll pay for it myself.”

He dragged his wallet from his back pocket, peeled out two fifties, and held them up until the waitress bounced over.

“Tell her what you want,” he ordered.

Ginnie’s eyes widened nervously, and her voice had a distinct tremor in it. “A lap dance.”

The waitress shrugged. “For you or him, sugar?”

Quinn watched Ginnie inhale and smooth her hands over her very short skirt, visibly steeling herself. “For me.”

“Private room?”

“Yes, pl – yes,” Ginnie said firmly.

The server’s eyes flicked back to Quinn. “It’s an extra twenty if you want to watch.”

He opened his mouth to tell her how little interest he had in seeing someone grind all over Ginnie, but when he actually spoke, what he said instead was, “I wouldn’t miss it for the fucking world.”