Playing for Keeps (2 page)

“New York wasn't the same without you.” Sage pouted.

“You mean you weren't the same without him,” Malik chuckled, swirling around on his bar stool.

Sage turned and glared at Malik. “Same thing. So? How was your first day back in the real world?”

“It was fine. Actually, it was great because I told my agent I was taking a much-needed vacation.” Quentin pulled up a bar stool next to Malik.

“I don't believe it,” Malik said. “Mr. Workaholic is actually going to take a vacation?”

“How long?” Dante piped in.

“A few weeks.”

“Wow, I'm shocked!” Malik said.

Quentin shrugged. “It was time. Plus, I missed you guys.”

“Well, I for one couldn't be happier,” Sage said beaming. “Now we can get reacquainted.”

“Let's drink to your return,” Dante suggested and went behind the bar. He pulled out several shot glasses and some Cuervo tequila, their former drink of choice, and set them on the bar. He poured generous shots and pushed them toward the trio.

“To the return of Camelot,” Malik said, holding up his shot glass.

“To the return of Camelot,” they all cheered, clicked shot glasses and swished the burning liquid down their throats.

Afterward, Quentin turned his shot glass over and said, “What do you say we get out of here? While I was out at a coffee shop earlier, I heard about a new artist's showing tonight at a gallery in SoHo and they always have free food.”

“You don't want to eat here?” Dante asked, clutching his heart. “I think I'm offended.”

“Of course not, Dante,” Quentin replied, leaning over the bar and patting his shoulder. “But I've been out of the art scene too long and need to get my feet wet. There will be plenty of nights spent here, my friend.”

“I'm onboard,” Sage said. Even though Quentin said he was sticking around, Sage figured she had better spend as much time with him as possible before he bolted out of town for greener pastures.

“Well, I can't,” Dante said. “I have to stay here and keep an eye on my investment.” His tapas bar had only been open for less than a year, which was make-or-break for a new business, and Dante couldn't afford to fail. He'd put all his savings from years spent as a sous-chef into the restaurant and thus far it was barely making a profit. Several patrons were inside and he had to make sure they had the best tapas experience ever, so they would come back
and
tell their friends.

“I understand completely,” Quentin said. “How about you, Malik?”

“Sure, I'll come. Any time I don't have to cook is always a good thing.” Malik slipped off the stool. “Dante, pass me my bag.” Malik accepted the bag and threw it over his shoulder.

Quentin, Sage and Malik left several minutes later and took the blue line to the Henri Lawrence Gallery in SoHo. They were there within fifteen minutes. They scammed their way past the hostess checking invitations. The gallery was not as trendy as the ones Quentin had frequented in London, but it did have a red carpet, coat check and waiters serving haute appetizers, along with several B-list celebrities, which certainly gave it the appearance of being posh.

Usually on par, Quentin, however, found himself a tad underdressed among this crowd of suit-and-ties and cocktail frocks.

“Quentin, I think we missed the mark on this one,” Malik said. His dashiki and Birkenstocks certainly did not fit in. At least Quentin fared better in his pullover sweater and trousers.

Sage sighed. “We're here now. You're just going to have to work it.” Sage strutted past several onlookers in her wrap dress and knee-high leather boots to grab three flutes of champagne from the waiter. She returned and handed them each a flute. “See how easy that was?”

“Yes, that was easy for you,” Malik said. “Because look at you.” He glanced sideways at her. “You look like you just stepped off the pages of a fashion magazine.”

Quentin laughed. He admired Sage's confidence and followed her lead by trailing the waiter across the room and taking several hors d'oeuvres off the platter. He popped a few into his mouth.

“Crashing the party, are we?” Avery asked, leaning against a column nearby. She had seen him and his crew of misfits arrive and by the looks of them, it was clear they weren't on her invitation list.

She'd remember if she had invited him. He was tall, dark and handsome. Bald with a sexy goatee and wearing a diamond stud in his ear, he was edgy and certainly not her type, but for some reason she couldn't turn away. The cable pullover sweater he wore did nothing to hide his athletic physique and broad shoulders from her admiring female gaze. In fact, it emphasized that a rock-hard body lay underneath. Avery felt her body heat rising and nervously moistened her dry lips.

Hearing the melodic sound of a feminine voice, Quentin turned around. He wasn't surprised to discover it belonged to a tall, slender beauty with brilliant green eyes. Unfortunately, she was wearing a pantsuit that hid all her God-given assets.
Why did women have to dress up like men?

“Is it that obvious?” Quentin inquired, placing a hand on the column alongside her face.

Avery stared at his hand. She didn't like the feeling of being closed in by this man, or feeling his warm breath against her face or the smell of his masculine cologne wafting through her nose, so instead she eyed him up and down. “What do you think?” she replied.

Quentin couldn't recall a woman who'd looked at him with such total disdain and it was an instant turnoff. Upon closer inspection, he was able to survey her angular face and scrutinize her slim figure. She was classically beautiful with skin the color of café-au-lait, arresting green eyes and a mass of long hair held in an unflattering bun with bangs, not to mention a narrow waist and petite breasts, which Quentin didn't care for. He preferred his women curvier and with a lot more meat on their bones. Or maybe he was just peeved by the sarcastic tone in her voice?

She pointed to Sage and Malik. “Perhaps you and your friends should think twice about your attire the next time you crash a party, as I'm sure this is not your first.” She pushed up from the column, ducked underneath his arm and turned to face him.

“Ouch.” Quentin feigned being hurt and touched his chest. “Do you always draw blood at first bite?”

“Only when provoked,” Avery returned cattily, folding her arms across her chest as she tried to resist smiling at his clever comeback.

Quentin tried a different approach by explaining himself, something he never did. He didn't know why he was now—perhaps it was the way she scoffed at him? “I'm really not as bad as I appear. I've been in London for a while and flew in this morning on the red-eye. I admit I'm a little tired.”

“And in need of a free meal, I presume?” Avery arched an eyebrow.

“So, I take it you think I'm some bum off the street, a freeloader?”

“Aren't you?” she asked, circling around him. And as she did, she received a tantalizing view of his tight rear end. “Here for the free food and drink, that is? I doubt you even know the first thing about art.”

“Listen, lady,” Quentin began. He didn't appreciate being insulted by a virtual stranger who knew nothing about the hardships he'd endured. He hadn't grown up with a silver spoon in his mouth. “You don't know the first thing about me.”

Avery narrowed her eyes. “And I don't care to.” She didn't need to. Con artists like him were a dime a dozen in New York. They were always trying to rob good people out of their money.

“Is everything all right over here?” Jenna had returned, carrying several cheese puffs and mini quiches. She glanced back and forth at Avery and batted her eyelashes at the tall, dark and handsome man.

“Everything's just fine,” Quentin answered, sipping on his champagne. “It appears your friend thinks I'm a lazy freeloader here only for the free food and drink.”

Jenna chuckled. “Hey, so am I.” She playfully touched his shoulder with her fingertips. “You should try the mini beef Wellingtons. They are to die for.”

“Thanks for the 411.” Quentin glared at Avery one final time and walked away.

Avery breathed a sigh of relief once he'd gone. He'd upset her equilibrium when she needed to be calm and cool headed for the evening.

“What was that all about?” Jenna inquired. “I sensed some sexual tension in the air.”

“There was nothing sexual between me and that man,” Avery replied haughtily as she watched Quentin underneath hooded eyes.

“If you say so,” Jenna said. “But if you ask me, there should have been. You did happen to notice how fine he was.”

“I wasn't looking,” Avery lied again. She hadn't missed that twinkle in his eyes when he'd spoken or those luscious lips or the way her stomach had curled at the silken sound of his sexy baritone voice.

“Hmmph,” was all Jenna could mutter. She didn't buy for one minute that Avery wasn't the least bit attracted.

From across the room, Quentin took the other woman's advice and munched on some mini beef Wellingtons. She was much more his type. Beautiful face, large bosom, curvy bottom and completely feminine, just the way he liked his women.

“So, my boss tells me that I need to log more hours,” Sage rattled on. “As if sixty-hour work weeks aren't already enough. Can you believe that?”

“Then, I suggest you chop, chop,” Malik said.

As Sage discussed her no-win situation, Quentin stood beside them fuming at the audacity of that ice queen. She hadn't tried to hide her obvious contempt for him and his friends crashing her party.

“What do you think, Q?” Sage inquired, turning sideways.

“What was that?” Quentin asked distractedly.

“I was telling Malik that my job was in jeopardy.”

“At least you have one,” Malik said.

“What do you mean?” Quentin asked. “I thought you were director of the community center.”

“I am but the King Corporation is buying up property on my block all in an effort to build some new entertainment complex and a slew of condos in the neighborhood. If Richard King wins, the Children's Aid Network that owns the property will be forced to sell and I'll be out of a job.”

“Didn't he buy up another low-income neighborhood a couple of years ago?” Sage asked. She remembered reading something in the
New York Times
.

“Yes,” Malik answered, “which is why I need your help, Quentin.” Malik poked him to get his attention since he was staring across the room again at some woman.

“What do you need?”

“Oh, I don't know. You're the photographer. I thought you could come by the center, take a few photos. You know, showcase what a benefit the center is to the community.”

“And if these photos were to end up on the front page of a newspaper or some high-profile magazine, then all the better, right?” Quentin asked. Malik wasn't slick. He probably figured with Quentin's connections, a high-profile story might squash the deal.

Malik shrugged matter-of-factly.

“Of course I'll help.” Quentin patted Malik's back. “After everything that center did for us, how could I not? If it weren't for Andrew Webster putting a camera in my hand and showing me how to use it, I would not be where I am today. How is the old man anyway?” Andrew had been a wonderful mentor to Quentin.

“Thanks.” Malik bumped his shoulder against Quentin's. “Mr. Webster's getting old and has passed the torch to me, but there may not be a legacy for me to continue.”

“I understand.” Quentin nodded. “Consider it done. Now, if you'll excuse me.” He had some pressing business to attend to.

 

Avery noticed the stranger had joined Nora Stark, a prominent art buyer. She was sure he couldn't hold his own in a conversation with such a heavyweight and was on her way toward him when Hunter stopped her.

“Avery, how are we doing?” Hunter inquired.

“We've sold five paintings thus far.”

“That's it? Perhaps you ought to be circulating instead of talking to your girlfriend and that party crasher.” So he, too, had noticed they had uninvited guests.

“I could throw them out,” Avery suggested. “I thought you might not want any negative press tonight, but if I was wrong, please let me know.”

Hunter rolled his eyes. “No, no. I agree with you. Better we allow them a little free food than make a public display.”

“Excellent idea,” Avery said. “If you'll excuse me.” She stalked toward Nora Stark and the stranger, whom she was determined to bring down a peg or two.

“Nora.” She kissed either cheek of the older Caucasian woman holding center stage. “How lovely to see you.” She had noticed the stranger's eyes narrow when she'd approached.

Nora pulled back and admired Avery's ensemble. “Avery, darling, you're looking splendid as always. How is your mother, dear?”