Quinn's Woman (10 page)

She glanced at the wall clock. “You probably have to be somewhere, huh?”

He laughed. “Subtle, D.J., real subtle.”

He made no move to leave.

“I have to get to work,” she said. “I have a business to run.”

“Fair enough. Just answer one question.”

She braced herself, knowing she wasn’t going to like it. “What?”

“Why did going out to dinner with me throw you more than what you’d offered before?”

She might have known he would see her discomfort. She searched for a good lie, but couldn’t find one. Which left the truth.

“Sex is easy because it doesn’t matter.”

His expression didn’t change. “It can.”

“Has it ever for you? Even once?”

He hesitated. “Maybe a few times.”

“Sure. It’s that way for guys. Why does it have to be different for me?”

He studied her face. “I guess it doesn’t. See you tonight.”

He walked out of the room and headed for the office. When the front door closed behind him, D.J. breathed out a sigh of relief. That was over.

Except it wasn’t. Even though Quinn had physically left the office, she couldn’t stop thinking about him. When she thought about their dinner that night, she felt an odd combination of apprehension and anticipation.

Crazy, she told herself. She barely knew the man.

He didn’t matter in any significant way. Nor was he ever going to. Letting a man get close was a recipe for disaster.

With a shiver, she remembered the flashback she’d had of her father. Cold seeped into her, but she ignored it. He was long since dead and she’d never spent a single day mourning the loss. She refused to waste another minute thinking about him now.

D.J. felt like an idiot...probably because she looked like one.

She sat in front of the mirror and fingered the curlers in her hair. Rebecca lightly slapped away her hand.

“You’ll mess up my hard work. Now try the darker lipstick.”

D.J. dutifully picked up the tube Rebecca gave her and applied the color over the medium pink she’d already put on. When she was finished, she waited for her friend’s pronouncement.

Rebecca tilted her head and wrinkled her nose. “Better, but not perfect.”

“It’s lipstick. It doesn’t have to be perfect.”

Rebecca muttered something under her breath and reached for another tube from the bag she’d dragged over. While she searched for the right shade, D.J. studied her reflection in the mirror and wondered – for the seven hundred and fifty-second time – why she’d agreed to the date.

Not a date, she reminded herself. Payment. Unfortunately the definition clarification didn’t make her feel any better about what she was doing. The smoky eye shadow and dark mascara didn’t help, either. Makeup, jewelry and high heels were typical female trappings she generally avoided for an assortment of reasons. Tonight she was hampered by all three.

Simple diamond studs – a loan from Rebecca – glittered at her ears. Per Quinn’s instructions, she would wear a dress. Per Rebecca’s insistence, she would wear high heels. With her hair up in big, fat curlers, she felt like a contestant in a low-end beauty pageant.

“Try this,” Rebecca said, handing over another tube.

D.J. cleaned the brush and carefully applied the color. This time her lips looked full and lush. Surprised, she leaned back to judge the effect.

“See?” Rebecca sounded triumphant. “It can be perfect. Now dab a little gloss in the center of your bottom lip. It will make you look pouty.”

D.J. rolled her eyes. “I’m not the pouty type.” “You are tonight. You’re going to knock his socks off.”

“I hate to disappoint you but everyone will be keeping his or her clothes on.”

Her friend grinned. “So you say now. But that could change. Things happen.”

Not likely. Quinn had already turned down sex as payment, and there was no way he would get it any other way. Her interest in the man was strictly business.

“You’re too damn cheerful,” D.J. muttered as Rebecca began tugging the curlers from her hair.

“I can’t help it. You’re going on a date with a gorgeous single guy. You’re even wearing a dress. I have high hopes that he’s the one.”

D.J. felt badly for not explaining that the dress had nothing to do with her desire to impress her date, but she wasn’t comfortable telling Rebecca about her deal.

“I’m not looking for ‘the one,’” she said instead.

“You always say that, but I refuse to believe you. You need the love of a good man.”

“Not even on a bet. I’m strong and independent. This two-by-two crap is simply social conditioning.”

Rebecca unrolled the last curler, then reached for her brush. “You’ve missed the point completely,” she said as she fluffed curls. “While having someone love you would be nice, the more important lesson is for you to love a man. Cover your eyes.”

D.J. didn’t want to be having this conversation in the first place, so she dutifully covered her face with her hands and held her breath as her friend doused her in half a can of hair spray. She felt a few picks and tugs, then was completely covered in a second fine, sticky mist.

“Open,” Rebecca said.

D.J. peeked through her fingers, then dropped her hands to her lap and groaned. “I look like a porn star.”

Rebecca’s lips pressed together in disapproval. “We’ll get some clothes on you.”

D.J. tugged at her robe. “I meant my hair.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

D.J. gestured with her fingers, but couldn’t begin to explain how she felt about the cascading curls tumbling down her back and over her shoulders. Fluffy bangs fell to her eyebrows. She felt all girly and inept.

“You look fabulous,” Rebecca said. “Now for the dress.”

She disappeared into the closet where D.J. knew the pickings in there were fairly slim. While she would put on a suit for business presentations, that didn’t exactly fit the outfit Quinn had described. Most of her dresses were pretty conservative and – Rebecca reappeared with a box in each hand. The shoe box she’d been expecting, but the other one got her to her feet and glaring. “No way,” she said.

Rebecca dropped the shoe box onto the bed and pulled the top off the other one. “You have to.” “I don’t.”

Her friend pulled out a black lace dress that D.J. had bought on impulse from a catalog and had never worn.

“It’s beautiful.”

D.J. shook her head. “It’s practically nonexistent.”

Rebecca shook out the dress. It was black lace, with a low neckline and a hem that barely covered her thighs. The long sleeves weren’t lined, and the back dipped nearly to her fanny. The only thing that kept the shoulders in place was a small section of elastic and prayer.

“Not on a bet,” she growled.

“You want to look good for your date, don’t you?”

“It’s not a date.”

“You have to.”

“I don’t.”

“For me?” Rebecca looked beseeching. “Please?”

The knock came right on time. Quinn crossed to the door and pulled it open. He had a smile prepared, along with a few inconsequential comments. But the sight of D.J. sucked the smart right from his brain.

He opened his mouth, closed it and nearly reached up to rub his eyes. He had to be seeing things. Yeah, he’d demanded a dress, cleavage and leg, but he’d never thought she would listen. He’d expected to be challenged; he hadn’t considered he could be blown away.

From the top of her thick, curly hair down to black pumps with a narrow heel sharp enough to be classified as a weapon, she was living, breathing, erotic temptation.

Makeup highlighted her perfect features. The dress – a barely legal scrap of black lace – dipped low enough to expose the space between her breasts and more than hinted at the concealed curves. Long, long, toned legs stretched endlessly, making him wonder what it would be like to have them wrapped around him and pulling him close.

Wanting slammed into him. Wanting and need and more than a little surprise. Damn. She got him good.

But he couldn’t risk a compliment. Not when that’s what she would be expecting.

“You’re on time,” he said.

“Whatever. Just so we’re all clear. This isn’t a date.”

“Of course not.”

His sports coat hung over the chair by the door. He grabbed it, along with his room key and stepped out into the hall.

“Are we still allowed to have a good time?” he asked as they walked toward the stairs.

“Sure.”

He chuckled at the tension in her voice.

When they stepped into the parking lot, she turned toward a black SUV. So the lady wanted them to take her car. Quinn glanced from the high step up to her short dress and couldn’t wait to see her climb in.

“Want me to drive?” he asked.

She hesitated, then handed over the keys. “Okay.”

He hit the unlock button, then opened her door. She ignored the hand he offered and climbed up into the seat. Her skirt rode up to the top of her thigh, giving him a clear view of female perfection. On cue, heat exploded in his groin, nearly searing him with the intensity.

It was going to be a hell of an evening, he thought as he closed her door and walked around to the driver’s side. D.J. taking him prisoner was the best thing to have happened to him in years.

They were immediately shown to a table in a quiet corner. D.J. was grateful to be out of the line of sight of the front door for a couple of reasons. First, she didn’t want to see anyone she knew walking into the restaurant. Second, if she couldn’t see the exit, she would be less tempted to bolt for it.

She slid onto the smooth leather of the booth bench and set her small purse next to her. The steak house was dark and elegant, and midweek it was half-empty.

Quinn glanced around. “Nice place,” he said. “Come here often?”

D.J. thought about her nonexistent social life. A big night out for her was joining Rebecca and her family at a pizza place. “I’ve been a couple of times. The food is good.”

The waiter appeared and handed them menus, along with a wine list. As he detailed the specials, Quinn flipped through the wine list.

“May I bring you something to drink?” the waiter asked.

Quinn looked at her. “Do you drink wine?”

“Sure.”

He ordered a bottle of cabernet sauvignon.

She’d been thinking more along the lines of half a glass. Not that she would let him know she was concerned, because she wasn’t. She would drink as much or as little as she wanted.

When the waiter left, she opened her menu and tried to read the selections. But she was too nervous. Her attention kept snapping back to the man sitting across from her.

He’d been appealing in military garb and tempting in jeans and a shirt. In a suit, he looked like a successful CEO attending a board meeting. The dark fabric of his jacket make his eyes look black. The crisp, white shirt emphasized the firm line of his jaw. His tie looked like silk and was the color of brushed silver.

She shifted slightly and glanced at his face. He was watching her. Thinking what? Did he know he made her nervous? Had he figured out how much she hated that he made her nervous?

Before she could decide, the waiter appeared with the bottle of wine. He opened it expertly, then poured a small amount into Quinn’s glass. Quinn rotated the liquid slightly, inhaled the fragrance of the wine, then tasted it.

“Fine,” he said with a nod.

After the waiter had poured for both of them and disappeared, Quinn raised his glass toward her. “To what each of us is about to learn,” he said.

She wasn’t sure she liked the toast, but she couldn’t come up with one on her own. So she touched her glass to his and took a sip of the wine. It was surprisingly smooth, with lots of flavor, but no bitterness. She was more of a white wine kind of gal, but this wasn’t bad.

“Very nice,” she said, and set her glass on the table.

“I’m glad you approve.” He glanced at her menu. “Do you know what you want?”

She closed her menu and went with what was easy. “Salad, steak, baked potato.”

He nodded, then motioned for their waiter. After ordering for her – what was it about the phrase “the lady will have” that sounded so elegant – and himself, he waited until the waiter left, then turned his attention back to her.

“You said you didn’t grow up in Glenwood,” he told her. “What part of the country are you from?”

D.J. couldn’t remember mentioning anything about her past, but maybe she had. They’d chatted during their six-mile run. At least, he’d chatted and she’d panted her way through labored conversation.

It was possible she’d gasped out a few insignificant facts while her lungs were screaming for more air.

“I grew up in southern California,” she said. “Los Angeles.”

“Glenwood must have been an adjustment.”

“An easy one.”

He raised his dark eyebrows. “Small-town America at its best?”

“Something like that.”