by Reid, Penny
Quinn’s jaw ticked and he glanced away briefly; when he returned his gaze to mine, his face was somehow harder. “However, once we began trailing him, we discovered that he was dealing in a large amount of product—a very large amount. Also, we found that he was drugging young girls and raping them.”
My eyes widened. “You—you let him…?”
“No.” Quinn’s hands reached for my arms as though to stay any potential retreat. “No. Pete was trailing him that night and stopped Damon before he could do anything more harmful than filling the girl’s system with benzodiazepines. But we believe that she was not the first.”
“God…what happened?”
His voice turned monotone once more, his expression grim, but he didn’t release me. “I confronted his parents with the information we found, showed them the evidence of their son’s misdeeds, and told them that I would have to turn him over to the police.”
I waited for him to continue. He didn’t, so I asked. “Unless…?”
He shook his head. “No. No unless. It wasn’t about leverage. I told them it was going to happen and explained why I had to end our professional relationship.”
“But…weren’t they upset? What did they do?”
“Yes, they were very mad, and they tried to bribe me, to bury it. Then, they threatened me.”
“What did you do?”
He shrugged. “I told them that I was also aware of their off-shore holdings and eleven prior years of tax evasion.”
“And…they chose their offshore holdings over their son?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you turn the parents in? If you were already exposing the son, why not the parents as well?”
“When we discover something like exploitation, rape, drug distribution, we don’t hold on to it, we pass it on to the police through an anonymous tip. Sometimes we provide tangible evidence, like video, audio, or pictures. In this case, Damon was arrested possessing a very large amount of cocaine with intent to distribute, which is a felony and an automatic fifteen-year sentence.”
“And the parents?”
“Their tax evasion is insurance against retaliation.” Quinn’s eyes narrowed and he took a deep breath. “Honestly, though, I think they were relieved. Their son had been a pain in the ass for a long time.”
“But…what about the girls?”
“Since we stopped him before he violated the girl, the drug charge carried the heavier sentence. I passed on as much of the rape evidence I had; that way, if any women come forward, their stories can be corroborated. I stepped up the timeline for his arrest after I found you in the Canopy room.”
I nodded, thought about this, then asked for additional clarification just in case. “You always pass this kind of stuff through to the police? Always?”
“Yes. Always. In fact, I’ve pulled a few other files for you to see—they’re at the office waiting for you. Nothing as bad as Damon Parducci, but similar issues where we’ve turned the bad guys over to the cops.”
“Who makes the determination? Who decides if the misdeed is bad enough to turn over or…not bad enough to use as leverage?”
Quinn inhaled, his gaze steady, but his jaw tight. Finally, he said, “I do.”
I studied him. This wasn’t a revelation so much as verification of my educated guess. I analyzed his confirmation from several angles. The responsibility he’d saddled himself with was a terrible burden, especially since it wasn’t his to begin with. Laws, courts, judges, and juries existed to administer justice.
He was a superhot vigilante.
“Oh, Quinn….” I gave him a sympathetic smile. “You really are Batman.”
He breathed a small laugh and closed his eyes. “Something like that. But, you were right, I’ve benefited from the information I’ve gathered.” His lids lifted and his gaze felt somehow determined, sharp. “It was all about revenge at first, gathering as much information as I could so that I would be able to destroy the people who killed my brother. After that….”
I wanted to prod him for more, but waited.
Quinn’s hands dropped from my arms and he glanced over my head. “Let’s just say I’m talented at using people.”
I watched him for a long moment. It was too much to absorb. All this detail sharing led to more questions. I needed to get my head out of the weeds and think about the big picture, what he’d ultimately done with information he’d gathered, what information he still possessed that should be turned over, what would happen if he did pass it to the police.
What were the broader ramifications—not just for us, but for the victims of these bad guys?
I couldn’t ignore the fact that Quinn used secrets to persuade people to do what he wanted. I called it blackmail when he first told me that night in London. The line between persuasion and blackmail was a thin one; it might not have been technically illegal.
Technical honesty and technical legality were concepts that were dissonant with right and wrong. I liked my labels, which meant I didn’t like relativistic morality.
Eventually he brought his gaze back to mine, his head tilted to the side, one of his eyebrows raised. “You wanted to talk about something else.”
I was still deep in my hamster wheel of analysis. “What?”
“When I came in, you said you wanted to talk about things that matter, but it wasn’t the private clients.”
I shook my head slowly. “No. It wasn’t the private clients. Although, admittedly and in retrospect, what I wanted to talk about feels a bit ridiculous.”
“What was it?” He asked this question gently, like nothing about me was ridiculous.
“I’m only going to tell you because I need some time to think about what you’ve just shared with me, and this other topic—it is ridiculous. But it will provide a distraction.” I paused, took a quick survey of my thoughts on the subject, then added, “I think I’m going to need a lot of time to think about what you’ve just shared.”
“Take all the time you need.” Quinn brushed the hair from my shoulder.
“I’ll have more questions.”
“I expected you would.”
“But you trusted that I wouldn’t overreact?”
He nodded. “Yes. After our conversation in London, and what happened on the plane after…and when you let go of the idea of a prenup, I trusted that you wouldn’t overreact.”
“Hmm….” I gave him a little smile, just a little one, then gathered a deep breath to tell him how I felt about his inappropriate gentlemanliness.
“Quinn, I don’t want you to open doors for me anymore.”
He looked at me, his expression blank, and I didn’t know if that meant he was angry, annoyed, or confused. So I continued.
“I feel like it’s inappropriate for you to order my meal. I am fully capable of speaking to waiters and waitresses. Also, I can pull out my own chair.”
“You’re upset because I have good manners?”
“It’s that, you don’t do these things for other people. I’ve never seen you pull out a chair for anyone else. You do these things for me because I’m a woman.”
The skin around his eyes crinkled as though he were smiling. He wasn’t smiling, but he wasn’t frowning either. “I was not expecting this.”
“Well…it’s how I feel.”
He leaned against the arm of the chair behind him, folded his arms over his chest, and looked at me like I was the most adorable thing he’d ever seen.
Then he said, “Kitten, have you ever considered it’s my way of telling both you and the world that you matter to me? It’s not about you being a woman. In fact, it’s more about me than you. Doing these things, even though they’re small, give me an outlet to show how I…what I think about you.”
“But it also makes me feel like I’m showing the world that I’m weak. By your logic, I should be holding doors for you. We can’t both be holding doors all the time. We’d never make it into a building.”
“You’re not going to star
t holding doors for me; that’s not going to happen.”
“Quinn, it makes me feel like a hypocrite. I want equal treatment. If I want the same salary as a man in a similar position, then that means I can open my own door and put on my own coat. Accepting these gestures, simply because I’m a woman, is not equal treatment.”
“It’s not because you’re a woman. It’s because you’re my woman.”
“Quinn….”
“Okay.” He lifted his hands to stop me, then said, “Think of yourself as a 1964 mint condition Ford Mustang with all original parts.”
I squinted at him and huffed through my nose. I thought I knew where he was going with this, but I wasn’t sure I should feel good about being compared to a car, even if it was a 1964 Ford Mustang, the coolest car ever of all time.
“Okay….”
“Now, if I had that car, I’d take really good care of it, right? In fact, I’d be careful taking it out. I might avoid certain parts of town that had potholes. I’d make sure it was treated well, and I’d make sure it was safe when I wasn’t driving it, right?”
“But I’m not the coolest car of all time. I’m a person.”
“Yes you are. You are my person. And I’m yours.”
I squinted at him, felt like I was missing something obvious. “What are you trying to say that I’m not understanding?”
He reached for and held my hands with his, his smile soft and cherishing. “You do so many things for me because you love me, just to show me how much you care.”
I could see where he was going now, and it was an excellent point.
I nodded, biting my lip, and conceded. “Yes.”
“I would never ask you to stop doing those things.”
I countered, “You would if the things I did made you feel like a weak hypocrite.”
Quinn paused at that, considered me, then said, “You told me once that intentions matter.”
“That’s right. They do.” Gah! Another good point.
“It’s not my intention to make you feel weak. I would never want to do that.”
He was winning this argument. Rather, it wasn’t really an argument. It was a debate. He was winning this debate. I was now on the fence. He was an excellent persuader.
I opened my mouth to challenge him again, just because I wasn’t ready to admit defeat without trying once more, but then he said, “I wish it didn’t bother you. I wish you would let me continue to show you how much I respect you by giving you deference. I know you can pull out your own chair, but I like doing it. I like showing the world you matter to me, that you matter most.”
Part V
Vegas, baby. Vegas
Chapter Twenty-One
As it turned out, Nico Manganiello was right. He and Elizabeth were in love, and they did become engaged. But that’s a different story for a different day.
Lots of things happened over the month and a half that followed our week in Boston with Quinn’s parents. Many were noteworthy—for example, I learned to crochet.
Also, after several rounds of intense negotiations bordering on fights, Quinn and I came to a compromise about his antiquated manners. We made a list of gentlemanly behaviors, and I chose the top three things that I found irksome; these included speaking for me in any capacity—like ordering food—opening doors for me, and pulling out my chair.
In the end, once we resorted to arguing while naked, we agreed that he would stop ordering for me; as well, he would sometimes open my door, and sometimes I would open my own door. But he won the pulling-out-the-chair debate when we reached a stalemate and a coin had to be flipped.
But none of these noteworthy things involved artificial stress brought on by wedding planning.
However, one event in particular did involve actual stress brought on by wedding planning.
Shelly did not take Quinn’s news of reconciliation with his parents very well. We told her the Saturday after getting back from Boston. She walked out of Giavanni’s Pancake House, abandoning her pancakes, and hadn’t returned any of my or Quinn’s phone calls since.
She also wouldn’t take any of my calls, and her absence in our lives bothered me. I didn’t understand why the reconciliation had upset her so deeply. Then again, her behavior was erratic at the best of times.
We decided to give her some time, then corner her at her house in a few weeks. Actually, I decided we would corner her at her house in a few weeks. I hadn’t told Quinn about my plan yet, but I was sure he would be one hundred percent on board when the time came.
I also decided to ignore Jem’s request for contact. Quinn got her a good lawyer—which was somewhat awkward since she’d broken into his parents’ house—and I washed my hands of the situation. I was in a good place, I was happy, and I just wanted to stay in the happy zone for as long as possible.
Katherine, Quinn’s mom, had taken over the planning like a champion. I didn’t know if there were such a thing as a wedding planning championship; but given the fact that Bucharest had a yearly feline beauty contest, I thought the chance of a competition for best wedding planner was highly possible.
She actually seemed to enjoy it. Marie also helped. Basically, she served as the style consultant. I got the impression that Marie’s happy abandon and dedication to the wedding had everything to do with the fact that she was determined to never get married.
Marie informed me of this one knit night while the two of us were in the kitchen mixing lemon drops.
Between the two of them, I’m not sure who was enjoying themselves more.
Probably Marie. She seemed to take a certain glee in spending Quinn’s money, whereas Katherine was always trying to stick to a smaller budget.
Regardless, I was happy to hand it over and forget about it. To be honest, once I was done picking out a wedding dress, I did kind of forget about it.
That’s why, when the girls showed up at my office on a Thursday afternoon during the last week of May, I was confused.
I glanced up from my computer expecting to see Steven or Quinn. They were the only two people in the office who never knocked. Instead, I was greeted by Sandra, Ashley, Kat, Fiona, and Marie.
I looked at Sandra; Sandra winked at me. I looked at Ashley; Ashley grinned at me. I looked at Fiona; Fiona lifted her chin in greeting. I looked at Kat; Kat smiled shyly at me. I looked at Marie; Marie gave me two thumbs up.
I frowned at them.
“Um….” I said, glancing at the clock. “It’s Thursday.”
“Yep!” Sandra stepped forward and sat on the edge of my desk.
“Did we move knit night?”
“Nope.” She started swinging her legs back and forth, and her wide green eyes were distressingly excited. At least, I found the excitement in them distressing. It was never a good sign when Sandra was this excited.
“Then…what’s going on?”
“We need to get a move on if we’re going to make our flight.”
My eyebrows jumped. “Our flight?”
“That’s right, Sexy-Brains. Bachelorette party—it’s a tradition! It’s two o’clock Thursday, May twenty-ninth, and we have permission to kidnap you for the next three days. So, turn that computer off, get your ass up, and prepare thyself for Vegas.”
* * *
Elizabeth met us at the airport. Apparently, she’d packed my bag for me. This was worrisome as she was always trying to force me to dress like a harlot.
It should be noted that no judgment is implied by the term harlot. Harlots dress to sell their body. Therefore, the clothes they wear accentuate the areas of their body that are most desirable to customers.
I did not want to sell my body. Therefore, I did not enjoy it when people looked at me like I was for sale.
I was both pleased and alarmed to find that we were not taking Quinn’s private jet. Instead, he’d purchased all the tickets in first class on a commercial carrier and, per Sandra’s request, lemon drops were waiting for us as soon as we stepped aboard.
I had four during
the flight only because I was trying to keep pace with everyone else.
A limo—of course—was waiting for us when we arrived. This was actually a good thing, because we were all drunk. I thought I recognized the driver as one of the guards who took me dress shopping with Quinn’s mother in Boston, but I couldn’t be sure.
Because I was drunk at five in the afternoon.
Luckily, we were in Las Vegas. I contemplated the fact that being drunk in Las Vegas was like being sober everywhere else in the world. So…normal. As well, I briefly wondered what it would take to determine the percentage of people on the strip who were sober at any given hour.
I guessed the number would be as fascinating as it was shocking, but likely not surprising.
When we stumbled into our hotel room, everyone gasped, myself included.
It was enormous.
It must’ve been one of the largest hotel rooms in the world. I wouldn’t know for certain until I’d measured the square footage.
The entrance opened to a waterfall behind glass that was lit from the ceiling. To the right was a huge bar with every type of liquor imaginable. To the left was a hallway. Behind the waterfall was a giant living room with four couches, seven chairs, and a panoramic view of Las Vegas as seen from the forty-ninth floor.
The suite reminded me a 1970s lounge, if everything in that lounge had been brand-new, lacked wood paneling, was oversized, red, orange, and gold, and felt like heaven.
The red couches were soft. The orange shag carpet was softer. The bearskin rug in front of the fireplace was even softer.
We spread out, looked around, and found eight bedrooms. Each had its own bathroom, and each bathtub was worthy of tubinn time (tub + Quinn).
“At some point I’m getting naked on this rug,” Sandra said, rolling around on the bearskin. “I might even try to take it home with me in my suitcase.”
