His

by Brenda Rothert

  “She called and said she’s safe in the place where your father’s favorite baseball team plays.”

  My shoulders drop as the tension slides away. She’s safe. They’ve made it to Chicago. Relieved tears sting my eyes.

  “Mind if I ask what’s up?” Anna says. “I’ve never seen the two of you girls apart.”

  I sniffle and gather myself. “Yeah. We had a great opportunity come up.”

  “Well, if you’re happy, I’m happy.”

  I’ve known Anna since shortly after we arrived in New York. This library became a haven for us. It was a place to get warm in the winter and cool in the summer, all while losing ourselves in the stories that lined the walls of shelves. Anna took to us and slipped us food from her lunch when we were here.

  “I’m happy,” I confirm. “I needed a way for Bethy to send me messages, and I would have asked you first, but—”

  She puts a hand up to stop me. “You don’t need to ask. I’m glad to help.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I set aside a couple books for you,” she says, heading back around her desk. “Maybe it was wishful thinking. Like if I saved them, you’d come by and see me. And look, it worked.”

  She passes me two thick paperbacks.

  “These couldn’t come at a better time,” I say. “Thanks, Anna.”

  Someone else comes up to the desk, and she greets them. I fade into the background, heading for my favorite reading chair in a secluded corner of the floor.

  Did Anna even notice my haircut, makeup, and nice new clothes? If so, she showed no sign of it. I smile as I settle into the club chair I think of as mine. It’s not surprising, really. Anna never saw me as a homeless woman. To her, I’m just Quinn. The world could use more Annas.

  By Wednesday, I have a new routine. After Andrew eats breakfast and leaves for work, I make a sandwich and pack it in my backpack. Then I lace up my old shoes and walk to the library, where I spend several hours reading and hoping a letter from Bethy will come.

  Andrew gets home from work around seven every evening, and we eat whatever Turner made for dinner that night while making polite, meaningless small talk. When he asks me what I did that day, I tell him I read, which is true.

  I leave to head home from the library early Wednesday because it’s a long walk to the warehouse, and I have to get myself ready for the fundraiser tonight. I’m dreading it, but I know I have to put on a brave face.

  When I walk through the front door, Dawson is pacing the living room as a man and a woman sit silently on the couch.

  Dawson looks relieved when he sees me.

  “Andrew’s on his way home,” he says with a note of apology. “I didn’t know where you were, and I had to let him know you were gone.”

  “Am I a prisoner?” I demand, setting my backpack down.

  “Not that I’m aware of.” He gestures to the man and woman, and they get up from the couch. “The hair stylist and makeup artist are going to set up in Andrew’s bathroom because it’s bigger than yours. Go ahead and get into your gown.”

  I’d like to tell him I’ll get ready when I please, but he’s right; I do need to get moving.

  “Your gown is hanging in your bathroom,” he says, his face buried in his phone.

  I step into the marble bathroom inside my bedroom and see that he hung a pretty but conservative dark gray dress on the door and left black heels and black lingerie on the counter.

  Fuck him. No one is choosing my underwear for me. I may not control much in my life right now, but I’m holding on to a few things. I go into the walk-in closet that houses my new clothes and choose nude lingerie, a sleeveless, dark wine-colored gown, a black wrap, and black strappy heels.

  I change into the gown and shoes and study my reflection in the mirror. I’m too thin, my collarbone showing prominently in this dress. I’ll just have to leave the wrap on at the event. My cheeks are still pink from the cold outside.

  There are butterflies in my stomach, and I kind of hate myself for it. I feel excited about wearing this beautiful gown and getting my hair and makeup done. I’ve never done anything like that.

  Maybe there’s a little Cinderella in me, after all, but only as far as the dress and shoes are concerned. I’m definitely not looking forward to an evening out with the closest thing in my life to Prince Charming. Andrew has been cold and distant since Saturday night.

  I’m on my way to his first-floor bedroom to meet the makeup and hair people when his voice makes me stop halfway down the stairs.

  “Well, where the hell was she?”

  “She didn’t say,” Dawson answers.

  “Who drove her?” Andrew demands.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are you taking care of her at all? I told you to see to her needs.”

  There’s a pause on Dawson’s end of the conversation. He’s like a different person with Andrew. When he speaks, there’s none of the impatience he always shows for me.

  “I’ve been busy with your dry cleaning, delivering those reports, and—”

  Andrew cuts him off. “Don’t give me your bullshit excuses. Can I rely on you or not?”

  “Of course.”

  I try to walk loudly down the stairs, and I clear my throat as I walk into the living room.

  “Quinn,” Andrew says, looking startled. “Is everything okay?”

  “Of course.”

  “That dress is not going to work,” Dawson says with a roll of his eyes.

  Andrew cuts him down with a look. “She looks perfect.” He turns back to me. “Where were you today?”

  “The library.”

  His eyes widen with surprise. “The library? But I have a private library here.”

  “Well, I like the public one,” I say with a shrug. “Your books are mostly nonfiction.”

  “How did you get there? Did you take a cab? I have a driver you can use anytime.”

  “I walked.”

  His lips part with surprise. Dawson cringes.

  “You walked?” Andrew booms. “In the dead of winter? Through the Meatpacking District?”

  I have to hold back a laugh. “I’ve been in far worse places, you know. And I had my knife.”

  “You don’t have to walk everywhere and carry that damn knife anymore,” Andrew says. “If you need something, just say so.”

  “I don’t.”

  He rubs a hand down his face, looking frustrated. “Let Roy drive you. Can you at least do that?”

  “I like walking.”

  “Use the treadmill in my gym.”

  “It’s not the same. I miss the sounds and smells of the city.”

  He wrinkles his face in confusion. “You like the smell of car exhaust?”

  “I’m used to it.”

  “You need to get used to being provided for.”

  I meet his gaze defiantly. “Don’t make yourself out like some benefactor. We both know why I’m here. The only one providing for me is me.”

  A tense silence hangs in the air. We’re staring each other down, both refusing to look away. I see Dawson edge out of the room from the corner of my eye.

  We’re alone now, and Andrew walks toward me purposefully. My hand instinctively goes to my thigh, though there’s nothing there but the soft sheen of the gown’s fabric. I clutch it nervously.

  “I’m not gonna hurt you,” Andrew says, sounding offended by the very notion.

  “I know.” My tone is more confident than I feel.

  It’s not that I think he’s going to attack me right here. I’m not afraid of that. I’m worried about my sister, and I’m starting to think Andrew’s sorry about the deal we made. He was interested in me that first night, but now he’s gone all the time, and he broods on the rare occasions he is here.

  “Are you ready to go?” he asks gruffly.

  I lower my brows skeptically. “No. Dawson brought people to do my hair and makeup.”

  “Go, then. I’ll get changed.”

  He turns for his bed
room, and I follow him. When he walks through the door, he gives me a confused look over his shoulder.

  “They’re—” I point over his shoulder “—in your bathroom.”

  After a glance through the doorway of his bathroom, he scowls. “I’ll just use another bathroom.”

  My heartbeat feels like a snare drum in my chest. I want to ask him if he still wants me here. It shouldn’t matter to me—I already have his money for the first month—but it does.

  It matters so much. I can’t stop wondering if my time on the streets has made me into a cold, calculating shrew. Can a man like Andrew feel attracted to a woman who glares at him and reaches for her hunting knife every time he gets within five feet of her?

  I don’t care about the things most women my age do. I can’t get past survival mode. It’s on my mind from the time I wake up in the morning and look around frantically to make sure I’m safe until I fall asleep trying to remember how it felt to have Bethy warm and secure next to me.

  And yet . . . I find myself caring just a little about what Andrew thinks of me. I wish he could see my strength and realize I’m not a vulnerable little thing in need of protection.

  The makeup artist washes my face and puts rich-looking makeup on my skin while the hair stylist curls and pins my hair into a glamorous style. I watch them in the mirror and realize no matter what I’m wearing and how much luxury I’m surrounded by, I’ll never match this reflection on the inside. I’m just a ruthless tunnel rat.

  All that worry over whether I’d be able to stomach sex with Andrew . . . and the reality hurts on a whole new level. He doesn’t even want me.

  Andrew

  I can’t look away from her. Quinn’s naturally beautiful. Her big eyes, high cheekbones, and radiant smile set her apart from other women, no matter what she’s wearing.

  But when she steps into the living room, I’m floored. That dress was made for her lithe body and smooth, fair skin. Her blond hair falls past her bare shoulders, and her face is made up like a model in a magazine spread. Her smoky eye makeup and red lips make me drink in a heavy breath and let it out slowly.

  So. Fucking. Sexy. That’s what I want to say, but I don’t think she wants to hear it from me. Not after the argument we just had. And not after the way I’ve been avoiding her since she moved in.

  “Ready?” I ask instead, looking at my watch.

  She nods and walks over to me, her shoulders squared confidently. It’s a contradiction to the look of absolute panic on her face.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “Of course.”

  Our eyes stay locked for a few seconds, and I feel my body unconsciously responding to her closeness. My dick begins taking over all the free space in my tux pants, and my muscles tense.

  Dawson approaches and breaks the spell between us, reaching for my tie and straightening it. I give him an aggravated glare because my tie was already perfect.

  “Car’s waiting,” he says. He lowers his brows at Quinn disapprovingly. “Where’s your clutch?”

  “My . . . what?”

  He sighs softly. “Your small purse. The black beaded one I set out for you.”

  “Oh. I don’t need it. I don’t have any stuff.”

  Dawson gives her a look of pity. “Cell phone, lipstick, tampons?”

  A blush blooms on her cheeks. “The only person whose number I have is Andrew, and he’s right here, so . . .” She clears her throat. “And I’m already wearing lipstick, and it’s not that time of the month.”

  “Still,” Dawson insists. “You’ll need touch-ups.”

  “If she doesn’t want to bring it, that’s fine,” I say, settling it.

  Quinn arranges the black wrap she’s carrying around her shoulders. Dawson goes over to her and gently pulls her hair out from under the wrap and settles it around her shoulders again. I wish it were me doing it instead of him.

  She gives me an expectant look, and I reach for her hand. Hers is shaking slightly when she slides it into mine. I give her hand a small squeeze as I enclose it in mine.

  Dawson follows us as we head for the back door of the warehouse. He’s hovering, which always makes me crazy.

  “We’re good, thanks,” I say over my shoulder.

  He stops walking, and I tell him to have a good night. He mumbles a thank you.

  “Don’t be nervous,” I say to Quinn in a low tone as we reach the door.

  “I’m not.”

  She is. I can see it all over her face and feel it in her sweating hand.

  As I slide into my dark wool trench coat, I think about how cold it is. I froze my balls off walking to a meeting a block from my office at lunch today since walking was faster than driving with lunch-hour traffic.

  “You have a coat?” I ask Quinn.

  Her cheeks flush with embarrassment. “Yeah, in my room. I’ll go get it.”

  “Just wear mine.” I wrap it around her and set it on her shoulders before she can protest. “It’s warmer anyway.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Do I look okay? Will I look like everyone else there?”

  I lower my brows, confused by her question. “You look more than okay, and definitely not.”

  She presses her lips together. “I want to blend in. I need to blend in.”

  “A woman like you doesn’t blend in, Quinn.”

  Her expression falls with disappointment, and my confusion grows. What the hell did I say wrong?

  She’s swimming in my coat. I can’t stop looking at her. Even with her sexy dress covered up, she looks incredible right now. I want to pull her close to me. Hell, I could. I could do a hell of a lot more than that if I wanted. It’s why she’s here, after all.

  But with her, it’s different. From that first night, I haven’t been able to do anything she doesn’t want me to. I’ve paid women for sex before, but when it came time for it to happen, they wanted me. I knew by the way they licked their lips and moaned when my mouth met theirs.

  Not Quinn. She wants me to stay the fuck away from her. It’s clear from her posture and the constant look of worry on her face. She’s worried I’m going to jump her for sex, so I stay away from home as much as I can. It grates on me, having a woman think I’d take anything she doesn’t want to give me.

  Roy drives us to the event in silence. He’s been working for me a long time, and he knows his job is secure, unlike Dawson, who frets. Roy worked for my parents before my dad died, and he stayed with us and became my driver when I finished grad school and opened my office downtown. He knows I hate small talk. When we arrive at the event, he gives me a nod when I step out of the car after Quinn.

  I take her hand and squeeze it again. This event is particularly glitzy, complete with a red carpet. A few people nearby turn to look at us, and Quinn clutches my hand.

  “What is it that gives me away?” she asks in a soft tone.

  “What do you mean?”

  She looks up at me, her eyes brimming with emotion. “Why don’t I blend in? How can you tell I’m homeless?”

  I’m taken aback, but I keep my game face on. I lead her away from the crowd, stealing a small space next to the building where we can talk alone.

  “That’s not what I meant,” I say firmly. “You don’t blend in because you’re so beautiful, Quinn. Stunning. And you aren’t homeless anymore.”

  Her lips shift upward just slightly. “If you think that, then why don’t you want me?”

  “You think I don’t want you?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. You seem mad all the time.”

  I have to laugh at that one. “No. I’m just a serious person. And it bothers me that you look so guarded all the time and wear that knife like I’m going to attack you or something.”

  “I hardly know you, Andrew.”

  “If I wanted to hurt you, don’t you think I would have by now?”

  She sighs softly. “I suppose.”

  “Look,” I say, “I’m usually
good at reading people, but I can’t figure you out. You look nervous when I’m anywhere nearby, but you’re asking if I want you. Are you asking because you want me to want you, or not?”

  She gives me a slight smile. “I’m mostly worried about something else, Andrew. It’s not you.”

  “Your sister?”

  The smile fades away. “You used that doctor to spy on me, didn’t you?”

  “You said you have a sibling, and he said he treated a teenage girl, so I assumed.”

  She looks away, a cloud of cold air forming in front of her face as she sighs. “Yes.”

  “Anything I can do?”

  She shakes her head, staring at the line of dark SUVs and limos waiting to drop guests off at the event.

  “We don’t have to stay here if you’re not up for it,” I say.

  Finally, she looks at me again. “No, this is good. I’ve been going out of my mind with boredom. This might get my mind off things.”

  “You’ve been bored?”

  “Turner won’t let me help with anything.”

  “What, housework?” I balk. “You want to do housework?”

  “I want to do something. Anything. I’m not used to not having any purpose.”

  I nod, about to answer, when the click of approaching heels makes me turn.

  “Andrew Wentworth, why are you lurking over here like a . . . oh.”

  It’s my mother, and she’s coming closer to get a better look at Quinn.

  “I didn’t realize you were bringing someone,” she says crisply.

  “Mom, this is Quinn Jones. Quinn, my mother, Gina Wentworth.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Quinn says.

  “Is she a model?” My mother turns to me now.

  “No. We were just about to go in.” I keep hold of Quinn’s hand and start toward the door.

  “Well, that’s a fine way to treat your mother,” my mom says in the indignant tone I know all too well.

  “You were rude to Quinn.”

  “I certainly was not.”

  Quinn tenses beside me. I squeeze her hand to reassure her and face my mother.

  “You didn’t even acknowledge her,” I say.

  Mom arches her brows, still taking in Quinn with her sharp gaze. “Well, I was unprepared to meet her, wasn’t I?”