U there man?
Quinn gritted his teeth, deleted his first, partially complete text and typed something simpler.
Yeah.
I think my sister’s drunk.
No shit.
There was a long pause before another message popped up. No shit? What do u mean? Are u there already?
Yeah.
This was supposed 2B covert!
Quinn rolled his eyes. Why did the man have to text like a twelve-year old girl?
Not anymore.
U saw her?
Yeah.
She saw u?
Relax, Naval. It’s under control. Quinn stared down at his screen. Naval? What the hell. Stupid fucking autocorrect. Another reason to hate the phone.
Jase didn’t seem to notice anyway. Tell me you have a plan.
Quinn punched in a lie, and told himself that Jase wasn’t really his boss, not in the strictest sense of the word anyway.
Yeah.
What r u going 2 do?
Quinn’s tongue darted out, found the reassuring bit of metal on the edge of his lip and clicked against it as he considered his next move. He shook his head at the fact that he had to think about it at all. Clearly, six months of bed rest followed by a year and a half of boredom had dulled his ability to think on his feet.
He’d planned every detail for how things should go, from the plane that arrived just fifteen minutes after hers, to the hotel room at an adjacent casino, to the reservations at the time share presentation. He was going to be Ginnie’s shadow.
Now all of that had to be completely scrapped.
Even the clothes he’d packed were going to be useless. He’d brought nothing but blend-in-with-the-crowd suit jackets. The kind that could be buttoned up over his ink and make him stand out less than usual. That wouldn’t matter much now that Ginnie had seen him sans disguise. He couldn’t even pretend she wouldn’t recognize him again if she saw him.
The repeated chiming of his phone didn’t help him focus, either. Jase had managed to send him three more messages in under a minute. Quinn flipped through them.
The first one made him want to throw his phone across the bar as hard as he could.
I’m paying u to help me.
The second one made him roll his eyes for what felt like the hundredth time since picking up the phone in the first place.
U can’t let her get on the plane drunk!
The last one, though…It actually did get to him.
C’mon, man. She’s vulnerable as hell. I love her, but she’s got no idea what’s good for her. And it’s my fault for telling her to take the trip. Please.
Quinn growled. It didn’t matter that the text could very well be a manipulation. Jase was a conman by nature, but that didn’t mean his words weren’t true.
Ginnie’s back was to him, her focus on her drink. She didn’t look all that vulnerable right that second. In fact, she looked the opposite. More determined than anything else. Rising above. That was something Quinn could relate to. Something he admired. It made her already pretty face all the more attractive to him. If he was another kind of man, it might’ve been enough make him walk up to her, offer to buy her another drink, and charm his way into her life. Which would also solve his problem of sticking close enough to her to keep her safe.
The only issue with that plan was that Quinn wasn’t charming.
Persuasive? Yes. In control? Absolutely. Ruthless when necessary? Definitely. Charming? Hell, no.
Ginnie adjusted a little on her stool, scooping her skirt up a little tighter, hugging the curve of her ass. Quinn’s eyes rested on it for a moment, then moved down to the bit of newly exposed leg. Smooth and lean, long and supple. It was the kind of leg that deserved to be wrapped around a good man. A mental picture formed in Quinn’s head, and his body responded to it with an overwhelming amount of force.
He couldn’t shake his attraction to her. Hell. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to. It had been quite a while since he’d felt anything like this toward a woman.
Too long, obviously.
Ginnie wasn’t even his type. Case in point, the call girl. Fast, trashy, easy to let go no matter how long they stuck around. That was Quinn’s preferred set of characteristics. Not newly divorced, pursed lips, crossed at the ankles sweet.
But when she tipped her head to one side, giving Quinn a nice view of her creamy throat, blood shot straight to his groin once more.
Jesus, she was hot.
Too hot.
For the first time in his life, Quinn wished he was that kind of charming.
Quinn had to consider what that meant in terms of the job. He looked down at his phone, loathe to admit that his underused libido might mean having to admit defeat.
His gaze sought Ginnie once more. Her stool was empty.
Shit.
Any and all thoughts of quitting went straight out of Quinn’s head. How the hell had she slipped away so quickly? Disappointment hit him like a shot, and he wasn’t even sure why. He had no intention of speaking to her directly. People didn’t get this kind of gut-rot regret from losing a piece of eye candy. Or they shouldn’t, anyway.
At least it laid out the truth for him. No way in hell could he do the job. Not objectively. Which meant no way in hell could he do it at all.
Quinn eyed the now-unoccupied stool, and his lips twisted to match the bizarre feeling in his chest. A pink, jewel-studded phone case stuck out of her abandoned highball glass.
Abruptly, a narrow-shouldered man in a pinstripe suit blocked Quinn’s view. It somehow cut off whatever lingering connection he held to the woman, and the dull ache in his heart expanded.
Quinn willed the other man to move, and it only took him a second to figure out why he hadn’t.
Pinstripes’ hand had closed around the discarded phone, and he was looking toward the glass doors, a hopeful expression on his face.
Oh, hell no.
The girl was his target. Her so-called vulnerability was his to protect.
No way was Quinn letting anyone but himself go after her.
With a grim smile, he stepped up to Pinstripes – entirely closer than necessary – and held out his hand. In a heartbeat, Quinn was headed for Departure Gate 32, the bejewelled phone in his pocket.
Three
Never in a million years did Ginnie think she would ever be standing in front of a ticket agent, arguing against her right to a First Class seat. But at that second, it was exactly what she was doing. Loudly and vehemently.
Did vehemently automatically imply loudly? she wondered, knowing the errant thought was a direct result of the amount of gin in her system.
In fact, probably the whole conversation with the so-perky brunette in front her could be linked to the liquor coursing through her veins. Normally, Ginnie bordered on painfully polite.
“Ma’am?”
Ginnie narrowed her eyes, sure that the agent was being deliberately condescending.
“It’s miss,” she corrected.
“What?”
“I’m barely a week over twenty-four,” Ginnie snapped. “It’s safer to assume I’m a miss and not a ma’am, wouldn’t you agree?”
At least the girl had the decency to look taken aback. But then she glanced down at the screen on her desk, and when she looked back up at Ginnie, her mouth was set in a line. Not quite annoyed. But almost.
“You’re listed as a Mrs. Genevieve Michaels,” she stated coolly.
“What’s your name?” Ginnie replied.
“Leila.”
“All right, Leila…Tell me something…” Ginnie lifted her left hand and waved it in the girl’s direction. “Do you see a ring on my finger?”
Too late, she realized her mistake. Lawrence’s ring – just like his ringtone – hadn’t been deleted from her life.
She remembered pulling the damned thing from her purse just to give it a dirty look. And must’ve unconsciously slipped it on.
Now, the flawless, one and a half carat diamond,
set in its sparkly, white gold band, caught the fluorescent light and shimmered accusingly back at Ginnie. At them. If she counted Leila. Which at that moment she didn’t particularly want to do.
“Ma’am…Are you drunk?” The ticket agent’s voice no longer held any pretence of friendliness.
Ginnie opened her mouth to ask how it was possible that the other woman had just noticed her inebriated state now, when a deep voice interrupted.
“She can have my seat.”
Ginnie didn’t even have to turn to know who it was. That voice – it was the kind that deserved a feather pillow wrapped in satin. And matching, mussed up sheets. The kind that would tear a hole in said pillow in the throes of passion, and rip through a pair of lace panties with a single word.
A warm hand cupped her shoulder, and from the corner of her eye, Ginnie caught sight of a tattoo in the shape of a curved knife blade.
Oh, hell.
It was definitely the picture-him-naked man from the bar.
“Are you okay, hun?” he asked.
For a second, Ginnie was so enamored with his bend-you-over-the-counter, like right now, rumble that she almost didn’t notice he’d tossed out an endearment.
But it hadn’t slipped by Leila, the not-so-friendly agent.
“You the husband?” she wanted to know, doubt evident in both her voice and the up and down look she gave Mr. Boxers-or-Briefs-nope-Commando.
“The rebound,” the tattooed man corrected.
Ginnie’s face flamed, but Leila just gave a shrug that said makes sense.
“Name?” she prompted.
“Quinn Mcdavid.”
While Leila tapped away on her keyboard, Ginnie took a breath and worked up enough nerve to turn and face her would-be savior.
“The rebound?” she whisper-yelled.
He raised an eyebrow, and his tongue flicked out to tap the ring in his lip. Ginnie had to force her gaze to focus anywhere but there.
“Do I look like the husband type?” he countered.
Oh, crap. His voice was even sexier when he dropped it low like that. And, no. He sure as hell didn’t look like any husband that Ginnie knew. Except maybe a few rock-gods who happened to be married to a reality star or two.
After a moment, Ginnie realized she was just staring at him – Quinn, god even his name sounded a little too rock star to be true – with a scrutinizing frown on her face.
She forced herself to speak. “I don’t know about husband type, but I do know about my type, and you’re not it.”
He didn’t look offended. In fact, a slow, self-assured smile spread across his face instead.
“Do you think women typically choose their type for a rebound?” he asked.
No. Not if the way she’d so eagerly undressed him with her eyes was any indication.
Ginnie shoved down the mental concession and snapped, “I wouldn’t know.”
“I guess it’s a good thing I’m not a real rebound then.” Quinn’s smile widened and he leaned a little closer. “But. Just for the record…I’m of the opinion that most rebounding women choose someone with a little bit of a different…flavor.”
When he said the last word, his eyes fixed on Ginnie’s mouth, and she found herself wondering exactly what he meant by flavor. Was it a metaphorical comment? Or something intended to be quite literal? And how would the big man in front of her taste? Would that piercing of his add something metallic to his kiss?
Ginnie’s mind filled with a mental picture.
His mouth pressed to her mouth. Her tongue tasting that ring.
Get a hold of yourself, she commanded silently.
But now that the image had crossed her mind, there was no way to look at his mouth without bringing it to the forefront once more.
And come to think of it…What else could that ring do?
Crap.
She had to work far too hard to shove down the next image that threatened to overtake her tipsy brain.
The ticket agent cleared her throat, cutting off Ginnie’s rapidly dirtying mind.
“Mr. Mcdavid,” the other woman said. “I’m afraid you’re not actually booked on this flight. You’re on the next one.”
“I’m aware,” Quinn replied.
“You’re aware?” Ginnie said.
“Of course I am, hun.” Quinn rested an elbow on the counter, shot Leila a wink, and whispered, “Before I was the rebound, I was the affair. Arriving separately is just a habit.”
Ginnie’s mouth dropped open, and a heated blush crept from her neck to cheeks.
Oh god. I’ve blushed more in the last five minutes than I have in the last five years.
Leila’s critical gaze found Ginnie again. “Do you want to take the later flight then?”
“No!” she declared at the same second Quinn said firmly, “Yes.”
The girl at the counter pursed her lips and looked from Quinn to Ginnie, and then back again, which immediately drove Ginnie’s irritation to a new high.
How dare she assume that he has the final say?
“No,” Ginnie repeated, sounding more than a little strangled. “I do not want the later flight.”
After a disapproving tsk, Leila went back to her keyboard, punched in a few furious clicks, and looked at Quinn.
“There’s one seat on this plane,” she stated.
Ginnie put her hands on her hips. “You said it was full.”
“No,” Leila corrected. “I said that Coach was full. This seat is in First Class.”
“I’ll take it.”
At Quinn’s pleased exclamation, Ginnie gritted her teeth.
“He will not take it,” she argued.
The words came out so unintelligibly that Leila just stared at her blankly.
Ginnie forced her jaw to loosen. “Excuse us for a second?”
Leila shrugged. “Sure. Priority boarding starts in five minutes. And due to small mechanical glitch – soon to be repaired, don’t worry! – we’ll be entering through the rear doors today.”
Quinn chuckled “Rear – ”
Ginnie cut off whatever dirty thing the tattoo-happy man had been about to say with a look, then grabbed his arm and dragged him across the small waiting area. Once they reached a relatively empty spot, she rounded on him.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
He shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “Trying to help you.”
Ginnie shook her head. “You can’t help me.”
Oh, she heard the quiet desperation in her voice. It was the same tone in which she’d answered her phone, thinking it was Lawrence. And she knew immediately that her statement had somehow managed to encompass things far beyond the fact that she was stuck on a First Class flight when all she wanted was the cramped anonymity of Coach. And Quinn – hot tattoo model slash dude who was very likely on probation for something – obviously picked up on it too.
His fingers were suddenly on Ginnie’s chin, tipping it up so he could meet her gaze. His eyes were the sweetest shade of brown she’d ever seen – really, really almost amber – and they were full of concern. For her.
“I think I can help you,” he corrected.
His tone was sure, and full of dark promise and not quite cocky, and for a second, Ginnie wavered. Was it so wrong to want to try a different “flavor”?
Maybe there was a chance he could help her after all.
But how?
Ginnie could only think of one possible scenario, and that way was the wrong way, she was sure. She would only wind up more wounded than she already was. And Quinn, oozing his sexual surety the way he did, would just wind up disappointed. Lawrence had made it plenty clear enough that Ginnie wasn’t a savant in the bedroom.
But she was good at lots of other things.
Like taking charge, telling it like it is, and not needing to be rescued.
And that was what she had to channel right that second.
“The thing is, Mr. Mcdavid,” Ginnie said, glad that her voice came out wit
hout a tremor. “I don’t want your help. And even if I did…I have no interest in trading flights with you. It would just put me behind schedule. And if you’re really trying to help me, getting on this plane doesn’t do that. So unless you’re a) the kind of man who forces himself on women who don’t want him, or b) the kind of man who lacks the intelligence to admit when he’s in a no-win situation, then I think we’re done.”
Ginnie stepped back, pleased with the way she’d woven him into a tiny, wordsmith’s box from which he could not back out without either looking like a complete ass, or calling himself stupid.
Ha, she thought. Put that in your pipe and –
Ginnie’s inner, self-directed high five was cut off suddenly as Quinn grabbed her hands roughly and shoved her against the wall. She barely had enough time to gasp in shock as his lips crushed hers. Fire whipped through her blood, and her knees almost gave way. The only thing that kept her from sinking to the ground was the fact that Quinn’s arm snaked around her waist and held her upright as he kissed her.
And holy shit.
The little ring that looped through his lip was warm too. Not metallic at all. It was sensual, and radiated that warmth outward, lighting up Ginnie’s mouth. The heat flowered, and when Quinn’s tongue exerted just the tiniest bit of pressure, Ginnie’s lips dropped open to welcome it. And then she wasn’t just letting it happen; she was kissing him back. For all she was worth.
Her arms came up and settled on Quinn’s shoulders, and her fingers toyed with the very bottom edge of his faux-hawk. Her spine curved so she could push into him. And her mouth worked across his, with his, inside his…Tasting each bit of him. She deepened the kiss further, and found another piece of warm metal in the center of his tongue.
Dear god.
The mere thought of what other parts of him might be pierced made Ginnie gasp, and she sucked in a much needed gulp of oxygen. Quinn pulled away.
“What the hell was that?” Ginnie demanded, unable to cover her breathlessness.
Quinn ran a finger down her cheek, then leaned toward her again. And instead of doing the smart thing, Ginnie closed her eyes and tipped her mouth up in anticipation.
Stupid, treacherous body.
But he didn’t give her another kiss.
Mile High Weekend (Opposites Attract Book 1) Page 2
