Mile High Weekend (Opposites Attract Book 1)

by Di Lorenzo, Melinda

  Ginnie looked up, once again distracted by Leila. This time less by her shininess and more by the acknowledgement that the girl actually knew her by name. The wrong name, but by name nonetheless.

  Leila gestured to the still-huge line behind Ginnie, teeth glinting. “It’s your turn, Mrs. Michaels. I’m assuming you want to return home and not carry on to Vegas?”

  “Yes.”

  Clack-clack. Pause. Clack-clack. Pause. Clack-clack.

  “No. Wait.”

  Another pause as Leila looked up and smiled brilliantly. “Wait for…?”

  Very briefly, Ginnie considered whether or not she should even bother asking. But she couldn’t help it. Maybe because Leila’s jazzy, put-on personality made her dizzy with irritation.

  “Mrs. Michaels?” the girl pushed.

  “Never mind. It’s nothing.”

  Clack-clack.

  “Just…” Ginnie trailed off with a frown.

  “Yes?”

  “Why would you assume I want to go home?”

  “Because your doctor husband and cop boyfriend went to Vegas together, so I just guessed that you were out of the picture.”

  The near-to-smug tone made Ginnie color. “He’s not my – they’re not my – Okay – Wait. Quinn’s not even a cop.”

  “Yes he is.”

  “No he’s not.”

  “Yes. He is.”

  “No. He. Is. Not.”

  “Yes. He. Is.”

  Ginnie rolled her eyes. “What is this, third grade?”

  Leila’s only sign that the back-and-forth bothered her at all was the way her pink-painted lips pursed for a second before she said, “For man who’s not a cop, he flashed an awfully big badge at me.”

  “A badge?”

  “Yes.”

  Ginnie opened her mouth. Then closed it. It could be the truth. Leila had no reason to lie to her, and it actually kind of made sense when she factored Jase into the equation. Her brother wouldn’t have hired a criminal to keep an eye on her. He was too stupidly protective. But hiring a cop disguised as a criminal? Now that sounded like Jase.

  And if Quinn was a cop…And he went to Las Vegas with Lawrence…Whose new girlfriend was sure he was in some kind of trouble…

  Ginnie’s chest constricted with worry. Why was Quinn getting involved in whatever Lawrence was doing?

  Then she connected the dots. Or some of them, anyway.

  Prescription pads.

  Vegas.

  And the desert house that belonged to Quinn’s drug peddling boss, PJ James.

  They had to be going there to see him. And something in Ginnie’s gut – something underneath the punches – told her that whatever deal was being brokered between the three men, Quinn was in danger.

  Oh, no.

  Should she call the Las Vegas police? No. That might make things worse. Her brother, maybe? To confirm the story? No. He’d flip out before she even got a chance to explain. What was the best solution?

  Leila cleared her throat, interrupting her worried thoughts. “Um, Mrs. Michaels, there are thirty people behind you. If you could – ”

  Ginnie cut her off. “I need to go to Vegas.”

  “But I already booked you in for – ”

  “I need Las Vegas.”

  “Fine.” Clack. Clack. Clackity-clack. “Three hundred and forty dollars.”

  “What?”

  “There’s a cost difference between the two flights and the flight change fee.”

  “The airline promised everyone a reimbursing flight!” Ginnie didn’t quite stomp her foot.

  Leila smiled brightly. “I gave you one. And now you want to change it so there’s a charge.”

  Ginnie cast her eyes heavenward, praying for patience. What she found instead was a mirrored ceiling. And her dangerously disheveled self. The woman who’d engaged in a weekend of incredible sex with a stranger who had quickly become the man she loved. And that was definitely not a woman who would take “no” for an answer in the name of manners.

  Right.

  Ginnie placed her hands on the counter and leaned forward, close enough that she could see the beginnings of a pimple on the end of Leila’s nose.

  “I don’t like you,” she said.

  Leila’s smile almost faltered. “I’m sorry?”

  “I don’t like you. You’re the cheeriest – but somehow least helpful – customer service person I’ve ever met.”

  “Oh.” A slight tightening of the eyes. “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

  “No you’re not. And since you won’t be honest, I will. Right now, I’d far prefer it if you were an utterly awful, utterly painful – but very helpful – bitch. I still won’t like you, but maybe I’ll want to hurt you a little less.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “Not yet.”

  Leila’s face was smiling so hard it looked like it might crack. “Excuse me?”

  “Look. My boyfriend is a cop.” Unstoppable gut-punch.

  “You just said that he wasn’t – ”

  “I don’t care what I said,” Ginnie interrupted. “My boyfriend is a cop. Which means that I can get away with a lot. And my husband is a surgeon.” Cringe. Deep breath. “So trust me when I say that whatever I can’t get away with can be repaired in the operating room.”

  Ginnie figured she must’ve sounded more dangerous than she felt, because without a word, the ticket agent clack-clack-clacked, printed out a paper boarding pass, and handed it to Ginnie. Who smiled her own version of a too-shiny smile, and which – judging from the genuinely nervous look on Leila’s face – must’ve been a little less orthodontist-to-the-stars and a little more feral-cat.

  “Thank you,” she said sweetly, not actually caring at all.

  It was a means to an end.

  Thirty-Six

  Quinn took a large sip of his lemonade and pointedly kept his eyes off of the semi-automatic weapon which lay across PJ James’ lap. He couldn’t help but notice that Lawrence was having an enormous amount of trouble doing the same.

  Since the second PJ had started his little passive-aggressive routine – cold drinks, loaded gun and small talk that revolved around who the man had punished this week and for what – Lawrence had been looking squirrelly enough to set Quinn’s teeth on edge. Even now, in spite of the cranked up air conditioning, a sheen of sweat laced the other man’s brow. Every few seconds he did manage to look away from the weapon. But it was no better – Lawrence would pause, lick his lips, then seek the hall which led to the door with his gaze. Then stare at the gun once more.

  Quinn might’ve rolled his eyes at the display if he hadn’t thought it would draw to much attention to the fact that he cared at all what the other man was up to.

  He wished he didn’t care.

  But you do care.

  Because Ginnie’s life was riding on the asshole who kept himself disguised as a doctor.

  And you need him to calm the hell down before he gives you away.

  Hoping Lawrence would take the hint and do the same, Quinn kept his attention on PJ James.

  The man didn’t look much different than Quinn remembered him. A little gaunter, a little more worn. He was a wiry blond, fiftyish and maybe looking a bit closer to it. At the moment, he wore a robe and a scowl, and he bristled with the same intensity as he always had – the one that made the casual observer assume he was dipping into his own stash. Quinn knew better. PJ was as sober as they came. That energy he exuded was simply a result of the man having far too much deviant creativity and always searching an outlet. Which Quinn had no interest in providing.

  He took a breath and started to speak. “PJ – ”

  His former boss put up his hand, silencing him. A bad sign.

  “Tell me something, Quinn,” PJ said slowly. “Why shouldn’t I break my no-killing-on-a-Sunday rule?”

  At the end of the question, Lawrence flinched, and this time Quinn did roll his eyes. When he spoke, though, he directed his statement to PJ directly.


  “You and I both know you wouldn’t dirty your hands.”

  PJ ran his fingers up the gun. “Fine. Then tell me why I’m wishing I hadn’t given my guy a day off for church.”

  “There are so many things wrong with that statement,” Quinn replied.

  PJ leaned back in his chair. “Give me three.”

  “What?”

  “Name three things wrong with the statement and I’ll consider not ensuring that you two never leave the desert.”

  Quinn suppressed an overwhelming sense of defeat. He knew from experience that PJ was serious. The man liked his games.

  “One. You don’t give guys a day off. Two. Church? Actually, scratch off that thing about days off. Church counts as three by itself.”

  At last his old boss cracked a small smile.

  Thank fucking God.

  PJ nodded toward Lawrence. “Why are you hanging out with this asshole, Quinn?”

  Quinn’s eyes flicked in the doctor’s direction. Then he shrugged.

  “It’s nice to make new friends.”

  “As I recall, you don’t have friends.”

  “It’s been two years. A man can change.”

  “There’s not enough time in the world to turn you into a friend of this guy.” PJ narrowed his eyes. “Why don’t you tell me the truth? When you walked away from the Black Daggers, I never expected to see you again. And I would’ve bet my left testicle that you wouldn’t show up here.”

  “To be fair, I didn’t walk away,” Quinn corrected. “I took a shot in the chest, got laid up in bed, forcibly jumped out of the Black Daggers, then got marked up by a tattoo artist whom you sneaked into the hospital. The walking happened a lot later.”

  PJ’s next smile was a little bigger. “See? You haven’t changed that much at all. Now. Tell me about the asshole.”

  “It’s simple,” Quinn lied. “He’s doing me a favor and I’m doing one in return.”

  “You do favors even less than you do friends.” PJ gave him a considering look. “Lawrence owes me money. I owe you my life. So I’m thinking…What the hell is so important to you that you’d be willing to trade on that?”

  As if in answer to his former boss’s thoughtful question, a chiming doorbell rang through the room.

  PJ frowned, then stood up, gun in hand. “I’m starting to think that I really picked the wrong day to be here alone. Quinn…Keep an eye on the asshole while I answer the door.”

  The second the other man exited, Lawrence rounded on him.

  “Don’t even bother,” Quinn said, voice low.

  “Don’t bother?” the doctor replied angrily. “You’re sitting there drinking your lemonade and you haven’t said a single fucking word about the prescriptions.”

  “I will.” As he went on, Quinn spoke slowly, like he was talking to a child. “But I couldn’t just lead in with, Hey PJ…It’s been two years, but I need you to forgive this guy’s debt of a half mil…Thanks. There’s a little more finesse involved in re-establishing trust with man who trusts almost no one.” He paused and smiled darkly. “And hey. It’s working. He asked me to guard you, didn’t he?”

  “Very funny. I – ” Lawrence snapped his mouth shut as PJ stepped back into the room.

  “Do me a favor, Mcdavid?” the blond man asked.

  Quinn gave him a quick nod. “Sure.”

  “Stand outside of the spare room while a pretty girl name Liv changes into something more appropriate for our negotiations.” He made the statement keenly. Expectantly.

  Was it supposed to mean something significant? Was he supposed to recognize the name?

  Quinn wracked his brain.

  Liv?

  No. Not someone he knew. So he did a mental shrug, then stood.

  He’d do whatever he had to, to get PJ to listen to him.

  But as he came to his feet, he caught a glance of Lawrence’s face, and the quick look told him that whoever Liv was, she sure as hell meant something to the other man. His sweaty visage had grown pale, and now his gun-hallway-lip-lick routine included an extra-long pause at the hallway. The bedrooms were down there.

  Quinn forced himself to move without looking back, but he knew already that PJ noticed the change in Lawrence, too. It was evidenced in his slow, dangerous smile and the statement he made as Quinn ducked into the hall.

  “All right, doctor. I’m setting my watch. You have exactly fifteen minutes to explain to me why Liv is so eager to discuss both your finances and your relationship with me.”

  Shit.

  Liv had to be the brunette who’d been hanging off Lawrence on the plane.

  He crossed his arms over his chest, leaned against the wall opposite the closed door, envy-tinged worry making him tap his lip ring furiously.

  Envy? What the hell – Oh.

  Liv, the overly made-up, sex toy wielding, lingerie toting Barbie doll cared enough about Lawrence to follow him to a drug dealer’s house. To fight for him, even if it meant risking her own safety. While the woman Quinn loved sent him packing because of his own history with the very same drug dealer. Which made him not good enough.

  So. Envy. Yeah, that made a stupid kind of sense.

  Quinn growled, shoved himself off the wall again, and paced the hall. He itched to knock down the door and demand answers.

  Why the hell had the girl followed them? What did that mean for Ginnie? Was she okay?

  Seconds later, he got his excuse. A thump followed by a muffled curse carried from inside the room.

  Perfect.

  Without pausing to consider propriety, Quinn swung the door wide. And there she was. Ass on the floor, bare feet sticking out from under a bed sheet, hands holding that same bed sheet up in what should have been an amusingly aggressive way. Except it wasn’t amusing. Because the girl wasn’t Liv at all.

  It was Ginnie.

  Oh, fuck.

  Christ. He’d missed her. Six hours had felt like a year.

  Almost, he opened his mouth to tell her. Almost.

  She sent you away.

  He grabbed onto the mental reminder. Held it against his heart like a cattle brand. Used it to steel himself.

  Thirty-Seven

  Ginnie let out a little yelp, then struggled to scramble to her feet as she stared up at the intruder.

  Quinn. Oh, god.

  For a solitary second, he leaned forward as though he might help her up. And for that same second, desire – unwanted but utterly unstoppable – coursed through Ginnie. Then a half a dozen emotions flickered across Quinn’s face. And he stopped. He stilled his movement and his expression, and he let Ginnie stand up on her own.

  A crushed-in feeling hit her in the chest.

  There was a new raggedness to his appearance, she thought. His eyes were tight, his lips pressed together in a controlled slash. The lightness he’d shown all weekend was gone. He looked…heavy.

  My fault.

  Guilt joined the ache in her heart, and she opened her mouth to say something – she wasn’t sure what – but Quinn beat her to it.

  “What are you going to do with that sheet, Genevieve?” he asked, his voice heartbreakingly cool. “Wrap me up to death?”

  Working at not flinching, she pulled the offending sheet to her body, fixed him with a glare, and schooled her own tone to an aloofness that matched his.

  “People have been suffocated by less,” she informed him.

  “I suppose that’s true. Still. I would’ve pegged you for a poisoner.”

  “And I wouldn’t have pegged you for a cop.”

  His face went deadly still. “How the fuck did – Never mind. Breathe a word of that again, and we’re both as good as dead.”

  “So it’s true?”

  A short nod. “Doesn’t make a difference, though, does it?”

  Crap.

  How did he manage to sound so…casual about his own life? It made her want to reach out and draw him into her arms.

  But you can’t, she reminded herself. Because you did your be
st to make sure he wouldn’t want you to.

  And there was no time for self-pity about it. She needed to forget her feelings about Quinn and focus on her feelings about saving him.

  But it was hard to do. Especially when he strode across the room to the bed, bent his long legs and sat down. Like he belonged there.

  Then he rested his elbows on his knees, and his shirt billowed out, exposing that unique tattoo of his, distracting Ginnie to the point of a dry mouth and weak knees. When he tipped his head to one side and tapped at his lip ring, Ginnie wanted to cry.

  In three days, so many parts of him had become familiar to her, so many of his gestures and habits felt like coming home.

  There was nothing she wanted to do more than climb into his arms and stay there. If his face hadn’t been indifferent, she might’ve been unable to stop herself from doing it.

  “So,” he said. “You wanna tell me what the hell you’re doing here and why you told PJ that your name is Liv?”

  “For Lawrence,” she lied.

  Quinn stiffened, but relaxed again so quickly that Ginnie thought maybe she’d imagined it.

  “Hmm,” he said.

  “Hmm what?”

  “I know it’s been a few hours, but from what I understand, you and Lawrence are no longer attached. At the hip, or otherwise. If I’m wrong, correct me.”

  Color crept up Ginnie’s face – then down. “You’re not wrong.”

  “So cut the bullshit. Why the hell are you here for him?”

  Ginnie took a breath and told the one-word story she’d rehearsed ad nauseam on the plane from Huntingdon to Las Vegas. “Money.”

  “What?”

  “I want my half of Lawrence’s money. And I’m not leaving without it.”

  Quinn’s mouth twisted. “Well. That’s just fucking amazing.”

  Ginnie blinked as the tears threatened again, then forced herself to speak in a strong voice. “I need you to leave the room.”

  “Fat fucking chance.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a little underdressed. And I have to get changed. Your boss ordered me to.”

  Quinn looked at her for a long moment, then glanced around the room. Ginnie’s gaze followed his. First, it landed on her T-shirt – his T-shirt really – and the pair of airplane-print boxers which she’d left in a crumpled pile on the floor. Next, it found the pale pink dress had been laid out on the armchair in the corner. Finally, it came back to rest on her.