“You look beautiful,” he murmured appreciatively.
Natalie blushed. Like every self-respecting French-woman, she always dressed well. Today she was wearing pencil-thin black jeans with a wide black patent leather belt, a black-and-white-checked shirt, and a bright pink blazer with black buttons. Perhaps she should have dressed more casually for a day at the museum, but this is what she felt comfortable wearing, and that was the most important thing.
Mason looked handsome, but then, he was a handsome man. Even so, Quinn stole into her thoughts, like a bothersome fly that wouldn’t stop buzzing around her head. When it came to personal style, Mason was leagues ahead of Quinn. In fact, Natalie sometimes wondered if Quinn owned a mirror. She knew he worked all hours of the day and night and spent most of them running around the city, but still.
There was pride in Mason’s voice as he explained his duties as editor in chief to her. The job sounded pressure-filled, nearly as intense as Quinn’s seemed to be, but in a different way. Quinn again. She had to stop this.
“Want a quick tour of the newsroom?”
Natalie smiled nervously. “Sure.”
Continuing his narration of what life was like at a daily tabloid, Mason led her up and down the rows of cubicles. Natalie couldn’t understand how any of these reporters were able to find anything on their desks: to a person, their small cubbyholes were littered with towers of leaning folders, papers, photos, phone numbers, and old newspapers. She was about to comment on it to Mason when they ran into Quinn’s cohort, Kenny Durham.
“Natalie,” he drawled, his gaze ping-ponging back and forth between her and Mason. “This is a surprise.”
Mason’s gaze was cool. “Natalie and I are going to MoMA.”
“I see.” Kenny raised an eyebrow in surprise, prompting Natalie to glance away somewhat guiltily. This was not the way she should be reacting. Who cared what Quinn’s crony thought? She knew Kenny disliked Mason, but she suspected it was on principle more than anything else.
By now, Pete Rodriguez had sauntered over. “Natalie. Good to see you.”
She ignored the subtle, sideways glance he shot Kenny Durham. “Nice to see you, too.”
“Quinn’s out on assignment,” said Pete.
Natalie cocked her head, mystified. “So?”
“Just thought you might want to know,” he murmured casually. “I’ll tell him you popped by.”
“I’m on my way out with Mason.” Busybodies. She turned to her date. “Shall we?”
“With pleasure.” Mason nodded curtly at the two reporters and, putting his hand on the small of Natalie’s back, gently guided her out of the office. Out on the street, standing next to Mason while he hailed a cab, Natalie couldn’t believe how annoyed she was with Quinn’s coworkers. They would tell him she was going out with Mason. She knew they would. She told herself it didn’t matter. But it did.
“Yo, Jimmy Breslin, you’re late.”
Quinn rolled his eyes at Durham’s greeting as he slid into a booth at the Wild Hart.
“Yeah, whatever.”
He’d been at the local tailor shop, Franco’s, to get a pair of pants taken in. He wasn’t surprised he’d lost weight: he’d been running around the city like a madman lately, fueled on nothing but coffee and junk food. He made a mental note to try to eat better.
One of the things that was great about Franco’s was that it was open late, even on Saturday nights. Like Longo’s and the Wild Hart, it was a longtime fixture of the neighborhood, which was why Quinn was shocked when Franco told him he was closing up shop in two months. When Quinn asked him why he was retiring after thirty-five years, all Franco would offer up was a cryptic “I got an offer for the store that was too good to pass up.” Christ, it sounded like something straight out of The Godfather, immediately making Quinn sit up and take notice. As subtly as he could, he tried to press Franco for more details, but the man wouldn’t budge. By the time Quinn left, he had a pretty good idea of what might be behind Franco’s departure, even though he couldn’t prove it.
Yet.
Settling in with his cronies, Quinn took a sip of his beer, glancing at the bar. Liam seemed deep in conversation with some petite blonde. The place was hopping, and as a result, Natalie was running her ass off, greeting him and his pals perfunctorily as she took their orders. He hadn’t sparred with her for a while and didn’t want to get rusty. Maybe he could think of some way to get under her skin after closing time.
“Where’s Shep?” Quinn asked. The Hart without Shep was like the city on Saint Patrick’s Day without cops and firefighters: incomplete and unimaginable.
“You’re never gonna believe this,” said Rogan. “Clement actually made him go out on a story.” He handed Quinn the evening edition of the paper. “Read it and weep, my friend.”
Quinn took the open paper from his friend, scanning the page Rogan tapped with his finger. There, on the lower half of the right-hand page, was a headline reading, “Pied Piper of Lower East Side Lures Rats to River with Flute.” And there was Shep’s byline.
Quinn skimmed the article, a fluff piece about some lunatic who claimed he’d been able to purge his building of rats by entrancing them with his flute and leading them to jump into the East River.
“Il Duce must have threatened him and told him he was fired unless he filed something,” said Durham.
Disgusted, Quinn handed the paper back to his friend. “I hate these kinds of stories.”
“We’ve always had them,” Durham pointed out. “Readers love all that ‘colorful character’ horseshit.”
“Yeah, I know. Couple then them with all the celebrity crap, and pretty soon we’ll be no better than the Globe.”
“Welcome to Hewitt World,” said Durham dryly. “Guess what story Shep’s out on right now?”
“What?” Quinn wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.
“Something about a secret army of cats who live in the city’s sewers and keep the rat population in check,” said Rogan.
Quinn scowled. “I’m not surprised Clement wants a fuckin’ story on rats.”
“Maybe our fearless leader relates to them because he is one?” Durham offered. “Or maybe he’s not,” he added, wiggling his eyebrows significantly.
Quinn perked up. “What? You got some dirt?”
“Oh, yeah, we’ve got dirt, all right,” said Rodriguez with a smirk. “Guess who we saw at the Sent this afternoon?”
“The ghost of Jimmy Hoffa?” Quinn was starting to get irritated.
“Natalie,” Durham murmured mischievously. “With Clement. They were going to MoMA.”
Quinn struggled to look unaffected, even though something akin to hatred began clawing at his guts. “Oh, really?”
“Cut the act,” said Durham. “We see the way you look at Natalie and the way she looks at you. There’s sparks there, buddy. You’re an idiot if you don’t make a major move now before Mr. Down Under does.”
Quinn’s eyes tracked Natalie. Oh, he could picture her at MoMA with Clement, all right, Clement spouting shit like, “I prefer Picasso’s earlier works, don’t you?” in French. And there Natalie would be, thinking the pretentious ass was such an intellectual. The thought made him want to heave.
“You gonna make a move or what?” prodded Durham with a chuckle. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“How come you’re a ruthless bastard when it comes to getting the story, but when a gorgeous woman you have chemistry with is right under your nose, you’re a total pussy?”
“It has nothing to do with being a pussy. I don’t have time for a relationship. You guys know that.”
“Fine,” said Durham with a dubious expression. “Then don’t sit here stewing and bitching when she starts going out with your archenemy.”
Quinn flashed his friend a dirty look, mostly because he was right. The clawing feeling in his gut was getting worse. “Let’s change the subject,” he said tersely.
And he had an idea to help ensure that she said yes.
“Let me make sure I’m getting this straight.” Anthony Dante looked completely mystified as he and Quinn sat at the bar at Dante’s after closing time. He pulled out a cigar. “You’re asking me for dating advice? You?”
Quinn’s idea was to talk to Anthony about Natalie. After all, Anthony had managed to win the heart of Natalie’s sister, Vivi, so he had to know something about how to woo classy Frenchwomen, right?
“Why are you surprised?”
“Because you’re the man, Quinn. Self-confident, suave . . .”
“True, but I’ve never gone for anyone like Natalie before.”
“You mean a snob?” Anthony said bluntly.
Quinn cringed. “Sounds like you don’t like her.”
“No, I do, I swear. But I’m not going to lie: I didn’t at first. In the beginning she thought I was mean to Vivi. But she’s come around.” Anthony lit his cigar. “Come on: you know what she’s like.”
“Yeah. But I kinda like it. Gives me something to tease her about.”
“I have noticed you two let it fly sometimes. Vivi says you both have been pussyfooting around this for a long time. So I don’t get why you’d need any guidance.”
“I’ve never pursued anyone this high-class.”
Anthony took a puff of his cigar. “She’s a waitress, Quinn.”
“Yeah, but that’s just temporary. In France she was some kind of civil servant in the government or something.” Quinn realized he barely knew about Natalie’s past. She tended to be tight-lipped, and he often got the sense she thought he was rude when he asked about it. But that’s how the French were: Ask them questions deemed too personal, and they thought you were rude. Ask them about anything else, and they’d argue with you till death.
“Some guy broke her heart,” Anthony told him, filling in a blank. “Upper-level government guy. It was a minor scandal.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. She had to resign from her job. The papers raked her over the coals.”
Great. She probably thought all journalists were scum.
“Why now?” Anthony asked suddenly. “Why, all of a sudden, do you want to ask her out now?”
“There’s some other guy—a real dick—who she’s already gone out with once.”
He proceeded to tell Anthony all about Mason Clement. Anthony shook his head worriedly.
“Bad news about the accent, my friend. The ladies love accents.”
Quinn frowned.
“And you say he took her to a museum? Shit, I don’t think I’ve been to the museum since seventh grade, when we went on a field trip to the Museum of Natural History. You ever been there?”
“Yeah, about two years ago when one of the night watchmen was murdered.” Quinn rubbed the back of his neck, frustrated. “Can we get back to Natalie, please?”
“Sure. Just one more question: How do you know she liked going with him to the museum? Maybe she thought it was boring as hell. Maybe you have nothing to worry about with this guy.”
“I can’t take that risk. Tell me how you won Vivi.”
Anthony chuckled. “It wasn’t easy. But we started with a common link: we were both chefs. I think it helped sharing that passion.”
“The only common link I have with Natalie is a penchant for trying to get each other’s goat.”
“Reframe that, Bro: You’re both quick-witted. And clearly you both have a sense of humor, though hers isn’t, uh, apparent right off the bat.”
“Yeah, no kidding.” Quinn paused. “She is snooty, isn’t she? You’re right.”
“Totally stuck up,” Anthony agreed.
“Cultured,” Quinn repeated, more to himself than Anthony. That was why she was drawn to Clement, with his goddamn Armani suits and jaunts to the museum.
“She likes expensive restaurants,” Anthony said. “She and Vivi are always talking about this or that restaurant in France.”
“Mmm.” Quinn didn’t do expensive restaurants. He couldn’t. Reporters didn’t make a lot of money. His salary never really mattered to him before; it was the buzz and satisfaction he got from his job that was paramount. Still, if using his AmEx card would get him what he wanted, then he was prepared to use it.
“If I were to take her to an expensive restaurant in the city, which one would you recommend?”
Anthony took another puff of his cigar. “How expensive?”
“The most expensive. One that you have to make reservations for weeks in advance. One she would have heard of.”
“You talking French?”
Quinn snorted. “Of course.”
Anthony puffed on his cigar thoughtfully. “L’Orangerie. It’s one of the most expensive restaurants in Manhattan. I’d be shocked if she hadn’t heard of it. I took Vivi there once, and she nearly fainted with ecstasy. The food is really amazing.”
“I bet the prices are, too.”
Anthony turned up his palms apologetically. “Hey, you’re talking to the wrong guy here. I think it was worth every penny, but then again, I’m a chef.”
“You think that’s the way to go? Take her there?”
“Natalie? Oh yeah. You’ll need a tie, though.”
Quinn was mildly offended. “I own a few ties.”
“Just checking.” Anthony snuffed out his cigar. “I can pull some strings and get you in. When do you want to take her?”
“You mean if she accepts?”
“She’ll accept. Because if she doesn’t, Vivi will kick her ass from here to gay Paree.”
Quinn chuckled. “Sunday night would be good. She works Friday and Saturday.”
“Time?”
“Eight?”
“Don’t think it’ll be a prob. Call me and let me know if she accepts, and I’ll set it all up.”
Quinn clamped a hand on Anthony’s shoulder. “I owe you for this, Anthony. Seriously.”
“Don’t be an idiota. Vivi is going to be thrilled about this.”
“How’re the wedding plans going?”
Anthony groaned. “It’s giving me constant agita. You want the definition of hell? Two chefs trying to select a caterer.”
“Yeah, but it’ll all be worth it in the end, right?”
Anthony’s face lit up. “Totally.”
Quinn slid off his stool. “All right, I’m off. Give my love to Vivi, Mikey, and Theresa, too.” Michael was Anthony’s brother, assistant head coach of the New York Blades. Theresa was his wife. Quinn knew them fairly well because they, too, often dined at Vivi’s. “Tell Vivi I’ll stop in soon.”
“Can I tell her you’re finally gonna to ask her sister out?”
“Yeah, just don’t say anything until I give you the green light. She could say no.”
“Ain’t gonna happen, my friend. Mark my words.”
10
“Forgive me, Mrs. O’Brien. I was only trying to help.”
Quinn’s mother nodded tersely as Natalie brought the last few empty beer glasses from the bar into the kitchen while Liam locked up. Quinn had warned her not to suggest any menu changes to his mother, but Natalie couldn’t help herself. She didn’t see how adding a wine list, as well as a few classic dishes like quiche and coq au vin, could do any harm. Apparently, Mrs. O’Brien di
dn’t agree. “We’re an Irish pub, and we serve Irish food, period. We’ve been open close to forty years, and to the best of my knowledge, no one has ever complained about the menu,” she’d told Natalie frostily. Natalie apologized, but deep down she believed the O’Briens were making a mistake. Expanding the menu might bring in even more customers.
Humbly ducking her head, she left the kitchen, knowing Quinn was waiting for her. He’d made a point of pulling her aside during her shift, saying he wanted to talk to her. She saw no reason not to, even though she could guess what it was about: he was going to give her a hard time about Mason Clement. She knew his friends had told him about their date. If there was one thing she’d learned about Quinn and his fellow reporters, it was that they were a pack of gossiping biddies.
Her date with Mason had gone well. He was knowledgeable about art, which impressed her. They’d gone for coffee afterward, and he’d talked about all the different, exciting places where he’d worked: Tokyo, London . . . he was so erudite and sophisticated. So well traveled.
“I had a really nice time today,” he’d said to her when they finished their coffee.
“Me, too.”
“I’d like to see you again.”
“That would be nice,” she’d said, ignoring the lack of excitement she felt. Mason was nice. He was good-looking. He was funny. But she didn’t feel the kind of spark that shot through her whenever she tangled with Quinn. Still, she wasn’t going to turn down another date with such a charming man.
Mason looked delighted. “That’s great. I’ll ring you.” He kissed her lightly on the cheek. No pressure, no big passion play. He was ever the gentleman. Natalie was glad; she wasn’t sure she was a good enough actress to fake pleasure if he’d kissed her and it left her cold. Still, perhaps over time a spark might ignite?
Quinn was waiting for her at his regular booth. He’d had two whiskey shots over the course of the night, in addition to his usual pint of Guinness. Natalie truly wished there was a wine list. It was so much more refined than beer and whiskey.
Quinn motioned for her to sit down opposite him.
“I can’t for very long,” said Natalie. “I’m supposed to be helping your brother clean up.”
With a Twist Page 8
