“You’re with me. He hassles you, he can answer to me.”
“Oh yes, I’m sure he’d enjoy that,” Natalie said sarcastically.
Natalie checked over her shoulder to make sure. Liam was talking on his cell phone, frowning. She turned back to Quinn.
“So, I hear the drongo gave you a tour of the newsroom,” Quinn said sardonically.
I knew it, thought Natalie. I knew his friends told him. She lowered her head for a split second so he couldn’t see the quick smile that passed over her face. He was jealous. What’s more, she was pleased.
“I have no idea what a drongo is,” she replied coolly as she lifted her eyes to his, “but if you’re talking about Mason showing me around the newsroom, then yes, I had a very nice tour on Saturday.”
“Ask him to tell you what a drongo is. I assure you, it isn’t a compliment.” Quinn looked amused. “How was the museum?”
Natalie put an elbow on the table, cupping her chin in the palm of her hand. “My, you newspapermen are gossips.”
“Let me guess: He paints in his spare time. And fences. Yeah, he definitely looks like a guy who fences.”
“Perhaps he does. At the very least, he knows about art.”
“So do I. Ever see that painting of dogs playing poker? I’ve got the original oil hanging in my living room.”
Sarcastic ass. “You’re jealous Mason asked me out.”
“Not jealous; disappointed. In you.”
“In me?” Natalie’s ire began to rise, but she tamped it down. That was what he wanted, and there was no way she was going to give him that satisfaction.
“Yeah, in you. You could do so much better than Clement.”
“Oh, yes, here it comes, Mr. Know-It-All holds forth.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Go on.”
“How would you like to go to dinner with me next Sunday night at L’Orangerie?”
Natalie stared at him. She knew all about L’Orangerie; Vivi had raved about it, and it was supposedly one of the most expensive restaurants in the city.
“Something wrong?” Quinn drawled. “Cat got your tongue? That’s an American expression, you know.”
“Yes, I know.” She paused, “Connard,” she added under her breath.
“Congratulations! You’ve just called me a drongo in your native tongue.”
So, he’d called Mason an idiot. Arrogant swine. At least the man pressed his clothing, which was more than one could say for Quinn.
Natalie narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “I don’t understand how this could be possible.”
“How what could be possible?”
“Getting into L’Orangerie. People wait months to get into that restaurant.”
“I’m not people,” Quinn said smugly. “I’ve got connections all over this city. You say yes, and there’ll be a table waiting for us at eight.”
Natalie was impressed, but again, she was not going to give Mr. Arrogant the satisfaction of showing it. “Why do you want to take me out to dinner?”
Quinn grinned. “Because I like you, Nat. You know that.”
Natalie gritted her teeth. “You know I hate being called that.”
“And you know that’s why I do it.” He shook his head, clucking his tongue. “God, I’ve missed annoying you.”
“Your mere presence annoys me.”
“So we’re still in love, then. I’m glad.”
Natalie just huffed.
“You want to have dinner with me or not?”
“Certainly,” Natalie said, trying to sound nonchalant. “I just need to check my schedule first and make sure I have no other commitments.”
Ha! Who’s annoyed now, she thought, as irritation flashed across Quinn’s face.
“Yeah, well, let me know as soon as you can.” He stood. “You and Liam want help cleaning up?”
“No, we’ll be fine.”
Quinn slung his sports jacket over his shoulder. “Talk to you soon, ma petite olivier.”
My little olive tree. God, what an ass! Yet there was no denying it; she enjoyed the way he teased her. L’Orangerie indeed. She couldn’t wait to see what happened.
11
“I hope the appetizer was to mademoiselle’s liking?”
Natalie was on the verge of an ecstatic swoon as the waiter at L’Orangerie took the empty plates of the appetizer she and Quinn had just completed: duck liver served with fresh fig chutney. She’d been dubious about Quinn’s boast that he could get them reservations at the drop of a hat. But apparently he wasn’t lying, and now here they were, being served in New York’s finest French restaurant by a waiter who was French. She was in heaven.
She felt slightly guilty about doubting him, as well as the fact she was worried about how he might dress. But he looked wonderful, his pants pressed, his white shirt starched, a lovely tie, a blue blazer. She’d never seen him look this smooth and put-together before. Even his thick salt-and-pepper hair, which he often unconsciously mussed himself raking his hands through in frustration, was neat and tidy. She was proud to walk into such a fine establishment on his arm.
“Impressed so far?” Quinn asked. He sounded just the tiniest bit smug, but she didn’t mind.
“Very much so,” Natalie admitted. “You must have lots of connections, as you boasted.” She paused. “You’re very well-known in the city, aren’t you?”
“Yup,” said Quinn.
His blatant egotism made her laugh. In fact, he often made her laugh. He was funny, and she prized wit.
“You look—very handsome.”
Quinn laughed. “How hard was that for you to say, Nat—I mean Natalie.”
“Not hard,” Natalie insisted. “It’s just that—”
“You’re used to seeing me after I’ve been running my ass off all day.”
She studied his face. “Your job is very hard, isn’t it?”
He took a sip of the wine the sommelier had recommended, a semisweet white wine produced along the Layon River, an area Natalie knew well. “You’re just figuring that out, huh?”
“It’s difficult, but you love it.”
“Passionately.”
Natalie felt a small tingle inside her as she wondered what else he might be passionate about.
Quinn’s gaze was penetrating. “What are you passionate about?”
Natalie stared back at him. Americans—so blunt! So rude! But she enjoyed the subtext of his question.
“I’m passionate about culture, I guess. I like the theater, museums . . . I love going to the symphony.”
“Me, too!”
“Really?” Natalie’s insides began jangling with excitement. They did have more in common than teasing each other. She never would have figured him for someone who enjoyed going to the symphony. Such an interesting man . . .
Meanwhile, Quinn was pouring on the charm. “You know, there’s a lot about you I don’t know.” He was right, of course. He knew very little about her life before she came to the States, unless Vivi had told him some things. Alarm pierced her, and she wondered if Vivi had told him she’d been a shopaholic. But then she realized Vivi would never do that to her. He reached across the table to take her hand in his.
Natalie tried to look nonplussed. “What do you wish to know?”
“Tell me about your family. Your job in Paris. Your romantic past.”
Bold, Natalie thought. Pushy.
“If I tell you some things about me, then you must tell me some things about you.”
“Of course.”
“Well, I’m not going to just start babbling about my life,” Natalie scoffed, trying to ignore how much she was enjoying the physical contact between them. “You need to ask me specific questions.”
As they spoke over their entrée—a mouthwatering fillet of salmon simmered in dill and braised with vanilla essence—Natalie found herself wishing she hadn’t left the questioning to a reporter. He had a very subtle way of making her trust him, a gentle way of drawing facts out of her. By the time dessert
came around, he knew all about her sour mother, the relationship that had ruined her career, all of it—even her problem with money, which she’d decided to tell him of her own volition. She waited for him to look disgusted, even shocked. But no, he understood addiction: one of his best friends at the Sent, long fired, had a gambling addiction that had cost him everything. Quinn told her she should be proud of taking hold of herself. His admiration for her made her like him even more.
“Your turn now,” she insisted over dessert, a delicious citron sorbet. She couldn’t wait to discuss this meal with Vivi! She was touched by how deeply he loved his family and how close-knit they were. She’d seen it at the Hart, but hearing him verbalize it so fiercely and tenderly was different. She was envious. The only relative in her family she could stand was Vivi.
Quinn skimmed the surface of his romantic past, just as she had. But it was talking about his job where he came most alive. Natalie could not shake the feeling that he was one of those people who thrived on adrenaline. “Anything to get the story,” he told her. There wasn’t an ounce of humility in his voice when he told her he’d been nominated for two Pulitzer Prizes in journalism, which further impressed her. She loved the way he couldn’t talk without using his hands and the way passion flashed in his blue eyes, eyes she could drown in if she lost control of herself. Quinn O’Brien was an impressive man, one with drive, soul, and passion. Charming and handsome. Vivi was right; they’d been doing this dance around each other for too long, and much as she hated to admit it, she was intensely attracted to him. Worried that he could tell, she excused herself to go to the ladies’ room.
Quinn’s first thought when Natalie excused herself was, Moron! Why did you lie to impress her? Telling her you loved the symphony? What a load of horseshit! Classical music bored the hell out of him.
Their waiter hustled over to the table. “How’d I do?” he asked Quinn, dropping the French accent to speak to Quinn in his normal New Yawkese.
“Great. Thanks for doing this for me.”
“Hey, anything for Anthony Dante.”
“Where’d you learn such a good French accent?”
“I do a little theater on the side,” the waiter said modestly.
“Well, you’re terrific. I really appreciate it. And I think she’s impressed.”
“She seems like a classy broad.”
“Probably too classy for me, but we’ll see.” Quinn held out his hand. “All right, I’ve steeled myself. Hand over the check.”
Quinn suppressed a choke when he saw the damage; the meal cost $350. He looked up at the waiter. “Holy shit.”
“Yeah, no kidding.”
Quinn pulled his AmEx card out of his pocket.
“Thanks again, man. You saved my ass in a major way.”
Standing outside her apartment building, Natalie debated whether she should ask Quinn upstairs. She knew that in many instances, it was a euphemism for something else, and she certainly didn’t want him to think she was cheap or fast, because she wasn’t. Still, she could stand here and flirt with him a little, couldn’t she?
“So, now that you know everything about me—”
“Not everything.”
“What’s left?” she murmured.
“This.”
Quinn took her in his arms, crushing his mouth to hers. The rush of it made her feel so exhilaratingly alive it almost hurt. When he slipped his tongue into her mouth, deepening their connection, she felt weak-kneed, almost giddy. God help her, she’d let him make love to her right here in the doorway of this building if he wanted. She was dissolving in his arms, drowning in a whirlpool of need and desire and lust. He was, too. She could feel it in the urgency with which he pressed his body against hers, heat matching heat. Which was why it was such a jolt when he abruptly tore himself away.
“I think we should call it a night,” he said gruffly. He appeared to be trying to regain his breath. Natalie nodded dumbly, trying not to stare at his mouth. She’d never noticed before now how sensual his lips were. And now that she knew the pleasure they could give, it was even harder not to want more.
“I suppose you’ll go home now and roll around in your clothing to rumple it a bit,” Natalie ribbed. “Actually, I feel honored that you made an effort to dress up for me.”
“It wasn’t for you. Didn’t you see the No Wrinkled Clothing sign posted in the window?”
“Ah. I seem to have missed that.”
“Distracted by my handsomeness.”
“Oui.”
“So, how would you like to go see the New York Philharmonic next week?” Quinn asked.
Natalie’s breath caught. “Really? Rachmaninoff’s Second Piano Concerto?”
Quinn rocked on his heels. “Yup.”
Natalie clasped her hands together excitedly. “Oh, I would love to see that. He’s one of my favorite composers.”
“Mine, too.”
“What’s your favorite piece?”
“The Second Piano Concerto, of course.”
“I love Prelude opus twenty-three, number three.”
“Another favorite of mine.”
Natalie was intrigued. “You’re really full of surprises, aren’t you?”
“I’m going to try not to take that as an insult.” He smoothed a stray lock of hair off her face. “We can talk about the concert at the Hart the next time I see you.”
Natalie nodded. She felt somewhat cheated; the night had passed by so quickly. “I had a wonderful evening.”
“See? I’m not such a crude jackass once you get to know me.”
“At least not all the time.”
He put his lips softly to hers. “See you in a few days, Nat.”
She smiled shyly. God help her, she was starting to like him calling her that. It was like his own private nickname for her. She watched as he ducked into a cab, and then she went upstairs to her—Bernard’s—apartment, the memory of their kiss a small torture. Vivi had been right all along.
Quinn directed the cabdriver to the Hart. If he went home, he’d be forced to admit just how much Natalie got under his skin: enough to make him lie about liking classical music and ask her out on a date to see a concert that might be sold out, for all he knew. When had he become so pathetic? Answer: the second he saw how easily Natalie was entranced by Mason Clement. He’d never gone out on a limb like this for any woman, and it scared the shit out of him.
Entering the pub, he was shocked to see Mason Clement perched on his usual seat at the bar, talking to PJ Leary. Clement? On a Sunday? Maybe the drongo thought he might catch Natalie filling in for Megan. Quinn hated that Mason was now a regular, well-known enough to be on cozy chatting terms with the old-timers. Catching sight of Quinn, Mason raised his pint glass to him. Quinn ignored it.
“Unusual to see you here on a Sunday night,” Quinn observed dryly after asking his eternally glaring brother to get him some Jameson. He didn’t have the energy to deal with two assholes tonight, so he just let it go.
“Came over after work.”
“Since when do you work seven days a week?”
“Much like you, O’Brien, I’m always working. You should know that by now.”
Yeah, working on turning the Sent into a rag. “So, what’s on tomorrow’s front page? A story about a secret army of dogs that keeps the secret army of cats in check?”
Clement ignored the barb. “The actress Geraldine Carr has cancer. Rumor has it she only has weeks to live.”
“That’s the fucking front page? Jesus Christ. Liam, make that a double, will ya?” he called to his brother. He turned his attention back to Clement, not bothering to hide his contempt. “Let’s see if I can guess the headline. ‘Carr’s Last Drive’? ‘Carr Crash Looming’?”
“Read the paper tomorrow and find out.” Clement took a sip of beer. “Oh, and to save us both the displeasure of another debate on the proper focus of big-city tabloids, let me just cut to the chase and remind you that celebrity sells, and selling papers is my job.”
Quinn picked up the glass his brother handed him and threw his first whiskey down his throat, relishing the burning sensation blazing a trail all the way down to his stomach.
“Celebrity does sell, Quinn,” PJ chimed in.
“How the hell do you know?” Quinn snapped. “You sit in a crappy room with peeling paint writing about leprechauns.”
The minute the words were out, Quinn regretted them. “Shit,” he said, putting a conciliatory arm around PJ’s shoulders. “I’m sorry I said that, man. I didn’t mean it.”
“No offense taken,” PJ insisted, quickly covering his pained expression. “Were you out on a story tonight?” He sounded so interested that Quinn felt even worse. Sometimes he got the feeling PJ lived vicariously through him.
“No story. I had a date.” There was no mistaking the flicker of interest that passed across Clement’s face.
“A date,” PJ repeated, impressed. “You haven’t had a real date in years.”
“Haven’t had time. But this was one woman I’m more than willing to make time for.”
“Don’t hold out on your old friend!” PJ continued with a wicked gleam in his eye. “Details, my man, I want details.”
“She’s an incredible woman,” said Quinn, knowing that Clement was listening to every word. “Sexy, intelligent, witty, cultured, feisty . . .”
“I take it you’re going to see her again?”
“Oh yeah,” Quinn boasted. “We’re going out again next week.”
“Best of luck. I hope if it ends up becoming serious, you’ll bring her in here to meet everyone.”
“That goes without saying.” He patted PJ’s shoulder. “I’m gonna go in the back and say hi to my folks.”
“Well, good luck on your next date.”
“Thanks,” said Quinn in a voice brimming with confidence, “but I don’t think I’ll need it.” He nodded curtly at his boss. “See you, Clement.”
“O’Brien.”
God, that felt good, sticking it to that pretentious Aussie number cruncher. Cock blocking indeed.
12
Two hundred bucks each. That’s what it cost Quinn for two tickets to the New York Philharmonic. He’d almost stroked out from sheer shock.
With a Twist Page 9
