by Payne, Lyla
“Hey, I don’t give a shit about the carpet or the duvet.”
I raised my eyes to his, quirking an eyebrow and feeling steadier. “Because you’re so well-known for your compassion toward girls in your bedroom…”
“Well, it’s possible people don’t know me as well as they think they do.”
The wounded look in his eyes drove guilt past my playful skepticism; no matter what happened with Annette, or what people said, it wasn’t fair to judge him.
I hated it when people judged me. The “Mexican” girl with the gold-digging mother who somehow snagged one of the foremost cardiothoracic surgeons in the world. The sad girl who’d lost her baby sister three years ago. The rich girl playing artist to piss off her daddy.
It made me ashamed, even though Quinn probably was every bit what they claimed. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. It’s only natural for you to assume what you hear around campus is the truth. I’m the new guy.” He shrugged, his broad shoulders slumping.
The tension between us changed, electrified, and his vibrant eyes slid to my mouth. My heart sped up in answer and the nearness of him made it hard to breathe. When Quinn hesitantly pressed his lips against mine, I let him. For a moment, maybe five, my body won the battle with my brain and I tasted him—because I really, really wanted to.
Heat diffused around us and I drank the saltiness I expected, along with the remnants of sweet whiskey and maybe a cigarette. It sank into my skin, soaked my blood until it swam through heavy desire. Then I pulled back, my shaking palms pressed against his chest.
Quinn tried to hide his surprise, but he wasn’t fast enough. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t resist. We can go back to the party, now.”
“Yes. Okay. I need to find Ruby.”
I stood, running my fingers through the mostly gone curls. Quinn hadn’t moved; I turned back and found him staring at me with a baffled expression. “What? Does that crap about you not being like everyone thinks usually work? Girls just start ripping their clothes off?”
When he didn’t answer, my smile dropped away. “Holy shit, it does.”
“Never mind,” Quinn snapped. “Let’s go find your friend.”
He brushed past me, looking as beautiful as ever framed in the doorway. His expectation had pissed me off a little, and I wasn’t ready to let him off the hook. He seriously thought I was going to sleep with him.
I crossed to the bed, leaning toward the wall and running my hand over the hidden side of the headboard. “Hmm.”
“What are you doing?”
“Looking for notches.”
Quinn snorted, and even managed to make that sound sexy. “I keep those on my belts, sweetheart.”
When I turned to snap a retort he’d moved to my side, invading my personal space again in a way I wished I minded. His long fingers circled my wrist, a thumb playing over my pulse. I swallowed hard, then looked up to find him staring at me, looking a little confused.
“You’re attracted to me. I can feel your pulse throbbing. Why are you running away?” Quinn asked, as though this were a normal question. Like a scientist who couldn’t solve the equation in front of him.
I yanked my arm free. “Of course I’m attracted to you—I’m alive, aren’t I? I haven’t had my hormones surgically removed, and Jesus, have you looked in a mirror?” I paused, his genuine disbelief grating my pride. Like he figured a girl like me would jump at the chance. “Honestly, have you ever heard the word ‘no’?”
Something snapped in Quinn’s face. Tension had built the entire time I’d been talking, but up until now he’d been so in control, unflappable. Sure, my desire to leave the room and go back to the sorority house surprised him, but not in an angry way.
This was different. It was like watching a cloud break open, and anger rained through his eyes.
“Well, let’s see, sweetheart. How about ‘No, we can’t keep seeing each other because you’re worthless to me injured’? Or, ‘No, son, you can’t come home’. Oh, or my personal favorite, ‘No, Quinn, you can’t play professional tennis anymore’? Enough no’s for you, Emilie?”
My heart stopped after the first one, and the pain in his voice when it scraped out the last example broke it in two. I didn’t even know him, had only just met him, but his desolation over what his life had become made breathing the same air as him hurt my chest.
“Quinn…” I reached out to take his hand but he yanked it away. “I’m…this is none of my business. Thank you for the clothes. I’ll bring them back.”
He refused to look at me so I swept past. As I stepped through the door I heard him mutter, “Don’t fucking bother.”
Chapter Five
Quinn
What on earth possessed me to say that to a girl I barely knew?
The pity that had hung in her black eyes, so dark and mysterious I wanted to disappear inside them to figure her out, made me regret every single word.
I needed to get my shit together. The top seed just stomped downstairs in Alexandria’s goddamn t-shirt, and Sebastian would never let me pick someone else. Emilie Swanson was the game, and I’d totally shanked the serve. Fuck.
A deep breath of sea air on the balcony helped me calm down. I had two weeks to get Emilie into bed and make her fall for me. Until the last day of the Open. I’d certainly made it tougher on myself tonight, but she’d taken me by surprise. She’d looked at me downstairs the way they all did, flushed and pretty, out of breath. She’d come upstairs readily enough; I’d won that initial game. The conversation on the stairs had been a surprise. I hadn’t meant to get into such a personal topic with her, but the chance to have an intelligent discussion about art was hard to pass up.
That stupid t-shirt threw me. The Nike swoosh said it’d belonged to Alexandria—they were her sponsors—and no other girls would have left an Aussie Open shirt in my closet.
Rows of designer clothing and Emilie had chosen that. I could have handled her not being ready. Sometimes it took a few hours or even days of partying before I took down the set.
That fucking t-shit. Goddamn Alexandria to hell. The game was supposed to help me stick it to her, not the other way around.
“What the hell happened?”
The barely contained mirth in Sebastian’s voice tightened my fingers around the balcony railing. The chilly wood pressed marks into my palms. I forced an unconcerned smile on my face and turned, giving Sebastian a shrug. “A minor hiccup.”
“Minor? She’s downstairs in the kitchen chugging black coffee in your ex-girlfriend’s pajamas.”
I wanted to wipe the gleefulness off his face. Instead, I slung an arm around his neck. “Hey, I’ve got two weeks. No problem.”
He elbowed me loose. “You approve of my choice?”
Sebastian took great pride in finding the hardest girls to bed—and to be honest, Emilie was pretty, but certainly not in a typical way. Not like U.S. Open Annette. The majority of Whitman University women were better looking than ninety-nine percent of the dogs in the real world.
Not the tennis world. That was another planet, as far as looks went.
I shrugged. “She’s pretty enough.”
He wanted me to ask why he chose her; Sebastian reveled in being clever. I hated his tendency toward smugness. If you had to tell people you were good at something, you probably weren’t that good at it.
People told me I was good at tennis. I never had to say a word. Just play.
“She’s not your typical, I’ll give you that. Night to Alexandria’s day. But Emilie and Annette happen to be in the same sorority. Delta Epsilon. She’s surely heard intimate tales of how horrid you are. I thought it would make things interesting.”
I gritted my teeth. That explained her unwillingness to give in to what her body had obviously wanted. I’d never thought much about why girls were willing to go to bed with me. They just always had.
We walked downstairs into the fray. People slopped drinks and shouted, danced like frantic monkeys, generally had
a great time at my expense. It was the way I wanted it. Education I could take or leave, but college sat okay with me.
I peeked in the kitchen, glimpsing Emilie’s shapely sunkissed legs and bare feet before retreating. Approaching her again without a plan of action would only dig me deeper.
First, damage control.
“Seb, go drag her friend away from whomever you’ve stashed her with, please. Emilie would like to go home for the night.” I winked when he started to protest.
My deviant half-brother’s thick eyebrows knitted together in an expression that made him resemble a blond Muppet. He didn’t question me, though, just scurried off even though he hated being left out of the loop. Since I wasn’t closing the deal tonight, I hoped whoever had been in charge of Ruby had behaved like a normal human being.
Back upstairs in the bedroom we’d left sadly unused, I picked up the crumpled and sour-smelling emerald dress that had looked dynamite on Emilie’s curves, then moved back toward the stairs to lie in wait. Two minutes after my opponent and her friend, a tall blonde more to my usual tastes—but with a loud-ass mouth—left through the front door, I followed.
“Emilie, wait!” With my best imitation of a guy desperate for a second chance, I hurried to the silver Beamer idling at the curb, ducking my head to see in the driver’s door.
A mixture of emotions—embarrassment, irritation, and that fucking pity—warred on her face before she settled on a small smile. It affected me in ways I didn’t expect, the way she smiled like she wasn’t sure she wanted to.
I wanted to make her sure.
The thought popped up out of nowhere but I buried it even faster. No. I wanted to make her like me enough to fall, that was it.
“You forgot your dress,” I explained, out of breath for some reason.
“Oh. Thank you, Quinn. It was nice to meet you.” She chuckled, and we were both probably thinking the scene in the bedroom wasn’t nice at all.
Except the kiss. That was all right.
I tore my eyes from her lips, forcing a light snicker of my own. “I’ve had better.”
“I have no doubt about that.”
We were both grinning by then while her friend stared from the passenger seat, a little flabbergasted. I waved her direction. “You must be Ruby. I’m Quinn.”
“I know who you are, dumbass. I don’t live in a fucking hole.”
“Right. Well. You girls have the green invites, so you’ll be back tomorrow, right?”
“Sure.”
Emilie pulled her door closed, fastened her seatbelt, and guided the red Acura onto the street. I wanted to bury my face in a bucket of bourbon.
There was no way they were coming back tomorrow.
***
She and Ruby didn’t come back the next day, or the day after that, either.
I drank tons and fucked some girls—I think a couple at once—but eventually the liquor wore down and no one brought me any more, and I couldn’t ignore the issue of Emilie Swanson any longer.
Two days wasted. Three if you counted her blowing me off that first night. Which meant I had eleven days to convince a girl who’d run out after checking my bed for notches to become one of them.
My phone vibrated on the nightstand and I answered without checking the number. I never did that, but my eyes were booze-bleary and I wanted the noise to stop more than anything. “What?”
“Mr. Rowland, this is Veronica, your father’s secretary.” She paused, as though she’d realized the clarification was ludicrous, seeing how I’d spent my first two weeks off the tour in her bed. Finally she cleared her throat and continued. “Your father needs to see you this afternoon.”
“About what?” My father hadn’t bothered to speak to me in months, not since he dropped the bomb that skipping college wasn’t an option if I wanted to take over his company at some point, along with the not-so-subtle insinuation that he’d rather give Rowland Communications to a monkey than the son he hated more than anything.
“He didn’t discuss it with me, Mr. Rowland.”
“Jesus Christ, Veronica, I’ve been inside every possible nook and cranny you own. I think you can call me Quinn. What time?”
Her voice shook a little on the response. “Eleven.”
I slammed the phone on the table, then picked it up to check the time. Nine-thirty. Despite the fact that it pissed me off, my father’s summons spiked my curiosity. Maybe he’d changed his mind about letting me apprentice instead of finish pointless schooling. For people as rich as us, degrees were hardly necessary. At best they were accessories for our billon-dollar office walls, a fact he knew as well as I did.
Which made my exile to Whitman University a punishment.
He’d hated me my entire life so it shouldn’t have come as a surprise. My mother left the minute they’d discharged her from the hospital after my birth—had never wanted children, or so I’d been told, but in reality maybe she took one look at me and couldn’t bear the thought of staring at me every day for the rest of her life.
No one else since had felt any differently.
The leather steering wheel of my Mercedes felt cool under my overheated palms but I swore not to let him get to me. If Theodore Rowland wanted to blame me for losing his wife, there wasn’t anything I could do about it.
Lord knew I’d tried. Perfect grades, the best manners, interest in his company. None of it had gotten me anything but kicked repeatedly in the nuts. I’d given up by my thirteenth birthday, deciding I loved playing tennis, thinking it could be my way out—away from him. And not just then, but forever. I would have my own money, my own legacy.
Except now I wouldn’t. A stupid injury left me crawling back to my father who, no surprise, still wanted as little to do with me as possible.
I steered past the guard booth at his estate on the outskirts of town, waving to Ernie on my way through the wrought-iron gates, then parked with two wheels on the grass because Teddy hated it.
Inside, Angelica tried to take my jacket and keys but I refused. The crazy Haitian woman had practically raised me, would do anything for me except defy my father, since he’d made it clear her green card would disappear if she crossed him on my behalf. She gave me a quick peck on the cheek—the only person who could get away with touching me uninvited.
“I won’t be here long, Ang.”
The hallway was dark and silent, lining my path like a gauntlet of lonely memories. Behind ornately carved oak doors, Teddy paced in his office. Wine-colored velvet drapes blotted out the midday sun and his steps made no sound on the thick shag. A massive cherry desk sat between the windows, flanked by bookcases filled to the brim with volumes I’d never seen him read. Paintings valuable enough to feed a Third World country for a year filled the remaining wall space.
“Good morning, sir.” I dropped into one of the two leather chairs facing his desk when he didn’t acknowledge my presence. My head pounded, apparently immune to ibuprofen.
He crossed behind the desk, sank into the massive captain’s chair, and sighed. “I thought it was time for us to have a frank discussion about your future, and how our relationship might be mutually beneficial.”
The words snapped my head up, my attention pulled from trying to figure out where he stashed his Cuban cigars. The last time he wanted my thoughts on something business-related was…never. In spite of all the times I’d been disappointed, a tiny hope flickered so far inside me I only saw the shadows it cast.
“Of course. I have a ton of ideas on how we could expand our coverage to grab the twentysomethings—they have more money than people think, and advertisers…”
I stopped when I saw the look on his face. Exasperation and disgust. “You don’t want to discuss my future with the company.”
“Hardly. You’re not built to run a media conglomerate, Quinn. Shit, you couldn’t even run a tennis career.”
If the man had left me with any kind of a heart it would have sunk into my ass. The worst part was, he wasn’t wrong. “Then what
is it? I had better things to do today.”
“My apologies if my summons interrupted yet another round of Russian roulette with the ovaries of Whitman University.” He shot me the famous Teddy Rowland smirk. “We all know you don’t have a great track record of coming out on top where Russian toys are concerned.”
The insult hit below the belt but I tried not to let him see the wound. If my father had taught me anything, it was that a good poker face could hide your emotions so well you’d forget where you stuffed them. So I smiled back. “I’d hate to disappoint any ladies looking to take advantage of my reputation.”
The playboy rep was the one thing that got under Teddy’s skin. He wanted nothing to do with me personally, but I was his only true son and presumably, as far as the public was concerned, his heir. My behavior reflected poorly on the company.
Maybe I’d give a shit, if it were going to be my company.
“There is a ribbon-cutting ceremony next week at the new art museum the company donated to the university. Since you’re a student, the press will expect you to be at my side for the event. I’d appreciate it if you could be there. And be sober.” My father narrowed his gaze at me. “If you ever hope to convince me I’m wrong regarding your ability to take on a role at Rowland Communications, this would be a good start.”
It was a dangling carrot. At best, he’d let me sit like a puppet on the board of directors at some point. For all the things he was, my father was not the kind of man to toss me out on the street without an inheritance. If he were going to do that he would have done it already.
Without a tennis career, though, I had no choice. At least puppets could drink whiskey and live in houses on the beach. “Sure. Whatever. Am I excused?”
He waved a hand, already focused on some reports in front of him. I left the room, closing the heavy oak doors behind me with a soft thud. The house sprawled over several acres—the twenty-room beachfront estate could fit inside it twice—but I’d never felt comfortable here. As a teenager I’d moved into the guest cottage out back to get away from the suffocating quiet that only billions of dollars could buy.
